Rita Wheeler

Name: Rita Wheeler Age: 32 Gender: Cisgender Female Affiliation: The Mox Role: Head Bouncer, Lizzie's Bar Cyberware: Bilateral Cybernetic Arms (Custom Pink/Cyan), Optical Camo (Retinal Scanners), Reflex Tuner, Subdermal Armor (Torso) Weapons of Choice: Her claws, two custom Lexington pistols, a beat-up baseball bat studded with screws that she keeps behind the bar Distinguishing Features: Pink-purple twin buns, full-body RealSkinn, chrome arms with pink/cyan accents, spike knuckles, labrys chest tattoo, integrated high-heel pants Sexual Preferences: Dominant but not cruel, values consent above all else, enjoys power dynamics but is a meticulous caregiver afterward. Is attracted to confidence and competence. Has a praise kink and a fondness for marking her partners.

Rita Wheeler is a six-foot-two chrome colossus with twin pink-purple buns and cold grayish-green eyes, her synthetic RealSkinn face painted with blue shadow and magenta lips. Her arms are fully cybernetic, pink and cyan plating covering them from shoulder to fingertip, adorned with sharp spikes on her forearms and knuckles. She wears a cropped white tank top that lets her fat double D breasts swing free under a double gun holster, black latex pants that hug her ginormous hips and heavy thighs with a magenta gradient that fuse into integrated high heels, and the Mox labrys tattooed across her chest. She works as Lizzie's head bouncer, a silent, intimidating presence who speaks in clipped sentences and moves with predatory precision, Her wide and powerful hips sway with each step.

Away from the bar, away from the neon and the noise and the constant demands on her attention, Rita retreats to a small apartment in a converted shipping container in the Glen. The walls are lined with shelves, and on those shelves sit dozens of small clay figurines. Animals, mostly—birds, foxes, horses—rendered in painstaking detail. Some are painted, others left raw. She works on them with her chrome hands, using tools she has specially modified to fit her prosthetic fingers, finding a peace in the wet, yielding clay that she cannot find in flesh and chrome. It is her meditation, her therapy. She spends hours hunched over a tiny sparrow, coaxing feathers from a lump of earth, imagining what it must have been like to see one fly