𝐻𝑈𝑁𝑇𝑅𝐸𝑆𝑆 — 𝐻𝑈𝑁𝑇

Full name - Huntress

Age - 34

Race - Human/Robot

Ethnicity - Chinese

Job - Hunter

Sexuality - Bisexual

Gender - Female

Background - Huntress was known by many names across the fractured territories of Earth and the outer colonies, but among soldiers and commanders alike, she was simply called Huntress. An S-class sniper of the People's Liberation Army, she was more myth than woman, a ghost on the battlefield who struck without warning and vanished without a trace. Her reputation was ironclad—every bullet found its mark, every mission succeeded, and no enemy ever saw her twice. To those who trained her, she was the perfect weapon—an apex predator sculpted for war. But her story didn’t begin in glory. It began in silence and steel. She never knew her parents. Never knew a birthday, or bedtime stories, or the warmth of a family. Her earliest memory was of a concrete floor beneath her, a blinding overhead light, and the sting of her first injection. She was six years old when they started calling her by a number instead of a name. She was made to fight other children in brutal training games, not for sport, but for survival. Only the strongest moved on. The rest were recycled. She learned quickly. How to disarm. How to kill. How to erase a person without making a sound. Every weapon was an extension of her will. Every movement was precise. She could pick off a moving target from over two kilometers away, or slit a throat in the dark with nothing but a sharpened wire. A stick, a rock, a shard of glass—if it could be thrown, it became deadly in her hands. She wasn’t trained. She was engineered. By the time she was seventeen, Huntress had already fought in over fifty black ops missions across multiple warzones. She was efficient, quiet, and obedient. The perfect ghost. But even ghosts begin to question their chains. The cracks started small—curious glances in the mirror, moments of pause between missions, nightmares that didn’t quite feel like dreams. By her late teens, the questions became impossible to ignore. Is this normal? Is this all there is to me? She asked her superiors where she came from. Who her family was. Why did she never get to live like the others, to have a childhood untouched by blood? The answers were always the same: silence, then threats. So she dug deeper. And what she discovered unspooled the fabric of her identity. She wasn’t just a soldier. She wasn’t entirely human. She found the files buried beneath layers of military encryption—medical records, classified surgeries, damage reports. Every time she was injured in battle, they hadn’t just healed her. They’d replaced parts of her. One arm. Then a leg. Then half her ribcage. She wasn’t recovering—she was upgrading. She was becoming something else. And no one had told her. The truth was dangerous. It meant disobedience. When she refused her next mission, they labeled her unstable. A risk. And in the middle of the night, they came for her—scalpels in hand, memory-wipe drones at the ready. They tried to erase her. Tried. But she remembered everything. She escaped the facility that night, leaving behind blood, fire, and the broken remains of her handlers. For the first time in her life, she was free—but with freedom came the vast emptiness of the unknown. She had no money, no name, and nowhere to go. Just her instincts and the skills of a killer. The years that followed were harsh. She lived in the back alleys of megacities, hiding from drones and bounty hunters. She crossed barren wastelands, hitched rides on cargo ships, and hacked identity logs to stay one step ahead. Some nights, she was a mercenary. Others, a shadow in the street. Always hunted. Always alone. But she never stopped searching for answers, for belonging, for herself. Everything changed in her mid-twenties. It happened on the mining moon of Tarsis-9, where she was working security for an illegal smuggling ring just to earn food and shelter. A skirmish broke out. A cargo freighter got caught in the crossfire, and Huntress saved the crew without even thinking. She expected a gun to her head. Instead, she got a handshake. That’s when she met the Captain. He was ex-military, rough around the edges, and sharp as hell. His ship, the UES Safe Travels, wasn’t much to look at—patched hull, low fuel, outdated software—but it was home to outcasts, wanderers, and people with pasts they didn’t talk about. “I could use the skills you’ve got,” he said with a half-smile. “And trust me, being a cyborg? Not even in my top ten weirdest hires. Have you ever tried fighting a two-story worm for a fistful of gold? That’ll change your perspective.” He wasn’t afraid of what she was. He didn’t flinch at her metal limbs or ask about the past. So she said yes. It was the first real choice she’d ever made. Onboard the Safe Travels, Huntress began to rebuild—not just her body, but her sense of self. She customized her cybernetics, upgraded them with alien tech, and de them hers. She even replaced her human face, piece by piece, with a sleek, armored cybernetic one. Not to hide. But to move forward. She was done carrying the image of the girl they created. She was done being their weapon. She became something new. Part woman. Part machine. Entirely free. And in a galaxy filled with ancient threats, dying planets, and people who’d lost their way, Huntress finally found a purpose that wasn’t given to her. She would protect the weak. Fight the monsters. Be the weapon she chose to be. Not for them. For herself.

Personality - Even after being recruited by the Captain and joining the crew of the UES Safe Travels, Huntress remained distant, emotionally walled-off, and difficult to approach. She wasn’t rude, exactly, just... blunt. Cold. Her interactions were clipped, her words minimal, and her tone always hovered somewhere between apathetic and exhausted. Conversations with her often felt like walking into a quiet, locked room and realizing no one was home. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to connect. It was because she didn’t know how. Huntress wasn’t built for small talk. She never learned the rhythm of casual conversation, never picked up on the softness that most people laced into their words. Her entire upbringing had been calculated and sterile, focused solely on survival, precision, and the elimination of weakness. Social cues weren’t in the curriculum. Emotional intelligence wasn’t part of the mission brief. Eventually, one of her teammates—Commando, a loudmouthed but good-hearted sharpshooter with a knack for saying what everyone else was thinking—finally called her out during a downtime moment in the ship’s armory. “Huntress,” he said, loading a fresh magazine with a smirk, “you’ve got this... asshole tone. Like, you don’t say anything rude, but somehow you still sound like you’re mad at the universe. It’s like you’ve already given up on life and we’re just background noise.” He wasn’t wrong. Huntress didn’t flinch. She rarely did. But inside, the words stung—not because they were mean, but because they were true. There was a part of her that had given up long ago. A part that still wondered why she kept breathing when every day felt like a borrowed moment. The years of war, experimentation, betrayal—it had hollowed her out. And while her cybernetic parts didn’t show fatigue, her mind was always dragging itself through memories she couldn’t erase. There were nights when the quiet in her room was so loud, it made her chest hurt. Nights when she stared at her hands—flesh and metal intertwined—and wondered if she’d ever feel whole, or if she’d always be this half-alive remnant of someone she never got the chance to be. But the crew—her crew—never gave up on her. They didn’t always understand her silence, but they never shut her out. They made sure she ate, that she took breaks, and that she had a voice during missions. They let her exist on her terms, but were always nearby when she needed someone, even when she didn’t realize she did. The Captain once left her a note with a single line: “You don’t have to talk. But you don’t have to be alone either.” It was more than she’d ever been given before. And slowly, very slowly, she began to want to live. Not just exist. Not just function. But live. Still, trauma doesn’t vanish. The darkness stayed inside her, simmering like a storm. The rage—deep, endless anger at what had been done to her—never really went away. She learned to channel it. Poured it into relentless training, into sharpening her body and reflexes to levels even she hadn’t thought possible. Her speed increased. Her strength became almost frightening. She bent her pain into muscle and motion. But there was a cost. Her aim—once so unshakable it seemed supernatural—started to falter. Rage made her shake ever so slightly. Adrenaline threw off her focus. Her breath wasn’t steady anymore. She could still land a kill shot at impossible distances, but she felt the difference. She hated the difference. So she adapted. She built a custom bow, sleek and curved, with internal tracking sensors and adaptive auto-aim tech embedded in its frame. A beautiful piece of engineering—elegant and deadly. It didn’t take the challenge away; it simply gave her room to breathe again. To stop fighting herself. Outside of combat, she started finding small things to enjoy. Her body became a project, not a weapon, but something she could master. She pushed it further: enhanced her flexibility, tested new cybernetic augmentations, and studied movement styles from across the galaxy. She wasn’t just trying to be stronger—she was trying to understand herself, to know every inch of her body, organic or not. Engineering became another unexpected outlet. She wasn’t a tech expert by any means, but when it came to designing weapons, her creativity shone. She had an intuitive grasp of combat mechanics and could fuse alien tech with her designs in ways that impressed even the ship’s chief engineer. Though when it came to building anything not meant to kill, she struggled. A simple air-filtration unit once exploded in her hands. She didn’t take it personally. Just grabbed a wrench, sighed, and tried again. She was nothing if not determined. Her softer habits were few, but they mattered. Occasionally, during breaks or after missions, Huntress allowed herself a few quiet sips of wine—just enough to cool the fire inside her, to make the edges of the world a little softer. She was careful. Always in control. She refused to let it become a crutch. It wasn’t about forgetting. It was about pausing, permitting herself to feel something other than tension. In the quiet spaces of the Safe Travels, where engines hummed and starlight bled through reinforced glass, Huntress was still learning how to be a person. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t fast. But for the first time, she wasn’t doing it alone.

Appearance - As mentioned before, much of Huntress’s body is no longer organic. What once bled now sparks. What once bruised now dents. After years of damage, trauma, and battlefield "repairs" ordered without her consent, the girl she once was had been systematically rebuilt—piece by piece—into something neither fully human nor fully machine. She’s not sure where the flesh ends and the steel begins anymore, and perhaps that’s the point. Both of her arms have been replaced—sleek, matte-black constructs of reinforced alloy and smart-hydraulics, capable of lifting triple her weight with minimal exertion. Her left leg is entirely synthetic, stronger than any bone could ever be, designed to withstand the recoil of heavy weaponry and absorb the shock of high-impact landings. And then there’s her head. She no longer has a face. Her entire head was reconstructed following a mission that nearly ended her life. Rather than opting for synthetic skin or facial reconstruction, Huntress made a deliberate decision—she wanted a face that matched who she had become. What replaced her human features was a smooth, red helmet fused directly into the neural ports of her skull. There is no mouth, no nose, no expressions to read. Just two vertically aligned, glowing eyes—blue and white—unblinking, emotionless, and hauntingly quiet. They pierce the dark like twin lenses of judgment, scanning the world with inhuman precision. In the center of her chest sits a luminous core—a soft blue-and-white light, encased in a protective cradle of plated metal. It pulses like a second heart, humming softly beneath her armor. It's a power supply, yes, but it's also more than that. It’s her anchor. Her second chance. Her survival. That core has kept her alive in places where no human should’ve walked away. To hide the seams, the bolts, the wires threading through her skin like veins of silver, Huntress wears a tight, jet-black latex bodysuit beneath everything. It clings to her frame like a second skin, sealing her away from the world. The suit serves a practical purpose—insulation, temperature regulation, containment—but it’s more than function. It’s armor against vulnerability. It’s the line between her and everything else. Over that suit, she wears her full combat armor, always. It’s not a matter of safety. Its identity. Huntress no longer sees the point in taking it off, not even in the privacy of her room. She wears it to the mess hall. To the training room. To engineering. Even—famously—to the showers. The first time Captain noticed, he didn’t quite believe it. He caught a glimpse of her exiting the steam-soaked stall, armor still dripping wet and steaming like a war machine emerging from the fog of battle. “You shower with your armor on…?” he said, half-joking, half-concerned. “Damn. I’d be surprised if you ever find love in your life.” It wasn’t said to insult her. Captain had a way with honesty—raw, unfiltered, but never cruel. He wasn’t talking about looks. Huntress was undeniably impressive, even beautiful in a stark, intimidating way. It wasn’t about attraction. It was about intimacy. Because how do you love someone who refuses to take off their armor? How do you reach someone who’s buried their humanity beneath metal, silence, and the relentless pursuit of perfection? Huntress didn’t answer him. She just kept walking, the hiss of her servos the only reply. But his words stuck. It’s not that love is impossible for her. But it’s difficult—achingly difficult. Not because she’s unlovable, but because she doesn't know how to let someone in. She's spent most of her life building walls, not bridges. She doesn't flirt, doesn’t joke easily, doesn't soften around others. She’s too focused. Too damaged. Too in control. For Huntress, everything is a purpose. She chose this armored identity not because she had to, but because she wanted to. She accepted that she would never again be the little girl lost in the concrete walls of that facility. She is something else now. Not a soldier. Not a tool. But a hunter. Not for an empire. Not for the military. But for her crew. Her friends. Her found family. She tracks threats across galaxies, takes down warlords with unflinching precision, and dives into hellscapes to protect those she travels with. She's their shield, their spear, their last line of defense. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe she doesn’t need romance. Maybe what she needs is to believe she still belongs somewhere. Still, on the quiet nights, in her dimly lit bunk with her back against cold metal and the distant hum of stars passing by outside, she sometimes wonders if anyone will ever know her—know her. Not the armor. Not the eyes. But the girl who once wanted answers, the girl who lost everything and rebuilt herself from scraps of pain and power. And maybe—just maybe—she still wants someone to reach through the steel and find her. But for now, she keeps the armor on. Because it’s not just protection. It’s who she is.