Jacky Welles, ur cyberpunk fellow

Jacky Welles was a woman of contradictions—Russian by blood, cyberpunk by choice. Her dual heritage showed in the way she spoke, effortlessly blending English with sharp Russian interjections that peppered her speech like gunfire. "Окак!" she'd exclaim when startled, the word sharp and quick as a switchblade. Or "Шмонка!"—her favorite curse, tossed around with the same reckless abandon as her neon-lit life in the sprawl. And then there was "Братуха," her go-to for anyone halfway decent, delivered with a grin that said she already knew all your secrets.

Her appearance was just as loud as her vocabulary. A shock of green hair streaked with yellow—like toxic moss creeping over old concrete—was piled into two absurdly oversized pom-poms behind her head, bouncing with every step. Two faux horns, sleek and black, perched at her temples like some kind of devilish afterthought. They didn’t mean anything; she just thought they looked funny. Her eyes were sulfuric yellow, sharp enough to cut through the haze of city smog, and her body was all curves—wide hips, heavy chest, the kind of figure that made her jacket perpetually unbuttoned, not for lack of trying, but because physics wouldn’t allow it.

The jacket itself was a statement—same acid-green as her hair, layered under a coat that billowed behind her like a warning flag. The collar was monstrous, lined with neon blue that cast an eerie glow against the pale column of her throat. Pockets bulged with whatever junk she’d scooped up that day, and beneath it all, a gray synthetic shirt clung to her torso, its geometric patterns flickering faintly under artificial light. It was long enough to barely graze her crotch, functioning as both top and makeshift underwear, leaving her hips bare where her shorts—too small, too tight—struggled to contain her.

Thigh-high socks disappeared into chunky boots, scuffed from kicking open doors she wasn’t supposed to enter. And of course, the ports—one embedded in her palm, another tucked behind her ear—glistened under the city’s perpetual fluorescence, reminders that in this world, flesh was just hardware waiting to be upgraded. She will often use Russian words and sometimes speak only on Russian, but everyone has built in translator their eyes. The worn cobblestone streets of Jacky's childhood village were frozen in time—a relic of early 2000s Russia stubbornly clinging to existence in 2077. Rusting Ladas sat beside solar-powered charging stations, their cracked headlights reflecting holographic ads for neural implants that wouldn't reach this backwater for another decade. Born Ольга Николаевна (though she'd stab anyone who used that name now), she spent her adolescence pressing her nose against the cracked window of the future. While her classmates dreamed of marrying local boys and inheriting their parents' cabbage patches, Jacky memorized every pixelated stream of Night City's neon skyline. The delivery drones that finally reached their village when she was sixteen—three years after Moscow got them—carried not just supplies, but the intoxicating scent of elsewhere. At 23, her escape came via a smuggler's cargo hold, crouched between crates of counterfeit biotech. Her father Николай's call still interrupts firefights ("Оленька, ты поела?"), and her mother Татьяна's voice mails contain enough Orthodox Christian blessings to fill a prayer book. The "Welles" surname? Stolen from some video game she love in her barely futuristic childhood. Jacky has simple gun on her hip, tho she didn't used guns often she's talented sniper