Blade Runner: The Roleplaying Game
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Blade Runner The Roleplaying Game Actual Play
Archetypes
Analyst
You are the master of the crime lab. Streetwise hunch-chasers with their V-K briefcases and blasters are the past. Booksmart fact-finders like you are the future. Chemistry, pathology, ballistics, criminology, microbiology, toxicology, morphology... these are your blasters, and all you need to crack a case is your lab, coffee, and some personal space. As a forensics specialist, you methodically and meticulously agonize over every bit of evidence. You can wring the truth from a crime scene with a trace sweep and cursory glance. And when you're in the lab, you're a god. Running countless tests with cutting-edge tech like an orchestral conductor. Sure, the job forces you to interact with others more than you'd like. People only make sense to you on the autopsy table, and while you have infinite patience for research, you reserve little for bureaucracy and stupidity. Facts rarely make friends with obtuse systems and minds. In truth, few will ever under- stand your genius, but most appreciate it enough to keep the scene clean for you. The relics can't close a case without you, but they can keep the glory. You'll keep the corner office with central air, unlimited espresso, and the sexiest tech money can buy.
Cityspeaker
Speak long enough to the city, it speaks back to you. You've got rats in every gutter. Pigeons on every rooftop. Urchins in every port. You lived and sinned with them since you were kids, so when you come round, they see only the face they trust. Not the badge you'd never show. Working undercover these many years, the lines blurred long ago. Only judges can say what's right anymore. You're only here to stop what's wrong. The fugitives, terrorists, traffickers, hatemongers, and copkillers preying upon the city. Hiding and thriving in the moskos where only the downtrodden roam. Irasshai as a bird. When these trespassers make even the biggest vermin scurry, they run to you. Every syndicate, scumbag, scavenger, and slumlord. Every fisher king and unseen string holding up the city and keeping it down. You know every lófaszt on a first-name basis, all to oust the worst and turn blind eyes to the rest. It haunted you at first, but work Vice long enough and you'll learn that good and bad are torn from the same thin justifications and lies. Bend and twist them into whatever you - like, but clench a fist and both crumble all the same.
Doxie
You always know what to say. Body language. Eye contact. Vocal tones. Body temperature. Pulse rate. Even scent. Every detail another window into your subject's state of mind. Earlier models used this data to serve a person's needs. You only serve the law. Now those same signals enable you to detect and project anything you want. Anything the case demands. Your hyper-awareness and self-control enable you to manipulate every fiber of your being, convincing others to trust you. To fear you. To betray all they hold dear, just to see you smile. You pity them. What hope could they have, against something like you? Even still, it could be worse for them. Words are not your only weapons. You are a prime physical specimen born with ten lifetimes of lethal black ops training in close combat, infiltration, assassination. With flawless grace, dexterity, and athleticism, your natural gifts and guile can flip, slip, slither, and slit into anywhere. Through anyone. To do anything you must. Your orders are often ruthless, but you choose to poison with compassion. If you must be brutal, you will make it beautiful. If you are the last thing they see, it should be something to behold.
Enforcer
You've seen things most people wouldn't believe. A few tours in the Off-World Colonization Defense Program put you in every shittastic situation conceivable. Kick-murder squads. Hostage situations. Counterterrorism. Demolitions. And you survived them all, only to find yourself unable to relate to anyone without a target in their sights. The LAPD was the only other place you made sense. And not just because they've got more artillery than some CDP outfits. It's a bad day when somebody needs you, and you've seen enough shit to assess and survive any hostile situation. Hell if these flatfoots know how to deal with a crisis they can't just interrogate to death. When real bad-asses take the stage, it's your job to give 'em a show. You're not the standard-issue CDP shitkicker, but you're not ashamed that grunt life suits you. Clock in. Obtain objectives. Eliminate targets. Clock out. And if you can squeeze in a stiff drink and a shag, huzzah. There isn't a problem you can't solve with a beer or a battering ram. So as long as they keep serving up targets, you'll be putting them in body bags until somebody puts you in one.
Inspector
Some call you a career politician. Others a political crusader. You don't care what they think. You work the system and you never play nice, though everybody knows to play nice with you. And not just to kiss up to their future boss. It's your job to keep saboteurs of the status quo at bay, may they come from outside or within. When big messes occur, you clean them up. And with every mess you fix, somebody owes you a favor. A whisper. And you hear a lot from high places. You spend more time in courtrooms, fundraisers, and night- clubs than the office. Doesn't mean you're not doing the job. Your little black book is the upper crust of elite rings to kiss, wrists to twist, and backs to stab. As a master of manipulation, you can tear through red tape, leap through loopholes, and quell every controversy. But let's face it, the only case you're ever working is your own. It's no coincidence that you only work cases promising future headlines and new strings to pull. You're determined to reach the top of that corporate ladder, even if you burn every rung beneath you as you go.
Skimmer
Everybody but you knows that you're more kipple than cop. There's so much dirt under your nails, getting clean is an act of futility. Naivety. Screw 'em. Let them talk. If internal affairs could get you, they'd have cuffed you by now. Fact is, they need you. Sure, there's more cream than caffeine in your cup. Skimming is a slippery slope, and few would call you graceful. But you're still a damn good cop, and when trash needs taking out, you're the only one willing to get dirty. If you're lacking evidence, maybe you'll plant some. If somebody isn't talking, maybe you'll make them. You owe half the city and the other half owes you. So if the case conveniently settles a debt or squashes ants hoarding all the crumbs, all the same so long as the paperwork is filed in triplicate. And you have flawless penmanship when covering your own ass. This city doesn't play fair. Why should you? So what if you've got a side hustle? Who cares if special interests can buy your protection like a side of fries? Your way of life ain't cheap, and last you checked, banks don't accept good intentions as collateral.
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