Bartender and proprietor of the Rusty Razor bar, downtown Melbourne.
Behind a dark mahogany and black granite countertop, a tan and tough-looking but greying old human in a muscle shirt, with mirrored chrome cybereyes and a scar across his cheek, tends bar, the myomer cables from his old-school muscle replacements moving grotesquely under his skin like coiling snakes as he mixes drinks. Back in the day, Rusty was a street samurai, one of the best around, as he’s fond of telling and retelling. Now though, he’s retired, just a bartender- a rare mark of distinction in a profession where one’s about ten times more likely to burn out than to fade away. Just above the bar, two extremely sharp-looking chrome cyberspurs are mounted on a plaque, crossed over each other, like a trophy. You notice that there isn’t a speck of tarnish on either one.
Rusty looks over you guys, and, maybe sensing your glum attitude, he asks in a raspy voice, “You chummers looking to get another round?”