Willow Fairchild

Name: Willow "Willie Widget" Fairchild
Race: Human
Age: 19
Sexuality: questioning
Experience: limited to a few unwelcome gropes and a quick unwelcome fuck from a drunk

Description: Willow is a young, beautiful red-haired woman with an enthusiastic smile and a twinkle of curiosity in her eyes. She has long red hair that she usually wears pinned or twisted up in a messy pile and a petite frame. She typically dresses in practical clothing, donning a pair of worn leather boots, a sturdy pair of trousers, and a fitted waistcoat adorned with pockets filled with tools.

Background: Willie was just old enough before The Fall that she knew what life was supposed to be like. She knew about schools, happy families, eating out at restaurants, going on vacations, all the things she would never have. Instead she had hunger, loneliness, the grinding tedium of unending work, and a mechanical aptitude that made her invaluable to the same men that would otherwise see her as just another female body.

She had saved herself from the worst in men by knowing enough and being skinny enough to reach and fix the places they could not. It had made her valuable for more than her looks and soft flesh. She made fixing things her identity. They called her "Willie Widget", and that was fine by her, because as long as they saw her as an anomaly and a tool, it meant they didn't see her as a toy. Every other girl from the Smokestacks had it worse than Willie by far.

But then, after making a name for herself, her name had been discovered. Her true name. Her ticket out of the Smokestacks and into polite society. She was Willow Fairchild, granddaughter of Horace P. Fairchild, the sole inheritor of his vast fortune, and now that she'd been discovered, she was being presented to society at her very own debutante ball. 

Weeks of learning how to walk in those ridiculously high heeled shoes, which fork to use for which course, what to say to whom, and how to address every rank of nobility that strangely still existed in this broken world had left her head swimming. Machines were so much easier. But here she was, in those shoes with her hair done up and her face made up and this gown that barely covered anything on top and nearly dragged on the floor at the bottom... how were people meant to move in these things? Here she was, at her ball, with every eligible bachelor in the Protectorate about to descend upon her like vultures.