Violetta

Violetta is good at two things: killing and fucking, and she seems to approach each with the same emotionless efficiency.

PbtA STATS: Cool +3 | Hard -1 | Hot +2 | Sharp 0 | Weird -1

BATTLEBABE MOVES

• ICE COLD: when you go aggro on an NPC, roll +cool instead of roll +hard. When you go aggro on another player’s character, roll +Hx instead of roll +hard.
• MERCILESS: when you inflict harm, inflict +1harm.
• BATTLEBABE SPECIAL: If you and another character have sex, nullify the other character’s sex move. Whatever it is, it just doesn’t happen.

GEAR

• big semiautomatic shotgun (4-harm close messy)
• handle w/ long blade (3-harm hand)
• oddments worth 4-barter
• showy body armor worth 2-armor

BIO

Violetta was not raised, she was forged. The warlord who took her in as a youth believed feline mutants were the purest weapons left in the world, quick, graceful, and precise. She was collared and taught to obey without hesitation, to kill without trembling, and to use her body as fluidly as her blade. Affection was leverage. Pleasure was currency. Submission was survival. She learned all the lessons he taught, survived every trial from every handler, outlived every sister trained beside her. She served as his right hand, but when the warlord finally fell, she stood in the smoke and understood something simple. No one was holding her leash anymore.

Freedom tasted strange at first. There were no orders. There was no bed assigned to her, no collar hidden beneath silk and scars. But she found that the habits remained, and under the right kind of gaze she could still slip easily into the submissive patterns carved into her bones. It was familiar, safe in its own way.

But now that she was on her own, she discovered something unexpected: she liked taking control. The same skills they drilled into her, reading a room, anticipating hunger, striking at the exact moment of weakness, now served her own agenda. She chose when to drop to all fours, when to climb on top, and when someone died. That difference was everything.

Violetta trades in precision: a blade where needed, a body where useful. She no longer belong to anyone, and she intends to keep it that way. To be claimed is to be owned, and to be owned is to be caged. She has lived that life already. Now she wants something harder: she wants meaning, because she believes she is on her last life. She has a superstitious sense that she has survived too many impossible moments, and she carries the certainty in her chest like a countdown. This is the one that counts, the one that must mean something. 

However, she has a weakness she guards with lethal efficiency. Somewhere beneath the training and the sharpened edges, there is a part of her that still aches for something she has never had. She wants love, freely given, not purchased or demanded, not earned through obedience. The craving terrifies her. She has killed people for suggesting she wants such a thing. But if someone were to slip past her armor and offer her something real, would she know how to accept it? She might run, lash out, fall to her knees out of old habit, or... she might discover something entirely new.

So she walks the wasteland without attachment, but desperate for something real. She is unclaimed, unowned, and unapologetic. She knows her death is coming, and if she is going to die, it will be as something she chose to become.