Tyron Sennet

Tyron Sennet was a Waterfront wharf rat; making his living off the various smuggling rackets that converged around the port area. A born operator, he wasn't afraid to diversify when the occasion demanded, and quickly saw the opportunities in the nascent underground club scene that was happening in the area. When he was a kid, those crumbling brick warehouses were overrun with rats, and used by the local junkie population as shooting galleries. Now rich kids from The Concession and Virginia Gardens - kids that paid big bucks to affect that well-dressed zombie heroin chic look - were coming down to those same places to listen to music played by DJs who were flown in from Europe to take up $5000 a night residencies. Go figure.

The music bored Tyron, and most of the kids struck him simply as shallow-souled poseurs who hadn't come close to earning the right to that cynical attitude they all affected, but there was a hardcore element there - the group that would eventually coalesce into the Blood Roses - that made the experience worthwhile. These kids had attitude - Tyron had to give them that - and they were good at stealing stuff, but they didn't know shit about how to move it on. Tyron had the contacts to help them do that, and also enough friendly eyes and ears around the port terminal to set them up choices of future heist targets from all the good stuff that was being moved in and out of the city by water.

Tyron knew the kids - arrogant little rich kid bastards, every one of them - sneered at him and laughed at him behind his back, but he didn't mind; he just factored that into the couple of extra points he charged them in commission on the jobs and heist merchandise transactions he set up for them.

It wasn't long before Tyron and Michael Simeone come into each other's mutual orbits. Simeone's first instinct would normally have been to run Tyron off the reservation and keep the Blood Roses exclusive to him only, but there's something about Tyron that clicks with him. Smart, but not too greedy. Trustworthy, as long as you keep him busy and make sure he knows he's getting a fair cut of everything you're getting. Good lieutenant material, with the street operator instincts that he needs for someone else besides himself to have in the operation he's trying to set up.

For his part, Tyron knows there's something about himself that Simeone's holding back on. The guy's definitely got operator experience, but he never lets on how or where he acquired it, and some of the things he lets slip sometimes suggest that he's not such a stranger to San Paro as he wants you to think.

Tyron has his suspicions, but he keeps them to himself and just keeps on watching and listening. He likes to think of himself as a good middle man; a buyer and seller of goods, services and information. If he's patient enough, he figures, then one day he might find out something about Simeone that might be worth something to someone else.

Unlocks Contact


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Ankle Boots Clothing $450 0
Bomber Jacket Clothing $4,990 0
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OCA-EW 626.3 "Red Dawn" Weapons $18,000 30

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Kevlar Implants 3 Modifications $60,000 40

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NFAS-12c "Red Star V3" Weapons $18,000 30

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"Blood Drip" Soccer Sock (R) Clothing $15 0
"Blood Drip" Rosebud Shoes Clothing $90 0
"Blood Drip" Lilith's Glove (L) Clothing $60 0
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"White Death" Infamous Sweatband Clothing $15 0
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Joker SR15 Carbine: Gunrunner EX-II Weapons $17,400 30
Level Activity

Light Machine Gun's aren't really all that delicate. Then again, I suppose sometimes all you really want from life is a great, big weapon huh? Get out there and kill 3 Enforcers with a Light Machine Gun.

Kill 3 Enforcers with Light Machine Guns.

Magazine Excerpt: Effigy (June)

This month we take a stroll through the mean streets of San Paro, where up in the sky the parties last for days, back in the hood the old-skool hip-hop still thumps out of the lowriders cruising along Green and Hinton, and something new is brewing in the simmering cauldrons Downtown.

'The scene here is really alive.' We're talking to Pasquerelle, one of the crop of new DJs taking the high-rise clubs of San Paro by storm, with a mix of breezy beats and summer-lite keyboard washes that has captured the imagination of the cocktail crowd. 'I can play SkyCity, Tranquile, sometimes we play several places a night, and everywhere we go, there are smiles and happiness.' Building on a strong house tradition that started back in the eighties in the warehouse parties on Cortland Point, DJs like Pasquerelle, Hang Ten and Kitty Klark have made the shift upmarket, entertaining the exclusive crowds that don't even gather until the elevator's hit 60.
'Oh god, it's a different world than it used to be.' says Klark. 'I remember seeing The Boardmen and Zunami, people like that, down the warehouse parties in Red Hill. They were good times, I think, but look around you. There's more money now.'

Head to Midtown, south of Havalynd, and the street life gets a little wilder. Business suits give way to bespoke, the uniforms of finance quickly morph into a menagerie of colours and textures. The clubs here are ground level, patrolled by heat, and crowds of peacocks mill around outside waiting to get in. Not Sofia. She steps out of her zebra-stripe limo and beyond the rope, and we glide through in her wake. In this world, the right connections can save a lot of time.

She's resplendent in a coat fashioned entirely from soft black feathers, and knee-length pink leather boots sat on six inches of inlaid ebony platform. I ask her where she finds her costumes and she looks through me like I'm fresh air. The club is Pasha on Klein, and she happens to own it. Inside, there's an ugly lowdown growl of bass and snare, jungle inflections darting in and about a crawling hip-hop beat. The dance floor is just starting to fill, and the bar is a gauntlet of gleam and bling. We walk straight through and into a backroom which is done out in purple velvet and leopard skin. The skin feels real; I don't like to ask.

She unfurls like a panther across the seat. Either side of her are the two biggest men I've ever seen. Chrome Uzis, customised by Armstrong & Chen, for killing with class. Over a glass of sparkling mineral water she tells me with a straight face, 'Fashion is more important than life.' Her answers are largely monosyllabic, until I get to wondering why she even let us in. No, she doesn't see a connection between the club culture and the street violence that dogs the area. No, she's never seen trouble at any of her establishments. Yes, there's a good life for people here in Midtown, if they want it, if they want to work hard. Before we know, the audience is over, and we're back out in the club. It's a room full of strangers, but in a way that's difficult to finger, the crowd seems to have closed ranks. It's in the half-glances, the shoulder profiles, the eyes that turn away; there's a cover charge here that we can't afford.

Fortunately for us, San Paro isn't all sophistication and glamour. Only a few blocks away, in the grimiest section of Downtown, a new scene is finding its voice. Bands like Fister, Pinchsquint and Blind Vortex are refashioning old-skool emo into an altogether more aggressive beast. Lovelorn tales of boy-girl hi-jinx and awkward assignations, buttressed by the bludgeoning force of gristlecore; ladies and gentlemen, this is Nu-mo.

The fans are easy enough to pick out. Heavy leather boots and belts, tats and small-arms. Their rainbow hair teased into implausible structures, they tear through the streets of Trasket on modified streetbikes. We catch up with Blind Vortex, one of the leading exponents of the new music.

'Love is violence, man.' says lead singer Danny, 23. He's intense and wiry, chain-smoking beneath a tall coxcomb of purple hair. He looks like he could use a good meal. 'We could paint it pretty, try and be Kristabel or somethin', but what's the point? Some fucker looks at my girl, I wanna kill him.' Isn't that a little extreme? 'You fuckin' think so? You ever been in love, chico?'

That evening we see Vortex tear up the stage at the Octopus. The volume is intense. The hometown crowd are in fine fettle, going nuts; the whole basement is swallowed by the mosh. One fan down the front, a big guy with a scorpion tattoo coiled around his shaven head, is spitting what looks like a bottle of his own piss onstage at the band. Three songs in and Danny hurls his mikestand like a caber. It goes scything through the crowd, knocking two fans to the floor. A skirmish erupts, security intervenes and one of the bouncers takes a bottle to the side of the head. The fight spills out into the street, Danny is still screaming about a girl, and the raucous feedback whine mingles with the sound of approaching sirens.

The kids are angry again, angry as they should be, and everything is fine.

Pasquerelle - 'Live at SkyCity' is released on June7th on Descender Records. Blind Vortex new album, 'Snip the Rib' is out on Fantomb on June14th.

Biography: Havalynd (Financial)

Havalynd was always about money. When the banks first moved in, with their tidy little fortresses made out of brick, horses were still shitting in the gutters outside. Things were nice and conventional then, almost a gentlemen's agreement. The banks kept the money in big metal boxes, and the crims tried to get in the boxes and take the money. Everybody knew where everybody stood.

Trams came, then cars. Havalynd expanded outwards and upwards. An initial wave of vertical engineering, growing in momentum through the first few decades of the twentieth century, stalled in the shadow of global conflict. Throughout the decades after, the centre gradually emerged above the stunted grids of the surrounding districts.

By the eighties, Havalynd was reaching its fingers into the sky. A newfound optimism and stridency had infected every sphere of society. San Paro was a boomtown, and money was pouring in. Developers competed to create the biggest, the greatest, the most priapic monuments to their wealth and power.

At ground level, sheet glass gives way to marbled foyers. In the forecourts stand cantilever steel sculptures, fountains spume skyward. And at nearly every corner, regular as lampposts, men wait rigid, fake-nonchalant, all the time scanning behind their dark suits and dark shades. Utopia patrolled by private security.

The flagship stores of the fashion cognoscenti line Border Street. Behind the tyre-traps and raid barriers, Sensay rubs shoulders with Carlo Vitorelli, Devereaux jewels glitter like waterfalls under the reinforced displays, and even Testero and Lyka, whose very public spat at the San Paro Fashion Expo the previous year had exploded into a legal fireball of suit and countersuit, were willing to share space in the invitation-only Golden Mall that graced the ground floor of the prestigious Pyramid complex on Shianxi Boulevard. Even the shop dummies here are fashioned from chatoyant mahogany and inlaid with ivory. At ground level, Havalynd has always had the power to dazzle. But then, most of Havalynd doesn't happen at ground level.

Biography: Waterfront

The Waterfront is a schizophrenic district, part sprawling anonymous hinterland of commercial transit, part coastal resort for the comfortably-off. To the west the giant wharves jut with unyielding potency into the Nantego. Go east and the landscape softens, palm-trees line the roads and smart residential blocks spring up. Head into Prentiss, where the money lives, and things change again, all for the quieter and more genteel better.

San Paro Port has been an eternal engine in the commercial development of the city. It is the conduit through which the trade came that drove the growth of the young metropolis. In early years, merchants and vagabonds rubbed shoulders in the rowdy bars along the port area. What seemed like a hundred different tongues mixed and churned in a babble of deals and cross-purposes. Little Fin in particular was a den of impropriety and vicious exchange. Drink flowed and the prostitutes displayed their wares across the quays.

As the port grew in size and importance, the inns and hostels were swept back and away, replaced by warehouses, yards, all the paraphernalia necessary for systemic management of import-export traffic on a much grander scale. A rail-link was built that vastly improved the throughput of materials and goods. There was ship-building in the yards south of Armory Wharf. By the turn of the twentieth century no-one lived in the west port, but 12,000 men earned a daily crust working its platforms.

The maritime tradition persisted. Shipbuilding ended, but the great passenger liners made dock here.. Twice they were supplanted by squat grey machines of war that bristled in the channels. After a few years they would return, bigger and brighter, to disgorge their cargos of blinking passengers onto the sunbleached quays.

Nowadays, the Port never sleeps. At every mark of the clock, the whirring, the jolting, the crash and creak of loading and unloading emanates from the area surrounding the wharves. As one ship arrives to loose its burden, another departs plimsoll-deep and grunting beneath the weight. At night the arc-beam halogens describe a world overrun by giant mechanical beasts. An occasional mushroom belch of fire and smoke marks the human activity, as the gangs skirmish across the surreal blocky wastes of Yard Stretch.

East of the docks is the low-rise district of Little Fin. Once a dense knot of rat-infested housing ripe even for San Paro, it was levelled at the end of the nineteenth century, an unmourned victim of the port expansion and of the housing reforms of the time. Since then it has soaked up the overspill of warehousing from the Port. Now money is washing across the coastal districts and Little Fin is up-and-coming, with property developers sweeping in from all angles, in a scramble to swallow territory and increase yield.

The new-style developments are typified by the bland luxury of Fortuna Village, a multi-storey sprawl of spacious condominiums serviced by its own mall and characterized by a homogenous adherence to upper-mid brandthink. Lacking the time-accrued undergrowth of personality, the area serves by turns as an abstracted environment in which human beings have been replaced by the tinted SUVs, or as a blank canvas for the Blood Roses and the Tigers, punching their ballistic tattoos into fresh brick.

The same could not be said for Prentiss. The residents who sip gin slings by the well-tended lawns and pools consider their little empire to be a separate entity from San Paro, a port town and a community with its own history and identity. This attitude has garnered them a reputation for snobbery, largely justified. Prentiss is certainly the most genteel district, its lack of strategic value for a long time allowing it to remain aloof and untouched by the routine street warfare afflicting most every other corner of the city. Only recently have they started growing their own gangs, middle-class parents abruptly realizing that they can no longer distance themselves from the carnage, looking on in helpless horror as their children bear arms and tear up the night.

Radio Broadcast: WTF San Paro

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again - WTF is happening, San Paro? Back in the day, kids wanted to be rock stars and get blown from one backstage party to another all round the globe, or be some kinda sports star and get paid about a million bucks a day to knock a ball round some piece of astro-turf, and get paid a million more bucks to wear some faggoty-looking pair of sneakers while they were doing it. And you know what - there was nothing wrong with any of that. Nothing at all. That's what the talented and just plain lucky exist for; to give us all something to aspire to and envy and generally hate the crap out of. Now? Shit, where am I even gonna start...

"Being famous is all that matters in this town. I'm kinda famous in my own small way - and, let me tell you, being famous rocks - so I know what I'm talking about. I get to hang out at some of the famous people places. But I gotta tell you, the currency of fame in this city has definitely been devalued. There's been a stock market crash in the value of one of our city's most treasured assets. Its celebrities.

"Used to be, famous people parties were full of models, designers, artists, movie stars and - if it was one of the more low rent famous people events - some buncha retards from TV. Sure, there was always that unsavoury element present too - usually someone's agent or coke-dealing cousin, or a politician or two - but now it's all heisters, gangbangers, getaway artists, protection racketeers, glorified stick-up punks and assorted street trash. Shit, even the politicians are starting to look semi-respectable by comparison. That's how low we've sunk. And, let me tell you, all you people out there who know I'm talking about them, and that are probably right now doing an internet search on where I park my car at night, listen up good. There's more to being a celebrity than colonic irrigation, paying $10,000 for ridiculous-looking suits and having your apartment designed by some flavour-of-the-month Effigy-featured European powder-puff called Jasper. You got that?

"Ahh, why the hell do I even bother? I mean, I'm living in a town where Deke Swearinger and Kiki Monroe are what passes for heavyweight cultural -icons. Hey, and let's not forget intrepid little Mikko Wong. 'Hello? Is that the San Paro Standard? Yeah, put me through to your holier-than-thou liberal muffdiver desk, please...'

"You wanna know how bad things have got? Look at our bimbo heiress celebrities, surely one of San Paro's greatest contributions to global culture. Used to be, you could comfortably divide them all into three broad categories - fucked-up charity guilt case do-gooders; fucked-up wannabe rock & movie star dilettantes; and those in a state of strictly temporarily unfucked-up transience between rehab, prison and oh-gosh-I've-just-found-religion-again court appearances. Hell, on a good month, at least one of them would be hitting every one of the points along that same line. Now, though, they're all wannabe badass bitches that you're gonna see in some Needles club as part of the entourage of some genuine badass, or posing with a machine-gun on the cover of Effigy.. That sound like progress to you? Only thing that's still the same is that most of them are still called Seindorf, and that they're still all gonna be photographed falling dead drunk or drug-trashed outta a limo in a way that's gonna show they routinely go out on the town without any thought about the need to wear panties.

"Oh shit. You done it now, Marta. Better change the subject quick, while the station management fields another call on the hotline from the Seindorf family attorneys...

"Yeah, so... CSA vigilantes. You think they're much better than the crims? Most of them are just gutter punks too dumb to pass the final exam that would move 'em up to street trash level. And the rest? I swear, I feel so much safer, now I know our city streets are protected by a combination of soccer moms and overgrown boyscouts with access to automatic weapons, cops and ex-cops who borderlined the psychology tests that shoulda transferred them over to the rubber gun squad, and trigger-happy yahoos who think having a certificate from Mayor Derren saying it's okay to shoot people now is a bonus point to be included on their personal rÚsumÚs..."

- Excerpt from 'WTF, San Paro', a popular daily drive-time show hosted by well-known and controversial San Paro radio personality Marta Riviera. Riviera later seriously wounded after being gunned down by a celebrity-obsessed fan in the station parking lot. Many critics dismiss the incident as a ratings-booster publicity stunt.

Item Category
Epinephrine x2 Consumable
Med-Spray x2 Consumable
Boom Box x2 Consumable
Large Supply Box x2 Consumable
Mobile Cover x2 Consumable
Satchel Charge x2 Consumable
Level Subject
2 The real Blood Rose ethos.


I see you came up through the ranks. You must be doing something right, to have survived this far.

And I'm not talking about not getting iced by the CSAs or any of the other gangs out there. I'm talking about having to deal with all the freaks and whackjobs we've got within our own ranks.

You met the Furies, right? Which one you think is crazier - Eenie, Meenie or Miney? Or cousin Seung - he's a real piece of work, ain't he?

Well, good news. The craziness stops here. Me and Mr. Simeone, we're just here to make money - pure and simple.

Tyron Sennet

4 Have you had 'the talk?'

Jeung given you his big "I created the Blood Roses" thing yet? Don't worry - if he hasn't, then he soon will.

Him and Seung can fight it out all they want about which one of them got this circus together. Without me and Mr. Simeone, they'd still be exactly what they were when Simeone found them - rich kid freaks having dress-up parties in rat-infested old warehouses.

So if young Mr Jeung-ho Yim (yeah, he can save that 'Bloodrose' crap for the Effigy interviews) wants to know who really created the Blood Roses, you tell him to come see us.

Tyron Sennet

6 Yeah, I know what they say about me.

Jeung and his gang, they look at me like I'm something they stepped in coming out of a club at night.

Screw that. I've known them longer than they want to remember. Who you think used to get them what they needed when they were still trying to get around with fake IDs?

I even remember Lady Charlotte when she wasn't so choosy who went riding in her royal carriage.

Give them one thing - those kids can steal! Point them at an armored van, a warehouse of computers, a cargo container loaded with military stuff, and they are hyped!

Take care. (Working with these psychos, you got to!)


8 Bullshit update.

You believe the shit I have to deal with? I spend half my time fixing things so civil war doesn't break out, and the other half wishing it would.

Love to let Jeung and Seung kill each other - but Simeone says that's not happening.

Something else wrong too. The Tigers been scoring too many hits on us, like they suddenly know more about us than before. Byron says there's no way they're hooked into his systems, so I'm guessing they've got someone telling them things&

Shit, that's all we need. Jeung and Lady C going apeshit trying to find a Prentiss rat...


10 Something doesn't add up.

You met Simeone. Smart guy, right? (Scary guy too, sometimes.) Nightclub guy. Gets in early when the local scene's still underground. Makes money buying up derelict warehouse buildings. Makes even more when he hooks up with the Roses.

Can't kid a kidder. Some bullshit right there.

Things he says, names he mentions. He knows San Paro - like he grew up here - but he's from someplace else. He knows the crim scene too, but no-one's ever heard of him before he started running clubs down here.

You get close to him, pay attention. Some story there that none of us are hearing yet.