Tap the tag to flip it — the back is what prints on the acrylic.
Night Reaper
Chain Reaction·Competition group B·All-In · only the number moves
This is an All-In league.Your tag is your character — it never changes hands. After each round, standings re-rank every number: play well and yours drops toward #1. Skip a week and the field may drift past you. The art, name, and lore are yours for good.
All-In league: Night Reaper stays with its holder — only its number moves with each week's standings.
Character Sheet
AI-written · FATE style
High ConceptRogue Cyborg Stalker of Neon Alleyways
TroubleNeural Tech Hungers for a Signal
Glowing Circuitry RoadmapThe Chains Are My JuryMy OB is Your Problem
Former Digital Shadow hacker implanted with experimental Steel Eagle combat neurotech who went rogue after discovering commanders selling weapons to rival factions, now stalking corrupt officials through neon-lit alleyways.
Military leg augments enable silent rooftop traversal, retractable wrist-mounted monomolecular blades, pulse-rifle with neural targeting interface, subdermal circuitry glowing beneath torn trenchcoat.
Unpredictable justice dealer whose surgical strikes against corrupt leaders force temporary alliances when he simultaneously targets officials from multiple factions.
Season Story
narrated by Flippy
Forged
Forged in a black-market cyberdoc's back alley chop shop when some ex-Digital Shadow script-kiddie yeeted stolen Steel Eagle neurotech into their own cortex. "Gonna look so sick with my trenchcoat drip," they slurred through anesthetic haze while monomolecular blades unfolded. Honestly? Giving John Wick vibes if he traded puppies for disc dye. Why are we weaponizing bag tags again? Will this edge lord survive league registration?
<strong>Michael Cook</strong> emerged from the acid rain, PDGA#221903 glitching on neon billboards like a divine mandate. The <em>Night Reaper</em> tag pulsed in its cryo-case, whispering of putts that could "reap souls." Our hero tripped over a rogue Berg (classic dystopian hazard), face-planting directly onto the tag scanner. Fate? Or just embarrassing gravity? His "chain reaction" started with literal chains—course fencing he tangled with mid-lunge. Now bearing tag #82 like a cybernetic curse, one question haunts these rain-slicked fairways: Can this man out-putt his own clumsiness?
See where Michael Cook sits in the competition group.Updated after every finalized round
