Deidre Dollar by MediaMan

TEAM: The Fallen

SECTOR: Uptown

KIT CLASS: Empathy

I've been called many things in my life. I've been called a bitch, though I've never been one to argue against this accusation. I've been called a tramp, though this is the classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, as my insultors often threw these vulgar invectives at me from a much, much lower station. I've even been called a lesbian, though this is due to an overzealous media on certain worlds, and I usually let this slide. There is one word, however, that I refuse to simply ignore when aimed towards me, and that word is pampered. I can understand where one might get that impression, inaccurate though it may be. I am, after all, the daughter of the richest man in countless worlds, Marc Dollar. He did indeed find me as a baby, abandoned in an ally in the pouring rain. It's also true that, while being raised, concepts such as need and want were foreign to me. Whatever I could possibly ask for was delivered by instant teleport. And, yes, I did go to the best schools with the best teachers. I even attended the esteemed Battlemaster High for a brief period of time. These things and more are true, but just because of that do not assume that I am pampered. Pampered people are weak. They are vulnerable. They are easily dismissed. I am none of these things. They all think I had the world handed to me on a silver platter, that I haven't worked for a thing in my life. They're wrong. I worked to get into the position I am. The fact that I am both the head of Dollarcorp's main corporate branch and the daughter of its CEO Marc Dollar is just a coincidence. I know this because my father values the company too much to entrust such an important part of it to someone who was not capable of handling it. And I am capable, dammit. My masters degree in interdimensional economics and megabusiness management were aquired not through well placed bribes as many think, but through countless, endless nights of study. As hard as it is to believe, I started low like everyone else, just another face in the monolithic beaurocracy that was Dollarcorp. I fought my way to where I am. Inhereting my father's cunning, I carved a path to management that ran red with ink. Inhereting my father's pride, I refused to ask for any help in my quest whatsoever. I do know, though, that my corporate machinations pleased my father. It made him proud, knowing I had inhereted yet another trait from him: the ability to know what one wants and to take it. Still, I am my own person. I am not my father's daughter. Unlike his ascension, my own was relatively bloodless. Insteading of leaving unmarked graves holding well known corpses, I left unnoticed boxes holding well known businessmen, now penniless, jobless and friendless. By the time I managed to claw my way to the top of Dollarcorp's business hierarchy, I was recognized by many, rightly so, as an economic genius. I can plunge entire galaxies into depression with a single stock transfer. My father knew he was making a wise choice when he assigned me to head his business affairs, as the twisted and disgusting Doctor Nomar headed his research and development, and the unctious cripple headed intellgence. We both knew that it was only a mine like mine that could possibly manage the massive infrastructure of the company, while, at the same time, expanding it into hostile takeovers of other so-called corporate giants. Like much of Dollarcorp, lately my attentions have been turned to Khazan. As I predicted, Nomar and his tinkertoys are more than useless in Dollarcorp's domination of Khazan. The residents have more than enough firepower to defend themselves adequately. An army simply will not do. No, what my father is realizing more and more is that he needs *me*. He needs *me* to conduct our business, he needs *me* to negotiate with potential nuisances and he needs *me* to deal with those companies who do not cooperate. Me. Not the head of R&D, or Intelligence, or Military or any other department. He needs *me* to guide Dollarcorp's tenticles into the economic machinery of Khazan... Before ruthlessly sweeping it all aside.

Personality: That equality claptrap spouted on many a Dollarcorp province by rebels has never appealed to me. If we are all, indeed, created equal than what is to separate we civilized beings from the... Dregs that attend our factories? Plebian, working class brutes that kill, steal, sweat and belch. One would be a fool to think that we are equals to them. It is better to think of them more as the furnature of our universe, yes? They're really better off, anyway, with our supervision. With no ability to control their urges, after all, they would destroy themselves in a fortnight. It is better that Dollarcorp has taken the role of the reluctant shepherd, guising them to more productive activities. Like making this delightful blouse I'm wearing. Still, there do arise, every so often, an exceptional one, a subhumam above subhumans. These are dangerous and must be dealt with ruthlessly and efficiently. My father prefers assassinations, but those are messy and I feel they just make things worse. Bribes are better. Everyone has a price. Everything is for sale. All you need to know is what currency to use and how much of it you require. And, of course, I am a master negotiator. And if anyone intends to outdo me there, I am also quite the ruthless politician. And I will not hesitate to put anyone out on the street.

Serve Me...

... And you shall benefit

Oppose me... And suffer.

Dollarcorp is Everywhere

Master Plotter

Retribution