<div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">Rebecka Reynolds<br/>Twenty Five Years Old<br/>Mechanic</span></div><br/><div class="floatright">(http://25.media.tumblr.com/b5a42bc4195d251a1883f46398a8d4e6/tumblr_mn2v4rvAi91rjpd1ko1_500.jpg)</div>Becka is a girl who never seemed to fit in.<br/><br/>When she was a few years younger in school, those around her never missed an opportunity to remind her of that.  “Grease Monkey” they called her, over and over again until the day she graduated.  They all always looked down upon her.  She wasn’t one of them.  She wasn’t rich like them, nor was her father a power-player in the city like most of theirs.  No.  Her father was a different sort of power player.<br/><br/>She knew what her father did for a living when he wasn’t servicing the everyday person’s cars.  It was an unspoken rule between them, to never bring it up, and nor did she.  It was their secret, between father and daughter.  Only a handful of people knew of her father’s value to the city’s more nefarious elements.  Mechanic to the Criminals.  Whether it was street racers who needed an extra boost under the hood, or the local crime bosses who needed extra hidden spaces or surprise elements in their cars, he was always there.  He was a magician with a wrench under the hood, able to fix any and all problems, a reputation he earned.<br/><br/>Cars and engines were what she grew up around ever since she was younger.  She didn’t play with Barbie dolls or dress up for tea with stuffed animals.  She didn’t fawn over dresses and fashion.  Instead she was a girl who played with engine parts, who at age twelve knew more about cars and fixing engines than most men did three times her age.   At her father’s feet she learned about engines and cars, learned how to take apart and disable an engine, how to rebuild one, and so on until the day he died of a heart attack.<br/><br/>Rebecka “Grease Monkey” Reynolds took over the shop on the day her father died.  Instead of going to college, as her father always dreamed, she stayed in the shop, working on the things her father loved as much as he loved her.  It wasn’t long until the same criminal elements who had paid for her father’s business came calling to her, getting pulled into the tangled web of crime just like her Daddy.<br/><br/>She was on her own, just as she always had been.  For a while Rebecka was able to keep the shop up and going, clinging onto the few legitimate customers her father had, but never the ones who always paid the big bucks.  The racers, the crime lords, all of them shied away from her.  Always it was the same things.  “Why trust a kid with stuff like this?  A girl at that?”<br/><br/>When the shop finally closed down, unable to keep up with the large bills that had continued to pile up over the years under her father’s ownership and her own, it was as if a part of her father had died all over again.  Countless times she watched people going in and out of it, the prospective buyers while she could only watch from afar, sad and angry that the place which had been her refuge was taken away from her.  But no one would enjoy it the way she did.  No.  Rebecka saw to that.<br/><br/>The Arson Investigators could never find out who caused the fire.  In that part of the city, it was a miracle if anyone had fake security cameras, let alone real, working ones.  The molotov cocktail had been clean of fingerprints, generic, easily reproduced.  When the fire had been finally put out, it was nothing more than a shell of a building, burned out and gutted.  It didn’t take long for the fruitless investigations to start, and just around the time the building was torn down, Becka was brought in.  She played them like a fiddle, acting upset, depressed, near distraught over the building’s demise.<br/><br/>Yet she wasn’t.  In fact, Becka would not have had it any other way.  She didn’t want others to enjoy the building.  She didn’t want others taking up the place that had been essentially a home to her, where so many memories were.  She saw to that with a couple of empty bottles and some gas and oil.<br/><br/>Without the shop, she was on her own, alone in the world.  What friends she had were all gone, off to colleges to start their lives, raising families of their own, or whatever else that made them grow apart.  A loner, she takes up a few odd mechanic jobs here and there for street racers in need of a quick fix or boost, or the occasional chop-shop job to make a living.<br/><br/>Personality wise, she is a quiet sort.  Introverted to a degree from her days at school being teased about her short height at barely over five feet one and her father’s profession.  Focused and driven on the task at hand.  Likes to experiment, so to speak, with things that are considered illegal, a habit she learned from her father and tinkering with engines.