Marco 'Wiseman' Gregorio

A well-connected ex-corprate decker on the run...



Wiseman is known to live in an old machine shop abandoned by ‘SAHARA MACHINEWORKS LTD’ with his business associate Ragadath in the far east portion of Sidi Bernoussi district.

They have a middle Lifestyle with Extra Secure accommodations.

The workshop sports an engineering workshop suitable for most ground, waterborne or aerospace related works.

The workshop and area are Extra Secured and Hard to Find.


Wipe the slate, start over again.

Singapore, Tangier, Casablanca… Stay in them long enough and all the cities blur to the same smells, same sounds.

Unusually enough, he comes off as a pretty regular guy. Not much in the way of chrome, far from notorious in an astral sense, what sets Marco apart from others is one part skill and two parts guile. Able to talk a great game and usually smart enough to keep the promises within his skill set, his work and social ease goes a long way in ensuring his survival.

Renraku had plans for the up-and-comer during the entry-level days of his corporate life. An outside contractor that was being considered for Corp-Limited Residence, Renraku’s plans fell to pieces when their AI curse struck once more… proving that their algorithms are far more wily than predicted, Wiseman ‘mutually parted ways’ with the company after assisting in the escape of a high-value information-devouring AI ‘OB 1’.

Much to Renraku’s dismay, Wiseman had utterly vanished from the grid before he could be detained for questioning.

From that point on, his life took a turn for the down-low. Fleeing the Malaysian bloc and taking root in Tangiers, he stuck his head in the sand and holed up in a modest not-too-shithole of a squat in the city for three years. Misfortune brushed him when he became a bystander-witness to a moment of human-metahuman violence, being in the crowd nearby a terrorist act. Given that all those nearby were given a modest background check, just-enough of a scent was picked up by the Renraku bloodhounds – Wiseman rarely posted publicly, but the speculation and infamy about his involvement with liberating the OB1 entity had made his name and face a matter of urban mythology. This meant that others quickly began picking up on his trail – that included both Renraku and lesser-evil individuals that wanted to pick his brain.

Neither group appealed to Wiseman.

Despite his precautions, his face was recognized with enough suspicion that Putra Sukrano began devoting resources to investigating the sighting. This was enough to unnerve him and send him out the door.

This time it was his turn to benefit from another. Through digital trickery, OB1 obfuscated much of Wiseman’s identity, using information manipulation and selective filtration of data to confuse and mis-represent his identity to other servers and data-carnivores, and together, they created a new, opaque smoke-screen… sending his ‘identity’ to New Orleans while sending his ‘body’ just down the coast to Casablanca.

Casablanca was not like the old timer movies. A major hub port with enough traffic to keep any security force’s head spinning, Wiseman dumped money to buy a flat, and knowing his name was burned, turned to the shadows to make a living. It’s hard to make a living on your own without stepping on someone’s turf, and having his research done right, he set himself up and tried to build a good bit of courage to go pay his respects to the local Familia.

Didn’t even get to the front door, let alone knock on it.

Disrespected, insulted, but allowed to walk away with all of his teeth, Wiseman did the next best thing. Walking up to the soy-pasta place with open ears gave him just enough info that something was ‘missing’ for a get-together for a ‘certain someone’. A local Capo’s bachelor’s party was just around the corner, and there was a severe lack of proper refreshments.

Fuck the physical door, then.

Maybe he had researched it, maybe it was just luck, but it just so happened that when the heat was starting about the lack of a good cocktail, there was a knock on the manor door and a full case of 16, sealed, preserved bottles of Classico Campari 2030 vintage bitters and scotch. Fresh off the boat and delivered to doorstep. No signature, no tip necessary. Just a note offering respects to his happy day…

…followed by a nervous wait.

Timing had worked in his favor. Their previous arrangements had been confiscated before delivery, leaving the one man who was responsible for Colombano’s ‘comfort’ nearly hung out to dry. The fact it was Wiseman’s work only came into play months later.

Having assumed he had earned ‘permission’ to operate, he begun spreading roots in shadows. His primary industry was information and contacts, with the occasional matrix run or ‘digital favor’ mixed in, preferring work that didn’t involve gunslining… he managed to stay under the radar for the first half of the year. Feeling a bit over-confident, Wiseman eventually accepted a contract with notably more risk but a much more impressive payout.

A hit.

‘Chinko Charlie’ was an asshole, but an asshole with a gun and enough chrome to turn most small-timers away, he was an ex-gangbanger that went solo after his outfit got pushed out of their turf by competing forces – turning his attention on fucking around with the work other gangs and groups were brewing up. Charlie managed to stay on the up’n’up by being nomadic, never staying in a district long enough to get tracked, but eventually he generated enough heat that his name was handed down to a Johnson, and eventually, to Wiseman. Mr. Johnson was very explicit about his dis-satisfaction about Chinko’s continued evasion of his previous runners. He was also explicit about his lack of confidence in a ‘chiphead’ suddenly wanting in to a hit. Wiseman took those little jabs to heart.

He was equipped to find people, and while it took a few days’ research, eventually he found his man after tracking down a stolen credstick. A camera feed here, a studying of patterns there, and the whole dilemma was resolved with a polite walk-up, a automatic-pistol hello, and a frag-grenade see-you-next time. Chinko was sitting in the perma-parked husk of some broken down car, wolfing away on soybars and kaf.

The glass from the rolled up window barely had time to finish falling before the grenade was left behind in Chinko’s lap.

The entire event took less than eight seconds, Wiseman kept a copy of the record as proof of completion for Johnson, but otherwise did nothing to claim the hit or responsibilty. In the end, it just looked like yet another gang to gang hit, one burn out that got unlucky. Just another corpse in the street.

Wiseman thought that would have been that. The money was in his account, contract was done. Not a milk run but hey, it paid well… and then one day, Wiseman went for a stroll to spend a bit of that nuyen burning a hole in his pants, a little btl, a little bottle of scotch and suddenly… a black bag over his head and a punch to the gut.

The drive took an hour, and when the bag was yanked off his head, he was seated in front of a not-too-impressed Colombano. A hitman working without permission in his turf was a bad faux pas, whether or not Chinko’s removal was exactly what he had been looking for. For most, this would have spelled a trip with docwagon, the interrogation turned in his favor after he explained himself.

Thus began a mutual understanding between the two, Wiseman was not a competing element, but not a threat. He knew how to be discreet and keep his mouth shut. In the first year, unease was the general mentality, but over time and small jobs (and a lot of alcohol) Wiseman has since become a fixture of the grungier side of the Taddeo operated neighborhood. The gang and fringe elements in the area have long since learned to stay away from the Wiseman’s alley. It’s probably the only sorta clean alley in that shitty part of the city, anyway.

Wiseman’s usual day to day is finding shipping snags. Digitally skimming off of the top by arranging false delivery and unloading manifests, setting up shipments to front companies for the family (and at times other individuals or groups) that blame the shipping companies for the errors, helping to fuel bootleg luxuries and contraband trafficking.

His lifestyle nor his home are extravagant, only his love of soft drugs and booze.

Wiseman is usually seen alone or with his business associate ‘Radagath’, but at times has been known to do business with criminal and gang elements in the Casablanca and Mohhamedia shadows. While he does not have membership to any particular organization, he is known to do business with the Taddeo family as well do small-work for community elements and businesses.

Marco 'Wiseman' Gregorio

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