Maiden Name: âYour guess is as good as mine sugar.â
Mary Cross (Forced Upon)
Gutter rat (Often Shouted)
Gwen Farris âA skin Iâve shedâŠâ
Vamp âIâm nothing if not professional.â
Years: 23: January 27, 1899
If Sophia ever had a real name given to her by loving parents who cared one way or another, no one ever bothered to impart that choice bit of information to her. Left to a catholic church, and the charity of nuns as an infant, Sophiaâs first name was Mary Cross. Painfully religious and given without much thought, Mary found much of her young upbringing to be the same. Her experiences of neglect and abuse were not unique at St. Paulâs orphanage, but Mary learned there that she had a particular talent for getting under skin. It was a talent Mary also learned to use cautiously in her time there, as Sister Margaret could be quite sadistic when the mood struck her. Sharp tongues and quick wits were the marks of the devil in a girl after all, ones that were best burned out at a young age. One particularly brutal incident involving boiled holy water and a funnel left a lasting impression. Sophia still canât stomach liquid thatâs more than lukewarm.
Adults at least, were predictable when they lashed out; it was the other children you really had to look out for. The older ones were to be avoided entirely. The things theyâd do to each other made Sister Margaret look tame, and it was from them that Mary learned the cardinal rules of survival. For starters, always lookout for yourself first, because if you wonât watch your own back, no one will do it for you. Trust is asking for a knife in the back, believe only grudgingly and always have an exit strategy in mind. The last, was that the moral high ground was for those who could afford it. Do whatâs necessary to get by and then shake it off. Those rules got her through everything St. Paulâs could throw Maryâs way, and the streets of Chicago eventually proved much the same.
Some people canât help but use others, and some just canât help being used. Itâs a natural cycle really, codependent as far as relationships go. A leader after all, isnât much more than a posturing prick without a pack of hard-boiled thugs running around taking orders. Not that the thugs are any better. For money, sex, power, or some twisted sense of belonging, they all do the bidding of some trumped up Mac who does the thinking for them. Not that I can claim to be some kind of exception there. For which one I sold my soul to Danny Quinn is anyone's guess; maybe all of it. In the end, I suppose I shouldnât have been surprised by the results.
Origin: Chicago, IL
By the time Mary Cross turned seven, sheâd had enough of St. Paulâs. Anywhere was better than that sanctimonious hell hole. The streets of Chicago can be a cold place, but they were also a great teacher. Small hands and a sweet face like hers could prove valuable assets in the cityâs criminal underbelly, and she never failed to use them for her own benefit. Picking pockets was the first skill she learned on the streets, running around for a few rackets of corralled street urchins on the south side. As she got older though, it became apparent the men she worked for wanted her earning money a different way. Turning tricks turned girls old fast, and Mary had no intention of renting her ass out so someone else could make a buck. Better to lure dumb Johns into a back alley and rob them at knife point than that. Itâs a ploy than only works so long though before ending ugly, and not ever John balks at a knife.
Mary met Danny Quinn when she was thirteen. Bruised, manhandled, and sporting a busted lip, sheâd stared down a man ten years her senior as he took her measure. Apparently, sheâd robbed the wrong John, though admittedly the man hadnât come off as a lieutenant in anything, much less one of Chicagoâs myriad of Irish gangs. News of a thirteen year old gutter rat beating and robbing one of Dannyâs men was an insult that had to be answered, the young boss just hadnât decided who's ass heâd take it out of yet. In the end, it wasnât hers. Danny Quinn was a pragmatic man that prided himself on having a good eye for potential, and in her he saw plenty of it. It was a new life that came with a new name, and under the wing of one of Chicagoâs rising gangsters she happily shed Mary Cross for the far more deadly and decidedly Irish Gwen Farris. Danny picked the name because her skin was pale as the moon. She was dangerously enchanted.
As Gwen, she learned the tricks of the trade, and no one could claim she was anything but a quick study. Extortion, smuggling, prostitution, hijacking, and bribery, Dannyâs White Fang gang had its fingers in all the pies Chicagoâs underworld had to offer. Smuggling in particular Gwen had a talent for, running everything from opium to arms sales. Dressed up the right way, no one suspected a teenage girl of anything more illicit than a loverâs tryst, and Gwen was very good at playing whatever part she needed for the con. By the time Gwen was nineteen, sheâd helped build up Dannyâs empire with nothing but blood and sheer force of will, effectively carving herself a space in the inner workings of his organization. Her relationship with Danny Quinn had also taken a decidedly carnal turn. How sheâd expected that to end even Sophia can't say, but in some ways sheâd always be a moon eyed teenage girl for Danny Quinn, drunk on his approval and the scraps of affection he threw her way.
When they say sleeping with your boss ends badly, I somehow never pictured a swamp. Being left for dead as gator chow just seemed impersonal. I always figured if things went south between me and Danny, heâd at least do me the courtesy of pulling the trigger himself. Too much to ask for I guess. In the end, it was my own damn fault, I broke the rules. I got too comfortable, too trusting, thinking about some future that didnât end cold and bloody on the streets. Maybe there were even some fat happy babies with Dannyâs green eyes thrown in there too, but hell if Iâd willingly bring some poor kid into this life just to get used up the way I had. I put Dannyâs ambitions ahead of my own, built that bastard a kingdom and left myself begging for scraps. Betrayalâs always a tough pill to swallow, but in those first dark days after, I caught myself wishing that torpedo heâd hired was a better shot...Thatâs what I can't forgive.
Accolades:
The Bates Family
Her pearl handled 1911 Colt .45
Present Digs: Gretna, LA
Catharsis:
âIâm whoever I need to be to survive.â
Aversions: Hot liquids; she wonât touch the stuff, so donât try to feed it to her.
Danny Quinn wasnât one to sit idle when opportunity came knocking with a congressional amendment sized fist. Prohibition rocked the country something fierce, putting those in the legitimate business of booze out of commission in a stranglehold of forced sobriety. For those not so daunted by trivial things like legality though, there was a world of money to be made. Bootlegging became the name of the game, and it was one more industry the White Fangs intended to conquer. Competition in Chicago though was fierce, and with the consolidated Italian mob scene starting to put the boot to the throats of the far more scattered Irish gangs on the North side, branching out seemed to other cities seemed prudent. New Orleans was ripe hunting ground, and though the Italian Matranga crime family undoubtedly reigned supreme in the Big Easy, they dealt mostly with imported hooch. Danny on the other hand, was interested in that all American white lightning, an enterprise far more suited to the Irish. Breaking into that market though would take necessitated the kind of connections that went beyond money and a shared immigrant heritage. The best business was always done with blood, so to ensure the expansion to his empire, Danny Quinn found himself getting hitched to one Fiona OâBannion, as well as her fatherâs rather expansive syndicate in Louisiana. If Fiona hadnât been the jealous type, Sophia Moon might have remained Gwen Farris, Moll, bootlegger, and occasional enforcer for the boss of the White Fangs. As it was, Danny found himself with a choice, bump off the choice dame heâd been dirtying the sheets with for the better part of three years, or risk losing access to the OâBannionâs moonshine.
The night Gwen Farris died, she found herself trekking through the god awful heat in a Louisiana swamp, readying the pickup for fifty cases of prime Louisiana shine. Instead of hooch, Gwen found herself ambushed by the very lugs sheâd rode in with. Luck, and a great deal of experience under fire got her out still breathing, though understandably theyâd pumped her with enough lead in gater infested territory to assume the worst. As far as the world was concerned, Gwen Farris was fertilizing the swamp. Force of will got her to a back road, some higher power she may or may not be willing to believe in, brought her the Bates boys.
Generosity wasnât exactly something sheâd ever had experience with; quid pro quo was the way of the world. Sophia spent six months as Bates charity, nursing her wounds and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did. They never bent her over the proverbial barrel, and never mentioned the debt she owed them. It didnât stop her from feeling the weight of it deep in her gut. Set up with a job at the dying Honey Stop, Sophia found herself adrift with a new name and not much else to it. Sheâd picked Sophia because it was blatantly Italian, and Moon because she was apparently a masochist. It wasnât until she realized just how tough things were becoming for Rem and Harlow that Sophia managed to really pick herself up. The Bates might have been good enough people to forgive her debt, but she sure as hell wasnât going to let it stand. Sheâd helped build up a criminal empire before, she could sure as hell do it again. Moonshine was the white gold of Louisiana, and it was time for a rush.
Conning a recipe out of some pushover running a still west of Gretna was the easy part. Sophia could sniff out a gin mill a mile away, and she knew. Harlow was the one who really put the signature stamp on it from there. It was dismantling the competition that was going to be the real challenge, but one she specialized in. Come hell or high water, she was going to make the Bates the richest shiners this side of the Mississippi, and once her debt was paid in full, Sophia planned to get some goddamn payback.
Demeanor:
For a woman governed by so many self imposed rules, she sure is fond of breaking them. Slicker than an oil spill, and fond of tough talk, Sophia can go toe to toe with the best hard-boiled bimbos around, but sheâs got a grudging moral compass and sense of loyalty thatâs proved her Achilles heel in the past.
Word About Town:
Cheats at Poker
That Bossy Yankee Skirt
Lady of Sin
Bad Influence