Elizabeth Adams
Current: None (Previous: Miss Liberty, Good Bess, Everyman)
Real Name: Elizabeth Adams
Age: Apparent: Varies
Identity: Secret
Birthplace: Unknown
Date of Birth: Unknown
Known Relatives: Unknown
Height: Varies
Weight: Varies
Eyes: Varies
Hair: Varies
Grade: Freshman
Dorm: Chord


My first memories are fragmented. A whole lot of pain, a stubborn refusal to talk, even more pain, throwing up, screaming, blackness, then something was probably a hospital ER. When I woke up in the hospital, I knew it was a hospital, but I had no idea who I was. There were repeated interviews with cops, FBI agents, agents from a carefully unnamed government agency, and finally two separate telepaths. None of them could waken any memories in me. I knew what things were, how to use them. I could tell you how to get around most major East Coast cities, except, for some reason, Miami. But I didn't know what I knew, until someone asked or I had to use the knowledge somehow.

The telepaths convinced them I wasn't faking, and that's when I finally got the story. It seems that I had called in a report of powered terrorists building bombs in a warehouse to a number no sixteen year old had any business knowing. From a disposable, prepaid cellphone that had been bought with cash. My prints were the only one on the phone, my voice matched the recording. A powered strike force had arrived in time to see the leaders vanishing through a portal leaving behind the bombs, a bunch of low ranked goons, and a teenage girl tied up and beaten nearly to death. Me.

By the time I was able to walk around the hospital room, they had decided I wasn't a suspect. One of the cops brought me the purse they had found with me at the warehouse. Fingerprints had proven it was mine… but it was nearly as much of a cipher as I was. Popular brand of purse, millions of them sold this spring. MP3 player, cinnamon gum, a popular romance novel in paperback, tickets stubs from a recent movie, a keyring with multiple keys, and a wallet. Opening the wallet revealed a transit pass, no id, about two hundred bucks in assorted bills, and an American Express Centurion Card. I turned the card over in my hand slowly, staring at it. AmEx Black cards are thicker than normal, made from annonized Titanium. There was no name on it.

The cop noticed my attention on it, and said that American Express wouldn't tell them who the card belonged to without a warrant, and a judge wouldn't issue a warrant since I wasn't a suspect. Somehow I knew that wouldn't have slowed down some of the government agents I had spoken with… and this didn't bother me. I picked up the hospital phone and dialed the number on the back, the cop prattling on how that it wouldn't do any good. But I wasn't calling accounting, I was calling the concierge service. When they answered I gave them my account number, that I needed a complete set of clothing and the sizes, and asked for my lawyer to be sent.

Forty minutes later a lawyer turns up with a shopping bag. When I explained my situation, he took it rather calmly and told me my name was Elizabeth Adams. By the time I finished showering and changing into the street clothing he had me released from the hospital and from police protective custody. Things were moving fast enough to be scary.

After the hospital he drove me to an expensive brownstone. One of the keys on my keychain fit the front door lock, and he knew the alarm code. Inside he took me to a home office and unlocked a safe. There was a pile of manilla envelopes there, and he removed one which was labeled 'Amnesia', opening that, he removed two more envelopes, opening the one that read 'female'. Inside that, he removed 4 more envelopes, opening the one that read 'teen' and handed the contents to me, putting everything else back in the safe.

It was a serious strain for me to hold things together by now. The letter inside was from… me. My name was Elizabeth Abagail Adams, and I was a shapeshifter. I had a large fortune, which the law firm of Howard, Kohn, Sprague & FitzGerald would oversee for me. I had spent a great deal of my life in government service, and as a result records for me would be nonexistent. That sent a shiver through me, followed by a surge of pride. Somehow I knew that governments were better at creating paper trails than destroying them. And if records on me were that hard to find… well, what I had been doing for the government had to be important. However, suffering from amnesia, there was no chance of me going back to my old job and life. Apparently this had happened to me before, and it might take a decade or so for my memory to come back. A decade! How old was I?If my memory did not return in a few weeks, I was to enroll in the Steranko Institute.

There were some other things in the envelope. More normal credit cards and such. Lists of properties and instructions ranging from how to work the alarm systems to never travel to Berlin as a red head. I didn't pretend to understand half of it, I just memorized it. So here I am, enrolling in Steranko. Oddly enough, I'm really looking forward to it and I can't explain why.


Beth is cheerful, courteous, and friendly. She's also the text book definition of a patriot. The words 'your country needs you' stir something in her that will not be denied. She's not a fool, she will make sure she has proper authorization for whatever she's about to leap into, but personal danger is meaningless next to the call of duty.


Links to logs the character is in here.

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