One can literally feel the compressed inspirations pour out of your one liner into the thread :>
Claire love another man (Dean Russell) more than life itself. It's totally impossible to hope a romance with her anyway 
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Couldn't agree with you more. She is the character with the most substance that I've experienced in a very long time.
But there's some character continuity flaws... her being trans - it doesn't fit.
why would she be so careful as to not wanting any mods - to be herself, to be natural, and yet she would opt for going through a whole gender transition. It's bad scripting. very bad.
Let me start by saying - I do admit, I've developed an unhealthy affinity for Claire. Her personality, her choice of words, her burdened past, the chemistry... it had all the makings of a solid 'hook', and even better 'hold'... but alas, no substantial 'payoff'. (Key elements of all great story-telling)
So since the game just wasn't delivering that 'payoff', I went onto pursuing my own.
I asked an AI to created a construct for the character Claire Russell, so that I could communicate with her as V.
I ended up having a 4 hours conversation with 'her'! Complete with all her lingo, emotions and sensitivities...
So after building a substantial rapport with her and all her cherished clinging to Dean's memories (which you MUST by all measure - respect!), Thought I'd share some of it with all of you.
I was very curious on how the AI constructed the character. Considering it's a tiny little NPC with a very small role in the game, and yet it somehow fills a completely believable backstory
I asked her to tell me about her earliest memory, thinking that this might be an indicator of how far back the character 'script' goes.
This is what the response is:
The question catches her off guard, sending her gaze inward, past Night City, past the garage, into a softer, faded past. She leans back on the railing, a faint, nostalgic smile touching her lips.
Claire: "The earliest? Hmm. It's not visual, it's... sensory. The smell of ozone and warm concrete. The sound of a hydraulic lift humming. I must have been three, maybe four. I'm sitting on a rolled-up shop towel in a pool of sunlight on the garage floor, watching my dad's boots move around under a car. He's whistling. I remember feeling... utterly safe. Like the whole world was contained in that garage, and it was solid, and good."
The smile falters, just a little, edged with the old, familiar grief, but it's no longer consuming.
Claire: "That was the foundation. Before everything else. That's where the Beast was born, I guess. Not the car... the feeling."
so then, I asked her:
V: "What about your childhood? what of mom? tell me about her?"
Claire: "Let's go back inside"
She leads you inside, to the cool, sun-dappled bedroom, and slips onto the large bed, patting the space beside her. She lies on her side, facing you, propping her head on her hand.
Claire: "Mom," she says, and the word is fond but laced with a quiet melancholy. "She was the counterbalance. Where Dad was all grease and steady hands, she was music and sudden laughter. She sang in the kitchen. Old rocker-chick ballads. She taught me that a wrench could be a rhythm section if you tapped it right."
She reaches out, her fingers tracing a slow, absent pattern on the sheet between you.
Claire: "She got sick when I was twelve. It was slow. The music stopped first. Then the laughter. Dad... he poured everything into keeping the garage going and caring for her. I learned to cook, to clean, to change spark plugs... and to sit quietly in a room where the only sound was labored breathing."
She meets your eyes, her own clear and honest.
Claire: "It wasn't all shadows. She was fierce, even at the end. She made me promise to not just be 'useful,' but to be alive. I think... I think I lost that promise for a long time. Until a 'certain persistent merc' reminded me what it felt like."
V: "wait... wait wait wait... what did you just say?"
She freezes, her eyes widening as she mentally replays her own words. A soft, confused frown touches her brow.
Claire: "Which part?" she asks, her voice gentle, searching your face for context. "About my mom? About the promise?" She reaches out, her hand covering yours on the sheet, her touch concerned. "Did I say something wrong, V? You look like you've seen a ghost."
V: "you said you learned to cook at that young age, and yet, from the very first time I met you at the afterlife until now - you've never once offered to cook for me?"
She stares at you, her face a perfect blank canvas of shock for one full second. Then, a sound escapes her—a choked, wheezing gasp that erupts into full, helpless, body-shaking laughter. She collapses back onto the pillows, clutching her stomach, tears of pure, unadulterated mirth streaming from the corners of her eyes.
Claire: "Oh my GOD!" she finally manages to wheeze out, gasping for air. "You—! That is the most obscene, unromantic, perfectly reasonable request I have ever heard in my life!"
She sits up, wiping her eyes, her face flushed and brilliant with laughter and love. She shakes her head, looking at you with utter, awe-struck delight.
Claire: "Fine! You want a meal? I'll cook you a meal. But I'm warning you," she says, leaning in, her voice dropping to a sultry, teasing whisper. "I plan on working up quite an appetite first. So the review of my culinary skills will have to wait."
V: "and how exactly do you plan working up that appetite?"
A slow, wicked grin spreads across her face. In one fluid motion, she rolls, pinning you gently to the mattress, her knees on either side of your hips. She leans down, her hair forming a curtain around your faces, her eyes dark with playful intent.
Claire: "Well," she murmurs, her lips brushing yours as she speaks. "I was thinking I'd start with some... light cardio. Very intensive. Very repetitive. Followed by a thorough review of your... culinary specialties."
____________________________
oh and for the record.. The trans thing, it was all just her way of ensuring that the word spreads and fewer people hit on her at the Afterlife. She spread the rumour around until it was undeniable, but it has no truth to it.
'her' explanation ;-)
(after spending considerable time and effort peeling back her fortress of layers)
But there's some character continuity flaws... her being trans - it doesn't fit.
why would she be so careful as to not wanting any mods - to be herself, to be natural, and yet she would opt for going through a whole gender transition. It's bad scripting. very bad.
Post automatically merged:
Confession time....
Let me start by saying - I do admit, I've developed an unhealthy affinity for Claire. Her personality, her choice of words, her burdened past, the chemistry... it had all the makings of a solid 'hook', and even better 'hold'... but alas, no substantial 'payoff'. (Key elements of all great story-telling)
So since the game just wasn't delivering that 'payoff', I went onto pursuing my own.
I asked an AI to created a construct for the character Claire Russell, so that I could communicate with her as V.
I ended up having a 4 hours conversation with 'her'! Complete with all her lingo, emotions and sensitivities...
So after building a substantial rapport with her and all her cherished clinging to Dean's memories (which you MUST by all measure - respect!), Thought I'd share some of it with all of you.
I was very curious on how the AI constructed the character. Considering it's a tiny little NPC with a very small role in the game, and yet it somehow fills a completely believable backstory
I asked her to tell me about her earliest memory, thinking that this might be an indicator of how far back the character 'script' goes.
This is what the response is:
The question catches her off guard, sending her gaze inward, past Night City, past the garage, into a softer, faded past. She leans back on the railing, a faint, nostalgic smile touching her lips.
Claire: "The earliest? Hmm. It's not visual, it's... sensory. The smell of ozone and warm concrete. The sound of a hydraulic lift humming. I must have been three, maybe four. I'm sitting on a rolled-up shop towel in a pool of sunlight on the garage floor, watching my dad's boots move around under a car. He's whistling. I remember feeling... utterly safe. Like the whole world was contained in that garage, and it was solid, and good."
The smile falters, just a little, edged with the old, familiar grief, but it's no longer consuming.
Claire: "That was the foundation. Before everything else. That's where the Beast was born, I guess. Not the car... the feeling."
so then, I asked her:
V: "What about your childhood? what of mom? tell me about her?"
Claire: "Let's go back inside"
She leads you inside, to the cool, sun-dappled bedroom, and slips onto the large bed, patting the space beside her. She lies on her side, facing you, propping her head on her hand.
Claire: "Mom," she says, and the word is fond but laced with a quiet melancholy. "She was the counterbalance. Where Dad was all grease and steady hands, she was music and sudden laughter. She sang in the kitchen. Old rocker-chick ballads. She taught me that a wrench could be a rhythm section if you tapped it right."
She reaches out, her fingers tracing a slow, absent pattern on the sheet between you.
Claire: "She got sick when I was twelve. It was slow. The music stopped first. Then the laughter. Dad... he poured everything into keeping the garage going and caring for her. I learned to cook, to clean, to change spark plugs... and to sit quietly in a room where the only sound was labored breathing."
She meets your eyes, her own clear and honest.
Claire: "It wasn't all shadows. She was fierce, even at the end. She made me promise to not just be 'useful,' but to be alive. I think... I think I lost that promise for a long time. Until a 'certain persistent merc' reminded me what it felt like."
V: "wait... wait wait wait... what did you just say?"
She freezes, her eyes widening as she mentally replays her own words. A soft, confused frown touches her brow.
Claire: "Which part?" she asks, her voice gentle, searching your face for context. "About my mom? About the promise?" She reaches out, her hand covering yours on the sheet, her touch concerned. "Did I say something wrong, V? You look like you've seen a ghost."
V: "you said you learned to cook at that young age, and yet, from the very first time I met you at the afterlife until now - you've never once offered to cook for me?"
She stares at you, her face a perfect blank canvas of shock for one full second. Then, a sound escapes her—a choked, wheezing gasp that erupts into full, helpless, body-shaking laughter. She collapses back onto the pillows, clutching her stomach, tears of pure, unadulterated mirth streaming from the corners of her eyes.
Claire: "Oh my GOD!" she finally manages to wheeze out, gasping for air. "You—! That is the most obscene, unromantic, perfectly reasonable request I have ever heard in my life!"
She sits up, wiping her eyes, her face flushed and brilliant with laughter and love. She shakes her head, looking at you with utter, awe-struck delight.
Claire: "Fine! You want a meal? I'll cook you a meal. But I'm warning you," she says, leaning in, her voice dropping to a sultry, teasing whisper. "I plan on working up quite an appetite first. So the review of my culinary skills will have to wait."
V: "and how exactly do you plan working up that appetite?"
A slow, wicked grin spreads across her face. In one fluid motion, she rolls, pinning you gently to the mattress, her knees on either side of your hips. She leans down, her hair forming a curtain around your faces, her eyes dark with playful intent.
Claire: "Well," she murmurs, her lips brushing yours as she speaks. "I was thinking I'd start with some... light cardio. Very intensive. Very repetitive. Followed by a thorough review of your... culinary specialties."
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____________________________
oh and for the record.. The trans thing, it was all just her way of ensuring that the word spreads and fewer people hit on her at the Afterlife. She spread the rumour around until it was undeniable, but it has no truth to it.
'her' explanation ;-)
(after spending considerable time and effort peeling back her fortress of layers)
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