Black Lagoon: Roberta

The rain returned to Roanapur the next morning, washing the last traces of blood from the old wharf. Roberta stood on the deck of the Black Lagoon, her few possessions in a duffel bag. She was no longer wearing the tattered trench coat. She wore a simple grey dress, and her silver hair was brushed and tied back.

As the Black Lagoon chugged out of the harbor, heading for international waters, Roberta stood at the rail, the wind in her hair. Behind her, Roanapur faded into the gray horizon—a city of ghosts, a city of sin, a city that had almost claimed her soul.

"Young Master, the area is secure. I shall prepare tea now." black lagoon: roberta

Roberta slowly lowered her rifle. She looked at the circle of guns. She looked at the dying man in the wheelchair. And then she laughed. It was a hollow, horrible sound.

Roberta consumes a combat stimulant (or enters a state of pure bloodlust). Her eyes glow red, and she becomes immune to stagger and damage for the duration. She unsheathes a combat knife, moving through enemies with instant-kill executions in melee range while dual-wielding handguns for ranged suppression. The rain returned to Roanapur the next morning,

To everyone’s shock, Revy didn’t pull away. She saw something in Roberta’s gaze—not a challenge, but a profound, abyssal exhaustion. A mirror of what she herself might become in twenty years.

Revy, unable to contain her disdain, slid her cutlass back into its holster and leaned over. “Cut the poetry, Maid Marian. Why are you here? You gonna cry on our shoulders and then blow your brains out? Do it outside. I just had the floor scrubbed.” She wore a simple grey dress, and her

“Ah, but you see,” he said, and he smiled. It was a terrible, triumphant smile. “I am not the one you should be aiming at.”

For a long moment, nothing. Then, a light flickered on atop a crane, illuminating a figure in a wheelchair.

She turned her head slowly. The faintest ghost of a bitter smile touched her lips. “Peace is a lie they tell children so they sleep through the night. I tried to live it, Rock-san. I cooked. I cleaned. I watched Garcia grow into a fine young man. I sat in the sun. And the sun burned.”

Roberta is the head maid of the Lovelace family, a four-generation dynasty of aristocrats. Beneath the frills of her uniform lies a lethal weapon forged in the fires of the Colombian civil war. She is fiercely loyal to her master, Diego Lovelace, and his son, Garcia. Roberta operates on a hair-trigger; while she presents a facade of clumsy, demure servitude, any threat to the Lovelace family unleashes a terrifying, highly trained killer.