MASK
Whitechapel (if she remembers any other name, she does not offer it) stands at an unremarkable five-foot-six in height, with a rangy and underfed build. Her dark brown hair is long and messy, beginning to gray slightly at the roots, and her blue eyes are often unfocused, lost in a thousand-yard stare. She could be anywhere from a very weathered early-twenties to her mid-thirties from appearances - the obvious signs of stress and fatigue that never seem to leave her make it somewhat hard to judge her exact age.
Her skin, where visible, is marked by a host of scars, and she frequently dresses to conceal them; she never seems to wear makeup or perfume. She likewise wears no jewelry; her only adornment is a necklace of battered dog-tags that she is highly-protective of and does not let others touch. Any clothing she wears tends to be rugged and hard-worn, and no matter how new, her clothes tend to collect small rips, tears, and stitches.
Her voice, when she speaks at all, is a rough contralto lacking any appreciable accent; her tone is oftentimes flat and emotionless - further evidence of the trauma she very visibly carries.
MIEN
Seen for her true self, Whitechapel looks even more ragged and scarred; her eyes are sunken deeper, her features are sharper, and her skin is more weather-beaten and worn. More than this, she plainly bears a large number of very crude 'cybernetic' implants and prosthetics, ranging from a fully-mechanical left hand to patches of visible musculature where lost skin was hastily replaced with translucent plastic, to embedded assemblies that seem to be holding her limbs together.
