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Fantasy [characters] ʙᴏʀʀᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ

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Zedalith

Zedalith

#-#








CHARACTER SHEET





Name: (You can do this! ✨)

Nicknames: (Optional)

Age pronounced dead: (18+ years)

Time spent as agent: (24 hours minimum; 5 years maximum)

Appearance:

Height:

Gender:

Distinct Marks: (Here is where you include scars, tattoos or any immediately obvious unique features or decorations. Optional.)

SERAPHIM: (Keep this empty for now, but each agent will get a seraphim that assigns them missions.)

Gifts: (This is where you put your characters ability that they have been given by the Seraphim. Try to keep one central theme and don’t make it too complex. If you are not sure, please shoot me a message. If you are familiar with JJBA, anything that can pass for a post Stardust Crusaders stand is too complex. If you are not familiar, think of simple abilities like : pyrokinesis, telekinesis, animation, divination, scrying, that kind of thing. It can be more complex than the examples, but I hope you get the idea. BASICALLY if it needs a 500+ word explanation it’s too complex… orz)

Personality:

History: (Give me plenty of info to work with! I like to build arcs around characters, and the more you give me, the easier that is. Try to get 200+ words, explaining your character's upbringing, important events, or dramatic moments. Including their cause of death is the only thing that is mandatory. It can be a secret in character, but not here.)

Regret: (What does your character wish they could change about their life? What would they have done differently? Who did the wish they could've protected?)




BORROWED TIME
 
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Mellor Akir​










  • Full Name: Mellor Akir

    Nicknames: Mel

    Age: 25

    Time spent as agent: 18 months (year and a half)

    Seraphim:
    Gifts:
    (Summary sentence: Applied Teleportation. He can teleport things or parts of things (including himself) to a pre-determined location and is able to use his teleportation portals both offensively and defensively.)

    Mellor's gift lets him bend space on a small scale.​
    1. He has basic teleportation abilities where he is able to instantaneously change position.​
    2. He is also able to create portals that can be used defensively or offensively. These portals can stay open for as long as he likes and can no bigger than an average bedroom.
      Defensively, he is able to create a portal for others to escape by allowing them hop in one portal and out through another portal that he opens up. As a caveat, the portal that the people will come out from has to be created before the one people will enter into, otherwise, they will have nowhere to go. This ability can also be used to render some attacks against him ineffective.

      Offensively, he can use his portals to carry punches, able to stay a distance away from an enemy, open an exit portal close to them and send his punch through the portal (he really likes doing this). Given the time and space to set it up, he is also able to create projectiles using two sets of portals; one set to drop an object from the sky creating momentum, and the second to cause the object to hit an enemy rather than the ground. The bigger the object, the more time is needed to set it up.​




    Appearance

    Mellor.jpg
    ​





    Height: 6” 0’

    Gender: Male

    Distinguishing features: Piercing on his left earlobe.

    Detailed Description:
    Mel is a 6-foot man who sits at 185 pounds and has tan skin. His frame is fit but far from intimidating or muscular, such that he doesn't command much presence. Most people could bump into him and barely stagger. The boy was clearly built more for endurance and stamina more than he was built for strength and power. His muscles are small but firm, not likely to dish out much damage but capable of taking in a lot.

    His eyes are hazel but appear green in bright light. His outfits will typically have oranges or browns in them, complemented by blues or blacks. Should he speak, his accent is difficult to place because it is an amalgamation of all the different places he's traveled to and cultures he's interacted with. His speech is typically quiet and gentle; shouting? He knows no such word.​


 
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fluticasone fluticasone
basics
name
Elyn Pane
nicknames
El
pronounced dead
28
Time spent as agent
1 Year, 6 Months
gender
Female She/Her
height
5'6
♫♪♪
Appearance
Five-foot seven with shoulder-length brown hair and bangs, and brown eyes. No tattoos, no scars, no piercings, no sign of living.
Personality
Nonchalant, unfeeling, a robot, are all different words that have been used to describe Elyn. The way she speaks and holds herself have always left others confused, and unsure as to what she's thinking. She doesn't speak with much emotion in her voice, it's not that she can't feel anything, it's just how she talks, and it's never been something she's wanted to change. She's not afraid to smile, she's not afraid to laugh, she's just rarely given a reason to. Strong-willed, not much can crack Elyn's exterior and upset her, but very rarely, it happens. And as an agent, stuck in her own crisis of life and purpose, she's just a bit more easier to crack.
Even when she wants to make friends, Elyn's awkward behavior makes it hard. She's never sure of what to say, or what to do. She doesn't know how to force the enthusiasm needed to properly befriend someone. And when her new goal after death is to actually make friends, it's made her new life all the more difficult. Regardless, she tries in her own ways. She stands by your side, she listens, and she apologizes when she messes up. She's mature enough to admit when she's wrong, at least, even though she might not realize it until it's said to her face.
If there's one thing becoming an agent has done, it's make Elyn careless. She's less likely to put on an oven mitt when touching a hot pan, or look both ways while crossing the street. This has bit her in the ass quite a few times, but not enough to make her stop. She's literally dead, what's there to worry about? Elyn is not afraid to ask questions, persist when she wants to, or walk away. Her new resolve for what she wants is strong, even if she thinks she's not good enough to get it.
history
Elyn can't recall a time she ever wanted anything.
This doesn't include things like food, or an object. It's real, true wants. The need for something, the drive that keeps you going throughout your mortal life. Not once did she have an aspiration, or a dream, and she was fine with that.
Born to a single mother Elyn went casually through the motions of life. She made friends at school, got decent grades, had birthday parties, and watched new episodes of her favorite shows. She never struggled with money, and when her mother married a wealthy man when Elyn was 10, her future was financially set.
Life moved on, she went to college, graduated, and got a boring office job that could pay for an apartment and some streaming services. Most of her time was spent either with her co-workers, or watching TV at home. She tried dating a few times, but most guys found the way she held herself uncomfortable. Her lack of ambition unreliable. That was fine, she knew the dramatic romance stories she enjoyed on TV weren't real, anyway.
Her mother died when she turned 25, and at the funeral she and her step-father cried in each other's arms. They rarely spoke to each other before, it was the closest she had ever felt to him.
Elyn's real story began when she died.
It was an accident, albeit an embarrassing accident she would never tell another soul. A short scuffle between two strangers on the sidewalk ended with her-- too engrossed in her phone to notice, being shoved onto the street and hit by a car. She remembered the exact moment her whole life flashed between her eyes. It that it? Is that all my life is? What did I even live for? What was the reason? The purpose?
Becoming an agent did not answer those questions, and Elyn had no idea how to answer them. She ended up in the motions again, this time with a new job, and a new place to live. She'd taken to watching those around her instead, the other agents, or just people on the street. The way they interacted with the world, sometimes the same as her, sometimes so different. The same was true for another agent she met a month after she became one herself, Joel Emlise, who was different in the way that he couldn't move on. In the way that he would spend his free time drinking, or staring longingly at loving families in public.
Slowly, and almost unintentionally, Elyn slowly began to know the man. He was in his late 40s, he enjoyed the sunlight and repairing old, damaged books. He liked whiskey and found the face Elyn made when she tried it for the first time hilarious. His favorite color was brown, like hers, he had been an agent for a little over a year, and the only thing he cared about was the life that he lost.
Elyn remembers the day Joel had told her the story, alone in a room, he had been drinking and Elyn had just returned from an assignment. She enjoyed listening to him tell stories about his life, they were so full of color, and he was a wonderful storyteller. That day, however, the story was not fun, there were no laughs as he told the story, and instead he whispered like he was sharing a secret. Elyn sat there silently as Joel shared the story of his family's murder, how he was unable to protect him, and he was the last to fall. How he had prayed, hoped, that his family had become an agent like him. "My wife, my love, I hoped at least she would show up." But she hadn't, and then Joel had leaned in, and spoke so quiet that Elyn wasn't sure if she heard him right, and said,
"If I see that fucker ever again, I'm killing him on sight."
A month later Joel found him, and Elyn never heard from him again.
For awhile, Elyn mourned him. He was the one friend she had managed to make in the after-life who didn't judge her for the aloof way she acted, and he was gone. But the months passed, and she became fascinated. She thought of the way he told his stories, so full of love and life that Elyn thought was impossible for her. She thought of his family, his siblings, parents, kids, and his wife, who he loved so much that he was willing to give up his second chance just to avenge them. Sure, Elyn loved her mother, and in her own way cared for her step-father. But would she ever give up her existence for them?
Elyn was so sure that what she saw on TV wasn't real. That the self-sacrificing love they felt for their friends, family, or partners to the point where they would risk their lives for ten seasons was ridiculous. But maybe it was true, maybe that was what Elyn was missing. A connection, a companion. Someone she could sacrifice everything for.
Maybe that was what she was saved for.
Elyn finally had a dream.
extra
Seraphim
Glauciel
Gift
Energy Absorption Though already gifted with supernatural strength, Elyn also has the ability to strengthen it with energy. Whenever she's hit, she is able to take that energy and use it to amplify certain aspects of herself such as her own strength, or speed until she's used it up. She can also take energy in other forms, such as electricity, plants, or use up her own personal energy. This is not without side-effects, so she tends to avoid it, (She has asked more than one agent to punch her without explanation). Through practice, Elyn has also began to use this ability to sense energy as well. If undisturbed, she can focus and feel the energy around her in a short distance, such as people and electronics.
Regret
Elyn regrets not making connections when she had the chance. Maybe then, she would have found what she really wanted. A passion, an ambition. Maybe all she really needed was a good companion to hold her hand while she figured her life out. It's too late to change career paths, but maybe she can still find a friend.
 
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| Kreuzzeitung |
Forward with God for King and Fatherland​
OBITUARY OF THE WEEK:
A CAGED COMPOSER'S LEGACY​

.


NAME: Anna Maria Schwarzschild

NICKNAMES: Schwarz / The Prussian / Blue Composer

AGE OF DECEASED: 25

AGENT SERVICE RECORD: 6 months

APPEARANCE: Anna is an average young adult with appealing contentions of the noble debutantes of her days. Her melancholic viridian eyes gives off a distant but poised aura - receptive of those that meets her as they are arguably wary of any hostile intentions. Her long blonde hair retains some dainty silver strands pertinent of a focused thinker, often fashioned to a coiffure to facilitate peripheral practicality. Anna possesses fair pale skin that generally glows pinkish when exposed to direct sunlight. She is exquisitely distinguished by her antiquated choice of apparels - particular to that of the late Victorian Era. Sporting immaculate button-down blouse and a long skirt for travels, fixed with decorum of plaited lace adornment, she possesses a sense of elegance that comes hand-in-hand with her stoic gestures befitting that of a romanticist vision.

HEIGHT: 5 ft. 7 in. (170 cm)

GENDER: Female

DISTINCTIVE FEATURES: N/A.

SERAPHIM: Nyctiel

PERSONALITY:
Anna is a relatively modest and generous person of interests, conforming to the expected etiquette of a model debutante. A diligent personnel with the heart to admit her own faults, she is the epitome of an elegant patrician and a humble servant to the cause. She is usually reserved and well-spoken in her ways, engaging others in a calm, and determined demeanor. While outwardly prim and proper, Anna yet retains a certain witty attitude to those she meets.

Having faced her own demise with unspoken regrets, she has since tried to reason with her loss with pragmatic approaches, but not without controversies. Adhering not to the nobless oblige, but that of her own survival, she has yet to find her own motivation for the eternal struggle with time. Armed with pragmatism and her own principles, Anna is not afraid to voice her concerns - discerning facts at face-value than that of hearsays. As such, she is less of a believer and defers any sense of trust among associates. Yet, despite her priorities and instinctive call to action, she can be considered a reliable ally in desperate situations.

HISTORY:
Time is a relative concept, and so was the life of Anna Maria Schwarzschild. Born into poverty, Anna was as any other mundane children of the cruel cradle of a burning world. A self-educated girl that taught herself to read by sneaking books out of public libraries and attending practices from windows, she honed her observations and struggled with her parents to alleviate themselves from their impoverished situation. When news of her hands-in-marriage as she came to age with an elder nobleman to secure the Schwarzschild's family future, she ran away from home and stumbled upon a certain young army officer of whom had recently returned from abroad. Keen on not returning home, the man offered her a station as his servant in debt out of sympathy. As time went on at the estate, Anna endured the harsh training and toils of a house maid, diligently keeping herself fixed on repaying the man that offered her a different life - ironically encaging her as much as she was inclined to be as someone else's bride.

Seasons past and she had earned the merits of her new responsibilities as Head Maid of the officer's estate. Springs would come and go, but the budding feelings she had nurtured for the officer was about to bloom. Kindness were exchanged, in the officer's eyes as respect for her long-standing toil under his protection. Alas, the amiable understanding between the two was misaligned in their own perceptions. As her feelings continued to foster for the young officer, she did all she could to assist in the daily duties of a housekeeper and at times a comforter in his vulnerable furlough. While she bore the heavy bottle of unspoken sentiments, Anna kept her course steady, content with just his presence.

When her terms of services were finally repaid in her earnest work in his absence from the estate, she did not wish to depart. Offering instead to aid the man as his assistant for as long as she could. Given the liberty of a propertied woman at long last, she was quickly thrusted into a world of politics and treacheries, as her former maid colleagues grew jealous of her prompt ascension from a lowborn to that of the officer's confidante. He had entrusted her with a share of the estate to manage in his absence, and granted her the privilege of privy to practice her interests. Unable to relinquish her unspoken feelings for the officer, she turned to poems and music composition, of which was of peculiar interest for her as he had taught her in their time spent together at the estate. These hobbies began to bring her into the light of the artistic circles, with her pieces praised for their ability to comb the emotions of those invested.

Attending balls and socially obligated events alongside the man served to refine her rough foundations, eventually transforming the maid into that of a noblewoman. But as she bore witness to the rise of his fame and influence, it did not come without a hefty price. A certain debutante had taken a keen interest with the officer, with promises of wealth and fortune should they secure a matrimonial bond, much to Anna's dismay. As their business partners turned on them, Anna did what she could to salvage the profits of the estate while the officer had been called away to war. In her despair, she had learned of the debutante's plot to secure her partner's estate for the last few years. As the revelation of the sudden decline of their business ventures finally came to light at the hands of a known assailant, Anna fell prey to their assassination attempt but managed to escape. Wasting little time, she hastily embarked on a journey to the frontline to inform her master. Upon a dreary night, as the maid finally made it to the encampment, the Austrian guns began their orchestra. Before she could fathom the possibilities of finding her beloved, an impairing thunder struck her with a force so cruel that it tore her consciousness from her body before she could realize that she had already bled out from having shrapnel riddling what was left of her severed limbs and torso.

REGRET: Anna's greatest regret, against the wish of stagnant time and those that wished for her downfall, was her inability to confess her feelings for the officer that gave her a new life.

GIFTS: RHASODY OF WIDOWED DESTINIES
GIFT TYPE: Conjuration

"In absence of the Lord where flesh may yield,
I will forever be your sword and shield."

Composed from the bottled sentiments of a woman's will to stand by her ward, the words ingrained upon her composition materialize into several fragments of her undying wish to protect her love. Taking on the stacked shape of musical score sheets, Anna can materialize and shape the sheets into weapons to neutralize her foe. When aiding her allies, the sheets can be used to form a malleable wall of shield panels that can deflect projectiles and close-range blows. Material manipulation at its finest, the sheets can work in tandem with allies that utilize conventional weaponry.

ANNA MARIA SCHWARZSCHILD
1841 - 1866​
.

.


 
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1720323938200.jpeg
Name:
Fifth Avenue Hopkins
(Yes, that's his legal name.)

Nickname:
Fifth, Rookie, Filth

Age pronounced dead:
28

Time spent as agent:
32 hours (Start of RP)
15 days (Current)

Appearance:
A haggard face with sunken cheeks and a sickly pallor. His black hair is a wavy, unbrushed mess and his blue, hawkish eyes carry bags that match his posture, drooping and lethargic. Fifth never led a healthy life, and even with divine restoration as an agent, the signs still clearly show. He has some muscles, built from hardship, but they do nothing to hide the many underlying issues his body once suffered.

Height:
5'10

Gender:
Male

Distinct Marks:
-A scar the length of Fifth's index finger just between his ribs and another on his lower back the size of his pinkie. More scars, much less noticeable, litter his hands, fingers, and forearms.
-A tattoo on his right forearm with floral patterns he got on a dare.
-A scar from a tattoo removal remains on his left wrist, noticeably in the shapes of letters but impossible to tell what they spell.
-He always wears a bright-pink macaroni bracelet on his right wrist.

SERAPHIM:
Glauciel

Hours:
538

Gifts:
None, currently.

Personality:
Fifth's an asshole. He means well, most of the time, but he's more akin to a loose collection of character flaws than an actual human being. He's petty, spiteful, and too cowardly to sincerely apologize for anything. There's a lot to dislike about him, and instead of trying to fix that he just accepts it. Most people who decided to keep him around just put up with him. He has an extremely grim sense of humor, bordering on macabre, and responds to most things with either sarcasm or mockery. He tries to act laidback and treat nothing seriously, but the truth is he's stressed out 24-7.

He never intentionally hurts someone, even when he's mocking them. He has no filter, and a lot of the time he spouts stuff he doesn't really mean without thinking. While he may seem wildly insensitive, he has a bleeding heart and is often very sympathetic. He mainly just wants to help, and will do everything in his power if he's allowed to do so. Even Fifth isn't sure if he wants to make actual connections or if he just wants to drive people away.

Fifth has taken his death about as well as you can expect. The literal manifestation of his own mortality hanging above his head doesn't help either. He got the screaming out of his sytem in the first couple hours, and fists stopped flying only a few minutes after he woke up. At first he thought the hotel was hell, and it sort of is to him, but it's providing him a goal now. Whether he likes it or not, he's stuck with the hotel and the fellow agents, so he's made an attempt to get his act together and play nice.

History:
Fifth was left on a New York City fire station's doorstep as a baby, having never known his parents. That first night was immediately a fight for his life, because his deadbeat parent hadn't bothered to ring before leaving him there, so he was only found next morning when someone overheard two rats fighting to the death over which got the priviledge to eat him. Once found, he was handed over to the state, and the authorities didn't bother getting creative naming him so they made his legal first name Fifth Avenue. They found him on Broadway.

From there, Fifth bounced from foster home to foster home during his early childhood, with a few stints on the streets before social workers found him. He wasn't an appealing option for prospective parents, too prickly and argumentative, so he didn't get his hopes up for an adoption. Everybody thought he'd stick with the system until he was kicked out at 18, but one of the social workers, one Emily Hopkins, decided to give him a chance with her family when he turned twelve.

She had a son, Will, who could actually tolerate Fifth and quickly became his best friend. Fifth and Emily's husband Jack, however, were almost constantly at odds his entire life. Jack was always hard on Fifth, to the point of disheartening, and it never felt as if he could gain his approval, only his disappointment. Granted he fucked up far more often than succeeded, but still, it would've been nice to have a little leniency. It was also around this time he met Jessica Cruz, a girl his age he met while she was training alley cats to fight other kids. It was love at first sight. Literally, he'd hold a candle in his heart like some stupid, hopeless romantic for years after.

Fifth's life progressed normally, almost decently, until high school. He'd always been a crappy kid and constantly gotten into trouble, but come highschool it started to get serious. Theft, fights, dealing to his classmates, even carjacking. Fifth could barely go one night without ending up in a cell for one thing or another. Worse, it was a game to him. The fights especially, he loved it when fists started flying. He could barely throw a punch when he first started, but he knew how to takle an assbeating and eventually his skills grew from experience. School fights grew to street fights, and streetfights to gangfights.

Nobody expected Fifth to make it to college, but despite all prior evidence he was a smart kid and knew his mom would be happy if he got in, so he did. He moved away for college and majored in electrical engineering. It was also there he started dating Jessica, and things were looking up. His family kept in touch, he was doing well in his classes, and he was away from all of the bad influences he had in New York City. But his life is a tortorous cycle of ups and downs, and when it peaks, the only thing that can follow is a long, long fall.

He accidentally got Jessica pregnant when they were both nineteen. He tried to play it cool, act responsible by getting his parents to help out and stick around for the kid, but Jessica didn't fare so well. Fifth tried to be supportive, but she only seemed to wear with time. Nine months later, she gave birth to their daughter, who they'd agreed to name Emily, after Fifth's mother. Jessica only got worse afterwards, and just a few months after she gave birth, she killed herself. She'd always had issues, even more than him, and part of him always suspected she only dated him as an escape rather than actual love. Still, he'd never expected this, and he still torments himself over the signs he'd missed.

Fifth tried his best after that. He took care of Emily while he finished his degree, even took some oddjobs so he wouldn't rely on his family. Being seperated from any support network and getting saddled with a lot of responsibility took it's toll however. By his senior year of college, he began taking recreational drugs to stave off stress, something that quickly became an addiction. A few months after he graduated college, he was pulled over for driving under the influence and was dragged to court for it. before he'd knew it, he'd been convicted for drug charges and faced two years in prison. His family was furious, and disappointed. They'd visit during conjugal hours, but it was alwaya strained.

Fifth knew he was one bad day away from becoming the prison's bitch before he even stepped foot inside. If he'd ever thought he was somebody outside, he'd been dead wrong. Out of self-preservation, he joined up with one of the gangs inside the prison. They provided him protection in exchange for his services-Smuggling contraband in and out, mostly, a skill he was steadily building.

Once Fifth got out on parole, however, they didn't let go of him. There were more members of the gang outside prison than in, and they still wanted his help. He'd kicked his addiction back in prison, but the gang managed to reignite it and keep him hooked on their supply. It was downhill from there. Fifth knew he was a shitty dad, no matter how hard he tried to be better for his daughter. His parents were taking care of Emily because he couldn't be trusted to be a functioning adult. He visited whenever he could, but it didn't compare to actually being there for her.

It went like this for years. His relationships deteoriated, his daughter grew older without him, and the gang's claws sank deeper. He didn't have a coming to Jesus moment, he just woke up passed out in a roadside ditch after a bad trip and decided something needed to change. He tried leaving the gang on amicable terms, but he'd proven too profitable to be let go. He insisted, and they threatened his family if he went against them. Fifth didn't know what else he could do anymore, and finally decided to take one for the team and call in a SWAT raid on the hideout.

Fifth and a number of other members were arrested, but more weren't in the meetup spot at the time and were still at large. Fifth cooperated with the authorities to get a light sentence and to get the other members locked away as well. It must have come out that he was a rat, because the very first day he was back in prison his guard escort was paid off and a gang of inmates cornered him in a hallway. Fifth got one good punch in before he was on the ground and six inmates piled on him. It took them ten minutes to beat him to death. It wasn't fun.

Regret:
Almost everything. Fifth made a lot of mistakes and did very few things right. He let his closest relationships crumble to ash without doing a thing to save or fix them, he let his addiction rule his life, he let himself associate with scum and paid the price, he only realized he needed to change when it was far too late, and now, he left his daughter an orphan, practically abandoned her because of his choices. He knows he can't take it back and he knows it's too late to fix anything, but all he wants is one opportunity to say sorry.​
 
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  • Basic Info
    Name
    Nicholas Neale-St. James
    Gender
    Male
    Age
    21
    Agent Tenure
    1 Month
    P.O.B
    United States
    Height
    5'10
    Weight
    67kg
    Hair Color
    honey brown
    Eye Color
    Slate Gray
    01
    Personality
    If the world were strolling across an art gallery and came across Nick, he would appear to be the very picture of a diligent, hard-working student; the kind of person who seemed to have his life mapped out to the T, with clear goals and ambitions. To his professors at university, he was nothing but a quintessential young achiever: smart, capable, and reliable. But at home, is where the cracks begin. His parents' marriage was a fickle enough thing that fell apart before he could utter his first word, leaving his mother to keep them both afloat. Of course, following a series of personal tragedies after the fact, she often found herself leaning on little Nicholas for emotional support, casting him to the wolves as a reluctant parentified child. This dynamic molded Nicholas into a caretaker, someone who instinctively always put the needs of others before his own. This veneer of maturity, however, masked something much deeper and more troubling. Nicholas always felt suffocated by the expectations piled upon him – a double helix of family pressure and self-imposed demands. Excelling academically and being the model son constantly warred with his yearning for freedom and a voice of his own. Escaping his small town for the energy of the city and university life, he sought release from this pent-up tension through late nights, loud music, and the burning sting of alcohol. In these hazy moments, a different Nicholas emerged – uninhibited, spontaneous, a raw nerve finally exposed after years of self-constraint. College transformed him into the campus jester, a master of defusing tension with a laugh or fueling it with a wild idea. The constant flow of drinks brought fleeting friendships, a 'best friend,' and even a girlfriend, as short-lived as that was. Most of the relationships often lacked depth though, rooted more in shared escapades than genuine connection. Fueled by the desire to belong, Nicholas often found himself in situations he regretted, a hollow ache settling in his gut after nights spent sneaking out or making reckless decisions. A deep-rooted fear of confrontation lies at the core of it all, a fear that often translated to a sense of aimlessness in his own life. As he drifted through his studies and social engagements, searching for something that could anchor him, provide him with the sense of meaning he so desperately craved, he remained - and still remains - hopelessly caught between the person he pretends to be and the person he fears he truly is.
    wishy-washy
    impulsive
    people-pleaser
    mellow
    pragmatic
    conscientious
    01
    Basics
Code by Nano
 
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angie1.png



HA NEUL ,, YEON ❜❜ ─ DEJA VU ─



❝ Even as I try to grasp the ends of the dream
Eventually, longer and longer
I fall asleep in a deep silence​

───────────────────────────────────────────────────────
angie 2.jpgHA NEUL YEON, angela .ᐟ
AGE PRONOUNCED DEAD thirty-two
AGENT fourteen months + three days

Ha Neul's always been a pretty face. Her parents, formidable, sterling silver and sure, poured the best of their genetics-wits, intellect, and features into their two daughters, so the race to fit the veneer of their approval began. Her drive to fit such standards ended once she left for America, once she met the most inspiring, and the most destitute of people. It continued to change until her untimely death.

Nowadays, Angela has eyes like a vampire's fangs; striking, unexpected, call-of-the-sea blue, laced with kohl black and so, so tired. She dyes her hair regularly, the deep blue-black shining with a hot pink underlayer. Her features stayed neat and crystalline-fine, with a round face, full lips, and dimples in her elusive, pale smile. She'd stopped watching her calories after twenty-five and started keeping up with the gym at twenty-seven, and it left her full-figured with a heavy, well-endowed frame, sturdy enough to make a saint sell his soul for a second glance, and not just occupying space - but owning it too.

HEIGHT 5'4"
GENDER female
DISTINCT MARKS no abnormalities; her arms are black with ink from hours of drawing on them, and forgetting to wash them off completely.
EXTRA

▼ Noise-canceling earbuds; light blue. for managing hypersensitive hearing.
▼ Icy Hots and High-Grade Painkillers. for a sliver of relief.

❝ It grows more painful every day
Endlessly in front of my eyes, oh, deja vu​

𖤓 𝗗𝗢𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗘𝗥 ────

SERAPHIM null
GIFT TIME-DEBT PAIN REDEMPTION

⌞ Angela can absorb pain into herself, holding it in stasis until she deems it necessary to release it. A power like this would've allowed her to perform critical medical procedures without causing the patient any distress at the moment. However, the pain doesn't disappear; it waits for her to pay the debt. ⌝​



── Through direct skin-to-skin contact, Angela consciously chooses to absorb pain from living beings, effectively halting the pain's immediate effect on the individual. The pain is drawn into her body and condensed into a tangible energy form, visible as a glowing aura around the affected site on her body. The absorbed pain is held within her in a state of temporal stasis, meaning she can contain it for an extended period without it affecting her physically, until she decides to release it. To release the absorbed pain, she can either endure it as her own, or transfer it to another living being.

── With a simple gesture & focused intent, Angela can release the stored pain onto another person within her line of sight. As it isn't diminished, only delayed, it manifests even stronger than its original distribution; causing pressure, bruises, lacerations on her target, with her body as the conduit. Due to this, she can redistribute the pain's intensity and type based on her will. She may also convert that pain into a temporary boost of physical strength or speed, or a temporary shield from physical or psychic attacks. This conversion comes at the cost of increasing the amount of pain she must later redistribute.

── While the recipient only needs to be in her line of sight, she can only absorb pain from one person at a time. Angie can't hold the pain indefinitely either; it must be released within a certain timeframe or it becomes more difficult to control and can start to affect her health. The constant accumulation of pain weighs on her, making it difficult for her to manage her own pain. Her empathy is both her greatest strength and her Achilles' heel.


𖤓 PERSONA ────

Angie isn't necessarily stoic—a vacant, idle individual with a dirty mouth and very little patience for anyone. She is composed, efficient, and held in check even in the face of hysteria. She's dependable, and hyperfocused on her work, often to the point of obsession. After her close friend's vanishing, she's steadily spiraled into a tireless work ethic and a tendency to push herself to the brink of exhaustion.

Despite the tough shell, she's deeply empathetic, especially towards those who, like her, are caught between worlds. She has an uncanny ability to read people, a trait that served her well in her line of work. However, she struggles with personal connections, her fear of failure and loss keeping her at arm's length from those around her. This isolation has also honed an explosive temper, a breaking point that brings every stressful moment of her life to head in a moment of vulnerability she never learned how to manage.

Not when it came to herself. You know, she could be sweet and maybe even funny – if she tried, maybe in some past life. Vessels can't be anything other than all they were meant to be.


𖤓 HISTORY ────

Sacrifice has always come easy for Angela.

She was born in Busan. Her mother, a renowned surgeon. Her father, a pianist. Her path was set from birth, and it took sacrifice to walk it.

Angela was only five when she first watched her mother perform surgery. Her mother had invited her to the hospital, a rare occurrence since her father often criticized her for bringing her work into their home. But that day, she had wanted to show her daughter something beautiful in the chaos of their lives. The precision, the dance of the scalpel, the silent poetry of saving one less fortunate than they – it was mesmerizing. Her mother had told her that the greatest thing one could do was to ease the suffering of another, to be the hand that holds onto hope when it seems all is lost. It, as most objects of Ha Neul's determinations often did, became her sole obsession.

Her childhood was long nights, her teen years, wasted with studying and a startling lack of human connection that probably would have seen her well into adulthood. She was a prodigy, a child who knew painfully early what she wanted to be. Her parents’ marriage was a storm, but she was their calm. The one thing that kept them together, was the promise of what she could become.

But it was a promise fraught with expectation.

Initially following her mother's footsteps, she studied medicine, but found her true calling in forensics. Her mother pushed her, still, to become a surgeon, and when the time came to choose, she couldn't disappoint her. So, she did what she had always done – she found a middle ground. Biopsychology; behavior, neurotic function, genetics. Graduating at the top of her class in a foreign land. It was the only way to get her mother to pay for her tuition.


Mid-twenties, she's one of her city's most promising therapists. The compromise never satisfied her parents. Her father was always doubtful of her profession, always worried about the life she could've lived if she'd just stuck to the plan. Yet, she flourished in her field. Dedicated herself to the intricacies of the human mind, her words the scalpel, her mind, capable of gluing others back together. Two sides of the same coin, flavored only by the tax bracket, the sense of gloating at family dinners she would go on to never attend. Her mother was far prouder to mention how busy she was instead, how far she would travel, across the globe to see them, that, instead, she could afford to send them gifts instead, while they focused on an estranged younger sister.

It was in her later years that she encountered GAIL LEE. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. A younger man, haunted by demons so fierce that they seemed to consume him from within. One second he'd be fine, the next, a preacher. Preaching of another life, ceaselessly. She tried to offer her services throughout the time she knew him but to no avail. He wouldn't go. No practice could confirm what was wrong with him, only that something had...happened to him in his most vulnerable years. An ACE.

Instead of a patient, he became a friend. A good one. Until the weight of her gift grew too heavy when she failed to save him. They'd sit in the dimly lit café, the smell of brewing coffee wafting through the air, and he'd share his theories about a world that didn't quite fit together. Gail had a way with words, painting vivid pictures of a life beyond the mundane. His eyes, so haunted yet so full of life, captivated her in a way she couldn't quite explain.

It was never love, of that she's sure, but she'd admit it herself - he became yet another, quiet obsession. Every case she took on, every paper she read, she'd sift through, looking for something that could help him. Gail's words were cryptic, but she knew he was in pain. It was like trying to solve a puzzle that had no edges, no frame of reference. Despite her best efforts, she watched him spiral into the abyss of his own psyche. Gail's descent into madness was swift, tragic. Leaving her with a deep, unshakeable guilt of all the things she said she'd do and never did.

Everything she ever told him, of course, would all go wrong. What did she see in him? What was she looking to carve out of him, the way her parents sought to carve something out of her?

The day Gail disappeared was a day that shook her world. His mother’s blame, the empty chair by her apartment door, the echo of his tortured laughter – it all haunted her. She had failed. Failed to be the hand that held onto hope. Failed to save him from the fate that had claimed him. Her practice dwindled as she questioned her every decision. Was she truly helping people, or was she just another cog brandishing ideals that could not fit in a broken system?

Three years in, age twenty-nine. In the quiet moments before dawn, when she isn't sleeping, isn't searching, isn't trying to make a desperate attempt at creating friction in life to prove her existence to herself - she's sitting in her office with the lights too low. Sipping whiskey from a bottle hidden in her desk drawer. She thinks about her father's music, her mother's surgery, and the girl she used to be before she knew what it was to be desperate. Before she knew what it was to hold her hand and not receive shit for her efforts.

At some point, it's less about Gail the person, and more so about Gail the concept. Gail the mark of inconsequence, Gail the desperate need for a new chapter when she simply could not let go of the one with him in it. The gale that makes her quit her practice, sell her apartment, and travel to new places. Eat different foods, meet different people, settle back in South Korea and never call her mother after her father finally dared to divorce. The aimless drifting, too, became inexcusable.

At some point, she dyes her hair; the sleek black, now vivid with streaks of pink that gets her odd looks and declined job offers in the conservative parts of town. At some point, she stumbled across a flyer for EMT training. A chance to be on the front lines, to save lives more directly. It was a radical shift, but it spoke to her soul. It wasn't dramatic, maybe not even heroic at the time. But it felt real. It was a world away from the hushed tones of her former practice. Here, she saw the raw, unfiltered pain of humanity. The kind that didn’t wait for appointments or neat diagnoses. The kind that bled out onto the pavement.

Her new career was a baptism by fire. The adrenaline rush of saving lives was addictive, but it was the quiet moments that stayed with her. The way a husband’s eyes searched hers for reassurance as she worked on his wife. The whispered confessions of those staring down the barrel of their mortality.

It was in these moments that she found purpose again. A way to save the Gails of the world before they disappeared. It satisfied her - for the first time - something that felt right, not yet another compromise. Then the guilt grew, with each life lost, the shadow trailing her grew wider, bigger, deeper. It became her driving force; pushed her to do more, be better, more, more, more.

Until it was all she knew.


That fateful night, she responded to a call - the kind she'd done a hundred times before. High-speed chase, a fiery crash. She could see the headlights piercing through the fog. The burnt rubber on asphalt. Her heart, pounding, her hands steady on the wheel.

The sirens wailed through the fog-drenched night as Angie's boots hit the pavement. The car was upside down, flames licking the contorted frame like a live beast. Her eyes searched the wreckage, finding Zack, one survivor, bloodied but not broken, and a silent plea etched into his pallid features. He must've been the voice on the line. The other one had to be in there.

The driver's side was a wall of fire, but she knew she had to get him out. The door was jammed. No time for tools. The smell of gasoline was faint, but she ignored it. She'd seen worse. Adrenaline was her best friend on nights like these. She just needed time, luck, chance.

Her palms slammed against the metal, and it groaned. Not a good sign. The heat seared her skin, but she didn't flinch.

Her team called out, warning her of the impending explosion, but she was deaf to their pleas. What was it that kept her unable to turn away from one lost soul?

Her eyes watered, blurring her vision, but she saw the seatbelt. Frayed and stuck. What was it, if not compromise? Resignation to the role set before her? It was her job to save lives, not count the cost. With a grunt, she yanked it free. The man was unconscious, a rag doll in the fiery pit. Her arms burned as she reached in, feeling the heat on her face, her clothes. She had to get him out.

"Angie, no!" A distant echo. Maybe the voice of God. She ignored it. The smell of gas grew stronger, and the fire was now a roar, but she had the man in her grasp. His weight dragged on her, and she stumbled forward into the debris. The world grew hazy, her ears ringing from the heat and her lungs begging for clean air. She couldn't see his face, not with this smog, not from this angle, but, she had seconds.

The gas tank was going to blow but she'd get him. She had to get him out. With a final burst of strength, she pulled him free, the car creaking like a tomb - opened.

Time was a cruel master.

A blast of white-hot agony. Suddenly she was floating. Weightless in flames that consumed the world, stole her sight, and filled her ears with a deafening boom. Her body hit the ground hard, and she knew she wouldn't be getting up again. Her skin, blistering, her clothes, catching fire; screams growing distant and replaced by the relentless crackling of the fire.

Then the world went quiet. Pain, regret, guilt of so many years – gone in an instant. The last thing she felt, the body of a man she tried to save, again; gone as well.

A hero, they said. A brave soul, lost in the line of duty.

But she knew the truth. In her last moments, she had failed again.


REGRET

With everything said and done, Ha Neul's deepest regret is that she could have done more, been more. Despite her success in life, it was wasted for the satisfaction of those around her. She feels she was denied her chance of life and the freedom to choose, even in death.

❝ AND NOW, I'M IN MY DEJA VU.​




coded by archangel_
 
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RxYCmFo.png


"Do you think time's more or less valuable, now that we can earn it?"

Chang Qing-Yi
27 y/o | 7m | 5'5 | Female​

  • Appearance
    Qing-Yi has freckles and dyes her hair a more youthful brown. She holds herself in a languid manner, the type to sit in weird ways and lounge upside down, and her figure could be called, if one was generous, ‘lithe’. Her mother calls her unwomanly though, a flat rectangle of a person. Outside of an old surgery scar on her ankle and a splotchy red birthmark on the side of her neck, there’s nothing that particularly marks her body.​
    ​
    Her ears are pierced, but the wound is fading. It will always be fading.​
    ​
    Personality
    Qing-Yi’s mood undulates. There are no peaks or drops, only rolling hills. She feels annoyance, rather than anger. She experiences contentment, rather than elation. A small smile, for small joys. Playing with neighbourhood strays. Enjoying instant coffee and the sunrise. Taking a walk beneath the canopy, dodging the sunbeams.​
    ​
    Her friends say that she’ll not even notice if they weren’t there. Her mother thinks she’ll never fall in love, so she may as well get married.​
    ​
    But even if she can’t love, it costs nothing for her to be kind. Qing-Yi knows what value there is in a compliment, in a can of soda, in a smile and a pat on the back. She knows that for people defined by their regrets, regrets so heavy that they could not rest even in death, such small, inconsequential shows of kindness are even more important. Only one Agent could empathize with another Agent. If that was the case, well…in a melting pot of angst and indifference, Qing-Yi doesn’t mind playing the peacemaker, teaching others her own theory on happiness.​
    ​
    After all, they call it a Hotel, but it’s more Community Housing.​
 
fluticasone fluticasone
basics
name
Ilia Drubich
death
at 23 years
gender
Male
tenure
5 Years
height
5'10"
seraphim
Glauciel
marks
Ilia has scars on each limb and across his neck. His left arm has a straight, thin line that runs deep. The scar is a thick and dark deformation that tells a story of severed skin and muscle. The scar on his right arm is nearly symmetrical, with his legs being no different. The scars wrap around each limb, with precision from a talented hand, one that knew exactly where to sever without killing. The one on his neck is the most unsettling, unlike the others, it has mangled flesh in a zipper-like pattern. It runs horizontally, straight across the throat.
gift
Water, is a force that is versatile beyond measure. It is malleable, easily manipulated, and shaped by those deft enough to hear its flow. To Ilia, the fluid flows between his fingers like threads, and he may shape it into whatever he wills. A bow, a sword, a spear—it can take any shape he requires, given the moment. He seems to be able to call upon it wherever he is, it flows from crevices surrounding him, or puddles underneath his feet.
regret
His heart yearns for the mornings he spent in bed, too defeated to rise early and savor the fleeting moments of peace. He wished he had embraced those dawns. He wished he took long walks along the river, felt the breeze, and heard the calls of seagulls. His regret is not simply existing as he was, to not always want for more.
personality
Ilia is a man who can exist in two places. It is a detail hidden within the emptiness of his promises or in the slackness of his wrists. He’ll promise you the world while handing you coal that's been painted gold. To those who don’t know him well, Ilia's charm is effortless, with a small smile frequently framing his face. To those who see him as he is, it is just an amiable disguise that conceals a serpent hidden beneath the gentle veneer.
Ilia carries the extremes of human emotion, everything he feels, and every stance he takes—is on one side of a canyon. Anger growls, love flares, and sadness wrecks him. His rage is declared in sharp words and certain actions. He is oft in making grand declarations and dramatic gestures that almost seem performative. As quickly as love can take him, he can also turn cold. Whether it’s due to a betrayal or a minor slight that triggers this change, the spontaneity often leaves those close to him bewildered.
He is not one to take failure well. The clever guise he puts up is quick to dissipate, leaving a sullen and confused mess of a person. He is the type of person to shut in and shut down in dire situations. While he may meticulously lay plans before something unexpected happens, one misstep will upend the chessboard. The pieces scatter and his strategies become undone. His body contracts into a fetal position, knees drawn tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around them to shield himself from his mistake. It’s a result of trauma, manifested as a sixth scar slicing through his mind.
backstory
When Ilia takes a look into his memory, his father appears as a shadow—tall, imposing, with a bellowing voice that demands submission. His voice brooks no insolence, no wavering. Every word from his mouth demands allegiance to his doctrine. While his mother’s voice was more diminutive, it did not command any less respect. Her glance was an icey sovereign, one that could look in between the lines of unspoken language. The combination made for troubling times, especially as a single child with high expectations. His father was a senator in the Federation Council and his mother served as a minister in the Ministry of Health. Vincent and Irina Drubich, the couple are called.
Growing up in Moscow, every family dinner was a trial. He learned to clasp his hands tightly under the dining table as a way to steel himself. Every one of his words were weighed and used to determine his worth as a progeny. His father would demand detailed recounts of his day: what he studied, who he talked to, and what he learned. A wrong response could elicit a sudden, unexpected punishment. A forceful grip on his arm for insolence, or a hard slap across the face for disrespect. His mother’s icy gaze would follow, searching for any sign of deception or inadequacy. She was a silent observer in his torment, or the gentle hand that guides him. It was how his father was raised, how his mother was raised, and how his children would’ve been.
The walls of their manor were large, yet they always felt empty. The maids and other service employees at his household kept a safe distance. His mother and father had an all-consuming love and their romance would lead them miles away from home in the little free time they made. They would spend weeks away on yacht trips, vacations to Cancun, and enjoying the many luxuries life afforded them. Their lavish lifestyle was not financed by government salary alone. Making use of bribes was to be expected, given his father’s position, and yet the man was tempted to make darker dealings still.
Ilia had become a young adult during the height of his father’s career. For so long, he had played the role of the golden son. He was always punctual, determined in his studies, and peerless in his wit—yet at some point, something broke. The light of paternal admiration his father held for his son retreated and was replaced by a distant, cool appraisal. In public, father and son showcased the exemplars of familial unity, but the illusion hid the reality that unfolded in private. Rumors were exchanged within their circles, between glances returned across dining tables, or in the pauses in between conversations. Whatever made the two fall out of favor was bad, and Ilia’s father had gone through hell to cover his tracks.
The fallout had begun within conspiracy, inside the whispers murmured in hidden corridors. Vincent Drubich had helped in facilitating an under-the-table arms deal between a rebel group called Red October. The exchange involved the continued assassinations of political opponents that rivaled his father. In return, his father had given them access to cheap weaponry.
Vincent was not the type of father to share details about life or business unless they must be spoken. That’s why Ilia had created a duplicate key to his office and made a habit of reading the files he left atop his desk. The more furtive files were usually kept elsewhere, but one evening his father had made the mistake of leaving a letter with the Red October symbol in his cabinet. The urge to find out more was too overwhelming to just leave the truth to rest.
That was the night that Ilia found out about his father’s under-the-table dealings and instead of leaving his dirty secret alone, Ilia saw it as an opportunity. The prices quoted in the letter were low, much too low considering the risk this brought on to his father. Something like this could not stand. Bartering for a higher price was a chance to impress, to show himself as capable. The letter included a drop-point containing a cache of firearms intended for pick-up by the rebel group.
Ilia's decision to exploit his contacts, move the cache, and leave a note demanding more money was a plea for recognition that backfired. Instead of earning his father's approval, he ignited a crisis. The rebel group’s fury was brutal, threatening to expose Vincent Drubich's corruption. The fallout was immediate and his father’s wrath obliterated any remnants of pride. For Vincent, the lie of familial unity had been irreparably shattered. For Ilia, it was the end of his attempts to fit into a mold that was never meant for him.
The two had kept up appearances to give the impression that nothing was wrong, but in truth, Ilia had spent more time outside his familial home than in. The man was a veritable zombie, while his heart still beat, his mind was a vacant husk. He stayed with whatever friend still tolerated his presence and doing so was not an easy ask. All of his worst traits were brought to the surface, and just his unpredictable presence alone was intolerable. Perhaps if he was kinder, he wouldn't have been woken up one evening blindfolded and auctioned away to Red October by someone he thought was a friend.
When he came to himself, he was stretched on a bench in a circular cell, the stone walls of which were perforated by several holes for the admission of air. The cold had roused him awake. He could not discern through the blindfold, in what direction he lay. Then, a firm fist planted inside of his gut had confirmed the reality of his existence. The first scream was quiet and sharp, an outward expression of confusion mingling with the surge of pain. The hours or perhaps even days that passed were filled with much of the same. At some point, his mind had shut down and the torture they inflicted on him became a backdrop to the sound of his heartbeat. His final memory was of a surgical saw that had bit into flesh and bone. The cries that erupted from him came from a primordial depth of his being. Desperate, gangly, and more akin to a dying animal than a human. Time stretched to infinity as the saw rasped back and forth again and again. Soon, the blade had found his neck. At the end of the saw’s final rasp, he felt as small as when he was born. There was a moment of sharp, excruciating clarity, then a profound silence as the separation between body and consciousness occurred. In that suspended instance, Ilia felt a disorienting sense of detachment, as if observing from outside himself. He became acutely aware of a surreal stillness before the fog of death took him.
 
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NAME: Naomi Amandine
NICKNAMES: Mimi, on occasion, additionally a sucker for pet names.
AGE PRONOUNCED DEAD: 22 years old
GENDER: Cis female, she/her
TIME SPENT AS AGENT: 10 months.



  • naomi portrait.png
    HEIGHT: 5’3 ft tall, but stands at least 4 inches taller because of her love of platform heels.

    DISTINCT MARKS: Bright pink hair, and lots of it. An abundance of hair accessories. Pins, clips, bows, ect. Some of them self-made. Perfectly manicured nails. Does not mess around when it comes to skin and hair care. Not a single scar in sight and she intends to keep it that way. Always dressed colorfully, avoids dark clothing. Alternates between modest and provocative styles.

    Art by me :]     ​


SERAPHIM: Strixiel

GIFTS:
Color swirls along her skin, opalescent and shimmering with a glittery effervescence. A blinding presentation of crystalline colors. She steps back, leaving a replica of herself in liquid gemstone. They pertain her figure and likeness but lack the minute details much like a mannequin. Five can be summoned at a time, although she’s never needed more than two. They act the second her mind wills it, like pawns across a board. She can alter their composition ranging from a slimy consistency to squeeze into tight spaces or hardened rock for interposing attacks. It’s possible she’s not utilizing them to their fullest potential, but she isn’t concerned enough to experiment right now.

PERSONALITY:
A staggering confidence married to unabashed sass. A girl whose an open book by virtue of her aversion to being misunderstood. Naomi’s presentation of herself breeds speculation of a catty woman obsessed with the superficial. They notion that she’s a bully prepared to distort your self-worth for her own amusement. It’s a steep decline from the truth.

There’s no two-faced cunning behind Naomi’s compliments or intrigue. One can rest assured the outgoing diva will always be forthright with her words. From explicitly proclaiming her adoration or gagging at the mere sight of you, you’ll never question where Naomi’s favor lies. And if you forget, she’ll remind you.

Typically living easygoing in her own little world. She unapologetically expresses herself through her interests in fashion, makeup, and blogging. The evolution of who she once was to who she is now is an astonishing inverse.

With her attitude overhaul, Naomi discovered a more hot-tempered side to her. She’s not one to actively seek out confrontation. It’s a trifle at best and not worth her time. But if actively being cornered or insulted, she’ll dig her perfect claws into you with no remorse. Nothing boils her blood more than being patronized. Taking a condescending tone with her, or questioning her intelligence, is a guaranteed way to have her descend unto you with an acrid vitriol. The same guarantee applies should her friends be the target of insults.

Buried so deep where not even she knows it’s there; Naomi is scared. She’s in denial that she’s died and is compensating by living as loudly and extravagantly as she can. If she holds up the self-assured and optimistic act long enough, maybe it’ll become a reality. Naomi barely spares herself a minute to process what happened to her or what she’s going through. Even when expressing herself how she’d always dreamed, she’s simultaneously stifling herself like in the past. Old habits die hard.

HISTORY:
EARLY LIFE
Mother was always kind, but busy. Father was always caring, but conventional. The two steadily drifted apart throughout their marriage.

Mother devoted her sleepless nights to her demanding vocation, burning with passion and starry-eyed intrigue until she returned home an ashen wick. A songstress who flooded her music with everything her soul could offer then yielded the crumbs to her husband and daughter.

Father, a humble college sweetheart, was insipid by comparison. His nights were spent in the despairing embrace of abandonment’s arms, a mistress whose gentle lips crooned of his wife’s hypothetical infidelity, leaving his ears hot and chest hollowed. But his adoration of her burned with a heat even the sun would envy. A yearning so besetting it pervaded his spirit, leaving only an ounce of himself.

Their relationship wobbled over its deteriorating foundation, but whether out of love or convenience, neither wanted to let go. So, what better way to fix a fragmented marriage than to have a child?

Valiant strides were made to keep her face hidden from the public. Father insisted their baby girl live simplistically, away from the sweltering spotlights his wife couldn’t shy from. He wouldn’t lose his daughter to fame like he lost her mother. If he could not feel fulfilled as a husband, he’d feel fulfilled as a father instead.

Naomi loved both her parents dearly. Her mother, a beautiful, benevolent goddess who wore dresses made of starlight and possessed a voice that comforted tempestuous oceans. Her father, an endearing, creative storyteller who enticed her imagination with narratives of colorful worlds. As she aged, the two worlds rarely collided, but when they did, a coil of anxiety intermittently followed.

When mother found the time, she and Naomi would play dress-up. The young girl was wrapped in pearls and diamonds, designer silks, and expensive makeup. She’d envision the stage as her mother described it, and wondered if one day she might stand there with her. Father didn’t like this. He feared the temptation would encourage Naomi into the spotlight and knew her mother would take her willingly.

When father found the time, he and Naomi would foster her education. He’d buy her books to read and hired a tutor to cover what he lacked. It wasn’t her favorite pastime, growing more tedious the longer the lessons went on. But the pride her father expressed towards her became addictive. Mother didn’t like this. Her daughter should be spreading her wings among social gatherings, learning from people of all walks of life, illuminating crowded rooms with her smile. In her eyes, her father was trying to stifle that light.

The argument that proceeded was explosive. Naomi pretended not to hear it, deafening the vicious bites and tears that her parents struck unto each other. She thought them strangers who infiltrated her home. Mother’s soothing melody gnarled into a shrieking cry and father’s polite resonance distorted into a booming roar. It was the first time she’d ever heard the word Whore.

Naomi became something wilted that night. Dried, drooped, and pitiful. Her insecurities buried their barbed claws into her shoulders, latching with an impossible weight she would drag along wherever she went. More fly on the wall than she was a girl; a featureless shadow. Naomi the nobody. If she pleased her mother, her father would be upset. If she did right by her father, her mother would scowl disapprovingly. In her efforts to be what both parents wanted from her, she abandoned her own identity, but nothing could salvage their relationship anymore.

Mother’s fame dwindled. She found comfort at the bottom of bottles, searching for solutions in each one she emptied. When the heat of alcohol wasn’t enough, her lips found the butts of cigarettes. Father sought his comfort in different people. Naomi remembered descending the stairs of their home late one night for a drink of water, stopping short of the last step where she caught her father and her tutor in the parlor bare and embracing.

The divorce was finalized swiftly. If there was one thing her mother and father could agree on, it was that there was no love left between them anymore.

DEATH
Attending college was initiated by her father. He was adamant that Naomi pursues her education, and Naomi wasn’t going to deny an opportunity to be away from the both of them. Despite being a tedious slog, Naomi savored the pinch of freedom college gave her. She began making friends, experimenting with make-up, researching current trends. Like a drop of paint in water, she began to slowly understand who she was and who she wanted to be.

Between her parents, Naomi always resembled her mother more. Similar eyes and smiles. Even when not stood side-by-side, their likeness was uncanny. She often brushed off comments comparing her to the singer, dismissing them as a coincidence. Her peers would all laugh with her, and that ended the discussion. Even those who knew the truth respected Naomi enough to not pry. All but one.

A cruel twist of fate led Naomi to interact with him. They met at a bonfire party out by the beach. A celebratory hurrah for having survived finals week. She was keeping to herself by the shore, overwhelmed by the loud music and even louder people. He walked up to her with a bracelet she hadn’t noticed she’d dropped. She barely remembered putting it on in her rush to get dressed.

It was a standard interaction, sweet almost. He was an alumnus invited by a friend of a friend. Naomi shared she’d only just started. When he comments on her smile’s likeness to the old songstress, her mother’s, she doesn’t bat an eye. She dismissed it like always, “Yeah, I get that a lot.” What Naomi failed to catch, distracted by the waves nearly licking her feet, was the light lacking in his eyes.

The following weeks were the worst of Naomi’s life. She convinced herself they were pranks at first. Hours within her roommate leaving for class, she’d be visited by a shadow under the door of her dorm room. Like someone standing there, waiting to be let in. She thought nothing of it at first, but when she grew curious enough to check, the shadow walked away, giving Naomi a meager glimpse of a black hoodie turning the corner.

Odd texts from a number began to pour in. They ranged from compliments, to insults to bible verses. The more she blocked the numbers, the more messages would flood from a different one. Almost like she’d stuck a cork in a dam only for it to burst three more holes. She reported the incident and was offered pepper spray and security escort to and from her dorm.

To preoccupy her restless mind one night, she was cleaning her jewelry box when a discovery within it plunged her bones into scathing ice. The bracelet that alumnus had handed to her at the beach, except there were two.

Duplicates.

A golden bracelet whose charms spelt her name. What are the odds another girl with the same name had dropped it and he returned it to the wrong hands? But how would he have known it was hers? Come to think of it, Naomi didn’t recall putting the bracelet on that evening, but that was so long ago. Was she trying to draw connections where there were none? Was this whole situation driving her crazy?

Hysterically, Naomi ran out of her dorm with a white-knuckled grip on both bracelets. Was it always this dark out at night? Why did it feel like it was getting darker?

“Naomi.”

She whipped around towards the two who spoke her name, only to be facing one figure. The shadows dressed him. The light of the lamppost behind him cowered, flickered, then popped. Naomi didn’t flinch, too scared to so much as blink. An atavistic prey instinct grips her, a rabbit faced with the fangs of a starving wolf. His fingers snapped and twitched.

“Where are you going?”

Two voices in one. Was she so hysterical that she was hallucinating now? The bracelets grow warm and sweaty in her palms. Why was he moving like that? He looked like a puppet learning to walk without its strings. Head rolling loosely on a neck of rubber and disjointed feet scraping the sidewalk. It was…inhuman.

Barely half of a second passed between Naomi’s body beginning to turn and the seizing clutch around her neck. In the span of a blink, he’d travelled from almost seven feet away from her to right in her face. She can’t scream or breathe. Her arms swing out wildly to claw at him, when she realizes her feet aren’t touching the ground anymore, she tries kicking.

“Why the scared face? We want to see you smile.”

What stood in front of her wasn’t human anymore. It couldn’t be. She remembered his face from the beach. Some tamed scruff and a youthful glow to his skin, not unfortunate looking. What stared back at her now was the devil. Eyes sunken into black voids, skin sallow against bone. A smile that stretched a little too long. She closed her eyes. This wasn’t real. It’s a bad dream. Wake up. Wake the fuck up!

The lamppost they’re under shatters, plunging them into a void.

Please, wake up!

She doesn’t know what finished her, but the last thing she remembers is a crunching pop in her neck.

Naomi was reported missing days later, her body still nowhere to be found.

AS AN AGENT
So, she died.

Something snapped within her at the revelation. Something that tethered her to her lingering shame and reluctance. If she was dead, what did it matter anymore?

Naomi’s drastic change in demeanor surfaced from the rampant terror of processing the reality of her demise. To anyone on the outside, dying was the best thing to ever happen to her. Her only grievances were the stipulations.

It was at Regenesis that Naomi discovered she’d been killed by an aberration. Her mind hadn’t skewed the image of her assaulter due to her terror. What killed her was a monster. To be brought back only face his likeness in those abominations bordered sadistic.

Naomi would tread on the easy side of things, focused on C-Tier aberrations and offering support from the far sidelines if dealing with anything higher.

In her free time, she learned how to make her own accessories, and dedicated time to learning how to sew and crochet. She would sell some of her creations on the street when desperate for cash. She would sneak into clubs and abandon her inhibitions until the sun peeked over the horizon. It’s at these scenes that she’s hooked wealth onto her belt in the form of benefactors. Sugar daddies, informally. She plays her role of pampered sweetheart well; sometimes a replacement for a lover, a daughter, or eye candy to boost the ego.

REGRET:
She has no regrets, or so she insists. Yet when faced with memories of her past, she can't help but wish she'd expressed herself sooner. She can't help but wish she'd been smarter, louder, and less insecure. That she'd made more time to call her parents while at college. That she'd been there to support her mother in her time of need. She regrets having lived her life making others happy at the expense of her own happiness.
 
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alma
Rhys
A forsaken heiress in search of new purpose
Basic Information
Full Name
Alma Rhys
Nicknames
Al, Ally
Epithet
The Witch of Rhys
Gender
Female (She/her)
Age Pronounced Dead
Twenty-two (22)
Date of Birth
April 16th
Time Spent as Agent
Two (2) years
Seraphim
Strixiel
Appearance
Hair Color
Stark white
Eye Color
Pale blue
Height
5'4" (163cm)
Distinct Marks
Burn scars along the right side of her face


Alma's appearance has an ethereal, almost macabre beauty to it. Her body is fragile, and her skin is almost sickly pale. Yet her eyes, despite their pale and faded color, still exude a spark of hope, yearning, and perhaps even purpose. Her snow-white hair reaches down to her waist, and as such is frequently in the way during missions. Thus, she will either put all her locks into one long braid if she has time to prep or, in the case of an emergency summons, a loose ponytail. Her bangs are styled in such a way as to obscure the right side of her face, hiding the horrific burn scars that yet plague her many years after her death.

Attire-wise, Alma dresses conservatively, trying to show as little skin as possible even in the sickly hot summer months. Many of her more casual outfits consist of various dresses, skirts, tunics, and blouses. When performing her duties as an Agent, she opts for a more traditional white three-piece suit.
Personality
Alma is incredibly meek and soft-spoken. Due to growing up being pointed to as a blight or a curse, Alma generally keeps to herself, doesn't speak unless spoken to, and generally tries to be as out of the way as possible. During her time alive, she had her parents' love and reassurance to bolster herself with, but her time as an Agent has been painful and isolating, causing her to double-down on her shy attitudes and behaviors.

Despite this, there is a strong sense of will behind her, a genuine desire to help others. Within the depth of her heart lie boundless care and kindness. Her commitment to making the world a better place has long outlived her mortal life, and with the extra time she has been given, she is committed to making that dream come true, even if she has to go at it alone.
Backstory

Alma Rhys was the next in line to inherit the Rhys Insurance Company, a wide-scale insurance company with roots in Wales that had been operating in the United States for over a century. What Alma didn’t know, at least at the time, is that the company had begun making some more illicit connections with some underground organizations during the 50s. These connections continued, up until the day she was born. Her father, Markus Rhys, vowed to sever any criminal connections the Rhys Insurance Company had following her birth, and after repeated pleas from his wife Juniper.

This vow would have long-lasting consequences, for both the company and the family.

One does not simply sever ties with criminal organizations and walk away scot-free. Especially when these criminal organizations had a direct hand in your profits. Following Alma’s birth, investors and stockholders began to see sharp declines in their earnings, and policyholders were receiving less and less money for their claims.

On the darker side, criminal organizations, both with and without ties to the Rhys Insurance Company, began targetting more and more of its policyholders, often in ways that would mitigate their claims. The frustration caused by the attacks caused many policyholders to switch to other nationwide insurance companies.

Crime lords said Alma made Markus weak and complacent; investors called her a hex to the company. Either way, the consensus was that Alma was a curse upon the company, and in time, she was given the name “the Witch of Rhys”.

Her family, however, felt very differently. Markus and Juniper did nothing but shower the young heiress with love, affection, and reassurance. No matter how much doubt crept into her mind upon overhearing the words of her father’s business associates, the two of them always dissuaded her doubts and assured her she was naught but a blessing in their lives.

Time passed, and Alma grew. Inspired by her father’s decision to turn away from the company’s dark history, she sought to make the world a greater place. She attempted her best to join the company from the bottom rung and, to show any opposition that she wasn’t cursed, tried to work her way up to the top in earnest (nepotism, however, has deep roots, and she often knew she was being unfairly promoted).

All her hopes and dreams wouldn’t be enough to suffice in the end. Company profits wound up making a small upturn, but the bridges burnt with the crime organizations were still smoldering.

One eventful night, not long after her 22nd birthday, the entire household awoke to the smell of ash and smoke, and wild flames illuminating the dark corners of the estate. Dissatisfied with the current state of their partnership, a number of crime lords and their families took to torching the entire estate as comeuppance for Markus’ supposed “betrayal” to their decades-long agreements.

The fire spread quickly, and Markus was the first to perish, engulfed by flames within his bedroom, but managing to get his wife Juniper out to retrieve their daughter. Juniper, however, would soon follow her husband into the afterlife, after hopefully clearing a path for Alma to reach safety outside. With the building’s unstable structure however, pieces of rubble and debris began to rain upon Alma, debilitating her in her escape. And as more rubble threatened to fall on her, she was protected by an old, nearly rusted piece of armor that had seemingly thrown itself onto her.

Alma remembered the armor fondly. Her father told her stories of how it belonged to the personal guard of the Rhys family’s founder, and how the armor has been said to protect the family from harm and misfortune throughout the centuries. And now, here it was, making a vain attempt to save the last of the Rhys legacy.

While the armor protected her from the debris, it did little to stop the heat, nor the smoke that filled her lungs. By the crack of dawn, the Rhys estate had burned to the ground, and there were no remnants of its inhabitants left to identify.


When Alma next opened her eyes—something she didn’t even think possible—she was in the lobby of a hotel, face to face with a talking owl. This strange owl introduced itself to her as a Seraphim and explained to her her new role in her “afterlife:” She was now an Agent, someone who had been temporarily brought back to life in order to protect humanity against the threat of aberrants. To help her complete this goal, she was given a Gift by the Seraphim, a kneeling suit of armor that, while rusted, scorched, and jagged, strongly resembled the heirloom present in her estate.

Unlike the heirloom, however, this armor rose to its feet on its own, and with an ethereal voice introduced itself as Caerwyn. And from what Alma remembered from reading on her family’s history, that was the same name as the fabled personal guardsman that had protected her family’s founder. This “Caerwyn” had sworn fealty to Alma, and would not only obey her every command in battle but also protect her from harm. In addition, the Seraphim explained that Caerwyn also had the uncanny ability to consume aberrants, temporarily stealing their ability for a single later use. With no combat experience of her own, Alma had to rely solely on Caerwyn to survive and complete her missions.

As time passed, her reputation from her former life began to slowly creep back to her new life. In many of the missions she had been assigned with other Agents, many of them returned injured, if not dead. Alma made several attempts at performing first aid on her fellow agents, though with no training and only movies and TV shows to go off of, results were either indifferent or outright unsuccessful. Her latest attempt at first aid actually expedited the death of her partner and thus sealed her fate as a cursed Agent.

On a more high-stakes assignment following her first full year as an Agent, yet another fellow Agent was injured. Given her reputation, she already knew better than to make any attempt to rescue them; she’d been told multiple times now to just let them bleed out and focus on finishing the mission. But another Agent had no intention of letting them die: Angela Yeon. While Caerwyn fought in her stead, Alma watched Angela deftly treat the injured Agent with poised precision. She was captivated by her grace and skill, and most of all, she wanted to do what she did. Following the mission, Alma approached Angela and asked her to teach her first aid techniques.

Angela told her to “fuck off.”

The next day, Angela knocked on her door with EMT gear.


Nowadays, Alma’s reputation as cursed or a witch still precedes her: almost all Agents who are sent to the field with her wind up getting injured. However, they are no longer relegated by default to either hold out or let themselves expire; while still basic, Alma has learned enough that she can at the very least stabilize her companions before receiving treatment. She hopes that with enough time and training, she’ll be able to make the world a much better place before her own time runs out.
Relationships
'Caerwyn': Alma's Gift, and the supposed specter of her family's founder's personal guard. Unlike its original counterpart, Caerwyn's armor is much more rusted and jagged, giving the impression that it itself is an aberrant. However, in her loneliest times, Caerwyn has been nothing but gentle and kind with Alma, offering her reassurance and protecting her in the field of battle. For most of her time as an Agent, Caerwyn served as her one and only faithful confidant, and while the extent of their relationship does not generally stray from that of a liege and their vassal, Caerwyn often allows itself to be an emotional outlet for Alma.
Gift
'My Sword, My Shield'


Alma's Gift is a specter of her family's heirloom armor, and perhaps even its previous wearer, Caerwyn. Alma can summon and dismiss Caerwyn at will, and it can act independently. However, if Alma gives it a formal command, it must follow it. Caerwyn has a will of its own, and can speak with and interact with Alma and other agents. To make up for her lack of strength or durability, Caerwyn makes up for it in spades, helping her manage her missions without external assistance from other Agents. However, Caerwyn is not invincible; if it were to "die" in battle, Alma cannot re-summon him until the next day. Caerwyn's "dying" will also inflict a psychic backlash on Alma, debilitating her for a few vital moments that could be the difference between life and death.

Caerwyn also has the ability to consume aberrants and absorb their unique abilities within itself. There has been no discernible limit to how many Caerwyn can store within itself, but each ability has a single-time use: once Caerwyn uses an ability, it is gone forever once it expires.
Extra
01.
Alma's biggest regret is that she never did enough in life to improve life for people. She never did enough with her own merits to make things better for everyone, and dying as a consequence of her family's dark history only exacerbated this regret. Being given a second chance at life, Alma wants to do as much as she can with the time she has left to actually make a difference in the quality of human life.
02.
To supplement her funds, Alma has taken up a job as an insurance agent (under the false alias of Allison Rhea), given that it was the only job she thought she'd be able to get with her current skillset. She feels much more rewarded without the shadow of nepotism rising her up the ranks, although she is held back from promotions due to frequent calling out.
code by nano
 
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Mei.jpgName: Mei Hayashi

Age pronounced dead: 20 years old

Time spent as agent: 22 days

Height: 5'2"

Gender: Female

Distinct Marks: Mei has a tattoo of a sunflower on her right arm

Personality: While Mei is a friendly and amicable person, she has the tendency to be too passive when something bothers her or people step on her toes. As a result, she has a bad habit of allowing her emotions to gradually bottle up inside her while she continues going about her business. Mei often tells herself she can deal with it, and to be fair to her most of the time she can. However, despite saying that, if she leaves those emotions contained for too long without some sort of outlet to release some of those pent up feelings, she can and will snap, after which she always feels terrible about herself after given time to cool off.

Not having much time to process her own death and her new role as an Agent of the Seraphim, she often feels like she's in some sort of limbo in this new situation, not knowing how she should feel. Glad, because she got another chance? Or somber, because she won't be able to return to the life she knew before?

SERAPHIM: Strixiel

Gifts:
Let Me Show You My True Feelings

Fire, a primordial phenomenon that has been with humanity throughout all of its history. It's a double edged blade that has been used to drive forward the wheels of progress but also burn it all to ashes. It is both a beautiful thing, like with a camp bonfire, and a terrifying force, like a raging forest fire out of control. Fitting then that the analogy of fire can be used to describe both positive and negative emotions, from the flames of passion to a burning anger. Therein lies the basis for Mei's power over fire. Just as an inferno of emotions can rage within her, so too can she make that inferno a reality.

History:
Being born as the youngest child of a family of 5 with an older brother and older sister, Mei Hayashi spent most of her life under the watchful care and protective of her parents and 2 older siblings. By all means, it was a loving family situation in the early years of her life. However, as time went on and as Mei got older, the care she felt from her family started feeling less and less like a support net to catch her when she messes up in life and more and more like a cage within which she wasn't even given the opportunity to mess up or to live as she wanted.

This continued even into her early years of university. Even after she had left home to move into her dorm, her family was still overprotective of her as always, incessantly pressuring her to live how they want her to live instead of letting her live as herself through Mei's eyes. This all came to a boiling point when she returned home to visit for Thanksgiving Break. After she told them about how her semester was going, they went into another one of their signature lectures about what she should and should not be doing, what she should be aiming for, etc. Mei wasn't a stranger to such lectures, but this time, something inside her snapped, turning that lecture into an extremely heated exchange that would make hell feel like a cool spring day. Mei stormed out the house the same day, going back to campus without looking back or so much as a word bye.

A few weeks passed after her outburst and falling out with her family. They had been trying to reach her that entire time, filling her phone's call log and instant messages. But, still reeling from that heated argument, those calls and messages went unanswered. It was only after having time to reflect on all the things that happened and cooling her head, that she felt ready to confront them, and her mistakes, again. They're only so protective because they love her, she knew and wanted to believe it, but it sure didn't feel like it. She wanted to tell them their little girl/sister wasn't little and doesn't need to be micromanaged, not cuss and chew them out in a fit of anger and frustration. I'll go back home this weekend, after finals are over. After all she said, it didn't feel right patching up this entire situation with anything less than a face to face conversation.

Unfortunately during her commute back from evening classes that same week, she and a few other pedestrians were hit by a drunk restless driver before crashing into a wall themselves. As Mei lie on the asphalt, the heat slowly leaving her body as her vision grew darker, she could hear the mass commotion around as bystanders rushed in to help the wounded and the sound of emergency sirens got closer and closer.

Shame they never made it in time.

Regret:
The power of words is something that one should never underestimate. Just as they can bring us together, so too can they cause severe damage to relationships when rashly blurted out in heated moments of emotion. Mei learned that lesson the hard way. There are many things that Mei said that day to her family as her pent up emotions burst out from a long containment that she wishes she could take back.

And 6 words that she wished that she could have said that she will now never get the chance to.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean it..."
 
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Name: Gerald Gregory Graham20e79932605c9f17.jpg
Nickname: ‘GG’
Gender: Male
Height: 6’0
Age Pronounced Dead: 27 years old
Time Spent as Agent: 1 month

Personality:
Gerald doesn’t like sitting still; he loves to work. Even born into money, he’d always hated the idea of sitting on it - something that, oddly enough, had rubbed off on all his elder sisters. Of course, Gerald knows to take breaks when he can. But his workaholic tendencies have caused him to pick up a habit of smoking, though his family tends to watch him like hawks to make sure he isn’t smoking five hundred cigarettes while their back is turned.

He is a family man; he cares for his parents, siblings and in-laws, and the ever-growing number of nephews and nieces who constantly pester him about his marriage prospects. They fight, as families do, but he is quick to smooth them over - an unofficial mediator of sorts. Gerald is generally easy to get along with, something that has earned him a lot of friends in his life. But he is also brutally honest, never quite mincing his words or caring about subtleties and doublespeak so common in higher circles.

Gift:
Truthseeker
Gerald’s desire to seek answers has manifested in the form of assisted aiming - all weapons he fires or projectiles he throws aim for the heart. Perhaps this is reflective of his obsession with cutting to the heart of the matter rather than dilly-dally over little useless details.

Regret:
Gerald died regretting that Liane had been struck down by a greedy little man that he thought was a brother; that he would never bring Andrew to justice; and worst of all, he regretted that he’d never be able to tell Elena and Penelope that he’d closed the case on Liane’s death.

Death:
On a rainy day in September, Gerald Graham faced down the barrel of a gun. His cigar was spent, the last pieces of ash falling to the floor.

"All this time, I was chasing leads," he began, eyeing the smooth metal. "and it led me to the very beginning. Liane doesn't just die like that, you know? Had to be something. Someone who had it out for us. And here we are."

Andrew Hayford's grip on the gun tightened.

“Did old Phil send you?” he sneered. Gerald flicked the cigar in his captor’s face. The man flinched, features reddening as it bounced off his cheek and to the manor’s floor. “What, did he not have the balls to come here himself? Sending his little puppet to do the job for him?”

“I- I am not a puppet.” his opposite seethed. His fingers trembled, the gun shaking in his grip. “I loved her!”

“Loved her enough to kill her?” Gerald grunted. “My own sister? For what? A stack of cash, Andrew? Or that desperate need for your father to love you?”

“You don’t know anything!”

Gerald took off his glasses. The motion saw Andrew swing the pistol to his head. He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out his cleaning cloth. As he wiped away the grime off his glasses, Gerald’s stare never left Andrew’s. He saw shame and anger war in his eyes before his enemy looked away, swallowing dryly.

“Liane loved you, you know. Don’t need to be an investigator to know that.” he said quietly. “You seemed like a good person. Stand-up guy. Funny, caring, got along well with her younger twin sisters.The kind of person my father could actually believe wasn’t some insipid social climber. I believed it too. Before she wasted away, with her children being forced to watch her die over months while her husband was supposedly overseas.”

Andrew’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips. "Gerald, I loved her. I- we have kids. Family.”

“Then why are we here?” Gerald snapped, putting his glasses on again. “Fancy little meet up between brothers in law? Mutual grieving? Tell me,” he stepped closer, ”you think your kids would love to hear the full story about how their dad killed their mom? How she waited to die for months because her husband poisoned her?!”

“I had to!” was the reply, a warbled, choked thing as Andrew’s eyes shimmered. “C-couldn’t-”

“Had to?” Gerald repeated. “Had to? For fuck’s sake, Andrew! You keep hiding behind excuses!”

As he advanced, Andrew scrambled backwards. “Stay away!” he shrieked, slamming against the wall. His eyes were alight now, manic and strangely dark and glassy. “D-d-don’t make this harder for me!”

“For you?” Gerald breathed. “It’s been all about you from the very beginning! You married Liane so you could get a shot at our fucking money! Our fucking home! Phil? He’s been playing on your fucking ass-naked desire for everything that we have! But it’s so convenient to blame him, the evil father who’s pushing his son to do terrible things, you spineless fucking-”

A roar, and a red flower bloomed in his chest. Gerald staggered, grasping the nearby tabletop.

“-bastard!” he gasped.

Andrew dropped the gun, mouth open. His jaw worked, a thousand different apologies and excuses no doubt dying on his tongue as the weight of the act settled on his shoulders. Those eyes seemed to lighten back to dark brown rather than black. His breathing became rapid, and soon enough Andrew was off, his footfalls fading into the distance as he left his victim to steady himself.

Gerald’s lips curled.

All that for a shot at money. What a goddamn joke.

His legs gave out. Gerald’s fingers scrabbled to find purchase as he forced himself to sit, staring at the gray clouds weeping beyond the window that seemed to grew ever distant with each passing second.

Even as he faded, his mind worked furiously. Andrew was always a weak-willed sort, the kind of man who would fall over himself to please his wife. College sweethearts - a boy from a middle class family ingratiating himself into a prestigious family. A penny among diamonds, as it were, but Liane and Andrew were sickeningly sweet, so much so that his parents had approved.

There had been nothing out of the ordinary. Something had to have changed…

A shadow passed in front of him, a child’s mocking laughter echoing again and again in the empty hallway, and Gerald sank into the nothingness of oblivion's embrace.

Elena Graham would find her little brother's body a day later, features strangely at peace.
 
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NAME: Evan Blythe
NICKNAMES: Open to suggestions :]
AGE PRONOUNCED DEAD: 28 Years old
GENDER: Cis Male, He/him
TIME SPENT AS AGENT: 5 years


  • PLACEHOLDER CONCEPT SKETCHES FOR NOW UNTIL I FIND THE TIME AND ENERGY TO RENDER SOMETHING.
    evan placeholder.jpg
    HEIGHT: 6’2 ft tall.

    DISTINCT MARKS: Dimples, Tattoo sleeve(???), WIP

    Art by me :]    ​


SERAPHIM:

GIFTS:
Golden spectral rope chain wraps around his wrists and knuckles, one for each hand. Although glowing as if searing, the metal links are cold to the touch. They thicken and become heavier at Evan’s will. Lashing out powerful strikes against foes or entangling them to keep them steady. They retract and stretch, although the farther they stretch the more susceptible they are to snapping. His chains are at their strongest when just merged into one or split into two. He can split them into more to broaden his scope of targets, but they become weaker the more they are divided.

PERSONALITY:
One zany airhead who can’t seem to pair the right socks together, wears sunglasses indoors, and is in a perpetual state of ‘just rolled out of bed’. Lazily smiles through every interaction. Often unbothered and laid-back with a peculiar habit of sleeping in unusual places in ungodly positions. On his days off, first impressions of him are utterly underwhelming if not downright disappointing. By appearance alone, no one would guess he’s on the cusp of the 3000-hour mark.

To see him expressing genuine rage or contempt is about as rare as seeing a pig sprout wings. Evan is typically unfazed, negativity slipping in from one ear and soaring out the other. However, he isn’t uncaring. If genuine concerns or criticisms are expressed to him, he’ll take them into consideration. You’ll never find him engaged in a screaming match or fiery argument. He’s an advocate for expressing one’s feelings calmly and clearly with open ears and an open heart.

His honesty lacks boundaries at times. The introduction of death has made lying something pointless to him. If asked, his honest opinion will be spoken, and he often forgets to coat it in sugar. He does say some outlandish things from time to time and finds it amusing when someone can’t decipher if he’s being sarcastic or not, and no, he never clarifies.

During missions, that perplexing skin sheds into a completely different entity. Like the flicking of a light switch, Evan’s capabilities come forth. Alert to his surroundings, attentive of his teammates, and efficiently dispatching threats or providing aid as needed. He tries to maintain an air of optimism, knowing the importance of a scaling morale, but won’t lie if the situation looks dire.

Fearless in action with a reaction time polished from years of missions. Has come to accept that agents are merely property of the Seraphim and nothing more, though somewhere deep inside there’s a bitter seed blossoming at the thought. A known cheerleader during missions, calling out compliments to teammates when they do something impressive. More importantly, his reliability during missions has never waned. If you want Evan to do something, it will be done. He’s particularly soft-hearted towards newbies.

Evan on and off missions are day and night. Once the task is complete, it’s almost as if the actor has finished the solo play and is striding off the stage in the midst of ripping off their costume. Not everyone is certain Evan’s positivity is genuine, often finding him frustratingly well-adjusted. His general content and willingness to openly engage in conversation sometimes reeks of customer-service politeness.

Evan’s anger is a quiet sting. Delivered with an innocence so disarming you don’t realize you’ve been hit. It sits and bubbles inside him until it’s foaming and overflowing, yet he still desperately tries to keep the lid on it. For all his willingness to talk about feelings, express camaraderie, and speak honestly, with enough observation, one can begin to notice the edges of a mask.

HISTORY:
EARLY LIFE
Death is an impartial judge, conclusively slamming its gavel of finality. Sometimes, it’ll be merciful enough to herald warnings, though it’s more oft to act on its arbitrary rules. Such was the case for Evan, who thought death wouldn’t set its sights on him until he was well into his hundreds.

His mother was only sixteen years old when she swore never to love anyone but his father. His father was sixteen years old when he swore to marry her one day. The two were young, volatile adolescents raised in homes that starved them of comfort and belonging, thus they found it in each other.

His mother was only eighteen when she gave birth to him.

His father had just turned nineteen when he committed suicide.

Alone, distraught, and only just a child herself cradling her one-year-old son against her chest, Evan’s mother returned to her family and pleaded for their help. Through disappointment and disgust, they obliged.

Evan was eight years old when he realized he was a burden. A tantrum in the middle of an aisle over a toy he was denied was the cataclysmic catalyst for his mother’s eroding structure. She broke down alongside him, her anguished screeching raising the hairs of every bystander across the store. Evan had never heard anything like it, and he never wanted to hear it again.

The contempt from his grandparents was palpable, wading through quicksand would have been easier. There was little of him they were proud of, if anything at all. Sometimes, when his mother would leave for work in the evenings, they’d neglect to make him dinner. If he complained, they’d answer “make something yourself.” Evan was quick to learn he could only rely on himself.

As he grew older, Evan’s concern of being a heavy chain around his mother’s ankles turned into fuel for his accomplishments. He dedicated himself to his academics, excelling in all his classes and being enrolled in Honors courses. His mother would never receive a negative phone call from a teacher. He joined afterschool sports clubs and made several friends. His mother would never have to worry about picking him up from school because each of his friends would offer a ride.

Steadily, Evan grew more and more independent. His teachers would sing his praises to his family; he could see the relief on his mother’s face and the muted surprise on his grandparents. By the time he reached high school, he already knew what college he wanted to attend.

Evan became their small town’s golden boy. Popular among his peers for his sociability, humbleness, and reliability. A rising football star and ostensible jock yet slotted effortlessly into different social circles like a missing puzzle piece.

His efforts earned him a full-ride scholarship to his university of choice, and his uphill climb didn’t stop there. He became a varsity player while majoring in kinesiology and working as a personal trainer on the side. Popularity doesn’t carry the same in university as it does in high school, but no matter what room he entered or hall he walked, some person or another would always recognize who Evan Blythe was.

He was just on the cusp of graduation, bags packed for a celebratory trip to the Caribbean with some friends, ready to take the world by storm.

He was found dead in his apartment by some concerned friends who thought it unusual that he hadn’t shown up to their pre-graduation party. A subarachnoid hemorrhage from a burst aneurysm had ended his life in an instant.

AS AN AGENT
Evan’s first year as an agent was a rocky one. The fear, the denial, the confusion, the grief. It felt like the moon had collided with the earth, and part of him wished it had. Yet oddly enough, he began to feel like a pressure had been lifted off his shoulders. But It’s never been something he’s chosen to examine.

Accustomed to performing at his best no matter the circumstances, once Evan’s head was clear enough to think, he got to work. His confidence in the field developed over time. He undertook several missions against weaker aberrations to practice using his Gift and hone his fighting style. In his 5 years as an agent, he’s only died three times.

The biggest offense he’s committed as an agent is reaching out to his mother in hopes of assuring her that he was okay, and she would be too. Nothing came out of it, as far as he’s aware. Except for maybe a deeply hidden disdain for the Seraphim at the infraction.

Evan’s duality between being at Regenesis and on missions began some time after his very first encounter with an S-tier and subsequent first death as an agent. When he’d first died, he hadn’t felt anything. One moment he was awake, the next he was waking up in Regenesis Hotel. Dying against an S-tier, Evan felt like experiencing true death for the first time.

The anxiety and trauma from the encounter sparked a brutal migraine that nearly rendered him immovable. Such migraines would continue to plague him every morning he’d wake up at Regenesis after a mission, even if nothing was physically wrong with him. To deal with these headaches and light-sensitivity that made them feel worse, Evan began wearing sunglasses. They are to him what weighted blankets are to others.

Currently, Evan is one of the top performing agents at Regenesis Hotel, though it’s never clear how until he’s seen in action.

REGRET:
That feeling of relief after discovering he had died is something Evan can’t shake. Like a sudden weight is off his shoulders. Regrettably, it leaves him wondering if he even wanted anything that he accomplished in his life. He still dreams of graduating alongside his friends and seeing his mother’s proud smile. Despite already having been punished for the infraction once, Evan still likes to check in on his mother and close friends, living vicariously through them and seeing how they grow.
 
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