Perchance to Dream

Elle Joyner · Apr 21, 2015

Character Sheets

Approval: In the event that you are approved, once the RP begins, you may write an introduction.

In the meantime, feel free to join in the OOC section to discuss plot ideas.

Denial: Bear in mind that denial of a particular character does not limit you from participating in this storyline and you may try again with another character, but ultimately my word is law and I will not tolerate rudeness, so please try to handle constructive criticism with as much grace and poise as possible.

If you are denied a character a total of three times, you will not be considered for further roles.

Revision: If you are asked to revise your form, please do so promptly, following all the parameters asked of you. I will be very specific as to what those parameters are. After revision, PM the new form to me and I will either approve or deny the requested application.

HOW THAT LOOKS

APPROVAL NOTICE: Congratulations! You've been approved. Keep an eye out for a group PM indicating a start date, as well as plot details and starting points.

FIRST/SECOND DENIAL NOTICE: I'm sorry that I am unable to accept this character as it does not meet with the specified constraints required for this RP. You are welcome to try again.

THIRD DENIAL NOTICE: I'm sorry that I am unable to accept this character as it does not meet with the specified constraints required for this RP. As stipulated, you have surpassed the acceptable amount of applications and I will not be accepting any more character sheets from you. Thank you.

REVISION NOTICE: I have reviewed your CS and the following needs to be revised before approval can be met

This

That

The Other Thing

BEFORE APPLYING:

Please be sure to read the rules and regulations. This is NOT optional.

If you have followed these initial steps and are ready to to apply for a character please fill out the following forms. While filling out the sheets, please take your time and use as much description as possible. Be creative! I am only accepting a max of TEN players in this particular RP, so I will be extremely choosy with applications.

To ensure that we have a realistic idea of what your character actually looks like, I ask that your stick to real images or gifs (no personal images/selfie/animation/anime). If you need assistance with finding an image, please PM me.

I also ask for a writing sample at the foot of your skeleton - this is to ensure the best quality of roleplay for everyone involved, as well as the best fit for each character.

If you would like to apply for anything OTHER than a LOWER CLASS CITIZEN (Narc/Nightmare/Suit) please PM me to discuss. I will only be accepting one/two of each for the initial application process.

Again... Don't forget to read the rules before posting your skeleton! When you have posted your skeleton, PLEASE allow me time to review it, then check back to see your APPROVAL/DENIAL/REVISION notice. Happy creating!!

You may alter/add to the skeleton as you see fit, but please do not remove any categories without my permission.

NAME

[img=Character Picture Goes Here]

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Two to Three paragraphs
- Height & Weight:
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos:
NAME:

STATUS: (Grunt/Suit/Cop/etc.)

CLASS: (Upper/Lower)

OCCUPATION:

AGE: (18-45)

GENDER: Male/Female

PERSONALITY: Roughly 4-5 paragraphs

STRENGTHS:

+
+
+

FAULTS:

-
-
-

QUIRKS/HABITS:
4 paragraphs – brief history of your character
For your character. If I've RPed with you in the past, PM me about this.
Optional - Youtube link to theme

Code:

Uncultured · Apr 27, 2015

Flint Gibbons

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Flint is a man who spends his off hours working out and fighting in the clubs located throughout the city. As a result he has the build of a boxer and is taught with muscles that show due to his low body fat percentage. He isn't extremely defined or bulky to a point of absurdity but you can tell he works out from his appearance. His style, when not on shift at the warehouse that is, is dark in color and fitted. He often wears black windbreakers, jackets, hoodies etc. and a simple pair of navy/black jeans.

He is often banged up and bruised as a result of the fight clubs he attends and catches looks from his superiors on a regular basis due to this fact. Flint is usually nursing some kind of fresh injury, the wounds he sustains can range from a bruised face/rib to cut knuckles or even broken or fractured bones depending on who and when he fought last. No matter the day, you can usually see some kind of healing injury on his body.
- Six feet tall without shoes on, one hundred and ninety eight pounds:
- Flint has several scars on his body from numerous fights
  
  One on his right cheek, it is a small horizontal scar that cuts slightly into his features
- Several on his abdomen, one was a result of a stabbing
- Dozens of small, barely noticeable nicks located on his arms and wrist
NAME:

Flint Gibbons

STATUS:

Grunt

CLASS:

Lower

Occupation:

Warehouse worker

/Pit fighter

AGE:

28

GENDER:

Male

PERSONALITY:

Flint is a man who solves more problems with his hands than his tongue, i.e he isn't a word smith by any means. He struggles to express himself and can't talk himself out of problems, which is the reason he solves so many of them through brute force. This however, is the reason for a lot of the struggles that have taken place in his life and although he is aware of the deficiencies, he does little to solve them. Due to the fact that he can't express himself in an eloquent manner, he often reserves himself to silence or small phrases, preferring not to speak as much. Even though this is how he projects himself, once he gets to know people he often speaks up but when in a group he feels slightly intimidated by his own lack of intellect to talk unless it is a topic that he is highly knowledgeable about.

In terms of his general moods and personality, he is a dark minded man who has seen a lot of violent things throughout his life and as a result of these experiences he suffers from PTSD and depression, and in order to channel and suppress these emotions he subconsciously drew to a lifestyle of petty drug use and violence in the pits/fight clubs.

In regards to other people, he keeps distance on a personal level until he knows that he can trust someone. This comes from his experiences living in the slums and living inside of prison for five years. He has grown wary of people and while he doesn't push them away or reject them he distrusts them on a base level and keeps his guard up against them.

He is a person who takes poorly to perceived disrespect and will fight others over small slights, either real or perceived. He is a very proud man and is hateful towards the authorities that be, seeing them as a symbol of oppression on both a personal and national level. Flint is prone to negative emotions such as anger, hate, sadness and general moodiness while being numb to positive emotions. This imbalance causes him to be in a generally shitty mood at most times which keeps him on edge.

STRENGTHS:

+ Great hand to hand fighter with knowledge of boxing and MMA techniques

+ Very street smart and aware of surroundings

+ Handy with tools/mechanical apparatuses (ex. cars)

FAULTS:

- Not the brightest in the lot, he has a slightly below average intellect

- Too proud for his own good

- Manic Depressive with self destructive tenancies (the reason he fights in the pits basically)

QUIRKS/HABITS:
28 years before the current timeline, a boy was born in a tenement apartment shared by three families. It was there where he grew up from a small child into the cold and manic person that Flint has become. His father was an alcoholic and an abuser who was rarely present in the young Flint's life but when he was present in his life it wasn't a positive, for with his presence came violence and drunken rages that had no direction, effecting everyone equally with an equally distributed flurry of punches and thrown items. It was his fathers physical violence that gave Flint a high level of pain tolerance and an inner rage and desire to fight that drove him to commit acts of violence as a young boy. The young boy who was once innocent in nature soon became a petty criminal, stealing from stores, bullying, picking fights with other children, and eventually, stabbing another boy, but by this time he was no longer a boy in the true sense, he was becoming an adult and the courts, tired of his antics, tried him as one.

At age seventeen, Flint was shipped of to a mid level penitentiary. His sentence was an eight year stretch with possibility for parole, a parole that was granted five years into the sentence. Throughout his time in the prison he learned to control his temper from older inmates while also finding himself in the ring. It was within the walls of his new home where he began to train in boxing, wrestling, and various forms of martial arts and it was within the walls of this place where the new quieter, tamer, and yet more dangerous Flint was born.

After five years Flint emerged from the prison and returned him. His father, finally dead of his alcoholic addiction, had passed several years into Flints incarceration, and his mother had essentially done the same, disowning him for his violent nature. So the man, once the innocent child stood alone within a city of crime and oppression, seeking employment. It was at this point when Flint, now 23, got a job at the only place that would ever hire a man like him, the warehouse. On his time off from the loading bays he trained hard and fought, using his wages from the warehouse to propel his underground fighting career onward to no visible end.

After some time he became successful in the fight pits and he was able to take shorter shifts (More 16 hour shifts instead of 20 hour shifts) at the warehouse, using his winnings to supplement his income. His success however, hasn't risen him up any social ladders, instead it has sunken him further as his exposure to the underground lifestyle has brought him to try certain illicit substances, substances that have landed their hooks in him. While he isn't a full blown addict he does get the urge to occasionally snort a line and he drinks constantly like his father used to do, continuing the cycle of his family's failures.
Flint stood on the edge of the pier, buzzed drunk and bloody, watching the dark waves of the river as they caressed the garbage beaches of the banks. Not much stirred here, not much moved, and other than the slow drunken breathing of the bleeding fighter and the calm waves of the river beneath him, the night was silent. Flint's knuckles were raw, cut, and bruised, and underneath the sharper pangs emanating from his skin, he could feel the dull ache of his knuckle bones as his nerves registered the subtle fractures within. The fighter grimaced as he placed his middle finger back into it's socket and as it popped into its proper place he spit into the river, tasting the brandy on his breath as he did so, stifling back a gag as he thought of what he had done.

Flint slowly looked down to his right, guiltily admiring his own handiwork, plastered across the bruised and broken face of a body. The body too, like the night lay still, unbreathing, unmoving, eerily still as if waiting for something to disturb its slumber. The eyes of the dead man lay open, peeled and wide, staring vacantly outwards towards the night sky, and then, in one motion, Flint kicked the chain weighted corpse over the side of the pier. With a violent splash the corpse was no more, and as it sank into the depths of the polluted river, Flint exhaled a sigh once again before reaching into his right pocket, withdrawing a small disposable messenger. With a few clicks he came to his contact and with a few clicks more his message had been sent.

"It's done" it had gone, and as he placed the disposable messenger back into his pocket he caressed his bleeding hands once more, wondering how he had come to such a place.

APPROVAL NOTICE: Congratulations! You've been approved. Keep an eye out for a group PM indicating a start date, as well as plot details and starting points.

Elle Joyner · Apr 27, 2015

Grier Davis

"To the naked eye, she was pretty, but not conventionally. She was thin... too thin- the type of skinny that spoke of poor eating habits and a lack of physical activity. She had a sleep-deprived look to her, the underside of heavy-lidded eyes rimmed with dark circles. Her hands shook, not the steady quiver reminiscent of palsy, but a odd, inconsistent twitching... like someone with a drug habit, which from the looks of her might not have been a terrible stretch. Still, she had a quiet sort of attractiveness, mostly apparent in a full, sultry mouth and long legs that seemed to stretch on for days."

Click to expand...

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Grier is a small wisp of a thing, making up for a diminutive stature and build with a somewhat confrontational disposition, apparently in the tight, stretched posture of bony shoulders and the tense lines in her narrow, pinched features.

A curtain of blonde hair runs down between her shoulder blades and hangs in a thick bang over sleepy brown eyes, heavy-lidded and punctuated by dense, dark lashes. A slightly round nose, thin in the bridge rests above full, sultry lips, her pale skin dotted with a constellation of freckles.

She's got a narrow figure, lacking in curves, and long, slender limbs, ending in delicate hands and feet.

Height & Weight: 5'2", 115lbs.

Markings/Scars/Tattoos: n/a
NAME:

Grier Davis

STATUS:

Grunt

CLASS:

Lower Class

OCCUPATION:

Assembly Line

Technician

AGE: 23

GENDER:

Female

PERSONALITY:

Grier is a Grunt, but unlike most others, she isn't pleased about it. The idea of spending an inordinate amount of time working, with little more to show for it than just enough credits to get by and just enough free time to remind her how little a life she really has.

Part of her frustration comes, inevitably, from the sudden ineffectiveness of the Nudge Patch - a necessity to get through her 16 hour work shift.

She's never been patient, and certainly isn't a model in self control, but she isn't a bad person, and makes a point of exercising her less than noble habits in privacy.

Outside of work, Grier spends a majority of her time in the Entertainment sector of the Business District, generally making herself at home in the less unsavory nightclubs.

She is not unsocial, but prefers to spend her time with a particular breed of people, uncomfortable with all things new and unfamiliar. She makes her home in the LCD in a small shack she occupies with her younger brother Micah - for whom Grier is the sole guardian.

When confronted, Grier can be especially defensive and has been known to throw the first punch with a few too many drinks in her, which isn't as rare an occasion as one might imagine.

She's stubborn, head-strong and passionate, a dangerous combination that has, in more than one case gotten her into trouble.

STRENGTHS:

+ Observant: She's rarely caught off guard, no matter the circumstances.

+ Street Smart: With a history for it, Grier knows how to handle her own.

+ Self-Sufficient: Grier learned early to take care of herself.

FAULTS:

- Cynical: She holds an unfriendly view of the world and most of the people in it.

- Impatient: She has little tolerance for those things with annoy her.

- Temperamental: Hot-headed, she's quick to fight and slow to cool down.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

Grier is a habitual smoker, a frequent drinker and has been known at times to dabble in less than legal pharmaceuticals.

While she couldn't be considered promiscuous, she isn't particularly shy about spending the odd evening in a stranger's bed.
History

THEME:

The Verve - Bittersweet Symphony

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When Grier was a small child, her father, a single parent after the death of his wife, began suffering from sleep deprivation when he stopped responding to the Nudge Patch. Driven mad from lack of sleep, he committed suicide, leaving Grier and her younger brother Micah on their own. Grier learned fast that there was no room for things like self pity and grieving in a world that carried very little compassion for two young orphans. She made a name for herself in the LCD, earning a reputation as one not to be trifled with.

At 15, Grier began working on the lower floor of The Warehouse as a telemarketing representative. By 16 she had moved up a floor to the Assembly Line structure, where she began working as a laborer. Around this time, the Nudge Patch began losing effectiveness, and Grier began experiencing black out periods during her free time. Afraid of being reported as a sleeper, she started taking Black Market drugs to keep herself awake, all together more successful than not, but not without side effects.

Recently, Grier took over as a floor technician on the Assembly Line, adding another hour to her work load. She's also experienced a significant set back with the loss of her Black Market contact, down to only a few weeks worth of pills and no means of purchasing more.

Despite the unfortunately raw deal, Grier manages to work, maintain something of an active social life, take care of Micah and keep her dysfunction on the down low. Still, with a situation that's hardly improving, she's quickly running out of options...

Mordecai · Apr 28, 2015

DOVER MARIE JACOBY

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Skinny and moderately pretty, Dover is the epitome of the “girl next door.” Her face is sweet and soft but riddled with odd idiosyncrasies that come together to form an appearance most people see as being generally appealing. Her eyes, a striking shade of sea foam blue (and arguably her loveliest feature), are set a bit too far apart and are placed below two dark eyebrows that are too low and angular. Her nose is a bit narrow for the width of her boxy jaw and her lips continue the angular theme with a well-defined, sharply pointed philtrum. Despite these rather strange features to her face, there is something quite symmetrical and pleasing about them all coming together on a palette of ghostly white, Irish-descended skin. Such heritage comes with a splatter of blonde freckles all across her nose, cheeks, and shoulders, though she does her best to hide them below sweaters and thick layers of foundation. Even with heavy make-up, she is a victim of eye bags; the skin below her eyes is usually dark and heavy looking, giving her the perpetual look of melancholy. She tries to smile at times, but it never seems quite convincing.

The rest of her is of thin, nearly gaunt, build, packed with just enough muscle to lift and maneuver the heavy boxes she must for her job, though calling her physically strong is probably a stretch. She’s insecure about her short height and the lack of femininity in her form, as she is small breasted and hipped, but makes up for it in padded bras and long, glossy, sandy-blonde hair that is meticulously maintained with expensive product she probably can’t afford. Dover is often seen in typical, casual wear: jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers, but does have a love for over-sized sweaters and summer dresses. Her clothing choices tend to be mute, dark colours, and she very rarely sports patterns. Don’t mistake her lack of pattern wearing for a lack of feminity, however. She always enjoys donning a few pieces of understated jewellery, like necklaces or rings. She wears plenty of make-up, probably too much for someone of her age, but feels most comfortable when wearing it. She’s also moderately near-sighted and could use glasses, but rarely wears them because of they’re “drabby.” She’ll never paint her fingernails, as she doesn’t want to call attention to her missing pinky finger, but her toes are an entirely different matter.
- Height & Weight: 1.52 m (5'4") and 61.2 kgs (135lbs)
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: Dover is missing the pinky finger on her left hand and has both of her ears pierced twice on the lobe. She has no other major identifiable birthmarks, scars, or tattoos.
NAME: Dover Jacoby

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower class

OCCUPATION: Stocker

AGE: 23

GENDER: Female
PERSONALITY:

A generally nondescript, though bright girl, Dover’s most defining characteristic is putting her nose in other people’s business. She’s ambitious, confident, deliberate, and a long-range thinker. As such, she loves learning about things she doesn’t understand and, no matter what, will try and find out the truth behind whatever is puzzling her. While she’s not very street-smart, she is very analytical and loves tearing things apart—clocks, computers, electronics—just to see what makes them tick. Even though she is quite meddlesome, she is also a very stoic and serious person who isn’t usually one for joking around. Her wildness doesn’t make her overly gregarious or comical, but instead drives her to never stop asking more questions. While Dover may not smile at everyone she meets, she genuinely cares about the well being of most people. She tries to do the right thing whenever she can, though has a small habit of taking things that don’t belong to her.

Chill, cool, and unshakeable in all possible ways, Dover refuses to take any nonsense from anyone. She’s incredibly stubborn and pessimistic, incredibly set in her ways, but not at all compulsive. If you try and sway her opinions, she’ll put up a verbal fight and antagonize you for hours until you leave her alone or agree she’s right just to get her to stop complaining. She’s extremely competitive and is always seeking to prove herself to others. If she’s committed to something and is good at it, she feels like she has to be the absolute best at it and will compete for the top spot, even if no one else is queued in to her ‘competition.’ Though she is kind of a tough girl, she loves Audrey Hepburn movies, coffee ice cream, and that really pretty coral lipstick shade at the nearby drug store.

She is in possession of a close-knit group of friends and genuinely likes being around other people, but isn’t the type of sacrifice everything for somebody else. She can be the loyal type, but is too self-centered to take someone else’s needs into consideration before her own. That doesn’t mean she won’t go out of her way to help someone else and do the right thing, so long as the situation doesn’t negatively impact her in anyway. She is always pleasant though, and overly courteous with her “pleases” and “thank-yous,” but has a certain way of dampening the spirits of others through her rather cynical outlook on life.

She thinks quickly in a pinch and always makes the New Year’s resolution to get in shape, even though she fails every year.
STRENGTHS:
- Independence - Dover does not need the approval of others to be happy. She can be perfectly content in her own company and rarely concerns herself with the status of people around her. Do not confuse her independence with being aloof though, for while she is perfectly capable of working alone, she prefers to work in the company of like-minded people.
- Observant - She is quite perceptive to people and her surroundings. She takes enjoyment out of figuring people out; being observant has been a positive effect of being nosy.
- Intelligent - While more book-smart than street-smart, Dover is always quick on the uptake of ideas and concepts, thus she excels in academic environments.
FAULTS:
- Stubborn - Dover doesn't change her mind very often. When she makes a decision, it's usually final. Period. She is extremely set in her ways and doesn't like to admit when she's wrong.
- Pessimist - Often seen as "the downer," Dover often struggles to see the positive in a given situation. She usually expects the worse from things and will always voice her rather bleak opinions.
- Nosy - Dover enjoys a close-knit group of friends, but also enjoys in putting her nose into other people's business. Gossiping sort of comes with the territory. Being nosy has made her quite observant to human nature.
QUIRKS/HABITS:
- Sticky fingers - Dover has the galling habit of taking things that don't belong to her. Never big things-- like money or jewellery-- but small things: pens, notebooks, and silverware from restaurants. Her nine fingers are considerably more sticky than everyone else's ten.
- Caffeine addict - Dover doesn't function well without her regular "Four-star Alarm, with double white mocha syrup and whipped cream" beverage from Starbuzz every few hours.
From the moment she was born to parents Stevie and Arlena Jacoby, Dover had always been on the straight and narrow. As the first, and only, child of the Jacoby family, her parents always had high hopes for her. They hoped she’d be able to burst through the ceiling separating the lower class from the upper class. As such, her parents sacrificed a great deal to be able to afford the steep credit cost of going to a good school. Living in a one bedroom flat in the slums of Miami and scraping to pull together enough food for dinner every evening, Dover put everything she had into her studies. She was a diligent, bright, and praised student, who exceeding everyone’s expectations with her wit and dedication. Working twenty hour shifts, her parents did the labour of love to give her everything she needed: pens, notebooks, textbooks, but in the end, there just wasn’t enough credit to be passed around.

In primary school, embarrassed by her lack of things compared to her classmates, Dover learned she could purloin things from classmates while they were not paying attention. The behaviour, which started with simple things like pencils and pens, quickly progressed to more ambitious items: book bags, textbooks, and even sweaters and other articles of clothing that were stashed in lockers. For the things she couldn’t procure through theft, Dover began to offer doing homework for other students in exchange for things she wanted, like makeup or soda. Even at this early of an age, Dover had learned to be a very serious person and rarely enjoyed recess in the playground, using the time instead to conduct her homework-for-goods business ploy. She grew so sober that concerned teachers and principles often called her parents, worrying something may be wrong with her mentally, though most of the consternation was also blanketed in praise for her acumen and willingness in the classroom.

While Dover loved her hours spent at school, her home life growing up was a little more dismal. She rarely saw her parents, and the few hours that she did, they were often too distressed or overwhelmed to speak with her. By age ten, Dover’s father began to come home less and less. After work, he’d go out and bet his credits on fights down at the Coliseum. He won a bit at first, but then began to lose considerably more often than he won. With half of the family’s earnings being dumped into gambling and alcohol, things grew even more desperate. Some nights, there was only a loaf of bread and some butter on the table, and others, there wasn’t any food at all. Hunger drove Dover fill her belly with stolen and bartered goods while at school, which gave her the first taste of independence in her young life.

Six months later, a few days after her eleventh birthday, her mother broke the news that the family could simply no longer afford the cost of her schooling and she must be withdrawn at once. Devastated and placing all the blame on her father and his shortcomings, Dover lost her identity. She had always been the “smart one” the “school girl” and “one who was going places,” but the carpet had been ripped out from underneath her and she stared down the barrel of a life spent as a Grunt. She was determined to not let that fate happen to her, and she continued to steal books from libraries and book stores to keep learning, but eventually, necessity gave way to want.

By fifteen, Dover was hired by the Warehouse, the same company that had hired both of her parents, as an inventory stocker. Her seventeen-hour shifts were spent sipping Four Star Alarm coffees and making sure that all the goods and products stored in the Warehouse were in the proper location and in the correct quantity, as per her paperwork. It was a terrible life, but of course, she continued to live this miserably because it’s always easier to endure things than improve them.

For the next seven years, Dover’s life went on like this: seventeen hour shifts, seven days a week, followed by six hours of surfing the web, sipping even more coffee, and reading any book she could get her hand on. Then came the accident. While at work one day, a metal crate that had been poorly stacked on a top rack in the shelving came crashing down on Dover, crushing her left hand, breaking ten bones in her hand and sheering her pinky off at the first knuckle. Rushed to the hospital, Dover’s broken bones were repaired and surgeons desperately tried to reattach the finger, but the operation was ultimately unsuccessful, and Dover was sent home four hours after being admitted with one less finger and a Doctor’s note for a week from work.

The paid week off was the most glorious time of Dover’s young life since been pulled from school, at least, she thought it would be. She wished the time to be spent lounging on the internet looking at funny cat videos, but on her first day home from the hospital--- Dover fell asleep.

Luckily, her parents hadn’t been home, and she brushed it off nervously as a side-effect of the surgery, but as the week went on, the sleeping continued. No matter how much coffee she drank, no matter how much she poked at her Nudge patch, no matter how much she willed herself to stay awake—she couldn’t. And the dreams, oh, the dreams were the worst.

At the end of the week, Dover quietly went back to work, praying that the sleeping would go away once she got back into a routine of work…. But counting all those boxes, making sure they’re where they are all accounted for is just so damn tiring.

....And sleep was always just so inviting.
Thunderheads reared up from the horizon, dancing lightning down the magnetic spires and turning the skyline into a terrifying wall of storms. Rain, a nigh mist when she had walked into the Warehouse only four hours prior, had transformed into proper, weighty drops of rain that tapped like small fingers across the glass of the only window in the large industrial room. The depot, comprised mostly of drab grey steel, was organised into long rows of shelving units that were stacked high with metal boxes. The boxes were labelled with tags listing their contents, and they gleamed almost merrily below the white, hot light coming from the overhead lamps. In truth, there was quite the workload for her to complete—under her right arm was a stack of papers at least an inch thick, all sheets calling out for her attention—yet she couldn’t seem to drag her eggshell blue gaze away from the window.

The soft grumble of thunder rocked the building, causing the lights to tremor nervously on their wires, and casting unusual shadows across the room. Had Dover not been so zoned-out, she might have been disturbed out by how the sterile light warped the shadows across the cement floor, but in truth, the young dirty-blonde woman was too tired to care. With paperwork under her right arm and an extra-large coffee in her right, she sipped idly at the drink, licking the last few drops of the sugary sweet beverage away from her lip with a smacking noise of comfort. While, technically speaking, the rulebook didn’t allow food or beverages in the storage rooms, Dover needed all the help avoiding sleep as she could these days and no one would be in to check in on her for a number of hours yet. Besides herself, the only living thing around her was the storm outside.

It was hard not to zone-out though, to tease herself with sleep. It had been a small problem she’d been facing for the last few weeks now and every day and night she prayed to a God she didn’t even believe in to take away this vexation. To give her any disease so long so long as he took away this craving for sleep. No matter how many coffees she drank, no matter how many times she smacked at her Nudge patch in fear it may be faulty, no matter how many times she pretended that damn letter hadn’t come, the need to sleep continued to rip apart all of her cogs and gears.

It was slightly therapeutic, the sound of the rain as it smacked against the glass, but fearing the wrath of her superiors if they found her staring off into space, Dover turned away from the window and dragged herself down the aisle B23. “Container 23, in place,” she muttered below her breath, ticking off the small box to signify the container was where it was supposed to be. “Container 24—“ her eyes glanced up, to see an empty spot where the container should be. Instead, the space was empty, with an unsigned, hand-written note in its place that read: Do not look for this container, Dover.

That was not how the Warehouse was supposed to work, she thought with a frown. Her superiors would never leave such a crude note, but then again… if they hadn’t, who had?

Dover was torn between curiosity and the certainty that she was better off not knowing, but setting down her coffee and picking up the note, she crept away from her station. There was a secret here, and she was going to find out what it was. This had 'getting fired' written all over it, but Dover couldn't resist her desire to answer the question.

{Note: Hi, Elle! I know there is probably no room for this little missing container snafu to occur in the actual roleplay, I just wanted to write her in her work element, which is a pretty boring element to write about, so I just ran with it a little.}
"Voodoo Child" - Stevie Ray Vaughn

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APPROVAL NOTICE: Congratulations! You've been approved. Keep an eye out for a group PM indicating a start date, as well as plot details and starting points.

ADDED NOTE: I love extra shenanigans. PM me about the box!

CortezHorse · Apr 28, 2015

Ada Walker

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION: The first thing that is noticeable about Ada is her height, being a woman she generally towers over others of her own gender. Along with her height comes a lankiness born of long limbs. Her legs and arms seem to stretch on for miles and appear to belong to someone else’s body. She’s lined with lithe muscle from years of physical labor and is what some women would refer to as blessed due to her voluptuous chest and curves. Although she does have the limbs of a stretch doll, ever mercurial hair color and the fashion sense of someone constantly on acid, Ada can be considered attractive, to, well, the right person; the most striking feature about her is her eyes; one is blue and the other brown.

Her hair is constantly changing colors but generally stays in a consistent Mohawk type style. Off work she wears the most outlandish clothes she can get her grubby little hands on. Maybe today she’ll wear a tank top made of coke tabs, possibly run around in a leather bra, who knows? When it comes to work she’s able to control her impulses, knowing she needs work, so keeps to wearing a collared shirt and slacks.
- Height & Weight: 5’10”, 140lbs.
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: Ada’s earlobes are pierced twice which she keeps silver studs in at all times. She has a silver nose ring and silver snakebites under her bottom lip.
NAME:Ada Walker

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: Assembly Line Laborer

AGE: 25

GENDER: Female

PERSONALITY: To say Ada marches to the beat of her own drum could possibly be an understatement. In a world where everyone is cramped together in the same living conditions and doomed to the same jobs, Ada craves to carve out a notch for herself and be something different. If she can look different, act different or talk different then she will; preferably all three.

Along with this rebellious craving of hers comes a reckless nature born out of a need to feel something in a world where she feels numb in the ever growing crowds. It’s not uncommon for Ada to get into trouble, whether it be a fight on the street, money troubles from gambling or even drugs. She’s certainly not unaccustomed to being bailed out of stick situations which she always feels guilty for but never fails to end back in the same problems.

Despite her shortcomings Ada has an extremely soft spot for children and animals, especially if either of them finds themselves on the street. While she’s known for blowing her pay on gambling, she’s also known for blowing her money on buying food for kids and dogs she stumbled upon on the way home from work. She’s been in their situation and understands that they can’t help themselves so feels some sort of obligation towards them.

When it comes to dealing with adults like co-workers and others, she can seem to be a bit standoffish but that's mainly due to the way she presents herself. In reality Ada doesn't mind if someone were to approach her to talk but the person would need to be ready to have her say whatever she damn well pleased. She's rarely been one to care if she offends another with her words, caring more about sticking to her guns than cowing down to please another. So, although she would willingly talk to others, conversations with Ada tend to end poorly at times.

The most important aspect of Ada’s personality is actually a person, because she helped shaped a large part of Ada, at least the good parts anyway. She’s a girl by the name of Rebecca Clement who Ada is fiercely protective over. This was the one person in Ada’s life who taught her the meaning of kindness towards others and that you didn’t have to necessarily beat the living hell out of someone to get ahead in life. In other words, Rebecca is the reason that Ada isn’t a completely insane individual. She’s also the one who keeps her in line so you can thank her for the fact that Ada still has a job and probably for the fact that she’s even still alive.

STRENGTHS:

+Bullshit Meter: Due to life experiences it’s very hard to tell a passing lie to Ada.

+Street Rats: Because of her kindness to the children of the streets, Ada has a lot of “invisible” eyes and ears on the streets.

+Monkey Hands: It’s odd but Ada can climb like a maniac. Why does she know this? Probably because the shithole apartment she and her roommate live in is only accessible through a window that has a broken fire escape.

FAULTS:

-Gambler: Ada has a slight problem with gambling on fights. She’s well known for blowing entire pay checks in one go.

-Addict: For years she’s been addicted to amphetamines. She just likes the buzz it gives her.

-Bad Listener: She’s never been one to follow direction. Unless it comes from someone she truly respects, she’ll probably just say fuck you and carry on with precisely what she was doing.

QUIRKS/HABITS: It’s been said that Ada has what is known as a resting bitch face which tends to deter most people interested in starting a conversation with her.
Like most, Ada was born into a small, overcrowded apartment complex. She was one of ten siblings; the daughter of an overworked mother who had many men come and go through her life. It was at the young age of fourteen that Ada decided she wanted to escape the suffocating confines of her family’s too small apartment and out into the world. It wasn’t long until she realized the harshness of her home life was nothing compared to the horrors of the real world.

For months she scrounged by, scavenging for food through trash bins, hiding in boxes for shelter and at times pick pocketing when needed. Despite the tough odds it never crossed her mind to return home, she’d tasted bitter freedom and would never turn back. Ada continued on her lonesome until she came upon a wet and hungry mop of red hair one evening. That young girl would end up being her best friend in life, Rebecca Celment.

The two girls immediately bonded although Rebecca was completely against any sort of illicit activity and Ada was always rolling her eyes at the girls naivety; opposites attract as they always say. The pair roamed the streets together, building shelters, searching for food and sharing in adventures that only children could have in such dire situations. As they grew, the friendship only grew stronger and with one another they started piecing together a life.

Ada went from job to job with any sort of manual labor, her hang ups always causing her to lose employment. Rebecca on the other hand was always a model citizen and was the one who kept the steady income flowing to fund their small apartment and keep them fed. Recently Rebecca pleaded with Ada to stop her drug use, if not for her sake then for their small income’s sake. For once, Ada heard her out and with a huge guilt weighing on her, quite the amphetamines. As it turns out, those pills have been the only thing keeping her awake for who knows how long….
There was fire, fire everywhere; it roiled up to the sky in explosive balls. The sound was deafening but it was nowhere near as drowning as the screams were. Everyone was running and trampling each other, if the fire and explosions didn’t kill them; they’d kill each other.

Ada’s eyes widened as she watched this horror from a seemingly safe place. The scene was, she just, how could this be happening? It was fine yesterday. People were running towards her, the fire followed and devoured their flesh. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing escaped. Her head snapped up from the kitchen table, sweat rolled down her face as she tried to catch her breath. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real it was. A dream.

No, no that, she couldn’t be. Had she really fallen asleep? The thought ripped through her like a bolt of lightning and she practically leapt out of the chair. No, that wasn’t what had happened, it couldn’t be! She just sat down at the table to have a drink and then, and then, and then nothing. Her hand nervously weaved its way into her colorful hair as she began pacing the dirty and cracked tile. What would she tell Rebecca?

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Absurdisan · Apr 28, 2015

Francis “Frankie” Maddox

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Frankie is unkempt. That’s the best way to describe pretty much everything about him, from his hair to his clothes.

His hair is a dull brown and long enough to hang comfortably between and just below his shoulder blades, and he chooses to keep it out of his face by sticking it in a very loose and very messy ponytail, using anything he happens to have around at the time - elastic bands, a twist-tie, even a hair-tie occasionally. It’s a good thing he keeps his face open to the world, as it’s probably his best feature - beneath a short, ginger-flecked beard is a youthful face with a pleasantly proportioned nose and dull lips almost always bearing some kind of smile. His eyes are a cloudy blue, slightly overshadowed by his thick eyebrows, and his skin is light and devoid of freckles, scars or any other noticeable blemishes.

Were it not for his job, Frankie would likely be in far worse shape than he is now - luckily, long days of standing and moving around have kept him relatively trim and thin, but definitely not muscular or even particularly strong. His legs are noticeably more well-built than his arms, and his hands are calloused from constantly working with them. Frankie tends to carry himself easily and with a relaxed and open posture, apparently taking life all in stride and welcoming anyone to a conversation.

Almost entirely unconcerned with fashion, Frankie wears the most comfortable clothes he can get away with, usually loose-fitting grey sweat pants and a simple soft t-shirt of some kind, finally preferring simple slip-on shoes or sandals to round out his leisurely wardrobe. Unfortunately his work dictates that he must wear protective boots, so he invested in a pair of dishevelled steel toe capped boots that are practically falling apart. This is all coupled with the fact that Frankie doesn’t own very many clothes at all, maybe four or five outfits in total which he mixes and matches however he wants.
- Height & Weight: 5’11”, 159lbs.
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: The only things that betray his “comfort over style” mentality are blue plugs in his ears, and even those are simple and uncomplicated.
NAME: Francis Maddox

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower Class

OCCUPATION: Box Packer

AGE: 27

GENDER: Male

PERSONALITY:

Frankie is that guy who seems to get on with everyone - one of those guys who is nearly constantly wearing a smile, always beams at you when you meet as if it’s the first time he’s seen you in years and is always willing to have a chat and a catch-up. He is a sociable man, open to a conversation with practically anyone and determined to bring a smile to as many faces as he can. He is a good listener, and shows deep concern for his friends and coworkers if they are going through tough times, leading him to be a trusted shoulder to cry on, or a kind confidant to confide in.

Along with his kind, open demeanour Frankie is a very relaxed person, although this isn’t always a good thing when it comes to his work ethic. He’s not a terribly driven worker, preferring to talk with his colleagues and enjoy a chat, but it has it’s upsides - a sudden small issue or mishap won’t phase him and he will take it in stride, clearing it up as best he can before moving on and attempting to put it behind him. This could be considered dismissive, and Frankie suspects as much about himself, but this has also given his superiors the impression of a capable man who doesn’t let the pressures of working life get to him.

Not being particularly strong, tough or street smart, Frankie will try to avoid trouble as best he can, sometimes going out of his way to avoid a potential confrontation or argument. If he does find himself in the thick of it, he will attempt get out of trouble with his words and natural charisma, often successfully. Needless to say, this doesn’t always work and he’s suffered his share of altercations, both physical and verbal, but he’s managed to only be in a handful of fights in his life.

However, beneath all of his smiles and relaxed confidence, Frankie is a desperately frustrated young man. Worst of all, he’s not frustrated with the world, his job, his friends or family - Frankie is almost constantly frustrated with himself. He sees his fear of conflict and wishes he weren’t such a coward. He sees his relaxed attitudes to his work and wants to be more driven. For all that he helps his colleagues deal with their personal issues or cheers up his friends, he is very hard on himself for all of his perceived faults. His recent sleep episodes have only made this worse, and he blames himself for not being an upstanding citizen. He is very guarded with this side of himself though, and doesn’t want anyone to worry about him.

Outside of work, Frankie is often out with friends and colleagues seeing movies or going for food, sometimes going to bars - anything to stop him from being alone with his thoughts for too long. He tries his hardest to stay on the legal side of life, avoiding drugs, gambling and other such vices.

STRENGTHS:

+ Charismatic - Frankie has the gift of natural charisma, and as such can strike up friendly conversation with almost anyone very easily.

+ Relaxed - beyond a full-on confrontation, it takes a lot to vex Frankie, and he can solve problems or diffuse a tense situation easier thanks to his relaxed nature.

+ Practical - not one to complicate things, Frankie has developed a rather practical mindset that allows him to get things done quicker and easier.

FAULTS:

- Fear of Conflict - Frankie does not do well in open conflict, and will try to avoid a confrontation rather than engage in one at all costs.

- Weak - not being one to try too hard has meant Frankie is quite physically weak, and unused to physical stress beyond what his job demands.

- Self-Doubt - possibly his biggest weakness, Frankie suffers from incredible self-doubt and is very hard on himself for his shortcomings, often ignoring the good that he does for others. This has left him with very low self-esteem.

QUIRKS/HABITS:
For lower class citizens, Frankie’s parents did ok for themselves - they had their own flat all to themselves and both had jobs with fairly forgiving 14 hour shifts. Frankie’s brother Davis was born two years before Frankie, and the both of them grew up in the care of their loving parents who provided them with all that they could. They would save up for toys as the boys grew up, then books when they started school, then paper and pens, bags and the like. Mr and Mrs Maddox were all that two growing boys could ask for growing up west New Miami.

Davis excelled at school, and he forged his own path in large, decisive steps that ultimately left Frankie behind. While Davis was striving to learn all he could, Frankie was content with passing his grades with middling scores. As Davis engaged in extracurricular activities like sports and swimming, Frankie happily sketched in front of their small TV. And when Davis graduated and went into a job that put him tantalisingly close to escaping the Lower Class, Frankie accepted his position at The Warehouse as a Box Packer and has coasted by since. Every step his brother took made him question why he wasn’t also doing that well, why he wasn’t also making his parents proud. Each time a little more. His parents never loved him any less, which Frankie took as a kind of acceptance that he wasn’t going to be the kind of great man Davis was. He didn’t blame them - Davis was a glorious man on the verge of a better life, and he was a factory worker. The writing was pretty clearly on the wall there.

He did manage to move out of his parents’ flat into his own basement apartment beneath a large tower block, which remains one of his proudest achievements. It’s not a large place - it’s not really even an average-sized place - but it is his, and Frankie loves it as his own personal retreat from the world. Well, when he’s not wracked with self-doubt and berating himself for not being the better man he could be. For almost ten years he has worked the same job at The Warehouse, shirking any higher responsibility in favour of letting others take the better positions - they deserved it, after all. For all the praise his colleagues gave him and all the kind words they offered, he was just a lazy chatterbox. A layabout. He was sure he didn’t deserve that kind of success.

Frankie was at the cinema when he first fell asleep. He’d gone with some colleagues to see some new action film and before he knew it the explosions and fires on screen were suddenly all around him, engulfing him and countless nameless souls around him. He awoke with a start, jostled back to the waking world by a loud surge of music. Mercifully no one had noticed him doze off, but Frankie was shaken. At the end of the film he bid his coworkers a good night and head home, where he wracked his brain trying to understand what had happened, truly terrified for the first time in years.

After a few near misses with his sleep episodes, he managed to get it largely under control with regular coffees, trying to sleep only at home. He has stopped going out with his friends and colleagues quite as much to avoid inadvertently outing his secret, but he still spends time with them enough to avoid arousing suspicion, or so he hopes. As the sleep episodes got more frequent he blamed himself more and more, and his smooth tongue started to slip occasionally during the day. When the note came under his door, Frankie burned it. He didn’t need this. He didn’t want any part of it. No no no. Not at all.
Frankie slurped the last of his morning coffee before throwing the cup in the bin outside The Warehouse. He made his way to the gate and peered into the security booth.

“Hey Frankie!” called out a deep, raspy voice.

“Hey Al, how’s it going? How was your mom’s party?” Alan was a large man, more suited to his chair than anything else. Frankie watched as he took a large drag from a cigarette and his security uniform strained against his stomach, and Frankie wondered what Alan would do if there was a security incident while it was his shift. He didn’t say anything to that effect, heavens no, Alan was too nice a guy. A real family man. His mom had just turned 86.

“Aww you shoulda been there! It was a real classy thing, all proper plates and china. Anyway, y’all have a good day in there!” Al waved a security card over the scanner before him and the barrier slowly rose to attention.

“Will do. I hope you saved me some cake, right?” Frankie winked and made his way to The Warehouse proper, a gargantuan building of grey metal and harsh fluorescent lights. He followed his usual route to the packaging department, located surely on the other side of the building. Luckily it was only one floor up, so there weren’t many stairs to climb, not like those poor folks in management who had four or more to get up. Small miracles, Frankie supposed.

After his brisk walk Frankie made his way into the packaging department and picked up the itinerary for today. It looked like they would be boxing up some kind of electric toothbrush today, twenty to a box, standard long-ways packing. He wandered over to his table, waving at a few of the other folk that were also there early - Bernice, Clark, Estelle, the usual early bird crowd were here, and- hang on, was that Darrell? Frankie hadn’t seen Darrell since his accident. Glancing at the large clock to his left to make sure there was still time - there was, just - he sauntered over to where Darrell was already well into his packing. Just before he could call out to him, Frankie noticed Darrell’s right arm was covered in stitches and scars. There were a few on his neck too - just how bad was the crash? Frankie waved.

“Hey Darrell, good to see you man! You’re out of the hospital quick, buddy,” he said, a broad smile spreading across his face. In truth he’d been gone the better part of a month, but it was good help people feel better, especially if they’d been through something like this. Darrell looked up, a little startled, before smiling widely back and turning to offer his left hand to shake. At this he visibly winced - were there stitches across his chest too? Frankie didn’t falter one bit and took his hand in a gentle shake. He wanted to ask so many questions, as the rumour mill had been in full swing since Darrell crashed his moped into a bus stop a few miles down the road. All kinds of things had been said, and Frankie had listened, taking it all in and trying to downplay some of the more vicious tales - he didn’t want stuff like that to spread around about someone he worked with. Some said he’d been drunk after losing his flat, others said he’d just lost concentration for a second, after all that’s all it takes, just one second.

Some said he’d fallen asleep.

Frankie was disturbed by those rumours. Surely other people weren’t suddenly falling asleep like he was? That just wasn’t something that happened, it was a thing only seen on posters and those cheesy adverts they showed on children’s TV - “If you see someone who’s asleep, here’s some advice that you should keep. Don’t be slow, do not stray, report that sleeper right away!” What was happening to him was a fluke, a random thing that was probably of his own doing, wasn’t it? It had only been a week, but he’d suppressed the thought as best he could - Darrell wasn’t a sleeper. He was a good man. Seeing him here, now, gave Frankie a huge sense of relief - if he had been sleeping, he’d have been carted off down south with the rest of the Narcs and sleepers. No, he was here. Good. Darrell was a good man.

Not like me, Frankie thought.

APPROVAL NOTICE: Congratulations! You've been approved. Keep an eye out for a group PM indicating a start date, as well as plot details and starting points.

Penelope Burns · Apr 28, 2015

Lyn Jonas

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Most who know Lyn would always describe her as small. Lyn is unimposing, and in conversation she is capable of vanishing into the background with ease. Her quiet voice only adds to this, though unfortunately this culminates in an inability to control or even have a large role in any discussion between multiple people.

Lyn's most notable quality is her red hair, which is almost always put in a bun. Usually, if she isn't wearing either of her work uniforms, Lyn places a high value on keeping herself looking organized. If she is at work, her outfit is either some sort of casual wear under an apron and hairnet, or scrubs.
- Height & Weight: H: 5'4
  W: 132 lbs
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: None
NAME: Lynda Madeline Jonas

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: Warehouse Food Service / Underground Doctor

AGE: 24

GENDER: Female

PERSONALITY:

Lyn doesn't mind being small or out of the way. Lacking importance makes it much easier to get away with her many, many crimes - Officers hardly pay attention to the short girl drinking a latte when the six foot tall man is so much of a more obvious suspect.

More than anything Lyn loves to help people. From the poorest Grunt to the richest Suit, if someone is injured Lyn immediately rushes to their aid. When it comes to keeping other people safe Lyn will risk every bone in her body for anyone else.

All that said, Lyn is more than willing to blackmail or otherwise harm people to get her way. She knows that she is one of the rare doctors working for an extremely low price in the city, and she also knows that she is one of the far more sparse doctors who doesn't say a word when illegal actions are involved.

STRENGTHS:

+ Medical skills - Lyn has nearly a decade of medical experience, both from hands on training and dozens of medical textbooks given in trades.

+ Blackmail - Nearly everyone who dabbles in the underground knows not to touch doctors, and Lyn is no exception. Anyone who has gotten into an illegal fight, or was hurt in a drug deal gone bad, owes Lyn their life.

+ Quick Thinking - In any emergency Lyn tends to be the first to respond. She keeps a clear head when most panic, and she makes sure to do what she can to fix a situation.

FAULTS:

- Terrible Liar - Lyn doesn't often lie, and when she does it's extremely obvious that she's lying.

- Too Trusting - Lyn often lets people offer to pay at a later time, and usually it never ends with her being paid. In other situations she is willing to give people a little more information than they need, simply because they asked nicely.

- Partially Deaf - Though her right ear is able to hear excellently, her left ear is completely impossible to hear from.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

Former Smoker - From age fourteen to twenty-two Lyn smoked at least three cigarettes every day. The thoughts and addiction still nag at her, but overall she has overcome it.
Lynda Madeline Jonas is the only child of Warehouse employees Natalia and Wallace Jonas. Due to complications from the pregnancy, Natalia lost her life during childbirth. Wallace tried his best to feed and pay for Lynda's education, but eventually he worked himself to death trying to pay for everything.

The fifteen year old Lynda began working at the Warehouse in an effort to keep herself fed and clothed, deciding to work where her father worked as a food service employee. About a month after joining the Warehouse a major accident happened in the kitchens, permanently damaging Lynda's left ear.

During the accident, despite herself being badly hurt by the blast, Lynda forced herself to help those more hurt than her, doing everything she could to reduce people's pain and blood loss incurred during the explosion. After being hospitalized Lyn realized her fascination with medical work, but after asking around she realized legally becoming a doctor would be impossible. She was far too poor to afford the education needed to be officially recognized as a doctor.

So she resorted to finding the medical books herself, from less than legal places. She bought whatever she could from dropouts and graduates, but anything else she simply paid professionals to steal. It cost her every credit and dozens of favors, but by the time she was sixteen Lyn had everything needed to study to become a "doctor".

It took her four more years, but eventually Lyn gained enough experience to be seen as a fairly 'reputable' underground medical 'expert'. Her life had gained a bit of a pattern. During the day she worked at the Warehouse, and at night she worked as an on call doctor. Things were looking up for her, in a way.

Of course, then her patch stopped working. In the beginning, it was easy to hide. She had ways of keeping herself awake thanks to her many connections, but those rapidly became too expensive to afford. Even her favors dried up in an attempt to find more anti-sleep meds.

Things were starting to look hopeless...

And then she got the letter.
I have previously RPed with Elle.
None Yet!

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Elle Joyner · Apr 29, 2015

Finnegan Carver

"Even despite the bruises marring his face and a mop of unruly black hair, he was lovely. A tall, gangly thing, he wasn't the type to lend thoughts of coordination, but despite this, he moved like a dancer, with grace and fluidity, effortless in every way. His face wore a straight expression, but his lips, a perfect cupid bow curled up in the corners of their own volition, giving him a permanent smirk. It was easy to see why he was one of the Coliseum's most popular fighters, even if he'd never yet won a match..."

Click to expand...

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Finn is tall and narrow, but not entirely thin - his body mapped out in tight, lean muscle. He holds himself well, with a graceful posture, broad shoulders squared, back straight and even. His long limbs give him a gangly sort of look, ending in massive hands and feet.

His hair is a mess of lose black curls, cut short around his ears. With a slightly wide forehead, heavy brows give him a pensive appearance, hovering over pale blue eyes. His nose is crooked, broken many times and his lips, full and bowed curve upwards at the corners, dimples in each cheek lending him a youthful look.

Despite being a Grunt, he tends to dress well, wearing suits and ties - hand me downs from his father.

Height & Weight: 6'2", 215lbs.

Markings/Scars/Tattoos: He has several scars present here and there on his form. He also has a small tattoo, between his thumb and pointer finger, of an anchor
NAME:

Finnegan

'Finn' Carver

STATUS:

Grunt

CLASS:

Lower Class

OCCUPATION:

Warehouse stocker/Coliseum Fighter

AGE:

25

GENDER:

Male

PERSONALITY:

Despite his penchant for fighting, Finn is not a tough guy. He is, in fact, outside the arena quite charming - a disposition he utilizes for his benefit, though not at all nefariously. He is, simply put, someone who knows what he's got, who isn't afraid to use that to make his life a little easier.

In the arena, Finn is a scrappy fighter, not necessarily the strongest, but certainly quick on his feet and equally as intelligent. That said, he also has a knack for losing -- and not because he isn't capable, but because he's struck a deal with the Coliseum owner.

Still, despite being a bit of a con man, Finn is a decent guy. He won't make excuses for his actions, except to say he's just trying to get by, giving himself a chance to survive in a world that's otherwise forgotten about the little people.

On the whole, he's got a good heart and makes it a point to show consideration for others. He lives relatively clean, avoids trouble when he can and makes it a point to stay out of other folk's business. He doesn't feel one way or another about the status he's forced to live under, though working 17 hours is hardly a dream - but he does what he's told and respects the Law as much as a con man can.

STRENGTHS:

+ Quick: On his feet and mentally.

+ Charming: He is, without fail, a man with a thousand watt smile designed for making other's swoon and he knows it...

+ Confident: There's a reason they call them Confidence Men... and Finn is no exception.

FAULTS:

- Caught up: Even if he wanted to, Finn couldn't leave the Coliseum... not with the deal he struck so many years back.

- Impulsive: He lives in the moment and not a second beyond... which means he doesn't always think about the consequences, first.

- Closed-off: However charming he might be, inwardly, Finn is a closed book. He doesn't talk about his past...not to anyone.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

Finn has a very specific ritual he performs before fighting, which he has never missed.
History

THEME:

Red Jumpsuit Apparatus - False Pretense

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The start of Finnegan's life was hardly controversial. His parents married young and Finn was a product of their Honeymoon. By his tenth birthday, Finn recognized in himself an intelligence belying his youth. By eleven he knew how to pick pockets and con a man out of his own necktie... by fifteen he was running illegal Crap games in the basement of his apartment complex.

When he was sixteen, Finn made the mistake of conning the wrong man and getting caught in the middle. Darius Clink was a dangerous figure in the New Miami underground - running all number of illegal businesses, with a reputation for taking little flack from anyone. Finn, at gunpoint, was given an ultimatum -- a bullet for breakfast, or paying Darius back by coming to work for him.

With little other choice, he agreed to join Darius's crew. In what little spare time he had, he began as a fencer, selling stolen items for more than they were worth... But over time, impressed with Finn's drive, Darius began tutoring him, personally. Eventually, under Darius's mentorship, Finn entered into the fighting ring.

He wasn't good... he was great at taking a dive, and over time, despite almost never winning a match, he became something of a commodity in the Coliseum. But despite all of that, and even despite what he considered a kinship with Darius, Finn continued to bide his time until he was free again... Something which became a necessity, when his Nudge Patch started to malfunction...

Mordecai · Apr 29, 2015

WILLAM "CHAI" VAN DER HOLT

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Of average height and muscular build, Chai inherited his dust-coloured skin from the long line of Brasilians that came before him. There is something quite handsome in the tanned skin, Root Beer coloured eyes wrapped in thick black eyelashes, and strong jaw covered with a smear of five o’ clock shadow. He has a mess of shoulder-length, black hair that falls in a tangle of curls. It’s usually too unruly to make stylish or slick back, but he tends to keep it out of his face with a hair clip or ponytail of some form or another. People, primarily his mother, have tried to convince him to cut it all off in favour of a more sophisticated cut, but he thinks it gives him a rather “dashing” and “exotic” look and refuses to chop it off. He has a round face with strong bone structure, a roman nose, and unnaturally puffy lips for his gender (boy, did his brother tease him for his pouters growing up). Though his face looks quite serious when resting, mostly due to his thick eyebrows that naturally settle into a concerned scowl, anyone who knows him will tell you that he is usually quite bright in the face, smiling his slightly crooked, but charming, white smile.

He has broad shoulders with a neck that is probably a touch too short aesthetically, though his unnaturally long arms make up for it. With a strong chest and a lean waistline, Chai has a belt of muscle across his center, which has come from years of hard labor. His hands and arms know the work well, as they’re flecked with small white scars from sparks and hot metals; his fingers are a bit gnarled and twisted from being broken so many times in the line of duty. He’s more legs than torso though, and most of his height from the lankiness of his legs, luckily, wearing clothes helps balance him out so he looks proportionate. Despite his rather rough-around-the-edges appearance, few find his rough and tumble appearance to be all that threatening. His choice of attire only seems to amplify his gregariousness, as he is usually found in jeans and hoodies, nothing overly formal, but nothing that comes off looking bum-like, either. He finds himself to be quite handsome in the colour grey, and wears it frequently, though he occasionally dons blues, greens, and other Earth tones. He doesn’t wear logo'd shirts or bright colours, as he feels they detach attention from his face. Gloves and welders goggles are pretty common accessories for him.

His Converse are always black and his socks never match.
- Height & Weight: 1.75m (5'9") and 83.9 kgs (185lbs)
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: Chai has numerous small, fleshy scars along his hands and forearms from welding, as well as a tattoo of a black and white stylised leopard across his left ribcage he got during an eighteen-year-old drunken decision.
NAME: Willam "Chai" van der Holt

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower class

OCCUPATION: Welder

AGE: 28

GENDER: Male
PERSONALITY: Among Medieval astrologers, Aires were thought to be the assertive, pioneering, enthusiastic, adventurous, and humorous souls who enjoyed fast-paced and passionate lives. They were mentioned to be headstrong, air-headed, competitive, and impulsive with bold go-forward attitudes and abrupt, sharp senses of humour. If this were said to be truth, Chai is a fine example of an Aires. He’s a little on the melodramatic side, can be a diva when he wants to be, and can throw a tantrum worse than a toddler if things don’t go his way. He lives in a small studio apartment, works a dead-end job, and has little in the way of a future, but even from a young age, Chai always knew he was special—regardless of people frowned on his “delusions.” He’s mildly neurotic and will sometimes have trouble separating reality from his daydreams, which leads him to often believe that there are mysterious and evil forces constantly aligning against him. He’s a bit paranoid about the big picture of things, and will often mutter his crazy conspiracy theories below his breath, though he keeps his crazy pretty well hidden from others and comes off as charming and gregarious in the presence of others.

As people go, he’s a bit unusual, but in a quirky and sweet sort of way: the type to religiously follow his horoscope and put two nickels in his left pocket to “even out his atmosphere.” His sense of humour is both eccentric and off-colour, but he has such a mellifluous smile that he can get away with just about anything with a few innocent bats of his eyelashes. Chai oozes a guiltless, refined charm that compensates for his low intellectual capacity. He’s not very smart, in book nor street sense, though he always knows how to make friends no matter the situation he’s dumped in. Just because he is only supposed to stay in a very small part of the Warehouse, doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy exploring the vast buildings. His social butterfly mentality and his eagerness (and willingness) to go up and meet people has allowed him to be familiar with many faces around the job-site. While quite social during work hours, Chai is a strange man, and once work is done, he quickly retreats to the quiet seclusion of his studio. There, he’s a painter. A novelist, a poet, a sketch artist, a storyteller and, when the mood takes him, a minstrel and player of some passing skill. He has no interest in gambling, surfing the internet, or drinking, but frequently smokes.

Chai has very specific speech patterns and vernacular, and is intentionally cheesy. He’ll use ‘groovy’ or ‘funky’ because he thinks it’s funny, though other people rarely do. He’s not very eloquent, and he trips over his own words all the time because he tries to speak too quickly, but he never seems to get tongue tied when cracking a joke or flirting with a pretty girl. He's suave in the company of someone he admires, but is otherwise fidgety and will never sit down on chairs. Chairs are boring; radiators, tables, and piles of books aren't. It's no wonder his flat is so cluttered with things -- if it wasn't cluttered with piles of things, he'd never have a place to sit down.

He loves easily, but not recklessly and Ernest Hemingway is the love of his life.
STRENGTHS:
- Artsy Fartsy - Chai is just one of those gifted artists. You know the one-- the one who never has to practice to whip out a professional quality piece of art in any medium imaginable. He has tried them all... from oil paint to saxophone to stitching to origami.
- Persistence - Though some might claim Chai is persistent to a fault, his belief in himself and in his capabilities never falters. He will always finish what he starts, in spite of obstacles.
- Magnetic personality - Chai is quite witty and charming with an innocent sense of humour. He likes to laugh and tease, so long as people don't turn the jokes on him. People seem naturally drawn to him.
FAULTS:
- Unhinged - There is no pill for his situation, sweetypop. While he may not have wild hallucinations, Chai is moderately unhinged in so much that he has very delusional beliefs about himself and what is going on around him.
- Immature - Chai is a grown man that often acts like a child. He can be incredibly distracted at times and emotionally underdeveloped for someone of his age.
- Overly sensitive - Not the type to wear insults on the chin, Chai is very sensitive to the words of others and even the smallest jibe uttered about him can shake his psyche to its core.
- Gullible - What do you mean "gullible" is written on the ceiling? I don't see it.
QUIRKS/HABITS:
- Chai will sometimes keep two nickles in his left pocket. It evens out his atmosphere and keeps him balanced, you know?
- Ernest Hemingway is the love of his life. Some might say his obsession with the passed writer is borderline obsessive, but it's exactly what he needs after a long day's work: a cuppa coffee and some good ol' Hemy literature.
Chai has always had a good memory for things that happened in the past, especially those memories tied with strong emotions like the time his brother fell of his bike and hurt his chin. His brother, after turning to the hospital with a chin patched in skin adhesive, had explained the then seven-year-old Chai that his brain had fallen out and they had put it in the wrong way and now his brain was in his neck. It took three years until Chai figured out that his brother’s brain wasn’t actually in his neck, but that’s the type of relationship the family had and he remembers it vividly. As a third generation Brasilian born and raised in Miami’s West side, Chai had an absolutely fairy-tale childhood that involved lots of loving family members crammed into a small, two bedroom duplex and silly, fun memories. There were lots of things he remembered, even from a young age, but ask any van der Holt how Chai got the nickname Chai and no one seems to remember—not even Chai himself.

Growing up in the slums of Miami, where homes were modest and a bit run down, Willam van der Holt, better known as Chai, couldn’t have asked for a better youth. The van der Holts was composed of a funny breed of people and the entire family lived within a kilometer or each other to expose the next generation of van der Holts the value of being close to a large family. Aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and grandparents all lived closed and visited frequently (sometimes too frequently) and would frequently have large get-togethers and feasts when their grunt schedules allowed. The youngest couple of the family, Rafael and Deborah, were blessed in the month of January with their first baby—a bouncy, blue-eyed boy named Joao. Two years later came Willam, their second and final child. Joao and Chai were quick friends, and even quicker enemies. When his older brother like a Barbie doll wasn’t toting around Chai, they were usually found bickering and fighting over toys. The two boys went to school, though when they weren’t in school, they could be found fishing with their grandpa, wrestling with their older cousins, being given a makeover by their older nieces, or knitting with their aunt. Even from a young age, he could remember all the skills he had learned from his family members (after all, every eligible bachelor should know a good cross-stitch).

Little happened to Chai as he grew up aside from his Aunt Madia’s cat having kittens, his nephew Roy passing away in a tragic accident, and his older brother falling off a bike and getting his brain put in the wrong way, or so Chai thought. He was raised a proper family man with all the manners, courtesies, and etiquette of a gentleman, but there was something notably wrong with Chai. By age thirteen, a young adult, his parents began to notice strange behaviour in Chai. He had always been a whimsical child, but he had grown perhaps a touch too whimsical—often getting so deeply involved in his imaginary fantasies that he sometimes couldn’t tell reality from fiction. Desperate to pull their son from the tailspin he was in, but too poor to afford proper medical treatment, Chai’s parents mustered enough credits to buy him a small paint set and easel, hoping that expressing his immense creativity in art would allow him to quench his psychosis.

What his parents hadn’t been expecting was to discover a little artist in their son. He took to painting like a fish to water, creating beautiful pieces of wild fantasy. Painting helped for a while, and Chai went on to survive a relatively normal childhood, or, at least his parents believed so. Chai still went on to believe he was special—that he was a superhero—but he learned quickly to keep those thoughts to himself.

At seventeen, after taking some classes at the community college for pipe-fitting, Chai was hired as a welder for the Warehouse, where he his job was to keep the building in functioning order. He was employed to do a little bit of everything: replacing burnt out light bulbs, tightening leaky sinks, and welding together metal boxes to be used for the storage wing. His delusions of greatness continued, though he kept them to himself and continued to paint himself in epic battle scenes against what he believed was true evil. Desiring to keep his family safe from this ‘true evil,’ Chai took it upon himself to move out of his family’s duplex and rent a small studio apartment closer to the Warehouse.

Nearly ten years passed for Chai before the destiny he knew he had been born for all along occurred… not in the epic form he had hoped for, but in a more subtle way—he fell asleep. At first, he didn’t see it as the sign it was, but deemed it a faulty Nudge patch. Too blasé to care, figuring a few cups of coffee and a pack of smokes would solve the problem and he’d keep the moment of weakness as his own little secret. But the sleep continued. Nineteen hour shift after nineteen hour shift, Chai found himself going to home to his flat and crashing for hours at a time, plagued with nightmares.

Scared what this might mean for him, Chai did his best to hide what had been happening to him. He severed most of the ties with his family and began keeping his head down at work, trying to avoid contact with others in fear they may discover his secret.

Then… it came. A single letter addressed to one Willam van der Holt with no return address. Inside was the letter. The letter that confirmed everything Chai already knew about himself.

He wouldn’t fear the dreams because he was a superhero.
"Mother's Whistler" - Moondog

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APPROVAL NOTICE: Congratulations! You've been approved. Keep an eye out for a group PM indicating a start date, as well as plot details and starting points.

LunaTwilight · Apr 30, 2015

Rebecca “Frizz” Clement

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Frizz’s short stature has always held a pear shape body type. With a wide bone structure despite her short frame, her waist gradually slopes out into her hips; leaving much to be wanted in the world of womanly curves. Instead, Frizz has an oval face that can give a cherub a run for their money. Thin lips and a freckled button nose only accentuate her larger than average hazel doe eyes; complete with the thick lashes she’s learned to bat with a pout when needed. Thankfully the childlike features come to an end with her only dimple not being on her cheek, but instead her chin.

Acting as a homing beacon for anyone searching for Frizz, unruly red hair adds at least a couple more inches to her height. Long ago has she given up trying to tame the orange beast, and instead lets the mass of frizz do as it pleases; keeping it at a manageable length past her shoulders when dry, though when wet it could reach down to her non noticeable dary-aire.

With no muscle or curves to work with, Frizz keeps her fashion to three key words. Simple, cheap, and manageable. She is always looking for a way to save a few bucks; most of her clothes have been patched or completely altered more times than she cares to count. Often times Frizz will raid her roommate’s closet for pieces she use to liven up her casual jeans and skirts. It’s amazing how one of Ada’s mesh shirts or ripped pants can look respectable with a simple vest.
- Height & Weight: 5’ 2” & 123 lbs.
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: Red prick marks cover her thighs in an attempt to stay alert.
NAME: Rebecca “Frizz” Clement

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: Warehouse Telemarketer / Café and Club Waitress

AGE: 23

GENDER: Female

PERSONALITY:

Hard honest work brings forth a clean honest life. Or at least that’s what was preached to Frizz all through her childhood. Despite her misgivings, the plucky young woman still wants to strive for this type of life. Daily she will put in her short 13 hour work shift at the warehouse, and then shoot between one waitressing job after the other. All in hopes of someday landing a job outside of the Warehouse and lower class.

When around co-workers and customers, she tries to absorb as much of the personality off of others as she can. Frizz constantly mirrors the atmosphere that is around her in order to succeed in her ever-changing job shifts. From a bashful young lady to an outlandish server, whatever face will keep the customers happy; she will “fake it till she makes it”. It’s only when she finally gets to go home does Frizz stop playing actress. She is a natural worrier when she gives herself time to think; constantly trying to make ends meet and keep those she care for safe and healthy. Namely her roommate Ada Walker.

Frizz’s true self shines in the care and trust she places in Ada. She would do anything to protect the young woman who took her under her crazy wild wings as a teenager. The two strove to build the home they now have, and Frizz would do anything to see Ada have an easier life than they were born into. Through much time and effort, she has tried showing her roommate that you don’t have to screw the world to get ahead.

STRENGTHS:

+Mimicry: Frizz has become talented over the years in blending into different crowds by just following the general idea and mood of others.

+ Steadfast: Her beliefs will not be changed easily, and her word is not something to be trifled with.

+ Money Savvy: When you have a gambler as a roommate, you learn how to pinch some pennies to make ends meet.

FAULTS:

-Anxiety: She is constantly worrying about one thing or another. Whether it be having enough credits or the fear that she received a weak Nudge Patch.

-Blunt: Sometimes the girl is too honest for her own good. Even if she is aware that subjects need to be treaded lightly, chances are she is not going to choose the most graceful words to express her opinion.

-Absent-minded: Lately, she hasn’t been as alert as she should be. It’s becoming more difficult to remember the most mundane of things.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

Frizz is terrified of the thought that the Nudge Patches might not be working, or that something is wrong with her. She couldn’t possible bring any illegal drugs into her home, not after talking her roommate into cleaning up her act… To keep from closing her eyes longer than deemed appropriate, and to stay more focused, she’s been pricking her thighs with a safety pin she keeps pinned underneath her shirt.
All Frizz really knows of her biological family is that her mother simply didn't come back from the Warehouse, and she was mostly taken care of by her teenage siblings until she was a toddler. Or at least that’s what she was always told by their neighbors. Frizz and her three siblings were taken in by an elderly woman named Tasha who lived in the apartment complex the family lived in. Children and teens alike cycled through Tasha’s home almost on a weekly basis.

Most of her childhood was spent listening to Tasha preach the importance of being an exemplary citizen to New Miami. The dangers of Narcs and the importance of hard work was the all the woman ever talked about; and she expected nothing less from any child that lived with her. All teenagers were to work at least 10 hour shifts. If any drug outside of a Nudge Patch was found in a room, all occupants were thrown out. Any sign of a resistance to their monthly patches was to be immediately reported and looked into. And Tasha’s most iron clad law, “You lie, you leave.”

It was no wonder so many children left; but even after Frizz’s siblings abandoned her for the freedom of the streets, she stayed and hung on every word the old woman had to offer. Yet listening did nothing to prepare her for life outside the cramped apartment.

At the age of 12, Frizz found herself thrown out on the streets when Tasha succumbed to her age and all the children still under her care were evicted immediately. For weeks she scavenged best she could, trying to find her siblings who were long lost to the fighting arenas and mass of drug addicts found in the city. Hungry and alone, Frizz was at a loss on how to even survive the night when down the alley comes this wise ass kid name Ada Walker.

The two girls found in each other what they their self was lacking. What Frizz lacked in survival skills, she made up for by actively, and loudly, playing the part of the moral compass for the duo. She never forgot what Tasha taught her as a child, and she wanted to make the woman proud.

Eventually the two girls grew from local street urchins, to working class grunts and proud owners of their very own apartment. Frizz adapted quickly to customer service, and she started any available shift she could find at either the Warehouse or out in the city. But things were not all sunshine and roses.

Frizz always knew Ada was a wild child, but she always held hope it was an experimental phase that her friend would grow out of. Over the years, she kept telling herself this same excuse; constantly covering for Ada as her apparent addiction to amphetamines became worse. Then she just couldn’t lie to herself anymore. So she begged and pleaded with Ada from every angle she could think of to stop her roommate from using anymore. And miraculously, it worked.

But Frizz’s fears are only beginning. She always thought it was the anxiety over Ada that has been taking the edge off her caffeine intake; but still her focus is fading. Just recently she has caught herself closing her eyes and losing moments of time, something that has never happened before. And frankly; she’s terrified.
“Thirteen. That’s the most this week.” Frizz mumbled as she recounted the ruby speckles splayed across her pale legs. Why was she having such a hard time focusing today? The Café had been a cinch this morning, especially with its steady stream of customers coming in for their shots of espresso to kick start their work shifts. But the Warehouse had been agonizing.

Early on in her shift, the lines for the telemarketing division had went dead temporarily. An easy fix apparently; but not a quick one. Frizz had to spend hours listening to the monotone monologue of Becky’s love life; and it was taking everything in her not to shove the woman down the stairs and end both of their misery for the afternoon. Yet somehow she didn’t think that would be considered an appropriate response in the office, no matter how tantalizing an idea. It wasn’t until Becky was on her third tirade against men did the ‘fog’ return.

That was the best way she could describe the sensation that fell over her in times like this. Words and thoughts started getting muddled together, but not in the way that things run together when the doctor slaps that fresh Narc Patch on each month. This was something different. Something slower and heavier. And whatever it was, Frizz was terrified of it. With as little movement possible she unhooked the safety pin she had started carrying after her first scare with this muted awareness. Then even more discretly she used just enough pressure to prick her skin and snap her nerves to attention.

And it took thirteen times today to stay alert.

Frizz dug one hand into her hair before slumping over onto the floor. Gazing through the curtain of orange hair puffed up around her, she stared at the dust motes settling onto the wooden floor boards beneath her. If she closed her eyes. If she let the fog win. Would she lose consciousness? Would she sleep?

“That’s ridiculous.”

Sitting up off the floor and grabbing her skirt, Frizz stumbled across the room as she slipped back on her skirt. There were more important things to worry about. Problems that existed in the real world and not some paranoid, overworked mind.

APPROVAL NOTICE: Congratulations! You've been approved. Keep an eye out for a group PM indicating a start date, as well as plot details and starting points.

OTHER NOTES: Just so you're clear - if her mother was a Narc, she WILL be a Narc. It's 99% genetic. Also - It's Nudge Patch

Otherwise, looks great

AkuTheWolfOkami · Apr 30, 2015

Yong-Guk "Jordan" Park

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Park, well he isn't the largest of fellows you'd meet, landing in a bit on the slim side. This is mainly due to his height, considering that he is hovering around 186cm. Despite this sliimer stature, his muscles are a little on the toned side.

His dark brown hair loves to live under the guise of jet black, and it is usually worn neatly in a bowl cut type fashion. In good light, it is very clear that by the brownish/red tint, the true color of his hair color that continues to decide to imitate black.

He tends to dress well, though his choice in clothes and demeanor would normally suggest someone with a lack of care in their taste. Not farfetched to be see n in a suit, he generally wears button up shirts, slacks or jeans.

Height & Weight: 6'0", 180lbs.

Markings/Scars/Tattoos: A few small scars over his body, and a picture of a howling wolf on his back.
Birth Name:

Park Yong-Guk

Alias/Preferred Name:

Jordan Park

STATUS:

Grunt

CLASS:

Lower Class

OCCUPATION:

Machine Inspection

Maintenance

AGE:

23

GENDER:

Male

PERSONALITY:

Jordan is an odd man if anything could describe. Perhaps better yet, a walking paradox. He isn't intimidating body wise by any stretch of the imagination, but his glare seems to send threats running away from him. A smile rarely visits his face, and when it is, it's a very temporary visit. More like housesitting a couple days while his straight face takes a 2 moment vacation.

Which is extremely odd considering his affinity to be around people. He purposely puts himself in social settings, often visiting bars or other social arenas. Despite having a good time, he doesn't tend to speak to many around him or make them laugh, though he does have a couple of mates that he seems like an en entirely different person around.

He's always been stubborn, direct, blunt, and sometimes (well often) lacks tact or empathy. He does have a bit a conscious about it, evident in the times where he's said or done things, and then turned around and did something nice for that person.

Besides the bar, in his free time he spends a lot of his time looking for room to practice Hapkido. It had been handed down through his family for generations, though he's found trouble finding time or space, to practice. When he can't for that day, he prefers to watch something action on television.

Because of the nature of hapkido, when he finds himself in a confrontation, he makes sure to quickly dispatch of the offender in the least harmful way.

At work, he tends to keep to himself, do his job, and do it well so that there aren't any complications. Mysteries are his favorite thing to solve, and figuring out an issue in the workplace, especially with machinery is about the only thing that gives him joy.

STRENGTHS:

+ Observant: He pays very close attention to detail, particularly to his surroundings.

+ Tough: There's not much that can intimidate him, or keep him down.

+ Deductive: He has a keen skill of deductive reasoning, allowing him to put pieces together and find answers.

FAULTS:

- Stubborn: Tends to not move from a stand, even if there is clear evidence against his stand.

- Self-Righteous: Has a habit of thinking he's right, even though he's been proven he can be wrong.

- tactless: Tends to lack the tact needed to handle situations, and often comes off rude and heartless.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

Has a habit of his eye twitching when he doesn't like something, raising the corner of his mouth quickly, or sucking in air between his teeth.
History

THEME:

Rihanna- FourFiveSeconds

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Jordan was born to a family who had a very interesting past. They had been here for generations and generations, but did their best to keep to their native customs. The family had once been known for their Wealth and commercial success, and then their criminal workings, and then their family became just another name.

Jordan's father tried to keep with the family custom of sticking to their culture, but Jordan was resistant. The only thing he seemed to take was hapkido,even going on and taking on an Alias,and not eating the dishes they cooked. Perhaps being lower class had it's affect on him.

When he had finally got on his own, after he'd get off work he'd spend some of his time practicing is Hapkido in illegal street fights. Other times, he'd follow people around doing his best to not get caught, as if he was practicing sneaking around purposely. It was merely for fun, but eventually he became good at it.

At work, he started as a normal laborer, before a foreman took notice of his ability to deduce issues in the workplace, specifically (but not limited to) the Machinery. He was offered a different position, a new position that fit his abilities more. With this job came a slight increase of pay, but a couple extra hours a shift to handle a heavier load of work.

On one of his ventures into the illegal fight scene, distracted by the anxiety of his new found position, he caught a fist to the head and was knocked out cold. During this stint of unconsciousness, he began to dream, something he had never done before.

When he came to, he found himself in an alley way, a little bit before he had to get to work. He made it into work, and the day went along rather normal until he got towards the 10 hour mark. He began struggling to stay awake, but managed to do so until the end of his shift.

He figured being knocked out must have triggered this, and went out his way to find ways to stay awake since the Nudge Patch was failing him now. It took forms from everything to syringes, pills, iv drips, but they all eventually failed.

He met a wealthy man one night after a fight, and after a short discussion, promised Jordan a sure fire remedy if he could win a fight in the Coliseum over a month a way. With no other options, Jordan agreed to it.

APPROVAL NOTICE: Congratulations! You've been approved. Keep an eye out for a group PM indicating a start date, as well as plot details and starting points.

Uncultured · May 1, 2015

Kenan Gregor

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Kenan is an average man with an average build, average features and average style. Where the average ends and where the higher than average begins is the membrane lining his eyes, for his eyes, sharp and cold, stand out from the idle mesh of features that contour his face and body. His eyes are as sharp as his intellect and they seemingly pierce into whatever they view, giving an unnerving vibe to those around him.

In regards to his day to day wear, Kenan wears expensive finery suited for the business world. His clothing is neutral in colors, blacks and grays contrast with white and only on rare occasions will color infiltrate his fashion. His clothing, while plain in color, is hardly plain in price or origin. His ties are knitted tight in silks and fine cottons and his suits are hand made and delivered from far off markets, his glasses are rimmed with gold leaf and his shoes are made of the finest leathers, tanned and knit by hand. He is a man of fine fashion and fine tastes and this is reflected in his day to day.

The only times he deviates from his normal attire is during raids on suspected narcs. During raids he opts to wear a bulletproof vest without his blazer on. An odd contrast to say the least considering that his tie is tucked underneath his Kevlar.
- 5'11", 182 Pounds:
- None:
NAME: Kenan Gregor

STATUS: Officer of the law, works with both the dream police and homicide.

CLASS: Upper

OCCUPATION: Law officer

AGE: 34

GENDER: Male

PERSONALITY: Kenan is a harsh person with little to no remorse within his soul. He cares little for the plights of others and shows a callous disregard for the lives of those who he views as lawbreakers. This however, comes from a place of respect for the law and he views breakers of law as almost sacrilegious in nature. He has a vast superiority complex and a large ego, believing that he is far better than others, even those in his own profession. Kenan is a calculating person who thinks through every possible outcome before taking action and he is a meticulous planner and master manipulator.

In terms of sociability he prefers to deal with people on a business only level, preferring that style of interaction to the sort that two friends would enjoy. He is a calculating regarding relationships and will only have one if it is beneficial to him on some level. If he sees no direct gain from a person he will cut them off without any hesitation.

He is a man of studies and scholarly pursuits and dedicates much of his time to reading, learning and staying up to date with current events. He views people who fail to embark on similar pursuits as simpletons and idiots. He devotes little to no time doing classically enjoyable things and the only reason he will ever venture into something as pointless as a club is if it's work related.

While he should suffer from depression and lonesomeness, he doesn't. He's content to be a cold ruthless tool for government oppression and has no negative thoughts regarding the insane nature of his job. He also has little to no negative feelings regarding the fact that he has no real friends (only business relationships) and no serious romantic relationships. He may or may not suffer from a slight level of autism and/or borderline personality disorder.

STRENGTHS:

+Very smart/Astute observer

+Good marksman

+Access to police resources/equipment

FAULTS:

-No conscience

-Overconfident

-Works for the government, as such he has limited freedoms and is on thin ice regarding what he can and can't do.

QUIRKS/HABITS:
Kenan was born into a family of wealth and relative prestige. His father, a corporate lawyer, desired his son to follow in his footsteps as a practitioner of law. Kenan however, had different ideas. He decided that it was in his best interest to work for a private security force that guarded high level installations and safeguarded banks/armored money transfers. The job wasn't spectacular and his family disproved but it payed off in the long run as his experience in security, contracting and arms training gave him a leg up when applying for the police academy. Using his experience and his families notoriety, he was accepted within days of applying and soon after the acceptance he resigned from the company he had been working for, entering the academy almost immediately afterwards. His drive and his intelligence in both classes and PT soon payed off and after a few months in the academy he was accepted into the police force.

For several years he toiled in the lower ranks, patrolling streets and knocking over small time drug dealers, but soon he hit his break by making the right connections and kissing the right asses. After making Sgt. he continued his career trajectory and within another few years, after the "untimely" death of his superior, he was brought into the officer ranks as a LT to replace his murdered superior.

Soon after reaching Lt. he transferred to the dream police as a result of a vacancy within the dream police force. As an officer with the dream police he has accrued a reputation for being an excellent field officer and he has accompanied and still does accompany his men into the field on many occasions while also pursuing his own cases during his down time.

As far as his personal life has gone he has never been married and rarely has time for relationships. His life, outside of work that is, is very boring actually. Aside from oppressing sleepers his life has very little substance to it which is why he spends so much time working.

REVISION NOTICE: I have reviewed your CS and the following needs to be revised before approval can be met

Need you to PM me for these particular characters, so I can give you the info on how they work - Also, New Miami has no military.

Atom · May 2, 2015

Isaac and Adelaide Weston

"Good men may not always do well...but they always mean well..."

- Isaac Weston
- Adelaide Weston
- <p><a href="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_05/john-lynch-02.jpg.08d49793935249fa215f6673cbb9af56.jpg" class="ipsAttachLink ipsAttachLink_image"><img data-fileid="51067" src="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_05/john-lynch-02.jpg.08d49793935249fa215f6673cbb9af56.jpg" class="ipsImage ipsImage_thumbnailed" alt=""></a></p>
  
  WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
  
  Tall and daunting, Isaac Weston always was tall for his age, towering over many of his peers. His frame was skinny but not too skinny,
  
  naturally well-muscled. He didn't need to put much work into cultivating his muscles to good condition. A necessary step given what
  
  his career field had been. His hair naturally grew out long and wavy, and for a while he kept it short and trimmed. A style befitting
  
  of a man of his status.
  
  But after his wife died Isaac steadily declined. His hair lengthened, and he began growing a beard. His body became even skinnier from
  
  eating little. And his face constantly bore the expression of grief. Isaac, a man who had once been considered handsome and well off,
  
  declined into a gaunt and grief stricken man.
  - Height & Weight: 6'1" and 178#
  - Markings/Scars/Tattoos: None other than minor electrical burn scars along his arms fom working on machinery.
- <p><a href="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_05/f406760c8dd9fe8133f388e2467df2f0.jpg.086b35a4ec9cfbae9fd2bbead59a5791.jpg" class="ipsAttachLink ipsAttachLink_image"><img data-fileid="51068" src="<fileStore.core_Attachment>/monthly_2015_05/f406760c8dd9fe8133f388e2467df2f0.jpg.086b35a4ec9cfbae9fd2bbead59a5791.jpg" class="ipsImage ipsImage_thumbnailed" alt=""></a></p>
  
  WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
  Adelaide, like her mother, was always small for her age. Her peers grew around her while she did not. Like her mother she'd inherited
  
  long red curly hair. Her eyes were a bright piercing blue, and her skin was pale and freckled. Adelaide was as beautiful as her mother
  
  as she grew up.
  
  Even after the accident, when Adelaide had to drop out and begin working and began looking haggard and worn, her face dirty and her
  
  hair dulled by smoke she was still beautiful. A trait her mother had managed to pass on. Adelaide had a slim frame that many would
  
  perceive as dull. It was no exaggeration to say that a majority of her beauty rested in her face rather than her body. And with
  
  working in the Warehouse Adelaide welcomed this fact, avoiding the attentions of many of the cruder men who worked there as well.
  - Height & Weight: 5'5" and 134#
  - Markings/Scars/Tattoos: Her pale skin is lightly freckled.
- Isaac Weston
- Adelaide Weston
- NAME: Isaac Nathaniel Weston
  
  STATUS: Grunt
  
  CLASS: Lower
  
  OCCUPATION: Unemployed
  
  AGE: 38
  
  GENDER: Male
  
  PERSONALITY: Isaac was interested in engineering at a young age. His childhood was spent taking apart anything he could get his
  
  hands on. Although at such a young age he was unable to put anything back together he still persisted. As he got older this habit only
  
  grew, but he soon learned how to put things back together. And with that came a practice knowledge on the workings of many small
  
  items.
  
  As he matured this interest only manifested itself stronger. He moved on to bigger, more complicated things. And eventually his
  
  interest brought him a unique opportunity to expand his skills into the field of engineering. Isaac soon entered schooling for
  
  engineering, a costly course that was luckily funded by another for him. And to this day Isaac does not regret the choice.
  
  Isaac's decision eventually brought him into contact with Seraphine. A beautiful and fierce woman who's face he couldn't forget as
  
  soon as he'd seen it. Isaac pursued her reverently but respectfully, never remaining near her when he was not wanted. He knew not to
  
  be too pushy and respectfully waited until she made the first move before their relationship finally became a thing. Isaac's months of
  
  chasing after her finally paid off, not only with him finally getting her, but with a child as well.
  
  Isaac was taken by surprise by the news, but he rejoiced with it. He was to have a daughter. Isaac raised Adelaide as well as he could
  
  manage, paying her every bit of attention he could throughout her life and showing her the support she needed to grow. Until it
  
  happened. When Seraphine died Isaac retreated into himself, giving into his grief. Isaac soon became nothing but a husk of a man,
  
  gaunt and unkempt. He shut the world out and retreated to the depths of his mind, to the memories he cherished so selfishly, hiding
  
  behind them from the self-blame he paid himself for her death.
  
  STRENGTHS:
  
  +Life Experience
  
  +Willing to do anything to protect his daughter
  
  +Engineering
  
  FAULTS:
  
  -Gaunt, weakened, out of shape, suffering from mild malnutrition
  
  -Stricken by grief
  
  -Loner, closed off, unwelcoming to anyone but his daughter
  
  QUIRKS/HABITS: Isaac used to enjoy taking random things apart and putting them back together. But that was a long time ago, in
  
  easier times.
- NAME: Adelaide Seraphine Weston
  
  STATUS: Grunt
  
  CLASS: Lower
  
  OCCUPATION: Lower floors of the warehouse as a packager.
  
  AGE: 18
  
  GENDER: Female
  
  PERSONALITY
  
  Adelaide is quiet, usually. She prefers to listen and observe. The exact opposite of her mother. Seraphine always was loudly
  
  outspoken. She always felt a need to share her ideas and her thoughts with those around her. Adelaide is the exact opposite in this
  
  sense. She prefers to remain quiet in certain situations, taking into account all the details, before ever sharing her thoughts. Even
  
  when she does finally speak her voice is rather quiet, and it is no surprise that she is unheard sometimes.
  
  Adelaide's mother was fierce. Independent, and blunt. Two traits Adelaide does not share with her mother. Adelaide is nowhere as near
  
  as fierce as Seraphine was, a woman who's anger and temper were scary to those that knew her simply for a sharp tongue that
  
  accompanied them. And unlike Adelaide Seraphine was blunt. Very blunt, Seraphine always told people what she thought of them and saw
  
  no reason to ever change her ways. Adelaide prefers keeping insulting opinions of others to herself in a wish to avoid conflict with
  
  others.
  
  Seraphine never shied away from conflict. Not that she ever went looking for it, and she was almost never physical about it.
  
  Seraphine's type of conflict involved a sharp tongue and quick wit that many people came to fear, though only the ones who ended up on
  
  her bad side. In this Adelaide is also different. Although through all these differences lay similarities that made it obvious they
  
  were related.
  
  Both Seraphine and Adelaide enjoyed nature, as hard as it was to find natural nature. Both enjoyed pictures of wild woods much more
  
  than the fabricated parks throughout the city. Both Adelaide and Seraphine greatly enjoyed reading. To them it was like getting lost
  
  into a completely different world, one with its own ups and downs that gave it life and depth. Unlike Adelaide, Seraphine was never a
  
  writer, but she didn't hesitate to help Adelaide when these skills appeared. Seraphine and Adelaide couldn't have been any more
  
  different, but even so they were so alike, a daughter and mother pair that surprised many.
  
  STRENGTHS:
  
  +Observant
  
  +Hard-working
  
  +Intelligent
  
  FAULTS:
  
  -Inexperienced
  
  -Weak
  
  -Too trusting
  
  QUIRKS/HABITS: Adelaide used to greatly enjoy reading, writing, and poetry. But after the accident all of these became things
  
  of the past as she under took long shifts to support her and her father. All three are still things she would had she had the time to
  
  enjoy them.
My life began 18 years ago...but this tragic story starts much farther back. 38 years ago actually...

My father was born 38 years ago. Born on a rainy day in early July. His aunt, present in the delivery room at the time, believed this

to be a bad omen. She always said father's life would take a turn for the worse someday, maybe she was right...everyone always

dismissed her claims. I now know that she wasn't so crazy...

My father was a mistake. Unplanned, his mother wasn't ready for him, and she didn't even know the father. But that didn't keep her

from loving him anyways. It wasn't easy, his mother raised him in her mother's cramped apartment with her sister and brother. But it

was a home, and a loving one at that. New life was brought into that home with the arrival of my father, everyone loved him. With such

an extended family, all of which loved him dearly, it wasn't hard for them to put together the funds for father to be educated, although most

of the family had to put in extra hours at the warehouse to do so.

Father's younger life was much more fortunate than most. Early on in his education he showed a delight in knowing how things worked,

fixing things, and building. This didn't go unnoticed either. Through some greater beings decision or just sheer luck father attracted

the attention of a higher end teacher who taught engineering. The man watched father as he grew, interested greatly in his interests.

He watched him to see if what he believed to be an engineer in the making remained, or passed on as he matured.

When father was 18 and preparing to move on into the workforce the man approached him and his family. Much to all their surprise he

offered to fund fathers education further. The man wanted to educate father as an engineer, as he'd found father's interest in the

field had only grown as he matured. At first everyone was hesitant to believe him. The schooling costs for him were extensive to say

the least. Not even everyone doing twenty-four hour shifts and putting every bit of the money towards it could cover the costs. But

the man assured them all that nothing would be required other than that father finish the course completely, and if he so chose father

could sign on to work with the man. When not teaching the man frequently worked on the warehouses upper floors and made trips into the

upper class districts to do repair work.

After much debating father agreed, he would go on to enter into a university for engineering and was taught by the man for the next

four years. The man's name was Heath Edwards, and he was the third greatest thing to enter my father's life. The first was my mother,

and the second was me. But I still have yet to enter this story. But my mother did. Midway through my father's education he met her.

Seraphine, I remember her dearly to this day. My mother was beautiful, strong, independent, and fierce.

How they met was a rather funny story actually. After two years of the program my father was able to begin testing his skills in the

Warehouse's mid floors. One day while working on a machine it switched on suddenly, nearly taking my father's arm. But fate smiled on

him then too and he managed to yank himself back in time, crashing into my mother as she passed with a load of boxes. She slapped him

so hard that day that he used to claim he could still feel it. But father didn't care, as soon as he'd managed to really get a look

at her he was dumbstruck, and his heart quickened.

My mother was always an unconventional person, and after slapping him even she had taken a liking to him, although she didn't show it right off. Mother always enjoyed testing people...and so she tested him. She ignored him for a while after that. A short while though,

for she couldn't refuse father's attempts at wooing her for long. After that initial meeting father made sure to return to that floor, claiming to fix a machine next to the one she worked at, one that never worked right. Whether it didn't work because he never could stop talking to fix it or if he intentionally broke it he never said, though he always gave me a wink when I asked.

It continued like this for a few months, their talks more frequent, longer, and eventually they spread to outside the warehouse as well. And then one unplanned day in the broom closet of a mid-level floor of the warehouse I was conceived. I, like my father, was a mistake. But I, just as he, was a loved mistake. My mother was an early shower, and when she did start to show it excited both of my parents immensely.

They made it official after that, family visits, moving to a separate apartment together. My father's income alone was enough to rent us out a rather small apartment, but although it was small, we had it to ourselves. The next few months were a blur for the both of them. Their love only grew stronger as the time of my birth neared. And when it did it came flawlessly and without complications. My mother named me Adelaide, a name she'd heard from a book, one that she had loved dearly. As dearly as she loved me.

After I was born life became somewhat harder for my parent's. Mother had to take shorter hours, hours that saddened her due to the time away from me. And father had to work harder to keep up, But after two years he finished his program, and as offered he began working for Heath. The pay was far better than he got for fixing equipment at the warehouse, and the hours were so much better. Mother always liked to say that life always got hardest before it got better. In this moment she had been right.

My father and mother now had the funds that we could live comfortably in our small apartment and even enough that I could go to school. So when I turned five my education began. Unlike my father I didn't show a love of engineering at a young age. I showed a more light hearted interest, reading and writing. At a young age I learned to read, and with it followed writing soon after.

Around tour home you could usually find my with my nose buried in a book. They started small, with pictures, but by the age of eight I was reading full blown chapters, only one hundred to two hundred pages each, but they only got bigger from there. My parents were delighted in the hobby, and even more so when I showed a particular knack for poetry and writing. They didn't hesitate to support the skill, with the extra money from my father's job he purchased me many books, always buying new books as I grew older. And my mother kept me in good supply of pencils and paper. Life was good for our family. But it could never stay the same.

My aunts warning reared it's head then...

At the age of 15 it happened. I awoke to the smell of smoke and rolled off my bed to the floor, coughing as the smoke streamed under

the door and into my room. Somehow our apartment building had caught fire, to this day no one is sure how. But it happened...and it

changed us forever. I struggled through my room to shove open the door, the apartment was a blazing inferno of fire. My mother shouted

to me from nearby, telling me to wait, while my father worked on a nearby window to get it open.

My mother somehow managed to find a path through the flames, coming to my rescue. And although the smoke was making her weak she

managed to carry me somehow through the inferno, shielding me from the flames. That night was such a blur, but I could recall the next

moments in detail, second by second...it's hard to forget. Losing your mother...

The building shook as the fire ate away at the walls, but my mother never faltered. She couldn't crawl beneath the smoke holding me,

so she barreled right through it, moving ever closer to the window. My father waited outside, watching with worry in his eyes as we

neared, the building tremoring further. My mother made it to the window just in time to hand me through to my father, who had managed

to climb to the roof of an adjacent building. Lucky for us both that our apartment was right at the correct hight.

The next moments will always be etched into my heart. My father pulled me from my mother's arms and sat be down on the roof next to

him. He turned, reaching out for my mother grasping her hand and starting to pull her, right as the floor she stood on collapsed. My

mother's last moments were spent dangling from my father's hand, her fingers slipping. He'd extended himself out across the gap to get

her and the sudden addition of weight as my mother fell nearly pulled him over. Only his other hand holding the roof kept him from

going over. But he couldn't hold forever. Already I could only watch as he started to slip, straining with all his might to pull her

up. But he could not, and I, next to him, could not reach no matter how much I tried.

My mother's face slowly lost it's panicky appearance and took on that of grim acceptance. "I love you both..." She said after a

moment. Me and my father pleaded for her not to do it. We begged, but nothing could stop her as she let go. It was only a few seconds

later that her wrist slipped from my father's hands...

I watched my mother fall out of sight. The building followed soon after, but neither of us cared. We were riveted to the spot, tears

streaming freely as we both lost my mother.

The next few year was a blur. The insurance for the accident covered us for a short time, and my father's family took me and him in.

It took a few months for me to move on. I was hit hard by the grief of losing my mother, but my father was hit harder. He never did

move on, simply sitting in a single chair, wasting away. At first he wouldn't eat, but eventually we managed to get him to eat

regularly. But that was it. He would not speak, he would not move, he just sat in one spot, gazing out into who knows what. But I knew

what...

My father's grief was wrapping itself around him, strengthened by blame. I knew my father blamed himself, and for a bit I even blamed

him in my own grief. But I soon came to tell myself it wasn't true. My father had done all he could, it was my mother's final choice

that had been her death. She'd let go, not him. I eventually moved on in the coming years. I'd had to drop out from school, taking up

work in the warehouse to help pay for my father and support our now extended family. My great aunt was the most supportive of all my

family members. She helped me take care of him the most.

My days now consisted of working, coming home, and talking to my father. He never responded, but I constantly tried. I told him about

my day, I told him about how everyone was doing, and once I even brought up my memories of mother. But I knew then that it only made

things worse. My father got a distant, far off expression to his eyes, and tears began to flow down his face into the beard that had

grown over time.

Shortly after I turned 18 I had managed to save up enough money to get my own apartment. Me and my father needed it, we needed our own

place again, a place of solitude. I couldn't pay rent alone, but my family still supported us with money. They knew what my father and

I were going through still. Although I had gotten through it my father had not, and I was the only one with him now...

But things could only get worse...I started sleeping...I don't even remember it happening, just waking up suddenly in my apartment

panting and out of breath. And the things I'd seen had made me shudder...I went on as usual after that, though I was much more

cautious. Constantly drinking coffee, trying my hardest to stay awake. It was hard, but I wasn't the only one...

One day I came home, trying my hardest not to sleep. And my father caught me right as I came in the door. It was the first time I'd

seen him move on his own. He hugged me tightly and I hugged him back with relief. We simply melted into a puddle right there and

started crying together, me out of relief, my father out of guilt that he had abandoned me for so long. But he looked tired, ragged,

worn. Far more than he usually did. And then I realized...he had also fallen asleep...the things that he'd seen must have been as bad

as what I'd been seeing. For his embrace was not only one of love and sadness, but one of worry. He was tense, and he almost refused

to let me go...for the first time since I'd slept I became frightened. In my father's embrace the wall's I'd created after my mother

died crashed down...I'd have been content to sit there with my father all night...but then it happened...

A note...
Adelaide awoke with a muffled gasp. She'd fallen asleep again, and the dreams had came back...

"Shit..." She muttered, rolling to her feet from the couch and rubbing her eyes. She had to get this under control. If not things

could get bad. Adelaide sighed and checked the time. Her shift started in an hour. Enough time to get ready and try to coax her father

into talking.

Adelaide gathered up her clothes for work and retreated to the bathroom for a quick shower. She used cold water, hoping to awaken

herself a bit more before her shift. When she was done she exited the bathroom feeling refreshed and awakened. And she still had 45

minutes before her shift.

Adelaide walked into the kitchen after a moment spent putting on her shoes. She stopped in the door, biting back tears. There sat her

father, as usual. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the wall, unmoving except for the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders as

he breathed.

"Dad?" She asked quietly, walking over and resting a hand on his shoulder. Adelaide pulled out a chair across from him, sliding her

hand down to clasp his hand, "Dad...I've got to go to work soon...are you going to be okay?" She asked. She knew he wouldn't

answer...he never did. But she hoped.

And she would have to continue hoping. No response, not even an acknowledging nod. Adelaide sighed and squeezed his hand, "I've got to

go now dad...I'll see you later...maybe we can talk then?" Adelaide asked with no response. Adelaide sighed sadly and stood, brushing

herself off a bit before casting a saddened look at her father. With that Adelaide left the apartment.

Isaac sat where she'd left him for a few moments more, before his mouth parted and his lips moved, forming words for the first time in

quite awhile, although Adelaide had long since left.

"You look so much...like your mother..." he whispered. With that Isaac retreated back into his mind, though fresh tears began

streaming down his face as the memories flooded him.
I have themes for them both but I need better internet to manage it so check back Monday!

APPROVAL NOTICE: Congratulations! You've been approved. Keep an eye out for a group PM indicating a start date, as well as plot details and starting points.

eheu · May 7, 2015

Remmy Rutherford

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
An angular facial contour and strong features, as if carrying hints of her personality and way of life. Light brown eyes under expressive thick eyebrows.

Most of her expressions involve only slight changes to her features, but they convey much emotion. Besides, she wasn’t the sort of person to hide her irritation, or to cover her mouth and giggle.

Her hair was maintained at the length of “doesn’t yet get into the way”. The curly black mass covered her forehead with a thick, messy extrusion to just above her eyes. At work or outside she keeps it tied up into a tail or poorly executed bun, but when the weather allows for it, she prefers allowing the sides to dangle at the height of her shoulders.

Inspection will reveal also that she was more well built than most come to expect at first. The lean muscular figure was a consequence of her early life that involved a lot of running and carrying things, and it is what allows her capability of sustaining periods of high physical output.

Any hint of fashion in her attire is by chance rather than design, with a very limited wardrobe to choose from and a nonexistent sense of aesthetics. She is most often seen vest tops, sometimes with a plaid shirt over, and shorts or sweatpants. She also owns an old jacket, a pair of oversized boots as an alternative to her canvas shoes when necessary, and a hat.
- Height & Weight: 5’9’’ (approx. 174 cm) / 148lbs (approx. 67 kg)
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos:
  Numerous scars, mostly from injuries sustained on the hands and arms at work. Broke her nose a couple of times, with little remaining evidence.
  A rather plain wristband pattern tattooed onto her right forearm.
NAME: Remington Rutherford

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: Warehouse labour

AGE: 26

GENDER:Female

PERSONALITY:

It is possible to derive a single-word description of her general personality. The word would be “straightforward”.

There is a very eminent, robust, forthright quality to her personality. In conversation there is unlikely anything in a sentence that will precede the point she intended to bring about, neither will there be much irrelevancy trailing anywhere behind. In action, she makes decisions fast, and whatever it is she decided to do she will carry out as efficiently as possible.

No grudges, no lies, no secrets. While she may appear as aggressive and hotheaded at first, it was in fact quite easy to get along with her. She was surprisingly lenient in terms of judgement, and rarely did she intentionally ignite conflict.

She was the kind of one would be comfortable with telling your life’s story before the end of the night one meets her. She was the sort of person to talk to, drink with, laugh with, cry into, and to toss glass mugs at walls and start a bar fight with; minus the mugs and bar fight part for the reason that she works at the bar.

Loud, but rarely coming off as obnoxious. Fierce, but approachable. She was a pleasant person to be around, at least to most of people, most of the time.

Perhaps as a direct result, she has quite a broad circle of friends. Despite being at times a bit too blunt to be likeable, the more approachable side of her personality has earnt her many connections and a fair amount of respect - sufficient in getting her out of at least as much trouble as she could otherwise elicit.

With the little reputation she has in the local society, some speculation has also arisen about an deeper, inner personality. Some point to her past and infer that deep down somewhere there was a troubled soul, only setting up the outgoing personality as a protective mantle. Others wave their hands in dismissal and say that she just hadn’t yet outgrown the kid she was and still enjoyed having too much fun.

There were quite a few, though, who knew that all of this isn’t really how she started out. That, however, was the past, and she had spent a while making her best efforts to persuade everyone that it no longer mattered. She did a decent job and the city was good at forgetting. So now - most of the people she knew believed that it no longer mattered.

She led her own life now, in the way she decided. No lies, no secrets.

Recently, she was finding those guidelines increasingly hard to uphold.

STRENGTHS:

+ Reliable: She made a great deal out of keeping her word, and is found to be a person trustworthy enough.

+ Street smart: Some nifty practicality is a necessity in the environment she’s in.

+ Decisive: A bad decision made too late is still a bad one, but some good decisions need to be made in time. On that basis, she never hesitates unless she has a very good reason to. Sometimes not even then.

FAULTS:

- Reckless: She tries to stay as level-headed as possible, at all times. The truth is that some improvising is necessary when a wrong turn is taken. And yes, she sometimes fails to consider the existence of turning back as an option.

- Misled: Through her upbringing, a formal education was one of the things she was never able to afford. Thus, despite quite a brilliant mind as some will say, her knowledge on anything not experienced firsthand is rough and incomplete at best. The mechanisms behind many things escape her entirely.

- Questionable morality: despite all that she appears like at the moment, it wasn’t entirely that her history left no traces. She still has some trouble determining what was acceptable and what was not.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

Her hands and teeth signal a constant need to be kept busy. When on idle or focused on thinking, she chews on straw, pens, and fingernails, and twirls around anything at hand to keep herself occupied.
Not many people remembered the young fellow named Adam Wright. Even fewer remembered that, after death from a gunshot wound at one armed conflict in the alleys, he had a child left behind.

_______________

Remington Wright - the name taken from an old firearm her father was rather fond of - was just under three years of age by the time Beckett, her (alleged) uncle, took over to care for her. Aside from still being alive, Beckett wasn’t much better off than Adam used to be. A petty small time gangster - if he even amounted to that. He relied on rolling about in the local black market to sustain his life, transporting various substances that made the less fortunate members of the LC district feel less terrible about being broke, while making them even more broke.

Another thing that happened every now and then was the involvement in fight scenes - the occasional, inevitable happenings on the streets, as well as the events in rings set up on rooftops or abandoned parking lots. The latter of which Beckett would attend whenever he wasn’t earning elsewhere as much as he needed to: be careful not to get hurt too bad, even losing a fight more often than not produced at least a little net profit after any medical expenses have been accounted for.

The slums of New Miami wasn’t considered the best place to spend half an early life, but for those who had to, they had ways.

Just as some children had fetching the groceries as their involvement in household chores, as soon as she was capable of doing so, a young Remington was running on the streets, climbing over walls and fences with a satchel over her shoulder, doing her part in her and her uncle’s struggle in keeping themselves fed.

Meanwhile, Beckett never fared extraordinarily well in the rings. After each fight, however, the first thing he did was to check on the girl, who he had in tow most of the time and would only leave temporarily with his friends when necessary. He would ask her if he did well, to which she would respond “yes”, and if she found anything too scary, to which her answers ranged from shaking her head to hesitating for a few seconds before shaking her head. When she was old enough, there were even times where he would leave one afternoon or so free, and teach to her the few things someone else taught him, in the better days that he had seen, about putting up defense, practicing footwork, and throwing punches.

_______________

Her involvement with her current family started relatively recently in comparison. It began at the end of the only family she had previously came to know.

With a rivalry going on between several parties in the streets and Beckett’s later arrest due to his involvement, Remington, then 19, found it a necessity to move away from the momentarily elevated conflict.

She managed to wheedle a deal out of the family that ran the Rutherford Pharmacy - a small bar at the corner of the street - to provide her a temporary place to live, on the condition that she assisted in their work in running the place, providing the additional labour the family of four much needed.

The following couple of years, she was at work constructing a new life out of this place. The Lower Class District was not a small place, but different places in the district worked very much the same.

The way she lived had to change, though. She still carried on with her petty crimes and trades, but her connections here were sparse, making things much harder. She later even tried her hand at the fights held in garages and basements - something that she realized existed here as they did before for her guardian - and survived for a few nights a handful of rounds in the few instances where she was allowed in as a contender.

Most of that, for her, didn’t pay off. Bloody noses and knuckles didn’t contribute to keeping her hosts comfortable - the middle-aged couple was particularly terrified. So, on the basis of avoiding being caught up again by the events she was running from, and also as part of the agreement where she promised not to bring any trouble to her hosts, she later started to work shifts in the Warehouse instead. Sixteen hours a day was near unbearable at first, but with time she got used to it.

It didn’t take long for her to become aware of how, over time, the temporary drifted into the norm. She never really understood why she started out the way she did, and by the time the storm had passed she still saw no necessity to return to what previously was.

The last name was a mouthful, however, and her first name also was already. Following the news of Beckett’s death, Remmy Rutherford was what she eventually settled with. She was 21 that year.

_______________

Recently, Remmy’s been trying especially hard to get her life more on track and her record more in check. She took up working longer shifts - eighteen-hours each day, and pulling herself away from the less illustrious issues she used to meddled with in the two hours that were now extra work. Away from work she spent most of her time hanging out at the bar the family ran, in the mean time doing her part of helping by serving as a barmaid while trying her best to resist the harmless little things she was so accustomed to doing, such as defrauding an extra credit or two out of unwitting customers.

And she was doing well, really. She preferred to imagine that her foreman would appreciate the additional effort she was putting in. As for her connections elsewhere: while there remained a few complications, she had now a lot less to worry about. So despite feeling a bit more exhausted every time she leaves the Warehouse, she managed also to feel that much better. She was making progress, and she was happy with that.

Of course, there were some side effects - mere nuances. Consequences of her body not yet adjusting to the new routines, perhaps. Most recently were the episodes in which she finds herself temporarily overwhelmed by a sudden exhaustion, her eyes dry and head growing heavy with muted, throbbing headaches.

She paid them little thought in the beginning. There were remedies for that and she could get her hands on those. She could manage, she thought. At least for the time.
Remmy didn’t really know how she ended up there.

Not why she ended up in the alley. The alley was her shortcut home. She was wondering how she ended up in the middle of the mass of people that now occupied that alley.

Young men and women, numbered around twenty, sitting or standing around. Gathered, presumably, for one of those meetings that happened in the LCD underground for one of the various possible reasons. Most of them wore simple, loose pieces of clothing, and she could see a few who, like her, had the Warehouse work clothes on.

One man was situated a bit further away from everyone else, with shirt soaked in sweat and a piece of white cloth pressed into his nasal bridge, blotted with blood.

A particularly unsettling thing about this was how this all seemed very familiar.

She tried, as inconspicuously as possible, to walk in from one end of the group of people and out the other. Halfway through that she felt a hand clasped over her shoulder.

“Hey! Isn’t this - ”

She turned sharply around, before relaxing the tense muscles at the sight of a familiar face.

The mop of frizzy hair over the round face with tanned skin was Glynda Tyler- one of her older friends. Not a particularly close one, but a friend nevertheless. Remmy muttered something along the lines of “ey, hi”, followed by something about not having seen her for a while.

“Haven’t seen you for a while.” Glynda responded, “How’ve you been?”

Before Remmy could respond much to that, she found Glynda diverting her attention already to introducing her to who she presumed to be friends of hers, nearby. Quite surprisingly, one of them - a lad in a dirty white vest top and with a buzz cut and stubble, whom Glynda called Vance - seemed to have actually heard of her before. He mentioned remembering one fight on a rooftop a couple of years back.

“Yes, that’s her. That’s her.” Glynda said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Remmy laughed and nodded in response.

“ - want to go a few rounds?” Glynda asked.

Remmy turned to look at her, then at the centre of the crowd where, partially obscured to her sight, the current match was going on. She bit on the corner of her lip and directed her sight momentarily to somewhere on the ground.

“Nah. You do know that I’m trying not to do this sort of thing anymore.”

That response elicited an expression of disapproval on her face.

“Oh come on. Tell me you don’t miss the old days. Besides, there are rules here -” she said, “you show up, you have to get a fight in.”

Remmy narrowed her eyes and thought about it for a couple of seconds only to realize she couldn’t devise a good enough response. In the background there was the sound of a single man from inside the crowd, apparently acting as an announcer, yelling something that included the word “next”. And besides her there was Glynda hollering a response.

She frowned for a second, let out a sigh, peeled off her overshirt and stepped towards the empty circle.

_____________

It was clear that these weren’t the Colosseum folks. At least, not the lot of it she used to know. That may mean a number of things. There smaller, less well-known societies, each with their own style and set of quirks and regulations. This one looked like one of them, just started out. In essence, they were the same as the Colosseum - though, they were usually less organized, and - as a results - often also less civilized.

Bad decisions, she grunted.

She still couldn’t remember how exactly she ended up in the place.

She knew, though, that she ought not lose focus at this point. One fight - hold that out and get out of there Not hard, right?

Besides, as reluctant as she was to admit it, she actually missed this stuff.

Her opponent wasn’t large - around her height, in fact, perhaps an inch or two taller than she was, and for a man that wasn’t tall. His figure leant to the thin side - not lanky, but not to be called muscular either. Sweat, blood and bruises: worn out from one or two preceding fights. They said that he was a newcomer and the last two rounds were his first in this group. And - judging from his stance - possibly his first ever in the scene.

She decided that she could take this.

He threw the first punch - a tentative one, which was responded to with a very simple block.

Things moved quickly to what she was familiar with very quickly afterwards.

A few seconds in and she felt all of it returning - the time she needed for each reaction decreased as muscle memory took over. She quickly got used to, again, what it felt like to not break the flow even when under pain.

Left, right. Take a step back. Block. Counter.

Haven’t forgotten too much of it yet, she thought. She kept her eyes open and trained on his moves. The weight advantage wasn’t on her side, but not by much (apparently Glynda was at least slightly considerate as for who to call a fight on). She found herself even affording the tactic of absorbing some of the sloppier punches to get close and return something more damaging.

There wasn’t much time for her to think about what it felt like. If there was, though, she would almost have said that it felt good.

She could take this.

Keep breathing under control. Jab. Step to the side. Suddenly feel dizzy from the blur in your head.

Wait, what was that?

She kept her guard up while she put in some distance, allowing herself time to respond to what just happened. It didn’t take her long to realize that it was another of the paroxysms of her ... less-awakedness. They were getting more frequent, but still it was an hour or two before the earliest time she ever started to feel that.

Her immersion broke, but managed to delivered a few sloppy aggressions to keep the distance. Still it wasn’t long before her opponent recovered and started to pile punches in. Some yelps came from the crowd behind her as she backed up to near the edge of the circle. an echo of “what is she doing?” managed to enter her muddled sense of hearing.

She blinked twice and gritted her teeth. Her brain pounded harder inside her skull as a response.

Oh come on, she yelled in her head, not now.

She steps wobbled and she barely managed to deflect a fist coming her way, resulting in her staggering even more. The next one knocked her down.

_____________

She opened her eyes. The wall in front of her was the concrete of the kitchen.

It was a struggle to keep her lenses focused on the distance Nathan’s genuinely concerned face was at.

Remmy was compelled to ask something like “what happened”, but from the corner of her hazy range of sight - slightly obscured now by the cloth bandaged over her left eyebrow - she saw Glynda standing besides the chair she was in.

“What happened?” Nathan asked.

She almost laughed. Remmy was genuinely surprised Glynda hadn’t already covered that, including some witty remark on how she couldn’t take a hit.

“Ran into a club on the way home,” Glynda responded in her place, “kid couldn’t resist.”

Remmy let out an “Oi” that would’ve been intended as a serious objection, but her mind was’t clear enough yet and it came out too soft to carry any weight. She resorted to smiling somewhat guiltily as Nathan looked at her over his shoulder as he searched the kitchen shelves for the other case of medical supplies.

Meanwhile, Glynda sat down on the floor in front of her chair, not the least bit worried and with a smile across her face.

“Remmy baby,” She said, “you were out for way longer than you were supposed to from a wimpy punch like that.”

Remmy squinted, and in her mind surfaced the remnants of what she was once able to see clearly. What she just saw clearly during the time she wasn’t awake.

Yeah. She thought to herself, directing her sight idly towards the kitchen sink, I figured.
For reference: family, affiliates, connections:
- Adam Wright: biological father. Deceased.
- Jonathan Beckett: guardian since age 4. Deceased.
- William and Marie Rutherford: Hosts. Owners of the Rutherford Pharmacy.
- Joseph Rutherford: older brother. Works elsewhere in the district, only returns to pay occassional visits.
- Nathan Rutherford: younger brother, fellow worker at the bar.
- Francis Maddox: Friend, colleague at the warehouse.
None yet.

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DamagedGlasses · May 11, 2015

Remi Circi

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
On the short side, Remmy has always been compared to her late mother by the few friends of the family. With a height of 5'7" and a head of brown loosely combed short hair, she holds a lax, but precise air around her. Her hands are soft, but they hold the loose mental calluses of the work she has done in the past. Her skin is of soft color, and very smooth save for the few knicks and scars she has over her knees and elbows from her younger years and love of Soccer. With saddle brown eyes that contrast with the much more mundane tint of her hair. She has peirced ears, and is always seen wearing earrings that rarely get bigger than a quarter. She always has a soft smile on her face, and her quirk of the eyes never fail to show how she feels about something.

She is always wearing something light and breezy, enjoying the soft textures that don't irritate her skin. Its only a passing thought, but when she is wearing really tight clothing, she can only imagine it being a straight jacket that has been forced upon her. She has lean muscles that do carry some underuse due to how long its been since she actually played a sport, but the scars from her years of sports will never fully leave her, along with the memories she carries. She has slightly chapped lips from her nervous habit of licking her lips and rubbing them together, the constant wear and tear not going well with the sensitive skin.
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: Slight scratches on the knees and elbows from a past with soccer.
NAME: Remmy Circi

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: OnSiteMedicalServices

AGE: 27

GENDER: Female

PERSONALITY: Remmy is a very sweet woman who does her job for the mundane reasons everyone else does. Sure, she enjoys helping people, and the thanks she gets for it are always gratifying, but it really is only for the pay, and she doesn't like that. She wishes that she felt more for her everyday life, and curses the monotonous lifestyle that her surroundings as trapped her into. A bit of a rebellion, she changes things up every day to alleive the boredom of her job, enjoying exotic cuisines as she breaks the system in her own little world.

Never outspoken enough to go against other people or the actual system, she holds her own little fantasies close at hand, and is happy to let them stay where they lie. In fact, the idea of openly going through with them is disconcerting to say the least. Her ideals towards dreams is conflicted, a sharp dislike of it branching from the travesty it causes her mother, but the desire to have them is equally tough. It would be her own private satisfaction of breaking the biggest part of her societies infrastructure.

She enjoys having family around her, and she would give anything to see her mother again. The memories of her mother screaming shook Remmy to the core and the trauma has been there ever since. As a Narc, one who bypasses the security of the patches, Remmy uses supplements like coffee and energy drinks to keep her going, trying to step up as long as she can, before the inevitable need strikes to go to sleep. She enjoys the thrill of sleep, a strick violation of the rules, but she is scared of the dreams, as well as the paranoia that comes with escaping the cops that seem to close in more and more everyday in her head.

STRENGTHS:

+Focused

+Precise

+Calm under pressure

FAULTS:

-Paranoid

-Doormat Mentality

-Doesn't deal well with stress, bottles up.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

=Loves to partake of new foods and beverages

=Has a problem with shaking her leg out of nervousness

=Will sometimes find herself doing things differently than told

=Licks her lips
Born to a Grunt family, Remmy's parents were loving and caring, the roles in life that they had been given suiting them nicely as they went along with the system as best as they could. Remmy was fine with, her contentness with her own life being sharp contrast to her future self. Her happy life with her parents began to degrade, however, as travesty slowly began to creep up into the house hold.

Her mother was always ok with her life, but just like Remmy would be like later on, she was addicted to going against the norm. So when the need for sleep began to pop up, something she had never faced before, Remmy's Mom gave in to the temptation and let herself drift off during one of her breaks. It was then that she realized the terrors that came with dreaming, and although she was terrified of what she saw, she could not help, but continue.

When the authorities came, Remmy was terrified as her mother was carried away, the last thing she heard of her being the deranged shouts as her deluded mind was enthralled by the dream's images. Remmy grew up from then, developing a strong connection to her father, but neither of them were the same. It was found that her mother was a narcoleptic and after some medical exams, it was ruled that Remmy had very low chances of becoming one as well. Scared into place by the authorities, but indiginant about the way they had treated her while under suspicion, Remmy did her best to cause as much quiet chaos as she could.

Growing up, Remmy followed in the same footsteps as her parents and went began to work at the warehouse as the onsite doctor, the one to make sure all medical emergencies and injuries were handled with care and precision until paramedics could arrive. When her own sleep began to happen, Remmy felt the same thrill that her mother felt, however after her first confrontation with dreams, she began to feel paranoid, looking on with fear to the day that she too was carried out of her home screaming obscenities.

It was made even worse when the letter arrived.
For your character. If I've RPed with you in the past, PM me about this.
Optional - Youtube link to theme

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Nine · May 12, 2015

Loryn Alexei Ibramov

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:

Loryn is the picture of femininity. Full lips sit below a gently angled, slightly upturned nose. Her eyes are a deep blue-green and the curve of her cheek is gentle, contrasting the defined line of her jaw. Her soft face is framed by naturally wavy hair, died platinum over its natural shade of chestnut. Loryn always maintains a detailed and flawless application of makeup. Her techniques always render unique looks, but maintain an appearance of simplicity and elegance. The result is that, even when her choice of color or shading is extreme, there is the illusion that the makeup is simply a natural part of her. Her face’s angelic appearance is only aided by her blemish-free porcelain skin. Everything about Loryn’s countenance is indicative of a girl who takes meticulous care of herself and her image.

Loryn’s body is best described as ideal. She stands at a height of five feet and six inches with long, toned legs. Her build is slender and she has an incredibly small, waspish waist with gentle curves. Loryn’s frame is only further complimented by a full, firm chest and well-proportioned hips. her glowing, porcelain skin continues, uninterrupted by ink or marking, the length of her body with the exception of a single scar almost completely encircling her left wrist.

Loryn typically dresses to kill at work. She wears abbreviated outfits that push the limit of professionalism, typically short dresses with heels and almost exclusively in shades of black and gray. Outside of work, she dresses quite differently. Being totally immersed in the hardcore VR gaming culture, Loryn dresses to fit the part. She is often found at the local VR clubs wearing cropped T-shirts, leggings, denim shorts, heeled leather boots, and industrial-style accessories.

Everything about Loryn’s appearance has been painstakingly crafted over time and she takes great pride in her look.
- Height & Weight: 5’6” & 115lbs
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: Loryn has a small scar around her left wrist. She has a number of piercings; her bellybutton, tongue, nostril, several in each ear, and a few others.
NAME: Loryn Alexei Ibramov

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: Human Resources Compliance Auditor

AGE: 22

GENDER: Female

PERSONALITY: Loryn’s personality is multi-layered and complex, even to her. She has spent so much of her life using her style and behavior to influence and manipulate others that there are times when she is not even certain what is real about her at all. Nonetheless, she is talented when it comes to compartmentalizing and very rarely allows depression or confusion to get her down.

At work, Loryn is fluid and flexible. As an auditor, her job requires her to seek out inconsistencies and identify risks posed to the Warehouse work environment, specifically as they have to do with human error. Loryn has learned to shape her personality to suit the needs of any given situation. If an employee responds well to flirting, Loryn becomes fun and seductive. If an employee is more reserved and somber, she becomes pessimistic and sympathetic. She easily adapts her behavior and countenance to suit her needs in discerning the truth in others.

Outside of her job, Loryn has worked hard to groom an identity that fits into the underground gaming world. She is feisty, opinionated, and opportunistic; attributes that translate well into the VR world she has become addicted to. She is a fierce and valuable team mate while gaming, but her loyalty tends to follow wherever the best opportunity turns up.

When Loryn is alone, which is rare, she is at a loss. Loryn is a busybody and a social butterfly and has difficulty with silence or loneliness. She fills her time with work and gaming in order to avoid facing the fact that she is never truly genuine with anyone. The irony of Loryn is that everyone she meets walks away with the feeling that they have known her for years, but no one really know her at all, herself included.

STRENGTHS:

+ People Skills/ Extroverted: Loryn is adept at socializing and making others comfortable around her. She tends to be the life of a room.

+ Computer Expertise: Loryn has spent most of her life as a computer hardware hobbyist and is very skilled with hardware and software design.

+ Discerning: As a consequence of her job as an auditor, Loryn has grown to be very skilled at picking up on dishonesty in others. She reads people quite well.

FAULTS:

- Manipulative: Loryn is absolutely willing to use any means necessary to get others to do/ tell her what she wants.

- Self-centered: Loryn is typically concerned with looking out for herself and will take advantage of opportunities presented to her.

- Vain: Having spent most of her life attempting to climb the socio-economic ladder, Loryn is very concerned with her image and reputation.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

Loryn has been accused more than once of being flirtacious. She has a habit of putting her hair in her mouth. She also tends to have trouble keeping still. Loryn has an addictive personality and easily becomes obsessive about hobbies and interests in her life and will give herself fully to most anything she is passionate about, to a fault.
Loryn’s childhood was spent living above her means. When Loryn was still an infant, her father, Nikolai, was killed in an accident at The Warehouse. Though the official press release blamed the incident on Nikolai having fallen asleep on the assembly line, Loryn always refused to accept the company’s depiction of events. Her mother, Anya, never fully recovered from Nikolai’s death. Loryn could never tell if her mother’s depression was due to the loss of a beloved man, or simply due to the hardship imposed upon the two of them by the absence of his paycheck. Regardless, at a young age, Anya began grooming her daughter to marry well. Loryn spent all of her free time practicing diction, posture, and poise. Her mother taught her how to win the affections of diverse types of people and educated her on tactics to climb the social ladder. For almost fifteen years, Loryn was subjected to hours upon hours of learning to mold herself into whatever she needed to be for whomever she happened to speak with.

The oppressive nature of Loryn’s home life drove her to skip classes often. By the time she was in secondary school, Loryn has already mastered the art of dodging school and often found herself in local VR clubs. The culture of comradery and the interesting lingo of the hardcore gaming culture interested her. At her age, she wasn’t very aware of the fact that most of the people she met at these clubs were washouts and drug-addicted criminals with no jobs. Perhaps it was the stark contrast that such an environment provided when compared with her mother’s preferences. Perhaps it was always meant to be. Either way, Loryn quickly adapted to the gaming scene and began shaping her image to suit the culture. She became a regular fixture at the local clubs, known under her gamertag; L0rN, and everyone knew her and loved her. She found support, encouragement, and acceptance in the VR world that she never knew at home.

When the time came for Loryn to start work, her mother had high hopes for her daughter’s prospects. Pulling strings with anyone she had a connection with, Anya managed to get Loryn interviews for a number of prestigious and high-level positions, including one as an undersecretary with the New Miami police enforcement division. However, nearly every job opportunity turned her away when the issue of her performance in school came up. Each time that Loryn returned home rejected, her mother grew more impatient and terse. By the time Loryn had exhausted all of the interviews her mother had gotten her, Anya had decided to disown Loryn completely. Devasated, Loryn took up residence with several of her gaming connections in a hostel-like flat that was abandoned due to extensive flooding. For nearly two years, Loryn lived homeless and spent twenty-three hours per day gaming for free on the good reputation she had built with the local VR clubs. Her spare hour each day was spent eating what food she could scavenge and trying to keep somewhat clean.

One day, a businessman happened into a VR club that Loryn was spending time in. He observed her interactions with the others and quickly realized that she was not the average type of low-life found in such clubs. He struck up a conversation with her and offered her an entry level assembly line tech job at The Warehouse. Loryn was initially repulsed by the offer, her mother having drilled into her head that such jobs were beneath her. However, she quickly collected herself and gracefully accepted the position.

Loryn spent all of her first several paychecks improving her situation. The owner of her favorite VR club offered her a tenement on the top floor of his building. The loft apartment was small and in a state of dire disrepair, but it was still an improvement over her flooded basement hostel and she took it. Over the next year, she began updating her wardrobe and obtaining basic necessities such as makeup, creams, and lotions. Flash forward one year and Loryn had already risen quickly at The Warehouse, having impressed every single supervisor she had. In her new position as an auditor, Loryn excelled. All of the training and molding of her mother served her well in this position. Loryn easily found herself in the good graces of every employee, despite her intimidating job title. Everything seemed to be going her way and she was poised to quickly climb her way to an administrative position in the Business District. Then the sleepiness set in. For weeks, Loryn combated it by spending her time on increasingly graphic and violent games, but no amount of adrenaline seemed to help, she still found herself dozing off briefly in the darker corners of the VR clubs. Her close gaming friends offered her drugs when they noticed her symptoms but Loryn refused, having never taken an illegal substance in her life. She chose instead to simply resist the sudden and unfamiliar urge to lay down and sleep, however futile her resistance might be.
Loryn awoke with a start. Panicking, she surveyed her surroundings, passing her glazed eyes across the smoke filled room of T3h w1N VR Club. Confident that no one noticed her brief nap, Loryn sat up straight, adjusting her legs to keep them from falling asleep. Ugh, too late she thought as the pins and needles set in.

Loryn let her legs sit still and checked her watch. “Still a few more hours,” she mumbled bitterly, eagerly welcoming her next shift at work. She was just preparing to stand when Z4n3 strode over and took a seat next to her.

“You’ve got to get it together girl,” he said with a grin. Loryn couldn’t help but stare at his yellowed teeth, noticing that one more had fallen out recently. How had she not noticed that?

“Listen, it’s probably been happening to other people too. I don’t think they’ll blame me if it’s some sort of mix-up with the patch…” Loryn averted her eyes, not even believing it herself. Sighing deeply, she stood, adjusting her leather vest and running her fingers through her hair. Z4n3 continued speaking, but Loryn’s eyes passed right through him as she suddenly began recalling her odd dream…

Before her eyes was a nation on fire. Though she couldn’t see much aside from the large, well-built apartment complex on fire before her, she was somehow aware that this was happening everywhere. Rain fell in heavy drops at a slant that caused her to have to squint to see. From behind her came a psychotic laugh and without turning she knew that she needed to run. Loryn quickly turned down an alley and sprinted, making it thirty or forty feet before tripping on something large and heavy. Her knees hit the ground hard and she slid across the gravel. Loryn lifted herself slowly, blood mixed with rain dripping from her chin, and crawled behind a small garbage container. Hazarding a glance down the alley, Loryn leaned out. Before she was able to notice the silhouetted figure before near the street, her eyes fell upon the object that cause her to fall. Loryn screamed, unable to stop herself though she tried in vain to place her hands over her mouth. The corpse just beside her turned its head, reaching out towards her. Suddenly her ears erupted with screams as if the alley way was packed to capacity with women and children shrieking in terror. Loryn closed her eyes tightly, struggling with her mind to wake up. As suddenly as it started, the screaming stopped and the rain seemed to dissipate. Nervously, Loryn opened one eye. For a flash, she was greeted by the distorted façade of a man whose flesh had been seared from his face, and then nothing.

Z4n3, having stopped speaking, was smiling with amusement at Loryn when she snapped out of her reverie. “What’s up b4b3? Not interested?”

Completely unaware of what he was talking about, Loryn just shook her head slowly and made for the door, her hand settling on a scrap of paper as she tucked it into her pocket.

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CloudyBlueDay · May 13, 2015

Jackson Day

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
There's more to than what meets the eye.

So why aren't we looking any closer?

Jackson's appearance seems to be that of a normal one - until you get to looking at his eyes. His enchanting, crystal sea green eyes seem to stare right through your soul. It's hard to pinpoint exactly where Jackson got this trait, because both his mother and father have dark brown eyes. Let's look past that for now, though. A young man with thin build. Jackson is fairly tall, with messy and fluffy brown hair that seems to have a mind of it's own. Sometimes it looks good, sometimes it looks like a bird's nest. For everything other than his eyes, Jackson looks quite a bit like his mother. The same jawline and lips and color of hair, but he gets his messy hair and nose from his father. Same for his smile.

While Jackson is not particularly buff or muscly, he seems to be in shape to the naked eye until you look a little closer. Jackson is actually a bit underweight and slightly malnourished. Many nights of going hungry since he was a child lead him to be rather thin. Despite past trials, he constantly tries to wear a smile on his face and hides the dark bags and thin body as best as he can. He doesn't want anyone worrying about him.

In terms of clothing, Jackson doesn't get to have much of a choice of what he wears. Dirty jeans, torn t-shirts, and a warm jacket for cold nights. A simple pair of shoes. If Jackson had the ability to put money into his fashion sense he'd probably be wearing nice button-down shirts with ties or vests, much like the picture. What really matters to Jackson is that he can move around. Otherwise, he's fine.
- Height & Weight: 5'11", 158 lbs.
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: A long scar running from just past his wrist to the crook of his arm, and a small scar on his cheek, barely noticeable. Jackson does not have any tattoos or markings.
NAME: Jackson Day

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: Bartender at Midnight Bar

AGE: 24

GENDER: Male

PERSONALITY: Jackson is a kind young man with a good heart who's been through a lot. Even though he's had his moments, Jackson is always trying to keep a smile on his face in the darkest of times. He's curious, sometimes a little too curious, and as a child he used to wonder what sleep was like. Why was it banned? What's so bad about dreaming? Jackson understood these thoughts were best kept to himself, though, even from a very young age.

He is constantly putting other's needs before his own and this leads to a high tolerance of, well.. bullshit. He's a nice guy, and if you were trying to anger him, you'd really gotta hit the right spot to set him off. And if you manage to do that.. hmph. I wish you good luck trying to calm him down. After keeping so many feelings bottled up for so long who know's what'll happen.

Still young and a tad bit shy around new people, Jackson doubts his own capabilities although he really is a smart lad. While he may never show his true emotions to anyone, on the outside Jackson seems like a nice guy. He's kind, and he's sweet, and he's smart if he can keep his head together in messy situations. Jackson has people skills despite being alone such a long time; he could walk up to someone and get them to like him quite easily.

Overall, Jackson is a young man who has had his ups and downs. While he may seem cheery on the inside he's a hot mess; maybe he will forever be forced to hide his true feelings.

STRENGTHS:

+ Kind To A Fault - Jackson always tries to see the best in people when he meets them and keeps a smile on his face. He's incredibly protective to the people he cares about and will go to great lengths for them. One might even call him charming if he were to attempt to flirt with a woman, but he hasn't even bothered to try in a long time.

+ Has a Good Head - Despite never even having a proper education, Jackson taught himself to read, write, and do basic math. It's always been a sort of way to calm him down, doing multiplication problems or fractions. Not only is he smart, but he's smart about his decisions. Many mistakes have lead him to think before he acts, albeit maybe a bit too much thinking.

+Loyal - If the life of someone he loves is at stake, Jackson will do whatever he can to protect them. It might be hard to strike a relationship with him, but if you do you have a friend for life.

FAULTS:

-Broken - Jackson has had an incredibly tough childhood, and while he might seem fine on the outside he's not. Poking the wrong places can lead him to break down, reawakening all the memories he's tried so hard to forget.

-Unsure - While Jackson may take his time thinking of which way to turn, sometimes he can't even make a decision. He'll get wrapped up in his own faults, the possibilities of what could go wrong. He can stress himself out easily.

-Alone - Of course, Jackson had a family at some point, a loving one, too, but they're all long gone. He tends to keep to himself and tries not to spark any relationships because he feels it would be best to be on his own; he doesn't want to hurt anyone or have someone get hurt because of him.

QUIRKS/HABITS:

-When nervous, Jackson either rubs the scar on his arm, runs a hand through his hair, or bites his nails. For smaller problems, it's the latter, but when he gets terribly frustrated or aggravated or scared he'll start rubbing or hiding the scar. Jackson tries to wear long-sleeves to hide the scar, he doesn't want any extra 'attention'.

-Jackson has a simple silver ring he never takes off, it could be worth quite a bit but he'll never give it up. It is his only prized possession. He refuses to tell anyone why, though.
Jackson's family was never doing well money-wise. They never had an apartment of their, own struggled with getting food and the proper necessities. His father and mother both worked at the Warehouse every second of the day. Even Jackson and his little sister, Talia, would help out at the Warehouse whenever they could. Despite the fact that their parents worked 15 to 20 hour they were a close family; they all loved each other and tried to help one another out. Talia loved Jackson and would follow him everywhere he went, clinging to him, trying to copy him. They were incredibly close.
The unusual routine the family had gotten used too came to an abrupt stop when Jackson's father disappeared. Not a trace of him anywhere. Their mother was in shock. Her kind and bright personality was turning into dark nothingness; the once happy family they were, despite their problems, began to fade away. Talia was terribly confused, and Jackson did everything to keep their family together, but his attempts were failing. He had to find his father, or at least find out WHAT happened to give his family closure.

The last place his father was seen was the Midnight Bar. Jackson, being only thirteen at the time, was clever and small enough to slip into the place. He ducked to avoid dancing people, and went straight to the bar. "Excuse me," He piped up, struggling to see the bartender. "Have you seen a man by the name of Reginald Day?" The bartender's eyes widened to see such a young child in such a place. He stared at Jackson, and then looked behind him. "Kid, you best be getting out of here." Then the bartender rushed off to the back.

Suddenly, Jackson felt the back of shirt collar be tugged on. He was picked up and thrown onto the shoulder of a ginormous man. Jackson tried to squirm away but was unable too. The man brought Jackson to an empty alleyway close by to the bar. The man was so large, he completely blocked the only way out of the alleyway. Jackson looked up at the man in terror as he unsheathed a pocket knife.

"P-please don't hurt me! I was only looking for my dad!" He wailed. The man's expression was that of stone; as if Jackson had not said anything. He grabbed Jackson's arm and held out his knife. "What do you know about the death of Reginald Day?" The man hissed. Jackson had nothing to say. Dead? His father was dead? No, it couldn't be. His dad was so strong. Jackson shook his head vigorously, terrified. "I don't know anything, I-I didn't even know he was dead!"

"I don't believe you." The man hissed, and dragged the pocket knife up Jackson's arms. Jackson began to cry, it hurt so bad. "No, no, please! Please! I don't!" He managed through tears. The man growled and let go of Jackson, who cradled his bleeding arm. "Watch what you're meddling in, kid."

The next day, Jackson's sister, Talia, disappeared. He searched as best as he could whilst trying to stay away from the Midnight Bar - both his sister and his father were never found, dead or alive. After the disappearance of his sister, Jackson's mother's health and mind began to deteriorate. She could not handle the loss of her family, and she seemed to forget Jackson had ever existed. She passed two years later, leaving Jackson alone at the age of fifteen. He fended for himself, got a job at the warehouse. Only when he was twenty-one did he go back to the Midnight Bar and apply for a job there. The mystery of his father and sister's disappearance still haunts him.
Jackson was tired.

His sixteen hour shifts had seemed to be getting longer and longer every time. He was rubbing his eyes throughout the day, yawning, losing his balance. He even nearly dropped a tray of drinks. Luckily he managed to save it. He hadn't felt like this before. It scared him. Jackson began to drink coffee. He hated, hated the taste but he couldn't risk.. yknow.

He always wondered. What was so bad about sleep, about dreaming? Maybe it was nice. He felt so uncomfortable everywhere. Watched constantly, surveyed constantly, a suspect always. And to top it off, he was just constantly jittery. Was sleep the thing that could change all that? It was a question that he constantly asked himself.

"Hello? That's our drinks you're holding there, and we'd like them! Sheesh. The service here is so crappy nowadays." Jackson was snapped out of his thoughts as a woman had the gull to pinch his arm. Jackson clenched his teeth together, nearly dropping his tray of drinks for the second time. He muttered a small sorry under his breath and held out his tray of drinks so that her and her party could take them

As Jackson walked away, he could hear the woman speak to her friends. "Did you see that idiot? Almost like he was.. asleep." The whole group laughed, although Jackson thought that one of them seemed to be laughing a bit nervously. The way the woman said it sounded like a young child saying a swear word. Cautious, yet trying to sound confident.

Jackson chuckled. It sounded good to be asleep right now.
Wake Me Up When September Ends - Green Day

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Macaberz · May 19, 2015

Peter Craig

WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
"Wild hair is only ever tousled in a display of nonchalance, never combed and I suspect, rarely washed. He struts about like he owns the place, chin up and nostrils slightly apart. When a crowd doesn’t part for him, he will simply shoulder through. For the longest while I applauded his desire to become stronger, but now I wish he’d dedicated the effort to better himself in other ways. Truly, you would almost believe him and think he doesn’t care about the world. But I know he cares. He just wants recognition."

Click to expand...

Sandy blonde hair sits atop an angular skull. Thin, dark brows cut into a deep frown when faced with a difficult challenge. Neither the strongest nor the fastest, Peter largely relies on his intellect to keep up with others. Dark brown eyes look at the world and see one giant puzzle. Whatever muscle he has is trapped in his arms and chest and entirely a benefit of hard work.

New tech is faster to lure a sly smile from him than any fancy, uppity girl strutting her stuff. Other people are preferably not looked at as it invites conversation and Peter would rather keep to himself. He'll wrinkle his nose when forced to work together with others, deeming them of inferior intellect. Narrow shoulders are often hunched up as he focusses on his work.

Clothes and style are completely lost on Peter. Plain shirts and pants are the best. Everything has its function, except for haircombs, they're completely ignored. More observant people might detect dark spots under his eyes, or ocassionaly witness his head sink, only to shoot back up.
- Height & Weight: 5"8, 148lbs
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: a tattoo of a teardrop on the inside of his right wrist.
NAME: Peter Craig

STATUS: Narc

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: Technician

AGE: 17

GENDER: Male

PERSONALITY:

Born as a Narc, Peter is secretive, closed-off, and distrustful. What few hours aren't being spent on working are spent sleeping. Aside from his Uncle, whom he lives with, no one is yet aware of his Narc status and he is keen on keeping it that way.

At heart, Peter is a problem-solver. Instead of mindlessly doing his job he tries to learn as much as he can and become a better engineer. Technology is his passion. At least technology is predictable, unlike the dreams he is having. By becoming a better engineer he hopes to get promoted and spend less time working. Moreover, if he gets lucky, he hopes to reverse-engineer the Nudge Patch to either disable it for all, or make it work on himself. He hasn't decided which yet.

Lack of sleep has taxed him tremendously. Mostly relying on caffeine and illegal substances to keep himself awake, Peter has developed a certain apathy. Days appear to zoom by and it has become harder and harder to distinguish dreams from reality. Sleeplessness hasn't gifted Peter with the most chipper mood. He'll often grumble and mumble, if you get him to speak at all. Silence is preferred over meaningless words.

Unable to speak to anyone about his afflication, Peter is self-centered and emotionally detatched from others. He is however quite a feeling person himself and one day, it might all come out.

STRENGTHS:

+ Ingenious

+ Brave

+ Optimistic

+ Fiercely loyal to those closest to him

FAULTS:

- Apathetic, Cool, Calculative

- Chagrin

- Arrogant

- Volatile

QUIRKS/HABITS: tends to run his hands through his hair. Sometimes observes people when he thinks they're not looking.
Peter can hardly remember his parents. They too were Narcs, if his uncle is to be believed. From age 2 on out he has lived with his uncle Markus (on his father's side). Peter does not know what became of his parents. Growing up with a childless, always awake uncle made life difficult for both of them.

Concealing and dealing with his sleeping nephew was hard on Markus. He kept other relatives at bay to shield Peter from being exposed. To outsiders it would surely seem Peter was the most lively, social boy that ever lived as Markus always had to apologize for him not being at home and out, when in fact he was soundly asleep.

Peter, on the flipside, struggled to have much of a social life. He longed to share his dreams and nightmares, describe their beauty and horror to a willing ear. While his uncle was patient with him, it was incredibly difficult to explain the concept to him.

At age fourteen, Peter's dreaming intensified. Largely kept awake by supplements and illegal substances, the lines between reality and dreams began to blur. To keep himself from going insane he paid for a tattoo to be set on the inside of his right wrist. Markus was furious to discover the black waterdrop, but got over it once Peter explained its purpose.

Now nineteen, Peter had worked his way up to technician. His excellence at this craft has allowed him to keep his work shift to the minimum 15 hours, which are still incredibly taxing on him. It is thought he spents his extra hours on research while in fact he throws himself on the couch and eagerly grabs what little sleep he can get.
We have RP'd in the past.
No theme.

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SkyGinge · May 24, 2015

Jacko O'Donnell

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WRITTEN DESCRIPTION:
Right from the off, Jacko holds a kind of casual, masculine gravitas about him. His dark brown hair actually turns a more chestnut brown under the sun's gaze, and tends not to be quite as well groomed as in the picture shown, normally lazily hanging down just over the top of his thick eyebrows. He's undeniably handsome, as many ladies have told him, and in the past made sure to take good care of his features - hell, why not use what Mother Nature's given you?

And yet there is something aggressive in his eyes, an almost colourless-brown, as if their undistinguishable colour is as blank and hollow as his undistinguishable gaze. When he looks at you, it feels as if his gaze is only glancing off of you, as if he's not really looking at you at all, but perhaps past you. His rougish countenance, too, seems only like a mere masquerade; his casual, lazy swagger, his slightly hunched stature, the snarling smirk that usually adorns his moustached lips... they're strangely frustrating. But even more strangle endearing. It's a paradoxical aparel that Jacko holds, a knives' edge tension about him - that uniquely masculine gravitas.

Elsewhere, Jacko is hardy and well built, though not to unnaturally muscular levels. He usually dresses in various shades of blacks, dark blues and browns, rugged clothing for a rugged man. At 6'0'', he's tall but not overwhelmingly so, and yet has a habit of becoming a background figure. True, this is helped in part but his elusive social stratus, but Jacko rather likes the shadows, and his presense reflects that. He has a casual, almost mockingly slow style of movement, and is always drumming a hand or a foot (his own, of course) against something.
- Height & Weight: 6'0'', 168lbs
- Markings/Scars/Tattoos: Jacko has a few scars here and there, including a particularly nasty knife wound on his back. Perhaps surprisingly, he abhors tattoos, and there;s a funny little birthmark on his chest which he says looks like a fist. The likeness is only vague, much to the disappointment of his imagination.
NAME: Jacko O'Donnell

STATUS: Grunt

CLASS: Lower

OCCUPATION: Assembly Line Labourer

AGE: 28

GENDER: Male

PERSONALITY: Roughly 4-5 paragraphs

Jacko is a curious, complex character. On the surface, he's almost a walking cliche. With a self-centred swaggar embued in everything he does, Jacko is a man who crafts no ties and willingly cuts those he does make. Arrogant, smirking, quick-witted, he is constantly making quick quips out of everybody and everyone. His humour is typically dark and brutal, and he makes light of the most inappropriate situations with annoyingly tactful tactlessness. It's almost as if he wants people to hate him.

Yet similarly, he holds the most remarkable aura of danger around him; that knive's edge presense. You're equally as disgusted by him as you are curious as to what really drives him to be such an ignorant, callous creature. That kind of 'dangerman' attractiveness. Naturally, this can quite quickly wear off as you spend more time around him and facing his viscious humour, and what little promise one might find in him is replaced by outright detest. He rubs people up the wrong way, alright. And nobody knows why.

Simply put, he just doesn't care. Ruleless, rebellious and often lazy, he slacks, talks schmack and generally disregards all senses of authority. In many respects, its a miracle he hasn't been arrested for something or other yet, or at least sacked for what little work he does. He is supposed to move boxes and partake in the wondrous manual labout that all of the Grunts endure enjoy. Instead, he is usually found skulking in the shadows, smoking a cigeratte. Sometimes it seems he almost goes out of his way to make others work difficult; his 'favourite' (though the word suggests enjoyment, and honestly it's hard to distinguish whether that's what Jacko gets from it) activities are prank calling the PR and communications department, misplacing boxes and feigning notes and orders from the higher up ranks. He's a relatively new addition to the Warehouse, but he's already made a name for himself, and not a good one.

Fortunately, perhaps Jacko's one redeeming trait is that he is almost perfectly honest. Fair's fair, he's blunt, harsh and stubborn, but you'll never be boggling yourselves over what he's thinking. He's also definitively a lone wolf, meaning he doesn't imprint himself into awkward situations to annoy people. No, his 'aural aggression' seems more like a defencive thing to those who attempt to talk to him or tell him to work. That's not to say he's not capable of teamwork, mind, but like his harsh quips, it seems to be an active decision not to engage with others. Unless they can benefit him, of course; he's the kind of guy who lives absolutely for himself. Gambling, fighting, sneaky pick-pocketting... morality is a lacking feature in Jacko's personality repertoire.

And yet, despite his openness, there is one lingering mystery about him. Why? Why does he act the way he does? And could it be something to do with his elusive past? Jacko has a hard shell, yet to be cracked, but perhaps that time is imiinantly approaching.

STRENGTHS:

+Quick Wits: Though he usually puts his wits to use at verbally disembowelling ordinary civilians, Jacko shows an awareness of street sense and fighting skills. He's one of the Colloseum's latest additions, and keeps himself fit and fight-ready.

+Brutal Honesty: Again, this is one of the virtues he manages to twist and malform, but at least you're never going to be confused about how he feels about you.

+Cool and Chill: Jacko is very hard to rattle (outwardly, at least), so even in the toughest of situations, he'll be able to keep calm and concentrated.

FAULTS:

-'It's All About Me': Ol' Granny needs help crossing the road? She can damn well cross it herself. I'm just gonna sit here and there's nothing you can do 'bout it, Freckles.

-Verbal Disembowelment: Maybe people would be able to stand him a little more if they didn't find themselves ripped to shreds by his harsh tongue within minute of initiating conversation with him.

-I Ain't No Goody-Two-Shoes: Rules are made for breaking, right?

QUIRKS/HABITS: Jacko gives literally everybody nicknames, often of which are in someway derogatory. As mentioned, he takes everythng very slowly. He smokes often, and speaks in a labarynth of various different idioms and expressions. Perhaps conversely, he has a very big soft spot for children, and will never, ever maltreat them.
The world of New Miami is an increasingly tragic place. And of all the people, Jacko would probably be the last person you'd expect to escape that tragedy. Yet somehow, he did. Sure, his family was hardly well off - certainly not playing with the big guns, but nevertheless, the O'Donnell clan escaped the poverty of the slums. Callum O'Donnell, the son of an Irish migrant, was always aspiring to join the social elite, whilst his wife, Mandy, a Texan of many generations, was more than content to simply sit above the poverty. Both were fairly quiet, fairly reclusive and fairly self-sufficient. And like many others, both worked at the Warehouse.

Jacko, their only child, was mischievous from the get-go. Callum blamed his Irish ancestory. Mandy called him her little cowboy. But Jacko always had a silver-tongue. Persuasive, manipulative, he seemed to grow up like a sprout overnight. Very soon, he learnt how to twist people's opinions, how to get people to do what he wanted, all whilst remaining undeniably cool.

As a teenager, Jacko decided a job in the Warehouse simply wasn't the life for him. In fact, a job anywhere wasn't for him. Why work when he could play? So Jacko got involved in the darker sides of New Miami; drugs, alcohol, fighting, gambling. In doing so, his parents affectively disowned him, but Jacko was ok with that; he probably deserved it. Despite a complete lack of income, jacko managed to bride and cheat his way around.

It is not known how or when exactly it happened, but Jacko came to join the Nightmare Squad, where he worked for a number of years as an undercover agent. Working in the same places he gambled and drinked, he sneaked his way into other people's businesses and lead to the capture and condamnation of many notable sleep violators. The young Jacko had it all; decent income, a hell of a fun life, an interesting job, free will to manipulate as he seemed. Girls and friends flocked to him; they knew him as danger, but isn't danger ever so enticing? He never settled on a single girl (and often feigning romance was how he caught the sleepers). he was the epitome of the lovable rogue.

But, fundamentally, he was lonely. He had a cruel job, no real friends, 'cept in the brief moments before he utterly betrayed them. Jacko wasn't heartless. He was just foolish.

It is unknown exactly how it happened, but two weeks ago, Jacko was discharged from the Nightmare Squad and placed into one of the most mundane jobs in the Warehouse. This is his darkest secret.

In his most darkest of humours, Jacko finds it hilariously ironic that he, a man who destroyed the lives of so many sleepers over the past ten years, should now fall foul to sleeping himself. Perhaps what goes around does come back around, after all. Or maybe it's his own colleagues taking their sick revenge on what he did.
I have had the pleasure of writing with you before, so hopefully this is not needed!

Perchance to Dream

Fracturer of Fairytales

Dreamer/Cynic

Fracturer of Fairytales

the traitorous queen

Member

Artisan of the Absurd

Forest, of run fame.

Fracturer of Fairytales

the traitorous queen

Hit Me!

The Shape-shifting Master of Goatees and Darkness

Dreamer/Cynic

Suffers from Selective Memory

Attachments

Chief Defenestrator

Lurking Pun Ninja

The Shadow of Garser

made up of opposites

That's just like your opinion man

Sad Shroom

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