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Jun. 5th, 2013 01:56 pmOOC
Player Handle: Fade
Email/Aim/Plurk: [Email] silverhorse109@yahoo.com [AIM] WhiteEyesFade
Time Zone: Central during the summer, eastern US during the rest of the year
Other: Email is the best way to catch me. I have limited internet access during the summer (I.e I have my phone and occasional library visits to use the computers) and my little phone curls up and dies at the thought of html. JUST SO YOU KNOW. I’m notoriously shy but equally notorious about writing anything at any time. Have an idea, hit me up.
IC
Fandom/World Setting: Original. Sci-fi/horror. Genetic mutations, bad science, and human nature gone brutal.
Character Name: Zeva Aragos
Character Age (and point taken from canon): 15, after the gunship crash
Personality: This is what happens when the rock meets the hard place and likes it. This is what happens when two strangers hate each other and have a kid, then die and leave that kid to fend for herself. Zeva comes from a difficult and brutal place, and became brutal and difficult in turn. She’s a small girl in a large and dangerous world; she knows this but tends to ignore it, barreling face first into a world that barely makes sense. Fight or die, that’s what she’s learned, and she’s a survivor above all. She never runs, never backs down, never surrenders. She’ll take a beating or fall with a gun to her head rather than back down. This is a relatively new phenomenon, however; there was a time before Zeva could fight, and she cannot squash the memories of being small and helpless.
She’s still small, as it is. But she makes do. And nobody ever forgets what she can do with a knife.
Despite her hostility, Zeva knows how to be polite. She isn’t often, but sometimes she puts on a smile and the nicer words. Not that many people really fall for her smile; she’s not very good at that particular expression. Sneering is another matter all together.
Simplistic in her opinions, Zeva rarely lets things fall into shades of gray. There is her and then there is the rest of the world. Then there is her, and her allies, and on the other side, everyone else. She’ll die fighting and occasionally even for her allies, but she’s practical to the extreme. If you don’t count as a friend or someone useful, she’ll let you fall. Conversely, she’ll expect the same of anyone else, even – especially – the people she considers her friends.
Or so she would like to believe.
In truth, Zeva is still a teenager, still struggling to find a place for herself in the world. She craves stability despite her quick adaption to change, and wants people to be around and trust. But instead of seeking that out, she stalks people from a distance, following them silently and rarely, if ever, approaching them openly. She’s shy but sharp in conversation, a barbed word never far. When she’s alone she plays music on a battered guitar and drowns out the world on an equally battered music player. Hard rock, of course. She thinks no one knows.
Appearance: PB is Isabelle Fuhrman.
At 5’2 and barely over a hundred pounds, Zeva is not a big kid. She’s sharp featured and gangly, all elbows and gangly limbs. As far as growing goes, she has a fair amount left to do. A poor diet and too much damage on her bones have left her stunted, but she has the potential to fill out and get taller. She slouches most of the time, but will go into tense high-alert at the slightest hint of a threat.
Clothes are simple, long sleeves and combat boots preferred. Sometimes she’ll wear a coat to hide her weapons, but it usually gets tossed aside once the fighting starts. She professes not to like girly things and will fall on her face if she tries walking in heels. However, Zeva has a weakness for shiny jewelry – especially earrings, though she rarely wears them. Her casual wear is cargo pants and a tank-top. Zeva almost always wears gloves.
Zeva is pale as hell, with a dusting of freckles across her nose, and black hair. It goes to her shoulders in a wild wave, though she usually ties it back. Occasionally she spikes it with grease.
There are a series of metal knobs drilled into her skin along the edges of her spine, surrounded by thin scars. Zeva herself is heavily scarred, though tends to hide the fact. It gets her noticed too often.
The worst of her scars rest in the center of both palms, perfect circles of raised scar tissue. She can move her hands well enough, but they get stiff in cold or wet weather.
History: It’s important to remember that Zeva’s world is not ours. It’s also important to remember that she grew up in the aftermath of a war and saw the beginning of another, though she fought in neither and didn’t really care for the reasons behind the fighting. The combat and the fallout was simply a reality of her existence; she learned to adapt. Zeva was born to mercenary parents in a place Call of Port. Her mother was a gunner and her father a traveling sniper. They had a moment and then a tenuous relationship, dying later of an airborne disease that knocked out a good portion of the city’s population as well. Zeva doesn’t remember her parents very well. She was six when they died and from then on, she lived on the streets, stealing to survive and learning how to run very, very fast. Most of her early life is a blur. She prefers to keep it that way.
When she was nine, she was recruited into the Shadow Saints and began serving as a foot soldier. Zeva had planned on joining the army when the time came, but the recruitment age was fourteen and she was hungry then. She caught the attention of Beaver and Mask, recruiters for the gang. They were impressed by Zeva’s determination and her drive to fight, as well as her lack of a family. Zeva was initiated into the gang right away. She ran with the heavy hitters for a long time and learned how to fight. She liked it, too. The Shadow Saints gave her a place to sleep, combat training, bodymods, and most importantly, a sense of belonging. What it did not provide her with was an education, social skills, or a childhood.
All of this occurred during the aftermath of one civil war and the beginning of another. Zeva had no interest in either, but they influenced her life nonetheless. By joining the Shadow Saints, she had a safe place to stay and food to eat. By staying with them, she could fight and protect herself. She didn’t have to beg for food or turn to something more dangerous to survive.
Zeva stayed with the gang until she was fourteen, when she was kicked out for making a mistake on a job and nearly killed for it. From then on, she’s been running and doing odd jobs. Most recently she joined up with a smuggler captain named Hannibal Rex and has been playing trigger man for his crew, the muscle to their smarts. She became close with one of the pilots, Ruby, though trust is not something Zeva has much experience with. She stayed with the crew for a year, until the gunship crashed and burned. Though Zeva survived the crash with minimal injuries, she was still stranded out in the Wastes with no backup.
It’s almost fortunate that she was dragged into New York when she was.
Fighting Abilities/Other Skills: Zeva has been trained as a brawler and soldier. She works best as a mid to long-range fighter, fast but not physically very strong. Oh, she’s tougher than most girls her size, but she’s still a teenager. A short teenager. Though she can take a hard beating, she still goes down with a few good hits. She’ll go down snarling and fighting the whole way, but that doesn’t always matter. She can handle a blaster cannon, long-range tactical rifle, and handguns. When it comes to firearms, Zeva prefers the tactical rifle and the handguns; she always has several on her. Grenades are also a favorite.
She started out learning with knives, however, and has the most talent with them. Throwing, fighting, slashing; you name it, she’ll do it. However, when it comes to close combat she prefers to use a tomahawk; easy to wield, even easier to throw.
It’s important to recognize that Zeva is at heart a street fighter. She’s mean and determined, and knows a hundred nasty tricks. There’s nothing she won’t do to survive. She’ll bring a gun to a knife fight without thinking about it.
In addition to physical training and strategic deployment, she has several combat based bodymods implanted. The first increases her speed past what should be possible for a human, encoded directly into her DNA. She’s damn fucking fast. Not enough to outrun a car, or a bullet, but she can leap from one place to another faster than almost anything. The second mod is a tactical one, boosting her tactical awareness. Basically it’s a computer chip drilled into her spine that increases her natural wariness to ten. If the mod senses a threat, Zeva will know it.
The downside to having bodymods is that even the best malfunction from time to time. Zeva’s were not implanted by a professional and malfunction more than most. Malfunctioning can be as simple as the mods not working, or as bad as sending shocks through her nerve endings, or overriding her brain with too many images. She’s more susceptible to electric shock as a result. With the second mod, the risk is increased paranoia and sometimes psychosis, as well as sensory overload. It doesn’t happen every day or even every month, but it does happen from time to time.
Non-combat skills include cooking, weapons maintenance, petty thievery, and lock picking. She’s decent at playing guitar too.
Questions:
Is your character going to need any special accommodations? Her combat-mods are going to malfunction from time to time. She’ll need help dealing with that.
Pick a cell-phone or smart-phone: iphone 5.
Choose some song lyrics, poem, or favorite quote that describes or defines something of your character:
I’m bigger now, I’m stronger now
My fingers curl
They’re talons now
My weeping eyes
Are burning now
My cloven feet
Are dancing now
And now I’m dancing for the doomed and the damned
And I’m advancing with dirty hands
And now I’m prancing for the man, isn’t it grand?
I have become
My very own boogeyman
Boogeyman, Johnny Hollow
So now you know why the devil is laughing
Leaving you haunted tonight
Guarded, Disturbed
Show me how to use
All these things that you gave me
Turn me inside out so my bones can save me
My Name, Lhasa
Anything else you’d like to tell us about your character or app? Zeva does not like to be touched and will react violently to anyone who tries if it’s not part of a mission. Also, she’s basically illiterate.
Writing Samples
Third Person Sample:
Zeva rubbed her hands together, spitting. She was tired and sore, legs protesting, hands cold and slow. The lights on the cockpit were mechanical stars, lighting up the night. The real ones might have been dead or just quiet; she didn’t know about stuff like that. Only that when she looked out the window, the only thing she could see was dust and sky. A big stretch of goddamn black. There were stickers and shiny things stuck to the knobs, personality where there wasn’t supposed to be any. Ruby’s problem. Hannibal had the controls, the others sleeping the last party off. He was a big man in a small chair, head shaved and tattooed with black spirals. Sometimes, when she was feeling twitchy, Zeva fantasized about grabbing the gold hoop in his ear and yanking it out. “You’re off, baby girl.”
“Shut up.”
Not like she wanted anyone to call her that.
Hannibal just snorted. He was still drinking.
Whatever. So long as he kept them up in the air, Zeva didn’t care. She flipped him off and went back to her cabin. It was small and empty, which was safer. But there were a few things she’d claimed for herself, warm blankets with well-worn patches and a map of the old republic tacked up to the wall. The city lines were outdated but she liked to look at it sometimes and wonder. Just wonder.
No harm in that, was there?
The guitar she kept hidden, because there could be harm in that. If she wasn’t careful, if she didn’t keep on guard…
But sometimes she just wanted to play, and it was okay so long as nobody knew and made it into a weakness. So she played. Pulled the guitar out from under her bunk and pulled at the strings until it was music and not just sound. Zeva played until her hands hurt and she couldn’t anymore. Then she slept.
For a little while, things were peaceful.
Freestyle Sample:
Second person, present tense
You are a small girl in a world of sharp edges. There are places where this matters, but only if you do not have the advantage, if you do not have the gun or the knife or the will to use them. But then you are also a survivor and so when Hannibal takes you aside from the others during breakfast, you don’t hesitate, you just go. When he tells you to kill somebody so they won’t bother the others, you don’t hesitate then either, just say, Sure. Fine. Just say the word.
Because that’s the simple thing. The easy thing. You like easy and you damn sure like violent, you understand it. It’s the be all and end all. Blood in the water, sharks come and eat. Better make sure they don’t eat you.
You don’t say any of that. Don’t really think it either, these things are just true. Nobody needs to say them.
Hannibal looks at you for a long moment, oddly.
You wonder if you scare him.
Probably not. But you’re small, you could get the drop on him. He’s not as fast as you, though he’s older and stronger.
But Hannibal just nods. “Go back now. Eat up, skinny girl.”
You sneer at him. You don’t like him, don’t hate him. Don’t feel very much about him one way or another. The others have different feelings, love or hate and in once case indifference, but there’s always respect buried down somewhere. More often than not, it comes close to the surface. Hannibal Rex has a way with people. He doesn’t scare them so much as listen, and that’s what makes him dangerous; he knows too much.
Sometimes you wonder what he knows about you.
You sit by Ruby and watch her talk, watch the others for weapons and tells until it’s time to go, and time to work.
Player Handle: Fade
Email/Aim/Plurk: [Email] silverhorse109@yahoo.com [AIM] WhiteEyesFade
Time Zone: Central during the summer, eastern US during the rest of the year
Other: Email is the best way to catch me. I have limited internet access during the summer (I.e I have my phone and occasional library visits to use the computers) and my little phone curls up and dies at the thought of html. JUST SO YOU KNOW. I’m notoriously shy but equally notorious about writing anything at any time. Have an idea, hit me up.
IC
Fandom/World Setting: Original. Sci-fi/horror. Genetic mutations, bad science, and human nature gone brutal.
Character Name: Zeva Aragos
Character Age (and point taken from canon): 15, after the gunship crash
Personality: This is what happens when the rock meets the hard place and likes it. This is what happens when two strangers hate each other and have a kid, then die and leave that kid to fend for herself. Zeva comes from a difficult and brutal place, and became brutal and difficult in turn. She’s a small girl in a large and dangerous world; she knows this but tends to ignore it, barreling face first into a world that barely makes sense. Fight or die, that’s what she’s learned, and she’s a survivor above all. She never runs, never backs down, never surrenders. She’ll take a beating or fall with a gun to her head rather than back down. This is a relatively new phenomenon, however; there was a time before Zeva could fight, and she cannot squash the memories of being small and helpless.
She’s still small, as it is. But she makes do. And nobody ever forgets what she can do with a knife.
Despite her hostility, Zeva knows how to be polite. She isn’t often, but sometimes she puts on a smile and the nicer words. Not that many people really fall for her smile; she’s not very good at that particular expression. Sneering is another matter all together.
Simplistic in her opinions, Zeva rarely lets things fall into shades of gray. There is her and then there is the rest of the world. Then there is her, and her allies, and on the other side, everyone else. She’ll die fighting and occasionally even for her allies, but she’s practical to the extreme. If you don’t count as a friend or someone useful, she’ll let you fall. Conversely, she’ll expect the same of anyone else, even – especially – the people she considers her friends.
Or so she would like to believe.
In truth, Zeva is still a teenager, still struggling to find a place for herself in the world. She craves stability despite her quick adaption to change, and wants people to be around and trust. But instead of seeking that out, she stalks people from a distance, following them silently and rarely, if ever, approaching them openly. She’s shy but sharp in conversation, a barbed word never far. When she’s alone she plays music on a battered guitar and drowns out the world on an equally battered music player. Hard rock, of course. She thinks no one knows.
Appearance: PB is Isabelle Fuhrman.
At 5’2 and barely over a hundred pounds, Zeva is not a big kid. She’s sharp featured and gangly, all elbows and gangly limbs. As far as growing goes, she has a fair amount left to do. A poor diet and too much damage on her bones have left her stunted, but she has the potential to fill out and get taller. She slouches most of the time, but will go into tense high-alert at the slightest hint of a threat.
Clothes are simple, long sleeves and combat boots preferred. Sometimes she’ll wear a coat to hide her weapons, but it usually gets tossed aside once the fighting starts. She professes not to like girly things and will fall on her face if she tries walking in heels. However, Zeva has a weakness for shiny jewelry – especially earrings, though she rarely wears them. Her casual wear is cargo pants and a tank-top. Zeva almost always wears gloves.
Zeva is pale as hell, with a dusting of freckles across her nose, and black hair. It goes to her shoulders in a wild wave, though she usually ties it back. Occasionally she spikes it with grease.
There are a series of metal knobs drilled into her skin along the edges of her spine, surrounded by thin scars. Zeva herself is heavily scarred, though tends to hide the fact. It gets her noticed too often.
The worst of her scars rest in the center of both palms, perfect circles of raised scar tissue. She can move her hands well enough, but they get stiff in cold or wet weather.
History: It’s important to remember that Zeva’s world is not ours. It’s also important to remember that she grew up in the aftermath of a war and saw the beginning of another, though she fought in neither and didn’t really care for the reasons behind the fighting. The combat and the fallout was simply a reality of her existence; she learned to adapt. Zeva was born to mercenary parents in a place Call of Port. Her mother was a gunner and her father a traveling sniper. They had a moment and then a tenuous relationship, dying later of an airborne disease that knocked out a good portion of the city’s population as well. Zeva doesn’t remember her parents very well. She was six when they died and from then on, she lived on the streets, stealing to survive and learning how to run very, very fast. Most of her early life is a blur. She prefers to keep it that way.
When she was nine, she was recruited into the Shadow Saints and began serving as a foot soldier. Zeva had planned on joining the army when the time came, but the recruitment age was fourteen and she was hungry then. She caught the attention of Beaver and Mask, recruiters for the gang. They were impressed by Zeva’s determination and her drive to fight, as well as her lack of a family. Zeva was initiated into the gang right away. She ran with the heavy hitters for a long time and learned how to fight. She liked it, too. The Shadow Saints gave her a place to sleep, combat training, bodymods, and most importantly, a sense of belonging. What it did not provide her with was an education, social skills, or a childhood.
All of this occurred during the aftermath of one civil war and the beginning of another. Zeva had no interest in either, but they influenced her life nonetheless. By joining the Shadow Saints, she had a safe place to stay and food to eat. By staying with them, she could fight and protect herself. She didn’t have to beg for food or turn to something more dangerous to survive.
Zeva stayed with the gang until she was fourteen, when she was kicked out for making a mistake on a job and nearly killed for it. From then on, she’s been running and doing odd jobs. Most recently she joined up with a smuggler captain named Hannibal Rex and has been playing trigger man for his crew, the muscle to their smarts. She became close with one of the pilots, Ruby, though trust is not something Zeva has much experience with. She stayed with the crew for a year, until the gunship crashed and burned. Though Zeva survived the crash with minimal injuries, she was still stranded out in the Wastes with no backup.
It’s almost fortunate that she was dragged into New York when she was.
Fighting Abilities/Other Skills: Zeva has been trained as a brawler and soldier. She works best as a mid to long-range fighter, fast but not physically very strong. Oh, she’s tougher than most girls her size, but she’s still a teenager. A short teenager. Though she can take a hard beating, she still goes down with a few good hits. She’ll go down snarling and fighting the whole way, but that doesn’t always matter. She can handle a blaster cannon, long-range tactical rifle, and handguns. When it comes to firearms, Zeva prefers the tactical rifle and the handguns; she always has several on her. Grenades are also a favorite.
She started out learning with knives, however, and has the most talent with them. Throwing, fighting, slashing; you name it, she’ll do it. However, when it comes to close combat she prefers to use a tomahawk; easy to wield, even easier to throw.
It’s important to recognize that Zeva is at heart a street fighter. She’s mean and determined, and knows a hundred nasty tricks. There’s nothing she won’t do to survive. She’ll bring a gun to a knife fight without thinking about it.
In addition to physical training and strategic deployment, she has several combat based bodymods implanted. The first increases her speed past what should be possible for a human, encoded directly into her DNA. She’s damn fucking fast. Not enough to outrun a car, or a bullet, but she can leap from one place to another faster than almost anything. The second mod is a tactical one, boosting her tactical awareness. Basically it’s a computer chip drilled into her spine that increases her natural wariness to ten. If the mod senses a threat, Zeva will know it.
The downside to having bodymods is that even the best malfunction from time to time. Zeva’s were not implanted by a professional and malfunction more than most. Malfunctioning can be as simple as the mods not working, or as bad as sending shocks through her nerve endings, or overriding her brain with too many images. She’s more susceptible to electric shock as a result. With the second mod, the risk is increased paranoia and sometimes psychosis, as well as sensory overload. It doesn’t happen every day or even every month, but it does happen from time to time.
Non-combat skills include cooking, weapons maintenance, petty thievery, and lock picking. She’s decent at playing guitar too.
Questions:
Is your character going to need any special accommodations? Her combat-mods are going to malfunction from time to time. She’ll need help dealing with that.
Pick a cell-phone or smart-phone: iphone 5.
Choose some song lyrics, poem, or favorite quote that describes or defines something of your character:
I’m bigger now, I’m stronger now
My fingers curl
They’re talons now
My weeping eyes
Are burning now
My cloven feet
Are dancing now
And now I’m dancing for the doomed and the damned
And I’m advancing with dirty hands
And now I’m prancing for the man, isn’t it grand?
I have become
My very own boogeyman
Boogeyman, Johnny Hollow
So now you know why the devil is laughing
Leaving you haunted tonight
Guarded, Disturbed
Show me how to use
All these things that you gave me
Turn me inside out so my bones can save me
My Name, Lhasa
Anything else you’d like to tell us about your character or app? Zeva does not like to be touched and will react violently to anyone who tries if it’s not part of a mission. Also, she’s basically illiterate.
Writing Samples
Third Person Sample:
Zeva rubbed her hands together, spitting. She was tired and sore, legs protesting, hands cold and slow. The lights on the cockpit were mechanical stars, lighting up the night. The real ones might have been dead or just quiet; she didn’t know about stuff like that. Only that when she looked out the window, the only thing she could see was dust and sky. A big stretch of goddamn black. There were stickers and shiny things stuck to the knobs, personality where there wasn’t supposed to be any. Ruby’s problem. Hannibal had the controls, the others sleeping the last party off. He was a big man in a small chair, head shaved and tattooed with black spirals. Sometimes, when she was feeling twitchy, Zeva fantasized about grabbing the gold hoop in his ear and yanking it out. “You’re off, baby girl.”
“Shut up.”
Not like she wanted anyone to call her that.
Hannibal just snorted. He was still drinking.
Whatever. So long as he kept them up in the air, Zeva didn’t care. She flipped him off and went back to her cabin. It was small and empty, which was safer. But there were a few things she’d claimed for herself, warm blankets with well-worn patches and a map of the old republic tacked up to the wall. The city lines were outdated but she liked to look at it sometimes and wonder. Just wonder.
No harm in that, was there?
The guitar she kept hidden, because there could be harm in that. If she wasn’t careful, if she didn’t keep on guard…
But sometimes she just wanted to play, and it was okay so long as nobody knew and made it into a weakness. So she played. Pulled the guitar out from under her bunk and pulled at the strings until it was music and not just sound. Zeva played until her hands hurt and she couldn’t anymore. Then she slept.
For a little while, things were peaceful.
Freestyle Sample:
Second person, present tense
You are a small girl in a world of sharp edges. There are places where this matters, but only if you do not have the advantage, if you do not have the gun or the knife or the will to use them. But then you are also a survivor and so when Hannibal takes you aside from the others during breakfast, you don’t hesitate, you just go. When he tells you to kill somebody so they won’t bother the others, you don’t hesitate then either, just say, Sure. Fine. Just say the word.
Because that’s the simple thing. The easy thing. You like easy and you damn sure like violent, you understand it. It’s the be all and end all. Blood in the water, sharks come and eat. Better make sure they don’t eat you.
You don’t say any of that. Don’t really think it either, these things are just true. Nobody needs to say them.
Hannibal looks at you for a long moment, oddly.
You wonder if you scare him.
Probably not. But you’re small, you could get the drop on him. He’s not as fast as you, though he’s older and stronger.
But Hannibal just nods. “Go back now. Eat up, skinny girl.”
You sneer at him. You don’t like him, don’t hate him. Don’t feel very much about him one way or another. The others have different feelings, love or hate and in once case indifference, but there’s always respect buried down somewhere. More often than not, it comes close to the surface. Hannibal Rex has a way with people. He doesn’t scare them so much as listen, and that’s what makes him dangerous; he knows too much.
Sometimes you wonder what he knows about you.
You sit by Ruby and watch her talk, watch the others for weapons and tells until it’s time to go, and time to work.
