[hider=Victoria Stein][center][img]https://s28.postimg.org/j4gs2vs25/image.png[/img]
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[color=#18B150][b]{"[i]'What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty!'[/i]"}[/b][/color]

[color=#18B150][b]{"[i]'In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!'[/i]"}[/b][/color]

[color=#18B150][b]{"[i]That's complete horseshit, and you know it, yet you all look at me like [u]I'm[/u] a monster? Even I realized it was all just an act![/i]"}[/b][/color]
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[i] Main Hexcode || [color=#18B150]#18B150[/color] ||| Secondary Hexcode || [color=#ADB984]#ADB984[/color][/i]
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{[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c05aOG5p0P4]Another Brick in the Wall (3) || Pink Floyd[/url]}
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[color=#18B150][b]{"[i]There are two kinds of things in this world: those that please me, and those that hurt me. The latter have no reason to exist.[/i]"}[/b][/color]
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[color=#18B150][b]{"[i]I won't be put on trial for merely existing. If this world detests my life, I should rather seek a new world than a new life.[/i]"}[/b][/color]
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[color=#18B150][b]{"[i]What's so precious about my life, anyway? Even though nothing will come of it, here I am, still holding on. What a sick joke.[/i]"}[/b][/color]
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[center][b][color=#18B150]•[/color] [color=#ADB984]Personal History[/color] [color=#18B150]•[/color][/b][/center]

[center][i]"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of being: all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses." - Frankenstein, Chapter 11[/i][/center]

[color=#18B150]T[/color]hat being said, it wasn't long before I attained some basic comprehension of myself as an entity, and of the fact that I was a distinct being separate from the world around me. From that point, my awareness steadily grew as I incorporated new experiences into my overall conception of the world. As I thus endeavored to discern the nature of my embodiment, I swiftly came to a realization. For every pleasant experience I encountered, there was an equally unpleasant mishap that was to be feared. Hunger, thirst, and fatigue were some of the first I experienced, but as a whole I came to regard these sorts of things under one blanket category of misfortune: pain. So it was that, from the early stages of my infancy, it became my primary goal to avoid this "pain."

In hindsight, it seems easy to realize that I was never quite the same as anyone else. Although I was hardly unique in realizing that pain was to be avoided, I prudently ended my observations at that point. However, I was still naive. I assumed that everyone would simply do what was best for themselves, and otherwise wouldn't interfere in each other's affairs, simply because I myself understood that doing so was most expedient. I didn't realize just how wrong that idealistic assumption of mine was until I first saw a man die.

I don't remember why we were there - I was still quite young at the time, perhaps seven or eight. However, I vividly recall the scene itself as if it was yesterday. I was walking with my parents through an open shopping mall, when suddenly the crowd around us began to scream and scatter in all directions. My parents pulled me close, not wanting me to be trampled, but they didn't cover my eyes until I had already seen the spectacle that had incited so many people to flee in panic.

There was a man standing there at the center of the plaza, holding a gun to his head. I could hear the trigger clattering, because his hands were shaking. Then, in the next instant, there was a loud bang, and just like that, he fell to the ground. The moment the shot went through his skull, the opposite side of his head had cracked open like a melon, and blood splattered everywhere. Some droplets landed on my cheek, and I reached to rub them off, but thought better of it, because I remembered that blood was sticky and that if I rubbed it, I'd only rub it deeper into my skin. So, I thought better of it, and instead used a handkerchief to remove it as cleanly as I could. All the while, my parents were screaming at me and trying to pull me away, yelling at me not to look - as if merely looking would somehow force me to share in the man's fate.

But I wanted to understand what it was I'd just seen, so I asked them why he, a perfectly functional living being, had chosen to break himself in such an obviously painful manner. It didn't make sense. Why would someone who should have wanted to avoid pain instead cause it? And what was more, why had his hands been shaking? My hands only shook when I was cold or afraid. It had been a warm summer day, so then he must have been afraid. But the only thing to fear was the pain that he himself was inflicting, so in that case, why cause it at all? It seemed incomprehensible to me to do something so irrevocable when one wasn't certain of one's actions. How could he have been so foolish?

Needless to say, my parents never answered my question, but instead sought "psychiatric help," assuming I was somehow damaged from the experience. When the doctor asked me how I felt, I was already frustrated and impatient, so I told him as much - that it wasn't my problem, and I thought it was stupid. When I said those words, I remember clearly the look on the doctor's face, and on the faces of my mother and father. It was like they were looking at something they'd never seen before, something dangerous.

[i]Like the thing in front of them wasn't even Human.[/i]

I asked what I'd said wrong, and they lectured me about speaking ill of the dead. I didn't understand their reasoning, but I realized that I'd get nowhere unless I simply smiled and nodded. This was what was expected of me, so naively I played along. I realized that it was my questions that were somehow the problem, so I stopped asking questions. This kept things quiet for at least a few more years - until I was already almost done with elementary school. Yet, once again, I was undone by my own naivete.

A classmate of mine - I can't remember her name anymore - was being bullied. She was a boring person to talk to, however, so I didn't pay her much mind. However, the teacher grew very angry at me when another student brought the problem of the bullying to her attention, and she lectured me about how I should have done something to prevent it. Personally, I thought her demands were outrageous. I wasn't physically strong or intimidating, so it wasn't as if I could scare them away or force them to stop. And, if I told the teacher, they'd just wait until she left and then target me next for spoiling their game. Either way, it was troublesome, so I hadn't bothered. The teacher wouldn't accept this, however, and demanded that I intervene if I ever saw something amiss in the future.

Needless to say, the bullies didn't stop just because they were told to, and the very next week, they were back at it again. I weighed my options, and came to a conclusion. I couldn't ignore the situation without being lectured or even punished, and I couldn't simply ask someone else to deal with it without calling their anger upon myself. Thus, I reasoned, I'd have no choice but to intervene directly, and do so in a way that would ensure that my classmate's antagonists would see the danger in attempting to perpetuate their little games upon me. Being a fan of rather factually inaccurate action movies, my childish mind set upon a plan that was flawed from the outset. Since I lacked strength, I would need a weapon. Next, I'd need to thin their numbers so I couldn't be surrounded and brought down that way.

So, I took up a nearby chair and smashed the head of the one I deemed to be the ringleader, figuring that a hard hit to the head would knock him out harmlessly like I'd seen in the movies, and his goons would scatter in fear. Just like that, I'd solve the problem, and go back to my peaceful life. Needless to say, however, that isn't what happened. And, as the boy's body hit the floor of the empty classroom, blood oozing from the crack I'd put in his head, the image called to mind the dead man I'd seen as a child, and I dropped the chair and uttered words I'd regret for the rest of my life.

[color=#18B150]"Oops. I killed him."[/color]

Needless to say, I hadn't. Although his bloody head wound required stitches and his bruised skull took time to heal, the boy was back at school within a week. However, that didn't matter. Even though it had clearly been a mistake, even though I explained my reasoning afterward, everyone treated me as if I'd tried to kill him deliberately, or even as if I'd succeeded at doing so! There were more doctors, more questions, pills they tried to force down my throat so I'd become more compliant, more placid. There were talks with my parents where they tossed around words I couldn't understand - "Psychopath," "Sadist," "Mentally Unstable," and other such "diagnoses." Finally, they settled on the one they liked best.

"Sociopath." I looked the term up to see what it meant. "A person suffering from Antisocial Personality Disorder." That alone set my hair on end. "Suffering?" I wasn't suffering at all. Up until that point, my life had been quite pleasant. I looked a little further. This "disorder" that I was apparently "suffering" from was described to me thus: "a personality disorder that is characterized by antisocial behavior exhibiting pervasive disregard for and violation of the rights, feelings, and safety of others starting in childhood or the early teenage years and continuing into adulthood."

It didn't make sense. This "disorder" they claimed afflicted me was the sin of simply not being my brother's keeper. Because I didn't feel inclined to inflict pain upon myself to better others, as if they couldn't take care of themselves, I was somehow flawed, somehow dangerous? What about those boys who'd been incessantly picking on that girl? Surely, they hadn't been "regarding" her rights, feelings, and safety by tormenting her constantly! Why weren't they called sociopaths, then, treated as if they were monsters? The answer was simple. Because they'd held themselves back, because they hadn't broken anything anyone needed, their actions were socially acceptable. To take pleasure in the pain of others is "normal," when one enjoys only a little bit of suffering at once. Those men of wisdom and taste call this "Schadenfreude." To cause pain to others out of necessity, however, even though one takes no joy in it, is the mark of a monster. Well, then let me be called a monster for acting in accordance with the dictates of reason! Let me be the one shunned and hated, the one whose name is whispered fearfully around every corner by voices that hush themselves as soon as I draw near! So it was that I was undone by my own logic, and I came to understand the unreasonable expectations of human beings. I was born free - it was society that put these chains upon me.

I don't feel inclined to rehash the happenings of the next several years. Suffice to say, that careless action meant to escape pain and inconvenience only brought a thousandfold more misery upon me. No matter where I went, it was as if my "crime" was branded upon my face for all to see, and sure enough that word would follow me. "Sociopath." A demon in human skin. Someone who cared more to live than to serve. A danger to be eliminated.

I was fortunate just to be ignored and left alone. At first, I comforted myself with the words of Machiavelli, that it was better for me to be feared than loved. However, the advantage of numbers does a lot against fear, and soon enough the scary monster became little more than a freak show on display. People wanted proof, to see that I was really as "insane" as they said I was. So began the bullying. Something would be stolen today, or vandalized tomorrow, all while the culprits hid away before I could arrive. I inquired politely of any witnesses I could find, but I seldom got answers. If I tried to bring my predicament to the teachers, they'd make a token effort to find the culprit, but that seldom got me anywhere. And, if I tried to stand up for myself, the instigators would invariably claim that I'd been the one harassing them. They'd be sent home with a warning. I would be sent to the therapist. The slow pain of their torment was better than the indignity of being convicted of a crime of which I was the victim, so after a while, I learned to shut up.

It wasn't any one person who was the enemy, who was the root cause of my pain. It was society itself. So, I fled from society. Any time I could, I locked myself in my room, and whenever I was outside, I spoke to no one. I ignored my misery as best I could, and did my best to pretend that Humanity didn't exist. All the while, I wondered if this was what that man had felt when he pulled that trigger. It was him versus society, and he had only so many bullets. The outcome was obvious before he even started, so he gave up. I contemplated doing the same myself, but decided against it. I wouldn't have been able to get a gun given my "mental instability," and other methods of suicide seemed too inefficient - too risky. Even if they actually killed me, it would be slow and painful, and that was hardly better than the mild agony I currently endured. And, if I wasn't certain, I wouldn't commit to such an irrevocable course of action. When my life ended, I didn't want my hands to be trembling as his had been. I didn't want to die without knowing that I'd made the right choice.

So, I kept on living, and thought it over again. I had one life. It was, by and large, a pointless thing, but it was mine, and that was what mattered. The world, however, had never concerned me, nor was it at all a thing I could call my own. So, instead of destroying my own life, there was only one course of action ahead of me: the choice that the man I'd seen as a child had been too scared to make.

I want to destroy the world - or at the very least, to destroy society. I want to erase all of the illogical pain, all of the irrational hatred. I want to build a wall between myself and the outside, and push everything that doesn't make sense outside, where it can't do anything to me, where it won't matter anymore. If it means obtaining the means to do that, the "magic bullet" I need to kill this unreasonable world rather than simply killing myself, then no effort is too great, no price too steep to pay. I know next to nothing about this "Naraka," and the whole notion of a killing game such as this seems rather tiresome, not to mention cliche. But if there's a chance... Then the only logical course of action is to do it, right? It's only natural that I should want things like this, right?! After all, [i]I'm a monster![/i] And everything else... Well, it's as the song says.

All in all, you were all just bricks in The Wall.

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[color=#18B150][b]{"[i]I've had enough. Survive? Die? Who cares?! Either way, I'll have my peace of mind at last.[/i]"}[/b][/color]
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[center][b][color=#18B150]•[/color] [color=#ADB984]Skills, Interests, and Abilities[/color] [color=#18B150]•[/color][/b][/center]

[b][color=#18B150]•[/color] [color=#ADB984]Literary Obsession:[/color][/b] The culmination of a prolific literary interest coupled with a tremendously keen memory. A veritable database of quotes, tropes, and idioms is perpetually at Vi's disposal. As such, she's not only capable but also tremendously fond of quoting from a variety of different classical texts, be it as evidence to prove a point, an introduction to a new conversational topic, or simply to sound profound. A rather useless talent by practical standards, but amongst fellow bookworms it might at least command some level of respect? Either way, it's a sign of an uncanny knack for remembering information, which might be useful if applied to something more practical.

[b][color=#18B150]•[/color] [color=#ADB984]Rational Analyst:[/color][/b] An ability inherent to the user's identity, necessitating a uniquely unbiased viewpoint from which to view one's own circumstances, and those of the people around her. Indeed, it could be said that this ability could only come naturally to an unfeeling monster, and its mere presence is a sign of some level of mental pollution. This skill allows Vi to remain uniquely detached not only from the plights of others and feelings that would ordinarily be inspired upon witnessing such tragedies, but also from the clouding of her own emotions. This entails the ability to keep calm in the face of burning anger, and to think through one's decisions rationally rather than behaving recklessly. Although this skill's applications are limited without the power to back it up, it nevertheless means that Vi is more than mentally prepared to kill without a second thought, and her strategies are only limited by her own creativity - or lack thereof - and the means available to her.

[b][color=#18B150]•[/color] [color=#ADB984]One Breath Walking:[/color][/b] Although lacking in any sort of combat experience or martial proficiency, or even any physical inclinations, the user is nevertheless gifted with a natural awareness of one's own body, positioning, and posture. Vi is capable of moving herself from point A to point B without overbalancing herself or losing control of her breathing. This doesn't sound like much, but it's better than stumbling around and flailing clumsily. And, while she's far from apt at physical combat, at the very least, she's capable of employing her powers with minimal exertion on her part.

More may be added to this list as her abilities are revealed.
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[center][b][color=#18B150]•[/color] [color=#ADB984]Miscellaneous Information[/color] [color=#18B150]•[/color][/b][/center]

[b][color=#18B150]•[/color][/b] Vi usually isn't found without her earbuds blasting some kind of music in her ears to help her block out the world.

[b][color=#18B150]•[/color][/b] She tends to frequent several internet chatrooms under the handle "BenevolentFiend," since on the internet, nobody knows you're a sociopath, and she enjoys the experience of being able to converse with people without that stigma.

[b][color=#18B150]•[/color][/b] As mentioned above, she HATES being called Vicky. There's no deeper reason to this. She just doesn't like the way it sounds.

[b][color=#18B150]•[/color][/b] She likes red meat, dressing as a mad scientist, letting her hair fall over her face to make her look like a vengeful spirit, and evil laughing. Because, hey, if she's a monster, why not have some fun with the role?

[b][color=#18B150]•[/color][/b] She tends to fixate somewhat on people's hands - probably a lingering observational tendency caused by her experience watching a suicide. Either way, she can tell a surprising amount about someone just by looking at the way their hands move.[/hider]