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[center][b][i][h1][color=SteelBlue]Wyatt Rhys[/color][/h1]
Friday Evening, October 7th, 1994[/i][/b][/center]

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[indent]Friday was a slow one at the shop, especially after an usually frantic week that'd left the minds and bodies of me and my work buddies bruised and battered. To celebrate such a freak occurrence, Merle'd graciously called it quits around 3, a decision which no one took issue with. 

After getting home and trudging through some needed maintenance on the front brakes of my beloved F-350, I lugged my tools and work bag up 6 flights of stairs (trading a good evening with Alton), opened my door, and conked out on my dilapidated couch half past 5.

It took the sound of shattering glass and horrific screams in the street below to pull me out of my sleep. Scrambling to my window, I searched for the source of the commotion, only to find myself staring into a hazy grey mist. It reminded me of fog, but somehow different. More opaque— and blood-chillingly sinister. Wiping a band of cold sweat off my brow, I moved into my kitchen, and checked the time on the microwave. 7:23.

Still in my jumpsuit, I moved to my door where I'd kicked off my work boots and pulled them on, fumbling with the laces for a bit. Thoughts were racing through my mind as to what'd happened. It didn't look [i](or sound)[/i] like any fog that I'd seen. A gas explosion? Terrorist attack? Bomb? What was that screaming? Was there an accident?

I cursed myself for putting off fixing my TV so long, and went to the landline which hung off the kitchen wall. I punched in the number of my sister, Marianne, and leant against the wall, clutching my scalp. The shock of my discovery wore off with the phone's ringing, and even when my call wasn't answered (for the third time, plus a couple tries at the police department), I replaced the phone and drew in a heavy breath. 

I was fine. She would be fine too— this was probably something local. The screams? What was I afraid they were? There wasn't gunfire. Probably just an accident from the fog, or gas explosion, or bomb... whatever it was. More and more, my stoic, rational side pushed my initial terror into the back of my brain, and I resolved that I should go downstairs and see if I could help with whatever'd happened.

I picked my baseball cap off of the floor, embroidered with the name and logo of Merle's Shop. I dusted some lint off, and pulled it onto my head, grabbing my keys and moving into the hallway. I took some time to lock my door behind me, and then near sprinted to the stairwell, skipping two steps at a time to make it to the lobby as fast as possible. 

When I got there, I saw a gathering of my fellow residents and heard an ongoing conversation, spoken in frantic, worried tones. Evidently, I wasn't the only one who was freaked out.

I certainly wouldn't call myself a socialite, but my reclusive tendencies usually took a backseat when there was something serious going on, and this was no exception.

[indent][quote][color=dodgerblue]"... Not the police. Not the military. Face it; we're already fucking dead no matter what we do."[/color][/quote][/indent]
My brows pulled together in confusion. Military? What was he talking about? 

[indent][quote]Emma turned to the man, a certain expression on her face that should have clearly communicated her displeasure with his choice of verbiage. [color=#dd61ff]“Mind your language,”[/color] she added rather sternly, placing her right arm around her son’s shoulder in a seemingly protective manner.[/quote][/indent]
I agreed. Jumping in with as confident a tone as I could muster, I projected my voice across the lobby. [color=SteelBlue]"The lady's right, there's no need for that."[/color]

I winced inside, aware of my accent which had always set me apart from the native New Englanders. Especially as a teenager, it had never done me any favors. [color=SteelBlue]"There're kids here."[/color]

I looked like I'd just climbed out of bed (which was the truth), my hair disheveled and my eyes still tired. Striding towards the door, I murmured some excuse mes to those in my path. [color=SteelBlue]"Did'yall hear that screamin'? Sounds like there'sn accident."[/color]

Upon reaching the door, I grasped the handle, ready to push it open. [color=SteelBlue]"Somebody call 911, my phone ain't workin'..."[/color]

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[indent][hider=Wyatt Rhys (CS)]
[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Rf6Pjtf.jpg[/img]
[sub](This but a bit heavier)[/sub][/center]
[INDENT][INDENT]
[color=SteelBlue][b]Name[/b][/color]
[indent]Wyatt L. Rhys[/indent] 

[color=SteelBlue][b]Age[/b][/color]
[indent]24 years[/indent]

[color=SteelBlue][b]Place of Residence[/b][/color]
[indent]Glenview Apartment Complex, Apartment 309[/indent]

[color=SteelBlue][b]Personality Traits[/b][/color]
[indent]Wyatt is a quiet, good-natured (at his core) sort. Hardworking, grounded, and occasionally witty, if mule-headed and somewhat unsociable. He was in a rougher place as a teenager (a time which he looks back on with regret), and his experiences have left him unusually jaded for his age. He's serious in his work, laid-back on his own time, and has a talent for maintaining a calm demeanor in stressful situations. This said, he can have a short temper occasionally, and is more prone to preemptively judging others than he'd like to admit. Being a small-town southerner only recently moved into the Glenview Apartment Complex, he takes excessive measures to prevent interaction with other tenants.[/indent]

[color=SteelBlue][b]Background[/b][/color]
[indent]Wyatt was born in the town of Highlands, North Carolina into a religious, solidly working-class household. His mother was an elementary school teacher and his father a mechanic. He has two living sisters, both older than him, and a deceased younger brother. Following the deaths of his father and younger brother at the hands of a drunk driver, his mother became addicted to opiates, and he left his home at age 12 to live with his older sister in Norton, Massachusetts where she worked as an accountant. 

Having a passion and prior education in automobiles due to his father, he pursued a career as an automotive mechanic following a rough adolescence of mostly petty criminality. This included shoplifting, underage drinking, smoking, drag racing, and even car theft, as well as some more violent activity. This escalated over the course of four years, and finally at age 17 he spent six months in a county jail for connection to a murder. Thanks to good legal counsel provided by his sister, the more severe charges brought against him were dropped, and he spent a little over a year on probation. In this time, he managed to straighten himself out (returning to church for the first time since his childhood), and forged a stronger bond with his sister. He struck out on his own to Boston, Massachusetts to take up a position at his nephew's shop, and has lived in the city for four months.[/indent]

[color=SteelBlue][b]Other Info[/b][/color]
[indent]An average sized man, standing at 5'11" and weighing 170 pounds. He has brown hair, blue eyes, and a North Carolinian drawl. His teeth are tinted yellow from a decade of smoking, and he has a higher tolerance for alcohol than his frame would suggest.

He loves cars, and currently owns two: a 1980 Ford F-350 pickup truck, and a 1975 Ferrari 308 sports car. Being young, single, and having an avid interest in automobiles, he puts the majority of his disposable income into their upkeep (and ongoing payments for the latter), and so his residence is dismally furnished.[/indent][/indent][/indent][/hider][/indent]
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