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I am already in the process of writing my reply.
I was going to wait for Silver Fox to post, but depending on how long that takes, and how much free time I have, I may not.
In a gloomy recess towards the edge of the Metro Centre, half-hidden by sporadic shadows cast by the flickering overhead lamp that was on long list of things that needed to be amended, but it was menial in comparison to most others due to the low public frequentation, was a door. It was mad solid block of heavy bolted-iron, with no windows, slits, or means of seeing anyone knocking. Altogether a featureless and unassuming door, save for the metal disk that could be rotated upwards to reveal a keyhole. This was the residence of one: Edgar Oscar Constant.
The remoteness of his house, in an area haunted by none but a stray traveller or clueless child, spoke volumes about the man that dwelled within. An aloof man, rarely seen in public. He preferred his own autonomous existence for as long as he was able before he finally deemed it necessary to help the community he was reluctantly part off, less they confiscate his abode and, more importantly, all the meticulously hand-scrawled notes that were kept inside which had consumed the better half of the last twelve years of his life. The guards had come to terms with his odd habits, recognising him as a useful asset, as any attentive dweller would have also.
Currently, behind the locked door that was draped in shadows, Edgar was working by the light of an unshaded table lamp. It was one he had played with, so that a lower current ran through it; conserving energy and meaning it only spat of a meagre quantity of light ,so that his room was actually very dim, all besides the desk, which is all he needed to see. With a dextrous hand, the dwindling pencil held in a vice like grip as it flitted across the page of a well-used notebook, Edgar was able to transfer all his thoughts and ideas that may have come from the briefest moment of inspiration to paper, for future consideration, and potentially even the use of other lesser minds.
The verge of a breakthrough drew ever nearer, Edgar writing at a terrifying speed, the words and symbols scratched down with the fanaticism and excitement of a man who knew their importance, and was in unbelieving awe, yet it rendered him emotionless in a trance-like state that had soon enveloped him.
And then the voice from the intercom, breaking the strange meditation, and caused a great fury to rise up from within Edgar, that he smacked a fist to the desk and swore at a God whom he did not believe in. The recovering from this outburst of anger was quick; he was a logical and reasonable man, and not one who was so prone the tedious tendencies, such as brooding moods and angry vendettas.
He exhaled deeply, none the less, looking down at what he had written. Even when his time had been cut short, he had still made some progress; he knew now that he the Farads he needed on the capacitor for his latest project. It would of course require a visit to the surface, for which he doubted very much he would be able to find volunteers.
Nevertheless, he got up, snatching his satchel off the springy mattress of his bunk, and shoving his notebook and pencil into it, stringing his gasmask around his neck so that it hung loose, swaying with his step.
He opened the door, on the inside it had a valve that needed to be turned five times counter-clockwise to open; the lock on the outside was an addition made by Edgar, as it was the best he could do with the resources, a simple lock and key piece. He locked the door behind him, pocketing the key in his faded denim jeans, which he would has despised wearing before life down in the tunnels, but now it was the most practical thing, and practical things lasted a lot longer down here than pretty things.
He strode through the dirty streets, caked in trodden-in muck and biological waste and refuse. Even in his sturdy leather boots, Edgar was sure not to tread in puddles that looked like they might be deceptively bigger than they first appeared.
Even in the dark sheepskin coat the he wore, its cuff and collar showing off the oily-warm coat, Edgar bristled at the sheer number of people, throngs of them, all moving at varying speeds and velocities, their paths not quite predictable, yet somehow nobody seemed to be collided with one another.
He was not sure how long he was dissolved in his work, but he felt the slight bags under his eyes, and they ached when an area was too greatly illuminated. As such, he was not entirely sure what state the station was in; he could sense an air of worry, and noticed the lack of guards at his posts, but then remembered what had been said over the intercom; he had forgotten briefly in his pondering and absent-mindedness of reality.
The market area seemed to be thriving, as maggots thrive off a decaying carcass, blissfully ignorant of the threat behind the gates, and all too concerned with the what fraud they could pull on the next unsuspecting survivor. Edgar disliked the markets, far too many merchant were extortionate, and charged more than they needed to get by, trading goods away for easily half of the value they got.
Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing, Edgar thought, shaking his head sadly, which is precisely when he caught glimpse of a peculiar and beguiling band. The anthropomorphic figures stood out, even in the swarming station, particularly a beast that must have been eight feet tall.
Edgar had always held a special fascination for the Elvira, questioning many in his youth, but over time he had become more and more of a recluse, journeying out only to improve a generator or fix a grid fault, and they had become an increasingly intermittent sight for him to behold. More impressive, however, than the towering colossus, was a peculiar form with large ears akin to a rabbit’s; Edgar had been given several corpses of Elvira that had been killed beyond the confines of Metro Centre at his specific asking, and had found out a considerable amount about them, though since vivisection was never an option, it was not as much as he liked. As such, he considered himself to be fairly adept in anthropomorphic physiology and anatomy, and there was something about the slender frame that screamed of a uniqueness that Edgar could not quite place, and that enthralled a deep hunger for answers within himself.
Despite the urge to approach them, he knew it would be a mistake, his common sense telling him that if they did not assault him for his brashness and perhaps rudeness, then they certainly would not be compliant. This opportunity though, he knew was too good to miss, and perhaps they would even journey to the surface, where he could accompany them and find a capacitor suitable; it was not uncommon, from his knowledge of Elvira, he knew that they visited the surface in more recent years.
Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes, Edgar thought, remembering the words of Lord Henry Wotton. He shrugged, the worst that could happen was likely a bloody nose and a few missing teeth, but the counter side of the coin was experience and understanding that only field work could obtain.
Taking a deep breath, he strode towards the arousal of his attention, who was interacting with the group of Elvira, and after standing awkwardly at the edge of their attention, he took a step forward, and boldly stated, “I am, Edgar Oscar Constant proud servant of science, and curator of many a wonderful thing. It is with humblest intentions that offer my assistance to a spectacle that a great benevolence and serendipity bestowed upon me today, for the cost of only observing and learning more about your customs and ways.”
He took a deep bow. This was directed at the smaller two anthropomorphs, and he hoped to the high heavens that not even they heard, even though that was almost an impossibility, for the moment the words were out of his mouth, he realised how much of a fool he must have looked, even to a passer-by, let alone an Elvira. That was the last time he let himself listen to classical literature for advice.
The remoteness of his house, in an area haunted by none but a stray traveller or clueless child, spoke volumes about the man that dwelled within. An aloof man, rarely seen in public. He preferred his own autonomous existence for as long as he was able before he finally deemed it necessary to help the community he was reluctantly part off, less they confiscate his abode and, more importantly, all the meticulously hand-scrawled notes that were kept inside which had consumed the better half of the last twelve years of his life. The guards had come to terms with his odd habits, recognising him as a useful asset, as any attentive dweller would have also.
Currently, behind the locked door that was draped in shadows, Edgar was working by the light of an unshaded table lamp. It was one he had played with, so that a lower current ran through it; conserving energy and meaning it only spat of a meagre quantity of light ,so that his room was actually very dim, all besides the desk, which is all he needed to see. With a dextrous hand, the dwindling pencil held in a vice like grip as it flitted across the page of a well-used notebook, Edgar was able to transfer all his thoughts and ideas that may have come from the briefest moment of inspiration to paper, for future consideration, and potentially even the use of other lesser minds.
The verge of a breakthrough drew ever nearer, Edgar writing at a terrifying speed, the words and symbols scratched down with the fanaticism and excitement of a man who knew their importance, and was in unbelieving awe, yet it rendered him emotionless in a trance-like state that had soon enveloped him.
And then the voice from the intercom, breaking the strange meditation, and caused a great fury to rise up from within Edgar, that he smacked a fist to the desk and swore at a God whom he did not believe in. The recovering from this outburst of anger was quick; he was a logical and reasonable man, and not one who was so prone the tedious tendencies, such as brooding moods and angry vendettas.
He exhaled deeply, none the less, looking down at what he had written. Even when his time had been cut short, he had still made some progress; he knew now that he the Farads he needed on the capacitor for his latest project. It would of course require a visit to the surface, for which he doubted very much he would be able to find volunteers.
Nevertheless, he got up, snatching his satchel off the springy mattress of his bunk, and shoving his notebook and pencil into it, stringing his gasmask around his neck so that it hung loose, swaying with his step.
He opened the door, on the inside it had a valve that needed to be turned five times counter-clockwise to open; the lock on the outside was an addition made by Edgar, as it was the best he could do with the resources, a simple lock and key piece. He locked the door behind him, pocketing the key in his faded denim jeans, which he would has despised wearing before life down in the tunnels, but now it was the most practical thing, and practical things lasted a lot longer down here than pretty things.
He strode through the dirty streets, caked in trodden-in muck and biological waste and refuse. Even in his sturdy leather boots, Edgar was sure not to tread in puddles that looked like they might be deceptively bigger than they first appeared.
Even in the dark sheepskin coat the he wore, its cuff and collar showing off the oily-warm coat, Edgar bristled at the sheer number of people, throngs of them, all moving at varying speeds and velocities, their paths not quite predictable, yet somehow nobody seemed to be collided with one another.
He was not sure how long he was dissolved in his work, but he felt the slight bags under his eyes, and they ached when an area was too greatly illuminated. As such, he was not entirely sure what state the station was in; he could sense an air of worry, and noticed the lack of guards at his posts, but then remembered what had been said over the intercom; he had forgotten briefly in his pondering and absent-mindedness of reality.
The market area seemed to be thriving, as maggots thrive off a decaying carcass, blissfully ignorant of the threat behind the gates, and all too concerned with the what fraud they could pull on the next unsuspecting survivor. Edgar disliked the markets, far too many merchant were extortionate, and charged more than they needed to get by, trading goods away for easily half of the value they got.
Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing, Edgar thought, shaking his head sadly, which is precisely when he caught glimpse of a peculiar and beguiling band. The anthropomorphic figures stood out, even in the swarming station, particularly a beast that must have been eight feet tall.
Edgar had always held a special fascination for the Elvira, questioning many in his youth, but over time he had become more and more of a recluse, journeying out only to improve a generator or fix a grid fault, and they had become an increasingly intermittent sight for him to behold. More impressive, however, than the towering colossus, was a peculiar form with large ears akin to a rabbit’s; Edgar had been given several corpses of Elvira that had been killed beyond the confines of Metro Centre at his specific asking, and had found out a considerable amount about them, though since vivisection was never an option, it was not as much as he liked. As such, he considered himself to be fairly adept in anthropomorphic physiology and anatomy, and there was something about the slender frame that screamed of a uniqueness that Edgar could not quite place, and that enthralled a deep hunger for answers within himself.
Despite the urge to approach them, he knew it would be a mistake, his common sense telling him that if they did not assault him for his brashness and perhaps rudeness, then they certainly would not be compliant. This opportunity though, he knew was too good to miss, and perhaps they would even journey to the surface, where he could accompany them and find a capacitor suitable; it was not uncommon, from his knowledge of Elvira, he knew that they visited the surface in more recent years.
Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes, Edgar thought, remembering the words of Lord Henry Wotton. He shrugged, the worst that could happen was likely a bloody nose and a few missing teeth, but the counter side of the coin was experience and understanding that only field work could obtain.
Taking a deep breath, he strode towards the arousal of his attention, who was interacting with the group of Elvira, and after standing awkwardly at the edge of their attention, he took a step forward, and boldly stated, “I am, Edgar Oscar Constant proud servant of science, and curator of many a wonderful thing. It is with humblest intentions that offer my assistance to a spectacle that a great benevolence and serendipity bestowed upon me today, for the cost of only observing and learning more about your customs and ways.”
He took a deep bow. This was directed at the smaller two anthropomorphs, and he hoped to the high heavens that not even they heard, even though that was almost an impossibility, for the moment the words were out of his mouth, he realised how much of a fool he must have looked, even to a passer-by, let alone an Elvira. That was the last time he let himself listen to classical literature for advice.
And here it is.
Name: Edgar Oscar Constant
Age: 35
Faction Alignment: Unaffiliated; he cares little for politics or the personal agendas of the presumptuous enforcers of belief, preferring the company of his books and haphazard projects to that of other people.
History: Edgar was a bright young man, plunged into a dark future by the arrogant and self-righteous, and the war-pigs who perpetuated the tension of religious extremists and international threats threefold, catapulting the world into turmoil, filling its people with worry, and sinking despair, if they were not ignorant enough to serve their country with their blind sense of patriotism. The war did not determine who was right, only who was left.
There was no warning when the bombs dropped. No alarm. They were not dropped on soldiers, but on the innocent of the country that the soldiers were “fighting for”. Edgar was at his grandfather’s house when the unearthly bright light shone through the windows and illuminated the city; it was as though the gates of hell had been opened before them, and the mortals were about to be weighed and measured, and many would be found wanting.
The two relatives found their way to the railways stations after the heavenly force had levelled most of the city, Edgar’s quite paranoid grandparent insisting it would be the safest place, below the surface and away from civilisation. Of course, they had brought plenty of their books along with them; Edgar was a keen engineer, physicist and, chemist, also known to dabble in the biological side of science.
Two years after setting up a home, no more than a dishevelled hovel, but better than some of the squalid conditions, and far superior to the deeper tunnels, his grandfather died. Edgar became withdrawn after this event, as he had accompanied the man everywhere, the familiar voice comforting him in the way a mother’s voice soothes a crying babe, a family connection.
Having made no real connections, the introverted lifestyle Edgar adopted did not affect many people. He still respected the need for community effort and helped maintain lights, circuitry, and other engines that would have soon fallen into disrepair if not for his aid. However, aside from this, he was rarely seen out in public, his home behind a large metal door, wherein he tinkered with various pre-disaster bit of machinery and odd mechanisms, just to see what he could make, or how something worked, coming up with several amusing and potentially dangerous contraptions which he kept. Eventually, after the death of the residents next to Edgar, he was able to expand his abode, adding another smaller room, which house various putrefying or preserved bodies of irradiated creatures, such as rats or hounds, and sometimes larger, exploring and noting anything he discovered. Practically all the books he owned, stacked neatly against one wall, had been well read from cover to blurb at least thrice over. After fresh literature was no longer available, and he had the main ideas of all his books imprinted into his mind, available at any time for recall, Edgar’s self-propositions and investigations became the only medium for original and exciting knowledge to be reconnoitred. Edgar became perhaps a bit too consumed with his work, drawing even further to himself, coming out only once or twice a week when his mind was busiest.
Skills and Talents: A naturally talented and gifted individual, with a wealth-provided education, and a mind that could have challenged the greats, if not for the abrupt end to his prolonged and profound studies. He has knowledge of physics, engineering, chemistry and biology, and is well-versed into the ideas of many relevant authors, which he is proud of, adding to his aloofness.
Equipment And Weapons: Gas mask, knife, experiments and a modified dynamo torch
Appearance: Edgar, whilst not particularly old, has a grizzled face, with lines from stress and concentration plaguing around his eyes, mouth, and his brow. A slovenly kept beard, matted in several places from abandon and languidness from its owner, dominates the lower half of his face, above which rests a defined nose, and bright azure pools for eyes, which always seemed to be squinting in a most judgemental manner. Further above still, atop his head rests a straggled mop of loose curls, the same coal-black as his beard.
Location: Most likely “with the flames”.
Other things: Edgar has a curious fascination with anthropomorphism, not necessarily hating the afflicted, but not viewing them as equals either, more as a wonder that science need to explain and chart. He also speaks basic French and has an interest in classical poetry.
Name: Edgar Oscar Constant
Age: 35
Faction Alignment: Unaffiliated; he cares little for politics or the personal agendas of the presumptuous enforcers of belief, preferring the company of his books and haphazard projects to that of other people.
History: Edgar was a bright young man, plunged into a dark future by the arrogant and self-righteous, and the war-pigs who perpetuated the tension of religious extremists and international threats threefold, catapulting the world into turmoil, filling its people with worry, and sinking despair, if they were not ignorant enough to serve their country with their blind sense of patriotism. The war did not determine who was right, only who was left.
There was no warning when the bombs dropped. No alarm. They were not dropped on soldiers, but on the innocent of the country that the soldiers were “fighting for”. Edgar was at his grandfather’s house when the unearthly bright light shone through the windows and illuminated the city; it was as though the gates of hell had been opened before them, and the mortals were about to be weighed and measured, and many would be found wanting.
The two relatives found their way to the railways stations after the heavenly force had levelled most of the city, Edgar’s quite paranoid grandparent insisting it would be the safest place, below the surface and away from civilisation. Of course, they had brought plenty of their books along with them; Edgar was a keen engineer, physicist and, chemist, also known to dabble in the biological side of science.
Two years after setting up a home, no more than a dishevelled hovel, but better than some of the squalid conditions, and far superior to the deeper tunnels, his grandfather died. Edgar became withdrawn after this event, as he had accompanied the man everywhere, the familiar voice comforting him in the way a mother’s voice soothes a crying babe, a family connection.
Having made no real connections, the introverted lifestyle Edgar adopted did not affect many people. He still respected the need for community effort and helped maintain lights, circuitry, and other engines that would have soon fallen into disrepair if not for his aid. However, aside from this, he was rarely seen out in public, his home behind a large metal door, wherein he tinkered with various pre-disaster bit of machinery and odd mechanisms, just to see what he could make, or how something worked, coming up with several amusing and potentially dangerous contraptions which he kept. Eventually, after the death of the residents next to Edgar, he was able to expand his abode, adding another smaller room, which house various putrefying or preserved bodies of irradiated creatures, such as rats or hounds, and sometimes larger, exploring and noting anything he discovered. Practically all the books he owned, stacked neatly against one wall, had been well read from cover to blurb at least thrice over. After fresh literature was no longer available, and he had the main ideas of all his books imprinted into his mind, available at any time for recall, Edgar’s self-propositions and investigations became the only medium for original and exciting knowledge to be reconnoitred. Edgar became perhaps a bit too consumed with his work, drawing even further to himself, coming out only once or twice a week when his mind was busiest.
Skills and Talents: A naturally talented and gifted individual, with a wealth-provided education, and a mind that could have challenged the greats, if not for the abrupt end to his prolonged and profound studies. He has knowledge of physics, engineering, chemistry and biology, and is well-versed into the ideas of many relevant authors, which he is proud of, adding to his aloofness.
Equipment And Weapons: Gas mask, knife, experiments and a modified dynamo torch
Appearance: Edgar, whilst not particularly old, has a grizzled face, with lines from stress and concentration plaguing around his eyes, mouth, and his brow. A slovenly kept beard, matted in several places from abandon and languidness from its owner, dominates the lower half of his face, above which rests a defined nose, and bright azure pools for eyes, which always seemed to be squinting in a most judgemental manner. Further above still, atop his head rests a straggled mop of loose curls, the same coal-black as his beard.
Location: Most likely “with the flames”.
Other things: Edgar has a curious fascination with anthropomorphism, not necessarily hating the afflicted, but not viewing them as equals either, more as a wonder that science need to explain and chart. He also speaks basic French and has an interest in classical poetry.
Hello. Just posting to express my interest, and that I may make a CS.
Name: Marvin Braddock
Age: 19
Appearance:
Marvin has a pale complexion, and rich brown hair that is almost always meticulously greased and combed back clings close to his scalp. He nose is slightly large, and there is white scar tissue just above the bridge of it from where he was hit by shrapnel during the war. His eyes are a deep azure, but turn vibrant pink when he’s controlling his constructs, radiating light, and rest under eyebrows that are bordering on bushy. He has a strong jawline, normally clean shaven, a force of habit from the army, and because his hair grows in unsightly patches, again due to scar tissues from the same explosion, so hair can only grow on certain parts of his face. His teeth are in relatively good condition, mainly due to the shortages of food, which excluded luxuries from the diet, providing only commodities, and diet which has also left him quite lean. Normally, Marvin would wear a shirt and trousers, some of a few owned, often with a sweater-vest with multiple patches from repair on. For the bitterer of weather he also has a large overcoat. A couple of well-maintained and polished boots are also in Marvin’s possession.
Psionic Abilities:
Telepathy: Marvin is able to sense the emotions currently felt by an individual, and is sometimes aware of the foremost of their thoughts, though at present he is only able to observe these, and this happens sporadically, on very rare occasions. Over time the potency of his telepathy will develop and he will be able to influence the thoughts of others, and manipulate emotions by changing one’s perception of an event, though stronger emotions, such as love and hate, are more difficult to induce or change. As well as this, he will also be able read their minds at will, with a greater degree of precision. However, a thorough search would require physical contact- hands around the head would work best- and immense concentration on Marvin’s part. Moreover, a tumultuous mind would not be easy to penetrate, and reading the thoughts of an individual whilst their mind is in such condition would be near impossible due to the disarray of all consciousness. It can be resisted to a certain degree with a strong will to oppose psychic probing. Communication with other individuals via thoughts would also be viable, initially only over a short distance, but the range will increase, and eventually pave way for the creation of mindscapes, allowing him to project his thoughts inside another’s mind. Vision through the eyes of weaker minded beings, such as rats or pigeons would, in due course, be conceivable. At its most developed offensive potential, his telepathy could be used to “flay” the mind of a foe, causing them severe pain within the skull, alterations to their psyche, loss of memories, neurocognitive deficit, unconsciousness, and the disruption of neurone function, or even in the most ruthless of cases: death.
Psionic Constructs: Marvin is capable of focussing his mental capacity to form objects out of raw psionic energy, capable of providing offense, such as daggers, and utility, such as platforms and force-fields, and, with the given aptitude, can manipulate the size and position of these constructs after conception. The constructs are largely transparent, but are luminous, with a puce hue. It is capable for them to be both tangible and intangible at different times; they can be used to cut by being formed solidly, or to scramble nervous impulses, if made ethereal. This effect can be utilised in force-field after it has been developed, allowing for semi-permeable membranes, allowing certain things through, for example: allies, whilst blocking other things, projectiles for instance. The size and complexity of structures he is able to create will increase with use, as will the intricacy they interact with the environment, allowing for situational uses, such as fast flying psionic “bullets”, or multiple mental tendrils. Constructs can be broken with enough force, and Marvin will suffer a backlash of mental damage, decreasing the potency at which he wields his mutations for a short period. These can be created surrounding Marvin, or a short distance away within eyesight, potentially allowing him to asphyxiate somebody by creating an airtight field around their head. Potentially, this could be combined with the aforementioned ability to move his constructs, allowing for flight, as the force-field would eliminate the risk of bodily damage from rapid acceleration and friction, and act as a vehicle for motion. The magnum opus of this aspect of his abilities would be the last to develop, but also the most powerful: vector manipulation fields; the ability to change the magnitude and direction, the vector, of a body, regardless of the pre-existing forces exerted. It is limited though, as it requires time to centre his powers and produce this field, so fast moving projectiles cannot be feasible affected, and the range will also be extremely localised.
Skills:
Baking: He knows his breads from his cakes, to say the least; even with the shortcomings in supply, Marvin is able to bake resourcefully and their bakery has many loyal patrons as a result. His hands are surprisingly dexterous, due to the subtle differences in pressure and position they need to yield to make baking into an art.
Firearm experience: During the war Marvin learnt how to fire and gun; his shot isn’t that bad either.
Aptitude in chess: After the war, chess was one of the activities he used to distract himself in his spare time, often playing against his uncle, or one of Graham’s friends, building up a little skill in the game.
Fairly Fit: He served in the army, and so they trained him up a bit before sending him over to what was most likely going to be his death. The constant labour in the bakery has also helped him maintain a least a little muscles mass. He was also lucky enough to be relatively unharmed by the mustard gas; his tidal volume decreasing only slightly, rather than making him cough up his lung.
Brief Backstory:
Marvin’s birth was an unexpected one; his parents had not yet married, and neither of them had planned to take on the responsibility of a child, but his mother, Eileen, couldn’t even begin to consider abortion as an option, so opted to carry the baby, marrying shortly before his birth so they did not have a bastard son, and so the eagerly judgemental and prejudiced society did not end up despising them for forsaking tradition and what was “proper”. Despite this, contact with his father’s side was severed completely as they disapproved, however his mother’s side were slightly more liberal and forgiving.
The wedding was held on a tight budget, as neither of his parents were particularly fiscally endowed; his mother had no job, and his father, Stuart, was in the armed forces, not a well-paying job, but a respected one, given that he had served in the first world war, albeit, at a very young age, and so a few favours were rapid that day by those who felt they owed it. The cake was made by Stuart’s elder brother, Graham, a baker by trade, who also made the most exquisite ornaments for his sibling’s ceremonial cake. The day went close to perfect; the bride and groom were happy, the guests were well fed and smiling, everyone adored Graham’s artisanship, and indeed, it seemed like their love would be one that would stand the test of time, and last forever, right to the bitter end.
Unfortunately, that came a lot sooner than expected; Stuart was with his wife all throughout her labour in hospital, but even his presence could not stop the complications that were apparent afterwards, and by then they had already taken Eileen’s life.
Stuart tried to raise his son as best he could, but every time he saw the boy’s face, he was reminded of his wife’s, laying there expressionless in her coffin, eye-closed, on the day of her funeral. He could not bring himself to peace with her parting, and fell into heavy alcoholism- an environment not suitable for a child- which eventually led to Stuart taking his own life, as Eileen’s passing invoked guilt and regret, and deep remorse, viewing it as his fault, for killing during the war. Graham took Marvin into his own patriarchal care at the age of one, a move that was a deep show devotion to his brother’s memory, as he had no wife, and no want of a child of his own, but he soon warmed to the boy.
Consequently, Graham never told Marvin what his father did, but raised the boy on anecdotes spun of his Stuart’s heroism in the war, about taken on scores of enemies and defeating them single-handedly; there were stories relating to each medal or trinket that Graham could find; and he spun a mean tale, all of course as fantastical as the next, but the admiration in Marvin’s eyes was something that Graham didn’t mind telling a slight lie about, or exaggerating certain details.
Marvin was only of average intelligence, and so furthering his academic career by paying for tutors and higher education did not strike Graham as practical or beneficial; Marvin enjoyed school and being with friends, he was in fact a fairly sociable lad, but not gifted with the natural aptitude some were for thinking. Instead, Graham made him a full time apprentice, hoping that one day he would succeed him, since he had not children of his own: none save Marvin, who was a close a relative as he had. The bakery was adjoined to the small house Graham was lucky enough to own, so he didn’t have far to travel to work. And, work he did; within weeks Marvin had more or less picked up the various techniques used to bake all manner of items, and no small amount of pride was instilled in Graham, as he knew the boy would soon supersede him in skill.
During puberty Marvin began hearing voices in his head. Frightened and afraid that he was going insane, he kept the news from Graham, in case he tried to take him to a psychiatrist, and waste what little money they had on expensive medical care. As an alternative course of action, he just left it, hoping it would go away, but it did not, not most of the time anyway; around people there were a lot of voices, some louder than others, and sometimes when it was only him and his uncle, there was only one voice or none if his uncle was busy. Marvin may not have been a genius, but he recognised the correlation, and eventually observed and listened, discovering that they were in fact thoughts of the people around him, saturating his mind with menial worries and trivia. Though, he also noticed it didn’t happen all the time, and had no idea how, or even if it could be controlled, and with his introverted approach, he was not on the way to getting it.
News of the war always seemed to be fictitious, and far away, as if it was something that’d just blow over, and never affect their lives. How wrong they both were; even before Pearl Harbour the tension was obvious, even to those who wished ignorance and its blissfulness, so afterwards, volunteering and conscription should not have come as a shock, as America was dragged into the War.
Marvin volunteered, lying about his age, expecting to come back a hero, the way Graham had described his father, and man Marvin aspired to be like. The official writing down names at the recruitment setup only winked at him when Marvin said he was eighteen, and wrote down his name, regardless that he obviously knew it was a lie, for which Marvin was grateful. His uncle was ill, and deemed unfit to serve, but wished him luck and saw him off with what Marvin thought were tears in his eyes.
War. War was not what he expected.
Upon arrival to his post, the grim atmosphere made everything seem heavy and lethargic, and the stench of the dead and dying hung in the air, never seeming to leave or lessen. Every sound aroused suspicion in Marvin, and every shadow was an enemy. Soon he relaxed into the agenda of things; the trenches that he spent his time embedded in were familiar, and the dampness and cold was like an old friend that never left his side. Every now and then they would make a run for the enemy trench, either succeeding, or crawling back if you weren’t mowed down by machine gunfire. Planes dropped mustard gas, and if you could bear he pain of wearing your gas mask as the fumes attacked your skin, then you wouldn’t been hacking up your lungs come morning. The intermittent appearances of the thoughts of those around him gave him some comfort, he supposed, as at least they were mostly as desperate and as homesick as he was. He didn’t have a wife or children as some of the men did, only his uncle, but many a family man had been killed, some by his own gun, and he could not imagine how horrible it must have been for their wives; he knew a lot of them personally, and they were good, men, far more deserving of life than him, yet he outlasted them all.
He saw a great many things during that war: men live after being riddled with bullet holes, Germans being rescued by the side they were supposedly fighting, heck, he’d even seen one of his fellow soldiers charge into a tank to save him, though he supposed his was imagining that part, as it was peculiar and irrational; it took a while for Marvin to believe that he hadn’t died there. All of this, and nothing prepared him for what was to come.
Nothing…
When the war was nearing an end, Marvin was charged to help clear the concentrations camps. Before arrival, the war had always been about men against men, both armed with guns, and the willingness to kill. The camps were not like that; the victims, the Jews, were for all intents and purposes: innocent; the only reason they ostracised was because of one man’s hatred of them and the abuse of his power over the desperate, using the Jews as a scapegoat; somebody to blame for their own shortcomings. Humanity’s true nature made itself apparent to Marvin.
The atrocities committed in those camps horrified Marvin, and he could feel the anguish and primal hatred and loathing radiate from the Jews, experiencing their pain in the momentary thoughts he that cropped up in his mind. They were withered husks of what they once were wasted to the bone, a savagery awakened within them, reverting to a feral state to try and let their instincts save them. The systematic way they were disposed of and complete disregard for them, dead or alive, made Marvin throw up on the spot, and the bombardment of thoughts sent him into shock.
He was sent home because of his state, and spent two weeks in hospital, but was allowed to leave after getting an all clear. He was relieved to see his uncle again; whom he had sent many a letter to during his time in the trenches. But Marvin had changed, and they both knew it. He spent a large majority of him time working, and if not then he was likely reading, losing himself in a world that was not his own, or doing some such other thing to distract his mind, such as chess, or even counting the number of a certain item in a room, occupying himself. He was slightly detached, and not as willing to talk as usual, and certain sounds made him start. It was manageable though, but the thoughts were still flowing through the highway of his head.
So, when a man by the name of Charles Xavier approached him, and said he could help with Marvin’s “unique talents”, Marvin was at first a little apprehensive, fearing he may have been from the government, but went along to the prescribed location, and much to Marvin’s surprise, Xavier was able to help hone and control the passage of other thoughts, allowing Marvin to stop any entering, or hear the most prominent thought in one’s mind. Xavier assured Marvin that he had much more potential, and told him there were others with unique skills too, other mutants, some with similar to his, some vastly different.
Now he works at the bakery, picking up the slack of his increasingly ill uncle, visiting Xavier when it’s convenient.
Age: 19
Appearance:
Marvin has a pale complexion, and rich brown hair that is almost always meticulously greased and combed back clings close to his scalp. He nose is slightly large, and there is white scar tissue just above the bridge of it from where he was hit by shrapnel during the war. His eyes are a deep azure, but turn vibrant pink when he’s controlling his constructs, radiating light, and rest under eyebrows that are bordering on bushy. He has a strong jawline, normally clean shaven, a force of habit from the army, and because his hair grows in unsightly patches, again due to scar tissues from the same explosion, so hair can only grow on certain parts of his face. His teeth are in relatively good condition, mainly due to the shortages of food, which excluded luxuries from the diet, providing only commodities, and diet which has also left him quite lean. Normally, Marvin would wear a shirt and trousers, some of a few owned, often with a sweater-vest with multiple patches from repair on. For the bitterer of weather he also has a large overcoat. A couple of well-maintained and polished boots are also in Marvin’s possession.
Psionic Abilities:
Telepathy: Marvin is able to sense the emotions currently felt by an individual, and is sometimes aware of the foremost of their thoughts, though at present he is only able to observe these, and this happens sporadically, on very rare occasions. Over time the potency of his telepathy will develop and he will be able to influence the thoughts of others, and manipulate emotions by changing one’s perception of an event, though stronger emotions, such as love and hate, are more difficult to induce or change. As well as this, he will also be able read their minds at will, with a greater degree of precision. However, a thorough search would require physical contact- hands around the head would work best- and immense concentration on Marvin’s part. Moreover, a tumultuous mind would not be easy to penetrate, and reading the thoughts of an individual whilst their mind is in such condition would be near impossible due to the disarray of all consciousness. It can be resisted to a certain degree with a strong will to oppose psychic probing. Communication with other individuals via thoughts would also be viable, initially only over a short distance, but the range will increase, and eventually pave way for the creation of mindscapes, allowing him to project his thoughts inside another’s mind. Vision through the eyes of weaker minded beings, such as rats or pigeons would, in due course, be conceivable. At its most developed offensive potential, his telepathy could be used to “flay” the mind of a foe, causing them severe pain within the skull, alterations to their psyche, loss of memories, neurocognitive deficit, unconsciousness, and the disruption of neurone function, or even in the most ruthless of cases: death.
Psionic Constructs: Marvin is capable of focussing his mental capacity to form objects out of raw psionic energy, capable of providing offense, such as daggers, and utility, such as platforms and force-fields, and, with the given aptitude, can manipulate the size and position of these constructs after conception. The constructs are largely transparent, but are luminous, with a puce hue. It is capable for them to be both tangible and intangible at different times; they can be used to cut by being formed solidly, or to scramble nervous impulses, if made ethereal. This effect can be utilised in force-field after it has been developed, allowing for semi-permeable membranes, allowing certain things through, for example: allies, whilst blocking other things, projectiles for instance. The size and complexity of structures he is able to create will increase with use, as will the intricacy they interact with the environment, allowing for situational uses, such as fast flying psionic “bullets”, or multiple mental tendrils. Constructs can be broken with enough force, and Marvin will suffer a backlash of mental damage, decreasing the potency at which he wields his mutations for a short period. These can be created surrounding Marvin, or a short distance away within eyesight, potentially allowing him to asphyxiate somebody by creating an airtight field around their head. Potentially, this could be combined with the aforementioned ability to move his constructs, allowing for flight, as the force-field would eliminate the risk of bodily damage from rapid acceleration and friction, and act as a vehicle for motion. The magnum opus of this aspect of his abilities would be the last to develop, but also the most powerful: vector manipulation fields; the ability to change the magnitude and direction, the vector, of a body, regardless of the pre-existing forces exerted. It is limited though, as it requires time to centre his powers and produce this field, so fast moving projectiles cannot be feasible affected, and the range will also be extremely localised.
Skills:
Baking: He knows his breads from his cakes, to say the least; even with the shortcomings in supply, Marvin is able to bake resourcefully and their bakery has many loyal patrons as a result. His hands are surprisingly dexterous, due to the subtle differences in pressure and position they need to yield to make baking into an art.
Firearm experience: During the war Marvin learnt how to fire and gun; his shot isn’t that bad either.
Aptitude in chess: After the war, chess was one of the activities he used to distract himself in his spare time, often playing against his uncle, or one of Graham’s friends, building up a little skill in the game.
Fairly Fit: He served in the army, and so they trained him up a bit before sending him over to what was most likely going to be his death. The constant labour in the bakery has also helped him maintain a least a little muscles mass. He was also lucky enough to be relatively unharmed by the mustard gas; his tidal volume decreasing only slightly, rather than making him cough up his lung.
Brief Backstory:
Marvin’s birth was an unexpected one; his parents had not yet married, and neither of them had planned to take on the responsibility of a child, but his mother, Eileen, couldn’t even begin to consider abortion as an option, so opted to carry the baby, marrying shortly before his birth so they did not have a bastard son, and so the eagerly judgemental and prejudiced society did not end up despising them for forsaking tradition and what was “proper”. Despite this, contact with his father’s side was severed completely as they disapproved, however his mother’s side were slightly more liberal and forgiving.
The wedding was held on a tight budget, as neither of his parents were particularly fiscally endowed; his mother had no job, and his father, Stuart, was in the armed forces, not a well-paying job, but a respected one, given that he had served in the first world war, albeit, at a very young age, and so a few favours were rapid that day by those who felt they owed it. The cake was made by Stuart’s elder brother, Graham, a baker by trade, who also made the most exquisite ornaments for his sibling’s ceremonial cake. The day went close to perfect; the bride and groom were happy, the guests were well fed and smiling, everyone adored Graham’s artisanship, and indeed, it seemed like their love would be one that would stand the test of time, and last forever, right to the bitter end.
Unfortunately, that came a lot sooner than expected; Stuart was with his wife all throughout her labour in hospital, but even his presence could not stop the complications that were apparent afterwards, and by then they had already taken Eileen’s life.
Stuart tried to raise his son as best he could, but every time he saw the boy’s face, he was reminded of his wife’s, laying there expressionless in her coffin, eye-closed, on the day of her funeral. He could not bring himself to peace with her parting, and fell into heavy alcoholism- an environment not suitable for a child- which eventually led to Stuart taking his own life, as Eileen’s passing invoked guilt and regret, and deep remorse, viewing it as his fault, for killing during the war. Graham took Marvin into his own patriarchal care at the age of one, a move that was a deep show devotion to his brother’s memory, as he had no wife, and no want of a child of his own, but he soon warmed to the boy.
Consequently, Graham never told Marvin what his father did, but raised the boy on anecdotes spun of his Stuart’s heroism in the war, about taken on scores of enemies and defeating them single-handedly; there were stories relating to each medal or trinket that Graham could find; and he spun a mean tale, all of course as fantastical as the next, but the admiration in Marvin’s eyes was something that Graham didn’t mind telling a slight lie about, or exaggerating certain details.
Marvin was only of average intelligence, and so furthering his academic career by paying for tutors and higher education did not strike Graham as practical or beneficial; Marvin enjoyed school and being with friends, he was in fact a fairly sociable lad, but not gifted with the natural aptitude some were for thinking. Instead, Graham made him a full time apprentice, hoping that one day he would succeed him, since he had not children of his own: none save Marvin, who was a close a relative as he had. The bakery was adjoined to the small house Graham was lucky enough to own, so he didn’t have far to travel to work. And, work he did; within weeks Marvin had more or less picked up the various techniques used to bake all manner of items, and no small amount of pride was instilled in Graham, as he knew the boy would soon supersede him in skill.
During puberty Marvin began hearing voices in his head. Frightened and afraid that he was going insane, he kept the news from Graham, in case he tried to take him to a psychiatrist, and waste what little money they had on expensive medical care. As an alternative course of action, he just left it, hoping it would go away, but it did not, not most of the time anyway; around people there were a lot of voices, some louder than others, and sometimes when it was only him and his uncle, there was only one voice or none if his uncle was busy. Marvin may not have been a genius, but he recognised the correlation, and eventually observed and listened, discovering that they were in fact thoughts of the people around him, saturating his mind with menial worries and trivia. Though, he also noticed it didn’t happen all the time, and had no idea how, or even if it could be controlled, and with his introverted approach, he was not on the way to getting it.
News of the war always seemed to be fictitious, and far away, as if it was something that’d just blow over, and never affect their lives. How wrong they both were; even before Pearl Harbour the tension was obvious, even to those who wished ignorance and its blissfulness, so afterwards, volunteering and conscription should not have come as a shock, as America was dragged into the War.
Marvin volunteered, lying about his age, expecting to come back a hero, the way Graham had described his father, and man Marvin aspired to be like. The official writing down names at the recruitment setup only winked at him when Marvin said he was eighteen, and wrote down his name, regardless that he obviously knew it was a lie, for which Marvin was grateful. His uncle was ill, and deemed unfit to serve, but wished him luck and saw him off with what Marvin thought were tears in his eyes.
War. War was not what he expected.
Upon arrival to his post, the grim atmosphere made everything seem heavy and lethargic, and the stench of the dead and dying hung in the air, never seeming to leave or lessen. Every sound aroused suspicion in Marvin, and every shadow was an enemy. Soon he relaxed into the agenda of things; the trenches that he spent his time embedded in were familiar, and the dampness and cold was like an old friend that never left his side. Every now and then they would make a run for the enemy trench, either succeeding, or crawling back if you weren’t mowed down by machine gunfire. Planes dropped mustard gas, and if you could bear he pain of wearing your gas mask as the fumes attacked your skin, then you wouldn’t been hacking up your lungs come morning. The intermittent appearances of the thoughts of those around him gave him some comfort, he supposed, as at least they were mostly as desperate and as homesick as he was. He didn’t have a wife or children as some of the men did, only his uncle, but many a family man had been killed, some by his own gun, and he could not imagine how horrible it must have been for their wives; he knew a lot of them personally, and they were good, men, far more deserving of life than him, yet he outlasted them all.
He saw a great many things during that war: men live after being riddled with bullet holes, Germans being rescued by the side they were supposedly fighting, heck, he’d even seen one of his fellow soldiers charge into a tank to save him, though he supposed his was imagining that part, as it was peculiar and irrational; it took a while for Marvin to believe that he hadn’t died there. All of this, and nothing prepared him for what was to come.
Nothing…
When the war was nearing an end, Marvin was charged to help clear the concentrations camps. Before arrival, the war had always been about men against men, both armed with guns, and the willingness to kill. The camps were not like that; the victims, the Jews, were for all intents and purposes: innocent; the only reason they ostracised was because of one man’s hatred of them and the abuse of his power over the desperate, using the Jews as a scapegoat; somebody to blame for their own shortcomings. Humanity’s true nature made itself apparent to Marvin.
The atrocities committed in those camps horrified Marvin, and he could feel the anguish and primal hatred and loathing radiate from the Jews, experiencing their pain in the momentary thoughts he that cropped up in his mind. They were withered husks of what they once were wasted to the bone, a savagery awakened within them, reverting to a feral state to try and let their instincts save them. The systematic way they were disposed of and complete disregard for them, dead or alive, made Marvin throw up on the spot, and the bombardment of thoughts sent him into shock.
He was sent home because of his state, and spent two weeks in hospital, but was allowed to leave after getting an all clear. He was relieved to see his uncle again; whom he had sent many a letter to during his time in the trenches. But Marvin had changed, and they both knew it. He spent a large majority of him time working, and if not then he was likely reading, losing himself in a world that was not his own, or doing some such other thing to distract his mind, such as chess, or even counting the number of a certain item in a room, occupying himself. He was slightly detached, and not as willing to talk as usual, and certain sounds made him start. It was manageable though, but the thoughts were still flowing through the highway of his head.
So, when a man by the name of Charles Xavier approached him, and said he could help with Marvin’s “unique talents”, Marvin was at first a little apprehensive, fearing he may have been from the government, but went along to the prescribed location, and much to Marvin’s surprise, Xavier was able to help hone and control the passage of other thoughts, allowing Marvin to stop any entering, or hear the most prominent thought in one’s mind. Xavier assured Marvin that he had much more potential, and told him there were others with unique skills too, other mutants, some with similar to his, some vastly different.
Now he works at the bakery, picking up the slack of his increasingly ill uncle, visiting Xavier when it’s convenient.
Calling dibs on Psionic.
What the heck, I'll give it a try.
Maybe...
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