Name: Vander Pzypialkowski
Age: 19
District: 16
Occupation: Ex-Student. Part-time dealer, full-time addict.
Picture
Physical Description:
Vander is a walking skeleton. She stands at 5’11”, but weighs in at a meagre 119bs. What little body mass she has left is comprised of quickly-decaying muscle. Her body, or rather the drug she continuously puts inside it, has long since burned away any and all of the extra fat she used to have. The bones of her ribs, hips, spine, and knees are all prominent below her skin. She bruises quickly and easily, a result of her deteriorating blood vessels, and the wounds take longer than usual to fade and heal.
Her face, though still youthful, bears the weight of years she has not yet seen. Her eyes are tired, her cheeks hollow. Nevertheless, there still remains a hint of what could have been beauty. She has a slim jaw, and a small and slender nose. Her eyes are a dark shade of brown, almost black. Her pupils are often dilated, and her eyes are always lined with a thin border of black make-up.
Vander wears her hair in an edgy style, as is common amongst anarcho-punk gangsters. The left half is shaved short, the remainder hanging in wavy tendrils on her right. She has several piercings. A small black stud decorates her eyebrow, and a silver bar passes vertically through her lower lip. Each ear is gauged, and several small black hoops adorn the left one.
Clothing:
Vander’s fashion sense apparently lacks any sort of colour. She dresses typically in shades of black and white. Black jeans, a few sizes too large, often held up with a spiked belt.
She has a fondness for raglan tees, and owns several. All white or red in the body, and black in the sleeves. The only noteworthy difference between them is the changing designs on the front. Most display logos of bands that she grew up listening to.
Vander is rarely seen going out without her black leather jacket. It is old and worn, but special. The jacket serves the dual purpose of sentimentality and functionality. It was always a size or two too large, having belonged to her father. It now manages to hide her severely malnourished figure, at least to some degree.
Vander was born in the slums, District 16, and has lived there all her life. She was the only daughter of Dominic Pzypialkowski, a small-time drug dealer and occasional hit man. For the past decade, Dom had been supplying the streets with daily doses of all manner of narcotics. Fatherhood changed him. The day Vander was born was the day that he found a proper job – a mail courier in District 9. He cut as many connections as he could with his old friends. For his clients, he found new dealers, doing everything possible to ensure the future safety of himself and his newborn daughter.
She was raised by her father only, her mother leaving him only days after her birth. The relationship had turned sour while Vander was still in the womb. The two had only been waiting for her to arrive to officially end it. Nevertheless, Dom was a competent man, and gave her everything he could.
The girl was homeschooled, her father taking charge of as much of her education as he could. With his new connections in Zone A, he also found her tutors on occasion. She excelled at the sciences. Biology and chemistry in particular. She was brilliant at math, and consumed knowledge ravenously. Vander Pzypialkowski was a graduate student, or the equivalent of, by age sixteen. But living in the slums took its toll on her. Even a girl as brilliant as Vander couldn’t ignore the shadiness around her. Drug deals. Murders. Subtle and silent blackmail going down on street corners. It was a world she lived in, yet was separate from. And over time, the desire to become a part of this world grew more and more overpowering.
She began synthesizing drugs when she was seventeen.
Vander started simple. Well-known street drugs, the type a teenager could easily cook from their kitchen. She kept it a secret from her father, passing her makeshift laboratory off as another chemistry project. It took only months for her to become immersed in the city’s nightlife, and only months more to lose everything she had.
She found a business partner, a young man with an already-established clientele by the name of Grey. It was Grey who introduced her to Lucid, and proceeded to leave her alone to her addiction. Her first hit, and she was hooked. Taken before bed, the drug produced vivid dreams. Sights, scents, sounds, all more vivid than even true life. Taken during waking hours, it heightened the senses, sometimes even bringing on pleasing hallucinations. She didn’t know the long term effects when she started, but learned them quickly over the next two years.
She ran away weeks before her eighteenth birthday, no longer able to keep her habit a secret from her father. She cut off all contact with him, ashamed of what she had done to herself, after all he had done to raise her right. No matter how much she loved her father, she loved Lucid more. She needed her drug.
She is now nineteen years old, and her body is wasting away. Her internal organs are slowly shutting down. Stomach cramps plague her daily. She loses sensation in her hands for hours at a time, or gets pins and needles for even longer. Her eyes are bloodshot, her head is a migraine. But even now, she still takes hits of Lucid.
Personality:
Despite her edgy appearance and drug-addict tendencies, Vander is one of the most easygoing people you will ever meet. She is polite and patient, and often used to take on the role of a conflict mediator during drug deals. She cares deeply for other people, especially those she becomes close to. Even strangers, she always sympathizes easily with. Vander is always available as an ear to talk to for drunken men at the local bars. They let the liquor talk out their sorrows, and she listens willingly.
Despite her usual behavioural tendencies, she is still a desperate addict. Desperation takes over at times, and she turns cold and hostile in an instant. During long withdrawals from Lucid, she becomes highly emotional. The smallest things can push her to hysterics, and panic attacks are often inevitable.