For the majority of his childhood and adolescence, Xavier was a short, pudgy kid with an incurable sweet tooth. But instead of dooming him to a lifetime of ridicule, it seemed like fate had other plans for him. Suffice to say, puberty hit little Xavier like a freight train. Almost overnight, the chubby, acne-ridden fifteen-year-old vanished, leaving in his place a tall, young man worthy of a magazine cover. His skintone is a light olive, with a light smattering of freckles across his nose, and countless scabbed-over nail marks covering his arms and legs from a compulsive urge to claw himself open. His stature is smack dab in the middle of average for someone of his background, but truth be told, he’s not as fit as he used to be - a tall, lean build giving way to just a tiny bit of fat. More often than not, he prefers to remain unmoving, if only to dissuade any chances of tripping over his own feet.
Prior to the Dream, Xavier had what most people called a Resting Bitch Face™; sharp, chiselled features seemed to be perpetually arranged in an expression of annoyance. He wasn’t trying to look like he hates his life - not intentionally, anyway - and he’s been told multiple times that he can appear truly terrifying when he wants to be. His “angry eyebrows” didn’t do much to help, either. Coupled with his penchant for speaking in a bored, tuneless monotone, Xavier earned a rather unfortunate reputation amongst his peers for being unapproachable. His voice is a deep, rumbling timbre - the kind of thing you’d hear playing over a nature documentary while a cheetah tears apart its prey in the Sahara (okay, maybe that’s a little too specific). On the occasion that he does crack a smile or laugh, it’s like he’s a completely different person. His voice raises a full octave, straight, white teeth bared in a lopsided grin, eyes twinkling with near manic glee.
...He does that a lot now, actually - smile. His parents would be proud of him. Probably.
In spite of everything, Xavier always makes sure to keep up with the latest fashion trends, and he’d never be caught dead wearing anything that was considered passé, but no one can deny his fondness for loud, gaudy prints. He is always immaculately garbed, all dress shirts and made-to-measure slacks even in the most casual of situations. You’ll never see him dressed down below the threshold of “smart-casual”, something he accomplishes through sheer force of will, and more tangibly, his rather sizeable income. If it isn’t the best, he doesn’t like it, and this scrutiny doesn’t just include himself, but also the people around him. What is she wearing? Is that Gucci? But Marc Jacobs is in season, and those shoes with that dress? God, some people had no taste at all, did they?
Age: 29 and a half
Gender: Male
Biography/History: Born in Sitka, Alaska on a rainy Friday morning, Xavier never expected to do anything special. His father ran the local grocery store, and his mother was a teacher at a secondary school. They lived together in a nice house right on the docks, complete with a breathtaking view of the sea, a crisp, green backyard, and a yapping black labrador. Suffice to say, he never wanted for anything, and every year, along with a too-sweet birthday cake, he would get a nice present wrapped in vivid colors - usually the latest video games. Lord knows he hated going outside.
The young Xavier was always just a tad different from his peers. Creative and free-spirited, he didn’t fare well in structured classroom settings, and so, he always seemed to catch onto the material just a hair slower than those around him. All the same, he read avidly, and thus, in his own obscure way, he proved quite an intelligent child. Nevertheless, he could never seem to focus his abilities in any clear direction. Xavier remained more concerned with why two and two made four and not how to do the addition on a test paper. Moreover, his near-constant streams of unrelated questions and scattered ponderings frustrated both educators, and his parents throughout his academic career.
All the same, he was a friendly, almost unfailingly polite child, and while he wasn’t necessarily shy, he did have difficulty interacting with people his own age. Chubby, soft-spoken, and pacifistic, he became a bullying target young, and at home, his parents offered very little refuge. Xavier could use some roughing up - they said - learn to stand up for himself. As a result of this “tough love” technique, by the time his younger brother Tristan was born, Xavier had turned almost completely inward, spending more time reading, painting, and with the family dog than with other human beings.
In many ways, Tristan became the family’s golden boy as the years passed, leaving Xavier the black sheep. Academically-gifted, athletic, and outgoing, the younger brother stood poised to blossom into a popular and well-liked teenager, even at the young age of twelve. At age seventeen, Xavier, however, found himself a social outcast with no real higher education prospects - uninvolved in extracurricular activities, uninterested in his studies, and working minimum wage as a busboy at a local diner. Still, he was a dedicated employee, and interacting with older people and more cosmopolitan travelers passing through his dusty little hometown, he found an audience with which to discuss literature, philosophy, and the arts.
It wasn’t until years later - after he finally scraped through the purgatory that was community college - that a chance encounter with an art dealer from New York changed his life. For better or worse? Not even Xavier himself knew, but it was a change, nonetheless. The man called himself Mr. Coin, and he thought Xavier would be a good fit in the art-dealing business, or at least that’s what he said to his face, anyway. With what money he had squirrelled away, he made the move to New York City, sharing a Sunset Park apartment with two others.
For the first few months, Xavier worked for Mr. Coin, doing odd jobs and running errands. The few time he attended an auction on his mentor’s behalf, he was fascinated by the pieces up for bidding, though even more so by the minute differences which separated a good painting from a great one. When Xavier bought and sold his first piece, he was ecstatic, even when he had to give his mentor a whole seventy-percent of what he earned. That was how he got his start, and he dove into his research with a newfound ferocity. There was so much to learn, but he didn’t mind. Finally, he was doing something he loved; he dreamt of one day opening his own gallery, showcasing pieces from artists all over the world, and maybe even some of his own.
But instead of a dream come true, what Xavier got was a rude awakening. Dear, old Mr. Coin was found guilty of art forgery, banking about 20-million dollars in his career. Xavier wasn’t personally involved, but his association with the man was enough to cast a shadow of suspicion upon him. He had a hard time doing anything in the art industry after that. People thought he was the same as his mentor - a fraud. Far too many times, Xavier thought about returning home, resigning himself to a life of mediocrity, but he always managed to snap out of it. Little by little, people forgot about Mr. Coin, and Xavier finally had the chance he needed. Whatever little savings Xavier had went into fuelling his career, though he did have to swallow his pride and take out a few loans here and there. Eventually, he actually started to make money. He’d always had a discerning eye for art, and it was finally starting to pay off.
Years later, Xavier was still living in New York City, though he’d long since moved out of the tiny two-room apartment. He did manage to open his own gallery in Lower Manhattan, and even bought himself a nice place in Greenwich Village. But of course, as the saying went, all good things must come to an end. That fateful night, Xavier would up from his slumber drenched in cold sweat, an ominous churning deep within his stomach . He didn’t make it to the bathroom before he started puking his guts out. Literally. Saliva turned into bile, and bile into blood - chunks of intestine, spleen, and stomach lining spewed from his lips onto the hardwood floor. The pain was immense, like red-hot knives slicing through his abdomen, but that was nothing compared to what he saw in his dreams. When the sun finally emerged from beyond the horizon, and the fire burning through his nerves settled into a dull throb, it was over.
The first thing he noticed was how the carpet was ruined. The second was the hole stretching from where his diaphragm would be to the tip of his sternum. The third and final thing were the four three-inch tentacles sprouting from said hole. They seemed to have a will of their own, but not really, for once he thought of cleaning up, one of the tentacles reached over and tore the bathroom door right off its hinges.
That was when Xavier felt a smile spread across his lips.
Personality: Anyone who knows Xavier understand that he’s always been a bit… eccentric. A recluse by nature, Xavier did not often associate with his peers, and had the unfortunate tendency to adopt a patronising or cold demeanour simply because it was expected of him. But to those he considered friend, he was the person you wanted by your side when times got rough. Xavier’s sense of humor tended to lean towards dry and sardonic, often taking the role of the “sidekick” in interpersonal relationships; it can be argued that he subconsciously yearned to be in the spotlight, but always found himself stuck in a supporting role.
After the Dream, however, his moral compass is no longer pointing exactly straight. At first glance, Xavier might seem like someone you could easily befriend. He’s usually affable, polite and good-natured, but that’s only if you have something he needs. To those with a discerning eye, they’ll find that he’s more than a little off his rocker. Going from an almost saccharine geniality to a tepid monotone in two seconds flat is a specialty of his. He doesn’t abide by anyone’s rules apart from his own, though he likes to think he’s very good at pretending otherwise (he's not). Venomous, aloof, and ever so slightly erratic, he has no issues with doing whatever he has to to achieve the means to an end. Interestingly, while he has a rather obnoxious habit of grandstanding, he has very little tolerance of the habit in others. Xavier frequently admonishes others to get to the point. But with a penchant for absurdism, topped off by a horrifyingly macabre streak, you get the sense that he always has a snicker hidden at the corner of his mouth, even if everyone around him is a little afraid to join in.
Used to getting his way for most of his younger years, he still finds it hard to let go of anything once he has a grasp on it. But whatever one might be led to believe, Xavier is an extremely passionate, and emotional person, and he’s definitely the kind of person who’d rather start throwing punches than hash things out. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s being talked down to. When he truly does take an interest in something, he puts all of himself into it, and momentarily forgets about almost everything else. He’s very often obsessive about the things he does, and the people he chooses to follow. While he might not be the wisest, nor the most knowledgeable, he’s a good judge of character, and it takes little time for him to classify a person.
Power:“Crazy monsters under his skin - oh no! A parallel dimension of unsavory feeling. I count three of them with exciting names. Impossible to pronounce!”
To put it gently, Xavier’s body is literally riddled with extra-dimensional creatures, the largest of which is a purple, thousand-eyed, tentacled abomination that has since replaced his stomach and half his intestinal tract. Outwardly, he looks perfectly fine - well, apart from the tentacles that extend from a gaping slit down his torso, and how he bleeds a sticky, green fluid that smells suspiciously like french fries whenever he’s injured. But other than that, he’s totally normal! A real upstanding guy, for sure.
...Right, I should probably elaborate on the tentacles, shouldn’t I? They look for all the world like a regular octopuses’ (octopi’s?), lined with two rows of suckers allowing for prehensile grip. On a usual day, three, maybe four tentacles are visible, acting as an extra set of limbs for Xavier, though he can reabsorb them into his body for an hour or two if he concentrates. Nobody really knows how all this works, but he’s psychokinetically connected to the creature (let’s call it Kevin), and thus, has full control of its tentacles unless he’s totally shitfaced after one too many vodka shots. They’re good for daily tasks - cooking, cleaning, etcetera - but know what they’re even better at? Smashing, destroying, and of course, squishing the life out of people.
Each tentacle can exert up to 2 tonnes of pressure, but their range leaves something to be desired. Currently, they’re only able to reach up to 5 metres, and when severed or destroyed, regenerate slowly. As a result of this symbiotic relationship, Xavier has to eat a lot, like ridiculous amounts. To put things into perspective, six cheeseburgers, two large pizzas, and three chocolate milkshakes is just a nice, teatime snack for him; so he ends up spending a good portion of his day just eating to make up for the energy he burns off acting as a host to Kevin. Every now and then, he even gets a craving for raw meat. But hey, at least he doesn’t have to poop anymore. That’s gotta to be hands down one of the best parts of getting your spleen and digestive tract taken over by eldritch abominations.
Eugene had decided that he would rather die than price-mark another box of frozen lasagna.
...Ok, so maybe that was a little overdramatic, but his wrist was absolutely killing him right now. Gingerly, he sets aside the mustard yellow pricing gun, taking a moment to inspect the countless boxes laid out before him. Just how many boxes of frozen lasagna did one store need? He’d gone through at least twelve cartons since this morning, and it looked like he barely even made a dent in the mountain of cardboard boxes. Of course, as usual, David has so cruelly abandoned Eugene in his hour of need - probably off burning through a pack of cigarettes in the parking lot.
What a cold son of a bitch.
Letting out a long, heaving sigh, Eugene tries to get back to work, slicing open another box with a pair of scissors. He gets through about five more boxes before his eyelids start to feel heavy, which really was rather impressive given his track record. On a regular day, he would’ve conked out about three boxes in, but he supposed that can of Red Bull he had for breakfast (shocking, I know) this morning was doing exactly what it was supposed to. His eyes start to water, a yawn bubbling up from his lungs; the linoleum floor he was sitting on suddenly felt so comfortable, almost as comfortable as his bed back home. Keyword: almost.
In a stroke of pure genius, or perhaps utter stupidity, Eugene grabs a handful of cushioning paper out of one of the boxes, and sort of smushes it into a makeshift pillow. A quick power nap couldn’t hurt, right? He’d be wide awake and ready to face the day in ten minutes, waaay before anyone finds him passed out in a pile of frozen lasagna. And if David happened to walk in at an unfortunate moment, well, he wasn’t exactly the most hardworking employee either, was he? Another shuddering yawn wracks his frame, and he sprawls rather ungracefully across the floor, falling unconscious almost as soon as his head hits the “pillow”.
Blissful darkness claims him, but not for nearly long enough. A wonderful dream involving an extra-large pepperoni pizza was rudely interrupted by a shrill whistle that threatens to burst Eugene’s eardrums.
“I wasn’t sleeping.” Eugene says without missing a beat, immediately shooting up into a sitting position. This was it - this was the day he lost his job. How was he going to support his pet cat Charlie now? His parents would throw him and Charlie out of the house; instead of kibble and instant ramen, they’d have to live off leftovers scavenged from restaurant bins. He wouldn’t, no… he couldn’t live like that. Maybe if he begged enough, they’d let him stay despite napping on the job for the umpteenth time (he’s only been caught twice though).
It takes a few more moments for his sight to focus, and his mind was already swimming with ways he could wheedle himself out of getting fired, but instead of the fuming, red-faced manager he expected to see, it was someone much more welcome.
“Jesus Christ, Mari. You scared the shit outta me.” Eugene fights the urge to point out how the sentence rhymed as he clambers to his feet, a hand placed over his heart for emphasis. Truth be told, it was barely an exaggeration. He could still feel his heart pounding from the rude awakening, but most of all, he was relieved. It was a stroke of luck that Maricel had found him instead of a manager, and he flashes her one of his signature grins, though it’s tinged with a hint of sheepishness. “What’re you doing back here?”
It was a good question, or at least he thought it was. Usually, customer service never came around to the back room. If they needed to know the price of an item, all they had to do was walkie one of the stock and storage guys to find out. If they needed something set up in the store, well, they’d walkie them too. But apparently, today was a little different, and Eugene was already starting to get antsy from having to hold the fort until David gets back from his self-appointed smoke break.
