Member
Altered TundraName:
Jean-Jacques Adebesi Wells
Nickname:
"Lightning"
Age:
28
Gender:
Male
Nationality:
Half-Ivoirian/Half-French
Appearance:
Masculine with not even the faintest hint of femininity, Jean prides himself on his manly appearance. Standing at a tall 6"4, weighing in around over 250 lbs and a whole heap of chocolate goodness, his previous love for football and now rugby definitely shows in his appearance. The definition on his muscles are almost absolutely ridiculous, a six pack bordering on an eight pack. He's an absolute giant of a man, big shoulders, big arms, big chest and big legs. Some say that the only thing he's lacking is a big beard which he can't grow for the life of him. All he wanted was to braid his beard, instead he has to wait years to even grow a stubble. Does it have to be that hard? His stance and posture is one of confidence, head high and his walk is long and purposeful. Almost like he always has to go somewhere, some place to be. His back is straight and his chest is instinctively puffed out.
His eyes are first class, as Yessenia would say. "An eyes are a window to your soul" except in this case the window is made out of green diamonds, the house is made of gold and the soul is on fire. They are of the lightest green, almost bordering on white. In the torching summer sun or in the bright lights of the city, you can make out golden flecks in his eyes, shining through the lightest green. In the height of winter, his eyes turn into a very light bluish green, almost reflecting his mood in the season. No matter what however, they are always on fire. A wilful, strong soul is behind those eyes, predatory and to the wrong person, dangerous. They can be scary, ruthless and animal-like, staring at your soul like they want to tear you apart. To the right person, they are warm. Golden almost always. They give comfort, their confidence in themselves and in you is like a constant warm hug. They exude an underlying sense of wanderlust and adventure but have a loneliness to them. If you look hard enough, you will see a cold blue in them. A sadness. A crazed look. One of depression, of loneliness... and of forgetfulness?
He has a sturdy, rock solid jaw and thick eyebrows, he has a lot going for him. Jean has a faint scar on the upper right of his bottom lip from when he busted it in a tackle. Two scars, one deep and one shallow, right next to the kidneys from when he was still in Cote D'ivoire, slash marks from a territorial fight of old. Another scar appears across the side of the neck, just stopping before the throat. This and many other scars bore his body, one scar right under his ear from a man trying to tackle him, another crossed against his knee caps. Each one tells an adventure, a story.
His tattoos mark his history, every game, every fight, every tackle, every try... His tattoos speak a tale, 28 years long, continuing until the day he dies. Some may say it's obsessive but he believes in stories and that the skin is the best canvas to tell them on. However, there are three significant tattoos. His first ever tattoo is one he wears with pride, the wings of an angel displayed proudly on his upper torso with the word "Béni" on it, the French word for "blessed". He isn't a religious nut but he is a miracle believer and that faith chose him to be lucky enough to survive the damn ghetto and find a loving, albeit broken, family in a new country.
His next tattoo actually runs from both of his arms to his upper back. A serpent-like, thorny vine winding up his arms in a double helix around them, blood drawn from each thorn. The two pairs of vines go around behind the shoulder and splits to form a rectangle spanning form both shoulder blades. Etched in the middle are the words "lla loyauté, honneur, le respect". Loyalty, honour, respect. The three core values that he believes in. Every thorn prickling the skin is a sign of every struggle he had to go through to get where he is, each thorn weighing him down. Each vine represents his four fears. Black to represent failure, paired with a yellow vine to represent anxiety. On his left arm, a red vine to represent breakdowns and a blue vine to represent emotions. Each one he fears, each one he hates. Three are concepts and one is linked to them so therefore, in his eyes, they are unacceptable to be defeated by.
The third tattoo is of a heart. Not as manly as the others and he actively tries to hide it but it is placed right under his first tattoo, on the right hand side. A heart trapped in a cage, ball and chain, alone. This was latest tattoo he's been given and the one most relevant to his situation. The significance of all of these tattoos are only known by his artist, Tish. She is the only one that knows how he feels, how he expresses emotion through ink, how he has his mouth shut even though he wants to say so much, so loudly. She sees the struggle, she sees the pain and most importantly, she sees the condition. He uses these tattoos to tell his tale, to leave a message even when he is long dead. To leave at least a small mark on the world despite his failures.
Jean is not much for taking care of himself in terms of clothing. His fashion is varied. Some may say that the snapbacks, Jordan's, Van's, graphic t-shirts and jeans labels him as "Typical Millenial". While other may say that his additional love of sweatpants, hoodies and comfort clothes may speak volumes about his personality. He carries around a signed rugby ball by a famous former All Black, Richie McCaw from when he was touring New Zealand with his coach. He kicks it around, tosses it about but never does he drop it nor let anyone touch it. To him, it is like a holy grail. But to most, no matter what he wears, the scars he bears and tattoos he shows with pride, he's just a jock
In-Depth Personality:
Jean is supposedly, at least he wants to think, an image of masculinity. He is assertive, he likes getting things done on his own but appreciates when people want to help him but politely refuses. He needs to get what he wants and is confident in himself enough that he believes that he could do anything if he tried hard. Relentless in competition and approaches tasks with ruthless and brutal efficiency, he can scare weaker men with how he focuses on the field. Never say that this man isn't strong in mind and has one of the fiercest will in the world, his mother would say. This confidence in self may seem unattractive to some and his refusal to believe in defeat is both attractive and ugly at the same time. He can also seem hard headed and stubborn at times. This almost religious following of the "rules of masculinity" almost always borders on machismo. He can seem traditional and conservative in the way he acts and his personality but does it in a modern way. He treads a line between normal and excessive. But despite these faults, he is known to be respectful. To have strength, you must also respect those who have more than you.
His hate of weakness is an extension of his fear of emotions and it originates from the first six years of his life. Show toughness, show strength, show power and you will live in the ghetto. As an orphan, these were the most important qualities to have otherwise you were as good as dead. Show weakness, show emotions, show sadness of all things? You will be viewed as weak and quickly stomped out. You must have willpower. You must have this willingness in your heart to do anything and everything to survive. Put your mind in shutdown, build your walls high, lie when you can and keep your head high. Make a mask so thick you will not even recognise yourself and forget who you are, keep yourself as unrecognisable as possible to provide a mental wall from the pain. Every lie is a shield but this type of mentality does a lot to fuck you up. To a religious man, every falsehood, every red herring is just a burden to his soul but he can't seem to shake it. A limb of the mind cannot be severed so easily.
By all means, Jean isn't a religious nut. He doesn't preach in the streets, he doesn't have homophobia, he is t against contraception, gay marriage and things like that. He isn't against other religions nor the absence of one. He doesn't believe that pre-marital sex is bad, just as long you truly care for who you are making love with. "As long as I love her, why would He care?" He generally stays off the topic of religion. He has faith however. He has belief. He believes in miracles, he believes in the Ten Commandments, he believes in Him. He doesn't walk around like billboard shouting out "Y'all need Jesus!" He's politely going to church when he can. This is the only aspect of Jean that is so different from the rest. More reserved, calmer, a little more peaceful. But he does have dark places which is why he goes to church so much.
Since his birth Jean has, and always will be, lonely. No matter what anyone says, even the vows on a wedding day couldn't shake his thought of impending loneliness. This is for a number of reasons, one of which is the fact that he doesn't know who he is. However, he is certain that it isn't the confident hard ass he and his friends portray him as. Growing up an orphan and then violently being shoved into a family also creates a lot visible and invisible lines between him and the Wells. He knew that his father didn't love him, no matter what his mother said. This was all a marketing stunt, he wasn't a child of love. He was a child of money and profit. Also, the culture shock alone of transferring for a ghetto in the Ivory Coast to a happy home in America is mind numbing. He has built so many walls to restrict who he is that he feels lonely when people care for him. One lone person in this world knows him, and that's his baby brother.
Character background:
Cote D'Ivoire. The Ivory Coast in West Africa. The birth place of Jean-Jacques and one of the biggest trials of his life. Some would say he was fortunate to be born in such a stable place in Africa (at least when he was born) and that he wasn't caught up in a country with civil unrest, violence and absolute chaos. The Ivory Coast has one of the largest GDP's in Africa and it is significant in trading to the landlocked countries surrounding it to provide resources. It is the former home of many civilisations before the colonial period and has a rich history and culture. As a former French colony, the main language is a form of African French and it remains close ties with both it's neighbours and the West, particularly France. It was an economic powerhouse during the '60s and '70s but experienced political and social turmoil during the '80s, all of this under the reign of Felix Houphouët-Boigny. Unfortunately for Jean, this was when he was introduced to the planet.
He was born in the large city of Abidjan, a growing urban centre for population and economy. Unfortunately, every city has a dark side and therefore dark people. His biological parents were on the lower side of the economic scale and greatly suffered because of it. Living in the vilest ghetto in town, crime sprees weren't all that uncommon and people turned a blind eye towards killings. His father was a drunkard, constantly going from bar to bar asking for more alcohol. He was never there for his wife and when he was home, he was aggressive. Violent. Crazy. His mother was French, a poor former-nun who came into the wrong city at the wrong time. During the social turmoil of the '80s, some crimes were left in the air, crimes such as rape. Victims were forced to either abort their babies or raise them. His mother was a kind woman, would never hurt a fly really. Absolutely gorgeous woman, with soft eyes and caring touch. If you were looking from afar, you wouldn't notice the ugly scar running down across her right eye and the sad, mute look that dons that beautiful woman.
If Jean could remember his first four years, it would be filled with confusing and contradicting emotions. He would remember happiness and warmth from his mother, crying over his infant body with that pretty smile of hers. He would remember the love he felt when she sung him a lullaby to keep him asleep, her angelic voice filling his near-deaf ears, piercing through the confusing sounds of the outside world. He would remember her selflessness, curling up to him when his father was it his maddest. He would remember the comfort he felt in her arms. He would never forget the love that went away as she passed, blood spilling from her throat, his father crying over her dead body, bloody knife in hand. But, alas, he was a child, a newborn at that. He would only remember the hate and fear he felt from his father.
He was never there for him, his father. He left him at an orphanage and probably died in some whole. As a small boy, being left alone meant that you had to act strong, even in an orphanage. At the age of 5, he wasn't supposed to be recruited into a local gang. He wasn't supposed to lose his childhood so soon. He wasn't supposed to feel blood on his hands, hearing someone's skull cracking as the sound of a gunshot rings in your ear, the irony taste of crimson liquid on your tongue. It was a violent life but he had a simple job. He was already pretty big by this age and could go toe-to-toe with the big kids. His job was to follow the big kids as they walk around the ghetto, establishing territory and roughing up the homeless to get on their side, vandalising homes and telling the other gangs to back off. He always held his head high, unflinching eyes staring at the weak as they cower before him. He believed in the survival of the fittest, the strong over the weak, hate over love, strife over peace.
He always assumed that he wouldn't be adopted. Why would he? He was a hood rat, a thug and he was a halfie. No one liked halfies. Everyone knew his father was a drunkard and the people of the orphanage hated him for sneaking out at night, engaging in criminal activity. So when a sweaty, puffing, sunglass wearing American barged through the door looking for a kid, he didn't think anything about it and continued sharpening his pencil in the corner. But when he heard a sweet voice call out in a strange language, kind, strong willed, passionate but also... familiar. Like a wave of relief washed over him, a small warmth trickling into his heart. His eyes softened, muscles relaxed and pain he didn't even notice was there faded away.
Jean's eyes went shut and he went cold again. Everything was shoved into a cage, taunting voices, moving shadows. But there was still a buzz, a warmth. A crack in his armour, a lullaby faint but so clear in his head. They piqued his interest and so he started walking confidently towards them. Each step became heavier and heavier, each heavy breath was a struggle. He was getting nervous, an experience that felt unnatural to him. It was strange, it was like you were not in control of your own body. He finally got to the woman, he assumed to be the man's wife, and spoke in his slang-ridden Africa French. "Who the fuck are you?" His fingers were callous, muscles taut, a man's eyes in a boy's body. Yesenia widened her eyes before she smiled sadly at the sight. Such a young boy having gone through so much, with those eyes, with that face... He would be a perfect older brother. She knelt down and pulled him into a hug, ignoring his shocked face, whispering softly in his ear "You are no longer alone." He melted.
The paperwork and the meetings were hell. The orphanage wanted to get rid of him, the arrogant pest who corrupts but they wanted to make sure that the Wells knew what they were going to do. They were going to adopt a troublemaker, one known for violence and criminality. But Yesenia took it in stride, smiling through all of the worried faces, all throughout it all, he was clutching her hand tightly. Conrad expressed concern but ultimately kept his mouth shut. It was his idea but they agreed that she would be the one to choose the child they would adopt and by this point, he was still loyal to her. They had to leave of course, to sort out more paperwork and immigration but they came back. He always happy when they visited although he only expressed it in subtle actions. Grabbing a fistful of their clothes, cold eyes turning into the warm gold, the rare hug and small "thanks".
On his sixth birthday, Jean landed on US soil and got to meet his baby brother. He poked his cheek. "Ma, he's soft. Too soft. Too fat." He poked his cheek again, feeling the boy squirm from the touching in his sleep. When has he ever been that fat? Been that loved? His golden green eyes stared back at his amused but tired mother. "Fat is good though." And kept poking his cheeks, entertaining himself before falling asleep. Dom, when he woke up, saw his new big brother and tackle hugged him, surprising the older boy. "Fuck shit! It's a midget!" he exclaimed as he was tackled to the ground. This marked the first day of a wonderful brotherhood and the expansion of a little brother's vocabulary.
Jean took care of his brother most days due to how swamped both parents were. Taking care of Dom wasn't a very hard job and this was when bonds were formed. Most would say that he was a bit too overprotective of Dom and that he should ease off on the "I am big brother, I will kill you if you hurt small brother" but everyone would agree that he did a good job. If someone wanted to hurt his little brother, Jean would hurt them back in the most vicious of ways. In a way, he was the one that was most reliant on the other, Dom's calming words when he (unfortunately) appeared to be upset always brightened his day a little bit.
Miami wasn't all that different to Abidjan. The climate didn't change nor did the sun, torching down at his back. Although the Ivorian city was never this big, a city was still a city. The people however... they were happy. They acted like they weren't, honking their horns during a traffic jam, shouting at each other on their roads. They said they hated the temperature, the pollution, the crazy cocaine addicts. Dom himself pulled a tantrum and complained that he hated the fact that his ice cream melted so fast. But they never meant it, there was no power behind it. There was no real hate, it was more of a petty hate. He's experienced real hate, the kind where you want nothing but to destroy. Murder. Kill. Wipe the person from the face of the planet as revenge is the sweetest thing in the world. These disturbing thoughts and more floated around his head as the car approached High School.
He wasn't known for academics, to be the sharpest knife in the pantry in terms of knowledge about anything. He was very average in that fact, seeing as he was far too aggressive and shut-in to learn about some bullshit calculus or atoms or any of the bullcrap. It was his dream to be a footballer and excelled in it. Although he looked like he was on the skinny side, he was known to take hits and go toe-on-toe with beefcakes at Centre while also making the last minute adjustments to the plan. Never say that he wasn't willing to adapt and not analyse the field before him. He can read opponents better than most and it showed in his quick decisions. He was almost King of the school, popular with the girls and was at the highest peak in his footballing career. He was a star and was beginning to open up to those close to him like Yesenia and Chloe.
Unfortunately, his father (it seemed like both of his father's were both complete shitheads) finally fell from grace. He lost all respect for the man ever since he proved to be so distant, leaving him to take care of Dom all the time. His final fall was when it was proven that he was cheating on Yesenia. Jean was furious and it looked like he wasn't going to take this betrayal of loyalties just sitting there. It took his whole football team, Dom and his mother herself to keep him from tearing Conrad apart. Once more, he felt angry, felt hate. He always directed it at his father and if looks could kill, he would be obliterated from the face of the Earth.
He hated it all. Moving onto college in Toronto, his footballing skills came to a standstill, something changed. He couldn't even finish a semester before being kicked out of university for breaking out fights and tarnishing it's reputation. The shame was unbearable and he couldn't stand it all. He gave up football, his sport. He was picked up by a rugby coach and he thought that there could be a second chance for him, another hoorah in life. It was never going to work. Nothing was going to work.
Equipment:
Weapons:
**By putting this CS up in the OOC for approval, you have read all of the rules and have agreed to have fun. Welcome to the RP, my friend :)**
Jean-Jacques Adebesi Wells
Nickname:
"Lightning"
Age:
28
Gender:
Male
Nationality:
Half-Ivoirian/Half-French
Appearance:
Masculine with not even the faintest hint of femininity, Jean prides himself on his manly appearance. Standing at a tall 6"4, weighing in around over 250 lbs and a whole heap of chocolate goodness, his previous love for football and now rugby definitely shows in his appearance. The definition on his muscles are almost absolutely ridiculous, a six pack bordering on an eight pack. He's an absolute giant of a man, big shoulders, big arms, big chest and big legs. Some say that the only thing he's lacking is a big beard which he can't grow for the life of him. All he wanted was to braid his beard, instead he has to wait years to even grow a stubble. Does it have to be that hard? His stance and posture is one of confidence, head high and his walk is long and purposeful. Almost like he always has to go somewhere, some place to be. His back is straight and his chest is instinctively puffed out.
His eyes are first class, as Yessenia would say. "An eyes are a window to your soul" except in this case the window is made out of green diamonds, the house is made of gold and the soul is on fire. They are of the lightest green, almost bordering on white. In the torching summer sun or in the bright lights of the city, you can make out golden flecks in his eyes, shining through the lightest green. In the height of winter, his eyes turn into a very light bluish green, almost reflecting his mood in the season. No matter what however, they are always on fire. A wilful, strong soul is behind those eyes, predatory and to the wrong person, dangerous. They can be scary, ruthless and animal-like, staring at your soul like they want to tear you apart. To the right person, they are warm. Golden almost always. They give comfort, their confidence in themselves and in you is like a constant warm hug. They exude an underlying sense of wanderlust and adventure but have a loneliness to them. If you look hard enough, you will see a cold blue in them. A sadness. A crazed look. One of depression, of loneliness... and of forgetfulness?
He has a sturdy, rock solid jaw and thick eyebrows, he has a lot going for him. Jean has a faint scar on the upper right of his bottom lip from when he busted it in a tackle. Two scars, one deep and one shallow, right next to the kidneys from when he was still in Cote D'ivoire, slash marks from a territorial fight of old. Another scar appears across the side of the neck, just stopping before the throat. This and many other scars bore his body, one scar right under his ear from a man trying to tackle him, another crossed against his knee caps. Each one tells an adventure, a story.
His tattoos mark his history, every game, every fight, every tackle, every try... His tattoos speak a tale, 28 years long, continuing until the day he dies. Some may say it's obsessive but he believes in stories and that the skin is the best canvas to tell them on. However, there are three significant tattoos. His first ever tattoo is one he wears with pride, the wings of an angel displayed proudly on his upper torso with the word "Béni" on it, the French word for "blessed". He isn't a religious nut but he is a miracle believer and that faith chose him to be lucky enough to survive the damn ghetto and find a loving, albeit broken, family in a new country.
His next tattoo actually runs from both of his arms to his upper back. A serpent-like, thorny vine winding up his arms in a double helix around them, blood drawn from each thorn. The two pairs of vines go around behind the shoulder and splits to form a rectangle spanning form both shoulder blades. Etched in the middle are the words "lla loyauté, honneur, le respect". Loyalty, honour, respect. The three core values that he believes in. Every thorn prickling the skin is a sign of every struggle he had to go through to get where he is, each thorn weighing him down. Each vine represents his four fears. Black to represent failure, paired with a yellow vine to represent anxiety. On his left arm, a red vine to represent breakdowns and a blue vine to represent emotions. Each one he fears, each one he hates. Three are concepts and one is linked to them so therefore, in his eyes, they are unacceptable to be defeated by.
The third tattoo is of a heart. Not as manly as the others and he actively tries to hide it but it is placed right under his first tattoo, on the right hand side. A heart trapped in a cage, ball and chain, alone. This was latest tattoo he's been given and the one most relevant to his situation. The significance of all of these tattoos are only known by his artist, Tish. She is the only one that knows how he feels, how he expresses emotion through ink, how he has his mouth shut even though he wants to say so much, so loudly. She sees the struggle, she sees the pain and most importantly, she sees the condition. He uses these tattoos to tell his tale, to leave a message even when he is long dead. To leave at least a small mark on the world despite his failures.
Jean is not much for taking care of himself in terms of clothing. His fashion is varied. Some may say that the snapbacks, Jordan's, Van's, graphic t-shirts and jeans labels him as "Typical Millenial". While other may say that his additional love of sweatpants, hoodies and comfort clothes may speak volumes about his personality. He carries around a signed rugby ball by a famous former All Black, Richie McCaw from when he was touring New Zealand with his coach. He kicks it around, tosses it about but never does he drop it nor let anyone touch it. To him, it is like a holy grail. But to most, no matter what he wears, the scars he bears and tattoos he shows with pride, he's just a jock
In-Depth Personality:
Jean is supposedly, at least he wants to think, an image of masculinity. He is assertive, he likes getting things done on his own but appreciates when people want to help him but politely refuses. He needs to get what he wants and is confident in himself enough that he believes that he could do anything if he tried hard. Relentless in competition and approaches tasks with ruthless and brutal efficiency, he can scare weaker men with how he focuses on the field. Never say that this man isn't strong in mind and has one of the fiercest will in the world, his mother would say. This confidence in self may seem unattractive to some and his refusal to believe in defeat is both attractive and ugly at the same time. He can also seem hard headed and stubborn at times. This almost religious following of the "rules of masculinity" almost always borders on machismo. He can seem traditional and conservative in the way he acts and his personality but does it in a modern way. He treads a line between normal and excessive. But despite these faults, he is known to be respectful. To have strength, you must also respect those who have more than you.
His hate of weakness is an extension of his fear of emotions and it originates from the first six years of his life. Show toughness, show strength, show power and you will live in the ghetto. As an orphan, these were the most important qualities to have otherwise you were as good as dead. Show weakness, show emotions, show sadness of all things? You will be viewed as weak and quickly stomped out. You must have willpower. You must have this willingness in your heart to do anything and everything to survive. Put your mind in shutdown, build your walls high, lie when you can and keep your head high. Make a mask so thick you will not even recognise yourself and forget who you are, keep yourself as unrecognisable as possible to provide a mental wall from the pain. Every lie is a shield but this type of mentality does a lot to fuck you up. To a religious man, every falsehood, every red herring is just a burden to his soul but he can't seem to shake it. A limb of the mind cannot be severed so easily.
By all means, Jean isn't a religious nut. He doesn't preach in the streets, he doesn't have homophobia, he is t against contraception, gay marriage and things like that. He isn't against other religions nor the absence of one. He doesn't believe that pre-marital sex is bad, just as long you truly care for who you are making love with. "As long as I love her, why would He care?" He generally stays off the topic of religion. He has faith however. He has belief. He believes in miracles, he believes in the Ten Commandments, he believes in Him. He doesn't walk around like billboard shouting out "Y'all need Jesus!" He's politely going to church when he can. This is the only aspect of Jean that is so different from the rest. More reserved, calmer, a little more peaceful. But he does have dark places which is why he goes to church so much.
Since his birth Jean has, and always will be, lonely. No matter what anyone says, even the vows on a wedding day couldn't shake his thought of impending loneliness. This is for a number of reasons, one of which is the fact that he doesn't know who he is. However, he is certain that it isn't the confident hard ass he and his friends portray him as. Growing up an orphan and then violently being shoved into a family also creates a lot visible and invisible lines between him and the Wells. He knew that his father didn't love him, no matter what his mother said. This was all a marketing stunt, he wasn't a child of love. He was a child of money and profit. Also, the culture shock alone of transferring for a ghetto in the Ivory Coast to a happy home in America is mind numbing. He has built so many walls to restrict who he is that he feels lonely when people care for him. One lone person in this world knows him, and that's his baby brother.
Character background:
Cote D'Ivoire. The Ivory Coast in West Africa. The birth place of Jean-Jacques and one of the biggest trials of his life. Some would say he was fortunate to be born in such a stable place in Africa (at least when he was born) and that he wasn't caught up in a country with civil unrest, violence and absolute chaos. The Ivory Coast has one of the largest GDP's in Africa and it is significant in trading to the landlocked countries surrounding it to provide resources. It is the former home of many civilisations before the colonial period and has a rich history and culture. As a former French colony, the main language is a form of African French and it remains close ties with both it's neighbours and the West, particularly France. It was an economic powerhouse during the '60s and '70s but experienced political and social turmoil during the '80s, all of this under the reign of Felix Houphouët-Boigny. Unfortunately for Jean, this was when he was introduced to the planet.
He was born in the large city of Abidjan, a growing urban centre for population and economy. Unfortunately, every city has a dark side and therefore dark people. His biological parents were on the lower side of the economic scale and greatly suffered because of it. Living in the vilest ghetto in town, crime sprees weren't all that uncommon and people turned a blind eye towards killings. His father was a drunkard, constantly going from bar to bar asking for more alcohol. He was never there for his wife and when he was home, he was aggressive. Violent. Crazy. His mother was French, a poor former-nun who came into the wrong city at the wrong time. During the social turmoil of the '80s, some crimes were left in the air, crimes such as rape. Victims were forced to either abort their babies or raise them. His mother was a kind woman, would never hurt a fly really. Absolutely gorgeous woman, with soft eyes and caring touch. If you were looking from afar, you wouldn't notice the ugly scar running down across her right eye and the sad, mute look that dons that beautiful woman.
If Jean could remember his first four years, it would be filled with confusing and contradicting emotions. He would remember happiness and warmth from his mother, crying over his infant body with that pretty smile of hers. He would remember the love he felt when she sung him a lullaby to keep him asleep, her angelic voice filling his near-deaf ears, piercing through the confusing sounds of the outside world. He would remember her selflessness, curling up to him when his father was it his maddest. He would remember the comfort he felt in her arms. He would never forget the love that went away as she passed, blood spilling from her throat, his father crying over her dead body, bloody knife in hand. But, alas, he was a child, a newborn at that. He would only remember the hate and fear he felt from his father.
He was never there for him, his father. He left him at an orphanage and probably died in some whole. As a small boy, being left alone meant that you had to act strong, even in an orphanage. At the age of 5, he wasn't supposed to be recruited into a local gang. He wasn't supposed to lose his childhood so soon. He wasn't supposed to feel blood on his hands, hearing someone's skull cracking as the sound of a gunshot rings in your ear, the irony taste of crimson liquid on your tongue. It was a violent life but he had a simple job. He was already pretty big by this age and could go toe-to-toe with the big kids. His job was to follow the big kids as they walk around the ghetto, establishing territory and roughing up the homeless to get on their side, vandalising homes and telling the other gangs to back off. He always held his head high, unflinching eyes staring at the weak as they cower before him. He believed in the survival of the fittest, the strong over the weak, hate over love, strife over peace.
He always assumed that he wouldn't be adopted. Why would he? He was a hood rat, a thug and he was a halfie. No one liked halfies. Everyone knew his father was a drunkard and the people of the orphanage hated him for sneaking out at night, engaging in criminal activity. So when a sweaty, puffing, sunglass wearing American barged through the door looking for a kid, he didn't think anything about it and continued sharpening his pencil in the corner. But when he heard a sweet voice call out in a strange language, kind, strong willed, passionate but also... familiar. Like a wave of relief washed over him, a small warmth trickling into his heart. His eyes softened, muscles relaxed and pain he didn't even notice was there faded away.
Jean's eyes went shut and he went cold again. Everything was shoved into a cage, taunting voices, moving shadows. But there was still a buzz, a warmth. A crack in his armour, a lullaby faint but so clear in his head. They piqued his interest and so he started walking confidently towards them. Each step became heavier and heavier, each heavy breath was a struggle. He was getting nervous, an experience that felt unnatural to him. It was strange, it was like you were not in control of your own body. He finally got to the woman, he assumed to be the man's wife, and spoke in his slang-ridden Africa French. "Who the fuck are you?" His fingers were callous, muscles taut, a man's eyes in a boy's body. Yesenia widened her eyes before she smiled sadly at the sight. Such a young boy having gone through so much, with those eyes, with that face... He would be a perfect older brother. She knelt down and pulled him into a hug, ignoring his shocked face, whispering softly in his ear "You are no longer alone." He melted.
The paperwork and the meetings were hell. The orphanage wanted to get rid of him, the arrogant pest who corrupts but they wanted to make sure that the Wells knew what they were going to do. They were going to adopt a troublemaker, one known for violence and criminality. But Yesenia took it in stride, smiling through all of the worried faces, all throughout it all, he was clutching her hand tightly. Conrad expressed concern but ultimately kept his mouth shut. It was his idea but they agreed that she would be the one to choose the child they would adopt and by this point, he was still loyal to her. They had to leave of course, to sort out more paperwork and immigration but they came back. He always happy when they visited although he only expressed it in subtle actions. Grabbing a fistful of their clothes, cold eyes turning into the warm gold, the rare hug and small "thanks".
On his sixth birthday, Jean landed on US soil and got to meet his baby brother. He poked his cheek. "Ma, he's soft. Too soft. Too fat." He poked his cheek again, feeling the boy squirm from the touching in his sleep. When has he ever been that fat? Been that loved? His golden green eyes stared back at his amused but tired mother. "Fat is good though." And kept poking his cheeks, entertaining himself before falling asleep. Dom, when he woke up, saw his new big brother and tackle hugged him, surprising the older boy. "Fuck shit! It's a midget!" he exclaimed as he was tackled to the ground. This marked the first day of a wonderful brotherhood and the expansion of a little brother's vocabulary.
Jean took care of his brother most days due to how swamped both parents were. Taking care of Dom wasn't a very hard job and this was when bonds were formed. Most would say that he was a bit too overprotective of Dom and that he should ease off on the "I am big brother, I will kill you if you hurt small brother" but everyone would agree that he did a good job. If someone wanted to hurt his little brother, Jean would hurt them back in the most vicious of ways. In a way, he was the one that was most reliant on the other, Dom's calming words when he (unfortunately) appeared to be upset always brightened his day a little bit.
Miami wasn't all that different to Abidjan. The climate didn't change nor did the sun, torching down at his back. Although the Ivorian city was never this big, a city was still a city. The people however... they were happy. They acted like they weren't, honking their horns during a traffic jam, shouting at each other on their roads. They said they hated the temperature, the pollution, the crazy cocaine addicts. Dom himself pulled a tantrum and complained that he hated the fact that his ice cream melted so fast. But they never meant it, there was no power behind it. There was no real hate, it was more of a petty hate. He's experienced real hate, the kind where you want nothing but to destroy. Murder. Kill. Wipe the person from the face of the planet as revenge is the sweetest thing in the world. These disturbing thoughts and more floated around his head as the car approached High School.
He wasn't known for academics, to be the sharpest knife in the pantry in terms of knowledge about anything. He was very average in that fact, seeing as he was far too aggressive and shut-in to learn about some bullshit calculus or atoms or any of the bullcrap. It was his dream to be a footballer and excelled in it. Although he looked like he was on the skinny side, he was known to take hits and go toe-on-toe with beefcakes at Centre while also making the last minute adjustments to the plan. Never say that he wasn't willing to adapt and not analyse the field before him. He can read opponents better than most and it showed in his quick decisions. He was almost King of the school, popular with the girls and was at the highest peak in his footballing career. He was a star and was beginning to open up to those close to him like Yesenia and Chloe.
Unfortunately, his father (it seemed like both of his father's were both complete shitheads) finally fell from grace. He lost all respect for the man ever since he proved to be so distant, leaving him to take care of Dom all the time. His final fall was when it was proven that he was cheating on Yesenia. Jean was furious and it looked like he wasn't going to take this betrayal of loyalties just sitting there. It took his whole football team, Dom and his mother herself to keep him from tearing Conrad apart. Once more, he felt angry, felt hate. He always directed it at his father and if looks could kill, he would be obliterated from the face of the Earth.
He hated it all. Moving onto college in Toronto, his footballing skills came to a standstill, something changed. He couldn't even finish a semester before being kicked out of university for breaking out fights and tarnishing it's reputation. The shame was unbearable and he couldn't stand it all. He gave up football, his sport. He was picked up by a rugby coach and he thought that there could be a second chance for him, another hoorah in life. It was never going to work. Nothing was going to work.
Equipment:
- Currently wearing this attire
- Benelli M3 - Pistol Grip
- 30 shells
- Baseball bat
- Plastic water bottle
- Two snickers bars
- Rugby ball
Weapons:
- Benelli M3 (Will be found later)
- Baseball bat
**By putting this CS up in the OOC for approval, you have read all of the rules and have agreed to have fun. Welcome to the RP, my friend :)**