Here's my CS; I do intend to put the writing sample up once I finish it tomorrow. I must sleep now and I think I may put up a second character as well. Note that this is the unedited version, but I also intend to edit it out thoroughly when I edit my writing sample into it. Also, before this comes up, no he has no combat oriented training aside from experience while drunk or just extremely angry and maybe a self-defense class or something stupid like judo when he was a child. *Shrug* Something excusable that would still put him in the civilian classification and among the people were just extremely lucky.
EDIT: Uh, I also just happened to notice who Jack's kids were named after... er... so it is coincidence that Percy has a copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird in his backpack.
NAME: Percival Chevalier
AGE: 32
PERSONALITY:Among most of the Chevalier family, Percival was the most reserved, quietest of the bunch and unmistakably one of the brighter children—that wasn't saying much, as many of the children the Chevalier parents had took both parents smarts as well as their piercing blue eyes. However, Percival was among the more stereotypical type when it came to his intelligence. Of all he children, the quietest, most concerned about intellect stood out the most. Percival was the black sheep and he didn't quite understand why that was a bad thing throughout his life. It was something he took pride in and found solace in, as well. That's where his parents expected the oddness to stop, but Percival continued to surprise them. The boy seemed to have a knack for surprising a lot of people and his sudden interest in faith was among that and it went beyond simple thoughts of studying theology to becoming a big part of it. Of course, that was a good way of excusing his blunt honesty and the lack of skill he had interacting with people, as well as the willingness to simply listen and hear people out rather than talk about his own problems. There was a lot of love Percival wanted to give and through God he could give it, however way he was allowed to. There was always sincerity in Percival's eyes, to the point of unabashed honesty and whatever Percival did it was genuine and thought out. Percival, however emotional he was (though he didn't show it), was calculating and logical most of all. His reasons for doing something were tied to deep thoughts and feelings but his actions were always deliberate, purposeful, and most of all they were ran through his mind countless times until everything was reasonably worked out.
But the intelligence and the silence that followed him came at a cost. Percival wasn't the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve and did his best to keep his face as far from emotion as he could. Everything he had was bottled up inside and eventually would fester until the lid popped and with that came small bouts of alcoholism that he'd indulge in, even as a priest. He'd be reprimanded, sure, but on could never truly stop being a priest in the eyes of the Catholic church and he'd always have a duty whether the church he found a home in would accepted him or not. Fortunately for Percival, the church he found was more than willing to keep him, as they obviously needed all the help they could get. And though he hid his emotion, Percival cared just a little too much and a little too often he'd do things wholly unnecessary, sometimes even cross clear cut lines to help some people. Percival, especially as a priest didn't much care for any gratitude or appreciation that he mostly didn't receive. He did things because they were right, though some of those things could be misconstrued to harm him more often than not. Not only that, when pressed, Percival had a fearsome rage and a propensity for violence; however rare that was, the line became blurry when intoxicated and when those rare moments of weakness and vulnerability came crashing down in a bottle of whiskey, he'd find himself the next morning bruised and pained all over.
OCCUPATION: Ex-Catholic Priest, Former Military Chaplain, Currently a Librarian
ETHNICITY: Caucasian/Creole/Cajun
EQUIPMENT: A Bible,
To Kill a Mockingbird, Rosary Beads, Three Bottles of Water, Half filled Thermos of Tea, Crackers, Tylenol, Rubbing Alcohol, Few Wraps of Gauze, and some Bandaids, all in a Backpack
WEAPONS: Screwdriver, Cleaver
FAMILY: -Mother; Lorelei Chevalier: Deceased
-Father; Daniel Chevalier; Deceased
-Brother; Landon Chevalier; Deceased
-Brother; Ronald Chevalier; Deceased
-Twin Brother; Jared Chevalier; Missing
-Sister; Elise Faraday; Missing
PAST:Life was quite simple and easy before the what a lot of people have come to know as the apocalypse. Percival's family was well off, or a tad more so, as his mother was running for governor of Louisiana, whilst his father maintained a television network from New Orleans. Residency was often either a European villa, a large estate in southern Louisiana, or the coast of Los Angeles. From the beginning it was obvious that family didn't quite mean as much as people around them or as much as his parents made them out to be to the public. They expected much of him and his siblings, but found not many of them to be acquiescent to their wants and needs. Everyone was expected to at least follow somewhat in their footsteps, finding private schools and expensive colleges in their future, but finding experiences that twisted and changed them, either for the better or worse.
Among his siblings, Percival was the 3rd eldest, in a sense, with his twin a few minutes behind and his sister the last of them. Not many years separated them, which didn't much matter as they hadn't seen much of each other in the years they'd all left consecutively for different colleges. It was Percival who fell out of step first, though, finding solace in God as a parental figure rather than his own. College was slow and, though he studied hard, he found no satisfaction in any of the classes he took, any of the courses. Most of is time spent outside of class was inside a nearby Catholic church, confessing, praying, and eventually volunteering in hopes of learning more of religion. He found satisfaction and comfort in the priests and clergy of the church and most of all in the word of God. Percival soon fell out of college, finding that priesthood held a better future for him. He'd spent months pondering over the decision, of the lengthy process before finally succumbing to his decision. Without anyone to dissuade him, Percival found his mind to be in full control of his choices, and his wants and desires were clear to him after so many years.
The decision was made immediately before he was released for winter break, avoiding the scrutiny of his parents and sibling as he traversed back to the church to learn of the process to be ordained for priesthood. After a few years spent under the church, he'd finally become a priest, telling his parents and family members the moment he could—their objections were duly noted and later rejected. Those years were extremely fulfilling to Percival, where he kept strictly in line under the Catholic church and helping those he could within the limits of his priestly duties. However, through the years of service, he quickly became complacent sitting in one place all of his life, making what he deemed as little progress in the lives of people who were as complacent as he was. He offered his help whenever he could, through counseling and confession, yet found it increasingly unsatisfying as people turned away without much of a care, or at least not as much care for what they did and their consequences as he did.
It wasn't until further years that he decided to leave the church he'd settled in to join the army, but in a more unconventional sense. He volunteered as a military chaplain and found himself in the same place he was in the church before, except this time on a military base states away from the church he'd made a home in. Not long after, however, Percival found himself oversees preaching to soldiers in a base near Yemen, hearing confessions, counseling, and just generally being there. He found a place among the medical troops, learning basic and practical applications of medicine and how to treat injured soldiers out in the field through the months he lived there. It wasn't long until, after transferring to a base nearby, that he was taken captive with a garrison running through desert roads. They'd tripped a road mine that flipped the caravan on its side, leaving may with minor injuries and two crippled and in need of serious medical attention. A group of men rushed from where they'd set up post, gathering the men and women as quickly and roughly as they could and taking them back to a small fortress of an outpost. They'd treated the severely injured men just to the point where they'd live, albeit painfully, and through them in a cell.
By the Geneva Convention they could not necessarily hold Percival captive; in fact, he was free to leave and with supplies too whenever he wished. They set a room not far from him, however, if they could not harm him physically, they would eventually break him mentally. He was witness to the brutal methods of torture and interrogation the soldiers under his care were subjected to. When it came time to feed him, he was set just a few feet from the slop fed men and women to feast on whatever the captives gave him. While they starved and were tortured, he was given a warm bed, food and drink, and a shower, and it broke him more than he'd like to admit. Percy did everything he could to help them, prayed with them, heard their confessions, gave them what food and water he could, and dressed their wounds with strips of his clothing. But there's only so much a man could take and he was on the verge of leaving, unable to handle watching them all slowly die. It wasn't until they'd killed a woman he'd just been caught treating that he finally snapped. It was inconceivable how he could just stand there and do nothing while good men and women were tortured and killed before his very eyes.
Every rule so clearly laid out by priesthood and the Convention he was bound to he broke almost effortlessly. However untrained he was for combat, he'd made a spectacle of killing the lone guards that were ordered to watch over the prisoners with just the pure rage built up over the months he'd had to suffer mentally. And by then Percival hand no care of what would happen afterwards. He freed the soldiers, treated the ones who could barely stand, and gave the two weapons he'd taken from the deceased guards and given them to the most capable of them all. It didn't take long before they'd left the compound that held them and found themselves setting out to the nearest military outpost they could—the captives had failed to blindfold the priest they'd taken with them, somehow certain he'd not leave without being completely and utterly broken. Or maybe they just didn't estimate his own intellect. He did what he could for the injured men and women through their journey, having lost only one to the heat and blood loss and pain before ending up where they were intended to be in the first place. And when they did, the celebration was cut short the moment they were asked of their escape; there was no denying the military chaplain that cared for them was immediately under scrutiny. Percival hadn't planned on denying anything and was discharged, though after a lengthy appeal by the high ranking officer captured with his garrison, the discharge was reduced in severity to a general discharge and was released from duty almost immediately.
Though spared the issues of being dishonorably discharged, Percival was still wracked with the shame that came with being literally thrown out of the military and the mental instability that he suffered at the hands of captives who were never truly meant to keep him prisoner. His family wasn't quick to accept him, or at least none of his parents did, and Percival found himself too ashamed of what he'd become to return to either the church or his family and thus cut off connections after telling his family that he was, in fact, perfectly fine. However, he did settle in a few towns around the country, until eventually drifting into Atlanta and finding a place in a small library in the least busy part of the city, with a humble apartment in what he'd deemed a relatively safe area of Atlanta. He did make enough money as a librarian, which meant he was required to rely at least a little on the family fund issue under his name.
It wasn't too long after what he'd determined a quiet life to fall completely to hell, though by some fortune, the whole world fell with him.
OTHER INTERESTING INFORMATION:-Considered to be celibate/asexual
-Closeted homosexual
-Was in charge of a group of children in the library when things in Atlanta went to hell. He would prefer not to talk about what happened, but it's obvious it took his toll on him.
-Is still considered a priest in the eyes of the Church, but has all but lost faith. Prefers to believe there is a God, but that faith was waning years before any of this happened.
-Does have a soft, almost non-existent Cajun accent from living most of his childhood in southern Louisiana. This also means he picked up a lot of Creole during his childhood and sometimes slips slang words into his speech when drunk, enraged, or simply extremely comfortable.
Torture was never exclusively physical; no matter the pain that a victim endured, it would never amount to the mental aftermath. The trauma that followed in its wake Percival could equate to the utter devastation that followed Chernobyl. Years could pass and the mind would remain as it did once it was all over: inhospitable, save the grass that sprung from beneath ashen concrete. It was inescapable; it would always remain; even through the numbness, it still hurt. And though Percival had been treated with such attention and care, his mind was as broken as the victims he'd ministered and cared for. No scream tore his throat, but he could no longer distinguish between their anguished cries and his own. His sun bitten skin shone with vibrant complexion and his hair, however unruly, was kept and vital, and he had the muscle to prove his health. Even with the evidence clear, he could only see the pallid, malnourished figures he'd fed and prayed with whenever faced with his reflection. What he could provide in difference, his eyes betrayed with the dull bloodshot of restless nights and insurmountable pain, flesh red and bitten by tears.
Every day for two months, at exactly noon (or at least twelve hours after timing each torture routine), Percival would be subjected to the cries of searing pain and shouts of a language he'd come to familiarize with endless torture. They'd found it amusing, clever even, that they'd placed him exactly next the room they'd commit their wicked acts of violence. They couldn't lay a hand on him, he could leave anytime, but they didn't need to and he'd never attempt to flee. Even without this system of midday interrogation, midnight torture, Percival's sleep was sporadic, and more exhausting than simply enduring is waking ours. They subjected him to a torture far worse than the knives they drove through flesh or the pliers that ripped tooth and nail. They all very well knew it affected him more than his stoic demeanor let on. But they continued to feed him, clothe him, bathe him, even let him feed the others.
"I assume being a Catholic Priest hasn't deprived you of other religions and mythologies?" the woman spoke, her throat torn from lengthy, frequent screams. She looked past the point of exhaustion, he could see the pain clenched between her teeth, equating the tired expression to her unwillingness to let him see her weak. Percival heard the sneers their captors threw at her just hours before. He could only guess at the multitude of derisive, misogynistic, lewd remarks; it seemed men had one default mode of womanizing. Her screams were the worst for him, and it took everything in his power not to turn around and slaughter the entire outpost of wicked, demonic men. Unbridled fury wasn't something new to Percival, but he was always miles ahead of his thoughts. He felt that line creeping closer with every passing day.
"Fortunately, no. If I weren't a priest, I'd have studied theology in college," Percival responded in soft tones of his voice, timber pitched low. It almost sounded like he was growling, or purring even, as he hummed, "Why?" He'd paused for a second to let her chew and swallow the rice he hand fed her.
"Do you remember the story of Sisyphus?" she spoke around the cup of water she strained to keep down.
Percival gave her a nod, "The man destined to roll a boulder up a mountain for the sins he committed." Somehow he knew where she was taking this, but she gave no hint at hiding her intentions. He hadn't known her to skirt around any topic of conversation.
"Then why don't you just leave?" she said. Her gaze was hard, though pained and it eventually dropped to her lap. "You have a choice, so why pick the wrong one?"
"Exactly."
"That's not what I—"
"I know what you meant," he hushed, dropping down beside her.
"Why?" she gave him an earnest look, in spite of the exhaustion that drained her features.
"Because," Percival paused, starting to dip the sleeve he'd just now ripped into the cup of water—it wasn't much, but it was enough to dampen the cloth. He cleaned her wounds as he spoke, "Even if God has forsaken you, I cannot allow myself to do the same. If God will not save you, then... then I will. I must."
Nights like these, quiet background noise hushed by the buzzing in his ears, always tore down his walls as if he'd not piled them high with steel and iron. Memories and dreams of then, no matter how innocuous they'd seem, never failed to fill his ears with the screams of those men and women. Even now, they tore through him like the razors that dug into their flesh. They wouldn't cease until his shirt clung to him, sweat drenched, and his body fell pliant to the numbness seeping into his muscles and bones.
The Bible that found its way into his hands was promptly flung across his room. Percival sunk into the cushions squeezed beneath him, hands clenching his hair as his head fell between his knees. All he could bring himself to do, all that could stop the buzz and the screams and the pain was to match their cries with his own. And he'd cry out until his voice buckled under the pain and whenever he talked it felt like swallowing a bucket of nails.
And now, when the voices died down and Percival could finally feel the cool air on his slick skin, hear the creak of pipes and the growl of the air conditioners, he desperately wished their was someone to soothe him. The need to be cared for, by mother, father, sibling, a friend or lover even, was strongest when his walls tumbled down. Under small smiles, blank, expressionless stares, or comforting gazes he'd wished there was someone then who assured him and fed him and mended the wounds that addled his mind. And the guilt and shame and failure still rushed to the surface when his mind finally shoved away the pain and trauma. The fact that the thought of leaving those soldiers graced his mind disgusted him or the thrill that chilled through his spine when he'd snapped that guard's neck and stabbed the the other so many times his shoulder had nearly popped from its socket. That he wanted the rush again, to feel the sin drip like blood from his already stained hands frightened him. To feel those wicked men's throats cave with blood and to see the fear and regret in their eyes never failed to exhilarate him.
More than any of that, Percival wanted to hide in his shame, unable to hurt anyone or see the horror in his family's eyes at his own thoughts and actions. Noble or not, the thoughts scared Percival, more so the thought of enjoying such brutal death by his hands. He'd taken justice into his own hands, rained down on those beasts like an angel of God, but these thoughts were anything but holy. No matter where his faith stood, he'd not want any of what come with those thoughts, and the feels that surged behind them.
He wanted so much to believe what he'd done was right. He'd wanted to believe it was divined by God, Himself. But his humanity had been damaged and the regret and pain he could feel now, as if he'd done it just seconds ago, felt too real for his mind to shine his actions in any kind of good light.
And God would have been satisfied with that—satisfied to throw them into the pit. God would not have saved them.
