#closed fc

[the-colony-roleplay]

Ada Woollacott | Twenty Nine;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Telepathy and Increased Vision Alignment: New World Radicals

History

Like many young girls her age, Ada had always loved to play dress up and pretend. She’d had an active imagination—had loved story-telling and fantasizing about wild adventures with strapping heroes and intimidating villains.

Her mother had encouraged her—perhaps in the way that any good mother would. But what Ada didn’t know at the time was that her mother, Sylvie Woollacott, was a criminal on the run, her Aliases rotating like a pinwheel. And so perhaps her willingness to let Ada watch old action classics, to buoy her daydreams about growing up to one day live a life like Bonnie and Clyde, be just as brave and adventurous as they—perhaps it came from a place of quiet desperation. A hope that her daughter may not turn around and hate her, should she one day find out the truth.

Some may have seen it as selfish. But to Sylvie, she was just trying to teach Ada from an early age that not all ‘bad guys’ were really all so bad. That sometimes they did it for a reason. That usually, things existed in the greys, not the blacks and whites.

From the age of six, she’d give her daughter ‘nicknames’ and they’d ‘pretend’ to be different people for weeks on end—like a game. It was just a game, she’d explain to Ada. Just a game of pretend—and they’d make up detailed backstories of exciting people with exciting lives, and they could ‘live like them’ for a little while.

And truly, Sylvie was not a horrible person. Never had been. She was a bit lost, perhaps, and had never properly developed her skills in reasonable decision making (based on logic and forethought, as opposed to emotions and knee-jerk reactions), but she was not inherently a bad person.

But the Jury would not necessarily see it that way. She had after all, brutally killed a man, and it hadn’t specifically been out of self defence. Not her own, anyway. It’d been premeditated, and as she couldn’t afford a lawyer as good as what she’d certainly need, fear and panic had made her run. It’d been a mistake, of course, but it was one she couldn’t take back. That she’d run in the first place made her look worse, she was well aware, and the longer she ran, the more impossible it felt to go back.

It didn’t matter that the man she’d murdered had been a sick, abusive asshole. It didn’t matter that he’d hit her mother. It didn’t matter that he was a worthless piece of shit. Because Sylvie had run—and now there was no turning back. Fast forward seven years and she was playing pretend with her six year old daughter over luke-warm microwave dinners in their rusty, two door Chevy.

Sylvie was Ada’s best friend for years. Like Thelma and Louis, they travelled the world together as Ada grew up, making friends with strangers and spending money Ada didn’t know they had. When she was fifteen, Sylvie finally told Ada the truth, expecting her daughter to be furious. And despite being intentionally vague about her reasons behind the murder, Ada had understood regardless, supporting her best friend and mother no matter what. Her mother had only been doing what she’d had to to survive—because the world was a cruel place, and Ada had learned that it was only kind to the wealthy and the over privileged.

When she was eighteen, she met Danny. A charming criminal and expert slight-of-hand, and together they’d fostered each other’s cynicism and bitterness about the world. They became greedy and obsessive, robbing people, then houses, then banks, all over Western Europe (they’d met while Ada had been wandering Southern France). It’d become part of their determination to ‘stick it to the man’, justifying their resentment with the logic that they were doing the world a favour by ‘making it hard for the assholes who didn’t deserve to have it so easy’.

It’d been good for a couple of years. But it was inevitable that their luck would run out, theirs crimes bound to catch up with them. And it happened, in part, because Ada had been blinded by love—foolish enough to believe that Danny would not betray her. But when faced with a dilemma, he’d opted to throw her under the bus and save himself, and so is the story of how Ada wound up in Belvedere prison, facing ten to fifteen without parole.

Ada Today

She’d already been in prison three years by the time Isha had shown up to replace her old cellmate. Having pried more details from her mother over the years about the man she’d killed, Ada was empathetic to Issoria’s story, once she heard of it. They bonded—and by the time D-Day hit, they were already on their way to becoming thick as thieves.

Though the Colony was by no means relaxed or especially freeing, Ada had seen nothing but prison walls for three years before the End—and as far as she was concerned, the Colony (in terms of suffocating rules and treatment from authority) was a large step up, even with her high security class. She had no interest in making anything worse for herself, so although she wasn’t the most obedient of citizens, she and Isha more or less kept their heads down, their noses clean.

But the rise of the NWRF put an end to Ada’s placidity. She was enraged by what these people represented, and no more would she sit at the table with her napkin in her lap, her ankles tightly crossed, speaking only when spoken to. Gone were those days, because she could put up with useless classwork and boring chores—none of the chores, not even janitorial, were as bad as those she’d dealt with in prison, and for her, the Games and the training were a gift: rigorous, sure, but with a taste of adventure, and opportunity to stay strong. Permission to fight, to protect herself—but what she couldn’t put up with was a bunch of self-righteous assholes and their oppressive, passive aggressive bullshit. She’d been the underdog her whole life, fighting the suits in power. No more. Not like this. Not again.

She and Isha had immediately aligned themselves with the Radical movement, and had been involved in a riot that had broken out upon the NWRF’s first arrival, which resulted in a several week stint in the correctional wing. Though separated in their cells, Isha and Ada were both telepaths, and had been able to keep each other sane with silent conversations and unheard, middle of the night jokes for the course of their time there.

Since then, Issoria has done a better job of lying low. Ada, however, has been involved in several fights, and broken too many rules to count. She is angry, and eager to stand up against the NWRF any chance she gets. It doesn’t help that they already see her as a threat, being that she is one of the extreme few Infected who’s been recorded as having two separate Infection abilities. But the way she sees it? She’s already a class three—what’s the most she can lose? It’s not like they’re going to kick her out into the wastes, where they could control her even less.  The way she sees it, if she’s going to go down, she’s going to go down fighting.

Ada does not know if her mother survived D-Day. Every few months she’d hear from her from a pre-paid cell or a random pay phone. The police had lost track of Sylvie a long time ago, the case collecting dust in some file room, surely, but she could not to be too careful. Consequently, Ada had no idea where her mother was, when D-Day hit, and so had no idea where even to look when the dust had settled.

RELATED BIOS: ISSORIA FEINBERG

CLOSED FC

[the-colony-roleplay]

CAELAN “KIP” WHITMER  | TWENTY ONE;  SURVIVOR

House: Delma Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

HISTORY

Smart, reserved, and somewhat of a loner due to his preference to video games and weekends with icecream and sweatpants, over young people and socializing, Caelan kept mostly out of trouble. He also kept mostly off the radar of the majority of his grade, because he didn’t go out of his way to make friends at school, and they didn’t go out of their way to know him. He spent as little time on school grounds as possible, slipping into his desk just before the bell rang, and being virtually out the door the instant the final one went at three.

He spent most of his time with his best friend, Louis, who he grew up with but ended up going to a different high school, when Caelan’s parents decided to put him in a program for more advanced learners. Louis, who was at best, an overwhelmingly average student, went to the school across town.

Caelan ended up skipping eighth grade, (his second jump, as he’d skipped fourth grade as well) which only served to further separate him from his peers, because the kids his age weren’t that interested in talking to the brainy kid who ‘probably thought he was better than them’ and the older kids’ perception of him wasn’t much better. His parents told him that they probably just felt threatened by someone who was younger and doing better in the school work than they were, but Caelan was pretty sure they were just trying not to trip over him. He was still only about 5'3 at the time, and they were all fucking trees who played basketball. Which he ultimately resented because basketball was just about the only sport he was ever interested in, but he’d always been too short to play.

To be honest, Caelan wasn’t even convinced he was that smart. He still hated history, and had to work to remember all those stupid dates and names and titles, and he was pretty sure the only thing different about him was that he fucking tried. Maybe because he cared. But he wasn’t even sure he cared that much, to be honest. It was more to do with boredom.

But what he was good at, was computers. By the age of fourteen he could troubleshoot most of his father’s office technical problems, and had removed virus’ from his mother’s laptop at least a dozen times. Even his younger sister had begged him to ‘jail break’ her phone, which he did, even though she was ten and he was ninety percent sure she didn’t even know what 'jail break’ meant.

His spare time usually involved one of three things (and around the time he turned sixteen, jacking off probably could’ve been considered a fourth, because hel-LO hormones): playing video games, shooting hoops with Louis in his driveway, and creating phone apps. Because he’d realized, by the time he was in Junior year, that between his technical understanding and Louis’ creativity, they were something of a dream team.

And that, in an essence, became their goal. They would graduate high school, and figure out how to start their own business making games and apps and selling them to big companies—hopefully one day get hired on by EB Games or something.

As Caelan got older, he became less shy, (which he still attributes to his long-awaited growth spurt that caught him up to the rest of the guys in his grade) but not necessarily any more social. He did speak up more in class, though it was frequently drawling and sarcastic, and had the class chuckling and wondering when the brainy dweeb had gotten funny.

But at the very beginning of his twelfth grade, he was expelled for sleeping with his Chemistry T.A.

Of course, the news came as a shock to his family, because to their knowledge Caelan had never been a reckless type, but the older he got, the more bored he became—with school, with homework, with the general curriculum—and he discovered that sex was a brilliant alternative to monotony.

After that, three things happened that ultimately changed Caelan’s life. The first, was that in first year university at UofT, he was awarded a one year internship with EB Games in game creation, which would take London, Ontario born Caelan, on his first cross Atlantic trip to London, England.

The second thing that happened, was two weeks into his internship, and while he was having the time of his life in the UK, Louis died suddenly. They later found out it was due to a brain tumor, which was even more devastating to his family, as he’d been complaining about headaches but everyone had assumed it’d been thanks to the amount of time he spent in front of a computer screen.

The third, was after Caelan returned to England from Louis’ funeral, he was fired. Something had surfaced about the reason behind his expulsion from his first high school, and apparently his manager was an intolerant jackass.

Caelan was lost. Alone in a foreign country, his closest friend in the world dead, he struggled to find his center. Wrecked, he couldn’t bring himself to tell his parents about what had happened right away, but he knew his money would only last him so long. He still hadn’t told them when he went back to the office a week later to pick up his last paycheck and to clear out what was left of his things. He wondered how long he could last eating kraft dinner and hot dogs.

Soon though, money became a non-issue.

KIP TODAY

Caelan became Kip after D-Day. It’d been a nickname Louis had had for him, and even his mother had called him when he was a kid, and when the blinking strangers who would later become his first clan asked him, the name had just popped out. Apparently he’d been through too much to ever go back to his old name properly. Maybe he was trying to leave the pain behind.

To this day, he’s certain it hadn’t worked.

He knows, because he’s angrier than he ever used to be. More volatile and violent. Developing his infection certainly hadn’t helped either. He’d had enough of his own issues to deal with, before having to worry about everyone else’s. But now he’s trying to outrun demons above and beyond his own, and he’d lashed out against clan members more than once. Then, once he was taken in at Colony 4, at authority members also, which turned out to be considerably worse. In fact, that’s what had him shipped off here with one of the transfers just days before the turn over of the New Wave. He’d gotten in one too many brawls and Col4 Officials had grown tired of dealing with his emotional instability.

He arrived at Colony 22 only a few days before the Reformists did, and so he was still brand new when everything turned on its head, and he still has a lot of catching up to do. He doesn’t know much about how this place runs, compared to the last, but what he does know, is that the Reformist Elites are dicks.

In some ways, Kip is both very similar to how he used to be, and very different. On the exterior, he’s confident, sassy, and mischievous, with a sarcastic tongue and a great sense of comedic timing. He gets along alright with others most of the time, but he remains somewhat guarded and his swaggering shell is what protects the part of him that’s fragile. He’s much better in social situations than he used to be, but he still recharges most effectively when he’s on his own, or playing ancient video games in the lounge with a friend, as he’s more himself one on one than he is in groups.

CLOSED FC

RELATED BIOS: SIOBHAN ‘VON’ WHITMER

[the-colony-roleplay]

FLETCHER DESAI | TWENTY ONE;  SURVIVOR

House: Delma Security Class: One Status: Uninfected

HISTORY

tw: sexual abuse

Fletcher was the boy that everyone always wanted to be; perfect looks, perfect social life, perfect grades. A cliché to say the least and he filled the role rather flawlessly. He was born into a family more than capable of supporting him, and they funded him through a prestigious private education and supplied him all the money and training needed for success in his main pastime and sport of interest: gymnastics.

Despite it being stereotypically and ignorantly labelled as a feminine sport, Fletcher (or ‘Fee’ as his parents often called him) quite happily went about proving the generalization wrong. He threw himself into an intense course of training from a very early age and it didn’t take long for his parents and coaches alike to realize that the boy was raw talent and that his ability and potential were far greater than anyone had first anticipated. It was with this in mind that he and his parents made the decision to hire a private coach when he was 14, in hopes that he would be ready in time for the next Olympic Games.

Fletcher was determined; dedicating all his time and energy into being the best, every hour spent in private training bringing him closer to his dream. However, as time went on, another reason arose for his excessive time spent with his coach. Within the first year of private coaching, he had been suffering a slowly escalating abuse at the hand of his personal trainer. He’d train well into the end of day—and then stay behind that much longer, indulging in the woman’s immoral manipulation. 

But despite what damaging affects the abuse had on Fletcher, he chose to stifle it, finding ways to justify it in his head and fearing that if he “made a big deal of it” he would lose his already narrow window of opportunity to reach his goal. As he got older the perversion grew worse but it wasn’t until his coach first raped him that his performance and mental state really began to noticeably suffer. He became uncharacteristically short with his parents and his sister, and anytime not in training was spent locked up in his room, hardly speaking to anyone.

Both his training and his abuse continued, until one fateful evening, a fellow gymnast walked in on Fletcher and his coach in the locker room after hours. Finally, the woman could be charged and sentenced on accounts of sexual assault, but it was much too late for Fee to go on with his life normally. As if his coach’s arrest is what snapped him from his haze of a self-numbed brain, the teen gave up his beloved sport entirely as the memories were too fresh. He became even more of a recluse and even his sister who had had a very close relationship with him, could not properly communicate with him. The worst of his symptoms, however, was his developed fear of being touched. Even a slight invasion of his personal space would be the onset on extreme anxiety for Fee and his parents felt that standard day therapy just wasn’t going to help him fast enough. So, it was with both reluctance and desperation that the Desai’s admitted Fletcher to an institution overseas—the best their money could afford, in the hopes of having their son returned to them as soon as possible.

FLETCHER TODAY

Fletcher’s family survived D-Day. Both his parents and his sister lived on just as Fletcher did. Only, it was on different continents.

At first, like everyone, Fee had to mostly assume that his family was gone. There was no way to know for sure, but his survival had felt like such a miraculous fluke, and after what he’d seen of what was left of England, what was the real likelihood that they had lived? But after spending almost two years in a small clan on the South shore of England, he was picked up by Crusaders of Colony 22 and it was here he was first exposed to the Echo Database. Filled with a confusing mixture of skepticism and anticipation, he typed his family name into the system, and suddenly the faces of his parents and sister were staring back at him from among a handful of other ‘Desai’s’.

However, though they were registered Citizens, it didn’t appear that they belonged to any Colony currently. They were recorded as having been registered when boarding one of the Merchant ships leaving the eastern coast of the old United States. There was no further information on where they disembarked, where they were headed, or where they were now.

It’s been nearly two years since Fletcher’s introduction to Colony 22, and though he remains a rather private person, he still attempts the excessive therapy the Colony orders him to attend, and has made progress. Exposure to the Games has been quite good for him, both mentally and physically, and training has been rather therapeutic in and of itself. It’s also forced him to do at least some socializing, which is slowly helping with his anxiety issues. However, much like the rest of Earth’s survivors, he has a long road ahead of him.

CLOSED FC

[the-colony-roleplay]

Kyra Zabala | Twenty Seven;  Survivor

House: Torren Security Class: 3 Status: Infected - Empatheia

History

Kyra was going to be a big star some day. This knowledge followed her for years: growing up in Hollywood, she was exposed to the rich and the glamorous despite her own more humble beginnings. Her mother was an SFX makeup artist, so naturally little Kyra had the best Halloween costumes each year-- though that was where the maternal bond began and ended. With her mother often away for weeks on end doing shoots, Kyra was left more or less at the mercy of her father.

‘At his mercy’ wasn’t as bad as it could be, really. He was uncomfortable with children, and never coddled her. If she brought a fingerpainting back from kindergarten, he would happily offer up criticisms and refuse to hang it up on the fridge until she worked on her colouring. The only interest he really showed her was when it came to drama class; thanks to their location, Kyra was given a comprehensive grounding in the dramatic arts, and it was something she had a real flair for. She knew how to play an audience and get the reaction she wanted, and the limelight suited her. 

Her teachers encouraged her to apply for drama academies, come the end of her high school career. Competitive though entrance could be, they believed it was her only real shot. Kyra had flashes of brilliance, but she was lazy and unmotivated and certainly wasn’t going anywhere based on her academic merits. The day she was accepted into the country’s top performing arts academy was the happiest day of her father’s life. Or so she assumed, for he wasted no time in messaging their social circle about her success. The next four years were good ones, filled with praise over her acting talent and landing roles in their theatrical productions. Some of her classmates began taking small movie parts, but Kyra was adamant that she would concentrate on her studies before committing herself to such a thing.

Graduation came and went, and Kyra began auditioning. The first few rejections stung, and then irritated her, and then were just another part of her life. It was nothing personal, they said, the market was just too competitive. She landed a few roles; never the lead. She got the sidekick, or the sassy receptionist, or the background character with great legs. The first starring role she landed was for an indie horror flick: Baba Yaga. And Kyra was to star as old Baba, who lived in her chicken legged house in the woods and offered poultices and potions to local women, in exchange for their youth and beauty. There was also a great deal of throat slashing and sex, naturally. And Kyra was determined that it should succeed, and launch her out of obscurity.

She recalled the Blair Witch Project, and Paranormal Activity, and how their successes were borne on the shoulders of their viral marketing campaigns. Independent of the studio, Kyra made up her mind to begin her own viral campaign for Baba Yaga, and it started off with the foley artist being found hanged in the set’s decorative vines. And then the plucky young blonde with almost as many lines as Kyra found herself with slit wrists in a warm bathtub. And finally, the director was discovered with enough pills in his system to kill an elephant, drowned in a pool of his own vomit. It worked: the cursed nature of the movie brought hordes of people in for the premier. And Kyra played her part perfectly, dashing tears from her eyes and giving a speech of thanks to her deceased crew members, sniffling about how the movie wouldn’t have been made without them.

It was actually hard to resent the police for crashing in when the credits had finished rolling. She had to laud their excellent dramatic timing, and her face lit up the screen of every news outlet for weeks after. At just twenty years old, Kyra Zabala was a bigger national star than Angelina Jolie ever had been. 

The charm wore off quickly, as she was grilled by psychiatrists and detectives, manhandled through the court process. Slapped carelessly with a diagnosis of psychopathy and bundled away in an orange jumpsuit for what looked to be a life sentence, Kyra grew more and more resentful that her story could fizzle out like that.

Kyra Today

She had been stewing in her cell for three years when D-Day came. In and out of solitary confinement for assaulting other inmates and staff members alike, she hadn’t become the well loved starlet that had inhabited her dreams. Thank god for the asteroids, she thought, cutting off power and allowing her to push the cell door aside and leg it into the night.

When a gang of looters approached her, Kyra wasn’t nervous. She felt them as kindred spirits. And now it no longer mattered that she was sloppy and unprofessional, because there were no police left to find stray hairs on her victim’s bodies. She came to find a certain pleasure in killing-- the rest of her group killed because they wanted supplies, or something that the corpse had to offer. Kyra killed because she was fascinated by the way flesh peeled back like so much raw meat, and how white bones really were. These days are naturally undocumented: as far as the Echo database knows, her body count still lies at three.

As many did, she and her group travelled. They stole vans where they could, or walked for days. Once, they stowed away on a ship and took control from its crew. They spent weeks on that voyage, loving the freedom that the sea offered. It was only by pure bad luck and ignorance that they sailed straight into a storm, and the boat went down. Kyra surfaced, gasping for breath. No one else was in sight, so she hauled herself ashore by herself. Within hours she was found, shivering and soaked through, by a group of crusaders from Colony 22. Now, though Kyra was arrogant and self centred, even she didn’t believe she could survive alone in this wilderness, so she went along with them.

And in the few weeks since she arrived to the Colony-- immediately branded high threat and often watched by the guards-- an infection has made itself known. Her empatheia infuriates her, because the negativity of others now drains her and leaves her exhausted, where before there had been nothing. Worse still is the fact that she requires joy and laughter from other people to regain her strength. Though Kyra is theoretically capable of being friendly, she struggles to be anything less than an abject asshole to most. She misses her freedom, hates her infection, finds most of the other survivors weak-willed and flimsy, and thinks this New Wave Reformist bullshit is some of the most ridiculous shit she’s ever heard of, because she didn’t ask to get saddled with her stupid Infection and why should she be punished for something she had no control over?

Her only relief comes in training. Nobody ever taught Kyra a thing about physical combat, and though technically she is one of the weaker in her sessions, she has a passion for it that few can rival. Indeed, her trainers are about the only ones capable of getting more than a ‘fuck yourself’ response from her. It is hoped that, as she recovers both from her imprisonment and her years out in the wilds, Kyra will try to be a little more personable. As of yet there is little evidence of that, but as her therapists say, it’s early days yet.

CLOSED FC

[your-lonely-witches]

Finn woke to find his naked son laying alongside him. It was a nice change from looking over to find his wife in Sebastian’s place. Noticing the other was still asleep he slowly pressed against the other. His large member pressing against his son’s pert ass cheeks. Finn’s hands roamed down, stroking over the other’s abs as he kissed his neck. ‘Its time to wake up, baby boy, wouldn’t want to waste the last day without your mother around now would we?’ He slapped his son’s ass cheek playfully.

[the-colony-roleplay]

Roy Walters | Twenty;  Survivor

House: Calyset Security Class: 2 Status: Deluded

History

Roy was a temperamental child, still so as a teenager. He wasn't a handful per se—actually, he was a pretty good kid. Something of a nerd, with perhaps some reclusive tendencies, he collected action figures, read comic books, played video games, and had "a love affair with his computer" as his mom used to say. Which, when he was older, he used to roll his eyes at her not-so-subtle jibes about it, and say, "of course I do, mother, it's where all the good porn is."

Yes, Roy was also sarcastic, but more so in his own head than anything else. He was intelligent, but not outwardly expressive. In fact, he was gifted in many ways of the mind—logical, studious, quick witted, and imaginative. He took advanced classes all throughout his high school career, and became rather immersed in online roleplaying games such as World of Warcraft and League of Legends. Intuitive and bright, he had a lust for knowing how things worked, for taking things apart just to put them back together so he could get an idea of how to create his own contraptions. Despite his antisocial behavior in day to day life, he was a natural leader in the things he did online, making friends easily, managing projects or undertaking the running of gaming communities.

At school, he was decently well-liked, though not well known. People were pleasantly surprised when first sharing classes with him, that the quiet kid who was often alone, turned out to be good for a number of laughs, always the first to mutter a few dry, drawling remarks from the corner. But being liked for your cleverness wasn't as cracked up as people claimed it to be. Roy was still that kid that no one knew, and no one really cared to find out. And perhaps it was his fault, perhaps he didn't try hard enough, or so his parents said—but it confused him to think that he had to try to be someone that people could like. Didn't that defeat the purpose of having friends?

During his senior year of high school, he felt an immense amount of pressure put upon his shoulders by his parents, who despite their loving intentions, applied too much stress on the boy. Their tireless nagging lead him to lose sleep, appetite and motivation, which was the exact opposite effect to what they wanted. But the constant and unnecessary reminders of how important his college applications and his future schooling was, only made him less effective, if anything.

Roy’s parents had him convinced that his efforts weren’t good enough, that his remarkable report cards weren’t remarkable enough. That being himself, wasn't good enough, because he had to be social to be normal. Sure, they liked that their son was smart, but there was a certain stigma to being the kind of smart that meant that other people and their mundane entertainment like beer drinking and sports watching and party puking, were incredibly exhausting. In the space of a couple years, what used to be a good relationship with his parents became a rather strained one and they argued constantly. One evening, in a fit of exhausted angst after a particularly emotional quarrel, Roy tiredly wished for his parents to disappear. 

The next day, was the end of the world.

Roy Today

Roy was found, filthy and frighteningly thin, among the trees just a few short miles away from the Colony 22 property. He was hardly cognitive, speaking of things that made no sense, but no one could tell if it was delusion from trauma and starvation, or something worse.

He spent a few weeks in the medical ward upon his first arrival, being nursed back to health, and though his cheeks grew warmer, brighter, his skin smoother and healthier and no longer taut to bone, his mind did not seem to untangle itself. Though he eventually became more properly aware of his surroundings, communicating normally, he began to show signs of what appeared to be some form of paranoid schizophrenia. 

Attributing this mostly to Infection, Colony scientists believe that the virus attacked Roy's current mental state of guilt and grief and warped it into something worse, and far more twisted. Now, he seems to be of the belief that he is some kind of misconducted prophecy. He thinks that he is not only responsible for the disaster that took the planet, but also has the power to give and take life, like the Grim Reaper is living inside of him—like he's possessed by Death. Living with it in his skin, but unable to control it or cage it or exorcise it.

Roy feels like he is a carrier of death and destruction, that one wrong slip and the demons that fill his ears with voices no one else hears, will take down his friends and loved ones one at a time. He believes that Death is feeding off his bones and using him as a vessel and he's become afraid of his own reflection, as he sees warped hallucinations of his face when he looks in a mirror, frightening and skeletal and representational of hell itself. 

Roy's reclusive nature has consumed him now, but the fear of getting close to anyone and inevitably condemning them to pain has warped his mind. His animosity towards being pressured into being something he wasn't, being pushed to a breaking point where he wished his own parents dead and giving the Reaper reason to target him, has made him scathing and caustic, turning his sarcasm and isolation into a weapon. Though deep down he is nothing but afraid and alone, on the surface he is angry, cynical, even vindictive at times. 

Roy feels trapped, like his body and mind have been stolen from him and it wreaks havoc on his personality and emotional state. His loneliness eats him alive, but he feels helpless to do anything about it because his instinct is to not only push people away, but hurdle them away at full force. The mirrors in the immediate proximity of his dorm room are all taped and boarded, as are the mirrors in the bathroom attached to it.  His housemates who share a dorm with him sort of learn to deal with it, as it's easier that, than argue with him.

There are flashes of Roy's personality that seem quick and likable, but the trouble is that though many people feel sorry for him, many also fear him. He's turbulent and difficult to read and those who try to help him often walk away scorned, though it's not because Roy doesn't want the help, it's because he's terrified of allowing anyone to get close enough to do so. 

CLOSED FC

[thevoodooagency]

FOLLOW HER

ZAHRA WOODS // zahragrace.tumblr.com/

FC: TATYANA WSTCO | OOC: DAYA // UTC+1