#ivy hcs

[ceylon-reads]

I want to write about Ivy view on killing, the morals around it. But first I wanna talk about the people that influenced her morals in someway concerning death and killing.

The first person would obviously be her father, who never told her whether killing was good or bad. But merely showed through his actions. Specifically by the first time he killed her when he deemed her a failure. A experiment gone wrong, didn’t produce the results he wanted, and was rewarded with a gun to the temple.

Afterwards when she resurrected after that first death, her father would just kill her just because, weather he was furious at her for not obeying him or to experiment with how fast her recovery rate was. Sometimes the deaths were quick, most of the time they were excruciating slow and painful. But not slow enough that her body can heal her injuries faster. Her father got that balance down, injure her enough that her body can’t heal fast enough before her heart gave up.

When she first killed, it was an accident, her first escape attempt she was trying to escape the guards chasing her, only to turn a corner and run into a guard waiting there. She struggled against him restraining her and seeing the gun on his hip, grabbed it and put it to his head. Repeating the actions she saw her father use on her.

Her father was furious, weather from her trying to escape or from killing one of his guards, she’s not sure. She seen his lose his temper and kill the closest guard before. But never had she killed one herself and the result was being thrown in a deep freezer with no food for a week.

After 7 years of enduring her fathers quick changes in mood and a bit too trigger happy personality. She figured you kill somebody when you’re mad or when they don’t obey your commands. It’s not like somebody’s life is considered special in her eyes, certainly not hers.

The second person to teach her killing was bad was her cousin. She met him when she was 13, he was 2 years older than her, an off Standish asshole, but she was used to assholes. There first meeting wasn’t the most pleasant, she wandered into the wrong part of the city and god cornered by some older teen boys with grabby hands digging into her pockets and ripping her school bag off her back to look through it. It turned worse when one of the teens held her by the shirt and demanded she give them money, and Ivy, being a impulsive 14 year old with anger issues and not the best common sense, head bashed the guy. Which wasn’t the best idea since it just got her being beat up by 3 boys much bigger and stronger than her. One of them pulled a gun and put it to her temple, Ivy figured she was gonna die again, that’s fine, she’s used to it.

Until a shot rang out and the guy with the gun just slumped over, a heap on the ground. Ivy and the other two boys looked where the shot came from and there stood a tall, skinny teen, with a youthful angelic face and bright emerald eyes full of fire, holding a pistol between his two hands.

That was when Ivy first met her cousin, who she didn’t know was her cousin nor did her cousin know either. But he would be referred by her as “brother”. He was stand offish, always trying to scare her away, telling her it dangerous to wander around this area, but Ivy didn’t know the difference between a guy trying to lure her into an alley to hurt her and a couple of guys threatening her to give them everything in her pockets while their hands are hidden, obviously holding weapons.

Her cousin realized that she had not common sense, nor any street smarts, and not much of book smarts either. He reluctantly decided to take her under his wing and at least teach her who to look out for when interacting with people on the street, who the shady ones are that will hurt you and who were safe to talk to with out risk of losing your life. Which is pretty hard to teach to a kid when you’re a teen that has been running around on the streets and fighting other kids all the time. But her ‘brother’ taught her that you can’t kill somebody just cause you’re angry, and that killing dirties your soul and you’ll be haunted by your past sins. Which seems a bit religious, since her brother never claimed to be religious in anyway.

Anyway. She followed her brothers advice and tried not to kill somebody just cause they made her angry, actually, she never actually killed anybody in the four years she’s been around her brother, and that was because he do the killing instead. Telling her that he was already dirty, and there’s no need for her to kill anyone, as she doesn’t have any enemies like he does.

After her brother died, Ivy was full of anger, her brother, who never let anyone catch him off guard, was killed by a knife to the gut by a coward that ran off after stabbing him. Ivy knew her brother didn’t want her to revenge him, but she was so angry. At the coward that killed her brother, at the world for allowing something like this to happen just because they thought her brother was just a criminal that didn’t deserve a full life, at herself for not being by his side at that time to protect him, to take the knife even if it killed her again.

So when her father showed up again and his men started taking kids off the street, especially her friends, she had a reason to kill, to stop them from taking her friends. She donned her brother’s name and made a new persona, someone that gets revenge on the powerful few that target the ones that are ignored by society, the ones that slip through the crack of society, that no one would miss cause they had no one to care for them. Just like her brother did.

[ceylon-reads]

I’ve been looking through a blog that’s has these little thought posts on avengers, specifically spider-man and iron man, or Tony and Peter and their mentor-mentee relationship. I been wanting to write about my marvel oc but was never sure how to start. So I decided to do little snippets of like hcs, thoughts I think about my oc. That I think help develop them further as an interesting characters calling it Ivy thoughts.

Here’s the first one.

Most people fear death, either rich or poor, old or young. It’s unknown. Scary. Never-ending. But for Ivy it’s well known. peaceful. And always, always ending.

Most people would be estastic to get a second chance at life after a near death experience. A chance to continue living, appreciating the life they never took for granted.

But Ivy been given a shit load of second chances, way more than nine lives at least. She can’t remember how many ‘second chances’ she’s had in the past 17 years. When you’re familiar with death it’s not so scary. You glad you get to live too. But when you’ve had a shitty life, you start wishing you could stay dead just a little longer.

See most people are suicidal cause their life sucks and they want to end it. Take a chance with the unknown after death to escape their shitty life. Toss it away and never get it back.

But Ivy always gets her life back. Unwilling though.

If life was like a realm of fire and pain. Death was like water and peace. Silence, calm, serenity. Death was what she wanted life to be. But instead, life was like hell. And death was the bottom of the ocean.

When she first died she was scared. It was quick, wasn’t slow at all. A loud noise then darkness. Just dark, and cold, and eerily silent. But then after a few moments, she could hear things getting louder, less muffled. She could feel lighting touches throughout her body, zipping up and down her arms and legs. Could hear voices. Yelling, frantic, maybe excited? She could feel she’s laying on something cold and hard. A table? Her mind provides for her.

[ceylon-reads]

I decided to write strange habits Ivy has, either as a result of the trauma she’s endured or just to make her feel more alive.

Ivy has a habit of keeping things from people that have died, or she has successfully stolen, but she refers as “merely borrowing”.

She has a pair of reading glasses, red converse that are worn and clearly too big for her to wear, and a plaid button down that’s two sizes too big for her, classical literature books with lightly worn pages dog marked and writing and highlighting all over it, Smooth cursive smudged between the paragraphs. A single photograph pinned to a cork board above her dresser, nearly hidden by a bunch of drawings, of a group of four boys, various ages, a tall, attractive blonde teenage boy with feminine features and sharp emerald eyes, smushed into the side of a taller, older teen with sunglasses and his mouth open mid laugh, his purple Mohawk messy from the wind, and another shorter young Asian man also pulled into a half hug by the middle guy with a gentle smile and wide dark eyes glancing at the blonde man that looks uncomfortable being smushed beside the laughing guy. Finally, A small child with cropped mousy hair, big doll like eyes, and a pout on their lips stands in front and center, their body turned towards the blond as their face looks towards the camera. in a false bottom in her bedside table, finally, a Smith & Wesson Model 27 with the barrel sawed short.

She also has a wooden walking cane, the wood worn at the handle and duct taped in her closet, multiple old band shirts in men’s large, with oil stains and holes, a gold size 10 wedding inscribed with 10-8-62, a case with removable dentures in her bathroom drawer, and a blue 69’ mustang boss 429 in a shed in the small back lot of her apartment.

She has a bunch of photos in a box in her top drawer of her dresser, pushed to the back, all damaged by water, with people whose face has been washed out, and one framed picture of a young woman in a wedding gown, flowers in her hands and a wide smile. The photo cuts off at the arm of a man with his arm around the woman waist, identified of the man unknown, placed on the bookshelf, beside the worn books with cursive writing in them.

She also has a shoe box under her bed with black shoelaces and multiple expensive ball point pens. And in a corner of her closet, a rolled up yellowed paper with Declaration of Independence inscribed in cursive.

[ceylon-reads]

Usually people who have good fathers get to have many years with them. But lately I’ve been thinking. The only father figure Ivy has in her life she only has for like, 3 or 4 years before he dies. Her granddad. He’s old, in his 80s. He limps a lot cause of an injury to his right leg he got from his nascar days. On rainy days his knee hurts really bad he has to use a cane to take the weight off that leg. He has a bad back and is picky with chairs he likes to sit in. Always brings a small pillow with him just to place between his back and the chair so it doesn’t hurt him as much. He’s balding on top, only a few stray hairs. The rest of his hair already gone grey. He has these big aviator style glasses from the 80s that he always wears. Never replaced them with newer style, just replaced the prescription lenses. His hands have calluses from years of working on cars.

And unfortunately, Ivy only has 4 years of memories with him. He taught her things her own father never taught her. Although her own father was never really fatherly, a horrible asshole really. She rather she never met her own father, would be a lot better off with meeting him too.

But she got to experience fatherly love from her granddad. He taught her how to tune up cars. Change the oil and the tires. Check suspension and the brakes. She learned her way around a car from him. He also would take her out to get ice cream at this old 50s style ice cream shop on Saturday night after dinner. he would greet the owner, asking about how his daughter is doing and the new baby his son just had. He would order a vanilla shake with heath bars crushed on top and whipped cream. And Ivy would get some special flavor of the month. She was never picky with what flavor she always liked. And grandad always encouraged her to try new things.

He also taught her to cook. He has piles of recipe books with pages marked up, adjustments of ingredients and additions added to the recipes. Little comments on what could be improved. He taught her how to make the dishes from his home, like Irish stew and colcannon, or boxty or his mother’s cabbage stew. He also taught her how to make gumbo and jambalaya. There were specific days that only one dish was cooked, Mondays were always red beans and rice. And Thursdays was cabbage stew. Ivy was never sure why Thursdays was cabbage stew, but she figured since her granddad always loved it he would make it every week.

He also do funny jokes and little pranks on her. He likes to drop a rubber cockroach in her orange juice or put a spider on the placemat next to her fork. See if he can suprise her. He talk about the old days a lot. Especially if it’s about grandma or her mom when he still lived in New Orleans. Or about his childhood in Ireland. Ivy liked to listen to those stories, try to imagine what her mom looked like or what her grandma’s perfume might have smelled like.

Unfortunately the snap happens while she’s having lunch with granddad and Ivy is one of the victims. When she’s blipped back the apartment is devoid of furniture and her granddad is dead. Within a minute she loses her last living relative and is now an orphan.

It’s kinda sad. She only has a few years with the closest person to father she could have.