5250 Character Sheets

This belongs here more than anywhere else... so here we go, in order of writing:

Daniel

Melissa

Donna

Eve (All but the summation at the end written by Books. Used with his permission.)

Ash

Bunny

Malachai

Sophie Warning: dark.

Samuel Warning: limericks.

Rachel

Eric

Anna Didn't end up in game.

Jack

Isaac

Alice

Evan Warning: very dark.

Julia Didn't end up in game.

Brian Didn't end up in game. Seabasssssssss!

Vivian Mostly just adapted from the Necessity (Hunger) post below, written originally several years ago.

5/19 at 10:37 pm: World background is written.

LACKEY!

And finally, flow. Yeah, that sure went as planned.

Gloriana

It’s not like I ever liked her. I mean, I knew she was trouble from the moment we met. She pulled my pigtails and ran off laughing. It’s hard not to get the message from something like that. But believe me when I tell you that Gloria Donovan is the most fascinating person I have ever met in my life.

When she was young, she was cruel. Not that she isn’t cruel now, she’s just grown layers of sweetness to hide it; an oyster excreting mucus to turn a harsh grain of sand into a pretty, mucus-covered grain of sand. It’s the same principle, at any rate. In fourth grade, she interrupted the teacher in the middle of a fractions lesson to tell her, “Your husband doesn’t love you.”

“…What?”

“He knows about the affair, but he doesn’t care. You thought you could make him jealous, but he’s just glad because it means his cheating isn’t so bad.”

Classes were canceled for the rest of the day. And as the teacher ran from the room, Gloria sat back, the edges of her mouth quirking into an odd smile, and I watched her. I had finally found something to interest me.

She was a quick learner. By seventh grade, she had already found a way to mask her true nature, becoming the apple of most of the teaching staffs’ eye. She found little ways to control them: offering advice that one time out of ten would fail catastrophically; enough to seem like a mistake on her part but still ruin lives. And they would never, ever blame sweet little Gloria Donovan, who was only trying to help, and was so kind and thoughtful, and listened to them in their times of need. I almost became a ghost during this period. I barely talked in class, displayed hardly any personality, and even dressed in dull, unnoticeable colors. I would blame it on not wanting to be the subject of her machinations, but honestly, I was captivated. I almost considered myself a researcher in the wild, camouflaging myself against detection by my object of study. I could not, under any circumstances, afford to let her know how close I was, or she would destroy me.

High school was… well, it was high school. Nobody likes high school. Not even the people who say they do. Except maybe her. In middle school she had been toying with the teachers, but now she ran the show. Students, janitors, administrative staff… no one was safe from her clutches. She was truly fascinating then; vibrant, even. She was at her most glorious while in the midst of destroying someone’s life. I say I was captivated before – now, I was completely consumed. I scheduled my classes around her, trying to get as much time for my observations without tipping her off. I couldn’t eat without being in the same room as her, and barely slept even with a picture of her close by. I knew that what she was doing was wrong – awful, even – but I didn’t care. The way she could manipulate people, pulling those slender threads that made up the fabric of who they were until that fabric was nothing but a tangled mess, warped and twisted… it was amazing. The artistry alone was inspiring, even if she hadn’t been able to do it with a smile on her brilliantly red lips and the repeated thanks of those she was ruining.

I began to wonder why she did it. Was she just another form of sadist? It couldn’t be that ordinary, that base. I knew why I would do it – to see what would make people break, and to see that I could – but it was abundantly clear that she was so much more than I could ever be. I began to suspect that she was my own personal angel; nothing else could explain her magnificence. It all came crashing down around me freshman year of college.

I had followed her, of course. What else could I do? Where she went, I went. Even if she moved halfway around the world, I would follow. So it was there, in a small, unknown college on the other side of the country from my home, with no one left but the two of us, that my heart broke. It was there that Gloria Donovan fell in love.

Her name was Theo. What kind of a name is Theo, anyway? She had no artistry, no grace, no dazzling beauty. She didn’t dance through people’s lives, saying one word to send the whole thing spiraling out of control, and leave no prints behind. She was brutality, tearing people apart for the joy of it, and trampling upon their remains just to gloat her power over them. Gloria might have been an angel, but Theo wasn’t – not even a fallen one. Theo was nothing more than a common human, trying to win with savagery what she had not been gifted upon birth. How could Gloria love her? It seemed impossible, but they spent more and more time together, giggling like schoolgirls and holding hands. And as I watched, the light within her began to fade, Theo dragging her down and sullying her with mortality. So I acted. I had to.

They tell me I set fire to a sorority house, and it was only through luck that none of the occupants were killed. They’ve used words like “criminally insane” and “psychotic.” All I know is that I went to talk to her, demanding to know why she’d allowed purity to be defiled in this way. And she turned to me, that beautiful smile upon her lips, and told me that she’d seen me, she’d always seen me, she just knew that I was worth the long game. The ghost of those lips upon my cheek lingered long after she’d walked away, and I’d cleansed with fire the place that she’d stood – too holy to let others see.

They tell me that Gloria Donovan doesn’t exist. That she never existed. My own private Tyler Durden. I almost believed them, for a while, so fogged with pills and psychotherapy that I nearly lost the way. But I’ve seen her. I still see her, walking the halls of this place. She’s different, older now, her youthful enthusiasm replaced by a calm certainty, but it’s still her, and I still love her. I always will.

Doctor's Note: Patient remains delusional, and believes herself to have a personal relationship with the Director of Sunny Orchard Retreat for the Mentally Unwell.

Malice

I’m no good at being the sidekick. All my life, I’ve wanted attention and lots of it. And I do what I have to in order to get it. So when I introduced a friend to my social circle, and they all went gaga over her, it was kind of hard to deal with. I mean, here she was with the exact same problems that they’d all told me to get over a few months ago, and they were coddling her like she was the most precious thing in existence.
I tried, though. I really did. I let myself be relegated to supporting cast. I listened to their problems, comforted them and healed them, and watched as the instant they didn’t need me anymore, they forgot all about me, and went back to worshiping at the altar of their fickle goddess, who didn’t give them what I gave and yet held their adoration like no other. Those who had once sought me for solace, entertainment, or as someone with whom to sate their lusts while they waited for something meaningful to come along turned to her with love in their hearts. And I couldn’t even hate her for it. It wasn’t her fault, after all. She was just being herself, and outside the gatherings, the tales of her conquests, the sight of those vying for her attentions, we got along splendidly, sharing ideas and enthusiasms.
I tried not to bring it up, because every time I did I could see her guilt at something she could not control, and I came to feel the bad guy for it. And not just the villain, no I was quite fine at being the villain, but being the bad guy of the situation? That I could not stand. The more I tried to suppress it with her, however, the more it came out in the snarky comments, the vindictive jabs, the complaining to mutual friends and people who didn’t even know her.
Until I saw it. The way to fix all that had been going wrong. The way to make the situation into one at which I could apply my expertise. So I wasn’t the villain? I would make myself one. I badmouthed her. I played cruel tricks and toyed with her emotions. I tried to rally our friends against her, all the while making my efforts so very obvious. And it worked. Like a charm. No longer was I the sidekick. I was, clearly and incontestably, the villain of the show, once good but turned bad by the various pressures and little nothings, oh how sad. I had a decent backstory, a motive, and a first-rate understanding of the rules and workings of villainy. And I was great.
They still talk about me even today. The one who went bad. I am a legend there. The warning story they tell to newcomers. The fear that keeps them on their toes. What does it matter that I am alone? I won. That’s all that matters, really. I won.

Absence

Begonia. My name is Begonia. It's so ridiculous I can remember it even here. To call my parents hippies is an understatement, at least when I was born. They didn't want to go to a hospital, oh no, they had to have a home birth. And they decided to name me after the first flower my mother saw when I was born. Rose or Violet or Lavender are perfectly reasonable names, and they did have a nice garden, but there happened to be some boy biking past the window with an armful of begonias just as I came sliding out. At least they hadn't decided it would be the first plant. There's an herb garden in the front yard. I could have been named parsley.
And so my name is Begonia. See, my parents go through these phases. When I was five, it was superhygenic; the whole house pristine and sterilized, probably to make up for the whole hippie fiasco. And then they were enamored of technology... no, wait, the acting was before that. It's hard to remember all of the different ones anymore, but I do remember that when I was in grade school I was teased because my parents were so crazy and
My name is Begonia. The more recent stuff was the first to go. College. I went to a college, but all I can recall are long hallways filled with students making or stopping to chat, to the general irritation of those in a hurry. Or was that high school? No, it must have been college; the vaulted ceilings and nice floors contrast with the foam above and shining linoleum below that the words "high school" conjure up. A lot of the time it's hard to tell, though. For every one thing I can remember, there are four that I've lost to the murky depths of my own ever crumbling mind or maybe leeched out by these horrible white walls.
My name is Begonia. That's something I know, as well as the basic facts; colors, letters, numbers, the names of states even. But anything personal, anything specific to me is slipping away faster and faster. So I start with the basics.
My name is Begonia because my parents were hippies. I went to Green Valley Middle school, but that was because we moved. I think. Or maybe we moved after. I don't know anymore, and the whirling scream of all that ever made me who I am is deafening me, threatening to tear my existence to pieces until I'm nothing left but an empty shell and I have to remember!
My name is Bego... Begonia. I am eighte-... twent-... twenty-two. I went to school at Green Valley and my parents were hippies. Actors. Hippies when I was born. Their names... their names were... my name is...
My name is Begonia. I went to school. But I'm older now.
My name is Begon... gonia.
My name is Gonia.
My name is Gon...
My name is gone.