Alec Torin

[guess2]

ALEC LUAN TORIN

....the mask

Your Name: Rin ^-^
Where did you find us?: Looking For ad on PBS.
How long have you been roleplaying?: Long time. (5+ years?)
Password: admin edit!

...basic character information

Birth Name: Alesdair Luan Torin
Nickname: Alec
Gender: Male.
Age: 14.
Grade: 8th.
Birth date: July 23
Program: Bachelor of Engineering.
Major: Mechanical Engineering.
Animal Identity: Sugar Glider

...personality

Likes:

• SMOKING•••It soothes my nerves.
  
• TRAMPS•••I just wanna get in and out, no names, no nothing.
  
• ENGINES•••They're the only things that make sense in the world.
  
• CLASSICS•••There's nothing sexier than a 1970 AMX in black and red
  
• UNCOMPLICATED RELATIONSHIPS•••Let's keep this simple, hm?
  
• STUPID WOMEN•••As long as you don't really get it, it's fine.
  
• MANIPULATORS•••I like that you don't care about me.
  
• USING OTHERS•••Come on, come on.
  
• BEING USED•••Yeah, yeah, I'm leaving.
  
• COMPANY•••Why be alone when you can be with someone else?
  
• GREASE•••I don't like clean things.
  
• LOOSE CLOTHES•••The easier to get out of...
  
• LONG HAIR•••I like long hair on a woman.
  
• BIG BROWN EYES•••Just keep looking at me.
  
• MUSIC•••Just... don't ... sing along.
  

Dislikes: (at least 10)

• INTELLIGENT WOMEN•••You're seeing too much.
  
• INDEPENDENCE•••I get it, you don't need anybody.
  
• BUSY-BODIES•••Stay out of my business.
  
• KINDNESS•••Don't strain yourself, it's not worth it.
  
• PESTS•••Leave me alone, already.
  
• INTUITION•••Don't look at me that way.
  
• CRYING•••Shut up, will you?
  
• SENSITIVITY•••Don't take it so personally.
  
• PITY•••Get the fuck out, now.
  
• DETERMINATION•••Why are you trying so hard?
  
• BEING ALONE•••Can I come over?
  
• BEING COLD•••Come closer.
  
• COMPLICATED THINGS•••D-don't say anything. It's fine this way.
  
• REPEATING HIMSELF•••Moron.
  
• LOVE TRIANGLES•••You want her that bad? Take her then.
  

Fears: (At least 3)

• DYING ALONE•••So...cold.
  
• LIVING ALONE•••Emptiness...
  
• JOY PARFUM•••Even dead, I can still smell her.
  

Strengths: (At least 3)

• ANALYTICAL•••I can fix anything. Trust me.
  
• DETACHMENT•••Nothing hurts if you don't care about it.
  
• NIMBLE FINGERS•••Sometimes it just takes the right touch.
  
• STRENGTH•••You'd have some upper arm strength too.
  
• CONFIDENCE•••I have an attitude? Pft.
  

Weaknesses: (At least 3)

• GIRLS•••Smile at me again.
  
• BEING TOUCHED•••Alright, I'll do what you want.
  
• NEEDINESS•••I'll do whatever, can I just come over tonight?
  
• INDIFFERENCE•••You don't want to see me again? Alright.
  
• DISINTEREST•••What was your name again?
  

Overall: [400 words minimum]

You think the bad boys had already come to the school? You're in for a treat if you like the bad boy, you like the emotionally unavailable, the disinterested, the indifferent. Cold, so cold, but he'll come when beckoned, there for the touch, there for the falsification of this fake love, this fake affection. He'll run his fingers over your skin, but don't worry, don't worry! He won't do anything you don't want to do. He's not into forcing, he's into touching, into the warmth of your body next to his. There's an insatiable need in him to be touched, to be hugged, to cuddled until all the coldness in his blood is gone, gone, gone, but it's a trick, all of it just an illusion. He doesn't want you, he wants your hands, he wants your eyes to look at him, just for the moment. Oh, he's a user and an abuser, taking whatever you're willing to give and using it to his own ends.

He twists your words, smiles when faced with anger, and it's alright, it's perfectly alright with him because nothing can touch him. He is the ultimate coldness, untouchable, unreachable. Your hands may be tangled in his hair but the moment his eyes are closed, the moment his skin rests tenderly against yours, he's no where near you. Thoughts are cast outward toward something else, soaking in the warmth, using your kindness to fill in the hunger for touch, the need, the greed.

You think it's the hunt, no? That he only seeks humiliation? You're wrong, wrong -- it's the touch that's everything. It's the touch that breathes life into him. He doesn't want your name, your number, he doesn't want to know anything about you-- he just wants to have your hands on his face, on his neck, his chest. He wants to wrap his arms around you and steal your life. Users, manipulators -- you are his targets, for he knows, this little darling boy, this twisted, fucked up boy, that you don't care about him, that you want him simply to use him and it's perfectly fine -- it's the way he wants it.

This is perfect. This give and take, he'll use you, and you'll use him and at the end of the night when he lights up his cigarette and walks home alone, he ignores the pit of emptiness in his stomach. He'll ignore the filth he feels on his skin because for just a moment, just a blissful moment you let him find a little bit of happiness. He lives for those moments, you understand. It's all he wants, that contact to know that he's alive, that he's still breathing, his heart is still beating against yours. Cold, cold boy, too numb, too full of dirt and grime -- too dirty for the classy ladies.

He loves the tramps, loves the loose women, the manipulative harpies come to suck his life out of his very veins. Those who see too much aren't worth it. Let's keep this simple, yes? He doesn't love you, and you don't love him; why does it have to be complicated? The moment it does, he leaves, detaching himself from you without a backward glance. Cold, cold boy. Wretched uncaring boy -- he has a clockwork heart, you know? It ticks like a clock, but it's full of gears. No emotions but the one need, too awkward, too scared and bruised. He had to take the old heart out and replace it, you know? So here he is, fiddling with his little toys, knowing that these things at least can be fixed, that an engine no matter how broke can come back to life under his fingers -- but the moment there's something living, something breathing, and bleeding in his hands, what can he do for it but watch as it dies? So he contents himself with his fake world, his world of mechanics and his little metal toys -- contents himself with driving fast when he shouldn't be driving at all, of smoking and soothing his nerves, of finding women as trashy as he is. Yes, let's keep the scum in the family, yes? Let's just keep it between you and me, where the good folk won't get hurt. Where the good girls won't get corrupted. Yes, dirty girl, you're enough for him, because it's best to be a matched pair, right, right? He laughs, but it's always a rumbling chuckle, a slow smile at the corner of his lips as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth, his eyes crystal blue and frozen through.

...appearance

x x

Celebrity Play By: Macaulay Culkin
Appearance: [400 words minimum]
The basics? Dirty blond hair, the cliche blue eyes, the pale white skin. Icelandic princess but all male, all filth, all scum. There's nothing beautiful or silken about his hair -- cut haphazardly, darkening into brown at the roots, his hair is just an extension of what he keeps hidden: he's a mess. Usually spiraled in swirled spikes, it's long on the top, but cut short around his ears and the back of his head. There's nothing pretty about his eyes either -- there are no bright blue colors, there are no pretty little circles of green or grey. Just blue, fogged up and cloudy. A darker blue, almost, but not quite. Perhaps the color of rain after it's been smeared in mud? Hah, oh well. It's not his looks that are very important in any case; there's arrogance in the slight smile that curls up the corner of his lips.

There's exhaustion that seems to curl up under his eyes, that stretches over his bony, sharp angled features as if his body had been pressed too hard for too many years and had never recovered. Looking unhealthy and sickly, Alec's skin is paler than 'fair' -- so white it's nearly translucent where the tracks of his veins seems to run through his arms, under his chest, his neck, his face -- little rivers that could be traced with the eyes. But it isn't a delicate looking sick that catches your eye, not the type that stirs up pity in your heart; no, no, he's not that type of sick at all -- he's truly something you avoid, someone you try so hard not too look at too closely. When he catches you, his mouth quirks, his lips part ever so slightly, and he smiles, smiles, because he knows what you're seeing.

You're seeing the lanky shoulders, the narrow neck, the slender chest, the very boyish curve of hips and legs. He knows you're seeing the lacerations in his skin, the curving scar that trails under his ear below the jaw. He knows you're trying so hard, so fucking hard not to stare at the hollowness in his eyes, the crookedness of his nose where it was smashed in and healed incorrectly. He knows you're staring at the grease in his hair, the arrogant, lazy turn of his shoulders. It's almost possible not to look, when such a train wreck is before you, behind you, beside you, leaning up against the wall, a cigarette between his lips.

He doesn't look as young as he is, and it's the illusion, the trick, the little bit of fear that pulls at your stomach. What happened to him? Why does his skin look sallow? Why is he so thin? Why can you see the trembling line of his neck tendons as he moves? The sharp protrusion of his ears?

Alec only stands at 5'6 -- he's not that tall for a boy, especially not one who should be skyrocketing, one who should be filling out. He's on the cusp of growing up from boyish fancy, into manhood, but it's as if his body got caught somewhere between the two and froze. As if his bones don't want to grow anymore, as if the smoke which parts his sickly, red lips is the noxious poison which is killing him.

That's what it looks like, at least. Alec looks like he's dying.

As a sugar glider, Alec is ridiculously small, able to wrap himself around someone's thumb comfortably. With little claws and feet, his paws are small and dexterous; the webbed fur between each limb allows for a flying glide. His body is very small, mostly made of excess fur for warmth -- with a little head, pointed nose, and a giant black eyes. Covered with the usual pattern of silver and black, he is striped, with black ears; his tail stretching out longer than the length of his entire body. [/size]

...history

Parents: Mother: Syndey Rigitori, 29. || Father: Conall Torin, 32. || Step-Father: Ryan Maldonado, 40, divorced. || Step-Father: Jack Rigitori, 35.
Siblings: Step Brother: Timothy Maldonado, 12 || Step Brother: Brian Maldonado, 10 || Step Sister: Theresa Rigitorri: 8 || Step Brother: Kevin Rigitorri, 8 || Step Sister: Lori Rigitorri: 5
[400 words minimum]
He was five years old when the worst happened: when mommy dearest married a stranger, a perfect -- horrendous stranger. He hurt her, bad, and him too when he spoke louder than a whisper; when he saw what he did to her, when he tried to help. Poor mommy, but mommy was a dumb cunt and didn't deserve the sympathy her darling boy gave her. He loved her, stupid boy, though she was a needy, lusty woman. He was her world, of course, of course -- until the boyfriends came, until the world shattered under his little feet and he was locked up in closets and told to shush, little baby boy, I'll come back, I swear, I swear -- as he watched through the slit in the door as she bent over, as she gave herself to this strange man. Perhaps she had noble intentions, but the scar was heavy on the young boy -- and as the boy grew up, and the boyfriends grew more frequent, he learned to fend for himself.

Alec didn't seek out his mother, didn't even look in her room, but rose every morning, fed himself, and left. School? What was school? He lived this way for a long time, forgotten by a mother who was too immersed in losing herself to sex and drugs to care what happened to the boy: until she got pregnant. Until she was a twenty year old mother with two kids. She married the guy -- the very guy who hurt her and abused her. Wed herself to a man who was easily twice her age, and hated her and her kids. He fed her, gave her a place to stay and it was enough for her, though Alesdair learned long ago to keep away from him, to stay out of his way or the fists would fly, the belt would lash his back He's been scarred already, and only eight years old. He's been terrified by the bleak look in his mother's drugged eyes as she lies on her bed all day, and fucks all night, as her husband comes and goes as he pleased, wreaking havoc with the children he spawned. Three now, little Timmy and Brian. But Alec? Alec was a little shadow, barely seen as he curled up on the floor of his closet, too scared to even peak out and witness the sounds which pulsed through the paper-thin walls.

Guy number two left after the third pregnancy, and mother, cunning, sly mother, quickly found herself another man, forcing him to marry her when she told him she was pregnant with his child. So sly, mother, such a beautiful liar you've become. Anything for the fix, right? Anything to coax money from his hand, to spend it on coke, and heroin, to freeze your very brain in this stigmata of pleasure as child number three and four passes on into life. As they starve and cry and hold out their hands or you -- but you only smile, only blow smoke into their mouths with heavy-lids, rocking on your chair. It doesn't matter, because you have your fix, you have what you wanted most in the world. What was guy number three, hooked by your charm and your slutty, slurred voice, your smokey, easy eyes? What was he but a stepping stone? What was another name latched onto yours, when there were hundreds of notches on your belt? One more? It couldn't have hurt much. Alec lived in this world, going to school only when guy number three put his own children in. No one realized how smart he was, how quick he was to find patterns, to see point out logic, to put pieces back together after they've been taken apart.

He learned to love mechanics, to dream of fast cars he could never drive so that when the time came he could run and never look back. But Alec was stuck, especially when baby number five makes it's crying way into this world, and numbed itself against her breast and suckles on the poison in mother's blood. Poor Lori, poor Lori.

Alec stopped going to school in the fifth grade, spending his days haunting the local mechanic's until the behemoth finally took note of the burn marks, of the bruises and the lashes on his skin -- of the way in which the boy trembled. Dylan taught him how to be confident, how to fix things the right way, where things fit; he taught Alec how to make the world simpler -- and as the boy grew up into adolescence, as he began to feel his body changing, he latched onto that.

There was a hole in his existence, a terrible gaping, wound, an emptiness that he couldn't quite fill up fast enough. Like a fatal puncture, it bled faster than he could stuff the cloth inside. His introduction to sex, to love, was a terrible thing, with mommy dearest opening her legs to whoever had what she needed. Was it so surprising he adopted her manner? That he saw a reason in it, though he despised it? Love? What life was this to share love? He crushed those blossoming roots of love, turning his heart away from those he might learn to love. Alec[/color] tore out his own heart, so to speak, and replaced it with a clockwork heart, a heart of gears and springs, a heart untouched by anything. When he first noticed girls for something other than disgusting, he was no longer afraid; his heart was quietly withdraw, ticking, ticking to a tune he had designed. He was unbreakable, untouchable, even at such a tender age; Dylan watched over him with a weary smile as he brutally ignored girls, as he cut himself from that -- convinced they were all just like his mother inside: they were all secret whores. Better to keep them pure, better not to share the disease he perceived in his blood. So Dylan, trying to open him up, did, perhaps, what he shouldn't have. At thirteen, when the boy was on the cusp of truly growing up, Dylan told Alec's father about some of his reservations about the boy.

Perhaps it wasn't his fault, as Jack, fucking number three, god-damned number three only watched the boy as he ghosted through the house; it wasn't until he argued with mother, loving, ha-ha!, mother, that the world came crashing down. He asked her why the boy was still here, how he didn't fit in the household -- how, of course, he took Brian and Timmy as his own, as was right, but what use was the delinquent? Never going to school, always hanging around the mechanics. He was a bad influence on his kids -- especially Lori; it was time to get rid of it. But Sydney, her most secret fear somehow transcending even the fog of her drugged up world, reacted badly. It was how Alec got the scar that traced from his ear, under his jaw. Stalking into his room while he slept, she tried to strangle him -- and when he threw her off, his eyes wide, she grabbed Alec's display envelope opener; in the shape of a blade, small and fit for her hand, they struggled, his voice muffled as she cut at him, screaming at him, horrendous -- her eyes full of fear and the hallucinogen she had consumed. It was the first time he heard his true father's name on her lips -- but he quickly lost consciousness.

It was the next day when Lori, tender-hearted Lori, came to him in tears, looking at the stitches. Always, always, Alec had kept his distance from the other kids, from his fake brothers and fake sisters -- the only thing they shared was the toxicity of their mother's blood. It was enough to ignore them, to let them do as they pleased and leave him be; but as he struggled with the pain of the stitched up wound, with the gaping hole in his heart that had opened up, he felt completely alone. When Lori came, her little arms coming around him insistently, only five years old and more loving than their mother could ever be, Alec unraveled. It was a simple love, her tears running clear down her face as she clung to him, as ... as he hugged her back -- as ... as his skin shifted, his emotions too much for this skin, too much for what he was; the personification of his need awoke the gene in his blood. Clothes draped around him, his body shrinking, shrinking, her arms losing their touch -- his heart skipped as she grew... no, no, as he shrunk. Children are some of the most accepting creatures on this planet -- when he clung to her, his little claws wrapping around her fingers, his body curled up in her palm, trembling from fear, from this impossible need which had broken free from him, she had simply lifted him up and petted him. She was a strange girl, gentle, where others her age would have pulled excitedly at the pet in her hand. His heart calmed, by slow degrees, falling asleep in her hair.

Where other shifters were defined by their animal -- personified traits, desires, longings, for Alec, the sugar glider possessed something else. It was the tool, the hammer that broke the damn. The sugar glider made it impossible for him to ignore others, to hold back his dead heart from coming to life, curled up next to something warm, something loving. But Alec was still very much himself, and his sense of authority, his sense of indifference did not change overmuch. He had a new shape, a new name which he remembered coming off of his mother's tongue like a curse. She knew something, he felt it; but what could he do when she hospitalized herself on an overdose? When every night he was overcome by the unending fear of loneliness, and crawled into his sister's bed, little claws tight around her hair, his little nose next to her ear as he passed out into comfortable sleep.

When the Sugar glider slipped out of his skin, it personified his need, his wish to be loved, to be held and touched. A Sugar glider dies of loneliness when separated from it's kind; so it was with Alec, who spent hours at the mechanics, who picked up bad habits -- smoking, and women. Fourteen years old, and he's no longer a virgin, no longer yearns for a look from his mother, from a father he never knew. But Alec was too loose with his ability, without care, without fear -- always shifting when the whim hit, whenever the need arose.

It was how his mother found him, sleeping curled up against Lori's hair -- and her expression, at once drugged and yet lucid remained in his mind's eye: horrified as he shifted back. Not disbelief, no, she knew, she knew something, and instead of answering him, of explaining to him why, why -- she simply shipped him off to the school. Her last words? She never wanted to see him near Lori ever again.[/size]

...connecting human to animal

[One Paragraph Minimum (Can be point form)]
Why a Sugar glider and not something else? Sugar gliders are not solitary creatures: they need to be touched, to feel the warmth of their little aviary flock to live. If they go too long without them, they could die of loneliness. Much like a sugar glider, Alec lives for the next touch, addicted to the feeling of belonging, even though he detaches himself from that sort of definition. He does not want anything complicated, because he knows that much like a sugar glider, he will imprint and hold that one person above the rest, relying on them for life. Though he isn't a picky eater, his eating habits are much like his other half, as he sticks to cheeses, fruits, and seeds, rather than anything with a lot of flavor, or weight behind it.

...literacy

RP Sample[/i]
See Natsumi Sayuri {Rin}[/size]
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