Post by Gilbert Sacha Key on Jul 19, 2012 17:25:42 GMT -5
HEAR US NOW - - -
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LET THE WHOLE THING BLOW
B A S I C I N F O
★ NAME:
Gilbert Sacha Key. Certainly not the most conventional of names, it was granted to him by a slightly estranged mother and an alcoholic father who beat her daily.
★ NICKNAME:
Nickname wise, he has been known as a plethora of colourful and enchanting terms. The most commonly used nicknames are Gil or Key, with his father adding an array of abusive terms to the mix - specifically bastard and the likes. His mother would always simply call him Gilbert, and his one younger sister would proclaim with squawks of delight that he was her 'Gigi'.
★ MEMBER GROUP:
Gilbert is more inclined towards Team Rocket, preferring in the open choice for all, although somewhat showers disdain on those who seem to rush blindly forth.
★ POKEMON:
Serperior.
★ STATUS
Legal, although he'd rather not mention the terms of his creation.
★ AGE:
Almost exactly nineteen - his birthday is presumed to be July the 18th as that seems to be the day he most fondly and solidly remembers.
★ HEIGHT:
Five foot and eight inches - not too tall, but not too short, a height he does not really disagree with but has no particular fondness of.
★ WEIGHT:
He weighs around 120 pounds.
★ FACE CLAIM:
Not using one. c;
★ APPEARANCE:
Ah, to explain a grain of sand from another grain. They are completely different in the cut and shape and length, but so similar with that boring design of practicality - to be as small as possible in order to get everywhere; infact, all over the surface of the item they are currently inhabiting. And outside and inside as well. Does this startling description sound a little similar? Am I not simply stating that which we as human beings on the surface of the earth all are? I suppose in a way really, Sacha is just the same as all of us, different only in the feminine beauty that is rarely found in men. I suppose really that was reason his father decided he could butt out unless he wished to contribute to the families wellbeing.
Albeit his fairly normal height, he seems from a distance to be tall and willowy, perhaps from the unusual slenderness of his build and his almost womanly, slim hipped figure, a waif like aspect of his body. Each limb seems uncharacteristically graceful for a male, even down to his nails which are worn a little longer than the typical males. His skin is incredibly pale, with the occasional glitter of green - not so much in a putrid way that makes him look ill but in a way that makes him seem to shine from within.
And so, it is the same feline elegance that is reflected in his face - long, slanted, cat like eyes that burn half green and half gold but neither of the above, surrounded by a thickset of lashes which give his eyes an almost androgynous effect and appearance. In a shocking twist of events, his hair is a vivid green,almost undescribable, exposing the nape of the neck but hanging shaggily for the most part in a series of layers that seem to be both incredibly stylish and yet with the same tousled edge as someone hacking at his head with scissors in a dark room. And returning to that emerald hue, it seems almost the shade found in a rainforest, the rich dark velvet of a leaf, plush and pumped with water.
When it comes to a choice in wardrobe, Gilbert very much favours clean, tailored suits, even if he may not always find such regal and eye pleasing garments. He enjoys the feel of leather and suede, but not so much soft fabrics like velvet and satin, and can be quite demanding in what he will and won't wear. He favours the colours green, white and gold among his clothing choices. His most common attire are cleanly pressed white trousers, with rather obvious pleats forced into the front of the fabric to retain some shape. With this, he wears a dark, bottle green turtle neck, beneath a plain white blazer along with a cane that disguises his inability to properly walk due to a weak knee.
In regards to the rest of his body, not much has happened - he has a small, silver balled earring at the top of one ear that mirrors a tear in the other, most probably where a similar earring was ripped from the cartilage. Ink wise, he has a small little budding flower on the very top corner behind his ear, hidden usually by all of his hair. The words 'Carpe Diem' are looped around his wrist. Other than these adornments, he wears and displays nothing else.
Counting now the bone structure, his face is of an almost feminine, oval shape, yet with a surprisingly strong jaw with muscles that can be see to flex when he grits his jaw after being irritated. His neck is surprisingly slender, along with his limbs, whose motions generally seem fluid. His body seems to taper straight down - his shoulders for a male are surprisingly narrow and being his most stocky point, he almost seems to simply go in as one goes down. His legs for example are very slim, his hips barely jut to break the line of his body and his rib-cage and waist only serve to enhance the image that he is almost V shaped, starting at his toes before cutting off sharply for his head and neck. The majority of his joints are double jointed, so to speak, and he is incredibly flexible.
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P E R S O N A L I T Y
★ POSITIVE:
- Enigmatic - although it may be strange to list this as a positive trait, this is one of his most defining adjectives, along with the use of his elegance. He is mysterious and hard to interpret - indeed, he enjoys playing with people and spinning them long yarns that none but he know if they are true or not. It is this mystery that can aid him in drawing people close to him - humans generally wish to know as much about their world as possible and take nothing for granted, so
- Elegant - a trait that came from the Pokemon blood within him and one that makes him so distinguishable from others, his elegance is both positive and negative. He walks with poise, carries himself with a slight aura of self confidence. Every action is precise - he never aims too far or too short and manages to complete tasks with a steady grace.
- Confident - something many would envy, Gilbert harbors an air of self confidence built up after living years away from his parents and actually being wanted. This confidence can be seen in his movements and in his speech - he is not boastful, but seems to exude an air that strives to makes other people feel more relaxed around. He knows what he wants, how to get it, and how he wants it, and conducts such matters with a relaxed, composed air.
- Quick - as equally in mind as he is in body, Gilbert finds himself able to break down matters and assess situations with a sharp outlook. His mind works at a startlingly speed, so that occasionally he may spring from subject to subject in a dizzying array of different conversations that may leave the person he is speaking to slightly dazed. He can draw links between two things - ideally he would've worked well in a Sherlockian job, a detective for example.
- Ambitious - aim for the moon; if you miss, you will still land among the stars. this is the principal that Gilbert works on - he seeks to aim as high as he can possibly go. His ambitions lead him to a variety of places, helped along by the sheer determination and the relentlessness of his actions.
- Optimistic - Ah, to always look on the bright side of life is Gilbert's attempt at optimistic thinking. He very rarely seems to truly accomplish being entirely optimistic, but tends to at least mildly hope and plan for the best, even if the worse seems imminent. The happy-go-lucky attitude he occasionally chooses to both nurture and adopt can occasionally lead to the annoyance of his peers or a depressingly bleak moment when he has to ask himself how anything related to fake fur and sequins can be good, but overall he attempts to find the best in a situation or person.
- To the Point - he has a tendency to say what he thinks; if he dislikes a person and they ask him how he honestly feels about them, he'll tell them. It clashes slightly with a mild dislike of admitting to people how emotionally he feels, but from an outsiders view he can analyse the situation and state the consequence of his honesty, telling them truthfully with some, if little, remorse. Sometimes to the point of brutal, he tends to tell everything like it is, not that he's really a very good liar otherwise. Please remember, this trait only comes into effect if he is asked directly, otherwise he will answer the question directly with one worded answers, keeping up his enigma.
- Original - He prefers not to be one of the sheep who trot around and follow each other. He might paint his room red, simply to see if it went with the colour of his new duvet or a trinket that had been purchased on a whim in a downtown market. His ideas in themselves are original and new, yet with his own little twist that seems to tie the whole idea together in a symphony of originality - for example, like the new creation of a food dish or some art - he takes many elements and combines them into something that is predominantly his own.
- Socially Independent - at times, he seems to almost have that 'Devil May Care' attitude. He lacks caring to what people think of him - as long as they admit he is elegant. In a way, this is a good factor to him - he does not need to strive to gain the approval of others and really only seeks to gain in some small way his own approval. The social independence was truly displayed when his father and mother died and he felt like he could stop having to show the world how unique he was and simply achieve of his own accord.
- Determined - once Gilbert has decided that he truly wants something or to achieve something, he'll get it... by any means possible, using manipulation of his resources and friends if it comes to it. What may serve as merely a time waster to others can become a kind of obsession to him, but it's a positive because as he ever strives to reach his goals, he becomes enthusiastic; motivated by his own determination that acts like a driving force to push him onwards.
★ NEGATIVE:
- Sarcastic - with a sharp tongue that can pick up on many mishaps, his sarcasm is never something to be underestimated. He has a cold sarcastic wit, that can sometimes do more harm than good to his relationships. This such sarcasm has dug him into far too many holes, even if he enjoys the fight afterwards, and the worst part is that instead of managing to learn from it, he makes the same mistakes in exactly the same ways.
- Aloof - understandably, the Serperior Pokemon blood within him gave him airs and graces that occasionally make him seem detached from others, what with the cane and the clean pressed suit.
- Cold - something gained from his mothers side of the family, when first presented he can be seen as cold, negative and calculating. The airs and graces he puts up as an automatic defense to those he has just met no longer provide him with a graceful cover but only serve to make him seem a bit of an idiot at times, although many of those people he has met would rather not admit to such. He doesn't strive to act so coldly - he seems to wish to appear mysterious, and occasionally this is achieved, but the cold aura is his way of keeping himself guarded and closed off from those who would hurt him.
- Bad Liar - although his elegance and grace when dealing with matters is not to be forgotten, he is a hopeless liar when confronted straight up. When spinning indirect yarns that could be about him or about another, his words simply twist in a way that is not all lies but not all truth. If he is questioned directly, he falters and stutters, the elegant facade gone and replaced by a face akin to a young childs, unsure and uneasy. One would almost assume that with the Pokemon DNA of a snake he would be a good liar, but most everyone he has lied to can immediately say otherwise.
- Adrenaline junkie - despite his love of appearing at all times polished and poised, exuding elegance, Gilbert has a strong belief to daily do an act that terrifies him. He loves the thrill that he gets - jumping from tall buildings has a particular charm only to be aided by some vines beneath him. He enjoys the thrill of provoking someone either more physically able or at a higher level than he as it seems to be one of the ways he truly gains some sort of a thrill, something in his life that makes him forget all else and focus on the moment. So really, it's a distraction, and as he finds that he's remembering more and more, he finds himself pushed into 'distracting' himself with bolder and more ruthless acts.
- Rebellious - not really so purposefully, Gilbert seems to have a tendency not to listen to those of a high power than him which has lead to many bruised and bloodied bodies. It's partially that he enjoys the adrenaline rush he gains from saying no to power, but part of it is simply his own laziness. Really, when he's told to hurry off and use his vines to dangle upside down in front of a window simply to watch someone, he has to suppose couldn't he be doing something more... entertaining? It's not really that he's saying no to everyone's questions because he's difficult, it's that he just wants to lie down and sleep.
- Lazy - although the clean, pressed airs that come around with him, Gilbert is undeniably lazy. Relating back to the point on rebellion, the majority of the times that he will rebel seem only to be so that he can take his leave and go curl up some place warm.
- Possessive - a trait he's had since childhood; he would find toys or a new location, and then zealously guard it against any intruders. If one looks a little deeper into the root of this possessiveness, you can see that it most likely ties back to the loss of his parents, which seems to have affected his life even if he is no longer so socially dependent and awkward. Since then, any friends or lovers that he makes are guarded closely, a habit that can be annoying when occasionally he may act a little cling or become overly cold if rejected in favor of another friend.
★ HABITS, QUIRKS:
- Along with carrying his cane that he secretly thinks adds to the whimsical elegance he possesses, he has a habit of spinning the object in a 360 degree circle, usually taking out someone either behind or in front of him before twirling the cane once more and continuing onwards.
- Gil is a terrible nail biter, and so to disguised this fact, he has a pair of clean white gloves that he is constantly taking off and putting back on.
- When alone and utterly bored or in company and highly annoyed, he has the habit of softly blowing air from off the tip of his tongue and between half closed lips, creating a soft, hissing noise, probably gained from the physical bodily aspects of Serperior being a snake.
- Another trait gained from his Serperior blood is the habit of glaring at opponents before facing them - if they look away he generally deems them unworthy of either time or his 'magnificent' battle skills and is fairly content to totter off.
★ OVERALL PERSONALITY:
A personality is never the easiest thing to write. Composing your character in the way you perceive him to people who don't know what it's like inside his head or living with his mannerisms is difficult at best. One wants to describe the character as they know them, an elegant yet inevitably flawed being who simply seeks to obtain peace among humans and Gijinka. But confronted with a biography, everything becomes so difficult. Gilbert's elegance and grace turns into snobbishness - which I suppose in a way was probably just simply bound to happen; Gilbert always was a little too high for the class he was born in to.
No one wants their character to appear anything less than themselves in their biographies, and so to write a personality is essentially sitting the character down and listing their habits or quirks. One wishes to portray the character as they are - I can list for days different mannerisms of Gilbert that make him Gilbert. But I suppose to really know a character you have to meet them. So a biography is merely the reflection of an owner on a toy, much the way I can say that my little sister's Barbie doll is far too skinny and seems to be omni-benevolent with the fake plastic smile. Gilbert himself, has had learnt to develop such a smile, something he calls his 'mask', as it hides all external emotions. And truthfully, isn't this simply what we do on a daily basis?
Because you see, for every character there are lots of aspects - I could say that Gilbert is simply a cold hearted man who really cares about little but his own, elegant appearance but truthfully, would that be an accurate reflection? Would his cold heartedness have come into play when he curled in the ashes and cried for his sister? I suppose what I'm trying to say is that for one to truly appreciate their characters personality, one must delve into a plethora of different situations. Only then may a true portrayal of a character be accomplished.
If you look deep into Gilbert, you would see that the elegance is simply a disguise for a young child who has not grown up and still seeks a mothers love - a mothering touch and a soft gentle word. Gilbert is simply a being who seeks after the abandonment in so many aspects of his life to find a place where he can truly belong and be appreciated. Perhaps this was why he stayed with team rocket - once implemented he felt as if he had some place there, some meaning for the first time in a long time.
Gilbert wanted what a woman wants - a home, and someone to take care of him, something his father hated. He wanted to appear at all times elegant, this was barely achieved, what with his bad knee. He wanted simply the poise and refine that comes from years of practice. Unfortunately, one rarely gets what one wants, as anyone can see when the read the back story to Gilbert.
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H I S T O R Y
- Personally, I think that to say ones background can shape you is a very mild understatement. In my own opinion, as the narrator to this particular gijinka's tale, I believe that each and every one of us starts as a blank piece of clay. Sitting alone, dejected in a bleak workshop, somewhere just off the road of life, ready to be sculpted and placed upon it like obediently shaped gingerbread men. We do not for one moment follow our destiny - we make it. We blaze a trail through life, like a paintbrush on paper. The first cut is always the deepest; the score through the clay which is something both ugly and beautiful. Beautiful in the way that a wound might be, the edges peeled back from that abyss where blood wells up, as liquid and sanguine as a rose petal. Ugly as the corners of the gash, ripped and jagged; torn with a thousand years rage. The first score on Gilbert's own clay spinning on the golden potters wheel was on the night of his birth; an unusually dark and terrible July time, when any notions of celebrating summer festivals had been swept aside in light of the storm that ran down the streets. The storm was a madwoman in very essence; she snatched banners and strung them into the windy tendrils of her hair - she threw ships into the deep caverns of a wave, never to be seen again. She caught children and pushed them to their knees before her terrible wrath and might. It was the perfect night for a lightning gijinka to have been born, but the destiny that Gilbert would make did not lie down that electrifying path.
- To look at the child, you would not think he would become such a strange and almost fairly detached being in later life - quite the opposite; perhaps one of those soulful, innocent boys whom everyone finds absoloutely gorgeous and yet the boy himself is delightfully oblivious. He was quiet; slightly tanned skin that would lighten with the Serperior DNA with dark hair. He waved his tiny fists indignantly and wailed for some kind of acknowledgment. His father would not give it to him, he was curled up in the corner on a chair, slouched beside a bottle of something odorous and strong, his epispect uniform peeling off him like a second, broken, sweaty skin. His mother was lying half unconscious, slumped on the bed upstairs, blood still clotting on the side of her face. It was left to the waif of his sister to pick him up and soothe him, feed him and hum a light little ditty to him, the words of which had been long lost.
- It was of course that at an age barely of being a teenager, he caught the virus along with his sister and became fatally ill. The virus had infected him after being carried over by his father, and Gilbert, with his fairly weak immune system, having rarely been exposed to many harmful illnesses. Indeed, when his mother was conscious the most she could do was to keep her husband from touching her children; from spoiling the two most precious things within her life. When it was revealed that the family only had enough money to pay for one virus cure, it broke her heart. Through the weeks up until the decision, his mother was restless, never ceasing with her tears and worrying. It was then that Gilbert's father ordered his mother to pay for Gilbert to receive the cure. It was obvious, that she would have to follow. She was a woman, and in the society that his family was based upon, it was the males that were stronger, the males that would continue onward. His sister was weak to his father's eyes - a nobody, who was worth nothing to either life or their family name. Gilbert was too young to understand when he was taken to the surgery, too young to understand why they stuck a needle into him, why they put the gas mask over his face. Too young to understand why his mother sobbed as he blinked and everything went foggy and dark, until nothing was there.
- As all things inevitably must, his sister, like a candle flame, flickered and waned, and then was suddenly put out. He never saw the dead, broken body. He saw only his sister in the hours before her death, taken by a tall, dark man, who stank of hospitals and chemical bleach, and watched as she was led away into the cold dark night. She stopped for a moment at the bottom of the garden path to turn and stare at him. It reminded him of another image, when he and his sister had gone to school and he had been late. How her bright round face had seemed almost like a lantern, perfectly smooth with a healthy flush and a sweet smile. Now she looked like a skeleton, eyes sunken and hollow; it almost appeared like someone with coal dust on their thumbs had come and swept dark smudges beneath each eye. Her skin had a sickly cast, and Gilbert had closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his sister's eyes were shining, bright as the lantern. Shining with tears. A few weeks later, his mother killed herself.
- Gilbert longed for his mother. He wanted her back, along with his sister. His sister, who had been like a beacon of hope to him, she who had wordlessly made cooling ice packs when his father had hit him, she who had made broth when he had been ill, who had beaten away the bullies and looked after him. His mother, who had wrapped him in a shawl and sung to him softly, who had held him as the thunder and lightning broke upon the house. Now he had a father who teetered on madness. A bottle was usually found in his presence, and many a time had Gilbert though of partaking of the substance, only for the Gijinka within him to protest, a part of his mind telling him that he would only become what his father was now, and that he had to have elegance. Gilbert did not understand how in a time such as this, anyone could have even vague elegance. Eventually, as all things had done to him in his short and brief life, his father went to work one day, and never returned.
- Gil waited for days for this miserable being to return, for his father to march in the door stinking of alcohol and scream at him, beating him. He even wanted this to happen, to know that he was not alone in the world and that someone actually knew about him, actually had some small feelings about him and this lonesome existance, even if they were intense feelings of disgust for the pitiful creature who stooped in the corner. He waited for days and nights on end, about a fortnight passed where the only thing he had to eat were a few packets of beans that he'd found in the cupboard one night. It was needless to say, that when he eventually was discovered, he was in an awful state. But when he was discovered, it was the beginning of a path that would take him to his current position. His house was broken into, by a man who would change everything, who would take the lanky, shy boy, and turn him into a beacon.
- The man was tall, with messy layers that hung like strips of dark blue velvet around his ears. His smile was wide, brilliantly bright, his skin a soft tan that Gil longed to touch; the contrast with his own, deathlike tone was sickening. He was calm, yet somehow incredibly energized, almost like a spring about to snap, a coil about to bounce. He thought it was the moment that he first saw him, that a fourteen year old Gilbert, draped in one of his fathers stained shirts, curled up in the corner of a house that stunk of death, fell in love with him. And this was wrong - it had to be. His father had beaten into him, quite literally, that anything else than heterosexuality was the devil's work - was something to be scorned and attacked. It was just simply wrong. But he found himself falling more in love with everything that happened, with the mans soft voice, his gentle hands that soothed Gilbert when he was scared and held him when he thrashed and screamed for his parents after haunting nightmares. The fall from grace was hard, but He was there to catch him. Names were never shared between the two. He was always The Man, His, He. It was a quiet, mutual arrangement, that came close to fulfillment when The Man made love to Gilbert on his birthday two years after their first meeting. Gilbert thought he had found happiness. Gilbert was wrong.
- And so, Gilbert joined Team Rocket with his Man. He taught him everything Gilbert knew, from how to get out of situations to how to save himself in the wild. He turned him from the shaking, pale wisp of a boy into an elegant, poised, graceful young man. Who had the habit of swinging a cane and taking out several people, but that is an entirely different story that one would simply have to see put in to action, preferably when the butt of the cane was swinging towards ones face. He was a true masterpiece, a living work of art. Until of course, the fateful day when history repeated itself and his Man went missing on the job. Gilbert was never to see him again, a true touch of fate's whiplash. Gilbert never found out what happened, where his Man disappeared to, what became of him - whether the candle flame stayed lit or was blown out.
- The candle flame in Gilbert's mind was snuffed out - that is to say his body sunk into depression. He refused food, he refused shelter, he refused anything that anyone could offer to him. He lost the will to live. He drank, even at his young age, gambled, and went out, purposefully picking fights with anyone he could find, even those who were levels above him. The depression was a monster gnawing at his gut - it was a beast tearing apart his innards and devouring him from the inside out until he was a dull husk. But one morning, he woke up after another night in the empty bed, a night filled with tears and screams for his loss, and he had changed. Enough of the sorrow - he was done with his weeping. Gilbert pulled himself out of bed, pulled himself together, and pulled himself into his new life. No looking back, no regrets.
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P L A Y E R I N F O
★ OOC NAME:
★ AGE: I did my waiting. 12 years of it, in Azkaban! ...My age is an urban myth. Truthfully, I am a crossbreed of a Timelord and the face of Boe.
★ OTHER CHARACTERS: No. ;c
★ RP SAMPLE:
Key was actually in the correct class at the right time for once - a curious thing to consider. The majority of days he could be found privately studying, hoping for a break from this endless, uninspiring routine. A break from the glances given with taunting laughter held beneath the surface, private murmurs about the blue haired young man who would break down into fits as if he were some kind of diseased being. The reason he avoided class nowadays was because of those such fits - the intense agony that scoured his soul as if sandpaper was rubbing within him against every vital organ, seeking to dissolve him into grains. He had lost alot of sleep over that continuous bullying, along with a severe lack of eating - which was probably for the best due to the fact that whilst he was fitting, his cells were attempting to mutate, the proteins denaturing and send him into a pool of smushed jelly. Earlier in the morning, he had stroked a finger beneath the curve of a hollowed eye; his face was gaunt and had almost been brought to the point of bony, his cheekbones elegant as ever but now appearing a little too compressed - his brow bones appeared to jut from his face a little. He should have been eating and sleeping, even if the mood had not taken him at that time.
He gazed out to where the newest mutant sat, one of those blondes who were constantly being pumped full of plastic to appear just so. Even now she was flirting outrageously with the teacher over an assignment she hadn't done - Key vaguely wondered how some people could simply make their way scamming through life. Did they have no interior conciousness telling them not to do such? Hacking their way into the base codes of human to extract what they needed - nowadays weathy buisnessmen pretended to be beggars and played on peoples sympathy. It was exactly like the phrase he'd once heard uttered by his mother about her father - sympathy for the devil. He hadn't know what it had meant at the time as a child of a little over five, but had nodded, those huge soulful eyes doting and adoring. Even in the end, his mother had never begged. When he had recieved the telegram to inform her of his death, he had not cried in front of those prying eyes. It was the pride his mother had taught him that lifted him, the pride that she in all her teachings even as an outcast noble had instilled into his very blood. Later, he had returned to the dorm room and, cramped into the tiny two by one room, he had sobbed, biting his hands to stop words or noises being formed.
But those days were past now. He had his own room, and even though it wasn't anything to scream about, it was his space - home. The directors had installed it after his mentor and current aider had sought a place for him to be alone and safe. He couldn't stand the judging looks anymore. Even now he felt the thud of a paper ball hit his back at 10 minute intervals, rolling down to land in the hollow of his seat. He had collected five against the base of his spine by now. He didn't have or want to guess what they said. Judging from the slight angle at which they bounced, he'd assume that these would be coming from Shaun, a male mutant who had hated him from day one. He didn't really know why - Shaun had come from the same place he had and there they'd been nice to each other, but since that day that Shaun arrived, he'd been like a plague to Key. Key turned in his seat, just to look to see if he'd got the offender right - a crucial and rather intense god complex of his was that he had to know if he'd been right - almost Sherlockian in his regards. If he didn't find out he had been right, he'd get a continuous sick feeling that drove him to finding it out.
Of course, he wasn't able to regard the ball of paper which made contact directly in the corner of his eye. Nor was he able to regard even vaguely the sharp edge of paper that nicked the white of his eye, sending a shot of agony down through his eye and into the base of his spine, almost like a sweep of a knife blade. His hands shot out, and he clutched the space over his eye, earning a laugh from the onlookers. How sweet it was to be the court jester. Standing, he walked out, ignoring the whispers, the disapproving glare, the dark looks from every member within that room. He vaguely felt the warm blood running from corner to corner of his eye, and grimaced. Perhaps this time his superhero persona of Key could finally have some ploy - perhaps he could finally accomplish and successfully provide some haunting imagery for someone to reflect upon. Or perhaps not, as the blood ran from the corner of his eye down one hollow cheek like too dark cranberry juice. Perhaps he would need to work on the rest of his image, the shock of blue hair and the attraction to pale clothes before consulting some dark scheme.
Key hurried onwards down the surprisingly full corridor, used to the nudges and the bumps and the purposeful knocks into lockers. He barely noticed the figure clad in white and black with the delicious concotion of Chiaroscuro, with the long tresses flowing like some angelic being, much less the rare smiles he seemed to serve to the occasional person. He didn't really want one of those smiles though - they seemed used on the right person at the time, but wasted on that singular person who would perhaps think more of money being thrown at them. Key ducked his head, hid behind his bangs, and continued onwards to the cooling aura and tranquility of the medical bay. This was the place where he had spent the majority of his time in his first year, and so one would almost assume that with the imprintation of memories better left in the closet, the sick bay would've become some taboo area that he would not venture near. This was not the case; Key doted upon the nurse there, who would soothe his fittings and inject him with the necessary drugs that would help to save his life.
He eventually reached it, pushing open the wooden panel, so familiar beneath his fingertips. He paused - was it a good or a bad thing to be so intimately acquainted with the door to a hospital like dwelling - to know each notch of wood and the fact that if you snuck a finger down the side of the door handle, it automatically unlocked and popped back into place. The nurse he liked was in there, with her soft, greying umber curls hanging loosely from the white cap, her pinafore starched and clean except for a spot of red that could've been some strawberry jam or something more sinister. She was a round, homely woman, who bore an uncanny resembelance to Mrs.Potts in Beauty and the Beast. The woman bustled over, flapping about the state of his eye and he couldn't help but allow a slight smile to curve his lips - so this was what to be cared for felt like. He accepted the seat she gave him on the edge of one of the imported hospital beds that looked like they had come straight from Hogwarts, sitting there and holding a slightly warm and damp cloth that was thrust into his hand obediantly to his eye as she scoured through drawers, bandages and plasters flying in the wake of destruction.
She had found the eyepatch, and withdrew it firmly with a little proud noise, holding it up like some significant beacon of hope to the masses, before stepping over, easing the cotton pad away and strapping the eyepatch over his eye. He frowned, reaching up to massage it - the feeling of blindness in one eye threatened to choke and overflow, and brought about an almost skittish feeling. He wanted his eye back, but the medical woman was having none of that, and packed him out of the room with a tap on the backside and a warning not to remove it or she would get one of the scientists to pursue him. He accepted her kindliness - after all, he knew it was only with a good heart that she prompted him on to do such ridiculous things. Moving back into the bustle, the lack of an eye scared him, and he shuddered, turning a full circle to make sure nothing dark was coming the other way. It was then, naturally, that he noticed the locked door, a little way up from him. His keen eye could tell simply from the set of the door in the frame that it was locked, and that some error had so happened to the door. He made his way over, frowning, and knelt down, level with the offending item.
Already the lack of an eye was sickening him, and he blinked, feeling a pain in his wounded eye. He resolved not to attempt that for sometime, before reaching out with his right hand, a long and thin strip of metal already eagerly grasped as his left hand lifted, similarly equiped. They were classroom locks, practically the easiest of the lot, and so with barely a wriggle and a twist it was that he nudged open the heavy contraption, the metal rods twisting like living objects in his able fingers. The lock clicked, capturing one of the metal rods, but he had yet to mind too much - he always allowed himself a period, however brief, to celebrate his own personal victory. He had to wonder however, was the opening of the door right? Should he have done so? Would there be two lovers - or worse, two bullies, hidden behind the doors tight embrace, kept out of sight of his eyes only to spring upon him and inflict more damage?
The door swung open, and he inhaled a sharp breath at the sight.
"What are you doing in here?"
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★ template was made for wretches and kings, do not steal ★
★ template was made for wretches and kings, do not steal ★
CLEAR AND TRUE
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