#replicaticns

He comes with the mists.

Like rolling water, thick vapours roll down the streets, the waves spreading and gently folding in on themselves as they hit buildings, cars, street lamps. The night sky is interrupted by the lights overhead that only barely penetrate the thick mist having seemingly taken an entire street hostage. 

And there, a glimpse.

Some destructive entity from the depths of a corroding fog, dark clothes and darker eyes, the mask on his face hiding his identity as well as allowing him to breathe in his own death shroud. Even if a full name eludes most, there were few who wouldn't immediately recognise him. Pan, a King of the urban wilds, and everything in his path withers.

That's the outside; cool, calm, an acrid monster of ruinous consequence and anaemic conscience. Wanted in plenty of states; something something destroyer of worlds. Water boils, asphalt melts, metal rusts; Orphnaeus, fleet and ferocious, quick as death; a dark horse of War. And with the treaty in tatters, it's finally unleashed.

Beyond the mask, tension creeps. His shoulders are squared as he walks down the street, gas pouring from his hands like a torrent, and angry eyes peering through the clear plastic of the mask look around. On edge, you could call him. His chest rises and falls, steady right now, despite the irreparable damage in the form of anyone caught in the mists — suffocation would be the very least of it. Calm but vigilant. Anaemic conscience.

But it's dark and they know who he is. Beyond the thick vapours is the tell-tale red-and-blue flashing of police. What could they possibly do against a walking chemical storm, one asks? Bullets still hurt. Acidic blood doesn't prevent them from ripping through vital organs and he's yet to figure out how to turn his acid into a defensive property, if such a thing is even possible.

The vapour stops pouring but hangs in the air still, and the drip-hiss of the asphalt beneath his feet indicate a change of ammunition. The street is quiet as everyone waits. In the mists, Eoin's body goes rigid, his eyes widening behind the mask, the once-steady up-down of his chest becomes a heavy heaving. There's an acceleration in his stomach, one he felt almost a week ago, one that nearly killed him, and like a rollercoaster cart being dragged down by gravity, Eoin tries to stop it in vain, managing only to slow and delay it.

Out of instinct, he makes a throwing motion with his left hand and turns his body in anticipation. Silence. Seconds pass. Nothing happens. He stands straight slowly, in time for his eyes to squeeze shut at the sudden explosion further up ahead. The vapours are blown away by the blast, and he stands there, unshrouded, witness to his own desolation. A police car levelled, on fire, and dead strewn around it. It's enough to unsettle even him.

The riot admittedly had gotten off on the wrong foot for Cain. Temporarily losing his arm and then having to heal Benjamin Granger’s crazy plant bitch has put him in a sour mood, one more suited for sulking in his apartment and watching Netflix than throwing trash cans through the windows. 

But the riot waits for no man and Cain’s still fucking mad. He’s always going to be fucking mad and the day he becomes more tired than he is mad is probably going to be the day he finally lays down and dies. 

2.) What was the best thing in your character’s life?

The first time they tried frozen yogurt. It was a treat for his birthday, a way to manipulate him, no doubt, but Jordan was young, and it was very good, and he wasn’t quite yet broken. He thinks on the memory fondly though. It was a good time. The best for a long time.

12.) What are your character’s major flaws?

4. what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

fingers brushing through his hair as he dozes off

his mother’s heartbeat and the sound of her breathing

lying on his bedroom floor while he plays with his toy soldiers

the rush in his stomach of fucking up and actually giving a shit about it

13. what does your character pretend or try to care about?

3.) What was the worst thing in your character’s life?

The worst thing was the night he discovered his powers. The helplessness, fear, and shame he felt when he realized his fellow peers wanted to hurt him for being favored, compounded with the shame and fear that came after he realized he was going to be used for what he thought was the rest of the life, always stuck with him. It’s what he draws on to keep him moving forward and keeping himself free of attachments. It’s where he began to believe that he was the only one who really wanted him to succeed and live his own life. Anyone else who tried to get close clearly wanted to use him as some sort of tool.

4.) What seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

The first time he scraped his knees, the burn and the surprise at how bright and colorful his blood was.

The sound of the lock on his door clicking shut so he couldn’t escape at night when he was young.

The way Orian’s belt looked like the night he was finally free. 

The extra annoying piece of Isaac’s hair that wouldn’t stay down the first time they had the displeasure of meeting. ( @replicaticns )

The jingle of Neve’s earrings. ( @nevekaplan )

6.) What is your character reluctant to tell people?

Anything. Literally anything. Trying to get him to talk is like pulling teeth. He will most likely ignore you or sneer or walk away or make an excuse to leave. He actively tries to avoid people.