Post by mikhail on Jun 4, 2012 6:40:30 GMT
i am the nexus one, i want more life, fucker i ain't done yet
MIKHAIL JASON VITRAELLI
mikey. twenty-five. male. heterosexual. human. neutral. felicis.
MIKHAIL JASON VITRAELLI
mikey. twenty-five. male. heterosexual. human. neutral. felicis.
AGE FOUR;;
He remembered, distinctly, sitting upon the stump in the middle of a light snow. He sat there watching quietly as a tall grizzled man chopped wood. The man's face was lined and serious, unforgiving and steely. He did not seem the type that would have a young child in tow. Mikhail did not comprehend such norms, however. He simply watched with a solemnness that matched that of his father, his mittens pressed into his lap for warmth. His breath was a chilly fog in the air, and his big brown eyes were doey and innocent in those days. His stillness was perturbing to most visitors; children his age were supposed to be filled with energy and movement. Mikhail was nothing but obedient, and always silent. Some thought him mute, for he spoke to no one but his father.
Angelo paused in his cutting for a breath, staring at the sky. Theirs was an isolated existence in the southern woods, just the two of them. The two Vitraellis made their existence off of the land. When hardpressed, Angelo would walk the ten miles to town and do some trading with the tiny local store; they owned no vehicle. Mikhail was too young to ever join him, and generally remained behind in the cabin. Those in the small town of Leverin generally pitied Angelo, a single father with few social skills, and not much of an income.
But Angelo was nothing but proud, something he instilled in his son. He hit Mikhail across the bottom when he cried. Tears, he said, were not for men. You do not cry, you fix whatever mistake has been done. Mikhail had not understood this doctrine until later. For the moment, he only knew that he must obey.
That day would have been like any other, had not Angelo turned to Mikhail, his gaze hard as stone. "Start carrying the wood, boy." Mikhail stared blankly at first. He'd never been asked to help his father before in his tasks. When Angelo snapped, "Now!", Mikhail did not further question this change in his routine of silent observation. A single chopped log filled his arms and he stumbled on stubby legs. The wood was damn and cold, even though his wool coat. Mikhail bit his lip to keep the complaint inside. He ducked his head to his father, and began to walk alone back to the cabin, but quickly in case he was reprimanded for dragging his feet.
From that day forward, Mikhail worked.
AGE EIGHT;;
The summers were for fishing and hunting, and already Mikhail was more adept at either of these than most boys his age. He learned both to work with a pole and a hunting rife, and knew as well the patient art of hand fishing. He was, however, barely literate. His father had deemed to homeschool Mikhail; Mikhail did not pretend to understand the laws that decreed he should learn how to add things or read a book. He stared at words without much interest, and barely passed the annoying tests he was required to take.
This was not what life was, to Mikhail. His life was one of the earth, of physical labor and a stony father. Sometimes, a woman named Susanne would come by. She was kinder than his father, but he felt uncomfortable around her. She seemed to know Angelo from some past life that did not concern Angelo's son. But when she came, she brought him chocolates (which he enjoyed) and books (which he ignored). Her visitations filled him with bemusement, although it wasn't a terrible type of confusion.
But the visit this week had done something to his father. He was not there in the early morning; not a deep concern to Mikhail, for his father often came and went without warning. When he did not return by late afternoon, after Mikhail had dutifully done what schoolwork was required of him, he became concerned. Supposing uneasily he might have run into some sort of wildcat, he took up the rifle off the wall and went out into the darkening night. Mikhail no doubt looked ridiculous carrying a rifle too big for his young body, but his eyes were narrowed in a steely look of brave determination.
He found his father beside the stream, his fishing gear set aside. He was turning over something his hands, his back to Mikhail. "Father?" Mikhail asked formally, keeping his wary distance. Angelo did not turn towards his soon. Lowering the gun cautiously, Mikhail approached with hesitant steps. "Father?" he repeated.
Slowly, Angelo looked up. Mikhail felt a jolt to see the glint on Angelo's drawn face, as he looked wild-eyed up at the boy. "Come here, Mikhail," he rasped. Mikhail reluctantly approached, knowing to not disobey a direct command. He felt a strong hand at his shoulder, pulling his down to his knees before Angelo. For a crazed moment, he thought his father was going to shove his head into the water. He inhaled sharply, staring up with bewildered anxiety at his father. Perhaps the thought crossed Angelo's mind; he seemed to be breathing heavily, his lips trembling. Slowly, he held out his other hand. In his palm was a crumpled, small picture of two children holding each other. They both carried a passing semblance to Mikhail.
The boy had the dark eyes and stern face of Mikhail. The girl, however, was laughing and joyful. Her hair was Mikhail's, thick dark curls that accented her round face in a lovely matter, and made her blue eyes pop. Mikhail stared uncomprehendingly. "This is yours," Angelo said shakily. Mikhail took in his own hands, feeling like he was holding something fragile. He stared up at his father, waiting. "Go." Mikhail did, taking this treasure with him, feeling afraid and not knowing why.
AGE SIXTEEN;;
He dug the grave himself. Gently, he lifted the limp body in his arms. Mikhail had grown tall in the past few years, his muscular frame enhanced by the hard labor of living alone in the woods. He had placed his dead father into the ground with tenderness, dressing him in his cleanest set of clothes. He knew that was how they did it in the cities, making the dead look their best for whatever life came next. Mikhail had stood there looking for awhile, trembling slightly. After some time, he began to shovel dirt atop the still form.
He had been still that morning, when Mikhail found him. Mikhail knew what death was, though he did not pretend to understand what had felled his father (later, he would deem it likely a heart attack gone ignored). He had sat there beside his father's bed for a long time, running his hand over the book on the bedside table, the only one he saw his father reading; the Holy Bible. Once or twice, he had read a story to Mikhail. He understood that these were not the simple fiction books Susanne gave him, but something that carried weight with his father. He had buried this book with Angelo.
When the last shovelful of dirt had been placed over the corpse, Mikhail sat down atop the freshly turned soil. He stared up and up at the clear blue sky, shivering slightly though the air was warm. His heart was broken, he knew. Though he and his father spoke little, he had worshiped Angelo as a god, as the only human being to truly leave a mark on Mikhail's life. The future seemed a long stretch of blankness now, and he had never felt so scared and abandoned. He thought he ought to rage and scream in defiance of his father's abrupt end. Instead there was a stillness. Several hours would pass before Mikhail rose from the grave. He never cried.
AGE TWENTY;;
The city was unlike anything he'd ever seen or experienced. There was light constantly, and noise that overwhelmed the quiet whispers of the forest. He was dizzy from the experience, shivering as he walked the streets. He saw more cars than he'd seen in his life. He saw more people than he thought even existed. True, he was forced to read about vast warrens of life by his father, but he never imagined much beyond his quiet forest home. It was all he knew, before, and it used to be enough. But there was a loneliness there. Home was just a dark memory now. He'd come to the city to learn of others.
The culture shock was staggering. He felt oppressed by so many people. When he came to a park, it was a deep relief. The openness and the trees allowed him to sit on a park bench for a moment and breath. He did not know how things were done here exactly, but he was determined to learn. There was something fascinating about this place, despite all of the strangeness about it. People were talking, all the time - he found that curious and fascinating. Moreover, he noticed the women.
Never before had Mikhail seen so many. The only woman he regularly ran into was Susanne - she was aging more than his father, however. But these women... they were young and so much more interesting. He found himself watching them jog through the park, and a deep desire welling up inside him that had not reared itself often in his young life. He'd spent much of his time staring at the images of the very few magazines his father possessed - stuff that was hidden very obviously under the mattress.
But these were real women, and they were... something else. Mikhail wondered what it would be like to spend a life with a woman, alone in a home. Nothing like it would be with his father. It discomforted him, all these new possibilities that he was beginning to see, all this technology and people he could experience. He found himself sleeping on a bench in the park, broke as he was. But the next morning, Mikhail began to explore the city, and learn more about the world he had never known.
[[Eek, I hope this app is okay! Wanted to do something different from normal apps and stuff.]]
app by kel <3
rp sample
Stas Svetlichnyy
With a flourished hand, Dmitri signed his name and the time of death. Subject 106678 was just another number in a long line of deceased in the name of saving the world from the hands of the gifted. No longer did gifted mean a child with great (or very little) intelligence. It applied to something entirely new; the extraordinary, the fantastic. These people were great and terrible powers at the tips of their fingers. They who could wreck havoc without a care. From gaelstorms to earthquakes to manipulating molecules with willpower alone, the range and capacity of these mysterious persons was unknown. But what was recorded was their existence, for quite some time. They'd been around, hidden. But their existence was now quite common knowledge. They were fugitives from the law, and to be captured was to die. At least, that was the case for most.
Dmitri Chekhov was a special case. He'd gone to a prestigious school in his home country, and was known to be quite a brilliant scientific mind, in dealing with genetic manipulation. He'd been studying the genetic code for quite some time now. But that wasn't only what made him unique. He was one of those fugitives from around the world. This, actually, wasn't public knowledge. Not that many actually knew who was heading the research team into nullifying the abilities of the gifted by creating some way, at the biological level, of counteracting whatever sequence happened to give a person that special... something. The trouble was, the sheer length of the genetic code meant finding the right anomalies tiring, not to mention that Dmitri harbored suspicions that different segments were affected for each person. These oddities, they were mutations. Studying how and when manifestations of abilities came to be was no use either. Sometimes, it came at birth. At others, during puberty. And still others, later. The oldest case of sudden appearance of ability was in a 77-year-old woman who suddenly gained the ability to talk to animals. Yet how could that be? How? It was Dmitri who was to find out. He was pioneering this adventure, because he had a power, a horrific thing it was. His very touch was devastating to another human being. One brush of his finger and he could suck a decade off of someone's lifespan. It enhanced his senses and natural abilities to an astounding, unmeasurable level. He'd thought of researching himself and the extent of his powers, but the ramifications of such studies would be even more horrendous than trying to find a "cure", as the non-scientific types put it, for the mutations that were cropping up at an exponential rate among human populations. Hypothesis for this including the possibility of increased exposure to radiation from human byproduct, to wild theories about global warming. But the cause didn't matter to Dmitri. How to create some kind of blockage on the most dangerous of these abilities was important.
To live without the touch of human flesh had been a lonely life indeed. Most weren't even aware why it was so, when he first turning sixteen and things began to die when he touched them. It all started with his pet cat Yasha. And then he found that even plants withered when he grasped them. And yet, he'd never felt more alive though he was struck with horror and misery at his new found abilities. He began to reject his friends, and wore clothing to cover every part of his body, so that even an accidental brush with him wouldn't cause tragedy. People scoffed and thought he was trying to set some kind of trend, what with always wearing long sleeved clothes and gloves. No trend, though. No. He wouldn't put himself into exile for some trend. The time he accidentally jolted his mother into having white hair, now, that had been a real wakeup call. His parents became afraid of him. But they dare not call the police. By that time, everyone knew that freaks like Dmitri were not treated kindly in most countries. Every government hoarded them; whether for research, or for military might, everyone wanted something. And a boy who could kill with a brush of his fingers would be quite vulnerable.
So he'd isolated himself, and resorted to the cruelest of words if he had to drive people away. Potential girlfriends, old classmates, everyone. Every time there was an accident it was just another reminder to keep his distance. Eventually, he finally killed someone, just before graduation from university, when a girl tried to take him by surprise by hugging him from behind, her hair burying into his neck. She had been reduced to a husk of skin and bones in less than ten seconds. Now a murderer, Dmitri turned himself in, prepared for the worst. But he'd been surprised to find himself recruited for his mind into this project. It was a noble cause, he thought. His hands were already sullied with blood, what was a little more anyways. In the name of all that was holy, he would save future Dmitri Chekhov's from having to suffer a life of isolation and horror. So he'd been taken to America, to begin this project.
Turning, he was surprised to find Henry Taft at his side. The fellow always moved too silently for Dmitri's comfort. "Dead, is he?" Henry questioned, nodding at the still body. Dmitri nodded with a grimace.
"Ah. Well. New shipment just in. Got about ten of them. And one's a healer." Dmitri nodded again, though this time with a smile. It'd be the second healer they'd caught successfully. Useful creatures, these healers. No matter what experimental cure they coaxed, the healers could weather the storm and come out unscathed. The most risky of viruses and vaccines were placed into their bloodstreams, or rammed into their spines, in an attempt to coax some kind of effect. Of course, the others were needed as compare groups. If the cure just worked on healers, it'd be entirely pointless. Especially since the regeneration of self really wasn't that much of a threatening power, in all actuality. Nothing like being able to spit fire or create tidal waves. Or, really, kill with a touch.
"Very good, then," Dmitri said with his brisk Russian accent. "Put them in the restraints and begin orientation." All newcomers were introduced to their new life as test subjects. Everyone was treated relatively sanely, aside from the whole experiments thing. They were given food and good bedding, and those on good behavior were allowed to mingle. Of course, they all had to be returned to individual cells, and were escorted by armed guards with tranq guns. Every cell was specially equipped to contain whatever happened to be within. No dirt for the earth manipulators, walls and glass fireproofed against the pyros, and any other manner of contraption one could think of. Most had resigned themselves to their Russian roulette life, and were content to just have a chance to make friend (and, quite often, make love; Dmitri was quite aware that the impending idea of death sent many into the arms of random lovers every other night in a need to have some small pleasure before the end. Dmitri turned a blind eye to this, and suggested the rest of the team as well). He felt sorry for this people whom he was so alike, whom were unaware that he was even one of them. To them, Dmitri was just another tormentor, another scientist scribbling notes and wondering about the effects of this and that.
So far, there'd been no need for him to demonstrate his powers. And hopefully, there never would be.
With a flourished hand, Dmitri signed his name and the time of death. Subject 106678 was just another number in a long line of deceased in the name of saving the world from the hands of the gifted. No longer did gifted mean a child with great (or very little) intelligence. It applied to something entirely new; the extraordinary, the fantastic. These people were great and terrible powers at the tips of their fingers. They who could wreck havoc without a care. From gaelstorms to earthquakes to manipulating molecules with willpower alone, the range and capacity of these mysterious persons was unknown. But what was recorded was their existence, for quite some time. They'd been around, hidden. But their existence was now quite common knowledge. They were fugitives from the law, and to be captured was to die. At least, that was the case for most.
Dmitri Chekhov was a special case. He'd gone to a prestigious school in his home country, and was known to be quite a brilliant scientific mind, in dealing with genetic manipulation. He'd been studying the genetic code for quite some time now. But that wasn't only what made him unique. He was one of those fugitives from around the world. This, actually, wasn't public knowledge. Not that many actually knew who was heading the research team into nullifying the abilities of the gifted by creating some way, at the biological level, of counteracting whatever sequence happened to give a person that special... something. The trouble was, the sheer length of the genetic code meant finding the right anomalies tiring, not to mention that Dmitri harbored suspicions that different segments were affected for each person. These oddities, they were mutations. Studying how and when manifestations of abilities came to be was no use either. Sometimes, it came at birth. At others, during puberty. And still others, later. The oldest case of sudden appearance of ability was in a 77-year-old woman who suddenly gained the ability to talk to animals. Yet how could that be? How? It was Dmitri who was to find out. He was pioneering this adventure, because he had a power, a horrific thing it was. His very touch was devastating to another human being. One brush of his finger and he could suck a decade off of someone's lifespan. It enhanced his senses and natural abilities to an astounding, unmeasurable level. He'd thought of researching himself and the extent of his powers, but the ramifications of such studies would be even more horrendous than trying to find a "cure", as the non-scientific types put it, for the mutations that were cropping up at an exponential rate among human populations. Hypothesis for this including the possibility of increased exposure to radiation from human byproduct, to wild theories about global warming. But the cause didn't matter to Dmitri. How to create some kind of blockage on the most dangerous of these abilities was important.
To live without the touch of human flesh had been a lonely life indeed. Most weren't even aware why it was so, when he first turning sixteen and things began to die when he touched them. It all started with his pet cat Yasha. And then he found that even plants withered when he grasped them. And yet, he'd never felt more alive though he was struck with horror and misery at his new found abilities. He began to reject his friends, and wore clothing to cover every part of his body, so that even an accidental brush with him wouldn't cause tragedy. People scoffed and thought he was trying to set some kind of trend, what with always wearing long sleeved clothes and gloves. No trend, though. No. He wouldn't put himself into exile for some trend. The time he accidentally jolted his mother into having white hair, now, that had been a real wakeup call. His parents became afraid of him. But they dare not call the police. By that time, everyone knew that freaks like Dmitri were not treated kindly in most countries. Every government hoarded them; whether for research, or for military might, everyone wanted something. And a boy who could kill with a brush of his fingers would be quite vulnerable.
So he'd isolated himself, and resorted to the cruelest of words if he had to drive people away. Potential girlfriends, old classmates, everyone. Every time there was an accident it was just another reminder to keep his distance. Eventually, he finally killed someone, just before graduation from university, when a girl tried to take him by surprise by hugging him from behind, her hair burying into his neck. She had been reduced to a husk of skin and bones in less than ten seconds. Now a murderer, Dmitri turned himself in, prepared for the worst. But he'd been surprised to find himself recruited for his mind into this project. It was a noble cause, he thought. His hands were already sullied with blood, what was a little more anyways. In the name of all that was holy, he would save future Dmitri Chekhov's from having to suffer a life of isolation and horror. So he'd been taken to America, to begin this project.
Turning, he was surprised to find Henry Taft at his side. The fellow always moved too silently for Dmitri's comfort. "Dead, is he?" Henry questioned, nodding at the still body. Dmitri nodded with a grimace.
"Ah. Well. New shipment just in. Got about ten of them. And one's a healer." Dmitri nodded again, though this time with a smile. It'd be the second healer they'd caught successfully. Useful creatures, these healers. No matter what experimental cure they coaxed, the healers could weather the storm and come out unscathed. The most risky of viruses and vaccines were placed into their bloodstreams, or rammed into their spines, in an attempt to coax some kind of effect. Of course, the others were needed as compare groups. If the cure just worked on healers, it'd be entirely pointless. Especially since the regeneration of self really wasn't that much of a threatening power, in all actuality. Nothing like being able to spit fire or create tidal waves. Or, really, kill with a touch.
"Very good, then," Dmitri said with his brisk Russian accent. "Put them in the restraints and begin orientation." All newcomers were introduced to their new life as test subjects. Everyone was treated relatively sanely, aside from the whole experiments thing. They were given food and good bedding, and those on good behavior were allowed to mingle. Of course, they all had to be returned to individual cells, and were escorted by armed guards with tranq guns. Every cell was specially equipped to contain whatever happened to be within. No dirt for the earth manipulators, walls and glass fireproofed against the pyros, and any other manner of contraption one could think of. Most had resigned themselves to their Russian roulette life, and were content to just have a chance to make friend (and, quite often, make love; Dmitri was quite aware that the impending idea of death sent many into the arms of random lovers every other night in a need to have some small pleasure before the end. Dmitri turned a blind eye to this, and suggested the rest of the team as well). He felt sorry for this people whom he was so alike, whom were unaware that he was even one of them. To them, Dmitri was just another tormentor, another scientist scribbling notes and wondering about the effects of this and that.
So far, there'd been no need for him to demonstrate his powers. And hopefully, there never would be.
