Cipher Wattson - District 5 - DONE! | Hunger Games: The RPG

Cipher Wattson - District 5 - DONE! Dec 10, 2013 13:23:21 GMT -5

Post by Spero Meliora on Dec 10, 2013 13:23:21 GMT -5

Name: Cipher Wattson
Age: 16
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 5
Appearance:

Standing 5’10’’ and weighing in at 160 pounds Cipher has something of a slender, athletic build. He’s not big or small, but something of an average size. His skin is fairly pale, but not devoid of any kind of tan, and if he’s been out in the sun there can be a faint splash of freckles just across the top of his cheeks and bridge of his nose. A moderate sized, pointed nose sits between two large, green eyes that can at times peer into your soul, and otherwise look completely devoid of recognition -- as though he’s completely lost in his own little world. His eyebrows are a little bushy, though not crazy, and are often contorted depending on the expression on his face or what he is thinking which has caused something of early wrinklage to his forehead -- and between them rests a scar that runs diagonally down from left to right caused by an ‘accident’ when he was younger.

He’s not what you would expect from someone considered an ‘intellectual’ person, as he recently started growing facial hair and looks somewhat gruff though somewhat handsome. His thick, dirty blonde with shades of red, unkempt hair (which is usually kept at a reasonable length) only adds to that appearance. His clothes are rarely nice as he’s fairly poor and doesn’t often have the money or skill to get or make new ones. Cipher is often very expressive, and is rarely seen without a giant smile, devious smirk, or inquisitive look on his face. The smile is aided by his fairly clean, straight teeth and thin but shapely lips. His movements are all fairly smooth, he’s fairly coordinated, and holds himself with fairly decent posture -- believing fully that he needs to be in at least decent shape, another defence mechanism from his upbringing.

Personality:

Cipher is a curious case. At first glance one might assume that he is serious and quiet, but he is in fact very friendly, immature and outspoken. As a person he has a tendency to speak and act before he thinks despite his analytical mind, which can sometimes land him in hot water, or cause him to miss things that would otherwise be obvious to him if he took the time to really think about what he was doing or saying (though this can often be counteracted by his longtime crush, and closest friend Belle, who tends to help him remain focused and calm when around). While he has a very outgoing personality in general, he is slow to trust despite his ability to gain the trust of others fairly quickly; however, once his trust is gained he is extremely loyal. He’s very studious and tends to observe his surroundings (including actions and reactions of other people), which causes him to be off in his own world at times as he’s often been ‘accused’ of ignoring or not paying attention to people talking to him (which he often brushes off and explains that he is easily distracted). One might call him a polymath of sorts; he has a good memory, and will read almost anything that he can get his hands on.

Due to his father’s drinking problem and subsequent abusive nature, Cipher learned not only to be tough with a high threshold for pain, but also to be mentally resilient. He had to protect himself, his brother and his mother, with quick wits and trickery since up until he was 14 he was never much of a match for his father physically (that said, while he is not weak or overly small, he isn’t physically imposing by any means). This also gave him a very protective nature because of the suffering his mother and younger brother endured. While this also made him somewhat emotionally unstable, it also allows him to act cool and calculating in high pressure or stressful situations.

Despite his history he has a very broad sense of humour and always seems to be cracking witty jokes while being as friendly as he can. Along with this he exudes confidence, but in reality this is often used as a cover for his personal insecurities. While quick and somewhat agile, Cipher has had issues with endurance (and focus) since his childhood and as such tends to stay away from activities that require an extended effort but really enjoys tests of his intellectual and physical limits otherwise. A very open minded person that likes to consider all angles, to say that he’s stubborn would be an understatement -- moreso to the fact that he hates being told what to do or how to think...he would always prefer to make up his own mind. This also adds to his disposition towards authority, and short tempered nature which can be troublesome. Stemming from his childhood he has always looked for the bright side of things, and held strongly onto hope.

History:

1. Early Times

It was raining outside, the faint pitter-patter of water globules hitting the tin roof that provided shelter to the small family inside. Only six years old at this time, I was sitting in the family space attempting to navigate through a maze that my father had brought home. The noise was soothing, almost therapeutic, though it could not drown out that which was going on in the ‘kitchen’, an extension of the room.

“...Royce...please keep it down…”, a faint, nearly trembling voice pleaded.

A crash, something falling to the floor, “You...you think you can tell ME what to do? T-THAT HALF-WIT DOESNEVEN KNOWUT’S GOING ON!” Toxicity. The loud, angry voice echoed throughout with slurred words.

Even without annunciation the meaning behind what was going on was clear. It was nothing new. While my mother could spend her entire life defending what a great man she’d married, built her life with, and created a family with...while he was sober...she couldn’t protect herself, let alone her children, from the broken home that was being created. I knew, hell, Bastien knew and he was only three.

I thought if I immersed myself in the gimmick that my father had brought home, stayed quiet, and kept out of the way that one of...that man’s...outbursts could have been avoided. Aurelia, my mother, was trembling as the drunken, stumbling form of my father moved towards her aggressively -- he had already gripped her wrist before she could flinch away. She had resigned herself to this fate, too much pride to walk away or ask for help. I had been on the receiving end myself, and it was all we could do to protect my little brother from it.

Wailing had started. The fierce and terrified cry of a young child that only heard loud noises and lived in a warzone. Not now, please be quiet...my thoughts, and eyes, had turned to the scene developing only meters from where I was sitting on the floor. Sure enough, in his inebriated rage and stupor, my father’s head snapped up and his eyes shot towards the bedroom in the back.

“Dad...stop!”, I pleaded, before he could even move that way, his hand still gripped tightly around a delicate and slender wrist.

It was a mistake, or was it? It was hard to tell sometimes what was better -- her or me, but we both knew that Bastien should be protected. He was special.

She was released, and all her sobbing and pleas couldn’t protect me from what was coming. I turned to run, heading down the narrow hall that lead to the back door. I knew something that he didn’t, and as he came crashing behind me with the thunderous steps of someone who was in an inexplicable rage but not quite coordinated, a sense of calm flooded over me. I turned just in time to see him come crashing down; he was too preoccupied with the idea of beating me for some perceived wrong to realize that I had jumped over a little side table. His head bounced off the wall, there wasn’t much room, and there was a dull thud as he crumpled to the floor.

After a quick check to make sure he was still alive, and not conscious, I moved the table back to its original position and ran into my mother’s waiting arms. He’d sleep it off there, not remembering what actually happened and be back to his ‘normal self’ in the morning thinking he’d just passed out from the drinking. It wasn’t fixed and it wasn’t over; however, it was a night that we could just rest and try to forget.

2. Belle

School had never been a great place for me. It’s hard being smarter than pretty much everyone there, teachers included, and having nothing but disdain for authority...at fifteen years old the maturity wasn’t there to handle it well either. Not being challenged left a lot of time to study the things going on around me, but also meant distraction, smart-aleck retorts to call-outs and punishments. Socially I was fairly well accepted, but didn’t truly fit in with any one group of people. I mostly spent time by myself or with my brother. I was learning on my own terms, doing various activities such as hunter like chasing games, some sports, and playing strategic games with my father who had become progressively better with his drinking as I had become progressively better at protecting us from it.

As per usual Bastien and I were walking home. He was talking about something that happened at school, someone was bullying him again, and I wasn’t really paying attention. I was off in my own thoughts, as I so often was, scanning the crowd of faces we walked by on our way back to the house. Once a week my father and I played a game of Go, and it was something that I looked forward to. At this point I knew I could beat him; he was actually pretty good which helped me learn quickly, but I had surpassed him a while ago. However, I still let him win every time. Each game I made it closer, hoping to disguise the fact that I could beat him at any time, but I didn’t want to take the chance that beating him could tempt him to drink.

“Think fast!” A melodic voice said, but it only registered after taking a book to the head.

I stumbled, and turned. It was Belle. A fitting name. She was beautiful. Golden blonde locks of hair dangled in front of her perfect, teardrop face. Her hair was up in a bun, and her lips were parted, as always, in a giant smile from ear to ear. It was hard not to get lost in her warm, chocolate eyes that seemed to look on everyone with the same cheer and kind-heartedness. A small, button like nose with perfectly rounded cheeks hung over her perfect, pursed lips. Did everyone see her as I did? She had her faults of course, but I was oblivious to them.

Rubbing my head, I reached down to grab the book and could only muster a smirk, “...you’re supposed to shout the warning and then throw it.”

“Oh...right.” Another smile. “Well you should have better reflexes anyway. I got that for you; I found it at my house in a pile somewhere.”

I wasn’t too sure what it was as the title and bindings were not exactly in great shape. She knew me well enough by this point though that I could trust it would be interesting. “Thanks, are we still on for later?”

“You bet. Don’t forget to bring a coat this time...I might get cold.” she replied, and it was her turn to smirk, and then she was back off in the opposite direction. I watched her leave for a while before Bastien finally elbowed me in the side.

“Friend zone…” he said, jokingly. I mustered a bit of a chuckle, but I knew it was true.

I threw my arm around his shoulders, still holding the book. “One day, I’ll be able to tease you if you ever actually talk to a girl.” We traded jabs, and laughs, the rest of the way home.

3. Defiance

It was getting late. I had my eyes trained on the board. I didn’t talk much during our games, and neither did my father. I looked forward to times like these because it meant that he wasn’t drinking or blowing money that the family needed. We were poor, hungry, and a lot of the time battered and bruised.

Royce, my father, was a smart man by normal standards. He’s a system analyst, which in these parts is a pretty prestigious position. Not a big or small man, not weak or strong -- decidedly average looks...it made me wonder sometimes how he ended up with my mother. Apparently he used to be a really nice guy, though I think living in poverty under the supreme rule of the capital could suck the life out of anyone not strong willed enough to resist it.

He was rubbing the side of his head now, pondering where to place his next piece. Today was different. Things had been getting progressively worse again at home as there had been some problems at work, and Royce had taken heavily to drinking again, and all that came along with it.

“I know you think you’re smarter than me, son.” He mumbled, before placing his piece in a position that seemed to be one of power. The comment caught me a bit off-guard, but I knew that it had malicious intent. “You think I don’t know that? But you’re not.” He had false confidence.

“...maybe.” Instead of focusing on the small battle we’d started, one that he appeared to be winning, I placed a piece on the other side of the board, a threatening move there that seemingly conceded where we were focusing before. I could tell he was surprised, but as he had started drinking again I was becoming more and more bitter, defiant and angry. This game would be different.

“Giving up so soon?” He reacted to my move, as I knew he would.

“...maybe.” The same reply from my slightly subdued voice. I wasn’t paying much attention to the world now -- I was focused on the board, but not just where we were playing.

The game continued at this pace a bit. Little battles broke out here and there between our black and white pieces, ones that would seemingly give the upper hand to my father with moves that he didn’t really understand. I wasn’t playing the way he’d come to expect or recognize.

After a long sequence I placed a piece in the middle of the board. At first there was a knowing smile on his face. Everything had been building up to this, and he thought it was over. My eyes finally left the board and strayed to his face. I studied every detail, the wrinkles, his eyebrows, forehead, the way his eyes were darting along the board before the stopped right where I had previously played. Realization.

“I don’t...what…” It was like something had been taken from him, stolen, shattered and broken.

I stood up, and placed my hands firmly on the table, looking down on the shell of man that my father had slowly deteriorated into over the years. Something that he wasn’t strong enough to avoid becoming. The unfit man to lead this family; the man that was letting us all down. “Sometimes the closer you look, the less you see.” I wasn’t aware before speaking, but anger was welling up inside of me, my voice was nearly trembling. “I could have beaten you when I was ten, maybe earlier. You’re not anything that you see yourself as. You’re a terrible father. You’re a terrible person --” I paused, trying to collect myself, but this night I wouldn’t be afraid, in fact...never again, “-- and you will NEVER lay a hand on my mother, my brother, or me again.”

I caught his eyes with mine. Latent rage that had been building since I was toddler plain to see, smoldering behind the green and gold flecks of my irises. We’d had our clashes, and more frequently I was able to avoid conflict and protect the family, I was more than a physical match for him now too so he had been picking his spots, but I could see he was broken. No more. Never again.

Pushing myself off the table I turned, opened the door to the outside, and left. I left Royce sitting at the table nearly quaking, staring at his defeat. Both of us oblivious to the audience that was our family staring in disbelief.