marisa "phoenix" chen d9 | fin
Oct 29, 2015 19:41:16 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Oct 29, 2015 19:41:16 GMT -5
fd7a56 fd6d03 40a0ae ffe252 ffed94
headings, third person, speaks, first person, flashbacks
Marisa "Phoenix" Chen
15. female. district 9.
҉ Appearance:
Ash-black pigtails hang down from either side of her head, her hair parted straight down the middle. Her eyebrows are thin and slanted slightly inwards, resting on top of rounded, dark brown eyes. She has a small, flat nose, and the corners of her mouth naturally turn slightly downwards, accentuating her prominent cheekbones and slightly pinkish skin.
Marisa is just under five feet tall, about average for her age. She's fairly skinny from the meager rations they get in the community home, and her bones stick out prominently. There are patches of scars across her upper arms and back from when she was burned in an explosion - the same explosion that took the life of her sister. Her hands are large for her size and tend to be rough and dry from various substances and from lack of care.
She's dressed in the drab gray uniform and worn-out shoes that mark her as someone from the community home, threadbare against the prairie winds of District Nine. I mean, we all wish we could have nicer clothing, but colorful accessories are only for those obnoxious rich kids. They could at least give us clothing that fits better, though. Sometimes she envies the figure and dress of the more well-off citizens, although they're nothing compared to what she sees on TV during the Games.
҉ Personality:
Marisa is hot-headed and reckless. She spits out judgments of others easily from her mouth and has often been described as lacking a verbal filter. She believes that people are mostly stupid and selfish, and those who act compassionate are ultimately faking it to make themselves feel better. She thinks of herself as uncaring of what others think of her unless they're trying to tell her what to do, in which case she becomes stubborn and contrarian. Well, my sister was always the sweet, obedient one, but she's dead, isn't she? In reality, however, she secretly likes being seen as edgy and rebellious. Sometimes she'll make a token complaint about her reputation or nickname, although she rather likes the attention.
She tends to mess around with chemicals she finds lying around, when she can get her hands on them. There are plenty in the district of grains and refineries, but more often than not they're kept under tight control by Peacekeepers. Of course they are, they probably think we're all trying to blow them up. Since her sister's death, Marisa has also developed a pathological desire to control fire. She gets a rush from setting small objects on fire or juggling alcohol fireballs made from available materials. Her behavior tends towards self-destructive, and she's been whipped before for getting on the wrong side of a Peacekeeper or two.
Marisa is reluctant to admit her emotions to other people, or even to herself. Her anger is her defense mechanism for dealing with fear and trauma, because it allows her to push away everything else that she doesn't want to feel. In a similar vein, she is also reluctant to ask for help from others, believing that the only person she can rely on is herself. She doesn't get along with the others at the community home very well, especially the adults running it. She thinks that admitting to vulnerability is a weakness that will open up opportunities for others to take advantage of her; the only person she has really confided in was her twin sister Malia, and since her death she has closed herself off from others, especially people who try to show sympathy.
҉ History:
I don't have any memories of my parents, and the little I've managed to piece together from those around me at the community home have been mostly contradictory. "They were the nicest people you'd ever meet." "They got killed by Peacekeepers from breaking the law." "They must be smiling as they watch down on you from heaven." "They would be rolling in their graves to see their daughter as such a naughty child."
Well, I say it doesn't matter what they were or how they thought then, because in any case now they're dead and the community home is the only home I've ever known. It's in the dirtiest, dingiest part of town and everybody has to take out tesserae to get enough to eat, but it's where me and my twin sister grew up.
At least, there used to be two of us.
The explosion happened fast - we were on our way home from school when the grain elevator near the refinery in the middle of town burst into a ball of flame and the square was suddenly filled with screaming and people in panic as they tried to flee from the burning building... well anyways. Obviously since I'm telling you this right now I'm the one that made it and she's the one that didn't.
They didn't expect me to at first, either, not with all the burns across my arms and back and no one caring whether some nobody girl from the community home lived or died but at least I proved them wrong on that count. That's how I got my nickname, some kid getting carried away with symbolism about rising out from ashes or whatnot.
I was scared of fire for quite a while after that, actually, but more than that I was angry at it, angry at the fire that took my sister's life and the people who would always look down at us for being from the community home and the stupid district for the fine layer of dust coating everything that made it so easy for a fire to start in the first place.
I dug my fingers into the little can of fuel and pulled out its squishy, slimy contents, gradually shaping it into a ball in my hands - the jellied fuel from mixing together cheap industrial chemicals a staple in Nine just like Twelve's coal or Five's wind or Three's... whatever they had. It was soft as I let it sift between my fingers.
I took a deep breath, the match shaking in my hands as I struck it against the rough surface, ready at any moment to -
Nothing happened. And that was not something I'd expected.
"Stupid thing, do what I tell you to!" I cursed, my fear turning into anger at the bent and unlit match with half the coating scraped off and stubbornly refusing my command. Scowling, I ripped another one out of the matchbook and scraped it harshly and violently across as the tip burst into flames like a good match should -
The match flickered daintily, and my eyes focused on it, mesmerized with fascination as the fire consumed the stalk, burning lower and moving closer to the fingers I held it in.
I blew it out.
The stub of the match was blackened and the top of it crumbled to ashes with even the gentlest touch, and I smirked at it.
"See? I control you," I breathed, still staring at the remnants of the match. "You don't have the power to do anything to me."
I struck another match, bringing it close to the ball of fuel until it caught on fire and burned with a soft blue hue. It was beautiful and destructive, but also fragile. I dropped the lid on top of it and snuffed out its life force.
That was where I'd started, and before I knew it I'd gone through half the matchbook and as much as I told myself I wasn't nervous anymore, I still was, at least a little. But beyond that I felt tingly and excited and like I'd never been so alive.
I'd liked to juggle, when I was much younger, and I've been picking it up again. It feels good, tossing a ball of flame from hand to hand and knowing it has no power to hurt me because it would go exactly where I wanted it to. The other kids don't understand - or, it's not understanding, really, they don't think I should be fascinated by fire. What did they think they expected me to be, some sort of dainty flower forever scared and brooding like a moping hen?
Beautiful and destructive, yet fragile.
Hey. I was using those terms to describe the fire, not myself. But in any case, I'm done here.
҉ Other:
codeword = odair
faceclaim: Katie Leung
headings, third person, speaks, first person, flashbacks
Marisa "Phoenix" Chen
15. female. district 9.
҉ Appearance:
Ash-black pigtails hang down from either side of her head, her hair parted straight down the middle. Her eyebrows are thin and slanted slightly inwards, resting on top of rounded, dark brown eyes. She has a small, flat nose, and the corners of her mouth naturally turn slightly downwards, accentuating her prominent cheekbones and slightly pinkish skin.
Marisa is just under five feet tall, about average for her age. She's fairly skinny from the meager rations they get in the community home, and her bones stick out prominently. There are patches of scars across her upper arms and back from when she was burned in an explosion - the same explosion that took the life of her sister. Her hands are large for her size and tend to be rough and dry from various substances and from lack of care.
She's dressed in the drab gray uniform and worn-out shoes that mark her as someone from the community home, threadbare against the prairie winds of District Nine. I mean, we all wish we could have nicer clothing, but colorful accessories are only for those obnoxious rich kids. They could at least give us clothing that fits better, though. Sometimes she envies the figure and dress of the more well-off citizens, although they're nothing compared to what she sees on TV during the Games.
҉ Personality:
Marisa is hot-headed and reckless. She spits out judgments of others easily from her mouth and has often been described as lacking a verbal filter. She believes that people are mostly stupid and selfish, and those who act compassionate are ultimately faking it to make themselves feel better. She thinks of herself as uncaring of what others think of her unless they're trying to tell her what to do, in which case she becomes stubborn and contrarian. Well, my sister was always the sweet, obedient one, but she's dead, isn't she? In reality, however, she secretly likes being seen as edgy and rebellious. Sometimes she'll make a token complaint about her reputation or nickname, although she rather likes the attention.
She tends to mess around with chemicals she finds lying around, when she can get her hands on them. There are plenty in the district of grains and refineries, but more often than not they're kept under tight control by Peacekeepers. Of course they are, they probably think we're all trying to blow them up. Since her sister's death, Marisa has also developed a pathological desire to control fire. She gets a rush from setting small objects on fire or juggling alcohol fireballs made from available materials. Her behavior tends towards self-destructive, and she's been whipped before for getting on the wrong side of a Peacekeeper or two.
Marisa is reluctant to admit her emotions to other people, or even to herself. Her anger is her defense mechanism for dealing with fear and trauma, because it allows her to push away everything else that she doesn't want to feel. In a similar vein, she is also reluctant to ask for help from others, believing that the only person she can rely on is herself. She doesn't get along with the others at the community home very well, especially the adults running it. She thinks that admitting to vulnerability is a weakness that will open up opportunities for others to take advantage of her; the only person she has really confided in was her twin sister Malia, and since her death she has closed herself off from others, especially people who try to show sympathy.
҉ History:
I don't have any memories of my parents, and the little I've managed to piece together from those around me at the community home have been mostly contradictory. "They were the nicest people you'd ever meet." "They got killed by Peacekeepers from breaking the law." "They must be smiling as they watch down on you from heaven." "They would be rolling in their graves to see their daughter as such a naughty child."
Well, I say it doesn't matter what they were or how they thought then, because in any case now they're dead and the community home is the only home I've ever known. It's in the dirtiest, dingiest part of town and everybody has to take out tesserae to get enough to eat, but it's where me and my twin sister grew up.
At least, there used to be two of us.
The explosion happened fast - we were on our way home from school when the grain elevator near the refinery in the middle of town burst into a ball of flame and the square was suddenly filled with screaming and people in panic as they tried to flee from the burning building... well anyways. Obviously since I'm telling you this right now I'm the one that made it and she's the one that didn't.
They didn't expect me to at first, either, not with all the burns across my arms and back and no one caring whether some nobody girl from the community home lived or died but at least I proved them wrong on that count. That's how I got my nickname, some kid getting carried away with symbolism about rising out from ashes or whatnot.
I was scared of fire for quite a while after that, actually, but more than that I was angry at it, angry at the fire that took my sister's life and the people who would always look down at us for being from the community home and the stupid district for the fine layer of dust coating everything that made it so easy for a fire to start in the first place.
I dug my fingers into the little can of fuel and pulled out its squishy, slimy contents, gradually shaping it into a ball in my hands - the jellied fuel from mixing together cheap industrial chemicals a staple in Nine just like Twelve's coal or Five's wind or Three's... whatever they had. It was soft as I let it sift between my fingers.
I took a deep breath, the match shaking in my hands as I struck it against the rough surface, ready at any moment to -
Nothing happened. And that was not something I'd expected.
"Stupid thing, do what I tell you to!" I cursed, my fear turning into anger at the bent and unlit match with half the coating scraped off and stubbornly refusing my command. Scowling, I ripped another one out of the matchbook and scraped it harshly and violently across as the tip burst into flames like a good match should -
The match flickered daintily, and my eyes focused on it, mesmerized with fascination as the fire consumed the stalk, burning lower and moving closer to the fingers I held it in.
I blew it out.
The stub of the match was blackened and the top of it crumbled to ashes with even the gentlest touch, and I smirked at it.
"See? I control you," I breathed, still staring at the remnants of the match. "You don't have the power to do anything to me."
I struck another match, bringing it close to the ball of fuel until it caught on fire and burned with a soft blue hue. It was beautiful and destructive, but also fragile. I dropped the lid on top of it and snuffed out its life force.
That was where I'd started, and before I knew it I'd gone through half the matchbook and as much as I told myself I wasn't nervous anymore, I still was, at least a little. But beyond that I felt tingly and excited and like I'd never been so alive.
I'd liked to juggle, when I was much younger, and I've been picking it up again. It feels good, tossing a ball of flame from hand to hand and knowing it has no power to hurt me because it would go exactly where I wanted it to. The other kids don't understand - or, it's not understanding, really, they don't think I should be fascinated by fire. What did they think they expected me to be, some sort of dainty flower forever scared and brooding like a moping hen?
Beautiful and destructive, yet fragile.
Hey. I was using those terms to describe the fire, not myself. But in any case, I'm done here.
҉ Other:
codeword = odair
faceclaim: Katie Leung
