The End
02-25-12, 01:27 AM
Name: Fiz Reed
Age: 12
Race: Human
Hair Color: Dark brown
Eye Color: Green
Height: 4'11"
Weight: 105 Lbs.
Personality: Most people never understood Fiz. Most people never even tried. Gifted with an intellect far beyond his years yet cursed with a perspective none could ever fathom. Social situations are nigh impossible for him, his ability to comprehend regular humor or even happiness is minuscule at it's best. The only emotion Fiz was ever familiar with was sadness. It was nightmarish entity residing within his bowels, tearing and scraping on his pysche, bleeding out his humanity until all that is left is a husk of a child, thrown into the world with no love at all. Though mentally unstable and often times on the very brink of madness his young heart remains innocent. He does his best to imitate the emotions of those around him, often times failing miserably. He is able to recall nearly any memory he wishes and has a very elaborate and eloquent vocabulary. He often tends to be overly dry on first encounters (As it is how he has witnessed most people act on first encounters) and will cycle though many different persona's while getting to know someone. It is his greatest wish to simply be himself around another.
Appearance: Fiz, though having the ability to attain a much higher status, lives in squalor and looks as such. His hair is unkempt and his features are extremely gaunt from malnourishment. He dresses in a simple cloth outfit with torn leather shoes. For all intents and purposes he appears to look just like any other street urchin.
Skills: Extremely high intelligence - The ability to recall nearly everything he has ever experienced as well as pick up complex tasks with little to no difficulty.
Abilities: Friction control - An ability Fiz was born with that he has minimal understanding or control over. It is one of the major sources of his mental anguish at being different from other humans.
Ability Description: Within an approximately 10 foot radius of himself Fiz is able to increase or decrease the amount of friction produced on any object. The degree to which he can do this at this point is limited, allowing him to either make things good deal more slippery or decently more rough. Down the line however, it is possible that he may have further control and be able to focus in on smaller and smaller particles allowing such things as molecular dis-assembly due to lack of friction in ionic and covalent bonds.
History: Born into peasantry, dropped into homelessness, Fiz has had it about as rough as it can get. He was a bastard child, never having known who his father was at all, even as he began developing memories while six months old. His mother was a whore at the local brothel and Fiz had simply been a "seed never caught" as it were. In the beginning, she was kind, Fiz recalled, acting like how he pictured a real mother would be. His fondest memory was of her humming him to sleep every night before she took her leave for the brothel. It was at this point in his life however, that Fiz was first introduced to despair. It was on a cool, dry night, the stars seemingly blazing in the sky as though they were beacons of heaven. A patron of his mother's "establishment" had had far too much to drink and had been getting a little to frisky with one of the girls. It hadn't been long before he was thrown out on his face. It also hadn't been long before the man, seeking vengeance for his humiliation, set fire to the building, giggling madly as he lobbed a hastily made Molotov through the window. Only one person had died that night, the bouncer who had thrown the man out originally, but the business had taken it's last hit. Fiz's mother was out of work and thus, unable to care for a growing, young baby. She abandoned him within the first week. The image of his mother, his cooing, doting, loving mother, walking away from him as if he were garbage is forever burned within his mind. Most children that age would have died that very same day, hidden amongst piles of slop in the back alley of a low class pub. Fiz, however, comprehended his fate and though hurt beyond all reason became self sufficient. Eating scraps here, stealing clothes there. Street life quickly became second nature to him. He began to notice that not everyone saw the world the same way he did. No detail, no matter how small, escaped him. By the age of five he had been able to map out every street and alley in the city within his head. He had found others with similar lot's in life to his own, other children who had been dumped into life's trash can. Though none of them understood him and his deadening solemness it was far easier to survive in large numbers and his affinity for just about everything made him an asset to there small community. It was at the age of eight that he began to feel something inside of himself. The only thing he could equate it to was the feeling you getting right before letting an arrow fly from a bow, though he had never done any such thing its what he imagined it felt like. Afraid but always curious, he toyed with the feeling, moved it within his consciousness felt every nook and cranny inside of his head. It was in doing this that he discovered his ability and, with practice, began to exercise a limited amount of control over it. It is here that Fiz Reed's story begins.
Age: 12
Race: Human
Hair Color: Dark brown
Eye Color: Green
Height: 4'11"
Weight: 105 Lbs.
Personality: Most people never understood Fiz. Most people never even tried. Gifted with an intellect far beyond his years yet cursed with a perspective none could ever fathom. Social situations are nigh impossible for him, his ability to comprehend regular humor or even happiness is minuscule at it's best. The only emotion Fiz was ever familiar with was sadness. It was nightmarish entity residing within his bowels, tearing and scraping on his pysche, bleeding out his humanity until all that is left is a husk of a child, thrown into the world with no love at all. Though mentally unstable and often times on the very brink of madness his young heart remains innocent. He does his best to imitate the emotions of those around him, often times failing miserably. He is able to recall nearly any memory he wishes and has a very elaborate and eloquent vocabulary. He often tends to be overly dry on first encounters (As it is how he has witnessed most people act on first encounters) and will cycle though many different persona's while getting to know someone. It is his greatest wish to simply be himself around another.
Appearance: Fiz, though having the ability to attain a much higher status, lives in squalor and looks as such. His hair is unkempt and his features are extremely gaunt from malnourishment. He dresses in a simple cloth outfit with torn leather shoes. For all intents and purposes he appears to look just like any other street urchin.
Skills: Extremely high intelligence - The ability to recall nearly everything he has ever experienced as well as pick up complex tasks with little to no difficulty.
Abilities: Friction control - An ability Fiz was born with that he has minimal understanding or control over. It is one of the major sources of his mental anguish at being different from other humans.
Ability Description: Within an approximately 10 foot radius of himself Fiz is able to increase or decrease the amount of friction produced on any object. The degree to which he can do this at this point is limited, allowing him to either make things good deal more slippery or decently more rough. Down the line however, it is possible that he may have further control and be able to focus in on smaller and smaller particles allowing such things as molecular dis-assembly due to lack of friction in ionic and covalent bonds.
History: Born into peasantry, dropped into homelessness, Fiz has had it about as rough as it can get. He was a bastard child, never having known who his father was at all, even as he began developing memories while six months old. His mother was a whore at the local brothel and Fiz had simply been a "seed never caught" as it were. In the beginning, she was kind, Fiz recalled, acting like how he pictured a real mother would be. His fondest memory was of her humming him to sleep every night before she took her leave for the brothel. It was at this point in his life however, that Fiz was first introduced to despair. It was on a cool, dry night, the stars seemingly blazing in the sky as though they were beacons of heaven. A patron of his mother's "establishment" had had far too much to drink and had been getting a little to frisky with one of the girls. It hadn't been long before he was thrown out on his face. It also hadn't been long before the man, seeking vengeance for his humiliation, set fire to the building, giggling madly as he lobbed a hastily made Molotov through the window. Only one person had died that night, the bouncer who had thrown the man out originally, but the business had taken it's last hit. Fiz's mother was out of work and thus, unable to care for a growing, young baby. She abandoned him within the first week. The image of his mother, his cooing, doting, loving mother, walking away from him as if he were garbage is forever burned within his mind. Most children that age would have died that very same day, hidden amongst piles of slop in the back alley of a low class pub. Fiz, however, comprehended his fate and though hurt beyond all reason became self sufficient. Eating scraps here, stealing clothes there. Street life quickly became second nature to him. He began to notice that not everyone saw the world the same way he did. No detail, no matter how small, escaped him. By the age of five he had been able to map out every street and alley in the city within his head. He had found others with similar lot's in life to his own, other children who had been dumped into life's trash can. Though none of them understood him and his deadening solemness it was far easier to survive in large numbers and his affinity for just about everything made him an asset to there small community. It was at the age of eight that he began to feel something inside of himself. The only thing he could equate it to was the feeling you getting right before letting an arrow fly from a bow, though he had never done any such thing its what he imagined it felt like. Afraid but always curious, he toyed with the feeling, moved it within his consciousness felt every nook and cranny inside of his head. It was in doing this that he discovered his ability and, with practice, began to exercise a limited amount of control over it. It is here that Fiz Reed's story begins.