Note: he's a work in progress, but I have to run, so I'll finish him later.
Nickname and/or Title:
Age: 18
Sexual Orientation: Pansexual
Significant Other: N/A
Strengths: Cunning, dedicated, strong willed.
Weaknesses: Cold, violent, untrustworthy.
Kin: Mother, whereabouts unknown.
Status: Guard.
Crime Committed: Caused an small scale uprising because he was bored of everyday life on the Ark, got himself thrown in a cell.
Personality: -WIP-
Physical Appearance: Devon is around average height at 5'8", weighting 160 lbs thanks to a bit of extra muscle. His hair is a dirty blonde that is often unkept and overgrown, giving off a messy look. His eyes are black with no hint other color. He's managed to accumulate a few scars over the years, but you should see the other guy. He's likely to gain more over the proceeding months.
Apparel: Nothing flashy, tan pants that are rolled at the ankle, a grey knit shirt, and a black jacket that he wears open and is a little too big on him.
Weapons: Unfortunately, in his opinion, he's only managed to craft up a pointy stick. But he's bound to get his hands on something else, and isn't afraid to fight for it.
Biography:
Devon's father was floated before he'd even had a chance to meet the guy, so no real loss there in his eyes. Better that than knowing him before he was stripped away. Plus, his mother never really talked about it, or him, so it rarely crossed his mind that there was anything missing as far as role models were concerned. Plenty of other kids had drunken, useless parents anyhow. Regrettably, his mother was emotionally weakened by the trials of her life, so he quickly disregarded her authority as soon as he was old enough to acknowledge it. Instead, he joined a group of boys his age that served as a gang of sorts, riling each other up to dares and causing lighthearted trouble in their early years. It was the furthest you could get from rules on the Ark, dog eat dog in terms of mentality and provided Devon with an environment that he thrived off of. Truthfully, it was a group of eleven year olds throwing food at the dinner table, but it made them feel invincible.
Thus, as Devon grew older, he believed he had the social system figured out, that he had
people figured out. The acts of defiance were swept under the carpet, and the gang gradually drifted apart, but the outlook stuck with him. He studied, he took his rations and he did his work, but in the back of his head, an indescribably kind of impatience bloomed. Nothing ever happened. They just floated and space and waited to rot, standing on their toes as to not offend the strict code. It was claustrophobic. Unbearable.
He coped by making frequent appearances at any social events he could get into, enjoying the hubbub and rush of conversation. He wanted to stay immersed in the flashing lights and dancing bodies, but it never lasted nearly long enough. Why couldn't they live like that everyday? Why couldn't they just be
free? Sure, he understood that some breed of system had to be in place to maintain life of the Ark, but one as strict as this?
His solution was to rile an uprising, getting back in contact with his old acquaintances and sloppily planing an attack on some guards who'd put his friend in a cell a few months back. They had it coming. If they were lucky, they might even make it to the council, and bash a few heads before they were taken down. It was worth it, just to show them they weren't going to roll over like a stupid puppy and follow orders their whole lives. Devon, however, only made it a few strides into the fight before he sustained multiple shocks with a baton and suffered nerve damage that has caused a permanent limp. He favors his right side and is defensive if anyone mentions it.
Theme Song:
"Muscle to muscle and toe to toe
The fear has gripped me but here I go
My heart sinks as I jump up
Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut"
