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Thread: Digimon: Broken Code (SU)

  1. #51
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    Quote Originally Posted by Deadly.Braviary View Post
    Eh? It's not complete yet ...

    ~Deadly
    Oops.

    You can tell I haven't had enough sleep :O. Bleh. Fixing that.
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  2. #52
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    I’m afraid that most half of this is absolute gibberish. I actually finished this before 10/3/13 (my time, and 11:40 PM at that). So, if there are egregious errors in it, please be aware that this is nearly a WIP.
    Name: Oleander (Alan) Medeiros
    Age: 17
    Gender: Male

    Appearance: Delicate in appearance, Alan sometimes resembles a girl if he is not looked at very closely. He is slender, his muscles are not apparent unless he is straining, and any facial hair refuses to grow. He has fingers that have been called “girly” and “elegant”, but his finger nails are clipped to a practical, stubby length. The front of his hair, no matter what hair products he uses, refuses to cease covering his eyes, which are a brown so dark they appear black. His hair is nearly the same shade of brown as his eyes, but it seems to be a dull grey in some lights. His hair is normally cut so that there is a long section in the lower back and shoulder-length otherwise; both are straight. His arrangement of facial features (and nearly hairless body) has convinced some people that he is a cross-dressing girl, and his long eye-lashes and porcelain white skin help perpetrate that misconception. He also wears a pair of black wire-framed glasses that seem to be more for protecting his face than improving his eyesight (they're for reading).

    Alan’s wardrobe consists of conservative and practical clothing. He does have a few articles of fancy clothing, but he only wears them on the occasions that they were intended for. His most worn outfit is composed of a dark grey pair of cargo pants with multitudes of pockets; a white, loose, shirt with sleeves that go to his elbows; a pair of black and white running shoes; and white, knee-length socks.

    He seems to have sub-average endurance, and this carries over to his Digimon forms, but his sense of smell and hearing are above average, as if to compensate. If Alan’s current Digimon form has hair, then it has his length of hair, but not cut of hair. This excludes Gaiomon, because that already has a ponytail, and the ponytail is merely longer.

    Personality: If Alan was commanded to do everything and he would not have a single choice to make, then he would be completely satisfied. Decisions, for him, are rather stressful and the stress increases with the magnitude of the decision, as normal, but any choice is difficult. Even if someone inquires as to what ice cream flavor he wants, he will merely say that he does not care. Forcing him to choose between gifts, or even offering him gifts at all, will result in him accepting anything with a polite “thank you”. He will remain silent if possible and not voice his opinion on a choice, even if he disagrees with it. He will always decline to speak if possible, for he does not want to go against anyone. He will never complain unless it is a matter of having something dislocated or worse. Leaving him to make his own decisions for important things for will result in him in a panicked state. Even if he does not verbally communicate his opinions, it does not mean that he has no opinions. He obeys without complaining, for he can remain alone for a greater period of time if he obediently follows. If someone asks something of him, and it is not unreasonable, then he will do it.

    He is not shy, per se, but, rather, he is reserved and restrains himself from saying many of his thoughts to anyone. Preferring to remain alone, Alan is most likely to be seen reading or doing chores. If something compels him to talking, he will talk in a quiet monotone and never use figures of speech. He tries to prevent the prolonging of social interaction, unless it is with only one person at a time. He will not attempt to avert his eyes from the person he is talking to, and will not engage in any evasive actions if someone does manage to get him to talk. Even if he desired to communicate emotions, his face and tone of voice stay blank and level. He takes insults against his person with his normal silent indifference, but will not tolerate people intentionally harming him unless he believes they are justified in doing so.

    Oleander is a learned person, but he prefers to keep his knowledge to himself rather than exposit it all over. He does, on the other hand, use it if it is necessary, for he can make his own decisions well; he merely loathes doing so. He absorbs information easily and can remember insignificant things from years ago. His common sense is rather uncommon as he tries to do things rationally, and, sometimes, common sense does not cover that. He is also rather attentive and notices details that people often gloss over or forget.

    Nearly always, agreeing with the government’s stance of “eliminate the Digimon at all costs”, Alan follows their orders readily; although he does think that if Digimon followed human rules, then he would be okay with living alongside them. He does not mind being turned into a Bio-Hybrid, but he abhors hurting living beings, except when they are trying to hurt him. The most well-defined position he has of the government is that they, along with everyone else, do not say what they mean, and very rarely mean what they say.

    History: Oleander was adopted by a family that was eccentric. They had three other children already, but they desired another, so they adopted Oleander. Because they had named their other children names of plants, and they had an “Ash”, they had to name Alan something…unconventional. His childhood was rather uneventful, would it have been sans his adoptive family. They encouraged their kids to outperform everyone in their entire school, and Alan was only too happy to oblige. He did not skip a grade because he was too indifferent to tell anyone that he was bored with the current school work and desired something more challenging.

    Once the Digimon invasion commenced, Alan’s family realized the dangers of living in a city and thus moved. The reasonably sized town of San Rafael, California served their purposes fine. A few years of being pressured to preform to the best of his ability and his agreeable nature caused his personality to develop in a worrisome way. He became unable to voice his opinion with any degree of effect; this was because he did not wish to disappoint his parents and his decision not to skip a grade had caused discord within the family. High school was far more difficult for him than middle school for his self-confidence and desire to improve were severely damaged, so any projects where he had to choose a topic were a swamp of torments, but he excelled at tests and lab reports, so his grades were nearly perfect.

    As the tests for the “disease” were announced, Oleander was brought in as was mandated. His blood was drawn, and his family was alerted that he was to be taken in for quarantine for they had discovered the mutation in his DNA. A while later, the government told his family that he had died of the rare disease. Alan was strangely indifferent in being a Bio-Hybrid, but he is secretly doubting whether the government was correct in doing what it did.

    Digimon Form: Devidramon
    Higher Form(s): Megadramon -> Black War Greymon, Gaiomon (Slide)
    Lower Form(s): Agumon Black, Pagumon
    Other: Asexual, but unsure of what gender he is romantic towards; he does not care.
    Last edited by Corrosion; 17th March 2013 at 4:45 AM.
    Quote Originally Posted by bobandbill
    Quote Originally Posted by zomegax7249
    So now it's not enough that we beat the NPCs, now we have to steal their clothes as well? Isn't this basically mugging them?
    Suddenly the aim of the Pokémon games is apparent. It isn't to catch them all, or to be the best trainer, or to learn about the values of friendship with strange monsters that can breathe fire and whatnot.

    It's to beat up other people for their hats and jackets.
    3DS FC: 0018-1095-7707
    Friend Safari: Pancham, Mankey, and Breloom
    Accepting any except for Electric
    PM me before you add me

  3. #53
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    Oleander is Accepted.

    A note to everyone else, I'm probably going to get this RPG started tomorrow.
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  4. #54
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    Hey, my SU is probably going to be a little late. I got waylaid by an idea for a second character halfway through, and wanted to get both up at the same time. Sorry for the trouble, but is it all right if I get an extension of two days or so?

    Thanks!
    Friend Code: 0404-6904-4521
    Ghost Friend Safari: Shuppet, Phantump, Spiritomb


  5. #55
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    I was about to post the same thing... then I actually got this thing done. May revise and expand the personality section a bit later - but not change any of the existing concepts, mind. But yes, is done, and just in time for the RP's opening.


    Name: Elizabeth Bethany Rosenthal
    Age: 21
    Gender: Female

    Appearance: Elizabeth is just on the tall side of an average height, a solid 170cm (5'7") tall when standing straight. Or, rather, she would if she ever did stand up straight - the thing is that she, quite frankly, can't. Due to the condition of her health, Rachel spends her days confined to a wheelchair - a simple black model with a rigid aluminum frame. As a direct result her eye level hardly breaks 133cm (4'5"), which coupled with the wavy curtain of subdued dishwater-blond hair hiding her neutral, oblong face and vacant slate blue eyes makes her easy to look over. Perfectly content with this, any makeup that Elizabeth applies to herself serves mainly to smooth out her complexion and hide her high nose-bridge and cheekbones rather than make herself stand out. She similarly only goes so far as mild volumizing and standard conditioning for her hair, keeping it at an attractive but unobtrusive shoulder blade length.

    Due to her height deficiency causing her to constantly strain her neck upward, she has developed faint stretch marks along her neck. Her confinement has also thickened her palms in the act of steering herself around and decreased the overall rate of her physical activity, leaving her face and body to become slightly atrophied overall and skew her muscular development to favor her arms and all but abandon her legs. Elizabeth tends to hide this by wearing long, body-covering clothing such as jeans or slacks and sweaters, though the coastal environment she finds herself frequently adopting short-sleeved blouses that remain as flattering as possible to her athletic arms. Despite having long abandoned the need for such things long ago, she still has a tendency toward wearing sneakers and boots from being raised in rural Montana. Never one for excessive jewelry, Elizabeth wears next to none, at most putting stubs in her ears in formal circumstances.

    Personality: Elizabeth has not been able to walk on her own in nearly two years, and the lifestyle change that this implies has wormed its way into other aspects of her life. Moving so little has slowed her metabolism considerably, resulting in a meager diet and a disproportionate amount of time spent sleeping. Even when fully rested, she still gives the appearance that she is only half-awake, reclined in her chair with her eyes locked half-shut by default. This state is usually not seen long, as she lights up and her ears perk when given some new stimulation - a fresh conversation, or a new book that she just found - and she is remarkably perceptive for someone so lethargic. The downside to this is that her aptitude lies almost exclusively in perception - Elizabeth is generally not the type for deep thought, largely preferring to take the most pragmatic solution in any given situation. While this does tend to help in working around her disability, it does have certain drawbacks such as the fact that she tends to oversimplify situations or liken them to fictional plots in order to deal with them simply. Drawing these parallels is likely a result of her turning to a steady input of books and movies in lieu of anything better to do in her tiny Montana town while stuck in a wheelchair, though her pool of reference is a bit restricted insofar as she has largely avoided new materials due to a combination of their rarity in such a rural area and wishing not to be left with permanently unresolved cliffhangers.

    Active insistence on being self-sufficient and non-intrusive as possible does not directly translate to making Elizabeth a recluse - far from it, she finds it a very simple task to slip into pleasant conversation with even complete strangers. Starting these is simple enough, but she does have a distinct tendency to drop into a passive, prodding and listening role rather than talk to the other person at any length. This does make her a good enough listener, for sure, and she will happily sit and envision an old man's story while he talks her ears off at a bus stop, but she remains reserved when confronted about her own condition. To this day, she hardly makes better explanations than the vague "paralysis" or, even worse, "I have a health condition." In part, this is to avoid her own dwelling on her situation, another reason why she buries her eyeballs in TV monitors and books and anything new, ready to jump in on anything unfamiliar to her. That is not to say, of course, that she does not have her preferences - she has always been partial to sweet tea, spicy foods, and birds, with a keen eye for word puzzles, and her openness to literature still tends to revolve around short, self-contained YA novels. Elizabeth has learned to foster a deep-seated disdain for snow and stairs, two of the most common things to make her life unintentionally frustrating, as well as excessive noise. Being raised as part of a large family in a rural area has given her a sense of neighborly trust and an affinity toward anything involving wildlife or the outdoors (however ill-suited for it she may be).

    Also, call her Liz. This "Elizabeth" stuff sounds too formal for her taste. And anything about her name shortening to "Beth Beth" has been done a thousand times - don't even think about it.

    History: Liz was born at the corner of "no" and "where" in Benzine, Montana. It was there that she was raised and, until recently, expected to remain for the rest of her life. It was a peculiar little town, insofar as its population was only around 150 and around thirty of those were part of the Rosenthal family - she could hardly walk half a block growing up without meeting some great aunt or second cousin. With her mother and father being the resident history teacher and veterinarian respectively, Liz was an integrated part of the community from day one. That meant attending school with the rest, helping out on the local ranches like the rest, and generally behaving like everybody else in that backwater town. In a way, the town of Benzine tended to mold people into a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none role from all the work undertaken as a community. By age eleven, with the local schools not having enough of a foothold for any real athletic teams, Liz in turn knew how to ride a horse, man the malt machine at the diner, and could tell you the fastest path up Mt. Sentinel. She hit a groove in her life early, and managed to ride it all the way through high school. Almost.

    In her junior year of high school, when she was just turning seventeen years old, Liz noticed that she was starting to feel a stiffness in her legs. This she brushed off as temporary muscle cramps. But over several months, it continued to get harder for her to remain upright, to the point where she more than once fell from her horse while out riding. The instant her grandfather caught word of this, she was sent to a hospital in the next county over. She was subjected to tests over the course of several weeks. The results were fairly conclusive. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Not inviting words to look at, and not an inviting condition to have. Liz was in the early stages of a disease with too many unknowns for her taste - no known cause, no known rate of progression, and, worst of all, no known cure. As a near-adult, her circumstances were provided to her straight - the diagnosis has found the ALS to be affecting her legs, where her motor neurons would slowly weaken over the next couple of years. From there, the disease would affect her arms in the same way, and finally work inward to her torso and critical organs. The entire process usually took three and a half years.

    Over the course of the next week, Liz was made subject to several medical tests. Despite the fact that only a close few relatives in Benzine were aware of her condition, as is the way of things in small towns, word had spread to nearly the entire town by the time that she returned. And in some way, everyone was treating her differently - her older relatives had all suddenly become uncomfortably coddling, while her classmates nearly unanimously began to keep their distance. And why shouldn't they? Only a few months left until everyone parted ways - why build a connection with someone who they would, quite frankly, never see again? Even her existing friends spoke with an edge of caution now. Knowing that, while well intended, her family's support couldn't achieve anything except making them more attached, Elizabeth began to gradually adopt a policy of minimal impact in order to soften the eventual loss she would force everyone through. She and her family abandoned any plans to send her to a university - a fruitless effort now - and she instead settled into a clerical job at her high school after graduation. In theory this would keep her mind occupied, in practice it would help to pay off the unsightly medical bills her family was beginning to acquire.

    Liz buried herself successfully into books, films and games over most of the next four years. She managed to edge out over the average survival rate - the nurses attributed it to her youth, she attributed it to chance. Keeping her head down, she steadily put some distance between herself and the rest of the town, leaving as much of a small-but-positive footprint as possible. This proved impossible - a round of standardized health tests found yet another problem in her system. Some unknown bug. She was sent off to a more capable hospital on the western coast for treatment. She never returned to Montana from there. But, in a way, she had accomplished the act of disappearing from the world - the surgeons revived her under anonymity, the official story being that she had died from the still-unidentified virus. The actual story was much less straightforward. It involved a lot of jargon, but the gist that Liz could decipher was that the virus was benign, allowing the surgeons to suspend the progress of her ALS indefinitely. She was no longer dying, but stuck in limbo between paralysis and some product of a lab, a peculiar state in which she remains today.

    Digimon Form: Frigimon
    Higher Form(s): Pandamon, Monzaemon, WaruMonzaemon (slide from Monzaemon)
    Lower Form(s): Poyomon

    Other: STATUS OF LIZ'S CONDITION
    Liz has not had the full use of her legs in roughly three years - at this stage, she can only force them to move with considerable effort, and even then she cannot manage more than ten centimeters at a time. Her arms are doing much better, though their stiff movements still leave much to be desired. Her hands have lost much of their dexterity, as well, as evidenced by her deteriorated penmanship and occasional difficulty using such things as keyboards and remote controllers. In spite of this, her health has not deteriorated to the point where she is unable to reliably move about in a manual wheelchair - rather, her physical therapy has treated her rather well, and it is only the odd task such as donning tight pants or eating Chinese food that eludes her.

    Previously, it was estimated that Liz would survive another sixteen months before her arms would fail entirely and the sclerosis would begin to affect her organs, and another eight months beyond that until her organs would reach a fatal state. Since she was subject to Dr. Lloyd's surgeries, her disease has ceased its progression, leaving her in this state for the foreseeable future.

  6. #56
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    Niihyl: Yes, that's fine.

    Blivsey: Elizabeth is Accepted.
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  7. #57
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    Yeah, nix the second character, I suppose; one is plenty right now. Sorry for the lateness, too!

    On another note, it's surprising but this seems to be the oldest current member of the group.

    Name: Paxton Marquell
    Age: 24
    Gender: Male
    Appearance: Though only 176 cm tall (around five-foot-nine for the Yanks in the audience) and only of average build, Paxton fills the room. With an unruly mop of bright-gold hair atop his head; broad, sweeping movements; and a vibrant swagger; he exudes vitality. His chipped canine tooth is nearly always visible, as he’s usually got a smile on his face, and he has cheerful blue eyes. A little soul patch right under his lip makes up the extent of his facial hair.

    When given a choice as to what to wear, Paxton prefers to dress with class. Suit and tie may be dreadfully formalized nowadays, but there’s a certain style to Jazz Age couture, and it helps him stand out. Of course, such things tend to be impractical, so he usually contents himself with button-down shirts and jeans. Nice jeans, though, not ratty old ones, coupled with a pair of leather loafers. His earlobes are pierced with small silver rings, and he usually bears a heavy, silvery metal watch on his left wrist.

    His digimon forms are no different than normal, except for the fact that Astamon is blonde-haired, like the others.

    Personality: Hedonism is Paxton’s game, and he plays it well. With a sly grin permanently affixed to his face, he goes through life looking for the next distraction: a pretty lover to bed, an exotic locale to explore or a glass of fine spirits to savor. His personality is grandiose and exultant – him being a showman by trade – prone to blustering boast, tall tales and exaggerated narcissism. He is cocksure to the extreme, there’s not much that can faze him.

    Of course, a touch of apathy helps with that sort of thing. Paxton would gladly fiddle as the world burned, preferring relaxation over saving random lives. He doesn’t really owe them anything, does he? Living out the rest of his days as the government’s pet b***h isn’t an altogether pleasing idea either. If he sees a chance to walk, he’ll take it without a second thought. Still, he doesn’t dwell on the negatives of his situation. Without any way out, he figures that he may as well enjoy the role, killing dragons and scoring a couple of hot, grateful princesses, etc. until another option presents itself.

    Paxton has a big mouth. Self-styled “Paxton the Bard” – and occasionally “Paxton the Bastard” – he’ll always be telling a tale, singing or playing a song, or antagonizing someone he really shouldn’t. As an utterly irreverent smartass, he tends to rub people the wrong way, though after a while, most people realize that he doesn’t mean any harm, being a bit of a dick is just his standard state of being. He has no time for the grim or pessimistic, and will personally compensate for others’ negativity with unbridled enthusiasm and pep. His life philosophy can easily be summed up in a single line of advice: “the best way to cure a hangover is to keep drinking!” and if one was to add a second, “you probably won’t live long enough to have to worry about liver failure anyway!”

    One would be surprised to note that Paxton is actually a bit of an intellectual. He doesn’t trumpet it like he does everything else, but he has a deep interest in the sciences. He always did fairly well in school – except anything involving old dead people or excessive physical activity – and had planned to go to college for a degree in medicine. Though he is still intrigued by technical innovation, he long ago abandoned his long-term dreams, and chooses to live fully in the present, though he bears a soft spot for the ill and infirm. He counsels those around him to seize their dreams, and their short-term desires. Life is too short to dither about waiting for destiny.

    History: Paxton was born and raised in Maidstone, Kent. His father, Jean Marquell, was a musician – he taught Paxton how to play the trumpet, instilling in him a love for music. However, careers in music hardly paid well, which proved troubling due to his ailing mother Miriam, who required intensive medical care. When her condition took a turn for the worse, Paxton’s dad – who had always been a bit of a flake – couldn’t handle the pressure; he bailed out when Paxton was six.

    So, Paxton was moved to foster care, and his mother turned over to the charity of whatever nonprofit facilities and state aid would help. He visited her often, running down sterile hospital hallways with grubby report cards clutched in his hands, filled with promises to grow up and fix her. He had his whole future planned out. He would study hard, get into a good college, and become a doctor. And he would be the world’s best musician, because why should he settle with one dream? Oh, and a third thing, he would find his dad and smack him upside the head, that complete bastard.

    As it goes, Paxton grew up. He picked up the guitar along the way – ladies love guitars – and continued to do well in school, despite a disastrous attempt to play football. A couple months on crutches aside, life was just swell. Then, when senior year came along, everything went to hell. The digimon began to attack, and humanity began to fight its losing war with the creatures. Paxton’s mother died in one assault, as an attack in downtown London damaged the hospital facilities. Paxton cut his ambitions short. He saw people dying, and watched the military fight back. But the situation didn’t improve; it worsened as time went on. Paxton decided to leave. Staying and dwelling on the situation would kill him, he needed to get away. He hitchhiked across the country, stowing away on a ship to get off the isles. Waves of refugees seeking safer harbor abroad had led to relaxation of many immigration laws. He even found places that were relatively untouched, especially in rural areas. He never did settle down, however; he was far too willful to try and eke out a life in some backwater countryside.

    Four years of this, and Paxton found himself in New York, U.S. of A. The metropolitan area was a war zone, but the suburbs were fairly quiet. And thanks to fate, that capricious b***h, who else would have ended up in that same city, but Jean Marquell, performing in a local bar? He had the same hair and eyes that Paxton did, standing there against the bar with some other woman on his arm. At once, Paxton was furious. How dare he? How dare he be here having fun while mom was dead?

    Paxton greeted his father for the first time in sixteen years. Jean was disbelieving at first, but was soon convinced. He gasped in mock horror upon hearing that his son had begun playing the damned guitar, and he greeted his son warmly, asking how mom was. Upon learning of her death, he offered his condolences, but Paxton could tell he didn’t really care. He asked his father to come over to his flat – “one last duet, dad.” the two returned to the building Paxton had been squatting in. As they arrived, Paxton stabbed his father in the back, again and again. All the stress of the world, all the pain, all the old anger, set boiling by one too many drinks and Paxton became a murderer. It was scary how easy it was.

    Paxton claimed his father’s prized trumpet. With his inheritance complete, he left. No one would look for him. There would be no manhunt. There was too much trouble, especially that near New York City. No one would notice another dead man. Paxton himself drank, partied and performed his way across the continental United States. No more unfinished business, no more worries, he lived life for life’s sake, without giving a damn about other people. Like father, like son.

    He got caught up by some officials in California. Apparently there was some virus going around. When they found a particular little strand of DNA in his genome, they took him in and turned him into werewolf Superman. On the downside, they kept him locked up on the facilities and punished any attempts to escape. So, damn.

    Digimon Form: Petermon
    Higher Forms: Astamon > Baalmon
    Lower Forms: Puttimon > Cupimon > Tinkermon
    Friend Code: 0404-6904-4521
    Ghost Friend Safari: Shuppet, Phantump, Spiritomb


  8. #58
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    Niihyl: Paxton is Accepted
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