Post by gray kamiya on Jun 10, 2011 3:16:27 GMT -6
GRAY SUSUMU KAMIYA
[/color][/b][/font]no one is the savior they would like to be.
[/center]NICK NAMES[/color]
AGE[/color] nineteen, july third.
GENDER[/color] male.
SEXUALITY[/color] heterosexual.
MEMBER GROUP[/color] baihumon faction
CANON[/color] - - - ____ ___ kamiya || nineteen || partner || courage.
DIGIMON[/color] terriermon, gabumon, lopmon, guilmon, renamon.
CRESTS[/color] courage.
- although it may not be thought of as a courageous trait, gray has the ability to put his worries on the back-burner for the sake of those around him. he remains as strong as he can in any given disaster, forcing himself to be that port in the storm. his brave front and ability to hide his own fears is a form of courage in itself.
- gray was brought up by his father, who had the crest of courage, and taught his son from day one the importance of bravery. he instilled in his boy a nugget of bravery that gray accesses with ease in times of extreme need.
- gray's natural protectiveness lends itself to many acts of courage, as the boy would go to any lengths to protect those he loves without even a thought to his own safety. it's as if his brain stops working properly and his only thought is to save or protect those he loves, to be brave and strong and courageous like his father taught him.
PLAY-BY[/color] naota nandaba from flcl [/ul]
SO THEN. TELL US WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE?
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let’s start from the tippity top of gray: his head. gray’s head is often covered in some sort of hat – any hat, really, it changes almost daily. even folks who have known the boy for most of his life sometimes find themselves unable to remember the color of his hair. this obsession with some sort of head coverage started almost instantly for little gray, who would fuss and cry until his parents would place something atop his mop of dark brown hair. gray isn’t a huge fan of his hair – when it’s short, he thinks it looks dumb. when it’s long, it gets in his eyes. with gray, hair just can’t win. that’s where the hats come in, keeping his unruly locks tame and out of his face. they also may have something to do with his now small but then enormous fear of haircuts. he’d prefer to have them done at home, by his mother or father or anyone willing to put up with his constant moans that the scissors are far too close to his ears. due to these home hair-cuts, gray’s hair is often choppy and uneven – all the better to hide away beneath a hat. at this point, if gray were to get the best haircut in the history of haircuts he would probably still slap a cap over it. his head just feels naked without one.
moving downward slightly, we reach the bane of gray’s existence: his eyes. his big, blue, angelic baby eyes, the ones that make him look years younger. they’re not any sort of light, sky blue. they’re dark, almost navy blue – not that anyone can ever tell, the way he averts his gaze so often. and his nose, oh, his cute little button nose – he hates that, too. cursed with a baby gace, gray combats it any way he can – that way, most often, being a perpetual scowl; however, for the rest of the world, this unfortunately means people are rarely exposed to his perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. his mama used to call it a “crying shame” and, in a way, it is. gray’s lips, thin, pale, and chapped, are often pursed shut, as if, within his mouth, secrets lay dormant, ready to spew forth at the first sign of light. despite his scowl and often averted gaze, people still often mistake nineteen year old gray for a fourteen year old. that might, however, have something to do with his tendency to blush nearly any time he makes eye contact – especially with girls. talk about embarrassing.
gray’s body itself is fairly average. being only a couple inches below the average height for his age group, gray is more or less pleased with his body – baby face aside. he’s thin, but an athletic thin, not an unhealthy thin. from all the sports his father encouraged him to join from near infancy, gray’s body is fairly toned, kept in good shape, “fighting shape,” as his father would call it. he doesn’t look too strong, of course, what muscles he does have are well hidden beneath bulky sweatshirts and too-large clothes. it’s not something he wants to flaunt, really. if it were up to him, he wouldn’t be in that sort of shape, he’d spend all his time sleeping – dreaming – and developing a gut. nonetheless, gray continues to conform to the pressure his father put on him years ago, keeping himself in that coveted fighting shape.
although gray’s body is in seemingly perfect shape, his posture isn’t so perfect. his mother used to force him to sit up straight but, eventually, she gave up. gray’s shoulders are perpetually lurched somewhat forward, his head always down, his hands always in his pockets. the way gray walks around, it’s as though he wants to be invisible. he does nothing to draw attention to himself, nothing to draw people in. if it were up to him, gray would be the boy in the plastic bubble, with a tangible barrier between him and his peers rather than the intangible barrier he puts up.
gray’s style—well, gray doesn’t really have a style. his attire consists of hand-me-downs, thrift store finds, clothes his cousins and relatives have outgrown, even some clothes that belonged to his father eons ago. because of this, gray’s clothes are often ill-fitting, a little to large for his thin grame, his small shoulders and flat gut. occasionally, by some sort of miracle, gray will come across a t-shirt or sweatshirt that actually fits and, of course, he will wear those to death. nowadays, he can often be found in shades of blue – his new favorite color. gray doesn’t mind wearing hand-me-downs and thrift store clothes. he hasn’t quite settled on a style of his own so, you know, glomming onto the style of those around him his fine by him. once he figures out who he is – and what type of clothes that person would wear – he’ll probably find some way to acquire his own clothes.
OKAY, WHY DON'T YOU TELL US A LITTLE ABOUT YOUR FABULOUS SELF?
[/color][/center]gray is very contradictory, like most people. sometimes it’s as though he’s two different people, the public persona and the personal persona: the mask he wears and the person beneath it. the mask is well constructed, obscuring the truths beneath until they’re twisted little shells, half-truths and wicked little lies he tells himself to get through the day.
on the outside, gray appears to be all smiles and sunshine, the kind of person that sees the cup as half full and, more than that, half full of rainbows and sunshine: an optimist, to whom the silver lining is always revealed, even in the darkest of situations. he turned into someone he felt he had to become, for his loved ones and for himself, he had to be that happy rock, that port in the storm, that steady, sturdy, smiling shoulder to cry on. he had to be what his father was, courageous and strong and happy-go-lucky. deep down, though, gray panics fairly often. when situations are dour he often makes a flying leap to the worst possible conclusion. he keeps it to himself, runs his mind in circles around it, but speaks only the opposite, only the positive. he says “i’m sure they’re okay” while thinking “they’re probably dead in a ditch somewhere, we’ll never find them.” very occasionally gray’s inner negative-nelly will rear his worried little face – that’s when you know shit’s bad.
gray tries to be a textbook extrovert, displaying all the classic symptoms as often as he can: vociferous, gregarious, sauve, flirtatious, outgoing, audacious, friendly, seeking approval at every twist and turn. he attempts to himself in a proud, easygoing manner, with a perfect posture and a pearly white smile on his face – unfortunately, he isn’t great at it. his posture is slouched and that smile is more often than not a scowl. still, the persona gray puts forth is far too smug and cocky for self-deprecation and doubt. the inside, however, does little to match the mask’s confidence. in fact, deep down, gray is incredibly insecure. it’s not so hard to see if you’re looking for it, his extroversion is almost unnatural, his cockiness always takes on a somewhat joking air to it, it’s nothing more than a finely crafted façade. gray always pretended to be the person he wanted to be, that popular social butterfly, the easygoing, easy to get along with, attractive alpha male. eventually, pretending became all he was capable of – it’s not quite who he is, but it’s the only way he knows how to be.
like the knights of yore, gray has a strong moral code instilled in him by his father: chivalry, courage, and courtesy are high on his list of priorities. he’s the type that religiously holds open doors, he’d set his jacket over a puddle if it would help a fair maiden to cross. the downside, of course, is that he tends to act as though the people around him are glass – expensive glass vases set at the edge of a table, always toting that gentle, tentative, wobbling edge – like they’re fragile and in desperate need of his protection and help. he treats women as if they’re damsels in distress without even realizing it – causing him to get on the bad side of many a strong, independent woman. sometimes he feels like he doesn’t know how not to play the hero.
although his extroversion and smugness are a part of the mask, they’ve severely affected his judgment. pretending to be so slick and confident in his own actions has actually caused him to develop an undue sense of confidence in them. although he generally knows the extent of his own strengths and is, honestly, hyperaware of his own weaknesses, he still tends to overshoot things a bit, rushing into situations he can’t handle without so much as a second thought. it isn’t all bad, though; his best ability seems to be a side-effect of his confidence in his abilities, a strange ability to keep calm amidst the panic and emergencies, to keep a level head and to make logical choices. this trait has helped him out of many a tight spot, though it probably hasn’t gotten him out of as many situations as it has gotten him into.
though gray prides himself as being a gentleman, a caring, careful, cheerful person, he has a hidden darker side – a violent side. taking on the role of heroic protector has always been a bit of a problem for gray, whose natural instinct in most situations seems to be a sudden, quick jump to violence. he tries to curb the instinct, forces himself to keep his cool, but occasionally his senses slip away and his fist slips into someone’s face- hard. despite seeming to be a softy overall, gray is dangerously protective of those he loves.
at his core, gray is a caring person who holds the opinions and lives of others in high regard, he’s the kind of guy who’ll always be there for you in a pinch, when you’re in the thick of it. he’s not afraid to get knee deep in gunk, emotional or otherwise, and he’s completely willing to help fist fight monsters away —again, emotional or otherwise. he’s easy to take advantage of in that sense, his hero complex causes him to swoop in to save someone no matter the circumstances, he rarely suspects, despite all evidence, that someone would willing do him harm or harm others. even after all he has seen of the world, he still holds the childhood ideal that good conquers evil, always, and that everyone has good in them.
INTERESTING. AND WHAT ABOUT YOUR FAMILY LIFE?
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it was a hot, hot day in july when --- kamiya went into labor – one of the hottest days of the year. no one saw it coming, they were quite far from a hospital. but, as usual, tai kamiya took the situation into his own hands, keeping a cool head as his wife suffered through contractions. gray kamiya escaped from the womb while they were still in the car on the way to the hospital. his twin sister, ____ kamiya, had the courtesy to wait until the growing family arrived at the hospital to greet the world for the first time.
gray was always a quiet child, rarely putting up a fuss – unless, of course, someone forgot to put a hat on the infant’s head. he was a timid child, afraid of nearly every sound and object around him, much to the dismay of his courage-enthused father, who had hoped for a son to carry on the legacy of his crest. gray wasn’t adventurous, though he was curious. he spent most of his time in a parent’s arms, observing the world around him with wide blue eyes, taking in every single detail he could. his infancy was spent refusing to crawl, refusing to leave the comfort of his parents presence.
gray started crawling and walking later than most infants, tai and --- guessed this was because of his general fear of the world. he had no desire to crawl or walk unless it was to his mother, father, or sister. doctors assured the kamiya’s that their son was progressing normally, showing no signs of being ‘slow’ and that they should just allow him to take steps at his own pace –however slow that pace may be.
at the age of three, gray finally began to get over his fears. he wasn’t constantly gripping his father’s pant leg, or hiding behind his mother’s skirt. he explored – a little. he had a clear comfort zone, one he refused to leave unless he was forced. and he often was forced, as tai’s take on parenting seemed to be the mindset that if you toss a child into water, they’ll have to learn how to swim. he was constantly tossing gray into new situations, watching as his boy struggled to learn to adapt to new situations. but adapt gray did, and the larger his comfort zone got, the happier his father became. at one point, tai actually did throw a five year old gray into a pool and watched calmly as his son struggled for his life and then, eventually, swam.
in preschool, gray struggled to make friends at first. he was shy, the kind of kid who sits in the corner and doesn’t look at anyone, just stares down at his own hands, twiddles his thumbs, and hopes to go unnoticed. but he was noticed, quite often in fact. his father’s lessons came in handy and, soon after starting pre-school, gray became a social butterfly – he learned to swim with the other fishes. still, deep down, gray was always a little bit petrified. he was prone to tears, though he often hid them with trips to the bathroom.
gray appeared to be thriving as he progressed through the early years of school, surrounded by friends and admirers who seemed to fall for his cool, courageous act. he kept his inner nervous-nelly to himself, bottling it up deep, deep within himself so that no one would ever see. his father was proud of him and, to gray, that was all that really mattered. he wasn’t a particularly bright boy, his intelligence was about the average for those his age. he was good at sports, enjoying both soccer and baseball, and spent most of his time at home practicing soccer with his father – who would only rarely let him win. eventually, school and sports became a part of his comfort zone, things he was entirely comfortable with.
and then, of course, he was taken out of that comfort zone. it was days before his eighth birthday, another hot july day, when it happened. he was outside, practicing and prepping for an upcoming soccer game. it was such a normal day, the kind of day that happens all the time. until it wasn’t. the sky lit up, so bright that he could barely see. he pulled his cap down, shielding his eyes from the light, when he was hit by something, brought to the ground. when the light faded, gray still struggled to see. as his eyes began to adjust to the light, he noticed something small and glowing beside him. too afraid to reach out and grab it, he prodded it with a nearby stick. nothing happened. encouraged by the fact that it didn’t cause the stick to burst into flames, gray decided to give it another prod, this time with his index finger. still nothing. he picked the small device up in his hands, not realizing that this would be the moment his entire life changed.
he hefted the device in his hand, tossing it and catching it a couple of times, trying to figure it out. and then it happened. the sky changed again and before he knew it he was falling. he cried out for his father, but his words were swallowed by the wind whipping around him as he fell through what used to be his grassy back yard. he landed on his back with a loud thud, forcing the air out of his lungs and causing him to cough. the ground beneath him wasn’t the thick, lush grass of his yard. it was harsh, dry, sandy. he could barely catch his bearings through the tears already filling his eyes. “Dad?” He shouted once his breath returned to him, hoping for some kind of reply. The voice that answered wasn’t even close to that of his father. it was a creature, the likes of which he had never seen before, but it reminded him of the bedtime stories his father used to tell him. startled and afraid, gray scampered to his feet and balled his tiny hands into fists. “What are you?” demanded the young boy, looking quite foolish covered in dust and trying to defend himself best he could against a creature the size of a kitten. the creature before him just smiled and nodded for him to follow. and follow gray did.
as they walked, the kitten-sized creature began to explain why gray had been taken from his home, what he was doing in this new, strange land, and why he shouldn’t be afraid. gray only half listened, too busy trying to watch every single thing around him, too busy trying to see a potential threat. looking back on that day, on the way he was so afraid of what he now knows to be his partner, gray cringes at his own cowardice. the digital world has since become a part of his comfort zone, the kitten-sized creature has now become his very best friend. and the world around him, well, he still constantly searches for potential threats – but only because he knows they’re truly out there.
now nineteen years old, gray teeters between the fearful young boy he used to be and the courageous young man he knows he’s supposed to be. joining the leader of the west, who gray believes to be the most neutral of them all, he still hopes that he won’t have to pick a side, won’t have to fight a war. still, he doesn’t doubt his ability to become a warrior – if anyone ever threatened his partner he would surely take up arms.
EXPRIENCE[/color] twelve-ish years.
CONTACT[/color] smoke signals, carrier pigeons… PMs work best.
ROLEPLAY EXAMPLE[/color] from a torchwood rp:
Bleep, Bleep, Bleep. The blaring robotic chirps seemed to sync with his running steps, each flat footed slap against the pavement below his feet. His heart followed the same rhythm, beating in tune to his feet and his device, blending together in a sort of harmony. Ford was, of course, oblivious to this harmonization, focused solely on catching the rascal of a Weevil who had eluded him so easily.
Skidding to a stop, leaving scuff marks on the ground behind him, Ford took a moment to look down at the small device in his hand. It was small, fit in the palm of your hand small, sending out readings like crazy. He had found it among Toshiko’s things, discarded, useless and only half built; he decided to complete it and make it his own. What he turned it into, ultimately, was a tracking device, paired with a small metallic beacon which, Ford figured, would be easy enough to slip onto someone without them taking notice.
Before the Weevil had managed to ditch him, Ford was able to slip his newly perfected tracking device onto the beast and, now, he was trying his very best to follow it. Unfortunately, something seemed to be interfering with the signal – as if this night couldn’t get any worse. He cursed under his breath before forcing himself to concentrate once more. Though the signal was scrambled, he was able to discern the general direction that the Weevil seemed to be going in. Back to running, Ford groaned half-heartedly as his feet began to sync with the blaring beeps once more.
He hadn’t even wanted to go on a Weevil hunt tonight, honestly. He had a night of moping and poking and prodding his mechanical arm, hoping for any sign of life within it, planned all out, right down to the brand of beer he would chug and the position he would eventually pass out in on the couch. Still, with his device newly finished, he was somewhat eager to try it out. Now, though, already invested in the chase and hunt, he longed for his mopey pokey drinky night. Ah, to be able to turn back time.
The farther Ford ran, the closer the beeps became to one another until, eventually, it sounded like a single tune, one long, blaring beep. Ford paid no mind to the similarity between this noise and the noise a heart monitor makes when the person attached loses their life – well, he paid a little mind to it. Nonetheless, Ford was focused, determined, ready. The Weevil, according to his device, was just around the next corner. So close, so close to catching that damned creature.
As Ford ran full force towards the nearby alleyway where he presumed the Weevil was hiding, he didn’t quite take into account what a sharp turn he would need to make. This misstep, this error, caused his dead arm to slam against the edge of the alley, sending him reeling in, off kilter and very, very vulnerable. The device in his hand broke free, falling to the ground and shattering into a million tiny little pieces, it’s heart-monitor beeping finally ceasing.
Ford, now on the ground, forced his wits to return to him. He looked up at the Weevil standing only feet before him, looming over him “Not really my day, is it,” Ford sighed. The Weevil, seeming to take his words as highly offensive, began taking heavy steps towards him, growling ferociously and bearing its sickly yellow teeth. “Now now,” The ex-Time Agent tried to reason with the beast – who only seemed further insulted by his words. “It doesn’t need to happen like this.” Thinking on his toes – or his ass, rather – Ford grabbed onto the nearby rubble of his dearly departed invention, tossing the bits at the Weevil. While this neither soothed nor stopped the savage beast, it did give Ford enough time to jump to his feet.
“Well,” Ford panted, catching his breath with one hand on his hip. “You gave me quite a run tonight. Didn’t think I’d be able to catch you.” As he spoke, Ford reached into his pocket for his much-needed Weevil spray – only to find it missing.
Gulp.
“This was all just in good fun, you know – it was just a game. A fun game, let’s admit it. You had a blast, I had a blast. We can be friends now, right? Man and Weevil, buddies at last.” His last ditch attempts at smoothing the situation over seemed to be failing miserably. Ford began backing up slowly, running his good hand along the wall of the alley, fingers probing around wildly, trying to find anything he could use as an adequate weapon – a loose brick, a discarded two-by-four, anything.
“I’m pretty much doomed, aren’t I?” Ford asked the Weevil, not at all expecting any sort of answer. So, yeah, he was kind of surprised when the Weevil seemed to nod. “Great."
Skidding to a stop, leaving scuff marks on the ground behind him, Ford took a moment to look down at the small device in his hand. It was small, fit in the palm of your hand small, sending out readings like crazy. He had found it among Toshiko’s things, discarded, useless and only half built; he decided to complete it and make it his own. What he turned it into, ultimately, was a tracking device, paired with a small metallic beacon which, Ford figured, would be easy enough to slip onto someone without them taking notice.
Before the Weevil had managed to ditch him, Ford was able to slip his newly perfected tracking device onto the beast and, now, he was trying his very best to follow it. Unfortunately, something seemed to be interfering with the signal – as if this night couldn’t get any worse. He cursed under his breath before forcing himself to concentrate once more. Though the signal was scrambled, he was able to discern the general direction that the Weevil seemed to be going in. Back to running, Ford groaned half-heartedly as his feet began to sync with the blaring beeps once more.
He hadn’t even wanted to go on a Weevil hunt tonight, honestly. He had a night of moping and poking and prodding his mechanical arm, hoping for any sign of life within it, planned all out, right down to the brand of beer he would chug and the position he would eventually pass out in on the couch. Still, with his device newly finished, he was somewhat eager to try it out. Now, though, already invested in the chase and hunt, he longed for his mopey pokey drinky night. Ah, to be able to turn back time.
The farther Ford ran, the closer the beeps became to one another until, eventually, it sounded like a single tune, one long, blaring beep. Ford paid no mind to the similarity between this noise and the noise a heart monitor makes when the person attached loses their life – well, he paid a little mind to it. Nonetheless, Ford was focused, determined, ready. The Weevil, according to his device, was just around the next corner. So close, so close to catching that damned creature.
As Ford ran full force towards the nearby alleyway where he presumed the Weevil was hiding, he didn’t quite take into account what a sharp turn he would need to make. This misstep, this error, caused his dead arm to slam against the edge of the alley, sending him reeling in, off kilter and very, very vulnerable. The device in his hand broke free, falling to the ground and shattering into a million tiny little pieces, it’s heart-monitor beeping finally ceasing.
Ford, now on the ground, forced his wits to return to him. He looked up at the Weevil standing only feet before him, looming over him “Not really my day, is it,” Ford sighed. The Weevil, seeming to take his words as highly offensive, began taking heavy steps towards him, growling ferociously and bearing its sickly yellow teeth. “Now now,” The ex-Time Agent tried to reason with the beast – who only seemed further insulted by his words. “It doesn’t need to happen like this.” Thinking on his toes – or his ass, rather – Ford grabbed onto the nearby rubble of his dearly departed invention, tossing the bits at the Weevil. While this neither soothed nor stopped the savage beast, it did give Ford enough time to jump to his feet.
“Well,” Ford panted, catching his breath with one hand on his hip. “You gave me quite a run tonight. Didn’t think I’d be able to catch you.” As he spoke, Ford reached into his pocket for his much-needed Weevil spray – only to find it missing.
Gulp.
“This was all just in good fun, you know – it was just a game. A fun game, let’s admit it. You had a blast, I had a blast. We can be friends now, right? Man and Weevil, buddies at last.” His last ditch attempts at smoothing the situation over seemed to be failing miserably. Ford began backing up slowly, running his good hand along the wall of the alley, fingers probing around wildly, trying to find anything he could use as an adequate weapon – a loose brick, a discarded two-by-four, anything.
“I’m pretty much doomed, aren’t I?” Ford asked the Weevil, not at all expecting any sort of answer. So, yeah, he was kind of surprised when the Weevil seemed to nod. “Great."
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