Post by Crim on Oct 20, 2013 19:58:50 GMT -5
(Art commissioned from rakuranger on Flight Rising.)
Avery Matthew Briggs
Nickname(s)/Alias(es):
Certain people call him Av (Pronounced Ayve). He isn't particularly fond of this, and is much happier with simply being called by his first name.
Age:
Thirty-one years of age – born on the 17th of March in 1981.
Gender:
Male.
Pokemorph?:
Nope.
Appearance:
Were he presented amidst a line-up of other thirty-year-old men, Mr. Briggs wouldn't stand out as particularly remarkable or noteworthy. In fact, it's not too far of a stretch to say that one's eye might be drawn to just about anybody else in said line-up. One might think the man almost tries to blend in just a little too well. Avery stands at roughly five foot eleven inches tall (eleven and a quarter if you want to be specific for whatever reason), and his weight falls a little below the average for a man of his age and height. Perhaps he should eat a little more often.
His build is fairly lean, with little prominent muscle shown on his body, though his arms possess the slightest hint of visible muscle. To say that he'd lose in most arm-wrestling matches is a gross understatement. Someone of sufficient strength could probably snap his arm like a twig, in fact. His skin is a very pale cream in coloration, though it's full of blemishes, from moles to freckles to a circle-shaped birthmark on his left upper thigh. This skin is also, unfortunately, rather susceptible to burning; and, as a result, sunny weather is one of the many banes of his existence. It may account for his tendency to wear jeans and long-sleeves as well.
The man's face is long and angular, with a narrow chin and a subdued sort of jawline. His eyes, almond-shaped and hazel, are shadowed with the hint of a troubled sleep schedule, and often rather bleary-looking. Truth be told, Avery should be constantly wearing a pair of rectangular-framed, thin glasses, though his dedication to following his doctor's advice in this area is all but nonexistent. Ninety percent of the time, these glasses are stowed away in their case, which is probably lying at the bottom of the bag he can't be bothered to search. His eyesight is good enough to at least not be rendered blind without said glasses, though they'd certainly help with the constant headaches and issues with concentrating that seem to be a constant detriment to his health.
His nose is fairly large, and, truth be told, probably his least favorite aspect of his face, though he'd never admit to this aloud. His lips are long and narrow, and his teeth bear the signs of coffee and cigarette stains, despite his attention to brushing and flossing. One of his front teeth (the left one) is slightly chipped on one side, and causes some distress every now and then, though he hasn't gotten bothered enough to fix that issue yet.
Avery's hair is a rich ginger-red in coloration, and often looks like a frazzled, slightly spiked, unkempt mess atop that noggin of his. His hair isn't too long, but it's just long enough that it refuses the conventions of normal styling and decides to do its own thing instead. Decades of battling with this hair doesn't seem to have made it any easier to deal with, and the only alternative option at this point seems to be shaving his head. He'd rather deal with messy hair than a bald head.
A healthy amount of stubble has also sprouted along his chin and jawline since he left his home, as he finally hasn't had to force himself to shave every morning. He'll probably need to curb it at some point before it reaches the point where it could be called a beard, but he doesn't seem too bothered by the stubble itself.
His attempts at casual dressing bear the signs of a man too used to dressing non-casually, as even his everyday attire can be called 'spiffy'. His shirt and pants change as often as he has clean clothing, though he's almost never seen without his black trench coat, which tends to be properly fastened and closed at all times. His shirts are all light fabriced and long-sleeved, though they're usually completely obscured by the coat. He does seem to enjoy jeans, and almost exclusively wears them at this rate. He prefers greys and blacks over blues or other, more vibrant colors. His shoes are a pair of black, comfortable boots meant to be able to get through most terrain.
He bears no piercings, though he sports a pair of simple tattoos on his wrist. On his left wrist, written in simple, black lettering is the word 'fiction', with all lowercase letters. The word is relatively small and unassuming, and not too striking even against his pale skin. It's also written in a curved, almost airy and playful sort of way. His right wrist bears the word 'REALITY', in thicker lines, with every letter capitalized. This word stands out against that pale white skin a great deal more than the other tattoo, and the choice in lettering also seems bolder and a tad less whimsical. These tattoos have both faded a little over time, and it's clear that they were obtained over a decade ago.
Personality:
Social interaction seems to be a rather difficult obstacle for the man to overcome in life. He seems to stray from places that have the tendency to be filled with people, a habit partially formed from his previous dwellings in Lumiose City. Cities in general tend to flash some sort of alert in his mind, and if forced into social interaction, Avery has a nasty habit of reacting with a rigid, awkwardly forced sort of demeanor, with a stressing on being overly polite and proper. Inescapable social interaction is something he attempts to avoid at all costs, though he acts a little more naturally when allowed to seek out social contact at his own leisure.
He's also fairly rigid in most aspects of life. His old life was a carefully structured, almost fully planned routine, and anything that shook him from that schedule had the potential to rattle his entire day. A concise schedule isn't quite as necessary when it comes to training Pokemon, though whether he's aware of that or not is yet to be seen. He does try to form patterns out of things, however, from a cigarette-smoking system to having coffee every morning at precisely 8:45 (this particular habit has already had to go out the door, much to his horror). He's painfully slow at recovering from alterations to this schedule, and flounders about like a helpless Magikarp until he figures out how to continue with his everyday life. Pokemon training is going to be an... interesting experience for him.
A certain sort of self-pessimism only seems to prolong any negative qualities, as any mess-up occurring in his life is automatically attributed to his own shortcomings, rather than certain events being contributed to external criteria such as the environment or instances beyond his control. Sometimes, even thinking about possibly failing is enough to cause the failure itself, which in turn only reinforces his overly pessimistic self-views. He can almost become a self-fulfilling prophecy at the worst of times, and it's hard to get him to diverge from this mindset once he's entered that almost mopey sort of state.
If he views himself with pessimism, then he views the rest of the world with a caustic cynicism. Though he rarely speaks his views aloud, partially due to not being the most social and partially due to simply not assuming anyone will care what he says, those views do nothing to shed humankind in good light. While he isn't so cynical as to be completely blind to any sort of good in the world, he's accepted it as truth that most people in this world are governed by less than savory motives, no matter how much he or anybody else may wish otherwise. He doesn't want things to be this way; in fact, if he dreams about anything, it's about the world being just a little less shitty to live in. He's simply resigned himself to the fact that his hopes and dreams are just that: mere hopes and dreams.
After being raised in a rather scholarly setting, Avery's developed a love of literature as a whole. Much of his childhood and adolescence was spent reading anything from fantasy to non-fiction, and his desire for knowledge only spurred that hobby into a full-fledged, adored activity. Indeed, through college and what's transpired of his adulthood, reading was one of the few things that's brought about a constant source of happiness. There's a certain peace in a good book that simply can't be mimicked by anything else in the world, and the best type of novel is one where you can escape from whatever world you happen to live in in lieu of going somewhere entirely new. Avery's maintained a decent book collection, and has likely brought along as many books as he can.
He might have his fair share of flaws, all of which he's more than willing to admit, but Avery is nothing if not good-hearted. Most decisions in his life have been made with selflessness in mind, even (especially, perhaps) when the result is detrimental to his own being. He probably isn't even aware how decent of a person he is, since his tendency to think poorly of himself overshadows the truth. He seems to be trying to spread a little bit of good around on an almost subconscious level, however, even if he isn't even acutely aware of this most of the time. Perhaps everything isn't quite as bad as it all seems.
In short, though Avery's plagued by self-doubt, cynicism, and a rigid stubbornness towards nearly all aspects of life, he isn't a bad guy. He might not be the greatest man by a long shot (in any category), but he tries to the best of his ability, and tends to only be motivated by savory goals. His desire for knowledge and subdued dreams of idealism seem to drive him on even through what he sees as a literal hell. He may not always be certain of the path he's on, or the path the world's on, but he's dedicated himself to following that path to the end, whether he likes what happens or not.
History:
Growing up, Avery always heard only the most romantic, optimistic tales about his parents' lives and their subsequent marriage. He never really thought to question the validity of his mother and father's ceaseless happiness, for, as a child, he saw no reason to. His mother and father loved him dearly, and raised him as their only child in a little run-down apartment in Lumiose City.
He failed to notice the constant stress that littered their lives, the sleeplessness which shadowed his father's eyes after a long night's work on yet another manuscript destined to be nothing more than cabinet-filler. He paid no mind to the almost manic drive of his mother as she worked jobs at both restaurants and hotels whenever she had the time. The differences between the way his family and the way most other families around the area tended to dress slipped past his notice, and the looks certain, 'well-off' citizens seemed to give them. Truth be told, the small family didn't have things nearly as great as they'd convinced their son. Some weeks, they barely had enough to truly get by. And yet, they provided for their son far more than they provided for each other, and put all of their savings and free time into making his existence as comfortable as possible. Avery had no reason to doubt their security; to him, nothing was more secure than their cozy little apartment. Sure, the neighbors were sometimes obnoxious, and other kids seemed to want little to do with him, but he had all the used books he could ever want, and that seemed to be more than enough to keep him occupied. Even before he could read for himself, he took an obvious interest in picture books, and was happiest when being read bedtime stories late at night.
The first real sign that his life might not be quite as safe and secure as his young self had envisioned manifested during his first year of elementary school. He wasn't quite sure when he picked up on the sniggering and snickering going on behind his back, but it was impossible to ignore once you finally noticed it. The majority of the other children seemed to regard him with some mixture of snide condescension and mocking disdain. Jeers and quieted jests tended to follow whereever he went, though at this point the child did his best to merely ignore things rather than attempt to understand them. The young boy was more confused than anything else, and didn't exactly draw attention to it at that point, figuring that whatever the issue was would surely be forgotten soon.
It wasn't, and many of his early years of school consisted of him playing, or more often reading, alone, though he himself wasn't quite sure why most of the other children tended to avoid him. He never voiced his concerns at home until he overheard a quiet whispering from ear to ear, with a few choice words that he'd only heard once or twice, perhaps in a book. Poor. Dirty. Strange? He'd never considered any of those adjectives before, and yet, suddenly his little mind was filled with doubts and questions that he couldn't answer. Why did other people tend to regard him as different? Special mind seemed to be paid to his clothing, which only confused him further. What did it matter if his clothing didn't look quite as neat and tidy as everybody else's? He turned to his parents with these questions, and more, and was exposed to the truth: things weren't quite as good as they'd made them seem.
No, his life wasn't as stable as he'd assumed; his parents had merely made it seem as such, sacrificing as many luxuries as they could to get him as much as humanly possible. Neither of their jobs had really made much: his mother's jobs as a hotel desk staff and a waitress at a cafe, while time-consuming, didn't come with the best pay, and his father was only really able to get money whenever someone paid him for any of his many pieces of writing. Apartments in Lumiose comfortable enough for at least three to live in weren't exactly cheap, and the vast majority of their money had gone towards renting a decent apartment with bearable living conditions. The pricier versions of things such as clothing were definitely out of their price range, and, as a result, they failed the emulate the class of quite a few of the more prominent figures in the City. It was little surprise, then, that the more snobbish members of the society seemed to regard them with as little respect as they might a particularly ignorant tourist. Many of the children had adopted their views of such matters from their parents, which explained why a fairly large majority of them regarded Avery poorly.
He was a little stunned to have this illusion of complete security torn from him like a blanket from a newborn babe, but he never once got angry at his family. How could he? They were both trying their hardest to make sure that things were alright. It wasn't their fault that luck may not have been on their side. No, the other children's judgment and snide remarks filled him with far greater disdain and annoyance, and he found himself gulping back violent retorts and retaliations. Physical violence never crossed his mind as a logical option, but damned it if it didn't at least pop up as an ideal “what-if” scenario a few times. If he was strong enough to knock out some bully's teeth just once, maybe they'd all get the picture and shut the fuck up. Maybe they'd quit bothering him and acting like general shitheads.
The closest he ever got to knocking somebody's teeth out was giving one boy a particularly rough shove in the fifth grade; unfortunately, young Avery didn't choose his battles the most wisely, and wound up getting subsequently destroyed. His black eye didn't go away for a couple of weeks, and his body felt sore for about that long, if not longer. Worse than the soreness, however, was the disappointment felt by his parents. It was the sort of bitter disappointment that you couldn't apologize for, and the shame from his rather brash actions stuck with him for even longer than the physical turmoils of that fight. He was chided for choosing the weaker option of fighting over words, and never made that mistake again. From that point on, he seemed to withdraw from most school socialization in general, focusing almost entirely on his studies and the classes, where he tended to excel.
Some of his favorite stories had always been those where a young boy or girl ventured off on their own Pokemon journey, and to say that he wasn't tempted to follow this dream at a young age would be a complete and utter lie. It'd be wonderful to escape the views of children who had seemed to only grow steadily more arrogant for the most part. He knew that such a decision was selfish on his part, however; he didn't want to leave his parents in the same place they'd always been without anything. In fact, he wanted to help them as much as he could. Maybe he could help them by getting a job and earning some extra money. The boy, a young teenager by this point, hid his desires to go on such a journey a little too well; his mother and father never even noticed. Instead, he put all his efforts into his schoolwork with the intentions of one day being able to go to college and earn enough to make both himself and his family fiscally comfortable for the rest of their lives, no matter what happened. He took classes of all sorts, from Science to History to English. Born a native French speaker, he still figured that learning another language was a relatively wise idea. English was one of the most common options, and many tourists who came to visit were from English-speaking regions. Whatever job he took in Lumiose, knowing English would probably be of some sort of benefit. This dream was perhaps even more idealistic than the one of going off on his own. In his mind, it'd be an easy enough goal to accomplish. Easier said than done, as the cliched saying went.
High school was the point where he worked the hardest, seeking out a part-time job to begin amassing a college fund while maintaining his studies the best he could. Certain people were finally growing to respect and even admire his work ethic, though by this point he'd all but tuned out most people in his high school. He was almost cynical enough to view all of them still as those annoying, arrogant children from long ago who had acted only on what they'd been taught by their parents, even if a decent number of them had moved on and barely even seemed to care about such things anymore. True, there was the occasional kind face or cute guy that could give him pause, but he always managed to shake any distractions from his mind and continue on his set path. Against all odds, he'd managed to save up just enough to fund the cheapest college education there was (a few scholarships for excellent work helped, to be fair). Upon graduation of high school, the young man was full of hopes and dreams and the motivation to succeed and find a proper niche in the world.
Social issues had always been of a certain intrigue, from the fictional works he read to the non-fiction accounts of history and strife so eloquently recorded. His own experiences certainly only added to the allure of possibly changing the way the society of Lumiose viewed those worse off than the norm. It was of little surprise that his main focus in college centered on concepts such as human psychology and sociology, as well as a few based around the ideas of class systems. These classes seemed to answer a lot of the unspoken questions he'd had about the way the human mind happened to work, and, for a while, he felt as if he had everything he could have ever asked for. How sad it was, then, when he failed to find such secure happiness in his chosen field.
The relatively prevalent gang problem in Lumiose City had been the subject of numerous books he'd read, and a class focused on gang-related issues helped him conclude that perhaps, just perhaps, he wanted to try to help solve this problem himself. Though he'd never gotten involved in gangs himself, a lot of the issue seemed to be closely related to a lack of support for the poorer members of the City by the government, as well as a general inequity in the system itself. He assumed that he could be of some use in this issue, even if he couldn't exactly empathize completely with it, and he took large strides to prepare himself for going into this field alone, and nothing else. In junior year of college, he began to take internships, eventually securing himself a hands-on position at a local agency.
His past struggles with socialization and human interaction resurfaced almost immediately, but he'd worked too hard to be deterred by such weaknesses, at least at first. Despite the gnawing doubt that began to plague him within a few months of working with the 'troubled youth' of the time, he tried to stay optimistic and keep an open mind. It was bound to be a little weird getting used to a new job at first, right? He'd get over it soon enough, and then he'd be able to start making progress. He worked hard at attempting to connect with clients and understand where they were coming from, though he found it a little difficult to truly connect. To his surprise, some of them seemed to regard him with the same scorn and lack of respect that he'd had to face growing up. Still, things were bound to get better, right? He'd be able to help change everything.
This optimism began to falter after about three years of working. The job paid decently enough, and he was able to afford a suitable, cheap dwelling for himself as well as helping out his parents a little bit. However, he failed to feel as if his job was actually resulting in anything good. In fact, the more he looked at things, the worse they seemed. Violence in the city was coming in waves and getting more severe, and the city seemed to cover it up rather than work to actually fix the roots of the problem. They blamed the gangs without really considering what might have caused the gangs to form in the first place. Incarceration may have had a positive impact on lowering the current crime rates, but it would do nothing to lower them permanently. It was as if all of his best efforts had no true impact on the issue as a whole. Still, he reasoned, these things took time. He'd probably be able to see results before too long.
Before he knew what had elapsed, he'd spent over a decade at his job, though he felt as if he had nothing of value to show for it whatsoever. The issues seemed to only get worse, and no attempts to truly solve them had been successful, if they'd even been initiated in the first place. Kids were still doing the same shit, and people were still dying and getting thrown into jail. Avery's job still seemed monotonous and unfulfilling. He still felt awkward in some aspects of his job, as if he was merely an actor in some play, rather than doing what he himself wanted to do. He'd seen more than enough examples of the terrible things people could do when forced, and heard more than enough about the terrible things that had driven some of those same people in turn to do the things they'd done. A healthy case of cynicism had settled into his mind by this point, as well as the lingering self-deprecation that suggested that perhaps he was the reason things weren't getting better. Perhaps if he was better at his jobs, things would have changed. It was a silly thing to think, of course; how could one small agency change the vast majority of Lumiose City and progress things?
He felt doomed and condemned in his job until he received news that was even more jarring and depressing than his view of his own life. His mother had passed unexpectedly from a heart attack during the night. Having always maintained the close connection to his parents, Avery was understandably shaken up, and reacted as anyone going through the stages of grief might. He got angry, sad, and spent an unhealthy amount of time on self-blame. There was no rational way he could have changed things, and yet, he felt as if he could have somehow. His mother's death served as a catalyst and brought every other doubt in his life to the front of his mind. And then, something snapped. He simply couldn't take the direction his life was currently headed anymore.
He fell into brief despair and quit his job without warning, not really knowing what he planned to do or what could even be done anymore. Hopelessness threatened to take over, and, desperate for some source of stability in the current situation, he turned to his father for guidance. The older man was still stricken with grief as well, though he'd coped far better than Avery had. He seemed to glance at the agonized, desperate and unsure man before him and offer what simple advice he could. Don't spend all your time grieving and thinking on “what-if”s. Try to find something that has meaning and purpose to you, without focusing on anybody else. The words consoled Avery, and he agreed to take the advice to heart, even if he had no idea what precisely he intended to do.
The first step was getting out of Lumiose City. It reminded him too much of everything he dreaded and disliked, both about himself and the rest of the world. The failure to change things and the constant, pervasive inequality were more than enough to give him reason to stray from the beautiful (on the surface) city. After more thought, the decision to leave the Kalos Region behind altogether began to seem more and more feasible, and also more satisfying. Finally, he had at least some semblance of a course of action. He obtained his passport and sought out a travel destination. Discovering the Decona Region was a happy little surprise. He'd never read up on it much, and it seemed like the sort of place one could go if they wanted to start entirely anew. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he got there until he happened to have a dream. A dream reminiscent of the daydreams he'd had as a young child and teenager, eager to set out and experience the world in an altogether different way than he'd actually done.
He was going to go on a Pokemon journey.
RP Sample:
Avery withheld the faintest hints of a grimace as he braced himself against the chilling October air, pulling his coat a little more securely around his figure. He'd never really enjoyed the fall. Sure, there was some sort of beauty in the way everything changed. But then, if you thought about it for long enough, you concluded that everything was, in fact, dying and withering. That seemed to leech off of the beauty of it all in the man's eyes. Dead things weren't exactly pretty to think about, after all.
This sobering chain of thought processes gave him pause for a moment, and a flicker of uncertainty seemed to cross his eyes as he halted his steady stride. A soft little breath was drawn in almost painfully, and the ginger fumbled awkwardly in his coat pockets for a few moments before withdrawing a tiny carton of cigarettes.
“ … Damn. Almost empty.” he muttered wryly as he withdrew the final cigarette from the carton, twirling it in his fingers as he stuffed the carton back into one of those seemingly infinite pockets. The hand with the cigarette was brought to his lips, and the little death stick carefully, delicately clenched between his teeth as his hands shifted to another, fastened pocket, fumbling once more at opening and withdrawing his item of choice.
Finally, he drew out the beautiful lighter he carried with him at all times, pausing as he always did to appreciate the fine craftsmanship involved. Metal had been constructed into the shape of a lithe, sitting Houndoom, with its head raised in a howling motion and its tail curled almost, but not quite fully, around its paws. It was, as always, pleasantly warm to the touch, and his fingers carefully pushed the creature's tail tip back, allowing flames to flicker from the maw of the fire hound. They flickered until that damned wind extinguished them, eliciting an annoyed sigh from the thirty-one-year -old.
Hands shifted to cup and protect the flame after that, and he ducked his head to finally ignite the little bundle of nicotine and tar, drawing in the first breath full of smoke as eagerly as a swimmer might have drawn in an ordinary breath upon resurfacing from a long dive. The whirling pit of stress and turmoil that had taken residence in his stomach subsided just a little as he allowed himself to taste and savor that alluring poison, before exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. He resumed his previous pace, brows furrowed as his eyes began to scan the little, uniform stones in their rows, silently counting.
Mm. Fourth row, somewhere near the middle...
His pace grew steadily quicker as he continued on his way, though he barely seemed aware of it as his eyes continued to glance over each name, looking for that single, familiar name. He found it more quickly that he'd anticipated, and was almost stunned. He hadn't really been prepared for it, but then, who really was? He bit at the cigarette butt in his mouth briefly, looking almost pained as he stooped down to eye the stone more clearly. Fingers reached out to graze softly along the curves and indents of carved letters:
Martha Briggs
1959-2013
1959-2013
“... Clear and simple just like you always liked, eh Mom?” he managed to rasp out, a shaky little smile forcing its way onto his face, as if something unwanted might etch its way into his features instead if given the chance.
“Uh... I know this is short notice, but... I talked to Dad. Figured it's only fair to tell you my plans too, yeah?” He chuckled drily, freezing as the cigarette fell from his mouth and onto the cold dirt. Frowning, he reached for it quickly, inspecting the end. Extinguished and dirty. “... Never did approve of my smoking, I suppose.”
Avery reached up and ran a hand through his eternally messy hair, doing absolutely nothing to help it in any way, shape, or form. “... Anyways. I don't know if you know already... Fucking hell, I'm pretty sure you can't even hear me right now. This must look crazy. But, I'm leaving today. Not just the City, either; I'm leaving this whole place behind. … Not real sure I've got much of a choice anymore, you know?”
He winced faintly, as if recalling something he would have preferred to forget. One more pause before he pressed on.
“... Heading to this place called Decona. Not sure what'll happen, but... I'm thinking of getting into Pokemon training. Like the guys in those books I used to read as a kid. … Bit late to be pursuing this kind of shit, I suppose, but... Worth a shot, right?”
The stone didn't reply, of course, but the man chuckled wryly again and dipped his head. “... I know you'd be encouraging me to go if you were here. 'Fulfill my dreams' or something like that. Not sure I've got any real dreams left, but... maybe I'll manage to accomplish something. Just maybe.”
He exhaled slowly and ran his fingers along the headstone once more as he rose to his feet. “... I'd love to stay and chat, but... Got a boat to catch soon. … Love you, Mom.”
He bit sharply at his lip and suppressed the brief pain that lingered at those three words, forcing that smile to stay on his lips. He failed to be eloquent even when conversing with the dead. He stood there awkwardly for a few more moments before shifting and turning to begin his retreat, feet crunching those dead, ugly leaves upon the ground as he hurried away just a little too quickly.