Name: Violet Afferson
Alias: Violence
Age: 26
Appearance: Long, straight, black hair fashioned with straight-cut bangs falling just above her brown eyes. Fair skinned, average build both in height and weight, but does have fairly toned muscles. Commonly wears black jeans and a red t-shirt, black jacket tied around her waist, and always seen with her red headphones around her neck or over her ears.
Powers:
• Blueprint
• Is able to map out how objects work through prolonged touch. The more intricate the item, the longer it takes to fully map out.
• Is unable to observe the whole item if it is taller than about 6ft and 4ft wide.
• Item Shifting
• Violet can choose 10 things they've previously touched to shift. After a range of around a mile, any of the items in the "roster" do not shift, are removed from the "roster", and would need to be retouched. Shifted items can take a few seconds to a 15 seconds, and once they're shifted they're removed from the "roster" until both touched and choosen to be added to the "roster".
• She doesn't need to know the item she's holding, she just has to know the item it's being turned into.
So if, for example, she knows how to make something into a pebble, anything within the size limit that she has touched and added to her "roster" can be turned into a pebble.
• The item being shifted can be shifted into an imaginary item, but under the criteria of reality, and normal shifting circumstances.
So if she tries to make, say, an imaginary lazer gun, but doesn't know the internal mechinism of how it'd work, it would just. Look like a gun, but do nothing.
• Only inorganic things can be shifted; organic things are not effected.
Equipment:
• A sizable bag of pebbles
• Bullet Proof Vest
• Reinforced Helmet
Brief character bio:
Silence. That was what followed the afternoon of sobs and mourning from the freshly placed graves, when everyone finally left to continue their day. What followed the set of siblings home, clinging to them as if it didn't want them to leave. That filled the home they lived in, in the spaces of those now gone, as if to remind them what they were missing. It wrapped it's arms tight around everything that wasn't filled with something, a heavy blanket weighing down those that had been left behind.
Lonely. The creeping loneliness as dust slowly settled. Where the images of the slashed, mutilated corpses of those beloved, started to lose it's desperate grip. Where fear and grief morphed into a sort of numbness and loneliness, one that increased when the other party moved slowly, as if afraid it'd frighten her. As if hugging or comforting through physical touch would make her run.
Maybe that should of been the first sign.
The first sign past the screaming that night, past the sound of objects being thrown. That her brother had been left alive. That he was unharmed. That he was covered in blood and bits of gore, sitting on the floor like a puppet with it's strings cut. Him sobbing that a metahuman had broken into their home and killed them.
"Violet?" A soft whisper, as if afraid to break the heavy spell that weighed down on them, clinging to them like death. Slowly drinking away whatever life they had left in them. A careful hand, ever so slowly, carding through her hair. It trembled as it did so, almost as if he was afraid to touch her at first.
"Listen to me." Allen instructed, voice lowering to a softer whisper as he absorbed his sister into a slow hug, his chin tickled by the hair on her head. Slow, soft, and careful. To make her listen. To make her pay attention to what he was saying. To engrave it into her memory. "Don't ever... trust a metahuman. They're dangerous, and..." A slow inhale breaks the sentence off, as if the silence that loomed over them would drown them. "They're dangerous." He reinterated in a low whisper. Whatever wisdom he held, he continued to hold close to his chest. Like a knife embedded in a ribcage; painful and yet, if removed, more deadly than left alone.
Days, to weeks. To months. To years. More metahumans cropping up over time, either helping or harming. Those more noticable in the news abused their powers. For better. For worse. The only thing stopping those with powers from errupting into chaos was simply morality. What was stopping them from going rouge, from acting above those without, as villians did?
Something about the prospect that, someone you deem unarmed, could kill you faster than you could call for help, before you could possibly struggle. How easy was it for metahumans to do? How long would it take before anyone noticed? If they noticed...
"Violet?" A voice rang out through the darkness the encapsulated the house, with only the living room dimly lit by the television. She hadn't realized how dark it had gotten between when she had first started watching the flickering lights dance across the screen to when her brother had gotten home from his night job.
"Living room!" Violet called out in response, placing the throw pillow she was holding in her arms to the side of the sofa to get up, moving to the entrance to give her brother a hug. The way his body sagged as he pulled her close, as if trying to fuse with her, gave her an indication that he had a bad day at work. She never pressed anymore when he did, since he always tried to force away the tiredness and reassure her that he was fine. It hurt when he pushed her away.
After a few more moments did Allen finally pull away to straighten up, carding a hand through Violet's hair. Moments like these made her forget her worries and suspicions of her brother. The person who took care of her after their parents death, who dropped out of high school to get a job to support the both of them. Who recently picked up a second job at night to try and get the remaining funds they needed to cover for her college tuition.
The only person who witnessed their parents deaths. Who was afraid to touch her for the longest time. Who placed a metaphorical wall between them. Who had seemed so scared that he would hurt her at the slightest movement. And slowly, over the course of a few months after their passing, did he seem to overcome whatever fear he held towards her. But he always reminded her, whenever the conversation came up, to be careful around others, and to never trust metahumans.
The night was supposed to be like any other, though like in every story that line is used in, something changed that. Something changed from the routine of eatting dinner, spend time bonding, and ending the night by going to bed to start a new day tomorrow. But something between night and day was when usual turned to unusual.
The sound of things breaking from beyond her bedroom door was what woke her up. The sound of voices squabbling at each other urged her to open the door to yelling. One voice belonged to her brother, that she knew, but she didn't recognize the second. That was what convinced her to creep down the hallway to the living room.
The living room was a mess, even under the cover of the night, where the room was barely lit from the moon above. Silhouettes of broken furnature littered the once-comfortable space in the house of memories. Of holidays and happiness, of mourning and silence. Dragging her foot along the floor as quietly as she could, she tried to get closer, appendage knocking into a piece of debris. A leg off the coffee table, was what she assumed when she picked up the object, eyes never leaving the scuffle before her.
Violet took a slow inhale, trying to calm her racing heart, the rushing sound that filled her ears loud enough where the argument was nothing more than a squabble of noise. In. Out. In.
"-thetic! You just left him there!" The sickening snap of skin against wet skin made her exhale shaky, watching the fist connect with what she assumed to be the other figures face. If the voice wasn't her brothers', then... A painful lump had formed in her throat, raising the leg up near her head to approach slowly.
To say she was scared shitless would be the understatement of the century.
With a wave of the arm, the figure on top had been shoved off by a sizable force, accompany with a high-pitched whistle while a gust of wind brushed against her shaky figure. The figure hadn't been moved far, just enough for Allen to roll off of his back to gather his barrings. Violet didn't know how many hits he had to withstand before he managed to get his assailant off of him, and she almost didn't want to know.
"So you do have some fight left in ya!? Huh!?" The figure taunted as he stormed over to the the kneeled body, giving Allen a rough kick to the side that sent him flying with a gut-wrenching crack, followed by a metalic clack and a delayed, choked out scream. The air filled with a painfilly familliar scent that she couldn't put a name to, watching in horror as the figure stalked over to the now-relatively limp body, stomping and kicking it repeatedly.
She's not sure when she placed a name to the smell of blood. She's not sure when she had gotten behind the figure and swung the knife into his back. How many times she swung til he collapsed, and how many after. When or where she got the knife. Only after the exhaustion hit and the adrenaline left did she start to process what had happened, and even then in a muted haze. Like a speeding train that barely grazed your nose, the initial seeze of the body that stops you in your tracks, and yet not the information that you almost died. Only after it passes does the thought hit you.
Slow rising, she turned her back to the scene to move to the light switch. Slow inhale, slow exhale. The desperate, feeble attempt to convince herself that when she turns around, nothing will be amiss. Everything will be where it usually is. Her brother possibly asleep on the couch, and the tv with the volume too loud. That it's just a nightmare she can't wake up from, where the feeling of the wet knife handle in her hand and the smell of blood was just for immersion.
Only when the stray thought that someone was standing behind her with the intent to kill her, did she flick the lights on and whip around. The initial wave of relief was promptly drowned away from the bloodbath and lingering struggle before her. The coffee table was broken beyond repare, with pieces scattered towards the hallway. Glass from the tv littered the floor, mixed with ripped fluff from the sofa cushions, while the metal tv stand was partially dounced with a red liquid and--
There was no warning when Violet's body decided to expell any contents left over from dinner. Curling in on herself, cluching her stomach with one hand, the one that had been holding the knife let it clatter to the floor in favor of clasping over her mouth. She didn't have the willpower to look up for the longest time, as the after image had been burned into her minds eye.
Tears burned as they formed, hand retracting from her mouth as she stared at the blood coating it. She felt disgusted and sick, slowly shuffling to the bathroom to clean up, then promptly broke down into loud sobs. Her brother was dead. A meta broke in, and killed her brother, and she didn't do anything to stop it. Her brother was a meta, and metahumans are dangerous. What was she supposed to do? All she had was--
Her thoughts slowly ground to a halt, trying to remember what she had in the hallway. A leg off the coffee table was her first recollection, but she couldn't figure out how she wound up with the knife. She couldn't of went to the kitchen and back without being detected, and no other ideas she had come up with could explain the conflicting information.
Gathering her wits, she slowly made it back to the living room, observing the damage. There were no other knives or weapons laying around, just the kitchen knife where she had dropped it. She tried to look for the coffee table leg, but... there was only three. Looking through the kitchen didn't turn up any knives missing, nor the leg of furnature.
Only during her search did Violet think to call the police, but she decided against it. What were they going to do? Two people had died, they had almost, probably rightfully, jailed her brother for their parents deaths. What if she was going to be jailed for their deaths? She had killed one out of revenge and managed to get the jump on them, but... it's because metahumans are dangerous.
No matter where she looked at this point, she couldn't find it. She couldn't find the fourth furnature leg, and only when her gaze dropped back onto the knife did a thought cross her mind. Grabbing one of the other legs, she stared at it the longest time. She didn't know why, or what she was doing. She just felt the need to confirm that... she wasn't a metahuman. She couldn't be, she never experienced anything like superpowers or anything unusual, but... her brother was one, and she didn't know for the longest time. And the weird clash of information didn't make sense. Unless she was a meta, and it somehow made sense in that regard.
She just hoped she was wrong.
And she was wrong to hope.
It wasn't an easy feat to discover; it took a lot of staring, maping out each intricate detail from the abuse it endured, and more staring. As if it would do something just because she held it. She had closed her eyes, gripping onto the leg before opening her eyes to see no difference. That was when frustration statted to take over, something that should of been relief. If she was a meta, then was she using her powers wrong? Or was she human and someone had dropped the knife during the fight? But the kitchen had looked untouched, which made it hard to believe the later thought.
Glancing over to the knife in question, she let out a sigh, having become numb to the smell of blood, to the two bodies behind her that kept her company. One thing at a time. She needed to confirm or debunk. What was she thinking at the time?
That she wanted to protect her brother. That she was angry and wanted to stab the person hurting her brother. Her fingers twitched around the new, yet familiar texture in her hand. To stab something, you would usually use a knife. And when she looked down, that was what occupied her hands. A knife, painfully similar to the ones in the kitchen, one she used nightly to cook their meals.
Bile started to rise once more, something she hastily tried to keep down as she dropped the item. Metahumans are dangerous, her brother had repeated time and time again. Their parents died from a metahuman- from her brother. Her brother died to a metahuman. And she killed a metahuman. She was a metahuman. She was dangerous, just like the rest.
Metahumans are dangerous. She looked over to the bodies that littered the floor, gaze scanning over the damage done to the room, the carnage proving the point that had been made all these years. No matter how much she loved her brother, he had been dangerous. He was never to be trusted. And now he was dead.
Dead... Metahumans are monsters that deserve to die, was the next line of thought as her eyes shifted to the unknown corpse, anger and resentment filling her thoughts. Because metahumans existed, they took away her parents. Because metahumans existed, they took away her brother. Because metahumans existed, she turned out to be the thing she hated and feared most- a monster.
Maybe it takes a monster to kill a monster. If that was the case, then that was what she would become. A monster that kills monsters. And in four years, that was what she had become.
Alias: Violence
Age: 26
Appearance: Long, straight, black hair fashioned with straight-cut bangs falling just above her brown eyes. Fair skinned, average build both in height and weight, but does have fairly toned muscles. Commonly wears black jeans and a red t-shirt, black jacket tied around her waist, and always seen with her red headphones around her neck or over her ears.
Powers:
• Blueprint
• Is able to map out how objects work through prolonged touch. The more intricate the item, the longer it takes to fully map out.
• Is unable to observe the whole item if it is taller than about 6ft and 4ft wide.
• Item Shifting
• Violet can choose 10 things they've previously touched to shift. After a range of around a mile, any of the items in the "roster" do not shift, are removed from the "roster", and would need to be retouched. Shifted items can take a few seconds to a 15 seconds, and once they're shifted they're removed from the "roster" until both touched and choosen to be added to the "roster".
• She doesn't need to know the item she's holding, she just has to know the item it's being turned into.
So if, for example, she knows how to make something into a pebble, anything within the size limit that she has touched and added to her "roster" can be turned into a pebble.
• The item being shifted can be shifted into an imaginary item, but under the criteria of reality, and normal shifting circumstances.
So if she tries to make, say, an imaginary lazer gun, but doesn't know the internal mechinism of how it'd work, it would just. Look like a gun, but do nothing.
• Only inorganic things can be shifted; organic things are not effected.
Equipment:
• A sizable bag of pebbles
• Bullet Proof Vest
• Reinforced Helmet
Brief character bio:
Silence. That was what followed the afternoon of sobs and mourning from the freshly placed graves, when everyone finally left to continue their day. What followed the set of siblings home, clinging to them as if it didn't want them to leave. That filled the home they lived in, in the spaces of those now gone, as if to remind them what they were missing. It wrapped it's arms tight around everything that wasn't filled with something, a heavy blanket weighing down those that had been left behind.
Lonely. The creeping loneliness as dust slowly settled. Where the images of the slashed, mutilated corpses of those beloved, started to lose it's desperate grip. Where fear and grief morphed into a sort of numbness and loneliness, one that increased when the other party moved slowly, as if afraid it'd frighten her. As if hugging or comforting through physical touch would make her run.
Maybe that should of been the first sign.
The first sign past the screaming that night, past the sound of objects being thrown. That her brother had been left alive. That he was unharmed. That he was covered in blood and bits of gore, sitting on the floor like a puppet with it's strings cut. Him sobbing that a metahuman had broken into their home and killed them.
"Violet?" A soft whisper, as if afraid to break the heavy spell that weighed down on them, clinging to them like death. Slowly drinking away whatever life they had left in them. A careful hand, ever so slowly, carding through her hair. It trembled as it did so, almost as if he was afraid to touch her at first.
"Listen to me." Allen instructed, voice lowering to a softer whisper as he absorbed his sister into a slow hug, his chin tickled by the hair on her head. Slow, soft, and careful. To make her listen. To make her pay attention to what he was saying. To engrave it into her memory. "Don't ever... trust a metahuman. They're dangerous, and..." A slow inhale breaks the sentence off, as if the silence that loomed over them would drown them. "They're dangerous." He reinterated in a low whisper. Whatever wisdom he held, he continued to hold close to his chest. Like a knife embedded in a ribcage; painful and yet, if removed, more deadly than left alone.
Days, to weeks. To months. To years. More metahumans cropping up over time, either helping or harming. Those more noticable in the news abused their powers. For better. For worse. The only thing stopping those with powers from errupting into chaos was simply morality. What was stopping them from going rouge, from acting above those without, as villians did?
Something about the prospect that, someone you deem unarmed, could kill you faster than you could call for help, before you could possibly struggle. How easy was it for metahumans to do? How long would it take before anyone noticed? If they noticed...
"Violet?" A voice rang out through the darkness the encapsulated the house, with only the living room dimly lit by the television. She hadn't realized how dark it had gotten between when she had first started watching the flickering lights dance across the screen to when her brother had gotten home from his night job.
"Living room!" Violet called out in response, placing the throw pillow she was holding in her arms to the side of the sofa to get up, moving to the entrance to give her brother a hug. The way his body sagged as he pulled her close, as if trying to fuse with her, gave her an indication that he had a bad day at work. She never pressed anymore when he did, since he always tried to force away the tiredness and reassure her that he was fine. It hurt when he pushed her away.
After a few more moments did Allen finally pull away to straighten up, carding a hand through Violet's hair. Moments like these made her forget her worries and suspicions of her brother. The person who took care of her after their parents death, who dropped out of high school to get a job to support the both of them. Who recently picked up a second job at night to try and get the remaining funds they needed to cover for her college tuition.
The only person who witnessed their parents deaths. Who was afraid to touch her for the longest time. Who placed a metaphorical wall between them. Who had seemed so scared that he would hurt her at the slightest movement. And slowly, over the course of a few months after their passing, did he seem to overcome whatever fear he held towards her. But he always reminded her, whenever the conversation came up, to be careful around others, and to never trust metahumans.
The night was supposed to be like any other, though like in every story that line is used in, something changed that. Something changed from the routine of eatting dinner, spend time bonding, and ending the night by going to bed to start a new day tomorrow. But something between night and day was when usual turned to unusual.
The sound of things breaking from beyond her bedroom door was what woke her up. The sound of voices squabbling at each other urged her to open the door to yelling. One voice belonged to her brother, that she knew, but she didn't recognize the second. That was what convinced her to creep down the hallway to the living room.
The living room was a mess, even under the cover of the night, where the room was barely lit from the moon above. Silhouettes of broken furnature littered the once-comfortable space in the house of memories. Of holidays and happiness, of mourning and silence. Dragging her foot along the floor as quietly as she could, she tried to get closer, appendage knocking into a piece of debris. A leg off the coffee table, was what she assumed when she picked up the object, eyes never leaving the scuffle before her.
Violet took a slow inhale, trying to calm her racing heart, the rushing sound that filled her ears loud enough where the argument was nothing more than a squabble of noise. In. Out. In.
"-thetic! You just left him there!" The sickening snap of skin against wet skin made her exhale shaky, watching the fist connect with what she assumed to be the other figures face. If the voice wasn't her brothers', then... A painful lump had formed in her throat, raising the leg up near her head to approach slowly.
To say she was scared shitless would be the understatement of the century.
With a wave of the arm, the figure on top had been shoved off by a sizable force, accompany with a high-pitched whistle while a gust of wind brushed against her shaky figure. The figure hadn't been moved far, just enough for Allen to roll off of his back to gather his barrings. Violet didn't know how many hits he had to withstand before he managed to get his assailant off of him, and she almost didn't want to know.
"So you do have some fight left in ya!? Huh!?" The figure taunted as he stormed over to the the kneeled body, giving Allen a rough kick to the side that sent him flying with a gut-wrenching crack, followed by a metalic clack and a delayed, choked out scream. The air filled with a painfilly familliar scent that she couldn't put a name to, watching in horror as the figure stalked over to the now-relatively limp body, stomping and kicking it repeatedly.
She's not sure when she placed a name to the smell of blood. She's not sure when she had gotten behind the figure and swung the knife into his back. How many times she swung til he collapsed, and how many after. When or where she got the knife. Only after the exhaustion hit and the adrenaline left did she start to process what had happened, and even then in a muted haze. Like a speeding train that barely grazed your nose, the initial seeze of the body that stops you in your tracks, and yet not the information that you almost died. Only after it passes does the thought hit you.
Slow rising, she turned her back to the scene to move to the light switch. Slow inhale, slow exhale. The desperate, feeble attempt to convince herself that when she turns around, nothing will be amiss. Everything will be where it usually is. Her brother possibly asleep on the couch, and the tv with the volume too loud. That it's just a nightmare she can't wake up from, where the feeling of the wet knife handle in her hand and the smell of blood was just for immersion.
Only when the stray thought that someone was standing behind her with the intent to kill her, did she flick the lights on and whip around. The initial wave of relief was promptly drowned away from the bloodbath and lingering struggle before her. The coffee table was broken beyond repare, with pieces scattered towards the hallway. Glass from the tv littered the floor, mixed with ripped fluff from the sofa cushions, while the metal tv stand was partially dounced with a red liquid and--
There was no warning when Violet's body decided to expell any contents left over from dinner. Curling in on herself, cluching her stomach with one hand, the one that had been holding the knife let it clatter to the floor in favor of clasping over her mouth. She didn't have the willpower to look up for the longest time, as the after image had been burned into her minds eye.
Tears burned as they formed, hand retracting from her mouth as she stared at the blood coating it. She felt disgusted and sick, slowly shuffling to the bathroom to clean up, then promptly broke down into loud sobs. Her brother was dead. A meta broke in, and killed her brother, and she didn't do anything to stop it. Her brother was a meta, and metahumans are dangerous. What was she supposed to do? All she had was--
Her thoughts slowly ground to a halt, trying to remember what she had in the hallway. A leg off the coffee table was her first recollection, but she couldn't figure out how she wound up with the knife. She couldn't of went to the kitchen and back without being detected, and no other ideas she had come up with could explain the conflicting information.
Gathering her wits, she slowly made it back to the living room, observing the damage. There were no other knives or weapons laying around, just the kitchen knife where she had dropped it. She tried to look for the coffee table leg, but... there was only three. Looking through the kitchen didn't turn up any knives missing, nor the leg of furnature.
Only during her search did Violet think to call the police, but she decided against it. What were they going to do? Two people had died, they had almost, probably rightfully, jailed her brother for their parents deaths. What if she was going to be jailed for their deaths? She had killed one out of revenge and managed to get the jump on them, but... it's because metahumans are dangerous.
No matter where she looked at this point, she couldn't find it. She couldn't find the fourth furnature leg, and only when her gaze dropped back onto the knife did a thought cross her mind. Grabbing one of the other legs, she stared at it the longest time. She didn't know why, or what she was doing. She just felt the need to confirm that... she wasn't a metahuman. She couldn't be, she never experienced anything like superpowers or anything unusual, but... her brother was one, and she didn't know for the longest time. And the weird clash of information didn't make sense. Unless she was a meta, and it somehow made sense in that regard.
She just hoped she was wrong.
And she was wrong to hope.
It wasn't an easy feat to discover; it took a lot of staring, maping out each intricate detail from the abuse it endured, and more staring. As if it would do something just because she held it. She had closed her eyes, gripping onto the leg before opening her eyes to see no difference. That was when frustration statted to take over, something that should of been relief. If she was a meta, then was she using her powers wrong? Or was she human and someone had dropped the knife during the fight? But the kitchen had looked untouched, which made it hard to believe the later thought.
Glancing over to the knife in question, she let out a sigh, having become numb to the smell of blood, to the two bodies behind her that kept her company. One thing at a time. She needed to confirm or debunk. What was she thinking at the time?
That she wanted to protect her brother. That she was angry and wanted to stab the person hurting her brother. Her fingers twitched around the new, yet familiar texture in her hand. To stab something, you would usually use a knife. And when she looked down, that was what occupied her hands. A knife, painfully similar to the ones in the kitchen, one she used nightly to cook their meals.
Bile started to rise once more, something she hastily tried to keep down as she dropped the item. Metahumans are dangerous, her brother had repeated time and time again. Their parents died from a metahuman- from her brother. Her brother died to a metahuman. And she killed a metahuman. She was a metahuman. She was dangerous, just like the rest.
Metahumans are dangerous. She looked over to the bodies that littered the floor, gaze scanning over the damage done to the room, the carnage proving the point that had been made all these years. No matter how much she loved her brother, he had been dangerous. He was never to be trusted. And now he was dead.
Dead... Metahumans are monsters that deserve to die, was the next line of thought as her eyes shifted to the unknown corpse, anger and resentment filling her thoughts. Because metahumans existed, they took away her parents. Because metahumans existed, they took away her brother. Because metahumans existed, she turned out to be the thing she hated and feared most- a monster.
Maybe it takes a monster to kill a monster. If that was the case, then that was what she would become. A monster that kills monsters. And in four years, that was what she had become.
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