OK, here's a ROUGH pitch for a character, with powers undeveloped intentionallyNAME:
Mariana Rosario AGE:
Face Claim: Lais DeLeon
At 5'3" and 110, Lais is strikingly attractive, caramel-skinned, and exquisitely fit. She's almost -too- pretty, the kind of attractive that hints at insecurity or narcissism, matching stride with her obsessive exercise and care regimen. ORIENTATION:
Fitness-nut, easily frustrated, competitivePOWER THEME:
Gravity ControlPOWERS and ABILITIES:
40 yard sprint - 4.7 seconds.
5K Run - 0:18:39
Standing vertical leap - 55 cm
Standing broad jump - 205 cm
Deadlift - 220
When her powers emerged, Mari realized she could impact gravity within a semi-spherical and maneuverable "bubble". If she concentrates/condenses this bubble-- which takes 1-3 seconds to form, depending on distractions-- she can amplify the power to almost double its current factor.
Sphere radius= 1-3 m (most of a person, motorcycle, bookshelf, small boulder, anvil, etc)
Power impact: Gravity range 0.5 to 1.5 Gs
Feat: Unreasonable athleticism - throw a ball, javelin, hammer, etc. farther, faster, and thus with more power, but also amplify its accuracy by adding gravity to target... requires great concentration for minor course correction
Sphere radius= 5-10 m (bulldozer, trailer or small house, big fucking bear, steam engine)
Power impact: Gravity range 0.2 to 3 Gs
Feat: hyper-concentrate... shrinking the 10m radius to 10 cm requires extreme concentration and up to half a minute, but can amplify increased Gs to 10 Gs
CHARACTER FLAW: Power Flaws:
Sphere radius 10-50 m (warehouse, battleship, helicopter, blue whale, Leroy Jenkins' dick)
Power impact: Gravity range 0.01 to 25 Gs
Gravity is a force of attraction between matter. It's not centripetal or centrifugal force, although those FEEL like gravity... she can only affect matter's attraction to other matter. She can bound like a deer by transferring gravity away from where she leaps, or she can throw a baseball over someone's head and have it drop on them like a cannonball-- but there has to be matter there to affect. Energy itself has no mass, and light has so little that it's virtually impossible to affect it in real-time. And there's always the chance that, if her powers were amplified beyond control, she could collapse something too much, effectively creating a microscopic gravity well-- swallowing up herself and anyone else in blast radius into a squishy marble that would instantly burst out in a messy, most unproductive way.Character Flaws:
Mari has struggled with undiagnosed learning differences throughout her life, but has overcompensated with a focus on physical competition. Insecure and fragile emotionally, she responds very poorly to attempts to diagnose her conditions or to help her academically. These trigger her anxiety-- or anger would be a more appropriate definition-- to the point that she lashes out in potentially self-destructive ways, rejecting help and instead focusing on her strengths or on immediate consolations and distractions... partying, working out, having a fling, getting in trouble. Her temper must constantly be kept in check, as she's been her own worst enemy since childhood.BIOGRAPHY:
Raised with dual-citizenship in the US and Brazil, Mari's home upbringing was a mix of challenging schools and neighborhoods-- between drug and gang-riddled public schools and private schools between Los Angeles, Phoenix, and Sao Paolo, she's seen both the worst and the best of all walks of life... enough to know that privilege and virtue are not entwined, and enough to know the trappings of poverty.
Her father was a moderately famous professional wrestler, with a career lasting from the late 1970s to the mid 1990s, and her birth-mother was a Las Vegas showgirl he met in Las Vegas early in his his career as "The Bruising Brahman" before his career and fame peaked some years later as "The Strangling Sheik"-- no one in his audience knew that his nationality was actually Brazilian, and Mari grew up speaking fluent Portuguese as well as English and a little French. She absorbed his obsession for physical fitness and often trained with him when she lived at home, remembering these as her happiest times, and resented his fame as the cause of her mother's alcoholism, her parents' divorce and remarriages, her father's dependency on painkillers and steroids. Later she'd come to recognize the symptoms of multiple head traumas as a cause for his debilitation and early death despite his once pristine health.
Mari is currently still listed as being in the care of her stepmother, Ruisa Delgado, but after debts and contract reexamination it was clear that she would have no inheritance-- her stepmother blames her mixed experience with expulsions from various private schools as at least partial cause for this financial detriment, but in truth her father was, like many performers, the victim of bad contracts and a shift in public awareness. She still has plans for higher education, despite her lackluster academic record, thanks to her exceptional skills at Track and Field and Football (soccer), and will probably have her choice of many schools-- primarily those in Southern California or the Southwestern U.S.-- for athletic scholarship... if she can keep her nose clean.THEME SONG: ALTERNATE IMAGES (borderline nsfw)
Trailers. They call these things "Auxiliary Classrooms" but they're trailers. Double-wide trailers stuck on the outside of the shitty, out-of-date school, and just like the main building the acoustic tiles are stained brown with rain water where the roof leaked, are pock-marked with thumbtacks where some teacher pathetically tried to display projects or a banner or some shit to make the place look better, are riddled with dried wads of technicolor chewing gum where dipshits stick them to the ceiling in their absolute boredom.
It's an English classroom. Like, I can speak English. Why do I have to talk about ionic pentambeder and stuff to speak English... There are posters up of people from the Renaissance looking sad and pasty-faced at each other. Mari feels butterflies in her stomach, the presence of worry and being out-of-place, like she's in trouble already. She hates that feeling, and for that reason she hates English. It's like being ashamed of herself all the time in here, which is hilarious. She doesn't cut up like the hoods in here, cussing the teacher, saying vulgar things... sure, the teacher's hot in a way, and it's easier to behave in class when she can just stare at the 20-something girl out of grad school and imagine what her face looks like when she cums... but THAT doesn't make her ashamed. Hell, she isn't ashamed when she pops an illicit Adderall to stay awake in class, or when she's copied the answers to a quiz off the kid next to her that listens to nothing but 90s hip-hop. She does what she's gotta do to get by.
She's ashamed because somehow she's watched this young woman for almost ten months and she's listened, she's taken notes, she's written down things about MacBeth and liturgical poetry and it just doesn't stick. She's to study hall, or home that night to a trailer kind of like this but with better carpet and lighting, and she's read the notes she took and seen nothing but garbage on the page. Black ink, scribbles, words that run together, half of sentences that would have made sense but don't quite. She's tried, but it's always the same. Maybe somehow something stuck, and when she wasn't calculating whether she should have another protein bar before lunch or asking herself if she could do 10K tonight or if she should do more weights instead... maybe some of these weird words and phrases stuck and she can spit out enough names and ideas to sound smart enough to pass this exam. And maybe she won't have to do summer school with some desperate new teacher dodging verbal threats up front of a class of hoods with a cop outside the door. Maybe she won't hear "fuck you bitch" seven times before noon and she can just have some time this summer to do things that other students do.
Then the page comes down, and there's multiple choices there, and Mari gets a little rush of confidence. She actually manages to glance up at the teacher, just long enough to catch a glimpse of her JC Penney skirt where it clings at her panty-line as she goes by and smirk, and she clicks her pen and starts marking her answers. Yes, she knows the first one. It's Lord of the Flies so the answer is original sin. The second one is about Frankenstein so she takes a pretty safe guess about responsibility for creation. She doesn't know some, she skips them. Her legs start to cramp, and she ignores the hissing come-on from the thick boy behind her who likes to ask her how she's getting it lately-- no need to even shut him down right now, she's in the zone. She skips another, answers one. She's got this.
She turns the page. It's almost all blank. "What the fuck," she says softly, then looks up a little ashamed. Her hazel eyes fix on the teacher's-- the teacher's eyes are brown, like her hair. She should cut it, add some highlights. Mari swallows dryly, looks at the page. It's an essay, something about MacDuff. She closes her eyes, she starts writing with her eyes closed and tries to just, like, let the words flow out. She writes, she thinks, she writes more, just like she'd talk. Everything about MacDuff, right? He was a good guy, he was betrayed. He was so loyal and shit. Can't say shit. Tick tick, the clock... she can actually hear the second hand on the cheap plastic clock over her head. She looks back over the ink she's written so far-- it's a fucking mess, words she can't read. She grimaces, the pit in her stomach flips. She tries to clean it up but she can't remember what she was saying. The pen dries out a little and she tries to give it more ink by scribbling in the margin... the margin looks like the rest of the page now.
"God damn," she tries harder, the paper tears. She snaps it in her fingers and hisses in anger and reaches into her purse, pushes her keys around, finds a pen-- no that's an eyebrow pencil-- a pad, a lighter, a pen. Fuck yes, back in business.
She tries to pick up where she left off but she can't remember what the hell that was, so she starts again. Am i saying the same thing? So what... just write it again. Maybe it'll make more sense this time. Fingers entangle in her hair, and she tries not to mess it up. She doesn't want to look stupid, but she has to keep trying. The page is a mess, and she's run out of space-- that's good right? Maybe she'd better start a new paragraph. She flips it over-- more blank space. She writes and her hand is cramping up but she's used to muscle pain.
There's a metallic dinging sound-- a tone, like a cheap Casio keyboard-- the dismissal bell. The exam's over. She looks around and everybody else is done. Snoop with dreadlocks is asleep with a blank page, and he just leaves, not giving a shit. The thick boy behind her just rubs his hip against her shoulder as he squeezes through the aisles, and she's still got a page of short answer not finished. Panic sets in. Mari writes what she can, barely registering the short questions, just saying what she can about what she recognizes in the pieces they ask about because she can't understand the question. She writes, and somebody says something stupid. She shoots a glare, they shut up, she writes more. The teacher angles closer, seeming a little concerned in that way that is half-pity and half-curiosity. She can hear cars starting in the parking lot and she's still scribbling what looks like half-English... oh hell, that's because it is, she just answered a question in Portuguese. She writes some of the words in English and fights back tears with a long sniff.
"Mariana?" the teacher asks, and she looks up. The pen in her hand feels like a scalpel, and she just got caught chopping up somebody's pet. "It's okay-- you can finish your exam, just take your time--"
And then the helplessness turns inside-out, like it tends to do. Mari slams her hands down on the desk and stands up. "I don't need TIME, I don't need ANY of this shit," she says in a hiss. The teacher draws back, her pale skin turning pink with fear. She's seen that before... it's a sure tell. This teacher cannot handle a school like this because she can't hide it when she's upset. Mari folds the test... mostly completed, and hands it over. She snaps up her purse and slings it over her shoulder, and she can hear cars starting in the parking lot-- booming bass, laughter, indistinct yelling in English and Spanish. "I just..."
The teacher reaches her arm forward-- oh, naieve girl, you don't touch a student, even a pretty one. Mari knows that the teachers aren't scared of her like they would be the bangers, the hoods, the ghetto kids. They don't know. "It's okay," the young woman offers, sounding sincere, "you can finish. If you need a ride after, or whatever, I'll get you home."
And Mari's anger is still there, going to burst out. She broke her coach's jaw in Las Vegas last time someone caught her like this and touched her arm. She swallows it, hangs onto it. She takes her teacher's hand in her own and instead leans forward, opens her lips, and kisses the young woman's mouth. She jumps back but Mari's too fast, she hears a desk scoot along the floor as the teacher almost falls over but she catches her with the exam still in her hand and kisses her harder. Putting her whole body into it, she lets her breasts press to the escaping young woman before letting her go, and she stands with her hands folded behind her back, head cocked to one side, watching the look of shock on the pale young woman's face. "Wha... that... I..."
"Don't know what to say?" Mari asks, the paper in her fingers like a fan as she offers it over. "No right answer?" She chuckles softly. "Well, now you know how I feel."
She drops the paper on the empty desk next to where the teacher is cringing away in a mix of shock and what might almost be arousal. "Hope I passed. Either way, look me up this summer." She knows she won't, and she gives her a way out-- all the teacher has to do is pass her, let her go, and she won't have to report this or even mention it to anyone. But as Mari walks out the door, her eyes sting with tears, and the shame is as pressing and real as ever before, and the pen falls from her fingers to clatter against the gaping, metal door of an open, empty locker, paper and books strewing the hallway floor like the other forgotten trash.