Gallius Dives
"It's a bad, bad ritual. Oh, but it calms me down."
"It's a bad, bad ritual. Oh, but it calms me down."
BASIC INFORMATION
Name: Gallius Dives
Nickname: Silk
Citizenship: Russia
Ethnic Race: Northern Gypsy and Finnish
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Marital Status: Single
Sexual Orientation: Asexual
Education: College
Employment: Mechanic and Part-time Stripper
BIOLOGICAL INFORMATION
D.O.B: 09/13/1985
Height: 5'11ā
Weight: 165lbs
Eye Color: Amber
Hair Color: Carmine-red; unnatural
Handed: Right
Tattoo: Yes
Piercing: Yes
PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION
Outlook: Optimistic
Integrity: Conscientious
Impulsiveness: Spontaneous
Boldness: Cautious
Flexibility: Flexible
Affinity: Warm
Comportment: Agreeable
Interactivity: Engaging
Disclosure: Candid
Conformity: Heterodox
CRIMINAL RECORD
Criminal Class: Cat Burglar
Past Conviction: Yes
Correctional Facility: Juvenile Prison for Boys
Time Imprisoned: Two years
Inchoate Offense: No
Offense Against the Person: Aggravated Assault
Crimes Against Property: Yes
Crimes Against Justice: No
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Whoever Gallius' parents were, they've lent him an acceptable assortment of genes. Distinctive cheekbones, non-cluttered lips, symmetrical features, an angular jawline and a pointed chin. It almost seemed as if he were stuck somewhere between man and boy, fretfully so. Though, it hasn't affected his nighttime activities any. It may have even added to his appeal. Gallius is tall and somewhat thin, with long limbs and large hands and feet. You may have expected him to dodder about like a clumsy hound, elbowing vases off tables and steering himself straight into counters filled with expensive dishware, but not so. He moves with an easy, practised grace. As if he were more of a dancer, and less of a two-legged creature born to remain anchored to the ground. Gallius almost looks like he glides, long legs closing the distance between you and him in seconds.
Itās rare not to see Gallius smiling. He is a happy creature (when on his medication) that is often humming and swaying to music that no one else can hear as he works. Disapproving scowl? Hardly. The only negative aspect Gallius is capable of displaying is looking like a drowned rat. All dragging hind-quarters, tail tucked beneath his rump and ears flattened to his skull. Everything about him seems extreme and forced. His expressions are outrageously passionate, as if he isn't really sure what he looks like when he's making them. He's extremely animated, not only with hand-gestures, but with his entire body, so if anyone's willing to stand close enough to himābe aware of flying elbows and clipped heels. Unusually, Gallius has a swarthy complexion that reveals a life lived outdoors, and it might not have been far from the truth. Even still, he's managed to keep himself clean-cut, hygienic and well-dressed. Thanks to the candy-ladies, of course.
Stylishly dressed, Gallius prefers clothes of the European variety. It suits him well. Physical perfection is key to keeping food in his belly, so he's meticulous in his habits. He always makes sure that he's presentable, or at least straying far from dishevelled. God knows that it's easy to slip back into his shoddy, crappy shoes. Long ago he'd learned not to slouch or else he'd receive a smack between the shoulder blades, which still, to this day, remains a deeply ingrained lesson taught to him by his wayward nanny. Casual mode typically involves an old pair of ripped jeans and a graphic tee, with a brown leather jacket when it gets nipply outside. After all, there's no one to judge him on his choice of clothing outside the workplace. He's pretty sure that he's spent more of his life naked than clothed, anyway. And his hair? It's red. Dark sanguine. Obviously not his natural hair colour, but it's striking enough to garner a few second glances. His eyes are peculiar enough. Copper peepers reflect and mirror whatever he's looking at. Absorbing flecks of this and that.
PERSONALITY DESCRIPTION
Gallius has always been unstable. Disturbed and detrimentally ill. There's an ugliness bellying his optimism, scratching just below the surface. Professionalism only comes with resolute, unbroken silence. Charisma follows suit, clicking at its heels like a jowly, taut-mouthed car salesman. But, once you've taken notice of him and forced him into an awkward waltz of conversation, that's when Gallius falls flat on his face. He does not like to socialize. He's never really understood how to navigate those waters. He drowns. He splutters. He loses his head. While he may insist that his poor social skills stem from a general disinterest in forming lasting relationships, or a steady perseverance to keep everyone at a lukewarm levelāit's far from the truth and he's just terrified of everyone. There's a nearly nonexistent drive for friendship and romance because of it. His fears are heavier than he is. Much stronger and all-consuming.
Working to cultivate a mildly ditzy, self-centred persona surrounded by candy connoisseurs, prima-donnas, cross-dressers and shark-toothed investors has taken time. Gallius is as comfortable as he will ever be in the current position he's landed himself in. Change is horrifying. The very idea of change is horrifying. He's a stickler for routine rituals. Shirt first, then pants, then socks. Eating breakfast in a certain order; cereal, sausage links, bacon, juice. Specific sequences keep him grounded. It makes him feel like he has some small sliver of control in his life. It's not something he's willing to let go of, either. Patterns and constants make him feel safe, so if any of that's taken away, like an old blanket being ripped from a babes groping fingers, then you're essentially throwing Gallius to the sharks. He is a creature of many, many habits. With an unfailing obedience and need to follow a firm set of regulations, he's been known to lay down and act a place-mat. It's not that he likes, or wants to impress, those around him, but he'd rather bob his head, tuck his tail in and skirt around his differences.
He's always been a temperamental, finicky person. Unsettling at first glance, Gallius is easily misunderstood. He's not necessarily tough, but he's been characterized by unusually low expectations. A tough life lived on the streetsāand previously spent in a home where your parents didn't have the time to understand your illnessesātended to do that to you. Ramshackle dump-sites and abandoned buildings gave him an appreciation of what he has now. Despite Gallius' clear enjoyment of patterns and sameness, he's able to move onto things fairly quickly. Where others might spend time and energy on improving their surroundings to suit their tastes, he's more likely to spend his energy elsewhere. It's unlikely that he'd turn up his nose at what others find unbearable. Luxury, and needless flippancy, is unappealing.
Children fear the dark. Children fear bogeyman shirking underneath their beds, hiding in their closets. Children fear scuffling noises in the hallways. Gallius fears what he sees in people, what splits from their faces. Kaleidoscope-fleshy smears. Like an artist who got tired of faces and focused on the rest of their bodies, smudging eyes and noses and mouths with his thumb. People look like monsters to him. Without proper amounts of medication, it's much worse. He has a very low tolerance for fear. It strangles him, keeps him frozen in place. Paralyses his thoughts, mangles his words, sends him into a frenzy of violence. Because he's just a man who's defending himself against monsters, right?
MY DARK PASSENGER
Dark Passenger Name: He chooses to call himself Bezlican, which ironically translates to Faceless in Croatian. Empty eye sockets follow him, bereft of light and all-seeing. Following him wherever he goes and ceaselessly whispering nonsense in his ear canals, berating him when he trusts too easily and warning him when he's about to make a mistake. Gallius has never been sure where Bezlican stood. Was he a friend, a guardian, a protector, or a writhing leech bent on ruining what little grasp on reality he had? His intentions are fleeting things. There are certain things that aren't shared between them, secrets that have yet to be announced.
At times, Bezlican's whispers are soft things, barely audible. In other instances, it is a growing scream bellowing in his skull. He's mostly visited by Bezlican in his dreams, revealing themselves to be night terrors to whoever is watching him toss and turn, swimming in sweat. Though, he's able to expose himself in the form of hallucinations, conjuring horrifying messages and images to get his point across. What the Faceless one offers is freedom from his fears. A small taste of identification. Enough to keep him placid and obedient. Or, off-balanced and wounded.
Faceless does not wish to consume, nor control Gallius. He desires dreams. In essence, Faceless is nothing. Empty space and constellations strewn in the sky, enveloping a world that is filled with peculiar creatures. He is a spectator, born from childlike curiosity. Human nature, and all of their dream-spaces, keep him interested. Though, he'd been originally called by an unaware Gallius. Drawn by his cries, his nightmares, his fabled dreams and imagination. His fervid guilt and inability to cope with what was going on around him. Bezlican gave him the strength to survive. He offered him his own strength and offered whatever was needed at the time; friendship, guidance, or a kind word.
When everyone left Gallius, Bezlican was his only steadfast companion, weathering all of his sorrows and blanketing him with something much darker. Indifference, nonchalance, apathy. Everything he willingly gave, the Faceless One took. It was a mutual transaction. A willing parasite-host relationship of sorts. There is no struggle of control. They've moved beyond that. Cooperation only lasts as long as Bezlican is satisfied, and as long as reciprocation is honored, there's no need to make Gallius suffer. If he refuses him, then he can make things very uncomfortable, very quickly.
No one breaks deals with the Faceless One.
Dark Talent ā Oneironomy: Allows Gallius to enter and manipulate the dreams of oneself and others, including modifying, suppressing, fabricating, influencing, manifesting, sensing, and observing dreams as well as nightmares and daydreams. It doesn't seem to matter whether or not he's actually conscious or not, though his control on his abilities is magnified when he is asleep. He's able to plunge into other people's dreams and walk through them, communicating with their subconscious. Bezlican has lent him his own twist of abilities, in order to better suit his needs. He can induce sleep in himself and in others, including dreams, daydreams and nightmares. Gallius can manipulate sleep patterns and induce instantaneous sleep with physical contact, or induce perpetual insomnia, remove the need to sleep or make them dreadfully tired all the time.
Dark Talent ā Clairaudience: Since Gallius cannot identify faces, read their emotions, or understand expressions, he's come to rely on other means of identification. He tends to hear more than most people. Identifying people's voices always came easier to him. It's in the jingle of their laughter, ringing differently with each person. Or the velvet undertones, the giggling sopranos, and the thundering baritones. Accents, lilting expressions, jaunty symphonies that say more than they actually mean. It's a canvas of noise, melting together and puzzling apart into specific categories. He's able to hear in a way that isn't connected to his physical senses, on distances beyond their normal ranges.
Origin Disorder ā Prosopagnosia: You may ask what came first. The disorder or the nasty little ghoul clinging to his shoulder blades, suckling out consciousness from peoples ears like delicious lollipops. His delusions and fears and inability to identify faces came at a very tender, impressionable age. People frightened him because they looked like the stray marks smeared across loose leaf sheets, ruined and rubbed raw by fleshy erasers. Remembering his mother's pouting lips, or his father's abhorrent gaze, was difficult enough. All of his sisters were strangers with frilly dresses, laced collars and red ribbons. Familiar voices but, all in all, they were complete strangers. Eyebrows puzzled down the slopes of their cheeks, blending into their ears and melting down their necks like candle wax. It was only when he came, drowned up by his pleas to escape, that Faceless appeared. Ironically, it was he who opened his eyes. Sometimes, Gallius can see a person's eyes. Beautiful, inescapable things. Never just blue, green, brown, pale, or light.
Tribute ā Conscience-Eater: Bezlican feeds on thoughts and dreams, of course. More specifically, consciousness. The things that make humans human and not empty chaffs, robotic and stiff. In days past, Bezlican would take many, many forms in order to feed. He would sit astride a sleeper's chest and become heavier and heavier until the crushing weight would awaken the terrified and breathless dreamer. Unable to move, paralyzed and vulnerable. He was never a wasteful feeder, choosing to scrounge every morsel. Sucking them dry of their personalities, memories, brain functions, until they were a slobbering mess. Quite literally a vegetable. If he's feeling a little full, then he'd take his fill and leave his victim in a coma. Prone to suffer sleep apnea, frequent nightmares, and several other nasty side-effects when they awaken. Fleeing from Gallius' headspace is unnecessary. He's taken to using Gallius to replenish his sweet-tooth, offering him unusual abilities to attack his would-be victims.
PARAPHERNALIA
Old Journal: Gallius has kept journals for as long as he can remember. Childhood, probably. It keeps him anchored in place, reminds him where and who he is at that given moment. It's the only effective therapy he's carried with him. Leather-bound with flapping straps and worn, dog-eared pages. They all usually look the same. When it's filled up and full of words, Gallius usually burns them and starts anew, like a great fiery bird rising from the ashes. It's important enough to him to keep on him at all times. Ripping it from his fingers will cause him to get extremely upset.
Bottle of Pills: Now, what kind of medication is Gallius taking? There's a hefty assortment to keep his symptoms in control, when Faceless sees it unfit to help him. If he takes enough of them, then he can identify eyes. The smudges define themselves, if only a little. He has thirty capsules of Geodon, a bottle of Tylenol, forty capsules of Ativan for anxiety and another bottle with a dozen Prozacs. He takes them on schedule, or if he's under stress.
Messenger Bag of Goodies: Slung over his shoulder, Gallius carries an army medical satchel re-purposed as a messenger bag. It was originally given to him by the neighboring Salvation Army, but he likes it well enough. It holds everything he can't stuff in his pocket. Pens, pencils, packets of gum, band-aids, miniature sewing kit, his pills, his wallet, documents, his phone, and an assortment of nick knacks he's picked up on his way to wherever-the-hell-he's-going.
KA-BAR Knife: It's probably his only means of protection. Gallius is stronger than he looks, but in an unintentional "I-don't-know-my-own-strength" kind of way. The KA-BAR knife serves as a means of getting people away from him when he's terrified. It's recurved blade is seven inches long, designed for slashing and outdoorsy activities.
Touchscreen Cellphone: Everyone has a cellphone nowadays, including Gallius. He needs a way to keep in touch with the candy-ladies. They're his employers, after all. No one outside of his workplace really knows where he lives, so he's got a means of open communication without speaking to them face-to-face. Because of his problems, Gallius saved up for a pretty spiffy phone. It's a Samsung Galaxy S4; newest model. Sleek as a whistle. He uses it a lot to listen to his music, ignore people and read.
Wallet: Nothing special, really. It's a leather wallet stuffed with scrappy-looking bills, unidentified cards and chicken-scratch reminders.
BIO/HISTORY
Gallius was a loved baby. Very much loved, in fact. He was the apple of their eyeābeautiful, proportionate, destined for greater things in the world. He was also the only son. Born the youngest and succeeding three older sisters, Gallius was doted on not only by his parents, but by his overly protective siblings. There was nothing really wrong with him when he was an infant, beyond his inability to sleep the entire night without waking up, screeching and screaming and kicking until his mother swept him up, lulling him back to sleep with stories and lullabies. Apparently, it was normal phase. Something the doctors said he'd grow out of. Something like teething. They belonged to a middle-class family, with middle-class jobs. Comfortable, simple lives. Finances hardly weighed down on them. His mother was a well-to-do seamstress running her own little shop, while his father toiled away as an English teacher. They always made due.
And they lived in a wonderful city, on the outskirts of Moscow. Winters offered warm drinks, dog-sledding and a beautifully frosted landscape. The Dives had always lived in the countryside, making daily commutes to the city for work and still managing to keep a healthy livelihood by maintaining a lovely garden and a vineyard. They also kept horses, goats, sheep, and chickens. The rolling hills provided them with all they needed. Gallius grew up well-loved and learned early to appreciate everything life offeredāall of its denizens, it's offerings, it's life-givers. He and his sisters were nearly inseparable, roaming the countryside like little adventurers. They pretended to slay dragons, monsters, and demons with twisted sticks. It was only then that Gallius began to notice that his sisters faces appeared different. Sometimes, he couldn't tell them apart. Sometimes, he couldn't remember that they were his sistersābut, they'd always laugh, thinking that he was joking. I'm your sister, stupid. Stop kidding around.
He went to school and excelled in his studies, garnering attention and pride from both his parents. At times, Gallius would act strangely, or fearful of them, but they just thought that he was afraid to let them down. What they weren't aware of was that every single time Gallius looked into their faces, every time he glanced up from his homeworkāall he saw were ugly smears, dragging down like melted wax. They were horrific to behold. But, he knew they were his parents. He recognized their voices, and their clothes. Plaid shirts, fluttering flower-print skirts and upturned, slender wrists. He recognized his fathers hands, calloused and strong. He recognized the melodic lilt of his mothers voice, spilling over with kindness and patience and a tolerance that left him reeling with guilt. Nothing made sense. Even at eight years old, Gallius understood that his peers did not see the way he did. School turned into a place filled with eyeless creatures, skull-mouthed and speaking without lips. He dreaded returning and spent more of his time on his own, tending to the animals and hiding in the stalks of wheat surrounding their homestead.
Trouble only really started when those unidentified smears became outright delusions. Terrifying hallucinations and conscious nightmares, stalking him when he wasn't squeezing his eyes firmly shut. It's worth mentioning that Gallius was the subject of bullying. He wasn't very strong and he didn't stand up for himself, either. Who would fight someone who looked like that? Hovering over him, fang-toothed and disproportionate. But, he was a little older, now. He was fighting back. Kicking and punching and throwing dirt like his life depended on it. It felt like it did. His fight-or-flight response was screwy at best. Heart palpitations, sweaty palms, jittery nerves and a sense of anxiety no kid should shoulder plagued him everywhere he wentāoften for no reason. Communicating with others became difficult. He avoided it at all costs, unless it was absolutely necessary. The school board contacted his parents on several occasions for the fights he'd been involved in, and he was taken out for the day, punished by his disbelieving parents. Honestly, it was his father that was the hardest on him. His mother would still sneak into his room and hold his hand as he cried about monsters monsters monsters.
When Gallius was twelve years old, he'd been in a particularly nasty fights. He was having an episode and the kidāwho was later revealed to be one of his closest friendsāhad been trying to calm him down, but was rebuffed with a rock in the head. Gallius beat him down to the ground, striking him several times in the face until a pair of adults pulled him away. He hadn't recognized him at all. Roderick was sent to intensive care, and Gallius' parents were informed. His father had had enough of his behaviour. An ultimatum was posed. Either he was sent away to get help after the repercussions, or the family would fall into shambles. His mother hadn't wanted to make the decision, but tearfully said that she would stand by her son. Her baby boy. Either way, Gallius was sent to one of Russia's Juvenile Prison for Boys. Most of its inhabitants were scruffy-looking orphans, forced into lives of thievery or violence to keep themselves fed. The interior was nice enough: brightly-lit rooms, itchy sweaters and scarves, comfortable loafers and decent meals. Fit for children, as it were.
This was when Bezlican appeared to him, revealing himself in his dreams. Every single night. He whispered pleasant things, and encouraged him to be strong while he was here. Eventually, he'd help him out. Eventually, he'd bring him somewhere nice. Freedom would be his, if he only listened. He manifested himself while conscious, as well, but only Gallius was aware of his presence. No one else could see him. It didn't seem to matter whether or not he was having delusions, because Bezlican was the only face he could visibly see. He recognized him. He remembered his face. He could see him, always. The soft promises evolved into roars, growing louder and louder. If Gallius wanted to taste freedom once more, or see his mother and sisters, then he would carry out his simple request. Easy as silk, Gallius. Just press your hand there. Yes. Good boy.
Somehow, Gallius killed one of his cellmates. He'd held his hand across his throat, and before the sleepy victim had time to wake from the strange intrusion, he'd broken into a series of fits, seizing and thrashing against Gallius' crooked fingers. He watched as his chest heaved up, then back downābreathing his last wheezing breath. Gallius could feel his own heart in his ears, thumping like a bass drum. His eyes felt warm, teary but relieved. The ritual had been complete, and now, he felt a little less empty. There were spaces inside of him that had been filled. He felt Bezlican slither into his skull, settling down in an unknown location within him. It made no sense, but nothing ever did anymore. He was moved from his cell, and began seeing a therapist for witnessing someone's death. Just about procedures, of course. But, it was that therapist who finally shuffled him into a different category: mentally unstable. He had something called prosopagnosia and mild schneiderian symptoms. Unfit to remain in the prisons environment, Gallius was shipped to another one.
Pleasantville Asylum, New York. Fairly new. His mother still wrote him. He wrote back. Trust was a difficult enough word to say, but Gallius was surrounded by other people who understood where he was coming from. They didn't have the same kind of problems, but similarly, they did not belong anywhere. They heard things. They felt things. All of them were some kind of broken puzzle, hoping to fix themselves. Some didn't seem to care either way. Others had kindly voices, betraying their fears. Gallius couldn't see their faces, though. Not without speaking to them every day. Not without touching their faces, memorizing the slopes and imagining them in his minds eyesāif they let him, anyway. Most were happy enough to leave him be. Until the day that he, too, plotted to escape from the psychiatric hospital. It all went down so quickly. Disappointed? Or relieved? Gallius wasn't sure. He knew nothing outside of the hospital. So, Gallius returned to Russia. His homeland. He couldn't go home, so he lived on the streets for three years. Surviving and sleeping where he must. Stealing to keep himself from fading away.
The candy-ladies were the ones who finally picked him up off the streets, dusting him off and revelling in the natural angles of his face. Hold his chin that way, and Gallius was perfect. They checked his teeth, his eyes, his ears, and told him to strip. For whatever reason, he obliged. He let them look him over, titter over his body like clucking hens. Their kindly voices compelled him to obey. They belonged to a brothel of sortsāa strip club, actually. They were escorts, but they'd love if he tagged along and filled up an opening. He would have some place to stay and money of his own. He'd be his own person, and be free to do as he wished. Bathed, dressed and taught the arts of the trade, Gallius excelled as he always did. Dancing became an extension of himself. Faces could easily be ignored in the dimly-lit room. Bezlican agreed. Those who came onto him in alleyways, after he'd finished working for the night, could be fed upon.
Eventually, Gallius received the education he'd been cheated of, saved enough money for college, while working at Night Flight, and became a licensed mechanic. For whatever reason, Gallius hasn't left Night Flight. It may have something to do with his attachment to the candy-ladies. Silk, they'd called him. Echoing Bezlican. Good enough, then.