. . ..
-
-
-
-
.
..... A E T H E R
it’s here.
.
.
.
- Full name: . . . aldrel kryzalki. ..
Nicknames: . . . rel ; weirdo. .. [ likes ; makes him sad :( ]
Age: . . . 18 ; ??? [ fake records read: 18/5/1999 ]
Sexuality: . . . demi
Hometown: . . . unnpronounceable [ records read: arcane, ohio ]
Mentor: . . . circuit
Dialogue: . . . #b4ccdb
Playlist: . . . link to theme song. Optional
. . . .. .
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
- A P P E A R A N C E
- Height: . . . six foot two. . . . . . . . . Hair Colour: ... black ; white
Weight: . .. 158 lbs . . . . . . .. . . . . . Eye Colour: . . . brown ; icy blue
Everyday appearance: . . .
Being rather out of touch with earthen culture (yes, still), Rel makes a conscious effort to not stick out like a sore thumb. Mostly this includes—as he's happened to learn, rather painfully, through experience—not copying styles item by item as he's seen on other people on the streets or on the telly. He's discovered, with a bit of help, a style that is suitably unassuming. Neither too upscale fashion nor aggressively casual, Rel's monochromatic wardrobe in shades from white to black is easy on the eyes (especially his) and doesn't seem out of place. Which, really, is all he's looking for. Depending on his posture, Rel's unnecessarily long, spindly limbs can appear either floppy or elegant, a typical reflection of his comfort level with the people he's near.
Hero appearance: . . .
The general vibe of Aether's appearance is not very far removed from Aldrel's. The white and black theme remain in the form of a white windbreaker, black tech-woven pants, and modified combat boots. His costume itself is deceptively simplistic, the advanced tech imbedded in it not quite visible at first glance. The slightly loose windbreaker is equipped with flame resistant, water resistant, and shock resistant properties, as well as heat retaining insulation. The padded shirt he wears underneath is meant to decrease the force of any heavy blows or impacts. The bottom part of his costume does not lose out to the top—the pants are also padded to avoid any broken bones, and the boots are engineered to absorb the shock of the recoil that comes with the use of his powers for projectiles. A neat and unobstructive mask settles over the upper half of his face, which doesn't, he supposes, actually conceal much of his facial structure. But the drastic change in his eye color ought to offput any curious classmates, he thinks. When he activates the aether running through his veins, the pigmentation of his irises shift from a warm, welcoming brown to a crystalline blue. And as he nears the limits of his usage, the color of his hair also bleeds out, bleaching itself white from the roots down. He tries to stop before the de-coloration spreads more than an inch or two. There are occasions on which he can be seen wearing a pair of fingerless gloves, but those are a prototype created by his mentor to reel in some of the explosive force of his projectiles, so he doesn't wear them whenever they're being worked on, which happens to be most of the time.
-
-
-
-
-
-
. .. A B I L I T I E S
-
-
-
-
-
-
Aether Manipulation: ...An ability characterized by its remarkably wide range of use. Aether is a pure energy found in all areas of the universe, but Aldrel's kind are among some of the rare species in the galaxy with an innate ability to bend it to their will. Aldrel’s ability to manipulate aether is contained mostly to projectile attacks, melee weapon or barrier manifestation, and using it for flight.
Skills: ...He has some interesting alien tech on him, but most of it has turned out to be pretty useless for anything other than mundane tasks. His mentor and some other tech gurus have taken a crack at it, but its not earthly enough for people other than his kind to modify it (not yet, anyway), and he doesn’t know much about tech. It takes the form of a black watch on his right wrist, and for the most part only serves as a toast maker (best toast in the galaxy), a vitals monitor, and a scanner that can determine the composition of and give basic intel on foreign objects.
Limitations: ...While the use of abilities like his is rather commonplace on his home planet, the change in atmosphere and the structurally different human form he’s in now have greatly restricted his ability. The strain on his body is more than it ever was, and he can’t utilize his powers for too long without risking serious bodily harm. Manipulating aether is a bit like taming a wild animal— it requires a massive amount of control and focus, and Aldrel didn't exactly receive any rigorous training on his home planet before being sent to Earth. Sometimes he causes more destruction than the good he’s done can justify. Perhaps the biggest restriction he struggles with is what he refers to as a ‘time out’ period. Like how chemical reactions require an activation energy, so too does his ability to manipulate aether. In terms of a ‘battery recharge,’ it takes about twelve hours from each time he ‘activates’ his power, meaning if earlier in the day, he decided to use his powers to fuck around and a villain comes knocking a few hours later, you can count him out. Additionally, he’s turned out to be pretty garbage at close contact or physical combat and has poor reflexes, so if anyone gets close enough, he’s more likely to flinch than to defend himself.
. . . .. .
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
- P E R S O N A L I T Y
In his right eye, Aldrel carries ignorance. In his left, naivety. They are not inherently different, just different enough to go by different names. That confuses him anyhow. Why does this language have so many different words for the same thing? Questions like this are always boiling over in his throat, and he has to swallow them down before they can make their way out. He keeps a journal of all the questions he'll ask someday when he's no longer afraid of blowing his cover (more like, afraid of being scoffed at, sneered at). Thinking about the finesses of human culture gives him a headache, and so does worrying about whether he'll say the right thing or not, so he tries to just keep his mouth shut. It's seemed to work so far.
His fear of judgment is at odds with his desire for interaction. At some point, running his hand along the wall just feels cold. Comfort—with himself, with others, with his surroundings—is not something he has known for some time now. The part of him that remembers it still lingers, like a ghost lodged beneath his ribcage, not quite a part of him anymore but not ready to leave just yet. It is this ghost that keeps him longing for—what do they call it again? right—a human touch, a connection. With his real face on he does not turn to people, but he's found that a mask makes so many things much easier. He is a kind soul after all, quick to laugh, the first to offer a hand, but only when he is not being suffocated by the thread of memories wrapped around his throat. He's more soft spoken these days than not, regardless of how boisterous he used to be in his homeland, but he doesn't think anything can bring him back to way he used to be, not fully.
There is a melancholy in him, nestled firmly in the empty spaces of his bones (god, there are so many empty spaces), and it sometimes escapes when he moves too slow or opens his eyes too fast or brushes his teeth. He can't stand the sight of mirrors, but he looks into one for twenty minutes a day like it's a job. Punch in, punch out. He sometimes spends a second or two counting up the cumulative hours he's lost staring into his own eyes with nothing to show for it. He still startles when he passes a window, and it still takes him a bit to find himself in pictures. He can't reconcile the image of his physicality with his mind, and the aching in his joints tells him his being is still mourning the loss of what he was. He goes to cry in his mother tongue and cannot form the words. He claws at his tongue like if he can just pull it out whole he might be able to recreate a syllable or two of an old lullaby. Before he can go out to face anyone, he pulls all the tendrils of his longing back into himself, shoves them back into the empty spaces of his bones, tells them wait, wait. Be patient now.
His fear of judgment is at odds with his desire for interaction. At some point, running his hand along the wall just feels cold. Comfort—with himself, with others, with his surroundings—is not something he has known for some time now. The part of him that remembers it still lingers, like a ghost lodged beneath his ribcage, not quite a part of him anymore but not ready to leave just yet. It is this ghost that keeps him longing for—what do they call it again? right—a human touch, a connection. With his real face on he does not turn to people, but he's found that a mask makes so many things much easier. He is a kind soul after all, quick to laugh, the first to offer a hand, but only when he is not being suffocated by the thread of memories wrapped around his throat. He's more soft spoken these days than not, regardless of how boisterous he used to be in his homeland, but he doesn't think anything can bring him back to way he used to be, not fully.
There is a melancholy in him, nestled firmly in the empty spaces of his bones (god, there are so many empty spaces), and it sometimes escapes when he moves too slow or opens his eyes too fast or brushes his teeth. He can't stand the sight of mirrors, but he looks into one for twenty minutes a day like it's a job. Punch in, punch out. He sometimes spends a second or two counting up the cumulative hours he's lost staring into his own eyes with nothing to show for it. He still startles when he passes a window, and it still takes him a bit to find himself in pictures. He can't reconcile the image of his physicality with his mind, and the aching in his joints tells him his being is still mourning the loss of what he was. He goes to cry in his mother tongue and cannot form the words. He claws at his tongue like if he can just pull it out whole he might be able to recreate a syllable or two of an old lullaby. Before he can go out to face anyone, he pulls all the tendrils of his longing back into himself, shoves them back into the empty spaces of his bones, tells them wait, wait. Be patient now.
. .
-
-
. .. L I K E S
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
SWEETS (ALSO FOOD IN GENERAL): the flavors of the food on Earth is unlike anything he's ever had on his home planet. One good thing about his new 'tongue,' he will admit. MATHEMATICS: a welcome constant in the culture shift. Once he grasped what sounds and symbols correlated to what numbers, it became the one thing he excelled at. Numbers never change, even halfway across the galaxy. Funny, he had always been a history geek back home. FLORA: the greenery of Earth is stunning and he can't take that away from it. He'd love to keep a garden, but he seems to kill everything he touches. 90s CARTOONS: something about the theme of the power of friendship really gets to him. Pokemon, Digimon, Sonic, you name it.
.. .. D I S L I K E S
-
-
-
-
-
-
LANGUAGE: both confusing and an unhappy reminder of what once was. Eight years and he still can't grasp certain metaphors and the fact that certain words mean twelve different things and certain meanings require twelve different words of varying degrees of nuance. Is it just English? HUMAN BODILY REACTIONS: this covers a number of things, really. Why do humans get the chills? Goosebumps? Shivering, sneezing, coughing. All terrible and entirely unnecessary. Most importantly: hiccups. What the fuck are those? BUGS: what kind of horrible abominations of evolution are those? They never had those on his planet. Mosquitos? Seriously?
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
DEDICATION: Rel complains a lot. He whines when Circuit makes him work out, groans the whole time he has to practice close combat, grumbles lowly every time he has stop what he's doing to help save the city or the world or whatever it is they're working on that day. But he never quits. He could work until he's entirely burnt out and he'd still try to keep going.
ADAPTABILITY: He's travelled across the galaxy to live in an entirely new world. He's had to change his mannerisms, his speech, his interests. He can handle a curveball or two in battle.
ALTRUISTIC: He has always put the safety and needs of others above his own. He may have originally signed on to be a hero for a selfish reason, but he stays because helping people feels good. And maybe, just maybe, it's worth the risk of exposing himself.
ADAPTABILITY: He's travelled across the galaxy to live in an entirely new world. He's had to change his mannerisms, his speech, his interests. He can handle a curveball or two in battle.
ALTRUISTIC: He has always put the safety and needs of others above his own. He may have originally signed on to be a hero for a selfish reason, but he stays because helping people feels good. And maybe, just maybe, it's worth the risk of exposing himself.
-
-
-
-
FEAR: For the most part, Rel fights through his fear. The problem isn't that he's too scared to go into battle (well, he is, just a little, but it doesn't stop him any), it's that he can't particularly control his reactionary instinct yet. If someone throws a punch at him, his body flinches before his brain can issue the command to block. A blend of poor reflexes and an easily frightened personality make him a terrible melee combatant.
FORETHOUGHT: Somewhat impulsive, Rel has never been good at thinking more than twenty minutes ahead. If it's raining and he's forgotten his umbrella, you can bet he's going to use his powers as a shield from the rain without considering the potential of a future danger.
SLOW: He can be a little slow on the uptake. Not dimwitted, per se, just... not the speediest at having the full meaning of things people say sink in.
FORETHOUGHT: Somewhat impulsive, Rel has never been good at thinking more than twenty minutes ahead. If it's raining and he's forgotten his umbrella, you can bet he's going to use his powers as a shield from the rain without considering the potential of a future danger.
SLOW: He can be a little slow on the uptake. Not dimwitted, per se, just... not the speediest at having the full meaning of things people say sink in.
.. .. Q U I R K S
-
-
FRUITS: Rel is entirely unfamiliar with the concept of peeling or pitting fruits and vegetables. Not to mention he has no concept or baseline for what is meant to taste "good" to human tastebuds. So he can often be seen eating kiwis with the skin on, biting straight through the rind into citrus fruits, or eating entire apples, stem and core and all. It's...weird.
GLASSES: As a civilian, Rel sometimes wears wire rim glasses. He doesn't need them, and the lenses aren't actually prescription, but he thought they looked really cool on his mentor.
GLASSES: As a civilian, Rel sometimes wears wire rim glasses. He doesn't need them, and the lenses aren't actually prescription, but he thought they looked really cool on his mentor.
-
-
-
SECLUSION: He'd never really considered the thought until his father died, but it's since occurred to him that without his mother he'd truly be entirely alone. No one would ever be able to understand where he came from, or share the same experiences as him. He feels out of place everywhere he goes, and the thought of having no one he could consider a kindred spirit is the most terrifying thought he can muster.
TIME: The lifespan of one of Rel's kind is, on average, about eighteen times longer than a typical human lifespan.
Time is rushing by in a flurry of seconds and inaction, and he's not sure how to deal with that compression.
TIME: The lifespan of one of Rel's kind is, on average, about eighteen times longer than a typical human lifespan.
Time is rushing by in a flurry of seconds and inaction, and he's not sure how to deal with that compression.
. . . .. .
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
- H I S T O R Y
Ownership of his own entity is something Aldrel never had opportunity to imagine. Autonomy? He was six when the decision to leave his home behind was made for him. He could barely pronounce the word 'automatic.'
The training lasted for two years. Plenty of time to learn the nuances of language, of culture. That's what they told him, at least. Or his parents, at any rate. They were wrong. Even still he struggles to understand how people so smart could possibly have been so wrong. His body screamed when they put him through the machine, every cell choking with the injustice. He came out sputtering, his new limbs feeling more like a computer simulation than reality. And... he couldn't speak. Words felt like rubber cement in his mouth. Mute for months, he could only write. He rebelled against the new tongue, refused to utter the syllables of an unnatural language. He succumbed eventually.
His parents were selfish. In the name of science, of passion, of exploration, they left a boy without a home or a place. Like a ghost drifting between this world and the next Rel could not put a name to "home." Pulled from his planet before it could become native, dropped onto a new one too alien to even consider, Rel struggled with every new aspect of his identity. (Still he wonders if he might not have made the same decision had he been given the option to.)
He's been on Earth for 10 years by count of the GV2 star at the center of this solar system, which is to say, about three quarters of what would be a year on his home planet. He'll die before he's had the chance to age any more than five years (his time) and a part of him is beginning to wonder if that might be too much time. (The other part is still scared.) A year ago (a month and a half), his father died. His kind do not mourn—they honor. His mother honored him the only way she could on Earth, but Rel knows there is no honor on this planet.
He's spent the last year searching for scraps of human technology he might learn how to modify to reconfigure one of their communication pods to be capable of reentering his planets atmosphere, searching through junkyards, landfills, anything, using his power to sort through the junk without too much effort. He met Circuit on one of those trips. The man gave him a start, approaching him out of nowhere the way he did. Animated and overexcited like a child discovering a new toy. Before Rel could blink, the hero was unleashing upon him a barrage of questions, hardly giving him time to answer one before moving onto the next. Rel's still not sure how it happened. A confusion tactic, it must have been, effective too because in the span of an hour Rel was bleeding his entire life story out of wounds he wasn't even aware still existed. Rel's not sure if it was out of pity or magnanimity that Circuit offered to help, said that just so happened to be in his "ballpark," whatever that meant. ("And," he'd said, leaning in conspiratorially, "I might know a guy who's into this sorta thing.") And all he asked for was a little help. That was eight months ago. He'd almost gotten used to it when Circuit sprung another surprise offer on him.
The training lasted for two years. Plenty of time to learn the nuances of language, of culture. That's what they told him, at least. Or his parents, at any rate. They were wrong. Even still he struggles to understand how people so smart could possibly have been so wrong. His body screamed when they put him through the machine, every cell choking with the injustice. He came out sputtering, his new limbs feeling more like a computer simulation than reality. And... he couldn't speak. Words felt like rubber cement in his mouth. Mute for months, he could only write. He rebelled against the new tongue, refused to utter the syllables of an unnatural language. He succumbed eventually.
His parents were selfish. In the name of science, of passion, of exploration, they left a boy without a home or a place. Like a ghost drifting between this world and the next Rel could not put a name to "home." Pulled from his planet before it could become native, dropped onto a new one too alien to even consider, Rel struggled with every new aspect of his identity. (Still he wonders if he might not have made the same decision had he been given the option to.)
He's been on Earth for 10 years by count of the GV2 star at the center of this solar system, which is to say, about three quarters of what would be a year on his home planet. He'll die before he's had the chance to age any more than five years (his time) and a part of him is beginning to wonder if that might be too much time. (The other part is still scared.) A year ago (a month and a half), his father died. His kind do not mourn—they honor. His mother honored him the only way she could on Earth, but Rel knows there is no honor on this planet.
He's spent the last year searching for scraps of human technology he might learn how to modify to reconfigure one of their communication pods to be capable of reentering his planets atmosphere, searching through junkyards, landfills, anything, using his power to sort through the junk without too much effort. He met Circuit on one of those trips. The man gave him a start, approaching him out of nowhere the way he did. Animated and overexcited like a child discovering a new toy. Before Rel could blink, the hero was unleashing upon him a barrage of questions, hardly giving him time to answer one before moving onto the next. Rel's still not sure how it happened. A confusion tactic, it must have been, effective too because in the span of an hour Rel was bleeding his entire life story out of wounds he wasn't even aware still existed. Rel's not sure if it was out of pity or magnanimity that Circuit offered to help, said that just so happened to be in his "ballpark," whatever that meant. ("And," he'd said, leaning in conspiratorially, "I might know a guy who's into this sorta thing.") And all he asked for was a little help. That was eight months ago. He'd almost gotten used to it when Circuit sprung another surprise offer on him.
. . . .. .
-
-
.
P L A Y E R: . . . thanatos
F A C E C L A I M: . . . byun baekhyun
C O D E R: . . . bombinate
I N S P: . . . achelois
F A C E C L A I M: . . . byun baekhyun
C O D E R: . . . bombinate
I N S P: . . . achelois
