Nickname: People have tried to give me a nickname. Parky, Park-park, Youn, PY... It just doesn't stick; probably because I don't allow nicknames. My name is Parker Young, and blessed is the person who is permitted to call me anything otherwise.
Age: Twenty-four.
Gender: Female. Do you see these boobies? They are not from surgery, no they are not.
Role: I'm, unfortunately, not immune to the damned virus. But watch me make it out with the best of them. I promise you, I'll do just that.
Physical Description God, I can't stand being pretty. I can't stand being beautiful, attractive, or appealing. I just want to be left alone. But I've learned to live with it, kind of. Not really. My eyes are a deep black, with hints of navy when in the sunlight. I could tell you what people say about them, but I think they're alright. It gets annoying when people get surprised when the blue is more noticeable than usual. Yeah, I have black-blue eyes; it's not that big of a deal, okay? I used to hide behind my hair, but nowadays I keep it off of my face and in a ponytail. It's a warm shade of brown, long and waved gently. I hate cutting my hair, something that stems from my childhood, but if it comes to that, I will. I wouldn't call myself pale, but I'm not exactly a suede couch, either. I'm more of an in-between, the shade of gray in between white and golden. As long as it's splotchy with red, I love my skin. I relish it, now. I don't want to look one bit like those... zombies! I'm at a standard weight for my height. 130 isn't so bad when you're 5'9, right? Vanity is not a strong point of mine, but I do care to an extent. The way people view you depends greatly on how you look, and this means... a whole lot of preparation. I make sure I look healthy and strong. Forget about beauty; I just want to be respected.
Quirks/Habits: There's this... little embarrassing trinket I have. It's this one earring I have left of Mother. I know, just one earring. It's weird. But I wear it constantly; thank God it's only a simple butterfly stud, nothing as elaborate and annoying and decorative that would get in my way. Every time I get agitated in any way (nervousness, apprehension, anxiety... you know, the things that make normal people pace the room and sweat), I have to keep my fingers on my left ear, to go around the earring and make sure it's there at all times. It started as a studying habit when I was in high school, but it quickly escalated into this obnoxious, obvious sign of "Parker's upset!" Otherwise, my emotions are neatly tucked away from sight. Unless I'm downright giddy with happiness, which happens rarely. The few times it does happen, I can't hold it in at all. I start jumping up and down, gushing about the most unimportant things in life to everyone, how beautiful the world is (gag).
Personality: My father once told his friends, "Ha ha, my girl is a fighter! From the moment she was born, she was fighting, that one!" He was right, about that one thing (and nothing else). I am a fighter. I guess this bugs some people, because I've never had many friends. I've always been too aggressive, too hard-hearted, and too outspoken. I say what's on my mind, regardless of whether it hurts people or not. And I don't mind. I like being alone. I've never been an optimist, and I've never been one to take things lightly; my brother took all of that with him when he was born. I'm the serious one, with the 'dark aura' and 'ferocity.' I'm not the girl you go to when you need sympathy, and I'm definitely not the girl who listens and says it's okay to be as fucked up as you are. You come to me for honesty, and you come to me for a sinister, dry sense of humor. I've never been a people person, obviously. It's not that I'm a monk and never talk; I actually talk quite a bit. I'm just sarcastic and everything I say comes out bitter and hateful. I'm not the nice one, the sweet one, the cute one. You could take all of this as a good thing; find in me a good load of sturdiness and kindness that lurks beneath the surface, but trust me, there's nothing there. People have tried to view me in a nice light, but I have nothing to give. I have nothing to offer you, if you're looking for friendship, or any bit of light inside of me.
I'm strong. I'm brave. I'm loyal and clever and snarky. But I am not someone people like.
I tend to resist emotions, but as much as I pretend I'm not an emotional person, I really am. Good thing I'm an expert liar, right? I feel everything, and often lose my mind for my heart. I have a fierce temper, and I'm always snapping at someone for getting on my last nerve. It's not that I have a huge wreck of bitterness and anger and hate inside of me. I have my own share of them, like any other person, but I'm not a damsel in distress with the most tragic backstory ever, and I'm not someone who needs rescuing. Well, I am bitter. I have the right to be, I think. But it's something I know I'm to blame for. I'm extremely hard on myself, and when I know it's my own fault, I take it very strongly. Like I said, I'm an emotional person.
Weapons: The only weapon I need is my Ballistic knife; it comes in handy at the strangest times, due to its ability to spring forth from the handle. I keep a combat knife as well in my combat boot. I have a pistol that I would use more often if I had more of those damned bullets, but they're harder to come by. I try not to use it, and so far, I haven't had to; the pistol is actually my own, stolen when I was a teenager, and I've practiced enough times to have one of the best aims in the world. Or at least, what's left of it.
Inventory: My brown camping bag holds the contents of my entire life. It holds the afore-mentioned pistol, of course, as well as a fleece blanket. It can get cold, and because of it, I've had to sleep close to another person. It is a little awkward and strangely intimate, but it's something we have to do sometimes, for body heat. I have a warm sweater in there, too, along with a compass, extra bullets, and a flashlight, along with a few batteries. I keep my glasses in there as well, but I try not to let anyone else know that. You can't trust everyone, you know. And yeah, I know you probably noticed there's no medicine in there. Screw medicine! If I die, I die. And stay dead, hopefully.
History: Let's start with my father's words. "Ha ha, my girl is a fighter! From the moment she was born, she was fighting, that one!" Do you remember now? Well, like I said, he was right. I fought from the moment I was born, and ended up killing my mother. It's not something that happens often nowadays. It's something of the past, most people believe. They think birthing a child will come out perfectly fine; dying from motherhood is something of the past. She was sever hemorrhaging, and bled herself to death, two days after I was born. I know it's not 'my fault.' I'm not that illogical to just take the blame voluntarily. But it's this sense of shame that's been embedded deep into me since then. My mother was Clementine Youn, and she was the belle of our small Southern town. Everyone loved her, and when she died, people couldn't help but dislike me a little bit. It went away, but by the time it did, I was in first grade, and it was already a part of me. I was always considered an old soul, and I guess I developed quickly enough to retain that bit of torment. Other than that, my family has been perfectly fine. My father grieved for a few years, but married again to Kia Youn. She was beautiful, and kind, and I loved her as my real mother. Soon, I had a new little brother, named Jesse Youn. The whole time at the hospital, I was convinced: he was going to die. I cried and cried, and when nurses tried to reassure me and tell me my mother's just giving birth to my baby brother, I cried even harder. But she didn't die, and I was so relieved. But I hated Jesse for a good two weeks. But after he grabbed onto my finger as I tried to poke his eyes out, I melted into tears once more, out of love for this little guy. After that, I was never letting go of him. I held onto him tightly, and we were the best of friends. We were vastly different, with five years between us, and a world's difference in disposition. But we loved each other dearly anyway.
I was a good student in high school, with straight A's, and went on to become a doctor, studying at UChicago, and then going to Johns Hopkins. I was visiting home to see Jesse and my family for a few weeks when all hell broke loose. Actually, I went home to a basically-dead family. My father was trying to get Kia and James when I came in, but they were both immune to the virus. I, of course, somehow knew I wasn't. Kia stayed to fight with my dad for the first time, and yelled at Jesse to get me out of there. I was about to fight with her, too, saying that I should be the one taking care of Jesse, not the other way around. I had no idea what was going on, actually, but I was stable enough to be so stubborn, I guess. Jesse ignored me, and instead just picked me up into his arms and began running. When we were safe, he explained all of it to me. And then our journey began.
