Hazelton OOC (open) (Literate)

Username Eternity
Full Name: Daniesha Cheris Carter (first name: Da-nee-sha / middle name: Cher[like the singer!]-ees)
Age: 19
Race: African-American
Conviction(s): (2) First Degree Murder: Murder with the intent to kill / (1) Third Degree Murder
Sentence: 6 months so far / 55 and a half years ... awaiting re-trial
Appearance: She stands a lean and yet shapely height of 5'6. Her body is riddled with a few gang tattoos (including multiples showing rank within a Brooklyn 'crew'), and a good deal of scars. Along her smooth cocoa-brown skin, mostly along her stomach, are cigarette burns from initiation, and along her back is one jagged graze from a bullet-wound that missed- but not barely. "How can I shine in the brilliance of his sun?" Her hair is long and black, and straight as well, falling down her back in smooth flawless locks. Most of the time though, she keeps it tied up in a loose ponytail or in a tight bun. Her lips are full, her nose is somewhat large yet flat, and her eyes are dark, encased in long lashes and accented by thin brows above them.

Tell me about yourself.
("I am a major procrastinator!")
----------------------

"What's your problem?" The young man asked.

"Wake up and smell the f***in' coffee Brick. I ain't got nothin' but myself. That's what's wrong. It's what's wrong with this world. Don't you see it? Or are you really that blind?"



Born in the Brooklyn streets, my mother was a slut and a coke-addicted peasant. The only time she earned money was when she was in the bed of some other man. My father, loyal son-of-a-bitch that he was, stuck around. Took care of me and my big bro when no one else would. Hell, if it weren't for that man, I woulda' been dead before I made it to this hole in the earth. Maybe it woulda' been better that way. I don't know anymore. I try not to think about what coulda' happened, and only stick to what did happen.

My bro, his name was Derek. Yeah, he was cool. About two years older than me, and fast on the scale to downfall and rot. At the age of 15 he was hustling dope, and when I was 13- at the same time he began, I decided that his donation to the well-being of our rather destroyed family was better than mine. So what did I do? I went out on those streets, like I could do somethin' bout the pain and poverty I faced at home.

I didn't make it. They didn't let girls in their crew. My big bro told me, he said, "Dani, just get back and let me do it." I got mad. And fast too, I decided I'd do somethin', and I'd make sure it went against him. I went and talked to a man nicknamed Caesar. He ran a small little gang on the east side. I told him I'd do anythin' to be there, to prove my loyalty and earn that green to help my family. He said, "Girl, you got a heart of gold, but you're steppin' into a harsh world. If you want it, you got it, but we're gonna' break you if you take it." He was an honest man. I won't lie, back then, I didn't understand his warning. Maybe if I could go back, I'd do it again and spurn the offer I had originally brought up. But again, like I said, I can't undo the shit I done already. So, of course, I said yes.

I was passed around that group of men like a blow-up doll. They used me til my very soul began to corrode. I was a little piece of somethin' for them to laugh at. But Caesar always came back, always gave me that soft smile and the pat on the back, like I was doin' good for not havin' killed myself. Not like I didn't think about it, 'cause I did. Often. When put into the situation I was in, and then havin' to return home and pretend like it didn't happen. To act like I didn't get screwed with in front of my father, and my brother. I couldn't help but look at a knife in a new way. I wanted to slit my wrists, and just end it. The thing I thought would save my family was causing me the greatest pain. I would be, and still will be, forever broken from those first few months of being destroyed. Caesar was right. They tried to break me. And they did damn good at it.

But when I turned 14, I was in. Like a promotion, Caesar came to me. He knelt down and rubbed my cheek, told me I didn't have to sleep with those men again. Told me I had earned my right of passage. He handed me five hundred flat. The crisp bills in my hand, I will not forget it. The feel sank in further than what my nerve cells could collect. It weighed into my soul and gave me the feeling of levitating or somethin'. It was like knowing I hadn't wasted my time after all. Not sayin' all those long painful nights were worth only a collective five hundred bucks, but sayin' that it was nice to know it was over. Mostly.

So I got moved on up, ya' know? Became a hustler. I sold drugs with the dope boys on the corner. I wore my hood and hung the black and green flag from my back pocket like a real thug. I had started with little baggies of Mary Jane, makin' little cash. But then I got promoted again by the time I was 15. I started dealin' vials of crack cocaine and sold sterile needles and heroine. I was scared of the shit at first, but then I tried it. Not bad, I thought. It made me forget about the cracks in my soul, made me forget about how pathetic I was. A lowly creature who didn't deserve existence. I deserved prison even then. You coulda' called me a Reaper, because I was sellin' death on those streets beneath the stars.

When I turned 17, I was datin' Caesar. The big boss, and I was loaded with green. I had gotten into a fight with my father when he found crack cocaine under my pillow. He fussed at me, hit me, told me to not be so damn stupid because it was that kind of stuff that got my mom off her rocker, if you catch my drift. I understand he was bein' a loving father. But I didn't see that then. I just saw a grown man tryin' to interfere with my new rich lifestyle. I hit him back, and I left the house. Of course, my father called the cops. They couldn't stop me though. I took a baton from one of those fat fools and knocked him unconscious in one blow to the temple. Don't think I killed that blubbery idiot, but I sure made him realize who he was dealin' with. I ran like hell that day. Ran to Caesar's place.

He told me, "Baby, you did good. You so loyal, I got yo' back." I didn't understand that either. I didn't understand a lot of things back then...

But on the news the next day? Yeah. My father was shot three times in the chest with a Colt .45. Yeah... Caesar's gun...

I asked him about it. He said, "Yeah, I killed yo' pops for your benefit." I nodded to him, and I was quiet. About a week passed, and I started feelin' better. Then another week, and another week. After that, you could've asked me who my father was. And I would've said, "What father?".

My brother Derek was left takin' care of my crazy momma. It didn't take long before he had put her up in a rehab . I thought he did it simply 'cause she needed it. No, he was gettin' rid of her. Because he was comin' after Caesar.

So on comes my brother, the middle of a later September night. I'm 18 then. I hear a knock on the door, and the corresponding cock of my boy's pistol. I turn my head, look at Caesar. He nods to me, and I know what's up. I know Derek's here. Comin' with his boys to destroy my lifestyle that I had given up so much for. That addictive and troublesome life. We had Caesar's boys, versus Derek's boys. Derek knocked on the door again, and we could hear the sound of his boys talkin' amongst themselves. Monster, one of our crew runners, opened the door and the sound of gunfire rang through the apartment like fireworks in our ears. Down goes Monster, but then the other side is standin' behind the fallen body that was Derek's front-man. I didn't know his name, nor did I care.

So on goes the fight, breaking from gunshots into fists. It was death, as one by one they fell like flies. What started out with a group of five against six, because a group of three against three. They had taken the most casualties, but we still had even numbers now.

Derek steps forward and takes out a knife, slammin' it into Caesar's shoulder and kickin' him aside. Our other boy, Brick, is fighting off the other two. Brick's a big boy, and not fatty. He's a good 260 pounds of muscle. The Brick Wall, and he was holdin' his own. Derek comes at me then. He attacks too, like a man. Punches me in the face, then in the stomach. The lights are spinnin' and he kicks me, knockin' me onto the ground. I look up and see the barrel of his pistol in my face.

But... I blacked out. Thought I was done for...

I woke up the next morning, and the smell was pungent. Like death. Well, yeah. It was. The smell of blood about the apartment. It looked like Derek had cleaned up, ya' know? Pushed all the corpses in the room. Blood smeared along the walls, sank into the carpet. It was disgusting. I groan, and push up, feelin' the soft grip of a man.

"Caesar?" I had said. No, the dark hand came aside me, and pointed to the body next to me once I had stood. Ah, Caesar. Dead. My money-maker, my green machine. My cure to lonely nights, and my bittersweet beginning. Dead. Dead. Man, I didn't know what to think. Brick patted my back, and he then drew me into his grip.

"Girl, you gonna' get out now. You need to go, get out of these streets. You done seen enough." Brick said.

"I ain't leavin', ever. Not now. Caesar needs me." I had replied.

"Caesar is dead." Man, those words burned me good. I pushed off of that man and headed towards the door instantly. He grabbed me, and looked at me all hard, like he coulda' hit me.

"What's your problem?" The young man asked.

"Wake up and smell the f***in' coffee Brick. I ain't got nothin' but myself. That's what's wrong. It's what's wrong with this world. Don't you see it? Or are you really that blind?"


I went through the apartment. Got about a thousand dollars on me. Lit up a joint and puffed it down to nothin' but a stub. Then I grabbed my baby's Colt .45, and I headed out when the sun went down.

Now my brother was a married man. Strange for a gangster. He had looked at our momma and father, and decided he was gonna' be better. He lived near the middle-class folks, where drama didn't go down so often. He had a beautiful wife I had gone to Junior High with. He had a son, about 2 years old now.

My heart was jaded with greed, lust, and anger. Hate is a powerful emotion, and it drives people to doin' some horrible things.

I came to his house, when his family slept. I burst in through the window, and he came down first. I knew he would. His hand reached for the light switch, and I shot. Bang! And his other hand, holding the gun, released it. I'd shot him in the shoulder, renderin' that arm useless to him by then. He stepped forward again, and I shot him in the head. Bang! And he was down. But I wasn't done. I wanted revenge. Complete, filthy, and vile revenge.

I walked in on his wife and son, on the phone with the police. I shot her. Dead. I looked at their son, and he stared back up at me. Suddenly, it dawned on me. Man, he looks like my dad. He got that Carter family face. I almost smiled, and dropped the gun, when I heard the cops come in. They raced up the steps, but my mind didn't register it. The door burst open, and I heard the scream of those cops. I was so abruptly jolted by the surprise of the cops in the room, that my finger twitched.

Bang.

They took me to the dog pen. Locked me up, charged me up. Stacked my charges. It was horrible, but my number one charge was First Degree. Hard-core shit ain't it? I'm gonna' get tried again one day. Don't know when, but I'm tryin' to get off on mental illness.

But hey, I'm not crazy... I'm just lost.

It's what the streets does to people like me.
---------

"Life was tainted in my eyes"

I am definitely interested in being involved in this. For real. Fo shizzle.
Unfortunately I cannot get a character sheet up just now, as I am about to head out the door to see the Amelia movie.

Username Aufeis
Full Name] Keaira Amelia Reever.
Age 29.
Race:Caucasian.
Conviction(s) Is suspected of being a serial killer, however she was only pegged with two charges of first degree murder and tampering with a body after death (AKA Cannibalism).
Sentence Two Fifteen year sentences, plus two weeks of community service when and if she gets out, because she was a minor of "unsound" mind.

Appearance Keaira is a normal sized woman of about 5’9”, but is strong for her age. She was basically on the streets for years, and had to learn how to defend herself with mostly her fists. Her best friend, Micky, ran a gym and allowed her to train there every day since she fifteen. She has long black hair and cold dark blue eyes and is forced to wear a muzzle because of her tendency to bite or eat the deceased.

Bio:
Mental Analysis:

Analyst: Dr. Jeremy L. Laughlin
Subject: Keaira Amelia Reever
Sentence: Thirty in Prison (Two counts of First Degree Murder)
Mental Stability: Undetermined.

*tape begins to play*

Laughlin This is Doctor Jeremy Laughlin. The day is Thursday, March Fifth, Nineteen Ninety Nine. The time is twelve thirty six. Prisoner Keaira Amelia Reever is the subject for this session. I will be establishing her mental stability and rule whether of not she is stable enough to go to a normal prison. You may bring the prisoner in.
*door opens, and footsteps are heard*
Laughlin Ms. Reever.
Reever *muffled* Yes?
Laughlin I see the court has ordered a muzzle. Would you mind if I took it off for this interview, officer?
Officer[/b] Your funeral.
*keys jangle, and something metallic sets down on wood*
Laughlin Is that better Ms. Reever?
Reever Much.
Laughlin Alright, I’d like to start with a few routine questions, Ms. Reever. Can you tell me your name, how old you are, and where you were born?
*silence*
Laughlin[/b] Ms. Reever?
Reever You’re taping me?
Laughlin Personal records. They’ll never be heard by anyone but you and me.
Reever The officer? I’d like him to leave.
Officer[/b] Absolutely not.
Laughlin Do I have your word you’ll act peacefully?
Reever For what it’s worth.
*silence*
Laughlin Officer, could you step outside, please?
*door opens and shuts*
Laughlin[/b] Now, Ms. Reever. My question?
Reever My name is Keaira Amelia Reever. I’m nineteen, and I was born in the middle of nowhere. A small town.
Laughlin Does this town have a name?

Reever No.
Laughlin Would you like to tell me about your family?
Reever No.
Laughlin Ms. Reever, I must insist.
Reever My mother was Samantha Reever and my father was Patrick Reever. Pat was a drunk and an abuser. He beat Sam every day, at least. Sam would beat on me and Jason in turn.
Laughlin Sam and Pat? Why not Mom and Dad?
Reever *laughs* Is that relevant doctor?
Laughlin Yes.
Reever *scoffs* Because. They were never my “Mom” and “Dad”. They were Sam and Pat. We were afraid of them. Jason and I. And then, they were gone. We didn’t need to be afraid of them anymore.
Laughlin You are referring to the disappearance of you mother and father.
Reever People don’t disappear, doctor. They are killed and never found.
Laughlin Did you kill them?
Reever *silence* No. I wish I had, though. I was too young. Too weak. I would have killed them now, though.
Laughlin What about your brother, Jason? Did he kill them?
Reever Maybe.
Laughlin Doesn’t it bother you that you don’t know what happened to your parents?
Reever *laughs* I know what happened, I’m just not telling.
Laughlin Are you glad they’re gone.
Reever Wouldn’t you?
Laughlin So your brother looks after you now? Where was he when you killed that homeless man, or that businessman?
Reever At work. He worked at a pizza place. Isn’t that sad? He’s twenty two.
Laughlin I think we’re done for today Ms. Reever.
*chairs scrape on the ground and the door opens and footsteps can be heard, as well as the muzzle being reattached*
Reever *muffled* Good-bye doctor. I’ll see you next time.
Laughlin Next time?
Reever *muffled* You’ll see.
*tape ends*

**************************************

Mental Analysis[/b]

Analyst[/b] Dr. Jeremy L. Laughlin
Subject[/b] Keaira Amelia Reever
Sentence[/b] Twenty Nine Years in Prison (Two counts of First Degree Murder)
Mental Stability[/b] Stable.

*tape begins to play*
Laughlin This is a re-examination of one, Keaira Reever. Date is April fourth, two-thousand. The subject’s brother was almost killed in a car accident, and has been in a coma. She was allowed to leave the prison to visit him because of her good behavior. Upon seeing her brother, Ms. Reever went into a fit of rage and attacked two nurses, injuring both. I will be re-evaluating her condition.
*door opens*
Laughlin[/b] Hello again Ms. Reever. Looks like your prophecy came true. How have you been?
Reever *muffled* Like shit.
Laughlin How was your visit with your brother?
*silence*
Laughlin[/b] Ms. Reever?
Reever I don’t remember.
Laughlin You don’t remember?
Reever No. I don’t.
Laughlin You attacked two nurses. Do you remember that?
Reever I don’t remember, dammit!
*chair scrapes, footsteps stomp*
Laughlin *nervous* Ms. Reever, please, sit down.
Reever *pants and a chair scrapes again*
Laughlin *voice steadying* So, you and your brother. Were you close?
Reever Close as possible, I suppose. He’d do anything for me, you know? He gave up his life for me. He could have gone off and done something with himself, but he didn’t. He stayed with me, and he helped me cope. He got me in good with Micky. Kept me fed, tried to get me back into school. Was never enough though. We usually stayed in a grungy old apartment, whenever we had the money.
Laughlin You sound close. Well, you seem stable enough.

**************************************

Mental Analysis[/b]

Analyst[/b] Dr. Jeremy L. Laughlin
Subject[/b] Keaira Amelia Reever
Sentence[/b] Twenty Eight Years in Prison (Two counts of First Degree Murder)
Mental Stability[/b] Stable (Damaged).

*tape begins to play*
Laughlin This is the audio log of Doctor Jeremy Laughlin. I will be looking into the mental causes behind an….an incident with Ms. Reever.
*restraints rattle, door opens and closes*
Reever *muffled* Hello again, doctor.
Laughlin Ms. Reever, I take it you know why you’re here?
Reever *muffled* I punched out a guard.
Laughlin You didn’t just punch him out; you broke his jaw, and knocked out a tooth. What do you have to say about that?
Reever *muffled* It was a good punch, but I barely clipped him. He pulled back just in time. Meant to smash in his ugly nose.
Laughlin You don’t regret doing it?
Reever *laughs, muffled* Why the hell would I regret it, doctor? He deserved it. Right, smack dap in his kisser. Anyone who tells you otherwise is naïve and blind. Next time one of them man-handles me, I’ll show them why I got a twenty year sentence.
*door opens*
Reever Good-bye, doctor.
*door shuts*
Laughlin Uhm…. She seems to be stable, but we feel it would be better to transfer her to a maximum security prison. Medium security isn’t enough. Hazelton seems a good enough place as any.
Final Statement[/b] The Current Mental status of Kaiera Reever is seemingly stable, but is diminished. It is safe to have her in Hazelton, I would say. I hope you have better luck with her than we did.

-- Jean Michaels, Warden of Coleman Federal Correctional Complex, Florida


**************************************

Mental Analysis[/b]

Analyst[/b] Dr. Daniel Gray
Subject[/b] Keaira Amelia Reever
Sentence[/b] Twenty Four Years in Prison (Two counts of First Degree Murder)
Mental Stability[/b] Stable.

*tape begins to play*
Gray This is the audio log of Daniel Gray, and I’m about to review a prisoner who was sent over a couple years back. Guards are wary of her. Warden doesn’t like her. Prisoners avoid her. She seems to be a loner, so it doesn’t bother her that much, it seems.
*door opens, restraints click, and a chair scrapes*
Reever *muffled* The hell are you?
Gray My name is Doctor Daniel Gray. Pleased to make your acquaintance.
Reever *scoffs, muffled* Oh, I’m sure you say that to all the damaged goods that come through here.
Gray Would you like me to take off the muzzle?
Reever You’re liable to lose a finger. I haven’t had lunch today.
Gray I’m sure you can hold back.
*removes muzzle*
Gray[/b] There, isn’t that better?
Reever Hurry up. You’re wasting my time.
Gray I see. Do you have someplace to be?
Reever Yeah. My cell, imagining redecorating with someone’s entrails. Why?
Gray *gulps* Perhaps you should focus on less violent things?
Reever *laughs* Easy for you to say. You’re not in prison. Besides, violence is fun. That’s a nice ring. May I see?
Gray I don’t see why not.
*crunch*
Gray[/b] *Hysterical* Oh, my God! She bit off my finger!
*Reever laughs in the background*
[b]Gray *Shrieking* Guard! Guard, get in here! Get the hell in here now!
*Reever knocks over a filing cabinet, laughing the whole time*
Reever What’s the matter, Doctor? Can’t stand the sight of your own blood?
Gray Get her out of here! GET HER OUT!
Officer[/b] Sedating!
Reever Try me!
Officer[/b] *grunts*
*A body hits the floor*
Reever Oh, what fun! Too bad he stabbed himself, huh?
Gray Oh my God. OH MY GOD!
Reever It’s kind of sad, actually. I can barely walk, or throw a punch, and yet here we both are, him on the floor, and me standing up with a trophy in my hands.
Gray I have a stun gun you bitch!
*Stun gun pins fire, and electricity crackles*
*a body hits the floor*
*phone dials three numbers*
Gray[/b] *to tape* This…..this is Doctor Daniel Gray. This woman is not crazy. She is sadistic. Smart. And strong. But you’re dead if you think she’s crazy.
Reever Why thank you doctor.
Gray *screams*

Ending Statements[/b] Doctor Gray was rushed to the hospital with multiple bruises and a few cracked bones, as well as a partially severed finger. He will be in recovery for a few hours, but he will be able to return to the prison analysis center. Officer Nicholas Flanders was also rushed to the hospital, but was discovered to be almost completely unharmed. The injuries sustained are consistent with a fall into a desk or something.

Keaira Reever was moved to Solitary for two weeks with reduced food and no work. She didn’t seem to mind, or to even care. She showed no signs of remorse. Doctor Gray will not be pressing charges because he believes that the anniversary of her brother’s car accident sent Ms. Reever off.

***************************************

Mental Analysis[/b]

Analyst[/b] Dr. Daniel Gray
Subject[/b] Keaira Amelia Reever
Sentence[/b] Twenty Years in Prison (Two counts of First Degree Murder)
Mental Stability[/b] Stable?

*tape begins to play*
Gray *wheezes* Uhm… This is Doctor Daniel Gray, of the Hazelton Psychiatric clinic. I will be re-assessing Ms. Keaira Reever. As you may recall, Ms. Reever had a….problem…last time we encountered one another.
*pauses*
*door opens, restraints clatter*
Reever *muffled* Ah, I see they put your hand back together. And here I thought I’d done such a wonderful job.
Gray Yes…well…If you don’t mind, I think I’ll leave the muzzle on this time.
Reever *muffled* Go for it.
Gray So, how have the years been treating you, Ms. Reever?
Reever They were interesting to say the least.
Gray And your job in the library?
Reever *scowls* Rather uninteresting. I liked the physical labor better, but they won’t let me near the tools anymore.
Gray I can imagine. How are you taking the death of Mary Ann Payton?
Reever Is that what they call it? A simple death? It was a murder, you idiot. By all standards of the word. They’re keeping it all hush hush, but the woman was right. Probably the only other person I’ve ever fully trusted since I got on the inside.
Gray You mean since-
Reever If you say his name, you’ll have much more than a finger to deal with.
Gray *gulps*
Reever Yes, since him. Is that all? I have a job to get back to, and a Grandma to mourn.
*door opens and shuts*
Gray *pauses* You know, I think that’s the only time, other than her when her brother is mentioned, where I’ve seen sadness in those cold-blooded eyes. I give Ms. Reever a rating of sanity. God only knows what’s going to happen next, with the shit hitting the fan like that. End log.

Username Gambler
Full Name: Vorin Cord
Age: Twenty-six
Race: Caucasian
Specific Job/Shift: Night Guard
Experience: A couple of weeks
Appearance: Medium black hair thin enough to fall around his head in an almost mop-like fashion without seeming too thick or bowl like. His eyes are hollow an sunken and constantly shifting like someone seeking release. The mocha orbs swirl like chicory coffee as he tries to follow the light with his dilated pupils. He stands just above average at six feet and two inches, but compared to some of the other guards he appears lithe in frame and compact in stature. His body is muscular like one of those lucky individuals who is capable of gaining muscle mass quickly. Not beefy and full of excessive sinew like a body builder or wrestler, but more akin to a rower or gymnast.
Tell me about yourself.

Vorin Cord
Spice Addict and Gun for Hire

You might not guess it from my nice personality, but I’m a killer. That’s right, a killer. I used to go around killing people. Sorry if I’m starting to get repetitive, but it’s the truth of who and what I am. About twenty-six years ago I was born to humble parents, Grovert and Alice Cord. They weren’t exactly loving parents though I did my best to make sure that my little bro, Telm Cord never got in between their fighting. But eventually I had to leave. I got letters from my parents about how Telm was doing well and how they were doing better financially, but for some reason, that never eased my nerves.

After I left academy to return home I found out why. My parents had kicked Telm out after sending me to school. They tried to rationalize it to me, explaining that after they paid for my tuition my dad had been fired from his job and they couldn’t provide for him anymore. I knew it for the bullshit it was. They didn’t like us and they hated each other. In my mind they never even wanted us since it reminded them of why they hated each other.

So I left them, a sixteen year old kid with nothing to his name and no family at his back. At first I tried to find Telm, but it was like he vanished. Like he was a ghost. Finally I gave up looking for him and turned to my own problems. I had no food, no money and nowhere to go. The lower levels are a dangerous place for a kid on his own. It’s not so hard to figure out what happened next. I got caught up with some gangs and criminals. It wasn’t so bad. They looked out for me and I looked out for them. We were a family.

The cold air bit into my skin and straight down through the marrow of my bones. I was afraid to breathe out of fear that the icy chill would seep into my lungs and kill me. I was curled up in a fetal position under a pile of rotting garbage. The decomposing trash was sickening to breathe in, but it was warm compared to the air around me. There was a trickle of blood running down the top side of my wrist where I had bit out a chunk of flesh so that I could have something warm to drink.

Shivering, I closed my eyes, bringing my wrist up to my lips again. No one would help me even though it was likely I would freeze to death. The lower levels weren’t kind in any way. You wouldn’t find kind elderly couples willing to spare a cup of tea for the starving and dehydrated young boy who was living off what he could scavenge from the trash. I tried to close my eyes, but the film that covered the sclera was iced over, all but blinding me. At that moment I wanted to cry, to kill myself, to go home.

But that was just a dream. I was too afraid of death to slit my wrists and crying would make me even thirstier. Going home… my parents would never let me do that. I didn’t even remember where they were. There was food below me, half eaten and crawling with milky white and mucus stained yellow maggots. I started to retch, my stomach spasming as one of them crawled over my bleeding wrist. The bile rose in my throat, up to my mouth, but I forced it down, knowing that if I let it out, all of the nutrients left in my stomach would go with it, starving me even faster.

I was going to die. My stomach churned, my throat burned with the taste of acid and I was going to die. I knew it. There was no way for me to live. “H-help me,” I called in a coarse croak, pleading for someone to save me from this horrible fate. I knew that no one would come. No one could hear me and even if they could they wouldn’t have any use for a boy who was dying from the cold and starvation…

“What the hell was that bitchy whine?” A voice called from what seemed like far away. I stained to hear it, but the world was fading from view. All I could hear was my heart beating. Thump-thump it started quietly, hollowly, and then it grew until it engulfed my senses. My breathing was shallower than a puddle, the air in my lungs filled with the rotting scent of decomposing food rather than oxygen. Thump-thump. My eyes dimmed until I could barely see anything. The world was fading from view. Thump. All of my sensibilities stopped, my life hanging on the edge of a thread.

“Get that kid up dammit!” The voice called. Was it one of the gods? I couldn’t tell. I was fading… fading…

The Sontrebren Crew. That’s who picked me up that horrible, frozen night all of those years ago. I was sixteen back then and two years passed uneventfully. They might have been a gang, ‘cold hearted criminals’ and whatnot, but to me they were family. They provided for me, gave me a home and a purpose in life and all they asked in return was loyalty and the same service a guard or soldier could provide. Maybe we hit up a merchant once in a while, but not much. Gang or not, they had the honor some soldiers lacked.

My boss, Blake Zeth, didn’t really employ us for illicit works other than a few muggings, thefts, and the occasional murder of a rival gang. Even then we never initiated those fights. Blake outlawed spice and any other kind of drug in the hideout to keep his men’s minds stable. So that wasn’t really a problem. Except for this one man. Robert Jaqui. He was a spice addict who somehow managed to keep out of Blake’s eagle like eyes. How he did this I have no idea, but he was able to do it. And he got me addicted with the stuff too.

I’m not proud of this addiction, but I need the spice. I’ve gone to rehabilitation centers and was kicked out of the Crew, but still I haven’t been able to stop using the stuff. It makes me feel good about myself. Lets me go back in the past and live the good times when my brother was still around and our parents didn’t want to kill each other. Even after everything I still do spice. I still take the stuff into my body even though I know it is destroying my mind. But I need it. It makes me feel good.

I’m not Mister Perfect after all.

A dimly lit system of tunnels surrounded me. A couple of years ago, maybe three or four, Blake Zeth, the underboss of the Sontrebren Crew, had saved my life and given me a second chance. I was in the Sontrebren Crew hideout, but I had no idea where to go. Blake told me the ground rules the first night: no drinking, no sex, no going up top alone and no drugs. But he never told me how I was supposed to find my way around this damn place.

The scent of sewage was stuck in my nose from a little accident I had on my way back to the hideout. My ‘buddy’ laughed when I fell into the sewer and left me there to drown. So I was on my own. Coughing, I started feeling my way along the walls until I found a door. My fingers were cold and frozen, the raw sewage soaked into through the skin. Numb and shaking as they were, I pried for the latch on the door, struggling vainly to get a hold on it. I needed warmth. I needed someone to help me find my way.

The door fell open loudly, revealing a small space barely large enough for a bed, a bookshelf and the gunsafe plus the person who lived there. At first I didn’t know that anyone was there until a figure huddled in a fetal position looked up to me with bloodshot eyes. I would have fallen back, but morbid satisfaction kept me in place. His eyes were glazed over, unfocused and glossed over with spider webbed streaks of crimson. “Um… is something wrong?” I asked him, drawing his attention up to me.

He was a member of the Sontrebren Crew but I didn’t know his name. He looked like he was in need of some help though. As I walked over to him I noticed the packets on the floor. I frowned when I saw the powdery substance inside. It looked like spice, but Blake would never allow anyone in his Crew to use spice. I looked back to the man who rose, a smile on his face as if he was coming down from a peculiar sort of high.

“Robert Jaqui’s the name and playing nice guy is my game,” he said in a smooth gambler’s voice. If one didn’t see his eyes they wouldn’t think anything was wrong with him. He straightened his jacket and frowned as he saw the packet of spice in my hands. “You don’t want to go messing with that stuff ya hear?” He asks, grabbing the packet from my hands with a shaking grasp.

“Wait a minute, you’re that new guy, right? Well come on in, let me tell you a secret, ya hear?” His repetition of ‘ya hear’ was getting on my nerves for some reason. “Round here ya might have heard that big boy Blake calls the shots. Ya might have heard that he says no beer and no drugs right?” I nodded as he said that, not really getting what he was hinting at. “Come on, take a packet. This stuff is great. I don’t know why Blake would say otherwise, but don’t let him see. Most of us like the stuff, but Blake kicks out everyone he sees with it okay?”

I took the packet from his hands and nodded. There wasn’t really much for me to say. “Good, so get cha ass outa here boyo,” I didn’t hesitate as he said that. I was out of there, running as fast as I could to find Blake. I couldn’t find him, but instead I saw one of his right hand men. I told him about the spice and they promised they would tell Blake.

They told Blake all right. They told him that I was a crazed spice addict trying to blame my addiction on other people. I was kicked out of the Crew, threatened with death if I ever told anyone about the tunnels.

That night I was in the streets with nowhere to turn. I had my pistol, my knife and my jacket, but that was it… and a packet of spice. I took out the powder and sniffed it, seeking release from this world. One night began a lifelong addiction…

As I told you, the rest of my life is just on the streets, looking for jobs to pay for my rent and my addiction. One day to the next was the same and it all faded together. So that’s me, Vorin Cord, spice addict, thug, and drop out looking for some work. Please, just a few credits for the story? This is the third time I’ve been to rehab, but… I… I just need one more… one more packet… please? Please?!

But no, not right now. I have the night shift and the boss would be all over my ass if I was ever caught with my drugs... no... not yet.

Username ...I... don't... know...? (Shiva)
Full Name: Johnathan Avitable (Ah-vEE-tA-buh-lei)
Age: 34
Race: Italian
Specific Job/Shift: Day Patrol/Correctional Officer
How can I shine in the brilliance of his sun?
Experience: Six years.
Appearance: To begin with, He has graying, slicked back black hair that gives him the appearance of a proper man. His skin is pale, a stark contrast from his hair, though beginning to lessen due to age and stress. His eyes are a piercing dark brown, long since frozen over through work and desensitization. His face is sharp, angled, and somewhat hawk-like. He has a strong body, hard muscled and toned. They were tempered to a point that a punch to the gut could be felt, but did not hurt much. Aside from the standard uniform, he almost always wore underneath a white T-shirt and preferably wore sneakers instead of his uniform boots. They were just a lot more comfortable.

Tell me about yourself. "Okay- play the audio."

The buzzing sound of static was the only thing audible at first. Absently, the doctor tapped the recorder with his finger while the guard picked his nose. Slowly, he could pick up a voice.

"Avitable. The grandson of one of the various gangs back in Sicily, correct?"

"Well. I assume you already know the answer to that question, you know the pronunciation of my last name, after all."

"I am asking you a question, Johnathan."

The audio faded out for a second, and only the murmur of voices was heard. The doctor quickly turned up the dial, but he had already missed a few seconds.

"...I see. I have a few more questions to ask you."

"Shoot."

"What was it like, growing up as the son of a mafioso?"

There was the sound of shuffling, then a response. "Fairly normal. Grew up with friends and all that, you know? Went to college, had a nice girlfriend, and majored in computer engineering."

"Why are you here, then?"

"Have you ever heard the saying, 'You can take the tiger out of the jungle, but you cannot take the jungle out of the tiger?' "

"... Go on..."

"I was never truly content. I had my grandfather's lust for blood. He died at the age of 60. I tried to find ways to let off that pressure, yes. I took martial arts. I beat the living shit out of my punching bag. Hell, whenever I saw a pickpocket I would subdue him, give him a few mementos. Nothing worked. Nothing like the sound of a cocked gun or swinging switchblade."

"I see. You want to take out your bloodlust on the prisoners?"

"Not all the time, no. See, doc, I'm a fair guy. Fair guys play by the rules, but more often than not they have to use their hands to get their meaning across."

The audio slowly became mangled, and the doctor started tapping the recorder again. With a wheeze of defiance, the slot ejected open, and a roll of film shot out and hit the doctor in the eye. The guard did not give a second glance, rather flicked a ball of mucus from his nose at the floor.

Life was tainted in my eyes

§

Username Masslz (Call me Leez, please (Woah, rhyming))

Full Name: Jonathan Cramer

Age: 58

Race: Hispanic

Specific Job/Shift: Warden, prefers Night Shift

Experience: Jonathan has been Warden of Hazleton for eight years, four months, and twenty-one days.

Appearance: He was once described as an angel, descended onto the small town in which he hails from. A devil in personality, an angel in features. His eyes were baby blue, they sparkled with life and mischief, and were flecked with gold as if the sun itself burned in his gaze. His face was impish, round and sweet, with dimples on his cheeks and very rare facial hair adorning his cheeks. His lean form allowed him to achieve greatness in the woman department, and stories of his exploits have become the stuff of legend. His one flaw, the one, glaring flaw, was his hair. His hair was limp, the colour of straw, and no matter what he did with it, it always stayed limp. It angered him.
And then the proverbial shit hit the fan. His mother's death hit him hard, and he ceased everything. His true side was revealed, and the women stopped coming. His facial hair grew as he did, his body becoming softer. His eyes hardened to a light grey, his flecks disappeared. Even his face, his gorgeous, impish face, became thin and bony. He became the skeleton, the shell of a man, and kept this until the day he became a prison guard. Now he has an outlet for his frustration, his unflinchingly cruel yet effective manners of enforcing his rule over the prison became known. His body hardened again. His face became bigger. He had a piece of himself again.

Tell me about yourself. Jon's ability to humiliate both guard and prisoner alike into bending to his will was simultaneously frowned upon and praised by the powers-that-be. A long standing tradition when Jon steps outside the bounds of technical legality is to look the other way and focus on the event not gaining media attention. Jon knows and understands that when the day comes where he is discovered by the media, his career, his outlet, his life will be forfeit to the court and it's rulings. Jon welcomes the challenge. His bitter heart has steeled itself against the rising sun, and he will fight to protect the perch of the prison. He descended onto Hazelton because of a glitch in the transfer system; he wanted to retire, so they changed his post. Now that he's got his bottom on the throne, Jon never intends to leave, liking the feel of the place, the dynamic, the authority. His job means more to him than eating, breathing, and general living, and he never intends to lose the feeling of making a prisoner clean his shoes, with their tongue. As he gets older, more and more mandatory retirement papers get 'lost' in the shuffle of prison management, and though his tyranny hasn't been as pronounced in Hazelton as in other prisons, he still likes to clench the fist every now and then.


PROFILE: Psycho Analysis: Cramer, Jonathan A

My meeting with Mr. Cramer started off uneventfully. He shook my hand, met my eyes, and gave me a slight raise of his eyebrows. His leathery face, ever serious, seemed to watch my every move like a hawk. He has a way of making you uncomfortable, that's for sure. We got to talking; I asked if he was married, if he had kids, what he did to become a warden, you know. Standard treatment for warden analysis. He answered every question like a robot. He'd been married once, had three kids, divorced. He doesn't see the kids, thinks one of them is in college. He became a warden after eight years of serving, had been Warden of Hazelton for "around eight years." His record is perfect, his uniform is clean.

But something is wrong about him. He doesn't smile. He sits like a statue frozen in ice. He stares too hard and doesn't blink enough. And, most of all, he looks like he's always weary of an attack, like he's in constant danger. I decided to directly ask him if he was nervous, and his response almost frightened me.

"Of you?" He had said, and smiled slightly. "Doctor, I've waded through all kinds of serial killers, child molesters, and rapists. I am not scared of a shrink."

His words chilled me, but I allowed it to slip past and got to the real reason behind the analysis.

"What do you think about Mary Ann Payton?"

His voice got very hard, then. His stare intensified. "She died. Didn't eat. Wasn't any concern of mine."

"But she died under your watch. Shouldn't you have known about a prisoner on a hunger strike-"

"If she wanted to play Ghandi, she shouldn't have done the crimes, Doc. If my prisoners want to die, then they die. If they want to serve their time and make room for the next one, I'm happy to help them with that. I can't make her eat, Doc. For chrissakes, she was ancient. What am I going to do, force feed her?"

"No, but-"

He stands, his gravelly voice echoing through the room. "Goodbye, doctor. This analysis is over. See you when the next one keels."

At this point, I strongly advise an investigation into Mr. Cramer's past incidents. Something doesn't add up.

~Dr. Norman Cross, Psychologist, Washington D.C.

Life was tainted in my eyes
(Thought you might need a bad guy)

b]Username[/b] MysticOnion
Full Name: Oliver Cage
Age: 32
Race: Caucasian
Specific Job/Shift: Undercover FBI agent posing as a prison guard - top secret mission, twilight shift/night shift.
Experience: He has worked at Hazelton for two months on a long term assignment
Appearance: Height - 6ft 4ins, tall, broad shoulders, dark cropped hair, dark eyes, looks mean and ready to kill.



Tell me about yourself.

Shh don't tell a soul, this is supposed to be top secret. I'm here on assignment, yeah I drew the short straw but I don't care anymore. Who am I lookin' for and why? Damn I can't tell ya that either, what don't you understand about Top Secret? Alright I'm gonna give you a clue, its a prisoner here and somebody who comes to see her. At the moment I'm gathering information and I'm passing it on to my bosses but if anything happens I'll not hesitate to act. Let them think I'm a guard it seems to work. We think the warden's involved in all of this but we won't act till we know for sure.

Heh.. what about me well.. I used to work for the ATF and then the CIA and then joined the FBI because I am good at my job - I was head hunted, I suppose you could call it that. I do have a wife and kids but if you think I'm letting you know where I live you got another thing coming. Thats definately Top Secret.

My hobby? Its guns, I could talk for hours about guns so you don't wanna get me started. I'm a trained marksman so I won't be taking any nonsense from anybody - I hear this warden is a real tough nut. Is he tougher than me? I met him once sorta. Didn't say much after all it wasn't he who set this whole undercover scheme up and he doesn't know why I'm here or who I am.

I'll lobby for a guard position in case nobody else joins. Is it just me, or has the site been moving real slow lately?

Username Aufeis
Full Name Sergeant Alyssa Danielle Rodriguez
Age 26
Race Hispanic
Specific Job/Shift Sniper
Experience Two years, since she was discharged from the army.
Appearance Alyssa has tan skin and dark brown hair, coming down to the middle of her back. She stands a little taller than most women, at about 6'1", and weighs about 155 pounds. Her deep green eyes are usually haggard from insomnia, but she is always alert. Her mouth is creased with "frown" lines, and she usually never smiles.

Tell me about yourself.

Staff Mental Analysis[/b]

Analyst[/b] Dr. Daniel Gray
Subject[/b] Alyssa Danielle Rodriguez
Position[/b] Sniper (Adjustable)
Mental Stability[/b] Stable, but plagued by army related insomnia.

*tape starts*

Gray Sergeant Rodriguez, why don't you tell me about yourself.
Alyssa Tell you about myself? I don't suppose there's much to tell. I guess I'll start with my life right now. I have a husband, Clark, who is an executive of a big firm here in town. My two kids, Zack and Danielle, are eight and six, respectively. I don't sleep, and I don't eat much.
Gray Yes, that seems to be the problem. Your partner caught you asleep in the tower.
Alyssa A one time occurrence, I assure you.
Gray Why don't you tell me why you don't sleep.
Alyssa Every time I close my eyes, I see them.
Gray Who, exactly, are they?
Alyssa My squad mates. I was supposed to cover them. Instead, the four of us got captured. What would you do if the people you were supposed to lead to salvation, you instead led to damnation? We were in a room with nothing but a pistol between the four of us. They were going to torture us for information, and the next squad was supposedly about thirty clicks from out location, and we were behind enemy lines. We decided that the four of us shouldn't get captured, and instead, we turned the gun on ourselves, each in turn. I was last. I put the gun to my head, and my finger compressed the trigger. Click. I pulled the trigger again. Click. It was jammed. The clip wouldn't come out. So here I am, sitting with the dead corpses of my former squad mates, with a jammed gun, and the door gets busted in. Two marines walk in, and grab me. The gun was still to my head. I was crying. I still see their faces, doc. Especially in my dreams.
Gray You feel guilt then?
Alyssa No. I feel damned. Why should the gun lock on me? Why should the squad get to me in time, but not my buddies? Why did I live?[b]
[b]Gray I see. Aren't you glad that you could return to your family?
Alyssa After a medical discharge? No. Especially when the wives of my three buddies asked me what had happened. What do I tell them? I mean, how do you live with something like that? When you're in the army, squatting in a trench or a bunker, waiting, your squad mates become your brothers and sisters. So you don't. Nobody knows they killed themselves. They were buried as heroes. But not me. I was spared, and discharged for medical leave.
Gray What made you come here?
Alyssa I can't do anything else. Sniping is my job, my life.
Gray Well, what do you think of the other guards?
Alyssa *scoffs* I don't exactly get to talk to them all that often. For the most part, the only time I see them is when I look through my scope.
Gray Do you feel like you are contributing to the community here?
Alyssa The prison community? Sure. It's always fun when someone gets brave and stupid with us. But unless they actually attack, I have to use the non-lethal shots, whether tranquilizers or rubber bullets. We've got two guns up in each tower. A lethal, and a non-lethal. Your choice of non-lethal. Rubber bullets are my choice.
Gray Why's that?
Alyssa It's more fun that way.

*tape ends*

I finally finished my profile Ylanne lol.

If it is alright I'd like to present another character for this rp.

Username Mystic Onion
Full Name: Marianna De Burgh
Age: 27
Race: Caucasian
Conviction(s): First Degree murder X 3, armed robbery, dealing in illegal drugs and arms.
Sentence: This girl is locked up for life, she's only been here three months already
Appearance: Long blonde hair, blue eyes, 5ft 10in tall, leggy blonde - slim and attractive.



Tell me about yourself.

I shouldnt' be here I belong out there doing what I do best. And whats that? Killing of course. *pauses and smiles - eyes twinkling* They only caught me for three of them, but I'm never locked up for long if indeed I ever get caught at all. Escape is easier than you might think - after all most prison guards are weak willed self obsessed men, easily controlled and manipulated and if you don't think so then wait till you see me in action.

Why did I kill those men? I kill who I'm told to kill and the only reason these guys haven't put me on death row yet is because they are looking for my bosses - I'll never tell, not in a million years. You see, I don't have bosses, my skills are on hire to the highest bidder. How did I do it? I shot them point blank - thats right.. it was so easy to get close to them, especially when they thought they'd hired a stripper. My only mistake this time was that I got out that door two seconds too late, but next time I won't be so complacent.

In this day and age a girl can get by on her looks and on what she does for a living. I've had to look after myself all my life and thats not gonna change - my mother abandoned me as a child on the back streets of Paris - I've gone from home to home, foster parent to foster parent.. abuser to abuser. But it didn't break me, it made me what I am today - you want a hooker? You got one sugar, a hooker with a gun and believe it or not I do actually have a brain, I can outsmart just about anybody when I'm in the mood for it, when I think I can use them.

And why am I telling you all this? There's method in the madness - you'll see.

b]Username[/b] Kiina

Full Name: Shana Lee McRobert

Age: 21

Race: Caucasian (Scottish-American)

Conviction(s): Shana was convicted of kidnapping a young girl and running away with her to Las Vegas, Nevada. She was caught, charged, and incarcerated.

Sentence: Sentenced to life, Shana has been at Hazelton for five years.

Appearance: Let's start from the top, shall we? I am a major procrastinator. Shana has shoulder-length, light brown hair, matching nicely with her hazel eyes. However, her appearance is marred by the presence of dark circles under her eyes, the product of too little sleep while in prison. She was a little on the larger side before her imprisonment, but now that she's had a few years in the system, she's lost weight. There's still padding around the middle, and there always will be, but the point is that she's not as big as she used to be. And in case text isn't enough:


Tell me about yourself. I know what I did. I know why I did it. But if was your daughter, you'd have done it too. I made a mistake, giving my baby up for adoption. I was scared, I was young, I didn't know what I was doing. My so-called boyfriend had ditched me when he found out. My parents supported me, but were the ones who encouraged me to give up my baby girl, continue my education.

So I did. Mom and Dad knew best.

I dealt with the sadness for three years. My little girl - she'd been taken from me the day she was born. I only got to hold her once. Once. The people that took her - some infertile wench and her weasel of a husband - they gave her some cheerleader name. Kelli or Katelyn or something. She'll grow up and make the same mistake I did with a name like that. Some quarterback will break her heart, and I won't be there for her.

So I took her, right from her daycare. Told the teacher I was a co-worker of her 'mother's'. Stupid fool bought it too. Three hours later, I was past the state line with my daughter. And five days after that, I was arrested. When I got to Hazelton, though, I met Grandma Payton. She was so kind, so understanding toward my problem - she had four children of her own. She knew the pain of separation. She helped me to find my own identity at Hazelton.

Because of Grandma Payton, I discovered that I'm a survivalist. But Grandma Payton wasn't, and now she's gone. The guards are keeping it all hush-hush, the cowards. What, are they afraid they'll wind up in here too? Just between you and me . . . I hope they do. We'll be waiting.

((I hope this works for you, Ylanne! If I'm missing anything, you'll let me know, right?))

Hi everyone.

Let me apologize for the delay in both reviewing newly submitted profiles and posting the IC thread. I know most roleplays around here tend to put up an IC thread within days, or even hours, of the OOC thread being posted; however, I have never operated in that way with any of my roleplays. At the same time, I've never delayed as long when I've had a group of such talented and dedicated roleplayers waiting to participate with profiles at the ready.

Unfortunately, I have been extremely busy lately (as you may have inferred already, being the intelligent writers that you are ). November is always my busiest month of every year, followed by December as a close second. To exacerbate my problems have been computer troubles: my own laptop crashed twice this week for no apparent reason, and my wireless network isn't functioning properly. It comes and goes. . . thus leaving precious little time and opportunity for me to be able to write and whatnot. Nevertheless, I will make it a point to be able to post that.

I will also be posting my own character sheet. I intended to do that over a month ago, and even started to write one, but then I lost the file.

Also, I will grant tentative acceptance of the newly posted characters - I think there have been only two? Kiina and Potter, you have both posted profiles that I haven't really reviewed, at least not reviewed and written about. My only remark is that all of the prisoner characters seem to be around the same age group, and all but one are white or Caucasian. . . when the reality is that the vast majority of prisoners in American prisons are of minority descent. This isn't racist - it's a well-documented fact. Read: I am not racist or making a racist remark. The reason(s) for why minorities make the majority of the prison population are many, varied, and disputed, but the fact that they indeed do is not disputed by anyone except either the blind (literally or figuratively) or the non-English speaker who doesn't know what "minority" means.

I would consider discussing your characters with each other via PMs, with me via PMs, or simply discussing them here, so we can work out a group a bit more diverse than the one we have.

I am not trying to criticize you - I am trying to help us all by encouraging dynamic interactions between different individuals, both on the meta-plane, and the in-character plane, by promoting differences between characters.

Thank you again for your patience, dedication, and enthusiasm.

Blessings and peace,
Ylanne

I have to admit, my character is an adaptation of a pre-made character from a book I'm writing, and I honestly wanted to change her as little as possible. But I think I can afford the small change of race to have her fit in a little better. God only knows she's going to be an outcast no matter where she goes regardless of her appearance. (haha)

Pseudo-racist comment: WHITE POWAH! (yes, I'm Caucasian, sue me. Do it now. No, I'm not a racist either.)

EDIT: Correction, I would if I could. It's been too long since I posted to change it. CURSE YOU, TIME! (blarg)