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Samar Chopra

Every society has the criminals it deserves.

0 · 59 views · located in Scarmouth

a character in “Blinding Lights”, as played by Ivisbo




NAMExx Samar ChopraGENDERXXMale
AGEXX 28HEX XX #b10127




H E I G H TXANDXB U I L D: 6′ 4″ , athletic

He’s never put any thought into his looks. Samar is handsome but in that careless sort of way that involves minimal showers, three-day-old shirts, and constantly overgrown facial hair. He bathes when he can tell he needs it and trims his ever-growing beard when he decides the mess is more difficult than the care. His dark hair is always in some sort of disarray, which he either fixes with a fast wet comb or a ball cap. He wears mostly athletic wear in various shades of black and grey- joggers, hoodies, plain t-shirts (occasionally with some very unknown bands horrible graphic gracing the front), and either boots or sneakers.

During the revolution, Samar took moderately better care of himself. He kept his hair trim and facial hair cut short, worked out routinely twice a day, and managed to keep up a healthier diet than most. Most of those habits died with the war, but he still manages to roll out of bed for a run every day. Samar’s smoking has doubled now that his mind is idle, so he usually had a pack or two tucked in a jacket pocket nearby.

He held himself differently during the revolution, like the constant stress gave his shoulders something to hold themselves up for. He was bigger, stronger, more imposing. People look one look at him and understood the choices he was willing to make. Now he's... softer looking. Not mellowed, more like a fire that's struggling to keep burning. He slumps into chairs, leans back rather than forward, and looks the other direction when people call his name.



Samar’s personality has to be split between the two astronomical parts of his life. Revolution and Post-Revolution.

Revolution Samar was pure passion. His passionate hatred for the government and those that lay with them was borderline pathological, and obsession so intense that he had no qualms doing whatever it took to get there. To him, anyone that was associated with the government was guilty, whether they got in his way didn’t matter much to him. His morals were hazy, so hazy that he was often the one chosen for the missions no one else was willing to do. He rarely said no and rarely put himself first.

Samar’s high opinion of himself as a successful anarchist was one of the reasons he developed such a name for himself within the organization. He was confident, prideful, and never seemed to fail when he set his mind on a mission.

Despite that intensity during the Revolution, Samar’s passion made him roguishly charming, magnetic, inspiring to be around. He was generally friendly to those within the revolution and sympathetic to anyone that had their lives torn apart by the government. He clearly cared for those that were on his side and was willing to lay down his life to ensure their victory and survival.

Post-Revolution Sam is barely a blip of what he was six months ago. All his passion has turned to apathy, his intensity into boredom. He cares for watching the news on volume 80, making sure his fridge has a couple 6-packs, and that he has at least one pair of clean underwear in the house. His old charming wit has turned to extreme sarcasm, his proclivity for violence usually ending in drunken brawls. He’s always been private and independent, but it's now glaringly obvious that he isn’t very good at functioning on his own within a normal society. Samar was raised within the revolution movement, his entire life was anarchy from the moment his uncle decided a kid could toss a rock just as well as an adult. When asked about his Post-Revolution profession, he stretches the truth around the various hobbies he’s attempted and immediately dismissed. As the days go by, it's becoming more and more clear that Samar wasn’t truly a person outside of the revolution and he now has to figure out who that person is.

He smokes, constantly, and if he's not careful about it the smoke clings to him.
He tries new hobbies and immediately hates them. Woodworking was boring, writing was egotistical, cooking felt like a chore.

F E A R S:
Being useless, which he is currently living right now. Who needs a washed-up radical anarchist answering their boring 9-5?



As far back as Samar can remember, he’s always been with his uncle Aryan. His parents died before he knew how to remember them, but Aryan made sure that he filled Samar’s childhood with the love that two parents could give. He thought the world of his uncle, even if the man had to keep his face hidden from cameras in public and rarely ventured out in the middle of the day. Samar gradually became aware of his uncle's job within the earliest forms of the revolution- the gadgets that he brought him were the tinkerings of bombs, the closet he wasn’t allowed in was a gun cabinet. His uncle talked to him when he worked from home- sharing protesting stories, of why Samar should never trust the government, of Aryan’s hopes of Samar joining him one day. So like any kid with a hero to look up to, Samar chose to be Aryan.

He fell into the revolution easily and found the rest of his family there. Aryan treated him like an understudy and took Samar to all the early meetings and war-room discussions. And then one day, at a demonstration that turned violent and the two were separated, Aryan never came home. After a week of waiting by the door, Samar came to the conclusion of where his uncle probably ended up. If he wasn't dead, he probably wished he was at this point.

He threw himself into his uncle’s position and took the reins with no qualms or reservations. Aryan was known as the man that got the job done no matter what, so that was what Samar became as well. Samar was extreme, always the voice of violence, but he believed that was the only way to get them seen. Many believed him too radical, but they also knew that getting rid of someone with greyed morals would only be detrimental to the cause.

Getting himself involved with the Wrenley girl was a turning point for him and his ability to actually make an impactful attack against the politicians that fought against them. She gave him everything he needed- he didn’t trust her, but he was beyond helpful and a necessary risk. And when she gave him Senator Costa’s itinerary and address, complete with a detailed explanation of his compound… Samar had always known that Costa had been responsible for the disappearance of his uncle, so it had been no question that he would strike. After the explosion, he’d been apathetic to the deaths of the senators' family, sure that they had deserved it in some capacity for sticking around.

When the revolution ended, Samar was so focused the first week on clean up that he hadn’t had time to think about what that all meant. The revolution didn’t truly want him involved in the structural organization going forward- he was just an anarchist now, though he’d always known it would end up this way. So he’d gone home. Home meant regular dishes, laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, and vacuuming. It meant waking up in the morning and sleeping at night, it meant finding a job, it meant dating, buying new sheets, magnets in your fridge, a house plant cause he was around to water it regularly. It meant all the shit he’d been fighting so hard to allow everyone to have and he hated all of it.

So instead he’d ordered a pizza, drank two six-packs, turned off the lights, and put the tv on high while news of the new world he’d helped create rang through his living room.

So begins...

Samar Chopra's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Camilla Rhodes Character Portrait: Magnolia Wrenley Character Portrait: Miles Caal Character Portrait: Samar Chopra
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song x xxx outfit x xxx hex #F08080

When Magnolia heard the pop star’s voice, her chest clenched with anticipation of her wrath. Though the heiress was no stranger to being disliked just for who she was - she wasn’t sure how much more she would be able to politely endure. Kindness had never been Camilla’s agenda, though maybe she’d just wanted to get close enough to see if Magnolia was crying. She made no attempt of smiling at Camilla’s joke that Magnolia would one day be able to stop the attacks on her by retaliating herself - as if Magnolia ever had the option of self-defense.

“And to think, you wouldn’t have gotten a drink splashed in your face if your father was alive and our-, his side had won. This ceremony would still be happening, Sophie’s Valentine….” Camilla’s words faded out after that, Magnolia repeating those same five words over and over to herself.

If your father was alive.

Her glass threatened to give under her tightened grip. It was like Camilla had triggered sleep mode, only the core functions left running but nothing really processing. It was the only way to keep the image of her father gurgling his last breath out of her thoughts. Taking the embroidered handkerchief with a look of confusion, she could see Camilla’s lips move but her mind was already elsewhere - her psyche going into survival mode.

As fast as she had come, she left - leaving behind a path of destruction and an embroidered piece of fine linen. Magnolia left seething in Camilla’s wake. She clenched the cloth before throwing it aside in anger. Her thoughts came rushing in all at once, all the things she wished she could have said - processing Camilla’s words belatedly. Wincing, she raised a hand to her temples feeling the oncoming signs of a stress headache.

‘If you only knew why he’s not alive anymore.’ She thought to herself, wishing she could ever say the words aloud. Accidentally slamming down her now empty glass harder than she intended, Magnolia offered the bartender an apologetic expression - but they were too preoccupied making drinks to even notice.

A half empty bottle of wine left on the other end of Magnolia’s eye. It was an open bar but she was well past the time of waiting between each drink. She went to walk around to grab the bottle discretely and detour to the bathroom - a familiar profile causing her to pause.

Of course Magnolia had known there was a possibility that Miles would show but she was surprised all the same to see him. She almost smiled, forgetting for a moment the disaster that was the last seven minutes. Obscured by the crowd, she couldn’t see who he was talking to - if he’d come with someone, maybe. He gave them a big smile before leaning in, Magnolia inching along the edge of the crowd trying to peek through the windows between the people to make out who was holding Miles’ attention.

‘What are you doing?’ Magnolia shook her head at herself, huffing under her breath. Insecurity was a new emotion for her, quickly thrown from the veil of adoration into being one of the most detested free people of the State. It was enough to give anyone a bit whiplash.

Plan A it was then.

Magnolia made sure no one was looking when she snuck an arm around to grab the wine. She scuttled into the bathroom making sure to hold the bottle low to obscure it along the length of her leg. There were a couple people washing their hands and adjusting their makeup in the mirror when she walked in, quickly locking herself in one of the stalls. The cork had been haphazardly pushed back into the bottle, Magnolia ripping it out and throwing it at the ground before drinking straight from the bottle. Groaning in frustration because she couldn’t scream, she angrily tapped at her PCU dialing Samar’s number. When it went to voicemail, she turned on holo so that he’d get the full visual of her misery sitting on the toilet drinking wine straight from the bottle.

“Hey, Samar.” Magnolia sighed heavily, then taking a long drink. She could hear the two who’d been at the mirror leave, emboldening her to fully submit to her self-pity. “So, in case you are thinking about bailing on me - I have locked myself in the bathroom with a bottle of wine. I am not coming out either until you arrive, or until I need more alcohol.”

She considered telling him about someone throwing a drink at her, but decided instead she’d rather save it to guilt him with later in case he did end up bailing. “No one will even know you were ever here, it’s so crowded and people are drinking it’ll be like a frat house within the hour. Message me when you’re here, please - okay? Byee.”

Taking another long drink as she signed off, Magnolia slumped against the wall behind her. She had spent plenty of events just getting drunk in the bathroom before, those nights had rarely ended with grace. Maybe if she just stayed here for a while, she could make one last round in the room and just head home. No one would blame her, though the press would be sure to spin it into something if she was caught by them on the way out.

Admittedly, sneaking in an exiled radical to be her drinking buddy wasn’t the best plan. She and Samar both had their crosses to bear but both of them were worthy of praise, of celebration. Besides, most of these people knew their debts to Samar - what they owed him. He deserved his moment in the light, even if it was stolen.

Magnolia sat there for what felt like a while, or rather until the wine was finished. She used the toilet paper to dab at what remained of the drink on her dress, frowning when the residue of the drink left a shadow. As materialistic as it made her feel, she didn’t have much left from her life before. Not that she wanted to cling to those things, but she wasn’t quite ready to let go. She peeped out of the stall to double check she was alone, then quickly tossing out the now empty bottle. Using a combination of soap, water, paper towels and a hand dryer - she managed to wash out the stain. Wiping herself down with the moistened towelettes, she could still feel a bit of the residue of the drink on her skin but at least she was no longer sticky.

“Alright now, little dove.” She said to herself in the mirror, mimicking her mother’s tone and intonation. “You are a Wrenley. You will carry your head high, never let them see you falter.”

Repeating the words back to herself, they sounded wrong. It was the same speech her mother gave her every time Magnolia dared to express self-doubt. What pride was there anymore in a name so befouled? She gripped the sink as she leaned in closer to the mirror, examining her eyes intently - checking for weaknesses in her expression. Caught in her own reflection, she nearly jumped out her skin when she heard the creak of the door open. Shrinking into her own shadow, she blended into the wall behind her. The two stumbling into the bathroom didn’t even notice her, giggling as they followed one another into one of the stalls. Magnolia sighed with relief, leaning back against the wall.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Noah Lawson Character Portrait: Scott Feltikk Character Portrait: Camilla Rhodes Character Portrait: Magnolia Wrenley Character Portrait: Samar Chopra
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#, as written by Ivisbo

Samar stared at his watch, the device lit up with the ‘replay’ command and a still of Nola’s unsmiling face. She looked truly miserable- and maybe she deserved it for thinking that going to that party was anywhere near the realm of good ideas.

He wasn’t going.

He’d told her that already- when she’d asked him in her office, when she’d ‘dropped by’ with dinner and a request for him to join, when she’d called him yesterday and slyly asked what he was wearing. He’d told her sweatpants and a beer-stained shirt and hung up. Samar wasn’t surprised she was trying to guilt-trip him now with her sad bathroom pity party. He had half a mind to call, tell her to fuck off, and get belligerent drunk here on his own.

Pulling himself up, he looked around the semi-clean living room with contempt and boredom. The tv was off- it was all coverage of the award ceremony and he couldn’t stand to see the stupid speeches and close-up shots of the cities new celebrities. Samar had watched two seconds of Noah’s awkward speech and cringed so badly he’d slammed the off button and decided the ceiling was far more interesting. Until Nola had called- which he’d ignored- and then left him the most tragic looking holo-mail he’d ever received.

“If you get alcohol poisoning in the bathroom it’ll end up on the news”, He messaged her, standing up with the audible cracking of his spine as he stretched and shuffled towards the staircase.

“Stop being so difficult - you know you’re going to be drinking yourself into a stupor either way. There is unlimited food and booze here. Just put on the suit in your closet, get your ass down here and I promise I will never ask you for a favor ever again.” Samar glared down at Nola’s message, then up at the suit bag hanging in his bedroom closet like it had been there the whole time. Which meant she’d snuck past him while sleeping (or passed out) and drug this thing up his stairs and safely in his closet without him noticing.

“You piss me the fuck off”, He replied back to her, then unzipped the bag and pulled out a modern black suit with satin lapels and a skinny tie. Of course Nola would pick him something out that looked so irritatingly perfect just on a hanger. She probably somehow knew his measurements and everything.


Samar hated that he was here.

The awards were over by the time he arrived, so the majority of the guests were bustling near the hors d’oeuvres, trying to steal the attention of the overworked bartender, or mingling in groups scattered across the large room. He eyed the room with a single-minded aversion that made him want to turn around immediately and recluse back to his dark living room.

A few people might recognize him here, but he was hoping the majority were too wrapped up in the event to pay another man in a dark suit any mind. He’d seen Noah on the tv earlier, so the doctor was probably present and very much unhappy with all the attention. He was happy to see Scott tucked away in the corner, he hadn't seen him since the last day of the revolution and hadn’t been sure if he’d made it out okay. Samar avoided being noticed though, preferring to steer clear of the prescribed small talk of these gatherings in favor of tracking down the annoying little devil in his life.

“Where the fuck are you?” He whispered a message to Nola into his watch, shuffling uncomfortably and continuing to run his gaze over the crowd without making eye contact.

Samar’s phone instantly pinged back a photo of Nola standing at the bar pouting with the bartender clearly ignoring her in the background. He glanced over at the crowded bar on the far side of the room, sighed the disgruntled anger of a 70-year-old man, and made his way over.

Nola was loosely perched on a barstool, very much within the eye line of the bartender but very clearly being overlooked in favor of other guests. Samar squeezed up next to her, ignoring the irritation of the man next to him, and spun Nola’s chair towards him.

“Did you finish that entire bottle yourself?”

“Samar!” Nola said a bit louder than she intended, a look of relief washing over her expression. “Look at you! You’re so cute in your little suit!” She poked at the buttons of his jacket, her lips upturned into a smile that answered Samar’s question very clearly.

“I am not cu- no listen fuck. This is why I drink in private, this whole shit is being televised Nol” He pushed her finger away from his button and pointed over at a camera interviewing some of the guests, “You're a goddamn mess, that's my role”

Nola looked over to the camera then back to Samar before shrugging, waving off his concerns. That little voice in the back of her head repeated his words back to her, reminding herself of her obligation to her business to maintain some sort of decorum. Unfortunately, that voice was deafened by the reminder that no matter how hard she tried, their perception of her would never change. Every day was spent distracting herself from this fact by trying to help others - but she was tired. She just wanted to stop caring, even if just for a little bit.

“No one’s looking at us, loosen up. I’m just here for the optics. No one’s interviewing me - I’m not one of the good guys, remember?” Her tone was upbeat but her words hollow. Propping herself up on the bar and looking back to Samar with a mischievous expression, she gestured over her shoulder. “ about you stop being a grump and go on and order us a couple drinks.”

They glared at each other for an exaggerated amount of time before he obviously caved first and leaned forward to signal for the bartender. Nola was right- the cameras were here for people like Noah and all the others that had ‘contributed their lives to the cause’. He might as well drink their alcohol, eat their food, and get what he could before he went back to doing nothing.

He ordered them two bourbons neat and a shot each, not even trying to pretend like he wasn’t ordering just to get drunk. Nola was already swaying on her stool and although he’d started the day with a beer, he’d need a lot more than that to catch up. Once their drinks were in hand, they finished off the shots quickly and he pushed her out of her seat in favor of one of the unoccupied standing tables.

“Wait - where are we going?” Nola asked while he led her from the bar, though she didn’t resist his direction she did look back at the bar with big doe eyes. Now in the thick of the crowd it was easier to blend in, but Nola still preferred the comfort of the bar. Admittedly, she felt a lot less isolated knowing Samar was there to have her back - even if it was begrudgingly.

“You clean up nice, you know.” She said with an all-knowing smirk. “You should try it more often.”

He forcibly put her drink in her hand, cheersed it, and drank almost half of his, “I have literally never worn a suit and I will not be doing it again” His eyes danced across the crowd, avoiding catching anyone's gaze but also making sure no one he knew had noticed him yet, “So are you gonna explain why you were drinking an entire bottle of wine in the bathroom by yourself at the party that you basically funded?”

Magnolia’s expression wilted, rolling her eyes dramatically as she sighed. “Do we really have to go into it?”

His glare told her that it was indeed necessary, especially given the lengths she’d just made him go through to come here with no context. She pursed her lips, already annoyed with what his response would be. "First of all, it was not an ’entire’ bottle of wine. As for the why… I mean it’s honestly a bit comical in retrospect. Someone threw their drink at me. Like I’ve only seen that in movies. It was this whole scene and they were kicked out." Magnolia looked down, biting the inside of her lip to keep the image of her father out of her mind before continuing. "Then Camilla Rhodes, you know from Sophie's Valentine? She made some comment about my dad, it was so stupid - but..."

Her sentence trailed off, Nola staring into the crowd directionless for a moment before snapping back to Samar. “But, then I drank a lot of wine and I’ve got to say - I think I need to be doing this more often.”

He hated that he wasn’t more surprised. No one was ever going to throw a drink at him, but he hated the idea of whispers behind his back and uncomfortable looks. Samar never wanted to be somewhere he wasn’t wanted. But Nola…. she’s been doing that exact thing since he’d met her. Hell, he’d even hated her, until he realized how much work she did to right her family's wrongs. But even after the revolution was over and their city was finally peaceful, Magnolia was still trying to right her name.

“Rhodes being a bitch is the thing that finally gets you to drink? Shit. You get pissed at me when I drink like that, remember that next time you're trying to take the whiskey away”, He glared into the crowd like he was glaring at the fake idol musician herself, “Out of anyone, Camilla Rhodes is the one person that should not be at an award ceremony for war heroes. I still don’t get how she didn’t end up in a cell”

Magnolia gestured to interject, grasping for the millions of intangibilities that led to her quick spiral, but the words were too hard to string together in this state. It wasn’t just Camilla, it was everything that led up to that moment that pushed her to the edge - Camilla just happily pushed her over. She shook her head, looking into her drink then back at Samar.

“Plenty of people say the same about me,” and you. Magnolia let the implication sit between them, shrugging her shoulders. She knew all too well the dirty details that bound Sophie’s Valentine to the elite. As much as the pop star was a thorn in her side, Magnolia still felt the guilt of her father's action forcing her to just take it. She finally took a drink of her bourbon, suddenly aware of the tipping scale of her blood alcohol level.

“Oo - yeah, you need to take some of this.” Magnolia poured some of her bourbon into Samar’s glass, spilling some onto both of them. She winced, mocking an apologetic expression before taking another baby sip from her drink.

He really didn’t care much for the spilled bourbon on his cuff, ignoring it in favor of his partially refilled glass. Samar was tempted to down it, toss aside tonight's issues with a few more drinks, shit-talk the guests into Nola’s ear, and then end it with a bleary cab ride home. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was second-guessing his usual charade- possibly because of the drunk sad girl in front of him, possibly because of the particular crowd he was surrounded by.

Samar had never expected to win any trophies. He’d known what he was getting himself into when he’d chosen this role, his uncle had helped him understand there was no parade for their breed of revolutionary. But standing here in the corner with Magnolia Wrenley- someone who did deserve the utmost praise- Samar felt the slight sting of jealousy. Not for some stupid piece of metal he’d throw in a box and forget, but for the comradery amongst the winners. Six months ago he’d been present at the cease-fire and tonight he’d had to sneak his way in after the main show.

"Alright", Samar finished off his drink and set down his glass harshly, "Fuck this. If I'm going to be here, I'm not sitting in the corner like some sad asshole. Come on".