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Silas Ezekiel Falcone

Basically, Silas is only around to make everyone wish he wasn't there.

0 · 638 views · located in Washington D.C.

a character in “Psychosis: 2050”, as played by TheCoriProject

Description

I am sometimes strong
and sometimes weak,
But I am nobody’s fool.
For there is no language that I can’t speak.

Pale skin, dark hair, bright eyes? What more can a girl ask for? Silas is a very firm guy, taking out his frustrations through exercise. Muscular and svelte, he weighs approximately 168 pounds and stands at about 6'1". His eyes are a shiny, mesmerizing shade of sapphire blue and accented by his long, dark eyelashes. His skin is extremely pale for all of the time he spends outside, but not in a sickly way--he works it. His hair, kept long and gelled on top and shorter on the sides, is jet black and extremely soft.

Image
Image

Personality

Highly frustrating and impeccably irritating, Silas is the type of smart-ass that has a remark for every statement. Although found incredibly attractive by many women, he pushes them away with his attitude. He's definitely a pessimist, believing that oneself can only expect the absolute worst in any and all situations. He's full of sarcastic, witty comments and cruel jokes. It's hardly reasonable for him to be this bitter, and there's really no way to figure out why he acts like he does because he doesn't let people get very close to him. There's something suspicious about him, and many people don't find him trustworthy at all.

History

Silas comes from a broken family, his mother and father not exactly the best people. They were always (and probably still are, if he knew) married, although his father was always entertaining new women that Silas liked to call his "girlfriends". Even as a small child, he learned not to trust people in a relationship because of his father. After high school, he found himself thrown out of his home and without enough funds to pursue a college education, so he immediately went into the work force as a waiter in a popular restaurant in the center of D.C. called "Amelia's".

So begins...

Silas Ezekiel Falcone's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Joanne "Jo" McAllister Character Portrait: Silas Ezekiel Falcone
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Ransacking homes in an abandoned suburb when any second someone could leap out of the shadows and try to kill me...
The things I do for alcohol.


Silas sighed disdainfully, shaking his head as he stepped carelessly on the belongings of some long-gone homeowner. Judging by the lovely crimson stains on the eastern wall, they didn't leave by choice. Or leave at all. The hairs on the back of his neck rose a little and he shivered, feeling as if there head just been a gust of wind through the building. He'd been getting the feeling all day, what with the weather showing an imminent threat of a storm... The gloom was really making this hard-headed man's heartbeat speed up a little. Already having nearly half a bottle of some unmarked alcoholic beverage in his system, he was beginning to stumble. He typically could handle large quantities of alcohol, but today was just not his day. It might have been that he was running on an empty stomach or something of the sort. He was Silas, damn it, and he didn't know or care. Stepping forward, there was a lovely crunch beneath his shoes and he glared down at the culprit.

Glass. He scoffed inwardly, having thought it was the mangled skeleton of a baby or a rat or something. Glad it was nothing, he went to take another step.

That was when he heard the gunshots.

Dropping to the floor without care for what might jab him in the process, he scanned the room with the air of an army general or something of the sort. His eyes were narrowed dangerously--no one screwed with Silas, especially when he was feeling particularly tipsy. In fact, just then he fell over just a little in his feline crouch. Clearing his throat, he started to stand when the next few shots were fired. His head automatically turned to detect where it was coming from, a small piece of his black hair flopping down in his sapphire blue eyes. Scowling deeply, he lunged out of the building and scanned his surroundings for any sign of danger--Fuck it. Y.O.-fuckin'-L.O.," he thought--and darted across the street in the direction of a warehouse where the culprit was obviously hiding. He was at the back, only cloudy windows to look in. At this point, of course, he didn't care about safety. When did he ever? It's a hard knock life.

Then his eyes locked on a back door, one that was hidden by a spilled pile of trash. He rolled his eyes, his hand already on the handle. Who didn't lock all of the doors, seriously? It turned with such ease, he just burst straight in and immediately slid his hand to his waist in search of his gun. Grabbing it with his less-than-completely-steady hand, he conjured it from his waist and pointed it at a... woman.

And a bad-ass looking woman, at that. Lounging with a beer and a comic book... Obviously she was staying here long-term. She had a mattress, and the place looked slightly home-y. Raising one eyebrow and tilting his head to the side, he scoffed in his Silas-y way, "The fuck was the ruckus?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Joanne "Jo" McAllister Character Portrait: Silas Ezekiel Falcone
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Jo's days always went something like this: Wake up when-the-fuck-ever (she didn't have a clock, and the small skylights on the warehouse roof didn't let in much light), drink a beer (or three), complete the bare minimum in body and oral hygiene, count her weapons, do a few rounds of target practice, and a retreat to her mattress to enjoy her solitude. Lather, rinse, repeat. She was completely alone, save for her weapons, booze, and comic books, which was just the way she liked it. Things were less messy when it was just herself, and, to be perfectly honest, she'd never been all that enthused about other people even before the whole apocalypse thing. Save for the 2 days a month she went out on supply runs, she never saw another living soul (and even then, you couldn't really call the genetically modified zombies "living"...), and that was fine by her. As far she was concerned, the fewer people she saw, the more booze and guns there were for her. And so she was quite content as she lay on her mattress, flipping through her comic book and sipping beer. The warehouse was quiet, and all was as it should be. She was nearly to the part where Spiderman saved the screaming Mary Jane from the dastardly Green Goblin and swept her off to safety. It briefly occurred to her what a stupid comic this was, the way dumb Mary Jane had just gotten herself captured and shit, but hey, the whole webs-shooting-out-of-your-hands thing was pretty cool. Not as cool as having a shit load of weapons, but cool all the same.

And then she heard it, a rustling and a click from the backdoor, and she did a mental facepalm before grabbing for the pistol at her hip. Leaving the door unlocked had been a stupid mistake, but it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed with a couple gunshots. Unfortunately, she was just a little too slow this time. Before she had fully gotten her gun out of its holster she found herself looking up the barrel of a handgun. Being Jo, she was much more interested in the gun than the person holding it, and she inspected the weapon in the hand of the intruder, noting its style and make. Nice piece. I'll have to take it when I'm through with him. Heaving a sigh, she set her beer down and got to her knees, gracing him with a half-smirk. "A better question is, who the fuck are you? And what are you doing here? This is private property, you know."

Technically, that was true. About a month ago Jo had stolen a can of orange spray paint from a run-down convenience store and spray painted a charming "Keep the fuck out" across the front and back doors of the warehouse, but obviously this moron couldn't read. But hey, that was fine; if elementary English was too difficult for him to comprehend, she'd let her bullets do the talking.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Joanne "Jo" McAllister Character Portrait: Silas Ezekiel Falcone
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Silas scoffed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head lightly. Who did this girl think she was? "Private property my ass, dumbshit. Nobody owns anything nowadays." Then, he did something that might seem foolish. He literally dropped the gun to his hip and slid it into his holster once again. Shocking enough on it's own, just then he basically reached out to the nearest piece of furniture--an old desk--and knocked everything on it to the floor. What did he care if it was her "private property"? The world was anyone's to claim, now. He hopped up onto the edge of the desk, leaning back and just sprawling out on the surface as if it was the most comfortable bed in the world. Seconds passed.

Then, daringly, he declared, "Mind passing me a beer or something?" Of course, he'd already had enough to drink--that much was obvious. And it was only the morning! Clearing his throat a little, he turned to look at her. "Oh. You asked other questions, didn't you, dollface?" He left his piercing eyes on her for a moment longer, trying to gather his thoughts together. What were those questions, again? His name, why he was there... "The name is Silas, princess." She seemed to him like the tougher type, and his need to piss everyone off kicked in just then. He hoped she just ADORED the tacky nicknames he was throwing at her.

"And I really have no idea why the hell I'm here." He laughed crudely, looking up at the ceiling with a crooked grin and just shook his head. Still looking up, he added, "Got no where else to be, I guess..." Then, with a sharp turn back at her, he lifted his one eyebrow and questioned, "So, how'd you come across this lovely place of yours?" His tone was incredibly mocking, as usual.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Joanne "Jo" McAllister Character Portrait: Silas Ezekiel Falcone
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Jo felt the color rising in her cheeks, a long-suppressed anger bubbling up in side her. It'd been thirteen days since she'd seen a human face, and even longer since she'd had a conversation; she was dying for a fight. "No one owns anything, huh? I've got a shit load of guns in here that could prove you wrong real quick, asshole." He was, of course, un-phased by the mention of weaponry, which she'd expected from anyone stupid enough to wander into an abandoned warehouse containing god knows what. His stupidity seemed to have no bounds, actually, as at that moment he holstered his gun and FUCKIN' KNOCKED HER SHIT ONTO THE FLOOR. Jo was floored. Beyond floored. She had dropped straight through the floor and taken her rage from the deepest depths of hell.

By some superhuman expression of willpower, Jo managed not to blow his brains out. There were better ways to make someone pay than an instantaneous death, and now that this bastard fly was caught in her web, she'd make sure he paid. Very slowly, and with deadly calm, Jo rose to her feet. She played it cool, ice cool, and pretended to stifle a yawn, looking down at the moron now sprawled across her desk. The dipshit had the audacity to ask for a beer, and, rather than grace him with a response, she simply picked up her own beer and wandered over to her Captain's chair, which was conveniently placed beside the desk. Taking a seat, she put her feet up on the desk and let the dirt-encrusted heels of her boots rest on his arm. He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes and continued his speech, carrying on as though nothing had happened.

Dollface. Dollface? O-ho-ho, he was on thin ice. Actually, he'd passed thin ice about 100 miles back. He was two seconds away from death was what he was. "Princess, huh? I guess that makes this my castle, huh, Sil-ass?" Ignoring the quip on his name, which was really wasn't her best work anyway, he kept plugging along, answering her final question with a laugh and an inquiry of his own.

"I don't think you're in much of a position to ask. And as long as you're a guest in this castle, you'll address her highness as Jo. Just Jo." Tilting her chin up in that childishly defiant way, Jo reached into her pocket and pulled out a Swiss army knife. She flipped out the blade and held it up above her head, inspecting the metal in the light before lowering it to her nails and beginning the tedious process of cleaning out the dirt and grime from underneath her fingernails. "So tell me," she continued, "are you one of them?" She said it so casually, as if she were asking if he were a girl scout. It didn't really matter what he said, she wouldn't believe him, and as soon as it was convenient she would kill him and be rid of the bastard.

You could never be too careful these days, after all. Before everything had gone wrong, people had gotten their information about zombies from crappy old movies and melodramatic T.V. shows. Everybody thought they were these decaying bodies that went around groaning "Braaains! Braaains!" But the reality wasn't that simple. Not at all. Because the bi-products of this apocalypse weren't really zombies...not quite. They were mutants, to be accurate. Genetically-modified soldiers, fucked-up experiments that had gone haywire and wreaked havoc on the country. And the worst part? Half the time you couldn't tell whether someone was one or not. Some of them appeared normal, you know? They looked like humans, talked like humans, behaved like humans...except when they were triggered. You couldn't tell what would set them off, but once that switch had been flicked, there was no shutting them off. The person that had appeared normal 2 minutes before was suddenly a rampaging, flesh-starved creature intent on killing you. So excuse Jo for her insistence on living alone within the safety of her fortified warehouse. She was going to survive this, and she didn't care what she had to do to do so.