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Vanja Fitzpatrick

"What, I'm supposed to sum myself up in one sentence? That's stupid."

0 · 172 views · located in Earth

a character in “The End Days”, as played by Aftershock

Description

Van

Image
Ain't No Rest For The Wicked by Cage The Elephant
"I already said I'm not doing this stupid quote thing."





Real Name
"The eclectic mess that Dad turned everything into."
Vanja Absalon Fitzpatrick


Alias
"An Alias? Who for? I'm not exactly drowning in company."
None

Nicknames
"Nowadays it's mostly 'angel-freak', or 'half-breed', or 'abomination'. Every now and then you come across someone with an original one though. The other day some yahoo with a shotgun called me a 'cock-juggling thundercunt'. Still cracks me up.
Van||Fitzy||Pattie||Fool of a Took

Age
"I was 18 when the whole end-of-the-world thing went down. Now? I dunno. Old. No one's really a kid after that."
24

Race:
"Dad's Irish, but he's a traveller at heart. Mum was Croatian. I like to consider myself an international citizen."
Irish

Gender
"A tri-gendered pyrofox. Jeez, it's like Prof. Oak all over again."
Male

Sexuality
"At this point, probably anything."
Straight

Love Interest
"Since the apocalypse, I've been in a pretty steady relationship with my right hand. Not really a lot of other options. Although, when I really wanna spice things up, she's got this twin..."
None





Appearance

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Though less obvious than this, the angelic markings he bears are still far from subtle. Aside from that, this is what he'd have looked like when he was younger.





Height:
"Still not tall enough to not hear bad leprechaun jokes"
6'2

Weight:
"It's the ass. Baby got back."
84kg

Eye Colour:
"They glow. Which is cool, y'know, except when it's night time and you're trying to hide from some slathering demon freak..."
Golden

Hair Colour:
"Like golden silk. Even in the apocalypse, it still hasn't lost its sheen."
Dirty blonde
"Fuck you it's gold."

Distinctive Markings:
"Used to have a few piercings, and a spike in the one ear. But that was in my old life. Just didn't seem like there was any point to them anymore. Now I've got this glowing constellation thing on my face and chest. Again, badass, but impractical as hell."

Description:
"Alive. Which is more than can be said for most people."





Personality

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Likes:
"Finding someone who doesn't instantly hate me cause of what I am. Actually, I don't even care about that. They can hate me as long as they'll talk instead of trying to kill me. God I miss people. Even the assholes."

Dislikes:
"Pessimists. I know the world is shit. We all know the world is shit. It's an apocalypse. Shit doesn't even begin to describe the level of ass-dredgery this situation has stooped too. Now shut the hell up and let's get on with trying to live in it. Oh, even worse, not knowing anything about mechanics. God that would be so useful now."

Quirks:
"Oh, I've developed plenty. It's all about routine. You just need little things to do, no matter how silly or inane. Always keep busy."

Fears:
"My brains pretty much overloaded with fear. I can't even think about it."

Skills:
"Parkour, mostly self-taught. Bit of martial arts. All sorts of things actually. Plenty of free time nowadays. The apocalypse has been great for running. That's been very important. Hiding too. Looots of running and hiding."

Personality:
"I used to be a lot of things. Determined. Outgoing. Compassionate. Brilliant. Hilarious. Inspirational. Now? Now it's mostly just tired. Tired or sarcastic. Ain't much left of worth in this world but a sense of humor. Suddenly that's the most valuable thing there is."





Background

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As he gains power, he'll start to develop an ivory mantle in the place of a halo or wings





Known Languages:
"A bit of everything, and even more swear words."
English, French, Hindi, various phrases in others.

Family:
"It's always been just me and Dad - his name was Shaun. Mum died shortly after I was born, so I don't really remember her, but I at least know her name was Katie. We traveled around a lot, me and Dad - he was a photographer, and about a million other things. He was also a brilliant mechanic. I wish I'd picked some of that up from him. Anyway, we were constantly on the move. We had a little house in Honolulu, cause Dad loved it there, but we mostly used it as a place to keep souvenirs from our travels. He's always been a giant inspiration to me. He drank something fierce, but it was never really a problem. The only thing that bothered me was not knowing anything about my mother. He only ever talked about her when he was drunk. Well, he's Irish, so he was always drinking, but more so than usual.

You'd think my mom was the Angel, what with how out of the picture she was, but I'm not so sure... One night, Dad was in an especially sorry state. I was trying to get him off to bed, but he just kept rambling at me. Saying things about how badly he wanted to be a good father, and how important it was that I thought of him as my dad. That I could never know what 'that bastard did to Katie', that it had nothing to do with me being his son... I asked what he meant, and it was like he suddenly realized what he was saying. He refused to speak about it after that."


History:
"Multicultural kid of a famous photographer who grew up all over the world. Driven and intelligent enough to get a full scholarship at one of the most prestigious high schools in the US. Athletic, devilishly good-looking, a kid with a host of friends and a beautiful girlfriend of three years. Everything was perfect. Hell, I had my pick of the best scholarship options for whichever Uni I wanted. You wanna know what that all amounted to? Zip. I was going to be an inspiration. I was making the absolute most out of life. I still am. Now there's just nothing worth making out of it.

Other:


Format Β©Layla

So begins...

Vanja Fitzpatrick's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silver Character Portrait: Vanja Fitzpatrick

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Van


Van started, tender oblivion giving way to groggy confusion. He launched to his right, hand scrabbling at the faded ochre bricks till they hit cold metal. A reassuring weight fell into this grip, the muzzle of his Mossberg 500 glaring at the darkness before him. All of his senses were on high alert, straining for any sign that something was wrong. Still, the only sound that came was the frantic beating of his paranoid heart.

Calm down. Assess the situation.

First things first, that noise didn't come from this room. There had been no rattling of cans, no sharp crashes emanating from downstairs. Nothing had hit his tripwires. There shouldn't be anything here. Not that that often amounted to much. His right index still perched over the 500's trigger, he reached up and behind him with the left. Artificial light threw the room into his scrutiny as the lamp burst into life, fine reflexes ready to put a shell through anything that had stalked him in the shadows. But the light had revealed only the empty room.

Relief flooded his system in a gasp, releasing the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He stood up, slightly light-headed from the rush of adrenaline.

No immediate danger. That was a demon screech that woke you. This is the O'Malley safehouse, the area is usually abandoned. Why is a demon screeching here?

Keeping a running commentary to himself was one of the ways Van liked to stay sane, to keep his thoughts in order. He stepped towards the doorway, cautiously lifting his leg and bending over to step through the fishing lines that stretched across it. Invisible if you didn't know where to look, he used them in the more remote safehouses as a warning system. If anything tried to sneak into the house while he slept they'd set off a variety of distinct noises, and Van would immediately be alert.

A second screech wailed out, this one pain-filled. Van took note of it's direction and distance. Slinking out a gap in the brickwork, he dropped noiselessly to the ground. He moved effortlessly, a preternatural grace carrying him over the rubble. That same superhuman ability had given him strength, but still he never traveled unarmed. He could hit hard, but not as hard as his trusty Mossberg.

He quickly found the source of the noise. A demon, particularly ugly but not particularly impressive, was locked in battle with what looked like a girl. Judging from the way she moved though, she was no human.

Actually, she moves like you do.

No Angel would stoop low enough to assume a human form, and demons usually abandoned subtly once the fight started. Either way, he couldn't let this girl die just because she MIGHT be an enemy. He strode forward, not bothering to hide himself. The moment a gap appeared, the Mossberg 500 made it's introductions. She lacked the tact of a truly eloquent speaker, but she made a powerful point. The demons head seemed to find the conversation objectionable, and promptly splattered itself across the surrounding rubble.

Ah well, you can't win 'em all over, hey Betty?

The shotgun was pumped and ready before the demons body even hit the ground, eager to resume the dispute should it come back for more. She remained fixed on the body, even when Van turned towards the girl that had been fighting it.

"You ok?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silver Character Portrait: Vanja Fitzpatrick

0.00 INK

#, as written by Layla
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Breathe.

Expand your lungs.

Expel your thoughts.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Falter. Struggle. Stop.

He was the first human she'd seen in five years.

She pressed her palm against her chest, checking the frantic hammering of a vital organ. She wasn't dead, but maybe she was dying. For decades, her trembling heart had been content hiding beneath the layers of flesh and clothing, but not anymore. Now it struggled against the veins that held it in place and the alabaster bars that imprisoned it. Or maybe she was hallucinating that too.

A human boy. Beige words folded into skin that looked like skin. No scales. Just two legs. Two eyes. Two lips that could twitch into a smile at any moment. She hadn't seen a smile in five years.

Rivers of fiction/non-fiction flooded her thoughts. 28 letters forming a stream of consciousness that might've been what she'd said but she said nothing to him. Just stared and stared and stared. And she remembered the lines of a thousand songs, a thousand books, a thousand more.

Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl...

Three full stops/decimal points/dots at the end of a generic sentence. She didn't even understand why she was so utterly ensconced by the simple creature before her. She felt as she had after escaping four years of confinement but that was ridiculous. She would gladly accept the fate of a hermit if it meant escaping the savagery of humanity. She didn't even understand why her mind tripped over its own feet and hurled toward the deep, bright blank nothingness of a piece of paper that ached to be filled. Her fingers twitched for her journal. Her fingers twitched and she was scratching words into the dirt beside her.

Rumpelstiltskin span the lengths of straw into gold and wove the magic into a boy, she wrote. As fast as sound. Faster than sound. Lightning quick and faster than light and her fingers stumbled to follow the narrator in her head. Eyes that raged incandescent like the sun but be careful. Her finger hitched with her breath. Careful, the sun will leave you behind.

His eyes were brilliant. Radiant. Luminous. Bright. Too bright.

"You ok?"

Silver leapt to her feet, her heart lurching back into place with soul-sucking momentum. She noticed the odd maze of lights that gleamed on his chest and forehead like constellations then. No, he was certainly not human. A demon, perhaps - she eyed the chiseled cut of his jaw, his nose job gone right and the dip of his lips - a vain one. Her eyes darted to the shotgun in his hands. He seemed eager for her trust. What sort of queer tactic was this? What was he? An incubus? Why would he bother with weak bullets? To gain her trust? Appear more human? Lure her into his bed in the hopes that she might have some sort of sick fetish for blonde Adonises wielding shotguns like condoms?

Please.

She eyed him wearily, keeping her body partly turned towards him and she twisted her arm behind her. Dust and debris rained over her forearm, dotting it in red as she tore pieces of metal bone from the corpse of the building behind her. She snapped the length into manageable pieces over her knee and before her thoughts could keep up with the millisecond movements of her automated body, she'd hurled and embedded four jagged chunks of steel in the beast.

Wasting no time, she spun around to overwhelm the incubus/human boy/angel faced creature. She swept her leg to dislodge his grip on his gun, arms poised in loose fists over her face and head tucked to avoid stray bullets. The knife purred a clear note as she pulled it from the inner lining of her right Guess boot, slipping it easily into her bloodied hand, her pain blind with adrenaline. She threw her weight into the hollow of his collarbone, slamming him into the faded building behind him. Daggers sliced through her shoulder. Damn, this boy was hard. She pressed the blade against his throat and pushed her knee against the wall between his legs.

"I am now," she provided him with the delayed reply. Dark crimson blood that was not his own trickled from the tensed wound in her palm and stained his skin. Silver cocked her head, eyes flitting from eyes like molten gold, nose angels would envy, lips girls ached to taste, stubble that belayed danger, to throat that dented beneath the hiss of a knife. Then slowly, all the way up again. "Pretty face. I'd hate to ruin it." A smirk teased the corners of her lips. "So why don't you do us both a favour and shed the snake's skin, love? And tell me why, exactly," she mused, leg inching higher, knife sinking deeper. "You stole my kill."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silver Character Portrait: Vanja Fitzpatrick

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Van


Idiot. Moron. Absolute cretin. You deserve to die for that level of stupidity. One girl with a pretty face comes along...

We both know it was more than her face we were distracted by.

Five years of surviving this shit-hole, thrown away! For what?!

Shut up. Nothing's thrown away yet.

Taking priority over his inner monologue was a third inner voice, rapidly assessing the situation.

The knife was pressing hard against his throat. If he bumped it sideways trying to disarm her, he'd give himself a grin beneath his chin. She was leaning heavily against him, and her left elbow pinned his right arm. The leg was more for effect than practical combat purposes. She was toying with him. Good. That might buy me a little time before she carves me like a Christmas turkey. It had been far too long since he'd practiced self-defense against someone like this, and he didn't know if she was too fast for it to work anyway. A familiar pit of fear sunk into his gut.

So he smiled.

"Come to think of it, I'd hate for you to ruin it too!" He laughed, a little more nervously than he'd meant to. Hopefully she'd talk. If she was talking, she probably wasn't slicing. ...probably....

"So how about you put the knife down. I didn't know that was 'your kill'. No worries. I get it. Next time I'll remember to let the demon thing eat you. Screw me for trying to save you. What a douche move. God forbid you'd be a little grateful. I guess that's asking a bit much with the way the world is now, hey?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silver Character Portrait: Vanja Fitzpatrick

0.00 INK

#, as written by Layla
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Confusion flitted across her level gaze.

"God forbid you'd be a little grateful. I guess that's asking a bit much with the way the world is now, hey?"

Was he trying to be... Funny?

A laugh bubbled in her chest, bursting through her lips with a lilting tilt. Birdsong, mellow hills and daffodils tumbled from her body, shaking the hand that grasped the knife. She didn't seem to notice the way the blade played tag with his Adam's apple. Or maybe she did. Dimples emerged in her cheeks as she beamed at him, her teeth white enough to blind a man. She shook her head, slightly, her grip on her knife and the angle of her body never faltering.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, yes." Another laugh. "How could you expect such a thing from a helpless girl beaten down by the utter misery of this earth? We are corpses in a graveyard. Devoid of gratitude." She pressed her body tighter against his, her words a tickle of breath against her ear. "Alternatively, you could just be very, very bad at reading a situation." Her teeth nicked his earlobe. "When was the last time you had a girl, Incubus?" She paused. "Or have you slaughtered so many of them that there are none left?"

There was no anger or fear in her voice, nothing to reveal that she held any grudge against him for his supposed crime against humanity, only a constant, teasing amusement. Silver didn't think the Demons and Angels were wrong to commit such brutal collateral damage in their war against one another. The earth had lost nothing of value when the billions of mortal shells littered the earth, fertilised it and allowed nature to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. Humans were motivated by greed, fear and laziness, but they lacked the true inveterate passion of demons, and they twisted the apathy of angels into a senseless savagery. Humans had more to offer dead than alive and there was no cruelty any Angel or Demon could commit that a mere human couldn't. At least Angels and Demons had a reason for being mad, and a purpose. She supposed that made her trash as well. The thought made her smile.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silver Character Portrait: Vanja Fitzpatrick

0.00 INK

Van


A gurgling brook lapped at his ears, a peal of laughter that should have been beautiful. Some small dissonance offset the harmony, lending a deeply disturbing discord to what would otherwise have been light and innocent. The knife-blade playing hopscotch with his neck may have had something to do with that.

The girl - if she even was a girl, with the way she toyed with him Van was strongly suspecting something sub-human - breathed sinisterly into his ear. She fought demons and thought him an Incubus. Van's revised guess was that his antagonist was an angel. From his own experiences, he knew them to be far more dogged and merciless than demons. If she'd taken an interest in him, only one of them would survive. A heady warmth rose within him, the power he'd been drawing on filling his chest and reaching tantalizingly into his sinuses. A grim determination settled below his surface.

I'm not dying here.

A wry smile crept across his face. "You're still left, aren't you? I'm no Incubus, but if you drop the knife I'll play the part well enough for you."

The moment her lips parted in response, the heady warmth within him riled into an electrifying inferno, ripping out form his center in the form of a shockwave of force. His attacker was swatted across the rubble and he dove for for his shotgun. The Mossberg 500 fell into his hands, a well-practiced roll bringing him up onto a knee and leveling the shotgun at his opponent. But a moment was wasted on aiming for the girl, then the Mossbergs bark ripped out across the gap between them.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silver Character Portrait: Vanja Fitzpatrick

0.00 INK

#, as written by Layla
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She'd been hit before.

The first time was when she'd attempted to pry her mother's crescent fingernails from the depths of her own flesh but three year olds were appallingly weak and she'd only succeeded in irritating the older woman. She hadn't even seen it coming, or felt it in the moment the bony backhand collided with marshmallow cheek, plush with youth and devastating, apocalyptic stupidity. She saw only the tilting wallpaper, the curl in its edge, partially hidden behind her mother's beige dockside shoes before obsidian lights enveloped her. She'd sworn that very day to never, ever confine her feet in such hideous footwear.

But it hadn't felt anything like this. This was a shockwave emitting from a the implosion of a nuclear factory. It was a dozen shelf of rice bags toppling with the force of a tractor tearing through Walmart. It was 62.33 mountains slamming into her gut with a rocky fist. It was invisible. It was the Fantastic Four meets X-Men, and each super-mortal had been armed with Captain America's shield. It threw her into an ash-stained truck and dented it. Her body dented a truck. And shockingly, she was okay.

Well, shit. Isn't today a day for miracles?

First the first human... Esque. Looking. Thing? Appeared. And now being thrown against a hunk of metal hurt the vehicle more than it did her? As she jumped to her feet, she noted the lack of agony and wondered which of the many Gods she didn't believe in she would thank first. She settled on Santa Claus, and prayed for a half-decent, partially edible artificial preservative loaded box of double chocolate chip cookies for dinner while she was at it. Her handshake with the truck ignited its ancient alarm system and she gritted her teeth against the assault of noise. It was shocking. The number of things that should never have survived Armageddon that did, and the number of things that should have survived. But didn't.

She smelled the bullet exiting the barrel of the milk tea puddle of a boy's gun before she saw it. (She was a little short-sighted.) And a million neurones fired in the millisecond it took for the bullet to reach its target. Anodized aluminium alloy, 12 gauge buckshot, what the hell do you do against a bullet, nice shotgun, and this is the way the world ends not with a bang but a whimper - bullshit, when was the last time I was faced with a gun, it's lucky angels and demons are technologically pathetic and I hope blood doesn't stain too badly.

Her body moved of its own accord, shifting to one side with lightning reflexes. But it learned something vital that day. Silver could not, in fact, dodge a bullet.

Jarring agony burst from her shoulder, licking tongues of flame beneath her skin. It bled into her vision, igniting red fireworks before her eyes. It shook her body, crushed her bones and spilled her life from the black hole dug into her body. She'd been shot before, she told herself. She'd been shot before and she'd survived and who the fuck needed a proper medical kit and I can get through this. But it'd been five years since anyone held a gun to her body, or simply, held a gun. She'd grown unaccustomed to the pain and shock. She'd even begun to believe she was the only person left who knew how to use one, the only creature who was human, left on earth.

Hope never had liked her very much.

She'd turned into a wimp in half a decade, she realised. A sad, cowering wimp who acted like being shot was that big of a deal. No biggie, she told herself. Just a Sunday stroll. Prancing with monsters. Getting shot by demons who looked like beautiful boys. You chipped a nail. Nails grow back. But hell was she sure that death from severe blood loss didn't entitle her to a resurrection. "Here's your second chance," her gang leader had said once. I didn't get a first, she'd wanted to yell, and she would've, had she been able to move, and I demand a refund, universe.

"Damn," she muttered, pulling her leather jacket from her shoulder to reveal the spaghetti strap snipped hastily by the bullet, dangling uselessly across her chest, and the gushing wound that poured rivulets of scarlet her down her body. "I really liked that jacket." She flung a dagger at the space between his eyebrows, ducking simultaneously behind the truck she'd dented earlier. She wasn't stupid enough to fight a losing battle. Silver was not prepared for man-made weapons. She didn't have a gun of her own. Guns did minimal damage to great hulking beasts like the Imp she'd teased earlier. Bullets rained on thick-skinned monsters like Tic-tacs on a baby. Swords cut jagged fissures across their bodies. They sliced off limbs and beheaded the "undead." Bullets were for humans, none of which who were left. Or so she'd thought.

She knew this post-apocalyptic world had been too good to be true. Lurching to a jagged run, she ducked behind the remains of human civilisation. She was fast. The pulse of magic and the bullet had stunned her. Made her temporarily slow. But now she knew, and only fools made the same mistake twice.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Silver Character Portrait: Vanja Fitzpatrick

0.00 INK

Van


A flash of silver skimmed the ridge of Van's nose, bisecting the space his head had been microseconds prior. Blades moved slower than bullets, and he'd started moving the moment she reached for the knife. He fired again, but she was already on the move, and the bullets unleashed their wrath on the innocent rubble instead.

If I hadn't needed to pump between shots, she'd be dead now.

But if she'd decided to skewer you while your guard was down instead of talking, you'd be dead. Deal with 'if' afterwards, deal with this situation now.

Still, need to find an automatic rifle. If only one of the fucking settlements would let me in.

He skimmed across the top of the rubble, following her trail of blood. Betty lead the way, pumped and ready. He gave the corner a wide berth, intent on slaying his opponent immediately if she lay waiting for him. Nothing sprung out at him though, and the splattered blood trail continued out of sight. He tried to move with haste, but though his caution may save him if she intended an ambush, it also slowed him down. After a few fruitless minutes of tailing the trail, he halted. If she'd bolted, she'd be long gone by now. He might be able to catch her if he ran full-pelt, but he didn't relish the idea of following her onto home-turf or stumbling into a trap.

She's a loose end. She'll come back to bite you in the butt.

Hehe, if I'm lucky.

Either way, nothing to be done now. If she came back, he'd be sure not to be there. The O'Malley safehouse was too close to where they fought, he couldn't go back. She could turn back when she realizes she's not being followed anymore, to see where he goes. He'd just give the safehouse away if he stopped past it. He'd have to move on, treat it as hostile ground for now. Scope it out again in a month or so. The supplies will keep. He just got there, nothing's fresh. The fishing lines were still up in the doorways, cans attached and all, but that had to be conceded. At least when he returned he'd know if anyone had been in there.

Shit, my bag's inside. Fuck.

The bag was forsakeable though. He had enough of the important stuff in his jacket to get him to the next safehouse. It was still fucking annoying though.

He retraced his steps as carefully as he had taken them, gun at the ready. He intended to grab her dagger then move on, heading further out of the city. West-south-west, he'd decided. 313 warehouse cafe, here we come. He would set off North though, towards the city. If she did follow him, he'd give her the slip in the Wyckoff Station mezzanine. He'd swing round and head back in his true direction, and with luck she'd stumble on into the demon nest nestled within the station.

He realized how paranoid he sounded, but didn't care. Paranoia kept him alive. Besides, just because it's paranoid to think she'll follow him after getting shot, doesn't mean she won't. He kept moving along the intended path, especially vigilant. He'd remain so until he was clear of Wyckoff Station.