Hi! Hope this is okay. Let me know if I need to change anything. Although I wrote it in first person to give myself and whoever might read this a better picture of Calvin, I'll write in standard third person past tense for actual posts.
OOC Info
Name/Alias: lady_vaguely/VaguelyFamiliar
Live Journal: lady_vaguely
Also Plays: Charon
IC Info
Name: Calvin White
Age: 224 years young. No one's carded me for booze in a while.
Height: 6'2. One thing about this mess of a body the radiation didn't change.
Weight: 150 pounds. You lose a lot of water weight when your flesh dries up like jerky, yeah? But I still got muscle where it counts, so don't get no ideas.
Hair: Black. Not much to speak of, but I'm proud of what I got.
Eyes: Used to be chocolate brown, drove the girls I ran with wild. Now it don't matter. No one looks in 'em anyway.
Skin: What's left, mostly across my back and my stomach, is still deep brown. Everywhere else is pretty rough, especially my face. Real midnight monster movie marathon material right there. Boo hoo, I'd be cryin' if my tear ducts hadn't dried to dust along with the rest of it.
Race: Ghoul. Plain as the nose not on my face.
Hometown/Origins: Palm Springs, California
Current Residence: I'm a man of the road, so to speak. Anywhere that'll let me rest my bones for a while without runnin' me out sounds like a good place to be.
Employment/Hobbies: Before the bombs dropped, I sang tenor in a jazz quartet. Got halfway popular, too, back when people gave a shit about stuff like that. Go ahead, laugh it up. Now, I drift. Kill when I need to, hide when I don't, eat what comes to hand. I have trouble stayin' in one place for long.
Companion: My Robobrain, Lucinda. Combat inhibitor went nuts decades ago and now she's some kind of mechanical pacifist, won't shut up about the sanctity of all life big and small. Useless, but I keep her around 'cause I like the sound of her voice. Don't judge what you don't understand.
Personality: I may come off a little sarcastic, and I've racked up a lot of kills through the years, but there's worse than me. A lot worse. I try to help when I can, but I'm not big on other people, human or ghoul. It's been a damned long time, but I still haven't gotten over changin' from a handsome man with friends, a fiancée, a future ahead of me into...whatever you want to call what I am now. Fuck, even by ghoul standards I'm ugly. I've settled here or there, signed on with crews for a while, but then time passes and I just can't stand the way they look at me no more. It's lonely out there by myself, but with no one else around I can pretend I'm still myself. How I was. How I'd like to be.
History: Like I said, I sang with a group of guys before the war. People were tense, things were gettin' crazy, but we managed to get popular enough that I didn't have to buy my own drinks no more. I was set to marry Lucy, my sweetheart since we were kids, in November of '77. Then we played a few gigs in Colorado, my head got big, and I said yes when a nice-lookin' fan asked me back to her place after a show. Three days later I couldn't get out of bed I was so sick, and four days later I'm in the hospital and the doctor is tellin' me I've caught some kind of late wave of New Plague, the Denver Special. I didn't die, lucky me. But while they were pokin' around they found a tumor the size of a golf ball in my chest and told me I only had a few months left anyway.
When the sirens started blarin', the staff ran for cover. I had a morphine drip, the kind with the squeeze bulb you keep in your hand, and I just kept squeezin' away while things went to hell outside. When the first bombs went off I was on the twelfth floor of St. Augustine's, too doped up to be afraid. I woke up god knows how long after, dug myself out of what was left of the hospital, and realized I felt stronger than I had in months.
I looked for Lucy, but our whole neighborhood was a crater. My skin started itchin' and peelin' like a bad sunburn. Then like somethin' worse. I didn't care much, then. I just started walkin'.
But that was years ago. More recently I fell in with a guy named Roy Phillips and his crew. It was fun for a while, but then Roy got his head fixed on gettin' into that damned tower just because they told him he can't, and his temper went from bad to worse. Killin' someone because you have to, well, that's part of makin' it to the end of the day in this madhouse. But the things he was talkin' about... I snuck off in the middle of the night with Lucinda and I didn't look back once.
And here I am, on the road again.
Preferred Weapons: I don't pick fights, but after all this wanderin' I can take care of myself. I got shaky hands, so I stick to my shotgun and grenades instead of anything that needs finesse. My fists are nothin' to sneer at, either, unless you want me to wipe that sneer off your face for you.
Preferred Armor: Leather or something else I can run in. I'm not squeezing myself into no tin can.
Motto: Just keep on walkin'.
