Gregory James Mackenzie
Jan 16, 2014 21:35:50 GMT -5
Post by Greg Mackenzie on Jan 16, 2014 21:35:50 GMT -5
The easy S T U F F . . .Name: Gregory James Mackenzie
Nickname: Gregory, Greg, Mac, Mackenzie
Age: Sixteen (16)
Member Group: Student
Power(s):Telepathy .
Greg is a telepath, which mostly means he can read people’s thoughts and project his own. In his current untrained state, he’s unable to control when and which thoughts he can ‘hear’/’see’. The closer a target is – his maximum range is 100 metres, while his peak is around 80 metres – the ‘deeper’ the thoughts he can get. (He usually just gets shallow thoughts, like what people had for breakfast or how hard last night’s homework was. He has to try harder in case he needs/wants to know more). His target’s emotions also play in a role with what he can receive; the stronger the accompanying emotions are with these thoughts, the ‘louder’ they are and the more likely he’s to ‘hear’ them.
As with most mental abilities, headaches and nosebleeds are a major problem for Greg. He also gets dizzy and throws up often. With most of his energy being directed to his brain, his nutrient needs – glucose to be more specific – are way higher than normal. He needs to eat five meals a day, and have energy bars every half hour or so.
Play By: Beau MirchoffLet it F L O W . . .Of all places that it could’ve happened, my powers – I refuse to call them ‘gifts’ or ‘a curse’, it’s still too early to decide which – first emerged in bed, a few days after my sixteenth birthday. We were so close to the end when I started having flashes of his day. How he used spoiled milk for his Fruit Loops. How out of breath he was after chasing the bus cause he took a while zipping his shoes up. How jealous he felt of the exchange student’s new jacket during second-period Algebra. How he spent the entire fourth-period Physics wondering what Patrick Schwartz was packing in between his legs.
“Patrick Schwartz? Really?”
“Say what now?” he asked as he stopped. A bead of sweat dropped from his forehead and onto my naked chest as he tilted his head and stared at me with eyes yelling ‘What the fuck?’.
Lacking any real explanation for my sudden outburst, I simply shrugged it off and told him to continue. The rest of the afternoon went by smoothly, with the biggest development involving me telling him that I’m never letting him top ever again.
The second time happened the next day, during football practice. Aaron Rothschild, kid who drank the sea of narcissism and douchebaggery dry, got angry when I accidentally sent both of us falling on the cold, wet mud due to a kick gone wrong.
“Fag,” he blurted as he stood up.
It’s important to note that while Aaron was a little tall for his age, I towered a good inch or two above him. I’m also heavier and bigger than him, so beating him up wasn’t out of the question. I was just about to teach him why he shouldn’t utter such words when Coach Lee ran to our side.
“Rothschild, language,” yelled Coach Lee, “Say that again and you’d be benched for the next three games, capiche?” Aaron simply rolled his eyes. “You ok Mackenzie?”
The moment I took Coach’s hand the flashes started again. I saw the organized chaos that is his apartment. I tasted the croissant he had for breakfast. I felt the mixture of sadness and anger that overcame him when his wife stopped by his office and handed him their divorce papers.
“I’m good thanks,” I replied, biting my lip as a headache started forming. I played for an hour and a half after that before the headache became unbearable and asked if I could leave early. I threw up the moment I got to the parking lot, just by Aaron’s pick-up. I swear I did not do it on purpose.
It had to happen five more times before I convinced myself that it’s not just my imagination. The fifth time was when I was out with my boyfriend – sorry, ex-boyfriend; Richard broke up with me yesterday through text, that little turd – looking for a decent cologne for his dad’s birthday. The store aisles were a little narrow, and my hand unconsciously bumped into a woman’s (possibly in her mid-twenties) arm. Mind you this was but a split-second contact, but I got a lot from her. I didn’t know her name, but I knew, among other things, that she: (a) was married to a rich guy older than her grandfather; (b) cheating on him with a guy as old as her father; and (c) had a small, white, furry dog named Mr. Smoochiekums. She also has a Bachelor’s Degree in Mechanical Engineering and played the cello until she was 16, but that wasn’t too important.
I could not make this stuff up even if I tried.
Thankfully the nausea did not begin until after we ate cake at a local coffee shop. I made sure to stop by the library (to grab a book about meditation) and the pharmacy (for Tylenol) before I went home.
I will not be a cliché. I’ve seen the movies, I’ve read the comics. I may not have a Patrick Stewart on a wheelchair, but I will survive. I must.
They actually helped quite a bit. It’s also winter, so wearing long-sleeved shirts and gloves worked in my favour. Getting physical with Richard of course was a hassle – thattoxicqueen was always thirsty – but thankfully the upcoming semifinals did the trick. Big game (we were the furthest the school's team had gone in over four decades)_meant intense late night practices after all. Had to get the whole team on it with me. I was a little scared Aaron and his little clique would get in the way, but thankfully they didn't.
(What I didn't realize at that time was that Richard would interpret my distance as me being dissatisfied with the relationship. He broke up with me, true, but Leila - his best friend - told me it was 'cause he thought I was cheating on him with someone else).
For a while, I thought I’ve had everything under control. The headaches and vomiting were quite annoying, and being akin to a sponge when it comes to other people’s thoughts meant it’s hard to think, but overall they were manageable. The worst was that one time I had the sensation of a very graphic murder incident, possibly someone I drove past by. It distracted me to a point that I almost crashed into a ten-wheeler, but thankfully I managed to pull to the side last minute and take a while to calm down.
(I honestly hope it was just a TV show of some sorts. I couldn't sleep for two nights because of it. The nightmare isn't completely gone yet, but at least it haunts me every five nights or so now).
As days passed by, the headaches were getting worse, the voices louder. It was getting harder and harder to hold on to my sanity. And on the Saturday of the game, ten days after the first incident, all hell broke loose.
I didn’t realize it at that time, but the stressful environment allowed a series of little things that when taken individually could be more than manageable, but together just built upon each other and thus escalated to that, well, now infamous incident. Strong thoughts and emotions running high because of the decade-long rivalry with the opposite team, anxiety ‘cause we’re two points behind and it’s the semi-finals, and overall fatigue was a recipe for disaster.
I barely remember anything that happened that night to be honest. Last thing I remembered was stopping in the middle of the field near the end of the second period, ears ‘ringing’ because of all the voices and shouting “Shut. Up.” on the top of my voice, then passing out right after.
Apparently I shouted so hard that everyone in the room heard me and stopped, some even fainting because of my voice. Which some claim sounded like coming from the inside of their head.
(From what I heard, people covered it up by saying that the indoor field we played at had excellent acoustics. Utter bull, but some people apparently were willing to eat a load full of crap just to maintain status quo).
“Where am I?” was the first thing I said when I woke up. Which, in retrospect, was the stupidest question to ask. I had a needle stuck in my arm. It smelled of chlorine and antiseptic. The room was dirty white and only had two side tables, an old wooden cabinet and a couch for furnishing. I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown for Pete’s sake.
“What day is it?” or “What happened?” would’ve been better questions.
“The hospital,” my mom said, squeezing my hand. She clearly fell asleep while sitting, and from the looks of her shirt, she hasn’t left in her spot in a long time. “You’ve been asleep for at least two days.”
“I know,” I said, “I can smell you.”
My mother let out a nervous laugh and ran her fingers on my cheeks, tucking some of my hair behind my ear. I winced slightly as a rush of memories went to my head. “Don’t worry Mom. It’s…not you.”
Before she could say anything else, Randolf came in bringing what seemed like a change of clothes as well as a small bag of groceries. “Great timing. You made us all worry you little shit. I mean, I felt like I grew a heart and experienced what a heart attack was like. Not fun.” Typical step-brother. Mom gave him the look and he replied with a small shrug. “Go home Mom. This little idiot’s awake, I can take it from here.”
It took a bit more coaxing – and David picking her up – before Mom finally agreed to go home. Even though I already knew (part of) what happened, Randolf took him to himself to relay the events back to me. Half the players fainted, resulting to the game being cancelled and rescheduled two weeks from now. Well, at least we have a chance against the Salamanders now.
I went back to sleep a few hours after and when I woke up, a lady, not much older than Randolf, came in with Mom and David. She explained as much as she could, answered my family’s – mostly Mom’s; David and Randolf seem like they’ve got a good grip on how things were and Mariah’s too young to care – questions. I was given two days to pack, and the rest, as they say, was history.Behind the M A S K . . .Name: Commander Peanut. Almighty and Perfect Leader works too.
Age: Old enough to legally drink in the mystical land called Canada.
RP Experience: Around three years?
How did you find us?: RecommendationShow your S K I L L S . . .To say that Greg was lost would be an understatement. Two weeks ago, he was a normal teen with normal problems – the French exam he’s going to have to do in a week, the English paper about Shakespeare’s Hamlet he’s yet to start, the upcoming championship game, and the lack of viable clothes in his closet. He’s the poster boy for what people strive to be in high school – mildly popular, decently attractive, in a stable relationship and has a healthy family life. Everything was great.
Then he had to develop these powers and fuck everything up.
He’s only been discharged three hours and already he’s going through his stuff, debating which to take to Vermont and which to leave. Better said than done really.
After an hour, his room messier than the zombie-ravaged city of Jerusalem in Brad Pitt’s World War Z, he decided he’s going nowhere. Walking over to his step-brother’s room he said, “Hey Randolf, you have time?”
He just lied down in bed and grabbed a nearly basketball, juggling it absentmindedly. “I’m lost. I don’t like this.”
.
