Amy Copperfield
Jan 5, 2011 13:34:38 GMT -5
Post by Amy Copperfield on Jan 5, 2011 13:34:38 GMT -5
The easy S T U F F . . .Name: Julie Amelia Copperfield
Nickname: Amy, Jul (certain people only)
Age: Thirteen
Member Group: Student
Power(s): Despite needing a couple of strong hits from her inhaler before she is able to take a deep breath, doing so allows Amy to issue forth an extremely powerful scream loud enough to destroy glass; make tires pop; make ear drums explode (after a good minute of assault); and so on. Her range is roughly one city block, but there's a catch: she can only hold it for about ten seconds. After that, she needs to empty her inhaler just to breathe right. And talking? Forget about it, unless you want her to sound like a helium-filled balloon with a voice box for about five hours.
Play By: Madeline CarrollLet it F L O W . . .
Birthday: 12 January 1998
Comes From: When a ma-an loves a woma-an...
Personality:
- Quiet, but not afraid to fight like a bear protecting her cubs when necessary.
- Keeps to herself, as she doesn't tend to socialize as much as others do.
- Prefers solitude to busy crowds, noisy traffic, and so on; doesn't mind a few friends and a little noise every now and then, however.
- Isn't a vegetarian, but refuses to discuss the source of bacon cheeseburgers.
- Is a devout environmentalist, pro-life, for gun registration, and doesn't get anti-LGBT bias.
- Is completely straight (though awkward on the subject of boys).
- Will steadfastly deny ever liking a boy until he kisses her (blushing as she denies it, of course); will also deny she's blushing in such a case.
- Wishes she had super-speed or could fly (or both), but doesn't like the idea of wings growing out of her back.
- Spends most of her time drawing, painting, or watching spy movies.
- Flat-out denies any attraction whatsoever to Christian Kane (despite being in possession of a poster & TV Guide advertisement pic of him, the latter of which she also denies carrying around with her).
- Denies being a member of The Official Christian Kane Web Ring.
- Hopes no one finds out about her collection of Christian Kane drawings (and hopes no one realizes just how much she adores her painted portrait of him).
- Has never lost at Mario Kart.
- Faves ~ colors: pink & brown; song: “I Want It That Way” (Backstreet Boys); game: Mario Kart; movie (Hammel original): “Days of Night” starring Stephanie Dresden.
History: Samuel Carter Copperfield was a literal genius. With an IQ of 180 and a keen business sense, few people looked at his lack of ethics very closely before deciding to shake his hand or sign a contract with him. He was wealthy, powerful, and influential. He was also considering running for Governor of Iowa. His wife, Patricia Copperfield, wasn't too keen on his career or his political aspirations. But, she was an old-fashioned sort of woman and held the firm belief (along with a deep faith in wholesome Christian values, going to church on Sundays, and praying nightly) that a woman should support her man. So she did. But, as with most things in this world, all (supposedly) good things must eventually come to an end - or in this case, a screeching halt. It was a story typical of Wall Street in recent years: bad investments and worse investors, with no one to turn to but the bill collectors.
The Copperfields lost everything - ironically, just as their baby girl was born.
Perhaps the one good thing to happen after this was another point of irony: the death of Samuel's wife prevented her from providing Samuel with any more children. Of course, she didn't die in childbirth; she died two months later of breast cancer. Amy almost died herself not long after she was born, a problem with her lungs preventing her from breathing properly. She was in surgery for nearly four hours before they were able to clear up a pre-birth infection. After she recovered, she was diagnosed with chronic asthma. She was on a ventilator until she was three, and then began using a ventilator only once a day until she was five; she had a rescue inhaler for the rest of that time. After age five, she on a ventilator only once a week until she was seven, and then she just had the inhaler. She also had two more surgeries to clear up infections with the potential to be fatal if not dealt with by the age of ten.
Her medical care was expensive, only partially covered by insurance, and didn't leave a lot of room for a broke single father's graveyard security job. He was lucky to have a neighbor that could look after her, an elderly woman who had once been a nurse but now didn't get out much, when he wasn't around. It was odd hours, but dumping Amy on her became a habit. When Amy was nine, however, the old woman died and Amy started having to be completely on her own. Thankfully, she was all right with just her inhaler and a couple of emergency cartridges on hand wherever she went. At school, she got mostly Ds. A few Cs made their way onto her report card here and there, but mostly, she just didn't give a damn. She didn't know why; she just didn't 'click' with school. But they couldn't afford a private tutor, so that never really improved until the fifth grade - when she started drawing and painting. The teachers had tried to find her a niche to bring her grade up, but they didn't really find anything until her history teacher noticed a drawing she'd done.
The fifth grade found her enrolled in an art class and it wasn't long before she was drawing detailed illustrations. Most of them were of Looney Tunes characters - mostly Daffy Duck, but some Porky Pig and a few others on occasion as well. She also did a few drawings of medieval settings, however, and that's what got her into painting. By the sixth grade, she was getting to be quite skilled - not expert, mind, but skilled enough that she won the sixth-grade school-wide art competition painting Joan of Arc's final battle.
Then the seventh grade hit. Her asthma had cleared up significantly by now, though she still needed to use her inhaler at least twice a day. All year long, however, her throat has felt funny. She thought at first that it was some kind of illness, like a cold or the flu, resulting in a sore throat. But to persist for a few months? Definitely not normal. Of course, academically intelligent or not, it didn't take her long to figure it out after one particularly rough day. She'd gotten her first-ever F. It was on a history paper regarding (ironically, considering her sixth-grade masterpiece) Joan of Arc. She hadn't done as much research as she'd needed to, so she ended up BSing half the paper and throwing random bits of info into the other half. Her new history teacher was particularly harsh with grades, but apparently, even her formatting was horrific. Clearly, she wasn't researcher material. She wasn't English-material, either, as she had only read half of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn (mostly, the Tom Sawyer half - and she barely remembered that, due to Huck Finn's lack of an ability to speak properly). Thus, she couldn't offer an accurate report of it. She'd gotten a D- on that, another first. Her other classes all had Ds in them, and she'd been put in detention for causing a disturbance with her wheezing in Home Room that morning; she'd served it by cleaning up the science lab (which had apparently been dissecting frogs that day) after school.
In short, it was not a good day for her. But, as per Murphy's Law, it soon got a whole lot worse.
As if the snow and ice weren't bad enough in her threadbare denim jacket and worn scarf, what with the cold air irritating her asthma, three idiots from the Senior class of the high school near her house just happened to pick that particular evening to screw with her. They were drunk and wanted pretty much anything she had on her that might be even slightly valuable. They also wanted to see what a seventh-grader tasted like. They exchanged insults and pleas to leave the poor girl alone (on their part and on Amy's, respectively) before they got right into the shenanigans. The biggest one pinned her to the side of a car, trying to hold her there long enough to start tearing off her clothes.
He never got the chance.
She struggled like a madwoman, for one thing. For another, he never knew what hit him when she somehow managed to draw in a full breath. To put it simply, Amy let loose a scream that (quite literally) shook the neighborhood. Windows in store fronts and cars alike shattered almost instantly. Tires, after a couple of seconds, began popping like someone firing off a Tommy Gun. And when she was done screaming, in the still darkness of that cold January night, three people lay squirming on the ground; their hands were over their ears and they were in fetal positions, and their screams were silent. Amy quickly realized she had dropped her inhaler when she'd been attacked, and it wasn't long before she found it. By then, however, she was turning blue and about ready to pass out.
When the police showed up, Amy was gone already. She couldn't really talk and her breathing was labored, but at least she was breathing. Two alleyways and an empty lot later, she was leaning against the door with her eyes wide-open. She couldn't believe what had just happened. What had caused all that damage? What would have happened if she hadn't screamed? She thought she knew the answers to those questions, but she didn't want to think about them. She didn't say anything to her father, except to shake her head and point to her throat. He understood. Then he left for work. She showered and curled up in her bedroom with her Daffy Duck plushie. Her dreams were unpleasant, to say the least, but she quickly forgot them and the cold sweat a morning shower rid her of.
The only question now is...what happens next?Behind the M A S K . . .Name: Wicked, Nails, WickedNails, That Guy Over There, Hey You, Dude
Age: 27
RP Experience: Uh. Way too long. I'd say...at least 7yrs. Maybe longer. I really can't remember.
How did you find us?: RPG-DShow your S K I L L S . . .Fire burned in her chest. Her throat cried out in the silent night for mercy. She stumbled, her hands protected from the cold metal by a pair of worn pink finger gloves as she supported herself on the trunk of an old Subaru. There...there, in the snow. It lay there, waiting for her like a lost child: her inhaler. She fell to her denim-covered knees in the dirty snow, grasping it and shaking it. The medicine didn't immediately work. What was wrong with it? She took three hits...still nothing. Three more. She could almost feel air in there, as though nature itself was taunting her. Her vision was blurry and there was a rushing in her ears - but that was the only thing she could hear. It was like a bomb had gone off.
Ironically, just as she finally gulped in air with a frantic gasp, her inhaler ran out. There wasn't enough left over for a hit, and she realized that the moment she tried to take another hit. She was dizzy now, light-headed...what the hell had just happened? That scream...she couldn't have imagined it. Had it been hers? But how could it? She couldn't take a deep breath in the doctor's office without taking a solid hit from her inhaler. She'd wanted to play soccer in the fifth and sixth grades, but her asthma...she just couldn't do it. She'd wanted to try out this year, too, but knew that she couldn't; she hadn't even bothered asking. No sports for the asthmatic, but suddenly she could destroy a city block?
Because, as she looked around, her eyes widened in shock. She stood on shaky legs, supported by a dark-colored car that was probably blue; it looked black with no light shining upon it. In the blessed solitude of the lonely night, a wasteland stretched out before her: a graveyard of broken cars and three moving corpses. They might recover, but she hoped they didn't. They didn't deserve to live - which was an odd thought for her. But then, her pro-life stance mostly attached itself to babies. Even so, they were lucky she had asthma - or maybe they weren't. Either way, she had to get out of here. Lights would have been coming on, but she had a feeling they couldn't; whatever she had done, she had a feeling it had affected the light bulbs too. Call it girl's intuition.
Her cotton-covered fingers struggled with the inhaler cartridge as she finally stumbled toward the nearby alleyway of the forner (and now, once more) quiet suburban neighborhood. She could see a dog barking, going crazy, but she couldn't hear it. Her brows furrowed, but that did nothing for her. She turned away from it, reloading the inhaler. Pocketing the empty cartridge, which the doctor always wanted her to bring back (she wasn't quite sure why), she took a hit from her inhaler. Her breathing was ragged now, air just barely filling her lungs. She breathed as best she could then, her feet plodding through the half-frozen snow and across the occasional patch of ice. She moved down the alleyway and then down the street, across to the next block, down that one...hers was the next-to-last house on the left.
She saw it now, the light on. Safety. That's what that meant to her. She wasn't entirely certain what had just happened, exactly, but she knew that home was safe. Whether it actually was or not wasn't the issue; to her, right now, in the heat of the moment (so to speak)...home was safe. She thus trudged onward, toward that shining beacon of hope.
