Post by Pierre Antoine Giroux on Apr 16, 2011 10:42:36 GMT -5
••Pierre Antoine Giroux
loner by circumstance
[/COLOR] loner by circumstance
••THE BASICS
NAME.Pierre Antoine Giroux // Goes by Antoine [/size]
GENDER.male[/size]
AGE.seventeen[/size]
NATIONALITY. quebecois // french-canadian[/size]
PLAY BY.David Tennant [/size]
SEXUAL ORIENTATION. bisexual [/size]
GRADE. senior[/size]
••LET'S GET TO KNOW YOU BETTER
APEARANCE.
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Pierre is a tall young man at five feet and eight and a half inches. His eyes are deeply set into his eyes, hooded by strong, thick eyebrows and short lashes, the iris a brown so dark the pupil is almost almost invisible against it. His face is square, with a large-ish nose set right in the center, and a strong jaw underneath. His hair is a light brown in color, reminiscent of milk chocolate or hazelnuts. It is clipped close to his head, with a straggly set of hairs bending over his forehead in some semblance of bangs. His skin is not particularly pale, but not browned, either- a happy medium of sun and artificial light.
He dresses nicely- casual for him is a polo shirt and khakis, but more often, he wears a long-sleeved button-up shirt with slacks, and often a solid blue tie. However, he is in love with runners (known as tennis shoes in the US of A) - they are almost the only shoes he will wear. Sure, he will put on proper dress shoes if asked, but everywhere else, the attentive student look is broken by a glance at the casual footwear. He also has an affinity for ethnic hats, such as berets and fezzes, and wears them whenever he feels he will be alone for the day, as the last time he wore his fez in public, it got destroyed.
PERSONALITY.
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Pierre is very introverted by nature, not one to seek out conversations and friends. Bien sur, he would talk, he would carry on a conversation if the situation asked him to, but he’d much rather watch from a treetop, observing, and from time to time chuckling to himself, jokes recalled to his memories by the unwitting passers-by. His sense of humor is narrow- a pun here will trigger giggles, but blatant sarcasm is lost on him. He smiles often, but they are empty smiles, mostly, pulled to the surface to appease his current companion. True smiles are few and far between, fleeting as a dandelion seed on the breeze.
He has no habits- almost every time he does something, Pierre will find a new way to- studying could happen outside or hanging upside down on the bed, dinner might be at two in the afternoon or not happen at all. The Canadian is very disorganized as a result, but can still manage to find everything he owns. His room is an absolute mess.
Pierre doesn’t understand the concept of ulterior motives- the person he seems to be is who he is, no secrets and no jealousies. Sure, people might not know everything about him, but they didn’t ask. He is a very trustworthy person, but because he talks so little, it is so easy to be mistrusted by those around him. He isn’t cold, per se- quiet and cold are not mutually inclusive. The few who penetrate into his inner circle are confronted with a kind, trusting boy who genuinely loves his friends.
HISTORY.
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Nobody noticed at the beginning. No one ever does.
He came into the world quietly, quickly, and unremarkably, in a large hospital in Montreal where children undoubtedly more important than he were being brought into the world. The novelty of a new child came into the Giroux household as it had thrice before, then faded away into the years. The baby grew older, quiet and withdrawn, lost in his little world of hand-me-down toys. He did not considered standing up and wandering through the crowded home for a long time, content to let the world come to him as it wished, in the form of his mother and father and brothers and sisters. The first four years and eight months passed.
The first incident came at that time, some few months after Mme Giroux enrolled Pierre in a half-day preschool. It was recess. The door back into the classroom was locked, and the teacher was too busy breaking up a fight in the sandbox to notice the scrawny toddler slip back inside, the door handle turning easily in his small hand. She did not notice that he was not in the courtyard until the end, when there was one less tiny head screaming ‘HERE’ as she called roll. She found him later sleeping in the hallway, curled up on a couch.
“Pierre, what are you doing here?”
“I was sleepy.”
”How did you get back in?”
”I opened the door.”
That was the first time.
Pierre grew up knowing, but never fully realizing, that locks were supposed to keep doors closed and people out. All door handles turned under his palms, all combination locks clicked open at his touch. It was not a problem to begin with- He did not walk in on his sisters in the bathroom, he did not go into the office, but the ability was quietly scaring the family. They pretended this was normal.
But all too soon, it wasn’t.
Without these physical barriers, it was hard for the young boy, now twelve years old, to understand that what was his was his, but what was his sister’s was not, in fact, also his. He would go through his siblings’ emails, phones, and diaries out of boredom, disregarding notes saying ‘KEEP OUT, THAT MEANS YOU, PIERRE,” and the various passwords and locks. It was beyond him why they thought it was so important that the name of the kid his eldest sister wanted to go with to the dance remained secret, or that the name of his brother’s street gang stayed far from Maman’s ears.
”But why?”
They blush deep red, but he is unaware. “Because it’s personal, Pierre.”
“What’s ‘personal’?”
Tension rose and rose between Pierre and the rest of the family, coming to a head at at his mother’s 46th birthday dinner.
”Maman?”
“Yes, Pierre?”
“How come M. Dupont is not coming for dinner, too?”
Papa snapped. Pierre never understood why - it was just a name in her email, someone that she saw regularly. A friend. Soon after, the Girouxs had divorced, and all of his siblings whispered angrily under the kitchen table- “Your fault, your fault, your fault. You are a freak- you’ll burn, you’ll burn.” He was ten, and learning that his entire family hated him.
His father got custody of the children. Pierre was sent to a boarding school in British Columbia, as far away as M. Giroux could send him. This was the first time he found himself in a social situation, as it was relatively easy to keep to himself in primary school. For the first time, he was self conscious, wondering if the other boys would let him work with them on a project, or if that cute little girl would let him sit with him at lunch.
The answer was usually no.
He came more and more introverted during his stay in British Columbia, retreating into his studies. He also learned to keep off other peoples stuff the hard way- more time than he could count Pierre dragged himself home with a black eye, bruises everywhere, sometimes even blood. His dorm mate would laugh good-naturedly when the Quebecois told him what happened, never realizing that the box Pierre had opened had been locked. Pierre never mentioned it. Slowly, his ability disappeared into his mind, until Pierre had almost forgotten the problem existed. He drew himself into art and music, finding a retreat in these activities. Pierre learned to people-watch, learning more about the kids walking by than they would have thought he could know; he learned to read their actions and know where trouble was heading through them. He also dabbled in gymnastics for a few years because he was naturally flexible, but quit soon after. It was almost a normal life.
He hadn’t meant to ever reveal it again, but it happened again, in the middle of his second year of senior high, grade 11.
”Sir, could I ask you a question about the lesson?”
The professor glances up. “How did you get in, Pierre?”
“Through the door, sir…”
“Pierre, the door was locked.”
Shortly afterwards, in the middle of April, Pierre was transferred to Alexandria Academy, in the United States of America. He takes this as an opportunity to start again, and starts going by his middle name, ‘Antoine.’
LIKES.
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- Art
- Music
- Trees
- Clear night skies
- Canadian comfort foods
DISLIKES.[/size]
- His family
- Whiners
- Precipitation
- Excessive noise
- Heat
STRENGTHS.[/size]
- Observation
- Honesty
- Loyalty
- Analysis
- Flexibility
WEAKNESSES.[/size]
- Quiet
- Naïve
- Unsure of himself
- Passive
- Sports
FEARS.[/size]
- To be asked to take control of a situation
- To be hated by anyone, ever again
- To burn to death
GOALS.[/size]
- Make true friends- what does that mean? i want to know
- To be accepted by his peers
- To create a happy, idealized family of his own one day
POWER.[/size]
Access- Pierre has to the ability to bypass any locks or passwords. It is not that the locks unlock themselves when he touches them; they seem to disappear for the brief moments he touches the door or keypad, and return as soon as he passes through. He has to be physically touching the locked item.
••BEHIND THE MASK
ALIAS.Meg[/size]
AGE.13[/size]
GENDER.female[/size]
TIME ZONE.Central Standard Time // -6GMT[/size]
HOW YOU FOUND US.Through Dawn and Daze[/size]
OTHER CHARACTERS.[/size]
•• ROLEPLAY SAMPLE
I’m told that people like to call us dreamers
Because we won’t ever stop until we’ve done all we can do
There are so many things I haven’t seen
So I’ll look ’till I just can’t look no more
He couldn’t sleep here.
It wasn’t that he had anything against the dorm room, per se; on the contrary, this whole building was much nicer than the Williams School, back in Canada. The stairwells were clean, the cafeteria food was decent, and nobody had asked him about the box full of hats he had left outside of his bedroom yet. This place was nice, extremely nice, and he couldn’t think of one bad thing to say about it.
Well, except, it wasn’t home. Not yet.
He grabbed a coat from his as of yet unorganized closet and pulled it over his pajamas, and started to wander. The hallways were comfortingly empty at night, the echo of his runners against the tile reassuring Pierre that he was alone and for just one minute, the world as far as the school boundaries was his and his alone. He wandered through the math classrooms, the science classrooms, everywhere he felt like- no rules until morning, no reason to sleep. A few busy teachers had forgotten to switch the lights off, it seemed, so he went into those rooms and shut them off. It was pleasant, just mindlessly walking like this, doing little things. Very nice.
Then he reached the art classrooms.
Pierre hadn’t had a class in here today- his schedule was still the bare course classes since he had transferred so late in the year – but one look into the round room, filled with easels and canvases and paints, and a window, such a large window, and he was in love. He slipped in, closing the lock door behind him, and grabbed the easel set closest to the window. Blues, he needed blues, some dark greens, too. He painted long into the night.
In the morning, there was one less canvas in the art room, and one wet thing drying in the new kid’s room. The teachers, if they saw the bags under his eyes, or the tints of blues and blacks on his hands, they never said, and the art teacher was most impressed with Mr. Giroux’s “Night Music”.
