| [WASTELAND] APPLICATION |
[Dec. 5th, 2008|12:49 am] |
[OOC]
Player: MD
Personal Journal: ![[info]](http://www.inksome.com/img/userinfo.gif) emudii.
Contact: emudii (aim) (gtalk) (msn)
[IC]
Character: Trunks Briefs
Fandom: Dragonball GT
Timeline: post-series/post-apocalypse
Possessions: office attire, including reading glasses & wristwatch; (1) hoi poi capsule, containing casual attire; (1) mini jeweler tool kit; (1) candy bar; Giru
Personality: Ever feel as though you were meant for so much more? Meet Trunks Briefs—literally born to have the world, only to fall into mediocrity along the way.
As a firstborn child and prodigy, he became the uncontested heir to Capsule Corporation—the world renowned authority in technological development. As the son of an alien warrior-prince, his birthright was immeasurable strength and superhuman abilities. With seemingly unlimited resources and potential, at a time when the world was in flux, there seemed to be no limit to what he could achieve. Of course, life rarely works out the way we want... especially when we have two identities—one human, one... not so much—that are in direct conflict with one another.
When we are first introduced to Trunks, as a child, he is headstrong, spoiled, and spirited. His fearless sense of curiosity and adventure get him—and his best friend—into a lot of trouble. However, it is implied that in his adolescence, Trunks put aside training in favor of having a normal social life; and his natural competitive streak turned toward his studies. We are left to assume that this was the mutual agreement of Trunks and his mother, for his eventual takeover of the family business. His level of personal investment, however, is debatable. GT canon suggests that, despite his brilliance, he has no actual interest in running a company—and is witnessed, on multiple occasions, literally jumping out of his office window to escape his duties. It could be assumed, then, that his deviation from the martial artist lifestyle was based more on a simple, teenaged desire for acceptance—however miscalculated.
At present, Trunks is nearly thirty, and in the ten years that his life was glossed over, somehow managed to regress or simply fail in every aspect of his personal life. He's more socially awkward than ever. He's still unmarried or otherwise attached. He is, ironically, no longer mentally capable of actual leadership, instead playing a sidekick role—as for his own, old "sidekick"... well. Goten spends his time seemingly unemployed and chasing skirt, but appears happier with life, by comparison.
Maybe "Mr. President" needs some time away to reassess his priorities.
Expansion: In contrast to his original appearance, adult Trunks has allowed himself to be conformed to "human" social standards and has adapted a safer, neutral temperament. Where he used to be outgoing and mischievous, he appears content to not have any attention drawn to himself or his companions. Instead, he is often found hanging out on the sidelines, offering help and insight when required. Glimpses of his old temper still show through in especially desperate circumstances and fierce battles, but it is otherwise kept carefully suppressed.
His now mild nature was likely cultivated as part of his business training; however, it seems to have actually affected his self-confidence, off the battlefield. It is no longer uncommon to see him being bullied—especially by women and children. Or, in the case of fourteen-year old Pan, both. His aversion to hurting her feelings has rendered him incapable of telling her no or even chastising her effectively, when she needs to be put in her place. As such, she spends an entire year walking all over him. He just doesn't fare well at all, in the face of a pair of teary eyes, for some reason.
He's still suspicious and worrisome and spends a lot of time fussing over details, but he gets a lot done. And he always finishes what he starts—all that office busywork notwithstanding. Follow-through is important when lives are on the line, and you won't find any sloppy mistakes on this guy's shift.
On the off-chance that Trunks does get angry, it is a good idea to keep out of his way. Saiyajin tempers run fast, hot, and physically violent on a normal day, but a guy with this much repression going on is likely to go off like a volcano, if pushed hard enough. Fortunately, like the rest of his Earth-bound kin, his tail has long been removed to restrict access to his hidden, beast form. Unfortunately, evidence shows that amputation has no effect on curbing a Saiyajin's natural, murderous urges.
The only person who seems immune to the extreme change in his character is his best friend, Goten. They continue to function in almost the exact same manner as when they were children, but that might be attributed to their rather "special" relationship. At several points in their lives, Trunks and Goten have been a single person, through the execution of ritual Fusion. When you've been someone else, it's difficult not to understand even the most messed up situations. However, forging that sort of intense bond when they were still so young may have, in fact, interfered with Trunks' emotional development. He is never seen interacting seriously with anyone outside of his family or friends he established prior to Fusion, nor has a single, canon romantic interest been presented, in those twenty years.
Third person sample: CLANG... CLANG... CLANG... CLANG...
Consciousness returned to him in degrees; the world refocused in layers. Patches of light, of shapes, of faded color drew fuzzily before him. He had no concept of time, of how long he simply laid there, staring with heavy eyes. Waiting for some sort of clarity—visual, aural, mental. Waiting to feel... anything at all.
At length, he blinked, and the withered weeds finally gained edges. Their serrated leaves drew his attention forward, brought him back down into his own body; and suddenly, he hurt. Everywhere. And to top things off, it seemed to be freezing. Groaning, Trunks tried to curl over onto his stomach for some warmth, only to spasm hard as he rolled onto his left wrist. Yowling, he forced himself onto his back. "Goddamnit," he cursed, groping blindly to assess the damage.
His fingertips worked gingerly inside of his cuff and he hissed as the flesh seemed to ignite under the inquisitive touch. 'What the hell?' Tugging his jacket sleeve down, he squinted at the metallic strip he found there, sunken into his arm. Around it, the skin was red and inflamed. He clenched his fist experimentally, watched it cut deeper into him... "What?" he winced, flexing harder. Still, nothing. Realization dawned slowly in his face, like the sharp weight settling in his guts. "This is a... qi binder?" he wondered, incredulously, "But... who? Who could have known and have access—"
giru giru giru, a familiar, drowsy voice cut into his thoughts. Peering "up," he finally noticed his pet, not too far from his head. It sat, orb-like, its eye pulsing weakly as it muttered. Even from this angle, he could see that Giru had been scuffed pretty badly. He must've put up a pretty good fight when they'd been grabbed. "Giru," he tried to smile, reaching out with his good arm and pulling the machine mutant against his chest. He convulsed at how cold it made him, but couldn't bring himself to let go. "C'mon, boy, don't quit on me now. You gotta be my left arm."
giru giru, it chimed in agreement, but didn't uncurl. Trunks took a deep breath and willed down the rising hysteria. He was on the fast track to hypothermia, in an empty parking lot, injured in impossible ways, with (presumably) a qi-limiter soldered onto his arm, and his pet robot knocked stupid. In a fucking silk suit. He laughed out loud at that last part, for no particular reason, ignoring how sick he sounded. It seemed to him if anyone was around to threaten to have him hospitalized, he'd be grateful.
First person sample: [static]—is this? This isn't my cellphone... oh, damnit, how does it even... man, this isn't happening. [scratching] Where the hell is this place? This isn't Metro West... reconstruction should already be complete. [long pause]
Giru, this much ash... is it volcanic? [hiss] It's everywhere... my wrist, it... yeah, it's in there... I need to get this cleaned up soon, or it'll get infected. I just... this place [explosive noise]—shouldn't be possible—[static] wished all the casualties back! This... this isn't from that time. There wouldn't be corpses. [soft electronic pinging] No one felt anything. This has got to be the work of Red Ribbon loyalists...
Now, if I can just find—Oh my God. Am I... not on Earth anymore? [slow staccato tapping] Hey there... hey boy... c'mere... [rustling] Which planet are you from, huh? One I know of, I hope—[growling] Woah, there—[earsplitting roar] OH SHIT! GIRU!
[violent metallic clanging] [STATIC] |
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