Post by ALARIC BISMARCK on May 25, 2014 15:46:05 GMT
TWENTY-NINE MALE BISEXUAL MISSIONS SQUADRON MARSHAL PURGE | BISMARCK, ALARIC E. Twelve years ago, the Gamma Sector’s Missions Board hand-picked a seventeen year-old boy from a modest farmstead on the fringes of the Beta Sector. His humble beginnings served him well in the enlistment process; the recruiters commented on the farm boy’s stolid disposition and impressive body chiseled from herding cattle and hauling hay bales. In spite of making several mistakes along the way, he climbed his way to the top of his Squadron’s command hierarchy through years of raw, hard labor. He now rests comfortably at the marshal position, and he leads his Squadron with a firm, steady hand. A maverick, an individualist, and a Byronic hero by all accounts; I envision and hope to portray Marshal Bismarck as self-reliant, no-nonsense, and enterprising. The key struggles and/or motivations for the character to resolve and surmount are causality versus duty, personal integrity, and intimacy versus isolation. He wants to leave his mark on the world, to resist and overcome weakness, and to feel that others are behind him and supporting his efforts. He admires likeminded individuals who possess strength, will, persistence, and endurance—traits he aspires to embody in himself. Nonetheless, he struggles with handling his temper and allowing himself to be open and vulnerable with others. Harboring a sharp distaste for any sort of societal norms or institutions, he is grudgingly subservient to the dystopian society and the government which oversees Squadron 11’s endeavors. He abhors feeling disempowered or controlled by some higher power, and I intend on toying with his strong sense of obligation. It will be interesting to see how far Biome II will have to push him to fracture his personal value system. There also other avenues for growth through his interactions with his fellow Squadron members and tackling difficult missions. I foresee him combatting his intimacy issues with a gentle, tenacious individual who can endure his intense moods and flares of crippling self-doubt. INTIMIDATING Perhaps it’s the guarded manner in which Alaric presents himself or the cross expression commonly etched across his face, but more often than not onlookers will observe that he isn't the most sociable or understanding man. Fond of crossing his arms, tapping his foot impatiently, and maintaining that cold, careless countenance—his body language is typically found stiff and unapproachable. His personal life is closed-off and ambiguous to the crowds because he prefers to keep private things, well, private. The truth of the matter, however, is that Marshal Bismarck feels as if he must look and act serious publicly because of the nature of his duty. Beneath the thin veil of apathy, there exists a man with a deep concern for those he is charged to protect and a powerful conviction to uncover the cryptic Void shrouded by mystery that surrounds Biome II. EXPANSIVE Albeit initially coming across as a bit of a hard-ass, Marshal Bismarck gets a real kick out of showing newcomers the ropes. Whether it is helping his trainees overcome an obstacle they thought they couldn't or proving to them that they can make the most practical decision in a risky situation, he thoroughly enjoys giving others opportunities to exceed themselves in some form or fashion. Emanating a subtle sort of charisma, Alaric has the physical and psychological prowess to induce others to willingly follow his lead. INDUSTRIOUS Occasionally sacrificing precious emotional contact with those whom he loves for the price of working doubly hard, Alaric is a task-oriented individual who values industry and efficiency in the workplace. He resents feeling indebted to others, so he takes initiative and instinctively grabs the reins of a project before anyone else might. Nevertheless, the stringent, commanding presence he exudes deludes him into thinking that he has the ability to impose his will and vision on everyone—regardless of their preferences. PROTECTIVE Taking a deep personal interest in the welfare of the officers under him, Marshal Bismarck likens his Squadron as his assigned family. A source of morale, discipline, and stability, he aims to treat his soldiers as if they were his own children through guiding them with a fatherly hand. He supervises his outfit without resorting to favoritism, valuing his Private just as much as his General. Giving credit where credit is due, he is not one to claim the work performed by his subordinates if it is misattributed to him. Moreover, he will accept full responsibility for a mistake even if he wasn't the one entirely at fault. If one were to comment on the tender devotion Alaric exhibits to his Squadron, he would deny the idea vehemently as he prefers to maintain the image of indifference. Note that his Squadron is well aware of his "other side", however. GLIMPSE i. age seven “Daddy, why does the barn always reek?” the young boy asked with wide eyes. His ruminative father faced the other way and tended to a cow that needed feeding. Pursing his lips, Alaric grasped a long, thin wooden stick he had found outside and jabbed the rump of the cow in the stable the opposite way his father was turned. The bovine creature yelped with a deep moo and fidgeted about her confinement in short paces. The boy with the dark-brown buzz-cut giggled impishly, scrunching his tiny face so that his somber gray eyes were narrow sleeves.Pulling off his leather gloves, Alaric’s hulking father wiped away the glistening beads of sweat that trickled down his own angular face. With his middle and index finger massaging his temple and his thumb set firmly against the corner of his jaw, the unshaven stubble bristled against his bare hand. Without turning, the grown man chided, “Alaric, how many times do I have to tell you to not pester the animals? They don’t like to be poked and prodded no more than you do.” Alaric tugged on the back of his father’s tartan, button-down shirt, “But Pa, I like the sound they make when you get ‘em all riled up.” Mr. Bismarck shook his head contemptuously and resumed feeding his livestock. The boy squatted down to pick up the wooden stick that had fallen from his calloused hands, but his father had beaten him to it. Mr. Bismarck clutched the stick with shaky hands boiled red from broken capillaries. In a low, firm baritone, the grown man scolded, “What’re you doing, boy? Didn't you hear me? I told you to not harass the animals, and you went and tried to do it again. You want me to whip you with this stick, is that it?!” Alaric jumped back at his father's stern warning. He quivered and hung his head, “No s-sir, ‘course not. I-I’ll go and put the stick down, don’t you worry.” Watching his son sulk out of the barn, Mr. Bismarck let out a disgruntled sigh. ii. age nineteen “CHECK!” With his cherry-red chapped lips and a wiry mustache resembling a swatch of steel wool, Marshal Descartes had a voice that could put the shrill caw of the harpies to shame. Wrinkles lined his face, the most distinct being the deep 11’s weathered into his brow through years of scowling. His tattered off-white uniform barely draped over his colossal frame; the soles of his careworn pair of combat boots suspended by the frays. Altogether, he was a poorly put-together, aging man teetering off the edge of utility by being used and worn just like the clothes on his back.“SET!” After having been transported from the dirt of the Beta Sector to a Squadron training facility in the Gamma Sector where he's been well-fed and educated for around two years, Alaric had developed an incredible feeling of disgust for any of the brainwashed, so-called military leaders that have stood before him. In truth, he saw them as nothing more than mindless pawns who have sworn fealty to a draconian government. Long before he stepped foot into the facility, he swore to himself that if he ever became a member of any Squadron he wouldn't be like the rest. He'd be different. It'd all be different. “Get your DAMN legs straight, Bismarck!” Instinctively setting his legs square at his commander's orders, Alaric wasn't paying attention; his mind was a place elsewhere. A place not unlike the farm he grew up on with the father he once took for granted. What he would do to rewind time and go back. It was too late. "Why are you training us, sir? Is there some ulterior motive to all of this?" Without even a slight shudder of his eyes, the phlegmatic words traced off of his full lips. Time stood still for a second as his leading officer processed the blasphemous questions. Infuriated, Marshal Descartes clenched his fists and stomped towards the trainee. “Ulterior motive?! I'm not gonna' put up with your bullshit today, soldier,” The older man narrowed his eyes and his voice crescendoed, “If you’re gonna’ willingly defy my orders, you can pack your bags right now and waltz your little ass” — pounding his jet-black combat boots firmly into the ground and pointing for emphasis — “right out of that door!” Frozen in position, Alaric muttered under his breath, "The thing is...I wasn't defying your orders. I was just asking a question." MADE BY KIROUKO OF GANGNAM-STYLE |
