From Sailor Moon Flash!
| Xin | |
|---|---|
| Profile | |
| Name: | Eugene Clemens |
| Birthday: | January 3rd |
| Age: | 39 |
| Affiliation: | Elementals, JDE |
| Powers: | Spirit |
| Player: | Steph |
Contents |
[edit] The Basics
Name: Eugene Clemens. "Eugene" means "well-born," and "Clemens" is from "clement," meaning "merciful and gentle." He's well-born, merciful, and gentle. The perfect lord and father. Trust him. You may call him Gene, if you're on first-name terms at all, or if it makes you feel better, precious pet.
Position: Elemental Xin, Creepy Bastard and Human Resources manager for Jade Dragon Enterprises.
Appearance: He's of average height, weight, build, and coloring for an American, so he blended in perfectly with crowds there. Five feet, eight inches tall, broad shouldered, one hundred and ninety pounds, most of it muscle. Yes, in Nihon he now sticks out like a neon sign at an Amish community.
His hair is brown, a few shades darker than "sandy." It's cut in a conservative, tidy way, and is regularly trimmed. Eugene Clemens has soft brown eyes, darker than his hair. If you don't look closely, the light of intelligence and madness is easily mistaken for intelligence, interest, and compassion.
A pleasant, well-balanced picture of Fifties-spawned masculinity, Eugene looks like a throwback to black and white TV. He has a square jaw, is always clean-shaven, and his features are balanced. This is Ward Cleaver in living color. There are no scars or other distinguishing marks of any kind… in America this man is the pinnacle of "average" appearance. He looks polite, trustworthy, and completely forgettable. The set of his mouth is always one of indulgent amusement, and if you're not very, very careful, he can easily be seen as looking attentive, conscientious, and kind. Attentive he is, kind he is not. Conscientious? HAH.
Dr. Clemens's voice is low, soft, and soothing. His voice is coffee-colored suede, and it wriggles into every part of your head. Trust me, it says. You can leave everything to me. Give up all your burdens to me. In speech he always has perfect enunciation, with no American accent whatsoever, and the exact proper language and form for his age and social status in relation to whomever he is speaking to, which means, in modern Nihon, he often sounds like a polite old man. He speaks as he looks; extremely civilized and polite.
Most of the time he wears suits. When not in the office and not planning to be in the office all day, he wears pressed khaki pants and polo shirts. And loafers. Loafers and dress shoes.
Age/Birthday/Astrological Whatnot: Capricorn! January 3rd! 39! WAUGH!
[edit] Mundane Life
Friends and Family:
Usual Daily Routine:
'Background': Eugene was born to a mother and a father, like most people, in a little town in Virginia. His father was in the army, and his mother was an army wife. He was an army brat. A creepy army brat who had his dog faultlessly obedient by the time he was five. Around the year he was born Alaska and Hawaii became states of the union, the first US satellite successfully orbited the earth, and airline service was begun between New York and Miami. It's 1959, and build-it-yourself bomb shelter plans are widely available. When he was a young child the space race was in full swing, it was the Kennedy administration, and it was the days of the civil rights movement. Kennedy was assassinated when he was four, Martin Luther King Jr. when he was nine, and the Vietnam war exploded when he was six. His father died in Vietnam, and when he was ten, his mother remarried.
The man her mother married was a Vietnam vet, and he was a little "out there." Can we say "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder"? I knew we could. A little sister was born shortly before he turned eleven, and life resumed a normal pattern, if one takes "normal" to mean "the way it usually is with this particular family."
Of his mother Eugene was indifferent. She was a mouse of a woman, busy and easily startled. His stepfather was someone Eugene looked down on. He was haunted, and nervous, and tended to get drunk. When he got drunk he upset Eugene's mother, disgusted Eugene, and, until she was five, scared his little sister.
Eugene was enamored of his little sister, named Phoebe, from almost the day she was born. He imagined that he could see something special in her. She was a beautiful baby, full of light and joy. He let his mother raise her for a few years, but when she was five he gradually began to… "train" his sister. She became his first pet, and he considers her one of his finest pets. He trained her to be beautiful, inside and out. She was gentle, graceful, quiet, and light of attention and mind. She was a flower. He trained her to have self-discipline, and he trained her to be able to teach herself. Phoebe flew through school with flying colors like her brother before her. She adored him. He meant for her to adore him. He trained her to be strong, to resist anyone trying to change her mind, and when her mind was made up, it was made up by him.
Always a spectacular student (something of an evil genius, you might say), Eugene flew through school. He got a BA in psychology with minors in Japanese, Greek, Latin, and classical literature, and, having become fluent in character writing, proceeded to decorate his sister. He wrote poetry on her body with razors, mostly in kanji, but with a quote or two in Greek or Latin for balance. She'd stand perfectly still, looking at him adoringly, as he wrote down her arms, down her sides, and blood dripped over her in rubies. He was pleased with his work; the poetry was beautiful to look at, to read, and to hear. So was Phoebe (who was, we feel the need to point out, thirteen). It was only natural. She loved the kanji-scars that ran from shoulder to wrist and shoulder to ankle because her master loved them, and wore bathing suits without fear on those occasions master allowed her to accompany him to bathing-suit appropriate areas. Come to think of it, Phoebe lived her entire life without fear. She wandered freely through her family home, and later through her brother's home, having the run of the place and the yard as a cat would. She wasn't stupid; if asked, she could debate at length on any number of subjects, and could take care of herself, should her brother leave her alone in the house for an extended period of time. She was provided for. She was kept. From birth to death she was comfortable and looked after, a perfect pet.
Just as she'd been trained to be.
Eugene began to pursue his art in college. Several unfortunate roommates became prototypes for those who would later become full-fledged Art. It is uncertain exactly how many he toyed with in his university days, since none were ever warped completely. They were just… shaped. Dead blossoms pinched off, if you will.
After getting his Ph.D. in psychology Eugene moved to an apartment in Boston and took Phoebe, who had recently graduated from high school, with him. He passed the requisite licensing tests (proof that they're not good enough), and set up private practice. Eventually he bought a house, and moved in Phoebe and a new pet he'd picked up through work, Harold. Harold was a very nervous little boy who thought, REALLY thought, that monsters under his bed were going to eat him. If Phoebe was a pampered cat, Harold was a finch. Phoebe and Harold had a few works of Art pass them by, and they both ignored them. Harold would flutter about, contentedly picking at things, and Phoebe would watch him, play with him. Eugene would watch them both. Occasionally he'd pet Phoebe or soothe Harold when he got too nervous. A few works of Art became furniture in the house. It was lovely fun for Phoebe to lounge on the "sofa" in the sun, at least until the "sofa" became a table. The "sofa" mindlessly followed Master's orders, without voice or complaint, and did nothing, be it move, twitch, eat, or drink, without Master's orders. If Master ordered it, the "sofa" would stop breathing. The "sofa" was once one John Bandbridge, a university student who'd suffered a breakdown. His parents gladly let him live with the dear Dr. Clemens and his charming sister, since the alternative would have been hospitalizing or institutionalizing him.
John made lovely furniture.
Over time Eugene trained a few other pets; Jennifer, once full of vim and fire, but eventually only a spitfire to strangers. To the master she was an eager, useful puppy and a perfect secretary. Joshua, what a bright young man… And he kept tools. Furniture that cooked and cleaned and occasionally acted as genuine furniture, as it amused him.
Of course he pursued his Art. He'd take slides of the finished pieces, and his album of slides is one of the few things Eugene has managed to hold onto from his time in America.
Perhaps he'll show them to you.
One night while Eugene was on a business trip a pair of vandals decided to burglarize him. Phoebe was home, of course, as was Harold, the "sofa" formerly known as John, a few other pets and "furniture," and all of his Art-in-progress. At the end of the confrontation Phoebe was dead, Harold was dead, Jennifer was traumatized (in comparison to her normal state), Eugene was robbed blind, the murderers/vandals were gone, and the police very much wanted to speak to Dr. Eugene Clemens, Ph.D.
Needless to say Eugene was… displeased. It was mentioned in "Personality" what happened to the vandals, and all of that took place in a pair of rented storage sheds. After he'd released the pair of them to whatever ends fate now had in mind for them, Eugene took a walk. The park was lovely at that time of year. He did miss Phoebe a bit, she had so loved the butterflies, but now she was dead and nothing was to be done. Standing and looking at the bay, he heard someone come to stand beside him. After a few moments they began conversation, a conversation which was finished over dinner. At the end of the day, Eugene had a job with Jade Dragon enterprises, and he was absolutely delighted to be going.
Japan has very lovely art.
Of his mother and stepfather… who knows? Eugene certainly doesn't care.
All his surviving former pets and works of Art are now in the care of psychiatric help… but it's going to be very slow going. Only the tools used to make something can be used to unmake it completely and reshape it again, and conventional mental help is prohibited by law from using the tools Eugene favors. His art is never, ever going to be the people they once were, and unless someone goes underground to first untrain, then retrain them, they're never going to come close.
Eugene is pleased by this. His beloved pets are never free… and belong to him always.
[edit] A Little More Specific
Quirks: Scariest man in the entire universe.
Eugene is a creepy, creepy bastard. That's the bottom line. Note that in this entire application I am very careful how I use the word "person." Most humans aren't "people" to Eugene. They're simply creatures like any other, cats or birds or fish or plants or insects.
He's soft-spoken, flawlessly polite, and very gentle. Always. He does horrible things, but he's never hit anyone in his life. He's never needed to. Eugene is the single, constant drip of water in Chinese water torture; incidentally, this is a concept he admires and strives to emulate. The single drop is gentle, and uses no great force… yet it is able to damage, to wound, to bore, to kill. He loves it. It is such a graceful and beautiful idea. Those who need to use brute force to beat their victims into a bloody pulp are crude and base, mere pretenders to the Art.
He does love the Art. "The Art" is the art of rewriting someone. Take someone weak, make him strong. Take someone strong, make her weak. Reverse opinions, upend minds, erode away the self, and put something else in its place. And do it gently, always gently. Molding a mind, a soul, as if it were the finest porcelain… It takes years, maybe a decade… and the results are beautiful. Simply beautiful. A human can be transformed into anything. Anything at all. A boy can be trained to be a chair until chair-ness is all there is to him. He will behave as a chair, think as a chair, be a chair. He will be incapable of anything else, and he will die. It's beautiful.
If you're lovely, if you have a beautiful shining spirit that interests him (and there's nothing special or magical about being able to find someone with a beautiful soul. You probably know someone who's very special. These are ordinary people who, in one way or another, shine, and anyone who pays attention can see it), he will want you. You might be gentle, or graceful, or wise, or full of spit and fire. You might have an aptitude for something, or have no particular talent. It doesn't matter. He might turn you into Art, or he might make you a pet. If you're Art, your existence makes a statement. To be made into Art, anything goes. Almost anything: Eugene won't HIT you. That would be crude. If he requires a bruise, repeated light tapping is the preferred method. If a slice is necessary, then the knife is so sharp the wound isn't immediately felt. Most of the time, however, altering Art's physical body only comes after the altering of the mind and soul of the human to be Art has been achieved, and by that time, the Art doesn't care if there's pain. If pain is part of the Art, then the Art needs pain to be complete. To mould Art requires undoing what is there and remaking it into something else. Yes, sex can be used as a tool of making and unmaking. It isn't the only tool, and is only useful when used in conjunction with other tools, but it is a tool, a powerful one (since sex gets down into very basic brain levels), and one Eugene knows how to use. The Art is a human, transformed into something else. Something to be looked at and reflected upon, something to make a statement. You convey a message. You don't care what message you convey; by the time he's finished making you into Art, you have no mind or will to care one way or the other. Emotions are exhibited, but there's no you in there anymore to care. What was once your soul is now the soul of Art.
Should you have an existence as a pet, however, you'll retain a personality. WHAT personality is the issue; it isn't necessarily your original one, though certain attractive elements will be the same. The purpose of a pet is much the same as the purpose of any pet: to exist, provide companionship, provide entertainment, and provide beauty. Art is regarded with proprietary pride, but pets are regarded with a detached, light affection. They are fed, and sheltered, and mostly ignored. When the pet is sick, it is treated. When it is old, it is put down. Pets do not have hobbies, and pets rarely have more than one or two likes. Pets are never ever used as sex toys; that would be sick and wrong. That is the way of things. Pets may have opinions, but does anybody care? Certainly not Eugene. Pets have no way to make their opinions grab on to anything, either. Were his human pets cats, then Eugene would have had them all declawed, front and back, unless it amused him to leave them. Those who bit would be corrected. Gently, of course, but the lesson lasts thoroughly.
The principal tools of making and unmaking someone are pain and pleasure. Favorite specific tools of making, unmaking, and discipline include; sex, straight pins, ice, warmth, gentle warmth after prolonged exposure to ice, comfort, praise, expressing disappointment, tapping, petting, darkness, light, conversation, phobias, pressure points, reverse psychology, reversed reverse psychology, hunger, sleep deprivation, deprivation of one or all senses, surgical knives. There are others, of course. Eugene is a master, and a master can improvise.
So. You're beginning to get an idea. Eugene is a supremacist, and he is a patrician one, patrician being in the same fashion as the men of ancient Athens (though yes, Meejit, "patrician" is Latin). He doesn't feel he's better than most of the world, he is better than most of the world, because most of the world is comprised of beasts. He's calm, and quiet, and generally soothing to talk to. Here's the "but." BUT if you have the people-senses God gave a cockroach you can TELL that Something Is Not Right Here. It won't be your logic that tells you this, and unless you've led an interesting life, it won't be past experience either. The little voice that tells you to avoid Eugene comes from the lizard brain. It is the voice of an instinct that has been all but bred out of the human race; that of an animal coming face to face with a greater predator. Those who can recognize this instinct for what it is have a big advantage in keeping their minds un-messed-with. Those who can't are up shit creek without a paddle.
He likes competition, however. Competition, having something to strive against other than oneself, makes one's achievements greater because of it. Sadly, there isn't much competition. Ninety-nine percent of the world is non-person. Plants, rocks, animals. Predators, prey, scenery. Non-person, and not worthy of the time it takes to hate them. Only children hate things that are below them, because children haven't yet realized their proper status in the world. Children are delightful that way. Half of one percent of the world's population are actual people. He has met them, from time to time. Sometimes they agree with him, and sometimes disagree. Both are fine; debate is a civilized pastime. A quarter of one percent of the world's population are not only people, they're fellow, if lesser, predators. The remaining fragment of the world's population are people, the highest of the high. They are his equals and his betters, and he thrills to meet them. Compare it to a modern artist having the opportunity to meet da Vinci. As said above, Eugene was delighted to meet Yu-Huang.
Eugene is usually in a mood of gentle, indulgent good humor. He's pitying you, you see. He's making allowances for the lesser being (poor thing doesn't know any better… it isn't its fault its nature is so base), not that he'd ever put it quite like that. That would be rude. He's thinking it, though. As for anger… Eugene doesn't get angry. He becomes displeased, and then he alleviates his displeasure in the manner most personally satisfying at the time. The boys who robbed him and killed his favorite pets were reduced, not so gently, to feral, snarling things that knew only hunger/full, pain/no pain. To true animals. And he put chains and collars on them, as it amused him. After a few days, when keeping such feral, savage creatures around no longer amused him, he let them go. One was hit by a truck, the other killed a neighbor's dog and ate it raw. The neighbors were understandably quite shocked. Many things he simply lets go. It is the duty of those who are enlightened to indulge the poor beasts their minor infractions, of course.
He considers himself to be a kind, reasonable man. After all, it isn't as if he ever messed around with people. He only turns animals into Art, into pets. He'd never hurt another person. Animals, on the other hand, are free game.
He likes classical Greek and Roman philosophy and literature, and he reads Greek and Latin. He tends to read books by the great thinkers, and occasionally spouts off a proverb, his own or one he's read. If it isn't his own, he quotes the source, author and book both. And he gives the source every. Single. Time. Plagiarism is bad.
Most of the world is wild, and it is his duty and his pleasure to tame where he sees fit. Plants are clipped, trained, and kept in militant order. French gardens are lovely. Humans are likewise pruned and trained into perfection. When he looks at those portions of the world that have not yet known his influence, he doesn't feel distaste. Instead, he feels potential. Just look, look at all the raw material he has to work his art with. To create beauty with.
It's wonderful.
IN SUMMARY: Creepy. As. Hell. If you have any instincts at all you're still able to hear, they're telling you that you should get away from this thing. If they're GOOD instincts, they're telling you not to run, not to turn your back, and not to show fear. They're telling you to pretend you're just as badass, and a little bored. And they're telling you to never, ever come near him again. Ever.
Darkest Secret: He likes daffodils!
Reactions to Sudden Hugs: ... fascinating.
Virtues and Vices: VIRTUES: Patient, painstaking, thorough! THAT'S BASICALLY IT.
In order to have vices, one must be human.
[edit] Badassery
Power Sphere: Spirit. Emotion.
Asswhoopery:
"MESS WITH YOUR HEAD". Eugene was good at this before, and now that he has Xin's powers of emotion… ouch. Just… ouch.
"Eye of a collector". He's a practiced collector of fine arts and wines. He's well-versed in art history, and he can quite easily tell genuine art and good wine from imitations and cheaper vintages MOST of the time. The rest of the time he might have to check a reference first. Like Atsumi, this man is the fear of all shopkeepers selling "Waterford" crystal and "Imari" china.
"Light of the Spirit". It just gets easier and easier to find those who shine. To his eyes a person- excuse me, HUMAN glows a color corresponding to their emotion. There's no set analogy, but any time he wishes he can see, at a glance, what that human is feeling. Those with subdued emotions or good mental/magical shields cannot be looked at easily in this fashion (like wearing sunglasses at night). He turns it on and off at will, like sunglasses, and can only look at one person at a time in this way.
Greatest Weakness: At the present moment, no one has yet tangled with Xin in-game, so it is hard to pin down his weaknesses. In strict combat terms, it may be noted that he does not have any real combat skills; if you are physically-oriented in your attacks, you might be golden if you can get within arms-reach and simply punch him between the eyes.
Also, it is worth a shot to see if he might underestimate your powers of tactics on the fly; alternately, like the Bene Gesserit, he might gauge your humanity on how well you can withstand pain in order to defend your fellows!
Or you can try muting him. Perhaps Mermaid's Fascination Aria might do the trick - he can't make you an offer you can't refuse IF HE CAN'T TALK, OR YOU CAN'T HEAR HIM.
We'll just have to wait and see; pull out all your stops, because the longer you fight against Xin, the worse it's gonna be.
Attacks:
"Influence emotion." Two words- "projective empath." He's much better at forcing his own emotional state upon others, and that'd be plenty traumatic for someone sane, but quite frankly, Scarlett, you're not worthy of His Majesty's exalted state of mind. Instead, he'll focus on one or two of the little defenders, and project whatever he pleases at them, usually in conjunction with chatting them up. A slow, creeping sense of trust and comfort, for example, as he slowly talks his way into your head. Perhaps the shivers you get upon seeing your own tombstone, and facing Death waiting for you. Darkest despair, giddiest joy, harshest revulsion… yes, all the pretty emotions. All those lovely things to twist you with.
"Manipulate Spirit." When a victim has had his or her will or strength weakened "enough" (and "enough" is different for every single person), Xin can reach through to a person's spirit, and he can manipulate it with his hands. The lightest touch of his hands on a person's spirit causes incredible pain. Were Xin less of a twisted, sick PSYCHO, this would not be so, but he is, so it does. No physical wounds result from this attack, just pain and the feeling of incredible, soul-deep violation. He's bruised a soul. Rape would be preferable to this for many people. He can't touch a spirit very long; unless he's already broken that person, a spirit naturally recoils away from him, and recoils HARD. He'd only get the necessary concentration and focus to do this once every other battle or so.
"Elemental Summon: wraith." The wraiths are spirits of those dead but not departed, tormented, twisted souls who exist only to cause pain and to feed off of the pain they cause. Emotional agony is their sweetest sustenance. They're misty, ethereal-looking creatures with long, flimsy-looking claws. Those claws are anything BUT flimsy, and if a wraith feeds enough, if can tear physical as well as spiritual wounds in a victim. Wraiths are also one HELL of a lot stronger than they look. Xin can summon a single powerful wraith, or an entire host of lesser ones. The lesser wraiths dance around, distracting, whispering, teasing, slashing. Their slashes do not affect flesh, but it still faintly hurts on some level, since they're trying to shred your soul, and anyone who actually listens to the whispers of a wraith will eventually go mad. Wraiths whisper of all that is wrong and hurtful in the world. A single powerful wraith would be able to physically claw someone to ribbons, and the wailing of such a wraith makes those who hear it feel grief and despair. These emotions feed the wraith, and it grows more powerful still. Either sort is vulnerable to a spiritual or completely energy-based attack, but the single wraith is obviously much more difficult to kill than the lesser ones. The wraiths are very fast, but they do not turn well. Think of a torpedo. Dodge at the right moment, and one very frustrated wraith will shoot right past you, unable to correct its direction in time. One doesn't have to be particularly spry to successfully dodge a full-speed wraith. As said, they are not the most agile of terrors. Wraiths, greater or lesser, are also not the brightest crayons in the box. They are cunning, but it'll take them a LONG time to learn to change tactics so that they, you know, actually CATCH someone. The wraiths follow Xin's command, but most of the time he simply sits back and watches them work.
Fuku: Ward Cleaver suit.
