Post by Deleted on Mar 13, 2014 16:37:21 GMT -5
Full Name:
The Day.
Paxton Charles IxleyGender:
MaleAge:
SixteenPower:
ELECTRICAL MANIPULATION :: Paxton's siblings used to attribute his 'hyperactivity' to the fact that he was gifted, but the two really had little proven correlation. Paxton didn't realize he had powers until he was twelve, so he isn't aware of any pre-twelve access to his ability he may have had.Appearance:
While Paxton is capable of manipulating other electrical currents, that doesn't mean he knows how. Presently he can channel the electrical current within his own body (a limited resource, though his body is capable of maintaining more at any given time than the average person) and use that electricity to effect bio-electrical processes. In other words, he can cause minor burns, set your heart to a different pace, make your hand spasm (your muscles will contract), and he's notoriously a cause of that annoying static shock sensation you get. When he's in the room (or worse, nearby), your chances of getting shocked will rise. Other factors contribute, like if you're in a carpeted or tiled room, or if there are many people, opposed to a few, or if the room is spacious, ect.
A few downsides are that sometimes, especially when he's nervous, it feels like there's a million jolts of electricity dancing in his face. Yep, all over. Making his mouth twitch, zapping his vocal cords (okay, actually, it's more like it's springing in his throat, but he can't seem to speak, anyway), and, at times, making his hair rise like a frazzled scientist.
Paxton can also have an irregular heart beat, feel jolts of pain in his muscles or chest, develop cramps (especially if he's still and the flow of electricity within his body "settles" in his arms or legs), and he, occasionally, will discharge electrical current into people or objects. For everyone's safety, Paxton is one of the students who wears gloves often, primarily while handling his cell phone and laptops or in large social gatherings like dances.
Brown hair and grey-blue eyes define his face. Otherwise, he has boyish features that would have you guessing he was eternally fourteen (something that is endlessly annoying to the now-sixteen-year-old teen). He also has all the latest "in style" clothes. His closet is filled to the brim with brightly colored hoodies and Hollister tees. Ultimately, he goes to great lengths just to fit in, down to his long haired hairstyle.Personality:
But the one choice Paxton made on his own, resolutely defining his social standing, was to get his lip pierced. It was something he was interested before it was "cool" to do. Now, as a five-foot-four sixteen year old boy, his piercing is sometimes the most authentic visible element of his being.
What you might not get on the surface is that most of his clothes are hand-me-downs or thrift-store-finds. He rarely ever has a brand new pair of jeans, or a never-been-washed t-shirt unless either falls under the twenty dollar mark. He has never been to the mall to pick up a t-shirt just because he liked how it looked. Paxton may "fit in" but appearance-wise, it's a charade. He's not the well off, fashion savvy teenager he wishes he was.
Paxton is optimistic and determined. He dreams of being a psychologist, of helping people during their toughest moments. And with his outward show of confidence, there are few reasons to count him out for the task. He knows how to fit in and how to carry a conversation well enough. It's the standing out part he tries to avoid for the most part.Picture:
Paxton'd never have the bravery to decide he wanted to wear dark makeup or entirely black attire. The same could be said about wearing any clothes otherwise classified as "girl's"- having any sort of interest in any fashion beyond what mass media portrays is a terrifying prospect for Paxton. Which is, admittedly, a silly thing to have a fear of.
But Paxton is not shy. For all his blending in, he says what's on his mind and really holds his own, braving the laughter and surprised reactions he may get from his choice of phrases. It's unmistakeable that he's a king of references, a movie buff, a Disney guru. He also seems like that eternal sunshine, the chipper nothing's-ever-wrong companion to your team.
Pax's not the smartest person in the room, but he's got a great, primarily auditory memory so he often seems a lot more aware and attentive than he actually is. He loves crowds and can be a show-off around small groups of people he knows well. ...Showing off in crowds of strangers takes some convincing. Still, Paxton would rather brave his stage fright and try to impress a crowd than be all by himself for more than a few hours.
Weaknesses:
Paxton's not shy, but his stage fright can sometimes make it seem like he is. He's so wrapped up in seeming like a "normal" kid that sometimes, he forgets to be a kid at all. He just wants to be liked. He hates being alone and he hates the very prospect of rejection, not simply romantically but in all respects. It's a driving force for him in a very negative way.Strengths:
Which is one reason that Paxton's stuttering is such a mortifying occurrence. He acts like he can't get a single word out, ever, when in truth it only happens once in a great while when he's nervous or when he hasn't got a grasp on his ability. How often he stutters isn't easily quantified, but it can be said that it is relatively rare for him to stutter around familiar people.
Paxton's identity is a mesh of peer-pressured choices and compromises, leaving little room for a solid sense of himself or his values. It's not hard to imagine that he could be influenced into doing just about anything without the proper positive influence in his life to counteract the suggestions of others. And even with a positive influence, he's one particular person that's likely to amass a lot of regrets by the time he's eighteen.
But easily the most challenging obstacle he faces is the effects of his own ability. The regular bursts of electricity that contract the muscles in his body can, at times, make him feel like he's paralyzed. That's never a good thing to consider first thing in the morning. Not to mention the havoc it causes in his social life when he stutters. And for him there's no telling what, if any, lasting damage any surges of electricity have caused in his brain.
Understandably, Paxton's not the biggest fan of water. If he unintentionally releases any electric energy near water or while his body is wet, he's at risk of burning his own skin as the electricity blazes back into his body in the wet area, relentlessly evaporating the water as it goes. Which is why squirt guns are his least favorite toy ever, second only to water balloons. Water-based powers, swimming pools, and rain are also rather inconvenient elements of the world he lives in.
Above all else, Paxton's happy nature has served him well throughout his life. He's not known to let the chance to complain stop him from saying something positive instead. That isn't to say he never has anything negative to say, just that he'd choose being positive instead. Moments of "serious" reflection are rare, making him an ideal addition to a party or a fun day on the town.History/Family:
Paxton's also funny by most people's definition. His natural inclination to reference odd things is a source of amusement for his nearest friends and strangers alike.
Paxton's helpful. He wants to see everyone happy, so if he has the opportunity to make something easier for someone else or to earn a smile, he will. He likes doing things he gets acknowledged for and is often the first to volunteer when someone tries to organize something positive in the community.
The Day.
"MOM!" Paxton yelled at the top of his lungs as he bolted upright. The faint ensuing groan was not his mother's. Nor were the curse words that echoed down the hallway, approaching his room. Paxton held his breath, regret swelling inside of him. The door knob turned, then his father's five-foot-nine frame filled his doorway, casting a large shadow into the room.In Character sample:
"Paxton Charles. Grow up. Aren't you too old for this?" The harshness of his words was lost to him in his sleep-deprived state, but Andrew Ixley had a fair bit of justification for being annoyed with his five year old son. Paxton wasn't a baby any longer, so why did he show such disregard for other family members? If Andrew could wish away Pax's youth, he would.
"Sorry, Dad." Paxton replied meekly, casting his gaze to the comforter that was currently concealing his legs. His father sighed, then took a few steps toward his youngest son's bed.
"We're going to get you a flashlight tomorrow. And next time you get scared, you can just shine the light on whatever it is that's got your goat." Andrew promised, doing his best to sound less-than-annoyed. It came as more of a grumble irregardless of his efforts. Paxton's blue eyes raised, meeting his father's half-closed green eyes.
"Thanks." Paxton offered. His father closed the distance between them, ruffling his hair before switching on his bedside lamp. It flooded the room with a dull yellow hue that had Paxton squinting.
"Get some sleep." His father wasted no time retreating out of the room, closing the door behind him.
As promised, Paxton's father bought him his very own, heavy metal flashlight the very next day during the course of his errands during his lunch break. As a state attorney, he would often leave the office to remind himself that beyond the world of criminal justice, there were still people living their lives.
But escaping criminals was never something Paxton's father could do for long. It was midday. The sun was hiding behind clouds, and the roads were quiet in the rural Colorado town. One single choice, one desperate, drunken man, with no regard for anyone beyond himself, decided he needed more booze to drown out the knowledge of a recent divorce. Andrew Ixley was walking across the street, admittedly somewhere nearer to the middle than the crosswalk, when the car swerved and collided with his fragile form.
People say that drinking can save the driver's life in an accident. They say the alcohol suppresses the body's natural instinct to go rigid. So the driver is able to maneuver around his own vehicle, like a rag doll. But it isn't a very kind thing to point out.
There would be times when Paxton would wish with all his heart that his father was the drunk of the family. The one who could have survived, because he wouldn't have known to be scared quickly enough to need to be. It seemed unfair that the "right' choice was somehow, ultimately, a mistake.
Paxton wasn't even sure they were allowed to give him the flashlight when the police handed him the possessions found near his dad. Shouldn't they be returned to the store? His father was gone. It was his money, his intentions, so why were these men clad in blue handing him his father's final gift? His mother was told that there was still glass littering the street from the jar of jam he'd tried to bring home to them. The words seemed absurd to Paxton. Within a white shopping bag there had been a cracked bottle of ketchup, a dented can of Pepsi, and the flashlight in its scraped plastic packaging.
The police promised to have his father's car brought to the house at no charge. The small kindness meant nothing to the mother and son.
The rest of the day was a haze. His siblings came home and were told of the morning's events, but otherwise, a silence hung over the house, permeating everything. Every thought, every emotion, it was tinged with the fear of reality. It wasn't until the next day that his mother finally placed calls out to the extended family members. After that came promises to visit and 'best wishes'. Whatever that meant.
Two weeks later, things were normal. As normal as anything could ever be. Below the surface, bills were going unpaid and his mother, still stricken with grief, was working extra shifts. Paxton and his siblings went to school on autopilot. There wasn't much at home to stay there for, anyway.
That night the electricity finally got shut off. It was bound to happen. Paxton woke up in the middle of the night to a pitch black room. When he tried the lamp, nothing happened.
"Daad!" The word slipped out unintentionally, filling the room with a memory so powerful and vivid that Paxton half expected his father to groan and curse in frustration as he made his way down the hall.
Only silence met him.
Perhaps all of the Ixley children and their mother had woken and silently expected their father to soothe Paxton. The way he always had, no matter how many times Paxton called for his mother instead.
Realizing only more silence would follow, the six year old climbed from his bed and navigated the moon-lit room until he found the unopened flashlight his mother had left at the bottom of his closet. The damage to the plastic, undoubtedly from when it slid across asphalt, made it easy to tear at. In no time the heavy, silver metal flashlight was weighing in his palm. Heavy, solid, and... without batteries. Further inspection of the closet revealed that in the two weeks since his father's death, his mother had found the presence of mind to buy batteries for the flashlight.
The small smile tugging at his lips was the first he'd come close to since his father's death. The packaging for the batteries was less complex. The batteries slid into the bottom of the flashlight with ease and when he replaced the back of the flashlight, the back wall of his closet was immediately illuminated in a dull yellow.
Just for a moment, even though nothing had changed, Paxton felt safe.
The moment slipped by quickly. Paxton stumbled out of his closet and to his bed, the sporadic arc of the flashlight doing more to create strange shadows than to erase them.
Let's just face it. The grass is never greener on the "other side" when the "other side" is Montana.
That is to say, the difference between London and Montana is night and day. Speaking of strictly grass, Paxton would have to admit that Montana's ground was far greener so far, while London would trump them in the sheer mass of concrete... And nearly every other interesting aspect of life. But occasionally, he'd remember why he left England for the United States.
And Paxton would then be forced to admit he'd failed. If getting transferred from his London academy was some great second chance to overcome his fear and speak to people so he could have friends, he was squandering it. Which was why he felt anger rising as he tried to focus on the repetition of dribbling the soccer ball. Left, right, left, right. Don't miss. It couldn't drown out the thought of silence, of still feeling total terror at the idea of speaking to strangers. A month into attending the school so far had pretty much left those who'd noticed him thinking he was mute or deaf, he was pretty sure. Not that he'd asked.
It felt as if electricity was bubbling to the surface. Electricity shouldn't bubble. It had no bubble-like qualities. No liquidness, no fluidness, it was too zappy. And yet, on it bubbled inside of him. It sent a slight tingling sensation from his toes up to his chest, building slowly. That was more aggravating than feeling like he'd failed. If he could just get his ability under control and stop feeling so damn nervous then everything would work itself out. Right?
Paxton spun on his heel and kicked the soccer ball directly at the gymnasium door. There was a resounding thud that echoed in the otherwise unoccupied gym, then only the sound of the rolling ball as it began a journey toward the left side of the gym floor. This was not how he wanted to spend his afternoon, but there he was, on a Tuesday at two thirty, kicking around a soccer ball in his new school's gymnasium.
"This isn't tough," Paxton mumbled to himself. Silently, he promised himself he'd speak to the next girl he saw. Then he could prove he wasn't a total spaz.
Unfortunately, stutter or not, Paxton Ixley was a bit odd.
