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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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Congratulations, Joss! You’ve been accepted to play Julius Heller. Your request to change his FC to Chris Evans, and his school to West Point, has also been approved. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: Hi, I’m obsessed with the detail in this application! I love how much thought you put in to his motivations and his history with Karina. I can’t wait to see Julius on the dash! - Admin M

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED

Julius Heller

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS

Julius was pretty much force-fed the need to sacrifice for God and country from the age of 3. His father intended his son to follow in his footsteps, maybe be a full-bird colonel or even a general. Julius was smart and adaptable, he had to be with how he grew up, and he didn’t have close ties to any one place in particular. Add on a father whose love and respect was based solely on how willing Julius was to say how hi when his father said jump and you have the perfect candidate for the clandestine services. People from happy functional families don’t tend to become spies.

Working for the CIA wasn’t quite what he imagined, but it was thrilling nonetheless. His focus was Russia and working dealing with bot farms and counterespionage. He ended up dealing with the Russian Mafia’s encroachment on the US and developing connections in the mob in Moscow and St. Petersberg. After the Ukrainian revolution, he was sent to the Crimea to gather intel about Russian separatists and the Ukrainian forces trying to fight back against them. He ended up deep undercover, dating the daughter of a Russian-backed politician suspected of funding anti-Chechen terrorist activities.

Karina. Oh Karina. She wasn’t the first love of Julius’s life, but she was the one who got to him when he was vulnerable and in need of someone to hang onto. She was trouble, the kind of trouble he should’ve known to avoid, with a drug problem and an attitude that she could get away with anything because of who she was. But she got him in important doors, and lying next to her in bed at night made him feel like someone might love him at least a little for who he really was, even if he wasn’t sure who that was anymore.

Karina got into a new kind of trouble: playing at the games her father was involved in. She didn’t seem to understand why Julius would object, when he was the one neck-deep in it too, and it resulted in a fight that only ended when she called him to tell him she was pregnant. She also revealed that she’d been using his name to engage in all kinds of bad behaviour and had gotten him so deep in shit that even he couldn’t get out. He was going to get pulled by his handler and be sent back stateside. She told him if he left her, she’d reveal everything he’d been up to and make trouble for him with the Russian Mafia, blowing up his whole mission. She knew just enough that if she told the wrong people, he’d get outed and burned and probably end up dead.

While he was trying to find a way to bring her home with him, still convinced that they could have a family and be together, despite all the evidence to the contrary, Karina disappeared. At first, Julius assumed she was doing it on purpose to force him to acquiesce to her demands. Then, he was simply frantic, using contacts he only had for life or death situations to try and find her. She was found by Ukrainian police in an alley, dead of an overdose. The media called it a tragic accident and hinted that it might be a suicide, while her father accused first the Ukrainians and then his own Russian contacts of having her killed. Only Julius knew that the Chechens had been tipped off about her involvement in her father’s business there. And that sent him down the rabbit hole of not knowing whether or not his own organization was to blame; whether they’d weighed the likelihood of his own death or hers and come up with an equation that he couldn’t be a part of.

There is Julius pre-Karina and Julius post-Karina, and it’s the defining moment where he went against God and country and had to discover who he actually was as a person. He’s still figuring that out. What is the difference, after all, between someone who commits crimes for personal gain and someone who does it for the flag? Is he any better than a criminal himself? Half his co-workers retired and became arms dealers or corporate security chiefs who engage in morally grey activities in foreign countries where no one is watching. Who is he if he’s not the good guy? He’d always believed that a good guy doing a bad thing for the right reasons was better than a bad guy doing the same thing for the wrong reasons. Now he’s not so sure there’s even such a thing as good guys and bad guys at all.

His involvement with the Sinclairs has left him feeling even more confused. If he’s keeping someone safe, but he’s doing so for criminals, is he better than he was when he was getting people killed for the government? His moral quandaries are something he tries not to dwell on, the kind of man who acts and doesn’t worry about second-guessing because it will get you killed, but years of turning off his moral compass has made it impossible to shut it off anymore.

What’s worse is there are people in the Sinclairs that he likes, that he cares about, who matter to him. Not getting attached was supposed to be part of his job, but having done it once with Karina, it’s become a habit he doesn’t know how to quit.

All of this would suggest a brooding, angsty man who weeps into his whiskey quietly in his apartment while it rains, only of course he’s too manly to actually weep. But Jules is the opposite of that. He’s had to become pathologically well-liked as part of his CIA training, and it’s carried forward into his new line of work. He can sit down at a table and make friends with whoever happens to be there, so that by the end of the evening, he knows the name of everyone’s spouse, children, mistress, and favourite sports team. Jules can get secrets out of people and they don’t even realize he was the one who asked in the first place.

He doesn’t let a lot of people in, and even when he found Paityn and protected her, almost on a whim, he still struggled to let himself care for her. She reminded him of Karina, trouble that needed him and fulfilled that part of him that wanted to be the knight in shining armour when he’d spent his life hiding in the shadows. But she and her mother have wormed their way into his life, so that he now even has weekly coffees with Penny to discuss her family and frets over Paityn if she doesn’t check in even on his days off. He’s dangerously close to considering at least part of the Sinclairs as something almost like family, which he hasn’t had since he joined the service, and it would frighten him if he let himself think about it.

WRITING SAMPLE

Once upon a time, Julian Helmann had thought he knew what right and wrong were. Now he knew he had no idea. After years of wearing a variety of masks and using so many different names that he sometimes forgot which one was real, he was back in the country that he’d loved but never really known. He had a new identity, which had cost him his retirement fund. His former handlers at Langley had agreed to quietly retire him provided he accepted that Julian Helmann was burned in the intelligence community, never able to work for any government, disavowed by the service and made known to every agency willing to listen. He’d signed along the dotted line and hadn’t told them all to eat shit, because he was too tired to care. It was over, that was the important thing.

So he was now Julius Heller, and that was who he would be for the rest of his life. Or until something new happened that required him to leave this one behind. He’d learned not to rely on anything remaining the same. Being adaptable was what kept you alive.

He’d picked Chicago because it was unfamiliar to him. He’d never lived there with his family growing up, there were no military bases near enough to bother him, and it seemed like a city that didn’t require you to have a past. No one needed to know his life story, they simply knew that he was here now.

Case in point, he’d been coming to the Sinclair bar for a month and had made friends with three bartenders and five locals. None of them cared about what he’d done before arriving in Chicago, other than making sure he wasn’t a fan of the wrong sports team. He’d spent his life worrying about the motives of every stranger he came across, so it was refreshing to know that he was surrounded by people engaged in the kind of lifestyle that meant he already knew what their motives were, and that they didn’t care about him. Maybe he’d spent too much time in Russia. Maybe he couldn’t really get along with anyone but criminals anymore. When you’d spent fifteen years of your life learning how to do a thing, it was simply possible you couldn’t stop.

Of course he knew who they were. He’d chosen the bar for that very reason. What better place to blend in than a bar where everyone had rap sheets and a pressing desire not to answer questions? They weren’t even that bad, as gangs went. They didn’t kill your whole family as a lesson if you fucked up while you watched. Chicago had been run by the Irish and the Italians, who would probably hate to hear that that marked them as soft when it came to organized crime syndicates, but Jules had chosen it over places with a heavy Russian influence. Sure, the Russians were moving on Chicago, they moved on anywhere they could, but they didn’t have a stranglehold on the place yet. If they did, he supposed he would have to leave. He was used to that.

There’s a quiet after an explosion that most people don’t realize. The blast itself isn’t so much loud as it is an attack on the senses. You don’t even process it as sound because it blows out your eardrums. And then there’s just quiet, and a ringing that slowly grows louder and louder. You can feel it in your head, your teeth, your chest. You’re dripping blood from your ears, your nose, anywhere the shrapnel has hit, and the world feels a lot like if you’ve been pulled into the undertow, and you don’t know which way is up. It is one of the most disorienting sensations, and there’s no way to get used to it. Whether it’s your first explosion, or your 30th, you handle it the same way, which is badly.

Julius was outside the bar, which wasn’t hard, since there was now a much larger entrance than there had been, wondering if Vladimir had found out who he was and had sent a message about the thing in Vladivostok. A man pointed a gun at him and was probably screaming, Jules’s ears hadn’t adjusted yet. He’d be at least half-deaf for three days. Reading lips was never as accurate as people thought, but even in his current state, Jules could tell it was in English. And more, that the man didn’t have Soviet teeth, so he wasn’t Russian. Ukrainian, maybe?

“Ya ne rozmovlyayu anhliysʹkoyu.” I don’t speak English. Julius couldn’t even hear his own voice, didn’t know if he was shouting it or if it just felt that way. He kept his hands up, trying to wipe the blood off of his face on the inside of his elbow. The words, “fucking Sinclairs” was clear enough that Jules felt comfortable assuming this was not, in fact, a hit on him.

While debating whether or not to simply lie down on the ground and let things take their natural course, he saw a crumpled form with hair that caught the streetlight glow. It was a girl. She reminded him suddenly of Karina, the way they’d found her behind Yuzhnoe. He’d looked at the crime scene photos, still had them, couldn’t stop looking, as if something was going to finally tip him off and tell him for sure what had happened.

The yelling man with the gun had stopped pointing it at Julius, also having noticed the girl, and was walking towards her, firing and missing. The Costellos really needed to offer better firearms training. Julius shot the man in the head three times in quick succession, twice in the main body cavity as well just for good measure. Scooping up what turned out to be a handy little assault rifle that was definitely not street legal, Julius kicked the corpse several times just to be absolutely sure.

The girl was small, smaller than Karina had been, she weighed almost nothing as Julius rolled her over and checked for injuries. His hearing was fucked, so he kept having to look up, checking for cops or reinforcements. When he saw them coming, he was disappointed to realize it wasn’t the cops. Cops he could handle. This was going to be complicated.

Throwing her over a shoulder, he flicked the gun to semi-auto and sprayed a pattern directly at the oncoming car, causing it to spin out and hit the curb trying to avoid the bullets. That gave him time to unlock his car and toss the girl into the back seat. Button-lock cars were really a lifesaver.

The street ahead was suddenly blocked off by an SUV, and the car behind was moving to block him off as well. Fabulous. Turning, he noted that the girl was coming around. “Hey, I need you to get down and hide in the foot well, okay? Just … don’t move and don’t open the car for anyone. I’ll be back in a minute.” After a moment, he dug his phone out and tossed it to her. It was a burner anyway. “If I’m not back in five minutes, call 911 and then the first number in the contacts, tell them you need an extraction. Someone will come, okay?” Looking out the window, he judged he had maybe 30 seconds before they were about to have company. “Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise. You’re gonna be fine.”

Four minutes and 12 seconds later, he opened the driver’s side door, dripping blood from a graze across his bicep. It would sting but wouldn’t kill him. The SUV that had been blocking his path was now on fire and the one behind them had a small semi-circle of bodies around it. The girl was still there, looking dazed and so small. Her eyes seemed to take up most of her face. Karina’s face had been different. He reminded himself of that. Not the same. Different girl, different country, different him. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

#accepted

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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Would you ever consider Adria Arjona for the role of Salma?/Is there interest for having her get picked up as a character?

Hi! I actually have Adria Arjona as an FC for an upcoming character, but I wouldn’t mind changing the upcoming character’s FC if there is interest in Salma.

– Admin V

#rpg #rp #roleplay #lsrpg #ask #Anonymous

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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The auditions received list has been updated. (+1)

#rpg #rp #roleplay #lsrpg #lsrp

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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WELCOME TO CHICAGO

Chicago had always been divided between two powerful families. A bloody feud dating back decades finally erupted past the point of no return at the end of 2018. An arms deal gone wrong -- almost fatal. While the two crime families of Chicago made it a rule to never do business, their employees often did so in secret. A meeting between the Costellos and Sinclairs turned sour rather quickly, and an unknowing Paityn Sinclair happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. After an explosion almost took his daughter’s life, Morgan Sinclair became hellbent on finding some sort of peace in the midst of a deadly war. Enough blood had been spilled. After months of negotiation, the answer was clear. A marriage, uniting both families by law, before God. Unfortunately for both the Costellos and Sinclairs, there was still bad blood, and a mysterious figure shot and killed the bride on the day of the wedding.

Paisley Sinclair’s death was the catalyst that catapulted both sides into a ruthless, unforgiving war that claimed the lives of many -- including Marcel Costello, head of the Costello criminal organization. In the months that followed, chaos ensued. Major establishments for both sides were destroyed beyond the point of repair. And, as the months dragged on, something became very, very clear: there was a third party in the game this whole time, pulling strings behind the scenes, and no one had any idea.

Well... almost no one.

CHAPTER TWO

The second chapter of this RPG will be revealed January 11th, 2020 -- with a brand new main page, updated plot, new graphics, and a batch of new characters. Our story will pick up in January of 2021, a little over a year after the death of Marcel Costello. Since then, the unexpected has driven the Sinclairs and Costellos into a very public and unlikely alliance -- all as a show of strength against a new player.

Current members, please like this post if you intend on sticking around for this exciting new chapter. More details to follow.

HOME | MESSAGE | CHARACTERS

#lsrpg #lsrp #crime rpg #crime rp #mob rp

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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Please Unfollow:

Corinna Sutter

Chloe Rey

Salma Carrillo

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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Please Unfollow:

Dahlia Jessup

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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same person who asked about ezra miller for shiloh, also wondering about luke pasqualino and noah centineo!

Sorry! I can’t see any of them working.

-- Admin C

#ask #Anonymous

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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i know you guys are working really hard on your own life shit right now, just wanted to say how much we appreciate you! your hard work and time that you put into this really shows and it means so much to all of us. I'm really excited to see the next bios you guys release and I hope you have a good thanksgiving if you're american! for merlyn, happy black friday lol

Thank you so much! We all really appreciate kind messages like this!

– Admin M

#rp #rpg #roleplay #Anonymous

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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Hello, a friendly message from your local Sinclair Loyalist Dumbass (TM), just saying that I will love up and down quite thoroughly whomever so decides to take up the fellow local Sinclair Family Dumbass (TM) Shiloh Sinclair, and I will bribe with whatever need be in order to achieve said goal. Love Kelly/Chanel/ELIJAH 'WANTS HIS ROOMMATE' WILLIAMS xoxo

LISTEN TO KELLY, PEOPLE.

#rpg #rp #roleplay #lsrpg #elijahxwilliams

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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Congratulations, Isabella! You’ve been accepted to play Dahlia Jessup. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: I absolutely cannot. This app was freakin’ beautiful! I was already captivated just reading the part where you describe her in your own words. I loved the little details like what she has her degree in and her mother’s response to it. I love how you dissecting her down to her desire to please, but didn’t limit her to that. I can say, 100%, I am soooooo excited to see you bring her to life on the dash! Welcome, welcome, welcome! - Admin C

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED

Dahlia Jessup.

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORD

I think what defines Dahlia so visibly, is her abandonment issues. Her mommy issues. Her people pleasing. These are all very humanly understandable flaws, and I adore them. I love flawed characters, especially when they’re so relatable to the audience and the person portraying them. I think what makes her so special to me is that I resonate with her on a deeper level for my own personal reasons, but also because she’s filled with this amazing potential to either become a great heroine or an awful villain. She does a lot of things in the name of love & family, but who is she? Strip the girl bare, leave nothing but her heart and soul, and you’ll find that she becomes nothing. Because Dahlia needs and finds her sense of identity within her family, within others.

Of course, she’s more than that, but I think she hasn’t seen herself outside of other people’s perspectives. Perhaps she’s been too self-sacrificing in the name of family (hell, she even sacrificed her own morals to join the Sinclairs) and now she’s paying the price. There are so many sides and nuances to her, I would really love to explore it on a more thorough level.

WRITING SAMPLE

Her figure stands by the kitchen doorway. Hollow, quiet – almost non-existent in its own right. The then sixteen year-old Dahlia is left at a loss for words by her mother.

These are the moments where she catches a glimpse of her mother’s humanity: right after work, when she comes home hours into the night, dark circles and all. She knows Serena works hard, for the both of them, but sometimes Lia wishes she had a white picket fence kind of life, you know, the kind of life they show on television. The kind of life that probably doesn’t exist.

But she stands by the doorway looking at someone whose face is unfamiliar, yet still so ambiguously close to hers. It’s uncanny the resemblance that Dahlia and Serena share.. and as much as Dahlia hated herself for looking so much like her mother, she took some kind of comfort in knowing they shared at least one thing.

These are the moments in which she wishes she felt loved, felt wanted – anything. “I– I missed you,” Dahlia whispers, like some kind of confession she could never speak of. Her mother nods, unable to look at her own daughter, and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and walks past her daughter.

“Did you hear me?” Dahlia inquires nearly defeated. “Mhmm?” Serena turns to her, in confusion. Either my mother is deaf, or simply out of tune with other people’s feelings, she realizes.

“I said I missed you, mom.” Dahlia gestures, empty handed.

Again, no response. It seems that the main focus of Serena’s attention lies on the television right now – or maybe she’s just pretending to watch the news. “Since when do you even watch TV?” Dahlia points out the obvious, but it’s unclear whether or not Serena bothers listening, simply turning off the television and walking out of the room, avoiding her daughter like the plague.

Silence falls upon them, like a soft numbing blanket caressing each and every word unspoken. Dahlia sits by the couch, unable to look at her mother any longer. Somehow they’ve become strangers and Lia knows she’s not the one to blame, but her heart dips a little further into guilt whenever Serena neglects her. It’s like she’ll never be enough. She’ll never know her mother. She’ll never be Serena’s daughter.

Tonight, she’ll take comfort in her metal science books, in her journals, in her midnight coffee.

Tonight, she’ll also probably cry herself to sleep while her mother leaves for work at 5am in the morning and won’t even notice her big, puffy eyes… but that’s the thing about Serena: even if she did notice it, she’d blame it on ‘teenage hormones’, instead of taking actual responsibility for her daughter’s constant paranoia of abandonment.

______________________

Hours later and Dahlia sits by the balcony, looking at her old photos like usual. Beside her, by the small wooden table, there’s a box of photographs and old dusty memories thrown into the abyss. Lia has taken it upon herself to sort out which ones are relevant and which are not, but in nights like these, she always winds up too emotional over these memories to ever ponder the idea of throwing out a picture or two.

She doesn’t remember her mother being this fond of her, this close. Pictures of Dahlia giggling, playing or simply smiling right beside her mother are all over the place, and what seems abnormal is that her mother doesn’t look consumed by work, or by life itself. She looks happy, proud… She looks like someone else.

But she doesn’t remember it at all. She lived through it, but she was only a baby… And memories? Memories are too important to lose, like pictures… So tonight, she’ll dig through anything she can find, and maybe she’ll find the father she never had, or perhaps someone to take her mother’s place. If anything, she’ll do whatever it takes.. For what’s left of her family, for herself.

EXTRAS

HEADCANONS:

Dahlia strikes me as the kind of person who’s a little too much of a people pleaser – when it comes down to the people she loves, she’ll go to extreme lengths to please them, earn their love, affection and approval. It goes without saying that Serena left a mother shaped hole in her heart, and without any kind of mother or father to look up to, she took on the role of the people pleaser to ensure she has a place in people’s hearts. It’s almost automatic, and it hurts her when people dislike her. Just the thought of being unwanted makes her skin crawl, triggering her anxiety to the point of having nightmares about her mother – and the father that she never had.

Her MBTI type is ENFJ, who’s also known as the giver amongst people. ENFJ’s are extremely loyal, loving and self-sacrificing to the point of no return. They are also very dedicated, connect easily with people and often forget about their own needs, putting others’ before their own. Because of their intuitive side, they’re excellent troubleshooters, and often ponder about the ‘what ifs’ (in Dahlia’s case, she thinks a lot about her future when it comes down to the consequences of her own actions, and how reckless it was of her to join her aunt’s shenanigans simply because she needed her approval). ENFJs can also be very crafty and artistic, and often can be very pessimistic and overly critical and logical under stress (when she realizes the damage of her actions).

She’s a Virgo. They are known to be perfectionists, logical, practical and very pragmatic. This excerpt taken from an astrology website showcases a lot of the traits Dahlia possesses: Above all else, Virgos want to help. They are kind, gentle, and supportive friends and lovers who use their incredible intellect and resourcefulness to problem-solve. Virgo’s opposite sign, Pisces, offers guidance through spirituality, but Virgos want to assist on a practical level. These earth signs are always striving to provide workable solutions and improve broken systems. Methodical, committed, and hardworking.

Her Hogwarts house is Ravenclaw. I wasn’t sure if she’d fit into Gryffindor, but I think Ravenclaw encompasses her wit, her intellect and her detail-oriented personality. It’s very incredible to me that someone who’s a feeler (ENFJ) would also be so logical and pragmatic as a Ravenclaw. Dahlia is a fun, complex contradiction to write – and I’m very eager to explore how her head goes against her heart every time.

She has a degree in chemical engineering, specializing in copper, aluminium, iron and steel. Dahlia is a qualified Metallurgist, chemistry is her passion – and she goes to great lengths to ensure that she’s on the right path. Serena laughed about it to Dahlia’s face when she first told her mom she was going to be an engineer. To her, it was a ‘men only’ profession, and it broke her heart not to have her mother’s full support. She wanted to show her she could do it, she could become great, she could do something special. But even after graduating, her mother did not take her seriously.

I have crafted a proper pinterest board for Dahlia. I’m still in the process of organizing it and adding more pins to it, but the essentials are there. I also have a tag for Dahlia on my blog, which you can find by clicking here.

#accepted

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parabellum-rpg-archive · 4 years

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Congratulations, Kaylin! You’ve been accepted to play Avery Mercer. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: Wow. You’re a flawless writer! I enjoyed reading every part of this audition. You have such a clear grasp on Avery, and it really shines in the way that you write her. I’m so excited to have you in the group - welcome! - Admin V

IC INFORMATION:

Character Desired:

Avery Mercer

Describe the character in your own words:

Avery is devastatingly complex. Whereas it’s often difficult to believe someone can change so drastically from a brat of a party girl to a person who leads a quiet life, that’s not the case with Avery. Her transformation is so incredibly believable. Having one parent kill the other is traumatic. Knowing that same parent had every intent on coming for you next is beyond that. And though Avery’s trying to put her past behind her, that’s clearly something that stays with her. Because of this, I’d say she’s hesitant to trust people or let them in. Who can blame her considering her father, a man who’s supposed to love and protect her unconditionally, is the one who caused her greatest pain?

And yes, Avery leads a quiet life now, but there’s still a small aspect of her that misses the high life she once lived. Why else would she involve herself with the likes of the Sinclairs, especially as something so seemingly glamorous as being a burlesque dancer? Not to mention she’s the best burlesque dancer at The Black Cat. That in itself comes with a few perks. Young Avery once craved attention, and who’s to say the same doesn’t apply to Avery as a grown woman? She’s able to get the validation she still craves, but she is no longer addicted to it. The attention gives her a small high, but then she’s able to leave it at the club and go back to her apartment, where she knows peace and quiet.

But it goes without saying that there in Chicago, Avery really gets her first sense of home and normalcy. Sure, it isn’t easy at first. Change rarely ever is easy. But Avery is grateful for that city, for her aunt, for the Sinclairs. They all saved her life, even if she didn’t originally see it that way. She realizes it now. Avery was angry for a long time, but now she’s too tired to be angry. She accepts her life for what it is, and it’s a life that’s entirely her own. She wouldn’t trade it for the world. Her past almost feels like another life. Almost.

Writing Sample:

Large windows took up the entire back of their Miami mansion, touching from the floor to the ceiling. Only in the day did the light beam through those very windows and the particles of dust would become visible, idly floating by. The house with its many rooms, large and excessive, felt less than home with more space than occupants. It was easy to notice things like dust particles in the air that, under normal circumstances would normally go unnoticed. And these weren’t normal circumstances. But to Avery Mercer, the house with the big windows, the foreign and imported chandelier in the grand foyer, and the square feet with a number much larger than her little brain could fathom, this was the only thing she’d ever known. It was impossible to imagine life any other way.

This was her normal.

When she ran across the marble floors, her hair whipping behind her, no footfalls accompanied hers. The stern voice telling her to walk didn’t come from her mother or her father, but rather it was the voice of a nanny, the only thing she could clearly point out as any sort of parental figure. But still she loved her mommy and daddy very much. David Mercer was too busy building an empire for his family to pay any substantial attention to his doe eyed daughter who would grow into the spitting image of her mother. Diane Mercer spent her days shopping with other glamorous housewives she knew. Not that Avery ever minded. She loved her parents very much, and she knew they loved her too. They’d make up for frequent absences with gifts with the hopes they’d fill the void. In most ways, it did.

Love was a dollar amount. That was how little Avery came to see it, therefore there was nothing a gift couldn’t fix. Before she knew it, the empty, lonely corners of the Miami mansion became filled with stuff, her stuff, just enough to keep her entertained and satisfied. And when those things lost its lush, they were replaced with new, shinier things until it turned into dangerous cycle.

II.

Avery was a beautiful girl, and she knew it. She’d grown into her looks, still looking every bit of her gorgeous, model mother. She knew she was beautiful, and it showed in the way people gawked at her or the way her father’s colleagues hugged her a little too tight for a little too long and told her how grown up she’d gotten.

And grown up she was.

With barely a foot in high school, Avery had a palate for the finest of champagnes.

The cater waiters at the Mercer’s frequent house soirees knew better than to tell the youngest Mercer no, so when they waltzed around the parties with trays overflowing with bubbly, they could only watch in contempt as Avery grabbed a champagne flute for herself. But the seeming innocence of sipping champagne in the comfort of her parents’ functions turned to hard liquor with her rich kids friends, drinking whatever they could get their juvenile hands on.

She loved her friends, because they gave her the one thing she’d always been craving. They felt like home. Sneaking out, stealing cars, staying on Miami beaches until the morning sun peeked over the horizon. They were wild and reckless, the kind of kids people warned her about. They were nothing like the perfect, soulless walls of the Mercer Mansion. Forbidden fruit never tasted so sweet, and Avery devoured it until her friends’ culture and behavior became her own.

It explained why she was too hungover in her Honors Literature class, a class she had no business being in in the first place. She was no scholar, but her transcript need not show it if she was going to apply to and get into an Ivy League university in the years to come. It explained why when the wheels of the Mercer’s private plane would touch down again in America after another quick, lavish, ultimatum of a trip to Europe, Avery would find herself sitting in the company of another therapist whose name she didn’t know or cared to know. As the person sitting across from her tried to psychoanalyze her, Avery would only smile with a mischievous glint. It would only be a matter of time before that therapist would get tired of her difficult ways. It explained why she would get angry and throw things, expensive things, and yell, and slam the door in the face of her mother.

Her mother.

The only source of light came creeping up from underneath the closet door. Avery sat in the dark, alone and shell shocked, with her knees pulled up to her chest. It was quiet there, with the exception of her hollowed, shaking breath. She felt a terror so deeply rooted inside of her that the fear itself restricted her lungs and made it hard to breathe. And for the first time in her life, Avery Mercer’s life was at a standstill.

She waited. Waited to live. Waited to die. It felt as if she’d been waiting for an eternity, not certain if it had been two minutes or two days. Months shy of her eighteenth birthday, she finally felt how young she truly was. She had so many more decades and lives left to live, but it took the firing of a gun for her to see it. Avery Mercer didn’t want to die, but it’s not like she really had the choice. So she held herself and cried as softly as she could, mourning the loss of everything she’d never be. She mumbled something like a prayer to herself, and she waited.

When the closet door opened, Avery ducked her head and raised her hands high, defenseless to what was coming.

“Please don’t kill me,” She begged, flinching with her eyes shut tight. This was it.

But as the officers escorted her out of her home, past the pool of blood and her mothers legs, motionless and lifeless, poking out from behind a wall, past her father sitting in the back of the police car, Avery realized as she looked back to her beautiful home that it would be the last time she’d see the large windows she loved so much.

III.

Make believe. That’s all it was. But wasn’t it so nice sometimes to pretend?

The pearls draped around her neck, the lingerie clinging to her skin, the silk robe hanging off of her shoulders, none of it belonged to her. It all belonged to a character she created long ago.

The Avery looking back at her in the vanity mirror was an Avery she built from scratch. This Avery was Chicago, through and through. She was a workingwoman who understood the power of a dollar. She was in love with who she’d become.

The jazz music flooded into her dressing room, muffled by the four walls cornering her. It was just another day at the Black Cat, and Avery was busy trying to clear her mind before delivering the grand finale of performances later in the evening. Normally, she’d walk around the venue and bat her pretty eyes, or she’d entertain patrons at the bar before disappearing and reappearing front and center stage. But right now, she reveled in the peace and near quiet.

Avery sighed and leaned up in her chair, reaching for a picture she had resting against the mirror. She ran her fingers gingerly against the old photograph, a soft smile touching her still gorgeous features. She was so young then. Couldn’t have been any older than nineteen. She stood with her arms around her Aunt Stephanie out in front of the small house they shared on the outskirts of Chicago. They couldn’t look any happier. Avery couldn’t have been any happier.

She hadn’t talked to Aunt Stephanie this week, so she made a mental reminder to give her a call in the morning when Avery’s shift at the Black Cat was long behind her and the new quiet world she built for herself would return to normal.

But for the time being, she was there, at work. And as she applied her signature, red lipstick, it wouldn’t be much longer until she’d hit the stage, until she captivated the attentions and hearts of her audience as she stripped, artfully losing one article of clothing at a time. And in no time, she’d be able to return to her quiet Chicago apartment in her otherwise quiet life.

But the Sinclairs were the company she kept, and Avery was smart enough to know that quiet would only last so long before its stillness rippled.

In the meantime, all she could do was wait.

#accepted

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