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necroixe · 15 hours

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Js realized I never posted this guy but I have ocs other than Nico I swear lmaoo

This is Noah, formerly known as Micah Vance before he got fucked over by slender man as they all do and ws hit with a healthy dose of cloud strife style retrograde amnesia + identity theft.

Full character file and details under the cut! Be warned– it’s LONG:

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‘ ‘ did you say something, what’d you say?... ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ was that your voice, or was that me? ‘ ‘

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N A M E

Noah Rivers

A L I A S

The ghost

A G E

G E N D E R

Male, he/him

S E X

Male

Noah is a human operator proxy.

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"I've never been fucking scared of you," He snapped, and Noah grabbed his jaw.

"I've always hated that."

"What?"

"How often you lie through your fucking teeth."

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A P P E A R A N C E

The most notable thing about Noah is his mask. It's drawn over crudely with charcoal, smudged all over, black around the eyes, the nose, the mouth. But the features are visible. The nose is sharp and angular, and the lips are drawn in a thin line. He wears it so often it's more like his face than his actual face. The only time he takes it off is when he's asleep, and sometimes not even then. His actual face, the one under the mask, has a scar that drags from above his right eyebrow down across his nose to his left jawline. His face is slim, angular, edges hazy against a monochromatic color scheme. The structure of his face is proportionate but it’s usually frowning, brows furrowed, mouth cut into a scowl. His features look like they were cut from alabaster or marble. Would’ve been pretty, maybe, in another universe. His eyes should've been black, but one of them is blinded, grayed over, and the other seems perpetually suited for low light. They are upturned, half lidded at a default and followed by bags, lines, and dark circles. They look bruised or dusky in color. He's bad with bright lights. He has black hair, cut choppy and messy, like he did it himself. His skin is so pale it's almost a sort of gray, the kind that suggests he doesn't see sun often. Lips chapped and dry, always cracked and bleeding, same with his hands, long black nails he likes painting for a reason he can't fully explain. They make his already slender fingers appear longer than they are. Almost clawlike. Noah is thin. He's tall, taller than he remembers, standing at 5’11”. He's built like an alley cat, all sinew and muscle, sharp shoulders, sharp bones. Scars all over his body. Some are new, from fights, other's he's had before he can remember in odd, purposeful places.

V O I C E

Baritone

Rough, and unused. When speaking his voice is barely above a whisper. He’s one of those people with a voice so low you have to lean in to listen. There’s an edge to his tone, a slight southern drawl. Sometimes the things he says sound more like they’re coming from a machine than a person. His voice is muffled when it’s under the mask, he compensates by being slightly louder.

S C E N T

His scent isn’t something that’s easy to pinpoint. It’s almost sterile, but not hospital sterile. He kind of smells like the woods.

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‘ ‘ how many times did i tell you

before it finally got through? ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ you lose. ‘ ‘

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C O M B A T

Noah has heightened strength and speed, but he’s still human. A human that ignores the capabilities of his own body, but human nonetheless. He’s a skilled fighter, can hold his own against nearly anyone when weapons aren’t involved. He doesn’t like knives. Helpless with them, helpless against them. Noah is a firearms sort of guy. Always has a gun on him, either a pistol, or when he’s hunting he has a rifle. He’s interesting during fights. A textbook masochist. Pain doesn’t elicit the same reaction from him as it would for most other people. At best, he’ll ignore it, at worst, he’s drunk on it.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

Noah doesn’t remember much about his life before meeting the operator, if anything. There are glimpses of a history that doesn’t feel like his in the back of his mind, or when he’s half asleep, or when his brain turns off and he isn’t really thinking. Those are his favorite moments. Where he can pretend he isn’t himself. He’s a murderer. He’s quiet, and secretive, and temperamental. What might’ve at one point been a charming persona, dulled and narrowed itself down to a chassis unrecognizable to people who knew him when he was younger. He’s quick to anger. Restless when things are calm, and when he feels alright. He’s never actively antagonistic, but he doesn’t like other people, and his skin itches for instability. He can never hold down a relationship. Of any kind, platonic, romantic. Always ends up ruining it somehow. And he likes it that way. He doesn’t even know why he’s so angry, he just is. His internal world is indecipherable, even to him. He’s constantly mixing things up, getting things wrong, getting distracted, forgetting things. Which is strange, because in the abstract he’s intelligent. There are moments where it seems like he’s lucid, and he’s calm, easy going, likable, even. He has a dry sense of humor that on boys like him feel more charismatic than it actually is. But the neuroticism always comes back eventually. He isn’t Noah without the neuroticism. Maybe he isn’t Noah at all.

B A C K S T O R Y

He isn't. He grew up as a boy named Micah. A different person, honestly. Relatively normal, all things considered. Had parents, friends, a boyfriend, people that cared about him. A trajectory that should’ve been normal. He would’ve graduated highschool, gone to college, him and his boyfriend would break up and he’d marry a girl, or they wouldn’t and they’d end up together only to divorce later, or something. He thought domestic bliss was a stupid concept. Would give anything for it now.

The operator in his hometown was a story you told to kids. They called him the thin man. Micah and his friends would play in the woods on the outskirts of Haven, hunt for bird eggs, mark fake trails, the woods were sparse enough to not really worry about getting lost or losing each other, you could walk in any direction and reach a clearing in half an hour, or so, until you reached the deepwood, but no one went in there. Not even him. Haven was famous for having people go into that part of the woods and never come out. They said it’s because it was so disorienting, that you could walk in without even realizing it, and before you know it all the branches look the same and you can’t see a path. But when he was nineteen he went in. And he met the reason why no one ever really left those woods.

The concept of a proxy was weird to him. Someone that worked for an invisible force of nature you couldn’t see, but you could feel, and Micah felt him in the form of thick static at the back of his neck. Then again, he was drugged the entire time. It might’ve been that. The man who’d kidnapped him was named Noah. He was older, had a limp, a face he covered up by some sort of mask. Micah couldn’t remember. But he remembered his hands. They were unstable, shook constantly, leathery skin, or maybe gloves. Felt like fire. He remembered the way they’d palpitate when he took a blade, dragged it down his face, or somewhere else on his body. And this man, Micah would think to himself in a sedated haze, would use those hands to kill him. There was no universe where he got out of here in one piece.

The brain does fascinating things under extreme trauma. Noah would’ve made a brilliant psychiatrist in the 50s, because he’d triggered an artificial disassociation in Micah that helped him survive the ordeal at all. Mind over matter, he’d think, over, and over, and over, mind over matter. If he liked how much it hurt it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d make himself like it. If he missed home, his boyfriend’s stupid face so much he wanted to die, he’d tell himself he didn’t miss any of it at all. Where was he now? They’d gotten into a fight the last time he remembered, he wasn’t looking for him, wouldn’t save him, it was a waste of energy he didn’t have the luxury to sacrifice. The sedative helped. He didn’t know what it was. Some sort of depressant. His mind reeled, ran, sludged, brain into liquid. He wondered if Noah did this to everyone. Whatever that static was, it never shut up. A constant, ear grating buzz. Red noise. He’d get sick, Noah would laugh at him. He hated Noah. Hated Noah’s voice, his shaking hands, the smug sort of way he’d talk to him like he’d already won, like he’d already killed him. And he really should’ve. Noah was arrogant. Didn’t think he needed a gun for him, even though he had dozens lining the wall of his basement, an arsenal. And he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill someone locked to a chair and half awake. He was just an idiot. Let Micah slip out, let him kill him. His death was anticlimactic. A face pumped full of lead, features torn asunder. But the static was too loud all of a sudden, and he was nauseous, and his vision dimmed.

The amnesia paired itself with some delusion disorder, courtesy of the operator, he’d realize. He didn’t recognize his face, or his body, a perpetual state of psychosis, of dysphoria. Noah was the strongest thing in his mind. The last thing he really remembered. Maybe that’s why he latched onto the name. The memory of him. Or a voice he didn’t recognize told him it was him, that it was the only thing he made sense. This was Noah’s cabin, he recognized it, recognized the rooms, the temperature, the basement, the bloody, empty spot on the floor where something should’ve been. And then Noah’s cabin turned into his cabin. Noah’s mind turned into his mind. Some things scared him. He didn’t understand why his hands didn’t shake anymore, why he couldn’t stand to see his own face. But he clings to anything familiar. The thin man is familiar. He does what it tells him to.

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“you had no right to kill him.”

A voice said, from nowhere and everywhere all at once, register so alien and low it made his heart flatten to the pit of his stomach.

“a life for a life. your kind values equivocal exchange, no?”

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