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Congratulations, Meredith! You have been accepted for the role of Ariadne Guzman (FC: Odette Annable). Ariadne is an interestingly positioned character. She could easily be written as a passive love interest for Mike... or as an active member of the police force. Your application made it clear where she stood: and it’s on her own two feet. You said it so well in that she is firm in her convictions and who she is. Ariadne is clumsy and well-meaning and entirely endearing, and that came across so well in your application. You have an ear for her character and it was a true delight to read your interpretation of her. Thank you for such a great application! Please have a look at this page prior to sending in your account.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Meredith Age: 18 Pronouns: They/them Timezone: EST Activity estimation: In the summertime (so, now!) I am extremely active, posting probably every other day, though I will make an attempt for every day. I’m starting college in the fall, so that adjustment might put a bit of a damper on that, but I’ll maintain posting as often as I can. I have no issue staggering posts out so I’m still on the dash, even if I prefer to post all my replies at the same time. Triggers: REDACTED

IN CHARACTER: BASICS

Full name: Ariadne Rose Guzman Age (DD/MM/YYY): 11/24/1967. Sagittarius sun, Leo moon. Gender: Cisgender Female Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Bisexual Occupation: Police Officer Connection to Victim: Blurry television screens and terrifying accusations only bring back memories of the horrors of ‘84 — and that’s what primarily fuels her determination to bring Brian home. Simply imagining all the horrors that happened, but instead to a little boy is enough to make her stomach turn. Ariadne knows Linda vaguely from church, mostly from chatting the other woman’s ear off after presenting a particularly shitty cherry pie at a church potluck. Alibi: Ariadne was on the job when Brian went missing. It made things more horrifying and more real, but she’s grateful that it’s solid. She knows what kind of paranoia small towns cook up after trauma like this. Faceclaim: Odette Annable, Shay Mitchell, and then the original face claim of Natalee Linez.

WRITING SAMPLE

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit, fuck. She’s halfway through the train of expletives, mind moving erratically — like a wonky washing machine in a seedy laundromat, thunk thunk thunking against her skull, or television static after a particularly nasty rainstorm knocks out the cable — when she remembers why exactly her alarm clock is losing it’s shit at such an early hour. Church. Well, perhaps early isn’t the best word for the situation, even considering the time at which Sunday service began was still in the single digits. Not early; Ariadne is indisputably late. She knows it well the whirs and chirps and blaring of the three clocks she has stationed around her room all reminding her oh-so-sweetly. She’s always been a heavy sleeper, especially with the sheer amount of glass bottles that line her recycling bins. Sam Adams, Pete’s Wicked Ale, Coors. It’s something reminiscent of a baby cooing and falling asleep with drool trailed across plump cheeks, after his bottle, the way she curls up under the blankets in the fetal position after three or four or five ( it’s not five often, she’d swear on it ) of her favorite brew. There’s even a raggedy looking plush dog, with worn patches in his fur and an eye gone rogue somewhere between toddlerdom and childhood, that she keeps in the corner of her room. Too grown to sleep with it, too nostalgic to tuck it — even if him is the pronoun the mind conjures, one can hardly forget all the details of childhood stuffed animal lore — away somewhere far from here. It gets lonely in her apartment. But she’d headed to church, not Sunday school, damnit, and she’s going to act like it.

Speedily, hopefully, and though she rams her funny bone against the headboard as she makes a spastic attempt to slam the first alarm button as she yanks off pajama pants. She hops on one leg, half to mitigate the pain, or at least let herself think she’s doing so. Hobbling now, to the second —— aaand, the other half of her reasoning is left in a crumpled lump on the floor. I’ll pick them up later, she thinks, as she hunts for dress pants. A skirt, maybe. Should she wear a skirt? Fuck, does she need to shower? She yanks long brown locks in front of her face for a moment, inhaling deeply. Still smells like mango, her arm through it still smells like Dove soap and dollar store shampoo. No one could say she wasn’t distinct.

Third alarm is slammed off, and sweet, sweet silence fills the apartment once more. Other than the clank of pipes, of course, and she shakes away thoughts of ghost stories she tells herself when she wants to be too terrified to sleep. Criminals, she could deal with, but Casper the Ghost was pushing it. Skirt, skirt, skirt … “ Make an effort to look nice, Ariadne. ” Words are mumbled, and it takes a moment for brain to measure up with scattered thoughts and realise she’s talking aloud to herself. Great. Something fluttery and pale blue that ends at her knees is snatched off a hanger that looks terribly lonely in her closet, and she feels like a school girl as white blouse is added and respectively tucked in as neatly as she can muster. There’s no time for makeup – thankfully, she absolutely despises wearing it — or doing her hair, which she doesn’t mind so much. Hopefully not a rat’s nest. A single yank of the string dangling from crooked blinds, and she sees that the sky matches the cardigan she yanks on in hue. Dress shoes are pulled on, and she knows she’ll get a blister along with the dirty looks from a church elder or two for legs not clad in pantyhoes. Keys, keys, keys — deodorant, a swipe under each arm — keys, keys, keys.

She’s out the door now, and never more has she wished to feel sunshine on her skin. But, she only only gets overcast, and in spite of it, she skips two steps at a time down the back of the building. Cramped in spite of beautiful hardwood floors and a relatively spacious kitchen — relatively being she could turn around in it and not smack her ass against a hot stove, the apartment doesn’t really feel like home. Not yet anyway. Home. That’s a concept, that, to Ariadne at least, exists somewhere in the mythical sphere between familiar and intangibly distant. The way she’d grown up, at least, of dress collars stiffened with cornstarch and staring out bedroom window at the blinking of city lights in the distance, wishing she was doing something — that didn’t quite feel like home either. She loved her parents, she did, is how she would explain it when offering too much information, but in the same way a zookeeper might like an elephant before it sits on their chest and suffocates them to death. Time spent in Devil’s Knot still felt like a vacation. A novelty, really, some shitty tchotchke that ended up breaking the moment you vaguely manhandled it. But the illusion of small town community hadn’t shattered yet, not under hands delicate even through callouses. Nothing could, only time itself wearing down the sheen. But for now, things were bright and real and good, crisp September air shirking off summer humidity on that Sunday morning. There was a buzz of possibility — or maybe it was just anxiety at the thought of bursting through church doors too late to not interrupt the hymns.

Maybe that buzzing was what home was.

ANYTHING ELSE?

I made a pinterest board for Ariadne here, and a playlist here. Both are constantly in progress, as right now they’re looking a little sparse.

BACKGROUND / THE STORY SO FAR

Religion was always a part of Ariadne’s life, but it didn’t fall into her lap quite so perfectly until she was in Devil’s Knot. She grew up going to a stuffy church every Sunday, with old men half asleep in the pews and slow, heavy hymns that didn’t exactly put the joy of the Lord into her heart. Sunday school was a drag, and her mind was always moving far too quickly for her to pay attention. Why does God make bad things happen? She asked her mother one day, after a collection plate had been filled with sweaty fistfuls of coins and crumpled one dollar bills at the revelation that someone in the congregation had cancer. God doesn’t, her mother said sternly, giving the meat she was tenderizing another smack. Ariadne jumped. People do.

Ariadne never believed that, though, not for a long time. Not until she was seventeen, and her parent’s mumbled words by the television set caught her attention. Murder. Gruesome as could be. She could feel the sinking in her belly of anger, at the cruelty and callousness of the situation. It was in that moment she vowed — she wanted to make a change in the world. She wanted life to not be so cruel. She followed each word of the trial with rigid attention, praying a resolution would be found. And then she saw Max Acosta’s face, and her mother’s words rang true in her mind. People do. People were not a supernatural force, nor an unstoppable one. People — people she could fix.

Being a cop specifically isn’t what she’s always dreamed of — it’s helping people. Ariadne’s people skills, empathy, and desire for change had her toying with the idea of becoming a therapist for a while, but she’s never been particularly focused. The idea of sitting around all day, only using her words … it didn’t feel like enough. Still confused and lost as to how she could possibly make a difference, Ariadne lurked around the local community college for two years, taking enough classes to get an associate’s degree in psychology. The scientific parts bored her, but one class caught her interest particularly well. The Psychology of The Criminal Mind. She knew then that this, that becoming a cop, was what she was meant to do. She didn’t have to save people — she could protect them.

Moving to Devil’s Knot was an easy decision. If there was one thing Ariadne craved, it was connection. People. And a small town, one with a shitty diner and church picnics and the trial that started it all … it just felt right to her. Weren’t those the people that most needed protecting? People who had already been burned? From her tiny apartment, Ariadne poured over police manuals, pushing herself through the academy and finally, finally becoming a trainee officer. Now that she’s in full force ( ha! ) at the force, she’s lost none of her shine or enthusiasm for what she’s doing. She’s certainly not a kiss-ass, because it’s all painfully genuine. She really does want to work more hours, she really doesn’t mind the extra paperwork. Anything that needs to be done, she’ll do it. It’s just what’s right.

HEADCANONS

She doesn’t mean to be a shameless flirt, it’s just how she comes off. She’s bright and she’s funny and she’s warm, and a cheesy smile or a hand placed on a shoulder only comes from that place of kindness. Banter rolls off her tongue easily, and compliments are always genuine. She’s been like this for as far as she could remember — fourteen and charming the wits of all the boys in the freshman class. That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day. Her father told her then, through a half baked smile and the reeking stench of whiskey as he ruffled her hair, even though Ariadne thought she was far too old to have her hair ruffled.

Ariadne has always had to work harder than other people. Her mind just doesn’t seem to focus right. That’s part of the reason she’s so meticulous when it comes to police work, the same way she was with assignments throughout her school years. Room is always messy, clothes mostly untucked and never quite ironed properly, but she’s a marvel when it comes to facts and evidence. She likes to let people believe it’s all natural, but the amount of time she’s pulled all nighters perfecting things because everything else is just too interesting for her to focus is more than she can count.

As friendly as she is, Ariadne is not a people pleaser. Firm in her convictions and quick to spout them, shutting her mouth isn’t something she knows how to do. More often than not, these can turn into arguments — though as anyone that’s spent more than an hour with her can tell you, any spat with Ariadne is brief, because forgiving and forgetting is just a part of her personality. She’s always ready to go back to being best friends, and start the cycle over the next time you disagree with her — realistically, the next day.

No one is a worse chef than Ariadne Guzman. Except, well, she doesn’t know it. She tries, always, but she’s the type of person to burn water. Chicken comes out uncooked in the middle, pasta falls apart into mush as soon as you twirl it on a fork, cookies and cakes are burnt and runny, respectively. But she still shows up wherever she’s invited with something disgusting that she’s deemed her new specialty. Suspiciously, after the response, her specialty is never cooked again. Following instructions isn’t exactly her forté when lives aren’t on the line, so it’s not really a shock to anyone but her things turn out badly.

Ariadne loves holidays. Something about not doing much outside of her family as a child, Christmas and Easter and Thanksgiving and even Halloween were always huge celebrations for her as a child. She has spirit for everything, and is the best gift giver in all of Michigan. Even though it’s a rarity that anyone sees it, her apartment is decorated as neatly as she can muster for each of them, and she never complains when stores break out their decorations a bit too early. Don’t you feel the spirit in the air?

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