Originally posted on MSPA
Rachel Brooks ("Freefall")
Color: Indigo <#7474FF> (OPTIONAL: with <#BBBBFF> occasional, varying <#1111AA> backgrounds <#222222>. I can do without these easily if you'd prefer, and I wouldn't force anyone writing for her to use them.)
5'7", caucasian, 17 years old, black hair (long, tied back), dark brown eyes. Thinly muscular, almost gaunt at a glance. Has large, permanent black eye on left, due to when her powers fully awakened. Currently wearing a thick brown jacket and jeans over her full-body suit.
Rather short-spoken and belligerent, Freefall would rather solve a problem with her fists than put up with more than a minute's worth of discussion and dithering. However, like many good heroes, she has a long-winded internal monologue. She's dangerously impulsive, but equally self-sacrificing, especially for those she cares about.
Her cold, somewhat irritated demeanor is mostly for show, an image she's used to cultivating from her pre-hero experience. Fighting puts her in a decent mood, and flying much moreso. She hides her enjoyment outside fights, unless attempting intimidation (a favorite tactic). In battle, she mostly rides on instinct, regardless of her surroundings; between that and her powers, she has a substantial reputation for causing collateral damage.
Additionally, she is under a sensible superhero code for a combination of legal and PR reasons, which prohibits things such as killing, ignoring civilians in danger, and swearing. (She has a tenuous relationship with that last one.)
Super-lightweight elastic suit (full-body, neck down), used for protection when lightweight without interfering with buoyancy, and durability when fighting at high-density. Has lightweight metal alloy plating knuckles and feet, to assist/withstand her attacks. Also contains built-in team communicator (now obviously useless) and a few small packs of sealant for repairing cuts caused by bullets/knives/blades. Near the belt, a small series of emergency pills is hidden, varying in purpose; among them are a stimulant, a pain reliever, a pill to induce a seizure (in case of mind control), and several X-Rads. The suit is colored dark-blue with wide indigo stripe down the center, to fit her ability's colors and camouflage in night sky. A round eagle emblem (team symbol) is embossed over the heart, in the same color scheme. Other clothes are typically worn over her suit when not fighting.
Density manipulation (self) -- Freefall can manipulate her body's density at will without changing her shape, effectively increasing or decreasing her weight and durability.
When not using her powers, Freefall weighs a too-thin 115 pounds. However, with minimal concentration, she can shift this substantially. Reducing her weight causes her skin and eye-whites to take on light-indigo colors, and her voice to become slightly higher-pitched and fainter. At her lightest, even with her suit, she weighs a tiny fraction of a pound, far lighter than air for her volume. This allows her to float and rise in the air, but doesn't let her control where she moves beyond 'up'; that depends on the wind, her initial pushoff, her chosen density, et cetera. This also makes her extremely physically vulnerable: at her minimum weight, she can't carry more than a pound or two of extra weight, and any exposed skin of hers could be cut by windblown leaves.
Luckily, she nearly seems to have a sixth sense about when she's about to be hit, and intentionally goes dense before most blows and projectiles reach her. Her teammates aren't sure if this is luck, instinct, experience, or a side effect of her powers. It's a good thing she has it, though; she'd be long dead, otherwise.
When she increases her density, she gains durability, hardness, and strength. Her skin and eye-whites take on dark blue colors, and her voice becomes slightly deeper and much more resonant; her tactile senses (touch, pain) and hearing are also dulled. The densest she can get without reducing her mobility is stone-hard, about half the weight of an average midsize sedan. If she's willing to cut her movement to about a fourth of normal speed, she can go steel-hard and bulletproof (though her suit/eyes'd take damage), weighing about as much as an SUV. Even though she moves as if in slow-motion in said state, her movements are nigh-unstoppable; she'd have a far easier time bending a metal beam from rest in max-density, for example. The "stone and steel-hard" states are much more durable than stone or steel might sound, due to skin/bone elasticity and other things that make a normally soft human body resilient, amplified by her powers.
She uses her ability to shift between these quickly to her advantage, such as dodging in low-density to get opportunities for high-density blows, or jumping high into the air at min-density in order to come down like a giant spike at max-density. Her hero name, Freefall, obviously has roots in the latter.
Increasing density is her body's instinctive response to damage. If she doesn't shift in time, receiving a heavy blow while "light" would cause her to quickly go heavier before the damage spread, making the hit grievous and debilitating rather than fatal. This is a temporary, involuntary response; she must be conscious to keep maintaining a state of abnormal density.
~3.5 years exp - underground boxing (bare-knuckle)
~3 months exp - team-based superheroing/crimefighting
Grew up orphaned in an urban area, troublemaker. Would often get in fights. At 14, started participating in underground boxing, and subconsciously used her undeveloped ability to help her. Received hard blow to her left eye in the fight where her powers awakened, saved her; resulting black eye has persisted, and is unhealable. Scouted by local team of teenage superheroes shortly after awakening, given hero nickname "Freefall" (goes by this exclusively). Was still acclimating to new team/lifestyle (and it to her), but greatly enjoys it; has become convinced
that her life operates like a comic book, and has so far been proven right.
Ace, The Gadgeteer, Magenta, M.E.T.A.L., and Freefall make up The Eagles. From their Eagles' Nest overlooking Olive City, they have proven themselves one of the more successful (read: not bankrupt) city-based hero groups around.
NEW - Biography (Long) / Writing Sample:
[spoiler]Freefall's Quarters, about two months prior to abduction.
-- Mirrorcomp Custom Edition startup complete. Good evening, Freefall! --
Mirror, note to self: Think of a better nickname for you. Mickey's getting really old.
-- Added. --
Okay... I've been putting this off long enough, and I think I have it choreographed in my head the way I want it. Fancy movie-style and shit. So, yeah... Mirror, open a new journal entry.
-- Welcome to Journal Plus. Command reminders are displayed onscreen. Default mode is audio plus speech-to-text. --
Alright uh... Oh, before we start, the music. Mirror, resume the last track played.
-- Playing Track: Bad Apple!! --
The fuck?! I don't remember thi- eh screw it, it has a nice beat.
Start recording. -- *blip* --
Imagine a dark city. Black and white. That's the way it always was, really.
Zoom out, pan ov- oh GOD DAMNIT STOP RECORDING AND THAT DAMN MUSIC. -- *blip* Music Stopped. -- Why does Gadge have to put his fucking Korean bullshit on my stuff?! Just because I'm 'computer illiterate'? "Oh, your pet mirror is a little GIRL'S toy! It doesn't even have a proper FILE system!" Mirror, note to self: Kick in the Gadgeteer's desktop. Again.
-- Added. --
Alright. Whew. Calm down. You've been preparing to record this for a good month, just... do it right. Yeah. Take your time.
...Mirror, loop track: A Raw Understanding.
-- Looping Single Track: A Raw Understanding --
Ah... There we go. Least I've learned how to use you well enough, I don't give a shit what he says. Mirror, reset and start recording. Yes, I'm sure. -- *blip blip* --
[color=#7474FF]Olive City is pretty nice when you view it from above. Not so when from below. When you're below everybody.
Black and white. No, black and gray.
Colorless. Everything's dirty but pure, fake light, the lights we put everywhere we want to see and show off, to brag about how bright and shiny and perfect
everything is. People, apartments, products on top of products. But it only casts it in gray. Nobody's good. Nothing
is pure. Not from below. Everything has a price. Those in society's basement understood that.
I thought complaining about it was pretentious, something people do over tea and fucking scones. I still do. But hell, I tried a scone yesterday, who the hell am I to talk. Heh. I'll be the first to admit I'm above the system, now, and damn does it feel great.
Scones are too sweet, though.
I'm rambling. That doesn't happen often. You're so goddamn charming, Mickey. Maybe it's the face. Big-ass black eye just makes people comfortable, makes them open up, doesn't it?
Back to the movie. Pan over the dark, colorless shithole that's the city at night, the parts that nobody lights up. The parts nobody wants
Zoom in deep. Through the alleys. Get to an abandoned basement. Nobody's lit the entrance, the surface. Lots of lights deep inside though. In the makeshift ring.
Time's stopped. Black and white. Screaming lights casting the ring gray, a ring of silent and interested motherfuckers with their pockets full of petty cash. Betters watching two people about to beat the shit out of each other. None of them smiling. The pleasure here is instinct, like a drug injection; nothing to smile about here. Nobody has to pretend this is okay.
They're practically a blank wall to the contestants, the grungiest fuckers lit in the brightest, whitest light of all. All serious, with them. In a fight, all the showmanship flies out the window; the only focus is on each other.
No matter how ridiculous it looks on its face. 'Cause this time, it's a schoolgirl against a gorilla.
One corner, Blake 'Bear' Wes. Weight class out of the stratosphere, especially compared to his competition. Makes for juicier odds. In this light, can't see much beyond his huge, round head and the naked bear it's attached to. Considered a 'philosopher', given he can still fucking read despite all those knocks to the head, though they've given him a powerful fucking temper. That only helped his underground career.
The other corner, Rachel Brooks. No black eye, yet. Some skinny chick Blake hadn't even heard of in his 'circuit'. Why would he? Didn't think this fight would ever need to happen, not until it was scheduled. No one bothered to bring her up.
Maybe he'd have known to look out for her right hook.
Time resumes. First round starts. She ducks his first swing, just gliding under it like a falling feather... and there comes that fist of hers. Slams into his cheekbone like a rocket.
Down instantly. Stone cold out.
Anger instantly, everywhere. The silent wall turns disgusted. Most of them lost money, rats' fortunes. Even the ones that won are furious. They wanted to see a bloodbath. All they got was a little spatter.
Red blood, fresh from Bear's jaw. The only color besides gray, down here. The only one that matters.
She's pissed, too. Is that all he had? Waste of time. At least the money's good.
Everyone's yelling, nobody's smiling, least of all Rachel Brooks. Shoves her way out past some laughing drunk idiot nobody noticed.
Funny. Nobody's happy down there. Just others hurting to make you feel good. Damn good.
Skip ahead to the next morning. The last day of her life. The day she was stupid.
She's lifting weights, the stupid bitch. More than before. A shared workout room with a couple other female fighters who didn't give the slightest shit about each other. Except for the two that were going out, though I'm not sure even they
gave a shit about each other, either. Stocked with stolen equipment, stuff bought from winnings, just mutually placed here without a word for them to use. Weightlifting Communism. That's how Communism works, right? Whatever.
She's lifting harder than before. It's been a great month. She's pushed herself further and further every day. Hitting harder than she could before. And coming back with bigger, easier bruises, too, but fuck if she was paying attention to that. She was on a roll. Harder, faster.
Not enough to knock a Bear down in one hit, though. Hell
no. That must have been a lucky shot. Or he was all hype.
Nope, nothing's wrong with this picture, dumbass chick. Keep on feeling all fucking invincible, see where that gets you. It never got you anywhere before, but no,
you just forget all that and keep on pumping those black weights in a gray concrete room.
Thursday afternoon, she meets Tiffany at J.T.'s diner like she does every week. Her real
friend. Maybe Rachel'd ask her out if she wasn't so married to that punching bag in the weight room. And if Rachel wasn't straight.
There's a bit of goddamn color in this diner; retro red neon 70's shit. Or 80's. Didn't really care to ask, I'm not good on my history. And Tiffany, well, damn
... she IS
Strangest, nicest bitch I ever met. Can't tell if she has this dark tan or it's natural, sorta milked coffee colored. No guess as to race either, her eyes are kinda an inbetween. Hair's brown with these ridiculous blonde highlights on the outside but not on the inside and... I dunno, her hairstylist is either a genius or psychotic. Probably the latter, since her two pigtails have never been at the same angle twice, any time I've seen her. Up, down, both left, twisted together in front of her face, anything. One time they were in the classic positions; I nearly spit out my goddamn coffee until I saw she had a third one in back that day. Fucking hilarious. Always puts them in these multicolored bands, too.
T.J. runs the place. Yeah, yeah, T.J. running J.T.'s diner, he's never heard that
comment before. So he whips us up our favorite dishes. This unbelievable, fucking amazing Philly cheesesteak, dear lord you have no idea how delicious
it is. And these thick, peppery fries, a huge glob of bright red ketchup on the side. So fucking good.
All that's for me. Tiff gets a jalape