avery mason ☼ daniel drieberg (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} watch_this) wrote,@ 2009-04-18 00:42:00 |
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ourtruemods | Avery Mason |
Basics Name: Avery Susan Mason Reincarnation: Dan Dreiberg. His codename is (was?) Nite Owl. He prefers Dan, though. Says it’s less formal. So we’ll go with Dan. He used to be a hero. Not like a superhero, who could shoot lightning out of his eyeballs or anything. A vigilante. He fought criminals, tried to keep people safe using his nifty gadgets. Age: 23 Sexuality: I’m going to take the easy way out and go with bi-sexual. Right now, we’re kind of on the fence. Status: Unavailable. Occupation: Full-time, I’m a mechanic. Part-time? Vigilante. Home(s): I was born in West Virginia and raised in Austin, Texas, but now I live in NYC. Details Usual Clothing: Usually, I wear anything that I wouldn’t mind seeing destroyed. You know, because of the potential for fire and motor oil spillage. My shoes fall in to the same category. I get stuff that’s more sturdy than fashionable. Generally my entire wardrobe is a little worse for the wear. Ripped jeans, stained tops…I don’t own much that’s really nice. Appearance: Let’s see here…I’m about 5’7”, 140 pounds. I’ve got brown hair, which I keep long because it’s easier, and blue eyes. I went through a mild piercing binge right out of high school, but I only keep the rings in my belly button and ears. Around the same time, I got a couple of gears tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. Once was enough of that, though. Abilities/Talents: I’m good with cars. Or I used to be. Now I’m good with cars, and just about anything else that could count as, like, a machine. Dan’s a whole lot smarter than I am, so I learned a lot more recently. Like how to round house kick without falling on my butt. Allegiance: Good. Personality There’s no good way to explain your own personality. If you ask me, I’m just your average girl; quiet and friendly. I don’t talk a lot, since you learn more by listening. Plus, I was raised in one of those ‘don’t speak unless spoken to’ households, and old habits die hard. I’d rather be the casual observer, anyway. You get in less arguments that way. Not that I won’t speak up if, like, I have something that I really feel needs to be said, but I don’t chatter on aimlessly about every thought that flitters in to my head. The only time I get overly wordy is when I’m writing. It’s easier to express myself through written word. I guess I make a pretty good friend. I never had many, but the ones I did have were the best, so I must have been doing something right. I'm kind of set in my ways when it comes to meeting people. I don't like to branch out. That applies to most of my life, actually. I'm a serious creature of habit. I like my routine. I'm the kind of person that will order the exact same thing every time they go to a restaurant, for fear of possibly stumbling across something more delicious. Well, I'm more afraid of stumbling across something gross, but it comes to the same thing. Mostly, I'm more than content to hang out in my shop. Even now, not a lot has changed. Dan's memories or whatever don't have a lot of affect on how I act. There's always some random things that we disagree over. If that's even possible. I'm not sure how to explain it, but for the most part we get on just fine. It's still weird, though. Sometimes, I want to do something, and he's like...no, that's a bad idea. Ever had an argument with yourself? It's not a pleasant thing. History My story has a pretty crappy beginning. I was born to Crystal Lloyd and Jeff Mason, about three months after they got married. It was no secret that the only reason they ever stuck together was because my grandparents insisted that they do 'the right thing'. Personally, I think it would have been better if they'd just left well enough alone and gone their separate ways. Daddy enjoyed his booze, and he was a mean drunk. By the time I was five, I knew not to cross him. The whole thing made my mother bitter. She avoided the both of us when she could, especially when Daddy had the drink in him and got in the mood to smack someone around. I'd hide out on my own. It didn't take long for me to figure out that there wasn't any use hoping that my mom would step in and keep me sheltered. Things didn't get any better there. My Daddy kept a job, most of the time, so we were fed and we had a roof over our heads. It meant we had to move around a lot, but I figured were were comfortable. When we finally settled for the last time in Austin was when I first started hearing people talk. I was about ten, but I understood. The ladies that came from the church or social services or other places like that were always kind, even though they had that look in their eyes. That cross between pity and disgust. I ignored them, though. Them and all the kids at school who laughed at my second hand clothes. It was easier for me to just sit by myself and will everyone else away. I was alright on my own. By then, I'd learned to count only on myself. That changed the summer of my sixteenth birthday. I was out for the day, trying to avoid going home, just roaming around the streets. Not causing trouble or anything. I'd just plopped down on the curb when someone started yelling at me. 'You girl, come here and hold this a'fore I lose my leg'. Needless to say, it scared the living crap out of me, but I didn't argue. I never argued. I crept across the street in to Harper's Automotive. It was the owner that had yelled for me. His name was Charlie Harper, and all he wanted me to do was hold a flashlight. I helped out with a few other odd chores that day, and he gruffly told me that if I ever needed somewhere to sit that wasn't in the street, I could come by again. I kept coming by, first only a few times a week, and then more. He liked my company, and I liked having somewhere to hang out. Eventually, he started showing me the ins and outs of cars. I was a smart kid, and caught on pretty quick. By the time the year was out, I was working at Harper's part time, taking on clients of my own. My parents didn't care that I was hardly ever home. Hell, they never cared about anything where I was concerned. When I turned eighteen, Charlie helped me find an apartment, and got me started on my own. Even though he was nearly old enough to be my grandpa, he was the closest thing to a best friend that I ever had. So it broke my heart when he died. I was just past twenty-one when it happened. A heart attack. Just like that I'd lost all the family that I could have wanted. Charlie didn't have any kids of his own, or any kin that he thought counted. He'd left me everything. His house, his shop, his fully restored '68 Camaro. My parents tried to ooze back in to my life then, sensing that I was way better off than they were. Maybe it was cold of me, but I wouldn't have anything to do with them. All they wanted from me was a slice of the life I'd inherited, and I wouldn't give it too them. I'd worked too hard to make my own way, only to have them steal it from me. Everything worked out pretty well for me after that. I had a nice home, a steady job where I was my own boss...the only thing that someone might say I was lacking was a good man. I had no use for men, though. They came in to my shop, thinking they knew more about how to run a car than I did. It was enough to drive me crazy. Why would I want one of those around full time? Anyway, I did eventually get some companionship. He wandered up off the street one day, all full of himself, and I didn't have the heart to turn him away. Scrapper was some sort of mutt, with short legs and stout body. He looked like some sort of pitt bull slapped together with...I don't know, a cocker spaniel, maybe? He's still around, and hasn't gotten any prettier. The only real problem I have now are these memories popping up out of nowhere. They're not mine, that's for sure. Then there are those moments when I feel like...I'm not myself. Like my reactions are coming from someone else's brain. If I'm going crazy, I wish I would just get there already, instead of just taking the really long trip. OOC |
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