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Post by Zoe Wallerstein-Smythe on Mar 6, 2014 15:23:10 GMT -6
ZOE ELIZABETH WALLERSTEIN-SMYTHE
EIGHTEEN//FEMALE//QUESTIONING//TACTILE PARALYSIS//BELLEFONTE STUDENT//EMMA WATSON
POWER INFO: Tactile Paralysis
Zoe has the ability to essentially stun a person or send them into something strongly resembling anaphylactic shock through direct skin to skin contact with another person. A simple brush of her skin upon another's is generally enough to create a sort of numbing sensation, akin to whenever surface anesthetics are used. Prolonged contact leads to worse and worse reactions to it. An intense bodily contact, either through an extended period of time or through a rather... intense contact would result in the target going into what amounts to an anaphylactic shock: the body rejecting the sensations and essentially locking totally up.
The major drawback of this being that Zoe cannot physically come into contact with another person, at least not without severe consequences. Just that lightest touch will result in the difficulties, especially as Zoe's power is nearly always on. It may be possible given time for Zoe to gain some control over this, but that is unlikely.
Limitations:
- Zoe's power utilizes chemical reactions, so it is possible to prevent the paralysis with just the right mix of chemicals. The ability can adapt to this, but it can work as a one time prevention measure.
- Furthermore, this means that it is possible to cure Zoe's paralysis by drug adminstration or other means (i.e. a mutant power).
- In order for Zoe's powers to take full effect, she must retain contact. Releasing contact will allow the “victim's” immune system time to tick in.
The following is a college of Miss Wallerstein-Smythe's photographic work. Each represents a black and white photograph with a poem written in looping script upon the back.
The first is a picture of a street in London. Rain has been captured dripping from the eaves, threatening to spill onto the streets, where little rivers already run, leading away from the photograph proper. A hospital can be seen in the far distance, looking somehow grim and imposing, as it is framed by the buildings which work to further draw attention to it.
“Birth”
February seventeenth, nineteen ninety six,
The mother groans, her fingers dig into the sheet,
it crumples, unable to take the pain
the pain of birth
the pleasure of birth
of being pushed from the dark,
pushed from the warmth,
pushed from the womb,
entering the light of the world for the first time.
Average sized, young girl, she doesn't cry
a doctor's slap.
A girl's first cry.
Zoe Wallerstein soon to be Smythe,
daughter of Albus Wallerstein
& Cynthia Wallerstein, who pushed her from the womb,
not crying.
Was she ready to face the light?
Or would she rather have stayed in the dark?
The next photograph is of a toy chest, the various toys spilling out onto the floor. A blanket with embossed lettering shows: Zoe. A doll's head poked out from amid the mess, one button eye missing, the smile on her face looking somewhat sad.
“Childish Things”
Once I was a child,
and I played with childish things.
Now am I an adult?
Am I to put away the childish things?
Is a camera still childish?
Is a pen?
Some would say they were.
Some would say that you need to grow up.
To enter the real world.
To put down the camera.
To live.
But what if you like childish things?
What if you would rather see the world through childish things?
What if that was the best part of living
and we all let it go too soon?
She was a child long enough,
now she grows,
but she clings to her childish things,
especially her camera.
The next photograph looks strangely bright, even if it's still in the same black and white tones as the rest. It shows a pair of smiling girls. One is obviously Zoe herself. Her hair is long in the picture, falling about her pretty face in soft curls. Several people have said that Zoe could have easily been in front of the camera instead of behind it, but Zoe didn't start believing it until the other girl in the picture said it. Those big eyes would be brown naturally, and they looked truly happy here. Perhaps not quite as happy as the eyes from the other girl. She was pretty too, maybe not as pretty, though that was all too taste. The smiles made both girls look fetching though, and it didn't take an expert to figure that they obviously enjoyed one another's company.
“Step”
The parents hadn't lasted
their marriage burned down around them.
Two pieces that hadn't fit.
The Mother stayed in England.
The father fled to the States.
He met a Smythe there,
which was odd,
because that was English.
They married.
Everyone was happy.
So was she.
For there was another Smythe girl.
A step.
Smythe was pretty
Not just the normal pretty,
but truly pretty.
Pretty inside.
Pretty out.
Where was the dark in her?
She shone a light on she.
And she felt the warmth.
The love.
Did they approve?
Did it matter?
She wouldn't move anyway.
The next photograph had to have been out of order. Or something. Because it appeared to be a picture of a picture. A framed photograph of an ungainly teenage girl, still pretty, still obviously Zoe, though all legs and arms and awkward smile, standing hand in hand with that same other girl. Both were dressed in pretty dresses. A pair of middle-aged adults stood behind them, one handsome, one beautiful. This was one very pretty family, and the smiles and sheer goodwill leaking from the picture probably helped. But on the glass, you could see the reflection of Zoe. Her face was hardened in concentration, her eyes narrowed, her tongue pushing at the edge of her lips, looking like it was just about to be bit.
“I want to be happy”
but there's so much dark in the world.
Dark days.
Dark times.
Dark people.
Dark feelings.
Dark emotions.
Love can be dark though, can't it?
And is that really bad?
The next photograph couldn't have been taken by Zoe, so it was a little strange that it was included. It was black and white. It was Zoe and Ava, again. This time though, the two girls were kissing. Zoe's eyes were closed, pinched shut; Ava's eyes were wide, almost shocked.
“Kiss”
Oh God I couldn't help it.
She's going to hate me now, I just know it.
We're step-sisters!
I keep telling myself that step means that we're not related.
It just sounds like an excuse to me.
She's a girl too, so am I.
And that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was watching her.
Watching her convulse and shake.
Watching her go numb.
Screaming.
Hearing our parents show up.
Having to tell them what happened.
Then running.
This is a shitty poem. I don't know why it's here.
The last photograph is a picture of Bellefonte Academy. It's raining. The only students to be found are little dots that could be seen in the distance. Maybe if there was color, you could better make them out. The entire place looks somehow wet, gloomy, uninviting, and strangely welcoming, like the photographer loves it despite it being sort of scary.
“I think I'll wear black now”
because it looks good on me,
not because I want to look dark.
Dark is going to follow me anyway,
and I embrace it.
Sort of.
We all do that, don't we?
Montana,
it even sounds rural.
Tucked away.
Nobody can touch me here.
Good for them.
Maybe good for me.
I wonder if the black will put people off?
And I wonder who I'm trying to put off?
Boys?
Girls?
Myself?
Let's find out.
The first is a picture of a street in London. Rain has been captured dripping from the eaves, threatening to spill onto the streets, where little rivers already run, leading away from the photograph proper. A hospital can be seen in the far distance, looking somehow grim and imposing, as it is framed by the buildings which work to further draw attention to it.
“Birth”
February seventeenth, nineteen ninety six,
The mother groans, her fingers dig into the sheet,
it crumples, unable to take the pain
the pain of birth
the pleasure of birth
of being pushed from the dark,
pushed from the warmth,
pushed from the womb,
entering the light of the world for the first time.
Average sized, young girl, she doesn't cry
a doctor's slap.
A girl's first cry.
Zoe Wallerstein soon to be Smythe,
daughter of Albus Wallerstein
& Cynthia Wallerstein, who pushed her from the womb,
not crying.
Was she ready to face the light?
Or would she rather have stayed in the dark?
The next photograph is of a toy chest, the various toys spilling out onto the floor. A blanket with embossed lettering shows: Zoe. A doll's head poked out from amid the mess, one button eye missing, the smile on her face looking somewhat sad.
“Childish Things”
Once I was a child,
and I played with childish things.
Now am I an adult?
Am I to put away the childish things?
Is a camera still childish?
Is a pen?
Some would say they were.
Some would say that you need to grow up.
To enter the real world.
To put down the camera.
To live.
But what if you like childish things?
What if you would rather see the world through childish things?
What if that was the best part of living
and we all let it go too soon?
She was a child long enough,
now she grows,
but she clings to her childish things,
especially her camera.
The next photograph looks strangely bright, even if it's still in the same black and white tones as the rest. It shows a pair of smiling girls. One is obviously Zoe herself. Her hair is long in the picture, falling about her pretty face in soft curls. Several people have said that Zoe could have easily been in front of the camera instead of behind it, but Zoe didn't start believing it until the other girl in the picture said it. Those big eyes would be brown naturally, and they looked truly happy here. Perhaps not quite as happy as the eyes from the other girl. She was pretty too, maybe not as pretty, though that was all too taste. The smiles made both girls look fetching though, and it didn't take an expert to figure that they obviously enjoyed one another's company.
“Step”
The parents hadn't lasted
their marriage burned down around them.
Two pieces that hadn't fit.
The Mother stayed in England.
The father fled to the States.
He met a Smythe there,
which was odd,
because that was English.
They married.
Everyone was happy.
So was she.
For there was another Smythe girl.
A step.
Smythe was pretty
Not just the normal pretty,
but truly pretty.
Pretty inside.
Pretty out.
Where was the dark in her?
She shone a light on she.
And she felt the warmth.
The love.
Did they approve?
Did it matter?
She wouldn't move anyway.
The next photograph had to have been out of order. Or something. Because it appeared to be a picture of a picture. A framed photograph of an ungainly teenage girl, still pretty, still obviously Zoe, though all legs and arms and awkward smile, standing hand in hand with that same other girl. Both were dressed in pretty dresses. A pair of middle-aged adults stood behind them, one handsome, one beautiful. This was one very pretty family, and the smiles and sheer goodwill leaking from the picture probably helped. But on the glass, you could see the reflection of Zoe. Her face was hardened in concentration, her eyes narrowed, her tongue pushing at the edge of her lips, looking like it was just about to be bit.
“I want to be happy”
but there's so much dark in the world.
Dark days.
Dark times.
Dark people.
Dark feelings.
Dark emotions.
Love can be dark though, can't it?
And is that really bad?
The next photograph couldn't have been taken by Zoe, so it was a little strange that it was included. It was black and white. It was Zoe and Ava, again. This time though, the two girls were kissing. Zoe's eyes were closed, pinched shut; Ava's eyes were wide, almost shocked.
“Kiss”
Oh God I couldn't help it.
She's going to hate me now, I just know it.
We're step-sisters!
I keep telling myself that step means that we're not related.
It just sounds like an excuse to me.
She's a girl too, so am I.
And that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was watching her.
Watching her convulse and shake.
Watching her go numb.
Screaming.
Hearing our parents show up.
Having to tell them what happened.
Then running.
This is a shitty poem. I don't know why it's here.
The last photograph is a picture of Bellefonte Academy. It's raining. The only students to be found are little dots that could be seen in the distance. Maybe if there was color, you could better make them out. The entire place looks somehow wet, gloomy, uninviting, and strangely welcoming, like the photographer loves it despite it being sort of scary.
“I think I'll wear black now”
because it looks good on me,
not because I want to look dark.
Dark is going to follow me anyway,
and I embrace it.
Sort of.
We all do that, don't we?
Montana,
it even sounds rural.
Tucked away.
Nobody can touch me here.
Good for them.
Maybe good for me.
I wonder if the black will put people off?
And I wonder who I'm trying to put off?
Boys?
Girls?
Myself?
Let's find out.
SAMPLE: Zoe frowned as she tilted her head up, looking at the building. She didn't really think it looked that fantastic, not now. But when she raised her camera up to her eye, holding it tight within her fingers, tight enough that her knuckles nearly grew white, it suddenly looked prettier somehow. The whole thing had this strangely majestic angle to it, as though it had been here some time and would continue to defy people for some time after everyone else had left. Which was rather silly really, because it was just an old building tucked away in an old school that nobody really knew about anyway.
She was going to take a picture of it anyway. Zoe adjusted her grip on her camera, twisting it to get a better look through the lens. There was the building again, but not quite right. Frowning, Zoe took a step back. Not quite good enough. A step left. Almost. Another tiny step back, and Zoe felt something soft brush against her. Heat rose to her cheeks, terror to her chest, and she squeaked, flailing and pushing away. She had gloves on, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, black with a black and white design on it, and she had black jeans, so unless the person had somehow managed to touch her throat, there shouldn't have been an issue.
That didn't stop Zoe's reflexes. She flailed for a bit, mumbling apologies. Without looking she stepped backward. Her shoe slid across the ground and she felt herself tumbling backward. And soon after that, Zoe Wallerstein-Smythe sat in the mud, feeling the cold chill of the wet earth sinking into the seat of her jeans. She swallowed hard and tried not to cry, feeling embarrassed. She checked her camera though, wanting to make sure that everything there was alright. The camera, this one, was irreplaceable; Zoe's jeans were decided replaceable, and she'd probably recover.
But it all looked good. Which just left Zoe fighting against tears in the mud, mostly feeling sorry for herself.
USERNAME: Fate
AGE GROUP: Late Twenties
EXPERIENCE: Like, a while.
She was going to take a picture of it anyway. Zoe adjusted her grip on her camera, twisting it to get a better look through the lens. There was the building again, but not quite right. Frowning, Zoe took a step back. Not quite good enough. A step left. Almost. Another tiny step back, and Zoe felt something soft brush against her. Heat rose to her cheeks, terror to her chest, and she squeaked, flailing and pushing away. She had gloves on, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, black with a black and white design on it, and she had black jeans, so unless the person had somehow managed to touch her throat, there shouldn't have been an issue.
That didn't stop Zoe's reflexes. She flailed for a bit, mumbling apologies. Without looking she stepped backward. Her shoe slid across the ground and she felt herself tumbling backward. And soon after that, Zoe Wallerstein-Smythe sat in the mud, feeling the cold chill of the wet earth sinking into the seat of her jeans. She swallowed hard and tried not to cry, feeling embarrassed. She checked her camera though, wanting to make sure that everything there was alright. The camera, this one, was irreplaceable; Zoe's jeans were decided replaceable, and she'd probably recover.
But it all looked good. Which just left Zoe fighting against tears in the mud, mostly feeling sorry for herself.
USERNAME: Fate
AGE GROUP: Late Twenties
EXPERIENCE: Like, a while.
