The NEW Crawford Wake App

[crawfordsands]

Personal Information
Name: Sara
Age: 27
Personal LJ: sandpuppeteer
Email / AIM / MSN: sandpuppeteer@gmail.com / CrawfordSands
Current Character(s): N/A

Character Information
Name: Crawford Sands
Age: 32
Appearance:
(How he looked before, and what he'll eventually come back to)
In a word, rough. Technically, he is six feet tall, but his slouch is so bad that it takes several inches off. His red hair is choppy, and messy, as he has a bad habit of cutting it himself and not bothering with it when he wakes up. His relationship with a razor is as limited as possible, so if he does remember to shave he's still got some stubble going on. His face shows a scattering of scars, all from one fight or another. He is far from slender, with a broad frame and is a bit soft in the middle. His back and arms are covered in various scars. In highest number are those from cigarettes, but the most prominent are an inch-wide band across his shoulder blades and a burn the size of a grown man's hand on the lower left side of his rib cage.

His clothes are as rough as he is. A thread-bare sweatshirt held together with patches and safety pins. The patch on the back bears the logo for his short lived band, The Puppets. Under it is just a plain teeshirt, which may or may not have been clean before being put on. Blue jeans that have seen better days add to it, as well as a pair of plain black boots. And, finally, a pair of ratty old almost-black fingerless gloves.

(How he currently looks)
Thanks to his world being messed with, he isn't really himself. He looks more like his late forties now, deep lines in his face along with that ever-present stubble. Because of the deep-worn lines in his face, his scars are much more evident now--the one on his lip and the one under his eye standing out the most. His hair is cropped quite short, as well. Instead of his usual attire, he wears faded, army green coveralls with his last name stitched onto the pocket.

Personality:

Stubborn, abrasive, violent, grumpy--just a few words used to describe this guy. On his good days, the best he will come off as indifferent. That isn't to say he isn't incapable of mirth or humor. He's been known to laugh from time to time, but he can be a little bit on the cruel side. He was something of a bully in high school. However, that behavior was something he never quite grew out of. Picking a fight is his preferred means of stress relief. He is often drunk when doing so and uses few weapons. He carries a hammer with him at all times, but often forgets he has it, so he turns to means such as broken beer bottles to aid him in getting the upper hand. He is a dirty fighter, a brawler, with little sense of 'honor' in a fight. He is very much an 'act now, think later' sort, who would rather charge head first into something than think it out. And even when he does so and finds himself in the middle of an impossible fight, he doesn't get scared. In fact, there are only two things that can shake this stubborn redhead: His step father and public speaking/performing. Yes, the angry brawler has stage fright.

He has his soft spots, as well. He is extremely protective of those he considers friends--though they are few and far between. But above all else, he will protect his younger brother--even if it meant sacrificing himself. Everything he is, everything he lives for, is ensuring his brother's safety. This leaves him few resources for himself, but he perseveres. This protection over his brother has extended to include anyone unable to protect themselves, namely children. Under the gruff, surly exterior, he has a massive big-brother complex.

If enough people of a certain group rub him the wrong way, he will see fit to despise the entire group on principle. Previously this happened with robots. Things can be done to change his mind, but it takes a great deal of time. He will always be wary of the group in general, but he'd be okay with individuals on a case-by-case basis, though trusting them would be a long time coming. He does enjoy his grudges.

Over his time in Nautilus before, Crawford evened out a little. His mood became a little less volatile in general and he even learned to make friends outside of his usual comfort zone. Granted, he still had his little outbursts of violence, but he wasn't nearly as bad as when he'd first arrived.

Upon his return, he's going to be much different. Quieter, more even-tempered. Not in the zen sort of way, but in the "beaten down to the point of not caring" sort of way. He'll be remembering a different life. A depressing, unfulfilling sort of life, and his attitude will reflect this. He will be very closed off, unwilling to speak his mind. The sort of person that just keeps his head down and tries to keep out of trouble.

He tends to come across as something almost timid. Uncertain of his words and reluctant to speak. This isn't out of any sort of shyness, but rather out of fear. Fear that he might reveal too much. Intense caution that has kept him alive for many years. But sometimes he is too careful and defaults to not saying or doing anything. Period. He feels he's safer that way. But should he ever feel safe enough, his tongue will loosen up a little.

Character history:

Crawford's life could have been easy, simple, and bright. He was born to a young couple, both happy and full of life. At least, this is the impression Crawford has. They had their problems like anyone else, but they were more or less well adjusted. His father, William, had been kept late at work one night and decided to stop off and buy dinner for his wife and some flowers. He never made it home. Another man--rushing to his own family and injured daughter--ran a red light and struck William's car at full speed. The driver of that car died on the scene, when paramedics were delayed in responding. William was rushed to the hospital, but died from internal injuries in the ER.

Crawford was just barely a year old.

His mother, Cybil, was devastated. William had been her high school sweetheart. The love of her life. With her brother's help, she was able to cope and move on, getting her and her son settled once more. In this time, she met someone. An acquaintance of her brother, an up-and-coming figure in the political world, a man by the name of Leon Sands. He offered her the moral support she needed, and she grew attached to him. It wasn't the same, intense love she'd had with William, but it was comfort.

At the age of four, Crawford was the ring bearer at their wedding. And by the age of five, he had himself a baby brother--Donavin. Upon meeting this small, squirming bundle, Crawford vowed to be the best big brother he could be. As they grew up, Donavin was proving to be a quiet and withdrawn child. By the time the boy was three, Cybil began to suspect there may be something wrong with him, but the doctors said it was far too early to diagnose any mental disorders. A mother's intuition was not enough to make a diagnosis. Crawford knew his little brother was different, so he did all he could to compensate. He was about the only person who understood the younger boy and the only one who could make him smile. This became even more apparent as they grew older.

Things were going quite well. Leon was making friends in all the right places, and soon found himself rapidly climbing through the government. At last, he landed himself the title of Senator, where he was content to stay.

Crawford was nine and Donavin was five when it all fell apart.

Crawford had been at a friend's house for the night when it happened. He came home to find his house crawling with police and other officials. His mother had been killed in the middle of the night. Within a few days, it was ruled as a burglary turned homicide and was investigated no further. But even at that age, Crawford suspected something was amiss. His half brother looked at the Senator as if he were a monster, flinching any time he came near. The man Crawford had seen as a father for five years suddenly became cold and distant, focusing on other matters, leaving the care of his step son to hired staff.

His eighteenth birthday came and went, and he had yet to do anything to rescue his brother. The day after he graduated high school (just barely), he was without a home. The Senator no longer had any legal obligation to care for him and kicked him to the curb with all the possessions he could carry. It was the most heart-wrenching day of his life, as he was forced to leave his brother there. No one to protect him. Dane, who now had a comfy job as security at a large club, offered assistance. He put his friend up in his apartment until he could get his own place. Thankfully, at sixteen, Crawford's uncle (his mother's brother) had given him a job at a small coffee shop. In the face of his current misfortune, he was given a full time position and promoted to assistant manager.

Four years passed. Crawford fought tooth and nail to get his brother out, but he had no legal standing and couldn't get near the house. At last the day came when Donavin could leave on his own and go into college. As strange and antisocial as the boy had become, it wasn't exactly the most sane plan. But it was the only one Crawford and Dane could cook up. With their combined connections, they managed to get Donavin into a college and thanks to a typo here and a mis-printed word there, they were able to proved enough cover that the senator wouldn't easily find out where his son had gone. He was none too pleased about this.

The following year, Crawford had to rebuild his relationship with his brother. A lot of damage had been done in their time apart. The Senator had convinced Donavin that Crawford had left because he hated his younger brother. But in this time, many things came to light. Donavin revealed to Crawford the truth. The fateful night that their mother had died, it had not been a burglar. Donavin had walked in to find their father standing over their mother, knife in hand, covered in blood.

With this new information, Crawford tried to get the case reopened, but the police didn't seem to care. It was a fifteen year old case, and five year olds were not reliable eye witnesses.

Family issues were not the only ones he had to deal with. Dane's job was proving to be less satisfactory than first thought. Osiris, the owner of the club and close personal friend of the Senator, was seeking to build himself up to rival the Italian, Irish and Russian mobs that had stake in the city. His ace was a drug he'd had a hand in producing, known as Venom. It could only be acquired at the club. It was THE party drug. And it was this drug that led to far more trouble than Crawford ever wanted. There was a pop star that felt he owned Osiris, when in fact it was the other way around. It was after a hearty dose of this inhibition lowering drug that the pop star decided to go for a walk. About a month before, Crawford had encountered the pop star and had a few scathing things to say, including breaking the man's CD in front of him.

Crawford, stumbling drunk, tried to fight the man and lost. In the end, he was face down on the cold sidewalk, wearing only his boots and gloves, with a knife all the way through his calf. Dane, being a coward, had fled the scene when the fight began. It was Donavin who found his brother and called the ambulance. He also called a second number. Osiris. Not fully knowing the consequences.

Once Crawford was able to walk again, he found himself growing addicted to the vicodin he'd been prescribed. And strangely, the pharmacy kept refilling his prescription without question. It was a great way to get away from the pain, both mental and physical.

He was twenty six, his back and arms covered in scars and a head full of memories he wanted to avoid.

He was as settled as he would ever be. He was content to support his brother, knowing he was safe. Donavin had found someone else he trusted, a young man he was room mates with at college. Crawford was satisfied with this. He needed help with how unstable his brother could be. At least it left Crawford able to see his one and only friend with out fearing his brother might be jealous. So he spent his days drinking away what little extra money he had, checking in on his brother when he could and just passing the time.

One night, he got into a fight. Well, he got into a lot of them on a lot of nights, but this one ended in a way he wouldn't have ever anticipated. He lost to a pair of thugs. He got knocked out. When he finally came around, he was in a completely different place. A place he would later find to be called Nautilus. His first days were rather rough. He just wanted to get home, but ever time he tried to do what everyone told him to--going through the gates--he just ended up back in the city.

During this frustration, he encountered a number of the city's occupants. The first one of note was a robot named Starscream. This not-so-upstanding gent and his actions planted the seeds that would soon grow into Crawford's near-unyeilding hatred of robots. It wasn't until V offered him a place to stay that the angry redhead started to settle down. Then again, some of the other guests in the museum helped to keep that anger up--namely Rion. Soon after, Crawford became somewhat friends with Ratchet, who kept the fact that he was a robot a secret. The two of them had some decent times together. Crawford even got drunk and spilled a few of his personal secrets to the old bot. But things were not to last. Giant monsters spewed from the moon and attacked the city. In the chaos of battle, Crawford found out about Ratchet, and his hatred of anything robotic was solidified.

But he didn't have a hatred for all citizens of the city. There was V, who was proving to be quite the mentor for the young rebel. Some might say it was a dangerous combination, but to Crawford it was perfect. Who wouldn't like someone teaching them about anarchy, rebellion, and building bombs? There was also Roxas. Crawford had tried to hate the kid, but in the end thought of him as a little brother. Going so far as making him Christmas presents.

When Isis came to attack, he was transformed into a hideous monster and one of her minions. He attacked V, but didn't immediately kill him (though the masked man did later die). Ratchet and Roxas were there to help bring Crawford back to himself. Between that and a massive bending accident that Ratchet helped him recover from, he learned to not quite hate the old bot--though trust was a long way off.

Wracked with guilt thinking he was the one who killed V, Crawford moved out of the museum and found that his apartment from home had been replicated in little Manhattan. Just the place for him to live. Shortly after, a little upstart calling himself Red Mist came to town. Crawford fought the kid hard, but in the end actually felt pity for him. He became a mentor of sorts, passing on what V had taught him. But what Crawford didn't know was that the kid wasn't all that he seemed.

In dealing with everything else, Crawford became the target of a little experiment without his knowing it. He was trying to fight against the government and building bombs, yet he couldn't seem to stay alive. Legato was using his powers to make Crawford kill himself over and over. Dying over fifty times in the course of two months taught him something about bending: you didn't have to die if you didn't want to. He got to exercise this soon after, when he and Red Mist tried to cause some trouble at a party. Because Crawford found out Red Mist's secret: his father was a mob boss. Crawford hated the mob more than he hated robots. He took out the kid's knee caps, but he hadn't anticipated a gun being present. He took a shot to the chest, but didn't die. Not able to bring himself to kill Red Mist, he made it very clear that he wasn't allowed in even the same district.

Confused and betrayed, Crawford more or less withdrew from the city. He continued to work on his bending--he could now fly and turn into a cybertronian (alt mode of a truck) on top of not dying. He continued to argue and fight against the government, but for the most part he just hid in his apartment and drank. But one day, he discovered the city had gifted him with another slice of home: his coffee shop. It was a welcome distraction. Even with a strange, shy but pushy man stopping by all the time and talking about how coffee was home or some such nonsense.

But even the coffee shop soon became neglected, as he grew less interested in the city. When Isis had attacked, she'd changed several worlds, his included. It now reflected the stories V had given him to read, a sickening dystopia where the government controlled ever minor aspect of life. Unwilling to ask for it to be fixed, he struck out to try it himself. Given how much he could do in Nautilus already, he should be able to figure things out. Or so he thought. Stubborn as he was, once he went home, he intended to stay until he had it all sorted out. But living in your own head as a separate entity for an extended period of time proved more difficult than he'd anticipated. On previous visits, he'd returned to Nautilus before anything happened. But over time, he started to lose his true self, falling more and more in line with the version of himself in this world, until Nautilus was little more than a half-remembered dream.

The life he remembered was a bland and dry one. His early years had been spent clinging to a life away from the government. Him and his young brother fleeing with their mother from one encampment to another. Their father had been killed in a riot when his brother had been a baby. The government had long since claimed full control over everything. Every aspect of life. Most people fell in line easily, but those of stronger wills, like his mother, fled. Their numbers were thin by the time he was 9. They came to the largest camp he'd ever seen--probably a hundred people all in one place. They stayed there for a while. His mother started to grow close to one of the other rebels. But within a few months, he was revealed to be part of the government, and he killed her to make an example of her. By the time this happened, the camp was surrounded and everyone arrested. Some people were brain washed, others executed. Crawford and his brother were forced apart and sent to different parts of the nearest city to work. The man who'd killed their mother kept a very close eye on Crawford, who was soon put to work in a factory.

Until he was 14, he fought as hard as he could. He even bit one of the men in charge of the factory he worked at as he fled. But the man was always there to put him back in his place, leaving him with more than a few scars for his efforts. Over time, he lost the will to fight. He gave in. He went to work, he went home. He'd have dinner and go to bed. Day after day. Here and there, when emotions started to run high, he'd slip up. He'd start acting up. But every time, he'd get smacked down before he could do anything.

The Crawford from Nautilus was 27 when he returned home. For five years, he stayed there, falling victim to the strange mental control the government had over the version of himself here. But just as with this version, the control was not complete. Deep down, he knew something was not right. Finally, he was able to extract himself enough to return through those gates. But his memory of the city was nothing but a dream--for now.

(Over time he will return to himself, the way he'd been before. He's too strong willed for the fake life to stick.)

Powers and Abilities:
Naturally, Crawford has no supernatural abilities. He has a high pain tolerance, increased by a pain-killer addiction. He is also a skilled fighter. Well, a brawler--he fights dirty. However, his time in Nautilus before taught him a number of things, which he will regain over time as he remembers how to do them. This includes the items listed above: staying alive even after he should be dead, flying, turning into giant truck robot. Also summing a giant crowbar the same way one might summon a keyblade.

World Summary: Crawford hails from a seemingly normal, modern world. He is a born-and-raised resident of New York City, spending a majority of that time in Manhattan. A man by the name of Osiris is controlling a large portion of the city from behind the scenes, using his club (The Serpent's Pit) as a front. This has caused much tension between other powers in the city, most especially the Italians and the Russians. This would not matter at all to Crawford, but his step father is in close with Osiris. And his best friend, Dane, works at the club. Osiris controls a majority of the police force, whether through threats, bribes or other means.

As normal as Crawford's world seems on the surface, it wasn't always so mundane. An ancestor of his got mixed up into a bad deal and ended up with a curse which spanned all generations to follow after. Each member involved received a different curse, each vague enough to be devastating. Crawford's family line, through his father, was given the curse to always end up with a broken heart--whether in love or other endeavors. Though this may not effect him on a daily basis, it is a very common theme which he has chalked up to a poorly dealt hand from the get go with his father dying.

At least, that's what his world was before Isis decided it needed more order. It was twisted to be the epitome of any dystopian story. The government decided that the only way to put an end to so many problems that plagued the average people was to take full control of everything. From what jobs people could have to how many kids they could have to what they could eat and drink, even what they were able to think about and discuss. Much like the way people were controlled in the books 1984 and Brave New World. The sort of world where a person could be executed for a slip of the tongue.

Samples
First person: There must be something wrong here...is there nowhere to get one's self properly registered? That's how it's supposed to be, right? No matter where you go. You gotta make sure they know where you area. Cause if you try and hide, it's just gonna make it worse. So...could someone perhaps direct me to where I need to go for such a thing?

Third Person:
Crawford had just clocked out after a twelve hour shift at the factory. By the time he got home, should anyone ask him what it was he made there, he honestly could not tell them. Granted, he didn't really know what it all became at the end of the line, but the work was so monotonous that it just did not stick. His hands passed over the materials, doing the job he'd been given. Much like a robot. These days, he tried not to think. Thinking was usually the best course of action. Thinking led to a great number of uncomfortable situations that he would really rather avoid.

His head down low, he made his way through the rain slicked streets of the city. If the city ever had a name, he didn't know it. Everyone always referred to it as "The City" and nothing more. Sure there was Elsewhere, places beyond the water that surrounded them. But they were little more than savages. That much could be seen in the ruins across the river. What more proof was needed?

The walk was long and exhausting after being on his feet all day. But he wasn't ranked high enough to be given access to the trains that ran below the streets. Thousands upon thousands of people could use them. Even some of his coworkers. But he was never given the pass required to get through the gates. He knew why. It was something he could never speak out against. Something he could never address. Never fight.

That very reason was waiting for him at the front door to his apartment building. Seeing the figure standing there in his long coat and hands resting on a black cane, ice gripped the base of his stomach. He wanted to stop there. But resistance would only make things worse. Stopping could lead to running. Running could lead to something far worse. Imprisonment. Death. He trudged on, keeping his head down and his hands in his pockets. He didn't so much as glance at the man as he walked past. But he heard the soft sound of his well made shoes as the man turned to follow. Once inside and out of the damp streets, he was followed to the elevator. He could feel those cold eyes on the back of his head as he waited for the lift to carry them to his floor. Feel them watching his every twitch as he moved down the hallway. As he unlocked the door. As he stepped inside.

The door was shut for him. Not loud, but it carried a certain ominous note.

"I've been keeping my eye on you," the man said in a calm, even tone.

Crawford stopped in the entryway, not bothering to turn around. "And I've done nothing that would require a personal visit."

"Oh, you haven't?" The man walked toward him.

"I know the rules and I know the consequences."

"Two weeks ago, you had a surplus of credits. Several months worth of savings, I would surmise given your diet. You spent them all on a great deal of alcohol, which you consumed rather quickly."

"Such things are well within the set--"

"I wasn't finished," the man snapped, making the redhead jump.

"While in such a state, you spoke with one Dane Jonson. Does this name sound familiar to you?"
Crawford froze. He and Dane had met when they were teenagers. Both in the same boarding house during their programming into the new system. They'd been separated for a number of years, but that night they ran into each other by sheer coincidence. That was why he'd splurged on the alcohol.

"Yes." He couldn't bring himself to say anything more than that.

"Do you recall what the two of you discussed that night?"

Frantically, he tried to remember something, anything from that night. "We...traded stories. Of our lives since we parted. Of our lives before we met."

"It is the latter which concerns me. Do you recall any specific details of what it was you told him?"

"Just stories, sir."

"More than just stories, I'm afraid. You hinted at the locations of several rebel outposts. But even more worrisome, your so-called 'stories' carried with them a certain...longing. A desire to seek out these locations."

He felt the color drain from his face as his stomach dropped to about knee level. "I-it was...nothing more than a uh...a natural n-nostalgia. Remembering childhood to which we can never--"

"SILENCE!" The word echoed through the sparse apartment. "I've come merely to deliver a warning. Do it again and you'll be taken in for a full hearing. Do you understand?"

He swallowed hard. "Y-yes, sir. But what of Mr. Jonson? He just listened. He won't be...warned...will he?"

Thin, cruel laughter unlike anything Crawford had ever heard slipped from the man's throat. "How do you think we came upon this information? Mr. Jonson is one of our most skilled informers. Did you honestly believe it was mere chance that led to your meeting with him?"

Before he could find any words to express the depth of his confusion and disbelief, the man's cane struck him across the shoulders.