My Application
Name:
Call me Hatter or Scoot
AIM/MSN:
AIM: AGrimmSmile
MSN: Himesasuke@aol.com
Email:
unbirthdayhatter@aol.com
LJ Username:
OfGlassTears
Character Information
Name: Scout "Scoot"
Fandom: Team Fortress 2
Timeline: There is no real timeline in TF2, so just in general - He's from Video Games.
Personality:
The best words to describe Scout would be, unnecessarily arrogant. The runt of seven older brothers he feels the need to fill the size void with mouth. Not the brightest kid on the block, he'll be the first to race you around it. A runner by trade he learned to run anywhere and everywhere and eventually to get there first. Below that brash attitude is one of a younger man, who loves his mom and just wanted to leave the war behind.
Scout refuses to accept help, believing he can do most anything himself-- and also refuses to believe people don't need his help. Always quick to congradulate someone when they'd done well, he would also be the first to try and fix things if he doesnt think they're being done the right way.
Returning home after the war he was a bit different, though he did his best to hide it from his mother and most of his older brothers had moved out of the house already. The night terrors didn't help, waking up in the middle of the night screaming and reaching for the first blunt object he could find-- after a while he forced himself to stop screaming, but the dreams never went away.
He occupied his time helping out his Mother, seeing as his father had left when the Scouit was far too young to remember he'd always tried his best to do so. He'd carry all the bags when they went for groceries, cook dinner, mow and pull weeds; just about anything she'd need. She babied him a bit more then a man of his age should be, forcing him into formal clothes, fussing with his hair but he accepted it as he was the youngest and one of the few that had managed to stay out or relative trouble. He refused to speak to her about the war, diverting it to any which lie he could think of-- he wouldnt tell her the truth about the men he'd killed or the battles he'd been in.
But she knew, afterall, he still slept with his running shoes on.
History:
[going to do my best, though there is little to no information released about the TF2 cast].
Scout (affectionately called Scoot on occasion) grew up the runt of seven older, stronger brothers. Being the youngest and smallest put him at a disadvantage when it came to the brawls his brothers liked to get into. Roaming almost like a gang, Scout was usually the last to the fray-- sometimes not even making it there soon enough to throw a punch.
So he learned to run, and became damn good at it too. In High School he delighted in track, that high that came from pushing himself to that physical barrier-- and then past it. That aching burn was his crack, those sore joints his heroin, and in the end it did him little good.
At nineteen he was drafted.
No more baseball, track or even soccer. Just the bloody mess that was war. He did his best to cope, but wasnt able to leave all his boyish wants behind. On the field his weapons seemed unfitting, a baseball bat, a ball, a pistol, the only heavy artillery he held being a sawed off shotgun which was only useful for close up combat.
Those years of street fights helped him get accustomed to the fight, and his cocky daredevil attitude didn't hurt.
The Scout was a forced to be reckoned with.
[ if I need to elaborate more, please just let me know :) ]
First Person Sample:
[Voice]
'Hahaha.. Yeah... Yeah... No clumps of hair nothin', my bat was as clean as the day I bought it.'[ A Pause. ] Is this thing on? Shit, um.. [a few clicks sounding along with the grunts of the Scout adjusting his posittion,] So yeah, I've held up in this place for about a fuckin' hour, but I think that fuckin' guy is still out there.
He looks like onna' them.
I wouldn't be surprised if those BLU's were comin this way, now a'days nowheres friggin' safe! Doesn't matter, they can't catch me. [A breathless sigh. ]I'm too fast, still... I gotta watch out for Ma', god knows I wouldnt put it below them basta'ds to come afta' her. I won't let that fucking happen... [The Scout degenerates into mumbles cutting off the end of the recording. ]
Third Person Sample:
[ Taken from another Application, I hope thats ok?]
Sample 1:
Your character wakes up in Hell's Gate prison. This sample may include a brief transition scene from their world to Hell's Gate, but the majority of the sample should take place within their prison cell.
I don't smell charred bacon... It was an odd first thought to be having when one woke up in the morning, but that was the first thing running through Scouts mind. He usually woke in RED base to the smell of the Pyromaniacs over cooked bacon and charcoal eggs. It wasn't much, but it sure beat nothing. The second thought running through that still dazed mind was how cold his back felt against the wall.
Wall? One bleary blue eye opened followed by the other to give him a viewing of the inside of his cell. Oh that's right, he wasn't on base anymore. At first when he'd been picked up he'd assumed it was a joke by one of those BLU bastards in order to get him in for interrogation. But this base didn't look like any of the BLU's he'd ever seen, and he couldn't imagine them having changed his clothes for him.
One foot pulled back followed by the other, bare digits propping against the wall as he helped himself up with the use of it. That's right, he'd been arrested for murder. He couldn't imagine how something like this would be justified seeing as he was at war. Men kill men in war, that was just how it went.
" EY!" That thick Bostonian accent called out through the door as he took a few uneven steps toward it, " One a' you assholes mind lettin' me outta here?" He toed his shoe against the door, lower lip drawn into those just slightly bucked teeth as he gnawed on the chapped flesh. Scout wasn't good with silence, or being alone really. After all those years crammed with his brothers and then the barracks he wasn't accustomed to being alone.
" Fuck you then..." The words were barely mumbled as he stepped back from the door, kicking the notebook left for him across the floor and glancing towards the shatterproof mirror. Sore achey digits scooped up the toothbrush, expression turning to a grimace. " This thing betta' not of been freakin' used.." That said he tossed it down into the sink to give himself a once over-- making a note of the light purple color around his right eye. Fucking Heavy left him with a nice bruise after that last tussle.
Sample 4:
Your character has been killed, either by one of the monsters of the prison, or by one of the other prisoners themselves. Please write their (not so) final death scene.
Those strong legs now felt so weak below him, one buckling followed by the other. Collapsing toward the floor fingers grasped at the slit now bubbling over with blood. Fuck, how could he have not noticed the shank? He'd lived through a warzone, with more back-stabbing bastards then what seemed rational and he'd missed some prison asshole with a sharpened toothbrush? Gasping as he fell, feeling that burning need for air he'd been so fond of when running, Scout only manages to begin filling his lungs with his own blood.
He could feel his tongue slipping upwards, the tendons holding it down in his throat now severed. Body weight combined with the lack of feeling in any of his limbs dragged his body down onto its side. That warm creeping sensation tickled at his cheek and then his ear as blood began to pool itself around his neck and face. Filtering into that soft blond hair and beginning to mat it up as it grew tacky in the oxygen filled environment.
If it wasn't so dire it would have been the sort of idea the Scout would have laughed at, his vision going blurry at the edges just like in some first person movie. The darkness creeping in and yet the white growing more hot and intense like someone cranked up the brightness and exposure on life suddenly. He wanted to say something, anything, to have some last words out there for others to remember him by. However, there was no chance of that with his tongue half sprouted out of his mouth. Only the slight hissing sound of his lungs being flooded with blood and his body choking on it as he bled out.
Ironically the last thing to filter through his mind was the thought of his Mom (for as much as he denyed being a "Mommas Boy"). Pleagued partially how sad she'd be when he was gone.Though mostly how fucking pissed off he was going to be that she'd get comforted by that dime-a-dozen slimebag; Spy.
Call me Hatter or Scoot
AIM/MSN:
AIM: AGrimmSmile
MSN: Himesasuke@aol.com
Email:
unbirthdayhatter@aol.com
LJ Username:
OfGlassTears
Character Information
Name: Scout "Scoot"
Fandom: Team Fortress 2
Timeline: There is no real timeline in TF2, so just in general - He's from Video Games.
Personality:
The best words to describe Scout would be, unnecessarily arrogant. The runt of seven older brothers he feels the need to fill the size void with mouth. Not the brightest kid on the block, he'll be the first to race you around it. A runner by trade he learned to run anywhere and everywhere and eventually to get there first. Below that brash attitude is one of a younger man, who loves his mom and just wanted to leave the war behind.
Scout refuses to accept help, believing he can do most anything himself-- and also refuses to believe people don't need his help. Always quick to congradulate someone when they'd done well, he would also be the first to try and fix things if he doesnt think they're being done the right way.
Returning home after the war he was a bit different, though he did his best to hide it from his mother and most of his older brothers had moved out of the house already. The night terrors didn't help, waking up in the middle of the night screaming and reaching for the first blunt object he could find-- after a while he forced himself to stop screaming, but the dreams never went away.
He occupied his time helping out his Mother, seeing as his father had left when the Scouit was far too young to remember he'd always tried his best to do so. He'd carry all the bags when they went for groceries, cook dinner, mow and pull weeds; just about anything she'd need. She babied him a bit more then a man of his age should be, forcing him into formal clothes, fussing with his hair but he accepted it as he was the youngest and one of the few that had managed to stay out or relative trouble. He refused to speak to her about the war, diverting it to any which lie he could think of-- he wouldnt tell her the truth about the men he'd killed or the battles he'd been in.
But she knew, afterall, he still slept with his running shoes on.
History:
[going to do my best, though there is little to no information released about the TF2 cast].
Scout (affectionately called Scoot on occasion) grew up the runt of seven older, stronger brothers. Being the youngest and smallest put him at a disadvantage when it came to the brawls his brothers liked to get into. Roaming almost like a gang, Scout was usually the last to the fray-- sometimes not even making it there soon enough to throw a punch.
So he learned to run, and became damn good at it too. In High School he delighted in track, that high that came from pushing himself to that physical barrier-- and then past it. That aching burn was his crack, those sore joints his heroin, and in the end it did him little good.
At nineteen he was drafted.
No more baseball, track or even soccer. Just the bloody mess that was war. He did his best to cope, but wasnt able to leave all his boyish wants behind. On the field his weapons seemed unfitting, a baseball bat, a ball, a pistol, the only heavy artillery he held being a sawed off shotgun which was only useful for close up combat.
Those years of street fights helped him get accustomed to the fight, and his cocky daredevil attitude didn't hurt.
The Scout was a forced to be reckoned with.
[ if I need to elaborate more, please just let me know :) ]
First Person Sample:
[Voice]
'Hahaha.. Yeah... Yeah... No clumps of hair nothin', my bat was as clean as the day I bought it.'[ A Pause. ] Is this thing on? Shit, um.. [a few clicks sounding along with the grunts of the Scout adjusting his posittion,] So yeah, I've held up in this place for about a fuckin' hour, but I think that fuckin' guy is still out there.
He looks like onna' them.
I wouldn't be surprised if those BLU's were comin this way, now a'days nowheres friggin' safe! Doesn't matter, they can't catch me. [A breathless sigh. ]I'm too fast, still... I gotta watch out for Ma', god knows I wouldnt put it below them basta'ds to come afta' her. I won't let that fucking happen... [The Scout degenerates into mumbles cutting off the end of the recording. ]
Third Person Sample:
[ Taken from another Application, I hope thats ok?]
Sample 1:
Your character wakes up in Hell's Gate prison. This sample may include a brief transition scene from their world to Hell's Gate, but the majority of the sample should take place within their prison cell.
I don't smell charred bacon... It was an odd first thought to be having when one woke up in the morning, but that was the first thing running through Scouts mind. He usually woke in RED base to the smell of the Pyromaniacs over cooked bacon and charcoal eggs. It wasn't much, but it sure beat nothing. The second thought running through that still dazed mind was how cold his back felt against the wall.
Wall? One bleary blue eye opened followed by the other to give him a viewing of the inside of his cell. Oh that's right, he wasn't on base anymore. At first when he'd been picked up he'd assumed it was a joke by one of those BLU bastards in order to get him in for interrogation. But this base didn't look like any of the BLU's he'd ever seen, and he couldn't imagine them having changed his clothes for him.
One foot pulled back followed by the other, bare digits propping against the wall as he helped himself up with the use of it. That's right, he'd been arrested for murder. He couldn't imagine how something like this would be justified seeing as he was at war. Men kill men in war, that was just how it went.
" EY!" That thick Bostonian accent called out through the door as he took a few uneven steps toward it, " One a' you assholes mind lettin' me outta here?" He toed his shoe against the door, lower lip drawn into those just slightly bucked teeth as he gnawed on the chapped flesh. Scout wasn't good with silence, or being alone really. After all those years crammed with his brothers and then the barracks he wasn't accustomed to being alone.
" Fuck you then..." The words were barely mumbled as he stepped back from the door, kicking the notebook left for him across the floor and glancing towards the shatterproof mirror. Sore achey digits scooped up the toothbrush, expression turning to a grimace. " This thing betta' not of been freakin' used.." That said he tossed it down into the sink to give himself a once over-- making a note of the light purple color around his right eye. Fucking Heavy left him with a nice bruise after that last tussle.
Sample 4:
Your character has been killed, either by one of the monsters of the prison, or by one of the other prisoners themselves. Please write their (not so) final death scene.
Those strong legs now felt so weak below him, one buckling followed by the other. Collapsing toward the floor fingers grasped at the slit now bubbling over with blood. Fuck, how could he have not noticed the shank? He'd lived through a warzone, with more back-stabbing bastards then what seemed rational and he'd missed some prison asshole with a sharpened toothbrush? Gasping as he fell, feeling that burning need for air he'd been so fond of when running, Scout only manages to begin filling his lungs with his own blood.
He could feel his tongue slipping upwards, the tendons holding it down in his throat now severed. Body weight combined with the lack of feeling in any of his limbs dragged his body down onto its side. That warm creeping sensation tickled at his cheek and then his ear as blood began to pool itself around his neck and face. Filtering into that soft blond hair and beginning to mat it up as it grew tacky in the oxygen filled environment.
If it wasn't so dire it would have been the sort of idea the Scout would have laughed at, his vision going blurry at the edges just like in some first person movie. The darkness creeping in and yet the white growing more hot and intense like someone cranked up the brightness and exposure on life suddenly. He wanted to say something, anything, to have some last words out there for others to remember him by. However, there was no chance of that with his tongue half sprouted out of his mouth. Only the slight hissing sound of his lungs being flooded with blood and his body choking on it as he bled out.
Ironically the last thing to filter through his mind was the thought of his Mom (for as much as he denyed being a "Mommas Boy"). Pleagued partially how sad she'd be when he was gone.Though mostly how fucking pissed off he was going to be that she'd get comforted by that dime-a-dozen slimebag; Spy.