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Keres - The Shape (Done)

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Keres - The Shape (Done) Empty Keres - The Shape (Done)

Post by Keres on Mon Nov 26, 2018 3:51 am


Name: Unknown
Alias: Laura Wells, Keres
Age: Possibly Late 20s
Birthday: Unknown
Gender: Female
Alignment: Unaligned

Physical Attributes

Height: 5’6

Weight: 137lbs

Eyes: Dull Dark Blue

Hair: A soft lavender shade, if she took more concern with it than the loose fishtail braid perpetually draped over her right shoulder where she seems to forget about it unless it somehow manages to drift away from the perch she’s chosen for it or sometimes nervously pulling or toying with it. Choppy bangs, slight curls, and obviously paid little mind in the world she inhabits. Long enough it would reach the small of her back if not for the way she typically leaves it hang.

Physical Description: Given her choice in dress it goes easily unnoticed for a woman her size, but she possesses a well muscled body, a modest bust size, and broad shoulders. Her thighs in particular seem to get more notice than she appreciates when wearing anything that might show them off. That she has fair, unblemished skin atop this could, if she put any effort part her natural looks, make her far more memorable than she usually manages. As is, makeup or many other little details are far too small and pointless for her to seemingly care about unless the situation is special enough to demand it.

Determining her ethnicity beyond what is presented is pointless, and if not for her hair color –not that such coloring seems all that odd in the present world- would lean harder in favor of disguising herself easier in groups of people. It sometimes still does, though one wonders if the effort is at all intentional or even noticed.  It’s the way she carries herself that aids in it, if anything she does factors in at all. Whether by choice or by habit she makes herself smaller; in how she carries herself to the way she shrugs forward with her steps and dreamless, effortless way she shifts from side to side.

Loose, as if not every muscle was there, and yet more than once in her slithering managed to slip into another’s personal space with a sudden tension that seems to alter her presence entirely. Nor does it seem intentional, but rather a response to whatever seems to set off her more dangerous instincts. That she slips from one or another so easily is in of itself concerning. But better she display some emotion, life, or oddity in her behavior than none at all. Without that there is only the force of the existence that follows.

That’s when people start to die.

Clothing and Style: Whatever is easiest seems to be the order of the day so long as her clothing is concerned. Practicality is the guiding star, generally, in that regard. When there’s a choice in the matter she seems to lean towards cotton pants, loose more than tight, which would almost be professional if not for the rest of… her. It seems to be more of a tactile choice.

Otherwise jeans or really whatever is suitable enough to retain at least a little humility. Long shirts, light colors, and buttons are the preference in so far as any of that goes. Jewelry simply isn’t a concern, save for a plain, unadorned silver ring and a clip on earring; a star hanging from a small beaded chain that she wears –and is obscured by her hair- on her right ear. Bandages aren’t uncommon on her simply due to the fallout of her quirk, but will avoid them unless necessary, it seems.

Choices in footwear depend upon the weather, but seem to be focused on comfort more than anything else. It appears when it permits she will even begin her prowl barefoot, but it’s unknown whether that was an active decision. That she will do so even on sun burnt pavement or glass filled alleyways seems almost masochistic but it’s also hard to say whether or not she is capable of recognizing such sensations anymore.

This is all assuming the luxury of choice, however. More often than not she takes clothing from her victims out of necessity, if and when she is capable of doing so. Video footage shows her existing one crime scene wearing nothing but a man’s dress shirt.

Costume: Being that she barely seems to care for basic clothing needs it’s surprising that she has as little as she does in so far as an identifying costume goes. But as video has confirmed in at least three instances she produces a grayish blue woman’s raincoat that seems almost too large to fit properly and a mask.

The coat, several large buttons missing from it, and otherwise does not seem to stand out from any other like it. When making use of this costume she wears the hood up and allows her hair to continue hanging out from beneath it once she has secured the mask itself. It seems she does this to the point of near obsession; to the point of being distracted once one or the other is displaced.  

The mask, a round shape that matches the contours of her face, is bone white with no identifying features besides a black half-crescent representing a smile and similarly dark almond eye shapes that hide the actual thing. As the items have been found damaged at scenes before it suggests that someone seems to be supplying replacements but has not yet been identified whom that might be.

Psychological Profile:
“I was told there was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong”
- Doctor Loomis

Separating the woman and the Mask is a difficult matter. Strictly speaking the former, at least, is not a danger to others. In fact she seems almost personable if not for her odder behaviors. Soft, but well spoken, she seems intelligent, even capable. Polite, but not submissive, she manages to make herself personable to most others quickly even if she does so in sometimes eccentric ways.

The way she dances in and out of other’s personal space suggests that she has never cowered –if she is even capable of feeling such emotions- to social norms or any living persons. In this way she displaces an almost juvenile innocence even if the way she speaks betrays her adulthood. Little wonder that she seems to enjoy the company of children. Even loneliness, among other corrupting facets, reveals itself readily when she looks at other people. That she seems to accept others as they come to her rather than turning them away, when, and if she might pose them a danger makes one wonder whether she actually feels any of the display she puts on.

The Mask, however, is the issue that requires addressing. Her focus on the items that reveal her darker nature displays an almost compulsive behavior, a necessary act, before she takes a life. And make no mistake about that: when she has voided whatever humanity was in her to reach for the items in question that someone will die. So far there’s been no matching stimuli for what provokes this response from her but once triggered she seemingly stalks the target for however long it takes to accomplish her goal; re: that person’s bloody demise.

Once begun, she becomes an implacable force unto itself. There is not record of her speaking or reflecting any human mannerism but to be violence incarnate. And in almost all cases thus far she has beaten the subject of this desire to death. Pulp, would not be an over exaggeration in most instances. A few have been minced with some sort of sharpened object but as to what there has been no confirmed weapon; suggesting either she takes it with her or reserves it for special situations

Whether she is aware of these states or not is debatable. As to the matter of her feeling guilt, that is equally unknown. For a woman captured in fleeting images there she manages to display so much humanity one moment and then the next seems as if she never possessed any at all. As if she is no longer human. Perhaps, she never was. Even her code name is not something she has given herself but a name coined by an over eager intern that had a mismatching education with their former employer and a loud enough mouth as to gain traction with it.

An unfortunate irony she seems to have taken a liking to it, as she painted it on his walls. Three guesses as to what she used and whose it was.  

Motives: God knows if she even has one but it likely isn’t made of puppies and sunshine if she does.

The Undying

Quirk Type: Transformation

Manifestation: Subject possesses an anomalous regenerative quirk, for lack of a better description. It does more than simply restore the harm done to her, but seemingly adapts in the most cancerous way possible. As such the traditional methods for dealing with such problematic quirks tend to be rendered pointless after first exposure. This is often worse for the person attempting it, in fact, as the adaptation occurs by mutating the body in new, often horrifying ways in an attempt to combat and remove –as permanently as possible- the source of the harm that was done to her and will only continue to evolve until either the quirk’s limitation is reached or the person responsible is dead.  

A noted side effect of the quirk is it continues to function constantly, even when the body has reached a “death” state. Such extreme amounts of damage required to put her in such a condition often bypasses the mutative effects, at least to its overt degrees while it seems concentrated on restarting the body’s functions.

Drawback: The problem with the quirk is twofold. The first is that the more detached the mutations become traditional human shape the more the subject’s ability to act or think as such becomes more diminished. It seems very much a lizard brain function that takes lead which focuses on the would-be target and how to best hunt them. While that does offer a dangerous version of “intelligence” it is often focused to the point of ignoring or simply not paying attention to their surroundings or those not marked as a threat. The long term damage to the subject’s mental health is, at best, a bleak subject.

The physical toll is one that seems to result only after serious mutations. While the healing remains a constant, it is the transformative properties that put such strain on it. Once begun they feed on the stores of fat in the body, then the muscle, to the point that once reversion is forced that the subject is often withered and barely coherent. The very same quirk aids in quickly restoring these over a period of days, and while this burn can be supplemented by the intake of proteins or fat to maintain it, it is unlikely the subject will be in a position to benefit from further mutations until they’ve had a chance to renew themselves.  


There’s a little black case.

It doesn’t hold much, nothing at a glance. But in it is the whole wide world, a reason for fever-wet name that just felt so right that it stopped being a feeling at all. It doesn’t compel nor call, but caterpillars don’t question becoming a butterfly, either. They become, think nothing at all of the change or the necessity of it. In that moment, where one accepts their role –their becoming- as she had there was nothing more to think of at all.

There was, and there was not. And when she was, and there was no question as to what was and was not in her case, the world burst open into an ocean of stars, the brightest of them which in her still limited mind could only call ‘God’ casually bore its gaze through the existence of her until she had to acknowledge that even split open wide as such that she could never be anything to it but a dot at the center of its disinterest. In that she had assessed God not as a thinking, caring being but as a force not unlike what she had become, simply was. To her God was not in a prayer or in a church or even, in a sense, God as she knew it to be.

God was a mask. Meant to be worn and nothing else.

There’s a woman on the stairs. There’s a woman on the stairs that no one quite knows how she got there. Somewhere near, either on her person or close enough is a little black case. In that case is God. The woman on the stairs doesn’t think about this little black case even aware of its presence as intimately as could be. She is; simply that and nothing more.  

She answers their questions with a cut of a smile that grows sharper when their eyes stray, when she flickers and sways like a candle flame through their lives. She does not think of God, there on the stairs, or the little black case. She remembers its grooves, the tiny imperfections that dot its surface. There’s a spot where water stained it that feels rough where time and touch have worn away the smoothness that used to be there. She thinks of the sensations, and sleepwalks through them and far away from what they belonged to and into others, related only in that casual, dismissive way string could manage to connect anything.

She plucks at the strings to make a song, and the notes form the words that she responds with. They reply, their own harmony, and yet it accompanies her own so well. They sing their pretty words, with their pretty faces, and names that almost sound like actual things. And there on there stairs she starts to think that the little black case can stay where it is, with its water stains and oddly cold surface.

It’s their surfaces she looks at, that she thinks about, then. Pretty things they are, so shiny on top, and soft to her touch. There are no more stairs for her to climb or descend, merely a floating temporary path as she steps through their bodies, sees between the black spaces in their songs, and finds the imperfections in them. Coarser somehow than she had expected, imperceptible to everyone but her. She thinks of the little black case because of it and wonders why. She does not need it, not the little black case that holds everything inside, not when the outside has everythings of its own.

In the world outside, with everythings of its own, there is a girl on the stairs. There’s a girl on the stairs that no one quite knows how she got there.

In her hands is an open black case.

In the world outside, with everythings of its own, there’s a girl on the stairs. There’s a girl on the stairs that no one quite knows how she got there. There’s a girl on the stairs with a black case in hand, finally opened without thinking again.

In a world outside, with everythings of its own, there’s a God on the stairs. There’s a God on the stairs that no one knows quite how it got there. There’s a God on the stairs; one that cannot sing, one that cannot care, that can only stand there and stare. There’s a God on the stairs, that when it finally moves, all the strings run red, the sounds too.

And their songs become screaming.

They always do.


Hozier – In the Woods Somewhere
Halsey – Control
Billy Eilish – You Should See Me in a Crown
Zeal & Ardor – You Ain’t Coming Back
Asian She – 6-17


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Post by Qrähe on Tue Nov 27, 2018 9:38 pm

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