Colorado ThistleColorado the Unfortunate
Useless War Boy
For the Director Only!
A coward is like an onion. He has layers. Could be a bully, putting up a strong front with a weak, rotten core. Could be a victim, avoiding conflict in every day life, but stand up for one shining moment. Could be hustling, wheeling and dealing to keep himself out of the line of fire, or could be hiding in his obsessions and addictions. He's hiding and fleeing from something, no matter what he's doing. Aliens? Monsters? His boss? His responsibilities? The small voice inside him that tells him the most painful truths?
- OOC Note
- I have neurological damage. In big scenes with a lot of text flying by, I miss things. Hell I even miss things in small scenes. If I've missed you or you need me to respond to something, please page me!
Heroes run into danger. You prefer to watch from a safe place. You survive because you always disappear when danger rears it's head, or at least you convenalwaysiently hide behind the person bigger than you.
No current role.
Colorado Bates (Alien Mutation)
You're a genius when it comes to timing and scheming - get away with everything you possibly can, and disappear when the bill comes due. You've climbed the ladder at The Company by stealing ideas, blame-shifting, credit-taking and outright double-crossing. You'll be an excellent executive one day. Which is why being made Project Director here worries you - Project 937 is time bomb that's already blown up twice. You are NOT going to get caught holding the bag on this. You've worked far too hard screwing other people over to go down for The Company's obsession with some monster. When the shit hits the fan - and you're afraid it will, if Grey and Eisenreicht are to be believed - hang it on Thorson. Or Sterling. Or hell, both of them. You never asked for this assignment!
Colorado Colton (Prosperity's Price)
Colorado, as the eldest of Roger Colton's brood, had a lot to live up. All of which he failed at. Weak, ill, and bookish, he made a piss-poor ranching heir. Even all that might have been fine if the man had some steel in his spine, if he wasn't also yellow-bellied, flinching at shadows. Roger, in unveiled disgust, not so subtly started training Caleb as his heir instead. Colorado has been left to the accounting, which to be fair, he's a dab hand at.
He also cultivates an interest in the occult. More like self-preservation than interest. He's seen the awful spirits of Prosperity since he was born. Occult teachings and books have given him the ability to understand those spirits, even, sometimes, command them...but he'll never be unafraid of them. They are beyond the control of any man's hand, let alone his.
Publicly, Colorado is a widely-acknowledged failure. A nervous wreck, a basket case, and that'd be bad enough if he didn't have a little gambling habit. Known for his complete lack of ability to stand up for himself, his worrying interest in the occult, and for being passed over as the Colton heir.
Colorado Jones (Slasher)
Southwest born and bred, he grew up in - that's right! - Colorado and has moved around a bit. His family moved to Arizona in his early teens, then California for his last two years of high school. His father is military, but none of the ha9rd work and discipline rubbed off. He's a slacker at heart and always takes the path of least resistance.
College would be hard, as would most jobs, but he's young and good looking and knows his liquor, so bartending seemed the obvious, easy choice. Tending bar at the lodge is fairly easy, he gets free room and board, and there's always interesting people coming through. What's not to like?
The Unicorn (Carnival)
Coming To America
Time was, I was healing. Time was, I was pure. Not disease nor poison nor grief could abide my touch. Barren queens came to me, and wounded princes, and little beggar children. Oh, I ran from them, but I didn’t need to do anything else. A flashing glint of my horn through the trees would heal them. Once in a while, if I felt like it, if they were properly respectful and of course very, very beautiful, I would go to them and lay my head in their laps. Their grandchildren’s grandchildren would hear that story.
I never used to care who heard my story. Why should I? I was the most beautiful creature in the world, the swiftest, the most fierce. Men had the job of admiring me and honoring me. Even the hunt in those days honored me. They would kill me if they could, but it was my fabulous self they hunted. I gave back, in the old way. I let them see me sometimes when they begged. I healed their souls with a glimpse. I gave them hope. I dwelled in the deepest forests and they knew I was there, and that was enough.
One day I was born in America. Mortals had destroyed the forests I once protected, and it turns out they didn’t like that any more than I did. When they came to the New World and they saw that the forests here were the equal of any of the old tales, and they saw that the lands were as wild as their wildest dreams, they knew I must live here. So I was born. I was different. I wasn’t seafoam and pearl no more. I was black as the huge vault of the night over the Great Plains, and my horn was rainbow fire caught in amber. I couldn’t be the same as in the old country, after all. Everything is new in America. I was still the most beautiful and swiftest and fiercest. That didn’t change. Until one day it did.
Until one day the same wicked men as turned my forests into ships and fire turned my new home into dust. They robbed the land of health and hope, and people forgot that they ever had either, or that they could have it again. Mortals didn’t think of me, when they wished in their secret hearts. They didn’t look out the windows of a train and wonder what I was doing, right then, in the forest they passed by. They didn’t try to spot me through the trees.
They forgot to hope that they could find me one day and that I could heal them. In the old country, they were just as miserable and just as sick and wounded, even more maybe...but they dreamed of me.
Now they don’t. They’ve forgotten my name.
Now I have to put on a man’s shape. I have to make them come to me again, for healing them is now the only thing that can heal me. And it’s funny. I used to love the chase and the hunt. I used to love the pleading of maidens to see my shadow just once. Now when they look at me, they hunger for something that’s not me. Now, I’m frightened. I would run if I could, run for real, run until never another mortal could ever find me again...but if I do that, I’ll die. Me, who was the meaning of immortal. Me, who might be the last of my kind.
I’ll die, and my name won’t ever be on another maiden’s lips.
Rocky Colorado (Project Icarus)
- HR rep/ombudsman on investigative team
- anthropologist/archaeologist on culture team (hard science to PDG's theology)
- documentarian, assigned to culture OR investigative; think a guy with a special floating drone camera
- scientist of some specialized kind in mining, vulcanologist?
Was trying to fuck over someone regarding a position or posting, got what he thought he wanted, then that post/job was reassigned to the Icarus.
Is now trying his damnedest to get the fuck off this rock. That's his only concern. Anything else is useless to him. He feels mildly bad about this, a little, except not really, because it was HIS TURN to have an easy assignment and well, now he's on an asteroid orbitting a black hole, so fuck you I'm out.
Suggested Quirk: Company Lackey
It's easy enough to not be afraid of your own shadow while secure in daily routine. We medicate, assimilate, and rationalize to dampen the slow build of anxiety that comes from walking down a new street or talking to a stranger when really, cowardice is a legacy we've inherited. Think about it: your prehistoric ancestors fleeing predators quicker, stronger, and better naturally equipped than themselves so that they -- nay, so that their species -- might live to see another day. So, fight or flight?
Tiffany Thomas (Isle of Dread)
Ever since you accidentally ran over and killed a serial killer, your life has been insane. You were no one, just a college student with piling debt when, one night, the Bayside Strangler tried to make you his next victim. You were in your car, alone in a dark parking lot, and he appeared. You freaked. Instead of throwing it in reverse, you plowed straight into him and into a wall, crushing him between it and your car. Totaled the car, by the way. But you became instantly famous when everyone thought you'd done it on purpose. In days there were crowdfunding projects up to pay off your student loans, buy you a new car, and people sending you free stuff in the mail, and it hasn't stopped.
This festival was one of those free gifts from strangers on the internet. You're not rich, even now, but you're getting famous and you're torn between loving the lifestyle and the crushing fear that you'll be outed as a fraud. You've gotten away with it so far, though. May as well enjoy the ride!