APPLICATION
Name: Nathaniel Fisher
ES Name: Locke
Name Origins: Nathaniel has a passion for all things academic, and is therefore quite fond of philosophy. A favorite of his is Locke. Apart from that, he simply enjoyed the sharpness of the name.
Job: Paper binder
Affiliation: CPA
Personality: Locke is a man of quiet intensity. He rarely raises his voice in common conversation, yet there is an air about him that suggests that he takes everything utterly seriously and is dissecting his partner in conversation with little interest. He is cold and clinical, with a penchant for dry humour or sarcasm, often at the expense at others.
He values the written word greatly, and is of the opinion that when voices are silenced, then the world has truly gone to shambles, thus cementing his view of Edensphere. When it comes to revolution, he becomes incensed and is not above giving rousing speeches in a surprisingly charismatic manner. He takes an all-or-nothing approach that is often favoured by the very politicians he wishes to fight against, and he is able to work himself into a righteous fervor should the scenario demand it.
Though he does appear very intelligent and almost normal at first glance, there is a disconnect within him that cannot be ignored. It is as if he has stopped seeing other people, and sees only objects in their stead; it is difficult to see whether the glint of his eyes is terribly, terribly sane or if he's off his rocker.
He is greatly irritated by people who lack any urge to learn and by foolishness. He has no problems with carefully ripping people's opinions apart with every sign of enjoyment if it means that they are made aware of their own stupidity. He is often irritated by his fellow CPA-members, but has learned to quietly tolerate them.
Abilities: Locke is in his mid-fifties, but this is not reflected in his build. He's in peak physical shape - a fact that he attempts to downplay - and is able to win in combat against normals fairly easily. His main assets, however, are his intelligence and charisma. He is able to draw people in easily and thinks well in crisis situations, often coming up with solutions that appear to be quite mad.
Appearance: Locke casts an intimidating shadow at six feet, and at first glance seems to possess a bony frame. In truth, he is stringed with muscles and once the oversized jacket comes off, it's obvious that he can beat men several years his junior. He stands perfectly straight, and is extremely tidy in his personal habits and in his stance.
He has startlingly blue eyes and black hair neatly parted down the middle which is beginning to go salt-and-pepper. He usually wears black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses, which are mostly for show to convince others of his apparent weakness, which he plays up at any opportunity possible. He has a long face and a prominent nose. He is also covered in scarring of the sort that was obviously gained in battle.
Normally he favours modest clothing in dark colours, such as tweed suits. He rarely defers from professional ware in public.
Pre-ES History: Nathaniel was born in 1933 to an upper-middle class catholic nuclear family in the suburbs. At first glance, his family appeared to be completely normal. In fact, by most standards, it was completely normal. His father worked in business, his mother stayed home, and he had a relatively peaceful childhood alongside his little sister. Where his family was normal, Nathaniel was not. He was a detached child, and though he was bullied, it would be unwise to say that he suffered at the hands of bullies. He considered his peers to be largely fools, and cared not for their words.
This changed in high school when the bullying turned physical. Nathaniel understood that he was physically inferior and that he had to become stronger in order to do anything. Diffusing the situation with words did not cross his mind. He began to train in the weight room - much to his father’s relief as he thought that Nathaniel was showing some signs of normalcy - until he felt strong enough to take down the bullies. He did so in a cold, calculated manner, and remained untouched for the rest of his post-secondary life. With the bullies out of the way, Nathaniel devoted his time to his studies, and discovered what had been missing from his life up until this point: passion. He devoured books by the stack, and found himself entertaining thoughts that perhaps he could be the next big thinker and took solace in the fact that there were others who thought like him in the world. He also gained a liking for reading war strategists and read classic literature, mostly because he gathered that that was what intellectuals did. What intellectuals did not do was wash dishes, which he did anyway because his father refused to support him in post-secondary unless he chose a major in sciences or business. No, that life was not for Nathaniel. Nathaniel was an artist. He was meant for better things.
After graduating high school, he had assembled enough money to attend a fairly high class university right in the midst of the Vietnam War. He saw the Vietnam War as an atrocity, and came alive in the community and forged bonds as he never had before, perceiving himself as finally fitting in among those of intellectual standing. He protested along with many other students, enraged by all that was going on and raged against the heartless soldiers invading the heart of a foreign country.
That was to say, until he became a ‘heartless’ soldier himself. He was conscripted and sent off to Vietnam. To his frank horror, it was in war that he truly shone. He still believed to his very core that war was wrong, but killing only became easier and easier for him. Nathaniel struck up a few wary friendships during that time, mostly with others of the same class background as him. During this time, he watched all tactics used with a shrewd eye - just in case, he told himself, just in case - and soaked up all he could, reminding himself that what was happening here was terrible all the while.
Once the war ended, life returned to a given degree of normal. Where Nathaniel was once disdainful of soldiers, he became disdainful of citizens instead, thinking them as weak, flabby and undeserving of their position in the world when they knew nothing of what war felt like. Despite this awful attitude, he managed to get his degree in university with flying colours. His intellect secured him a spot as a professor.
He lived out his life up until this point relatively quietly, though he took care to write many papers on the injustice of the system and often ranted to his unsuspecting students. He never got married, though he had a few romantic trysts - with men and women - and lived alone in a rather well stocked apartment. He exercised regularly and endeavored to learn self defense, absolutely sure that someday another conflict would arise that he would need to be ready to fight against. His colleagues and students regarded him with a sense of wary awe, aware that he was brilliant, but also aware that he was mad.
Dream:
Something was off. By all means, it was a lovely day, and he was in a lovely position. A newspaper was spread out in front of him, and a cup of coffee was held fast in his hands, and he was looking out onto a scenic suburb from his porch, however the sky was just a little too blue, the grass a little to green, the air a little too quiet.
Suspiciously, he scanned the neighborhood for any other inconsistencies, and felt a wave of disdain overcome him. These stupid little people in their stupid little homes thinking their petty little--
His thoughts were interrupted with the blast of helicopter blades that he had not heard before and the loud thump of a soldier landing heavily on the glass table in front of him. His coffee spilled all over him, scalding him, staining him. He flew to his feet immediately, and the soldier with the obscured face reached out and dragged two fingers down his chest before putting them to his mouth.
"Cream and sugar?" The soldier said, hopping off the table. "My, but you've gone soft."
"How I take my coffee has no bearing on my mental status. Why have you come?"
"To help you see the light." The soldier's lips twitched upwards as he unstrapped a gun from off his back and shoved it unceremoniously into the other man's arms. "Idle hands are the devil's playthings."
He accepted the gun from the soldier reluctantly. "My hands are far from idle," he said coldly, "and I have none to shoot. Powerful men have changed the world through words, not through these things. Gentlemen, philosophers, scholars. It is they we remember, not you, not for all the assemblies in the world." For all his disdain, he found the gun fitting in his hands as comfortably as a child would fit into his mother's arms.
Suddenly, they were in a jungle, the sun now unbearably hot. Around them, the trees whispered. Above them, the world hummed.
The soldier leaned forward so that their noses touched, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. "Whatever you say. It's devour or be devoured. You are the free, or you are the oppressed. You will fight, or you will hide."
The soldier took two steps back and toppled back into a hole lined with spikes. When he inched forward to see it, all he saw was a gruesome portrait that didn't bother him in the slightest. The soldier in front of him had once been a man. Now, he was just meat. Maggots already seeped out of the cracks in the ground and inched towards his open mouth.
"Every man is free in his own mind," he said to the corpse, and tossed the gun in after it. "You cannot take that away."
ES Name: Locke
Name Origins: Nathaniel has a passion for all things academic, and is therefore quite fond of philosophy. A favorite of his is Locke. Apart from that, he simply enjoyed the sharpness of the name.
Job: Paper binder
Affiliation: CPA
Personality: Locke is a man of quiet intensity. He rarely raises his voice in common conversation, yet there is an air about him that suggests that he takes everything utterly seriously and is dissecting his partner in conversation with little interest. He is cold and clinical, with a penchant for dry humour or sarcasm, often at the expense at others.
He values the written word greatly, and is of the opinion that when voices are silenced, then the world has truly gone to shambles, thus cementing his view of Edensphere. When it comes to revolution, he becomes incensed and is not above giving rousing speeches in a surprisingly charismatic manner. He takes an all-or-nothing approach that is often favoured by the very politicians he wishes to fight against, and he is able to work himself into a righteous fervor should the scenario demand it.
Though he does appear very intelligent and almost normal at first glance, there is a disconnect within him that cannot be ignored. It is as if he has stopped seeing other people, and sees only objects in their stead; it is difficult to see whether the glint of his eyes is terribly, terribly sane or if he's off his rocker.
He is greatly irritated by people who lack any urge to learn and by foolishness. He has no problems with carefully ripping people's opinions apart with every sign of enjoyment if it means that they are made aware of their own stupidity. He is often irritated by his fellow CPA-members, but has learned to quietly tolerate them.
Abilities: Locke is in his mid-fifties, but this is not reflected in his build. He's in peak physical shape - a fact that he attempts to downplay - and is able to win in combat against normals fairly easily. His main assets, however, are his intelligence and charisma. He is able to draw people in easily and thinks well in crisis situations, often coming up with solutions that appear to be quite mad.
Appearance: Locke casts an intimidating shadow at six feet, and at first glance seems to possess a bony frame. In truth, he is stringed with muscles and once the oversized jacket comes off, it's obvious that he can beat men several years his junior. He stands perfectly straight, and is extremely tidy in his personal habits and in his stance.
He has startlingly blue eyes and black hair neatly parted down the middle which is beginning to go salt-and-pepper. He usually wears black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses, which are mostly for show to convince others of his apparent weakness, which he plays up at any opportunity possible. He has a long face and a prominent nose. He is also covered in scarring of the sort that was obviously gained in battle.
Normally he favours modest clothing in dark colours, such as tweed suits. He rarely defers from professional ware in public.
Pre-ES History: Nathaniel was born in 1933 to an upper-middle class catholic nuclear family in the suburbs. At first glance, his family appeared to be completely normal. In fact, by most standards, it was completely normal. His father worked in business, his mother stayed home, and he had a relatively peaceful childhood alongside his little sister. Where his family was normal, Nathaniel was not. He was a detached child, and though he was bullied, it would be unwise to say that he suffered at the hands of bullies. He considered his peers to be largely fools, and cared not for their words.
This changed in high school when the bullying turned physical. Nathaniel understood that he was physically inferior and that he had to become stronger in order to do anything. Diffusing the situation with words did not cross his mind. He began to train in the weight room - much to his father’s relief as he thought that Nathaniel was showing some signs of normalcy - until he felt strong enough to take down the bullies. He did so in a cold, calculated manner, and remained untouched for the rest of his post-secondary life. With the bullies out of the way, Nathaniel devoted his time to his studies, and discovered what had been missing from his life up until this point: passion. He devoured books by the stack, and found himself entertaining thoughts that perhaps he could be the next big thinker and took solace in the fact that there were others who thought like him in the world. He also gained a liking for reading war strategists and read classic literature, mostly because he gathered that that was what intellectuals did. What intellectuals did not do was wash dishes, which he did anyway because his father refused to support him in post-secondary unless he chose a major in sciences or business. No, that life was not for Nathaniel. Nathaniel was an artist. He was meant for better things.
After graduating high school, he had assembled enough money to attend a fairly high class university right in the midst of the Vietnam War. He saw the Vietnam War as an atrocity, and came alive in the community and forged bonds as he never had before, perceiving himself as finally fitting in among those of intellectual standing. He protested along with many other students, enraged by all that was going on and raged against the heartless soldiers invading the heart of a foreign country.
That was to say, until he became a ‘heartless’ soldier himself. He was conscripted and sent off to Vietnam. To his frank horror, it was in war that he truly shone. He still believed to his very core that war was wrong, but killing only became easier and easier for him. Nathaniel struck up a few wary friendships during that time, mostly with others of the same class background as him. During this time, he watched all tactics used with a shrewd eye - just in case, he told himself, just in case - and soaked up all he could, reminding himself that what was happening here was terrible all the while.
Once the war ended, life returned to a given degree of normal. Where Nathaniel was once disdainful of soldiers, he became disdainful of citizens instead, thinking them as weak, flabby and undeserving of their position in the world when they knew nothing of what war felt like. Despite this awful attitude, he managed to get his degree in university with flying colours. His intellect secured him a spot as a professor.
He lived out his life up until this point relatively quietly, though he took care to write many papers on the injustice of the system and often ranted to his unsuspecting students. He never got married, though he had a few romantic trysts - with men and women - and lived alone in a rather well stocked apartment. He exercised regularly and endeavored to learn self defense, absolutely sure that someday another conflict would arise that he would need to be ready to fight against. His colleagues and students regarded him with a sense of wary awe, aware that he was brilliant, but also aware that he was mad.
Dream:
Something was off. By all means, it was a lovely day, and he was in a lovely position. A newspaper was spread out in front of him, and a cup of coffee was held fast in his hands, and he was looking out onto a scenic suburb from his porch, however the sky was just a little too blue, the grass a little to green, the air a little too quiet.
Suspiciously, he scanned the neighborhood for any other inconsistencies, and felt a wave of disdain overcome him. These stupid little people in their stupid little homes thinking their petty little--
His thoughts were interrupted with the blast of helicopter blades that he had not heard before and the loud thump of a soldier landing heavily on the glass table in front of him. His coffee spilled all over him, scalding him, staining him. He flew to his feet immediately, and the soldier with the obscured face reached out and dragged two fingers down his chest before putting them to his mouth.
"Cream and sugar?" The soldier said, hopping off the table. "My, but you've gone soft."
"How I take my coffee has no bearing on my mental status. Why have you come?"
"To help you see the light." The soldier's lips twitched upwards as he unstrapped a gun from off his back and shoved it unceremoniously into the other man's arms. "Idle hands are the devil's playthings."
He accepted the gun from the soldier reluctantly. "My hands are far from idle," he said coldly, "and I have none to shoot. Powerful men have changed the world through words, not through these things. Gentlemen, philosophers, scholars. It is they we remember, not you, not for all the assemblies in the world." For all his disdain, he found the gun fitting in his hands as comfortably as a child would fit into his mother's arms.
Suddenly, they were in a jungle, the sun now unbearably hot. Around them, the trees whispered. Above them, the world hummed.
The soldier leaned forward so that their noses touched, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. "Whatever you say. It's devour or be devoured. You are the free, or you are the oppressed. You will fight, or you will hide."
The soldier took two steps back and toppled back into a hole lined with spikes. When he inched forward to see it, all he saw was a gruesome portrait that didn't bother him in the slightest. The soldier in front of him had once been a man. Now, he was just meat. Maggots already seeped out of the cracks in the ground and inched towards his open mouth.
"Every man is free in his own mind," he said to the corpse, and tossed the gun in after it. "You cannot take that away."