B123 - Campbell, Alexander[/DECEASED]

Joined: August 15th, 2008, 5:47 pm

June 17th, 2010, 4:38 am #1


Name: Alexander Campbell
Gender: Male
Age: 17
Grade: 12
School: Bayview Secondary School
Hobbies and Interests: Music, Film, Psychology, Mythology

Appearance: Alex was never a particularly big looking kid. He stands five foot, eight inches in height and he never really put any weight on his thin wirey arms, only weighing 125 pounds. His heritage shows on him, his pale skin a hallmark of his Scottish parents. He inherited his father's eyes; they are a dull blue colour, set in his angular face. He alternates between pulling his hair back, his cheekbones tapering down to his pointed chin, and letting it hang over his face covering his eyes.

Though his hair was naturally ginger, he never ever shows this. After one fight too many he had started to dye his hair a deep shade of blue, not an audacious hair colour. The blue tint only showed up under direct light; it was hard to distinguish from black otherwise. This small concession was something of a problem him, he hated to back down to those bullying him but in truth, he hates his ginger hair as well. The deep blue suits him much better, in his personal opinion. He wears it at about chin length.

He is always a touch scruffy; generally the clothes he wears are a few sizes to big, and look as though they hadn't been washed in a few days, or ironed at all. The only exception to that is his blazer, a thin woolen jacket that he adores. It is lavished with attention, the front lapels covered in badges, the rest of it festooned with patches. Stitching lined its way over most of it, repairs over the years made to this treasure. There is only one hole in it, a small one at the side that he left unrepaired. From the outside, it looks like the kind of jacket Frankenstein's monster might find himself wearing in late 70's London. He carries a leather gig bag with him everywhere, his guitar inside, along with some spare strings and a screwdriver. The guitar is a black Squire Stratocaster painted with the words "This too shall pass". It has been beaten and used over the years. Hidden behind the plastic at the back usually is a bag of weed. The screwdriver allowing him to get at it at opportune moments.

His face is hard and his eyes are cold when he isn't in the presence of those he calls friends. But when with them, it would soften, as though he took comfort from safety in numbers. His smile is warm and friendly on the rare occasions it crosses his face. While he normally speaks in a fairly plain, if slightly noticable accent, the angrier he gets the more his Scottish accent shows through.

Biography: Alex grew up on an estate in The Gorbals in Glasgow, Scotland. It wasn't a unique place, but it was one of the worst of its kind. There were no one homeless here, that was one of the first things you noticed as you came in. Homeless people didn't come here. There was always a doorstop better than here. It was the people who lived here who had it the worst. The flats were mostly abandoned; few people lived there anymore. A few grandmothers, unwilling to leave their old homes. Some families with no where better to go. It wasn't a war zone, though when they'd had a few drinks on them some of the gangs would make it resemble one. It was a place for the poor, the unemployed, the dispossessed and the criminals, left to rot. It would be ten years before the reclamation of this area would begin in proper. Still the tenements loomed above them, mostly empty now. Every few years, the council would talk about pulling them down, but it had yet to happen. This was the place Alex was born into, and it was a place where survival was a fight. His only solace through these times was his father, Malcolm. The man was an aging punk rocker, left behind waiting for a revolution that never came. Eventually, all he had left were his wife and child. But he was clever. The fight for survival would happen often. Often it would be words and go no further. Malcolm Campbell was not an aggressive man. But his appearance drew attention, and sometimes some foolish soul would insist on making it physical. Alex had watched him back then, watched how he would do exactly enough damage and no further.

Even for the boy, there was violence. Much as the adults in the neighbourhood had picked on Malcolm, the younger Campbell became a target for bullying as well. Two or three times a week, he would come home, with black eyes and bloody noses. Malcolm had no doubts that where they were, sometimes his boy would have to fight. But he tried to raise his boy with a sense of right and wrong. Do what you feel is right, no matter what the cost. If Alex had to fight, if there was no other choice, then he had to fight.

Malcolm Campbell died when Alexander was eight years old. He died before the eyes of his son, the murderer standing above his body as his friend held the screaming boy back. His voice hadn't even broken yet, but even then, they could see the rage within his eyes as tears poured from them. He didn't chase them. When they let him go, he scrambled over to his father. The knife was buried in the man's side, blood streaming from the wound. When his mother had found him, he was bent over into a foetal ball, clutching his father's jacket tightly within his arms. Silent. There was nothing she could say. She took his hand and picked him up. She took the jacket and placed it over the boy's shivering body. It was his now. They left the body. The meat wagons would find it. There would be no funeral.

It took her two years, but his mother found a way out of that terrible place. She had turned her nose up at the claims of the government that the area would be renewed. The Gorbals had taken her husband, and she wanted nothing more than simply to leave. There was a job offer in America. At ten years old, Alexander looked back at the terrible estate as they left. He spat at it. Through the airport and onto the plane he thought to himself a strangely adult thought: "Time to start fresh."

America was... different. He couldn't grow accustomed to it; even now at 17 he was still trying to get used to it. They lived on the poor side of town. He couldn't tell. He had his own room. They had a kitchen and living room. It was a world away from the two room apartment he'd grown up in. He treasured each day, and dreaded with a strange certainty that it would all one day be snapped back to reality, and he would be a boy again, still clutching his father's jacket to his chest as the body went cold. But after such traumatic events, he had gradually grown back on track. There were still bullies here, but only the worst of them ever got physical. Usually he could hold his own, but sometimes he would get his beatdowns.

He had inherited his father's cleverness, and his love for music. Alex loved books and films and words; he would often sit quietly and listen to folks talk. Occasionally he would correct their grammar. He still retained some britishness. Often he would say "Aye" in place of yes, and "Ken" in place of know, but for the most part the accent had left him. He wasn't aware of it, but when he got angry he would lapse back into it. He played the guitar, not particularly well, but he loved it anyway, a Squire Stratocaster, the best he could sadly afford. It never left his side. Written on the body in white paint were the words This Too Shall Pass.

At the school he had acquired a small circle of friends, eventually, once the novelty of his accent had ceased to amuse his bullies. It was still brought up from time to time. He and his loved guitar had passed through a few bands; last year one of them had even played at one of the schools battle of the bands. He could often be found outside the gates of the school smoking a cigarette with a cluster of friends; if they could get away with it they would pass around a joint between them. They were always welcoming to anyone who wished to join their circle, but it would never grow very large. They never sought to be popular, but usually they were at least known.

In classes he was never the most studious student. He was a little lazy, which kept him from studying when he should. He excelled in some classes that he had a natural ability for; music and english always rated highly for him, but subjects like mathematics left him cold. He had no natural aptitude for it and he didn't study, so predictably his marks were always lower in these subjects. He had an even split with the teachers; some of them liked him, others didn't. He could be disrespectful, even outright rude if pressed, to teachers in subjects that he wasn't interested in. Other teachers would never encounter this. The english teacher in particular he was very close with. They would often discuss the english language, the teacher passing Alexander obscure older books. He would devour these eagerly, then come in the next day to return them and discuss them with him.

Outside of school, he was actively involved in local music; when he wasn't in a band he was always talking to other bands, finding out who was new and interesting. He could often be found at the mall, hunting through the CDs in search of an obscure band that he'd read about. He would listen to music over his headphones often; usually a tap on his shoulder was needed to get his attention. He and a group of friends would often spend the weekend loitering around the mall, never causing trouble, simply because they had no place better to go.

He loved philosophy and psychology, and after a joint or two his usual taciturn nature would depart, and he would talk the heavens down on the meaning of reality, life and death, and other such topics that cannabis tended to bring into the conversation. Mythology and religion were also interesting to him. He loved to read about the way these cultures would use myths to explain the mysteries of the world. He especially loved the norse gods and had more than a few stories about them commited to memory.

He'd never forgotten his father, even for a second. He lived in fear of the day that one day would come when he would no longer be able to remember his face. So he lived by the advice that his father had told him. Do what's right, no matter what. Do what you feel in your heart to be right. Fight for it if you have to, but avoid it if you can. Trust your friends and expect their trust in return. Forgive. Don't kill if there's any way you can avoid it.

He hid his secrets well. No one knew about his father's death, or the place where he'd grown up. But those feeling and memories still burned within him. His interest in Psychology wasn't just a hobby. He had suffered from a well hidden but serious depression since his father had left. Lately it was getting worse. Suicide would occur to him sometimes, surprising him. It would sneak up on him, till he was in one of his black moods. He would go off on his own, and sit and ride it out. Depression's a horrible thing. You feel like your guts fall out, like you're a cold hatefilled thing. He would endure, as he always had.

Ultimately that was who he was. He endured. He did what he thought was right, as best as he could.

Malcolm Campbell would have been proud of his son.

Advantages: Alex is unflinchingly loyal, and tends to inspire that quality in those around him. He believes in doing what is right, no matter what the cost. He is also quite the fighter; he can take a beating and keep going, pushing through the pain, and fighting until his body gave up. He also is rather good at improvising weaponry from around him. There's always a glass bottle or twig lying around that could be used to strike a blow, in his experience.
Disadvantages: Casual smoker. Alex smokes joints, and cigarettes when they aren't available. Given the choice he will almost always choose to get high, with the disadvantage that gives. Cigarettes as well make it easier to tell when he's around, especially his old clothes which tend to have the smell of smoke about them. He also will find it very hard to break his moral code. He will choose loyalty over cleverness any day of the week; if it's a choice between betraying a friend and living and standing by them and dying, he will stand by them, no matter what. He will not kill someone if he can help it, he frowns on guns and loathes knives, a hangover from the death of his father. He had a single thing that could trigger off his rage, enough that he will defy these morals, if his father is insulted, or by extension, his fathers jacket, he will lose it, and do everything he can to provoke a fight.

Designated Number: Male student no. 123


Designated Weapon: GPS
Conclusion: It's funny that the boy who loathes guns and knives received a GPS. How uncanny, hmm? Hopefully B123 can use this GPS to figure out if anyone is in the vicinity... And if they aren't, he can have himself a quick smoke! But whatever he uses the GPS for, I'm sure it'll come to some use.


♥Dawson Demarke: School Cafeteria♥
♥Soon to come: Francis Scodelaris♥