Post by Alphonse Giordano on Feb 7, 2007 1:22:20 GMT
Name:
Alphonse Giordano
Codename:
Ghostwriter (due to the ghostlike traits of his mutation [phasing and defying gravity] and his love of writing.)
Age:
19
Mutation:
Alphonse has a mixed mutation: gravitational manipulation along with phasing. For the phasing, he spaces his atoms through those of the object in question much like Kitty Pryde a.k.a. Shadowcat, with similar limitations i.e. the issue of oxygen. His primary mutation is that of gravitational manipulation. With enough focus, Alphonse can increase or nullify the effect of gravity on himself or a nearby target, (preferably within eyesight or he could and probably would miss) by way of a special form of telekinesis that either counter-acts, bends, or aids the forces of gravity produced by Earth.
Now, should Alphonse be in a weightless environment such as space, (which is highly unlikely), he would have to be close to a planet so that he could manipulate its gravitational pull to affect him or a target. If it was too far away, then he would be helpless except for phasing. But that would be the worst case scenario. In more common uses, he could use it to walk on walls, leap high into the air, (not flight, for that would require a constant strain to keep the gravity pushing him up and down at an equal force to sustain him at one altitude, so 'moon hops' would be much more effective), send a target and nearby objects rising into the air, (and possibly vomit due to the unfamiliar sensation), and so on and so forth.
Alphonse cannot manipulate the gravity of an area more than about ten or fifteen feet in diameter. The larger an object or area, the more strain it puts on his mind. Also to keep in mind, it is easier for him to go with gravity and increase the gravitational pull on an area rather than decrease it. As such, it would be useful to disarm enemies, or render them immobile. But, as previously mentioned, there is always a strain for this power, and it is easiest to use only on himself. Under good circumstances, he could hold an object floating for up to fifteen minutes. Alphonse would probably be able to keep a person or two immobile on the ground for possibly twenty or so minutes. To hold either any longer would wear more and more on his fatigue.
Physical Description:
Alphonse/Ghostwriter is a pale, lanky young man. He stands at about a height of just over six feet, perhaps six foot one, and is relatively thin. He has a fair amount of muscle tone despite his size, due in part to the amount of running from police he has had to do. His face is completely unblemished, and he has matted, unkempt, short black hair. His face has distinct Italian and German features, including a stout, round face, but semi-high cheekbones. He has thin lips and naturally green eyes, but has acquired and constantly wears red contact lenses. Alphonse/Ghostwriter also has a thin black mustache/goatee, and small sideburns.
Ghostwriter has no common apparel, for most of his life he has either stolen or foraged for clothing. As of late thanks to the winter weather, he has been seen wearing layers of stained pants, mismatching brown boots, a few faded scarves, one or possibly more sweaters, a grey trench coat, and thin black cloth gloves. Given the opportunity, he will grab the warmest thing he can find.
Personality:
Alphonse is a generally decent person. Not overly optimistic or peppy, but more like the friendly guy you might meet at a bar on Saturday night on game night. He rather enjoys his ability and has no qualms about using it to his advantage. Along with that, he has no true moral dilemma about taking from the more fortunate for himself. His logic, say if he was presented with a chance to steal a coat, would be: Well, it appears that they have many coats, and money to buy coats. They might be disappointed if this one vanishes, but I'm cold. They can always buy another coat, but the point remains that I am cold.
Alphonse amuses himself by pulling a few pranks or two on normal humans, normally scaring them by walking on the walls next to them completely normally, looking down, and nodding to them with a smile before going on his way, typically phasing through the wall. Another thing that brings him pleasure is writing stories whenever presented with a writing utensil, and something to write on. Though due to his lack of a proper education, he occasionally misspells a word here and there, but other than that he generally writes short stories and occasionally compares himself with J.K. Rowling who, like he, lived in the gutter writing on scraps.
Content as he has been with being homeless, Alphonse has been looking to find a permanent residence, preferably among other mutants. He really doesn't care who, but would go with any group that either finds him first and convinces him, or finds him after that and convinces him.
Background:
Alphonse Giordano was born to Inga Heinrich and Giovanni Giordano in Rome, Italy on June 6, 1988. His father was a banker, and his mother was a vacationing grad student who fell in love. A few months later, they were married, and almost a year later, Alphonse was born. From the start, there was something different about him. He always seemed distracted, and sat doodling rather than playing with any of his toys. His parents did not suspect anything, and life proceeded normally until he was about ten or so. Up until then, he had never really had any friends that his parents could see, that was thanks to his mutation.
Shortly after his tenth birthday, he began to play with his power in the city streets. He would run in an alley, then slowly run up onto a wall, then leap to the opposing wall and phase through it. Other times, he would allow trashcans to go into the air and create rather large messes, or crush soda cans by severely increasing the gravitational field they were in. But, on a slightly more normal note, he also enjoyed reading and scribbling out stories.
After another year, his parents were becoming concerned. He would completely shun the outside world at times, and at others never allow himself to come back home. That was also when he changed his life. It was after a rather convenient head-on collision caused by a drunken driver that killed both of his parents that Alphonse was able to start the rest of his life. Thankfully, he had been in the back seet safely strapped in, and only suffered a few bumps and bruises. Alphonse left home, or rather what was left of it, and began life on the streets of Rome. It was fairly easy for him to steal food, and he learned how to hide in case he was seen, and he also used his power if the police ever became too wary. Because he was at such an impressionable age, the deaths of his parents did not affect him much, and the streets became his new home and family.
Over the years, he drifted from city to city across Italy, and eventually fell asleep one night on a ship bound to New York. A few nights of stealing food, and crushing boxes later, he arrived in America, originally scared out of his wits, before he calmed himself and said that it was just another city. It would be strange, and different, but all cities were the same. At this point, Alphonse was 15, and was attempting to think of an alias for himself. Using a stolen dictionary and Italian to English translation book, (also stolen then disregarded), he decided on the name Ghostwriter.
Three years later, and Alphonse still lurks in the Big Apple, still with a very very small understanding of English. He lives very much the same as he had before, but has grown tired of scavenging and not having a constant roof over his head. He's heard rumors of a place that took people with powers. People that knew that most people were just cattle, a fact that Ghostwriter had realized not too long ago. He has managed to understand one or two words about this group, "Brotherhood" and "Magneto." But, Alphonse has absolutely no idea that his gift would be of interest to a variety of parties...good and evil alike.
Current Affiliation
Unaffiliated for a large portion of his stay in New York, until along came an invitation from a man known as the Black Rook into a society known as the Hellfire Club, which Alphonse accepted. ((Which by way of Rand O'Neal, has happened oddly enough.))
Sample:
Somehow, all large cities are the same when it comes right down to it. Certainly, they have different names, speak different languages, and have different layouts, but every city is made of people. The young, the old, the rich, the poor, the good, the bad, the normal, and the mutants. Among the young, poor, and mutated is a young, raven-haired, foreign man wearing the most mismatched apparel ever thought possible. It consists of several shirts, a vest, a grey trench coat, at least two pairs of gloves, what was probably a scarf in years past, and red contact lenses.
This young man is Alphonse Giordano, or Ghostwriter as he is occasionally called. He stands shivering with three older, but in no better condition men. The four of them stand around the stereotypical trash-can fire in an alley of a snow-covered New York City in the middle of January. Needless to say, it is cold. Alphonse thinks that there are several varieties of cold. The 'chilly' cold, the 'bitter' cold, and so on and so forth until reaching the 'I really wish I hadn't fallen asleep on that boat and come to this country, and I REALLY wish that I was still in the Mediterranean' cold. Today, is the latter of the colds. But Alphonse hasn't expressed his opinion on the cold yet, and mutters to himself rather than the other three in fluent Italian, {"My God its cold...It has to be some sort of strange miracle that I haven't lost anything to this cold...Stupid boat...stupid weather...stupid Americans...its so very cold."}
Naturally, none of the other three men speak, understand, or have the slightest grasp of Italian, so they respond by looking up at the boy with queer expressions, causing Alphonse to sigh, and attempt to explain in English. In hindsight, he regrets not keeping that Translation book a few years back, and also regrets not learning how to speak English. Slowly and uncertainly, he says, "Much cold now....Like Rome gooder. Always warm...no trash fire." The men shake their heads and re-focus their attention on keeping warm.
Ghostwriter sighs, and shivers yet again like he has countless times before. He has so many ideas that he has not been able to put on paper, and has had neither the resources, nor the warmth to do so. He stretches, and extends his gaze upward to meet one of the sights he welcomes most: A light turning off in an apartment. It is still mid-morning, and so typically that means that the resident has left and there are things that are asking to be stolen. They won't be missed for more than a few days, and Ghostwriter has never stolen anything that could be potentially sentimental...okay, perhaps once or twice, but never more than that.
The young man looks at his three 'companions' and mutters, {"Its New York...they've probably seen stranger things than this. Why not? If a man walks around wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, boots, and underwear with a guitar and people are fine with it, then I should be able to use my power."} He was referring to the "Naked Cowboy" no less, and turned to the wall of the building. Ghostwriter closes his eyes for a second then opens them and puts a calm expression on his face. Rather gracefully, he walks directly toward the wall, then twists to begin walking vertically up the wall. He glances back and gives a two-fingered salute to the three homeless men he left, while they simply stare, one with his jaw agape ever so slightly.
Ghostwriter's steps are slow but precise, similar to walking through water, but faster. He continued his ascent before turning as if there were an axis under his heel to become horizontal again and walk directly through the window and wall above. Sure enough, the small, one-bed-one-bath flat is deserted. A slow smile creeps onto the Italian boy's face, as a slightly-used pair of gloves catches his attention. He glances down at his brown, fingerless gloves, then at the leather gloves that will actually protect from frostbite, and decides a trade is in order.
A short while later, Ghostwriter exits the same way he entered, walking, phasing, and turning as if on an axis. He looks relatively the same, except wearing a new pair of black, leather gloves, and holding a new journal and pen under his arm. He returns, almost walking in his own footprints to the place he had been standing a few minutes before. The men had not moved, but rather simply stared at the boy they had thought to be normal until just now. Ghostwriter stares at them, smiles and shrugs slightly, and says quietly, "Is America...What expecting?"
WESTCHESTER
Alphonse Giordano
Codename:
Ghostwriter (due to the ghostlike traits of his mutation [phasing and defying gravity] and his love of writing.)
Age:
19
Mutation:
Alphonse has a mixed mutation: gravitational manipulation along with phasing. For the phasing, he spaces his atoms through those of the object in question much like Kitty Pryde a.k.a. Shadowcat, with similar limitations i.e. the issue of oxygen. His primary mutation is that of gravitational manipulation. With enough focus, Alphonse can increase or nullify the effect of gravity on himself or a nearby target, (preferably within eyesight or he could and probably would miss) by way of a special form of telekinesis that either counter-acts, bends, or aids the forces of gravity produced by Earth.
Now, should Alphonse be in a weightless environment such as space, (which is highly unlikely), he would have to be close to a planet so that he could manipulate its gravitational pull to affect him or a target. If it was too far away, then he would be helpless except for phasing. But that would be the worst case scenario. In more common uses, he could use it to walk on walls, leap high into the air, (not flight, for that would require a constant strain to keep the gravity pushing him up and down at an equal force to sustain him at one altitude, so 'moon hops' would be much more effective), send a target and nearby objects rising into the air, (and possibly vomit due to the unfamiliar sensation), and so on and so forth.
Alphonse cannot manipulate the gravity of an area more than about ten or fifteen feet in diameter. The larger an object or area, the more strain it puts on his mind. Also to keep in mind, it is easier for him to go with gravity and increase the gravitational pull on an area rather than decrease it. As such, it would be useful to disarm enemies, or render them immobile. But, as previously mentioned, there is always a strain for this power, and it is easiest to use only on himself. Under good circumstances, he could hold an object floating for up to fifteen minutes. Alphonse would probably be able to keep a person or two immobile on the ground for possibly twenty or so minutes. To hold either any longer would wear more and more on his fatigue.
Physical Description:
Alphonse/Ghostwriter is a pale, lanky young man. He stands at about a height of just over six feet, perhaps six foot one, and is relatively thin. He has a fair amount of muscle tone despite his size, due in part to the amount of running from police he has had to do. His face is completely unblemished, and he has matted, unkempt, short black hair. His face has distinct Italian and German features, including a stout, round face, but semi-high cheekbones. He has thin lips and naturally green eyes, but has acquired and constantly wears red contact lenses. Alphonse/Ghostwriter also has a thin black mustache/goatee, and small sideburns.
Ghostwriter has no common apparel, for most of his life he has either stolen or foraged for clothing. As of late thanks to the winter weather, he has been seen wearing layers of stained pants, mismatching brown boots, a few faded scarves, one or possibly more sweaters, a grey trench coat, and thin black cloth gloves. Given the opportunity, he will grab the warmest thing he can find.
Personality:
Alphonse is a generally decent person. Not overly optimistic or peppy, but more like the friendly guy you might meet at a bar on Saturday night on game night. He rather enjoys his ability and has no qualms about using it to his advantage. Along with that, he has no true moral dilemma about taking from the more fortunate for himself. His logic, say if he was presented with a chance to steal a coat, would be: Well, it appears that they have many coats, and money to buy coats. They might be disappointed if this one vanishes, but I'm cold. They can always buy another coat, but the point remains that I am cold.
Alphonse amuses himself by pulling a few pranks or two on normal humans, normally scaring them by walking on the walls next to them completely normally, looking down, and nodding to them with a smile before going on his way, typically phasing through the wall. Another thing that brings him pleasure is writing stories whenever presented with a writing utensil, and something to write on. Though due to his lack of a proper education, he occasionally misspells a word here and there, but other than that he generally writes short stories and occasionally compares himself with J.K. Rowling who, like he, lived in the gutter writing on scraps.
Content as he has been with being homeless, Alphonse has been looking to find a permanent residence, preferably among other mutants. He really doesn't care who, but would go with any group that either finds him first and convinces him, or finds him after that and convinces him.
Background:
Alphonse Giordano was born to Inga Heinrich and Giovanni Giordano in Rome, Italy on June 6, 1988. His father was a banker, and his mother was a vacationing grad student who fell in love. A few months later, they were married, and almost a year later, Alphonse was born. From the start, there was something different about him. He always seemed distracted, and sat doodling rather than playing with any of his toys. His parents did not suspect anything, and life proceeded normally until he was about ten or so. Up until then, he had never really had any friends that his parents could see, that was thanks to his mutation.
Shortly after his tenth birthday, he began to play with his power in the city streets. He would run in an alley, then slowly run up onto a wall, then leap to the opposing wall and phase through it. Other times, he would allow trashcans to go into the air and create rather large messes, or crush soda cans by severely increasing the gravitational field they were in. But, on a slightly more normal note, he also enjoyed reading and scribbling out stories.
After another year, his parents were becoming concerned. He would completely shun the outside world at times, and at others never allow himself to come back home. That was also when he changed his life. It was after a rather convenient head-on collision caused by a drunken driver that killed both of his parents that Alphonse was able to start the rest of his life. Thankfully, he had been in the back seet safely strapped in, and only suffered a few bumps and bruises. Alphonse left home, or rather what was left of it, and began life on the streets of Rome. It was fairly easy for him to steal food, and he learned how to hide in case he was seen, and he also used his power if the police ever became too wary. Because he was at such an impressionable age, the deaths of his parents did not affect him much, and the streets became his new home and family.
Over the years, he drifted from city to city across Italy, and eventually fell asleep one night on a ship bound to New York. A few nights of stealing food, and crushing boxes later, he arrived in America, originally scared out of his wits, before he calmed himself and said that it was just another city. It would be strange, and different, but all cities were the same. At this point, Alphonse was 15, and was attempting to think of an alias for himself. Using a stolen dictionary and Italian to English translation book, (also stolen then disregarded), he decided on the name Ghostwriter.
Three years later, and Alphonse still lurks in the Big Apple, still with a very very small understanding of English. He lives very much the same as he had before, but has grown tired of scavenging and not having a constant roof over his head. He's heard rumors of a place that took people with powers. People that knew that most people were just cattle, a fact that Ghostwriter had realized not too long ago. He has managed to understand one or two words about this group, "Brotherhood" and "Magneto." But, Alphonse has absolutely no idea that his gift would be of interest to a variety of parties...good and evil alike.
Current Affiliation
Unaffiliated for a large portion of his stay in New York, until along came an invitation from a man known as the Black Rook into a society known as the Hellfire Club, which Alphonse accepted. ((Which by way of Rand O'Neal, has happened oddly enough.))
Sample:
Somehow, all large cities are the same when it comes right down to it. Certainly, they have different names, speak different languages, and have different layouts, but every city is made of people. The young, the old, the rich, the poor, the good, the bad, the normal, and the mutants. Among the young, poor, and mutated is a young, raven-haired, foreign man wearing the most mismatched apparel ever thought possible. It consists of several shirts, a vest, a grey trench coat, at least two pairs of gloves, what was probably a scarf in years past, and red contact lenses.
This young man is Alphonse Giordano, or Ghostwriter as he is occasionally called. He stands shivering with three older, but in no better condition men. The four of them stand around the stereotypical trash-can fire in an alley of a snow-covered New York City in the middle of January. Needless to say, it is cold. Alphonse thinks that there are several varieties of cold. The 'chilly' cold, the 'bitter' cold, and so on and so forth until reaching the 'I really wish I hadn't fallen asleep on that boat and come to this country, and I REALLY wish that I was still in the Mediterranean' cold. Today, is the latter of the colds. But Alphonse hasn't expressed his opinion on the cold yet, and mutters to himself rather than the other three in fluent Italian, {"My God its cold...It has to be some sort of strange miracle that I haven't lost anything to this cold...Stupid boat...stupid weather...stupid Americans...its so very cold."}
Naturally, none of the other three men speak, understand, or have the slightest grasp of Italian, so they respond by looking up at the boy with queer expressions, causing Alphonse to sigh, and attempt to explain in English. In hindsight, he regrets not keeping that Translation book a few years back, and also regrets not learning how to speak English. Slowly and uncertainly, he says, "Much cold now....Like Rome gooder. Always warm...no trash fire." The men shake their heads and re-focus their attention on keeping warm.
Ghostwriter sighs, and shivers yet again like he has countless times before. He has so many ideas that he has not been able to put on paper, and has had neither the resources, nor the warmth to do so. He stretches, and extends his gaze upward to meet one of the sights he welcomes most: A light turning off in an apartment. It is still mid-morning, and so typically that means that the resident has left and there are things that are asking to be stolen. They won't be missed for more than a few days, and Ghostwriter has never stolen anything that could be potentially sentimental...okay, perhaps once or twice, but never more than that.
The young man looks at his three 'companions' and mutters, {"Its New York...they've probably seen stranger things than this. Why not? If a man walks around wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, boots, and underwear with a guitar and people are fine with it, then I should be able to use my power."} He was referring to the "Naked Cowboy" no less, and turned to the wall of the building. Ghostwriter closes his eyes for a second then opens them and puts a calm expression on his face. Rather gracefully, he walks directly toward the wall, then twists to begin walking vertically up the wall. He glances back and gives a two-fingered salute to the three homeless men he left, while they simply stare, one with his jaw agape ever so slightly.
Ghostwriter's steps are slow but precise, similar to walking through water, but faster. He continued his ascent before turning as if there were an axis under his heel to become horizontal again and walk directly through the window and wall above. Sure enough, the small, one-bed-one-bath flat is deserted. A slow smile creeps onto the Italian boy's face, as a slightly-used pair of gloves catches his attention. He glances down at his brown, fingerless gloves, then at the leather gloves that will actually protect from frostbite, and decides a trade is in order.
A short while later, Ghostwriter exits the same way he entered, walking, phasing, and turning as if on an axis. He looks relatively the same, except wearing a new pair of black, leather gloves, and holding a new journal and pen under his arm. He returns, almost walking in his own footprints to the place he had been standing a few minutes before. The men had not moved, but rather simply stared at the boy they had thought to be normal until just now. Ghostwriter stares at them, smiles and shrugs slightly, and says quietly, "Is America...What expecting?"
WESTCHESTER
