09-17-2013, 08:45 AM
Staring down at the video of himself, Jensen's heart sank, filled with the heavy boulders of guilt. He could bear to look no longer and whipped the iScreen from his hands, but the burst of anger did nothing to ease his torment. It clanked against a dumpster and shattered to the alley cement, but what broke might as well have been his entire world.
He turned to face the extortionist which brought him here tonight. True to the man's promise, he was unrecognizable; a faceless adversary whose features were covered by a ski-mask. His clothing was nondescript. Jensen had no idea who this man was, nor how he came to have video of such... intimate moments in a couple's life.
Palms sweating, he reluctantly handed over the briefcase. It was funny. He'd expected ten million to feel heavier. Perhaps he'd simply forgotten the feel of cold cash. Not since childhood had he held tangible currency, let alone pack so much into one case. Immediately, the man snatched it away and quickly retreated as though worried the preacher before him might turn violent.
The sum of money was meant to buy his way out of public disgrace, and Jensen, shamed, turned up the collar of his trench coat, placed his hands in the pockets, and pivoted to leave by the way he came without lifting a single hand. There wasn't a violent bone in his body.
He made it five steps before he heard laughter.
A deep frown turned down his mouth, and he half-pivoted to glance behind. Only to witness the one who dragged him out here on threat of force huddle the briefcase under one arm, pull a second iScreen and upload the video anyway. The man made a mockery of a bow, and took off running.
In the darkness, the color drained from Jensen's face. God save me.
In that moment. Everything he'd worked for crumbled to dust. His pride, eroded. His congregation, betrayed. His family, gone. His soul, damned. With ten million dollars, he bought absolutely nothing.
"STOP!" His legs were moving before he even realized what was happening.
The man, paces ahead of him, sped up, but Jensen's athletic stride dug onward, oblivious to puddles and obstacles clogging the alleyway. He'd complied! He paid the bribe! And they ruined him anyway. Why else but simply to torture him. Did they not know he already tortured himself? "STOP" He yelled again, and arms flung outward as though reaching for something too far to grasp, his soul threw itself forward.
The man arched high from the ground as though tripped hard by forces unseen and was sent soaring. Then he crumpled not ten steps from the cross-street beyond. Nobody illuminated by lights of the city sidewalks even glanced their way.
Jensen caught up, panting, and knelt beside the man, heart pounding and mind praying the very thing he'd wished for with all his might hadn't come true.
He rolled the body, and cringed - knowing deep in his bones exactly what he’d done.
Sirens in the distance. Lights filled the rectangle of windows overhead. He wanted to throw up, but there was no time to think about how it happened. Only run.
He shoved a hand across the slick curve of his hair, then snatched the briefcase back into his possession. And like shadows of the demons he knew took root in his soul, Jensen fled from light to disappear in the darkness.
Four years later.
To this day, nobody recognized the forklift driver working the Moscow shipping yards ever stood behind a pulpit. The way the Moscovites said his name, Jensen, sounding a heavy Y consonant at the beginning, only distanced him further from his former life; a life assumed ended four years ago in bloody blackmail. His hair was longer now, though frequently slicked straight from his forehead with cheap pomade. His beard was scruffier. His clothes were far less flashy. The Jensen James never smoked. Or drank. Or filled his time with any of the things this fallen version of himself did. Jensen lived in an immaculate house in Dallas, not a one-room studio in outskirts Moscow. Jensen drove a Mercedes, not risked his life every day on the metro. Jensen had two sons and a beautiful wife, not a scandalous affair, and he certainly did not pay for his company.
Most troubling of all. Preacher James did not channel what was sure to be dark powers.
Physical description
5’10”, lean and pale from working night-shifts. Brown hair that curls to his ears when left untended and a patchy, thin beard. His countenance is frequently dour and drawn. He keeps to himself, rarely raises his voice, but battles the demons nipping at his heels every single day. Eventually, he assumes they will finally catch up and devour him alive. Well, if so, he would deserve it.
Abilities
Channeler. He has a latent Talent for Healing, which, once developed, has the potential to be legendary, assuming he embraces the act. As of now, he fears this power, and his guilt over taking another life (and every other mistake that led him here) eats away at his love for it.
His block consists of a physical movement which must accompany any outflow of Power. Such as hand gestures, moving his arms, or motion in general, such as how the power manifested that first time he channeled: running while throwing his arms as though literally hurling a wall of air forward. The block developed in response to his conscious search to reproduce what he’d done that first time. By giving into the lured temptation he loves and yet despises, he saved his own life from the Sickness.
His experience hovers between new and adept. Four times out of five he can produce the effect he desires, though it is usually minimal and awkward as a child’s first attempts at walking.
His strength as of now is moderate from consistent practice at his own pace. Having never been under forced learning, he has not experienced many of the starts and fits of growth as other male channelers. Slow and steady building, like a marathon runner, rather than a sprinter, his strength curve steadily increases. For now, it is holding at a solid 6-7, but he has the potential to expand to 15, clearly strong enough to be a force in this world. He is unaware of others of his kind.
Edited by Jensen James, Sep 17 2013, 10:20 AM.
He turned to face the extortionist which brought him here tonight. True to the man's promise, he was unrecognizable; a faceless adversary whose features were covered by a ski-mask. His clothing was nondescript. Jensen had no idea who this man was, nor how he came to have video of such... intimate moments in a couple's life.
Palms sweating, he reluctantly handed over the briefcase. It was funny. He'd expected ten million to feel heavier. Perhaps he'd simply forgotten the feel of cold cash. Not since childhood had he held tangible currency, let alone pack so much into one case. Immediately, the man snatched it away and quickly retreated as though worried the preacher before him might turn violent.
The sum of money was meant to buy his way out of public disgrace, and Jensen, shamed, turned up the collar of his trench coat, placed his hands in the pockets, and pivoted to leave by the way he came without lifting a single hand. There wasn't a violent bone in his body.
He made it five steps before he heard laughter.
A deep frown turned down his mouth, and he half-pivoted to glance behind. Only to witness the one who dragged him out here on threat of force huddle the briefcase under one arm, pull a second iScreen and upload the video anyway. The man made a mockery of a bow, and took off running.
In the darkness, the color drained from Jensen's face. God save me.
In that moment. Everything he'd worked for crumbled to dust. His pride, eroded. His congregation, betrayed. His family, gone. His soul, damned. With ten million dollars, he bought absolutely nothing.
"STOP!" His legs were moving before he even realized what was happening.
The man, paces ahead of him, sped up, but Jensen's athletic stride dug onward, oblivious to puddles and obstacles clogging the alleyway. He'd complied! He paid the bribe! And they ruined him anyway. Why else but simply to torture him. Did they not know he already tortured himself? "STOP" He yelled again, and arms flung outward as though reaching for something too far to grasp, his soul threw itself forward.
The man arched high from the ground as though tripped hard by forces unseen and was sent soaring. Then he crumpled not ten steps from the cross-street beyond. Nobody illuminated by lights of the city sidewalks even glanced their way.
Jensen caught up, panting, and knelt beside the man, heart pounding and mind praying the very thing he'd wished for with all his might hadn't come true.
He rolled the body, and cringed - knowing deep in his bones exactly what he’d done.
Sirens in the distance. Lights filled the rectangle of windows overhead. He wanted to throw up, but there was no time to think about how it happened. Only run.
He shoved a hand across the slick curve of his hair, then snatched the briefcase back into his possession. And like shadows of the demons he knew took root in his soul, Jensen fled from light to disappear in the darkness.
Four years later.
To this day, nobody recognized the forklift driver working the Moscow shipping yards ever stood behind a pulpit. The way the Moscovites said his name, Jensen, sounding a heavy Y consonant at the beginning, only distanced him further from his former life; a life assumed ended four years ago in bloody blackmail. His hair was longer now, though frequently slicked straight from his forehead with cheap pomade. His beard was scruffier. His clothes were far less flashy. The Jensen James never smoked. Or drank. Or filled his time with any of the things this fallen version of himself did. Jensen lived in an immaculate house in Dallas, not a one-room studio in outskirts Moscow. Jensen drove a Mercedes, not risked his life every day on the metro. Jensen had two sons and a beautiful wife, not a scandalous affair, and he certainly did not pay for his company.
Most troubling of all. Preacher James did not channel what was sure to be dark powers.
Physical description
5’10”, lean and pale from working night-shifts. Brown hair that curls to his ears when left untended and a patchy, thin beard. His countenance is frequently dour and drawn. He keeps to himself, rarely raises his voice, but battles the demons nipping at his heels every single day. Eventually, he assumes they will finally catch up and devour him alive. Well, if so, he would deserve it.
Abilities
Channeler. He has a latent Talent for Healing, which, once developed, has the potential to be legendary, assuming he embraces the act. As of now, he fears this power, and his guilt over taking another life (and every other mistake that led him here) eats away at his love for it.
His block consists of a physical movement which must accompany any outflow of Power. Such as hand gestures, moving his arms, or motion in general, such as how the power manifested that first time he channeled: running while throwing his arms as though literally hurling a wall of air forward. The block developed in response to his conscious search to reproduce what he’d done that first time. By giving into the lured temptation he loves and yet despises, he saved his own life from the Sickness.
His experience hovers between new and adept. Four times out of five he can produce the effect he desires, though it is usually minimal and awkward as a child’s first attempts at walking.
His strength as of now is moderate from consistent practice at his own pace. Having never been under forced learning, he has not experienced many of the starts and fits of growth as other male channelers. Slow and steady building, like a marathon runner, rather than a sprinter, his strength curve steadily increases. For now, it is holding at a solid 6-7, but he has the potential to expand to 15, clearly strong enough to be a force in this world. He is unaware of others of his kind.
Edited by Jensen James, Sep 17 2013, 10:20 AM.