TEMP #2

NAME: WANG WEI-JIAN 

NICKNAME: JIAN or THE PRINCE (RACER IDENTITY)

AGE: TWENTY-SIX

SEX: MALE 

ORIENTATION: HETEROSEXUAL 

JOB: ANTIQUE SHOPKEEPER (DAYTIME) 

        STREET-RACER (NIGHTTIME) 

HOMELAND: GUANGZHOU, CHINA

LANGUAGES: MANDARIN, CANTONESE, ENGLISH

HEIGHT: FIVE-FEET-TEN (177.5 CM)

WEIGHT: 157LB (71.2 KG)

HAIR COLOR: BLACK

EYE COLOR: BROWN EYES (TEAL CONTACTS)

CLOTHES: SOME PEOPLE DRESS TO IMPRESS.

               AND SOME PEOPLE JUST IMPRESS. 

The first time you meet him — you feel wary, nervous. He's got a presence that stuns you and a stare — so piercing — it seems to cut you down in size. It's as if he sees right through you — past your bullshit and lies. It makes you feel small and shy — awkward and uncomfortable. You feel threatened by him, but it has nothing to do with his height or weight (because he is neither frighteningly tall nor dangerously built). But you know — just from being around him — that he's not someone you want to cross. And then your eyes meet — accidentally — and, scared, you look away, face flushing for reasons you don't understand. 

Your hands are trembling and your whole body feels light — like it's going into shock. You swallow hard and your cheeks are still burning with embarrassment — you hadn't meant to be caught staring, but you can't help it. You sneak another glance (even though your heart is racing and your brain is desperately trying to resist) and, instead of looking at you, he's smoking. It's, like, his fourth smoke of the evening (you don't know why you had bothered to keep count) and, beside him, is a pretty, but sparsely dressed brunette. Her breasts — which look unreal in their size — are bursting from their restraints and you catch his eyes slipping down. He likes women. And, from the way he's working her, you know he's used to them too — their curve, their softness, and their special everything. 

You know he's good — probably great.

He catches you staring again and, even though he's busy with the big-breasted brunette, he's watching you — eyes eerily bright. They're like a cat's eyes — sharp and almond shaped, glowing and intense. And, for a moment, your lose yourself in them — spiraling down a pool of gleaming turquoise. You lose track of time, forget your surroundings, and fall into his stare — totally and utterly mesmerized. But then he smirks — you can see it from the tugging of his lips — and you turn away again, but, this time, you walk away — fast. You don't look back, but you can't forget the stare or his face or his smirk. 

Sucking in a breath, you approach some other racers — you guys talk and laugh, joke and make friends. But even though you're surrounded by other people, you can't stop thinking about him — about how he had raced (it was like watching water flow) or how he had played that girl (like a hunter lying in wait). 

You think he's arrogant — mean, maybe — and you think he's wild — probably caught up with the whole drugs and danger-junkie scene. You think you hate him, but when you see him again (this time without the girl), you're blinded by how, at a profile, he looks even better. You think his title of "Prince" is well-deserved. You know you're staring — being incredibly awkward — but you can't help it. You can't help yourself.

For a crazy moment, you think about going up to him — say, "Hi" and then suggest you guys go grab a beer or something. 

But you don't. 

You know he'll just brush you away — sneer at you and, maybe, mock you for your attempts.

You know that just by looking at him. You can tell he's a difficult person to approach and you're scared. You don't want to get hurt — or anything. You look down at your feet (and think: Why can't I be like that?) and when you look up again — he's gone. You sink with disappointment — maybe even frantic — as your eyes search him out on their own, darting from face to face. Everyone is leaving now (race is over and nobody wants to be here when the cops make their big entrance) and—

"Hey." 

You spin around — heart beating wildly at the sound so close to your ear — and come face-to-face with him. He's not smiling and you think, honestly, he looks better like this — cold, icy, and absolutely unreachable. He looks you over, arches a brow at your scuffed shoes, before looking at your face again. "What do you want?" 

You don't say anything, but you notice that his social skills aren't exactly as amazing as you thought they were (his voice also isn't the vocalization of chocolate sex), but it's not those things that attract you to him. It's something more — and less, at the same time. You don't know what it is and I don't know how to articulate it, but... He is like a flame to moths — he grabs everyone's attention and keeps it on him. Maybe it's his looks. But you know — just from everything — that it's not that simple. 

It's never that simple.

GRIMOIRE:

NAME: GRIMOIRE DIRUO

POWERS: CONTROL OVER VECTORS 

ADVANTAGES: It is pointless (maybe even foolish) to deny the strength of this particular grimoire. With the ability to control any and all vectors — Jian can stop a man's heartbeat with nothing more than touch. He can raze buildings, reverse a tsunami, and, if he wished, fly. Because, let's take a moment and understand something: Everything in this world has a vector. Everything in this world can be changed.

DISADVANTAGES: It's hard to think that something so powerful can have a downside. But there is nothing in this world that is only good. Everything has a price and nothing is ever free. For Jian, the use of Diruo is always an exchange. If it isn't the migraines that follow, it's the paralysis of his arms (or legs). And, if it's not that, it's always something else — until, one day, Jian has to decide whether or not his life is worth exchanging. Naturally, the exchanges are "equal." The more Jian wants to do, the more it's going to cost him.

USE: Aside from the hefty-looking price-tag, Jian has a few other limits and restrictions. First, he can't change the vector of something he isn't physically touching. Second, he must make the exchange before he uses any ability (additionally, it may be good to note that if he wants to change the vector of something else, he must make another exchange). And, finally, he can only change the vector of one thing at a time.   

NOTE: By the way, Diruo is sentient and he's kind of an asshole.

SKILLS: DRINKING, DRVING, AND SEX.

Jian is good at a lot of things, but they're not skills most people would go around telling other people. For instance, he can punch a guy's nose in. He won't back down from a challenge. And he's excellent when it comes to gambling. He's addicted to gambling. 

FIGHTING STYLE: IT'S CALLED STREET-FIGHTING.

Some people kick-box, other mix martial arts, and some learn to fire a gun. People think that the advantage always goes to the individual who has studied a discipline, but, truth is, a discipline assumes a vacuum setting where people are in ideal positions. Real fights don't have stances or "positions." They only have two fists, two legs, and all the ingenuity you have. Oh, and maybe the occasional lead pipe lying around. 

The story is simple: It's about loss. It's about being helpless. 

Wang Wei-Jian — why are you doing this?

"AH—! I don't think I'm cut out for conditioning!"

The brunette laughs, shaking his head as he wipes away the sweat from his forehead. "Coach is too tough."

"Then quit," the shorter brunette says, yawning a little as they round the corner. God, he was tired. Waking up at the crack of dawn just didn't agree with him. 

"I've thought about it," his companion nods, expression ernest. 

"Oh?" Uninterested — Utterly uninterested. "Then hurry up and quit, yo're dragging down the rest of us." 

Hooking the brunette into a one-armed hug and head-lock, the taller boy throws his head back in laughter. "Ah, ah, but if I did that, won't the baby be lonely?" 

"No."

But, really, what he wanted to say was: Yes — So don't you ever fucking leave me.

* * *

"We need a crash cart in here — stat!" 

He is standing on the other side of the glass, expression rigid and dark. How could this have happened?

Pressing his forehead against the cool surface, he thinks — desperately: Even if you go, I won't cry for you. So, bitch, better wake the fuck up. 

Wake up.

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

Relief escapes in trembling waves as he lets out shaky chuckles — his smile awkward with comfort. 

But, like a cruel joke, the machine falters — skips a cycle and then its electronic tones blare in his ears for what must have been hours — days. It drowns out all the other noises as he stares. He can see the doctors trying hard, the nurses hanging over equipment, but it's already too late. It's already too fucking late.

Gritting his teeth together, he turns and leaves — tears trailing down his cheeks, taking the place of words he couldn't say. 

If the gods won't help them then, he decides, he will just have to be strong enough to help himself. To be the one to protect those who matter because he won't let this happen again. He won't stand on the other side of the glass hoping for the best — hoping that someone — anyone — would come through to help him. 

He ain't no goddamn Cinderella. 

So, your answer?

Blinking back in surprise, Jian smirks and says: For all the bitches in this world. 

( ﾟヮﾟ) FASHION / JEWELRY

( ﾟヮﾟ) AMERICAN MOVIES

( ﾟヮﾟ) PARTIES / DRINKING

( ﾟヮﾟ) SPICY FOOD

( ﾟヮﾟ) WOMEN / SEX

( ﾟヮﾟ) SLEEPING / SLEEPING IN

( ﾟヮﾟ) RACING / HIS BABY

( ` Д´) RAINY DAYS / RAIN

( ` Д´) HOSPITALS / DOCTORS

( ` Д´) HEAT

( ` Д´) IDIOCY

( ` Д´) BOREDOM

( ` Д´) DRAMA 

( ` Д´) BABIES

He's lactose intolerant. But, really, he's afraid of being powerless — of being on the other side of the glass, so to speak.

 

SEIYUU: DASOKU

THEME SONG: TOMORROW FT. TAEYANG — TABLO