Post by Deleted on Jan 22, 2013 22:21:10 GMT -8
| Marko Veselinov Iliev M.V. Iliev M.D. is an oddity, a mix of opposites and open-ended questions... "The Doctor" is a man who talks of himself to others, but leaves them never really knowing anything about him; a man who will tell you to quit smoking, before lighting up at the back door five minutes later; a man who can fix other people, but is content to leave his own past in pieces. |
| CODE NAME: The Doctor |
| Male | 29 | Bisexual |
| Bulgarian | Doctor | Researcher |
| Physical |
| 189cm/6'2'' | 80kg/176lbs | Black |
| Hazel-grey | Light olive | Tall/slender |
| Personal |
-Impassive: First impressions are usually everything, and there are often times when Marko is exceptionally bad with them, merely based on the fact that he doesn't like the look of someone. Thankfully, this is a rarer occurrence than one would think. Otherwise, you can expect him to be fairly polite, albeit in an off-hand manner, for starters. Once he's more familiar with someone, the chances of this behaviour slims considerably. -Friendly: Get on his good side (which isn't too difficult to accomplish) and he's actually quite cheerful and laid-back, even if being friendly with someone and trusting them are poles apart in his eyes and it takes a surprising amount to actually gain his trust. -A bully: Perhaps on the contrary to his friendly mannerisms, he's also got a habit of picking on others, although his means are quite varied. To friend and foe alike, he's the type to get a kick out of messing with others' heads. Unless it's clear he hates someone, though, it usually isn't done with spite, though he likes to give bad reasons for doing so, too. He mostly just does it for attention. -Outwardly proud: There's another prevalent side of his personality that is both arrogant and headstrong. This likely stems, funnily enough, from an inferiority complex of sorts. He thinks everything he does is fantastic, and that the world revolves around the oh-so-wonderful him. He thinks, hoping that eventually he'll have reached the point where he believes it, or it manifests, or both. -Intelligent: Well, it would be ill-fitting of a researcher not to be, wouldn't it? In terms of booksmarts, Marko is far smarter than his sometimes careless attitude may let on. He has a surprisingly logical mindset, is very practical and is good at fixing things; broken watches, TV remotes, cell phones, etc. -Bad-tempered: The best way to spurn him would be to point out his weak points. This is at one's own risk, however, seeing as how he can fly off the handle very easily. -Physically and mentally strong: Although the latter is probably more prevalent. There's a lot he can do just by gritting his teeth and bearing through anything he finds tough or unpleasant or painful. He's the type who can't see failure as an option. And if he fails at anything, he'll make up an excuse as to why it wasn't really a failure for him, whether he has to explain it aloud, or just tell it to himself. He isn't afraid to let people know if something bothers him, nor is he afraid to jump the fence to see what's on the other side, per se. Some might call this behaviour sheer recklessness, which it could well be, but he thinks that - especially in his line of work - if you never try, you never know. -Soft-centred: Marko adores children and animals and flowers and is actually pretty sweet and loving if you do happen to get on that side of him. He simply prefers to keep up what he considers to be a stronger and less effeminate exterior and reputation. -Eccentric: Mildly peculiar would perhaps be a more fitting term to describe him. His logic regarding certain things - usually social matters - is often bizarre. He can often be found with his head up in the clouds, or if he's comfortable around someone, off on a tangent about matters that seem pretty frivolous. Thankfully, he's not one to say much, in general, and he won't ramble on for hours on end. |
| Likes | Dislikes |
-Yogurt: It's his favourite foodstuff. It's not uncommon to see him with a pot of it on his desk, even if it's not his lunch hour. If there isn't yogurt in his fridge at home, then there's something wrong. -Alcohol: Rakija, vodka, beer; if it's potent, he'll probably knock it back without any complaints. He's not one for cocktails or any of that 'girly crap', as he'd put it - but if he'll drink wine if it's decent, too. -Pretty girls: You've got a better chance of getting on his good side, if you are one. -Cigarettes: These, as well as alcohol and yogurt, are pretty much what he blows a good percentage of his pay on. He can't wake up in the morning if he hasn't had a cup of strong coffee and half a packet of smokes. Just don't tell the rest of the clinic staff. -Queuing for no reason: A bad habit he's been able to put to good use in the UK. He's not really sure where it stemmed from, or where he even found the patience to do it in the first place. -Money: And yet, he never seems to have enough of it... -Roses: They're pretty and they smell nice. What more is there to say? There's usually a vase of them on his coffee table or front window pane at home. -Fixing things: He supposes he shouldn't really take as much pleasure in bandaging up peoples' injuries as he does, but then again, he also supposes that if he didn't, he'd have considerably less reason to like his job. There's no such strange guilt in tinkering with old pieces of worn out junk and making them work, though; much the contrary, he finds that rather therapeutic. | -People touching (their) eyeballs, ie. putting contact lenses in: His eyes were bad when he was a kid, and so just the thought of people doing this gives him the creeps. He does his best to avoid the Orthoptics department at work when he can, although, of course, his eye condition - unfortunately - never really went away entirely. When he has to, he usually ends up asking other people to put eye drops or the like in for him, whining about it all the while. -People touching his more "personal" stuff: Really, unless he gives permission, he'd rather you kept your hands off. There's a few exceptions, like if someone is more familiar with him he doesn't mind them knocking and entering without a response and wandering around his house, so long as they're not planning on messing anything up. In this case, his desk at work is probably a better example; he likes to have everything in its place and if anyone moves anything without his consent... Well, he won't be happy. -Losing: Boy, is he ever a sore loser. Depending on how vitriolic he's feeling at the time, his losses can either result in a muttering of a few harsh swear words, or a considerably more audible reaction. -Certain rules and regulations: He's fickle with the ones he chooses to follow. He prefers to be his own boss and do as he pleases, really. -Food being too salty or too sweet: His taste is pretty sensitive. Usually he won't complain, though. |
| Dreams | Fears |
-A family: He knows he's not getting any younger, and family is one of those words that has become subjective to him. He'd like to settle down with a nice girl and have a few -A promotion: It's not that he doesn't enjoy working for MI6, but he has a feeling that he'll be able to take on a more difficult (and better paid) job in the future, even if it involves leaving government-aligned work entirely and settling into a privatised clinic somewhere. -Repair his relationship with his parents: He doubts it'll ever happen, but hey, maybe in a perfect world it could, right? | -Rejection: It's horribly cliché and unbecoming of a grown man, he thinks, but after his parents all but disowned him, he grew up internally worried that anyone else close to him would do the same. -Failure: What if he lost his job? What if he was sent back to his home country? What would he do? Where would he go? It's questions like these that unfortunately keep him awake at night. -Going blind: He feared he would, as a child, and again it was that childish fear that he ended up carrying with him into adulthood. Going blind would render him useless; he wouldn't be able to do his job, he'd struggle to do simple things like read or navigate a room, and he'd be in complete darkness for the rest of his life. |
| Background |
There was nothing incredibly out of the ordinary about Marko's upbringing. The oldest of half a dozen children, he was born in Sofia, to parents often found themselves struggling to make ends meet. It didn't help that as a child, Marko was poorly behaved and caused a great deal of trouble for his parents by picking on his siblings and generally being a nuisance. Exasperated, his parents sent him away from Sofia to live with his paternal grandparents in Burgas when he was nine years old. Though he has returned to Sofia since, he has not seen his parents or younger siblings again, to this day. His grandparents were strict and traditional, though this seemed for the best, as a grandmother with a strong throwing arm and a heavy rolling pin was not a pleasant mix for an unruly child. It wasn't long before he caught on to this, and without any other kids around to pick on (apart from at school, and when he was absolutely sure he could get away with it), he calmed down considerably. Whilst living with a childhood case of Amblyopia, which he eventually overcame (despite the occasional unpleasant visit to the hospital it entailed), he spent a lot of his free time growing up reading and tinkering with old pieces of junk, two things that often made his grandfather smack him over the head with his walking stick and tell him to 'go and play outside like all the other boys' (in a more colourful manner). His grandfather's concern became a lot less prevalent as he progressed through medical school. It surprised both of his grandparents that he'd managed to get in in the first place; it even surprised Marko himself, when he thought about it. It was through medical school that he made close friends with another young man of around his age. He'd found it unusual; he had always seemed to distance himself from others - unintentionally - but he did welcome the company, at any rate. A couple of years down the line, and he realised that he'd gradually gotten closer and closer to the other man to the point where he was left thoroughly confused about whether he considered him as more than a friend. He was so sure that he liked girls, but one thing lead to another with the guy and needless to say, he was pretty sure they were into each other. Marko was left wondering why he didn't seem to care as much about it as he should have, especially when his grandparents came home late one evening and found the two of them in bed together. Kicked out of the household for it, he ended up living with the other man for a while. Long days of medical and English lessons and long nights of shift work to pay for his education left him exhausted, but he managed it, in the end. Shortly after, his then-lover convinced him to move to London with him; not a task they found particularly difficult, with their professions. Years passed and their relationship didn't work out in the end, the other man ended up going back to Burgas but Marko remained in the UK. He worked the emergency room for a while, though his supervisor occasionally called him in to aid with research. In the end he decided he preferred this to long, difficult hours working as emergency staff, and so he opted for easier hours so he could dedicate more of his time to research. Specifically, he worked mostly on Pharmacological research, and it was through this that he was called in by MI6 when they were in requirement of 'field medicine'. He did a few more jobs for them after that and he ended up being hired by the agency itself. Although he still does research nowadays, he serves primarily as a medic, patching up agents and the like, should they be injured in their line of work - after all, sending them to a regular hospital would only raise suspicion, wouldn't it? |
| Role-Play Sample |
[April 21st 1917; Lake Dojran, the Macedonian front] When he had closed his eyes, it was late afternoon, and there had still been a pale light shining behind the grey clouds. When he had opened them again, it was pitch black. It seemed the blizzard had never stopped once. Neither had the shelling. He wondered why he'd fallen asleep, seated on the trench floor, his legs crossed and his shoulders hunched over, hugging himself for warmth... Then, momentarily, he wondered how he'd managed to sleep at all through the noise. The barrage was near deafening. Shaking the settled snow off his coat, Bulgaria rose with a stagger, his legs numb from the cold. With no source of light, he was forced to pat around the wall to get his bearings. There were no soldiers in the trench around him; those who were not on lookout were behind in the galleries, he expected... He hoped. Squinting, he looked up at the black sky above. It was difficult to make out what was bullets and what was snow. It was perhaps midnight, were he to take a guess - it was too dark to go looking for a watch or a clock of some kind - and the British had been firing relentlessly since the previous morning. It had come as a shock, at first. But that was natural - how often did open fire not come as a shock? Yet since he had last checked, only three of his men were wounded. It was both relieving and gratifying, to think that, whilst knowing that the shells were flying far overhead. Perhaps England's aim was just abysmal. Or perhaps he was wasting perfectly good ammunition on purpose. Maybe he'd bored him to sleep - maybe his tactic was to bore him to death. Unlikely. He was there to defend what was his - his land, his people, his honour and dignity. The Entente's task was to break through the Balkans. His task was to liberate Macedonia. There was no room for error. Losing here would open the way for the enemy to enter Sofia. They would do it over his dead body. When the hail of bullets ceased, it came suddenly, and as the silence filled the air for a moment, it was almost as if the battle was over. Cocking an eyebrow in both surprise and suspicion, he felt around for the trench ladder, and - beginning to get the feeling back in his legs - climbed, peering over the top, cautiously - though the likelihood of him being shot at was incredibly slim. He licked at his chapped lips for a moment, mulling over whether this was some kind of trick to lure his men out... Was England aware he wasn't hitting his targets? Perhaps he'd given up entirely. His mind toyed with the notion of victory for a moment... But he remembered he'd been told not to get cocky. Vazov's tactics were working almost perfectly, but if he got ahead of himself, he could mess up. That was normally his downfall. Still, he narrowed his eyes, spending a while watching the other side of No Man's Land. So much so that, when they came, he was startled - if only because he was surprised he hadn't seen them first. The first voice to break across the hissing northern wind cried backwards, towards the galleries. 'They are coming!' And come they did - armed, in a line, fading in from the dark abyss of the other side; seeming to carry themselves without concern, without doubt, advancing over No Man's Land like Angels of Death. Interesting... So England thought he'd won, after all. How he wished he still had the capacity to smirk. He jumped off the ladder and went for the nearest machine gun, as the men departing the galleries upon being called forth would soon do, too. He was confident, he wasn't afraid of England or the Entente or the fact that they outnumbered him greatly. But his soldiers were naught but humans; naught but men incapable of suppressing this level of fear. He'd witnessed many officers abandon their uniforms for parade clothes and white shirts. All this time, they expected they would die. Yet their morale was superior. They were defending their homes, their families, their freedom. He locked on to the other nation, aimed, and put his finger to the trigger. Silently, he thanked his men for their bravery. |
| OOC Information |
| Bul |
| I have a Skype and that's the best way to get hold of me, otherwise PM. |
| I like a good long cuddle with my girlfriend after sex. It's the best way to deflate her. |
| Gurl you should sell hotdogs, 'cause you really know how to make a weiner stand. |
| made by CAPTAIN of BACK TO NEVERLAND |
