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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Sept 13, 2014 15:24:20 GMT -8
{Vash} - Anxious - Horribly anxious at anything that is thrown at him, he is an expert at over-thinking things.
- Blunt - Vocal about his dislikes, and won't be very good at softening the blow.
- Callous - He's quite good at looking seeming dead-pan, but in reality, his rein on emotions is horrible.
- Fierce - Especially when berating others.
- Finicky - Very hard to please, it's almost as if he doesn't want to ever be pleasable.
- Intolerant - A bit xenophobic with his distaste to new and different, has a hard time accepting new people, concepts, and things.
- Gruff - Not in appearance, but in action.
- Hard - Difficult to deal with him, and because of preconceived ideas of him, difficult to personally understand
- Humourless - Or at least, that's what's assumed. Can't laugh around people he doesn't feel quite comfortable with, so it is assumed he has no humour.
- Hypocritical - Often says one thing, but does something else. Will do that thing like "No I have no time to explain to you" and then wind up lecturing for an hour or two, says he isn't emotional but really is. Very much in denial.
- Infamy - To a small extent, has a reputation at MI6 to be a good solo agent, not so good team agent, too hard headed, and scary because of trigger-happy.
- Judgemental - Prone to prejudging people as well.
- Nervous - Fairly easy to distress.
- Obsessive - With work, money, and cleanliness of house.
- Overprotective - Especially to loved ones.
- Perfectionist - Terribly.
- Peevish - Described as always having a constipated look on his face when he decides to be angry at the world.
- Practical - To the point that silly fairytales and flights of fantasy are annoyances to him.
- Predictable - Very routine in everything that he does.
- Rigorous - Doesn't color outside the lines.
- Self-Righteousness - Prone to thinking that he is always right
- Smart Ass - Becomes one during an argument or when he has had enough to drink.
- Soft-Hearted - Denies it, but cannot resist helping someone they see in trouble, suffering or in need, and often don’t think of the repercussions or situation before doing so.
- Solemn - Quite so.
- Stubborn - Hard-headed to the max, very independent in his actions.
- Tactless - When he's not being nurturing, yes.
- Temperamental - Very moody when it comes to dealing with other people.
- Tongue-Tied - A lot of the time, doesn't exactly have the words to say, but bluffs it awkwardly away.
- Withdrawn - Not very social by nature.
My own traits for Vash are: - Argumentative - And rather confrontational as well, often deliberately starting arguments if he does not agree with something.
- Napoleon Complex - It is characterized by overly-aggressive or domineering social behaviour, and carries the implication that such behaviour is compensatory for the subjects' stature. The term is also used more generally to describe people who are driven by a perceived handicap to overcompensate in other aspects of their lives.
- Codependent - He somewhat does need someone to depend on him, is quite used to being the "rescuer" or "protector", and will feel somewhat empty without it.
- Restrained - At least, to a point where he doesn't quite know what to do with his emotions or how to properly express them.
- Trigger-Happy - Prone to threatening and not following through by shooting, quite quick to pull out the gun or use his words, very easy to trigger him as such, especially when protecting others.
Flaw Count: 34 |
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Sept 13, 2014 14:57:39 GMT -8
BLACK TEARS, BLACK SMILES Black credit cards and shoes You can call all the people you want But it's you who's being used "Sure, you keep telling yourself that."
He really wasn't the type to be able to see himself as others saw him. He was guilty of a bit of hypocrisy, yes, and his nature tended to drive others away, but in this line of work, he found that sort of attitude to be the best sort to use in many situations. Actually, it worked with anything. People wouldn't bother people that didn't seem so inviting, anyways. "That description I just gave you is basically my ex boyfriend. Francis... Well, I just told you something rather personal. Now you have to answer my questions, Zwingli."He frowned slightly at that comment, but dared not comment anything himself. In all fairness, Vash actually didn't quite know his coworkers outside of work. His life outside of work wasn't that quite interesting, anyhow. He was practically married to his work, and because he hadn't anything interesting to share besides the occasional weekend gardening sessions and chocolate-making sessions in the kitchen, he never really questioned what everyone else did. It wasn't his business to poke into at all, and he had no reason to want to know much about the others. Just as long as he completed his job. Nonetheless, he did have some temptation to learn more about this Francis, but he would rather not voice such curiosity. She took the wine and rejected his taste in alcohol, prompting herself to order two whiskeys. He frowned at that— rose wine was delicious to his palette. Wine was expensive, he hated wasting it, but it was his preferred drink. "This stuff is shite! Why the hell would you even order this stuff? What a waste of money... And here I thought you were all tight and focused on saving your cash, Switzy. Nah, we need something stronger!"
"I only make good investments, and it tastes rich enough for the price—" quickly shut up by two whiskeys being placed in front of the two of them. He downed his glass of wine and took the whiskey. He really wasn't interested in get wasted tonight, but if she insisted on paying, he simply couldn't... She went on to listing the ladies at MI6 as "possible candidates". Already, he was starting to regret having let himself go and challenge her to figure it out. Damn it, damn it, damn it... He winced as she listed reasons why others weren't on his list. Q definitely was a bit too expensive for his tastes. Marcia wasn't quite his type, Alina had no reason to talk to him (not that many people had a reason to talk to him, anyways), and Carmen was the most uncomfortable thing that God had placed on this Earth. It was as if Vash had done something terribly wrong in his past life, and now he was going to have to pay for it in this life. The fire in the Irish lady's eyes seemed to light up the room, and caused the Alpine-accustomed Swiss to feel rather uncomfortable. The room was growing quite stuffy, and she kept shifting... in a direction he wasn't anticipating. Damn it Zwingli, you pulled too far, and now she's right onto you.
"So that leaves... Me?" she said, a mere two inches from his lips, their noses practically touching. How the heck did I get here, how is this happening, why is this oh god no why.
There was a temptation to close that space, and the alcohol seemed to prod it on. Alcohol had the habit of making it harder for him to conceal emotions. Emotions in general were something he had terrible time getting a rein on. He craved to do as he really wished, to actually speak his opinion on this, to profess something— anything. His sin was concealing such feelings, and he wanted to confess, to reach some absolution. But alas, the sinner stays sinful. Conceal, don't feel, don't let her know, Zwingli.
He felt as if the room was going to collapse on him, the sort of feeling that said "get the heck out of here". But no. He was frozen in place, and the air felt as if he was stuck in molasses. Perhaps staying still would make him more invisible, but really... She pulled back suddenly, and he almost, criminally, craved that feeling again. "Sorry, sorry, I couldn't resist. It's hilarious winding you up," she laughed, as if it were all nothing but play for her. Which... it probably was, knowing how many people tended to be. What a cruel woman you are, Miss O'Neill.
But really, being flustered had to be just what she was aiming for. Her smirk as she drank the wine she had called shit gave it all away. It was already quite apparent that he was shaken and stirred, but he wasn't going to leave it at that. He took a swig of the whiskey and put it down, perhaps a bit too hardly. Oh boy, this had to be one of the stupidest ideas he has ever had... "Yes, and?" he said, failing miserably as he tried to look unbothered by the turn of events. He felt the roses in his cheeks bloom, but he would ignore that. A man like himself would decide not to acknowledge it— he'll regret this so much later, of course. "Give me a reason why you would put yourself out there as a candidate in this little game of 'Guess Who'."
He wanted to stay smug, but damn it, the whiskey was only going to succeed in making him much less graceful with his words. He tried to continue with the game, but he had always known it. He wasn't so great at the play. "So what if I'm interested in, in... So what if I've felt this way for a whi—"
He stopped himself from continuing with that line of thinking. Damn it, this was a stupid line of thinking, and for the split second of oscillating sobriety, he felt the urge to kick himself horribly. This was definitely not the direction he wanted to go in, definitely not... He sighed, grabbing the wine bottle, his grip trembling so much from a bit of nervousness that he had let a few drops go to waste. He'd blame it on the alcohol. He poured himself a glass of wine and poured some for her own empty glass. It wasn't very polite to let someone's glass go empty, no matter the company. He was tired, and he wasn't quite certain of the question itself. Goodness, with that logic... it was quite hard to deny anything at this point. Tonight, he was shaken and stirred. CODED BY ELECTRIC OF BACK TO NEVERLAND |
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Aug 18, 2014 16:06:29 GMT -8
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Aug 9, 2014 2:13:06 GMT -8
'cause tonight's the night
the world begins again He most certainly was not a dancer. Certainly, he has been forced into some mandatory lessons by the MI6, and certainly, he has had to use such skills in the field (not that he enjoyed it at all), but damn it, he is an agent, not a dancer. He lacked the passion of the Romance countries in the sense of dancing, and if he ever did dance, he tried to stay away from any Latin ballroom dance. His mandatory MI6 training made him capable of leading a lady on the dance floor, be it of the Latin variety or not, but that didn't excuse the natural awkwardness he had when he danced.
Of course, though, he'd follow orders well enough. Just as long as he wasn't really teaching, it should all be fine... in theory, at least.
Carmen was an admirable co-worker of his, who was often in a similar position as him. She was an exceptional agent in fields and skills that he wasn't so exceptional at (like dancing... and flirting, as it seemed), and because of the excellence in those skills, she was often tasked by the MI6 to train novices and better their skills. Of course, when it came to dancing ballroom, she needed someone to demonstrate. That's where Vash comes in. He agrees to it for the good pay... and to keep Carmen appeased. A cranky Carmen was frankly not a pleasant thing to have in the SIS Building.
He never really learned the fact that her timing was always going to be off. He'd mull over how she would never be on time, and she would mull over simply how much too early the Swiss man always came. No matter for today. He couldn't come an hour early as usual due to a separate obligation.
He was earlier than the time Carmen had told him to come, and so he was somewhat surprised to see the door already open. He usually waited around until the trainee came in. He quietly entered, to see someone already in the room. Nesia Notonegoro.
So this is who is getting training today. God, please let Carmen be easy on both of us.
She seemed to be preoccupied with her own little dancing, and so he didn't bother her. He sat himself by the wall, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. Carmen would take a while. She always did. |
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jul 23, 2014 0:23:09 GMT -8
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jul 23, 2014 0:17:25 GMT -8
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jul 22, 2014 12:24:38 GMT -8
I CAN'T STAY WITH HER ANYMORE BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T EXIST. ♞ Oh darling, aren't you a cruel woman? You have the knife in your hand, and here he is, presenting himself for slaughter. He wanted to be done with this business. He wanted his hopes to be rejected. He wanted his silly speculations to be disproved. He wanted this to simply die. She no longer existed, no, she was a figment of his imagination, a projection of his silly hopes. He gave up on the essence of the thing called love. He rejected the notion of his own personal happiness. He rejected it with a passion. He was a soldier, not a lover. In Hell, the lovers were Swiss. And he was done with Hell. “Oui. Je me souviens.” He simply hadn't been expecting such a response, and in such a way, no less. The lioness had lost her roar, had said it in such a small manner. Had he not been paying attention, he could have missed what she had said. The lioness was a mouse now, and he couldn't shake that feeling that this was completely and utterly wrong. "Tu... tu te souviens?" he said, something inside him trembling as well. He didn't feel strong as the mountains in he presence of this mouse. He felt as if he was deep in the valley, instead of looking down from the top of the summit. Trapped in the valley, small and overshadowed by the clouds. What a pathetic feeling. He shook his head, going on the defensive. He pulled out his gun half-heartedly, even if it was evident that his wrists were trembling, unable to hold his favorite artillery properly. "You better not be lying to me! I... I could have you detained!"She sat there upon the velvet couch, disheveled and bleeding. It was very clear that she was the one who had destroyed the room. He had a hard time simply looking at the scene. The couch. The woman. The blood. The curtains. they had been arranged in a different manner the last time he had been in this room, hadn't they? He most certainly wasn't pointing a gun at her the last time. He felt a trembling in the knees. He had wanted her to pull a gun out on him. He had wanted her to be in his position (though he probably wouldn't have trashed the hotel room), wanted her to be the one wielding the difference between life and death. He didn't want her to show him Aoife again. He wanted her to show him the ruthless Caitlin Murphy, the indescribably sadistic Angel. Aoife Saoirse O'Neill is as good as dead. Understand that. She is dead, dead, dead. You can't do anything about it.But the person in front of him wasn't dead. Far from dead. Perhaps newly alive. Fighting to be born again. The person in front of him was neither Aoife or Caitlin or even Angel anymore. Who was this person? Simply a stranger in a smashed up hotel room? What was he to a stranger? Simply a silly man with a gun, or a threat to security and life? Why wasn't she getting up to fight? Why wasn't she pointing the gun at him? Why couldn't she point the gun at him? Wouldn't it have been much, much easier for the both of them? What was that in her eyes? Tears? Were those something that he had noticed in any of the personas of this stranger? “Are you here to kill me, agent?” she asked, a quiver in her own voice. A hesitation. It was as if she had to force those words out of herself with the greatest volition. The gun in the hand was quite an indicator of a means to kill a person, wasn't it? However, it didn't seem to be his goal this evening. He couldn't even hold his weapon straight. As MI6's best shot, it was a shame for him to be cowering in such a manner. If he was MI6's best, MI6 was screwed. The way he gripped the gun had melted into amateur, his body position had staggered slightly. Even if he did intend to kill her, he hadn't positioned himself correctly. It was a given fact that Vash Zwingli never shot without confidence. Every bullet was to have one hundred percent precision, and this simply wasn't a normal day. So did it look like he was intending to kill her? If one were an agent, it would be easy to see through his bluff. "I don't intend on spilling blood if unnecessary, though it seems you've done it yourself. What does it look like I am trying to do?" he said, still keeping the gun up, still in his shaking position. This was perhaps his worst bluff yet. It didn't even seem as if he was even trying to lie properly at this point. He was damn scared of the person on the couch now, if anything. It would have been much, much easier if she simply told him she remembered not a thing."But I have no qualms against it, if you don't cooperate that is. If you attempt any funny business, I'm entitled to shoot," Vash said with his best formality. He wasn't even sure if those were the correct words to say, if those were the words he would ever want to say to a person like her.Duty before emotion. Duty before emotion. This is all strictly business, Vash. You need to end this. You can't stand here forever, you can't continue on with this silly goose chase that you were officially kicked off of. You can't. You simply can't. You've forsaken duty and honour at that point. Duty means doing what you are told, doing what is right, and not questioning orders. Let the rest of MI6 deal with this case. This isn't your case. Ah, but it entirely can be.He sucked in a breath and pulled on the trigger tightly, releasing a bullet. He didn't even look her directly in the eye, only into the dark, London night framed by the window and the curtains. He winced as he felt the gun warm up, and he didn't look back.tag: @caitlin MURPHY/AMY▪ words: 1032▪ ooc: This sucks. I'm sorry. What am I doing.
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BY KERRIA ♥ OF GANGNAM STYLE |
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jul 21, 2014 10:19:55 GMT -8
You're coming hereeeeeee that's all that matters eeeeeeee welcome homeeeeeeeeeeee
Granted
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jul 19, 2014 20:18:14 GMT -8
BLACK TEARS, BLACK SMILES Black credit cards and shoes You can call all the people you want But it's you who's being used And the free alcohol kept flowing. He wasn't opposed to the fact that his coworker (for whatever reason) was purchasing him alcohol. Just as long as he didn't have to wake up to a large receipt in his office cubicle, he'll take it while he still can... despite his better judgement that it was perhaps a good idea to stop. He was quite aware of what would happen if he were shit-faced wasted. Despite being quite good at hiding his emotions behind stoicism and staunch professionalism, he wasn't quite good at keeping the facade when under the influence. He was quite sappy by nature, which was an inconvenience. He would have to fight to keep down anything, then. “Awh, come on now. Don’t be such a grump! I was only asking. What’s the matter with blondes anyway? I rather like blondes. Mhm~ blondes with slightly long hair and light eyes. Oooh, blue eyes are nice! Everyone likes blue eyes, right?
" she said "I'm not a grump," he grumbled, grumpily, taking another drink from his pint. Her description of a blonde with blue eyes wasn't earning her any points from him, in any case. "I'm not commenting on that. I've had preferences, and then I've lost preferences. None of your business. From what I'm gathering, it seems you're into blondes yourself, aren't you."He smirked at his reply, as if there was anything remotely witty to it at all. He clinked his glass and took another sip. "What is this about 'blondes with slightly long hair and light eyes', might I have the liberty of asking since you seem somewhat keen on getting my type. Not that that sort of information is something I hold as very important," he said, putting his glass down. His head was starting to feel pretty light. At least this wasn't his usual dry wine. If it had been, he'd have been a little worse off. Perhaps a bit more sappy. He was already becoming a bit snarky, at any rate. What he enjoyed about wine was the fact that he got the same effect by drinking a smaller amount, and the fact that wine tasted much better to him. He came to this joint for the fact that the beer was cheap, but how much could he logically be drinking... “Chill your tits, Chipper! No need to get all defensive with me
. It was just a joke.” she chuckled in response to his outburst. At least it got the point across that he wasn't secretly closeting with Iain or Donald. He simply grumbled at the nickname and shrugged his shoulders. "Give me a Gerard Bertrand Grenache Rose," he told the bartender, saying the name of the French rose wine with his best French accenting. The bartender put down a bottle of the wine in front of the two, providing two wine glasses. Vash said nothing about sharing, but whatever. He wasn't going to down the whole bottle by himself, anyways. He poured himself a glass, and poured her a glass without asking her if she wanted a glass. "Bitte schön." he said, handing her the glass. He preferred his wine, even if the beer tended to be cheaper. This was how it was most nights, anyways. The beer talked him into getting himself the wine he truly deserved. He sipped the wine, taking in the rich, flowery aroma. This is what alcohol should taste like. Rich and aged to perfection. Wine was like investments. And he was careful with such investments, but sometimes, he had to revel in the satisfaction of a successful investment. Wine was often a successful investment. After she had managed to stop laughing, she then managed to ask “Go on then, spill. If you had to date someone at work, who would it be?”
"Anyone who's willing to pay. I'd charge high because some of that money would go towards reservations at restaurants or something of that sort," he said nonchalantly, taking a sip of his wine. "And really, there aren't many people at work that I acquaint myself with nowadays. I've made my sexual preferences clear. Why don't you take a guess?"
He wished he didn't say that, but of course, he'd regret that for a different time, with the wine being a good distraction. CODED BY ELECTRIC OF BACK TO NEVERLAND |
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jun 27, 2014 10:09:03 GMT -8
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jun 27, 2014 10:07:45 GMT -8
| take your lies, take them all |
He craved for truth and honesty. He appreciated her values of justice and the protection of the weak. He understood that she wasn't weak, and perhaps he sometimes craved the simple truth and honesty that she firmly believed in. He had been drawn to her before his tenure with the MI6 had begun, and he truth and honesty were two things that he simply couldn't have much of in these days.
He had built his walls before, and now he seems to build higher and higher. He wishes that she could keep up. He wishes that she could break down those walls as she had always done before. Lead him elsewhere from this lowly place. But what was he to do now? She, a seeker of truth and justice, was being dishonored by being told lies from a person she should normally fully trust. Who she had trusted her heart to. And he couldn't help but feel horrible for it.
"Es tut mir leid..." he muttered in reaction to the door swinging wide open. She stood there with tired eyes and a heaviness he never really recalled from her. Or maybe that heaviness has been there for a while. It probably has. He's just been denying that it's been there. That's perhaps what he's best at. Denying the elephant in the room. Denying that it exists, pretending that everything is okay. "Es tut mir wirklich leid."
He never could be the ideal "Disney prince" for her. He was rough around the edges, and, to his opinion, without the gentleness of a prince. Perhaps his former best friend would have filled that category very well. Hell, he even has a fortune. He literally turned his wife into the equivalent of a modern-day princess. But Vash could have done better... he could have done much better... Done much better with attempting to give her that "happily ever after". She held an important, important place in his heart, but they were far, far away from such a "happily ever after." He wasn't entitled to one, as it seemed. He wasn't entitled to any happily ever after, and it wasn't something he probably could ever give her. It was a pain to lie every single time.
He staggered into the apartment, as if a ghost of himself. He said not a word as he put the keys down upon the kitchen counter, loosened his tie, and filled the water boiler with two cups of water, and turned it on. The only sound in the kitchen was the boiling of the water. He collapsed himself into his chair at the kitchen table and released long, drawn breath. He was tired. And to be here was tiring. He looked out the window, the London skyline bright like a crown. Behind every light, there was perhaps a person, who was going about their own personal tragedies and lives. And here he was, living his tragedy in such darkness.
The water boiler pinged to indicate the water was thoroughly hot. He poured himself a cup and took a tea bag. Earl Grey. As black as he felt at the moment. He left the rest of the water there for her.
He sat back in his chair and steeped the tea bag for a while, trying to appear very occupied with the activity. The way her eyes looked at him, with such daggers. He avoided the gaze, staring into the blackening tea, attempting to deny that anything was wrong.
How did it come to this?
He was always told that good intentions were often just what anyone needed to go through anything. With good intentions, one could even trudge through hell with a smile, confident that things will eventually be in the favor of good. It wasn't as if he wanted to leave her in this state, now did he? Weren't his intentions good? Didn't he try hard enough? Wasn't he simply protecting her from the truth of his situation? Wasn't he protecting the whole of London from the brink of destruction? Wasn't he simply doing his job?
Are good intentions getting you anywhere, Vash?
They weren't enough, and it was true: He wasn't the same man that he was when they had first met.What a cheat he was, really.To keep up with this facade. He was used to lying after a whiles in the MI6. He was very, very used to it. Concerningly used to it. It seems he's lied to himself enough, yet kept his own apprehensions.
You fool. Look at all you've done. Look at it. You're the one at fault. Stop deluding yourself. You've lost the right long ago. You've lost it, and you know it.
You know nothing. You're the one making this situation worse. Where is your civility? Why are you treating her this way? To protect her? You're pathetic. Just pathetic.
He was tired. Damn tired.
I don't have the right to love her, do I?
He looked at her with wary eyes. Her eyes were the blue of summer, but all she saw was winter in his own spring green eyes. They do call autumn "fall" for a reason.
"You don't have to stay up and wait for me. There is no reason to."
He felt horrible, cloaked in the smell of sins upon him. Sins he didn't commit himself. He's committed other sins. But these weren't his.
"Don't you have a court case tomorrow, anyways?" CODED BY ELECTRIC OF GANGNAM STYLE |
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jun 18, 2014 9:25:22 GMT -8
Then can I purchase an ice pack for personal use, then? For the migraine I'm getting from playing this game?
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jun 17, 2014 12:25:35 GMT -8
...
-should not be given the right to vote fff-
Spaceman, can we at least purchase an ice pack for him?
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jun 13, 2014 0:19:08 GMT -8
If that were the case, I probably would have killed someone in the past four nights if that was the goal of the game.
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Post by Vash Alois Zwingli on Jun 11, 2014 11:03:25 GMT -8
What do you expect us to do to make this exciting? Die?
Do we get a prize for dying? :'I
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