Desmond Ford.

[eli]

Torchwood Files
~DESMOND liam FORD!!

we must pick up every piece of the life we used to love
just to keep ourselves at least enough to carry on

The File Jacket

Name: Desmond Liam Ford.
Nickname(s): Just Ford.
Age: Twenty-six.
Sexuality: Straight.
Profession: Torchwood’s new computer specialist.
Race: Human.
Canon?: Original -- though his hand (and the vortex manipulator attached to it) is very much cannon and was offered to River Song at The Maldovarium.

PRETTY FACES

Regeneration Cycle: (If your character is a Time Lord/Lady, then you MUST answer this question.)
Eyes: Blue.
Hair: Brown.
Height: 6'3.
Weight: 186lbs.
Any outstanding features?: He has no piercings, not a single one, but he does have a tattoo. Most consider it to be out of character, to mar the body he worked so hard to shape with something unnatural. It was out of character, completely. A drunken mistake, really. That drunken mistake left him with a zen circle on his right shoulder. Why a zen circle? Ford can’t quite remember.

And then there’s the arm. Back in the 52nd century, when it was first given to him, his bionic right arm was coated in a layer of realistic looking fake-skin. It functioned and looked just like a normal arm, most people never would have guessed. Nowadays, though, that fake-skin is tearing and the arm itself no longer works properly, it just hangs by his side, broken and useless, dead weight.

Appearance:

Starting from the top, Desmond Ford has a brilliant mop of hair that usually has that ‘just rolled out of bed’ quality to it, despite the fact that he normally spends at least a good few minutes perfecting it in the mornings. Although he would never admit it, Ford does tend to use a fair amount of product in his hair – how else could he keep it looking so perfectly tousled? The shade of his hair is a fairly plain one, just a regular dark-ish brown – nothing spectacular there. Although he’s young, Ford occasionally gets a stray white hair or two – not that anyone would know, as he tries his best to hide them.

Down to his eyes now, shadowed slightly by the overhang of his brow, they’re blue, a light but vibrant blue. The nose between those eyes is perfectly straight, not a single bump or crook. Ford’s lips are full and often chapped, encasing his pearly white teeth that took years of religious oral hygiene and quite a long stint in braces to maintain. When Ford smiles, it’s a crooked one – his lips tend to curl to one side when the impulse to smile hits. Ford isn’t the biggest fan of his smile, thinking it makes him look goofy, and can often be seen tilting his head down to hide said smile from the general populace. His face normally has at least a small amount of stubble on it – his facial hair seems to grow even just as soon as he has shaved it off. He gave up on having a clean-shaven face years ago and embraced the ruggedness his stubble gives him. Ladies love stubble, right? … right?

As for Ford’s body, well, it’s nearly perfect. His definition of perfect, anyway, which may or may not be the definition anyone else holds. He worked hard to get it, those abs, that thick muscular arm, that chiseled manly physique. It’s not natural, you know, that sort of figure doesn’t happen overnight. Ford works hard to keep his body in the condition it’s in. He eats right, exercises extremely often, and takes amazing care of himself. At 6’3’, Ford is mostly, if not all, muscle. And his posture? Impeccable. Mama nagging him to stand up straight paid off extremely well.

As far as attire goes, Ford wears pretty much whatever the occasional calls for. He’s comfortable in just about anything, from suits, to tuxes, to jumpsuits, to sweats and jeans. He doesn’t really have a style to call his own. Caught in an unknown time, trapped in a century unknown to him, Ford tends to copy the styles of those around him. Hanging around businessmen? Well, he’ll certainly look like a business man. Hanging out with hooligans? He’ll look just like a hooligan. If he were left to his own devices and forced to pick out an outfit to wear, it would most likely be some sort of t-shirt and jeans combo, the attire he finds most comfortable, but he generally only wears that when he hasn’t got any work based or romantic plans.

And then there’s that arm, that godforsaken arm of his. All torn flesh and exposed mechanics, it’s quite the eyesore. He tries to cover it up, often wearing long sleeves and a glove over that particular mechanical hand. Rather than allow it to hang limp at his side, he often sticks the hand of it into a pocket, whether it’s one on his pants or one on an over shirt. Either way, Ford tries his hardest to cover up that arm and the shame he feels for it.

Hello THeRE

Likes:

• Solid ground beneath his feet. Nothing beats it.
  
• Running. It probably goes hand in hand with having solid ground beneath his feet but, to Ford, nothing beats a long morning run. If he misses it, he can get quite cranky. Never able to run much as a child, Ford seems to be making up for it quite well.
  
• Gardening. There wasn’t much gardening in space, just those poor little plants struggling to survive in such a constricting atmosphere. As soon as Ford hit real land, he developed a love of gardening, a love of digging his hands into the dirt and helping a little plant thrive.
  
• His wife and son. Olive and Tyler are the two most important things in the world to him, the best, brightest parts of his life. Being so far from them has put a rather large hole in his heart, and the thought of not being able to see his son grow up is a pain worse than any he has felt before.
  
• Painting. It was one of Ford’s few outlets growing up on Salvation. Whenever they docked, his mother would buy him more supplies. He spent all of his free time painting, building up an entire world within his images… a world on the ground.

Dislikes:

• Guns. You’d think a veteran of both the military and the Time Agency would like the feel of a nice gun in their hands but not Ford. To Ford, there’s almost nothing worse. If you’re going to harm or kill someone you should at least have the decency to do it with your own hands. Guns and anything that remove you from the act of killing only make it that much easier, Ford thinks, and killing should never be easy.
  
• Being far from his family. Ford was quite the family man before his lapse into severe depression with a side of paranoia. His wife and son mean the world to him, he loves nothing more than the two of them and would give anything to be back with them. Now, being apart from them – it’s hard. To say that he dislikes it may be a grand understatement.
  
• Birds. It’s a mutual dislike; Ford has never met a bird that didn’t immediately want to peck his eyes out. They move creepily, he claims, and they’re always out to get him. He tries to avoid them. The mutual distaste probably has something to do with Ford’s aversion to flying – maybe the birds can sense it.
  
• Silence. Absolute silence, the kind you only get when you’re alone and nothings on, no lights, no electronics at all. That complete silence that just sits in the air, lingers all around—the kind of silence where even when you speak it’s still there, your words don’t even combat it. There’s something in that silence, Ford says. Something not good.
  
• Weakness. It isn’t that he dislikes ‘weakness’ itself, but rather that he dislikes showing weakness. Having weaknesses, being weak, it drives him insane. Everyone has an Achilles’ heel, including him, but that doesn’t mean he has to be fond of it. Ford would do just about anything to hide his weaknesses and appear strong in any situation.

Fears:

• Ford fears death, like most people. Despite all his recklessness, all the dangerous situations he puts himself into, Ford really does not want to die. Not yet, anyway, and certainly not here.
  
• Betrayal is at the top of his fear list. Though Ford can't remember it, he has been betrayed quite a few times in the past, by friends, colleges, and the Agency he trusted with his life.
  
• This one is kind of a given: never finding a way home. He wishes to return so wholly, on every falling star and birthday candle. It's a fear he lives with every single day. Every night, as he drifts off to sleep, he tries to remember home, the faces of those he loved, their smiles and eyes and gestures and quirks. But, with each passing day, they seem to fade a bit more and with that goes his hope.
  
• Not being welcomed home. After all, those people at home, the friends and family and colleagues he trusted so wholly, they were the ones who put him here. He can’t remember the reason and often worries that maybe it is a punishment that fits the crime. Maybe they don't want him back.
  
• Oh, and spiders. Ick. All those legs and eyes... gross.

Weaknesses:

• Ford may seem to be a pretty level-headed guy, but occasionally, well, that level-headedness disappears. He has been betrayed before, trusting cost him his arm. He’s prone to bouts of paranoia and depression – maybe not depression so much as a case of the mopes. In this state of mind, Ford isn’t afraid to pull even those he loves most down into the muck with him.
  
• While Ford’s confidence can often be credited as a strength, it has just as much of a chance at being a weakness. Ford’s confidence is displaced, leaving him rushing into a situation that he can’t quite handle. Despite his often uncanny ability to get himself out of these situations, there are occasions where he finds himself in over his head – sometimes in way, way over his head.
  
• Ford’s perception of situations is quite easily clouded. Though caring is often seen as a good, normal thing, Ford’s downfall seems to be allowing his love for certain things cloud his judgment. When someone he loves is in peril, his thoughts essentially leave him and all he can think of his rescuing his loved ones which, since he’s not quite in his right mind, rarely works out well.
  
• Although Ford was trained by both the military and the Time Agency to be an impressive fighter – trained in hand-to-hand combat as well as with various weapons – that training has since been wiped from his mind, leaving him with little battle experience. Attempting to re-learn such skills is slow-going at best and, at this point, when around weaponry, Ford is more of a danger to himself than anyone else.
  
• Another of Ford's weaknesses is his now-defunct bionic arm. Were it operational it would surely be a strength but, in the pathetic, useless state it's in now it only seems to be a hindrance. His bionic arm is his right one and, unfortunately, Ford is right handed. His left hand seems to be catching up, but it's much weaker and slower than his right one had been.

Strengths:

• Ford possesses an intense confidence in his own abilities. This, on its own, wouldn’t quite be classified as strength—the strength here is his ability to work himself out of whatever his confidence has gotten him into. Ford is an expert at thinking on his feet.
  
• Ford has been graced with an amazing gut, the ability to have an instinct and the stupidity to follow said instinct without an ounce of proof or forethought. Most people would construe that as a weakness but, well, Ford’s gut is very rarely wrong.
  
• Ford’s bodacious bod isn’t just god’s gift to ladies everywhere. Not at all, in fact. Ford is basically built to fight and fight it does. He’s not a master of martial arts or anything like that but he knows how to throw a hell of a punch.
  
• Ford is a master tinkerer. Having spent much of his life following his mechanic father all around their ship, Ford couldn’t help but absorb all that mechanical know-how like a little sponge. Though he never wanted to be a mechanic, electronics always interested him and he was always curious as to how things worked the kind of boy who would take things apart just to see how they tick and then put them back together again. Tinkering seemed to come naturally to Ford. He graduated from ship-tech and dove straight into the world of computers and electronics as soon as he was able, finding himself adept there, too.

Any secrets?: Ford isn't the secret keeping type of guy.

PERSONALITY:
Ford is very contradictory, like most people. Sometimes it’s as though he’s two different people, the public persona and the personal persona: the mask he wears and the person beneath it. The mask is well constructed, obscuring the truths beneath until they’re twisted little shells, half-truths and wicked little lies he tells himself to get through the day.

On the outside, Ford appears to be all smiles and sunshine, the kind of person that sees the cup as half full and, more than that, half full of rainbows and sunshine: an optimist, to whom the silver lining is always revealed, even in the darkest of situations. he turned into someone he felt he had to become, for his loved ones and for himself, he had to be that happy rock, that port in the storm, that steady, sturdy, smiling shoulder to cry on. Deep down, though, Ford panics fairly often. When situations are dour he often makes a flying leap to the worst possible conclusion. He keeps it to himself, runs his mind in circles around it, but speaks only the opposite, only the positive. He says “I’m sure they’re okay” while thinking “they’re probably dead in a ditch somewhere, we’ll never find them.” Very occasionally Ford’s inner negative-nelly will rear his worried little face – that’s when you know shit’s bad.

Ford seems to be a textbook extrovert, displaying all the classic symptoms: vociferous, gregarious, suave, flirtatious, outgoing, audacious, friendly, seeking approval at every twist and turn. He carries himself in a proud, easygoing manner, with a perfect posture and a pearly white smile on his face. No one has ever accused him of having low self-esteem and it’s likely that no one ever well, the persona Ford puts forth is far too smug and cocky for self-deprecation and doubt. The inside, however, does little to match the mask’s confidence. In fact, deep down, Ford is incredibly insecure. It’s not so hard to see if you’re looking for it, his extroversion is almost unnatural, his cockiness always takes on a somewhat joking air to it, it’s nothing more than a finely crafted facade. Ford always pretended to be the person he wanted to be, that popular social butterfly, the easygoing, easy to get along with, attractive alpha male. Eventually, pretending became all he was capable of – it’s not quite who he is, but it’s the only way he knows how to be.

Evidence of his insecurity can be seen all over him: his perfectly done hair, his strict posture, his intense workout routine, his almost obsessive oral hygiene. Ford is so afraid of being perceived as ugly, inside and out, that everything he does is with a conscious thought to how people will take it.

Like the knights of yore, Ford has a strong moral code: chivalry, courage, and courtesy are high on his list of priorities. Growing up with two sisters left him with quite the prince charming complex. He’s the type that religiously holds open doors, he’d set his jacket over a puddle if it would help a fair maiden to cross. The downside, of course, is that he tends to act as though the people around him are glass – expensive glass vases set at the edge of a table, always toting that gentle, tentative, wobbling edge – like they’re fragile and in desperate need of his protection and help. He treats women as if they’re damsels in distress without even realizing it – causing him to get on the bad side of many a strong, independent woman. Sometimes he feels like he doesn’t know how not to play the hero.

Although his extroversion and smugness are a part of the mask, they’ve severely affected his judgment. Pretending to be so slick and confident in his own actions has actually caused him to develop an undue sense of confidence in them. although he generally knows the extent of his own strengths and is, honestly, hyper-aware of his own weaknesses, he still tends to overshoot things a bit, rushing into situations he can’t handle without so much as a second thought. It isn’t all bad, though; his best ability seems to be a side-effect of his confidence in his abilities, a strange ability to keep calm amidst the panic and emergencies, to keep a level head and to make logical choices. This trait has helped him out of many a tight spot, though it probably hasn’t gotten him out of as many situations as it has gotten him into.

Though Ford prides himself as being a gentleman, a caring, careful, cheerful person, he has a hidden darker side – a violent side. Taking on the role of heroic protector has always been a bit of a problem for Ford, whose natural instinct in most situations seems to be a sudden, quick jump to violence. He tries to curb the instinct, forces himself to keep his cool, but occasionally his senses slip away and his fist slips into someone’s face- hard. When Ford was eight, Tommy Carmichael pushed his sister down. Tommy’s nose was never the same when Ford was through with him. Despite seeming to be a softy overall, Ford is dangerously protective. Now an adult, no longer the tiny tot who beat up Tommy Carmichael, Ford still has trouble keeping his violent nature in check. Confident that his sisters can fight their own battles now, Ford has shifted his protective ways to his young son. Mess with little Ty and prepare for a royal butt-whooping.

At his core, Ford is a caring person who holds the opinions and lives of others in high regard, he’s the kind of guy who’ll always be there for you in a pinch, when you’re in the thick of it. He’s not afraid to get knee deep in gunk, emotional or otherwise, and he’s completely willing to help fist fight demons away —again, emotional or otherwise. he’s easy to take advantage of in that sense, his hero complex causes him to swoop in to save someone no matter the circumstances, he rarely suspects, despite all evidence, that someone would willing do him harm or harm others. Even after all he has seen of the world, he still holds the childhood ideal that good conquers evil, always, and that everyone has good in them.

BACKGROUND:
all family still alive -- just in the 52nd century.

MOTHER: Beatrice Katherine Ford (née Frank)

• sixty years old, doting wife, caring mother and grandmother -- otherwise unemployed.

FATHER: William Adair Ford, Jr.

• sixty years old, ship mechanic.

OTHER FAMILY:
SISTER: Jessica Beatrice Chase (née Ford)

• thirty years old, history teacher.

SISTER: Victoria Marie Ford.

• thirty years old, neurosurgeon.

WIFE: Olivia Anne Ford (née Burke)

• twenty-six years old.

SON: Tyler William Ford.

• five years old.

HISTORY:
From the moment he was born, Ford felt trapped. One could argue that it’s hard not to feel trapped when you’re more or less doomed to spend the rest of your life in a tin can floating through space. Ford wasn’t cut out for life aboard a vessel like that, but he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Ford’s fate aboard a ship inappropriately dubbed “Salvation” was decided long before he was even born.

When William Ford was just a boy, his father signed up to be a mechanic on Salvation, as a way to get away from the failing Earth, a way to get away from “them”, the nonhumans, the subhumans. And just like that, William started his new life aboard Salvation. That’s where he met Beatrice Frank, whose mother was the ship’s doctor. Though they were young, the two of them fell in love. At the tender age of twenty, they married. Their want for children was immediate but, unfortunately, the conception was not. They were thirty when Beatrice became pregnant for the first time. It was twins, two girls, Jessica and Victoria. Then, four years later, William finally had the son he had always wanted, little Desmond, who hated his name right from the start and insisted on being referred to as Ford.

Ford also hated the ship from the start. It was the only life he knew, but somehow he recognized that it wasn’t the only way to live. The metal beneath his feet, at his sides, above his head – the way it was always so cold wherever he touched. His father was determined to have Ford follow him in the family business, to become the mechanic on Salvation. Ford knew that would never be his life. Still, he humored his father out of love and respect, shadowing him as he did his work, helping out occasionally, picking up all the tricks of the trade.

Jessie and Vickie had a large part in raising Ford, as their parents spent most of their time tending to their respective jobs. They taught him many, many things that they had been taught, like cooking and painting. On Thursdays Ford was tutored in the things his sisters could not teach him: math, science, language – the usual suspects. He wasn't an exceptionally bright boy, said his teachers, but he was polite and always tried his best.

Although Ford loved and valued his family, he hated Salvation. As soon as he was able to he enlisted in the military – just to get his feet on real ground for once. Though his parents protested greatly, Ford departed Salvation at the tender age of eighteen. He worked hard as a soldier and rose through the ranks fast, a quick learner and a natural follower with the capacity to lead.

While he was still eighteen, now in the military, Ford met a girl. Well, not ‘a’ girl. The girl. It was the classic story, love at first sight. She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman, so perfect, so imperfect, everything he needed and hoped for and loved all wrapped up in one gorgeous package. Her name was Olivia but he called her Olive, and she, in turn, was the only one allowed to call him Desmond or any variation thereof. Their love was intense and fast and passionate and everything good love should be. He was beyond head over heels and—the best part—she felt exactly the same. They married after less than a year of dating, ignoring the advice of almost everyone around them. Unlike what was predicted, their marriage was strong, stronger than most. Their life together was magic.

Only one year into their marriage, Ford was approached by the Time Agency. They offered him a job, which immensely surprised him. He was a good soldier, of course, but good enough to be propositioned by the Time Agency? Still, Olivia was pregnant and the Time Agency offered much more money, as well as a much cooler job, so Ford accepted the position immediately. His parents, who had given him nothing but grief since his departure, now praised him. He loved everything about it.

At just twenty-one, Ford’s life seemed as though it couldn’t get any better. He had a wonderful job, which he greatly enjoyed, the perfect wife and, what’s more, the perfect little son. Ford bonded to his baby instantly, the moment he saw the boy he knew he would never love another being more than he loved his son. He was named Tyler, after Olive's father, and dubbed 'Ty'. His first word was ‘Daa,’ an honor that Ford never stopped bragging about. He was one of those dads, the ones with a million pictures in their wallet and a million stories to go with them. Life was just about as good as it could get.

Until he was twenty-three.

Still a young agent and relative newbie, Ford ended up in a situation way, way over his head. In the end, he barely escaped with his life which should have been some solace, but all he could think about was his arm. They had taken it – presumably for the vortex manipulator that had been attached to it. Not that he cared why, all he cared about was the nub that now lingered where his arm used to be.

Initially, Ford believed that the Agency would give him the boot, send him packing and never look to him again. He had failed them; he had allowed his vortex manipulator to be taken into the wrong hands. He was an embarrassment, at best. Still, they seemed to accept him regardless, even attaching a new bionic arm to his nub, a bionic arm with a vortex manipulator built right in.

Still, Ford wallowed in his despair, sinking deeper and deeper into a consuming depression. Olive tried to snap him out of it. Worried for his fate, she urged him to leave the Time Agency, told him they could run away together, just them and Ty and start a new life, a happy, perfect life somewhere else. But Ford was consumed by his depression, not even the love he felt for his son could snap him out of it. He tried, of course, for the sake of his little boy, but holding him and playing with him just weren’t the same with only one arm.

That deep depression eventually led to paranoia, as Ford suddenly began blaming the Time Agency for his loss of limb, for his condition. All of the things that had made him a good Time Agent also made him an amazing adversary. He stopped spending time with his family altogether and began spying on the Agency, trying to figure out why they would set him up, why they would do this to him. He couldn’t find any reason, of course, because there was none. The Agency hadn’t set him up at all; they had nothing to do with it. But, while Ford was digging, he found out other things – terrible things.

When Ford threatened to come forward with the knowledge he had attained, the Agency took action. They wiped his time at the Agency from his memory, disabled his arm and the vortex manipulator within it, and sent him back to the 21st century.

Now trapped in the 21st century with no memory of how he got there, just memories that allowed him to know he didn’t belong there, Ford began looking for answers. At first it seemed futile, a lost cause, no one seemed to have any answers. Ford was regarded as crazy, people would ignore him, steer their children away from him and direct them not to look in his general direction. No one wanted to listen to what the raving lunatic had to say about being from the 52nd century and having a bionic arm and a loss of memory -- presumably just as the Agency had planned.

Eventually, though, the ex-Time Agent began asking the right questions to the right people. He found out about the rift, a possible cause for his appearance in the century he seemed to be stuck in. Upon further investigation, he heard a lot about this thing called ‘Torchwood.’ Most didn’t know much about it, the standard reply was a shrug and the words ‘they do weird things.’ One man told him that whenever something strange happened in Cardiff, it was Torchwood. Although the man who told him was wearing a sandwich board sign that read “the end is nigh,” Ford listened to him. He began seeking out ‘weird’ things just to catch a glimpse of Torchwood. It took quite some time, but eventually Ford felt he knew everything about Torchwood that he could know without asking.

Finally, after gaining all the knowledge he could, Ford decided it was time to approach Torchwood's leader, Jack Harkness. The man seemed vaguely familiar, though he couldn't place where he could have possibly known him from. Ford's original intent in the conversation was to ask about finding a way home. He figured, if anyone knew of a way to get to the 52nd century, it would be Torchwood's esteemed leader.

Although Jack offered no plan on how Ford could return home, he did offer the ex-Time Agent a job at Torchwood. Ford hesitated for a moment, the thought of gaining a job in the 21st century -- doing anything comfortable or normal there -- only seemed to make his goal of getting home seem much farther away. Still, if there was a way home to be found, he was certain it would be found within Torchwood, and graciously accepted the offer.

ACTOR/ACTRESS USED: andrew cooper.

TARDIS
(If you are not a Time Lord or Lady, then ignore this section. If you are, then you MUST fill this part out.)

• Name: Name of your TARDIS
  
• Description: A small paragraph please. Remember, a paragraph consists of at least four sentences.
  

POST RP EXAMPLE:
from a different Torchwood RP, where I played a cowardly wannabe-hero. And yeah, no capital letters but, I assure you, I'm capable of them.

tonight felt just like any other night, bland, boring, usual. simon sat in his normal seat, the one by the wall, so he could lean against it, next to the window, so he could people-watch. he wasn’t tired as much as he was completely exhausted, as if his lifeforce and vitality had been forcefully drained from him, as if his bones had been replaced by jell-o. he wrapped his fingers around the lukewarm cup of coffee, dwelling in its dingy little once-white mug. he breathed in the scent of it, the steam, with his eyes closed.

those same eyes opened quite abruptly when, from outside in a dark, dank alleyway (is there any other kind?), a scream erupted. without a thought for his coffee, which cost quite a large sum of money and was made perfectly to his specifications, simon jolted into action. he swung his jacket around his shoulders in one of those nonchalant, effortless, badass hero moments and ran-- right into the front door of the coffee shop.

after a short moment to gather himself after such an embarrassment, simon was off, racing towards the alleyway, towards the scream, towards the unknown and the adventure that he had somehow become addicted to.

turning down the alleyway, simon’s shoulder clipped the edge of the wall and, suddenly, his balance was completely off. he stumbled forward, not the dashing hero he had hoped to be. but his screaming damsel in distress… well, she wasn’t quite up to the standard, either. she was green. not ‘i’m going to puke’ green but rather ‘i’m from another planet’ green. with simon’s remedial knowledge of aliens, he, like most of the world would, assumed they were evil. still, she wasn’t the only otherworldly creature in the alley. the weevil who had previously been terrorizing simon’s green damsel had turned it’s leering gaze on him.

“well, shit.” simon muttered, shoving his sleeves up to his elbows and putting on a brave face. “you’ve got quite a case of the uglies, don’cha.” he teased. the damsel ran off before simon could even get another look at her, so much for that hero’s praise he had so been hoping for. never been praised by a green chick before.

the weevil growled and hissed, gnashing it’s intimidating teeth and attempting to be threatening in general—and boy was it working. “you know… come to think of it, i’ve just left the most delicious coffee back at the café and—you don’t even care. you just want to eat me.” he sighed, inching back as slowly as he could. “i wouldn’t taste very good, you know. not good at all

[/b].”

and then, in true heroic fashion, simon ran. like a girl.
[/QUOTE][/BLOCKQUOTE]

* THE face BEHIND the MASK!

Alias: eli
Age: twenty-one.
Gender: i don't have a gender, i'm a dalek.
RP Experience: about nine years.
Where did you find us?: skimming through various sites when i saw the ad -- don't quite remember what site i saw it on.

Rules: read 'em twice.

[Elita]

ACCEPTED!!!

Don't forget to post you PB in the face claim!