Quinn Cory
- → "There, on the soft sand, a few feet away from our elders, we would sprawl all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of every blessed quirk in space and time to touch each other: her hand, half-hidden in the sand, would creep toward me, its slender fingers sleepwalking nearer and nearer; then, her knee would start on a long cautious journey; sometimes a chance rampart built by younger children granted us sufficient concealment to graze each other's salty lips; these incomplete contacts drove our healthy and inexperienced young bodies to such a state of exasperation that not even the cold blue water, under which we still clawed at each other, could bring relief."
● Called:
- Teddy - Jeanne
- Tall-As-Fuck - Most Everyone
- Quinn " The Kid " Cory - Boxing Alias
● Age: 29
● Race: Efferii; Bear
● Gender: Male
● Birthday: January 10, 333
● Birth Place: Caelin
● Orientation: Straight
Physicality & Wellness
- → "Even the Mona Lisa's falling apart."
● Eye Color: Gold
● Hair Color: Tawny Brown
● Height: 6'5"
● Weight: 200lb
● Body Type: Mesomorph
● Physical Condition: Peak
● Distinguishing Features: Cauliflowered ears, the left noticeably so
● Physical Imperfections: Calcified knuckles, swollen from multiple dislocations; Prominent bump on the bridge of his nose from a break; A scar on his upper left forehead, just below the hairline; Several bumps on his ribcage from torn cartilage injuries; A distinct divot on his right free-floating bottom rib at the side, just below the latissimus
● Illnesses & Afflictions: Anemia
- Reference Picture:
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Transformation- "I think it was the bear, growling inside him, making him do bad things."
| [You must be registered and logged in to see this image.] | Species Ursus Arctos Coloring Tawny Brown Weight 700 lbs, roughly Height 10.6 ft Quinn is somewhat estranged from his animal essence. Though the change comes easily enough, it is not a thing he engages in regularly - only making the change at the insistence of a particular pint-sized fan. However, even when in animal form Quinn retains his human sentience and mannerisms as well as his playful disposition as a gentle-giant. While the Efferii population of Caelin rally behind his success like some sort of symbol, Quinn views himself as a human rather than the self-segregating call-of-the-wild type half-animals most of his kind portray themselves as. |
Psychoanalysis
- → "I just work harder than everyone else. While they're asleep, or eating, or kissing their mothers, I'm beating them on the road, in the gym, in the ring."
In His Own Words
Excerpt from Nightly News interview with local boxer QUINN CORY
Excerpt from Nightly News interview with local boxer QUINN CORY
Why do I fight? (exhaling loudly, then pausing) I can tell you why I don't. I mean, it isn't the money, that's for sure. Getting beat up for a cash payment isn't really an attractive proposition, no matter how you pitch it.
And, (thinking for a moment) it isn't for the fame. Oh, or the girls. Though I like the girls, they can be really... uuuh... nice. (laughs) Really really nice. But... I think the most addictive thing about fighting is how hard it is. It's hard to explain, really. If you've never tried to punch a guy before, which, believe me I know, most people haven't... but if you've never tried before, you'd be surprised how hard it is. I mean really to punch someone and hurt them, to do it on purpose and not just get lucky or some shit. It's like... imagine sitting down to a chess board across from another person. And then trying to check mate them in 10 moves without knowing the rules of Chess. Even if the other person doesn't know them either, can you imagine how you'd begin to solve that problem?
That's what it felt like when I boxed for the first time. Except the guy across the board was, I think (puts hands in face), some WCC middleweight former champ. He was nice to me and I still got my nose busted wide open. (looks out the window) There's two kinds of responses to an event like that... two kinds of reactions you get: someone might walk away and think "Man, I got hurt. I got bruised. I'm never going to do that again." But then there's the other kind... the one I had. Where deep inside you feel like... you're really alive for the first time. (moving closer to the microphone)
You don't know anything about yourself till you've been hit. You don't know who you are, even if you think you do. That's why I fight. To see who I am. To see what I am.
● Dirty Secrets:
- Lolita Complex:
- The Cory's did their best to get out of the apartment in the summer. With 8 kids all on the 2nd floor of a duplex, and a few trillion tons of city stonework in the neighborhood to trap heat, their small home often felt like an oven during the warm season. So when July rolled around, Quinn's parents would use their vacation time, pack the kids up and much of their basic possessions, and head out to a rented 3 story Victorian on the water front.
Quinn didn't mind, really, because every now and again you need a break from city living. The view was never lacking, and with plenty of open space, the budding athlete did his best to keep to himself. He spent hours a week running up and down the trails, along the waterline, and through the tall grass that surrounded the shore embankments. When at the little house - a building bigger than their apartment, but not by much - he'd sit outside, trying his best to steer clear of any bustling siblings making havoc, getting into arguments, or just prodding at him for some inane task. It's the nature of someone who fights, to seek stillness in their free time. Counter-intuitively, the act of pugilism is a calming one. There is no anger left to be spent on trivia when your working hours are invested in beating someone about the head, and getting beaten in return. Lions with full bellies only walk, never run. They don't have to. They've done their hunting for the day. So it was for Quinn. He was full on commotion, and in a busy family, devoted his home life to a seemingly endless quest for quiet.
It was during an attempt at finding peace that Quinn met little Abigail. He was 17 that summer, sprinting down the home leg of his growth spurt. Tall and filled out, with muscles that suggested a different kind of physicality - one achieved for a purpose other than having it - he was a natural magnet for the girl.
She was only six at the time, living in a significantly nicer house 1/4 of a mile down the shoreline. This space was freeing for her, as an only child, allowing space from her doting parents. Abigail's mother and father felt that if they were to leave their child unattended, this would be the only suitable place. The surrounding houses were full of neighborly kind people, there were other children wandering everywhere, and more importantly, there was no city bustle to sweep up their babygirl. Of course, little Abby would have objected to this portrayal vehemently. After all, she was SIX, a full year older than Emma Pavlic, who's parents let her walk all the way to the market from school to get ice cream on the way home! No, the fact that Abby was confined while Emma got to go about town just wouldn't do. She'd argue that point simply, by demonstrating a full and furnished independence when on the shore.
So often Abigail would wander very far from the house, seeking out this elusive freedom she needed so badly. And Quinn would go far from his little shanty, seeking the quiet he longed for, and a chance to stare at the reflections on the water. When she saw him for the first time, he was leaned against a rock near a plateau that dropped off into the beach. He propped himself against this miniature cliff that transitioned from grass to shore, digging his fingers into the sand, finding shells to flick out into the brackish white caps. He was shirtless, and she responded to this first. She didn't know it of course, as no actual six year old would. What could Abby understand about this descending striated muscle line, or why she wanted to touch it, bite it, and do... something with it. She had no idea what to do with any of it, really, but she LIKED it. It made her tummy tingle and her legs pedal through the sand faster so she could explore this interesting boy. After all, he wasn't hanging out with anyone either. Maybe they could be friends, she thought, adjusting her flimsy shirt and low-cropped shorts as she approached.
Quinn turned to see a pretty little brunette striding toward him like he'd just stolen her lolly. The look of determination on her face took him by surprise, but also instantly endeared him to the kid. It was the same kind of love-at-first-sight one feels when they watch a puppy defiantly battle with its own tail. She was dark haired, fair skinned, and small for her age. Standing just over three feet tall, she'd often get mistaken at school for being one of the kindergarteners, even though she was in first grade. Her eyes were dark, almost moss green, and shined from behind thick long eyelashes like embers through a thick brush. Her legs were thin, but had lines to them that suggested her body was more muscle than fat. She looked dense, and at that age, she had remarkably little babyfat on her. Because of the power her tiny body generated, and because of her ponytail bounce behind her, she gave off the appearance of a preteen one-girl army, marching in an advance, settled on making this person her new friend. The boy opened his mouth to say hello, but before he could, Abigail spoke.
"Hi. What's your name?" She was looking over his torso unashamedly. Quinn noticed and blushed a bit. It was the first time he'd ever been objectified by anyone. It made him nervous.
"Uuuh, Quinn. Hi. I'm Quinn. Are... you by yourself?" He asked, screwing his face up in a mask of confusion. Where had this little girl come from? Abigail whipped around, her ponytail flinging against her cheeks as she scoped the area, before turning back, a bit confused. At first she couldn't understand why he'd ask if she was alone, but then, in a remarkably adult gesture, she slapped her forehead and laughed, closing her eyes in an expression that read "DUH!"
"Oh, sorry, yeah no. I live down the beach. I'm Abigail." She said, thrusting her hand out at his chest for a shake. She used her full name rather than the abridged version her father or mother employed. She felt that, if any older person was going to be talking to her, they'd not appreciate baby names like "Abby" or "Poodin'" or "Cuddwy Face!" This las one usually got followed by a pinch on the cheek from Aunt Marissa. Abigail LOATHED Aunt Marissa.
Shaking her hand, Quinn smiled a genial, honestly-charmed kind of smile, and looked the pretty girl right in the eye. "Nice to meet you Abigail. I'm throwing shells. Wanna sit with me and help?" The gesture was intended to be polite, but the side effect was a melty waterfall of little-girl-love that began at Abby's head and spilled down her spine, cascading over her bottom before splashing back up, spraying her center with a hot mist of warmth. She nodded dumbly and plopped down, too smitten to admire the successful mission.
The two would spend the next several summers like they did that day, tossing beach debree back into the water that layed it ashore. In their odd pairing, they both found a chance to be something neither really knew they desired.
For Abigail, a little six year old who strove to be free, what she really wanted was adventure with a companion. What is independence anyway, or a chance to run free through a forest, if you don't have someone to share it with? In Quinn she found a kindred spirit, despite their age difference. He was large and safe, a kind person who could protect her should she need protecting. But he wasn't a third parent. He didn't talk down to her, treat her as though she didn't know better, or pinch any part of her. Sometimes she wished he would, but even that was an instinct boiling deep in the untouched parts of her child-brain. What she knew was that her hand fit nicely in his for walks, and if she suddenly had the urge to be comfortably held, nothing more needed to happen than a skyward extension of her little hands, followed by a grabbing motion with her fingers. From the very first time she did it, Cory instinctively knew what the little girl wanted, happily giving it to her. He'd scoop her up without a second thought, seating her small legs over his shoulders, turning himself into a makeshift beast of burden for however many miles she desired. With him she had what every little girl wants. A protector and a companion, a parent that is an equal.
For Quinn, the part of him that was satisfied by the presence of little Abby was deeply subconscious. It would not present itself in any "eureka" revelations or moments of epiphany. Rather slowly, the little girl's company would erode the bars of the cell that kept the kid's nature otherwise captive. It was little things, like the way he enjoyed holding her. Not on an emotional level, though he did like her, but rather he relished in the tactile sensation of her little body in his hands. Much like Abigail felt about Quinn's muscles, Cory couldn't really fathom what to do with her petite body which he so loved handling. He just knew he wanted it, and her with it.
He liked having her around too, because she complimented him so simply. Rather than chatting at him for hours on end, disrupting his peace, she seemed to sense that he just wanted her and the silence of the waves. She'd speak now and again, but most of their communication was carried out in gestures and looks. Touches and smiles, or extensions of pretty little things found during their walks - gifts to one another that said, much better than any words, what they meant to each other.
This all culminated for Quinn during his third and last summer there. Abby was 9 now, and had taken to being with him nearly every day. Very rarely did they not spend any time together apart from the moments when they were in bed. On the last night of the season, the pair found themselves curled up against the same embankment. He was in just a bathing suit, having come in to dry off before the sun set, which it already had at this point. She was in a one-sie that held her developing body well. She'd filled out in certain areas, her hips and ass namely. The curves of her legs had always been there, but now they were more exaggerated. She was still a little girl though, as evidenced by her large head, her flat chest, her miniscule hands curled over his neck. Her ear was on his sternum, and through all the muscle, bone, and flesh, she could hear the relaxing rhythm of his heart. It chugged along slowly, large, strong, and good at carrying his body into late rounds. Quinn had his hands folded over the small of her back, fingers intertwined as his thumbs danced against the neoprine of her suit. He loved the way she felt, and had spent the last few hours with her turned around as his hands rubbed her tummy, her chest. She held onto his big arms as he did, offering the appearance of guidance, as though she was telling him where to touch. She hadn't been, though. She simply liked feeling him as he felt her. When it began to darken, she had turned around, leaving them in this position, his thumbs dancing against her one-sie. Quinn leaned down to kiss the top of her head, lightly pressing his lips where her hairline stopped and her forehead began. The way they looked, ignoring the body proportion, could only have been described as old lovers. Abby turned up to look at him, and, completely absent of thought, pressed her lips to his. Quinn kissed back, opening his mouth lightly but restraining his tongue. Instead, they just lightly breathed air between each other's mouths. Her head returned to his chest, and the boy, now a man, rested his face against her dark still-damp locks.
Quinn didn't return after that summer. He stayed in contact with Abigail through letters, but nothing was really said of that time or why he didn't return. What couldn't be written about or said in any manner that suited the pair was that Cory didn't trust himself to want more from the little girl. Kissing her had put a focusing lens on all the ambiguity, organized all the random sensations and tactile pleasures into context. Quinn had wanted to touch and fondle Abby, a girl he loved on some very base and fundamental level. He wanted to touch her and bring her pleasure not in spite of her age, but because of it. Because, along with being kind and sweet and smart as a whip, Abby was sexy to him in her dainty form. Her smallness appealed to a base need to manhandle, and her flatness of chest, her round little ass all tickled a portion of his instincts that caused him to thicken and harden fast. She was better stimulation than anything else, and Quinn, a believer in discipline, knew that there is only so long you can stand in front of a treat before you get hungry and try for a bite. Because he loved Abby, and because he feared what this meant about him as a person, he left the beach and didn't come back. From then on, Quinn Cory spent every summer in the gym, spending energy he'd have otherwise directed on Abby into workouts that never left him quite as satisfied as the night he came to know his own dirty little secret.
Personality
- Spoiler:
Traits:
- Optimistic, humble, focused, disciplined, intelligent, sarcastic, quiet, pensive, neat, clean, fastidious
Quirks:
- When anxious, Quinn fiddles, plays with his hands, chews his lip, bites his nails, paces, mumbles, an/or talks to himself
Personality:
- Overview:
- Solitude is the overarching quality that defines Quinn. As a child of a large family, you learn to depend only on yourself to get the things you want. For "The Kid", this preference for loneliness became a crutch, manifesting in an inability to count on others. It's this deeply-seeded lack of confidence in others that drives him towards boxing, where he feels comfortable carrying most of the burden for failure or success. Whether his solitary nature was prompted by his mostly-solo endeavors in life, or his solitude was born out of his preference for being a loaner is a big question mark. At this point, being on his own is a state - Quinn isn't sure where it ends and he begins.
- ● Self:Confident, but simultaneously sure that there is something that makes him unlovable.
● Others:Indifference, unless given reason to be otherwise.
● Romance:A deep streak of romance born from his youth colors Quinn's thoughts on women.
● Friendship:These are muddled in Quinn's life. His trainer is more of a father than a friend, his teammates are simultaneously enemies, and his opponents confidants and strangers all at once.
● Religion:Quinn hates any kind of dogma. When your job is to discern patterns and tells at penalty of getting clobbered, mindless ideology is your worst enemy.
● The World:It's big, but he likes his little corner.
Social Evaluation
- → "Your quote goes here."
● Political Alignment: Caelin
● Profession: Professional Boxer; Enlisted man
● Purchasing Habits:Thrifty, but tasteful...For a guy.
● Accomplishments: 2 amateur titles, 3 professional title fights. 0 professional titles.
● Level of Education: Republic-provided Academy education.
● Friends:[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
- Family:
- Mother - Olive [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Father - Neal [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Brother - Alex [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Brother - Fynn [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Brother - Rhyse [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Brother - Adrian [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Brother - Warren [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Brother - Simon [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Sister - Alice [You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]
Talents
☑ Juggling pretty much anything
☑ Singing, mostly in tune
☑ Being a smart ass
Skills
☑ Boxing
☑ Swimming
☑ Wrestling
☑ Card Tricks
Armaments & Inventory
- → "Your quote goes here."
Weapons
- Primary Weaponry› name or type :
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- Spoiler:
Weapon Name:
Weapon Type:
Weapon Description:
- Measurements:
- Material:
Imbued Properties:
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● Inventory
- Spoiler:
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.] ● Type: Individually wrapped hard candies
● Acquired: Quinn purchases these from the shoppe directly across the street from his family home. He always has at least a few on hand for his little princess with a sweet tooth.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.] ● Type: Wind-up pocket watch
● Acquired: Passed down from his father
● Effect: None; the watch is ordinary, and made of brass, with no purpose beyond immaculate time-telling.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.] ● Type: Casino-issued playing cards
● Acquired: One of the cast-off decks, those which are discarded after one nights use at the gambling and gaming hells.
● Prize Possessions
- Spoiler:
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.] ● Type:
● Acquired:
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● Acquired:
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Background Script
- → "He never pushed, only guided her gently, seducing her as he had been so seduced by her. Seduction is not rape. Loving is not hurting."
- Act I "Into The Fray":
monologue or quote goes here
- There isn't too much room for a large family in crowded cities, and when affluence is commonplace, there's often the means of prevention. Quinn's childhood was different in this way, living in a smallish 2000sq/ft apartment with his parents and eight other siblings. He's the product of a loving marriage, as the baby-count would indicate, and though he never got too much one-on-one with his mother or father, he never felt neglected, or that his youth was deprived of attention. But the consequence of a packed house full of kids all vying for space to grow their personalities is that it can be stifling.
This had Quinn wandering the streets of Caelin from a young age, looking for ways to entertain himself, looking for a bit of fertile soil to plant into, out of which he could flourish. To a great degree, this urge to wander is still seeded deep inside his brain, wriggling against his thoughts whenever they fall silent. It's a constant background noise that he has learned to tune out, a skill that came in handy when he landed somewhere worthwhile: the sweaty little gym Via Lactea, close to the city outskirts.
At 12 years old he wandered in, long and skinny, unsure as to why the commotion of heavy bags being thumped, speed bags rapping, and jump-ropes whipping against the hard wood floor attracted him. It was a lure that hooked itself deeply into the boy-part of his brain that existed between lion-cub-play-fighting and bored-youth-with-too-much-energy-to-spend. But that energy, the impressiveness of a working breathing living gym only gets one so far in combat sports. The beating about the head and body, the humiliation and helplessness Quinn experienced at the hands - more aptly fists - of the older seasoned boxers wasn't unusual, but was certainly enough to make anyone quit their delusions of grandeur. But Quinn's other defining personality trait was in full effect even back then: the inability to step away from a challenge.
- Act II "Sortie":
monologue or quote goes here- A 0-3 amateur career is usually a signal that the end is near. Not many fighters get to improve on a losing record, let alone a winless one. It was really a credit to Quinn's trainer, Oren, who kept pushing the gangly kid that seemed to get better and fill out each day. At 15, though, he was still most definitely a child, and his spindly 6'2" frame insured that he could only fight adults. The difference between men and boys is never more clear than in the ring, and Cory was a repeat victim of that unfortunate arithmetic.
Oren had a good eye for talent, though, and in Quinn he saw a hard chin, ample guts, and a sharp one-two-five, skills that seemed to only be held apart by the fact that teenagers don't really have full control of their bodies just yet. Fortunately, bout number four came two months after his sweet sixteen. Suddenly stumbles became dances, plodding became footwork, leaning became slipping, and angst became aggression. The change was immediate, coinciding with the maturation of his shape shifting. UNFORTUNATELY, his next opponent would be harder than the last, not easier.
The match was counter-intuitive. Why would an aging, seasoned, former-amateur-champion be fighting an 0-3 sixteen year old punk? It made sense to Oren, who knew the boxing game all too well. No one wanted to fight an 0-3 anybody Nothing to gain, everything to lose. There was no payoff, and if something happened, you'd just be the guy who lost to someone who's never won a single fight. No matter your record, that's a blemish that doesn't come off. Ironically, Raus "Razor" Rodinger had a similar problem. On the down-slope of his career, he was doubtless heading for retirement. But with 33 wins and 8 losses under his belt (the last four consecutive), he was neither an easy prospect nor a valued stepping stone. The gristled brawler found himself in the limbo of the fight game: too good to fight, but not important enough to make your name off of.
That's how it came to be that Quinn was staring across a blood-stained white canvas at the shorter wiser veteran. Oren in his ear thumping instructions like a drill sergeant, the crowd's impatient hissing as drunks stumbled over folding chairs, and the Ref shouting instructions at the judges, the cornermen. The boy actually thought for a minute that he might have this squat, wide, slugger's number - he'd been sparring for two months with men who fought exactly like Rodinger, and had more or less crushed them all. Stepping forward into a left hook to the body that doubled Cory over 1:12 through the first round, he realized that "Razor" was not, by any stretch, his sparring partner.
Grit isn't something that can be taught. It's earned, through hours of facing your own shortcomings head on, and moving past them rather than running away from them. It was grit earned this way that carried Quinn deep into round five, bloodier than his opponent, more bruised in the ribs, and certainly more tired. But it was a sharp, tall, rangy left hook-right uppercut that crumpled Raus to the ring floor like a jenga tower. The squirrely legs that wobbled as he stood, vaguely nodding a "yes" to the question "can you still fight?" is what ended the bout for the referee, and gave Quinn Cory his first positive digit in the win-column.
- Act III "Humility, Cornered":
monologue or quote goes here- Any kid with eight brothers is going to have a hard time figuring out women. And any kid with eight brothers and an overly-protective mother is going to be fed a lot of misinformation about what it is women want and need from a man. Quinn wasn't anywhere near a man by the time he met his first girlfriend, Alyssa, but the thing this relationship taught him is, whether man or boy, males fall into a narrow set of pitfalls when pursuing the attention of a girl. Six months after their first kiss and she'd already said the third worst thing any lovesick kid can hear, "I just don't think I should be in a relationship right now," followed by the second, "It's not you, it's me," followed by the first, "We can just be friends!" Youth has a way of dulling the edges of the three-blade masculinity-shaver Alyssa delivered - strictly out of feminine instinct, it's worth noting - to the boyish boxer. At the age of 16, while maturing physically, he was still emotionally awkward and not nearly cynical enough to discard the pile of shit she'd just fed him. In fact, the not-so-little idiot asked for seconds. "Well can we go to the prom together at least? As friends?" She said yes, and only on the night of the dance did Quinn find out what those hallmark phrases truly meant.
He found her tucked away in a room away from him that night, crushed against a boy she'd sworn not to love. But that was then, when they'd had a relationship, and this was now. It made no difference to a hormonal teenager. The other boy even had the nerve to glance at Quinn out of the corner of his eye, flashing him a wink before returning to the task at hand. It was the first night Quinn would know the feeling of true betrayal.
It was also the same night that he'd learn how teeth sound rattling against blackboard, flash-KO'ing the tattoo'ed teen before the misfit understood that it was knuckles, not neck, he was suddenly kissing. He went down in one shot; tattoos don't make you tough apparently. Standing over the heap of his inked-up schoolmate, Quinn wasn't entirely sure what happened, but the events of those five seconds would ripple on forever in two distinct ways: The first was that Alyssa would turn from the lustee to the luster. This assertion of dignity by the middle child of an oversized family came off to her as a territorial act, a demonstration of her worth as a possession. Whether it was or wasn't didn't concern her in the least. It made her hot to know she could get one guy to slug another, and cemented in her brain that Quinn Cory was a pretty badass kid, with equally powerful sweet and violent poles to his personality - a not untrue statement. The second was that this bout, though short, would give this tall kid with a mild attitude the confidence to develop into a force of the fight world, as well as his (unofficial) second career win.
- Act IV "The Good Fight":
monologue or quote goes here- 12 years after that first win, Quinn Cory had matured into a professional boxer with double-digit wins. He'd made a name on his toughness and tactical boxing, using his attributes to full effect, never playing to the strength or speed advantage of his opponents; they often had both. That kind of ring generalship, plus his willing to take punches in exchange for giving him caught the eye of the city's fight fans, earning him a loyal following. Crowds also took notice of Quinn's relatively unmarked, young face, dubbing him "The Kid" in most press or sports publications. But the truth was he had grown up a lot in the dozen years since Rodinger.
Quinn sprouted those last few inches late, just after his 18th birthday. His shoulders and chest filled out, though underneath his skeleton remained long and lank. A narrow waist was permanent tribute to this fact, as well as a set of fingers that seemed to reach on for infinity when pressed to a lower back or ass. The Kid also seemed to have a perpetual stubble, never overgrown but never shaved. He ran through razors like rabbits go through lettuce, and devoted a lot of effort to keeping himself relatively clean-cut. It wasn't out of pride or vanity, but more a feeling of obligation to the people who bought tickets that paid his bills. They gave him an image, and he felt a duty to uphold it... at least till he got beat up and turned ugly.
The last fight to grace the Caelin Arena was a 10 round slugfest between Steven "Sterner" Stillman and Cory that earned both the participants a hefty bonus. The contest was ruled a split decision draw, but left both men hospitalized. Quinn had a fractured rib, Stillman had a fractured jaw and dislocated pinky. Truth be told, it would have been better for The Kid if the injuries were swapped. Jaws will keep you out for a month or two, but they don't stop you from hitting the bag or running. Broken ribs are a nagging injury, one that doesn't quit, always hurts, and can't be wired or casted. They stop you from moving or exercising, and leave you staring into the dark of an empty gym, wishing you could wrap up and go a few rounds. For the next six to eight weeks, Cory would be on the DL. A new cash resource would be needed, at least temporarily, as well as something to keep him occupied during down time. The military offered a steady paycheck. Though the idea of taking on a job his injury would not allow him to do disagreed with him, the uniform kept him in the thoughts and admiration of the public. He would not be forgotten; his career waited for him when his body was right again.
Out Of Character Synopsis
- Intended Purpose:
- synopsis of what you want to achieve with your character/ what you want to roleplay/ your characters role in the world in OUT OF CHARACTER, simple terms goes here.
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● Characters: [url=person who participated's profile link]their character name[/url]
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