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biography & storylines. [Fri; Feb 01, 2008 @ 4:55pm]

Beneath the pale glow on 42nd street's subway platform, a plume of smoke was visible floating away from a lit cigarette. Its cherry red embers was like a signal lamp, the dead ash flicked and disposed on rusty cast iron tracks. He was just that type of guy. The one you expected to stand off to the side at a party, filling his lungs with smoke and exhaling to fill the space around him, turning others away from making contact.


A rakish update of the three-piece of the thirties, his figure carried the suit incredibly well. A modern, trim cut gave the pinstripe renewed swagger. He wasn't built too bulky or too slim. And nothing ever burdened those broad shoulders of his. His fists were idly stuffed into a pocket, his hands soft as a baby's bottom. There wasn't any reason to raise them. He hadn't been in a fight in his life. That's not to say he couldn't fight. There really was no need, not when a single thought was the perfect weapon.


Eventually the train arrived, its steel wheels grinding against the railing to stop. It was an effective system, even in the year 2045. Why change, now? People flooded out of the subway car, other waiting on the platform would file in without hesitation. He didn't hesitate either, he just wanted them to wait on him, wait until his sweet, delicious nicotine was subdued and suffered the same fate as its withered shaft.


Wait, isn't he the spawn of Landon Kennedy and Chloe Marzetti? Why'd he take the subway? Simple. It satisfied him greatly not to just hear their thoughts, but to manipulate their actions. A child was wrongfully assaulted by his mother for bad behavior, an officer rushed to tackle a slender businessman who was just minding his own business, and a homeless man urinated on a woman's poodle. All the while, Wes sat on the far end of the subway car, watching the story he had written unfold in real time, laughing at their artificially induced misfortune.


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