KING, viktor matthias

[viktor matthias king]

The full name's viktor matthias king, but most people call me viktor or principal king. In case you couldn't tell, I'm an aristocrat. I came into this world kicking and screaming on the eighth of february, and fifty-seven years later, I still haven't stopped. Back then, I lived in Birmingham. I'm an Englishman dealing with the stress of playing principal to the students of Lumini High School. I graduated from Oxford way back in nineteen seventy-nine.

eyes :: minimum three sentences describing your character's eyes
eye color :: blue
hair color :: brown
height :: six foot three
weight :: one-hundred sixty-five pounds
body type :: oldandbrittle athletic

likes :: goblets, walking sticks (he never goes anywhere without his), big words, insulting people in British (it's funny 'cause they don't understand it), instilling fear, monocles, expensive suits, marble and diamond, classic (i.e., black and white) horror films, verbally abusing teenagers, bow ties, kicking wiener dogs
dislikes :: tea (not all Brits like it -- that's a common misconception), weekends, bright colors, smiles, American profanity (back in England, even swear words are classier), chavs, faffing about (he prefers busywork), numpties
habits :: "tut"ing at people under his breath, patting his pockets in search of objects he thought were inside them (but he really stowed elsewhere), gazes right directly at you when engaged in conversation (like, to the point where it becomes creepy)
flaws :: coercive, apathetic, insensitive, merciless, obdurate
positive attributes :: cunning, organized, virtuous, sophisticated, um... sociable?
secret(s) :: He has a soft spot for baby piranhas. Show him a picture, and he'll squeal like a little girl.
pet peeve(s) :: chewing gum (is very gross, chewing gum, he hates the most), televised grammatical failures, "gangstas" with their pants down at their knees (he dies a little inside every time he sees this), piercings in anything other than the ear, when people ask him if he's British (no duh), when people (mostly female in gender) wear clothing unfitted to their body type (e.g., obese women in skinny jeans)
personality :: Viktor has a whimsically sinister aura about him. He's the sort of person you might see strolling down the street with a skip in his step, humming under his breath, swinging his pimp cane walking stick. While he's doing so, acting all chill, he might kick a wiener dog in passing. Or knock a child's ice cream cone clean out of his/her hand and laugh giddily as the child tears up and runs crying to the mother figure.

When he isn't reveling in the misery of others, he prefers to play up the class. He always sticks his pinkie in the air when he drinks, he enunciates his consonants, and he makes sure to color his sentences with British slang for the sole purpose of sounding sophisticated. Also, he carries a walking stick and can often be caught with a monocle suspended from the lapel of his jacket, although he has no need for either of these items.

Viktor isn't particularly afeared of anything because, in short, he's too far gone to care. Simply put, he's a sociopath who enjoys contradicting his own behavior by dictating the behavior of others. If making the lives of teenage miscreants wasn't so fun, he'd spring for murdering babies. Fortunately, his current position satisfies him.

mother :: Penelope King, 84, crazy paraplegic lady of the Park Plaza Retirement Center
father :: Charles King, 84, retired professor of English literature
brother(s) :: none
sister(s) :: Grace Elizabeth King, 60, professor of English literature at Princeton University
step-relations: :: none
children :: never
other relatives :: none that he's in contact with
pets :: a Scottish fold kitten named Lynx

background check :: No one, not even the most profilic, reknowned pychiatrist of the world, has the slightest clue what drove Viktor to madness. As a child, he had access to everything he ever wanted. His parents were rich, successful people. Actually, scratch that. His father was a rich, successful person. Penelope was just a beautiful housewife riding on Charles' coat tails. Charles and Penelope were, however, very much in love, and as parents, they were very loving. Whenever they weren't out having a spot of tea with their chums, they were doting upon their children. Penelope would always read Viktor whatever bedtime story he wanted to hear. She would always help him dress sharply, she bandaged all of his wounds, she smothered him with hugs and kisses, and she attended every one of Viktor's private school's functions that Viktor took part in. He had a flair for the dramatics, and he enjoyed reading for villains in Shakespearian plays (you know -- the guys that raped young women and chopped people's heads off). Viktor's older sister Grace was always civil with him. Charles constantly let Viktor know that he was welcome to come to him with any questions he had about business, his future, or what have you. Viktor was a very self-sufficient person, however, and never took his father up on that offer. His peers enoyed his company, as well. The ladies found him rather fetching, and the lads found him a valuable asset to their football teams (remember, he grew up in England, so that means soccer). He was also top in all of his classes throughout private school, and even into college.

Very early on, Viktor developed a love for manipulating others. The problem was in England, everyone was pleased to give in to his demands because he seemed like such a well-groomed individual. So Viktor set his sights on the United States, where everyone was ill-mannered with arrogant temperaments. He started over there as an English teacher, following in his father's footsteps. The school board was so impressed with the way he handled his class that they decided to promote him to vice principal. Then the principal was busted in a drug scandal and fired. Viktor was chosen as his replacement. That's where he stayed until he heard of a school in Chicago that was having problems. There was a bomb threat at a winter dance, they lost a fair amount of students to a mass murderer during a summer camping trip, and their principal was arrested for having an affair with a student. Thinking it was his responsibility to turn the school around, Viktor applied for the job. And the rest is history.

role play sample ::

Even as his companion spoke, the memories came rushing back. Damon was transported back to another life... he couldn't necessarily call it better, but for one redeeming factor. That life had a loving little sister in it. This life... this life was hollow and empty. Forcing the thought from his mind, he focused on the flashback. He and this woman - whose name he couldn't recall if his life depended upon it (he'd made a point of shutting out all details from anti-mortum life...) - were working on a film. Only, at that time, she hadn't been a woman, but a teenager. An impudent, self-righteous, narcotic teenager. Yes, Damon could remember that much quite clearly. The event that stood out most in his mind was one day near the end of shooting. Tensions were running high for everyone but himself, and people were saying (or rather, shouting) some rather nasty things. The woman before him now was no exception. As a matter of fact, she'd chosen Damon as her target, unleashing a slew of insults in his general direction. She'd called him an "arsehole" (Damon had no idea people still used that word), commented on the fact that Damon's career had roots in the fame of his parents (a complete fallacy, by the by -- it had started that way when he was a baby, then he quit that gig, grew up, and came back to audition the hard way only to be given a roll the easy way; it wasn't his fault he was something to look at), and concluded in saying it was exhausting to put up with his bullshit day in and day out. Again, he had no idea where that one came from. Damon had never been anything but civil on movie sets. He actually had quite a passion for that line of work when he'd been a part of it...

Anyway, the woman had waltzed off without allowing Damon any time to defend himself. Which was probably a smart move, considering he wouldn't have taken the time if she offered it. Even in his youth, he'd never felt a need to prove anything to anyone. If the girl wanted to think him a pain in the ass, fine. Then he was a pain in the ass. However, that little "speech" of hers had lost her some serious cool points in Damon's mind. He resurfaced from his memories as the woman crossed the stage. She sat down on the side, dangling her legs over the edge. Her head was tilting to the side in an inquisitive, almost coy manner. As she spoke, an undercurrent of wry amusement colored her words. Damon chuckled. "Funny... I was just thinking the same thing." The woman didn't sound all too thrilled having run in to him again. He got the impression that she thought him an arrogant, pompous actor type. Which was perfectly fine, considering he'd already assumed she hadn't lost a smidge of her own arrogance since their last encounter. It radiated off her in waves, that arrogance. That was the problem with women these days. They thought that since they were finally moving up in the world, they were invincible. Fantastic, epic beings who were infallible and perfect. This woman might not have thought all of those things necessarily, but she definitely carried herself with the same air as those who did. It didn't help that, in her heels on the uneven ground just in front of the stage, the woman was taller than him. Damon hoped she hadn't noticed this fact, or at least didn't draw some misplaced sense of superiority from it. Though it was off-putting, Damon was in no way daunted by her. He wouldn't have noticed the hight difference himself if she hadn't just slipped off of the stage -- not in the dainty outfit she wore.

This thought process was interrupted when the woman asked Damon if he remembered the name she had gone by back in those days, thereby implying that whatever name she had gone by wasn't her real name. Wryly, Damon thought, I don't even know what you go by now. There was an answer forming in his throat, but the woman beat him to it. She repealed the question with a dismissive wave, telling him to "forget about it" and that she "might need that name later". Damon's eyebrow quirked. Hopefully, she wasn't considering acting as a fall-back career. At a glance, it was obvious to him that she'd only gotten anywhere in that field through her looks, and if she waited long enough to return to it, those would be gone... and she would be screwed. He decided to hold that thought, saying instead, "I won't blow your cover... you weren't exactly someone worth remembering." ... Oops. That'd come out a tad more snippish than he'd intended. Oh well. In hindsight, it would've sounded rude, no matter how he phrased it. That was the point. Idly, he leaned against the stage, propping his elbows on top of it. Withdrawing his iPhone from his pocket, he re-commenced the flair browsing, paying no attention to the woman beside him. She wasn't saying anything, so there was no reason for him to feign interest. As it turned out, the flair wasn't as entertaining as usual. Too many buttons trashing Justin Bieber or Twilight. Not that Damon didn't hate the both of them wholeheartedly... but seriously. Most people just claimed to hate Twilight or the Bieber Beaver either to appear different... or they were jumping on the "hate club" band wagon. Hating things made one "cool" these days. Shaking his head, Damon returned the phone to his pocket. Right on cue, his companion (whose name she still hadn't offered) attempted small talk.

She started off with the typical "you look", then seemed to lose her tongue and mumbled some unintelligible fillers. I think I preferred the insults to this, Damon mused, arching an eyebrow at the woman. Then she finished her sentences with a "good", and he lost all interest. Shrugging noncommittally, he returned his attention to Facebook flair. It wasn't that he couldn't take a compliment gracefully, but he'd heard that one so many times, it had lost its initial charm. Now, it was redundant and annoying. He owned a mirror. He knew he looked good. People could skip that part and move on. Which the woman did, to her credit. Only, the recovery was weak. It consisted of a very conceited, narcissistic comment regarding her own looks, which, though it complimented his at the same time, was just that -- conceited and narcissistic. Damon scoffed. "You haven't changed a bit. You're just as egotistical as I remember." He didn't glance at her until after he'd said this, and even then, it was only through the corner of his eye. She was growing irksome -- and that was putting it mildly. Damon realized calling her egotistical was the pot calling the kettle black, but then, he was exactly walking around bragging about himself, was he? No... he kept all his self-centered thoughts locked inside his mind for the very reason that it pissed him off when other people refused to do the same. Speaking of which, one such "other person" was advancing on him now. She'd propelled off the edge of the stage and was striding forward, a childish smirk on her face. Oh god, Damon thought as the woman stopped in front of him. What's she going to do now? Toss of some remark about how she never pictured me as a teacher?

Within a matter of seconds, he had his answer. Once the words left the woman's lips, all Damon could do was stand there, momentarily stunned into silence. Well... not so much into silence as into a flashback. All of a sudden, he was seven years younger, walking out of a bar in Los Angeles and into an alley. He'd only had a few drinks that night because had to be on set early the next morning, so he could walk in a straight line and everything. That's why at first, he didn't understand why there were cop cars pulling up outside the bar. A crowd of people had gathered around something in the street. After the alcohol-induced haze had cleared from his mind, Damon's curiosity peaked. He headed toward the throng, peering over some heads. Some body lay on the ground, outlined in white chalk. Whoever it was, she'd been beaten pretty bad. There were bruises, welts, and deep cuts on just about every inch of the body. It didn't help that the girl was laying face up, the look of sheer terror eternally frozen on her face. ... Then Damon noticed some similarities in the face. Those eyes looked startlingly like his own. And that nose. And the angular cheek bones. The large forehead, the slightly wild eyebrows... It was Maggie. Time slowed to a crawl as Damon pushed through the throng. Police yelled at him to stand back and give the medics examining the body. He shouted back at them to let him pass and that she was his sister... amidst a stream of profanities. That was when the pressure set in, crushing every part of him. Crushing, crushing, crushing as the air was forced from his lungs. He sank to his knees and cradled Maggie's head in his hands. Hot tears stained his cheeks as he begged and begged, plead for her to come back to him. She couldn't leave him like this. With his thumb, he stroked her cold, dead cheek. And those eyes -- those glazed eyes stared up at him, silently screaming for help that wouldn't come fast enough...

Damon blinked. He was back in the auditorium, that putrid thing in front of him. His eyes narrowed in a tortured glare. There was a cold edge to his voice as he spoke. "You don't pay much attention to the news, do you?" That was all he said before taking an interest in his iPhone. He didn't even acknowledge the woman as she took her leave, not bothering to bid her goodbye.

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hey. my alias is ZEEBRA, I'm fifteen years old, and I've been slashing for quite a few years. I heard about you guys through my magical ninja powers, and let me say, YOU LOSE AT CHEATING, YOU CHEATER.

[jenna caitrin aiken]

Accepted, accepted, a thousand times accepted! I was giggling through the entire application - I can't wait to see what Principal King does with Lumini while Sorge is gone. You know the drill, love. Hop to it. ;]