Falzone, Santino "Santy"

[Guest]

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CASE FILE: Alchemist/Alkahestrist {Cosca Falzone}

"Leave the gun. Take the cannoli."
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FULL NAME:
→ Santino "Santy" Falzone

AGE:
→ 24

SEX:
→ Male

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Barcelona, Esparia

RACE:
→ Half Cersian, Half Esparian

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ October 31, 1988

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HEIGHT:
→ 6'4"

WEIGHT:
→ 168 lbs.

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ Wheat carelessly thrown to wind—that is each strand of Santy’s natural hair. It is as blonde as it is yellow, slightly wavy, but kempt. He uses gel to tame its fray, slicking it back or to the side—however he feels like at the time. While the tips are spiky from lack of manicure, he does sometimes get it cut, keeping it just below his ears and down the base of his neck. Along with the color of his irises, Santy can change any pigment in his body to any color of his choosing. He came up with this after being picked on in La Cerisé for being a blondie, thus, he can certainly change his hair color as well. Now-a-days, he chooses not to, enjoying the fact that he sticks out among the dark-haired Cersians. Being a half breed it both a gift and a punishment in that respect. Regarding his eyes, Santy barely even recalls what his natural eye color was. Tampering with the pigment, he lost touch with the exact shade of blue he once donned. Instead of attempting to reconcile, he merely sports a copper color instead. Santy can also change skin tones, able to reenact the process of a tattoo without the pain. Pain isn’t really a concern to him (he isn’t that wimpy), but at any given moment, he can make his tattoos disappear, reappear, change their color, and move along his arm as if they are alive. He pretty much sticks to the same tattoo on the left side of his body, pretending it permanent while mainly screwing around with the pigment on his right side. Along his neck and collar bone is a black skull with blue flames dancing out around it. Much lower is a silhouette of a horse with blue flaming wings and hooves. Brimming out along his shoulder blade like his own wing is a blue flame again, drawing down to his arm. Just below it is a red burst of fire that reads ‘C’ which stands for chiavarone that means ‘big horse’ in Cersian. Underneath it reads: ‘famiglia’, meaning family in Cersian, and then on top of his arm is another black horse with a flaming mane that transcends into engulfing blue flames. Below the horses’ hooves are black barbed wire glowing red like tracks. Beneath that it say baracca, bursting with blue flames again that cover his hand. It’s needless to say that Santy is creative with his designs…

While tattoos and design are a pastime, he doesn’t care much for fashion. When he isn’t completely decked out in a pinstripe suit, looking professional and menacing at the same time, he’s usually wearing sweat pants and a loose muscle shirt. Tee shirts work too and any type of baggy pants, mainly cargo pants. His favorite coat is a navy green color with white fuzz around the collar leading into the giant hood (he could fit two heads in it). When it’s cold, he wears that everywhere (even over his suit). Santy just doesn’t really care what he wears so long as it’s durable and serves its purpose. He usually likes his arms bare, but he is usually always stuck wearing a suit. If you open his walk in closet… it’s a sea of suits: black suits, white suits, grey suits, pinstripe suits—mostly black suits. His ties are always tied loosely and are of solid colors; he likes to play a game and match his ties to his mood at the time. Occasionally, he and his men will play guessing games with them: ‘what does the lime green one mean!?’ Santy always wins; he’s a bit hard to read, but that makes it all the more enjoyable for both he and his family.

Santy’s voice is light and airy, but it has deep undertones. He can be commanding, taking on a no-questioning aura, but only when absolutely necessary (something really bad has to go wrong). Usually, though, he tends to draw out his words in a bored sort of manner, adding to his easy going personality. Despite that, he is almost always is bright, smiling, cheerful and that energy reflects in his voice as well. He really likes to smile, mostly lazily, but a smile nonetheless.

He zones out a lot, spacing away into another more interesting realm of thought. Usually when he does this, he’ll slump slightly or his head with list to the side. It’s more than a little obvious when he isn’t listening or paying attention. And Santy isn’t the type of person to ever do it intentionally. He only slips into a daze like that when he has had little to no sleep. Typically, however, he’s always sitting up straight, leaning his elbow into the table or on his knee with his piercing eyes taking in any and all things. He walks briskly, making it hard with his long strides for people to keep up with him, but he’s the type to slow down for other’s sakes, depending on if he notices, that is.

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PERSONALITY:
→ In a hand of sticks—in a game of ‘not it’ where reluctance is resonant in the air, Santy is the volunteer. Doing the dirty work—taking the jobs that no one else wants is his calling. It doesn’t matter what the task is; it could be doing the dishes, shooting the target dead, or being the one to change the flat tire. He is a man that places himself in the middle of the fray, taking the brunt of negativity and/or danger. It isn’t that he doesn’t care about himself; it’s that he cares about other people, therefore he rather put himself in harms way than ever consider endangering others or using them like tools. Santy is consistent and capable. Even when concerning minor things, he is the first one to raise his hand and step to the plate. While others may consider it arrogant and self-complimenting, Santy is by no means trying to show off by taking the short stick. Instead, he is doing them a favor with no expectations in return. He’s the kind of guy to also drop what he’s doing and help an old lady across the street: a do-gooder to the utmost extreme, but he never forgets to satisfy himself every once in a while. And if something gets in the way of him treating himself, he shrugs it off and happily helps regardless of whether his ice cream melts or not. In that, he is completely selfless.

It’s hard being able to make a decision to step in for someone else, but Santy is one of the few who can do it. He watches after people, picking up on their habits and what they forget to do. When he meets someone, he knows someone. He’ll notice what they like, what they don’t like, their temperament, what they can handle and what they can’t, their personality in regard to his own and adapt his to fit them. This isn’t to say that Santy loses who he truly is or adorns a façade in order to communicate better, but more along the lines of adjusting himself to make the ride smoother. He doesn’t mind jumping through hoops; he just minds when he’s forced to. If anyone ever expects him to do something for them as if it’s his job or something that pisses him off. He’s not like some kind of butler at anyone’s beck or call. He does things for people because he cares about them and wants to see them happy. Santy has a mother hen complex, but only to an extent. He’ll remind Celia not to forget her lunch when going to school, he’ll make sure the kitchen is stocked, and he’ll be sure to tell the gardener to take his Rolex off before watering the petunias. It’s who he is: observant and helpful.

Santy is obsessive compulsive to the point where he could be diagnosed with the disorder. Cabinets, drawers, doors must always be closed. Everything has to be relatively neat, organized so not just yourself can find things, but other people. So many times before Santy has had to root through piles of shit to find a gun that some idiot couldn’t simply put away. He lines things up in perfect order, relatively aligned as well. He won’t have a conniption about it, but he will cringe and attempt to fix it given enough time. That is why it is also rather difficult for him to go to new houses and see things out of place and strewn about; it drives him crazy. Not crazy in the sense of crazy, but crazy in the sense that it disturbs him and disrupts the natural flow of his consciousness. He lines up shoes, hangs up coats, organizes the silverware—you should see his Desktop. He recycles and will carry bags of empty plastic containers, cans, and papers to where he lives and recycle them there. When he meets someone for the first time, he shakes their hand always as a way of trading off energy so he can get a feel for that person. Santy is always conscious of himself and of everything he does even when drinking alcohol. He is always in control and loves being in charge of things. He is not a control freak in anyway whatsoever, but he does not enjoy authority. He complies with it whilst making a face.

That wild streak is a dangerous aspect of Santy. He’ll challenge things, take himself out of the ordinary on a whim. He’ll live in the neighboring forest in a tent for a month just to prove something to himself or as an experiment. He’ll say random things to gauge reactions and take mental notes. He’s an all-around random guy, and most of the time, he isn’t serious. His laid back nature gets him into a lot of trouble. People may think that he just doesn’t give a shit when he really does. Sometimes he does it just to see how people will respond. At the flip of a coin, he can go from joking to being completely serious. When he is serious, he is deadly and usually pointing a gun, (but that isn’t to say he can’t point a gun as a joke). That transition from flippant to serious is usually extremely evident; he’ll let you know when he means business.

Santy reads the paper every morning to learn about the world. He likes being informed and aware of the latest happenings. He is also a writer on the side, mostly journalism on topics he’s personally studied. He likes writing research papers and submitting them to online journals to assist with the collective knowledge of human beings. His main area of expertise aside from human biology is anthropology and sociology. He is also patient except when writing. If someone bothers him, there are bullet holes in the wall across from his room as indication. In his papers and outside of them, Santy never lies. He doesn’t find a need to lie to avoid something or use dishonesty to his advantage. He is a completely authentic person with no qualms. …Except the fact that he cannot find his way out of a paper bag to save his life. Hand him a map and he still can’t read it. Santy is towed around by a personal driver. Even if he has to walk five minutes down the road, he’ll take a wrong turn and get lost. His brain cannot compute directions; his spatial cognition is skewed. It takes great effort for him to get from point A to point B on his own, giving him only more reason to be a people person.


LOVE:
→ Constanza, Marcolo, His mother, Any kind of turtle, Teaching, Studying, Writing, Reading, Philosophy, Poetry, Comforting people, Helping people, Experimenting with new things, Testing things on himself, Being challenged, Tattoos, Color, Hoping fences, Barbed wire, Stealing things, Defying all odds, People, Mafia, Guns, Suits, Indiana Jones, Fighting, Fire, Campfires, Whips, Having spirit, Spirits, Liquor, Alcohol, Spaghetti, Milk, Hetalia, La Cerisé, Money, Being in charge, Organizing things, Keeping things in check, Watching people, People watching, Benches, Autumn, Crunching leaves, Taking walks, Being tall, Picnics, Snaking, Playing harmonica, Pokemon, DS, Soul Silver, Zelda, Video games, Being a nerd, Posters, Decorating things,

HATE:
→ Being called Santino, Rock n' Roll, Being challenged, Being praised, Verbal fights, Bullies, Secrets, Gorillas, Driving, Sweet things, Coffee, Gum, Beer, Esparia, Chimerae, Video games, Street talk, Too much cursing, Stupidity, Shopping, Nerf guns, Fake weapons, Halloween, Going in without a plan, Not being calm, Being shot at randomly, Knife fights, Being glared at, Crying, Showing too much emotion, Puzzles, Traps, Complication,

DEEPEST SECRET:
→ That Constanza isn't his mother.

IDOL:
→ Piccolo Marcolo

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HISTORY:
→ The first memory of childhood is usually foggy, vague—something incomprehensible like a dash of sunlight through the grass, rolling down a hill and getting dandelion seeds in one’s hair. For Santy, it was an old metal picture frame with a distinct face behind the surface of the glass. Scratched and yellowed with age, the tattered iridescence made that face nearly occult—a phantom image of a man in a suit. While dust gathered around the mantle, never did it touch where hands held that picture and gazed at it each day. He stood there beside his mother each time, staring straight into the dead, unblinking eyes of a figure he did not know. She cried each time, grasping his hands and telling him things—words, motherly lessons he could no longer recall. Don’t be like him. Still, he knew—somewhere inside of his tiny chest—he knew that there was nothing left in hers.

Sometimes she would smile at him, but it never reached her cold, brown eyes. It as if there was nothing left of her—an empty shell of a hermit crab raising a child. She never slumped and never stopped moving unless it was to cry. Strangers would come over and shake her, demanding things he could only guess on. “Mommy,” he would say, “did you steal the bad man’s toys?” Terror-filled eyes would turn motionless in their sockets to look beyond him at the mud-caked floor littered with large footprints leading towards the door ajar.

“No,” was her only answer. But as Santy grew, he began to notice more things. In the trashcan were needles, on her body were bruises. She left her clothes lying all through the house, torn and bloodied. In the morning, she would wrap her arms and legs with a sympathetic look. Only once did she apologize and tell him to stop looking at her. For his own sake, he needed to stay in his room and not come out. She began to bring home thick library books and say she had bought them for him since he was such a good boy. He tried to tell her when they expired, but she said they were his despite the obvious stamp saying they were property of the Barcelona Public Library and were due a week ago. Unable to argue with her, he found himself always accepting her words on the spot as they were. And though he always second-guessed her, he kept this to himself. That silence only grew along with the confusion brought about by the books she continued to hand to him. They were all science books, no pictures save for weird circles followed by walls of text that hurt his eyes. He had to trail his finger down the page to keep his place, but even then he felt as if he were running through a black forest. Trees sprouted up randomly from all sides, pricker bushes ate at his unhemmed jeans, forcing him to trip just beyond the gates of a large castle where the man in the suit sat on his throne beyond reach. Each time he read those books, he felt a strong pull, leading him away from this world he didn’t belong in.

Singed into skin on the back of a family line, a transmutation circle was passed down through history and into the hands of a man who fought for justice. It was a fairy tale that became reality—hope for a child in a lost place. He scoured the pages, experimented by drawing the designs on his arms, and he always licked off the ink before his mother came in and saw just what he was doing while left to his own devices. In that time, Santy not only memorized the book on flame alchemy, but began drawing his own conclusions from them. Before he could reach the desk without a stepstool, he was sketching out variants of circles and changing them according to weird formulas with letters and numbers that represented something he could not fathom. Since they couldn’t afford a computer, Santy had to ask the neighborhood kids to look up things for him. They all thought he was weird because he didn’t have a dad, but three of the kids were really helpful since they had just begun to learn how to use the device and could brag about it. O was Oxygen. Oxygen was in the air they breathed in. That was the first bit of information they brought back to him as they sat on logs overlooking the shores of Esparia; sand between tiny toes, the bottoms of their feet callused from running around as freely as they wished. As long as Santy was outside or in his room, he never got reprimanded. There were no rules in his life; he was lawless and envied for it.

One day, the food ran out. When Santino opened the refrigerator and found no dinner waiting for him like usual, he panicked. In fact, the kitchen had been slowly waning over the last few months. Groceries stopped coming, his mother had been growing paler, and the trashcans fuller with those same needles he saw all the time. When he asked his friends to look up information about needles, everything that came back had to do with diabetes, drugs, or a slew of other nonsensical things. As much as he wanted to believe it, he had a feeling that none of those answers pertained to his mother…and it unsettled him.

Trying to sleep on an empty stomach was so unpleasant that he gave up half way through the night and poured over his circles again. When morning came, there was still no sign of his mother. Days passed, weeks, and Santy was forced to fend for himself, using his lousy fishing skills to drag in each meal across the hot, sandy beaches. His friends helped him day in and day out until they gradually dispersed to a game with their nerf guns. When Santy was six years old, he had learned what hunger was. He ran out of clothes to wear and washed them in the sink with hand soap because he didn’t know how to use the washer. Eventually his mother came home, but she looked like a wreck. Her long blond ringlets were cut off, her face forlorn and wrinkled with age. Her hands shook as she clutched him in an embrace, sobbing in hysterics because she already knew the next chapter in their tragedy. But Santy was unaware, his simplistic mind ever-clinging to hope. He burst forth strings of questions that were replied to by grunts and the smell of his first meal in a month that wasn’t fish. The food distracted him, the soda something like gold. He no longer had the need to boil ocean water to drink, finally living the life that everyone else had around him. …Save for the fact that he still was missing a father.

The next day his mother starting looking better, but she was still dragging her right leg around like it was a log. The following, she said that she couldn’t stand up, a strange glint in her eyes, mouth partially open as if she wanted to say more. The more never came, but words needn’t express her current state. She could no longer hide that something was amiss and Santy was no longer holding back his questions. He demanded answers, cried, threw a tantrum, but nothing worked until a morning came when she stood up again. “Why did you leave me?” He asked quietly, squinting through the dawn at her lined face. A moment passed, flour kicked up from the rolling pin as she slammed it down atop the cookie dough. Her expression was something he had never seen before. It was hatred, resonating off her and crossing the distance at light speed. Santino was across the room with a hurt look, back against the wall as if he were expecting her to throw something at him again. Beside him was a dent in the wall from a library book he had demanded be returned to the library. She had refused to the bitter end and he had stood his ground only to get a giant bruise on the side of his head and a wet shirt from her apologetic tears.

“I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t leave that place; they wouldn’t let me.”

“What do you mean? Who…is they?”

”Santy, love, I can’t answer that, honey. You know this by now. Just go to your room. Did you read those new books I got you?”

“Yeah.” And that was that. He was fed up with the secrets, taken to spying on her during the day and experimenting at night. By the time all the cookies were eaten, he had perfected a transmutation circle that didn’t blow up in his face, but he wouldn’t show her, no. If she wasn’t going to tell him anything, he wasn’t going to tell her anything. He continued to bring his pieces of paper outside with sticks he collected from the nearby pine forest, lighting them causally on fire with a spark from a flint. Soon, he manipulated the fire to change direction without wind and to go out when he didn’t snuff it or dump water on it. Beaming with success, Santy went inside to sleep, but found his mother standing in the hallway staring at something. He had almost forgotten about that old picture since she stopped looking at it each day. “Who is that?” He blurted out without thinking. She jumped slightly and turned towards him with a bewildered expression.

”Your father.”

Tears fell—tears Santy didn’t know he had anymore. They suddenly broke the dam and spilled like milk over their black forms in the darkening hallway. All along he had been looking at the face of his father: the man that wasn’t here. “How…why did he leave?” Santy stammered, his heart in his throat, making words difficult to speak.

”He was never here.” She had turned her face away, voice wavering unlike anything he had ever heard. Her nails were digging into her dress, legs quivering like a fishing line on a stormy day. “1988 this was taken. His…his name is Marcolo Falzone. I was in La Cerisé with your grandparents before they passed away and I met him. It was only that one night—just that one night, b-but he was the one. I loved him. I-I begged him to take me with him, Santy. I did. I did everything, but he…he just didn’t see me anymore. All he wanted…was my body. I was nothing to him. He doesn’t know. I never told him about you. I can’t bring myself to. To him, you are just a problem, but I love you, Santy. I love you enough—enough to do this to myself.” She smiled, a crazy sort of smile that made Santino question if maybe this was just another nightmare to add to his most scariest list. But no. He pinched himself and this was very real. He couldn’t reply, finding himself nodding wordlessly. So he had a father somewhere out there. That sounded to him like a new goal…

He gathered together his nerf-obsessed friends and excitedly told them the story about his father, but to his surprise, they didn’t seem interested. They were done with random searches on google, more interested in shooting each other with foam bullets (of which Santy could not relate to whatsoever). So what could he do on his own without a computer? It wasn’t until his seventh birthday that he left his house in search of a solution. Toting his stack of overdue library books to return to the Barcelona Public Library himself, he passed by a toy shop with a brand new nerf gun in the display. If only…he could obtain that, he could get them to search for his father’s address for him. But he didn’t have any money and there was no way he could ask his mother for anything except food and soap. They were always just barely scraping by on rent and the daily necessities. He couldn’t do it. Instead, he went to his friends, raving about the gun as if he cared about it. They took to it immediately, demanding he show them this store. He did: three little boys drooling at the plastic beyond the glass and one listlessly looking beyond it at hope. Maybe he can give mother money so we can survive easier and she can stop going to that place. On the cracked sidewalks littered with sand blown from the beach were rubber shoes pacing back and forth—were hands counting small change and lint. Not enough. It wasn’t enough to convince them to do the search—they didn’t have enough to buy it.

”So steal it for us,” one said, a horrible grin on his puffy face. Steal? But stealing was a crime. His mother had never taught him, but it was something he picked up on from the few times he was able to go over his friend’s houses. He couldn’t do something like that; it would make him a thief, wouldn’t it? ”Go ahead,” he encouraged him, giving the blond-haired boy a little push towards the front door of the shop. ”It’ll be fine; just don’t let anyone see you.”

“O-okay,” Santy answered, completely unsure as he slipped in through the door without ringing the bell. He slinked through the aisles like he slinked into the kitchen at night for a midnight snack. Tiny fingers grabbed at the box, clutching it to himself like the last remaining light in all the world. I have to get out of here. He bolted for the door, dashing out it as fast as he could. The kids all scattered, the angry salesman screaming after them with a face that was so red he could be a tomatoman.

Panting, they made it to the old rotting logs on the beach with the retrieved gun. Grinning ear to ear, Santy had never felt such a rush. He had accomplished something—something that he was patted on the back for. Yeah, yeah, good job, now get me the address. Santy’s smile soon faded when they took the gun from him and began opening it, playing with the contents as if they had forgotten the entire reason why he had stolen it. Wait. Wait. Wait! He tried reminding them, but the three of them were gone from the intelligent world, lost in play. Despite that, however, the next day after supper, the one whom had suggested the idea of stealing it came to Santino’s house calling for him. Immediately, he rushed out and was given a piece of paper with an address on it.

”Dude, your daddy lives in La Cerisé; he’s the head of the Falzone! There’s no way we’re hangin’ out with you again!!”

“The what?!” Santy tried calling after him, but the kid bolted and was gone never to see him again. But the address—the address was all that mattered. This—this could save him! Satino rushed inside in a frenzy of energy, heading straight for his mother. “Mommommommom!!!” She came out of her room with bags under her eyes and a tired smile of inquiry. That was until she saw the address.

”Give me that!” She demanded with a scary look. Her pupils looked as if they were pulling away from her head—her head growing larger somehow. Her callused hands were suddenly hairy, black, wiry, thick fingers reaching for the paper. He pulled it away, running to place his back against the wall, trying to find a way to memorize it fast enough before it was destroyed. But why?! He thought that she would be happy. Didn’t he leave her without knowing about him? Wouldn’t he…wouldn’t he want to know? ”He’ll kill you!!” She screamed, voice slamming into a feral growl. Her clothes ripped off of her as her mass changed, bursting through the threads of humanity. Her nose smashed into her skull, turning into a snout. Brown eyes bled black, fangs cutting her lips, voice losing language. Pounding her chest, fur grew from her pores everywhere, all black except a line of silver down her stubby back. She fell onto her hands and knees, but was still taller than him, glancing all around the room as if it were her first time there. Slowly—slowly she was losing herself. Slowly—slowly Santy was inching towards the door. His mother…his mother had just transformed into a gorilla before his very eyes. She wasn’t human—she wasn’t anything he had ever seen before. Suddenly, the needles made sense. Suddenly, the bruises had clarity. Suddenly—suddenly he knew how she paid the bills.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. She thudded closer and closer, launching her heavily muscle-toned body at his throat, strangling the last breath out of him. Kill… Death… They were just words—just tickles of feathers until now. They had become something real—something tangible with which to tenaciously cling. His fading sight, his feeble flailing made him realize what life was. With each struggled intake of air, it was no longer oxygen, but sustenance that kept his heart beating and his mind thinking. No, this—whatever this life was, he wanted it to continue. Nononono!!!! He whined into her grip, kicking and biting at anything he could get a hold of.

”Firrrrrrrreuuzze,” came a muffled moan of a monster. Mindless rage blocked the rest of her sentence and she flipped over the counter, tripping and stumbling over chairs and crushing them with her weight alone. One hit to the head and Santy would be done for. But what she had said left him standing there motionless. Fire? Use fire? How did she know? Had she…had she been planning for this all along?! She lumbered towards him, leaving a trail of foaming drool and animalistic grunts through yellow teeth. What—just what was he supposed to do!? ”Killllllllmeeeee!!!” It murmured in a hail of saliva spitting out. She seized on the floor, striking towards him as he ran to his room and slammed the door that was soon torn off and cast away like a piece of paper. Santy grabbed at the papers on his desk and pulled out the flint from his pocket.

“But I can’t!” A throaty growl flew from her spittled lips, hand—paw thrust backwards to swipe at the side of his face. It never reached him as Santy’s eyes flew open, pupils shrinking into pinpricks. Her fur surged into flames, a pained scream filling the night’s silence. He stood there, watching her writhe on his bedroom floor, howling. Powerless, he did nothing but stare into the flames stealing her life away from her. From his grip, the transmutation circle fluttered into the carcass of her contorted face stuck screaming into the recess of his mind forever. Ashes. She became ashes in matter of moments, the fire turning then to the foundations of the house. No one came to help. He stood there, breathing in the smoke and waiting for it to collapse all around him like everything he had ever known.

Clutching the address, Santy woke up outside on the grass, concerned faces peering over him. He was questioned by the police while firefighters fought with the surreal strength of the fire eating away his childhood. He told them everything he knew excluding the fact that he had stolen a nerf gun in order to get the address he was holding onto for dear life. He was cleared of all charges and would temporarily live in the police headquarters until they could find a home for him. The officers asked him if he had any family and Santy responded by holding up the address, trying to not smear the ink with his sobs.

After a week of wearing clothes that fit, the bronze-eyed boy asked an officer to take a picture of him to send to his father, Marcolo Falzone. On the back of the picture, Santy wrote: Your son, Santino. It was scrawled to the best of his ability, and he only hoped that his father could read it—that he would come and save him from this life even if he did end up killing him like his mother said he would. His father seemed to have gotten the message, and immediately arranged a meeting with him. Never before had he been that nervous in his life; he didn’t even have the experience of leaving the country or going further than two miles from his house.

Santy’s first words to his father were: “My mother is dead. I killed her.”

They didn’t seem to faze the man and Marcolo adopted him with flying colors. Adapting to the family and the strangely warmhearted welcome, Santino was at a loss. He met a cousin named Elisa and her father (his uncle), Valiente who both made fun of how different he looked from Marcolo, but whose jokes felt—felt like family. He was sent to school, absorbing the lessons like a sponge deprived of water. Learning Cersian was like learning he had hands. Santy was the happiest he had ever been in his life—so much so that even when the kids bullied him for his blond hair and light-colored eyes, he didn’t care too much. …That was until they started beating him up after school, calling him a half breed miscreant. That was also when Santy began to learn how to fight back. After a family trip to Xing, he absorbed the knowledge of alkahestry with his father. Together, they observed how one utilized the Dragon’s Pulse. This energy in and of itself came naturally to Santino despite not being Xingese nor encountering it before. He watched as Marco began to adapt the energy and personalize it, coming up with his own style. If alkahestry was able to manipulate the body, would Santy then be able to change his hair and eye color so he would stop being bullied? Could he invent something like that? While he was playing with that concept, Marcolo and Constanza gave birth to a daughter, Celia, from whom he learned what the word protect meant. Santy was overly protective of the small toddler, watching her like a hawk at all times. He practically raised her himself, always on the guard and lookout for anything that could come in and ruin her memories like his own had been.

Time passed by slowly, and he walked the plank to the edge, teetering enough to threaten the bullies into obedience with his new color-changing alkahestry. In no time, Santy had control of the entire school, making it work to his will. If he thought it more efficient to have recess in the morning, then they had recess in the morning. The kids looked up to him as a hero, but all heroes have enemies. In the dark sidelines, an ambush was constructed where knives were pulled. Santino was seventeen the first time he got stabbed. As he lay there bleeding out in the grass on school grounds, the teachers found him laughing at the sky. An ambulance was called immediately, Marco rushing to the hospital to see if his son would live another day. When he came out of surgery, the doctor said that it would leave a scar just below his bellybutton, but he would make it this time around.

Santy regained consciousness, but it was some time before clarity returned as well. Through the drug-induced haze he saw people gathered around his bed. I matter, he thought then. Marco, shocked that his son with all of his skills could be beaten by a bunch of high school thugs, inquired how it happened before the cops took over. “Oh, you should see the other guys,” he replied. And sure enough, they were still in the ER.

From that day forth, Santino recognized the idea that he had worth in this world. He climbed the ranks in the Family, embracing the opportunity given to him by his father to lead the suit-wearing, real gun-wielding men that cared about him. He was given a new life—a new start just as he had spent so much time hoping for. He never missed his mother, but sometimes he cried over her for no reason. He just didn’t understand it, but… when he cried, he never understood it. It was something to let go and move on from. That was how he looked at it. And he tried to teach his half-sister all he could about the world, raising her without secrets.

...........................................................................

TRIVIA:
→ His mother named him.
→ He needs glasses--sometimes wears contacts or he tends to run into walls.
→ He gets lost very easily.
→ He reads the paper every morning.
→ He is a journalist on the side, writing reports on any topic that interests him.
→ His original eye color is blue.
→ He always keeps his hair blonde and his eyes yellow.
→ His eyes change colors by activating his alkahestry on its own when his mood is really strong.
→ He learned pigment alkahestry initially to be able to change his hair color so he wasn't made fun of.
→ He owns a custom built Suzuki, Silver.
→ He tutors languages on the weekends.
→ He always carries his money in a roll with a $100 bill on the outside.
→ He only takes what he needs.
→ He visits his mother's grave once a year on the date of her death.
→ He killed his mother.
→ He prefers a life of simplicity.
→ He never eats until he's full.
→ He is OCD.
→ He is a pacifist that does what's necessary.
→ He has a different personality for each person he encounters.
→ He is gifted at the harmonica.
→ He is the kind of person that carries a clean spoon in his mouth rather than in his hand.
→ He is fluent in Cersian, Basic Esparian, and Cretan. He has a thick Cersian accent.

...........................................................................

ALIAS:
→ Aki

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Reila, Spade, Aurel, Toss, Ela, Jack

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ "Can't stop addicted to the shindig~"

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN[/b]/[i]Dino Cavallone[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ BOOM SHAKALAKA

OFFICIAL TITLE:
→ Canvas Flame

...........................................................................

[Guest]

Archive date is the 16th~

[Guest]

Done!!~

[Guest]

AN OFFER I CAN'T REFUSE - APPROVED

Lol it's awesome, but this just caught my eye and made me laugh:

'...he’ll be sure to tell the gardener to take his Rolex off before watering the petunias.'

How many gardening jobs do you know that can afford me a Rolex!?

ANYWAY. He looks god-tier, Marco and he are going to kick ass. I'd best go change his history up a touch for continuity's sake, eh?

Post here when you're ready.

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