BRYSTON MORGAN

[Bryston Morgan]

Bryston Morgan

Bryston Elai Morgan Seventeen Nefarious Bryce Hatred Data - Mixed FACE CLAIM: Kazuma Ikezawa ANIMANGA: Summer Wars GENDER: Male HEIGHT: 5'9" WEIGHT: 132lbs APPEARANCE Bryce is fairly average in appearance. He's got olive skin, dark hair and eyes, and is pretty much the right height and weight for his age range. He's lean and has a few toned muscles, but nothing that will make him stand out in a crowd or make the ladies swoon. He likes to wear jersey shirts and shorts, even when it's cold. Anything easy to move around in. Occasionally he'll sport a red vest, and googles, but most he doesn't vary his style much, because hey, he doesn't really care. It's likely you'll see some kind of bandage or remnants of a fight on him somewhere, but he doesn't have any noticeable scars or anything. Flipping through pages of his infamous, favorite and yet least favorite book, Bryce had lost all track of time while sitting there in the waiting room. In his mind, he was envisioning himself in the rye field, wearing the red cap of Holden Caulfield and all, catching children as they ventured too close to the cliff-side and sending them back out on their way where they played and frolicked, still ignorant of the world and its hardships. He saw the faces of most of the children as dark splotches, indistinct from one another - except for one. One was perfectly clear, though a figment of his imagination that he wished he could erase forever. To be honest, he couldn’t describe the child in words. He just knew what child it was. The sad part, however, was that it was a kid that didn’t exist. Not outside of his head, anyway. And certainly not someone that ever would exist. An unfamiliar pain in his chest made him wince and grit his teeth. This was why he hated Catcher in the Rye: it made him feel things. Bryce didn’t like to feel much of anything. And yet, at the very same time, it was those feelings - even if they were ones of pain - that drew him into the book and made him unable to stop reading and rereading those pages as if they were the most precious words ever written. "Morgan? Bryston Morgan?" a voice called, though, naturally, it was ignored by the teen. Therapy. Why in the hell did he need any of that? Bryce was perfectly fine. He was nothing short of a genius and had the whole world at his fingertips. Or, that was what everyone kept telling him. Did he really believe that? No. What good would a brilliant mind do when he was nothing but a dirty, rotten, bastard with nothing to his name? He wished his fucking family was perceptive enough to see that instead of expecting the entire universe from him. It was enough pressure just living through another, shitty day, let alone being the one responsible for his family’s future. “Mr. Morgan, it’s time for your appointment.” He didn’t look up until the shadow of someone caught his attention. Immediately, Bryce looked up to meet her eyes, his gaze nothing short of defensive. He’d always hated it when others leered over him. It was threatening, “Does it look like I give a shit about my appointment?” he spat back. The secretary, who he assumed was an intern, recoiled at the harsh tone of his voice, but Bryston took no pleasure in that fact. Instead, he looked back down at his book and continued to read like he had nothing to attend to. The shuffling of her feet growing fainter told him she had left him to his own devices. Good - that was how he wanted it. But the satisfaction was short-lived, because only a few minutes later, another shadow obscured his view of the tiny text in his book. Practically growling, Bryce looked up to see the unamused face of a security guard. Damn. "Mister Morgan, we can do this the easy way or the hard way," he said, his voice monotone. “We have copies of your record and the only reason you’re here is for part of your parole. If you don’t comply with us, we’ll send you right back to New Zealand and you can take your shit out on inmates in prison. I don’t think you want that, son.” Scowling, Bryce narrowed his eyes on the burly, polish man and got up, resisting the urge to spit in his face as he begrudgingly made his way into the therapist’s office. He didn’t look at the woman sitting behind her desk with a clipboard, simply making his way over to the only available seat in the room and quite literally collapsing into it before opening his book yet again. “Doctor, if you need me I’ll be standing right outside.” "That won’t be necessary, I don’t think," she assured. Bryston glanced up at her again at the sound of her voice. She seemed soft-spoken. Gentle. Kind of had a baby face and seemed as though she could have a heart made of cotton. “Thank you Grigori." The security man nodded and door was shut. Silence encased the room. "Bryston Morgan, I’m your therapist. My name is—" "I don’t care what your name is," he cut off. “I don’t use names for people. I’ll call you Doc." "Oh… well…" she blinked at his strange quirk, jotting down a quick note before continuing, “It’s my legal obligation to tell you my name and some information about myself…" But her words after that fell on deaf ears as Bryce decided she was no longer interesting and went back to his literature. “It says here you were arrested back home for… repeated acts of vandalism and violent assault?" No answer came from the boy as he flipped a page. He did, however, hear the deep sigh come from her, which brought an uncharacteristic smirk to his lips. It was only there for a moment before it faded, however, and that icy shell of a human being was back. Unfortunately, the little slip up was caught by the Doctor, and she immediately jumped at the chance to question him, “Do you find me funny, Mr. Morgan?" He blinked and glanced up at her for only a second before resuming, “No. I just got to a line I liked in this book.” "Catcher in the Rye, is it? It’s a lovely story. What about it do you like?" Bryce looked back up at his therapist with a skeptically raised brow. He didn’t answer for a good while, studying her facial features, attempting to gauge what she was trying to get out of him by asking this question. When her expression remained the same under his intense gaze, however, he gave up and simply said, “I lied. I hate everything about it.” "It resonates with you," she reworded. Bryston remained stoic, but he he truly felt unnerved by her ability to analyze him so easily. Somehow, though, this doctor - maybe she was some kind of superhuman - managed to delve into his conscious even further, “You remind me of Holden, actually." His breath caught in his throat at that. Slowly, he closed the book and pinned his eyes on the woman sitting across from him. It was silent for a long, long while. Or, it seemed like a long while - though in reality it was only a few short moments before Bryce cracked another smirk and responded, “I am Holden.” "That says a lot about you." "Probably more than people would like to know," he pointed out. "Well, I’m not most people. I’m your therapist. I want to get to know you so I can help you, Bryston.” "I don’t need help." More silence. “So don’t fucking expect any miracles. I’m just here until my parole is done." Another heavy sigh escaped the doctor. Bryce didn’t care so much for the sound this time, thinking it to be more annoying than anything else, “Can I just ask you some simple questions, then?” When Bryston didn’t answer, instead opening his book to begin reading again, she started to ask anyway. “How are feeling today?” "Fuck you," he murmured. "I see. Have you met any of the other students yet?" "Fuck you," he repeated. "Er…" He flipped another page, holding the book closer to his face as she seemed to crack under the tension in the room. Then again, this game of cat and mouse was going to grow boring very, very quickly. Bryce didn’t have time for this kind of shit. "Have you talked to your family since you arrived?" That one hit a nerve, however, and he put down his book to glare at the doctor, whatever she’d said her name was, “I believe the answer to that question, like the answer to most questions, is fuck you.” And with that, the teen got up from his seat and promptly made his way out the door. The security guard looked at him, and then back at the therapist, but didn’t give chase to Bryce. He didn’t need anyone’s help. * * * "How are you today, Mr. Morgan?" No answer this time. He’d grown quite tired of telling this doctor to fuck off. He was too hungover and didn’t have the energy to fight with her much today. Damn his idea to take the day off to drink with that girl. “Bryston?" "I’m fine,” he practically spat, bringing a hand up to rub his temples. All he wanted to do was go back to bed, but apparently, these appointments were far more important than his getting a good night’s sleep. "Are you sure? Your attendance yesterday was at zero, and you seem like you have—" "A headache? What was your first clue, Sherlock Holmes?" Oddly enough, the woman sitting with her clipboard only smiled and nodded. Bryston scowled further. Who the hell smiled at being snapped at? “Wipe that phony expression off your face, Doc." She shook her head, leaning back into her seat and observing her patient with an amused glint her her eye, “All you need is a silly red cap and you really will be the incarnation of Holden.” At that, Bryce’s lips twitched stubbornly upwards. “Were you, by chance, drinking last night?” "Are you fucking spying on me?” he accused, the little shadow of a smile on his face ceasing to exist. “Isn’t that illegal?” Her expression turned ghastly at that, as if she couldn’t believe she’d heard those words come out of Bryston’s mouth. However, she seemed to take it all in stride, instead shaking her head once more and countering smoothly with, “Mr. Morgan, isn’t drinking underage illegal?" She smiled widely - almost too widely for her round face to hold - eliciting an unamused huff from the teenager. “I’m sorry, Bryston, I’m going to have to write that on your record. If substance abuse is a problem for you, it could be contributing greatly to your condition." The boy’s eyes narrowed on the therapist, nostrils flaring as he curled his upper lip in pure disgust, “There’s nothing fucking wrong with me. And I’m not an alcoholic.” He couldn’t keep the utter fury he felt at those words out of his tone. If there was one thing Bryce surly wasn’t, it was his parents. They were the fucked up ones - not him. They were the ones who drank excessively - not him. He shouldn’t have to suffer for their fuck ups. "Bryce. Can I call you Bryce?" "I don’t give a shit what you call me, Doc. You can call me a fuckin’ bastard child for all I care." "Your parents had problems with substance abuse, correct?" The icy glare he shot her direction at those words only confirmed the fact. Her eyes seemed to change, her pupils going slightly wider as her gaze turned sympathetic. No. Bryce hated sympathy. He didn’t want it. He didn’t need it. He wasn’t a god damn charity case that needed anyone else feeling bad for him. “That must have been a very hard situation to grow up in.” "Stop fucking looking at me like that,” he murmured quietly. But as he continued to speak, his voice steadily grew in volume, “Actually, just stop talking. Fucking stop. I don’t get what’s so hard for you idiots to understand. I’m not sick! I don’t need your fucking sympathy!” He had to stop to take a breath, as he had been full on yelling by the end of that. His hands were gripping the fabric of the armchair so tight that his knuckles were painted white. His body was so tense, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising. It was the dull throbbing of his headache setting back in after that bout of anger that eventually brought Bryce back down from attack mode, until once again, he seemed reserved, “I’m just a shitty kid, alright?” Silence followed. But what had he expected? Bryce gave the therapist a humorless smile, “Just a shitty kid. Nothing else.” There was some hesitation to speak on the doctor’s part, but, after a few more prolonged moments, she spoke very gently, “What do you mean by that, Bryce?” He snorted in contempt at that, “I don’t know, Doc. I didn’t think it was hard to figure out.” "I get the feeling there’s more to you saying that then you just thinking you’re as bad as you act." Bryston gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. She was right, but he wouldn’t say it to her face. The reason he hated sympathy so much was simple, really. With those pitiful glances came the expectation that he could be better than he was. Bryce couldn’t, though. It was something that his family didn’t understand, let alone the rest of society. He couldn’t be any better than he was. Or, perhaps, he just was refusing to be better. Either way, he’d never say it aloud. Never. “Can you explain for me, Bryce?" Did she have to be so pushy, though? He set his jaw, his lips forming a straight line on his face, “No, Doc. I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.” * * * Bryston could practically feel the color of his skin changing to a sickly dark hue as he sat in the therapist’s office. He had not wanted to come here today, and he sure as hell had paid some price for resisting. Lip split from a blow to the face and arms bruised from a vice grip that could have belonged to a metal clamp, Bryce wasn’t particularly feeling great. That was what he got for arguing with a seven foot tall security guard. "Bryce?" People are always ruining everything for you, a little voice piqued inside the boy’s head. How true that quote was, however. Especially for right now. That stupid, burly man’s face would never leave his mind until payback was met. Sure, skipping his appointments was a direct violation of his parole, but the fact that the man had literally tried to drag him to this God-forsaken office was enough for Bryston to lose what little patience that remained within him for the system this place was using. Professional my ass. "Mr. Morgan?" "Would you shut up?" he snapped. This stupid woman was precisely the reason he hadn’t wanted to come here. After their last session, Bryce had no interest in continuing to talk with this doctor. He hated this - being picked apart little by little no matter how hard he resisted. It was uncanny and unnerving and he couldn’t stand it. This bitch had to suffer too, he decided. Somehow, he was going to get under her skin and tear her down too. An eye for an eye. That was how the world worked, after all. “I can’t even hear myself think.” "Bryston, you’ve been quiet for the last half hour," she pointed out. “And you already showed up fifteen minutes late because you went off at Grigori." "And I should give a fuck, why?" The question elicited a heavy sigh, “Because, Bryce, it’s that kind of behavior that got you in this situation in the first place. We only have the best intentions in mind by making you come here. Don’t you think you should take advantage of this?” The monotonous glare she received a moment later was enough to tell her that Bryce believed otherwise. “Can we start with what happened today?” Still no verbal answer. She shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d dealt with many children with numerous problems, but there was something atypical about Bryston and for the life of her she could not figure out what. The boy’s thoughts were like a complex DNA strand, twisting around and around one solid ideology that his ‘inferiority’ was somehow making him better than other people. Like he didn’t have to cater to them simply because he was quote ‘an inherently bad person.’ It was so backwards. More than that, it made her feel for him. He was almost pitiful, living as though he was content with being such a ‘horrible kid.’ But how was one supposed to completely uproot and change a person’s core? It was like rewriting the programming on a computer. The only way to make it work would be rearranging every little one and zero, and the doctor certainly didn’t want to do anything like that. “Why didn’t you want to come to therapy today, Bryce?” she tried again. "Because I hate you, Doc," he stated simply. “Just like I hate everyone else in this fucking institution. Chew on that." "What about your brother?" He froze, and the doctor could practically feel the tension in the room thicken. Mentioning his family always struck a chord, “He’s full of shit, Doc. If you think he’s here cause he needs help… shame on you.” "Do you think he’s lying about his condition, Bryston?" The teen stared hard at her, as if debating whether he should agree to his last statement or not before finally turning his attention to another part of the room. The hairs along the doctor’s neck laid flat once more as the anger that had previously been there ceased. Damn. Bryce had shut down again. “Why would he be lying? It does make a fair amount of sense that he’s here, given his application.” "He’s full of shit- my family is all full of shit,” he murmured emotionlessly. “They’re like me, see? There’s nothin’ hard to figure out, Doc. We were just all born with a gene that made us the roaches of humankind. Never trust a Morgan at face value.” "Why would he be there then?" she pushed on. “To watch you?" "To obsess over me is more like it,” he spat back. There it was. That flare of anger that she was trying to hard to understand. “I’m basically Jesus, suffering for all the Morgans’ sins,” he continued. “It’s all bunk if you ask me. I’m not fuckin’ saving anyone. I mean, look at me. I’m the definition of a jackass.” A little imaginary ‘click’ resonated about the room as both therapist and patient came to an understanding. At once, the doctor began to jot down a whole series of notes. It made perfect sense now. His aversion to people telling him what to do, why he made himself into the bad guy… all of it. It was to lessen expectations other people might have of him… because his family already had burdened him with so much pressure. "That seems like a lot to handle," she finally responded, her tone as light and gentle as an angel singing. “Bryston, you don’t need to be responsible for them. You only need to be responsible for you." "Tell that to Haven," Pause. “Oh, and fuck you, Doctor.” She gave her patient an incredulous look. “Haven doesn’t give a real shit about me. None of them do— and I know what you’re gonna say. Don’t. Don’t give me the ‘oh I’m sure they mean well’ crap. They don’t. And you know what, it’s fucking alright with me. I could give fuck-all about them too.” Bryston stared at the floor in between the space in his fingers. He’d done it again. He’d slipped up and let something extremely important out. And now this shitty, brilliant doctor with a round face was gonna pass all sorts of weird judgements about his character that just weren’t true in his opinion. More than that, she’d just agree that something was wrong with him. With him. It wasn’t Bryce that was wrong. It was everyone else in his god damn family that was wrong. But his roller coaster of emotions around this topic was only just coming to it’s highest peak. He still had a long, long drop down, and everything was about to unfurl in a rush if he didn’t get a hold of himself right this second, “I need to smoke,” he whispered. He dug into his pockets at that, looking for his pack and his lighter, but remembering then that he’d run out of cigarettes earlier that morning, "Fuck." And then it happened. Bryce felt pain explode inside his chest. It was so sharp, so strong, it seemed to cut right through his entire body. He was so closed off about so much for so long that he never allowed himself to feel anything about all this. He suddenly stood up from his seat, knocking the chair over in the process and quite literally shrieking, “YOU CAN ALL GO TO HELL!” He stalked right up to the desk his therapist was sitting behind, swiping the clipboard out of her hand and slamming it against his knee. Snap. The wood splintered as it split in two. “All of you fuckers! Mom and dad and Haven and Kaiden and Talon. You know what Doc? I don’t recall one fucking time when they ever asked me what I want. And you. You’re the fucking same. You call yourself a fucking doctor? Not once have you fucking asked me what I want to do either! It’s not really about me. Ever. It’s always about you, and them, and every fucking other person but it’s never… ever… EVER about me unless it’s ‘oh Bryce, the poor little shit!’ I don’t need fixing! I don’t need your shit, you stupid, manipulative fucking whore! If shouldn’t have to be here if I don’t want to! I shouldn’t have to sit here and let you pick me apart into teeny little pieces and watch you pretend you understand me! Any idea what the hell it’s like, being treated like a secondary human being by every fucking thing with a pulse? Dogs piss on me. That’s how fucking low I am on the societal food chain. And you know what? I’m fine with that. That’s been my life for as long as I can remember. So fuck you. Don’t you ever act like you know who I am. I’m where I should be and everyone should fucking be satisfied with that and leave me the hell alone." He threw the remnants of the clipboard onto the desk and turned away from his therapist. He was done. Done. "Bryce?" she asked carefully. “What is it you want to do?" He found himself frozen again, his breath caught up in his throat as his hands balled into fists. To be honest, he didn’t know what he wanted to do - about himself, about his family, about his future, “Nothing. I don’t want to do anything. I just wanna…” he trailed off after that, lost for words. He’d waited so long to hear that question from someone, and now that it’d been asked, he had no answer. None at all. "I just want to smoke." And with that, he walked out of the room, passed the security guard he’d thrown a punch at, and left. MEMBER NAME: Smiff AGE: Twenty-One OTHER CHARACTERS: Leanne Sangster ROLEPLAY SAMPLE N/A

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