Camus Comprix The Composite Human Being. [Revamp]
Feb 3, 2015 14:23:45 GMT -7
Post by Camus Comprix on Feb 3, 2015 14:23:45 GMT -7
Name: Camus Comprix (silent s, silent x) A name that almost holds as many mysteries as I.
Bloodlimit: Uchiha
Height: 5 Foot 11 Inches
Weight: 175 pounds
Age: Biologically: 16 Chronologically: 1
Gender: male
Alignment: Chaotic Good.
Birth Country: land of lightning
Village: Kumogakure
Special:
Ninjutsu Specialist Genjutsu Specialist
Weapons
Primary Weapon:
Unnatural Hair
Rank: "C"
Type: Augmentation
Effect: Target's hair or fur color changes drastically to a shade that is uncommon for the Target.
Special: To perform: 3 hours; Duration: Permanent
Drawback: ---
Description: Takes up 0 Augmentation Points. The Target may have fur or hair that is multicolored, streaked, splotched, or slightly luminescent. The Target may also have their hair turned into a different color and it will act as their natural hair color after the performance of this Augmentation Ritual. The Target's hair or fur may also change color with your mood. Change is determined prior to the performance of the Ritual. Target may alter their hair with this ritual 3 times. A 4th time will result in exaggerated coloring, and extreme hair loss with no chance of re-growth.
Limit: Must be a Ritualist for Augmentation Rituals.
Cost: Market Price: 12,000 Ryo Performing Price: 4,000 Ryo
Unnatural Skin
Rank: "C"
Type: Augmentation
Effect: The color of the Target's skin or exoskeleton changes drastically, assuming a hue or texture that is both unnatural and atypical of the target.
Special: To perform: 1 hour; Duration: Permanent
Drawback: ---
Description: Takes up 0 Augmentation Points. This ritual alters the Target's skin color through the Augmentation ritual. Target's skin might be a single color, splotched, or patterned in some freakishly unnatural way (or natural, however completely altered). The Target's skin might gain dynamic pigments that change color based on outside stimuli, such as exposure to ultraviolet light. Change is determined prior to the performance of the Ritual. Target may alter their skin pigment with this ritual 3 times. A 4th time will result in deformation and necrosis against the target's skin.
Limit: Must be a Ritualist for Augmentation Rituals.
Cost: Market Price: 12,000 Ryo Performing Price: 4,000 Ryo
Secondary Items:
- x1 Scroll: Map: National [4,000 Ryo] [1 Slot] [Land of Lightning]
- x2 Kunai [1,000 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x15 Shuriken, Hira [1,500 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x15 Pouch: Explosive [7,500 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x5 Pouch: Flash [2,500 Ryo] [1 Slots]
- x5 Pouch: Smoke [2,500 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x10 Tag: Exploding [1,500 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x3 Tag: Locking [300 Ryo] [1 Slot]
Non-Weapon Items
Utility Belt Type 2 (Overview)
Rank: "C"
Type: Main, Tailor, Slot Holder, Holds 15 Slots (0 for Items of Scroll Length), Harness
Effect: A Belt comprised with multiple vertical clips attached to a belt for easy access and easy removal.
Special: ---
Drawback: ---
Description: Picture, Picture Composed of a Kevlar strap and metal buckle, lined with rubber lacing on the back, the utility belt houses 13 Single Speed Loader pouches, which vertically clip onto the outside of the belt. The buckle itself contains a miniature camera and two-way radio. A secondary compartment behind the length of the belt is used to house 1 slot supply of hira-shurikens. Near the buckle is a modified Speed Loader Pouch that holds 1 slot of Thermal Capsules. The Speed Loader is modified to always keep a Thermal Capsule ready and when one is used another comes in place. Each of the 13 Speed Loader pouches contains various tools integral to what would be needed for the mission ahead, and are interchangeable with other Speed Loader pouches depending on the needs for the mission.
Limit: These type of items may be bought inside any Tailor Shop.
Cost: 1,700 Ryo
Character Depth
Personality:
Cam is arrogant and prideful. Being told that you are the very best of humanity would have this effect--no, being the very best of humanity. He believes himself to have the potential to be the very best. However, people shouldn't take this as him being a dick. In his short time here as a singular being he was spoon-fed this from his creation. He hasn't learned quite yet that there are people who are greater than him by a significant gap, aka he hasn't gotten his ass kicked yet. No greater teacher is life.
He is an individual. He cherishes his ability and the ability of others to simply 'be'. There are moments where he rips himself apart mentally at this ability, questioning what/who/what his purpose is. He knows there isn't a god he can go to the answers for, he obviously wasn't created by god or even in his forge. He is an abomination created by men who thought only of if they could rather than if they should. Free will is something that amazes him to no end, he is very philosophical when he wants to be and can ramble on free will and existence to no end.
Despite of the judgement those ignorant those will pass on him, or even those who aren't, he has a childish goal of wanting to prove to them he is greater than the sum of his parts. Just because he's made from the unwanted doesn't mean he has to be a bad person just like them. He actively seeks to prove he's greater than those he's made of. He has problems convincing himself that the only reason why he tries to do good is because of his own selfish reasons. Doesn't every hero does their good deeds for some degree self satisfaction? Truly, does the reason why he's attempting to good matter? Or is it the nature of the deed in general?
In periods of extreme stress, his speech devolves as his mind finds it harder to use the connections that he's been able to make. The manner in which his speech devolves to is known as metaphoric association. At times unable to make complete sentences he uses phrases/words/media that are in relation to what he is trying to convey. He is unable to find the correct words for what he is trying to convey despite him knowing what he wants to say and the exact words that he would like to use. It being just jumbled up in his brain.
In combat, Cam can and will turn into a ninja. Master of the shadows, stealth and dirty tactics. He isn't afraid to do whatever is necessary to win, as he is a ninja not a samurai. There is no wish wash imbecilic ideas, there is no strategy other than the one that works. He feels the need to retch when he hears people bragging about their 'cool' moves as if that meant anything. He understands there is a difference between overly flashy techniques and just flat out lethal attacks that at the cost of stealth are either extremely lethal or have a multitude of effects.
Appearance:Camus Comprix is exotic. This is the main keyword that describes him and correctly so. His face is a symmetrical starburst of all flesh tones known. From the palest white to the darkest black, it ascends in tone from light to dark. Left to right. While all coming in as a starburst meeting at where a widow’s peak would on a person’s hairline. Like the sun projecting mulitcolored rays of light all over the canvas. There are no scars, only hairline seams where each every little bit of himself meets.
His hair is an inch long. A virtual coat of many colors; streaks extending out from the focal point of multiple skin tones on his forehead. Blond runs down the middle, blending to amber on both the left and the right. Shades of red and black arc back from his temples, then giveway to jet black above his ears, and tight, dark curls at his sideburns.
All in all, he’s a very handsome man. His body is perfect, almost to the point that it appears as if it was made out of marble, perhaps a prototype was. The shape of his body is beautiful; he is perfectly proportioned, muscular and trim. His shoulders are strong and powerful, giving him a wide almost body builder-esque look. The man who created him surely made his body in resemblance to a god. His body skin tones however, are depicted in a different fashion than which his faces were. The changes in skin tone are more gradual on his body it doesn’t vary in the extreme as his face does. Instead, it’s very light and gradual transitions from his right side being dark to his left side being pale.
He has the eyes of an Uchiha. Dark, almost souless pupils that seem to be able to contain the entire abyss. His eyes being the only part that are seemingly mundane, contrasts really well with his appearance. It allows him to know that he has some sort of normalcy, even if it isn’t completely his. His eyes, the only defining part of him that doesn’t shout monster or even the brand of ‘different’.
His attire can range from him dressing in suits which have a mosiac symbolic theme to it, smaller parts adding up and forming something greater as a whole than it would've been apart. However, most of the time in his casual attire he can be seen with some sort of hooded clothing. While on missions, he wears a porecelain mask. Not necessarily anbu in design as it's just plain white. As for pants, he usually wears a pair of dark blue or black jeans.
Background:
Camus Comprix is the first composite human being, created from exactly 100 other human beings. He is made from all LIVING parts, a living fraknenstein. All of his parts forcibly 'donated' to him by prisoners as far as the government knew, and numerous unlucky sacrifices. He is supposed to be the best of humanity. He is also the worst in humanity's eyes. He is made of parts from people that were deemed indecent. Either for stealing, lying, or causing damage to others, property or self. He is not any "one" of the people that make up him, but himself.
Wrists. Ankles. Neck. Strapped down. Itching. Itching all over. Can't move Were the first thoughts of the new humanoid creature. He was made to be akin to a super soldier. His appearance exotic to keep the public enthralled. His face a myriad of all races, made to embody the best of us. On his face you could see the palest white to the darkest black ascending in tone from left to right. Each different tone could be seen as a different seam. Numerous slices of bacon all lined up on a face. He flexs his hands and feet in his bonds. Side to side, up and down. It scratches the itch, but makes it burn.
"You're awake." says a voice that's familiar yet at the same time is not. "Good. Very good." He turns his neck. No one. A chair scrapes up next to him, and a man sits on it inspecting him with his own eyes. This person is smiling, but not smiling. Not really. "I was wondering when you'd wake up." He wears dark pants and a shirt, the pattern on the shirt too blurry to make out. The color... The color. He can't quite put a finger down on the color. "Red-Purple-Blue." He says searching his mind for a clue of what the color is. "Yellow... Blue.... No." His throat hurts from the mere action of speaking. "Grass. Trees. Nature."
"Green." The man says, "That's the word you are looking for, isn't it? My shirt is green."Can this man read minds? Maybe not. Maybe he's just clever. Either way, hearing the word green brought a tinge of satisfaction to the thing's mind. "Do you recognize me?" He asked. " No, Yes." He says, a feeling starting to creep up on him. He starts rustling around a little bit in his bonds. This man shouldn't be trusted. He can be trusted, he's brought us nothing but food and company. A kind smile one. A demented smirk the next. "Hand on stove! Belt buckle- No, Mom no! Falling from bike. Broken arm. Knife. He cut into me with a knife!"
"Pain." Says the man calmly. "Pain is the word you are looking for. You are also quite frightened aren't you?" The words are like magic for they calm down the panic which is running rampant in it's mind. "I am not here to hurt you. You are safe with me." The man says in an attempt to calm him down. "S-Safe." It repeats. He stops rustling in his bonds. The pain and panic goes away, but thoughts that came with the pain are still there. The burned hand; the angry mother; the broken arm; and the cuts from the knife that never happened to him, yet somehow did. Somehow, all of these things were coming back to him. "My name is Steven. But you wouldn't know that, I haven't told you in all the times you've seen me."
"All the times?"
He nods. "You can say you've only seen me once, yet you've also seen me many, many times. What do you think of that?"
It's a marathon again as he searches throughout his mind for he word he wants to say. "Gollum in the caves. Answer or you can't cross the bridge. What's black and white and red all over?"
"Work for it," He says sternly. "I know you can do it."
"Riddle!" He says. "Yes marathon but worth it! The word, riddle." He takes a deep breath, the satisfaction of being able to bridge some of the connections within his mind. Something else took over his mind. "Who?" he asks again.
"I already told you, don't you remmeber?" He says.
"No! WHO?" The boy asks. "Who?" "Oh. Who are you?" The man says. "Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it? Who are you? The commitee could not agree on a name. Of course, everyone has an opinion, the pompous buffoons. So, while they'are dickering about it, perhaps you can choose one for yourself."
"Choose?" Why should he have to choose? Shouldn't he already have one? He runs through a series of names throughout his mind: Matthew, Johnny, Eric, Jose, Chris, Alex, Ryan, Lucas--- and although some of them seem more likely than others, none of them hold the sense of identity a true name should have. He shakes his head trying to find something--- ANYTHING--- about himself into its proper place, thinking about it simply makes his head hurts. "Aspirin. Tylenol-asprin, then count the sheep."
"Yes, I imagine you must be tired. We'll up your pain medication and I'll leave you to get some rest."
Or at least what he thinks is the next day. He's not so tired, and his head doesn't hurt as much, however he's still confused. Two uniformed guards come in with Steven. They undo his bonds and help him to his feet, holding him beneath his armpits. The first moment of standing gives him vertigo. He looks to his bare feet, and seeing only toes sticking out from beneath the pale blue hospital gown he wears.
"Good," says Steven, walking with him. "How does it feel?"
"Flying." was the only response heard. "Do you mean dangerous or exhilarating?"
"Yes," He answers. In his mind, he silently repeats both words, remembering them, pulling them from a massive box of unsorted adjectives and filing them in their proper place. There are so many unsorted words in the box, but bit by bit, it's all beginning to slide into coherent formation. "It's all in there, it's just a matter of finding it." Steven has told him more than once. A knee buckles, and their grip grows tigher.
"Careful, sir."
The guards always call him "sir." It must mean that he commands respect, although he can't imagine why. He envies their ability to simply "be" without having to work at it. They lead him down a massive hallway. This is when he notices he's in less of a hospital, but more of a private residence. There were many portraits on the walls. Up above, in the corner of the ceiling, there's a machine with a ens that zeroes in on him. There's a machine like that in his room, too, constantly watching him in silence. 'Electric eye. Cyclops lens.' He knows the name for the device. It's on the tip of his tongue. "Say cheese!" he says. "It puts on ten pounds. Rolling . . . and . . . Action! A Kodak moment."
"The word you are looking for stats with a c, and that's all the help I'll give you." Steven says. "Cuh-cuh-Cadaver. Cabana. Cavalry. Canadian-Nin"
He purses his lips. " You can do better than that." The thing sighs and gives up before frustration overwhelms him. Thinking and walking were hard enough as it was. They then come through to a door to a place that is both inside and out.
"Balcony!" He says satisfied with himself upon being able to recognize what it was.
"Yes," Steven tells him. "That one came out easy."
Beyond the balcony is an endless sea, shimmering in the warm sun, and before him are two chairs and a small table. On the table are cookies and a white beverage in a crystal pitcher. He should know the name of the beverage. "Comfort food," Steven tells him. "You reward for making the journey. Steven pours the liquid from its crystalline pitcher into crystalline glasses that catch the light, refracting it and splintering it in random projections on the stonework of the balcony.
He takes a bite of cookie. Chocolate chip. Suddenly the intensity of the flavor drags more memories out of hibernation. He thinks of his mother. Then another mother. School lunch. Burning his lip on a freshly baked toll house.
'I like them best chewy and hot. I like them best hard and almost burnt. I'm allergic to chocolate. Chocolate is my favorite.'
He knows all these things are true. How could they all be true?If he's allergic, how could he have so many wonderful chocolate memories? "The marathon riddle continuing," He says. Steven smiles. "That was almost a complete sentence. Here, have something to drink." He holds the glass of cold white liquid to him, and he takes it.
"Have you given any thought towards your name?" Steven asks, just as he takes a sip, and all at once, as the flavorful fluid dislodges a piece of soft cookie from the roof of his mouth, more thoughts fly in. The combination of tastes forces a hundred thoughts through a sieve, leaving behind diamonds. The electric eye machine. He knows what it's called! The white stuff , it's from a cow isn't it? Starts with an M. Electric eye.
"Cam!" Cow juice. "Moo!"
Steven looks at him strangely. "Cam . . . Moo . . ." The boy repeats again.
Steven's eyes sparkle, and he says. "Camus?"
"Cam. Moo."
"Camus! What a splendid name. You've outdone yourself."
"Camera!" He finally says. "Milk!" But, Steven isn't listening anymore. He has sent him to a more exotic place. "Camus, the existential philsopher! 'Live to the point of tears.' Kudos to you, my friend! Kudos!" Camus has no idea what he is talking about, but if it makes him happy, then it makes him happy. It feels good to know that he's impressed him. "You name shall be Camus Composite-Prime... Actually, Composite-Prime is a bit of a mouthful, how about Camus Comprix! Oh yes! Won't the commitee just die!"
The next few months the newly created Camus Comprix would go through extreme physical therapy. He had to get acquainted with his body which would feel ghostly to him, for lack of a better word. He would also start bridging the archipelago which is his mind, making bridges between each island within himself so that he can further use his brain. His ability to communicate has improved a bit. Each day more and more was asked of him, both physically and mentally, but no explanation is given for any of it. "Your own success is its own reward," Steven would tell him many times throughout this.
"The bathroom sink!" He tells steven at dinner one day. It's just the two of them. It's always just the two of them. "The bathroom sink! Now!" He doesn't even have to probe to figure out what he means . "In time you'll know everything there is to know about yourself. Now is not that time."
"Yes, it is!"
"Cam, this conversation is over."
He feels the anger well up inside of himself and doesn't know what to do with it, he can't put enough words together to take it away. Instead it goes to his hands, and before he knows what he's doing, he's hurling a plate across the room, then another, then another. Steven has to duck and now the whole world is flying dishes and silverware and glass. In an instant the guards are on him, pulling him back to his room, strapping him to the bed- something they haven't done in over a week. He rages in his bed for what seems like forever but eventually becomes exhuasted and thus calms down. Steven comes back in. He's bleeding it's a small cut over his left eye, but no matter how small it is. He did it. It's his fault.
Suddenly all of the other emotions are overwhelmed by remorse, which he finds is even more powerful than anger. "Broke my sister's piggy bank," he says in tears. "Destroyed our cart of cabbages. Badness. Badness."
"I know you're sorry," Steven says sounding as tired as him. "I'm sorry too." He gently takes his hand. "You'll be restrained until morning for your outburst, your actions have consequences." Steven then leaves the room, leaving Camus to himself.
Two days later, during the night Cam looks at the scars along his wrists, like hairline bracelets visible now that they removed most of his bandages. He looks down to the thick ropy line stretching down the center of his chest, then forking left and right above his perfectly sculpted abs. Sculpted. Like a piece of marble hewn into human form-- an artist's vision of perfection. This cliffside mansion, Cam now realizes is nothing more than a gallery and he is the work on display. Perhaps he should feel special, but all he feels is alone. He reaches towards his face, which he has been told not to touch. That's when Steven comes in. He knows he's been taking stock of his body, having spied on him via the camera. He's accompanied by two guards, for they can already tell Cam's emotions are starting to surge and threaten a tempest.
"What's wrong, Cam? Tell me. Find the words." Steven says.
His fingertips graze his face, which is filled with strange textures, but he's afraid to truly feel his face, for fear that in his anger he might tear it apart. 'Find the words.....'
"Alice!" he says. "Carol! Alice!" The words are wrong he knows they are wrong, but they are the closest he can get to what he wants to say. All he can do is circle, circle, circle, the point, lost in orbit around his own mind. "Alice!" He points to the bathroom. "Carol." A guard grins knowingly, but knowing nothing at all. "Maybe he's remembering past girlfriends." "QUIET!" Snaps Steven. "Go on, Cam." He closes his eyes forcing the thought to take shape, but the only form that comes is the ridiculous shape of--
"Walrus!" His thoughts are useless pointless. He despises himself. But then Roberta says, ". . . and the carpenter" He snaps his eyes to her. "Yes! Yes!" Somehow, as random as those two things are, they make perfect sense. " 'The Walrus and the carpenter,' An absurd poem that makes even less sense than you! It was written by Lewis Carroll. Who also wrote---" Steven says, being interrupted by Camus.
"Alice!"
"Yes, he wrote Alice in Wonderland, and through the--"
"Looking Glass!" Cam finishes and points to the bathroom. "Through the looking glass!" He knows that's not the word people use for it anymore however. The modern word is-- "Mirror!" He shouts. "My face! In the mirror! My face!" There is not a single reflective surface anywhere in the mansion, at least in the rooms he's been in. "Mirror!" He shouts triumphantly. "I want to look in a mirror. I want to look now! Show me!" It is hte clearest level of communication he has yet to achieve. Surely Steven will reward me. "Show me! Show me now!" He shouts.
"Enough!" says Steven with enough calculated force in his voice. "Not today. You're not ready!"
"No!" He touches his face with his fingers, this time hard enough that it begins to hurt. "Seeing will lighten the load not break the camel's back!" The guards look to Steven, ready to leap in to restrain him, and tie him once more to his bead where he cant hurt himself. Steven doesn't give the order, instead he hesitates. Considers. Then finally says, "Come with me." They leave the room. Steven leads him to a full length mirror against the wall. He can know see himself head to toe. He sheds the hospital gown and stands there in his shorts looking at himself. The shape of his body is beautiful; he is perfectly proportioned, muscular and trim. For a moment he thinks he is maybe Narcissus after all, absorbed in vanity. He steps closer and closer into the light, he can see the scars. He knew that they were, but to see them all at once is overwhelming. They are ugly, and they're everywhere. But nowhere are they more pronounced than on his face. That face is a nightmare. All different shades, like a living quilt being stretched acrossed the bone, muscle and cartilage beneath. Even his head, clean shaven when he awoke, but now filling in with peach fuzz hair, has different colors and textures sprouting like uneven fields of clashing crops. His eyes ache from the sight of himself and tears cloud them.
"Why?" is all he can think to say. He turns away from his own reflection, trying to disappear into his own shoulder, but Steven gently touches that shoulder. "Don't look away, have the strength to see what I see."
He forces himself to look again, but all he can see area the scars.
"Monster!" he says. That word comes from so many different bits of memory, he needs no help in finding it. "Frankenstein!"
"No, never think that! That monster was made from dead flesh, but you are made of the living! That creature was a violation of all things natural, but you, Cam, you are a new world wonder!" Steven starts to point out his many miraculous parts. "Your legs belonged to a delivery ninja," he tells him, " and your heart to a boy who could've been a world renown swimmer, had he not been convicted. Your arms and shoulders once belonged to the best Taijustu master in the entire prison! Your hands? They played guitar with rare and glorious talent!" He smiles, and catches Cam's gaze in the mirror. "As for your eyes, and optical nerves they came from an Uchiha!" There is a certain amount of pride of which he speaks of him. It's a pride he cannot quite yet feel himself.
Steven then puts a finger to his temple. " But the best of it all is right in here!" He drags his finger across his cranium pointing out different spots like travel destinations on a globe. "Your left frontal lobe holds the analytical and computational skills of seven kids who tested at the genius level in math and science. Your right frontal lobe combines the creative cores of almost a dozen poets, artists and musicians. Your occipital lobe holds neuron bundles from an Uchiha with photographic memory. All of this is just waiting to be reactivated!"
He touches his chin, turning him to face him/ His eyes which seemed so far away in the mirror, are now only inches away from his. They are hypnotic and overpowering. "You are not random, Cam. You are intelligently designed. Every part of you was handpicked from the best and the brightest. I was there at each acquisition So you would see me, hear me, and know me once all the parts were united." He shakes his head. "Those poor kids were too dysfunctional to know how to use the gifts they were given, but know, even divided , they can finally be completed through you!"
Yes he had seen him! Standing beside the operating table without as much as a surgical mask cover her face, because the point, he now realizes, was for her to be seen and remembered. But it wasn't just one operating room was it? An identical memory. From dozens of places in his mind. But it's not his mind is it? It's their minds. All of them. Crying out. Please, please make this stop. Until there was no more voice to beg. No mind to scream. At that singular moment when "I am" becomes "I'm not . . ."
He takes a deep shuddering breath. Those final memories are a part of him now, spliced together, like the skin of his face. The memories are impossible to bear,and yet he bears them. Only now does he realize how strong he truly must be to hold the memory of a hundred condemned without crumbling to nothing.
With a finger he traces the lines of his face, down the side of his nose to his cheek. Left, then right. Out from the symmetrical starburst of flesh tones on his forehead, then beyond to the lines that spread beneath his hairline. He dips his finger into the healing cream again and spreads it across the lines running down the nape of his neck, his shoulders , his chest, and every other place that he can reach. He can feel the tingling as the engineered microorganisms in the cream do their job. He's been assured when the treatment is done, he'll have no scars at all, just hairline seams where each every little bit of himself meets. His cream spreading ritual takes him half an hour, twice a day and he's come to enjoy the Zen-like nature of it. It's been two months since the 'mirror' incident, and now his seams look less like strips of bacon and more like actual skin. The treatment was far from done however. He was starting to look more and more exotic and less and less Frakenstein-esque. He sees his mind now as an archipelago of islands that he labors to build bridges between--and while he's had great success engineering the most spectacular of bridges he suspects there are some islands he'll never reach.
There's a knock at his door. "Are you ready?" It's Steven.
"Reins in your fist," He tells him.
A pause, then, "Very funny. 'Hold your horses.'"
Cam laughs. He no longer needs to speak in metaphors--He's created enough bridges in his mind to bring some normality to his speech-- but he enjoys testing Steven and trying to stump him. He dresses in a tailored shirt and tie. The tie's muted colors, yet bold, fractal pattern, were specifically chosen to project a sense of aesthetic composition; a subliminal suggestion that an artistic whole is always greater than the sum of its parts. He fumbles with the tie. While his brain knows how to tie it, his virtuoso fingers obviously had never learned how to do a Windsor knot. He must focus and overcome the frustrating lack of muscle memory.
Steven knocks again, this time a little more insistently now. "It's time."
He takes a moment to admire himself in the mirror. His hair is just about an inch long now. A virtual coat of many colors; streaks extending out from the focal point of multiple skin tones on his forehead. Blond runs down the middle, blending to amber on both the left and the right. Shades of red and black arc back from his temples, then give way to jet black above his ears, and tight, dark curls at his sideburns.
Finally he opens the door before Steven's knocking becomes even more frantic. His dress is a little more classy than usual. He wears a plain suit, it's still very understated however. It's all calculated to keep the focus on him. He takes Camus by the arm
"Come, they're waiting for you."
"How many?"
"We didn't want you to be overwhelmed by your first press conference, so we limited to thirty." His heart beats heavily, and he must take a few deep breaths to slow it down. He doesn't know why he should be so nervous. They have prepared him with three mock press conferences already, where questions were hurled at him in rapid succession. In each of those he did just fine. This one, however, is real. This time he's about to be officially introduced to a world that is unprepared for him. The faces he saw at those fake press conferences were friendly ones pretending not to be, but today he will be facing actual strangers. Some will be curious, others amazed, and some might be flat out horrified. Steven told him to expect this. They arrived in the living room where the press conferences was to be.
:Since time immemorial, mankind has dreamed of creating life,” Steven begins, his voice amplified and larger than life. Flashes of light reach the top of the stairs. Cam can’t see the images from his presentation but he knows them. He’s seen it all before. “But the great mystery of life itself has been elusive, and every dream of creation has been ended in humbling failure. There’s a good reason for that. We can’t create what we don’t understand, so until we understand what life is, how can we ever create it? No-- instead it is the task of science to take what we already have and build on it. Not create life, but perfect it. So we put forth the question, how can we recombine both our intellectual and physical evolution into the finest version of ourselves, the best of all of us combined? As it turns out, the answer was simple once we knew the right question.” He pauses to build the suspense. “Ladies and gents, I present to you Camus Comprix, the world’s first fully composite human being!” At the sound of applause, Cam begins his entrance.
His posture proud but gait casual. The audience is still in shadows as he descends and all of the lights are focused on him. He can feel the weight and heat of the spotlights, and although he’s in a familiar place, it’s as if they turned the living room into a movie theater.
Silence. “Well, I have to say, you’re a very well put-together group.” Chuckles all around. He’s surprised by the amplified timbre of his own voice, a resonant baritone that sounds more confident than he actually is. “Pleased to meet you, Camus,” says a man in a suit that’s seen much better days. “I understand you’re made of almost a hundred different people is that true?”
“Ninety-nine to be exact,” Cam says with a grin. “But there’s room for one more.” The group of reporters laugh again, less nervously than the first time. He calls on a woman with big hair. He can feel her disapproval like a wave of heat. “ You’re clearly... ummm... a unique creation. How does it feel to know you were rather invented than born?”
“I was born, just not all at the same time, and I wasn't invented, I was reinvented. There’s a difference.”
“Mr. Comprix-- I’m an expert in dialects, but i can’t seem to place yours. You keep shifting in and out of vocal styles." Cam hasn't considered this before. It's hard enough to put thoughts into words, without thinking about how those words are coming out. "Well, I suppose that all depends on what brain cells I'm wrangling." He replies. "So then your verbal eloquence came hardwired?" This kind of question was one he didn't expect.
"If I were a computer, it would be hardwired, but I'm not. I'm 100 percent organic. Human. But to answer your question, some of my skills came from before, some have come since, and I'm sure I'll grow as a human being."
"But you are not a human being," someone shouts from the back. "You might be made from them, but you're no more human than a football is a pig." Something about this statement.. This accusation, cuts him in an unguarded place. He's not prepared for the emotion it brings forth. "Bull seeing red!" He shouts, it comes out before he can funnel it through his language center. He clears his throat and attempts to find the correct words. "You're trying to provoke me. Perhaps there's a blade you're hiding behind your cape, but it wont keep you from getting gored."
"Is that a threat?"
"I don't know, was that an insult?" After a couple of breaths and murmuring from the crowd. He's made it interesting for them. Steven gives him a warning glance, but Cam suddenly feels the rage of dozens of kids swelling inside of him. He must give it voice. "Is there anyone else out there who thinks I'm somehow subhuman?" He looks towards the crowd and many hands go up about 75 percent of the attendance. "You people are all short minded and have no distance!"
"Sounds like you are very sure of yourself," someone says. "Who said that!?!?" He looks around the crowd no one wants to take responsibility. "I'm full of everyone else and that's spectacular."
Steven approaches and attempts to take over the microphone but Camu resists and pushes him away. "No! They want to know the truth I'm telling them the truth!" Suddenly the questions came like bullets.
"Did they tell you to say all this?"
"Is there a reason why you were made?"
"Do you know all their names?"
"Do you dream their dreams?"
"Do you feel their deaths?"
"If you are made of the unwanted what makes you think you're any better?"
The questions come so fast and with such intensity, Cam can feel his mind rattle itself into fragments. He doesn't know which one to answer if he can even answer any of them.
"What legal rights should a composite being such as yourself have?"
"Can you reproduce?"
"Should he reproduce?"
"Is he even alive?"
He can't slow his breathing. He can't capture his own thoughts. He can't see clearly. Voices make no sense, and he can see only parts, but not the larger picture. Faces. A microphone. Steven is grabbing him, trying to focus him, trying to get him to look at him, but his head can't stop shaking. "Red light! Brake pedal! Brick wall! Pencils down!" He takes a deep shuddering breath. "Stop?" It's a plea to Steven. He can make this all go away. He can do anything.
"Looks like he's not put together so tight." Someone says, and everyone laughs.
He grabs the microphone one more time, his lips pressed against it. Screeching. Distorted.
"I am more than the parts I'm made of!"
"I am more!"
"I am..."
"I..."
"i..."
And a single voice says calmly, simply, "What if you're not?"
"..."
"That's all for now," Steven tells the jabbering crowd. "Thank you for coming."
"His palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy. There's vomit on his mom's spaghetti."
Camus is in full mental and emotional regression. All kinds of theories for his backward slide are postulated and debated. Perhaps his parts are rejecting one another. Perhaps his new neural connections are overloaded with conflicting information and have begun to collapse. The reality of it is that he has simply stopped speaking, stopped performing for them, he's even stopped eating and is now on an IV. All nature of tests have been done on him, but Cam knows the tests will show nothing, because they can't probe his mind. They can't quantify his will to live- or lack of will. Steven paces into his bedroom. At first he showed great concern, but over the past few weeks his concern has mildewed into frustration and anger. "Do you think I don't know what you're donig?" He responds by tugging his IV out of his arm. He quickly comes over and reconnects it.
"You are being a stubborn, obstinate child!"
"Socrates," he tells her. "Hemlock! Bottoms up!"
"No, I will not allow you to take your own life! It's not yours to take! If you won't live for yourself," he says, pacing around the room frantically. "Then do it for me. Thrive for me. You've become my life, you know that, don't you? If you die, you'll be taking me with you." He says trying to meet Cam's eyes. "Unfair." He says, deliberately avoiding eye contact. " I admit, the press conference was a mistake, It as too soon. You weren't ready, but I've been out there doing some pretty effective damage control. The next time you face the public it will be different." He says comfortingly. Only know does Camus meet his eyes. "There won't be a next time." Steven smiles at the response of a coherent sentence. "Oh, so you can put together a coherent thought." Cam squirms and looks away again. "Of course I can. I've just been choosing not to." He pats his hand, his eyes moist. "You're a good boy, Cam. A sensitive boy. I will make sure we don't forget that. I'll also make sure you get whatever you want-- whatever you need. No one will force you to do anything you don't want to."
"I don't want the public." He replies simply. “I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought, and I believe what you need is to become a ninja. Meet some friends go out in the world. Create a name for yourself, then the public will be able to accept you based on your deeds. Dampen their judgement.”
The idea intrigues him. It makes him realize he hungers for more than mere sustenance. He hungers for connection. He’s seen no one his age since his creation. His age, he’s decided is 16. No one can tell him any different. To have companions that were born not made would bring him one step closer to being truly human. Camus knows Steven has an ulterior motive to asking him this, but he doesn't care. Once more he reaches for his IV line.
“Cam, don’t” pleads Steven. “Please, don’t.”
“Don’t worry.” He disconnects the IV and gets out of bed for the first time in weeks. His joints ache almost as badly as his seams. He walks to the window and peers out. He wasn't even aware of the time of day until now. Dusk. The setting sun hides behind a cloud just above the horizon. The sea shimmers, and the sky is a brilliant canvas of color. Could Steven be right? Cold he have as much of a claim on this world as anyone else? Could he have more? “Self-determination. I will make decisions for myself now.” He decrees. “Of course, of course, and I’ll be right here to advise you.” Cam looks him in the eye. “Advise, not order. Not control. I will choose what I do, and when I do it. And I will forge my own path in this world.”
“Agreed.” Steven nods. “Good. I’m hungry, have them bring me a steak. No... have them bring me lobster. No. Have them bring me both.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Cam.” And Steven hurries off to do his bidding.
Bloodlimit: Uchiha
Height: 5 Foot 11 Inches
Weight: 175 pounds
Age: Biologically: 16 Chronologically: 1
Gender: male
Alignment: Chaotic Good.
Birth Country: land of lightning
Village: Kumogakure
Special:
Ninjutsu Specialist Genjutsu Specialist
Weapons
Primary Weapon:
Unnatural Hair
Rank: "C"
Type: Augmentation
Effect: Target's hair or fur color changes drastically to a shade that is uncommon for the Target.
Special: To perform: 3 hours; Duration: Permanent
Drawback: ---
Description: Takes up 0 Augmentation Points. The Target may have fur or hair that is multicolored, streaked, splotched, or slightly luminescent. The Target may also have their hair turned into a different color and it will act as their natural hair color after the performance of this Augmentation Ritual. The Target's hair or fur may also change color with your mood. Change is determined prior to the performance of the Ritual. Target may alter their hair with this ritual 3 times. A 4th time will result in exaggerated coloring, and extreme hair loss with no chance of re-growth.
Limit: Must be a Ritualist for Augmentation Rituals.
Cost: Market Price: 12,000 Ryo Performing Price: 4,000 Ryo
Unnatural Skin
Rank: "C"
Type: Augmentation
Effect: The color of the Target's skin or exoskeleton changes drastically, assuming a hue or texture that is both unnatural and atypical of the target.
Special: To perform: 1 hour; Duration: Permanent
Drawback: ---
Description: Takes up 0 Augmentation Points. This ritual alters the Target's skin color through the Augmentation ritual. Target's skin might be a single color, splotched, or patterned in some freakishly unnatural way (or natural, however completely altered). The Target's skin might gain dynamic pigments that change color based on outside stimuli, such as exposure to ultraviolet light. Change is determined prior to the performance of the Ritual. Target may alter their skin pigment with this ritual 3 times. A 4th time will result in deformation and necrosis against the target's skin.
Limit: Must be a Ritualist for Augmentation Rituals.
Cost: Market Price: 12,000 Ryo Performing Price: 4,000 Ryo
Secondary Items:
- x1 Scroll: Map: National [4,000 Ryo] [1 Slot] [Land of Lightning]
- x2 Kunai [1,000 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x15 Shuriken, Hira [1,500 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x15 Pouch: Explosive [7,500 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x5 Pouch: Flash [2,500 Ryo] [1 Slots]
- x5 Pouch: Smoke [2,500 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x10 Tag: Exploding [1,500 Ryo] [1 Slot]
- x3 Tag: Locking [300 Ryo] [1 Slot]
Non-Weapon Items
Utility Belt Type 2 (Overview)
Rank: "C"
Type: Main, Tailor, Slot Holder, Holds 15 Slots (0 for Items of Scroll Length), Harness
Effect: A Belt comprised with multiple vertical clips attached to a belt for easy access and easy removal.
Special: ---
Drawback: ---
Description: Picture, Picture Composed of a Kevlar strap and metal buckle, lined with rubber lacing on the back, the utility belt houses 13 Single Speed Loader pouches, which vertically clip onto the outside of the belt. The buckle itself contains a miniature camera and two-way radio. A secondary compartment behind the length of the belt is used to house 1 slot supply of hira-shurikens. Near the buckle is a modified Speed Loader Pouch that holds 1 slot of Thermal Capsules. The Speed Loader is modified to always keep a Thermal Capsule ready and when one is used another comes in place. Each of the 13 Speed Loader pouches contains various tools integral to what would be needed for the mission ahead, and are interchangeable with other Speed Loader pouches depending on the needs for the mission.
Limit: These type of items may be bought inside any Tailor Shop.
Cost: 1,700 Ryo
Character Depth
Personality:
Cam is arrogant and prideful. Being told that you are the very best of humanity would have this effect--no, being the very best of humanity. He believes himself to have the potential to be the very best. However, people shouldn't take this as him being a dick. In his short time here as a singular being he was spoon-fed this from his creation. He hasn't learned quite yet that there are people who are greater than him by a significant gap, aka he hasn't gotten his ass kicked yet. No greater teacher is life.
He is an individual. He cherishes his ability and the ability of others to simply 'be'. There are moments where he rips himself apart mentally at this ability, questioning what/who/what his purpose is. He knows there isn't a god he can go to the answers for, he obviously wasn't created by god or even in his forge. He is an abomination created by men who thought only of if they could rather than if they should. Free will is something that amazes him to no end, he is very philosophical when he wants to be and can ramble on free will and existence to no end.
Despite of the judgement those ignorant those will pass on him, or even those who aren't, he has a childish goal of wanting to prove to them he is greater than the sum of his parts. Just because he's made from the unwanted doesn't mean he has to be a bad person just like them. He actively seeks to prove he's greater than those he's made of. He has problems convincing himself that the only reason why he tries to do good is because of his own selfish reasons. Doesn't every hero does their good deeds for some degree self satisfaction? Truly, does the reason why he's attempting to good matter? Or is it the nature of the deed in general?
In periods of extreme stress, his speech devolves as his mind finds it harder to use the connections that he's been able to make. The manner in which his speech devolves to is known as metaphoric association. At times unable to make complete sentences he uses phrases/words/media that are in relation to what he is trying to convey. He is unable to find the correct words for what he is trying to convey despite him knowing what he wants to say and the exact words that he would like to use. It being just jumbled up in his brain.
In combat, Cam can and will turn into a ninja. Master of the shadows, stealth and dirty tactics. He isn't afraid to do whatever is necessary to win, as he is a ninja not a samurai. There is no wish wash imbecilic ideas, there is no strategy other than the one that works. He feels the need to retch when he hears people bragging about their 'cool' moves as if that meant anything. He understands there is a difference between overly flashy techniques and just flat out lethal attacks that at the cost of stealth are either extremely lethal or have a multitude of effects.
Appearance:Camus Comprix is exotic. This is the main keyword that describes him and correctly so. His face is a symmetrical starburst of all flesh tones known. From the palest white to the darkest black, it ascends in tone from light to dark. Left to right. While all coming in as a starburst meeting at where a widow’s peak would on a person’s hairline. Like the sun projecting mulitcolored rays of light all over the canvas. There are no scars, only hairline seams where each every little bit of himself meets.
His hair is an inch long. A virtual coat of many colors; streaks extending out from the focal point of multiple skin tones on his forehead. Blond runs down the middle, blending to amber on both the left and the right. Shades of red and black arc back from his temples, then giveway to jet black above his ears, and tight, dark curls at his sideburns.
All in all, he’s a very handsome man. His body is perfect, almost to the point that it appears as if it was made out of marble, perhaps a prototype was. The shape of his body is beautiful; he is perfectly proportioned, muscular and trim. His shoulders are strong and powerful, giving him a wide almost body builder-esque look. The man who created him surely made his body in resemblance to a god. His body skin tones however, are depicted in a different fashion than which his faces were. The changes in skin tone are more gradual on his body it doesn’t vary in the extreme as his face does. Instead, it’s very light and gradual transitions from his right side being dark to his left side being pale.
He has the eyes of an Uchiha. Dark, almost souless pupils that seem to be able to contain the entire abyss. His eyes being the only part that are seemingly mundane, contrasts really well with his appearance. It allows him to know that he has some sort of normalcy, even if it isn’t completely his. His eyes, the only defining part of him that doesn’t shout monster or even the brand of ‘different’.
His attire can range from him dressing in suits which have a mosiac symbolic theme to it, smaller parts adding up and forming something greater as a whole than it would've been apart. However, most of the time in his casual attire he can be seen with some sort of hooded clothing. While on missions, he wears a porecelain mask. Not necessarily anbu in design as it's just plain white. As for pants, he usually wears a pair of dark blue or black jeans.
Background:
Overview
Camus Comprix is the first composite human being, created from exactly 100 other human beings. He is made from all LIVING parts, a living fraknenstein. All of his parts forcibly 'donated' to him by prisoners as far as the government knew, and numerous unlucky sacrifices. He is supposed to be the best of humanity. He is also the worst in humanity's eyes. He is made of parts from people that were deemed indecent. Either for stealing, lying, or causing damage to others, property or self. He is not any "one" of the people that make up him, but himself.
The First Day
Wrists. Ankles. Neck. Strapped down. Itching. Itching all over. Can't move Were the first thoughts of the new humanoid creature. He was made to be akin to a super soldier. His appearance exotic to keep the public enthralled. His face a myriad of all races, made to embody the best of us. On his face you could see the palest white to the darkest black ascending in tone from left to right. Each different tone could be seen as a different seam. Numerous slices of bacon all lined up on a face. He flexs his hands and feet in his bonds. Side to side, up and down. It scratches the itch, but makes it burn.
"You're awake." says a voice that's familiar yet at the same time is not. "Good. Very good." He turns his neck. No one. A chair scrapes up next to him, and a man sits on it inspecting him with his own eyes. This person is smiling, but not smiling. Not really. "I was wondering when you'd wake up." He wears dark pants and a shirt, the pattern on the shirt too blurry to make out. The color... The color. He can't quite put a finger down on the color. "Red-Purple-Blue." He says searching his mind for a clue of what the color is. "Yellow... Blue.... No." His throat hurts from the mere action of speaking. "Grass. Trees. Nature."
"Green." The man says, "That's the word you are looking for, isn't it? My shirt is green."Can this man read minds? Maybe not. Maybe he's just clever. Either way, hearing the word green brought a tinge of satisfaction to the thing's mind. "Do you recognize me?" He asked. " No, Yes." He says, a feeling starting to creep up on him. He starts rustling around a little bit in his bonds. This man shouldn't be trusted. He can be trusted, he's brought us nothing but food and company. A kind smile one. A demented smirk the next. "Hand on stove! Belt buckle- No, Mom no! Falling from bike. Broken arm. Knife. He cut into me with a knife!"
"Pain." Says the man calmly. "Pain is the word you are looking for. You are also quite frightened aren't you?" The words are like magic for they calm down the panic which is running rampant in it's mind. "I am not here to hurt you. You are safe with me." The man says in an attempt to calm him down. "S-Safe." It repeats. He stops rustling in his bonds. The pain and panic goes away, but thoughts that came with the pain are still there. The burned hand; the angry mother; the broken arm; and the cuts from the knife that never happened to him, yet somehow did. Somehow, all of these things were coming back to him. "My name is Steven. But you wouldn't know that, I haven't told you in all the times you've seen me."
"All the times?"
He nods. "You can say you've only seen me once, yet you've also seen me many, many times. What do you think of that?"
It's a marathon again as he searches throughout his mind for he word he wants to say. "Gollum in the caves. Answer or you can't cross the bridge. What's black and white and red all over?"
"Work for it," He says sternly. "I know you can do it."
"Riddle!" He says. "Yes marathon but worth it! The word, riddle." He takes a deep breath, the satisfaction of being able to bridge some of the connections within his mind. Something else took over his mind. "Who?" he asks again.
"I already told you, don't you remmeber?" He says.
"No! WHO?" The boy asks. "Who?" "Oh. Who are you?" The man says. "Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it? Who are you? The commitee could not agree on a name. Of course, everyone has an opinion, the pompous buffoons. So, while they'are dickering about it, perhaps you can choose one for yourself."
"Choose?" Why should he have to choose? Shouldn't he already have one? He runs through a series of names throughout his mind: Matthew, Johnny, Eric, Jose, Chris, Alex, Ryan, Lucas--- and although some of them seem more likely than others, none of them hold the sense of identity a true name should have. He shakes his head trying to find something--- ANYTHING--- about himself into its proper place, thinking about it simply makes his head hurts. "Aspirin. Tylenol-asprin, then count the sheep."
"Yes, I imagine you must be tired. We'll up your pain medication and I'll leave you to get some rest."
The next day.
Or at least what he thinks is the next day. He's not so tired, and his head doesn't hurt as much, however he's still confused. Two uniformed guards come in with Steven. They undo his bonds and help him to his feet, holding him beneath his armpits. The first moment of standing gives him vertigo. He looks to his bare feet, and seeing only toes sticking out from beneath the pale blue hospital gown he wears.
"Good," says Steven, walking with him. "How does it feel?"
"Flying." was the only response heard. "Do you mean dangerous or exhilarating?"
"Yes," He answers. In his mind, he silently repeats both words, remembering them, pulling them from a massive box of unsorted adjectives and filing them in their proper place. There are so many unsorted words in the box, but bit by bit, it's all beginning to slide into coherent formation. "It's all in there, it's just a matter of finding it." Steven has told him more than once. A knee buckles, and their grip grows tigher.
"Careful, sir."
The guards always call him "sir." It must mean that he commands respect, although he can't imagine why. He envies their ability to simply "be" without having to work at it. They lead him down a massive hallway. This is when he notices he's in less of a hospital, but more of a private residence. There were many portraits on the walls. Up above, in the corner of the ceiling, there's a machine with a ens that zeroes in on him. There's a machine like that in his room, too, constantly watching him in silence. 'Electric eye. Cyclops lens.' He knows the name for the device. It's on the tip of his tongue. "Say cheese!" he says. "It puts on ten pounds. Rolling . . . and . . . Action! A Kodak moment."
"The word you are looking for stats with a c, and that's all the help I'll give you." Steven says. "Cuh-cuh-Cadaver. Cabana. Cavalry. Canadian-Nin"
He purses his lips. " You can do better than that." The thing sighs and gives up before frustration overwhelms him. Thinking and walking were hard enough as it was. They then come through to a door to a place that is both inside and out.
"Balcony!" He says satisfied with himself upon being able to recognize what it was.
"Yes," Steven tells him. "That one came out easy."
Beyond the balcony is an endless sea, shimmering in the warm sun, and before him are two chairs and a small table. On the table are cookies and a white beverage in a crystal pitcher. He should know the name of the beverage. "Comfort food," Steven tells him. "You reward for making the journey. Steven pours the liquid from its crystalline pitcher into crystalline glasses that catch the light, refracting it and splintering it in random projections on the stonework of the balcony.
He takes a bite of cookie. Chocolate chip. Suddenly the intensity of the flavor drags more memories out of hibernation. He thinks of his mother. Then another mother. School lunch. Burning his lip on a freshly baked toll house.
'I like them best chewy and hot. I like them best hard and almost burnt. I'm allergic to chocolate. Chocolate is my favorite.'
He knows all these things are true. How could they all be true?If he's allergic, how could he have so many wonderful chocolate memories? "The marathon riddle continuing," He says. Steven smiles. "That was almost a complete sentence. Here, have something to drink." He holds the glass of cold white liquid to him, and he takes it.
"Have you given any thought towards your name?" Steven asks, just as he takes a sip, and all at once, as the flavorful fluid dislodges a piece of soft cookie from the roof of his mouth, more thoughts fly in. The combination of tastes forces a hundred thoughts through a sieve, leaving behind diamonds. The electric eye machine. He knows what it's called! The white stuff , it's from a cow isn't it? Starts with an M. Electric eye.
"Cam!" Cow juice. "Moo!"
Steven looks at him strangely. "Cam . . . Moo . . ." The boy repeats again.
Steven's eyes sparkle, and he says. "Camus?"
"Cam. Moo."
"Camus! What a splendid name. You've outdone yourself."
"Camera!" He finally says. "Milk!" But, Steven isn't listening anymore. He has sent him to a more exotic place. "Camus, the existential philsopher! 'Live to the point of tears.' Kudos to you, my friend! Kudos!" Camus has no idea what he is talking about, but if it makes him happy, then it makes him happy. It feels good to know that he's impressed him. "You name shall be Camus Composite-Prime... Actually, Composite-Prime is a bit of a mouthful, how about Camus Comprix! Oh yes! Won't the commitee just die!"
The next few months the newly created Camus Comprix would go through extreme physical therapy. He had to get acquainted with his body which would feel ghostly to him, for lack of a better word. He would also start bridging the archipelago which is his mind, making bridges between each island within himself so that he can further use his brain. His ability to communicate has improved a bit. Each day more and more was asked of him, both physically and mentally, but no explanation is given for any of it. "Your own success is its own reward," Steven would tell him many times throughout this.
The Dinner.
"The bathroom sink!" He tells steven at dinner one day. It's just the two of them. It's always just the two of them. "The bathroom sink! Now!" He doesn't even have to probe to figure out what he means . "In time you'll know everything there is to know about yourself. Now is not that time."
"Yes, it is!"
"Cam, this conversation is over."
He feels the anger well up inside of himself and doesn't know what to do with it, he can't put enough words together to take it away. Instead it goes to his hands, and before he knows what he's doing, he's hurling a plate across the room, then another, then another. Steven has to duck and now the whole world is flying dishes and silverware and glass. In an instant the guards are on him, pulling him back to his room, strapping him to the bed- something they haven't done in over a week. He rages in his bed for what seems like forever but eventually becomes exhuasted and thus calms down. Steven comes back in. He's bleeding it's a small cut over his left eye, but no matter how small it is. He did it. It's his fault.
Suddenly all of the other emotions are overwhelmed by remorse, which he finds is even more powerful than anger. "Broke my sister's piggy bank," he says in tears. "Destroyed our cart of cabbages. Badness. Badness."
"I know you're sorry," Steven says sounding as tired as him. "I'm sorry too." He gently takes his hand. "You'll be restrained until morning for your outburst, your actions have consequences." Steven then leaves the room, leaving Camus to himself.
The Mirror
Two days later, during the night Cam looks at the scars along his wrists, like hairline bracelets visible now that they removed most of his bandages. He looks down to the thick ropy line stretching down the center of his chest, then forking left and right above his perfectly sculpted abs. Sculpted. Like a piece of marble hewn into human form-- an artist's vision of perfection. This cliffside mansion, Cam now realizes is nothing more than a gallery and he is the work on display. Perhaps he should feel special, but all he feels is alone. He reaches towards his face, which he has been told not to touch. That's when Steven comes in. He knows he's been taking stock of his body, having spied on him via the camera. He's accompanied by two guards, for they can already tell Cam's emotions are starting to surge and threaten a tempest.
"What's wrong, Cam? Tell me. Find the words." Steven says.
His fingertips graze his face, which is filled with strange textures, but he's afraid to truly feel his face, for fear that in his anger he might tear it apart. 'Find the words.....'
"Alice!" he says. "Carol! Alice!" The words are wrong he knows they are wrong, but they are the closest he can get to what he wants to say. All he can do is circle, circle, circle, the point, lost in orbit around his own mind. "Alice!" He points to the bathroom. "Carol." A guard grins knowingly, but knowing nothing at all. "Maybe he's remembering past girlfriends." "QUIET!" Snaps Steven. "Go on, Cam." He closes his eyes forcing the thought to take shape, but the only form that comes is the ridiculous shape of--
"Walrus!" His thoughts are useless pointless. He despises himself. But then Roberta says, ". . . and the carpenter" He snaps his eyes to her. "Yes! Yes!" Somehow, as random as those two things are, they make perfect sense. " 'The Walrus and the carpenter,' An absurd poem that makes even less sense than you! It was written by Lewis Carroll. Who also wrote---" Steven says, being interrupted by Camus.
"Alice!"
"Yes, he wrote Alice in Wonderland, and through the--"
"Looking Glass!" Cam finishes and points to the bathroom. "Through the looking glass!" He knows that's not the word people use for it anymore however. The modern word is-- "Mirror!" He shouts. "My face! In the mirror! My face!" There is not a single reflective surface anywhere in the mansion, at least in the rooms he's been in. "Mirror!" He shouts triumphantly. "I want to look in a mirror. I want to look now! Show me!" It is hte clearest level of communication he has yet to achieve. Surely Steven will reward me. "Show me! Show me now!" He shouts.
"Enough!" says Steven with enough calculated force in his voice. "Not today. You're not ready!"
"No!" He touches his face with his fingers, this time hard enough that it begins to hurt. "Seeing will lighten the load not break the camel's back!" The guards look to Steven, ready to leap in to restrain him, and tie him once more to his bead where he cant hurt himself. Steven doesn't give the order, instead he hesitates. Considers. Then finally says, "Come with me." They leave the room. Steven leads him to a full length mirror against the wall. He can know see himself head to toe. He sheds the hospital gown and stands there in his shorts looking at himself. The shape of his body is beautiful; he is perfectly proportioned, muscular and trim. For a moment he thinks he is maybe Narcissus after all, absorbed in vanity. He steps closer and closer into the light, he can see the scars. He knew that they were, but to see them all at once is overwhelming. They are ugly, and they're everywhere. But nowhere are they more pronounced than on his face. That face is a nightmare. All different shades, like a living quilt being stretched acrossed the bone, muscle and cartilage beneath. Even his head, clean shaven when he awoke, but now filling in with peach fuzz hair, has different colors and textures sprouting like uneven fields of clashing crops. His eyes ache from the sight of himself and tears cloud them.
"Why?" is all he can think to say. He turns away from his own reflection, trying to disappear into his own shoulder, but Steven gently touches that shoulder. "Don't look away, have the strength to see what I see."
He forces himself to look again, but all he can see area the scars.
"Monster!" he says. That word comes from so many different bits of memory, he needs no help in finding it. "Frankenstein!"
"No, never think that! That monster was made from dead flesh, but you are made of the living! That creature was a violation of all things natural, but you, Cam, you are a new world wonder!" Steven starts to point out his many miraculous parts. "Your legs belonged to a delivery ninja," he tells him, " and your heart to a boy who could've been a world renown swimmer, had he not been convicted. Your arms and shoulders once belonged to the best Taijustu master in the entire prison! Your hands? They played guitar with rare and glorious talent!" He smiles, and catches Cam's gaze in the mirror. "As for your eyes, and optical nerves they came from an Uchiha!" There is a certain amount of pride of which he speaks of him. It's a pride he cannot quite yet feel himself.
Steven then puts a finger to his temple. " But the best of it all is right in here!" He drags his finger across his cranium pointing out different spots like travel destinations on a globe. "Your left frontal lobe holds the analytical and computational skills of seven kids who tested at the genius level in math and science. Your right frontal lobe combines the creative cores of almost a dozen poets, artists and musicians. Your occipital lobe holds neuron bundles from an Uchiha with photographic memory. All of this is just waiting to be reactivated!"
He touches his chin, turning him to face him/ His eyes which seemed so far away in the mirror, are now only inches away from his. They are hypnotic and overpowering. "You are not random, Cam. You are intelligently designed. Every part of you was handpicked from the best and the brightest. I was there at each acquisition So you would see me, hear me, and know me once all the parts were united." He shakes his head. "Those poor kids were too dysfunctional to know how to use the gifts they were given, but know, even divided , they can finally be completed through you!"
Yes he had seen him! Standing beside the operating table without as much as a surgical mask cover her face, because the point, he now realizes, was for her to be seen and remembered. But it wasn't just one operating room was it? An identical memory. From dozens of places in his mind. But it's not his mind is it? It's their minds. All of them. Crying out. Please, please make this stop. Until there was no more voice to beg. No mind to scream. At that singular moment when "I am" becomes "I'm not . . ."
He takes a deep shuddering breath. Those final memories are a part of him now, spliced together, like the skin of his face. The memories are impossible to bear,and yet he bears them. Only now does he realize how strong he truly must be to hold the memory of a hundred condemned without crumbling to nothing.
The Public
With a finger he traces the lines of his face, down the side of his nose to his cheek. Left, then right. Out from the symmetrical starburst of flesh tones on his forehead, then beyond to the lines that spread beneath his hairline. He dips his finger into the healing cream again and spreads it across the lines running down the nape of his neck, his shoulders , his chest, and every other place that he can reach. He can feel the tingling as the engineered microorganisms in the cream do their job. He's been assured when the treatment is done, he'll have no scars at all, just hairline seams where each every little bit of himself meets. His cream spreading ritual takes him half an hour, twice a day and he's come to enjoy the Zen-like nature of it. It's been two months since the 'mirror' incident, and now his seams look less like strips of bacon and more like actual skin. The treatment was far from done however. He was starting to look more and more exotic and less and less Frakenstein-esque. He sees his mind now as an archipelago of islands that he labors to build bridges between--and while he's had great success engineering the most spectacular of bridges he suspects there are some islands he'll never reach.
There's a knock at his door. "Are you ready?" It's Steven.
"Reins in your fist," He tells him.
A pause, then, "Very funny. 'Hold your horses.'"
Cam laughs. He no longer needs to speak in metaphors--He's created enough bridges in his mind to bring some normality to his speech-- but he enjoys testing Steven and trying to stump him. He dresses in a tailored shirt and tie. The tie's muted colors, yet bold, fractal pattern, were specifically chosen to project a sense of aesthetic composition; a subliminal suggestion that an artistic whole is always greater than the sum of its parts. He fumbles with the tie. While his brain knows how to tie it, his virtuoso fingers obviously had never learned how to do a Windsor knot. He must focus and overcome the frustrating lack of muscle memory.
Steven knocks again, this time a little more insistently now. "It's time."
He takes a moment to admire himself in the mirror. His hair is just about an inch long now. A virtual coat of many colors; streaks extending out from the focal point of multiple skin tones on his forehead. Blond runs down the middle, blending to amber on both the left and the right. Shades of red and black arc back from his temples, then give way to jet black above his ears, and tight, dark curls at his sideburns.
Finally he opens the door before Steven's knocking becomes even more frantic. His dress is a little more classy than usual. He wears a plain suit, it's still very understated however. It's all calculated to keep the focus on him. He takes Camus by the arm
"Come, they're waiting for you."
"How many?"
"We didn't want you to be overwhelmed by your first press conference, so we limited to thirty." His heart beats heavily, and he must take a few deep breaths to slow it down. He doesn't know why he should be so nervous. They have prepared him with three mock press conferences already, where questions were hurled at him in rapid succession. In each of those he did just fine. This one, however, is real. This time he's about to be officially introduced to a world that is unprepared for him. The faces he saw at those fake press conferences were friendly ones pretending not to be, but today he will be facing actual strangers. Some will be curious, others amazed, and some might be flat out horrified. Steven told him to expect this. They arrived in the living room where the press conferences was to be.
:Since time immemorial, mankind has dreamed of creating life,” Steven begins, his voice amplified and larger than life. Flashes of light reach the top of the stairs. Cam can’t see the images from his presentation but he knows them. He’s seen it all before. “But the great mystery of life itself has been elusive, and every dream of creation has been ended in humbling failure. There’s a good reason for that. We can’t create what we don’t understand, so until we understand what life is, how can we ever create it? No-- instead it is the task of science to take what we already have and build on it. Not create life, but perfect it. So we put forth the question, how can we recombine both our intellectual and physical evolution into the finest version of ourselves, the best of all of us combined? As it turns out, the answer was simple once we knew the right question.” He pauses to build the suspense. “Ladies and gents, I present to you Camus Comprix, the world’s first fully composite human being!” At the sound of applause, Cam begins his entrance.
His posture proud but gait casual. The audience is still in shadows as he descends and all of the lights are focused on him. He can feel the weight and heat of the spotlights, and although he’s in a familiar place, it’s as if they turned the living room into a movie theater.
Silence. “Well, I have to say, you’re a very well put-together group.” Chuckles all around. He’s surprised by the amplified timbre of his own voice, a resonant baritone that sounds more confident than he actually is. “Pleased to meet you, Camus,” says a man in a suit that’s seen much better days. “I understand you’re made of almost a hundred different people is that true?”
“Ninety-nine to be exact,” Cam says with a grin. “But there’s room for one more.” The group of reporters laugh again, less nervously than the first time. He calls on a woman with big hair. He can feel her disapproval like a wave of heat. “ You’re clearly... ummm... a unique creation. How does it feel to know you were rather invented than born?”
“I was born, just not all at the same time, and I wasn't invented, I was reinvented. There’s a difference.”
“Mr. Comprix-- I’m an expert in dialects, but i can’t seem to place yours. You keep shifting in and out of vocal styles." Cam hasn't considered this before. It's hard enough to put thoughts into words, without thinking about how those words are coming out. "Well, I suppose that all depends on what brain cells I'm wrangling." He replies. "So then your verbal eloquence came hardwired?" This kind of question was one he didn't expect.
"If I were a computer, it would be hardwired, but I'm not. I'm 100 percent organic. Human. But to answer your question, some of my skills came from before, some have come since, and I'm sure I'll grow as a human being."
"But you are not a human being," someone shouts from the back. "You might be made from them, but you're no more human than a football is a pig." Something about this statement.. This accusation, cuts him in an unguarded place. He's not prepared for the emotion it brings forth. "Bull seeing red!" He shouts, it comes out before he can funnel it through his language center. He clears his throat and attempts to find the correct words. "You're trying to provoke me. Perhaps there's a blade you're hiding behind your cape, but it wont keep you from getting gored."
"Is that a threat?"
"I don't know, was that an insult?" After a couple of breaths and murmuring from the crowd. He's made it interesting for them. Steven gives him a warning glance, but Cam suddenly feels the rage of dozens of kids swelling inside of him. He must give it voice. "Is there anyone else out there who thinks I'm somehow subhuman?" He looks towards the crowd and many hands go up about 75 percent of the attendance. "You people are all short minded and have no distance!"
"Sounds like you are very sure of yourself," someone says. "Who said that!?!?" He looks around the crowd no one wants to take responsibility. "I'm full of everyone else and that's spectacular."
Steven approaches and attempts to take over the microphone but Camu resists and pushes him away. "No! They want to know the truth I'm telling them the truth!" Suddenly the questions came like bullets.
"Did they tell you to say all this?"
"Is there a reason why you were made?"
"Do you know all their names?"
"Do you dream their dreams?"
"Do you feel their deaths?"
"If you are made of the unwanted what makes you think you're any better?"
The questions come so fast and with such intensity, Cam can feel his mind rattle itself into fragments. He doesn't know which one to answer if he can even answer any of them.
"What legal rights should a composite being such as yourself have?"
"Can you reproduce?"
"Should he reproduce?"
"Is he even alive?"
He can't slow his breathing. He can't capture his own thoughts. He can't see clearly. Voices make no sense, and he can see only parts, but not the larger picture. Faces. A microphone. Steven is grabbing him, trying to focus him, trying to get him to look at him, but his head can't stop shaking. "Red light! Brake pedal! Brick wall! Pencils down!" He takes a deep shuddering breath. "Stop?" It's a plea to Steven. He can make this all go away. He can do anything.
"Looks like he's not put together so tight." Someone says, and everyone laughs.
He grabs the microphone one more time, his lips pressed against it. Screeching. Distorted.
"I am more than the parts I'm made of!"
"I am more!"
"I am..."
"I..."
"i..."
And a single voice says calmly, simply, "What if you're not?"
"..."
"That's all for now," Steven tells the jabbering crowd. "Thank you for coming."
The Next month.
"His palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy. There's vomit on his mom's spaghetti."
Camus is in full mental and emotional regression. All kinds of theories for his backward slide are postulated and debated. Perhaps his parts are rejecting one another. Perhaps his new neural connections are overloaded with conflicting information and have begun to collapse. The reality of it is that he has simply stopped speaking, stopped performing for them, he's even stopped eating and is now on an IV. All nature of tests have been done on him, but Cam knows the tests will show nothing, because they can't probe his mind. They can't quantify his will to live- or lack of will. Steven paces into his bedroom. At first he showed great concern, but over the past few weeks his concern has mildewed into frustration and anger. "Do you think I don't know what you're donig?" He responds by tugging his IV out of his arm. He quickly comes over and reconnects it.
"You are being a stubborn, obstinate child!"
"Socrates," he tells her. "Hemlock! Bottoms up!"
"No, I will not allow you to take your own life! It's not yours to take! If you won't live for yourself," he says, pacing around the room frantically. "Then do it for me. Thrive for me. You've become my life, you know that, don't you? If you die, you'll be taking me with you." He says trying to meet Cam's eyes. "Unfair." He says, deliberately avoiding eye contact. " I admit, the press conference was a mistake, It as too soon. You weren't ready, but I've been out there doing some pretty effective damage control. The next time you face the public it will be different." He says comfortingly. Only know does Camus meet his eyes. "There won't be a next time." Steven smiles at the response of a coherent sentence. "Oh, so you can put together a coherent thought." Cam squirms and looks away again. "Of course I can. I've just been choosing not to." He pats his hand, his eyes moist. "You're a good boy, Cam. A sensitive boy. I will make sure we don't forget that. I'll also make sure you get whatever you want-- whatever you need. No one will force you to do anything you don't want to."
"I don't want the public." He replies simply. “I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought, and I believe what you need is to become a ninja. Meet some friends go out in the world. Create a name for yourself, then the public will be able to accept you based on your deeds. Dampen their judgement.”
The idea intrigues him. It makes him realize he hungers for more than mere sustenance. He hungers for connection. He’s seen no one his age since his creation. His age, he’s decided is 16. No one can tell him any different. To have companions that were born not made would bring him one step closer to being truly human. Camus knows Steven has an ulterior motive to asking him this, but he doesn't care. Once more he reaches for his IV line.
“Cam, don’t” pleads Steven. “Please, don’t.”
“Don’t worry.” He disconnects the IV and gets out of bed for the first time in weeks. His joints ache almost as badly as his seams. He walks to the window and peers out. He wasn't even aware of the time of day until now. Dusk. The setting sun hides behind a cloud just above the horizon. The sea shimmers, and the sky is a brilliant canvas of color. Could Steven be right? Cold he have as much of a claim on this world as anyone else? Could he have more? “Self-determination. I will make decisions for myself now.” He decrees. “Of course, of course, and I’ll be right here to advise you.” Cam looks him in the eye. “Advise, not order. Not control. I will choose what I do, and when I do it. And I will forge my own path in this world.”
“Agreed.” Steven nods. “Good. I’m hungry, have them bring me a steak. No... have them bring me lobster. No. Have them bring me both.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Cam.” And Steven hurries off to do his bidding.
