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Sibylla Tryphena RosewoodXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXX●X●X●Xтнє мα∂ ѕ¢ιєηтιѕт
basics
XXXXX↘↘↘sнouτ ιτ ouτ
xxxxxFor lack of an easily pronounceable first or middle name, many people just call me Rosie. Other names I hear often are Sibyl, Sib, that crazy b***h, and Bylla.
docτoя sαγs ι'm α
xxxxxPsychotic bit-- . . . oh, female.
вlεw ouτ τнιs мαɴγ cακεs
xxxxxIf you must known, I'm thirty-seven years old. One crack about my age, though, and we might just have to see how much iodine I can pump into you before you drop dead.
τнεγ мακε мε вlusн
xxxxxA certain genius, as well as father-figure to this deranged group of kids I'm stuck with.
ταllεя τнαɴ γou
xxxxxFive feet, ten inches. HAHA! That's right, brats, I'm taller than you!
ρεяғεcτlγ вαlαɴcεd
xxxxxOne hundred and thirty pounds. I've got a fair bit of muscle, but most of that is due to my height.
вlαcκ oя wнιτε?
xxxxxI believe I'm a good person, and seeing how I don't leave any incriminating evidence behind so does the government. I suppose since I'm stuck with the Black team, as well as my frequent momentary lapses in sanity, I could be considered "evil" by some, even without the physical proof to back up such horrid accusations.
ιτ мακεs мε sρεcιαl
xxxxxMy brains seem to the only thing "super human" about me. After the accident a few of the other scientists working along side me believed I was a Meta-Human, particularly one with a mental ability such as accelerated probability (the ability to see what choice one should make when confronted with a situation, to predict the outcomes of certain situations, and then to accelerate oneself along that path of causality immediately), but after a few more specific tests I found that wasn't the case. Like most of the brats in this program I happen to have the Meta-Human genotype, but unlike these punks my powers never seemed to take root. My so-called "powers" were just my natural smarts! In theory, however, as a carrier of this rare genetic structure I could medically induce whatever ability I want! This is still in it's experimentation stage at the moment, so it'd be safe to assume that you won't see me breathing fire (or becoming able live forever) anytime soon. Still, don't get all cocky and think you little Super-pains-in-the-arses can boss me around! I may not have powers, but my babies are surely enough to deal with the likes of you~
underneath
XXXXXXXX↘↘↘τнε яεαl мε
xxxxxIs actually a very smart, very sane person - or at least that's what I think. Since the accident doctors and coworkers alike have been using the "c word" to describe me, even though I'm ninety nine point nine percent certain I'm still in my right mind. Sure, I'll admit I've had a couple close calls over the past years in regards to almost losing my sanity, but I am not (nor have I ever been) crazy. I'm not mad. I'm not insane. I'm perfectly normal. It's those idiots who don't believe someone with an IQ estimated to be greater than 194 that are the real crazy people! I see a strong, stable-minded woman when I look in the mirror; an attractive person both inside and out, who is motherly and kind to her teammates and works to keep them safe. Then? Well, then there's what everyone claims is my "actual" personality. Personally, I think it's all a load of baloney, but since you seem to want to know a little about me I'll share some of the rather accurate unrealistic lies people have been writing down as factual information in my medical records for the past several years. Let's use a psychological review curtsey of Doctor Timothy Adams for an example, shall we? Ahem.
"Upon her arrival, it was clear to me that Miss Rosewood didn't think like most normal people. At first it wasn't so much that she was out of her mind, but it was simply the vocabulary she used and the calmness she possessed when saying things like "improvised brain surgeries" when going on tangents with our patients, in detail, explaining what each of their respective disorders were doing to their brains, and how she could fix it with a few "small incisions". She was undeniably brilliant, probably more so than most of the general public, though during the group therapy session later in the day this fake air of what could be considered sanity came crashing to the floor. After being detained for physically assaulting another patient when the woman tried to point out that Miss Rosewood couldn't like forever, she started to become socially lacking. Speaking in a disjointed fashion (often appearing severely distracted by ideas floating in her mind), her rare moments of concentration were often interrupted by lapses into silence and tangents unto different thoughts. Disconnecting herself from everyone and everything for weeks on end, Miss Rosewood often gave the nurses quite a scare when she'd managed to slip into the rooms containing the medications without their notice, or build elaborate machines in her room without ever being given materials to do so. Labeled as 'dangerously crafty' we began to keep a much closer eye on Miss Rosewood, noting that she often said things which (that seemed obvious to her) that no one else wanted to say, explained things in a manner far beyond the understanding of many at the psychiatric hospital, and began to have a history of bursting into song while working or thinking. Her insane methods continued with strange drawings, often graphic in nature, and by this point were could all assume that she was, indeed, not clinically sa--" . . .
AH! Can you believe that jerk?!? I never ever spoke with this guy and he wrote all these dirty lies about me! It's not my fault none of them were smart enough to understand my formulas, plans, and illustrations! But it's not like his opinion matters, because I know I'm mentally stable. Most of the time. Like I said before, sometimes I forget myself for just one second and then I could - accidentally - kidnap one of my teammates and pump her full of feline DNA (hypothetically speaking, of course). I'm kind of hard to understand when I get like that - all sciencey and Doctor Frankenstein - but if the right person talks me out of it I can usually go right back to my normal, sane self. This "right person" being the man of my dreams, Ernst. He's an amazing person, smart, reliable, caring, but I often find myself fretting over how much he praises those brats and not me! Argh! Sometimes I want to rip off their limbs and make one combination superhum --- hun, I wonder if that would work . . . I'd need some arms, a leg or two . . . . . .
вαвγ ριcτuяεs
xxxxxOnce upon a time, there lived a happy little Canadian couple. The male was a extraordinary doctor, a man who dedicated his live to saving people and making their lives better, while his spouse was the designated stay-at-home mother instead of the chemist that she could have been. These smart parents soon had kids. Smart kids. By the time their eldest son was in second grade, all four of their tots had decided they wanted to pursue a carrier in the medical field. Doctor, nurse, pharmacist, the only one who didn't seem normal out of the bunch was the youngest. Me. As a petite black-haired girl in a brunette and blond family I always seemed misplaced, the only daughter who looked like her mother out of all the kids. Because of this I bonded with my mom instead of my dad, opting to cook and clean the house rather than go off and play doctor, nurse, or whatever medically related my brothers and sister were up to. Everyone assumed I was the dumb one in the family, the idiot who had given up because she just didn't have the brain power to comprehend anything. They were wrong. In all that time spent cooking with my mother, I was taught (indirectly) about chemical reactions, the importance of knowing an exact recipe if you want a specific outcome, and most important of all; the art of experimentation. I'd constantly be making items from scratch, using trial and error until I finally managed to come up with some new type of cookie that was crumbly without being flaky, or sweet without being too sugary. The thrill of not knowing if the final product was going to turn out just right enticed me, and for a couple years I sat completely oblivious to the science behind my cooking. I simply thought that I was going to grow up to be a chef, after all, not a crazy mad scientist. So, what happened to that cute little girl who wouldn't dream of hurting a fly, let alone experimenting on one? The answer, my dear friend, is school.
Sure, for the first couple of years that place just taught me to read and right, but after a while that simple two plus two equals four stuff became more complicated. While most teachers assumed I'd fail, I did quite the opposite; I (seemingly) got smarter! The harder I was pushed, the better I did; with or without the hours of studying that my elder siblings had had to put in. Many of them, out of jealousy and disbelief, blamed it on the fact that I had sat around with them for years as they did their homework. My father thought otherwise, but instead of telling us why he just shook his head and kept it to himself. Throughout my middle school years I simply did well (actually, I did amazing; I skipped multiple grade levels before I even got to grade four), but never became particularly interested in anything else aside from going home and making cookies. That is until one day in science class, when the magic word appeared. Experiment. From then on I was rather obsessed, often going above and beyond what was asked for me to test and eliminating variables to and fro in order to get more exact results. By sixth grade I was devising my own experiments, turning the spare room in our basement in a mini laboratory. My cooking movies were cast aside in favor of science fiction films, where I soaked up ideas and tried to bring what even Hollywood couldn't to life. It was around this time when my father finally sat my family down, and even though he had become a nervous case of a man over the past years we all still respected his thoughts. Well, until he started prattling on. He claimed I was a superhero, one of the people that this insane man discovered years ago. Of course we all thought that he was kidding, which only made him angry. Three quarters of an hour later I watched the police take him away, the man thrashing and screaming that his youngest was a freak of nature, a superhero. I haven't seen him since.
After the small city we lived in heard about the RMCP taking my father away, my family became the freakshown of the town. With the government's permission to leave (my father ended up in a home for the severely mentally ill, where visitors weren't allowed) my mom packed us all up and moved us to the States. California was a lot different from Northern Alberta, and not just weather wise. Few teachers thought that a nine-year-old (like myself) was at a grade eight level, though after they sent me off for an official testing they found out that they were right, I wasn't at a grade eight level; I was smarter than the average high school student. Not knowing what to do with me the school made a few calls, and after a little debate it was decided that I needed to get my own teacher, because they couldn't stick a nine-year-old into their senior classes. My mother had a little money sitting around after a messy divorce with my insane father, and with that she arranged for a private teacher. My siblings hated me for it, especially since I wasn't crazy about learning like they were, but when my teacher decided that I was good enough in most subjects that we should just focus on science and hands-on experiments he quickly became my favorite person. The mini-lab I had yet to set up developed into something monstrous, a torture chamber like maze in the basement of our new home that continued on into my room. Chalkboards filled with equations and ideas soon became the only things I could think about, often forgetting to do other homework or even go to eat supper with my family in favor of solving the puzzles I was presented with. As I grew more and more interested the teacher had less and less ideas, and by the time I was a teenager there wasn't anything more that he could teach me. I turned to textbooks, though soon even the giant first year college reading material I had access to began to bore me. I was finding spelling errors in them, that's how dull they were! My private teacher then gave up on trying to do the impossible, and after quitting he told my mom that it'd be best to see if it was possible for me to do college courses online. It was, and I did.
So here I was, nineteen and done university. There's a hell of a story on how I managed to trick them into just letting me take the final exams at such a young age, but it's not exactly legal and I doubt the government would like me to share. Besides, the exciting part happened after I finished all those dumb exams. I was a young chemist with a buckets of knowledge in physics, mechanics, as well as genetics, and the government had just the job for me. They sent me to study under the best scientists in the country, having them teach me everything and anything they knew in order to prepare me for the big bomb they were going to drop; I was to prove that super humans still existed! It was like my dad was screaming at me all over again, telling me that I was a freak, and at first I believed this to be a sick joke. It wasn't. Several buckets of this old scientist's research later and I was convinced that all those claims of Supers that had been in the papers weren't the hoaxes most governments and people tried to blow them off as, and that the big "terrorist" attacks lately were the battles between the good and evil in this community of people with powers. Actual powers! I joined the team with haste, eager to met the man whom I came to love as I read his hand written notes. He never showed, or rather he refused to speak with anyone. Heartbroken I was tempted to leave the operation, but as I started getting taught all the ins and outs of the Human Genome Project and other genetic tests I grew interested. I found myself wanting to prove Tennyson's theories, not just accept them. It became my fascination, my newest obsession! I started working with my team day in and day out, forgetting about the Doctor I grew to have a crush on as another love interest presented itself. Between my boyfriend and work I had little time to visit friends and family, and when that boyfriend became my husband, and that husband became the father of the child I was carrying, any free time simply became working time. Extra, unpaid, working time, in which I tried to prove that Supers were still about.
No matter how hard I tried, however, no one in the general public would accept that superheroes were still around without proof. Proof that my team and I didn't exactly have. That is, however, until I remember the speech and studies given by my idol - the genius whose papers I had been given to read inspired me - Dr. Tennyson. I was secretive about what I know, and kept it held deep within until I could official prove it all. At first everyone thought I was as crazy as 'ld Ernst, that isolating this hidden genetic structure and finding a way to stimulate it was rather impossible, though after a few immoral experiments they all saw what I was. Right. I was completely right! Research on the subject started right away, and while I was not credited for stumbling across such interesting discovery I didn't mind on bit. Rather than fame or fortune I just had my awkward obsession with experiments. Human experiments, to be precise. Labs and their rats could only offer you so much, so at this point in time I continued to stress that actual humans were needed to continue our tests. Everyone shrugged me off, claiming that the "pregnancy hormones" must have been getting to me, and continued to ignore my pleases as best they could until it was time for me to take mandatory maternity leave. I was furious, so annoyed that their obliviously smaller brains had yet to understand the importance of breaking a few moral codes in order to continue our investigation, and for the last few months of my pregnancy all I could think about was getting back to the lab and showing them all how right I was. I was border lining crazy, demanding that my husband tell me everything that had happened that day at work and continuing my own little tests here and there at home. Then the baby - my baby - came, and everything changed.
Okay, so it might sound like I was irresponsible (what with having a baby at twenty-two after only having dated for a several months, and married for what seemed to be days) but when I looked at my husband and our son I knew that this wasn't a mistake. It was meant to be, something that had to be part of some big plan. I'm not a religious person, but at that moment I knew someone out there was looking out for me, blessing me. For the next two years of my son's life I only worked half time, just stopping in to correct a few things before running back home to spend time with my little man. I loved him, and together he and my husband - Brett - managed to completely rid me of my desire to experiment and learn. I just wanted to be with them, be a good mother like mine was and be there in the future should they ever need me. Heck, I was even thinking about quitting my job for my baby boy as Brett and I drove him to the grandparents' the day before his third birthday. While driving I was thinking about how Mitch was going to love his spiderman PJ's . . . until that truck ran the red light, smashing right into us. In the ER, I wasn't crying through my barely conscious state for myself, wasn't begging to the God I thought was looking out for me to save me, because I only cared about my family. I only wanted them to be okay. When the doctors kept saying "she's not going to make it!" I didn't even bat and eye, but right as I started to completely drift off and heard "we lost the others" . . . I wanted them to not bring the crash cart from my son's dead body to my own. If Brett and Mitchell weren't on Earth, I didn't want to be either. But did my prays get answered? Well, since I'm here talking to you now it's pretty obvious that my wish didn't come true. Idiot.
Two weeks later, and I was given the alright to leave the hospital, having fully recovered. I didn't say a word when they confirmed my worst nightmare, telling me I survived and my family hadn't, just blinked my watery eyes and tried to reach out for the nearest sharp object. After several nurses restrained me I was dubbed suicidal, ordered to be under constant watch even though my hands were tied down. Soon the will not to live passed me, and the dangerous truth slapped me right across the face; people died. It was something I knew yet hadn't ever thought about, a fact I had failed to consider could happen to me before the two people I loved most in the world were taken away. Human life was so fragile, so easily gone! If I was to die were people going to remember me? Would they ever care? Where would I go? Thoughts like this, accompanied by my unstable state, aided to me deciding upon becoming a superhero, and gaining immortality. One night I told a nurse this, thinking she'd understand and let me out so I could go do so, but the young girl only freaked out and ran off to tell my doctor. I was in a psychiatric hospital before I knew it. Let's get one thing straight though, I was not crazy before I went to that god forsaken place! Superheroes are real, and being me it wasn't like I wouldn't be able to find a way to become one; it was a smart thing to say, not a crazy thing. But, after finding out who I was, and coming across the few pushes for human experiments I had submitted, the doctors seemed to think that I had an actual disorder. Me! It was absurd, though even as I kept telling them this day in and day out at the crazy home they'd just smile and nod. Soon I grew frustrated, annoyed by all the crazies around me to the point where I went fairly out of my mind myself for a little while. It took me several years to get my act together, to stop taking whatever meds I was being given and just think of a way out. Then it came to me, and I immediately got to work on the take over operation.
I took control of the hospital in barely a month, having all the staff locked up in the cells with the help of the other occupants. After teaching them how to poke and prod with needles and what drugs were okay to stab into their once tormentors I calmly walked out the front door, stolen cash in hand and a destination in mind. I need a lab, my lab, in order to become immortal. However, it seemed that was choice of hiding place was rather obvious, and before I got there I was intercepted by the authorizes (who had gotten a terrified call from one of the nurses shortly after I had left). I had, however, already taken my file out of their records, erasing any trace of a Sibylla Rosewood had been in that building at any point in time. With no evidence that I was behind the mayhem they couldn't take me in, though once they realized how out of my mind I was it seemed best to make sure I came with them. Following along - since they promised a nice, warm bath after all - I soon found myself trapped in a very familiar place; my lab. Only now it was the central site of a new project, the main location from where the Meta-Human Project was being carried out. New faces were all staring at me in awe as I went around, correcting proper lab procedure of some and praising one particularly bright young lady on her wonderful technique and vast knowledge of genetics. As I attempted to get to know her better the people that brought me here figured I was happy enough staying, and after asking if I'd like to remain here I happily chirped that it was my lab, I'd love to have it back, and seeing as how I knew where all the sedatives and toxins were it would be unwise to make me do something I wouldn't like. The younger girl I had been talking with seemed to have a heart attack after that comment, so rather bored with her I simply walked off and asked if anyone had a sandwich. Being locked up in a place for crazy people made you appreciate the worth of a good sandwich, you know!
As my mandatory tests came back slowly and steadily (apparently all workers' genetic structures were analyzed, or whatnot), the other operatives started treating me like one of those freaky kids every time I came to work. It took a few surgical knife cuts to the face to finally get them to admit why, and after they did I almost screamed with excitement. Rather than being a observer of the groups, I had been included into one of the teams! It seems the tests had matched up with the other supers, suggesting that my brainpower could be one of the major superpowers like their own. I wasn't exactly happy about having to spend time with the annoying brats, though as the promise of being immortal came back into my mind I started working day in and day out to make it happen. Slipping past the notice of most of the other officials - and Supers - I kidnapped the feisty little ginger on my team, attempting to find out what caused her powers in transferring injuries. For a couple months I tried to tweak her genetics, stumped as to why her hidden genotype and mine just didn't appear the same on the machine I had built to compare the structures. It was then that it dawned on me; my powers weren't awakened! Furious I snapped, and when I finally came back into my right mind Kara was chasing laser pointers. I'm not exactly sure what I did to the girl, but whatever it was I managed to give her alternative powers with DNA, as well as (as she claims) imbed some sort of micro-robot into the base of her neck to keep her in check. Who knows if I did or not, but it sounded like something I'd do so I rolled with it. Besides, whatever I had done to my little experiment didn't matter anymore, I now knew it was possible to give a super new powers with DNA! Now all I had to do was find the the right power! Life was starting to look just a bit better, even if I was getting a tad 'crazier'.
Then, before I could complete my theory on giving powers, I got distracted. In all honesty that tended to happen a lot after the accident, but this distraction threw me for quite a loop. Tennyson was standing in front of me. Right there, in the flesh. After doubting my (somewhat questionable) sanity for a while I allowed myself to rejoice, to take any chance I could to get to know the man better. Some found my crush disgusting, becoming rather turned off by the fact that I was romantically interested in a man double my age, but I didn't see anything wrong with it. Love knows no bounds, blah blah blah. Anyways, the entire populace of my team seemed to take a liking to him (something that often makes me jealous, and therefore a little more irritable than normal), and under his orders we began to plot against those Whites. This plot soon led to a full on assault, ending in my team bringing their complex to the ground. I didn't contribute much to that last part, instead (during the attack) I was trying to capture a few of those brats alive and test them. I at first tried to find that diamond-skinned cross-dresser, though after that went down the drain I kept an eye out for that little phaser and her big bodybuilder of a teammate. Intangibility combined with super strength? That'd get me pretty damn close to being immortal! I almost got my hands on that intangible brat too, though before she used her powers the building crushed her. Actually, the building crushed them all. Rather disappointed to have lost that many good subjects I returned back with the others, discarding my sadness in favor of being happy after a few minutes of moping. There will be other supers to test on, after all, and this way I got to be with Tennyson! Life could only get better if those White brats turned up again and I managed to isolate their powers, but it's not like they could have survived that kind of destruction. Ohwell, maybe Kara will let me experiment on her again~
τнε ραραяαzzι sαw мε
xxxxxPapawho?
ιτ's lικε dяugs
xxxxx
■ Drugs. Especially sedatives. Lots and lots of sedatives
■ My babies; more commonly known as my machines~
■ Experimentations, specifically those to do with Meta-Humans and powers
■ Tennyson. Doctor Ernst Tennyson! <3
■ Naps. Nice, quick naps
■ Eating; no explanation need here!
■ Science. I like that it's organized chaos
■ Actually, I quite enjoy chaos in general
sεε ɴo εvιl
xxxxx
■ Cars, or any type of motor vehicles. I avoid traveling in them whenever possible
■ Sleeping for over two hours
■ Crazy houses; you'll never catch me alive in there again!
■ The other government officials I "worked" with; all of them seemed to believe I was insane. Shessh!
■ Feeling old, or having someone point out my age
■ Small children; they remind me of my son
■ Uncooperative subjects (Kara)
■ Being called the "c word" (crazy)
ρεяsoɴαl κяγpτoɴιτε
xxxxx
■ I possess no powers, meaning I don't have any fancy built in offensive or defensive weapons. Instead I'm completely reliant on my machines, which while they are built to last tend to malfunction and crap out from time to time. It doesn't take long to fix them, but it could be long enough for one of those superhero brats to be able to get a hit on me. If that were to happen, then I'd be - to put it scientifically - screwed.
■ Admittedly, I think I may have a few screws loose. Not anything serious (even if those silly doctors thought I was crazy) though, just a minor problem focusing on one thing. Sure, when I finally set my mind to something I can do pretty much anything, but getting me to focus and not lose my train of thought is particularly hard; one moment I could be preforming a spilt second surgery, the next I'd completely forget about my dying "patient" and casually wander off to the kitchen to see if we have any more baloney left. See, nothing too serious!
ρнoвιαs αяε ιяяατιoɴαl - вuτ ι'м sτιll αғяαιd
xxxxx
■ Growing old and dying of natural causes, though dying in general is probably a better way to put it. I'm terrified of the thought of not living anymore, of what is or isn't out there should I ever pass on . . .
■ Becoming unable to think, or having to go into a state of unconsciousness. I often find myself unable to sleep for prolonged periods of time (I'm much more of a hour long nap kind of person) for fear that I'll never wake up again. I don't ever want to go into a coma or anything; it's as close to being dead as you can get while still living!
нιdιɴg вεнιɴd α мαsκ
xxxxxA mask? Nononono! Those are just my googles! I'm quite talented at creating elaborate machines and gadgets, something that's pretty useful when you're surrounded by annoying SuperBrats. So far, most of my machines aren't built to be easy to take around, but the two that are prove to be quite useful. My googles aren't able to see invisible people, things, or anything like that; but they do allow me to see perfectly in the dark! Several other settings (still in the testing stations, mind you) can add on the ability to see sound waves and vibrations, as well as a system that can wirelessly stream what I am seeing to the robots, and vice versa . . . . robots? Well, of course I'm referring to my babies. They're not the most high tech thing I've made, but they do their job quite well. Swift and silent, these plastic-based machines' limbs can snap above their head and work much like helicopter blades, allowing them to hover and fly. As well, with a built-in noise canceling system my babies are a victim's worst enemy when used in combination with the dark or inclosed spaces. With these bad boys, I doubt any those brats could fight me without acquiring a gaping wound to the head~
in the secret hideout
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