Van Melcov Minori
“He's cold-blooded so it takes more time to bleed”
“He's cold-blooded so it takes more time to bleed”
Mental Infrigements:
PTSD:
Due to his fathers vast, wrong and abusive addiction to alcohol, Van has developed a fear of it entirely and finds disgust in most people that drink it. It often sends him into a manic episode of emotion, one that normally isn't seen at all. Around alcohol, Van is completely out of control and cannot control both his emotions, his actions nor the way that he speaks.
Alexithymia:
Whilst I know this isn't exactly a mental illness it does greatly affect his day to day life. Van will struggle consistently to identify and establish his own feelings and distinguish the difference between emotions. He can often present how he feels but not exactly explain why or what happened. Alexithymia also presents him with the core disadvantage of having no imagination or fantasy style life, more focused on facts and statistics as this was the only thing he was ever shown or presented as a child.
Relationships:
W.I.P
Backstory:
[Age 0-4]
Alike other children, this was just an ordinary child. Alot of V’s time was spent as a child learning languages, something that he prides himself in with the present. His parents were varied across many cultures; his dad being Greek and his mother being purely russian. V was taught both of these languages within his starting years, being taught the basics and even some more complex things like sentence structures. Obviously, V was only four and didn’t exactly catch on immediately.
Shortly after this, he was sent to a nursery to socialise and be around other children. V often struggled with communication due to his lack of knowledge within just russian, as his parents hammered so many languages into his mind that he simply couldn’t decipher which words to say and when. Often, kids would be kids and V would be extremely bullied for this cause. This was only small, often being snarky comments via other children however this wasn’t an often occurrence and only happened if someone brought it up. Overall, V stayed as a rather quiet individual- keeping to himself yet yearning for sociality.
[Age 4-8]
Now it was actual school time. By this time, Van had decided had sort of decided his interests. School time was spent playing snakes and ladders, cutting up paper for literally no reason and just sticking random things to the walls and getting all the praise. Don’t you love some good ol’ education? Alot of Van’s time was spent in the Library as he found a rather profound relationship with books and literature. With this, his language skills grew intensely. At the age of 6 he had a reading age of the average 10 year old, a rather impressive skill for someone of his low economic background, and for his age alone. Van found himself often curling into some small corners and thought this life was lavish and simple. Until-
12th of March 2004
A simple day was school, Van was making his way home from school as he began to notice a few flashing lights in the street and an alarming amount of sirens echoing within his street. “An odd timing for a crime- it’s only three in the afternoon” He said, continuing down the street as one hand kept on his bag, his innocent eyes looking around alarmingly as he found an odd sinking feeling tremble within his stomach. The child turned the corner just before his house as he found an ambulance wooshing past him at a rapid pace, and two police cars left in front of his house. Tears beginning to form on his waterline, Van burst into a sprint as he began running towards his house, a muffled cry as he burst through his door. His hear sunk as he looked upon the two officers and his crying father, an odd sight was this. Never in his 8 years of living had he seen his father crying. Only being a child, Van began profusely sobbing at the sight, rushing towards his father opening his arms as questions began falling from his lips, “Father? W-what happened?! Why dad cry?” He said, his language- not fully developed but hey it’s adorable alright? He began to wrap his arms tightly around his dad as his father began speaking “Your mother has came down with a heart attack and- and she didn’t qui-” His voice kept breaking as tears streamed down his face, his breath shaky as he continued “Your mother didn’t quite make it, my child. I’m sorry.” Obviously as only an innocent and rather socially, well dumb, child he only began to sob as he heard about his mother and about his father being sorry. His dad- was never sorry.
[Age 8-11]
TW: Childhood Neglect.
Van found himself almost sunken into this state of pity. His home life would swiftly turn towards his father frankly becoming some of the worst that he's ever been. His father, once a man of ambition and someone that Van looked up too, now becoming a hollow shell of himself, haunted by the grief of his wives passing, unable to cope. His father, alike others, turned to the only thing that could numb this heavy weight: alcohol. At first, it was subtle. A beer with dinner, a couple in the evening on a good celebration. But then it became not only a routine but a pure ritual. His father's moments of clarity grew fewer and farther between, replaced by slurred words, glassy eyes and the stench of liquor that clung to any nearby objects in mere seconds like another layer. The house Van lived in, once a place of respite and a place of echoing happiness, now sat in a stagnant silence. Vanurino, still only a child, watched this transformation with a silent, gnawing aching helplessness. He'd sit on the edge of the sofa, tiny hands holding a teddy his mother once gifted as his father stumbled through the door each night. Some nights his father would pass out without a word. Other nights -the nocturnals- were full of yelling, crashing and God knows what else. Not at Vanurino, exactly, but around him. Past him. As though he was an invisible pain in the neck more painful than his absence. Van pretty much became a caretaker a tthe age of 10. Consistently and easily, he learned how to fill a glass of water, set out painkillers for his hangovers, clean up any broken dishes from the night before, and tuck in a father who seemed to have no memory of him into bed. He cleaned ashtrays. He took out the trash. All without a glimpse of a sound. Without the request, and without the appreciation. What ached more in Vee's heart than any other thing was the way that Van seemed to have his own greif pushed away by his father. Any time the boy mentioned his mother - even gently, even fondly - his father's face would knot and twist. Each reply got worse and worse "She's gone, get over it", "You didn't even know her." "You think those sour tears are gonna bring her back?" Those words carved themselves deep into Van's life. It taught Van, simply, that emotions aren't to be heard, seen but are a weapon and are dangerous. That vulnearbility that he had was a weakness. Maybe this wasn't a parent, afterall.
[Age 11-16]
At this age, Van was sent to school. At school, he became one of the more quiet kids in the school - never really overlooked yet never really seen. His childhood that he was left with, however behind closed doors it was, hadn't prepared him for the light of being a new scholar. Instead, he found refuge in silence. Whilst the other children shouted through halls made themselves known with their clowning, Van found his place in the margins - between the dusty old pages of the libarary books - a place where he could find his emotions, and understand them. This place became a shrine to him. Here, knowledge didn't ask for smiles or explanations. It simply gave, that is what he needed. He absorbed every words and phrase with a silent hunger - mathematics especially - that comfort in knowing he could do something complicated. The languages section holding the same chokehold, a systematic approach to the real world that Van could find himself in. He didn't do this to impress others - pfft NEVER!- however a little "Well Done!" never was too much to ask.. Right? See, Van found a quiet yearning beneath this. Not for fame or praise, but for that affection. The kind warmth he never truly knew. He wanted this, and he wanted his silent wishes to come true. And they did, in ways. Teachers began to speak his name with a certain pride. Students—though never close—whispered about him with a mix of awe and distance. "Van? That guy’s a genius." He had become notorious, though not in the way he once imagined.
[Age 16-18]
"I'm sick of reading and knowing, why can't I go hands on?"
V then came to the realization that if anything he was just some bookworm loser with a bad childhood, who would want that? He enrolled in a martial arts facility at the age of 16 learning things like boxing, as well as mixed-martial arts (MMA). He did this for roughly a year, integrating things like study books and other methods of learning the techniques before he got to a competition level with his fighting skills. His next order of action was to apply and train for the military. This man had so much built up anger. remorse, guilt and grief that this was simply a way for him to battle out these emotions. He spent the year training himself pretty much to failure daily with things like military excersies, duration exercises as well as more and more martial arts and agility techniques and trainings. His time was spent well and he gained strength, stability and agility through these excersies. Alot of this time was also spent working a part-time job to keep himself stable and away from home. The moment Van turned 16 was a time when he would leave his home forever, losing contact with his father and his extended family pretty much instantly due to lack of care, emotion or attachment that he felt for them. There was no arguement to cause this, it was just a simple swift drift from people he viewed as da*****us and not what he wished to be associated with. When his training was finished, he applied and enrolled himself in the Russian Military pretty much instantaneously, waiting a few months before getting a response.
[-] IC [-]
Van would hear a distant buzz from his phone, leaning back on the sofa after a long workout this man had no effort but a little sinking in his stomach provoked him to forward his attention towards his phone. The individual used alot of his left effort just to reach for the phone and open it.
[-] A little GIF of a tank appeared, below it a rather mysterious yet whimsical message stating "Greetings Van Malevochin you have been enrolled into the Russian Attack Force. Your training starts three days from the message sent date. Please assure that you come equipped with enough clothes to last a week, as well as any other items you wish to take. Your training starts on the day of your arrival."
Obviously pleased, Van had a slight smirk on his face as he then put his phone down and just continued watching his little crime shows.
[-] OOC [-]
[Age 18-26]
Van's enterance into the Russian Attack Force marked the first true beginning of his own life. For once he wasn't dictated by neglect, but by his own two hands. His initial training was brutal, y'know that kind of brutal that make your teeth hurt from clenching too much. Wake up at 0500, running til your lungs tore, combat training til your fingers bled from the cold metal of the rifles. Psychological training was however one he quiet enjoyed. An odd trait he gained from his childhood was the complete ability to shut off all emotions through simply thinking of the past. But even through this what did he do? Van? He endured. That same drive to come into combat through his childhood- tiptoeing around his drunken father, battling lonelieness and even clawing for a human connection- very much hardened into something different. Something stronger. The colder and more true- Vanurino.
By the age of 20, Van had risen through the ranks faster than many of his peers. His quick adaptability, multilingual skills and surprising hand-to-hand combat prowess made him a strong candidate for specialised operations. He was transferred swiftly into a Recon and Infilitration Unit, operating mainly in the high-risk zones where silence and precision as well as intelect and intel meant more than the brute strength he had. Through his brute training he gained the nickname "Ghost." Known for his ability to stay silent yet be the most eerie, dangerous out of his squadron.
At the age of 24, he gained this sort of conciousness he never gained before.
[-] The room had been buzzing with chatter, boots stomping on dusty floors and the sharp clink of beer bottles echoing beneath the low-hung lights of the military hall. A dozen soldiers laughed, shoulder to shoulder celebrating a successful mission- dust still on their uniforms but their spirits higher than ever. [-]
“C’mon, Ghost!” one of the soldiers called out, grinning with a half-spilled beer in hand. “You made it this far, why don’t you put on a smile?” Another laughed, nudging the speaker lifting his drink in Van's direction. But- Van didn;t smile. His gaze locked on the amber liquid sloshing in the bottle, his shoulders tensing visibly. That scent, that god forbidden wretched scent. A bitter taste clawed its way up Van's throat, thick metaillic and frankly revolting, like the echo of bile rising from an old wound that never quite healed. His eyes fixiated on the bottle, not the man holding it nor the celebration around him- but the drink itself. That golden hue seemed to glint particularly in the room's harsh light, mocking him with its false warmth. That laughter that once filled the space now felt artificial, warped. It echoed around him in a muffled distortion, like water logged within his ears. Words blended into a indecipherable hum, distant and cold. His vision tunneled slightly, the edges of the room beginning to blur as if the walls themselves were inching closer, collapsing like jenga. The memories flowing like water into the mans head, the slurred words of his fathers the breath the echo of glass at every insult and every godamn scream. "It's not my type." he muttered, his voice tight and his jaw clenched. The soldier chuckled, not catching his clear shift in tone nor facial expression "You think I want that?" Van suddenly snapped, his voice slicing through the room like a blade. His voice raised as he yelled "YOU THINK I WANT-" He paused punching the table "THAT?" he bellowed, his voice cracking like a thunderous whip, eyes wide burning with a storm of restrained rage. His voice kept the same tone "You think this is worth celebrating?! I DON'T NEED TO CELEBRATE!" The room froze. Bottles lowered and the laughter vanished. With a final scowl Van turned on his heel and stormed out, his boots pounding against the doors before pounding on the door to shut it behind him. His silence was left behind like a bad gas.
No one dared to follow.
The sound of boots clacking sharply followed behind him. "MELCOV" a voice barked from behind him, his tone as sharp as a blade. "HERE." Van didn't move at first, his jaw still clenched and his fists still bleeding from the table and clenched, his chest still heaving from the residual rage boiling beneath his skin. But- after a second, he exhaled through his nose and turned on his heel. The air around the two bit at their skin, cold and dry but it didn't seem to cool the fire in Van's chest. He stood near the edge of the gravel perimeter, hands on his hips, trying - and evidently failing - to steady his breath. Lieutenant Baranov followed shortly, closing the distance in a few stride. No yelling, that would make it worse. "You think you can just lose control like that in the field?" He asked flatly, his voice devoid of empathy "You think you're fucking special because of what you've been through? You're a soldier not a charity case." Van remained silent, his gaze dropped to the dirt but his fists staying tight. The silence he obtained only strengthening the tension. Baranov reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of paper. He held it out, fingers stiff. "Effective immediately. Discharged. Disorderly conduct, failure to comply, property damage and verbal aggresion in a secured environment. Your badge and kit-now." Van just stared at the paper, that sinking in his stomach returning. "I'm not going to argue with you," Baranov stated, his voice low and his tone monotonous "This isn't about your trauma but it's discipline. Our force is about trust and right now I can;t trust you to snap in front of the wrong person or worse the enemy."
There it was.
The silence between them broke under the weight of that truth. Van slowly unclipped the back from his jacket, dropping it on the floor without a word. He then stepped back, staring at the man before simply walking off.
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