tyler jacob lavoie

[TYLER JACOB LAVOIE]

TYLER JACOB LAVOIE

Name: Tyler Jacob Lavoie
Nicknames: Ty, Jack, Jake
Age: 15
Date of Birth: June 14th
Grade: High-School Sophomore
Program: Academic
Orientation: Ubercloseted gay - he's basically convinced himself he's straight.
Nationality: French-American
Home Town: Olympia, Seattle
Play by: Nicholas Hoult

--- CHEERFUL PACIFIST Sweet and a bit sugar-addicted, Tyler has a rather... effusive personality. His boundless optimism, while cheering, can be annoying or invasive, but generally he's okay with judging exactly how smileyhappybounce he can be before it's time to shut up and sit down now. He's chatty to the extreme, though he tends to dance around the subject and ramble and distract whoever he's talking to before he finally gets to the point. He has an unfortunate habit of prancing around acting like he's totally awesome (which, you know, he obviously is how dare you insinuate he's anything but) and unflagging confidence.

He tries to avoid conflict, mostly because he's kind of a wimp and wouldn't be able to win in any sort of fight ever (except maybe a science fight. Tyler likes chemistry, okay, get over it, you guys are such jerks). When he has to he'll put up the Tough Guy act, but most of the time bluffs his way through encounters or makes up a clever way to gtfo without getting hurt.
--- GLUCOSE-ADDICTED Sugar and cooking play huge parts in his life. That endless cheer? It's because of the SweeTarts he undoubtedly has in either mouth or pocket at any given time. Tyler can be mugged in a side alley and all the thieves will find on him will be a bag of SweeTarts or Skittles. All his money goes towards candy. If deprived of his sugary lifeblood, he will go absolutely postal on whoever took it, and a few hours without sugar will send him into a crazed downward spiral, and he will probably end up huddled in the corner of any given room with a raging headache and almost no will to move, at all. Anyone who approaches him and does not bear sugar will earn themselves a screamfit.

It's a good thing he hates coffee.
--- EMPATHETIC Tyler has syndactyly; the smallest and ring finger on his right hand are fused below the second knuckle. Having struggled with this defect and the related comments for so long, Tyler is understandably rather self-conscious about this particular flaw, to the point where if it's mentioned he tends to dislike the person at once. Luckily, it's also taught him empathy - he grew up in a situation where, if he wasn't almost constantly told how weird he was, he might have turned into snobby "i r better tahn u" rich boy. Unfortunately, with his tendency to take things to extremes, he often ends up hurting for other people, and gets worked up about things until he just lashes out.

LIKES: BRIGHT COLORS!, boys humans with estrogen, cooking, activity, um science but only a little I swear, architecture, dancing, classic movies, foreign music, that awesome feeling you get when you take off your shoes after a really long day and go and walk on some damp grass, cool people, orange shoes, orange anything really, Katy Perry's purple wig, painted rocks, SweeTarts, Jolly Ranchers, any hard candy really, white chocolate, and the French language (should I have not listed so much stuff? :c)
DISLIKES: math, any animal with large horns, heights, loud noises, idiots who make fun of his fingers, sharp objects larger than his fist, heavy books, fire, hot objects, dark chocolate, people with a scary amount of tattoos, hypocrites, sitting still for too long, liars (Too much stuff again? derp derp derp)

The wealthy son of two wealthy parents, Tyler should probably have grown up Snobby Rich Boy. His father, a gifted programmer, earned enough money to retire by Tyler's tenth birthday, and it didn't hurt that Holly Lavoie was the heir to a lucrative chain-store empire. They had no other children, and while they regarded each other with a vague affection, they doted endlessly on their child. All in all, if Tyler hadn't been born with one very interesting feature, he would have been a most unpleasant individual.

Luckily, he was. And that was syndactyly.

From a young age, Tyler was often mocked and occasionally shunned for his defect. His parents, his mother in particular, assured him that it wasn't anything to be ashamed of - it made him stand out from his peers, and anyone who told him that his unique mutation was anything resembling bad was just an idiot. Whether it was poor planning or not, they refused to have the fingers split apart until he was old enough to consider it from all angles and make the decision for himself.

Apparently this age was twelve. However, Tyler had spent enough time dealing with the contempt of his peers, and he decided he was cool enough to deal with it for another ten years or so.

At fifteen the Lavoies divorced; it was not a particularly traumatizing or horrendous experience. Rodrigue and Holly merely decided that they would perhaps be better off hanging out in seperate countries and that it would be less stressful if they were no longer joined in holy matrimony; they continue to keep in contact and are still close friends despite their seperation. Rodrigue returned to France, and Holly took Tyler, moving the now family-of-two to Pennysylvania. Tyler enrolled in Emerson Academy, where he's now working in chemistry.

And hiding the fact that he's attracted to testosterone-riddled humanoids.

Occasionally, Arianrhod decided, she very much despised being the goddess Nike.

Her feet scrabbled against the side of the palace, looking for some sort of purchase, and her fingers were practically locked in a death grip around the windowsill. She shouldn't panic, she had wings, for gods' sakes, she was immortal - but even for an immortal goddess with wings, a four-story fall would probably hurt. Why hadn't she had a balcony built?

The silvery-grey, not-quite-there wings on her back were fluttering frantically, not quite enough to give Arianrhod the momentum she needed to get in the window - more just to stir dust and twigs around and basically get in her way. The blonde coughed, causing her straining wings to jerk spasmodically, and forced herself to take a deep breath.

She relaxed slightly, hanging from the windowsill with a foot rested against the side of the building. Relaxing seemed to calm her stupid wings down - at least they weren't knocking branches into her eyes anymore.

All right. It's time to come up with a plan. She would let go of this windowsill before she let Bryce or Dakota help her, damn it - but her hands were seriously starting to ache, and the continuous tugging from the wings wasn't doing anything for her back.

Experimentally, Arianrhod pushed at the wall. If she angled her foot right she could stand against the wall, just enough to see inside her room. Thankfully, no one had been inside to close the window, so if she could just get herself up she had a clear path inside.

She bent her knees tightly, the strain now seriously beginning to hurt her wrists, and pushed, wings beating frantically at the same time. It wasn't as smooth as she'd hoped, but the motion sent her rolling forward through the window, crashing directly onto the thick carpet with a pained "mmf." The wings, of course, flickered back out of existence as soon as they'd registered that she was on the ground, and Arianrhod silently cursed them - they were supposed to be Nike's, and she was supposed to be Nike, and why couldn't they just do what she wanted them to?

Groaning slightly, Arianrhod sat up, flexing her fingers experimentally. They were a little scraped, but they didn't seem to be too stiff. Nothing disinfectant and some gauze wouldn't take care of.

She got to her feet carefully, well aware that she'd possibly damaged herself - what with the suspending herself solely by her hands from a very high ledge, and then the smashing directly onto a hardwood floor. Nothing appeared to be broken, but when she rotated them, there was a sharp pain in her wrists. I've probably strained something, Arianrhod thought in mild disgust. Damn it. She could go and bother Arthur to fix them, but if he was asleep it would be impolite.

What time is it, anyway? The closest clock was in the kitchen. Still moving very cautiously, Arianrhod peered through into the little kitchenette, and frowned when she saw the clock. Its little green numbers were glowing 3:49 at her, and as she watched, the 49 flicked over into 50. Unless Conor was holding another party, it was unlikely that most anyone was awake right now.

She'd get Arthur to look at her hands in the morning. Still... "Damn it," she muttered, picking her way across the room to the bathroom. "That's another night's work lost." She still needed to get the final draft of the biography outlined before she even approached any of the Croft brothers, and it was probably still sitting on her hard drive, half-complete.

Her skinned fingers protested vigorously at the antiseptic, and Arianrhod bit down a hiss of pain. Instead, she wrapped the gauze painstakingly around her fingers, and her wrists for good measure. It made her look like a mummy, but even looking like an Egyptian corpse was better than having to work with wrists that twinged whenever she turned a doorknob.

She wasn't tired, even with the failure that had been her attempt at getting back into the palace, and wandered back into the living room. Arianrhod made a good try at closing the window with her elbows, giving up when it became obvious that she needed thumbs to do it. She sat down by it instead and propped her chin against the windowsill.

Arianrhod was sure that she was the worst Nike that had ever been reincarnated. And that wasn't a familiar feeling to her - she'd always been the best in her class. Not exactly the best in soccer, but the few times she'd been gone in high school they'd lost their games, and even though that was probably Nike at work, it still made her feel important.

Even now that she was technically a deity, she felt rather mortal. Her shortcomings in flight might have been simply because she hadn't practiced for years, like Bryce or Dakota, but it still made her feel small and childish - a teenager playing at being an adult, or maybe a mortal playing at being a god.

Arianrhod huffed out a sigh. Rarely, but frequently enough, she wished that she were a mortal - attending a Greek college, miles and miles away from her father, would be far easier than learning how exactly to be a goddess of victory. Although her mythology knowledge came in handy sometimes; there would, eventually, be a time to tell Bryce that his previous life had had a hermaphroditic son. And describe the myth of his creation. In detail.

Maybe if he ever found out about her midnight expeditions to nowhere. It might make a good distraction.

... hm. She'd have to write another email to her father tomorrow, when her wrists were better. None of his books seemed to be available here, and she was actually missing hearing his keyboard clacking late into the night. If she had actually been at college it might have been easier, especially if she had a roommate, but college was apparently just another thing she couldn't have.

Arianrhod slumped backwards onto the rug, wincing at the sharp pain that shot up her spine. It was gone in a moment, though, and she stared at the ceiling with something like grogginess. She'd been wide-awake five minutes ago, but now she seemed to be halfway to sleep.

She was worried about the war with the Titans. Mostly because she was sure she was unskilled enough to be in serious danger; partially because she'd done plenty of research on Nike, and apparently her old father had been Pallas. Athena had killed him, but he had been a Titan, and considering that everyone and their mothers seemed to be popping up all over the place, there was probably a serious chance that Arianrhod would be meeting Pallas sometime.

Unfortunately, when she did, she'd have to try and kill him. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do against the Titans? Kill or be killed? What happened when they were your old family? Should you care? Shouldn't you just kill them anyway?

Arianrhod hated these thought loops, and she rolled to face the wall, careful not to jar her wrists.

She wasn't very sleepy anymore.

Hi, I'm THAI and I'm A MILLYUN years old. I'm MADE OF CHOCOLATE CHEESECAKE, BABY. This is my FIIIRST application. I found NO REGRETS, JUST LOVE from CAUTION 2.0.

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[- NIKKI]

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