name :: adrien st. croix mun :: shoji
he wears his name on his cuff, his reputation offhand and fully known. the cumulative effects of his careless flirts and close calls with law enforcement manifests in the quick shifting of his blue eyes, his ability to listen for everything in a room full of dribble, his paranoid gait and his nervous palsy-- he says it's only because he's always looking for the next thing to do, but the only person who doesn't believe him is himself. more often than not, he's been known to wear the remnants of everyday's work, be it the soot from some penumbra club explosion that he just happened to get too close to or the stink of five day's unwashed work on his newest fragrance. what matters most is that he cleans up well, because no one sees him when he's not in the fucking mood.
Born in Milan and raised in Paris by two doting parents that I know nothing about, I escaped any youth reclamation programs by taking to the streets when I was a mere petty failure of a four year old, the bodies of mommy and daddy lying mangled in the study, done in by some anti-movement group or another. Activists murdering activists because they think their gods are right, that sort of thing. You'd think they would've realized by now-- we're all outlaws. Murder just makes it less human. I lived on the streets with a group of hooligans for four years. Stealing fruit, getting beaten by the merchant's wife, stealing bread, getting beaten by the baker's daughter, stealing meat, getting beaten by the butcher... We soon learned to be heartfelt vegetarians. When I was eight, I happened upon the workshop of one Benoît-Pascal le Roux, supposed by many of the orphans at that time to be some mad scientist-- so when I went in on that dare and I didn't come out, the other kids thought that I'd been eaten by some synthetic monster and ran away beating the kid that dared me to do it in the first place. He fed me. Didn't ask anything of me, just fed me-- gave me a bath and a place to sleep. A breakfast in the morning that I didn't have to run from the police for. I didn't know many people stupid enough to feed a rat for nothing, so he wanted something. Even then I knew it. He didn't have an heir to his knowledge. He wanted a son. So for the price of renouncing my survival imposed veganism, I was adopted by the mad perfumer-- a skilled arsonist, a brilliant chemist, and an outspoken political terrorist. My education was caught up to speed and beyond by the time 2005 rolled around and we left for New York. We didn't pack a thing-- Le Roux just came home one day, ran about the house like the madman he was, took me by the arm, and told me that it was time to leave. We watched it on the news the day after we arrived. Bombs had gone off around the foundation and everything-- the house, the laboratory, the library, everything-- had been incinerated. They even found two bodies, lying in their beds-- burnt so badly that they were no longer recognizable or identifiable. I still wonder, to this day, where the bodies came from, but I never chanced to ask. I began highschool with a French accent and finished University with majors in Chemistry and Literature, with a successful minor in Political Science. By the time I was a man, I knew everything my mentor knew and, upon his death, knew more latin than he'd imagined I'd have ever learned.
Now I continue what he did-- I make perfumes tailored to the people who come to me for whatever use they require, be it covering up odours, mimicing stenches, synthesizing scents meant to attract specific people and their tastes, or perhaps just helping someone smell nice at a party. I belong to the third-generation of the Penumbra Club in New York, since the second generation has, officially, died out. We hold our meetings somewhere in Broadway, and I suspect that everyone considers us a group of snooty homosexuals that go in groups backstage of theatre productions, but I suppose that's fine, since no one suspects a group of snooty homosexuals to blow up monuments of national and governmental merit. Or grafitti literary and political statements on public property. Or spraypaint penises on the base of the Statue of Liberty. Well. Perhaps that last one is a little homosexual. I expect to die in a carfire far before my time.
[+] Sarcastic smartass [-] Has a distinct inability to keep his mouth shut [-]
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