Prospekt, Quinn ● District 4

Quinn is kind of bluntly handsome; not in a direct way, but in a kind of inconspicuous fashion. He doesn't seem to notice it, but if you remark, he'll acknowledge it with a grin and a breezy comment, such as, "It seems that living since the dawn of time has given me plenty of time for a proper beauty sleep." He has high cheekbones, sharply defined in his face. His skin is tan, more of a mid-tone than white or dark, and unblemished. His nose is perhaps a trifle too large for good looks, and perfectly straight, pointed at the tip. His teeth are a perfect white, and although crooked, his smile is charming.

His hair is thick and dense, and reaches just to the nape of his neck. It's no immaculate movie-star haircut, and falls into his face all the time, as if he had side-bangs, but that's probably because he does it himself with kitchen scissors. Quinn will often put it up into a short ponytail if it gets in the way, but normally it stays, spiking out messily around his scalp. He looks... old, for his fourteen years; a longer, more slender face than someone his age, perhaps, and a smile that belongs in the face of an adult.

Quinn's skinny; not painfully, Barbie-doll skinny, but lean and, well, scrawny, to be honest. Feeding isn't great in District 9. His arms are long, more so than his legs; he's rather a top-heavy guy, but not noticeably. He has broad shoulders, and a broad chest, and despite his skinny appearance, he can't be called willowy. Rumor has it that he even has a tattoo on his left shoulder, saying in dark letters, "PROSPEKTOR'S MARCH", but then again, rumor can't be trusted.

He usually wears a casual, dark-colored jacket, and some kind of pale, nondescript trousers. His eyes are wide, and a tawny color, with flecks of gold in them. Creases fan around their corners from his constant smiling. All in all, he's handsome, in a kind of unnoticeable-at-first way. There's something distinctly likable about his face. It's like he laughs all the time, and indeed, smile marks crease his lower face. He moves with a kind of willowy grace; not speed, not strong, but weirdly collected. Every motion is fluid and prepared, and he hardly seems to notice. He carries himself upright and erect, but when embarrassed is known to slouch down and push his hair down to shadow his face.

Quinn is street wise, through and through. He was born and raised there, and certainly acts like it. He won't hesitate to fight dirty; that's one of the things about him that helps him thrive where others have lost it all. He has no rules. Honour, to him, is a fairytale; and it's just as well, for he'd probably be dead by now if he hadn't kicked a few enemies when they were down. He doesn't mind lying or cheating in the slightest, and is quite the cynic.

He knows about the harsh realities of life, and won't waste time in broadcasting it. He's seen by some as bitter, but what does he have to be bitter about? He can bear grudges for decades, and has an annoying tendency of resilience, as well as one of convenient deafness {"So, Quinn, I heard about you and ____ the other night." "Whaaaat? Speak up!"}.

But he's quite the philosopher, as well. Despite being a suave smooth-talker {free with witty comebacks, crooked grins, and all - although batteries come separately}, there are moments when he displays a ridiculous lack of diplomacy. Indeed, he would prove to be a terrible politician, with his blunt tactlessness. There's something very likable about him - k'risma, his father called it, but Quinn himself seems unaware of it.

He's loyal, as well as intelligent, and fiercely competitive; although whether these are good or bad is up to you. He doesn't warm up to others immediately - although he's moderately friendly to strangers - although he leaps to conclusions at the speed of light and is amazingly accurate at stereotyping others. He tends to be awkward around delicate social situations, but has stopped making coarse jokes during awkward silences ever since his sister trained him otherwise.

Quinn also has a mild mental issue {the surprises never end, do they?}. Every other part of his mind is intact, and is, in fact, in fine working order, but for some reason, he thinks that he arrived from the heavens about two years ago. Barely no one knows - not because he keeps it a secret, but because the topic never really seems to come up in conversation that much - but it's quite a prominent facet of his personality, once one gets to know him.

He won't be swayed, either; he's firm. He says that he should know his past better than anyone else, shouldn't he? Well, no, not really, if he has brain damage. But he's convinced otherwise. He has an explanation, too, of how he can't remember the first five billion years of Earth; well, he was asleep, of course! ... Yeah. Of course. He has this vague idea that he was sent down because he misbehaved, and as a punishment, had to look after the feline race.

It hasn't been working, evidently. The really odd thing is that, contrary to common belief, Quinn doesn't believe in some higher power. No celestial body. Who knows who "sent him down to Earth", then, but he's firm. He finds it hard to trust others, and a few others find it hard to trust him, as well, for all of his charisma; it's probably his ever-constant sarcasm. He never lets it down, and has often ruined a sentimental moment with some snide comment. For his credit, he does loathe sentimentality. He's a terrible hunter, and is always suspicious of evidence; despite this, he's surprisingly fast.

He doesn't fight much, though, and prefers to run from frays. Yes, he's that kind of person. He's proud of his District, to many others' surprise. He'll use his temper to his advantage whenever he can, and rather enjoys people-watching and stereotyping others. He's an excellent mechanic, and can spend hours tinkering around happily on the underneath of cars. He could be called the biggest oxymoron in the history of the Disctricts. He's perhaps a little too proud, and refuses to accept charity or even kindness.

Still, with his dashing good looks and undeniable gallantry, he's a hit with the ladies, despite his marked eccentricity {and even though he doesn't even notice them}. He's most likely the least self-conscious person you'll ever meet, and his bravery has earned him respect - albeit often grudging - in even the highest social circles.

Another thing about him: he's synesthetic. Ever heard of synesthesia? It's not common, and neither is it deadly; but it's still a whole new perspective on the world. Every sound, every number, for him, is a shape and colour. The number one, for example, is a green triangle. He can follow his instincts with others' names, this way - not that they're always correct - feeling if they have a nice name or not. Something like Brendon, for example, unleashes an orange semicircle - he tends to like orange people - while someone with a name like Winter's name is a dark brown rectangle.

It's worth noting that, at the moment, Quinn has no idea that it's a disorder. He thinks that everyone has it. It can be very distracting, though; loud noises can cause walls of colour to surge up and, as he puts it, "drown" him. Not many others know he has it, either. It doesn't tend to crop up in conversation much.

Quinn was born to Jonas Prospekt, and Freesia Nightlife. Jonas was a fisherman in District 4 - as were most of the villagers - while Freesia set up a stall in the marketplace, selling fish stew, fish meat, and other food {most of it consisting of fish, needless to say}. Quinn's life would have been idyllic - the only child of two loving, well-off parents, in one of the richer Districts - when Jonas was arrested. Unknown to his wife and child, he had been venturing farther and farther upstream to forage for fish away from his competitors.

Too far, apparently. He had been spotted fishing in District 5 land. Jonas didn't deny it. He went quietly, not bothering to deny it, and Quinn didn't see him again. Freesia was terrified; most of their gain came from her husband, and without him, how would she get the food to keep up her stall? She tried to buy fish from others, but the prices only dented her wallet as she desperately tried to increase sales in her stall. They really were destined for poverty.

Quinn tried to help, but as a six-year old, he couldn't do much. He stole bread, fruit, and fish when he could for his mother {although he told her that he had "found them". She hadn't believed him, but it was better to appear innocent. She wasn't going to turn down good food.} But, inevitably, he was caught, literally red-handed; his skinny little fingers still wrapped around a parcel of strawberries. It had been his mother's birthday, and he had wanted to bring her something special. And what did she get instead? Her son's arrest.

The officials didn't bother reporting to Freesia, the tear-stained widower who hadn't been quite the same since her husband was arrested for fishing in District 5 land. She assumed that her son had disappeared; or worse, was killed. Instead, he was dragged off, kicking and screaming, to a cell, to be given a sentence of seven days. Quinn had no idea that his sentence was only a week; he had thought that it was forever, and that he would never see his beloved mother again, just like his father. He grew to hate his father.

But in the cells, he did something the officials weren't used to. He was silent. Eerily silent. He never said a word, never moved; just lay there, sprawled where the officials had thrown him, on the floor of his prison cell, his eyes being the only part of him moving. They were unnerved, but left him alone. A couple days later, Quinn escaped through the slot while a guard tried to tempt him into eating something and scampered off. It was then that he realized he was lost.

For the first time in his life, he truly had no idea where he was. He had never been out and about the city before; only with his father accompanying him, safe and sure and solid. Now he was alone. And terrified. Over the next few years, he scraped by an existence fishing - he got the hang of it, after a few botched attempts - and, of course, stealing. He grew to be quite a talented thief, but was never caught again. He also managed to acquire a complete mental map of his village, and even of his house; but when he finally went back there, at the age of 11, it was in ruins.

There was no life there. He could only hope that Freesia had moved, or at least hadn't been killed. Life moved on, and he fixed up the house somewhat, foraging from it what he could. It looked like something big - a big rock? A wrecking ball? - had slammed right through the roof, crushing most of the insides. He fixed himself a little house out of the ruins of his old one; more of a shack than a house, but it kept the rain out and trapped heat reasonably effectively.

He lives there now, waiting. For what, he doesn't know; he doesn't care. Quinn lives in the present.

I love this guy. <3 Mildly insane and synesthetic. What's not to like?