Gusty, Wanderer {Finished}

Name: Gusty
Age: Eighteen
District: Wanderer

Appearance

My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards

At first glance, he has the face of an innocent. Cheeks still round with baby fat, an easy smile on his lips. He stands with a slouch, hands folded into the pockets of his blue jeans. Open, welcoming eyes, bluer than robin's eggs. But upon closer inspection, the smile looks more like an impish grin, the eyes a bit sharper. The slouch starts to look less casual, more like a planned thing, set up to make him look careless. Something is hiding in that face of his, but the longer one looks, the harder it is to tell who he is.

His brown hair is a messy tangle, uncombed for days, and most likely, unwashed. It's reminiscent of a bush, piled atop his head. It looks so careless, uncared for, but it's a carefully crafted masterpiece, the product of frequent glances in mirrors. His eyes are a sharp blue, one of the first things a person tends to notice about him. They appear at once lazy and sharp, drifting over the room and taking in everything - even when it seems like he isn't paying attention. There are secrets in those eyes, and worlds untold. The rest of the face is rather unremarkable - the round cheeks, the long, sharp nose. The lips are average, not too big or too small to even be thought about. If they are noticed at all, it's only because of the words coming out of them.

He stands at five foot nine, but a constant slouch makes him seem shorter. His legs are clothed in pants that rest close to his skin, making them seem skinny and longer than they are. He wears soft button-down shirts and jackets worn out and patched. In fact, all his clothes are worn out in some way - a tear, a stain, a missing button. Even his boots are scuffed, the soles thin. He doesn't seem to care about the state of his clothing. His fingernails are strange, some grown out far too long, others cut or chewed down to the quick. He is never seen without his guitar either strapped to his back or close at hand.

Personality

Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their marks

One might call him shy, but the more appropriate word would be quiet. He has plenty to say, he just doesn't feel like saying it. That, and he figures there are enough opinions out there without adding his to the mix. He watches and listens, spinning stories in his head. He is the furniture: always there but not really thought about. The only time he allows himself to be seen is when he performs. He can command the attention of an audience when he strides to the front of a crowd, guitar in hand, and starts to play. The sound of his voice is intriguing - low and raspy, almost unpleasant, but haunting somehow, lyrical. His words drift through the atmosphere, and when he's done, he fades silently into the background again.

If one manages to engage him in conversation, they'll notice he never talks about himself. He'll talk about things going on in the world, or music, but never a word about himself. If asked his name, he would say "Gusty," and offer no further explanation. As far as he's concerned, he has no last name, and doesn't need one. If one tries to ask about his past, he'll politely excuse himself and walk away. He doesn't want to be rude, he just doesn't want to talk about who he was before. Isn't what's happening now more important?

He prefers hanging out in groups of people, chain-smoking or getting drunk, and if the group moves, he'll move with them. Though he doesn't talk much, if something comes up he's very passionate about, he will get very involved in the conversation. He is particularly passionate about the Capitol. He's very against the Capitol and will get in an argument with anyone about their cruelty, regardless of who it is. He wouldn't hesitate to start a riot in the street if he thought there was a good reason for it. He does anything he can to spit in the Capitol's face, no matter the consequences.

Every so often, Gusty will be the one to initiate a conversation. Usually it will be with a girl, and usually because he's hoping to get her into bed. Some nights he will refuse to talk even when someone approaches him, and will merely stare at them with tired eyes until they go away. He tells himself that he doesn't need people the way others do. He doesn't need to surround himself with people to feel alive, to be happy. He doesn't need friends. He surrounds himself with strangers to remedy his loneliness, but ends up drinking himself to unconsciousness. He doesn't want to need people, but deep down he knows that he does.

A girl once told him that he was so good at hiding who he was from other people that he'd hidden who he was from himself, as well. He didn't want that to be true. But most of the time he can't remember who it was he was trying to be, and who he started out as in the first place. He feels emotionless, a lost soul drifting, trying to find himself. There are only twp things that can make him feel anymore - music and the Capitol. The Capitol brings him anger, true and raw, and the anger is what pushes him on. The anger reminds him that he is still alive.

History

He not busy being born
Is busy dying.

He was born in District One to two former careers. He was the first of two children, his younger sister Mira being born two years after he was. His childhood was relatively normal. Both his parents worked, but they always had quite a bit of money, enough that the children were never wanting for anything. Gusty's parents found it strange, however, that as their children grew, they started to reject the fancy clothes their parents bought them, instead wanting to buy things secondhand. Gusty and Mira liked the way secondhand clothes looked, with stories they could never guess at. The two of them both started playing guitar at the same time, taking lessons from a neighbor across the street, Abel. He taught them all sorts of songs from long ago, and the children gobbled them up.

One day, their parents told them they couldn't see that man anymore, and they moved across the district to a house a bit smaller than their old one. For years, there was no explanation, and though Gusty thought about that man often, he never asked. He was quite happy. Most of his time he spent with his sister, or with his only friend from school. When he turned ten, his parents had him start training to be a career, but he never liked it much. He started skipping practice sessions, and when his parents found out, they were furious. They wanted him to be a career like they'd been. Gusty tried to explain that it wasn't what he wanted, but they wouldn't listen. From then on, they made sure he went to training, and when Mira was older, they made her go too.

Gusty retreated into his music. He hated training, hated the idea of hurting people, but he did it to make his parents happy. Then, one day when he was sixteen, everything changed. The truth came out. Abel came to their house, saying that he wanted Mira to come with him. He said Mira was his daughter. Gusty's mother, in tears, had to explain how, years ago, she'd had an affair with this man. She hadn't loved Gusty's father for a long time now, but she'd stayed with him because he'd threatened to kill Abel and frame her for his murder. It was at that moment that Gusty started hating his father. Mira was horrified when she learned the truth, and left with Abel right away. Gusty decided he'd rather be with Mira, who had always been so earnest with him, than be with people who had told him lies his whole life.

They left the district with Abel, and for nearly a year, they had peace. Gusty felt more at home with Abel than he had with his own parents. Certainly Abel understood him better. They traveled from district to district, singing for people and quietly spreading stories about the Capitol and about conditions elsewhere. Gusty learned the truth about his country, and channeled his hate towards his parents at the Capitol instead. They were a perfect team, bringing music and truth to the people. Until the day the Peacekeepers caught up with them. They grabbed Mira first, and when Abel tried to get her back, wrestling her out of the Peacekeeper's grip, he was shot. Gusty wanted to stay, save his sister, but he didn't want to die. So he ran.

Guilt tormented him wherever he went. What had they done with Mira? Had they punished her, hurt her? He couldn't live with himself, knowing he'd escaped whatever torture she'd had to endure. Alone, Gusty continued onward, spreading his music, a new anger blooming in his chest. He would get his revenge on the Capitol. He would avenge Abel's death, and he would find his sister, wherever she was.

odair