Valentine Wickney (pronounced 'Vickney'; it's German, yo)

Female

What do they say about curiosity? That it killed the cat is perfectly healthy and natural for a girl her age.

20

5'4"

127 lbs.

April 18th

Stonecliff. Her dad used to own a restaurant there before plot bent him over and blew his fucking brains out. The deed is technically now in her name, but it hurts too much to look at, currently.

Silvery-white—curiously enough, the luster and texture occur naturally, and given her hot girl disguise absurdly good genetics, require minimal effort to maintain. She’s surprisingly meticulous about the dye—she can’t stand her natural brown, for whatever reason (coughdeadmommycough).

Slate gray. Not quite blue, but not entirely gray, either. Oddly intense, and capable of exceptionally intrusive intimacy.

A shoulder shrug and a pointed, "Your guess is as good as mine." Her mother was a blend of Egyptian-American, Hispanic, and European, and her father was as white as they come German and Italian--a whole mishmash of things. They're all European mutts, besides. She circles 'Caucasian' on standardized exams, though--she's so pale no one would believe otherwise.

Vee is pale, lean and narrow, smooth skin stretching taut over a trim, reasonably toned physique. Tiny, lithe, and deceptively deadly, she clocks in at approximately 5’4”, meaning one could (with moderate difficulty; she's prone to dorky theatrics) conceivably hoist her over one’s shoulder and cart her off mid-confrontation.

Vee's face is soft, all delicate cheekbones, gently-rounded cheeks, and wide, mischievous blue eyes--much like the rest of her, they're cheerful, passionate, and exploding with fiery conviction. A faint, barely-distinguishable smattering of freckles spans a soft, slightly upturned nose. Full lips born to twist into a crooked, devil-may-care grin host pristine rows of straight, white teeth.

A cascade of dyed curls tumble about her shoulders, carefully arranged in a trendy, layered fashion that epitomizes the concept of deliberate, "artful" dishevelment. It's relatively distinct, further contributing to that rebellious glitter-punk style she's been carefully cultivating since her teenage years. ("It's cool, y'know?" she'll insist, sticking her tongue out like a child. "Like, in a 'totally not' kind of way. I mean, subjectively speaking. If you're into that. That's a thing, right?")

She's developed an affinity for makeup bordering on unholy devotion; it's something of a hobby, and it gives her something to do. It’s deliberately smudged to further highlight that insouciant brand of i will lowkey talk until you kill your own ears she's all-but patented. Which is...really something she should look into. For posterity.

If it's (questionably) chic, comfortable, and looks like it belongs on the cover of an edgy YA novel, it's probably in her wardrobe. Slim-fitting jeans, leggings, over-sized hoodies, flannels left open over tight tank tops or graphic tees, loose sweaters with the sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms, etc. She claims she owns a leather jacket, but she also claims she hates black leather.

She lives in hipster hell, so why not take advantage? She likes high-tops, too--the bulkier, the better.

What a tool.

Valentine Wickney is the paragon of impish whimsy, dauntless curiosity, roguish charisma, and interminable vitality. Not even harsh doses of reality can put a damper on her optimism; any problem can be broken down into more manageable chunks if you just sit and think.

She's in possession of a "play-hard, die-hard" spirit indomitable even in the face of adversity--defiantly resilient, she wouldn’t understand the concept of despair if it sidled right up to her and spat in her eye. 'Defeat' isn't in her vocabulary; indifferent towards concepts like 'giving up' and 'knowing when to quit' and 'developing problem-solving skills that don't pose a threat to her own well-being', she's not in the business of losing quietly...if at all.

Wreathed in a contagious aura of vitality and armed to the teeth with an abundance of smarmy grins, goofball tendencies, a vehement intolerance for ignorance, Vee is generally always worth a good laugh. Her tongue is an ammo drum of jokes (of both the bawdy and atrociously punny varieties). A regular pepper-box, she’s confidence incarnate–she doesn’t walk, she swaggers. A lonely childhood bestowed upon her an impressive imagination, and because she's adventurous to a fault and twice as curious, she’s always nose-deep in some sort of wild scheme or grand adventure. This, coupled with poor impulse control and a predilection toward improvisation, means she can orchestrate some truly ludicrous plans--and, given her motto of, "Hey, it's okay, I'll make it all work out," they're often entirely impractical, and work perfectly despite all available evidence. Eat shit, laws of physics!

Her voice has a playful, chipper lilt—her sunny disposition is downright infectious. Vee's absurdly garrulous, often to the point of being...frustrating. Fear only exacerbates the problem--when she's nervous, excited, or petrified beyond wit, she just starts...rambling. It's almost endearing.

Contrary to what one might assume given her rambunctious nature, Vee is, in fact, socially adept—kindness, empathy, and courtesy are remarkably efficient means of obtaining the information she wants (and want it she does), and besides, there's no point in being needlessly rude. Generosity is in no short supply, especially when it comes to swapping stories; she'd listen to an artisan discuss at length the process by which certain paints were manufactured with awed, rapt attention, and then ask (moderately) insightful questions—provided she grants the poor man a chance to speak. She loves learning new things, whether those topics concern people, places, events, or abstract concepts; in fact, she revels in the arcane and the absurd. She's a self-proclaimed 'people person;' traditional academics are boring, but stories and people aren't. She cares more about the 'whys' than the 'hows,' especially when said whys pertain to motives, goals, ambitions, and dreams--she's a natural raconteur!

Having grown up idolizing the heroes she saw in comics and on TV, she's got a penchant for theatrics--however, she's moderately self-aware, and she doesn't take herself seriously at all. "Save them with a smile," is practically her code of conduct--if there's a person that needs help, she, in all her dorky, cheerful exuberance, is the first on the scene--even if it poses a potential threat to her own life. Her body moves on its own!

To the surprise of absolutely no one, she’s got a mischievous streak. If anything, she's playful in an affable, silly, "party animal" kind of way--snowball fights, pranks, festivities, and corralling wayward platoons of shrieking children all come quite naturally. Impish pranks come with the territory of unabashed (everyday) heroics—nothing wrong with having a bit of fun, right? As such, she’s as snarky as she is clever, though her sarcasm carries a good-natured bent. Banter takes precedence over bickering, in her eyes--though, when the gloves come off, so do her inhibitions. She's not beyond a verbal smackdown, especially of her sense of justice deems it warranted.

With inquisitive cleverness comes shrewd perspicacity; as such, perceptiveness, intuition, and vigilance are in no short supply. She notices the little details, registering them as subtle emotional cues--a wrinkled blouse on an otherwise meticulous pedant, a red nose and the absence of eyeliner on a makeup artist, a tired smile that says, "I'm dying" in spite of hollow, platitudinous assurances the person in question is 'absolutely fine'. Sometimes, the best way to help someone is to catch them off-guard, and a blunt, "You're not sleeping" works wonders over the traditional, "Are you okay?"

According to the rest of her family, her mother died a hero, so she's got a certain legacy to uphold. Hopefully, that doesn't include maudlin self-sacrifice--puts a real damper on any weekend plans. Besides, that hero complex had to spawn somewhere--a combination of an ex-military uncle, a shitty home life, and a fervent desire to be the change necessary to 'fix' what's wrong with the world will do that to you.

Having lived with her older sister/legal guardian for the vast majority of her life, Vee's no stranger to cramped apartments, late-night shouting matches, and atrocious neighbors. She grew up relatively independent (the product of her environment, no doubt), having become accustomed to whiling away the hours by her lonesome.

It was almost adorable, at times: late at night, hunched over a faded, scuff-riddled coffee table, in almost companionable silence, the pair toiled dutifully away, Angela wrangling with Intro to Economics while a ten-year-old Vee fumbled her way through rudimentary algebra.

Sometimes, it got lonely. Sometimes one of Angela's less-than-orthodox occupations demanded her presence at odd hours; there were clients to be served and customers to be placated, lest she risk incurring her manager's wrath. Their budget was already tight enough, between unreasonably exorbitant utility bills (Vee suspected the landlady was a bona fide sadist, complete with the leather catsuit to marshal the cellulite into some semblance of proper order), a woefully maladroit internet provider, complete with terrible customer service, and two sets of tuition fees.

Sometimes, the people Angela brought home--associates, she called them, which was kind of funny, because Vee hadn't known that was another synonym for 'sugar daddy'--but that was okay. She was used to it, and besides, she was doing her best.

Vee never finished high school. She was always more invested in people and their affairs than the hasty, half-assed scrawls on the chalkboard. One too many interventions when the schoolyard bully decided to pulverize some poor, unsuspecting innocent lead to one too many assailants conquered and one too many complaints filed--it didn't matter that she wasn't the instigator, purported the no-tolerance policy, it mattered she'd chosen to involve herself in matters that didn't concern her.

And unconcerned she was--in her eyes, hadn't she done some good? She'd tried to fix a part of the world, however small, the only way she knew how: with her words, and with her fists.

Then, in a few sporadic bursts--which most had assumed to be isolated incidents, the poor dears--after a particularly violent confrontation involving a switchblade, a dumpster, and some stolen Pokemon cards, the powers manifested, and her would-be attackers (who were rapidly diminishing in numbers; tales of her bullshit white knight exploits spread, and she began to fancy herself a bit of a hero) weren't the only ones that got burned.

She was asked, politely but firmly, to leave. She didn't need a lawyer's knack for legalese to read between the lines, and that school had drawn the lines pretty far apart.

Being the first Metahuman to crop up in her family in what seemed like generations understandably catalyzed more than its fair share of tension between Angela and Vee, chiefly because Angela had no idea how to manage that. Part of her wanted to believe Vee was using it as an excuse, and the other part of her cowed rather quickly.

So, once the freshly-expelled Vee turned 18, she and her hero complex sought greener pastures. She and Angela didn't exactly part on friendly terms.

She worked a number of odd jobs over the years, ranging from professional dog-walker to barista to part-time mechanic's assistant to, finally, her current occupation: waitressing in a small, family-owned diner run by an incorrigible tyrant of a man.

Small world, indeed.

It's not so bad, though--she meets plenty of interesting people, and her vivacious disposition attracts customers in droves. There's something about the chipper girl with the wry smile--something about how she'll remember the most minute details even when the customers forget. She and Angela are currently attempting to mend their relationship, but progress is as inconsistent as it is slow. They're doing their best.

There are plenty of stories to recount, names to learn, experiences to share, adventures to be had, and histories to unveil, so for now?

She thinks she's pretty content.

| {Impression (Good/Bad/Neutral} | {Relationship (Friend, Rival, Crush, etc)} | "Quote Here." |

Elemental | Energy

Friction Exacerbation is inflicting a severe burn on/igniting an object, person, or substance via touch-based application of preternaturally powerful friction. By expending certain amounts of willpower (read: willing it into action), Vee can determine the intensity of her attack...well, a ballpark estimate, at least.

On the battlefield, Vee essentially functions as a human matchstick. A punch could scorch, a kick could sear, a slap could singe, etc. In her presence conflagrations are a scarily real possibility, as well as collateral damage. If she so pleased, she could use her own hand as the 'tinder,' to 'conjure' fire, if she was willing to sustain the ensuing third-degree burn. As such, she's better suited to bum-rushing her adversary to catch them off-guard. Grappling onto an opponent would probably result in a seared appendage--possibly a full-body ignition if the situation spiraled out of control.

While best-suited towards combat, if she concentrates hard enough, she can implement it in more pedestrian ways, such as heating up a ceramic mug, kick-starting a fire, and (occasionally) catching herself when she falls. Friction does stop things, after all, and everything has friction--it's a universal force.

Physical contact is an absolute much--while it's theorized she might be able to master ranged application in the future, all of her current efforts have proven fruitless, much to her eternal consternation. It's largely dependent on her reaction time, too--as this ability has no delay, she can't utilize it strategically, like one might a timed explosive. It detonates immediately or it doesn't go off at all.

The faster she applies friction to a substance, the more damage she sustains.

Forcing friction on air is absurdly difficult--well outside the scope of her current capabilities. She couldn't use her power like a parachute, for instance!

Requires immense concentration to maintain; if she doesn't time her actions precisely, she runs the risk of burning herself. Furthermore, if she's not careful, she might not be able to regulate the intensity, especially during an emotional outburst. What was intended as a rug burn might inadvertently wind up as partial to total incineration, or vice versa. She hasn't quite mastered the delicate art of control--balancing the force of will required to shift the frictional force and the composure needed to keep herself in check is surprisingly difficult, especially under duress. With her, it's all or nothing--she'll deliver a rug burn or she'll accidentally light you on fire.

Moreover, it's quite probable she'll burn herself in the process--she has to maintain physical contact, after all, and she's not immune to its effects.

Naturally, the longer this ability is invoked, the more her concentration wavers--it's like standing on one leg for extended durations of time. After a while, she starts to teeter, and then eventually, she'll hit the proverbial dirt. Devastating headaches typically ensue, rendering her effectively useless--unless, by some unlikely miracle, she could weather the agony--until her affliction subsides.

If she were to attempt to deploy this power to catch herself after tumbling off a roof, she'd be able to keep herself on there through friction. Furthermore, she's already scorching whatever she caught herself on, meaning it'd hurt like an absolute bitch. Even if she fell, she'd still sustain some damage once she hit the ground--in her current state, she'd only be able to slow her descent by scrabbling at the terrain at the expense of her own hands, not completely negate it. She wouldn't die, but she'd probably shatter a limb or two.