Devon Ridgeman

Full Name- Devon Ridgeman
Gender- Male
Age- 31
Date of Birth- August 31st, 1979
Sexual Orientation- Heterosexual
Location- Las Vegas, Nevada
Celebrity Claim- Burian-Mohr, Joshua
What should we call you?- CO / Chaotic
Play anyone else?- Ryan Alcroft
Have You Read the Rules?- I am the shoe goddess!

Personality-
Despite official documentation to the contrary, Devon Ridgeman isn't actually insane in the medical sense. What he is, however, is an unfriendly, manipulative, sometimes violent man who isn't above doing anything in order to have things go his way or to get what he wants. Suffering from a drug addiction, he is prone to withdrawal symptoms, which only serve to exacerbate his mood and increase his level of desperation.

Even though they technically died by his own hands, the loss of his parents and the subsequent incarceration in a high-security psychiatric institution affected him deeply. Within weeks, the mindset of a sociable, teenage track runner was eroded away, yielding to a far darker psyche; one that eventually held no real compassion for anyone other than himself. If he was ever remorseful for the death of his parents, Devon would never admit it.

If there really was a downward spiral, Devon would consider himself to have fallen off the bottom long ago. While not one of these 21st-Century "emo" types (he doesn't even know what one is, having missed the emergence of the "trend" in the early part of the decade), he realises that, after killing one's parents and succumbing to a drug addiction he obtained through no real fault of his own other than a desire to escape, he can't really sink very much lower. This state of mind has borne a lack of a desire to care about what people would think of as the basic tenets of the "real, adult world", such as rules, justice and a fair legal system.

Likes-

• Freedom.
  
• The outdoors.
  
• Running. (both watching and participating)
  
• Eating out in restaurants.
  
• Isotonic energy drinks, especially fruit-flavoured ones. (mostly from his short-lived running career)
  

Dislikes-

• Human captivity. (institutionalisation, kidnapping, imprisonment, etc.)
  
• Interruptions.
  
• Medical professionals. (especially anaesthesiologists)
  
• Withdrawal symptoms.
  
• Law enforcement agencies.
  

Strengths-

• Tolerance to Benzodiazepine Sedation:
  
  With being sedated so often before his escape from the institution which he had called home for a number of years, the staff eventually realised that, in order for the chemicals they used to have the desired effect on Devon, an increased dose had to be administered. As well as the negative side-effects which have resulted from such overuse, Devon found out years ago that, until these raised doses (or different chemicals entirely) were used, he was gradually becoming more difficult to subdue through purely chemical means.
  
  
• Near-Unswayable Determination:
  
  Devon is the kind of person that, once an objective gets in his head, he will do everything he possibly can in order to succeed. His "incarceration" was one such time. If there had been a record for the most escape attempts from a psychiatric institution, Devon would have been its undisputed holder. Even after his failed attempts resulted in being restrained and sedated, he still kept trying.
  
  
• Athletic Stamina:
  
  Like many athletes, Devon's diet and training regimen during high school went a long way to increasing his stamina. While maintaining this particular regimen was impossible from 1996 onwards, Devon did try to fight/run his way to freedom a lot in those thirteen years, meaning he still has a good portion of the stamina he obtained in his teenage years.
  
  
• Reckless "Bravery":
  
  With his parents dead and his extended family pretty much disowning him as a result, Devon feels that, after his high school athletics career and the friends he had garnered as a result, he has absolutely nothing left to lose. This allows him to be in a state of mind that isn't easily phased by situations or people that would scare others.
  
  
• Analytical Mind:
  
  During his high school years, Devon was one of a rare breed. While most athletes focused on their sporting performance at the detriment of the rest of their academic grades (mostly due to being far better at the former than the latter), Devon was able to maintain generally good grades in his academic subjects. When his mental state allows him to do so (see "Sporadic Coherence"), he is very much able to engage in problem solving like anybody else, finding solutions to tricky scenarios that may otherwise elude others.
  

Weaknesses-

• Benzodiazepine Addiction/Withdrawal:
  
  Escaping the institution had one major drawback for Devon. While there, he found himself deliberately making trouble in order to get one of the orderlies to sedate him - often with/including drugs such as Valium - in order to feed what eventually became an addiction. After his escape, his only way to obtain the drugs he craved (and still craves) was lost, meaning he often suffers bouts of withdrawal symptoms (including dizziness, anxiety, mood swings, photophobia, depersonalisation/derealisation, nausea and vomiting) as a result.
  
  
• Sporadic Coherence:
  
  Despite being a "clinically insane" escapee with a drug addiction, Devon does still manage to become lucid and coherent from time to time. During these periods, he is a lot more "normal" than he is otherwise. The only drawback to these periods is that they never seem to last very long.
  
  
• (Upper Body) Physical Weakness:
  
  In a sealed, padded cell, the options for getting the exercise which is so often recommended are incredibly limited. The only way Devon found to rectify the situation (besides trying to escape) was if, when the orderlies came on one of their many visits, he fought back against them. This means that, compared to many men his age, his muscles manage to muster far less power; something which doesn't exactly serve him well in a fight.
  
  
• Unwillingness to Recognise Authority:
  
  With almost a decade and a half of enduring less-than-ideal treatment at the hands of those deemed to be "in authority", Devon is reluctant to acknowledge such people, instead preferring to do his own thing. Even if he did bring himself to obey the orders of someone else, he would try and do it his own way wherever possible.
  
  
• Unwillingness to Trust Others:
  
  After accidentally killing the only people on the planet he ever truly trusted (his parents), Devon saw just how traitorous people could be. During the court case, he witnessed no less than three members of his extended family (an aunt, an uncle and one of his cousins) testify against him and, when he was found guilty and sentenced, he realised that the lawyer assigned to him had never tried to prove his innocence, instead trying to lessen the inevitable sentence he would receive. Upon his "release", he decided that, if his own family would betray him after an unfortunate accident, then the public would easily betray him after a lot less.
  

Skills-

• Amateur Escapology:
  
  During the time spent in high-security institutionalisation, Devon has learned the intricacies of various forms of restraint; straight-jackets, handcuffs, leather bed-straps and the like and, as a result, is able to free himself with relative ease, given enough time. However, being self-taught means he isn't as proficient as the escapologists often seen in Las Vegas shows or on TV and there are some restraints (or combinations of restraints/situations) which are beyond his ability.
  
  
• Middle-Distance Running:
  
  During high school, the young Devon Ridgeman was on the school athletics/track team, specialising in both the four-hundred and eight-hundred metre races. While running a lot less after his admission, his escape attempts have managed to keep the skills he learned in check (albeit not as much as he would like), meaning he is still quite a competent runner.
  
  
• Emotional Detachment:
  
  Believing that there isn't much that is considered worse than a patricidal drug addict, Devon finds it incredibly difficult to care about anyone or anything else other than himself, allowing him to go about his business (whatever it may be) unburdened by the feelings of others or the sense that he's doing something "wrong".
  

Flaws-

• Aichmophobia:
  
  One of the many psychological side-effects from his time in a padded cell is aichmophobia; the irrational fear of needles. Stemming from the numerous times he required sedation, the feeling of dread quickly grew into a gripping fear which still renders Devon in a state of panic to this day.
  
  
• Violent Tendencies:
  
  Devon is very much prone to descending into a far more violent state of mind. While it has been known to be more due to his frequent withdrawal symptoms, it has been a factor of his psychological state for so long that resorting to violence has managed to integrate itself into his personality as a whole, whether he is under the sway of drugs at the time or not.
  
  
• Social Ineptitude:
  
  Being institutionalised from the age of 17 onwards would have an adverse effect on the social skills of any individual. Devon is no exception. With a lack of contact with the outside world - barring the frequent visits from the medical orderlies - the social skills he had amassed through childhood have effectively atrophied to nearly zero. As a result, he is often unwilling to make direct eye contact with others and he sometimes stumbles over his words, despite not possessing any condition which would cause him to do so. The only exception to this psychological trait is if Devon is feeling a powerful emotion at the time; one strong enough to temporarily override his lack of ability in a social context - anger being a prime example.
  

Abilities/Powers/Skills-
Tactile Molecular Decay

Purely by making physical contact with a material, Devon is able to interfere with whatever he touches at the molecular level, manipulating the bonds that hold molecules and cells together until the material being manipulated simply breaks apart.

Depending on what Devon manipulates, different effects can be observed:

• Stone, other earth-like materials and some metals unable to be tarnished or corroded will suddenly look like they are eroding, crumbling apart as Devon exerts additional pressure on the molecular bonds.
  
• Some metals will spontaneously begin to rust before they crumble into little more than shards and thick powder.
  
• Glass, whether it be for regular windows, bulletproof glass or just a glass-like material (Perspex, for instance) will act much like stone and earth, eventually breaking into small shards when it can no longer maintain its solid structure.
  

Limits-

Despite everything on the planet possessing a molecular structure, Devon is only able to manipulate and break apart things which he is able to place the palm of his hand against; that is, objects and materials that are solid (or vaguely so) in nature. For example, Devon is able to decay stone, metal and human flesh, but he is unable to break apart the molecules of liquids, such as water and blood.

As with many other people and their abilities, Devon can become exhausted if he tries to manipulate the molecular bonds of a particularly dense or complex material or multiple types of materials at once, like metal-reinforced concrete. This also applies if he attempts to use his ability for prolonged periods. If he allows his level of exhaustion to become sufficiently significant, he will effectively be rendered powerless until he recovers, during which time he is unable to break apart even the most simple things, like a sheet of paper.

Appearance-
Standing 175 centmetres (5'9") tall and with a slender musculature nearly completely devoid of body fat, most people's first impressions of Devon is that he is either some sort of athlete or a man who enjoys regular exercise. It isn't until those people get the opportunity to examine him closer that they realise that they could be wrong in their assumptions.

While Devon is a Caucasian male, his skintone is unusually pallid - almost deathly so - hinting at spending a long time away from natural sunlight. His pale skin the inevitable contrast between it and his brown eyes and dark hair all the more striking. Clothes-wise, long-sleeved shirts and cargo pants are often the order of the day; a conscious choice to not reveal his body when and where possible.

Alignment- Villain
Team Affiliation- He's unaffiliated. For now.
Birthplace- Las Vegas, NV
Mother- Maria Ridgeman, 39, deceased (August 31st, 1996), Civilian
Father- Kieron Ridgeman, 43, deceased (August 31st, 1996), Special (Technopathic Reconstitution)
Siblings- N/A

History-
From an early age, it was clear that Devon Ridgeman loved running. Despite being born in Las Vegas; a city more known for its casinos and strip clubs than its athletics facilities, Devon simply settled for using the suburban streets as his running track. When he became old enough, he tried out for his school's athletics team; managing to earn his place with relative ease. Once he had a coach to help hone his skills, he quickly found that, while not faring too well in the sprinting events, his stamina served him well in the longer races, especially the four-hundred and eight-hundred metre events.

With his ability, success wasn't too far behind and, even before starting high school, he had garnered quite a few medals from various state competitions in his age group. When he started his first year in high school, he made sure that he found out if they, like the school he had attended before, had an athletics/track team. Luckily, they did and, like most of the other sporting teams, they held a phase of tryouts to search for new talent. With the additional community support and exposure that high school teams often received, it wasn't long before he developed something of a fanbase in his fellow students.

He even managed to get his face in the newspapers on a few occasions, mostly when he helped his school team to victory and got them a new piece of silverware or a medal to show off in a trophy cabinet. Though, the day he turned seventeen, he found himself in a situation that would have his name in the newspapers for an entirely different reason.

Like a miniscule amount of people in the world, Devon had an ability and, that evening, it manifested itself. After being fired from his job at a nearby construction yard, Devon's father had decided that, rather than celebrate his son's birthday, he needed to take the edge off the prospect that he would - for a while at least - no longer be earning money for the family. Coming home drunk hours after he was supposed to, Devon was, understandably, not impressed in the slightest and angrily asked why his father would do such a thing. Rather than engage in an adult discussion, the two of them argued loudly and, before long, Devon did something which was very much unlike him.

He grabbed his father by the throat and began to squeeze.

Devon knew that he wasn't a particularly strong teenager but, amazingly, even he was able to cut off the air supply for his father. At least, that was his first assumption. It wasn't until he took his hands away to allow his father to breathe that he realised what had really happened. Rather than gasp and reclaim his ability to breathe (as well as being more than a little pissed off), the much larger man simply collapsed to the floor.

He was obviously dead but - arguably more than anything - it was how the man had died that distressed Devon. Where his hands had been, his father's skin was either not there at all or, if it was, it was hideously blackened and withered, almost as if it had been rotted away. Without the skin and flesh to protect it, the man's trachea had also fallen victim to this inexplicable phenomenon, rendering it unable to carry air to the lungs.

As if things couldn't get any worse by that point, his mother came into the room. Naturally, she was more than a little upset by the sight which greeted her and, despite her son's panicked attempts to convince her that it was an accident and she shouldn't call the police, she hastily started to make her way towards the nearest telephone.

Until Devon grabbed her by the wrists.

At first, she quietly complained that her son was hurting her. Then she began to scream in pain as the flesh rotted away, the blood in her veins having nowhere else to go but out onto the floor. By then, it was far too late. In the space of fifteen minutes, both of Devon's parents had been murdered.

A neighbour eventually discovered the scene and called the police. This time, Devon made no effort to stop them. After what had just happened, he didn't want to risk touching someone else. He spent the time between the neighbour's visit and his arrest staring at his blood-coated hands, wondering just what he had done. Try as he might, he just couldn't make sense of any of it.

With his parents both dead, there was nobody available to appoint a lawyer to him so, as his Constitutional rights decreed, he was given one by the city. While the grey-haired man offered some advice to the confused teenager, he insisted that he be allowed to do what was best. The court case, while recieving a lot of media coverage, didn't last very long but, during that time, he realised just how low people could stoop in order to get what they wanted, regardless of who they betrayed.

Three members of his extended family were witnesses at the hearing; an uncle, an aunt and one of his cousins. But, rather than defend him as he expected them to have done when he first spotted them, he sat in silent horror as, at the behest of the prosecuting attorney, they testified against him, spewing forth lie after lie as they were made to deface what little remained of his character. And, to make matters all the worse, he learned what his own lawyer had set out to do. Rather than focus on an attempt to prove his innocence, he concentrated on lessening the inevitable sentence as much as he possibly could.

To be honest, Devon couldn't blame the man. Especially after all the outrageous things he had told him; about how his father's skin had rotted away when he grabbed him without so much as a scratch on his own body. In the end, he was found guilty and, rather than being sent to prison, he was admitted to a high-security psychiatric institution.

With new surroundings came a new group of people to attempt to persuade of his innocence. But, whenever he tried; be it by screaming at the top of his lungs or, if the mood struck him, trying to fight his way through the orderlies to make them listen, he was subdued and sedated. Every time it happened, he lost a few more hours of his life.

The hours became days.

The days became weeks...

...and before long, it had been years.

They were planning on leaving him here to die. By now, it was a whole new century. He wasn't sure if he was Devon Ridgeman anymore. He wasn't sure if anyone would even know who Devon Ridgeman was. Even so, he still clung onto the fact that he was innocent.

As time passed, he learned how to slip free of whatever non-chemical methods the staff outside his cell could come up with. Rather than "Devon", they began to call him "the Escapologist", mostly because of the fact that, when they came to sedate him and fit him into a straight-jacket, they would find him out of the restraint by the time their next visit rolled around. After a while, and realising that he didn't seem to be doing it to get out of the facility, they just didn't bother. Devon seemed quiet enough by that point anyway.

Because he was spending his time thinking. And so began the exploration of the thing that had put him in the padded cell in the first place. His curse. That was what he called it. What else would one call a thing that had brought him nothing but misery? Rather than test it on his own skin, he would test it on whatever he could lay his hands on; the food trays that were brought to him, the padding on the walls - luckly, the orderlies didn't seem to notice that small sections of the padding or the trays they took back were becoming slightly... decayed.

After hours of silent practice, Devon eventually managed to control his curse. Granted, the process had taken a lot longer than anticipated - mostly due to the fact he hadn't tried to use it since he was seventeen - but, in his current situation, time was one thing he didn't have a shortage of. Choosing one night at random, he seized his chance. The intentions of the staff would alternate between sedation and feeding. All he had to do was wait until they were... "unarmed".

The usual warnings were shouted through the door.

Devon complied.

The viewport was closed.

Devon moved.

The door opened.

Devon struck. Taking the first man by surprise, he pressed the palms of his hands against his chest, the decay stripping away a section of the man's clothes before boring into his flesh. Ignoring the blood spilling outward, he continued until the man stopped struggling.

In desperation, the second man had plunged a syringe into Devon's arm. Almost as soon as the plunger was pushed down, he recognised the familiar sensations running through his body. He may have felt slightly numb and more inclined to relax, but sleepy? Not a chance. His body was used to this particular type of sedative. In the man's desperation, he had disregarded what he had been told.

A mistake that would prove to be his undoing. Discarding the first man and leaving him in the cell, Devon tore the syringe out of his arm and attacked a second time. Even when the man started to try and beat him to the floor, Devon wasn't about to quit. Eventually, his ability granted him the upper hand and, after leaving the corpses behind and stealing some casual clothes from a locker room, he finally found himself in the outside world again.

Anything else?- Having effectively broken out of the institution in Las Vegas that had housed him, Devon is a fugitive and, as such, isn't very popular with the local police.

Sample RP-
Night had long-since fallen over Las Vegas. A stone's throw away, the Strip was - as usual - ablaze with neon light enticing residents and tourists alike towards the mass of casinos, strip clubs and hotels which were situated somewhere within. Away from the glamourous lights was a small, privately-owned motel. While not seeing as much business as the corporate ones, the rooms were still kept clean and in good condition on the off-chance that someone did arrive.

At around eleven that evening, someone did. Though, the man who approached the front desk wasn't what the grey-haired proprietor would call an ideal customer.

Devon stared at the aging man with a tired look in his bloodshot eyes. After what he had done in order to get here, he really didn't feel like enduring any more barriers to achieve his next goal. All he wanted was to fall asleep of his own accord for the first time in this new century. As polite as the man may have been, it didn't remove the fact that he was in his way. A quick glance down at the clothes he had... "obtained" showed him the extent of the haste he had employed during his escape.

Simply put, the clothes didn't fit. Being a couple of sizes too small, the casual pants he had found only stretched down to a point approximately two inches above his ankles. The t-shirt which covered the pale skin on his torso showed the logo of some strange band he didn't recognise. He didn't care. At the end of the day, clothes were clothes.

"Can I help you?", the proprietor asked, sounding equally as tired as Devon looked as he suspiciously eyed the younger man's somewhat dishevelled appearance. Every so often, Devon's eyes would nervously dart around while his fingers would drum an irregular rhythm on the counter. He looked a lot like a drug addict on the way to full-on withdrawal and, having lived in Vegas for a good, long while, he knew such a sight when it greeted him.

"Y-You, uh... you've got a... a room here. Right?", Devon eventually asked, his voice nervous and shaky. It was the first time he had spoken to someone in over a decade. To say he was out of practice was a vast understatement. He could tell by the disapproving look on the older man's face that he wasn't making a good first impression and, to make matters worse, his stomach had chosen this precise moment to gain a distinct nauseous quality. Allowing a hand to disappear below the old man's line of sight to gently hold the skin covering the errant digestive organ in an effort to keep its contents (or lack thereof; he was starving) firmly inside his body, he spoke again. "L-Look... I don't.. I don't have any money with me. I.. I just need to sleep. For one night."

"I'm afraid I can't help ya," the older man regretfully replied, causing Devon's eyes to narrow into a frown. The man was lying through what remained of his teeth. If anything, he knew when he was being lied to. "I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to find some other place to spend the night. It's late and I'm about to head home."

In the older man's defence, Devon was a scary-looking individual. In spite of the lack of an imposing physical form, there was just something about the man that sent a chill through the spine whenever he looked into those odd eyes, trying to see just what he was thinking. Or maybe it was just the lack of light and the years of experience telling him that something was off about him.

Devon's body began to tremble. Without the institution, he no longer had the regular influx of sedative chemicals into his bloodstream to help regulate... well, to help regulate him. Perhaps this was the fabled "withdrawal symptoms" everyone seemed to talk about whenever drug addiction was involved. "Damn it!!", he suddenly screamed, slamming the palm of his left hand against the glass as his nervousness temporarily vanished. "All I'm asking for is one room for one night! One fuckin' night! Is that really too much? I haven't slept in days and I re--..."

Devon's eyes widened, his voice halting mid-sentence as he watched the man's regretful expression turn into one of fear. Trembling, the old man retreated from the glass and grabbed the reciever of the corded telephone sitting on the desk. It didn't take a genius to guess which number he was going to dial...

"Don't do that," Devon warned simply, his anger fading away, only to yield to an almost scarily sadistic calm.

beep! The old man's trembling index finger pressed the 9.

Devon's hand pressed more firmly against the glass, turning the skin on his palms pale from the pressure. "I said don't... do... that." This time, he spoke through his teeth, which had clamped shut in an effort to restrain his erratic waves of anger as well as to sound insistent.

beep! The finger moved up to press the 1.

The man wasn't listening. Devon hated it when people didn't listen. Staring at the glass, he felt an unnatural warmth slowly take hold in his palm as the clear material began to gradually weaken. He wasn't smashing the pane of glass. He wasn't melting it either. He was doing something far more intricate. In his mind, he could see the molecules that made up the glass beneath his palm; tightly packed together as they created a firm, solid barrier. It was a strange thought but, as he had realised long before, it wasn't just an image he could look at.

One by one, he was gradually picking apart the bonds which held the glass together and, little by little, the clear pane shifted every moment until...

...a hand suddenly reached through and grabbed the older man by the arm. Around the pallid skin of Devon's left arm, the window which had once acted as a barrier protecting the proprietor from certain unsavoury individuals lay in ruins; millions of tiny crystals of glass in a heap on the counter. Rather than being smashed, the glass had simply... decayed at the molecular level. What had once been a seemingly infinite number of tightly-interlocking strings connecting all the pieces together had been reduced to nothing at all in the space of a few seconds.

Gripped with fear, the older man dropped the reciever, allowing it to noisily clatter against the hard floor. It hadn't been just any normal glass that had broken before his eyes. Being in Las Vegas, the man had diligently invested in a pane of bulletproof glass. And yet, in the space of a few seconds, the man who was now holding him tightly by the arm had broken it without firing a shot. Hell, he had done it without even possessing a gun.

"All right! All right!", came the older man's panicked, relenting remark. "Y-You win!" Oh, how scared he sounded. Someone should really do something, Devon thought, the morbid notion making him smirk. "T-Take one!" The older man started placing key after key onto the counter. Such a shame. Working at his age. He was nearly dead. "J-Just.. take any key you want!!"

Squeezing as tightly as he could, Devon once again began to concentrate.

The panicked relenting turned into pained screaming.

The sleeve of the older man's shirt began to turn a deep red.

And then... he fell out of sight.

One thing was for certain. Devon could scratch the "nearly" part. Wiping his hand on his pants, he used his right hand to grab a key at random. Seventeen. The age he had been when his life had destroyed itself. How fitting.

"Oh, thank you. Good night, now."

And with that, Devon sauntered off to find his room as if nothing had happened. Though the emergency operator still on the phone would have probably thought otherwise...