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A boy locked away, silent for years, broken free of a shell forced around him and proud to let the world around him know it. It would be a difficult task for certain to claim that one has not noticed Alva Faunus in a room at any particular time, if only for the fact that almost every word and every action he speaks or preforms is done with the intent to catch the eye of those around him. He thrives in the spotlight, fearful of the way he may cripple and starve without it, and isn't afraid to go to the furthest lengths to ensure that it's focused on him at all times. To some, this makes him out to be charming – talkative, the life of the party even when there's no party being held. To most, however, this makes him out to be obnoxious more than anything, although those who would label him as such wouldn't be wrong in doing so. Butting head first into other people's conversations, yelling over crowds, doing something obscene if only for the attention it demands... the list could go on. His ability to pull such brazen stunts roots itself in his resistance to shame, self confidence that supersedes any embarrassment or regret that he may have felt otherwise. “Self confidence” being a light way of putting it, anyway; in truth, his ego could probably span the entirety of the region should it be put in physical form, and even that may not be a large enough area to hold the entire volume of it. So much of his life was spent thinking so little of himself that, when he realized that he not only met but, in some cases, exceeded the average standards of the rest of society, his self image bloated to what most can agree is an unhealthy state. (Never mind that little voice in the back of his mind, whispering quietly all of his failures. The louder he speaks, the less likely he is to hear it and its venomous words.)[break][break]

He is a man of little drive, wasting his precious time and feeding his years away to the grinder if only because it is an easier task than putting it to good use. Conversely, the green-haired boy has been known to throw himself at specific tasks or goals with frightening enthusiasm and determination, although almost always as a result of being challenged or told that it's something beyond his ability. There's not better way of getting him to do one thing or another than convincing him that you believe he cannot; once told as much, he'll go above and beyond to prove that such isn't the case (even if he tends to fail in the end, anyway). Similarly, he also has been known to stick his neck out for those who need it, even if it goes against his typically lazy nature and nearly all encompassing self interest – opening doors, helping people pick up dropped objects, sticking beside “the underdog” - although these incidents are usually brushed off with a weak explanation of him trying to “save face.” The media, after all, loves to fawn over every day heroes. What better a way to get his karmas in check and the news reporter's flocking to his door than saving a poor Purrloin trapped in a tree? In matters of life or death, though, it's more than safe to assume that he'll be saving himself over anyone else. He's not a man who makes true, strong attachments very easily, if at all, and for someone with so much love for themselves and not much for those around them, it'd be hard to imagine him throwing himself in the way of a bus in order to spare the life of a stranger or acquaintance. He's not beyond pushing people to the wolves, either, for personal gain, typically of the monetary variety. Cash calls his name louder than friendship. Cash, too, can buy you happiness – friendship can only lead to heartbreak.

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When he is young, the world outside of his room is an enigma.[break][break]

Illness stalks him at every given chance, an acquaintance he's more familiar with sometimes than his own father's face, and even in the brief reprieves that come between days upon days of coughing fits, he's too fatigued to stand and play under the sweltering sun as the other children do. Some might find his earliest childhood days to be tragic in that regard. Isolated, sickly, with only the company of his sharp-edged mother and the skittish maids that never pay him any mind. Others might find it a fair trade off – because he is born into more money than his mind will ever be able to properly wrap itself around, he deserves some form of punishment to set him on equal footing with those who suffer because of the wealth they do not share. Alva, himself, finds that he does not terribly mind. There's nothing to miss about a sky he has never seen, nor does the screaming and roughhousing so frequently accompanying the image of his peers seem particularly enviable. So he sits complacently in his room. He sits, and instead of going out into the world, he watches as his mother brings the rest of the world inside to him. Exotic foods from all over the world, Pokemon found only on the tallest peaks of mountains or in the darkest depths of the ocean, and music of every genre popularized in Johto or Unova or Alola; they're all things that would have taken a lifetime of journeying to collect, and while he may not have the stories to tell to match each object, each creature, each piece, he can make up his own in his mind with every new thing that his parent's workers bring with them, all for him. Only for him. Maybe he will die young, they say, (he thinks). But like this, surrounded by experiences and sights and possessions that most will never see in their lives ten times longer than his own, he doesn't think he particularly minds.[break][break]

The fevers and the doctors go away eventually, though. They leave his life like a breath leaves the lung, and (miserably), everything else he's built his life around leaves with them. (The worst thing to go is the love of his mother.) The ancient books from Hoenn and the Castelia Cones from Hoenn disappear, thieves in the night, and the men and women who have spent his infancy and up trekking across Pokearth's surface have returned to playing cooks in the kitchen or groomers for his mother's prized Pokemon. His room empties overnight. Come the morning, all that remains is his bed, his clothing, and a frighteningly tall stack of books that demands to be read cover to cover come sunrise the following day. Now that there is no threat of the boy being plucked in his prime, the expectations of him that he's been fortunate enough to skirt around for years have finally reared their heads to spit acid in his face; the Faunus family are very powerful, after all, and very well regarded, and if he's to one day inherit the name and the fortune, there is much he is expected to know before he leaves his haven-turned-prison once and for all. In a matter of days, his world, pretty and perfect, is splatter painted black, monochrome, ugly – all of the wonders of the universe die in his memory, crushed under the wait of watchful eyes and standards set so high that even his mightiest leaps and hardest reaches earn him nothing but another slap on the wrist and a look from eyes that used to hold so much love that could kill.[break][break]

(Sometimes, he wishes he really had died. At least he would have passed from this world knowing what it felt like to be wanted - really wanted.)[break][break]

and i'm sad to the core - every day is a chore

At some point, the wicked witch herself comes to the realization that Alva is, by every definition of the phrase, a lost cause. He's by no means a fool, but he's not nearly smart enough. He's crafty, but not nearly creative enough. When he sings, it's on pitch but without vibrato – when he eats, he mixes up the order of his silverware on the table, even if he's sure to keep his elbows off the table (keep his mouth closed the entire duration of the meal). By all means, he'd be a fully functioning member of society. To his mother, he falls short in every way possible, and he is a stain on her family's name. So she ships him off to where all of the reject Faunuses will eventually find themselves: a filthy trailer home in Neurift City, beaten down by weather and stinking heavily of the smoke eating away at his uncle's lungs. (It's all very frightening at first: the home, the smell, the man. At the time, he would never have possibly imagined that this place would eventually feel more than home than anywhere else in the world.)[break][break]

Mother is precision personified, a deadly woman of five foot four who preforms every action with purpose and reels in her own personal universe where not a single hair finds itself out of place. Seeing his uncle stand at her side, a juxtaposition if he has ever seen one in his life, is like seeing a creature from beyond this planet attempting to convene with mankind – dirty communing with detergent, fire playing it off as though it cannot be dosed by (her) water. And when she leaves, limousine pulling out and away with a half hearted promise of reunion and nothing remotely resembling a farewell, he feels as though he's stranded in some alien civilization, trapped here with an extraterrestrial who slurs his words and treats him to fast food of all things as a “welcoming party”. French fries are a delicacy he'd never even known existed before this moment. They look unappetizing in their little paper cup, they leave his fingers feeling greasy and filthy – but they settle warmly in his stomach, and for as unassuming as their appearance may be, they're good. Really, truly good. He wonders idly if people can be like french fries. Ugly, stinking. (Good.)[break][break]

The unfortunate truth is that his uncle has never been, nor likely ever be prepared for the daunting task of raising a child, particularly one whose only ever boasted one (pink haired, beautiful, the salt of the earth) friend in his life and has social skills that may very well be worse than a lonely, isolated Slowpoke in a cave. Still, he tries harder than any that came before and all those that came after (and Alva will come to love him for it all the more later in life). Years of only speaking when spoken to are not so easily undone, and when they finally are, most would agree that the flood gates were almost left better unopened. Mother's little boy breaks out of his shell in a blazing glory, bright, loud, and all consuming. He forms habits that any sensible guardian would have smothered right away – but good ol' uncle knows that self expression and self pride (even if his nephew more than tip toes on the fine line between respecting himself and loving himself) is important in any developing child, even if that leads to (lost) fist fights on the street or a wardrobe that consists of more women's clothing than men's. Everything becomes about the aesthetics – particularly when it comes to Pokemon – and what must be six years have past when the two say their goodbyes, torn apart by ambition and a desire to take the contest world by storm.[break][break]

Desires and reality, however, are rarely one in the same in Alva's life.[break][break]

(Mother wasn't lying, a voice he'd rather not hear says from the depths of his mind, when she said he was a failure.)

[attr="class","tbeapponebot2"]PLAYED BY LEAP

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