just some cryptid
tell me you're dreaming
- Joined
- May 25, 2020
Born and raised in Brooklyn, Sidney Reyes is the epitome of disaster. His mam dipped out when he was 10, his dad's in prison for man-slaughter, and his surviving family — his devout Catholic grandfather — is convinced that the kid's on the fast track right down to Hell. Honestly, it's a miracle the little gutter-punk has survived as long as he has.
Despite his rough edges and all-around shitty upbringing, Sidney is a good kid at heart. His personality can be defined as well-meaning chaos; the kid drinks, he steals, he starts fights, but he's also loyal, protective, and weirdly charismatic. He's the friendliest drunk you'll ever meet on the night bus. Trauma's dug its claws in deep, and Sidney's coping mechanisms range from unhealthy to catastrophic, yet he's never let his baggage bring him down. If anything, life has only managed to twist him up into something uniquely strange.
Despite his rough edges and all-around shitty upbringing, Sidney is a good kid at heart. His personality can be defined as well-meaning chaos; the kid drinks, he steals, he starts fights, but he's also loyal, protective, and weirdly charismatic. He's the friendliest drunk you'll ever meet on the night bus. Trauma's dug its claws in deep, and Sidney's coping mechanisms range from unhealthy to catastrophic, yet he's never let his baggage bring him down. If anything, life has only managed to twist him up into something uniquely strange.
Variants (That Crawling Chaos)
By all rights, Sidney should be dead. Once, he'd been thrown through the windshield of a Toyota Prius, hitting the pavement at about 40 MPH. He'd left one hell of a red smear behind, and he'd been back at the bars only a few nights later. Then there was the time that's ass-hole Dylan stabbed him through the ribs with a pocket knife. The blade slid up, clipped his heart, and he'd bled like a boar.
By all rights, he should be dead.
Injuries never seem to take to him. Give him a few days and even the worst damage will have mended itself, leaving him in pristine fighting form. Nothing's killed him yet, but he's not sure if that means he's actually unkillable. Half the time, he's not in the mood to find out.
Never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, Sidney's avoided digging into the truth behind his fantastic healing ability. It feels wrong to pry, because he knows damn well something's been prying right back. It's hard for him to explain the sensation he gets sometimes, that insect-skitter up his spine, the way the meat shifts beneath his skin, and that constant sound of ringing bells coming from somewhere almost, but not quiet, too far away for him to hear.
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