All her young life, she was that girl. You know the one that didn't like frilly pink dresses, was tomboyish, thought she was an ugly duckling because her peers made her feel that way, you know--a FREAK. The boys didn't like her because she didn't fit into their plans for a good lay, and the girls despised her because she managed to be a non-conformist, not fitting in the proverbial box. Brooklyn Calista Vauguier was the square peg that did not fit in the round hole, the one whose hand raised in class with the sign for 'anarchy." In essence, she was a loner, but the emo set always welcomed Brooklyn to join them at lunch. She listened to their tales of woe, but she was more of a rebel. There wasn't much to Brooklyn to make her such an outcast, she simply marched to the beat of her own drummer. Blonde hair, green eyes, full pouty lips, and a slight overbite. But Brooke, as her parents called her, was by no means ugly. She had a nose piercing, a tattoo of a pair of cherries just over her hip. Nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly not enough for kids to tease and make fun of her.
Her parents, Genevieve and Stefan, always seemed to be busy with their jobs, and thought like most parents that if Brooklyn had a hobby, it would keep her busy and help her to fit in better. Give the girl a guitar, and let her have some lessons with it, maybe that'll work. Well Brooklyn didn't need lessons in guitar, she was a natural, telling the guitar tutor to "fuck off and leave me alone," while he talked methodology and other boring shit not relevant to her. Not to mention Brooklyn had a voice that could either melt butter, or break glass depending on the scenario. She had evolved since those middle school guitar lessons, to a extremely proficient lead guitarist, who also sang her heart out. She even wrote her own lyrics. Tales of angst, of good and bad relationships, and woe were often used to fuel Brooklyn's music. For every argument she had with her Mom and Dad, Brooklyn came up on the winning side, or she kind of poofed out of their lives like a candle in the wind.
Just like what happened in the town of Mount Royal that fateful night. A heated argument followed her parents pressuring her to go to senior prom like everyone else in her class. To do that one thing seemed close to impossible for Brooklyn to do, especially having to have a junior accompany her, named Jacques. She was literally dragged out of the house by Mr. Grabby Hands. Maybe if she hadn't insisted on drinking that fifth of Crown Royal whiskey to numb the hellish night she was having, the kid wouldn't have died in the crash. Maybe he wouldn't have rushed so bad to get her home before she upchucked in his Dad's Suburban. Maybe he would have given a fuck about the icy road and taken the curve more carefully... So many maybes. Not to mention the vicious attack by the rat in the wrecked Suburban after the crash occurred, while her life hung in the balance.. Now she was the epitome of the beast she had feared that night. And Mount Royal was a passing memory. She ran away after the town ostracized her because they believed she was the cause of the fatal accident. As a result, Brooklyn crossed over from Canada and across the American border with the use of an old passport.
Unfortunately, reality caught up to Brooklyn. She had met her alter ego unexpectedly and violently behind a Rexall Drug in downtown Pulaski, Mississippi, when being under a full moon caused her first and painful shift from human to were-rat. It felt like knives were being dragged under her skin, as her face contorted abnormally to a pointy snout with white whiskers, a furry body and a long tail. She had little memory of what had happened, only waking up in the woods the next day covered in blood, and clad in torn clothes. She should have known better that the rat that bit her wasn't just a normal rat. It was the size of a German shepherd dog, and had a maw of teeth in its mouth. Just like hers became, so it turned out. It was to be the first of many shifts for her, some close calls, and others not. Once Brooklyn tied her shifts to the moon being full, she was prepared. Sort of. Part of her had this yearning to find others like herself, as if she "knew" they were out there. Fueled by that notion, she actively sought out others of her kind, but unfortunately, didn't find a Rodere in her neck of the woods.
Brooklyn had to survive on the streets, so she played her guitar and sang on street corners for money until she was "discovered" by a record producer. Jules Brockhurst had a studio in Jackson, MS and he cut a few tracks of Brooklyn's songs in his studio in Jackson, MS, which were a big hit in the local clubs, but she hadn't gone national yet. Brooklyn had become a rising star, and hoped to become famous. Brooklyn changed her last name legally since swearing in as an American citizen, to Dechanel just to avoid any negative associations with the town of Mount Royal, and those that ostracized her after Jacques untimely death on prom night. She usually goes by her middle name Calista, but those close to her call her Brooke. She no longer wanted to be identified as that eighteen year old girl who felt imprisoned by society's rules. Brooklyn was now free to do what she wanted, and to be what she wanted to be. She also carried an albatross' weight of being infected with rat lycanthropy, and shift after shift brought more memories retained as the years passed by.
Brooklyn grew weary of the hillbillies in Jackson, because she wanted to play her kind of music, basically Indie/Rock. So leaving Jackson at age 23, she carried all of her earthly possessions with her, the duffel and guitar case sitting beside her on the Greyhound Bus seat, from Jackson, MS to New Orleans, LA, filling the space of a person who could've sat next to her. The last person that she allowed in her space placed his hand on her fishnet covered leg and practically wormed his way under the black shorts she wore with it while she was napping. A red lace blouse topped off her outfit, and a pair of worn cowboy boots were on her feet. But he wouldn't get the whole package. For $50 he got his dick sucked in the lavatory in back when the bus cleared out for a rest stop. The excited human wanted to fuck, but she turned him down, pissing him off. So who decided to take liberties with her even if she said no? A hard punch to his nuts set the guy straight, and he could barely walk when he left the lavatory. The human wouldn't fuck for a while either, and not with Brooklyn. At least now she had some money to get a place to stay cheap in the French Quarter of New Orleans which was as close to home as she could get for now.
It would have to be her new home, because Brooklyn was tired of being on the move. She hadn't yet found what she was looking for, so restless in her searching for others like herself. As the bus pulled to a stop in the terminal in New Orleans, her sensitive nose picked up the various aromas and felt the vibrations from others around her on a metaphysical level. Oh this place was freaky. Not just humans, but other creatures. She couldn't sense what kind they were, but they were lycans like herself, just not of the rat variety. Slipping her guitar case over a shoulder, and duffel bag in hand, she headed for a cheap B&B by the name of St. Peter House, that would allow her to crash on a well used mattress, a shower in a private bathroom and some grub to fill her belly. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to kick someone's ass for trying to rape her on the way there, because the community perks weren't that lovely at 2:30 AM. If this place had an active Rodere, Brooklyn could roll. Which meant she would have to seek and find a source of rat power in the city, and soon or be sought out. For now, she paid the man behind the bullet-proof glass of the B&B $50 for the night.
It was Brooklyn's kind of place. Really.
-- Edited by BROOKLYNDECHANEL on Wednesday 10th of August 2011 04:21:57 PM
-- Edited by BROOKLYNDECHANEL on Thursday 11th of August 2011 12:14:25 PM
