Le monde était flou, les textures granuleuses dans la table (ce qui n'était pas ombragé par sa tête) se fondaient dans un éventail de couleurs fantastiques - les verts et les pourpres et les bleus. Beaucoup et beaucoup de blues. Son île revenait au centre, bien que distante et obscurcie toutes les deux secondes par les vagues de la marine. À mesure que son corps s'éclaircissait et qu'elle perdait son sens de l'équilibre, Summers nageait un peu soudainement; la terre se rapprochait de la seconde. Le courant la faisait entrer.
Tiki Bar, Ahoy!
"Ssss--"
Quoi.
"Sssstatic." 
"Snrrrrrkkk--Murr?"
Summers gémit dans la table, un "fuck off" silencieux étouffé par la planche en fibre feuilletée dans son visage. Elle se battait faiblement à Tixhol, elle ne voyait pas ce qu'elle faisait, elle l'obtiendrait encore. Merde de lézard et ses satanés affûts...
Vagueusement consciente qu'une conversation se passait autour d'elle, elle dérive dans une mer rêveuse de pensées. Ayant seulement mangé des morceaux et des morceaux de son hamburger, elle avait encore faim; elle aimerait voir si ce bar a vendu quelque chose d'autre que des concoctions de noix de coco. C'était un rêve après tout, alors peut-être qu'elle pourrait s'imaginer une pizzeria.
Un rap d'ailleurs a rattrapé le rivage tout comme elle rampait sur un rocher de la côte, et le monde des rêves s'est floué une fois de plus - elle avait été si proche cette fois-ci! Sentant un peu meurtrier, Summers s'est réveillée lentement et a mis une main sur la table pour se stabiliser quand elle s'est assise.
"Eeey Mama," Elle essuya et un oeil et bâilla, puis se tourna vers la personne à blâmer pour son état de conscience avec un éclat de flétrissement, les yeux comme la bouche d'une lamproie.
Charro, tous les tons de cuivre et d'olive, avait mis sur le cocu d'une des années 1970, pompadoured John Travolta, et dirigeait ce sourire vers elle. Donc, mode flirt. La récupération pourrait attendre, c'est mieux quand ils ne s'y attendent pas de toute façon - c'était une occasion rare de jouer. Elle est revenue avec son propre sourire dentelé, les rangées de dents dans ses yeux ramollissant dans une poupée Babushka de cœurs jaunes et oranges, et clin d'oeil.
"Alors, coppa, va chercher les menottes."
Name: (unknown given name) Summers
Species: Psuedo-human, I guess. Maybe a fever dream.
Age: 15
Gender: Female
Appearance: Standing at about 5'5” and weighing in at 145lb, she's a average-sized girl. The rest of her appearance is a little...off, I guess one could say. Her skin ranges from a light grey to nearly transparent, with darker greys in her hair and nails. It's almost as if she was straight out of a noir film if not for the bright, technicolor clothes she likes to wear and her eyes.
Normally, her eyes lack irises and pupils in favor of—well, static usually. Little black ants running over white sand (or is it white ants running over black sand?) fill her sockets when she's feeling apathetic, bored, or tired—her default emotions. When she's feeling other emotions, the static clears into a corrupted VHS tape (x (<-- epilepsy warning), x, x) in her eyes, lines where the film has been scratched blurring the images of friends and animals when she's happy, storms over the ocean when she's angry, distant galaxies when she's hopeful. Sometimes silent memories show up. But mostly, it's static. When she cries, the image liquifies and runs out of the corners of her eyes before reverting to those damn ants again.
Her fashion vocabulary includes “neon” and “comfortable”. She likes long, yellow raincoats and multicolored sweaters, and her jeans are a more than a little baggy and ripped to point of falling off her legs. When she tries to put them on in the morning, she keeps catching the holes with her feet and ripping the jeans further. It's not like she's going to go out and buy new ones, though. Everything she owns is covered in pins, especially smiley faces, 'fight the power' fists, and cats.
Faction: Punk
Personality: Summers is sleepy before she's anything else. She's turned sleeping into an artform; she can do it whenever, wherever, however. In fact, she's so fond of sleeping that if you wake her up from one of her infamous catnaps, she'll sleep somewhere inconvenient for you just to spite you. She's terribly lazy, too, as work comes before death (disappointing death, at that), and must be avoided at all costs.
After sleepy comes snarky. After snarky comes flirty. Summers likes girls (mostly) and (a select few) boys and has no concept of a good pick-up line. She looses it around people she thinks are cute, turning into a pile of grey, stuttering goop (not literally but she thinks that'd look really cool).
Fourthly, Summers dislikes authority. Though she's always tip-toed the line between nerd and punk, this is what settles the issue—imperatives grate on her like no other. Just put a question mark at the end of sentences you direct towards her, please, it's not worth the two months she'll spend being petty over a command. As far as the Punk cause goes, she wants to see a world where private property no longer exists and social conventions are a thing of the past.
In her opinion, a locked door that does not lead to a bathroom or a bedroom is both an insult and challenge.
Conversely, she's rather respectful to others and will level with anyone regardless of age, rank, or intelligence until they say something that insinuates she's beneath them. In other words, she's easy-going, friendly, and pretty funny until someone acts like a jerk.
Do not doubt her abilities. She'll break antiques she don't give a shit.
Fifthly—well, more as a side note—she suffers from Cuteness Proximity Syndrome, where the closer she's standing to an animal (or a really endearing person), the less intelligent she becomes. IQ = k x closeness to object of adoration in feet.
Biography: Summers was a problem child, which would suck for her parents if they hadn't died in a house fire when she was eight (at least she got the family dog out). She's been bumped from foster home to foster home for the past seven years, and after one too many authoritarian homes that didn't care for her, she's developed a firm distrust of adults.
Her social worker, Jacques, has always liked her “spunk” but his seemingly endless patience is running thin.
She landed in Sun Ridge last week after her latest stunning success story (she pushed her foster brother into a pile of maneur and that was the last straw ((hah farm joke)) for her loving, agricultural family of a two and a half months) and was pretty quickly nudged into the Wastelands.
Powers: Her memory can be summed up as “shit” but if she does remember something in enough detail, she can play the memory via her TV-eyes.
Abilities: Summers excels and breaking and entering, whether it be lock picking or infiltration through the ventilation system. She's also a gadgeteer genuis. She'll fix your TV if you ask nicely.
Weapons: An aluminum slugger that she claims is just for baseball. For the most part, it is.
Other: Ayy, so, one of my favorite OC's. The image is of Mamimi (FLCL) and I manip'd it to look odd—and, like, it took forever dude. If anyone wants to use it, that's cool, but throw me a bone via credit--it's still my char design. She speaks in yellow. Also, char theme for the heck of it: (x)