Editing William Lotorsson

{{Character
| faction =illuminati
| status = pc
| species = bee
| player = William P. Lotorsson (Procyon in the wiki)
| nickname = UrbanCritter
| image = WilliamLotor.png
| organization = 
| job_title = 
| aliases = 
| twitter = @wlotorsson
| gender = Male
| age = 25
| nationality = American
| residence = New York, New York.
|}}

=• Early Life-WIP •=
William hasn't been home for about several years now. At the tender age of fifteen, William decided he knew how to best live his life and skedaddled from Bum-fuck-nowhere to the ‘civilized world’. 

This went about as well as one would expect. A teenage kid without so much as a high school diploma slowly slipped between the cracks. William found himself resorting to things that, to this day, he refuses to talk about. Seven years of cheating, lying, periodic drug use, vowing to become a better person, breaking that vow, crashing on people's couches. William’s crawl out was fierce but slow. He did crawl out.

He took a new name, chosen for a childhood obsession with raccoons. A diploma earned online. Skills learned when there was need for money but stuck with for the enjoyment that followed. William managed to carve out a life. A regular, everyday, lower-middle-class life. A girl that loved him, a crappy job with opportunity for advancement, band practice every other weekend, and a burning pride.


=• The Secret War-WIP  •=
And then William swallowed a bee. C'est la vie. A nightmare of drowning in honey became horrific reality. Along with magic that nearly tore apart the little world he’d spent so long building for himself, and the voices of a hive broadcasting straight into his auditory cortex. 

It took a while for the boys in blue to catch up to him and resolve the issue. When they did, they made it very clear that he had to leave this life behind. “No room for this kinda mess.” They said. “Don't worry, you're going to get something even better.” 

The kid's been a boy in blue for over five years now. He's been around for a long time, even for someone who'll supposedly outlast everyone around him. He doesn't mind. William knows he should be bitter, furious. They tore him out of his life and forced him into the life of a problem solver. He ain't. It's not emptiness, no. William’s just as alarmed by how easy it was to run away a second time as everyone else. 

William. He works for the Illuminati. He gets the job done. He doesn't look back.


=• Known Associates/Affiliations- WIP  •=
William usually works alone. He left his old life behind and for the most part he seems content with not making new friends. Maybe it's time to change that.
=• Special Notes- WIP •=
William has a problem keeping his hands still- he often plays with something or works on something. Fidget cubes have proven themselves to be a boon for him.

William is a fan of dadrock- his playlist at times feels like a JoJo's Bizarre Adventure roster more than a list of songs.

William's specialties are, well, to solve problems. He comes in, punches and shoots, and works his way through puzzles. He's about as stealthy as the brick he threw to get through your window.

William knows his way around Chaos magic and has recently learned how to reliably handle shotguns, carrying a multitude of shells in his coat pockets. He finds the jangle and weight comforting.
= •The Buzzing •=
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see...

TRANSMIT- initiate the waschbär signal -RECEIVE- initiate the runaways syntax -I LIVE FOR THE SIMPLE THINGS- initiate the masked frequency -LIKE HOW MUCH THIS IS GOING TO HURT- initiate the betrayed child protocols- WITNESS- William Lotorsson.

Do you like raccoons, sweetling? Small, mischievous creatures, hiding behind masks. Once nature's children, they adapted to city life almost as well as those who built it.

Compare them to the agent. Behold the similarities. The quick hand. The adaptation to new life. The mask. Not all masks are visible, sweetling. This man wears two.

Initiate the secret histories.
Histories of a different kind, hidden not because of ancient conspiracies but because of a man's own regrets. There is no legacy here, no glory for the ages.

We see a child stepping on the cobbles of the big city, wide eyes and optimism. His steps lead all the way from a sleepy town in Maine, a model little community and what was a model little family.

We see a broken bond. A father leaves for the day to his job. The day becomes a week. A week becomes months, years, a decade. A mother lets go, and a new bond is formed.

We hear the protest of a child, the cries of rebellion of a young boy who idolizes a father long gone. At the age of fifteen, a bag is stuffed full of clothes, and a letter is left on the bed, to be discovered in the morning.

The boy discovers the grim truths. Raccoons and people are not the same. And yet the child becomes like one. The alleys become his bed, the trash cans his buffet. We see him, suffering in silence, wrought by regret. We see him become just another statistic.


We see the boy fighting for his life, resorting to acts that leave scars upon the mind. The boy is ashamed to this day, hiding the marks as deep as he could. Deeper than one would search.

The boy has become a man. The first mask is put on. The previous name has been discarded. We see a love, a creative venue, opportunity to improve. We see hope, sweetling.

And now we impart our wisdom to the man. A second mask approaches, courtesy of the Eye. His life is fed to the flames. A funeral is scheduled. The man slinks away to New York, a blue tie hanging like a noose from his neck.


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