[Phantom]

Guy Patrick Noh

Full Name: Guy Patrick Noh
Pronouns: He/Him
Nicknames: N/A
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Room #: -
Birthplace: West Palm Beach, Florida
Birthday: June 24th
Orientation: Pansexual
Status: Single, Divorced
Power: Activation / Deactivation
Play-By: Dongwoon Son
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 189 lbs


Personality:
In his day-to-day life, Guy is extremely agreeable. He's not fake per se, he finds most things interesting, but he prefers to go with the flow. He's an amiable person who would prefer it if everyone could get along. Guy, on the surface, is a naturally peaceful person- and is generally very fair. He is personable, and seems quite confident. Guy is a very friendly... guy. He tries his best to be considerate of others, and when he wants to, can be more than a little charming.

While he has a general trajectory in life, Guy is wholly unambitious. He doesn't really want to be the best- like no one ever was. He is likely to frequently frustrate the impatient- doing things at his own pace, and in his own time. Yet while he acts all smooth and confident, Guy is actually incredibly self-conscious. He's spent the better part of the last decade being a self-destructive drunk, and while at the time he was mostly unaware of all the toes that he'd stepped on- now he's hyper aware.

Guy lives with a lot of regret. He's incredibly cautious- sometimes a little too worried about stepping on a motherfucker's toes. While he is smooth, he is unpolished, and he will not front- his life is not all together. Guy is inhibited. He is anxious that he could slip into old habits easily. He is trying to make better decisions for himself. And yet... Even without the booze: he can still be an outrageous, self-destructive clown.

But time has made Guy mature. He has made mistakes, enough for ten people, and he would prefer to keep the people around him from making the same ones. He is soft because he wants to be. He is still clumsy, he is still learning- and he feels a lot of empathy for people that also feel like they have to perform in social settings. Sometimes, mid-sentence, he forgets really common words. It's frustrating for him, but also kind of funny.

Whatever he does, Guy has his foot on the accelerator. He really does not know when to stop.

History:
(cw: alcoholism, addiction)

Guy is convinced he was fucked from the start. First off, seriously, who the hell names their kid Guy? It was good 'ki', apparently.

He spent most of his early life on his parents' fruit farm, except for the occasional family vacation to Jejudo to visit his grandparents. For the most part, Guy was a normal kid. Maybe a little high-strung in social situations, but normal. He always felt like he had to entertain- his parents, his friends, his teachers- everybody. He always had to say the right thing at the right time.

He did a lot of typical farm brat things- like teaching his horse how to play 'tag', but he helped out when he could. But when he made a mistake- even a small one, he was criticized harshly. His mother especially, when she felt stressed, would often take it out on him. Everything was his fault, and if it wasn't- it became his fault.

In school Guy didn't have to try very hard. It wasn't that he was particularly smart (or, he didn't feel he was particularly smart,) he was just a good test taker. He didn't act out in class, but he also wasn't involved in any way. He wasn't interested in sports, and once he started drinking, he didn't really have time for extra-circulars.

The first time Guy ever drank, he was fourteen. His father let him drink just a sip of mead (Guy drank a little more than a sip, but whatever). A sip, of course, didn't do much.

The first time Guy really drank was when he was fifteen, at a party. He had a massive crush on one of the girls there (since middle school!)- and he liked the buzz he was getting from the beer. He could feel himself getting looser- more charismatic- with every sip. The constant grinding of the gears in his brain whirred to a halt. He was free to do whatever he wanted- say whatever he wanted- he could really, truly let loose.

He was free, loose, relaxed. And, more often than not- the life of the party.

At home he'd take a sip or two, and it dulled the edge of his parents' criticism. By his junior year, he was coming to school with a pint of shitty alcohol and laxatives in his backpack every day.

He was dating that girl, too.

He'd been helping his parents make jams, jellies, and preserves since before he could speak. Somewhere along the way- Guy got the bright idea that he could take some fruit here and there, and use them to make his own alcohol. Naturally- the first... well, the first dozen or so batches tasted like shit.

He still drank it. Then, when he got the recipe just right, he started bringing some of it to parties with him. Now he was the fun drunk guy- and the rad drinks guy.

Any time he felt nervous, anxious, or well- by now drinking was such a habit for him he just did it. He knew he had a problem, but he just laughed it off. People liked him better like this- he liked him better like this! The rest of his life felt like forever, and the future didn't really matter. A drink here, a drink there, what was the difference? It didn't really help that his girlfriend- who he was dead-set on impressing- thought he was really funny when he was drunk. Probably because she was too.

Life was good for a while. Sure- he was a laughingstock- but he was laughing along with them! Never mind how often he was hurting himself! He proposed- she said yes. They got married in a little ceremony on the farm- with a canopy of fairy lights, and an open buffet.

Then Guy hit college- like a bug hitting a windshield.

He was a high functioning drunk. Up until that point, he mostly drank to let go- to silence all the anxious thoughts whirling around in his head. It made him feel good about himself- great- even! Then, he started not getting things for the first time. And because he didn't get things right away- he assumed he was a failure.

So Guy drank more.

His wife finally started to get serious about her life, and quit going to parties.

He started going almost every day.

To say their marriage fell apart would be a dramatic understatement. They fought- fiercely- and often. She wanted to move forward, and him- avoiding forward momentum at all costs. He loved her just as much as he always did- but Guy also had to admit that he loved self-destructing just as much.

Perhaps more. Their relationship started with them dragging each other down- and it ended with her leaving him there.

Whatever, he deserved it.

He didn't want to quit, and by that point it wasn't like he could "just quit" anyway. He was drinking in the morning, he was drinking in the evening- and he was failing badly. Predictably, Guy dropped out.

He didn't even know what he was doing there anyway. He was just going because that was what he was supposed to do. Right?

He kept partying. He started mixing alcohol with other drugs. He got more wild, and more reckless. Guy was the life of the party- and the party was on all the time, somewhere. He drank even more when he got home from his job that he hated- with a boss that hated him- but had no grounds to fire him.

There was one good thing that came out of Guy's presence in the party scene. His recipe was a hit. People loved the liquor that he made! He and some friends ended up starting a small business. It didn't cover all of the bills. But after getting more than a few questionable tattoos, he decided to quit his crappy job and do something related. He was definitely not sober enough to use a tattoo gun, so he apprenticed as a piercer.

As he slipped deeper and deeper into alcoholism- his parents bailing him out, again and again- they ultimately ended up disowning him. The best way to support him- in their eyes- was to let go. He was either going to drink himself to death, or he was going to get wise- and get sober. For him it was just background noise- an instrumental on the soundtrack of his life, that said he was fucking up 24/7.

Guy was both shockingly aware of the fact that he was a total fuckup, and not aware at all. His parents wouldn't bail him out anymore- but his party friends, and business partners, sure would.

He did drink a little less after that- but a little less than a lot is still a lot. He was surrounded by enablers. When he woke up feeling like shit after a bender, he'd just drink a little- and he'd feel better again. He didn't feel like shit just because of that, but Guy was so deep into the lifestyle it didn't feel possible to get out.

Things continued like that for a while. Their business was booming (they got a new supplier,) Guy was a piercer now, and was "helping other people make bad decisions". He was actually coming into work pretty sober (he would bring in a flask, and take a couple of sips now and then).

And then, they did Gumball.

The Gumball Rally is a 3000(ish)-mile road trip, with a route and location that changes every year. It is run in exotic cars, and there is a party every night for the seven nights that the Rally takes place- with a massive party at the finish.

Of course, there was no way that Guy paid for that himself. He didn't even have a car. He did have a friend with a trust fund the size of the Florida Keys. They had an absolute fucking blast. Guy, himself, was probably banned from a dozen cities in Europe- but what can you do?

Guy never had that stereotypical come to Jesus moment. His friends held him up too well for that to happen. He has done many, many questionable things (and once, even did one drug that he thought was another drug and did a lot of shit that culminated with him almost jumping off a bridge,)- but he was never sucking cock at a truck stop for one more hit. Instead, he and his friend got back- and they had one more party.

There was something extra in that booze.

Guy remembered nothing- absolutely nothing. He woke up lying on a floor that had definitely seen better days, and his head was throbbing like they were having a rave in there. He was about to struggle to his feet, and try and find something for his dry mouth- when he finally got to hear what his "friends" really thought about him.

Guy was the life of the party- he was also an absolutely brutal drunk. He drank so that he could dance on the bar, and shout dirty jokes at his friends. He was also a massive pain in the ass. He did a lot of dangerous things- and stepped on more toes than he'd probably ever be able to count. He was a show-off, he was an entertainer- he couldn't open his mouth unless he was absolutely, 100% impressive. He was swimming in a sea of shame, and because he was so careless with himself- he was careless with everyone else too.

Even when he thought he was putting others first.

So- there he was. Lying on his side, on the floor of what was probably a crack house. His friends, who constantly egged him on, talking about how "concerned" they were about him.

And he wasn't sixteen and invincible anymore. He was twenty-five and excruciatingly aware of how long the rest of his life was. He was a massive fuckup and everyone knew it. His family, his "friends"- his ex. He had done wrong by every single one of them. That didn't even cover the damage that he had done to himself.

His liver was more scarred than Leatherface. He looked at himself in the mirror and he was yellow. Yellow-yellow. His eyes were sunken in, and he'd never really realized it- but he had become incredibly thin, except for his stomach. His reflection was even more disturbing than hearing his friends talk like that about him.

He had alcoholic hepatitis. And, contrary to what you'd think- needing to quit drinking did not make getting sober any easier. Actually, that made it that much harder. He did not get a bad week. All he had to do, if he wanted to, was to keep going at the pace he'd been going- and then it wouldn't be his problem anymore. Total annihilation, if he desired it.

But Guy was done playing the self-destructive clown. He did have a bad day sometimes. When he was under a lot of stress at work, or had an argument.

And then, there was the business. Brewing was not what a recovering boozehound needed to be doing. He sold his share- and some of his recipes, for a pretty penny. Then, he got the hell out of town.

He'd always loved New Orleans. It felt like there was actual magic in the air.

On its face, it probably didn't sound like a good decision, but it was a good one for him. He made a Tumblr and started blogging. He got a job at a new tattoo shop. And now that he wasn't worried about ruining his ink job- he started learning the trade himself.

He wasn't a particularly skilled artist, but he could make some really neat work with words. Not just regular calligraphy, art itself made of words. Guy wasn't a master at making outlines, but when he was fixing something that was already there? He was a wizard. He could just make things work.

Of course- sober- his self-loathing did not just disappear overnight.

On his blog, he mostly posted about sobriety. Reblogged some memes. Made some sixteen year olds mad because he made a joke about their favorite cartoon. Sometimes, he posted some of his work.

What he didn't expect were the asks he started to get.

He was just some guy- posting about all the mistakes he made. But they were asking him for advice- which was a terrible idea! He told them so.

He kept getting asks. And if they weren't about something serious, that required a professional, he answered them. It probably sounded incredibly selfless of him- but it was actually very selfish. Anytime he answered, he imagined that he was writing to himself: eight, seven, two years ago- his answers became letters to himself. Things he wished someone- anyone would have told him then.

He wouldn't have listened- he didn't expect anyone he wrote to to either.

Once, a couple years ago- he was a drunk, self-destructive mess. He didn't want politeness, or niceties, or an expected trajectory. He wanted to feel loose. He wanted to be liked. He wanted to be loved. He wanted everything, and he wanted nothing. He was messy, and he was dangerous- and he was alive. And if he could go back- and do it all over again? He would. A hundred times.

'You were beautiful.'

If he had not strayed so far off course, he wouldn't have arrived here. He would never, ever give that advice to anyone else- his liver was hanging on by a thread, and the damage was permanent.

But damn- he liked his life! If he hadn't fucked up so much in the past, would he be able to give this kind of advice now? He felt like he had a good story for everything. Guy was still swimming in shame- he felt like he was writing about it every day- but when he was aware of it, he could function much better. He forgave, and he was forgiven.

Eventually he left that studio, and went to work with a friend at a custom tattoo parlor. It was a nice, appointment-only place. He mostly did fixes- that was what he was best at- but he'd also do free tat's for mothers with c-section scars, and other things like that. Even though he talked a good talk about being sober- he still found himself wanting a drink- often. And, well- he was still helping some people make bad decisions. Who was he to stop a motherfucker from running into a brick wall? If that was what they truly wanted, he knew he couldn't stop them.

Somehow he knew everything was going to catch up to him one day. Because, while he was doing all of this- living and ruining his life- ever since he was little, before he'd ever drank his first sip of alcohol- he had a special ability.

He used it, often, when he was wasted. It went over fine, because by that time of the night (or day, depending on the crowd,) everyone else was wasted too. It used to really worry him- because he figured out pretty early that nobody else had an ability like his. Yet, sometimes (and he'd always assumed he was hearing shit because he was schwasted- or had mixed drugs with alcohol again,) he'd hear whispers of other people like him. Within that last year, there was also the word resistance mixed in. He was too drunk to care, or think about it.

But then he was being asked to go to a school for the Gifted- and it hit him like a ton of bricks. Splat! Right into the damn windshield! It sounded like it was optional- like when his parents just wanted to invite him to dinner, when they still had some hope in him- but it wasn't. It was a surprise intervention. From the bits and pieces that he'd heard- if he didn't go while they were asking nicely- then things would get real murky real quick.

The hardest thing to leave behind was the blog. He wasn't really anyone important- just some guy- but he liked to imagine that maybe his words mattered to someone out there.

That was just like an addict, wasn't it? Thinking everything was about him.

Other:
Guy has been sober for about two years now.

The Powers:
Activation / Deactivation- Guy can activate or deactivate anything by touching it. Electronics, biological processes, senses, faucets, perhaps in the right circumstances- even other powers. He just has to want to do it.

Love him, hate him, wanna date him?