Meet Malcolm O’Neil.
Malcolm is a man of around twenty-five years of age, give or take a few. It depends on whether he’s trying to play “hip kid” or “mature adult.” However, there are plenty of documents that require him to give his birthdate, and from that, we would be able to glean that he has been twenty-six years old for at least a few months. If we were to study this awkwardly tall and gangly man a bit further, we might come to the conclusion that he’s been stuck in puberty for the past decade. The higher timbre of his feeble voice wouldn’t dissuade us from that conclusion, either.
So what sort of person is Malcolm? Well, he’s the guy whose glasses keep slipping down his nose, but he doesn’t get a new pair because it’s just become a nervous tic to push them back up. He’s the guy who’d be able to have a lengthy discussion with you about your favorite movie or book, and you’d never know that he’d never actually seen it. He’s the guy who’s worn a tin foil hat on occasion, just in case. He’s the guy who didn’t realize in high school that parroting the humorous quotes from his favorite movies made didn’t entertain his friends—or that the spouting of said lines just made him look like an obnoxious douche, for that matter.
Malcolm likes jeans and t-shirts, though he often likes to wear flannel shirts over his regular attire. He’s a pretty chatty guy when you get him talking one-on-one or in a small group, and probably has a modest theory on whatever subject you’re discussing. Just don’t bring up any form of science fiction or fantasy, because when it comes to any franchise he’s even remotely interested in, he no longer has theories, but opinions, which are always much less modest. However, despite his rambling outspoken nature in conversation, put him in front of a crowd and he’ll lock up and start stuttering, or mumbling, or stuttering at the general volume of a mumble.
Malcolm O’Neil was never particularly good with people, just because he tries to break them down logically or formulaically. He has yet to realize that reading people is an instinct and not a science, and he’ll probably be in for an unpleasant surprise when he finds out the woman from Saskatchewan that he’s been half-flirting with online for a while is actually a fifteen-year-old male.
In short, Malcolm is something of a dweeb.
And this dweeb is currently waking up to greet the new day. He’s not looking forward to work at the office or the tech support hotline or the chocolate factory or wherever it is exactly he works. Where was it again? He can’t quite remember. His half-asleep mind is still trying to figure out who the assassin bear’s next target is going to be.
And here is where our story begins: with Malcolm O’Neil sitting on the edge of the bed in his skivvies. Just sitting there. Unsure of what to do next. Lacking direction.
Well, what are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to tell him what to do next? He needs direction, you know. And at this point, his story is in your hands.