Sinthia Schmidt is, in essence, a child made into an experiment. Written in the Marvel comics universe as the daughter of Johann Schmidt (the Red Skull) and an unidentified woman, she was born human and subsequently--around age seven, by guess--given four distinct superhuman abilities. She can teleport, turn herself intangible at will, manipulate objects and people with telekinesis, and read minds via telepathy. In the comic canon she's aged up to a young adult at the same time, but in the interest of playing her in Shatterverse I've opted to leave her as a child, as well as form her backstory around the Marvel cinematic universe, which is markedly different. This means she'll have come in from roughly the same time as Captain America is set. She may never have met Steve (as I'm playing with the idea that he was male in her world) but does know of him, her father being the type with a grudge and a tendency to monologue at people.
IC Writing Sample: She was somewhere, Sinthia knew, but not where she had been just a moment ago. She'd stopped unintentionally teleporting weeks ago, or so she'd thought, now with a fresh wave of panic sending her skin into gooseflesh. Her surroundings were unfamiliar; this was not the place in Switzerland with the big picture window looking out over the snow and rocks. She'd been there no more than ten seconds ago and had wished to reach out and touch the swirling snow, hands and nose pressed against the glass. (She wasn't supposed to be there, but she'd escaped for a few minutes and would take what delight she could find, where she could find it.)
But now she was standing somewhere utterly different where the sun was undiminished and there was certainly no snow. And she had no idea where anyone she knew was. This couldn't end well.
no subject
IC Writing Sample: She was somewhere, Sinthia knew, but not where she had been just a moment ago. She'd stopped unintentionally teleporting weeks ago, or so she'd thought, now with a fresh wave of panic sending her skin into gooseflesh. Her surroundings were unfamiliar; this was not the place in Switzerland with the big picture window looking out over the snow and rocks. She'd been there no more than ten seconds ago and had wished to reach out and touch the swirling snow, hands and nose pressed against the glass. (She wasn't supposed to be there, but she'd escaped for a few minutes and would take what delight she could find, where she could find it.)
But now she was standing somewhere utterly different where the sun was undiminished and there was certainly no snow. And she had no idea where anyone she knew was. This couldn't end well.