Goody's survived his thus-far fucked up life by retaining his ability to laugh. It follows, then, that he invariably covers his scars with laughter and charm—and they're genuine enough. It's natural to Goody to be gentlemanly and friendly in that old fashioned southern charm way, peppered with a wicked sense of humor.
Being born and raised in consummate privilege, amongst somewhat limited society, kept Goody insulated in a lot of ways. Since he was old enough to find his own information and start asking questions, and then during his brief tenure on the street, he's been educating himself and coming to dislike the person he was "born to be" more and more. His time with the Right, forced to do things that went directly against his fledgling, individual moral and ethical system, didn't help with the self-loathing. Just when he was fighting back against his family, he was sucked into the Right, and in the end, they won. They beat the fight out of him. He knows in his heart that he's a coward. And he's not okay with it. He's simultaneously terrified of death and inviting it constantly as a result. It doesn't help much that he feels like he can predict it, thanks to his mutation.
Goody hates to show weakness and has no idea how to ask for help. He's been self-medicating with liquor since he was thirteen, maybe even earlier. It's not that he thinks it's good for him, it's just that it's better than dealing with his PTSI upfront. When Goody is triggered, his powers go into overdrive and make him incapable of focusing on anything. He experiences flashbacks, both to home and to certain events that occurred with the Right. He also has nightmares, generally after his powers go off hard, but sometimes at random.
But so long as he keeps himself away from loud noises (and gunfights…), Goody presents as a gentleman-in-the-making, appreciative of all things beautiful, quiet about his past, and ever ready for a laugh. Just don't piss him off, because then, he's ice.
Predictive senses. In the presence of danger (he has a quarter mile radius, but it gets stronger as the danger gets nearer)—be it mental or physical—Goody's senses heighten, giving him a sensation of buzzing alertness. His eyesight sharpens, his hearing perks, his sense of smell is obnoxiously ON, and even his sense of touch/spatial awareness is remarkable. This danger can be to him or to another person or creature within range. This danger can be him. The buzzing and heightened awareness scales with the threat level of the danger. A mosquito bite, for example, is a barely noticeable tingle. A gun pointed in his face is an explosion.
Basically he has really annoying spider sense.
After being with The Right for over a year, he's pretty good at parsing the extra information, but it can still give him migraines or even leave him laid up if he's not in a mental place to control it—if he's having a PTSI episode or something that leaves him otherwise mentally debilitated. Oftentimes, the buzzing sound comes and goes in waves, so that it sounds like the beating of large wings.
Coming up with old-timey axioms, drinking, marksmanship, piano, etiquette, drinking.
Literature, music, gambling, drinking, Billy.
WARNING: THIS HISTORY CONTAINS REFERENCES TO ABUSE, TORTURE, AND MENTAL CONDITIONING.
Goodnight is the oldest of five children born to the filthy rich Robicheaux family of Vacherie, Louisiana. They still occupy a Spanish moss-draped antebellum plantation house, but instead of sugar cane, the Robicheaux have long since switched to producing oil and natural gas. A bastion of the old guard, Frank Robicheaux is well known for being as right wing as right can get. He's got enough money to fund NRA lobbies and oil and gas lobbies in Washington, and everyone who's anyone knows it. Louanna Robicheaux eagerly took on the role of the society matron, pouring her time and money into fundraisers, country club events, and making sure her children had the finest education and care.
Goodnight learned how to shoot at the age of five, and quickly learned that the thrill of the shot was even better than the rare parental attention being good won him. By ten, he was a promising young competitor with both a shotgun and a rifle, as well as a popular boy at school and cotillion. He loved hanging out with his little sisters; he was considered a particularly good sport at tea parties and in putting on plays. At fourteen, Goody was the youth world champion in both men's 50m rifle prone and trap shooting—often trotted out at NRA events and used as a poster boy by his father and their cronies to push their agendas.
This was also about the age that Goody also began to see how his father used him and his talent for a good shot. Maybe that's why one night at a formal family dinner, one of Goody's jokes didn't go over as well as they usually did. He looked at his father at the head of the table and said, "I'm not sure I should even go to the next cotillion ball. They never did tell me if the rules were different for asking boys to dance."
Frank Robicheaux beat the shit out of his son--which Goody thankfully doesn't remember, if only because it was the first time his powers went off, and the sensory overload was too much for him to parse. The next day was even worse, when he was summoned to the handgun range and a continued argument with his father--because of course Goody had to be a smart ass again--ended with him getting shot.
In the hospital, as they sewed up his left arm, Goody lied and said he was sure his father had shot him on accident. Unbeknownst to him, he was also tagged as a possible mutant. When he went home, it wasn't to recover, just to pack; he was no longer welcome in the house. He heard his mother and sisters crying, but he just grabbed a backpack and hitched into New Orleans, and that was the last he saw of the Robicheauxs.
For a few months, Goody managed on his own, posing as an 18-year-old up from the bayou into the big city. He charmed his way into work with a tour company—largely because he let his Cajun accent out and the tourists loved it. Just when he had his feet under him, a guest on one of the tours he was helping with asked him if he was Goodnight Robicheaux. Surprised, Goody nodded.
The next thing he knew, he woke up in a cell, wearing ugly white pajamas and missing all the books he'd smuggled out of his father's house. At first, he resisted his captors, refusing to obey until hunger got the better of him. Over the course of six months, they wore him down and began exploring his mutation. When they realized he was useless if they forced it to be "on" all the time, they started exploring it in conjunction with his marksmanship—creating nightmarish scenarios in which he was forced to shoot holograms of people. Some of whom he saw on the occasion he was allowed out to eat with the other kids being held at the Facility. If he failed a scenario, he was injected with something that made him violently ill for at least 24 hours.
When this training plateaued, the doctors let Goody meet another captive during a sim. Goody’s instructions were to eliminate all targets, but his keyed-up senses alerted him to the fact that the last of the “holograms”, an Asian boy who was taking out targets with ruthlessly efficient knifework, was breathing. The two caught sight of each other, and, even as the other boy approached, knives in-hand, Goody couldn’t force himself to shoot. More unexpectedly, the other boy simply waited.
The simulation halted and both of them were removed. Goodnight’s punishment was to have the other boy delivered to his cell, beaten bloody for Goody’s failure. Rather than being cowed, however, the new boy asked Goodnight’s name, more curious than anything else. Just as their captors hoped, the two formed a near-immediate rapport, and time together became a reward for work well done. Eventually, the two were placed in simulations where they were expected to work together against mutual targets (and often trying to impress each other with their respective skills).
When Billy appeared as a target in Goody's solo simulations, Goody refused, and ended up puking for 24 hours straight. The small act of rebellion was worth it. And then one day, the doctors put the two boys on opposite ends of a long, skinny room, and Goody's senses went into hyperdrive. They gave Goody a rifle and told him to complete his failed exercise: shoot Billy or be shot himself. Goody refused to even sight him, just stood there listening to Billy's heartbeat pound in his head until it was coming in waves, like the beating of a great bird's wings. Feeling like he might puke even though there was no needle this time, but otherwise ready to die. Billy shouted at them, the first Goody ever heard him raise his voice, telling them to leave Goodnight alone, to come get him themselves if they wanted him dead. A doctor came out and shot Billy. He went down like a sack of potatoes.
The doctors dragged Goody away screaming. They said, "This is what happens when you don't do as you're told, Robicheaux." That night, Goody dreamed that he was running, but a white owl followed him, whispering into his ear that if he pulled that trigger, death would come for him, too.
So when they threw him into his next sim, Goody shot every goddamn hologram he could. Even the ones with Billy's face.
A week later, X-Force arrived.