Appearance:
Name: Aaron Bosch
Age: 56
Gender: Male
Personnel Classification: D-class personnel.
Personality: An aggressive, angry, brute of a man, Aaron Bosch has earned his reputation as a violent career criminal - one of the best, at that. He does not care for mercy, he does not care for reprieve, what he cares about is respect and manners. He's not exactly unpredictable, and the man is very clearly sane - instead he thinks about things more in a businesslike manner, the way he did as a gangster in east London. Ultimately, though, his actions have collectively taken their toll on him - and his age has forced him to wonder what else he could have been, and what he might still be. Though he is not a sentimental person, he now leans more towards it than he did before, and is unlikely to seek a violent answer first.
Likes: Beer, meat, and bread. He also likes reading intellectual magazines, and broadsheet newspapers - the Economist, and The Guardian are two of his favourites. Beyond that, he likes to know what's what in the world, and does not see himself on a small scale, but as an individual directly effected by the decisions of the world around him.
Dislikes: Bad beer, rotten meat, and stale bread. Really, food that's gone bad is a pet peeve of his, as it's just more wastage, and he's never been good about wasting food. Also dislikes people who follow blindly - except when he's doing the leading - and anyone who has anything to do with the police.
Skills: A masterful, brutal pugilist, with fantastic physical strength and resilience to back it up. Aside from unarmed combat, Bosch is fully proficient with various police truncheons and batons, and all sorts of knives. He's also more experienced with firearms than any Englishman should be, and he's a pretty good cook.
Biography: Aaron Bosch has never not been a criminal. His father was a london gangster, and his grandfather- actually, his grandfather made clocks for a living, but that's beside the point. From the day he could hold a switchblade, he owned two. From the moment he realised money was good to have, he was figuring out ways to steal it, rob it, and keep ahold of it. The boy was a surefire career criminal, and sod all could change that. He was smart, analytical, and just creative enough to be one step ahead of anyone chasing him.
But until the Heathrow job, he was nothing but a small time knife punk.
Approximately 12 million pounds sterling, in the form of gold bullion, some rare jewellery, and politically sensitive information, all in one big heist. It was a crime that would cement him as one of the greatest in recent British history - and also brand him a murderer.
Six policemen, two members of the spiritual descendants of the notorious Flying Squad, and three civilians, all dead. Not all by his hand - but as the ringleader, he was as good as guilty for them all.
And it was hardly his last job.
As much as thirty years later, he was still one of the biggest names in British crime, even if he was on his way out. In fact, he had his retirement all planned and everything - one last job to make him a legend, and secure the occupation for his boys.
See, the problem was that this last job was a night raid on one of the SCP foundations lower level facilities. He and his men went in expecting to find basic security, and something embarassing about a senator, to use for blackmail.
They... did not find that.
Less than an hour later, half the gang had been eaten, dissolved, or transported somewhere else in spacetime by sentient ostriches. The other half was already being issues amnestics and jumpsuits.
