@Star Lord I'm not going to whip out mil-jutsu or anything of the sort with soldier knife tricks, he hasn't shot a gun in almost thirty years. The idea around him was that as a homeless guy he just knows how to live rough (little food and all that) knows all about the local urban layout and geography, been through the sewers, and is still somewhat spry after running private property and shoplifting sometimes, stuff like that.
@Star Lord I'm not going to whip out mil-jutsu or anything of the sort with soldier knife tricks, he hasn't shot a gun in almost thirty years. The idea around him was that as a homeless guy he just knows how to live rough (little food and all that) knows all about the local urab layout and geography, been through the sewers, and is still somewhat spry after running private property and shoplifting sometimes, stuff like that.
@Star Lord I'm not going to whip out mil-jutsu or anything of the sort with soldier knife tricks, he hasn't shot a gun in almost thirty years. The idea around him was that as a homeless guy he just knows how to live rough (little food and all that) knows all about the local urban layout and geography, been through the sewers, and is still somewhat spry after running private property and shoplifting sometimes, stuff like that.
Alright, you have my approval to make the homeless vet.
Lakisha Freeman was born to a single parent household in Cott’s Park, a rough lower middle class neighborhood in the Bainbridge Island metro area. Following her father’s death to a sudden, untreatable cancer when she was seven years old, Lakisha experienced the first sudden experience of her life. Had it not been for the influence of her maternal grandfather, she would’ve lacked a father figure throughout the bulk of her childhood.
Growing up in a challenging financial situation taught Lakisha to be frugal and to plan ahead, though most of all it taught her the value of escapism and self-expression. This need to create would eventually lead to her unearthing her ability as an artist whether it was with a paintbrush or a pencil. It was one of the few things in her life that made her experiences living barely above the welfare line tolerable.
Eventually, she found the opportunity to leave Cott’s Park through an art scholarship to Washington State University. Through time she would combine this with a degree in journalism that would lead her to return to the Bainbridge metro area. It’s been several years since then and while not being where she imagined she would be at twenty-nine years old she knows it could’ve turned out way worse; perhaps there’s a way she could attain her dream of painting murals across Cott’s Park and being featured in haughty art galleries?
Physical Traits
Standing at 5’3” and of a slender yet athletic build, Lakisha has been shorter than every single significant other she’s had in her life. Fortunately, her shorter height hasn’t led her to have a lack of confidence, as evident from very impulsive decisions that have caused her to have a brush in with a police report or two. Her skin is a light-to-medium caramel with eyes that are old a few tones darker. This is in contrast with her ever-changing style, color, and cut of her hair. Naturally dark brown – almost black – her hair currently appears to be straightened with blonde highlights into a tight ponytail. A difference from her days in Washington State University where she wore her hair in a natural style.
Her fashion style is what she sarcastically describes as “suburban chic”. A long sleeve shirt, denim jeans, and pair of work boots is the most common items she brings into class and when not making a fool of herself.
Full Name
Lakisha Janeway Freeman
Gender
Female
Ethnicity
African-American
Sexuality
Heterosexual
Age
29
Motives
Other than paying the rent and being frustrated that her art degree wasn’t enough to get the hell out of Washington State? Lakisha can’t think of much. The idea that she could get out of the city she was born in and become featured in high society art galleries and blogs is still very much a pipe dream. This isn’t to say she hates her job, however. Perhaps she’ll learn to get over her own angst about not becoming the next Joan Mitchell or Faith Ringgold. Perhaps she’ll get her big break. Who knows?
Occupation
Investigative Reporter
Lakisha Freeman had always been stubborn, especially when it came to her job at the Bainbridge Free Press. She made all her deadlines, though there were times the results of her investigations getting a little carried away. Since getting hired straight out of college she had been demoted or moved from section-to-section of the newspaper after pissing off the wrong person at the wrong time. At any other newspaper she would’ve been fired outright, but her boss, James “Jim” Gallagher, liked her “moxie”; whatever that was supposed to mean. But said moxie only could take her so far. It was a lesson she learned especially hard only a few weeks ago.
At the end of the day, Jim still ran a business and it was hard to do that when Lakisha poked her nose in the wrong person’s business. This time, instead of reassigning her to another desk and letting things calm down he had decided that she was overdue for a vacation. An unpaid one, at that. Lakisha didn’t like it, but after everything her boss had done for her in the last half of the decade it was hard to fight it. She was stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid. Her suspension from the BFP, at the very least, was a decent excuse to focus on her hobbies and actually decompress for the first time in months. She was just thankful she was frugal enough to not have to worry about paying her rent.
Living between poverty and basically poverty for most of her childhood had afforded her a sort of intelligence when it came to money. She never wanted to be one of those girls who had to worry about a landlord breathing down her neck or if she was going to be able to eat this week.
And thank god for that.
It was the main reason why she was sitting in Bainbridge’s central park, otherwise known as Applewood Square, sitting on a bench with a pencil and sketchpad.
Lost, forgotten. Donny never really got a break. Born to Brazilian immigrants he did alright in school with most of his marks coming from gym, the arts and languages. He was just old enough to see the Vietnam war in its peak but didn't quite get the chance to participate in the thing army recruiters so romanticized.
He got into university and performed acceptably if quite far from excelling in his chosen degree of English. He signed up as a reservist in the military after finding some difficulty in getting a good job and eventually decided to become a proper soldier. There was peace for a while, until the Gulf-War rolled around. He served faithfully receiving a purple heart after taking several bullets. The wound healed but the mind didn't as was the case for so many soldiers out there. He was made to seek psychiatric help, which ended up being a Doctor who he fancied to put it lightly. Only with her help could he make some semblance of recovery and reintegration to proper society, but alas it would not be; on the way to work one day she was hit by a bus before his very eyes no less. Already this was for more tragedy than any one man could properly handle, and from there the degradation began. Donny didn't go outside, didn't clean himself, didn't get a job prompting him to be fired. When Afghanistan rolled around he couldn't get back into the armed forces, and that was the nail in the coffin of a good citizen.
Now Donny roams the streets, trying his best to forget without melting his brain with booze.
Physical Traits An old man with a beard now white with age. Donny is quite tall at 6'2 but is often at least somewhat hunched, often bringing him down to a mere five feet. He tries to keep hygienic but with his lifestyle this is usually in vain, and one can see the marks of dirt and grime upon him. His clothing will usually be in various states of disrepair depending on the last time he moseyed over to a mall for something new to re-appropriate. Often his clothes will be mismatched like a beaten top hat in conjunction with basketball shoes, swimming trunks over long-johns and a plastic rain coat.
Full Name Sebastian Donovan Barretto
Gender Male
Ethnicity White-Hispanic (Branco)
Sexuality A hole's a hole, am I right or what eh?
Age 60 years old; Date of birth 13/2/1960
Motives Don is driven by the desire to live, not just survive. This is particularly difficult for someone with no disposable income or home but he manages. Be it showing strangers the way around town, finding some other veterans to reminisce with or some amazing discarded nudie magazines it is the little things that really matter, right? To some who have lived in the area for a while he may even be seen as a sort of local "celebrity" frequently seen making people passing by laugh and appearing in a youtube video or two giggling madly as "that creepy old guy" having jumped on the back of a teenager that thought homeless abuse is funny.
However with the passing of time it is harder and harder for him to truly do so as he finds it harder to provide for himself and the chance of his final days being spent in a proper home get slimmer by the moment with suicide being ever more enticing.
Occupation He has no job, he survives going around the streets telling stories to people that might pity him, stealing from malls, he is not above eating stray animals particularly in the winter.
I went for something a bit different from what I originally imagined, but I think it turned out well.
Alan
I'm alright, for now.
I grew up in what you'd call a bad neighborhood. Dad left us when I was a kid, so mom raised me. We were always poor, never had much. Things were tough, but I managed to survive long enough to pass high school. Went to community college, but I dropped out. Sorry, mom.
I went from job to job. Flipping burgers, cleaning toilets, whatever I could find. Sometimes, though, it wasn't enough, and I had to get...creative. Let's just say I've had my fair share of run-ins with the law. I don't enjoy it, but I don't have a choice.
For now, though, things aren't too bad. Nick is a...good business partner. He pays my bills, and I help him with his "errands". There's been a few close calls, but it's worked out pretty good so far. Don't know what's next after this, but for now, I'm alright.
Physical Traits Alan is 6'4", and has an athletic build. He tends to keep his hair short for convenience, and usually has a light stubble. While on the job, he wears the standard bouncer uniform: Combat boots, jeans, and a black polo shirt with "Nicky's" written where a shirt pocket would be. While not on the job, he prefers more casual clothes, usually sweatpants and a hoodie.
Full Name Alan Gordon Foster
Gender Male
Ethnicity White
Sexuality Heterosexual
Age 24
Motives Alan is mostly concerned with survival- keeping food on his plate, and keeping himself out of prison. Past that, however, he isn't sure. He struggles to find what path in life he should take. He dreams of a time when he doesn't have to fight to survive, and can live a happy life without worrying about ending up on somebody's hit list.
Until then, he's stuck where he is. His current arrangement isn't too bad, but it could be a hell of a lot better.
Occupation On paper, Alan is a bouncer at Nicky's Gentleman's Club, a seedy strip club in Baltham. While this is true- when the club is open, he works as a bouncer, checking ID's and kicking out rowdy patrons, it is not the whole truth.
The club's owner, Nicholas White, is a major drug dealer with mafia ties. The club itself is used to launder money, and to house drugs to be sent out to dealers across the city. Alan helps him carry out his business- attending drug deals, moving product, and occasionally dealing with threats to his operations. In return, Alan gets a slice of the profits. So far, it's proven to be a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Due to the nature of his work, Alan carries a Glock 17 handgun on him almost all the time. While he has had some basic training on how to use it, his accuracy is passable at best.
With the light still red, and the line of cars in front of him not getting any shorter, Alan leaned back in the old leather seat, letting out a deep sigh. The sun was out in full force, brought down in intensity somewhat by the cheap drugstore sunglasses he was wearing. To his right, another puff of cigarette smoke was blown forward, though the wind from the open windows helped to quickly dissipate it. He turned to face Nick, his 'business partner' and the reason that the car smelled like smoke all the time.
"This better not end like last time." Alan said, a frown coming to his face.
Nick turned to face him, blowing out a wisp of smoke. "You'll be fine. We're not doing deals with the Russians anymore." He took a moment to hold his cigarette out the window, flicking it and watching as the ash fell to the roadside. "Besides, it's not on us. If they can't keep their people in line, they can go get their drugs somewhere else. Not our fucking problem."
"Yeah..." Sitting back up in his seat, he prodded the gas, pushing the car slowly forward as the light went green. "Anyways, who are our new clients?"
Nick let out a hearty chuckle. "Bunch of spoiled college kids." He took another puff of the cigarette before continuing. "Easy money, friend. Very easy money." He leaned up a bit, trying to see over the dwindling line of cars. "Anyways, hang a left here, then go straight."
Alan pressed on the gas as the last car in front of him finally turned, and he made a left, continuing down the road. "Well, it should be easy enough."
"Yeah, should be, but if goes tits up somehow, well, you have your piece, and I have mine." He turned to face Alan. "And, Al, I like you and all, but this time, let me do the talking, 'kay? You're really not much of a talker."
"Hey, I didn't say shit! He was the one that got all up in my face for no reason."
"I know, I know. Look..." He ashed out his cigarette again as he spoke. "I know you like to be the quiet type and all, but to people like our fat Russian friend, they don't respond well to that. It's like..." Another cigarette puff. "You know how they tell you, that if someone's bullying you, you should just ignore them? Well, that's bullshit, because it makes them want to get a reaction out of you even more. If you wanna get them to stop, you either try to play it cool and try to calm them down, and if that don't work, you punch them in the fucking face."
Alan shrugged, eyes focused on the road. "I just don't like wasting my words on people that aren't listening. That's all."
"Well, I can't blame you. But, sometimes, you need to talk to the idiots, even if you don't want to."
"Yeah, well, maybe you should run for President, then."
Nick laughed, and soon Alan joined in. "Yeah, you can be my VP."
"Hey, it's not a bad gig. You do all the actual work, and I go and attend tea parties with the Queen and shit."
They both chuckled a bit more, driving down the road until they reached their destination. Nick tossed his cigarette and rolled the window down. "Alright, turn in here. This is the place."
After Alan pulled up to the spot and parked, they got out, and he instinctively put his hand to his leg to check that his pistol was still there. Even if he probably didn't need it, it was always better safe than sorry, especially in this business. Making sure that his weapon was still with him, they moved down the alley, ready to go to work.
Everyone is finishing their CSes earlier than expected and I've barely started work on my own.
Don't worry about it! Everyone still has almost a week to work on their characters. That goes to everyone that has expressed interest or are considering joining.
From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent. H.P. Lovecraft.
The Whisper From the Dark. The Sudden Drop. Bloodcurled. You’d be hard-pressed not to find some of these kitschy horror novels in every bookstore in the northwest for good reason: David Marlowe was a hot commodity. Whilst ever-combatting the local art critics on what is “literature” and what is “trash”, David Marlowe was simply quite happy to exist as a relatively popular horror novelist; never hitting the high heights like Stephen King or Dean Koontz, but also never fading into obscurity. He lived a comfortable, albeit lonely life.
Growing up in suburban Seattle, David settled into writing during college, being published in magazines and in short story collections until his first breakthrough novel, The Screamchasers, hit the bestseller lists. He found himself doing book tours, working on C-Movie Hollywood hack deals and making enough money to live comfortably without working a “real” job. Shortly after his third novel, The Whisper From the Dark was published, David found himself in the middle of both a scandal involving a local politician's wife and death threats from overzealous fans. The stress nearly led to him having a complete nervous breakdown, and he sold his house, his car and most of his belongings making his way to a small apartment complex near the Sweet Bay Hotel. There, amidst heavy medications for his newly developed night terrors, David began an existence of quiet obscurity, still writing, but now keeping hidden from the public view.
Several locals claim that they know that THE David Marlowe lives in town, but most would be hard-pressed to even find the man. Now only leaving home at night, and keeping a few local contacts, David is more of a hermit with a typewriter than your average citizen. Even now every few years another book is published to moderate acclaim; even to keep paying rent and to keep himself fed, but never enough to truly be regarded as one of horror’s all-time greats.
Physical Traits
David is tall enough, standing at around 5’10, but due to his lifestyle change and thanks to the drugs he takes, he’s begun to grow a slight paunch in the stomach region. Still, David is broad-shouldered enough to still be considered “strong”, however the past few years have led to his once youthful strength to become diminished. He can lift and run, but his stamina has greatly been reduced. His hair is cut short, black with grey tinges forming on the edges. His hair has also begun to thin.
David’s clothes can be considered “bookish”. Glasses, tweed coats or all-weather jackets, slacks and nice shoes are his usual clothing when he has to leave. His once clean-shaven face is now considerably bearded, and whilst he does trim weekly, it has a habit of becoming wild and stringy, especially if he goes a day or two without washing.
Full Name
David Harrison Marlowe
Gender
Male
Ethnicity
Caucasion
Sexuality
Heterosexual
Age
34
Motives
David is continually chasing that one great story; the one that will cement him into the horror anthologies for the rest of his life. His books sell well enough and he has a fairly sizeable fan community, but beyond two books making the bestseller list, he’s never had “true” success like the industry giants. He constantly tries to find new ways to pull out the horror from his mind, but in recent months, he has constantly hit wall after wall.
He’s found various things to blame: and the latest has been his medication. He will occasionally try to come off his medication, only to be plagued with nightmares and anxieties that leave him almost catatonic, until he is forced to take them again to be normal again. Not that he ever feels normal anymore.
Occupation
Published Author
Outside King’s Apartment Building, 11:22 PM
David Marlowe’s head was throbbing, and the constant buzz of a streetlight was only exacerbating his problems. In the past forty-eight hours he’d slept maybe three hours total. This wasn’t out of the ordinary for him, but this past week he’d had horrendous nightmares. Enough that his attempts at releasing his creative muse were put on hold so he could start medicating himself again. In the dream he could remember, he found himself sitting in a room surrounded by faceless people, all moving towards him slowly. It finally came to a breaking point earlier this evening when he could have sworn that he saw a figure in his window. His third story window.
So now here he was, on the street, walking to the small convenience store near the apartment. It looked like it had been a 7-11 in the past until some company rebranded the name but kept the ugly green coat of paint. The bright fluorescent lights inside didn’t make David too excited to enter there either, but this was one of the few places he did frequently. He stepped inside, the annoying electronic chime ringing the door slid back to close. The clerk was sitting at the counter, thumbing through a book. The lack of communication was fine for David, and he made his way towards the back of the store. For a moment, he stopped, looking at different types of liquor. The urge swelled up inside of him, but he stepped away. Mixing Klonopin and liquor would be a good way to appear on the rag sheets. David Marlowe finally kills himself after hiding from the public for six years. Instead, he grabbed a bottle of water and some headache powder, returning to the clerk.
“Oh, will this be all?” The clerk couldn’t have been older than twenty. Some messy haired kid who was probably working late nights to help pay for college or something.
“Yes,” David answered succinctly, averting his gaze away from the young man. It was then he noticed the book he’d been thumbing through: The Sudden Drop. Fuck.
“It’ll be...four seventeen,” he answered, apparently unaware of the picture of David on the back of his paperback novel was a slightly younger and healthier version of the man standing in front of him.
“Sure,” David replied, handing him a few crumpled bills and coins. He grabbed his sundries and made his way from the convenience store quickly, walking with a staccato pace until he reached a lonely part of the sidewalk, his only companion the head-throbbingly loud buzz of the street lamp. David began gasping for breath, holding his free hand close to his chest. How quickly could that have gone south? What kind of shitty internet journalist would take the bait and start asking around for “Whatever Happened To That Creep David Marlowe?” His breathing slowed, and he felt himself regaining control again.
“I can’t keep this up forever.” He muttered, wiping rivulets of sweat from his brow. The sound of a car roared in the distance, and David began increasing his pace again, making his way back to the apartment.
Gideon was raised by FOB Korean parents, in a strict Christian household, but could never feel himself melding with his parents’ ideas of what they wanted him to be. While he wasn’t a terrible child, he minded them and did well in school, he never was quite on the same page as them. When he hit his teen years, the differences between he and his parents came to a head, and after a few stressful months or arguments over his future and career, Gideon finally left home 3 months before his eighteenth birthday. You see, Gideon’s parents had always hoped he’d be some predictable, boring doctor or lawyer or something of that measure, but Gideon always had more exciting prospects for himself. Perhaps he’d join the military to see the world, an idea his parents liked, but he figured the rules and restrictions would be too stifling. He wanted more fun.
Soon enough, Gideon figured out he didn’t really know what he wanted to do at all, but as people usually do, he needed money. He found most jobs boring, but being a bike courier was a breath of fresh air for him. It was active, out in the bustling city, and most of all, it was fun. So, for a few years now, he’s been couriering packages across the city, while trying to figure out what he really wants to do, but, he’s not made much progress. At least he’s having fun.
Physical Traits Gideon is fairly short, standing at 5’6’’ but after a few years of cycling, has developed prominent calves and legs. While not exactly shredded, his upper body is still fairly toned, and he has obviously tan lines from all his time in the sun. His hair is growing out, getting long all around. Soon enough, he’ll have enough going to have a sweet man bun going. When on his bike, Gideon is usually wearing a wide assortment of different clothes, sunglasses and helmets, usually a mismatched array of colors, mostly just to fit the weather. When off his bike, Gideon likes to just hang around in sweats and basketball shorts at home, but more fashionable, light techwear style clothing when out on the town.
Full Name Gideon So
Gender Male
Ethnicity Korean-American
Sexuality Heterosexual
Age 22
Motives Mostly, Gideon is just trying to get the most out of life. He’s not quite sure where sees himself in the next twenty years or so, but he just wants to make sure the trip there is fun. Of course, he knows he needs to find something to really mete out a living further down the line, but he’s not at all discontent with where he’s at currently.
As much as he’d hate to admit it, Gideon would prefer to get rid of all the animosity between he and his parents. The fact that they’re on such bad terms bothers him a lot, and it’s something of a sensitive topic for him.
Occupation Bike Courier
Today had been a particularly shitty day, hadn’t it? With rain soaking every inch of clothing he owned, Gideon leaned up against the cool concrete wall of the convenience store he’d just shopped in, finding little comfort sitting on small ledge at the bottom of the same wall. Stretching his legs up so far felt nice, but, just about as nice as the usual lactic acid burn could feel, really. All the water he drank just made him crave something more sugary and artificially flavored with every sip, but he’d never shred the left over baby fat he had if he kept indulging himself every chance he had. At the very least, the cold water helped him not feel so sapped from the suffocating humidity that blanketed him that day.
”D’ya think that God just likes raining on this city in particular? As, like, a big fuck you to us for existing, or something?” David, the other courier standing against a post in front of Gideon finally broke the silence between sips of his own water bottle.
”Couldn’t tell ya, David. I’m not exactly privy to God’s thought process or anything like that. I just deliver shit, man.”
”You even believe in God, G?”
”Thought I did,” Gideon began to rise and grunt on his words as he rose,”but, I realized that it didn’t really matter to me, right? My parents were freaks over that shit, woke up and went to sleep reciting prayers, sent me to Sunday school, all that. Despite it all, I just never really got into it.”
”Soo…. You’re an athiest?”
Gideon let out an exasperated sigh, as David laughed jokingly. ”I guess, man, if that’s what you wanna call me. I just don’t take the time to think about it.”
”You don’t ever think you might need him? I mean, traffic is getting worse by the day around this place, one day you might end up through some guy’s windshield, it wouldn’t help to have the big Arab Jew in sky on your side, ya know.”
”Pfft, how do you even know he’s human, dude? He could be a big… dream catcher or some shit like that.”
David let out a chortle. C’mon, I can’t go around these locals talking like that. They get mad anytime I even imply that Jesus wasn’t white. They’s probably start the crusades again if I said some shit like ‘dreamcatcher’.
Gideon chuckled. ”Yeah? Well, maybe then God would be too busy smiting our smartasses instead of pouring rain on us.”
David, who has mounted his bicycle and rolled over near the road, simply replied with a chuckle and “Shiiiiet.” before he pressed his pedal down and got his momentum going down the street.
Gideon chuckled, and slid his helmet back on, fastening the strap. He could feel his cold, wet clothing with a renewed obviousness, as finally standing up made everything slide and shift around. He poured the remainder of his water into the bottle on his cycle, and tossed the other bottle in a recycling bin before mounting his bike. As he slowly made his way back into the bike lane, he took in a deep breath of the thick, humid air, and then took off.
Of all things, Gideon was still thinking about God. His parents had been so fervent with their teachings of the Bible when he was a kid, he was genuinely surprised that he hadn’t ended up fanaticals like they were. He knew that forcing children into religious studies often made kids turn away from them even faster than they could even become acquainted with it all.
Maybe, one day, God would help he and his parent’s bond again. If anything was going to work, it’d probably have to be him.
