pteroform

Homicide Investigations (A Mystery Detective RP)

The alarm clock's sudden, harsh beeping didn't take Isembard by surprise. He had been laying awake, staring at it for 28 minutes. He'd been counting. Quickly, he reached out and turned it off, stretching out his legs and throwing his blanket aside. The pair of cats formerly asleep at the foot of the bed quietly protested as they too were tossed to the floor. "Oh, don't complain We talked about this." He mumbled; shuffling through the open door of the bedroom, through the narrow hallway and into the small bathroom. Pulling the shower curtain aside, he sighed, looking down at his feet. "Homicide. Yeah, I can do that." He muttered to himself, "Come on, just don't fuck it up Izzy. Don't fuck this up too. You can do this. Come on." He grew louder and more determined, looking up and reaching for the knob that controlled the shower. Turning it and stepping into the near freezing stream, he cried out, only standing in it long enough to vaguely lather up his body and scalp with a bar of soap and rinse himself off. He didn't choose to shower like this, but the boiler was broken. It was cold showers until a week tomorrow because of some part that needed to be flown in from god knows where or something. Whatever the reason; Izzy was forced into having the fastest possible showers, and shivering his way through brushing his teeth and shaving.

This morning he was especially careful not to cut himself, it was technically his first day after all. He knew that his new superior was, well, new. She didn't know all the reasons why he needed a "new assignment" (demotion) in the first place. He assumed, at least. How could he have got the post otherwise? No, he knew how much his old boss had wanted rid of him. "Not very nice of him to dump me, who is apparently such a problem, on the new guy, was it?" He muttered, venomously. "Fuck him. Who the fuck does he think he is? Pawning me off on some new team run by some newbie. Like he's embarrassed of being associated with me. Like I'm a liability. Fuck him." Striding back into his bedroom, he grabbed a coathanger from the doorknob, pulling the light grey shirt out of it and tossing it onto the bed. The shirt already had a thin, black tie tied loosely around its unbuttoned collar, and Izzy straightened it a little before pulling the shirt on over his head, tightening the tie a little as he opened the tiny wardrobe, pulling out a much darker grey suit. He lazily continued dressing himself, leaving his shirt half untucked and wearing odd, brightly coloured socks underneath his battered loafers. He roughly smoothed down his hair with one hand, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and perching them on the bridge of his nose.

Entering the kitchen-slash-living room, he walked past the kettle, flipping a switch to turn it on as he stopped to open a cupboard and pull out a loaf of bread. Taking two slices and just eating them dry, Izzy replaced the loaf and closed the cupboard, turning to a new one. Pulling out two pouches of cat food, he called out; "Morse! Frost! Food!" And was greeted by the scurrying of eight paws as the cats came bounding into the room. They purred and rubbed themselves around Izzy's legs as he filled their bowls and set them down. "Duck today, yeah. Lucky you." He straightened up again as the kettle announced itself with a loud click. Tossing a teabag from an open packet into a mug already sitting on the counter, he picked up the boiling kettle and poured himself a cup of tea. He had never liked the taste of coffee, and while tea had less caffeine, Izzy could rely on alternative stimulants when necessary. He waited a while; rubbing his eyes gently with one hand, his other resting on the counter, for it to brew. Pulling a spoon from a drawer, he lifted out the teabag and tossed it into the trash. Turning back to the open drawer, he picked out one of dozens of packets of sugar he had pocketed from cafes and diners before closing it. Paying for sugar (or salt, or any kind of sauce) was a sucker's game. After tearing the sachet open and emptying its contents into the mug, he tossed it onto the counter. It didn't need to go in the trash right now. It could wait. He stirred the rapidly cooling tea vigorously with the spoon before tossing it blindly towards the sink, missing, and sighing as it clattered along the counter. The tea was a little hotter than lukewarm, and pretty sweet, so Izzy threw the mug back in seconds.

Licking his lips; he turned and strode through to the living room portion of the room. On a battered low wooden coffee table, surrounded by an equally battered couch and armchair, were the tools of his trade. His holster, his gun, his car keys, and his badge. Temporarily removing his jacket, he pulled the holster on over his shoulders and picked up the pistol. He paused for a second, feeling it in his hand. They didn't give officers this gun any more, there was a newer standard issue now; lighter, smaller, more efficient. Izzy had tried it and his aim was all off. He was too used to the weight of his old gun. There was probably something deep and meaningful about that, he thought to himself, sliding it into the holster and clipping it shut. As he put his jacket back on, he felt the subtle, familiar weight of the gun underneath it and it was almost a comfort. He dropped the keys into one of the side pockets, and slid the leather wallet holding the badge and ID into the breast pocket carefully. As well as all those things, though, there was another group of stuff on the table. Next to the badge and the gun; there was a frameless square mirror with a small mound and three narrow lines of white powder on it, an out of date bank card encrusted with the same, and a tightly rolled banknote, held in place with a small strip of masking tape. Izzy pulled the mirror and the banknote slowly towards him on the table as he sat lightly down. He craned his head to one side and exhaled hard. Simultaneously looking back and lowering his head, he quickly picked up the note and brought it to his nostril, tilting his head and holding the other closed as he sucked up the thin trails of cocaine. He dropped the note gently onto the mirror, screwing up his face and snorting as he sucked air in through his nose, the bitter drip of the coke starting to sting the back of his throat. Snorting and clearing his throat noisily, Izzy took to his feet. It was time to go to work.

Spinning round on the balls of his feet, he took off through the room into the hallway, stopping to take a thick, black, fraying overcoat from its hanger and drape it over his arm. Bidding farewell to the cats, who were full of food and had returned to sleep, Izzy flew out of the door and took the stairs three at a time: he was starting to feel those lines. His car was parked close to the front door of his building: a battered Subaru painted an ugly dark green. Idling the engine, he popped open the cigarette case, pulling out a dented, scruffy white tube. Replacing the case, he took out his lighter with one hand; rolling down the window with the other. Taking a drag as he pulled out into the street, he smiled for the first time that day.

Izzy parked, quickly and messily, as close to the front door of the station as he could, grabbing his overcoat from the passenger seat before he stepped out into the cold air once more. He shivered a little as he pulled it on: he wasn't feeling the same invincible rush he was twenty minutes ago. Trudging to the entrance, he pulled another cigarette from his case. He stopped just outside the door, nodding in greeting to the officer standing there. "G'morning, Daniels." He muttered, flicking his lighter alight and bringing it, with the cigarette, up to his mouth.

"Detective Keith." The patrolman acknowledged him curtly, barely looking round.

"Oh come on, you're not freezing me out too, are you?" Izzy growled, staring the man down, smoke pouring menacingly from between his teeth. Daniels didn't react. "Well, fuck you very much then. Is there anyone left here who'll have a damn friendly conversation with me, or am I just totally scarlet letter'd now?" Daniels looked away, shuffling awkwardly. Izzy drew deeply from his cigarette. "Oh, what? Am I embarrassing you?" He snorted derisively, shaking his head. "Unbelievable." He snarled, taking a final draw of his cigarette before tossing most of it away. He stormed off into the building, leaving Officer Daniels to pick up his litter: that would teach him.

Homicide Investigations (A Mystery Detective RP)

@Giant
However you want to play it, I am assuming that if you were part of the case against me I wouldn't be aware of that (because if I was then I could have potentially tried to lean on you). So I would just know you as "good officer who tried to stand up to corruption" instead of "that asshole who tried to get me fired"

Colour me excited, I am ready to solve some crimes.

Homicide Investigations (A Mystery Detective RP)

@Giant

I was already thinking that our two characters would at least know of each other, both being long-serving New Bath natives who spent time as patrolmen, and the stuff you just added to his backstory works really well with that.
I'm thinking the month you mention (the drug murder crime wave), and the month I mention (stealing evidence and assaulting a guy) might be the same month? Like the stake-out Izzy was on when he beat on the high-schooler was to do to the murders because, you know, he was a vice cop and they were drug-related.

I dunno, but there's a lot to potentially work with.

Homicide Investigations (A Mystery Detective RP)

I added a little flourish about him having cats named after tv detectives, so that he has at least a little responsibility and also because when he retires you know he's going to wind up a crazy cat lady type.

Name: Isembard "Izzy" Keith

Age: 43

Gender: Male

Sexual orientation: Heterosexual

Role: Detective

Appearance: Standing at about 5'7, his posture always slightly hunched, his frame sharp and gaunt, Izzy isn't a particularly commanding figure in a room. His hair; an unruly and greying reddish-brown mess, is combed desperately into something resembling a side-parting, while his moustache; much more obviously red, was trimmed and maintained with more care. His deep brown eyes peer out from behind half-frame glasses, and oftentimes there will be a hand-rolled cigarette clutched between his lips.
Izzy has a very uncomplicated dress sense: he always wears either a dark grey or black suit, a white or grey shirt, and a black tie. Despite wearing a suit, though, he always seems to look disheveled: like his commute to work involves falling down a flight of stairs in a gale.

Skills/specialisations: Izzy's biggest asset is the network of informants and contacts he built up in his years working vice: a fistful of small-time career criminals, low level drug dealers and sex workers who for a variety of reasons owe him allegiance or favours.
He isn't a marskman by anyone's standards, but he is a perfectly adequate shot with his sidearm, and he keeps a 12-guage shotgun locked in the trunk of his car. Just in case.

Biography:

Izzy was born the only child of aspirational middle-class parents, whose marriage quickly collapsed under the weight of a new child. He grew to resent his mother, for everything from his archaic name (she dreamed of him becoming an architect) to driving away his father, who Izzy idolized. His father had been a police officer; and on the weekends and holidays Izzy spent with him they would sit around his sparse apartment, religiously watching old procedural cop shows. His dad would appear, to Izzy, to be a psychic or a genius, preempting every plot twist and pointing out inaccuracies in the stories or techniques. So, when teachers would ask the little children what they wanted to be when they grew up, obviously Izzy knew exactly: he was going to be a detective.

Reality didn't immediately live up to his childhood aspirations, and after dropping out of college, Izzy middled along through the police academy, succeeding more by sheer force of will than any particular skill or talent. He graduated unremarkably: his mother not attending out of anger that he had snubbed "A real education" in favour of law enforcement, tears of pride welling in his father's eyes, and went on to patrol the streets of New Bath.
Izzy's beat found him flung straight from the 'burbs into the heart of the inner city, but he adjusted pretty quickly. Still never excelling, he built a reasonable reputation for himself in the department as a reliable, principled officer, and was eventually offered his dream promotion. The opportunity to be a detective in the vice squad.

That was, unfortunately, the beginning of the end for Izzy. He quickly found himself struggling not to burn out in the face of some of the ugliest parts of society. His youthful idealism was swiftly crushed under the weight of battered sex workers and territorial dealers. He hit breaking point when, on a short term undercover assignment in a neighbouring jurisdiction, his father died suddenly and he was unable to visit him in the last days of his life, or even attend the funeral. Izzy didn't react well, using his undercover persona's criminal access to develop a drug problem, and staking out a new reputation for himself as "high-functioning cocaine addict". Over the next decade he slowly spiraled out of control, growing ever more depressed and misanthropic. Izzy had never married, barely pursued romantic or social relationships, and after his parents had died he had no family to speak of; so he felt largely guiltless as his habits grew ever more self-destructive.

Within about the space of a month everything suddenly came to a head. First, Izzy was placed under official investigation over small amounts of drugs and money going missing from evidence lockers. Then, during a stakeout, he pulled his gun on a high-school student; just a kid who happened to be walking home down the wrong street. The kid protested his innocence a little too aggressively, and Izzy pistol-whipped him, breaking his nose. He was suspended over the assault, miraculously without criminal charges, and although everyone in the investigation was certain it was Izzy who had been stealing evidence, they couldn't prove anything and had to drop the case.

Returning after his suspension, he found himself persona non grata in his department. They couldn't fire him, though, since no charges had been brought over anything he had done, and none of the other units or departments were particularly willing to take him as a transfer. Instead, through some bureaucratic wrangling, and thanks largely to his reputation not having quite reached the newly arrived head, they had him transferred to the homicide team. Downplaying his spotted record, his superiors wrote glowing references highlighting how Izzy's experience would be a great asset to the new team, and how he was such a dedicated, hard-working officer etc etc. Privately though, they all thought that as soon as his new boss found out about him he'd be relegated to a desk job. They decided that pushing paper for someone half his age, making twice his salary, would be a suitable purgatory in which he could reflect on his sins.

Isembard isn't an unpleasant man, though. While he is no longer anything but cynical about individual people, he still fervently believes in the justice system and the law as a force for good. He has a tendency to be rather blunt, to the extent that his old colleagues tried to stop him from interviewing victims or their families, because he was the opposite of a comforting presence. Deep down somewhere he is still capable of great empathy, but years and years of seeing terrible, unjust things have built a very big wall around anything resembling vulnerability. All he really does outside of work is drink, take cocaine (although he is now trying to kick that habit), and sit alone in his sparse apartment, watching old cop shows and listing all the plot holes to his two grey tabbies; Morse and Frost.

Homicide Investigations (A Mystery Detective RP)

I guess consider this a work in progress?
And thanks for making me feel so welcome! I'm sure I'm going to have a grand old time here, although I'm big on catharsis so my characters might not...

Name: Isembard "Izzy" Keith

Age: 43

Gender: Male

Sexual orientation: Heterosexual

Role: Detective

Appearance: Standing at about 5'7, his posture always slightly hunched, his frame sharp and gaunt, Izzy isn't a particularly commanding figure in a room. His hair; an unruly and greying reddish-brown mess, is combed desperately into something resembling a side-parting, while his moustache; much more obviously red, was trimmed and maintained with more care. His deep brown eyes peer out from behind half-frame glasses, and oftentimes there will be a hand-rolled cigarette clutched between his lips.
Izzy has a very uncomplicated dress sense: he always wears either a dark grey or black suit, a white or grey shirt, and a black tie. Despite wearing a suit, though, he always seems to look disheveled: like his commute to work involves falling down a flight of stairs in a gale.

Skills/specialisations: Izzy's biggest asset is the network of informants and contacts he built up in his years working vice: a fistful of small-time career criminals, low level drug dealers and sex workers who for a variety of reasons owe him allegiance or favours.
He isn't a marskman by anyone's standards, but he is a perfectly adequate shot with his sidearm, and he keeps a 12-guage shotgun locked in the trunk of his car. Just in case.

Biography:

Izzy was born the only child of aspirational middle-class parents, whose marriage quickly collapsed under the weight of a new child. He grew to resent his mother, for everything from his archaic name (she dreamed of him becoming an architect) to driving away his father, who Izzy idolized. His father had been a police officer; and on the weekends and holidays Izzy spent with him they would sit around his sparse apartment, religiously watching old procedural cop shows. His dad would appear, to Izzy, to be a psychic or a genius, preempting every plot twist and pointing out inaccuracies in the stories or techniques. So, when teachers would ask the little children what they wanted to be when they grew up, obviously Izzy knew exactly: he was going to be a detective.

Reality didn't immediately live up to his childhood aspirations, and after dropping out of college, Izzy middled along through the police academy, succeeding more by sheer force of will than any particular skill or talent. He graduated unremarkably: his mother not attending out of anger that he had snubbed "A real education" in favour of law enforcement, tears of pride welling in his father's eyes, and went on to patrol the streets of New Bath.
Izzy's beat found him flung straight from the 'burbs into the heart of the inner city, but he adjusted pretty quickly. Still never excelling, he built a reasonable reputation for himself in the department as a reliable, principled officer, and was eventually offered his dream promotion. The opportunity to be a detective in the vice squad.

That was, unfortunately, the beginning of the end for Izzy. He quickly found himself struggling not to burn out in the face of some of the ugliest parts of society. His youthful idealism was swiftly crushed under the weight of battered sex workers and territorial dealers. He hit breaking point when, on a short term undercover assignment in a neighbouring jurisdiction, his father died suddenly and he was unable to visit him in the last days of his life, or even attend the funeral. Izzy didn't react well, using his undercover persona's criminal access to develop a drug problem, and staking out a new reputation for himself as "high-functioning cocaine addict". Over the next decade he slowly spiraled out of control, growing ever more depressed and misanthropic. Izzy had never married, barely pursued romantic or social relationships, and after his parents had died he had no family to speak of; so he felt largely guiltless as his habits grew ever more self-destructive.

Within about the space of a month everything suddenly came to a head. First, Izzy was placed under official investigation over small amounts of drugs and money going missing from evidence lockers. Then, during a stakeout, he pulled his gun on a high-school student; just a kid who happened to be walking home down the wrong street. The kid protested his innocence a little too aggressively, and Izzy pistol-whipped him, breaking his nose. He was suspended over the assault, miraculously without criminal charges, and although everyone in the investigation was certain it was Izzy who had been stealing evidence, they couldn't prove anything and had to drop the case.

Returning after his suspension, he found himself persona non grata in his department. They couldn't fire him, though, since no charges had been brought over anything he had done, and none of the other units or departments were particularly willing to take him as a transfer. Instead, through some bureaucratic wrangling, and thanks largely to his reputation not having quite reached the newly arrived head, they had him transferred to the homicide team. Downplaying his spotted record, his superiors wrote glowing references highlighting how Izzy's experience would be a great asset to the new team, and how he was such a dedicated, hard-working officer etc etc. Privately though, they all thought that as soon as his new boss found out about him he'd be relegated to a desk job. They decided that pushing paper for someone half his age, making twice his salary, would be a suitable purgatory in which he could reflect on his sins.

Isembard isn't an unpleasant man, though. While he is no longer anything but cynical about individual people, he still fervently believes in the justice system and the law as a force for good. He has a tendency to be rather blunt, to the extent that his old colleagues tried to stop him from interviewing victims or their families, because he was the opposite of a comforting presence. Deep down somewhere he is still capable of great empathy, but years and years of seeing terrible, unjust things have built a very big wall around anything resembling vulnerability. All he really does outside of work is drink, take cocaine (although he is now trying to kick that habit), and sit alone in his sparse apartment, watching old cop shows and listing all the plot holes to himself.

Homicide Investigations (A Mystery Detective RP)

This is my second ever post here, the first one was an Introduction thread I made specifically so my first impression here wasn't bad forum etiquette, and I am all about this RP idea. I've basically already written up the majority of a CS, but there were a couple things I wanted to check before I commit to this character too much.

Okay, so the dude I am writing is a former vice cop, and the way I imagined it his only remarkable skill / specialty is the informal network of contacts, informants, and people who owe him a favour he built up in his years there. I like the idea, but I can definitely see why giving my character established relationships with a bunch of hypothetical NPCs would be a no-no.

Ask Me About My Opinions on the New World Order

Hello, I'm Pteroform (like half pterosaur half terraform, it doesn't really mean anything I just think it sounds cool...), and I'm a very lapsed play-by-post type RPer.
Basically lately I've been in a big ol' creative rut, and I had fond memories of forum roleplaying, so I took a deep breath, went on google and here we are. I like sci-fi, historical stuff (I'm a big nerd for WW2 especially), mystery / thriller type things, and a variety of fandoms that I dont just want to dump in a big list. Some fandoms though.
Sorry for the misleading title, I don't really have any strong opinions on the secret reptilian illuminati controlling our minds and bodies from beyond the moon. I'm sure they have our best interests at heart though.