"And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
— Dylan ThomasFoxtrot MacIver
Nickname:Fox
Age:31
Date of Birth:TBD
Gender:Male
Sexuality:Homosexual
Occupation:Royal Navy Officer
Likes:- Jogging
- Gymnastics
- Cooking
- Knives
- Cats
- Amazing Views
- The Ocean
Dislikes:- Greasy Foods
- Birds
- Disorder
- Western Films
- Brussels Sprouts
Fears:- Being alone
- Shame and disappointment
- Trains
- The Dark
Hobbies:- Gymnastics
- Baking
- Piano
- People Watching
Personality:A quiet obedience instilled into the heart of a young man bears a fire left unkempt and raging—untampered by greedy hands and cold hearts. Within the determination a passion sets aflame the reservations of a man born of desperation. Foxtrot seethes with a quietness and a mindfulness that utters calm into the very heart of a storm. And within that storm his emotions shush the thunderous booms of the voices screaming in his mind. It seeps into the very fabric of his skin with every intent to lock away the anger and pain—to pinpoint every piece of those emotions and save them. Because once that moment comes and everything falls into place—everything he's worked so hard to achieve—it all comes in a thunderous storm of grace, precision, silent rage. Fox is every bit the man he claims to be: quiet, obedient, calm. And he is every bit the man he hides from the light of other: thunderous, deadly, iron.
Place of Origin:Born - Edinburgh, Scotland
Residence - Pourtsmouth, England
History:Long, sweet, Scottish nights through the bustling Edinburgh, stars clouded by the haze of fog overhead. A lasting impression on a young boy just as sweet, carried by a mother likely to overbear on the sugar. Living there left much at the boy's disposal, though his family had its roots uplifted. From apartment to apartment, ones worse than the other, and his father a quiet fisherman tied to the coast of the town. There wasn't much of him; there never was. And Fox settled in with his mother, a force strong in his life—she may not have provided much, but she did what she could.
The harshness of the North Sea didn't spring up much often. Something like that waits, contemplates, and when fate tips the scales, it unleashes fury—raw, ill tempered. Precarious though it seemed and precarious though it was, fate never quite willed his father's thread to break. His mother's broke like twine. And in her wake, his father found fortune that set his family high in wealth and status.
Without her, it meant nothing.
Two days after her death, Foxtrot's father returned with news of his fortune. Oil struck in the Middle East for a grandfather on the raw end of a deal long past. Excitement took hold too quick and too fierce and in the night of celebration, warm whisky and spirits abound, his grandfather broke ill—in the irony, his heart failed after surviving so much. With the will having gone unchanged, the fortune, the new company, the oil, and the land bestowed a grand fortune on his one and only child. With wife dead and gone, however, and a boy stricken with her face, Fox's father would have nothing to do with his child. An aunt more willing to care for him, rather than herself, refused the money outright, though came upon years later regardless of her wishes.
Life became nothing more than the shadow of his father's disappointment and the continuous grieving of an unloved woman. Though intelligent and cunning, Fox found nothing within the confines of education that filled the emptiness in his life. And that grew and grew through the insipidness of university until finally Fox broke under. Impulse driveth man to do many a curios thing; impulse found its way into Fox and Fox found his way into the tedium of military life. The constant adrenaline kept the ghosts at bay and the movement, the organization, the predictability of it all shoved everything plaguing aside.
The Royal Navy offered him the sea. And the cool waters of the ocean turned the migraine of his father into a quiet buzz that blended into the white noise of life around him. But the rage never quite lost its grip; it held tight and vibrating, wanting and needing in its avarice. Ambitious as he was, Fox only did so to keep calm and quiet—the buzz of a ship felt the same as the buzz of anger and sadness. The drum of adrenaline that broke shivers down his spine filled the hole ice and let it stay until the water melted away.
A storm wakes on the corner of his vision—eyes crawling and voices hushed in sleepless nights. With what the world bears him, it's easy to see a man going out of his mind. Deep breaths. Count to ten. And it doesn't matter that someone else watches in the mirror as he watches the haggard heave of his father's dying breaths. Shame and accusation forever tumbles from the breaths he takes. But he can't make himself leave—not after everything.
Extra:Was deployed for four years before returning to Portsmouth.
Thinking of retiring from the Navy, but is honestly of afraid of stopping and letting everything he's pushed away rush headlong.
His father is stricken with intestinal cancer and has an estimated few years to live. He's been moved to a hospital closer to his son, so Fox can watch over him.
His mother and father named him Foxtrot because it was their favorite dance and because, as a baby, he couldn't stop kicking his feet.
Got accepted to Oxford and Cambridge, but decided to go to Cardiff instead. He currently has a degree for psychology... which he doesn't really use.
A tie between Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Sense8.
