Elephantom
Chicken Broth Paragon
Prerequisites
Full name: Mickey Harrison
Nickname: Mick
Birth date: 12/2/2013
Birth place: Los Angeles, California, United States of America
Age: 38
Social Class: Upper-middle
Gender: Male
Height: 5'11"
Weight: 183.7 lb
Body type: Balanced, fit
Race: Caucasian
Eye color: Black
Hair color and Style: Dark brown, short hair with a receding hairline
Skin tone: White
[SIZE= 7px]Properties & Equipment[/SIZE]
Glasses/Contacts: N/A
Accessories and cybernetics:
Jynend-Vari multi-purpose bionic eye, heavily augmented to allow extensive scanning and targeting, otherwise very typical. Built with a micro data receiver, allowing wireless installation of dossier and target informations. Also, has a thermal vision mode.
Clothes:
Usually, an off-white sleeveless shirt, dusky leather jacket, tough jeans, and rugged boots, to withstand the abnormally rough urban terrain; to preserve his personal interests, he tends to often wear light armour underneath his clothing, which has ports for external shield technology.
Personal weapons:
T-2 Vocox handcannon, strictly suited to emergency and professional usage, chambered in unorthodox heavy .49 rounds, and otherwise, very useful. Can be repurposed to various specialist rounds, and welcomes attachment freely. Dick has customized it thoroughly, fitting it with a long slide, skeletonized hammer, featherweight trigger — mostly for vanity and such.
Byk short-barreled flechette shotgun for mighty damage dealing and shredding personnel and their inferior armour. For a solid gun, it can be easily concealed and used, and is often preferred by paramilitary troopers for its mobility, and cranky farmers for obliterating vermins. Nevertheless, it's useful against humans too, gaining quite a notorious reputation for its severity. While its sales are limited, and even banned in some states, it has seen much in Nevereign, mostly due to the rife corruption and incompetence festering within its law enforcement agencies.
Spencer-V tri-burst submachine gun — rather accurate for its category — which Dick fitted with a stellar scope, extremely adaptive and capable of switching between 2x, 4x, and an utterly useless, 6x. Other than that, an extended barrel, muzzle brake, and a foldable stock, have also made its way to this gun.
Personal vehicles:
A finely built four-wheel sedan — it's slightly more armoured than it should be, if you ask me.
Other items: N/A
Tattoos: N/A
Occupation:
Hitman/Contractor, treading unceremoniously on the fine line between justified and needless killing.
Housing:
Owns a block in an apartment.
Persona & History
Likes:
Money
Whiskey
Lame music
Baseball
Dislikes:
Knuckleheads
Paperwork
Chinese cuisine
Oranges
Milk
Rain
Fears:
Heights: Unless you want him to experience a full-blown, mind-numbingly disorienting vertigo, please restrict him from sprawling skyscrapers.
Poverty: That's why he's killing in the first place. It's not easy, and it's life threatening.
Wishes:
Getting stank rich, if it wasn't painstakingly obvious already.
Acquiring complete financial security and a nice retirement. He's getting remorseful, okay?
Personality:
Motivated: For an old man, he's pretty energetic — rather enthusiastic too, whenever he's not being a grump. Hardworking and quite industrious, he's always been the kind of guy who's been strongly motivated by the general principle of order — justice and whatever else he feels he needs to add in. It should be noted that his sense of 'justice' is more than skewed. While he does seem to have a good sense of redemption and such, it doesn't necessarily translate to gentlemanly demeanour nor does actually it succeed in restraining his borderline vigilantism, or from killing innocent people for money. It's all very simple.
Perceptive: Bland humour aside, Mickey has great perception, a good sense of insight, and a lot of street smarts — though, complications often arise in the form of his aforementioned humour. Possessing keen 20/20 vision, a cybernetic eye, and a good sense of hearing, he's a focused lot, though this shiny trait is often dampened and ruined heavily by the deep crevice that is his alcoholism and smoking habit — loosens the senses, if you know what I mean.
Self-made: Determined as a shit chock full of rock— stubborn, considerably more accurately. He innately follows it through — to the end, mind you — like any straight-laced man should, though often flavoured with his own brand of vulgarity or faux-philosophy. Still, he's generally stoic, and tends to approach things directly — needless to say, deception is certainly not his forte, nor would it ever be. Doesn't mean that he isn't a turncoat. He'll soon things to the end, only if another guy doesn't appear, with more money, that is.
Fierce: A bit of zeal and a bit of vigour here never hurt anybody — in fact, they help a lot. But when you tend to overdo it way too much, plus include some unneeded violence, then you've got yourself one very fierce man. Side effects include the ever-looming chronic impatience and a woeful practicality.
Slightly sympathetic: Deep inside, he's truly a semi-altruistic, well-meaning person, however menacing or morally gaunt he may try to appear as. This is something he does show off every now and then, but just fused with queer rudeness and the occasional cynicism. It's, after all, a requirement for men of his conduct to be a bit cynical every now and then.
Dense: Not entirely, but mostly. He has a strong sense of brittle density, destroyed almost always by his recklessness and eager brutality. Nevertheless, he's a somewhat methodical fatalist — slightly more defeatist than he should be — and that helps a lot in coming to general compromises. It considerably loosens his rickety assertions.
Character Flaws:
Innately furious: Downright petty too, this man. He'd kill a man just for a spare roll of toilet paper, not that it necessarily means he'd actually do that.
Turncoat: Whoever offers the most money, gets his allegiance. Though, an idiot he isn't, for while he's spurred by the sight of money, he isn't going to forfeit his life for it.
Mellow: It happens to all hitmen. It's inevitable, and it hinders their jobs, heavily. As a plus, you're very creaky too when you're old. Very creaky, very rusty.
Family Members, and relationship with each:
Moses: His brother in-law, and safe to say, a great lawyer. Mick has a particularly healthy relationship with him, though sometime, their friendship is just too one-sided.
Pluto: An extremely friendly associate, neighbour, and a seasoned target shooter. He's a well-hearted philanthropist, and that's probably all that he does, aside from his daily sojourn into the rooftop to leech and siphon power from Mick's solar panels. Mickey has yet to confront him about it.
Anne: His dreary wife. Relationship is a hell lot of patchy, and a hell lot of rocky. Spells trouble in the future, if you ask me.
Mickey Jr: A shitty name for a shitty son. Mickey should've thought it out before naming him.
Background:
L.A was his birth place, and it was probably going to be the place he was going to stay in for the rest of his life — that, Mickey knew, that he couldn't change, but that did change later on anyway. Although, he had the littlest of intentions to stray from his hometown. His father was on a very similar board, in fact, he might've been the reason Mickey was even on the board — but one thing he didn't do, was create the board, that was something his forefathers did way back, they did it and they followed it. It was a continuous cycle. Might've been a phony tale, might not have been. Mickey never discovered its origins.
Of course, you ask, what has living in L.A and having a very similar-minded, traditional dad got to do with being a hitman? A very troubling question, with an incredibly complex answer. As you can imagine, Mickey's father worked in risk management, exchanging his time examining rusty buildings for money and modest levels of respect. A deserving round of applause for the guy, was what Nelson would expect — never did happen, though. Very stereotypical officer, that man: Pot-bellied, seldom seen without a bagel or a cup of coffee. It was a tradition — while his uncertainty might've caused his inner desire to be a police officer to sprout, it had no hand in this, for his lineage was made almost wholly out of builders and such — that long existed in his bloodline, his apparent bloodline. From what his father preached every Friday, Mickey was destined to be a sleek business man like him. Mickey never knew how finances had to do anything with risk management and construction.
Nevertheless, his father always did fawn over him, since he was so tender a man; he was the only son, and the only son was the only significant title he kept for his entire life. His mother was there — background material, always. Never acting directly, nor doing anything notable, actually. Mickey didn't mind, never did, although after a single scene of reminiscence in his later years, he ended up frowning. Very common for the likes of him.
In the eve of his graduation, he remained the ever-obedient son and listened diligently as his father lectured on the benefits of being a cop, having been mildly manipulated by an acquaintance; he'd make for a robust paragon of all cops in the LAPD- for the LAPD. He took his father's words so very deeply, that after acquiring his degree in history — no really, history was a thing of his — and a master's degree in law, he immediately enrolled into the police academy. Thus, began the weeks of hardship and misery, and their unexpected introduction into his perfectly normal life. His father, on the other hand, just finished his umpteenth donut, whilst smiling half-mindedly. Passing all the exams was a breeze — as his father put it.
His father liked to put everything before the often dumbfounded Mickey, often without his proper consent.
Nevertheless, the prodigal father — that's what people call it, don't they? — was eager to get his son rolling in on the street, locking up all the .90 calibers who dared look his way. He was going to be a neo-sheriff of sorts, as his father envisioned it — you can imagine his pure excitement. That man was hyper.
So, his father decided to quickly assign him to a sergeant — by pulling some stringy strings, and ones that caused him more favour than he should receive — as a means of learning the ropes to becoming a detective. No patrolling for Mick or so it seemed. He wasn't particularly joyous when he heard of this, mostly because he was looking to become a self-made man. His father was, of course, a vividly clear obstruction to that goal. Always eating some damn bagel, and drinking some damnation of a coffee.
Four years filing in paperwork after paperwork, swallowing shit from his assigned sergeant, and generally being the unlucky cannon fodder, was enough to swell any human being, and swell was certainly what Mickey became. From a quiet kid, he became a hardy man. Risks were, apparently, absolutely non-existent in both his dictionary and thesaurus, he personally canceled them out with some paper cutter he borrowed from his neighbour.
After two days of abysmal thinking and approximately seven minutes of writing, he was promoted to a detective. He spent the next two days throwing in some skinheads into the slammer, gaining considerable notoriety for his rash methods. His father always remained there, giving him the eye — neither was it of an icy nature, nor of an overly friendly one, just a man playing the role of a concerned father.
Mick obtained a stellar record of accomplished cases — and only two, by the way — and a lot of distinct memoirs, all earned within two days time. By that point, Mickey was just shy of getting suspended or even downright fired for his loose conduct, but after reasonable insistence from his father, he was exceptionally discharged from the force. You can imagine his annoyance.
In a fit of fearful self-loathing, Mickey set out from his father's home, where he used to reside, and quickly set out for an ambitious new city named Nevereign. Of course, it was a hastily made decision influenced only by word of mouth, and rumours had it that there was a mild exodus taking place — an exodus to this new city, that is. A crowd meant a bandwagon, and a bandwagon meant that a man had to join it, and unfortunately, said man had to be Mickey, who was stupid. Off he went briskly and without fretting too much over it.
It was only a matter of fair minutes before he realized that it was just a place full of dirt cheap lofts full of criminals and gun runners. It didn't take much of a long time for him to get acquainted with the city, nor did it take long for him to get mixed in with the wrong crowd — either that, or work with the jingoistic waiters in backwater nightclubs full of even more jingos, who play bingo all day long. At first, he earned his money by working at a newsstand, and then as a journalist. After the company he worked for got shut down, as they published way too much of supposedly unneeded, incriminating data, he took his trade with him and worked as a ghost-writer for approximately two B-movies by the same director. Both with very similar, very shitty plots. Mick started to regret his life choices by that time, and resorted to working as a bouncer in a fairly famous nightclub.
He later joined a newly-established private security firm, after its owner sought out a personal interview with him. Very loose, though. At that time, he was just some hoodlum. He earned a median amount of fame at that position, however, his ambition always remained a tad bit higher than his position, and later, purportedly, he invested a lot of time on tons more-than-shady jobs — that meant killing one more person than he should've done, and often with a side-serving of ultra-bitter raspberry juice. He soon left the company to seek for a more lucrative source of money; he started working as a contractor and a hit-man. His claim to fame came after a serious altercation with a Ronin samurai, where he lost an eye. He lost a bit of his pride and an organ, that was all, but fortunately, the samurai died later because of undisclosed reasons. Mickey couldn't help but brag that he did it.
After a while, it was only the inevitable that he would get married — of course, that was a part of the norm. Nothing big. By the end of the marriage ceremony, he soon received news that his mother died — she was only 56, while he was 31. It was an odd double-feature, that incident. A more better timing, and it would've been a marriage and a funeral at the same time. That's certainly not a strange notion. The rest of his years were mundane, very boorish — unless you'd like to learn about how he bought his house, car, or did his job normally. Now, it would've been only typical of Mickey to get a mighty promotion, maybe something higher up within the brass, but of course, he had to act rowdy, always — he was just best suited to be a contractor. On the eve of just another contract, his father ended up dead, and in his arms, he cradled an ill-reputable mag — it was embarrassing. Still, the shock wasn't all that great; everybody knew it was going to happen, someday or the other. It was just a few months back, when somebody committed some fiendish murder-suicide right in front of his eyes; the perpetrator killed himself, before proceeding to kick a very well-placed bucket, which landed in front of Father's feet. Of course, that was uncannily ominous.
Here he is now, trying to get a hold of his life, and hit a jackpot — that meant wide, wider veins of golden credits. And to top it off just a bit more, he expected it to be more than he should expect it to be, as you can imagine.
Oh, so it goes.
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