Realistic or Modern THE VEIL OF MERCY | Character Dossier

Kir · May 5, 2025

Rich (BB code):

⸸ THE VEIL OF MERCY — CASE FILE DOSSIER ⸸
“In silence, the truth festers.”

GUIDELINES

All characters must be 21 or older
One character per player
Pre-established relationships may be coordinated in OOC, but are not required. You have all been hand-picked for this task force.
No fancy formatting required. If you use code, please keep it easily readable. No light-on-light or dark-on-dark.
You may choose from the archetypes below or create your own.
Please note that characters are not first come, first serve.
Lastly, please provide a writing example attached to your CS in relation to your character.

BASIC FILE INFORMATION

Name: (Full name, include any nicknames or aliases)
Age: (21+)
Occupation: (Detective, Profiler, Forensics, Consultant, etc.)
Years of Service: (How long have they been active in their field?)

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Appearance:
(Paragraph describing their physical presence, clothing, body language, and aura. Keep it evocative and immersive.)

Notable Features:

Scars, tattoos, or physical quirks
Recurring habits or body language
Notable posture, hygiene, or smell

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

Personality:
(Describe their core personality traits, mannerisms, how they deal with stress or trauma, and how others perceive them.)

Strengths:

Skillset or investigative talents
Relevant contacts or knowledge
Emotional or psychological resilience

Weaknesses:

Mental, physical, or moral flaws
Bad habits or unresolved trauma
Limitations under pressure

CASE BACKGROUND

Backstory:
(Summary of their personal and professional history. What forged them? What broke them? Are there unresolved cases or personal losses?)

Motivation:
(What are they seeking—justice, redemption, closure?)

Notable Item(s):

Personal objects with symbolic, emotional, or practical relevance
Items that may reappear during the RP

CLASSIFICATION & ROLE

(Choose one—or define your own)

Veteran Homicide Detective
Crime Scene / Forensics Expert
Rookie Cop with a Past
Criminal Psychologist / Profiler
Medical Examiner
Former Convict Turned Consultant
Police Chaplain
Investigative Journalist
Cold Case Archivist
Private Investigator
Retired Officer Drawn Back In
Theology or Occult Specialist
Disgraced Ex-Detective Seeking Redemption

— End of Case File —

Sleepy Sleuth · May 6, 2025

BASIC FILE INFORMATION

Name: Elspeth "Hopkins" Irving
Age: 25
Occupation: Obscure Linguistics Specialist
Years of Service: 3

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Appearance:
Elspeth is a charming brunette with fair skin, a slender frame, and big brown eyes slightly obscured by her round glasses. Her choice of clothing is best described as "office cute" - clingy blouses, pencil skirts, and just enough jewelry to fidget with when she's not paying attention. Even outside of work, her wardrobe does not change much. She's not even sure she owns a pair of jeans. One look at her is enough to guess she is borderline harmless.

Notable Features:

She has a small tattoo of a cross on her left shoulder.
She makes a lot of literary references when in conversation.
She always sits with her knees together.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

Personality:
Elspeth is sweet, kind, and not as naive as she comes across. She is a devout Catholic, though she does not bring it up in polite conversation. She always tries to take care of those around her, even at her own expense. She is the sort of person who would give her coat to a stranger.

Strengths:

Knowledgeable in theology, the occult, and obscure languages.
Has contacts in the military through her father.
Her mental well-being is remarkably sound.

Weaknesses:

Not physically strong.
She does not talk about her ex-boyfriend.
Always laughs when she is scared or worried.

CASE BACKGROUND

Backstory:
If there was a corner office at headquarters, Elspeth's would be the most obscure. She never intended to get involved with law enforcement. She got her start right out of university. She just wanted a summer job to tide her over while she looked for a long-term position as an antiquarian. She got hired by the police because they needed someone to translate Romanian as part of a smuggling case, just a "temporary" position until they could find an expert. Three years later, she's still translating for the police, listening in on foreign conversations, and occasionally being asked to explain this or that bit of folklore or obscure religious text. She always tells herself she'll find her dream job next summer.

Motivation:
Elspeth is naturally curious about the obscure nature of the world that people tend to ignore or forget about.

Notable Item(s):

A tape recorder she uses as a journal.
Her father's journal of the occult.

CLASSIFICATION & ROLE

Theology or Occult Specialist

— End of File —

pheaca · May 6, 2025

BASIC FILE INFORMATION

Name: Qiang “Quinton” Chun (“Quinton” being his English name—He doesn’t have a preference either way)
Age: 29
Occupation: Private Investigator
Years of Service: 2 Years (Approximately)

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Appearance:
While a book’s cover isn’t all there is to a person, it’s all but certain to define one’s first impressions. What Qiang’s cover reads is that of a cold, hardened man wearing sheep’s clothing. Towering over most that approach at a height of 6’2, “intimidating” is the word that can often come to mind with a silver stare that could turn someone to stone peering through his messy, raven hair. It’s a wonder how he of all people found himself in the role of a trusted private detective when he appears more like someone who would strong arm his customers than assist them with their cases, a muscular frame not hard to make out through his exclusively black business attire and silver jewelry.

Notable Features:

Under his professional cloth veneer lies a variety of deep cuts and scrapes that, while have begun to heal overtime, still show his historied past as a fighter. The worst is along his left arm, where the deepest and darkest cuts remain from an intense struggle along the outer forearm. Any scar on his face has healed, largely due to his incessant protection from other areas.
Contradicting his stoic appearance, he can often be found tapping a beat along his leg, especially under an intense train of thought or a bout of anxiety.
He’s incredibly well groomed for a man of his stature. His hair is purposely messy, and clothes are always ironed and tailored just right. The scent that emanates off him is an earthy tone, pine with a slight floral undertone.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

Personality:
His looks are what make his outside perception. In many ways, those people aren’t even entirely wrong. The words that roll off his tongue often come with the sharp pang of an icicle, or, at the very least, a seeming lack of enthusiasm. Each person he interacts with seems to get a personal analysis of who they are before they hardly speak, as if he’s made a decision on them before they’ve had a chance to make an impression. And, in the worst of scenarios, he isn’t beyond violence.

However, he isn’t without joy. Often, he’ll be found enjoying literature in his spare time, or studying language and law to gain a better understanding of both. He’s always been someone who enjoys learning, even if the situations he found himself in as a child and young adult often led him to struggle in indulging.

In fact, he can actually be rather friendly and get close to others, in his own way. While he struggles socially, he does have a couple close companions that could, at the very least, be called acquaintances, if not friends.

Strengths:

Working as a lone wolf for most of his career, and having spent a long time prior on the less favored side of the law, he knows how to go about things himself. From consulting to investigating to putting together all the evidence to help his defendant, he’s a jack of all trades. He’s had to be, in order to survive this long, considering the cheating cases and lost pets hardly pay the bills on their own. While he’s moved away from his past for the most part, he’s still quite versatile in a fight, as well.
Qiang isn’t one to show a particular bias to criminals or law enforcers—therefore, he’s trusted with a variety of information, especially on a side of the law not many others have access to. That doesn’t mean it’s something he gives out for free.
Being emotionally cut off can be a good or bad thing, but, for Qiang, it allows him to stay largely unbiased and unaffected by inconveniences in his day-to-day. While there are things that can overcome those walls, his typical state is scarily cool-headed, even at some of the worst of times.

Weaknesses:

Empathy on a personal level isn’t something he’s known for. His perspective will always be for the best of the majority. If someone has to be sacrificed to make it so, he’ll put the final nail in the coffin.
Never truly leaving his past behind means that his reputation still screams of someone not to be entirely trusted, and that faces he’d rather not see rear their ugly heads without him being able to do a thing to keep them away. It’s one of the few things that can truly get to him with little effort—and one of the things that can get him in the most trouble, if he’s not careful.
If there’s little holding him back in terms of repercussions, violence is one of his go-tos under the clock. As stated before, relating to other people is one of his biggest limitations, as it’s difficult for him to truly understand another’s emotional state and be of any true comfort. It is something he’s tried to work on in the past, but those efforts have paid off little since he’s become a private detective.

CASE BACKGROUND

Backstory:
It was inevitable that Qiang would turn to crime, in some way.

The father that should have been there for him left before he was even born, and his mother, as loving as she was, couldn’t make a dent in the debt he lovingly left behind in his place. A childhood of poverty, of longing for something more, but hardly being afforded his next meal was something he grew to despise. What he despised more, though, were the collectors that endlessly threatened him and his mother. They weren’t even real collectors, he’d later learn—simply criminals his father had been a part of were out to scam poor, innocent people who fell for their tricks and the ocean of pain that followed.

One day, they overstepped their boundaries. Next thing Qiang knew, before he could even process it, he’d knocked them to the ground in a fit of rage. He hadn’t been any older than fourteen at the time, but that scum had seen that as more than old enough to know the consequences of his actions. The debt worsened, to the point where the only way to pay it back was an “unpaid internship.” The last thing he wanted his mother to do was suffer, so… Despite his better judgment, he took work under them.

They taught him everything he wished to never know—How to take a knife to the stomach, to ruin peoples’ lives, to live with an endless pool of regret that swirled, worse and worse, until it made him feel like vomiting his guts out. These people were worse than criminals; they were monsters. He’d always known that, but… Now, it felt too late to escape, forced to play their bodyguard for seemingly the rest of his life.

When he was seventeen, though, police busted the scheme. While that meant that finally, after all his time on Earth, the debt had been cleared, it also meant that he was now on the receiving end of justice’s ire for the cruel hand dealt to him. However, after days of testimonies, despite some of his worse actions, he was brushed off more as a victim, being given a light sentence in exchange for acting as a witness testimony. Without question, he accepted that deal.

Despite escaping that organization, it was impossible for him to find stable work. No matter how little time he may have served, he still had a record. Not many wanted to deal with the baggage that came with that for their business, especially when he had the appearance of a hardened criminal to coincide with it. So, he turned to what he had started to learn best: the streets. He took what work he could, whether it be bodyguard work, handyman jobs, or debt collection, although with a far better vetted process than before. No matter what he did, he always made sure that he was on the right side of the situation. Never again would he purposely hurt those who didn’t truly deserve it—even if that meant having to face them directly with little regard to his own personal safety.

Ten long years passed like that. That decade served as ample time to consider what he wanted for his future—to keep struggling on the bottom floor, scrounging for every little penny he could, or trying to make something of himself.

…He chose the former, with aspirations of the latter, putting in for a private investigator license and establishing himself in the heart of the city in a dinky little office. Not much attention is brought to his place, but the few clients he does get speak highly of his work.

Motivation:
Justice rings true in his heart, wishing to protect the innocent, especially those unfairly targeted by the law. However, due to not following a more “typical” path to achieve that, two more, more base, motivation is notoriety to bring in more clients and money to keep his business afloat. When it comes to this case, it appears he could get a mix of all three.

Notable Item(s):

Lockpicking kit, mostly a relic of the past, used in special occasions (mainly when the landlord changes the lock on him for being late on yet another rent payment).
Lighter with a special engraving, its detail lost to the seas of time through intense rust. Its fluid has recently been refilled.
Multifunction pocket knife, for when the past comes knocking or when he gets work as a general handyman in a tight situation.

RP SAMPLE

Climbing out of the darkest, grimiest depths of society had only grown harder year by year. Those fortunate enough to get a proper education and security to pursue what they wished could thrive, soaring far and above what their predecessors had.

Must have been nice to live like that.

Everyone that came into the Greko district never came out. An epidemic of gambling and sex work had people come in to lose it all, and struggle day by day to get anything back as they worked off their immense debts. Many came to hide from something. Maybe the law, maybe some old connections they wanted to disappear from, no matter the cost. Most were just some low-life criminals, committing petty crimes to get by, even if it amounted to little more than a fistful of dollar bills.

This was all Qiang ever knew. A fly trapped in a web, fluttering its little wings in vain as the spider grew ever closer on top of the stinking pile of rotting feces wafting from underneath. Day by day, watching as the predator ate those he knew, tearing off the squirming limbs one by one as they squirmed as hopelessly as he had all these years.

It was nothing more than luck that had brought him this far. Nothing more. Fate could have easily decided for him to be another guy found dead in an alleyway from a stab wound or gunshot. Thus far, he’d avoided such a fate. For how long was anyone’s guess; one which he’d rather not contemplate on for long.

The ever-flickering lamp overhead could hardly make out the words “Chun Detective Agency” along the cusp of an entertainment strip. It was one of the few signs that hadn’t been horrifically aged and rusted, though it hadn’t been able to escape some inevitable vandalism. If only he could have solved the case of who was behind that, but there were far too many suspects to narrow anything down, and far from enough time.

Calling the business an agency was a little misleading, in its own way. Qiang was its singular employee. Had been since its inception.

Most of the cases handled didn’t generate much publicity or financial stability. Those who turned to him weren’t gifted with cash or fame. Many simply couldn’t put trust in law enforcement and saw him as the only other alternative they could turn to. Most of his clientele were ex-convicts or immigrants, with little to give, but a lot to ask for in return.

Maybe he should have declined—he wasn’t running a charity, but money didn’t come from sitting around taking nothing. No billionaire was going to come knocking on his door to give him the assignment that could set him up, far away from this place, for the rest of his life. So… Every person that stepped through that door, he’d accept. Some were simple enough—find a lost pet or person for me, find out if my husband’s been cheating on me, help me get some money back from someone who swindled me. Nothing that would pay all his bills, that’s for sure, but enough to get by on the bare necessities.

Not all came to even satiate those needs. Qiang’s next visitor, to some annoyance, was one of those people.

The door had swung open, the private investigator’s eyes not even taking a moment to take a glance away from the book he was reading to acknowledge their entrance. The walls were thin, as poor quality as anything else in this district. Through them, he could already make out the all-too-familiar gait and pace.

“Quincy, I got something big I need yer help with.”

A ‘holy man,’ they called him. In reality, he was just some ex-convict preying on the woes and faith of others for a few quick bucks, doing private seances of Jesus and drive-by blessings on the streets for a few quick bucks. How anyone believed that crap was beyond him, but it apparently brought people peace of mind, somehow. He wasn’t the law, after all—just some small-time private detective. None of his business to step in to stop the guy.

“Hel-lo? Earth to Quincy?”

However, if he kept popping up for unsolicited visits, maybe he would give that a second thought.

“Dude!” The sudden yelp had caught Qiang off-guard, eyes darting towards the false preacher man. His robes were as fake as his teachings—from what he heard, they had been found on some cheap Chinese website. “Ya gotta stop ignorin’ me!”

“I’ve told you last time to set up an appointment if you want to talk business.” The words were accompanied by a light slam of his book, eyes narrowing in on his unsolicited guest.

“Come on, we both know that’s total bullshit.” With the comfort of someone who shouldn’t have possessed it, he slid himself onto the edge of Qiang’s desk. A couple light prods hadn’t done much in the past, so, with an annoyed sigh, he gave a rough jolt towards the other’s back to push him off. Personal space was sacred—a ‘priest’ of all people should have known that.

“Non-paying customers don’t get to call this place home.” No one should have been calling it home except him, but there were always lurkers and squatters regardless. “Thought you would have learned that by now.”

“Every place is the house of God.” It took everything not to let that snarky tone get to him in that moment, resisting the sudden, bubbling urge to ball his fist and throw a good slug at the man’s face. He was supposed to be better than that, nowadays, but sometimes… Well, there were always people that could test that.

“I gave up on letting God in long ago.” With a labored breath, he turned his attention to the knick knacks that covered his desk. They were all things that were given to him from cases, sometimes completely in exchange for typical forms of payment. Should pawn them off, at some point—At least, that’s what he always told himself. Never got around to it, for one reason or another. “If you’re here to borrow money, the answer’s no. If you’re here to swindle me of the time for another one of your wild goose chases, the answer is also no. And if you’re here to cause trouble, I can make sure no one trusts that pretty priest face after it’s gotten a few bruises.”

“Wait, wait, wait, Quincy.” For someone who was so adamant to make himself comfortable, even a single loose threat had him immediately on edge. Figures—If nothing else, Qiang could always rule with fear around here. No matter how much he tried to change his rep, it was still far easier to leave people squirming to get an advantage. “I've got something for you. Seriously!”

A sudden rummage through the man’s deep, typically untenanted pockets had peaked his curiosity, admittedly. Was he finally going to get the money he was owed? Pfft, yeah. That was far too hopeful to ever happen.

What was presented, however, was far more curious.

Newspaper pages, ripped from the edges like some panicked rush job. It’d been folded a couple times, and crumpled before that. Who knew anyone read the paper here, nowadays? But, more importantly: What the hell kind of payment was this?

“...I had someone hand me this while I was on the street.” The priest’s words had considerably cooled down as he presented the article, taking little effort to smooth out any of the writing before handing it off. So much for manners… This better have been good.

Taking the pages into his hands, he took care to unfold them, so as to not cause any more damage than what had already occurred in the poor paper’s transit. It was difficult to make out much of the smaller print at first, but the titles were crystal clear.

‘Mercy killing’: a biblical-themed homicide

‘May he rest’: a child’s death under the holy word

‘Condemned for his sins’: judge punished to death

…The last hadn’t been far off from his establishment. Found near one of their strip clubs that he supposedly frequented. Murders weren’t unusual, but… Nothing like this. Photos weren’t included, save for the faces of the victims. The descriptions were more than sufficient, though, even if the crumbled paper made it difficult to make every detail out.

“Pretty gnarly, right?” …Did this guy just want to make a show of this? What a jackass…

“...There's far better descriptors.” Those newspapers could’ve chosen much more respectable titles, too… This certainly didn’t seem like the best resource. More than a news outlet, it seemed like a hobbyist publication.

“But you get what I mean.” Not that there was much substance to his statement in the first place… However, his next inquiry left him far more off-guard. “...You think there’s something you could do ‘bout this?”

Just who did this guy think Qiang was?

…As a kid, he always wanted to play detective. To solve the case, and beat the bad guys. Take down thugs who hurt innocent people, all that. But… That wasn’t reality. He couldn’t just go guns ablaze at any case, especially not one this high level. Any hope of that had been dashed years ago.

“Do I look like a police officer?” There was an obvious answer to that one. Even if it amounted to nothing more than a little time in jail, that record kept him from ever finding a place on the force. “As much as I’d like to get my hands on a case like this, there isn’t much I can do.”

“Come on. Don’t you have a connection, or two?”

“Right…” Once upon a time, maybe. Now, he just tried to stay out of their hair. Especially as a private investigator, it felt like more often than not he was working directly against anyone on the force, rather than with anywhere near them. “...If you’re worried about yourself, then maybe you should start reforming your ways. Maybe even go to church, since you love to babble on so much about it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Of course he’d never take that seriously. Qiang of all people could see right through that liar’s act from a million miles away—there wasn’t an ounce of godliness within that guy… Probably not good for anyone else to know about that, though, if those cases were anything to go by… “Seriously, though, look into it. If you solve this sorta stuff, your cred’s sure to fly, ain’t it?”

“...Goodbye, Preacher.” There was no reason to discuss it further. It wasn’t going to go anywhere—That’s what he kept reminding himself, at least. No reason to invest himself in something that could never involve him.

“...Ugh. Fine, I get it.” Finally… Took him a while, but he finally got the message, backing away, though his eyes still caught on Qiang’s for a little too long. “If you do end up going for it, though, you totally have to tell people it’s all because I put you up to it, alright?”

“I’ll think about it.” …Wait, he shouldn’t have been thinking anything at all about it…!

With little more than a smile, wink, and a prayer gesture, the uninvited guest made his leave, having to take a couple tries to close the front door completely before continuing to all the typical schemes of his daily routine.

Qiang, on the other hand…

…Well, a little more research wouldn’t hurt, right?

CLASSIFICATION & ROLE

Private Investigator (with a past)

— End of Case File —

julians-radio · May 6, 2025

CASE FILE: FORMER CONVICT TURNED CONSULTANT

FILE NOTES:
Jeremy Hawke is a former inmate of [REDACTED] high-facility prison and has served 14 years of his 15 year sentence prior to being released early on good behavior. As of present, it has been 2 years since Jeremy's release. Due to his successful reintegration into society and past as an informant, we have determined it safe and relevant to hire Jeremy Hawke as an official consultant for the force (refer to 8/4/2006 police interrogation of Case No. 03493). His recommended assigned cases will include incidents involving cultic and spiritual abuse, homicide, and drug trafficking.

JEREMY HAWKE

Age: 36

Consultant

Ex-Convict

Status: Trusted

Service: 1 year

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

At his core, Jeremy Hawke is a sensitive and complicated man that has been weathered by experience. He has seen significant personality changes after his 14 year prison sentence. He was released on good behavior due to his positive relationships to fellow inmates. He has maintained some traits prior to his incarceration, notably a mischievous sense of humor and a talkative nature. His day-to-day demeanor echos a spiritual exhaustion, even his words slur together like a half-thought.

On occasion, Jeremy can appear cold and hostile. He is temperamental and can flip his mood with a switch. He has a tendency to create tension in all of his relationships because of his abrasive and argumentative nature; however, he manages to create strong bonds by being curious, tolerant, and generous towards others. He never seems to think about what other people's intents are and whether they have an ulterior motive, so he blindly trusts others until they turn against him.

Jeremy is uncomfortable talking about his history before his incarceration, but is unusually talkative in other aspects. He has developed unhealthy coping mechanisms that include violent hostility, sudden erratic behavior, and emotional withdrawal relating to his pre-conviction trauma. He can be seen reading the Bible and praying in moments of personal turmoil.

Jeremy does not seem to be strongly motivated by monetary gain, friendships, or personal goals. His one and only desire is to be on this Earth with his brother and sister.

STRENGTHS + WEAKNESSES

STRENGTHS:
- Jeremy has made significant connections in proximity of high-profile killers and gang-affiliated convicts. He has grown to be accustomed to and learn about the minds of convicts unsuitable for reintegration.
- He is psychologically resistant to subjects of gruesome murders and is unfazed by violent individuals and criminals.
- Jeremy is athletic, strong, and weight lifts regularly. He has experience with hand-to-hand brawls.
- He is able to understand and place himself in the minds and intentions of killers and other criminals.
- Due to his long sentencing, he was able to read everyday while in prison. He can read and write well.

WEAKNESSES:
- Jeremy is poor at acting and lying.
- He exhibits signs of trauma triggered by mentions of his brother, James.
- He is nervous around sharp objects because of incidents in prison where he was attacked with shivs on numerous occasions.
- He exhibits discomfort around figures of high status in religious communities, notably pastors.
- He struggles with science and math.

MOTIVATIONS + ITEMS

Motivation:
Jeremy's primary motivation is simply to earn a decent wage to contribute to his brother's commissary and live a modest life. However, Jeremy has a subconscious desire to understand the relationship between his familial trauma and spirituality. At times he questions his beliefs in God, yet he always returns to prayer in his darkest moments. Jeremy does want to bring justice to the murder victims out of guilt from James's killings. With the serial killer having twisted cult-like religious beliefs, Jeremy wants to uncover the killer's intentions in hopes that it would shed light on his parent's indoctrination and the cult they raised him in.

Items:
- A concealed glock pistol on his belt
- Wallet with ID, cash, and small picture of his sister, Sophie
- Keys to his 1995 Ford F-150 pickup truck

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Because of his large stature and prison tattoos, most people try to steer clear of Jeremy. He is 5'11" with a muscular physique gained from weight training. He has dark brown, short hair, a scruffy beard, and dark green eyes. His usual attire is casual; his signature outfit is a black beanie, hoodie, white beater top, dark jeans, and dirty white sneakers. His most expensive clothing item is a small gold chain necklace. Unfortunately, he does not wear deodorant, and often smells like sweat and petrichor.

His posture is relaxed and leisurely; when he sits, he takes up as much room as possible and slings his legs over any nearby object. People are often uncomfortable around him because he has the expression of someone who's always looking for a fight, a trait he learned in prison. When he is speaking to someone, he stares at them right in the eyes with a piercing gaze. He moves slowly with a degree of clumsiness, almost nervousness.

Notable Features:
- Three prominent scars sustained from shivs. One is long and crosses his back, another appears to be a stab wound in his leg, and the third is a shallow horizontal scar on the side of his neck.
- Parade of tattoos with varying styles and quality. Most are typical designs (burning heart, knife, tiger, rose). His most noticeable is the tattoos on his hands. His right hand is tattooed with 'LOVE' spelled out on his fingers. His left fingers spell out 'FEAR'.
- Leisurely posture and slow, cautious movements.
- Smells of sweat and petrichor.
- Extremely muscular, body-builder physique.

© pasta

Case Background

Backstory: Case No. 03493

INTERVIEW WITH JEREMY HAWKE

Tape Recorded Interview

Q = Allison Nguyen

JH = Jeremy Hawke

Q: This is the preamble for a consensual recording at the police station with Jeremy Hawke for a follow-up interview. Time is 7:08 pm. Thursday August 14, 2006.

Q: Before we start, Jeremy, I want to thank you for your full cooperation in these past weeks. I know this process has not been easy for you--

JH: You know what I'm doing this for.

Q: I understand. It is a hard decision, Jeremy, but the right one . . . So, Jeremy, I would like for you to just recount what you remember happened in the days before your brother was taken into custody, so we're on the same page. You can start by describing him, your opinion of him.

JH: Yeah . . . you know, James was . . . is a good person. He loved his community. He would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, even though he didn't have much. He did what he had to do as a man. He was a real protector, you know . . . What he did was to protect me.

Q: James is your oldest brother. You also have a younger sister, correct? She came into the station the other day asking about you.

JH: Yeah. James loved Sophie. He loved me, but he would die for her. She was the best of us, it was like we weren't related. She got out of this worthless town as soon as she could, ran away with a few bucks and an older guy. James was furious. (laughs) The look on his face when he found out. I'll never forget it.

Q: James was the sole provider for you both for a few years, right? What about your parents?

JH: My parents are such a distant memory for me now . . . They followed the rules to the letter. Even before we ran away from the commune, though, I know they resented us. We weren't exactly the perfect disciples.

Q: The commune?

JH: I guess you would call it a cult. I'm still kind of getting used to that term. See, me and my sister were born into it, but James wasn't. He was three when our parents were converted to the Church of the Redeemed.

Q: I think I've heard about this. They're kind of like Scientologists, right?

JH: Yeah. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if Father Francis copied the idea word for word. We had hypnosis exercises, PR exercises, the whole nine yards. We were the poor person's Scientology. James was a troublemaker, he couldn't be contrained by rules or etiquette. Try as they might, they never could make him sit still and pray like all the good kids. He believed in God, sure, but all the sermons went from one ear out the other. Ma and pops were the perfect devotees, but we disrupted that image of them. James rubbed off on us, we got into all sorts of trouble with the pastors. My parents were able to get my sister in line, to a point, but she loved us more, because we loved her more. Me, James, Sophie, we were our own family. At some point, my parents started to try and beat us into submission, and it worked for a while. It took a long time to realize we had enough.

Q: How did you manage to do it?

JH: It's hard to leave, not because they physically restrain you from doing so, but because the Church was all we know. The outside world was terrifying. They made it seem like we would starve, or get murdered, kidnapped, the worst things you could think of. It was my idea to leave. I stole a book from the city library when they thought I was going to the store, it was called "Walking Free from Cultic and Spiritual Abuse", or some inspirational shit like that. James agreed wholeheartedly, like I knew he would. Sophie was a little hesitant at first but she trusted us. I planned out the night we would leave, when the pastors were done patrolling the bedrooms. It was surprising how easy it was.

Q: How old were you all when this happened?

JH: I was fourteen. I think James was seventeen, Sophie thirteen. We were scared shitless, like we were babies learning how to walk again. Eventually some nosy neighbors caught wind of these three kids fooling around and walking in the same clothes everyday, pockets stuffed with stolen food, and got CPS involved. They threw us in a shelter, interrogated us. We were separated for a while, and that made us all go insane. We put up a hell of a fight. When James turned eighteen, he got kicked out from our orphanage. He got the idea of making himself our guardian, so we wouldn't be separated. Sophie was almost adopted by a nice family . . . I feel a little guilty, y'know, that maybe she could've had a better life than what we could give her.

Q: So, let's fast forward to the present. What led up to the moment of you and James doing what you did? What was the context?

JH: (sighs)

Q: Jeremy, we already know what happened. There's no escaping it. We need your full cooperation for us to try and reduce your sentence.

JH: I know, I know . . . We knew James was doing some shady shit. There was no way he could have afforded the apartment, the nice clothes, and all our gifts as a janitor. I started to get suspicious. Eventually he gave in and told me. Really, I just wanted the confirmation that he was selling drugs, and I was right . . . And, he started to try and get me in on it. I was eighteen when I started selling weed. James eased me into the harder stuff. Sophie was smart enough to skip town when we started getting some heat from the higher-ups, she didn't want anything to do with it . . . So one day, James had been given a task to go to this guy's house for fucking with the boss and owing him a shit ton of money. James was relunctant at first, until the boss implied that he would beat my ass if he didn't comply. Day later, James and I went to the guy's house with guns. It was a really nice house: a mansion compared to where we lived. We knew there were security cameras so we took them out with rocks in the middle of the night and broke in through the big glass windows out back. We separated to patrol inside the house. Next thing I know, the guy came storming out of the bedroom, half naked with a gun pointed right at me. A shouting match ensued. I think the guy knew my heart wasn't in it, that I wasn't going to shoot him. But James had it in him. He shot the guy right in the head . . . Then someone screamed in the bedroom in front of us, it was clear it was his much younger girlfriend or something. She was begging for us not to shoot her. She told us her name, Charlotte. Charlotte had a family waiting for her. I said that she and her family would be fine if she didn't rat us out to the police--

Q: But James didn't allow that. He killed her because she was a witness.

JH: . . . Yeah.

Q: Do you understand the charges that you are facing is life in prison for accessory to murder, unless you stand witness to your brother's crimes and become an informant for the [drug trafficking ring]?

JH: Heard it a million times over.

Q: Your role in our operation is vital. Your sentence could go from life to fifteen years. I can't promise you that, but I am advocating for you.

JH: If you're expecting a thank you, you're not getting it. Are we done here?

[end of recording]

— End of Case File —

Mobile-friendly, no code format:

CASE FILE: FORMER CONVICT TURNED CONSULTANT

FILE NOTES:
Jeremy Hawke is a former inmate of [REDACTED] high-facility prison and has served 14 years of his 15 year sentence prior to being released early on good behavior. As of present, it has been 2 years since Jeremy's release. Due to his successful reintegration into society and past as an informant, we have determined it safe and relevant to hire Jeremy Hawke as an official consultant for the force (refer to 8/4/2006 police interrogation of Case No. 03493). His recommended assigned cases will include incidents involving cultic and spiritual abuse, homicide, and drug trafficking.

BASIC FILE INFORMATION
Name: Jeremy Hawke
Age: 36
Occupation: Consultant
Years of Service: 1 year

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Appearance:
Because of his large stature and prison tattoos, most people try to steer clear of Jeremy. He is 5'11" with a muscular physique gained from weight training. He has dark brown, short hair, a scruffy beard, and dark green eyes. His usual attire is casual; his signature outfit is a black beanie, hoodie, white beater top, dark jeans, and dirty white sneakers. His most expensive clothing item is a small gold chain necklace. Unfortunately, he does not wear deodorant, and often smells like sweat and petrichor.

His posture is relaxed and leisurely; when he sits, he takes up as much room as possible and slings his legs over any nearby object. People are often uncomfortable around him because he has the expression of someone who's always looking for a fight, a trait he learned in prison. When he is speaking to someone, he stares at them right in the eyes with a piercing gaze. He moves slowly with a degree of clumsiness, almost nervousness.

Notable Features:
- Three prominent scars sustained from shivs. One is long and crosses his back, another appears to be a stab wound in his leg, and the third is a shallow horizontal scar on the side of his neck.
- Parade of tattoos with varying styles and quality. Most are typical designs (burning heart, knife, tiger, rose). His most noticeable is the tattoos on his hands. His right hand is tattooed with 'LOVE' spelled out on his fingers. His left fingers spell out 'FEAR'.
- Leisurely posture and slow, cautious movements.
- Smells of sweat and petrichor.
- Extremely muscular, body-builder physique.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE
At his core, Jeremy Hawke is a sensitive and complicated man that has been weathered by experience. He has seen significant personality changes after his 14 year prison sentence. He was released on good behavior due to his positive relationships to fellow inmates. He has maintained some traits prior to his incarceration, notably a mischievous sense of humor and a talkative nature. His day-to-day demeanor echos a spiritual exhaustion, even his words slur together like a half-thought.

On occasion, Jeremy can appear cold and hostile. He is temperamental and can flip his mood with a switch. He has a tendency to create tension in all of his relationships because of his abrasive and argumentative nature; however, he manages to create strong bonds by being curious, tolerant, and generous towards others. He never seems to think about what other people's intents are and whether they have an ulterior motive, so he blindly trusts others until they turn against him.

Jeremy is uncomfortable talking about his history before his incarceration, but is unusually talkative in other aspects. He has developed unhealthy coping mechanisms that include violent hostility, sudden erratic behavior, and emotional withdrawal relating to his pre-conviction trauma. He can be seen reading the Bible and praying in moments of personal turmoil.

Jeremy does not seem to be strongly motivated by monetary gain, friendships, or personal goals. His one and only desire is to be on this Earth with his brother and sister.

Strengths:
- Jeremy has made significant connections in proximity of high-profile killers and gang-affiliated convicts. He has grown to be accustomed to and learn about the minds of convicts unsuitable for reintegration.
- He is psychologically resistant to subjects of gruesome murders and is unfazed by violent individuals and criminals.
- Jeremy is athletic, strong, and weight lifts regularly. He has experience with hand-to-hand brawls.
- He is able to understand and place himself in the minds and intentions of killers and other criminals.
- Due to his long sentencing, he was able to read everyday while in prison. He can read and write well.

Weaknesses:
- Jeremy is poor at acting and lying.
- He exhibits signs of trauma triggered by mentions of his brother, James.
- He is nervous around sharp objects because of incidents in prison where he was attacked with shivs on numerous occasions.
- He exhibits discomfort around figures of high status in religious communities, notably pastors.

- He struggles with science and math.

CASE BACKGROUND

Motivation:
Jeremy's primary motivation is simply to earn a decent wage to contribute to his brother's commissary and live a modest life. However, Jeremy has a subconscious desire to understand the relationship between his familial trauma and spirituality. At times he questions his beliefs in God, yet he always returns to prayer in his darkest moments. Jeremy does want to bring justice to the murder victims out of guilt from James's killings. With the serial killer having twisted cult-like religious beliefs, Jeremy wants to uncover the killer's intentions in hopes that it would shed light on his parent's indoctrination and the cult they raised him in.

Notable Item(s):
- A concealed glock pistol on his belt
- Wallet with ID, cash, and small picture of his sister, Sophie
- Keys to his 1995 Ford F-150 pickup truck

Backstory: Case No. 03493

INTERVIEW WITH JEREMY HAWKE

Tape Recorded Interview

Q = Allison Nguyen

JH = Jeremy Hawke

Q: This is the preamble for a consensual recording at the police station with Jeremy Hawke for a follow-up interview. Time is 7:08 pm. Thursday August 14, 2006.

Q: Before we start, Jeremy, I want to thank you for your full cooperation in these past weeks. I know this process has not been easy for you--

JH: You know what I'm doing this for.

Q: I understand. It is a hard decision, Jeremy, but the right one . . . So, Jeremy, I would like for you to just recount what you remember happened in the days before your brother was taken into custody, so we're on the same page. You can start by describing him, your opinion of him.

JH: Yeah . . . you know, James was . . . is a good person. He loved his community. He would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, even though he didn't have much. He did what he had to do as a man. He was a real protector, you know . . . What he did was to protect me.

Q: James is your oldest brother. You also have a younger sister, correct? She came into the station the other day asking about you.

JH: Yeah. James loved Sophie. He loved me, but he would die for her. She was the best of us, it was like we weren't related. She got out of this worthless town as soon as she could, ran away with a few bucks and an older guy. James was furious. (laughs) The look on his face when he found out. I'll never forget it.

Q: James was the sole provider for you both for a few years, right? What about your parents?

JH: My parents are such a distant memory for me now . . . They followed the rules to the letter. Even before we ran away from the commune, though, I know they resented us. We weren't exactly the perfect disciples.

Q: The commune?

JH: I guess you would call it a cult. I'm still kind of getting used to that term. See, me and my sister were born into it, but James wasn't. He was three when our parents were converted to the Church of the Redeemed.

Q: I think I've heard about this. They're kind of like Scientologists, right?

JH: Yeah. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if Father Francis copied the idea word for word. We had hypnosis exercises, PR exercises, the whole nine yards. We were the poor person's Scientology. James was a troublemaker, he couldn't be contrained by rules or etiquette. Try as they might, they never could make him sit still and pray like all the good kids. He believed in God, sure, but all the sermons went from one ear out the other. Ma and pops were the perfect devotees, but we disrupted that image of them. James rubbed off on us, we got into all sorts of trouble with the pastors. My parents were able to get my sister in line, to a point, but she loved us more, because we loved her more. Me, James, Sophie, we were our own family. At some point, my parents started to try and beat us into submission, and it worked for a while. It took a long time to realize we had enough.

Q: How did you manage to do it?

JH: It's hard to leave, not because they physically restrain you from doing so, but because the Church was all we know. The outside world was terrifying. They made it seem like we would starve, or get murdered, kidnapped, the worst things you could think of. It was my idea to leave. I stole a book from the city library when they thought I was going to the store, it was called "Walking Free from Cultic and Spiritual Abuse", or some inspirational shit like that. James agreed wholeheartedly, like I knew he would. Sophie was a little hesitant at first but she trusted us. I planned out the night we would leave, when the pastors were done patrolling the bedrooms. It was surprising how easy it was.

Q: How old were you all when this happened?

JH: I was fourteen. I think James was seventeen, Sophie thirteen. We were scared shitless, like we were babies learning how to walk again. Eventually some nosy neighbors caught wind of these three kids fooling around and walking in the same clothes everyday, pockets stuffed with stolen food, and got CPS involved. They threw us in a shelter, interrogated us. We were separated for a while, and that made us all go insane. We put up a hell of a fight. When James turned eighteen, he got kicked out from our orphanage. He got the idea of making himself our guardian, so we wouldn't be separated. Sophie was almost adopted by a nice family . . . I feel a little guilty, y'know, that maybe she could've had a better life than what we could give her.

Q: So, let's fast forward to the present. What led up to the moment of you and James doing what you did? What was the context?

JH: (sighs)

Q: Jeremy, we already know what happened. There's no escaping it. We need your full cooperation for us to try and reduce your sentence.

JH: I know, I know . . . We knew James was doing some shady shit. There was no way he could have afforded the apartment, the nice clothes, and all our gifts as a janitor. I started to get suspicious. Eventually he gave in and told me. Really, I just wanted the confirmation that he was selling drugs, and I was right . . . And, he started to try and get me in on it. I was eighteen when I started selling weed. James eased me into the harder stuff. Sophie was smart enough to skip town when we started getting some heat from the higher-ups, she didn't want anything to do with it . . . So one day, James had been given a task to go to this guy's house for fucking with the boss and owing him a shit ton of money. James was relunctant at first, until the boss implied that he would beat my ass if he didn't comply. Day later, James and I went to the guy's house with guns. It was a really nice house: a mansion compared to where we lived. We knew there were security cameras so we took them out with rocks in the middle of the night and broke in through the big glass windows out back. We separated to patrol inside the house. Next thing I know, the guy came storming out of the bedroom, half naked with a gun pointed right at me. A shouting match ensued. I think the guy knew my heart wasn't in it, that I wasn't going to shoot him. But James had it in him. He shot the guy right in the head . . . Then someone screamed in the bedroom in front of us, it was clear it was his much younger girlfriend or something. She was begging for us not to shoot her. She told us her name, Charlotte. Charlotte had a family waiting for her. I said that she and her family would be fine if she didn't rat us out to the police--

Q: But James didn't allow that. He killed her because she was a witness.

JH: . . . Yeah.

Q: Do you understand the charges that you are facing is life in prison for accessory to murder, unless you stand witness to your brother's crimes and become an informant for the [drug trafficking ring]?

JH: Heard it a million times over.

Q: Your role in our operation is vital. Your sentence could go from life to fifteen years. I can't promise you that, but I am advocating for you.

JH: If you're expecting a thank you, you're not getting it. Are we done here?

[end of recording]

idiot · May 6, 2025

[/border]

the medical examiner.

eko — yeule.

basics information / physical description

name:

Hayden Daniels.

nickname:

Dr Marlowe often calls her 'Daniels', but prefers Hayden to most.

age:

Twenty-eight.

occupation:

Medical Examiner Assistant—under Chief Medical Examiner, Dr Felix Marlowe's tutelage.

years of service:

A year and a half within her forensic pathology residency. If only the eight years of study counted.

"Acid tripping, silver spinning, Scrape inside my head, She's living, breathing unreal being Who lives inside my head."

appearance:

For better or worse, Hayden stands out among the rest of the medical drones. A hodgepodge of bottle-dyed light blonde and black streaks throughout her chest-length hair. The uneven ends and haphazard cut suggests—if not heavily implies—that Hayden tends to her own hair in all regards. Her hair has become a vessel for some self-indulgent game; in which she dyes her hair a different colour every few months to get a rise out of Dr Marlowe. Maybe to annoy him further or personal taste—Hayden's rather thick eyebrows are dyed a brassy blonde. These frame her striking and inquisitive blue eyes that are perpetually curious and searching. Some say that Hayden has intense eye contact and sometimes creates staring contests in her head for fun.

Pale and smooth skin (despite the lack of a skin-care routine) that is dotted with an array of freckles throughout her face and body. Discolouration plagues under her eyes from a lack of sleepless nights and sun. Thankfully this is often hidden with a vibrant explosion of colourful hues and intricate make-up that she clearly puts some effort into. Hayden's face could be described as a harmonious clash of angular and soft features; appearing quite androgynous when bare-faced.

Standing at 5'7" and weighing just below average, Hayden has a frame that hints at someone who goes on the odd late-night jog and a sporadic workout when reminded fitness exists. Usually Hayden's stature is hidden among a slew of layered clothing that has created debate if her looks are intentional and finely crafted or erratically thrown together. Her style is self-described as 'comfort meets edge', with no restriction on colour, fabric or patterns. To Dr Marlowe's delight, she thankfully is often wearing her white, medical coat in the examination room. Hayden often thrifts her clothing and isn't afraid to upcycle and sew some garments.

Hayden attempts to carry herself with a cool exterior—her movements intentional yet free-flowing in a way that is evocative of someone who is confident with themselves. A keen-eye can spot the way she basically vibrates with never-ending energy and isn't a surprise why Dr Marlowe finds being in her presence for too long can be exhausting.

distinguishing features:

- Both her ears are pierced multiple times and adorned with a collection of silver jewellery.

- An inability to sit on chairs. She prefers to pace or lean against walls but is impartial to sitting on a desk or bench, arm of a chair or anything really. Will surprise you in that regard.

- A simplistic teddy bear tattoo on her right wrist; the bear's threading is frayed with stuffing jutting out and is missing one of it's button eyes.

- Another tattoo can be found behind her left ear which appears to be a skull.

- A fan of hand gestures and telling a good story—you will never find her detailing her examination reports verbally in a boring fashion.

- On the odd occasion that one can see Hayden's midriff, a three inch scar can be found. Will deflect if commented on.

- No matter how much she tries, her smile can only be described as mischievous.

- Exuding a flowery, fresh perfume scent that doesn't mix well with the too-frequent Chinese takeout she consumes and well...the dead after a long day.

- Cannot sit still. Some form of her body will be moving. Usually a way to regulate her body and keep her focused.

- The tendency to speak out loud. Dr Marlowe has told her off enough that it has reduced mainly to her mouthing words under her breath, or her lips moving.

face claim:

Hunter Schafer.

psychological profile

personality:

Alike her appearance, Hayden definitely stands out—even if she doesn't intent to—from the way she presents and carries herself. Quite sociable and a conversationalist, who has no qualms striking up a conversation with anyone. Equipped with an acquired sense of humour that is both dry and twisted in a morbid way. She blames it on her line of work but won't admit it has been a coping strategy since she was young.

It is clear upon meeting Hayden that she doesn't take herself too seriously in most settings and attempts to come across as cool and nonchalant, but it will become increasingly clear that she definitely cares a lot—especially for others and her work and craft. A flair for fun and shenanigans, Hayden seemingly deals with stress by just letting go of her inhibitions. This usually comes in the form of drinking at local nightclubs and bars—which she will tell you is purely social—but definitely is something that could develop into addiction if she isn't careful. Addiction being something that seemingly runs in her family. Hayden is good at excusing the inevitable problem it will serve in her life in the future.

People can be turned off by her upfront, blunt nature, which makes it increasingly clear she isn't afraid to speak her mind. Maybe a bit too much for some, with Dr Marlowe and other teachers/professors commenting on her almost confrontational and abrasive style of abruptly speaking despite certain settings requiring some form of decorum. This is seemingly worse for perceived authority figures and Dr Marlowe is constantly reprimanding her for cutting corners and isn't the biggest fan of following rules. Hayden has become aware of this and has been actively working on it, as she is not wanting to be perceived this way but struggles to keep everything in her head...in her head. Thankfully, art has played a major factor throughout her life as a way to deal with heavy emotions, overwhelming thoughts and escapism.

The question becomes—why does Dr Marlowe put up with these pitfalls? Hayden exceedingly excels in her job and her craft. She is highly intelligent and quite knowledgeable about all things medicine and science—and useless, random trivia—but also possesses a level of insight that allows her to engage in introspection and deeper conversations. It just seems to come naturally to her and Dr Marlowe is quietly surprised by her sheer detail and dedication to her job—albeit unconventional. It helps that she is always eager to learn, always firing as barrage of exhaustive questions at Dr Marlowe or absorbing herself in an educational audiobook. Some might say she borders on nosey, often asking invasive questions out of curiosity.

virtues:

book-smart, insightful, bright, empathetic, resourceful, perceptive, playful, sociable, curious, artistic, comical.

vices:

disorganised, cuts corners, sarcastic, overthinker yet impulsive, easily distracted, blunt, flaky, meddlesome, unconventional.

strengths:

- Highly knowledgeable and proficient as a medical examiner's assistant, Hayden has the ability to pick up on the smallest details that can often be overlooked by more conventional methods.

- Extensive skills in the medical profession, especially when it comes to first aid and surgery due to her studies.

- While Hayden prefers the examination room, she is no stranger to crime scenes, and thanks to Dr Marlowe has become somewhat proficient at determining preliminary hypotheses and findings at crime scenes before performing the autopsy.

- A steady hand and keen eye that allows for more methodical yet effortful movements. Creates some of the cleanest sutures that Dr Marlowe has seen.

- Hayden is a fast learner and is always excited to learn new things. Loves a good brain teaser.

- A mental fortitude that many underestimate considering her childhood trauma is often not brought up in conversation. Often people misinterpret her humour and nonchalant predisposition as someone who hasn't been burnt by this city. If only that was true.

weaknesses:

- Lives in a constant state of chaotic disorganisation. Dr Marlowe always shakes his head at the state of her desk but lets it slide. Definitely can frustrate or confuse others but seemingly it works out in the end for her.

- As easily as she can become focused, she can often become distracted by other sources which can lead to procrastination and frustration from others.

- A boatload of childhood trauma that has manifested into coping strategies that can grow maladaptive if given more time to fester.

- Will get ahead of herself when excited or when she rarely sits in her emotions which can lead to impulsive behaviour. This can also mean that in these states she can miss obvious details.

- A mild diagnosis of Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) but is medicated and at times is to her benefit than detriment.

likes:

clutter, drawing/sketching, alcohol, meeting new people, takeout, philosophy, dry humour, debates with random people at bars or nightclubs, learning new things, music on full blast, audiobooks.

dislikes:

fake smiles, the feeling of teeth against clothing, intimidation, rules and regulations, small talk, lectures, paperwork.

case background

backstory

Depends what you want to know. You want a rundown of her professional history? She will happily oblige...

Her accolades begin with a full-ride scholarship she achieved by submitting a paper in high school to an organisation that was attempting to help youth who could "fall through the cracks" despite their gifted intellect. Hayden breezed through her Bachelor of Science in Biology and Forensic Science. A clear shoe-in for Medical School (MD), Hayden excelled with high distinctions and recognition for her clinical and practical skills within her four years at MD. Hayden surprised many by not pursuing a surgical residency after MD, despite her rotations focusing on trauma surgery. Many med school superiors and friends questioned her sudden change of heart considering her exhaustive offers to complete her surgical residency in prestigious hospitals and clinics. Instead she pursued a forensic pathology residency with Chief Medical Examiner, Dr Felix Marlowe, who was prolific for working with the police force in their ongoing investigations. For the last year and a half, Hayden has been under Dr Marlowe's tutelage.

Were you hoping for some insight into her personal life? Well, buying her a drink might improve your odds. Even then, not many people have been given the chance to know Hayden on that level. Humour and deflection keep those close at bay—creating a false reality that she is an open book.

motivation:

It started as a bet. The usual clash of Dr Marlowe's focus on conventional methods and procedure versus Hayden's disposition for the unconventional and ducking and weaving through the rulebook. A dangerous bet for both parties to have Hayden prove she does in fact have it within her to perform without training wheels (still with supervision of course, he wasn’t a madman). Dr Marlowe is a precious relic within the police force, who take his recommendations seriously. So, when he recommended that Hayden takes the lead as medical examiner in an ongoing murder investigation—no one bat an eye. Hayden isn't oblivious to the risk he has taken, and frankly jumped at the opportunity to not only prove she is more than capable but to make Dr Marlowe proud. If only she knew what she had got herself into...

"All this time, always I find She's rotting, crystal, diamond, shining, Flying, finding, all your crying, Trauma, shaking, shining, darling."

notable item(s):

- Old pair of wired earphones, with the cord fraying in some locations. Faded stickers wrap around the cord; acting as both tape to keep it from fraying but also decoration. It is clear she has had these for a while and has not interest in upgrading.

- A silver cross pendant despite positing that she is not religious. The silver lost its shine a long time ago. Runs her fingers across it when deep in thought.

- An old friendship bracelet she wears on her left wrist, that is made up of colourful beads that read: bestest sister. Made by her younger brother as children—the first one to accept who she truly was. Always brings a smile to her face.

- A well-loved sketch pad and a battered, metal case of watercolour and lead pencils that she sketches on during her break...or when she is "listening" to a lengthy Dr Marlowe lecture. Seems to follow her around, but more out of fear that people will peek inside.

- A rather non-descript school workbook that is full of random thoughts, work notes, quotes, to-do lists, phone numbers, random sketches, and anything else imaginable. Seems to act as a physical representation of her brain for things she deems important. Seems to replace it every few weeks once it fills up or when she inevitably misplaces it.

- A digital camera that is exclusively used for work and stored in a lock cabinet in the examination room. Thankfully, Dr Marlowe and Hayden both agree that technology can suck and prefer the privacy it allows, versus phones and tablets that have started to become a mainstay in their field.

another day in the examination room...

[warning of drug addiction, death, mental health—mainly done might make edits or additions later]

"Well...out with it then, Daniels." The Chief Medical Examiner's voice was muffled by his surgical mask—a distinctive second language Hayden had come to understand and label: I'm going to speak really softly despite wearing a mask and get angry if you ask me to repeat myself. She was still workshopping a more concise title.

"Hm?" Hayden's eyes flicked up towards Dr Marlowe, his forehead creased with concern. Well, his forehead was always creased—an endless valley of lines—but his look of concern created mountains. Hayden often joked he would look more at home on the examination table these days. He was an old-fashioned, stubborn bastard who should of retired a decade ago and yet, Hayden nothing but respect for him. She also may of cared about him—not that she would ever admit that.

"And here I was expecting some sardonic response from you." Dr Marlowe placed the forceps onto the table, degloving, and pulling his mask down—crinkling his nose as it brushed his exposed nose hairs. Hayden was pretty sure her dissociation from the moment he unveiled the dead body that settled between them was the seed for his concern. But not giving him a sarcastic response?

"Now, I know something is wrong." Shit.

The corpse was once a young, twenty-something male. His cause of death was something that became apparent when observing the cluster of track marks on his ghostly, translucent skin. An unfortunate reality for many in this city and the never-ending pandemic with illicit drugs. It wasn't the cause of death that spooked her. It was those eyes...

"Fine." Hayden pulled off her own gloves and mask, letting out a shaky sigh. "But you will need to pull out the good stuff."

Fifteen minutes of sterilising equipment and disposing of their gear later—Dr Marlowe indeed brought out the good stuff. The sneaky bastard had been hiding a bottle of Macallan 18 scotch from her. Requesting a double, straight up while Dr Marlowe only gave himself a finger on the rocks. Once she had gulped that down with an impressive poker face, Hayden poured herself another double.

"Did you know him?" Dr Marlowe's voice had softened even more—if that was possible—a mere whisper as though the words would cause Hayden to retreat further into herself.

"No, no...nothing like that—thankfully..." Hayden's hands cupped the amber-filled glass like a coffee mug. Staring down the barrel of the glass, as though it held the courage for her to continue. Hayden's brain was already running circles around her—it started off rationally but crashed into a stormy sea of ridiculous excuses as to why she should just deflect or get the hell out of here. Usually that was enough but the sweet, warm embrace of the scotch settled in her stomach and brought an uneasy feeling of calm. You know what...

"He reminded me of my...brother." Hayden's hands wrung the glass, eyes shifting to the body that awaited their return. Dr Marlowe responded with stoic silence which meant you had his full attention. I guess we are doing this.

"My brother was a few years younger than me. Funnily enough, he felt more like an older brother at times." Hayden awarded herself a small smile at the thought but already the tears pricked at her eyes. "He was there for me a lot growing up. I mean—holy shit...a ten-year-old boy handled my gender dysphoria better than my own mother." It had been a while since she had mentioned her mother. The word felt foreign and bitter on her tongue. A sip—more like a gulp—of the scotch washed it away.

"Your family...I've never heard you talk about them." Dr Marlowe gently probed. One of the tears betrayed her, running down her cheek as she let out an involuntary laugh.

"What is there to say? My mother was a hoarder and drug addict. We lived in filth. All of her boyfriends were pieces of shit." Hayden stifled back the sobs, instead moving a safe distance from the memories in her head. "She refused to get help. I remember my brother would write letters to her, slipping them under the door of her bedroom—begging her to get help. I could never bring myself to read them but I know they would be the same words I'd send to him as we got older. I think deep down, I always knew—she would never get help...which is why I decided to help myself." Polishing off the glass, Hayden couldn't meet Dr Marlowe's eyes, even though she knew he was staring at her. Thoughts swirled in her head around what he thought of her now.

"I worked hard to get where I am. To escape the same fate as those people we suture up each day." The words lacked the conviction she wanted. Did she truly escape?

"I had no idea, Hayden. That is horrible." Dr Marlowe's hands had abandoned his untouched glass but awkwardly sat open-palmed on the table.

"Many don't. I think I prefer it that way—you know? It doesn't make me feel better talking about it. All it does is make it feel more...real? I think people, and myself, prefer when I'm upbeat and act as though this shitty city didn't chew me up and spit me out." Hayden didn't want to admit how freeing her next breath felt. She definitely wouldn't admit that speaking about it made her feel at least a miniscule better. Before Dr Marlowe could question her further, the overwhelming thoughts won.

"So, on that note—can we go back to pretending everything is cool? Oh, and never call me Hayden again." Hayden had stood up abruptly, smoothing her medical coat.

"Thank God—you know there is a reason I work with the dead and not living people? We can definitely do that. As long as you go back to filling every single second of silence with your incessant ramblings." Dr Marlowe jeered and Hayden couldn't help but smile. Cracking jokes? She really had rubbed off on him.

"I knew it. You love the fact I don't shut up." Hayden held out her hand. "As long as you go back to being a grumpy, old bastard. Deal?" Dr Marlowe took a second to stand. Age had placed him in permanent slow-motion which was quite a juxtaposition to Hayden who would run circles around him throughout the day. He eventually stood in front of her, but instead of shaking her outstretched hand, he cupped her hand with both hands.

"If you ever need to talk to me, I'm here for you, Daniels."

"Thanks, Marlowe." Was all Hayden could manage, but he would never understand how much that meant to her.

purplecowdutch · May 6, 2025

LITTLE TOO LATE

nouk

benjamin

R

equisite.

name

Benjamin Duinkerk

a.k.a.

Benji, ben

age

thirty-two

occupation

(corrupt) crime scene/forensics expert

ethnicity

White, Canadian

how long in service

10 years

p

syche.

VIRTUES

direct

disciplined

intelligent

insightful

VICES

stubborn

selfish

avoidant

cynical

benjamin climbed the ranks fast. He’s sharp, good at what he does, and that got him noticed early. He had a mentor who taught him how to handle the job, but after a tragic accident, that mentor died—and benjamin never really recovered. that loss, along with years of seeing the worst of people, pushed him into a really cynical place.
he’s emotionally distant, hard to read, and avoids any kind of real vulnerability.
he doesn’t do emotional conversations. he prefers to keep things casual, new, and surface-level—whether it’s with people or in his personal life. opening up feels dangerous, and he’s long since decided there’s no point in going deeper with anyone.
time has taught him not to take the job too seriously. he’s seen gory scenes, brutal cases—things most people would never forget—but he’s built a tolerance for it. before work, he tries to mentally shut off, just to stay focused and sane. over the years, he’s grown numb, and honestly, it helps. especially now that he gets assigned to the more intense, sometimes even extraordinary cases.

he keeps things light. some people call him superficial. he doesn’t really show a lot of layers when he talks, and he struggles to pay attention to stories that don’t catch his interest. if anything, he doesn’t really listen at all.
but what benjamin does have is an amazing eye for detail. he sees things most people miss—tiny habits, misplaced objects, subtle patterns. he’s been in the game long enough to know the ins and outs, and some days he even dares to think he knows it all. he’s dabbled into the world of psychology just enough to figure out how people act in fight-or-flight situations—where they panic, where they leave important clues… and where they hide their cash. obviously.

side notes
benjamin has been tired of the job for years but doesn’t know how to do anything else. his dependency on anxiety meds keeps him functional, but just barely. Over time, he got involved with the wrong people—trying to find a way out, trying to make things easier—but now he’s stuck. he’s made shady deals, and even whitewashed some evidence. He tells himself it’s survival. Some days, he feels like he’s above the law. other days, he’s not even sure if right or wrong really exist anymore.

h

istory

benjamin was born in canada and grew up with both his parents and two brothers—one older, one younger. his dad was in the dea and super involved in law enforcement, but benjamin mostly felt overlooked as the middle child. his brothers weren’t into the whole justice thing, but benjamin liked the idea of being someone important—someone who actually mattered.
he hung out with the wrong people growing up, just kind of floating around. then his mom got sick right after his 15th birthday, and something shifted. he promised her he’d make something of himself. he meant it, but things didn’t magically improve. his relationship with his dad stayed rough. the man was cold, cynical, and always made it clear he didn’t think benjamin would ever amount to anything. even after struggling through dropouts and setbacks, benjamin managed to find his way into the field and became a crime scene expert—no shortcuts, no help.

his mom passed first. a few years later, his dad died too, before ever seeing what benjamin had become. not that it would’ve mattered. benjamin still holds a grudge about that.
when he was 21, he got paired with an older guy named petey. one of the only people he actually opened up to. petey taught him the job, helped him move up, got him into better positions. things felt kind of stable for a while. but when benjamin turned 23, petey

took his own life

, and that really messed him up. benjamin didn’t bounce back after that. he just... disconnected.

he started drinking more. showing up late. the job got heavier, and there wasn’t much else in his life. no relationships, no close friends—just work, then numb it all until the next day. he started spending a lot of time in this shady bar, and as his salary dropped and pressure built, he made some bad calls. shady deals for extra money. things that seemed small at first but stuck. now he’s in deeper than he ever meant to be.
he started whitewashing evidence. just once or twice. then a few more times. now it’s routine. the line between right and wrong? pretty blurry these days. the anxiety meds help him get through it, keep him from collapsing on the job. they’re the only thing keeping the guilt quiet.

these days, benjamin’s not looking to redeem himself. he doesn’t care why he started. whatever sense of justice he had is mostly gone. he’s bitter, tired, and still showing up to a job he hates because he doesn’t know what else he’s even good at. he’s not trying to make things better—he just doesn’t want to fall apart.

his motivation for the job is to get some extra money, he is planning to find someone to make a deal with and is probably underestimating the whole situation, he might not be in it for the right reasons right away but who knows what he will find out. to him this is just another job to waste some time on.
if anything, he promised himself this was the last case he’ll ever work on.
but benjamin has said that many times before.

a

ppearance

hair: dark brown and sometimes a bit greasy, occasionally puts some gel in but barely sticks.
eyes: dark brown pools, leans towards green skin: (colour, texture, blemishes, etc.) Benjamin has a light skinned color, he has a few wrinkles on his forehead and his chin is covered by a nicely shaven beard though lately he has been letting loose a bit and let it grow.
body/build: (height, weight, etc.) He's 5,8 inches tall and narrow build, he's naturally lean but his arms are a tad more muscled than his legs. he's now putting on a little weight because of his drinking.
distinguishing features: (scars, tattoos, weird birthmark, etc.): a scar on his right thumb, barely visible. cut himself with a knife when he was making dinner.
wardrobe: (what is your character wearing, or what do they typically wear? do remember the climate!) suits, suits and lots of suits. he's got one in every color but he likes a dark, navy blue the most. he used to dress up every single day but since he's been feeling a little depressed, he usually now just wears a blouse some what messier.
inventory: (is your character carrying anything of significance with them? personal belongings - a necklace or phone?): Benjamin carries a wallet with a big stack of cash usually as he hates to leave it at home, a pack of cigarettes and a golden necklace his mother had given him when he was way younger.
face claim: Robert Downey Jr.

g

allery.

♡coded by uxie♡

'Every fucking time. How am I supposed to make it to happy hour on time?'
Benjamin tapped his watch like this whole scene was just a scheduling inconvenience. Mark gave him a small smile—useless in moments like these. The kind of guy who gave orders and stood back.

Benjamin entered the building, a room that reeked off bleach and cheap anxiety. Rookie mistake. Bleach wouldn't hide the smell of death. Nothing could.

He stepped around a knocked-over chair, hands in his coat pockets, eyes dragging slowly across the room like he was half-asleep. He wasn’t. He’d taken a pill in the car, just enough to keep his heart rate leveled.

Blood was struck out across the floor and there had obviously been a struggle. He crouched down by the old, leather brown couch— they didn't have great taste— and reached under it, pulling out a crumpled receipt. He slipped it in his jacket. He wasn't there for justice right now. Only for the reward.

Then there was the coffee mug on the carpet, it was hard to make out the pattern under the stains, probably ruined during the fight. He stared at it—not because it could help, but because it was strange how quickly life could end. A snap of your fingers. Just like that.

His phone buzzed once. He ignored it. Buzzed again. He almost didn't answer but his thumb moved anyway.

A voice came from the other end, familiar but cold.
'Benjamin. We've got something for you. It's messy.'

Benjamin stared at the stained carpet.
‘Aren’t they all?’
They always thought there's something different—some twist, some symbol, some message. But in the end, it was always the same.
Someone died.
And then the police—and everyone else who showed up after—just ran in circles, chasing facts that had already been cleaned up or moved.

They were always two steps behind. They always lost.
And if you can’t beat them? Join them.

He shook his head and stepped outside, escaping the sharp bleach stench clawing at his nose.
He couldn't get himself to say no, to refuse. 'Send it through.'
What else was he going to do? Sailing the world felt far-fetched at this point. It piqued his interest somewhere deep down, even if he wouldn't admit it.

Call it naive but what if it actually was different?
He’d told himself that before.
And still ended up taking that envelope.

Benjamin took the receipt out of his jacket and looked at it, on the back were scribbled some numbers. The last four of a credit card. What an idiot. Leaving a trail like that.

His thumb hovered over the paper for a second longer than it should’ve. Thinking. Measuring. Then the call ended with a flat beep. He crushed the receipt tighter in his palm and shoved it deep into the bin, pushing it down past a takeout box and some soaked napkins.

'Hey Mark— Guess what? Found absolutely nada, nothing. I'll dust for prints and call it a day, right?'

Mark was leaning against the door, his eyebrows furrowed and his gaze tense.
He was always kind of emotional. Benjamin had heard he lost his kid a few years ago, but he never asked.
He didn’t ask people about their pain. Seemed hypocritical.

Mark turned his phone around and showed Benjamin a text.
‘Someone found dead with some sort of cultist mark branded on them. It’s a sick world, Ben. You can’t trust anyone these days.’

Benjamin read it in silence, digging in his coat pocket for a cigarette.
‘You can’t change the world. Isn’t that why they made Batman in the first place?’
He lit up.
‘There’ll always be a psychotic clown who’s gonna outshine you and your good deeds.’

Maybe too dark—it earned him another worried look from Mark. But he didn’t disagree.

‘So, you didn’t find anything?’
Benjamin shook his head, flicking the lighter again. He didn’t look up. Didn’t need to.
‘Are you still on those anxiety pills?’

‘Jesus, Mark,’ Benjamin muttered, nearly inhaling half the cigarette, shooting him a death stare as he exhaled the smoke.
‘Sometimes.’
He pulled his gloves from his other pocket, the cigarette still hanging off his lip like it lived there.

‘Just got a new case,’ he added, flicking ash off his coat. ‘So I’ll see you at the pub. Unless you’ve got better things to do.’
The last part came out with that dry, sarcastic tone he always used when he didn’t want to sound too sincere—but the faint smile on his face gave him away. He didn’t mean it to sting, not really, even if he couldn’t say he cared much whether Mark tagged along or not.

There was a wall between them, one neither of them had built on purpose. But it was there all the same.

Mark was relatively new, but they’d worked a few cases together. Things still got to him—probably more than they should. Not the best quality in this line of work.
But Benjamin used to think Petey was immune to it too.
That hadn’t turned out so great.

He liked to believe he was immune now.
That he didn’t care.
But there was a hole where his heart used to be.
He felt it every time he left the job.
And every time he arrived.

Dreamer99 · May 6, 2025

Character sheet in progress.

zara3447 · May 7, 2025

the village

wrabel

the rookie cop.

I.

Basic Information

name

Tilly Larson

Aliases

née Ruth Mathilda Raymond

age

twenty-six.

Occupation

Rookie Police Detective

Years of Service

Three as a police officer, one as a police detective

II.

Physical Description

Appearance

Tilly is five and a half feet of wiry muscle and deceptive strength, thin bones and sweet features tilting the balance rather more firmly towards the delicate side of physical impressions. It doesn't help that her mother pounded demure grace and feminine refinement into her posture and motions since she was a child, habits of movement she still occasionally slips into absentmindedly. She's gotten a lot of shit for it from colleagues, to be sure, and the carelessly chopped bob of her white-blonde hair was initially adopted as an effort to combat that impression, before she realized that it A) didn't actually achieve much desired effect, as it simply drew more focus to her snub nose and doe-eyed blues, but B) she liked the short hair anyways. Instead, she'd headbutted the teeth out of the next smug bastard to call her Doll-Eyes in the sparring room, and the reputation for a willingness to be vicious had mostly taken care of any genuine mockery. She can't do much about her height or her bone structure, but she took up boxing and distance running during her university days, and has been mindful to keep up the training in her spare time. If she doesn't quite move like an athlete or a fighter yet, at least she's a long ways away from that fragile, elegant Church girl, too afraid to occupy space as anything more than a graceful decoration (who only ever felt brave when the elders put a whip in her hands; she's so, so ashamed to have ever been that girl.) Along that same vein of tangled, unsorted religious trauma, Tilly abhors dresses, particularly long, flowy ruffled ones. She hasn't quite shrugged off the subconscious compulsion to present herself smartly, however. Out of uniform, she can usually be found in a blouse and dress pants, with her favorite tweed coat overtop. (Yes, she's well aware it makes her a walking detective cliché, but in her defense, the coat came before the promotion did.)

Notable Features

— A smattering of tan freckles across her nose and cheekbones, and the tops of her shoulders.

— Thin bands of fibrous scar tissue stretch horizontally across her palms and fingers, faint and long-healed.

— Has a four-inch red and black tattoo of a butterfly on her sternum.

— Tends to develop a tic beneath her left eye, when she's tired and sleep deprived.

— Very upright posture, shoulders back and spine straight. It's particularly prominent when she's sitting or kneeling, a remnant of old conditioning.

— Favors a shampoo that smells like vanilla bean and lemongrass, and strawberry chapstick.

— Not a fan of heavy makeup, but always makes sure to do her brows and mascara as part of her morning routine. On the rare occasions when she shows up bare-faced and dry-lipped, it's a surefire indicator of an extremely rough past few days.

III.

Psychological Profile

Personality

The woman she's molded herself into through years of careful effort and staunch determination is someone responsible and levelheaded, sharp but even-tempered. Rarely the one cracking the first joke in the breakroom, but someone who can be relied upon to respond with a quirk of the lips or a dry, witty retort. She's always been observant and practical by nature, both traits which serve her well in her chosen career. A dependable coworker, unfussy, nearly unanimously acknowledged as easy to work with, but rather difficult for anyone to gauge how close they truly are to her. She answers most questions about herself readily enough, but it never seems to cross her mind to offer personal details unprompted, or to seek anyone out after work for drinks and socialization.

If her childhood was the crucible, she walked out of it wiser, harder, and quite a bit more more closed-off for it. But despite her best efforts, traces of her upbringing still linger: how ferociously devoted she can be to her causes and beliefs, how awfully desperate she is to prove herself, and the way she finds solace in self-reproach, whether it be by withholding relief (a break, a walk, a cup of coffee) until a task is finished or a tricky problem is solved, or the intense self-criticism she reacts with in response to her own mistakes. Trauma or suffering acts upon her like a whetstone; she goes keen and quiet with a brittle intensity, motions pulled taut like an over-honed blade. It sharpens her tongue, shortens her patience, and she doesn't snap so much as implode with that tension. Under stress, she becomes a creature of frightening efficiency, like some long fuse has been lit inside of her chest and she constantly needs to be doing something, making progress, lest it burns up and she burns out before she solves the situation.

Tilly's worked for nine years to bury that docile, oblivious, terribly misguided girl from Agneroche, with one notable exception: sometimes, on a case, it's convenient to adopt those mannerisms again. To slip on that sheepskin again like a thick, claustrophobic coat, hiding the steel in her eyes and the blood on her teeth. Softening her pretty features into a wide-eyed smile, ferreting out secrets with a mouthful of casual Southern charm and an air of unassuming naiveté. Sniffing out the secrets people try to bury, without anyone realizing she's really prying at all, at least certainly never in an alarming way. Having thoroughly spooked the first partner she'd worked with with the drastic transformation, she's learned to give her team a heads-up beforehand, nowadays. "I'm gonna play dumb cop to your smart cop, don't be alarmed. It works. But when I say dumb, I do mean dumb."

Strengths

— Has a nose for guilt or shame like a bloodhound's, and an eye for micro expressions. She can't always parse what they mean, but she's got a good sixth sense for when things are somehow off, when the words someone's speaking isn't lining up with what their body is saying.

— An incredibly good memory for names and numbers. Can rattle off the file number for every case she's ever worked on, and obscure little details like how the suspect's therapist's name appears on page three of the report.

— Sweet and charming when she needs to be, and adept at lulling targets into a false sense of security.

— Extensive knowledge of Christianity and associated religions.

— Strong stomach for blood and wounds, and a high pain tolerance.

— Flexible and adaptable, good at adjusting to unexpected situations.

Weaknesses

— Conventional morality is still something she's trying to get a more solid grasp on, and she's got it mostly down, but she's still got some inevitable blind spots from years of normalizing the Church's systematic emotional and physical abuse.

— She's not very physically imposing, and relatively easy to subdue in any sort of close combat, grappling fight.

— Her hands still give her trouble sometimes, the scar tissue impeding her fine motor function. They tire easily during tasks like writing or typing.

— Has a fierce shame and insecurity around any sort of perceived weaknesses or failings of hers, and punishes herself for them as a reflexive habit, be it through harsh words of self-criticism or withholding small comforts (ex. taking a cold shower rather than hot). It hasn't quite made it to the level of outright self harm in a while, but sometimes, after a particularly frustrating shitshow of a job or when they were one step too late on a promising trail, she comes closer to caving than she'd ever admit.

— Dislikes the feeling of dirt or blood on her hands, and makes a point to wash them clean as soon as possible after a job.

— There's a lot of unresolved rage and resentment in her still about religion, and she has an incredibly complicated relationship with homophobia. Nothing makes her shut down like someone mentioning it in her presence, even if they're just joking.

— Pressure makes her work harder and harder, until she inevitably burns out. It's a race against the clock to see whether her body gives out before the problem does, and she has a tendency to try and keep pushing even when it's become evident that not easing up has become detrimental to her performance capacity.

IV.

Case Background

Backstory

TW: good ol fashioned religious brainwashing and homophobia, violence, murder

Ruth Mathilda Raymond was born in the town of Agneroche, a tiny place in rural Arkansas where God made the laws instead of the state or the sheriff. Said laws were translated through the mouths of His priests, of course, and enforced by His Church. It was a fucking religious cult, she can scoff in hindsight, a psuedo-Christian commune straight out of a Netflix documentary. But growing up, Tilly—Ruth then, devoted daughter, that stupid, brainwashed girl—didn’t have any idea that the world could be different outside.

Life was a matter of faith and obedience, of fearful love for God and constant repentance for one’s innumerable, infinite sins. The Raymonds had been one of the backbones of the Blessed Church of the Holy Faithful for generations, almost as long as the town had existed. Grandmother Diana led the women of the parish with an iron fist, her sons Benjamin (Tilly’s father) and Jacob were both high priests of the Church, and her daughter in law Leah (Tilly’s mother, the one who hadn’t wisened up to the utter insanity that was Agneroche and run for the hills) was a prominent woman in the community. The only blight on their reputation as the perfect, devout family was the small matter of Tilly’s aunt Theresa, who’d left town—or, more accurately, fled the shitshow—when Tilly was two, abandoning both her husband and her three year old daughter, Meghan. (It had taken a lot of time and distance for Tilly to understand that Tess couldn’t have taken Meg, Diana wouldn’t have allowed it, would have shot a child of her own blood at the gates of the compound rather than relinquish them from her control. Even so, it had taken her years longer to actually forgive her aunt. Meg had been her best friend, after all, and her mother’s desertion hadn’t spared her in the end.)

As if to make up for her mother’s disgraceful act, Meg was always the model child, righteous and pious in all things. (In hindsight, her ferocious devotion to appearing perfect had been fueled by the fearful guilt of hiding her sexuality, that ‘abominable deviance’ in the eyes of the Church.) They named her a Holy Maiden at fourteen, six months before Tilly, the highest honor that could be given to a girl of the Church. Leah hated her for a lot of petty, and frankly, very contrived reasons, but that became chief amongst them. For half a year, Tilly had thought her mother would grind her molars to dust, hiding her snarl behind a plastic smile.

It had been a profound relief when Tilly had been granted the same title as her cousin. She wished she could say that the relief had soured when she’d been confronted with the reality of the duties that role entailed, but she’d grown up drinking the poison of the Church’s dictates on sin, on loyalty, on the sanctity of punishment. Scourge the Earth, O all ye faithful, and let repentant blood cleanse it of sin! She did not hesitate to take up the blessed scourger, did not balk at the duty of disciplining her fellow youths.

It would have gone on like that forever, maybe, had Meg not made her catastrophic mistake. In another life, Tilly would have grown up and married a man of the Church, indoctrinated her kids on a diet of shame and sermons, put a whip in their hands as she perpetuated the cycle of abuse. In this one, when Tilly was seventeen, her whole world shattered at her feet.

Her cousin was caught with the sheriff’s daughter. A flagrant offense, made unforgivable by her position in the Church. The sheriff shielded his daughter, but they stoned Meg in the compound’s main courtyard, and then threw her body in the river. Officially, the cause of death was ruled as an accidental drowning.

For whatever reason, that awful, hideous day lives in Tilly’s conscious mind as nothing more than a series of facts, recited in a dry mechanical monotone. The bits and pieces of vivid recollection hit her in flashes, involuntarily summoned in response to some obscure scrap of stimulus. Bouldering with classmates—the weight of a rock pressed into her hand, rough and gritty against her palm. A blonde stranger in a cafe, her face in laughing profile—Leah’s vindictive sneer as she throws the first stone. The neighbor’s kid belly-flopping into their backyard pool—the hollow splash of her cousin’s body hitting the water, weighed down with boulders and rope.

What Tilly remembers clearly, though, is the aftermath. Theresa Larson returned to Agneroche for the funeral, red-eyed and white-lipped, as if she had any right to grieve the daughter she'd abandoned to the wolves when she fled. This fancy city lady in her name-brand dress, a stranger and an outsider in every way that counted, black stiletto heels stabbing holes into the courtyard grass where her daughter had been beaten to a bloody pulp a mere week earlier.

Tilly remembers raking hard, swollen eyes across her aunt’s face throughout the ceremony. Remembers measuring the well-disguised guilt—a solid effort, but she had a nose for guilt, had been bred and raised to sniff it out like a bloodhound—and the much more poorly masked suspicion in her countenance. Remembers catching her by a bony shoulder afterwards, making her that offer in a low hiss, a deal with the devil to bargain for justice the only way she could. “Get me out of here, and I'll tell you everything. I’ll help you tear this whole God-damned place down.”

Tess had been startled, initially, but agreed in short order. The deal was struck, she’d gotten Tilly out, and then they’d taken it all to court. All her evidence and testimonies, fighting tooth and nail against the Church’s considerable resources and power, resulting in nearly a year of ruthless, messy digging. They won in the end; when the trial was over, a great deal of people went to jail, including every single one of Tilly’s blood relatives.

Some combination of guilt, regret, and misplaced protectiveness drove Tess to fuss over her, as if treating Tilly like a daughter could in some way make up for the one she’d lost. Despite her personal feelings, Tilly had agreed to stay with Tess and her husband (William Larson, a corporate attorney) for the duration of the trial. They had no kids and a big house with robust security measures, and Tilly’s practical streak was strong enough for her to recognize the necessity of her aunt’s support, with how ill-prepared she was for life outside Agneroche.

During those months, she was assigned a psychiatrist, got her GED, and requested to legally change her name. Tilly, for the way Meg had shortened her middle name—”you can't get anything cute out of Ruth, Ruthie just makes you sound like a dog”—and Larson because it seemed easiest. Tess had offered it with a wary, fragile sort of hopefulness in her tone. There wasn't a drop of blood between them, but Tilly had hesitated, and then accepted. She didn't much care what they called her anyways, as long as it wasn't Raymond, and it was a convenient way to circumvent unnecessary questions when Tess signed any paperwork on her behalf.

She’d done her best to adjust to society, but a year really wasn’t all that much time juxtaposed against a lifetime of cloistering. After the trial concluded, when Tess offered to pay for her higher education, Tilly took her up on it. University was very difficult, at first, but ultimately an extremely valuable learning experience. She graduated at twenty-two with a degree in psychology and the reassurance that if she wasn't quite a well-adjusted human being yet, she had at least gotten better at faking it convincingly in most circumstances.

Law enforcement was a relatively straightforward path to decide on, afterwards. She was intimately aware of all the ways corruption could sink into the bones of a person, of a community, winding like a snake, hidden linen-white along the ossification. How authority dictates the story that the world hears, how justice answers to power first, money second, and fairness last of all. Someone had to stand up and hold it accountable, to drag the bloody truth kicking and screaming into the undeniable light, and Tilly had the guts, the grit, and the iron determination to do it.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Motivation

She had picked the path of law enforcement to hunt monsters; that’s one half of the truth. The other is that she’s seeking some sort of atonement, for being one of those sheep-pelted beasts of crosses and teeth, too, once upon a time. Who better to hunt a monster than another creature who’d once stalked through its den?

Notable Items

— Tweed coat

— A tarnished silver crucifix necklace, one arm of the cross broken off

V.

Gallery

♡coded by uxie♡
BASIC FILE INFORMATION

Name: Tilly Larson (née Ruth Mathilda Raymond)
Age: 26
Occupation: Rookie Police Detective
Years of Service: Three as a police officer, one as a police detective

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Appearance:
Tilly is five and a half feet of wiry muscle and deceptive strength, thin bones and sweet features tilting the balance rather more firmly towards the delicate side of physical impressions. It doesn't help that her mother pounded demure grace and feminine refinement into her posture and motions since she was a child, habits of movement she still occasionally slips into absentmindedly. She's gotten a lot of shit for it from colleagues, to be sure, and the carelessly chopped bob of her white-blonde hair was initially adopted as an effort to combat that impression, before she realized that it A) didn't actually achieve much desired effect, as it simply drew more focus to her snub nose and doe-eyed blues, but B) she liked the short hair anyways. Instead, she'd headbutted the teeth out of the next smug bastard to call her Doll-Eyes in the sparring room, and the reputation for a willingness to be vicious had mostly taken care of any genuine mockery. She can't do much about her height or her bone structure, but she took up boxing and distance running during her university days, and has been mindful to keep up the training in her spare time. If she doesn't quite move like an athlete or a fighter yet, at least she's a long ways away from that fragile, elegant Church girl, too afraid to occupy space as anything more than a graceful decoration (who only ever felt brave when the elders put a whip in her hands; she's so, so ashamed to have ever been that girl.) Along that same vein of tangled, unsorted religious trauma, Tilly abhors dresses, particularly long, flowy ruffled ones. She hasn't quite shrugged off the subconscious compulsion to present herself smartly, however. Out of uniform, she can usually be found in a blouse and dress pants, with her favorite tweed coat overtop. (Yes, she's well aware it makes her a walking detective cliché, but in her defense, the coat came before the promotion did.)

Notable Features:

A smattering of tan freckles across her nose and cheekbones, and the tops of her shoulders.

Thin bands of fibrous scar tissue stretch horizontally across her palms and fingers, faint and long-healed.

Has a four-inch red and black tattoo of a butterfly on her sternum.

Tends to develop a tic beneath her left eye, when she's tired and sleep deprived.

Very upright posture, shoulders back and spine straight. It's particularly prominent when she's sitting or kneeling, a remnant of old conditioning.

Favors a shampoo that smells like vanilla bean and lemongrass, and strawberry chapstick.

Not a fan of heavy makeup, but always makes sure to do her brows and mascara as part of her morning routine. On the rare occasions when she shows up bare-faced and dry-lipped, it's a surefire indicator of an extremely rough past few days.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

Personality:
The woman she's molded herself into through years of careful effort and staunch determination is someone responsible and levelheaded, sharp but even-tempered. Rarely the one cracking the first joke in the breakroom, but someone who can be relied upon to respond with a quirk of the lips or a dry, witty retort. She's always been observant and practical by nature, both traits which serve her well in her chosen career. A dependable coworker, unfussy, nearly unanimously acknowledged as easy to work with, but rather difficult for anyone to gauge how close they truly are to her. She answers most questions about herself readily enough, but it never seems to cross her mind to offer personal details unprompted, or to seek anyone out after work for drinks and socialization.

If her childhood was the crucible, she walked out of it wiser, harder, and quite a bit more more closed-off for it. But despite her best efforts, traces of her upbringing still linger: how ferociously devoted she can be to her causes and beliefs, how awfully desperate she is to prove herself, and the way she finds solace in self-reproach, whether it be by withholding relief (a break, a walk, a cup of coffee) until a task is finished or a tricky problem is solved, or the intense self-criticism she reacts with in response to her own mistakes. Trauma or suffering acts upon her like a whetstone; she goes keen and quiet with a brittle intensity, motions pulled taut like an over-honed blade. It sharpens her tongue, shortens her patience, and she doesn't snap so much as implode with that tension. Under stress, she becomes a creature of frightening efficiency, like some long fuse has been lit inside of her chest and she constantly needs to be doing something, making progress, lest it burns up and she burns out before she solves the situation.

Tilly's worked for nine years to bury that docile, oblivious, terribly misguided girl from Agneroche, with one notable exception: sometimes, on a case, it's convenient to adopt those mannerisms again. To slip on that sheepskin again like a thick, claustrophobic coat, hiding the steel in her eyes and the blood on her teeth. Softening her pretty features into a wide-eyed smile, ferreting out secrets with a mouthful of casual Southern charm and an air of unassuming naiveté. Sniffing out the secrets people try to bury, without anyone realizing she's really prying at all, at least certainly never in an alarming way. Having thoroughly spooked the first partner she'd worked with with the drastic transformation, she's learned to give her team a heads-up beforehand, nowadays. "I'm gonna play dumb cop to your smart cop, don't be alarmed. It works. But when I say dumb, I do mean dumb."

Strengths:

Has a nose for guilt or shame like a bloodhound's, and an eye for micro expressions. She can't always parse what they mean, but she's got a good sixth sense for when things are somehow off, when the words someone's speaking isn't lining up with what their body is saying.

An incredibly good memory for names and numbers. Can rattle off the file number for every case she's ever worked on, and obscure little details like how the suspect's therapist's name appears on page three of the report.

Sweet and charming when she needs to be, and adept at lulling targets into a false sense of security.

Extensive knowledge of Christianity and associated religions.

Strong stomach for blood and wounds, and a high pain tolerance.

Flexible and adaptable, good at adjusting to unexpected situations.

Weaknesses:

Conventional morality is still something she's trying to get a more solid grasp on, and she's got it mostly down, but she's still got some inevitable blind spots from years of normalizing the Church's systematic emotional and physical abuse.

She's not very physically imposing, and relatively easy to subdue in any sort of close combat, grappling fight.

Her hands still give her trouble sometimes, the scar tissue impeding her fine motor function. They tire easily during tasks like writing or typing.

Has a fierce shame and insecurity around any sort of perceived weaknesses or failings of hers, and punishes herself for them as a reflexive habit, be it through harsh words of self-criticism or withholding small comforts (ex. taking a cold shower rather than hot). It hasn't quite made it to the level of outright self harm in a while, but sometimes, after a particularly frustrating shitshow of a job or when they were one step too late on a promising trail, she comes closer to caving than she'd ever admit.

Dislikes the feeling of dirt or blood on her hands, and makes a point to wash them clean as soon as possible after a job

There's a lot of unresolved rage and resentment in her still about religion, and she has an incredibly complicated relationship with homophobia. Nothing makes her shut down like someone mentioning it in her presence, even if they're just joking.

Pressure makes her work harder and harder, until she inevitably burns out. It's a race against the clock to see whether her body gives out before the problem does, and she has a tendency to try and keep pushing even when it's become evident that not easing up has become detrimental to her performance capacity.

CASE BACKGROUND

Backstory:
TW: good ol fashioned religious brainwashing and homophobia, violence, murder

Ruth Mathilda Raymond was born in the town of Agneroche, a tiny place in rural Arkansas where God made the laws instead of the state or the sheriff. Said laws were translated through the mouths of His priests, of course, and enforced by His Church. It was a fucking religious cult, she can scoff in hindsight, a psuedo-Christian commune straight out of a Netflix documentary. But growing up, Tilly—Ruth then, devoted daughter, that stupid, brainwashed girl—didn’t have any idea that the world could be different outside.

Life was a matter of faith and obedience, of fearful love for God and constant repentance for one’s innumerable, infinite sins. The Raymonds had been one of the backbones of the Blessed Church of the Holy Faithful for generations, almost as long as the town had existed. Grandmother Diana led the women of the parish with an iron fist, her sons Benjamin (Tilly’s father) and Jacob were both high priests of the Church, and her daughter in law Leah (Tilly’s mother, the one who hadn’t wisened up to the utter insanity that was Agneroche and run for the hills) was a prominent woman in the community. The only blight on their reputation as the perfect, devout family was the small matter of Tilly’s aunt Theresa, who’d left town—or, more accurately, fled the shitshow—when Tilly was two, abandoning both her husband and her three year old daughter, Meghan. (It had taken a lot of time and distance for Tilly to understand that Tess couldn’t have taken Meg, Diana wouldn’t have allowed it, would have shot a child of her own blood at the gates of the compound rather than relinquish them from her control. Even so, it had taken her years longer to actually forgive her aunt. Meg had been her best friend, after all, and her mother’s desertion hadn’t spared her in the end.)

As if to make up for her mother’s disgraceful act, Meg was always the model child, righteous and pious in all things. (In hindsight, her ferocious devotion to appearing perfect had been fueled by the fearful guilt of hiding her sexuality, that ‘abominable deviance’ in the eyes of the Church.) They named her a Holy Maiden at fourteen, six months before Tilly, the highest honor that could be given to a girl of the Church. Leah hated her for a lot of petty, and frankly, very contrived reasons, but that became chief amongst them. For half a year, Tilly had thought her mother would grind her molars to dust, hiding her snarl behind a plastic smile.

It had been a profound relief when Tilly had been granted the same title as her cousin. She wished she could say that the relief had soured when she’d been confronted with the reality of the duties that role entailed, but she’d grown up drinking the poison of the Church’s dictates on sin, on loyalty, on the sanctity of punishment. Scourge the Earth, O all ye faithful, and let repentant blood cleanse it of sin! She did not hesitate to take up the blessed scourger, did not balk at the duty of disciplining her fellow youths.

It would have gone on like that forever, maybe, had Meg not made her catastrophic mistake. In another life, Tilly would have grown up and married a man of the Church, indoctrinated her kids on a diet of shame and sermons, put a whip in their hands as she perpetuated the cycle of abuse. In this one, when Tilly was seventeen, her whole world shattered at her feet.

Her cousin was caught with the sheriff’s daughter. A flagrant offense, made unforgivable by her position in the Church. The sheriff shielded his daughter, but they stoned Meg in the compound’s main courtyard, and then threw her body in the river. Officially, the cause of death was ruled as an accidental drowning.

For whatever reason, that awful, hideous day lives in Tilly’s conscious mind as nothing more than a series of facts, recited in a dry mechanical monotone. The bits and pieces of vivid recollection hit her in flashes, involuntarily summoned in response to some obscure scrap of stimulus. Bouldering with classmates—the weight of a rock pressed into her hand, rough and gritty against her palm. A blonde stranger in a cafe, her face in laughing profile—Leah’s vindictive sneer as she throws the first stone. The neighbor’s kid belly-flopping into their backyard pool—the hollow splash of her cousin’s body hitting the water, weighed down with boulders and rope.

What Tilly remembers clearly, though, is the aftermath. Theresa Larson returned to Agneroche for the funeral, red-eyed and white-lipped, as if she had any right to grieve the daughter she'd abandoned to the wolves when she fled. This fancy city lady in her name-brand dress, a stranger and an outsider in every way that counted, black stiletto heels stabbing holes into the courtyard grass where her daughter had been beaten to a bloody pulp a mere week earlier.

Tilly remembers raking hard, swollen eyes across her aunt’s face throughout the ceremony. Remembers measuring the well-disguised guilt—a solid effort, but she had a nose for guilt, had been bred and raised to sniff it out like a bloodhound—and the much more poorly masked suspicion in her countenance. Remembers catching her by a bony shoulder afterwards, making her that offer in a low hiss, a deal with the devil to bargain for justice the only way she could. “Get me out of here, and I'll tell you everything. I’ll help you tear this whole God-damned place down.”

Tess had been startled, initially, but agreed in short order. The deal was struck, she’d gotten Tilly out, and then they’d taken it all to court. All her evidence and testimonies, fighting tooth and nail against the Church’s considerable resources and power, resulting in nearly a year of ruthless, messy digging. They won in the end; when the trial was over, a great deal of people went to jail, including every single one of Tilly’s blood relatives.

Some combination of guilt, regret, and misplaced protectiveness drove Tess to fuss over her, as if treating Tilly like a daughter could in some way make up for the one she’d lost. Despite her personal feelings, Tilly had agreed to stay with Tess and her husband (William Larson, a corporate attorney) for the duration of the trial. They had no kids and a big house with robust security measures, and Tilly’s practical streak was strong enough for her to recognize the necessity of her aunt’s support, with how ill-prepared she was for life outside Agneroche.

During those months, she was assigned a psychiatrist, got her GED, and requested to legally change her name. Tilly, for the way Meg had shortened her middle name—”you can't get anything cute out of Ruth, Ruthie just makes you sound like a dog”—and Larson because it seemed easiest. Tess had offered it with a wary, fragile sort of hopefulness in her tone. There wasn't a drop of blood between them, but Tilly had hesitated, and then accepted. She didn't much care what they called her anyways, as long as it wasn't Raymond, and it was a convenient way to circumvent unnecessary questions when Tess signed any paperwork on her behalf.

She’d done her best to adjust to society, but a year really wasn’t all that much time juxtaposed against a lifetime of cloistering. After the trial concluded, when Tess offered to pay for her higher education, Tilly took her up on it. University was very difficult, at first, but ultimately an extremely valuable learning experience. She graduated at twenty-two with a degree in psychology and the reassurance that if she wasn't quite a well-adjusted human being yet, she had at least gotten better at faking it convincingly in most circumstances.

Law enforcement was a relatively straightforward path to decide on, afterwards. She was intimately aware of all the ways corruption could sink into the bones of a person, of a community, winding like a snake, hidden linen-white along the ossification. How authority dictates the story that the world hears, how justice answers to power first, money second, and fairness last of all. Someone had to stand up and hold it accountable, to drag the bloody truth kicking and screaming into the undeniable light, and Tilly had the guts, the grit, and the iron determination to do it.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Motivation:
She had picked the path of law enforcement to hunt monsters; that’s one half of the truth. The other is that she’s seeking some sort of atonement, for being one of those sheep-pelted beasts of crosses and teeth, too, once upon a time. Who better to hunt a monster than another creature who’d once stalked through its den?

Notable Item(s):

Tweed coat

A tarnished silver crucifix necklace, one arm of the cross broken off
In her recurrent dreams, there is a girl who moves like a lion, a haughty lilt to her mouth, this cruel curve of pride. At her back is the congregation, a silent multitude of eager eyes, and before her is a boy.

The boy is innocent, and he is doomed. He stands shuddering with his hands outstretched, wide-eyed helplessness, palms open and soon to be stained red. A prey animal quivering before the hunter's knife.

She calls his name, thin high voice made a thunderous tolling by the weight of self-righteous fervor. Begins to list his crimes in the eyes of God and His Faithfuls, little nothings amplified to enormity before the merciless gaze of His slavering, sin-hungry Church. The boy is already crying before she brings the first lash down.

At the first sight of blood, the congregation surges, a sea of hounds with flashing human teeth. They begin to pray, the words of their benediction pelting the boy like stones, and he staggers beneath the weight of them as if they’re physical things. She strikes him again and he screams, but it’s Meg’s voice ripping free from his throat, her cousin’s face staring out at her, pallid white where it isn’t bruised black and water-bloated like a thing drowned.

The worn leather grip of the whip in her hand has been replaced with something round, heavy, and unyielding. She watches her own arm wind up, watches the stone fly, a helpless spectator in this macabre play. Watches the boy with her cousin’s face fall to his knees, the position of prayer, of penance, of desperate supplication to a deaf God.

The nightmare always begins to dissolve then, but she nonetheless knows how this ends. He will find no mercy, from his God or His Church. She will awaken to the empty dark of her bedroom ceiling, the echo of a laugh—her own, a sharp and unsteady sound of hysteria—ringing through her ears, and the afterimage of a crumpled body against a bloody altar burned into the backs of her retinas.

Tilly Larson has not been that wild-eyed, brainwashed girl since seventeen, but staring down a crisp crime scene photograph at the Mercy carved across a dead man's chest, she feels that same frantic laughter surging up the back of her throat. It tastes like bile, like hate, like the sour shame of an old wound never quite scarred over. She doesn’t believe in the grace of God anymore, but she still believes enough in His wrath to suspect it’s no coincidence that she’d had that dream again last night.

God is taunting her. She’ll be damned if she lets Him win again.

The prickling weight of Sergeant Norman’s charcoal stare pulls her back into the present, out of her own head, makes her mortifyingly aware that she’s just been blanking out over the photos for who knows how long. “I’ll take the case,” she hurries to say, before her reaction can change his mind. Before this lapse of distraction could be interpreted as weakness and render her unsuitable for the job. She thinks of the pictures again, of agony writ crimson over raw-flayed flesh and wants, with a fierce and sudden hunger, to punish the person responsible.

Religion is a vile thing, an excuse for all sorts of atrocities, hate and fear and greed for power dressed up in a white cloak of faith. She’s never made any secret of her bitter familiarity with it, her guilt or her loathing. The look in her boss's eyes tells her that he knows it, that there's a reason this specific file just landed on her desk. A favor, to a rookie who should by no means have the right to a case like this. A moment of charity from a normally implacable man.

She'll swallow her pride and welcome his pity, if it means getting this assignment.

Norman doesn’t comment on her moment of distraction, in the end. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Larson. Don’t let anything about this case change it.” His tone is gruff, abrupt, like two sentences of the world’s most roundabout encouragement are already two too many. Emotionally constipated bunch, cops are. For fairness’ sake, she should probably count herself in that number.

“I won’t, sir,” she says, and he turns to leave with a curt nod. But there’s too much water in her head and steel on her tongue, too much righteous fire licking up the stiff column of her spine to not add a parting remark. “I’ll catch that bastard, and I’ll make them pay.”

You may forgive them, Father; I know how much you love your sinners.

I will not.

mintyo · May 7, 2025

.: placeholder :. been working on my character since yesterday but forgot to post a placeholder >-<
she's the rookie cop with a past, but if that spot is taken - i'll gladly take whatevers empty ^^

parhelion · May 7, 2025

Keenan Enyalius

# rogue burnout

# sam claflin

♡coded by uxie♡

Sleepy Sleuth · May 7, 2025

Do I need to find a picture for Elspeth?

americanCaeser · May 7, 2025

BASIC FILE INFORMATION

Name: Barnaby "Barney" Bimwitt
Age: 38
Occupation: Inept but Likeable Detective
Years of Service: 8 Years (Police Officer), 6 Years (Detective)

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Appearance:
Barnaby is a man with a tall height and a bulky, brawny physique. In his younger days Barnaby was simple broad-shouldered and slim, though in his later years he has developed something of a gut he has become self conscious about. For clothing, he wears a simple dark blue three piece suit with white vertical pinstripes. When particularly nippy (or he feels like he needs to look authoritative) he will wear a trench coat as well. His has short, dark brown hair that has begun to considerably bald and brown eyes, with rough, tan skin and a brown bushy moustache. He wears a tight corset when on duty, as well as a toupee to hide his severe baldness. Still invoking the glory of his youth, Barnaby usually dominates any room he comes in with his overconfident 'go-get 'em' attitude and a wide stance. He enjoys standing in a way that makes it look like his muscles might burst out of his suit believing the sight of a brawny and confident police officer would scare criminals and reassure the public and fellow officers.

Notable Features:

A few minor scars litter his body, mainly minor injuries taken during his foot patrol days and on knee surgery after a terrible tennis match injury.
Barnaby is a man of few vices, eschewing cigarettes and alchohol entirely (in actuality he had a weak stomach and was allergic to nicotine) and like any willingly sober man was obnoxiously vocal about his sobriety at times. Instead he tends to act bombastically and larger than life, though some would equate him to a balloon of hot air (not helped by the fact he is almost perpetually holding in his gut.)
Barnaby is well groomed man in all respects, and often puffs his chest out and makes dramatic gestures when talking.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE

Personality:
Detective Barnaby Bimwitt, or Barnes to his friends, is a bombastic force of personality to all who meet him. Those who dislike him (and know him for any length of time) consider him a bumbling oafish fool who has stumbled his way into success despite his incompetence, but to many more Barnaby is a legend in both the city and the police force. He is highly respected in the police force, who see him as a likeable "Cops Cop". He is thoroughly clueless when it comes to being a detective however, often taking people at their word and overlooking obvious insights or key evidence. On the other hand, he also has a knack for stumbling into said evidence or revelations to which other, more competent individuals take notice of and point out. All this pressure of being one of the city's best detectives has made Barnaby rather insecure about his withering body, making him hide his baldness beneath a toupee, wear a corset to hide his gut, and ratchet up his bombasticity to appear even more confident and larger than life to keep up appearances. Despite all of this, Barnaby has an impeccable moral character, always holding up justice and the law above all things and is probably one of the few totally clean cops in the entire system, partially because of his insecurity about ruining his image but primarily because he is an idiot who believes in the system and what it stands for.

Strengths:

Esprit de Corps: Barnaby is highly respected in the police force as a whole, from precinct captains to rookie officers. He's even on good terms with the police chief, playing cards with him every Saturday night. His efforts to sustain his cultivated image of a 'Super Cop' have largely succeeded and, for better or for worse, Barnaby's word holds a lot of weight with the Police.
Former PD Boxing Champ: One of Barnaby's oldest hobbies was boxing, from a young lad hoping to be a cop up until he held the Municipal Heavy Weight Champion Belt for a whopping six years. Despite having left the gloves to hang and letting himself go somewhat, Barnaby is still a walking tower of muscle with a mean left hook.
Improbable Luck: Much of Barnaby's successes throughout his career have come as a result of improbable luck on his part. Finding key evidence on accident, making the wrong assumptions which somehow lead to the right clues, and even accidently catching criminals in the middle of their act on several occasions! His clumsy oafishness and crazy luck make Barnaby an unpredictable policeman, so confused by his own actions at times not even those who would elude him can accurately predict him.

Weaknesses:

Insecure Idol: Barnaby is extremely self conscious about his public image, terrified that if anyone realizes he's a fat, balding police officer no one will take him seriously anymore. All of his glory and perks, down the drain. He plays off his clumsiness on misplaced items and other excuses, and often acts like he understands when others have revelations to create the image of someone smarter than he is. Bear in mind he does genuinely think he is a good police officer (better than he actually is).
Clumsy Oaf: For as physically strong as he is, Barnaby is a comedically clumsy fool who forgets evidence, trips on rugs and cats, and gets in the way at in opportune times.
Inept and Incompetent: Barnaby easily is one of the most incompetent detectives in the history of the police department. Easily fooled and lacking perspective, Barnaby tends to succeed by riding the coattails of more seasoned detectives and accidentally getting the lions share of the credit. If Barnaby is on the case, you better look to getting a second opinion...

CASE BACKGROUND (WIP)

Backstory:
(Summary of their personal and professional history. What forged them? What broke them? Are there unresolved cases or personal losses?)

He has caught many dangerous and notorious criminals in his career, as in he literally was the one to cuff them and as such got a lions share of the credit. He's worked homicide, theft and robberies, pickpockets, narcotics, every case imaginable to... mixed results.

Motivation:
(What are they seeking—justice, redemption, closure?)

Notable Item(s):

Personal objects with symbolic, emotional, or practical relevance
Items that may reappear during the RP

CLASSIFICATION & ROLE

Inept and Famous Detective

— End of Case File —

ZarbofftheFirst · May 7, 2025

Name: Father Michael David O’Bannon
Aliases: Father Michael, Pastor O'Bannon, Father, Mikey
Age: 52
Occupation: Catholic Priest and Volunteer Chaplain
Years of Service: 20 years as a priest, 11 of those years as a chaplain

Appearance:
Father Michael has a tall and gaunt physique, with a large square head, and light brown receding hair (Norwood Scale 3). His broad nose overshadows his beady eyes, and his clean shaven jaw stands out like the bow of a ship. Father Michael has a quiet, kindly presence, often meeting new or old acquaintances with a firm smile.

Father Michael is seen either in his robes during official church duties, a policeman’s uniform with the CHAPLAIN label on the back of his vest, or regular slacks and a tucked in shirt when not performing any duties.

Notable Features:

Large nose
Receding hair
A scar across his right cheek
Sun spots around the eyes

Personality:
Father Michael is a kind and compassionate person. He continually strives for positive, educational encounters with strangers and friends. He is deeply introspective, and is sometimes the last person to speak in a group setting. Father Michael is more inclined to give someone the benefit of the doubt when he sees them do something morally or legally wrong.

Strengths:

In-depth knowledge of Jewish, Christian, and Islamic religion (as well as the occult)
Skilled communicator, and crisis de-escalator
Motivational and charismatic
Detail oriented, with equally strong memory

Weaknesses:

Low pain tolerance
Struggles with interpersonal conflict
Overly forgiving
Smokes to relieve stress

Backstory:
Father Michael David O’Bannon was born into a burgeoning Irish family of 7 in the city. While Father’s Micheal’s brothers went on to civil service jobs, such as police officer, school teacher, and public administrator, Father Michael had gone to college, worked odd jobs, and even tried music before he went into seminary school. Father Michael joined the Catholic church as a deacon, not so much for a heavenly calling, but because of the simplicity and structure of the church. Father Michael was later ordained as a priest at the age of 32, and was assigned to his parish in the city, serving a predominantly Mexican community.

Father Micheal was approached by his brother Thomas nine years later. Thomas was a Captain in the police force, and he had a lead for his younger brother to pursue. The police force had an opening coming for a chaplain position, as a career chaplain Father Angus O’Haggerty was stepping down for health reasons. Father Michael applied, and became a chaplain for the police force.

Father Micheal has had dangerous encounters, from talking down a police officer from suicide, to having been slashed in the face by a struggling youth at a community outreach event. However, he continues to show up for the job because of his hope to change hearts and ultimately the world.

Father Michael has delved into studying the occult, and demons as part of seminary studies. He also hopes that he can find demons and cast them out of people who are deeply afflicted.

Motivation:
Father Micheal is outwardly motivated by the Christian mission of spreading the gospel, and doing good on the Earth to show his love for God. Inwardly, Father Micheal hopes to be the help that he never had as a child.

Notable Item(s):

A Lady of Guadalupe Rosary made of gold chain with red beads
A silver “Zippo” style lighter

Classification & Role

Police Chaplain

Officer Williams sat at the cafe table with his eyes on the people walking by, as Father Michael stared at Officer Williams. Father Michael noticed the absentmindedness and spoke up.

“You feeling okay, Zach?” Father Michael said. Officer Williams looked back at Father Michael.

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” Officer Williams said. Father Michael leaned in towards his coffee.

“Captain Finney’s orders,” Father Michael said. “That’s why Officer Zachary Williams is here. Why is Zach here?” Father Michael said. “I asked you the usual boilerplate stuff, but you don’t just rattle things off. You had to think about every answer. Either you’re a very convincing liar, or you really do feel something. You work nights, but you haven’t touched that cup of coffee in thirty minutes.” Officer Williams looked down at his cup of coffee, then back at the street.

Father Michael sat up straight as he stared Officer Williams down. Officer Williams sighed before reaching for his cup of coffee. “I see that kid’s face when I sleep,” Officer Williams said.

“You see Demarcus’ face?” Father Michael asked. Officer Williams nodded before he took a quick sip.

“Yeah,” Officer Williams said. “He looks just like my cousin.” Father Michael put his hands together and rested them on the table.

“What do you feel when you see his face?” Father Michael asked. Officer Williams stared at his feet, with subtle shakes of his head.

“I feel a lot of fear. I still see the fear in his face. I feel… guilty,” Officer Williams said. “You know how, you technically did the right thing-”

“But it still feels wrong,” Father Michael and Officer Williams said in unison. “Yeah Zach, I’ve felt that plenty of times.” Officer Williams paused.

“Have you killed someone before?” Officer Williams asked. Father Michael stopped for a moment, the calculation visible in his eyes but not his full face. Father Michael let out a quick burst of air before he spoke.

“I was serving a parish not too far from here,” Father Michael said. “This kid, Javier, he’d come every now and then. He had fallen in with the wrong crowd. One day I was having a conference with him, his mother Isabella, and his father Pedro. Javier pulled a gun on me when I asked him about his friends. I let them all leave, and I called the police on Javier.

“The police took Javier into custody, and he just so happened to have drugs on his person. He was charged with menacing with a deadly weapon, and two counts of drug possession. What I didn’t realize was this was his third serious offense. Javier was facing 45 years to life in prison. He was maybe a year younger than you. He couldn’t comprehend being locked up for the rest of his life. Javier took his own life a day after the arraignment.

“So no, I never took someone’s life with a service weapon, but I do understand what it means to do the wrong, “right,” thing. Some days I wish I could go back, never tell on Javier, and confront him one-on-one about his behavior. Never involve the police in the first place. But I can’t go back now and stop it all from happening, and I can’t do that in my mind. And you have the choice to not go back in your own mind.”

Officer Williams nodded his head before he sat back. “45 years,” Officer Williams mouthed to himself. “What’s your Jesus-ee advice?”

“There is a time for everything,” Father Michael said. “As is said in Ecclesiastes. There’s even a time to live, and a time to die. But now is your time to mourn. And I mourn with you, for lives wasted by hatred, greed and fear. I wish Demarcus was sitting next to us now, and we talked about basketball, or maybe his favorite videogames. But that isn’t the time we are in, and God knew that before we ever could.

“We must still trust Him, because even though demons roam the Earth, and mankind shoots itself in the foot every day, goodness and the Holy Spirit are still on this Earth too. You mourning Demarcus is goodness in your heart. Burying that is burying your heart too. And that is where evil can come. You told me he looked like your cousin. Maybe there’s a connection there worth exploring.”

Officer Williams drank Father Michael’s words while staring into the middle distance. “What’s your not-Jesus-ee advice?”

Father Michael smiled for a moment. “Don’t take up a drinking habit,” Father Michael said. “Or you’ll end up with Cirrhosis. Especially with this job. Talk to a trusted friend about what you’re feeling, and see a therapist. And don’t see one just to check off a box, you only get out what you put into the process. A hobby wouldn’t hurt either. If your life is just sleep, work, eat, and sleep again, it’s a lot harder to have hope in anything.”

Officer Williams looked down at the chocolate chip muffin on the table beside his coffee. Father Michael looked at the muffin then at Officer Williams.

“You should try it. They’re better than the ones in the squad room,” Father Michael said. Officer Williams leaned forward and grabbed the muffin. He took a quick nibble.

“Shit,” Officer Williams said. He looked up at Father Michael.

“You’re forgiven,” Father Michael said with a smile aimed at the sky.

“It is better,” Officer Williams said.

Damafaud · May 11, 2025

The Past is Never Far Behind

Name: Caleb Robbins

Aliases: Cal, Robbie, Parker

Age: 28

Occupation: Graphic designer; Cold Case Archivist

Years of Service:
5 years as a graphic designer; 10 years as an unofficial (and unpaid) cold case archivist

Appearance:
Caleb is of average build and average height at 5'7", with hazel hair and clean shaven face. His blue eyes don't draw attention until the star-shaped contact lens take notice. He dresses smart casual; neutral-colored jeans, buttoned shirt, leather shoes or sandals, quite typical of an office-goer with the occasional splash of daring color like a burgundy vest or a yellow neck tie. That is, if you ignore the bamboo-patterned folding fan in his pocket. Caleb blends with the crowd until you notice the oddity of his wardrobe, the little accents that hint at something more.

Caleb fleets and skips with everything he does. Even his gaze rarely lingers, traveling about to find the next point of interest in the middle of speech. His personal space is small and he enjoys physical touch in conversation. An ever-present smile and eagerness to strike a conversation mark Caleb as approachable to people around.

Notable Features:
- Carries a folding fan wherever he goes
- Hops in his steps, eyes restlessly traveling everywhere
- Smell of dry woods with berry undernote
- Elaborately yet disheveledly dressed
Personality:
Caleb Robbins faces the world with smiles and laughter, all the time. He is a self-perpetuating joy creating machine where his humor and optimism bring color to a day of drab and become more interesting in the process. His brightness can be too much; he tries to insert fun even in the worst of a funeral and that is not always welcome. Still, his intention is good and he brims with child-like wonder and ignorance. It's hard to dislike someone so friendly and bright.

A friendly cat is a good comparison for Caleb. He adores companionship and conversations, but mostly on his term. His obsession with crime and other trivialities are odd but specific, his attention capricious even at the best of days. Curiosity overshadows his empathy which leave Caleb friendly yet wholly unreliable and non-sympathetic. This quirk causes Caleb difficulty in maintaining long-term relationships as he often 'forgets' previous considerations when something pique his interest.

Caleb has gained a reputation, both online and in the city, for being a nosey parker for true crime and violence. He is a familiar face to fences and local gangs, sometimes for being where he shouldn't be, sometimes for being connections and the go-to if you are looking to know about any 'in the dark' happenings in the city. While he isn't embroiled in any criminal activity, his active concealment over what he does know marks him as an unpredictable element for law reinforcement.

When he grows uncomfortable, Caleb often diverts attention to other points of interest or problems. He dislikes feeling vulnerable or open and is quick to cover up with humor and jokes. While he is making efforts to change those behaviors (say hurray for couple therapy), Caleb still goes defensive when faced with his own failings. Sweets has also become an escape when stress becomes too much.

Strengths:
- (Lovable) gossipy weirdo: Caleb's penchant for crime stories and snooping around is widely known and tolerated. He keeps mum and does a little help here and there that people, petty criminals, and gangs get used to his presence all over the city.
- Lost case archive: From unreported cases to crime without evidence, Caleb is aware of many daily ongoings, domestic violence, and family secrets that never really make it to the law or public for the last decade.
- Freelance insight: A bachelor degree in graphic design and years as a freelancer leaves Caleb with random assortments of skills that may or may not be important for investigations. At least it makes his cold case archive visually cohesive. He also has insights into habits and minds of freelancers and others without secure employment.
- Good stamina: Caleb doesn't have big muscles, but he hit the gym on the regular and can run when needed.
- Nurse for a wife: Caleb's wife, Serena Hayes, works as a nurse at a local hospital. This may or may not be relevant.

Weaknesses:
- (Damn) troublemaking weirdo: The precinct is usually not that happy having some civilians sniffing about deaths and murder cases. AND not telling them anything about what he figures out!
- Just a lil' guy: Caleb has no practice in violence. Or combat.
- Inattentive husband: Caleb's marriage is not in the best state it can be; this investigation doesn't help.
- Too damn curious: Curiosity kills the cat, and sometimes Caleb sticks his nose where it doesn't belong.
- Death in cigarettes: Smoke from cigarettes agitate Caleb immensely.
Backstory:
After the police left, no one remembered Rugero but Caleb.

He took him into his house when he fainted on the street. His mother forbade Caleb from returning to 'that filthy shithole', but he ran away from home not without reason. Better the street than a house that marked him with bruises and ringing ears, better an abode stained by years of rotting depression than no shelter at all.

His mother 'care' and care decreased once drinking entered her list of vices. A week could pass without her return and the money she left was never enough. Caleb stayed at Rugero's house whenever he could; it was just 5 minutes from school so he could save money on buses.

Caleb cleaned Rugero's place whenever he stayed. Something to do to repay the shelter Rugero provided, something to do to distract from the harsh reality.

Things got better in high school. His mother disappeared for months and the school called his father. Now remarried in Germany, he threw monthly stipends at Caleb who happily 'forgot' to call social service and attended high school like normal. He could get the hot water home running, buy groceries, and own a phone like everyone else. He made friends. He became active in the school newspaper. Life was hectic, but Caleb no longer had his shoulders tense trying to survive.

When high school and freedom stopped monopolizing his time, Caleb thought to visit Rugero. He hadn't visited for months since his high school was in a different part of the city.

Rugero let Caleb in before returning to watch the TV. Caleb chattered of all things that happened. Rugero said nothing as usual, but Caleb happily promised to return tomorrow. Does he want anything to buy? He could go buy them!

A chess set, Rugero whispered. Caleb promised to bring it.

The newspaper club suddenly called for an emergency meeting at the school, though. Caleb headed over in a rush and was greeted by a surprise birthday party. His heart swelled with joy as 'happy birthday' rang and they rolled in a chocolate cake. It was the first time anyone celebrated his birthday. The day only ended after a lengthy karaoke and dinner.

When Caleb brought the ice cream the day after his promise, police lines barricaded the house. Overdose, the police said. Heart medication.

Caleb's shattered mind froze. The police told Caleb about pill bottles, but he knew Rugero. It had been a year since he stopped supplying any medication...!

But why would the police believe some high schooler, anyway?

Suicide, the police concluded and left, leaving Caleb haunting the abandoned house. The police didn't ruin anything or clean anything. Just pill bottles. When he found the chocolate cake in the fridge, the dam broke. He cried like he hadn't since his mother won custody at the divorce.

A bible clutched on Rugero's chest was the only clue Caleb had; it was an Old Testament bible he had lying around, but Rugero was Protestant. He cleaned the house and scoured through every item, but there was little he could find.

Throughout high school, Caleb never stopped his investigation into Rugero. He worked as an auto mechanic before his wife died. He had no relatives. The most significant connection he had was attendance of a local shooting club before the death of the club president...

The shooting club involved many unusual death in its wake. A car crash. A suicide. Some were strange, some true coincidence, but the more Caleb dug into the city he called home, the more eerie deaths flew under its modern visage.

The police couldn't solve everything because the police couldn't monitor everything. Manpower was an issue. Trust in the organization was another. Corruption and organized crime were another pillar. When young Caleb strutted on the street, he could see and hear what police couldn't.

Before Caleb realized it, he was 28. He had got a degree, became a freelance graphic designer, and married a nurse he met on a wedding party. He had changed, and he also remained the same. The trail of Rugero was cold, but he pursued any leads with the same passion and guilt like he still held a brand new set of chess in that high school year.

Days of going around and talking to people earned him a certain reputation, but one that served him well. Petty criminals didn't mind talking to him. He was Caleb, the guy that paid Shawn a hundred to tell all about his heist downtown. Walked right into the hideout to ask like it was nothing, and helped a little here and there if it meant he got a story.

A decade passed, and Caleb still hadn't forgot Rugero. His wife wished he would, but five years passed and Caleb did not lie when he said the crime was his lifeblood. It was more important to him than his job, his life... more important than her. She used to not mind it. She believed he would mature. Change.

After their third round of marriage counseling, Caleb promised to notch things down. Go on dates again. Be more present with the woman he loved, who loved him, who he had neglected in the chase he had been on for years. He had caused Serena to suffer too much.

Yet.

A religious scene, verses of a bible, a killer. He couldn't stop when he was close. He couldn't stop when he was almost there. This would be the last time.

He promised on chocolate cake.

Motivations:
Caleb is primarily motivated by an obsession to solve an old crime. Guilt over the death he perceived to be in his hands had Caleb rushing to solve any mystery he thought could be related with desperation. Rugero Mastroianni was an emotional anchor Caleb could never let go. At the same time, he grew to enjoy the chase. The privilege of forbidden truths was sweet, the thrill that came with it a siren's song he grew used to answering. He loved knowing secrets buried six feet under. Mysteries grew addicting, and he, with dogged determination, chased after everything.

He told himself all was for the sake of finding Rugero's killer, but the truth of his pursuit was only known to himself.

Notable Item(s):
- Tablet connected to a private server for cold case information
- Tin candy jar
- Marble chess set

Role: Cold Case Archivist

orpheus. · May 12, 2025

Realistic or Modern THE VEIL OF MERCY | Character Dossier

Kir

"How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?"

Sleepy Sleuth

Tired Detective

pheaca

dive back in time

julians-radio

divorced dad rock

CASE FILE: FORMER CONVICT TURNED CONSULTANT

idiot

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘯.

purplecowdutch

ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Dreamer99

(sum kinduv alien?)

zara3447

where the wild things grow

mintyo

alone in a room full of people

parhelion

blackbirds flocking to and fro, sevens

Sleepy Sleuth

Tired Detective

americanCaeser

Junior Member

ZarbofftheFirst

Voodoo with No Return

Damafaud

Kitty

orpheus.

pookie, baby!

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CASE FILE: FORMER CONVICT TURNED CONSULTANT​

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘯.

ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

(sum kinduv alien?)

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