ʀᴏʙᴇʀᴛ ᴛʀᴇɴᴏɪs. Hemophilliac cop often hospitalized due to reckless behavior in the field leading to internalized bleeding. Rob bribes easy and, above all, buys easy. Of all people, Rob buys the most and for the most money. Part of it, he passes off as rogue drug busts he’s successfully attained without warrant or arrest (a legal gray area if you don’t explain how you got it). It doesn’t matter how he got it, to him, all that matters is that it’s off the street… and up his nose but HEY, he’s not the one to worry about, right? It’s those crack addicts!
"Cocky, self-established haughtiness, paranoid, nosebleeds from crack drove him to marijuana since a childhood fear of needles (perpetuated by his bleeding) dispells heroin as an option. Does do good work when scrutinized but, otherwise, could be considered a slacker."
In relation to the rest of the team, Rob’s behavior is a burden. Where he is contact with the law every single day, his failure to cooperate makes it difficult to understand his own comprehension of what rules he himself are permitted to follow. Many have diagnosed him as impulsive and psychotic, but to actually do anything to construct his behavior is beyond their own level of, well, giving a shit. So long as he does his job or doesn’t drag others into his mess, he is well off running into his own discipline.
ᴄᴀsᴘᴇʀ: When assigned a new partner (Isaiah announced dead, despite further investigation of medical condition), Casper expected less of a handful. After being put on leave due to his own current state of mental health, he was more than happy to get back on the saddle— but only to find that someone else was up there waiting for him. It’s obvious that these two do not get along, and will probably never find something to agree on. Robert knows just how vulnerable his new partner is, and has an obvious eye to drag him down into the trouble of addictive drug use. If, perhaps, this problem was not already Casper’s own.
OAU; Fenton abandons his morals and turns Thomas, somehow finding himself dominated.
The effort was difficult, but he promised to lay down his life for the brother he had known; the one he had seduced into drug use and, more respectively, into crime. This pact was in his own heart, never spoken of, and only to be carried out when the time was right—when the time came to expose the man’s brutality. Jerry would never have believed him otherwise, and with this one, final pushed, Martin hoped his little brother would finally understand what he had been warning him about all those years.
However, with this exposure, came the true identity of Martin Mandeaux— a monster and a freak, with fuzzy intentions and even more credible record. No one would believe Jerry, then, but at least one mark had been made. “He tried to kill him,” they would say. “Mike was only acting in self defense.”
Jon sat numbly behind his desk, holding the photo with its jagged edges across his desk, staring fondly at it. There were tears in his eyes, but he could not muster a proper blink to dismiss them. His heart hurt. His head hurt. What was he supposed to do in this situation? Gerardo was gone, the one fragile memory of their corporate romance encased within a thin film of gloss, held desperately between the remaining man’s fingers.
He often had dreams about how Jake killed his father. Shot through the head, and he had seen such carnage before. His reaction to Gerardo’s death, initially, had been silence. There was no reply to the messenger, no passing of emotion upon his features. Jon had been cold before, and his only opportunity to return to such a state had been offered then. And he took it, found at a standstill in the middle of his room.
He had collapsed, crying, unable to find his words. Memories spilled, but only at his fingertips. To tell anyone of what they had would have been suicide. No one was to know, not even the currently bereaved; for to remember the nights he had been blessed with were enough pain alone.
M̞̟͈̈́̈̈̐̆ ̼̪̯͔̜̟͉̓ͫ͆̈̂Ī͇̬̺̳̦͙S͚̼̱̻̘͕͓ ̥͔̹͊ͣ͛F̼̙̙́̃ͯO̷̙͕̻̔̽R̖̞̳̫͔̩͖͌̓̑͛̎̎ ̣͔̤̌́̓̄̃ͯ̾M̶̠͚͚ͧ̋̍U̧Rͣ͂ͫ̊D̩̤̥E̜̫ͮ̍ͭ́R̵͖͕̲̖͍̎ͫ̀̒̈́̂͑ S͐͗ͮ̈͏Ë̗̰͚͈̄̂̍̄̔̄ͅA͕̺͍͇ͬͥS̞̗̫͈̳̻͑̊͛̂̽Ȯ̞̫͒̌͆ͯ̇N̲͒̔̓̇͂͒ ͆ͮͬ͊͊5
̆H̡̘̥̣̤͒̏ͯ̆̊͐A̳̹̝̖͊ͬ͊L̦͈̰͎̱͉ͯ͑ͯ͛ͥ̾̃L̰̟͙ͦ̎͌͟O͈̗̳̭͒̍ͧ͋ͮ͆ͮW̷̯̫̝̭͂̀Ẽ̛̮̞ͦͫ̽E̮̰̪͓͔̟̾̋N͋͐ͤͯ͛ͦ,̦̮̣̙̖̟͎̽ͮͮ̃̊͂ ̨͍͓͖̳͍̌̇͆͗̋ͨ̍9̛̼:̯͍̟̲͉͇ͥ̃0ͤ̂0̵̥̭̻̫͉͙ͬ̈̽̇ͥͅ ̫̮P̵̝̲͌͂̏ͧ͛̑M̨̦̈̓̔̿̚ ̝̗̓̇̿͊̒͊̿E̳͓ͤ͊S̘̙̓̂͋̽̉͆ͪT̝̽̌͛̚͟.̺̖̝̖̜͚͠
Standing beneath the warm shower, Alan ran his hands through his hair and dropped his shoulders and just stood there in a daze, his eyes sealed as he looked up and let the water rush and run over his face; the soothing drops hitting his face and rolling down his cheeks and forehead. He was in his own silent world - on his own and safe as the light in the bathroom glowed and illuminated the tiled room perfectly.
Before he could even react or wrap his mind around it; Jake bursts in instantly slamming into Alan and cornering him into the nearest corner of the small shower..
"The hell! .. are you doing?" Alan instantly spits and raised his voice - His eyes meeting Jake’s before the water poured over Jake’s face, letting his hair fall over his face. Only his lips visible as he bit his bottom lip and stuttered… "I-I needed a shower…" He replies with a low tone, Only to have Alan scoff and attempt to move, but Jake keeps him trapped…"you could have waited…" Alan replies with an irritated tone, letting out a huff only to have Jake close Alan into the corner even further. Alan raised his arm up to push him away, but Jake shockingly grabs his arm and presses it against the cold tiled walls… "Jake.. the hell are you doing?" Alan hisses and watches as he moves in closer, a smirk painted his face… "don’t fight it, Alan" He whispers as he leans in, his chest pressed against his, his lips just touching Alan’s ear as he whispered… "Jake…" Alan starts, only to have Jake bite his ear and whisper again "you know i’m not Jake…"
Alan jerked forward, but his efforts were met with Jake slamming him back to the tile wall. For a shadow caught under the force of water, Alan could see him quite clearly now. With his arms bare, the poor man’s reflection could not deny his apparent tattoos; the murky stains that twisted up his forearm and wrists, seeming to dwindle at his fingertips as if they did not know how to jump away.
“You’re not leaving,” the shadow reassured him, and Alan knew he wasn’t. Jake wasn’t in there, or anywhere to help him now. Even if he did know, there was no chance of getting out of this bathroom unscathed if he tried to push.
If he closed his eyes, it… looked and felt like Alan. The brush of scruff against his jaw, fighting along side his own, maltreated stubble. Even if it was the Taken side of his nightmare lover, it could have almost been so gentle.
[CUT: Proceed with extreme caution: NSFW→]
Alan hears Jake struggling to get into the cabin’s door. Waiting for a second, he listens out until there’s nothing but the loud staggering steps creaking and thumping on the floorboards. Alan huffed and moved from the study; making his way down the stairs - seeing the trail of snow from the open door to the kitchen…
"Jake?" Alan exclaims only to have to reply. Closing the door he turns to see a large pumpkin sitting on the small coffee table. Giving himself and the pumpkin a curious and baffled look; he slowly goes to investigate…
"Hey! Jake?" Alan calls out again, but Jake remains silent. Alan takes another look around the second floor for Jake - but he is missing. As he moves over towards the coffee table, Alan turns the pumpkin around, exposing the carving…
"JAKE IS GONE" is carved with a messy and eerie writing. Alan steps back and almost trips over his own feet; stumbling. He can feel his heart starting to pump and thud faster in his chest, clenching. Alan gasps in fright before Jake jumps out from behind him and wraps his arms around him, his nose nuzzles Alan’s neck; feeling the warmth, Alan can feel the cold on his cheek and nose. "Happy Halloween!" He squeaks, only to have Alan push forwards and break the embrace.. "The Hell!" He growls as the fear slowly shakes from his body….
"that wasn’t funny…" He hisses and gives him a pouty expression that instantly drowns Jake in guilt… "I-I’m sorry.. I-I thought…" He stops and slowly steps forwards, wrapping his arms around Alan once again, he holds onto him tighter.. "I’m not going anywhere, I promise"
A paranoid schizophrenic with psychogenic amnesia and intuitive aptitude (cue the situational irony). His name is Malcolm Westworth (FC: Colin Farrell) and he lives alone, constantly fretting over what he thinks can and can’t do, while juggling the itching feeling in the back of his head that he has probably already learned this before— but when and how?
And who are these people?
What the fuck was his password again? —Guest?
Yeah, I’m getting work done.
EDIT: “It would be great if he didn’t interact with others. He literally only interacts with the imaginary people his head constructs within the confides of his house.”
“And he blames them for taking his food or moving his books or things like that when he doesn’t remember doing them himself. And so when anyone does come over, he excuses the state of his home/apartment as Stan or Beverly being over earlier and not cleaning up after themselves.”
“But, no, imagine the fights! Breaking things! Massive collatoral damages to his own property and then, when someone stops by, they just— JESUS WHAT HAPPENED!?”
“He tells them it was just a small falling out, that they’ll come back and see things his way. I mean, they have to, don’t they? One way or the other. He cleans up and thinks of the fights, the stress of confusion sweeping it away and bringing him to this state where he’s looking around the room and thinking, well, I guess we patched things up.”
ALAN? You’re real!
Alan: Men are attracted to guys with their own kids, right?
Monday: Not even slightly.
Alan: Why not?
Monday: It usually means there was a woman in the picture.
H E A D C A N O N
Struggle for humanity.
It all started with the fact that Jackson, at times, was too nice. To anyone and everyone. Living by the standards of “tolerate until given a reason not to” never crossed his mind, and he continuously took the blows given to him by friends and family alike, and later on— complete strangers.
His father raised him to be appropriate, but his lessons were cut short when his father was killed. Alongside his brother and sister, he learned to take beatings as they came and went; learned to take insults as “constructive criticism”.
When he came into the care of the facilities that would later own him, they tested his endurance of pain nearly every day— morning, noon, and night. To mold him into an emotionless monster had been their plan and it was what they had gotten, to send out and do whatever was asked of him. No one questioned his scars or that fact that he could not breathe or speak properly for weeks at a time.
Muscle mass soon expanded the scars, making them more of a blemish or discolorations along his arms and chest, but when he was let go of and sent to live on his own, Jackson forgot how to take care of himself. He diminished in size and became malnourished. Along with his lanky, concerning figure, he lost sight in one eye and bruised all too easily. Many took pity on him the way you would a stray dog, dying on the side of the road.
He lived alone in the years that passed, struggling to survive with what he knew of the world. On the streets, he picked fights and spent time in cells at night— but at least they gave him a decent meal. The nights where he did not have enough strength to assist himself, he would be left where he fell when thrown, only to be moved the next morning.
In his home, the floor became a better comort than any pillows or blankets that were given to him. The few friends he struggled to keep up with soon left the city and out of Jackson’s life completely. Others mistook him for a vagrant and avoided him. The people he did manage to talk to were women, but they treated him like a wounded puppy— stroking his hair and going on ahead and inviting themselves over to cook for them. He was silent with his appreciation and did nothing to condone their behavior.
This, however, is what led to several relationships he would rather call mistakes. He may have been able to eat without vomiting a few minutes after and he may have not looked like a walking dead man, but his small frame and feeble words made him easy to overtake.
Both men and women alike knew how to take advantage of him, forcing him to settle into a life similar to the one before he became a sick dog. He rolled with the punches— sometimes more literally than figuratively. He said nothing, contacted no one, because eventually, they would go away. Jackson had no job to where his bruises would be questioned.
No other friends that would take him aside and assume what was best for him. He was a punching bag and a struggle to have sex with properly. Held down, or against something, and when he finally made a noise, he could feel his own heart breaking inside of him.
Only one relationship led to marriage (and later divorce), where Jackson found himself in a healthy enough state, both mentally and physically, to take control of his life again. The other party fought back and when push came to shove, Jackson found himself back on the streets and looking for a new life.
He does not discuss the aforementioned relationship with anyone, considering it to be the greatest hurdle he ever managed to stumble over. His most recent relationship seems to be the only stable one he has ever been in— the other party as damaged as he himself, both afraid to fight but grateful for the fact they are able to avoid such things.
[Editor’s note: A year or two down the road with the relationship led to a fight that caused the other party to be put into a state of incapacitation. Jackson has no further comment on the recovery of his partner, nor his current state.]