Post by Deleted on Feb 18, 2016 1:01:24 GMT 2
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Michael Joseph Mattingly
the basics
break]NAME. Michael Joseph Mattingly
[break]NICKNAME. Red (short for The Red Right Hand)
[break]AGE. 27
[break]BIRTHDAY. June 14th 1988
[break]MEMBER GROUP. Plebea
[break]RANK. Bomb Maker / Enforcer
[break]GENDER. male
[break]SEXUAL ORIENTATION.hetero
[break]ACCENT & NATIONALITY. American
[break]LOYALTY.Lightfoot’s Sleazy Bar / The Ear
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the life style
[break]OCCUPATION. Bartender / Weapon Supplier
[break]ADDICTIONS & SICKNESS. Alcohol, Depression
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the looks
[break]FACECLAIM. Scott Eastwood
[break]HEIGHT. 5’10”
[break]EYE & HAIR COLOR. Blue / Brown
[break]IDENTIFYING FEATURES. Several scars across his body from lacerations and gunshots.
[break]APPEARANCE. Michael has a rather subdued appearance, so much so that he is rather difficult to pick out in a crowd. His typical dress includes clothes of gray or black paired with blue jeans and a pea coat when the weather demands. He still wears his combat boots from his time in the military though unless you were a service member that detail is easy to miss. His dark hair is usually kept short, his face either clean shaven or sporting a few days of shadow. He is fairly attractive, especially on the rare occasions his lopsided grin manages to escape onto his features. [break]
the personality
Irish Whiskey
Explosions
Snowfall
“Uncle” Bobbby (Owner of Lightfoots Bar)
Metal Work
Automotive Repair
Parody music videos on Youtube
Adrenaline Rushes
Poetry
[break]DISLIKES.
Being Underestimated
Frozen Coffee
Vodka
Troublemakers at Lightfoots
Poor Tippers
Ignorance
Abuse of Power
[break]STRENGTHS. Experienced Combatant
Capable of manufacturing small arms and Explosives
Resilient
Certified Chicago Paramedic
Cunning
[break]FLAWS.
Vengeful
Terrible at taking orders
Does what he feels is right, not necessarily what is smart.
[break]DREAMS.
A small house in Minnesota, full of family and friends.
[break]FEARS.
Ruining the lives of the people around him
[break]PERSONALITY. It is kind of hard not to like Mattingly. He simply doesn’t feel like a cold hearted weapons dealer. He cracks jokes, he shows respect to virtually everyone he meets and unless specifically ordered to do otherwise, he doesn’t often participate in the mass murder unless the payment is high and the targets deserving a death. Sadly this pleasant exterior is just a facade. He hates himself, not because of what he does but because it’s the only thing he has ever been good at, the only thing he has ever been proud of. He hates himself because in his profession friends tend not to live very long and meeting a good woman who doesn’t mind blood money is virtually impossible.
Naturally this has led him to drinking, something which only exacerbates his mild depressive tendencies.When not around others or forced into social interactions he can usually be found in his apartment staring at the exposed brick wall with a bottle of cheap whiskey in his hands. For the most part he doesn’t care about much outside his few remaining friends, the latest comic book releases and making sure he has enough alcohol to fall asleep at night. Well, admittedly he also manages to keep his doubt and depression at bay with criminal activities. Building things, performing heists, satiating his desire for violence and aggression all tend to keep him relatively happy in the moment, though once those moments pass he is forced back into his less than enthusiastic lifestyle.
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the history
[break]FATHER. Samuel Mattingly, 64, Pastor in Minnesota
[break]MOTHER. Helena Mattingly, 62, Nurse
[break]SIBLINGS. Shaun Mattingly, 33, NYC, Detective
[break]OTHER PEOPLE/PETS. Robert Quinn, 58, Owner of Lightfoots Sleazy Bar
John Quinn, 28, Deceased, Michael’s best friend/squadmate
Sarah Quinn, 18, Piano Player/Singer
[break]HOMETOWN. Duluth, Minnesota
[break]HISTORY. Michael Mattingly has lived a lot in his 27 years. The son of a baptist minister, Michael is familiar with maintaining appearances. Despite having above average grades Michael’s desire to compete with his older brother drove him to be more and more reckless, eventually leading him to quit college and join the U.S Army. He was trained to be a Combat Engineer, a job he took an instant liking to.
During his training he befriended Johnathan Quinn, a Chicago native using the military too avoid some gambling debts. Though initially antagonistic towards one another they became the best of friends during their first deployment. It was a bond that was only strengthened on their second and third deployments. When their contracts were up the pair decided to head back to Chicago. Michael, recently disowned by his father and without any other plans was easy to convince. Things were fine at first, the GI Bill let them get an education, but wasn’t able to force them to reintegrate into the society. They worked as paramedics for a time, the constant stress of the profession was not only familiar, but a comfort that allowed them to maintain their identity as warriors. Eventually even that wasn't enough to keep them satisfied. The would run small jobs for Johns uncle, deliver weapons, make a few detonators for crews holding up armored trucks. It kept them busy, it made them familiar with the unaffiliated crooks in the neighborhood. Well, that and the fact that often spent their money buying rounds for everyone at Lightfoots Sleazy Bar. Life was good, and the Quinn family was good to be around, Uncle Bob and Aunt Mary behind the bar, little Sarah playing her piano, they were a wall that kept the hardships of the world at bay like only family could.
Sadly this identity wasn’t enough to keep John on the straight and narrow. He began gambling and once again owed money to the wrong people. Things escalated and Johnathan ended up being sent to prison for manslaughter, whereas Michael was simply fired from his job for ‘misplacing’ an ambulance. But not before making Michael promise to look after his younger sister Sarah. That was two years ago. Since then Michael has been incorporated into the Quinn family business, supplying the local underground with a safe haven, weaponry, contacts and a steady supply of booze. Robert Quinn, Johns uncle, was a retired hitman and a fairly respected man in the community. He tried to keep John away from the seedier elements of life, it didn’t work, and now Michael has been left to pick up the pieces.
[break]PREVIOUS GROUP/RANK.U.S. Army - Sergeant
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the roleplayer
[break]ALIAS. Matty
[break]HOW YOU FOUND US. ad
[break]EXPERIENCE. A few years
[break]OTHER CHARACTERS. do you have any other characters here?
[break]RP SAMPLE. Tequila. Of all man’s inventions it was this beverage that Michael appreciated the most, and he was paying for that affection right now. Twenty seven year old leaned against the cold brick wall in the alley behind Lightfoot’s pub. He had passed the point where the unsanitary conditions of his current surroundings were enough to dissuade him from reveling in the relaxing cold of the bricks. If it wasn’t for that anchor to hold him firmly in reality the spinning in his head would have been unbearable. He could feel the rotation of the earth moving faster beneath him, threatening to send him flying into the sky if it wasn’t for the solid wall he currently had all his weight against. It had been a good night.
Vaguely in some far part of his brain he could hear the voices of other inebriated patrons stumbling out of the pub, he caught the tail end of one conversation and turned his head swiftly to make a disparaging remark before realizing his mistake. His face had lost contact with the brick wall, and without that anchor his head was spinning violently without constraint. Michael felt his balance going and put a foot down heavily onto the cold concrete alley to try and stabilize himself. It didn’t work. He felt a sensation similar to landing on a bed of soft pillows, but couldn’t tell if he had once again found the wall, or plummeted to the ground. He had to open his eyes, but when he did the fact that he was now laying on his side in an alleyway wasn’t nearly as important as the fact that he was about to vomit. He heaved, as if every muscle in his body contracted at once, and they continued to do so, again and again until Michael was on his hands and knees once again anchored to the world, the acidic smell of purging five dollar tequila from his stomach stinging his nose.
He had to get home. He just needed a few minutes to get his bearings. His breathing came heavy, deliberately as he focused what little cognitive ability he had left on the inhalation and exhalation of air. His body shook. An aftershock left over from when he had lost control of himself, and it compelled him to get in his feet and start moving, to distance himself from the pub he had spent the last six hours. It was a good idea, but his head was heavy, so heavy he had to fight the urge to rest it on the puke covered ground beneath him. So he compromised, and rolled over onto his side, away from the vomit, back against the cool brick wall he had become so well acquainted with over the past several minutes.
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made by remi of rilla go! and adoxography
