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[hider=Win Coates - Father, Husband, and Monster Slayer][b]Name: [/b]Edwin “Win” Coates 

[b]Gender/Pronouns: [/b]Male (He/Him)

[b]Race/Species:[/b] Human

[b]Age: [/b]35

[b]Appearance:[/b] Win stands tall at six foot three, his meaty forearms folded over his broad chest, his formerly ripped gut sucked in to hide the fact that he’s had less time to hit the gym these days. He is African-American with dark brown skin and big, expressive eyes that are of a lighter shade of brown. His black, curly hair is styled in short dreads with a fade, while grays have begun to invade his short, neatly trimmed beard. Win has a crooked smile with deep dimples that he’s quick to flash. There is a small scar underneath his left eye whose story he always promises to tell another time but never delivers, and the hint of the start of a burn scar on his chest peeking out from the collar of his shirt whose story he claims nobody would ever believe. The fourth and fifth finger on his left hand are stumps ending just below mid-knuckle. 

Win dresses well, but his wardrobe is limited—the only difference between his casual weekend outfit and his work outfit is he untucks on the weekend. Otherwise, it’s dress shoes with some orthopedic inserts, neutral chinos, and pastel button-downs with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Win has only worn a suit jacket once and that was at his wedding. He won’t even wear a winter coat unless it’d be suicidal to go outside without one. A heavy hand with the cologne leaves a thick smell of sandalwood lingering wherever Win goes, bordering upon violating the Geneva Protocol for chemical warfare. 

[b]Personality: [/b]Win is a survivor forever stuck in a limbo between deciding if he’s just stupidly lucky, extremely determined, or, as his wife once put it, stupidly determined. A Chicago native turned soldier, he doesn’t let the guilt of outlasting friends who’d died in the streets or overseas  bring him down. Instead, he chooses that always unbearable path of the warm and bright optimist, saying such cliche things like how he’d live life to the fullest because anything else would be disrespectful to those he lost. In his five years at PHI there have been plenty of times where he has spoken up in disagreement, but nobody can recall a time he has complained simply to complain. He doesn’t even stress in bumper to bumper traffic.

Humble, generous, and understanding with a dangerous sense of justice and responsibility, Win is a dedicated family man—and he considers his coworkers family. Win is the kind of guy who’d invite a coworker over for dinner with his wife and two kids before ever even getting a drink with them afterwork. He’s also the guy at the bar who’d step in to stop a fight or the guardian angel who’d dive in front of a bullet, claw, or an extremely garlicky slice of artisanal pizza to protect their partner while out on an investigation.

While he has his lightbulb moments, Win’s more thoughtful and wise than he is analytical and strategic. In the field he’s happy to let others take the lead while offering advice or pointing out flaws where he sees fit, but he usually won’t push against an idea he only somewhat disagrees with. However, there are some things he won’t do. He’s sensible, but he’s not a sucker. If a plan crosses the line he’ll put his foot down or break it off in someone’s ass if he must. Win’s a survivor after all, but there are some things—betraying family, abandoning a friend—that he just wouldn’t be able to live with. 

[b]Powers, Traits, and Abilities:[/b] Even if Win has lost his six pack in favor of sneaking his son’s Snack Pack, he’s still immensely strong for a normal, non-magical human being and shockingly quick and agile for a man of his size. A former Marine Raider trained in CQC backed up by wilding teen years of street fighting, Win is a lightning fast striker whose punches hit like miniature wrecking balls. He can take it even harder than his guns can dish it, and almost always finds a way to stay on his feet until a fight is done. He still spars in a ring at a gym in his limited spare time, but generally punishes the punching bag in his basement more often than not. 

Of course when you’re hunting things that have massive maws that can tear a man in two, six needle-like arms that can quickly swiss cheese a torso, or a living embodiment of fire getting up close and personal generally isn’t the best call, even if he does switch out the punches for lethal stabs with a silvered tactical knife. Win was the designated marksman for his squad back in the day, and his shot hasn’t dropped a bit. Favoring big game hunting rifles and backing it up with wrist snapping, high caliber revolvers, Win aims to stop most hostile things that go bump in the night with just one loud bang. He once jokingly asked Morgan to see if there was room in the budget for a flamethrower so he could get over his fear of fire, except the look of defeat on his face when she told them they needed a new printer first was evidence enough that he was only half-kidding.

He doesn’t pretend to be the supernatural expert or the tactical genius, but he’s extremely organized and attentive while out in the field. When needed he offers overwatch from a vantage point,  runs the radio check-ins, keeps track of the other investigators, and offers to sit, comfort, and interview any victims or witnesses while the others investigate the area. In the office, Win naturally falls into the role of a mediator or counselor—things can get heated between people in the field and egos tend to swell once you learn how to cast spells, but Win always manages to let someone know they're being a shithead without hurting their feelings. He also makes the best coffee and knows how everyone takes theirs. 

Otherwise, Win is a devoted husband to a demonologist, blogger, self-published author, and occasional PHI consultant named Lily, loving father to his seven-year-old son Sam and four-year-old daughter Lucy. Win is also an avid gardener, a crossword puzzle addict, a live jazz fan, and somehow slowly turning into one of those old guys who goes to the park to play chess despite never winning a single damn game. Win got rid of the old Skee-ball machine taking up a parking spot in the garage that he got from a friend who knew a guy after his Lily said that it was really alarming how much effort he was putting in to beating a child at a stupid arcade game. He now tries to get everyone over to the Air Hockey table. He crushes it at Air Hockey.

Background: [hider=Dinner and Dragons]The knife flashed forward, milky white liquid dripping from the fresh cuts as it slashed through the body again and again and again. There was the sound of something snapping, followed by a crunch, crunch, crunch as the cutting ruthlessly continued. The voice of Smokey Robinson softly sang through a tinny phone speaker, doing little to mask the sniffling of an adult man crying. Win pulled the bottom of his apron up to his eyes and wiped away the tears. Damn onions always got to him. He scraped the diced onions and chopped celery into a bowl, and then started working on the carrots. A rogue hand shot out from behind him and snatched up a carrot, treading dangerously close to his careful cuts.

“For real, Lily?You know how that freaks m—!”

“Shh, I just got Sam down. Try this.”

Win glanced at the glass of white wine Lily was offering him, her dark eyes shining with expectation and a hint of playful mischievousness. The tension in his shoulders loosened as he took the glass, noticing a bit of her black lipstick on the rim of the glass. He closed his eyes, took a sip, and held it in his mouth as he felt his taste buds turn against each other and kill themselves off. He opened one eye to stare Lily down as he put his mouth back to the glass and spit the wine out. He could see the corner of her large smile appearing at the edge of the hand that was covering his mouth. He’d been with Lily for nearly six years, married to her for three years, the father of her son for two of them, and still he found himself surprised by what a little troll she could be. 

“Your face! Oh god, you look so disappointed,” she said with a snort.

“Was that cooking wine?” asked Win, wiping his lip as he coughed. 

“You didn’t even smell it first!” said Lily, her voice turning into a squeal as she struggled to properly breath.

“It was some kind of wine right? Lily?” Win watched in horror as his wife stumbled out of the kitchen, holding her sides. He craned his neck around the corner. “Lily, that was wine, right?”

“Hold on. Let me grab the bottle.”

Win shook his head and chuckled to himself. “Try this” had been the first thing Lily had ever said to him when they met at a mutual friend’s house party. Normally Win stuck to the creed of not taking random red solo cups from strangers dressed like mall goths, but normally strangers dressed like mall goths weren’t also pretty Indian girls so he took the risk. He woke up the following morning next to a toilet. He said he was honestly surprised he was able to remember her when they ran into one another at an occult bookstore after he'd been discharged from the Marines. She’d said she was honestly surprised that he read about Middle Eastern demonology, let alone that he was a reader at all. She’d always been quick to play the role of the jerk. It’s one of the things he loved about her.

“Ta-da!” said Lily, whipping out a bottle of fernet from behind her back as she returned. “It’s pretty terrible, isn’t it? Silvia gave it to me as a gift for agreeing to do a book signing at her store.”

“I thought Silvia liked you,” said Win, finishing up the vegetables.

“I think she knew I’d give it to you.”

“I thought Silvia liked me,” he muttered. 

“She does. She just likes me more,” said Lily, trying another sip of the fernet. “It’s kind of refreshing in a weird way. I’ll give you the bottle of the good stuff after you nail your interview tomorrow. You nervous at all?”

“Knowing your definition of “the good stuff” I am now,” said Win. “Actually, I was hoping you could run me some dummy interview questions and tell me if any of my answers sound stupid.”

“Sure. Telling you what is and isn’t stupid is my job, after all.”

“Mhm, it’s why I keep you around.”

He took the bowl filled with the holy trinity of veggies and set it next to the gas stove, opened the window to vent the smoke as a gust of cool fall air rustled the curtains, and flicked on the pilot to the frustrating sound of a clicka-clicka-click as it didn’t catch. Win groaned, turned the knob again, and was met with the same sound. It looks like Romantic Dinner Night might turn into Pizza Night. He flicked it again as Lily spoke up, “Hey, give it a…” Third time’s the—whoosh! The pilot came to life and it caught the gas, creating an impressive ball of fire that leapt up before Win’s eyes. The knife clattered to the floor as Win stepped back, the cool Chicago air vaporized with the rest of his apartment as flames consumed all he could see.

Win felt himself become soaked in sweat as the desert air wrapped around him, sand blasting against his goggles as it crept past the folds in his handkerchief and sizzled against his skin like hot, tiny coals. The harsh sun had completely disappeared in the sudden sandstorm that’d swallowed up his team, the radios crackling with static interference that was drowned out by the sound of a loud roar like a jet engine except it sounded wrong. Less mechanical, more organic. Win didn’t even have the chance to consider how ridiculous of a thought that was as a wall of flame erupted out in front of him. He fell to the ground and covered his face as the blowing sand turned into lacerating bits of glass. 

He heard the Raiders around him screaming, grown men crying out horrifically. Somebody called for a retreat. The wind carried the smell of burning flesh like overcooked bacon as Win heard the beating of wings. Win struggled to his feet and started running, unable to see more than a dozen feet in front of him through the sandstorm. He tripped over something and fell prone, looking back to see the crisp corpse of a Marine. He made himself stand up. Another roar, another blast of fire. A few more feet closer and he would’ve been roasted alive by it. Instead, his vest caught flames as a wall of black glass erupted out from the sand. He ripped it off quickly and chucked it away before the ammunition caught, rolling on the ground to put out his shirt. 

He heard Sergeant Andrews screaming orders through the storm. The boys used to make fun of how damn loud he was; now it was a godsend. Win rushed off in that direction, grabbing a fellow soldier who was struggling to find footing up out of the sand and offering him a shoulder. He saw the Sergeant through the storm seconds before a massive black shadow flew down on Andrews so quickly that Win only really saw the black, serpentine tail as the orders stopped coming before the sand flew up to block his vision. Fear overtook the soldier on his shoulder, who shoved free of Win and ran back. Win closed his eyes and breathed deeply, ignoring the smell, ignoring the screams. Panicking would only get him killed. He had to remain calm, he had to remain calm. Win opened his eyes, the flames rolling towards him, fire all he could see. He felt a hand touch his own and pull.

“Hey, are you alright?” asked Lily, pulling her husband back from the past, her eyebrows knitted deeply with concern. The oil in the pan had begun to smoke before she’d turned the gas off.

“Yeah,” said Win, blinking away the look of sheer terror on his face as he saw his apartment again. Lily narrowed her eyes at him. He sighed deeply and leaned against the counter, pulling her into his arms. She hated when he tried to be tough and lied to her, so he didn’t. “No. No, I’m not, but I will be. Just give me a second.”

“We really need a better stove,” she whispered after his sobbing stopped.

“We need a better apartment,” said Win, letting Lily go so she could take over making dinner. She waited until he’d turned to walk to the barstool before switching on the gas. 

“Wait, you don’t want to raise our son in a one-bedroom, roach-infested shithole?” she said, smiling over her shoulder as she popped another piece of carrot in her mouth. 

“A second bedroom would be nice,” he said.

“A second bedroom would be nice, which means you need to nail this interview. What kind of questions do you think they’re gonna ask you at Church and Hawthorne?” she asked.

“Priest and Hawthorne,” he corrected. Lily poured the veggies into the pan. Win winced as they sizzled and popped like Marines in the desert. He reached for the glass of fernet, took a sip of it that made his face sour but his shoulders relaxed, and added a bit more to the glass. Lily was right. It was refreshing in a strange kind of way. It drove out the phantom scent of burnt bodies. “And I don’t really know. You’re the paranormal expert, miss author, not me.”

“Hmm. Okay, Mr. Coates. Do you believe in UFOs, astral projections, mental telepathy, ESP, clairvoyance, spirit photography, tele—”

“C’mon, ask me a real one.”

“Fine. During an investigation, you come toe to toe with a giant, man-eating spider. How would you handle it?” she said.

“Lily, I think the job’s more about going to a person’s house and telling them the ghosts they’re seeing is really a carbon monoxide leak than hunting down made up monsters.”

“Do you not believe in monsters, Mr. Coates? Have you never heard of a tulpa?”

Win sighed. After what he saw, of course he did. “A tulpa is a paranormal manifestation of an entity brought upon by a strong enough belief in said entity. Assuming such a thing is possible, then there are definitely enough people who are afraid of giant spiders that one could potentially be born as a tulpa. As for how I would handle it, that would depend on company protocol. If we were to capture it, I would do everything in my power to do so, unless I found the entity a threat to either the wellbeing of our contact or our team, in which case I would then neutralize the threat.”

“Awww, someone’s been reading my blog,” said Lily.

“Every post. But c’mon, a giant spider?” Win snorted and took another drink. “Really? Hit me with another question. One they’d actually ask this time...”[/hider][/hider]