"Aye, dinnae worry, you get used tae it after a while." A thick Scottish brogue echoed up the staircase, and it was followed by a lanky, dark-haired, scot. He looked around at the assembled people, those who must've received messages similar to his own. He'd known that Sandra would be there, and he had to admit that it was nice to see a familiar face. She wasn't the only one of those, though. He knew Felix. He and the detective had something of an understanding. Felix would buy drinks and leave nice tips, and Tavish would keep an ear out and violate that oh-so-sacred bartender-patron-confidentiality by telling Felix anything he might find interesting. He smirked teasingly at Sandra. "Or desensitized, anyway."
He looked at the only one of the three he didn't recognize, and he wondered briefly if it might've been smart to bring his revolver. He'd have liked the added insurance, but he didn't have a holster. He could've tucked it into the waistband of his pants, but that seemed like a good way to sit down weird and accidentally fire it off and the last think he needed was a .38 bullet to the groin.
Style: Ratty, unbuttoned, flannels and hole-ridden jeans.
Hair, face, other body things: Constant dark stubble, suitably cringy tattoo of the anarchic “circle-a” on his chest, scar on his lip (from when his ill-advised lip ring was torn out during a concert).
Concept: Tavish is a “retired” punk rocker who’s youth was colored by poor choices, good music, and a distinct anti-authoritarian streak. A few rude awakenings led to him getting clean, but he never did regain a trust in authority. He inherited a bar from his retired parents and now leads a semi-legitimate life, harboring a great deal of resentment toward the powers-that-be.
Disposition: Caustic, adventurous, and impulsive, Tavish has started trying to be more easy-going and keep his short temper in check.
Fears: Handcuffs, helplessness, relapsing
Morals: Tavish sees the world as "us against them," and find his moral code a great deal more flexible when the victims are the powerful. Stealing from your neighbor is wrong, but shoplifting from a superstore is a-okay. It's shitty to bring your friends to a fight with the asshole down the street, unless that asshole is a cop. Tavish also prizes voluntary cooperation, even if he's not the easiest guy to work with.
History: Tavish was born to a Scottish father and an Irish mother in Glasgow, but his family moved to Utopia when he was thirteen. His father used all of his savings to purchase an old building that he converted to an almost-respectable pub. He aced every test he ever took in school, but displayed a pervasive apathy toward his studies. After several years of barely passing classes that were well within his ability, disciplinary action due to his proclivity for fighting, and a visit or two from the truancy officer, Tavish dropped out of school to start a band with two of his friends.
Their music career never really took off, but that didn't keep them from trying. None of them were virtuosos with their instruments, and Tavish's singing voice was only barely tolerable. There was little to set them apart from every other shitty three-chord punk band, but still they plugged away. Naturally, with the music came the drugs. Within two years, every member of the band was more or less dependent on some substance or another. Of course, drugs, punk rock, and a distrust of authority led to legal issues. Tavish served short jail stints for public intoxication, curfew and route violations, vandalism, and petty theft. During one of those jail stints, he was savagely beaten an officer after he made a joke about the officer's wife. The officer was reprimanded, but the incident was otherwise covered up. Tavish suffered a head injury that led to cortical blindness in his left eye.
Shortly after he got out of jail, his band played a small show in a bar on the outskirts of town. After the show, the bands drummer, Conn McCarthy, overdosed on heroin and was pronounced dead at the scene by paramedics. This shook Tavish to his core. He left the band and checked himself into rehab. He went back to his parents and was given a job in the bar. After a series of raids shut down other, less-reputable bars, his parents decided to sell the bar and leave town. Tavish, having some strange attachment to the city, convinced his parents to give him the bar and retire in Ireland.
Tavish was all set up to lead a normal, legitimate life, and it didn't suit him. He hired Sandra Claire, a down-on-her-luck Brooklynite, as his only other employee. Then, he fell in with the Resistance. He was risking everything his parents had built, and he loved it.
It was a slow night, and he was working alone. There were only a few people in the bar. Two grumbling old men sitting near his dad’s beat-up old jukebox, complaining about Tav’s choice in music. There was a middle-aged lady sitting at the bar, as far from the door as she could be, guzzling glasses of brandy as fast as he could pour them. Tavish was the only one working, and the relative quiet prompted a rare introspective mood. He idly looked over his liquor shelf, and moved to pick up a bottle. As he did so, he noticed a series of small, faded scars across his right knuckles. He frowned, remembering how he got them.
It had been two days after his twenty-first birthday. He’d just gotten out of jail, and his head still throbbed. He’d gotten the shit kicked out of him after he’d made a joke about one of the officer’s wives. He’d taken a kick to the head, and his skull had bounced against the concrete floor of the cell. Damage to the occipital lobe. Loss of vision in his left eye. Bad, bad headaches.
He was pissed.
He’d have liked to get the cop who beat him, an Officer Beckem, but honestly, any cop would do. He, Conn, and Obi got blitzed in Conn’s apartment and headed out onto the streets.
Tavish couldn’t remember the officer’s name, but he remembered his face. Young-ish, with a brown buzzcut and narrow blue eyes. He’d made the mistake of patrolling alone in a darker area of town. They jumped him and dragged him into an alley. Obi and Conn pinned him to the wall. Tavish hesitated, just for a moment.
“Come on, mate, we don’t have all fucking night.” Obi said, urging him on. Tavish steeled himself, then punched the cop as hard as he could in the face. The officer looked him in the eyes, and even though all three of them wore masks, it felt like he was studying him. Tavish punched him again. And again. He paused for a second, and his head throbbed again, and then he found the anger. He kept punching. Eventually, the man’s muffled protests through the crude gag Conn had put in his mouth devolved into groans of pain. Blood stained his fist, but he hardly felt it. He remembered the friends he’d had that were stuck in prison, the classes he’d been forced to take for dissenting speech, his fucking head.
“Tav. Tav, stop!” Conn said, and Tavish was snapped out of his trance. He noticed that his hand was hurting. He looked down at it. A few of the guy’s teeth were stuck in his skin, and there was some bruising on his fingers, but his hand looked better than the officer’s face. “You’re gonna kill him!” Tavish took a few deep breaths, but he was so pissed that he though he’d choke. He started to wind up for another punch, this time with his uninjured hand, but Conn let go of the cop and grabbed him. “Tav, please.” Obi got the idea and also let go, and the cop slumped over, still breathing but out like a light. Tavish grunted and tried to get to the officer, and his friends grabbed his arms and started pulling him away.
Tavish shivered, frightened by the memory of his anger. He’d lost his temper since then, lost that level of control, but he’d been lucky. He ruined friendships, even a relationship or two, but he’d never gotten that destructive.
He did one of the breathing exercises he’d learned in rehab. Inhale, count to four, exhale, count to four. Conn was dead, now, he’d OD’d about two weeks after that night. Tavish hadn’t seen Obi in months, and the bassist was probably strung out on some stranger’s bathroom floor right about now.
There were times he missed his old life. The band, the drugs, the endless nights.
This was not one of those times.
He heard one of the old men start messing with the jukebox, and his head snapped toward him.
“Touch that fuckin’ jukebox and I jam those fuckin’ IPA’s so far up your arse, you’ll be shitein’ out hops for a week.”
The men sat back down.
Skills: Improvisation: (1) Anything can be a weapon if you've got a little imagination, and Tavish has plenty. (Perception) Bullshittery: (2) Though he's not proud of it, Tavish is a talented liar.(Perception) Scrapper: (2) Tavish used to be quite the brawler. He's no martial artist, but he knows how to throw a punch. (Strength) Musicianship: (1) Though he hasn't picked up his guitar in a while, Tavish is a perfectly passable musician. (Perception)
Resources: -Baird's Pub: A smoky little hole in the wall in a poorer part of Utopia, with a two bedroom apartment above it. Makes enough money to sustain itself, and gives Tavish a little bit less than a full time minimum wage worker's salary in profit.
-The "Shite-Mobile": A beat-up old 1994 Oldsmobile Cutlass, which requires a lot of TLC to run on the best of days and is practically useless in the winter.
-Saturday Night Special: Tavish purchased this cheap, unregistered, .38 revolver when he was nineteen. He gets little enough chance to use it, anymore. He keeps it hidden under the bar, jut for peace of mind.
-Guitar: Tavish sold the electric guitar that he played in his band a long time ago, but he held on to his father's dusty old acoustic, just in case.
Connections: -Thomas McClellan: Tavish's maternal uncle, a primary school teacher that moonlights as a drug dealer, a fact known to no one in the family except Tavish.
-James and Moira Baird: Tavish's parents, retirees living in Galway.
-Oscar "Obi" Bowler: Tavish's childhood friend and the bassist in his band. Currently a drug-addled gas station clerk with, for better or worse, ties to what little organized crime remains in the city.
I've got about 2 years-ish of experience, and I'm eager to add to that. I like music, a lot. Folk punk is my shit, but I'll listen to anything. Like, my library goes from Days N' Daze to Claude Debussy to Lil Peep to Wu-Tang Clan to Bomb The Music Industry to Shakey Graves. When it comes to RP, I get around. You want some fluffy slice of life shit? Hit me with it. Gritty realistic military stories? Why not? High fantasy stories with elves and dragons and shit? Hell yeah. And don't even get me started on Shadowrun-esque cyberpunk. Mmm.
Also, I swear that my writing isn't as weird and scattered as my introductions.
