Supermaxx

Superboy's Shitty Characters

J O H N D O Y L E

♫♫♫

Saturday, June 11th. 11 PM
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Charity Beach Police Department Headquarters

---

The CBPD Headquarters was a beautiful building by all accounts. Built of grey bricks, glass, and tempered steel, it was purposefully made to 'fit in' with the rest of the district's towering skyscrapers and ornate corporate offices. It was all a little too grandiose for John. He couldn't help but feel overwhelmed when stepped into the sprawling lobby earlier that morning. The mountains of paperwork they'd handed him the moment they knew who he was did little to ease his worries. Questions on questions, many of them quite personal in nature. Some of it was information he'd hesitate to share with his wife; yet they assured him it was all quite necessary, so he reluctantly filled it all in.

If he might've thought things would get easier when he finally got to speak with an actual person, the sheriff was wrong. Oh so wrong.

Detective Morgan was a rough man. He had a sharp, hawk-like nose and a smile that could kill a flower. A pair of round, ugly glasses sat on the tip of his beak, accentuating his pair of even sharper eyes. Thin as a wire though he was, Morgan carried a presence about him with his every movement, like a vulture looking for just the right moment to snatch up its prey. And here, trapped in this tiny, grey interrogation room, Doyle certainly felt like his prey.

"Did you or did you not allow Aldrich Leblanc, the Warmonger as you insist on calling him, kill three of your deputies? Did you or did you not fail to apprehend him before he could go on to kill another six civilians and injury twenty-eight more?" Morgan spoke with an accusatory tone; the same one Doyle had used on many of the criminals he'd spoken to over the years. It was...quite the experience to be on the other side of it.

John wasn't going to take that sitting down. He pushed back his chair and stood, his hands gripped tight around the edge of the table in front of him as he and Morgan locked eyes with one another. "You got a lotta nerve talkin' to me like that!" Doyle roared. "I take down the guy you n' your boys let run rampant fer, what, eight months? And this is how you thank me? You think I wanted that asshole to kill my people?"

Morgan didn't back down. "I don't know, Sheriff, did you?"

"Go to hell." John snarled. "I come down here to help you with your investigation n' this is how ya treat me? You got a screw loose up in that fat head'a yours or are you always this awful?"

The detective went quiet and finally broke eye contact, moving to unlatch the briefcase he'd set down on the table when he first walked in. He pulled a cream-colored file out and slapped it down in front of Doyle, tapping on the paper with a sharp, boney finger. "Did you open the case Leblanc carried with him?"

"Course not. Not like we could anyway; lock on that thing was nothin' like any I've ever seen." Doyle fell back into his chair, dragging the file up in front of his face. A picture of the stolen case sat front and center. Its exterior was fat and chrome-ish, covered in small lines and bearing a handle on the top for easy transport. What caught John's eye, however, was the locking mechanism on the front of the case. No keyhole, no keypad, no fingerprint analyzer, no combination, no keycard. None of that. Just a little black square with a silver dot in the center. Doyle had no idea how somethin' like it would work.

"Someone managed to get it open in the time between you collecting it as evidence and it being transferred back to us. The only people to touch it were you and your boys, the Feds, and my people- who'd already found it open." Morgan's demeanor shifted after that. He got quiet. Slipped back into his own chair, his eyes fixated on some point in the distance. Some question must've hung on his tongue, but something was stopping him from asking.

John furrowed his brow, staring down at the words in front of him yet barely comprehending any of it. He was too busy mulling over what Morgan had said. Somebody had managed to get that case open. "Did they take something?" John asked after a moment, his eyes flickering up to Morgan's face. The detective didn't meet his gaze for a few, elongated seconds, yet even after he did he chose not to answer the question.

The sheriff of Donovan county leaned forward in his seat, lowering his voice as he did. "Detective," he started, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. "what was in that case?"

Morgan's mouth fell open but no words came out. He sat there like that for a while, awkwardly squirming. Nothing like the man that had been holding Doyle's ass to the fire not but a few minutes ago. After what felt like an eternity he finally got up from his seat, packed up his suitcase and started for the door.

"Detective-" John began, but he wasn't allowed to finish.

"I'm going to need you to stay in town for a few more days, sheriff." Morgan turned around, his lips contorting into a terribly ugly grin. "I'll give you temporary jurisdiction while you're here, but I'd recommend taking a...short vacation while you're in town. We're known for our beaches here, after all. I'll contact you when you're needed again."

---

♫♫♫

Saturday, June 11th. 12 PM
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Boardwalk

---

John Doyle sat at a little restaurant on the boardwalk, a half-finished cola in one hand and his flip phone in the other. The sky overhead was dark and gloomy, threatening to make the day even darker and gloomier by dropping a bit of rain on everyone's heads at any moment. His straw hung out of the corner of his mouth as he fumbled to press the tiny buttons on his phone. He hated texting. Always seemed like a waste of time to him; why text somebody when you could talk to them, after all? But when he'd gone to make the call he'd felt his stomach twist around inside of itself, so now he was stuck plinking away with his fat old fingers at a tiny keyboard. He'd make sure to talk to his family later that night, but at the moment...

He just needed time to think.

Once the message was off into the void Doyle tossed his flip phone down onto the table just a little too hard. There were a million different thoughts rotating through his head. A million different attempts to explain just what in the world was going on. Something had spooked Detective Morgan- bad. And John could tell from spending just a few minutes with the guy that he wasn't the type to be spooked easily. Warmonger had been a dangerous man. An evil man, even. But...something about the stuff he stole...

John let out a loud, overexaggerated sigh. He took a long sip of his cola, the cold liquid bubbling in his mouth like he'd poured a bunch of poprocks onto his tongue. He couldn't remember how long it'd been since he last tasted the stuff. His doctor had insisted he switch to something less caffeinated and sugary, and John had been good about it for the most part. Only drinking some variant of tea. But he figured he'd earned a cheat day by now, 'specially with everything that was going on. Besides, the soda reminded him of his youth- all those days he'd spent at the diner with his friends chasing girls and ghosts and all other manner of frightening things.

Maybe he didn't need time to think. Maybe he was thinking too much.

Doyle pushed the brim of his hat up. He'd swapped out of his uniform, leaving it in the hands of the hotel staff so they could get some of the muck off of it. Now he was stuck looking like a regular ol' civilian; as regular as a man in a cowboy hat and boots could be in a place like Charity Beach. Though given how odd everyone here seemed to be, he wasn't all that out of the ordinary. He swore he'd even seen a giant lizard walkin' down the boardwalk earlier.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

Moses Yazov

__________________________________________________________ Name | Moses Yazov __________________________________________________________ Gender | Male __________________________________________________________ Age | 19 __________________________________________________________ Nationality | Russian __________________________________________________________ Service | Soviet Army __________________________________________________________ Rank | 2nd Lieutenant __________________________________________________________ Experience | Recruit __________________________________________________________ Physical Profile __________________________________________________________ [+] • Height | 5'4 / 152 cm • Weight | 145 lb / 63.5029 cm • Build | Short and stocky • Hair Colour | Black • Eye Colour | Grey TSF __________________________________________________________ [+] • Type | Su-27SM Zhuravlik • Role | Strike Vanguard • Loadout • 1x A-97 Assault Gun • 4x36mm and 2x120mm Magazines • 2x Arm Blade Motors • Spike Vanes/Blade Vanes Extra __________________________________________________________ [+] • Theme • Quite proficient in hand to hand combat. Uses it to blow off steam. • Keeps a portable CD player on him practically wherever he goes. Owns a large catalog of music, some of it he even paid for. • His most prized possession is his father's old NR-40 combat knife, notable for its all-black blade and hilt. He keeps it in a leather sheath and carries it with him at all times.

Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Aggressive • Courageous • Cocky • Insubordinate • Passionate • Deeply Empathetic Moses Yazov is a young and hotheaded warrior who's out to prove himself to the whole world, consequences be damned. He fights and trains with the raw ferocity of someone that's seen their home ransacked and burned, and he's eager to set himself against the Great Enemy that has so ravaged the Russian countryside. His passionate personality and genuine skill in a pilot's seat makes him a difficult ally to work with- he often thinks he knows best even when he clearly doesn't, and he has a tendency to dive head first into danger. Most of his trainers and commanders think he'll be the first to die in any given operation and its only sheer stubbornness that seems to keep him dragging himself back to base every time. Though oft seen as stupidity, there is genuine courage in Yazov's heart- a willingness to put himself between the BETA and his comrades, countrymen and strangers alike. Moses has a hard time showing it a lot of the time, but he cares quite deeply for the people around him. Sometimes it shows itself in him yelling at them or berating them for their mistakes, and other times it appears in the form of him taking a bullet for them. History ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Born on November 6th, 1985 in a Soviet refugee camp far from the front lines, life's cruel realities were presented to Moses right from the beginning. His father was an officer in the Soviet military, fighting against the BETA on the front and rarely ever coming back to visit his family. Letters were all Moses knew of his father when he was a boy. Letters and whatever trinkets from the homeland that he could have shipped back for his son to know him by. It wasn't hard for a young, impressionable born stuck in a grimy camp to form an image of his father in his mind as a legendary hero and a soldier without equal. He often told the other kids in the camp that his dad was the hero of the Union, and he'd save them all from the aliens singlehandedly. By the time he was twelve, he'd only met the man himself a handful of times, and he treasured the memories of each visit like a poor man treasures gold. He was devastated when the news came that his father had committed an unspeakable act. Sources differed wildly. Some said it was an accident- just friendly fire. Others called it a homicide. Whatever the case, Captain Yazov was charged with killing a fellow soldier on the battlefield and sentenced to death. Treason, they called it. He was executed before Moses got the chance to see him again. The boy had never felt such a rage before. It boiled up in his heart and set into his very bones. His behavior shifted radically, and he made himself a fast enemy of many other boys in the refugee camp, getting into scraps with them often over the smallest infractions. His mother did her best to help the boy cope with what happened, but he had lost his hero. He thought the world too unfair, so he lashed out at it. Some time had passed before something had to be done about him. Mrs. Yazov called on an old friend of her husband- a wounded officer turned trainer of TSF pilots by the name of Gregor Barrikad. Gregor pulled some strings and got Moses into his TSF training program, giving the boy a shot at avenging the death of his father in some fashion. The program breathed a new life into him he hadn't felt before. The gargantuan machines felt like a second skin the moment he stepped into one. Moses had piloting in his blood, it would seem, and he dove head first into the program. All of his rage, his passion, was finally given some direction. He used it to drag himself up into the upper echelons of his class. Technical knowledge was always a constant failing of his, given his distaste for reading, but he moved in his machine better than almost anyone he met as a trainee. He came like a fish to water to melee combat in the suits specifically, his weapons acting as extensions of himself. It wasn't long before he had graduated, and they shipped him off to fight. Battle was not like the training. It was bloody, chaotic and messy. Moses nearly died half a dozen times over the course of his very first engagement. Several of his friends lost their lives right in front of him. It may not have shaken his resolve, but it did make sleeping harder. Time passed, and more battles were fought. He became more proficient in the killing, eventually attracting the attention of recruiters for some strange, multi-national battalion the U.N was cooking up. The 212th Tactical Armored Battalion, they called it. Moses wasn't going to pass up that kind of opportunity, so he took what few belongings he had, kissed his mother goodbye, and shipped off to wherever it was they were taking him. So long as he could kill BETA he was happy to be there.

Muv-luv Alternative | Rising Horizon (OPEN)

Charity Beach: Paradise Gone [Semi-Sandbox/Superhuman]

J O H N D O Y L E

♫♫♫

Friday, June 10th. 3 AM
Jackson Row, Charity Beach, Florida

---

John rode into town with the wind at his back and his gun on his hip, and though he wasn't looking for trouble, it wouldn't be long before it found him. The journey to Charity Beach had been a long one. He'd kissed his wife goodbye in Pickett's Ridge when the sun had already been down for an hour, so Doyle had the pleasure of spending the ride in darkness. There was little to accompany him other than the grainy country tunes of 104.3 FM, and he'd gotten tired of those an hour ago. Now he rode in silence, save for the hum of the engine and the dull roar of his tires on the pavement.

Part of him wanted to head straight to the CBPD Headquarters. He wanted to do his part of the job as soon as he could, put the onus of the work on the locals so he could be outta there nice and quick. John wasn't opposed to traveling, but after everything that happened in the Ridge, he just wanted to be home with his family. If only that pesky sense of duty didn't keep getting in his way.

Any desire he had to go right into the belly of the beast was dashed when he glanced down at the blinking series of numbers on the dash. 3 AM. Not exactly the optimal time to be doing interviews and filling out paperwork. Doyle ran the back of his calloused hand up against his eyes and choked down an obnoxiously persistent yawn. Too late to work. Too late to fill the void in his stomach. The only thing he could do for tonight was to find somewhere to lay his head. Luckily for him, there was a hotel on every corner 'round these parts, so it didn't take long for him to pull his Chevrolet Caprice into a barely occupied parking lot. John climbed out of the black-and-white vehicle, grabbing his hat from the passenger seat as he did, and started toward the front office.

The hotel's lobby was small, yet sleek and modern. Cream colored walls contrasted well with the slate gray carpet. Odd paintings that didn't seem to mean anything, in particular, sat beside even stranger sculptures. The furniture looked like wood but turned out to be plastic on closer inspection, and it was all drenched in a dreary black. It was all a little too modern for Doyle's sensibilities. He'd take a log cabin over this place any day of the week.

What really bothered him though was not the interior design, but the people.

"Come oonnn, chica, you'se can't be this fuckin' boring!" A young gentleman with greasy hair and a scraggly excuse for a beard was leaning across the check-in desk, his tattooed arms spread over its surface as he got up into the receptionist's face.

The receptionist was a head shorter than the man, but given the prickly frown on her freckled face, John could tell she wasn't the least bit intimidated by him. "Like I said, I'm working, so you can fuck right off." She hissed, her hands hovering close to something hidden underneath the lip of the counter.

Another young man accompanying the first let out an ugly, hyena laugh. "She's got some bite, Hector!" The pale skinned specter heckled, ramming his elbow into his Hispanic buddy's ribs. He was shorter than his compatriot but much wider; he either ate too much or spent too much time at the gym. Doyle couldn't quite tell which with the baggy clothes, but he was leaning toward the former.

Hector didn't back down, his unwashed smile only growing wider. "Alrightalrightalright," He started with a wave of his hand. "Clearly, you can't afford the product, so's I'll cut ya a deal: gimme a blow and I'll give ya half-off. How's that sound to ya, chica?" He asked with a wink and a nod as if he was the most generous junkie on the block for that one.

The receptionist stood up on the tips of her toes, practically pressing her nose up against Hector's as she did. She stared right up into the dealer's bloodshot eyes without so much as blinking. "I've got a better one: how about you two leave before I cut your dicks off and shove it up your asses-" She started, though the last word seemed to catch in her throat as her eyes flickered over Hector's shoulder.

"You gentlemen havin'a nice night?" Doyle called a little too loudly, drawing every eye in the room back to him. He didn't cut a very intimidating figure in his campaign hat and olive green pants, but the very visible holster on his hip more than made up for it. "S'pose it'd be mornin' by now, though, innit? What're you boys doin' out so late?"

The stumpy blond one ripped around like a rattlesnake, his eyes lighting up with surprise, followed quickly by a touch of mischief. "That we are, sur!" He responded in a flanderized, mocking drawl. "N' how're you doin' this fiiinee night, cowpoke?"

Hector eyed his friend nervously, tugging a bit on his sleeve. "Hey, uh, B-man, I'unno 'bout this." He tried to mutter, though it came out loud enough for everyone this side of the Mississipi to hear. "He's got a badge, man-"

'B-Man,' or Bjorn as his parents, unfortunately, decided to name him, either didn't hear his friend's wise words or he elected to ignore them as he stepped up closer to the sheriff. He had his thumbs stuffed into the front of his pants and his head tipped back so his chin jutted out like he was a rooster sauntering around the yard. "He ain't from around these parts. Can't ya tell, Hec?" Bjorn lifted up a long, fat finger and flicked the edge of Doyle's hat. "Ol' ten-gallon hat here ain't got no jur-is-dic-tion here. Ain't that right, sur?"

John said nothing for a moment, holding Bjorn's gaze as he contemplated the situation. He shifted around to face fully toward the lanky blond, letting the silence hang long enough for 'B-Man' to begin to look uncomfortable. Only then did the sheriff finally speak. "Felony battery of a peace officer," He started, "that's, what, five years in prison? Slap a possession with intent to sell on top'a that n', well...you're lookin' to be in a spot of bother, ain't ya, sir?"

The specter of a man's face managed to get even paler, believe it or not as if he'd just realized he was stepping up to a lawman. His realization manifested in him stumbling backward and nearly tripping over himself, his hands moving up defensively in front of him. "H-hey, hey, I didn't batter nobody! N' I never done drugs in my life, man! I know my rights!" He stammered.

"That right? Why don't we all take a seat n' wait for my buddies down at CBPD to show up n' sort this out, then? I'm sure if ya didn't do anything wrong then there's no reason not to wait around." Doyle said with a smirk.

By now Hector had swooped in from behind Bjorn, wrapping an arm around his buddy and physically dragging him toward the door to make a quick exit. He seemed the soberer of the two, despite the redness in his eyes, and he was lucid enough to know they'd best leave. "We didn't mean no's trouble, señor, honest-"

"Yeah, yeah, just get outta here, will ya?" Doyle waved them off, turning his back to the two men as they burst out of the door and made their getaway. John whipped back around and shouted, "N' you leave this little lady alone from now on, y'hear?!"

A long, frustrated groan came from behind him. The receptionist had her head buried in her hands, her red locks draped over her face like a curtain. She kept it there for a few seconds as she mulled over whether or not she could live the rest of her life in this position. It was eventually decided that she'd need to return to reality, however, and she let her hands fall back down onto the desk. The disgust on her face was more than apparent. "Did you just unironically call me a 'little lady?' Ugh."

Doyle's eyebrow shot up, caught off-guard by the common. "Scuse me?" He asked, closing the distance between himself and the hotel's front desk. "I apologize fer not bein' hip enough for you, but a little gratitude wouldn't be unwarranted for savin' your keester."

"Oh, my hero. What would I do without you?" She snorted, her arms thrown out in a wide display before they came crashing back down on the desk in a heap. She was a young woman, probably around college age, if John had to guess. She had a plaid shirt on over what looked like her uniform polo, and her name, Sarah, printed on the shirt's nametag. "The only harm those two'll ever do is to their brains with all the shit they ingest."

"You knew those two?" John was quick to ask, resting an elbow on the desk.

Sarah shrugged, too busy looking down at her computer to meet his gaze. "Duh. Homestead Inn isn't exactly a popular hangout. Hector's a fuckin' creep and Bjorn's a lonely loser. They couldn't hurt anybody if they tried."

Doyle plucked a pen out of a basket on the desk and began to clumsily flip it between his fingers. "So you know them from school?"

She blinked, her eyes shifting away from the computer to glare at the sheriff. "How'd you know that?"

"Didn't," John shrugged, tapping the pen on the desk. "Was a question. What were they trying to sell you?"

"Insurance." She snorted. "What do you think?"

"Weed?" John pressed, and Sarah answered only with a laugh. He frowned, confused, and decided to set the pen down. "What?"

"Dude, seriously?" She asked incredulously, only to notice the dumbfounded look on Doyle's face and start into another giggle fit again. "Did you just get here?"

"...Yes?" Doyle groaned, clearly agitated about being led around. "There a point to this?"

Instead of responding Sarah just shook her head. "You'll find out soon. So," she shifted her position, dropping further back in her office chair. "did you come in for a reason? Here to arrest my boss for not dealing with the roaches, orr?"

"Roaches-" He blinked, only to realize she was trying to mess with him again. "No, no. Need a room. Don't know how long I'll be here."

She started to poke information into her system, asking a series of questions to fill out the entry form. It didn't take much more than two or three minutes before she was handing him his keycard and pointing him down the hall. "There ya go," she nodded. "try not to trip on any of the drunks on your way out in the morning. Don't know why, but they like to sleep in front of the door. Just kick 'em a little and they'll scatter."

"Ain't this supposed to be the nice part of town?" Doyle asked, slapping the keycard against his palm as he stepped around the desk and started toward his room.

"Once upon a time. Have a nice night!"

Superboy's Shitty Characters

J O H N D O Y L E

♫♫♫

Friday, June 10th. 3 AM
Jackson Row, Charity Beach, Florida

---

John rode into town with the wind at his back and his gun on his hip, and though he wasn't looking for trouble, it wouldn't be long before it found him. The journey to Charity Beach had been a long one. He'd kissed his wife goodbye in Pickett's Ridge when the sun had already been down for an hour, so Doyle had the pleasure of spending the ride in darkness. There was little to accompany him other than the grainy country tunes of 104.3 FM, and he'd gotten tired of those an hour ago. Now he rode in silence, save for the hum of the engine and the dull roar of his tires on the pavement.

Part of him wanted to head straight to the CBPD Headquarters. He wanted to do his part of the job as soon as he could, put the onus of the work on the locals so he could be outta there nice and quick. John wasn't opposed to traveling, but after everything that happened in the Ridge, he just wanted to be home with his family. If only that pesky sense of duty didn't keep getting in his way.

Any desire he had to go right into the belly of the beast was dashed when he glanced down at the blinking series of numbers on the dash. 3 AM. Not exactly the optimal time to be doing interviews and filling out paperwork. Doyle ran the back of his calloused hand up against his eyes and choked down an obnoxiously persistent yawn. Too late to work. Too late to fill the void in his stomach. The only thing he could do for tonight was to find somewhere to lay his head. Luckily for him, there was a hotel on every corner 'round these parts, so it didn't take long for him to pull his Chevrolet Caprice into a barely occupied parking lot. John climbed out of the black-and-white vehicle, grabbing his hat from the passenger seat as he did, and started toward the front office.

The hotel's lobby was small, yet sleek and modern. Cream colored walls contrasted well with the slate gray carpet. Odd paintings that didn't seem to mean anything, in particular, sat beside even stranger sculptures. The furniture looked like wood but turned out to be plastic on closer inspection, and it was all drenched in a dreary black. It was all a little too modern for Doyle's sensibilities. He'd take a log cabin over this place any day of the week.

What really bothered him though was not the interior design, but the people.

"Come oonnn, chica, you'se can't be this fuckin' boring!" A young gentleman with greasy hair and a scraggly excuse for a beard was leaning across the check-in desk, his tattooed arms spread over its surface as he got up into the receptionist's face.

The receptionist was a head shorter than the man, but given the prickly frown on her freckled face, John could tell she wasn't the least bit intimidated by him. "Like I said, I'm working, so you can fuck right off." She hissed, her hands hovering close to something hidden underneath the lip of the counter.

Another young man accompanying the first let out an ugly, hyena laugh. "She's got some bite, Hector!" The pale skinned specter heckled, ramming his elbow into his Hispanic buddy's ribs. He was shorter than his compatriot but much wider; he either ate too much or spent too much time at the gym. Doyle couldn't quite tell which with the baggy clothes, but he was leaning toward the former.

Hector didn't back down, his unwashed smile only growing wider. "Alrightalrightalright," He started with a wave of his hand. "Clearly, you can't afford the product, so's I'll cut ya a deal: gimme a blow and I'll give ya half-off. How's that sound to ya, chica?" He asked with a wink and a nod as if he was the most generous junkie on the block for that one.

The receptionist stood up on the tips of her toes, practically pressing her nose up against Hector's as she did. She stared right up into the dealer's bloodshot eyes without so much as blinking. "I've got a better one: how about you two leave before I cut your dicks off and shove it up your asses-" She started, though the last word seemed to catch in her throat as her eyes flickered over Hector's shoulder.

"You gentlemen havin'a nice night?" Doyle called a little too loudly, drawing every eye in the room back to him. He didn't cut a very intimidating figure in his campaign hat and olive green pants, but the very visible holster on his hip more than made up for it. "S'pose it'd be mornin' by now, though, innit? What're you boys doin' out so late?"

The stumpy blond one ripped around like a rattlesnake, his eyes lighting up with surprise, followed quickly by a touch of mischief. "That we are, sur!" He responded in a flanderized, mocking drawl. "N' how're you doin' this fiiinee night, cowpoke?"

Hector eyed his friend nervously, tugging a bit on his sleeve. "Hey, uh, B-man, I'unno 'bout this." He tried to mutter, though it came out loud enough for everyone this side of the Mississipi to hear. "He's got a badge, man-"

'B-Man,' or Bjorn as his parents, unfortunately, decided to name him, either didn't hear his friend's wise words or he elected to ignore them as he stepped up closer to the sheriff. He had his thumbs stuffed into the front of his pants and his head tipped back so his chin jutted out like he was a rooster sauntering around the yard. "He ain't from around these parts. Can't ya tell, Hec?" Bjorn lifted up a long, fat finger and flicked the edge of Doyle's hat. "Ol' ten-gallon hat here ain't got no jur-is-dic-tion here. Ain't that right, sur?"

John said nothing for a moment, holding Bjorn's gaze as he contemplated the situation. He shifted around to face fully toward the lanky blond, letting the silence hang long enough for 'B-Man' to begin to look uncomfortable. Only then did the sheriff finally speak. "Felony battery of a peace officer," He started, "that's, what, five years in prison? Slap a possession with intent to sell on top'a that n', well...you're lookin' to be in a spot of bother, ain't ya, sir?"

The specter of a man's face managed to get even paler, believe it or not as if he'd just realized he was stepping up to a lawman. His realization manifested in him stumbling backward and nearly tripping over himself, his hands moving up defensively in front of him. "H-hey, hey, I didn't batter nobody! N' I never done drugs in my life, man! I know my rights!" He stammered.

"That right? Why don't we all take a seat n' wait for my buddies down at CBPD to show up n' sort this out, then? I'm sure if ya didn't do anything wrong then there's no reason not to wait around." Doyle said with a smirk.

By now Hector had swooped in from behind Bjorn, wrapping an arm around his buddy and physically dragging him toward the door to make a quick exit. He seemed the soberer of the two, despite the redness in his eyes, and he was lucid enough to know they'd best leave. "We didn't mean no's trouble, señor, honest-"

"Yeah, yeah, just get outta here, will ya?" Doyle waved them off, turning his back to the two men as they burst out of the door and made their getaway. John whipped back around and shouted, "N' you leave this little lady alone from now on, y'hear?!"

A long, frustrated groan came from behind him. The receptionist had her head buried in her hands, her red locks draped over her face like a curtain. She kept it there for a few seconds as she mulled over whether or not she could live the rest of her life in this position. It was eventually decided that she'd need to return to reality, however, and she let her hands fall back down onto the desk. The disgust on her face was more than apparent. "Did you just unironically call me a 'little lady?' Ugh."

Doyle's eyebrow shot up, caught off-guard by the common. "Scuse me?" He asked, closing the distance between himself and the hotel's front desk. "I apologize fer not bein' hip enough for you, but a little gratitude wouldn't be unwarranted for savin' your keester."

"Oh, my hero. What would I do without you?" She snorted, her arms thrown out in a wide display before they came crashing back down on the desk in a heap. She was a young woman, probably around college age, if John had to guess. She had a plaid shirt on over what looked like her uniform polo, and her name, Sarah, printed on the shirt's nametag. "The only harm those two'll ever do is to their brains with all the shit they ingest."

"You knew those two?" John was quick to ask, resting an elbow on the desk.

Sarah shrugged, too busy looking down at her computer to meet his gaze. "Duh. Homestead Inn isn't exactly a popular hangout. Hector's a fuckin' creep and Bjorn's a lonely loser. They couldn't hurt anybody if they tried."

Doyle plucked a pen out of a basket on the desk and began to clumsily flip it between his fingers. "So you know them from school?"

She blinked, her eyes shifting away from the computer to glare at the sheriff. "How'd you know that?"

"Didn't," John shrugged, tapping the pen on the desk. "Was a question. What were they trying to sell you?"

"Insurance." She snorted. "What do you think?"

"Weed?" John pressed, and Sarah answered only with a laugh. He frowned, confused, and decided to set the pen down. "What?"

"Dude, seriously?" She asked incredulously, only to notice the dumbfounded look on Doyle's face and start into another giggle fit again. "Did you just get here?"

"...Yes?" Doyle groaned, clearly agitated about being led around. "There a point to this?"

Instead of responding Sarah just shook her head. "You'll find out soon. So," she shifted her position, dropping further back in her office chair. "did you come in for a reason? Here to arrest my boss for not dealing with the roaches, orr?"

"Roaches-" He blinked, only to realize she was trying to mess with him again. "No, no. Need a room. Don't know how long I'll be here."

She started to poke information into her system, asking a series of questions to fill out the entry form. It didn't take much more than two or three minutes before she was handing him his keycard and pointing him down the hall. "There ya go," she nodded. "try not to trip on any of the drunks on your way out in the morning. Don't know why, but they like to sleep in front of the door. Just kick 'em a little and they'll scatter."

"Ain't this supposed to be the nice part of town?" Doyle asked, slapping the keycard against his palm as he stepped around the desk and started toward his room.

"Once upon a time. Have a nice night!"

Muv-luv Alternative: Rising Horizon (Mech RP)--Open

Gonna slap some interest on this shit.

Let's Talk: The Discord Discussion

People have been avoiding posting long before Discord was around; someone who actually wants to post is going to, and not having a Discord isn't going to make an inactive player suddenly more active IC.

Charity Beach: Paradise Gone [Semi-Sandbox/Superhuman]

John Doyle

J O H N D O Y L E

---

---

⫸ B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"You'd best make sure you don't miss your shot, bud, because I sure as hell won't miss mine."

▼ | BIRTH NAME : |

Jonathan Elijah Doyle

▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |

Officer Doyle
Sheriff
Cowboy

▼ | GENDER : |

Male

▼ | AGE : |

41 - 05/11/1978

⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷

"I've seen roadkill prettier than me."

▼ | P H Y S I C AL S T A T S : |

▸ HEIGHT : | 5'8
▸ WEIGHT : | 164 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Predominately Irish/English mix
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Dirty blond
▸ EYE COLOR : | Blue

▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |

Jonathan Doyle is an old man from a different world, and he bears that fact in the way he carries himself. His shoulders slump heavy and low and dark bags hang like dead men underneath his sharp, judgmental eyes. A crooked nose, broken after one too many fistfights, sits center on his wrinkled face. A thin and stubbly mesh of facial hair stays glued to his flat chin, never getting quite as long or bushy as John would like.

Before time sanded away his best features, he liked to think he was quite handsome. Though not very tall, he was muscular and strapping, once upon a time; but age has taken away a degree of his form's definition, and left him with a slight gut and arms that are a shadow of their former selves. His hair, however, suffered the worst of it. He's felt his hairline creep further and further up his head with each passing year, his shame for it matched only by what he feels for the growing bald spot that crowns the top of his dome.

Only a few scars can be found across his body, though each holds a great deal of significance to him. He earned his first, a rather small mark across his left eyebrow, in a bar fight with a man that was eyeing Doyle's future wife. His second came to him when a Taliban put a bullet through the upper portion of his right forearm. The rest all appeared in the same, short time frame when an IED blew up underneath his squad's Humvee and a spray of shrapnel cut into him from his left thigh up to his bellybutton.

The only ink to cover his body's ugly mural is the emblem of the 10th Mountain Division, with its duel bayonets crossing over one another atop a powder keg-shaped background. Right beneath it are the numbers 1/78, indicating his battalion and regiment, respectively. The tattoo sits just off-center, resting above his heart.

▼ | ATTIRE : |

Doyle is typically seen wearing sheriff's uniform of Donovan County, Georgia. He holds no shortage of pride in bearing that seven-pointed star and that old campaign hat of his, even after eight years of consecutive service. The uniform's top is long sleeved and khaki colored, bearing on it his badge and a nameplate for identification purposes. The pants, meanwhile, are olive green and feature a khaki stripe down the exterior sides. His campaign hat, adorned with his county badge and golden cords, match the shade of his slacks.

When not on duty John tends to favor simplistic and rustic attire. Long sleeve button downs, blue jeans, and a brown, belt-leather jacket all serve him well most of the time. His choice of boots (oft either cowboy or some variant of combat, depending on the setting) and hat (nearly always some form of cowboy hat) are a source of mockery for how out of place they make him look in Palm Beach, but John isn't the sort to ever adapt to his environment, so he chooses to continue dressing like he's still in Pickett's Ridge.

The only jewelry he'll ever wear is the golden, smudged ring that rests on the ring finger of his left hand.

⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷

"I'm nobody special, trust me. I'm just another asshole tryin'ta do the right thing."

▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |

Stubborn | Driven | Idealistic | Fearless | Modest | Self-Righteous | Old Fashioned

▼ | SKILLS : |

GUNSLINGING || John's father took him to the range for the first time when he was eleven years old, and he's never quite stopped shooting since. His time in Afghanistan refined his shooting skill with long weapons like rifles and carbines, while his years as a deputy and sheriff have allowed him to master the revolver and shotgun. His greatest claim to fame, thus far, was putting a bullet through the eye of a Delta at 40 yards.

DRIVING || Life on the farm often saw young Jonathan behind the wheel of a pickup or the tractor as early on as twelve years old. As he grew older and more experienced and learned that running over Miss Graham's mailbox was generally a bad thing, John became steadily more comfortable as a driver. His career peaked when he started taxiing infantrymen across the Rigestan in a fat, sluggish HMMWV. He's been stuck with his'87 Chevrolet Caprice cruiser for the past eight years, though it has served him well: more than one drunken fool thought they could outrace the law and found themselves in a pair of cuffs not but half an hour later.

BOXING || John had plenty of downtime in Afghanistan between his duties, and he and his buddies decided the best way to spend that free time was to beat the shit out of each other. They found themselves a boxing coach at Bagram Airfield, put together a makeshift ring, and spent many a night drinking and punching one another. Doyle liked it well enough that he decided to continue practicing when he returned to the States, though his duties as a deputy and then a sheriff kept him from pursuing it too seriously. Still, he keeps his fundamentals polished enough, and it's served him well against many a belligerent idiot who tried to swing on him first.

ADMINISTRATION & COMMUNITY RELATIONS || No amount of rootin', tootin' or shootin' can make up for a sheriff that doesn't know how to file a report or deal with an angry citizen. It's far, far from John's favorite part of the job, but he wouldn't have gotten it if he couldn't do it. He's an organized person that works best with physical filing and paper in his hands, typically passing off anything digital to his secretary or one of the deputies. Doyle is generally well-liked in Pickett's Ridge and the rest of Donovan County, and he has a good rapport with the majority of the community thanks to his decisiveness in dealing with trouble and open-door, honesty-first policy.

▼ | BACK STORY : |

A child was born in the tiny Georgian town of Picket's Ridge on a Thursday, minutes after the crack of dawn. John Doyle was a rowdy boy in his youth who spent his days reading comic books about cowboys, watching re-runs of Gunsmoke and running about town with his friends shooting invisible banditos with their cap guns. He had a penchant for picking fights with bullies and getting knocked on his rear-end fightin' for guys littler than himself; John didn't win too many of those fights, but that didn't stop him from jumping right back into it. His obsession may have lessened when he became a teenager, yet it never quite went away. He never quite stopped daydreaming about small-town heroes who did right by normal people and fought evil whenever they came across it.

His own chance to be a hero came in 2001 when evil men attacked his countrymen and changed the world forever. John would be hard pressed to find New York on a map, but he still felt righteous anger in his heart at the wrong that had been done to them. So he found the army recruiting office in Valdosta, said some sorta oath, and was promptly shipped off to the other side of the country to become a soldier. He was placed in the 10th Mountain Division, 1st battalion, 87th Regiment, and deployed to the God forsaken hellhole that was a Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. He arrived in the Middle East in December of 2001 and spent much of the next four months patrolling empty mountains and trying not to fall asleep during guard duty. He didn't make contact with the enemy until March in the Shahi-Kot Valley, during Operation Anaconda. He was lucky enough to have been part of the relief forces, so he faced the easiest of the fighting- though he still took a bullet through the arm and spent a week trying desperately to keep his head attached to his shoulders.

For as terrifying as combat was, John was surprised by how much closer he got to his squadmates during it all. Nothing makes closer bonds between two people than being stuck in a foxhole for eight hours, bodies pressed together and both of you smelling like shit. Doyle and his mates continued to enjoy their comradery for another three years, fighting and living side by side against a faraway foe. Things got sticky at times, sure, but they'd all been lucky enough to avoid anything life-threatening. The thing that came closest to killing them was boredom.

Until they ran over an IED.

Everyone in the transport was hurt in some way. John was peppered with shrapnel and wouldn't be able to walk properly for nearly a year. One of the boys didn't make it, in the end, and all of them would go on to be medically discharged for their injuries. Doyle returned back home to Pickett's Ridge in 2004 and received a hero's welcome. He spent the next three years in physical therapy for his wounded leg, sweet-talking one of the nurses at the clinic, an old spitfire from high school he never quite stopped thinking about named Abigail, until she finally caved and agreed to marry him. They had a son within the year, Marcus, and a daughter, Rose, followed just after him.

John was elated when his doctor finally cleared him to work again. He'd been sick of staying in bed, and he'd already seen every Western movie ever made at least twice by then. It didn't take long for him to find his way to the County Sheriff's office, where a deputy's badge was practically pinned on his chest the moment he walked in the front door. He spent the next four years patrolling Donovan and learning the ins and outs of the community. He found a passion for the work and dove head first into it, proving himself a capable peace officer and a trustworthy face in the community. By the time the sheriff election rolled over, nearly everyone was saying he should go for it. Doyle figured he might as well give it a shot; it might even be a little fun.

It turned out that the only difference between being a sheriff and being a deputy was the amount of paperwork quadrupled and his allotted time for sleep was cut in half. The first year of service was stressful, tiresome and all-around awful, but Abi refused to let him quit. He was forced to adapt to his circumstances and rely on others to lighten the burden for him. Things became far easier once he got used to delegating and organizing things, doing his best to mimic his sergeant's mindset from back in Afghanistan. By the time his third year had rolled around, Sheriff Doyle had grown fond of the position, no matter how frustrating some days might've gotten. He came to appreciate how much effort and passion it required of him. Some small part of him loved finally getting to play the gunslinging, hometown hero he'd imagined himself as when he was a kid.

Fast forward to 2019. Pickett's Ridge is as quiet as ever one, lonesome afternoon, and Sheriff Doyle is investigating a noise complaint at the Rusty Iron Motel in the southern part of town. A couple of young tourists were having a very loud, very angry spat, according to the motel's owner, so John was meant to swing by and see what the issue was. One of the motel's occupants was an infamous Delta criminal that went by the street name 'Warmonger.' He and three of his crew were hiding out in Pickett's Ridge after robbing a bank down in Charity City. They were planning to keep their heads down for a few months before they'd take the cash and split up. Evidentally a few of them weren't keen on waiting out, and their argument swiftly turned to violence. By the time Doyle and his deputies had arrived, Warmonger had already murdered his entire crew with his bare hands, and he was holed up in the motel room with the cash and their battered corpses.

Doyle hadn't known he was dealing with a metahuman at the time. Rather than start a protracted siege, he stacked up on the door with his men and decided to breach it. Deal with the threat quickly, before any damage could be done. Warmonger responded violently. John still remembers quite clearly the look on his deputy's face when he put two shotgun shells right into Warmonger's chest only for the Delta to tear him limb from limb. John and his men tried to retreat, but Warmonger followed, and their battle spilled out over Pickett's Ridge's streets. Nine dead, twenty-eight wounded and an hour later, John managed to put a bullet through the metahuman's eye and Warmonger went down. The sheriff handed temporary authority over to his second and proceeded to join federal and state law enforcement in escorting the Delta back to Charity City. John has been asked to stay in the city for awhile while 'Warmonger' is processed and the investigation is rounded out. As tired of it all as he was, Doyle agreed- he'd do anything he could to make sure that monster went away for life.

Unbeknownst to John, his fight with the Delta exposed him to energy that would soon change his life forever.

⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"The walls whisper n' the streets grumble. They don't like you, boy, and neither do I."

▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |

Type-White

▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |

Urban Manipulation/Influence || John Doyle possesses the ability to speak to, influence and manipulate urban environments. His power works in any environment shaped by human hands, though is typically strongest when in larger cities and towns. They tend to manifest to himself in the form of 'spirits' that embody whatever part of town he happens to be in, though John isn't sure these entities are real; in fact, he's convinced that these 'ghosts' are just how his mind processes the new information gleaned from his powers. And any backlash he receives from them is most likely spawned from him losing control of his abilities and misusing them in some form or another.

The amount of power that John has in any area is tied directly to his relationship with these 'ghosts;' those that he's more familiar with will be more willing to share information with him, or manipulate the city in some way to help Doyle. If he travels to a new area and encounters a new ghost it isn't likely to do much at all for him, and can even hinder Doyle if he asks too much of them.

The best method for John to befriend a part of the city is to do things for it. Anything from stopping graffiti artists to picking up trash can make a ghost warm up to him. Certain parts of the city might like it if he does favors for its best residents, or they might ask that he goes and sabotages another portion of the city for their enjoyment. The ghosts are an odd bunch, and each neighborhood and district talks and feels like its own, free-thinking person- as impossible and insane as that should be.

Examples of what his powers can do would include unlocking doors for him, pointing him toward escape routes, or helping him track down someone that recently came through an area. When Doyle has fully befriended a part of the city he might be able to form potholes in roads to stop escaping vehicles or cause street lamps to fall atop an attacker, or a trash can might launch itself at someone for him. His abilities never get too incredible- he'll never be bending streets like they're the tide or moving buildings around. They aren't particularly helpful in combat unless John can figure out a way to use them more creatively.

▼ | LIMITS : |

John's power is limited directly by the place he's in. In a town like Pickett's Ridge where he's served faithfully for much of his life, Doyle can assume that the ghosts will be more than willing to help him out when he asks them to. But in Charity City, he's a stranger. An outsider that hasn't proven himself quite yet. He'll need to familiarize himself with Charity first- to roam its streets and do good by its people- before the ghosts are willing to do anything for him.

Generally, Doyle is only able to interact with the city if its within 50 or so meters of himself. Anything beyond that is outside of his range. A neighborhood will usually remember the people that came through it for roughly two hours afterward with the trail tending to go cold not long after that, and Doyle can only follow someone's tracks if he knows who he's looking for. If John asks a neighborhood's ghost to do something to the detriment of a long-time resident, he'll usually be outright denied if not treated with disdain by the entity, provided he can't convince the ghost that the resident is bad for the neighborhood.

John's powers no longer function once he leaves civilization. Generally, this line is drawn at the city or town's limits, though he loses influence the further he gets from the center.

▼ | WEAKNESSES : |

John can feel the pain of a neighborhood's ghost, especially if it's one he has a close bond with. Anything from a building being demolished, to graffiti being put on a wall, or a fire burning somewhere within it can all cause varying levels of pain for him. It's even possible for Doyle to feel this pain when he's far away from those ghosts- while this can help warn him that trouble's afoot, it also has the potential to debilitate or distract him.

Asking the spirit of a neighborhood to do too much at once, or something too severe can cause it to lash out against him. This could result in anything as mild as John stepping in dog shit to something as severe as him being hit by a car.

Doyle himself isn't the young man he used to be. Almost anyone under thirty-five can reliably outrun him, and his stamina keeps him from winning any sort of fist fight that isn't over in the first round of punches. On top of that, his bad leg has a habit of 'acting up' after too much use, so he's even more useless in a protracted chase of any kind.

⫸ O T H E R ⫷

"I miss my wife's cookin.' Why can't anyone in Charity make a decent plate'a chicken?"

John's service revolver is a Colt Trooper MK III, chambered for .357 magnum cartridges, and he carries a Smith & Wesson '36 as a backup. He generally has two speed loaders on his belt and another six speed strips for extended shootouts, and for stickier situations, he relies on a Remington 870 that he keeps in his cruiser's trunk.

He doesn't particularly like technology and has yet to upgrade from the last flip phone he bought eons ago.

John's son, Marcus, is fifteen years old, and his daughter, Rose, is fourteen. His wife, Abigail, is thirty-nine.

John's Relationship Table

Character Name	Opinion
Character Name	Opinion
Character Name	Opinion
Character Name	Opinion
Character Name	Opinion

Charity Beach: Paradise Gone [Semi-Sandbox/Superhuman]

Have my shitass CS that I spent way too much time on.

John Doyle

J O H N D O Y L E

---

---

⫸ B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"You'd best make sure you don't miss your shot, bud, because I sure as hell won't miss mine."

▼ | BIRTH NAME : |

Jonathan Elijah Doyle

▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |

Officer Doyle
Sheriff
Cowboy

▼ | GENDER : |

Male

▼ | AGE : |

41 - 05/11/1978

⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷

"I've seen roadkill prettier than me."

▼ | P H Y S I C AL S T A T S : |

▸ HEIGHT : | 5'8
▸ WEIGHT : | 164 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Predominately Irish/English mix
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Dirty blond
▸ EYE COLOR : | Blue

▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |

Jonathan Doyle is an old man from a different world, and he bears that fact in the way he carries himself. His shoulders slump heavy and low and dark bags hang like dead men underneath his sharp, judgmental eyes. A crooked nose, broken after one too many fistfights, sits center on his wrinkled face. A thin and stubbly mesh of facial hair stays glued to his flat chin, never getting quite as long or bushy as John would like.

Before time sanded away his best features, he liked to think he was quite handsome. Though not very tall, he was muscular and strapping, once upon a time; but age has taken away a degree of his form's definition, and left him with a slight gut and arms that are a shadow of their former selves. His hair, however, suffered the worst of it. He's felt his hairline creep further and further up his head with each passing year, his shame for it matched only by what he feels for the growing bald spot that crowns the top of his dome.

Only a few scars can be found across his body, though each holds a great deal of significance to him. He earned his first, a rather small mark across his left eyebrow, in a bar fight with a man that was eyeing Doyle's future wife. His second came to him when a Taliban put a bullet through the upper portion of his right forearm. The rest all appeared in the same, short time frame when an IED blew up underneath his squad's Humvee and a spray of shrapnel cut into him from his left thigh up to his bellybutton.

The only ink to cover his body's ugly mural is the emblem of the 10th Mountain Division, with its duel bayonets crossing over one another atop a powder keg-shaped background. Right beneath it are the numbers 1/78, indicating his battalion and regiment, respectively. The tattoo sits just off-center, resting above his heart.

▼ | ATTIRE : |

Doyle is typically seen wearing sheriff's uniform of Donovan County, Georgia. He holds no shortage of pride in bearing that seven-pointed star and that old campaign hat of his, even after eight years of consecutive service. The uniform's top is long sleeved and khaki colored, bearing on it his badge and a nameplate for identification purposes. The pants, meanwhile, are olive green and feature a khaki stripe down the exterior sides. His campaign hat, adorned with his county badge and golden cords, match the shade of his slacks.

When not on duty John tends to favor simplistic and rustic attire. Long sleeve button downs, blue jeans, and a brown, belt-leather jacket all serve him well most of the time. His choice of boots (oft either cowboy or some variant of combat, depending on the setting) and hat (nearly always some form of cowboy hat) are a source of mockery for how out of place they make him look in Palm Beach, but John isn't the sort to ever adapt to his environment, so he chooses to continue dressing like he's still in Pickett's Ridge.

The only jewelry he'll ever wear is the golden, smudged ring that rests on the ring finger of his left hand.

⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷

"I'm nobody special, trust me. I'm just another asshole tryin'ta do the right thing."

▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |

Stubborn | Driven | Idealistic | Fearless | Modest | Self-Righteous | Old Fashioned

▼ | SKILLS : |

GUNSLINGING || John's father took him to the range for the first time when he was eleven years old, and he's never quite stopped shooting since. His time in Afghanistan refined his shooting skill with long weapons like rifles and carbines, while his years as a deputy and sheriff have allowed him to master the revolver and shotgun. His greatest claim to fame, thus far, was putting a bullet through the eye of a Delta at 40 yards.

DRIVING || Life on the farm often saw young Jonathan behind the wheel of a pickup or the tractor as early on as twelve years old. As he grew older and more experienced and learned that running over Miss Graham's mailbox was generally a bad thing, John became steadily more comfortable as a driver. His career peaked when he started taxiing infantrymen across the Rigestan in a fat, sluggish HMMWV. He's been stuck with his'87 Chevrolet Caprice cruiser for the past eight years, though it has served him well: more than one drunken fool thought they could outrace the law and found themselves in a pair of cuffs not but half an hour later.

BOXING || John had plenty of downtime in Afghanistan between his duties, and he and his buddies decided the best way to spend that free time was to beat the shit out of each other. They found themselves a boxing coach at Bagram Airfield, put together a makeshift ring, and spent many a night drinking and punching one another. Doyle liked it well enough that he decided to continue practicing when he returned to the States, though his duties as a deputy and then a sheriff kept him from pursuing it too seriously. Still, he keeps his fundamentals polished enough, and it's served him well against many a belligerent idiot who tried to swing on him first.

ADMINISTRATION & COMMUNITY RELATIONS || No amount of rootin', tootin' or shootin' can make up for a sheriff that doesn't know how to file a report or deal with an angry citizen. It's far, far from John's favorite part of the job, but he wouldn't have gotten it if he couldn't do it. He's an organized person that works best with physical filing and paper in his hands, typically passing off anything digital to his secretary or one of the deputies. Doyle is generally well-liked in Pickett's Ridge and the rest of Donovan County, and he has a good rapport with the majority of the community thanks to his decisiveness in dealing with trouble and open-door, honesty-first policy.

▼ | BACK STORY : |

A child was born in the tiny Georgian town of Picket's Ridge on a Thursday, minutes after the crack of dawn. John Doyle was a rowdy boy in his youth who spent his days reading comic books about cowboys, watching re-runs of Gunsmoke and running about town with his friends shooting invisible banditos with their cap guns. He had a penchant for picking fights with bullies and getting knocked on his rear-end fightin' for guys littler than himself; John didn't win too many of those fights, but that didn't stop him from jumping right back into it. His obsession may have lessened when he became a teenager, yet it never quite went away. He never quite stopped daydreaming about small-town heroes who did right by normal people and fought evil whenever they came across it.

His own chance to be a hero came in 2001 when evil men attacked his countrymen and changed the world forever. John would be hard pressed to find New York on a map, but he still felt righteous anger in his heart at the wrong that had been done to them. So he found the army recruiting office in Valdosta, said some sorta oath, and was promptly shipped off to the other side of the country to become a soldier. He was placed in the 10th Mountain Division, 1st battalion, 87th Regiment, and deployed to the God forsaken hellhole that was a Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. He arrived in the Middle East in December of 2001 and spent much of the next four months patrolling empty mountains and trying not to fall asleep during guard duty. He didn't make contact with the enemy until March in the Shahi-Kot Valley, during Operation Anaconda. He was lucky enough to have been part of the relief forces, so he faced the easiest of the fighting- though he still took a bullet through the arm and spent a week trying desperately to keep his head attached to his shoulders.

For as terrifying as combat was, John was surprised by how much closer he got to his squadmates during it all. Nothing makes closer bonds between two people than being stuck in a foxhole for eight hours, bodies pressed together and both of you smelling like shit. Doyle and his mates continued to enjoy their comradery for another three years, fighting and living side by side against a faraway foe. Things got sticky at times, sure, but they'd all been lucky enough to avoid anything life-threatening. The thing that came closest to killing them was boredom.

Until they ran over an IED.

Everyone in the transport was hurt in some way. John was peppered with shrapnel and wouldn't be able to walk properly for nearly a year. One of the boys didn't make it, in the end, and all of them would go on to be medically discharged for their injuries. Doyle returned back home to Pickett's Ridge in 2004 and received a hero's welcome. He spent the next three years in physical therapy for his wounded leg, sweet-talking one of the nurses at the clinic, an old spitfire from high school he never quite stopped thinking about named Abigail, until she finally caved and agreed to marry him. They had a son within the year, Marcus, and a daughter, Rose, followed just after him.

John was elated when his doctor finally cleared him to work again. He'd been sick of staying in bed, and he'd already seen every Western movie ever made at least twice by then. It didn't take long for him to find his way to the County Sheriff's office, where a deputy's badge was practically pinned on his chest the moment he walked in the front door. He spent the next four years patrolling Donovan and learning the ins and outs of the community. He found a passion for the work and dove head first into it, proving himself a capable peace officer and a trustworthy face in the community. By the time the sheriff election rolled over, nearly everyone was saying he should go for it. Doyle figured he might as well give it a shot; it might even be a little fun.

It turned out that the only difference between being a sheriff and being a deputy was the amount of paperwork quadrupled and his allotted time for sleep was cut in half. The first year of service was stressful, tiresome and all-around awful, but Abi refused to let him quit. He was forced to adapt to his circumstances and rely on others to lighten the burden for him. Things became far easier once he got used to delegating and organizing things, doing his best to mimic his sergeant's mindset from back in Afghanistan. By the time his third year had rolled around, Sheriff Doyle had grown fond of the position, no matter how frustrating some days might've gotten. He came to appreciate how much effort and passion it required of him. Some small part of him loved finally getting to play the gunslinging, hometown hero he'd imagined himself as when he was a kid.

Fast forward to 2019. Pickett's Ridge is as quiet as ever one, lonesome afternoon, and Sheriff Doyle is investigating a noise complaint at the Rusty Iron Motel in the southern part of town. A couple of young tourists were having a very loud, very angry spat, according to the motel's owner, so John was meant to swing by and see what the issue was. One of the motel's occupants was an infamous Delta criminal that went by the street name 'Warmonger.' He and three of his crew were hiding out in Pickett's Ridge after robbing a bank down in Charity City. They were planning to keep their heads down for a few months before they'd take the cash and split up. Evidentally a few of them weren't keen on waiting out, and their argument swiftly turned to violence. By the time Doyle and his deputies had arrived, Warmonger had already murdered his entire crew with his bare hands, and he was holed up in the motel room with the cash and their battered corpses.

Doyle hadn't known he was dealing with a metahuman at the time. Rather than start a protracted siege, he stacked up on the door with his men and decided to breach it. Deal with the threat quickly, before any damage could be done. Warmonger responded violently. John still remembers quite clearly the look on his deputy's face when he put two shotgun shells right into Warmonger's chest only for the Delta to tear him limb from limb. John and his men tried to retreat, but Warmonger followed, and their battle spilled out over Pickett's Ridge's streets. Nine dead, twenty-eight wounded and an hour later, John managed to put a bullet through the metahuman's eye and Warmonger went down. The sheriff handed temporary authority over to his second and proceeded to join federal and state law enforcement in escorting the Delta back to Charity City. John has been asked to stay in the city for awhile while 'Warmonger' is processed and the investigation is rounded out. As tired of it all as he was, Doyle agreed- he'd do anything he could to make sure that monster went away for life.

Unbeknownst to John, his fight with the Delta exposed him to energy that would soon change his life forever.

⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"The walls whisper n' the streets grumble. They don't like you, boy, and neither do I."

▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |

Type-White

▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |

Urban Manipulation/Influence || John Doyle possesses the ability to speak to, influence and manipulate urban environments. His power works in any environment shaped by human hands, though is typically strongest when in larger cities and towns. They tend to manifest to himself in the form of 'spirits' that embody whatever part of town he happens to be in, though John isn't sure these entities are real; in fact, he's convinced that these 'ghosts' are just how his mind processes the new information gleaned from his powers. And any backlash he receives from them is most likely spawned from him losing control of his abilities and misusing them in some form or another.

The amount of power that John has in any area is tied directly to his relationship with these 'ghosts;' those that he's more familiar with will be more willing to share information with him, or manipulate the city in some way to help Doyle. If he travels to a new area and encounters a new ghost it isn't likely to do much at all for him, and can even hinder Doyle if he asks too much of them.

The best method for John to befriend a part of the city is to do things for it. Anything from stopping graffiti artists to picking up trash can make a ghost warm up to him. Certain parts of the city might like it if he does favors for its best residents, or they might ask that he goes and sabotages another portion of the city for their enjoyment. The ghosts are an odd bunch, and each neighborhood and district talks and feels like its own, free-thinking person- as impossible and insane as that should be.

Examples of what his powers can do would include unlocking doors for him, pointing him toward escape routes, or helping him track down someone that recently came through an area. When Doyle has fully befriended a part of the city he might be able to form potholes in roads to stop escaping vehicles or cause street lamps to fall atop an attacker, or a trash can might launch itself at someone for him. His abilities never get too incredible- he'll never be bending streets like they're the tide or moving buildings around. They aren't particularly helpful in combat unless John can figure out a way to use them more creatively.

▼ | LIMITS : |

John's power is limited directly by the place he's in. In a town like Pickett's Ridge where he's served faithfully for much of his life, Doyle can assume that the ghosts will be more than willing to help him out when he asks them to. But in Charity City, he's a stranger. An outsider that hasn't proven himself quite yet. He'll need to familiarize himself with Charity first- to roam its streets and do good by its people- before the ghosts are willing to do anything for him.

Generally, Doyle is only able to interact with the city if its within 50 or so meters of himself. Anything beyond that is outside of his range. A neighborhood will usually remember the people that came through it for roughly two hours afterward with the trail tending to go cold not long after that, and Doyle can only follow someone's tracks if he knows who he's looking for. If John asks a neighborhood's ghost to do something to the detriment of a long-time resident, he'll usually be outright denied if not treated with disdain by the entity, provided he can't convince the ghost that the resident is bad for the neighborhood.

John's powers no longer function once he leaves civilization. Generally, this line is drawn at the city or town's limits, though he loses influence the further he gets from the center.

▼ | WEAKNESSES : |

John can feel the pain of a neighborhood's ghost, especially if it's one he has a close bond with. Anything from a building being demolished, to graffiti being put on a wall, or a fire burning somewhere within it can all cause varying levels of pain for him. It's even possible for Doyle to feel this pain when he's far away from those ghosts- while this can help warn him that trouble's afoot, it also has the potential to debilitate or distract him.

Asking the spirit of a neighborhood to do too much at once, or something too severe can cause it to lash out against him. This could result in anything as mild as John stepping in dog shit to something as severe as him being hit by a car.

Doyle himself isn't the young man he used to be. Almost anyone under thirty-five can reliably outrun him, and his stamina keeps him from winning any sort of fist fight that isn't over in the first round of punches. On top of that, his bad leg has a habit of 'acting up' after too much use, so he's even more useless in a protracted chase of any kind.

⫸ O T H E R ⫷

"I miss my wife's cookin.' Why can't anyone in Charity make a decent plate'a chicken?"

John's service revolver is a Colt Trooper MK III, chambered for .357 magnum cartridges, and he carries a Smith & Wesson '36 as a backup. He generally has two speed loaders on his belt and another six speed strips for extended shootouts, and for stickier situations, he relies on a Remington 870 that he keeps in his cruiser's trunk.

He doesn't particularly like technology and has yet to upgrade from the last flip phone he bought eons ago.

John's son, Marcus, is fifteen years old, and his daughter, Rose, is fourteen. His wife, Abigail, is thirty-nine.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

John Doyle

J O H N D O Y L E

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⫸ B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"You'd best make sure you don't miss your shot, bud, because I sure as hell won't miss mine."

▼ | BIRTH NAME : |

Jonathan Elijah Doyle

▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |

Officer Doyle
Sheriff
Cowboy

▼ | GENDER : |

Male

▼ | AGE : |

41 - 05/11/1978

⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷

"I've seen roadkill prettier than me."

▼ | P H Y S I C AL S T A T S : |

▸ HEIGHT : | 5'8
▸ WEIGHT : | 164 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Predominately Irish/English mix
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Dirty blond
▸ EYE COLOR : | Blue

▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |

Jonathan Doyle is an old man from a different world, and he bears that fact in the way he carries himself. His shoulders slump heavy and low and dark bags hang like dead men underneath his sharp, judgmental eyes. A crooked nose, broken after one too many fistfights, sits center on his wrinkled face. A thin and stubbly mesh of facial hair stays glued to his flat chin, never getting quite as long or bushy as John would like.

Before time sanded away his best features, he liked to think he was quite handsome. Though not very tall, he was muscular and strapping, once upon a time; but age has taken away a degree of his form's definition, and left him with a slight gut and arms that are a shadow of their former selves. His hair, however, suffered the worst of it. He's felt his hairline creep further and further up his head with each passing year, his shame for it matched only by what he feels for the growing bald spot that crowns the top of his dome.

Only a few scars can be found across his body, though each holds a great deal of significance to him. He earned his first, a rather small mark across his left eyebrow, in a bar fight with a man that was eyeing Doyle's future wife. His second came to him when a Taliban put a bullet through the upper portion of his right forearm. The rest all appeared in the same, short time frame when an IED blew up underneath his squad's Humvee and a spray of shrapnel cut into him from his left thigh up to his bellybutton.

The only ink to cover his body's ugly mural is the emblem of the 10th Mountain Division, with its duel bayonets crossing over one another atop a powder keg-shaped background. Right beneath it are the numbers 1/78, indicating his battalion and regiment, respectively. The tattoo sits just off-center, resting above his heart.

▼ | ATTIRE : |

Doyle is typically seen wearing sheriff's uniform of Donovan County, Georgia. He holds no shortage of pride in bearing that seven-pointed star and that old campaign hat of his, even after eight years of consecutive service. The uniform's top is long sleeved and khaki colored, bearing on it his badge and a nameplate for identification purposes. The pants, meanwhile, are olive green and feature a khaki stripe down the exterior sides. His campaign hat, adorned with his county badge and golden cords, match the shade of his slacks.

When not on duty John tends to favor simplistic and rustic attire. Long sleeve button downs, blue jeans, and a brown, belt-leather jacket all serve him well most of the time. His choice of boots (oft either cowboy or some variant of combat, depending on the setting) and hat (nearly always some form of cowboy hat) are a source of mockery for how out of place they make him look in Palm Beach, but John isn't the sort to ever adapt to his environment, so he chooses to continue dressing like he's still in Pickett's Ridge.

The only jewelry he'll ever wear is the golden, smudged ring that rests on the ring finger of his left hand.

⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷

"I'm nobody special, trust me. I'm just another asshole tryin'ta do the right thing."

▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |

Stubborn | Driven | Idealistic | Fearless | Modest | Self-Righteous | Old Fashioned

▼ | SKILLS : |

GUNSLINGING || John's father took him to the range for the first time when he was eleven years old, and he's never quite stopped shooting since. His time in Afghanistan refined his shooting skill with long weapons like rifles and carbines, while his years as a deputy and sheriff have allowed him to master the revolver and shotgun. His greatest claim to fame, thus far, was putting a bullet through the eye of a Delta at 40 yards.

DRIVING || Life on the farm often saw young Jonathan behind the wheel of a pickup or the tractor as early on as twelve years old. As he grew older and more experienced and learned that running over Miss Graham's mailbox was generally a bad thing, John became steadily more comfortable as a driver. His career peaked when he started taxiing infantrymen across the Rigestan in a fat, sluggish HMMWV. He's been stuck with his'87 Chevrolet Caprice cruiser for the past eight years, though it has served him well: more than one drunken fool thought they could outrace the law and found themselves in a pair of cuffs not but half an hour later.

BOXING || John had plenty of downtime in Afghanistan between his duties, and he and his buddies decided the best way to spend that free time was to beat the shit out of each other. They found themselves a boxing coach at Bagram Airfield, put together a makeshift ring, and spent many a night drinking and punching one another. Doyle liked it well enough that he decided to continue practicing when he returned to the States, though his duties as a deputy and then a sheriff kept him from pursuing it too seriously. Still, he keeps his fundamentals polished enough, and it's served him well against many a belligerent idiot who tried to swing on him first.

ADMINISTRATION & COMMUNITY RELATIONS || No amount of rootin', tootin' or shootin' can make up for a sheriff that doesn't know how to file a report or deal with an angry citizen. It's far, far from John's favorite part of the job, but he wouldn't have gotten it if he couldn't do it. He's an organized person that works best with physical filing and paper in his hands, typically passing off anything digital to his secretary or one of the deputies. Doyle is generally well-liked in Pickett's Ridge and the rest of Donovan County, and he has a good rapport with the majority of the community thanks to his decisiveness in dealing with trouble and open-door, honesty-first policy.

▼ | BACK STORY : |

A child was born in the tiny Georgian town of Picket's Ridge on a Thursday, minutes after the crack of dawn. John Doyle was a rowdy boy in his youth who spent his days reading comic books about cowboys, watching re-runs of Gunsmoke and running about town with his friends shooting invisible banditos with their cap guns. He had a penchant for picking fights with bullies and getting knocked on his rear-end fightin' for guys littler than himself; John didn't win too many of those fights, but that didn't stop him from jumping right back into it. His obsession may have lessened when he became a teenager, yet it never quite went away. He never quite stopped daydreaming about small-town heroes who did right by normal people and fought evil whenever they came across it.

His own chance to be a hero came in 2001 when evil men attacked his countrymen and changed the world forever. John would be hard pressed to find New York on a map, but he still felt righteous anger in his heart at the wrong that had been done to them. So he found the army recruiting office in Valdosta, said some sorta oath, and was promptly shipped off to the other side of the country to become a soldier. He was placed in the 10th Mountain Division, 1st battalion, 87th Regiment, and deployed to the God forsaken hellhole that was a Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. He arrived in the Middle East in December of 2001 and spent much of the next four months patrolling empty mountains and trying not to fall asleep during guard duty. He didn't make contact with the enemy until March in the Shahi-Kot Valley, during Operation Anaconda. He was lucky enough to have been part of the relief forces, so he faced the easiest of the fighting- though he still took a bullet through the arm and spent a week trying desperately to keep his head attached to his shoulders.

For as terrifying as combat was, John was surprised by how much closer he got to his squadmates during it all. Nothing makes closer bonds between two people than being stuck in a foxhole for eight hours, bodies pressed together and both of you smelling like shit. Doyle and his mates continued to enjoy their comradery for another three years, fighting and living side by side against a faraway foe. Things got sticky at times, sure, but they'd all been lucky enough to avoid anything life-threatening. The thing that came closest to killing them was boredom.

Until they ran over an IED.

Everyone in the transport was hurt in some way. John was peppered with shrapnel and wouldn't be able to walk properly for nearly a year. One of the boys didn't make it, in the end, and all of them would go on to be medically discharged for their injuries. Doyle returned back home to Pickett's Ridge in 2004 and received a hero's welcome. He spent the next three years in physical therapy for his wounded leg, sweet-talking one of the nurses at the clinic, an old spitfire from high school he never quite stopped thinking about named Abigail, until she finally caved and agreed to marry him. They had a son within the year, Marcus, and a daughter, Rose, followed just after him.

John was elated when his doctor finally cleared him to work again. He'd been sick of staying in bed, and he'd already seen every Western movie ever made at least twice by then. It didn't take long for him to find his way to the County Sheriff's office, where a deputy's badge was practically pinned on his chest the moment he walked in the front door. He spent the next four years patrolling Donovan and learning the ins and outs of the community. He found a passion for the work and dove head first into it, proving himself a capable peace officer and a trustworthy face in the community. By the time the sheriff election rolled over, nearly everyone was saying he should go for it. Doyle figured he might as well give it a shot; it might even be a little fun.

It turned out that the only difference between being a sheriff and being a deputy was the amount of paperwork quadrupled and his allotted time for sleep was cut in half. The first year of service was stressful, tiresome and all-around awful, but Abi refused to let him quit. He was forced to adapt to his circumstances and rely on others to lighten the burden for him. Things became far easier once he got used to delegating and organizing things, doing his best to mimic his sergeant's mindset from back in Afghanistan. By the time his third year had rolled around, Sheriff Doyle had grown fond of the position, no matter how frustrating some days might've gotten. He came to appreciate how much effort and passion it required of him. Some small part of him loved finally getting to play the gunslinging, hometown hero he'd imagined himself as when he was a kid.

Fast forward to 2019. Pickett's Ridge is as quiet as ever one, lonesome afternoon, and Sheriff Doyle is investigating a noise complaint at the Rusty Iron Motel in the southern part of town. A couple of young tourists were having a very loud, very angry spat, according to the motel's owner, so John was meant to swing by and see what the issue was. One of the motel's occupants was an infamous Delta criminal that went by the street name 'Warmonger.' He and three of his crew were hiding out in Pickett's Ridge after robbing a bank down in Charity City. They were planning to keep their heads down for a few months before they'd take the cash and split up. Evidentally a few of them weren't keen on waiting out, and their argument swiftly turned to violence. By the time Doyle and his deputies had arrived, Warmonger had already murdered his entire crew with his bare hands, and he was holed up in the motel room with the cash and their battered corpses.

Doyle hadn't known he was dealing with a metahuman at the time. Rather than start a protracted siege, he stacked up on the door with his men and decided to breach it. Deal with the threat quickly, before any damage could be done. Warmonger responded violently. John still remembers quite clearly the look on his deputy's face when he put two shotgun shells right into Warmonger's chest only for the Delta to tear him limb from limb. John and his men tried to retreat, but Warmonger followed, and their battle spilled out over Pickett's Ridge's streets. Nine dead, twenty-eight wounded and an hour later, John managed to put a bullet through the metahuman's eye and Warmonger went down. The sheriff handed temporary authority over to his second and proceeded to join federal and state law enforcement in escorting the Delta back to Charity City. John has been asked to stay in the city for awhile while 'Warmonger' is processed and the investigation is rounded out. As tired of it all as he was, Doyle agreed- he'd do anything he could to make sure that monster went away for life.

⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷

"The walls whisper n' the streets grumble. They don't like you, boy, and neither do I."

▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |

Type-White

▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |

Urban Manipulation/Influence || John Doyle possesses the ability to speak to, influence and manipulate urban environments. His power works in any environment shaped by human hands, though is typically strongest when in larger cities and towns. They tend to manifest to himself in the form of 'spirits' that embody whatever part of town he happens to be in, though John isn't sure these entities are real; in fact, he's convinced that these 'ghosts' are just how his mind processes the new information gleaned from his powers. And any backlash he receives from them is most likely spawned from him losing control of his abilities and misusing them in some form or another.

The amount of power that John has in any area is tied directly to his relationship with these 'ghosts;' those that he's more familiar with will be more willing to share information with him, or manipulate the city in some way to help Doyle. If he travels to a new area and encounters a new ghost it isn't likely to do much at all for him, and can even hinder Doyle if he asks too much of them.

The best method for John to befriend a part of the city is to do things for it. Anything from stopping graffiti artists to picking up trash can make a ghost warm up to him. Certain parts of the city might like it if he does favors for its best residents, or they might ask that he goes and sabotages another portion of the city for their enjoyment. The ghosts are an odd bunch, and each neighborhood and district talks and feels like its own, free-thinking person- as impossible and insane as that should be.

Examples of what his powers can do would include unlocking doors for him, pointing him toward escape routes, or helping him track down someone that recently came through an area. When Doyle has fully befriended a part of the city he might be able to form potholes in roads to stop escaping vehicles or cause street lamps to fall atop an attacker, or a trash can might launch itself at someone for him. His abilities never get too incredible- he'll never be bending streets like they're the tide or moving buildings around. They aren't particularly helpful in combat unless John can figure out a way to use them more creatively.

▼ | LIMITS : |

John's power is limited directly by the place he's in. In a town like Pickett's Ridge where he's served faithfully for much of his life, Doyle can assume that the ghosts will be more than willing to help him out when he asks them to. But in Charity City, he's a stranger. An outsider that hasn't proven himself quite yet. He'll need to familiarize himself with Charity first- to roam its streets and do good by its people- before the ghosts are willing to do anything for him.

Generally, Doyle is only able to interact with the city if its within 50 or so meters of himself. Anything beyond that is outside of his range. A neighborhood will usually remember the people that came through it for roughly two hours afterward with the trail tending to go cold not long after that, and Doyle can only follow someone's tracks if he knows who he's looking for. If John asks a neighborhood's ghost to do something to the detriment of a long-time resident, he'll usually be outright denied if not treated with disdain by the entity, provided he can't convince the ghost that the resident is bad for the neighborhood.

John's powers no longer function once he leaves civilization. Generally, this line is drawn at the city or town's limits, though he loses influence the further he gets from the center.

▼ | WEAKNESSES : |

John can feel the pain of a neighborhood's ghost, especially if it's one he has a close bond with. Anything from a building being demolished, to graffiti being put on a wall, or a fire burning somewhere within it can all cause varying levels of pain for him. It's even possible for Doyle to feel this pain when he's far away from those ghosts- while this can help warn him that trouble's afoot, it also has the potential to debilitate or distract him.

Asking the spirit of a neighborhood to do too much at once, or something too severe can cause it to lash out against him. This could result in anything as mild as John stepping in dog shit to something as severe as him being hit by a car.

Doyle himself isn't the young man he used to be. Almost anyone under thirty-five can reliably outrun him, and his stamina keeps him from winning any sort of fist fight that isn't over in the first round of punches. On top of that, his bad leg has a habit of 'acting up' after too much use, so he's even more useless in a protracted chase of any kind.

⫸ O T H E R ⫷

"I miss my wife's cookin.' Why can't anyone in Charity make a decent plate'a chicken?"

John's service revolver is a Colt Trooper MK III, chambered for .357 magnum cartridges, and he carries a Smith & Wesson '36 as a backup. He generally has two speed loaders on his belt and another six speed strips for extended shootouts, and for stickier situations, he relies on a Remington 870 that he keeps in his cruiser's trunk.

He doesn't particularly like technology and has yet to upgrade from the last flip phone he bought eons ago.

John's son, Marcus, is fifteen years old, and his daughter, Rose, is fourteen. His wife, Abigail, is thirty-nine.