Carson, Alastair

[Guest]

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CASE FILE: Creig Militant

"I'm nothing but a tin man, I don't feel any pain."
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FULL NAME:
→ Alastair Ciaran Carson

AGE:
→ 33 34

SEX:
→ Male.

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Belfast, Carraig.

RACE:
→ Creig.

DEPARTMENT:
→ Carraig's Police Department

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ 3rd July, 1978.

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HEIGHT:
→ 6 ft 3/191cm.

WEIGHT:
→ 15 st 12 lbs/97kg.

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ Alastair, or, Al, as you'll most likely take to calling him, stands fairly tall with a muscular and toned frame, as suits his job. He's got a neatly combed head of darkening blonde hair, as well as a complexion ridged with scars and little blotches courtesy of life being a bitch. The hair's generally channelled into a little flick at the front just for kicks.

On-duty, Alastair wears a combat vest beneath a white shirt, generally left with the top two buttons undone. His pistols are clearly visible in his shoulder holsters, and he wears no tie; generally the look is accompanied with a pair of black trousers and simple boots. There's a third holster for a tiny .22 Makarov PMM, Drachman design, at his ankle, as a last resort.

Off-duty, Alastair is most likely to be found either asleep or drinking with Fiachra. At this point, he'll either be wearing just his underwear (for the former, or if the latter's gone particularly downhill) or a combination of tee shirts and jeans, alongside a signature leather jacket and a pair of cheap-as-shit aviators he loves to pieces. The shoulder-holsters are usually cut down to one at this point, but it all depends on the situation.

Al has deep, blue eyes and small lips. Mannerisms and voice are generally loud, comedic, and larger-than-life... either because he's drunk or just trying to once more suppress the horrors of what's happened in his past life. However, his vocal tone and melody are usually caustic and the bitterness is more than present.

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PERSONALITY:
→ You could probably brand Alastair as a bitter, closed-off cynic. He'd probably brand you with various phrases not suitable for child audiences.

Alastair is bitter. He's blunt. Yes, he is cynical, and all three of these things even more so when alcohol is added into the equation. The world hasn't been kind to him and thus he drowns his sorrows with alcohol and the odd diving trip. His appreciation is spread very thin, and he holds very few confidants; most are workmates, but most people are usually turned oaway by his automated, passive defense mechanisms. Alastair simply forgets to switch them off.

Forever the personified polar opposite of optimism, Alastair doesn't so much hate those optimistic but tries to bitterly deflect every advance they make - this is because they remind him of Caitlin and her acting and mannerisms (generally more as women, which is why he can't keep constant, long-term partners). In reality, this needs to be broken apart and he needs someone to get in close, past the harsh defense mechanisms, ignoring everything Alastair may say, before he can begin to truly heal.

Piss him off, and Alastair will tell you exactly what he thinks of you, to your face. Do it a little more, and then he'll most likely just take the childish route of drowning out your every word with loud cussing and fart noises. He's hypocritical to a T, and can be an asshole at all times... but watch out! Here come the redeeming qualities.

When you get down to it... really, Alastair does mean well. At heart, he's a nice guy with a good moral sense who wants nothing more than to just do his job and enjoy himself, in his own twisted and depressive little way. He's just joking around, poking fun at the state the world is in - depressing as it is - and really doesn't mean half the things he says, which often leads to him going too far and ending up becoming locked in grudges with people (the other reason that he doesn't have many friends).

If you manage to persist far enough with interest to break open that tough exterior, beneath is a damaged man who just wants nothing more than to forget. Sometimes, he may get lost in thought for minutes, hours, and possibly even days or weeks, leading to depression and silence on Al's end; but with the simplest of stimuli, he may simply snap back to reality. He's an odd one; there's no denying that, but with his history, he's got more than enough reason to be. Conversation is usually very short and sharp with him, and he can be a man of few words and a man of many. Doesn't depend on mood; just on what he thinks to be 'the right answer' (hint: it's usually wrong or an opinion).

Alastair is shameless and seems not to understand the gravity of humiliation - especially in women. Thus, he can be seen as a misogynist at times; this isn't true, it's just varying degrees of sensitivity to his dickhead behaviour. He will show you up if he feels like it, and will very plainly insult you if you need insulting or being knocked down a rung (social degradation is fun!). Alastair really doesn't care what the general population think of him or the way he runs things, which can be quite dangerous; however, by some bizarre continual array of miracles, he's managed to hold things together and keep his position... for now. Probably has to do with his being in good with Gavin.

On a lighter note, Al will give you a nickname if he speaks to you for frequent prolonged periods of time (read: longer than a few minutes). And he won't care whether you like it or not. And he won't care if you enforce pecking order. If you're that close to him, then you probably won't care anyway.

The bottom line? You're dealing with a shameless cynic who doesn't understand how social interaction is supposed to work - or, does, but just doesn't pay it any heed anyway. You don't have to tread carefully around him, because his opinion is his opinion either way, and by the end of the night, he will speak his mind about you. He's blunt, hypocritical, bitter, and defensive to a T - but if you get to know him well enough, maybe, just maybe, you'll see something worth seeing beneath all that armour he puts up around himself.

Oh, and never challenge him to Ring of Fire. He is utterly without shame and unbeatable.

*****

Not much has changed with Alastair; things have only gotten worse. As is to be expected, he is still a beast of alcoholism and regret. His drinking hasn't stopped, and though his cynicism has been penetrated by the odd rays of good will and a sprinkling of happiness, life still remains unbearable without alcohol. There's been no reason for him to stop - aside from the debacle with Spade, which was just hilarious in retrospect, nothing much has happened.

He still respects the military, and is still a stand-up policeman, though has shown a number of times that letting alcohol into the mix does cloud his judgement, and his methods, whilst they get results, are shady at best. He's a maverick cop, but he achieves; is this why Gavin picked him for the job? No-one really knows.

Alastair is still difficult to deal with, cynical, and more foul-mouthed than ever, especially so with a cold pint in his hand. But he has shown capacity to change, even if he is getting more and more bitter by the moment.

All he needs now is the motive to.

LOVE:
→ Beer.
→ Beer.
→ Beer.
→ Rum.
→ Beer.
→ Bailey's.
→ Beer.
→ Beer.
→ The odd spot of cider.
→ Drinking games.
→ Absinthe and gin.
→ Beer.
→ Beer.
→ The firing range.
→ His jacket.
→ His boat.
→ Real Drachman vodka.
→ Birthday parties.
→ Cake.
→ Beer.
→ Beer.
→ Laughter.
→ Beer.
→ Paychecks (they bring beer).
→ Boobs.
→ Beer.
→ Beer.
→ Beer AND boobs at the same time.
→ Wet t-shirt contests.
→ Beer.
→ Pretending to be Sherlock Holmes when he feels intelligent.
→ Diving.
→ Beer.
→ Beer on a boat.
→ The sound of the sea.
→ Spade.
→ Carraig

HATE:
→ No beer.
→ Fake Drachman vodka.
→ Hangovers.
→ Hangovers.
→ Being conned into losing all his money whilst drunk
→ Vomiting.
→ Sake.
→ Rye whiskey (the headaches).
→ Cigars.
→ Accidental discharges whilst drunk
→ Accidental 'discharges' whilst drunk
→ Spade.
→ Pink guns.
→ Afro chickens.
→ Surprise transvestites.
→ Irma.

DEEPEST SECRETS:
→ Whereas he tries to shove it off as 'enjoying a drink', Alastair is an alcoholic and drinks to escape the past.
→ The events of Operation Gladius. He's only ever revealed the extent of what happened to Gavin and Gavin alone.
→ His years working beneath some of the most disruptive insurgents in the whole of Carraig (age 17 to 21).
→ The fate of his mother and sister, and that happiness in general reminds him of the pair of them.

IDOLS:
→ Gavin Etheridge, fair King and good boss.
→ Fiachra simply for his ability to hold his alcohol down like a pro.
→ Artemis for her ability to hit a fly at 100 yards away with that rifle whilst riding a horse and dancing the Cha Cha Slide.
→ Spade, because Spade.

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HISTORY:
→ Born in 1978 to the good-natured Owain and Deirdre Carson, Alastair resided, for the earlier years of his life, in a city where political instability was at an all time high. Growing up, despite the tension straining around him in his home and work environment, with his parents being hard pushed for money, Alastair was always a very social and outgoing boy, very much a positive figure. Over the next eighteen months, the pair tried to conceive a second child, but failed more than once, resulting in a devastating stillbirth putting an end to their attempts for Alastair's sibling.

Owain rose Alastair well in the few years he was around; he taught him many things, and amongst those, the most important were two: a good moral compass and family. He'd been told to protect his family and friends (to a lesser extent) with all that he could muster, even at this young age; but at any time, the former were always more important than the latter. Owain raised Alastair to be ready to die for his family in a heartbeat.

Three years after Alastair's birth, his father having coined his nickname of 'Al' - which he bears to this day - birth, Deirdre became pregnant again. This time, a complete fluke, her faith and vigour restored, nine months down the line, sure enough, Deirdre gave birth to a healthy daughter: Caitlin Carson herself. Beautiful even as a child, Caitlin quickly grew to hold something of a legacy within the Carson clan for being the happiest and warmest child, even at a young age. Of course, all this praise was well-received on the girl's end; with Alastair, sure enough, now six or seven, her self-appointed protector.

Having always been hard-pushed for money, when the strikes and protests came, Owain couldn't help but join in, finding himself spiralling down a path with the depressing dual destinations of unemployment and alcoholism. However, the protests themselves quickly escalated beyond what they had been presumed to, and at one demonstration the usually-peaceful Owain had believed to be a simple sign-wielding, a riot broke out; molotov cocktails and improvised explosives were thrown, and panic spread like wildfire. In the conclusion, there were ten or eleven protesters injured, a dozen civilians wounded from the protesters' actions, and three fatal casualties. One of these three was registered a few days later as Owain Carson.

Only just old enough to be able to even comprehend death and loss like this, it was absolutely devastating for Alastair. The family quickly cut its ties from the rest of the others, moving with Deirdre having to take on very much a full-time job. If they had been hard-pushed for money then, now, things were unspeakably pressing. The family had already been blue-collar, but now they lived off benefits and a welfare system.

After their father's death, the siblings were rose mainly by their mother, absent for most of the time. She, however, tired and sorrowful as she was, maintained a positive stance within the household, and remained a strong motherly figure; she couldn't allow her children to go astray. And at least one would stay true to the right path for the entire duration of her life... her anger could be reined in and suppressed. Alastair's... couldn't.

Sorrowful and angry at how the world had chewed up his father and torn the family apart, Alastair quickly became something of a rebellious figure as a teen. He ignored everything his mother said to him, treasuring but a single figure in his life, a beacon of hope to juxtapose his harsh, damaged attitudes: Caitlin. Shielding and protecting her from the horrors of the world he'd come to know, she was Alastair's one weakness.

A vicious fighter in his younger days, Alastair's passion was more than once channeled into a form of defense for his sister; her first boyfriend found himself with two black eyes and a broken nose - as a warning - not three days into their relationship. He had his friends, his troupe, sure; but no-one and nothing got between him and Caitlin. Ever. No matter what the pecking order was, the sibling love between the pair was not something anyone with a fair amount of brain cells tampered with. It was attempted and shot down more than once; thus making Caitlin rather bitter towards her brother, and keeping her love life and relationships somewhat succinct.

Quickly, she became angry at his defensive attitude, not understanding Alastair's motives, but the pair remained close throughout it all. Through older friends and contacts Alastair developed, remembering how his father had brought him up on morals - 'always fight for what you think is right' - when further protests spilled out once more onto Belfast's streets, the aggressive, furious teen, taking a rather twisted, jaded view of the world, signed on happily for the team that his father had been a part of.

The team that had thrown the molotovs and escaped without taking harm whilst innocent people fell. Alastair didn't yet know it, but these weren't protesters; they were terrorists.

At eighteen, he signed on for real work. He quickly ascended through the protesters' ranks - known as the NCA, New Carraig Army - becoming a pet favourite of Belfast's NCA de-facto 'leader', Sean McCall. He always had his thuggish, brute-like men nearby, but savoured Alastair's twisted sense of intelligence and the vengeance burning inside him for his father. Quickly blanking out everything his father had instilled into him with mindless propaganda and talk of liberation, the thin, gaunt, lanky, vicious McCall twisted Alastair around his finger. It wasn't long before he had him strung up, too, like another puppet.

Ditching school at 18 to work for the NCA, a small branch of a main organisation - especially in Belfast - Alastair quickly became involved in a number of shady activities. Gang beatings, bar brawls, interrogation... all commonplace throughout Belfast's alleyways. The NCA functioned like any other criminal body with simply morals and a twisted 'judicial' goal strapped alongside their figurehead, McCall. Who was he, really? Just a sadistic little prick who enjoyed striking fear and terror in the hearts of those around - for shits and giggles.

In the NCA, Alastair became a new person. Three years; three years, he worked for them, slowly becoming estranged from what precious little family and friends he had left. He was truly an integral part of the organisation, and for a while, functioned on brawn alone; as if simply being around McCall seared and numbed his very mind. At the age of 21, McCall decided that Alastair was trustworthy, and as a sign of good faith, brought him into one of the man's personal interrogation sessions.

Even Alastair couldn't steel himself enough for what McCall would do.

Interrogation was one thing... no, this was torture. Endless pain dealt blow after blow to a man who obviously knew little or nothing; it wasn't about breaking mental barriers, it was about picking out informants and getting your sadistic fun from them. Fingers were hacked off, nails pulled, heads shoved straight into icewater... until, finally, McCall, sweating and red, had listened to enough hopeless screaming and wailing. He pushed the man up against the wall, unsheathed a pistol, and blew his brains out onto the cream wallpaper of the NCA safehouse.

Instability hit him like a hammer. McCall turned to Alastair and grinned; and realisation slammed into him moments later. What had he done? This wasn't right. He knew that this wasn't what life or fate had planned for him... he had to... he had to get out of there. Stumbling away but moments later, he ran. He ran, and ran, and ran, and ran, and ran. Over fields and hills, through ditches and cold frost of puddles; and before he knew it, his legs were coated up to the knee with mud, and it was morning. Dirt was sprayed across his entire uniform; hopeless and distraught, he tore it off, and sat there, morning Carraig chills, wearing naught but underwear and boots.

Rocking back and forth, slowly, he processed facts and ideas. In his catatonia, the most important of them all came to light: his family. Oh, how he'd ignored them; but alas, blood runs thicker than water even in the coldest of days. He knew that with his disappearance from the NCA, his family were in danger. And McCall... oh, god, he'd seen...

Red-faced and suddenly filled with a new passion, mud-streaked, Alastair returned to Belfast and quickly recouperated from his acquired colds. He returned to his home when finally he was ready to apologise; only to find the stench of blood and sex hanging foul upon the air. And... pain. The house was empty; the back door open. Blood spilt over the table and flooded the small, cramped kitchen floor; two figures slumped into chairs. Slit throats. Deirdre and Caitlin Carson, dead. Dried tears streaking down their eyes; frozen expressions of spluttering horror, dried blood upon the lips. The bodies had already stiffened in rigor mortis. It was... horrible.

It destroyed him, as one would expect. Every penny of the three's accounts went towards the funeral; buried alongside Owain, Alastair stared over at those harsh white fields for days on end, wondering when his plot would join the rest. He knew his headstone deserved to be up there... he had killed them. I may as well have pulled the trigger...

Horror and suicidal depression hit him hard. Alcohol was Alastair's only escape; it wasn't exactly a newfound vice, but when he collapsed day after day into a scotch-induced sleep, he quickly became reliant upon it. He was shaky; both in composure and psyche. Every day was routine, grey, bleak, and the same, without the only person he'd truly felt adoration for in this world; his sister, that warm, protective, beacon of light, the mother who'd brought them up together after their father had passed... why? Why would anyone want to kill them? Why did they have to die? Why couldn't it have been McCall?!

Vengeance took over his life once the initial depression passed. He knew; he knew he'd become an empty, cold husk once it was done. But he'd kill everyone. Anyone associated with these murders, and those directly responsible. It didn't matter who'd held the knives or pulled the triggers, or even those that had brutally raped and gang-banged his mother and sister moments before they lapsed, screaming and gurgling into death... he just wanted to make the pain go away.

The only solace he found was surprise a few weeks later. It appeared the universe was on his side; just as Alastair cocked the pistol and prepared the first bout of vengeance, mustering up the 'courage' to act, a double-whammy, these men now responsible for the deaths of three family members... his eyes settled on a single article. A blown-out petrol station as a cover picture. The faces of three burly men set beneath. Three burly men he recognised. With captioned names far too familiar for his own comfort. His ill-gotten gains, the pistol he'd trained with day after day for the moment that he was steeling himself for... it didn't matter. The world had stolen his quarry from him; and once more, anger struck in that familiar, searing blow within his veins.

In reality, Alastair didn't realise until a few years ago just how much of a favour this had been.

However, quickly, Alastair managed to work himself, with the news that the men who were responsible had finally gotten just a fraction of what they'd deserved, back into an almost-regular social cycle. It took him until the turn of the new millennium, but the man was finally ready to integrate himself back into society and community alike. But what would he do?

Well, Alastair wasn't particularly academic. His knowledge had been sapped and degraded over the past few years; and what did he have to show for it?

The answer was simple yet took him weeks to finally deduce; paramilitary operations. Special ops. That pistol he'd trained with slowly turned to a rifle; a few months of training later, and skills initially forged for revenge had developed into a profit-making utility and allowed him to now contribute properly to the country, as opposed to his jaded idea a few years previous that gangbangers could truly make their mark on this Earth. For once, Alastair felt whole and complete; he knew his father would be proud that his only son, one way or another, with the protests having now cleared up, was working for a good, honest cause and putting his skills to use.

However, the man's trials and tribulations had only just begun.

Alastair joined a paramilitary branch of Faolchú under Fiachra Brennan in 2005 through until 2008. The pair quickly became good acquaintances, and as Alastair ascended in rank to commanding a whole squad alone, he began to bond further with other higher-ups and even official figures - within Carraig's close-knit military network - including Artemis, Sorcha, and the King himself. However, the bitter personality had not quite come full circle yet... there was still one more thing that had to come full circle before the journey would have made the man.

Remnants of the protests had cropped up again between 2006 and 2007, however, the operations weren't nearly as dire as they had been in the mid-70s and 80s. However, five men with enough evidence of crime were found to be holding a meeting inside a safehouse outside Dublin. All ex-NCA members from different branches, they were to be arrested and convicted, Carraig special police having prepped a six-month case just for these five. Operation Gladius.

Everything went to plan; Alastair was placed in charge of the operation's execution, the police on back-up. His unit staked out the building; they cut the lights, and entered in but moments, Sgt. Carson himself taking point. Night-vision goggles equipped, he scanned five faces frozen in motion around a table before they all tried to scurry to escape. Rules were that they were to be captured, not killed.

However, one final, integral part, all in the execution went wrong. The five went down... for good. Scanning the faces, Alastair saw one he... recognised. The only one that hadn't been in the paper that morning; flashing images of his sister and mother's dead bodies flickered before his eyes. Sean McCall. Anger seared through him once more; vengeance boiled black within him. The monster had been awakened with only the most basic of stimuli. All were captured and lined up against a wall, as, one by one, a single Faolchú officer cuffed each man. However, McCall, stood in the middle, reached into his jacket; reflexes and a scowl combined, Alastair opened fire. His squad members quickly joined in cutting down five unarmed victims, painting the Faolchú in the most negative light possible.

It had struck him once more just moments later what he had done, as the last of the cartridge casings clinked against the floor in a pile. Oh... oh god... McCall was dead; and in his hand was simply a lighter, no pistol. Reflexes, yes... but the man's hand was still in his jacket. Alastair had acted on assumption... the uproar this would cause...

Quickly, the unit rushed back. Alastair himself approached Gavin and the pair coolly attempted to talk out their strategy; if word of this escaped the press would paint the Faolchú in the worst manner possible, and that wouldn't hold any good for any party involved. Doing their best to keep it hush-hush, the pair, working in unison - and thus developing a friendship - managed to shoot down the entire issue and keep it relatively quiet.

Vengeance, however, inadvertent as it may have been, still felt purposeful. Alastair was a bitter, empty husk; a shell of a mn. He collapsed back into his cycle of alcoholism, and knew now that he'd never escape. This, combined with bad procedure - even if the situation had been contained - warranted an advisory recommendation for department switch... basically, he was to quit the Faolchú. He'd had his eye on becoming Fiachra's second-in-command for some time... but, hey... everything had come full circle. Just not in the way he'd wanted.

The questions Alastair still asks himself? 'Was I right?' 'Should I feel bad for killing McCall?' 'What does all this mean?' It's almost five years on now, and in states drunk or sober Alastair has still found no answers to them. His life has taken a turn for the bitter; alcohol is once more his only solace. The man transferred to Chief of Police in early 2008 upon King Gavin's recommendations - even with the ugly stigma of the failed Operation Gladius, his resume was still considered impressive within a tightly-knit military - and is coming up to his fourth-year anniversary as Chief.

And, so, this is Alastair's story. Depressing and near-horrific; yet the man has... well, coped. Surprisingly enough. The alcohol helps; and anyone who even knows Alastair mutually can tell that much. He's resorted mainly to the lighter stuff, and tries to shrug it off as simply accentuated camaraderie, but people - especially his few confidants - know that there's something deeper within, something unexplained boiling and straining to get out.

Alastair has an ugly, convoluted, confusing, and terrible past, however. And he just wants to do his best to keep it under wraps. He hopes - just hopes - that everyone can respect this, no matter how cynical, bitter, blunt, or terrible his attitude towards others.

*****

So, where did we leave off? Alastair still works for the CPD. He's still chief. A little more light has been shone on the structure of it all; he's a nice guy who takes good care of his subordinates. He's shown to have a strong bond with Fiachra, Artemis, and even the king himself, whilst growing frustrated at Molly and Sorcha intermittently. Roarke and Toss are neutral in his book, until they prove otherwise by way of alcohol.

Alastair did happen upon one fat ginger arsonist at one point, who took kindly to irritating his late sister. Consequences mainly included a near-shooting until the cavalry arrived, before Alastair finally thwacked one Dunstan Hue hard enough, knocked him out, and took him to the station. Things as of yet haven't been confirmed in entirety, but it can definitely be said that the pair's shenanigans are far from over.

Much to his chagrin, Alastair hasn't yet met a lovely lady who loves the stench of stale booze, but he has woken up with one Spade Aeries in his bathtub. The pair backtracked their steps, and in a hilarious morning that included an afro chicken, a medical display skeleton, pink paint, roasted traffic cones, a handcuffed transvestite, $50,000, a lost wallet, a switchblade, and, finally, the solution to it all, bacon, they quickly bonded and became good friends. When Alastair wasn't jokingly accusing his Amestrian-Xingese comrade of homosexuality or other shady things (still not sure if Spade is totally straight), that is. Regardless, the pair are friends who understand the urban life, and above all else, alcohol. They still remain in touch and get together once every couple of months to get royally drunk.

...........................................................................

TRIVIA:
→ Level 1 theme song is Atreyu's Ex's and Oh's.
→ Level 2 theme song is Billy Talent's Rusted From The Rain.
→ Creig and accented Cretan.
→ Alastair likes beer.
→ Alastair's pride and joy is a small three or four-man yacht in the Dublin harbour called 'Missy'. He inherited it after his father died, and absolutely loves the thing. She's a fickle little bitch, but once she gets going, she can give a pretty good show; generally, Al dives off of her.
→ Alastair WILL give you a nickname within the first five minutes of meeting him unless you threaten him with severe enough punishment for doing so (usually public hanging will suffice provided you have the power to back it up).

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ALIAS:
→ Ross

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Ayden Derocha, Zenith Howler, Balthazar, Marcus Frostbrook, Zach "King" Krow, Victor Dresden, Marco Falzone.

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ I will stop, now. >_> Inspired by Atreyu's Ex's and Oh's.
→ Level 2 changes in light yellow.

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]BACCANO![/b]/[i]luck gandor[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ ETERNAL PESSIMIST
→ LARCENIST'S DEMISE

...........................................................................

[Guest]

Ready~

[Dai]

A P P R O V E D

Loooks good to me.

[Dai]

Rank Roll~

[Dai]

The member 'Dai' has done the following action : Rank Roll

'Lieutenant Roll' : 1

[Reila Tsukino]

APPROVED

LOVE IT. 8D

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