Nightlocke Helmsby // Peacekeeper

There's very little to like about Locke when he isn't smiling. He's handsome all the time, of course, that isn't possible to hide. But when he's got his game face on... well, it's difficult to notice those ice blue eyes, the sharp chin, the clean tan of his skin. You might even forget about the sinuous, strong figure underneath the white uniform, although that would be less of an oversight and more of a mistake. Because Locke menaces with more than just his first issue Alder gun. He uses his whole body, his charisma, his muscles, his words.

Of course when he is smiling, there's nothing wrong at all in the world. You could be an inch from the end of his pistol, and you'd want to smile back. His smile stretches far enough to reveal molars, opens at the exact center line of symmetry, and is as infectious and insidious as morphling itself. It's really a shame that smile has so much power, because the other good elements of Locke get so little notice. Those bright, baby blue eyes, for instance. They aren't strictly natural, you understand. He had them modified in the Capitol so that he can see 20/2, the same range as a hawk, and far better than any human. This has become increasingly necessary over the years, but more on that in the history section.

Because of his training in Two, Locke keeps himself in peak physical condition, even if this means extending his hours, working out in the dark before dawn and the twilight of dusk. He used to get plenty of exercise in, but Six is a fairly sedentary district. He has to work for it now, and that enrages him. Still, that body hasn't taken much of a hit. He stands a few inches over six feet and has packed on the muscle. He doesn't seem to retain it the way he used to, as a teen and twenty-something, but that's pretty much only something Locke would know.

He's grown his hair out past regulation length, and given his abysmal assignment, he's not inclined to change it. Shagging blonde highlights range over his head, tendrils tickling his ears and neck. He's always had good hair - better when he lived in the Capitol and could style it accordingly. Now, he has to conform, at least a little. He still let his hair grow, shaves perhaps once a day when he really ought to do it twice, and there's still the leftover Capitol tattoos running the length of his torso, covering him in abstract designs in a golden color. When he's very tan in the summer (or, rather, used to be - when he could be out of his uniform), it made him look like a jewel, something fished out of the bottom of a mine. Even on pale flesh they're not half-bad looking, if you get the chance. But you probably won't.

Locke is pretty much everything you'd expect of a Peacekeeper when he's in uniform, doing his job. He is quick, judgmental, cruel and vindictive. He won't ask twice why you were out past curfew, why you brought in a freshly killed rat. He only knows the rules, and if you ain't following the rules, he's going to have his Alder up your arse and your wrists in cuffs before you can beg for mercy.

Outside of the uniform, Locke does a passable job of being a part of society. He is still arrogant and short, declaring his opinions without considering those of others. But that smile, that body, they are hard to forget. He's not one to talk a lot, thankfully, as his mind is mostly filled with the intricacies of torture, or how much further he will push himself the next time he lifts weights. It is not a wholly exciting life he leads in District Six.

Which is possibly the reason he started on the morphling, or maybe it was just a good distraction, as much as any prostitute. Oh yes, this is a Peacekeeper who can be bought. By a pretty girl, by drugs, by the promise of something shiny and pretty and dangerous. The longer he stays in Six, the deeper the addiction becomes. He has already started needing a hit two or three times a day. When he goes without, he folds into himself, because a shadow and a ghost. Of course the morphling doesn't interact well with his exercise regime, but turns out that it's a wonderful appetite suppressant. So far, so good. But this is a dark rabbit hole, and there will be no one to catch him at the bottom.

Locke was born under an entirely different name to an altogether different family in District Two. They were hippies, as far as hippies could exist in such a Career-minded place, who took him on picnics when they weren't in the mines, who loved and cherished him. Locke was almost glad when they died in a cave-in, glad to be sent to the community, glad to begin training. Because he had always known something was wrong with them, known that there was a bigger world beyond the rocks and flowers and cheesy songs. He had heard of the Games, but his parents had sheltered him as much as they could. And surely they knew - they knew that he stared too long at the sunlight, rejoiced in the darker children's tales, found delight in collecting dead bugs, and animals, that crossed his path.

At the home, he was summarily dumped into training like all the others, and he thrived. He found his head steadiest in close combat, knives and hand-to-hand. Marshal arts often proved to be his strongest, his best method. But Reaping after Reaping past, leaving Locke more and more frustrated, until that fateful year when none would follow.

He signed up for Peacekeeper training, did his dues in Two, and kissed it goodbye. He went immediately from there to Twelve, where he found his new name, and new identity. Nightlock, after the herb that was so deadly beyond the gates, with a bit of flare to become his own. It was the final step in totally divorcing himself from his birth family. He worked in Twelve for a number of years, before being sent back to the Capitol, which was much more to style.

He loved working alongside Snow, protecting and learning from the President. But he was still young and overly eager. It quickly became clear that he had high ambitions - to climb the ranks. To do so, he would need to taste all of Panem. And so he went to Ten and then Six on a cyclic tour of duty. Tired after the wastelands of Twelve and Ten, the beauty of the Capitol, and the inanity of Six, Locke turned to morphling. It fills his dreams with kisses, turns his days into possibilities. And if he sees a crime committed while under the influence of drugs, well, that's your problem - isn't it?

Whee a Peacekeeper! They're the good guys, right? ;D