Doyle "The Smiler" Lockyer [PK]

Appearance: Oh, how to describe the face of the devil himself? Most people would say that I'm the last thing you'll never see, because I'm a shadow... A myth. Smoke on a hot, blistering evening. I'm seen when I want to be seen, and even then people aren't really sure if what they're seeing is real.

The eyes of a tired man are sunken into my face, drooping like they're screwed into my skull by some kind of force. The color that was once gleaming in the sun is dead, replaced by a dull grey that used to be a chestnut bronze. These eyes had not seen sunlight in years, not real sunlight. How they were always longing to look up and catch a glimpse of bright, sharp release. Those hungry eyes fed when I was freed, they lapped up the freedom.

My skin, pale but surviving. Facial hair varies, usually a beard sits on my face, but when I do shave I leave my mustache, a symbol of my rugged persona. People need to be reminded who exactly it is that I am, at all times. My hair is dark, short and spiked up on my better days, but more recently left to grow long frayed, depression has caught up and makes me look more of a pathetic mutt than the sly hound I can be.

I am tall, a strong body once yet now most of the bulk is gone. Muscle remains, I build myself frequently... Yet among my capable body are signs of malnutrition: ribs showing, thin legs... My face is always so tired. I am weak, but the time will come where I will ready myself for war. A time where I will fill up and become the monster I once was, for vengeance.

Clothes? Heh. Style was always something that I had. Black shirts. Dark, slim trousers. Coal black, but diamond shining shoes. Riches, all gone to rags. Then it was prison attire, a grey jumpsuit was my identity. Now? It varies. If I'm in the Detention Center then it's dark trousers and a bright white shirt. If it's on the streets then it's the crappy plastic uniform that everyone else wears...

Personality:

[/b] Oh, I think it'd be safe to say that not too many people like me. That's not to say that they don't want to see me. Oh, I have a lot of contacts. I used to be what you could call a Financial Negotiator, or something like that with a fancy name. People sometimes needed someone to get money off of other people. Guess that was me, a negotiator. Even if my way of negotiating is a little more rough and ready than most people are used to. I still negotiate nowadays, when they want me to. My methods haven't changed, even if I have gone from the cesspits of District Ten to the glamor of the Detention Center.

Guess they needed someone who wasn't spoonfed and raised with blankets and soap. They needed someone ruthless and dark, so that the scumbags of Panem would squeal at the mention of his name. So they looked in the shittiest part of District Ten and pulled out the grottiest, darkest, most twisted man they could find.

My father always told me that a job half-done is a job not worth doing. If you're gonna do something, do it right. I make sure that my Capitol employers get exactly what they ask for. If that means treading on toes and going a little against the rule book, then so be it. Rules are like bones: Made to be broken.

I don't fear anything. I've seen too many dark things in my time to get jumpy at spiders, or lowly threats from thugs. People can try to act tough, but I have a knack for seeing right through them. I usually deal with people like this through speech, as I don't often use violence unless instigated. There are always morons who try to start something, either because they don't comply, or because they don't know who I am - If they did then they wouldn't dare touch me.

I can be somewhat intoxicating to talk to. The owner of the Badger's Arms once noted me as 'The Rattlesnake'. I see why... Charming, but deadly. I'll have you know that I'm perfectly safe to be around, so long as you stay on my side. As for the charming aspects of my personality? Well, I can't help that... We certainly shouldn't call it manipulation, should we? Now more often than not my Brothers at the detention centre, my co-workers, call me "The Smiler", because I never do... Oh, and because I make people scream. Pretty grim, really.

There's not a lot that bothers me. Most threats go straight over my head. I think that's what makes me so intimidating - The fact that I'm so calm. The fury of the silent shade. The total lack of sympathy, empathy or any kind of emotion. I find it funny when people freak out, that's what I like to savor - All the little drops of emotion that I can squeeze out whilst still doing my job.

History:[/b] I have a long, tired history that would probably take a trilogy of novels for you to understand it all, but I'll try and keep this brief. I was born on a farm to two loving parents. An only child, I was. My father was fat, and I'm talking grotesquely fat. Maybe that's an exaggeration, maybe it's not - He was a large man and he died young because of it, around the age of forty. He got to be as big as he was because we always had so much food around our ranch. It was a slaughterhouse more than a farm. We had a few animals, but we got most of our profits from taking in the animals from other farms to process them into food. This allowed us to be able to afford a small farm for our house - Chickens, goats, a few pigs - all the meat and dairy we needed. Thus Big Daddy.

He died when I was around ten. I wasn't overly upset, he was abusive and greedy. Mother wasn't much better, but at least she had a soft side - A motherly side. We ran the ranch together once I finished school at sixteen. By this time, I had become a lot more dark. I had been quite the charmer at school, and following a run of bad spells with teachers, I had gotten into a fair bit of trouble. They said I was disturbed - That no child should think like I do. Apparently it isn't good to threaten a teacher by saying you'll kidnap their children and put them through the slaughterhouse.

I built myself hauling the animals from other ranches through the grinding machines. Farmers often cut the throats of their own animals, but sometimes they struggle to cut up into joints. We offer a slaughter and produce combination for a small profit margin. Ranchers bring their animals to us, we make them into sausages, steaks and joints. Obviously some Farmhands can do this themselves, but our system is easier and less hassle. We were quite popular back in the day.

I got bored with the monotony of it all. Mother died when I turned the tide of nineteen. The ranch and it's entirety was given to my Uncle. He never liked me and refused to allow me to continue work there. Obviously I was pissed at first, but then I realized that it was a blessing in disguise - I was able to go out into District Ten and make my own life.

That's when the Underworld claimed me. It wrapped its tendrils around my mind and dragged me into it's twisted lifestyle. I started out mugging people, but then settled with a job as a bartender near the slums, which brought me more money than attacking bystanders. I got myself a decent house and lived on my own, still working until I turned twenty. I dealt with aggressive customers well, calming them down or shutting them up with a fist across the jaw. My employer was impressed and suggested mercenary work to me after he saw me deal with a couple of scraps.

Ah, Mercenary work. That's where it really began to get heated. Like I said before, I was a Financial Negotiator. I threatened people into paying off their debts - It wasn't a crime, it was law enforcement. Unfortunately the Peacekeepers didn't see it that way. I got into trouble, but managed to keep going by keeping it more low-key.

In the ratways of District Ten, I was able to start up my own insurance policy. What kind of insurance? Life insurance. Consider it covering the costs of your consequences. Of course, I was scamming people with the idea that I could pay their families if they met an unruly end. People payed me for this, knowing that they were in danger of several District Ten hitmen. I never payed their families, because their families never knew about me.

It lasted a few years, but when I turned twenty four, it caught up with me. Someone faked a death and found out that I never followed through with my official business. I was reported and fined a shit-ton of gold for what I owed. What's more, I was sentenced to five years in the detention center. Five, cold years.

I learned a lot from my time in the Capitol's finest achievement. The house of the wicked. Hundreds, maybe thousands of minds that have been poisoned by neglect and fueled by hatred. Perhaps if the Capitol wasn't what it is, people wouldn't be as they are. A little generosity goes a long way, and I bet people in the detention center were pushed into their crimes by poverty or starvation. Me? Boredom, greed... Whatever.

The five years were up, and I was shipped back to District Ten to resume my life. I was under close watch from the Peacekeepers and had to be a little more careful from then on.

I sought out the man who took five years from my life. I sought out Elias Poers, who scammed me, conned me. He knew I was coming. They called Poers the most manipulative man in District Ten, yet he hadn't met me before. He learned that turning me in all those years ago was a mistake. He found me first, had his men send me a message... His mind games proved ineffectual, because the old hound always bests the young pup, and I brought Poers down. I brought the Detention Center the most wanted man in the District.

So they hired me. Partially as a seeker, who would find the most wanted criminals in Panem, but moreso as an interrogator. The Smiler they still call me. My name is known to all the prisoners, because when they're sent to me, they don't come out smilin'. [/color][/size][/blockquote]