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salemspoint-blog · 7 years

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❝ Little soldier boy, when will you remember, this is not who you were. Now you just kill without remorse and dread the morning light. Little soldier boy, where was your innocence lost. ❞

» Zeke Callen » Twenty-six » Hunter » Security at Knife's Edge » Bob Morley

Physical Appearance —

Zeke has always been a very well put together person without all the effort that goes with it. His unruly hair hasn’t seen a comb or brush in years and takes nothing more than a quick tug of fingers through his hair to tousle it out of his face. Plain t-shirts are his go to, generally matched with dark jeans or cargo’s and even those he was issued with in the military. Boots scuffed to all hell and stained with questionable dark marks. Whatever he wears is usually worn because of it’s capacity to conceal weapons, pockets, ties, etc. He doesn’t often wear jackets, they don’t do much for the fact of overall sudden movement, but bomer’s are usually his staple, draped over the passenger seat of his truck or discarded on the floor of his home. His body is marred in multiple scars, most of which he couldn’t tell you how he got them, however, his chest in particular is quite a shock to see, the markings left behind from a curse more covering more than sixty percent of his abdomen. Zeke has the date of his parents death tattooed across the curve of his right hip though he has no intentions of getting anything else permanently marked on him.

His sharp tongue cuts through most conversations, a deep timbre that is difficult to miss, Zeke carries himself like a man built for war. Every step he takes is with reason and everything he does has purpose. If he can get away with standing still for hours, he will – already trained to become unnoticable to the naked eye. He’s never slouched a day in his life and he will always opt to stand with his back to a solid wall rather than an opening of any kind. His life began at thirteen and ever since he’s found ways to adapt himself into a predator, rather than living helplessly as prey. His broad shoulders often make him look much bigger than he is though he often uses that to his advantage in terms of intimidation tactics, not that he very well needs to be intimidating, his overall demeanor holds enough of it already. Collected and calm, Zeke more often than not seems bored in the face of discord and chaos, but he merely functions better with a clear purpose in mind; survival.

Personality Traits —

♦ Ambitious, protective, and cunning ♢ Callous, impulsive, and sadistic

Biography —

Lego pieces in the shapes of bullets. Sturdy and silver, clinking together in dark pockets always seemed to pull the attention of a bright eyed, curly haired boy barely capable of reaching high enough to delve into the depths. Stories of nightmares that couldn’t possibly be real, of people turning into animals and creatures that fed off the blood within his very veins all plagued his growing days. Lessons in how to be evasive, to slip undetected, to cause maximum damage with a closed fist all before his mother called them inside for dinner; Zeke Callen didn’t live a life of any normal child, but he found it difficult to wish for anything other than what he got. A doting mother who would have given him the wold, had he chosen the path of anything other than family legacy. A father passionate and in-tune with a protective streak that no human parent would ever think to consider. Bruises became something to be proud of, broken bones just another obstacle to overcome and neither was he left to believe that one or the other would ever break him.

Born to Benjamin and Allison Callen, both highly respected hunters of their time, Zeke was never meant to live the life that his ancestry had paved for him; his parents had never wanted it. Normalcy. Family. Children. Hope. He was to live a life filled with hope. With a mouthful of laughter and a heart bursting of the kind of love that made his chest feel like breaking open to allow heartbeat to echo throughout time. The Callen boy was given the knowledge of everything his parents could give him – handed to him on a silver platter, but taught to turn a blind eye. For every darkness that lingered on every corner, he was to know and protect in the most basic sense. To be prepared, yes, but for it to be all consuming, to rule his every god given breath?

Over their dead bodies.

Oh but an idiom as such has never been quite so ironic.

There had to have been a dozen people. There were too many pieces, he’d thought. Thirteen years old, restrained by officers as he fought tooth and nail to push past the boundary of the crime scene, trying so desperately to believe that the massacre his once bright eyes took in wasn’t just his parents. How could it be? Ripped limb from limb, shredded, features so disfigured they wouldn’t allow him to identify his own family. It could have been anyone, but the faint scent of his mothers perfume and the bullets no bigger than those god damn Lego pieces that spilled from his fathers pocket were enough. Something had destroyed every ounce of innocence he had that night; for how could any child hold onto it while looking at the mutilated corpses of the very people that ensure that innocence remained in tact?

Over their dead bodies…

Zeke took his first few steps onto the road previously paved for him since the day he was born, destined to never once stray from it ever again. Devotion to the cause, belief in his oath and a burning sense of responsibility became a constant ripple across the skin of someone no longer a boy – and nowhere close to ever being a man. Leaving Salem’s Point behind was easy, he did it without question and without complaint. What else could he learn here that his parent’s hadn’t already taught him? The world was a dangerous place, and how better to learn how to fight it, than throwing yourself head first into the very pits of hell. For years he traveled alone, picking up the telltale signs of other hunters, learning and adapting to everything they could throw at him – gaining his blessing at the young age of sixteen. Bruises and broken bones were no longer something to be proud of, no longer a stagnant reminder that he was just a boy – they were a warning, a screaming premonition of how utterly fragile he still was. How every wrong move could end his life. Any hunter worth the bullets they carry would claim you never stopped learning, that the supernatural world was constantly filled with curve balls, nothing you’d ever expect; forcing you to learn on your feet; but less than five years on his own gave Zeke every tiny facet of knowledge he would need, but knowledge didn’t keep him alive, knowledge didn’t ensure the safety of others; in the end, you could only win a war if you were willing to rage against the enemy.

Enlisting was yet another thing that came with little to no hesitation for him, and over the years he climbed his way through the ranks with a determination unlike any other. What difference did fighting one war have against another? So the molecular make up of those he fought against while on tour might not have been quite as complicated as those he riddled with silver or wooden bullets back home, war was war. One way or another he walked away with a body marred with scars and a driven thirst for more. Anyone who ever claimed justice or revenge sated any kind of desperation had so very clearly never been entirely consumed by the idea of it. Nothing brought him any closer to feeling that weight lift from his shoulders, and from the moment he ended his final tour, Zeke threw himself head first into the war he’d left behind, molded and shaped into something entirely different. No longer a weapon created by witches, but a soldier, built and bred for combat; now as in tune with every sense he still had as his father, as cunning as his mother, and more deadly with his hands than his parents ever could have dreamed to be together.

Buried within every skill, every ability he’d been blessed with and conditioned himself to learn, no matter how effective, never quite brought him any closer to closure; regardless of the fact that he’d never openly sought it. He didn’t want to find the creature that did it – he didn’t want to slay the monsters that had torn his life apart, quite literally. He just wanted blood – all of it. The blood of every supernatural he ever lived to lay eyes on. Without remorse, he tore through the country, state by state. blood staining his skin so brightly that the crimson never seemed to fade from the pigment of his own flesh. But blood never came without a price, and no hunter would ever survive without knowing as much. Karma, bad luck, call it what you will — but finding people in a life so full of chaos and destruction will always be a difficult concept to understand. To have it, to hold it – to know that someone is waiting for you, for just a glimpse of blood spattered features is a concept that is generally beyond any hunters thoughts. Too much baggage, too many problems, too many secrets – was it ever really worth finding someone you wanted to keep alive? To Zeke, he didn’t want to protect any one person, only himself and anyone he could without direct contact. Isolation was how he preferred everything. Until he met her. A woman so enthralling that he hated how easy it was to look past his own rules. He spent months with her, months falling and months clawing for anything to stop himself from diving into depths he’d never be prepared for. And he never would be — discovering the woman’s lineage had been enough to send his heart into cardiac arrest. Werewolf. A hatred that had long lived in his veins boiled to the surface and Zeke, after multiple attempt, finally managed a bullet between her eyes. Cold and blue; lacking the light and warmth that he would never forget.

Tragedy didn’t excuse anything; he didn’t mourn, he didn’t grieve. He left town like it was nothing at all – like she’d been nothing more than another job. Stoic features never left the road ahead of him and for months he continued on his way until he found himself back in the town where everything had began; both literally for the world he lived in, and for himself. Everything had began in the streets of Salem’s point, everything he knew and everything he wanted had changed on the black bitumen of winding roads, his mind still determined to make him remember. The pools of red that slipped between the rocks coated in tar, and as if he were punishing the memories themselves, he simply added to it. Supernatural after Supernatural. Packs; coven members, anyone he could lay his hands on; too few survived to admire his relentlessness until he found one other. Kindred spirits, bloodied palms to match his and an unwavering ability to ignore the conscience, to ignore guilt and compassion. Tripp Blais became one of the only hunters he ever worked with. His moral alignment didn’t clash with his; he never had to answer questions, never had to defend his actions. It was cut and dry; hunt or be hunted.

Coming back to Salem’s Point has only been a reminder; a burning brand inside his skull that he’d always been on the right side. His moral compass might have been well beyond broken, and he might never quite find his way back through all the blood and gore that festered beneath his fingernails, but he knew for sure that protection for those that couldn’t protect themselves would never come from creating laws and governing halls; it would come from the blade at his hip and the gun at his back, the twisted knuckles and sharpened mind that had become his greatest weapon since the moment his parents hearts froze in their chest.

I pledge, to give my mortal life to the cause, to protect the innocent, to bring about justice, to rid the world of the supernatural stain. To live in the shadows of our world and theirs. So that those who may never know of the horrors unleashed, never have to.

#zeke callen #takenm #c.hunter #bob morley

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