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infernorp · 6 years

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name: joseph buquet

age: thirty five

gender and pronouns: cis male, he/his

loyalty: neutral

occupation: stagehand for le théâtre de nuit

criminal occupation: gun-for-hire assassin

faceclaim: jason momoa

You've never been able to understand the way people can stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the lights of the city, minds empty and camera shutters clicking in time with the beating of numb hearts. It's sickening. Unable to see past the glare of blinding bright beauty, something artificial and sharp, only focusing on the jagged facade, forever blind to the true nature of the world and the people who live there. The worst part is that it extends beyond Paris. People everywhere are like this, too focused on their own reflections to notice they've sliced open their own hands on the mirror's edges. It's all a lie. Sure, it's gaudy and simple and easy to swallow, but none of it is real. That isn't how the world is. The world isn't silk and pearls and wine, it's vinyl body bags and brass knuckles and day-old cigarette smoke and booze from some other guy's liquor cabinet. Admittedly, up until the age of eleven you might have thought the lifestyle of the wealthy and influential was nice. Something to aspire to, even. One of those dreams to hold close at night, something to keep you warm when the things you actually possessed couldn't. But then you lost the house, and the grief and the shame of it all was too much for your father to bear. You'd always been so close to him. Now you could hardly remember his face, but waking up in the middle of the night, in your cousin's room, hearing your mother screaming and sobbing, it changed you. Something broke inside of you. Whatever it was, it never healed, but your mother lost hers entirely. She left two days later, never looked back. Your aunt didn't want you; said it right to your face. Said she could hardly take care of her own kid, and you were always too much of a handful. So she dumped you into the hands of the state, and from there you expected what was already an arrangement of terrible memories in the shape of a childhood to only get worse.

You were right in part. You weren't a ward of the state for long, that was the good news. And it seemed like better news when a wealthy couple off the street waltzed in off the street looking to adopt. They were cautiously warned they would have to foster first, but their minds seemed to be too far elsewhere to pay much attention to anything besides their own intentions. Apparently you looked like this woman's long lost uncle, and so they specifically requested to foster you. They passed all the required background checks, home inspections — all that junk. It felt like a dream at first. Their home was more of a mansion, a castle, than a house. It was every physical possession you'd ever wanted, and they handed everything over no matter how much you acted like a brat. Of course, it wasn't all your fault. You were still in shock and missed your parents; these people were strangers, and were absent most of the time. But, for awhile, you liked the solitude. It was nice being left alone in your room with your toys. Nothing replaced your father, though; your late-night conversations with him at the kitchen table after a long day of work, or making dinner on Saturday nights to let your mother go to bed early after working a double second and third shift. You left the day you turned eighteen and never looked back. They still called sometimes, wondering why you'd rather live on the street instead of with them, but it had always been apparent they were looking for a pet rather than a son. Well, you were never one to be caged, even if it meant living in squalor until you could teach yourself how to stand on your own two feet. But now you're grow, having raised yourself, and while you can't quite say you entirely like the man you've become, you survive. It's more than you could say for your father, at any rate.

disliked: annabella chaney, baylen moreau, carlotta giudicelli, claude babin, dulce vilaro, edmond ledoux, gille andre, gregory renard, jacqueline mifroid, madalene giry, mathieu reyer, odessa faust, philippe chaney, raoul chaney, richard firmin, and ubaldo piangi

friends: kristos vallas, sebastian renard, yvette mercier, and zhu lau

interests: christine daae, gigi destler, lea jammes, lisette sorelli, meg giry, and remy bourque

ANTONIN PETROVIC AND NARISSA KING

You'll never understand why people insist on calling them your competition. You can do what they can't; you can pick and choose your contracts for yourself. Them, they're bound by loyalty, owned like dogs, with a singular master tugging on their leashes and pulling them towards the weaponry based on grudges that Narissa and Antonin don't own. You, on the other hand. You get to exercise the differences between business and what's personal, get to turn down hits you don't feel like doing, and, occasionally, even get to pick up the slack for Narissa and Antonin when they can't get the job done. It's a good feeling, but it certainly doesn't make it a level playing field. No, they're just the pawns, and you? You're the king.

ERIK DESTLER

If you had a Euro for every warning you got about the temper of the infamous Phantom, well. You'd have enough money that you'd never have to see the bastard again. But you've never been one for listening to warnings, and riling him up is just too much fun to ignore. Not to mention you get a kick out of telling the ballerinas what Erik's face looks like under that mask of his. Waving them close, words slurred, whiskey on your breath. 'His skin is paper-thin, all nasty and jaundiced; if you look real close, you can see right through it, see little purple veins pumping thick black blood. It's a real ugly sight, ladies, I tell you what.' Of course, you've never actually seen Erik without his mask on, but it has to be something awful for him to wear it in the first place. And you'll never believe the guy has the guts to do anything about you spreading those rumors. He's much too shy, he'd never have the balls, as much as you can see in his eyes that he'd love to strangle you whenever you cross paths.

MADALENE GIRY

Damn woman's got a stick up her ass the size of a support beam, and she seems to think it's your responsibility to see that it doesn't come unstuck. Don't know where in the hell she got that idea, but if she can't handle your sense of humor in regards to that sideshow boss of hers, she shouldn't have hired you at all. And yet she still keeps you around, so you must be doing something right. Not right enough to be the official hired gun on call for Madalene and Erik, but then again you're not sure you'd want that position to begin with. The one you hold right now — self-employed and loving it, taking the contracts no one else seems to want, the ones either too dangerous or else asinine for the princess or baldy to even consider — is far more lucrative, and a better time to boot.

THIS CHARACTER HAS A FLEXIBLE FACECLAIM AND IS OPEN

#jason momoa fc #lsrp bio #crime roleplay #mafia roleplay #city rp #city roleplay #a #m #n #o #joseph #connection:madalene #connection:narissa #connection:antonin #connection:erik

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