Announcements: Initiative: Promoting Forum Roleplay » Universe of the Month! » Finding Universes to Join (and making yours more visible!) » Guide To Universes On RPG » Starter Locations & Prompts for Newbies » RPG Chat — the official app » USERNAME CHANGES » Suggestions & Requests: THE MASTER THREAD »

Latest Discussions: Platonic numbers » No complaints (a little bit of rappin) » Any multi-player roleplay videogamers here? » Needing a woman's perspective on a concept » Gluts and Gaps » Universal Basic Income » Impending Pursuit Q&A » Eudaimonia » Loot! » Natural Kinds » I have a funny idea » Life in the 21st century. » Song of the Runes » Plato’s Beard » Clues » Nihilism » Strange Tales From Hadean » Art Gulag [ Come get this Commish! ] » Visibility of Private Universes & Profile Customisation » Presuppositionalism »

Players Wanted: Players wanted for a science fiction adventure. » Players needed for Fantasy Romance reboot » One(1) male & Two(2) Female Roles OPEN <3 » Talmora: Kingdom of magic » Looking For A New Partner » Hellboy characters » 18+ Writing Partner [Fantasy, Romance, Etc.] » 18+, Multi-Para to Novella Writers please! » Looking for roleplayers » Fun tale full of angels, demons, and humans » Looking for roleplayers » A Fairytale World in Need of Heroes & Villains! » Are You a Crime Addict? » Wuxia RP » Looking for roleplayers » New Realistic Roleplay - Small World Life ٩( ´・ш・)و » Mentors Wanted » MV Recruiting Drive: sci-fi players wanted! » Veilbrand: The Revolution » Gonna do this anyway. »


Hackett Deimos

The black sheep in our church.

0 · 742 views · located in Tijuana, California

a character in “Left Hand of God”, originally authored by rosecoffin, as played by RolePlayGateway



♰ ♰ ♰
The black sheep in our church.
♰ ♰ ♰

ɴᴀᴍᴇ: Hackett Deimos
ꜱᴏᴜʀᴄᴇ: Orthodox family in El Centenario, Mexico
ʀᴇʟᴇᴠᴀɴᴛ ᴋɪɴ: None
ᴩᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ: None, yet
ʙɪʀᴛʜ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ: October 5th, 1996 - - Libra
ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀᴇᴅ ᴇxᴄᴇʀᴩᴛ: [wip]
ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ:

It's funny how we are all born in the name of God. We were made from pure love, just to be filled with hatred.
Everyone's nothing but a false prophet. A false believer.
They trust they speak in the name of God, but they just speak in the name of their heart,
not knowing they are sinners themselves, hating their brothers and sisters.

"I'm trying to cope with my "situation", but there's nothing that can fix me.
I'm a sinner on other girl's lips.
And I do try to fit in, but God knows everything. He knows who I am."

He knows Hackett.

So Hackett takes on a journey, leaving her life behind, her parents and her church.
At least they never really knew her, which gives her the feeling of being loved while her family's missing her.
She had no purpose until she stood in front of the church of La Basilica.

There, the people of La Basilica give her a home.

♰ ♰ ♰


So begins...

Hackett Deimos's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Nico Pastor Character Portrait: Friday Knapp Character Portrait: Hackett Deimos Character Portrait: Blue Victoria Character Portrait: Luca Pastor Character Portrait: Damon Soto Character Portrait: Isa Nash Character Portrait: Jack Soto Character Portrait: Knox Xanthi Character Portrait: Magdalene M. Vega
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Image Guess she’s never really been one for church unless you count the little things; God showing up in the friend who calls to check in when motel lights paint you like stained glass and tawny knuckles burn white at the edges. Communion looking like long distance calls. It’s not that long ago when she sat perched on the curb like an alley cat catching whatever stray light she could from cars passing by, phone pressed to her ear, wondering why fragmented prayers make it to her and never God. Just leak out of the receiver and leave her in a pool of neon. She’s starting to think the flood’ll find her anywhere, wet footprints her insignia.

I wanna do better is something Isa doesn’t have the words to articulate, settles for fishing psalms out of the back of some stranger’s throat, crumbling walls a quiet bystander when the same story gets rewritten in hopes that one’ll stick. But she’s learned seeing the world in darkened colors isn’t without it’s lighter moments. In the morning she’ll wake up on another side of town, light a cigarette like that’s just what you do and listen hard for the sound of the ocean receding as far away as possible. Maybe off to better places, distant shores. The Santa Monica coastline’s nice this time of year, so she hears. That’s all it’s been as of yet; hearsay. A random note in her phone among other places she’ll land in eventually, once she’s got a leg to stand on. Once she’s got a little something going that’s just for her.

A parent’s sins cling like curses, a constant orchestra just for the dysfunctional, somethin only God himself could lift if he was in the business of unburdening wayward souls. It’s a relationship. That’s what her grandma preached. You gotta meet him halfway, have to reciprocate, accept his love and his grace. Isa’s got an idea or two; namely slitting her brother's throat and offering up his transgressions to the dirt. Her sacrifice for a God that’s gotta be shown some measure of deference. The first fruits. It’s not a joke -- she loves her brother every other day. But someone’s got to laugh and Isa’s not shy about it, use to tracing soft fingers along the aging wood of church pews and wondering if this vessel of a body would still float come monsoon season, come high tide. Grandma always said she was stubborn for the sake of being so. Would chalk her current lifestyle up to it if she was alive to witness the sacrilege.

Maybe there’s a version of the universe where we don’t settle for matted hair against headboards and bus tickets, for chapped hands in mountainside towns that echo as much as her wallet. She’s just not sure where it is and the search is exhausting. Makes mistaking enmity for piety behind black rimmed eyes that much easier. (Though, calling it a mistake at this point is lending her far too much grace.)

The desert stretches out for miles just to come to a head at the dip of her collar bones, dry air snagging her skin with an eagerness only met by a certain boy in Phoenix, by an elder’s endless attempts at outreach. She’s part of the EMC crowd -- easter, mother’s day, christmas -- and even when shit got strained, she could at least say she made to God’s house on those days. Had vague ideas of the passover. This is something different and if she’d had a calendar out it’s safe to say she might’ve avoided the whole thing had He granted her the wisdom. But she’s been rocking steady on E. Soles rubbed raw tryna put one foot in front of the other. Passing up a free bed while she’s passing through would be dumb, and Isa hadn’t made it this far denying a hand out sans strings. From a good God fearing girl no less.

It’s more infectious than she imagined, more enticing than a wayward soul would like to give it credit for. In all honesty, it may be the establishment’s lack of pristine sanctimony that catches her eye. From the blonde headed apollo with a pocket knife for a smile hovering over the sun starved flock to the leather clad preacher, there’s an undercurrent that lends to something a little dishonest in its gait. Or maybe they’re speaking more truth than most are willing to slip past closed lips and hands clasped in prayer. The thought lives just behind her eyelids and nags at her brain, maybe that’s why she doesn’t dip after the first day of the festival. Doesn’t peel away from the mosaic of faces around her all hovering around their lord and savior’s eternal flame.

A free cot feels more comfortable by the day, tame’s the voice in her mind that’s been tried and tested by habit, says it’s been nice but there’s more to see elsewhere. And there is. The festival only builds as the days go by and Isa stays as tucked away as a heathen could. Watches various workers flit to and fro all in the service of their Lord, a good deed gone unreciprocated to the naked eye. She may as well have carried the devil in on her shoulder (sure feels like he’s camped out up there sometimes), like it’s painfully obvious she didn’t come for the opportunity to worship. She simmers under the weight of collective gazes for a bit, loses her train of thought in festival food, in watching tanned faces spin circles in the courtyard and trying to place the most common faces to their positions in the church hierarchy. No one ever gives her the third degree that she’s expecting.

In fact, and it’s strange to say, but the festival almost reminds Isa of home. Of biting God in the wrist and feeling teeth crack left and right. Of tip toeing the line that keeps revelry at bay. Insurrection could almost be religion when you do it right, but the way Fiestas Patronales de San Salvador rolls off her tongue like gravel leaves her curious, at the very very least. There's something about God Bless You’s from the mouths of mothers when so much as a shoulder collides; all blackberries and powdered sugar, a summers worth of restitution clinging sticky-sweet to ragged teeth. All Isa can think is I might believe it when you say it like that.

Isa’s peeling petals off a rose and watching the pious to her profane get their fill in before the festival finally winds down when a familiar face approaches. Committed like she was there when Isa’s will power had an affair and divorced itself from her better judgement, though the jury’s still out as to whether or not that eagerness is just the spillage of being a good host or a preacher’s girl sniffing out the riffraff. “Right -- hey,” she pushes cherry stem curls out of her face and let’s recognition wash over as the bristle in her spine fades to nothing. For something to be so unlike her usual scene, Isa could honestly say she was enjoying her time. Here the weather hardly shifts like a dog on it’s last legs, provides a tame kind of consistency that her brain can appreciate in spurts such as this.

“I am, actually. Never thought I’d say that about a church event. Guess y’all just have a different vibe or something.” Or something. Roses by the bunch and a priest to match; lamentations and praises alike thicker than tar. The combinations usually enough to spook anybody. Still, everything’s gotta come to an end at one point or another. And it’s not like Isa came to the desert to reify God. He's made it more than clear to her that restitution rings loud and true when you listen for it -- she's just not in the habit of listening these days. Remembers when her hearing got selective as a child at dinner time. Remembers February hanging overhead, a pastel backdrop reminding her the years don't last as long as the days and perhaps there’s a little something behind the idea of foresight. You can't take the world from someone else's shoulders when your own spine's been set to snap, but youngins always try, don't they? Roll in like a freak storm in the dead of the night, dissipate completely when there's nothing left to destroy. Nothing left to drown.

It’s a shame things can’t be easy anymore. Like orange peels boiling on the stove top, southern saints reminding everyone to just be a simple kinda man and everything'll work out the way it should. Isa knew better than most that nostalgia only softened edges better left anatomically correct -- and she had a surgeon's precision when it came to taking a scalpel to the soft skin of days long passed -- but she’s far too removed to let ancient history pull itself off the shelf.

Or she will be, once she figures out how long someone has to be gone before you stop looking for them on every street corner.

“Anyway, I’m not in a hurry to get where I’m going, you know? Just trying to enjoy the whole thing while I’m here.”

“Thanks, by the way.”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Nico Pastor Character Portrait: Friday Knapp Character Portrait: Hackett Deimos Character Portrait: Blue Victoria Character Portrait: Luca Pastor Character Portrait: Damon Soto Character Portrait: Isa Nash Character Portrait: Jack Soto Character Portrait: Knox Xanthi Character Portrait: Magdalene M. Vega Character Portrait: Sophie Victoria
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

Jack has seen the desperation of man; on his knees, bent backward, flesh digging into walls or dragging red marks into skin with concrete kisses.

Every morning brings in a new sin to behold, a revelation in sweet sacrilege that leaves Jack a quaking mess just waiting for the other dime to drop. The cash to be settled along nightstands, beside rosary beads laid out for safe keeping. He is a brand of faithful that reeks of gratification.

But aren't they all? A group of living pigments existing on the same color wheel of faith whether in the light, or in the dark of a room bathed red. Bleeding out over bedsheets with hands formed into fists. Pleasure in the house of god. The scandal it could be (that it is.) That he intensely enjoys.

Today is the kind of day that dregs these thoughts into tangible form. A busy day, only slightly off from his usual routine - or as much of a routine as he can manage between quick fucks and worship.

He is standing naked, staring at the mess of his bed and wondering when he'll get the energy to clean it up a little. He's a mess, from head to toe, internally and externally to the greatest extent. A trait that had never failed him the grief of others. And yet, with the sheer amount of fucks he gives (none) he still feels that crippling insecurity from a childhood of hard-hands.

After all, some shadows exist only as reminders of missing shapes with nowhere left to go. Afterimages burned onto retinas 'forever more.' He can still hear them if he thinks about it for too long. Long-suffering sighs and disappointed looks. Something, everything, that should be forgotten and yet that still balances on a tightrope in his head.

He should be more lively today.

Fiestas Patronales de San Salvador.

An event in full swing that will no doubt gather plenty of attention to feed his escapism. Theres nothing better than worship under the sheets. And he knows that today is for sinners just as much as for saints (Where La Basilica is concerned.) He wants to indulge as much as possible, only partially for the money. More so for the feeling of skin pressed to his. Tearing at him with the ferocity of a repressed beast.

Clothes first. There are steps to take today, and none of them include walking through the church with his dick hanging out. That usually came later, during those delightfully panicky moments of wondering how he would find the discarded garments without running into at least one person. Maybe, for the sake of the church itself he'd avoid the party usually responsible for that - or, maybe the thought of being caught indulging those darker fantasies makes it even better.

His own groaning snaps him from thought. He glances south, sighs, and drags his clothes on painfully slowly.

"Not the time." He reminds himself. "So not the fucking time."

Adding fuel to the fire that will no doubt be in that damned smirk that haunts him. Talk about afterimages...he isn't so sure he'll ever get away from those pretty blue eyes. Doesn't think he'll ever want to.

After dressing, with few other interruptions from his own constantly churning mind he manages to gather as much of the mess in the room as he can. Presentability aside, he needs the room to make even more of a mess later. It only takes him half the time as it took him to get himself together in the first place. He feels particularly slow today like his skin is crawling at the thought of moving with any haste. Yet there's something frantic about the way he leaves, an excitement building on top of what has already been built.

This is what he's fucking built for.

A whore is a whore, but some of them do it far better than others. None of them are here to be the victim, they're tied too deeply into the foundations of the La Basilica network for that brand of 'worker'. No. Enjoyment, on their ends, is just as deeply connected to this pretty crime of theirs. And nobody can claim that Jack doesn't enjoy every fucking minute of this place - well, shit, that's only half true. His hands graze the scar, that damned reminder of one of the few times in his life he's been truly fearful of this 'job.' A bullet is probably the least fun thing to have penetrated him.

He can think of a dozen other things he'd have rather it been...

"Nope. No. Stop that." He mumbles to himself quickly, quickening his pace as if to outrun the sudden barrage of interesting things sparking to life. On his way out he spots probably one of the worst things for his frayed edges at that very moment - then again, setting him off isn't exactly hard.

But rather than let himself be bullied by his own fucking body, he steers himself headfirst into the danger zone. Blue Victoria is an interesting addition to the troupe. In the way that makes Jack want to find the nearest hole to crawl in and hide. Fear, having nothing at all to do with it. More so, the fact that he seems to lack the necessary self-preservation to keep himself from indulging in things of a dangerous nature.

Blue, is a thing of a dangerous nature. One that Jack is sure could quite literally tear anyone he damn well pleases apart. Human confetti.

"Blue." Jack greets, "Off to the hunt?" the likeness of predator and prey isn't an exaggeration. However not all of the occupants of this place had decided to mingle with the crowd. Plenty of them had their steady flow of customers, and more so no doubt there were secrets being sold for silence above as he spoke. But Jack liked being among the crowd, pretending to be just another normal person on another normal day.

"Well," He looks past Blue, malcontent with standing still for too long when he could be doing other things. "I'm heading out, feel free to join." And with that, and one final smile of a not-so-innocent nature. He slips away and heads into the light of day.


He's overdressed, stifled by the heat of cloth fabric clinging tightly to his body. While dressed to seem less vagrant than usual, his casual wear isn't exactly his sunday best - quite the opposite in fact. His earlier excitement has faded into dull nothing, gazing without seeing over the vastness of the festival before him. There's something spectacular in the way that they have gathered so many various people under this singular guise of a holy event.

There are more than enough people who have gotten their fingers dug deep, past his skin and into the bones below. Branding like a hot iron against his soul. None of them, up until recently had been capable of claiming their place as 'god' in him. Sacrilege, bittersweet on the tip of his tongue.

He spots his target quickly, being accosted by Luca and Damon of all people. For a moment, Jack considers turning back around and finding something else to do. Lord knows there's plenty of people here to bother. However, he isn't going to change course just because of the annoyance that is his own flesh and goddamned blood. Then again, Luca also looks like he means business, and interrupting business is never in Jacks personal interests.

So, with the casual confidence, only someone who spends most of their time unclothed can master, he sidles towards Friday. Casually lets his fingers brush against the other, barely there. Not enough for anybody to notice or call him out on. He looks up, feels his breath quickening by the second. He shoots a meaningful look towards Luca and Damon.

"Come find me." He whispers. And then, as if he hadn't been there in the first place he departs.