Name: My daddy named me Jesse Adams, but everyone calls me Mockingbird because of my laugh. I guess it might be a bit obnoxious.

Age: 23

Gang Affiliation: Poison, Tactician

Appearance: We have all changed these days, y'know? I mean, damn, the SKY has fallen and we are dancing on broken shards of clouds, right? We are all broken, I no more than she or he, or even you. I will attempt to record all this break-break-breaking so you, whoever comes after us, aliens or whatever, will maybe understand what it was like. Why we are all better off lying in graves we've dug for ourselves. And maybe you can do it better, somehow, or something, y'know?

I guess I should start with giving you an idea of who's writing, yeah? Well, to start with, I've never been a big guy. I'm a bit short, around 5'7" I think, with not much more than 120lbs. And I was reminded of it all the time, with fists trying to break me like a twig. But I broke them, didn't I? Yeah... anyways, I don't like the indoors much. Spent too much time in interrogation chambers(not as the victim, understand) and my skin is a nice dark tan with a few small white scars here and there. Marks of my passing through this sharp, hard world. My hair is black and done up in dreads with a bunch of beads and old coins and shit, like the Rastas would be proud of, I think. I've got a few piercings in my ears, not much, and they change whenever I feel like it. Things change a lot here. My eyes change, too, from brown to a dark golden color, depending on the weather or the seasons or something like that.

I usually wear my worn out black and blue hoodie with a black tank underneath it and a pair of old jeans and my old Politia boots. Once in a while I'll wear black fingerless gloves, but usually only when the fighting is going to get hard and my hands slippery. I suppose you'd like to know what makes me stand out in a crowd, eh? Well, when I roll up my sleeves you can see my tats. Everyone in the gang, Poison, has 'em, just in different places and ways. Mine are two full sleeves of sheet music spiraling around my arm. Pretty damn sick, if you ask me. I guess that's enough about my looks. I'm not a vain guy, really.

Personality: This is turning out to be like Sun Tzu's Art of War, isn't it? Getting all up in my mind and stealing my secrets and shit. I'll let you know what kind of a guy I am just so's you know who lived here and how we all crumbled to something simpler and more sinister. My daddy was a fighter, part of some local gang that didn't do much but get food and give protection to us what lived in the area. I suppose I inherited some of that, despite my size. People talk shit a lot, I've realized, but when it hits the fan most of them panic. I'm the one that throws it up. I'm the fan. I'm what's left. I've killed more people than I care to remember, on both sides of this war, or whatever you want to call it. Back in the Politia I was an interrogator because I was "hard." I guess I am hard. Blood doesn't scare me, and neither does pain or death. And you learn things in that line of work, dark things. Things that change you and make you think differently. I guess that's why I'm the tactician for the gang, cause I think differently. I know what's inside of a man; I've seen it up close.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not some cold-blooded killing machine. I mean, shit, spiders scare the hell out of me and I like sunshine just as much as the hippies and farmers. Fish doesn't sit well with me, never has, and I hate it when people burp in public. It's just damn rude. And yeah, maybe I get a little quiet sometimes, or let my anger out too much at once like a burst pipe. But we all burst at some point. I just like to think I can hold my breath longer than the next guy.

Background: I won't put much here, because it's just the same old shit all over again, but I will tell you enough so you know me better. My daddy raised me in the city, in the heart of the gangs and violence that followed the End. I'm pretty sure he either found me, or my mom was killed since he never mentioned her and I never asked. I grew into the gang he was a part of and did things we all had to do, even as a kid. But dad always said he'd get me out, somehow. He'd get me somewhere safe, where I couldn't be touched. When one of his friends found his way into the Politia, dad called in a favor and got me in as a guard when I was 16. In those days, see, the Politia and the other gangs were all the same: just another group of people to use or abuse. But the Politia was something the gangs weren't. It was order and structure in a world so desperately in need of it. I didn't buy into a lot of the bullshit, but I knew it was important that someone be in charge. I knew what it was like in the city with all the chaos. All those broken pieces...

Well, I moved up the ranks slowly until one day me and a friend passed by a guy from one of the gangs we knew had killed another guy we knew. You know how it is, blood for blood and all that jazz. We took him in an alley and I beat the shit out of him, like really mutilated that guy. I made him feel more pain than most people feel in a lifetime. And he told me where his boss was. So I told my boss where that guy's boss was hiding and we went and shot him in the back of the head on a cold night in December, I think. Word got out that I had got the information and they moved up to interrogator.

One thing led to another, I found out some shit I shouldn't have even though it was my job, and started running before they could catch me in their black bags. I was probably about 20, then. I found my way into the Poison gang and here I am, tactician. Supreme Strategist of His Majesties Poisonous Mob. Hah, or at least that's what some of the guys call me. When they think I'm not listening. Anyways, that's enough shit about me. You know more than you need to know. Hopefully that's enough.

Weapon: Bowie knife with knuckle guard
Spiked Knuckles
Garrote Wire

Playlist:Incubus - While the Vultures Feed
Favorite Food: Pizza!