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Background
I was born on July 2nd, 1976. The date doesn't have much significance to many people, but, particularly in recent years, I've always dreaded my birthday. On the same day I was squeezed out into existence, the United States Supreme Court revealed its verdict on the case Gregg v. Georgia. It was the case that would set the death penalty as an acceptable form of punishment for decades to come. It wouldn't hold much significance to me for another 20 years, but, looking back on it now, it certainly wasn't a good note to start on. My Dad owned a bookstore. My mom was an angel. I have not yet clapped eyes on a creature of more stunning beauty, grace, and warmth than my mother, and I doubt I ever shall. I cannot understand why she had picked my father. He's a good guy, but he is and was always, on the whole, completely unremarkable. Maybe that's why she loved him so much. Maybe that's why he never got over her death.
My earliest years were my happiest. Everyone was always smiling. There was always food on the table, an eager spryness in my father's step, and an ever-present glow about Mom's face. It was perfection. It was perpetual comfort. And, because we happened to live in College Park, it was fleeting. She was gunned down in an alley three blocks from our apartment while on her way back from the pharmacy. I had had a cold. They never caught the asshole that did it, but neither of us cared at the time, and I don't think either of us cares to this day. It's not that we don't want vengeance, it's that that thirst for retribution is completely engulfed by the sorrow that came with her death. She lit up our world, and, once extinguished, it could never be re-lit.
You don't just get over something like that. I was only about 6 when it happened, but it still haunts me to this day. Still, I had a life to live, and kids are far stronger than anyone gives them credit for in situations of such tragedy. My father was not so strong. He could function, but the hole that my Mom had left in him never healed and was never filled...except with liquor. Don't get me wrong. Dad wasn't a raging alcoholic. He raised me and took good care of me and (almost) never got totally drunk, but I could tell that liquor was the staple that kept his sanity held together.
But there wasn’t much time when Dad wasn’t working or drinking, so I had to take care of myself most days. Once you hit high school, there’s only two choices in College Park. Either you join a gang and beat up losers, or you become a loser and get beat up by the gangs. Gangs pushed drugs, vandalized stores, dominated the schoolyard, and generally performed any other kind of punk-ass act of indecency they felt like…and anyone not among their number was on the receiving end. In what was the second-stupidest thing I have ever done in my life, I decided not to be on the receiving end.
It wasn’t bad at first. Things like that never are. In fact, it was almost glamorous. Once you dealt with all the initiation shit and got in, people gave you respect. I thought I was a badass and, at least in the small microcosm of my neighborhood, I was. For the first two years, it was no big deal. We did some minor drug dealing. We pushed some brats around. We occasionally trashed a shop or something. The worst (and most common) thing we did was get into rumbles with other gangs. I lost count of how many fights I got into. Most of them simply involved tackling some poor sap and kicking him a bit, but occasionally things got rough, and I had a surprising aptitude for it. We were just mostly harmless punks. My Dad hardly ever got wind of what I was doing. Not only was he easily deluded in his state, but I was damn good at not getting caught. I’d always had a unique sense of things, a good head about me. But, as those kind of things often do, things got out of hand.
Me and this kid named Mark were just prowling about the streets. We would often bum around ‘till all hours of the night, so this wasn’t unusual. We saw this wino stumbling down the street and Mark bet me he could make him give up what little money he had. Why we both thought it would be funny to rob a wino I still don’t understand. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’m disgusted by who I was then. So Mark pulls a knife on the guy. We couldn’t have known that he was an angry drunk, but he was, and he was in no mood to be pushed around by a teenager. Mark freaked and skewered him.
My initial reaction was to simply stare. The image of the wino’s face contorting in pain while Mark stared in horror at the blood squirting all over the two of them will stalk my nightmares until the day I die. My second reaction was to run…and fast. I don’t remember just how long I ran through the streets of Atlanta that night. It must have been hours. In any event, I collapsed out of exhaustion and fear in some back alley and woke up just before dawn.
It was a pretty cut and dry incident. I was an accessory to murder. There was only one way out of it and I took it. I lied my ass off. I’m not proud of what I did, but I will say that I did it well. It was my word against Mark’s and I had done a good job of convincing Dad that I’d been at home that night. He, as I’d guessed, hadn’t been in any condition to remember, and he was eager to believe I wasn’t a murderer, so he testified to support my alibi. It isn’t a lie if you think it’s true. Mark went away for twenty years and I got off scot-free. I never told anyone about and I never intend to.
I went through years of mental torture about what I’d done. I hadn’t directly taken the life of someone, but I without my goading and jeering, Mark certainly wouldn’t have done it. After a while I rationalized it all by saying I could either rot in prison for what I’d done, or I could attempt to make up for it. That didn’t help much, but it did help me get my mind off things.
Needless to say I quit the gang. I focused on my schoolwork for my remaining years in high school. I’ve always been good at absorbing and categorizing information. My father rarely missed an opportunity to feel proud of my memory. Still, high school procedure didn’t appeal to me. The structure of it seemed to constrict and squelch me. I did decently, squeaking by with a 3.1 GPA. It took me a long time before I finally realized what I wanted to do with my life. I knew that I had to atone for what I’d done, but I wasn’t sure how to best go about that. Then it hit me: I would put away assholes who were just like me!
It was hypocritical, sure, but I was trying to change. This was a way I could put right the terrible sin I’d committed. Not only would I turn from the path of taking human life, but I could stop those that had done what I had. It was awkward for quite some time, of course. I felt as though I had no right to be pursuing that course with the baggage I was carrying, but I figured, and still do to this day, that I can do more good unpunished and guilty than punished and behind bars.
I went to Cuny John Jay College of Criminology and got my degree. College life was fun and mostly uneventful. I had some fun, dated some girls, and went to a party every now and then, but I remained driven on what I intended to do. I wish now that that phase of my life had lasted longer. It really was the best years I’ve ever had. I was out on my own doing what I wanted to do, and feeling really damn justified about the whole thing too.
I returned to Atlanta and joined up with the Force not three weeks after I graduated. I had always enjoyed physical activity and exercise, and police work gave me an excuse to do that. I spent a lot of time working out, sparring with the other policemen, and watching boxing matches. God, what an idealistic young runt I was. I flew right through the academy with honors and was out patrolling on the streets before I knew it. I was 21, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and as stupid as I could be. Like so many people of that age, I focused only on the idea and philosophy behind what I was doing. I was so stuck on the idealism of my work that I missed it’s practical application entirely.
I got a wake-up call on my 26th birthday. God damn July 2nd. Nothing good ever happened on that day. I should’ve taken the night off. It was, after all, my birthday. I could’ve called it in and stayed at home with no problem. I didn’t, and I paid the price for it. It was a pretty routine call: domestic disturbance. We got a couple of these a week in College Park. Some drunk asshole of a boyfriend gets to yelling at his woman and she yells back. Then they start throwing stuff and things get out of hand. It was already pretty heated when we pulled up to the littered front yard. At first, it was just like always: the two were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. The occasionally crash of a dish or pot being thrown could be heard as we walked up the driveway.
Then things went bad. We heard the woman scream just as we came to the door. It wasn’t an angry, outraged scream like before, but a shriek of terror. My partner and I kicked open the door and rushed in. I don’t exactly remember myself what happened next. I’ve pieced together what I know must have happened based on what little I do remember and the testimonials at the ensuing trial. The boyfriend had had a gun pointed at the girl. As soon as we entered, he, surprised and almost certainly with no idea what he was doing, swung around and had the thing pointed at us.
I had three bullets in his chest before he knew what was going on. To make matters worse, it turned out that his gun had been totally empty, and he’d had it only to intimidate the girl. He’d never posed any threat to us. I was investigated for wrongful death and excessive use of force…but really I just found myself at the trial I’d delayed for over six years. Again, I somehow found myself punished only by a cautionary statement and pat on the back. Both my partner and the girlfriend testified that I’d reacted reasonably given what I knew of the situation. Nobody could’ve known the gun was empty, and they both figured at the time that he was riled up enough to be dangerous. A gun pointed at a police officer does give them the right to use lethal force to protect themselves and, given the circumstances, the State ruled that I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I disagreed. Before, I had engaged in actions that had directly caused the death of someone. This time I had actually pulled the trigger. Everyone told me that I’d done the right thing. Everyone told me I had nothing to be ashamed of, but that was little consolation. For the second time in my life I had murdered someone who had been of absolutely no danger to me. Once again, I’d taken a life without cause. I fell apart. I started drinking. It was months before I could come to grips with what I’d done. I nearly lost my job over it. It was only when I realized that I was becoming my father that I started to turn myself around. He could never get over the pain of Mom’s death and the guilt that came with it. He let it destroy his life. I didn’t want that to happen to me.
I still might’ve never gotten out of it if it hadn’t been for Zen. I was watching TV in a near-drunk daze when this commercial for some self-help meditation crap came on. I don’t know why, but it struck a cord in me. I never could remember the damn number for those meditation tapes, but it got me interested in Zen. I sobered up for a few hours and stepped on down to the library. I must’ve checked out every book on meditation, Buddhism, and Zen there was. I spent nearly a week getting drunk on all that shit instead of whisky.
Now I’ll be the first to admit Zen is weird. It’s damn weird. It is however, also extremely helpful. I needed a way to face all my demons and find some peace. Zen helped me do that. I don’t call myself a full-fledged Buddhist, but I certainly find wisdom in a great many of it’s teachings. For instance, it’s belief that all life is sacred gave me some kind of solace from the deaths I’d caused. I resolved to go back to the path of atonement I’d first set for myself: catching murderers. I did it, however, with a newfound belief that had made all the difference: all life is sacred. From the loftiest saint to the most despicable pervert, all life is beautiful and vital. No matter how terrible or evil someone was, I had absolutely no right to smother the life that person had.
From that day to this, I walk out on the street every day with a clip full of rubber bullets. I don’t want to ever touch a lethal weapon again. After that, things were good again. I spent a few years doing my duty and making a difference on the streets before I applied to become a detective. During these years, I stayed totally focused. It didn’t matter what it was, I just had to keep my head bent on something to keep from falling back into guilt, apathy, and generally being a wreck. I continued my love of sparring and working out. I’ve never been a body builder and, as you can see, I don’t look like one, but I’ve always liked keeping in shape. Being a patrol officer was nice, but there was a lot of meaningless crap (like directing traffic) that wasn’t so appealing. I wanted to devote the entirety of my time to solving murders. My degree in criminology and several interviews with senior officers must have made an impression, because my promotion was granted.
I’ve been a homicide detective for six years now. Someone recently asked me if I was happy. I said I wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t call myself happy, but I wouldn’t exactly say I’m unhappy either. It’s more like I’m…restless. There’s a deep, satisfying sense of accomplishment that comes with my job, but it always seems like there’s something more. I mean, I’ve done everything I hoped to do. I am, even by the Captain’s standards, damn good at my job. I’ve got one of the lowest cold-case rates in the precinct’s history. That same weird sense about me benefited me here. I always seemed to notice things other people didn’t. I picked up on things everyone else missed. It’s true that the rigors of my occupation have left little time for anything else. I don’t have any close friends outside of the department besides Eveline, and romance never took off for me, but….that didn’t seem to be what was bothering me.
It’s hard to describe. I looked out into the darkness of the night sky and something gripped me. It’s like there’s something going on, some invisible network out there in the darkness that I couldn’t see. And it was important. That doesn’t make any sense I know, but…but it’s there all the same. It’s as if there was some great, eternal struggle going on right under my nose and I couldn’t see it.
The strangest part of it all was that, sometimes, when College Park took a few moments to quiet in the dead of night, and the feeling came to me…I felt as though whatever the mysterious unknown was…I wanted to be a part of it.
Then Eveline told me what she was and…things went fast. I don’t know why I agreed to it, exactly. I wasn’t exactly happy but I was…content…just not satisfied. That restlessness had been in my gut almost constantly, and I knew it wasn’t going to go away unless I…satisfied it. So I did. And now I’m a vampire. That still sounds so fucked up to say, but its true. Things are different now. Everything is new, unknown, and dark…and while that’s exciting, its also quite frightening.
But perhaps that’s what I was looking for all along. Being addicted to fear may be even more jacked up than a meth addict. But somehow, I’m not worried. Eveline’s blood did something to me…besides the obvious. I’ve never felt this good in my life. I feel stronger…sturdier…almost like I’m invincible. Having seen junkies brought in the station time and again, I know what that sounds like. It sounds like I’m fucking high…and I think that’s exactly what it is.
Description
Seth is a relatively tall man of 6 feet even. He appears to be in his mid-thirties with black, near-shoulder length hair and a light five o'clock shadow. His eyes are black, and are almost always flicking around incessantly, picking up any and all details about his surroundings that he can. He has fairly soft, unremarkable features, save for his build. His shoulders are broad and, though he often wears baggy clothing to hide it, he is exceptionally strong. He speaks in a concise, direct manner. His face rarely betrays emotions, but when it does, it does so with a genuine, warm air. He always wears comfortable, baggy clothing of earthy colors unless at a formal event.
Personality
Seth is, first and foremost, circumspective. He is not "unusually" silent, he simply speaks only when he has something to say, and never a word more. He prefers to stand back and watch situations before he simply jumps right into them. He is rarely impulsive, occasionally brash, but never foolhardy. He prefers to move around problems rather than through them. Seth is generally a "nice" guy. He does not thirst for power or fame, and, now a vampire, has adopted an easy-going pace. He has a few strict moral tenets, but generally owes his loyalty to those close to him.
Developments
(Yeah, I stole this from Matt, but its a good idea...and all of this is OOC knowledge, obviously, unless you have an IC reason to know)
Seth was embraced by Eveline Carre, and quickly learned a lesson in his own limitations after being beaten into torpor by three gang-bangers. Fortunately, another Kindred witnessed the event and was able to have him moved to safety before the dawn took him. The event helped humble a rather uppity young Seth and re-instilled his old sense of circumspection.
Seth has formed a rather close relationship with Kara Lockhart, encouraged by their respective sires. Seth often turns to Kara for advice, and perhaps "too" often involves himself with her affairs in a protective manner. He means well though, as he views Kara as a kind of sister in his new life.
Seth has readily accepted his sire's offers for him to "continue her work". Initially reluctant about her bid for Praxis, Seth quickly realized that to sit idly by would violate both their belief systems.
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