Aquilifer
Member
- Joined
- Jun 17, 2025
- Messages
- 54
- Thread Author
- #1
NAME: Jack Sullivan
NICKNAMES: 'Sully'
PREVIOUS OCCUPATION: Fisherman
LOYALTY TIER: Supporter
GENDER: Male
AGE: 34
NATIONALITY: United States of America
PLACE OF BIRTH: Biddeford, Maine
HERITAGE: Irish / Italian American
RELIGION: Roman Catholic
STATUS: Alive
YOUNG BOYS GROW INTO OLD MEN
Jack Sullivan came into the world the way nor’easters crash against the Maine coast loud, unwelcome, and destined to leave scars on the granite. In the salt‑shot clapboard house overlooking the wharf at Owl’s Head, every night was a bar fight that never quite ended. Arthur Sullivan steel‑spined longshoreman, cheap lager crusader ruled with fists dusted in callus and despair. Beer met glass, glass met floor, and a thousand green shards glittered like cursed emeralds as Jack darted barefoot through the wreckage, clutching his ribs that pulsed purple beneath his shirt.
When Arthur’s temper peaked, he’d grip the neck of the bottle like a dagger. Smashes, shouts, the wet slap of a backhand. One August storm he drove Jack against the fridge so hard the compressor quit and the milk soured overnight. Two cracked ribs, doctor said only the clumsy kind of miracle kept a lung from puncture. Jack learned to breathe shallow, to listen for the tremor in his father’s slurred cadence that meant “run now.” He became as silent and quick as a gull’s shadow over water.
But even storms exhaust themselves. In November of Jack’s thirteenth year, the house fell quiet too quiet. He found Arthur dangling from an attic rafter, feet inches from the overturned paint can he’d kicked away. The rope creaked like a warped fiddle note; beer bottles lay up there too, spinning lazy circles. Jack didn’t scream. He just stared at the slack face and wondered why death smelled so much like stale malt.
The authorities called it a tragedy. Jack called it gravity finally winning.
Jack Sullivan came into the world the way nor’easters crash against the Maine coast loud, unwelcome, and destined to leave scars on the granite. In the salt‑shot clapboard house overlooking the wharf at Owl’s Head, every night was a bar fight that never quite ended. Arthur Sullivan steel‑spined longshoreman, cheap lager crusader ruled with fists dusted in callus and despair. Beer met glass, glass met floor, and a thousand green shards glittered like cursed emeralds as Jack darted barefoot through the wreckage, clutching his ribs that pulsed purple beneath his shirt.
When Arthur’s temper peaked, he’d grip the neck of the bottle like a dagger. Smashes, shouts, the wet slap of a backhand. One August storm he drove Jack against the fridge so hard the compressor quit and the milk soured overnight. Two cracked ribs, doctor said only the clumsy kind of miracle kept a lung from puncture. Jack learned to breathe shallow, to listen for the tremor in his father’s slurred cadence that meant “run now.” He became as silent and quick as a gull’s shadow over water.
But even storms exhaust themselves. In November of Jack’s thirteenth year, the house fell quiet too quiet. He found Arthur dangling from an attic rafter, feet inches from the overturned paint can he’d kicked away. The rope creaked like a warped fiddle note; beer bottles lay up there too, spinning lazy circles. Jack didn’t scream. He just stared at the slack face and wondered why death smelled so much like stale malt.
The authorities called it a tragedy. Jack called it gravity finally winning.
THE FORGE OF ADOLESCENCE
High school was no haven it was just another battleground with prettier lighting. The halls of Rockland High echoed with sneakers, slammed lockers, and muffled sobs behind bathroom doors. Jack Sulivan, by now tall and wiry with eyes that looked ten years older than they should, carried an invisible fog around him. Teachers whispered. Classmates joked when he passed, laughing harder than necessary some out of cruelty, some out of fear they’d end up like him.
He drank hard, partied harder. There was something desperate in the way he chased oblivion like if he got drunk enough, the memories would drown too. His best friend, Penny O’Malley, tried to tether him to earth. She’d sit with him on the roof of her aunt’s apartment, smoke swirling in the cold night air, reading aloud from Sylvia Plath or Bukowski.
“You’re not broken,” she said once, tracing the old scar above his eye. “You’re just... badly wired.”
Jack never answered, just sipped his beer and stared past her.
It happened the summer before senior year. A party by the quarry bonfire, loud music, the usual carousel of cheap liquor and cheap promises. Her name was Mandy. Everyone knew Mandy. She laughed like broken wind chimes and kissed like a dare. Jack didn’t think twice.
Penny shoved a job flyer into his hands.
“Dockhand needed. Early mornings. Heavy lifting. Good pay.”
Jack stared at it like it might bite him.
“You either rot here,” she said, voice shaking, “or you work. I don’t care what disease you’ve got or what hell you come from you’re still you, Sullivan. Just get up.”
He did. For the first time in his life, he chose pain that built muscle instead of pain that left scars.
SALT FOR BLOOD, ROPE FOR SIN
At dawn the docks were cathedral gray. Jack hauled lobster traps slick with algae, the hemp biting into his palms until blisters burst and wept. He tasted rust on the air and remembered the iron tang of his own blood spattered on childhood floorboards. Day after day, he loaded bait barrels, listened to gulls bicker, felt muscles knot like anchor cables. Poverty nipped his heels paychecks vanished into rent and patched‑up boots but honest exhaustion did what liquor never could: it quieted the ghosts.
Old Captain “Two‑Hook” Malloy the nickname came from a pair of prosthetic steel pincers watched. He saw the kid take punches from Atlantic squalls without complaint. One bitter February morning, Malloy gestured to the wheelhouse of his weather‑chewed trawler, Sea Widow.
“Ever run a boat, Sullivan?”
“Only ran from one thing my whole life, Cap.”
“That’s a start. Climb in.”
Under Malloy’s grizzled tutelage Jack studied tide charts, engine growls, and the secret language of buoys bobbing like omens. Nights, he fell asleep against the hum of a space heater, dreaming not of ropes around necks but of ropes thick with prize‑lobsters.
Years blurred line scars on hands mapping out his persistence. Malloy’s heart finally gave in on a June dawn as pink as salmon flesh. In the will, the Sea Widow passed to the “kid who never quits even when the sea tries to spit him out.” Bank loans snarled and rival crews sneered, but Jack mortgaged every fear he had left and signed the deed.
At dawn the docks were cathedral gray. Jack hauled lobster traps slick with algae, the hemp biting into his palms until blisters burst and wept. He tasted rust on the air and remembered the iron tang of his own blood spattered on childhood floorboards. Day after day, he loaded bait barrels, listened to gulls bicker, felt muscles knot like anchor cables. Poverty nipped his heels paychecks vanished into rent and patched‑up boots but honest exhaustion did what liquor never could: it quieted the ghosts.
Old Captain “Two‑Hook” Malloy the nickname came from a pair of prosthetic steel pincers watched. He saw the kid take punches from Atlantic squalls without complaint. One bitter February morning, Malloy gestured to the wheelhouse of his weather‑chewed trawler, Sea Widow.
“Ever run a boat, Sullivan?”
“Only ran from one thing my whole life, Cap.”
“That’s a start. Climb in.”
Under Malloy’s grizzled tutelage Jack studied tide charts, engine growls, and the secret language of buoys bobbing like omens. Nights, he fell asleep against the hum of a space heater, dreaming not of ropes around necks but of ropes thick with prize‑lobsters.
Years blurred line scars on hands mapping out his persistence. Malloy’s heart finally gave in on a June dawn as pink as salmon flesh. In the will, the Sea Widow passed to the “kid who never quits even when the sea tries to spit him out.” Bank loans snarled and rival crews sneered, but Jack mortgaged every fear he had left and signed the deed.
THE UPRISING OF THE TIDE
Success didn’t thunder in. It came inch by inch. First, a week where traps came up chokeful and no winch jammed. Then a season selling to Portland’s finest restaurants. Penny now a nurse stitching up fishermen’s mishaps stood on the pier when Jack docked with his first five‑figure haul.
“You smell like rotting bait,” she teased, eyes shining.
“Rich rotting bait,” he corrected, flashing a grin that finally reached his eyes.
They talked long past sunset: about scars that ache in rain, about forgiving ghosts who never asked forgiveness. Jack spoke of starting a scholarship for kids who carried bruises beneath hoodies. Penny promised to help.
Success didn’t thunder in. It came inch by inch. First, a week where traps came up chokeful and no winch jammed. Then a season selling to Portland’s finest restaurants. Penny now a nurse stitching up fishermen’s mishaps stood on the pier when Jack docked with his first five‑figure haul.
“You smell like rotting bait,” she teased, eyes shining.
“Rich rotting bait,” he corrected, flashing a grin that finally reached his eyes.
They talked long past sunset: about scars that ache in rain, about forgiving ghosts who never asked forgiveness. Jack spoke of starting a scholarship for kids who carried bruises beneath hoodies. Penny promised to help.
CALM SEAS, UNBROKEN HORIZON
On the anniversary of Arthur Sullivan’s death, Jack motored the Sea Widow beyond the lighthouse. He took his father’s last unopened beer rescued from a dusty attic box—and cracked it. Foam hissed like a sigh. Jack poured the contents into the Atlantic, a libation for demons past.
“Old man,” he murmured to the horizon, “you tried to drown me in darkness. But look ” He spread his arms to the gull‑strewn sky “I learned to breathe salt and keep sailing.”
The bottle he kept, empty and harmless, on the dash beside the compass. A reminder that glass can wound, but it can also reflect sunlight if you angle it right.
On the anniversary of Arthur Sullivan’s death, Jack motored the Sea Widow beyond the lighthouse. He took his father’s last unopened beer rescued from a dusty attic box—and cracked it. Foam hissed like a sigh. Jack poured the contents into the Atlantic, a libation for demons past.
“Old man,” he murmured to the horizon, “you tried to drown me in darkness. But look ” He spread his arms to the gull‑strewn sky “I learned to breathe salt and keep sailing.”
The bottle he kept, empty and harmless, on the dash beside the compass. A reminder that glass can wound, but it can also reflect sunlight if you angle it right.
ARMED SERVICE
Current Faction of Service: Metadynamist Combined Paramilitary - C24 LEG. 1
Current Rank: Political Commissar
Past Faction of Service: Volunteer Expedition Team (V.E.T), Conscripted Stabilization Force
Past Ranks: EX-3, Sergeant
Accommodations: Bronze Star Medal (CSF), Medal of Armed Service (CSF)
- Tours of Duty -
The Yvoire Hyrdoplant
Operation Winder-Echo-Zero in the capture of Strasbourg
Sector 10/24 - Expedition #001
Union Horizon
Operation Duney Depot
Operation Steel Cage
Leibstadt Nuclear Power Plant
City Twenty Four
Option Three Point One
The Long March
Current Faction of Service: Metadynamist Combined Paramilitary - C24 LEG. 1
Current Rank: Political Commissar
Past Faction of Service: Volunteer Expedition Team (V.E.T), Conscripted Stabilization Force
Past Ranks: EX-3, Sergeant
Accommodations: Bronze Star Medal (CSF), Medal of Armed Service (CSF)
- Tours of Duty - The Yvoire Hyrdoplant
Operation Winder-Echo-Zero in the capture of Strasbourg
Sector 10/24 - Expedition #001
Union Horizon
Operation Duney Depot
Operation Steel Cage
Leibstadt Nuclear Power Plant
City Twenty Four
Option Three Point One
The Long March
RELATIONSHIPS
Reply To be added
A great guy to have your back. I’ve trusted my life with him more times than I can count. In the heat of the moment when everything’s falling apart he’s the one I know will be there no matter what. He’s pulled me out of situations that could’ve ended me and I’ve done the same for him. It’s not just about trust it’s about knowing someone’s got your six through everything. He’s more than just a friend he’s my brother in arms someone I’d go through hell with and come out the other side still standing.
My Sergeant, A respectable leader who has never led us wrong. We’ve followed him into the bloodiest fights and he’s always brought us back out. In the worst of it when others would break he stays steady and we draw strength from that. His decisions aren’t just smart they’re grounded in experience and a deep care for the people who follow him. I’ve put my life on the line under his command before and I would do it again without hesitation because I know he would do the same for us.
An auxiliary soldier who was placed under my command, he’s proven himself in the heat of battle. He listens well, follows orders without hesitation, and carries himself with the discipline of someone far more experienced. There’s a quiet determination in him that stands out even in tough situations. I’ve come to trust his judgment and his presence in the unit has made a difference. When his time in the auxiliary ends I hope he chooses to remain in the conscripted reserve where his skills and attitude will continue to serve us well.
Marcus is a soldier I’ve stood beside in battle more times than I can count. He’s proven himself time and time again a great soldier and someone I can rely on without question. In the thick of it when things turn bad he’s the one I know will hold the line with me. I trust him with my life and I carry the hope that he feels the same trust in me. His promotion to Sergeant seems deserving with all he does, but I worry for him and the other greenhorn Sergeants in the next coming days, I will have to try my best to help them when needed. I know good things are going to come from Cross.
Ol' Spitty... Spit Bucket, Daan is another auxiliary soldier who has shown his worth in combat. I’ve fought alongside him on multiple occasions and he’s always carried himself with focus and determination. He doesn’t hesitate when it counts and has earned the respect of those around him through action not words. I’m confident that when his time as an auxiliary comes to an end he’ll choose to stay in the service. I look forward to seeing what he accomplishes next because I know there’s more to come from him.
I have had the pleasure of serving alongside Aleksei on many occasions. He brings a sharp sense of humor that lifts the mood even in the worst conditions and knows how to keep spirits high when things get tough. Beneath that humor is a capable and dependable soldier who’s always ready to step up when needed. I hope to continue serving alongside him in the future and see where his path in the service takes him.
The man overseeing V.E.T was my first real glimpse into the upper class of City 24. He carries himself with the confidence and authority that comes from experience and position. Dealing with him gave me a better understanding of how things truly operate behind the scenes in the city. It was a clear reminder of the divide between those who serve on the ground and those who oversee from above.
Schmachding was one of the people I served alongside in V.E.T and from the start he proved himself to be a solid worker. Focused, dependable, and always ready to do his part without complaint. We’ve stood side by side on countless expeditions, and through each one he showed his dedication and reliability. He’s the kind of person you’re glad to have at your back when things start to go wrong.
Hikaru is another conscript under my command, someone I’ve come to respect through shared experience. I’ve served with him on a couple of expeditions now, and each time he's proven himself dependable under pressure. One moment that really stands out was during that operation in the mine out in Sector 10 that makeshift bridge, low visibility, and a lot of unknowns. Hikaru didn’t hesitate. He moved with purpose, held the line when things got tense. Although he has become more inept as the rank gap between us grows, he is clearly troubled by something predating me. I can not let any incompetence go unchecked in my squad with my soldiers' lives at stake.
Jeane is a fellow Sergeant in the Combine Stabilisation Force. She runs her squad well and gets the job done without overcomplicating things. I’ve been on plenty of missions where we commanded side by side, and working with her has always been straightforward and effective. I look forward to seeing the battlefield with her in the future.
Moter is a real trooper, another one of our Aux. He’s been through hell and back, and it shows in the way he carries himself, tough, steady, and never the first to complain. I respect him for that. He’s the kind of guy who can keep moving when things get rough, even if he’s running on fumes. I’ve got a feeling he won’t stick around once that collar comes off, and I can’t blame him for that. Still, while he’s here, he’s a real asset to the Stabilisation Force, and I’m glad to have him on the line with us.
E.J. Mundi, one of the greatest minds of our generation, and without a doubt one of the greatest thinkers and speakers I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. His way of looking at the world, the clarity of his words, and the conviction behind them set him apart from so many others who claim authority. I hope to serve the Binder in whatever way I can, to carry even a fraction of that vision forward. And with the Metadynamist Youth Assembly, I like to believe we stand at the threshold of something larger than ourselves, something that will prove those hopes justified.
Reply To be added
Last edited:
