Sax, Avery

[Detective Ave]

DOSSIER: DEMON HUNTER


” If you’ve never seen Heaven, then how can you possibly tell someone to go to Hell?”

BASIC DETAILS

NAME:
- Given name: Spade Aeries
- Current name:  Avery Sax

AGE:
25

GENDER:
Male

NATIONALITY:
American

BIRTHPLACE:
Brooklyn, New York, USA

BIRTHDATE:
March 23, 1988

PICTURE:

Ready or not:

*********

PERSONAL DETAILS

DESCRIPTION:

Wisps of orangey blond, reaching his shoulders is the hair Avery’s stuck with. He tends to wear his hair down most of the time, but occasionally (when it’s really hot or he’s just tired), he wears it in a short ponytail, affixing it with a worn rubber band. Wavy and unruly always, he usually slicks it down with a crumb of gel so it’s out of his face, but the rest is disheveled in a crazy way. Uneven bangs. He has a bit of scruff on his chin that he tries to shave away, but whether out of laziness or not, it’s there and he doesn’t worry about it. Eyes of azure, he’s the typical American, wielding one of the most common eye colors. His eyes are calculating and sharp—rich-looking and kind, yet they are hardly ever seen, being as they are always hidden beneath a pair of sunglasses. Avery will not do much of anything if his sunglasses aren’t within reach, and he is extremely protective of them.

He stands at a tall six foot one, towering over most with his lanky shape and well-defined muscles. He’s a very rock-hard sort of guy who lumbers about with not much for grace while still remaining lean. Avery is sculpted like a rock, his true strength hidden beneath his skin. His skin is relatively tan seeing as he enjoys spending time outside and doing certain things himself (like buying his own cigarettes) rather than ordering people to do it for him. It just isn’t his style…except when involving paperwork, but that’s another story. He’s not really tan, but more so a healthy shade of...skin-tone? He tends to wears long sleeves a lot no matter how hot it is, covering over his array of random tattoos (saves him time when people inquire about them). To describe them all would be useless. He just has a shit ton of various things like a spider, barbed wire, a hot chick, a dragon, cool shapes, an arrow, designs, flames, and whatever. They have no meaning whatsoever. He just has the tattoos, and covers them well. If anyone ever asks, he shrugs. It’s who he is, and it’s really not worth explaining (because there is no explanation). They make him feel something. They make him able to pretend that there’s some kind of meaning in them—some kind of long-winded story he can say has a happy ending. The most prominent tattoo is on his left shoulder of an upside down cross, adorning lop-sided wings and threatening nails that spell ‘SIN’. Below it, it reads: ‘When you gonna learn’. It’s true meaning refers to his past wherein he killed his own father. Below it, obtained when smashed out of his mind on whiskey, Avery remedied his first tattoo with a dice cast onto the nonexistent number seven, reading ‘Kyahr’, whatever the fuck that meant.

Slowly, he has accepted the whole idea of wearing ‘nice clothes’, whereas in the past, the ties, fold-over collars, dress pants shit going on there was way too much and cramped his style. Nowadays, he doesn’t really care. It is what it is and if it prevents people from shooting him then so be it. As for dogtags? Totally addicted. He’s like one of those animals that when you take off their collar they feel naked. Yeah, Avery’s that way about his dogtags. On any other day that doesn’t involve the grueling task of waking up for work, he wears black or navy blue muscle shirts, dress shirts, and anything else flashy that suits his ways. He loves wearing leather pants or stained-jeans with the occasional frayed hole. He is a man of a loose yet slick style. His boots are Doc Marten top-of-the-line leather and they come to a tip in the front. His coat is a navy blue trench that reaches his knees and bells out, leading down the sleeves is a white cross. He never wears gloves because his digits are callused to all hell anyway. He’s the reckless I’m-too-cool-for-a-helmet type and never wears one whilst riding a bike, disregarding the law like guidelines. Most of the time, he will adhere and dress very formally, taking on dress shirts, ties, pinstripes, vests, and so forth. His teeth are a bit yellowed from smoking, but he keeps up with hygiene religiously, brushing them twice a day, showering every other day, and cologning it up with some girl-attracting aroma.

He’s quick-minded and fast on his feet, but he tends to own the road more or less. He won’t move out of the way for you or really pay you any mind whatsoever unless you purposely get in the way. In that case, you’re in for it. He has a prized possession (other than his sunglasses) and that is some beat up, zippo lighter with an engrained spade. It’s covered in dents and is very loved. Much like a certain cross necklace infused with Templar technology that he always has somewhere on his person. He’s not much a fan of the cross and would rather it be something else, but he’s stuck with it, and it’s not as if someone else can replicate the complicated shit buried within the walls of the trinket. On the chain of his cross necklace, he usually hangs his car keys or house keys or anything he needs to not forget and remember (like sticky notes if he can get em to stay). Also, that’s where he keeps his dogtags (just in case he gets lost).

When in Inferis, using his first ability, Avery essentially looks just like a demon. He uses this to fool the vile beasts in Inferis in order to sneak around and observe without alerting attention. His blond hair is traded for white, his blue eyes for green. The left side of his face from his forehead down his eye is a black singe scrapped over him like the first cut he made on his father when he killed him.

PERSONALITY:
 
Avery will not get up before eleven. To him, mornings are meant to be slept through. Unfortunately though, many things tend to clash with his way of life, forcing him to comply with rising before the designated hour. Now women, they were a completely different matter; they kept him awake until morning. He is the definition of a playboy through and through, disregarding the concept of love altogether. Every single time he sees a woman, he will find himself spewing an array of one-liners to attract them to him. It always works, but it never brings him the release he is searching for. Regardless, he carries around his age-old cheesy words, crooked lady-killer smiles, and his dazzling blue-eyed wink behind the shades, but at the end of the day, his full attention is reserved for work. This is a new thing for him—this non-suffering-accepting-what-happened-is-in-the-past spiel. And, really, if you asked the guy himself, he would probably say that maybe now he’s finally found what's called stability.

Beyond Avery’s friendly and charming shell, he is actually a very vulnerable, distrustful, and insecure man. His remaining guilt over the past often throws him into fits of depression, which he then tucks neatly behind a silly façade. It is a façade so complex that not even the closest people to him are able to see through it. However, sometimes it can be argued that he purposely shows one-night-standers in order to show someone that he really isn’t perfect. His guarded smile can be annoying at times, but when a man is moping with a bottle of Jack that means no women allowed. Avery typically regards himself with no worth. It makes him able to jump into battle, guns blazing, and no remorse. He turns a blind eye to the fallen to just keep walking, drinking away his sorrows, and forgetting the names on the grave markers. Because of this, he never thinks of himself fit for loving anyone.

He is reckless, protective to a crime, and is bestowed with insane loyalty. Hold tight to those you hold dear. God forbid anyone would try and pry his grip off. Over his dead body. He won’t lose anymore. Avery cannot give up. Determined to the bitter end, he’d never go down without a fight. Those under him have his unwavering protection. But men die, and Avery knows this. He’s accepted the hardest truth by watching a close friend fall just beyond his grip, into a place he could not follow. He’s not the kind of guy to betray anyone; he’d mindlessly jump into the flames if it meant saving just another life.  

This man has intense smoking and drinking habits. Don’t even try and compete. Someone would end up getting their stomach pumped (and it wouldn’t be Ave). Tolerance level through the roof, he is the master of booze—the lord of beer!  However, he drinks for a reason: numbness. To forget. To make the pain go away. To lose himself. To stop seeing so much. On the rare occasion that Avery is sober, comes clarity—clarity too strong to block out. Ave is assaulted by his own genius observances, seeing everything. He records details of all within sense, his knowledge so expansive that he can determine pretty much anything from just a glance at a stranger on the street. The detective becomes a master of deduction, capable of tearing a person to shreds with his eyes, revealing every dirty secret supposedly cleverly hidden. At times, it can even seem as if he has ADD, bouncing from one thing to the next, trying to avoid every encounter if only to escape the wrath of uncovering. It is overwhelming, which is another reason why Avery partakes in many a case of beer or a hidden water bottle of vodka when he can. If sober, he has to readjust to his own sight and fall back into step with the man he used to be, carrying the weight of years on his shoulders like humid air. Save for the air is rancid with two packs of cigs a day. BD  

Avery doesn’t care about himself, really. He’s alive. Great. Dandy. And? He holds no value to his life and no worth to his existence (or his liver). He paves through all the shit just to keep going, blurring through life like the taillights of race cars. He honestly doesn’t give a shit what other people think about him. If they don’t get along, they can suck it. While he’s an easy-going, laid back kind of happy-go-lucky dude, he also doesn’t take shit. It’s just too much to deal with and a big-ass waste of time. So fuck off and find someone else to flirt with. Men aren’t his style. He’s a homophobe, hates gays, hates the concept, will cry in the presence of anything related. And Ave doesn’t cry. He has enough suffering in his life!  

He’s kind-hearted—doesn’t kill unless he has to, has mercy (probably too much), etc. He has secrets like everyone else, but he doesn’t brag about them. There’s no point. He just does his job, and sneaks off to Hell instead of playing video games or whatever people entertain themselves with now-a-days. It makes him feel old, insecure, and other things; however, he is very aware that he is that one in a million that can. Along with that, he detests the Templar mentality of eradicating the knowledge of Inferis. Why not know? Humans are humans; they are naturally curious and deserve to know that if they do commit sins, they actually will go to hell. It’s not a fucking scare tactic man, he’s seen what crimes do to people. How’d you like to become a twitching yellow zombie arm that lights people on fire? Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t steal that make up. Some things just aren’t worth it.

Like trying to live too hard. If it’s not working, you gotta take another angle. Ave isn’t the kind of guy that will mindlessly devote himself to a task that isn’t going to slide. Wasting time is dumb especially considering how short one’s life is on Earth. Well, at least there wasn’t eternal nothingness, right? This was kind of better, maybe. In fact, he’s not really sure what to think. Still sifting through that, he meanders through his duty, killing those that try and start shit without any hesitation whatsoever. Just like his father predicted, he’s a killer. Only, he doesn’t kill for God or for any other justification; he kills for himself.

Avery is a fan of conclusions. He doesn’t leave books open or pages unturned. There’s always progression, and without it, things become stagnant. Moving forward is the only means to discovery of oneself and, well, everything. Not that he really mulls over those things, he just believes that if you start something, you should end it. Whether with a trigger or a pen, he doesn’t really care. His profession offers both, and he takes his decisions very seriously. Really, there’s no off button for Avery. He keeps going non-stop like a peddling monkey or something. Never tires. Not even at four AM and stuff. He just doesn’t sleep, and when he does, he’s pretty much awake. It’s not because of nightmares or anything, hell, no, literally hell. Look what he’s experienced. That in itself is a feat that messes with one’s mind. Getting beyond that—however anyone gets beyond it—is a feat in and of itself. In the end, it’s all a means to an end. He’s just living his life the best he sees fit, feeling more at home in hell, having had already denounced his humanity the moment of his birth. Takes a demon to kill a demon, but it takes something far more vulgar to break the leitmotif.

Just like breaking beer bottles and bar stools. As of recent, Ave's behavior has taken a spiraling downfall. He's an out-of-control, reckless fool who is in too much pain to really care about himself in the slightest. He's fallen beyond any and all plausible help, and tends to push away any that dare reveal itself. He doesn't seem to do friends much anymore, and hasn't really had any real fun in forever. His friendly demeanor has gone out with the tide and doesn't look to be coming back any time soon despite his efforts. He's hard, and taking things way too serious to be considered himself. Clinging to misdirection, he's stumbling about in the dark, trying to find his way in this world and failing. His smiles are dead and his happy-go-lucky trills are just chirps of grounded birds. It's the sad truth that he has to face, and daily. Each morning seems to bring about more and more misguided turns, taking him further away from anything that could be considered the true Avery Sax.

HISTORY:

Some things can’t be rewritten. Others can. Avery’s story? Well, that’s another one entirely. Let’s just say that triggers do wonders with solving that problem. In fact, it’s a great motto. You should check into it. Really. Anyway, it might be a better idea to start at the beginning. There’s a beginning and there’s an end. Just, the end hasn’t quite gotten there yet. It’ll be a while longer before then. Hopefully sooner than later.

Something about flowers. Girls and flowers that just work—downright works. That was how Avery’s father solved every problem: a goofy smile and a bouquet of roses. Thing about the word bouquet: it can also mean the aroma of wine. Now wasn’t that prevalent. Now keep looking up, but God won’t save you, no. Bent crosses, prayers, and bunches of tears sucked dry by thorn-protecting stems and a pretty face. Nope, got nothing. She was the poster girl for an ad campaign, his mother, Daryl’s wife. She was also a Demon Hunter, just didn’t know it. Knew nothing of hell—didn’t belong there. She was a blond-haired, blue-eyed babe who took too much abuse for it to be considered a healthy relationship. A campaigning Templar and the grace of a scraped petal bedded each night to make an experiment. No, the moment he was born, he wasn’t their child. Avery was branded, commercialized, and thrown head first into a test tube.

Augments: what didn’t go with Demon Hunters. He had the gene. The night his father found out, wine glasses were broken, anger on par with probably Satan himself. Whatever. Anyway, what really mattered was the fact that his father even did tests on him period. His mother, Evelyn, was furious. She could eat Satan for breakfast or something else intense. Regardless, that night, the beans were spilled. She found out about the Templars, about who her husband actually was, about hell. Fiction—what was recited in chapels became something suddenly tangible. Beside herself in shock, she practically went catatonic. She couldn’t handle it. She lost it. Left—institutionalized. With Evelyn out of the picture, Daryl had full custody and full reign to play with his newfound toy. There was no love here.

A scientist with a passion obsession. Wielding syringes like weapons, he had no mercy. Avery went to school with bandages, his hair pulled back away from his eyes that never met others. Shy to a sin, he avoided interactions like the plague, dodging questions, stares, and inquiries that were snuffed out by his father. Ever powerful, he was the puppeteer before a crowd that couldn’t see the strings. How it was happening was the real mystery. No one could tell you, not even the slaves working like dogs under him.

The first real injection of an Augment left Ave comatose for a week and a half. Doctors said he wouldn’t wake up. When he did, well, that was the first time he saw Inferis. He was there for twenty-five seconds before Daryl hauled his ass there. It was right in the nick of time too; he was about to get eaten by some weird-looking monster that appeared as if it burst out of some poor sucker’s closet. Thing was though, somewhere in his adolescent mind, he knew that where he woke up wasn’t home. Far from it. In fact, there was some strange on-comings of pain happening that he couldn’t quite place a finger on. None of that ‘Daddy my _ hurts’. It was more like mind-numbing agony that humbled the child from where he stood. Now, his father wasn’t a fighter; he was just there to collect his prodigy son, but there was a slip up. He was surrounded by angry eyes (if you could call them eyes). Apparently, his son’s sporadic appearance interrupted a game of demon’s(?) poker. It wasn’t really important; everything was pretty much a blur either way. Movement was slowing down, sound becoming background buzz. Something was growing out his forehead like horns and pain was happening. So much pain that there was nothing but one—one entirely dependent thought: kill. End it.

It happened so fast, that when he looked down, his hands were covered in blood. “Why is a demon killing us,” they were saying over and over. And then he thought oh, that must be what I am. Except that wasn’t what he was. Avery was human. Through and through. But he was also a Demon Hunter with DNA fashioned to destroy the very being he was believed to be. It just so happened that his first Evocation was activated on impulse, showing his true colors, and defending him with trickery. They all thought he was a demon. There was a darkness in his eyes. There was blood on his hands. He couldn’t tell if his father was horrified or elated or both, for as soon as the remaining demons fled, he passed the fuck out.

Remembering that pain was paralyzing: a white searing sheen in the dead of night. Shrouded skies, words he didn’t understand: growled, gurgled, sputtered, clawed hands grasping at straws, life draining. It was all gone. His childhood. That night. When morning came—when the next week came. His father came upon him with another syringe. He didn’t get what was going on, but this time, he struggled. Whatever that was, it stole something from him. His purity was wasted. His humanity was just a joke. A cross was thrown around his neck, quivering words whispered into his ear. This was Earth and that was hell. He was born to slay demons—to eradicate their existence so that the rest of the world could live in ignorance. Science made this possible, but he was born with the blood to transcend that. He was a Demon Hunter, but now—now he had something else, heavy around his neck. What it meant, he couldn’t begin to guess. It stopped the pain—it harbored the hate, stunting whatever stupor he fell into that gathered the red iron stained beneath his fingernails. That last injection—that Augment was what kept him sane—was what untampered with his Demon Hunter DNA strand. In short, he was dancing on the edge of the place his mother was now in. Demon Hunters were not meant to be Templars.

He learned. Avery was holding a kitchen knife. Hell was a place for hunting—a hunting ground to kill what, demons? His only memory of the things was a table of poker chips and grumbly old men that were malformed and monster-like. So what if they tried to kill him; he landed right on their game. He’d kill himself too for Christ’s sake. Well, not for Christ’s sake. So, what was the deal anyway? He had the ability to go to hell whilst still alive, but not the power to hit up heaven? Was that some kind of horrible satire? At this point though, it really didn’t matter much; he was about to kill his father. Needles lined the counter along with Daryl’s blood. His father didn’t beg. He almost expected it, saying Avery was born to kill. He was just a step along the way. Even if his experiment did fail, it was salvageable. Technically a Templar Demon Hunter hybrid, Ave was the first of many to start an entirely new line of weaponized humans, manufactured to erase the knowledge of Inferis 100%. But that was over now. His father stopped breathing. Slashed over the left eye and stabbed through the heart. Avery was eighteen. When he fled, he took the knife with him. Still has it actually.  

He went on to do other stuff like find his uncle and flee the state of New York. His uncle’s name was Didier and he liked The Outsiders. He also made fake IDs and had been in jail twice. He wasn’t allowed to talk to his uncle, but the only one who prevented that was dead now. Solved a lot of problems, he found, but it was kind of hard to sleep at night. He became an insomniac after that, and conveniently resided in Washington D.C. where he grew a sudden fascination for politics. His father was into it, so why not? Like father like son, right? Why not defend the very thing that his father was working to refabricate? Years—years building up to it, he climbed ranks like a snail on salt. His new name was Averypop Rodgers, dropping his Father’s corrupt surname, and essentially vanishing into a new skin. There was no identity theft or anything like that; he simply escaped his crime like an old pro (who was actually a teenager). In short, his uncle saved his ass, lived a fortunate life, and died having passed down his love of a certain book onto his nephew. Old age, mind you.

Next chapter was just figuring out how the fuck this all worked. Took a lot of trial and error—a lot of scares, and a lot of waking up clutching a cross. Not a cross, the cross, his cross. The one his father gave him could not be parted with without inducing a wave of murderous insanity. He killed anything that breathed with anything he had available. It wasn’t…satisfactory. Needless to say, he kept the cross on and is very protective of it. He grew to love Inferis like a home, oftentimes going there to wander, using his Demon Hunter Evocation to blend in. Soon, he started spending his sleepless nights there, leaving in the morning to his job working for the US government. What a life.

For a killer. The act of killing his father haunts him to this day, stealing away all sorts of confidence from him. Who the fuck kills their dad and gets away with it? He’s guilty. That word. Guilt. It’s him over and over again. When he turned twenty-one, he started drinking. Wooo was it a blast. Can’t remember that entire year. It was a wonder that he didn’t go broke, end up in a dumpster, and get eaten by subway rats (or demons, that too). Regardless of his antidote, Ave pursued the art of deduction. Going to school again for so many years was a drag, but he got through it tooth and nail, graduating early with honors. He was the talk of the city, appearing in newspapers and all sorts of celebrity material that he really wasn’t interested in. He was after the bad guys. He’d catch them before they went to hell. In doing that, he’d preemptively lessen the amount of demons that would be created upon said criminal’s death. It made perfect sense to him.

There isn't much to say when not much happened. And by not much, he's just been losing himself further. Wandering about the back corners of society, he has only found emptiness in mirrors and dust in antique shops. Solving murder after murder, putting stained hands in handcuffs, and feral looks on caged men, Ave has not found his own solace. There are only so many questions one can answer on their own. The quiet of the Templars hunting him, the reason for his own survival, the unknown of Inferis, so much solitude could drive a man crazy. Clinging desperately to his sanity, he has drowned himself further in booze, guilt, and heartless women. With only suffering in his aimless efforts, he cannot hope to salvage his wasting mortality. Instead, he had put forth the effort of procuring and harnessing his Demon Hunter abilities. Toying with what he can do and what he cannot do, Ave has exponentially grown power-wise, while plummeting personality-wise. It seems the stronger he gets in Hell, the weaker his character falls. Perhaps to gain in Inferis is also to lose part of himself on Earth?

*********

FACTION:
United States of America: FBI
Nephilim

REAL-LIFE SKILLS:
- Flirting
- Winking
- Sweet talkin’
- Getting the girl
- Beer
- Always wears sunglasses
- Smoking a pipe
- Sex and anything related (with women)
- One night stands
- Driving fast
- Saying his ABC’s backwards while drunk
- Being a (fucking awesome) natural leader (that buys everyone rounds)
- Answering questions
- Remembering things
- Learning things
- Predicting things & reading people
- Hyperawareness
- Chess & cards
- Earning lady luck’s favor: gambling & the slots
- Knows his guns, and can fire them with accuracy
- Wears nice shoes

INFERIS SKILLS:
- Stunting speed.
- Intimidation that evokes fear in an adversary, oftentimes making them fumble or slip up.  
- Increased perception coupled with sensing demonic presence.

WEAKNESSES:
- Guilt
- Paperwork
- Laziness
- Laxness
- Certain women
- His scruff
- Not having cigarettes (Lucky Strike)
- Lack of booze
- Can’t kill himself
- Is red-green colorblind, unable to discern colors like light blue and pink
- Slob: can’t find anything
- Wine
- Impatience (can’t stand traffic)
- Can’t take breaks
- Reckless
- Insomnia

COLOURS:
- Demon (peru).
- English (darkorange)
- Italin (sienna)
- Chinese (seagreen)
- British (darkgoldenrod)
- Will learn Enochian (goldenrod) later from Sovay
- Learning Portuguese

TRIVIA:
- Don’t ask him about his name
- Climbed Mount Everest in his twenties
- Can’t cook, but enjoys TV dinners
- Only uses flip phones
- txts usin abvs
- Hates answering to people
- Has a day job working for the FBI
- Is a famed detective
- Loves jazz and classy music
- The kinda guy to look someone in the face before killing them
- Is hunted by the Templar (for obvious reasons)
- Loves Maroon 5
- Blue is his favorite color (no kidding!)
- Attracts cats (as well as women) and is often followed
- Likes paintings
- Afraid of the sea
- Gets lost very easily
-

The womanizer mobile:

*********

USER DETAILS

ALIAS:
Aki

OTHER CHARACTERS:
Here’s my list.

ROLEPLAY HISTORY:
14 years.

FACECLAIM:

Code:

[b]UTA NO PRINCE-SAMA[/b] :: [b]JINGUJI REN[/b]

CUSTOM RANK:
- PLAY THE GAME
- AT YOUR SERVICE

[Lazarus Carter]

REVISE

1] Cut the Templar out of the heading. As far as the generalisation is to be concerned, he's just a Demon Hunter with a dotted history and an Augment.

2] It's fine to have him work for the US Government but he's far too young and far too inexperienced to be the Secdef. Secretary of Defense is usually an ex-general with decades of tactical and combat experience and they're usually 50+ and a liaison to the president himself. FBI, CIA, even NSA or other agencies is fine.

[Detective Ave]

Edited

Makes sense! XP

[Lazarus Carter]

APPROVED

Awesome! Can't wait to get RPing with Av.

[Detective Ave]

Done Revamp!

[Alice the Chopper]

Approved!

Quite a read, and nice taste in smokes.

[Detective Ave]

Level two done! ;D

[Lazarus Carter]

REVISE

1] He can't really know Enochian/Angelic without a real reason, and it'll have to be a very good one.

[Detective Ave]

Here's the real reason: you can learn it online. And I didn't add that language in recently; it was always in there. XD But fine I'll just have him learn it later from Sovay.

[Jinhong Jangmi]

APPROVED

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