CIVILIAN . GALLANT, ASHTON

Ashton Lancelot Gallant

Driven. Responsible. Vicious.

AKA Ash. Occasionally goes by Wilfred Fran on the job.

Twenty-Seven

Aug 30th, 1985

Kinda Manly

Heterosexual

Civilian

C.A.T.S Agent. Ash specializes in the kind of clean-up work that usually involves a bullet in the heart, a knife in the back, and on rare occasions, an arrow to the knee. He also occasionally takes on target elimination or retrieval undercover assignments that crosses over to the data collection realm. When not on the job, Ash doubles as your local friendly LAPD paper-pusher.

Personality

“It doesn’t matter how smart and how strong you are, because there’ll always be someone better, you see. There’ll always be someone better. Bigger. Strong. And fuck. And you’ll think this is god. But I promise you. There’ll be someone out there somewhere who’ll make your fucking god look like a fucking maggot.”

Some people were born with genius a million steps above others, others pawing twenty thousand steps behind the mob, struggling to keep up. Ash was, while not at the bottom of the pack, stuck somewhere slightly above the middleman of the mob. Or so he believed, had conditioned himself to believe, and could not otherwise disbelieve. He was a decent student, and then a decent worker, one who worked hard to become better, better, better, but take that fastidious drive away and he would only be average, and the word average was bitter gall and soured ire that burnt upon the tip of his tongue.

He considered it his duty to be better, his responsibility to be an example of this is a successful human being for his siblings, for his family. They had to be proud of him. He needed their pride. Their pride was the measure of his worth and devotion.

On some days when work finally lulled into an uneasy stillness, Ash would go home with the thought family is the only thing I have left. Family was a younger brother whom he loved to tease and rouse and set up with girls, and a younger sister whom he had changed the diapers of and held close to his heart. Family was a mother who smelt of rosemary and herbs, and a father who wore an uniform so smart. Family was trust and openness and smiles, not having to watch his own back because there were no knifes, and a carefree carelessness because home was home and home was safe.

Home was not work. He could be a good man at home.

At work, he was an example of this is a successful heartless agent, pointed out to the new recruits with alarming frequency, a circus freak to be marveled and gaped at. This agent had already outlived his own life expectancy, this agent would stand, alone, sullen, solemn, and let cannon fodder stare.

Ashton Lancelot Gallant made a good agent, because the pendulum of his mind oscillated not between the beats of right or wrong, but to the beats of danger and thrill. It was half-criminal, the way he had fallen in love with danger and risk and thrill. The greater the risk, the greater the thrill, and when there was risk, the vicious smirk across his face would blossom like a jagged scar. Because this was what he knew and what he was good at despite his own constant denials, this excitement that bubbled and boiled in his marrows deep, this sense of being alive whilst drowning in an ocean grey.

Alive felt like a growling beast stalking hunched, feather-light paws barely touching ground, ravenous fangs bared against a ferociously stark world. Alive felt like a speeding bullet at two hundred miles per hour, debris whipping into glass windows and breaking them into a million perfect crystalline pieces, plummeting into and through dead men's skulls, gray matter trailing as fragments continued to fly. Alive felt like his heart forcing its way up to his throat, throbbing with desperate beat, shallow breathes and half-teary eyes, fear sinking its claws through his neck, blood dripping down a naked thigh. Alive felt like shame so deep it reached his toes, standing half-frozen without words in his mouth, guilty conscience nibbling at his palms, feeling like a fool on a rainy day.

Alive was a noose around his neck, a pill in his lips, a drug down his throat, and disgust in waves threatening to spill out every crevice. And Ashton Lancelot Gallant was thoroughly addicted.

Then on the days when Ash had no family and no work, he would sit, desolate, at the little corner in the streets, keeping his secrets close so close to his heart, apathy and disgust and maybe even hatred--at the world, at himself, at nothing, really--wrangling in his soul. There were things he had no business being good at. There were things the world had no right to demand of him. He had done things to be ashamed of, things his family must never find out, and it was a toe-deep shame that he pretended not to notice, pretended did not exist, pretended he didn't feel naked under the sun when someone asked a probing question or dug too far. So he clung to the thoughts of family family family like a desperate rotting lifeline, and so he embraced a detached nothingness thinking it’s alright it’s alright because I’m still surviving, so there.

Ashton Lancelot Gallant was addicted to the thrills and risks of being alive, and could not bear to be anything else but better better better. On some days, he almost scared himself.

History

Ashton Teddy Gallant was not born special, and this he could say with utmost confidence and faith.

He was born to an average couple who composed an average family in Brandon, Florida. They were the common people, the working class, a policeman and a writer-slash-homemaker, who crammed their children into a tidy little house and budgeted to squeeze out every pretty penny. The parents were loving and understanding people, and they taught their son to be trusting and open and understanding, and life was simple and life was good.

Ash was two and had barely learned to speak when he gained a brother—newly christened Jaxon—and therefore a playmate too. The next seven years of his life was spent in a glowing warm haze, a lighthearted and relaxed gaiety, with siblinghood treated like a jewel upon the palm of his hand. Jaxon followed Ash around like a little lost pup, and Ash was glad it was so. Then there was another child, a daughter, and soon the nine-year-old was a big brother twice over.

The eldest sibling was often those took responsibility most seriously, and under the influence of his mother, Ash was especially careful of the example he was setting for his brother and newborn sister. It had to be a good example, so Ashton Teddy Gallant considered it his duty to fly higher, work harder, and be better. The children were home-schooled, and it was evident that Jaxon was the sharper one, the one with the higher IQ, but Ash was the one who would work twice as hard for the same grades as his brother, and then twice more on top of that to surpass his brother. Better, better, better became his mantra and drive. Somewhere between studies, the boy found time for archery lessons and learned a mean right hook. Free time—time to laugh with his brother and toddle his sister around—became scarce, and Ash developed a penchant for throwing sharp things at those whom he thought were crowding out what bare time he had left for himself.

The family moved to Los Angeles soon after, and the now teen had barely turned fourteen when he was sent off to a boarding school. High school was a first foray out of the safety net of family. He was plucked from home and thrust into a den of snarling teens, thrown like a lamb to the lions, and suddenness of the departure from familiar settings drove Ash into a strange place. A lighthearted and relaxed youngster became quiet and sullen almost overnight, socialized little, and his friends were few enough to be counted on one hand with plenty of fingers still leftover. Jaxon’s entry to the school was the only bright spot, but even then it was as though something had changed, and the boys were not as close as they used to be. It was in this silence that Ash spent his next four years, being better, better, better, pushing himself harder than his parents had ever pushed because this was what it meant to be driven, to be responsible, and to have expectations upon one’s thin shoulders. He was not happy, but he was not unhappy, and so life was simple and life was good enough.

But what was good enough for a moment rarely stayed good enough for long.

At eighteen and still young, Ash had lost himself and his future. He was a burnt out candle without a wick. Four years of high school had drained away the childhood certainty that his life was going in the right direction, that he was right, right, right in all the right ways. He had cloistered himself so much, had explored so little, that he no longer knew what he was driven about. At UCLA, the young man shifted between six different majors before settling on criminal psychology because it seemed simple. He earned decent grades, sat in lecture halls through all the summers, took no breaks, and graduated with distinction in three years because his habits and mind refused to let him do anything else.

On the day of his graduation ceremony, his mother patted his back and said, “We’re worried about you.” Ash shrugged and could not reply.

And his father said, “Join me at the LAPD.” And Ash shrugged and said yes. In the absence of his own will, Ash was content to let his father take charge.

The twenty-one year old Ashton’s entry into the police force was smooth and free of obstacles, almost as though the heavens themselves were helping him. He was fit and had no record, and at this point in his life, still gave the sort of impression that said this is an exceptionally decent young man, no issues here . He passed his tests and meandered through the interviews, and the offer letter was just a formality and a matter of fact. With his father’s blessings, the man headed off to the training camp, and the first thing he learned was how to use a gun.

Life and thrills and danger and risk, but the six months in boot camp from hell pushed Ash to the edges of everything and he loved it dearly. He was good at this, took to a gun like a bird to the air and a fish to water, took to the physicals so naturally and unforced, like he had never quite managed with books and learning. Then the six months ended and he was on the job, and the drab monotony settled into his life once more. As a LAPD officer, Ash was the kind of responsible so prim and proper that it antagonized his share of peers. To work was to be detailed and diligent and driven, because excellence was a habit and one that Ash did not care to break. Father was proud of him. Mother was too. His brother refused to see him, but Ash brushed it off as a phase.

Then he turned twenty-three and shot his first and second and third man in rapid succession, bang bang bang and gunpowder hues, the sweet chill of adrenaline sprinting down his spine, bloody red dripping down onto porcelain tiles, and he had just shot three men. There was a hostage situation. It was a bad situation. Bullets would have flown eventually. Ash just got there first. The news coverage later claimed that the three men’s wounds were not fatal—bullets to the hands and knees, and the officer who fired the shots was relegated to a paper-pushing role. In the office, Ash’s antagonized peers sniggered at his predicament. Father understood. Mother was disappointed. Ash withdrew into himself, all solemnity and indifference towards the world, but he could not shake off that fevered fervor that had struck him the moment he pulled the trigger.

The application for a Special Agent status with the FBI was, later on, his father’s idea once again. This’ll suit you more, father had murmured when pushing Ash the application forms. Ash shrugged and said yes. In the absence of a future as an officer, Ash was content to let his father take charge once more.

The twenty-four year Ashton’s entry into the special services was, once again, smooth and relatively free of obstacles. Someone had seen his records and deemed him capable of a particularly dirty role. He meandered through his tests and passed his interviews, and the offer letter came in code in the dead middle of the night. Hello, agent Ash, and they handed him a badge and a gun and a file that outlined his future.

“Hi Dad, who should I trust?” he asked, almost sardonically, on the first day of his new post, and his father replied: “Nobody. Do you want to be friendly or do you want to be dead?”

Life as a legal assassin and legal kidnapper and legal torturer and sometimes legal-other-things was largely filled with paperwork. Bureaucracy. Papers to be filed and records to be kept, because otherwise he would end up staying in prison instead of just popping by because the police did not know better. Technically, Ash was special services and information gathering, but accidents and friendly fire happened with surprising frequency when a certain agent was on the job. The agency did not always play clean games with neat rules.

The next four years were the greatest and the worst of his short life. Ash loved his job. He hated his job. There were always the latest toys to be tested and tried and played with. There was always a next target and plans upon plans to be crafted. There was blood on his hands in the name of duty, and after a while he stopped keeping track of the names and the waxen dead eyes that went with the names. He hadn’t been this paranoid once. He hadn’t been this alive once. He hadn’t swore and smoked like this once. Life hadn’t felt this right once.

There was almost no time for home, for family, for his mother and father and brother and sister. Father would smile at him kindly, but mother would rebuke him on the rare days he could afford to go home, and he would stand there thinking when did she get so old? Weathered faces lined with pain, and Ash would cup her face between his hands and kiss her forehead softly, whispering sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry. Except he was not. Or maybe he was.

When he was a child, Ashton Lancelot Gallant had a tendency to throw sharp things. When he grew up, C.A.T.S Agent Ash shot bullets instead.

Misc

&&. Sadist. Pessimist. Perfectionist. A nihilist when in a philosophical mood. Self-esteem is above the moon in some ways, but has been shot to hell in others. In a love-hate relationship with his work, coupled with a healthy dose of denial for both emotions.

&&. Prone to spurts of anxiety. Tendency to exhibit an unhealthy amount of fear, paranoia, and caution in the face of the unknown, but duty has always managed to outweigh fear so far. Can be a vicious little puppy when pushed too far. Tends to relax around familiar people.

&&. Swears like a sailor and occasionally smokes, but not at home. Mother will have his tongue if he does either at home.

&&. Can be gentle. Especially with young(er) girls, baby animals, silly old women, wizened old men, and the latest girl who managed to latch onto his brother.

Roleplayer Information

Schema;; Also plays Lucius King

PREFERENCE;; Yes to awakening! For drama!

FACE CLAIM;; Katekyo Hitman Reborn – Superbi Squalo