Mick's bio!

[Samira]

"You know there’s got to be a faster way to do this. How about we just change the first question to ‘have you recently dated a homicidal pyromaniac?’"
-Derek Morgan, "Compulsion"

Your Name: Sami
How many years roleplaying?: Five or six

French poet Jacques Rigaut said, "Don't forget that I cannot see myself. My role is limited to being the one who looks in the mirror."

Jason Gideon, "Plain Sight"[/center][/size]

Please put a picture of your character. No larger than 300 x 200

Character Name: Mick Rawson
Age: 36
Date of Birth: 21 September, 1974
Residence: Washington, D.C.
Profession: Sniper and profiler for a BAU Red Cell Team.

Appearance:
There’s a reason Mick’s name has a permanent place in the bureau’s gossip chain, and there’s a reason he has a reputation that has nothing at all to do with his field work. His prominent status has something to do with his behaviour, yes - he flirts with any and every woman he runs across, it seems - but it also has a great deal to do with his looks. Despite being a philanderer to the highest degree, he is also universally acknowledged as one of the most attractive agents in the FBI. Standing just about at six foot, he has a lean build that seems designed for speed and agility, with the classic broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs. Years of sprinting up multiple flights of stairs carrying a rifle case on his back have given him muscles that most agents don’t have in his legs. His hands are quick and dextrous, whether he’s setting up his rifle, having a round of Kali with Cooper, or cuffing an unsub, and they’re seldom still.

Mick has dark brown hair which he wears in a rather shaggy long cut. It’s quite possible that at some point it was an artfully styled piece of salon work - probably due to Jenna’s insistence - but by now it’s mostly a windblown mess that somehow manages to still look ridiculously attractive on him. It tends to stick up more on top thanks to his habit of raking his fingers back through it when he’s preoccupied or frustrated. He wears a stubbly sort of goatee that might be a style all his own and might just mean that he didn’t get around to shaving recently. The look works on him, despite all. His dark brown eyes are, surprisingly enough, extremely unexpressive. They carry the same impassive, slightly amused look - as if he didn’t quite take things seriously - no matter what the situation. When he’s teasing someone or particularly pleased about something they have an extra sparkle, but that’s about it. Fortunately the man’s face is much more expressive. Characteristically set in an amused, rather smug smirk, his expression tends to change with the circumstances and reflect his feelings pretty well, though not always accurately. He can - and does - control his expressions when there’s a need for it, but in general his face is fairly easy to read. He also has a rather prominent scar, what was a deep gash above the elbow of his left arm; but it’s almost always hidden by long sleeves.

Layers - Mick always seems to be wearing layers. His style is definitely underdressed for the FBI, but he pulls it off quite well. Loose jeans and long sleeves seem to be the norm for him, often with a leather jacket over a grey hoodie that he’s been wearing for years. Beth’s made occasional sarcastic comments about the man from one of the coldest places in the world wearing long sleeves during the summer in DC, but he doesn’t answer those comments or change his typical dress. He likes shades of grey, blue, and red, and Beth has a running joke about the fact that the colours he wears seem to often match Gina’s. He doesn’t answer that either.

Personality:
There’s a classic sniper profile, and Mick fits it pretty well. High ego - he prefers to call it high self-esteem - a bit of a god-complex. He tends to distance himself - when you take your shot from four hundred yards it’s an easy task to distance yourself - and he has a high IQ, again part of the classic sniper profile. The team likes to call it his ‘sniper complex,’ in affectionately derisive voices that suggest they don’t really believe it can all be blamed on the sniper thing. He’s highly impatient by nature, but years of training as a sniper have taught him to at least feign patience. He’s capable of sitting in one position and waiting for ridiculously long amounts of time for his target, whether that’s someone who needs a shot to the head or a woman he’s pursuing.

Mick’s an incorrigible flirt. If she’s pretty, he’s there, whether it’s Gina in the gym below the office or the pretty redhead in the bar after hours. His lack of commitment to any of them is rather famous, and the day he couldn’t remember whether last night’s woman had been called Lisa or Elise was pretty typical. He flirts in a sort of laid back manner, tending to make subtle suggestions and hints that might be taken in a few different ways rather than any outright coarse comments, though he can be extremely straightforward when he chooses to be. He takes whatever he gets and handles rejection as a joke as much as he does the rest of life. Gina says he never grows up, and his standard answer is that, “Growin’ up’s overrated, right?”

He seems to take everything in life as a bit of a tease, though he can be intensely serious when he needs to be. The joking, though mostly genuine, is partly a cover. His past still haunts him - especially that night in London - and he prefers to forget about it. Cooper and Jenna are the only ones who knows the whole of it and he’d like to keep it that way. In some measure the soul-rocking things he saw and experienced overseas with Cooper numbed him. At the time it felt almost good - like he searing pain of cauterizing a wound - but now what he has left are scars and nightmares that riddle his sleep.

History:
Mick was born and raised in Wales. His father was in the British Special Forces, though it was years before Mick understood that he was anything more specific than “military.” His mother ran a small home-style cafe, more because she enjoyed it than because it returned any substantial profit.

From the beginning Mick had a high opinion of himself an opinion that was only reinforced by his apparent ability to excel at anything he attempted, his father’s obvious pride in him, and his sister Jenna’s immediate adoration. She made her appearance when Mick was eight and won his heart in a matter of moments. His mother told him that as a big brother it was his duty to protect Jenna, and he took the responsibility seriously. In typical fashion, as Jenna grew she tried to follow him everywhere, and like any big brother he got annoyed with her; but even then foremost in his mind was the understanding that he was her protector.

He was sixteen when his mother died. No kid should have to stand by helplessly and watch his mother wither away to nothing but a weary smile and an IV hookup, but there’s nothing fair about cancer. After the funeral, an affair that passed in a blur of grey pain for Mick, his father told him brokenly that it was his job to tell Jenna about their mother, to keep her memory alive for the confused little girl. As usual, Mick took the responsibility to heart, discovering as he went along that it kept his mother alive for him as well, helping him work through his own grief.

Though Jasper Rawson was a loving father who did his best to raise his children alone, his work kept him away often. Because of this, Mick was the one who mostly raised Jenna after their mother’s death. It was to Mick that she went with her adolescent griefs and confusions, Mick who held her through pains and uncertainties. They remained extremely close even after he left home and joined the BSF as his father had.

The BSF was a new world, but it was only a matter of weeks before it was home to him. He trained as a sniper and discovered that despite his impatience he had aptitude for the work. By the time he was twenty-nine he was training his own team - and that was where Kelly Samson came in. She was the only woman in his troop of five. Perhaps he saw himself in her eager impatience and natural talent, and despite their positions as trainer and trainee there was an almost immediate rivalry between them. Kelly was both beautiful and highly competitive and the spark struck between them on the training field quickly became a flame off the field. They were careful around their superiors, of course, but their troop noticed quite soon and quickly accepted it. Mick and Kelly were made the butt of loads of good-natured jokes - some cruder than others - from the others, but they laughed it off together.

And then she died. Mick tries not to remember that night, the sound of her screams, the hot, sticky wetness of her blood soaking through his clothes, the taste of his own fear in his mouth. The whole troop had a holiday and they’d decided, in a spontaneous burst of camaraderie, to all spend it in London together. By a coincidence Kelly ran into an old school friend and left for drinks with her, telling Mick she’d call him when she was headed back. She never made it back to the hotel; he found her dying in a back alley a few blocks down from where she’d promised to meet him. The worst thing was seeing the man who’d attacked her - Mick even fired shots at him, but handguns aren’t his forte - seeing him and watching him get away unscathed while Mick was left to call the medics who wouldn’t arrive in time and cradle her broken body, whispering vain assurances that she’d be alright. She was dead before the medics arrived.

Mick met Sam Cooper shortly after that. The American was in England at the time, apparently the only one who believed the attacker was a serial killer. Justifiably enraged and grieved, Mick took some time off from the BSF and worked with Cooper to hunt down the serial killer who’d taken the woman he loved. Going back to the BSF was an idea that made him sick to the stomach after that. He stuck with Cooper for a while, and a few years later when the man called about joining the FBI, Mick hadn’t much reason left to stay in the UK. His father had died of a heart attack and Jenna was running a successful practice as a therapist. She urged him to go, and he did. Since then he’s been working as a sniper and profiler for the Red Cell Unit, finding that he cares intensely about the people he works with but never allowing himself to get so entirely caught up in one person. He’s sworn that he’ll never again feel the agony he felt the night Kelly died and all the nights following.

Likes:
His job
The team
Loyalty
Sniper rifles - of course
Making that one-shot-kill
Women who can take a joke
Pretty women
Women in general, really
Coffee, good or bad
His sister
His reputation preceding him
Small living quarters
Nice cars
Children, oddly enough
Kali

Dislikes:
Men who beat women
London - it brings back bad memories
Fancy clothes
Hot tea
The assumption that all Brits like tea
Narcissists
Anything that upsets Gina
People prying into his past
Time bombs
Fireworks
Being ignored
Unfamiliar places
Cases involving children
Letting people into his personal life

Strengths:
His rifle - he’s an incredible sniper
High self-confidence - ok, so Gina might call it ego, but whatever
Very quick on his feet
Extremely protective and loyal
Able to be serious and caring, contrary to popular gossip among the females of the bureau
Kali - Cooper’s still better than he is, but he’s still quite good
Sense of humour - he can take almost anything as a joke or turn almost anything into one
Good with children
Ability to sit still and wait for hours at a time

Weaknesses:
Inability to trust easily
Easily frustrated by things that remind him of his past
Commitment - except to the team - is difficult for him
Quick temper - he can be rash sometimes
Handguns - he passes the qualifications every time, but he really hates handguns
Names - odd as it might be, when they’re not actually a part of a case the sniper tends to forget names easily.
Extremely impatient, despite his training
When his nerves get too wound up he startles easily

Parents:
Jasper Rawson - deceased - retired from the British Special Forces
Janice Rawson - deceased - ran a small cafe

Siblings:
Jenna Rawson - 28 - therapist for soldiers with PTSD

Spouse:
None

Children:
none

Anything Else?
As a child in Wales Mick learnt some Gaelic, though it wasn’t commonly used. Now he remembers just a bit of it - mostly expletives. He keeps the bullet casings from every shot - a sniper habit - and almost always has one in his pocket or twirling between his fingers as he thinks.

Roleplay Sample:
The nearly-midnight wind was just cool enough to make the hairs at the nape of his neck prickle, and he tucked his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket. A car alarm two streets over was shrieking for attention, as was an infant in the house on the corner. He could hear the distinctive rumble of a lorry out on the motorway. The streetlights cast puddles of yellow at regular intervals in the dark and a few flats still had lights on behind drawn curtains. A quick glance at Kelly’s text assured him he was in the right place, but the cold circle of light where she should have been waiting was empty. Had she gone off on her own when he took a little too long to get there? No - she would have let him know. She was independent, but when you worked around death every day, jokes like that were never amusing. His eyes darted about the dark shadows, searching for any sign of her.

“Samson? You there, love?” His voice was too loud, intrusive in the peaceful night. His words rattled about in the darkness and then faded into the shadows. He pulled his phone out and began a quick reply. Maybe Charlotte had sidetracked her and she was still on her way - an agonized scream tore through the night, shooting icy shocks of terror through his body, and he nearly crushed the phone as his hand tensed around it in a vise-grip. He’d never heard her scream - not once, despite the myriad of training accidents she’d endured. He hardly realized he was sprinting until his pounding feet had carried him to the mouth of the black alley. There was a sickening crunch and a low moan.

”Kelly!” His voice sounded strange to his own ears. It wasn’t his - it belonged to some angry man, some outraged lover who might do anything in his fury… His eyes were adjusting to this deeper darkness. He could make it out now - a large figure - a man’s figure - standing over a body, holding what might have been a club or a pipe or a baseball at. At Mick’s wild approach the man dropped his weapon - A pipe, Mick noted hazily as it clattered to the rough concrete - and took off running. Mick shouted incoherent threats at him - he knew he was out of his mind, but it didn’t matter anymore - and fired after the fleeing man with his handgun. All three shots went wild - d**n handguns! - before the man disappeared around a corner. Mick’s clattered to the ground as he dropped to his knees beside Kelly’s prone form. Her warm blood, pooling on the unforgiving concrete, soaked through his jeans. He could smell it, taste its acrid, metallic scent on his tongue.

The moon floated out from behind a cloud, and he instinctively began to assess her condition. She was broken, battered, covered in her own blood. Bruises were already forming over her face and her bare arms. Her left shin-bone jutted out of the skin, its edges shattered, and one arm twisted at a sickening angle. One eye was already swollen shut and a little well of blood at her beautiful mouth bubbled with her soft moaning. Her left hand had been crushed - he could just about see the boot-print on the tender skin - but her right hand was whole. He slid his fingers between hers, only then noticing how he was trembling. He clung to her hand, whispering senselessly, feeling the desperate rush of anger and agony flooding his veins.

”Mick.” Her voice was hoarse, as broken as her shattered body. ”You came.” A gurgling cough wracked her, twisting her torso and sending her blood in a hot spray over him. She gasped in pain and her fingers tightened vise-like around his. He cradled her bloody face in his other hand and tried to think through the haze of rage-filled horror that clouded his world.

”I’ll always come, love.” There was a sob in his voice, a note of anguish that caught his attention momentarily. Call emergency. Get medics out here. He fumbled for the phone that had dropped from his hand when he reached for his gun. His fingers, wet with blood, slipped clumsily over the plastic as he dialed the number. The operators questions penetrated his fog slowly and his answers were stumbling, stricken. He dropped the phone again and it splashed and clattered as it landed in Kelly’s blood.

”Don’t go.” He felt tears on his cheeks. Shuddering breaths tore at his lungs and he had to force his voice past the raw scars that had somehow developed in the past few minutes.

”I won’t, love. I’m here. You’ll be alright - they’re coming.” Her fingers tightened convulsively around his.

”I’ll best you soon -” her voice was ravaged. ”I’ll have that shot.” He was gasping, a torturous pain flooding him.

”Yes. Yes - you’ll have me the next time you’ve a rifle in your hands.” Blood - there was so much blood, everywhere.

”I will -” Her body wrenched again - ”Mick, I love you -”

”I know, I know; I love you too, Kelly. You’re gonna be okay, love. The medics are coming.” He could feel his own blood throbbing in his fingertips where her grip on his hand was cutting off the circulation.

”I’ll make that shot… Mick -” So much blood…


Note: Ok I know that’s a ridiculous length for a RP sample. I got going and couldn’t stop. I apologize.