file: introduction
full name: dallas costa
age range:Â 33
identifies with: born under a bad sign by cream
genesis: hybrid
gender:Â cis-male
portrayal:Â dj cortona
                                     file: skeleton
Brute force and brash tones, that was all he’d ever known. Lungs filled with hot air, legs furiously kicking, he entered this world a fighter. A wretch of a human. Willful and arrogant, demanding survival instead of earning it. A child born of privilege, with the words of his childhood always sharpened like knives. All used to nick and scrape away all the weakest parts of him, his father desperately wishing to mold and shape Dallas into much more than he was supposed to be. But with pockets deeper than a young boy could ever imagine, Dallas ran wild with impropriety, focusing on immediate pleasures instead of working for what he wanted. What else was he to do? He was born prince, the city at his fingertips, and he walked through life with ease because no one had ever taught him any different. He took what he pleased and never apologized for who he was.
A Costa.
A King in the making.
He was a rambunctious boy, carefree and curious, rife with desire to impress the man who’d raised him with never a kind word and instead always a firm hand: his father. Mitchum was never a generous man, never one to spend more than a few minutes at a time with Dallas if he thought the boy deserved it, which he rarely did. But he always did have a message, a mantra, if you will. You’re destined for greatness, he’d say. But the look in his eyes never quite met the weight of those words, as if he never truly believed them when he looked at his own son. It was easy to pick up on, that rejection from the man who gave him life, and at such a young age it only made him an angry child, his fists always clenched in an uncontrollable rage, never quite sure where it truly stemmed from because looking too deep inside always seemed like a ridiculous notion—something a man doesn’t do. Not when downing half a bottle of whiskey would do the trick.
So instead he lived in the moment, in the now, hurdling from each liquored up escapade to the next, always acting first and forgetting to even ask for permission later. Wherever he went, a fight surely erupted, chaos following him around like an invisible mentor, teaching him the way of conflict, of seizing any and all opportunity to play on people’s delicate emotions, to assert control over those meek and mild mannered. But such unfettered dominance undoubtedly stemmed from that very weakness his father had always known Dallas had, and he told him as such time and time again. Every time he disappointed his father, he was told how useless he was. How impetuous and immature, so ignorant and idiotic.
Think before you act, his father would always say, mustache set in a straight line as he tidied up yet another one of his son’s messes.
But where’s the fun in that? Dallas would ask, a shit-eating grin playing across his handsome features, already planning his next adventure.
But much to his son’s amusement, there came a time when Mitchum’s opinion no longer mattered, no longer held any credence in the Costa hierarchy for he’d gone and gotten himself arrested. He’d never been one for mistakes, never put himself in the position to be vulnerable in the eyes of the law, but one misstep, one miscalculation of his own self worth had landed him in prison for life and smeared his family name in one fell swoop. Some could say he simply fell, that Mitchum Costa, the once-revered patriarch, flew too close to the sun, and just as foolish and reckless as Icarus, he burned. And with him, his entire family was scorched, tainted by defeat and crippled by the loss of their supposedly fearless leader. Forcibly, they crashed into a devastating heap, smited down by Mitchum’s delusions of grandeur, helplessly watching in despair as their name and all they stood for fell from grace. And if he was asked, Dallas would probably laugh at such a thing. With a wicked smile upon his face, of course, and a celebratory drink in his hand, he’d offer up a toast as he saluted his father, congratulated him on making the gravest mistake of all: claiming himself a God, the very thing he’d always told his son never to do. But this story isn’t about a father’s failings, nor the pain or hardship of a callous man who got what exactly he deserved.
This is a story of a wild boy, greedy in his resilience, with an infectious sort of lawlessness coursing through his veins, Â rising from the wreckage of a legacy turned to dust.
Following the imprisonment of his father at age fifteen, his mother had to make a name for herself somehow. She had to come up with a way to earn a living, figure out a way to keep a roof over her son’s head and put food on the table now that all their accounts had been frozen. But if there had been one thing Mitchum had done right, it was lock down contingencies. Followers of Haus Costa had flocked from far and wide, like vultures circling the body, hoping to get a chance at the seat now that the king had fallen. But instead of crumbling under the pressure of losing her husband, their provider and breadwinner, and cowering at the sight of six-foot-three, two hundred pound men at her door, Eliana stepped up. She refused let some nobody without the name of Costa nor the damn-near royal blood take over the syndicate, no. She became the leader Mitchum never could have dreamed of, taking on the nitty-gritty parts of the job with grace, attempting to instill a sense of responsibility into Dallas. She worked day-in and day-out, never breaking a sweat, never hesitating an inch when she had to get her hands dirty, nor giving it a second thought when she chose to pass on those same lessons to her son.
A beast of a woman, she had transformed a name once mildly feared and most certainly sneered at in a quite few sections of the universe into one that elicited great renown, now existing in only the most darkest of places, whispered on the lips of the most evil of monsters. Costa, it lurked in the shadows, ominous and terrifying.  What did they sell? Guns, drugs, protection. What did they trade in? Secrets, ammo, fame and fortune. Harrowing and revered ten-fold compared to her husband, Eliana had turned an ambitious little syndicate into an empire rich with blood-splattered gold. And with her help, Dallas rose ever higher. For eventually it’d be him who would take over. It’d be him and only him to fulfill a legacy, like his father had always wanted, he just never could have imagined it’d be Eliana’s instead.
He started off slow despite the urge to fall head over heels into the family business, regardless of the desire to drench dip his fingers into the sea of boundless income and violence. It called to him, the senselessness of it all, the way it was complete chaos organized by his mother, no longer a victim but a heroine of epic proportions. The way she worked, with such ease and calculated moves, like a master of chess and everyone she met a simple pawn in her game, weak and pliable and bending to her every will. He wanted that for himself, wanted to hold that kind of glory in the palm of his hand. And if he could have, he would have willed himself a deity, demanded people bled in his name by the thousands only to strike them down when they fell at his feet in worship. And if there had been one thing such infamy had taught him, one thing he’d learned while watching his mother reinvent herself a Queen, it was that such power, autonomy and influence in the right hands, well, it could span an entire universe.
And so he worked himself to the bone, laid himself bare before Eliana’s throne only to be met with disapproval, with hindrance, taking him nearly three years to work from mere foot soldier to captain. And what a perilous climb it had been, an uphill battle with seemingly no end in sight, but she knew her son better than most. She knew wanting responsibility and handling it were two very different beasts, their motives completely different, and before she could offer him such a position in good conscience, he had to learn; had to grow up; had to become a man. And for a while, it worked. For once in his life, Dallas stepped up. He never let his guard down and focused on every task at hand with unprecedented precision—like a true heir. Earning respect had never been his forte, not when he was handed far too much far too soon in his adolescence, but men came to fear him. They cowered when he entered a room, one hand gripping Polly as she rested gently against his shoulder and the other twirling a cigarette. But anyone who ever claims power doesn’t corrupt, is a fool. And so was Dallas.
With the title of underboss, of second-in-command in his sights, he began to slip. Little things fell through the cracks as his vision tunneled, once again only able to focus on those immediate pleasures he loved so much. It was one thing when his love of a good time would cloud his judgement, when it would force him to act instead of think, to do instead of plan ahead, but now? He wanted that crown, the one resting atop his mother’s head; it called to him, whispering in his ear like a seductive mistress of avarice, begging him to give in—to betray everything and seize that throne.
It was reckless, what came next. Taking that job with those two idiots, two inexperienced soldiers just like he had once been, and trusting that they could get the job done, that they’d have his back when the shit hit the fan. And when the unexpected happened, when the buyers demanded the drugs and refused to pay, their guns loaded and aimed right at Dallas’ head, the soldiers cowered. They cracked under the pressure, pissed themselves and left him for dead. He’d managed to take down two out of four on his way down, and before the Overwatchers showed up and slapped the cuffs on him. And even though he was barely conscious, he couldn’t help but laugh. To smirk in the face of irony, belligerent and ornery in its determination to be his undoing. For history had surely repeated itself, and despite his best efforts, Dallas Costa had become the last thing he’d ever imagined: exactly like his father.
                                    file: known associates
LUDOVIC MIRE - when you look at him, you don’t see a leader, you see a failure. it’s nothing personal, you say, just not something you like to see in a captain. in a leader. after all, you were the captain of your own ship, and men like you weren’t born to take orders from men like him. it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the crew thinks so too.
                                  THIS CHARACTER IS UNAVAILABLE.
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