Nicknames/Aliases: Mal (to those close to him), Hawk to most customers
D.O.B: January 17, 1966
Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: Agender ish? He/They, ???
Hometown: Longmont, Colorado
Affiliation: Syndicate
Occupation: Butcher
Relationship status: Married to Mikala Seabrooke
Children: 2 children, Estranged
Positive traits: (5) Intelligent, Pragmatic, courageous, strong, honest
Negative traits: (5) Apathetic, blunt, cold, cruel, impatient
— BIOGRAPHY
tw // murder, prison, organ trafficking
Longmont, Colorado was a dusty wasteland that served as Malachi's playground for his entire childhood. He was there for too long, in his opinion - settling into complacency after graduating high school. No money for college and no intense desires for anything 'more'. So he saw the same people who had stagnated in the same town, working at some shitty gas station. He made enough money to pay for a small apartment, and he thought little of what he might 'want' for his future.
He meets Alice and things seem better. She has hopes and dreams of getting her nursing degree, settling down, having a family. Malachi wonders if that's what he wants. He finds a better job in insurance and it's boring 9-5 office work. They have 2 children and they eat family dinners and have friends over. Mal makes light conversation and cooks on the grill.
It's hell. And one day he can't take it any more. The pretending and the farce of a life is eating him alive. The kids are out of the house when Mal kills his wife. It's a bloodbath in the rustic little home in Colorado, and Malachi bolts before anyone can see what he's done.
He makes it as far as New York when he's apprehended. Sent to prison, 25 years for first degree murder. Prison somehow is where he feels the most alive - alone with his thoughts, talking to other inmates and, eventually, getting a penpal. Mikala Seabrooke. Someone to talk to who seems to have a weird penchant for the odd darkness that Mal does. They write, on and off, for years.
When he finally gets out, Mik is waiting for him. There's a warm apartment and a warm body, and Mal finds a job at a shady little butcher shop that doesn't ask too many questions. All the while, he kills when he wants to. Or when he's paid to- and Mik helps him find the extra work.
When the owner of the butcher shop dies, it's Malachi who takes over. A small and always serious-looking Lakota man, always chopping up something, slicing, or dragging things from the giant freezer. It's a perfect place to dispose of things. And with a husband in the Syndicate, bodies can easily build up. Perhaps there's a way to make them go missing, or someone with an expert hold on a knife who can cut out the organs for transport, collect items for online selling. Mal does what he's paid to do - and he does not care who he does it for.
He's been around too long, seen too much shit, and knows his way around a gang. He's been pulled in for-hire for various teams and organizations, anonymous or not. But now he only works for the Syndicate, following his husbands affiliations. He's good at remembering faces, and he's even better at holding a grudge.
— WANTED CONNECTIONS / PLOTS
Old prison buddies
Those who have hired him in the past
Regulars to the butcher shop
Syndies he works with
Anyone who knows he killed his wife
Flirtations? Dalliances? You can try. He's kind of a brick wall
His children. Preferably if unhinged and has a weird fascination with their father’s life & his murdering.
"...I mean, I'll be honest. I showed up at his door after 20 years in the hole. Never had a doubt in my mind that we'd take to each other like two fuckin' wolves in their own little pack. But... so used to being solitary, getting yelled at. Hardens you up.
One time early on, Mikala and I had some argument. He opened the door and I... assumed he wanted me out. So I started walking through the door, already telling him I'd come get my things the next day. Well. Turned out he only opened the door to take a walk outside, blow off some steam. We both started laughing at it. Ended up taking the walk with him. And I've never gone anywhere. Not then, not ever since."
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"Audra? Yeah, she's fine. Think she should really spend some time out in the woods, maybe we'll go on a camping trip. Get her a gun or something. Let her go absolutely wild - would love to see it. A fucking sharpshooter or something. And hey, I've been shot before - if a bullet hits the wrong thing, we're good."
@audrasmythe
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yes or no: is mikala the closest thing to a soulmate to you?
Mal would never call them 'soulmates', and yet his soul is bound to Mikala's in a way that transcends any name or phrase. He'd kill for him, he'd kill him. He'd rip someone in two to save him- and he'd be the only one to slice him open. "Yes." @unhclywater
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The congresswoman wasn't certain how much to share, but she also knew he was going to be spending a lot more time with her, that he would hear himself. "There are some views that we don't necessarily agree on." She was going to see what else might be presented to her and base her decision off that. She was adamant that she stay true to who she was.
"Give it time. Don't get me wrong she is great at her job. A little pushy, but she gets the job done." Mira needed someone that would be hard on her, question her decisions, because a push-over would not be beneficial to her. "I gave her the day off."
He wonders what these views are - but it's not really some security guy's place to ask, is it? Chatan just nods. "So this is a meeting of the minds to see if you can reach a compromise, to work together?"
In all honesty, Malachi has never given much of a shit about politics. If he could spend his days off the grid, deep in the woods building some bunker for the end of the world, setting out bird traps with his husband, he'd be happy. Maybe with an occasional excursion to the city for coffee. He does like his coffeeshops. But legalities and laws and regulations...
"Well, you've certainly given her a ringing endorsement." Does she speak of most of her staff like this, he wonders. And if so, what does that say to those more on her bad side? "I am here for you, if you need anything. Even to vent." He tells her with a shrug, and the tiniest, rarest grin.
MIra was surprised when Chatan brought her food, grateful for the thoughtfulness. Hues glanced down at it sat on her desk then back up to him. "Thank you, you didn't have to." At least she didn't have to cook dinner that night. "I can't wait to try it."
This was the first time where she can say she enjoyed the holidays. The first time in a long time where she didn't spend them alone. "If it works for you two, then that is what matters." A smile seeps into her features. "It was nice. Quiet as well, but I rather enjoyed my company." They had been seeing more of each other and she was looking forward to where it could lead.
"We are having lunch with another congressman, he's running in the next district, thinking about partnering up. I don't know how I feel about him." He was a Democratic, but still, something seemed off. "I'll have to introduce you to Laura, she's my campaign manager slash personal assistant. She will drive you insane." That was a small way of saying it.
He listens as he does best, hands still tucked easily into pockets. Gives a little nod in response to her gratitude.
Quiet holidays. He knows for a fact she was at the New Years Eve party at the Top of the Standard, and he knows who she went with. He's not sure if he'd consider her date enjoyable company, and hardly a quiet evening - though perhaps there's some secret reasoning behind the whole thing. Malachi's just there to keep an eye on her and learn if there's anything worth reporting to Samar about anyways. He doesn't really give a shit what Lee does or doesn't do.
Still, certainly interesting. "Don't know how you feel?" He asks, allowing her to explain further if she wishes to. And she doesn't like her PA either. He logs it all away. "I'll be happy to meet her. Hard to drive me insane." He's already there, after all.
At least that, Laure can respect. She is constantly busy, both out of necessity and out of desire. Her work for the auction house keeps her busy enough, and the added business she does for the Syndicate means even more meticulous paperwork. And then she has to make the right appearances, all while trying to be a doting wife. At this point, Laure doesn't know what she would do if she didn't stay busy.
"You're a better person than I," she shakes her head with a light chuckle, the irony of the statement not lost on her. There is no blood on her hands, like there is for Malachi, but she certainly doesn't have the neighbors flocking to her for help. And she prefers it that way. "No wonder they all think you're nice when you're acting like Mr. fucking Rogers over here. I think you just do it for the attention."
Better person. The idea makes him grimace, but he takes another sip of the red he's been swirling in his glass before setting it down. "Mr. Rogers?" He repeats it back, and shoots her a glare before he stands up with a small grunt. Old knees. But he's walking back to check on the stew, making sure it's simmering.
The smell is fantastic as he takes the lid off the pot. "You think I want attention, Laure?" He asks as calloused hands start grabbing up bowls for the two of them. "You sound like Mikala." But Mal smirks and gets the bread cut open into thick slices. "Keeping my hands busy is better than what I'd do otherwise." It's not a threat to Laure, of course. But a general statement that he could easily be going down that path again. But at his age... he'd prefer his rustic life. Cutting up bodies and meats, whittling in the evenings with a movie on. Falling asleep before midnight. Maybe he's settled too much. He's not sure.
There was a knock at the door that pulled her from her work, reading over bills presented and going over potential sponsors from Laura, that she welcomed the distraction. Chocolate hues glance up at the time and she remembers the lunch appointment she had -- business as usual.
"Come in," she calls out, knowing who it should be, a smile on her features at the sight of Chatan.
"Right on time." everything placed back into the drawer of her desk. "I think this afternoon will be easy. Maybe even boring. I apologise for that." She pushes her chair in. "How was your holidays?"
Chatan enters, dressed in dark clothes and ready to stand guard. A bit of his facial hair's grown out over the holidays, and he's just happy to get back into things. Anything, really. He's been chopping some old lady's firewood, whittling away with a knife, and cooking. A lot. All in between his time manning the butcher shop.
In fact, he holds a tupperware of homemade Guinness stew with a wrapped piece of homemade soda bread. "Boring is fine." He states simply. He's in somewhat good spirits - or at least, acting like he is.
He sets the tupperware down. "I don't know if you like meat. But this is a traditional beef stew with carrots, potatoes, root vegetables. Homemade bread." Mal steps back, slipping hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. "Fine. Uneventful. My husband and I fell asleep by around 10 PM on New Years Eve. Christmas was quiet, too. We don't do much." A beat. He should ask her, shouldn't he? "How was yours?"
(a self-para for Malachi Howahkan. TW blood, gore, murder)
It's the endless drone of old fluorescent lights and the maniacal beeping of the fire alarm, low-battery. Everything ends, but it doesn't mean you know when.
And the annoyance will continue, and continue, and melt your mind away, until you put a stop to it.
It's with this thinking that Malachi Howahkan murders his wife with an axe in the back of their small Prairie-style Craftsman in mid-January.
His life has not been his own.
It has been Alice's, turned to dinner parties and board game nights. Stockings hung with care, two tiny tots, soccer practice, and the backyard grill. The ole ball and chain. "Can't live with him, can't live without him!" The baby showers, the anniversaries. A mini-van and a house with a foyer.
He works as an insurance agent. 9-5, casual Fridays, water cooler chatter and group synergy. "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?"
One day it's easy to just take the axe and swing it.
Easier than the time it takes to type in his client's yearly salary and figure out the percentage still owed.
Easier than picking up Bobby from violin.
Prison is not easy. It's threats and shouting and shoving. Too much time alone to think about every aspect of his wife's dead body, the blood coming from the chunks he cut out of her. Officers with too much power, men with too much anger. And boredom.
When he gets a letter, he assumes it's one of his kids. But it reads of a man infatuated. Questions about his life and how it fell apart, and more importantly, how he can piece it back together for Malachi.
This meager connection is a life raft in a tsunami. Mal holds to it like a man possessed. Until his fingers go raw and bloodied, he'll cling to every letter sent.
Polaroids on sun-bleached film, chopped brown hair tied with an old rubber band. Tales from the outside.
It's back and forth for years.
One day, the folded letter Malachi sends has a piece of twine tied into a little loop perfect for a finger enclosed inside. He asks him to marry him, and promises a better ring when he's out.
It's years later that Malachi Howahkan walks out of the New York State Penitentiary in the dirty clothes he walked in with over 20 years ago. Released early on good behavior. Cash that Mik had sent for snacks from the commissary buys a bus ticket straight to his husband's apartment.
(a self-para for Malachi Howahkan. TW blood, gore, murder)
It's the endless drone of old fluorescent lights and the maniacal beeping of the fire alarm, low-battery. Everything ends, but it doesn't mean you know when.
And the annoyance will continue, and continue, and melt your mind away, until you put a stop to it.
It's with this thinking that Malachi Howahkan murders his wife with an axe in the back of their small Prairie-style Craftsman in mid-January.
His life has not been his own.
It has been Alice's, turned to dinner parties and board game nights. Stockings hung with care, two tiny tots, soccer practice, and the backyard grill. The ole ball and chain. "Can't live with him, can't live without him!" The baby showers, the anniversaries. A mini-van and a house with a foyer.
He works as an insurance agent. 9-5, casual Fridays, water cooler chatter and group synergy. "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?"
One day it's easy to just take the axe and swing it.
Easier than the time it takes to type in his client's yearly salary and figure out the percentage still owed.
Easier than picking up Bobby from violin.
Prison is not easy. It's threats and shouting and shoving. Too much time alone to think about every aspect of his wife's dead body, the blood coming from the chunks he cut out of her. Officers with too much power, men with too much anger. And boredom.
When he gets a letter, he assumes it's one of his kids. But it reads of a man infatuated. Questions about his life and how it fell apart, and more importantly, how he can piece it back together for Malachi.
This meager connection is a life raft in a tsunami. Mal holds to it like a man possessed. Until his fingers go raw and bloodied, he'll cling to every letter sent.
Polaroids on sun-bleached film, chopped brown hair tied with an old rubber band. Tales from the outside.
It's back and forth for years.
One day, the folded letter Malachi sends has a piece of twine tied into a little loop perfect for a finger enclosed inside. He asks him to marry him, and promises a better ring when he's out.
It's years later that Malachi Howahkan walks out of the New York State Penitentiary in the dirty clothes he walked in with over 20 years ago. Released early on good behavior. Cash that Mik had sent for snacks from the commissary buys a bus ticket straight to his husband's apartment.
Malachi is not the typical coffeeshop goer, and yet he still subscribes to certain institutions. And hot coffee in a warm café that smells of espresso and pastries is one of them. It's perfect for people watching. Making people uncomfortable. And sitting for long bouts of time staring at his phone. He's extended an invitation to Nicolé this time around, however. "It's the least irritating place on the block." He states simply as he walks himself to a corner with over-stuffed leather chairs and a little coffee table. "Music doesn't make me want to gauge an icepick into my ears here." Then, as is customary: "Keeping it together?" His way of asking how she is.
There's multiple pots on the stove, and the whole apartment smells of garlic, and fresh meat. Onions, potatoes, carrots. It's a delicious stew slow-cooking on a burner while Malachi keeps himself busy. Long hair is tied into braids today - done by Mikala as always before his husband headed off on another job. And Mal's been butchering, and chopping wood, and fixing Mrs. Gulliver next door's kitchen cabinet hinges. All twelve of them.
"Why am I so nice?" He asks Laure as he carries her a glass of red wine. The living room is... eclectic. A huge taxidermy hog head now is up on the wall, accentuated by leather sofas, cozy warm dark colors. A small wood-stove surrounded by brick in a corner. No television. "I'm too old to be so nice." Says the ex-con who killed his wife.
She accepts the glass from her friend and settles back on his couch. Laure pointedly keeps her comments on the decor to herself, knowing that the couple preferred their rustic chic aesthetic. They're an odd duo, but hardly the strangest that their organization attracts. At least they know how to socialize.
"I frankly don't know why you do it to yourself," she says, taking a sip from the glass and enjoying the body of the wine. "You certainly won't hear me complaining about it, but it's fascinating how society has collectively deemed us older women as utterly helpless." As part of the demographic that benefits most from people being nice, she isn't sure why people go along with it so freely. "What's the worst that would happen if you told them no?"
Malachi is not a good person. He's killed many, and cuts up the bodies of those killed by others. There is a laundry list of crimes he'd like to commit before his death, which he assumes will be at the hands of his beautiful husband. There's a serendipity in it. A poetry that even his gruff demeanor can parse.
But. "I like keeping busy." And cabinets, firewood, and fake security detailing for Sam's little side-gig keeps him doing something. "Sometimes it's better when people think you can't do anything. More peaceful." He smirks, and takes a sip of his own wine. Shakes his head right after. "Telling them no is unnecessary, when I can do it." Why not do it, if he can? "Most of the time they don't ask. I offer." Again, too damn nice. As his husband has said, he's getting soft in his old age.
There's multiple pots on the stove, and the whole apartment smells of garlic, and fresh meat. Onions, potatoes, carrots. It's a delicious stew slow-cooking on a burner while Malachi keeps himself busy. Long hair is tied into braids today - done by Mikala as always before his husband headed off on another job. And Mal's been butchering, and chopping wood, and fixing Mrs. Gulliver next door's kitchen cabinet hinges. All twelve of them.
"Why am I so nice?" He asks Laure as he carries her a glass of red wine. The living room is... eclectic. A huge taxidermy hog head now is up on the wall, accentuated by leather sofas, cozy warm dark colors. A small wood-stove surrounded by brick in a corner. No television. "I'm too old to be so nice." Says the ex-con who killed his wife.
MAL: Mikala
MAL: found out the term 'saved by the bell' was because they put a string from a bell down into the ground and through into the coffin so if a person was buried alive by accident, they could pull the string and be dug up.
MAL: saw it on a FaceBook video
MAL: if I was buried alive I don't think I'd want the bell though. just dig my way out. as nature intended
MAL: it's why humans have such pointed toes. Like a spade.
MAL: when are you getting home?
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MAL: Via, get over here
MAL: Mikala's on one of his bullshit trips and I made a mistake
MAL: a mistake that involves chopping firewood and my foot
MAL: the sooner the better please
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