Malachi Liddell ♦ The Emperor ♦ He/Him ♦ 40 ♦ The Jabberwocks ♦ Heir Apparent
"Heavy is the head that wears the crown." Do you even lift, bro?
Malachi Liddell. Have you seen this boy? He's the angel of his lovesick mother's eyes, and the Jabberwock's future to his vengeful father's heart. He's just a boy of barely eight, last seen in his room at the Liddell's residence before drifting off to sleep. The housemaids, security, and remaining staff to the family of high society have all been questioned at great lengths with no leads yet to be uncovered. A reward is being offered for any information leading to Malachi's safe return.
Don't the police understand they're owned? This shouldn't be their top priority; this should be their only priority. Days go by without movement. Fuck their investigation. Mr. Liddell waits for no one. He knows who is responsible--the only group of people that would have the bollocks to take his own son from his own house. They had to! End of! They want blood? He will make it pour in the streets--anything to make them pay for laying a finger on Malachi's head.
London begins to reek of death in every shadow, even more than before. The losses grow, not just at the intended target, but those that are sent out for war. Days grow into weeks, weeks into months, and as time stretches on so does the chance that a little boy is still alive and well. Repayment for kidnapping topples into avenging a murder until a never-ending war finally reaches its climax, screeching to a halt with Malachi's miraculous return. It truly is nothing short of a miracle, a gift to end all gifts from the very enemies The Jabberwocks have sworn to destroy since the disappearance: the Jolly Rogers.
He's unharmed. Skinny. Dirty. But unharmed. The Jolly Rogers claim no responsibility for the original disappearance, as they've maintained from the beginning. If they had, wouldn't they have demanded something from the Jabberwocks for his return? Wouldn't he have been used as a bargaining chip rather than a ticking time bomb? And if that's not enough to convince the Liddells, they prove it by hand-delivering the captors who are responsible. Swiftly, the Jabberwocks terminate them, as close to an acceptance as the Jolly Rogers were ever likely to receive. Peace is a fairy tale, but the deluge of casualties over the incident ends there.
Malachi, Malachi, you caused quite a stir. Your mother hugs you tight and swears never to let you go while the paparazzi nearly blind you to capture the reunion. Neither of your parents notice that all your baby teeth have been replaced by your adult ones already. They're just relieved to see you. And after thirty years, who would ever question a thing about you?
There's always more to a story than what meets the eyes or the printed pages. The public saw a privileged boy from a well-connected family become lost for months and then be found thanks to a good tip. The underworld witnessed something different. Their lives were turned upside down for all those months--eight of them and sixteen days for anyone who was counting--and the ripples of the incident are only now settling into distant memories for the majority. Those that know the truth are a dying breed with one exception who continues to thrive on it: Malachi Liddell, a name that has replaced another from a lifetime ago.
No one will ever hear about Aiden Decker. He was a poor child birthed from an even poorer mother. There was no such thing to Aiden as a father figure, having his biological one left as a mystery, even in his identity. He grew up not being able to tell if even his mother knew who he was, much less where he was. Besides, it was a detail that mattered little in comparison to where you would sleep at night or where your next meal would come from. He vaguely remembered a time when he met his grandmother, a frail looking woman who refused to even open the door to them, just peered at them through the windows before the curtain blocked the view.
He was a child who grew up with no childhood, an adult straight from the womb who had to figure out a way to survive. His mother didn't help; she could barely help herself. At four years old, Aiden was aware of what the kindness of strangers could get him: warm meals, blankets, money, a fighting chance. At six, he could use it against them, learning sleight of hand when it came to pick-pocketing tourists. The next year, he would become dependent on it.
That's one memory that's still there, no matter how many years have elapsed or how hard Aiden's life has been pushed down to a murky abyss; he still remembers the first time he heard the sound of a gunshot, thinking to himself how it didn't sound like the kind in the movies. There was another thing Hollywood couldn't get right: the color of his mother's blood that ran down the alleyway.
All his life he was told to avoid the police. If he didn't, he would be taken away, locked up, never to see the light of day. That was what he was told, that was what was engraved in his blood, and it was the one rule that he stood by, even in the face of the person who marked him with it dead in the streets, helpless. He hid, just enough to be out of sight, but close enough to wait and watch to see what would become of his only family.
A gunshot should have raised alarm bells. Any moment now the police would arrive and investigate. They would find the killer of his mother and arrest them, throw them in the very same cell that was meant for him his mother had warned him about. But it didn't. It took hours for officers to arrive, and when they did, Aiden could hear one actually laughing while the other seemed annoyed about the mess "these people" were causing them to clean up after.
The next day, Aiden took to the newstand, poured over the paper. Josie Decker didn't even make the last page, overshadowed by some stupid little boy called Malachi Liddell. His even dumber parents made the front page and underneath was the word "reward" making the headline. The picture they had of him looked familiar, a similarity between himself and the boy of the hour, but it would be those eight months later that anything would come of it. Surely, wouldn't a proud family such as the Liddells know the difference between their golden child and a street rat?
The press never learned that Tessa Liddell, Malachi's mother, saw her son by chance most times. She had her hands full with shopping, attending parties, and contesting an aging clock. Ezekiel Liddell, the patriarch to a family and dynasty, was the Crimson Hand to the Jabberwocks. Malachi was too young to be involved in the business, just old enough to make connections with the children of other families the Liddells publically blended in with. He was his legacy first, his son second. In the time it took from Malachi's disappearance to his reemergence, the parents have genuinely not questioned any difference nor have noticed one. It helps when a convincing replica has been given to them.
It was not solely the work of the Jolly Rogers of that generation to fool the Liddells. Aiden Decker transformed himself without any help into Malachi Liddell. He took a better look of the boy than his parents ever could, even giving himself a distinctive burn mark on his hand he happened to notice from a photo that was found in old magazines. The first few days of meeting the Liddells, Aiden didn't talk, pretending to be too traumatized to speak, soaking up the posh accent he was not graced with. And as the years rolled by, Aiden Decker was dead and buried. He never even existed to begin with. He was always Malachi Liddell. That's all anyone would ever know.
He took the role seriously. This was his new life, and he would defend it to the death if he had to. As a teenager, he stepped into the business, shadowing his father. Even in his downtime, too young to legally play himself, he learned the games of the casino, besting even Ezekiel. You couldn't have a prouder father than one who had a son mastering the art of counting cards. Later, he attended military school, the most prestigious academy that taught royalty alongside a Liddell. He absorbed more than what was trained to him, cementing connections that would last a lifetime, bringing them home to be banked on by the Jabberwocks. It only served to expand the business he was destined to put his newly presented captain's title to use.
When London was returned to, he was more than equipped to be the new head of the Red Rose Casino, the fresh face for the public to enjoy that the Jabberwocks would one day have to be led by. That day was approaching sooner by the minute, and for anyone that might have doubted the strength of the scion, he had his ways of making his mark indelible.
The first to attempt to steal from the Red Rose Casino is missing a hand. The second is missing his sight. The third is just missing in general. Only the Jabberwocks themselves know that the fate of anyone who crosses them rests in Malachi's palm, rolled by a pair of dice like the life of the one on trial is just another game. To him, it's fitting. It's justice. The only kind that exists in the world he's seen since he was a child, and the kind that will continue to rule under him.
His reign is only just beginning, too, a crown in sight. Ezekiel Liddell, the powerful Crimson Hand, had suffered a heart attack. His health was in jeopardy, and although it was not fatal, it put his days of being the emperor on hold. It's up to Malachi, now, a man who doesn't know the meaning of abdication.
+ Competitive, resilient, adaptable, confident, secretive, deceitful, callous, spoiled
He'll come across as an idiot, but don't trust it.
Malachi thinks cops are worthless pigs and will never truly respect them. They’re meant to be bought, and that’s all they’re good for.
He's the best card player you'll ever meet. It comes with the territory, but Malachi has a particular knack for Blackjack, along with knowing some fun card tricks in general.
While against taking drugs personally, Malachi isn't above drugging another for various reasons, including information, blackmail, etc.
He’s a gracious host. He's inherited and made many connections in high society.
Expanding the business into stock manipulation is an interest of his. The stock market is just another form of legal gambling, after all.
FC : Adam Demos
