Age: 41
Affiliation: Famine
Rank: Power
Pronouns: he/his
Gender: cis man
FC: Jon Bernthal
Status: Played by Ro.
You fall from grace and look at the shards of your reflection in a broken mirror before picking yourself up, chin held high. Life is tough but youâre tougher. You had cracked under the pressure and now you have settled at the bottom to realise that, maybe, this is what suits you. Youâre made from rigid stone, carved from grit, and the jobs provided the the lower ranks allow you to slip into your true nature. Still the need for redemption snags between your teeth, telltale signs in the clenching of your jaw. You may be created from the earth, dirtied with the grime youâve design yourself from, but you will shine golden again. Â
Demoted from Virtue to Power off the back of a police raid on an illegal betting shop that fell under your control, youâve diligently taken up the dirty grunt work. No longer in a position of authority, you fall to Famineâs loose ends. Your experience helps, knowing where best to hide the bodies and how to get answers out of someone. And at least thereâs one thing they canât take from you, one thing you know will shine in your favour, youâre a damn good fighter with a passion for boxing. Famineâs best, some might say, when you enter the ring and cash in bets to build your bosses empire. And maybe, someday, your own.
TWs; death (parental, child), bullying, blood, smoking, depression, drowning
It is with somber footsteps that Thomas enters what has remained of the building again, a morbid glimmer of what once were masquerade balls, lavish dinners and socialites from all over Britain gathered in the Ackermann estate. The walls still hold a whisper of their long-gone glory, despite the misery of the place. Autumn leafs and spider webs had woven their way to the broken ceiling, wooden debris scattered on the ground next to him. The wrecking ball, which once caused the destruction of the place still stands colossal like an omen of death. He growls as he inspects the ruins, spitting on top of the dirt-stained tiles. Memories flood his brain; memories he avoided for so many years, neck cracking left and right in an attempt to stop their advance. They are like a war-machine though, a brutal force to be reckoned in, nipping at his brain and sanity.
But why not give in? Thomas Ackermann, ex-Virtue of Famine now humiliated to a Power, a dog, a nobody.
His eyes scan the building his father once owned, the moonlit night sky painting the cracks in-between the marble columns and statues. Black elegant shoes turn at their heel only to hit against the shards of the now broken grand hall mirror, a symbol of himself. Thomas squints as he takes a last puff of his cigarette, the smoke leaving his lungs in a thick cloud. As it dissipates, he tosses it away, leaving it to die and rot in the ruins of his childhood. He glances at the broken pieces of glass on the ground - their form jagged, sizes variable - and maybe in a moment of delusion or a fruit of his fantasy, they take different shapes and their reflection loses the image of his own body. Bruised knuckles clench as he realises he did give in despite all. He allowed himself a moment of weakness. Fingers graze over some of the shards before he finally picks one up, inspecting it and letting it speak for itself.
It takes the form of a boyâs silhouette, its reflection showing the glamour and dazzle of his childhood. Events, parties, money and everything that he ever wanted. His father, Noah Ackermann, usually never spoke to his guests or partners as many of them didnât really know sign language, but the face of the Ackermann patriarch was usually adjoined with the one of his mother, Abigail. It was safe to say she ran the family more than Noah did, but Thomasâ fragile age never grasped that in time. It was she who ran the finances, made the deals and used the person who owned the money as her drive to manipulate him and earn more for herself. Her plan was devilish with a knife behind her back. The young boy didnât really care anyway, he was busy getting drunk in his teens with his rich friends who took every opportunity to use his social standing to their gain. Spoilt was the life of the boy in the shard he sees, flawless, pristine and careless.
Another glass piece trembles and his sights focus on it. Kingâs College was the place where the feisty and bitey by nature Thomas found his true calling. The smell of the boxing ring and the gym, of sweat, blood and tears once brought joy on his face. His studies were often put to the back, the art of Estate Management not deemed his forte. It was a new thrill that blinded the young Ackermann, one unbeknown to him by that point. The mirror shard sparks flames in his eyes as he sees his fists collide with peopleâs jaws, the blood in their teeth dripping as he ravaged upon them in underground fights, boxing tournaments for glory and cash, party moshes or the person who he fell madly in love with - a person who stabbed him in the back and ignited what he now was. A fighter on command. Last thing before his life changed completely was his loverâs broken nose and fractured skull, hospital medics and police cuffs.
It was his expulsion from Kingâs College due to multiple occasions of aggressive behaviour that his mother used as an excuse to put metaphorical cuffs on his wrists and threaten him with jail time for his crimes of almost killing a person or serve the Military, a notice signed and sent by his own fatherâs hand ( but really, with his motherâs intentions ). Abigail saw that Thomas would be dangerous for her viper plans and what would be an easier way to get rid of him than to send him away? The army taught him discipline and lethality, fueled his anger and showed him how his bruised knuckles and deadly weapons could be used correctly. Four years of service and Iâm out, he once thought; and he did get out, only to be met with his house destroyed and his father dead, his mother nowhere to be found with all their money, probably sipping champagne on a yacht. He hoped the bitch would rot back then.
Thomas tosses the shard glass into the other pile in an act of anger, blood dripping from the skin of his palm never realising how hard he had clenched on it. He tries to fight the need to scream but what did it matter anyway? Canât get lower than the bottom of the ditch. It was as if the broken mirror sings his story in a minor key - the years after the army when he picked up a new degree in Architecture, when he found the love of his life, when he met the face of his firstborn child, his daughter named Emma. The man had learned how to love and cherish, to protect and to care. Thomas still remembered her delicate features and the innocence she carried with her, he vowed before his wife, himself and the Gods that not a hair would fall from the babeâs head. He had somehow managed to pick up his life and rebuild it, yet the broken shards in his fatherâs ruins are singing a Requiem. The grotesque images of his wife and child on the hospital beds letting out their final breaths after a brutal car accident followed, imagery that still tortured him in his nightmares.Â
As their souls went into the afterlife, he stopped recognizing love, the familiar touch of a hug and the comfort of a person next to him, supporting him and loving him unfamiliar. Suddenly his time was spent lonely again, whisky in hand, puffs of cigarettes, bruised knuckles and bloody nose hidden underneath light coats of makeup for his day work affairs. It was his new normal again. The scars on his body reopened, new ones appeared. The fighting rings, once again, rekindled a long-lost flame he yearned to reignite somewhere deep in himself.
A raven flies into the ruins of the manor and lands on the biggest shard of the scattered pieces as tears dripple over Thomasâ cheeks, his stern look locking contact with the animal. It scatters away as he approaches the piece, lifting it high in the sky as he smears his wet cheekbones dry.
In it Thomas sees the faces of the people who had seen him in the pits and recruited him to Famine. Joining out of grief, his cards close to his chest, the man quickly proved what a valuable asset he was to the gang. It was a long journey to become a Virtue - cash deals, people killed, nasty fights in the ring - but there he felt in control and in the right place which was a vague feeling. His specialty quickly became hiding evidence and bodies and for once he thanked his military service for the interrogation skills he picked up on, which were of great importance to the gang. Thomas was well rewarded for them. Where better to exert chaos than amidst the riches of Femenias family, their fighting pits and shady deals? Lashing out commands left and right to Angels and Powers and scheming the grand plans with his superiors which ended in either bloodshed or violence was like a drug to him, and still is. Such acts were his best friend, the chaos that seethed from the mafia gangs and fed his dead heart forcing it to beat again. It was through Famine he found Abigail, his mother, and killed her, with himself dealing the final blow by drowning her in her own pool at the estate she had built herself there with his stolen money. The luxuries of being a Virtue and having power and connections.
Only after a few seconds he notices the crack in the massive glass piece and he is reminded why heâs here all along. His new family, his new partners in crime belittled him after a single mistake which led to his demotion. A betting shop under his control, seized even after his countless protections resulting in Famine losing a hefty sum of money and the death of an important informant, forcing them to go underground and lick their wounds for some time which led to even more losses. Mind scrambles for the disgraceful and disappointed looks of the Femenias family or the mocking gaze of Kitty Malick. From giving orders to taking orders; from a place of power to a place of obedience. Â
Thomas inhales a deep breath and the fragrance of the gasoline he had spread across the crumbled estate earlier fills his lungs. Lighting the match that would end it all, he remembers Rafael Femenias Sr. striking his final verdict and putting him back at the starting line. As he tosses it into the piles of ruins he remembers the feeling when he saw all these years of hard work go to waste. When flames engulf his surroundings Thomas glances back at the pile of broken shards and sees himself for the first time instead of rubbish memories that held him back to unleash his full potential. As a Power now, he is expected to be a monster. He sees the man he will re-introduce to Famine and the man who is ready to commit atrocities in the name of the gang just to rise to the top again and prove he isnât full of shit, muscle with no brain used to earn them money through fights.
Thomas doesnât want to be a phoenix risen from the ashes; Thomas wants to be the monster who creates the ashes and feeds the void in his heart and with his reputation crushed and years of progress destroyed, crimson blood is all he sees and tastes. He is no longer a broken mirror, that shit burned to the ground together with his past. Now, he is a force to be reckoned with and he will stop at nothing to get back in the light of glory, even if it means bloodshed. Â
Kitty. You feel your jaw tense as they mock you for where you now stand, despite having been the one to teach Kitty what they know. Itâs infuriating to have a weapon you helped sharpen take to cutting you.
Ikki. You know the way to climb the ladder, youâve done it before, and you will do it again. Ikki is the key to your promotion, their opinions and words influential to the higher ranks of the gang. You aim to impress them, by offering your hand to any of their needs.
Sacha. Thereâs something suspicious about them, something that doesnât sit right. You think they could be useful, to manipulate the manipulator by leading them on. To lie about your intrigue in their cause in order to get your own information to feed back to your superiors.
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