#v.headcanons

Name: Victor Robert Calhoun

Aliases: Vic, Bear (Among the Devil Dogs), Ziggy (From the other truckers at his company.)

Age: 40 (January 22nd.)

Sexuality/Gender: Bisexual Cis Man

Personality: while previously a violent, unkind young man with a propensity for bullying, harassment, and a full-willingness to get involved in a physical altercation as a way to pass time- it was the murder he'd be sent to prison for involvement in that would change him entirely. After ten years serving a sentence and doing his level best to keep his head down, he's come out the other side largely repentant, desperately trying to flip the karmic scales back into balance with what he believes is very little time remaining- Huntsville being an inescapable Hell containing the people he'd spent his early life making miserable, however, seems to have kicked the sympathetic engine into overdrive- He's desperately clinging to a measured, calmer temperament, but old habits die hard, and he has a tendency to flick to violence if a conversation becomes too difficult to solve with words and he can't beat a hasty escape.

Occupation: Unemployed handyman, largely living off what he's made trading and helping distribute the supplies he arrived with to the townspeople, former long-haul trucker.

Affiliations: Ex-Devil Dog Enforcer.

Scent Profile: He smells of cigarette smoke and leather, the still-present smell of mass produced cologne and soap he's not yet run out of given the recentness of his arrival. Vaguely of dog, thanks to Cash, as well as wood-shavings and motor oil, always somewhat dirty with one or the other thanks to the much lower supply of things like clothes he'd had with him for the drive he was making.

Aesthetic: A perfectly lacquered guitar and a baseball bat cracked and splintered, the rumble of a Harley's engine and the low din of a biker bar, the stale smell of liquor lingering. Blood and busted knuckles, bite marks and scars earned in love and war- the devil's right hand, the muscle. The bite of metal handcuffs and the murmur of a courtroom- the foreman's verdict as good as a guillotine for your freedom. Something you can't shake, about the incident that put you here. A decade of bars, a bird in a cage with a cracked and broken beak. when the door's finally slipped open, you fly free- not for long, Karma circles back- a Hell tailored to you. New names don't destroy what you damaged to start anew.

He's never gonna make it, all the poor people he's forsaken, karma Is always gonna chase him for his lies. It's just a game of waiting, from the church steeple down to Satan, karma. There's really no escaping 'til he dies.

CHAPTER ONE: LIFE IN HUNTSVILLE POST PARADOX

An incredibly recent arrival to Huntsville, Victor Calhoun- better known now by his call-sign for the trucking company that employs him, "Ziggy," Has only been free on parole for a short time, not even a full year of freedom before winding up in Huntsville once again- a place he'd called home until his sentencing in early 2012. it's a momentary detour- intending to just drive through town and see what had changed in his absence while making a long haul trip in the area to deliver the first stock truck for a CVS opening in West Virginia- he found himself circling town in the dim light of the evening- Cash growing more and more uneasy alongside him in the cab, ears pinned back and gaze set on the forest beyond.

It's on loop 3 he begins to feel as if he might be going crazy- a mental break brought on by returning home- a HAM radio no longer pinging the dispatch for his trucking company- faces starting to appear out of houses and businesses, at the heady rumble of the truck's engine. It's only when he's waved to stop that he grabs the shotgun from under his seat and disembarks the truck- demands to know what's going on- and why everyone's staring at him. It's a former classmate who barks his name first. Oh fuck me, it's Vic Calhoun. Just leave him to the ghosts, Mayor. It's disbelief, as the sheriff explains what's going on and people who's faces he somewhat remembers eye the truck like a flock of vultures.

He plants the butt of the gun in the chest of one of the approaching townspeople headed for the truck's back hatch hisses at them to fuck off- listens to whispers, murmurs of interest- of concern, about a commune, about the town- about the mayor. His head spins- He listens to Nat.

It's been only a small handful of days, now, and he's settled in his childhood home- parents long dead, brother just the same- he supposed it explains why they never wrote. His ownership over the keys to the freighter and the shipping manifest remains his only real leverage, for now, and while he's happy to help- He's made it clear that he's not about to let himself be screwed over- insisting Nat and Sunflower "work their shit out" and come to an agreement for the supplies split before a war breaks out over something only he can open...