Dylan Morgan

• Virtue: Hope; Vice: Envy; Concept: The Creative Dilettante
• Attributes
  • Mental: Intelligence 2, Wits 3, Resolve 2
  • Physical: Strength 2, Dexterity 2, Stamina 2
  • Social: Presence 4, Manipulation 2, Composure 2
• Abilities
  • Mental: Academics 1, Investigation 1, Medicine 1, Science 1
  • Physical: Athletics 1, Brawl 2 (Boxing), Drive 2, Larceny 1, Weaponry 1
  • Social: Empathy 2, Expression 3 (Singing), Persuasion 3, Streetwise 2 (Irish Neighborhoods), Subterfuge 1
• Merits
  • Mental: None
  • Physical: Fighting Style: Boxing (•)
  • Social: Allies [Irish Mob] (•), Barfly (•), Contacts (Theater/Small Performance Community), Inspiring (••••), Resources (•)
• Health 7, Willpower 4, Morality 6
• Size 5, Speed 9, Defense 2, Initiative 4
• Weapons: Switchblade (+0L, Size 1/S, Dur 2)
• Armor: None
• Flaws: Notoriety (Irish Mob family)

Dylan Singing: [1]

Background

I know the best way to start these things is to just start.

My name is Dylan Morgan, and I grew up in Far Rockaway, in Queens, NY. I was born into a family full of fighty Black Irish, and though I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter, I can hold my own in a tussle.

Growing up, I realized that there were two things I really loved, besides my own Mum of course: the ocean and singing. My brothers used to make fun of me for singing, but I did it every chance I could. Mum encouraged me to sing with the choir in church, and I did for quite a few years. I’ve always loved church singing – the majesty of it, and the years of tradition. When you sing with a solid choir, you aren’t just singing with other people: you’re singing with the angels, and if you strain just right, you can hear them singing right along with you.

My Mum is a good woman. Church-going, God-fearing, and like most Irish mothers, she put the fear of God into us at a young age. She had a temper like no one’s business, but she loved just as fiercely, too. She worked at the local Laundromat when we were kids, and we used to hang around the streets there when school let out.

My Da…well, I don’t know him very well. See, he’s spent most of his time in prison, since I was born, really. One of my earliest memories is the police raid on our apartment where he was first arrested and sent to Riker’s Island. I think I was about four years old or so when that happened. I could walk, I know that for sure, because I ran for a closet, and I knew how to talk because I cussed up a storm when they found me and took us away, down to the Social Services.

My brothers and I spent about eight months or so in foster care, from what the others say. I don’t remember the time, per se – I just remember living in someone else’s house, and wanting to go home with my brothers, and my Mum and Da. Instead, I had to live with a strange family. They were nice enough, I suppose. I know they had the patience of saints, because no one should have to deal with a four year old capable of cussing, biting and kicking like I was. I was a purest hellion, and they tried their best.

I remember the day my Mum came to get me. She was with the Social Services lady, and my brothers were in the car. Once she had us safe and sound in the car – with the windows rolled down, of course, because it was so hot – she turned to the poor woman.

“If you or yours ever come near my children again, I’ll kill every one of you. Make no mistake.” While the Social Services lady could only gape, her jaw hanging open, Mum got in the car. The lady quickly stooped down and peered in the passenger window and warned my Mum about saying such things.

“What? That I’ll kill to protect my children? You listen to me, lady. You find a mother that isn’t willing to do so? Those are the ones who should have their children snatched from them.” Then, she drove off. I remember flipping the woman the bird as we drove off, and my brothers cheering me. For a short while, we were a family again, loving one another fiercely and so glad to see one another. Our Mum cried because she was so happy to have us home again.

For the most part, we grew up without Da around. He spent his time in jail, and when he wasn’t in the clink, he wasn’t living with us. Apparently, the Social Services had his not living with us anymore a condition of getting us back, and she’d be damned if anything happened to us, even if it meant giving up the man she loved.

For the longest time, I was sure that was the most romantic, tragic thing I’d ever heard, even before I knew what either of those words were.

I was probably in my teens before I even knew what a “Mob” was. By that point, my older brother Ethan was already working as a courier for the Irish Mob. In fact, he was working with our Da, who was also Irish Mob. Growing up, there were always kids that weren’t allowed to play with us, or whose parents seemed scared of us. Mum used to say that it was because they thought they were better than us, and not to mind them. I know today that my family has been part of the Irish Mob as long as there’s been an Irish Mob.

I did okay in school. I never had to deal with fights in school, because anyone stupid enough to fuck with me ended up face down in the dirt lot next to the school, with Ethan holding him down while Corey kicked the living hell out of them. They always offered to let me have a turn, and I nearly always demurred.

Nearly. If they’d already fucked with me, of course, I’d take a couple of swings.

I did okay in school. Not as well as my teachers seemed to think I should do, but I was definitely the good student in the family. Of course, I was much more interested in things like acting and singing than anything else. One thing I learned quick: the bad boys always get the girls. But the “bad boys” that are soulful and sensitive for their girl, that like to sing and act and read poetry and shit? The ladies can’t get their panties off fast enough, really.

I’m also the only one to actually graduate from high school of my brothers. Each one of them dropped out, generally to take a job somewhere, but – just as my Mum feared, really – each one of those jobs turned out to be for someone in the Mob, and it’s not the only jobs they were doing. I could hold my own against my brothers, but I was never one for all of that crime stuff.

Corey says it’s because I’m a pussy, but Ethan makes him leave me alone. Mum says it’s because I’ve got a bard’s soul to me, and that’s something special that comes with being Irish. Corey claims that if I were a real Irishman, I’d be fighting and drinking the way he does. Then, Mum clouted him upside his stupid head, saying “I don’t recall asking the opinion of a drunken idiot who can barely say the word ‘Irish’ because he’s so drunk most of the time. Don’t you tell me what being Irish is about.”

Have I mentioned that I really love my Mum?

So, my life is sorta weird right now. I’m not really looking for a girl to settle down with and marry. I don’t think I could really afford it, to be truthful. I kinda do jobs here and there. I try and get as many performance gigs as I can, but there’s only so much call for performers in the city of New York. The place is filled with them. So, I help set up lighting and sound tech, do grunt work in nightclubs and theaters and the like. I roam from place to place, most of the time managing to get a couple of rounds out of some cute chickie, maybe find my way into her bed for the night. I’m not quite so much the lady’s man anymore; most people outside my neighborhood don’t know that Morgans are Mob-kids, and the ones who do aren’t impressed by it.

I’m just me, basically. Although the problem is that I’m not sure who that is, really. I’m looking to find out. In the meantime, I earn the money I can, stumble home to my tiny apartment after partying all night and occasionally stop by at Mum’s to raid the refrigerator.