mickcallahan

[mickcallahan]

mick had been there maybe fifteen minutes, long enough for the beer to lose its chill and the music to hit the deep cuts. ac/dc’s ‘the razors edge’ album pulsed through the speakers, too clean for the kind of music it was made for.

the man moved around the kitchen without any sense of belonging, just motion. a six pack sat under the island, his old worn leather jacket lay tossed beside his cigarettes on the immaculate marble countertop. the contrast was almost laughable. this place - his half brother’s perfectly curated home - looked like it had been lifted from a magazine. and mick, standing in it, looked like he’d broken in by accident.

he cracked open a beer, the cap clinking to the floor. he didn’t mind pick it up. as he brought the bottle to his lips, a sudden crash came from the street - loud enough to slice right through the next track. he didn’t even flinch, just turned toward the window with the kind of stillness that came before violence. one glance was enough. he didn’t turn the music down, didn’t bother with shoes, just shoved the door open with the flat of his hand and stormed down the driveway.

“hey asshole! you blind or just fucking stupid?” mick snapped, eyes locked on the woman standing beside a import. his voice was rough, loud enough to startle the neighbor’s dog into barking “you just knocked over my fucking bike” his hands hit the hood of her car with a loud bang, fingers splayed, the tension in his shoulders wound tight. his glare was sharp enough to cut, but his body was controlled. rage with a leash.

“you see that thing you parked in front of? it’s called a driveway” he growled, crouching next to the bike like a mechanic checking on a wounded friend. his hands moved over the tank and handlebars, jaw working as he fought the urge to snap something more. no visible damage, but the offense wasn’t just about it

“you had a dozen places to park, and you chose mine”

where : LA neighbourhood

who :Mick (@mickcallahan)

The night was thick with the kind of quiet that only money could buy. No honking, no sirens, just the hum of distant streetlights and the occasional rustle of leaves along perfectly manicured sidewalks. Antonella had just wrapped up a client meeting in one of those houses—marble driveways, security cameras, the works. And a empty-looking hallway that was just begging for the latest, most desired piece of art on the market. Her stomach grumbled ever so quietly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten properly since this morning. Nothing a quick trip to the nearest take-away restaurant downtown wouldn’t fix. A simple solution and an easy fix, if not for a damn motorcycle parked directly in front of her car which she spotted the moment she rounded the corner.

Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag, jaw ticking as she let out a slow breath through her nose. A bike like that didn’t belong here—too rugged, too out of place in a neighborhood that smelled like imported wine and old money. And yet, here it was, blocking her in like some kind of invitation. Or a challenge. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, heels clicking against the pavement as she approached it, scanning the street for its owner. Her pulse had already picked up—not with fear, but something sharper, something that tasted like the beginnings of a fight. With not a single moment of hesitation, she raised her foot and gave the polished chrome a kick. As hard as her expensive red heels would allow. Hoping to set of an alarm to draw out whoever had dared to double park her.

[mickcallahan]

mick was back at the bar, same spot, same view of the room, eyes scanning without ever seeming to move. it had become part of his routine these past few days, what he half seriously referred to as market research. the bar was a smart pick, tucked just far enough off the main drag to draw in the kind of patrons who didn’t want to be seen, yet always managed to bring stories worth hearing. if you had the patience to listen past the barked laughter and the scrape of pool cues, you’d find that people had a way of letting secrets slip between sips.

he saw her the moment she walked in, leather and a sharp edge. the blonde made her way to the bar, and he waited until she was close before sliding his empty glass under the counter, claiming the seat beside her. his focus was on the bartender, a silent signal for a fresh pour “what happened to small talk and foreplay?” he finally replied before knocking the whiskey back, savoring the slow burn down his throat.

“your bike’s ready” he said, eyes still front “first time with your car? that was on me. i had a point to prove” and he had - mick’s favors were never without motive, and his pride didn’t take kindly to being underestimated “cash only. personal reasons”

only then did he turn entirely toward her, the weight of his attention finally landing “you can come get her yourself, or i can drop her at your place” he added, the faintest trace of amusement curling at the edge of his lips “your call”

who:  open  (@bloodnglorystart)

where:  sip  happens

the  bar  was  dim,  the  kind  of  place  that  didn’t  ask  questions  and  didn’t  care  about  the  blood  on  your  collar.  cleo  slid  into  her  usual  spot  at  the  far  end,  back to  the  wall,  view  of  the  door.

one  whiskey  in,  and  the  tight  coil  in  her  chest  still  hadn’t  loosened.

her  scrubs  were  swapped  for  black  jeans  and  a  leather  jacket,  but  the  exhaustion  clung  to  her  like  smoke.  a  cigarette  burned  in  the  ashtray  beside  her,  lipstick-stained  glass  in  front  of  her,  untouched  but  necessary.

she’d  stitched  up  two  gang  members,  held  a  kid’s  heart  in  her  hands  for  twenty  minutes,  and  told  a  mother  her  son  didn’t  make  it—all  before  midnight.

sip  happens  was  the  only  place  she  let  herself  fall  apart,  and  even  then,  only  in  the  quietest  ways.  a  drink.  a  drag.  a  silence  no  one  dared  to  interrupt.

so  when  someone  slid  into  the  space  beside  her,  she  didn’t  look.  didn’t  move.  just  lifted  her  glass.

“unless  you’re  bleeding  out  or  buying  me  another  round,  i’m  not  interested.”

[mickcallahan]

closed starter: mick + nolan / @nolanfitz

location: nolan’s office

“i don’t get it” the man said, frustration tightening his jaw “what’s the damn point of lettin’ me out if i’m still locked down? more five years - five years without leavin’ l.a? that’s bullshit”

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. his eyes flickered, not just with exhaustion, but with the weight of everything behind him, the years lost, things that wouldn’t stay buried. but it wasn’t the past that unsettled him most. it was what came next.

“i been showin’ up for every check in, doing the community service, sitting through all them reentry programs. every damn fucking thing they threw at me, i did it. but this?” he gestured sharply at the ankle monitor, his fingers curling like they wanted to rip it off “come on. i’m sure there’s something you can do”

[mickcallahan]

the man checked his watch as he stepped into the bar. it was before business hours, but he didn’t mind waiting, anything to escape the ugly reality waiting for him outside. the sound of nirvana playing through the speakers made him think twice about sticking around, but he pushed past the thought, settling onto one of the empty barstools. his eyes scanned the room for any sign of an employee. standing up, he reached behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses, and poured himself a shot. it wasn’t like he wasn’t going to pay for it anyway. just as he took his seat again, the door to the back room swung open. the bar owner stepped out, catching him mid drink. mick placed his glass on the bar, offering a quick explanation “my bad, shoulda called first, didn’t mean to be buggin’ you” he then motioned to the whiskey “poured myself one. sorry about that too” his grin was anything but apologetic as he slid the extra glass her way “feel free to join me. ain’t nothing worse than drinking alone with nirvana playing in the background. by the way, you should always keep your door locked, l.a is full of freaks these days”

open to whomever / location: sip happens

Peyton was doing some spring housekeeping at the bar. A little bit of dusting, shredding old paperwork, doing inventory. The nineties playlist in the background was now playing a classic song from Nirvana in the background when she stepped out from the back room only to come face to face with someone in the bar. She rarely locked the door given that most of the town knew the business hours— not that she was ever strict about those. "Fuck sakes," the curse left her lips while her hand slammed down on her chest. "I didn't even hear you come in." She took a moment to collect herself before she moved towards the back of the bar. "Not open yet but I can make an exception." She'd wanted to go through the higher cabinets but knew how rickety her ladder was so an extra pair of hands could be of use. "What're you drinking?"

[mickcallahan]

THE WALKING DEAD Season 8, Episode 1 - Mercy

[mickcallahan]

[mickcallahan]

closed starter: mick + leon / @leon-orozco

location: outlaws mc clubhouse

he’d spent most of his life within these walls, back when the outlaws were nothing but a concept. a refuge for the men society had discarded. he could still feel it all like an open wound: the weight of his years as vp, the long nights building something out of nothing, all the blood spilled in the name of brotherhood, opie, the day he dared to want more, and every decision that had led him here. he still experienced it all, raw. now what was left of the club he bled for was a bunch of reckless kids thinking they had it all figured out just because they knew how to throw a punch.

and yet, some things never changed. old rivalries, old grudges, repeating like a song stuck on a scratched record. he could see it in leon’s eyes. the same restless anger, the same desperate need to stake a claim. some fights never really ended “it must sting. think you deserve something you never earned” mick says, with a mockingly sympathetic tilt of his head “but hey, you still get to wear the patch, right?” a half smirk playing on his lips as he leans back casually against the wall, arms crossed.

[mickcallahan]

closed starter: mick + cami / @camibarone

location: echelon

mick wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for his younger brother. the moment he walked in, he knew no matter how much money was in his pocket or who had invited him - he didn’t belong. and he didn’t needed to. this world of expensive smiles and calculated laughter, of people who measured worth in bloodlines and bank accounts, meant nothing to him. he played along just enough to get by, then slipped away, letting the party swallow his absence.

in the bathroom, he pulled out the cocaine, tapping out a neat line on the marble counter. one sharp inhale, a familiar burn, and the rush hit. he stared at his reflection in the mirror, the cool, composed facade hiding his simmering disdain. then the door creaked open and mick’s gaze flicked up, catching the stranger’s in the mirror. he didn’t bother turning around “if you’re not coming in, at least shut the damn door” he said after brief minutes, taking another sip of his whiskey .

[mickcallahan]

mick rested a hand against the car’s frame, leaning over the engine bay, eyes scanning for any sign of wear - nothing immediately out of place. but once he stepped back and crouched by the front wheel, his fingers pressed against the tie rod, feeling it shift under his palm. there it was. the steering rack bushing was near useless, barely holding together "just found the problem" he said, like that’d make it any better. this wasn’t catastrophic yet, but the front end would snap on a hard turn.

standing up, he wiped his hands on a rag, already running through the fix in his head "gonna rip the band aid off - this thing’s hanging on by a thread, and i need to swap the steering rack bushing out" he’d done this a thousand times, instinct kicking in before he even had to think. a mechanic’s intuition was second nature to him, with his engineering background he could break a machine down to its bones and put it back together better than it was built "hope you weren’t planning on going anywhere for the next two hours" grabbing a wrench, he glanced her way, a playful grin on his lips "now be a good girl and get me a beer, yeah?"

@mickcallahan

Location: Velocity Motors

Taylor had spent most of her teen years, and all of her adult life around The Outlaws, even before she began stitching up stab wounds and patching bullet holes off the books. So naturally, when her piece of shit Bronco started making strange clanking noises, she took it to Velocity Motors. It wasn't exactly how she'd planned to spend her day, considering she had an overnight shift at the hospital looming over her. Taylor hated the weeks she worked third, it was a bitch.

"I dunno," She said, shrugging as she blew out an exasperated sigh, watching as Mick lifted the hood of her car. "The wheel started jerkin' to the right like two minutes after I pulled out of my driveway." She peered into the engine, even though she didn't know shit about cars or what she was even looking at. "Then it started to make this weird ass noise, so I just drove it straight here."

[mickcallahan]

“i promise i won’t rat you out” mick sarcastically replied, toeing the line between amused and outright condescending. not that anyone cared what she did with it, it was just trash “that’s a bummer then” he went on, exhaling smoke through his nose before rolling the cigarette between his fingers “last week’s comics were actually funny” the man admitted with a soft shrug, flicking the last of his cigarette onto the sidewalk and grinding it out under his boot “i’m more of a crossword kind of guy now” a decade inside didn’t leave much room for distractions. he either kept his mind moving or let the walls close in and crush whatever was left of him.

@bloodnglorystart @ Palm View Park

"What? They didn't want it anymore, it's not like I stole it from them." Linnea said with a frown as she caught someone staring at her after fishing a discarded newspaper from the top of a trashcan. She'd seen the guy do it, so it wasn't like there had been drinks thrown on top of it or that it had been dug out from the bottom of a birdcage, it was just the Sunday paper and she could probably find out most of what it said online if she tried to google. She wasn't robbing the newspaper of profits, either, because she wouldn't have picked one up from a stand regardless. "I'm just curious about the comics." And the property listings, she was a little curious if there were any apartment buildings or hotels in need of renovation up for sale. Wait. Would they even list that in the paper?

[mickcallahan]

with a cup of coffee in his grip, mick stood off to the side, eyes fixed on his harley. a quiet possessiveness in the way he watched it - same way he had with everything that was his, or had been. he took a slow sip, lost in thought, the kind of thoughts he didn’t like lingering on for too long. a boxer bounded toward him, snapping him out of his head before it could go to places he’d rather avoid "hey, you" he said, shifting his coffee just out of reach as he crouched to greet the dog, ruffling its ears, rough hands surprisingly gentle "where’d ya come from?” once footsteps approached, mick glanced up, watching the woman who had to be the owner “nah, don’t worry about it. i got a cane corso at home - a real mess" he said with a nod, waving off any apology before it could form. a soft grin lighting his features as he stood up “she’s beautiful" mick admitted, nodding toward the boxer "it's a shame buddy don’t play nice with others. pepper seems like a good girl"

open 0/5 @bloodnglorystart

An almost uncharacteristically soft smile settled over her s she watched Lulu, her foster dog, finally start to relax. After watching her for a few moments longer she checked up on her other dog, groaning slightly as she saw her boisterous boxer mix bouncing around someone and trying her best to convince them to pay attention to her. "Hey, Pepper, come on." Voice took on the tone and cadence of a disappointed parent, exasperated sigh leaving her lips as she moved towards the person her dog had accosted in the name of friendship. "Not everyone wants to say hi to your overfriendly ass." The boxer looked up at her with a mournful expression but backed off slightly, tail still wagging as though that could entice them to give her permission to resume fussing over them. Vaguely concerned glance was cast over them, mostly to see if they were going to have any kind of problem. Brow arched as she offered up an almost playful remark, tinged with the faintest hint of apology. "Don't tell me she slobbered on you."

[mickcallahan]

a collection of brutality and sacrifice, of power seized and lost, of violent retribution, twisted morality, the art of surviving at any cost and the price of living long enough to regret it.

tw: contains mentions of death, violence, criminal activities, substance abuse and mental disorders

BASICS

Full Name: Michael Hayes Callahan

Nicknames: Mick, Mickey

Age: 55

Gender: Cisman

Pronouns: He/Him

D.O.B: November 5, 1970

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Birth Place: Detroit. Michigan.

Sexual & Romantic Orientation: Heterosexual

Relationship Status: Divorced

Education: Mechanical Engineering ( Master Degree )

Residence: Hidden Hills

Children: One

Occupation(s): Mechanic @ Velocity Motors

Gang Affiliation: Outlaws MC

Role: Enforcer / Former VP

PHYSICAL EXAM

Faceclaim: Jeffrey Dean Morgan

Voice: Effortlessly deep and gravelly, with a deep midwestern accent. His speech have a cool, natural rhythm

Eyes: Hazel

Hair: Dark Brown ( graying )

Beard: Salt & Pepper

Height: 1.88

Distinguishable Marks: Tattoos ( about 10 total )

MENTAL EVALUATION

Mental Health Conditions:  (Undiagnosed) NPD,

Positive Traits:  Incisive, Dominant, Ambitious, Bold, Resourceful, Confident, Charming, Charismatic, Eloquent

Negative Traits:  Unrepentant, Volatile, Manipulative, Cynical, Rough, Competitive, Vengeful, Malicious, Predatory

Alignment Type:  Neutral Evil

Personality Type  (MBTI): ENTP

Mannerisms: He often carries himself in a confident, relaxed but assertive way. Signature half smirk, often paired with a slow head tilt. Gestures are deliberate but never excessive. Has a habit of running a hand through his hair or rubbing the back of his neck. His laugh is low, gravelly, and genuine

Languages: English, Spanish, Italian, French, Russian, Portuguese, German

Narcotics of use: Cocaine

AFFILIATIONS & RELATIONSHIPS

Parents:  Randy Callahan ( father; deceased ) , Sylvie Holt ( mother; deceased)

Siblings: TBD Callahan ( male, 50 ) , TBD Holt ( half-sibling. female, 37), TBD Holt (half-sibling, male, 35) * WC

Children: TBD Callahan ( male, 27 ) * WC

TIMELINE

1970: Mick is born

1982: Sent to juvenile detention and later to a training school in Michigan where he spent a year getting rehabilitation education and therapy

1983: Moved to Los Angeles

1985: Joined Outlaws MC as a prospect

1990: Became VP

1998: His son is born

2005: Got married

2014: Caught in federal investigations and charged with RICO. Fifteen years long sentence

2016: Got divorced

2024: Released on parole after ten years. Returned to Outlaws MC as an enforcer

BIOGRAPH

Michael Callahan was born in 1970 in Detroit, Michigan, into a world that didn’t offer second chances. His father, a mechanic with more debts than options, spent his days buried in grease and his nights drowning in the kind of trouble that comes when hard work isn’t enough to keep food on the table. His mother juggled multiple jobs, stretching every dollar until it tore, but it was never enough. Poverty was a noose tightening around their family, and his father, desperate for a way out, turned to crime. What started as a means to survive quickly became a way of life, a dangerous game that promised fast money but no real escape.

By the time Michael was 12, that gamble had cost his father everything. One night, in the middle of a turf war, he was gunned down by a rival gang, his body left as a warning on the same streets he had fought to control. His death shattered what little security Michael had, leaving behind a family already teetering on the edge of collapse. Grief turned into anger, and that anger became fuel.

By 13, Mick had stopped searching for an honest way out. He ran the streets with the same reckless abandon that had gotten his father killed, learning early that survival meant being feared. Petty theft turned into armed robbery. Fights turned into something bloodier. His first real run in with the law came in 1982 when he was arrested for carjacking and attempted robbery. The courts didn’t see a scared kid - they saw another Detroit delinquent destined for a prison cell. Sent to juvenile detention, Mick learned that mercy was just another word for weakness. Violence and power were the only currencies that mattered, and by the time he was released, he had mastered both.

In 1983, his mother, desperate to give him a fresh start, packed up and moved the family to Los Angeles. But a change of scenery didn’t erase the past. If anything, it only gave Mick a bigger playground. The streets of L.A were different, but the rules were the same. He quickly fell in with the wrong crowd, drawn to the lawlessness simmering beneath the city’s surface. In 1985, a mutual friend introduced him to Opie, and for the first time, Mick saw something bigger than just surviving - he saw a path to real power. Within months, he was prospecting for the Outlaws MC. By 21, he had climbed the ranks to Vice President, his intelligence and ruthless efficiency setting him apart. He wasn’t just another biker looking for brotherhood, he was a strategist, a man who understood that loyalty was only as strong as the power backing it.

Under Opie’s leadership, the Outlaws held fast to tradition, but Mick saw beyond that. He recognized the potential for something greater - more dangerous, more profitable. He started making moves behind Opie’s back, expanding the club’s influence in ways the older generation refused to. Drugs, arms deals, laundering money through seemingly legitimate businesses, Mick played the long game, ensuring the Outlaws weren’t just surviving, but thriving. His mother’s remarriage into wealth gave him the financial backing to operate discreetly, a safety net that allowed him to take risks without drawing too much heat.

In 1998, he met the woman who would become his wife. Their relationship was built on passion, but also contradiction, she saw glimpses of the man he could have been, even as the one he had become slowly eroded their love. They had a son that same year, but Mick’s world was the club, and by the time they married in 2005, the fractures in their marriage were already showing. She stayed, for a while, holding on to the illusion of a future that didn’t exist.

Then came 2012. Opie’s death sent shockwaves through the Outlaws, leaving behind a leadership void that threatened to tear the club apart. Mick played the game well, ensuring that whoever stepped into the president’s seat was someone he could control, someone willing to shed the old ways in favor of his vision. His influence grew, and for a time, he thought he had won.

But power always comes with a price.

In 2014, the law finally caught up with him. Whether it was a setup by a rival, a rat within the club, or a federal investigation years in the making, Mick was charged under RICO. The walls closed in, and in a matter of months, everything he had built was gone. Sentenced to 15 years, he entered prison alone and surrounded by enemies. But Mick wasn’t the kind of man who broke. He adapted. He maneuvered. Inside, he carved out power where he could, ensuring that even behind bars, his name still carried weight.

While he fought to survive in prison, his personal life unraveled. His wife, unable to keep their family intact through years of separation and betrayal, filed for divorce in 2016. His son grew up without him. The club he had sacrificed everything for moved on.

For ten years, Mick waited. He watched. He planned. Then, in 2024, he walked out of prison, a free man, but freedom didn’t mean redemption. The world had changed. The streets weren’t the same. The Outlaws had evolved, and there were those who saw him as a relic of a past they no longer needed.

But Mick wasn’t a man to be forgotten. And he sure as hell wasn’t finished

ADDITIONAL INFO

Although the feds seized a portion of his bank account, Mick still has substantial funds that have been fully verified as legitimate, along with a portfolio of real estate. Additionally, he can fall back on his connections if necessary.

He recently got a dog. A cane corso named Buddy mainly used for protection

First learned how to ride bikes with his dad

Since his release, Mick has been attempting to keep a low profile, but he still finds ways to bypass his parole, continuing with his illicit business on the side.

Obsessed with Motorsport. F1, Motogp and NASCAR in particular.

He can play sports. Tennis and golf are his favorites.

Mick has a highly predatory, ego driven nature and only forms relationships he believes will serve his own interests. He’s a skilled manipulator, good at exploiting others’ vulnerabilities and pushing their buttons. His primary focus is always himself and his personal gain.

WANTED PLOTS & DYNAMICS ( mostly self explanatory but i’m always game for brainstorm ! )

Friends / acquaintances

Enemies: Mick earned his notoriety during his many years as VP of the Outlaws. While his connections provided protection inside prison, that security doesn’t necessarily extend to the outside. This could be rooted in past events or more recent ones.

Corrupt law enforcement officer: Someone who owes him a favor from the past or someone he blackmailed into cooperating. They might appear as an ally, offering Mick information or protection to the club, but at the cost of increasingly dangerous deals.

Protege: This member might seek Mick's approval in everything, seeing him as the epitome of what it means to be an Outlaw. But Mick is reluctant to fully take them under his wing, torn between feeling a sense of responsibility to mentor them and not wanting to get emotionally attached.

Hidden connections: These alliances are secretive and not known to the rest of the club, giving Mick an edge in situations where he needs to broker bigger, more dangerous deals. Anything from international traffickers to organized crime syndicates, these ties could involve illegal arms trades, underground fight rings, high stakes gambling, etc.

Someone he’s trying to corrupt

The person who set him up and had him sent to prison