#and another jackass therapist said that he should bill

[merrysithmas]

i literally cant believe yoko sent john to a conversion therapist

[tmrrwppl]

Mal

“I’m Malcolm Breeds and welcome to Jackass!”

Full Name: Captain Malcolm “Mal” Sebastian Breeds, USMC

Faceclaim: Luke Mitchell

Fandom: The Walking Dead/Zombie Apocalypse

Ethnicity: American

Birthday: August 14th, 1986

Family: Mother: Deceased Father: Deceased

Birthplace: Ocala, Florida

Bio: Malcolm Breeds was born in Ocala, Florida. And from the time he was 8, he wanted to be a Marine just like his dad. Being raised in a military home, Malcolm was a respectful and disciplined kid, though he still had fun.

By the time he hit the end of his 8th grade year, his dad and him talked at length about which high school he would attend. Either the local school with a basic JROTC army program, or an almost one and a half hour drive to Apopka to be apart of the Marine Corps JROTC program there. The choice was simple for Malcolm. He wanted to learn everything he could.

That fall, he woke extra early, got dressed and ready for school and then road with his father to school, every day. His father listening to NPR and clutching a cup of coffee in one hand with the other on the wheel. Every day, an hour after school got out, or training ended, his father would be there, clutching another cup of coffee with a smile on his face.

When Malcolm got his learner’s permit at the end of his freshmen year, his father reclined in the passenger seat on the way to and from school, leaving Malcolm to learn by experience and his own basic knowledge of how to drive them safe.

He loved everything about the MCJROTC at the school, while as a whole, the school was a bit red-neck-y for his tastes. He excelled in biology and stage craft (his stress reducing elective every year) and was a core member of the drill team and the marksmanship squad.

By his junior year, he drove himself to and from school, working at Dunkin’ Donuts on the weekend and some evenings to put gas in his car for the week. While having a few friends from stage craft and MCJROTC, he didn’t much socialize outside of school or hangout, though with his own car and his father’s permission, did spend several nights hanging out in Apopka and staying the night at a friends every now and then.

By his senior year, everything was going great. He was a Cadet Lieutenant Colonel, being considered for Cadet Colonel. He was working with a recruiter for the USMC to get him signed up as soon as he graduated high school.

And then his dad passed away from prostate cancer. Malcolm didn’t understand how it had progressed so fast. He didn’t understand how his parents could hide it from him if it was that bad.

His dad’s final words to him were “Be strong, no matter what. Do what you want in your life, and do it well.”

He missed a competition for the funeral. They did okay without him, but he threw himself into training for the next, dropping stage craft to take a fully loaded course load of his final requirements to graduate and back to back MCJROTC classes (that he had to get his mother and Major to sign off on).

His recruiter, Cpt. Gregory Reynolds, was beside him every step of the way.

In the summer of 2005, he bid goodbye to high school, to Apopka, to his mother and Ocala, getting on a bus to Parris Island.

After boot camp and his School of Infantry(SOI) training, he returned home in time for his mother to be killed by a drunk driver. Two days after her funeral, Malcolm received his first orders for his Permanent Duty Station. Malcolm was to be stationed at MCRD Quantico.

After a few months of further training, he was shipped out to Afghanistan, participating in several operations there. Malcolm was in his element, every time he went out on an op, he didn’t worry if he lived or died. He just did what he could to serve his country.

He served two tours in Afghanistan, during which he was promoted to Captain, a paid position, and a leader of a good group of marines. During the last month of his second tour, while he was serving as gunman on what was supposed to be a quick security detail, his humvee struck an IED. It mangled the truck beyond recognition, killed the driver and sent a spray of shrapnel to Malcolm’s upper body, a piece scarring the right side of his face (eye only saved by his ballistic goggles) and wedged into his skull.

Recovering with one hell of a story and an adamant Colonel, he returned home and changed his status to Active Reserve when he resigned his contract. Cpt. Reynolds was there at the airport when he returned, suggesting that maybe Malcolm should take his new status and work in the Veteran Services Office at George Washington University, and get a degree in Architecture with his GI bill. A good thing for someone on active reserve to get into. To keep busy.

He dormed on campus, checked in with Quantico once a month and continued his own PT in the mornings before classes or work, helping veterans in his school with their academic careers and financial aid.

Malcolm also had an experimenting sexual relationship with a fellow marine who lived down the hall from him, coming to the conclusion that he was bisexual. Something he had never really knew about himself until he had enough downtime to test it out. He also had a non-serious relationship with a teacher’s assistant from the biology department. His life was good. And he was in a good place with the help of drinking and a really chill therapist who was assigned to him after he had accepted his PTSD emerged.

The occasional loud noise set him off in a panic, and on hot days he refused to go outside after he had a mild hallucination of being back in Afghanistan. And the nightmares of missions that had gone wrong and the what ifs of missions that could’ve gone wrong came for him some nights.

But… He was okay. He was good. He was safe and he woke up and reminded himself he was alive every day. Malcolm began to appreciate life again.

Until one morning, he turned on the news right as his cell phone started to ring off the hook.

He was being ordered to DC, because some sort of shit had gone down and people were eating other people.

It had taken him twenty minutes to pack his bags and throw them into his car, speeding to Quanitico for a briefing.

Malcolm was on security detail, armed with a rifle, a sidearm and a knife… and told to keep as many of his belongings on him as he could. Filtering through his possessions quickly, he left his computer and school books in a locker, only keeping three pairs of civvies, a leather jacket, a jean jacket, and a pair of boots in his bag. His cellphone was shoved on top at the last minute with his charger. The rest of the bag was filled with MREs. Enough to last him a few days should everything go completely FUBAR.

Patrolling the fences that had been brought up while politicians were evacuated, he got his first glimpse of one of the enemy.

And God damn, he missed Afghanistan.

The little girl’s cheek had been completely torn from her face, the jaw hanging limply by muscle as her small bloodied hands clawed at the fence.

Malcolm radio’d in immediately, describing the situation. His commanding officer replied back “Stab it in the head. Gunfire draws more of them.”

Malcolm was a good soldier. Malcolm had killed insurgents in Afghanistan to save his men. Malcolm killed that little girl with a quick underhanded jab into her eye socket, understanding that she was a threat.

Two nights later, their secured area fell.

His commanding officer shot himself, leaving a note that said “Abandon your posts and stay alive.”

As one of the highest ranking officers left, he ordered his men to follow those orders.

A year later found Malcolm living on the roof of a gas station 6 miles east of Alexandria. The men who had came with him had all went their separate ways to find their own families. Malcolm refused to leave, boarding the windows and fortifying them with the long forgotten skills from stage craft and his forgotten architecture major and built an elaborate system to get in and out of the building. He had even built himself a gunnery nest where he could see everything around him. A perfect vantage point. He spent his mornings raiding supplies from the local stores and shops, not traveling too far. His small armory (and a truck load of MREs) came from the Army’s pitiful barricade on the 495 bridge over the Potomac, abandoned except for the occasional biter.

Malcolm learned through experience that they didn’t bother you if you were covered in their guts, and he kept a spare long sleeve shirt and pants on hand for that.

There was no point to his hoarding and his defense building. It was just his military training keeping him sane. If he died, he died. But he refused to die bored in his gunnery nest. Reading, writing, doing crosswords and cooking canned goods over a gas stove were how he spent his days.

No one came for the precious gas in the pumps of his station. He shut them off after the first month.

He slept with a sock in his mouth, in case he woke up screaming.

He drank liquor to knock himself out and hope for no nightmares.

No one came except for the occasional biter.

And he let them pass.

“Be strong, no matter what. Do what you want in your life, and do it well.” Well, dad. What did you expect him to do when his only want in life was to continue surviving with no other purpose? He did it well.

When he woke one day, two years (or was it longer?) into the apocalypse, mildly hungover and pulling the sock from his mouth, he could feel something was different. Scratching at the beard he had grown used to in lieu of shaving, he peeked out of his defenses at the sound of a whistle.

Someone was at the pumps, testing them.

He was carrying a bat, wrapped in barbed wire.

Previously @fuckinsavior​

Mal: [walks in] Sorry I’m late, I was doing stuff Dwight: [walks in after Mal, noticeably disheveled] HE PUSHED ME DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS