Lincoln Whittaker

Discussion in 'Character Biographies' started by Anonymous, Apr 6, 2019.

  1. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    Lincoln Jessup Whittaker
    NicknamesWhit, Red
    Height5'9 ft.
    Weight172 lbs.
    More Information
    BirthdayJanuary 16th, 1978
    BornDublin, Texas
    SkillsSelf Sustenance
    Acoustic Guitar
    Singing, Writing
    Amateur Tattoo Artist
    MusicLink 1 & Link 2

    Physical Appearance:
    Most days, Whit didn't take to grooming. He had a casual regard for keeping up appearances, doing what was necessary to skirt by unnoticed those odd occasions that lead him to town, even less so now at the end of the world, but it was difficult to hide the type of man he was without an extensive or bothersome attention to detail. His palms were made rough by manual labor. Prison tattoos covered his hands and forearms, his back and chest, twisting in elaborate patterns that ended under his jaw on the left side of his neck. Among them were the sort of redneck fashion that accompanied lock-up in Huntsville: the Lone Star with great frequency; Confederate battle flags, busts the likes of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson; vines and flowers, skulls and bones; his corrections ID number; "TEXASBOY" etched across his knuckles; crests, shields, and broken swords. The beard he wore was thick and overgrown, shaped by an old pair of trimming scissors. His hair was ginger and cut short. Hard, green eyes hinted that he'd seen his share of ugly.

    The clothes best suited to his lifestyle were adorned by necessity: jeans broken in; a thick, plaid jacket when the weather called for it; simple t-shirts and sleeveless tops; a brown leather belt with a large, silver buckle; sturdy boots for working or hiking; and from time to time, the relic of a cowboy hat passed down by his father. Often he smelled of earth and smoke, cypress and mesquite, like he'd manifested in all its silent and wild majesty from some open range lost to history. And though he wasn't a particularly tall man, he was strapping by most considerations. Tight lipped, certainly. An endless appreciation for quiet and solitude. Still waters.

    Biographical Information:

    In trouble most of his life, unwilling or incapable of settling into a socially normalized routine, Lincoln, or Whit to his close friends, was never more at home than when the world fell apart. His father, a stubborn son of a bitch who spent more time in prison than out, had left him to the care of his trailer-trash girlfriend for as long as he could remember. She wasn't a terrible woman either, but for the drinking and the carrying on, she just wasn't equipped to raise a boy who was born with a legacy for mischief. In and out of South Texas school districts, chartered to more juvenile facilities than he'd care to admit, it wasn't until he was nineteen that he received his first adult charge and arrest, one that would ultimately land him in the same prison as his father for the following twelve years.

    He was thirty-one when finally released from Huntsville, left a piece of land near Brownwood, Texas when his father died that had once housed a deer hunting blind and a small shack. The time he served inside allowed him the education to write and publish a book of poetry, "Alone With The Universe", and the resources to receive his first degree, a bachelors in forestry, which he used to further his goal of living as far away from civilization as he could reasonably afford. Admittedly, it wasn't far enough, and probably never would have been.

    Six years alone in the woods had done strange, or at the very least unexpected things to Whit. He wasn't as quick to anger. He spent more time thinking and less time talking, though he wouldn't have had anyone to talk with, regardless. The days were filled with simple labors, like maintaining his vegetable garden and hunting from the blind, or reading old books he had mailed to his P.O. Box just inside the city. He didn't own a radio or a television either, and had little other contact with the world at large, so when the outbreak in Austin broke free into the rest of Texas, he was caught unaware. It was only by happenstance that in those early days he stumbled across a caravan of survivors that welcomed him into the fold, and together they marched onward, north.


    Whit is a confident individualist. He doesn't spend much time thinking about how people might view him, but rather focuses internally, dealing with obstacles according to how he feels about them, or how they fit into his system of values. Experience matters more to him than logic or practicality. When making decisions, he foremost consults the advancement of honor, beauty, morality and virtue. By the same token, it isn't difficult for Whit to see someone eye to eye. Listening to other people and understanding their plight comes easy, though not without its cost. Too many friends or social entanglements can be detrimental and have proven taxing in the past, so he chooses them carefully. He's also been known to drift into deep thought for extended periods of time, enjoying to contemplate the hypothetical and the philosophical, but left unchecked may start to lose touch or become withdrawn. Bringing him back from these intermissions can be demanding work for those he's placed his trust.
    #1 Anonymous, Apr 6, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 19, 2019
  2. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    Relationships & Acquaintances

    The Checkpoint Group
    "We're more than strangers now. I'd catch a bullet for any damn one of you, and don't you fuckin' forget it."
    "I don't know how to move on from this. We tried, I know we tried. Each of us risked our necks for them strangers, maybe that'll count for something in the end, but if I had to make that choice over, I wouldn't change a god damn thing. We're what matters."

    "I don't hold it against you. Everyone made a choice that day, but I never should have left them behind. Had I the opportunity to turn back time, I would've kicked it with the rest. That failure is mine alone, not a burden we share. Each of us has to live with the things we've done to get this far, I'm just not sold that surviving is worth the cost of our humanity."
    "It could've been worse. It could've been any one of us. I hate that it's come to this, some times I think it'll stick to me like shit until I'm dirt in the ground, but we're alive."

    Old Head
    "Had I the gift of foresight, had we been on different paths leading different lives, I think we would've found each other side by side on that long and lonesome road regardless of the circumstances. Hopefully in another decade I can boast to being as resolute and steadfast in my willingness to stick to my principles, but sometimes I wonder."
    "I know you're taking it hard, so am I, but we made the right call and we need our voice of reason now more than ever."

    "Gotta admit, if some of the people I used to know found out what company I've been keeping I'd probably catch a beating, but that isn't me, and it isn't you either. Fuck that racist redneck bullshit, you're as good as any other free man I've ever met, and I'd gladly throw hands just to give the naysayers a taste of that sweet southern justice."
    "You know, you've got a good head on your shoulders. We see things pretty much eye to eye every which way, and the longer we stick together, the more positive I feel about what comes next. Thank Christ you made it out of there in one piece."

    The Brit
    "He doesn't say much, and I appreciate that. You can tell by the look in his eyes he's seen his share of hardship, and if it were up to me I'd find some way to help him overcome. Maybe some day this will all be a distant memory and I can show him the sort of solitude that helped me rebuild after Huntsville. Seems like he could use the respite and peace of mind."


    The Mall
    "I don't know how I feel about you folk. Seems like too many people jammed in too small a space, and if it weren't for the others I arrived with, I'd have never stopped here, but I'll be shit on a Sunday morning if I'm gonna sit back while everyone else gets their hands dirty. People matter, god damnit. How we treat each other still fuckin' means something."
    "I told myself it wouldn't happen again. I planned for it, hoped I'd have the opportunity to make things right, but when the moment arrived, push come to shove, I had to make a call. It was my people or your people, and I chose mine. God forgive me."

    "You, me, and Gasmask makes three. When I threw my chips on the table, I half expected you to stop us. Hell, had I cared more to live than the opportunity to lead that herd away, I probably would have tried to stop us, too. But you didn't. You threw your chips in just the same, and that's a pact. Living ain't mean shit if you forget what living's for."
    "Saving that girl, doing what we did, the blood we paid? I'd do it again in a heart beat. I hope you're still kickin' around, wherever you are."​

    "Can't be positive, but I think her heart's in the right place. I know that barricade won't hold, and it's a drop in the damn bucket far as I can tell, but it ain't right to stand around and do nothin' in the face of adversity, even if the toil's for naught. Ain't gonna go quietly, that's for damn sure, and I think she might share the same gumption."

    "Sure talk a lot. I'm not sayin' you shouldn't, but I can only take so much conversation before my god damn head starts to ring. You traded me some cigarettes, though -- thank Christ -- so as far as I'm concerned, you're alright in my book."​


    The Gas Station
    "This place, far as I can tell? We're safer now than we've been for days. Quarters are close, the space is cramped, but I could give a shit at this juncture. Roof's a roof. Our people made it, and that's all that matters."

    "He's a crazy son of a bitch, but dog bite do I respect a man who's willing to stick his neck out for the sake of strangers. The plan he hatched to draw that herd away from the Mall? Could've gone sideways more than once, could've killed the three of us a hundred times over, but we persevered and made it through the other end. Because of his tenacity, we've all got a better shot at seeing another sunrise."
    "I'm grateful for what you've done for us. Whatever you need, I'll be there."​

    "She's okay, I guess."​
    #2 Anonymous, Apr 14, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 27, 2019
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  3. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    A Texas Kind Of Way

    [​IMG]Huntsville wasn't a place for weak willed men. The Wall Unit, a name bestowed by inmates, had a reputation for molding lifers, building criminal minds and enterprises for the likes of the Aryan Brotherhood or the NLR, Barrio Azteca and La Eme, the Texas Syndicate and Tango Blast. Its history was steeped in division and race hate, the only prison that claimed allegiance to the Confederacy even after the Civil War ended, a cage for whites and whites alone, they wagered, until forced by the Federal Government to integrate. It held the record for the longest siege in corrections history, lasting eleven days in 1974 and taking with it the lives of two prisoners, a guard, and a teacher. Even the electric chair had a personality of its own, coined "Old Sparky" and constructed by convicts, the most active execution chamber across fifty states with a sum of three hundred and sixty-two sentences carried out before the program was traded for lethal injection. Most mornings, Whit half expected to open his eyes and find himself back behind those cold, steel bars.
    [​IMG]But Huntsville wasn't all bad, not all the time. It was where Sam Peckinpah filmed The Getaway with Steve McQueen, host to scores of tribute by the musical talents of Merle Haggard and Steve Earle, Cody Johnson and Bobby Bare. It was where he reunited with his father after nineteen years of parole and re-offense, where he learned to be a man and how to survive by the grace of God and his fists, but most importantly Hunstville was where he sharpened his mind and learned the value of an education. The most dangerous men in the room were always the quiet ones. They read books and people as if their lives depended on it, honed themselves daily like knives on whetstone, and practiced routines that made them difficult to be taken advantage. As far as Whit was concerned, it was true and always would be: you didn't mess with a guy who spent the last two decades repping his brand and studying the Art of War or 48 Laws of Power. Nothing to gain from that but a shallow grave and a quick way out, that was if you were lucky, and so it was apparent to him, young as he was, that those who could not find practical application for the years spent vacationing in sweet, sweet Huntsville were destined to lose their minds, bodies, or souls. Sometimes all three. Often more than they bargained for.
    [​IMG]That wasn't Whit's intention, however. He didn't plan for a future in the convict hierarchy, deftly as he may have maneuvered, and there was no dodging the program no matter how hard someone might try. First day in his cell, first minute he entered the block, the AB was examining his paperwork like some kind of criminal interview for legitimacy. When they asked what good he was, the sort of skills he'd bring to the table and how they could extort him, his only options were to embellish the truth or be divvied for the sort of work given to prison wives or punks, and there was no coming back from that.
    [​IMG]"Music. Ink," he replied. "I'll retouch whatever art you want, find me the tools." Whit was just an amateur at the time, even by gracious interpretation, and the first tattoo he reworked was the most excruciating and dangerous labor of his life up to that very moment, whether or not he realized it then. He practiced for days, twelve hours a day, until the moment came and went that he earned the type of reputation which gave him a pass from heavy hitting. It was serviceable, at least long enough to afford him the time to improve.
    [​IMG]"Red? He alright. Ain't no one gonna stick the ink-man in our block," they reassured him. He couldn't avoid it, however. Everyone put in work, even the artists, even the punks. If it wasn't tattoo's, it was holding contraband. If it wasn't holding contraband, it was keeping tabs on other inmates, or keeping watch for corrections officers when real shit was going down. An eight year sentence for assault and armed robbery turned into twelve with loss of privilege, and by the time he was released in 2009, he had narrowly avoided association with the TDCJ's Gang Intelligence Unit simply for the sake of survival and being where he was. His parole wouldn't be over until he was fifty-one. No mistakes, no slip ups, no exceptions.
    [​IMG]In hindsight, those twelve years were a saving grace by comparison. He wrote and published a book of poetry, earned a bachelor's that would lend to keeping as far and away from people as his PO would allow, salvaged some sort of dysfunctional relationship before his father passed away, who left him a small plot of land outside of Brownwood. Not many men walked away from Hunstville more prepared than when they entered, not by a long shot. Damaged? Without question, but ready? Having used their sentence to plot every moment, the multitude of measures one could employ to avoid finding oneself in a place like the Wall Unit again? Wiser, stronger? The rare breed who emerged new, capable men? That was one testimony, the list he was sure to grow on his way through a simple, honest, quiet life. With great sincerity and determination, he sought to rebuild with his own two hands, an appreciation for the free world that could not be fathomed by a man who never had it taken away.
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  4. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    The Dusty Road, I

    [​IMG]After Huntsville, Whit lead a happily independent, lonesome sort of life -- a hermit even by modern standards -- making his dole by keeping an eye on a local wild life preserve near Brownwood, Texas and a handful of semi-occupied ranches, host largely to their owners or vacationing out-of-towners, flown in from whatever big city they called home when the smog or concrete got the better of them. He preferred solitude, enjoyed nature as though born to the outdoors, and so rarely listened to a radio or watched a television during the six years since his parole. Until he too was assailed by an infected stranger, bleeding from the eyes and gnashing like some beast what caught rabies, he hadn't the faintest idea anything so serious had been waiting at the proverbial doorstep. In the moment, he had no other choice but kill or be killed.
    [​IMG]By product of the disaster, he was forced onto the road from the first night the Red Eyes washed up in Texas, only a few hours drive from Austin at that juncture, the spread of infection burning through the countryside like wildfire. Whit barely had the time or clarity of judgement to react, and so took to the first group of people he made contact with on Highway 183, who were heading north to Oklahoma. They stopped near Abilene on the way, but the roads were so thick with panicked families and traffic that they learned early on to avoid cities, sticking to farm roads and beating forgotten paths over the course of the seven days that eventually brought them to Kentucky. They passed by Tulsa, Springfield in Missouri, through the Ozark and Mark Twain National Forests, until outside of Paducah, west of the Ohio River, where Whit, the only surviving member of his original party -- tired, hungry, and desperate -- heard a broadcast from deep inside Knox County.
    [​IMG]In the process of making his way to Valley Station, where the radio lead him, he came in contact with a handful of civilians who were making camp at an abandoned Police checkpoint. Those he found there were in similar shape, and though the trek across five states had effected him like a poison, it was by their acceptance he found renewed purpose; the fire, he called it, that passion which drove ambition and decency. Frankly, he was surprised it rekindled so soon, but that was the nature of his spirit. Warm, by most accounts. Resilient, defiant in spite of the odds.
    [​IMG]When they finally reached the Mall together, they'd witnessed their share of danger and hardship. The group had dwindled from an incident looting a local grocer's, having been forced to abandon the other half of their cadre in attempt to cut their losses, and it never sat right with Whit. He had a habit of keeping himself busy before and after the doomsday, but he was finding more and more frequently that those quiet hours alone, those silent moments in the middle of the night he once cherished were leaving him burdened by regret since destiny brought him rambling far from home. Often he dreamed of having stayed, of dying with those people they left behind, and in every passing moment his mind drifted, to remind him of the folly, he steeled his resolve for the future. Should that opportunity ever present itself again, he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Death was inevitable, after all. Any man honest with himself understood it was simply a matter of choosing when and how you'd go out kicking.
    #4 Anonymous, Apr 17, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 19, 2019
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  5. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    The Dusty Road, II

    [​IMG]Whit wasn't being honest with himself, though. Not entirely. It was easy enough to trick the mind, that saving everyone was an option, or that the way he saw the world before the infection changed it all could somehow still apply, but that wasn't in the cards, and he was struggling to keep up. Honor, morality, virtue. What was good and worthy. It meant something. It had to mean something.
    [​IMG]But those days that came and went sheltered at the Mall, they were quickly deteriorating the values he placed upon a pedestal. Everyone was scared, Whit included, and what happened with his group from the road, the many strangers they left for dead when things went south, it was snuffing that fire he worked so hard to revitalize in the aftermath of Texas. It never seemed to end, either. The absent father, the torment of Hunstville, the road to Kentucky, the survivors he found there. Each of them challenged the fiber of what was right, and with each passing night, every incident that took another life or tore at the unity of those huddled together in Valley Station, it forced him nearer and nearer to picking sides. He wanted to help everyone, but in doing so threatened the people he arrived with, who met on the road. Whit had to think of them first.
    [​IMG]Had the United States not fallen to ruination so quickly, or if he never met Abram or Garcia, Wes and the Brit, he would have dealt with this by retreating to the wilderness and disappearing in solitude. The strength in numbers couldn't be denied, though. Alone, he would have died long before reaching Kentucky. Contrary to that extreme, burdening himself with the lives of every living soul was destined to put them in danger, and not just a danger that effected him alone, but the group at large. If they were to band together and persevere, hard choices would have to be made, the sort that would haunt him unto the dawning hours of his final days. The others, too. They weren't strangers to decency.
    [​IMG]So when they left the Mall upon Gasmask's invitation, they did it together, a decision made without a single detracting vote. The numbers of infected were growing, every time someone left or fired a gun they drew closer. Leaving through the barricade presented problems of its own, however. Those variables which were slowly contributing to the detonation of that powder keg seemed to befall them in the span of a few short hours. Gun shots rang out as their group drove off, towards the horizon, to rendezvous somewhere they hoped would be safer, but it wasn't lost on them. They made the same terrible decision yet again. They'd come full circle. They left them behind.
    [​IMG]It was undeniable. The strife stuck to them like scars.
    #5 Anonymous, Apr 17, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 19, 2019
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  6. Anonymous

    Anonymous Guest

    September Doves

    [​IMG]Their drive to meet Shepherd had been a miserable affair. Quiet, each of them unsure of what the future might hold, the reality of what they'd done in flight from the Mall taking time to settle, like their minds had trouble coping, racing to keep up with what was quickly becoming the foundation for survival. On the way they passed through an overrun blockade, a collection of police cars and SUV's that hinted there were no survivors, and they didn't bother stopping. Everywhere they looked, the devastating effects of the infection seemed to play a role.
    [​IMG]Hours later, from the tile of a bathroom floor, Whit was laid out, splayed in ruin, like he'd been knocked on his ass by the fists of a much larger man. He was absolutely ravaged by illness, vomiting when his body forced him, a heavy sweat and chills that rattled his bones. The original bandage used to wrap his wound, a scratch on his right hand that was bleeding profusely, had soaked straight through the fabric and was sullied now. By Whit's own suggestion, Shepherd placed him in quarantine upon arrival. He fell into a restless sleep some time in the middle of the night.

    [​IMG]On the other side of consciousness, he was beset by a fever dream. Lucid without question. It was an oddity for Whit, who greeted the experience with a great deal of confusion. He recognized it was a fantasy, but could not deny how genuine it felt in the moment, and he so desperately wanted it to be real. Instantly, he imagined that Daniel was released from his sentence in Hunstville and they were together again. They spent their days in the quiet wilderness surrounding Brownwood, hunting and fishing, care-taking for ranches. They grew old together like it was planned. Daniel always knew exactly what to say.

    [​IMG]"What's the matter, Red?"
    [​IMG]"Don't reckon. What'm I s'posed t' do without you," Whit asked, turning so their gaze would meet. Daniel had sharp blue eyes and dirty blonde hair, the face of a charmer. Smooth, alabaster skin. Gentle hands.
    [​IMG]"Where've I gone?"
    [​IMG]"Hunstville. I left you," Whit clarified from a deep well of shame.
    [​IMG]"Ain't in Hunstville, y'dumb bastard. I'm right here, with you."
    [​IMG]"No you ain't," he replied. "You're gone."
    [​IMG]"Look out there. You see that?"
    [​IMG]"'Course I see it," he answered. They were seated at the edge of Lake Brownwood at the mouth of a small river, practically a creek, named Pecan Bayou. The hum of locusts grew and faded in the distance, accompanied by placid waves which lapped upon the shore. On the horizon, the sun was beginning to set.
    [​IMG]"That's four and half billion years of God's work."
    [​IMG]"What's your point?"
    [​IMG]"River rolls on with or without us, Red. Ain't nothin' t' fear. You'll be here soon."
    #6 Anonymous, Apr 19, 2019
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 20, 2019
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