Tucker Harris
Tucker Harris
Thom Yorke
Thom Yorke as Tucker Harris
Name Tucker Harris
Status Alive
Age 34
Occupation Laundromat Owner / Gloom Watch Cleaner
Place of Origin London
Date of Birth Feb 4, 1978
Player Glutton
Timezone CST
Notes Notes for Tucker Harris

Most people don't give a passing thought to the man that runs the laundromat; scruffy and unobtrusive, as soon as they've taken care of their laundry he's out of sight. Most people would be shocked to learn that he's actually part of a secret organization that stands against the things in the darkness. Tucker Harris is a Cleaner for the Gloom Watch; when things go bad and there's a mess left behind that might draw attention, they call him in, and he quietly takes care of things.

Background

Three generations ago, the Harris family moved to London and, determined to make a living for themselves rather than working for someone else, founded the Whitechapel Laundromat at the end of an impoverished block in the district of the same name. It's been passed down from father to first-born son since then, with the most recent inheritor of the establishment being the rather unfortunate Tucker Harris.

We don't say unfortunate because the coin-op laundry is a poor business, far be it for your humble author to claim such a thing. As far as such businesses go, it's actually a fairly profitable one. Nor is his birth into the Harris family ill-omened, because they've always been a rather supportive clan, although most of his aunts, uncles and cousins live in far-flung boroughs away from Whitechapel. Neither even was his childhood in the poor neighborhood that the laundromat perches in like an aging gargoyle an unpleasant one; it was a struggle, of course, and he had to learn how to take care of himself, but there was no particular unpleasantness that occured to him as he grew and attended classes. Even the death of his parents the year after he graduated from secondary school, while tragic, was not the sort to cast too great a shadow across him.

No, Tucker's fate was one that came upon him somewhat later in life, after he'd been at the helm of the laundry for quite a few years. He'd settled into his role there, content to handle the laundry of his customers (becoming quite the expert, one might say, at removing stains of dubious providence from garments - it was a somewhat bad neighborhood, as earlier mentioned in this narrative!) and enjoy his own modest fortunes. He kept out of any criminal conflicts save the occasional bar fight over a football game, had a series of relationships that can only be gently described as shallow in depth, and only woke up with a hangover on the weekends. In other words, dear reader, a small and shallow life. It was one that he'd settled into, much as an acorn dropped from a tree might settle into a crack in the walk and try to make a best of the situation by growing as it can.

The unpleasantry began one dark, foggy London evening (for isn't that always the way of it?) as he was walking home from the pub. He was, one must reluctantly admit, somewhat inebriated, although he wasn't completely out of his mind on liquor. He might have thought that he was that drunk, however, when he started hearing footsteps behind him on the road that echoed in a rather ominous fashion. Glancing back, all he saw were shadows, but they were enough to make his heart quicken, a staccato beat of fear pounding in his ears. The swifter he walked, the swifter they seemed to move behind him - and were they only the feet of one man? They sounded like more. From a walk, to a trot, to a breathless run, the shadows always seeming to be nipping at his heels like a pack of tenebrous hounds upon the scent of a fox. As he reached the limits of both breath and wits, he turned a corner and swiftly ducked into the shelter of a stone-linteled doorway. He plastered himself to the door, hoping - no, praying - that whatever deviltry was on his tail would pass him by. Then the door behind him fell suddenly open like a gaping maw, and he tumbled backwards, dragged by dozens of tiny, clawed hands.

Into the place of horror that men know only as the Gloom.

What he experienced there, he refuses to say; cannot recall, in fact, save as momentary glimpses that drag him screaming from nightmares many nights. The human mind has a way of mercifully blocking such traumatic events from itself, lest it break utterly beneath their strain. What he does know - because he was told - is that several weeks later, a Gloom Watch team that was sent to explore rumours of strange happenings in the area found him naked and bloody in the corner of an empty room of an abandoned apartment complex, chewing on what was left of a rat that he'd caught. They nursed him back to a modicum of sanity in one of their safehouses, although his newly voracious hunger put a bit of a strain on their grocery bill. His wits and memories slowly returned to

him, and in a few weeks (with the help, of course, of the Watch's not-inconsiderable resources) he was able to deal with the minor legal issues that his disappearance had caused him and taken control of the laundromat once again.

Never again would he live that life that he'd grown content with, however. Not only did he now know what lurked out of sight and around the corner of mankind's vision, he had been irrevocably touched by the Gloom - no longer completely human, hollowed out and left with a hunger that only raw flesh could assuage. And a new loyalty, to the Watch, for saving him from his own madness.

In the years that've passed since, he's established himself in the London Watch as a cleaner. If one of their operations leaves unpleasant evidence behind that might draw attention to their operations, he moves in to deal with it; he talks to witnesses, persuading or intimidating them into keeping quiet or making up 'rational explanations' of matters, and he disposes of evidence. More than one inconvenient corpses has gone down his gullet, protecting the Watch from the dangers of a homicide investigation. Sometimes he wonders if this makes him the same as the monsters he fights, even as he licks human blood from his fingers.

He tries to ignore those thoughts.


Personality

Outwardly, Tucker seems like a rather laid back bloke most of the time. He'll joke with people he's familiar with, chat about the latest football scores (and even get loud if you blaspheme the name of West Ham United in his presence) and be generally helpful and inoffensive for the most part. He seems the sort that goes with the flow, as if he's not really sure where he's going so any idea, really, is good enough for him. The question 'what do you wanna do tonight' can end up in a circular argument for hours. When given a job, he goes about it efficiently, and doesn't ask a lot of questions.

Of course, few people really are what they seem outwardly. When he's on the job, he can assume a remarkably professional and commanding persona, which is helpful when he's trying to convince some witnesses that they didn't really see what they think they saw. He's also got a temper, carefully hidden; mostly it only shows when someone jokes about his Touched abilities, which while obvious for a few jokes… isn't something he has much of a sense of humor about it.

What Tucker's really like if you get to know him is hard to say. He's a hard man to get close to, but that's the only way to find out.


Paranormal Abilities

The time that Tucker spent in the Gloom left him with a deep and aching hunger that can never be truly satisfied. And, horrifically, left him perfectly suited to try and satisfy it anyway.

The most obvious manifestation of his Gloom-Touched abilities is his rather… talented mouth. Under normal circumstances his teeth look mostly normal aside from having twice the number of canines as usual, but when he calls upon his powers the roof and floor of his mouth grow rows of terrible, gnashing teeth capable of rending even metal. His jaw is capable of distending to an extreme range, the flesh of his cheeks and lips stretching to match, permitting him to devour and swallow things the size of a large human body if necessary. It does take him a few moments to fully open this terrible maw, although he doesn't need to if he's just trying to take a bite out of an enemy rather than swallow them whole. His jaw muscles are also incredibly powerful, and it's difficult to break free of his teeth if he doesn't wish to let go. He doesn't increase in size at all based on what he's eaten, and some of the more scientific minds in the Watch have considered the possibility of some sort of pocket dimension - or just extremely fast-acting digestive acids. Nobody's ever been curious enough to want to really explore what happens to things he eats, though, and he hasn't been cooperative regarding the idea of such studies in any case.

As part of his gluttonous ability, he's effectively immune to all poisons, toxins, and diseases. The poor bloke can't even get drunk. He can even eat non-organic material without any adverse effects. Toss back a bottle of bleach or a handful of razors, you get the same effect in the end - nothing. Regardless of how his tainted digestion works, it does have one major benefit; if he eats raw meat, or better yet still-living flesh, he can heal damage to his body, up to and including severed limbs. The amount of meat required depends on the severity of the damage to his body.

One might wonder how his tongue doesn't get bitten off, and it's an excellent question. His tongue is, in truth, approximately five feet in length and perfectly prehensile (as well as rather impressively strong), although usually most of it remains coiled up somewhere in that terrible gullet of his. When he's eating, it simply withdraws back and out of the way of the teeth.

Of course, no abilities - even such questionable ones as these - come from the Gloom without a price. He's always hungry, as mentioned above, and raw meat can start to assuage his hunger even a little. Flesh torn from a still-living animal is even better. If he doesn't eat regularly, he'll grow hungrier and hungrier until some of the symptoms of starvation begin hitting within a day - at which point he may lose control and start looking at people around him as the best way of feeding that hunger. What he isn't aware of is that he doesn't actually need to eat anymore. If imprisoned without food, he could theoretically survive forever, although he'd swiftly lapse into starvation-caused insanity, becoming nothing more than a creature of raw hunger.

It's that beast that he sees when he looks into the mirror; blood staining his lips and chin and fingers like he'd gorged himself in a slaughterhouse. Those rows of teeth snapping eagerly behind his own whenever he speaks or opens his mouth. Teeth behind his eyelids, just-visible when he blinks. And a hunger behind those eyes, fathomless and insatiable… and utterly mad.


Skills

The Cleaner: As the owner and manager of the Whitechapel Laundromat - as well as the man called in to remove evidence - there isn't much that Tucker doesn't know how to clean. He can get blood stains out of your Armani jacket, and he knows the precise mix of bleach and water to remove DNA from a surface without making it stink for days or burn human skin on contact. He's also very aware of all the little places where dirt, grime, blood, and hair tend to congregate on clothes or in homes, and he rarely misses a spot. He's good at his job.

Come at me if you think you're hard enough!: Tucker's no martial artist. He's never attended classes on Kung Fu or practiced Tai Chi. He has, however, a lot of experience getting in bar-fights. Give him a bar bottle, a chair, or just his fist and some liquor in him and he can hold his own in a fight.

Tinker, Tailor…: A life-time of working in a laundromat has taught him how to take care of machines - the washers, the dryers, the plumbing of the place, the electrical systems - and how to take care of garments as well. He's an accomplished tailor, beyond mere patch-jobs, and in more recent days he's become very good at making fake uniforms as well. He's even picked up some good photoshop and forgery skills on the side, mostly towards making false identification.

Bond. James Bond.: He's a liar, and a damn good one. He's especially practiced in impersonating officials of various sorts.


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