JC/profile

> "*Does it matter at this very moment?*"
> ― Jean Claude
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JC
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by Po-Lar

## Personality

Jean Claude is at first glance very cold and aloof, but he actually does enjoy people. Their reactions to what he can cook or create was the reason why he became a chef in the first place, he just developed a … strong dislike for men. It manifests in a slight difference in attitude compared to women, where with women he is courteous, polite, teasing even, but with men he can be course and judgemental as the conversation continues on. It isn’t obvious at first, but subtleties are easy to catch if you know what to look for. That being said, he has no patience for dirty smelly fuck boys. Vegas had enough of that for his lifetime.

He does things on his own time and in his own way, a product of being both forced to take the helm of his life into his own hands at the death of his parents once he left military school, and simply because he doesn’t trust you to do your job well enough.

He doesn’t care that you have seen his name on the news for his crimes. He doesn’t particularly hide what he had done, but he does know that any normal person would find the fact discomforting. Whether or not you’re scared of him, or think you’re next, he’ll shrug in response. “You choose your fate.”

## Background

Jean Claude came from your typical family; A mother, a father, a fish tank of fish that had probably cost too much in upkeep. They were a military family, proud to be where generations of sons became enlisted. So naturally so did Jean Claude. He was put through military school as a boy, simply going through the motions as his quiet demeanor would allow him to. His parents were sick, so others would take care of him all the while curing him into the sergeant his father always wanted before he died. It was a pain, but he understood why even as he stood in the sun for hours on end and got up at the crack of dawn. That was until he met her.

Céline was from a year below him, small, loud, full of life. She ate the food she would later find was what he cooked, with purpose, like she actually liked it. So he cooked for her more. And she snuck out in the middle of the night to eat more of it. He didn’t think much about why or how she got into the boy’s barracks, but he would always be there to make her smile. As the years went on, and both he and Céline had gotten into enough trouble for sneaking about, Jean Claude had decided that military life wasn’t for him

He wanted to cook.

He wanted to have not just dirty military boys who were too tired to tell the difference between soggy oats and mashed potatoes, but he wanted to see the faces of those who could really appreciate his food. He wanted to be a chef, and he wanted Céline to be there with him. Hand in hand they left at 18 to apply for college. She with fine arts, and he with culinary. They were happy.

They had even moved. To Vegas of all places.

She sold canvases to the casinos and hotels, filling their halls with vibrance and life that only she could manage. And he, he sculpted food. He relished the life of a chef, absorbing all that he knew before rising quickly within the kitchen. Sous Chef even. It was perfect.

He proposed. She said yes.

It was perfect.

Until she went home alone one night.

Until she didn’t pick up her phone when he wanted to tell her to wait for him. Until she went missing for days. Until they found her, disposed of in the next town over like she was trash. Like she was nothing. Like she wasn’t a human being, an artist, a daughter, a wife to be, a mother to be.

They took too long (they always did, they always did). He remembers their comments. He’ll remember it forever.
Dirty. He remembers military school as he watches cops leer at women too intoxicated to notice that the city was staring at them like they were meat. They were taking too long.

So he took it into his own hands. He won’t say how he found them. His lawyer doesn’t allow him to explain himself, truly. He doesn’t explain how he had listened as dubstep and edm thrummed his blood even harder in his chest. He doesn’t explain how he noted their faces as he cooked their food, profiling them in his mind. He doesn’t explain how he followed them for days. He doesn’t explain how he had found the warehouse, found more bodies, and killed them all.

He certainly doesn’t explain how he had taken one man in particular into the depths of the very club he’d found him and took his time.

Shank. Round. Tenderloin. Brisket. Ribs.

He didn’t resist his arrest.

“The situation is fucked JC despite you being ready to pay bail.” Though he feels as though if he went to jail (which he didn’t) he would do the same to everyone there as he did in that club kitchen. “As far as they jury knows you’re just a mourning widower whose wife fell prey to illegal happenings, but the recent evidence….. I know a guy. We’ll get you out of this.”

“....Fine.”

## Trivia

* Cigarette Addiction
* Heavy french accent
* Deft Hands
* Gourmet French cuisine
* He loves kids a lot, his dream was to be a father with Céline
* Knows what human meat tastes like
* Good knife skills

## Quotes

* > "*With real death there's no being fine after that - there is nothing after that. There is no coming back for testimony.*"
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― JC to Sofia

* > "*Thank you for worrying. But you don't need to*"
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― Sofia to JC