N E M O    M E    I M P U N E    L A C E S S I T




 "Be prepared; the world hates us, ya know...."


God, had her Sargent ever been more accurate in that warning? Ten years ago, she'd waved off his premonition as if it was the dooming factor of some poorly narrated netflix special. But right now, in this climate? It was the most altruistic thing to keep that uniform on.  Was the sacrifice worth it? So many put their radio on their patrol car seat, their vest and badge on a rearview mirror, and simply walked away. 

Stay or go. White, Black, Gray....morals are a hazy thing....


Despite the late hour,  tattooed digits started their routine for the beginning of her shift. A squinted at skim over a blend of polyester and wool. Three hours of sleep. Each dark navy dyed thread compromising her uniform felt like a false persona, one she tucked neatly in place. Protesting in a creaky and old, throaty groan, her duty belt argued as slung it over her head and clipped it around her waist. Sliding down slightly, the weighted pouches rested just a half-inch below her real leather belt, all necessary tools of her trade. 

The routine was a grounding, a foundation to the day to any officer sitting on those locker room benches. Donning worn-out and heavily used duty gear that gave everything from a comforting feeling to a farce. To Zoey, it was simply a flick of a switch. From that average, observant, quiet, and vulnerable creature to the morphed, vibrant beacon of someone addicted to caffeine and pretending all was right in the world with a plastered on smile and feigned propriety. In uniform, she was capable and armed with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. 

Small keeper bands clicked into place, lifting the belt once more. 

Roll call. Another workday. Another bout of "Yes ma'am, and No sir..." Of paperwork and citations, mandated contacts and stress. Of being hit, yelled at, and notified of what orifice her involvement should go in. It didn't matter if she loved or hated it; it was time to start her duties. 


a03f3479dbb9f5eaf10d1471f3cf5c79.jpg?width=300- "I mean, alright I know, be the saving grace, but really, what good is there in behaving anymore?" -


It was a haunting thought that seemed to plague her. Was there even a point in pretending? Sure, she believed in her job and the need to uphold the law. But was it worth being entirely and unquestioningly good? Criminals got away with everything, and the more she tried to go the straight and narrow path, the more she came in close contact with calls that should have taken her out. 

Their city was changing. 

People were rioting to defund it all, demanding that every officer stripped of their status and their job, and yet...they didn't see what she saw. 

There were insane creatures afoot. Sadistic tormentors with golden-tipped tounges and crime lords got everything they wished for placed right into the palm of their hand. Not a care in the world about what it did to someone else. 

Sure, let those fucking sheep bleat, and may they blindly believe that they won't need someone like her to knock on their door. Societal idiots. Fools living in glass bubbles, oblivious to the world of evil that surrounded them. 

Despite her ever-growing and learned hatred of people, Zoey loved interacting with the scum of the world. They proved to be the challenge she needed and ultimately craved. An odd attraction formed to the criminal enterprise and its operators. 

Over time, watching when they benefited .....she could see why crime became so beguiling. True crime always pitched a siren's call...Their offers to her to join their side quickly became an ever-growing temptation.


Slamming that blue metal door shut, Zoey checked herself one more time in a wall-length mirror to5c133ec5ea3f96c2d9db956c03e45bdd.jpg?width=300 make sure everything continued to stay in place.

 Hands reached up adjusting the silver oval that blared her department and badge number. A small tear from a fight a few days ago caught her attention.


"That's the last fucking time they get the first hit off. I'm sick of their shit..." She muttered.  Try as she might to avoid it, the job was changing her. And her co-workers? They were starting to see it as well. The woman wasn't exactly silent in her opinion; in fact, she was straight-up vocal. 

'It doesn't matter how I do my job. All that matters is that it's done.'

It was something she had spouted one day, the phrase catching some attention, especially to those who were quite like-minded. They couldn't help but agree. They felt it too. 



 Turn off the video camera, ditch the mic, and take it back to how it was before any babying and propriety was around. These people in this day and age were nothing but complete spoiled brats. When it came to calls and Zoey's boot touched a scene, she became the person in charge and was going to be listened to. Their rule was not a suggestion. Community policing, as they had demanded, caused nothing but chaos.

Shoving thoughts from her head, she turned from the changing room and walked down that old abandoned school hallway. It still smelled faintly of dry erase boards, pencils, and rotting textbooks. 

At night, it was even slightly creepy thanks to all the lockers still residing inside. Zoey often wondered if they might still hold any remaining contents. Long ago, the building had been considered condemned and too dangerous for its students—a magic word for their city to mean: cheap operating costs.

Eventually, a right-hand turn brought her into the roll call room.

A few faces turned towards her, calling out her name and waving an arm to join. They wanted to hear about that one particular crazy call from the night before involving a nude runner who somehow managed himself into a horrible predicament with a cactus garden, or was it the drunk man on the horse attempting to offer her a beer? Either way, everyone bantered, told stories, and continued about their business. Pre-shift antics were always in abundance, paperwork was forever being reviewed and turned in, and others took to desperately working on finishing up the previous night's reports.

Eventually, the babbling of officers became overlapped by a male voice of authority, snapping their attention to the room's front—assignments time. Zoey wound up nestled into the crook of an arm that belonged to one of her SWAT training buddies and waited out the lists, listening for her roll call number.


"Twenty-one thirty-five..."


She flicked a hand up in response to her number.


"Car six-four-seven-five, and district three charlie thirty-one. Have fun Ryder; You got the ditch tonight."


The Ditch, Satan's spawn of a place. Where every night wasn't complete without a shooting, a foot chase, a car chase, and at least 4 arrests, many of the officers lovingly dubbed it:








T H E   R A G E


Someone, somewhere,  decided that their rally cry would involve a call to arms against the men and women in blue. Their seething hatred seemed to spread, like a trend. And when it reached the pinnacle? Well, they were completely successful in using that popularity to raise a rebellion in the guise of a march.

It wasn't a protest like they claimed; it was an all-out battle.


Even then, those rioting criminals began to demand and create a purge. Their claims so fervently spoken did not fall on deaf ears. They wanted people to think that officers were the violent ones. And their followers started to listen. 146 have been killed in the line of duty. 146 officers fell victim to evils' wrath in less than a year's time.

Unfortunately, there is much more that will follow. 

When Zoey's had one of her partners gunned down at a stoplight by a man toting an AK 47, something inside her snapped. 










Known Alias: Zoey Ryder, Elizabeth Culainn, Noelle, Noel.

Height:  5'10

Weight:  155 lbs

Eyes:  Amber

Hair:  Raven

Body Type:  Hourglass/Fit

Sexuality:  Bi-Sexual

 Markings: Tattoos- Full Bodysuit


Inch by silken inch, those ornate tattoos splay across the entirety of her body. If there's a place that one might dare dream to walk their fingers, they can surely find something.  Somewhere amidst all the splendor tells the reality. It describes a tale well woven into her being's very fibers and gives her a sense of protection from the scars it covers. It whispers of the fragility she carries down floral works of angelic means and speaks of the deadly path her life leads by the nightshades on the arm that extends to her trigger hand.

Someone once said that tattoos should have meaning. For Zoey, it's undeniably true. 


Taking a simple look at a picture is a start, but one might not see the woman Zoey truly is. One might be lucky enough to catch her gaze, and when they do, they can see the shimmer of fire that sits ever kindling behind hues flecked in honey and gold.

Her skin, despite its rough duties...remains a silken span rarely touched. 

Hair falls in raven waves, spilling down her shoulders to frame a delicate waist and catch soft caresses where hips begin, and legs go on for miles. 





-Hand to Hand Combatives-


 -Field Training Officer-


- Certified Diver -


The hands of an officer can carry a heavy burden. The most daunting,  the fact that they can give life or take it away at a moment's notice. 

Besides keeping the body strong, the mind must forever remain sharp. Capable in a fraction of a second, a police officer must create a working plan and execute it seamlessly, without ever giving any of it away to their threat. 

The career demands that she remains knowledgeable in the laws and requires her to remember countless pages of the statutes and penal codes, their penalties, and what she can or cannot do in that particular situation.


More often than not, her hands are heavily bound. 




How do you describe a woman of simplicity who is yet so infinitely complex?

Zoey is the kind who would give you the shirt off her back simply because the gesture would better your situation. 

Betraying her or losing her trust is not a smart option in the slightest.  

She loves with an open heart, fully and completely to the point where it undoubtedly gets herself hurt. But it remains hidden behind a carefully constructed shell.  

Most days she's stoic and serious. But don't let it fool you into thinking that's all she is. That facade had always been a carefully constructed shield. 

Once you find yourself past the barriers, Zoey is smiles and warmth, or a fiery inferno that can engulf you alive. 

She's also fiercely loyal.

Some days she's content not to say a word, forever watching the chaotic swirl of nature. On other days...she will vocalize it all, letting one know exactly what's on her mind. 

She's never needed baubles,  shiny things, expensive clothes, or fancy lifestyles. All she needs is those around her who care and have her back. 




“Her friendship is something to be treasured; enmity something to be feared.”










Cu Chulainn

He's that heady world of woad and slate.

A charmer with his gilded tongue.

It took another sitting down in his lap to realize that the deep ache in her chest wasn't a residual soreness from a battle they'd been a part of. No, this was a deep and wicked twist of jealousy. For nearly a year the woman had found herself looking forwarding to seeing the brutish oaf in a shock of plaid, sporting his thick, rough-hewn hair and beard. 

He was simply a man, a creature that came from only the gods knew where. The Celt later found to be a demi-god known as the Hound of Ulster was impressive. Thick arms held bands of corded muscle; a deep voice held a booming baritone laced with the gift of blarney, a shock of surprisingly white, straight teeth flashed as he laughed. He was.... imposing.

But, Zoey knew better. Cullen's heart was warm. He filled the room with his vibrant personality and saved space for those he cared about most. His smile, always wide,  offered jovial happiness, while his arms stayed open for those who wanted a dance.

Cullen didn't care about the wall that sat in front of the woman. Instead, he took his sweet time, breaking down every inch. If she wanted to let herself build it back up behind him, he was content in letting her do so.

He'd made his mark in the form of a ring, and the oddest marriage ever performed in an Inn, by what she was sure was a drunk minister. 

But,  when he disappeared, their home destroyed on the inside, Zoey wondered. 


Was the Celt lost to the land of Tir Na Nog?

Had he ached for home enough to leave without a word?

Was this goodbye forever?

 Or was it something far more nefarious? 



"A year and a day, you brutish oaf..." Despite his lack of presence, words repeated themselves, restarting that promise to him as the time grew near. 




M I L I T A R Y   S E R V I C E

SGT Ryder

2b3e7e4b21ff4aeecccb233d3c3cc1c0.jpg?width=300Being thrust from one nightmare to the next, Zoey found herself as a permanent resident of that little sidewalk alcove near the gas station on 2nd street at the age of 18. The government was no longer in charge of her life; she was.

With no food, shelter, or a place to go to, it would be a hard transition. She only had enough for roughly a week to survive—a voucher for a motel eventually settling in her fingers and the clothes on her back.

That is, until warm brown eyes settled on her. He was a large man with dark, ebony skin. Muscular and bound with authority. At first, Zoey hesitated. But his hands held sincerity.

The hands of a man willing to reach out, "Do you need help, a hand out - or do you want to help yourself ?" At first, she was skeptical. She didn't know him or the game he was playing. Everyone had a master game plan, right?

Obviously, the man had a fraction of something he needed since the job for him was all about numbers, but when he explained that option of enlistment to her, it sounded like heaven. 

A home to live in. Her own private space. Being paid and given somewhere to live, a chance at a job, and college. All she needed to do was sign a contract.

Some say they gave away their life; Zoey sold her soul. 

No matter what they say, she would have done it a million times over if it meant getting what she was given.

A place to belong.




It didn't take long for Zoey to know a hard truth about her chosen profession:

Instincts are born in the rage of war.

It was something that would scar her for life. 


It hadn't been by her choice. He forced her hand.


The young black-haired boy who pointed out that AK47 at them kept her from deciding on the matter. The situation was far too dire, and when it came down to it Required that knee-jerk reaction. An index finger was sliding into that trigger well and softly pressing down.

She heard the ping of the heavy spring in her weapon, felt the jarring against her shoulder.  A view she would never forget as she watched him go down.

His splashes of red scorched her dream and became the subject of so many nightmares from that day forward. 


By the time Zoey got home, she felt the distance from everyone she cared for. The cold shoulders and knowing look made her feel like a monster. Her so-called newly found civilian family and friends had seen the news reports. They turned on her. Called her an abomination.

Once more, they were giving her a reason to shut herself off completely, and never once since then did she speak of those nightmares. It was the perfect thing to make it that much easier when she went back for round number two.



Army Motto




T H E    S I D E    J O B



Personal protection.

What an easy way to use law enforcement abilities for money.

 But this was no ordinary company.

This was the adult entertainment and the BDSM industry.

Where else was she going to find a place that welcomed her with open arms? Take her into the fold willingly?

She never judged what they did, and in turn, they never once judged her. Which was perfect because she so easily could find herself falling into their world, and she did. 


As one of its kind company Zoey made a name for herself doing what she does best. Being a Bodyguard and Security Manager.


Want to get on the clientele waiting list? 

Acquire a card and ask around.


 B I N D S




A N    U N T O L D    F U T U R E




What is there to do for this officer who has retired?

Work with those who have as twisted of a mind. 

Over time as every officer ends their first career, they roll into a second.

For Zoey, she knew from day one that the criminal mind was a fascination. A subject she fervently studied. 

People were so twisted. Masterminds that allowed them to manipulate everything around them by their words and actions alone.

These were the types of individuals who felt it perfectly natural to sink their hands into a person's body with their weapon of choice.

And she wanted to, had to know the why of it all. If only so she could figure out the urges of her own.


Generally, if Zoey is not working in the jails, she's taking on contracts for police departments in trauma times. 


[ Forensic Psychology: The intersection between psychology and the justice system. It involves understanding fundamental legal principles, particularly concerning expert witness testimony. This may also incorporate service to understanding the criminal mind and their actions.  ]




T H E    G E A R

"35lbs to remind you that you are responsible for the world."


Just like every other officer, Zoey, is equipped with a plethora of tools. As Zoey likes to say, it's a "Lady Batman Belt." The name had been dubbed by a small child she had once saved from horrible conditions.

The duty belt is everything an officer has at their disposal, and it's key—the possible difference between life and death. 




From left to right: 2 Ammo Magazines  -  Taser (Not Pictured)  -  Radio  -  Flashlight -

-  2x Handcuffs -  Keys - Baton  -  Gun  -  Gloves  -  Pepper Spray





Gel composite with a steel stab plate. Heavy round impact capable.








 T H E     W E A P O N S


"The only difference I get in a life or death situation."





- Handgun -

- Glock 19, Generation 4 -

-.40 -





- Rifle -

 - Bushmaster Police M4 -

- 5.56/2.23 -






- Bushmaster with Door Breech

- 12 gauge -





- Taser -

- X26 -

-50,000 volts -




T H E    P A T R O L   V E H I C L E S   -   6 4 7 5 / 6 4 7 9


-V8 Dodge Charger Police Package Edition-

-Police Sportbike KTM Prototype-












Zoey is a police officer who is starting to question the rules. She's working in a society that is slowly turning against cops and finding herself alienated by everyone she cares about.

She's been burned. Hard. Even by the people, she considered close friends. She wants to love but finds it hard to allow that to happen (Persistence storyline is different on that end). She's beautiful, stubborn, feisty, and can return or take a hit or two. 

She became an orphan by odd design and joined the military once she was too old to adopt. Returning home, she became a cop. 

Eventually, she retired and became a Forensic Psychologist.


Also: Guns and cars.







- 21+ -

-Multi-Para to Novella style.-

-Expect adult themes. Gore, violence, sex, and narcotics appear in my storylines. -

- No anime/cartoon, child, or underage characters. -

-Zoey does have alt storylines to fit on many occasions. Think fantasy, old-world, steampunk; ect ect-

-Plotting Preferred-

- Inbox or PM preferred. -

- I might grow very fond of you, OOC/IC, but I'm not using this place to find a romantic relationship IRL. -

- Sometimes, replies, take a while. Zoey and I share the same job. Court time and sequesters happen. Writer's block happens. Life happens. -

-Smut happens, but Zoey isn't here to be your porn star.-


Zoey Ryder FC: Cleo Wattenström

Cop Zoey FC: Michelle Rodriguez (SWAT)




I am open to new roleplay threads

Threads are Selective/Open

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Writer's Writing Style (OOC)

Paragraph, Multi-Para, Novella

Writer's Favored Genres (OOC)

Fantasy, Romance, Violence, Realistic, Rated R, 18+, Action, Adventure

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In that split second, the anticipation was held back by peculiar little ties.  Like the last strip…
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