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Server time (UTC): 2023-03-25 19:36

Zahir Berovic
Character information
  1. Alias
    Brick Hogan
  2. Mental
    Often laidback, sometimes testy
  3. Morale
    "Every day is a good day for a ride man."
  4. Date of birth
    1986-04-15 (36 years old)
  5. Place of birth
    Eastern Bosnia
  6. Nationality
  7. Languages
  8. Family
    Kurt Hogan, Brother; Seamus "Finn" Hogan, Brother


  1. Height
    185 cm
  2. Weight
    89 kg
  3. Build
  4. Hair
    Dark brown, always slicked back
  5. Eyes
  6. Alignment
    Chaotic Neutral
  7. Features
    - Nondescript carvings under his left eye, as if it were an attempt to conceal something
    - An upside-down cross branded into his left shoulder
    - A scarred puncture wound in his left shin
    - Missing left middle and pinky fingers
    - Singular scarred puncture wounds on both the palm and back of his hands
  8. Equipment
    - Templar armband, or "patch"
    - Jerusalem Cross ring on his right middle finger
    - Red and black leather riding jacket
  9. Occupation
    President of the Midwest Chapter and Last Chapter
  10. Affiliation
    Templars Motor Club


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Birht of the Club (5).png
















This guy has been super cool by us so far. He's a fuckin' biker, so that's already a plus.

He gets us n' we get him. This guy looks like fuckin' Brad Pitt too, man. Handsome sumbitch.




God, this woman. Stern Russian bitch. Shit, she stands just slightly taller than me too, man.

I joke around with her a lot. Glad she can play around.

Known her for a long time now. I hope I can maintain a friendship like this, y'know? 




Only just met this girl a short while ago, but she's feisty n' fiery as fuck, man.

Started callin' me n' Lee "uncle". Super fuckin' weird, but if I ever had a niece, I'd want her to be like Rae.

She can take a punch. Shit's impressive, man. Girl got a steel jaw.




Man... Elliot. Fuckin' miss you, man. 

Our relationship started off so horribly. You got offended by somethin' I said, n' there was always tension after.

You got jumped by us all when you fuckin' socked Lee. Goddamn man, lookin' back, that shit's so funny.

It builds bonds. After time, we had a good fuckin' bond. Couldn't even imagine that when we first met.

You became our greatest ally, man. We ride together, we die together. May you rest in peace.




You're from before too, man. Familiar face to me n' the boys.

We always maintained good standing with you n' the People of Nyvoll. Shit, you even let us move next door.

After we returned to the region, you were still kind and friendly to us. We helped you n' you helped us.

But then we caught wind of you robbin' n' holdin' people up? Some kind of "toll"?

I don't know man... hope this shit ain't true.




Dunno, man. Can't tell with this chick.

Met on real bad terms for some fuckin' reason. I dunno if she just didn't like us or what, man.

Shit's confusing, too. We were told by some ex-Anarchists that she raided our clubhouse in King's Ranch.

But then she's neutral towards us when we interrogate those cultist fucks, even allows Kurt to brand one motherfucker.

Now she's resurfaced, and I don't know what her intentions are.




This fuckin' guy. "Jack", is what most people called him. We called him Gordo.

N' we fuckin' loved him. We all hit it off the first time we met him. 

Always brought him all the Skidaddles I found. Shit man, he gave me a fuckin' trophy for that.

"Best Skidaddle Hunter".

Miss you man. Fly high, brother.




Another one of the Anarchists who left for a cleaner life. You were always good to us.

We helped you move your shit to a new spot. That's a lotta trust to put in three heavily armed guys, man.

We returned that trust back. It broke us when you killed yourself, girl.

Wherever you are, I hope you're doin' that little run to your heart's content.




More Anarchists, man. Fuck, we had a lotta contact with you guys.

Gordo's brother. You were always a cool fuckin' dude to us from the start. Never had any issues with you.

You're still runnin' with Natty, I get that. I hope shit don't turn south in the future.




Fuck man. You're one old coot. But we like ya. Always in a good mood.

You're someone we could trust right off the bat, man. Whenever I see you in camp, I feel at ease.

We got your back man.




Don't know you too much, man. We called ya "Green Goblin" when we first met ya.

Then we actually got to know you n' your name. As much as we know, you seem alright.

Had a helluva time killin' infected n' cannibal freaks with ya.




"Babo, please, wake up... please come back to me..."


A young, impressionable school teacher freshly hired was starstruck in-love with a co-worker of hers. Another teacher who taught in the same school as she did, a stern and quiet man. He had been married once before. She was pregnant, but ended up passing during childbirth. The newborn daughter he could've had died along with. He had no plans of marrying again, he had no plans of trying for a child again. He had no plans for love again. This woman however, this girl. She was naïve and she was pretty. She made him believe that maybe there was a place for love in his heart again. One date turned into nightly dinners. A kiss on the cheek turned into sex. She moved into his home and would soon become pregnant. Deciding this woman and future child deserves his utmost love and attention, he proposed to her. They married soon before she would give birth. Speaking of, the childbirth was a success. She came out of it healthy, as did the new baby boy. He was named Zahir, after her late grandfather.


Life for a brief moment was good! The newly-wed mother was living something out of dream, like it was the plot of a romance novel. The widowed man was able to find love, remarry and have another chance at being a father. This era in Bosnia, however, was not the setting of a fairy tale. Unrest and violence was about to sweep the region. Deadly war crimes and mass displacement of populations would come second to World War II. Leading up to the events of the Bosnian War, circa 1993, Zahir's family planned on fleeing the country among tens of thousands of other Bosnians. In the midst of packing the bare minimum of what they needed, their house was about to be stormed. His mother would put him in a closet, tearfully telling the seven-year-old that mommy and daddy love him and that no harm would come to any of them. Serbian forces busted through the front door. His father was immediately gunned down. All that he had been through in his life, coming from that pit of depression, being widowed and childless, to finding love once more and to become a father once more, ended with a flurry of bullets. His mother watched helplessly, screaming, falling to her knees. The invading infantry would grab the shellshocked woman and throw her down. They'd rip her clothes off on the spot, forcing their way with her, their way into her. Zahir could only hide inside the closet. He cupped his ears with his hands, shut his eyes as tight as he could and pissed himself.


The soulless soldiers dragged his mother out of the house. Zahir wouldn't ever see his mother again. He gathered the strength to exit the closet, finding his father's bullet hole-ridden body. The little boy hugged his pa and urged him to come back to him. Please, come back. Please...

Neighbors would find Zahir grieving over his dead father. They needed to get him out of here. They needed to bring Zahir to safety. They would pull the child away from his deceased father, away from the house he grew up in, away from being anywhere close to his mother. Mass ethnic cleansing and rape was destroying the area, they needed to leave. Hundreds of thousands of Bosnians were fleeing the country. A focal point of this immigration was in the middle of the United States. An estimated 70,000 Bosnians had sought safety in St. Louis, Missouri. It was there where Zahir was brought. However, going through customs, there was no documentation to prove that he was in anyway related to the neighbors who had saved him. He was instantly put up for adoption, a refugee who could hardly speak English in a country he doesn't recognize.



"Zahir? Nah, it's Brick now. Brick Hogan."


There lived an elderly couple in St. Louis, Missouri who went by "Mr. and Mrs. Hogan". They could never have kids of their own since their marriage. Mr. Hogan had lost the ability to reproduce after an accident while serving in the Korean War. So the couple had made it their life goal to adopt foster kids and raise them as their own. This went on for decades, cycle after cycle. The last child they would adopt would be recently orphaned Zahir. In the process of adoption, their plan was to change his surname to match theirs, however he would object. He lost his parents, his friends and his home. He was only seven and he'd lost so much already. He pleaded to hold onto the name that belonged to his parents. Reluctantly, they gave the boy his wish, though in the end this didn't matter. While legally he was recognized as Zahir Berović, they wouldn't respect his wishes and refer to him as Zahir Hogan. In fact, the Hogans didn't necessarily care all that much for him to begin with. They would soon find out that he was rebellious to the way they "parented" so they treated him with a cold shoulder and cruelty. If it wasn't already bad enough that they lived in Florrisant, far from where the Bosnian population in the Lou was located, they kept him from seeing any of the Bosnians he had met. They scolded and punished him if he didn't speak English. He was effectively brainwashed out of his accent. Even as Zahir grew older, he would stop calling himself a Berović. The Hogans didn't give him any love or attention. He would've had to fend for himself if it weren't for two kids in particular.


Zahir was an only child back home, but now he had a larger family. Two other boys and two girls would become the new siblings he never had. The two girls were the oldest out them all, twins who had lost their parents around the same time Zahir did; the Great Flood of 1993. Originally from Alton, Illinois, their parents had drowned inside their car while they were at school. The Hogans were swift to adopt them. Two adorable girls who looked exactly the same. Ela and Sofia were the Hogans' prize children. They were uptight and prissy. Zahir grew to dislike them out of spite. They mirrored their adoptive parents to perfection. Then there were his brothers. First, there was Kurt Hogan née Lindbergh. He was two years older than Brick, born native to St. Louis. He was the great-grandson of the famed pilot Charles Lindbergh, though due to circumstances around estranged relationships between the family, the link was never proven. Then there was Seamus Hogan née Finnigan. Two years younger than Brick, he was originally from Ireland. The Hogans wanted to try their hand at international adoption a few years back and went for Seamus when he was just an infant. He soon became Finn to his brothers and close friends. These two boys, Zahir's new brothers, helped him adjust to the United States. They helped him deal with the cruelty of his new parents. All three of them became inseparable, often getting into trouble at school and on the streets of Florissant. Their foster parents, coming from a different generation and treating Ela and Sofia with more care, were not very understanding of the boys' plights and struggles as adopted children. They were often scolded and punished with no breakfasts or dinners and beat with belts.


In 2000, Zahir started high school. He was around 14 at this time. The influence of the early 2000s on him was strong. Rap music was blowing up. The kids around him would always talk about drinking or doing drugs, especially up around the North County area of STL. He'd have his first drink at a friend's house that eventually took a leap to him sneaking vodka into his Gatorade bottles at school. His foster parents paid no attention to the small addict their adopted son would become. One day while out on the football field with Kurt and a few other friends, a tipsy Zahir would slip off the field goal he was standing on, breaking his ankle upon hitting the ground. Kurt, being the oldhead he is, remarked, "Nice goin' there, Brick." A drunk Zahir breaking his ankle mirrored a movie that Kurt had just recently watched with an old girlfriend of his, an old Paul Newman movie where his character, conveniently named Brick, was drunk and broke his ankle after falling. At that point, Kurt called his younger brother Brick, and it just caught on. Brick Hogan. That just rolled off the tongue.


This stage of his life would also mark a turning point for the young teen. On one particular day in the boys' locker room at school, Brick noticed his older brother Kurt doing a line of cocaine. It couldn't have been anything else. In this environment, with the current culture. Kurt wouldn't just randomly press his nose against his hand and inhale quickly through his nostril. Brick knew what he was doing, so he waited for his older brother to leave his locker. Once gone, he went to investigate. Sure enough, he saw a baggie of snow shoved right inside the locker. At this point, Brick had been drinking for a little over a year now. Interested in doing drugs for the first time in his life, he broke into his brother's locker to give it a try. Just like Kurt, he piled a little bit of the blow onto the top of his hand and just like Kurt, sniffed. Just like Kurt, he became hooked on cocaine. Eventually the older brother caught Brick stealing from his stash, but instead of beating this shit out of him, he understood. This addiction, it grabs you. It takes ahold of you and doesn't let go. They both vowed not to expose Finn to the powerful drug, keeping him innocent from this monster.



"We really fucked up now, Kurt!"


As Brick grew older and more experienced with narcotics, he figured he could make a bit of cash off of it as well. There was no better business partner in the world than his older brother. Kurt managed to make a deal with his supplier, introducing him to his younger brother. Brick was the charismatic one, always able to smooth talk himself in and out of situations. For a while they sold on the street. They'd venture out of Florissant and into the nearby hoods. Ferguson, Spanish Lake, Hazelwood. Ultimately this proved fruitless. There weren't many people in the city who wanted to buy blow from a high school student and a dropout. They would struggle to make their ends meet after Brick had graduated, though that would change soon. A real opportunity arose. Brick and Kurt both agreed not to jeopardize Finn's health, however they didn't mean to exclude him from the "family business". At this time, Finn was 16 with a new job working valet during Cardinals games at Busch Memorial Stadium. It was a good enough job for Finn, but Brick formulated this idea of using the expensive cars his younger brother would park as a front to sell drugs, making them look official and successful in their business. Kurt didn't like the idea at first, but after a bad deal, he hesitantly changed his mind.


The two of them approached their youngest sibling with the idea and explained it to him. Finn would drive the vehicles to the parking garage he normally used where he would meet Kurt and Brick. Kurt would then drive Brick to a spot to sell, where Brick would work his magic and do the talking. Then they would drive back to meet Finn and leave the car in the garage until it was needed. Nobody would be none-the-wiser, so long as the two elder brothers didn't joyride or break any traffic laws to gain any unwanted attention from the cops. The eager Finn was instantly down to be apart of this plan. Kurt and Brick made Finn promise not to touch any of the drugs they had, or else they would cut him out. Finn agreed, only focused on making some extra money to brag about it at school. This went on for a good, wealthy several months. The boys were driving everything from Caddies to Lambos. They raked in the cash, they sold more and more cocaine. There was one particular car the boys would drive every chance they get. The owner of a 2005 Ford GT had seasonal suite tickets to watch the Cardinals play whenever they were at their home stadium. This was an exotic car Brick drove himself. The young man was absolutely in love with it. In spite of that, driving it so many times stacked up additional miles that couldn't be explained.


It was just like any other day doing this job. Finn got the keys to the vehicle, drove it to the normal spot, then Brick and Kurt took over. They rode to the customer, sold the smack, and started on their way back to the garage. In the middle of their transit, four individual motorcycles manned by four big, burly men with some kind of red cross patch on their clothing surrounded the vehicle. They then closed the gaps between themselves and the GT, effectively herding Brick and Kurt into driving wherever they steer them. While the two brothers were panicking inside the car, driving wherever they were directed, Brick lost control of the wheel, bumping into one of the riders and causing him to fall off his bike. He then crashed the Ford into a streetlamp, severely damaging the bodywork. As if this was their plan from the start, the bikers began roaring with laughter, taunting the two boys. "He's REALLY gon' tear yer asses 'part now, boys!"


A blacked-out van with the same red cross insignia barreled down the road towards the accident. In dramatic fashion, it skidded to a stop and powerslid to have the side doors facing the two brothers. It screeched open to show Finn being held at the neck by a rugged, heavily tattooed man with a look of anger on his face. He threw the youngest brother out of the van and commanded Brick and his brother to exit his vehicle at once. Brick knew the three of them were in deep shit now. These men weren't going to turn them into the police. Nah, these guys are the ones who avoid or fight the police. That patch, their bikes, the van. The way they look, the way they talk. They were some kind of gang and they didn't fuck around. They were either going to jump or kill the brothers. Brick hasn't felt this way since hearing his father be shot and his mother be raped while he listened.


The man with the tattoos stepped out of the van, standing tall over the three boys. Brick winced, waiting for a painful beatdown. Instead, the man began to laugh, congratulating the trio on their little side hustle of joyriding in fancy cars to come off as some hotshot drug peddlers. Oh yeah, he's been watching them for a while. You can't just drive a supercar without being attentive towards something as minute as mileage. He knew there was some fishy shit going on with his vehicle, and he knew where and when it was happening. He admitted to the boys that the person they just sold to was one of his own, just to confirm his suspicions. His attention then turned to that of the car. How could he pay for the damages to such an exotic vehicle? Surely he can't spend any of his own money. He didn't crash it, it wasn't his responsibility. He can't claim insurance either, because then were would be legal problems with both himself and the boys. No, instead he demanded that they give him back the money they just made from their recent deal, as well as all previous deals and all subsequent deals to pay directly for the damages made to the GT. Unbeknownst to Brick and his brothers, this one mistake would change the course of their lives entirely.



"Not to us, not to us, but to the club we give the glory."


The man whose car they crashed was Clay Hawkins, a co-founder of a biker gang known as the Templars Motor Club, and personally oversaw the Midwest Chapter. The club itself was modelled after the Knights Templar of old. They donned the well-known symbol of a red cross, though unlike the ancient organization where the cross was on a white background to symbolize faith and purity, the Templars MC have the cross on a black background, symbolizing chaos and corruption. Their motto was adopted from the Knights Templar, changed to fit the club as well. The MC took in reprobates and the damned, taking advantage of their skills as criminals and giving their sad lives a bigger purpose, essentially turning them into an outlaw biker gang. Part of the 1%ers, just like the Hells Angels or Bandidos.  In the case of Brick and his brothers, once their debt was paid off, they were offered a choice: go back to their lives of struggling to sell drugs in the declining city of St. Louis, or join the MC directly under the guidance of Clay Hawkins. Honestly, the latter option was the only choice. Working with Clay and the Templars to recuperate the dough needed to repair his supercar was a blessing in disguise for Brick and his brothers. The trio had an affinity for drug dealing. Their bond was unbreakable. What they did worked and with more representation and backing behind their operation, they would be unstoppable as well. Brick was quick to accept the offer, as was Kurt and Finn.


Clay taught Brick and his brothers many valuable lessons. From up until Brick was 19, it was just the three of them fending for themselves. Now they had some sort of a father figure, something they lacked in the old man who was legally bound as their father. Clay taught them how to ride and take care of a motorcycle. Brick's first was a 2000 Harley-Davidson Sportster 1200. His love for exotic cars slowly changed into a love for custom bikes, often spending time in the chop shop of the clubhouse as well as modifying his own bike. Clay taught them how to handle other drugs like heroin and methamphetamine, something the three were unfamiliar with. In turn, he also helped Brick and Kurt kick their addiction to cocaine, which helped them sell better and stop making sloppy mistakes like the one that got them into this mess. They were taught how to use a firearm, how to evade or talk to police, how to handle disputes (whether with other club members or with rivals). Clay taught the trio everything they needed to know.


Brick had lost his parents and a new set of parents took him in. All they gave him were the brothers he never had prior. He wasn't shown the love his sisters received. He was robbed of having family that cared, until Clay came in. He was there to finally replace the father Brick lost when he was a child. The same went for Kurt and Finn. Yet again, the brothers were adopted into a new family: the Templars MC. Years passed. Clay passed. Now in his mid-thirties, Brick was completely absorbed into the life of an outlaw biker. He upgraded to a custom, matte black 2015 Indian Scout. He eventually took over as President of the Midwest Chapter. Kurt would come in as VP and Finn would become a Road Captain. Their chapter was known to be the biggest movers of controlled substances in the entire Midwest region of the US, specifically cocaine. In response, the heat on Brick's operations was growing exponentially high. The ATF and the FBI were hot on the trails of their manufacturing and transport routes. To cool off from this unwanted attention from the feds, Brick contacted the other Presidents of different chapters to discuss plans of expansion. He would leave the current op to an up-and-comer out of Kansas City, and would take himself, his brothers and some other trusted members, as well as some prospects, to Europe. Clubs like the Hells Angels and Bandidos had international chapters all over the world. It was time for the Templars to have that same status. A decision was made. Brick and his boys would head to Norway to kickstart a new chapter.




6 minutes ago, CutieBenji said:

you forgot to center 

aww thanks man, missed that part

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