An Outsider

Young Justice: Season One

For anyone who isn't sure of what our named foes look like:

Bonk


Chucko


The Dee Dee twins


Ghoul

Young Justice: Season One

F E N R I R

W E I S M A N S T R E E T M A L L

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^{July 3rd, 2020 | 3:31p.m. | Happy Harbour, Rhode Island}

A thousand-thousand bright lights danced upon Fenrir’s retinas, the smell of brimstone and cordite hanging heavy upon his nostrils, nauseating and confusing in equal measure. He snorted, trying to clear his head. One of the Jokerz – a tall, emaciated man wearing a silly hat and carrying an orange pumpkin, who Superboy had named Ghoul – had thrown a handful of pellets, shaped like tiny grinning skulls, at his face. The pellets had then summarily exploded. Ghoul’s laughter was still echoing all around him, trill and mocking. As soon as his world stopped imploding, Fenrir was going to tear the Jokerz’ arms off. See how funny he found that.

The feral teen’s thoughts of violent retribution were interrupted – momentarily – when a large, unyielding shape collided heavily with him. One of the stronger Jokerz must have used his distraction to throw a car at him. He was quickly coming to hate the group of motley fools. When his world stopped spinning and his vision stopped bursting, he realised that it wasn’t a car, but the leader of his group, Superboy, who had been thrown at him. He felt slightly vindicated, knowing that he wasn’t the only that was being made a fool of.

“Sorry, Fenrir,” The Kryptonian half-breed muttered. Fenrir eyed the clone askance. Leaders shouldn’t apologise. Apologising was the same thing as admitting fault, and admitting to fault was admitting to weakness. A weak leader was more dangerous than a strong enemy. It was a problem, but one for another day. First, they had the Jokerz to deal with.

After that though? After that, there may be a reckoning.

He eyed the enemy ranks closely, a low growl emanating from the back of his throat. As much as he’d like to start with Ghoul, to repay the insult from earlier, he knew the best way of ending this was to take out the Jokerz leaders. Cut off the head of the snake, and watch the body die. It may be a cliché, but was still effective tactical thinking. Shayera had taught him that. At least, that’s the justification he gave himself for singling out the twins. The real reason, the one that whispered in his soul, that tugged at the marrow of his bones, was the need to test himself against the strongest of his foes. Chucko and Bonk may look bigger, but he reasoned that if the Dee Dee twins were the Jokerz leaders, then they must be the most powerful.

So, they would be the first to fall.

Superboy exchanged ‘witty banter’ with the twins – a part of the job that Fenrir had never understood, nor been particularly good at, according to Shayera – before surging forwards. Fenrir was hot on his heels, lips hitched up from his teeth in a wordless snarl, eyes bright with anticipation. With hunger. The Twins watched him coming, their mocking grins fading quickly to be replaced by pale-faced looks of alarm. Prey, recognising the predator. The lone deer, frozen at the sight of the mighty wolf. Dangerous, the Dee Dee Twins might be, but they weren’t stupid.

Mere feet separated them, Fenrir’s fingers curled into talons, ready to rend flesh and break bone. His mouth watered at the prospect, his heart beating faster and faster and faster, the sound of howling loud in his ears. It took him a moment to realise that he was the one making the noise. He was on the twins now, claws raised high, their frightened faces looking up at him, terrified, pleading and –

BONK!

His world exploded for a second time that day, and suddenly he found himself flying head first through the air, his jaw and the right side of his face on fire. His headlong trajectory ended with a sudden crunch. It was long, slow heartbeats before he realised that was because he had hit a wall, and that crunch was probably his face. He hit the floor hard, taking a moment before trying to right himself. He could hear voices behind him.

“Don’t worry boss, I’ll splatter dog-breath.” A sigh of relief sounded, probably the Dee Dee’s considering their timely deliverance. Fenrir rolled onto his back, groaning slightly. The largest of the Jokerz, the hammer wielding Bonk, was stalking slowly towards him, that big mallet dragging behind him, leaving a red smear on the floor-tiles as he passed. That’s probably my blood. Fenrir realised, though the thought didn’t inspire the kind of emotion in him that it should have. In fact, he was having some trouble feeling much of anything. The clown was getting closer, and he couldn’t even summon the will to get up and face him. It just felt like too much work.

“Hoo-Boy, you’re still breathing, huh? Gee-fucking-willickers, but you took that one like a champ.” Bonk was standing over him now, feet planted shoulder-width apart, while that mallet was raised skyward. Fenrir eyed it gingerly, knowing what was coming, but not sure how he could stop it. Seemed like all his thoughts where coming slow and sluggish. “Let’s see how you take this.”

The mallet came down, like a thunderbolt from high heaven, crashing into Fenrir’s torso with all the force that a seven-foot man mountain dressed like a crazy clown can muster. There was a crack, like the earth was breaking apart, and a sudden, shooting pain in Fenrir’s chest. Ribs, probably. Finally his body tried to fight back, throwing up a hand that Bonk dismissively slapped aside, before that hammer came down a second time, upon the exact same spot as before. This time there was no crack, but it felt like Fenrir’s insides were tearing, and he suddenly started coughing blood.

The mallet continued to fall, but Fenrir lost count after the sixth time. He might have passed out. He wasn't sure. If he did, then the next blow of the hammer woke him back up.

“Eww, gross,” Giggled Bonk, feigning disgust before lifting his hammer once more. Fenrir didn’t know how much he could take. Surely there was only so much of a beating even he could be subjected to. To be killed by a clown though? Of all the embarrassing ways to end it, after all he’d been through. He tried to summon his strength, one last time. A last, pained effort to raise his arms, to bare his teeth, to get back to his feet, to do anything before the hammer came down.

It was all for naught. His body just wouldn’t move.

“Play dead, doggy.”

The hammer came down.

Fenrir caught it.

He clamped both hands around the haft, the gore encrusted head mere inches from his helmeted skull. Bonk gasped in surprise, before leaning all his tremendous bulk onto the weapon. The veins in Fenrir’s arms stood out in sharp relief as he slowly fought upwards, inch by excruciating inch, forcing the sweating Bonk back. The two foes were locked in their struggle, the rest of the world lost to them. The rest of Fenrir's team might have been dead for all he knew, or raucously celebrating their victory. He didn't care. He only had eyes for Bonk.

He was back on his feet, bloody spittle drooling down his chin, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, painful and electrifying in equal measure. Bonk, panicking, tried to stamp his boot down upon the feral teen's foot. Fenrir hardly seemed to notice. Bonk swore, spat, pleaded, cried, but nothing he did seemed to stop Fenrir as he slowly twisted the mallet out of his foe’s hands. The clown stumbled back, tripped over his own feet, and fell backwards onto his rump. The wolfman glared down at him for a moment, white knuckled fists gripped tightly around the haft of his new trophy.

“I. Am not. A dog.” He snarled, rather than spoke.

He twirled the hammer above his head before swinging it downwards, ignoring Bonk’s pleas for mercy. Does the lion stop at the bleating of the gazelle? The mallet cracked into the Jokerz’s skull, which pounded noisily upon the ground, cracking tiles. For a moment Fenrir thought – hoped, maybe – that the clown was dead, but then he picked up the faint, but incessant drum beat of his opponent’s heart. Unconscious then.

Hawkwoman didn’t have quite as stringent a no-kill code as some of the other Justice Leaguers, but she still considered killing an absolute last resort. For her sake, if nothing else, Fenrir tried not to kill where possible. Still, looking down at Bonk, he was sorely tempted. The Beast inside railed. It demanded the clown’s death, hungered for it. It was hard to refuse, harder still to ignore. Part of him wanted to surrender to those urges, to let slip the halters he had placed upon his more ferocious urges, and to reveal in the hunt, to the kill.

It was with some amount of effort that Fenrir dragged himself away, the mallet still clutched tightly in his fists. It was time to see how the rest of the team were doing.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

_{Sorry, double post}

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

_{Collab featuring @Lord Wraith}

THERE'S TWO OF YOU?

G o t h a m C i t y

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_{November 18th, 2017 – 12:45am | Near Gotham City Center}

The night air was chilled. Fresh snow hung in the air, racing the dawn before the Gotham climate regained enough heat to ward winter off for a few more weeks. But the city knew the inevitable was upon it.

Winter was coming.

Holding Goliath's reins tightly, Damian watched the city pass by below as he made his way towards Robinson Park. The police prescence wouldn't be much of a problem, no one on the force knew the Batman quite like Gordon, and since he had retired, Damian was able to fool most officers into believing he was his father even with a different Batsuit. The cowl was all that truly mattered to most people.

Goliath suddenly dove towards the city's ground level. The acres of green below alerted Damian they were above the park as let out a whistle for Goliath to stop as the dragon bat turned to circle the park while Damian departed the saddle.

Diving towards the ground, Damian felt the rush as he was reminded of a conversation he had once held with Grayson while the pair were younger. He had asked Grayson, if he could have any power, what would it be. The older teen had paused, carefully wearing his option before replying.

"Flying is always the first thing that comes to mind, but I have to admit, Damian, I've learned to love falling."

Falling towards Robinson Park, Damian could fully appreciate what Grayson had meant when he had spoken those words so many nights ago. The rushing sensation was almost addictive as Damian allowed himself to feel before deploying the suit's wings and slowing his descent as the shock absorbing boots took the rest of the force the wings hadn't managed to slow.

"B-B-Batman!" A nearby GCPD Officer stuttered as Damian examined his badge. He was barely above being a rookie. A fresh face on the force, no doubt filling the ranks for the endless retirements that seemed to be parading out of the GCPD these days.

"The body." Damian's voice rumbled as he did his best to impersonate his father's own growl.

"It's over t-t-there." The officer said with a point as Damian slowly approached.

He was stopped in his tracks by a familiar, if unwelcome,voice.

"That," spoke the tinder-wood dry growl, "is not Batman."

The officer startled as a second form appeared, coalescing out of the night's shadows like a phantasm to form the huge, imposing figure of the one, true Batman.

"Jesus H Fucking Christ!" The officer yelped, hand dropping towards his sidearm before he realised just what, or more specifically who, he was looking at. "There's t-t-two of you now?"

"No. There isn't." Batman's eyes were pointedly fixed upon Damian, fixing him in place with a glare that witnessed the fall of maniacs, psychopaths, and tyrants. The officer, displaying an excellant acuteness, backed off several paces without saying a word. The Dark Knight didn't spare him another thought.

The Batman's chest was a roiling ball of twisting, treacherous emotions. Hurt, that Damian would try to usurp the cowl from him in such an underhand fashion; guilt, that he should have noticed this earlier, read the warning signs that had all appeared so obvious now; sorrow, that maybe this was a sign of things to come, a taste of 'tomorrow'. There was pride there too, the mixed, bittersweet pride that a man feels when he realises that his son finally feels ready to claim his place in the world, even if that means taking it at the expense of his father.

All those emotions, all those conflicting feelings, paled in the face of the anger though. That cold, hard fury that rose from the pit of his stomach to coil around his chest and constrict tightly upon his heart. The cowl was his. He was Batman, whether Damian liked it or not. As long as the blood run hot in his body, the mantle would be his, never to be claimed by a usurper, well-intentioned or otherwise.

The only outward sign of the Dark Knight's inner struggle was the slight narrowing of his eyes, and the shallow popping sounds his knuckles made as he clenched his fists tightly.

"Return to the Cave Robin," The emphasis he put on the name was unmistakable, "Burn that costume. I'll deal with this now." And you when I get home, was the unspoken, implicit threat.

"TT." Damian was hardly phased by the appearance of his father. The officer he had previously spoken to on the other hand was giving off a rather unpleasent odor having come face to face with Gotham's own urban legend.

"I thought you had a stake-out tonight." Damian stated. "Figured the Cauldron would keep you out of my way." He continued, ignoring his father's direct orders as he approached the body left for the Bat himself. "The M.O. here doesn't match my previous victim." Damian's voice tried to mask his disappointment as he continued to look over the body.

The Batman fought back a snarl. The boy ignored him. Ignored him. It felt like a vein upon his forehead began to pulsate. He couldn't remember Dick ever being this difficult. The cocky brat brushed him off as if he had done nothing wrong, heading towards the body to begin his examination. The Dark Knight followed on his heels, intending upon forcing the boy home before finishing up here.

All those plans evaporated as soon as he glimpsed the condition of the corpse.

"Extensive lacerations cover his back and torso, spelling out words, an invitation to be exact. The lacerations were allowed time to heal, time to form scar tissue even. This man was not simply killed and dumped. This was pre-mediated, dedication and thought put into it. He was held and tortured." Damian stated, a snarl forming in his throat. "Such an individual can not be allowed to roam Gotham."

Batman didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth wouldn't work. His body refused to. Even his mind fell into a still blankness, a quiet, static fuzz that refused all sense and sensation. Is this how the dormouse feels, when it looks into the hypnotic dancing eyes of the viper? Is this what terror feels like? It had been so long, he could hardly remember. . .

The feeling passed quickly, though it left a bad taste in the back of his mouth, like sour milk. He returned his attentions to the body, but found it difficult to focus. Too many swirling, chaotic thoughts in his head. He dropped to his knees to better inspect the corpse, paying extra attentiveness to the mouth, the missing tongue, and the peculiar wounds behind the teeth. Almost as if someone had used a knife to force the mans teeth apart over and over again. Why though? Some sick parody of speech, forced upon the mutilated mute?

It couldn't be him, could it? He'd been missing for so long this time that Bruce had began to hope that he was gone for good. The wounds upon the body certainly looked like the work of his sick mind, but then there was a dozen different killers in Gotham who were capable of the same depravity. Zsaz, for instance.

It wasn't Zsaz though. Or Amygdala, or even the Mad Monk. Call it intuition, call it foresight, call it whatever you want. You know who's responsible here. You're just scared to admit it out loud.

The Batman climbed back to his feet, feeling the full weight of his forty-nine years, and turned to face Damian. He realised that his hands were shaking uncontrollably, and thrust them into the confines of his cape before the boy noticed.

"Stay away from this Robin." There was no emphasis on the name this time. No heat. The energy had drained from his voice, until all that was left was the tired man within. "I'll deal with it."

"So it is him." Damian stated, emphasising the word. "TT."

"The Doctor was right, he does have a hand in this." Crossing his arms, Damian felt as though the Gotham air had suddenly gotten cold. "Drake had mentioned the toll the Joker had taken on you, especially after Todd."

He mentioned the last word barely above a whisper. He knew the fragility of his father's psyche. The pains of dealing with a son rushing to adulthood, his father figure's failing mental facilities, the fact that every woman he cared about was no one to be found including Damian's own mother. The young man, could practically see Death's embrace reaching forth towards Bruce. His father may think he unobservant, but it didn't take the World's Greatest Detective to see the Dark Knight's hands were shaking beneath the billowing cape.

"I have to go." He stated breaking the silence. "Robbery in progress, suspect is dressed as a cat." He added before whistling sharply. "I believe it's family tradition that the men of the cowl chase women in tight leather." Damian stated, a small smirk turning in the corners of his mouth as he shoved his own worries back. No matter his age, his father could take care of himself.

Hopefully.

Goliath suddenly appeared as Damian jumped to a nearby bench and launched himself on the back of the dragon bat in one smooth motion before the two took off into the night sky. Avoiding any further scolding from the true Bat himself.

Batman watched the boy go. He tried to feel the anger, the pride, the sorrow, the guilt. Any of the emotions that had savaged him when he had first seen Damian wearing that costume earlier. But he couldn't. They weren't there anymore.

All he could feel was fear.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Just as a heads up for the GM's, I've added some notes to my sheet. Just a few entries for supporting characters, nothing to drastic.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

_{C H A P T E R O N E : C O M E T A S T E T H E V E N O M}

MURPHY’S LAW

G o t h a m C i t y

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_{November 7th, 2017 – 04:35am | The Cauldron}

Tying a rope around an unconscious man’s ankles, looping the other end of that rope over a suspension beam, and using it to haul that man bodily into the air wasn’t as easy as it used to be. True, Stryker had put on weight in the last few years, but not so much that the job could have become this difficult. It felt like someone had lit fires deep in the tissues of his shoulder muscles, while his joints ached so bad that he was almost surprised that he hadn't began vibrating. And that was all without mentioning his knee. The damn thing just would not stop shaking, no matter how hard he tried to stop it. All of Bruce Wayne's expensive doctors had told him that there was almost no cartilage left in the joint anymore, and expressed wonder that he was walking without the aid of a cane. It was starting to look like that wouldn't be the case for much longer.

Annoyingly, not one of the thugs had been able to do so much as touch him. It had been a perfect operation. And yet, here he was with all these aches and pains. He cursed his stupidity, telling himself that he should have used the grapple’s motorised winch instead of lifting Stryker himself. But no, you just had to prove something to yourself. Was it worth it? Do you feel young again? Still, whats done is done. Stryker was beginning to come to. The break was over. Batman could show no weakness.

It was with fits and starts that the old man finally found consciousness, jerking himself back towards wakefulness. All that wrenching set his rope to spinning, round and round, leaving Stryker rotating helplessly. It gave him a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of his predicament. First, he took in the concrete floor and unfinished walls that seemed to surround him on three sides. Then, as the rope spun, he was treated to a view of the Gotham skyline, and with that information he realised just how high up he must have been, strung up inside one of the construction sites unfinished buildings. He spun on, finishing the rotation to come face to face with his tormenter.

“Awww, shit! You!” Stryker spat. He didn’t look terrified so much as he looked annoyed.

“Yes. Me.” The voice was one of the few things that came easier now than it did twenty years ago. Age lent his vocal cords a bone saw-like rasp that youth struggled to emulate.

“I ain’t gonna talk. Know that?” Batman didn’t answer, instead letting the silence seep, no noise in that early morning air other than the slow creak of the rope as Stryker inexorably wound round and round and round. The criminal struggled, vainly, to keep Batman in his eyeline. Why he would worry about letting his enemy get behind him now, when he was already at said enemies mercy, was beyond the Dark Knight. They'd been in this situation countless times before, and it was just beyond Alfred to free himself. “You can do what you want freak. We’ve both been here before, and I know you won’t kill me. So why should I talk? Broken bones heal. Get me?”

“I might not kill you Alfred, but I don’t have to save you.” It was hard to tell whether that look on Stryker’s face was confusion or if all the blood rushing to his head was giving him a headache, but regardless it was obvious that the comment set him to thinking.

“What the hell you talking about? Save me from what?” Batman had to stop himself from grinning. Sometimes, just sometimes the job was too easy. Criminals are a stupid and cowardly lot.

“The Rileys. They got away.” A lie. Moose and Ryan were both trussed up tightly and awaiting pick up by the GCPD. Stryker didn’t need to know that though. “How long, do you think, before they put two and two together and come up with five? How long until the Riley’s start pointing fingers for, looking for someone to blame for me showing up here tonight.”

It was surprising how quickly all the blood drained from Stryker’s face, considering he’d been hanging upside down for the best part of ten minutes now.

“No … you’re lying. They wouldn’t pin me. They know I ain’t a rat!” Stryker’s back was to Batman now, and this time he did allow himself a smile. A brief, triumphant smile. Gotcha.

“Do they? Two decades, Alfred. That’s how long I’ve been dogging your heels, ruining every deal you set up, taking down every unlucky fool stupid enough to partner up with you. That's a long time Alfred. Too long to be explained away as simple bad luck. Looked at in a certain light, it starts to get extremely suspicious.”

“I can - ”

“I'm sure they're all wondering how long we've been working together. How much I've been paying you to flip on the rest of Gotham's underbelly. I imagine they’re already setting the price for your head. How much is it worth, do you think? Ten thousand dollars? Fifteen? Certainly, no more than twenty, not for a has-been like you. Face it, this was your last chance, and you blew it.”

“You wouldn’t let - ”

“I could save you. I have contacts in the GCPD. We could see about getting you into wit-sec, setting you up somewhere far away from Gotham. A quiet place that you could see out your twilight years in comfort and safety. But only if you give me something to work with.”

"Tell me about the Venom, Stryker."

Years of beating the fight out of men had taught Batman how to recognise the moment they lost it. When they’d taken all the punishment that they could possibly suffer, and just gave in. Alfred Stryker had just lost his fight. No more could he dream of a throne as Gotham’s criminal royalty. Those days were long past, and in the past, they must remain. It was strange, but the Dark Knight felt a pang of something quite close to sadness in his chest, like he was witnessing the end of something unique, and that once it was gone the world would never see it’s like again. Stryker was the last of an old breed of criminal, one that madmen like the Joker and Riddler, with their colourful costumes and larger than life personalities, had done away with. You’re getting melancholy in your old age.

“Ok Batman. You win. I’ll talk.” Styker’s voice was taut with resignation. “Cut me down and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

_{November 7th, 2017 – 06:10am | Old Gotham, GCPD Headquarters}

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A light, yet steady rain had begun to filter down upon the city. Dawn was visible on the horizon, but still some way off. The roof of GCPD headquarters was almost as familiar to him now as home, though he’d still rather be elsewhere. He had work to do back at the Cave, after all. Still, this was necessary, even if it was a job he’d rather not have to do.

“ … we’d get a detail on Stryker, and get him into wit-sec as soon as possible. Almost seems like wasted effort, considering how little we got outta him, but c’est la vie.” Detective Harvey Bullock was almost unrecognisable from the once dirty cop that Batman had first crossed paths with. A serious health scare a couple of years back had forced the detective to rethink his less healthy habits, and as a result he’d lost almost three stone in weight. He was still a shabby dresser, though that was now because none of his clothes fit him, rather than because of his slovenly behavior.

Batman had contacted Bullock with everything that Stryker gave him, with the GCPD being quick to get on the scene and collar the thugs. After he’d been taken back to the station Alfred was made to repeat everything he had already told the Dark Knight. Which, as Harvey so succinctly put, wasn’t much. “So, he really doesn’t know who was giving him that venom?”

The Dark Knight turned away from his study of the distant skyline, and fixed his attention on Bullock. “He had no reason to lie.” Stryker was done. That much was obvious. Even he, the career criminal who had spent the last twenty years fooling himself into thinking that his best years weren’t behind him, could see that the writing was on the wall now. He hadn’t held anything back. He didn't have the resilience to fight anymore. He just wanted to close that chapter of his life.

“But, it’s ridiculous. All these drop boxes and secret notes. That’s S.H.I.E.L.D garbage. It ain’t the kind of thing our scumbags deal in.” It was difficult not to agree with Bullock’s sentiments. Stryker had painted a bizarre picture. Apparently, he’d received an anonymous note a week ago, telling him to be on the lookout for a package at the Dixon docks. Sure, enough the package had arrived, bearing Stryker’s name, and inside the vials of Venom. Along with it were more instructions, stating that Alfred was to sell the product for no more than five hundred dollars apiece, and that if he did well more vials would make their way to him. Stryker had nothing else to give them.

It was a vexing mystery. Who could possibly benefit from the transaction, other than Stryker himself. The unknown benefactor hadn’t asked for anything in return, and their only stipulation was that the Venom was sold cheaply. It almost seemed like the only goal here was to cause chaos, because if that steroid had made it's way into the hands of the Riley's, there would have been chaos.

“I checked with Blackgate, by the way. Bane’s still enjoying a vacation at the expense of the state, so it can’t be him. Unless he’s doing it from behind bars. . . which probably isn’t beyond him.” Batman didn’t respond, but he doubted this was the work of Bane. It didn’t match his MO. The man did not willingly share power. Whenever he had sold his venom in the past, he had always made sure that the cost was high, and the deal favored him. No, this was someone else. Someone playing a longer, more intricate game.

“Well, we’ll monitor the situation. If it gets any worse, we’ll be ready for it.”

“It is going to get worse. This is just the beginning, Bullock. We’ve removed Stryker, but whoever’s behind this will just find someone else to deal their drugs. They’ve probably already got alternative dealers working all over the city.”

“Yeah, I figured. This is Gotham, after all. If something can go wrong, it will. Sooner, rather than later usually.” They fell silent then, the detective digging in his inner jacket pocket, while the Batman watched him fumble. Finally, Bullock pulled a plastic bag of carrot sticks clear, taking a moment to pop one into his mouth. Apparently he still craved his cigars, years after giving them up. The carrots were a poor substitute, but they eased the mouth boredom. It was still another minute before Bullock spoke up. Another minute silently hoping that the subject would go away on it’s own.

“So, uhhh, before you do your Houdini act, you should know that I retire at the end of next month.”

“I know.” He’d read Bullock’s retirement request almost as soon as he’d submitted it to his Commissioner. He’d been inside the GCPD’s computer systems for so long that he probably knew more about their inner workings than their IT staff did.

“Of course, you knew, silly me, thinking I had news for the omniscient Batman.” The detective ground his carrot in annoyance. He seemed genuinely annoyed that he hadn’t been able to surprise the Dark Knight, even with this. He should have known better. Still, with that awkwardness out of the way, Batman could get back to the cave, and finish the nights work.

“I’ll need a list of suitable replacements before you leave.”

“Uh-huh. Been a pleasure working with you too.”

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

@Inkarnate - fanpop.com/clubs/the-darkness

Where's your fan club mate?

Young Justice: Season One

Sheet is mostly finished. Hopefully polish it off tomorrow.

_{Don't be surprised if I don't though.}

Young Justice: Season One

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F E N R I R

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| NAME |

Magnus Boyle

| ALIAS |

Fenrir

| AGE |

Nineteen

| MENTOR |

Hawkwoman

| APPEARANCE |

As a Man:Magnus Boyle strikes an opposing figure, standing at a respectable height of 6’1”, with broad, muscular shoulders that taper towards a lean, narrow waist. His limbs are long, though he doesn’t seem to have the ganglieness that often plagues tall people, instead moving with a smooth, unconscious grace. Nor is he unduly bulky, possessing a wiry, muscular leanness that one would associate with a wild alpha predator, not a shred of fat to be found on him. It doesn’t take a trained eye to recognise the explosive physical power restrained in his frame.

A mop of charcoal dark curls frames his features, wild enough to deny even the most vigorous brushing. Heavy brows sit atop intense, storm-grey eyes. His strong jaw is coloured with stubble, far more than on the average nineteen-year old’s. Most observers would note that there is something slightly ‘off’ about his face. While his strong bone structure seems conventionally attractive, there is a savagery about the lines of his face that makes him appear threatening, or even cruel in some lights. When he smiles - which is rarely – his teeth seem a touch too long and sharp to be considered wholly normal.

As the Beast:When he becomes the Beast Fenrir’s body contorts in a horrifically painful transformation that leaves him more powerful in almost every physical way. His frame expands until he tops 7’ (though a propensity to hunch leaves him appearing to be just over 6’10”). His head becomes larger and lupine-like, while his mouth elongates into massive canine jaws that end in rows of razor sharp teeth. His shoulders, already muscular, become even heavier, while his arms lengthen to the point that he can comfortably run on all fours. His legs twist and elongate until they become digitigrade, while all his fingers and toes develop long, tough talons, which are capable of shredding through armour plating. Wiry black hair sprouts all over his form, though it comes thickest upon his face, head, shoulders, arms, chest, and groin. Finally, his long bushy tail bursts from his lower back.

The costume: Fenrir’s costume consists of a sleeveless charcoal grey bodysuit, fist wraps, and a helmet. The bodysuit’s material is made from an experimental fabric developed by Kord Industries, which can stretch to an incredible degree while still retaining its base integrity. The bodysuit’s chest area darkens to black, being reinforced by a light kevlar-nomex weave that provides a degree of protection. The centre of the chest features an embossed silver wolfs-head, this serving as Fenrir’s insignia. The helmet is also crafted to resemble a snarling wolfs-head, designed by Shayera Hol to terrify her student’s foes. While it only covers his upper face and head, while leaving his jaw clear, he still finds It incredibly uncomfortable to wear, though has come to bear it thanks to the protection it supplies. The costume doesn’t feature shoes, as Magnus finds them even more constricting and cumbersome than the helmet.

| BIO |

Nineteen years ago, on a chill September afternoon, Charles and Wyanet Boyle were gifted with their first child, a boy. They named him Magnus, after Charles’ grandfather. Magnus was a strong and lusty baby, a Boyle family trait claimed Charles – though he himself was both sicky and scrawny. What couldn’t be explained away as a family quirk was the inch-long canines that their son developed after only two months, or the predatory intensity to his gaze that seemed so foreign on the face of a child.

Despite these peculiarities the Boyle’s endeavoured to love their son, as good parents should, but as he grew older it became more and more apparent that Magnus was no normal boy. He was walking by the time he was four months old, and running confidently at nine months, and yet he was over three years old before he uttered his first word, and even after that he barely spoke, instead using a combination of grunts, growls, yips and glares to communicate. He couldn’t be left alone with children his own age, as he was aggressive and socially dominant. All the doctors that the Boyles could afford were stumped in regards as to what was afflicting the boy, and the family found themselves ostracised in their small community thanks to their strange son.

Charles and Wyanet began to believe that was going to be their lives from then on, dealing with the hardship of having a clearly impaired child, struck by an affliction that no one could explain or assist with when their deliverance came in the form of doctor Anne Sexton. The doctor contacted them, claiming to be a renowned child behavioural expert and claimed she had heard of their plight, and wished to help them. After doing some background checks of their own, which all served to corroborate Sexton’s story, the family agreed to allow the doctor into their lives, in hope that it would help Magnus.

For several weeks tests were run, the doctor spending nearly every waking moment poking and prodding at Magnus, all under the watchful eyes of his parents. Charles and Wyanet could never be sure what she was actually testing him for, but they lived in hope that it would all lead to Magnus getting the help that he so clearly needed. Their hopes turned to horror however, when they woke up one morning to find Magnus missing, and the good doctor gone. The Boyle’s went straight to the police, but when they tried to file a missing person’s report they were shocked to find that there was no history of them ever having a child. No birth certificate, no medical history, not even any pictures of him on their online social profiles. Their family, friends and neighbours all supported them, and they had plenty printed pictures of their son, but as far as the virtual world was concerned, there was no Magnus Boyle.

Confronted with this setback is it any surprise that the authorities failed to find either Magnus or Doctor Sexton, whose own online presence turned out to be completely fabricated. The Boyle’s never stopped looking for their son, but years have passed, and with no real headway made into the investigation, they have all but given up hope of finding their son. Like it or not, Magnus was gone.

Or at least, he was. Unbeknownst to his parents, Magnus reappeared years later just outside of New Orleans, where he assisted Hawkwoman in battle against one of her old enemies, St Roch. Magnus impressed Shayera, who offered the feral teen a place to stay, if he allowed her to train him. He had a lot of potential, she said, but if he didn’t learn to temper his emotions, he would end up wasting his gifts. Magnus agreed, and so began his heroic career as Hawkwoman’s partner, Fenrir. The two worked together well, and when talk of a new team of young heroes was bandied around, Shayera was quick to volunteer Magnus.

| ABILITIES / SKILLS / EQUIPMENT |

As a Man:Magnus is physically superior to any baseline human. S

As the Beast:

| LIMITATIONS AND WEAKNESSES |

As a Man:Perhaps Magnus’ most damaging weakness, though probably not his most obvious one, is his arrogance concerning his own physical capabilities. While he’s willing to admits that there are individuals who are stronger, tougher or faster than he is out there, he finds it far more difficult to accept that, even with all those advantages, there are any who could beat him in a straight confrontation. Part of this is due to the alpha male mentality that colours his personality, his belief that he should be at the top of any social hierarchy due to his physical superiority to those around him, though the greater part is due to the fact that he has yet to be beaten. He’s still got the confidence of an unbeaten champion, but who’s to say what might happen to that confidence when he is faced with the prospect of an out and out defeat.

On top of this, he isn’t a well-rounded combatant. All his training thus far has focused on allowing him to use his increased strength, speed, and ferocity to overwhelm his opponents physically, and beat them into submission. While this works on many untrained or unexperienced foes, he has little-to-no defensive skills to fall back on if his full-frontal assault fails, other than his increased durability and survivability, and then it just becomes a case of weathering his opponents storm, a method which is far from infallible. To make matters worse, he disdains tactical expertise. While he’s more than capable of formulating a plan, a good one even, he instead chooses not to. He much prefers the simplicity of beating a foe mano a mano, rather than getting their better through cleverness or double-thinking.

As the Beast: The Beast shares many of the Man’s shortcomings, though most of them are exacerbated in the extreme. Unique shortcomings for the Beast are a lack of fine motor control and an inability to process complex tasks. Simply put, this means he wont be doing anything like driving a car or typing at a keyboard while in wolf-form. Perhaps the Beast's most dangerous trait is his difficulties with impulse control. The Beast does everything on instinct, which means no double guessing or moralising. If he is hungry, he eats; if he is tired, he sleeps; if he encounters an enemy, he kills it. Straightforward, but problematic in it's own way.

| NOTES |

• You all probably know what actually happened to Magnus during the ‘missing’ years, but I’m leaving it blank anyway. The story will get revealed along the way, as the rest of kids discover what actually happened to him.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Wait a sec, we have a The Darkness fan club? Why am I only just now hearing about this?!?