Sir Lurksalot

Heroes Reborn: Year Six (OPEN)

Argos Gymnasium, University District, Poseidonis,
January 26, 2345 hrs.

It was on days like today, where Mal was extremely grateful for the invention of the punching bag.

BANG! CACHINK! BANG-BANG! CACHINK!

Doubly so was Mal, over the rhythmic din of flesh slamming into the leather and the rattling of chains echoing across the all-but-deserted gymnasium, grateful that the Atlanteans saw the merits of having a big bag of animal flesh filled with sand and hanging from the ceiling for the purpose of beating the hell out of. Though honestly, how couldn't they? It made for decent cardio, helped you work on your form, got you used to the notion that the act of punching something wasn't necessarily the most comfortable way to pass the time, and of course, as Mal knew better than most-

-Was freaking great when you really needed to hit something.

BANG... BANG-BANG! CACHINK!

It had been a long day, even before he'd gotten onto the boat- A quick ride out to Blud before dawn to have his annual visit to an empty alleyway a little earlier than usual. Eating breakfast. Saying goodbye to Henry and the rest of the castle staff. Kissing his Ma on the cheek and meeting Anatoli and Irene down at an arcade by the waterfront, for one last hurrah before he boarded a big damned submarine for the city below the waves.

Meeting Virgil in there. Meeting Bjorn. Meeting the others after the long ride.

...Seeing Karen again.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG... BANG! CACHINK!

He had actually been hoping to see what may as well have been his big sister down here. That somewhere during their little tiff over the scrying stone, he just might've gotten through her magical little (at times) thick head. But... well...

"Well, I’m here now—I kept my promise. You shouldn’t have any complaints, right?”

Those words stuck in the boy's mind. His eidetic memory playing it over and over again with perfect clarity as if the blonde were standing next to him while his powerful brain systematically dissected and analyzed the small details of her pitch, body language and brain activity.

Discomfort.

Irritation.

A bit of frustration. More so than seemed entirely deserved for his routine foray into 'Mal's Storytime'...

BANG! BANG! BANG! CACHINK!

It painted a clear picture.

BANG!

Karen didn't want to be here.

BANG!

She didn't want to be away from her magic space rock.

BANG!

She didn't want to see him, or perhaps anyone else again.

It was all just... so inconvenient to her.

"URAAAAH!"

BANG! Pshhhh...

Malcolm would be lying if he said that didn't sting a little.

Had it the ability to do so, the bag, now split open and spilling it's contents onto the gymnasium floor- would have agreed wholeheartedly.

"Oh, fer..."

The scarred boy managed out under a frustrated sigh, as the piling sand at his feet abruptly pulled him from whatever place he'd been inside his own head and he began peeling off his hand-wraps with his teeth- This line of thinking wasn't helping; just assuming what was going on in the blonde's head and then getting mad about it. Despite how easy it was to fall into that train of thought, especially with his somewhat unique way of reading people.

He needed to actually talk to her.

The boy's eyes shot down toward the growing pile of sand at his feet and the busted bag hanging lop-sided from the ceiling.

...After he cleaned up this mess, that was.

Heroes Reborn: Year Six (OPEN)

WIP

The Boy Without Fear

The Watchdog

=========

Superhero Name: The Watchdog
Civilian Name: Malcolm Talhaiarn-Kasimir
Origin city/Planet: Bludhaven, New York
Hometown: Gotham City, New Jersey
Sex: Male
Race: Metahuman
Height: 5'8"
Weight: 168 lbs.
Age: 16
Birth Date: Found in a dumpster as a newborn on February 1, 2009, so that's what he goes by.
--------
Costumed Appearance:

Civilian Appearance: A far cry from the scrawny, malnourished youth he once was, Malcolm has… noticeably grown a bit. Though still nothing special height-wise, the boy has grown up strong, with broad shoulders and a dense, though lean musculature cultivated through the years of intensive training necessitated by his and his Ma’s particular after hours activities- powerful, but without any excessive bulk that would impede on his agility and if the scars that still cover his body are any indication, extraordinarily tough. That said, the son of Gotham’s wealthiest and favourite denizen can’t exactly wander about town looking like a hooligan- to this end, his attire is usually business casual most of the time or even a suit and tie, when the occasion calls for it and a pair of specialized contacts to change his eyes from their somewhat unusual orange glow to the more natural grey he enjoyed before his metahuman gene activated.

All in all, the lad does strike a handsome figure for a teenager, despite (or because of, depending on the optics) those afore-mentioned scars- most notably the crescent-shaped one around his left eye (from a broken beer bottle he took to face), one into his brow and a few on his cheek on the same side (from a grenade that punched bits of shrapnel through his helmet a year back) as well as a few scars that're very obviously defensive knife wounds running down his forearms leading to hands bearing punch-scarred knuckles and a sizeable burn engulfing his left shoulder and creeping partway up his neck which he simply doesn't talk about. If asked about any of these... let's call them physical eccentricities, however, the lad's typical response is to just rub the back of his shaved head and sheepishly remark that a Bludhaven slum is a very eventful place to grow up in.

To his credit, that usually shuts down most questions

Icon:

Costumed Personality: The Watchdog is, by reputation, still as relentless and unyielding as ever, but time under the tutelage of Grim has clearly left it's mark- Gone is the wild ferocity of his younger years, replaced by cold, calculated patience and brutal, machine-like efficiency while his natural talents for ambush, sabotage and stealth have only been improved upon by years of hard training and harder experience. Like his mentor, Watchdog hits hard, and fast. Eschewing any notion of a fair fight and using a combination of advanced weaponry, gadgets and tactics as well as his uncanny ability for thinking on his feet augmented by his tremendous force of will to his advantage while denying any to his unfortunate foes... who often don't even know what's going on until something with glowing, angry eyes is suddenly there and beating the ever-loving shit outta them.

All that said there's a bit more to Grim's boy than just hunting down and ambushing the ne'er-do-wells of Gotham's criminal underworld; Various accounts of things like jumpers being talked down from the brink, trapped firefighters being saved from burning buildings and lost children suddenly appearing at Police Stations, ice-cream cone in hand have... altered the reputation of the once-mythic Bludhaven Bogeyman somewhat. In ways even he never foresaw-

The Watchdog of Gotham, relentless and unyielding as ever, the kind of man who charges headlong into a harm's way, who takes an exploding grenade to the face and still gets back up... has become something people look up to.

And to his credit, he's still not entirely sure he's comfortable with that.

Civilian Personality: Malcolm is, for lack of a better way of putting it, a walking, talking stereotype of the Bludhaven lower-class, even now as the ward of the wealthiest woman in Gotham; frank, indomitably stubborn, clever in the worst possible way and possessing a potent mixture of pluck and grit with a healthy dash of crazy. That said, the lad has a big heart... ironically, you'd have to in order to survive a Bludhaven slum, where everyone who isn't a gun-toting psychopath is all in it together, and has no small reserve of compassion and kindness, which he's grown much more open about actually showing over the years, though he still keeps a tight lid on his own feelings and troubles.

Six years under the wing of Zoey Freakin' Kasimir have left their mark on the lad, however- Refining and nourishing the best of "Malcolm" while also fostering no small amount of self-control and discipline within him. The wild anger and recklessness that characterized his boyhood being largely supplanted by calm, methodical patience and an infuriatingly dry sense of humour with just a tinge of charm. Something that has both bled into his more 'private' life and made him into something of a media darling, particularly after he very famously eyed a group of metahuman criminals looking to kidnap him during a charity event in Dakota City up and down and simply cracked jokes at their expense and held his ground where most others panicked and fled for their lives- Something that endeared him to a world still coming to terms with the new reality that actual Supervillains were a thing now.

That's not to say he's above it all, however- The years have been rough, and though on the outside he makes a show of keeping his head up and marching forward with an iron will and a sharp tongue, he isn't as invulnerable as he'd like to believe... and the memory of what happened in that alleyway on the eve of his eleventh birthday haunts him still, gnawing at the back of his mind and fueling an oft-unmentioned reserve of deep-seated anger.

Super abilities:

Skills

Infiltration/Stealth: To the surprise of... pretty much no one if you think about it, picking a lock becomes a lot easier when you can actually see inside the damned thing, and it becomes a helluva lot easier to sneak into places nobody wants you to go if you can both know in advance that the coast is clear, and physically see how much sound you're making and how the acoustics of the room will carry that around.

Add to that, some formidable experience in hacking and sabotage and you have yourself one hell of a potential problem for any ne'er-do-wells who think themselves safe by hunkering down and digging in.

Parkour: Growing up in an urban slum, Malcolm has always had a knack for maneuvering around the city in some unconventional ways, more often for fun than anything. But now grown up, with his vision, reflexes, body-coordination and proper training, he damn near flies across rooftops and down alleyways, maneuvering through the urban jungle with astonishing ease. Moreso now after six years of being under Zoey's wing, with actual proper instruction and high-tech gadgetry to back up his experience with rooftop running.

Advanced Combat Training: Malcolm's adoptive father, being a former Marine raising a kid in a slum in one of the most dangerous cities in the whole United States, had the forethought to pass on his old tricks to his son. It sure wasn't pretty but it was undoubtedly effective, especially when combined with Malcolm's unique abilities and provided a solid base for Grim to work with in training him over the past six years. Incorporating elements of Muay Thai, Greco-Roman wrestling, Judo and Zoey's own Combat Sambo into what his father had left him among other things, Mal has honed his own body into an efficient, if not outright terrifying fighting machine.

Good with his Hands: Being able to see inside or through anything that isn't made of lead has it's benefits, one of them being being able to directly observe the guts of a machine or a person to see how it or they work, granting Malcolm a somewhat unique insight into the fields of both mechanics and medicine. While in the past, as a starving kid armed with only a lead pipe pitting himself against the world, this was only particularly useful for bouts MacGyvering, sabotage and precisely striking some schmuck where it'd hurt the most, six years under the tutelage of Zoey Kasimir have honed this into a formidable force all of it's own- shaping the boy into a both an impressive engineer, damned decent field surgeon and all around colossal nerd, further bolstered by his eidetic memory and enhanced bodily coordination.

Polyglot: The slums of Bludhaven are a surprisingly diverse place, and Malcolm has grown up around a lot of people from a lot of places who speak a lot of languages and has met and learned many more as both the public face of Vanguard and as the sidekick of Grim. As a result, the boy has grown to be not only literate in English, but Ukrainian, Italian, Spanish, Cantonese, German, French, Norwegian, Russian, Mandarin, Japanese, Icelandic, Arabic, Latin and even Atlantean as well.

All in all, not bad for what was once a scrawny kid from Blud who learned to read from whatever scraps of old books, newspapers and magazines his Dad could find in the trash.

Natural Detective/Tracker: As can be imagined, being a walking, talking blacklight, thermal, electrical and audio scanner has it's advantages, giving Mal a certain edge when trying to find the who's, what's, where's, why's, when's and how's of a crimescene... and making him particularly difficult to evade once he is onto someone's trail.

Freakish Toughness/Force of Will: Since starting his superheroic career at the ripe age of eleven years old Mal has been shot, stabbed, cut, poisoned, drugged, electrocuted, set on fire, had his bones broken, been nearly drowned, survived explosions and dodged many other should've-been-deaths multiple times. And is somehow, beyond all reason and logic, still alive.

Many would assume this is due to some other, as yet undiscovered component of his metahuman gene. His mother certainly wishes that were true.

But the fact of the matter is that Malcolm is no more bullet, knife or fireproof than any other guy; he is however, by virtue of experience and sheer force of will, ludicrously, obscenely tough. Able to take an outright inhuman amount of punishment, both physically and mentally and still get back up and keep fighting. Something that has earned him both the fear and admiration of his enemies and peers... and has caused no small number of anxiety attacks for his ma.

Peak Human Conditioning: One doesn't do what Mal does without being in some ridiculously good shape. And Zoey makes for one hell of a gym instructor, forging the boy over the course of six years into a living weapon capable of physical feats even Olympic-level athletes would gawk at.

Cooking: may well be his actual superpower.

Powers

Omnivision: By far Malcolm's most drastically superhuman ability, the boy is able to perceive almost the entire Electromagnetic Spectrum, being able to see infrared, ultraviolet, electrical currents and even straight through solid objects. And that's not even mentioning how he also possesses telescopic vision up to five miles, see in absolute darkness and can even comprehend soundwaves. There are some caveats to this, however; Firstly, he can't see through lead. Secondly, there is no off-switch, and his brain is processing all this information at the same time, the end result forming a sort of abstract painting with shifting soundwaves bouncing off of translucent walls with waves of blue, red and shifting orange forming the image of a world engulfed in a raging inferno. One that doesn't go away, even when Malcolm closes his eyes.

Enhanced Brain/Nervous Function: Malcolm's brain, as a side-effect from being able to function under the strain of everything listed above, has effectively been kicked into high gear, processing information at nearly ten times the rate of a normal human being. Though this does not inherently make him smarter than the average Joe, it does mean he can learn and retain information at several times the rate of a normal human being, with the added bonus of an eidetic memory; meaning that with time, and the proper instruction, he could prove to be one of the greatest minds of his generation.

Another, slightly more immediately advantageous side-effect of Malcolm's now overclocked brain is that, like his mental faculties, his reaction time and reflexes have been accelerated to ten times that of a normal human being. This, combined with his vision, makes the small, starving boy a legitimate force to be reckoned with as he can read an opponent's nerve impulses, body language and muscle contractions to get an idea of what they're doing and react to it before they're actually finished doing it. Additionally, this new, more efficient nervous system has granted the boy unparalleled bodily-coordination, allowing him to perform feats of dexterity and precision with ease that would be beyond even Olympic athletes and skilled craftsmen.

Gadgets:
-His dad's old Zippo.

Weapons:
-

Civilian Occupation: Rich Boi

Biography---------

Character History/Origin:

Dramatic origin story, HO!

Bludhaven, a city with many names; The Devil's Tongue, The Big Dirty, The Bloody Haven, The Blud, Gotham's Toilet, etc... it was here on a frigid February evening that John "Mad Jack" Talhaiarn, former United States Marine and current owner of the clothes on his back and not much else, happened upon a screaming newborn baby in a dumpster behind a biker bar and across the road from a Denny's.

Thinking quickly, the man lifted the screaming infant out of the trash and pulled him into the warm confines of his parka as he began trudging his way through the heavy winter's snow towards the shanty town he called home. Talhaiarn had no idea what hell he was doing, but after a lifetime of mistakes that had led him down dark paths, disgraced and astray from his beloved Corps, he vowed to himself and any God who may've been listening, he was at least gonna get this one thing right-

Saving this fucking kid.

It took a bit of doing, and a little help from his neighbours to scrounge up and MacGuyver everything necessary to care for a newborn, but somehow he pulled it off.

After a week or so, the kid stopped screaming so much and started giggling whenever he caught wind of the old Marine near his makeshift crib. A few days after that, he started calling him "Malcolm" after his old man.

And some time after that, John Talhaiarn, a man who was both a living legend and a disgraced outcast of the United States Marine Corps... began to actually enjoy life again.

If there was anywhere to start this story, this would be it.

Mad Jack's boy grew up in their little Shanty Town, comfortably nestled in a wide alleyway, stubborn, tough and clever. With a tongue and wit sharp as any bayonet his Dad'd ever held in his former life but a heart as big and as bright as the goddamned sun. Never having much, but never really needing anything his little community couldn't provide anyway, Malcolm spent most of his days scouring the slums for anything he, his dad and his neighbours could use to make their lives easier, getting into all sorts of trouble with the other slum kids and sitting around with his dad, raptly listening to (heavily censored) war stories from his days in the corps.

It wasn't an easy life, by any means- But he was happy, so he never really gave a shit.

Though, if you've ever read a comic book, you probably have a good idea where this is going...

In the opening weeks of 2020, the five-year-long turf war between an alliance of the local Chinese Tongs, Russian Mafia and Irish gangs against the invading Aquila crime family of Gotham was reaching it's end, with the Aquilas emerging as the clear victors. In order to hunt down their rapidly scattering enemies and to send a very clear message about who was in charge now, Don Michael Aquila hired a 'specialist' from his hometown to get the job done-

Firefly. A psychopath with a flamethrower.

The night of January 31st was a relatively standard one for Malcolm; his "Aunt" Lin was cooking dinner over a drum fire, the Mikhailovich brothers were arguing in a heated, Slavic sort of way about... something stupid, from what Malcolm could gather as their confrontation shifted back and forth between Russian when they didn't want the kids to understand what they were saying and Ukrainian when they were too mad to give a shit, and Malcolm was sitting with a bunch of kids around his dad, who played Johnny Cash on a (mostly) intact guitar he and Malcolm had found the year before and the Shanty Town's local mutt, affectionately named 'Fleabag', was sprawled belly-up on Malcolm's lap being smelly and aggressively affectionate.

All-in-all, pretty normal... until something caught Fleabag's attention and she started barking up a storm. That being a charred... thing that vaguely resembled a person and stank of burnt meat that shambled it's way into their alleyway, gargling and hissing only one thing on what was left of it's vocal chords as a massive figure stepped out from shadows behind it and leveled a malevolent-looking device in the direction of everyone present;

"Help... me..."

All Malcolm can recall of what happened next was the sight, sounds and smell of everyone he'd ever loved or cared about being roasted alive to the chorus of screams and the demented laughter of the owner of a single eye encircled by scarred and burned flesh which shone with insidious ecstasy at the scene before it. And after that, nothing.

The next thing Malcolm remembers is crawling out from underneath the charred remains of his father, his dog and all the other kids.

It was his birthday.

At first, he could do nothing but sit there, shaking and trembling in silence as his mind struggled to comprehend what he was looking at, before realization slowly set in.

Then the crying started. Followed by the screaming.

And as the screaming gradually changed in pitch from horror and denial to pure outrage, something in the boy broke. The fire that consumed his family and friends slowly ebbed it's way back into his vision and consumed the whole world as he comprehended it, revealing to him nothing but violence and horror no matter where he looked, regardless of whether he wanted to see it or not.

Seemingly trapped in an eternally burning hellscape of violence and horror that he could not escape, even when he closed his eyes and in a fragile mental state, he could've easily bent or broken down. Instead, he got mad.

He got real mad.

Unable to sleep while seeing what he could, the lad eventually lashed out, more out of spite than any sense of justice, throwing himself into the fray against the criminal life within his slum with the frenzied anger of a mad dog... and then never stopped.

And so it was, that the myth of the Watchdog of Bludhaven was born.

The Intervening Years

Optional information
----------
Nemesis: Firefly, Anarkee
Allies: Grim, Lady Arcana, Aquaman, Prometheus, Vinestalker
Affiliated Groups: The Grim Family, The Argonauts

Heroes Reborn: Year Six (OPEN)

University of Poseidonis, Harbour
January 26, 3:58 PM

The last of the students aboard the RAS Nautilus were finally done disembarking, waved towards the gleaming Orientation Hall in the distance with warnings that King Orin would be addressing them soon enough. A few wobbled in their hurried steps to get there, glad to just have their feet back on solid ground. For one of them, the thought kept bounding around that solid though the ground might be, it was in very unfamiliar territory.

All around them was strange architecture, gleaming and golden, right out of any fantasy novel about the place. The people, so similar yet so different. The very horizon - no longer bright sun cresting on distant land but just glimmering water forming a wall, their very roof.

Like a cage.

To say that Hannah Christophe was having some trouble with the adjustments was a bit of an understatement.

It’s not that she wasn’t excited, she was! It’s just, well, the Hub City resident only left state lines a number of times, and now she was in the middle of the ocean, who knows how deep, and surrounded by strangers not only in acquaintance but very culture.

It didn’t exactly help that Hannah was a very, very nervous person in the first place. So it was that on feeling her racing heart start to go from excitement to genuine terror, the feeling of the very air in her throat becoming heavy, the young woman had stumbled off away from the others going towards the Orientation Hall just to catch a breather. Yet when she had passed a pale hand over her eyes, seeing a flicker of orchid light dancing beneath her clammy palm it made her chest tighten, a feeling of dread settling in her bones and buzzing akin to a sleeping limb.

“Oh lord,” The brunette whimpered, sliding down against the wall she had ducked behind to hide. “What was I thinking?” Her fingers quickly tangled in her hair as she leaned forward, trying to control her breathing in a familiar exercise and failing miserably as each breath rattled and hiccuped through her thin frame.

”Uhh… hi.” Came a somewhat hushed, slightly alarmed voice from beside her.

One belonging to a Mr. Malcolm Talhaiarn-Kasimir, who had already been hiding behind this particular wall when the hyperventilating girl had arrived, in the middle of trying to covertly adjust one of the contact lenses that hid the distinctive glow of his peepers that had been knocked slightly off-center by a falling bag as the Nautilus shook under the force of the docking clamps.

...Which went some way to explaining the ludicrous sight of Gotham’s favourite son frozen stock still and staring down at her in his suit and tie while seemingly of poking himself in the eye for some reason.

’Shit, that was close...’ The boy mused internally with a breath of relief, realizing this girl was too in her own head at the moment to have seen anything he’d have to explain. Even as he knelt down to check on her wiping his hands off on his jacket.

”Hey, uhh... are you alright?”

For a moment the girl remained frozen, head tilted just enough to stare up at Malcolm with wide, doe-like eyes. When she finally reacted it was with a rather pathetic, very delayed yelp.

”I’m - I’m so sorry I-” Another hiccup as the breath in Hannah’s voice caught, making the anxious weight dead in her stomach twist uncomfortably. ”I was just - oh, and you’re - you’re Malcolm Talha-” Yet again her words got cut off as her throat didn’t seem to want to cooperate, refusing to let the brunette get more than a few words out at a time. She nearly whimpered, burying her face back into her sweatered arms across her knees. Four seconds breathe in. Four seconds out. In. Out.

She must look pathetic.

The thought didn’t help.

And there went a good chunk of what Mal had absorbed through mitosis from his Ma, thundering in the back of his head and forcing his back to the same wall as the distraught girl and his ass plop down right next to hers.

”Hey, hey, hey… easy now…” The boy’s words left his throat, a fair bit more gentle than most would think him capable of after hearing of his famed wit as his hand lightly moved itself on instinct towards the girl’s shoulder ”...What’s wrong?”

”I’m sorry,” Once more came the low, piteous voice, muffled against her arms. Luckily she was calming just a touch, enough that she was able to form complete sentences with … less interruptions, at least. Having someone also from the surface was comforting. She hoped that wasn’t racist. ”I’m just - a little overwhelmed. Right now. I mean.” A deep breath once more as Hannah fought the urge to ramble, a trait her and her brother shared.

Well, before he disappeared.

Finally the girl lifted her head, fingers plucking at the material of her cream sweater. She still had a chill and was trembling lightly, breath lightly hitched. ”I’ve - I’ve never even left America. And, it’s my first time away from family. And I’m learning about magic.” She trailed off, finally lifting her gaze to Malcolm’s and offering him a watery smile. Her eyes remained fixed on his chin, never quite meeting his own in a nervous tick.

”... Well, somewhat. I’m … majoring in magical theory.”

So much for not rambling.

Mal let out a little chuckle at that, letting his hand fall off her shoulder and comfortably back onto his knee.

”Yeah, I hear ya on that.” The lad replied with an honest grin and a little shake of his head, unconsciously slipping back into his native accent as he went ”Sounds kinda like a comic book when ya say it out loud, dunnit?”

Still grinning, the boy’s face turned away from the girl, making a dramatic show of looking about the place with a comically philosophical expression he’d hoped she’d find amusing.

”Yet, here we are. In a big golden city at the bottom of the ocean.” He finished with a theatrical wave of his arm, looking back to the girl and raising that famous Kasimir brow, still smirking just a little. ”I don’t blame ya. Ye’d have to be crazy not to be a little overwhelmed about that.”

It seemed to work, since Hannah let out a laugh, coughing near the end. After rubbing her sleeve against her mouth she finally gave Malcolm a smile, accompanied by one last rattling breath.

”I… suppose you’re right about that. It seems, well, it seems a little silly to be freaking out this bad when no one else is…” She trailed off, embarrassment coloring her words. It was obvious she wasn’t that quickly recovered, no one would be, but was doing a good job of at least hiding the remaining symptoms in conversation. ”Uhm, I didn’t introduce myself. Not that I, you know, had the chance -- my name is Hannah Christophe.” Taking a moment to wipe her clammy hand subtly on her skirt she then offered it to her surprise company.

”I, ah, know who you are, of course… I really admire your work.”

”Oof! Take the fun outta introducing myself, why don’cha?”

Mal replied with a slight snort and another shake of his head, still clearly grinning to let Hannah know he was still joking around. She smiled right back, replying with a quiet ‘Sorry!’ that was more casual than her previous apologies.

”Well, good ta meet’cha, Hannah.” The scarred teenager said after a moment as he offered her his hand ”...And you can just call me ‘Mal’.”

For a slight second, the boy’s eyes shifted suddenly slightly. As if looking at something past Hannah directly through her head and another wall before coming back into focus on her again.

Just in time for the loud chorus of chatter and footsteps to start reverberating through their hallway once more. It was a bit unnerving for her.

”Well. I think we might’ve missed Ol’ Uncle Ori’s big welcome speech…” Mal concluded with a shrug ”Gueeeess we better get a move on, eh?”

”Oh no!” The girl exclaimed, and was soon scrambling up. Hannah had to pause as blood rushed to her head, already dizzy from the small panic attack earlier, and lifted a hand to press slim fingers to her temple. ”I’m really sorry for delaying us,” She lamented, apologizing yet again. It seemed to almost be a reflex.

”But it’s a momentous occasion… maybe it was recorded?” Hannah shook herself, looking to Malcolm and giving him a small smile. ”I … really appreciate you not just walking away though. It helped having someone familiar nearby. Not that - not that I’d say we’re familiar with each other! Just that I knew who you were and it was helpful, though not because - I’m going to be quiet now.”

Malcolm could only stare at the flustered girl beside for a few short seconds in silence as she started rambling again… then started smirking… and finally snickering as he waved off her apologies with a dismissive hand as he got to his feet.

”Dun’ worry about it, Hannah.” He assured her, making a point of being as casual and familiar as possible still not losing his infamous grin as stood and offered her a hand up. ”I was glad to be here.”

Heroes Reborn: Year Six (OPEN)

January 12th, 2026
Rock of Eternity; 10:48 A.M.

”Historama, let’s cycle through all of the prisoners again,” said Lady Arcana, laying her cheek against the knuckles of her hand. The screen began to cycle through all the monsters--human or otherwise--that she had confined in the Rock of Eternity. ”Sabina’s okay...Oggar’s reading...Kull’s trashed his room again, of course...Wilhelm’s sleeping…”

Easing back in her throne, Arcana let out a heavy sigh. For the past two days she had been afraid to leave the Rock for very long, in case there was another unexpected break-in like last time. Even when there had been breaches in the veil, she had made certain to resolve them as quickly as possible. She was starting to understand now why Shazam had never left to do hero work.

She knew that Zoey really wanted her to start attending the University of Poseidonis later this month, but this latest incident with Wilhelm and the Yellow Lantern Corps had really opened her eyes to just how easily things could go wrong if she wasn’t being constantly vigilant. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been looking forward to University, but she had far more important responsibilities here--she saw that now.

”I guess I should tell Orin I won’t be going,” she muttered to herself.

---

January 12th, 2026
Grim Grotto, Castle Kasimir; 10:50 A.M.

’Mal… what the hell are you doing?’ Mal heard an annoying little voice that sounded suspiciously like doubt sound off within his own head as he stared down at what he was told was a magical hotline directly to the physical embodiment of all magic in the universe in his hand. ’You have no idea how this thing works, do you?’

Glancing down again at what appeared to be just a freaking rock (albeit, fuzzy and opaque to his eyes), he couldn’t help but agree.

’Nyooope. No idea.’ The teen conceded to… well, himself. Hefting the thing up to eye-level and giving it a downright constipated glare, as if trying to will the damned thing into working ’Buuuuut, let’s try anyway and see what happens’

Clearing his throat and trying to ignore the fact that, on the slim chance he was actually successful, he was going to be having a long conversation with a goddamn rock, Mal finally spoke.

”Err… hello?”

...Nothing.

He felt his brow twitch. Clearly, his mum’s boy.

”Dog Boy to Kare-Bear. Come in, Kare-Bear.” He tried again, with a bit more feeling (and snark) this time around ”Ya there, blondie?”

This time, he noted, the fuzziness his eyes registered within the crystal began to intensify- Perhaps this was actually going to work... Or perhaps he’d activated a security failsafe and was about to get blown the hell up- He wasn’t really sure. Raw magic like this was a tad beyond his understanding.

But, as the saying goes- ’There’s always hope.’

Even when talking to a goddamn rock.

---

January 12th, 2026
Rock of Eternity; 10:51 A.M.

Lady Arcana’s head jolted up when the Historama sprang to life in front of her. Her initial suspicion was that there was another intruder, but this was quickly dispelled by the flashing letters on the screen that spelled “KASIMIR CASTLE”.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Arcana waved her hand to answer it. ”What is it, Zoey?”

It had better not be more dog pictures; she wasn’t in the mood.

’Hoooly shit, it actually worked’ Malcolm couldn’t help but grin a little at that (and the fact that he wasn’t currently blowing up) ’Now, just try and answer in a way that most sane people wouldn’t immediately hang up on.’

”Surprise! You just won a free cruise.” The boy immediately responded to the tired-sounding Wizard in his typical joking fashion, almost out of reflex ”All you have to do is give us your credit card number and your mother’s maiden name!”

’Oh, for fuck’s sake Malcolm...’

Arcana hadn’t expected to hear any voice other than Zoey’s ever coming from the scrying stone. She had given it to her as a means of private communication. Every member of the Justice League (except Emerald Knight, as he had been away when she distributed them) had one, just in case they needed to get in contact with her for an emergency. Of course, Zoey more often used hers for far more trivial matters.

Thankfully, she was able to recognize Malcolm’s voice easily enough, so she wasn’t worried that something had happened there--especially since he was apparently trying to prank call her or something.

”Malcolm, give the scrying stone back to your mother,” she said tersely.

At that, Mal just audibly ‘Hmm’d’ and nodded along animatedly, as if actually considering it while idly tossing this artifact of a Lord of Order between his hands as if it were a mere tennis ball. Clearly unintimidated by Karen’s tone.

”Oh, I will... eventually,” He stated with a slight snort as he sat down at his workbench in the Grotto... and then very suddenly dropped the humourous tone ”...But before that, I was hoping we could talk.”

Turning the scrying stone about in his fingers and giving the unusual object an appraising glare, admittedly curious as to what the hell he was actually observing within it.

”If you’re not too busy doing Wizard things, that is.” He added plainly, perhaps a slight bit annoyed at Karen’s initial response, perhaps not. But knowing that joke would’ve gotten at least a snort out of the Karen he remembered all the same. ”In which case, I’ll let’cha get back to your work.”

Lady Arcana tilted her head to the side, still confused as to why Malcolm was contacting her with his mother’s scrying stone. What on Earth had compelled him to do such a thing all of the sudden? Was this perhaps about the University of Poseidonis? She did recall Zoey telling her that he was planning on attending it as well.

”I’m always busy doing ‘Wizard things’,” she said calmly. ”But if you’re calling to discuss school, then I’m afraid that I’ll no longer be going--I just don’t have time. With the recent breakout here, I realize that I’m needed on the throne.”

She knew Zoey wouldn’t be happy with her for saying that, but there was simply nothing for it. She couldn’t risk another unexpected attack on the Rock of Eternity. Just imagine if somebody like Kull escaped?

”Tell Zoey I’m sorry; I know I promised her.”

’Oh, right. School.’ While Malcolm was literally incapable of forgetting anything, that particular subject had been shunted to the back of his mind as of late.

And was now shunted even further back with what he just heard.

A low sigh escaped him at that as he ground his teeth together, his free hand moving to his scarred brow to try and subdue a fast-approaching headache.

Truth be told, it took him a good few seconds to gather his thoughts on… well, all of that, metahuman brain be damned. But finally, and after a series of unreadable expressions shifting across his face he found his voice-

”...Wasn’t calling about school, either. Ya might not believe it, but I don’t actually take mucking about with what is technically the artifact of several Gods lightly.” The Gotham crimefighter admitted, fingers clamping down on the stone that he’d been deftly turning with his fingers as The Wizard spoke ”-But that’s beside the point now.”

Standing up again and starting to pace a little, the boy took another few seconds to think on his words.

”Does this mean you intend to stay on that Rock of yours... forever? Just watching monsters in cages for the rest of your days?” He finally spoke again, his voice oddly contemplative now ”-Because that doesn’t sound like much of an existence, Karen. At least not one worthy of you.”

Lady Arcana hesitated for a moment. He had more or less put her on the spot with that question. However she answered, there was little doubt that it would find its way back to Zoey and then potentially the rest of the League as well. She didn’t like the prospect of having to explain herself to all of them, but…

”I am the Wizard,” she stated. ”My duty is to defend our reality from the creatures that lurk beyond the veil, or otherwise threaten it. I’ve also decided to defend my home, Earth. I can best do both of these things from the Rock of Eternity.”

She paused, staring through the Historama’s semi-translucent screen to the large pair of double doors behind it. They bore her crest--the thunderbolt.

”I…Karen doesn’t matter. Not next to the responsibilities of Lady Arcana.”

”THAT-” Malcolm almost started to yell, but managed to reign himself in, taking a deep breath and counting down in his head before continuing ”...That is a lie and you damn well know it.”

Now ceasing his pacing and leaning up against the workbench, Mal’s eyes locked onto the stone in his hand once again, scarred knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.

The Wizard had clearly struck a nerve.

”Karen Hernandez matters. And I don’t really care if you believe that right now or not. I do. So you’re gonna hear it and it can rattle your magical little blonde head for the rest of eternity.” The Kasimir ward spoke through barred teeth ”Because if Karen was totally irrelevant to the equation, she wouldn’t have been chosen to be the Wizard”

Mal’s eyes flicked down towards his free hand, covered in scars and resting upon a data tablet frozen on a news site touting the exploits of some new ‘Masked Hoodlum’ in the city. A slight grimace forming on his face as he clenched and unclenched his fist.

He, more than most, knew a thing or two about losing sight of who you are.

”So you’ll forgive me if I choose to believe there’s more to you than just a cape, a catchphrase and a giant magic rock in space.”

Arcana clenched her fist with enough force to crush coal into diamond, her eyes flaring. When she spoke, her words were saturated with indignation. ”Selfish, selfish, SELFISH!”

”Don’t you get it? Who is going to mend breaches and fight monsters if I’m away from the Rock frollicking around like a ditzy teen girl?” she asked, shaking her head. ”Who will watch over my prisoners? People could die, and you don’t even care so long as you get your friend back!”

He was acting like she hadn’t even thought this through. Of course she had. It wasn’t like she wanted to sit here for the next several thousand years, slowly forgetting who she once was. But there were things only she could do, and if she neglected her duties, the consequences could be catastrophic.

”If I slack off, there might not even be life for me to enjoy...” she said quietly.

Malcolm’s response was… oddly calm. Measured even. Though the audible exhale was as firm proof as any of some internal turmoil going on inside of his head.

”And what life do think you’ll have to enjoy if you never leave the Rock?”

Tongue clicking quietly as he absently used his thumb to pop the knuckles of his free hand one by one, he took another measured breath and spoke again.

”And yes, Karen. I do care. It’s why I choose to go out every night and do what I do.” Malcolm explained flatly ”But I guess choice is a luxury I’ve always had.”

Another breath. If there were ever a time for her to hang up on him, this was likely going to be it, and he knew it.

”And I choose to believe in Karen Hernandez. And nothing you or anyone else can say is going to change that.”

Lady Arcana remained silent for what must have been over a minute. She wasn’t quite certain how she should even begin to respond to everything he had said. It was all very touching, in truth, to know that he cared that much. But even so…

”Thank you, Malcolm. It means a lot that you feel that way, but…” She released a long sigh, her entire body lurching forward with the weight of recent events. ”It’s not about me. It’s about the people who count on me to keep them safe.”

She smiled sadly. ”How can I just kick back and relax, when I know people could be dying? People I could have saved? I know I can’t save everyone, but didn’t I promise that I would at least do my very best?”

At that, Mal, formerly starving child hellbent on saving the world armed with nothing more than his wits and a lead pipe could only don a sad smile all his own.

”To be honest- I have no idea, Karen.” He admitted without an ounce of embellishment, staring down at what the years and his choices had done to his own body ”...But I can tell you from experience, what we become when we forget who we are is not worth the sacrifice.”

The boy let out a weary sigh, the oppressive weight of this conversation hanging heavy on his mind, though he’d refuse to show it.

”Just… think about it. Please.”

After all that, it was all he could really say- It was her path to walk, after all. Her choice to make.

”...It was good talking to you again.”

”Yeah, it was. And...I will. I promise. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure,” she said. ”Take care of yourself.”

The stone in Malcolm’s hand then went dark once again.

”...You, too.”

Came Malcolm’s reply, echoing across the Grotto to be heard by no one.

Heroes Reborn: Year Six (OPEN)

It is time.

DC Unlimited

And our solo players...

@Sir Lurksalot – Rookie/Champion – Solo – Halifax
@Ruby – Supergirl – Solo – Metropolis
@clanjos – Booster Gold – Solo – Metropolis
@Ezekiel – The Flash – Solo – Central City
@NecroKnight – The Lizard – Solo – Coast City
@The Angry Goat – The Ghost – Solo – Bludhaven

DC Unlimited

Alright, ladies and gents, here's the updated roster-

@Omega Man – The Comet – Active JLU – Metropolis
@DocTachyon – Midnighter – Active JLU – Metropolis
@Archmage MC – Willow – Active JLU – Metropolis
@Simple Unicycle – The Question – JLU Reserve – Hub City
@Dblade26 – Blue Beetle – JLU Reserve – Hub City
@FiroIV - Madame Xanadu – JLU Reserve – St. Roch
___
@Tackytaff – Miss Martian – Active Titan – San Francisco
@Avanhelsing – Kid Solomon – Active Titan – San Francisco
@baraquiel – Aquagirl – Active Titan – San Francisco
@NinaDivine – Red Arrow – Titan Reserve

DC Unlimited

@NinaDivine@Lord Wraith

Hey now, don't go replacin' me so easily! XD

DC Unlimited

A Shit-Magnet of the Highest Order

Player Name:
Sir Lurksalot

Primary Character:
Champion... eventually.

Secret Identity:
Duncan MacAodhan

Status:
Solo, though that'll probably change with time

Age:
22

City:
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Day Job:
Diesel Mechanic at a local shipyard

Powers:
Immense Physical Prowess- Duncan is, for lack of a better way of putting it, really goddamn strong... and fast... and pretty tough to boot; able to match the physical feats of even Kryptonians under a yellow sun, though he lacks all the more fancy bits such as flight, crazy eye-lasers and the tactile telekinesis necessary to lift massive objects and not have them shatter under their own weight.

On paper, this makes him an absolute nightmare of an opponent to square off against. In practice, well...

As a guy who spends almost every hour of every day trying his damnedest to hide his abilities, he's never really tested what he can actually do with them. As such, he has no real idea what he's capable of, what his limits are or if he even has any, only the knowledge that if he does throw hands at the average person for whatever reason, they are most definitely going to die in the most gruesomely spectacular explosion of gore imaginable... and that knowledge alone is enough to make him stuff his hands in his pockets and seclude himself in a corner for most social gatherings.

Weaknesses:
While Duncan possesses Kryptonian levels of physical ability, he is still very much human; He can't fly, he still needs to breathe, possesses no form of crazy eye-lasers or freezing breath and can't survive solely off sunlight. As such, though his physiology makes him all but invulnerable to physical attacks, he is still vulnerable to poison, high voltage, or a good old fashioned drowning (or being strangled or thrown into space, depending on the opponent).

There's also the matter of just how much restraint Duncan has to exercise in his daily life. It takes an awful lot of control and effort to throw a punch effectively when you know that if you put just a teensy bit too much 'oomph!' into it, you will undoubtedly turn the other guy into scattered bits of hamburger meat. Add to that, his increasingly worrying dependence on alcohol, a pack-a-day habit, no small amount of unstated, harshly surpressed self-loathing and the fact that he hasn't had to really exercise or physically exert himself in any way since he was a teenager and we find ourselves with the unusual paradox of a man who could arm-wrestle with god-like aliens being literally as out of shape and weak as he is capable of being.

...And that's not even getting into the fact that, as previously stated, he has no idea what the fuck he's doing.

Skills:
Savvy Mechanic- As a guy who grew up tinkering with cars, machines and the occasional boat in his Grandpa's shop, Duncan got... well, actually pretty damned good at it. If it's big, heavy and full of a bunch of moving bits, Duncan can probably figure out how it works and how to keep it doing so.

Handyman- Though Duncan can't really claim to be anything like a certified carpenter or plumber, he is pretty adept at fixing random things around the house.

Surprisingly Good Cook- May very well be his actual superpower.

Pure Stubbornness- He is his granddaddy's boy, after all...

Appearance:
To read what Duncan is physically capable of, you might picture some sort of hulking mountain of a man with bulging muscles and a jawline chiseled from granite... to actually meet the man however, you'd be disappointed and maybe a little confused- MacAodhan is not a large man. In fact, compared to what immediately comes to mind when you think 'Superhuman', he is downright tiny, standing at only 5'6" on a good day and lacking the bulging, musclebound body of proper superheroes in favour of a lean, though dense and chiseled physique closer to that of a Olympic runner, if anything, though his broad shoulders and some stubborn stains of grease on his hands make a fairly decent indicator of his blue-collar background, to which he also owes the habit of shaving his brown hair into a buzzcut, to cut deal with the heat in his workplace.

Lacking much in the way of an actual superhero costume (again, actively trying not to be a Superhero), when he does feel the need to nut up and do something somewhat heroic, Duncan simply throws on his workboots, gloves, jeans and a denim jacket over either some plain wifebeater or t-shirt, topping it all off by tying a simple black rag over his face, leaving only his hazel eyes and a bit of skin exposed and putting on an old ballcap he got from some local minor-league sports team or another.

BRIEF Bio:
Despite what one might might assume when encountering literally anyone even remotely associated with superpowers and tights, Duncan's tale is... rather mundane. Born in Halifax, Nova Scotia with a Fisherman for a father and a mother who ran a local diner, the boy in question up grew extraordinarily normally; playing videogames, staying at his grandparents' when his mom was busy at the shop and his dad was out at sea and helping his granddad out in the garage fixing cars and the occasional boat.

And then one day when he was fifteen, he got hit by a truck.

After about a good ten seconds of screaming and another thirty spent wondering why he wasn't dead, he extricated himself from the big-rig's engine-block that had wrapped around both him and the streetlight he'd been leaning against only to find that not only was he not dead, he was perfectly intact. All things considered, that's some pretty heavy shit to lay on a fifteen year old. So it's not all that surprising that when the (very) drunk trucker half staggered, half fell out of his truck at the sight of him, and sirens began echoing in the distance, the kid ran the hell out of there. A few days of trial, error and a lot of Wikipedia later, and the boy had a pretty good idea what all that was about: He was a Metahuman, a one-in-a-million carrier of a superhuman gene that may or may not activate under extreme stress (Like, for instance, getting hit by a truck while waiting for the bus). Frankly, it sounded a lot like a bunch of pseudo-science crap you'd find in an old comic book, but lacking any other explanation for his sudden... talents... it was one he'd have to accept.

Along with the many quietly uncomfortable, life-changing implications that went with it.

Now, usually, when someone finds out they've got crazy superpowers, things usually go in one of two predictable ways; one, they become a spandex-clad boy-scout that dedicates every moment of every day to having the brightest smile, rescuing cats from trees and giving lectures about the dangers of "The Reefer" and sex before marriage or two; going full ham, burning orphanages, kicking puppies and generally being real goddamn edgy just for the sake of it. But to his credit, when the young lad began to realize that he could easily snap a human being like a twig if he didn't exercise absolute restraint at all times, he quickly chose the rarely considered, oft-forgotten third option.

"Yeah... No. Fuck this."

And so, despite the call to adventure literally screaming directly into his ears, Duncan tried his best to carry on as normally as he could- getting average grades, shoveling his grandparents' driveway in the wintertime, wearily trying and failing several times to find a way to have a meaningful relationship despite his 'gifts' and working through his apprenticeship as a diesel mechanic at the local shipyard after highschool. Even while the distance and rigid self-control his situation necessitated made him a pariah and the subject of scorn and open mockery from a rapidly shrinking circle of friends, something he would never admit would lead him quite heavily to the drink when he was alone with his thoughts.

To his credit though, his dogged determination not to be a Caped Crusader seems to be working; he has a pretty decent job, making Journeyman wages, his uncle set him up with a pretty decent place in a decommissioned lighthouse just outside of town and he still gets to hang out with his (very Gaelic) grandpa after work most days, tinkering in his garage, watching the game or just sitting around trading the kind of wit that makes his (very Acadian, very Catholic) grandma stifle a laugh and pretend to be offended. Often strategically, so as to drown out his dad's groaning something along the lines of "Oh God, there's two of them..." and his mum's (un)subtle attempts to pry about when exactly he's gonna meet a damned girl, already.

It's not perfect, and there are some days when Duncan finds himself down, jaded and perilously alone with the drink... but it is a good life, all in all. He has a roof over his head, he has satisfying work and most importantly, he has a family that loves him. What more could a guy like him really ask for?

As it turns out, destiny has a few answers to that question.

And he is not gonna like most of them.

Story Arcs:

Act I: "The Crucible" (Semi-open)

"A Day of Infamy"

It's a completely mundane and average night in Halifax, and Duncan is just about wrapping up his shift at the Yard, putting life back into the engine of an old tug that probably should've been pulled apart for scrap when his dad was his age. Little does he realize as he sits, quietly scrubbing at an old fuel line with a length of pipe-cleaner, that something particularly nasty is headed his way in a shipping container on a freighter coming into his yard to unload.

...And that his 'normal' life is about to go right to shit.

"The Deluge" (Open)

Understandably disturbed by the idea that something like... whatever the hell that was in Halifax has been sitting under his nose for God knows how long, Luthor quickly surmises that he cannot afford to ignore this new potential threat from the north. Thus, he sends every villainous Tom, Dick and Harry he can spare up the coast and across the border to raise hell, gather intel and hopefully put this so-called 'Hero of Halifax' down before it can become a problem... leaving Duncan scrambling to deal with this new onslaught of supercrime bubbling up in his hometown and having to (begrudgingly) learn the hard way how to do this 'Hero' thing, even as he frantically claws to keep a hold of the steadily fading remnants of his 'normal' life with desperate, bleeding fingertips.

The fact that he's all over the media, and they're starting to call him things like the 'Lion of Nova Scotia' and 'Champion' is not goddamn helping.

"Every Dog has it's Day" (Open)

A new and confounding development seems to have followed our hapless Totally-Not-a-Hero home after the events of what local news is now referring to as "The Deluge"... in the most hilariously literal way imaginable-

A dog. And it refuses to leave.

Having developed something of an involuntary aversion to pets, knowing that he would most definitely accidentally turn them into paste if he pet (or, God forbid, cuddled) one with the same amount of love and meaning others do but being unwilling to kick the poor thing out into the cold, Duncan quickly finds himself in the ludicrous position of living with an extraordinarily affectionate pooch he is absolutely terrified of touching in any way.

A pooch that is apparently fast enough to show up at his work the instant he goes on break. And smart enough to figure out exactly when that is. And how to open doors. And possesses the uncanny ability to sneak into Duncan's bed when he's passed out and not fucking die due to his unconscious sleep-cuddling...

...And also might have something to do with the Tameranean space pirate hovering in low orbit over the Earth in her warship loaded with murderous aliens with all guns pointed down threatening to glass the entire east coast of North America if she doesn't get her prized, one-of-a-kind attack dog back.

Just maybe.

Supporting Characters:
Malcolm MacAodhan- Duncan's grandfather, purveyor of off-side, dry witticisms and the source of everything his grandson knows. Not exactly tall, but still built like a brick shithouse, even in his old age and absolutely covered in scars from his time in the war, old Man MacAodhan is an often crude, sarcastic old codger who balances being clever in the worst possible way with an increasingly old-fashioned style of manhood made up of equal parts honesty, stubbornness and very thinly concealed compassion.

Mari MacAodhan- Duncan's grandma, an Acadian woman of Breton stock possessing an almost impossible reserve of patience, the ability to find humour in just about anything and one hell of a singing voice, even in her advanced age; having an adorably uncanny habit of quietly humming or singing to herself as she goes about doing... well, just about anything, really. Now of course, when asked why such an adorably sweet old lady has such prolific scars around her knuckles and more noticeably, a rather large one stemming from her lips half-way up her left check, she'll just laugh it off and say call them mementos from her much more "Rowdy" youth... though that really only provides more questions than answers.

Secondary Character:
N/A

Additional Notes:

DC Unlimited iCheck

A work in progress for now, I really gotta hit the sack.

A Shit-Magnet of the Highest Order

Player Name:
Sir Lurksalot

Primary Character:
Champion... eventually.

Secret Identity:
Duncan MacAodhan

Status:
Solo, though that'll probably change with time

Age:
22

City:
Halifax, Nova Scotia

Day Job:
Diesel Mechanic at a local shipyard

Powers:
Immense Physical Prowess- Duncan is, for lack of a better way of putting it, really goddamn strong... and fast... and pretty tough to boot; able to match the physical feats of even Kryptonians under a yellow sun, though he lacks all the more fancy bits such as flight, crazy eye-lasers and the tactile telekinesis necessary to lift massive objects and not have them shatter under their own weight.

On paper, this makes him an absolute nightmare of an opponent to square off against. In practice, well...

As a guy who spends almost every hour of every day trying his damnedest to hide his abilities, he's never really tested what he can actually do with them. As such, he has no real idea what he's capable of, what his limits are or if he even has any, only the knowledge that if he does throw hands at the average person for whatever reason, they are most definitely going to die in the most gruesomely spectacular explosion of gore imaginable... and that knowledge alone is enough to make him stuff his hands in his pockets and seclude himself in a corner for most social gatherings.

Weaknesses:
While Duncan possesses Kryptonian levels of physical ability, he is still very much human; He can't fly, he still needs to breathe, possesses no form of crazy eye-lasers or freezing breath and can't survive solely off sunlight. As such, though his physiology makes him all but invulnerable to physical attacks, he is still vulnerable to poison, high voltage, or a good old fashioned drowning (or being strangled or thrown into space, depending on the opponent).

There's also the matter of just how much restraint Duncan has to exercise in his daily life. It takes an awful lot of control and effort to throw a punch effectively when you know that if you put just a teensy bit too much 'oomph!' into it, you will undoubtedly turn the other guy into scattered bits of hamburger meat. Add to that, his increasingly worrying dependence on alcohol, a pack-a-day habit, no small amount of unstated, harshly surpressed self-loathing and the fact that he hasn't had to really exercise or physically exert himself in any way since he was a teenager and we find ourselves with the unusual paradox of a man who could arm-wrestle with god-like aliens being literally as out of shape and weak as he is capable of being.

...And that's not even getting into the fact that, as previously stated, he has no idea what the fuck he's doing.

Skills:


Appearance:
To read what Duncan is physically capable of, you might picture some sort of hulking mountain of a man with bulging muscles and a jawline chiseled from granite... to actually meet the man however, you'd be disappointed and maybe a little confused- MacAodhan is not a large man. In fact, compared to what immediately comes to mind when you think 'Superhuman', he is downright tiny, standing at only 5'6" on a good day and lacking the bulging, musclebound body of proper superheroes in favour of a lean, though dense and chiseled physique closer to that of a Olympic runner, if anything, though his broad shoulders and some stubborn stains of grease on his hands make a fairly decent indicator of his blue-collar background, to which he also owes the habit of shaving his brown hair into a buzzcut, to cut deal with the heat in his workplace.

Lacking much in the way of an actual superhero costume (again, actively trying not to be a Superhero), when he does feel the need to nut up and do something somewhat heroic, Duncan simply throws on his workboots, gloves, jeans and a denim jacket over either some plain wifebeater or t-shirt, topping it all off by tying a simple black rag over his face, leaving only his hazel eyes and a bit of skin exposed and putting on an old ballcap he got from some local minor-league sports team or another.

BRIEF Bio:
Despite what one might might assume when encountering literally anyone even remotely associated with superpowers and tights, Duncan's tale is... rather mundane. Born in Halifax, Nova Scotia with a Fisherman for a father and a mother who ran a local diner, the boy in question up grew extraordinarily normally; playing videogames, staying at his grandparents' when his mom was busy at the shop and his dad was out at sea and helping his granddad out in the garage fixing cars and the occasional boat.

And then one day when he was fifteen, he got hit by a truck.

After about a good ten seconds of screaming and another thirty spent wondering why he wasn't dead, he extricated himself from the big-rig's engine-block that had wrapped around both him and the streetlight he'd been leaning against only to find that not only was he not dead, he was perfectly intact. All things considered, that's some pretty heavy shit to lay on a fifteen year old. So it's not all that surprising that when the (very) drunk trucker half staggered, half fell out of his truck at the sight of him, and sirens began echoing in the distance, the kid ran the hell out of there. A few days of trial, error and a lot of Wikipedia later, and the boy had a pretty good idea what all that was about: He was a Metahuman, a one-in-a-million carrier of a superhuman gene that may or may not activate under extreme stress (Like, for instance, getting hit by a truck while waiting for the bus). Frankly, it sounded a lot like a bunch of pseudo-science crap you'd find in an old comic book, but lacking any other explanation for his sudden... talents... it was one he'd have to accept.

Along with the many quietly uncomfortable, life-changing implications that went with it.

Now, usually, when someone finds out they've got crazy superpowers, things usually go in one of two predictable ways; one, they become a spandex-clad boy-scout that dedicates every moment of every day to having the brightest smile, rescuing cats from trees and giving lectures about the dangers of "The Reefer" and sex before marriage or two; going full ham, burning orphanages, kicking puppies and generally being real goddamn edgy just for the sake of it. But to his credit, when the young lad began to realize that he could easily snap a human being like a twig if he didn't exercise absolute restraint at all times, he quickly chose the rarely considered, oft-forgotten third option.

"Yeah... No. Fuck this."

And so, despite the call to adventure literally screaming directly into his ears, Duncan tried his best to carry on as normally as he could- getting average grades, shoveling his grandparents' driveway in the wintertime, wearily trying and failing several times to find a way to have a meaningful relationship despite his 'gifts' and working through his apprenticeship as a diesel mechanic at the local shipyard after highschool. Even while the distance and rigid self-control his situation necessitated made him a pariah and the subject of scorn and open mockery from a rapidly shrinking circle of friends, something he would never admit would lead him quite heavily to the drink when he was alone with his thoughts.

To his credit though, his dogged determination not to be a Caped Crusader seems to be working; he has a pretty decent job, making Journeyman wages, his uncle set him up with a pretty decent place in a decommissioned lighthouse just outside of town and he still gets to hang out with his (very Gaelic) grandpa after work most days, tinkering in his garage, watching the game or just sitting around trading the kind of wit that makes his (very Acadian, very Catholic) grandma stifle a laugh and pretend to be offended. Often strategically, so as to drown out his dad's groaning something along the lines of "Oh God, there's two of them..." and his mum's (un)subtle attempts to pry about when exactly he's gonna meet a damned girl, already.

It's not perfect, and there are some days when Duncan finds himself down, jaded and perilously alone with the drink... but it is a good life, all in all. He has a roof over his head, he has satisfying work and most importantly, he has a family that loves him. What more could a guy like him really ask for?

As it turns out, destiny has a few answers to that question.

And he is not gonna like many of them.

Story Arcs:
What sort of stories do you see putting your heroes into? For example, here’s what it might look like for Superman...

Supporting Characters:
This is where you’d list anybody of note from your Story Arcs. I’ll continue to use Superman and what’s above as the example…

Secondary Character:
This is simply where you put down who you want as your secondary character be it original, cannon inspired, or reimagined cannon.

Additional Notes:
Anything else you think we should know?