Current
I am going to smuggle wholesomeness into your RPs and there's not a damned thing any of you can do to stop me.
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2 yrs ago
"Bud, you're like a pizza cutter; All edge and no point!"
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2 yrs ago
Habanero ain't the spiciest pepper but it's pretty tasty on things, ya gotta admit.
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2 yrs ago
And in addition to boneless wings being overrated; Anybody who looks at sauced and tossed wings, lovingly spiced and perfectly crispy and says; 'I'mma dunk that in blue cheese' has missed the point.
@Retired Ehh... not sure the timeline me and Master Bruce worked out really meshes with that, but Static probably was around the same time Dick was, so he'd have at least heard of him.
Of course, they could just run into eachother on the road at some point and get up to some chicanery without the need for past ties. Either way, we can just play it by ear.
Should I be accepted with Static, feel free to reach out and let me know if you want your character to be one of the first stops on Virgil's tour of superheroes across America. I'm seeing a decent amount of former Leaguers and old teen heroes he could have been teammates with that would make for strong allies he'd seek out.
Hell yeah, man. I'm game for some shenanigans, considering both of our boys have had at least some time with the Titans and are the wandering type.
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________ Jason Isaac Todd _________________________________________________________ Caucasian | Mercenary/Bounty Hunter _________________________________________________________ Omaha | Nebraska | United States of America
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ►Supporting Cast: Mr. and Mrs. Henderson: Jason's neighbours from down the street. Good people. Honest folk. Have no idea what Jay does for a living or even what his real name is.
Spike: The Henderson's dog. A big ol' Husky that occasionally just shows up on Jay's porch and drops a ball or a stick at his feet. A good boy who will not be denied his belly-rubs. Has no sense of how big he actually is.
Snickers: A kitten Jay found in his barn one day that latched onto his pant-leg and refused to leave him alone until he finally relented, scooped the lost little bastard up and took him inside. It honestly took our boy a few days to realize that he was a she, and another hot minute after that to realize that she was a friggin' bobcat. Still, she has her uses; Most of the typical ne'er-do-wells or villains he occasionally has to cart around cuffed or zip-tied tend to start behaving themselves really quickly when the first thing they see after being dumped into his truck is a fully-grown friggin' bobcat staring right back at them.
...Though in all honesty, the only things Snickers has ever really been a threat to are chicken strips and Jason's personal space. -
The son of a two-bit henchman in Two Face's employ and a girl with a spectacularly poor judge of character. Jason Todd was born into the gutter and, after daddy took a 9mm lobotomy between the eyes, leading his step-mom to punt his little runt ass out onto the street the very next day, seemed destined to die in it, too.
But the universe has a weird sense of humour sometimes, and every once in a while Lady Luck rolls her eyes and deigns to go along with it's chicanery. So when the goddamned Batman himself encountered the young lad in an alley one chilly Gotham night, ten pounds underweight, garbed in moth-munched rags, clutching a tire-iron in a panicked, white-knuckled grip and looking all kinds of stunned and stupid as he stood next to a Batmobile put up on cinderblocks, our boy Jason was quite surprised that instead of getting the violent ass-whooping every part of his child imagination screamed he was about to receive, he got... a warm meal, a roof over his head, a much needed bath and a new job...
...As the new Boy Wonder.
And all things considered, he was actually pretty damn good at it. Sure, he lacked the easy charm, grace and finesse of his predecessor, but the boy was diabolically clever, tenacious, far more vicious and more than Barb, Dick and maybe even Bruce himself, had a deep, visceral understanding of the city he lived in, the people he shared it with and the crime that plagued it. Having been born into the dirt, having grown up surrounded by crooks and owning the scars, anger and chip on his shoulder to prove it.
...And to his shame, no matter how many lives he'd saved or costumed bad guys he put away while working with the Bat and, eventually, the Titans, that well of anger— that pit of raw fury— never went away. As a matter of fact it just kept on getting deeper and deeper, until it threatened to undo his home, his ties to the people he cared about and all the good work he actually did.
In hindsight, Jay would openly admit that he was a bit of an ass back then. And had Alfred not been there to snap the both of them back on track with a few choice words every now and again, he and Bruce probably would've come to blows a few times in those later years at Wayne Manor. But he was loyal. Unflinchingly, unquestionably so; Not just to Bruce, but Alfred, Barb, Dick, the Titans... hell, he even took a bullet for the Crazy Cat Lady once. Whenever they needed him to bleed, he bled. No questions, no complaints, nothing asked in return. And so eventually, horrified by what his own ego had done, Jason began to swallow his pride, put a lid on his anger and drive all that energy into fixing what he damn near broke.
Three nights of torture, a crowbar, a clown and a metric assload of C4 in a dingy warehouse in Sarajevo put an abrupt stop to all that.
Just like waking up screaming like a wild animal in a Lazarus Pit and tearing his way through the assassins of the League of Shadows who'd only been trying to help him before breaking out and plunging headlong into a gorge put him at rock-bottom. Figuratively and literally.
It took the kid a few days to recover his senses. Another week after that to get the League off his scent. And then came the really tricky part.
The climb back up.
Legally dead and with nothing to his name but what clothes he could steal, Jason began the long trek home, Selling those skills he'd learned under the Batman to pay his way. Riding alongside Bedouin nomads against a corrupt regime, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with the Peshmerga against marauding extremists in Iraq and Qurac, liberating and smuggling a little girl who had the misfortune of having a claim to the Bialyan throne out of her homeland, earning a significant vendetta against a human-trafficking ring out of the Balkans he made damned sure to settle, hunting Atlantean Army holdouts in the Amazon who'd stubbornly refused to acknowledge who won the last war, running afoul of venom-juiced drug cartels in Central America and Mexico... Every day, every leg of his journey seemingly plunged him into a new war, some new conflict of feud to get dragged into the middle of, or some new wrong he couldn't ignore. And though Jay always tried to pick the right side, wars were rarely that simple.
And he didn't always win.
But dammit, he kept on trying.
Until finally, after years of blood, tears, friends gained and lost, triumph and failure... he did it. He was finally home. He could literally see the silhouette of Wayne Manor looming over the horizon down the highway.
...But he couldn't do it.
Looking down at himself, parked on the side of the road and soaked in sweat and terror, struggling to breathe, Jason could only think about how long he'd been gone. All the things he'd done, all the hell he'd seen and the wars he'd fought and just... couldn't do it. Couldn't just waltz back into their lives with a wave and a smile like nothing had happened. What would they say? What would they think?
He was not the man Bruce, Alfred or any of the rest would have ever wanted him to be.
Hell, all things considered, he doubted he ever was.
Instead, he did a quick uey, planted the skinny pedal into the floor and peeled right the hell out of there. Clutching his steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip as his mind screamed at him to put as much distance between him and Gotham as humanly possible, only ever stopping every once in a while to hurriedly pump gas and get back on the road. Driving non-stop for a day and a half until, in his frenzy and panic, he wound up slamming his car into a ditch outside of Omaha.
Lucky for him then that it was a local farmer and his tractor that found him and not the sheriff, who, after pulling his wreck out of the ditch and seeing the state of the young man inside, all but dragged him home with him, sitting the boy down at their dinner table while his wife fussed over him to make sure the lad was alright.
It took Jason a solid day to stop shaking. Half a day after that to start talking in a manner approaching 'somewhat coherent' and finally a third day of their hospitality, sitting on their porch with a dog in his lap, burying it's head into his neck to sheepishly ask about that abandoned-looking woodland property down the road, surprising the hell out of the older couple when he went into town and bought it with solid gold bullion that very same day. Looking to all the world like after everything he'd been through, Jason Todd was finally ready to settle down into a nice, quiet life out in the mid-west.
But idle hands have a habit of finding use. And it wasn't long before our boy put himself back together and began plying his trade once again; adopting the guise of the Red Hood and marketing himself as a sort of 'Hero-for-hire'. Taking on jobs big or small, near or far and only staying in Omaha for brief stints at a time between cases— either to catch some rest, work on new projects, repair his equipment in the barn or, every so often, help his neighbours out when their cantankerous old tractor acts up or when their grandkids need a baby sitter.
Sure, he's not the man Bruce would have wanted him to be.
...But slowly and surely, little by little, he's learning to live with it.
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
Alright, so as you miiiight've picked up from my whole wall o' text up there, this version of Jason is just a bit of a departure from the usual brooding badass we all know and love. So before you get out torches and pitchforks, hear me out—
That rage and anger is still very much there, but this is a Jason that has had more time to marinate on his own failings and look inward, to be humbled by his experiences overseas, but not be completely broken by them. As, though life was undoubtedly shittier after his crow-barrening, there were light spots in between; little glimmers of victory, things he can look back on with pride and people he can remember with deserved fondness... a whole bunch of little things meshed together to keep that little light burning in his heart. And though it's not the way anybody intended or would have wanted, he's slowly becoming his own man.
To that end, I gotta admit that I haven't got much in the way of set plots for the guy— but that was always part of the plan anyway; to be the plus-one to any player character that needs a hand until fate conspires to bring him back to Gotham, either to collect on his due vendetta with the Joker, protect the family he left behind or maybe even save the Big Bad Bat from his own damned self.
So, with that in mind...
Angry aliens got you down? There's a Hood for that.
Got a creepy superpowered ex-boyfriend that won't leave you be? There's a Hood for that.
Inter-dimensional Demon Daddy knocking at your door? There's a Hood for that... but he probably ain't happy about it.
TL;DR: I'm trying to trick all of you into letting me play a secretly wholesome Red Hood. Is it working?
@PatientBean Nice. Got a working concept for a Red Hood myself.
Though less edge and more globe-trotting bad guy catcher for cash.
Also gonna add onto this in case someone's reading and wanted to play a younger Batman or Dick Grayson as a kid; I'm willing to work with ya on that.
If the GMs allow it and if need be, I can probably swing Red Hood as an OC (Alfred's son, or something like that) so that they essentially grew up as Bruce's kid brother instead of his ward. Keeps the succession of Robins clear and lets everyone play what they want. And leaves open the possibility to have some fun times in-between of the Robins unwittingly running into crazy Uncle [-character name here-], who gets very protective when the Joker starts having a go at them.
Just an example. But my point is, hit me up, we'll brainstorm some stuff and make it work.
Ya know, Vic and Wally probably thought they were pulling a fast one by calling everyone to the lobby this early. With some of their pupils still various shades of purple and blue from recent run-ins with less-than-savory sorts on the job, a good chunk more with their costumes in varied states of disheveled and disarrayed, having clearly put them on in a rush and pretty much all of them looking like they'd much rather be sleeping in right about now. Honestly, it was a pretty solid plan straight out of a drill instructor's playbook; catch 'em bright and early when they least wanna be doing something so it'd stick harder.
Good plan.
Solid plan.
Joke was on them though— Mal brought coffee. Happily slurping away at his thermos as he followed the assorted assemblage of tights, capes and primary colours through the halls and down into the depths of the tower.
Truth be told, this would be his first time being around pretty much any of them— not that the teen'd gone out of his way to avoid them, mind you, just that his time at the Academy had mostly been spent sequestered away from the rest of the students on what they referred to as an 'Altered Curriculum'. Mostly tests to see how strong, fast or tough he was with his magic glowing bits active, followed by meditation sessions to try and wrangle better control of his magic glowing bits, broken up by once-a-week boom trips out to wide open places with not a lot of people like the Atacama or the Mojave for a little bit of 'Light Sparring' with Wally to put all he'd learned about his magic glowing bits into practice.
...'Light Sparring', of course, roughly translating to 'Getting His Face Pushed In'. Because as fast as he was with his glow on, it still felt like he was chasing after Usain Bolt clad in rocket skates while wading through a sea of cold molasses. And no amount of weights, cardio or chanted mantras earlier that day would ever negate the fact that the fist of a guy moving at approximately Mach Turkey was always going to suck when it made impact with your face.
All of this was probably to make sure they had a good read on the kid before unleashing him on the rest of student populace. Which, y'know, fair— He did get a little spooky the last time he was in a serious fight, after all... though it didn't change the fact that most of the capes in the building probably thought he was just an intern or something, with how often he was tinkering in the garage or about the place as an extra set of hands for the support staff when he wasn't lifting, running or getting repeatedly punched in the face.
Which was... something he was perfectly fine with, honestly. After how the news and the internet covered that little 'incident' of his in Halifax, he was pretty sure he didn't want that kind of attention anyhow.
But back to the matter at hand, as they all entered into the observation deck with the big... super-science... thingamajig up front. Malcolm stuck more to the rear, leaning beside one of the observation ports and sipping at his coffee more quietly now to be polite as the big red guy up front— Arsenal— explained where they were, why they were there and what the thingamajig was for.
The young man's head actually cocked to the side a bit at what he heard, brow raising sightly. Just a bit incredulously, in fact.
'Huh... so it's a matter transducer for clothes.'
Seemed to him a bit of a waste to use something like that for new duds, but, well, all he had to do was really cast an eye down at his own damned self to stop from saying anything about it. Garbed in one of the (many) flightsuits his uncle had 'forgotten to return' after leaving the RCAF, with all the patches removed and tailored for a man much taller and much lankier than he; making the thing look all at once too big, too small and really kind of ridiculous on him. Truth be told, Mal had actually looked into maybe getting a generic onesie or something that could survive his semi-weekly ass-whoopings at the hands of the Flash— but, just like he overheard someone in the crowd in front of him mention, Super-Suits be expensive, yo. So he was more than happy to save his wallet and get one basically for free.
Like seriously, he could buy a half-decent used car for that kinda cash. One that still had a working reverse gear and everything.
Taking a another sip, Mal's brow furrowed a bit at everything else good ol' Mr. Harper was saying, and the implications thereof with him being present; namely, he guessed, that this'd be the day that he'd start training with the other students... most of whom— as mentioned earlier— he hadn't even spoken two words to before, though there was a few he knew at least by reputation.
Like the first two up; the one with the pink hair could only be Shattercrash— someone he didn't know, but she seemed alright— and Shuriken; someone he'd actually had met, though very, very briefly after waking up at the Academy for the first time... or more accurately, the first time he was both cognizant of it and not actively dying. Peppy, cheerful, kinda reminded him of his little sister if he was being honest. Albeit, with a lot more pointy things.
Next up— Mal actually caught a break and overheard the name this time— was Oracle. Hadn't spoken a word to her, either, but he still fired a snappy finger-gun of approval over a mouthful of coffee her way when she asked the crowd how she looked. Seemed the right thing to do.
After that... Fat Man?He could probably guess which one was Fat Man.
Chemax was kicking around in the midst as well; really hard to miss the mass of metal and green gel as he came bursting through the door, having visibly run full-tilt the whole way there. That was one Mal'd met before, on the bus to the local supermarket, though he doubted the jolly green alien would remember as it was so innocuous. ME was a bit loud, and maybe just a little odd, but Mal actually liked the alien; his heart was in the right place— Err... or whatever analogue for one ME had, the lad didn't really know.
The guy in white to his front and a bit to the left? Probably The Shield. Another decent sort from what he'd heard; determined, focused, pretty much the gung-ho hero straight outta the cereal box but... maaaaaaybe just a little bit anime protag dense, going off his interactions with the girl beside him.
As for the girl herself? Apparition, and he knew he was getting that one right. Mal wouldn't say he'd met her, so much as he'd been in the same room as her once or twice; polite enough, he guessed, but there was something always just a bit... off about the girl, though he could never put his fin-NAKED. SHE WAS CURRENTLY NAKED.
Very suddenly, the boy's eyes snapped directly to the ceiling even as he damn-near choked on his coffee.
'Hello, Mr. Ceiling! How ya doin'? Mind if I just stare at'cha for a bit? Thank you, sir!'
There, they remained for a solid few minutes before they slowly lowered down the more comfortable he became that the coast was indeed clear. And even then, that did nothing to stem the slight tinge of rose on the lad's cheeks as he cleared his throat, took another long swig of his java and pointedly made sure he was looking at no one in particular as the words almost involuntarily slipped out of his mouth.
"Well, that's gonna be in there for a while."
A deep exhale followed that statement, followed by a shake of the head and one final gulp of caffeine before turning to look outside it to watch the fight and try and distract himself from what he'd just seen. Not that it was anything unpleasant mind you— far from it— But, well, call him 'Old Fashioned' if ya must, but our boy Malcolm was raised not to perv on girls mid-wardrobe-malfunction. Superpowers and funky stuff be damned.
Helluva way to start the day though, he'd have to admit.
Sure as heck woke him up way more than the coffee had.
Name: Einion Malcolm Camlann (Though he hates his first name and just uses the middle, or goes by 'Mal') Alias: Wally calls him 'Champ', if that counts? Age: 18 Mentor: Flash (with occasional help from third parties) Status: Part-time Personality:
Reserved, (Surprisingly) Clever, but Genuine: A frank, hard-working and generally uncomplicated young man, Malcolm's never been one to posture or make illusions about being something he's not— No dreams of making it big on the silver or small screen, rising to some political office or climbing any corporate ladders to fame and fortune ever really able to make purchase in his noggin when he so greatly preferred the simplicity of working with his hands, coming home to mom's cooking and maybe having the family dog pass out on his lap while melting his own brain in front of the idiot box. Nor has he ever really been one to kick up a fuss or wear his feelings on his sleeve, a close relationship with his dad, grandparents, many of his uncles, the regulars at the local Legion Hall and all the wars he grew up hearing about having firmly imparted the (maybe a bit unhealthy) idea in his head that life just tends to dropkick you out of nowhere sometimes, and that it's the responsible thing to go out deal with problems as best you can, help others with theirs where you're able and above all, don't add to someone else's burden... And considering he now shares company with a guy that got so mangled he's now mostly robot, a dude that has to hurt himself on a daily basis to help others and an actual friggin' werewolf, he's entirely likely to keep mum about whatever bothers him for a while yet. Any of his personal worries and woes kind of seeming like whining by comparison.
...Not to say he's a complete introvert however. And anyone who actually tries to get a word in with him will find he's actually pretty easygoing, generally good-natured and actually a bit charming in his own way. As well as deceptively clever; happy to play the lower-class bumpkin grease-monkey just long enough to strike someone supposedly 'better' than him down a few pegs with a sharp word or expertly timed comment when provoked.
Experience: A month or so of tests and training... and those literal fifteen minutes against Bizarro. Powers:
Magic Circuit: Appearing as an intricate series of glowing woad tattoos across Mal's body when activated, this appears to be the source of his 'powers'. Vastly boosting his physical strength, speed and durability into the realms of kryptonian ability. Though he won't be keeping pace with powerhouses like Superman or Captain Marvel in the gym anytime soon, as far as the academy's experts can tell, the whole thing acts like an extra muscle-group; in that, the more he uses it, the more it will develop and the more potent it will become, possibly granting him more conscious control of those other feats he displayed while fighting Bizarro as well.
...As to where he got it— as the Academy's experts were quick to point out, that this isn't something someone can be born with, this was very purposefully done to him— he hasn't the slightest idea.
Battle-Trance: At first believed to be some kind of 'Berserker State', causing no small amount of alarm to the Academy, further analysis of what footage there was about the whole incident in Halifax, examination and greater understanding about how the boy's magical circuit and acknowledging the simple fact that a truly mindless berserker wouldn't have abruptly stopped like Mal had the minute helped arrived and his opponent was no longer a threat. Instead, noting it as some kind of 'Battle-Trance', it's been observed that the kid's first (and so far, only) dip into this state did not make him necessarily more durable— which makes sense, as he would still be running off the same Magic Circuit as noted above— it did, however allow him to simply ignore the many broken bones and grievous injuries inflicted upon him and keep on going, as well providing a handy blueprint of what he may actually be capable of.
Firstly, and most obviously was a bright, spectral blue light that engulfed his body so completely that right up until the end of his 'debut', the most anyone could see of him was a silhouette of a person wreathed in cerulean flame and covered head-to-toe in glowing tattoos. Secondly, was the effect the boy had on the weather; with the skies spontaneously darkening into a storm and generating both gale-force winds and lightning that struck him several times which, not only didn't seem to harm him in the least, but our Rookie was actually able to weaponize against his foe; either by redirecting it right at him or seemingly 'holding onto it' and slamming it into him with his fist. Thirdly, that the majority of that encounter took place in the air, implying that the boy can in fact, actually fly.
All that said, and though study of his Magic Circuit shows that he should already be capable of such things, Malcolm has yet been unable to replicate any of these feats in a controlled environment and can't even remember anything about it.
...Though, as one researcher pointed out, nobody's tried throwing another semi at his little sister yet.
Skills:
Polyglot: Speaks Gaelic, Quebecois and Acadian to his mom's family, Welsh and Cornish to his dad's and all five at the same time to confuse the hell out of telemarketers and scam-callers.
Mechanic/Metalworker: And actually a damn good one at that, quietly whittling away his free time elbow deep in engine grease and motor oil repairing anything from little outboard motors, to motorcycles to big damn diesel engine blocks out of fishing boats with the kind of deft skill that only comes from raw talent and a lifetime of practice. Has also been known to fabricate his own parts when need be by either lathe, casting or even by hammer, anvil and a bit of welding.
Handy: Also pretty good around his house and the Academy, able to fix anything from TVs, air-conditioners, heaters, fridges, furnaces and plumbing with the same kind of deft skill he does with cars.
Outdoor Survival: Knows how to hunt, trap, build shelter and actually thrive deep innawoods. Something he used to do as a kid with his Grampa for fun during summer break.
Weaknesses:
Not Invulnerable: While extraordinarily durable, Mal is far from invincible. And any opponent in his same weight class or higher can put him into the ground. It should also be noted that the boy still needs to breathe in order to keep on living, so it's entirely possible to drown him, choke him, or poison him with toxic gasses.
Activated Abilities: It goes without saying but when his circuit isn't active, Mal is, essentially, just a normal teenager. A surprise attack or bullet to the brain while his glowy-bits aren't doing their thing will put him down just as quickly as it would anyone else.
Lack of Experience: It might be a little obvious, but Mal... doesn't actually know what the hell he's doing. And that inexperience is bound to get him into trouble at some point.
Appearance:
Unlike much of the rest of the cast, Mal ain't exactly anything special to look at; Yeah, sure he's not horribly deformed or anything like that, he's just... well, not the downright supermodel hot most kinda expect from their superheroes— though he'd honestly clean up really goddamn well if he ever really bothered to put in the effort. Standing at around 5'8", with brown hair with just a tinge of the ginge, green eyes and a scar running over his brow from a hiking trip out in Wales with his cousins when he was a boy and another over his cheek, the more physical nature of Mal's upbringing and his work on his dad's boat have actually kept the boy in pretty (to say the absolute least) decent shape— giving him the kind of extraordinarily powerful physique that only comes from a lifetime of hard work and use instead of careful tailoring in a gym the same way a body-builder in a contest would, with an emphasis on function over form. Though truth be told, few would ever see this with how little the guy has ever really been apt to show off, even before he started occasionally breaking out in weird, glowing tattoos.
...Never mind the scarring here and there that even the best of superheroic medicine couldn't quite make go away and the mysterious symbol that's been half tattooed, half carved into his chest since that fateful fifteen minutes against a mad Kryptonian clone that's made Mal even less likely to shed his shirt in front of complete strangers than he normally would be.
BRIEF Bio: Einion (which he despises being called) had a relatively normal life compared to the rest of the Titans crew. Mum ran a successful diner on the Halifax waterfront, Dad took up the family trade as a fisherman after he came back from the army (the other family trade) and he was the middle of three kids with an older brother named Cynan (or just 'Kay') and a little sister Gwendolyn (or just 'Gwen'). Spending his early years largely being watched over by his grandparents, uncles and all the old codgers in the Legion Hall while dad was off fighting in Afghanistan and mom was busy at work, the kid would find his calling in life quite quickly after being exposed to a bunch of retired and very bored army engineers therein where he would steadily graduate from being the tiniest bartender that establishment ever employed, to being an extra set of hands on their home projects to finally being the kid they called to fix damn near everything when they got too old to keep it up themselves because they'd already taught him to fix damn near anything.
'Cept of course for when dad was home on leave. That's when he and Gwen would spend basically every waking hour they could latched to the man to try and keep him home while Kay attempted every subterfuge and sabotage he could think of to try and distract the guy enough not to pick up the phone when the Department of National Defence began calling about redeployment.
Let it be known that the trio finally won out in the end. On Gwen's birthday of all things, when dad came home and said he was staying for good now.
Life continued as normal after that, but on a significant upswing. With our boy Mal having a generally uneventful yet happy time, barring a few hiccups here and there, like that time he accidentally discovered an old ruin while hiking with some cousins in Wales— namely by falling through a roof he didn't know he was standing on and damn near braining himself on the way down, or somehow making a mortal enemy of the kid two grades up from him whose dad owned a karate dojo, several championship titles and an already existing grudge against his own anyway. He got relatively decent grades, worked more projects for his family and friends and would eventually go on to work two summers on the boat with his dad and brother where he served as the custodian to a particularly cantankerous old diesel engine from the 40's.
It was during the latest of these excursions that his brother was lost at sea, ripped off the deck and into the drink by a rogue wave. And though he put on a brave face for his mum, sister and a father absolutely destroyed by guilt, Mal became noticeably more withdrawn and quiet. Still going through the motions, going to school, working on the boat now moored in the harbour and any other project that came his way but... dispassionately. Mechanically, and without the enthusiasm for his work he'd had for it basically his entire life.
Small wonder then, when, walking down to the harbour with Gwen to bring his dad lunch just shy of a year later, the day some lunatic had the brilliant idea of smuggling Bizarro into North America in a shipping container by way of Halifax to avoid the more heavily monitored American ports to the south. When there was a sudden explosion, an ungodly loud war cry, where Mal didn't know sweet-eff-and-all about whether his mom and dad were safe, and the only thing he could see was the abandoned semi-truck hurtling through the air like a child's toy about to turn him and his sister into hamburger meat that something snapped.
He doesn't remember what he did.
Hell, he barely believes what he's been told he did.
But by the time proper help of the spandex and cape variety showed up, they apparently found the Kryptonian clone curled up in the fetal position, bloodied, battered, bruised and so outright terrified he scampered to hide behind them as they arrived with tears in his eyes begging for help. Mal, for his part, well... as scared as Bizarro was of him, he was still a clone of freaking Superman. So once the boy abruptly stopped attacking when they arrived and more importantly, stopped glowing so they could see the absolutely mangled state he was in, they grabbed the kid and boomed him back to the Academy's medical wing. Where he would spend the next two weeks in a coma (and at one point, actually dead), and another week after that under observation in a punch-drunk haze with a concussion that seemingly left him violently vomiting, convulsing and having a seizure every other hour.
When he finally began to recover, or at least, could actually respond to questions, Wally and Vic finally approached the topic of him being part of the Academy. If not as an actual crimefighter, then to at least to help him figure out just what the hell was happening to him.
Long story short, he agreed. And has been popping over to the Titans' place after school and on weekends via a Boom Tube Cyborg set up in his garage ever since.
Notes:
Mal's parents, despite the norm for these kinds of things, are actually both aware of his new extracurricular activities and somewhat supportive of it. Occasionally sending him through with things like fresh fish, lobster tail, donairs and at least one colossal five pound block of homemade maple fudge the one time he made an off-hand mention about how speedsters are with calories.
He occasionally pops through with little projects to work on in his spare time. Appliances, bikes, lawnmowers... that kinda thing.
Though he has no active memory of his little tussle with Bizarro, Mal does get little flashes of the whole affair here and there when he's dreaming. With phantom pains once in a while as an added bonus, though that, according to the experts, makes some sense with the kind of beating he took and they've prescribed him some pills to help him deal with it.
Despite himself, the cold night wind caught him a bit off guard, making the lad to mutter a curse under his breath and pull his denim jacket just a bit tighter around himself. Though of course he had nobody to blame but himself— After all, what kind of idiot would decide they needed a breather on the goddamned roof half-way past god-be-dead o'clock at night just because they couldn't get any sleep?
'This guy, apparently...' Mal answered for himself in his own head, hugging his thermos tighter to himself as he shut the door behind him, before stepping out onto the roof proper and having a look around; finding the edges of the place demarcated by a steel railing, with some benches scattered and even a little green space— a bit of grass, a few knee-high saplings and a moderately-sized apple tree planted by someone who clearly had plans to keep this place going a while. Good signs that people were meant to be up here, so hopefully he wouldn't be breaking any rules with his insomniac wanderings.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly, the boy quietly walked straight passed the benches and all the places clearly meant for sitting and parked his tuckus down on the soft grass under that tree— a granny smith, now that he could get a good look at it— and took the moment to zip up his jacket before cracking open up that thermos to pour himself a cup of, ironically, hot apple cider.
It'd been a day... no, scratch that, three weeks that he'd been here. Today was just the first day he wasn't dying, dead or violently vomiting or hemorrhaging as his body protested not staying dead and had the privilege of actually being conscious of the world around him. Where he could ask questions like "Where am I?" and "Why am I here?", ya know, the sensible things. Which he regretted almost immediately because superheroes are generally an honest sort and so told him absolutely everything. Hell, they even showed him videos.
Plural.
He didn't say much at the time, but honestly, that freaked him right the hell out. So much so that he could only nod along numbly when Flash and Cyborg asked if they could keep him around a few more days, just to make sure he didn't drop dead.... again. Which of course, was another thing for him to quietly freak out about; the fact that he'd very likely have stayed dead had the chiefs not called their old friend Raven to stitch him back together with magic— a process that itself proved to be a bit dicey as, apparently, her magic didn't play too well with his own (whatever that meant), making it a slow process. With her having to apparently hover over him the whole time he was out, this woman he hadn't actually met yet.
'Gotta get her a gift or... something. The boy thought, eyes casting down toward his cider and drawing an absolute blank on what exactly he'd even get someone like that to say 'Thanks'. Not exactly something he could half-ass after all the... unpleasantness the boy had probably put her through the whole while.
Shaking his head in frustration, he lowered the cup and sighed. He'd probably have to ask Cyborg or Flash about that in the morning and, frankly, he was a little worried they might start pitching him the idea of becoming a frequent visitor here. And, well, while he was grateful for everything they did— hell, they even got in touch with his parents while he was out and set up a boom... tube... emitter?— A thing that teleports stuff in his family's garage so that they could come and check up on him and so that they, the Titans, could check up on them and make sure they were alright; It was why he had these clothes, and a thermos full of his grandma's cider and all these comforts during this last stint of his recovery. And he'd always be grateful to Flash and Cyborg for that.
But he'd met some of the other people here— A Werewolf son of a Senator, an ex villainess who could grow flaming wings at will, an actual ninja and an honest-to-God Prince of the friggin' Ocean.
He didn't belong here.
He couldn't belong here.
He...
He...
The sudden appearance of a blue light derailed that train of thought, as his eyes cast downward to see the intricate glowing lines and patterns he'd been encountering on and off all day weaving their way across his hands. Gently tugging his sleeve back revealed his arm had already been thusly marked. And looking into his drink itself, he could already see the glow of the markings on his face glinting in the cider's surface. Calmly, he lowered the cup to rest against his other palm, closed his eyes, and steadied his breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth— just like he'd been instructed in those meditation aides his blue-cloaked caregiver had left for him before she left— until, eventually, it passed.
For a solid few minutes more, he sat there in silence. Something resembling a frustrated snarl attempting to form on his face before finally, his features just drooped in a look of abject defeat.
"Dammit..."
"Ya know, if you don't drink that stuff soon, it's gonna get cold." Came a voice from off to his side, making the boy's head snap around nearly right off his neck and his eyes to lock onto... some red-headed guy in plain clothes just casually standing there with his hands in his pockets.
He could've sworn he'd heard that voice somewhere before, though...
...
...
'...Waitaminute.'
"...Flash?" Mal asked awkwardly and just a bit confused.
"I don't sleep in the costume, y'know— well, not usually." The speedster replied with a little chuckle at his own expense as he stepped forward, eyes flicking down to the cup in the teen's hands. "That your granny's cider?"
"Uh... yeah." Mal said, offering up the as-yet unused cup "Want some?"
"Heck yeah, if you're offering." The hero replied, casually walking over, taking the offered vessel and plopping down on the grass next to the denim-clad lad to take a drink. Who, for his part, just cracked open the thermos again and took a swig right from the source.
A minute or two passed between the two in comfortable silence, broken only by the wind and the chirping of distant crickets.
"So..." Flash finally spoke up. "What's got you up here brooding like a bat, anyway?"
"Eh. You know, long day and all that." Mal replied, averting his eyes slightly. Something the fastest man alive caught onto immediately.
"C'mooooon, I promise I won't share your super-secret Batman thoughts with anybody." Wally continued, giving the kid a light jab to the ribs with his elbow, before comically puffing out his chest and raising his free hand in an Eagle Scout's salute. "Scout's honour."
The young man just about choked on his drink from that sudden jolt to the ribcage, shooting a glare the his assailant, though he couldn't find it in him to be mad at the grinning goofball. Who was, weirdly starting to make him grin just a bit himself... well, between the coughing and sputtering.
Seriously, took him a solid half minute to clear his throat. Flash actually had to give him a few cautious pats on the back to make sure he was alright there.
"Well..." He began, after finally getting the appropriate amount of air into his lungs. "There is the whole thing where I— y'know— died."
He had to pause for one last cough.
"Like... Kaput. Donezo. The fat lady has shut her yap, gotten off the stage and fallen into a six-foot hole in the ground. DEAD!" He continued, taking another sip. "I mean that's... that's a hell of a thing, right?"
"Oh yeah, No. That one makes sense. And it's always one heck of a mess to have just kicking around in the back of your head for any amount of time."
At the confused look the Canuck gave him for that comment, the off-duty speedster just poked himself in the chest and mouthed the words; 'Super Hero'.
"Oh."
"Yeah. Trust me dude, I get'cha on that and I'm here for ya... But, uhh... that's not all that's bugging you is it?"
Mal paused, brow furrowing slightly.
"Well..."
...And looked away again. That chipper casual mood that seemed to grow between them seemingly dead in that moment.
"...There's also the whole thing about being a magically charged, ticking time-bomb that could potentially flatten my hometown in a blind rage if I'm not careful."
Ah, the markings were back. Even brighter than before. A pretty good sign that this was what was really bugging the kid. Raising a brow at this as he polished off his cup with one final gulp he let out a little belch into the back of his hand, scratched his chin a little and, met that statement with his usual tact.
"Nah."
And held out his cup for a refill.
In response, the younger man— still glowing, mind you— just stared back at his senior incredulously.
"...What?"
"Nah." The Flash reaffirmed without skipping a beat, now shaking his cup slightly to emphasize that he wanted more cider. Which, to his credit, seemed to work as the teen both stopped glowing and actually complied with filling the cup.
But not without a look that seemed to demand he elaborate on that point.
And after a long gulp, the ginger complied.
"Man, I have fought berserk robots, berserk aliens, berserk magical monsters... berserk robotic alien magical monsters. The whole wide and multi-flavoured spectrum of every big angry thing you can even start to think of." Flash explained, tone actually serious for the first time in this entire conversation, though his vocabulary stayed the same. "Do you know what basically all of those things have in common?"
Mal shook his head no, not entirely understanding where the man was going with this.
"Not one of them would deliberately take a hit to save a complete stranger." He continued, lowering his cup. "I've had three weeks and no concussions to go over all those videos and all the evidence, and you... whether that was another you for all of that or actually you and you just don't remember from all the hits to the head, well..."
Slumping back against the tree, he took another sip and continued in an even tone.
"You were never our prisoner here, Malcolm. And we didn't offer you a spot here to spy on you, contain you, or because we think you're dangerous, but... because it honestly looks like you could use some help. And that's kind of our whole bag."
Huh.
The teen had to actually look down in embarrassment, feeling kinda silly about the whole thing after that.
"Oh, uhh... thanks." He said, scratching the back of his neck and trying to look anywhere but at his would-be mentor. "But I mean, some of your students here; the senator's son, the corporate princess, the actual Prince... these types of people were already kind of— y'know— exceptional to begin with. Do I really belong here? I mean, I'm literally just some guy."
"What a coincidence, so was I." The speedster chirped back without missing a step, grinning a little. "...Unless of course, you think I just came bursting out of the maternity ward and started chasing bad guys in my red and gold huggies."
Both of them burst into a healthy laugh at that, even if the joke itself wasn't that great. Followed by a few good minutes of recovery afterward.
"...And for the record, man, you're not just some guy." The redhead continued, after catching his breath. "You're some guy that saved around half a million people in fifteen minutes."
The hero gave the teen one last (gentler) elbow to the side to emphasize his point.
"And I think that's pretty exceptional, don't you?"
"Yeah... yeah. I honestly hadn't thought about it like that."
The ginger smirked. Before glancing down at his watch.
"Aaaanyway, I really ought'a head to bed. Mind if I take this with me? I'll throw it in the dishwasher in the morning." He said, pointing at his still half-full cup as he stood.
"Yeah, go ahead man."
"Sweet, thanks! Have a good night Champ."
"You too... Flash." The teen responded, though he tripped over his own tongue for a second there as his brain still registered that as a damned weird thing to say out loud.
He got an oddly sympathetic snort in response, before the retreating for called over it's shoulder.
Figured I'd throw this CS here while I finish it up. Tear apart as ye will. XD
Name: Einion Malcolm Camlann (Though he hates his first name and just uses the middle, or goes by 'Mal') Alias: Wally calls him 'Champ', if that counts? Age: 18 Mentor: Flash (with occasional help from third parties) Status: Part-time Personality:
Reserved, (Surprisingly) Clever, but Genuine: A frank, hard-working and generally uncomplicated young man, Malcolm's never been one to posture or make illusions about being something he's not— No dreams of making it big on the silver or small screen, rising to some political office or climbing any corporate ladders to fame and fortune ever really able to make purchase in his noggin when he so greatly preferred the simplicity of working with his hands, coming home to mom's cooking and maybe having the family dog pass out on his lap while melting his own brain in front of the idiot box. Nor has he ever really been one to kick up a fuss or wear his feelings on his sleeve, a close relationship with his dad, grandparents, many of his uncles, the regulars at the local Legion Hall and all the wars he grew up hearing about having firmly imparted the (maybe a bit unhealthy) idea in his head that life just tends to dropkick you out of nowhere sometimes, and that it's the responsible thing to go out deal with problems as best you can, help others with theirs where you're able and above all, don't add to someone else's burden... And considering he now shares company with a guy that got so mangled he's now mostly robot, a dude that has to hurt himself on a daily basis to help others and an actual friggin' werewolf, he's entirely likely to keep mum about whatever bothers him for a while yet. Any of his personal worries and woes kind of seeming like whining by comparison.
...Not to say he's a complete introvert however. And anyone who actually tries to get a word in with him will find he's actually pretty easygoing, generally good-natured and actually a bit charming in his own way. As well as deceptively clever; happy to play the lower-class bumpkin grease-monkey just long enough to strike someone supposedly 'better' than him down a few pegs with a sharp word or expertly timed comment when provoked.
Experience: A month or so of tests and training... and those literal fifteen minutes against Bizarro. Powers:
Magic Circuit: Appearing as an intricate series of glowing woad tattoos across Mal's body when activated, this appears to be the source of his 'powers'. Vastly boosting his physical strength, speed and durability into the realms of kryptonian ability. Though he won't be keeping pace with powerhouses like Superman or Captain Marvel in the gym anytime soon, as far as the academy's experts can tell, the whole thing acts like an extra muscle-group; in that, the more he uses it, the more it will develop and the more potent it will become, possibly granting him more conscious control of those other feats he displayed while fighting Bizarro as well.
...As to where he got it— as the Academy's experts were quick to point out, that this isn't something someone can be born with, this was very purposefully done to him— he hasn't the slightest idea.
Battle-Trance: At first believed to be some kind of 'Berserker State', causing no small amount of alarm to the Academy, further analysis of what footage there was about the whole incident in Halifax, examination and greater understanding about how the boy's magical circuit and acknowledging the simple fact that a truly mindless berserker wouldn't have abruptly stopped like Mal had the minute helped arrived and his opponent was no longer a threat. Instead, noting it as some kind of 'Battle-Trance', it's been observed that the kid's first (and so far, only) dip into this state did not make him necessarily more durable— which makes sense, as he would still be running off the same Magic Circuit as noted above— it did, however allow him to simply ignore the many broken bones and grievous injuries inflicted upon him and keep on going, as well providing a handy blueprint of what he may actually be capable of.
Firstly, and most obviously was a bright, spectral blue light that engulfed his body so completely that right up until the end of his 'debut', the most anyone could see of him was a silhouette of a person wreathed in cerulean flame and covered head-to-toe in glowing tattoos. Secondly, was the effect the boy had on the weather; with the skies spontaneously darkening into a storm and generating both gale-force winds and lightning that struck him several times which, not only didn't seem to harm him in the least, but our Rookie was actually able to weaponize against his foe; either by redirecting it right at him or seemingly 'holding onto it' and slamming it into him with his fist. Thirdly, that the majority of that encounter took place in the air, implying that the boy can in fact, actually fly.
All that said, and though study of his Magic Circuit shows that he should already be capable of such things, Malcolm has yet been unable to replicate any of these feats in a controlled environment and can't even remember anything about it.
...Though, as one researcher pointed out, nobody's tried throwing another semi at his little sister yet.
Skills:
Polyglot: Speaks Gaelic, Quebecois and Acadian to his mom's family, Welsh and Cornish to his dad's and all five at the same time to confuse the hell out of telemarketers and scam-callers.
Mechanic/Metalworker: And actually a damn good one at that, quietly whittling away his free time elbow deep in engine grease and motor oil repairing anything from little outboard motors, to motorcycles to big damn diesel engine blocks out of fishing boats with the kind of deft skill that only comes from raw talent and a lifetime of practice. Has also been known to fabricate his own parts when need be by either lathe, casting or even by hammer, anvil and a bit of welding.
Handy: Also pretty good around his house and the Academy, able to fix anything from TVs, air-conditioners, heaters, fridges, furnaces and plumbing with the same kind of deft skill he does with cars.
Outdoor Survival: Knows how to hunt, trap, build shelter and actually thrive deep innawoods. Something he used to do as a kid with his Grampa for fun during summer break.
Weaknesses:
Not Invulnerable: While extraordinarily durable, Mal is far from invincible. And any opponent in his same weight class or higher can put him into the ground. It should also be noted that the boy still needs to breathe in order to keep on living, so it's entirely possible to drown him, choke him, or poison him with toxic gasses.
Activated Abilities: It goes without saying but when his circuit isn't active, Mal is, essentially, just a normal teenager. A surprise attack or bullet to the brain while his glowy-bits aren't doing their thing will put him down just as quickly as it would anyone else.
Lack of Experience: It might be a little obvious, but Mal... doesn't actually know what the hell he's doing. And that inexperience is bound to get him into trouble at some point.
Appearance:
Unlike much of the rest of the cast, Mal ain't exactly anything special to look at; Yeah, sure he's not horribly deformed or anything like that, he's just... well, not the downright supermodel hot most kinda expect from their superheroes— though he'd honestly clean up really goddamn well if he ever really bothered to put in the effort. Standing at around 5'8", with brown hair with just a tinge of the ginge, green eyes and a scar running over his brow from a hiking trip out in Wales with his cousins when he was a boy and another over his cheek, the more physical nature of Mal's upbringing and his work on his dad's boat have actually kept the boy in pretty (to say the absolute least) decent shape— giving him the kind of extraordinarily powerful physique that only comes from a lifetime of hard work and use instead of careful tailoring in a gym the same way a body-builder in a contest would, with an emphasis on function over form. Though truth be told, few would ever see this with how little the guy has ever really been apt to show off, even before he started occasionally breaking out in weird, glowing tattoos.
...Never mind the scarring here and there that even the best of superheroic medicine couldn't quite make go away and the mysterious symbol that's been half tattooed, half carved into his chest since that fateful fifteen minutes against a mad Kryptonian clone that's made Mal even less likely to shed his shirt in front of complete strangers than he normally would be.
BRIEF Bio: Einion (which he despises being called) had a relatively normal life compared to the rest of the Titans crew. Mum ran a successful diner on the Halifax waterfront, Dad took up the family trade as a fisherman after he came back from the army (the other family trade) and he was the middle of three kids with an older brother named Cynan (or just 'Kay') and a little sister Gwendolyn (or just 'Gwen'). Spending his early years largely being watched over by his grandparents, uncles and all the old codgers in the Legion Hall while dad was off fighting in Afghanistan and mom was busy at work, the kid would find his calling in life quite quickly after being exposed to a bunch of retired and very bored army engineers therein where he would steadily graduate from being the tiniest bartender that establishment ever employed, to being an extra set of hands on their home projects to finally being the kid they called to fix damn near everything when they got too old to keep it up themselves because they'd already taught him to fix damn near anything.
'Cept of course for when dad was home on leave. That's when he and Gwen would spend basically every waking hour they could latched to the man to try and keep him home while Kay attempted every subterfuge and sabotage he could think of to try and distract the guy enough not to pick up the phone when the Department of National Defence began calling about redeployment.
Let it be known that the trio finally won out in the end. On Gwen's birthday of all things, when dad came home and said he was staying for good now.
Life continued as normal after that, but on a significant upswing. With our boy Mal having a generally uneventful yet happy time, barring a few hiccups here and there, like that time he accidentally discovered an old ruin while hiking with some cousins in Wales— namely by falling through a roof he didn't know he was standing on and damn near braining himself on the way down, or somehow making a mortal enemy of the kid two grades up from him whose dad owned a karate dojo, several championship titles and an already existing grudge against his own anyway. He got relatively decent grades, worked more projects for his family and friends and would eventually go on to work two summers on the boat with his dad and brother where he served as the custodian to a particularly cantankerous old diesel engine from the 40's.
It was during the latest of these excursions that his brother was lost at sea, ripped off the deck and into the drink by a rogue wave. And though he put on a brave face for his mum, sister and a father absolutely destroyed by guilt, Mal became noticeably more withdrawn and quiet. Still going through the motions, going to school, working on the boat now moored in the harbour and any other project that came his way but... dispassionately. Mechanically, and without the enthusiasm for his work he'd had for it basically his entire life.
Small wonder then, when, walking down to the harbour with Gwen to bring his dad lunch just shy of a year later, the day some lunatic had the brilliant idea of smuggling Bizarro into North America in a shipping container by way of Halifax to avoid the more heavily monitored American ports to the south. When there was a sudden explosion, an ungodly loud war cry, where Mal didn't know sweet-eff-and-all about whether his mom and dad were safe, and the only thing he could see was the abandoned semi-truck hurtling through the air like a child's toy about to turn him and his sister into hamburger meat that something snapped.
He doesn't remember what he did.
Hell, he barely believes what he's been told he did.
But by the time proper help of the spandex and cape variety showed up, they apparently found the Kryptonian clone curled up in the fetal position, bloodied, battered, bruised and so outright terrified he scampered to hide behind them as they arrived with tears in his eyes begging for help. Mal, for his part, well... as scared as Bizarro was of him, he was still a clone of freaking Superman. So once the boy abruptly stopped attacking when they arrived and more importantly, stopped glowing so they could see the absolutely mangled state he was in, they grabbed the kid and boomed him back to the Academy's medical wing. Where he would spend the next two weeks in a coma (and at one point, actually dead), and another week after that under observation in a punch-drunk haze with a concussion that seemingly left him violently vomiting, convulsing and having a seizure every other hour.
When he finally began to recover, or at least, could actually respond to questions, Wally and Vic finally approached the topic of him being part of the Academy. If not as an actual crimefighter, then to at least to help him figure out just what the hell was happening to him.
Long story short, he agreed. And has been popping over to the Titans' place after school and on weekends via a Boom Tube Cyborg set up in his garage ever since.
Notes:
Mal's parents, despite the norm for these kinds of things, are actually both aware of his new extracurricular activities and somewhat supportive of it. Occasionally sending him through with things like fresh fish, lobster tail, donairs and at least one colossal five pound block of homemade maple fudge the one time he made an off-hand mention about how speedsters are with calories.
He occasionally pops through with little projects to work on in his spare time. Appliances, bikes, lawnmowers... that kinda thing.
Though he has no active memory of his little tussle with Bizarro, Mal does get little flashes of the whole affair here and there when he's dreaming. With phantom pains once in a while as an added bonus, though that, according to the experts, makes some sense with the kind of beating he took and they've prescribed him some pills to help him deal with it.
Despite himself, the cold night wind caught him a bit off guard, making the lad to mutter a curse under his breath and pull his denim jacket just a bit tighter around himself. Though of course he had nobody to blame but himself— After all, what kind of idiot would decide they needed a breather on the goddamned roof half-way past god-be-dead o'clock at night just because they couldn't get any sleep?
'This guy, apparently...' Mal answered for himself in his own head, hugging his thermos tighter to himself as he shut the door behind him, before stepping out onto the roof proper and having a look around; finding the edges of the place demarcated by a steel railing, with some benches scattered and even a little green space— a bit of grass, a few knee-high saplings and a moderately-sized apple tree planted by someone who clearly had plans to keep this place going a while. Good signs that people were meant to be up here, so hopefully he wouldn't be breaking any rules with his insomniac wanderings.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly, the boy quietly walked straight passed the benches and all the places clearly meant for sitting and parked his tuckus down on the soft grass under that tree— a granny smith, now that he could get a good look at it— and took the moment to zip up his jacket before cracking open up that thermos to pour himself a cup of, ironically, hot apple cider.
It'd been a day... no, scratch that, three weeks that he'd been here. Today was just the first day he wasn't dying, dead or violently vomiting or hemorrhaging as his body protested not staying dead and had the privilege of actually being conscious of the world around him. Where he could ask questions like "Where am I?" and "Why am I here?", ya know, the sensible things. Which he regretted almost immediately because superheroes are generally an honest sort and so told him absolutely everything. Hell, they even showed him videos.
Plural.
He didn't say much at the time, but honestly, that freaked him right the hell out. So much so that he could only nod along numbly when Flash and Cyborg asked if they could keep him around a few more days, just to make sure he didn't drop dead.... again. Which of course, was another thing for him to quietly freak out about; the fact that he'd very likely have stayed dead had the chiefs not called their old friend Raven to stitch him back together with magic— a process that itself proved to be a bit dicey as, apparently, her magic didn't play too well with his own (whatever that meant), making it a slow process. With her having to apparently hover over him the whole time he was out, this woman he hadn't actually met yet.
'Gotta get her a gift or... something. The boy thought, eyes casting down toward his cider and drawing an absolute blank on what exactly he'd even get someone like that to say 'Thanks'. Not exactly something he could half-ass after all the... unpleasantness the boy had probably put her through the whole while.
Shaking his head in frustration, he lowered the cup and sighed. He'd probably have to ask Cyborg or Flash about that in the morning and, frankly, he was a little worried they might start pitching him the idea of becoming a frequent visitor here. And, well, while he was grateful for everything they did— hell, they even got in touch with his parents while he was out and set up a boom... tube... emitter?— A thing that teleports stuff in his family's garage so that they could come and check up on him and so that they, the Titans, could check up on them and make sure they were alright; It was why he had these clothes, and a thermos full of his grandma's cider and all these comforts during this last stint of his recovery. And he'd always be grateful to Flash and Cyborg for that.
But he'd met some of the other people here— A Werewolf son of a Senator, an ex villainess who could grow flaming wings at will, an actual ninja and an honest-to-God Prince of the friggin' Ocean.
He didn't belong here.
He couldn't belong here.
He...
He...
The sudden appearance of a blue light derailed that train of thought, as his eyes cast downward to see the intricate glowing lines and patterns he'd been encountering on and off all day weaving their way across his hands. Gently tugging his sleeve back revealed his arm had already been thusly marked. And looking into his drink itself, he could already see the glow of the markings on his face glinting in the cider's surface. Calmly, he lowered the cup to rest against his other palm, closed his eyes, and steadied his breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth— just like he'd been instructed in those meditation aides his blue-cloaked caregiver had left for him before she left— until, eventually, it passed.
For a solid few minutes more, he sat there in silence. Something resembling a frustrated snarl attempting to form on his face before finally, his features just drooped in a look of abject defeat.
"Dammit..."
"Ya know, if you don't drink that stuff soon, it's gonna get cold." Came a voice from off to his side, making the boy's head snap around nearly right off his neck and his eyes to lock onto... some red-headed guy in plain clothes just casually standing there with his hands in his pockets.
He could've sworn he'd heard that voice somewhere before, though...
...
...
'...Waitaminute.'
"...Flash?" Mal asked awkwardly and just a bit confused.
"I don't sleep in the costume, y'know— well, not usually." The speedster replied with a little chuckle at his own expense as he stepped forward, eyes flicking down to the cup in the teen's hands. "That your granny's cider?"
"Uh... yeah." Mal said, offering up the as-yet unused cup "Want some?"
"Heck yeah, if you're offering." The hero replied, casually walking over, taking the offered vessel and plopping down on the grass next to the denim-clad lad to take a drink. Who, for his part, just cracked open the thermos again and took a swig right from the source.
A minute or two passed between the two in comfortable silence, broken only by the wind and the chirping of distant crickets.
"So..." Flash finally spoke up. "What's got you up here brooding like a bat, anyway?"
"Eh. You know, long day and all that." Mal replied, averting his eyes slightly. Something the fastest man alive caught onto immediately.
"C'mooooon, I promise I won't share your super-secret Batman thoughts with anybody." Wally continued, giving the kid a light jab to the ribs with his elbow, before comically puffing out his chest and raising his free hand in an Eagle Scout's salute. "Scout's honour."
The young man just about choked on his drink from that sudden jolt to the ribcage, shooting a glare the his assailant, though he couldn't find it in him to be mad at the grinning goofball. Who was, weirdly starting to make him grin just a bit himself... well, between the coughing and sputtering.
Seriously, took him a solid half minute to clear his throat. Flash actually had to give him a few cautious pats on the back to make sure he was alright there.
"Well..." He began, after finally getting the appropriate amount of air into his lungs. "There is the whole thing where I— y'know— died."
He had to pause for one last cough.
"Like... Kaput. Donezo. The fat lady has shut her yap, gotten off the stage and fallen into a six-foot hole in the ground. DEAD!" He continued, taking another sip. "I mean that's... that's a hell of a thing, right?"
"Oh yeah, No. That one makes sense. And it's always one heck of a mess to have just kicking around in the back of your head for any amount of time."
At the confused look the Canuck gave him for that comment, the off-duty speedster just poked himself in the chest and mouthed the words; 'Super Hero'.
"Oh."
"Yeah. Trust me dude, I get'cha on that and I'm here for ya... But, uhh... that's not all that's bugging you is it?"
Mal paused, brow furrowing slightly.
"Well..."
...And looked away again. That chipper casual mood that seemed to grow between them seemingly dead in that moment.
"...There's also the whole thing about being a magically charged, ticking time-bomb that could potentially flatten my hometown in a blind rage if I'm not careful."
Ah, the markings were back. Even brighter than before. A pretty good sign that this was what was really bugging the kid. Raising a brow at this as he polished off his cup with one final gulp he let out a little belch into the back of his hand, scratched his chin a little and, met that statement with his usual tact.
"Nah."
And held out his cup for a refill.
In response, the younger man— still glowing, mind you— just stared back at his senior incredulously.
"...What?"
"Nah." The Flash reaffirmed without skipping a beat, now shaking his cup slightly to emphasize that he wanted more cider. Which, to his credit, seemed to work as the teen both stopped glowing and actually complied with filling the cup.
But not without a look that seemed to demand he elaborate on that point.
And after a long gulp, the ginger complied.
"Man, I have fought berserk robots, berserk aliens, berserk magical monsters... berserk robotic alien magical monsters. The whole wide and multi-flavoured spectrum of every big angry thing you can even start to think of." Flash explained, tone actually serious for the first time in this entire conversation, though his vocabulary stayed the same. "Do you know what basically all of those things have in common?"
Mal shook his head no, not entirely understanding where the man was going with this.
"Not one of them would deliberately take a hit to save a complete stranger." He continued, lowering his cup. "I've had three weeks and no concussions to go over all those videos and all the evidence, and you... whether that was another you for all of that or actually you and you just don't remember from all the hits to the head, well..."
Slumping back against the tree, he took another sip and continued in an even tone.
"You were never our prisoner here, Malcolm. And we didn't offer you a spot here to spy on you, contain you, or because we think you're dangerous, but... because it honestly looks like you could use some help. And that's kind of our whole bag."
Huh.
The teen had to actually look down in embarrassment, feeling kinda silly about the whole thing after that.
"Oh, uhh... thanks." He said, scratching the back of his neck and trying to look anywhere but at his would-be mentor. "But I mean, some of your students here; the senator's son, the corporate princess, the actual Prince... these types of people were already kind of— y'know— exceptional to begin with. Do I really belong here? I mean, I'm literally just some guy."
"What a coincidence, so was I." The speedster chirped back without missing a step, grinning a little. "...Unless of course, you think I just came bursting out of the maternity ward and started chasing bad guys in my red and gold huggies."
Both of them burst into a healthy laugh at that, even if the joke itself wasn't that great. Followed by a few good minutes of recovery afterward.
"...And for the record, man, you're not just some guy." The redhead continued, after catching his breath. "You're some guy that saved around half a million people in fifteen minutes."
The hero gave the teen one last (gentler) elbow to the side to emphasize his point.
"And I think that's pretty exceptional, don't you?"
"Yeah... yeah. I honestly hadn't thought about it like that."
The ginger smirked. Before glancing down at his watch.
"Aaaanyway, I really ought'a head to bed. Mind if I take this with me? I'll throw it in the dishwasher in the morning." He said, pointing at his still half-full cup as he stood.
"Yeah, go ahead man."
"Sweet, thanks! Have a good night Champ."
"You too... Flash." The teen responded, though he tripped over his own tongue for a second there as his brain still registered that as a damned weird thing to say out loud.
He got an oddly sympathetic snort in response, before the retreating for called over it's shoulder.
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