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: Hasn't actually settled on that, or even if he's really into the actual 'Superhero' thing yet. Most around the academy just call him 'Rookie', 'Rook' or even just 'Kid'. Age: 16 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 readily approachable, 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, just... well, not the downright supermodel hot most kinda expect from their superheroes— though he'd probably clean up well if he ever scrubbed the odd oil or grease stain that usually makes it's way onto his face, grew his hair out a bit and maybe developed something approaching a decent sense of fashion. Standing at a modest 5'6", with brown hair that'd have a tinge of the ginge to it if he ever let it grow out beyond his usual buzz-cut, grey eyes and a scar running over his left brow from a hiking trip out in Wales with his cousins when he was a boy, the more physical nature of Mal's hobbies and his work on his dad's boat have actually kept the boy in pretty decent shape— perhaps moreso than most his age— but a lack of interest in sports or going to the gym have kept him from getting too bulky, as what muscle he has is more geared towards function than presentation or raw strength.
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 which has made Mal even less likely to shed his shirt in front of others 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 Cyborg not called his 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 (which was yet another thing to freak out about, but further down the list), 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 took a sip 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. And who was he? Just some guy who fixes stuff. That's it. Full-stop. Hell, he wasn't even old enough to vote yet!
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 only seen briefly in those videos they'd shown him weaving their way across hands. Gently tugging his sleeve back revealed his arm had already been thusly marked. And looking into his drink itself, he could already se 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."
He was probably right, he probably didn't belong here.
But clearly, he needed to be here anyway.
It's perfect. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
Reluctantly retired roleplayer.
Except when I'm not.
Why are you here when you should be writing posts?
You can edit a bad draft, but you cannot edit a blank page.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Reluctantly retired roleplayer. <br><br>Except when I'm not.<br><br>Why are you here when you should be writing posts?<br><br>You can edit a bad draft, but you cannot edit a blank page.</div>
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