Post by Luke Porter on Aug 13, 2011 0:48:28 GMT -5
Anquan Cousins AKA Horus
Anquan was thrown out of his home in west St. Louis, MO when he was thirteen. That was the year he sprouted feathers and wings. As a homeless, freak, teenager he went to the only place he knew of where he might blend in, New York City the only place he knew of with a ‘Freaktown.’
Life on the road was hard for Anquan, he flew or hopped trains, he stole food and did odd jobs where he could, contending with hostile folks all across the bible belt. He met nice folks as well as the bigots, and he was always thankful for the help he received, but he had to keep moving, he had one goal ... Freaktown, a place where he could blend in.
It took him a couple of months, but he made it. Life did not get any easier in the big city. No home, no job, no schooling all he had were wings and an attitude.
Finally he was collected by social services and he was placed in a group home for youth who were homeless, usually because of families who turned their backs on their mutant children. It was the Kirby St. Group home. there were many rough and tumble kids in the home and it was a pretty hardscrabble existence, but Anquan learned how to relate to people and make friends out of enemies ... and how to throw punch when that failed. He also got his GED and a fierce pride in his ‘Freakiness.’
At seventeen, Anquan had his degree and was taking some community college credits, but mostly he was living in a studio apartment in Freaktown and delivering pizza for Spumanti bros. (he devised a special bag so he could take full advantage of his wings, and guaranteeing a fresh, hot pie for the customers of Spumanti Bros.) One afternoon, delivering a large cheese and basil pie, he spotted a crime in progress. The Bank of America on West 41st and 11th ave was being robbed by a huge, gooey, incredibly strong, mutant calling himself Blacktop. Now, confronting him directly would have been suicide, but he had hostages stuck to him like a bulletproof vest made of bystanders. Anquan, being unnoticed in the sky, followed Blacktop to his lair in a warehouse not too far off.
He waited until nightfall and a very drunk Blacktop had dozed off. Anquan snuck in through a skylight and flew the hostages, two at a time to safety, he then stole a very sophisticated wristwatch a few hundred dolors not sprayed by the paint bomb and dialed 911.
That was no wristwatch, however it was a strange device called a ‘chameleon net’ it projected a holographic disguise around the wearer (actually fifteen preprogramed disguises). How did a two-bit thug like Blacktop get something this high tech? But that question quickly vanished with the realization that Anquan no longer had to live like a freak!
He thought that being able to pass as normal would solve all of his problems, but they did not. Not only did he have to avoid touching people (making the subway a very tricky proposition ... so much easier to fly) but he felt like a fraud. Six months of the fake life was all Anquan could take ... he went back to his honest, freaky, life. But that watch was just too cool to throw away. He also decided it was time he gave back to the community and fight for the rights of freaks everywhere. He started by taking the fight to bullies and muggers in Freaktown and he spread out from there. He didn’t just help freaks either, being a good show for the normals was as powerful a weapon as his aluminum baseball bat.
It was in saving one of these normals that changed Anquan’s life. Four thugs were mugging an old man who was walking his dog late at night. The old man refused to give up his wallet, mistake one, and mistake two was a well placed kick with his wingtip to just below the patella of the lead mugger. The codger knew how to fight, but his seventy some odd years had robbed him of speed and strength. Skill alone could only do so much. The old man was taking a beating, and Anquan could not let that stand, so he evened the odds. After dispatching the thugs he got the man to St. luke’s Roosevelt hospital. the old man insisted on getting Anquan’s phone number and giving him his card. He said he wanted to thank the young man properly.
The next day, at 7:30 am, Anquan’s phone rang, and again at 7:32, when he didn’t answer it the first time. Twenty minutes and about ten phone calls later Anquan picked up the phone in a huff. It was the old man, Arthur ‘Art’ Fitzhugh. He wanted to meet for breakfast, he was already at Lindy’s Diner, and he told Anquan he should join him, if he wanted the opportunity of a lifetime. The old man was the most stubborn old bastard Anquan had ever encountered. there was a reason for this, he was the golden age masked crime fighter ‘The Wasp.’
“you have potential, Kid, but you are going to get you feathered ass handed to you by anyone who knows what he is about. I can help you fix that, but it will take time, dedication and a will of iron. What do you say, boy, you want to be a superhero?” He said all of this in a thick Queens accent, in one breath, while shoveling down cantaloupe and cottage cheese with black pepper. Anquan’s natural anti-authoritarian streak wanted to say: “go to bed, old man.” But he had seen the codger take out a criminal one third his age and more than twice his size, he must have been a terror in his time. And Anquan did want to be a superhero.
That afternoon, he dedicted himself to training, he even moved into the top floor of Art’s brownstone. He learned how to play to his strengths; velocity, manuverability, strength. Don’t go toe to toe, unless you have to. Avoid cramped spaces, the open air is your friend. But not just fighting, how to pass a bribe, and gain confidence, find clues and follow leads ... all of the old school masked crime fighter tricks.
it was an easy friendship with the old man, but he worked like a demon. He is also a health nut and surpriseingly well connected. It was through these connections that he got a twenty second birthday present for Anquan, a carbon nanotube suit of body armor, molded to fit him with room for free movement of his wings, a mace to replace the aluminum baseball bat, and the moniker Horus, after the Egyptian hawk-god.
Anquan was thrown out of his home in west St. Louis, MO when he was thirteen. That was the year he sprouted feathers and wings. As a homeless, freak, teenager he went to the only place he knew of where he might blend in, New York City the only place he knew of with a ‘Freaktown.’
Life on the road was hard for Anquan, he flew or hopped trains, he stole food and did odd jobs where he could, contending with hostile folks all across the bible belt. He met nice folks as well as the bigots, and he was always thankful for the help he received, but he had to keep moving, he had one goal ... Freaktown, a place where he could blend in.
It took him a couple of months, but he made it. Life did not get any easier in the big city. No home, no job, no schooling all he had were wings and an attitude.
Finally he was collected by social services and he was placed in a group home for youth who were homeless, usually because of families who turned their backs on their mutant children. It was the Kirby St. Group home. there were many rough and tumble kids in the home and it was a pretty hardscrabble existence, but Anquan learned how to relate to people and make friends out of enemies ... and how to throw punch when that failed. He also got his GED and a fierce pride in his ‘Freakiness.’
At seventeen, Anquan had his degree and was taking some community college credits, but mostly he was living in a studio apartment in Freaktown and delivering pizza for Spumanti bros. (he devised a special bag so he could take full advantage of his wings, and guaranteeing a fresh, hot pie for the customers of Spumanti Bros.) One afternoon, delivering a large cheese and basil pie, he spotted a crime in progress. The Bank of America on West 41st and 11th ave was being robbed by a huge, gooey, incredibly strong, mutant calling himself Blacktop. Now, confronting him directly would have been suicide, but he had hostages stuck to him like a bulletproof vest made of bystanders. Anquan, being unnoticed in the sky, followed Blacktop to his lair in a warehouse not too far off.
He waited until nightfall and a very drunk Blacktop had dozed off. Anquan snuck in through a skylight and flew the hostages, two at a time to safety, he then stole a very sophisticated wristwatch a few hundred dolors not sprayed by the paint bomb and dialed 911.
That was no wristwatch, however it was a strange device called a ‘chameleon net’ it projected a holographic disguise around the wearer (actually fifteen preprogramed disguises). How did a two-bit thug like Blacktop get something this high tech? But that question quickly vanished with the realization that Anquan no longer had to live like a freak!
He thought that being able to pass as normal would solve all of his problems, but they did not. Not only did he have to avoid touching people (making the subway a very tricky proposition ... so much easier to fly) but he felt like a fraud. Six months of the fake life was all Anquan could take ... he went back to his honest, freaky, life. But that watch was just too cool to throw away. He also decided it was time he gave back to the community and fight for the rights of freaks everywhere. He started by taking the fight to bullies and muggers in Freaktown and he spread out from there. He didn’t just help freaks either, being a good show for the normals was as powerful a weapon as his aluminum baseball bat.
It was in saving one of these normals that changed Anquan’s life. Four thugs were mugging an old man who was walking his dog late at night. The old man refused to give up his wallet, mistake one, and mistake two was a well placed kick with his wingtip to just below the patella of the lead mugger. The codger knew how to fight, but his seventy some odd years had robbed him of speed and strength. Skill alone could only do so much. The old man was taking a beating, and Anquan could not let that stand, so he evened the odds. After dispatching the thugs he got the man to St. luke’s Roosevelt hospital. the old man insisted on getting Anquan’s phone number and giving him his card. He said he wanted to thank the young man properly.
The next day, at 7:30 am, Anquan’s phone rang, and again at 7:32, when he didn’t answer it the first time. Twenty minutes and about ten phone calls later Anquan picked up the phone in a huff. It was the old man, Arthur ‘Art’ Fitzhugh. He wanted to meet for breakfast, he was already at Lindy’s Diner, and he told Anquan he should join him, if he wanted the opportunity of a lifetime. The old man was the most stubborn old bastard Anquan had ever encountered. there was a reason for this, he was the golden age masked crime fighter ‘The Wasp.’
“you have potential, Kid, but you are going to get you feathered ass handed to you by anyone who knows what he is about. I can help you fix that, but it will take time, dedication and a will of iron. What do you say, boy, you want to be a superhero?” He said all of this in a thick Queens accent, in one breath, while shoveling down cantaloupe and cottage cheese with black pepper. Anquan’s natural anti-authoritarian streak wanted to say: “go to bed, old man.” But he had seen the codger take out a criminal one third his age and more than twice his size, he must have been a terror in his time. And Anquan did want to be a superhero.
That afternoon, he dedicted himself to training, he even moved into the top floor of Art’s brownstone. He learned how to play to his strengths; velocity, manuverability, strength. Don’t go toe to toe, unless you have to. Avoid cramped spaces, the open air is your friend. But not just fighting, how to pass a bribe, and gain confidence, find clues and follow leads ... all of the old school masked crime fighter tricks.
it was an easy friendship with the old man, but he worked like a demon. He is also a health nut and surpriseingly well connected. It was through these connections that he got a twenty second birthday present for Anquan, a carbon nanotube suit of body armor, molded to fit him with room for free movement of his wings, a mace to replace the aluminum baseball bat, and the moniker Horus, after the Egyptian hawk-god.