Grin

Caution: This story contains mature subject matter. Reader discretion is advised.

My story is not for the weak.

My story is not for the timid.

My story is something I would not wish on anyone.

But I guess I'll start at the beginning.

A lot of people will tell you that all the crime fighting done in and around Crown City is done by those that can do things the rest of us cant, like bend steel bars, sling lightning bolts, or make machines go haywire. In fact, some people still think I'm just a myth. But even myths have their beginnings in the real world.

I was born in China Town since it was the only place my Caucasian parents could afford, being dirt poor and all. But before you start asking me questions in Cantonese, let me finish; I was born in China Town, but I grew up in an orphanage. I was too young to remember my parents at all when the car crash took their lives. Without any next of kin, I was left in the arms of the nuns.

Despite what you see in the movies, they're not as bad as you'd think. Especially if you stay in line. As a matter of fact, one nun in particular became the doting mother I never had; Sister Mary Angela. Her image is burned into my mind to this very day. She was a plump Italian woman, in her twenties when I first begin to remember her, with brown eyes and a smile that could light up a room. She was firm, yet fair with bringing me and the other kids up, but I was her favorite since I made her laugh and stayed out of trouble.

But life in an orphanage isn't all apple pie and sunshine. Being the small kid, I got picked on when Sister Mary Angela wasn't looking. I managed to talk my way out of it with a little wit and some razzle-dazzle, but some of them just didn't laugh. One kid in particular, Ricky Duncan, was the ringleader of the whole operation. He was one of those kids that picks on people just because he's bigger than everyone else, and I mean everyone, this kid was HUGE, towering above all the rest of us at the time. Again, because I was the smallest, he singled me out as his favorite victim. I guess that's bully speak for saying they like you. But knowing what'd be in store for me if I ever got caught fighting, I never hit back, just kept trying to kid my way out of it, and I have the scars to prove it.

One day, Mary Angela caught him, and hauled him off to the corner, ruler in hand. When she was done, she reminded me to hit nothing but books, and to improve my mind. I did that, so you can't say I lied, but I also studied ways to protect myself. The next time Ricky threw the first punch, I threw the second, and the last.

Don't get excited, this isn't some story of me mastering Kung Fu at a young age. I only learned the basics of fighting to make it out better than I did before. In fact, I never learned Kung Fu, despite what the rumors say.

As I said, I grew up in an orphanage. I was one of the unfortunates that didn't get adopted. I watched all my friends walk away with total strangers, and never heard from them again. I cried a lot, growing up, but Mary Angela always reminded me that they'd always be in my heart. God bless her.

After my eighteenth birthday, I was too old to stay in the orphanage anymore. They gave me enough money to support myself for a while, and sent me out into the world. I managed to find a small studio apartment in a neighborhood slightly better than China Town. Okay, so it was still a hell hole, but at least I didn't have to live with the smell of fish and I spoke the local language. I worked a lot of odd jobs to work my way through community college, and got my oh-so-useful business degree. Don't get excited, I say that because I could barely get an entry level position in an adult bookstore, let alone any actual business. Barely, but I pulled it off.

When I wasn't busy stocking the plastic...ahem...joysticks, or renting out Candy Suxx's latest theatrical masterpiece, I decided to try and see if I could make any money off the wit that saved my life a number of times. Going back to my hole-in-the-wall, I wrote down some of my best jokes and tried every open mic night in every comedy club that would let me in.

"Dives" would be a compliment.

I banged my act out through trial and error in these biker and hooker infested, urine smelling sheds, until finally I had something that really knocked the audience dead. One night, when I was really killing 'em, something magical happened. Yep, like always, this is all about a girl.

She wasn't like anything in the movies I was forced to sell to make ends meet, this was real beauty. An absolutely knock-you-on-your-ass, amazing looking black woman, with pouting lips, sparkling brown eyes, hair like midnight, and a body that made you think someone upstairs really outdid himself. She sat in the front row, her laugh was like nothing else. At the end of my gig, and after a few shots of liquid courage, I decided to talk to her, until I noticed she was coming to talk to me.

Her name was Monica Rhyne. Yes, THAT Monica Rhyne. She worked for a talent agency and liked my stuff. I couldn't help but tell her I liked hers too. A few drinks later, and we had a negotiation well underway. I'd allow myself to be represented if I could buy her dinner. After that evening, I ended up buying breakfast, too.

So it was that Monica led me to get out of the dives, and move to a better neighborhood in a better apartment that she frequented. Yes, we started dating. Right up to the end, there, it was love.

Things were going phenomenal. I had my name in lights, new friends, an apartment I never thought I could afford, and a fantastic girl/agent. Although, to be honest, she began to become depressed and moody when I discussed work. What could go wrong?

In comic terms; that's the setup.

One evening, after doing well at one of the nicer clubs in Crown City, tragedy struck. A car came out of nowhere and shots were fired. I tried to knock Monica out of the way, but it was too late. Her chest exploded in a shower of red. Each second was like a series of snapshots in some twisted slide show. Slide one, she's thrown back, blood erupting from her chest, slide two, another fountain appears in her stomach, slide three, she turns to me, falling to the ground as another fountain springs in her shoulder.

When the slideshow was over, She was in my arms, dying. "Roger," she whispered to me, "I'm so sorry." She told me about how she discovered the head of her agency was selling models to be used as prostitutes, and was about to take the evidence to court. Turns out someone wasn't too keen on that idea and decided to shut her up good. My tears mixed with the blood sprayed on my face as she lay there in my arms. The only woman I had ever loved was stolen from me.

The cops said that without anything to go on, there was nothing they could do. Growing up in a neighborhood like I did, you see a lot of cops with nothing they can do because innocent people can't get enough evidence, or women are "asking for it", or because of language barriers.

That night, I decided it was going to stop once and for all.

I'd read the papers and the comic books, and heard the legends of that guy back in the Thirties. I decided that was the path to take. Taking what I had learned from the orphanage, I improved on it. Day and night, I trained myself to be able to take on anything. I mastered both gymnastics, and Systema by pushing my body to the limit until my muscles screamed, then kept on pushing. When I fouled up, I literally beat myself up so I'd remember what was in store next time. It was the beatings that gave me the idea for the quarter staff, which I mastered through trial and error by beating the snot out of myself as much as the tackling dummies.

Two years later, the Roger Stevens that grew up small in an orphanage was gone. And God help you if you crossed the new Roger. I wasn't going to haul you off to jail, spouting some nonsense about "Freedom and Justice" like those nuts in costumes, I was going to be absolutely sure Justice was served that night, one way or the other. You'd be begging for Insectoid when I got through with you, if you could beg at all. There is, however, one thing that the super powered types and I would have in common. I needed to wear something to keep my identity secret, and to put the fear of God into any lowlife.

End Prologue.

Tony was sure he'd get both his vices satisfied tonight. When he was done with the squirming teenager he pulled out of the rave, he'd see what was in her purse that could buy him some high. And if she put up too much of a struggle...Well, he'd just have to put a stop to that, now wouldn't he?

"Stop squirming, honey, and let's see what you've got." He flicked open his switch blade and proceeded to cut open the front of her tanktop. she screamed, and begged for him to release her.

"Scream all you want, sweets," He rasped, putting his face close so the girl could feel his stubble and smell his rancid breath, "In this part of town, no body's coming to your rescue. That means you're mine all mine." He laughed as she began to cry, and he continued to cut.

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha."

Tony looked behind him. Nothing moved in the trash strewn alleyway but the mangy rat running back into it's hole with a piece of God-knows-what in its mouth. He shrugged it off and got back to work.

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha."

There it was again, the laughter. The cold, metallic sounding, humorless laughter. This time it was above him. He looked up to the rooftop of the condemned building, which held the rave.

For the first time since he was three years old, Tony Derkins wet his pants and didn't care.

It was a hideous gargoyle in a man's shape, or he at least thought it was a man's shape. The blackness of the night hid the black body of the thing above him. All he could see was the face. That eyeless, toothless face grinning from ear to ear. The eyes were empty sockets, but with the shape of the mask, and the position of the head, he could tell it was looking right at him. It reached behind it and pulled out what looked like a thin popcan.

He heard a faint click, and the pop can extended into a long rod which the figure used to pole vault down to him. When it landed, the rod went back to being a pop can, and there was no question that that face was looking at him. Tony struggled to remain composed. He extended his switchblade in the thing's direction. "Get the hell away from me, freak."

It laughed again. Cold, metallic, emotionless. The thing stepped forward, and Tony swung at it, only to have the knife swatted from his hand and land in the hands of his opponent faster than he could think possible. In desperation, he swung his fist at the things face.

Blow after blow after blow kept Tony off balance, his own feeble attempts at defending himself blocked as soon as he thought of them. When it was over, the monster held him from behind, twisting his arm until he screamed. As if that wasn't bad enough, his own switchblade was also poking him. The thing put its grinning mouth to his ear, and spoke. A human voice that betrayed the hideous laugh he heard barely a minute before.

"What's it gonna be? Break your arm or cut you open?"

Tony screamed and cried, and begged for the man in the mask to let him go.

"Arm or knife?" The thing repeated, and Tony could tell it was losing patience. He screamed out for help, forgetting what he'd told the teenage girl earlier.

"You get both." The man had a sort of twisted humor in its voice that barely registered in Tony's mind when he heard the loud snapping as his arm exploded in pain. When the costumed man dropped him to the ground, new pain filled his legs, his tendons severed beyond repair, and it would be the last sensation Tony ever felt in that area. He looked up, wild fear in his eyes.

"What the hell are you?"

He could tell that the man behind the mask was sneering. "Someone who puts garbage like you in its place." As if to accent his point, the man grabbed him, hoisted him up, and threw him into a dumpster, slamming down the heavy lid. The costumed thing turned to the girl. "You alright?"

"Please don't hurt me," she pleaded, "I'll give you anything you want, just don't hurt me!"

The costumed man approached her slowly, and raised a hand. She recoiled, fearing an oncoming slap, when she felt the soothing stroking of her cheek.

"I'm here to help." Was all he said as he dropped a card to the floor and pole vaulted back onto the rooftop and out of sight. She bent to pick up the card, emblazoned with a mask that looked like someone wailing in sadness. She flipped it over, and it read "Grin". And, silently, she acknowledged that someone new was out to protect Crown City.

_________________

Grin

Chapter 2: Mindwhipe.

Jessica was terrified, and her mascara deeply stained her cheeks as the tears came rolling down. Her wrists were raw from struggling in vain against the rope that bound her to the chair, and she gave up screaming an hour ago.

That last fact made her wonder. How long had it been since she left the high society nightclub, and was violently dragged into a car by the man she had hooked up with? Two hours? Three? Her backless top against the hard wood of the chair made her back ache, and the high skirt did the same to her legs. She was halfway between delighted and horrified when the footsteps began approaching.

The door to the dank chamber opened, spilling a rectangle of light across the floor, stinging Jessica's eyes. A form strode towards her, wearing a wide hat. Silhouetted against the doorway, she couldn't tell if the figure was wearing a long coat or a poorly fitting dress. When it got closer, a light flicked on above her, and she could see her captor more clearly. Wide, black hat, purple sunglasses, stubble, a purple shirt with matching pants, and a long black fur coat. With the medallion, he was the perfect pimp. Nonetheless, his size made him nothing short of imposing.

He held out his hand, and in it was a small piece of paper with a white fluid upon it. "It's called Jazz", he said, his voice a dull roar, "give it a sniff".

Jessica shook her head, her eyes wide with terror. The hardest thing she'd ever taken was extacy, and she'd never even heard of Jazz. The large, meaty hand forcing her blonde head down, however, made her change her mind.

Jimmy smiled as the blonde's eyes rolled back in her head, Jazz was taking effect. When she began to drool he new she was high as a kite. Then the probing began.


Honor student, ballet, gymnastics, boyfriend, parents still together, studied Akido (Hm, that could be useful), nothing else of interest here

With her mind clean, and her knowledge of Akido safely downloaded and flexed out, Jimmy began the reconstruction.

Name's Jessica, started giving lapdances as soon as you went through puberty, laid anything with a dong and a pulse throughout highschool, came to me so you could do that all night and get paid for it of your own free will

The blonde snapped back to awareness, a sultry smile spreading across her lips. Jimmy snapped his fingers and she was untied. Jessica stood and posed seductively for him. Jimmy smiled and ran his tongue along his front teeth. "Now you're going to go out and make me a lot of money, aren't you?"

She nodded, chuckling to herself and riding up her skirt. With a snap of his fingers one of his men escorted her out into the streets, where her new life was to begin, when another of his men entered the room.

"Jimmy, there's a problem?"

Jimmy barely made a noise of acknowledgment as the tall, muscle-bound Asian approached him.

"Tony's been taken out. Somebody really messed him up good while he was making an enlistment."

Jimmy's hand came crashing down on the chair, reducing it to splinters. Akido's going to be useful indeed "Go on."

The Asian swallowed hard. "He says some guy in a mask took him out."

"A mask? One of those Guildsmen pricks?"

"Uh, no..sir. This guy was someone new."

Jimmy seethed. "Get me Caiman." Just when I thought I'd avoided all the costumed freaks that I couldn't buy off.