Post by Metallica on Jul 28, 2022 22:42:23 GMT
Metallica
Outwardly normal.Inwardly screaming.
From the time he was young, Simon Ferris understood that he was different from other children. He understood the idea of right and wrong - good and bad - but never quite felt it in the way that he was meant to. Perhaps the tiny growth on his brain that gave him his superpowers had encroached somewhat on his prefrontal cortex, predisposing him to a severe, destructive lack of empathy; perhaps he was born heartless and devil-possessed, frustrated and confused by the sensitivities of those around him, the noisiness of everyday life - the grinding feeling in his teeth that came from being with these people.
He swiftly recognized that to stand out would mean the end of his life. He was careful, then, to make himself as moderately successful as possible, comfortable coming in second, third, or fourth; he'd throw in the occasional B+ to his grades, attend a decent college, and obtain a standard job to facilitate his comfort. Happiness was an impossibility, but at least he wouldn't be hungry. He couldn't understand satisfaction, but he knew survival.
Accounting called to him naturally. The numbers were easy. He works and lives in New York City (where else, for the most normal of men?) and maintains a valuable coin collection (though nothing too impressive - still avoiding attention). Physically unremarkable in every way, he was set up for a quiet life.
Sometimes, though, there were urges to use his powers. He did not deny them. It was part of who he was - never human, not really. Something more, something greater, that could exercise its will on the unsuspecting at any moment.
He could control metal.
Like a magnet, drawing it along - with nothing more than a gesture, he could shape and direct metals according to his will. He could levitate a blade, or a car. He could feel the iron in others' blood. He could use it to kill, silently, without being detected. That was of paramount importance. Nobody could ever know what he was, or he was dead.
He has killed for many years now, never leaving a trace of any murder weapon. It always seemed like an accident. The persona's name was Metallica when he did it. No fancy outfit, no serial killer calling card. Whenever someone pissed him off - whenever some scum carried on, making noise, or acting out in public, or god forbid, bothered him personally - they would have swift and deadly accidents.
The superheroes are the worst. Something in him screams when they fly by. They are a threat like no other.
They bother him terribly.