Personal Information
Name: Dragon
Age: 40
Personal Journal:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dragondancer5150
Email / AIM / MSN / Plurk: dragondancer5150@yahoo.com (email and AIM), OldMaidDragon (plurk)
Current Character(s): Drill Boy, Wheeljack, Captain Fanzone
Character Information
Character Name: Hellboy – also answers to the nickname Red – his true name is Anung un Rama (“Beast of the Apocalypse”) but he ardently refuses to acknowledge it and will generally pummel anyone who tries to force the issue
Fandom: Hellboy (comics-centric)
Character History: One cold, black night two days before Christmas, back in 1944, a special Ranger unit of American soldiers led by a trio of specialists from the British Paranormal Society stood ready in the ruins of a forgotten church in East Bromwich, England, a place that even the threat of possible Nazi commando activity couldn’t get the locals to talk about. Something of great import was going to happen there that night. Problem was, the head medium who’d sensed it couldn’t really say what. Unbeknownst to them, the Nazi activity they’d feared and were there to stop was actually far north, on a tiny island just off the Scottish coast. There, a special squad of Nazis, led by powerful Russian sorcerer Rasputin, completed the final stage of their “Project Ragna Rok”, an endeavor designed to alter the course of history and win them both the war and control of the world. The final spell was cast . . . and the Nazis were rather disappointed. The Rangers and their paranormal-expert friends, however, very much were not. A bolt of power struck the ground from the heavens without warning, leaving behind . . . a demonic-looking toddler. Whether or not the classic-devil-looking creature was an actual demon was never determined for certain, but it was a supernatural child of some kind. The toddler seemed harmless enough, and one of the specialists, Professor Trevor Bruttenholm, took the boy with him as they left. As advisor to U.S. President FDR, Bruttenholm returned with the soldiers to America, the little boy in tow.
The “Hellboy incident” had been only one in a string of Nazi occult events and reports known to the American government, finally convincing them that they needed to form an agency specialized in dealing with such things. With government backing, Prof. Bruttenholm along with some colleagues formed the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, an international – and internationally known – organization (not a secret like it is in the live-action movies), of which Bruttenholm was the director until his retirement. Before eventually moving to its permanent headquarters in Fairfield, Connecticut, the agency operated out of an Air Force base in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, and this was where the devil-like child grew up, Bruttenholm raising the boy like a son. And he grew up fast. In two years’ time, he was like a ten-year-old – with all the imagination and innocent childish mischief to go with it! In ten years’ time, he was physically and mentally an adult, and hasn’t changed since. In 1952, he was granted “honorary human” status by the United Nations. Soon after, he officially joined the BPRD as a field agent, no longer being just their ward, and has spent the past six decades fighting demons, imps, banshees, elf-folk, and more.
All the while, there were the questions in the back of his mind – his and everyone else’s around him. What was he, where did he come from, why had he been brought through from wherever he came? His friend and fellow agent, Abe Sapien, once asked him what he thought of all that. And his answer? “I like not knowing. I’ve gotten by for fifty-two years without knowing. I sleep good not knowing.”
Unfortunately, Hellboy wasn’t going to get to keep “not knowing.” A mission to an ancient and crumbling lakeside mansion called Cavendish Hall proved to be the start of a line of incidents over the next few years that would slowly unravel the mystery of his origin . . . and threaten to unravel his sanity with it. There, he encountered – and destroyed (or so he believed) – the man who summoned him from that mysterious other plane so long ago. Rasputin claimed Hellboy was to command powers to destroy the world. Hellboy, of course, was none too pleased to hear this, and the two of them went a few rounds before Rasputin disintegrated in a ball of fire, thanks to fellow BPRD agent and pyrokinetic Liz Sherman. Rasputin's dying words, however, haunted Hellboy for some time to come: “If you kill me, you will never know who you are. You will never understand the power inside you.”
Hellboy had retorted at the time that that was fine with him . . . but the damage had been done. As time went on, he got curious where he steadfastly never had been before, and the occasional comments by some of the supernatural entities he met in his travels didn’t help. Finally, he took some time off from the Bureau for a little expedition of his own. He went to East Bromwich in England. He always went to England to clear his head after a particularly difficult mission . . . but this was the first time he’d been back to that ancient church since his “birth”. He spent a night there and had a vision of a withered old woman on her deathbed, a frightened and repentant witch seeking forgiveness from her sins. After her death, her children – a Catholic priest and a nun – sealed her in a chained coffin, but neither that nor even their faith were enough to save her from the great demon that came for her. He incinerated the pair with a thought and claimed his witch, “comforting” her with the news of the life she still bore within her, a portion of his power that had become a living thing. A son. His favorite son. Hellboy, witnessing it all play out, swore that the great demon turned and looked right at him as he said that . . . even though the events playing out before him were only an ethereal recording of things that had happened 300 years before. By morning, he couldn’t tell if it’d been a real vision or “just” a dream, let alone if it truly had anything to do with him. He returned to the BPRD and tried to put the whole thing out of his mind as nothing more than an unfortunate nightmare. The creatures he encountered continued to recognize him for who and what he was – who/what they claimed, anyway – but still he refused to give in, choosing to live his own life and telling himself they were all just full of it.
…until he had a run-in with the goddess Hecate shortly after. Much like Rasputin before her, she cajoled and berated Hellboy for making war on her kind – and his! – and for the fact that he was bathed in the blood of his own kith and kin. Hellboy kept insisting she had the wrong guy, but she wouldn’t hear it and attacked him, attempting to force from him his power and acceptance of his birthright by sending him to The Pit. Calling him by his true name, she and other powers beseeched him to wake his devil heart and loose the dragon, the seven-in-one-in-seven, the Ogdru-Jahad. But in pushing him, they only pissed him off, hardening his resolve all the more, snarling at them as he snapped off the long curving horns they’d forced to grow back to their natural length from his brow. “Screw you! It’s my own goddamned life, and I’ll do with it what I want! You don’t like that, kill me if you can!” They failed to and he escaped.
Then he and Abe were sent to investigate the theft of a box from a man’s manor home, which used to be an ancient convent. Chasing the thief to a small barony in Scotland, the pair faced a minor demon named Ualac that used Hellboy’s true name against him to bind him, then claimed the Crown of Fire from his head, something even Hellboy had not known he possessed. However, in taking the crown, Ualac himself temporarily “became” the Beast of the Apocalypse himself, which robbed Hellboy’s name of its power to hold him, as it was “no longer his name” in that moment. Aided in realizing this by some unnamed but powerful figures of the supernatural realm, Hellboy broke the enchantment and defeated and captured Ualac . . . only to give him over to Lord Astaroth himself, the Great Prince of Hell. Astaroth also took with him the Crown. Like others before him, Astaroth suggested Hellboy stop denying his nature and accept his place in the scheme of things. Unafraid even of the Great Prince himself, Hellboy suggested he take the Crown and shove it. Astaroth said he would keep it for Hellboy. “In Pandemonium, in the House of the Fly, there is a seat reserved for you. The Crown will wait for you there. When you want it, call me.” Hellboy retorted not to hold his breath and watched him depart back for Hell. During this whole incident, too, he learned more about his stone right hand, which added to something that had been revealed to him a while back, supporting the whole “Right Hand of Doom” nonsense he’d been told.
After his “sketchy” (suspected to be incomplete) report to the BPRD, he retreated to England once more, to one of the Avebury Stone Circles in Wiltshire. Folklorist and fellow agent Kate Corrigan found him there and tried to get him to talk to her, friend to friend. He admitted that he left out some personal stuff, details the BPRD didn’t need to know. He got through life by not dealing with what he was, with not thinking about the fact that his job usually involved him “beating the crap out of things a lot like (him).” But then something like this would come up. His head was yanked up out of its hole and he’d be forced to look at his place in the big picture, a bad picture, and it was all he could do to get his head back into that hole. “But what if I don’t?” he asked her. “What if I keep looking at that big picture?” “I’m sure it would be scary at first,” she replied, “but in the long run . . . I think it would be the best thing for you.” He appreciated her support but decided to bury his head just one more time.
The next assignment would prove to be the breaking point for Hellboy. In fact, it got off on the wrong foot from the start. Hellboy was sent to investigate old Nazi doings at a ruined castle in Austria alongside friend and new agent Roger, a 15th Century homunculus who’d been found during the same mission that Hellboy had the run-in with Hecate. Jolted back to life, Roger accidentally killed one BPRD agent and nearly cost another her life. He then saved that same agent’s life at the cost of his own (temporarily, as it turned out; he was later successfully revived again) as well as saved countless lives by confronting and ultimately killing his own “brother”, another homunculus created by the same alchemist. Despite these sacrifices, the BPRD wasn’t willing to risk Roger turning on any more agents – when he was revived the second time, he was also fitted with a small incendiary bomb, just big enough to kill him without doing any other damage . . . and Tom Manning, the director, gave Hellboy the kill switch. The knowledge infuriated Hellboy, who argued that Waller’s death had been an accident and pointed out that Roger had saved Liz’s life of his own free will after inadvertently taking all her power. Liz was one of Hellboy’s best friends, but when she was eleven, she killed thirty-two people when her power exploded on her. Were they going to put a bomb on her too? Manning told Hellboy not to be ridiculous – Liz was human; Roger wasn’t. Before he left, Hellboy growled a reminder that he wasn’t human either. When were they going to put a bomb on him? Manning had no reply.
The mission itself proved almost par for the course – Nazi activity was still quite alive and well up at the castle, culminating in the release of a supernatural horror of ultimately rather immense proportions, a beast known only as the Conqueror Worm. One related to the Ogdru Jahad, no less. Everything always seemed to harken back to that. Along the way as well, Hellboy met a prisoner whom he thought he recognized. The man confirmed it – he’d been there, in disguise as one of the soldiers, the night Hellboy was brought into the world. He’d been sent by his “masters” as an assassin, to kill the coming threat, the Destroyer. But that night, he saw something in the demonic child – free will, the chance that he might break the bonds of fate and choose a life. So he broke with his masters and let the child live. Ten years later, he was there in West Sussex, England, to witness Hellboy fight a dragon . . . and how white lilies sprang up where his blood fell, just as they had with St. Leonard five hundred years before. The man, an alien of unknown origin in the guise of a human, knew then that he had done the right thing in sparing Hellboy’s life. With his dying breath, he said, “Hellboy, to be other than human does not necessarily mean to be less. Remember that. Remember me…” And it was in that moment, even, that Roger found him, having been separated earlier during a fight – Roger, the one whose kill switch he had in a pouch on his belt because the guy was not human.
The two defeated the Conqueror Worm and returned to the BPRD outpost at the foot of the mountain, where Hellboy dropped the kill switch back into Manning’s hand . . . and quit the BPRD. As he told Kate, it wasn’t even just the bomb they’d planted in Roger. It was all the cumulated stuff about him – the Crown of the Apocalypse, the Right Hand of Doom, flowers growing out of his blood? He needed some time away. He decided to go to Africa. He’d not been there since he was a child, and he’d always told himself he’d go back one day.
Of course, he won’t actually make it. He’s been a lot of weird places and seen some odd and crazy things . . . but waking one day to find himself in a city outside of space and time itself? Yeah, that’ll be a new one even for him.
Character Personality: Hellboy has been described as a living oxymoron – a being ofdemonic questionable origin with a “fate” for evil that includes supposed end-of-the-world bullshit predictions (IC POV in strike-outs), yet has a genuine, big heart for other people and an iron will to do the right thing, even in the face of incredible odds. An undeniable force for good, he’s a gruff, dry-humored wisecracker who faces every challenge with a nonchalant air and an off-handed one-liner. He’s got an outlook on life like a New York plumber – been there, done that, faced down the OMFG-sized rats in the sewers without batting an eye, all in a day’s work. Not much surprises him, even less really fazes him. The most one will usually get from him is a deadpanned “Crap” or an irritated “Jeez!” or, rarely, a severely understated “Wow.” Unless he’s pissed, in which case all bets are off, but then he lets his stone fist do most of the talking. He’s one of the best at what he does, which is take on not just monsters, but supernatural monsters and other paranormal threats – ghosts, demons, gods, fae folk, and everything in between. Does he enjoy it? Yeah, in a sense. It’s something he excels at, can be proud of and feel like he’s accomplishing something positive – for the world and those who live in it. In a sense, he denies his own nature with every supernatural threat that he overcomes. Plus a good fight is just a damned good way to blow off steam. It’s not something he goes looking for “just because,” though. He’s equally happy to kick up his hooves, light a cigar or cigarette, and knock back a few beers, either alone or with good company.
He’s got a huge heart, but it’s buried under a lot of snark and seemingly careless behavior. He deals with the very worst of the natural and the supernatural on a regular basis, so he’s built a shell from which he operates. He can be sarcastic and kind of callous (again seemingly, on the surface), but just as often he’s merely quiet and observant, letting things play out around him and learning what he can from people’s interactions. Sometimes it’s what they don’t say that speaks louder than what they do.
And if he hears the word “destiny” one…more…time…someone’s getting hurt. Badly.
He’s not good at dealing with emotions in general, at least not the negative ones. For instance, grief might manifest as either anger or maybe a sullen silence, and if something is bothering him, he’ll just shut it out and bury further into his work. He’s certainly not the kind to talk about emotional issues. He’ll be fine, just needs a good, stiff drink. And a quality cigar. He does have a temper, though it doesn’t normally come out until he’s been worn down some by whatever mission he’s on and he starts to get where he’s just had enough of shit. Or if someone he cares about is hurt or attacked. And he’ll be the first to admit – when he gets angry, he can tend to do stupid things.
He can be something of a loner, at least in his monster-hunting work, and that too has gotten him in trouble more than a few times. The phrase “bit off more than he could chew” comes to mind, where he’s underestimated an opponent and really should have brought backup, though it always seems to work out in the end (one might almost wonder if he hasn’t the divine watching over him). Plus he tends to attract trouble, even when he’s honestly not looking for it. And when he passes into an area already troubled, his presence tends to step things up. That which fears little to nothing in this world or the next . . . often fears him all the same, and will act on that fear.
He DESPISES (and to an extent even fears) the fact that he’s a demon, or at least part-demon. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s of the same ilk as the kinds of things he’s fought and killed or banished in order to protect himself, his friends and fellow agents, and the world, desperately wanting to be accepted by those around him. C’mon, he’s just one of the guys, right? Oh, and for the record? No, he doesn’t keep his horns ground down to better blend in with others – come on, he’s a seven-foot-plus, blood-red tower of muscle and attitude, who would he be kidding? He keeps the damned things ground down so he can pass through doorways easier – seriously, they get in the way if he lets them grow out.
Also, because of his demonic blood, he’s susceptible to the same magics that can summon, bind, command, banish, or injure any other demon, though their effectiveness will be notably weaker due to his human aspect. However, knowledge of his true name will counter that and strengthen the effectiveness of the weapon/spell/etc.
Powers and Abilities: He carries a really big pistol, inhumanly big, which he has named The Samaritan. It’s forged from melted-down bells from an ancient church. However, Hellboy is the first to admit that he’s a lousy shot, preferring to get up close and personal in straight-up hand-to-hand combat.
To that end, his most valuable weapon is his own right hand. His most notable feature, after his bright-red skin, cloven hooves, and the twin stumps that take up his forehead, is his right hand and forearm. The hand has only three fingers plus thumb, is over three times the size of his left, and formed of living, articulated stone. Described in some, little-known sources of demon lore as “The Right Hand of Doom,” it is supposedly an ancient key to freeing the Ogdru Jahad, a group of colossal dragons imprisoned before the dawn of history. And he was the lucky bastard to be born with it, bringing the damned thing with him into the Material Plane of existence when he was summoned over seventy years ago. Great . . . go, him.
Of course, whether or not any of this is true versus pure mythology, he doesn’t know. Frankly, he doesn’twant to know care.
There’s not a lot that’ll stand up to a strike from that built-in hammer he’s got, both in terms of its indestructibility and the amazing physical power behind it – Hellboy is hella strong! He’s been known to use it to punch like a “normal” fist or swing like a cudgel. The stone lacks a sense of touch so he feels no pain in it either. Conversely, that right hand is not the most dexterous thing in the world – hell, his tail is probably more dexterous than that hand for a lot of things in terms of fine manipulation. There are many common, two-handed tasks that are a challenge for him, if not pretty much impossible. Having only ever had the stone hand all his life, never a “normal” right hand, he’s never known any differently, so he’s always found ways to compensate whenever possible, but there are still some things that are just plain beyond his ability.
Again, in the depths of obscure demon lore, it’s known as the so-called “Right Hand of Doom.” Theological and mythological debates abound as to whether or not such a thing truly exists (let alone whether or not Hellboy possesses the very artifact). Fortunately, he himself will never use it for that – again, turning his back on his so-called “destiny” as the herald of the world’s end, blahblahblah – and when he dies, it will crumble and cease to exist.
As mentioned, Hellboy is supernaturally strong, able to pull a tree up by the roots or throw something weighing 400-500 pounds minimum. He can take damage as well as he can deal it too, being inhumanly tough (though by no means invincible). Plus he can heal damage at a supernatural rate. Not to the point where someone could stand and visibly watch the wounds close, but way decent. He is also invulnerable to fire.
He has an amazing amount of knowledge in terms of mythology, folklore, and fairy tales of all kinds. Even the most obscure tidbits of information on any such subjects he’s likely to know something about – he’s had experience, or he’s studied it, or he just remembers someone talking about it once. He has an innate ability to understand and use magical and magitech items and to read/translate mystical writing. He carries a variety of items in the pouches of his utility belt: holy relics, a horseshoe, a collection of herbs and concoctions, rock salt, magical amulets and talismans. While he’s no proper mage, he does have the ability to cast a number of minor spells (mostly things to awaken, deal with, control, repel, etc supernatural/folkloric threats), or activate the spells built into most mystical items.
Speaking of magical power, Hellboy’s been told by a number of people – including humans, faerie folk, and demons – that he holds a great deal of power within him. They could have been telling the truth or they could have just been trying to manipulate him. Personally, he thinks they’re all full of shit. Well, no, that’s not true – he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it, because of everything else that would go with it if it’s true. He’s experienced clues a handful of times in his life that it just might be, and those times that he did, others were trying to force things out of him that he wants no part of. Repeatedly, he’s turned his back on what they claim is his “destiny” and therefore all this supposed power he has in him. He’s lived this long doing just fine without it, and he’ll continue getting by without it, thank you very much. He really, truly, in his heart wants nothing to do with any of that crap, and steadfastly locks away any part of himself that might lead him into it.
(Note: I’m sorry I can’t actually detail exactly what his “power” is, because the comics never really go into it either. “Everyone” knows he has it and “everyone” tells him he has it, but no one really details what it is and it’s never actually seen in action. And it probably never will be since it primarily has to do with his demon nature and his destiny as the harbinger of the End Times, so he’s always all “Nope, not interested! GTFO”)
Samples
Network:
[A pair of glowing yellow eyes against bright red skin fill the screen for a minute before the camera is pulled back, a square-jawed, simian face scowling at the view. He’s muttering as he seems to continue to fiddle with the device in his hand.]
Never was any good with these things… Oh. Red light. You are recording, arncha? Huh.
[The humanoid’s head tilts slightly to one side, genuine nonchalance and even mild, wry amusement on his face.]
If this is Africa, I missed a memo somewhere along the way.
I’ve been some crazy places, but I’ll hand it to you people – this takes the prize. So tell me . . . there any place in this mechanical circus a guy can go for some cigarettes? Or better, a decent cigar?
Third Person:
Hellboy trudged through the Brooklyn snow, hooves sinking three to four inches with each step. He carried with him a small bouquet of white lilies, special lilies-of-the-valley that he’d brought with him all the way from England. Miraculously, they’d survived the trip. Or perhaps . . . not so miraculously.
He’d picked them in West Sussex, after all. From that field in Saint Leonard’s Wood.
He didn’t have to read the headstones to find the one he wanted. He knew where he was going. He could walk there with his eyes closed. Finally, he knelt down by one in particular, brushing the snow from its face with thick stone fingers. Professor Trevor William Bruttenholm, 1918-1994. The stone hand rested against the rough granite as Hellboy laid down the bouquet with the flesh hand.
“Sorry I haven’t been to visit for a while. Things have been . . . busy.” He looked down at the flowers, fingering one snow-white petal. “Remember you telling me once that white lilies were your favorite flower.” He looked up at the headstone as if he could look at the face of the man he’d called “father” for as long as he could remember, the human who had raised him and loved him as a son, regardless of his origin or any doomsday prophesies. “It was after you had me go see the Osiris Club, wasn’t it? Were they your favorite before that, or was that why?”
Silence. Not that he’d expected an answer. Just . . . it needed to be asked. It was times like now that he wished Father was still alive. There were some things he just couldn’t talk to anyone else about, and he would have dearly loved to have the man’s wisdom on some of the things he’d discovered in the past six years since the man’s death.
“I met the son of that old buddy of yours, Frost. The guy’s a priest. Kinda roundaboutly apologized for all the grief his dad gave us over me. Guess he had fair reason, though.” Sitting back, Hellboy looked at his stone hand, clenching it in a fist at the memory of that conversation. He wanted to be angry – and he was – but after a moment, the fist loosened, the stone arm falling to rest on his thigh. “There’s more . . . a lot more . . . more than I think I could even explain in one sitting. I’m still trying to sort it all out.”
“He knows.”
The voice was a faint whisper from somewhere close to his left. And low to the ground. Hellboy looked and saw a snowshoe hare gazing back up at him with a glint of something unnatural in its black eyes.
“He worries about you.”
Hellboy had been spoken to by the restless dead and other supernatural forces by way of random animals too many times to be fazed by a talking rabbit. He nodded but was interrupted from replying.
“As well he should.”
This whisper came from high on his right. A hawk stared at him from a low branch of the tree that grew behind Bruttenholm’s grave. It cocked its head at him, almost as if in challenge.
“Anung un Rama.”
Hellboy scowled, snatching up a rock by his knee and chucking it at the bird without thinking. “Shaddup.”
The hawk squawked indignantly as it dodged the rock, then dove at him. He put up his stone hand to shield his face, but it passed harmlessly over, wings brushing his head. An instant later, something screamed. He looked in time to see the hare carried off by the hawk. He stared after the two for an instant, then shook his head and turned back to the tombstone.
“I’ve left the BPRD, sir. Thought you should know. I don’t know for how long. Maybe for good, maybe not. Too much has happened, and I need a break. Gonna finally go visit Africa again. You know I haven’t been since you took me there as a kid? Yeah, weird. Been to England a lot, been all over Europe, but never been back to Africa. So I’m gonna go, and then see where I wind up. I might be gone a while, I don’t know. I’ll be sure to come by and tell you all about it when I get back, though. I’m sure it’ll make a great story.”
A wind had begun to pick up, and Hellboy climbed to his feet, turning up the collar of his coat. He stared down at the tombstone. “I miss you, Father. And I don’t think I ever really got the chance to say it . . . I never really understood. For everything you taught me, and everything you did for me . . . thank you.” There was more he wanted to say, much more . . . but he honestly didn’t know how nor really where to start. And he didn’t need to be overheard by whatever forces were still lingering in the area.
He cast one last look in the direction the hawk had flown, then turned and made his way back out of the cemetery.
Name: Dragon
Age: 40
Personal Journal:
dragondancer5150Email / AIM / MSN / Plurk: dragondancer5150@yahoo.com (email and AIM), OldMaidDragon (plurk)
Current Character(s): Drill Boy, Wheeljack, Captain Fanzone
Character Information
Character Name: Hellboy – also answers to the nickname Red – his true name is Anung un Rama (“Beast of the Apocalypse”) but he ardently refuses to acknowledge it and will generally pummel anyone who tries to force the issue
Fandom: Hellboy (comics-centric)
Character History: One cold, black night two days before Christmas, back in 1944, a special Ranger unit of American soldiers led by a trio of specialists from the British Paranormal Society stood ready in the ruins of a forgotten church in East Bromwich, England, a place that even the threat of possible Nazi commando activity couldn’t get the locals to talk about. Something of great import was going to happen there that night. Problem was, the head medium who’d sensed it couldn’t really say what. Unbeknownst to them, the Nazi activity they’d feared and were there to stop was actually far north, on a tiny island just off the Scottish coast. There, a special squad of Nazis, led by powerful Russian sorcerer Rasputin, completed the final stage of their “Project Ragna Rok”, an endeavor designed to alter the course of history and win them both the war and control of the world. The final spell was cast . . . and the Nazis were rather disappointed. The Rangers and their paranormal-expert friends, however, very much were not. A bolt of power struck the ground from the heavens without warning, leaving behind . . . a demonic-looking toddler. Whether or not the classic-devil-looking creature was an actual demon was never determined for certain, but it was a supernatural child of some kind. The toddler seemed harmless enough, and one of the specialists, Professor Trevor Bruttenholm, took the boy with him as they left. As advisor to U.S. President FDR, Bruttenholm returned with the soldiers to America, the little boy in tow.
The “Hellboy incident” had been only one in a string of Nazi occult events and reports known to the American government, finally convincing them that they needed to form an agency specialized in dealing with such things. With government backing, Prof. Bruttenholm along with some colleagues formed the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, an international – and internationally known – organization (not a secret like it is in the live-action movies), of which Bruttenholm was the director until his retirement. Before eventually moving to its permanent headquarters in Fairfield, Connecticut, the agency operated out of an Air Force base in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, and this was where the devil-like child grew up, Bruttenholm raising the boy like a son. And he grew up fast. In two years’ time, he was like a ten-year-old – with all the imagination and innocent childish mischief to go with it! In ten years’ time, he was physically and mentally an adult, and hasn’t changed since. In 1952, he was granted “honorary human” status by the United Nations. Soon after, he officially joined the BPRD as a field agent, no longer being just their ward, and has spent the past six decades fighting demons, imps, banshees, elf-folk, and more.
All the while, there were the questions in the back of his mind – his and everyone else’s around him. What was he, where did he come from, why had he been brought through from wherever he came? His friend and fellow agent, Abe Sapien, once asked him what he thought of all that. And his answer? “I like not knowing. I’ve gotten by for fifty-two years without knowing. I sleep good not knowing.”
Unfortunately, Hellboy wasn’t going to get to keep “not knowing.” A mission to an ancient and crumbling lakeside mansion called Cavendish Hall proved to be the start of a line of incidents over the next few years that would slowly unravel the mystery of his origin . . . and threaten to unravel his sanity with it. There, he encountered – and destroyed (or so he believed) – the man who summoned him from that mysterious other plane so long ago. Rasputin claimed Hellboy was to command powers to destroy the world. Hellboy, of course, was none too pleased to hear this, and the two of them went a few rounds before Rasputin disintegrated in a ball of fire, thanks to fellow BPRD agent and pyrokinetic Liz Sherman. Rasputin's dying words, however, haunted Hellboy for some time to come: “If you kill me, you will never know who you are. You will never understand the power inside you.”
Hellboy had retorted at the time that that was fine with him . . . but the damage had been done. As time went on, he got curious where he steadfastly never had been before, and the occasional comments by some of the supernatural entities he met in his travels didn’t help. Finally, he took some time off from the Bureau for a little expedition of his own. He went to East Bromwich in England. He always went to England to clear his head after a particularly difficult mission . . . but this was the first time he’d been back to that ancient church since his “birth”. He spent a night there and had a vision of a withered old woman on her deathbed, a frightened and repentant witch seeking forgiveness from her sins. After her death, her children – a Catholic priest and a nun – sealed her in a chained coffin, but neither that nor even their faith were enough to save her from the great demon that came for her. He incinerated the pair with a thought and claimed his witch, “comforting” her with the news of the life she still bore within her, a portion of his power that had become a living thing. A son. His favorite son. Hellboy, witnessing it all play out, swore that the great demon turned and looked right at him as he said that . . . even though the events playing out before him were only an ethereal recording of things that had happened 300 years before. By morning, he couldn’t tell if it’d been a real vision or “just” a dream, let alone if it truly had anything to do with him. He returned to the BPRD and tried to put the whole thing out of his mind as nothing more than an unfortunate nightmare. The creatures he encountered continued to recognize him for who and what he was – who/what they claimed, anyway – but still he refused to give in, choosing to live his own life and telling himself they were all just full of it.
…until he had a run-in with the goddess Hecate shortly after. Much like Rasputin before her, she cajoled and berated Hellboy for making war on her kind – and his! – and for the fact that he was bathed in the blood of his own kith and kin. Hellboy kept insisting she had the wrong guy, but she wouldn’t hear it and attacked him, attempting to force from him his power and acceptance of his birthright by sending him to The Pit. Calling him by his true name, she and other powers beseeched him to wake his devil heart and loose the dragon, the seven-in-one-in-seven, the Ogdru-Jahad. But in pushing him, they only pissed him off, hardening his resolve all the more, snarling at them as he snapped off the long curving horns they’d forced to grow back to their natural length from his brow. “Screw you! It’s my own goddamned life, and I’ll do with it what I want! You don’t like that, kill me if you can!” They failed to and he escaped.
Then he and Abe were sent to investigate the theft of a box from a man’s manor home, which used to be an ancient convent. Chasing the thief to a small barony in Scotland, the pair faced a minor demon named Ualac that used Hellboy’s true name against him to bind him, then claimed the Crown of Fire from his head, something even Hellboy had not known he possessed. However, in taking the crown, Ualac himself temporarily “became” the Beast of the Apocalypse himself, which robbed Hellboy’s name of its power to hold him, as it was “no longer his name” in that moment. Aided in realizing this by some unnamed but powerful figures of the supernatural realm, Hellboy broke the enchantment and defeated and captured Ualac . . . only to give him over to Lord Astaroth himself, the Great Prince of Hell. Astaroth also took with him the Crown. Like others before him, Astaroth suggested Hellboy stop denying his nature and accept his place in the scheme of things. Unafraid even of the Great Prince himself, Hellboy suggested he take the Crown and shove it. Astaroth said he would keep it for Hellboy. “In Pandemonium, in the House of the Fly, there is a seat reserved for you. The Crown will wait for you there. When you want it, call me.” Hellboy retorted not to hold his breath and watched him depart back for Hell. During this whole incident, too, he learned more about his stone right hand, which added to something that had been revealed to him a while back, supporting the whole “Right Hand of Doom” nonsense he’d been told.
After his “sketchy” (suspected to be incomplete) report to the BPRD, he retreated to England once more, to one of the Avebury Stone Circles in Wiltshire. Folklorist and fellow agent Kate Corrigan found him there and tried to get him to talk to her, friend to friend. He admitted that he left out some personal stuff, details the BPRD didn’t need to know. He got through life by not dealing with what he was, with not thinking about the fact that his job usually involved him “beating the crap out of things a lot like (him).” But then something like this would come up. His head was yanked up out of its hole and he’d be forced to look at his place in the big picture, a bad picture, and it was all he could do to get his head back into that hole. “But what if I don’t?” he asked her. “What if I keep looking at that big picture?” “I’m sure it would be scary at first,” she replied, “but in the long run . . . I think it would be the best thing for you.” He appreciated her support but decided to bury his head just one more time.
The next assignment would prove to be the breaking point for Hellboy. In fact, it got off on the wrong foot from the start. Hellboy was sent to investigate old Nazi doings at a ruined castle in Austria alongside friend and new agent Roger, a 15th Century homunculus who’d been found during the same mission that Hellboy had the run-in with Hecate. Jolted back to life, Roger accidentally killed one BPRD agent and nearly cost another her life. He then saved that same agent’s life at the cost of his own (temporarily, as it turned out; he was later successfully revived again) as well as saved countless lives by confronting and ultimately killing his own “brother”, another homunculus created by the same alchemist. Despite these sacrifices, the BPRD wasn’t willing to risk Roger turning on any more agents – when he was revived the second time, he was also fitted with a small incendiary bomb, just big enough to kill him without doing any other damage . . . and Tom Manning, the director, gave Hellboy the kill switch. The knowledge infuriated Hellboy, who argued that Waller’s death had been an accident and pointed out that Roger had saved Liz’s life of his own free will after inadvertently taking all her power. Liz was one of Hellboy’s best friends, but when she was eleven, she killed thirty-two people when her power exploded on her. Were they going to put a bomb on her too? Manning told Hellboy not to be ridiculous – Liz was human; Roger wasn’t. Before he left, Hellboy growled a reminder that he wasn’t human either. When were they going to put a bomb on him? Manning had no reply.
The mission itself proved almost par for the course – Nazi activity was still quite alive and well up at the castle, culminating in the release of a supernatural horror of ultimately rather immense proportions, a beast known only as the Conqueror Worm. One related to the Ogdru Jahad, no less. Everything always seemed to harken back to that. Along the way as well, Hellboy met a prisoner whom he thought he recognized. The man confirmed it – he’d been there, in disguise as one of the soldiers, the night Hellboy was brought into the world. He’d been sent by his “masters” as an assassin, to kill the coming threat, the Destroyer. But that night, he saw something in the demonic child – free will, the chance that he might break the bonds of fate and choose a life. So he broke with his masters and let the child live. Ten years later, he was there in West Sussex, England, to witness Hellboy fight a dragon . . . and how white lilies sprang up where his blood fell, just as they had with St. Leonard five hundred years before. The man, an alien of unknown origin in the guise of a human, knew then that he had done the right thing in sparing Hellboy’s life. With his dying breath, he said, “Hellboy, to be other than human does not necessarily mean to be less. Remember that. Remember me…” And it was in that moment, even, that Roger found him, having been separated earlier during a fight – Roger, the one whose kill switch he had in a pouch on his belt because the guy was not human.
The two defeated the Conqueror Worm and returned to the BPRD outpost at the foot of the mountain, where Hellboy dropped the kill switch back into Manning’s hand . . . and quit the BPRD. As he told Kate, it wasn’t even just the bomb they’d planted in Roger. It was all the cumulated stuff about him – the Crown of the Apocalypse, the Right Hand of Doom, flowers growing out of his blood? He needed some time away. He decided to go to Africa. He’d not been there since he was a child, and he’d always told himself he’d go back one day.
Of course, he won’t actually make it. He’s been a lot of weird places and seen some odd and crazy things . . . but waking one day to find himself in a city outside of space and time itself? Yeah, that’ll be a new one even for him.
Character Personality: Hellboy has been described as a living oxymoron – a being of
He’s got a huge heart, but it’s buried under a lot of snark and seemingly careless behavior. He deals with the very worst of the natural and the supernatural on a regular basis, so he’s built a shell from which he operates. He can be sarcastic and kind of callous (again seemingly, on the surface), but just as often he’s merely quiet and observant, letting things play out around him and learning what he can from people’s interactions. Sometimes it’s what they don’t say that speaks louder than what they do.
And if he hears the word “destiny” one…more…time…someone’s getting hurt. Badly.
He’s not good at dealing with emotions in general, at least not the negative ones. For instance, grief might manifest as either anger or maybe a sullen silence, and if something is bothering him, he’ll just shut it out and bury further into his work. He’s certainly not the kind to talk about emotional issues. He’ll be fine, just needs a good, stiff drink. And a quality cigar. He does have a temper, though it doesn’t normally come out until he’s been worn down some by whatever mission he’s on and he starts to get where he’s just had enough of shit. Or if someone he cares about is hurt or attacked. And he’ll be the first to admit – when he gets angry, he can tend to do stupid things.
He can be something of a loner, at least in his monster-hunting work, and that too has gotten him in trouble more than a few times. The phrase “bit off more than he could chew” comes to mind, where he’s underestimated an opponent and really should have brought backup, though it always seems to work out in the end (one might almost wonder if he hasn’t the divine watching over him). Plus he tends to attract trouble, even when he’s honestly not looking for it. And when he passes into an area already troubled, his presence tends to step things up. That which fears little to nothing in this world or the next . . . often fears him all the same, and will act on that fear.
He DESPISES (and to an extent even fears) the fact that he’s a demon, or at least part-demon. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s of the same ilk as the kinds of things he’s fought and killed or banished in order to protect himself, his friends and fellow agents, and the world, desperately wanting to be accepted by those around him. C’mon, he’s just one of the guys, right? Oh, and for the record? No, he doesn’t keep his horns ground down to better blend in with others – come on, he’s a seven-foot-plus, blood-red tower of muscle and attitude, who would he be kidding? He keeps the damned things ground down so he can pass through doorways easier – seriously, they get in the way if he lets them grow out.
Also, because of his demonic blood, he’s susceptible to the same magics that can summon, bind, command, banish, or injure any other demon, though their effectiveness will be notably weaker due to his human aspect. However, knowledge of his true name will counter that and strengthen the effectiveness of the weapon/spell/etc.
Powers and Abilities: He carries a really big pistol, inhumanly big, which he has named The Samaritan. It’s forged from melted-down bells from an ancient church. However, Hellboy is the first to admit that he’s a lousy shot, preferring to get up close and personal in straight-up hand-to-hand combat.
To that end, his most valuable weapon is his own right hand. His most notable feature, after his bright-red skin, cloven hooves, and the twin stumps that take up his forehead, is his right hand and forearm. The hand has only three fingers plus thumb, is over three times the size of his left, and formed of living, articulated stone. Described in some, little-known sources of demon lore as “The Right Hand of Doom,” it is supposedly an ancient key to freeing the Ogdru Jahad, a group of colossal dragons imprisoned before the dawn of history. And he was the lucky bastard to be born with it, bringing the damned thing with him into the Material Plane of existence when he was summoned over seventy years ago. Great . . . go, him.
Of course, whether or not any of this is true versus pure mythology, he doesn’t know. Frankly, he doesn’t
There’s not a lot that’ll stand up to a strike from that built-in hammer he’s got, both in terms of its indestructibility and the amazing physical power behind it – Hellboy is hella strong! He’s been known to use it to punch like a “normal” fist or swing like a cudgel. The stone lacks a sense of touch so he feels no pain in it either. Conversely, that right hand is not the most dexterous thing in the world – hell, his tail is probably more dexterous than that hand for a lot of things in terms of fine manipulation. There are many common, two-handed tasks that are a challenge for him, if not pretty much impossible. Having only ever had the stone hand all his life, never a “normal” right hand, he’s never known any differently, so he’s always found ways to compensate whenever possible, but there are still some things that are just plain beyond his ability.
Again, in the depths of obscure demon lore, it’s known as the so-called “Right Hand of Doom.” Theological and mythological debates abound as to whether or not such a thing truly exists (let alone whether or not Hellboy possesses the very artifact). Fortunately, he himself will never use it for that – again, turning his back on his so-called “destiny” as the herald of the world’s end, blahblahblah – and when he dies, it will crumble and cease to exist.
As mentioned, Hellboy is supernaturally strong, able to pull a tree up by the roots or throw something weighing 400-500 pounds minimum. He can take damage as well as he can deal it too, being inhumanly tough (though by no means invincible). Plus he can heal damage at a supernatural rate. Not to the point where someone could stand and visibly watch the wounds close, but way decent. He is also invulnerable to fire.
He has an amazing amount of knowledge in terms of mythology, folklore, and fairy tales of all kinds. Even the most obscure tidbits of information on any such subjects he’s likely to know something about – he’s had experience, or he’s studied it, or he just remembers someone talking about it once. He has an innate ability to understand and use magical and magitech items and to read/translate mystical writing. He carries a variety of items in the pouches of his utility belt: holy relics, a horseshoe, a collection of herbs and concoctions, rock salt, magical amulets and talismans. While he’s no proper mage, he does have the ability to cast a number of minor spells (mostly things to awaken, deal with, control, repel, etc supernatural/folkloric threats), or activate the spells built into most mystical items.
Speaking of magical power, Hellboy’s been told by a number of people – including humans, faerie folk, and demons – that he holds a great deal of power within him. They could have been telling the truth or they could have just been trying to manipulate him. Personally, he thinks they’re all full of shit. Well, no, that’s not true – he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it, because of everything else that would go with it if it’s true. He’s experienced clues a handful of times in his life that it just might be, and those times that he did, others were trying to force things out of him that he wants no part of. Repeatedly, he’s turned his back on what they claim is his “destiny” and therefore all this supposed power he has in him. He’s lived this long doing just fine without it, and he’ll continue getting by without it, thank you very much. He really, truly, in his heart wants nothing to do with any of that crap, and steadfastly locks away any part of himself that might lead him into it.
(Note: I’m sorry I can’t actually detail exactly what his “power” is, because the comics never really go into it either. “Everyone” knows he has it and “everyone” tells him he has it, but no one really details what it is and it’s never actually seen in action. And it probably never will be since it primarily has to do with his demon nature and his destiny as the harbinger of the End Times, so he’s always all “Nope, not interested! GTFO”)
Samples
Network:
[A pair of glowing yellow eyes against bright red skin fill the screen for a minute before the camera is pulled back, a square-jawed, simian face scowling at the view. He’s muttering as he seems to continue to fiddle with the device in his hand.]
Never was any good with these things… Oh. Red light. You are recording, arncha? Huh.
[The humanoid’s head tilts slightly to one side, genuine nonchalance and even mild, wry amusement on his face.]
If this is Africa, I missed a memo somewhere along the way.
I’ve been some crazy places, but I’ll hand it to you people – this takes the prize. So tell me . . . there any place in this mechanical circus a guy can go for some cigarettes? Or better, a decent cigar?
Third Person:
Hellboy trudged through the Brooklyn snow, hooves sinking three to four inches with each step. He carried with him a small bouquet of white lilies, special lilies-of-the-valley that he’d brought with him all the way from England. Miraculously, they’d survived the trip. Or perhaps . . . not so miraculously.
He’d picked them in West Sussex, after all. From that field in Saint Leonard’s Wood.
He didn’t have to read the headstones to find the one he wanted. He knew where he was going. He could walk there with his eyes closed. Finally, he knelt down by one in particular, brushing the snow from its face with thick stone fingers. Professor Trevor William Bruttenholm, 1918-1994. The stone hand rested against the rough granite as Hellboy laid down the bouquet with the flesh hand.
“Sorry I haven’t been to visit for a while. Things have been . . . busy.” He looked down at the flowers, fingering one snow-white petal. “Remember you telling me once that white lilies were your favorite flower.” He looked up at the headstone as if he could look at the face of the man he’d called “father” for as long as he could remember, the human who had raised him and loved him as a son, regardless of his origin or any doomsday prophesies. “It was after you had me go see the Osiris Club, wasn’t it? Were they your favorite before that, or was that why?”
Silence. Not that he’d expected an answer. Just . . . it needed to be asked. It was times like now that he wished Father was still alive. There were some things he just couldn’t talk to anyone else about, and he would have dearly loved to have the man’s wisdom on some of the things he’d discovered in the past six years since the man’s death.
“I met the son of that old buddy of yours, Frost. The guy’s a priest. Kinda roundaboutly apologized for all the grief his dad gave us over me. Guess he had fair reason, though.” Sitting back, Hellboy looked at his stone hand, clenching it in a fist at the memory of that conversation. He wanted to be angry – and he was – but after a moment, the fist loosened, the stone arm falling to rest on his thigh. “There’s more . . . a lot more . . . more than I think I could even explain in one sitting. I’m still trying to sort it all out.”
“He knows.”
The voice was a faint whisper from somewhere close to his left. And low to the ground. Hellboy looked and saw a snowshoe hare gazing back up at him with a glint of something unnatural in its black eyes.
“He worries about you.”
Hellboy had been spoken to by the restless dead and other supernatural forces by way of random animals too many times to be fazed by a talking rabbit. He nodded but was interrupted from replying.
“As well he should.”
This whisper came from high on his right. A hawk stared at him from a low branch of the tree that grew behind Bruttenholm’s grave. It cocked its head at him, almost as if in challenge.
“Anung un Rama.”
Hellboy scowled, snatching up a rock by his knee and chucking it at the bird without thinking. “Shaddup.”
The hawk squawked indignantly as it dodged the rock, then dove at him. He put up his stone hand to shield his face, but it passed harmlessly over, wings brushing his head. An instant later, something screamed. He looked in time to see the hare carried off by the hawk. He stared after the two for an instant, then shook his head and turned back to the tombstone.
“I’ve left the BPRD, sir. Thought you should know. I don’t know for how long. Maybe for good, maybe not. Too much has happened, and I need a break. Gonna finally go visit Africa again. You know I haven’t been since you took me there as a kid? Yeah, weird. Been to England a lot, been all over Europe, but never been back to Africa. So I’m gonna go, and then see where I wind up. I might be gone a while, I don’t know. I’ll be sure to come by and tell you all about it when I get back, though. I’m sure it’ll make a great story.”
A wind had begun to pick up, and Hellboy climbed to his feet, turning up the collar of his coat. He stared down at the tombstone. “I miss you, Father. And I don’t think I ever really got the chance to say it . . . I never really understood. For everything you taught me, and everything you did for me . . . thank you.” There was more he wanted to say, much more . . . but he honestly didn’t know how nor really where to start. And he didn’t need to be overheard by whatever forces were still lingering in the area.
He cast one last look in the direction the hawk had flown, then turned and made his way back out of the cemetery.
