Yo I just found your blog and I was wondering if you had a summary for the story involving the Charles dude cause he’s hella cool af
To make an OBSCENELY large story very short:
Charles was once a farm boy and grew up in Louisiana agriculture, raised by a single immigrant mother who was suspiciously infatuated with a bizarre-looking priest (surprise surprise) who was his father, one of the few people in the world who managed to escape Elysium and its clutches by disguising himself as a holy man. However, because of his escape, it turned him into a very paranoid man, and a cruel one at that, and because of his paranoia would feed his neighbors to the smugglers of Elysium, which included his son, who would constantly snoop in his business and was stolen to Elysium for meat, much to his father's chagrin; it ended up being his own undoing as well.
Charles would escape the boat that carried him (which caused much stir and buzz in the city) and became a boxer as a way to collect desperate cash to stay afloat. In Elysium for 17 years, he was never officially documented and remained unnamed; thus, he was mostly anonymous. People to this day don't know his original name is "Charles" (Most people in DD's modern day call him the tin-man or the Giant), which caught the eye of various sponsors. Despite Charles' enthusiasm for mindless brawling, he was never really brilliant at it and frequently left black and blue. So a deal was struck. He'd take in sponsors and give permission for them to alter his body; he would display their handy tools for the people of Elysium in hopes that they'd receive better sales and prove that their inventions truly work! He'd grow as a fighter, from a zero to a hero in a matter of months, there would be no fighter in the world that would ever want to back down from sparring the once "pipsqueak" that now has iron knuckles. They'd be lucky to survive! He'd get paid for his service, and the hope was that he would have enough money to leave the island once he made enough.
This was a gruelling, painful process, a constant cycle of cutting, inserting, healing, fighting, repeat. His new gadgetry, despite all the aches, really would work! Seamlessly too, with only minor side effects of numbing sensations and being...magnetic-- oddly. Over the year, he looked less human and more like a swollen, bulbous monster that would clobber its way onto centre field, give a loose swing to start, and, to his horror, his opponent was now on the floor, brains splattered on the ring; he truly, honestly, did not mean to hit that hard. This was a tough time in his life; he began to lose his feelings of self-identity and feel immense guilt over the overenthusiastic knucklesheads that wanted to take him on in the ring. Each and every single one left with...pretty severe injuries, some that they would never come back from, and one was even killed. What was even worse was that after a particularly tough fight, knocked out and on the floor, he'd wake up in a hospital chair and look down to see his own viscera, throwing himself out of his stupored haze, realizing in horror he just didn't feel...anything anymore. Hurt was a word of the past; "Ows" would never be said. He was looking down at what was possibly supposed to be the most painful moment of his life, and it only felt like he was sleeping; if not a little chilly, it haunted him deeply.
An advertisement, all to be a fucking advertisement, no less than a pawn for some corporate pigs who just wanted to sell the most evil things he could imagine, and watch people kill themselves on the streets, knowing he participated in it. He wanted to hang it up, quit, and for once go home. He did everything that was asked of him, everything that was promised, everything that was ever needed of him, he wanted his end of the deal fulfilled. By which...No. It couldn't.
A long explanation aside, and a sinking pit in his stomach. They confessed that they just didn't think he'd survive this long; they were more counting on the idea that he was...scrap! A torn piece of paper to be scribbled on just to see what color ink would come out of the pen, they didn't expect...such a marvel to come out of it. A superhuman! Made by their own hands, by SHEER ACCIDENT, he just didn't realize how wonderful he truly is! He wanted to leave? The ADONIS that everyone was looking for and wanted? Fat chance; he would never leave, not at this stage, no, no, no, he was too good to leave, and they would do everything in their power...to keep him on this godforsaken island.
What a horrid mistake that was, to say it out loud. Not only was an Adonis made, but it was also the birth of a deep feeling of injustice, a fiery pit of rage that made his blood boil. They kept him down for some time, yes, paraded him around as an exhibit, an example of "What could be," the symbol of the future, the "Platinum Man", the "Perfect Soldier", a "Killing Machine" that only had to wave his wrist to break your spine, and you too...could have that power. What a horrible advertisement, stuck, restrained, in a coffin, an iron maiden, because he attempted one too many times to claw their eyes out. He wanted to deal with this peacefully; he really did, but he couldn't stand looking at their faces, their piggish faces, soulless eyes with no humanity; he wanted to kill them. He attempted every day, and sometimes he'd have his moments of victory, feeling a little smile creep up his lip as he saw one of those muling cockroaches whimper in unknowable pain because he pulled at her leg a little too far, only to be knocked out into sleep, a pleasant dream.
One day, a parade was scheduled, and he was center stage, numbed to everything, beyond tired. He was almost thankful to be trapped in a sarcophagus so that he wouldn't have to face the crowd of people. People that he doomed, that he would fail, watch them mangle their bodies to even have a hint of his abilities, and trap themselves in horrible debts for just a metal arm. He wanted to muster a tear, but felt he was dry. Muffled sounds of holler, joy over...him. Something he could barely even recognize in the mirror, a thing he didn't know what it was, just an eye, peering through the bandages. That eye, which forgot the name of his mother. He had an epiphany that day: Charlie is dead. Yes.
Yes, that's right. He was just- not Charles. Charles died on the boat, died protecting the only family he knew, died, killing the man that started this all, an Elysium man, in a pit of fire, and just- whoever he was, he was now occupying his body. His corpse, actually. That sounds more appropriate. Charles would've never taken the deal, not from some...Elysium scum; he was better than that, he was a decent man back then. He would've swum back to shore, back to...Fuck. Of course you're not Charles, you don't even know what her face looks like. Stupid dog. Stupid stupid dog. You don't deserve to wear his na-
The crowd gasps, and he swears to himself he could feel his ear twitch at the sound of clinking metal. ... His arm, His hand, He could move it.
Hah. Haha. You stupid bastards, you forgot to tighten the bolt. The chest of the maiden had become misshapen by a bulge made by whoever was trapped inside. Wasted efforts to keep whatever was inside contained would be fruitless, as a hand would break through the steel and grab whatever head was close by, smashing it against the metal to set itself free, and violent thudding turned into warm, wet crunches. Many were injured that day, and many more (thankfully) fled in the streets in a frenzy. It was all a horrible spectacle, an example of the sheer raw power of what Elysium had decided to call “perfect”. A misshapen, gargantuan blur covered head to toe in bandages, bloodied with puncture wounds, screaming to the skies as though a frightened pig, lumbering the streets searching for its escape.
A monster, the birth of what Elysium would call "Devil Dane." It was a welcoming of no ordinary child; They did not know where he came from, whom he belonged to, let alone his name. A mewling grub, spat out by the sea, shall be nurtured into Elysium’s champion. A punishment for their vile wickedness; They begged for mercy at the sight of hell’s executioner. His name is Dane. That felt more fitting.
Dane would have his escape, but not from the isle; one look at that ink-black water and he changed his mind. He never wanted something like this to ever happen again, never to repeat, never to be uttered. He swore on his heart, crossing it with a shard of glass, that it would never happen again, that he would protect the innocent people who were lost in the throes of the Bermuda, and set them on the right path. A hunter, to hunt the wolves that preyed on the weaker, and one day, one blessed day, he would return from whence he came. He'll burn this city to the ground and watch it sink into the water, he will climb the highest tower just to watch the island he was born on be swallowed by the sea, and him as well, drowned.
The rage of the ocean.
A hellhound, born from the depths of the sea.
Sent by Lucifer to punish the wicked.
Aided by Death to gift him souls.
He would hear the songs of sirens that beg for another meal.
Beware. The Devil Dane.
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