The Chronicles of Iron Brute




(OOC) Here I plan to lay out the story of Iron Brute. It will start with how he gets his super powers, and his introduction into the hero community. From there it will follow his adventures. Each post to this thread, by me, will be another chapter. Please comment and let me know what you think of the story. Pull no punches, if you think it is aweful, I can deal with that, just tell me WHY. Also, if you see any inconsisencies with the official storylines of CoH, let me know so I can correct for that. Thanks! (/OOC)

The Chronicles of Iron Brute

Chapter 1 – Revenge is a Dish Best Served Quickly

“At least this piece of crap has a CD player in it”, Jim Morson thought to himself. The drive from Paragon City to San Fransisco used to be a lot worse. For most of the nation, the only radio you can get is country. Jim hated country. Thankfully, his old rig had shot craps, and he had inherited this beauty. Air conditioning that actually worked, a nice little bunk in the cab for when he pulled over for a power nap, and, thank the lord, a functioning CD player.

“Lay down your arms, Lay down your spear, The chief's eyes were sad, But showed no sign of fear”, Jim liked to sing along while he drove his route. Later, he would not grasp the irony of the situation. Of course, by that point in time, Jim would have much more important things on his mind. “It is a good day to die, Oh my children dry your eyes, It is a good day to die”

BANG! “Man, not again”, Jim sighed. Another blow out was something he could do without. Getting a new tire onto an 18 wheeler, packed to capacity with God knows what, just isn't a good time, no sir. He slowly pulled his rig to the side of the road, jumped out, and walked around to the side to check the tire. Totally shredded.

Jim felt a sharp blow to the back of his head. His head began to swim, and he stumbled off the shoulder of the highway into some grass. He turned, trying to figure out what had just happened, simultaneously pulling his revolver from it's holster. In a tribute to his intense training with the Crey field agents, he reacted so quickly that he actually got a round off. However, the element of surprise is extremely difficult to overcome, training or no. Before he could get his pistol leveled and aimed, another blow struck him in the back of the head. He barely even got a look at his attackers before all went black. All told, Jim would lay there alive for another 3 hours before he bled out. Fortunately for him, however, he would never regain consciousness, and therefore went on to the other side rather painlessly, considering.

“Go grab the spikes, Grange! Don't leave a single one on the highway. The rest of you, load this crap into our pickups, then burn the truck. Don't open anything until we get back to the warehouse, or you'll answer to me.” The others took him seriously. Dreck was not to be fooled with.


“Hey Angel.”

“Hey Brute.” He chuckled a bit at the exchange, though it was nothing new to him. No one uses their real name in a strip club. “Feeling up to the challenge tonight?”, the lithe dancer asked.

“If you are”, came the reply. “Hey, is that creep with the P on his chest still bothering you?”

“Nah, he was just your average perv. Don't get too worked up about him, k?” Angel looked over at Brute to make sure he got the message. Brute was a great guy, but could be over-protective at times. Nothing was worse than losing out on a big tipper because your bear of a bouncer overreacted. And Brute was a bear, for sure. Shaved bald, with a brown beard and sparkling blue eyes, he had the look of a lumberjack. His frame, however, looked more like that of a bodybuilder. Seven feet tall and rippling muscle from head to toe, Brute was quite a fitting nickname.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Brute leaned back into his door chair, and felt cracking at his joints. Maybe getting a bit too old for this, he thought. Maybe. He could still whip any fool who tried something funny though, and as long as he had that capability, he could do his job. He just didn't know if he wanted to deal with the ever increasing aches and pains that went with the territory. The clientèle seemed to get rougher every day that passed. Maybe it was just nostalgia, but Brute fancied he could remember a time when people had a little more self-control, even in a strip club. Ever since dyne hit the streets, thugs had become more than just thugs.

No sooner had Brute began wondering if he was gonna face any serious trouble that night when trouble walked right through the door. Pale tattooed face, mo hawk, and a wicked smile said it all. A freak. Freaks were a new street gang. Not much set them apart from all the other gangs out there, except maybe their fashion sense. Only reason it worried Brute is, gang members are often dyned up, which can be bad for for the dancers health. Dyned up gang bangers have a tendency to get violent, especially around attractive women they'll never have for themselves. He decided to be proactive on this guy. Before the freak could get both feet through the door, Brute had him pushed firmly against the jam, his massive bulk of a forearm barred across his chest.

“You gonna cause any trouble tonight, little man?”, Brute asked, looking down at the unsuspecting gang member. Brute expected one of two responses. They were always the same. Either this guy would start yelling back, maybe even pushing a little, at which point he'd hit the pavement in two seconds flat, or he would sulk his way into the club, muttering about “just wanting to see the girls”. For the first time in a long time, Brute was surprised while on the job. The freak stared into his eyes, smiled, then laughed a small but menacing laugh. It was the look of challenge and fool-hearted bravery in his eyes that caught Brute by surprise. Usually they were brash, arrogant, and loud, or they were cowards. This one seemed quietly confident, and seriously mean.

The freak had surprised Brute so much that he had, instinctively, loosened his hold, allowing the freak to slip into the club. Brute quickly thought about approaching the freak, maybe kicking him out, but decided against it. The club wasn't doing all that well, and one plus to a dyned out customer was that he spent a lot of money on drinks. Brute would just have to be extra careful.


“What is this crap?” Dreck bellowed.

“Looks like...some sort of medical supplies?” responded his lieutenant, Soloman.

“Great. What happened to the dyne that was supposed to be in that truck?”

“Got me boss. Want I should go pound on Sully and find out why he led us wrong?”

“, not yet. First, let's find out exactly what we have here. Take this stuff to Ron Jackson, he owes me a favor for the hit on his boss last month. It's his time to cash it in. Have him work his chemistry magic on this stuff and find out exactly what we have here.”

“You got it boss.” Soloman slunk out of the room, wondering if Dreck knew something he didn't. He had never known Dreck to react to adversity with such calmness.

After Soloman had gone, Dreck leaned back in his chair, took a double dose of dyne, and relaxed. In the back of his mind, he knew that he should be raging. But something was different now. He could feel it. Something big was coming. Dreck had learned to trust his instincts in his path from a lowly Skull to a boss of the Freakshow. They had gotten him where he was today. And right now, his instincts were telling him, against all of his fiber, that he should remain calm.


It was 3 AM when the trouble really hit. Things had died down, there weren't but a couple people left in the place. The freak had disappeared an hour ago; the only people left were harmless regulars who would stay until they were kicked out. Brute decided to close the doors for the night. He locked the doors, which could still open from the inside to let the stragglers out, but were now closed to the outside. That done, Brute began to see to his nightly closing duties, which mainly consisted of moving anything too heavy for the cleaning lady to take care of. He was in the middle of taking a couple empty kegs to the back loading area when he heard screams.

Brute busted into the main dancing area to find that freak attacking Angel. He didn't know how he had gotten back in, but that was going to change fast. In two strides Brute was at the stage, his hand gripping the freaks neck. The freak pulled a gun, but Brute swiped it away with ease, sending it sliding under a table in the corner. Instead of the cowering fear Brute now expected from the unarmed and trapped freak, he again got a menacing smile. Infuriated, Brute pounded the freak in the face twice, busting his lip and breaking his nose. The smile never left his face. Brute brought his hands in the air to deliver another blow, but then reconsidered. Was it really worth troubles with the law? It wasn't likely that any cop or hero would give him any trouble for this despicable dynehead, but you never knew. There were some slick lawyers out there that could cause some problems for the club, if nothing else.

Brute strode to the door, dragging the freak by his mo hawk, propped it open and threw him out on the street. As the door swung to, the glint of his eye caught Brute's attention. The last he saw of the freak, he was still smiling, blood running into his mouth. “My name is Canker. Remember that,” he boldly proclaimed as the door clicked shut.


Soloman strode into an old foreman's office, now converted into Dreck's base of operations.

“So?” Dreck asked.

“Jackson analyzed a vial of this stuff. Said he had never seen anything like it. Said the only thing he could tell for sure was that it was designed to be injected into a person or animal. He could tell by the type of bottle it's packaged in. He said the compounds could have some dangerous results on humans. Something about adrenalin and neural somethings. Was a bunch of gobbledygook.”

“That is all you have for me?”

“No way boss. I wasn't gonna come back here empty handed. So, I took a bottle of the stuff and injected Jackson with it to see what would happen.”

Dreck smiled. He could tell Soloman was relishing telling his story slow, and decided to indulge him. He had begun to have a feeling that hitting that truck was bigger than he knew, than any of them knew. This feeling had him in a happier mood than normal. “So, what happened?”

“Well boss, he fell onto the ground, and started shaking for a while. I thought I had killed the poor jerk, but suddenly he stood up. Then, and this is where it gets weird, then he started to grow. Soon his shirt and pants were tearing at the seems. And he wasn't getting fat, this was muscle, pounds of it, growing right in front of my eyes. Suddenly, his eyes glazed over, and he attacked me. I emptied two clips into him boss, 30 bullets, and nothing! I actually saw the holes closing up as he busted out his office window and went running off.”

“Interesting. How much of this stuff do we have left?”

“Well, thats the one thing I did right. Before I injected him, I had him make a bunch more of the stuff. He said once he found the chemical compounds, making it was easy. I've got at least five thousand vials of the stuff loaded in the back of a couple pickups, plus what we lifted off the 18 wheeler, which has got to be another thousand vials.”

“Give me a vial.”

“I...I dunno shoulda....”

“STUFF IT,” Dreck screamed. “Hand it over.” he said, holding his hand out, immediately calm again.

Soloman did as he was told. Dreck produced a syringe from his desk drawer. “Call a meeting of all the bosses,” he said, as he filled the syringe with an entire vial of the drug. “After you've confirmed that they are all coming, I need you to take care of something very special for me.”


Canker knew that his revenge would come. Fate would provide. He had always relied on fate to provide what he needed, and look where he was now. He had power and respect. He wasn't a boss, not even a lieutenant yet, but he was somebody. The powerless losers he passed on the street every day cowered in fear, or, even better, ran screaming like a little girl, hands waving in the air. Soon even the big corporate bosses would cower as well. He would take pleasure in watching them soil their expensive Armani suits at the mere sight of him. Fate would deliver this to him, he knew, just as fate would provide revenge against his new enemy. It was just a matter of time.

He had just begun to think about how he could help fate along, when Soloman entered the room.

“Ok, I need two teams, and I need them now. One team is going to go kidnap someone. I don't care who it is, I just need someone strong, physically fit, not to young but also not too old. The other team is going to hit some warehouses in Kings Row. So split up, get organized, and do it fast.”

Canker saw that fate had acted quickly in this case. Volunteering to lead team number one, he knew someone who fit that description to a tee.


The darkness seemed to drown Industrial Avenue. All the factories were shut down for the night. There was once a time when they ran 24 hours a day, with 3 separate teams of workers on shifts to keep things running smoothly. The economy had gotten worse recently, however, and lay offs were effecting everyone. Things were especially bad in Kings Row, where the businesses were hit hard by the clockwork scavenging. While the clockwork might steel a TV or air conditioning unit from some average joe in Atlas Park, and he might complain about it, Kings Row businesses had a different story altogether. Their factories were, from the ground up, built completely out of parts that the clockwork scavenged. They didn't arrive in the morning to find a doorknob and some hinges taken, they arrived in the morning to find an entire wing of the factory had simply disappeared overnight. When the factories ran 24/7, the also often arrived in the morning to find an entire shift of workers fried so badly that they resembled a bucket of Major Flanders. The owners of said factories did not kid themselves; it was not the well being of the workers they were concerned about. It was a shortage of people desperate enough, even in such a bad economy, to risk working at night in Kings Row. As such, the factories were quiet at night, only housing a few security guards. Most of the inhabitants of Paragon City bemoaned this situation, but not all. In fact, at least one used it to her advantage.

She was perched on top of an old Paragon Metalworks factory. The darkness hid her from any casual observer, but it did not hamper her at all. In fact, her eyes were closed. She did not need them to see what she was currently looking for.

She let her mind stretch out before her. In her minds eye, she could see the dormant machinery. She could see the circuits, the wires, the power supplies, the surge protectors. It was like looking at bright stars in the night sky. But there was something else she could sense also, something more sinister. Messages traveling on the air, but not in microwave form. These she could see like the smoke trails that airplanes leave, criss crossing the sky.

She could, for the most part, read these messages, as she had helped design the encryption methods. However, lately some of the messages had changed. The percentage of messages she could read was dropping daily. Something was going on, and she needed to know what.

The messages continued to scroll by in her mind. They were generally short, either status reports or location updates. These were of no help to her. They were to short for her to get a mental hold on where they were going. She needed something long. This was what vexed her, because sometimes there were long messages, but they invariably went in the wrong direction.

A message of just this sort passed through her head that night. Long enough to lock onto and follow, but, as usual, going the wrong way. Well, it was better than nothing. She would follow it, as she always did, and hope to find some key clue at the destination. She had little real hope of this, but it was all she could do.

Eyes still closed, she leaped off the roof of the factory. Arms tucked back, head held high, she propelled herself through the air, leaving a crackling blue streak behind her.