Butch Davies

### Relatives

Unknown Biological Father (unknown, presumed deceased)Bethany Davies (biological mother, deceased)

Shyanne Almes (adoptive mother, deceased)

Gerry Davenport (adoptive father, deceased)

Henry-Jameson Almes (adoptive step-father)

Kenny Davenport (adoptive brother, deceased)

Jessie Almes (adoptive step-brother)

Sam Davenport (adoptive sister)

## Physical description

### Weight

173lbs

Butch Davies is a rogue metahuman criminal, and one of the most potent speedsters on the face of the planet.

## Biographies

Butch Davies was born some years before the Second World War, to a prostitute and a client. An accident, a leverage tool for child support, but never a son. The first three years of his life, a haze of bartering and arguing and abuse. It was no wonder when the DSS got involved.

His history truly began around 1939. The DSS had him taken away from his birth home and put through the foster system. He spent the majority of his juvenile years in between group homes around South Australia, bouncing through the system on a blind hunt for a family. It was only when he was around twelve years old that he was adopted by one Shyanne Davenport. A grieving war-widow, who had recently just lost her own boy to the draft. She was kind. Too kind, one might say. The hard boy that Butch was, one could argue he didn’t deserve the angel wings wrapped around him. She cleaned his scraped knees, and he thanked her by lashing out and around him. And yet, despite the hardships he’d put the poor woman through, she never faltered. When he was broke and fiending, she gave him a home to come back to. When he was in trouble with the law, his bond was paid. Even when he’d snap and throw things around like a raging gorilla, she’d stay calm and collected. Where some would see nothing but a dark-hearted little cunt of a sprout, she saw an understandably troubled youth.

Davies was 18 when he dropped out of school, flunking most classes and skipping the rest. It was a wonder he made it as far as he did. His foster-mother simply couldn’t afford to care for him by herself, so she remarried. A cruel old bloke by the name of Henry-Jameson Almes. Unlike her, he was from the same chaff as Butchie dearest. A hard, mean, ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ sort. The amount of confrontations the two had in just those brief two years were outrageous, and it all came to a height when eventually the old man put the blame for the unruly boy on Shyanne. Beat her black and blue. Butchie never cared. Not normally. But something gripped his chest. Instead of seeing the naggy old bitch that had been chaining him all his life, he- for the first time, saw that angel. If only briefly. His heart broke. The first feeling that wasn’t just a blind, selfish doggy rage in a very long time. Police were called. Men arrested, women hospitalized. She never woke up from the sleep that eye-opening beating put her into. Henry did six months for aggravated assault, before making bond. And Butch? Sunk into himself.

Twenty one, military bound. No war to be fought, truly. The Germans were on the backpedal, by the time he was even drafted the radios were all abuzz about how King Fritz put a gun in his mouth and that peace was assured. That wasn’t good enough for him. Homeland security wasn’t going to be his fate, poncing around to play guardian of the sickly. He enrolled into a 72-day Basic. The basic led to a 6-week program, which led to 18-months reinforcement. It was here he, amongst the rest of the budding recruits, would be observed and weeded out from the rest to join the SASR. He wasn’t the protector. He was the hound. And he wanted to show that. The military didn’t need another milky cunt holding up the peace sign; they needed a bully. And you could count that Butchie was gonna give ‘em that. He was ruthless. His scores suffered sometimes because of it, but he quickly earned the nickname Momentum amongst peers and instructors. He just did NOT stop. A wrecking ball of fury. It played to his benefit, to be sure, but to his downfall all the same. His psychological evaluation deemed him unstable and potentially dangerous. He was angry, and the chip on his shoulder was potentially costly.

Well. Thank God for Charlie.

It was 1958 by the time his hearing came around, and already the war in Vietnam was a-blazing. While Australia had not committed any war assets to the cause, they were all but secured. And they needed soldiers. Not protectors, not patriots. They needed bullies. They needed anger issues and chipped shoulders. Three months in anger management, which was shaky at best, and he had earned his badge. Through further reinforcement, it would be ‘62 before he was deployed.

His history in Vietnam is a bloody one. He and his unit were attached to the 1 ATF in Nui Dat, providing intelligence to the fronts on troop movements and embarking on multiple interception missions through the dense jungles. Operation Bovine was his first major engagement. It was a minor operation, involving a covert recon over a Vietcong holdstead in the Bien Hoa province. Taking a page out of their enemies book, the SASR became predators of the jungle. Ghosts. They painted themselves, and lay beneath dense humid brush for hours and hours on end. Waiting. Plotting. Serpents in their burrows, ready to strike. And when they did, it was messy. Operation Bovine was to be a sub-operation to the U.S enforced psychological tactic known as Operation Wandering Soul. Wearing twigs in their helmets that made them look like horns, and painting tusks on their chins, they’d roar and bray like wild bulls when the ambushes were sprung. This was to elicit exactly what they needed for Wandering Soul- fear. Most of the recordings used through the jungles to terrorize the Vietcong forces were forcibly extracted from the victims of Operation Bovine’s fearsome ghost-squadrons. They were ordered to be brutal, and terrifying. They needed fear. And fear they would get.

Fearmongering came to a halt after some time. The war was starting to slowly become more and more political. Prime Minister John Gorton wanted to pull out. Charlie was a tough opponent, and he claimed the US had lost its wind. Operation Coburg was the final time Butchie, now Lieutenant Butch Avies, was active. He participated in the patrols and attacks in AO Columbus, intercepting VC attempts on the Ops base and weeding them out of the region for one final, furious time. They had the win in their palm. And bureaucracy pulled them out. The SASR now watched from the telly and listened to the radio as the rest of the war played out.

The truth, however, was far from simple. In a joint operation with the United States, members of the USMC and Australian SASR were weeded out for Project Firebomb. Fifty candidates, Butch included, were to undergo I-3 transfusion. Meta’s by now had become rather infamous. From Supreme all but ending WWII in a split second, to the grand Red Son up north, metas changed the game of war. There was fear of the Vietnamese getting their hands on Ichor. It’s happened before, it’ll happen again. Super-terrorists to drive GI home for good. Nip it in the bud. A chance to become something more than a man? A chance to get back in the fight, with fresh wind at his sails? Butch didn’t even take the time to consider what was about to happen.

He signed right on up.

His dosage of I-3 was rather controversial. Footage of the ‘procedure’ have been wiped clean off the history books. What occurred was terrifying, and extraordinary. The following is a report written to the Director of Project Firebomb;

‘Subject B.A-1 3-775 (here-out referred to as ‘S-1-A’) at first showed no signs of mutation after the ingestion of I-3. Twenty minutes passed, where various tests were regulated to study the effects, resulting in data that did not exhibit taking to the dosage. When preparing to discuss the next steps, or perhaps the expulsion of the candidate, S-1-A began to phase and disappear from vision. S-1-A’s vitals began to spike through the charts, his heart rate reaching a maximum recording of 687 BPM before the Holter monitor defaulted to a flat-line. S-1-A would then begin to writhe and appear at different parts of the room within milliseconds at a time, cameras pinpointing him at exactly 12 spots within the same second. Eventually, the southern wall of the room exploded- leaving two operatives wounded (see Casualty Report pinned beneath).

S-1-A was missing for fifteen hours, though periodically could be seen as a ‘blur-like specter’ on security feeds all over the city of Washington, D.C. Eventually, S-1-A stabilized and was apprehended, before being contained. After experiencing trouble with keeping S-1-A still, S-1-A was sedated with a sum outcome of 30mg of Midazolam and 13mg of Alprazolam. This was sufficient to keep S-1-A unconscious for fifteen minutes, in which our tests concluded the following.

I-3 has mutated S-1-A’s metabolism and internal thermal homeostasis. Muscles react abnormally to stimulation, flowing in likeness to how water ripples- yet has a density exceeding that of an average steel cable used in bridge construction. Blood samples show an astoundingly fast acceleration in ridding the body of toxins. An I.V has been administered to keep S-1-A stable, yet S-1-A’s body seems to attack and excrete anything it deems unnecessary. This has led to a worrying loss of weight via sweat release. More tests are to be conducted. If S-1-A can be stabilized, there is potential in S-1-A to exhibit even more talents. S-1-A has been designated a Speedster.’

After that, it was lab work. The war ended and Butch never saw the outside of the lab. His head, a haze. Everything moved so differently. People were so… Slow. He felt like he could run home and back by the time they had finished a sentence. He felt the air slowly grating against his skin with the gentle breeze, to the point that it was obnoxious and annoying. A slow, steady pressure, pressing against him at all angles. It made him claustrophobic. To him, he felt like he was in hell. People slowly try to pry his flesh open to slowly insert thin metal rods into his arms. Electrical waves crash and force their way through his brain, his nerves. It came to a height. In 1983, nearly a decade of this slow, thoughtless torture, he escaped. He ran.

And it felt good. Oh how it felt good. The wind was back to normal, soothing and calm. His hair flowed like he was underwater. He felt like he could breathe. How long had it been? Millennia? Did the Ichor fucking kill him and send him to hell? Because that’s what those years had been. Hell. Subject to the most terrifyingly slow torture imaginable, that things like breathing even hurt. But now, he was free. He just kept going, and going. It was on his fifteenth rotation that he had realized he wasn’t just running through the complex anymore. He stopped, feet digging into the pavement and cement. His clothes, long burned away from sheer friction. The scent of molten asphalt hissing beneath him. His eyes adjusted. This wasn’t Washington. It wasn’t even Adelaide. It was… China? He ran down the street, confused- no. Now he was freezing cold. Below him, a patch of grass surrounded by a shattered treeline- lined with snow. A caribou staring at him in dumb awe. Every time he ran, he was somewhere else. At one point, when he stopped he fell. Water. He was in water. That salty taste- ocean? Ocean water. It had worked. And he was fast. Oh, he was fast. His senses came to, now allowed to adjust to his new state of being. Things slowly began to work themselves out. He should… Return. Right? Let them work it out.

Nah… Nah. Butch decided against it. Instead, Butch went on a joyride. Time to head home. It started with menial, juvenile experiments. Zipping through girls changing rooms, into peoples houses, into restricted areas. Then it got more malicious. His first bank robbery took place in Sydney in 1986. The cameras showed the vault door exploding, and the contents disappearing within the blink of an eye. A single frame catching a seven pixel still image. That was it. Now, the unfortunate thing was, when he found himself in the outback with his prize- the bag was gone. Ash in his hands. He was just too fast. Everything that wasn’t him just disintegrated in the splitting speed he reached. But he felt something good, in his chest. Look what he just did. He just robbed a bank. And he’d wager it hadn’t even been reported yet. He laughed to himself. All those poor cunts back at their houses wondering where their shits gone. He could do something like this. A movement? Nah. Just a bit of havoc.

His next robbery took place three months later, within a government facility in Brazil. An experimental carbon-weave suit, intended to withstand the effects of a lightning cloud. That would work. His reign of terror lasted up until 2008 of mindless crime around Australia, New Zealand, Guinea, China, Japan, and India. Robberies, mostly- but around the ‘90s, they became violent. People ended up as a red smear across the pavement, “WHAT YOU GONNA DO” painted on a nearby wall with their gore and blood. Butch, now under the moniker of the Addy Akurra, had immersed himself in this strange fairy tail that he was the swift retribution of a people gone soft. He was here to punish people for daring to think of themselves as anything but predators and animals. The rich, the lazy, the poor, his wrath was sporadic and random. Eventually, someone's foot was put down. July 4th, 2008, somewhere near the Panama Canal, a huge explosion occurred. All that is recorded is that two figures were seen in a tussle, before one simply disappeared. Another crawling out of a crater six hours later, and promptly following suit.

The truth was harder to determine than if Addy Akurra was involved at all. All that was reported, was that two metas engaged in conflict, leaving one battered and humbled. And Addy Akurra had never been seen again. Internet forums and conspiracy theorists alike refer to it as the “Cain and Abel Scheme”. That “The Man” had a weapon that, at any point, could just come down and shut down something that was irritating them in the blink of an eye. The legitimacy behind the claims is up in the air- but what was certain is that, since that day, the Speedster criminal known as Addy Akurra- or Butch Davies, disappeared. Cut to 2010. A new kid on the block. Faster than ever.

Plutarch, he calls himself. Blindingly fast. Deadly. A vigilante doing the world of capes and metas no favours in the eyes of the justice system and those behind it. One who takes the law into his own hands. Judge, jury, and swift executioner. No one knows much of Plutarch’s backstory. But he has blazed through the world of the Underground with a fear behind him yet unseen. Criminals, far and wide- small time bookers or serial rapists, super-dope addicts and kingpins alike, all a target of the black-and-blue coated Angel of Death. Grim, and unrelenting, Plutarch has been known to work both with AND against multiple heroes in the world. It is said he works for the FOA, though the claims are shaky at best given the few times the FOA have actually outright worked to bring Plutarch to heel. Top speed recorded thus far has been estimated to reach Mach 20, though such claims are watered down heavily. Someone to best Supreme’s flight speed has thus far been unfounded, though it is certain if there is anyone to match it- it would be the blazing meta-merc.

## Physical Appearance

Despite the age, the tumultuous gifts of I-3 have kept the speedster relatively frozen in time when it comes to his appearance. Sharing an uncanny resemblance to his DA photo from back during the Vietnam War. A slight and lean build, wrapped in carbon fiber like musculature carried the speedster through the winds of time. He had, naturally, a runner’s build- his calves well defined and rock solid, thighs like iron. His mid section was tied closer to his ribs- the sacrifice of burning upwards of 5,000 calories a day; yet still remained chiseled and defined from natural “good genes”. He had large, calloused hands- with protruding knuckles that looked as though they might burst through skin. His shoulders, broad and yet thin, held up his head, where that true Aussie “how good” beaut’ made the girls swoon. He had a powerful and strong jaw to frame out his devilshly sharp features. Eyes, a brilliant gold, piercing beneath thick and well brushed brows. His hair was shoulder length, and black as an oil slick- with enough mousse in it to set a small town on fire. He seemed locked in that 60’s greaser aesthetic- but, it worked well for him.

Across his chest and snaking around his belly button was just that- a snake. Inked in the style of Aboriginal Australian art, the snake was actually a depiction of Akurra- a great snake deity in the Southern regions of Australia, and his former namesake. On his throat was a barcode that, when scanned, gave his old tag numbers from the Vietnam war. And finally; on his left shoulder blade, a rather vulgar caricature of an Australian digger garroting a colourfully anti-Semitic depiction of Hồ Chí Minh. All of these tattoos, however, have begun to fade. A majority of the serpent, now nothing but grayish splotches on his stomach and pectorals.

## Personality

In the decades that have passed since Davies’ birth, his personality has undergone wild transformations. In his early years, he was a troublemaker. A true blooded eshay, causing trouble and dropping out of school, getting in minor misdemeanor disputes every other weekend and living the hooligan life. He kept this bad boy rebel attitude up until he was age enough to enlist, and then some. Training under the SASR during the Vietnam war was notorious in making budding psychopaths. He was taught how to kill and how to live with it. He was taught that the enemy looked different and spoke differently. He was taught that they would do horrible things to him, his family, his loved ones- and so he would have to do horrible things to them, first. Sadistic, one might say. The NVA called them the Ghosts of the Jungle. And they were just that.

However, the inflated ego and bloodlust soon came to a halt. The horrors of the canopy soon became all too real. The propaganda that was fed to them, was replaced by legitimate, primal fear. Jolly and jovial became unhinged and temperamental. The innocent bully attitude, refined beneath napalm and jungle dew into something much more sinister.

The war ended, but like for many of the veterans, it came home. Davies wanted the fight. It made him feel safe. If he wasn’t fighting, he was concerned. Bars, streets. Home life. It was then he was approached by Fate itself. And he once more entered the chrysalis of change.

They described the Addy Akurra as a brutish bully. Despite his incredible feats of speed, he’d take his time when it came to crime. Bank jobs, he’d play out like a movie. Hits, he’d be notoriously long winded. Like a shark that learned to play with his food. He carried the twisted ideal that those he harassed had earned it. Complacent in their recliner chairs while the enemy sucked away their life. Undeserving of liberty and freedom. Unlike the blokes in Vietnam that had the balls to at least shoot back, these people waited for the cops to do something about it. He saw himself as a sort of divine retribution. Punishing the coddled caste, urging them to nut up. A farce, to hide his desire to be in control. To keep the fight going, so his hatreds and prejudices could be satisfied.

Fast forward to 2008. Someone had just about enough. Whoever it was, did a number on Addy Akurra. Beaten within an inch of his life, left dumped somewhere in Bendigo. Up and disappeared the next night. As far as the world was concerned, some meta went ahead and did the good lords work. And they weren’t half wrong.

Now returned as Plutarch, an identity that hides his more villainous past, Davies takes on the role of the grim reminder. People like him were on the streets every day, now. Abusing power to sate their own selfish desires. He got off easy- they wouldn’t. He was faster. Stronger. Deadlier. Like an old iron that was simply too stubborn to snap. Plutarch has become infamous on his vigilante justice. Street hustlers and gangsters, super-dope fiends and more, all fear what they will never see. All across the globe. A flash of cobalt, and then nothing but red.

## Powers

Superspeed: Class 5

Superstrength: Class 2

Durability: Class 2

Regeneration: Class 3

Senses: Class 2

## Skills

Trained Marksman (Vietnam War Veteran, EX-SASR Operative)

Trained Combatant (As above, as well as possessing an understanding of Krav Maga)

Privy to most Languages (fluent in French (Canadian and Traditional), English, German, Vietnamese, and Russian)