Difference between revisions of "Kid Ballistic"

Yes it's true, he's only 16. He's five-seven, one-hundred and sixty-two pounds, and handsome as the devil. What's that? You can't tell if your heart's exploding? Or if it's the building next door?

He's the Kid with No Name, the Young Gun, Master of Munitions and Duke of Demolitions. He's Kid Ballistic.

He wades through Westside, armed to the teeth, all ten of his trigger fingers itching to squeeze gunmetal. If you still have all five senses after the opening act (bombs), then you better find cover. When that fails (idiot), it really doesn't matter what you do. Between a storm of rubber bullets or that little bomb that sticks to the bottom of your car (adorable), you're completely [CENSORED]

Let's picture Kid Ballistic for a moment.

Wow. What a man, right? Now, in case you want to hear more, here's a description: in a word, KB is young.

OK, we need more words.

We'll get to his arsenal in a bit. For now, the basics: KB sports raven black hair (mostly on his head), fair skin, and a slim, athletic build. Yes, he works out. No, he won't tell you where. But here's a protip: running around a city, climbing buildings, and fighting crime will whip you into shape. Well, maybe not you, but it definitely works for him.

He doesn't have any tattoos or piercings (does shrapnel count?), but he's got a few scars.

See them? No? Well they're there. Most of them result from the day-to-day of gunsmithing, fighting crime, and blowing things up. Yep, his father taught him well. Wait, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Slow down, I don't like fast women. Or women with carrot tans. Or that thing they do when they shave the eyebrow and pencil it in? What the hell is that?

Kid Ballistic seems a little more at ease with himself and his weapons than others his age. He respects his weapons, and they respect him. While his peers often struggle with their new powers or their love life, KB just smiles. No, really, he has no love life and no superpowers. You wouldn't know it by looking at him though. KB looks ready to sweep Grond off his feet and wrestle the nearest girl to the ground (just go with it). And while others get hysterical during a firefight, or cower from an explosion, he simply laughs. Not because it's funny (sometimes it is), but because wanton destruction and gun porn are fun, and need to be celebrated.

See? Fun!

• Form-Fitting Wardrobe - "...clothing is often drawn fitting around the body far better than it reasonably should in Real Life."

• Young Gun -

• Arsenal^TM

• Deathstroke the Terminator^TM

• Hit-Girl^TM

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• Accidental Aiming Skills -

• Gun Kata -

• Guns Akimbo -

• More Dakka -

• Badass Normal -

• Superhero Packing Heat -

• Non-Powered Costumed Hero -

• Trick Bullet -

• Made Of Iron -

• Bottomless Magazines -

• Bulletproof Vest -

• Counting Bullets -

• Depleted Phlebotinum Shells -

• Disarm, Disassemble, Destroy -

• Firing One-Handed -

• Grappling Hook Pistol -

• Shoot Out The Lock -

• IKEA Weaponry -

• No Range Like Point-Blank -

• Pistol-Whipping -

• Quick Draw -

• Sawed-off Shotgun -

• Wall Of Weapons -

• Personality Powers -

• Damian Wayne^TM

• Hit-Girl^TM

• Deadpool^TM

The story of Kid Ballistic is a long one, and not for the faint of heart.

So we'll run the quick and dirty version. Don't worry, you'll still leave satisfied.

KB's real name is Sidney Lee Mason. You can call him Sid. Wait, no, don't. You call him Kid Ballistic. But his father called him Sid. Actually let's talk about that guy for a moment. His father was a mercenary of some repute, who made a small fortune as a freelance paramilitary operative. He traveled the world, for hire as a bodyguard, a bounty hunter, and an enforcer. This soldier of fortune's name was Marcus Mason Jr., an American who washed out of the Navy SEALs and went into business for himself.

By his side the whole time was his son, your hero (and lover if you play your cards right): Kid Ballistic, still in beta testing. Just after Sid was born, his father left the United States. Take notice that the mother has no part in this picture. Sid never knew her.

Young Sid was raised in dozens of foreign countries, in planes, trains, and horse-drawn carts. Sometimes they lived in luxury, and sometimes, they slept in the dirt. But Daddy Ballistic was raising his kid to be a crack operator just like him. As he sprouted, Sid became more involved in his father's business. Some kids hand their father the socket wrench when they need it. Sid handed his father a Glock.

In fact, Sid knew very little beyond the life of a mercenary. He knew more about sub-Saharan Africa than he did the United States. Marcus never operated stateside, and never spoke of Sid's mother. So his birthplace took on this mythical quality. Sid's only real exposure was secondhand through any CDs and DVDs he could get. Mob movies, rock 'n' roll, Westerns, comics, and jazz. This was all Sid needed to know about America.

I mean, what else is there?

At the age of 14, Sid could improvise explosives from home chemicals. He could field strip a gun in seconds. And he had acquired a taste for the shake, rattle and roll of automatic weapons fire. Sid was now a full-fledged partner to his father. Despite his tendency for excess (a.k.a. the perfect amount) and overkill (Sid's favorite kind of kill), he seemed essential to the family enterprise. Sid was his father's quartermaster and his backup. And never was he more needed than when Marcus' needed a diversion. That is, until the bastard left.

Now here's where I let you in on a secret: Sid was never the expert his father was. Unlike the old man, who was a cold operator and a crack-shot, Sid got by only on tenacity and style. And a lot of extra ammo. He really tried to compete with his father, but never measured up. Sid had a gift for passion, not pragmatism, and Marcus valued one over the other. He just never thought pragmatism would edge him out too.

At first, Sid was angry. Then he was pissed. He searched the world for the better part of a year, calling all of his training to the fore and tapping every contact he could. But Marcus was gone. Part of him had hoped it was a test, but even after failing, there was no reprisal, and no return. So what next?

Sid knew the demands of the life. And he wasn't so sure he could do it alone. In fact, he was pretty sure he would screw it up. His father seemed to think so. In a decision pretty much bankrupt of all pride and guts, proto-KB gathered his belongings and stacks of cash to smuggle them and himself into the United States.

Why, do you ask? It was all he had left. Maybe he'd meet his grandfather, or finally figure out who his mother was. Or maybe he'd spend his money on booze and inordinate amounts of ordinance. I mean, can you blame him? He was out of a job and he was experiencing America for the first time. Liquor, girls (mostly liquor), and all the toys he could never have abroad were finally his. Instead of living for his profession, now Sid lived for the party. And now, a moment of silence for all the liquor bottles, put to death by one-man firing squad.

We hardly knew ye.

But his first love came back to him in a dream, and he awoke, hungover on his couch, embracing an AR-15. I'm betting most of you would take this as a sign to quit the booze. Interesting. Sid didn't see it that way. The itch was back: he still remembered parts of his childhood fondly, and it wasn't the money or the badassery of being raised from birth to be a hired gun. No, it was the freedom, the firepower, and the style. And if he wasn't going to be a mercenary, there was another profession that offered all three.

Making the leap from washed-up mercenary to superhero was not difficult for Sidney. He already had the equipment, the hideout, and the training. He didn't have much of a secret identity to protect. But he fashioned an alter ego anyways. Take that, logic! Sid conjured Kid Ballistic from his upbringing, distilling that aforementioned American education down to a rugged, stylish, gun-toting, bomb-throwing superhero.

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Kid Ballistic has enjoyed a successful career so far. Criminals often underestimate him on account of his age, and most don't hold a candle to the baddies Sid took on during his mercenary days. Sure, he blows up a few too many minivans, and fires a few too many bullets. But that's what walls are for! And it's not like there were any kids in those ugly minivans. He's confident people will come around. With enough spectacle and bullets, anything is possible!

• Trigger Happy -

• Non-Powered Costumed Hero -

• Gun Nut -

• Dramatic Gun Cock -

• Firing In The Air A Lot -

• Gun Twirling -

• Smoking Barrel Blowout -

• Beserk Button -

• Upbringing Makes The Hero -

• Secret Identity -

• Where Does He Get All Those Wonderful Toys? -

• Superhero Sobriquets -

• Damian Wayne^TM

• Hit-Girl^TM

• Kid Flash^TM

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The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly | Ennio Morricone

T.N.T. | AC/DC

Libiamo ne' lieti calici (Let's drink from the joyful cups) | Francesco Maria Piave

I Don't Wanna Set The World On Fire | The Ink Spots

For Whom The Bell Tolls | Metallica

Strangers In The Night | Frank Sinatra

Anything Goes | Cole Porter

Sexy And I Know It | LMFAO

Bang Bang | Nancy Sinatra

1812 Overture | Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

Don't Stop Me Now | Queen

Short Change Hero | The Heavy

The Last Gunfighter Ballad | Johnny Cash