Setanta

Real Name: John Tony Donoghue
Renegade Name: Setanta
Title: Corporal
Alignment: Neutral
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Hair: Light brown, short crew cut. Curly if let grow.
Eyes: Bright blue
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 185 lbs
Blood type: O+



John isn't a bad looking man by any means. He has a pleasant face, with a short, defined chin and soft, rounded eyes framed by soft cheeks. His eyebrows are maybe a shade too thick, and his nose perhaps a smidgen too strong to consider him outrightly 'handsome', but an easy smile can make him appear at least somewhat endearing. His only visible scar on his face is a small, thin, pale pink scratch along the bottom of his right orbital.
Physically, John isn't particularly threatening. Only average in size and build, John's easy going face can make him a target. He tends to hide his frame behind baggy, bulky clothes which can make him appear almost out of shape. But his body is lithe and perfectly muscled, like a soldier who has a good diet would be. John has a smattering of scars across his back from shrapnel, but the most obvious markings are burn marks around his wrists that he recieved upon developing his powers.



John suffers from PTSD, but he isn't a non-functioning member of society. Yet to decide between being the hero he knows he should be, and the villain it seems easier to become, John tries to keep his issues from affecting how people see him. He tries not to let it affect his humour anymore than he has to to cope. That being said, he has his slips and his humour was pretty black as it is.
There's a part of John that knows he shouldn't be a cynical bastard, but years of being treated like an idiot in the army has led to a razor tongue being developed behind a sharp grin he can't help but plaster on his face when he's being unpleasant. This wit leads over into cunning quite well. As just another squishy human in a world filled with near-gods, John's a careful, cautious being who follows simple rules of survival to the letter.
John isn't quite a loner, but he isn't great at keeping in contact with people. The few friends he does have probably share his close interests - shitty 'classic' movies, westerns, boxing history and Gaelic games. He's a man of simple tastes, preferring unflavoured food and strong drink.
In his soul, there's a good man in John. He's just trapped under waves of depression and anxiety. John remains at least a somewhat charitable and even kind person. There's no nastiness in John, even if he does have a selfish streak that could probably be easily exploited. He does his best to avoid fights, but he will commit to them entirely, using his military training to defeat his opponents.



John Donoghue was born to a just-above-working class family in the town of Cork City, Ireland. He was educated in good, public schools and attained respectable grades. His relationship with his parents was stable, and it was from his father that he obtained a love for mythology, and from his mother for martial arts (she was a former taekwondo European champion).
Before he joined the Irish Defence Force, John had everything worked out. He was going to do an engineering course during his service, leave with a bit of savings, and then continue on his life as easily as he could.
Only it didn't end up that way.
It turned out that John was an excellent soldier. So good, in fact, that he was invited to join the Irish Army Rangers before his first foreign tour. So he went, because who doesn't like the idea of the special forces? It was not, per say, a mistake, but John certainly spends time wondering what he could have done differently.

John's first deployment, as part of the UN peacekeeping missions in the Lebanon, went well. He developed skills needed for a soldier, and the veterans in his unit were always willing to help. He became an excellent shot, and eventually became his unit's marksman, and he completed enough knife-fighting courses to be considered a knife-fighting specialist. His hand-to-hand fighting improved as much as can be expected, and as time went on his overall fighting skill increased dramatically.
John's early military career was successful but not particularly noteworthy. What followed, however, was.

The entire operation had a weird air about it. It had been the British who were supposed to go on it, but their SAS unit was left stranded too far away. The UN, deciding that the objective was too important to lose, called on the Irish Special Forces to complete the mission.
The Rangers weren't told much, just that they were to save a scientist from his underground lab. The idea of that should have been enough to scare them away.
They found the scientist easily enough, but then the attack came. Nearly three hundred men, armed with small arms and RPGs. Even the well-trained and equipped Rangers couldn't stop that.
So the scientist picked John out, said he had the best physicality for the job, and strapped him into a chair while his friend's battled outside.
John was injected with some sort of substance, then electrocuted violently. His entire body shook. A violent pain erupted around his wrists.
He woke up a hero. Armed with his new powers, he helped the scientist escape. Not one man from his unit survived, which the scientist told him was probably for the best. John never learned his name.
An army psychiatrist eventually found that John was suitable for redeployment, and he was let back into the wild.
Six weeks later a car bomb exploded and put him into early medical retirement.

John knew he was a hero of some kind, but he didn't know everything. Abuse of his powers led to sharp pains in his chest, and memories of his unit, as well as the last part of his service, left him with diagnosed PTSD. He was a carpenter, thanks to a course he had done in the military, and he applied for a job with a carpentry firm in New York. Why not, he reasoned.
Almost immediately he ran into problems. Firstly, New York was not empty of superheroes and villains. John has avoided the majority of them so far, but only refers to himself as 'Setanta' when he has no choice but to deal with them.
Secondly, people expect things from the Irish. People try to start street fights, try to get him drunk. While extremely capable of looking after himself, John doesn't fight for the sake of fighting.
Thirdly, he hates his job. Being a carpenter is a fine profession, but it's back breaking work. He expects to leave and get a lower-paying, but more bearable, job as a nightclub bouncer sooner rather than later.
What is not in his immediate future, he tells himself, is the life of a hero or villain.


1. Endurance
2. Reaction
3. Agility
4. Strength




Latching: He can always feel it, just beneath the skin, coiled around his wrists like manacles. When he wishes, Setanta simply reaches out his arms and points towards an object. His body is then pulled towards it by invisible tethers at a shocking speed, or the object is pulled towards him if it isn't heavy enough to hold him down. This allows him to cross large distances at incredible speeds. The maximum of this would be about forty feet, but he can chain it together quickly to cover nearly two hundred if the situation is perfect. He often uses this to scale walls, but he has to be careful - if something gets in the way of the tether while he aims it, he is likely to pull that object towards him or miss his intended target.

Ex-Special Forces: Drilled into the Irish Rangers at age twenty, Setanta knows how to hand down an ass-kicking should the situation arise. Although far from a master at any one fighting style, Setanta has a broad knowledge of guns, hand-to-hand fighting and general strategy with a specialisation with knives and long-distance firearms (he's a marksman, not a sniper). This knowledge, available to anyone who can access his files, is something he tries to keep at least somewhat hidden.



Arrogance: Just because you're the baddest sunuvabitch in one room, it doesn't mean you're the baddest sunuvabitch in every room. This lesson hasn't quite been beaten out of Setanta yet, and his manner can range from dismissive to downright offensive.

War wounds: The doctor said he got every piece of shrapnel out of Setanta's back, so why can he feel some of it wriggling around in his back every time he wakes up? Setanta's agility and his strength are hindered by old pains, phantom or not. For nearly an hour after waking up after a good night's sleep, Setanta struggles to rise, his body wracked in pain.

Exposure: One of the side-effects of his super powers is that they're kind of reality bending. Overuse (as in, over five latchings) leads to pains in Setanta's chest as his lungs suffer their slow breakdown. Blood vessels in his eyes pop, blood trickles from his nose, and if he continues for long enough he can start to choke on how much of his own blood his body is expelling. This severely limits how much he can actually do.

PTSD: No bowel movements for seventy-four hours. Flashbacks, night terrors, mood swings. You name it, Setanta has it. He tries not to be a drama queen about it, but even the most hardened soldier has slip ups. A truck backfiring on the street outside of his apartment will give him a panic attack, if he isn't expecting it.

Squishy humaness: He's just a squishy human. No super reflexes, no super strength. Bullets go through him, knives cut him up, and a beating confines him to bed for a week.



The first item of note (read: weapon) that John carries is a kubaton on his keychain. Six inches of lead with rubber wrapped around it, the weapon makes his punches harder if he holds it in his hand, as well as acting as a very small flail if he needs it to.
The second is a small butterfly knife, sharp as a razor but relatively fragile. It has some Japanese letters on the side (considering it looks like a hand-done job, it probably reads 'soy sauce' or something equally as stupid), and John keeps it in his boot most of the time.



--



Rents a small apartment in the Hell's Kitchen area of New York.
Works as a carpenter for a local firm.
Known to police in the area, as he flagged at least one terrorism radar getting into America, even though he was cleared eventually.



"Aw, come on, Irish!" the little yankee prick said in his nasally voice. What the hell was it with that? John had expected movies to have that voice purely for show, but as time went on he realised with growing horror that it was actually how people spoke around here.
"Not in the mood, mate," he replied calmly, trying to walk away. One of the bastard's friends stepped in front of him.
"You're not going to leave us so soon, are you?" said the bigger man. John matched his eyes. He wasn't in the mood, but you had to be aware when someone was about to attack. It's all in the shoulders, and the little muscles around the mouth and eyes. You could see when a guy has given up hope of a peaceful resolution.
But these guys weren't looking for something peaceful.
"Step. The fuck. Out. Of my way." John spoke in a careful, measured voice. He just wanted to go home.
"I think you should stay here," said the big guy, pointing a finger into John's chest. One poke, sharp. John glanced down at the finger.
"Don't poke me again," he warned. But of course, this guy did just that. They always did.
Three men, in a rough triangle around him. The little prick who'd started talking, the guy in front of him, and another fella who had either the skinniest erection John had ever seen, or some sort of knife tucking into his pocket.
John moved quickly. As the finger came in, his left hand shot out, grabbed it, and twisted it back at a savage angle. A sound like breaking a stick came out of the man's just before a scream sounded from his throat. John cut it off by pulling the man towards him by the broken finger, and then jamming the point of his knuckles into the man's throat.
The scream turned into a gurgle as the man began to choke, and John sent a quick left hook into the side of his jaw to knock him down. The New Yorker's jaw snapped violently across his collarbone. John had once read somewhere that a knockout like that happened because of something to do with the carotid artery being turned off for a fraction of a second. That didn't matter much. What did matter was the man crumpled backwards.
John turned, standing in a defensive position. Elbows tucked in, legs staggered and bent slightly. Jaw down. Let them come.
The little yankee came first, trying to throw a huge wild swing. The three-sixty defense, an arm raised in a block, took the blow on the forearm. The wrist was grabbed, hard, and John's other hand grabbed the back of the man's coat. A brutal knee came up as the little man tried to scramble out, right into his solar plexus. Another to the head followed, and John let the body fall back without a sound.
The guy with the knife came with a straight stab, charging ridiculously quickly.
John kept calm. He'd seen bigger knives. He scooped the hand from the inside, bringing it outside, then underhooked the arm and pulled the guy in. This angle removed the threat of the knife, and the savage punch John put into the guy's nose removed the threat of this guy in general. But the asshole had tried to knife him, so he was getting something special.
John grabbed the guy by the back of the jacket, then tighter around the underhook. With a single movement, he broke the arm viciously, and then pulled away. His fingertips pried the knife away as he did.
The scream of pain was so loud. John cursed, threw the knife away, and then grabbed the guy in close. He twisted him around with an open-hand strike to the shoulder, and then snaked one arm around his throat. The other came up behind his target's head, giving enough space for the first arm to grab the bicep, and then John locked in his rear naked choke.
Five seconds until the guy went unconscious. Eighteen before he died.
John let him go as soon as he went limp, dropping him to the pavement with a thud. With a grunt, he reached down and picked up the knife. It was a wonderful thing, a beautiful butterfly knife with some Japanese writing on the side. John flicked it shut, slipped it into his pocket, and left the three men groaning and clutching their injuries on the ground.