Hellboy's History: Part 1
Walpurgis Night; April 30th, sometime in the early 1600's.
Mary Ashby, named for the mother of Jesus, sped through the woods with two other girls; Adele Adcock and Bethany Snarestone. The three were sworn, that night, to meet with Him again, to know his pleasures and promises, and spite the name Valborg, for whom the night was named. No nun's ill-given name would keep the night from holding to it's true meaning -- to the rites of fertility and carnality, they would see to that much.
He waited for them, sleek and dark and handsome, kissed by golden firelight. "My loves, my loves!" He cried, when they approached. "Come, let us dance!"
Their clothes were rent, their hair mussed, and the three girls joined their lord and lover, the Devil himself, in dances older then time and forbidden to the unwed. Each lay with Him, and then each other, till all stretched upon the grass, the fires dying to embers, and whispered of their accomplishments: They'd poisoned cattle, slain children, turned the eyes of wedded men from their wives.
They reveled in their wickedness, and He kissed the sin from their lips and laughed to hear it.
Come morning, they stumbled back to the village, weeping and crying, claiming that the faeries had stolen them in the dark. The Sidhe scoffed from their hills -- they had no use for trollops, but mortal babes, aye, they stole them. But those girls were too old and rather useless. But they took the blame for the girl's state, night after night...
... until they fled in three directions, running from the witch hunters.
* * *
Mary Croft found God, late in life. Having given up her wild ways and forgetting her promise, she bore two beautiful children to a devout, honorable man in East Bromwich. Her children, divinely guided, both found service to the mother church; her son a priest, her daughter a nun. Only once they were sworn to the service of God did she confess, then, her sins on her death bed, and asked her children to bind her body in a chained casket -- in three days, her lord's hold would break on her, and if God wanted her, she could go to to the Kingdom of God, penitent for her sins.
She never made it. Oh, her lord! He came for her in His true shape, into the Church that her son called his, and slaughtered her children, reminding her of her promises and duties -- she had struck her name from the Book of Life, she had engaged in revelries carnal and base, she had cast spells, taken the forms of animals, and done sins against man and God, she had laid with Him before her husband had ever known her, and he had planted damned seed in her womb. God did not want her, but He did. He wanted her, as beautiful and wicked as she once had been -- as she had been when she hung around his neck or writhed beneath His body. Tempted by this vision, she submitted...
... and he speared her wretched, aging corpse with one of his cruel, iron hooks, hung her from his horse and rode to Hell, taking Mary Ashby with him, damned with the knowledge that she'd given Him a son of his damned essence and her mortal spirit; not the wretched, flesh-born mortals He'd just scoured from the earth, but HIS son, of HIS flesh... His favorite, best son. He simply awaited birth, in Hell and on Earth, that son, Anung Un Rama, who would be the key to the world's destruction in fire.
* * *
December 23rd, 1944
Germany was desperate for miracles. Grigori Rasputin specialized in them. His own life -- having been poison, shot, stabbed, beaten, castrated, and then dumped into a freezing, racing river -- was a miracle, wrought in bargains of the spirit and bone, Baba Yaga, Mother of Russia, favoring one of her country's sons with a fragment of her power. He promised them a Key -- a Key to the World's fate; if Germany lost the war, this would enable them to make sure that no one else would have this precious prize, either.
His motives were his own; the nazi's were nothing but pawns; within them, he found disciples who recognized his power, and to them, he granted the power to sleep... should his plans not come to fruition in this moment, he would need them in the future.
He knew very well Anung Un Rama would not appear where the ritual would be performed; but all the same, he opened the gate -- and disappointed his employers. It was time, then, he said, to move...
... unaware that someone was already there, wrapping the confused little boy in a military issue wool blanket, mindless that the child's first memory would be scratch of wool against skin that had never felt the cool night air before.
Trevor Bruttenholm had come to England years before, but now, something was different. There was something coming, and they needed to be prepared. He was a young investigator, one of a new breed -- who made the supernatural their business. He was something of an oddity in America; while the spirituality craze of the Victorian Era hadn't quite faded, it had not really been embraced by the majority of North America. Still, in his field, he was well respected as a hunter of strange things, one who faced mystery with eagerness rather then fear. He had been investigating a haunting in England when the call came; he had to serve his country, as one of their best paranormal investigators.
He was not alone. He came with a small detachment of soldiers; Prof. Malcolm Frost, a specialist in Trevor's own field, Lady Cynthia Eden-Jones, England's top medium, Sgt. George Whitman, and the Torch of Liberty were all part of his team investigating the Church of East Bromwich. The Lady Eden-Jones had alerted the US forces, then caught up in the middle of War, and called them to this place due to the forces she believes are about to converge on the spot -- and they waited, and they investigated; she was certain that there was something related to the war to occur here, and thus, the army came and waited.
But... there was nothing, though -- they could bring up nothing of this place -- at least, at first. Then! A moment of spiritual activity -- a sighting of a priest and nun, caught in time, bound to the site of their death -- and then there was nothing, again, in silence. Disappointment reigned.
And then there was fire.
The soldiers almost opened fire, but calmer heads ruled, as they all took their positions in surrounding the small thing, red, horned and embraced by flame; they were ready to fire at a word.
But in the chaos, Trevor spoke plainly and truthfully. "It's... a little boy. A ...hell boy."
And thus, Anung un Rama had his first name swept from him and was given another.
* * *
Early, Undocumented Years
Despite Bruttenholm's protests, Hellboy was packed up and taken out of country in the middle of the night. Lady Eden-Jones said nothing, merely allowed it with complicit silence, and Prof. Frost was simply afraid of what the boy might -be-.
He was taken to a base near Roswell, New Mexico. It would become the boy's home for the first few years of his life. While the war ended 'publicly' in 1945, it would continue in secret, with powers unknown, by the surviving regime until 1958; however, Hellboy wouldn't join the fight until 1956, missing most of the furious action and behind the scene struggles growing up in relative peace, unknowing of what was circulating about him -- or even that one of the very people who had found him had declared him unsafe.
The first year of his life was miserable. Experimentation ran rampant, while a legal battle was waged; in 1945, Malcolm Frost would begin to pioneer the efforts to have Hellboy -- innocent and childlike, with a growing love of Baby Ruth and hot noodles -- to be put to death. The child was growing quickly -- adulthood was coming fast, and Frost was convinced that he was going to do something terrible. However, Hellboy had his allies -- and unknown to him, they were many and powerful.
Bruttenholm was there, for all of it. Hellboy -- the name stuck, first as a joking designation, and then as an actual /name/, despite all attempts to give him something more reasonable as he grew -- was under General Ricker's care; complaints of inhumane treatment from Bruttenholm got Ricker to act, making sure that when he wasn't with a scientist trying to drill his arm, or see his resistance to heat, cold, and a variety of other things, that Hellboy was well fed, watching TV like a normal child, and becoming a pint-sized addict to Gene Audry films. Hellboy was extraordinarily patient; they gauged his age at somewhere in the toddler stage; he was not a baby, but a child of some sort, but he was not quite the average child, and bore the pain and frustration of being a guinea pig with occasionally sulky aplomb that would degrade into disdain of scientists and researchers over the years.
But as far as Bruttenholm, the boy was just a child, not a freak. Certainly, he was red, and with that strange arm -- fully grown, unlike the rest of him, they gauged what he would be, a veritable giant of a man, if the arm was any indication, like one would gather how big a dog would get by the size of a puppy's paws -- but he was a child all the same. Ricker was inclined to agree. Not so many others were, however, and there was a vocal contingent ready for lobbying, prepping their case against the boy they could not explain. But Bruttenholm was privy to things that others were not; the boy recognized him as the first human being who'd been kind, the man who'd scooped him up in a blanket and comforted him after his rough 'birth' from the flames. In short, Bruttenholm had been the mother duck Hellboy had impressed upon.
In 1946, Bruttenholm managed to get the experiments on the baby Hellboy put on hold, and entrusted his care to General Ricker directly. Trevor Bruttenholm had a knack; he chose his friends and colleagues well, with the exception of Prof Frost; most of those who encountered the strange, red child came to love him. General Ricker watched over the boy while he grew on his base, and stepped in on the boy's behalf when men came clamoring with questions . "Hellboy was a child; a good natured child that is eager to learn," the General would say, cigar bit tight between his teeth. "He loves Mac, the base dog, and everyone else. He calls me 'uncle', when he doesn't think I can hear him, and he is better mannered and more loving then any of my nephews or grandsons. I would be proud enough were he my own flesh and blood." It was powerful statement, but it did not stop all detractors. Prof. Frost would not stop until his death or Hellboy's, whichever came first.
However, Bruttenholm had other ideas; in 1945, he had begun work toward founding the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, which was kept quiet but gained a hefty bit of government money and aid as it began to get off the ground, though it was not officially 'in operation' until 1946. With the agency backing him, Bruttenholm worked for the boy he'd come to love as his son; in 1952, Hellboy was officially granted humanity by a panel of authorities and lawmakers after years of battle, experiments, and contrary to the scientific community demanding they have the boy for dissection and further curiosity. He had the right number of limbs; one was a bit odd, but he apparently walked, talked, breathed, wept, and did anything else a two year old would do -- he just did it a lot faster. He was still not free, really, but at least he now had basic human rights, and Frost's initiative to have him slain was defeated thoroughly. However, he would still struggle with his fear of Hellboy, right to his deathbed.
A year later, Trevor made a move to make him a family -- to further protect Hellboy's interests -- and officially adopted him. Hellboy Bruttenholm gained a birth certificate with his new name -- he staunchly refused to change from anything but 'Hellboy', since Trevor had called him that first -- but the years he'd spent with Trevor had already given him a family.
However, Trevor was often an absentee father; when he wasn't investigating East Bromwich -- which didn't stop until 1953, with no further evidence of supernatural happenings there, past or present -- he was working to gather agents, psychics, priests, and experts of all stripes into the Bureau. Hellboy aged rapidly, and unnaturally so -- by the age of twelve he was physically adult -- though mentally was entirely a different story. Keeping his young mind occupied was difficult enough -- Bureau professors wanted a piece of the boy, which with Hellboy's permission, they allowed. Experiments were performed -- though when Trevor was away, things... less ethical were done to the boy. When General Ricker got word, many stopped -- but nothing could be kept down for long. Hellboy was an oddity, and needed to be studied, and Hellboy sullenly allowed it, his disdain never quite becoming hatred.
And he would be someone else's project, for most of his early life; till eventually he became an active agent and left the bureau for extended periods of time, seeking safety in his new purpose.
* * *
From Trevor Bruttenholm's Hellboy Tapes, May 12th, 1952
He was not yet twelve years old -- at least, by my reckoning -- but he was a man. So tall, so broad! Bigger then his small father now, with scruffy, wiry black hair on his chin and long hair left to hang at his neck. Still, I wanted to do things with the boy, my Hellboy; it was hard, though, to find things we could do together, like father and son. He needed a father -- all boys do. But, special arrangements were made to take him to an amusement park (though the freak show, with their stuffed snake women and their false unicorns, was avoided) for a day. He towered over me, had a terrible time fitting into doorways and ride seats, his tail curling tight about his leg to keep it out of the way. But I wanted to do the boy right, and I wanted him to be happy, to grow up as normal as he could, loving Baby Ruth and that new fangled music that the kids seemed to love these days.
He rode the rides, but the thrills weren't enough. They'd taken him up in jets; how could a Ferris wheel compare? But still, Hellboy seemed to enjoyed it. Maybe because it was something that the men on the base spoke of doing with their children; they always hushed near him, not wanting him to know was he was missing. It was a wonder he had the dog; Mac was a god send -- though his idea that the dog was a superior being to we humans did put a hitch in potty training the hellion! When we came back, it was like a farewell to his childhood -- what little he had been allowed under General Ricker's care.
We came back, and they gave him a gun.
I cannot truly fathom the gesture -- but I know the man, the Torch of Liberty, believed differently then I; Hellboy was able to crush most men with his bare hands, should he put his mind to it, but as far as the Torch was concerned, that was how a beast fought. A man used tools, techniques, methods clean and quick. A beast? He covered himself in gore and reveled in it. Hellboy was not a beast to him. This gladdened my heart, even as I feared for this new turn.
He was twelve years old, when the Torch of Liberty, one of the the US's finest men, gave him the Samaritan; named for a man who did kindness to strangers despite the lack of gratitude due to his place of birth. I had raised him Catholic; he knew the story of the Good Samaritan. I think it made it all the more special; knowing the story of the man who had been beaten and left for dead in the road -- a Pharisee passed by him, and touched him not. A Jew, too, left him for dead in the road. But the Samaritan -- to whom most contact was unclean, who were spat upon for not being 'truly Jews' -- took his broken, naked body and cared for him, mended him, and asked for nothing in return.
I wanted to weep, but I watched on with pride instead, as he handled the oversized gun, made for his large, strong hands, supernaturally gifted arms. They took him out to the range and got him to shoot with them...
... and I said good bye to my little boy and realized, my son was a man.
* * *
December 23rd, 1952
Present wrapping has been cleaned up -- Hellboy was currently fitting his new long coat on with a sort of relish only the young have. Specially made to accommodate his right arm and his tail, it had been hard to procure without spoiling his birthday surprise.
It was during the clean up the phone call came. I answered it; it was Malcolm Frost's son. He had... terrible news. Malcolm was dead.
The man who wanted to kill my son for the good of humanity was dead. He had passed away two nights previous, his life's work thwarted.
I said nothing to Hellboy then; why tell him, truly, at this celebration of his entry into this world and my life? He was enjoying himself; it was a rare thing -- Hellboy was a quiet, serious, almost somber child, though there was a turn of mischief to him. He got snacks from behind him with his tail while he occupied me with words, he occasionally broke things with his overlarge hand, and while he put up a brave, strong front...
...he ached to see other children, his own age, so small and delicate and still innocent. Other young boys did not shoot guns made for a man twice their age. Other twelve year olds were not six-foot-four and still gaining in height. When other boys were considering shaving, he was taking a sander to his brow and keeping the stumps of his horns flat and even... I blame the soldiers and their need for uniform blandness, to keep troops in line for this... mutilation. Still, he wants to fit in and it is painful to see in action. He's already gained a full beard atop that, if he does not shave! Other boys had mothers and fathers, who they could seem themselves in. My son looked down -- looked down! -- on me, and the only thing I could see of myself in his face... was the kindness in his eyes.
At least, I had engendered that. I was not a good father, I admit -- often away, leaving my son in the care of others, who influenced him, perhaps, even more then I. But I did love him, and wish the best for him.
* * *
Case Files, 1952-1973
Hellboy traveled round the world, working for his government and for his father both, wishing to make the people who had enabled him to live free proud of him and his work. When he wasn't dealing with vampire cats in Kyoto or talking mongooses, he encountered haunted chairs or frightening Nucklavee. Faeries, demons, vampires, ghosts -- he gained experience with them all, as well as charms against all of them. Mass killings in India, baby theft, and more occur. The cleansing of an iron-shoed Redcap in Ireland -- where Hellboy first picked up the habit of smoking --gained him the first of many contacts -- Father Mike Nolan; he was merely the beginning, however -- Hellboy's professional acumen and kind heart would earn him accolades and allies over the many years of his career, as well as attention from certain, highly placed groups, from the Osiris Club to the Vatican itself, neither of which could seem to decide what he was.
He answered the call of both, and was tested and examined by men of faith as well as science -- at least, the former were kinder about it. They could find no touch of the devil to him; he took sacrament, he could be- - and was -- baptized, and he bore the presence of the Church, the crucifix, and all else without suffering. He knew scripture and verse, and carried, at all times, a token of St. Jude, who he favored among the Saints; he had, he would say, been a lost cause himself, once.
The Vatican declared him free of sin, and the pope would speak of him as 'proof that the divine could touch even those born from darkest sin'. However, the Osiris Club would conduct their own tests, and while they would come back inconclusive, they too left Hellboy, watching his movements with intent -- should he prove to be a danger to mankind, they would act then.
Hellboy knew little of this; he simply worked for Bruttenholm with the devotion of a favored son. His father rarely accompanied him; at this time he was deeply involved in the maintenance of the archives, resources, and the move from the air base in New Mexico to the mansion and attached offices in Fairfield, CT.
It should be noted that Hellboy was not the first agent to use magic or charms against the enemy, though he was quite proficient in the use of charms of all sorts; in fact, during his career he gained access to the Catholic Church's highest reliquaries; bones of the saints, holy water blessed by the Pope, and weapons sanctified in the battle against evil were a part of his arsenal.
Scrupulously honest, he never lost or kept one. They always found their way back into the hands of their rightful owners at the end of an assignment. Charms found for purchase were another thin entirely -- Aggripa's charm against demonic beasts was a gift from Father Edward Kelly, who he befriended during this time, and other trinkets of varying power found their way to him. He became quite the collector, though he left powerful artifacts behind or gave them to those he knew could keep them safe or out of the hands of darkness.
He was, in short, an exemplary agent. However, a few cases stand out among the others...
* * *
Bruttenholm's Tapes: April 9th, 1952
My son is back from his 'lend' to my old school-fellow, Edmund Aickman; I am displeased to discover that Edmund was chasing gold and not doing proper investigation; normally, I would allow a man his foolishness, but not when they get my son beaten near to death by wild norsemen in wolfskin. However, I hear that for all this idioicy, he gained nothing but a wound within his palm; King Vold's gold apparently turns to burning stone, and it has created a hole in his palm.
I am unsure of what has happened to him beyond that, but it cannot be good. I hope he finds a way out of the hole he's dug for himself, though.
* * *
Bruttenholm's Tapes: June 23, 1954
I am most sorry, my son; you must forgive a man his fears -- the Osiris Club was a powerful group, and they wished insight into your true nature. My words -- the words of a loving father, blind to his son's failings -- were not enough. I allowed the test.
My son, they tricked you -- they released the dragon from it's prison, and set you on it, to see if your blood would cause bloom or burn to the holy battle site; they cared not of it's defeat. Though they deemed the test 'inconclusive', they did not bother us again. I cannot say how profound was the relief I felt. They would leave us alone.
* * *
Bruttenholm's Tapes: December 29th, 1964
My son has returned, and his report on the incident with the legendary 'Baba Yaga' has come my way.
He took out her eye.
I wonder at the possible ramifications for Russia; she is as linked to Russia as Yahweh is to Israel, as much their old goddess as a spirit or witch. But there have been no sightings of her 'sin counting' in the days since her possibly-fatal wounding.
Hellboy is recovering from his injuries well, but cannot shake the feeling that he has done something wrong. I wonder at his feelings; guilt, perhaps, at being unable to truly fell the witch? Or perhaps... something deeper? An intuition not psychic, but... perhaps similar to such powers. But he has never displayed any abilities related to special cognition, pre or post.
I will simply have to be watchful of him. Still, he plans to take on active service again, as soon as he is healed. I wonder, sometimes, at his eagerness to delve so deeply into out work; sometimes, when he does not realize I'm watching, he looks so...haunted. Is it their faces, my son?
Is it that they are not so far from yours?
* * *
It all began to change for Hellboy in 1974; the first of what would eventually become his 'family' for the next twenty five years began to surface; Liz Sherman, Abe Sapien, Sidney Leach, Bud Waller, and Roger the Homunculus would all make their way to the halls of the BPRD. It would be a time of change for Hellboy -- because he would lose one family to gain another...
... even as he needed them most.
* * *
Bruttenholm's Tapes: January 10th, 1974
Elizabeth Sherman has come to us from New Jersey; just a month ago, she was responsible for the deaths of thirty two people, including her parents and brother. Pyrokinetic ability violently manifested, and she was brought to our attention shortly after the cause of the fire was determined. She is emotionally withdrawn, and many of the agents fear her. She says she can 'burn you by talking', and is as much afraid of us as we are of her.
I took a personal interest in this case -- I have oft been accused of collecting freaks, starting with Hellboy, but that is not the case. I want to help these people, innocent and frightened, unaware of their power and the damning inability to wield it. No one found Elizabeth Sherman in time.
Imagine my surprise, when I got to look in on this girl, and find my son sitting with her.
She was unafraid of him; he spoke gently to her, and unlike the very human men in the fire suits, he did not flinch or shy away. Of course, the Ohala case in O'ahu, Hawaii has already assured me that Hellboy can wade through molten rock and come out untouched (though we could not say the same about his clothing), but ... it was so strange to see him, just talking to this scared, miserable child and coax a smile from her. She was not afraid of him.
He sat with her for two hours -- she ate the sucker he gave her (I could see the ruins of her dinner that the spooked agent had brought; I demoted him the next day for his lack of backbone in the face of a needy child) and simply talked to him. She was tired and scared and... in the end, I watched my son be as gentle with her as he might be with a newborn fawn.
I had thought I had felt the extent of fatherly pride; but at that moment, my heart swelled again. My son, my hellborn son, was no devil. He was hiding a halo behind his filed horns, I was certain.
* * *
Bruttenholm's Tapes: July 19th, 1979
Abe Sapien, along with Liz Sherman, has become a part of our strange family. He is now my son's favored confidant -- perhaps due to his unknown but completely inhuman origins -- and partner on assignment. They work well together; perhaps, in truth, Abe has replaced me as my son's right hand. I mourn this, just a little. But I am glad to see him so comfortable, and easing the transition for those in need.
However, they are on the outs today; Hellboy made some error and Abe paid the price. They both came back battered -- Abe more so then Hellboy -- and my son is most repentant. Abe is sullen, but I believe he'll forgive Hellboy in the end. He knows he did wrong, and owns up to his mistakes. He is not so proud. After all, he stopped smoking this year -- I believe, for Abe's sake. Our piscean friend's lungs are only just adjusting to air now; it would not do to make him adjust to second-hand smoke so soon.
I have noted that my son is very conscience of others; he is usually proper with his language, he rarely displays his temper -- though I know he is capable of carrying great anger, as I saw during the latter years of the War, and he is rarely openly disdainful, even to the scientists that I know he dislikes. I daresay I raised him right. Or maybe it is something else. Something deeper. I can hope that it's good upbringing, can't I, that I raised a polite, well-mannered son?
* * *
Liz Sherman became a ward of the agency, and eventually, an agent herself. She was the first. Abe Sapien -- named for the piece of paper marked April 14, 1865 (The date of Lincoln's assassination) attached to the tank his body was found in was discovered in the basement of St. Trinian hospital, and was brought to the agency in late 1978. Experimentation began in earnest, and on March 2nd, a last ditch electrical stimulation gained results in waking him, saving the fish man from dissection. However, Hellboy grew tired of their callous treatment of Abe shortly after. Eventually, in a rare display of temper, he told the men working on Abe exactly what he through of them, and hauled the fish man out of his tank, and took him away to feed him a ham sandwich and help socialize him. It was to begin a new trend in Hellboy; Liz and Abe's treatment had raised ire in him. He began to grow tired of how all of the freaks and stranger members of the agency were being treated, and began to work for change, making himself a protector of all new entries, whether their powers be small and simple as metal detection or as great and destructive as Liz Sherman's powerful pyrokinesis.
Strangely enough, it worked. Abe became a ward and then agent in short order. Hellboy's surrogate family grew through his efforts, and his upstanding morality -- though stifling to those who sought information at any cost -- won him many friends and the respect of most of his coworkers.
But it wasn't enough. There were things missing. Certainly, Hellboy had just found him a little sister/surrogate daughter and a fishy brother, but there were still aspects of his life that were empty... still, it was enough for now... at least, it was.
And then he met Anastasia Bakersfield. What would occur between them would change Hellboy's outlook on both himself and humanity for the rest of his life.
For the first time, Hellboy would question his right to be among humans.