Winter Storm
No Codename
Real Name: Winter Storm
Age: 16
Identity: Quasi-Known
Birthplace: New York
Date of Birth: December 21, 1993
Known Relatives: Rainn and Nari Storm (father and mother)
Height: 6'
Weight: 175
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Brown
Grade: Sophomore
Dorm: Halliday Hall



"Troubled?" The young man seemed surprised. "That all you gonna call it?"

He leaned back into the couch with the creak of leather on leather: his jacket, against upholstery. His smirk was arrogant, condescending… and bitter. As the 'smile' faded his dark eyes flicked to the window and watched the very blue sky and the very white clouds in the distance.

"Yeah. Okay. Troubled."


He had reason to be troubled. It's not often that the courts side in favor of the father, but it was necessary in this case, what with his mother being a drug addict. Mother. "Dam" would be more apt. She went in and out of rehab, an inconstant presence in her son's life. When she went to prison for theft, reckless endangerment, assault and manslaughter, her son was told he wouldn't see her for a long time.

"Forget her," his father growled. "She forgot us."

The son figured that was fair.

What was a little less fair was that his father became a drug addict, too. He just didn't have to score anything illegally. After all, it wasn't against the law to buy alcohol. But it /was/ illegal for him to take his anger out on his son, so child services stepped in and the boy became a ward of the State.

The foster homes were not great places.


The young man, just a teenager, seemed older. Anger does that to a man. Or boy.

"What're you gonna do about it?" he demanded, his gaze snapping back to the man in the suit across from him. It was all he could do to avoid sneering at this man passing judgment on him.

The man straightened.

"We'll do what we must." Adjusting his glasses, he looked down to a notebook in hand. "Lack of respect for authority, truancy, academic probation, violent tendencies…"


He remembered the first time it happened.

The bullies, three years his elders, had cornered him. He'd already given up his lunch money but they weren't done; they needed to get their kicks.


They regretted it when he changed. At first, he did, too. He stood over three unconscious bodies, his fists covered with blood. He didn't recognize it /as/ blood at first. It had frozen. His body was made of ice. Ice. He was a neohuman. A freak. A foster freak. Nobody wanted him, and now he was a monster.

Then he looked down at the bullies. The losers of that fight. He wasn't sure if he could smile as an ice-man, but he felt the surge of pleasure. He beat them at their own game. The monster that fed on other monsters. The big fish in the pond.

Then he felt the plan forming. He could be good at this. He could be the best. And what if he added some skill to this weirdness that was in his DNA.

Not a big fish in a pond. A /shark/.

Maybe that's what he'd call himself when he became a boxer. "The Shark."


"…scholarship for athletics…"

"Wait, what?"

"'Wait, what,' to what part?"

The young man scowled. "That whole thing again." He waved a hand curtly. "Not the first list. The second."

"The Steranko Institute has accepted the application written in your name, and is offering a partial scholarship for athletics."

"What the f*ck is the Steranko Institute? /Where/ is it?"

The man sighed and began to explain.


It wasn't the first fight he'd gotten into, but it was the first time it resulted in the school being evacuated. Granted, he wasn't friends with anyone; he'd moved there too recently, the fourth school in as many States in as many years. But if he hadn't made friends, he'd made some enemies. Nothing new there.

But what was new was his opponent's tactics: instead of being up-front and duking it out, he would snipe with words and patronizing smiles and derisive laughter.

That's when he lost it: control. He lost control of himself, took that strange icy form, and demolished the entire hallway. Wisely, the other students fled. So did the teachers. It was only when he calmed down that he could change back.

There was no unconscious opponent this time, which was probably a good thing. He wasn't sure what he might have done…


"You're telling me it's a school full of freaks?"

"In your colorful vernacular, yes."

He thought about it. "…You think they'll train me. Teach me control."

"Among other things. The things you seem to have struggled with academically."


It rankled that he'd be placed in a class where he was sure to be the oldest, but that was the bed he'd made. He considered this new situation for a few more minutes.

The man in the suit waited patiently. When the young man's shoulders seemed to relax, he placed a few sheets of paper on the table between them, pulled a pen from his pocket, and set it down.

"A school full of freaks," he murmured again, thoughtfully. "Just like me." He signed the papers.

"Excellent. You'll be moving at the end of July, most likely," said the man in the suit. "I hope you can find what you need there, Mr. Storm."

The young man waved his hand again — far less belligerently.

"Winter. Just Winter."

The man in the suit thought the young man looked like he had a new lease on life. A chance.

Winter was trying to remember a phrase he'd heard when he was young. What was it again?

That was it.

'A season for everything.'



Ice may be Winter's element, but he sure doesn't have the personality associated with it. He's volatile. Surly. Both defensive and aggressive. As he hasn't had much in the way of positive relationships, he expects both to be hurt and to deal with that hurt. While he understands that his parents are pretty screwed up, he is beginning to head down a path that ensures the apple didn't fall far from the tree. He has a chip on his shoulder and something to prove, and is used to dealing with obstacles that get in his way. He needs to learn control, both for his sake and others'. Knowing that he's capable of doing great harm, he vacillates between taking a bully's pride in it and worrying that he'll dig himself into a hole he can't get out of — maybe one that's six feet deep.

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