This is a story, an overview, if you will, of my life before being with the Teen Titans. How I came to be, what I did afterwards… All of it as briefly as possible. Normally introductions are long and get your mind turning, get you really thinking and drawn in, but this isn't really that type of story. It's the life of a fifteen year old boy who made some choices that led him through different paths, different lives, almost. It's nothing psychological, nothing fantastic or dazzling.
It's just… well, me. Garfield Logan, now known as Beast Boy. What happened to me could have happened to anyone. But it didn't. It happened to me. Which is why I'm the one telling the story. So, I guess you should just sit down and enjoy.
(-)
I was bullied as a kid long before my skin was the color of morning grass or shimmering emeralds. I was a really scrawny kid with hair too blonde or too shaggy, but I thought I could take on anyone and anything. I thought I could take on the world if I wanted. Needless to say, I would get in a lot of fights. I'd never start them of course, but I wasn't about to allow myself to be pushed around. The kids still did so, considering they knew they could kick my butt easily, but I wasn't about to simply lie there and take it. If I was going to get a beating, I wouldn't let anyone say I didn't try and fight back.
There was one particular bully-Andrew-who teased me about everything. Be it the shirt I was wearing, how my hair looked, and if all else failed he'd find a way to make me insecure about my name. It was always something with him. Insults about me I could take, but if he laid an actual finger on me or said anything bad about a friend of mine or my family, I'd let him have it to the best of my abilities. He was twice as wide and more than a foot taller, though, but that never stopped me from trying to knock his teeth in when he deserved it. This was quite often. One instance that always stuck with me is when I had made somewhat friends with a new kid by the name of Barry and he was so shy and such an introvert, but the sweetest little kid you could ever meet. Well, the moment Andrew spotted his obvious weakness, he started ragging on him.
It was after school and he had Barry pinned against a wall. Normally I'd ride the bus or have my parents pick me up, but I was going to the pet store right after to look at the animals as a reward of all A's (and one nasty B, darn Mathematics) on my report card, which was awesome because I've always had a love of animals. The pet shop wasn't far from the school and I didn't mind the exercise, so I decided I'd walk; it'd save more time, anyhow. As I was walking out, blonde hair tickling my ears, back pack slung on shoulder, rocking a Mario t-shirt, I heard Barry whimper and holler. Sure enough as I made my way over to see what the matter was, Andrew nailed him pretty hard in the gut and guffawed.
I was instantly enraged. Not to mention that Barry was taller than me, but not much bigger-meaning he was a real twig. I walked over behind him as quietly as I could and said, "Hey, Andrew-try picking on someone your own size!" And with a math book and notebooks in the red bag, I held it up and rammed it into the back of his head. He fell like a ton of bricks, blinking in confusion and groaning. Barry never officially thanked me (I think he was too scared to even form coherent words) but the look of relief on his face was reward enough, though. Before he had time to stand and retaliate I told Barry to go, to run as far away as he could as fast as he could. Even though he was grateful, I told tell, he decided not to stick around and see if I would live. He took off running, and I thought that if he ran that way in gym he'd surely ace it, no problem.
I tried running, but I started, realized I forgot my bag, turned back and grabbed it, stumbled; you get it. As I turned a block, thinking that somehow I might have gotten away I felt a meaty hand clamp down on the back of my shirt. Sure enough I was yanked back hard enough that for a second I saw stars. He threw punches and I blocked what I could. He got a few good hits to the jaw and my side, but after swinging my bag once more and hitting him in the side of the head, he fell away and I bolted, seeing my window of time to escape. I ran to that pet store and from my swollen cheek and heaving chest, my parents knew right away I'd gotten into another fight. Yeah, another one.
They were really awesome, so they respected the fact that I was sticking up for someone and made sure they were alright, but they were still my parents and chided me, of course. But I didn't mind a whole lot, because they didn't appear genuinely angry and besides a bit of rebuking, I didn't get in trouble. They were always for standing up for the little guys, anyway. Which was pretty epic. My parents were parents who understood why I did the things I did, why I wouldn't let the bigger kids hit me and I'd hit back. God, I miss them so much.
That was one memory that stuck out for me. I guess it's because I was showing signs early on of wanting to be a hero. The way Barry looked at me, like I'd just saved his life… well, I wanted to see that all the time. I did then and I do now. But, the reason I look like I do: green skin and hair, pointed ears and teeth, is because of a trip I took with my parents to Africa. It was over the summer, and they went to study animals and look for cures and… yeah, all that righteous stuff. I was told not to go to a certain area, but I thought I heard someone cry so I ran out into a strange looking field and when I was sure no one was there and that I was hearing things, I felt an agonizing pain in my arm. I was wearing a tank top, so the skin was exposed. I screamed and fell hard on my knees, then felt that same horrendous pain in my leg. Tears pooled down my cheeks in less than a second and I saw black dots clouding my vision.
The pain I felt that day was unlike any other. Now, I've never been bitten by a snake or stung by a jellyfish or given birth, but what was going through my veins during that time was pretty excruciating. If anything is worse, I am so sorry, especially to moms everywhere. I couldn't walk, couldn't move. I was on my knees doubled over, clutching my arm, feeling my leg also flare up in agony… yeah, it was pretty miserable, to be honest. I think I may have been rocking, but all I can recall is my sobbing and my ear splitting screaming. The pain was progressing, like it was traveling through my body. I was just hollering in general, trying to get my parents' attention. Eventually I started shrieking, "Mom! Dad! Please!" It was bad. Just imagine a pathetic ten year old boy clutching his arm, his stomach, doubled over, just bawling and screeching to the Heavens, desperate to be found.
I do recall coughing and seeing a splatter of red dotting the dusty ground beneath me, but I think it was because I had, like, yelled my voice raw or something. Which wasn't surprising, considering how long and loud I was calling. Finally, though I didn't see them rush over I felt their hands picking me up, moving me. That only intensified my anguish, if possible. I thought I would be so glad that they found me and were taking me to the tent we were residing in, but it was terrible. Each step my dad took-he was the one holding me-felt like rockets shooting into my skin. I'm unsure how else to really describe it; every time I was moved or jerked in the slightest, a great amount of discomfort smacked into my person. No, discomfort is not an accurate word. The feeling was closer to torture.
I think that I may have blacked out here and there from the pain, because one moment I was wailing and crying, pleading with my parents to make this stop, whatever this was, and the next I was panting as if I'd just run a marathon and was laying on the white cot I used as a makeshift bed. I remember looking down and seeing my veins; they were protruding more than they should, and instead of a healthy blue they were dark purple, like a bad bruise. I fell unconscious again, and when I awoke, probably not even a minute later, the veins were blackening. Surprising even to this day, I didn't panic. I was too out of it, too focused on the pain itself that all I could think was how I wanted to die. I wasn't necessarily worried about getting there, since it seemed like a blessing at this point.
"Garfield… Garfield, Honey, you have to stay awake… please… oh, God, please stay awake…" My mom was hovering over me, sobbing, reaching a hand out to touch me but recoiled, too afraid she might cause me more pain. I was thankful in a way because even the thought of any sort of physical contact was enough to make me want to puke. Speaking of which, as my mom occasionally splashed freezing water on my face to keep me awake I found myself coughing, each hack sending electric shocks through me. As my small preteen body convulsed upwards and quivered violently, I was unable to stop from vomiting all over myself. It was beyond nasty. It was all over my chin, my neck, my shirt. Mom was constantly wiping it away, but just as she had cleaned me up I'd do it again, spewing white liquid with dots of red.
I wished I could have slept. They were too afraid I'd go in my sleep, so they kept me awake. This meant I had to endure their attempts at curing me. I was conscious, sadly, as they shoved pills and nefarious medicines down my throat, stuck my arms and legs and even my side with needles… after maybe two to three hours of endless attempts at making my shaking and puking cease, I felt my body begin to still and my coughing slowly but surely stopped. My mom was being clutched in my dad's arms, tears still glistening on her cheeks. "I don't want to stop being a mom," she sobbed as she looked down at me, "my baby. My sweet baby… We should have never brought him here, Richard! Never!" Back then I didn't feel guilty about coming along on the trip, but now I feel horrible because I was the one who ran around the house yelling, "Pleeeeease?" and begging them non-stop to take me. After a week of my annoying pestering, they caved.
Basically I felt bad for my mom feeling bad because her feeling bad made me feel bad because it was all my fault.
My mom was afraid of not being a mom anymore if I died. I wanted to tell her that she'd always be a mom, and she'd be the best mom in the whole wide world no matter what, but I could barely open my mouth let alone form words. Just because I'm gone doesn't mean she loses her motherlyship like some kind of firing from a job. Being a mother runs deeper than that, even if your baby is gone. But if that's how family works, does that mean I'm no longer a son? Both of my parents are dead, so does that mean I lose my son-ship? That's been a thought that has run through my head way too many times.
For a moment I felt no pain. I was numb, but it was better in my opinion. I opened my mouth just enough to where it didn't completely ware me out and as I thought I might actually be able to speak, my body ignited in an internal flame as fires-though invisible-seemed to explode within me. I was on fire, burning, and all my parents did was bend down and hold onto me as I shouted at the top of my lungs. My veins were turning green, my blonde hair turning the same shade. My cartilage in my ears broke and bent, forming a point. I was changing, my genes splicing.
My bone seemed to melt and then come together once more. I eventually blacked out, and the last thing I saw was my mom and dad's horrified expressions and a green color spreading up my arms. When I woke up, it was two entire days later. I expected to be aching and sore, maybe have a headache and feel woozy. Normal things one would expect after being in a mild coma, right? Well, I felt great. Seriously, when I woke up I sat straight up and grinned from ear to ear. "Mom! Dad! I had the worst dream, I…" As I looked around and saw Mom's hand over her mouth and Dad trying to remain calm and keep a stolid posture, I knew it wasn't a dream.
Mom ended up turning around completely and started crying, as if looking away would make the sounds of hiccupped sobs any less deafening. Dad walked over to me slowly and I watched as he swallowed a knot in his throat. My dad was always really strong, never cried and when he did he never admitted to it. He also had bulking, sinewy muscles. When I was younger I was swing on his arm as he flexed and act as if I was a monkey. Nevertheless he was a sweet guy, but he put the "man" in "manly man". He put it in both parts, actually.
He put a firm hand on my shoulder and stared at me right in the eyes. "Garfield," he started, and I knew it took a lot of effort out of him, "we tried everything we could… you were dying. Your veins were black, your skin flushed, you had a fever of one-hundred and five. You're our son, our one and only, our pride and joy. But… I-I think it was a certain cure we tried, it… it changed you." My heart dropped into my stomach, or what was left of it. I didn't feel any different. Well, I felt like I could run a bunch of marathons and still feel good enough to do jumping jacks for an hour, but besides that I was still me. I didn't feel sad or angry or anything out of the ordinary. Just… confused. Really, really confused.
He then went on to explain things really scientifically about my molecular structure and how it was somehow genetically altered and… I don't know, I picked up bits and pieces because I've been watching Marvel movies since I came out of the womb, but the majority of what he said went way over my ten year old head. Still to this day anything past general eighth grade knowledge seems like college teachings. Anyway, he took me to a miniature mirror we had hanging on the far wall, and I tried not to freak out and stay calm, but I was ten and I looked like some kind of circus freak, or just a freak in general. I was a mutant. A monster. Apparently I had contracted a rare illness called Sakutia, and my parents managed to heal me with some kind of untested serum.
I learned I could shapeshift into animals along the way, when I tried to huddle into myself and turn into a scared kitten or when I strained to see something above my head and turned into a giraffe. The first time I turned was during a nightmare. I woke up yelling, in a cold sweat, and turned into a whimpering dog. It only hurt for a moment, like getting your ears pierced-a quick pinch, though it was a bit more painful than a pinch. Now I don't really feel it; I've grown numb to that feeling whenever I shapeshift. No matter what, though, my parents didn't care. They loved me, adored me, no matter what color I was or what I was sudden capable of doing.
For the rest of our time in Africa I stayed in the tent, terrified of going out and getting bit or stung or whatever by that bug or animal or whatever. All I really did was lie on the cot and think of how school will be when I come in looking like this. It'll probably be in every newspaper ever for weeks and all over the news on TV. Sure enough, it was. When I went back to school my parents had told the principle and my teachers what had happened and hoped they would understand. I don't even want to think about all of the hateful glares and pitied stares. I didn't want their sympathy, didn't need it.
The next summer was when I lost both of my parents. It was a boating accident-one minute they were going on a date to the docks and the next a police officer showed up at my door to tell me they had drowned. There was no funeral. I was sure that they would want to put me in Foster care, but who would adopt a twelve year old boy with green skin? Certainly not Angelina Jolie. I ran away from home, even though it wasn't a home, not anymore. Not without my mother's laughter or my father's tales of bravery. It was raining, but it wasn't a hot rain like most summers. It chilled my bones, but I didn't mind much.
It was around eleven o'clock at night and the rain was pouring, each drop icy and merciless. I ran to a bridge that was in the park. It was over a wide river, and I don't really know why I ran there but I guess it made me feel safe somehow. Grey, old but sturdy I sat on it and did, guess what? I cried like a little baby. I could have prevented that boating accident, I knew I could. I could've told them not to go, to stay with me. In fact, I had encouraged them to go and have a good time. To this day I truly believe I could have prevented their death. I'm so stupid. It was my fault. It was all my fault.
Two men ended up finding me. This isn't a subject I want to dwell much to, truthfully. Why? Because they found me and beat me, they used my powers to aid them in petty crimes. I felt like that was all I could do anyway. I was nothing and I would always be nothing. I heard a saying once that said, "You'll never just be any body because you'll always be a somebody in the obituary." Morbid, but not untrue, I guess. They found me and, as kidnappers are prone to do, they kidnapped me. After a few useless crimes I was found by policemen and instead of going to some adoption agency like I previously thought, I was given to a court-appointed guardian.
His name was Nicholas Galtry, who was pretty despicable. The only words it seemed that were in his vocabulary were, "no", "sit down, shut up", and "Craig" which he called me instead of Garfield, Gar, or even Logan, which was my last name. He really should have known more words, considering he was filthy rich and had a mansion and tons of money, but even with all that dough he felt the need to save it instead of investing in a dictionary. Oh, well. Well, after living with him for a while he realized that as I would grow into maturity I would discover his embezzlement from the estate and most likely would have reported him, which would allow me a lot of money and his being thrown in jail. Needless to say, he was having none of that.
So, Galtry devised a plan to have me executed. Yeah, right? Crazy. I only know this for sure because it added up pretty well, and the man whom was hired to assassinate me pointed the barrel of his gun right to my forehead and said, "This is for Nicholas. Say bye-bye, Freak." I've never been the brightest candle on the birthday cake of reality, but I pretty much understood what he meant by that.
He told me to go pick up something for him at the store, so I gladly walked out to do the simple errand. It was cool outside and I got out of that house as much as possible. It didn't matter that it was huge, I felt as if I couldn't get away from that monster who always seemed to be ever so busy tucked away in his office-that of which was bigger than my bedroom. I thought I heard footsteps behind me, and it being night time and my already having been kidnapped once, the hairs on the back of my neck instantly stood up and I went into paranoia mode.
I scanned the area behind me, squinting to see better in the darkness. "Hello? Anyone there?" I glared, suspecting someone was in fact somewhere in the distance. "Don't try and take me away," I warned, hoping they couldn't hear my heart hammering as well as I did, "I'll shapeshift into a T-Rex and squish you like a bug, easy." I waited, and when I thought I was just imagining things I turned back around and continued walking. After about another five minutes I thought I heard the footsteps again. Growing irate I turned to warn whomever it may be a second time, but I found myself face to face with the end of a handgun.
I thought it would be one guy, if any. But no, Nicholas Galtry was serious about my immediate termination. There were various villains, all decked out in black attire. They surrounded me before I had time to think, and in less than a moment's notice when I should have turned into some hulking, raging beast all I could do was quiver in fear, as if I had forgotten what I can do now, how I most likely could have taken them all out easily. I wasn't a Changeling then; just a scared little boy who had no idea what to do. "This is for Nicholas. Say bye-bye, Freak." As I heard a click coming into place, another voice in the distance called, "Do not touch that little boy!"
It was a woman by the name of Rita, whose husband Steve Dayton was the leader of a superhero team called the Doom Patrol. Long story short they beat up all the bad guys-pretty epically, I might add-and Rita came over to me, obvious curiously interested in my strange appearance. She was wearing a purple and black outfit with a mask to match. I stared up at her, jaw hanging slack, looking like a moron. She reminded me so much of my mother; she had the same auburn hair and genuinely sweet smile. Just looking at her made me want to burst into tears and jump in her arms. I swallowed my internal wallowing as she queried as to who I was.
"G-Garfield Logan… I'm a Changeling. I mean, I can change into animals… uhm, any animal. Any animal that I want, I can… I can turn into." Oh, yeah, I am super smooth. She giggled and called her husband over. Apparently they had heard of me from the news-who hasn't?-and she wanted to help me. Rita is benevolent and generous, so she took me in with open arms, as did the other two members of the Doom Patrol. Steve, though? He was skeptical of my abilities, skeptical of my usefulness. Despite all doubts they took me in and adopted me. I'd like to say that for the first time in a long time I felt as if I had a home, but that wasn't the case.
I couldn't control my powers very well. It took years to finally be able to change into the exact animal I thought of, right as I thought about it. Steve got frustrated with me all the time because I wasn't automatically a hero. How could I be? I'd never tried to master my powers before. In fact, the only time I'd really used my powers was to help those amateur baddies just so they wouldn't physically abuse me. I still trained each and every day, both by myself and then with others. I was getting better, improving, but it was taking time. Time that Steve felt we did not have. He thought I should have perfected my powers already, that it wasn't his responsibility or anyone else's to help me.
He thought I was holding the team back and that it was a mistake to have taken me in. I couldn't blame him for thinking that way; after all, he wasn't wrong. I was holding them all back, completely. That doesn't mean I didn't try, but in Steve's eyes I wasn't trying hard enough. My first mission with them was a complete disaster. It was something simple, too: take down some bank robbers. How could I possibly mess that up? Well, I turned into a huge dinosaur stumbled, making the bank in which the robbers stole from collapse. No one was hurt, luckily. Besides myself, that is. I turned back into my normal form and watched as the two men hurriedly got into their car. "Beast Boy," Rita called, her face pinched frantically, "don't worry about it-we'll get them, you just stay there!"
"No!" I responded, shakily standing up. "I can do it! I can do it!" I was so sure I could. I held my head in my pants, silently whispering, "Think fast… fast… you're fast…" After a moment of repeating the mantra I turned into a cheetah to try and chase down the car that held thousands of stolen dollars. I ran as fast as my feline legs could carry me, and as I neared the car and slowed I felt a gigantic hammer slam into my side. I changed back immediately and rolled out of the road and onto the grass, groaning, my side throbbing. Another car had hit me.
Nothing was broken and I had no internal bleeding, but I'd failed once again. Rita rushed over to my aid and picked up my head, which felt as heavy as lead to me. "It's okay, Beast Boy. You did what you could. You tried." I almost felt reassured by her words and I might have been, but Steve walked over and loomed above me. "I thought this would be a simple task," he reprimanded sternly despite Rita's challenging glare, "I thought you might be able to actually handle this. But you have proven to me and all of Jump City that you are still not a hero."
"Steven!"
"Don't, Rita! You're babying the boy." His eyes were like daggers stabbing into my being. "If that's what you want, Rita, you can stay here and continue to unnecessarily coddle him whilst the big boys take care of business." And with that he was off. The rest of the team did manage to capture the thugs and put them into police custody, no thanks to me. Rita helped me limp home and for the rest of the night I lay awake in bed, trying to ignore the ghastly bruise giving me a dull pain.
I continued to go on missions with them, though, and each time I did something wrong and even the things I did correctly went unappreciated. "He's just a kid." Was Rita's favorite phrase. Or, at least it was the one she said the most often. I thought I would be stuck there forever-not to say I hated everyone there besides her, but I felt as if I just didn't fit in. I thought about trying to make my own team but quickly diminished the thought each time it came. That would be an absolute disaster of epic proportions. So, I endured it until one day I met another hero, an alien, a cyborg, and a demons daughter. Not the most orthodox group-I had a feeling that I would fit in juuuuust fine.
(-)
So, that was more or less my story. Of course there were other elements and that's not totally my life, but if I added every heartbreak or every joyous occasion, well… it wouldn't be a story, it'd be a series of humungous novels. But I believe this tells of my past pretty well, no matter how brief it was. Still, there was the time I got a job at a place called McMeaties… and I'm a vegetarian. But, it turned out it was run by alien tofu who Cyborg ended up eating. And there was Terra-the love of my life-who turned out to be working alongside one of our worst enemies, Slade, and betrayed all of us.
There was a huge battle on Raven's birthday, since she was supposed to be a portal for her demonic father. It took us days to beat him and we all walked away with a lot of cuts and bruises, but we survived. Also, I met up with the Doom Patrol once and they accidentally called me "Garfield". Now Raven and Cyborg won't let me forget that that's my real name. Oh, and I really can't forget how I got this gross green goo poured all over me and it made me into a jerk who also turned into this big monster. That was weird and I was angry all the time. It really wasn't fun.
But that's life as a Teen Titan. What if I hadn't gone to Africa, though, and experienced that turmoil? What if I'd never gained these powers? Would my parents still be alive? Or would they have passed on any way? Would I have gone with the Doom Patrol or have gotten killed by those crooks Nicholas sent out to send me to a premature grave? Who knows? What happened, happened. It's done and over with and there's no going back. But, in a way that's alright.
I have amazing friends.
I've saved the world… many times.
And, yeah, I'm green.
And a dork. And a nerd.
But I'm also a superhero…
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
That's my story. –Garfield Logan (Beast Boy)
A.N. I did this story as kind of a brief... thing with more explained bits and pieces. I'd like to say that I'm sorry if I got anything wrong or inaccurate or... weird, I guess. But I wrote this story from the knowledge from my amazing dad and what I could read on Wikipedia. But, then again this is also FanFiction, so... yeah, please don't hate me. I would have made this longer and more elaborate, but I already have about three stories that I need to finish up, yet also take a break from, so I made this and made it a kind of long but brief story.
Plus I've been getting into Teen Titans (not Teen Titans Go, good God) and Beast Boy has always been my favorite character. I just needed to write something new, something I haven't done before, and I really hope that you enjoyed it. Also, sorry if it seems kind of...childish. I just usually write so formally and I wanted it to have a Beast Boy feel to it, and I might have made it too... I don't know. Enough Author's Note.
Have a great day/night!