DISCLAIMER: None of the characters featured in this piece of fanfiction belong to me, but rather they belong to DC Comics, and Warner Brothers. Also, many of the ideas represented herein are also not mine, and at all times I've tried to avoid straying too far from the characters' original personalities. If there's anything I've left out, please let me know. I also receive no payment of any kind for doing this – it's just for the experience and enjoyment.

It started, as all ill-omened things do, with a fight. Nothing of epic proportions, no battle to the death, no big proclamations. It didn't even involve good or evil – just a simple, family argument between a father and son, over something the two didn't agree on.

"Dad…"

"For the last time, Grant, I said NO!"

The youth was blonde, with neatly combed medium length blond hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. His face was in a scowl, and he glared angrily at his father, a neatly shaven man with silver/white hair, and two blue eyes. He had a look of fierceness about him, which he had earned through a life of combat and hunting. Both were in the family home, the boy's mother sitting down in a rocking chair to the side, cradling a small blond baby in her arms, smiling down at him and touching his nose with her finger, a sad look in her eyes. The older boy growled some, and stormed out of the room, and up a set of stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

"You shouldn't be so hard on poor Grant, dear…you know how he looks up to you…" She remarked finally, looking into the baby's green eyes for a few moments.

"Adeline, you don't understand…" the silver haired man sat down in an arm chair, slumping down in it, a tired look on his face. "If it was anything else, then I'd consider it…but this?"

"He's only interested because you were a soldier yourself. So was I – it's only natural for him to be curious about it, really."

"I suppose you're right…but I don't want to lose him…" the man sighed, rubbing his forehead with one hand, yawning a little.

"Tired again?"

"It's nothing, dear, really. I've just had a rough week."

"Again."

"Adeline…"

"I'm nagging again, aren't I? I'm sorry…you're worried about losing Grant, and I'm worried about losing you, and taking care of little Joey here…" At the mention of his name, the baby grabbed his mother's finger and tugged on it playfully. "I don't have the time to keep Grant out of trouble on top of all that."

"You don't need to guilt me…" The man stood up, smiling somewhat sourly, and walked over to his wife, kissing her on the forehead. "I'll go talk to him again, and see if we can't work this out." He then turned, and headed for his son's room.

"Thank you honey."

"Anytime."

A few moments later he was standing outside the door, knocking on it lightly.

"Go away!"

"Grant…I'm sorry about earlier…"

"You're full of it!"

"Grant…I think I've raised you better than that."

"Bite me!"

"GRANT!" At this point, the man was red in the face, eyes narrowed and a deep scowl on his face.

"Just leave me alone, old man!"

"You—you spoiled, ingrateful, disrespectfullittle brat! You're a disgrace to this family!" With that, he turned and stormed off, his face screwed up with rage, and went back downstairs, sitting in his armchair and just scowling at the wall across from him. His wife just looked at him reproachfully, and finally spoke after several moments of silence.

"Oh, Slade…"

It was only a few years later that young Grant had run away from home, and made his way to Jump City, which – at the time – had a rather large number of teenaged gangs roaming about. Most of them were vandals, or drug dealers, or common thugs, but there was the occasional hate group or two. Nothing truly serious.

While trying to fend for himself on the streets, living out of a small, rather dingy apartment, in one of the seedier parts of the city, Grant found himself in one of the more mundane gangs, committing acts of theft and vandalism. The one thing this group had going for them was that they were very, very lucky – even though many of the members had criminal records, they were rarely arrested. The young man himself had never seen a night of jail, and soon found himself in better accommodations.

That was when it happened.

One night Grant was approached by a man in a dark cloak, who gave him an interesting proposition: the people the man represented would give Grant powers, and all he would have to do for them would be a couple of small jobs. Then he'd be free to do whatever he wanted – which included proving to his father that he wasn't a failure, despite his rather poor performance at military school. With such a compelling argument, Grant agreed, and a few days later he was taken to an undisclosed location, where there was a secret lab.

It was painful, to say the least: Grant was first injected with a strange drug, which he was told was originally meant as a truth serum derivative, to keep soldiers from talking while under the influence of drugs during wartime. Then a second injection was introduced, filled with a different set of chemicals. Afterwards, he was exposed to a mild variation of an energy wavelength, to start a reaction in his body.

The process nearly killed the young man.

His blood felt like lava through his veins, and his eyes were either unfocused, or far too focused, and sent sharp pain through his head every time he blinked. He was soaked in sweat, his muscles becoming denser, and more powerful each second, only slightly at first, but by the second day he was more muscled and toned than he was before, an almost perfect physical specimen. He also had trouble thinking clearly and without pain, but by the third day, though it still sent shocks through him, he was able to think clearer than every before, and to a greater effect than before.

It was on the fourth day that the steel straps holding him down finally broke, and he was free. At first he had to be sedated, but soon he was under control, and resting comfortably in a hospital bed, tucked in with sterile sheets and comfortable pillows. He slept for the better part of the week, and the time he spent awake was used to run tests and other physical and mental examinations, comparing the data they gained with the data they had before the procedure.

Finally, almost two months the first round of injections, he was fit and ready. He had periods of incredible strength and speed, followed by periods of fatigue and depression. These periods shortened each time, until, almost three months after that, he was able to continue using his new abilities at peak performance. There was a slight catch to this, however; he ate more than he did before, and spent a great deal of time asleep to recover, especially during his mood swings. During this time, some studies and experiments were performed, determining what exactly they needed to outfit him with to make him the perfect weapon. Their weapon, to be precise.

One day, as Grant was training, it was decided that the time had come to put him through one last test, with live ammunition. The young man was placed in a large, arena type area, wearing a suit of light combat armor, like someone from a SWAT team, against a team of trained killers, and lethal robots. The rules were simple: Kill, or be killed – at least to an extent. More like beat up, or be beaten up. While the lives of the killers, and especially the machines, were of very little value to the shadowy organization behind Grant's empowerment, the young man himself was worth many millions, and there was a chance that the process that turned him into what he was now might not work on anyone else. So the worst that could happen to him would be a few broken bones and bullet holes.

When it started, four teams of six men started moving around past the different obstacles that had been set up throughout the arena, while the robots just marched in a straight path, weapons ready for use. Grant was ducked down below some artificial boulders, waiting as one particular soldier-type walked past, then popped up behind him, and caught him in a chokehold, waiting until he blacked out. Then he propped the man up behind his hiding place, and waited another few moments. Sure enough, thanks to the break in communications, two more men had wandered over to where Grant was. When they rounded the corner, the first one met the young man's elbow, cracking his full-face helmet and sending him smacking into a fake tree. The second trooper, whipping out a handgun, fired off a few rounds, though the young man just slid to the side, easily side-stepping them, and slammed his palm into the front of the other man's mask, cracking it wide open. Then he knocked him out with a fast punch to the nose.

Grant stood over the men, and started rummaging through their equipment, and with a small grunt of satisfaction found a few tear gas grenades. This stuff was the heavy duty tear gas, which could, in large enough quantities, induce projectile vomiting – they'd definitely do the job against his hunters. He clipped them onto his own belt, and started moving through the arena, until he reached the center. Standing there were a group of the soldiers, most of them with their masks lifted up. Grant pulled the pin from the grenade, then threw it high enough in the air that, by the time it was over the men's heads, it exploded, covering them with a cloud of tear gas. They all cried out, and fell to the ground, coughing and scrabbling away, curling up into balls and in a state of near catatonia. With satisfaction, the young man moved out, another grenade in hand – just being on the safe side – and found himself out in the open.

Then he heard it.

A loud rumbling, off in the distance…then he heard the cries of men, and the squealing of machines being torn apart. Then he could see some of the fake objects being thrown into the air, as well as pieces of metal and wire, and armored men, a large and fast moving object rushing towards him like an out of control train. Standing his ground, he waited until the last exact moment, then jumped to the side, kicking off of the ground and flipping through the air, yanking the pin out of the grenade, and threw it as hard as he could. It smacked into whatever it was that lunged for him, and exploded shortly after. He could hear coughing and screaming, as the figure burst out from the noxious cloud, tears streaming down his face, his skin a sickly shade of green.

The figure was obviously a metahuman of some sort – it was a male, at least eight feet tall, with huge arms and legs, muscles on muscles, and brown hair in a standard military cut, and sporting a look of blind fury. It also seemed like he was trying not to get sick and pass out, from what Grant could tell.

"You little runt! You'll pay for that!" With footfalls like thunder, the man stormed towards the young man again, who once more jumped to the side, this time coming back down, left foot extended and smacking into the back of the huge man's neck, causing him to stumble forward and lose his balance. The blond took out another gas grenade, and pulled the pin, holding it in his hands until he had less than three seconds left; then he let it rip and with a bang, it released its contents in the man's face as he turned, causing him to let out a string of curses and to cough more violently, his skin going an even sicklier shade of green. Within moments, Grant ran forward, and up the man's chest, then smashed the tip of his left boot into his chin, knocking him back. As the young man twisted in mid-air, he smashed his right foot into his nose, and knocked him down on the ground, cracking the earth.

Allowing himself a small grin of satisfaction, Grant walked forwards, and kicked the large man a few times in the stomach, finally keeping him down in the small hole he'd made on his impact. He managed a weak curse at the victor, who just chuckled, and pulled the pins on the last three grenades, and tossed them over his shoulder. The large man had about four seconds to curse loudly before the exploded, which resulted in him throwing up violently for several seconds, then passing out.

That last test, Grant's 'final exam,' had been enough to convince his benefactors that he was more than ready for what lay ahead, both in his assignments for them, and his own private affairs. The cloaked man appeared before him again two days later, and gave him a large black case, which looked much like a large suitcase, as a group of soldiers came out with several different weapons – a number of various handguns, machine guns, submachine guns, and a gold handled sword as well. The young man opened the case, and took out what was inside: it was a costume, or uniform of sorts, made of impact resistant materials, as well as what looked like chain mail to the naked eye, in different colors. He put it on slowly, then looked at himself in a mirror.

He was wearing a pair of thigh high orange boots with cuffs, a skull insignia placed on the center of the cuffs, an orange belt, blue tight pants made of the bumpy material, and a top of both regular-looking dark blue fabric, and lighter blue bumpy fabric. His right arm, the dark blue arm, sported two round orange disks held in place with orange straps, and the left arm was wearing a short orange glove. Then he pulled the mask on, which matched with the light blue material that was over his left shoulder and part of his chest, fixing it in place, his eyes concealed by small yellow lenses, his lower face partially exposed. He flexed his arms, then picked up a rather wicked-looking pistol and, after checking it over, slid it into the orange holster at his right side, then picked up the gold handled sword's sheath, and put the strap over his left shoulder and under his right arm, just above the belt. He smiled, and then turned to the cloaked man.

"Very impressive…the only think you're missing now is the name…" he said, with a thin smile.

"Oh, I think I can come up with something…" Grant grinned, clenching his left fist.

"Oh?"

"I think the Ravager is perfect."

"I think you're right, young man. That is a brilliant name."

About two weeks later, in the gloomy oppressive Gotham City, a branch of Wayne Enterprises was broken into, though the would-be thief had used to stealth to enter, they didn't have the experience to check for any hidden alarms, and set off one that went to a notorious computer in a deep, dark cave below a certain mansion estate. And so, about twenty minutes later, Gotham's protector, the grey and black clad vigilante known as Batman arrived on the scene. He walked through the halls where the alarm had gone off, finding himself in a Research & Development lab. The window had been smashed in, and from the looks of it, some experimental microchips had been stolen, along with a set of design schematics from one of Wayne Enterprises' more secret of projects. Then the cape and cowl sporting man heard a rustle, and a crink of breaking glass, and rolled to the side as a sword came flashing down, and sliced through the edge of a desk.

He took some batarangs from his utility belt, and threw them as hard as he could, only to watch as that same sword sliced through two of them, and a blue-clad hand caught the left wing of the third, before flicking it back at him, which grazed his mask even as he dodged. With a spin, he dodged another downward swipe from the sword, which became stuck in the floor. The hero looked up, and in the resulting break in the fight, he was able to take in the full appearance of his attacker, the Ravager. Then he launched a roundhouse kick at the man, who easily blocked it with his right hand, and then grabbed him by the ankle, and slammed him down into the floor, pulling his sword out of the floor, and stabbing it down, barely missing Batman's side. The Ravager was tripped as he tried to yank his sword back out. Finally, he gave up on that, and went fist-to-fist with the vigilante.

First it started off as a boxing match, first one throwing a few jabs at the other, then vice versa, until Batman struck Ravager in the nose, while Ravager struck his ear. Surprisingly, it was Batman who stumbled back, and Ravager was able to throw a second punch, this one hard enough to split Batman's lower lip, causing blood to run down his chin. He wiped the blood away with the back of one black gloved hand, and frowned, moreso than usual, and changed fighting styles, switching to his standard form of martial arts. He kicked at Ravager, who took it to the chest, but at the same time, he caught the other man's foot again, and twisted hard, causing him to grunt in pain as he spun through the air and hit the floor again. Then one of his opponent's orange-booted feet smashed into his stomach once, twice, then three times, Batman spitting out some blood onto the floor.

For him, this was very unusual – even though this person was obviously a newcomer to Gotham, he was doing what very few could: wiping the floor with the Dark Knight.

"I expected more from the Batman…guess you were overrated, huh?" the Ravager snickered, wearing a broad smirk on his face as he reached down to grab Batman by the throat, and start choking him. It was at that moment that the older man clapped both his hands against Ravager's covered ears, which caused him to yowl in pain and let go of the caped man. Then he took a kick to the chin, and a punch to the nose, and was sent sprawling with a triple kick combo. "Ugh…"

"I think you spoke too soon, whoever you are…" the vigilante replied, sounding as cool as ever, walking over to the sword, and pulling it up from the ground, looking it over closely. "Interesting weapon…" he remarked, looking back to where the blue and orange figure had been, only to be mildly surprised at the empty space he'd been occupying. Then he felt something smash into his head, hard, and fell down, head swimming. The Ravager picked his sword back up, and sheathed it, then fixed his orange glove a little, spiting out a small bit of blood.

"I think we should stop talking, and just beat the crap out of each other, Bats."

With that being said, the two costumed men went back at it, exchanging kicks and punches, both of them reeling in the end, noses bloody and lips split. Finally, they both threw their hardest punch at each other. In the end, however, Ravager's increased reaction time allowed him to move his head enough to avoid the punch, and still slam his fist home in Batman's face, sending the hero flying back against a file cabinet, denting it from the impact. He didn't get up after that, his experience unable to keep up with the superhuman reactions, strength, and strategical skills of the Ravager. The mercenary took a few moments to catch his breath, then started running, just as Batman managed to get back up.

As Ravager stormed through the halls, and up towards the roof, Batman was still reeling with dizziness, but managed to give chase to the fleeing mercenary, who was heading towards one of the large windows that were on the outer faces of the building. Before the caped crusader could do anything to stop him, the young man jumped through the window, and removed from his belt a grapple gun, firing it off and snagging a building some ten stories down as he fell, and swung towards it, smashing through another window, and rolling to a stop as the line cut off, and the gun was slipped back into his belt. Then he simply headed towards an elevator, and hit the down button, gambling that his pursuer wouldn't have enough time to chase after him, and started whistling a little, arms crossed over his chest as he waited patiently for the elevator to go down forty stories, and open into the lobby, which took several minutes in the least.

As soon as the doors opened with a ding, the Ravager burst through them, and sprinted outside, and out into the street, causing cars to swerve to avoid him. He simply lifted up a manhole cover, and jumped down into the sewer, and started running through it. After about fifteen minutes of running, he stopped, and touched the side of his mask, activating the hidden communicator there. "Hey, Desmond."

"Yea, Grant?"

"I got the stuff…"

"We were expecting you to call about half an hour ago."

"What can I say, I got held up. Anyway, I'll be at the pick-up point in forty minutes, so get my ride ready…I don't want to have to wait."

He turned off the device without waiting for a reply, and started walking at a brisk pace, checking the new belt he was wearing, complete with large pouches, making sure he had all of what he stole. Afterwards, he went back to his whistling, arms at his sides.