Author's Note: Welcome to a requested branch of one-shots, based on the origins of various Teen Titans villains! This was requested by a fanfiction writer known as JP-Rider and I thought I would give it a shot. Again, not sure how often this will be updated, as ideas tend to come few and far between. But I will give this idea a good ol' college try! Also, about this particular one-shot, feel free to correct me if I am wrong about Mad Mod's real name, since I looked it up on the "World's Most Questionable Resource", Wikipedia.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything I happen to use!
One-Shot 1: God Didn't Save The Queen
Villain: Mad Mod
Jump City Penitentiary, Present Time
The ever-present grim mood in the prison always seemed to permeate through the ranks of the numerous roster of guards, mostly because of the fact that, due to the rise of metahumans and psychopaths, most guards were worried that their formerly-normal prison would eventually become similar to a certain asylum on the outskirts of Gotham. After all, some of their inhabitants apparently have certain obsessions and gimmicks, just like Arkham…
At least, on one bright note (if it could be called that), nobody in JCP seemed to be constantly thirsty for murder and blood like Gotham's cabal of criminals. Some of the more religious guards would constantly pray that the Titans wouldn't come across somebody like The Joker or Scarecrow or (God forbid) Killer Croc. The seemingly constant threat of the violent mercenary known as Slade was enough, thank you.
(Then again, the Titans would heavily doubt that Raven would fill them in about the fact that technically they all already met somebody worse: Trigon the Terrible. After all, wasn't humanity better off not knowing that they had all died before, if only temporarily? Most would think so.)
But for the time being, they would just have to deal with their current 'clientele', semi-customized cells and all. In one such cell, a red-haired, glasses-wearing, lanky man wearing a fancy suit obviously inspired by the British flag sat on his cot enjoying his self-implemented daily Tea Time. Yes, Tea Time, the British concept where at a certain time of afternoon, British citizens would have a cup of tea.
For most guards, it was not surprising to see Mad Mod drinking a cup of Earl Grey around 4 pm. They could practically set their clocks to whenever he starts preparing his tea, right at 4 sharp. For the simple fact that he at least had the decency to not actually murder anyone (which would surprise a lot, considering the ruthlessness of most criminals), the warden reluctantly let him have a tea cup, an electric tea kettle, and a supply of cheap tea in his cell. (Cheap, because after all, Mod is still a criminal. Like he deserved any luxury, gourmet tea…)
Other than the tea set and the standard-issue cot, Mod somehow managed to make his cell into a mini-shrine to England. A portrait of the current Royal Family, a Beatles poster, a small England flag, a few books (one of which being, for whatever reason, "The Big Book of British Smiles"(1)), and a small cd player with a few cds of (what else?) British music, both classical and 50's/60's British-rock.
As he calmly sipped his tea as "Hey Jude" by The Beatles played, he used his Tea Time to think. Today, he couldn't help but think of how he became the slightly off-kilter wanker he was today…
1985, London, England…
Neil Richards was a man who, to most people, just couldn't take the hint that the times were changing. The lanky redhead (although his hair was in the middle of graying out) could always be found around the pubs every evening, either blasting Beatles tunes or standing atop a table, talking to whoever would listen about the psychedelic movement of the 60's. Needless to say, it was a real annoyance to many, especially when he would react to the 20-something drunks that have the nerve to tell him to "get with the times".
Such was the case at the very moment as a 21 year old punk dared to utter the phrase "Bloody 'ell, would you can your bullocks? Nobody wants to 'ear about your ancient dinosaur bands!". Neil was cut off mid-sentence and glared at the brave soul who dared speak up.
"What's your problem, ducky? Have you no respect for true music?" he shot back, literally looking down at his challenger like a monarch faced with defiance. The 'kid' stood up from his barstool and semi-drunkenly approached. To everyone else, this seemed like just another typical start to a sloppy, brief fistfight. To the kid, he felt like his actions might garner him some applause from the other drunks for having taken out the trash.
To Neil, he was just another naysayer, born after the "Golden Age".
"Your oldies music sucks. It's not relevant anymore. What does that ol' crap have anyway? It's just tame, lovey-dovey junk. Music has to be hard-hitting, edgy, loud. That's what's cool. So get cool or get out!"
Neil hopped off the table, incensed. "That's your problem right there. All you want is just senseless noise. You'll be deaf by 30 if you keep listening to that new-age so-called 'rock', ducky!"
"Real funny, gov. Let's see you 'quack' up from this!" replied the punk before throwing a punch…
10 minutes later…
The few passerby that happened to be near the bar were surprised by the loud crash of a window shattering and the sight of a lanky, middle-aged man crashing to the sidewalk, clearly defeated.
"And stay outta 'ere, you ol' fart! Go back to the nursing home and quit peddling old crap!" A few of the citizens shook their heads, Mr. Richards being well-known for being outspoken about supporting everything retro. Many felt the poor sod just needed to get over it. Time has marched on and things have changed.
Someone, however, was waiting for him.
"Tough luck at the soapbox, love?" asked a soft, feminine voice. Neil, barely conscious, was relieved. After all, not many men's wives would be so accepting of often ventures to pubs. His only reply was a groan.
"I know it's tough to hear, but perhaps it's time to hang up the hat on sharing your love of the old days with the public… I don't mind your drinking, but I am beginning to wonder how many times your body can be bandaged up." said Mrs. Richards as she carefully kneeled down and pulled him up to a sitting position.
Neil groaned again before replying. "Mona, c'mon… The message needs to be heard. These newfangled concepts of today… Loud rock music, movies about explosions and serial killers, and recently I hear about this contraption called a 'video game'… Ugh… We live in troubling times, my dear…"
Mona Richards could definitely be the dictionary definition of a patient woman. A short, curvy woman with shoulder-length graying-blonde hair done up in a loose bun, a visible beauty-mark under her right eye, and a noticeable limp on her left leg whenever she walked. She was wearing a tacky, almost a 'hippie' style dress, large peace-sign earrings, and a pair of black shoes. An eccentric-looking outfit for a woman married to an eccentric man. Fitting.
She only nodded in response as she slowly got herself back on her feet and offered a hand to the fallen mod, who graciously accepted. Neil continued to lament. "These youths of today… Someday… Someday, they'll realize what real people are like. Hopefully, sooner than later. And perhaps done by a bloke more talented than I."
"As you say almost every time, love. Things happen the way they will. You can only change what is willing to be changed, you know." Mona sagely said as Neil dusted himself off and gathered his balance, since his right knee took the brunt of the fall. At least he and his wife could have a matching limp for a while… That could be considered an amusing upside, right?
He could just keep telling himself that. He still got beaten out of a pub.
Such was one example of a typical evening of Neil Richards. However, things would start to change for him when a close friend of the Richards' knocked on the front door of their small-yet-comfortable downtown loft, no more than a week removed from the 'getting thrown through a window' pub fight. Davey, as the couple was known to call him, was a brainy and somewhat-portly sort of chap, having recently graduated from university with a degree in technical science. And it apparently already paid off.
Davey had just accepted a position at LexCorp, home of some of the most cutting-edge research and technology ever made. However, it wasn't their London branch that he got accepted to…
"America, ol' ducky?"
"Aye, right in Metropolis! I 'eard so many tales on how wonderful that city is. I never thought I'd get to go to America, but… well… there it is!" Davey said, chuckling in obvious merriment.
"Well, congratulations are certainly in order, then! Well done!" Neil said, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder. Davey grinned.
"Actually, I was thinkin'… Maybe you two would like to come with, perhaps as a vacation if not a complete move? We'd have a real kicker of a time."
Mona smiled. Throughout their friendship, it was always Davey that did the inviting when it came to planning things to do, especially last-minute stuff. "Oh, I do hope your plane over isn't leaving tomorrow if you expect us to go with. Remember our last spontaneous adventure?"
"Oh aye… You guys ended up leavin' the loft unlocked and the oven on… I'm still amazed nothin' bad happened, other than a high gas bill!" laughed the stocky future LexCorp employee.
"Yeah, just remember who ended up paying for it…" sneered Neil, his own laughs replacing Davey's now-silenced guffaws.
"Anyway, plane leaves for Metropolis in 2 weeks. How 'bout it?" Davey asked, returning to the topic at hand before Neil got on a roll about more embarrassing moments.
"Hmm… Well…? Mona, what do you think? Vacation?" Neil replied, raising an eyebrow at his long-time wife. The eccentric woman raised a hand to her chin, a habitual sign that she was thinking. A part of Neil was always amused that she never consciously realizes that she does that when she thinks.
"A vacation sounds lovely. We haven't had one in quite a few years and I certainly think we could use a break from everything, dear. Especially with how you've been so troubled lately…" she said, remembering various instances of accompanying him home after a bad night at a pub or a lounge… He would always grumble about the 'changes'. Sure, he was still his same chipper self and, unless provoked at a pub, he wouldn't do anything rash… But that didn't stop her from worrying.
"True. Work hasn't been the same lately." Neil had made a career making stylish clothing based on the mod style and selling them to local stores and customers. However, lately, business hadn't been exactly booming, due to the growing popularity of the current youth's rebellious opposition of "moldy-oldies" and the fact that Neil just wouldn't conform to change… A stickler both at home and at work.
"You know what? Let's do it! A vacation would be good for us. Who knows? I keep hearing that America is an accepting country. Maybe there are more people that respect the old ways of living!" Neil said, a cocky grin on his face revealing slightly-crooked teeth. "Hell, if we like it, we could simply become citizens and move right in somewhere. Maybe not right downtown, but perhaps in the suburbs or something… Hmm…"
"Bloody good to hear, Moddy!" Davey said, using his favorite nickname for him.
Mona smiled as she watched her husband daydream. Yes, a vacation to a whole other country might do wonders for him. It might even change his spirits.
2 ½ weeks later…
Even on vacation, Neil felt the need to share his interests with others. And just like back at home, it had a tendency to lead the poor mod into trouble. It would be very unfortunate that the Metropolis version of "trouble" would escalate far beyond what London usually offered…
It was the third night that he got ejected out of the same bar. The third night of their vacation as well. Davey and Mona were both waiting for the inevitable, either for Neil to walk out or be thrown out. Tonight was a simple "escort" out this time by the bar's bouncers.
"Bugger! These blokes kept changing the song on the jukebox… I keep putting on Beatles and Rolling Stones and what do they do? They make the jukebox change it to that loud, blaring "hair metal" whatever-it-is tomfoolery! Such disrespect…" grumbled Neil as Davey walked in-step with him and Mona limped along near Neil.
"Well, you are new here. And, from what I understand, The Beatles aren't real popular with some of these American drunks." Davey explained, hoping to calm him down.
"Davey's right, dear… I really don't think you'd want to get in a fight here…" Mona said, recalling some of the gruff-looking individuals she had seen enter and leave the fairly-popular bar during her wait at a bench nearby with Davey.
The trio failed to notice a small band of individuals leave the bar and follow them at a distance, yet still in earshot…
"Yeah? Well, I imagine that those bloody hooligans will come across the wrong bloke to mess with someday, karma being what it is and all." Neil mused, his shoulders slumped in resignation.
Karma is a funny thing, indeed. Sometimes, it works out in your favor in some sweet sublime way, like dropping your buttered toast and having it land butter-side up on a freshly clean floor and when you bend over and pick it up, you happen to notice a loose $5 under a low-level cupboard or something. Other times, karma hits you with a piece of cruel coincidence that might drive one completely over the edge.
Guess which kind decided to intervene in Neil's life?
"Wha' was that, foreigner?!"
The British trio froze. Neil recognized that voice. It was one of the aforementioned young hooligans that he was just arguing with… Why would he follow him out here? Drunks usually minded their own business back in England, after he was tossed out of a pub.
"Pardon, sir?" he said, slowly turning around to reveal that the hooligan had three other punk-looking thugs with him.
"'Pardon'? 'Sir'? Get with the times, you pansy! Now what was that about messing with people?" the head punk growled, his fists clenched in irritation. One of his minions started punching his open palm in that cliché, out-dated 'I'm-gonna-wreck-you' manner.
"Well… Now that you bring it up…" Neil paused. On one hand, speaking his mind might not be the smartest option that the mod could utilize in this scenario. On the other… well… there was a good reason why his friends and wife would consider Neil's mouth to be his weakness, despite his eccentric charisma…
"I find that you young duckies in this country tend to be quite unruly. I was just stating that it wouldn't hurt if someone would teach you a lesson. It probably won't be me, but I wouldn't be surprised if someone eventually taught you some respect."
At this point, sensing the inevitable, Davey subtly moved so that he stood mostly in front of Mona protectively.
"Oh really? You think you foreign fruits are so superior, huh? Lemme tell ya something, Union Jack. This is America, the land of the free. We do what we want!" barked the lead thug, his pug-ugly face twisted in a heated snarl. Neil was unimpressed, being the "veteran" of many an argument/bar fight.
"I seem to recall that there are such things as 'rules' an' 'laws'. 'Ell, that's part of why everyone goes to school when they're young. To learn the rules. So how 'bout you duckies just shuffle along and get on with your bloody hangovers in peace." Once again, as he stood there and said his mini-monologue, the mod brazenly threw himself into the fray of life, unsure of how things will turn out.
Unfortunately, his life was not a cartoon where the worst that could happen was a bad beating he could ultimately heal from. Like most things, there are consequences to one's actions. Maybe if he had just accepted the title of "pansy" and backed away, things might have turned out better. Then again, perhaps the rowdy drunks might've pursued them and a similar outcome would've happened anyway.
Only the multiverse itself knew the possibilities. Cosmic theories aside, the fact was that once Neil had said his verbal backhand, the trio of thugs charged the Brits. They surrounded Neil within two seconds, laying into him with fists and feet. Half a minute later, a battered mod slumped down on the ground, barely conscious as his head couldn't help but face the scene before him as the trio of "real Americans" advanced on his wife and best friend.
The two remaining friends backed away, trying to pacify the drunks by saying that they didn't mean any harm. Of course, the brutes refused to halt. Sadly, Mona's ever-nagging limp prevented the two from getting any sort of speed advantage.
The inevitable happened. To Neil, the images were burned into his brain like negatives of crappy photography. They thrashed his best friend, they grabbed his wife, they mocked and tore at her clothes. As it was with most aggressive drunks, they eventually crossed that line. The woman lay near-naked and dead at their feet, strangled to death when she fiercely slapped one of them across the face. And the mod watched. He could only watch.
To top it off, the scene had its own disgraceful 'soundtrack' that haunted him for a time. Davey's struggling grunts, Mona's shrieks and shouts, and, dominating the former, drunk guttural trash-talk with such 'hits' as…
"This is America!"
"You should've never come here!"
"You over-the-hill fruits! Totally uncool!"
"Now you're just like your fossil music: Finished!"
"We don't need no stinkin' for'ners!"
"Looky this here slut! Whatta piece o English trash!"
And Neil could never forget their most-popular 'hit'…
"Get with the times!"
The four words he lost consciousness to. The four words that seemed to be the nexus of the last few years up to that point. The four words that, like a rubber band pushed back to its absolute limit, finally snapped back to strike back at Neil. Only it was one hell of a giant metaphorical rubber band… Some would call it karma, others would call it God trying to teach a lesson, but when Neil would wake up and recollected the facts, he would simply call it injustice. An injustice that the city police could never correct, even if they caught the thugs responsible.
No, there had to be a better way to deal with such unruly actions…
The immediate chain of events seemed normal enough for such a situation. The police were alerted and, in a matter of a couple days, caught the trio responsible. Neil and Davey healed up at the nearest hospital, although it took up to a month, due to broken bones. After they were both cleared to leave, the funeral for Mona took place. It was a small one, obviously. Just the two British men and a priest. Neil was oddly silent throughout the funeral. He had shed his tears when he was confined to his hospital bed. A lot of tears.
If he hadn't been so damn stubborn, he would probably eventually concede the fact that what happened was his own fault. After all, he just had to go and make his stand like that… However, if he wasn't that stubborn, he probably wouldn't have even got in the angry drunks' faces in the first place when they confronted the British trio. To him, it was their fault. But not just those three. No. They might have been more upstanding people.
They weren't just drunk on beer. No, they were drunk on American arrogance and new-age ideas. It was a power trip, quite a corrupting one…
America had its seedy underbelly after all. And he needed to do something. Anything…
Davey had no idea of the brewing turmoil within Neil's mind. Sure, grief was completely understandable and expected. And Neil certainly looked and behaved like a man who wrongly lost his wife too soon. But he had no idea of the kind of thoughts the poor mod was thinking. Davey was sure that Neil would eventually pull through, reconcile with the fact that she's in a better place, and move on.
And move on Neil did when, four months later, he called up Davey and asked to hang out. It was time to live life again. For now…
It took years. Years of thinking. Years of plotting. Years of developing. A part of him was surprised that not even Davey suspected a thing, despite all the time the two spent together as best friends. Then again, in a roundabout way, Neil did have Davey to thank, due to his connection to LexCorp…
But as surprisingly patient as the old man formerly known as Neil Richards turned out to be during that time period, he knew that time was moving on. Things were changing… again. The 90's had turned out to be quite a turbulent time for one such as him. Music was getting even louder, with hair bands being replaced with grunge-rock, hard rock, and the most-dreaded heavy metal. Movies were becoming more and more "action-packed", as they say… Is there any such thing as character development and true storytelling anymore? The distasteful brain-rotting concept of "video games" turned out to fester and grow into a formidable opponent, giving rise to a nation of fantasy-obsessed "fanboys".
But the wait wasn't for naught. Thanks to Lex Luthor's growing feud with the Kryptonian being known as Superman, LexCorp had developed some rather interesting concepts and gadgets of their own. They had programs dealing with things like hypnosis and mind-control. They had gadgets that were designed to help the elderly relive their youth again. Of course, they did not spring up overnight. Bloody no, they didn't. Davey turned out to be Neil's "ear to the ground" at LexCorp over the years as the aging mod lived his life.
He had a small-time career as a store clerk at a run-down mom-n-pop business downtown. A decent job for someone like him, just another bloke. He had a circle of American friends. He was social, went to events that his friends held, lived his life. But to him, it was all a cover. A mere façade for the real task at hand. The people still needed to be taught some lessons…
As certain LexCorp projects were completed, soon enough, either the whole project or just one copy of it (depending on what it was) would turn up missing, with no trace of whoever managed to swipe them. It even stumped Lex Luthor. It was never a good day for anyone physically close to the CEO if he was ever out-witted… The newly-christened Mad Mod could still remember hearing about that one poor sap that got tossed out of a window of Lex's office…on the very top floor of LexCorp. He chuckled at the memory. He wasn't too fond of the bald arrogant American… Then again, he wasn't a fan of Superman either. Neither were his primary concern, however.
Putting thoughts of "Metropolis' Biggest Feud" aside, Mod focused on the moment at hand. Finally, he believed he had all he needed to commence his task. Over the years, it almost seemed like a calling, as if he was meant to hear of those special projects of Luthor's… He didn't even have any idea of what exactly he would do with them! All he knew was that this was part of his revenge against a class of people that took his wife from him.
Mod needed to do some more thinking. What to do when you have the means, but not the clear objective? He was sure it would come to him too.
It was the early-2000's and Mad Mod was becoming more impatient. A certain tragedy in 2001 had increased paranoia across the nation and thus spawned more anti-foreign sentiment among some. Or at least it seemed that way to Mod. Was he just imagining the nervous looks he'd get from customers' faces? He was only British, for the Queen's sake. It was the accent, wasn't it? Or maybe it was the teeth… Either way, he once again felt like an invader in someone else's turf. He hadn't felt that way since a certain incident… "This is America! We do what we want!" echoed through his head again, unbiddingly… The time for action had to be soon.
Nobody ever told him that if customers did give him any looks, it was purely because they were concerned about his somewhat-frail condition with his old age. Many thought Mr. Richards ought to be retired by now, but no one wanted to seem like they're patronizing the reclusive old man… Maybe if someone said something to him…
From out of nowhere, something had finally come to him. An idea, based around some superhero news story he heard about from his store's radio. It seemed like such a prime opportunity for the elderly British man. At least so he believed as he closed up shop one night, as he has done so many times before during his almost-20-year stay in America. It was funny how long certain destinies take to even start themselves up. Then again, some things are all in the preparation.
Speaking of which, he had to prepare. After all, Jump City was surely nice this time of year, so he had heard…
He really had to hand it to Davey. It really didn't take much for him to follow his couple of strange requests. Perhaps he figured it was part of what the people called a "bucket list". In any case, Mad Mod was glad he didn't have to resort to betraying his only true friend. He would've really hated to do that…
So he got his free passage to Jump City and he got his ownership of a giant derelict off-shore oil platform just off the coast of Jump. For what purpose, only the Mad one knows. Who was he kidding? HE wasn't even sure why that seemed like such a perfect place for his little demonstration of power.
Was he really sure of anything anymore?
He couldn't tell. All he knew was that he couldn't stand the Now, the Present, the Current. Other than LexCorp's useful advances, it was getting to be too much. Most importantly, he could no longer let the youth of today go unpunished. He had waited too long. The 90's kids were lucky, in his view. Once he was done with this upstart team of metahumans with such an insipid pro-youth team name, whatever the bloody hell it was, he would surely be seen as someone worth listening to. After all, one of these metas was the former sidekick of the legendary Batman. If one could take down any member of the powerful Bat Clan…
Finally, he would have his audience. And they would obey his requests. And the future could finally go back to a simpler, more tolerable culture for its own sake, even if he has to forcibly "teach" everyone to do it.
Author's note: Yeah, such a cliché line to end it with, right? Lol. I dunno, I just felt like this was the way to go with this particular origin. One of those things where someone has an odd calling to do something, but it takes years before he finally figures out what that calling is exactly. Hey, what do I know about criminal insanity other than what's on TV? Lol. I just figured that would be some form of good crazy. Some nut living a normal life after a traumatic wrong-doing but treating it as just one huge "secret agent" cover until he can do his vengeful 'calling'.
Footnotes: 1) Simpsons reference, for the win! XD
Again, to clarify, according to Wikipedia, Neil Richards was Mad Mod's real name in his original comic book form. So I just went with that. Mona and Davey are obviously OC's meant for this story. Hope I wasn't too cliché with them. Hell, I hope I wasn't too cliché with this whole origin story! I just thought it would suit his giant grudge against both youth and America…
JP-Rider, I hope you enjoy this, since you requested it. I still don't have much of an idea about the small-time cameo/background villains you specifically mentioned. I'm not too sure that I'm good at the idea of just completely pulling something out of my hat, if you get what I'm saying. If the Mod one goes over well, I'm thinking of continuing with ones that actually get some airtime (Mumbo Jumbo, Red X (as in the punk that stole Robin's costume), Johnny Rancid, Control Freak, Plasmus, etc).
Please review, for this is my first ever request story. I'd love to know whether I'm doing a good job with doing something based off a request or not. Reviews are a way to help one's improvement, after all. Thank you.