Editing Fearmonger

The Fearmonger (Ernst Zaisser)
PL 13

8 STR (-2)
10 DEX (0)
10 CON (0)
16 INT (6)
20 WIS (10)
20 CHR (10)

CHA Total 24

+4 Attack (12)
+4 Defense (8)

Combat Total 20

5 Gather Info (2.5)
15 Intimidate (7.5)
10 Sense Motive (5)
10 Search (5)
Languages (English, French, Russian, Italian, Spanish, Polish) (3)
10 Bluff (5)
5 Diplomacy (2.5)
3 Medicine (1.5)
5 Spot (2.5)
5 Listen (2.5)
5 Read Lips (2.5)
5 Science (Psychology) (2.5)
5 Hide in shadows (2.5)
3 Move Silently (1.5)

Skill Total 46

Psychic Awareness (2)
Durability (2)
Toughness (2)
Iron Will (2)
Indomitable Will (2)
Startle (2)

Feat Total 12

Mind Control 13/2pp+2 (28)
s: Mental Link
f: Limited – Emotion Only
f: Limited – One Command (Fear) Only
x: Telepathy (f: Limited – Only to Discover Fears)

Super Charisma 13/3pp (39)
x: Intimidating Presence

Amazing Save (Damage) 13/2pp (26)
x: Amazing Save (Will)

Power Total 93

Total 195

Background: I thought I knew the face of Fear. It was my tool, my weapon, my oldest acquaintance. My name is Ernst Zaißer and I have been many things in my life - Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung agent, supervillain, and mercenary. As I looked at the small child in my arms, I realized that I knew nothing of Fear, and that I would never again be any of those things.

But I digress. True, my name is Ernst Zaißer, but I was also known as Der Furchtkaufmann, or the Fearmonger if you prefer. As you may gather from my name, I had more than a passing familiarity with Fear. A familiarity I wielded to ruthless effect as an East German Stasi agent in England. In other countries as well, but it is England that is central to my tale.

It was in England that I first ran afoul of Silverbolt, a costumed hero as you might expect. I was trying to turn several sensitively placed government officials – doing my job you understand – when he interfered. My plot failed and I was forced to retreat back to East Germany.

Infuriated by my failure, I volunteered for an experimental drug therapy designed to unlock the subject's psychic potential. Of course most of the subjects ended up insane, mindless, or dead. As I am telling this tale, you may assume that was not the outcome in my case. Instead, the treatment worked, after a fashion. I gained the ability to peer into the dark corners of a person's mind, to release the horrors that dwell in those terrible depths.

There were side effects of course. Where once I was young and vigorous, now I was withered and twisted, giving the appearance of great age. But even this has its benefits, as the torment fueled my resolve, allowing me to ignore hideous injuries through sheer willpower.

Armed with my new abilities, I returned to England. This time I would face Silverbolt on even footing. And thus began our decade-long dance. I would hide, he would seek; I would plot, he would unravel my web; I would place him in a death trap, he would escape. Over time, in a strange way, we grew to respect each other. Two players on the stage of shadows, acting out the fate of nations.

And so it was on one fateful day that I answered a knock on my hotel door. I had just returned to England, anew scheme freshly hatched and peeping in it's nest. Needless to say, I was not expecting Silverbolt to be at my door – to this day I don't know how he found me. I certainly was not expecting him to thrust a swaddled infant into my arms and collapse in a pool of his own blood.

“Ernst,” he gasped, “they f-found wh-who I am. Sally's d-dead... I-I...” He coughed, blood welling from his mouth, “M-my daughter...” He clutched at me, his eyes desperate, “Please Ernst, y-you're the only one I can trus--”

What can a man be thinking as he runs, dying with every step, knowing that his only hope, his only haven is his mortal enemy? It was then, as I held Silverbolt's daughter in my arms, that I realized that I had known nothing of Fear; that I experienced a terror greater than I had imagined possible.

Do you find it odd that I felt such a way, that I felt a debt to my enemy? I suppose it must seem so. I can not explain my conversion in rational terms. Either you have held a child's life in your hands, or you have not. Some people are changed by doing so, some are so divorced from humanity that they are immune. I am eternally thankful that I did not fall into the latter group.

I retreated to Scotland, old retired Uncle Ernie Zane and his grandniece Ariana. Shame about her parents. Damn the Irish and their bombs. Such a pretty little girl. Did you know her name means “Silver”?

And so the years passed. I tried to raise Ariana to believe as her father had. Somehow, I was not surprised when, at the age of 11, she exhibited her father's powers. As you can imagine, the twin challenge of raising a teenage daughter and teaching her to use her powers responsibly taxed me to my limits. But I persevered.

At the age of 18, I drove Ariana to university in London. After we deposited her worldly possessions at the dormitory, she went off to sign some paper work. I left an envelope on her bed. In it was a letter explaining who her father had been, and what had happened to him, as well as the access code to the Swiss bank account I had set up in her name. And then I left. I had fulfilled my first debt to the old Silverbolt, and the new Silverbolt did not need her Uncle Ernie any more.

Bullets ripped into the police cruiser as the officers dived for cover. One young officer was not so lucky and fell in the open, clutching his gut. The masked gunmen in the bank kept up a curtain of fire, keeping the officer's comrades from dragging him to safety. If the situation was not resolved quickly, the young man would die.

Tugging on my mask, I strode into the street and made my presence felt, my aura of fear spreading out in widening ripples. A bullet caught my shoulder, a final panicked shot before the criminals and the police both collapsed in abject terror. A trivial matter, easily ignored.

I knelt by the wounded man and worked to bandage his wound. He gazed at me, his eyes wide with fear, “Wh-who are you!?” I gave no answer.
Satisfied that he would not die, I collected the criminals' weapons and deposited them by the police officers, leaving as quickly as I had come.

Clasping my hat to my head against the evening wind, I watched the sun set on Freedom City. Already in the darkness, evil was stirring. But tonight would be different. Tonight those who lived by fear would know fear. For the Der Furchtkaufmann is in town, peddling his wares. Fear for the unjust, fear for the wicked, fear for the cruel. The Fearmonger has plenty of fear for all. Silverbolt would laugh, to think that I am striving to carry on his task.

Appearance: A stooped figure in a black trench coat, worn over a black suit, with a black shirt and tie, black dress shoes, and black leather gloves. A white mask covers his entire head, topped by a black fedora.