Batroc
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Batroc.png
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Aliases Zee Leaper
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The man who would become one of the world's premiere mercenaries was born to a native French father (a soldier) and a northern African mother (French Colonial) in a Marseille slum. Georges was precocious, constantly getting into trouble but extracting himself with his immense charm. Those times his charm did not suffice, such as with the local street toughs, it would come down to fists. And feet. Little Georges had watched his father dishonorably discharged from the French army when he refused to squeal on other soldiers who had been selling PX supplies on the black market. His father, though honest, believed in a code of honor that forbore informing on your mates. The actual black marketeers laughed at his naivete and kept right on stealing. Unemployed, the senior Batroc scraped by taking odd jobs in the nearby neighborhoods. When he was crippled in an accident on one of these jobs, young Georges burnt into his mind how the military and the government refused to reinstate his father's pension or give any financial help at all. His father would become bitter and immobile, to be avoided at all costs. His mother was his refuge, singing and reading to him, washing him when he came home invariably filthy and making him the most marvelous little pastry treats as she scrimped and saved for flour and sugar.

Georges channeled his anger at the unfairness of the world into training at Savate at his mother's brother's gym down the street. Every day he would show up at 4:30 am. And every day after school he would be right back there. He ran with the street urchins, learning to pickpocket and poach fruit, as well as learning to navigate stairs, ledges, balconies and rooftops in order to escape the local gendarmes. In this manner he became a master of what later would be called Parkour. The skinny child turned into a teen with he build of an oversized gymnast and the ability to wipe the floor with any fighter in the greater Marseille era. He had also turned into quite the ladies man, his charm, physique and all-around good looks gaining him an endless array of gorgeous ladies of all walks of life. He enjoyed playing the part of a rich fop, stealing fine clothes and inserting himself via his well honed street smarts and acrobatics into the most well-guarded of French estates. Once in he would work assiduously at adding another notch to his (or more often her) bedpost.

At the age of 16, having just scraped through the equivalent of high school, Georges had no idea what would come next. As far as he was concerned he would get by the way he had been…charming wealthy women and living off the proceeds. Until he came home from a three day bender with a Contessa visiting from Italy to find his parents' apartment and his uncle's gym (as well as the stores and homes of many other local immigrants) in flames. His parents were dead, only charred husks remaining. His uncle had been beaten savagely but was still alive. His gym, however, was utterly destroyed. It was the work of right-wing racist reactionaries who wanted France's colonial citizens to 'go home'. It hadn't mattered that his father was French…being married to his dusky mother made him a traitor to the nation in their twisted eyes.

Georges had to be restrained from murder by his friends and uncle. They told him that the French legal system would take care of it. Georges Batroc sat in every court where the men who were caught were prosecuted. The case was airtight, with plenty of eyewitnesses and even fingerprints. Until the final day of the final appeal when the judge, a friend of the wealthy, noble father of the primary suspect, threw the case out. It seems the witnesses (all immigrants) were unreliable, and the evidence was 'contaminated'. Later that night, as the noble family was celebrating their win in the courts, Georges infiltrated their family compound and broke the young scion's neck with his hands. Three hours later he he was on a French Foreign Legion ship bound for Africa.

Seven years later, Lt. Georges Batroc of the French Foreign Legion still had his charm, but it now had a decidedly lethal edge. His Savate had progressed. At this point he was likely the most deadly practitioner of the art in the world. While in the Legion he sparred daily with an assortment of unsavory and deadly soldiers from all over the globe, absorbing an excellent knowledge of jiujutsu, muy thai, knife fighting and a melange of various fighting techniques he would add on to the edges of his beloved Savate. In the deserts of Tunisia and Algeria and the jungles from the Ivory Coast to the Congo he saw the worst mankind had to offer and, following orders, engaged in it. One day he watched as a local village whose name he hadn't bothered to even learn burnt to the ground while still full of people. He had seen this countless times at this point, along with hacked off limbs and more raped women than he thought could possibly fill a country.

Today, however, he was in a daze. A woman on fire reached towards him and collapsed, and it was only then that he realized why she looked familiar. What was left of her face reminded him strongly of his mother. He looked at her, then down to the sill-hot flamethrower in his hands, and then up at his men. A moment later he was off and into the forest, never to return. Now AWOL, he began to make a name for himself as a mercenary, taking the most fool-hardy of jobs for the highest prices. And he surprised everyone when he succeeded. He would take care of jobs alone when he could and would hire on the hardest, most lethal fellow mercenaries when needed. Within three years he was earning more than any other mercenary in the world, picking up jobs regular from the likes of HYDRA or AIM even.

Batroc's quirk was that he refused to target certain types of people. Unless they could easily afford the loss thanks to extreme wealth he would not steal from women, especially young mothers. If they were rich, well…that was another story. He would not cause damage to the poor or immigrants. Unless they themselves were thieves or killers. He did love to hit the rich and the powerful, the more the better. And the more right-wing/anti-immigrant the better. Those people he has no problem fleecing or, under the right circumstances, terminating. And each time he gets one of these people he will wait until he alone before taking a trip to whatever Catholic Church is most convenient and lights a candle for his mother. Then he will collect his earnings (if he hadn't already stolen them), send a portion into a secret bank account through which he funds several charities for immigrant communities (including rebuilding his uncle's gym as well as a school and medical support for children mutilated in Congolese wars), then light up the town with at least one (if she's a ten) or possibly a dozen gorgeous femmes at the finest of restaurants or on whatever yacht he has stolen or 'borrowed'.

Then there's the thing in Georges' history that everyone REALLY wants to know about. Capitan l'America. The thorn in Batroc's foot. Implacable. Incorruptible. But not invincible. They have fought through the years, the original Avenger thwarting most of Batroc's schemes, though certainly not all. Occasionally they have fought along side each other. There is no one in the world Batroc respects more (aside from his self, of course). And he has a sneaking suspicion that underneath that gauche red, white and blue chain mail the blond boyscout has a bit of affection for the gregarious Gaul.

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