⌘ Gwilym Twm Carter or Wil for ease, was born in London, England on Calan Mai, May 1st, a day which traditionally heralds the arrival of summer in Wales. The celebration for such is less enthusiastic than it used to be a thousand years ago, but it was significant to his maternal grandmother, Seren Davies. She was influential in naming the baby and thus he was saddled with monikers which were unusual even for the Welsh, especially considering they were on the cusp of the 21st Century. His mother, Gwendolyn Davies, thought it was a lovely gesture to Wil's heritage and his father, a gentle and easy-going man originally from Cornwall named Hugh Carter, was content to let his wife name their son. Wil was their only child.
It will be noted here that the Welsh branch of the Fae, the Tylwyth Teg, were apparently very fond of those blessed with fair hair, which is why human children with this feature were sometimes abducted. A changeling or crimbil would be left in their place. At first, this "change-child" or plentyn-newid would have the exact appearance of the stolen infant, but it would not flourish. Before long, it would become ill and eventually die. Not that anyone believed in that sort of thing anymore, of course.
Wil's hair was a silver blonde as a child, though it darkened somewhat during his teenage years. Until his fifth birthday, his maternal grandmother set up protections in his room to ensure he wasn't switched for a changeling during the night, even though the family was living in London, not Wales, and it wasn’t the Dark Ages, for Pete's sake. Though tales of the Fae were originally told to children to keep them safe, to most everyone else remaining on his mother's side of the family, the Tylwyth Teg were just characters in stories you told your children so they didn't go dancing in the fields at night and bring mud into the house. Besides, people didn't really believe in such things back then, did they? It was all pretend, wasn't it? His Gran didn't explain that her actions were related to a... family matter.
Being an only child, Wil was a bit spoiled when his parents could afford to be, but also a bit lonely. He didn't feel like he fit in very well at school and was periodically too sick to attend. With the support of his parents and the coaxing of his Gran, Wil ceased to have these phantom colds and sore throats by the age of nine. His eyes were certainly a conversation starter, but some of his classmates - and a few of his teachers - found it distracting and just a bit unsettling. Though he didn’t get sick anymore – if he was ever really sick to begin with - it didn't help that he tended to still keep mostly to himself.
That changed with puberty and the American equivalent of high school. Initially quite a slight, quiet boy, he was one of the kids picked on by bullies. This led to Wil becoming increasingly good at running and he discovered he really enjoyed it. The running, not the bullying. Wil joined the track team. He'd always been a fan of Footie - Go, Tottenham Hotspurs! - but didn't really get into playing on a team until he was thirteen, rather late in life for an eager British boy. Around that time, he decided to learn how to defend himself and asked his parents if they'd pay for lessons in some form of martial arts. They weren't very keen on the idea, but they did set him up at a community youth gym where he took a liking to boxing, soon followed by the ‘anything goes’ school of fighting, also known as brawling, but with focus. He still didn't completely fit in there or at school, but bullies stopped picking on him. He even made a point of stepping in when they tried to pick on other students. With his confidence, and raging teenage hormones, came the slow growth of his inherited Fae abilities, abilities of which he had no knowledge. His parents were also still in the dark. Only his maternal grandmother, who had given him the names ‘Gwilym Twm’ understood what was really happening and she remained silent on the topic.
By Year 11, he had mates, was doing well in school and felt more relaxed. Wil even flirted with the girls who didn't seem bothered by his eyes, thought he was cute and even handsome, some of them, and they really appreciated that he knew how to listen to them. Of course, when you’re kissing, eyes are usually closed so it wasn't really an issue. It helped that he was a good kisser, too. At the end of that year, he aced his GCSEs and wondered what would be next.
Unfortunately, what came next was his Gran dying at the age of ninety-seven, and with her the secret of his unusual inheritance. His Grandad had passed away twenty years prior to her and Wil had never known him. In his seventeenth year, his world shattered completely when his parents were killed in an apparent home invasion while he was off at the movies with his mates. The shock was worsened when the police had a social worker join the investigation to share some disturbing news and in doing so, hoped to find out the identity of the perpetrators.
His father's hands were broken and covered in blood from fighting them and he'd been strangled by someone who had left large, bruised hand marks on his neck, and his mother... His mother, too, had fought, but ultimately was defeated. Her skull had been crushed by an iron bar, which was then thrust into her chest with enough force to emerge out her back. Her eyes had been removed, possibly with the spoon left at the scene. The spoon was made out of iron. Her eyes were nowhere to be found. Wisely, the social worker and the police involved did not show Wil any of the photos from the scene. They did have to take him to identify the bodies, though. He nodded mutely to confirm and then threw up everything he’d eaten in the last 24 hours, eventually being carried by his arms to another room where he sagged to the floor and vomited some more while wailing and crying.
Understandably, the horror of their deaths had been so profound that he'd screamed until they'd sedated him, but when he awoke in the hospital, no amount of medication was able to keep the knowledge of what had happened from sending him screaming again. For a while, it was screaming or out cold, then he was mostly too groggy to think or out cold and after a week or so of this, he was just... numb.
The police had no leads and Wil had no idea why anyone would do this to his parents, especially since nothing really important was stolen. It was quickly decided that this had been much more than a simple home invasion. His family had been targeted. It was no real consolation that if he'd been home that night, he would have been killed, too.
Many things happened after that. Wil was released with meds and regular check-ins for his health. He went to stay with his father's family in Cornwall for a while. His parent's estate was settled - thank God, there was a Will - and he opted to sell the relatively modest house in Harrow. It didn’t take long before multiple bids led to a sale for over a million Pounds Sterling, which wasn’t a bad outcome even after agent fees and taxes and lawyers and all that shite took their piece. The lawyers dealt with all that stuff, of course. The firm had known his family since before he was born. Wil eventually rented a studio flat in Lewisham. He resumed going to the gym, where he picked fights until he was exhausted, until his friends and teachers there realized he needed them to keep him busy.
So they did.
Months passed. He didn't continue with school, though he did keep in touch with the coach and some of his mates. His best girl at the time couldn't stop crying when she was with him and between the two of them, they killed enough tissue boxes to supply a pharmacy. It was cathartic, but exhausting and not really good to continue in the long term. He spent more time in his own company, which he hated, and so many of the days became a blur. Holidays came and went. Christmas was brutal. Once he was eighteen, Wil's visits to the local pubs shifted from grabbing a pot pie for dinner to a habit of drinking a bit too much. It killed the pain, for a little while, anyway, and it was cheaper than the drugs they'd prescribed. This habit stayed and though he's not in the same, dark place he was in then, he still turns to alcohol when it all becomes just too much.
One night at an establishment less reputable than some, Wil was nursing a pint at the bar and playing Candy Crush on his mobile when he noticed three men at a far table were becoming loud and demanding more attention from the woman serving their section. One of them, a very large man, stood and grabbed the server’s arm. The manager approached them and asked them to pay their tab and leave. Instead, the remaining men also stood. The tension was palpable. Nearby patrons abandoned their tables.
A fuse was lit.
Wil drained his glass, stood, turned toward them and repeated the manager’s request for them to leave as he approached their area. They laughed, then the largest man, the one who had grabbed the woman’s arm, said with grin, "Going to be a Good Samaritan, eh, boy?" Then he stared at Wil, his expression going dark, and said, in a flat voice, “You have your mother’s eyes.”
It was Wil's turn to stare as the realization settled on him: at least one of these men had been at his house that night, maybe even killed his parents, and there was something very odd about them, now that he was closer. He managed to utter, “What…?” just before the big man released the server and lunged at him. He wasn’t ready and took a beating before somehow managing to break distance long enough to punch the man in the head as hard as he could.
Wil's opponent dropped like a stone.
Wil’s right hand was screaming with pain, but still seemed to function when he flexed his fingers. The man was down, but not out, so Wil utilized his pugilistic training and made sure he wouldn’t be getting up again until the authorities arrived. The other two charged him, but fortunately one of the patrons intervened to assist, a woman who seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Between the two of them, all three were unconscious before the police arrived to clean up the mess and interview the manager, servers and all patrons. Wil was sweating, aching, exhausted, but elated and had no idea how he’d actually managed to dispatch the culprits, even with the help of –
“Nice right hook,” the woman said, grabbing a stack of napkins from a nearly table and pressing it to the side of his head. He hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding.
“Thanks,” he managed, and after giving her a charming smile, he passed out. He didn't understand this was the Bloodrush.
Who were those three men? Why did they feel... 'off' and why did they kill his parents?
He learned much later that they were enforcers of a sort and belonged to the ranks of the 'Other'. What kind of Other was never revealed to him and the reason for the murders was never discovered. The remaining details are nor terribly important, beyond some closure to the death of his parents two and a half years prior, free beer for life at that bar, and an introduction to an independent group led by the Penrose family who contracted people to hunt beings who were thought to be nothing but myth. The were hunted not because of what they were, but what they did.
Obviously, when Wil arrives in Massachusetts, he is aware there are Others out there and for the last five odd – very odd – years, he has taken contracts to hunt those who prey on people who cannot fight to protect themselves and their families. The hunter he met in the bar is the only one he has ever met in person from that organization. All communications are done through various apps on his mobile. He usually works alone of in a team of two in rural, even remote, locations, mostly in the United Kingdom. He has come to America on the recommendation of his ‘handler’, for lack of a better designation, to start fresh, ditch his comfort zone and hone his skills by making a difference. Perhaps he'd look into the Exchange and see what it could be like working for a much large organization.
He has arrived with a black backpack and a black duffle bag and between the two of them, they contain his life.
When in the heat of a hunt or flight scenario, his nature takes over and influences his physical abilities in particular, but in those times, there's usually no one around to witness anything that might be deemed something an agent of a certain comic book organization might be capable of demonstrating. Wil doesn't notice. When things get hairy, he just thinks he becomes ‘focused’.
He is good, but he is still young when it comes to hunting and has no formal training beyond what he learned at that distant gym and what he has picked up during his tenure as a contract hunter. The weapons he has utilized so far during his life include: pugilism, 'street fighting', knives, handguns, crossbow, and, of course, his mind.