Teen Archer; Kid Arrow Real Name:
Cristobal Herman McKenzie Aliases:
The Fourth Estate; Identity:
Crime Fighter, Adventurer, College Student;Base of Operations:
San Francisco, California; MobileCitizenship:
U.S.A., with no criminal record, listed as Special Operative for CIAPlace of Birth:
San Francisco, CaliforniaKnown Relatives:
Edward McKenzie (The Iron Tiger; father), Marisa Del Toro-McKenzie (The Blue Bullet; mother)Group Affiliation:
Extensive paramilitary training, partial B.S. in Electrical EngineeringReligion:
Kid Arrow is a master archer and marksman. He is also formally trained in several martial arts, including boxing, karate and tae-kwon do. Since he's a natural athlete, he is a capable aerialist, acrobat and climber. In accordance with special provisions in the Keen Act, the Kid has been formally trained in subterfuge for the purposes of assassinations, sabotage and military intelligence. Medea, his handler, has spent some time instructing the Kid on the finer points of mental strength and memory retention.Weapons:
Kid Arrow relies on a fiberglass compound longbow and an array of trick arrows for combat; he finds firearms impersonal.Paraphernalia:
Kid Arrow's hi-tech nomex, fire-retardant armor houses an advanced array of technology, including night vision goggles and fingertip-microphone sensors. Fingertips can extend into talons that can break into concrete to permit wall-climbing. The Kid also employs a grapple gun.Appearance:
A dark blue WW2 pilot uniform armor replica hugs a tight, wiry frame; black riding steel-toed boots with steel greaves and heavy gloves give the ensemble an inertial appearance. A forearm guard on his left arm doubles as a radio. A sleek white helmet with a beak-like visor covers the entire face except the chin. A red WWI flying scarf finishes the ensemble.Personality:
Personality profiles conducted by federal psychiatrists indicate that the Kid is a mature, confident 19-year-old; however, he does demonstrate immaturity when it comes to things that go fast, pretty women and organized sports. He is respectful, courteous, idealistic and disciplined; and as such, he's still a virgin.History:
I got into the crime-fighting biz when I was seventeen. My parents, they didn't think much of it. They retired on my account, looked after me like I was an egg ever since. Psych says that I'm doing this because I'm trying to make em' mad, but they're the exception. People do dangerous things all the time, and they don't need powers. Truth is, you don't need powers to be a hero. All you need to have is a good heart, a pretty sharp eye and the will to be the best at something.
Picked up the bow when I was at St. George's. Must've been first grade. Big Pollack with short shorts makes us do constitutionals so we get to class tired; one day, heaves these massive longbows that are as tall as us at our feet. Says, 'all right girls, hit the target over yonder.' Seems ideal. Kids like bows, but not inclined to take it up. Dead sport. First try leads to a sore forearm. Taut waxy strings hurt. Second arrow flops right in front of me. Third does the same. None of the arrows get to the target that day. None of the arrows even went straight. I'm in first grade. Boys make fun of me.
But I wasn't discouraged. In fact, I was fascinated. Talk my dad into getting me a bow for my birthday. Hunt squirrel in the woods. Never catch any. I'm still no good with the bow.
I'm ten. I've forgotten about the bow. It lurks somewhere in my filthy closet. But I hear a strange noise. My bat's laying somewhere in the yard. Dad and I played baseball for a while. But he broke my hand with a fast ball. Don't blame the guy for it. Man's built like an ox. I think that's when he started being overprotective, treating me like porcelain doll instead of like a child. Miss those old days.
Noise. It's a shuffle, then a clatter. Glass breaks. Then, a gunshot. I'm compelled to investigate. Pick up the bow because, like I said, the bat's in the front yard. I sneak down from my room. I see my dad on the ground with a bullet in his head. He's not dead, just unconscious. A bald Asian man dressed in black draws the gun on my mother. I know that she can't take a bullet and she's not as fast as she used to be. She's gained a few pounds after childbirth that she never lost. Always wondered if she blamed me for taking away her good looks, her charmed life, her fun adventures. But things don't look fun now. She's sobbing. I lift my bow and shoot the man. It was instinctual, like my nerves traveled back in time to the times of King Edward the III or something. I'm ten years old. I'm a Persian, I'm a Hun, I'm a yeoman archer. My arrow hits true squarely in the base of his neck. He looks up at me, almost curious, his eyes pained. I shoot him again. This time, one of his eyes are gone. He falls to his knees. I don't know if he's dead at that instant, but I'm not interested. More men with guns, four in all, approach the stairs, looking up. And before they can even acknowledge what is happening, and who is doing it, I launch a volley of arrows. I'm ten years old. I can't pull the arrow back too far. Not strong enough. But I was strong enough.
One goes down. Two, then three. Fourth man up, but I got no more arrows. I freeze. Don't know what to do. Man starts to laugh. He points the gun at me. Did he forget that my mother was there? She darts up to him, as fast as she can muster, breaking 100 MPH easy, and tackles him. I hear her cry out. Looks like she dislocated her shoulder. Man is no longer there--just his feet and a blood splatter on the wall.
Dad wakes up. Treats me like an egg. Police come. Blue blanket surrounds me. I get asked questions. 'Sorry,' I say. Don't know what else to say. Never once did I let go of my bow.
I think I'm scared now. I'm ten years old and I wonder when bad men will come into my house to take away my parents. So I sleep with my bow. Every day, I practice. I get better. And better. And better. I dedicate three hours every day after school. My parents make me take self-defense classes. My dad's proud of me when I get my first black belt in karate. Mother doesn't want me to be a hero. I know that they were heroes once. Mrs. Jupiter's my godmother and she's a wealth of information. Mother and I visit her in the resort. Lady coughs brown goo into a napkin before she begins one of her stories. 'The Minute Men were...,' 'Your dad was so handsome!' and 'Your mom and I teamed up in...' stories are the norm.
Stands don't sell superhero comics any more. People don't like capes. Sometimes someone realizes my dad's a cape and refuses him service. Maybe puts something in his hamburger. Once, toad leg in my ice cream. Don't care for pirate comics. Mrs. Jupiter has a lot of old comics. People send her stuff all the time with her in 'em. Mom and her reminisce on the old days. I read comics. Like Mrs. Jupiter. She must've been pretty when she was young. Must be difficult to get old.
Next day, Alfredo knocks on my door while I'm out training. Go around the house and see him yelling at my dad. Something about a mission. Dad says he doesn't want in. Slams the door in the Alfredo's face. Comedian's tough; but dad is tougher. For an instant, I think he's going to knock the door down. Thinks better of it. Walks to his beautiful red corvette and lights a cigar with a zippo. Sees me looking at him. Gestures for me to walk over. Tells me, 'hear you're good with a bow.' I tell him I'm okay. Then he asks me if I wanna go on a mission for the good ole' U.S.A.
Now, I know why he did it. Man suckered me to go on a dangerous mission just to get my dad to come. Surprised the boots off of Alfredo when I pulled my own weight. But I don't like being played like a pawn. Tell the Alfredo to shove it. The man doesn't care for it and hands me my jaw on a platter. Tough sell that Alfredo. Mission's a success. Two weeks in Russia and I still don't know a lick of Cyrillic. Come back, and dad has a few words with him. Went in walking correctly, came out with a limp. Dad's pissed at me. Tells me that I'm just human. So I tell him that Alfredo's just human, too. Dad tells me that Alfredo's not human. Didn't know that. Suddenly I don't feel bad about my ass getting handed to me.
Service for the country gives me leeway on the Anti-Powers Act. So I start going out at night on patrols. Start working with vigilantes whenever I head towards New York City. Sometimes I wonder how some of them got started in the crime-fighting business, but in the end, I try not to care. Sleep better at night if I don't think about some of them. Seems to me they breaks more laws than they stomps out. Don't like some of them, so I don't work with them. Visit some old timers who were friends with my dad from time to time while I'm out there. Convenient to have guys like them around around; they're repositories of crime-fighting knowledge.
I've been doing this for roughly three years now. Federals retired the Alfredo, so I get appointed to go wherever they want me to go. Feds got Veidt Industries to craft me a fun little number: it's "a fashion statement." Once, I was told that it took over 300 man hours to develop my new look. Reflection in the mirror made me laugh because they made me look like a Nazi open-cockpit airplane pilot. Good image to send the public. My sarcasm is lost on them.
Oddly, I receive checks from Veidt Industries. Turns out they got a doll of me that's hot with the teenage girl demographic which is strange because only older women approach me.
You gotta try to focus on more important stuff, like fighting the good fight and curbing criminals. Not enough time for a social life. Trying to get a degree at UCLA, but I'm considered a risk so I'm taught via television in an empty classroom. Sometimes I get lonely because I have no friends. Other heroes are bizarre.Super Condensed History:
Kid Arrow is the non-powered son of two super-powered beings, the Blue Bullet and The Iron Tiger. He picked up the bow at an early age and has, with age, become a master archer.Appearance Outside of Costume: