Noah Bennett was thirty-one years old when his life ended in Newark.
He did not die - that would have been too easy. It would have been preferable - but he had been away, at work, and she had been the one to fall. The heroes scoured the city, with weapons of fire and destruction, and buildings crumbled beneath their fury, entrapping those within who'd been innocent - all too innocent.
Her name was Ruth. She was five years old, and she was pride, his joy, his solace. All those things were gone in an instant, and no hero could bring her back. No hero could make her smile again, or laugh, or play, or sing.
There were flowers on her grave, chicory and black-eyed Susans and morning glories. None of them brought her back. All the flowers in the world could not bring her back - not his strength, not his wife's tears.
Noah had never wanted to be a hero. The ability he had was a quiet one, and he had never turned it outward - not until his life was torn away. He still did not want to be a hero.
He wanted to destroy them.
To cause plant life to germinate at limited range. He prefers native flora, where possible.
To increase the growth rate of plant life in the area, to no limit, and to control the motion of those plants in the area.
To modify a plant's genetic makeup to make it take on different characteristics. To harden, to sharpen, to poison.
To create a botanical golem of whatever desirable shape, semi-autonomous and capable of following simple instructions.
To modify himself, replacing injured body parts with botanical prosthetics, fully functional and genetically matched.
To create a seed that, properly tended, can regrow him after his 'death.'
I cannot die until my daughter is avenged.