[Forum Game] Capes and Criminals: A Superhero RPG

[Terraferma]

Harlow, The Arm: 9:38 PM
A joint of the non-medicinal variety, with Oxfordroyale​

The structure had definitely seen better days. Cold. Dark. Dilapidated. Many of its windows were shattered, doors seemed almost rusted shut. The opaque paint was peeling just about everywhere. Even days after rainfall, the ceiling dripped slowly, painfully, incessantly, a reminder of the lack of integrity the abandoned warehouse was in. A reminder of a long gone era.

Deadeye stood nearly cloaked in the shadows, awaiting his contact. They weren’t late. He was just early. Adjusting his mask he was decked out in full body armor wielding tactical gear that ranged from a field knife strapped near his boots to a pair of glocks fastened to his sides to finally his assault rifle slung across his back. One can never be too prepared.

In the darkness he stood tall, defiant with his arms crossed. In the darkness he waited.

It was some time before the other man arrived. Deadeye was first alerted to his presence by the tell-tale squeal of the entrance as it was forced open, followed by the sound of footsteps on sheet metal growing ever closer. With a stride that was purposeful and unhurried, his contact evidently saw no need for stealth.

A dark figure - tall and broad-shouldered, his appearance obscured by a trenchcoat and hat - stepped into the room. Stopping just inside the doorway, he fished a lighter from his coat pocket, lit up, and took a long drag from a cigarette.

“You can come on out now,” he said to the empty warehouse, his voice possessing all the smooth texture of a gravel road. Smoke billowed in front of his face, and he made a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a sigh.

The man was answered by a chuckle echoing throughout the area.

Alec stepped out into the shadows revealing himself in what little dim light was given by the full moon filtering through a rather large opening in the roof.

“So they sent someone. Good call. Sorry about that bounty hunter. Can’t have him end my plans so soon.”

If the man seemed intimidated or impressed by his armor and weapons, he did not betray it. His body language was relaxed, open, and he made no attempt to hide his face.

“My superiors aren’t in the habit of turning down intriguing proposals.” He took another drag of his cigarette and gave another quiet wheeze before unceremoniously crushing it beneath the sole of his boot. “Especially not from a talent such as yourself,” he added after a moment’s pause.

“I’ll be brief. I don't give a damn what you're trying to do here. I don’t care the business you gentlemen partake in. I'm just here to make lost money. I'll help the African-Americans, I'll help the Italians, I'll help the Chinese hell I'll even help the Russians. I only have two rules: I don't help white nationalists and I don't do kids. As for that killing of a dozen or so men. Your superiors shouldn’t take it personal. Just an audition, think of it as me proving to you I am worthy of...investment. And ay your boss can check me, why would I lie? When the truth is so much more better."

“You sure do like to talk.” The man shoved his hands inside of his trenchcoat. “If those killings were meant as your audition, consider my superiors suitably impressed. You clearly have a skill, and - naturally - we would like to make use of it for our own ends. If money is what you’re after, I can say that the Merchants would be willing to pay a reasonable price for your services.”

“Money and equipment. That is all I ask and I will do as your crew demands.” Newman gave a quick nod.

“Our demands are as follows.” The man raised a gloved fist, counting off each item on his list with his fingers.

“First, you are forbidden from harming another member of the Merchants unless explicitly instructed to do so. You are right that we should not take your murders personally, and we do not. That being said, such deaths will not be looked upon lightly in the future.

“Second, you are to offer your services to no one else while enjoying the backing of our organization. Conflicts of interest are not tolerable to my superiors - hopefully this is understandable.

“Third, you are to use the abilities you have so effectively demonstrated to engineer a war between the Red Hand and the Dragon Killers. You will do so in such a way that the involvement of the Merchants is not suspected.

“I trust you have no objections to these terms?”

Deadeye gave a moment or two of silence before answering, “None. When do I begin?”

“You just did.” The man produced a small package from the interior of his coat and tossed it onto the ground between them. “In there is a cell phone. When it rings you answer, no exceptions - it will be used to arrange meetings or communicate valuable information, and nothing else. Otherwise you are free to go about your assignment in any way you see fit. That package also contains an advance payment, of sorts - it should be more than enough to get you started. Prove yourself a prudent investment and more will be forthcoming.”

“Excellent. Wet work is my specialty.”

And with that the meeting concluded. But the mission had just begun.

 

[happycats517]

Issue #1: The Brewing Storm
Our heroine, Gwen Blanc, is currently caught up in a constant battle to balance her hectic normal life and her life as Nurse. However, a new danger threatens to upset this delicate balance, as a series of superhero murders puts Gwen's secret identity in doubt and makes her determined to find the killer.​

Gwen took one last furtive look into the dark, empty hallway before hurrying into her room and shutting the door, locking it quickly behind her and sliding softly down to the ground. Her breathing was shallow and quick and her heart was rapid. She cursed herself. This was how all of her costumed escapades have been ending ever since those heroes started turning up dead. Someone has access to the MCRU files and is using them to kill, that's the only logical explanation on how five heroes were killed in their civilian identities. Someone knows I'm not Gwen Blanc, musician and student, but instead Gwen Phear, daughter of a supervillain and a metahuman in her own right. She knew the MCRU still had a file on her and that they likely knew her secret identity as well, since she hadn't been the most careful when she started and it's not like there are that many metahumans with her set of powers. She had learned to accept that, they hadn't bothered her too much and seemed fine with leaving her alone. But now she had to assume that someone else had access to that, someone who was killing capes for some reason and someone who might not just leave her alone. Even if they didn't want to kill her, they could just as easily blackmail her into helping them or sell that info to some of her parents' old enemies. Her secret identity meant everything to her and now it had been exposed to someone outside the MCRU. Or could they be inside the MCRU? They aren't always the best judges of character and it would certainly explain how the killer has access to MCRU files. The whole ordeal didn't make her feel safe and now, whenever she went out in her costume, every eye felt like it was on her and every emotion felt like it was about her. Was that rage over a bad day at work or the rage to kill every metahuman they could? Was that glee over seeing a good movie with friends or the glee that they had her caught in their web? She had spent most of tonight curled up in a secluded spot in the park, hiding from the world, instead of scoping out The Merchants like she planned to.

She sat there, just inside the door, curled up in a ball for a few minutes before she could finally will herself to move. She started by flicking the lights on and soon her apartment was bathed in a dim glow. It was an unassuming, cozy apartment that any college student could have lived in, complete with a pile of takeout boxes collecting in the kitchen and a stack of books and papers all over her desk that hadn't been properly organized in months, and she usually loved that. She didn't need any secret base or underground lair to draw attention to herself, she could hide right here in plain sight, with no one the wiser. Of course, with recent events, a few hallways full of lasers and an army of killer robots to protect her would make her feel a whole lot safer than a wooden door and a couple of locks. Trying to lose herself in her routine, she kicked off her sneakers, the same black and white pair she had since she left for college, and threw the old field jacket her foster father gave her from his days in Vietnam onto the couch and retrieved her costume from her backpack and returned it to its spot hidden away in the closet. She threw a couple of slices of pizza from Marco's Pizza on a tray then popped it in the oven at a low heat to warm it back up, and then began preparing for a shower.

Once she hopped into the shower she took a few minutes to just relax and just enjoy the warm water. During this short period of respite, she began to unpack her day, absorbing all of the things that happened to her and all the emotions that she had felt. As she usually did when she was on edge, she pretended she was having a conversation with her mother where she was explaining to her how her day went. By her mother she didn't mean her recently retired foster mother, Laura Blanc, nor Ms. Panic, but rather Rowenna Zeiss, the woman Ms. Panic was when her father left them alone, the woman Ms. Panic truly was. She found something about the false normalcy in an innocent conversation with her to be calming. Like she could pretend for a moment that her mother wasn't a dead criminal and was instead a normal, average person living a usual life as a housewife or something who had the time to sit there and listen to her kid's day and that in doing so Gwen could also pretend that her own problems were in some way normal. Gwen took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and built the scene. She imagined that her mother was sitting across from her in the dining room of a quaint suburban house, their house, with an oak table covered with a green tablecloth, a few neat place settings, a bay window that gave them a wonderful view of a small garden that her mother tended to herself, and a bowl of fake fruit placed conversationally in the center of the table instead of the small, dingy bathroom she was currently in. Why are you so tense, my Gwen? she heard her mother inquire.

It's nothing. This whole thing with the serial cape killer just has me on edge.

Then why did you go out tonight? You know you don't owe these people your powers, being Gwen is enough, you don't need to be anything more. If you're worried it's okay to just be Gwen for a while.

I wanted to go out. I want to help these people. I had a good lead on meeting The Merchants that I had to try and run down.

The Merchants?

The gangs are winning in Harlow right now. Ain't nothing we can do about that. The Merchants are business men, first and foremost. Sure some of their business is despicable but they aren't going out and putting bullets in people's heads like the Dragon Killers, Eastside Empire, Red Hand, and the rest are. They have no reason to kill and plenty of reason not to, as most people won't want to do business with people who killed their last client. Handing the city to The Merchants might end up being the best option if it comes down to them or any other gang and I need to build a rapport with them now in case it comes to that.

And that's why you went out? Gwen could see the knowing look her mother always gave Gwen when she knew she was hiding something.

Okay, and I wanted to just not be me for a few hours, to not be Gwen. My classwork is frustrating me. I'm tired of being stuck in a classroom learning theory after theory and reading case study after case study of a metahuman kid going from bully or petty thief to supervillain or gangster. I just want to scream that I'm an empath, that if they let me start applying what we learned and doing actual counseling that I'd do it better than anyone else and that I can connect with these kids better than even the most experienced of them can. But I can't say that, because I can't let anyone know about who I really am. Gwen hesitated for a moment, realizing how petulant the next part sounded, but her imaginary mother gave her an expectant look. Gwen gave a defeated sigh and continued as she finished up the shower. And I might have taken that frustration out on Hailey during practice and chewed her out for missing a few notes. The band is stuck in a rut and we all keep blaming each other. I felt terrible afterwards. I could feel her pain and I couldn't focus on anything but that for the rest of the practice. I just wanted to go out for a bit because I don't have to deal with all of that as Nurse, and it makes me feel free.

Her mother rose and approached Gwen. In those few moments her mother was proud, toeing just on the line of arrogance, walking forward with a confident stride and a purposeful gaze. All of the things that Gwen lacked as she sat there feeling vulnerable with a towel wrapped around her. She could almost feel her mother's warm hand on her cheek as her imaginary mother moved to comfort her. Never stop wanting to be Gwen. Tomorrow the MCRU could knock on the door and tell you to never be the Nurse again. That costume is temporary, what you make outside of it is eternal. I know you want to get out there and help people, but what you're learning now will make you better at it and you and your friends will break out of that rut before you know it. You've grown into such a great woman, Gwen, I couldn't be more proud. Gwen quietly nodded, the imagined words calmed her and let her accept who she was, and she allowed her mother to fade as she finished drying herself off and threw on some yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt.

She looked at the clock as she walked back into the main room of the apartment and saw that it was a little past three in the morning. She cursed softly to herself, she had a class at eight and still needed to do one last thing before she could allow herself to crash. She was determined to do what little she could to track down the cape killer and get some answers and that meant crawling the web for any info she could find that could be helpful. She pulled the pizza out of the oven and made a quick cup of tea before shuffling over to her laptop and pulling up her web browser. The alert that she had set for any articles on the cape murders had shot back a few dozen responses. She turned to her gerbil, Fizz, and asked him, "I'll bet you a carrot there's nothing useful on here, again." He paused for a moment from drinking his water to give her a look that Gwen imagined meant, You think I'm dumb enough to take that bet?

Gwen laughed and said, "Yeah, I guess even you're too smart for that," before swiveling back in her chair to face the laptop. She opened up the alert and took a look at the articles it found. About half of them could be automatically eliminated as they were from gossip rags, tabloids, or blogs that were clearly more interested in superhero drama than the actual facts. She settled down and began eating her pizza as she started reading through the rest of them. The pizza didn't taste like all that much. Marco's was the place you called when you were drunk or needed a bunch of pizzas for a party but didn't want to spend much. However, as a college student, you could only complain so much about five dollar pizza. The tea was much better. It was a loose leaf variety her foster mother brought back for her from a trip to Ireland, with a touch of milk and honey to really help bring out the flavor. She ended up making a second cup halfway through the reading to find that perfect balance between being awake enough to finish the task at hand and tired enough to crash right afterwards.

By the time she finished reading the articles, she was left disappointed or as disappointed as her low expectations would allow. Most of the articles were just regurgitating the same info from before and the ones that didn't had moved on to the realm of pure fantasy talking about aliens with powers that were killing metahumans because they were afraid of us or other fanciful ideas. She sighed. Of course it was too much to hope for that she would solve a murder case by reading a few articles online, but she was disappointed that she couldn't find a single lead worth investigating. She considered going through the articles a second time to see if she missed anything, but a quick glance at the clock told her it was almost four and she decided to give up for the day and get what little sleep she could. However, as she laid there waiting for sleep, she realized that she had been approaching this investigation all wrong. By the time she went to sleep, she had a smile forming on her thin lips, she knew what she had to do next.

 

[aedan777]

June 8th

Dear Diary,
Scary things are happening in Harlow lately! My fellow heroes, allies and friends of justice, are dying! Electrifying Electra, Stupefying Sandman, Victorious Victoire, Quacious Quake, and Fearsome Firefight have all perished, felled by murder most foul, despite the pretension of suicide! As if heroes of justice of such status and respect, the creme de la creme of our city's best, would take their lives! Some dastardly scoundrel is killing the guardians and protectors of peace! Such vile villainy cannot be allowed to stand! My comrades in arms are being targeted by the servants of evil, who knows who their next victim might be. It could even be me! I shiver at the thought of some demon of the night coming to murder me and then try to crudely disguise it as a suicide.

The terror of such an outcome weighs heavily on my brain lately. The slightest stirring in the shadows leaves me trembling and I've been using my power more and more to shine the light of justice on the dark and shadows. I don't think I'll feel safe again until the nefarious culprit of the hero murders is brought to justice. I've spoken to Mr. Director of the MCRU about assisting in the search for this criminal, and he has assured me that I will play a major part in bringing them to justice by continuing my usual patrols. I don't know what to really be looking for, but if the hero killing scum come after me, I'll be on guard and they'll feel the sting of the Light of Justice.

It was bad enough when I had to keep an eye out for regular criminals, the gangs, and the occasional supervillain. They may be the scum of the earth, the most foul and heartless drains on society and enemies of justice, but at least they fear us heroes, and slink away from Justice. We were as hunters, but now we may well be the prey. It's a change most unwelcome. I hope to see this hero killer brought to justice and normalcy return, so we can focus on protecting the people of Harlow, and not worrying about being targeted ourselves. If given the chance, I'll definitely bring this evildoer in, to be locked in the deepest jail cell to never threaten heroes again!

Hugs and kisses, Mikayla

 

[oxfordroyale]

BLOODHOUND
Chapter I: Catching the Scent​

For as long as she could remember, Emily had loved the night.

While most children feared the dark and dreaded bedtime, she recalled spending countless hours of childhood watching the sun set with barely contained excitement. Her family had often stargazed together, and unlike other family activities they had been uniformly happy occasions. She remembered her father pointing out constellations to her from their backyard – that one was Orion, and that one Scorpius, and that one Ursa Minor …

That felt like a lifetime ago, or perhaps another life entirely. The sky above her now was a dull, featureless gray, glimpsed through the visor of a motorcycle helmet and the gaps between buildings. The stars, invisible even on a clear night, were obscured by a blanket of dark cloud. Wind and rain lashed her as she raced across the city, the skin-tight suit she wore offering scant protection from the elements. Not for the first time, Emily seriously questioned her choice in costume.

The night had not held that same childhood wonder for years now. She wasn't in West Virginia anymore, but Harlow, and nights in Harlow were always accompanied by something seedy, dark or grim.

This one was no exception.

The freeway took her out past Midtown and deep into the North End. It wasn’t long before her destination came into view: a large white house half-hidden by trees and hedges, the front brightly illuminated by the flashing lights of a dozen emergency vehicles. A police officer stepped out into the road as she approached, one arm outstretched as if to block her path, but soon recognition dawned and he stepped aside. While she might not have been a household name, Bloodhound was a frequent sight at crime scenes.

Emily swung herself off of her bike and started towards the house, her helmet still on. Many officers nodded to her in passing, though she noticed several studiously avoided acknowledging her presence. Whether this was an attempt at professionalism or a deliberate slight she could not say. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. She was well aware of her reputation among some in the HPD – after all, her mere existence had put many forensic detectives out of a job.

As she neared the veranda an officer with a worn and welcome face appeared to meet her. Portly with a graying beard and bushy eyebrows, he looked more like a friendly grandpa than one of Harlow's most respected law enforcement professionals.

“Glad you could make it on such short notice,” Inspector Michael Sutter said, lifting the police tape so that she could pass underneath. The greeting was sincere, though he knew as well as she did that this was no courtesy call.

A cape was dead. The sixth in two weeks, in fact. And not just any cape, either.

“Evening, Inspector.” She ducked beneath the tape and entered the house. “What are we looking at?”

If Sutter was bothered by her desire to get straight to business, it didn't show.

“The door was ajar when we arrived, no signs of forced entry. There was an emergency call from the landline, but no one answered the operator. You’re aware of our policy: if it’s from a cape’s residence, we assume –”

“I’m aware.” Her eyes scanned the foyer and the adjoining living room, quenching the flood of memories just as quickly as they burst forth. “Where’s the body?”

“In the kitchen.”

The victim lay crumpled on the floor next to the counter, his mouth agape and eyes opened wide in what might have been agony. His limbs were arranged in a way that made Emily suspect he had fallen from a standing position. There were no visible wounds that she could see, but the cape known throughout the city as Aero was quite clearly dead. From Sutter’s tone on the phone she had actually been expecting particularly grizzly or chilling.

It was what was written beside the body - carved into the wooden floorboards with a discarded kitchen knife - that made her blood run cold.

“‘Catch me if you can …’” Sutter read aloud, his lower lip curling with disgust. “There can no longer be any doubt: we’re dealing with a serial murderer here. This is no suicide.”

“I don’t see any wounds.” Emily crouched to get a better look at the body, noted more closely Aero’s open mouth, the raised muscles in his neck. She looked over at the inspector. “Suffocated?” It was more a statement than a question.

“That is the working theory, yes.” Sutter scratched at his beard. “We’ll need the coroner’s report to know for sure, of course.”

“It wasn’t physical strangulation – no bruises around the neck and collarbone, no signs of struggle …”

Emily thought back to what she knew of the victim. A metahuman who could manipulate air, Aero was one of the most powerful capes in all of Harlow. He could bowl people over with massive blasts of wind, create miniature tornadoes in moments, propel himself through the air in a cyclone, and even supplement his physical blows with concussive blasts of air. However, perhaps the most powerful – and controversial – application of his power was his ability to suck the air out of someone’s lungs and prevent them from breathing, accomplished by creating an airless vacuum around their heads. While acclaimed in the press as a hero, Emily was personally aware of at least three accusations of excessive force that had been swept under the rug by the higher-ups.

Don’t tell me he –

“– suffocated himself?” She finished her thought aloud, incredulous. “But …?”

“But what about the message?" He finished. "How could he have maintained consciousness long enough to kill himself? These are all valid questions, but I'm afraid I know as few answers as you.”

“This is the first time one of the victims has killed themselves with their power.” Emily said, standing from her crouch. “The others all died through conventional means. Are we certain they’re connected?”

“It's very likely. The fact that this suicide was accomplished through the use of powers is not irrelevant, but not too problematic either. The rest matches perfectly."

"Not the message. That is a first as well."

"Yes, but it's not unusual for a killer to begin something like this in the middle of a spree. He's - or she - is taunting us, and it's only as effective as it is due to the established body count."

“But how is he making them kill themselves? We didn’t even know for sure that they were committing suicide until now – things can be staged to achieve that effect. Unless the killer possesses the same power, then Aero really did die by his own hand.”

Sutter sighed. “We don’t know how he does it. That’s why you’re here – to help us figure it out, so we can catch him." He paused. "See anything you can use?”

Emily did not reply; she knew what she needed to do. Upon activating the sensory-blocking technology in her helmet, the kitchen’s bright fluorescent lighting and all peripheral sensory information disappeared. In its place was a silent darkness that managed to be both calming and somewhat oppressive. Adopting a kneeling position, Emily placed her palm on Aero’s bare forearm.

It was time to begin.

The thing to understand about Emily's power was that it wasn't something that could be activated, per se. Using her power wasn’t so much like flipping a switch or pressing a button, but more akin to turning a faucet handle just enough for a trickle of water to emerge. In this case, that trickle was the entire residual history of Aero’s body – or, to be more precise, his skin and the muscles just beneath. While she was able to access the memories of living people through touch, she was unable to do the same to corpses; however, as far as her power was concerned, dead bodies were merely a collection of inanimate objects. A corpse’s skin, though, was surely the next best thing to a living person. You could learn a lot from touch alone. Muscles – movement – were also highly useful.

The trickle entered her mind's eye, and instantly a whole new world opened before her.

Six days ago. Triceps, legs, neck, pressed against leather, northeast corner of the house – living room. Stationary for twenty minutes. Rubber on fingertips – television remote.

Skipping forward. Two days ago. Soft, fabric cushioning, pressed against upper body, lower legs, right side of face, contact at multiple points. In bed. Asleep.

Skipping forward. This morning. Light touches of cool air on face, arms, legs, scalp – air conditioning? Rhythmic movement in legs, swinging arms, trickles of sweat – running. Not air conditioning. Wind. Outside, running. She targeted the heart. Increased heart rate, not highly abnormal. Not fleeing. Regular exercise.

This afternoon. Hands on metal, fingertips on smooth shells – frying pan, eggs. Southeast corner of the house – kitchen. Warmth from a stove top. Cooking.

Early evening. Soles of feet pressed against hardwood floor, moving from the kitchen to the north. Front door. But barefoot? Soles pressed against cold tile. Hand pressed against metal – the door handle. Light breeze – the door opens. The skin around the face moves and contracts, the vocal cords thrum. Speech. A pause. Arms reach forward, make contact with rough cardboard and an edge of plastic. Tape? A package, heavy. A delivery. Package is exchanging hands. Brief, momentary contact with skin – the delivery man?

No package. What? Sharp pain in right foot. Package dropped. Muscles contract, spasm. Emily focused on the heart once more. Heart rate elevated, sharply. Indicating surprise, panic. Muscles tremble, rigid. Then still.

No movement.

One minute later. No movement. Door is still open.

Two minutes later. Movement. Walking is slightly awkward, stilted, uncertain. Soles are back on hardwood floor. Back in the kitchen.

Hand on metal. Small, light. A knife. Kneels on floor, carves into the floor. The message. Mouth tightens at the edges. A smile.

Drops knife, stands. A rush of wind around the face. Muscles seize and mouth opens – no air. Can’t breathe. Suffocating. Standing still. Arms at sides.

Dying.

Air disappears. Sudden, hard contact with floor. No motion.

Dead.​

Emily emerged with the sensation of death still freshly imprinted in her mind. Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in labored gulps. She pushed too hard and for too long. Her hand trembling, she presses a button at the side of her helmet.

Sutter put a hand on her back. “You good?”

“Y-yeah, just overdid a little bit.” She winced at how she sounded. “How long as I in?”

“A good ten minutes,” he replied. “I was beginning to worry. Now, what have you got?”

Emily took a deep breath to steady herself. “No unusual activity leading up to the murder. He opened the door for a package delivery, then reacted strangely before returning to the kitchen. He took a knife and carved the message into the floor himself. Then he suffocated to death.”

“Package delivery? We didn’t find any package when we arrived.”

“The delivery man is the killer. He caught Aero off guard. I have no idea how he committed the murder, though. There was an exchange of words, but it was brief … did the killer convince him to kill himself in less than a minute?”

Sutter’s eyes widened. “You don’t think …?”

“Mind control?” Emily shrugged. “It’s possible. It would be the most powerful variation of the power in history – no documented case has ever been potent enough to cause suicide.”

“Did you get a look at the guy? The delivery man?”

Emily shook her head. “No, I can’t access the memories of corpses. I only had access to his tactile sensations and –”

She stopped.

“What? What is it?”

Ignoring the pain rapidly building in her temple, Emily re-activated the sensory-blocking device and knelt beside the body once more.

Early evening. Soles of feet pressed against hardwood floor, moving from the kitchen to the north --------- Front door --------- skin around the face moves and --------- reach forward, make contact with rough --------- A delivery. Package is exchanging hands. Brief, momentary contact with skin –

Skin.

Mustering all her focus and concentration into a single push, Emily leaps to the deliveryman through this small point of contact. Instant, blinding pain washes over her, but she does not lose the link – she maintains contact. Not enough to access the man’s memories … no, not nearly enough … but enough to track his location.

Early evening. Outside of Aero’s house. Pryor Park. Moves southward, fast. Freeway? Seven miles southeast. Eight miles. Sidestreets. Stopping at traffic lights. Parking. Moving slowly, on foot. Where? Downtown. WHERE?

Late evening. Banecroft University. Main campus. Third floor of a building on the west side. A large dormitory.

He is there RIGHT NOW.

He is in ARGHHHHHH ---------​

Emily emerged screaming, though she could not hear herself doing so – rather, she could sense the vibrations and the movement of hew jaw. She felt someone shaking her and nearly vomited from the resulting vertigo. Falling backwards to lie on her back, she pressed the button on the side of her helmet and was immediately blinded by light.

“Bloodhound! Are you alright?”

She tried to speak but couldn’t. She discovered that she had a splitting headache. With a herculean effort, she made another attempt.

“Fine.”

“Jesus, you scared me. You started screaming and thrashing just now. What were you thinking, going in again?”

“Wasn’t.” She tried to stand, very unsteady. “But …”

Sutter raised an eyebrow. “But?”

She managed a weak smile, though she knew it wouldn't be visible through her visor.

“I know where he is.”

 

[oxfordroyale]

((IC character only.))

Name
Claire Mertens


Alias
Bones


Identity
Unknown


DoB
2/9/1999


Age
18


Appearance

A woman of average height, standing at 5 feet 8 inches, Claire Mertens has dark brown hair and green eyes. Lacking any distinguishing marks on her body she would not arise any suspicion when walking around in plain clothes.

Her ‘superhero’ outfit consists of a black jumper, black shirt and jacket, and a black beanie. She also wears a bandanna tied around her face, which she changes as she pleases, to better suit her whims.


Abilities

Skeletal Growth - Able to expand her own skeleton, forcing it out of her body, she can lengthen and shorten her own structure as she sees fit. She often uses her power to extend the bones in her hands, forcing them into an intimidating claw shape.


Weaknesses

Agonising Transformation – The use of her powers causes her no end of grief, as each time she forces her body to change she experiences incredible agony. Her wounds heal as she returns her body to normal but the pain takes far longer to subside.


Background

Claire’s lot in life was an unhappy one. Abandoned by her parents and taken in by an orphanage when she was just 9 months old, Claire Mertens would grow up never knowing her biological parents. Her time in the orphanage was unfortunate as she was ostracised by the other children and neglected by the staff. She would run away shortly after her 15th birthday.


She quickly fell in with a bad crowd and was recruited into a small time gang, whom were delighted when she first displayed her powers. Forcing her to use them to help them terrorise the locals, despite the agony it clearly gave her, the gang would slowly gain wealth and infamy.


As she neared her 17th birthday the gang suddenly came under attack by a superhero known as ‘The Mask’. The hero brutally subdued the group, sending a few into the hospital, but hesitated when Claire tried to intimidate him by growing her arms and skull until they ripped through of her skin. Rather than attack her ‘The Mask’ offered her a choice. Either he could break several of her bones and take her to the M.C.R.U to be judged, or he could take her in and sponsor as a potential hero. Having seen the way ‘The Mask’ operated she quickly agreed to the latter.


Having celebrated her birthday a few months ago, Claire has become an official hero. Assigned to work with ‘The Mask’, Claire is finding it surprisingly pleasant as he does not seem to be repulsed or fixated on her powers.​

Tapscott's IC-only char is approved.

Great ICs people. The consistent length and quality is excellent.

I am also glad that some people have decided to take advantage of the prototype orders system. Keep it up!

 

[Tapscott]

Chapter One

Mask and Bones
June 9th, 2017
8:39 AM​

Claire watched the T.V. news reports with growing alarm, as each day seemed to turn up a new super-hero’s death. Electra had been first. Then Sandman. Now Victoire, Quake, and Firefight had all died in situations that would first appear to be suicide, but were now seen as murders due to the sheer frequency of deaths in such a short-time span. She hadn’t really known any of the dead heroes, only having seen them in passing, but it was still horrifying thought that there was someone out there that seemed to have no trouble in dispatching meta-humans.

“Still watching those reports?” A gravelly voice came from behind her. Turning around on the couch she glared at Gerald, who was busy working on a crossword puzzle. Without looking up he continued to speak, gesturing lazily with his free hand. “You should stop filling your head with all that rot. It does nothing but make you worry. Go train, go study, go do anything instead of sitting on your arse.”

“What about you?” She countered indignantly. “All you’ve been doing the last week is lounging about reading and filling out those stupid puzzles!”

“They’re good for the mind. Besides you only have one life to live. I have god-knows how many.”

She sighed and pushed herself off the couch. Everytime she tried to get him to break out of his apathy he simply brushed it aside. It was hard to argue about wasting your life with a man who simply reappeared each time he was killed.

“Don’t you think we should do something? Anything?”

“Why?” He asked curiously as he finally set aside his pencil and looked up at her, his dull greens eyes peering out from his eerie mask. “They’re heroes aren’t they? The dead ones knew what they were getting into by deciding to become ‘capes’. If they couldn’t defend themselves that’s their fault.”

“They were killed in their homes! They weren’t patrolling the streets, fighting villains! They were murdered even though no-one should have known they were heroes!”

“So? The job doesn’t just finish because they took of their masks and decided to go screw around as a civilians.”

Shaking her head in disgust Claire stormed off into her bedroom. Slamming the door behind her she sat on her bed and took a deep breath. It wasn’t in Gerald’s nature to care, but even so it still boggled the mind that he didn’t think that any of this was important. People died all the time, that’s true, some of them heroes… But they shouldn’t be killed while they were in their homes, their true identities unknown!

A knock on her door snapped her out of her reverie. “What?!” She shouted, her face red from anger. “What do you want?!” The door swung open easily and Gerald walked into the room, a file tucked underneath his arm. Staring at her silently for a moment, Claire suddenly felt very small. She was living with him, training under him, but he demanded nothing of her in return. He never brought it up but she always felt self-conscious in moments like these, feeling that she had no right to argue, to be angry.

Pulling the folder out from underneath his arm he threw it onto her bed, a pile of documents sliding out. “In there is the M.C.R.U investigation of the deaths. Go through that, see if you can think of any leads, anywhere to look, and we’ll take it from there.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just do your work and then we can get started.” As he left the room Claire picked up the folder and took a deep breath. Maybe now the two of them could actually get involved.

 

[oxfordroyale]

GM Note:

I've received some questions, so I'd like to provide little more info on Turns, Orders, and Updates for those who might be confused.

A Turn represents a season: Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall. I've created them to provide a rough progression of time in three-month increments, and nothing more. You should not - I repeat, should NOT - be holding off on doing multiple things in quick succession just because it's still the same Turn. In fact, you are welcome to IC as much as you want or send as many orders as you want in any given Turn (within reason). My point is, you should not be waiting for me to say "It's Fall now!" for you to launch the next phase of your arc or plans, unless that lapse of time is actually necessary to either of those. For instance, when I do post that it is now "Turn 2", the only thing that means is that the game's events to date have transpired over a season (or 3 months of time).

As for Orders, I won't be asking for you to send them at specific times - you can send them whenever you want. I have already had several people send me Orders which I have resolved for them, and some of you have also sent me your character's plans for the near future in your Orders. These are both great things: the former allows me to quickly and privately resolve your actions, giving you GM-approved IC material with as little fuss as possible, while the latter allows me a better picture of your character and more information I can use in the game-wide Events I have in the works.

Updates will happen whenever I happen to get a bunch of orders at the same time (particularly if they relate to each other). They can also happen whenever I feel like it! They should not be necessarily expected, but appreciated if/when they occur.

That is all! As always, questions are more than welcome.

 

[oxfordroyale]

A City in Chaos
Turn 1 (Summer) – Arc 1, Event 2​

War has come to Harlow.

In the early hours of the morning, a bar owned by the Red Hand is assaulted by a single, unidentified gunman. While the few innocent patrons of the establishment are spared from any harm, every criminal on the premises is slain in a dizzying hail of gunfire – all save one. The sole survivor, grievously wounded in the attack, claims to his superiors that the masked assassin cursed at them in Mandarin before opening fire. While the Dragon Killers deny responsibility for the attack when accused, they also refuse to make a formal commitment to peaceful coexistence with their Eastern European rivals; tensions between the two had already been slowly building for months as a direct result of the Asian gang’s aggressive territorial expansion, and the Dragon Killers have no desire to establish friendlier relations. Fearing that the attack was merely a prelude to a larger offensive campaign, the Red Hand begins to prepare for war.

Two nights later, the Lucky Lantern gambling den is the site of what can only be described as a massacre. Eleven members of the Dragon Killers are killed by a lone attacker; one of Zheng Feng’s own lieutenants, a metahuman known as Ironfang, is among the casualties. The waiter who the assassin bribed for admittance claims under torture that the perpetrator was a white man who spoke Russian. Believing this was intended as retaliatory hit by the Red Hand, a furious Zheng declares war on the Eastern European gang. The Red Hand responds in kind by striking across the border into Chinatown, and battle is formally joined.

While it has been only a few days since the outbreak of open hostilities, the bodies are already pilling up. High-ranking members on both sides have been assassinated, dozens of foot soldiers are dead, and several hideouts and illegal businesses have been torched. Caught flat-footed, the M.C.R.U. and the city’s civilian police forces scramble in an attempt to contain the unfolding chaos and violence as best they can; numerous arrests are made, but these hasty actions utterly fail to staunch the flow of blood. One begins to wonder how the city of Harlow, already on edge due to the recent string of cape-killings, will continue to cope with these repeated body blows.

In completely unrelated news, the price of weapons and ammunition on the black market soars to new heights; somewhere far from the fire and hail of bullets, someone is making a great deal of money.

 

[Terraferma]

Operation: First Strike (Part 1 of 2)​

The Arm, Harlow

Mission ETA: 48 Hours


Sweat dripped down the man’s face. Alec attempted to keep his heart rate at a normal level while he threw his punches but failed miserably.

Keep striking he thought. He was fighting for his life.

Or so he was pretending.

The ex-soldier pummeled away at the punching bag, pushing himself to his limits, he started his regimen four hours ago. Despite a rather packed night at Tony’s Gym it’s as if no one existed. Nothing existed. It was just him and his target. A left hook, then a quick jab followed by an uppercut. It was then that he finally gave out and ceased training.

A flood of noise and awareness entered his mind. Guys all around him were either chattering shooting the breeze or were actually working out, the loud clangs of weights crashing together or being dropped to the ground.

Newman just stood there, hugging his former enemy catching his breath. After a few moments he regained his composure and made his way towards the abandoned bench press machine, his duffel bag and towel placed neatly on top. After drying off, he unzipped the bag and drew out a plastic transparent bottle, squirting a steady stream of water into his mouth.

Despite being a relatively “new member” nobody paid any heed to him, not yet. Deadeye preferred it that way. Less distractions, less annoyances. It was time to return to base and prepare for what was to come.


Red Square, Midtown

Mission ETA: 1 hour

Again and again, he reviewed the plan: Enter, make contact, leave one survivor and get out. Failure was not an option. In the last couple of days Newman was conducting subtle reconnaissance, shadowing various areas within the heartland of the Red Hand. He took great pains to blend in and take mental notes, aware of any curious eyes on him. Tonight would be the culmination of his efforts. Dressed in a black raincoat he made sure to hide his Dragon Killer colors until the very last moment. Thank god it was pouring tonight, even better there was poor visibility due to the heavy winds.

There was no body armor tonight and his stowed twin glock 29s were his only protection. Be quick or be dead.

Staring down at the puddles Alec just kept walking, it was the wee morning hours now. Few souls were out especially in this weather. Because of this he just stared at the ground, purposefully stepping on every puddle he could find. The yellow headband was already on, obscured by the hoodie.

Enter, make contact, leave survivor, get out.

It was then that he saw the neon-red lights of Odessa, reflecting off one of the large puddles. The place was known as an open-late bar frequented by known members of the Red Hand. Had good drinks too. Just before going in he pulled out a green bandanna and slowly tied it around his face covering his mouth and nose. Pushing past the door, Alec straightened out his coat and peered around. Quite a few patrons, risk of collateral. But the little troop was right where he needed them to be, in the far left corner of the bar. 6 of them, drinking themselves to an absolute stupor. Fools. Scanning the room one last time he could make out a few more scattered around. This needed to be done, and quick. Instinctively touching his sides, the would-be assassin's nerves were settled feeling the fine grooves of his weapons pressing against his skin.

Show time.

Enter, make contact, get out.

He slowly walked up to the table, eyeing their drinks before making sure they noticed him. Words were said and with his cue, Deadeye pulled off his drenched rain coat brandishing the persona of a Dragon Killer member. It was then that time slowed down to a halt.

The dead men had a look of anger and surprise on their faces. Only two managed to go for their weapons, one of them a revolver on the table but it was far too late. With both handguns drawn Deadeye smirked at the poor sap who almost managed to touch the weapon holstered at his ribs.

He was the first to die.

One shot, one kill. No bullets were wasted, no shot missed.

Enter. Get out.

5 of the 6 were lifeless by the time the others realized what had gone down. Spinning on his heels Deadeye let the enemy do the work for him, those that sought cover or cowed in fear he left alone. Civilians. Those who betrayed their emotions to him and went for their assorted weapons, were shot before they themselves could take a chance.

All but one. A bullet whizzed past Newman, destroying a beer bottle near him. Big mistake.

Without even looking, Newman raised his left hand up and slightly to the left and fired. The projectile went right through his heart, leaving quite the mess on the wall.

Unloading the spent cartridges he turned around, confident there was no need to reload. The lone survivor was fell to the ground on his side, favoring his arm and leg.

Get out.

The assailant took a few steps and towered over the man, his face concealed. Adding a few more words in Mandarin he warned him the Dragon Killers are the new kings in town. With that, Deadeye turned around and headed for the exit the same way he came. Faces, that’s all they were. Mere faces.

Mission ETA: 48 hours

 

[Tapscott]

Chapter Two

Mask and Bones
July 29th, 2017
9:49 PM​

Dressed in her hero outfit ‘Bones’ looked around in shock. The Mask’s attacks on the members of the criminal underworld always were violent, and tonight it seemed like he was out for blood. Half a dozen members of the East Empire gang lay scattered across the warehouse floor in varying degrees of consciousness. The man closest to her rocked on the floor nursing a wound on his face, groaning quietly, the marks of Bones’ ‘claws’ having scored deep slices across his face. The rest of the bodies littering the floor were all victims of the Mask, his quick attacks leaving many broken bones and shattered egos.

An agonized screech from the other side of the warehouse caused her to snap her head up quickly. Across from her, kneeling over a criminal, was the Mask. His voice was little more than a whisper as he pressed the wounded man for information. The criminal’s responses were weak, pleading. She couldn’t hear what he said but the Mask’s response made her imagine it wasn’t satisfactory. Digging his thumb into an exposed wound, the broken bone that had pierced through the man’s flesh being cruelly shunted aside as he sought to inflict more pain, the Mask repeated his question again.

Feeling sick at her friend’s, and superior’s, actions she quickly cast her gaze away, eager to distract herself with anything that could help with the investigation. Super-heroes were being killed in their homes, their ‘secret identities’ compromised. The panic in the M.C.R.U, and the scramble for results, had many heroes out investigating any possible leads. While most tried to keep up their heroic persona, embodying the ideals of justice, liberty, and mercy, there were a few like the Mask that paid no attention to such trifles. He wanted results, and damn the cost. The continued groaning of the man at her feet finally caught her attention, leading her to squat down and prop the man up so he was sitting.

“I need you to tell me what you know, anything that could help me and my friend find the psycho that is killing other capes.”

Spitting phlegm onto concrete floor, the man blearily glared at her. “I ain’t know nothing you caped bitch. You can suck my co-” He screamed as she slapped his open wound.

“Please work with me. I don’t want to hurt you. Just tell me what you know and we can stop this.” Behind her another scream echoed through the warehouse, eliciting a shudder from the man in front of her.

“You gonna keep that freak of yours away from me? I tell you alls I know and he won’t touch me?”

“He won’t lay a finger on you unless you make him.”

“That’s a bloody shit answer.” The man sighed and pushed himself more upright. “Fine. What do wanna know?”

“Anything that can help lead us to the monster that murders other capes.”

“Monster is a crappy thing to call the guy that kills your friends. You think that he’s a monster just cause he doesn’t care if you lot are dressed up in your capes when he attacks? He’s a killer, pure and simple.”

“He attacks them in their homes. Murders them when they are defenceless. He is a monster.”

Gesturing towards the Mask, scorn was evident on the man’s face. “That creep over there is a monster. Seems to me that there are monsters everywhere if you wanna call folks names.” Pushing his hair out of his eyes the man squirmed uneasily. “Look, I dunno anything about the killer. Know even less than you, other than he must be a real mean son-of-a-bitch to get you lot shaking in your boots.”

“Look, tell me what you know already!” Bones stood up, hands on her hips. “I really don’t want to call the Mask over but he will get answers out of you one way or another if you keep on screwing around.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, beads of sweat began to form on his brow, terror flashing across his face the man quickly broke down. “Alright! Keep him away! Please! I’ll tell you all I know!”

“Good. So what information do you have?”

“Like I said, I don’t know nothin ‘bout the killer. I know a guy who should though!”

“What’s his name?”

“The guys just call him French! No fuckin’ idea what his real name is! He owns a pub, the White Bear! You’ll find him there! I promise!”

She smiled gently at the terrified man on the floor. “Good. See? All you have to do is talk and nothing bad will happen.”

“So… So, the pyscho over there won’t touch me?” He shuddered as a weak groan faintly came from the Mask’s area.

“Of course he won’t. Take care.” Turning her back on the man she quickly walked over to the Mask, who was straightening up, a pale and battered body curled up before him. Tearing her gaze away from the ruined man, she looked into the calm green eyes that peered out from behind the mask, and steadied her voice.

“I got a name. A man called French, owns a pub called the White Bear. The man said he knows more than the others.”

The Mask nodded as he placed a hand on her shoulder affectionately, the blood and gore on his hand making Bones pale slightly. “Excellent work. My… friend said the same. We have a name, we have a place. Now we just work on our plan of attack.”

Easing herself out of his grip Bones turned to exit the warehouse, the Mask following her quietly. “Do you think this ‘French’ guy knows anything?”

“He’ll tell us all he knows. I am sure some of his words will be of value.” Her mind flashed back to the warehouse and the pained screams of the man the Mask worked on. Shuddering slightly she had to agree with the Mask. French would certainly tell them both all he knew, her friend would see to that.

 

[Terraferma]

Operation: First Strike (Part 2 of 2)​

It had been two days since the shootout in Odessa. Nothing.

At least a half a dozen Red Hand members were killed, leaving one alive to recount what had transpired. Since then, absolutely nothing.

It was to be expected.

From the beginning Newman figured a second operation would be needed, a retaliatory strike on the Dragon Killers would light the tinderbox. Or so he hoped. He was aware of the tension even before the mission, while a success it did not achieve the war his employers were looking for.

It was time to make a little trip to the maw of the beast. It was time to murder some D.K’s and the peace in Harlow along with it.

Midtown, Lucky Lantern: 10:41 PM

Formal attire was definitely something Alec was not use to. He always preferred casual clothing or even better, the usual tactical gear. You can take the soldier out of the battlefield but you can’t take the battlefield out of the soldier. As he approached the target location he made sure to adjust his grey suit along with his red tie, a metal briefcase accompanied him as well. The cold hard cash. The money fronted to him in advance really paid off. Prior to leaving his residence Newman remembered to insert his eye contacts, effectively changing his eye color from a mundane brown to a rather light blue. His Russian was a little rusty in spite of his practicing but it’ll have to do.

Slipping into the nearby alley he looked at his watch.

Hopefully the guy is punctual, he thought to himself.

The Lucky Lantern was a big gambling spot, effectively run by the Dragon Killers. The last time he was here Deadeye had to scope the area out for over seven hours before intercepting a man who worked as a waiter inside the place. He exited the money den through the front, Newman tailed him just long enough to make sure no one could hear the conversation near an abandoned bus stop. Security was tight and credentials were even tighter to enter this rather popular establishment according to the man. Rumor has it even some of the Lieutenants of high ranking D.K.’s visited the place, though it was always informal and without advanced notice. Shame. Newman, using a mix of Russian and English, tried to bribe the guy with two grand to get in through the back door. That didn’t work.

Alec upped it to 5.

Everyone had a price, even this basterd right?

Still no.

The waiter was getting ready to push past on his way home him until Deadeye grabbed the poor sap by the collar and promised 10,000 dollars in cash along with the “I won’t kill you right now” clause of the agreement.

His watch showed 10:58. His contact was already two minutes late.

Muttering a curse Newman dropped the metal briefcase and did a quick weapons check, his two glock 29s were loaded and holstered, safeties off. For some protection he wore a light vest that aided against light weapons but would not save him from a shotgun round.

It was then the alleyway door slowly swung open. The waiter poked his head out and gestured to him.

Casually walking on in, the new guest tossed the case at the man speaking in Russian.

“Count it if you’d like.”

The kitchen was devoid of any staff, how discrete deadeye thought. Pity the waiter might not live to spend all that money.

There was a brown wooden door, leading into a dark hall. Taking a deep breath the assassin pressed on, noticing the silhouettes of other locked doors both to the left and right. Where they led to, he cared not. His interest was squarely on the large metal door at the end of the area. Shimmering light streaked out from the opening at the bottom.

As he reached the door Alec paused, reaching into his suit he drew a bandanna and drew out his weapons.

1…2…3…

Kicking down the door he shot the first two bouncers he came across, their bodies went limp and crashed into the slot machines. A trio of men cried out in anger and charged at him, knives and swords drawn.

Tilting his head in amusement Deadeye gunned them all down, adding to his kill count. Two more emerged from behind the bar armed with a shotgun and an assault rifle prompting Alec’s eyes to bulge open and dive for cover as the bullet whizzed all around him.

Not good. Not good.

Outgunned he noticed the men were just shooting constantly in absolute panic, bidding his time he waited for the precise moment. A spent magazine hit the floor and Deadeye sprung out hitting both men with three rounds a piece, 2 to the chest and one to the head to make sure.

Another group burst through the front door, led by a man with a red bandana on his head. But this one was different. Felt different. Something was wrong.

Seconds later Deadeye realized he was facing off against Ironfang himself. With his arms extended wide Feng’s right-hand man unleashed a barrage of metal spikes, penetrating everything nearby: corpses, chairs, concrete. Everything but, thankfully, the assassin himself. Hiding behind a fallen slot machine, Newman grabbed one of the dead and used him as a human shield. Looking over the body Alec saw the spikes not only ripped through the machine but penetrated deep into the man.

“You will find yourself unlucky at the Lucky Lantern!” Ironfang roared.

Breaking into a sprint, true to their nature, Ironfang aggressively closed the gap. The gangster flashed a toothy, predatory grin showing off his grills so sure of claiming his latest prize. He truly was quick.

But not quick enough.

Out of his hiding place Deadeye lobbed a flash grenade, the only one he had and in a blinding flash Ironfang stopped in his tracks attempting to agonizingly shield his eyes.

With a quick reload it Deadeye quickly got onto a knee and squeezed the trigger. Shot after shot rang out, until there was an abrupt silence.

Silence followed by the sound of bodies crumpling over.

Click click click

Out of ammo both barrels were emitting smoke. With a deep breath and snapping to attention, the last man standing rushed out of the building and into the night.

The deed was done and the mission complete. Within 72 hours his efforts were indeed successful as the two rival gangs erupted into open war.

In mere days, dozens of foot soldiers were killed. High-ranking officers were eliminated and various fronts were in flames.

Nothing like destabilizing an area. Only this time it wasn’t on the behalf of the government.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

 

[Corman50]

North Shore

The raining is falling rather heavily as Trevor pulls up to a row of densely packed houses in his car and parks. He steps out, locks the door and walks to a certain house. He rings the door bell and waits for a couple before a female voice on the other side asks "Who is it?"

"Your only son" Trevor replies with a smile in his face

The door opens and there stands an elderly African Ameican woman. She looks at Trevor pleasantly surprised. "Boy, you should have told me you were coming over, I would have gotten the place ready for you!" she exclaims happily

"It wouldn't have been much of a surprise if I had told you" he replies as he steps in the door way and puts away his jacket.

"Mmmmh hmm" she sighs as she heads into the back of the house into the kitchen "I was making myself dinner before you got here, I don't have much but I can make you a little something." she shouts

"No it's fine" he replies "I'm not staying long"

She comes backs into living room into holding a couple small plates of foods and hands one to Trevor, who just sighs.

"I'd complain if your cooking wasn't so good mom," he says as he takes a bite of the some of the food. The two then talked for close to an hour about what's been happening in each other's personal lives, and currents events in the community and in the news. It was when they talked about the latter that she noticed he was building up to something yet stopping just short of saying it out right. Eventually, she decided she had enough.

"Now dear, you should know by now that if you want to tell me something you can alright say it. So go on, tell me"

Trevor is taken aback by this for a second but he soon regains some composure and lets out a sigh.

"I think you should start looking at selling the house."

"How can you say that?" she asks dismayed "This is the house where we became a family, where you were raised in! I can't just let this all go like that!" she exclaims with a snap of her fingers and a hand gesture

"I'm only saying that it might be safer to move to the suburbs or at least a.... a different neighborhood"

"A neighborhood with less crime you mean?"

"Yes" he sighs "That's the main reason"

"Why is it a problem now?"

"You've seen the news. Things are getting violent out there, the gangs at each other's throats"

"But it ain't happening in this neighborhood"

"Not yet. But I'll doubt it'll take long"

"Why are we talking about this now? The gangs ain't anything new."

Trevor pauses for a moment to think of a response "I just don't wanna see you get hurt"

"No one on this street is in the business of hurting little old ladies and a lot wouldn't let anyone else do it either," she says trying to reassure him with little success. "Besides I got my secret weapons" she then points to a row small angel statues. Trevor can't help but smirk at this

"Okay, Mom you win this time. But please think about it." Trevor then gets up and heads to the door "I gotta get going now, but I'll be checking up on you whenever I can"

"Good. That means I get to see my big boy more."

With that Trevor get's his coat and leaves. The rain hasn't stopped completely but it has lightened up a little bit. He puts the hood of his rain coat up and walks toward his car. He gets close, slows down and then speeds up and walks past once he notices the man who started following him from the alley. He gets the benefit of a doubt as Trevor walks down the street and turns a couple corners hoping the man will change directions and the fact that he doesn't dash those hopes aside. Trevor turns into the next alley vanishing from his pursuer's sight for a moment. It's at this the man finally reveals his intention as he pulls out a pistol, cocks it and points it at the back of his "victim's" head.

"Empty your pockets and Give me your wallet! Now!" the mugger shouts.

"You don't want to do this, trust me," Trevor says in a markedly deeper voice than normal and with his back still facing toward the mugger "Just put the gun down and walk away"

"You ain't in the position to tell me anything!" the mugger says with some level of confidence "Now, your wallet! I ain't asking again!"

Trevor takes a deep breath "Fine, don't say I didn't warn you."

It only took a second, a brief moment, a puff of wind, and the familiar pain of a punch to the gut. Before the mugger even knew what happened he was on the ground. As Trevor walks away the man lifts up his gun and pulls the trigger. With a click, all that happens is Trevor drops a bullet from his hand. With another click, Trevor drops the rest of the ammo followed by the clip itself. He stops in the alleyway before turning around and walking back toward the unlucky assailant. At this point, Trevor is wearing a pair sunglasses and has a bit of cloth covering the lower half of his face. He grabs him by the collar and holds him close.

"How long were you following me?!" Trevor demands in the deep voice.

The man remains silent for a minute "A couple blocks. I was waiting in an alley and started following once you walked past." The would-be-thief admits begrudgingly.

"All I needed to know" with that Trevor hits him with a firm punch to the face, knocking him out. "I really need to get her out of this neighborhood," he says to himself before walking away.

 

[oxfordroyale]

This weekend is very hectic (I am moving houses and work is busy) for me, but expect another event or IC to move along the ongoing events early next week. Orders, IC or new sign ups are still welcome.

 

[Terraferma]

This weekend is very hectic (I am moving houses and work is busy) for me, but expect another event or IC to move along the ongoing events early next week. Orders, IC or new sign ups are still welcome.

Bonus rolls for the one who finds the remote to his AC, he packed it away.

 

[Scrapknight]

Name: Joseph Biermann

Alias: Beer Man

Identity: Known

Age: 48 (b. December 12th, 1969)

Appearance: Tall, overweight Caucasian man. His costume consists of tattered blue sweatpants and a dirty, “wifebeater” undershirt with his symbol, a frothy mug of beer decorated with a capital “B”, emblazoned on it.

Abilities:

- Indestructible Liver: Beer Man can filter out virtually any poison from his bloodstream in a matter of moments, and can do so selectively. This means that he can survive all kinds of toxic substances, but its most practical use in his case is that it allows him to consume incredible amounts of alcohol without any potentially lethal side effects.

- Drunken Master: More importantly, the drunker Beer Man is, the more powerful he becomes, gaining superhuman strength and durability as he consumes more alcohol. At high BAC levels, he can take a direct hit from a speeding truck and emerge unscathed, juggle grown men like bowling pins, and punch through solid steel. MCRU scientists theorize that his power could theoretically increase even further, but in practice he would pass out before that would ever happen.

- Weaknesses: While Beer Man can become incredibly strong and tough, his reflexes and speed do not improve, and in fact are worsened when he is inebriated like a normal person. He also cannot consume an infinite amount of alcohol, and tends to pass out after reaching about .6 BAC. On the rare occasions when he is sober, he is little more than a normal man, and an unhealthy, unathletic one at that. Finally, to be honest, Beer Man is not very intelligent when he's sober, and it only gets worse when he's drunk. He's having a good day if he remembers to put his super suit on the right way.


Background:

Born Joseph Holtz to a lower-middle class family in the West End, Joseph was a high school dropout with poor life prospects. Despite all that, he found a decent job at a convenience store, living with his parents and spending all his free time and money on consuming large amounts of alcohol. He only realized his powers had manifested when, in 1997, he got in a bar fight after a going on a truly epic bender and literally punched a man through a wall. After some experimentation with all manner of substances, he realized that alcohol was what fueled this superhuman strength and durability, and at about this time was contacted by officers of the MCRU. As one of the more theoretically powerful metahumans they had yet encountered, despite his alcoholism, low intelligence and bad attitude, the optimistic top brass were convinced that he could be molded into an effective hero.

They were, for the most part, wrong.

Taking the name Beer Man, and soon after changing his real name to match his “secret” identity, his “handlers” at the MCRU worked tirelessly to interest him in training, physical fitness and combat strategy. None of it stuck. He was mainly interested in drinking, partying, futilely attempting to hit on female staff, and drinking. He would sleep for most of the day after hard nights of drinking, making matters even worse. After a few years of this, the MCRU cut him a new deal: if he would agree to participation in experiments into the nature of his powers, the theoretical potential of which was still of great interest to the chiefs at the organization, they would give him room and board, beer on tap, and not bother him about doing any actual “hero-ing.” Beer Man, knowing a good deal when he saw one, agreed, and spent the next ten years as effectively a pampered lab rat, consuming keg after keg in bliss.

This changed in 2009, when a gang of small-time supervillains tried to destroy the Harlow Brewing Co.’s distillery in Midtown. When Beer Man got wind of this, he got wasted, broke free from his handlers, and marched down to the distillery to battle the dastardly villains himself. Defeating them handily, he finally realized an important truth: if the world was destroyed, there wouldn’t be any more beer for him to drink. From that day forth, Beer Man sought to protect the city… when he felt like it and could be bothered. The MCRU, having already sunk tens of thousands of dollars into him, at this point has pretty much thrown up their hands, basically trying to point him in the right direction when there’s evil afoot and hoping he does more damage to the criminals than he does to civilians or himself.

Alignment: Hero

 

[oxfordroyale]

Scrapknight's char is approved.

 

[jeeshadow]

Name: Abigail (Abby) Kerns

Alias: Vox Novis (voice of the strange)

Identity: Mostly Secret. M.C.R.U knows, along with her family, her editors, and some of her co-workers at The Harlow Star

Age: March 3rd, 1991 (26)

Appearance: Light brown hair (usually kept in a bun or ponytail), green eyes, round face with a light smear of freckles over her nose, 5’4” in height, quite thin, has glasses. All in all, fairly unintimidating person. Tends to wear somewhat colorful dresses along with a blazer.

Abilities:

Visions: She occasionally has visions (she hasn’t figured out how to trigger them yet) often related to something of importance to her (usually a story or personal crisis). If set in the past, present, or future it is usually hard for her to immediately figure out and she is mostly only able to grasp onto a few details, requiring her to engage in more traditional journalistic methods to truly figure things out. Still, her powers have led her to cracking tough stories, or deliver her scoops.

Astral Projection: She has the ability to project an invisible form of herself outside of her body. It has its limitations, such as leaving the body vulnerable, limited range of about a block, and is exhausting, limiting its time of usage. Also, as someone who takes the right to privacy seriously, it forces her to deal with very tough ethical questions.

Danger Intuition: Abby gets a distinct feeling when something bad is about to happen, and often a gut instinct how to avoid immediate danger (like ducking behind a wall right before someone shoots). The M.C.R.U. thinks it is an offshoot of her vision power. Only useful for an immediate danger, and still fairly vague.

She also owns a can of mace and a Glock (properly registered and everything! She is pro gun control).

Background:

Abby: Ironically born on the 10th Anniversary of the appearance of the star that started the Phenomenon, Abby grew up as part of the solidly middle class Kerns family. Her father, Jeff, was a bank manager, and her mother, Charlotte, was a clerk for the local courts. She also has an older brother, who is two years older than her, named Alec. The family lived in the suburban environment of Romsey allowing the kids to in general avoid the chaos of the city. Still, growing up Abby was told about the (at the time still recent) chaos that resulted from the Phenomenon, along with stories from when the supervillians ruled Harlow. Despite living a somewhat sheltered life in Romsey, Abby and Alec were never fans of Harlow and both desired to get out.

When each of them were in their freshman year at Romsey High (Romsey has one of the better school districts in the area) the two siblings began to develop their powers. Being good citizens, the Kearn parents took them to be registered with the Federal Government. Besides getting thru the terrible experience that is High School, they also had to conduct additional M.C.R.U training to help them understand their powers, and use them in an ethical fashion. After High School, despite the two of them both being straight A students, the siblings would end up taking very different paths. Alec was more interested in living a personally good life, and escaping Harlow. He would go to college getting a degree in business, then after finishing his MBA, he would wind up with a job on Wall Street (his powers have helped expedite his rise).

Abby on the other hand had a greater interest in politics, writing, and public service. Deciding she was not really interested in government work, she got a BA in Journalism from Boston University. Unfortunately for her, the only decent journalism jobs she could get were back in Harlow. Her first job in Journalism (not including her internship at The Boston Globe) was two and a half years at The Daily Harlow, the major tabloid in the city (although it does do some actual Journalism at times), doing various investigations, and eventually getting promoted to the City Hall desk. She then managed to score a job at the Harlow Star, which she has been at for the past year and a half. She mainly covers City politics, but she still does a lot of investigative pieces and has often been loaned to the Crime desk. She also has a Twitter account with a decent following for a local reporter (while generally a fairly quiet and polite person, her Twitter is known for its snarkiness at times). Finally, she also writes more editorialized political content anonymously on a blog dedicated to Metahuman affairs, and other national politics, under the pen name Vox Novis. Her dream job is to get out of Harlow and work for the New York Times or Washington Post, although she would be more than willing to settle for a transfer to The Star’s Washington Bureau. Abby also currently lives in an apartment she rents in Preston Heights. She, with her parents, are just now returning to Harlow after visiting her brother in New York City, only to find a city now at war with itself.


The Harlow Star: The Harlow Star (The Star for short) is the oldest, and by far largest, paper in Harlow. It was originally founded as an organ of the local Republican Party in the lead up to the Civil War, but by the 1900s it had transitioned into a more traditional, reporting based, newspaper. A well respected paper, throughout its long history it has brought down many a corrupt politician, businessman, or mobster (and protected quite a few as well). It was won a decent amount of Pulitzers in its time, although, in the eyes of its staff, its proudest moment came in the eighties.

After the start of the Phenomenon, metahuman villains took over the beleaguered city of Harlow. No one really dared stand up to them, not the government, not the police, and not even the good metahumans in the City. The Star, on the other hand, decided to do so. Its reporters carefully chronicled the connections of the metahumans, their reign of terror, their grip on power, and various other crimes. When released the story of what was going on in Harlow not just shocked Massachusetts, but really the entire nation. It came at a heavy cost though. Many reporters were hunted down and killed. The Star’s offices were also attacked and burned to the ground, killing a number of other staff. Still, these sacrifices was not for nothing. Local metahumans decided to take a more active role in opposing the villains. National capes began to come to Harlow to help in the fight while the Federal Government was pressured to take action as well. The Star won a Pulitzer for its story as well.

The Star would, naturally, rebuild when things calmed down. Now, in the 21st Century it faces challenges familiar to newspapers all around the country. Still, it is rising to meet them, with the creation of a state of the art website, an algorithmically targeted paywall with digital only editions of the paper (along with other features), and a focus on cultivating ad revenue. The paper also has a presence far beyond just Harlow. While it is far from NYT or WaPo, it is in the top 30 most read newspapers in the nation and is competing with The Boston Globe to be the top New England newspaper. Its parent company is also owned and run by investors willing to support the newspaper, a collection of some of the city’s rich, powerful, and somewhat shady, as The Star has a reputation for being soft on those that fund it (on the other hand it pulls no punches when it comes to city politics or those investors competition). It is also employs metahumans (although it keeps their identities confidential in that regard) in a world where employment discrimination against them is quite common. With a new headquarters in the Financial District, The Harlow Star feels ready to take on the challenges its city is now facing.


Alignment: Hero

 

[oxfordroyale]

Jeeshadow is accepted.

 

[oxfordroyale]

A City in Chaos II
Turn 1 (Summer) – Arc 1, Event 3​

Over the past few weeks, the city of Harlow has been severely shaken by the emergence of a bloody gang conflict long in the making. While the Red Hand employs precise, almost surgical strikes against their adversaries, resulting in the deaths of several high-profile Chinese crime figures (though notably not Zheng Feng himself), the Dragon Killers mount devastating, total war-style attacks which see Harlow’s largest Eastern European community devastated by nightly shoot-outs, arson and murders. Civilians are all too frequently caught in the crossfire, with many innocent bystanders killed in gunfights between gangs and a staggering amount of property damage inflicted upon homes and local businesses. In the words of one reporter with a flair for the dramatic, “It is as if Hell has come to Harlow.”

The media – predictably – quickly becomes preoccupied by these events. As a gruesome war between criminals escalates in its ferocity and scale, the public is deluged on a daily basis by disturbing news reports of the violence and chaos which has gripped their city. People are scared and outraged by the lack of an effective response to the fighting from authorities, and on television the typical pundits brutalize the city’s civilian police forces for their seeming inability to stem the bloodshed. Efforts by Harlow’s resident capes are criticized as being similarly weak and disorganized. Anxious to provide at least the appearance of order for the sake of his upcoming re-election campaign, the Mayor of Harlow issues an emotional and public appeal to the M.C.R.U. for a more concerted effort against the gangs; while still struggling to address insecurities stemming from the unresolved Cape Killings, the agency is forced to comply or risk even further degradation of the public’s trust in them as an institution.

On the order of Director Harrison, dozens of Harlow’s masked crusaders descend upon Midtown with the goal of bringing these dangerous and destructive criminals to justice and reaffirming the rule of law. Unfortunately for them, both the Red Hand and the Dragon Killers have their own metahumans on retainer who desire the exact opposite outcome. In a striking example of the dangers superpowered conflict can pose in densely-packed urban areas, the first major confrontation between capes and criminals results in the deaths of five civilians and the hospitalization of two others. Will the M.C.R.U. eventually prove successful in halting the fighting, or will their straightforward and aggressive strategy only contribute to the body count?

While most suffer as a result of the gang war, others prosper; the Merchants, having accumulated large caches of illegal weaponry prior to the outbreak of the war, proceed to sell their wares to both sides for exorbitant prices, flooding the streets with military-grade weaponry and their coffers with cold, hard cash. They are not the only ones who see the outbreak of violence as an opportunity, either: taking full advantage of the shift in police attention away from them, Harlow’s premier white nationalist gang, Eastside Empire, expands its territory and influence by forcibly subsuming several smaller gangs they had locked horns with in the past. Despite having been effectively leaderless for a significant period of time following their founder’s death, the criminal organization finally finds a suitable commander in the form of Crusher, a new but exceedingly powerful metahuman with the power to manipulate gravity. It is rumored that he attained the position by inviting other contenders for the leadership into a single room and pinning them to the floor with his power, allowing his followers the opportunity to slit their throats.

As buildings burn and blood fills the gutters, some fear that Harlow may be witnessing a return to the dark days of years past when criminals were bolder and heroes harder to find. Others hope that the capes of today will not be so easily cowed by the activities of petty gangsters and serial murderers.

Only time will tell which of them was right.

 

[Scrapknight]

BEER MAN COMICS
HOLOFOIL COLLECTOR'S EDITION!
ISSUE #1: GANGS GONE WILD!
​

BEER MAN, the City of HARLOW's greatest defender, springs into action against the DASTARDLY FORCES OF THE RED HAND AND THE DRAGON KILLERS!

BEER MAN: There's a MENACE stalking HARLOW. My CITY.

(Panning shot over alleys in MIDTOWN)

It has its HANDS in EVERYTHING. And EVERYONE.

Everyone but ME.

(BEER MAN punches out a metahuman Red Hand member)

It goes by the name SOBRIETY.

(BEER MAN tackles a DRAGON KILLER with an assault rifle)

And I will not GIVE IN to its INFLUENCE.

(BEER MAN chugs a bottle of beer and cracks his knuckles. He picks up a metahuman Dragon Killer by the throat.)

WHERE IS HE!?

GANGSTER: Eww, you spit in my face!

BEER MAN: ANSWER ME!

---

SUMMARY:

Beer Man rampaged through Midtown after getting good and drunk, chucking gangsters through brick walls until they, quote, "shut up." He was supposedly looking for the one behind it all, Zheng Feng, but spent as much time talking to suspicious looking dumpsters as actually making progress. Will he be able to bring down the criminal kingpin of crime? Tune in next week, same beer time, same beer channel!

If you remembered this is a comic book, good for you! As a reward for your vigilant reading, please find enclosed five Beer Bucks, redeemable for Beer Man Comics merchandise wherever good comics are sold. Cut them out and shove them in the cashier's face until he either accepts them as currency or he calls the police! (Offer void in the Marianas Trench.)