hi
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
J O H N D O Y L E
⫸ B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷
"You'd best make sure you don't miss your shot, bud, because I sure as hell won't miss mine."
▼ | BIRTH NAME : |
▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |
▼ | GENDER : |
▼ | AGE : |
Jonathan Elijah Doyle
▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |
Officer Doyle
Sheriff
Cowboy
Sheriff
Cowboy
▼ | GENDER : |
Male
▼ | AGE : |
41 - 05/11/1978
⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷
"I've seen roadkill prettier than me."
▼ | P H Y S I C AL S T A T S : |
▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |
▼ | ATTIRE : |
▸ HEIGHT : | 5'8
▸ WEIGHT : | 164 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Predominately Irish/English mix
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Dirty blond
▸ EYE COLOR : | Blue
▸ WEIGHT : | 164 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Predominately Irish/English mix
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Dirty blond
▸ EYE COLOR : | Blue
▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |
Jonathan Doyle is an old man from a different world, and he bears that fact in the way he carries himself. His shoulders slump heavy and low and dark bags hang like dead men underneath his sharp, judgmental eyes. A crooked nose, broken after one too many fistfights, sits center on his wrinkled face. A thin and stubbly mesh of facial hair stays glued to his flat chin, never getting quite as long or bushy as John would like.
Before time sanded away his best features, he liked to think he was quite handsome. Though not very tall, he was muscular and strapping, once upon a time; but age has taken away a degree of his form's definition, and left him with a slight gut and arms that are a shadow of their former selves. His hair, however, suffered the worst of it. He's felt his hairline creep further and further up his head with each passing year, his shame for it matched only by what he feels for the growing bald spot that crowns the top of his dome.
Only a few scars can be found across his body, though each holds a great deal of significance to him. He earned his first, a rather small mark across his left eyebrow, in a bar fight with a man that was eyeing Doyle's future wife. His second came to him when a Taliban put a bullet through the upper portion of his right forearm. The rest all appeared in the same, short time frame when an IED blew up underneath his squad's Humvee and a spray of shrapnel cut into him from his left thigh up to his bellybutton.
The only ink to cover his body's ugly mural is the emblem of the 10th Mountain Division, with its duel bayonets crossing over one another atop a powder keg-shaped background. Right beneath it are the numbers 1/78, indicating his battalion and regiment, respectively. The tattoo sits just off-center, resting above his heart.
Before time sanded away his best features, he liked to think he was quite handsome. Though not very tall, he was muscular and strapping, once upon a time; but age has taken away a degree of his form's definition, and left him with a slight gut and arms that are a shadow of their former selves. His hair, however, suffered the worst of it. He's felt his hairline creep further and further up his head with each passing year, his shame for it matched only by what he feels for the growing bald spot that crowns the top of his dome.
Only a few scars can be found across his body, though each holds a great deal of significance to him. He earned his first, a rather small mark across his left eyebrow, in a bar fight with a man that was eyeing Doyle's future wife. His second came to him when a Taliban put a bullet through the upper portion of his right forearm. The rest all appeared in the same, short time frame when an IED blew up underneath his squad's Humvee and a spray of shrapnel cut into him from his left thigh up to his bellybutton.
The only ink to cover his body's ugly mural is the emblem of the 10th Mountain Division, with its duel bayonets crossing over one another atop a powder keg-shaped background. Right beneath it are the numbers 1/78, indicating his battalion and regiment, respectively. The tattoo sits just off-center, resting above his heart.
▼ | ATTIRE : |
Doyle is typically seen wearing sheriff's uniform of Donovan County, Georgia. He holds no shortage of pride in bearing that seven-pointed star and that old campaign hat of his, even after eight years of consecutive service. The uniform's top is long sleeved and khaki colored, bearing on it his badge and a nameplate for identification purposes. The pants, meanwhile, are olive green and feature a khaki stripe down the exterior sides. His campaign hat, adorned with his county badge and golden cords, match the shade of his slacks.
When not on duty John tends to favor simplistic and rustic attire. Long sleeve button downs, blue jeans, and a brown, belt-leather jacket all serve him well most of the time. His choice of boots (oft either cowboy or some variant of combat, depending on the setting) and hat (nearly always some form of cowboy hat) are a source of mockery for how out of place they make him look in Palm Beach, but John isn't the sort to ever adapt to his environment, so he chooses to continue dressing like he's still in Pickett's Ridge.
The only jewelry he'll ever wear is the golden, smudged ring that rests on the ring finger of his left hand.
When not on duty John tends to favor simplistic and rustic attire. Long sleeve button downs, blue jeans, and a brown, belt-leather jacket all serve him well most of the time. His choice of boots (oft either cowboy or some variant of combat, depending on the setting) and hat (nearly always some form of cowboy hat) are a source of mockery for how out of place they make him look in Palm Beach, but John isn't the sort to ever adapt to his environment, so he chooses to continue dressing like he's still in Pickett's Ridge.
The only jewelry he'll ever wear is the golden, smudged ring that rests on the ring finger of his left hand.
⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷
"I'm nobody special, trust me. I'm just another asshole tryin'ta do the right thing."
▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |
▼ | SKILLS : |
▼ | BACK STORY : |
Stubborn | Driven | Idealistic | Fearless | Modest | Self-Righteous | Old Fashioned
▼ | SKILLS : |
GUNSLINGING || John's father took him to the range for the first time when he was eleven years old, and he's never quite stopped shooting since. His time in Afghanistan refined his shooting skill with long weapons like rifles and carbines, while his years as a deputy and sheriff have allowed him to master the revolver and shotgun. His greatest claim to fame, thus far, was putting a bullet through the eye of a Delta at 40 yards.
DRIVING || Life on the farm often saw young Jonathan behind the wheel of a pickup or the tractor as early on as twelve years old. As he grew older and more experienced and learned that running over Miss Graham's mailbox was generally a bad thing, John became steadily more comfortable as a driver. His career peaked when he started taxiing infantrymen across the Rigestan in a fat, sluggish HMMWV. He's been stuck with his'87 Chevrolet Caprice cruiser for the past eight years, though it has served him well: more than one drunken fool thought they could outrace the law and found themselves in a pair of cuffs not but half an hour later.
BOXING || John had plenty of downtime in Afghanistan between his duties, and he and his buddies decided the best way to spend that free time was to beat the shit out of each other. They found themselves a boxing coach at Bagram Airfield, put together a makeshift ring, and spent many a night drinking and punching one another. Doyle liked it well enough that he decided to continue practicing when he returned to the States, though his duties as a deputy and then a sheriff kept him from pursuing it too seriously. Still, he keeps his fundamentals polished enough, and it's served him well against many a belligerent idiot who tried to swing on him first.
ADMINISTRATION & COMMUNITY RELATIONS || No amount of rootin', tootin' or shootin' can make up for a sheriff that doesn't know how to file a report or deal with an angry citizen. It's far, far from John's favorite part of the job, but he wouldn't have gotten it if he couldn't do it. He's an organized person that works best with physical filing and paper in his hands, typically passing off anything digital to his secretary or one of the deputies. Doyle is generally well-liked in Pickett's Ridge and the rest of Donovan County, and he has a good rapport with the majority of the community thanks to his decisiveness in dealing with trouble and open-door, honesty-first policy.
DRIVING || Life on the farm often saw young Jonathan behind the wheel of a pickup or the tractor as early on as twelve years old. As he grew older and more experienced and learned that running over Miss Graham's mailbox was generally a bad thing, John became steadily more comfortable as a driver. His career peaked when he started taxiing infantrymen across the Rigestan in a fat, sluggish HMMWV. He's been stuck with his'87 Chevrolet Caprice cruiser for the past eight years, though it has served him well: more than one drunken fool thought they could outrace the law and found themselves in a pair of cuffs not but half an hour later.
BOXING || John had plenty of downtime in Afghanistan between his duties, and he and his buddies decided the best way to spend that free time was to beat the shit out of each other. They found themselves a boxing coach at Bagram Airfield, put together a makeshift ring, and spent many a night drinking and punching one another. Doyle liked it well enough that he decided to continue practicing when he returned to the States, though his duties as a deputy and then a sheriff kept him from pursuing it too seriously. Still, he keeps his fundamentals polished enough, and it's served him well against many a belligerent idiot who tried to swing on him first.
ADMINISTRATION & COMMUNITY RELATIONS || No amount of rootin', tootin' or shootin' can make up for a sheriff that doesn't know how to file a report or deal with an angry citizen. It's far, far from John's favorite part of the job, but he wouldn't have gotten it if he couldn't do it. He's an organized person that works best with physical filing and paper in his hands, typically passing off anything digital to his secretary or one of the deputies. Doyle is generally well-liked in Pickett's Ridge and the rest of Donovan County, and he has a good rapport with the majority of the community thanks to his decisiveness in dealing with trouble and open-door, honesty-first policy.
▼ | BACK STORY : |
A child was born in the tiny Georgian town of Picket's Ridge on a Thursday, minutes after the crack of dawn. John Doyle was a rowdy boy in his youth who spent his days reading comic books about cowboys, watching re-runs of Gunsmoke and running about town with his friends shooting invisible banditos with their cap guns. He had a penchant for picking fights with bullies and getting knocked on his rear-end fightin' for guys littler than himself; John didn't win too many of those fights, but that didn't stop him from jumping right back into it. His obsession may have lessened when he became a teenager, yet it never quite went away. He never quite stopped daydreaming about small-town heroes who did right by normal people and fought evil whenever they came across it.
His own chance to be a hero came in 2001 when evil men attacked his countrymen and changed the world forever. John would be hard pressed to find New York on a map, but he still felt righteous anger in his heart at the wrong that had been done to them. So he found the army recruiting office in Valdosta, said some sorta oath, and was promptly shipped off to the other side of the country to become a soldier. He was placed in the 10th Mountain Division, 1st battalion, 87th Regiment, and deployed to the God forsaken hellhole that was a Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. He arrived in the Middle East in December of 2001 and spent much of the next four months patrolling empty mountains and trying not to fall asleep during guard duty. He didn't make contact with the enemy until March in the Shahi-Kot Valley, during Operation Anaconda. He was lucky enough to have been part of the relief forces, so he faced the easiest of the fighting- though he still took a bullet through the arm and spent a week trying desperately to keep his head attached to his shoulders.
For as terrifying as combat was, John was surprised by how much closer he got to his squadmates during it all. Nothing makes closer bonds between two people than being stuck in a foxhole for eight hours, bodies pressed together and both of you smelling like shit. Doyle and his mates continued to enjoy their comradery for another three years, fighting and living side by side against a faraway foe. Things got sticky at times, sure, but they'd all been lucky enough to avoid anything life-threatening. The thing that came closest to killing them was boredom.
Until they ran over an IED.
Everyone in the transport was hurt in some way. John was peppered with shrapnel and wouldn't be able to walk properly for nearly a year. One of the boys didn't make it, in the end, and all of them would go on to be medically discharged for their injuries. Doyle returned back home to Pickett's Ridge in 2004 and received a hero's welcome. He spent the next three years in physical therapy for his wounded leg, sweet-talking one of the nurses at the clinic, an old spitfire from high school he never quite stopped thinking about named Abigail, until she finally caved and agreed to marry him. They had a son within the year, Marcus, and a daughter, Rose, followed just after him.
John was elated when his doctor finally cleared him to work again. He'd been sick of staying in bed, and he'd already seen every Western movie ever made at least twice by then. It didn't take long for him to find his way to the County Sheriff's office, where a deputy's badge was practically pinned on his chest the moment he walked in the front door. He spent the next four years patrolling Donovan and learning the ins and outs of the community. He found a passion for the work and dove head first into it, proving himself a capable peace officer and a trustworthy face in the community. By the time the sheriff election rolled over, nearly everyone was saying he should go for it. Doyle figured he might as well give it a shot; it might even be a little fun.
It turned out that the only difference between being a sheriff and being a deputy was the amount of paperwork quadrupled and his allotted time for sleep was cut in half. The first year of service was stressful, tiresome and all-around awful, but Abi refused to let him quit. He was forced to adapt to his circumstances and rely on others to lighten the burden for him. Things became far easier once he got used to delegating and organizing things, doing his best to mimic his sergeant's mindset from back in Afghanistan. By the time his third year had rolled around, Sheriff Doyle had grown fond of the position, no matter how frustrating some days might've gotten. He came to appreciate how much effort and passion it required of him. Some small part of him loved finally getting to play the gunslinging, hometown hero he'd imagined himself as when he was a kid.
Fast forward to 2019. Pickett's Ridge is as quiet as ever one, lonesome afternoon, and Sheriff Doyle is investigating a noise complaint at the Rusty Iron Motel in the southern part of town. A couple of young tourists were having a very loud, very angry spat, according to the motel's owner, so John was meant to swing by and see what the issue was. One of the motel's occupants was an infamous Delta criminal that went by the street name 'Warmonger.' He and three of his crew were hiding out in Pickett's Ridge after robbing a bank down in Charity City. They were planning to keep their heads down for a few months before they'd take the cash and split up. Evidentally a few of them weren't keen on waiting out, and their argument swiftly turned to violence. By the time Doyle and his deputies had arrived, Warmonger had already murdered his entire crew with his bare hands, and he was holed up in the motel room with the cash and their battered corpses.
Doyle hadn't known he was dealing with a metahuman at the time. Rather than start a protracted siege, he stacked up on the door with his men and decided to breach it. Deal with the threat quickly, before any damage could be done. Warmonger responded violently. John still remembers quite clearly the look on his deputy's face when he put two shotgun shells right into Warmonger's chest only for the Delta to tear him limb from limb. John and his men tried to retreat, but Warmonger followed, and their battle spilled out over Pickett's Ridge's streets. Nine dead, twenty-eight wounded and an hour later, John managed to put a bullet through the metahuman's eye and Warmonger went down. The sheriff handed temporary authority over to his second and proceeded to join federal and state law enforcement in escorting the Delta back to Charity City. John has been asked to stay in the city for awhile while 'Warmonger' is processed and the investigation is rounded out. As tired of it all as he was, Doyle agreed- he'd do anything he could to make sure that monster went away for life.
His own chance to be a hero came in 2001 when evil men attacked his countrymen and changed the world forever. John would be hard pressed to find New York on a map, but he still felt righteous anger in his heart at the wrong that had been done to them. So he found the army recruiting office in Valdosta, said some sorta oath, and was promptly shipped off to the other side of the country to become a soldier. He was placed in the 10th Mountain Division, 1st battalion, 87th Regiment, and deployed to the God forsaken hellhole that was a Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. He arrived in the Middle East in December of 2001 and spent much of the next four months patrolling empty mountains and trying not to fall asleep during guard duty. He didn't make contact with the enemy until March in the Shahi-Kot Valley, during Operation Anaconda. He was lucky enough to have been part of the relief forces, so he faced the easiest of the fighting- though he still took a bullet through the arm and spent a week trying desperately to keep his head attached to his shoulders.
For as terrifying as combat was, John was surprised by how much closer he got to his squadmates during it all. Nothing makes closer bonds between two people than being stuck in a foxhole for eight hours, bodies pressed together and both of you smelling like shit. Doyle and his mates continued to enjoy their comradery for another three years, fighting and living side by side against a faraway foe. Things got sticky at times, sure, but they'd all been lucky enough to avoid anything life-threatening. The thing that came closest to killing them was boredom.
Until they ran over an IED.
Everyone in the transport was hurt in some way. John was peppered with shrapnel and wouldn't be able to walk properly for nearly a year. One of the boys didn't make it, in the end, and all of them would go on to be medically discharged for their injuries. Doyle returned back home to Pickett's Ridge in 2004 and received a hero's welcome. He spent the next three years in physical therapy for his wounded leg, sweet-talking one of the nurses at the clinic, an old spitfire from high school he never quite stopped thinking about named Abigail, until she finally caved and agreed to marry him. They had a son within the year, Marcus, and a daughter, Rose, followed just after him.
John was elated when his doctor finally cleared him to work again. He'd been sick of staying in bed, and he'd already seen every Western movie ever made at least twice by then. It didn't take long for him to find his way to the County Sheriff's office, where a deputy's badge was practically pinned on his chest the moment he walked in the front door. He spent the next four years patrolling Donovan and learning the ins and outs of the community. He found a passion for the work and dove head first into it, proving himself a capable peace officer and a trustworthy face in the community. By the time the sheriff election rolled over, nearly everyone was saying he should go for it. Doyle figured he might as well give it a shot; it might even be a little fun.
It turned out that the only difference between being a sheriff and being a deputy was the amount of paperwork quadrupled and his allotted time for sleep was cut in half. The first year of service was stressful, tiresome and all-around awful, but Abi refused to let him quit. He was forced to adapt to his circumstances and rely on others to lighten the burden for him. Things became far easier once he got used to delegating and organizing things, doing his best to mimic his sergeant's mindset from back in Afghanistan. By the time his third year had rolled around, Sheriff Doyle had grown fond of the position, no matter how frustrating some days might've gotten. He came to appreciate how much effort and passion it required of him. Some small part of him loved finally getting to play the gunslinging, hometown hero he'd imagined himself as when he was a kid.
Fast forward to 2019. Pickett's Ridge is as quiet as ever one, lonesome afternoon, and Sheriff Doyle is investigating a noise complaint at the Rusty Iron Motel in the southern part of town. A couple of young tourists were having a very loud, very angry spat, according to the motel's owner, so John was meant to swing by and see what the issue was. One of the motel's occupants was an infamous Delta criminal that went by the street name 'Warmonger.' He and three of his crew were hiding out in Pickett's Ridge after robbing a bank down in Charity City. They were planning to keep their heads down for a few months before they'd take the cash and split up. Evidentally a few of them weren't keen on waiting out, and their argument swiftly turned to violence. By the time Doyle and his deputies had arrived, Warmonger had already murdered his entire crew with his bare hands, and he was holed up in the motel room with the cash and their battered corpses.
Doyle hadn't known he was dealing with a metahuman at the time. Rather than start a protracted siege, he stacked up on the door with his men and decided to breach it. Deal with the threat quickly, before any damage could be done. Warmonger responded violently. John still remembers quite clearly the look on his deputy's face when he put two shotgun shells right into Warmonger's chest only for the Delta to tear him limb from limb. John and his men tried to retreat, but Warmonger followed, and their battle spilled out over Pickett's Ridge's streets. Nine dead, twenty-eight wounded and an hour later, John managed to put a bullet through the metahuman's eye and Warmonger went down. The sheriff handed temporary authority over to his second and proceeded to join federal and state law enforcement in escorting the Delta back to Charity City. John has been asked to stay in the city for awhile while 'Warmonger' is processed and the investigation is rounded out. As tired of it all as he was, Doyle agreed- he'd do anything he could to make sure that monster went away for life.
⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷
"The walls whisper n' the streets grumble. They don't like you, boy, and neither do I."
▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |
▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |
▼ | LIMITS : |
▼ | WEAKNESSES : |
Type-White
▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |
Urban Manipulation/Influence || John Doyle possesses the ability to speak to, influence and manipulate urban environments. His power works in any environment shaped by human hands, though is typically strongest when in larger cities and towns. They tend to manifest to himself in the form of 'spirits' that embody whatever part of town he happens to be in, though John isn't sure these entities are real; in fact, he's convinced that these 'ghosts' are just how his mind processes the new information gleaned from his powers. And any backlash he receives from them is most likely spawned from him losing control of his abilities and misusing them in some form or another.
The amount of power that John has in any area is tied directly to his relationship with these 'ghosts;' those that he's more familiar with will be more willing to share information with him, or manipulate the city in some way to help Doyle. If he travels to a new area and encounters a new ghost it isn't likely to do much at all for him, and can even hinder Doyle if he asks too much of them.
The best method for John to befriend a part of the city is to do things for it. Anything from stopping graffiti artists to picking up trash can make a ghost warm up to him. Certain parts of the city might like it if he does favors for its best residents, or they might ask that he goes and sabotages another portion of the city for their enjoyment. The ghosts are an odd bunch, and each neighborhood and district talks and feels like its own, free-thinking person- as impossible and insane as that should be.
Examples of what his powers can do would include unlocking doors for him, pointing him toward escape routes, or helping him track down someone that recently came through an area. When Doyle has fully befriended a part of the city he might be able to form potholes in roads to stop escaping vehicles or cause street lamps to fall atop an attacker, or a trash can might launch itself at someone for him. His abilities never get too incredible- he'll never be bending streets like they're the tide or moving buildings around. They aren't particularly helpful in combat unless John can figure out a way to use them more creatively.
The amount of power that John has in any area is tied directly to his relationship with these 'ghosts;' those that he's more familiar with will be more willing to share information with him, or manipulate the city in some way to help Doyle. If he travels to a new area and encounters a new ghost it isn't likely to do much at all for him, and can even hinder Doyle if he asks too much of them.
The best method for John to befriend a part of the city is to do things for it. Anything from stopping graffiti artists to picking up trash can make a ghost warm up to him. Certain parts of the city might like it if he does favors for its best residents, or they might ask that he goes and sabotages another portion of the city for their enjoyment. The ghosts are an odd bunch, and each neighborhood and district talks and feels like its own, free-thinking person- as impossible and insane as that should be.
Examples of what his powers can do would include unlocking doors for him, pointing him toward escape routes, or helping him track down someone that recently came through an area. When Doyle has fully befriended a part of the city he might be able to form potholes in roads to stop escaping vehicles or cause street lamps to fall atop an attacker, or a trash can might launch itself at someone for him. His abilities never get too incredible- he'll never be bending streets like they're the tide or moving buildings around. They aren't particularly helpful in combat unless John can figure out a way to use them more creatively.
▼ | LIMITS : |
John's power is limited directly by the place he's in. In a town like Pickett's Ridge where he's served faithfully for much of his life, Doyle can assume that the ghosts will be more than willing to help him out when he asks them to. But in Charity City, he's a stranger. An outsider that hasn't proven himself quite yet. He'll need to familiarize himself with Charity first- to roam its streets and do good by its people- before the ghosts are willing to do anything for him.
Generally, Doyle is only able to interact with the city if its within 50 or so meters of himself. Anything beyond that is outside of his range. A neighborhood will usually remember the people that came through it for roughly two hours afterward with the trail tending to go cold not long after that, and Doyle can only follow someone's tracks if he knows who he's looking for. If John asks a neighborhood's ghost to do something to the detriment of a long-time resident, he'll usually be outright denied if not treated with disdain by the entity, provided he can't convince the ghost that the resident is bad for the neighborhood.
John's powers no longer function once he leaves civilization. Generally, this line is drawn at the city or town's limits, though he loses influence the further he gets from the center.
Generally, Doyle is only able to interact with the city if its within 50 or so meters of himself. Anything beyond that is outside of his range. A neighborhood will usually remember the people that came through it for roughly two hours afterward with the trail tending to go cold not long after that, and Doyle can only follow someone's tracks if he knows who he's looking for. If John asks a neighborhood's ghost to do something to the detriment of a long-time resident, he'll usually be outright denied if not treated with disdain by the entity, provided he can't convince the ghost that the resident is bad for the neighborhood.
John's powers no longer function once he leaves civilization. Generally, this line is drawn at the city or town's limits, though he loses influence the further he gets from the center.
▼ | WEAKNESSES : |
John can feel the pain of a neighborhood's ghost, especially if it's one he has a close bond with. Anything from a building being demolished, to graffiti being put on a wall, or a fire burning somewhere within it can all cause varying levels of pain for him. It's even possible for Doyle to feel this pain when he's far away from those ghosts- while this can help warn him that trouble's afoot, it also has the potential to debilitate or distract him.
Asking the spirit of a neighborhood to do too much at once, or something too severe can cause it to lash out against him. This could result in anything as mild as John stepping in dog shit to something as severe as him being hit by a car.
Doyle himself isn't the young man he used to be. Almost anyone under thirty-five can reliably outrun him, and his stamina keeps him from winning any sort of fist fight that isn't over in the first round of punches. On top of that, his bad leg has a habit of 'acting up' after too much use, so he's even more useless in a protracted chase of any kind.
Asking the spirit of a neighborhood to do too much at once, or something too severe can cause it to lash out against him. This could result in anything as mild as John stepping in dog shit to something as severe as him being hit by a car.
Doyle himself isn't the young man he used to be. Almost anyone under thirty-five can reliably outrun him, and his stamina keeps him from winning any sort of fist fight that isn't over in the first round of punches. On top of that, his bad leg has a habit of 'acting up' after too much use, so he's even more useless in a protracted chase of any kind.
⫸ O T H E R ⫷
"I miss my wife's cookin.' Why can't anyone in Charity make a decent plate'a chicken?"
John's service revolver is a Colt Trooper MK III, chambered for .357 magnum cartridges, and he carries a Smith & Wesson '36 as a backup. He generally has two speed loaders on his belt and another six speed strips for extended shootouts, and for stickier situations, he relies on a Remington 870 that he keeps in his cruiser's trunk.
He doesn't particularly like technology and has yet to upgrade from the last flip phone he bought eons ago.
John's son, Marcus, is fifteen years old, and his daughter, Rose, is fourteen. His wife, Abigail, is thirty-nine.
He doesn't particularly like technology and has yet to upgrade from the last flip phone he bought eons ago.
John's son, Marcus, is fifteen years old, and his daughter, Rose, is fourteen. His wife, Abigail, is thirty-nine.
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
Friday, June 10th. 3 AM
Jackson Row, Charity Beach, Florida
Jackson Row, Charity Beach, Florida
John rode into town with the wind at his back and his gun on his hip, and though he wasn't looking for trouble, it wouldn't be long before it found him. The journey to Charity Beach had been a long one. He'd kissed his wife goodbye in Pickett's Ridge when the sun had already been down for an hour, so Doyle had the pleasure of spending the ride in darkness. There was little to accompany him other than the grainy country tunes of 104.3 FM, and he'd gotten tired of those an hour ago. Now he rode in silence, save for the hum of the engine and the dull roar of his tires on the pavement.
Part of him wanted to head straight to the CBPD Headquarters. He wanted to do his part of the job as soon as he could, put the onus of the work on the locals so he could be outta there nice and quick. John wasn't opposed to traveling, but after everything that happened in the Ridge, he just wanted to be home with his family. If only that pesky sense of duty didn't keep getting in his way.
Any desire he had to go right into the belly of the beast was dashed when he glanced down at the blinking series of numbers on the dash. 3 AM. Not exactly the optimal time to be doing interviews and filling out paperwork. Doyle ran the back of his calloused hand up against his eyes and choked down an obnoxiously persistent yawn. Too late to work. Too late to fill the void in his stomach. The only thing he could do for tonight was to find somewhere to lay his head. Luckily for him, there was a hotel on every corner 'round these parts, so it didn't take long for him to pull his Chevrolet Caprice into a barely occupied parking lot. John climbed out of the black-and-white vehicle, grabbing his hat from the passenger seat as he did, and started toward the front office.
The hotel's lobby was small, yet sleek and modern. Cream colored walls contrasted well with the slate gray carpet. Odd paintings that didn't seem to mean anything, in particular, sat beside even stranger sculptures. The furniture looked like wood but turned out to be plastic on closer inspection, and it was all drenched in a dreary black. It was all a little too modern for Doyle's sensibilities. He'd take a log cabin over this place any day of the week.
What really bothered him though was not the interior design, but the people.
"Come oonnn, chica, you'se can't be this fuckin' boring!" A young gentleman with greasy hair and a scraggly excuse for a beard was leaning across the check-in desk, his tattooed arms spread over its surface as he got up into the receptionist's face.
The receptionist was a head shorter than the man, but given the prickly frown on her freckled face, John could tell she wasn't the least bit intimidated by him. "Like I said, I'm working, so you can fuck right off." She hissed, her hands hovering close to something hidden underneath the lip of the counter.
Another young man accompanying the first let out an ugly, hyena laugh. "She's got some bite, Hector!" The pale skinned specter heckled, ramming his elbow into his Hispanic buddy's ribs. He was shorter than his compatriot but much wider; he either ate too much or spent too much time at the gym. Doyle couldn't quite tell which with the baggy clothes, but he was leaning toward the former.
Hector didn't back down, his unwashed smile only growing wider. "Alrightalrightalright," He started with a wave of his hand. "Clearly, you can't afford the product, so's I'll cut ya a deal: gimme a blow and I'll give ya half-off. How's that sound to ya, chica?" He asked with a wink and a nod as if he was the most generous junkie on the block for that one.
The receptionist stood up on the tips of her toes, practically pressing her nose up against Hector's as she did. She stared right up into the dealer's bloodshot eyes without so much as blinking. "I've got a better one: how about you two leave before I cut your dicks off and shove it up your asses-" She started, though the last word seemed to catch in her throat as her eyes flickered over Hector's shoulder.
"You gentlemen havin'a nice night?" Doyle called a little too loudly, drawing every eye in the room back to him. He didn't cut a very intimidating figure in his campaign hat and olive green pants, but the very visible holster on his hip more than made up for it. "S'pose it'd be mornin' by now, though, innit? What're you boys doin' out so late?"
The stumpy blond one ripped around like a rattlesnake, his eyes lighting up with surprise, followed quickly by a touch of mischief. "That we are, sur!" He responded in a flanderized, mocking drawl. "N' how're you doin' this fiiinee night, cowpoke?"
Hector eyed his friend nervously, tugging a bit on his sleeve. "Hey, uh, B-man, I'unno 'bout this." He tried to mutter, though it came out loud enough for everyone this side of the Mississipi to hear. "He's got a badge, man-"
'B-Man,' or Bjorn as his parents, unfortunately, decided to name him, either didn't hear his friend's wise words or he elected to ignore them as he stepped up closer to the sheriff. He had his thumbs stuffed into the front of his pants and his head tipped back so his chin jutted out like he was a rooster sauntering around the yard. "He ain't from around these parts. Can't ya tell, Hec?" Bjorn lifted up a long, fat finger and flicked the edge of Doyle's hat. "Ol' ten-gallon hat here ain't got no jur-is-dic-tion here. Ain't that right, sur?"
John said nothing for a moment, holding Bjorn's gaze as he contemplated the situation. He shifted around to face fully toward the lanky blond, letting the silence hang long enough for 'B-Man' to begin to look uncomfortable. Only then did the sheriff finally speak. "Felony battery of a peace officer," He started, "that's, what, five years in prison? Slap a possession with intent to sell on top'a that n', well...you're lookin' to be in a spot of bother, ain't ya, sir?"
The specter of a man's face managed to get even paler, believe it or not as if he'd just realized he was stepping up to a lawman. His realization manifested in him stumbling backward and nearly tripping over himself, his hands moving up defensively in front of him. "H-hey, hey, I didn't batter nobody! N' I never done drugs in my life, man! I know my rights!" He stammered.
"That right? Why don't we all take a seat n' wait for my buddies down at CBPD to show up n' sort this out, then? I'm sure if ya didn't do anything wrong then there's no reason not to wait around." Doyle said with a smirk.
By now Hector had swooped in from behind Bjorn, wrapping an arm around his buddy and physically dragging him toward the door to make a quick exit. He seemed the soberer of the two, despite the redness in his eyes, and he was lucid enough to know they'd best leave. "We didn't mean no's trouble, señor, honest-"
"Yeah, yeah, just get outta here, will ya?" Doyle waved them off, turning his back to the two men as they burst out of the door and made their getaway. John whipped back around and shouted, "N' you leave this little lady alone from now on, y'hear?!"
A long, frustrated groan came from behind him. The receptionist had her head buried in her hands, her red locks draped over her face like a curtain. She kept it there for a few seconds as she mulled over whether or not she could live the rest of her life in this position. It was eventually decided that she'd need to return to reality, however, and she let her hands fall back down onto the desk. The disgust on her face was more than apparent. "Did you just unironically call me a 'little lady?' Ugh."
Doyle's eyebrow shot up, caught off-guard by the common. "Scuse me?" He asked, closing the distance between himself and the hotel's front desk. "I apologize fer not bein' hip enough for you, but a little gratitude wouldn't be unwarranted for savin' your keester."
"Oh, my hero. What would I do without you?" She snorted, her arms thrown out in a wide display before they came crashing back down on the desk in a heap. She was a young woman, probably around college age, if John had to guess. She had a plaid shirt on over what looked like her uniform polo, and her name, Sarah, printed on the shirt's nametag. "The only harm those two'll ever do is to their brains with all the shit they ingest."
"You knew those two?" John was quick to ask, resting an elbow on the desk.
Sarah shrugged, too busy looking down at her computer to meet his gaze. "Duh. Homestead Inn isn't exactly a popular hangout. Hector's a fuckin' creep and Bjorn's a lonely loser. They couldn't hurt anybody if they tried."
Doyle plucked a pen out of a basket on the desk and began to clumsily flip it between his fingers. "So you know them from school?"
She blinked, her eyes shifting away from the computer to glare at the sheriff. "How'd you know that?"
"Didn't," John shrugged, tapping the pen on the desk. "Was a question. What were they trying to sell you?"
"Insurance." She snorted. "What do you think?"
"Weed?" John pressed, and Sarah answered only with a laugh. He frowned, confused, and decided to set the pen down. "What?"
"Dude, seriously?" She asked incredulously, only to notice the dumbfounded look on Doyle's face and start into another giggle fit again. "Did you just get here?"
"...Yes?" Doyle groaned, clearly agitated about being led around. "There a point to this?"
Instead of responding Sarah just shook her head. "You'll find out soon. So," she shifted her position, dropping further back in her office chair. "did you come in for a reason? Here to arrest my boss for not dealing with the roaches, orr?"
"Roaches-" He blinked, only to realize she was trying to mess with him again. "No, no. Need a room. Don't know how long I'll be here."
She started to poke information into her system, asking a series of questions to fill out the entry form. It didn't take much more than two or three minutes before she was handing him his keycard and pointing him down the hall. "There ya go," she nodded. "try not to trip on any of the drunks on your way out in the morning. Don't know why, but they like to sleep in front of the door. Just kick 'em a little and they'll scatter."
"Ain't this supposed to be the nice part of town?" Doyle asked, slapping the keycard against his palm as he stepped around the desk and started toward his room.
"Once upon a time. Have a nice night!"
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__________________________________________________________ Name | Moses Yazov __________________________________________________________ Gender | Male __________________________________________________________ Age | 19 __________________________________________________________ Nationality | Russian __________________________________________________________ Service | Soviet Army __________________________________________________________ Rank | 2nd Lieutenant __________________________________________________________ Experience | Recruit __________________________________________________________ Physical Profile __________________________________________________________ • Height | 5'4 / 152 cm • Weight | 145 lb / 63.5029 cm • Build | Short and stocky • Hair Colour | Black • Eye Colour | Grey TSF __________________________________________________________ • Type | Su-27SM Zhuravlik • Role | Strike Vanguard • Loadout • 1x A-97 Assault Gun • 4x36mm and 2x120mm Magazines • 2x Arm Blade Motors • Spike Vanes/Blade Vanes Extra __________________________________________________________ • Theme • Quite proficient in hand to hand combat. Uses it to blow off steam. • Keeps a portable CD player on him practically wherever he goes. Owns a large catalog of music, some of it he even paid for. • His most prized possession is his father's old NR-40 combat knife, notable for its all-black blade and hilt. He keeps it in a leather sheath and carries it with him at all times. | Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Aggressive • Courageous • Cocky • Insubordinate • Passionate • Deeply Empathetic Moses Yazov is a young and hotheaded warrior who's out to prove himself to the whole world, consequences be damned. He fights and trains with the raw ferocity of someone that's seen their home ransacked and burned, and he's eager to set himself against the Great Enemy that has so ravaged the Russian countryside. His passionate personality and genuine skill in a pilot's seat makes him a difficult ally to work with- he often thinks he knows best even when he clearly doesn't, and he has a tendency to dive head first into danger. Most of his trainers and commanders think he'll be the first to die in any given operation and its only sheer stubbornness that seems to keep him dragging himself back to base every time. Though oft seen as stupidity, there is genuine courage in Yazov's heart- a willingness to put himself between the BETA and his comrades, countrymen and strangers alike. Moses has a hard time showing it a lot of the time, but he cares quite deeply for the people around him. Sometimes it shows itself in him yelling at them or berating them for their mistakes, and other times it appears in the form of him taking a bullet for them. History ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Born on November 6th, 1985 in a Soviet refugee camp far from the front lines, life's cruel realities were presented to Moses right from the beginning. His father was an officer in the Soviet military, fighting against the BETA on the front and rarely ever coming back to visit his family. Letters were all Moses knew of his father when he was a boy. Letters and whatever trinkets from the homeland that he could have shipped back for his son to know him by. It wasn't hard for a young, impressionable born stuck in a grimy camp to form an image of his father in his mind as a legendary hero and a soldier without equal. He often told the other kids in the camp that his dad was the hero of the Union, and he'd save them all from the aliens singlehandedly. By the time he was twelve, he'd only met the man himself a handful of times, and he treasured the memories of each visit like a poor man treasures gold. He was devastated when the news came that his father had committed an unspeakable act. Sources differed wildly. Some said it was an accident- just friendly fire. Others called it a homicide. Whatever the case, Captain Yazov was charged with killing a fellow soldier on the battlefield and sentenced to death. Treason, they called it. He was executed before Moses got the chance to see him again. The boy had never felt such a rage before. It boiled up in his heart and set into his very bones. His behavior shifted radically, and he made himself a fast enemy of many other boys in the refugee camp, getting into scraps with them often over the smallest infractions. His mother did her best to help the boy cope with what happened, but he had lost his hero. He thought the world too unfair, so he lashed out at it. Some time had passed before something had to be done about him. Mrs. Yazov called on an old friend of her husband- a wounded officer turned trainer of TSF pilots by the name of Gregor Barrikad. Gregor pulled some strings and got Moses into his TSF training program, giving the boy a shot at avenging the death of his father in some fashion. The program breathed a new life into him he hadn't felt before. The gargantuan machines felt like a second skin the moment he stepped into one. Moses had piloting in his blood, it would seem, and he dove head first into the program. All of his rage, his passion, was finally given some direction. He used it to drag himself up into the upper echelons of his class. Technical knowledge was always a constant failing of his, given his distaste for reading, but he moved in his machine better than almost anyone he met as a trainee. He came like a fish to water to melee combat in the suits specifically, his weapons acting as extensions of himself. It wasn't long before he had graduated, and they shipped him off to fight. Battle was not like the training. It was bloody, chaotic and messy. Moses nearly died half a dozen times over the course of his very first engagement. Several of his friends lost their lives right in front of him. It may not have shaken his resolve, but it did make sleeping harder. Time passed, and more battles were fought. He became more proficient in the killing, eventually attracting the attention of recruiters for some strange, multi-national battalion the U.N was cooking up. The 212th Tactical Armored Battalion, they called it. Moses wasn't going to pass up that kind of opportunity, so he took what few belongings he had, kissed his mother goodbye, and shipped off to wherever it was they were taking him. So long as he could kill BETA he was happy to be there. |
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J O H N D O Y L E
♫♫♫Saturday, June 11th. 11 PM
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Charity Beach Police Department Headquarters
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Charity Beach Police Department Headquarters
The CBPD Headquarters was a beautiful building by all accounts. Built of grey bricks, glass, and tempered steel, it was purposefully made to 'fit in' with the rest of the district's towering skyscrapers and ornate corporate offices. It was all a little too grandiose for John. He couldn't help but feel overwhelmed when stepped into the sprawling lobby earlier that morning. The mountains of paperwork they'd handed him the moment they knew who he was did little to ease his worries. Questions on questions, many of them quite personal in nature. Some of it was information he'd hesitate to share with his wife; yet they assured him it was all quite necessary, so he reluctantly filled it all in.
If he might've thought things would get easier when he finally got to speak with an actual person, the sheriff was wrong. Oh so wrong.
Detective Morgan was a rough man. He had a sharp, hawk-like nose and a smile that could kill a flower. A pair of round, ugly glasses sat on the tip of his beak, accentuating his pair of even sharper eyes. Thin as a wire though he was, Morgan carried a presence about him with his every movement, like a vulture looking for just the right moment to snatch up its prey. And here, trapped in this tiny, grey interrogation room, Doyle certainly felt like his prey.
"Did you or did you not allow Aldrich Leblanc, the Warmonger as you insist on calling him, kill three of your deputies? Did you or did you not fail to apprehend him before he could go on to kill another six civilians and injury twenty-eight more?" Morgan spoke with an accusatory tone; the same one Doyle had used on many of the criminals he'd spoken to over the years. It was...quite the experience to be on the other side of it.
John wasn't going to take that sitting down. He pushed back his chair and stood, his hands gripped tight around the edge of the table in front of him as he and Morgan locked eyes with one another. "You got a lotta nerve talkin' to me like that!" Doyle roared. "I take down the guy you n' your boys let run rampant fer, what, eight months? And this is how you thank me? You think I wanted that asshole to kill my people?"
Morgan didn't back down. "I don't know, Sheriff, did you?"
"Go to hell." John snarled. "I come down here to help you with your investigation n' this is how ya treat me? You got a screw loose up in that fat head'a yours or are you always this awful?"
The detective went quiet and finally broke eye contact, moving to unlatch the briefcase he'd set down on the table when he first walked in. He pulled a cream-colored file out and slapped it down in front of Doyle, tapping on the paper with a sharp, boney finger. "Did you open the case Leblanc carried with him?"
"Course not. Not like we could anyway; lock on that thing was nothin' like any I've ever seen." Doyle fell back into his chair, dragging the file up in front of his face. A picture of the stolen case sat front and center. Its exterior was fat and chrome-ish, covered in small lines and bearing a handle on the top for easy transport. What caught John's eye, however, was the locking mechanism on the front of the case. No keyhole, no keypad, no fingerprint analyzer, no combination, no keycard. None of that. Just a little black square with a silver dot in the center. Doyle had no idea how somethin' like it would work.
"Someone managed to get it open in the time between you collecting it as evidence and it being transferred back to us. The only people to touch it were you and your boys, the Feds, and my people- who'd already found it open." Morgan's demeanor shifted after that. He got quiet. Slipped back into his own chair, his eyes fixated on some point in the distance. Some question must've hung on his tongue, but something was stopping him from asking.
John furrowed his brow, staring down at the words in front of him yet barely comprehending any of it. He was too busy mulling over what Morgan had said. Somebody had managed to get that case open. "Did they take something?" John asked after a moment, his eyes flickering up to Morgan's face. The detective didn't meet his gaze for a few, elongated seconds, yet even after he did he chose not to answer the question.
The sheriff of Donovan county leaned forward in his seat, lowering his voice as he did. "Detective," he started, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. "what was in that case?"
Morgan's mouth fell open but no words came out. He sat there like that for a while, awkwardly squirming. Nothing like the man that had been holding Doyle's ass to the fire not but a few minutes ago. After what felt like an eternity he finally got up from his seat, packed up his suitcase and started for the door.
"Detective-" John began, but he wasn't allowed to finish.
"I'm going to need you to stay in town for a few more days, sheriff." Morgan turned around, his lips contorting into a terribly ugly grin. "I'll give you temporary jurisdiction while you're here, but I'd recommend taking a...short vacation while you're in town. We're known for our beaches here, after all. I'll contact you when you're needed again."
Saturday, June 11th. 12 PM
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Boardwalk
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Boardwalk
John Doyle sat at a little restaurant on the boardwalk, a half-finished cola in one hand and his flip phone in the other. The sky overhead was dark and gloomy, threatening to make the day even darker and gloomier by dropping a bit of rain on everyone's heads at any moment. His straw hung out of the corner of his mouth as he fumbled to press the tiny buttons on his phone. He hated texting. Always seemed like a waste of time to him; why text somebody when you could talk to them, after all? But when he'd gone to make the call he'd felt his stomach twist around inside of itself, so now he was stuck plinking away with his fat old fingers at a tiny keyboard. He'd make sure to talk to his family later that night, but at the moment...
He just needed time to think.
Once the message was off into the void Doyle tossed his flip phone down onto the table just a little too hard. There were a million different thoughts rotating through his head. A million different attempts to explain just what in the world was going on. Something had spooked Detective Morgan- bad. And John could tell from spending just a few minutes with the guy that he wasn't the type to be spooked easily. Warmonger had been a dangerous man. An evil man, even. But...something about the stuff he stole...
John let out a loud, overexaggerated sigh. He took a long sip of his cola, the cold liquid bubbling in his mouth like he'd poured a bunch of poprocks onto his tongue. He couldn't remember how long it'd been since he last tasted the stuff. His doctor had insisted he switch to something less caffeinated and sugary, and John had been good about it for the most part. Only drinking some variant of tea. But he figured he'd earned a cheat day by now, 'specially with everything that was going on. Besides, the soda reminded him of his youth- all those days he'd spent at the diner with his friends chasing girls and ghosts and all other manner of frightening things.
Maybe he didn't need time to think. Maybe he was thinking too much.
Doyle pushed the brim of his hat up. He'd swapped out of his uniform, leaving it in the hands of the hotel staff so they could get some of the muck off of it. Now he was stuck looking like a regular ol' civilian; as regular as a man in a cowboy hat and boots could be in a place like Charity Beach. Though given how odd everyone here seemed to be, he wasn't all that out of the ordinary. He swore he'd even seen a giant lizard walkin' down the boardwalk earlier.
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C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
T H E X - M E N
♦ S C O T T S U M M E R S ♦ J E A N G R E Y ♦ H A N K M C C O Y ♦ K U R T W A G N E R ♦ B O B B Y D R A K E ♦
♦ X A V I E R S C H O O L F O R H I G H E R L E A R N I N G ♦ T H E X - M E N ♦
♦ X A V I E R S C H O O L F O R H I G H E R L E A R N I N G ♦ T H E X - M E N ♦
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:
" Mutants. Since the discovery of their existence, they have been regarded with fear, suspicion, often hatred. Across the planet, debate rages. Are mutants the next link in the evolutionary chain or simply a new species of humanity fighting for their share of the world? Either way, it is a historical fact: Sharing the world has never been humanity's defining attribute."
The X-Men are a team of mutant superheroes that fight for the rights of mutants and to protect both mutants and humans alike. Led by Scott Summers -- AKA Cyclops -- and founded by Professor Charles Xavier, the X-Men are a newly christened team of young but fiery heroes looking to prove themselves to a cynical and bigoted world. They're based out of a manor in Worchester County, New York affectionately referred to as the 'X-Mansion,' an old estate that's been in the Xavier family for generations.
They've been in operation for a little over a year now, working from the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. It's little more than a simple mansion with a fancy title at the moment so that Charles has some excuse to live with his 'students.' Some moves have been made to potentially open its doors to other mutants in need, but they lack the proper facilities or staff to do such a thing.
In their short time as heroes, they've earned themselves a number of enemies. From the vengeful Magneto to the anti-mutant Senator Robert Kelly and the fire-and-brimstone preacher William Stryker and his cult of Purifiers. They've made plenty of friends in that time, too. Many a mutant has the X-Men to thank for saving them from some injustice. The X-Men have made something of a habit of rubbing shoulders with other, big time superheroes, hoping that their popularity might rub off on the team and help their perception in the public eye.
They've been in operation for a little over a year now, working from the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. It's little more than a simple mansion with a fancy title at the moment so that Charles has some excuse to live with his 'students.' Some moves have been made to potentially open its doors to other mutants in need, but they lack the proper facilities or staff to do such a thing.
In their short time as heroes, they've earned themselves a number of enemies. From the vengeful Magneto to the anti-mutant Senator Robert Kelly and the fire-and-brimstone preacher William Stryker and his cult of Purifiers. They've made plenty of friends in that time, too. Many a mutant has the X-Men to thank for saving them from some injustice. The X-Men have made something of a habit of rubbing shoulders with other, big time superheroes, hoping that their popularity might rub off on the team and help their perception in the public eye.
C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:
I want to create a cornerstone of the Absolute Comics universe. The X-Men often either don't show up at all or are pushed into a rather minor role in these games, and I intend to change that. Though we're starting from the beginning, the plan is to explore the world of mutants in the context of a combined DC/Marvel world and to bring about the creation of the proper Xavier's school, and perhaps even bring up a new age of mutants sometime in the future.
The X-Men and mutants as a whole experience a great deal of prejudice and bigotry for being born different. They're going to experience the full brunt of this xenophobia, from both the world at large and many individual characters alike. They'll face hardships no ordinary heroes will face, and they'll have to tackle problems unique to their being mutants.
The X-Men seek to bring about equality for mutant kind and to foster peace between mutant and humankind. Each of them has individual goals of their own, such as Jean's desire to control her abilities and leave her trauma behind her, or Bobby's goal of acceptance and camaraderie.
The X-Men and mutants as a whole experience a great deal of prejudice and bigotry for being born different. They're going to experience the full brunt of this xenophobia, from both the world at large and many individual characters alike. They'll face hardships no ordinary heroes will face, and they'll have to tackle problems unique to their being mutants.
The X-Men seek to bring about equality for mutant kind and to foster peace between mutant and humankind. Each of them has individual goals of their own, such as Jean's desire to control her abilities and leave her trauma behind her, or Bobby's goal of acceptance and camaraderie.
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
Scott Summers is the over-eager leader of the team. The oldest member at twenty years old, he was orphaned from a young age and spent all of his youth being abused in the system by peers and adults alike. The birth of his mutant powers brought him into local police custody and eventually into Charles's care at the age of sixteen, and he learned under the Professor with an earnest, idealistic passion. He cared deeply for his fellow mutants and often got into trouble trying to protect them from harm- his heroics were the first sign that perhaps something like the X-Men was viable.
It was Scott that brought Hank McCoy into the fold when he found the young, brilliant man being picked on, harassed and bullied by his peers for his appearance. He had a mind that could rival Xavier's even at only eighteen years old, and his great strength and agility were comparable to that of a simian. Hank was introduced to Xavier via Summers and, before long, Hank had accepted an invitation to join them at the manor. It was McCoy that created the first prototype of the ruby-red glasses that allow Scott to have some semblance of control over his powers, and it was his idea to use the mansion as a 'boarding school' of sorts as a cover if they were going to continue recruiting young mutants to their cause.
Jean Grey was later found in a coma, apparently having gotten into a car crash and mentally experienced the death of the car's driver- her best friend since middle school. Xavier was called in by the Grey family to lift the coma and protect Jean from her own mentalist abilities, which had taken on a dark nature after the traumatic event. Xavier convinced the Greys to let Jean join him at the 'boarding school' in Worchester so that she could learn how to more properly control her powers. At only eighteen years old, Jean was terrified of herself and these strange abilities. It was Scott that convinced her to work with the 'team,' persuading her into believing that it was the best and most productive way to learn how to control her mutant talents.
It was the rescue of Bobby Drake that marked the first official mission of the X-Men. Three costumed heroes appeared in his hometown of Floral Park, where an angry mob had chased the sixteen year old mutant into the police department, where the sheriff had barred the inside to keep the mob out. Bobby had frozen the local bully in a block of ice- whether by accident or on purpose, he couldn't say- and an angry group of citizens attempted to remove the threat themselves. The X-Men arrived. Their attempts to calm the rowdy masses quickly proved futile, and they were forced to push their way to the station. It was a dire situation, but it thankfully ended in Bobby's successful rescue, and he was returned to the safety of the school. Drake, without anyone else to turn to, decided to join the team.
Kurt Wagner is a German-American immigrant that found his way to Pennsylvania when he was just a boy. He had always faced discrimination due to his strange appearance, and his family had faced such intense mistreatment that they were forced to move homes across the state several times. Kurt, in his anguish, turned to religion, finding solstice and some comradery in the Catholic faith. He spent much of his time serving a local minister. It wasn't until puberty hit that his teleportation abilities appeared. His newfound mutation brought the hatred and distrust back to the forefront as he struggled to keep his powers in check. His family was attacked one night while they were returning home, and Kurt chose to run away to protect them from further danger. He was later found by Jean Grey hiding in the remains of a rundown church, and he was brought back to the Xavier school where he finally found acceptance.
Professor Xavier is a wheelchair-bound mutant telepath capable of tremendous and terrible feats of power. He's a genius in the field of genetics, specializing in mutants and the 'X-Gene' that gives them their superhuman abilities. He's written a number of scientific papers on the phenomena and taught at a number of universities on the subject, and while he's well-respected for his research, it's his civil rights activity that has earned him his true fame- and infamy- in the public eye. The fear and prejudice that mutants often face from their communities and in the world at large are disturbing to Charles, and he fights constantly to see these people protected from those that would see them harm. His movement brought him to the X-Men, a group of young adults and teenagers all looking to make a difference. Xavier brought them under his wing and gives them the tool they need to continue the fight. That fight is uphill, unfortunately, and in no small part due to the terrorist activities of his former friend turned nemesis, Erik Lehnsherr.
S A M P L E P O S T:
T H E X - M A N S I O N
8:00 a.m. | Salem Center, Worchester County, New York
Charles Xavier always felt a sense of satisfaction at the sound of chalk moving across a blackboard. Every stroke invigorated him like a shot of dopamine, and he found himself turning away from the board with a content grin on his aging face. "Genosha," the professor stated, tapping the name he'd just written in large, bold letters. "Does anyone know who first founded it?"
His question road like a wave across the makeshift classroom, which was little more than a sitting room with the chairs all turned to face forwards and a blackboard rolled in front of it all. Bobby Drake had made sure to occupy the furthest seat from the board, the hood of his jacket drawn down juuust far enough to hide his eyes as he tried to catch up on missing sleep. Movie night with Kurt had run a couple of hours too late. How was Drake supposed to know the marathon lasted that long? He regretted not checking the clock or something, 'cause being reminded by the sun coming up hadn't been very fun.
Kurt, to his credit, hadn't quite passed out yet. His head was resting in his palm, his three fingers running through the blueish fur on his cheek. His eyelids kept trying to clamp shut every few minutes, only for Wagner to lurch awake in a violent and distracting display that would keep him lucid for a couple of minutes before it all repeated again. If he ever tried to answer any questions it came out in unintelligible German.
Two pencils went soaring through the air like a pair of shurikens, one striking Kurt in the forehead and the second bouncing off of Bobby's nose. Both boys were thrown wide awake by the sudden attack, with Bobby nearly leaping out of his chair in surprise and Kurt vanishing and reappearing right back in his seat in a puff of black smoke. They shared a confused glance with one another seconds before realizing where the attack had come from, their heads turning simultaneously to glare in the direction of Scott Summers.
Scott crinkled his nose incredulously at them- even with his eyes hidden behind his crimson visor it wasn't hard to tell he was glaring. Sweat glistened off of the young man's forehead, still clinging to him after his long and exhaustive morning run. After making sure the two troublemakers were thoroughly and silently accosted for sleeping through the lesson he returned to looking in Xavier's direction, unable to muster an answer to the question. This was the first time they'd broached the subject of Genosha, and Scott wasn't too confident he'd be able to even point it out on a map.
The Professor pursed his lips, his eyes slipping between the three of his students as he seemed to contemplate how to deal with the brief interruption. The look lingered on Scott, giving the team's leader his own look of quiet admonishment before Xavier shifted his attention fully back to the lesson at hand. "Anyone?" Charles asked with a raised brow, "Hank?"
It wasn't until he heard his name that Hank McCoy even seemed to notice there was something going on around him. His pencil was rapidly shortening as he ran the tip of the graphite against his notebook full of crazy ideas and half-finished schematics. The current drawing before him was a series of functional upgrades to the team's costumes. Their current suits, aside from being a little tacky, didn't have any kind of temperature control, built-in communications, armor or other crucial parts to any superhero uniform. Hank blinked, pushing his nose up his glasses as he looked up to the Professor and then at the blackboard. "I'm sorry, uh, could you repeat the question?"
"He asked who founded Genosha," Jean Grey cut in before Charles got a chance, speaking in a very matter-of-fact tone as she looked down at her notes, "and you're gonna say the British first declared the colony in 1901, but there was actually activity from various colonial powers going as far back as the 16th century. And..." She stuck her tongue into her cheek, her brows furrowing a little. "Something about making the suits out of a carbon fiber mesh?" Jean leaned over from her seat and attempted to get a look at whatever it was Hank had been doodling on his notebook. "-Are you making us new costumes?" She asked curiously.
"Hey!" Hank practically tore the book off his lap and slapped it up against his sprawling chest. "No mind reading!" He huffed, clearly caught off guard at having his thoughts so casually spoken aloud for everyone to hear.
Bobby was out of his seat and leaning over the back of McCoy's chair as quick as the word 'costumes' had left Jean's mouth. He grabbed both of Hank's shoulders and attempted to drag himself up high enough to see the notebook in his big friend's hands. "We're getting new costumes?!" He inquired with an energetic excitement that had seemingly spawned from thin air. Kurt shared his enthusiasm, popping up on Hank's opposite shoulder in a puff of dark smoke and trying to leer down at the page. Hank didn't take well to the intrusion, trying to buck the duo off and keep the sketches hidden against his chest at the same time.
Jean's face grew beet red the instant she realized what she had done. "I- I didn't- I mean, it wasn't on purpose-" She stumbled and stuttered, retreating behind her red locks as she bent her head low in shame at her actions. Reading minds came to her as easily as actual hearing did. It was hard for her to decipher what were thoughts and what were words, and sometimes it all got so jumbled that she got her own thoughts mixed up with someone else's. "I'm sorry." She muttered.
Hank, still busy wrestling Bobby and Kurt into submission, paused long enough to listen and reply. "Its okay." He assured her. "I'm not- hey!" He started, only to be interrupted by Kurt slipping underneath one of his arms and getting a hold of the notebook.
Nightcrawler slipped right away from the beast of a man's grip, vanishing out of the classroom and appearing in the hallway. He held the picture up in the light, a bright grin spreading across his face. "I look awesome!" He laughed.
"Lemme see!" Drake whined, jumping over chairs and racing over to catch up to Wagner. "When do I get to wear mine?!"
Hank, hot on Bobby's heels and having completely forgotten what he was going to say to Jean, was quick to shout after them. "Its just a drawing! We aren't even in the prototype phase!"
The lesson thoroughly disrupted and Jean left in her silent shame, Charles let out a quiet sigh. Kids, he thought with a shake of his head. No matter what kind of amazing gifts they might have, it was hard to forget that these five were still all children at heart. He placed the chalk back down on the tray and moved his hands onto the wheels of his chair, planning to go to miss Grey, as he had many times before. But he paused, not all that surprised to see that Summers had already moved to her side. He had a hand around her shoulder and he was trying to say something that might've been vaguely wise had the boy any idea how to say it. It brought a smile to Charles's face.
"Come on back, my students, there'll be plenty of time for that later! Our lesson's only just begun." Xavier called out to the wrestling trio in the hallway. They all seemed to look at each other and hold and a wordless conversation for a few seconds before deciding to call a ceasefire and return back to their seats. They spent a little while putting everything back where it was before and getting themselves seated, but their attention was eventually given back to the professor. Even if they bickered, fought or messed up in some fashion, they always seemed to land back on their feet. Always seemed to orientate themselves to point north again, even if it did take a bit of time. Charles let his hands come to rest on his lap as he waited a moment, making sure everyone was ready before he continued. "So, as Jean said, Genosha was founded in..."
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
J O H N D O Y L E
♫♫♫Saturday, June 11th. 12 PM
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Boardwalk
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Boardwalk
John had just about finished his drink when a stranger came sauntering by his table. A young woman in...combat boots that spoke in a thick accent Doyle couldn't quite place. Certainly wasn't from around here. "Well uh," He sat up slightly, his old bones creaking as he reached up to tip the brim of his cap. "Thank ya kindly." He said, watching her for a brief moment as she took her own seat somewhere behind him.
He considered striking up a conversation with the young lady, more to pass the time and distract himself from his thoughts than anything else. After mulling it over for a short time he decided against it- better not to bother anyone and stew in his own business. John slunk back into his seat, returning to the terrible posture he seemed so intent on sticking to.
Some ghost of feeling touched Doyle's forehead, like a long and sharp tendril weeding its way into his brain. It itched at his mind, a painfully uncomfortable thing, and it dragged to the forefront a series of loud bangs and the gurgling of blood. John whipped his head around to look about the boardwalk, damned sure he was hearing the gunshots. So sure that his hand had already snaked its way down to the revolver on his hip. But it was all in his head.
"Damn." He breathed, forcibly placing both hands, palms down, on the table in front of him to keep them from wandering away of their own accord. He waited there until the bullets and manic, almost alien screaming came to an end. Until his mind had quieted once more. "What in the hell was that?" He muttered to himself, bewildered and a little afraid. He'd had friends that came back from the war that talked about hearin' things, but...but it'd never been John. He'd always come back okay.
'Might be high time I find one'a them therapist types.'
He was still stuck in his little world after the episode until he heard someone say his name. It snapped him out of it right quick, even if he looked a bit disheveled as he met the eyes of another Charity Beach detective. A lady, this time. Wasn't too bad on the eyes, either, if he was ten years younger n' didn't have a ring on his finger. "Good'ta meet ya, Detective." Doyle greeted, pushing up from his chair to offer her a handshake.
Doyle was a more than a little surprised to be meeting another city detective so soon. He'd only finished speaking to Morgan a little over an hour ago, so the chances that there was new information were slim at best. On top of that, he hadn't told anyone he'd be down on the boardwalk, so everything about this little meeting was...strange, to say the least. But John wasn't going to mention it. Instead, he waved to the seat opposite his. "You wanna take a seat?" He asked, falling back into his own. "I don't mean'ta sound rude, Detective, but what's all this about?"
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
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3 hrs ago
T H E X - M A N S I O N
8:00 a.m. | Salem Center, Worchester County, New York
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. In aliquam ligula sed libero tincidunt convallis. In rhoncus eget arcu quis commodo. Vestibulum a vestibulum est. Duis tempus sapien eu elit pellentesque condimentum. Nullam dictum et sapien vel dictum. Nam ultricies suscipit dui eget tincidunt. Morbi ut turpis non lorem elementum ultricies ut at orci. Quisque ac dui tincidunt erat scelerisque cursus ut nec felis. Duis posuere vitae odio eget pulvinar. Morbi luctus aliquet elit. Pellentesque eu semper lorem, efficitur efficitur leo. Nunc commodo ante ut diam tincidunt, non iaculis sem dignissim. Duis sit amet tortor ac magna lobortis sagittis sed ac sapien.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. In aliquam ligula sed libero tincidunt convallis. In rhoncus eget arcu quis commodo. Vestibulum a vestibulum est. Duis tempus sapien eu elit pellentesque condimentum. Nullam dictum et sapien vel dictum. Nam ultricies suscipit dui eget tincidunt. Morbi ut turpis non lorem elementum ultricies ut at orci. Quisque ac dui tincidunt erat scelerisque cursus ut nec felis. Duis posuere vitae odio eget pulvinar. Morbi luctus aliquet elit. Pellentesque eu semper lorem, efficitur efficitur leo. Nunc commodo ante ut diam tincidunt, non iaculis sem dignissim. Duis sit amet tortor ac magna lobortis sagittis sed ac sapien.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. In aliquam ligula sed libero tincidunt convallis. In rhoncus eget arcu quis commodo. Vestibulum a vestibulum est. Duis tempus sapien eu elit pellentesque condimentum. Nullam dictum et sapien vel dictum. Nam ultricies suscipit dui eget tincidunt. Morbi ut turpis non lorem elementum ultricies ut at orci. Quisque ac dui tincidunt erat scelerisque cursus ut nec felis. Duis posuere vitae odio eget pulvinar. Morbi luctus aliquet elit. Pellentesque eu semper lorem, efficitur efficitur leo. Nunc commodo ante ut diam tincidunt, non iaculis sem dignissim. Duis sit amet tortor ac magna lobortis sagittis sed ac sapien.
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
J O H N D O Y L E
♫♫♫Saturday, June 11th. 12 PM
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Boardwalk
Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Boardwalk
John wasn't particularly surprised she wanted to know about the Warmonger case, but he still felt his chest tighten at its mention. It wasn't something he enjoyed thinking about, even if it was the whole reason he'd come down to Charity Beach in the first place. Shifting in his seat to sit up further, the sheriff's expression visibly tightened as Detective Rose explained their suspicions. This was the first time anyone had mentioned the case's other contents aloud, even if Morgan had heavily implied that such a thing likely existed.
He didn't answer the question immediately, seeming to be mulling it over as he returned back to Pickett's Ridge and the Rusty Iron Motel in his mind. "I mean..." Doyle started with a shake of his head. "Suspicious, sure. We found Aldrich covered in his buddies' blood. Bunch'a bodies in his room, lookin' like they were fightin' over the money or..." John glanced over for a moment, lowering his voice. "Whatever else was in it."
"But uh, nah." He shook his head again. "Case was closed when we collected it. No way in hell to get it open, like I told your man Morgan. Everything's in my written statement." His eyes narrowed a little at that. He'd spent nearly a decade and a half as an officer of the law, and he had a generally strong grasp on the way things were done. With a case like the Warmonger one, it wasn't uncommon for there to be back and forth about who had jurisdiction, but information like his statement should've been available to another detective.
"How...exactly did you find me?" Doyle decided to broach the topic. Try as he might make it a casual inquiry, it still came off rather sharp and even somewhat accusatory. "Didn't tell Morgan where I was goin'. Ya'll havin' me followed?" He brought his hands together, watching Fujiko's expression carefully as he continued. "'Cause I don't much appreciate bein' followed."
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
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3 hrs ago
E D W I N M A R S H A L L
⫸ B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷
"This is my sacred duty. I shall not fail."
▼ | BIRTH NAME : |
▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |
▼ | GENDER : |
▼ | AGE : |
Edwin Marshall
▼ | ALSO KNOWN AS: |
The Faithful Servant
▼ | GENDER : |
Male
▼ | AGE : |
33
⫸ A P P E A R A N C E ⫷
"Vanity is a grave sin...But I can't help how I look."
▼ | P H Y S I C AL S T A T S : |
▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |
▼ | ATTIRE : |
▸ HEIGHT : | 6'2
▸ WEIGHT : | 225 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Primarily Ango-Saxon
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Blond, dyed
▸ EYE COLOR : | Hazel
▸ WEIGHT : | 225 lbs
▸ ETHNICITY : | Primarily Ango-Saxon
▸ HAIR COLOR : | Blond, dyed
▸ EYE COLOR : | Hazel
▼ | PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION : |
Edwin is the perfect specimen in every respect. Raised from childhood as a warrior monk, his body and mind have each been molded to their zenith. With arms like coiled iron and a chest as wide as a barrel, his physical strength matches that of any professional fighter. And large though he might be, Edwin still has youth in his step and a practiced lightness to his movements that mark him as deceptively quick for his size.
He's a good-looking man by most metrics, with a strong jawline and handsome features. There's no visible sign of scarring or blemishes on his face, with any wounds he may have retained over the years having been unnaturally healed to keep him unsullied. He does his best to remain clean shaven, but the nature of his work means he doesn't always have access to a razor. His eyes have a contradictory softness to them despite the blood he has on his hands.
Marshall's attempts to maintain a flawless figure aren't perfect. Though his scars and blemishes have all been washed away, his hands are still calloused and well-worked. His knuckles are red and gnarled from two and a half decades of ramming them into human flesh and bone. No amount of superhuman power could save those weathered hands.
He's a good-looking man by most metrics, with a strong jawline and handsome features. There's no visible sign of scarring or blemishes on his face, with any wounds he may have retained over the years having been unnaturally healed to keep him unsullied. He does his best to remain clean shaven, but the nature of his work means he doesn't always have access to a razor. His eyes have a contradictory softness to them despite the blood he has on his hands.
Marshall's attempts to maintain a flawless figure aren't perfect. Though his scars and blemishes have all been washed away, his hands are still calloused and well-worked. His knuckles are red and gnarled from two and a half decades of ramming them into human flesh and bone. No amount of superhuman power could save those weathered hands.
▼ | ATTIRE : |
Optional. What is your character's clothing style?
⫸ P S Y C H O L O G Y ⫷
"The Order made me all that I am. It is only fair that I offer it all back."
▼ | PERSONALITY TRAITS : |
▼ | SKILLS : |
▼ | BACK STORY : |
Give a brief list on your characters personality traits, you don't have to go particularly in depth here but try to give everyone an idea of how your character is.
▼ | SKILLS : |
Be realistic. I won't accept a genius hacker that's a Judo master, parkour prodigy, and is smooth as ice.
▼ | BACK STORY : |
What happened in your character's past that shaped them into the person they are today? Why they are here? You can gloss over events you'd rather reveal in-character.
⫸ P O W E R I N F O R M A T I O N ⫷
"Hellfire reigns on our enemies. Whether by fate's hand or my own."
▼ | POWER CLASSIFICATION : |
▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |
▼ | LIMITS : |
▼ | WEAKNESSES : |
Type-Red
▼ | POWER DESCRIPTION : |
Thoroughly describe your character's power, and all strengths (Don't link or copy/paste from powerlistings, tho).
▼ | LIMITS : |
The difference between limits and weaknesses is that limits is a restriction. Something like range that your character can overcome. Might not be necessary depending on the power, but for stronger powers, I'd like to see some strong and clearly defined limits.
▼ | WEAKNESSES : |
List anything an opponent can take advantage of, or any negative side effects. Stronger the ability, the more I want to see here.
⫸ O T H E R ⫷
"I take only what I need. It won't be with me in the end."
Is there anything else you'd like to share about your character that doesn't fit in the above forms?
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
The prison carriage forged ahead of the procession of Titan and Aspect dignitaries, its iron-plated wheels churning across the dirt roads without difficulty. Its coachman was an old man with a shaggy grey mane and tired eyes, and if he cared at all that he was transporting a wolf god to the capital of Atlantis, he didn't show it. He had lived a long life in service to Asgaheim, and he had seen more wicked and stranger things than most men knew existed. Gnarled hands urged the cart's stags ahead with a whip of the reins, his head bowed low so the brim of his hat kept the sun from his eyes.
His dwarven companion was just as quiet. Thaddeus, Prince of Asgaheim and Lord of House Vannerac, was busy scanning the treeline for nothing in particular. He didn't expect an attack from without- even the Atlanteans, bold as some of them were, were not foolish enough to attack both Asgaheim and Fomoria at once. Nay, if there were violence, it would come from the twisted monster that he once called a friend. 'And I'll call her friend once more,' he assured himself as he glanced back over his shoulder at the beast. She stood as tall and broad as a castle's battlement, her fur was black as midnight, and her claws were longer and sharper than any blade he had ever encountered. Asta had never been a particularly dainty woman, but this...this thing was nothing like her.
He turned away, letting his gaze return to the trees. He prayed that Atlantis's sorcerers could find a way to help her. Thaddeus was a sailor and a warrior by trade. The only problems he knew how to solve involved a compass or an axe. This however...this was all beyond him. All he could do now was to call out to his ancestors and hope they had some answers.
Their march was silent and uneventful for the most part. The thirty dwarves that flanked Asta's carriage rarely spoke among each other, the grim nature of their duties not lost on them as they were forced to stare up at the behemoth for the whole of the journey. Fear wasn't the right word for what they felt. They were the venerable honor guard of the Black Iron Company, a force which had proved itself time and again against the Titan Kings of the south. Asta's transformation may have been a new phenomena, but primal giants and angry beasts were not. Even combat against gods was not a new thing to some of them, as the campaigns into the south had seen them face off against that corrupted cabal on more than one occasion.
The scouting party of five Valkyries was of a similar caliber. They had been hand-picked from Elliya's Chosen, a Valkyrian regiment that had been serving Yaeg'Bor personally since his first conquests in the north. They had eyes sharper than steel and glided on the wind better than any bird could ever hope to. Though they were cunning warriors in their own right, they had been brought on the North's Roar for their impeccable ability to scour the landscape and note enemy positions without being seen in record time. Of everyone present, it was likely those five were the most eager to see Asta break from her chains so that they might test themselves against such great query.
Tense though the journey was, it had thus far been fairly uneventful. Thaddeus could feel himself growing restless, his fingers dancing idly against the shaft of his hatchet. He needed to find something to occupy his mind other than his wandering thoughts and worries. Thankfully for the Red Dwarf, the Silent Order's members didn't all abide by their name, and Galladon wanted to discuss how they'd be traversing Atlantis. "Seems a wise path." Thaddeus agreed with a nod. "You know these lands far better than I. I defer to your judgment." He glanced over at the coachman beside him. The old human gave only a grunt, acknowledging that he'd heard the discussion and saying nothing more about it.
The harpy made a goading joke about parading through the capital itself that didn't seem to land with any of his fellow Atlanteans. Galladon himself looked like he was ready to tear his own subordinate from the sky for the off-color jest. Thaddeus let his lips lighten in a slight grin, finding some solace in the man's humor. He considered responding in kind, but given the dark look on the Aspect of Protection, he figured it would be in poor taste.
The thought of speaking with the harpy must've wormed its way into the bird man's head, for only moments later he was hovering at Thaddeus's eye level and asking him a number of equally ridiculous questions. Thaddeus gave a glance over at the Silent Order's leader, mulling it over once more before deciding there was little harm in it. Conversation was an easy way to pass the time. "Well..." He began, thoughtfully running a hand through his bushy red beard. "I'm not too sure there's any color, in particular, she doesn't like, but she is quite fond of red. 'Specially when it's slathered on meat. Speakin' of, she likes basically anything with a bit'a meat on it. Slabs of meat. Meat on bones. Meat covered in armor. Didn't have any problem digesting any of it, I don't think."
He paused at the question of intelligence, taking a moment to look back at Asta. She was laying her head on her front paws, staring right back at him with those crimson eyes of hers. It was hard to tell what was looking at him. Many an animal held a cunning behind their eyes, some of them frighteningly close to that of men. "I'm not sure." He finally responded with a shrug of his shoulders. "Some days it almost looks like she knows what we're saying. Others she's just tryin'ta eat us the moment we get close. Hard to get a read on her. Hoping your sorcerers can help us out with that one."
"I've yet to try to rub her belly, sad as it is to say." Thaddeus shifted gears to looking back to the harpy, his grin going wider. "You're more than welcome to try it, though."
His dwarven companion was just as quiet. Thaddeus, Prince of Asgaheim and Lord of House Vannerac, was busy scanning the treeline for nothing in particular. He didn't expect an attack from without- even the Atlanteans, bold as some of them were, were not foolish enough to attack both Asgaheim and Fomoria at once. Nay, if there were violence, it would come from the twisted monster that he once called a friend. 'And I'll call her friend once more,' he assured himself as he glanced back over his shoulder at the beast. She stood as tall and broad as a castle's battlement, her fur was black as midnight, and her claws were longer and sharper than any blade he had ever encountered. Asta had never been a particularly dainty woman, but this...this thing was nothing like her.
He turned away, letting his gaze return to the trees. He prayed that Atlantis's sorcerers could find a way to help her. Thaddeus was a sailor and a warrior by trade. The only problems he knew how to solve involved a compass or an axe. This however...this was all beyond him. All he could do now was to call out to his ancestors and hope they had some answers.
Their march was silent and uneventful for the most part. The thirty dwarves that flanked Asta's carriage rarely spoke among each other, the grim nature of their duties not lost on them as they were forced to stare up at the behemoth for the whole of the journey. Fear wasn't the right word for what they felt. They were the venerable honor guard of the Black Iron Company, a force which had proved itself time and again against the Titan Kings of the south. Asta's transformation may have been a new phenomena, but primal giants and angry beasts were not. Even combat against gods was not a new thing to some of them, as the campaigns into the south had seen them face off against that corrupted cabal on more than one occasion.
The scouting party of five Valkyries was of a similar caliber. They had been hand-picked from Elliya's Chosen, a Valkyrian regiment that had been serving Yaeg'Bor personally since his first conquests in the north. They had eyes sharper than steel and glided on the wind better than any bird could ever hope to. Though they were cunning warriors in their own right, they had been brought on the North's Roar for their impeccable ability to scour the landscape and note enemy positions without being seen in record time. Of everyone present, it was likely those five were the most eager to see Asta break from her chains so that they might test themselves against such great query.
Tense though the journey was, it had thus far been fairly uneventful. Thaddeus could feel himself growing restless, his fingers dancing idly against the shaft of his hatchet. He needed to find something to occupy his mind other than his wandering thoughts and worries. Thankfully for the Red Dwarf, the Silent Order's members didn't all abide by their name, and Galladon wanted to discuss how they'd be traversing Atlantis. "Seems a wise path." Thaddeus agreed with a nod. "You know these lands far better than I. I defer to your judgment." He glanced over at the coachman beside him. The old human gave only a grunt, acknowledging that he'd heard the discussion and saying nothing more about it.
The harpy made a goading joke about parading through the capital itself that didn't seem to land with any of his fellow Atlanteans. Galladon himself looked like he was ready to tear his own subordinate from the sky for the off-color jest. Thaddeus let his lips lighten in a slight grin, finding some solace in the man's humor. He considered responding in kind, but given the dark look on the Aspect of Protection, he figured it would be in poor taste.
The thought of speaking with the harpy must've wormed its way into the bird man's head, for only moments later he was hovering at Thaddeus's eye level and asking him a number of equally ridiculous questions. Thaddeus gave a glance over at the Silent Order's leader, mulling it over once more before deciding there was little harm in it. Conversation was an easy way to pass the time. "Well..." He began, thoughtfully running a hand through his bushy red beard. "I'm not too sure there's any color, in particular, she doesn't like, but she is quite fond of red. 'Specially when it's slathered on meat. Speakin' of, she likes basically anything with a bit'a meat on it. Slabs of meat. Meat on bones. Meat covered in armor. Didn't have any problem digesting any of it, I don't think."
He paused at the question of intelligence, taking a moment to look back at Asta. She was laying her head on her front paws, staring right back at him with those crimson eyes of hers. It was hard to tell what was looking at him. Many an animal held a cunning behind their eyes, some of them frighteningly close to that of men. "I'm not sure." He finally responded with a shrug of his shoulders. "Some days it almost looks like she knows what we're saying. Others she's just tryin'ta eat us the moment we get close. Hard to get a read on her. Hoping your sorcerers can help us out with that one."
"I've yet to try to rub her belly, sad as it is to say." Thaddeus shifted gears to looking back to the harpy, his grin going wider. "You're more than welcome to try it, though."
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
With dignitaries of greater importance than themselves beginning their departure, Tarquin’s eyes flashed over to the stunted human - dwarf as they called themselves - and the company that this Aspect-Human kept. A handful of the familiar flying figures, though not of his own race, radiating foreign magic and not of the pheromones that Tarquin had associated with his species. More of the short figures and a few taller, slender beings around the impressively robust cage holding the now muzzled beast. His feet gently tapping the ground, Eteri gave a loose smirk over to the others of his Order; Particularly Galladon and Leikn. The former was poised and ready to smash into the cage to just wrestle the former Aspect, whatever provoked the creature formerly known as Asta, the Harpy had not a clue. A questioning look up at their chief guard - the prince who bore zero resemblance to the titanic king - and Tarquin figured that this man likewise had next to no clue either. A questioning glance at the other warrior monks and Tarquin’s full suspicions were confirmed.
No one knew a thing about this monster. They were just reacting to its movements.
‘Well,’ He cupped his chin thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good way to get your face bitten in two.’ Playing by a predators rules, only ever changing an attitude based on its hostilities was how prey often fell into a trap. If Asta’s new form was at least as intelligent as a modern dire wolf, Tarquin estimated that she would be more than equipped to plan ten steps ahead of her captors, if this was their approach. Eteri quizzically wondered what either Galladon or the Jotunn thought of the Goddess born anew, though the gritting teeth of the Aspect of Protection betrayed the man’s inner thoughts. ‘I think he’s fought them before, hasn’t he?’ The Harpy shook his head at the thought. From balled up fists to narrow strips for eyes, the Aspect of Protection took a blatantly aggressive stance. A clear challenge to the animal’s supremacy. ‘Perhaps,’ Tarquin whistled as he paced forward. ‘He thinks she’s a challenge to his.’ That brought out a shallow laugh.
“Is something funny, Eteri?” Leikn’s monotone draw gave the harpy pause.
“I tend to think most things are a little funny, don’t you?”
The walking wardrobe shook his head in protest, eyes glowering at the significantly younger titanspawn. “Life and death isn’t a joking matter, Eteri. Treating it as such will see you a corpse before you can even prove yourself useful.”
The Harpy’s smirk fell only slightly. Such a response was almost routine from the Jotunn, yet it didn’t buffer the entire blow of the comment. “I’m sure that won’t happen. I’ve got half my life yet. Plenty of time for even you to apologize to me.” His eyebrows wiggled at the notion. Leikn merely turned on the balls of his heel and grunted.
With the parade of armed forces - the company of Asgaheim’s finest accompanied by fifteen warriors of the Silent Order - maneuvering forward, careful to give the carriages assigned to the politically important a wide berth, the unofficial official leader of the wagon train turned to Thaddeus. Tarquin, now hovering feet off the air with a rhythmic flap of his wings, turned to observe both.
“After we clear the fishing village, Irst,” The man spoke with certainty, though his eyes stared past the dwarven prince and into the cage. “We’ll break from the main road and head North, then West. We’ll completely avoid the city and most of the more populated villages along the way.” It was not a topic to be discussed. Galladon merely explained what he was going to do, Eteri noticed, and expected compliance. Even now, as they made their slow progression, the Aspect of Protection’s eyes were heavy on the former Aspect, a warriness or fear - even maybe a hint of eagerness - in those eyes of his.
“Bit of a long way to the palace.” Tarquin decided to finally speak up - he’d been silent enough. “I’m sure the people of the capital would enjoy seeing us parading through.” Already, Eteri could see the cogs turning in Galladon’s head, working through the provocative suggestion and wondering whether to discipline the warrior or rip off his wings.
“Don’t make these poor jests.” He finally responded.
Carefully looking at the man, Tarquin decided to end his little game here. “You’ll have to forgive me.” A hand roamed the scalp of his head, lightly massaging it. “It’s been a very dull morning for me. Leikn’s been bitter and opposed to having the faintest discussion since we’ve arrived.” Usually, Tarquin would keep the game going until he managed to get one of his comrades to snap and swipe at him. It was a fun way of testing their limits, seeing exactly what perturbed them more than most things. Eteri considered a way to keep these immortal warriors humble. They saw the harpy as an annoying song bird. “In the interest of our safety,” The Harpy rose in the air, stopping once he was roughly eye level with the dwarven prince. “Is there anything you can inform us about our Goddess here? Any particular color she doesn’t like? Favored meal? Displays of intelligence?” The Harpy rolled his neck, stealing a glance at the giant wolf. “Have you tried giving her a tummy rub?”
No one knew a thing about this monster. They were just reacting to its movements.
‘Well,’ He cupped his chin thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good way to get your face bitten in two.’ Playing by a predators rules, only ever changing an attitude based on its hostilities was how prey often fell into a trap. If Asta’s new form was at least as intelligent as a modern dire wolf, Tarquin estimated that she would be more than equipped to plan ten steps ahead of her captors, if this was their approach. Eteri quizzically wondered what either Galladon or the Jotunn thought of the Goddess born anew, though the gritting teeth of the Aspect of Protection betrayed the man’s inner thoughts. ‘I think he’s fought them before, hasn’t he?’ The Harpy shook his head at the thought. From balled up fists to narrow strips for eyes, the Aspect of Protection took a blatantly aggressive stance. A clear challenge to the animal’s supremacy. ‘Perhaps,’ Tarquin whistled as he paced forward. ‘He thinks she’s a challenge to his.’ That brought out a shallow laugh.
“Is something funny, Eteri?” Leikn’s monotone draw gave the harpy pause.
“I tend to think most things are a little funny, don’t you?”
The walking wardrobe shook his head in protest, eyes glowering at the significantly younger titanspawn. “Life and death isn’t a joking matter, Eteri. Treating it as such will see you a corpse before you can even prove yourself useful.”
The Harpy’s smirk fell only slightly. Such a response was almost routine from the Jotunn, yet it didn’t buffer the entire blow of the comment. “I’m sure that won’t happen. I’ve got half my life yet. Plenty of time for even you to apologize to me.” His eyebrows wiggled at the notion. Leikn merely turned on the balls of his heel and grunted.
With the parade of armed forces - the company of Asgaheim’s finest accompanied by fifteen warriors of the Silent Order - maneuvering forward, careful to give the carriages assigned to the politically important a wide berth, the unofficial official leader of the wagon train turned to Thaddeus. Tarquin, now hovering feet off the air with a rhythmic flap of his wings, turned to observe both.
“After we clear the fishing village, Irst,” The man spoke with certainty, though his eyes stared past the dwarven prince and into the cage. “We’ll break from the main road and head North, then West. We’ll completely avoid the city and most of the more populated villages along the way.” It was not a topic to be discussed. Galladon merely explained what he was going to do, Eteri noticed, and expected compliance. Even now, as they made their slow progression, the Aspect of Protection’s eyes were heavy on the former Aspect, a warriness or fear - even maybe a hint of eagerness - in those eyes of his.
“Bit of a long way to the palace.” Tarquin decided to finally speak up - he’d been silent enough. “I’m sure the people of the capital would enjoy seeing us parading through.” Already, Eteri could see the cogs turning in Galladon’s head, working through the provocative suggestion and wondering whether to discipline the warrior or rip off his wings.
“Don’t make these poor jests.” He finally responded.
Carefully looking at the man, Tarquin decided to end his little game here. “You’ll have to forgive me.” A hand roamed the scalp of his head, lightly massaging it. “It’s been a very dull morning for me. Leikn’s been bitter and opposed to having the faintest discussion since we’ve arrived.” Usually, Tarquin would keep the game going until he managed to get one of his comrades to snap and swipe at him. It was a fun way of testing their limits, seeing exactly what perturbed them more than most things. Eteri considered a way to keep these immortal warriors humble. They saw the harpy as an annoying song bird. “In the interest of our safety,” The Harpy rose in the air, stopping once he was roughly eye level with the dwarven prince. “Is there anything you can inform us about our Goddess here? Any particular color she doesn’t like? Favored meal? Displays of intelligence?” The Harpy rolled his neck, stealing a glance at the giant wolf. “Have you tried giving her a tummy rub?”
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
House Information
Synopsis
Head of House
Seat
Demesne
Recent History
Realm Relations
Storyline Premise
Founded in the Age of Heroes by Brandon the Builder, the Starks have ruled in the North for thousands of years- first as the Kings of Winter and now the Wardens in the North. Having narrowly survived the War of the Five Kings and the Long Night, the Starks have spent the last eighty years in relative isolation from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, attempting to deal with their own internal squabbles. They've invested a great deal of resources into shoring up the Neck and rebuilding their fleet at White Harbor, and have begun securing alliances with other Great Houses to ensure the North never falls again.
Head of House
Lord Theon Stark
Seat
Winterfell
Demesne
House Manderly of White Harbor
House Glover of Deepwood Motte
House Umber of Last Hearth
House Dustin of Barrow Hall
House Karstark of Karhold
House Reed of Greywater Watch
House Ryswell of The Rills
House Flint of Flint’s Fingers
House Mormont of Bear Isle
House Thenn of Dreadfort
House Redbeard of Sea Dragon Point
House Glover of Deepwood Motte
House Umber of Last Hearth
House Dustin of Barrow Hall
House Karstark of Karhold
House Reed of Greywater Watch
House Ryswell of The Rills
House Flint of Flint’s Fingers
House Mormont of Bear Isle
House Thenn of Dreadfort
House Redbeard of Sea Dragon Point
Recent History
After the ascension of Queen Daenerys Targaryen to the Iron Throne and the death of Jon Snow, House Stark was left to lick its wounds and pick up the pieces of what remained. Many of its surviving members left Winterfell to pursue their own ends: Sansa to the Vale to live out her life as an Arryn, Brann traveled Beyond the Wall to continue his mysterious duties as the Three-Eyed Raven, and Arya vanished in the night, never to be heard from again. Only Rickon Stark, barely more than a boy, was left to rebuild.
And there was much rebuilding to be done. The Long Night had ravaged the North, all the way from the Last Hearth down to the tip of the Neck. Even Winterfell had fallen to the armies of the dead, forcing the Northmen to ride south of the Trident until the Night King was eventually defeated. Returning home brought no shortage of monumental challenges, and without the support of the other kingdoms and the Iron Throne, the North might never have returned to its former glory.
Men helped for as long as the memory of winter remained. Compassion and unity rebuilt many of the fortresses, towns, and villages that the dead had torn apart, but it couldn't last forever. As time ran on and the years passed away, the apocalypse became a distant recollection, and aid came in smaller and smaller supply until it eventually ran wholly dry. Rickon, now an old man with greying hair and a litter of children to call his own, begged Daenerys for further gold dragons to complete reconstruction- his requests were denied, and he was sent home with a hardened heart.
And there was much rebuilding to be done. The Long Night had ravaged the North, all the way from the Last Hearth down to the tip of the Neck. Even Winterfell had fallen to the armies of the dead, forcing the Northmen to ride south of the Trident until the Night King was eventually defeated. Returning home brought no shortage of monumental challenges, and without the support of the other kingdoms and the Iron Throne, the North might never have returned to its former glory.
Men helped for as long as the memory of winter remained. Compassion and unity rebuilt many of the fortresses, towns, and villages that the dead had torn apart, but it couldn't last forever. As time ran on and the years passed away, the apocalypse became a distant recollection, and aid came in smaller and smaller supply until it eventually ran wholly dry. Rickon, now an old man with greying hair and a litter of children to call his own, begged Daenerys for further gold dragons to complete reconstruction- his requests were denied, and he was sent home with a hardened heart.
Rickon took ill not long after returning home from King's Landing, and though he fought the disease for weeks, eventually succumbed. Jon, thirty-one at the time of his father's passing, took poorly to the news that the Iron Throne had abandoned them. He set to work finding the necessary resources elsewhere: new, harsh taxation on his vassals brought in the dragons he needed, but also a sleuth of consequences. The newly christened houses of Thenn and Redbeard, unused to such burdens, pushed back hard against their new lord's legislation. Jon attempted to persuade them with diplomacy but found such methods inadequate with the former Wildings. Rather than concede to them, however, he chose force. He personally rode to Sea Dragon Point and the Dreadfort with a small company of veteran warriors to see the collection done at the tip of lance and sword. Both Houses complied, but they wouldn't soon forget how their Lord responded to disagreement.
Reconstruction continued briskly with the newly acquired coinage. Every fief and holdfast was returned to its former glory over the decade's long project, and a number of new villages were built up with some of the excess to make room for the new Freefolk immigrants. The worst of the afflicted noble Houses, the Umbers, were ecstatic to see their land refurbished and their halls ring with the joy of feasting once again, and their relationship with House Stark quickly flourished. A betrothal between the young heir Dorren Umber and Jon's sister, Jocelyn, was set up, and they were wed in the spring of 354 AC.
That wedding was not without incident, unfortunately. Lords from all across the North had ridden to Last Hearth to attend, including the hot-blooded Lord of the Redbeards, Bael, son of Gerrick Kingsblood. Bael got considerably drunk during the feast that followed the wedding and went on a long and angry tirade about the Battle at Long Lake that had claimed the life of his ancestor, Raymund Redbeard, and many other members of his family. His words were met by the ill-placed goading of one similarly young and drunk Lord Osric Umber. The two came to blows in short order, and soon enough their retinues joined into the brawl.
No one knows who drew the first blade, but blood was drawn between the Redbeards and the Umbers. The melee was quick, chaotic and brutal; Osric was heavily wounded and succumbed to his injuries later that night, while Bael was able to escape back to Sea Dragon Point with what few of his surviving men remained. Jon took his brother, Willam, and a collection of bannermen and warriors to drag Osric from his keep to see justice for the murder of Lord Umber. They were ambushed before they'd even arrived at the holdfast, and a series of violent skirmishes ensued as Jon and his men pressed toward the keep. There they found Bael and his men held up with the gates barred and ready for a fight.
Rather than risk more bloodshed in either storming the keep or besieging it, however, Jon attempts to negotiate with Bael. It took several days of back-and-forth, but the Lord Paramount and his vassal eventually reached an accord. In exchange for relaxed taxation and forgiveness for his murderous and treasonous acts, Bael must swear that neither he nor any of his descendants would ever again take up arms against House Stark, on pain of death. The decision was...controversial, to say the least, and Jon continued to receive criticisms for the way he handled the situation until the day he died.
Reconstruction continued briskly with the newly acquired coinage. Every fief and holdfast was returned to its former glory over the decade's long project, and a number of new villages were built up with some of the excess to make room for the new Freefolk immigrants. The worst of the afflicted noble Houses, the Umbers, were ecstatic to see their land refurbished and their halls ring with the joy of feasting once again, and their relationship with House Stark quickly flourished. A betrothal between the young heir Dorren Umber and Jon's sister, Jocelyn, was set up, and they were wed in the spring of 354 AC.
That wedding was not without incident, unfortunately. Lords from all across the North had ridden to Last Hearth to attend, including the hot-blooded Lord of the Redbeards, Bael, son of Gerrick Kingsblood. Bael got considerably drunk during the feast that followed the wedding and went on a long and angry tirade about the Battle at Long Lake that had claimed the life of his ancestor, Raymund Redbeard, and many other members of his family. His words were met by the ill-placed goading of one similarly young and drunk Lord Osric Umber. The two came to blows in short order, and soon enough their retinues joined into the brawl.
No one knows who drew the first blade, but blood was drawn between the Redbeards and the Umbers. The melee was quick, chaotic and brutal; Osric was heavily wounded and succumbed to his injuries later that night, while Bael was able to escape back to Sea Dragon Point with what few of his surviving men remained. Jon took his brother, Willam, and a collection of bannermen and warriors to drag Osric from his keep to see justice for the murder of Lord Umber. They were ambushed before they'd even arrived at the holdfast, and a series of violent skirmishes ensued as Jon and his men pressed toward the keep. There they found Bael and his men held up with the gates barred and ready for a fight.
Rather than risk more bloodshed in either storming the keep or besieging it, however, Jon attempts to negotiate with Bael. It took several days of back-and-forth, but the Lord Paramount and his vassal eventually reached an accord. In exchange for relaxed taxation and forgiveness for his murderous and treasonous acts, Bael must swear that neither he nor any of his descendants would ever again take up arms against House Stark, on pain of death. The decision was...controversial, to say the least, and Jon continued to receive criticisms for the way he handled the situation until the day he died.
oboiherewego
Realm Relations
What are the established perceptions and alliances between your house and others in the realm?
Storyline Premise
What is the story you are wishing to tell with this character and his house?
Character Information
Identity
Age
Role
Characterization
Attributes & Talents
Immediate Family
Personal Relations
Lord Theon Stark
Age
32
Role
Lord of Winterfell
Warden of the North
Warden of the North
Characterization
Describe said character's reputation and values.
Attributes & Talents
Describe said character's abilities and skills.
Immediate Family
This is where words go.
Personal Relations
Describe notable (PC) characters they know, why they know them, and what their opinion of said character is.
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
3 hrs ago
R O X X O N I V Y B R A N C H H Q - S E V E R A L W E E K S A G O
Midday | Cornell County, Ivy Town, Connecticut
Clayton Burr was an ordinary man with an ordinary life. He met a girl in college and fell in love. Married that girl and found himself a nice house in the suburbs. They'd only been married a year by the time their first son was born. William, a feisty little warrior- reminded Clayton of his own younger brother growing up. The handful that he was, Clayton loved him with all of his heart, and he'd do anything for that boy.
Even stomach working for his father.
Clayton Burr Senior was a company man. Spent his whole life working for the Roxxon Energy Corporation, fighting his way to being the head of the Ivy Branch Headquarters. He didn't care about much in his life. Never much cared for his family, even the ones he'd brought into the world. Didn't much care for his friends, either. But he did love his job- and the piles and piles of cash it brought him. Ruthless, cold and greedy. Clay despised the man, but he needed the job; he needed to leave enough behind when he died so that his own son could be happy and comfortable. So he became a company man, too. For the good of little Will.
He'd worked at Roxxon for fifteen years, and now he had his own office all to himself. Wasn't much to look at. Organized, clean, and bare, save for a single framed photo of everything he cared about. Wasn't much, but it was his. And it was a great deal better than the cubicle he used to work out of. He especially liked how they'd soundproofed the walls so he could work in peace and quiet.
Well. He usually liked it, anyway.
A man had come to visit him during his lunch break. A grim-looking fellow, with gaunt features and sun-kissed skin. Clay could see that age had gotten to him from the laugh lines 'round his eyes and the slightest of wrinkles dotted on his cheeks. No gray in his dark locks yet, though there was no telling how much time he had until then. Handsome, if it weren't for that permanent frown of his.
The stranger had questions for Burr. Questions he couldn't answer. Uncomfortable ones. Ones his bosses had tried to sweep under the rug. No company had clean hands, Clay had learned that a long time ago. But Roxxon's were particularly dirty. He tried to ignore it best he could. Tried to do the straight work and look the other way whenever he could. 'Course, being the son of the executive officer made it hard to blend into a crowd. Burr was an accountant. He dealt in numbers. Numbers that didn't always add up.
Somehow the stranger knew that. And he wanted to know more- but Clay didn't know more. He'd already said everything he could.
So why was he still hurting him?
"I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING!" Burr screamed. He bucked in his chair and flailed his body like a man possessed, desperately fighting against the bent metal wristbands that kept him pinned in place. His face was drenched in sweat, mingling with the tears that flowed freely down his cheeks. The agony was unbearable. It felt like worms had crawled into his veins and started exploring his insides. Every movement brought another whimper from the businessman. "Make it stop! P-please! I'll do wh...whatever you want!"
The stranger sat on the desk in front of him, that same, grim look on his face. "I don't like liars, Mr. Burr." He spoke in a soft voice, touched by an accent Clay didn't recognize. It was thick and beautiful, giving a sharpness to every word the stranger spoke. "You send eight times the oil to South Africa than what actually arrives in their ports. Where does the rest of the shipment go?"
"I told you-" Burr panted. "Their books are the same as ours-"
"I'm sure they are." He interrupted with a click of his tongue. "Books are easy to change. But I've been on those docks, Mr. Burr, I worked in that port and I know those containers weren't there. So I'm going to ask you one last time: where does the rest of the shipment go?"
"I don't kn-" Before he could even finish the stranger had made a flourishing movement with his hand, and the pain had come back with a vengeance. He could feel those things racing through his body, tearing apart the insides of his arms as they moved further inside. He could barely move them anymore. There was no telling what would happen if they reached his torso. "I just- I just handle the books, I swear! I-I write down what they tell me to, I never ask questions, I'm not supposed to know. I sw..swear, I swear I don't."
"Then who does?"
"What?" Burr blinked.
"I need a name." The stranger breathed. He brought his hand upward, palm facing toward Burr. Even the slightest twitch of his fingers made the worms start moving again. Clay had no idea what would happen if he closed his whole fist.
"Wait, wait!" Burr demanded. "My...My father, Clayton Senior. He runs this place. He knows e-everything that happens here. If- if anybody knows, it'd be him. Please, that's all I know, I swear. Don't- don't kill me." He whimpered.
With a flick of his wrist, the stranger pulled the liquid metal out of Burr's body. It exploded from his flesh in a thousand tiny pieces, leaving behind a smattering of red, bloody dots all across Clay's arms. He screamed, but nobody could hear him. "PLEASE!" He pleaded. "I have a family- a son! They need-"
"So did I." His captor whispered. Then he balled his hand into a fist, and the metal in the air tore through Burr's heart like shotgun pellets.
T H E X - M A N S I O N - E A R L I E R T H A T D A Y
8:00 a.m. | Salem Center, Westchester County, New York
Charles Xavier always felt a sense of satisfaction at the sound of chalk moving across a blackboard. Every stroke invigorated him like a shot of dopamine, and he found himself turning away from the board with a content grin on his aging face. "Genosha," the professor stated, tapping the name he'd just writt en in large, bold letters. "Does anyone know who first founded it?"
His question road like a wave across the makeshift classroom, which was little more than a sitting room with the chairs all turned to face forwards and a blackboard rolled in front of it all. Bobby Drake had made sure to occupy the furthest seat from the board, the hood of his jacket drawn down juuust far enough to hide his eyes as he tried to catch up on missing sleep. Movie night with Kurt had run a couple of hours too late. How was Drake supposed to know the marathon lasted that long? He regretted not checking the clock or something, 'cause being reminded by the sun coming up hadn't been very fun.
Kurt, to his credit, hadn't quite passed out yet. His head was resting in his palm, his three fingers running through the blueish fur on his cheek. His eyelids kept trying to clamp shut every few minutes, only for Wagner to lurch awake in a violent and distracting display that would keep him lucid for a couple of minutes before it all repeated again. If he ever tried to answer any questions it came out in unintelligible German.
Two pencils went soaring through the air like a pair of shurikens, one striking Kurt in the forehead and the second bouncing off of Bobby's nose. Both boys were thrown wide awake by the sudden attack, with Bobby nearly leaping out of his chair in surprise and Kurt vanishing and reappearing right back in his seat in a puff of black smoke. They shared a confused glance with one another seconds before realizing where the attack had come from, their heads turning simultaneously to glare in the direction of Scott Summers.
Scott crinkled his nose incredulously at them- even with his eyes hidden behind his crimson visor it wasn't hard to tell he was glaring. Sweat glistened off of the young man's forehead, still clinging to him after his long and exhaustive morning run. After making sure the two troublemakers were thoroughly and silently accosted for sleeping through the lesson he returned to looking in Xavier's direction, unable to muster an answer to the question. This was the first time they'd broached the subject of Genosha, and Scott wasn't too confident he'd be able to even point it out on a map.
The Professor pursed his lips, his eyes slipping between the three of his students as he seemed to contemplate how to deal with the brief interruption. The look lingered on Scott, giving the team's leader his own look of quiet admonishment before Xavier shifted his attention fully back to the lesson at hand. "Anyone?" Charles asked with a raised brow, "Hank?"
It wasn't until he heard his name that Hank McCoy even seemed to notice there was something going on around him. His pencil was rapidly shortening as he ran the tip of the graphite against his notebook full of crazy ideas and half-finished schematics. The current drawing before him was a series of functional upgrades to the team's costumes. Their current suits, aside from being a little tacky, didn't have any kind of temperature control, built-in communications, armor or other crucial parts to any superhero uniform. Hank blinked, pushing his nose up his glasses as he looked up to the Professor and then at the blackboard. "I'm sorry, uh, could you repeat the question?"
"He asked who founded Genosha," Jean Grey cut in before Charles got a chance, speaking in a very matter-of-fact tone as she looked down at her notes, "and you're gonna say the British first declared the colony in 1901, but there was actually activity from various colonial powers going as far back as the 16th century. And..." She stuck her tongue into her cheek, her brows furrowing a little. "Something about making the suits out of a carbon fiber mesh?" Jean leaned over from her seat and attempted to get a look at whatever it was Hank had been doodling on his notebook. "-Are you making us new costumes?" She asked curiously.
"Hey!" Hank practically tore the book off his lap and slapped it up against his sprawling chest. "No mind reading!" He huffed, clearly caught off guard at having his thoughts so casually spoken aloud for everyone to hear.
Bobby was out of his seat and leaning over the back of McCoy's chair as quick as the word 'costumes' had left Jean's mouth. He grabbed both of Hank's shoulders and attempted to drag himself up high enough to see the notebook in his big friend's hands. "We're getting new costumes?!" He inquired with an energetic excitement that had seemingly spawned from thin air. Kurt shared his enthusiasm, popping up on Hank's opposite shoulder in a puff of dark smoke and trying to leer down at the page. Hank didn't take well to the intrusion, trying to buck the duo off and keep the sketches hidden against his chest at the same time.
Jean's face grew beet red the instant she realized what she had done. "I- I didn't- I mean, it wasn't on purpose-" She stumbled and stuttered, retreating behind her red locks as she bent her head low in shame at her actions. Reading minds came to her as easily as actual hearing did. It was hard for her to decipher what were thoughts and what were words, and sometimes it all got so jumbled that she got her own thoughts mixed up with someone else's. "I'm sorry." She muttered.
Hank, still busy wrestling Bobby and Kurt into submission, paused long enough to listen and reply. "It's okay." He assured her. "I'm not- hey!" He started, only to be interrupted by Kurt slipping underneath one of his arms and getting a hold of the notebook.
Nightcrawler slipped right away from the beast of a man's grip, vanishing out of the classroom and appearing in the hallway. He held the picture up in the light, a bright grin spreading across his face. "I look awesome!" He laughed.
"Lemme see!" Drake whined, jumping over chairs and racing over to catch up to Wagner. "When do I get to wear mine?!"
Hank, hot on Bobby's heels and having completely forgotten what he was going to say to Jean, was quick to shout after them. "It's just a drawing! We aren't even in the prototype phase!"
The lesson thoroughly disrupted and Jean left in her silent shame, Charles let out a quiet sigh. Kids, he thought with a shake of his head. No matter what kind of amazing gifts they might have, it was hard to forget that these five were still all children at heart. He placed the chalk back down on the tray and moved his hands onto the wheels of his chair, planning to go to miss Grey, as he had many times before. But he paused, not all that surprised to see that Summers had already moved to her side. He had a hand around her shoulder and he was trying to say something that might've been vaguely wise had the boy any idea how to say it. It brought a smile to Charles's face.
"Come on back, my students, there'll be plenty of time for that later! Our lesson's only just begun." Xavier called out to the wrestling trio in the hallway. They all seemed to look at each other and hold and a wordless conversation for a few seconds before deciding to call a ceasefire and return back to their seats. They spent a little while putting everything back where it was before and getting themselves seated, but their attention was eventually given back to the professor. Even if they bickered, fought or messed up in some fashion, they always seemed to land back on their feet. Always seemed to orientate themselves to point north again, even if it did take a bit of time. Charles let his hands come to rest on his lap as he waited a moment, making sure everyone was ready before he continued. "So, as Jean said, Genosha was founded in..."
B A Y V I L L E H I G H S C H O O L - P R E S E N T
6th hour - 1:24 PM | Bayville County, New York City, New York
Winter was over and life was returning to Bayville. It'd been a cold and harsh winter with plenty of snow and a near constantly overcast sky. But it was over. The people shed their coats and the trees were green again. Birds were singing, children laughing, and the sun was peaking through the clouds, vibrant and warm. It would've made Lance happy if returning to school wasn't part of the deal.
He felt everyone's eyes on him the moment he got into the bus. Never saw them look, but he knew they were- he could feel their stares burning through the back of his Howling Commandos' t-shirt. It was a strange and disturbing sensation, knowing what they were whispering about when they thought he wasn't listening. He liked it so much better when nobody knew he existed.
Lance kept his eyes down and his face hidden behind his long locks. 'Keep your head down.' He ordered himself. Maybe they'd forget after a few hours. Go back to being stupid teenagers.
First hour passed and nobody had stopped looking. They kept whispering. Nobody liked Ms. Harrington's english class. It was boring. Nothing better for them to think about, he guessed. Maybe it'd be better next hour.
Physics. The hardest class of the day. Lance couldn't make head or tails of anything in that textbook, and the teacher wasn't much help. Maybe if he hadn't missed so many days he'd understand half of that bullshit. He was sure everyone else struggled as much as he did. They should'a been paying attention. But they wouldn't stop staring.
Third hour was Spanish. Another boring class. Mr. Rodriguez was ass at teaching, but at least he gave everybody good grades. They were all whispering now. Everybody had heard. Lance had only been there three hours but every single one of them was looking at him now. His face was red and hot. He wished he could just bury his head in the sand and never have to pull it back out.
Fourth hour was the same. Then lunch came. No more whispering. Now they were just talking. Didn't seem to care that he heard any of them. A few of them were even pointing at him. Lance took his lunch outside and ate behind the benches by the Football field. Nobody came back there. It was nice to have some time to himself.
Study hall was right after, so he had even more time to get away from it all. He checked in with the teach and told her he was headed to the library before he walked out the front door. Didn't have time to get far, but he found himself a nice, secluded plot of land a good ways from any of the school's buildings. Lance made sure there were plenty of trees between him and any prying eyes before he plopped down on the grass and let out a heavy, tired sigh.
"Finally," Lance muttered, his eyes snapping shut. He took in a deep, long breath before letting it out just as slowly. He did this six times, each just as long as the last. Careful. Measured. Calm. It took a great deal of concentration to reach out with his mind and feel the earth beneath his feet. Not the grass, or the dirt, but the earth. The stones buried deep. The foundation of everything they strode upon. Nobody ever gave a second thought to the ground. It was just...there. It'd always been there. Dirt to walk on. Stone to hold that up. Nobody really questioned it. Nobody gave it any thought. Not until something went wrong with it. Not until it broke and made a mess of things. That was the only time anyone ever cared- was when it's pain got in their way.
A stone laying at his feet began to shake. He reached out to it, though his hands remained on his knees, and lifted it into the air. He could feel it hovering just a few inches from his face, suspended in the air by his will alone. It gave him an incredible rush every time he did it. Better than any drug he'd ever tried. He let a hand slip from his leg and fall down into the grass, reaching deeper into the ground. It purred and hummed at his touch, welcoming, inviting, obedient. He had heard its hardships. He was the only one that listened to it. He was its friend.
"I been lookin' for you all day, Lance!" Someone called from behind him. The stone dropped to the ground as Lance scampered to get up to his feet. He hadn't so much as turned around before he felt a hand wrap around the collar of his shirt and drag him up the rest of the way.
"Or should I call you mutie now?" The teenager that pulled Lance to his feet snarled, spittle flying from his ugly teeth into the other boy's face. Ryan Griffan- or Griff, as he liked to call himself- was a lifeless douchebag that spent his days picking on the kids that were somehow even less popular than he was. Everybody knew he was an asshole, but nobody ever bothered to get in his way. He was too big for that. Big and stupid and willing to bust your teeth in for even looking at him sideways.
Lance turned his eyes toward his feet, refusing to look Griff in the face. "Don't call me that." He muttered.
"N' why not, mutie?" Griff chuckled, tossing Lance back. He managed to catch himself in a stumble rather than falling right onto his back, but he landed in an awkward stance on his thin and unimpressive frame. He was several inches shorter than Griff, and there was no telling how much lighter. It wouldn't be a fair fight.
"I'm no mutant. Don't matter what they say." He muttered, eyes on the dirt and his chin tucked into chest.
Griff just shook his head. "Naw...Sal's a lotta things but she ain't no liar. Not like you, mutie. You...you're a liar." He laughed again. An ugly, spiteful laugh. Like a Hyena. "And she told evveeryyboodyy, freak, you know that? Whole school's heard about you."
"I know." Lance whispered under his breath. "They won't stop fucking staring."
Griff slipped closer. Two of his dipshit friends stepped out of the treeline. Hovering far enough back that Griff had space to work but close enough that they could pounce if Lance so much as blinked wrong. He'd been on the wrong side of this equation before, but...He knew it'd be different this time.
"What'd you think was gonna happen when you told her?" Griff spoke in a quiet drawl, lowering his mouth toward Lance's ear. "You think she was gonna like you 'cuz you could wiggle your fingers n' make a couple'a rocks float? You think people were gonna start givin' a shit about you 'cuz you're a mutie now?"
"Go away, Griff," Lance muttered, his throat dry and his hands shaking.
"What was that, mutie? Speak up."
"I told you to leave me alone." Lance snarled, turning his eyes up to meet Griff's gaze. The two stared at one another, eyes sharp as spears. They held for precisely three seconds before Griff started to move and the next thing Lance knew he was on his back and blood was running down his face from his nose.
Pain.
It felt his pain.
Like he'd felt it's pain.
"I wanna see it, mutie." Griff declared, hands resting on his hips in a triumphant, arrogant display. He stood over Lance, not even bothering to look at him as he demanded things of the fallen boy. "I wanna see these oh-so-impressive powers you lot are s'posed to have. I mean, I hear about your people hurtin' normal people on the news all the time. So's you've gotta be pretty strong, right? You supposed to be some kinda monster."
Lance rolled over onto his stomach, grass in his teeth. "You wanna see it, huh?"
"Oh yeah, I do. Show me, mutie. Show me." Griff taunted, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. His little friends in the back were whooping and hollering like the morons they were. They thought they'd get to see Griff beat up on a freak. Maybe Griff would even let them in on the fun if they were good enough. They sounded so very excited.
Then the ground began to shift.
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J O H N D O Y L E
♫♫♫Downtown Charity, Charity Beach, Florida
Boardwalk
Detective Rose was gone, sent packing with her tail tucked between her legs. John lowered himself back into his chair, a satisfied grin on his old, rocky face. It'd been a productive conversation- gave him a whole hell of a lot more to work with than he'd had previously. He knew Morgan didn't trust him, and he had the name of a place where Warmonger might'a gotten that case of his. Doyle plucked his notepad from his pocket, scribbling down a few more notes as he mulled it all over. He hadn't a clue what he could'a stolen at a research facility. Certainly wasn't money. First thought was something like plutonium or uranium- might'a been that the case was sealed to keep in the radiation. But what in the hell could a bank robber want with something like that? To sell it on the black market? Was it really worth the extra trouble?
'Could be workin' for somebody...'
He made a note to start looking into criminal organizations active in Charity Beach. Start local and if he couldn't find any leads he could expand his range until he caught something. Wasn't gonna be fast, but these things never were. Might be worth trying to get a meeting with Aldrich...see if he'd be willing to talk. But...
'Don't know how keen he'd be to spill his guts to the guy that made him a Cyclops. More likely to try spillin' mine.'
There was something about this whole thing that didn't sit right with John. He couldn't put his finger on it, but somethin' about the case just didn't add up. There was no way that case should'a gotten open on it's way back to Charity Beach. If the cops did take it then why in the hell would they tell Doyle about it? Were they trying to frame him? That'd be ludicrous. 'Course, it spent most of its time in the care of federal agents- if they were the ones that took it then its contents were long, long gone and everything the sheriff was doing was a massive waste of his time.
And to make matters worse he was apparently bein' followed.
There'd be plenty of time later to stew on all'a this, and there wasn't much work to be done while he was sittin' here. Better to wait 'til tomorrow and enjoy the rest of the day. Normally for a shindig like this, he'd have his wife and daughter around. They'd enjoy it a hell of a lot more than he would, but he'd be happy seein' them havin' a ball. Marcus wouldn't wanna come- he'd stopped caring about going outside ever since his uncle bought him that Gamestation 600 or whatever it was called. John didn't understand it. He could barely sit still when he was his son's age. Spent every waking hour runnin' around the town and rollin' in the dirt and gettin' into trouble. Little too much trouble, to be fair; so maybe it wasn't all bad that Marcus liked that new age stuff.
Without Abi around to decide what to do he felt a little lost. There were a lotta people on the boardwalk. Plenty of, uh, activities set up 'round the place. But none of it really caught his eye. Most'a it looked like it'd been set up for families n' youngsters. An old man out here alone was a bit outta place. John decided to order somethin' he could eat on the go, figuring his chances of running into something interesting would increase if he wasn't just sittin' on his fat ass and chewing down on a taco stuffed with too many ingredients. Rising slow n' steady from the table he adjusted his shirt, making sure the badge on his belt wasn't stabbing him in his belly and that the holster inside his waisteband was still pretty well hidden.
Then he was off, hopin' to God somethin' exciting would come his way.
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B I G B E L L Y B U R G E R
1:28 a.m. | White Plains, Westchester County, New York City
"It was completely assinine, Bobby. I have no idea why you liked that drivel so much." Hank McCoy grunted, his cheek stuffed with the remains of his half-finished Belly Buster. He had the burger clutched in one fist while he used the other one to point an oversized finger at Bobby Drake.
The remains of Bobby's own food was sitting in the little red basket on the table, his face contorted- it didn't know if it was more confused or offended at that. "What?!" He huffed incredulously. "But you saw the sword moment, right?" He asked, miming the motion of pulling a sword off his back and making a wide, exaggerated chopping motion down the center of the table. "Come on! You can't tell me that wasn't the coolest shit you've ever seen!"
Hank just laughed at him and shook his head. "I watched a man walk on the moon. Now that, that was cool. A giant CGI robot cutting the head off a giant CGI alien with a giant CGI sword does not even come remotely close. Honestly, if you spent half the time studying that you do watching movies-"
Drake's head smashed against the table with a sudden and noisy smack that made Hank jump. Not a moment later Bobby began to snore as loudly and obnoxiously as he possibly could. "Booring." He gave a false yawn before sitting back up and finishing off his milkshake. "I'll leave all the Einstein stuff to you. Life's way too short to spend it lookin' through a microscope at nothing-"
"Microorganisms aren't nothing, you dolt-"
"-Anyway, they weren't aliens, they were Kaiju!" Drake corrected. "And they didn't come from space, they came from that hole under the ocean. Maybe you would've liked the movie more if you actually paid attention."
Hank scoffed. "Please. The premise was so ridiculous that I couldn't even be bothered. Giant robots? Honestly. Honestly! I can think of a thousand- no, ten thousand- better ways to spend a global defense budget than robots."
"Mechs. They had pilots, so they're mechs."
"They aren't real. It doesn't matter!"
"Scott," Bobby turned away from McCoy and looked to his fearless leader for help, "Tell Hank he's an idiot for not liking fun."
"I resent that!-"
Scott Summers was busy pouring over notes on his smartphone, jotting down everything he'd learned about the team after today's training regime. He knew Hank was struggling to breach one ton on his deadlift. Bobby was still having trouble hitting his 'icicle bolts,' even while standing still. Kurt refused to even try teleporting passed an object unless he could physically see his destination. Jean was making remarkable progress with her telekinesis, but her telepathy continued to overwhelm her in any kind of stressful environment. They'd been at this for over a year, and though they'd made great strides since their early days, Scott was worried the team had begun to peak far sooner than he and Charles anticipated. How were they supposed to save the world when they couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag?
"Earth to Scott Summers, come in Scott Summers." Bobby plugged up his nose, doing his best impression of a voice over a radio. "Scott Summers please respond."
Cyclops didn't so much as look up from the screen. "I'm working, Bobby, settle it between yourselves."
'Iceman' let out a groan. "You're so boring, Scotty, you know that?"
"I'm not boring," Scott grunted. "Some of us have actual responsibilities around here and don't have time to sit around watching TV all day."
Hank gave a smug, wordless grin in Drake's direction.
"If anyone's boring it's Hank," Scott continued without skipping a beat. "Guy doesn't even like movies."
The pair had broken into another tirade of arguing before Summers had so much as a chance to finish his sentence, but he didn't hear a word of it. His attention had shifted back down to the device in his hand and the notification box that had popped up on the top of the screen. The bronze faceplate and purple helmet of the Sentinel app's mascot stared up at him, accompanied by an address. It took Summers a couple of seconds to recognize it, but the moment he did he felt his heart drop into his stomach.
"We need to go." Summers snapped, shoving out his seat as he stood up. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and tossed a twenty dollar bill and some change down on the table and started for the door, with Hank and Bobby rushing to pick up the remains of their food and make after him.
"What's going on?" McCoy asked in a worried voice.
Scott tapped on the notification to bring up the full app and handed it over to Hank as he stepped out of the fast food restaurant's front door and made for his car. "Police reporting a mutant at Bayville High School. That's twenty-five minutes from here. We need to cut it down to fifteen, so get in the car and start changing."
"I'll call Jean and Kurt-" Bobby began, only for Scott to cut him off.
"No time. They're already reporting potential casualties."
B A Y V I L L E H I G H S C H O O L - 1 7 M I N U T E S L A T E R
1:46 a.m. | Bayville, Westchester County, New York City
The NYPD had already set up a perimeter by the time the X-Men had arrived. Scott, Hank, and Bobby climbed out of the car, clad in their yellow-and-blue spandex uniforms. Cyclops had abandoned his ruby-red glasses for his visor and Iceman had already gone through the trouble of putting on his 'snow armor,' as he had taken to calling it. The three of them made sure to keep a low profile behind the cover of their car as they scanned the area for trouble. There had to be almost a dozen cops here already, and there wasn't any question that more would be there soon. But that wasn't the most troubling thing about the scene before them.
Bayville High School was surrounded by walls of rock and earth. Stone barricades had been erected over every window, door, and vent that Scott could see. Even the windows on the second floor were covered. There wasn't going to be an easy way to get inside. Luckily the NYPD didn't look like they had any clue how to get past the barriers either, so there was still a chance that the X-Men could get inside and defuse the situation. New York's finest weren't known to negotiate in situations like this one.
"Alright, here's the plan," Cyclops muttered, crouching back down beneath the car to speak to both Iceman and Beast. "Iceman, you're the fastest one here. I'll need you to distract these cops here. Make them chase you to the other side of the school if you can. While you're doing that, Beast and I will break through one of those windows on the second floor to get inside. When you come back around I want you to ice up the window once you're in so they can't follow us. Got it?"
Iceman gave an enthusiastic nod of his head. "Got it Scott, can do-"
"Cyclops!" He hissed.
"Right. Cyclops. Sorry. Aight, I'm on my way." Iceman jumped to his feet and launched a spray of frost against the ground several feet in front of him. He gave himself a running start toward it to build up momentum, then hopped atop it and continued to spray a path across the ground. The snow-covered mutant shot across the pavement faster than any human being could run. "Hey! Coppers! Over here!" He shouted, dragging the attention of the police line around to the odd site of a living snowman skating across the pavement in March. It didn't take the NYPD officers long to start shouting back at him and giving chase.
Once the coast was clear Cyclops and Beast bounded across the grass toward the school, Hank running on all fours and managing to beat Scott there by a good eight seconds or so. Cyclops took a few steps back to get a good angle on the stone outcropping and lifted a finger up to his visor. With the press of a button, he caused the front of the visor to pop open, a pair of violently bright and hot beams shooting out of his retinas to blow the stone to chunks. It hurt using the beams for even a few moments- he needed a second or two to readjust to sight once he released the visor's button and it fell back into place.
"Alright, Beast. Toss me." Cyclops ordered. Hank gave him a quizzical look, but he didn't argue, settling down low so that Scott could step onto Beast's cupped hands. Once his fearless leader was in position, Hank gave it his all and flung Summers as high into the air as he possibly could. Cyclops went flying for the second story window, all but smashing right through it when he landed on the ledge upper ledge.
It didn't take long for Scott and Hank to both climb itself, and not more than two minutes later Bobby appeared on the street below.
The sound of shouting voices was distant behind him as Drake constructed a ramp up to the window, his feet clinging unnaturally to the ice pathway as he seemed to counteract gravity itself by skating upwards toward the window. He dove inside with an overly theatrical roll, popping back up with his arms spread wide so he could give a bow. "I gave 'em the slip, boss!" iceman proudly proclaimed. "Won't know I came this way for a good five minutes."
"Good. Ice this up, we don't need them trying to follow us." Scott ordered. "It looks like our mutant can control earth, and quite a bit of it. So we need to do this carefully, but we gotta be quick- I don't know what we're going to find downstairs, but..." He swallowed, his hands shaking ever so slightly. He was praying it wouldn't be as bad as it seemed. "Let's get moving, X-Men. We have a job to do."
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B A Y V I L L E H I G H S C H O O L
Midday | Bayville, New York City
The Bayville Badgers mascot was displayed with pride on the school's tiled floor. That black-and-white little creature had a defiant fist shoved into the air and a certain glint in its cartoonishly large eyes. It'd been a long time since Scott had seen that little furry demon, and the sight of it did little to ease the thumping in his chest.
As far as he could remember the Badgers hadn't won a single prize in the last ten years that wasn't a participation ribbon. The oft chanted 'Badgers Fighting!' had become something of a joke in the state's basketball circuit with how terrible Bayville's teams always managed to be. That never stopped Summers from cheering for them, though- it made their few and far between victories all the sweeter.
They had won a few tournaments in their past, however, and the administration was eager to let people remember. They'd set up a long trophy case along the central hallway to display their former glory for all to see. It used to be an impressive little setup, with velvet carpet on the interior and gold trimming around its mahogany frame. Now the glass was shattered and spread across the floor, several earthen claws impaling through the box and pointing toward the X-Men like accusatory fingers. Cyclops kept moving, his breathing shallow as he listened for even the slightest of sound.
There were muffled sobs coming out of the classrooms he passed by, their windows dark and their locks firmly in place. The hallways themselves were all empty, save for the carnage left behind by the mutant that had made his way through here. No bodies or blood, just mindless destruction. Shattered lights and broken panels hanging from the ceiling. Lockers tossed around and crushed like soda cans. And at least a dozen more remains of stone and dirt constructs that had done the deed.
"No bodies," Scott muttered under his breath, glancing over toward Hank.
McCoy was slinking forward on his knuckles like a hairless ape, his eyes darting over the geomancy pillars with a curious and weary eye. "Or blood for that matter." Beast agreed with a slow nod. "None of the classrooms have been disturbed."
"God this place gives me the creeps," Iceman said a little too loudly, prompting both Cyclops and Beast to glare back at him. He threw up his hands defensively and quickly shut his mouth.
The trio continued their advance deeper into the school, following the path of destruction. It branched off at places, forcing them to split up temporarily in their search, but it always seemed to converge back into a primary, linear path. Their mutant wasn't on a spree as had been assumed- they looked to be pushing toward a specific goal, Scott just didn't know what.
They came upon the first set of open doors near the opposite side of the building to where they had entered. A pair of large double doors had been broken off at their frame and now lay crushed and crunched up on the other side of the hallway. Massive, earthen fists stood dormant to either side of the entrance, their digits dug into the wood, drywall, and steel of the wall. Red lettering positioned above the threshold marked it as the gymnasium.
"Eyes up, guys. Looks like the place." Cyclops warned, doing his best to keep his breathing steady as he stepped inside. He was greeted by the sight of another brutalized room. Cavernously large with long, folding bleachers situated on either side and a multi-purpose court in the center, the gym had seen the worst of the damage. Pillars of earth as thick around as a Giant Sequoia rose up from the floor and cut their way through the roof. Dozens of protrusions cut through the bleachers, walls, and ground at awkward angles, bending metal and splintering wood.
In the very center of the room was a puddle of blood surrounded by a smattering of dagger-like spikes stabbed into the ground around it.
Beast started across the gym at a run, his closed fists scratching across the floorboards as he bounded over toward the pool. He bent his head low, taking in long, deep breaths with his nose until he wrenched his head in the direction of the locker rooms. He didn't say anything as he started in that direction, this time much slower and more cautious in his approach. Cyclops and Iceman moved after him, mimicking his silence until they arrived at the entrance.
A weak, pained mewling echoed out of the tiled men's room. Cyclops placed a hand on Beast's shoulder, ushering him back so he could take the lead. A hand hovering by his visor and the other tracing along the wall, Cyclops crept ahead, following the sound of muffled and pained sobbing. When he turned the corner he came upon the mutant he'd been looking for- and his victims.
The boy was short in stature, perhaps four or five inches shorter than Scott. And he was thin as rails without much in the way of visible muscle. His back was to Scott so he couldn't get a good look at the kid's face, but he had long, dirty-looking hair, a shirt a size too big for him, and worn out skinny jeans that clung to his unimpressive frame. Then there were the other kids.
Three of them, to be exact.
One was a large boy in every sense of the word, with a scruffy jaw and a buzzcut to frame his face. Tears were running down his hairy cheeks and he was struggling to break free from the giant stone fingers that were wrapped around his torso and keeping his arms pinned to his side. It wasn't going to budge no matter how much he wiggled around.
The next was a head taller than him and skinnier, but still a bit meatier than the mutant. His hands were pressed up against the wall and held there by rocky manacles bursting out of the tiles to wrap around his wrists. A mask of stone held tight to the lower portion of his face, muffling his terrified cries and making it difficult for him to breathe.
The final boy was suspended right in front of his captor by a tendril of hardened dirt and clay. Blood was running down from a large gash on his forehead, over his eye and dripping down his chin. Blue eyes were red and puffy, filled with fear and apprehension as they stared into the face of the mutant that held him. "I'm- I'm sorry, Lance.." Griff apologized with haggard breath. "C-come on, just- just let us go, man-"
Lance made a quick motion with his skeletal fingers, and another tendril of dirt broke through the ground beside him. At it's head was a sharpened stone that it traced along Griff's cheek, drawing a short, thin line of red along behind it. He did his best to swallow an agonized scream.
"Would you've let me go?" Lance snarled, motioning for his tendril to pull away.
"I- I was just messin' with you, man-"
"You were gonna beat me until I was black 'n blue you fuckin' liar!" He slammed his fist into Griff's nose in an awkward and mostly ineffectual punch. "I know what people like you do to mutants. They ain't gonna find me in a ditch somewhere, fuck no. But you on the other hand..."
Bobby broke from cover first, dodging past Cyclops' attempt to stop him from rushing forward. Iceman threw up a hand, a stream of frost leaving his snow-covered palm and flying right for Lance's exposed back. A pillar of rock burst from the ground right in its path, continuing forward until it rammed right into the surprised X-Man's chest.
"Let them go!" Beast roared, leaping over his fallen comrade as he bounded toward Lance at frightening speeds. The knife-like tendril whipped around to intercept, flinging itself for Hank's throat only to be stopped by a fist when it was just inches away. Beast wrestled with the construct, his fingers digging into it's length and finding it's stony spine hidden within its center. With a roar he plunged a hand down, took hold of the spine-like structure and ripped it out, shattering the whole of the tendril. He went to grab Lance, only for a hand the size of Hank's barrel chest to pop out of the ground and restrain him.
Even as it began to drag Beast to the floor, Cyclops started forward, his fingers resting on the release button on the side of his visor. "You don't have to do this, Lance." He said, staring right at the sixteen year old boy's chest. Aim for center mass. "We don't have to fight."
Lance's expression twisted as he looked over the X-Men. Strange people garbed in linen costumes ripped straight from the pages of a cheesy comic book. Superheroes like the Justice Society of America, or Captain America and the Wonder Woman. They were the last people he expected to come barging through that door- he expected cops to come in shooting. It took him a few moments to adjust to the situation, his clamy hands opening and shutting as he rapidly looked between the three heroes. "You mutants too?" Lance rasped.
"We are." Scott answered with a nod. "We're the X-Men, and I'm Cyclops."
"Cool name." Lance chuckled a little, his throat as dry as the Nevada Desert. "This...this ain't what it looks like-"
"What do you think it looks like?" Cyclops asked, never letting his fingers stray too far away from the button. He didn't know anything about Lance, but the kid looked nervous- panicky. Scott had to make sure he wouldn't do anything to hurt those other kids or his teammates.
Lance glanced over his shoulder, then to the downed Iceman and the restrained Beast. It certainly didn't look good, whatever this was. "They- they attacked me first-" He stammered, shoving an accusatory finger back at Griff. "He was gonna kill me!"
Griff gave a rapid shake of his head. "We weren't, I swear-"
"You shut the fuck up!" Lance shouted over him, shoving an accusatory finger in Griff's face. Another tendril broke out of the ground and started to snake toward Ryan Griffin.
"Hold on, Lance." Cyclops ordered. Firm, but not angry. He had to make sure he sounded calm and in control. Lance was losing it. He couldn't let the kid do something he'd regret. "Just hold on. Don't hurt him." He insisted, taking a few, careful steps forward. When Lance looked back but didn't lash out at him, Scott got closer- not close enough to get into his personal space, but close enough to make it more personal. "He attacked you because you're a mutant, right?"
Lance nodded quickly.
"I know what it's like. Trust me, we all do." Scott took another step forward. Lance froze up this time, his shoulders tensing. Scott was getting too close, but he decided not to stop. Instead he brought his hand away from his visor, holding them both up in the air to show himself as harmless and vulnerable. That eased the tension in the other boy, at least a little. "But you can't react like this. Nobody else is going to understand-"
"So I should just let them get away with it?" Lance snarled between gritted teeth, running a hand through his grease-slicked hair.
"I didn't say that." Cyclops corrected. "But the police aren't going to take your side, Lance. All they're going to see is a mutant attacking humans. And you know how that's going to end."
But..." Lance snapped his eyes shut. "-they deserve it. I-" He stood, turning to look at Griff. The bully sucked air in, meeting Lance's gaze with wide, terrified eyes. Lance got close to him. "-I don't care what they think. P-people like him have been treatin' people like me like shit since forever, and...and I'm tired of it."
"Don't, Lance." Cyclops warned. "There's no coming back from this if you kill this guy. They'll come after you and they won't stop-"
Lance didn't turn around, he was just staring at Griff now. "Won't be any different from before."
"Think about what it'll do to your family-"
"What family?"
Scott caught himself tripping over his own words. "Lance-" He moved forward again, holding out a hand toward the younger man's shoulder. Not a second later Cyclops felt something punch into his chest with the force of a freight train. The pillar had come faster than he could react, his feet leaving the floor as he flew backward several feet.
The next thing Cyclops saw when he finally hit his back was Lance's tendril shooting toward Griff's throat.
'No!'
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B A Y V I L L E H I G H S C H O O L
Midday | Bayville, New York City
Griff's throat was moment's away from being split open when a flash of cold struck against his skin. The whimpering teenager looked down to find the earthen tendril encased in a solid block of ice, wriggling and writhing in a vain attempt to escape its frozen prison. "S-shit, man-" He gagged, stuck trying to process the fact that he was still alive. His breath appeared in front of him like the wisps of a ghostly hand. He had noticed it before, but the temperature in the room had dipped- he could feel goosebumps crawling up along his sweat-slicked arms.
'The hell?' He thought, bewildered, turning his eyes toward the only possible source.
The man made of snow had pulled himself up off the ground. 'Iceman,' the one with the weird glasses had called him, was hunched over, his shoulders taut and his chest heaving with labored breath. "Pretty brave guy, tryin' to kill a kid that can't fight back." The mutant superhero spat as he straightened his back and stared Lance down with an all-too cocky grin plastered on his face. "Bet you don't have the stones to take me, though!"
Both mutants moved simultaneously, too fast for Griff to comprehend it all. Shards of ice and pillars of stone soared through the air in a chaotic battle of the elements as winter and earth struggled for dominance over one another. Iceman was much more mobile than his opponent, taking to ducking and rolling as he chucked constructs and blasts in Lance's direction. Lance didn't bother moving much, only ever directing the ground to attack Iceman or to defend himself with a twitch of his hand.
He was so engrossed by the lethal dance that he hadn't noticed the other mutant until he was pulling apart at the binds that held Griff in place. Giant, gorilla-like hands tore at stone and dirt with disturbing ease, breaking them down until Griff was finally free for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He landed on his hands and knees, the numbness in his legs and arms making it impossible to stand. Beast took Griff by the shoulders and wrenched him back to his feet, beckoning Griffin wordlessly to move back to the far wall. The big guy pulled Rem and Duncan down, too, ushering them to join Griffin in cowering in the corner while the X-Men dealt with Lance.
"This is so fucking crazy." Rem whimpered, tears running freely down his rounded cheeks. "We're gonna fuckin die, man-"
Duncan took him by the arm and jerked on it roughly."-We'll be fine." He whispered, his throat hoarse. "Tell him, Griff. We're gonna be okay, right?"
But Griffin didn't say anything. He was too busy watching Lance fight. Scrawny, lonely little Lance was tearing apart the locker room like it was nothing. Directing rocks to fly and dirt to bend like he was some kinda sick puppeteer. Griff had always heard about mutants doing stuff like this, even seen some videos online. But he'd never seen it in person. It was...terrifying.
"You three!" A voice shouted in their direction. Griff looked and found Cyclops pointing toward them. He was making a motion for them to come toward him. "I'll cover you, but you need to move, now!" He sounded young- probably not much older than Griff. But there something in the way he spoke that made Griff trust him. Something that prompted him to rise to his feet in a crouch.
He looked back at Rem and Duncan. "Let's go. Stay close." Griff ordered. They both glanced at each other, nervously, but they nodded. Griff started forward. He was quick, but he kept himself low and pressed up against the wall to keep himself as far away from Lance as humanly possible. The other two were right behind him. It wasn't a long shot from the locker room's exit, but with all the shit flying through the air, he wasn't sure he was gonna make it-
"Where do you think you're going?!" A furious cry rose up over the sound of violence. Lance let out an enraged scream, throwing a palm in Griffin's direction and beckoning a swarm of dagger-like stones to make their final resting place inside of Griff's skull.
Before Griff even had a chance to register the attack it was intercepted by a light as bright as the sun and as red as human blood. A beam that shot through the air with a sound like a maligned fog horn turned the stones into dust, then kept going and punched a hole through three layers of wall until it disappeared outside the school. Griff followed the beam back to its source just in time to see Cyclops removing his finger from his visor, causing the laser to vanish and leaving behind nothing but the destruction and sizzling air in its wake.
As much as Griff wanted to run, he found his body no longer responding. He was stuck there, staring up at Cyclops with his mouth agape and his heart thudding against his chest.
It wasn't until he felt Duncan's hands shoving up against his back that Griff was able to shake it off and continue forward, though his sprint was now more of a series of stumbles and near-falls. He clambered along the ground on his hands and feet until he reached the exit that would lead out into the gym. Both Rem and Duncan didn't spare a second as they went running full-bore to safety, but Griff paused at the entrance to look back at it all and just...stare.
'What the hell are you?'
Almost as if he'd somehow heard Griff's thoughts, Cyclops had turned around. Griffin flinched just at the sight of that ruby-red glass.
"Get out of here!" Cyclops shouted. "Go! We'll hold him off!"
It was more than enough for Griff and he gave the mutant a dull, slow nod before turning on his heel and making a break for the nearest exit. The sound of that eye blast ringing over and over and over again in his head while he ran, even as the sounds of the struggle faded to nothing but a dull and distant drone behind him.
"Is this really all you've got?" Bobby Drake laughed, jumping back to avoid a pillar to the chin. He responded by tossing an empty hand forward like he was holding a baseball, only for a cluster of ice to manifest and fling in Lance's direction. "You're puttin' me to sleep over here!"
Lance brought up a wall of packed dirt to block the blow, building it up until it was touching the ceiling only to usher it to collapse forward toward Iceman and Cyclops. "Just SHUT UP ALREADY!" He snarled, his face red hot and pale as a ghost. Blood was slipping down the side of his cheek from a well-placed icicle the X-Man had thrown earlier; it was mingling with the sweat that had fallen down from Lance's brow and the dirt that stuck to his face.
"Focus, Iceman!" Cyclops yelled, rolling backward to get out of the path of the falling tsunami of dirt and mud. "We need to-"
"Relax, Sc- Cyclops, Jesus!" Drake responded. "This guy's a walk in the park for me." To prove his point he chose not to move out of the way of the falling dirt, instead choosing to press a hand into it and flash freeze the entire wall while it was mid-fall. Ice and frost rapidly crossed over the mound, sticking it together and keeping it suspended in the air above Iceman's head. "See that?" He started, turning around to gloat toward Scott. "This guy ain't shi-"
A tendril snaked around the side of the barrier, a stone hoisted in its grip. Scott went to warn Iceman, but it was too late, the words trapped in his throat even as the stone was loosed and slammed into the side of Bobby's head with enough force to send him stumbling to the floor. Red began to leak through the snow packed around the teenage mutant's skull.
"Damn it, no!" Scott growled, sliding down on his knees to reach Bobby's side. He hoisted Iceman's head up and placed it on his lap, digging through the tightly packed snow to find the wound itself. Bobby's quiet groaning meant he was still alive, thank God, but Scott had to make sure it wasn't going to get any worse. "Beast? He's hurt pretty bad." He said, turning his head up to look for Hank McCoy, the team's resident medic.
Hank wasn't doing much better than them. He was fighting just to get in arm's reach of Lance, struggling to get passed every barrier the mutant erected. Walls of dirt or rock had to be climbed over or sidestepped. The ground falling away and being replaced by a mud pit had to be leaped over. Earthen hands looking to pin him down or knock him onto his back had to be either broken or dodged. All the while he had to avoid every manner of thrown rock, dagger or construct that was sent his way. It was an infuriating affair that kept McCoy from making much progress at all, and every failed attempt to get two steps forward only made the Beast all the angrier.
"When I get my hands on you-" Beast snarled, Cyclops's voice lost in the sound of blood beating in his ear. He wanted so desperately to put his hands on Lance. He wanted it with every fiber of his being. Nothing else in the world mattered as he reached for the scrawny little monster's face, barely unable to get ahold of him.
"Beast!" Cyclops called again, louder this time. "Beast, he needs you!"
Nothing. Hank didn't so much as look his way.
Scott had had just about enough of this.
He'd never explained to anyone just how much it hurt to use his powers. That feeling of energy crackling inside of his eyeballs was always there, like a constant reminder of what he was, but it became almost unbearable whenever he let the energy loose. It was like his entire head was on fire, or what he imagined it felt like to be on fire. And there was this immense pressure on his face- part of him wondered if it might just collapse in on itself if he used his powers for too long. Or maybe his eyeballs would burn up. He never really wanted to test either hypothesis.
And then there was that sound. It was loud and terrible for everyone else, sure, but Scott...Scott heard it inside his head, pounding against his skull like a jackhammer.
It took every ounce of self-control not to flinch or look away. If his eyelids moved in the path of the beam it would knock the laser off course and he'd put everyone nearby in danger. So he focused with every fiber of his being, staring at the ceiling tile just above Lance's head. He watched it explode into chunks and burning insulation in less than a moment. It all started to fall along with bits of superheated steel, wiring and all other manner of debris. Scott only kept the visor open for a portion of a second, but even that had been too much, given just how many layers he'd blown through that he was able to see daylight at the end of it.
He snapped it shut and nearly collapsed to the floor, only narrowly catching himself against the nearest wall.
Lance's panicked shouting had been lost in the sound of Cyclops's attack. He desperately threw a barrier over his head to stop the debris, though, given the screaming that followed, it evidently didn't block all of it.
Hank was promptly snapped out of his trance by the attack and came rushing toward the other two X-Men, his face contorted with some measure of shame and concern as he finally noticed the condition that Bobby was in. He passed by the recovering Cyclops and went straight for Iceman, making a quick field check of the wound before carefully lifting Bobby between his arms. "Can you walk?" He asked, looking back to Scott.
It took a few seconds before Summers managed a nod, slowly working his way to his feet. McCoy awkwardly shuffled over and brought one of Scott's arms over his shoulder, leading the way out of the locker room as best he could.
"Wait..." Scott coughed. "Lance..."
"No time," Hank shook his head profusely. "Cops are starting to break in. We gotta get outta here unless we want to be blamed for all of this too."
"We can't...a..aband..on-" Scott tried to say, but he found himself stumbling down to the floor as darkness enveloped his ruby-red vision.
Lance Alvers let out a pained groan as he managed to snuff out the last of the burning material that had fallen on his head. The world was spinning all around him, panic pounding against his inner ear as he tried to make sense of it all.
He could hear footsteps in the hallway and shouting. People were coming this way. Maybe only a few of them, but even if he managed to fight them off, there'd be more. That...Cyclops guy was right. There'd always be more; chasing him to the edge of the earth for what he did here.
'No,' He corrected with a silent sneer. 'For being what I am.'
He hadn't expected it to end this way. He hadn't...really had a plan to begin with. But he had known he wanted to get back at Griff and those other assholes for what they were doing to him. And what they were gonna do to him. Then those other assholes showed up. All dressed up like superheroes. Why'd they attack him? Why'd they side with the guys that were gonna try to kill him just for being a mutant? It didn't make sense. It wasn't supposed to work that way.
Lance slunk to the floor of the destroyed locker room surrounded by the destruction their battle had wrought. He sat on the only part not covered in sharp rocks and metal, dragging his knees up to his chest so he could rest his head on them. He...he shouldn't have done it. He thought he was okay with the consequences- he thought he'd really thought it through. But hearing the sirens outside? Fighting those other people? And hearing what had to be cops coming?
He'd been wrong. So, so wrong.
He'd do anything for a second chance.
"NYPD, put your hands in the air!" The command came from the entrance to the locker room. A big man with broad shoulders, all wrapped in dark blue, stepped inside, a pistol held in Lance's direction. There was another guy with him shouting orders- he had a gun too.
"I told you to put your hands in the fucking air, freak!" The first one screamed again. "Put 'em up, now!"
Lance lifted his eyes toward them, though he didn't make a move. It was funny. He'd just fought a bunch of people with superpowers, but now that he saw those iron eyes pointed at him, he couldn't so much as lift his hands. Maybe he was just tired. Yeah...yeah, that made sense. He just needed a second to catch his breath, then he'd listen to them. Prison for life was better than dying, right? Or maybe it wasn't. He wasn't sure. He'd never been to prison before, so he couldn't really say.
"Something's wrong with him." One of the officers said, hesitating. "Should we try to cuff him?"
"Are you kidding me? Do you see what he did to this place? I'm not going anywhere near him."
"Maybe we should just shoot him."
The second paused, mulling it over. "Yeah. Maybe."
Lance snapped his eyes shut and held in his breath, preparing himself for it. He heard the shots before he felt them.
BLAM! BLAM!
They were loud. Almost as loud as that other mutant's laser. He didn't know if he was supposed to hear the guns before he felt them- that didn't sound right. But even if he was, he figured he should've been hit by now. Unless they missed?
Then he heard something hit the ground. Two somethings, actually. They sounded big, fat and meaty, like somebody had dropped a couple of steaks by accident.
Lance let his eyes flutter open in confusion, glancing up to find his would-be executors lying in pools of blood and other fluids he didn't want to identify. Each had a little red hole in the back of their head, and there was someone else standing over their corpses. Another cop, his gun pointed toward the ceiling and his other hand held out toward Lance.
"Come with me, little brother." The man said with a warm, inviting smile. "And I will keep you safe."
That was all Lance needed to hear as he reached up and took the stranger's hand.
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