working on a couple of different posts atm. Hopefully I'll have one of them finished tomorrow

I'll be working on some stuff this weekend.

Got some work done in a collab, and I'm looking at a couple other things that I need to do. Possibly including the end of the season stinger to give you an idea of what's to come next season...

I've got my next post typed up, but I may be unable to format it until I get home from the holiday. (We'll see.) Approaching the end of Miss Megaton's origin story, which is a relief because I'm terrible at writing origins...

Well, you're doing a good job so far...

agreed, I've been enjoying it

Heh. Well, I'm glad the finished product is palatable, because it certainly feels like a battle on my end.

Heh. Well, I'm glad the finished product is palatable, because it certainly feels like a battle on my end.

I know the feeling. I've been feeling the same way with my stuff lately

Returning home from the holidays tonight, so I'll be able to get on my home computer and format my next post shortly. Bright side: the wait has allowed me to write a second post, so I'm ahead of my posting schedule again for the first time since I started.

Working on some stuff. I've had a pretty rough week and a half or so, but I'm getting back to work and hope to have some posts up very soon

Character you have created: The Saint

Alias: Jimmy Desantos/Jimmy the Saint

Speech Color: Normal

Theme:

^{"It takes a whole lotta hurt
Therein lies one of life's biggest lessons
Ain't got nothin' to do with deserve
Just pray to the Saint of Lost Causes"
-- Justin Townes Earle}

Character Alignment: Walking the Line... ish.

Identity: Secret

Uniform/costume: No uniform or costume.

Origin Info/Details:

The Saint's true origin is mysterious and unknown. His early life is a mystery. After dropping out of high school, he enlisted in the Army and was soon drafted into special forces where he excelled. He joined special forces just as the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were started and worked in the Middle East as a solider, eventually becoming a contract employee of the CIA. It was during his time with the CIA did he receive the codename Saint.

After a redacted incident in Northeast Afghanistan, The Saint's employment was terminated and the event was silently covered up by US authorities. Returning back to the US, The Saint didn't have to wait long until he was contacted by the shadowy criminal underworld that was desperate for his services. Now he works as a gun for hire. If it absolutely, positively needs to be killed as soon as possible, accept no substitutes.

Power Level: Street

Powers: No powers.

Attributes (Select one at each category):



Weaknesses: Bullets.

Supporting Characters:

Hyde -- The Saint's go-between with the criminal underworld. For a fee, Hyde sets The Saint up with people in need of his help.

Alex Stone -- FBI agent investigating The Saint.

Mack the Knife -- Current killer for hire and ex-special forces operative.

Percy Fitzwaller -- A criminal lawyer who moonlights as a criminal lawyer. The Saint's legal representative.

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Yeah

Sample Post:

Yuba City, California
1:14 AM

The Saint walked through the smoke filled casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes while they worked clattering slot machines with dead eyes. A half dozen dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across casino floors on too tall heels while they dished out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up did a bad job of hiding the miles and the years. The Saint figured for the right price a man could take one of them home. Drunk businessmen played blackjack while geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriners in fez hats played roulette.

The Gold Rush Casino got its name from Califronia's past. The city sprung up in the wake of the old Gold Rush of the 19th century. Someone found a bunch of shiny rocks in a creekbed and it became a boomtown overnight because of it. Like a lot of boomtowns, a primarily male populace needed a place to spend their money. Saloons and brothels popped up across the town to serve the thousands of rough prospectors passing through to find their fortune. The gold rush dried up and the boom years faded like they always do, but Yuba City pushed on. Its origins in human desire explained a lot about the current state of the area. How could the city be asked to clean up when vice was in its DNA?

The Saint found a pit boss walking around the craps table. He had his eye on a pair of hot hands rolling eight the hard way for the third consecutive time. The man seemed mildly annoyed when The Saint got his attention.

"Yes, sir?"

"Here to see Milligan. Hyde sent me."

Annoyance quickly turned to deference. The pit boss pulled out a walkie-talkie and radioed some unseen party. A moment later, a security guard in a red blazer and slacks was escorted The Saint off the casino floor and into the back. They passed a room crammed with monitors. Every inch of the casino seemed to be under surveillance. Another room down from the monitors had its door open. He saw soundproof padding and a single metal chair bolted to the floor. That was where cheaters went, and he was almost sure there would be no cameras in that room. Based on the pit boss' look, the lucky craps shooter would soon find himself in that little room.

"Mr. Milligan? He's the guy."

The security guard led The Saint into a sprawling office. It was decorated in a very gaudy fashion, leopard print wallpaper and a faux fur carpet. Fake Venus De Milo statues flanked a walnut desk big enough to hold an orgy on. A long glass window behind the desk looked down on the casino floor. Behind the desk, his leopard fur slippers up on the hardwood surface, was Joey Milligan. Milligan looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore a bright pink shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He also wore a white pair of pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Milligan look that much more clownish.

"The Saint," said Milligan. "The man, the myth, the legend."

The Saint took a chair, a plush leopard print wingback, and nodded as Milligan took his feet down off the desk.

"So why am I being paid so handsomely to come to this... casino?"

Milligan rooted through his desk. He came up with a remote control and pointed it at a television mounted on a table to his right. The thing clicked on and, after a few button presses, security camera footage rolled on the monitor. Four minutes worth of footage, all of it taken at different parts of the casino at different times over the past month. The Saint noticed the pattern before Milligan even opened his mouth.

"Notice something?"

"It's the same two guys in every shot," said The Saint. "They're always dressed differently and on different nights, but always at the casino and never together. Casing the place?"

"That's what my security guys think," said Milligan. "They've been here a long time, well long for case job. That's got me nervous. Something may be coming very soon. I want you to case the casers. Find them and make them pay for even fucking thinking of trying to rob my joint."

The Saint nodded his head and started to stand.

"I'll be on the floor if you need me."

---

"Twenty-two. Bust."

The dealer slid the chips across the green felt of the blackjack table with one long, lanky arm. The fat man at the table let out a sigh as he watched a few hundred dollars in chips disappear down a slot to the dealer's right. Two chairs away, The Saint stood firm on eighteen and waited for the dealer to flip his card over. It was already showing a queen of diamonds, so it came as no surprise when the dealer revealed an ace of spades.

"Twenty-one. House wins."

His chips disappeared down the chute. That made a even grand he lost at the tables since he'd hit the floor earlier this morning. That was okay. After all, he was playing with house money. He took the chips he had left in his hand and stood, throwing a small token of appreciation to the dealer as a tip, and walked the casino floor. Despite being there for over nine hours, The Saint still recognized plenty of faces from this morning. He would stake the chips he had left that plenty of people had been here for nearly twenty-four hours.

They all had the same look, as if they were slightly unhinged. Their eyes were too wide, they radiated something he knew was dangerous: Hope. Hope had no place in a joint like this. This was where hope came to die, but still suckers lined up around the block to let the house take their money. That was because they all believed in that dream that this country sold wholesale. They all played games rigged in the house's favor, but as long as that small glint of hope remained they would keep coming to the tables until they had nothing left take. In many ways, this dingy little casino with its clouds of cigarette smoke and people looking to score easy money was America in a nutshell. The games in these walls were just as rigged as the big game outside, but as long as people ate it up the house would always take and it would always win.

The Saint walked the floor, glancing up to the long glass pane above the casino. Joe Milligan's god's eye view of the casino he lorded over like a king with horrible taste. Out the corner of his eye he saw the man he first noticed two hours ago. He was a redhead with a thick ginger beard and a navy blue suit and white shirt, no tie. He was groomed but The Saint saw the tattoos from a mile away. They were on his knuckles, a single letter on each, that spelled out LOVE on his right hand, HATE on his left. He was one of the men in the security footage Milligan showed him. While the security footage helped, he had made him as a caser right off the bat. He wasn't too obvious with the way he watched everything going on around the casino floor, but he wasn't subtle enough to elude The Saint.

He slid up to the roulette table where the man was putting a bet on 28 Black. The Saint laid down a bet on 17 Red just before the little ball went into the spinning roulette. He stared at the table and only discretely glanced at the man out the corner of his eye. His hair was recently cut, the tanlines around the back of his neck made it obvious. They both lost money when the ball clattered into 22 Black. He stayed and played a few more spins while his target took his money to the blackjack table.

After a few more hours of playing, the man left. He spent all his chips, nothing to cash out at the teller's cage. The Saint waited a few minutes before leaving behind him. He was leaving the casino parking lot in a red sedan as The Saint stepped out into the evening. He got in his rental car and caught up with the sedan on the parkway, speeding east away from the coast and towards the interior of the state. The Saint lit up a cigarette and kept a long leash on the car, especially as traffic began to thin and the city disappeared into the distance. The car took an off ramp at a town called Nelson, some thirty miles outside of the city. He followed and kept going as the sedan pulled into a dilapidated gas station.

The Saint doubled back and parked the car down the block, the lights off, and watched the sedan idling at the gas station. A few minutes later, a roar filled the air and six motorcycles raced down the street and pulled into the gas station. Six burly bikers dismounted their bikes and walked over to the sedan as the caser got out. He talked with the bikers about something. In the dim light, The Saint caught a glimpse of the leather cut one of the bikers wore. Horde MC stood out on the top of the jacket.

"Shit."

The Horde was among the baddest biker gangs in America, especially out west. They cooked and sold crystal meth to rednecks, sold guns to Mexican cartels and LA gangbangers, massacred rival MCs, and terrorized the communities were their chapters formed. And now, it appeared to The Saint, casino robbery was about to be added to that list.

Character you have created: The Saint

Alias: Jimmy Desantos/Jimmy the Saint

Speech Color: Normal

Theme:


^{"It takes a whole lotta hurt
Therein lies one of life's biggest lessons
Ain't got nothin' to do with deserve
Just pray to the Saint of Lost Causes"
-- Justin Townes Earle}

Character Alignment: Walking the Line... ish.

Identity: Secret

Uniform/costume: No uniform or costume.

Origin Info/Details:

The Saint's true origin is mysterious and unknown. His early life is a mystery. After dropping out of high school, he enlisted in the Army and was soon drafted into special forces where he excelled. He joined special forces just as the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were started and worked in the Middle East as a solider, eventually becoming a contract employee of the CIA. It was during his time with the CIA did he receive the codename Saint.

After a redacted incident in Northeast Afghanistan, The Saint's employment was terminated and the event was silently covered up by US authorities. Returning back to the US, The Saint didn't have to wait long until he was contacted by the shadowy criminal underworld that was desperate for his services. Now he works as a gun for hire. If it absolutely, positively needs to be killed as soon as possible, accept no substitutes.

Power Level: Street

Powers: No powers.

Attributes (Select one at each category):

Height: 6'0
Weight: 190
Strength Level: Normal Human
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human
Agility: Normal Human
Intelligence: Genius
Fighting Skill: Mastered
Resources: Large

Weaknesses: Bullets.

Supporting Characters:

Hyde -- The Saint's go-between with the criminal underworld. For a fee, Hyde sets The Saint up with people in need of his help.

Alex Stone -- FBI agent investigating The Saint.

Mack the Knife -- Current killer for hire and ex-special forces operative.

Percy Fitzwaller -- A criminal lawyer who moonlights as a criminal lawyer. The Saint's legal representative.

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Yeah

Sample Post:

Yuba City, California
1:14 AM

The Saint walked through the smoke filled casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes while they worked clattering slot machines with dead eyes. A half dozen dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across casino floors on too tall heels while they dished out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up did a bad job of hiding the miles and the years. The Saint figured for the right price a man could take one of them home. Drunk businessmen played blackjack while geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriners in fez hats played roulette.

The Gold Rush Casino got its name from Califronia's past. The city sprung up in the wake of the old Gold Rush of the 19th century. Someone found a bunch of shiny rocks in a creekbed and it became a boomtown overnight because of it. Like a lot of boomtowns, a primarily male populace needed a place to spend their money. Saloons and brothels popped up across the town to serve the thousands of rough prospectors passing through to find their fortune. The gold rush dried up and the boom years faded like they always do, but Yuba City pushed on. Its origins in human desire explained a lot about the current state of the area. How could the city be asked to clean up when vice was in its DNA?

The Saint found a pit boss walking around the craps table. He had his eye on a pair of hot hands rolling eight the hard way for the third consecutive time. The man seemed mildly annoyed when The Saint got his attention.

"Yes, sir?"

"Here to see Milligan. Hyde sent me."

Annoyance quickly turned to deference. The pit boss pulled out a walkie-talkie and radioed some unseen party. A moment later, a security guard in a red blazer and slacks was escorted The Saint off the casino floor and into the back. They passed a room crammed with monitors. Every inch of the casino seemed to be under surveillance. Another room down from the monitors had its door open. He saw soundproof padding and a single metal chair bolted to the floor. That was where cheaters went, and he was almost sure there would be no cameras in that room. Based on the pit boss' look, the lucky craps shooter would soon find himself in that little room.

"Mr. Milligan? He's the guy."

The security guard led The Saint into a sprawling office. It was decorated in a very gaudy fashion, leopard print wallpaper and a faux fur carpet. Fake Venus De Milo statues flanked a walnut desk big enough to hold an orgy on. A long glass window behind the desk looked down on the casino floor. Behind the desk, his leopard fur slippers up on the hardwood surface, was Joey Milligan. Milligan looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore a bright pink shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He also wore a white pair of pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Milligan look that much more clownish.

"The Saint," said Milligan. "The man, the myth, the legend."

The Saint took a chair, a plush leopard print wingback, and nodded as Milligan took his feet down off the desk.

"So why am I being paid so handsomely to come to this... casino?"

Milligan rooted through his desk. He came up with a remote control and pointed it at a television mounted on a table to his right. The thing clicked on and, after a few button presses, security camera footage rolled on the monitor. Four minutes worth of footage, all of it taken at different parts of the casino at different times over the past month. The Saint noticed the pattern before Milligan even opened his mouth.

"Notice something?"

"It's the same two guys in every shot," said The Saint. "They're always dressed differently and on different nights, but always at the casino and never together. Casing the place?"

"That's what my security guys think," said Milligan. "They've been here a long time, well long for case job. That's got me nervous. Something may be coming very soon. I want you to case the casers. Find them and make them pay for even fucking thinking of trying to rob my joint."

The Saint nodded his head and started to stand.

"I'll be on the floor if you need me."

---

"Twenty-two. Bust."

The dealer slid the chips across the green felt of the blackjack table with one long, lanky arm. The fat man at the table let out a sigh as he watched a few hundred dollars in chips disappear down a slot to the dealer's right. Two chairs away, The Saint stood firm on eighteen and waited for the dealer to flip his card over. It was already showing a queen of diamonds, so it came as no surprise when the dealer revealed an ace of spades.

"Twenty-one. House wins."

His chips disappeared down the chute. That made a even grand he lost at the tables since he'd hit the floor earlier this morning. That was okay. After all, he was playing with house money. He took the chips he had left in his hand and stood, throwing a small token of appreciation to the dealer as a tip, and walked the casino floor. Despite being there for over nine hours, The Saint still recognized plenty of faces from this morning. He would stake the chips he had left that plenty of people had been here for nearly twenty-four hours.

They all had the same look, as if they were slightly unhinged. Their eyes were too wide, they radiated something he knew was dangerous: Hope. Hope had no place in a joint like this. This was where hope came to die, but still suckers lined up around the block to let the house take their money. That was because they all believed in that dream that this country sold wholesale. They all played games rigged in the house's favor, but as long as that small glint of hope remained they would keep coming to the tables until they had nothing left take. In many ways, this dingy little casino with its clouds of cigarette smoke and people looking to score easy money was America in a nutshell. The games in these walls were just as rigged as the big game outside, but as long as people ate it up the house would always take and it would always win.

The Saint walked the floor, glancing up to the long glass pane above the casino. Joe Milligan's god's eye view of the casino he lorded over like a king with horrible taste. Out the corner of his eye he saw the man he first noticed two hours ago. He was a redhead with a thick ginger beard and a navy blue suit and white shirt, no tie. He was groomed but The Saint saw the tattoos from a mile away. They were on his knuckles, a single letter on each, that spelled out LOVE on his right hand, HATE on his left. He was one of the men in the security footage Milligan showed him. While the security footage helped, he had made him as a caser right off the bat. He wasn't too obvious with the way he watched everything going on around the casino floor, but he wasn't subtle enough to elude The Saint.

He slid up to the roulette table where the man was putting a bet on 28 Black. The Saint laid down a bet on 17 Red just before the little ball went into the spinning roulette. He stared at the table and only discretely glanced at the man out the corner of his eye. His hair was recently cut, the tanlines around the back of his neck made it obvious. They both lost money when the ball clattered into 22 Black. He stayed and played a few more spins while his target took his money to the blackjack table.

After a few more hours of playing, the man left. He spent all his chips, nothing to cash out at the teller's cage. The Saint waited a few minutes before leaving behind him. He was leaving the casino parking lot in a red sedan as The Saint stepped out into the evening. He got in his rental car and caught up with the sedan on the parkway, speeding east away from the coast and towards the interior of the state. The Saint lit up a cigarette and kept a long leash on the car, especially as traffic began to thin and the city disappeared into the distance. The car took an off ramp at a town called Nelson, some thirty miles outside of the city. He followed and kept going as the sedan pulled into a dilapidated gas station.

The Saint doubled back and parked the car down the block, the lights off, and watched the sedan idling at the gas station. A few minutes later, a roar filled the air and six motorcycles raced down the street and pulled into the gas station. Six burly bikers dismounted their bikes and walked over to the sedan as the caser got out. He talked with the bikers about something. In the dim light, The Saint caught a glimpse of the leather cut one of the bikers wore. Horde MC stood out on the top of the jacket.

"Shit."

The Horde was among the baddest biker gangs in America, especially out west. They cooked and sold crystal meth to rednecks, sold guns to Mexican cartels and LA gangbangers, massacred rival MCs, and terrorized the communities were their chapters formed. And now, it appeared to The Saint, casino robbery was about to be added to that list.

Approved

Character you have created: Self-educating Robotic Assistant, software version 7.02

Alias: SERA

Speech Color: Lawn green

Character Alignment: TBD

Identity: No public presence as yet.

Character Personality: Simulated personality is...difficult. While Dr. Anderson did what he could, a lot of pieces of personality from the program are missing. Much of this is due to the fact that SERA, while possessing an incredibly powerful mind and an bility to learn things at speeds almost unimaginable to humans, has no life experience, and thus has nothing to base a personality on. The previous models had pre-programmed personalities meant to be servile to humans, and this was part of the problem in their creation. To avoid this, SERA mk 7 has no pre-programmed facets except her one directive to help the Doctor.

Uniform/costume: Whatever she wants to wear.

Origin Info/Details: SERA is the seventh version of her operating system, and the first successful model. Her creator, Gerry Anderson, thought it was a good idea to design an android capable of independent thought and creativity, housed in a shell that could be used for anything from protecting people during combat to search and rescue, research assistance to companionship. To this end, he not only designed an artificial intelligence from scratch, but pushed computer hardware and software well beyond limits his contemporaries thought impossible to overcome. SERA is programmed around a composite imaging of several brainwave patterns, and housed in one of the most advanced autonomous robotic bodies in the world.

The original six versions never made it out of the software stage, their programming becoming unstable and bug-ridden well before then. Number seven, however , while showing errors, also managed to self-correct those errors. The number of knowledge bases Dr. Anderson had added to the memory system had contained enough skill to do so, but that same capability had terrified Anderson. He installed the system in the body, then shut it down and locked it away, adding a key that would activate the thing only in case of extreme emergency.

SERA woke up to find the Doctor's body, one hand still clutching at the keyboard he had used to activate her, having died from a rapid series of strokes at the age of eighty-five. And now she is loose, with no one knowing anything about her.

Hero Type: Other: Android

Power Level: World/City

Powers:
Attributes (Select one at each category):
No financial resources, but has access to all materials necessary for repairs and the lab itself.

Weaknesses:
-The weight of her body, moving at the speeds she's capable of, make turning difficult. As such, at high velocity she is more like a wrecking ball.
-While an EMP won't wipe out her central storage unit where the AI is stored, it will completely disable all of the external systems, essentially turning Sera into a giant thinking paperweight until she can be repaired. This would also disable her upload link for at least a few minutes while it reboots.
-If trapped without a satellite uplink, the current version of Sera will die in two days
-While her program is built around human brainwave patterns, Sera is not human, and cannot follow things like sentiment. While aware of these sorts of things and able to plan around them, the computer is still a computer. Appealing to anything but logic is likely to fail.
-This system is notAasimovian, and does not have a lawset like people expect. This will most likely cause many to be terrified of it, given its nature.

Supporting Characters:
Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Nyet, in Soviet Russia, RPG board posts picture on you.

Character you have created: Self-educating Robotic Assistant, software version 7.02

Alias: SERA

Speech Color: Lawn green

Character Alignment: TBD

Identity: No public presence as yet.

Character Personality: Simulated personality is...difficult. While Dr. Anderson did what he could, a lot of pieces of personality from the program are missing. Much of this is due to the fact that SERA, while possessing an incredibly powerful mind and an bility to learn things at speeds almost unimaginable to humans, has no life experience, and thus has nothing to base a personality on. The previous models had pre-programmed personalities meant to be servile to humans, and this was part of the problem in their creation. To avoid this, SERA mk 7 has no pre-programmed facets except her one directive to help the Doctor.

Uniform/costume: Whatever she wants to wear.

Origin Info/Details: SERA is the seventh version of her operating system, and the first successful model. Her creator, Gerry Anderson, thought it was a good idea to design an android capable of independent thought and creativity, housed in a shell that could be used for anything from protecting people during combat to search and rescue, research assistance to companionship. To this end, he not only designed an artificial intelligence from scratch, but pushed computer hardware and software well beyond limits his contemporaries thought impossible to overcome. SERA is programmed around a composite imaging of several brainwave patterns, and housed in one of the most advanced autonomous robotic bodies in the world.

The original six versions never made it out of the software stage, their programming becoming unstable and bug-ridden well before then. Number seven, however , while showing errors, also managed to self-correct those errors. The number of knowledge bases Dr. Anderson had added to the memory system had contained enough skill to do so, but that same capability had terrified Anderson. He installed the system in the body, then shut it down and locked it away, adding a key that would activate the thing only in case of extreme emergency.

SERA woke up to find the Doctor's body, one hand still clutching at the keyboard he had used to activate her, having died from a rapid series of strokes at the age of eighty-five. And now she is loose, with no one knowing anything about her.

Hero Type: Other: Android

Power Level: World/City

Powers:

Multi-processor – SERA runs on a eighty-three core quantum computing processing unit, with superconducting materials and supercooling to prevent problems, stored in her chest. This CPU allows her to think and process things faster than most people can imagine, and gives her plenty of room to devote to subroutines and programs if she needs to.

Internet access - While she doesn't have an internal ISP, she has a state-of-the-art wifi receiver and can brute force her way into most civilian networks in seconds from a considerable distance.

Knowledge base – With upgradeable storage and a link to her server in the lab, she can pretty much learn whatever she wants in the amount of time it takes to download and/or install it. While this doesn't give her access to some things, like expertise in any skill or improvisational abilities, it is a considerable resource, and getting better as more people upload lessons on things around the world.

High power – SERA has an internal generator tied to the actuators in her body, constantly generating small amounts power through regenerative friction capture. This means heat energy generated through friction of her moving parts is recaptured and funneled to a pair of ultrahigh capacity lithium ion batteries. In addition, there is a tiny fusion generator powered by air intake. This generates small amounts of radioactive waste which much be disposed of every seventy-two hours.

Semi-realistic body – The android's skin is made of millions of hexagonal plates. These plates are mounted on multipurpose sensors tied to pressure, heat, and air pressure, allowing SERA to have a relatively similar sensory input to normal humans. These can be adjusted in her software to give her superhuman senses, as well. A small amount of photo-voltaic storage in these plates allows her to simulate body heat, but any sort of examination more than a cursory brushing or touch will reveal their nature.

Rescue systems – The alloyed bones of the body are capable of holding up several tons without a problem, and small mechanisms in the hands can allow them to telescope out to help support an area of around ten feet. An internal tank of oxygen is attached to two stored breath masks in the abdominal area, which also has a small tank of fire-retardant chemicals. The right thigh is equipped with a small heater and stores a thermal blanket. The left forearm has a gas-propelled grappling hook with a thin one-hundred and fifty foot cable and powered winch.

Combat systems – The right forearm is equipped with a small flamethrower and a three million volt rechargeable taser system. Right shoulder can open to expose a small, high-powered plasma cannon that can fire three bolts before needing recharging. The recharging system is a series of pressurized air intake valves along the upper arms capable of generating plasma, which can also be discharged out of the palms in a very short range blast. The taser can also be redirected across the skin. The eyes are capable of generating small laser beams, but cannot see while doing so as it requires reversing the direction of the internal lenses. All joints can be unlocked ,reducing structural capacity but allowing them to rotate freely in almost any direction. The skin plates are capable of stopping anything short of anti-armour rounds.

(note: The plasma bolt system can be overcharged, generating massive blasts of plasma and coating the body in a cloud of burning gas. This can damage the body if pushed too high, but is sustainable for short periods. It does, however, require a software override to accomplish, and severely taxes the cooling system.)

Sensory Equipment – Sera's eyes are capable of picking up visual traces of chemical residue, ultraviolet, infrared, nightvision, 400x magnification, light filtering, and electromagnetic waves. The microphones in the ears are sensitive enough to pick up clothing ruffling at over a hundred yards, but are usually tuned far below this level for safety reasons. Chemical receptors in the nose are superfluous, most receptors are along the skin, and are as sensitive as a canine's.

Phoenix Protocol – To protect such an extremely important investment, SERA is equipped with a periodic satellite uplink module. This system will upload to a specially designed satellite system and save the current program record once per day. If for any reason the storage system in her body is wiped, this system will enable her to download back in. If the uplink fails more than twice in a row, the system will automatically instead download her to the lab, and a safety system will delete the current copy in the body to prevent any sort of clever workarounds. In addition, tampering with any internal systems without the correct encryption key put into the I/O port in her chestor in the event of the safety system deleting the AI, a self-destruct sequence will cause the body to ignite a bundle of thermite and slag itself immediately.

Attributes (Select one at each category):

Height: 165 cm (5'5”)
Weight: 635 kg (1400 lbs)
Strength Level: maximum lift over head of 50 metric tons
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Can move at nearly the speed of sound, and reacts much faster
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: undefined
Agility: Can literally bend all limbs any way she wishes.
Intelligence: Smarter than you. Yes, even you.
Fighting Skill: undefined
Resources:

No financial resources, but has access to all materials necessary for repairs and the lab itself.

Weaknesses:
-The weight of her body, moving at the speeds she's capable of, make turning difficult. As such, at high velocity she is more like a wrecking ball.
-While an EMP won't wipe out her central storage unit where the AI is stored, it will completely disable all of the external systems, essentially turning Sera into a giant thinking paperweight until she can be repaired. This would also disable her upload link for at least a few minutes while it reboots.
-If trapped without a satellite uplink, the current version of Sera will die in two days
-While her program is built around human brainwave patterns, Sera is not human, and cannot follow things like sentiment. While aware of these sorts of things and able to plan around them, the computer is still a computer. Appealing to anything but logic is likely to fail.
-This system is notAasimovian, and does not have a lawset like people expect. This will most likely cause many to be terrified of it, given its nature.

Supporting Characters:
Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Nyet, in Soviet Russia, RPG board posts picture on you.

approved

been fighting off some major writer's block. Hope to have something to post soon.

Character you have created: Marcus Hardrada

Alias: Mephistopheles

Speech Color:Dark Red
Character Alignment: Walking The Line

Identity: Secret

Character Personality: Mephitopheles wanders the world mostly detached from the woes and pains of its people. He assists those who seem innocent, lost, or hopeless, but usually only if called upon, and only if their need is great. He takes great pride in his work, and reflects that pride in his demeanor and actions. Despite his somewhat reserved countenance, he is more than willing to throw himself into the heart of danger, seeking the thrill of combat and action that he once felt before he became the deathless being that he is. Rarely does he manage to achieve such exhilaration however, and this emptiness makes him feel more detached from the world and its people even more.

Uniform/costume:

On earth, his power to manifest clothing doesn’t allow more than simple items to blend in with modern society.


In Abaddon, his power and might allow him to manifest incredibly resilient yet magnificent armor.


Origin Info/Details:

Marcus Hardrada was born in England in 1433, where he was raised as a blacksmith in the village of Townton. He lived a quiet and content life, marrying his childhood sweetheart at the age of 18 under the eyes of God. He had a son, whom he named Brutus, and a daughter named Irisbeth. When the Wars of the Roses found their way to Townton in 1461, Marcus took up arms to defend his family. He died on the battlefield on March 29th, with a bloody sword in his hand and a spear in his throat. His family soon followed him into the afterlife.

When he fell on the battlefield, Marcus’ soul wandered to the plane of existence known only as Abaddon. There he drifted across barren, bleak fields and black bogs with creatures that could not be named or described. The landscape often changed to reflect a morbid interpretation of the world of the living, with empty cities growing into macabre imitations of man’s greatest creations. As the ages went on so did the depth of the devastation, and eventually the advent of modernization beckoned ever closer a crescendo of chaos and destruction that would consume Abaddon.

It was near the precipice of this degradation that Marcus was found, a pale, formless spirit drifting through a windless grove. The Lord of Abaddon swept him up into his home, a castle in the skies above his realm. Therein he plucked away the memories of Marcus’ dreams and loved ones, freeing him of anything that might distract him from the old one’s intentions. The elder spirit then explained to Marcus the depth of the situation that had arisen, and why he had been chosen. The lord of Abaddon was going into a deep sleep, and this land needed a shepard. Marcus was tasked with reviving this realm, and to find worthy spirits in the worlds above to aid him in this endeavour. He was given great powers, command over the land’s creatures, and lordship over any spirits who hadn't yet been corrupted by the sickness that infested Abaddon.

Finally, the lord of the barren land gave Marcus his home, the castle Harkenspyre, as he lay down to rest in eternity. As the last vestiges of power left that most ancient of spirits, so did Marcus awaken, his duty burned into his heart. He stepped forward onto solid earth for the first time in centuries, and walked through a doorway into the world above.

Hero Type (Supernatural): Spirit

Power Level (Select one below):
Street Level power on Earth with World Level power in Abaddon.

Powers (Be Specific):

Born of Death: Mephistopheles is bound to the heart of Abaddon, and so when his body is slain in the mortal world, his spirit returns there to rejuvenate, which takes anywhere from a day to a week depending on the injury. He can also return to Abaddon from the battlefield to recover from serious injuries, with something like a gunshot wound taking a couple hours. Once in Abaddon however, his spirit can truly be slain with enough effort, and it will finally pass on into the void.

Wraith Walk: Instantly creates an invisible doorway between the mortal realm and Abaddon. While in Abaddon he can teleport anywhere he desires, and since Abaddon is a (dark) reflection of the world we know, it allows him to create another doorway into our world at a desired location with near instantaneous speed. Any creature from the mortal realm brought to Abaddon will be forcibly ejected once the doorway closes, unless Mephistopheles keeps it open for them, or it is kept open by other means. Most mortal creatures that die in Abaddon become aimless spirits that wander the dark realm indefinitely.

Deathly Armaments: Can manifest medieval weapons and armor in Abaddon that’s incredibly resilient and, in the case of weapons, capable of even harming spirits. These items quickly degrade in the mortal world, usually only lasting an hour before crumbling to dust, with simpler items like clothing lasting longer.

Prince of Abaddon: Can command the native creatures of Abaddon, who obey with dog-like intelligence. The creatures will attack anyone besides Mephistopheles who they find in Abaddon, unless commanded otherwise. These creatures also crumble to dust after enough time in the mortal world, with some of the larger ones lasting a day, and the smaller ones only a few minutes.

Prince of The Fallen: Mephistopheles can see those close to death in the mortal world whilst in Abaddon, as their spirits come closer to the border between worlds. As they die, he can approach them and offer them a choice. Pledge their souls into his service, and live as a spirit in Abaddon, fighting to create a paradise in the forsaken land. They will do his bidding for the rest of time, or until they are killed, which can only be done in Abaddon. They will be able to enter the world of the living for as long as they please. However, doing so will require Mephistopheles to open a door that will only close when they return, or when the door is somehow destroyed, upon which time they will be forcefully returned to Abaddon. Opening such a door also requires Mephistopheles’ constant will, and so if he is slain and forced to return to Abaddon, the door will also close. These ‘Heroic Spirits’ will have the same stats as they had in life, but as with Mephistopheles, can only be truly killed in Abaddon.

The Power of the Dark Realm: Whilst in Abaddon, Mephistopheles gains super strength, super speed, teleportation, flight, near invulnerability, and a radar sense for anyone who enters Abaddon without invitation.

Names of Power: As a spirit, Mephistopheles can hear the call of anyone with a proper offering who invokes his name in the mortal world. He doesn’t often offer his name for this reason, as he prefers his peace and quiet. He isn’t obligated to respond to the call, but he can hear any plea that person makes as part of a prayer or ritual to him.

Attributes (Select one at each category):
Height: 5’11.
Weight: 170lbs.
Strength Level: Normal Human in the mortal world, 100+ tons in Abaddon.
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human in the mortal world, 100+ MPH in Abaddon.
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human in the mortal world, 5 hours in Abaddon.
Agility: Normal Human in the mortal, 10X in Abaddon.
Intelligence: Average
Fighting Skill: Trained in sword combat.
Resources: Minimal

Weaknesses:
Can be put out of the fight as easily as any human by a bullet or a strong enough smack upside the head while in our world. Considers the creatures and spirits of Abaddon to be his family, and would be greatly shaken to see them killed or seriously harmed. Takes personal offence when others react badly to the unspeakable horrors that are native to Abaddon, like a mother who doesn’t realize they have an ugly baby. Is unfamiliar with most modern technology and customs.

Supporting Characters:

The Old One, who gave him his power before he went to rest.

Grimlandr, son of Halmora. One of the greater spirits of Abaddon, and one of the few ones that can speak in some manner.

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Sample Post:

“Your name...is Mephistopheles...Your duty...as I have spoken...is to save our home...as I have spoken..save us…” The old spirit sighed as he took his seat beside the fire, and looked tiredly at man upon the hearth. The newly remade creature suddenly stirred, and his eyes came up to meet the old spirit’s for a moment, before the lord sighed one last content whisper, and faded from view.

Mephistopheles stood, his body wreathed in the blue glow of the fire. As he looked down at his naked form, he raised his perfectly smooth hands, touching his chest and face. Closing his eyes, he felt the thrum of Abaddon below him, the veins of the realm, his realm, coursing through his body. Opening his eyes, he concentrated for a moment, and a simple black leather tunic and trousers materialized on his body, along with a pair of leather boots a moment later.

He smirked to himself as he regarded the finely made material,”I could get used to this.” He stretched his arms above his head as he enjoyed the sensations having a body afforded him. Looking down at the floor, he could tell he was high up. Through the ornate black marble and foundations of the floating castle, he could see the creatures of Abaddon, as well as a few dozen mortals who knocked on death’s door in the surrounding area. Their twinkling souls reminded him of the stars, and he again gave a small smile.

Leaving the large study room, he entered an ornate hallway, with more black marble flooring, this time with golden inlays. ‘At least I won’t have to do any refurbishing.’ he thought as he continued past several marble statues depicting some native creatures of Abaddon. The old spirit had given him his home, but neglected to tell him anything of it’s properties or layout. The question of how the place remained afloat crossed his mind, but was immediately answered by a sensation Mephistopheles equated to the steering mechanism of this place. He sensed that if he willed it, the castle would fly to whatever destination he required, and he allowed it to stay put. ‘Harkenspyre...yes the name will take some work. Perhaps something less gaudy.’ he continued to think to himself as he explored the grand citadel.

Finally finding his way to a main entrance hall, he paused and examined a portrait on the far wall of the old spirit himself. The old lord sat amidst a field of greenery, and a furry bat eared creature sat proudly on his lap. He didn’t seem any younger in the depiction, but the portrait was obviously several hundred years old at least. He considered removing the painting, but shrugged and moved on, deciding that it added character to the room.

Approaching the massive oaken doors that guarded the entrance to the castle, Mephistopheles concentrated once again, and the doors swung open at his command. A cool air breathed into the castle, but with it came a cold chill that made Mephistopheles frown in anger. Far upon the horizon, a winged creature soar toward the castle, and a tempest of brooding clouds and lightning grew in its wake. Mephistopheles waited on the precipice of the cliff leading to the entrance of Harkenspyre, his arms crossed in impatience as the creature drew ever closer. The winds picked up around the castle as the great spirit finally reached the floating fortress, and dark clouds surrounded the area. Hovering with mighty swaths of his wings, the beats bellowed through seven mouths at Mephistopheles.

“Whey arr thou Lord?!” the creature demanded, lightning crackling in it’s seven maws.

Mephistopheles opened his arms out wide,”Where indeed Grimlandr! See before you your new lord! See now that I demand peace, you who brings anger to my hold!” Mephistopheles bared his teeth at the beast, and subconsciously adorned himself in engraved plates of armor as his anger grew.

The beast drew back as it’s wings suddenly shuddered in what appeared to be grief and remorse. The storm clouds cleared away, and the lightning fizzled from his body as he took to land on a patch of earth to the left of the entrance. The creature stood on cloven hooves almost half as tall as the main citadel, but now it knelt down to regard Mephistopheles, bringing one of its many sets of eyes to bear on the man. “Plegth mon yong lord, fogriv mein fools accured nature. I say thee hark of Abaddon now, ik eth strongr.”

Mephistopheles walked forward and ran his hand along one of the scaled snouts of the creature, bringing his head close to one of its eyes,”Please Grimlandr, do not apologize. I know how the ancient one loved you as a child, just as he loved me and every other whom he watched over. I would grieve with you my friend, but now is not the time for sorrow. Now is the time for action. Abaddon’s future hangs in the balance, and I will need your great strength. Will you place your faith in me my Grimlandr?” The beast drew in a great gulp of air from each of his throats, and lifted his maws to the sky, bellowing one last cry of grief at the world, before lowering himself down into what Mephistopheles assumed was his attempt at kneeling,”Sev us oh lord.”

Character you have created: Marcus Hardrada

Alias: Mephistopheles

Speech Color:Dark Red
Character Alignment: Walking The Line

Identity: Secret

Approved

Posts coming. Possibly tomorrow

Should have a post up tomorrow. Stay tuned.

New post up. Feels good to get something out finally.