<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>
Now. Play nice.
No no, GMs have to play nice and be diplomatic. I have to do that in another thread.
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Marvel & DC: Emergence (Canon RP) Page 4
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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat
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13 hrs ago
No no, GMs have to play nice and be diplomatic. I have to do that in another thread.
Sep Lord of All Creation
Member
Seen
29 min ago
Moving on...
So how about those Metropolis Meteors huh?
So how about those Metropolis Meteors huh?
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
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"The world isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be."![]()
M R . T E R R I F I C
"The world isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be."
M I C H A E L H O L T ♦ S T A R T U P C O - F O U N D E R ♦ M E T R O P O L I S
O R I G I N S:
Michael Holt is a brilliant young entrepreneur, co-founder of the tech startup Holt Industries. With multiple degrees including Quantum Physics, Psychology, Electrical Engineering, among others all from Metropolis University, Michael has always been ahead of his peers, excelling in both academic and practical pursuits. However, beneath his achievements lies a series of personal tragedies that have shaped his worldview and driven him to use his talents to make the world a fairer place.
The first happened when he was only a boy. His older brother, Jeffrey, who had been his mentor and best friend was tragically killed by a drunk driver. The second happened early in highschool, when his parents died in a senseless act of violence during a home burglary gone wrong. The death of his family deeply affected Michael, solidifying his belief that the world is inherently unfair. Since this point, he's had a strong urge to change the world for the better, and make it a great deal fairer. Luckily he was taken in by his oldest and best friend, Alex Baker's family. Their families had been friends for years, and the boys were basically brothers from a young age.
Michael’s journey into heroism began with the development of his first prototype T-Spheres, multifunctional devices capable of advanced computational and defensive capabilities. His roommate and best friend, Alex, now a cybersecurity expert, became his only confidant. Together, they worked tirelessly in their cramped apartment, pooling their limited resources and immense intellect. Despite their financial struggles and lack of high-quality equipment, their combined skill and determination made up for it. Their apartment, small and cluttered with discarded prototypes and circuit boards, became the hub of their innovation. Each late night and early morning spent tinkering and testing was a step closer to their vision of fairness and justice. Driven by a shared belief in the importance of fairness and equality, Michael donned the mantle of Mr. Terrific. Inspired by their progress and potential, they founded Holt Industries, a startup aiming to revolutionize technology and create a more equitable world.
The first happened when he was only a boy. His older brother, Jeffrey, who had been his mentor and best friend was tragically killed by a drunk driver. The second happened early in highschool, when his parents died in a senseless act of violence during a home burglary gone wrong. The death of his family deeply affected Michael, solidifying his belief that the world is inherently unfair. Since this point, he's had a strong urge to change the world for the better, and make it a great deal fairer. Luckily he was taken in by his oldest and best friend, Alex Baker's family. Their families had been friends for years, and the boys were basically brothers from a young age.
Michael’s journey into heroism began with the development of his first prototype T-Spheres, multifunctional devices capable of advanced computational and defensive capabilities. His roommate and best friend, Alex, now a cybersecurity expert, became his only confidant. Together, they worked tirelessly in their cramped apartment, pooling their limited resources and immense intellect. Despite their financial struggles and lack of high-quality equipment, their combined skill and determination made up for it. Their apartment, small and cluttered with discarded prototypes and circuit boards, became the hub of their innovation. Each late night and early morning spent tinkering and testing was a step closer to their vision of fairness and justice. Driven by a shared belief in the importance of fairness and equality, Michael donned the mantle of Mr. Terrific. Inspired by their progress and potential, they founded Holt Industries, a startup aiming to revolutionize technology and create a more equitable world.
S A M P L E P O S T:
Michael adjusted his makeshift costume in the mirror of their tiny apartment, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. One of his T-Spheres, still in its prototype form, was clutched tightly in his fist. His best friend and roommate, Alex Baker, busy at his desk surrounded by a variety of screens and wires, looked up at him.
"Ready for your big debut, buddy?" Alex asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Michael replied, his gaze steady. “Just remember, this is all uncharted territory. If anything goes wrong, I’ll need you to keep me updated.”
“Got it. I’ll be monitoring every move. Just stay sharp out there,” Alex said, turning back to his screens, each one displaying something completely different from the last. The center screen had an ever-updating view of the traffic congestion around Metropolis, while the one to its right had a visualizer of various police radio channels he was tuning into for updates on the city's crime. The left screen was currently playing one of Alex's favorite old movies, as it often did. Alex was a genius, but with ADD for sure. "Dude, don't forget – we never got the flight mode working on the T-Spheres yet. I put a motor in them so they should roll back to you, but don't go losing them on your first night out there. I don't want you coming back telling me our prototypes fell off some building downtown."
Michael nodded, taking a deep breath before climbing out of the window of their small flat and onto the fire escape. Once he was on the roof, he looked down upon the city in the cool night air. The city was alive with the usual buzz, but tonight, it felt different. He pulled a balaclava over his face and tucked it into his T-shirt. His costume, if you could even call it that, definitely needed some work. His leather jacket was the only thing that really stood out amidst the mishmash of casual clothing he thought he could move best in.
Hours passed as Michael moved from rooftop to rooftop, searching for any sign of action. He was about to give up hope when his communications link with Alex buzzed in his ear.
"Yo, dude, I'm picking up some chatter about smuggling going on at the docks. Cops are too busy tonight to handle it. If you're not too tied up playing Candy Crush, maybe you could check it out?"
"On my way," Michael replied, turning around and picking up the pace toward the docks.
He arrived at the docks to find a group of burly-looking men unloading crates from a boat under the cover of darkness. He sidled up to a wall and peeked around it, counting the hostiles. There were four, no, five of them, but only three seemed to be unloading the crates. He watched for a few moments more, wishing he hadn't after seeing the situation get a whole lot more complicated.
Two other men emerged from the boat, dragging a dejected-looking woman with them. Drug trafficking was one thing, but human trafficking was a whole other level. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out two of his spheres. They were rudimentary, and as he faced potential death, he definitely wished he'd done more testing on them, but they'd have to do. He thought about the best way to go about this. Confronting them head-on wasn't smart; he was outmanned and had nowhere to sneak up on them. If he didn't act fast, though, they'd be out of here with those girls faster than he could catch up. His eyes darted to a wall next to him, then to the smugglers' boat and the warehouse just behind them. For the first time tonight, a smile grew on his face.
He held two of his spheres between his forefinger, middle finger, and thumb. His eyes flickered back and forth between the three targets he'd identified, his brain doing a thousand calculations a second. Finally, he locked on. He could see the exact velocity and angle he needed. He drew his arms back and let them loose.
The spheres flew at speed, ricocheting off each target before bouncing off each of the smugglers' heads, knocking them unconscious. Then the unexpected happened. One of the last criminals, who had been escorting their victim to the car, pulled her in tight and moved her into the path of the sphere. Time almost went in slow motion as Michael called, "Weight!" and the sphere dropped to the floor. They hadn't installed many upgrades to the spheres yet, but in their efforts to develop self-propelled flight, they'd managed to invent a variable weight system for the gadgets. Michael thought they'd just be handy in preventing any criminals from stealing his hardware. Little did he know it would prevent him from hitting an innocent girl.
The kidnapper slid a switchblade out from his pocket and held it to the woman's throat. "Come out now, or she gets it!" he demanded. Michael had to oblige. He emerged from his cover, his hands up at his side. His heart was beating out of his chest as he timidly approached the man, his bravado and confidence suddenly gone as he was face-to-face with real danger.
"Come on now, man, put the knife down and no one has to get hurt," he pleaded. The man laughed.
"Seems like the only one who's going to get hurt here is you, bozo. What are you dressed up as anyway, dork? Halloween's not for another few months." He let out a sneering laugh. Michael didn't find the situation so funny, though. And for every laugh that escaped the horrible man's mouth, another twenty thoughts ran through his head as fast as a freight train.
Eureka.
Still holding his hands in the air, he made a slight gesture with his hands, not big enough to be noticed, but just enough to send a command to his spheres. Silently and gently, they began rolling from their respective positions towards him, circling round him before stopping quietly at his right boot. The kidnapper pointed his knife towards Michael.
"Say, how about you take that funny mask off now that I hold all the cards. And after that, why not tie yourself up so me and my boys can give you a bigger headache than the ones they're bound to wake up with?"
"I don't think so," Michael spoke, a look of shock passing through the criminal's eyes. "You might think you hold all the cards, pal, but I always like to keep a few up my sleeve." As he finished his sentence, he sent a walloping kick to the spheres at his foot. They flew at just the precise trajectory to hit their targets—the knife and the forehead. The man toppled backward, falling into a crate of the merchandise they had planned to shift.
Michael smiled beneath his mask, tapping into his communicator and telling Alex to get the cops to the area pronto. He collected the spheres and slid them back into his jacket pocket as he approached the woman. She looked terrified by the ordeal, but for the first time in history, a woman was actually glad to see a man in a balaclava approaching her at night. She jumped at Michael, wrapping him in an unexpected hug and thanking him profusely as he could only react with bewilderment. He did his best to put on a voice that sounded like he knew what he was doing.
"You're safe now," he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace. "The police are on their way."
The woman nodded, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, thank you so much. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't shown up."
Michael gave a reassuring smile, though his mind was already racing, thinking about what needed to be improved on his equipment for next time. "It's what I’m here for. Just try to stay calm until the authorities arrive."
As he turned to leave, the woman called out to him. "Wait! Who are you?"
He hesitated, unsure of how to respond. They had prepared everything except an alias. Just as he was about to shrug it off, the woman pointed at the back of his jacket.
"It says 'Terrific' on your jacket," she said, a faint smile breaking through her fear. "You really are... Mr. Terrific."
Michael glanced over his shoulder at the faded word stitched onto his leather jacket. He smiled. The jacket was a thrift store find, not exactly something he thought would become part of his identity. But alas.
"Mr. Terrific, huh?" he mused, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, I guess that'll do."
With a final nod to the woman, Michael turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows as the sound of approaching sirens filled the air. His heart was still pounding, but now there was a thrill of triumph mixed with the adrenaline. He’d done it. His first night out, and he’d actually made a difference.
As he made his way back to the apartment, Alex's voice buzzed in his ear. "Hey, you okay? I heard the chatter on the police radio. They’re on their way."
"Yeah, I’m good," Michael replied, the excitement still coursing through him. "And guess what? We’ve got a name."
"Oh yeah?" Alex sounded intrigued. "Lay it on me."
"Mr. Terrific."
There was a brief pause before Alex laughed. "You serious? Mr. Terrific? Alright, man. If the shoe fits, right?"
Michael chuckled, climbing back through the window into their cramped apartment. "Exactly. Now let’s get to work on those spheres. I’ve got some ideas."
As he settled back into the familiar chaos of their workspace, Michael couldn’t help but feel a sense of purpose. The world wasn’t fair, but tonight, he’d taken a step towards making it a little better. And with Alex by his side, he knew this was just the beginning of something truly terrific.
"Ready for your big debut, buddy?" Alex asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Michael replied, his gaze steady. “Just remember, this is all uncharted territory. If anything goes wrong, I’ll need you to keep me updated.”
“Got it. I’ll be monitoring every move. Just stay sharp out there,” Alex said, turning back to his screens, each one displaying something completely different from the last. The center screen had an ever-updating view of the traffic congestion around Metropolis, while the one to its right had a visualizer of various police radio channels he was tuning into for updates on the city's crime. The left screen was currently playing one of Alex's favorite old movies, as it often did. Alex was a genius, but with ADD for sure. "Dude, don't forget – we never got the flight mode working on the T-Spheres yet. I put a motor in them so they should roll back to you, but don't go losing them on your first night out there. I don't want you coming back telling me our prototypes fell off some building downtown."
Michael nodded, taking a deep breath before climbing out of the window of their small flat and onto the fire escape. Once he was on the roof, he looked down upon the city in the cool night air. The city was alive with the usual buzz, but tonight, it felt different. He pulled a balaclava over his face and tucked it into his T-shirt. His costume, if you could even call it that, definitely needed some work. His leather jacket was the only thing that really stood out amidst the mishmash of casual clothing he thought he could move best in.
Hours passed as Michael moved from rooftop to rooftop, searching for any sign of action. He was about to give up hope when his communications link with Alex buzzed in his ear.
"Yo, dude, I'm picking up some chatter about smuggling going on at the docks. Cops are too busy tonight to handle it. If you're not too tied up playing Candy Crush, maybe you could check it out?"
"On my way," Michael replied, turning around and picking up the pace toward the docks.
He arrived at the docks to find a group of burly-looking men unloading crates from a boat under the cover of darkness. He sidled up to a wall and peeked around it, counting the hostiles. There were four, no, five of them, but only three seemed to be unloading the crates. He watched for a few moments more, wishing he hadn't after seeing the situation get a whole lot more complicated.
Two other men emerged from the boat, dragging a dejected-looking woman with them. Drug trafficking was one thing, but human trafficking was a whole other level. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out two of his spheres. They were rudimentary, and as he faced potential death, he definitely wished he'd done more testing on them, but they'd have to do. He thought about the best way to go about this. Confronting them head-on wasn't smart; he was outmanned and had nowhere to sneak up on them. If he didn't act fast, though, they'd be out of here with those girls faster than he could catch up. His eyes darted to a wall next to him, then to the smugglers' boat and the warehouse just behind them. For the first time tonight, a smile grew on his face.
He held two of his spheres between his forefinger, middle finger, and thumb. His eyes flickered back and forth between the three targets he'd identified, his brain doing a thousand calculations a second. Finally, he locked on. He could see the exact velocity and angle he needed. He drew his arms back and let them loose.
The spheres flew at speed, ricocheting off each target before bouncing off each of the smugglers' heads, knocking them unconscious. Then the unexpected happened. One of the last criminals, who had been escorting their victim to the car, pulled her in tight and moved her into the path of the sphere. Time almost went in slow motion as Michael called, "Weight!" and the sphere dropped to the floor. They hadn't installed many upgrades to the spheres yet, but in their efforts to develop self-propelled flight, they'd managed to invent a variable weight system for the gadgets. Michael thought they'd just be handy in preventing any criminals from stealing his hardware. Little did he know it would prevent him from hitting an innocent girl.
The kidnapper slid a switchblade out from his pocket and held it to the woman's throat. "Come out now, or she gets it!" he demanded. Michael had to oblige. He emerged from his cover, his hands up at his side. His heart was beating out of his chest as he timidly approached the man, his bravado and confidence suddenly gone as he was face-to-face with real danger.
"Come on now, man, put the knife down and no one has to get hurt," he pleaded. The man laughed.
"Seems like the only one who's going to get hurt here is you, bozo. What are you dressed up as anyway, dork? Halloween's not for another few months." He let out a sneering laugh. Michael didn't find the situation so funny, though. And for every laugh that escaped the horrible man's mouth, another twenty thoughts ran through his head as fast as a freight train.
Eureka.
Still holding his hands in the air, he made a slight gesture with his hands, not big enough to be noticed, but just enough to send a command to his spheres. Silently and gently, they began rolling from their respective positions towards him, circling round him before stopping quietly at his right boot. The kidnapper pointed his knife towards Michael.
"Say, how about you take that funny mask off now that I hold all the cards. And after that, why not tie yourself up so me and my boys can give you a bigger headache than the ones they're bound to wake up with?"
"I don't think so," Michael spoke, a look of shock passing through the criminal's eyes. "You might think you hold all the cards, pal, but I always like to keep a few up my sleeve." As he finished his sentence, he sent a walloping kick to the spheres at his foot. They flew at just the precise trajectory to hit their targets—the knife and the forehead. The man toppled backward, falling into a crate of the merchandise they had planned to shift.
Michael smiled beneath his mask, tapping into his communicator and telling Alex to get the cops to the area pronto. He collected the spheres and slid them back into his jacket pocket as he approached the woman. She looked terrified by the ordeal, but for the first time in history, a woman was actually glad to see a man in a balaclava approaching her at night. She jumped at Michael, wrapping him in an unexpected hug and thanking him profusely as he could only react with bewilderment. He did his best to put on a voice that sounded like he knew what he was doing.
"You're safe now," he said, gently extricating himself from her embrace. "The police are on their way."
The woman nodded, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, thank you so much. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't shown up."
Michael gave a reassuring smile, though his mind was already racing, thinking about what needed to be improved on his equipment for next time. "It's what I’m here for. Just try to stay calm until the authorities arrive."
As he turned to leave, the woman called out to him. "Wait! Who are you?"
He hesitated, unsure of how to respond. They had prepared everything except an alias. Just as he was about to shrug it off, the woman pointed at the back of his jacket.
"It says 'Terrific' on your jacket," she said, a faint smile breaking through her fear. "You really are... Mr. Terrific."
Michael glanced over his shoulder at the faded word stitched onto his leather jacket. He smiled. The jacket was a thrift store find, not exactly something he thought would become part of his identity. But alas.
"Mr. Terrific, huh?" he mused, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, I guess that'll do."
With a final nod to the woman, Michael turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows as the sound of approaching sirens filled the air. His heart was still pounding, but now there was a thrill of triumph mixed with the adrenaline. He’d done it. His first night out, and he’d actually made a difference.
As he made his way back to the apartment, Alex's voice buzzed in his ear. "Hey, you okay? I heard the chatter on the police radio. They’re on their way."
"Yeah, I’m good," Michael replied, the excitement still coursing through him. "And guess what? We’ve got a name."
"Oh yeah?" Alex sounded intrigued. "Lay it on me."
"Mr. Terrific."
There was a brief pause before Alex laughed. "You serious? Mr. Terrific? Alright, man. If the shoe fits, right?"
Michael chuckled, climbing back through the window into their cramped apartment. "Exactly. Now let’s get to work on those spheres. I’ve got some ideas."
As he settled back into the familiar chaos of their workspace, Michael couldn’t help but feel a sense of purpose. The world wasn’t fair, but tonight, he’d taken a step towards making it a little better. And with Alex by his side, he knew this was just the beginning of something truly terrific.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
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mattmanganon Your friendly neighbourhood tyranical dicator
Member
Seen
8 hrs ago
Applying for Lanterns again, but i'm going back to basics, trying something a bit different, even if i think the structure of the previous one worked and as much as i'd love to try it again, i doubt it'd be accepted. So i think i'm gonna try something a little... Closer to the original characters, but along the same lines of story.
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
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The Lanterns
"Forever fight as one..."
Thal Sinestro & Hal Jordan ♦ Military ♦ Coast City
O R I G I N S:
Strategic Homeland Intelligence Evaluation and Logistics Division, secretly known as the Super Human Identification Evaluation and Location Division, a WW2 organization designed to root out classified individuals who possessed abilities that the Public aught not be made aware of. Post war, they struggled to find relevance until alien creatures began descending upon Earth. Needing an organization to keep them under wraps, this job fell to S.H.I.E.L.D. One such alien that crashed to earth was a space ship containing 2 aliens. One dead, one barely alive, found by US Air Force Captain Hal Jordan after his plane went down with the alien craft. Upon investigating the alien ship, a Green ring leapt from the dead alien and attached itself to Captain Jordan. The living alien identified himself as Sinestro, the Golden Lantern.
Sinestro told S.H.I.E.L.D. about the Lanterns, a team of alien crusaders determined to rid the galaxy of evil using their magic rings. He also told them of the heinous villain known as Mongul, the Alien Warlord who would stop at nothing to possess the Magic Rings for his own. Now the Rings were on Earth and Mongul would stop at nothing to get his hands on them. That his former team had been ambushed and destroyed by Mongul and that he and the dead alien, Abin Sur were the only ones to escape, but they did so with the rings. Now, most of them were scattered across Earth. They would need to find these Rings and find new hosts for them before Mongul tracked them here. Hopefully they may be able to get the Rings off of Earth and not turn this planet into another victim of the terrible machine that Mongul possessed. An enormous warship, as big as a planet, populated entirely by Monguls people, either his slaves or his loyal warriors and they were always eager to find a new civilization to join their ranks...
So, it is with great uncertainty that S.H.I.E.L.D. has authorized a mission to recruit individuals and find these missing Power Rings in order to save Earth and hopefully keep it off of Mongul's radar.
Sinestro told S.H.I.E.L.D. about the Lanterns, a team of alien crusaders determined to rid the galaxy of evil using their magic rings. He also told them of the heinous villain known as Mongul, the Alien Warlord who would stop at nothing to possess the Magic Rings for his own. Now the Rings were on Earth and Mongul would stop at nothing to get his hands on them. That his former team had been ambushed and destroyed by Mongul and that he and the dead alien, Abin Sur were the only ones to escape, but they did so with the rings. Now, most of them were scattered across Earth. They would need to find these Rings and find new hosts for them before Mongul tracked them here. Hopefully they may be able to get the Rings off of Earth and not turn this planet into another victim of the terrible machine that Mongul possessed. An enormous warship, as big as a planet, populated entirely by Monguls people, either his slaves or his loyal warriors and they were always eager to find a new civilization to join their ranks...
So, it is with great uncertainty that S.H.I.E.L.D. has authorized a mission to recruit individuals and find these missing Power Rings in order to save Earth and hopefully keep it off of Mongul's radar.
S A M P L E P O S T:
Hal and Sinestro sat in a small room behind a two way mirror, looking into a small room with a table and 3 of the Rings, Orange, Red and Pink. "Alright, next applicatant." Hal said into the mic, a distorted version of his voice played into the small room.
"Hal Jordan, this is a most inefficient form of finding them." Sinestro scowled as he sat next to Hal.
"You'd prefer a battle royal?" He asked away from the mic as the next applicant walked in.
"A traditional tournament of combat is what is usually used on my homeworld to determine worthiness for such honoured artifacts." He sighed, looking at the man who walked in and sat down. Hal sighed.
"Look, we have plenty of war heroes on this planet to choose from. Plenty of some of the finest men and women i've ever had the good fortune of serving with." He looked over the records of the guy who had been sent in.
"Yes and every single one of them have failed..." He replied. "Your military is one of the largest and most powerful on the planet and yet your training has pushed every last ounce of imagination from your heads. Why the green ring ever chose you, i have no idea." He looked away, arrogantly. Hal shook his head. This guy was a tough nut, but he had worked with arrogant asses like him before. Hal knew how to handle them. He then leaned into the mic.
"Please state your name for the record." He ordered.
"Sgt. Clifford Zmeck. United States Air Force. Sir." The man replied. Hal continued to read his report, before wincing at this guys rap sheet. He leaned away from the mic again and stared at Sinestro
"And you're sure THIS guy has the imagination we are looking for?" He asked.
"Imagination comes in many forms. We have tried your way, let me try it mine." Sinestro replied, a cold, yet cool and calculated look on his face, as if he was vivisecting Zmeck with his eyes."
"Sgt Zmeck, you have quite a considerable amount of chargest levelled against you. What makes you feel you are suited for any form of Special Training Program?" Hal asked, leaning into the mic again. Zmeck grinned confidently.
"I am a decorated hero. Sure, i may have crossed a few lines here and there getting the job done, but America stands and it's men like me who are responsible for this." Hal saw the smile. That terrible smile on Zmecks face, as if he was reliving his crimes in his head.
"WHA-" Hal began as his rage boiled over, but he was pulled away from the mic by Sinestro who looked at him.
"May i ask the questions?" He asked. Hal looked at Sinestro.
"This guy is walking, talking garbage and if any of those rings choose him, i'm gonna hand mine back." Hal growled at Sinestro. "This man is a disgrace to the uniform and everything it stands for."
"But in him i see potential to become something better." Sinestro responded, before he leaned into the mic. "Sgt, in front of you are a tray of rings." He said, the garbled version of his voice playing in the room in front of them. "Please pick one up." Zmeck looked at them before picking up an orange one. A faint glow began to radiate from it."
"Well i'll be damned, you were right..." Hal was taken aback. None of the rings had reacted to any of the applicants. Not so much as a spark. But now this one was starting to glow in Zmeck's hands. But Sinestro was not smiling. Nor was he looking smug or any kind of indication that he was right.
"No... No i was not..." He said. He leaned into the mic "Sgt, drop the ring this instant." But Zmeck continued to stare into the ring, his eyes aglow as he stared, a grin slowly sneaking across his face.
"What's mine... Is mine..." He began as he seemed to start moving the ring towards his middle finger. "Is mine... is mine...." He groaned inan almost trance-like state. At this point, Sinestro smashed a big red button on the desk, the room in front of them instantly filling up with a greenish gas. "Is... Is... Mi... Is..." Zmeck slowly fainted as the anaesthatine gas was forced into his lungs.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Hal asked Sinestro. "HE REACTED BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE TODAY!"
"Reacted in the wrong way." Sinestro replied. "That wasn't him becoming a Lantern. That was the ring attempting to drain him. I have seen it before, i know the difference. It appears... You were right Hal Jordan..." Sinestro grunted through gritted teeth. Hal could see on Sinestro's face, those words hurt him more to say than the crash landing last month that Sinestro almost died in. Hal pressed another button on the mic.
"Clean up on Aisle 7." After the gas had cleared, a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents ran into the room, put the ring back on the table and dragged Zmeck off.
"Hal Jordan, this is a most inefficient form of finding them." Sinestro scowled as he sat next to Hal.
"You'd prefer a battle royal?" He asked away from the mic as the next applicant walked in.
"A traditional tournament of combat is what is usually used on my homeworld to determine worthiness for such honoured artifacts." He sighed, looking at the man who walked in and sat down. Hal sighed.
"Look, we have plenty of war heroes on this planet to choose from. Plenty of some of the finest men and women i've ever had the good fortune of serving with." He looked over the records of the guy who had been sent in.
"Yes and every single one of them have failed..." He replied. "Your military is one of the largest and most powerful on the planet and yet your training has pushed every last ounce of imagination from your heads. Why the green ring ever chose you, i have no idea." He looked away, arrogantly. Hal shook his head. This guy was a tough nut, but he had worked with arrogant asses like him before. Hal knew how to handle them. He then leaned into the mic.
"Please state your name for the record." He ordered.
"Sgt. Clifford Zmeck. United States Air Force. Sir." The man replied. Hal continued to read his report, before wincing at this guys rap sheet. He leaned away from the mic again and stared at Sinestro
"And you're sure THIS guy has the imagination we are looking for?" He asked.
"Imagination comes in many forms. We have tried your way, let me try it mine." Sinestro replied, a cold, yet cool and calculated look on his face, as if he was vivisecting Zmeck with his eyes."
"Sgt Zmeck, you have quite a considerable amount of chargest levelled against you. What makes you feel you are suited for any form of Special Training Program?" Hal asked, leaning into the mic again. Zmeck grinned confidently.
"I am a decorated hero. Sure, i may have crossed a few lines here and there getting the job done, but America stands and it's men like me who are responsible for this." Hal saw the smile. That terrible smile on Zmecks face, as if he was reliving his crimes in his head.
"WHA-" Hal began as his rage boiled over, but he was pulled away from the mic by Sinestro who looked at him.
"May i ask the questions?" He asked. Hal looked at Sinestro.
"This guy is walking, talking garbage and if any of those rings choose him, i'm gonna hand mine back." Hal growled at Sinestro. "This man is a disgrace to the uniform and everything it stands for."
"But in him i see potential to become something better." Sinestro responded, before he leaned into the mic. "Sgt, in front of you are a tray of rings." He said, the garbled version of his voice playing in the room in front of them. "Please pick one up." Zmeck looked at them before picking up an orange one. A faint glow began to radiate from it."
"Well i'll be damned, you were right..." Hal was taken aback. None of the rings had reacted to any of the applicants. Not so much as a spark. But now this one was starting to glow in Zmeck's hands. But Sinestro was not smiling. Nor was he looking smug or any kind of indication that he was right.
"No... No i was not..." He said. He leaned into the mic "Sgt, drop the ring this instant." But Zmeck continued to stare into the ring, his eyes aglow as he stared, a grin slowly sneaking across his face.
"What's mine... Is mine..." He began as he seemed to start moving the ring towards his middle finger. "Is mine... is mine...." He groaned inan almost trance-like state. At this point, Sinestro smashed a big red button on the desk, the room in front of them instantly filling up with a greenish gas. "Is... Is... Mi... Is..." Zmeck slowly fainted as the anaesthatine gas was forced into his lungs.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Hal asked Sinestro. "HE REACTED BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE TODAY!"
"Reacted in the wrong way." Sinestro replied. "That wasn't him becoming a Lantern. That was the ring attempting to drain him. I have seen it before, i know the difference. It appears... You were right Hal Jordan..." Sinestro grunted through gritted teeth. Hal could see on Sinestro's face, those words hurt him more to say than the crash landing last month that Sinestro almost died in. Hal pressed another button on the mic.
"Clean up on Aisle 7." After the gas had cleared, a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents ran into the room, put the ring back on the table and dragged Zmeck off.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat
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13 hrs ago
Leaving this here, I might tweak it still prior to reposting in the OOC, but my base concept:
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
"A suit of armour, around the world."
P R O J E C T W A R M A C H I N E
"A suit of armour, around the world."
A N T H O N Y S T A R K ♦ G E N I U S, B I L L I O N A I R E, P L A Y B O Y, P H I L A N T H R O P I S T ♦ U . S . A .
O R I G I N S:
If you're looking for weapons and arms, you look no further than the Iron Man and Stark Industries. The Stark family business has been putting iron in the hands of hardworking Americans before the ink dried on the Second Amendment. Now facing an unprecedented crisis in the form of persons of mass destruction, Stark Industries wants to put peace of mind back on the menu and keep the citizens of not only the United States but the world safe.
Enter Project War Machine.
Despite the intimidating name, Project War Machine seeks to put the fighting power back in the hands of honest, hard-working Americans. Pairing a predictive algorithm Artificial Intelligence with a skilled pilot, Project War Machine places this dynamic duo inside a personal aviation suit, giving even the most ordinary man a fighting chance against the rising tide that is the 'metahuman'.
Designed by the Iron Man, the Da Vinci of Death, none other than Tony Stark, Project War Machine looks to be the future of personal protection. Despite his superior dominance on the market, Stark is in an arms race against Boliver Trask's Sentinel Program and Prof. Anthony Ivo's A.M.A.Z.O. To assert his claim for the military contract, Stark has invited the Council of Defense to his testing facilities to witness a little competition between both military and civilian pilots as they put the 'War Machines' through their paces.
Enter Project War Machine.
Despite the intimidating name, Project War Machine seeks to put the fighting power back in the hands of honest, hard-working Americans. Pairing a predictive algorithm Artificial Intelligence with a skilled pilot, Project War Machine places this dynamic duo inside a personal aviation suit, giving even the most ordinary man a fighting chance against the rising tide that is the 'metahuman'.
Designed by the Iron Man, the Da Vinci of Death, none other than Tony Stark, Project War Machine looks to be the future of personal protection. Despite his superior dominance on the market, Stark is in an arms race against Boliver Trask's Sentinel Program and Prof. Anthony Ivo's A.M.A.Z.O. To assert his claim for the military contract, Stark has invited the Council of Defense to his testing facilities to witness a little competition between both military and civilian pilots as they put the 'War Machines' through their paces.
S A M P L E P O S T:
"In the past we put our trust in a man and his serum. But the manufacturing time, the human factor, it's too variable. The future," Tony paused, the curtain behind him drawing away, "The future is Warmachine. Project Warmachine puts the power back in the hands of the people you trust, imagine one of these,"
Tony gestured towards the row of heavily armoured humanoids behind him. Each decorated for a different branch of the military, several done up in the colours of civil services. Each equipped with specialized arms and tools. Save for one in the center, coloured in a garish red and gold. That was the mascot, done up in Stark's own personal colours.
Beside Tony on stage was his beautiful personal assistant whom many considered the only reason Stark Industries stayed afloat after the death of Howard Stark, Virginia 'Pepper' Potts. A large man walked onto the stage, applauding Tony while inciting the crowd to follow as Obediah Stane and his own assistant, Justin Hammer, joined their colleagues.
"And that's not all folks," Stane yelled over the applause, "We're going to be holding a test flight, and we're going to make it fun," He smiled, "I've called my friends over at Ferris Air and they've lent me their best test pilot while Tony is backing his personal friend, Captain Rhodes of the U.S. Air Force. Both of these men, along with some of their colleagues will be the first to try out Stark's War Machines in a series of tests and challenges designed to put both the pilots and the suits through a series of arduous tests. From this boot camp, I'll get the join of crowning my pilot 'Top Gun' and Stark Industries gets the benefit of putting together a comprehensive training manual to put the War Machine into the hands of your public servants."
"Cocky about that victory, big guy," Tony interjected, "I don't think Rhodey is about to let a civilian 'test' pilot with more crashes on his resume than years of experience beat him."
"Then may the best pilot win," Stane replied, shaking Tony's hand, behind them, the suits suddenly flew into the air, their remote operators guiding them out over the crowd before the congregants erupted into excited cheers.
Tony gestured towards the row of heavily armoured humanoids behind him. Each decorated for a different branch of the military, several done up in the colours of civil services. Each equipped with specialized arms and tools. Save for one in the center, coloured in a garish red and gold. That was the mascot, done up in Stark's own personal colours.
Beside Tony on stage was his beautiful personal assistant whom many considered the only reason Stark Industries stayed afloat after the death of Howard Stark, Virginia 'Pepper' Potts. A large man walked onto the stage, applauding Tony while inciting the crowd to follow as Obediah Stane and his own assistant, Justin Hammer, joined their colleagues.
"And that's not all folks," Stane yelled over the applause, "We're going to be holding a test flight, and we're going to make it fun," He smiled, "I've called my friends over at Ferris Air and they've lent me their best test pilot while Tony is backing his personal friend, Captain Rhodes of the U.S. Air Force. Both of these men, along with some of their colleagues will be the first to try out Stark's War Machines in a series of tests and challenges designed to put both the pilots and the suits through a series of arduous tests. From this boot camp, I'll get the join of crowning my pilot 'Top Gun' and Stark Industries gets the benefit of putting together a comprehensive training manual to put the War Machine into the hands of your public servants."
"Cocky about that victory, big guy," Tony interjected, "I don't think Rhodey is about to let a civilian 'test' pilot with more crashes on his resume than years of experience beat him."
"Then may the best pilot win," Stane replied, shaking Tony's hand, behind them, the suits suddenly flew into the air, their remote operators guiding them out over the crowd before the congregants erupted into excited cheers.
S U P P O R T I N G C A S T:
- James 'Rhodey' Rhodes
- Obediah Stane
- Virgian 'Pepper' Potts
- Harold 'Happy' Hogan
- Justin Hammer
Wish List: - Hal Jordan
- Carol Ferris
- Boliver Trask
- Anthony Ivo
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
Sep Lord of All Creation
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29 min ago
Applying for Lanterns again, but i'm going back to basics, trying something a bit different, even if i think the structure of the previous one worked and as much as i'd love to try it again, i doubt it'd be accepted. So i think i'm gonna try something a little... Closer to the original characters, but along the same lines of story.C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A LThe Lanterns"Forever fight as one..."Thal Sinestro & Hal Jordan ♦ Military ♦ Coast CityO R I G I N S:Strategic Homeland Intelligence Evaluation and Logistics Division, secretly known as the Super Human Identification Evaluation and Location Division, a WW2 organization designed to root out classified individuals who possessed abilities that the Public aught not be made aware of. Post war, they struggled to find relevance until alien creatures began descending upon Earth. Needing an organization to keep them under wraps, this job fell to S.H.I.E.L.D. One such alien that crashed to earth was a space ship containing 2 aliens. One dead, one barely alive, found by US Air Force Captain Hal Jordan after his plane went down with the alien craft. Upon investigating the alien ship, a Green ring leapt from the dead alien and attached itself to Captain Jordan. The living alien identified himself as Sinestro, the Golden Lantern.
Sinestro told S.H.I.E.L.D. about the Lanterns, a team of alien crusaders determined to rid the galaxy of evil using their magic rings. He also told them of the heinous villain known as Mongul, the Alien Warlord who would stop at nothing to possess the Magic Rings for his own. Now the Rings were on Earth and Mongul would stop at nothing to get his hands on them. That his former team had been ambushed and destroyed by Mongul and that he and the dead alien, Abin Sur were the only ones to escape, but they did so with the rings. Now, most of them were scattered across Earth. They would need to find these Rings and find new hosts for them before Mongul tracked them here. Hopefully they may be able to get the Rings off of Earth and not turn this planet into another victim of the terrible machine that Mongul possessed. An enormous warship, as big as a planet, populated entirely by Monguls people, either his slaves or his loyal warriors and they were always eager to find a new civilization to join their ranks...
So, it is with great uncertainty that S.H.I.E.L.D. has authorized a mission to recruit individuals and find these missing Power Rings in order to save Earth and hopefully keep it off of Mongul's radar.S A M P L E P O S T:Hal and Sinestro sat in a small room behind a two way mirror, looking into a small room with a table and 3 of the Rings, Orange, Red and Pink. "Alright, next applicatant." Hal said into the mic, a distorted version of his voice played into the small room.
"Hal Jordan, this is a most inefficient form of finding them." Sinestro scowled as he sat next to Hal.
"You'd prefer a battle royal?" He asked away from the mic as the next applicant walked in.
"A traditional tournament of combat is what is usually used on my homeworld to determine worthiness for such honoured artifacts." He sighed, looking at the man who walked in and sat down. Hal sighed.
"Look, we have plenty of war heroes on this planet to choose from. Plenty of some of the finest men and women i've ever had the good fortune of serving with." He looked over the records of the guy who had been sent in.
"Yes and every single one of them have failed..." He replied. "Your military is one of the largest and most powerful on the planet and yet your training has pushed every last ounce of imagination from your heads. Why the green ring ever chose you, i have no idea." He looked away, arrogantly. Hal shook his head. This guy was a tough nut, but he had worked with arrogant asses like him before. Hal knew how to handle them. He then leaned into the mic.
"Please state your name for the record." He ordered.
"Sgt. Clifford Zmeck. United States Air Force. Sir." The man replied. Hal continued to read his report, before wincing at this guys rap sheet. He leaned away from the mic again and stared at Sinestro
"And you're sure THIS guy has the imagination we are looking for?" He asked.
"Imagination comes in many forms. We have tried your way, let me try it mine." Sinestro replied, a cold, yet cool and calculated look on his face, as if he was vivisecting Zmeck with his eyes."
"Sgt Zmeck, you have quite a considerable amount of chargest levelled against you. What makes you feel you are suited for any form of Special Training Program?" Hal asked, leaning into the mic again. Zmeck grinned confidently.
"I am a decorated hero. Sure, i may have crossed a few lines here and there getting the job done, but America stands and it's men like me who are responsible for this." Hal saw the smile. That terrible smile on Zmecks face, as if he was reliving his crimes in his head.
"WHA-" Hal began as his rage boiled over, but he was pulled away from the mic by Sinestro who looked at him.
"May i ask the questions?" He asked. Hal looked at Sinestro.
"This guy is walking, talking garbage and if any of those rings choose him, i'm gonna hand mine back." Hal growled at Sinestro. "This man is a disgrace to the uniform and everything it stands for."
"But in him i see potential to become something better." Sinestro responded, before he leaned into the mic. "Sgt, in front of you are a tray of rings." He said, the garbled version of his voice playing in the room in front of them. "Please pick one up." Zmeck looked at them before picking up an orange one. A faint glow began to radiate from it."
"Well i'll be damned, you were right..." Hal was taken aback. None of the rings had reacted to any of the applicants. Not so much as a spark. But now this one was starting to glow in Zmeck's hands. But Sinestro was not smiling. Nor was he looking smug or any kind of indication that he was right.
"No... No i was not..." He said. He leaned into the mic "Sgt, drop the ring this instant." But Zmeck continued to stare into the ring, his eyes aglow as he stared, a grin slowly sneaking across his face.
"What's mine... Is mine..." He began as he seemed to start moving the ring towards his middle finger. "Is mine... is mine...." He groaned inan almost trance-like state. At this point, Sinestro smashed a big red button on the desk, the room in front of them instantly filling up with a greenish gas. "Is... Is... Mi... Is..." Zmeck slowly fainted as the anaesthatine gas was forced into his lungs.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Hal asked Sinestro. "HE REACTED BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE TODAY!"
"Reacted in the wrong way." Sinestro replied. "That wasn't him becoming a Lantern. That was the ring attempting to drain him. I have seen it before, i know the difference. It appears... You were right Hal Jordan..." Sinestro grunted through gritted teeth. Hal could see on Sinestro's face, those words hurt him more to say than the crash landing last month that Sinestro almost died in. Hal pressed another button on the mic.
"Clean up on Aisle 7." After the gas had cleared, a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents ran into the room, put the ring back on the table and dragged Zmeck off.P O S T C A T A L O G:A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
I personally don't have an issue with having a Lantern kicking around, not to speak for the Master, but Mogul is something we're not really wanting to get into and explore yet. He's a much bigger threat than what we're aiming for, and given the status are heroes are in... We'll I don't think we'd survive a visit from the War World
I await the master to tell me I am out of bounds
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mattmanganon Your friendly neighbourhood tyranical dicator
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8 hrs ago
@Sep The villain is always up for debate. Honestly, if there was gonna be a War World visit, the entire battle would be focused entirely on Coast City or maybe have them lure it to the Moon so that the battle doesn't spill over to other peoples story, unless they specifically want it to.
Sep Lord of All Creation
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29 min ago
@Sep The villain is always up for debate. Honestly, if there was gonna be a War World visit, the entire battle would be focused entirely on Coast City or maybe have them lure it to the Moon so that the battle doesn't spill over to other peoples story, unless they specifically want it to.
Id say change the villain as war Works and Mongul would pretty much wipe us out
mattmanganon Your friendly neighbourhood tyranical dicator
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8 hrs ago
@Sep Fair enough. I'll start digging for a suitable replacement.
Sep Lord of All Creation
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29 min ago
@Sep Fair enough. I'll start digging for a suitable replacement.
I mean Hals first outings weren't always against big bads, pretty sure one of them was against a missile.
Sep Lord of All Creation
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29 min ago
Snip
mattmanganon Your friendly neighbourhood tyranical dicator
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8 hrs ago
@Sep Well, the main point of the story is to have that "The big bad is coming and we gotta be ready for him" edge. I'm looking into big alien warlord types. Would Ronin the Executioner sit better with you?
Mao Mao Sheriff of Pure Hearts (They/Them)
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0-24 hrs ago
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
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B A T M A N
"Your day of reckoning has arrived."
♦ B R U C E W A Y N E ♦ B I L L I O N A I R E ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y ♦
O R I G I N S:
On a rainy summer night, a nine-year-old child's innocence was forever shattered in a dim, dank alleyway. His parents, the richest in all of Gotham, were murdered in what seemed to be a botched robbery. The lone boy was none other than Bruce Wayne, the now sole surviving heir to the vast Wayne fortune. The nearby police station was encircled by reporters and paparazzi when the family butler arrived after extensive questioning by officers, which unsurprisingly went nowhere. Bruce remembered vividly the camera flashes that blinded his every step towards the car from the station. The crowd of newshounds shouting their questions as loudly as humanly possible behind the fence outside his home. Alfred's warm hug. And his sworn vow to avenge them somehow.
Bruce never let himself forget the promise he made that night. Soon, it became an obsession. Therapy sessions with the family doctor weren't enough to smother the grief. School and work at an auto repair shop served as distractions for the anger. And when Bruce graduated high school, he sought out answers by visiting places all around the world. It was when he began to figure out his purpose, the very reason he was spared a bullet on that cold night. Eight years abroad made the urge to return home unbearable, even if his home was in a rough state of affairs—corruption, neglect, brutality, and crime were all too common occurrences. So Bruce put all his newfound skills and techniques to use as a vigilante, hoping it would be enough to fill the void in his shallow life.
But the first few nights out still wasn't enough. It wasn't until a large bat crashed through one of the manor windows that Bruce found the missing piece of his raw sense of purpose. This marked a new chapter of his life as he got to work on a costume that resembled a bat, taking several days to complete. His position as CEO of Wayne Enterprises, the last remnants of his family's legacy, made it possible, along with assistance from a close family friend, COO Lucius Fox. While Alfred and Leslie were unsuccessful in convincing their adopted son to move on from the vow that a scared little boy made. It was a warm summer night when the crusade against crime began anew from the Batman.
Bruce never let himself forget the promise he made that night. Soon, it became an obsession. Therapy sessions with the family doctor weren't enough to smother the grief. School and work at an auto repair shop served as distractions for the anger. And when Bruce graduated high school, he sought out answers by visiting places all around the world. It was when he began to figure out his purpose, the very reason he was spared a bullet on that cold night. Eight years abroad made the urge to return home unbearable, even if his home was in a rough state of affairs—corruption, neglect, brutality, and crime were all too common occurrences. So Bruce put all his newfound skills and techniques to use as a vigilante, hoping it would be enough to fill the void in his shallow life.
But the first few nights out still wasn't enough. It wasn't until a large bat crashed through one of the manor windows that Bruce found the missing piece of his raw sense of purpose. This marked a new chapter of his life as he got to work on a costume that resembled a bat, taking several days to complete. His position as CEO of Wayne Enterprises, the last remnants of his family's legacy, made it possible, along with assistance from a close family friend, COO Lucius Fox. While Alfred and Leslie were unsuccessful in convincing their adopted son to move on from the vow that a scared little boy made. It was a warm summer night when the crusade against crime began anew from the Batman.
S A M P L E P O S T:
Give an example of how you would write your chosen character. Try to focus on simple actions and a sampling of dialogue.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
Finished my application! I made the sample post his first night on the job and how he got his alias. I made it a sort of Luke Cage getting the moniker "Power Man" situation, but honestly I'm on the fence about renaming him to "Fair Play" instead. Mr. Terrific is pulpy but never struck me as a name someone would ever choose for themselves.
Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!
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36 min ago
Finished my application! I made the sample post his first night on the job and how he got his alias. I made it a sort of Luke Cage getting the moniker "Power Man" situation, but honestly I'm on the fence about renaming him to "Fair Play" instead. Mr. Terrific is pulpy but never struck me as a name someone would ever choose for themselves.
It's cos it was a legacy.
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Hillan I'm a writer - Lying's what we do.
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2 days ago
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
Jason Todd, Qahir Al-Hamra ♦ Assassin Of The Supernatural♦ All Caste Headquarters.
T H E A L L B L A D E
T H E A L L B L A D E
T H E A L L B L A D E
"Your soul versus mine. Let's see who can walk out of here."
Jason Todd, Qahir Al-Hamra ♦ Assassin Of The Supernatural♦ All Caste Headquarters.
O R I G I N S:
"You guys wanna come at me all at once, or shall I kick your ass one at a time?"
Jason Todd was never meant to be the boy wonder. The little soldier who could - the thug who got saved from a life of crime by a man in a bat-shaped cowl. He was never meant to be the young man who fought tooth and nail to save his own, and his mother's life from the hands of a madman. His destiny laid far beyond the grimy streets of Gotham. His identity was supposed to be more than the 'fucked up Robin'. This is an attempt at renditioning a Jason Todd who grew up, as the great cosmic theatre had ordained him to. As a pre-teen Jason was saved from a monster that had sniffed him out, something out of this world. Something that knew what he was, or what he would become. In doing so, he was brought before the All Caste, the secret order of warrior-monks and mystics who work in secret to keep the mortal realm safe from beings that would harbing the great darkness, the end of all life as humans have known it.
Jason's grew up being raised to be the champion of this guild, their greatest warrior, their wayward son. Ducra, the leader of the All-Caste would raise him as her own. The entire guild were to see to it that he would prepare his entire life for a final battle against the Untitled foes. He's not stoked on this idea, instead striking out as much as he can on his own, avoiding his responsibilities and taking the fights where they appear. Fighting supernatural and humans alike. Jason Todd is set loose onto the world with the skills of the All-Caste. His half-finished training, magical power, the temperance of youth and his own moral codex. He's out to do what's right, to ensure people are safe today. Not when destiny and the All Caste had ordained him. He's helping people and bringing evil to justice, not waiting to save the world in some prophesized showdown that's far beyond certain.
This is an attempt to write Jason as someone who's more open to inherit the fate that DC keeps teasing pushed ever since since Outlaws started in 2011. There's a whole bunch of smack-talking about Jason possessing this great magical-in-nature role in the universe, yet he extremely rarely steps up to it. This has always irked me. I'm aiming to write something that's a little closer to that mystic-ideal. A teenage hero who's struggling with the expectations of his elders, as well as being foreign to our mundane world in a desire for adventure and helping people. This is a tale of figuring out all the trials and tribulations the mortal and magical worlds offer the boy who could have been bat.
Jason's grew up being raised to be the champion of this guild, their greatest warrior, their wayward son. Ducra, the leader of the All-Caste would raise him as her own. The entire guild were to see to it that he would prepare his entire life for a final battle against the Untitled foes. He's not stoked on this idea, instead striking out as much as he can on his own, avoiding his responsibilities and taking the fights where they appear. Fighting supernatural and humans alike. Jason Todd is set loose onto the world with the skills of the All-Caste. His half-finished training, magical power, the temperance of youth and his own moral codex. He's out to do what's right, to ensure people are safe today. Not when destiny and the All Caste had ordained him. He's helping people and bringing evil to justice, not waiting to save the world in some prophesized showdown that's far beyond certain.
This is an attempt to write Jason as someone who's more open to inherit the fate that DC keeps teasing pushed ever since since Outlaws started in 2011. There's a whole bunch of smack-talking about Jason possessing this great magical-in-nature role in the universe, yet he extremely rarely steps up to it. This has always irked me. I'm aiming to write something that's a little closer to that mystic-ideal. A teenage hero who's struggling with the expectations of his elders, as well as being foreign to our mundane world in a desire for adventure and helping people. This is a tale of figuring out all the trials and tribulations the mortal and magical worlds offer the boy who could have been bat.
S A M P L E P O S T:
"I'm not good, not bad. Just practical as hell." The dark haired boy said, as he entered the room through the window he had opened from the outside, removing the grey cloth hood that was secured over his face, tossing it back and letting it fall down to his shoulders, chucking the blowpipe and the pack of darts from his legs onto the makeshift bed in his side of the room. He pulled out the bloody knife from his other side, and started wiping it off. He walked towards the bathroom, as if he owned the place. The actual owner took notice.
"You keep saying that, but I disagree. You're real fuckin' bad at knocking, or respecting other people's privacy! I could've been masturbating, Jason! That's not very practical. I thought you said you were gonna blow town, by the way?! Gary cried out, as neurotic as always. Mr. Green was lying in his bed in his bedroom in his parents spacious apartment. Clearly unphased by Jason's behavior, beyond the rudeness of it all. Jason, cleaning himself off with a recently washed towel, which made Gary grit his teeth upon seeing such an expensive towel be wasted on washing away what he could only assume wasn't human blood.
"Ducra scried. Uh, sorry, called. Job's not done here. There's clearly still more magical influence left in this town, and she said 'it is of utmost importance young Qahir that you fulfill your promise to this life'. So you're stuck with me, bunk buddy. How did the thing go? Did your man win the duel?" Mimicking his guardian's ancient tongue as he chuckled, tossing his bag of things into the pullout-sofa on the other end of the room. Gary cracked a smile.
"Duel? No, it was a wrestling match. Josh got absolutely destroyed, though. His opponent was not normal, man, straight up built different, Josh had no chance." Gary caught his turn of phrase as he saw the look on his friends face change.
"Not normal you say? Did Josh's family prepare funerary rights after his destruction?" Jason pondered, turning towards his bag to start digging through his collection of magical trinkets. "No, Jason. It's not all monsters, man. It's just a figure of speech. The dude, Devin, was surprisingly good at wrestling, was all. Josh is fine. Bruised, his ego mostly." Jason nodded and started putting his things back in place.
"Oh. I got you. Thanks, I'm still struggling with all of the modern slang. Teenagers used to say 'Schway' last I was in the states."
"Nobody has ever said 'Schway', Jason. Not even in backwaters Gotham, I refuse to believe that." They both laughed.
Jason finished changing out of his dirty clothes and emerged 15 minutes later in a normal outfit. a graphic Tee, a stonewashed pair of jeans and a pair of 'fun socks' that Gary insisted on were cool. Seeing his friend on his phone, he cleared his throat. "Wanna leave your digital oracle device behind? Come play The Nintendo with me dude." Gary laughed, life was never boring with Jason around, that's for sure.
Some time later.
Gary laid in the mud as the rain poured over him, scared witless, his palms facing down into the dirt. He was injured, surface level wounds. His eyes looked up, first seeing his own wounded knee and then higher yet. In front of him, the deformed body of an oversized teenage boy was kneeling, black goo oozing out of his mouth, ears and one eye. He was mumbling something in a language Gary did not comprehend. Above him, stood Jason, holding the awe-inspiring, flaming golden sword, the All-blade to the monsters throat with one hand. The twin of the blade was protruding through the monster's chest. Jason was panting, bleeding a little. His clothes worn, the rain felt heavy on his skin.
"Devin's built different no more. Go in peace, lost soul." His tone was harsh, vengeful. With a clean swipe the glowing sword used the power of Jason's own soul to vanquish the long-dead teenager's head from the vessel that now possessed his body, ending his torture and sending the boy's soul onto the next life. Gary's life had gotten so much more complicated since he met Jason Todd.
"You keep saying that, but I disagree. You're real fuckin' bad at knocking, or respecting other people's privacy! I could've been masturbating, Jason! That's not very practical. I thought you said you were gonna blow town, by the way?! Gary cried out, as neurotic as always. Mr. Green was lying in his bed in his bedroom in his parents spacious apartment. Clearly unphased by Jason's behavior, beyond the rudeness of it all. Jason, cleaning himself off with a recently washed towel, which made Gary grit his teeth upon seeing such an expensive towel be wasted on washing away what he could only assume wasn't human blood.
"Ducra scried. Uh, sorry, called. Job's not done here. There's clearly still more magical influence left in this town, and she said 'it is of utmost importance young Qahir that you fulfill your promise to this life'. So you're stuck with me, bunk buddy. How did the thing go? Did your man win the duel?" Mimicking his guardian's ancient tongue as he chuckled, tossing his bag of things into the pullout-sofa on the other end of the room. Gary cracked a smile.
"Duel? No, it was a wrestling match. Josh got absolutely destroyed, though. His opponent was not normal, man, straight up built different, Josh had no chance." Gary caught his turn of phrase as he saw the look on his friends face change.
"Not normal you say? Did Josh's family prepare funerary rights after his destruction?" Jason pondered, turning towards his bag to start digging through his collection of magical trinkets. "No, Jason. It's not all monsters, man. It's just a figure of speech. The dude, Devin, was surprisingly good at wrestling, was all. Josh is fine. Bruised, his ego mostly." Jason nodded and started putting his things back in place.
"Oh. I got you. Thanks, I'm still struggling with all of the modern slang. Teenagers used to say 'Schway' last I was in the states."
"Nobody has ever said 'Schway', Jason. Not even in backwaters Gotham, I refuse to believe that." They both laughed.
Jason finished changing out of his dirty clothes and emerged 15 minutes later in a normal outfit. a graphic Tee, a stonewashed pair of jeans and a pair of 'fun socks' that Gary insisted on were cool. Seeing his friend on his phone, he cleared his throat. "Wanna leave your digital oracle device behind? Come play The Nintendo with me dude." Gary laughed, life was never boring with Jason around, that's for sure.
Some time later.
Gary laid in the mud as the rain poured over him, scared witless, his palms facing down into the dirt. He was injured, surface level wounds. His eyes looked up, first seeing his own wounded knee and then higher yet. In front of him, the deformed body of an oversized teenage boy was kneeling, black goo oozing out of his mouth, ears and one eye. He was mumbling something in a language Gary did not comprehend. Above him, stood Jason, holding the awe-inspiring, flaming golden sword, the All-blade to the monsters throat with one hand. The twin of the blade was protruding through the monster's chest. Jason was panting, bleeding a little. His clothes worn, the rain felt heavy on his skin.
"Devin's built different no more. Go in peace, lost soul." His tone was harsh, vengeful. With a clean swipe the glowing sword used the power of Jason's own soul to vanquish the long-dead teenager's head from the vessel that now possessed his body, ending his torture and sending the boy's soul onto the next life. Gary's life had gotten so much more complicated since he met Jason Todd.
S U P P O R T I N G C A S T:
- Allies:
- Ducra [Surrogate Mother. Looks like she's mostly a tree.]
- Essence [Step-Sister, heir to the All Caste. The original Goth GF.]
- S'aru the Proctor [Trauma-Holder. Gatekeeper. Either 4000 year old or 14. Impossible to decide.]
- Gary Green [Best Friend, regular human with completely irregular loyalty]
Enemies: - Suzie Su [World's fattest mob boss]
- Ma'Gunn. [Shittiest babysitter]
- Akila [Pissed off Amazon. The warrior kind, not the package delivery kind.]
- The Untitled [Too ugly to have a real name]
- Underbelly [OK, you got me. Actually world's fattest mob boss.]
God I wish I could have or someone would play: - Illyana Rasputin, Magik. [New and improved Goth GF?]
- Sorcerer Supreme [Borrow the sling ring?]
- Dr. Fate [Helm would look better in red.]
- Ra's Al-Ghul. [Oh, matching Arabic-name-thing.]
P O S T C A T A L O G:
Redder they are, the harder they fall. #1 - 5
Dead, Dead, Oh, You're all Dead. #1 - 3.
Honey, I Revived the kids #1-2.
Jason Todd Versus Dick Grayson; Who the hell are you and why did you steal my shorts?! #1.
I'll be damned if my best friend is going to die because he was dumb enough to trust me #1-3
Mighty Gary Green and the Sorcerer Supreme; My Best Friend Is The Chosen One #1-4.
Hello home, hello bed #1.
Redder Deader Redemptioner; A sword can't save the world. Bring two. Part 1 & 2.
Dead, Dead, Oh, You're all Dead. #1 - 3.
Honey, I Revived the kids #1-2.
Jason Todd Versus Dick Grayson; Who the hell are you and why did you steal my shorts?! #1.
I'll be damned if my best friend is going to die because he was dumb enough to trust me #1-3
Mighty Gary Green and the Sorcerer Supreme; My Best Friend Is The Chosen One #1-4.
Hello home, hello bed #1.
Redder Deader Redemptioner; A sword can't save the world. Bring two. Part 1 & 2.
<Snipped quote by Half Pint>
It's cos it was a legacy.
Nah I know within the proper DC universe I was more meaning within this one where it isn’t a legacy name! Sorry fairly late here and my brain isn’t working so good so probably wasn’t clear in explaining what I meant!!
Simple Unicycle ?
Member
Seen
26 days ago
Applying for Lanterns again, but i'm going back to basics, trying something a bit different, even if i think the structure of the previous one worked and as much as i'd love to try it again, i doubt it'd be accepted. So i think i'm gonna try something a little... Closer to the original characters, but along the same lines of story.C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A LThe Lanterns"Forever fight as one..."Thal Sinestro & Hal Jordan ♦ Military ♦ Coast CityO R I G I N S:Strategic Homeland Intelligence Evaluation and Logistics Division, secretly known as the Super Human Identification Evaluation and Location Division, a WW2 organization designed to root out classified individuals who possessed abilities that the Public aught not be made aware of. Post war, they struggled to find relevance until alien creatures began descending upon Earth. Needing an organization to keep them under wraps, this job fell to S.H.I.E.L.D. One such alien that crashed to earth was a space ship containing 2 aliens. One dead, one barely alive, found by US Air Force Captain Hal Jordan after his plane went down with the alien craft. Upon investigating the alien ship, a Green ring leapt from the dead alien and attached itself to Captain Jordan. The living alien identified himself as Sinestro, the Golden Lantern.
Sinestro told S.H.I.E.L.D. about the Lanterns, a team of alien crusaders determined to rid the galaxy of evil using their magic rings. He also told them of the heinous villain known as Mongul, the Alien Warlord who would stop at nothing to possess the Magic Rings for his own. Now the Rings were on Earth and Mongul would stop at nothing to get his hands on them. That his former team had been ambushed and destroyed by Mongul and that he and the dead alien, Abin Sur were the only ones to escape, but they did so with the rings. Now, most of them were scattered across Earth. They would need to find these Rings and find new hosts for them before Mongul tracked them here. Hopefully they may be able to get the Rings off of Earth and not turn this planet into another victim of the terrible machine that Mongul possessed. An enormous warship, as big as a planet, populated entirely by Monguls people, either his slaves or his loyal warriors and they were always eager to find a new civilization to join their ranks...
So, it is with great uncertainty that S.H.I.E.L.D. has authorized a mission to recruit individuals and find these missing Power Rings in order to save Earth and hopefully keep it off of Mongul's radar.S A M P L E P O S T:Hal and Sinestro sat in a small room behind a two way mirror, looking into a small room with a table and 3 of the Rings, Orange, Red and Pink. "Alright, next applicatant." Hal said into the mic, a distorted version of his voice played into the small room.
"Hal Jordan, this is a most inefficient form of finding them." Sinestro scowled as he sat next to Hal.
"You'd prefer a battle royal?" He asked away from the mic as the next applicant walked in.
"A traditional tournament of combat is what is usually used on my homeworld to determine worthiness for such honoured artifacts." He sighed, looking at the man who walked in and sat down. Hal sighed.
"Look, we have plenty of war heroes on this planet to choose from. Plenty of some of the finest men and women i've ever had the good fortune of serving with." He looked over the records of the guy who had been sent in.
"Yes and every single one of them have failed..." He replied. "Your military is one of the largest and most powerful on the planet and yet your training has pushed every last ounce of imagination from your heads. Why the green ring ever chose you, i have no idea." He looked away, arrogantly. Hal shook his head. This guy was a tough nut, but he had worked with arrogant asses like him before. Hal knew how to handle them. He then leaned into the mic.
"Please state your name for the record." He ordered.
"Sgt. Clifford Zmeck. United States Air Force. Sir." The man replied. Hal continued to read his report, before wincing at this guys rap sheet. He leaned away from the mic again and stared at Sinestro
"And you're sure THIS guy has the imagination we are looking for?" He asked.
"Imagination comes in many forms. We have tried your way, let me try it mine." Sinestro replied, a cold, yet cool and calculated look on his face, as if he was vivisecting Zmeck with his eyes."
"Sgt Zmeck, you have quite a considerable amount of chargest levelled against you. What makes you feel you are suited for any form of Special Training Program?" Hal asked, leaning into the mic again. Zmeck grinned confidently.
"I am a decorated hero. Sure, i may have crossed a few lines here and there getting the job done, but America stands and it's men like me who are responsible for this." Hal saw the smile. That terrible smile on Zmecks face, as if he was reliving his crimes in his head.
"WHA-" Hal began as his rage boiled over, but he was pulled away from the mic by Sinestro who looked at him.
"May i ask the questions?" He asked. Hal looked at Sinestro.
"This guy is walking, talking garbage and if any of those rings choose him, i'm gonna hand mine back." Hal growled at Sinestro. "This man is a disgrace to the uniform and everything it stands for."
"But in him i see potential to become something better." Sinestro responded, before he leaned into the mic. "Sgt, in front of you are a tray of rings." He said, the garbled version of his voice playing in the room in front of them. "Please pick one up." Zmeck looked at them before picking up an orange one. A faint glow began to radiate from it."
"Well i'll be damned, you were right..." Hal was taken aback. None of the rings had reacted to any of the applicants. Not so much as a spark. But now this one was starting to glow in Zmeck's hands. But Sinestro was not smiling. Nor was he looking smug or any kind of indication that he was right.
"No... No i was not..." He said. He leaned into the mic "Sgt, drop the ring this instant." But Zmeck continued to stare into the ring, his eyes aglow as he stared, a grin slowly sneaking across his face.
"What's mine... Is mine..." He began as he seemed to start moving the ring towards his middle finger. "Is mine... is mine...." He groaned inan almost trance-like state. At this point, Sinestro smashed a big red button on the desk, the room in front of them instantly filling up with a greenish gas. "Is... Is... Mi... Is..." Zmeck slowly fainted as the anaesthatine gas was forced into his lungs.
"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Hal asked Sinestro. "HE REACTED BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE TODAY!"
"Reacted in the wrong way." Sinestro replied. "That wasn't him becoming a Lantern. That was the ring attempting to drain him. I have seen it before, i know the difference. It appears... You were right Hal Jordan..." Sinestro grunted through gritted teeth. Hal could see on Sinestro's face, those words hurt him more to say than the crash landing last month that Sinestro almost died in. Hal pressed another button on the mic.
"Clean up on Aisle 7." After the gas had cleared, a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents ran into the room, put the ring back on the table and dragged Zmeck off.P O S T C A T A L O G:A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
Do not go anywhere near John Stewart this time, please.
So I took a night to think about this entire issue and I can't fathom how you could have posted that post in the first place. You knew it was offensive, and yes I'm at fault for not responding earlier but there's no way that post should ever have made it into the IC. So I'm sorry to say, but I'm officially removing you from the roleplay. Thank you for your contributions but, I just can't have a repeat of this incident and I've received several concerns about the content of your posts.
Apologies and best of luck moving forward. If you have any questions, please direct them to us in a PM.
Apologies and best of luck moving forward. If you have any questions, please direct them to us in a PM.
AndyC Guardian of the Universe
Member
Seen
10 hrs ago
Ooooh. I'll have to think about who I'm interested in (who isn't already taken), but count me in.
2x Thank
Byrd Man El Hombre Pájaro
Member
Seen
3 days ago
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
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GOTHAM NOIR
1922
1922
““Hell isn't having no choice. It's having to make a choice between horrific things.” -- Don Winslow
♦ Alistair Gordon ♦ Colosimo Falcone ♦ Samuel Fox ♦ James Patrick Kane ♦
O R I G I N S:
It's 1922 and Prohibition is in full swing. As the Roaring Twenties begin to ramp up, Gotham City and its citizens find themselves in a battle for their souls.
Sergeant Alistair "Al" Gordon: GCPD patrol officer.
Colosimo "Charlie" Falcone: Low-level criminal muscle
Samuel Fox: Musician and Great War veteran.
James Patrick Kane: Politician and Gotham blue blood.
Four men whose lives will intersect, entangle, and come to define each other and the city they live in.
Sergeant Alistair "Al" Gordon: GCPD patrol officer.
Colosimo "Charlie" Falcone: Low-level criminal muscle
Samuel Fox: Musician and Great War veteran.
James Patrick Kane: Politician and Gotham blue blood.
Four men whose lives will intersect, entangle, and come to define each other and the city they live in.
S A M P L E P O S T:
Westside Gotham
1:28 AM
Bright lights looked down on pavement. Squad cards blocked off the public to the scene. Slam stood behind crime scene tape with all the others. Patrolmen directed traffic and kept civilians and reporters at bay. Geeks on the sidewalks peddled merch. They sold cheap Batman t-shirts, cheap Batman capes, chunks of rusty metal claimed to be genuine bullets used in the murder. Slam smoked with steady hands. A half-pint of Ripple on the drive over steadied him.
FEATURE: A dead body on the pavement. A blue tarp covered him. Crime scene techs and plainclothes officers converged on the scene. He saw Homicide dicks and IAD men in sharp suits. He saw Charlie Fields in a sharp suit. Charlie was Slam's last partner in Homicide. Charlie loved the Life; capital L, always with a capital L. Charlie loved being a cop and solving murders. Slam used to. Slam told boxing stories and shadowboxed for effect. Slam used to be all about the Life. The Life turned on him. The Life chewed him up. It was still chewing him. Spitting him back out: TBA.
A crime scene tech was coming out of the scene. Red hair with flecks of gray in them. He carried a camera around his neck. Slam locked eyes. Geppe said he was the one to see at the scene. He was one of their men inside the GCPD. Jim Corrigan was as dirty as the day was long. Slam remembered him going through three different IAD investigations and not a single one touched him. Corrigan was slicker than goose shit.
"Corrigan," he said as the man passed by. "GB sent me."
Corrigan got stiff. Corrigan looked around to make sure the coast was clear.
"Slam fucking Bradley," Corrigan said softly. "Of all the people to send. Fuck... follow me."
Corrigan led Slam to his car. He bummed a cigarette off Slam and passed him back his camera. Slam thumbed through the pix on the digital camera. Crime scene pix showed a GCPD uniform face down on the pavement. Shots got in close on the back of the head. Two shots, two entry wounds. No pix of the front because it would be fucking pulp. Slam saw stippling around the wounds. The killer got in close before pulling the trigger.
"Who was he?"
"Perkins," said Corrigan. "Boss of a patrol squad out here in the Western. Name ring a bell?"
"Not particularly. But then again there's a lot of names I don't know anymore."
Slam scrolled through the pix faster. Shell casings near the body ruled out a revolver as the primary weapon. Entry wounds looked like either a 9 MM or .40 were used as the murder weapon. It probably didn't matter. If it was a pro job, the gun was already down a storm drain on the other side of town somewhere.
"What did you know about him, Corrigan?"
Corrigan shrugged. "A hump by anybody's standards. I remember IAD looking into him hard after some shit he pulled. He got caught shaking down hookers for blowjobs and trying to run a half-ass protection racket."
"And he was still here?" Slam asked.
"Must had one hell of a union rep."
Slam flicked his cigarette butt across the street and fumed. Slam got run out of the department for some petty bullshit, but this asshole got to stay GCPD until a shooter turned his brains into Swiss cheese? Only in this fucking city.
"Can you get your hands on Perkins' personnel jacket?" He asked, passing Corrigan's camera back to him.
Corrigan laughed.
"You are barking up the wrong tree there. No matter how much money I owe Geppe, I can't get into those files. Given my reputation, IAD would be all over me like a fly on shit if I got anywhere close to this thing. They probably don't like me even here taking pictures, man. I me--"
"You're right, Officer Corrigan."
Slam and Corrigan turned. A tall, thin black man in a three-piece stood close by. His head was shaved and he wore big, black frame glasses. Slam's face flushed and he balled his fists up.
"Mr. Bradley," he said with a grin. "It's been awhile."
"Go fuck yourself, Bock."
Bock had been IAD's point man in the investigation that ended Slam's career. Once upon a time, it had taken six full-grown men to pull Slam off Bock and to pry his big mitts off the thin man's windpipe.
Bock picked lint from his suit. "You're a civilian now, Bradley. I could have you arrested for making threats to a sworn police officer, but I'll settle for your swift departure from the scene. This is a GCPD matter." Bock flashed a smirk and raised an eyebrow. "Where were you tonight, say around midnight?"
"Ask your mother." Slam grabbed his crotch. "She's my fucking alibi. Literally."
Bock's grin disappeared. He played with a phi beta kappa chain attached to his waistcoat.
"Get the fuck out of here, Bradley, before I get the patrolmen to toss you out. And Officer Corrigan? Get back to fucking work."
Bock turned around and headed back to the crime scene. Slam flipped him off. Corrigan stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged at Slam. He followed Bock back to the scene. Slam shook his head. He'd call Corrigan tomorrow and try to glom a copy of the initial crime scene report from the police lab and Homicide. That was all he could do on that front. All the knew was what he told Geppe an hour ago. A murderer had killed Sergeant Perkins.
Slam lit up a fresh cigarette and beat tracks back to his car. He thought about Corrigan's words earlier. Perkins shook down hookers for BJs. If he was involved in the flesh market, then the hookers would know all about him. On the westside, when it came to pimps and johns and marks, there was one man Slam knew he could talk to: Bruce Vain.
1:28 AM
Bright lights looked down on pavement. Squad cards blocked off the public to the scene. Slam stood behind crime scene tape with all the others. Patrolmen directed traffic and kept civilians and reporters at bay. Geeks on the sidewalks peddled merch. They sold cheap Batman t-shirts, cheap Batman capes, chunks of rusty metal claimed to be genuine bullets used in the murder. Slam smoked with steady hands. A half-pint of Ripple on the drive over steadied him.
FEATURE: A dead body on the pavement. A blue tarp covered him. Crime scene techs and plainclothes officers converged on the scene. He saw Homicide dicks and IAD men in sharp suits. He saw Charlie Fields in a sharp suit. Charlie was Slam's last partner in Homicide. Charlie loved the Life; capital L, always with a capital L. Charlie loved being a cop and solving murders. Slam used to. Slam told boxing stories and shadowboxed for effect. Slam used to be all about the Life. The Life turned on him. The Life chewed him up. It was still chewing him. Spitting him back out: TBA.
A crime scene tech was coming out of the scene. Red hair with flecks of gray in them. He carried a camera around his neck. Slam locked eyes. Geppe said he was the one to see at the scene. He was one of their men inside the GCPD. Jim Corrigan was as dirty as the day was long. Slam remembered him going through three different IAD investigations and not a single one touched him. Corrigan was slicker than goose shit.
"Corrigan," he said as the man passed by. "GB sent me."
Corrigan got stiff. Corrigan looked around to make sure the coast was clear.
"Slam fucking Bradley," Corrigan said softly. "Of all the people to send. Fuck... follow me."
Corrigan led Slam to his car. He bummed a cigarette off Slam and passed him back his camera. Slam thumbed through the pix on the digital camera. Crime scene pix showed a GCPD uniform face down on the pavement. Shots got in close on the back of the head. Two shots, two entry wounds. No pix of the front because it would be fucking pulp. Slam saw stippling around the wounds. The killer got in close before pulling the trigger.
"Who was he?"
"Perkins," said Corrigan. "Boss of a patrol squad out here in the Western. Name ring a bell?"
"Not particularly. But then again there's a lot of names I don't know anymore."
Slam scrolled through the pix faster. Shell casings near the body ruled out a revolver as the primary weapon. Entry wounds looked like either a 9 MM or .40 were used as the murder weapon. It probably didn't matter. If it was a pro job, the gun was already down a storm drain on the other side of town somewhere.
"What did you know about him, Corrigan?"
Corrigan shrugged. "A hump by anybody's standards. I remember IAD looking into him hard after some shit he pulled. He got caught shaking down hookers for blowjobs and trying to run a half-ass protection racket."
"And he was still here?" Slam asked.
"Must had one hell of a union rep."
Slam flicked his cigarette butt across the street and fumed. Slam got run out of the department for some petty bullshit, but this asshole got to stay GCPD until a shooter turned his brains into Swiss cheese? Only in this fucking city.
"Can you get your hands on Perkins' personnel jacket?" He asked, passing Corrigan's camera back to him.
Corrigan laughed.
"You are barking up the wrong tree there. No matter how much money I owe Geppe, I can't get into those files. Given my reputation, IAD would be all over me like a fly on shit if I got anywhere close to this thing. They probably don't like me even here taking pictures, man. I me--"
"You're right, Officer Corrigan."
Slam and Corrigan turned. A tall, thin black man in a three-piece stood close by. His head was shaved and he wore big, black frame glasses. Slam's face flushed and he balled his fists up.
"Mr. Bradley," he said with a grin. "It's been awhile."
"Go fuck yourself, Bock."
Bock had been IAD's point man in the investigation that ended Slam's career. Once upon a time, it had taken six full-grown men to pull Slam off Bock and to pry his big mitts off the thin man's windpipe.
Bock picked lint from his suit. "You're a civilian now, Bradley. I could have you arrested for making threats to a sworn police officer, but I'll settle for your swift departure from the scene. This is a GCPD matter." Bock flashed a smirk and raised an eyebrow. "Where were you tonight, say around midnight?"
"Ask your mother." Slam grabbed his crotch. "She's my fucking alibi. Literally."
Bock's grin disappeared. He played with a phi beta kappa chain attached to his waistcoat.
"Get the fuck out of here, Bradley, before I get the patrolmen to toss you out. And Officer Corrigan? Get back to fucking work."
Bock turned around and headed back to the crime scene. Slam flipped him off. Corrigan stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged at Slam. He followed Bock back to the scene. Slam shook his head. He'd call Corrigan tomorrow and try to glom a copy of the initial crime scene report from the police lab and Homicide. That was all he could do on that front. All the knew was what he told Geppe an hour ago. A murderer had killed Sergeant Perkins.
Slam lit up a fresh cigarette and beat tracks back to his car. He thought about Corrigan's words earlier. Perkins shook down hookers for BJs. If he was involved in the flesh market, then the hookers would know all about him. On the westside, when it came to pimps and johns and marks, there was one man Slam knew he could talk to: Bruce Vain.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
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