[CHAR] Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

◼   G M (s):   Master Bruce & Sep   ◼   C O N S U L T I N G   G M (s):  DocTachyon   ◼   G E N R E:   Fandom  ◼   T Y P E:   Collaborative Linear Sandbox   
"To me, writing is fun. It doesn’t matter what you’re writing, as long as you can tell a story."
S T A N   L E E   ( 1 9 2 2 - 2 0 1 8 )

 I N T R O D U C T I O N:
I N T R O D U C T I O N:

W E L C O M E   F A N S   O F   D C,   M A R V E L,   A N D   A L L   C O M I C S   A L I K E !
Ultimate One Universe: Emergence is a roleplaying game based loosely on the canon of DC and Marvel Comic book superheroes, with their accompanying supervillains and supporting characters all playing a narrative factor dictated by the players. Merging the two universes (hence the 'One Universe' moniker), the idea is to create a cohesive shared experience where players build relationships, rivalries, and anything else in between for fiction's most legendary superheroes, working together or standing apart to solve obstacles that are larger than life and threaten both their respective cities and humanity as a whole.

Where the 'Ultimate' part comes in is that players also dictate exactly how these characters are written and representative of their larger ethos. Should you wish to combine the backstory of a chosen hero character with one of their alternate universe interpretations, invent modernizations of what already exists, or take a 'What If?' approach to the whole thing and wildly mix it up, you're allowed to do that. Or you can play the character as they're classically perceived. The only stipulation is that the chosen mantle is represented accurately at its core - IE: If you're called Captain America, you can't suddenly be a Russian agent. You have to represent some part, big or small, of who Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, or Sam Wilson are during their fictional appearances when acting in the role.

 S U M M A R Y:
S U M M A R Y:

The year is 2024. For most of mankind's history, it has been largely assumed that superpowers and those who wield them were merely an invention of popular fiction. Going back to the days of the Greek pantheon and the Norse Gods, those with abilities far greater than that of mortal men were deemed impossible in reality. There were once rumblings of something greater for humanity being developed during the heyday of World War II, but as far as that was ever proven, it was mere propaganda to sell war bonds and comic books. Titles such as "The Invaders" and "Captain America & The Howling Commandos" were just tools of the U.S. Army to raise the spirits of their brave soldiers abroad, and the accompanying movies and television series based on them were disposable children's entertainment.

Then the 1960's came about, and the world was introduced to the concept of genetic mutation. Though the capabilities of their "powers" were debated hotly in Congress, the fact remained that some individuals could briefly defy the laws of physics and channel energies that seemed to break what little humanity understood about science. By the time the 1980s rolled around, however, the situation was mostly controlled: through a collaboration between the United Nations and such ambassadors as Professor Charles Xavier, mutants were both given safe harbor protocols and a mandatory drug inhibitor to allow them to better integrate into the larger society. The 1990s all but eradicated the supposed threat of mutant annihilation, and few mutants began popping up at all. 

Something has changed. When a terrorist attack by a deranged engineer calling himself The Toyman unleashed chaos across the city of Metropolis, a mysterious man in red in blue seemed to appear out of nowhere and vault into the skies to combat this threat. A green-skinned behemoth had been sighted all across the American countryside, not unlike the cryptid legends of the Bigfoot and the Moth Man, and leaving tangible destruction in its wake. Criminals harboring dangerous weapons and illicit drugs were suddenly being targeted by a shadowy wraith that most described as being inhuman, like a giant-sized bat. A young man wearing a brightly colored uniform had begun interfering in police matters, leaving some sort of 'webbing' behind in his wake and scaling up walls. And at the center of it all seemed to be a question lingering on social media: were those Captain America & Invader comics a biography all along?

This is the Ultimate One Universe. One week in, and barely anyone has the answers. But make no mistake: everyone is going to be changed.

C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LA L I A S

"Witty Quote"
B I R T H N A M E   ♦   O C C U P A T I O N   ♦   L O C A T I O N   
O R I G I N S:

Preferably limit this to three paragraphs, maximum. Can be shorter, but not longer.

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.

 R O S T E R :
The Allblade / Jason Todd
@Hillan

Batman / Bruce Wayne
@Mao Mao

Black Knight / Duncan Whitman
@Half Pint

Daredevil / Matt Murdock
@webboysurf

Deadly Hands Of Kung-Fu - Danny Rand / Luke Cage
@DocTachyon

Deadpool / Wade Wilson
@Eviledd1984

Deathstroke / Slade Wilson
@Theyra

Firebird / Jean Grey-Summers
@Pacifista

The Flash / Iris West
@Sep

Ghost Rider / Jonah Hex
@AndyC

Green Lantern / Hal Jordan
@mattmanganon

The Human Torch / Johnny Storm
@Retired

Jason Blood
@Lord Wraith

Jasper Sitwell
@Roman

Spider-Man / Peter Parker
@Hound55

Squirrel Girl / Doreen Green
@Mintz

Steve Rogers
@Sep

The Sub-Mariner / Garth
@Bounce

Superman / Clark Kent / Kal-El
@Master Bruce

The Teen Titans - Starfire / Cyborg / Red X / Beast Boy / Raven
@Pacifista

Thor Odinson
@Supermaxx

USAgent / John Walker
@rocketrobie2

Wolverine / Logan Howlett
@AndyC

The X-Men - Charles Xavier / Maximilian Eisenhardt
@Hillan

All formatting originates via the work of Lord Wraith

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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by Retired

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Retired "Hayao Miyazaki"

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Retired

"Hayao Miyazaki"

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LH U M A N  T O R C H

"What is it? Another autograph? Ahh well... the price of fame..."
J O N A T H A N  S T O R M   ♦     F L E D G L I N G  A D V E N T U R E R   ♦   B A X T E R  B U I L D I N G ,  N E W  Y O R K   
O R I G I N S:

Johnny Storm is the posterchild for "didn't get enough attention growing up." The younger of two children to renowned scientist Franklin Storm, young Jonathan never lived up to the high expectations his father set; unlike his brilliant sister, Susan. Still, he was afforded all the same opportunities, so, when his father co-founded a next-generation think tank dedicated to the advancement of humanity, the Future Foundation, Johnny was one of a dozen young people brought into the program.

Despite the many attempts by his father to get Johnny to apply himself over the last half decade, the younger Storm never took to the sciences and instead turned his attention to other endeavors. Such as street racing and girl chasing. An adrenaline junkie through-and-through, Johnny often clashed with his father during these years. So, it came as much of a surprise to the elder Storm when Jonathan announced he would be participating in one of the Foundation's upcoming projects alongside the think-tank's premiere young mind, Reed Richards. 

If one were to ask Johnny the details of the project or its ultimate purpose, one would be left with more questions than they began with. What Johnny knew and cared about regarding the project was simple: first, it involved some highly experimental and potentially dangerous new technology, and, second, it allowed him to annoy the Hell out of his sister and her boyfriend, Reed. Those were more than enough reasons for the thrill-seeker. 

To most, the project would be deemed a disastrous failure that resulted in catastrophic damage, extensive hospital stays, biohazard quarantines, millions in lost machinery, and ultimately the near-death and the extensive mutagenic alterations of the four team members. To Johnny, however, the project was a resounding, life-altering success that resulted in something beyond his wildest dreams. 

Shortly after recovering from his wounds, while still in active quarantine awaiting test results, Johnny Storm was asked how he felt about all the changes the doomed experiment had brought about. His answer:

"It's #$%&! fantastic!"

S A M P L E   P O S T:
Wyatt Wingfoot stood atop the Baxter Building, 35 stories above the Manhattan streets, looking out at the beautiful city skyline. The young man had lived in the city for nearly three years yet felt he’d always marvel at its sight. Having grown up in Oklahoma, there was just no comparing the two. New York was one of those rare things that Wyatt felt only grew more impressive with time. 

“You ready for this?”

Wyatt turned to face the voice. Jonathan Storm: his best friend of over two years. The two met during their freshman year at Metro College, where they had been roommates. While Johnny had dropped out after the first year, their friendship remained. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Wyatt asked amusedly. 

Johnny Storm patted his friend on the shoulder, an achievement given Wyatt’s considerable stature. “Dude, I was born ready for this.”

Wyatt couldn’t help but chortle. Jonathan was nothing if not confident. Some people would call it cockiness, and Wyatt wouldn’t begrudge them of that, but Johnny had an air about him that was infectious. When spending time around the young man, one couldn’t help but be drawn into the adventurous spirit that he exuded. It was that desire to seek out adventure that had cemented the duo’s friendship. In the relatively brief time they’d known one another, Wyatt and Johnny had gone off on many fun exploits. From skydiving to joyriding and everything in between. 

This new adventure, though, would prove to be their most fantastic. 

Wyatt didn’t bother replying to his friend, who had by now approached the edge of the rooftop and was peering at the street several hundred feet below. Latching the safety harness he wore that secured him to the Baxter Building, Wyatt joined Johnny at the edge and slid his phone out. Finger poised over the record button, he looked expectantly at Johnny. 

With a cheeky smile plastered across his handsome face, Johnny nodded. He spun around so his back was at the ledge, flashed a thumbs-up at the camera, and then leaned far enough back for gravity to take over. 

Wyatt’s phone caught the moment his friend toppled over the ledge and the series of expletives that followed. When he would later replay the video, Wyatt would realize it had been him who swore in shock despite fully being aware of what was about to happen. Leaning further over the edge, the strap attaching him to the building keeping him safe, Wyatt watched as the body of his friend hurtled toward the ground. 

For as long as Wyatt knew him, Johnny Storm was one of those rare things that Wyatt felt only grew more impressive with time. As the plummeting figure neared the bustling city street, that feeling continued to hold true. 

A brilliant, orange burst of light erupted from below, and Wyatt grinned and whooped excitedly as he watched a fiery arc trail up and away from the impending pavement. Two words resounded triumphantly as the glowing figure rocketed across the beautiful city skyline:

“FLAME ON!”

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
SoonTM

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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by Hound55

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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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Hound55

Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LS P I D E R – M A N

* * *
"You got the hyphen, right?"
P E T E R   P A R K E R   ♦   P E N D I N G   ♦   Q U E E N S ,   N E W   Y O R K   
O R I G I N S:

The gen-u-wine classic.  Accept no imitations.

The perfect character for this setting, webs branching across the superhero community.  To set a good anchor line for this RP, we’ll be getting a straight-down-the-line version (with a slight tweak to his affinty/relationship with his own webbing and its creation - see the sample) on the classic – albeit modernised for the technology of the day for the science-enthused teen of the 2020s.

He’s in the last term of his junior year of high school (looking forward to the following year being his final year of high school - the horizon beckons, and his responsibilities loom large).  Uncle Ben has JUST died.  So I won’t be playing through that beat-for-beat for the tragic stuff, but it’ll likely still pop up in flashbacks… he’s also coming to terms with the fact it’s just happened, and the lesson it beat into him like a drum.

S A M P L E   P O S T:
Peter looked down at the bed.  The suit lay crisp and pressed.

And as a stark, grim reminder to the lesson his kind Uncle had tried to instil in him earlier that week.  The words he'd failed to take to heart when he was in his 'other' suit.

With a solitary heavy sniff, he wiped his steadily moistening eyes and set to task, donning the shirt.

"Not my problem, pal..."

Life had a way of making these kinds of things your problem.  The ol' Parker luck was never exactly the best, high-quality, brandname luck...  But when you don't want to go tempting fate or karma or what have you with things like that.

Life can change in an instant.  And a lot of the time its the decisions you barely even acknowledge at the time as being a decision, which can sometimes make all the difference.  To come back and bite you.

"Now come along class, as interesting as Oscorp's great leaps in gene therapy to create the next generation of bioengineered silkworms may be, there's even more to be seen in the Robotics and Cybernetics laboratories."

"But this one's missing..."

He kept looking over the glass case, the silkworm was indeed gone.  His hands spread across the glass, as he scoured the case looking for where it could have possibly gone.

He didn't notice the reason it was gone as it slowly lowered itself on thin threads of gossamer.

He had no idea that the genetic elasticity from the bioengineered silkworm was altering the spider's own genetic structure, as the arachnid intermediary would in turn affect the oblivious teen with the plasticity of its own genetics.

It made him stronger, faster, able to cling and climb walls, and gave him this strange afinity with a strange substance he discovered after the incident.

He suspected that wasn't merely a coincedence.  But in hindsight, he should probably be grateful he wasn't shooting webs out of his butt, or vomiting them up, like either of the two creatures before him in the predator/prey relationship which led to his newfound spider powers.

The webfluid he'd discovered, hardened rapidly on contact with air.  He'd engineered himself some 'web-shooters' which allowed him to fire web-lines long distances, or disperse the web fluid in a few other useful ways.  Most interesting of all, and the fact that led him to believe that none of this was a coincedence, was the fact that his affinity for this substance led him to extrasensory feelings around its use.

As a result, he would know where his weblines were without looking, and could even use highly concentrated globs of webfluid to create 'spider tracers' which he could sense where those concentrated globs were from far across town.

For a short while after, he had cursed his powers.  But that was the emotion.  The rage.  The sadness.

They weren't the problem.  The problem was that those powers weren't being properly respected.  Just as his uncle had said, in a roundabout way.  He just didn't know that the great power he'd been referring to... well it hapened to be super.

But that only called for even more responsibility.  He could see that now.  And he'd live up to it.  For Uncle Ben.  He deserved more than for it to be a lesson not learned from.

As he pulled his pants on he looked up at the webshooters he had resting on the shelf.  Hiding in plain sight, by his homemade lightsaber and his attempt at a hoverboard.  If he'd stowed them in his closet it would raise more questions from his Aunt than if they were left out, looking like something he'd made because he saw something in a movie.

He got to his feet and picked up the tie, popping his collar to affix it.  As he began the windsor, he saw the form letter from Oscorp.  It was signed Norman Osborn CEO, and was a stronghanded attempt to remove all culpability for what happened in the school incident, and whilst it didn't specifically threaten, reading between the lines it suggested that any attempts to get renumeration for damages by civil suit would be met with a countersuit for the damages to Oscorp IP, a reminder of the permission slips for the trip that gave lattitude in absolving the company from liability and the fact that Oscorp has surveillance tapes of every minute every student was on Oscorp property.

He wondered if Norman Osborn was aware he went to school with his son.  Or if he even knew what school and class was there that day.  Or if he even had a part in writing this letter himself, or even if it had just been electronically signed.

So much for getting his medical bills covered, not that the doctors even did much.  By the time they saw him he was already feeling better.  So it looks like he'd have to find another way to bring in some money to cover expenditures.  Uncle Ben was retired, but he'd do odds and ends in the community for a little extra, and social security covered most things with the house already paid for.  But with his death, life insurance just gave the one big lump sum payout, a lot of which went into this funeral.  For the most part things would be OK, but things were tight.  And they didn't have much for a rainy day in the household.

And the old Parker Luck happened to find every raincloud there was in the sky at the best of times.

There was only one thing for it.  He'd need a job.  And something that pays off a little better than a newspaper route.  But these were thoughts best left for another day.

Staightening his tie, he slung his suit jacket over his back.

"Peter!  Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, Aunt May!  Just finished now!"  He called back.

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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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by Simple Unicycle

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Simple Unicycle ?

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Simple Unicycle

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LT H E  Q U E S T I O N

"My face? Looked too far into a bowling ball returner."
C H A R L E S  V I C T O R  S Z A S Z   ♦   J O U R N A L I S T   ♦   H U B  C I T Y ,  I L L I N O I S   
O R I G I N S:

"What an asshole."

That was something a lot of people muttered under their breath after a close encounter with Vic Sage; "rough around the edges" was putting it lightly when it came to him. His whole life he's been fighting, maybe not for the right reasons in the eyes of many, but in his eyes he was always in the right. Fighting is what you have to do to survive in Hub City. The only good influences he had ever had were his mentor, former chemist Aristotle "Tot" Rodor, and his ex-girlfriend Myra Fermin, an up and coming politician. They tried their best to soften his sharp edges, but it seemed like nothing would ever dull Vic's aggressive persona.

Vic's rise to vigilantism was sparked by Tot, whose former colleague Arby Twain was trying to illegally sell one of their inventions: pseudoderm, an artificial skin designed to be used as a bandage. It would've been a miracle, were it not for the fact that the gas used to bond pseudoderm to the skin was toxic when exposed to open wounds, negating the entire point of it. Rodor designed a mask for Vic using the pseudoderm and had Vic topple Twain's operation, with Vic leaving Twain and his cronies bound in pseudoderm in their warehouse before calling in an anonymous tip to the police.

A week later, he submitted what would be his final article for the Hub City Gazette, a piece slamming Mayor Wesley Fermin as incompetent and corrupt and accusing him of having ties to the Gospel of Sinners, Hub City's own crime syndicate. The next day, he and Myra broke up. Three days later, he was fired. Blacklisted from every major news network in the city, Vic was hired by Sam Starr of Starrstruck Media Inc. specifically because of the article. Vic continued his vigilante activities, though there were no major arrests, much as he tried to expose the politicians and public figures embroiled in the Sinners' activities. It was two months into his career that he finally caught his big break: a meeting between Mayor Fermin and the head of the Sinners at the dockside warehouses on Hupert River. He donned his mask, buttoned up his winter coat, and set off into the night in the hopes that he would finally take Fermin down for good.

Vic Sage didn't show up for work the next day.

A year passed with no sightings of the faceless freak stalking Hub City's streets.

Until tonight.

S A M P L E   P O S T:

2:44 AM. The sky above is the color of a television tuned to a dead channel, grey clouds rolling in and thick drops of rain drenching the pavement. I hear the sound of footsteps behind me and turn away from the window to look at Tot, who sets two double shot glasses and a bottle of brandy down on the table between our chairs. He sits down in his chair and uncorks the bottle, pouring two shots.

"A drink," he says, lifting his glass. "To Twain and his cronies rotting in jail."

I lift mine as well. "To douchebags getting what they deserve." With that toast, we take our drinks and set the glasses back down on the table. I reach a hand into my coat pocket and pull out the rubbery mask that Tot had designed for me. "... Think I can keep this?" I ask.

"Of course. It'd serve as a nice memento."

A memento. That's all it'll be after tonight. Something to remind me that I did something important, and I'll never do that again. No. It won't just gather dust in a closet for the rest of my life. "Actually, Tot, I was thinking of using it some more."

"... What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Wear it and go out and beat up some bad guys. Like The Phantom or Green Hornet or something."

"... Are you sure that's wise? This wasn't the mob, Charlie, it was some scientists looking to make some quick money."

"Okay, so I don't start off going after the mob. I go after thieves and street gangs, start small."

"And take a bullet to the head for it?"

"At least I'd die doing something good."

"You'd die doing something stupid for the sake of your own ego."

I glare at Tot with a scoff. "And there it is. What, you think I helped you out because I wanted to feel cool?"

"Charlie, you helped me because you wanted to do something that mattered. And it did matter. But there are better ways to fight against injustice than throwing yourself right into a fight with it." Tot reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. "You'd just be getting yourself killed."

I shrug off his hand and stand from my chair. "Whatever you say, Tot. I'm going home."

He doesn't say a word as I walk out of the house and get into my car. The rain beats down upon the roof of the old Beetle, a rhythmic thumping that does nothing to soothe my frustration. I clench my eyes shut and take in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I reach into my pocket to grab my keys when I feel the mask again, rubbing my thumb along its smooth surface.

Tonight won't be the last time.

S U P P O R T I N G  C A S T:

Aristotle Rodor - Vic's mentor and oldest friend.
Albert "Al" Kert - Vic's editor at Starrstruck.
Samuel "Sam" Starr - Founder, owner, and editor-in-chief of Starrstruck.
Myra Fermin - Vic's ex-girlfriend and sister of mayor Wesley Fermin.
Wesley Fermin - Mayor of Hub City and brother of Myra Fermin. Vic fucking hates this guy.
Jeremiah Hatch - The Reverend, head of the Gospel of Sinners. Hub City's de facto kingpin.
Richard Dragon - Vic's other mentor.
Lady Shiva - Mysterious assassin and martial artist. Kinda killed Vic.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Issue #-1: Overture
Issue #0: ... Like A Butterfly
Issue #1: Devotion
Issue #2: ... Like A Bee
Issue #3: Self Care

Issue #4: Back In Town
Issue #5: House of Balloons
Issue #6: Danny Boy
Issue #7: Suffer The Children
Issue #8: The Binding, Part One

C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LT H E  P U N I S H E R

"This isn't revenge. This is punishment."
F A N G  C H U   ♦   V I G I L A N T E   ♦   N E W  Y O R K  C I T Y ,  N E W  Y O R K   
O R I G I N S:

One day, you have it all. The next it comes crashing down. Everything ripped apart in a New York minute.

The boy that would be known as Frank Castle grew up as Fang Chu, the only son of first generation Chinese immigrants who moved to New York City in the mid 90s. He grew up hard and fast, forced to contend with street crimes all around him and an abusive father who drove his mother to suicide. The day he turned 18, he packed his bags and moved out. He changed his name to Frank Castle in order to distance himself from his past and got a job as a bus boy to support himself, while attending community college in the hopes of acquiring the credits he needed to become a police officer. 

Frank joined the police force at the age of 21, rising up the ranks and making detective at the age of 25. It was during his early years on the force that he met Maria Falconio, whom he began to date and later married after she became pregnant with their children, twins Lisa and Frank Jr. Two months ago, Frank had his biggest bust yet: taking down a drug ring run by the Saint crime family. The heir to the Saints, Bobby Saint, was killed in the raid on their operations. Things were going well for the Castles.

A month ago, the Castles' apartment in the Bronx was broken into. No valuables were taken, but Maria, Lisa, and Frank Jr. were killed. Frank took a bullet to the chest and fell into a coma. 

Last week, Frank woke up.

Tonight, he has a made man tied up in a warehouse on the Jersey side.

S A M P L E   P O S T:

The cemetery is silent as the three caskets are lowered into the ground.

Then it's over. Time to leave.

Maria's mother is crying too hard to look me in the eye.

Dave gives me a hug and tells me that I know where to find him if I need anything.

Captain Stacy doesn't say a word as he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, before walking away.

I get into my car and start to drive.

My first stop is a pawn shop in the Bronx. The proprietor of the pawn shop, Emil Greco, is one of many associates of the Saint family. The shop is a front for a gunrunning operation. I watched and waited until there were no customers in the store. It took about twenty minutes until finally, it was just Greco. I grab my service pistol and walk out of the car.

The bell above the door dings and Greco looks my way. "Good afternoon sir, we're getting ready to close up, but what can I..." he trails off, noticing the gun in my hand. I level it at his head and move around the counter, pressing it against his skull. "What the hell is this? You trying to rob me?"

"Yeah. Show me what you've got in the back."

His eyes go wide. "T-there's nothing back there, everything is out fro-" I whip him in the face with the pistol and he shouts in pain. "FUCK!"

"Show me what's in the back." I give him a sharp poke to the ribs with the barrel of the gun and he springs into action, leading me to the basement of the pawn shop. Guns and ordnance line the walls of the room and there are dozens of crates filled with even more: pistols, SMGs, shotguns, rifles, Goddamn grenade launchers. It was enough to supply a militia.

Or a one man army.

"Thanks." I slam the butt of my handgun into Greco's temple and he collapses into a heap on the floor.

Fifteen minutes later and I'm leaving the pawn shop with duffel bags full of guns and ammo stuffed into my trunk. Forty minutes later and I'm on the Jersey side, an abandoned warehouse in Hoboken, dropping off the ordnance. Ten more minutes, I'm outside of a night club run by the Saint family, waiting for one Nicky Francesco. He was a made man, tough guy, liked to beat on women and shoot men in the back of the head before they knew what was going on. We'd been trying to make a case on the guy for months.

Now I didn't need to make one.

He's about to get into his car when I strike, pulling a plastic bag over his head and slowly suffocating him. He tries to scream, he tries to hit, and eventually he's just trying to keep breathing. After that, he's limp in my arms. I drag him to my car and throw him in the back seat, slapping a pair of handcuffs on him just in case he wakes up early.

I drive him back to the warehouse. I tie him to a chair below a dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. I pull up a chair and take a seat in front of him.

And then I wait.

S U P P O R T I N G  C A S T:

David "Dave" Lieberman/Microchip - Frank's best friend and fellow police officer.
Billy Russo/Jigsaw - A capo in the Saint family whose face Frank rearranged into a series of scars.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Issue #1: Pliers
Issue #2: Better Off Alone
Issue #3: Triage
Issue #4: Room Service
Issue #5: Night Terrors
Issue #6: Running With The Devil, Part One (Crossover with Daredevil)
Issue #6: Running With The Devil, Part Two (Crossover with Daredevil)

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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by Mao Mao

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Mao Mao Sheriff of Pure Hearts (They/Them)

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Mao Mao

Sheriff of Pure Hearts (They/Them)

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LB 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 shouted 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 as the years went on. 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 in life, the 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, brutality, and crime were all too common nowadays. So Bruce put all his newfound skills and techniques to use, 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 made it possible, along with assistance from Lucius Fox. 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:
Alfred Pennyworth, a veteran of the Gulf War, had always followed a routine around the manor. He woke up to the alarm set at six in the morning, got dressed in his uniform, and cleaned around the manor—inside and out. And for the most part, the routine remained the same with a few exceptions. Some were quite happy ones, like when Martha's water broke or the unexpected birthday party. But many of them were terrible, like that night on June 26, 2008. It was almost midnight when he answered the phone, knowing beforehand that something horrible had happened to the Waynes. By the time he made it to the police station in Park Row, every reporter in Gotham was eager to grab a scoop on the story of the decade, not caring about the lone victim at all.

Young Bruce looked utterly traumatized in front of the intrusive officers, his coat still stained with his parents' blood. There were only a few times that Alfred had seen that look before, and all of them were from his brief time in Iraq. But there was something entirely different seeing that expression on a child, which made it... gut-wrenching, to say the least. Alfred approached the grieving boy and hugged him, not minding the blood-soaked coat at all. He cautiously removed the coat, not wanting to further upset him, while offering comforting words, "I know I won't be able to understand the pain you're going through, but I will always be here for you, Master Bruce. Always."

That night was the worst one in a long while for Alfred. But what happened tonight... was close.

Alfred turned away from the sink, with a wet, soapy plate in hand, and saw him. A dark, shadowy figure standing tall with his piercing eyes being encased by the darkness on the other side of the kitchen. The silhouette wasn't human but some sort of freakish man-bat standing there menacingly as if he was about to pounce upon him. Alfred dropped the plate and let it shatter on the tile floor, paralyzed with complete fear as he could only let out a gasp. Suddenly, the figure reacted strangely, ripping off the mask to reveal... Master Bruce underneath? The sight was surreal. The boy he used to drive to school every weekday, the teenager who nervously brought his date over, the same man with an inexplicable fear of bats, was now sporting as one. 

"Alfred," Bruce called out, a mixture of guilt and curiosity in his voice, "Are you alright?"

How could one answer that after witnessing such a... creature? What answer could convey the feeling of dread he had just endured? Alfred wasn't sure if there was one, but he had to try regardless. He only needed a moment for his nerves to calm down before he could respond. "I'm not... entirely certain, Master Bruce. Your costume is something else, even though Halloween's months away. Why do you have it on now?"

"It's not just a costume, Alfred." Bruce answered straightforwardly. 

"Huh?" Alfred tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"It represents what our city has long forgotten: justice."

Alfred frowned, knowing full well what he was referring to now, his fight against the 'filth' in Gotham. Crime families, corrupt officials, would-be thieves, and anyone else engaged in criminal behavior had become fair game. But Bruce had seemingly gotten nowhere with his crusade since his time back home. That was until now, and it was frightening. Alfred was acutely aware that he needed to stop him before it became too late. Yet, he couldn't shake the troubling thought: perhaps it was already too late? Ever since his parent's death, there was always this sense of anger tucked away in the young boy that only ever got unleashed at schoolyard bullies. Alfred thought it would eventually be phased out with counseling from Leslie, but he was so wrong.

Now, this rage of his was going to hurt him, or worse, god forbid. And Alfred was ever so powerless to prevent it from happening. All he could do was be there for his adopted son whenever he needed the support, no matter how much it stung.

"Well, at least you've decided to not wear the gown and wig." Alfred chuckled to himself before deciding to be rather direct with his question. "But I have to ask, sir: Why a bat? You're absolutely terrified of them."

Bruce had a rather wicked smirk on his face. "I am, and that fear will too paralyze criminals."

"I see..." Alfred was suddenly too uncomfortable to probe any further, so his focus shifted to cleaning up the pieces of the broken plate on the floor. "So I assume you're leaving for another night on the town?"

"Of course." Bruce nodded and was about to say something but paused instead. His demeanor shifted so quickly that it was unsettling. "I have to leave very soon."

Alfred stopped what he was doing, realizing this could be their last interaction. Each night that Bruce left for the city filled him with such dread. What if he got the call? He couldn't live with himself if Bruce had gotten hurt or worse... died. It would've haunted him til the sweet release of death if he had to bury another Wayne. He just couldn't bear the thought. So he got up from the floor and tried to grab Bruce, desperate to get his attention, to stop his bloody crusade of pure madness. "Master Bruce, wait a sec-" 

But his boy wasn't there anymore. "I'll see you in the morning, Alfred." The monster's softly spoken words left the butler completely utterly speechless as it rushed out of the kitchen. Alfred was alone, overwhelmed by intense fear, followed by a sense of despair from his boy. And he could do nothing about it other than clean up the mess on the floor and pray that the telephone does not ring at all tonight.

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 as a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.

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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by webboysurf

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webboysurf Live, Laugh, Love

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webboysurf

Live, Laugh, Love

879 posts

in 2360 days

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LD A R E D E V I L

"You can tell your boss the devil is coming..."M A T T H E W   M U R D O C K   ♦   L A W Y E R   ♦   N Y C  
O R I G I N S:

Matthew Murdock is an enigma. The son of a former boxer who died mysteriously when he was young, and a victim of a chemical spill that left him blind... he thought he was cursed. You know the story. He was an orphan for a time, raised by Catholic nuns who tried to teach him the straight and narrow. Trained under a mysterious man named Stick, and turned into a weapon... only to be abandoned yet again. A recent graduate from Columbia, and a surprising member of their gymnastics team. He had a number of offers from prestigious law firms lined up for him, but he opted to start a practice in Hell's Kitchen with his college roommate, Foggy Nelson.

The practice is only a year old, and Nelson and Murdock have already had a number of clients recently that they just can't seem to help. Vandalism, break-ins, and anonymous threats have been given to the residents and store owners 45th Street. With a lack of evidence, there is little the police is willing to do. This appears to be happening all over Hell's Kitchen. Someone is driving the good people of Hell's Kitchen out, and the Justice system is ill-equipped to deal with the anonymous harassment.

Matt, in response to recent strange news reports detailing masked men and women, has opted to follow in their footsteps to bring his community justice and answers. He doesn't don a fancy costume or neat gadgets, opting instead to wrap his fists and cover his hair and eyes. But the criminals and shadowy figures operating in the fringes of Hell's Kitchen are starting to hear rumors. The Devil doesn't wear horns, and doesn't fight with a pitchfork. The Devil is a flash of white in the night, and he sees you before you see him.

S A M P L E   P O S T:

Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back in the old office chair. The soft footfalls on the old carpet were like war drums in his head: confident, short stride, lead foot... Foggy. As the door opened, Matt was already closing the laptop lid and removing his earbuds.

"Just got off the phone with a Detective North... the good old boys in Blue are calling it a wash. No DNA or fingerprints, No CCTV in the area, no witnesses coming forward. No suspects-"

"No one to arrest, no one to sue for damages, and insurance will claim it's a scam." Matt spun the chair around, removing his red-tinted glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath, a wave of anger boiling in his chest. "This is the third shop this has happened to in three weeks... nothing was stolen. How is this not a priority?"

"NYPD is too busy looking out for a big spider or something to focus on 'domestic disturbances.'" Foggy shook his head in disgust, his cheap windbreaker rubbing against itself from his movements. Matt always hated that jacket. He spun around in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm calling it a night. It's 7, my dad just got back from the hospital so my ma is having us all over for dinner. She specifically asked me to invite you, in case you-"

"Thank you, but not tonight, Foggy." Matt gave a weak smile, his expression darkening as he felt that well of anger rising like bile in his throat. His jaw clenched as he tried to keep it in. "It just doesn't feel like enough."

Foggy froze, his mouth agape as the wheels turned in his head. "We just have to wait and see... maybe hire a private investigator to keep an eye out, try and get some pictures... so long as they take seven bucks and a Bodega punch card as a down payment." Foggy smiled awkwardly, waiting for some kind of amused reaction from his friend. It never came. "Right... look, Matt... you should get some sleep. We'll regroup in the morning, see if we can work out a game plan."

Foggy gave Matt a soft smile before leaving the office, with Matt waiting until he could hear the front door to their shared office space close. Matt nimbly slid open his desk drawer, removing the set of blood stained clothes and bandana.

He couldn't do more.

But maybe the devil could.

♦♦♦

"A three on one doesn't seem very fair."

A lone man was backed into a corner by three young men sporting windbreakers, a large depiction of a dragon hand-embroidered on the back. They understood what he said, but the leader of them pulled a knife from his jacket pocket, making a show of flicking it open with a single motion. They were all surprisingly calm, the booze on their breath permeating like a stinking cloud. They had done this so many times it was just like going into the office. The lone man they had targeted reached up to tighten the white bandana that covered his red hair and blue eyes.

They deserve this.

Before they could even make the demand for money, Matt lunged forward and closed the distance with the assailant on the right. He didn't even have time to lift up his hands in defense before the sucker punch dislocated his jaw. Matt quickly rotated around, delivering a roundhouse kick behind him into the mugger with the knife. Matt smiled as he heard the wind get squeezed out of his lungs in an instant. Their heartrates had doubled in a second. The last mugger remaining scanned the ground wildly, before stumbling over himself to grab something off the ground.

The scraping sound resonated in Matt's head. Stone on stone... maybe cement? Too small, too light, with the way the man was raising it over his head.

A brick.

The mugger quickly swung the brick down towards Matt, who responded by simply leaning to the side, lifting one arm to catch the assailant's elbow. Matt reached up to grab the brick with his other hand, swiftly yanking it free. His own heartbeat thrummed in his ears. Blood rushed through his veins. He smacked the brick into his assailant's kneecap, a sickening crunch and a loud cry echoing through the alley. Matt left the man to roll in his misery, crying and blubbering. There was one still standing, who had managed to recover his knife but not his confidence. The mugger was shaking in his sneakers, holding the knife out before him like a ward against evil. Matt didn't look at him, instead facing the man he had just brutally injured.

"11th and 45th."

The mugger's heartbeat was quick, but it didn't beat any faster or slower. No reaction, other than a slight intake of air. Confusion. He didn't know.

"Who... what are you?" His accent wasn't particularly thick. He was from here.

He should know better.

"The Devil."

S U P P O R T I N G   C A S T:
The Enforcers
The Owl
Foggy Nelson
Karen Page
Turk Barret
Frank Farnum
Cole North

Wish List:
The Eraser
Vigilante (Adrian Chase /  Alan Welles)
Blockbuster (Roland Desmond)

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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Hidden 3 mos ago → 17 days ago Post by Half Pint

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Half Pint

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164 posts

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LB L A C K  P A N T H E R 

(Yohualli Ocelotl)
"As long as I breathe, Dorado will not fall."
N E C A L L I  D O R A D O  C U A U H P I L L I    ♦   W A R R I O R - P R I N C E   ♦   D O R A D O   
O R I G I N S:

The hidden city of Dorado lies deep within the rainforests of Central America, long shrouded in myth and legend. Governed by ancient traditions and ruled by a sacred lineage, Dorado’s people worship the gods of the earth, sky, and sun, drawing their strength from the extremely valuable and precious resource, vibranium, which they call "tecuhtli," the blood of the gods. Necalli, the latest in this divine bloodline, was destined to lead from birth. Trained in the arts of war, diplomacy, and spiritual practices, he is destined to inherit the mantle of Yohualli Ocelotl, the protector of Dorado, upon his father’s death.

Recently, reports have surfaced of modern invaders, equipped with advanced weapons, encroaching on the edges of Dorado’s hidden borders. Necalli, foreseeing greater threats on the horizon, has urged his father and the council to strengthen the city’s defenses. He forsees a world where isolation is no longer enough to protect Dorado, but his warnings fall on deaf ears, viewed as fear mongering that risks disturbing the peace.

Determined to safeguard his people, Necalli grows increasingly conflicted. His vision for Dorado’s survival stands in stark contrast to the conservative stance of the council, and the growing divide within the royal court threatens not only his future as their leader but the very security of the city itself.

S A M P L E   P O S T:
The jungle was alive with the hum of insects and the distant cries of animals, but it was the unnatural buzz of drones slicing through the night air that caught Necalli's attention. His form, crouched in the dense shadows of the jungle like a big cat waiting to strike, was a silent specter, unseen by the intruders below. The red dots of laser sights crisscrossed through the underbrush, painting lines of death on the trees and ground. He could hear the faint murmur of voices over radio chatter, the sound distorted by their helmets and body armor.

"Fan out." one of the voices crackled through the radio, authoritative and stern. "We've got good intel it's in this area. Remember, if you see anything moving, shoot on sight."

Beneath his jaguar mask, Necalli's lips tightened into a grim line. These weren’t ordinary invaders, no clumsy conquistadors stumbling in search of gold or silly explorers with too much money and time on their hands looking for their chance at fame. These were professionals: armed to the teeth, outfitted with the latest military tech. Their gear was the kind of cutting-edge equipment only the most powerful nations or corporations could afford. But no matter how advanced their tech, they made the same mistake all outsiders made, they underestimated the jungle.

And they underestimated him.

Sliding silently down from his perch high in the trees, Necalli's fingers brushed over the hilt of his macuahuitl. The ancient weapon had been reforged with vibranium, its obsidian blades sharper than any modern steel, able to cut through metal, flesh, and bone with equal ease. The cold of the weapon against his skin grounded him, reminded him of his purpose. These men came for Dorado, for its secrets. They would leave with nothing but death.

One of the soldiers paused below him, his boots sinking slightly into the wet soil. He lifted his rifle, sweeping the muzzle across the darkness, unaware of the predator above. Necalli struck fast and without sound. He dropped from the canopy, landing silently with lethal precision. The vibranium edge of his macuahuitl sliced through the man’s armor as though it were nothing more than cloth. The soldier collapsed, dead before his body hit the ground.

Necalli darted back into the shadows as the others turned, confused by the sudden silence of their comrade. Their laser sights flashed across the trees, fingers tensing on triggers. They think their machines and guns will save them, Necalli thought, moving with the grace of a jaguar. But in this jungle, they are prey.

"We've got a man down!" Shouted one of the soldiers, panic setting in as the remaining men formed a tight circle formation and began sweeping the trees for movement.

A drone hovered above the treeline, its camera sweeping back and forth, now searching for what killed the invader. Necalli's eyes narrowed beneath his mask. He threw a small, round object, a piece of vibranium-infused tech of his own design. It clamped onto the drone’s underside, a brief flash of blue light before the drone sparked and crashed into the undergrowth, its systems fried. The forest swallowed the sound.

"They’re taking out the drones!" one of the men shouted, his voice rising in panic. "They know we’re here!"

I am not 'they', Necalli thought coldly, his body already a blur as he moved silently to flank them.

He circled around, watching as the team tried to regroup, their nervous chatter betraying their fear. They were good, disciplined, highly trained. But this was his domain. A pair of soldiers inched forward, their helmets reflecting the dim light from their tactical displays. Necalli moved in again, his macuahuitl swinging in a deadly arc. One soldier’s rifle was severed in two, his chest following moments later. The second soldier barely had time to scream before a Vibranium spear buried itself in his torso, thrown from the shadows.

Now the the two remaining were panicking. Necalli could hear it in their voices, see it in the erratic movement of their laser sights. They fired wildly into the trees, wasting bullets on shadows. He moved through the chaos with cold precision, using the dense treeline as cover as he crepy from branch to branch.

He watched as they panted heavily, fear etched across their faces as they struggled to unload and reload their guns for the shaking of their hands. Necalli gently slid the bow from around his chest and knocked a vibranium tipped arrow on its string. It flew threw the air with only the yell of pain as it struck one of the soldiers chest to announce its arrival.

The last soldier stood alone, his breathing ragged as he spun around, his back to a tree, clutching his rifle like it was a lifeline. The red dot of his laser swept across the underbrush, trembling with fear. Necalli watched him for a moment, hidden, unseen. The soldier’s radio crackled with static.

"Command, we’ve been, there's something here. We-I need evac! Now!"

Necalli stepped down into the clearing, his presence quiet, almost serene. The soldier froze, his eyes widening behind his visor as the jaguar mask emerged from the shadows. He lifted his gun, finger trembling on the trigger.

"Don't" Necalli warned, his voice low. "You’ve come far enough. Don't end up like your friends."

The soldier hesitated, the weight of fear holding him in place. He half considered pulling the trigger, but luckily for him he was too late. With a final, swift movement, Necalli disarmed him, his macuahuitl cutting through the rifle with surgical precision. The soldier stumbled backward, falling to the ground, his wide eyes reflecting the vibrant golds and reds of Necalli's cloak.

"The jungle protects what is sacred." Necalli murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "And you are not welcome here."

The soldier scrambled backward, his breath coming in panicked gasps, and then he turned and ran, crashing through the underbrush like a wild animal fleeing a predator. Necalli didn’t follow. Let the man tell his story. Let them know what awaited any who sought to take from Dorado.

As the jungle returned to its natural silence, Necalli stood alone among the fallen, his gaze distant. His father would disapprove of this, he knew. This wasn't their way, this open confrontation with the outside world. But the outside world was closing in, and Dorado had to be defended. No matter the cost.

With one last glance toward the horizon, where the lights of distant invaders flickered in the distance, Necalli disappeared into the night.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Volume 1 - The Heir of Dorado
    1. The Hunt Begins
2. Footsteps in the Jungle
3. What Condition My Condition Was In
4. New Suit, New Enemies
5. Yaretzi
6. Return to Tradition

C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LB L A C K  K N I G H T

"A thousand years and still chasing shadows."
D U N C A N  W H I T M A N   ♦   K N I G H T   ♦   T R A N S I E N T   
O R I G I N S:

Long ago, legends were written about what could be considered one of the first superteams: the legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. One character who is often omitted from these tales of heroism is the Black Knight. Duncan was a close friend and ally of Arthur and his knights, but he struggled endlessly with his past and the curse of the Ebony Blade. He was born in the late 5th century, the son of a bandit in the Scottish Highlands who, through much strife and combat, grew into a knight-errant serving under the grace and command of Arthur.

Merlin bestowed upon him the Ebony Blade—a sword forged from a meteorite and imbued with both immense power and a terrible curse. The blade granted him enhanced strength and unmatched combat prowess but at the cost of a growing bloodlust and insanity that threatened to consume him the more unnecessary blood was spilled using the weapon. The curse only grew after he bested death in a duel of wits and became immortal after falling during battle. After the fall of Camelot and the death of King Arthur at the hands of the villainous Mordred, Duncan became a wandering knight, fighting to uphold the ideals of chivalry even as the world around him descended into chaos. He hunted Mordred across the land, seeking vengeance for his fallen master. Fearing that the curse would eventually turn him into a force of destruction, Merlin placed him into an enchanted sleep after his battle with Mordred, hoping that time would dull the blade’s influence.

Duncan slept for over a millennium until the emergence of new heroes—and the return of his old nemesis, Mordred—awakened him. Now, in the modern era, he must navigate a world that has long forgotten the age of knights and sorcery, all while battling the darkness within him and the evils that have returned to plague humanity.
 
S A M P L E   P O S T:
The cold moon looked down upon the vast desert, a barren wasteland that seemed to stretch into eternity. Duncan Whitman, the Black Knight, trudged through the endless expanse, his armor dull with dust and battle scars, yet still a symbol of the honor he struggled to cling to. He wished endlessly he had Valinor with him. His steed would have provided much-needed company on the journey and made it far easier on his feet. But Valinor was gone, gone like everything he cared about. The Ebony Blade at his side thrummed with dark energy, its curse growing stronger as it vibrated with the souls it had taken. Duncan felt a million voices in his head telling him to kill. But for now, its hunger was directed toward one man—Mordred.

The traitor had fled across the land, ever since the day he plunged Britain into chaos with the death of King Arthur. Duncan had pursued him tirelessly, driven by a vow to avenge his fallen king and to rid the world of Mordred’s treachery. Now, at last, he had cornered the villain in this forsaken desert, far from the green hills of Camelot.

In the distance, a figure emerged from the swirling sands, clad in dark robes that fluttered in the hot wind. Mordred. His eyes glowed with malevolent power, and a twisted grin spread across his face as he saw Duncan approaching. The two men stared at each other, their shared history palpable in the charged air between them.

“Duncan Whitman,” Mordred called out, his voice echoing across the dunes, “Loyal to the end, I see. Even in this wasteland, you cling to the dead king’s ideals.”

Duncan stopped in his tracks, his hand resting on the hilt of the Ebony Blade, the dark metal cool against his palm. “You took everything from me, Mordred,” he replied, his voice a low, controlled growl. “From all of us. This ends now.”

Mordred laughed, a cold, hollow sound that sent a shiver down Duncan’s spine. “Foolish knight. Do you think a cursed blade will save you? Or have you already succumbed to its darkness?”

With a snarl, Duncan drew the Ebony Blade from its scabbard, the weapon gleaming ominously in the moonlight. It seemed to drip with red energy like blood. As the energy hit the sand below, it sizzled and steamed into the night. The air around them seemed to hum with anticipation, the very land sensing the clash that was about to unfold. “The blade will do what it was forged to do—end your wretched life.”

Without another word, Duncan charged forward, his boots kicking up sand as he closed the distance between them. Mordred responded with a wave of his hand, summoning a surge of dark magic that crackled through the air like lightning. Duncan raised the Ebony Blade, its cursed power absorbing the magic, deflecting the energy away as he pressed his attack. Mordred’s hands drew back and shot forward once more as more dark energy shot out at Duncan. The sword was doing its best, but sparks of lightning began arcing around the blade and burning his face. All he could smell was blood and burnt hair as the unkempt beard he hadn't bothered to shave in his pursuit began burning.

He closed in on Mordred, the evil son of a good king, drawing his own blade and blocking a downward swing from Duncan at the last moment. Duncan's eyes glanced down at the blade, and a mixture of shock and anger tore through his body as he shouted,
"You would desecrate your own father's corpse? Steal Excalibur? Thieving pilferer, have you no shame?"

Mordred's lips curled into a sneer "Shame is for the weak and the foolish, Whitman. I have claimed my birthright."

They pulled their blades away and swung again, locking them against each other. The darkness of the desert was only illuminated by the stars and the pure light of Excalibur clashing against the dark aura of the Ebony Blade, creating a spectacle of sparks. The air around them sizzled with energy, the very ground trembling beneath their feet.

Mordred laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "And what of your own blade, Black Knight? A cursed weapon that feeds on blood. Are you so different from me?"

Duncan's jaw tightened. The whispers of the Ebony Blade grew louder, urging him to unleash its full potential, to end Mordred once and for all. But he knew the cost. He pulled his blade back again, sending a kick to Mordred's midsection that sent him stumbling back. Duncan regained a high guard, holding his blade along his left forearm with his right hand as he and Mordred stalked in circles around each other like two lions. Duncan felt the weight of exhaustion pressing upon him. The long journey through the desert, combined with the draining effects of the Ebony Blade, had sapped his strength. Yet, he couldn't falter. Not now.

Mordred charged him, and Duncan parried, thrusting his sword forward and plunging it into Mordred's shoulder. His success was marked with a painful yelp from Mordred, but also a vicious downward swing from Excalibur. Duncan reacted quickly; the sword was firmly lodged in his opponent’s shoulder and wouldn't budge. He held his hand up to block the path of the holy blade, and it embedded itself into his hand, causing Duncan to shout in equal parts anger and pain.

His eyes met Mordred's with a fury the dark wizard had never seen before. Duncan allowed the voices to overcome him. Arthur was dead. Lancelot was dead. Guinivere was dead. All that was left was himself and Merlin who had gone into a self imposed exile. Why did this treacherous knave deserve to live. Why did any of them deserve to live.

Duncan let go of the Ebony Blade and sent a brutal punch to Mordred’s jaw with his metal gauntlet, sending him tumbling to the ground, blood splattering across the sand. Excalibur was released from his grasp and landed point down into the sand. For once, Mordred looked frightened as the Black Knight approached him, his hand dripping with blood and his aura glowing with an overwhelming, black flame.

The Black Knight approached Mordred, tearing his Ebony Blade from the man’s shoulder. He could faintly hear him calling for mercy, but all was numb and deaf as he drove the cursed sword through his chest. He could barely think, his mind racing as he struggled to keep hold of his sanity. He watched as what remained of Mordred crumbled to dust and his robe whipped away into the desert air.

Pulling the Ebony Blade from the sand, he left a trail of blood as he stumbled forward into the desert. He fell to his knees and tore his helmet off, throwing it as far as he could away from him as he stared upwards into infinity. He began mumbling to himself.
"Merlin....Merlin....I'm so exhausted."

Duncan's voice wavered as he called out into the desolate expanse, his strength nearly spent, his spirit battered by the weight of the curse and the horrors he had just committed. The desert winds howled in response, carrying his desperate plea across the dunes.

A mirage appeared on the horizon, a figure emerging from nowhere, cloaked in robes that seemed to blend with the sands themselves. Merlin, the ancient wizard, approached with a grave expression, his eyes full of sorrow as he took in the sight of his once-noble knight, now reduced to a man on the brink of madness. His visage was shimmering, transparent. Merlin was a thousand miles away, somewhere Duncan would never know, appearing to him in one last favour to his plea.

"Duncan," Merlin’s voice was soft, yet it carried the authority of ages. He knelt beside the fallen knight, his hand gently resting on Duncan’s shoulder. "You have fought valiantly, but the curse of the Ebony Blade has taken its toll."

Duncan’s eyes were wild, his breathing ragged as he clutched the hilt of the sword, his knuckles white beneath the metal of his gauntlet. "I couldn’t stop it, Merlin. The blade… it’s consuming me. I killed him, but at what cost? I’m losing myself."

Merlin nodded solemnly, his gaze turning to the Ebony Blade, which pulsed with a dark, malevolent energy. "The blade was forged from the stars, imbued with power beyond mortal understanding. But with that power comes a terrible price. You are not the first to fall victim to its curse, but you are among the strongest to have resisted it for so long."

Duncan looked up at Merlin, desperation in his eyes. "I cannot control it anymore. Please, Merlin, end this… end me."

The wizard’s expression softened with compassion, though his heart weighed heavy with the decision before him. "No, Duncan. There is still hope for you, but not in this time. The world is not yet ready for what you have become, and you are not ready to face the darkness alone."

Merlin raised his hand, his fingers weaving intricate patterns in the air as he whispered ancient incantations. The air around them began to shimmer, a soft light enveloping Duncan as the magic took hold. Duncan felt a strange calm wash over him, the voices of the blade fading into the distance, replaced by a soothing silence.

"I will place you into a deep slumber," Merlin continued, his voice gentle but firm. "You will sleep for centuries, perhaps millenia, until a time when the world has changed and you are needed once more. Perhaps then, you will find a way to break the curse, to wield the blade without losing yourself to it."

Duncan’s eyelids grew heavy, his exhaustion overwhelming him as the enchantment began to take effect. He struggled to keep his gaze on Merlin, to hold onto the last vestiges of consciousness. "And what of the world, Merlin? What will become of it?"

Merlin smiled sadly, his eyes filled with a wisdom that spanned the ages. "The world will endure, as it always has. New heroes will rise, and the old will fade into legend. But when the time is right, you will awaken, and your story will continue."

With those final words, Duncan’s eyes closed, his body sinking into the soft sand as the spell took full hold. The dark flames that had surrounded him flickered out, leaving only the peaceful rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply in his enchanted sleep.

Merlin watched over him for a moment longer, his heart heavy with the burden of what he had done. But he knew it was necessary. The Black Knight’s time would come again, and perhaps then, he would find redemption.

With a final wave of his hand, Merlin summoned a gentle breeze that covered Duncan in a blanket of sand, concealing him from the world until the day he would awaken. The wizard turned and began to walk away, his figure gradually disappearing into the shimmering heat of the desert, leaving only the silent dunes behind.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Volume 1 - Beggar Knight
    1. Awakenings
2. A Test of Strength and Honour
3. Childhood Memories
4. The Desert's Shadow
5. Gazing Into the Abyss
6. The Serpent's Coil
7. The Awakening Beast

Retired

C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LM 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.

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.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Volume 1 - First Prototype
    1. Broken Guns and Broken Arms
2. A Family Affair
3. Childhood Memories

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Hidden 3 mos ago → 2 mos ago Post by Master Bruce

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Master Bruce Winged Freak

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A L

"Not a bird. Definitely not a plane."

 Clark Joseph Kent ♦ Intern At The Daily Planet ♦ Metropolis

O R I G I N S:

The City of Metropolis, 1994. On the heels of a breakthrough discovery by STAR Labs director and renowned astrophysicist Doctor Alexander Luthor, something went horribly wrong. After a beacon was inadvertently shot into the vast reaches of deep space carrying an extraterrestrial code, meteors began to appear in the skies directly above. And with their arrival came absolute devastation. Buildings were smashed, cars were flattened, and explosions rippled across the skyline. A brilliant emerald fire consumed the heavens, striking below at helpless pedestrians and leaving a trail of massive craters for miles. And in the private lab in the bowels of STAR's main facility, Luthor lay nearly lifeless, disfigured with burns.

But with this devastation came a life-changing discovery by a kindly couple from Kansas. Having recently moved into the city to start a corner grocery store in Suicide Slums, Jonathan and Martha Kent heard a massive boom erupt just beyond their shop's walls. Thinking only of potential harm having come to one of their neighbors, they both bravely ventured into the destruction to try and help - and instead found a small silver craft with unrecognizable symbols etched into it, it's hull revealing an infant baby shielded inside. Taking the child into their arms, they immediately returned to safety for it's sake before helping survivors. By the time Jonathan returned to the crater, the craft had destroyed itself. The true nature of the baby's arrival was never discovered, as the Kents decided to adopt the child as their own, hoping to teach him how to exist within the confines of a city being rebuilt from the ground up - becoming 'The City Of Tomorrow', as shaped by the now reclusive billionaire Luthor. 

But it became clear as he matured that their son Clark was developing in ways no other child would - that no other human could. The Kents went to great lengths to protect the nature of his strange abilities, teaching him right from wrong in a city that threatened to swallow up their old-fashioned goodwill in a siege of technological prowess. Still, they were never able to curtail Clark's boundless need to utilize his gifts - perhaps to atone for the violent nature of his arrival, perhaps because he simply needed to let it out of his system. A need that he carried with him into adulthood, where he has recently been granted a journalism internship for The Daily Planet, the television news network that employs Lois Lane, James Olsen, Cat Grant, and the legendary anchor-turned-news director Perry White. For his part, Clark didn't plan on revealing his powers to the world... but he also didn't plan to accompany Lane and Olsen on an assignment the very same day that a madman named Winslow Schott decided to attack the city with a series of heavily modified attack drones.

S A M P L E   P O S T:
"How's it hanging, rookie?"

Surprised, Clark Kent glanced over at one of his approaching senior co-workers as he finished preparing a fresh pot of coffee in the breakroom. It wasn't out of any sense of genuine fear on his part, but despite being officially interning for The Daily Planet for at least three days? Barely anyone had said so much as a word to him. The announcement of his arrival to the network had barely even been audible, between the introductions of a few others joining the staff - a kid named Troupe hired as a field correspondent, a woman in her mid-thirties named Izquierdo being transferred in as a producer - and the immediate devolution into a staff-wide debate on how to handle a chaotic breaking story, so Clark more than understood any confusion. But the complete inability to notice or greet him whatsoever was new.

The man was only seemingly a couple of years younger, if that, sporting a thin orange beard and nicely cut hair to match. He was instantly recognizable based solely on his vest, which was made of a thick material and covered in deep pockets. This was The Daily Planet's primary field cameraperson, a man whose picture was one of the lucky few to adorn the wall to the lobby of the building. He exuded a confidence that nearly took Clark aback, but it was a friendly kind of confidence. The kind that he had yet to see around the office so far.

"Uh, there's coffee." 

Clark meekly pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose, before sticking his hand out.

"Hello. I'm one of the interns."

"Interns? Oh! Right, you guys. I forget that old man Perry hires a couple of you around this time of year to break up the monotony. You're in for a wild ride, let me tell you."

Clasping Clark's hand with a firm grip, the man grinned.

"Name's Olsen. People call me Jim. I prefer Jimmy, if you don't mind."

Clark quietly breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed by at least one count, the abrasive world of nightly news wasn't as abrasive as it had appeared to be.

"Clark Kent. Nice to meet you."

As Olsen began to speak about how the coffee in the breakroom was the best in all the city, aswell as recommend a couple of good local spots to get a fresh cup for the lunch commute, Clark's ears automatically attuned to a couple of voices coming from the other side of the massive studio building. Having become used to this, Clark instinctively began to feign attention to Jimmy's rambling. He legitimately wanted to engage with the friendly co-worker, but it was as if his ears had a mind of their own. Listening in on conversations he would otherwise never hear or even know about was just one of the many burdens that came with Clark's series of "talents", as his mother affectionately called them.

"Are you kidding me?! That Luthor piece was a ratings smash in the making, Perry!"

"Ratings don't really mean much when they could invoke an army of litigators, Lois. You know  that, considering the amount of them you've brought to our door..."

"Oh, like I asked for a Senator to cheat on his wife with a Mayoral candidate!"

"The station's still paying out to their campaign..."

"Regardless! Lex Luthor has been one of the top newsmakers in Metropolis since before you were even going gray. Which should tell you something about how long it's been..."

"Watch it."

"...and we finally put together a potential lead into why the rich weirdo's been hiding out in that literal ivory tower of his, but you want to kill it? What exactly does he even have to sue us for?"

"With the story? I'm not sure yet. With you being the one to read it on air? Plenty. Your objectivity has been waning in the past few months. You've been creating soundbites for the internet to stick every pitchfork they have at."

"It's called editorializing. Which I seem to remember you hiring me for in the first place."

"When you were behind a desk! When you were behind a desk and absolutely nobody had to pay the consequences for the things that came out of your mouth."

"S'a bit sexist, chief."

"First of all, your ability to spin things like this defies any gender-based discrimination. Secondly, DON'T call me..."

"The point is. The Planet finally has an angle to work from on the day-to-day of one of the world's wealthiest men on the cusp of a new scientific discovery. It's news, and you can't tell me otherwise."

"It is news, that I'll grant you."

"So why are you..."

"You seem to be confused about this request. And I'm calling it a request very generously because you're on my very last straw. I'm not asking the story to be buried altogether. I'm asking that you not be the one to deliver it when we go live."

"I'm the host of the damn program!"

"Yeah, and I'm starting to wonder for how long."

"What?!"

"How long you stay in that position, how long this station even exists at the rate you keep taking the legal department into court..."

"So, what, I should be more like you? Is that what you're asking? I should start developing a catchphrase to sell on the mugs in the station gift shop while being told to ignore the big stories?"

"You damn well know that I didn't come up with the Great Ceasar's Ghost thing. That was a producer's dumb idea in 1997, and it's haunted me ever since."

"The mug sitting on your desk right now begs to differ..."

"Lane. I'm telling you now. You're off the story. You wanna take on something in the field with Olsen, be my guest. But as far as the main broadcast is concerned, Cat's got it covered for tonight. By my request."

"Oh, screw you, White!"

"Lane? Lane! Get back here! We're not done! Great Caesar's... goddammit!"

Clark blinked once, unable to grasp the nature of the argument that he'd just heard.

"...and then there's Bibbowski's on 7th and Morrison. Bee-autiful selection of cocktails if you get there before the afternoon rush."

"Oh, I...  don't drink, actually."

"To be honest? Me neither. I prefer a mountain of Red Bulls. But I like telling people about it, because believe me, a month here and you'll be desperate for something to kill the nerves."

As he and Olsen continued the mundane chat, he noticed a beautiful dark-haired woman fuming and muttering unrepeatable words at no one in particular as she cut across the news floor with a vengeance, a fresh pack of cigarettes visible in her back pocket. This was confirmed to be Lois Lane as she passed a giant mural on the far wall with her face plastered several feet high, paradoxically smiling widely and exuding an on-camera friendliness that didn't seem possible from the person he'd just heard.

Clark sighed. Even with all of his "talents", he didn't know if he was cut out for this business.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
1. Don't Worry, We Won't Break Him
2. Not-So Mild-Mannered Intern
3. Not Playing Anymore
4. Call To Action

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Hidden 3 mos ago → 9 days ago Post by Pacifista

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Pacifista Ponk-ifista

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LF I R E B I R D

"Yes, I mind."
 J E A N  E L A I N E  G R E Y – S U M M E R S  ♦   T E A C H E R   ♦   B A L T I M O R E   
O R I G I N S:

You’ve slipped through the cracks. The mutant problem was already solved and you should stop pretending otherwise. Your suffering is dementia. Your aberrations are a fashion statement no one is listening to. Other people in the world are suffering more than you. Your truth is just a psy-op. Your pain isn’t real. You might as well not even exist. Jean’s suffering was like that of so many mutants: quashed and belittled to the point that most believe it to be a non-issue, if it wasn’t just seen as an elaborate hoax. Gaslit out of her own childhood, how could Jean Grey know otherwise? Drugged out on sedatives constantly so that her mind didn’t split Beacon, New York apart. Kept away from others as much as possible so that she didn’t cast her elementary school into flames. They could go to the authorities, sure, but then everyone would know they did their community a deep disservice by giving birth to a monster. But while puberty is where many come to fight their bodies, that was where Jean’s finally caught up to her mind, not that she was allowed to know. As far as she was aware, she’d been ‘cured’ of her childhood insanity through prayer, her well meaning parents insisting that her ‘powers’ were mere hallucinations. They loved her, so how could they be wrong?

Her middle and high school years allowed her a semblance of happiness, but her powers were always a part of her. Her bursts of emotion led to odd flares she would never be able to easily explain away. But what she needed was not prayer, time, or even assistance and guidance. She’d needed a drive to master it, and someone to join her on her journey to accepting herself. She acquired a crush on Scott Summers even before an accidental probe into his mind allowed her to uncover his mutant powers, one bad fall away from vaporizing a city block. They lived on their own precipices, one bad day away from losing everything they loved. Just knowing about him and his struggle would help her: to know someone close was fighting their own fight. And to know her own feelings she had to come to terms with everything that was her just to make that short step of asking him out. Jean would one day extend a hand to help him. Years later they would be living out of a cheap apartment in Baltimore, struggling to raise their son in a chaotic world that was about to become so much more chaotic.

Inspired from the recent X-Men ‘97, I intend to write a story that strips Jean of her relationship with Charles, the X-Men, and (though I’m drawing from the name, unless plans change) the Phoenix, telling the story we start to see in ‘97 from the reverse. Not a Jean trying to settle down from being a hero to start a family, but a Jean with a family choosing to follow a path that allows her to use her powers for good in a new age, to give a much needed social justice to a peoples who’s mere existence is deemed a problem to be fixed. All the while she deals with her own family circumstances as her wants place more burden on her husband, and her battles put more strain on herself and risk the uncovering of her childhood traumas left buried for so long.

S A M P L E   P O S T:
“I’m glad your dog is dead!”

“Shawn! Take that back!” Juniper broke down as recent wounds were made fresh again. The class erupted into a mixture of laughs and shouts. Jean stood, her red hair flowing behind her as she took Juniper by the hand and moved through the desks of 4th graders. They went silent as their teacher towered over them all, but as she reached Shawn’s desk, she crouched down, taking his dark hand in her free one. His expression fell to one mixed of annoyance and embarrassment. He tried to maneuver his hand away but Jean kept a gentle hold of it.

“Shawn, I know you’re going through a lot right now. I think all of you are, all of us always are. The world’s hard right now. It’s nothing like when I was a kid. But I think it’s because the world is scary we should try to be kind.” She gauged his reaction, his desire to not be here right now. To have kids so full of creativity and energy be bottled up in a classroom was torture of the worst kind, and global pandemic would leave scars none would ever be able to guess at the depth of. It had taken weeks for her to be able to convince them not to be engaged with the constant stimulus of their phones, their safe retreat where so many of their parents didn’t have the time to spend with them from long hours worked. “Do you want to try and apologize?”

Shawn remained pensive, guilt plain. Then he cracked a smile, but not from anything Jean had done or said. A fart resounded through the class, all tension unwinding as the kids burst into laughter. Jean lurched, trying to hold onto her balanced as she failed to contain herself. Many things changed, but some things never would. Jean was trying her hardest to leave an impression on these kids, but it seemed sometimes a deep speech full of optimism was less than a fart, and maybe for now that was alright. When the class calmed down, Shawn did apologize for making fun of Juniper’s recently deceased dog, a sad story she wanted to share with the class. Giving the class an opportunity to come clean on their feelings and let themselves be vulnerable in a safe space wasn’t an idea she thought was bad, but perhaps ‘private one on one teacher talk’ would have been a better move. Baby steps.

A short while later she sat at her desk, eyes mindlessly wandering across the water damage spots on the ceiling of the far too old ‘temporary’ classroom while she slurped at her beef flavored Cup Noodles, decadently garnished with about 3 cents worth of grated ginger, who’s flavor and health benefits was no doubt buried in preservatives and MSG. She dripped some broth onto her yellow blouse, and didn’t even care. Lunch break felt like her one solace in life, where she was able to turn her mind off. Turn off the safety. And not have to worry about her finances, her underfunded classroom, her husband and child back home. Load a bullet in the chamber. But dammit it was so worth it, she told herself every night as she tried to sleep in between Nathan’s wails. It was for the ki-

And then they’ll see me. Then they’ll hear me.

Jean’s mind, never quite shut, was drowned constantly in noise. The darkest thoughts, the most pleasant dreams, the inanely mundane babble. Like static from a TV or the rumble of an air conditioner, she tended to shut it out. Even the loudest most passionate thoughts would only be brief interruptions, like that of a car exhaust or firework. Easily mistaken for a gunshot, momentarily annoying, and quickly ignored.

But sometimes it was a gunshot.

Jean leapt from her seat, pittance of a lunch splattering on the floor. Her mind probed outwards as she spilled into the hall, hurling by a passing teacher and student. “Bathroom!” she yelled as she passed right by the nearest one. She ran across the fields, well away from the kids still in the cafeteria area, a few stragglers enjoying the playground before it became a carnival. Passing by a few bushes filled with webs and spiders, she found the back area where the fence divided school with the minuscule backyard of low end housing. A form dropped from the top of the fence, scrambling up and pointing a handgun right at Jean. He wore a heavy coat and beanie despite the higher than temperate weather, and she immediately noticed why. Green skin, no nose, big yellow eyes wide and full of anger, fingers almost too large to even fit into the trigger guard. Her breath went cold. No amount of mental preparation could ready you for your first time staring down the barrel of a gun. But so easily could she imagine the 12 bullets in that pistol, yet to reach the chamber, flying through the air at her students. Her own breath went hot, and her eyes went yellow like the sun, for they were of the same breed.

She plumbed into his mind, and she saw. She saw him skulking through the midday on his way to this school. She saw him stealing the gun from a gang banger in the middle of the night, running from retaliating fire. She saw him leering at the bright world outside he wasn’t allowed into, a hate festering that Jean could only claim she couldn’t understand if she felt like lying to herself. She saw him scorounging for scraps of food while trying to hide from people guarding it, because protecting the excess waste of gross capital was more important than the lives of the poor and downtrodden. She saw him, small, no older than anyone in her own class, retreating as stones were cast his way. She saw him tucked away in his parents basement until he was so hungry he had to escape, only to find his parents had left him. She saw him born a once normal boy. For a time, he could be happy in a world where no one knew what he truly was.

“LEAVE THE GUN, AND GO.”

It was not a word spoken, a suggestion offered. It was a command implanted. She feared the residual effects she could have on a tender mind, yet felt as though she had no other choice, not in this moment. She knew it wasn’t a solution, but she couldn’t think of anything else. She couldn’t alleviate his pain, she couldn’t take him in when she was struggling so much as it was. She couldn’t go to the authorities who would not be helpful or kind. There was no place in this world for he who didn’t ask to be born a monster. He left the gun and crawled back over the fence like nothing was wrong. She waited for him to go before lifting the gun with her mind, drawing out the bullets and dumping them down a drain pipe, before drawing on her pyrokenesis and telekenesis as one, melting and crushing down the gun into a ball and letting it cool before hiding it in a bush.

The rest of the school day seemed to drift by. Her body felt numb as she went through her classes, her post-school meetings, her bus ride home. She packed it all down and away. Leftovers to dig into later. Going up the 8 floors to her apartment, she steeled herself and put on a smile as she reached the door. It opened before she even reached it. Head full of auburn hair, eyes blocked by the red lenses of his sunglasses, a light coat over a security guard uniform, he began, “Hey! They called me in early so I gotta go but Nate’s asleep right now and I made enchiladas! They’re in the fridge and I’ve already got the oven prehea- Jean?”

Scott was suddenly buffeted as Jean rushed into his chest, shaking with sobs that broke out of her once she’d seen the face of the man she loved so much. He wiped the surprise off his face as he sank to his knees with Jean, who couldn’t support her own weight any more. He put his arms around her without hesitation. I’m right here for you. I’m right here. And I’ll always be here. He repeated in his head. He wouldn’t find out the details in this moment, but through her sobs he would be able to make out the phrase that would define the coming years of their life.

“Something has to change.”

S U P P O R T I N G   C A S T:
Scott Grey-Summers: Jean’s husband. Certified Wife Guy (it’s on his cooking apron). Works as a night shift security guard. Cursed with eyes that could blow a hole through a building through his mutant abilities.
Nathan Grey-Summers: Toddler. Likes eating his crayons even when he’s told not too.
Leech: Local mutant with no ability other than his alien appearance. Takes a name fit for his position in society. Harbors a deep hatred against the world he’s been cut off from, and Jean has yet to find a means to help him even though he desperately needs it, leaving him as an unchecked ticking time bomb wandering the Baltimore area.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Warm Embrace
1.01
1.02
1.03
1.04
1.05
1.06

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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by AndyC

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AndyC Guardian of the Universe

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AndyC

Guardian of the Universe

1041 posts

in 3766 days

Seen 6 hrs ago

Bio

C H A R A C T E R   S H E E TW O L V E R I N E

"I was the best at what I did. But what I did...wasn't very nice."
Logan (Last name unknown)   ♦   Hermit   ♦   Canadian Rockies, British Columbia   
O R I G I N S:

For almost fifty years, rumors and urban legends have spread about a "wild man" roaming the wilderness in the Canadian Rockies. As the Pacific Northwest has the Sasquatch, and the Okanagan Lake has the Ogopogo, the Rockies have a cryptid the locals just call 'the Wolverine.' Sometimes he's described as a savage, hairy beast who preys on unwary campers and hikers, other stories say he's a missing link between man and ape, others still say he's a nature spirit roaming the wilderness to shepherd the lost back to civilization. Several others, however, say he's just an unpleasant drifter, a drunkard who wandered off into the woods and went feral. The truth about the Wolverine, however, is far stranger than any conspiracy theorist could have guessed.

The man who goes by "Logan" is old-- how old, he can't say, but despite still looking to be in his prime, he feels his age in his bones. He doesn't remember much of his past, a fact he's grateful for, since what bits and pieces he can recall involve him doing things he's not proud of. He has glimpses of being a soldier, an assassin, a sharp object to stick into people that the Powers That Be considered inconvenient. He has nightmares of being on an operating table, his body flayed open and his bones injected with metal. Sometimes he can almost see the face of a beautiful woman, someone he loved with all of his heart, and he can almost feel the warmth of her blood on his hands.

Whatever his life used to be, he's tried to put it behind him, tried to move forward, to build a new life and make new connections, only for the ghosts and demons from his old days to track him down time and time again. After so many attempts of trying to become human again, Logan has resigned to being a hermit, only drifting into the occasional small town for a pack of beers or the odd cigar, disappearing into the wild when people get curious. Considering what a mess gets made any time he tries to get close to anyone, he's accepted that he's better off living (and maybe one day finally dying) alone.

At least, that's how he's lived until just now. A strike team of heavily armed men has touched down deep in the heart of the Rockies, right in the middle of Logan's territory. They were easy pickings, until Logan found something that surprised him: the spooks weren't after him at all. By sheer dumb luck or some twist of fate, they had stumbled onto Logan's hunting grounds entirely by accident, hunting for something...or rather, someone.

S A M P L E   P O S T:
"Lambda Three, this is Lambda One, what's your twenty?" the man in several millions of dollars in high-end tactical gear whispered into his radio, moving as silently as he possibly could.

He carefully placed his feet to avoid twigs, fallen leaves, deep patches of snow that would crunch under his step.

He controlled his breathing, slow and even, careful to avoid sharp gasps or heavy exhalations where the moisture of his breath might let out a cloud of telltale fog in the freezing cold.

His body armor, covered in hard plates to protect from small-arms fire, was heavily insulated from the inside to protect him from the cold, reduce his signature on IR sensors, and even muffle the noise of his movements.

Even the gun at his shoulder--a high-powered air rifle loaded with tranquilizing darts-- could fire its full clip with barely a whisper.

The operative was geared, trained, and armed to move like a ghost, invisible and inaudible to anyone on the planet.

For all the good it did him here, he might as well have wrapped himself up in Christmas lights and played a tuba.

"Repeat: Lambda Three, this is Lambda One, what's your twenty?"

In the pitch black, someone else moved in through the thick snow, closing in on his quarry. He didn't need a million-dollar sneak-suit, or night vision goggles that lit up the black woods like the fourth of July. He could see and hear his prey a mile away...and given the oil on the guy's gun and the plastics in his gear, he could smell him from even further.

"Lambda Three, this is Lambda One, do you copy? Lambda Two? Lambda Four?"

"Lambda Three," whoever that was, would never answer. Neither would any of the other spooks. They were already dead; truth be told, they were dead the second their helicopter had touched down in his woods.

Slowly, carefully, the shadow crept towards the gunman, his blood hot, his senses keen, his claws out and dripping with gore.

"This is Lambda One, does anyone copy?" the spook said again, a touch of panic in his voice. "Does anyone have eyes on the target?!"

"Right behind you, bub," he growled. As the gunman turned and raised his rifle, Logan lunged.

A scream echoed across the valley.

Then the woods were quiet once again.

S U P P O R T I N G   C A S T:
To be added.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
To be added.

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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by Master Bruce

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Master Bruce Winged Freak

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Master Bruce

Winged Freak

1154 posts

in 3946 days

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LH U L K

"Go ahead. Try and piss me off." David Bruce Banner ♦ MIA Nuclear Physicist ♦ Formerly Albuquerque, New Mexico

O R I G I N S:

There was always something wrong with Bruce Banner. Following frequent bouts stemming from alcoholism, his father Brian would meticulously belittle him and his mother and make the family's lives a living hell. By the time he was seven, Bruce would often shield Rebecca from Brian's increasingly violent outbursts, becoming unhealthily attached to the only source of stability he'd ever known. But at a short frame and severely underdeveloped due to malnutrition and stress, Bruce never stood a chance against Brian's fists and array of hurled household objects. It wasn't until he was twelve years old that he'd finally had enough of the daily trauma, and snuck a firearm from a classmate's father while visiting the house. It was loaded, and Bruce was fully prepared to pull the trigger on Brian without so much as a second's hesitation.

Then Rebecca found it. While she had every reason to be horrified that her son would go to such a length to finally be rid of their shared tormentor, her reaction was much different. One of calm serenity - of a way out. Weeks later, Rebecca saw her opportunity and sent Bruce off to stay with relatives for the night, having saved enough money for him to see a movie. Even made the excuse that the reason she wasn't going was because Brian had given her a black eye - a lie that, at any other time, would have been true anyway. Whenever Bruce returned home, police were outside and had Rebecca in cuffs. A pool of blood and clear signs of a massive struggle were visible from the kitchen. Brian Banner was murdered by his tortured wife - all breathed a sigh of relief. But despite it being the end of one problem, a much deeper problem had made itself apparent: before this, Rebecca had long suffered from paranoid schizophrenia that had manifested as a low-level Dissociative Personality Disorder. And it was genetic. 

The revelation guided Bruce throughout the rest of his youth, pushing him to keep others at an arm's length as he entered school studies to become a geneticist - to find a way to cure his mother and prevent himself from suffering a cruel twist of fate. There were methods of treatment available, and Banner even insisted on entering intensive therapy early. But the nightmares began to pop up more frequently and the mood swings made themselves apparent when he'd begin viciously arguing with his high school teachers and eventually, college lecturers. He'd even garnered a nickname for himself - Bruce "The Hulk" Banner, with the joke being that if he didn't get his way, he'd become not unlike a big unwieldy boat in a storm. It was only through falling for one of his many therapists - Dr. Betty Ross, the fiancee of Dr. Lenoard Sampson - that Bruce managed to quell his often volatile reputation. The two began an affair that would last off and on for years, completely without Leonard's knowledge. An affair that only ended when Bruce got his degree and established himself in the field of science, eventually bound for New Mexico under a top secret radiation research assignment codenamed "Project Worldbreaker".

The events that transpired would break the world more than anyone ever knew. And gives a new meaning to the phrase "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

S A M P L E   P O S T:
"Sorry, Len, I'm just a bit rattled. Had to deal with Mr. Kerns again. You know how that goes..."

Elizabeth Ross pinned the cell phone between her ear and shoulder as she exited the car. A bag of a few meager groceries in one hand, and some Chinese takeout in the other, she nonchalantly marched up the driveway to the modest house she shared with her husband. Before she even reached the front door, she noticed a stack of letters sitting on the porch. Frustrated, she sighed to herself softly enough not to rouse Leonard's suspicion. The truth is that she had been anticipating this exact sight for weeks, given that neither she nor Leonard were around the house enough to collect the mail during the daytime. They were both workaholics and managed to keep all intimacy regulated to these evening phone calls, when he was amid a heavy caseload and she was just getting home. It was an uneventful life, but she had grown used to it. She silently hoped they both had, considering he never complained. 

"That's the, what, hypochondriac? The one that told you he was convinced he..."

"Had eleven different tumors and they were all terminal? Yep. That's the one."

"Ouch. Sorry you had to sit through that again."

"The real problem is that he had me refer him to see a specialist, but she tells me that he didn't show up for the CT. And that she's been in contact with his radiologist, who's dealt with him before. His results have always been negative. The man's healthier than you and me and he still can't calm down about it."

"Maybe there's something else beneath the surface. A traumatic medical history when he was a kid..."

"Maybe he just won't rest until he's developed a few of them."

Betty paused, sighing out of frustration as she opened the door, the stack of letters shoved beneath her otherwise occupied arm. 

"Sorry. That was testy."

"Testy, sure, but not entirely inaccurate. Sure you don't want to refer him over? Let me put him through the ol' highly-reliable Samson review?"

"No. Dammit, it's not even about him. Len, I'm just so... exhausted. It feels like it never ends over there. The office is great and the pay is the best I've ever had, but the clients... I swear, they're gonna be the death of me."
 
Placing everything on the kitchen counter, Betty placed her hands against it and leaned. The stress of the day washed over her and slowly made it's way out, now that she was in a calmer environment.

"Why don't you consider some vacation time? You know how much I've been begging you to go to Bermuda. And a buddy of mine tells me that the fishing up there is grand, this season. You'd get a hell of alot of sun, I'd get about three hundred types of oysters..."

She smiled to herself. Not at his corny proposition, but just at the mere thought of getting away to somewhere that wasn't... here. A different place that didn't carry these memories. These ghosts, as much as she didn't want to admit it.

"Mm. I'm not saying no, Dr. Samson..."

"But you're not saying yes, which is the clear sign of a woman who's reached her wit's end."

Removing her jacket and slipping out of her very tight shoes, she hesitated for a moment before answering.

"I... don't know. I'd have to think about it. Let me get back to you after I've had a very long, very hot and extremely bubbly bath."

"Nice. I can't think of a better way to ratchet up the water bill."

Betty smirked. "You know, you could join me if you hurried..."

"Tempting, but I'm afraid my schedule is about three times as long as yours. If we're gonna even consider this, I need to wrack up the PTO."

A crash.

Betty jolted upward, eyes widened, her heart pounding for what seemed like an eternity. Something had fallen over in the bedroom across the hall. Something made of glass, it sounded like to her, meaning that it was either one of the photos by the bed or one of the couple's mounted plaques by the dresser. Her hand trembling, unable to process whatever Lenoard was saying on the other end of the line as he droned on while oblivious to what was happening, Dr. Ross slowly pulled open the drawer beside the oven and quickly pulled out a large kitchen knife. 

"Len. Someone's here."

"Hah. Good one. Yeah, bet it's your hypochondriac friend looking to verify another diagnosis..."

"Len. For god's sake, I'm not joking."

There was a pause.

"What?"

"Someone's in the house. Right now. I heard something fall."

"That's... honey, that can't be. We have an alarm system installed, the windows and doors are locked electronically, there's no..."

"Len. Shut up. Shut the fuck up and call the police."

"Call the... Betty? Betty, what are you doing? If you think someone's in there, get out of there! Get out of there right now and run!"

She placed the phone face-down on the counter, her eyes never leaving the door to the bedroom for a millisecond. Even as she heard her husband's pleas to get out of the house grow louder and more frantic, she began to ignore them. The fear was taking over, and her heart was now exploding in her ears louder than it ever had. Raising the knife infront of her as she slowly approached, Dr. Ross felt herself detached from the situation as quickly as possible. A sort of mental exercise to allow herself the ability to act first against this intruder and question everything second.

"Len? S-Sorry, you're breaking up. Say that... say that again?"

It was a pitiful lie meant to keep whoever was inside from guessing that she suspected anything. But it was the only lie she could muster up. There was even a part of her that began to think that something could have just fallen over of its own accord, that a slight breeze from the air conditioner had knocked over a frame. That she was being irrational and that there had never been anyone there at all.

Then she saw something move. Between the crack of the door as it hung slightly open, a shadow distinctly crossed the path where light would have otherwise protruded. Betty's heartbeat launched directly in her throat, and her breathing ceased. She stood motionless, the knife nearly falling out of her grasp.

There was someone here, alright. And she was all alone with them.

"Wh... Who's..."

Taking a deep breath, she strengthened her grip on the blade handle and began to frantically rush toward the door, her deep sense of panic be damned. This was her home and she was not about to be taken surprise in it. Not after the month she'd had, not after everything she'd gone through in the last year. It wasn't going to end like this, and whoever had broken in was about to get a rude awakening if they thought otherwise.

"STOP!"

Bursting through the bedroom door, shoulder first, Betty raised the knife into the air and closed her eyes. She tried to open them, but she was utterly too petrified at first. But she could hear it. The breathing that emanated from the other side of the room. It wasn't labored, but something about it was off. Like her would-be attacker was trying to register what they were looking at with her abrupt arrival. Shaking, her eyelids gently began to peel themselves apart...

It was a man. Hidden entirely in shadow, a man had somehow found his way into the bedroom. He was large, with an intimidating build. Betty could barely manage to pull herself together as she realized that her little kitchen knife might wound, but probably wouldn't kill this person if she had to attack.

Betty grit her teeth, her heart now firmly beating in her throat. 

Her palms sweating. 

Her mind screamed.

This was it. Now or never, she had to fight.

"Don't you move."

The man paused. Then, he stood up, revealing that he had been partly lying on the floor.

He was... tall. And he was growing even taller.

Betty's mouth went agape as he demonstrated a height that defied a conventional human. His muscles practically pulsated out of his skin. His skin was a pigment she had never seen in her life, a sort of gray... and a sort of green.

It took her a second to even realize that the entire southern wall of the room had been entirely knocked away, a dusty pile of rubble lying atop the soiled carpet. This man hadn't just broken in - he'd smashed his way through the house like a bulldozer. It was the only possible reason that no alarm had gone off. There were no entrances breached. 

He'd made his own.

"I... I'm... I'm warning..."

Without warning, he stepped forward. A grunt emerged from within him.  His face was suddenly fully in view, clear from the shadows.

Betty's heart stopped altogether. She recognized him.

"Oh my god."

He stood over her. Looked down at her. His expression turned from neutral to... rage.

"Bruce?"

Before she could scream at the top of her lungs and feel the nightmare finally end, she saw a massive palm reach out to her and grab hold. Crushing. Blinding. Without a hint of humanity living within his grasp. She felt her bones begin to crumble beneath the massive surge of pressure, and without so much as a word, she surrendered to it. Because at this point, there was no point in fighting - he had her and he wouldn't let go.

This was how Betty Ross now believed she would die.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:

1. An Affliction

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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by mattmanganon

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mattmanganon Your friendly neighbourhood tyranical dicator

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mattmanganon

Your friendly neighbourhood tyranical dicator

3151 posts

in 3955 days

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LThe Lanterns

"Forever fight as one..."
Thaal 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 Ronin the Executioner, an Alien Warlord who would stop at nothing to possess the Magic Rings for his own. Now the Rings were on Earth and Ronin would stop at nothing to get his hands on them. That his former team had been ambushed and destroyed by Ronin and his forces 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 Ronin tracked them here. Hopefully they may be able to get the Rings off of Earth and not turn this planet into another victim of his terrible wrath. He is coming and in an enormous warship, populated entirely by Ronin's slaves and his loyal warriors and they were always eager to find a new civilization to judge unworthy to continue existing.

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 Ronin'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.

An Unfortunate Greeting (Or How i earned 500 years Military Service)
Meeting With The President
The Batteries
First Flight

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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by Byrd Man

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Byrd Man El Hombre Pájaro

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Byrd Man

El Hombre Pájaro

3293 posts

in 3955 days

Seen 1 day ago

Bio

C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LJACK HAWKSMOOR

"I was born here in the city. With my back against the wall. Nothing grows, and life ain't very pretty. No one's there to catch you when you fall" 
-- Joe Walsh
POLIS♦   GOD   ♦   THE CITIES   
O R I G I N S:

In ancient Mesopotamia among the early grouping of huts and tents that would one day be known as civilization was the young boy. As more and more of humanity began to settle down across the globe, the boy's powers grew and spread. In Greece he was called Polis. By the time of Rome's domination, he was called Urbes Maximus. 

In the world of the gods, he was seen as strictly a mid-level deity through nearly two thousand years of existence. The 19th century changed all that. As the industrial revolution boomed throughout Europe and the United States, people began to flock to the cities. Millions and millions in crowded tenement houses and sweatshops, their labor and lives an unknowing sacrifice to the god of the cities. By the early 1900's, the man known as Jack Hawksmoor was among the most powerful gods in existence. Now in the early 21st century, over half the world's population lives in cities and Jack's power is only growing.

Supporting Characters:

Snapper Carr -- Homeless man in NYC. High priest of the cities.
Jenny Quantum -- Spirit of the 21st century. Surrogate daughter of Jack's.
Jenny Sparks -- Spirit of the 20th century. Surrogate mother of Jack's. (Flashbacks)
Future -- God of the Future. Used to look like the Jetsons, now looks like Mad Max
Nostalgia -- God of the Past. Future's brother, wears a lot of 80's clothes.
Anon -- God of the Internet Conspiracy. Believes everyone is out to get him.
The Assassin -- Ghost of a murdered Hong Kong cop.
Jesus H. Christ -- The "H" is for Herbert
Gorr -- God Butcher. Guess what he does?

S A M P L E   P O S T:
146 BCE

Carthage was on fire.

Scipio and his generals looked on in pleasure from their vantage point a mile away from the city walls as it all burned. For over three years Carthage had held out as Rome besieged her. They had finally emerged, begging for peace and food and a chance for their children to live. Their pleas fell upon deaf ears. The man whose adopted father had crushed the great Hannibal Barca had no mercy to give the Carthaginians, just the sword and flames. The women and children who survived were bonded in chains, a life of slavery planned for them. After the fires subsided, the Romans would sow salt through the city and its fields. It had been decreed that nothing must ever be allowed to grow here again.

“This too shall befall Rome.”

Scipio turned when he heard the voice. He was the only one. The rest of his staff continued to watch the fire and talk among themselves. They seemed to not notice the man in the strange clothes. It looked like something from the far east, baggy and colorful, like the carvings of the old Babylonian kings in the time before time. He wore no shoes. If the hot sand perturbed him, then he did a good job hiding it.

“What did you say?” asked Scipio.

“You have done something here today that will become legendary for its cruelty. An entire city has been destroyed, boy. You have killed one of my children. One of the greatest city-states of all time is now ash because of you.’

Scipio pulled his sword from the holster on his hip. 

“Who are you to speak to me this way, pleb?”

The man smiled and gestured behind Scipio’s shoulders.

“I am someone who can do that.” 

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that his men were frozen in place. Several of them were stopped mid-laugh or speech, their mouths hanging open. Scipio turned back and pointed the tip of his sword at the strange man.

“Are you some sort of wizard?”

“No. I am something much more than that. I am a god.”

“What god dresses like a fool?” Scipio asked with a chuckle. “Truly, you must stand on par with Jupiter.”

“I existed long before Zeus -- and I will call him Zeus and not your sad little Roman name -- was an idea in some drunken Greek shepherd’s mind. And I will exist long after belief in him has fallen by the wayside. But I’m not here to measure… deity size. I am here to deliver a simple message, Scipio.”

The man stepped forward. Scipio reared his sword back to strike, but found that he could not move. Like his fellow soldiers, he was frozen by the man's magic. The man smiled as he placed a finger on Scipio’s temple. He saw the future. His return to Rome, a massive Triumph parade in his honor, given the name and honor of Africanus like his father. But then he saw past all that. He saw Rome conquering the world, one petty kingdom and client state at a time. 

With no Carthage standing in its way, Rome grew and grew until she ruled the world. He saw a Rome so big that its people grew lethargic, dependent upon the state and the wealthy for food, he saw its politicians fighting in the Senate and killing in the streets. He saw bloody civil wars and assassinations. A Republic turned into an Empire. Mad emperors killing Roman citizens. An Empire in decline. He saw men at the gates of Rome, men who spoke in a fierce, harsh tongues. Barbarians. And he looked on in horror as they sacked Rome. All this misery and horror, all of it traced back to his decision today.

The man softly whispered in his ear before he removed his finger from Scipio’s temple. Suddenly, Scipio blinked. The man was gone and his generals were staring at him strangely. He was facing the burning city, tears streaming down his face.

“Are you okay, sir?” one of the men asked.

“Yes,” said Scipio. “... ‘This too shall befall Rome.’”

“What was that, sir?”

“Just... Thinking of the future.”

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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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by Sep

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Sep Lord of All Creation

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Lord of All Creation

13243 posts

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A Lthe F L A S H

"Hey, someone's got to do it"
I R I S   W E S T  ♦   B A R I S T A   ♦   C E N T R A L    C I T Y   
O R I G I N S:

Iris is the daughter to Detective Joe West, a single father who told Iris that her mother died when she was little. She always had a nose for getting into other people's business and finding her way to the truth, much like her father. With him absolutely forbidding her to enter any form of law enforcement she has channeled all her energy in the hopes of one day becoming an Investigative reporter to try and get the truth for the people of Central City. Powers at be be damned. 

Her 'Brother' Barry Allen is a CSI, who was taken in by then when his mother was murdered and his father was sent to prison for her murder. A conviction that both Iris and Barry have been investigating through the years much to Joes displeasure.

Everything changed when one night Iris went to visit Barry in his lab, picking him up to go home, rather than forcing him to walk home in the stormy weather. Barry, in his traditional fashion, was late. Time seemed to slow as a bolt of lightning came crashing through the window, striking Iris who spent the next two weeks in the hospital. In the time since she awoke she has slowly unlocked what appears to be super speed. Soon she into the city in a yellow and red costume as the vigilante Central City News will dub The FLASH

S A M P L E   P O S T:
Quickly, that's the best way to do it. Quickly. Deep breathes Iris, you can do this. She closed her eyes as she focused on her breathing, opening her eyes she brought herself back into the present, sat at Jitters, the coffee shop where she worked. She wasn't on the clock now, she was waiting on her best friend in the whole world, and adopted brother. Barry Allen. Looking down at her watch she noticed it was now five minutes passed the hour, characteristically late as always. She looked up as someone in a cliché and put on deep voice tapped the back of the chair opposite. "Is this seat taken?"

Iris rolled her eyes as she looked up at Barry, wearing his dorky little bow tie. "One of these days I'm going to worry-" He raised an eyebrow as he pulled out the chair. "-because you're actually going to be on time." He put on a face of utter shock and betrayal, before they bothed laughed. 

"Okay, I deserved that." He rapped his knuckles on the table, grabbing the cup of coffee that Iris was sliding across the table. "Okay, so, what do you want to talk to me about?"

"Remember that night, in your lab? During the storm?"

"You mean the one where you got hit by lightning and nearly died-?" He gave an awkward little chuckle. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, more happened than I've said-" She cleared her throat, grabbing her own coffee and taking a swig. "-I uh. How do I- Wait." The perfect idea popped into her brain. Barry was a scientist. What better way to tell him, than to show him. "Your favourite pastries are those ones from that bakery across town right? Lamperts?"

"Yeah what does tthhaatt hhhaaavvveee-" Time slowed, as she sped up. Standing up she started pushing herself away gaining speed, running through the streets weaving between the cars and the pedestrians. She passed someone who had knocked into a fruit seller's stand on a bicycle sending himself flying. Grabbing him she pulled him out of the air and sat him on the ground to safety, preventing him from entering moving traffic. 

Then she grabbed the fruit from the stall and returned it to where it should be as if it had never happened. Continuing her way through town, she entered the bakery. Grabbed one of Barrys favourite pastries from behind the counter, left a note and the change at the till and then sped back through the city streets. Back into Jitters and into her seat.

"tttooo dddooo aabboouutt anything-" He looked down at the table where the pain au chocolate sat proudly. From his perspective, there had been a blur of movement from Iris, like if a DVD had skipped due to a scratch. ""What, how, what?"

"So remember how I was never any good at track in high school?"

"Yeaaaah?" Iris felt that Barrys head might explode from his confusion. 

"I think I'd win now."

"So you're fast?"

"Fast as a lightning Flash."

 

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
The Beginning:
Issue #1: Check out these new threads.
Issue #2: Sorry sir, banks closed.
Issue #3: Reign of the Condiment King.
Issue #4: An unexpected guest.
Issue #5: A day at the gym.
Issue #5.5: A day at the gym (Pt2).
Issue #6: A home cooked meal.
Issue #7: A late arrival.
Issue #8: You're the bomb yo.

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Lord Wraith Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

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Lord Wraith

Actually Three Otters in a Trenchcoat

8459 posts

in 3955 days

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LB L O O D

"Gone, gone the form of man..."
J A S O N   B L O O D   ♦   P R I V A T E   I N V E S T I G A T O R   ♦   P O R T L A N D,   O R E G O N   
O R I G I N S:

A man cursed with a demon, Jason Blood is forever doomed to walk the Earth, a man with no place to call home, and no persons to call friends. A world-leading expert on the occult and demonology. He has walked the Earth since the 6th Century, after the wizard Merlin bound the increasingly uncontrollable threat of Etrigan The Demon to his mortal soul.

Now his services are sought by other lost souls, those without hope who turn to the expert to delve into cases and mysteries that can't be solved or collaborated by the mundane authorities of the mortal plane. Drawn into 
 a web of lies and deceit, Blood must unravel a missing persons case that leads him on a blood trial, uncovering old skeletons before all hell breaks loose on the West Coast.

S A M P L E   P O S T:
“Cold,”

A gaunt man leaned over the body of the girl, his eyes wandering around the moss-covered forest she had been so hastily discarded in. Limbs askew, clothes torn, makeup smudged from tears. There was no care, no respect in this killing. Rigour mortis had passed, meaning the body had been left for over a day.

Odd that nothing else had preyed on its flesh.

A gloved hand slowly rolled the head to the side. The neck had been attacked, repeatedly by the looks of it. Numerous markings from a pair of puncture marks marred the now pale flesh. Whomever, or whatever had done this had missed the vein the first few times.

Inexperienced, fledgling.

The puncture marks confirmed what Blood had hypothesized, yet left many more questions. He thought he was tracking a much older vampire. This was the work of someone more recently killed. 

He sniffed the air, the smell of a canine moving closer in the distance. Muttering a small incantation under his breath, Blood cast a spell to hone his hearing, the sounds of boots trodding the forest floor like drum beats in his ears while they chased the lumbering bloodhound that drew closer with every second Blood remained by the body. 

He needed to leave. 

Moving his hands quickly, Jason conjured himself an echo of the crime scene, storing the recreation in the gem of his ring before he beat a quick retreat uphill, back to the road where his car was waiting for him. Climbing into the seat of the ‘67 Impala, he turned the key to the heavy block engine as the black coupe roared to life.

“Portland Police!” A voice yelled from outside the car and Jason floored the pedal. The rear wheel drive sprayed gravel towards the officer who struggled to draw his weapon in time before the red taillights of the large Chevy disappeared down the twisting backroads amongst the redwoods.

“Did you get the plate?” The lead detective called to the officer from the ravine floor as the officer looked around dazed and confused.

“What plate?”

“On the suspect’s vehicle.” The detective replied, taking a few steps forward before the officer suddenly collapsed to the ground and began convulsing. Blood was no fool, a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala was sure to draw attention and be easy to identify. However, a simple jinx on the plate meant an easy escape.

“I need medical help over here!” The detective roared, looking towards the road before attending to this officer.

There was more at work here than met the eye.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Issue #1 - Who You Gonna Call?:"Hellmouth"
"Jinx"


C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LW O N D E R   W O M A N

"You must be full of axé if you're choosing to challenge me."
Y A R A   F L O R   ♦   G R A D   S T U D E N T   ♦   B O I S E,   I D A H O   
O R I G I N S:

During the height of the first World War, the Allied Forces gained the upper hand from an unlikely source; an Amazonian Princess hailing from the island of Themyscria. To outsiders, Themyscria was the mythical 'Paradise Island', home to only beautiful Amazon women, or so the story went. It was only when Captain Steve Trevor was shot down and crashed on the shores of Paradise Island, that Themyscria went from legend to reality. With the aid of Princess Diana of Themyscria, the Allied Forces gained the upper hand and ultimately triumphed in the First World War.

But soon fact was considered fiction and history forgot the 'Wonder Woman'. Princess Diana returned home after the war, having seen enough of 'Man's World'. But her warnings of the world outside was not enough to deter others from venturing from Themyscria's shore and so it was at this time other Amazonians began to wonder about the world beyond the island's shores before a few dared brave the journey to Man's World.

Desiring to see the world outside of Themyscria; the Amazonian, Aella, ventured beyond the shores of Paradise Island and sought out their sister tribe in Brazil. It was here that Aella was seduced by a local deity and would give birth to the child later named Yara Flor. Unfortunately for Yara, her mother was taken from her when she was young, leaving her in the care of her 'Aunt' Renata. Relocating to the United States, Yara would grow up without knowing of her true heritage. To the outside world and even herself, Yara Flor was just an ordinary farm girl living in the small community of Boise, Idaho. As she began to mature, her gifts manifested resulting in speed, strength and other abilities that Renata had not been prepared to deal with. Keeping these things a secret from the world, Yara never revealed them to anyone else until one fateful trip to New York.

S A M P L E   P O S T:
Jolting awake, Yara's eyes slowly adjusted to the unfamiliar darkness. At first, her surroundings were almost foreign, the smells too clean, too natural and the world outside was far too quiet. These were just the first few hints that Yara was no longer in her apartment. Clues continued to fall in the forms of the faded Jonas Brothers poster to one of Bieber and even a half-hung One Direction graphic. This dim room could only be the bedroom she grew up in. The world outside was not the bustling city of Boise, it was rural Idaho, more specifically the farm belonging to her Aunt and Uncle. 

None of that changed the fact that for Yara, it was still markedly too quiet.

It had been getting harder for Yara to sleep over the past few nights. Her dreams were haunted with visions of bat-like eldritch horrors and their horrible screeches. There was a longing within her that she wasn't sure how to sate, a calling to travel away from this quaint life. A calling to an adventure far from here.

Perhaps her need for adventure rose from the simple fact that no one was looking to hire here in Boise. Any job that wasn't helping her Aunt Renata work the potato fields would certainly feel like an adventure at this point. An exasperated sigh escaped from between her pouting lips blowing a few loose strands of her raven-coloured hair away from her face. Yara had already put in six years between her undergraduate and graduate degrees while still fully knowing she had yet another two years of clinical experience before she'd be a fully certified speech pathologist.

It honestly felt like her life was stuck at the starting line.

Slumping down on the porch swing, the young woman let the cool night air wash over her while she sipped a half-finished tea absently left beside her bed. Yara's mind pivoted away from both school and her lack of a career as a brown bat stretched its wings under the porch's awning. The sight of the flying rodent only sent her thoughts racing back to the series of nightmares that had been haunting her slumber.

Watching the curious creature, she couldn't help but feel as though the bat was seemingly staring back at her. Flapping its wings, it let out a little screech before dropping from its roost and disappearing into the night. Sinking further into the cushioned swing, Yara felt herself relax. It was only now that she realized she had been so stiffly watching the bat. Satisfied she wasn't about to face the monsters of from her nightmares, she took another sip of the lukewarm liquid. The flat taste caused her nose to crinkle in disgust, reminding her why it had been abandoned in the first place.  

A terrible noise suddenly broke the silence. The horrible tasting drink suddenly seemed so far away. The sound of wings beating against the night air ended the stillness of the cool night as Yara spun around frantically looking to locate the sound. Above the horizon, in the light of the pale moon, appeared the silhouette of what appeared to be a horse. Its lone rider, slumped alongside the horse's mane, seemingly barely hanging on.

Losing altitude rapidly, the animal tried with no avail to land. Its feet flew up from underneath it, only to send both it and its rider tumbling through the nearly mature potato plants. Jumping down from the porch, Yara moved quickly through the rows upon rows of plants, making the split-second decision to check on the rider instead of the winged animal. 

The rider, a blonde-haired woman, was adorned in armour. Very familiar armour. Almost anyone in America would have recognized Wonder Woman, but Yara especially was a fan. Kneeling down beside Cassandra, Yara cradled her head, checking the neck for injury.
 
"I've got you," Yara muttered towards the unconscious woman. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the wounds on both the superhero and her steed. Long claw marks raked them both, claw marks that were all too familiar to Yara. Without warning, Cassandra suddenly clamped a hand around Yara's arm nearly scaring the darker-haired woman out of her skin.

"I'm here to protect-" The blonde Amazon managed to spit out, struggling to stay conscious, "...y-you." She added before her eyes closed, her body going limp in Yara's arms. Looking back and forth again between the pegasus and the superhero in her Aunt's field, Yara suddenly found herself unusually short on words.

Suddenly her nightmares were feeling a lot more real.

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.


C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LP 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.

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.

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

Others (To Be Introduced in the IC as Applicable):
Major Major 'Highball' Jordan
Karoline S. Farris
Captain Danvers
Boliver Trask
Anthony Ivo

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Issue #1 - Shoot to Thrill:"Very Profitable"
"Philanthropist"
"Back to Bed"
"Bing"

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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by DocTachyon

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DocTachyon Teenage Neenage Neetle Teetles

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DocTachyon

Teenage Neenage Neetle Teetles

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Seen 22 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 LD E A D L Y   H A N D S   O F   
K U N G - F U

"There is no limit to technique. There is always room for improvement.” - Takehiko Inoue, Vagabond
D A N N Y   R A N D   ♦   L U K E   C A G E   ♦   H E R O E S   F O R   H I R E      ♦   N E W   Y O R K   C I T Y
O R I G I N S:

Danny Rand and Carl Lucas met as children on the sweat soaked mats of Pop’s Dojo in Harlem, and have been fighting in some way or another ever since. At first it was always each other. Whether Misty or Willis or even an itinerant prodigy like Colleen were prepared for them, they unerringly paired up and went to it. They never failed to keep pace with one another; even as Danny sought outside lessons, Luke’s dedication to karate would redouble, and each would find the other an agonizingly close match.

As young adults, they had no choice but to wrestle with their memories. Lucas believed Danny was dead, in the same plane crash that took the life of his mother somewhere out in the Himalayan mountains. Danny knew all too well Lucas was alive, one of his few connections to the world outside of K’un Lun, his new home. His new path had been chosen, shaping him from a martial prodigy into the Immortal Iron Fist, Protector of K’un Lun, sworn enemy of the Hand and the Shadows. But all through his training he could not help but wonder -- Has my rival kept up? Lucas too, had a question. Would anything have changed if Danny was still here? It only takes a handful of bad choices to separate a man from his path, but Willis Stryker was always available to help Luke make those choices in just the wrong way. Stryker was from Pop’s, too, a dedicated boxer who had been thrown out once old man Pop discovered his gang connections. Lucas’s loyalty to the boy held fast, and it was that loyalty that landed him in Georgia’s beautiful, historic Seagate Prison.

Lucas’s fights for survival in prison and Danny’s trials with the upper echelons of K’un Lun’s Masters would come to define them. Behind the four walls of Seagate, Carl Lucas was selected as the first subject of an experimental super soldier serum. Lucas was able to narrowly escape the prison with his newfound, indestructible skin, and redefine himself on the outside as Luke Cage, the mysterious new owner of Pop’s Dojo. Danny was able to overcome the last of K’un Lun’s challenges with his defeat of Shou-Lao, and emerge as the latest heritor of the Iron Fist. Now, training completed, Danny returns to New York, to seek the aid of his old mentor…

S A M P L E   P O S T:
You can learn a lot about a man in one five minute round of sparring. That was one of the things Pop had taught Danny, before the cavalcade of K’un Lun’s esoteric masters had tried to dress the same concept up in thousands of years of martial history: that in a fight, the eye is the most important thing. 

He saw now that Luke was only testing his guard, throwing half committed moves and waiting for Danny to set the pace. He learned fast -- their first spar after Danny arrived ended with Luke in a guillotine hold, after he tried to rush at Danny and overwhelm him with size. Luke said Danny got lucky, and he was right. If Luke hadn’t gone for the takedown, Danny would have started with his seiken. A cheeky and practically useless strike from their days at Pop’s dojo. The punch was mostly ceremonial, to train the arm’s muscles and center the mind. He only liked to use it to set the tone of a spar, but against Luke, he’d have shattered his hand.

It was only right that they set to sparring immediately, not bothering to explain the intricacies of their individual situations. It was much simpler than that: Danny wasn’t dead anymore, and that meant he could step back into the ring with Luke. On Danny’s first day back, Pop’s was his first stop. He expected to find it a shell of itself, hollowed out and turned into one of a dozen brightly colored twenty four hour fitness lifestyle places that signaled the death knell of the local gym. Instead of a prim secretary and video screens on every wall, he was greeted by the Pop’s he remembered. Every wall plastered with the yellowing posters of bygone fight promotions, with the same scrap of note paper that held Pop’s exercise routine pinned to a decaying corkboard. It still smelled like Pop’s, the old sweat mixing with the new against the strained fabric of the mats. The only thing missing from the place was Pop himself -- instead he found Carl Lucas, already gloved up and hammering away at a heavy bag.

Lucas went by Luke, now, and Danny was pretty sure Luke had come to master at least two other combat systems in their time apart. The double he had thrown in their first round was wrestling, and the blocks he presented to Danny’s probing jabs was pure Jailhouse Rock. JHR wasn’t often taught, especially not by the Masters of K’un Lun, but Danny made it a point to be aware of as many unique martial arts as possible, and JHR’s fifty two blocks were some of the most singular in all Danny’s awareness. The two styles alone were a powerful combination, and the man had untold experience in classic karate on top. Though, Danny couldn’t judge just how far Luke had gotten in Pop’s kenpo. When Danny left, they had been preparing for their black belt exams, and there was no telling how high Luke could have risen from there. With dedication, he’d have had time to get to the Fifth or even Sixth degree… but you couldn’t tell by the way he moved.

Lucas used to be a stout, immovable block of a boy who could overcome anything Danny threw at him with a little heart and a mammoth dedication to karate above all else. It didn’t matter what Danny brought: from his judo sweeps to his aikido joint locks, Luke could always get around it and slam him with a huge, audacious karate classic. Pop would always smile and call him “a karateka’s karateka.” But he wasn't that kid anymore.

Now Luke was a street fighter, through and through. Danny could tell from the way he moved his head. Over ninety percent of street fights involve head punches exclusively, and your ability to protect your head was often the only thing separating you from a brutal death on the pavement. Luke’s head movement was immaculate, and each of his guards seemed sharper than the last, absolutely denying the possibility of a headshot. The other thing about street fighters is that they, as a rule, never take fights to the ground. It was too easy for a controlling position to become a weak one in the tangle of a grapple, and you could easily wind up with your head splattered across the concrete. It was there Luke almost tricked him, with his double at the start of their matches, it was antithetical to the style. But Luke had an edge that meant a concrete concussion wasn't so much of a worry for him.

Luke hadn't gone and spelled it out for Danny, but the man had to be indestructible or something close to it. As they grappled, even the softest parts of Luke’s body felt dense, even the skin over his pressure points seemed to reject Danny’s attempts to manipulate them with steel rigidity. Danny was still managing, by centimeters, to squeeze Luke into the positions he needed for his holds to function. If the ordinary person was clay, Luke was made of iron. It was something beyond what body conditioning and partial training could give you, totally unique from the secrets of the old masters.

But Luke wasn’t stupid. He had to know Danny was holding something back, too. He told Luke about K’un Lun already in the broad strokes, a hidden society in the deepest mountains of Asia playing host to some of the greatest masters of our time. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make the unvarnished truth emerge: about K’un Lun, about the purpose of the Iron Fist, and the identity and responsibility of its inheritor… and Luke acted in kind. Danny didn’t think it was something an ordinary martial artist would notice, but he saw the flickers in Luke’s eyes. It was something he’d trained himself to look for in every fighter, it was the thing he loved about every fighter, their ability to seize their moments in the way that is just unique to them. Their build, their speed, their power, and above all their absolute unique application of their lifetime of techniques, in that one crystalline and perfect moment. But now, as they faced each other, Danny saw Luke pick out his moments, and let them pass by.

The round timer buzzed.

“Damn, already? Never got a good hit in,” Luke complained.

“Don’t sweat it. I have a feeling we have a lot of good hits ahead of us.”

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
Issue One

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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by Supermaxx

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LT H O R

"I have danced on distant stars. With a host of a thousand at my back, I have conquered realms. Countless foes lie dead at mine feet. Gods tremble at my coming. You are merely mortal, villain. Beneath my notice."
T H O R  O D I N S O N   ♦   G O D  O F  T H U N D E R ,  P R I N C E  O F  ♦   A S G A R D   
O R I G I N S:

History records that Bor, second Allfather of the Æsir and King of Asgard, was murdered by a Jötunn sorcerer. This is a half truth. In reality, Loki Laufeyson bore a hole through time and transformed his adoptive grandfather into a living snowstorm. Odin Borson led an army of Asgardians into Jötunheim, land of the giants, to rescue his father. Yet when he found Bor begging to be freed, Odin was taken by a lust for power and cast Bor away. Bor placed a curse upon his son that he, too, would have his throne usurped by his children. Enraged, Odin tore Jötunheim apart, killing its king, Laufey, and taking the babe Loki as hostage to dissuade the remaining jötnar from seeking vengeance. He raised Loki as his son, shrouding the boy's true origin from his family out of paranoia. 

Odin reigned over Asgard and the Nine Realms for countless eons. He sired many sons with his wife, Freya, the Vanir witch he had wed to end the war between their peoples. By other dalliances did he father children as well, including one with Mother Gaea of Midgard, which produced Thor, the God of Thunder. The boy proved a prodigious warrior. Many believed he so was fearsome he may even surpass his father's might some day. Odin commissioned the dwarves of Nidavellir to forge the legendary hammer Mjölnir for his son. With it, Thor adventured across the realms: he battled demons in Muspelheim, Malekith's dark elves in Svartalfheim, and even ventured to Midgard to hunt great wyrms and leviathans. In time the skalds sung more of Thor's deeds than those of even Odin himself.

The realms shook with grief the day Thor murdered Loki. The God of Thunder claimed that he had discovered Loki's true ancestry as a son of the giant king Laufey and confronted his brother for this deception. The accusation angered Loki enough that he struck Thor, and the two began a battle that leveled half the realm. By the time their companions could subdue them it was too late: Loki had suffered a mortal wound, perishing soon after. For the crime of kinslaying, Odin banished Thor to Midgard until he was once again worthy to wield Mjölnir. 

S A M P L E   P O S T:
For the first time in fifty thousand years, Thor was cold. A bitter wind was howling in from the north. The snow was deep enough to swallow his boot when he took a step forward. Thor cast his eyes around the glade. The overcast sky blotched out the spare moonlight. Dark trees loomed as shadows all around him. Far away, mountaintops peeked through the falling snow. This place was unfamiliar to him. He had to imagine it was not so frozen as the icy cliffs of Jötunheim. Yet when he wandered in those hoary winters never did he shake with chill. Never did these strange little bumps cover his skin as they did now.

Thor clutched his crimson cloak tight around his bare arms, wishing he had begged furs from Odin before his banishment to this awful place. He trudged through the snow across the clearing, aimlessly.

"Has my father cast me so far that even you cannot see me, Heimdall?" He wondered aloud. His usually booming voice was hollow as the caves of Nidavellir. "Is this the domain of mine most accursed niece?"

Surely this was not Helheim, for he was not yet dead. He could still still the heat of his breath; still he felt the beating of his heart, quick and erratic. Nay, this was not Hel, nor anywhere on Niffleheim- for the great dragon Nidhogg would surely be here to devour him if it was. The skalds sing warnings of Nidhogg to all with aspirations of murder or betrayal in their hearts: the serpent will pursue them to the end of the realms to feast upon their corpses. A fitting punishment, Thor once believed, for who would are raise a hand against their own kin?

"Loki..." Thor choked on the name. The sting of the bitter wind grew too much, and he snapped his eyes shut. "Why did you lie to me?"

What sort of fool was he to strike down his own brother? Perhaps there was little love lost between them. Loki had always spoken out of both sides of his mouth. Every day he had some new mischief to make, and rarely was it harmless. Many gods were relieved he was finally dealt with, Thor was sure. That mattered not. Loki was still the boy he'd chased through the woods on the back of a stag. Thor remembered fondly the day he disguised himself as Freya and wed the giant Thrymr to steal back Mjölnir. Balder, Sif, the Warriors Three- they all thought the scheme ridiculous. It was only Loki who would accompany him. His brother even disguised himself as a bridesmaid. 

A mournful smile crept up Thor's face even as tears streamed down his cheeks. Somewhere far above him there was a crack of thunder.

Lightning struck the ground before Thor, throwing him back off his feet and into the snow. Shock seized his chest as he opened his eyes and saw a crater where the bolt had landed. Within it sat Hammer of Gods, sparking, alive. Thor clambered down the side of the crater as fast as his unsteady legs would allow. He thought Mjölnir lost to him! Odin had declared him unworthy of her moments before thrusting him off the rainbow bridge. Perhaps his father had seen reason. Perhaps he understood that the killing blow was never meant to be such. Thor wrapped his hand around the familiar hilt and lifted.

Mjölnir did not budge.

The battle must've sapped more of his strength than Thor realized. He grasped lower down the shaft with his other hand, twisted his back foot into the dirt and lifted with all his might. The ground beneath him began to crack. Thunder roared over head as lightning lit up the sky. Still it would not move. 

"Damn you," Thor snarled, and he slammed a fist into the snow. The stone beneath shattered, and Thor and Mjölnir alike went tumbling down into the dark embrace of the earth. They fell a great distance into a cavern far below. Dirt, snow and rock tumbled over head, burying them in the dark.

With a strength only a god could know, Thor tore himself free. He began digging in a panic through the rubble, blindly grasping for the weapon that had rejected him. It was all he had left of home. Even if it did not want him, he could not abandon it so easily. 

Thor couldn't say how long he searched. The alien embrace of fatigue clung to his body like an unwanted cloak. He was moments from collapsing into despair before he spotted the faintest glow among the snow. Thor plied his way to it, and the glow revealed itself to be words etched upon the face of Mjölnir: Whosoever holds this hammer, if they be worthy, shall the power of...THOR.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by Eviledd1984

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Eviledd1984 Narn Liberator

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T  

DEADPOOL/ THE MERC WITH A MOUTH

"Disney and DC working together? I hope Ryan Gosling plays me in the crossover movie.”

WADE WILSON  ♦  MERCENARY  ♦  BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA 

O R I G I N S:

Wade was born in Vancouver, British Columbia, living with an abusive father and an absentee mother. His life was relatively every day, but as a child, he had a habit of getting into trouble. His big mouth was the thing that got him into a lot of trouble.  As an adult, he joined the Canadian military, being a part of conflicts in the Middle East.  Serving a couple of tours of duty before being dishonourably discharged. After his military career, he became a mercenary, working mainly for the highest bidder.  

Wade soon became sick and found out that he had terminal cancer.  Finding out that there was a program that could help him. He took part in the Weapon X program.  He was tortured for many months, unlocking his mutant abilities. Escaping from the facility and continuing his work as a mercenary. 

During his time as a merc, he found love with Death. But since he was unable to die, he could never be with his true love.   

S A M P L E   P O S T:

OSCORP LABORATORY; Alberta, Canada. 
Time: 22:00 PM
Feeling: Can’t get livin’ la vida loca out of his head.

Wade crouched behind some boxes while waiting for security guards to pass by, taking a moment to sneak past them inside the lab. “Man, sneaking here was easier than I thought.” Wade mumbled as he entered the building. He was sent here to get some material that his employer wanted. He didn’t question it. He just knew the payout would be worth all this trouble. He slowly moved toward the central laboratory while avoiding the scientists and guards going on with their day. Stopping momentarily to steal a cup of Tim Horton’s (™) Coffee cup on a nearby desk. “Mmm, damn fine cup of coffee. Thank you, Tim, for the amazing coffee.” Burping softly while putting the cup back on the table. 

“I wish the coffee was better. It’s a bit bland. Mcdonald’s (™ ) coffee is better.” One voice in his head spoke. 

“It’s not that bad, to be honest. It’s got a bit of a strong taste, but it’s honestly not bad.” Another voice spoke. These voices were only in Wade’s head, but they could occasionally provide good insight into what was going on in the world.

He moved further into the laboratory and was in the area where the object he was after was being held. Moving closer toward the containment unit, he noticed he had no keys to open it. But that did not stop him from trying to open it. Standing up and standing near the unit, Deadpool pulled out his pistol and shot the glass, making it shatter into millions of pieces. The alarms started to blare, which didn’t seem to faze Wade. 

Guards seemed to rush into the room armed with pistols and SMGs. “Don’t mind me, fellas; I’m just making a withdrawal.” Deadpool aimed his guns at the guards and started firing at them. Their bullets either missed their mark or went right through Wade, although being shot at was not really an inconvenience for him.

“Hi, you're ruining my suit.” Wade took out a grenade from his belt and flung it at a group of guards. Some jumped out of the way, while others were caught in the explosion.  Sending some chunks of flesh flying onto the ground. 

“It is raining, men; good thing I got an umbrella.” One voice quipped while another soon chimed in. 

“Uhhh, we don’t have an umbrella.” This was the voice of reason, while the other had much sillier thoughts. 

‘You know we need a good song to listen to while this happens; what should we play?” The silly voice spoke. 

“I know how about a little Shania?” The serious voice suggested. Wade agreed that some Shania wouldn’t be too bad to listen to. It filled his head when he decided he could hear the singer’s beautiful voice in his head.

Wade quickly grabbed one guard coming towards him, using him like a human shield. Moving towards the other group that had just come into the room.  He motioned his pistol to a nearby gas tank, making it explode. Killing a few of the guards in the process. During the confusion, he threw the now dead body of the guard, putting away his guns and taking out his swords. Cutting the remaining guards into pieces. “Slice and dice just like momma like’s to make. Now that the guards are dealt with, I can get what I came here for.” Deadpool walked over to the containment unit, grabbed whatever it was, and placed it into his fanny pack. 

“Fanny packs are cool.” the silly voice said, to which Wade agreed by nodding his head. He put away his sword and turned around, surprised by who stood before him.

“Well, if it’s, isn’t my best friend? How have you been my favourite short king? It’s been a long time.” Smiling underneath his mask, the mutant brandied his claws while walking towards him. 

“I think he’s gonna hug us; I’m so excited!!!”  The silly voice sounded quite excited.

“I don’t think he wants to hug us.We better make like a leaf and get out of here.”  The more serious voice corrected him and warned Wade to start running away. 

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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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by Hillan

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Hillan I'm a writer - Lying's what we do.

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Hillan

I'm a writer - Lying's what we do.

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C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T
T H E   X - M E N 
T H E   X - M E N  

"All of this power means nothing without compassion. That's what we have to show them. That's why we are his X-Men"

 Maximilian 'Max' Eisenhardt, Charles Xavier ♦ Mutant Rights Advocates ♦ New York 
O R I G I N S:

Charles Xavier, humanitarian, scientist and lobbyist. The current oldest and most widely recognized civilian with more-than-human abilities. While his feats have been brought into question, his presence has been a  fact since the Cuba crisis in the 60's. Where he earned medals and televised congratulations from the president for lending his extraordinary negotiation skills to aid world peace. Maximilian Eisenhardt was born in the 80's, and quickly developed his mutant abilities which made life incredibly hard for the young mutant. Charles and Max crossed paths in Ireland during the last decade of the troubles. A mentorship and friendship was founded that soon turned into more of a paternal bond between the two. Maximilian made many errors as a boy and young man, errors Charles helped him understand and correct, where he could. They left Ireland by the end of the troubles in 96, and returned to the mansion Charles had lived in his entire adulthood. A mansion in which it became evident that there was a greater need for more people to be in. Maximilian grew into a man under Charles tutelage, the latter arguing he learnt as much from Max as the younger man did from him. After a few years of sporadically helping those that came knocking, doing brief home-visits, which Charles had been doing since the 50's - Maximilian decided that they needed to do more for their kind. With his awesome powers of magnetism the two constructed the global neuro-interface and telepathic amplifier known as Cerebro. Charles would use it to vastly amplify his already incredible powers, finding mutants in need before the two of them set out to guide these young mutants into finding themselves, helping them find their place in the world. 

Their journey of helping mutants has never been without flaws. There's been conflict, strife, anger and loss. But above all, their journey has been filled with love for their kind. Fifteen years ago they decided to turn the mansion into not just a temporary home or a haven, but also a school. A place where mutants could fundamentally be themselves. As Charles's age makes itself ever more apparent, the mansion is getting more crowded with young mutants who needs the Xavier School For Gifted Youngsters. This leaves Max in a ever changing position with more and more responsibilities. His bond with his fellow mutants always growing deeper. This school is his everything, as are the people in it. Xavier's school is the place on earth where no harm shall come to Mutantkind, for the Master Of Magnetism watches over them.  

S A M P L E   P O S T:

In her living room, Angelica Jones took her first step of the day, feet planted firmly on the cool floor under her bed in this studio apartment. She prepared for the day ahead, sorted her things. Photoshoot during the afternoon, a livestream before then, had to film a social media clip for a sponsor. She had to call her mom and ask how dad was doing. Before all of that, she was gonna have breakfast and go for a run. She got into her sporting clothes, had a bowl of Greek yoghurt and some oats. Prepared a bottle of water that she clipped to the  slightly weighted vest she wore during her runs. Hunching down, she tied her brand-dealt sneakers and set out of her apartment. As she left her apartment building, she stopped to put her headphones into her ears. 165 BPM playlist. She had to burn today. This was just like any other day for her. 

Her feet touched the ground, once. Then again, twice. Three times. Ever more rapidly. Her breath got shallow, after a few minutes her mouth started to get dry and she paused to drink from her bottle. Her pulse was high. Too high, given how short of a distance she had ran. 185 beats. She hadn't had that high pulse in years. Was it nerves about the meeting? Maybe. Running again, swimming in the sound of the music. Her mind ran free. Her legs moving, her breath feeling normal, yet, her heartrate was constantly climbing. She wasn't sweating. She ran onto the sidewalk, and felt the sun hit her left side. It was warm. Like, really warm. Too warm for Seattle weather in March. As she looked down on the sun hitting her, she noticing something that made her eyes widen. Her long sleeved shirt was smoking. She tried, panicked, to put out the flames by patting it with her other hand, first lightly and then more intensely as the smoke didn't stop, instead only increasing in intensity till the shirt was burnt straight through, revealing that it wasn't her shirt that was on fire. It was her arm. 

She yelled out in panic.

"Help! What the hell is going on, someone help me, fire, fire!" She cried, people picking up their phones, most of them to call the authorities. Some few to film the incident. Other hurried away scared. She cried in terror and pain, as the flames erupted from all over her body. She blacked out from panic, and when she came to, she was soaring in the air the world now truly below her. She was hanging 20 feet into the sky, tethered to nothing. Her ears were ringing from the alarms made by the four cars that had crashed looking at the exploding star in the sky.  There had now been a barricade formed under her, the flames from her body had spread onto the concrete, lighting a nearby tree on fire, as well as a park bench. She looked at her hands, in complete shock. 

"What's happening to me?! Help!" She cried. Police, firefighters and two ambulances had arrived under her, the police had their guns ready, awaiting directive. Directive to shoot. A directive that would never come. As all radios, phones and electronics in 150 meters got their signal completely blocked.  The sea of people who had gathered behind the barricade was being parted. With a low sounding him, the metal bars that made up the barricade bent out of the way, and the police's weapons were gently, but forcefully lowered, aiming away from the girl in the sky. Gently enough to make the police think it was their fellow officers that lowered the guns out of their own will, rather than an invisible hand pushing it down. From the now open barricade, a man walked by. Dressed in a red dress-shirt over a 90's Rock Band t-shirt, black business pants and a pair of shiny black office loafers. His hair was silver and he had a spotless shave. His eyes had a soft, almost purple glow to them. He paid the people him no mind, nor did he care for the people on the other side, as he spoke, it was as if the only person in the entire world was Angelica Jones.

His voice boomed with great intensity, serenity and earnest in his voice. A warm smile on his face, his arm slowly extending into the sky. 

"I know you are scared. You're unprepared. This all feels like such a sudden change. You are not alone in feeling this way. It's not an accident that this happened to you. You are special. My name is Maximilian. I'm here to help. If you let me, I promise you everything will be okay. I will stay here with you as long as you need me to." 

For some inexplicit reason, she believed him. She got calmed just from seeing him act so fearless. She wanted the help he offered. Breathe, Angelica. You are in control, you are in charge of these flames, they don't burn you. They burn for you. Choose a direction and they will follow. A softer, more vague and distant voice echoed in her head. A thought? Perhaps. Her panic was washing off of her, as she took a deep breath and looked intensely on the man in red on the ground. Her eyes focusing on a spot in front of him, and she could feel herself moving, in the air. She approached for a landing.

Way too fast.

She crashed in front of Maximilian, debris flying up into the sky, piece of metal and concrete, a pipe broke, more car alarms. Yet with the flick of his hand, all of these dangers and distractions were taken care of. He simply walked over to the side of the crater, where the girl was standing and peered in. She was unharmed, just, shocked. Looking at her hands and the area around her, at the destruction she had caused.

"I- I did that? How?" She was puzzled, dumbfounded. Terrified and confused.

Maximilian smiled at her again, as he walked into the crater, sliding down the 2 meter hole slope she had made, intentionally with small movements he extremely nimbly avoided the few piece of burning debris that were in his way. 

"You are a mutant. Like me. Today was the day your powers arrived. As I said up there. If you let me, I will help you learn how to handle them. To control them. Not let them control you. I will teach you to use them for the betterment of not just yourself, but all." She couldn't explain why, but she believed him. She wanted to believe him. Carefully she raised her trembling hand to take his, afraid to touch him. Yet he never hesitated. No fear of getting burnt. She laid her hand in his and he didn't even flinch, for he had not burnt. 

"I trust you fully to not hurt me, just as you have put your trust in me."

"Was it... Your voice in my head I heard?" She said, getting faint from exhaustion, flames dying down, collapsing. Max caught her, her clothes were mostly burnt off, his red button up shirt took a life of it's own as the metal buttons un-buttoned it and pulled it smoothly off of his arms, sweeping over the woman to cover her like a blanket. 

"No, that was the person who saved me. Who showed me the way." 

Standing on a rooftop overlooking the situation, a man donning a black skin-tight suit held his left hand up to his temple, by the side of his high-tech X-shaped goggles. Watching as his ward, friend and greatest pride hovered out of the crater, carrying the currently unconscious girl. As soon as the two had emerged, the road began repairing itself as the same kind of low-hum could be heard. A minute later, everything had returned back to normal, the only remains of the event were the burn marks on the tree. The police were unsure of what had happened, why were they here? Reports of a block-wide communication error came in over dispatch, but other than that, everything was fine. 

Well done, Maximilian. Every person who witnessed this event has seen something completely ordinary, and they will not see you nor Miss Jones leave. There are spare supplies in the car. Clothes, food and water, as well as first aid. I shall see you and Miss Jones for dinner at the house this evening.

Max looked up towards the building where his mentor was positioning, cracking a smile as he nodded in agreement.

S U P P O R T I N G   C A S T:

Allies:
The Mutants - Groupings of youngsters who attend the school and face different challenges and tribulations, while offering their own assets to the two. Without these kids, Charles and Max are nothing. Select few, given they are ready for it, are taken onto field-trips to help others. Students who have attended, or who came as adults often stay as teachers or rotate as guests over the years.
Logan - The Wolverine; Manbeast, human weapon and dear friend.
Mystique - Mutant and Proud; old friend of Max's and radical mutant activist.

Enemies:
Bolivar Trask
Mister Sinister
The Juggernaut.
Onslaught

P O S T   C A T A L O G:

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