AndyC

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Anyone have any X-Men (as a team) shaped ideas on deck?

@Hillan

I've got a couple of X-people I'd like to use. Hit me up.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Just wait until I start my very first post with ass. It'll happen.

@Retired

Joke's on you, all of my posts are ass.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

C H A R A C T E R S H E E T

W O L V E R I N E

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^{"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:

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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:

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"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:

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To be added.

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

---

To be added.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

<Snipped quote by Retired>

Revenge!

I'm totally behind btw so if anyone else is near their 24 hours gimme shout

@Sep

Logan is at the 24-hour mark as well.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

I was going to make a witty and humorous remark that you would all have laughed at but @DocTachyon told me it sounded mean

@Sep

Meh, go for it. I had to edit my last comment like five times because it was meaner than I intended, so I have it coming.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

<Snipped quote by AndyC>

Real talk it was a close race man, we have no issue with your Supes at all. The reason we went with @Master Bruce is because hes the GM his was just a different take we haven't seen in one of these gamea before.

I totally said this of my own free will
I got told to remove that as it made it sound like I didn't write it of my own free will which I definitely did

So how's everyone doing?

@Sep

It's okay, this is only like the sixth time I've been beaten out for Clark, I'm definitely not bitter at all about that or anything.

For real, though, MB's pitch is genuinely great, and I can't wait to see what he does with it. Plus, I've honestly got some really fun ideas for Wolverine.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Rassin'-frassin'....you've won this round, MB, but we'll see who gets the last laugh!

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

<Snipped quote by Master Bruce>

@Sep

I always knew he was red for a reason.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Just 3 hours to go before I have to figure out what my backup character is gonna be...

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Second characters are allowed, you say? Well, let's try this one on for size....

SNIKT!

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

W 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.

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

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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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^{All formatting originates via the work of Lord Wraith}