AndyC

Marvel Knights: City On Fire (Superhero Murder Mystery)

For years, New York City has been the heart of super-human activity, as by day, garish masked vigilantes and crazed super-criminals do battle on the streets of Brooklyn, amidst the skyscrapers of Manhattan, across the rooftops of Soho, and through the greenery of Central Park. By night, however, the city of heroes sheds its colorful veneer, and the rotten elements of the underworld crawl to the surface. Vicious street gangs terrorize the residents of New York's poorer neighborhoods, powerful cartels move everything from drugs to weapons to people into and out of the city, and shadowy cabals of the unaccountable elite play lethal games of money and power. And pulling the strings of it all, behind every evil deed and skimming from every ill-gotten fortune, there has been one figure, whose name even the bravest and most jaded dread to say above a whisper: Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime.

Fisk has placed himself at center of every criminal enterprise in New York so completely, it feels like he has always been there. Having thoroughly outclassed the old Maggia crime families, outmuscled interlopers like the Ranshakov Brothers or Madam Gao, outmaneuvered heavy-hitters like Tombstone and Hammerhead, and outplayed heroes like Spider-Man and Daredevil, the Kingpin has overseen an unparalleled criminal empire, bolstered by his sterling image as a philanthropic industrialist. He has made journalists disappear, driven idealistic police officers into the most depraved depths of corruption, turned the private lives of crusading vigilantes into living hells, and brought the most feared assassins and super-villains in the city under his thumb. For all of the efforts made, by people good and bad and on every side of the law, no one has ever been able to truly bring down the Kingpin.

No one, at least, until tonight.

Wilson Fisk has been found dead in the penthouse of his tower. The crime scene is under impenetrable guard both by the NYPD and Fisk's own private security, and rumors are already running wild, but the one thing everyone can agree on is foul play. As much of a monster as he was, the Kingpin's presence had kept the warring criminal factions of New York at bay, and now every gang leader, cartel boss, white-collar criminal, corrupt politician, and masked lunatic in the city is making a move for their slice of Fisk's kingdom. As the Big Apple threatens to tear itself apart, those who consider themselves the city's heroes have to do what they can to limit the carnage...

...and figure out which of them is a killer.

---

Having been inspired by the 'One Universe: Emergence' game to dip my toes back into doing cape-stuff, I want to try running a more small-scale, street-level game where everyone is involved in one focused story. To that end, this interest check is for a murder mystery set in Marvel's New York, where players take on a street/city-level hero, anti-hero, villain, cop, criminal, journalist, etc. dealing with the sudden demise of the city's most notorious crime boss.

Canon in this game is going to be very loosey-goosey, but characters should at least be recognizable as some established iteration of an existing Marvel hero. More to the point, to fit the concept, characters should be New York centric, have some kind of personal connection (friend, foe, or otherwise) to the victim, a motive to want Wilson Fisk dead, and the means to actually do it.

Every player-character is a suspect, because one of you (determined before IC goes live) is the killer. PCs are encouraged to interact, argue, fight, etc, in order to get to the bottom of the mystery and find the killer, before the various criminal factions tear the city apart, while the killer will try to bluff and dodge his way around being found out.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Speaking of, everyone good? Anybody need some assistànce?

@Sep

I will probably be too swamped to post for the next week or so: the play I'm directing opens in 7 days, so my free time between now and closing night is basically zero. I'll try to squeeze in another Logan post to make sure I don't go past the two-week limit, but i may need an extension.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Santa Maria de la Redonda de los Chibolos
Near Presidio, Texas
January 8th, 1864

Jonah sat on a large chunk of rubble outside the burning Spanish mission, tipping out water from his canteen to pour it onto a wound on his left arm. It was barely a graze, but he knew better than to let it fester now that the shooting was done and the dust had settled.

The small alabaster church house, the once white walls now blackened with soot and pockmarked with gunshots, was the seventh target that Quentin Turnbull had marked for destruction on the damned ride of Satan’s Servants. According to Turnbull, it was being used by the Yankees as a place to stash weapons and ammunition. Clearing it out, he said, would be invaluable to hindering the Northern aggressor’s operations in Texas.

They hadn’t found any Yankees at Santa Maria de la Redonda de los Chibolos. They had, however, found plenty of weapons, and folks who knew how to use them.

Jonah stood, walked over to the body of a monk, drew his knife, and cut a strip of cloth from the dead man’s robe. As he dressed his wound, he looked down at the body: the monk had been barely more than a boy, couldn’t have been twenty even. The look frozen on the kid’s face was one of desperate fear, his eyes still wide with panic or surprise. Maybe he’d had a final second to be surprised when Jonah put a round through his forehead. Or maybe he’d been surprised that he’d managed to shoot Jonah first.

“God damn,” Eddie Cantwell snickered as he picked a rifle and a cartridge box from another monk’s still-twitching body, “You ever seen a holy man put up that kinda fight? Doesn’t strike me as a particularly Christian thing to do.”

“Can’t say ah was able to talk much religion with ‘em,” Jonah shrugged. “They shot at me, an’ ah shot back.” Now that he had a moment, he wondered what exactly it was that these preacher-men were so willing to break their commandment of ‘thou shalt not kill’ to protect.

”God-botherers didn’t even let me finish my speech,” said Victor Sono, trying on rosary beads and crucifixes to see if it matched the sheriff stars he wore as trophies. “I had a real good line about how we were ‘here to send you off to your eternal re-ward,’ and I didn’t get halfway through it before they opened fire.”

”Can’t say I blame em,” Tobias Manning sneered. ”The way you blather on, I was liable to shoot you myself just so we could get on with it.”

He and Eddie shared a laugh, while Sono scowled. As they laughed, they heard a woman’s voice screaming and sobbing. Out of the mission sauntered Mad Dog McGill, dragging a bloodied and half-naked young nun by the hair, before throwing her down hard on the ground before them.

“For I have seen the harsh light of truth,” McGill proclaimed, holding a scrap of old parchment,
”and in that light my illusions are dispelled.
All creatures born of flesh are born with hunger,
Hunger to feed, to kill, and to copulate.
It is the nature of flesh, the life of the one
Sustained by the death of another;
The gratification of the one
Indulged by the desecration of another.
Lo, I have seen the Eyes of Judgement
Pass over the wolf without scorn
Even as it devours the lamb.
For the wolf is but a beast
Satiating its hunger for flesh.
There is nothing in an act of hunger
To be judged, but that guilt and shame make them so.
Guilt and shame are but tools of the weak,
To constrain the strong and the hungry.
They offer the illusions of greater values
Of purity, of innocence, of a soul beyond the body.
The beasts of the wild hold to no such illusions.
For in the end, what is the living flesh of the prey,
If not meat for the predator to consume?”

It must have been Scripture of a sort, but it wasn’t from any book Jonah had ever heard of.

”Hey, gimme that,” said Jeb Turnbull as he marched out of the mission, snatching the page from McGill’s hand. ”That’s not for you.” Jeb stuffed the page into the pocket of his jacket

”Damn, Mad Dog,” Cantwell jeered, ”an’ here I always thought you was illiterate.”

”No siree,” Mad Dog said, ”my parents were married.”

The outlaws shared a laugh, and Jonah glowered at them in disgust. The beaten nun at Mad Dog’s feet limply tried to crawl away, but Mad Dog dug the heel of his boot into the wound in her back, drawing out another scream.

”Well, you heard the good word, gentlemen,” he said, a wild look sparking in his eyes, ”They ain’t nothing but meat for the predators. An’ I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m feelin’ a mighty hunger comin’ on…”

---

Crossroads Bar (derelict)
Sunset Road, Presidio, Texas
Present Day

The Crossroads bar was a watering hole that had closed down decades ago, but because the surrounding neighborhoods were just as decayed and all hopes of developing the land had fallen through, it stood abandoned. Once upon a time, it had been a place where tired, lonely, and desperate men had drowned their sorrows and inequities in cheap liquor. Now, it was a haven for rats, insects, and the occasional squatter.

As Jonah approached, he heard music from inside.

Someone was playing the piano, fingers gliding up and down across the keys in a fanfare that was both flowery and somber, before resolving into a melody somewhere between a folk dance and a funeral dirge.

The General, Jonah’s horse, winnied with trepidation as they drew near, but Jonah gave it a reassuring stroke through its thick black mane. When he dismounted, he rustled through one of the saddlebags on the horse’s side, and produced a green apple. The General readily munched on the fruit, and Jonah patted him to calm his nerves. As gruff and thoroughly unpleasant of a man as Jonah Hex could be, he was never anything but kind to his horse.

Once the General was calmed and hitched to a nearby light post, Jonah approached the door to the Crossroads, paying no heed to the various warning signs, and forced it open. Stepping inside, he saw the inside of the bar was dark and dusty, a pair of roaches scurrying to the shadows. At the far corner, a man in an immaculate red suit played a dusty piano, swaying left and right to the beat of the music, which grew in volume and intricacy as he played.

Jonah cleared his throat, and greeted the pianist with the usual amount of patience and pleasantry he had afforded him over their many meetings.

”What the fuck is Mad Dog McGill doing alive?”

The pianist turned to face Jonah, revealing a face that simultaneously looked youthful and ancient. The man had sharp, narrow features, a high widow’s peak in his slick black hair, and a finely groomed mustache and beard that tapered to a point, but his skin was fair, unblemished, and did not have even a trace of a wrinkle. When he smiled, Jonah caught a whiff of brimstone.

”’Why hello, Mister Church, it’s always such a pleasure to see you,’” the man in the suit said in mocking conversation. ”’It’s a lovely day, and I always do enjoy our chats together. And, might I add, I am once again eternally grateful for your thoughtfulness and generosity by giving me purpose and allowing me to remain in this wonderful world rather than discard my wretched soul and leave it in the deepest pits of the abyss where I belong.’”

The man took his hands off the piano, yet the music continued.

”Why Jonah, thank you ever so much for saying so,” Mister Church continued, ”it warms my heart to know that my acts of kindness do not go unappreciated. Now, Mister Hex, what can I do for you?”

Spreading his hands as if to beg for an answer, Mister Church said, ”You see how easy that is, Jonah? Would it really be such an intolerable torment to start a conversation that way?”

Jonah glared at him, then repeated himself. ”What is Mad Dog McGill doing alive?”

Mister Church chuckled. ”Well, you’ve seen the film, I believe it was fairly obvious what he’s doing. Though I suppose, given how long it’s been since you’ve had a roll in the hay, perhaps the motions are a bit unfamiliar to you.”

”You know what I mean,” he snarled, ”Why is he still here?”

The man stood from the piano, walked over to an empty table, and gestured for Jonah to sit down with him.

”Mind if I smoke?” he asked. Without waiting for Jonah to answer, Mister Church reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a silver cigarette case, and drew a thin white roll of paper. Producing a match with a flourish of sleight-of-hand, he struck it on the table and lit the cigarette. As soon as flame touched paper, Jonah heard in his head a million voices screaming.

Taking a long drag, Mister Church sat, and exhaled a thick cloud of foul-smelling smoke. ”As much chagrin and dismay it brings me to admit it,” he sighed, ”there are things in this wide and many-splendored world that exceed even the reach of my own not-inconsiderable powers of perception.”

”Meaning, what?” Jonah asked.

”Meaning I don’t fucking know,” Mister Church answered, ”And the only solace I take in that is knowing that my own ignorance in the matter perturbs you just as much as it does me. Mad Dog McGill, unfortunately, isn’t one of mine.”

”We rode together in the war,” Jonah pressed. ”We both died at Fort Charlotte. He died the same night you came for me.”

”And that’s supposed to mean something to me? What makes you think I would have made any kind of deal with him, as I have with you?”

”’sides from both you an’ him bein’ evil pieces of shit?”

Mister Church smiled. ”Aside from that, yes.”

Jonah paused for a moment, then sat down at the table. ”The page. During our ride, ah saw Jeb Turnbull collectin’ pieces o’ paper, said it was fer his old man. Mad Dog got one o’ them pages, an’ he started readin’ it. In that…film….he still has that page. That’s what yer really after, ain’t it?”

Mister Church grinned. ”If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, Jonah dear.”

Jonah looked at him skeptically. ”What’s so special about that page? Why should ah bring it to you?”

”Oh, there are myriad ways I could plead my case to you, Jonah,” he answered, ”I could appeal to whatever you have that passes for moral indignation, and show that Mad Dog McGill is a soul deserving of the very worst that damnation has to offer and that his time is long overdue. Or, if I were to be somewhat more cynical and appeal to your mercenary nature, I could tell you that doing this would put you in my favor, give you much-needed leverage to renegotiate the nature of our agreement. For now, however, I believe I will settle for the disappointingly blunt approach and say because I fucking own you and I fucking said so.”

For a long moment, Jonah scowled at him defiantly, and Mister Church’s playful grin turned dark.

”You do not want to be givin’ me that fucking look, son.” Church said, his voice still perfectly genteel despite the vulgarities he casually dispensed. ”You have no idea how good you’ve had it, compared to what I could bring down on you.”

Jonah glared for another moment, then almost against his will, turned his gaze away.

”Where can ah find him?” he asked.

Mister Church shrugged. ”Alas, my specialty has never been on seeking and finding, only dealing with those who seek me out first. If only, ohh, if only I had at my disposal a soul who was known for his ability to seek and track people down, perhaps I could– oh, Heavens to Betsy, unless my eyes do deceive me, I believe I see the famed bounty hunter Jonah Hex! Surely, his uncanny prowess at manhunting will be of use in this endeavor!”

Jonah snarled. ”An’ once you get that page,” he said, ”What about Mad Dog?”

Mister Church waved his hand dismissively. ”That, my boy, I leave to your discretion.”

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Colonel Wayne considered the proposals from the new arrivals.

The pilot from Maxwell's scrappers was new, and Gaius was hesitant to put an untested pilot into the line of such heavy fire. On the other hand, he'd watched them reassemble the salvaged Catapult and take it on test runs. The woman had an aptitude for Mech piloting, which was encouraging. More to the point, adding the Catapult to the fighting force, alongside Saarinen's Archer, would nearly double the amount of long-range fire that Ziska's Raven could direct.

"Very well," the Colonel nodded, "Partanen, you're in. You'll be on the second-line alongside the Archer. Between the two of your mechs we'll be stretching our LRM reloads fairly thin, so make your shots count. That mech isn't as heavily armored as the Archer, but the jump jets give it more maneuverability, so if anyone gets too close, put your lasers into them and then jump to cover."

Looking over at Ms. Jeong and Mr. McCord, Gaius felt a mix of relief and trepidation. In truth, they wouldn't have been nearly as successful in this campaign without the support provided by Cassandra's deep pockets and way with words, so he knew she'd be certain to secure a deal with the FPA to get those Thumpers. With those artillery batteries and the combined firepower of the Knights, it might be possible to turn this raid not just into a diversionary action, but a successful assault to take the fort itself.

On the other hand, he knew that every dealing the Green Knights made with Cassandra Jeong put them that much deeper into her pocket. They were already in debt to her, and sooner or later, she was going to come to collect. Obviously they had a common enemy for now, but once Federov was toppled and the Crimson Fists were dead, who's to say where she would want their guns pointed next?

"We'll discuss the price for securing support from the FPA on completion of the mission, Ms. Jeong," he said, knowing he was kicking yet another can down the road, "but in the immediate moment, the sooner you can get us those guns, the better."

"As for Mister McCord," he said, turning to the pilot of the Marauder, "You'll be with myself and Ms. Wyatt. They won't be expecting another Mech on the field, and the spot I've chosen for the duel has plenty of heavy woods for concealment. You're a hell of a shot with your PPCs, so I'm going to count on you to be my insurance policy. We'll stick you in the woods where you can remain powered-down until the Crimson King and his entourage enter the field, and I'll lure him into a clear line of fire for you. Bear in mind, this is still a delaying action; if we spring the trap too quickly, they'll turn around and leave. But the instant I give the signal, or if the other Crimson Fists decided to join in, you'll power up your Mech and aim for the enemy Battlemaster's head."

Headhunting wasn't exactly considered 'honorable' combat, but the Colonel knew full-well that the Crimson King had no intention of a clean duel. Gaius believed in the honors of war, but he knew better than to hold his enemy to the same standard.

"On the other hand," Colonel Wayne continued, "If I don't give the signal, or if the odds are so stacked that another Mech on the field won't tip the balance in our favor, you will remain shut down until the Crimson Fists leave the area, then take Ms. Wyatt to safety."

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

"...most recent trial for Weapon X was largely a success, though subject is growing rapidly unstable..."

"...can be so much more than what they want to make you, all you have to do is..."

"...drop the good-little-soldier boy act, runt, let the hunger drive you..."

"...displaying worrying signs of resistance to our behavioral conditioning. Suggesting full memory wipe unless..."

"...unless you have something to hold onto, something to believe in, they'll never let you be more than..."

"...an animal..."

"...a perfect weapon...."

"...a lost soul, wandering alone..."

"...living only for the hunt, for the fight, for the kill..."

"You're not like any other subject we've ever had...."

"...you're not like any other man I've ever loved..."

"You are Just. Like. Me."

"Logan...."

"Logan..."

"Logan...."

"....wake up!"

I open my eyes, looking up at a cloudy late-afternoon sky. I'm lying in the back of my old pick-up, and Kitty is standing next to it nudging me in the side with a stick. "I got us to the closest town. You wanted to pick up some supplies, right?"

Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and see that we're in the parking lot of a Loblaws supermarket. The truck's suspension groans as I climb out of the truck, stretching. "We'll have to be quick," I say, "Lots of cameras in big stores. Anyone comes looking for us, we don't want to be on film too long. You haven't gone in and bought anything yet, have you?"

Kitty shakes her head. "I don't have any cash on me. And after you skewered my phone, I didn't want to know what you'd end up doing to my debit card."

"Good," I nod, before opening the passenger's door and reaching behind the seat. "You don't want to leave anything that can be tracked. Cash only."

"I just told you," Kitty rolls her eyes, "I don't have any--"

Pulling out an old duffel bag, I open it up and root around until I find what I'm looking for: a stack of about 10,000 dollars. Kitty's eyes grow wide when she sees the money, and even wider when I hand it to her.

"I go into town on the occasional beer run," I shrug. "I'm coming up on the last of my rainy-day money, but this should be enough to get us to New York."

"Where'd you get that?" Kitty asks, uncomfortably. "Are you, like, a drug dealer or something?"

"Nah," I say, pulling out a stack of cash for myself. "It's my retirement fund. Chances are I got it from the same people who are after you now."

"Oh, that's much better," she says, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Do I even want to know what you do for them?"

"Did. Past tense," I correct her. "These days I don't do anything for anyone. I just mind my own business, at least when I'm not smuggling teenagers across the country."

"And that reminds me," she says, "I've been so focused on figuring out whether or not you're a serial killer that it didn't even strike me to ask where you're trying to smuggle me to. What's in New York that you're so dead-set on?"

"Fair question," I say. "Ever hear of Charles Xavier?"

For just a second, I see her eyebrow raise, her lips purse, a flash of recognition in her eyes, which she immediately tries to bury. "Not really," she lies, "he's some old mutant activist guy, right?"

I think about calling her out on the lie, but I can't exactly blame her for not being straightforward, not when I haven't given her any real reason to trust me either. I'll let it slide for now, but I keep in mind.

"He's the Mutant rights activist," I tell her, "and he's set up a place for people like us. Well, like you. Kids with a future, but who need guidance, protection. It's a haven for mutants, yeah, but it's also a school. Full Ivy League level education, and they teach you how to get a handle on your abilities."

Kitty thinks about it. "So...it's like Hogwarts? Just, y'know, without the problematic author?"

"The hell's a hog-wart?"

"God, how long have you been living out in those woods?"

I shrug. "What year is it?"

Kitty laughs, I grunt, and we head into the store to load up.

---

Belle Reve Super-Max Facility
Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana

"Floyd Lawton."

On the other side of the massive slab of steel that served as the door to his cell, a man with shaggy black hair lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling. As a fly buzzed around the fluorescent bulb that washed the cell in a harsh white light, he made a pistol shape with his finger, drew a bead on the insect, and quietly made pow-pow noises.

"Floyd Lawton," the voice on the outside of the cell repeated itself.

"I know what my name is, thank you," the shaggy prisoner rasped, still keeping his aim on the fly as it flittered about the cell. "Did you have anything else to go with it?"

"I'm going to ask you to come with me," the voice said. "On a matter of international security."

"I don't do security," Lawton dismissed the stranger, "In fact, it's kind of the opposite of what I do."

"Trust me," the voice answered, "we know exactly what sort of thing you do. High-level contract killing, under the alias 'Deadshot.' Eighty-two confirmed kills, estimated another hundred-fifty unconfirmed. Forensic evidence at the scene of your crimes suggest a level of accuracy with pistols, rifles, submachine guns, and automatic weapons that would break every world record if they were ever written down. Number one on the FBI's most wanted list for six years until they finally caught you."

"I did get quite the reputation, didn't I?" Floyd chuckled.

"And we'd like you to live up to that reputation," the voice said.

"Who's 'we?'" Floyd asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Who 'we' are," came the answer, "isn't as important as we can do for you. Ten years off each of your sentences..."

"Bringing my total down to a mere two hundred and sixty years," Lawton scoffed. "You'll have to do better than that."

"...and visitation rights for your daughter."

Lawton sat up. "Who's the target?"

"I know reputation means a lot in your line of work," said the stranger. "Your type likes to compete, make names for yourselves, give yourselves code-names and callsigns and keep up with each other, so you know where you stand."

"What's that got to do with who the target is?"

"I've got a codename for you, 'Deadshot,'" the voice said. "A real blast from the past. Does the name 'Wolverine' mean anything to you?"

The air went out of Floyd Lawton's lungs for a moment.

"...holy shit..." he said.

"We're putting together a crew," said the voice, "of people like you. People with nothing to lose, but everything to gain. We're going to equip you with everything you need to get the job done. We're going to provide you with a network of full support in the field, giving you information in real-time on your target. And when the job is done, we're going to give you better accommodations to spend the rest of your sentence in comfort."

"Or you'll give us a pine box and a hole in the ground when the Wolverine cuts us to fucking pieces," Floyd scoffed.

"Sure, maybe you'll get the chance to die a hero," came the answer, "or the opportunity to become a legend. They say the Wolverine was the best your line of work has ever seen. You take him down, what does that make you?"

Floyd thought about it for a long moment, before the voice said, "or I walk away from this door, never come back, and you rot in this hole forever and never see your daughter again. Your choice."

This time, the pause was just long enough for Deadshot to clear his throat. "I'm in."

"Good to hear," the voice said.

The door swung open, and standing in the door, not even bothering with a security escort, was a stocky black woman in a charcoal-gray suit. Just her very presence made Lawton stand up, halfway standing at attention before he realized what he was doing.

"My name is Amanda Waller," the woman introduced herself, "Assistant Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Welcome to Task Force X."

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Content Warning: Graphic and/or disturbing content

Paranormal Consultancy-Technomantic Solutions
2nd Floor Office, Animal Industries Building, Texas A&M University

"--don't mean it's not real," Mary Le Bow protested, her thick London accent a stark contrast to the Southern drawl of her professor. "It's just a ma''er o' findin' the right medium to record the evidence!"

"And so far, all you've recorded is a tremendous amount of expense," Professor DuVall responded. "We've been offering grant money to your 'paranormal consultancy' project- rather generously, I might add- as part of our humanities and performing arts department, but you seem to be laboring under the delusion that you're performing actual science here."

The professor gave a dismissive sniff at the young woman, dressed in a leather jacket, denim shorts, and fishnets, who returned the derision with a defiant sneer. With her two-toned black-and-white hair and punk-rocker garb, Mary didn't exactly give off the air of a respectable scientist, which always seemed to rub Professor DuVall the wrong way.

The Animal Industries Building on campus was long rumored to be haunted, home to the restless spirits of all the animals who had undergone experiments during the science department's more ethically-questionable days. When Mary had come to the United States to study America's occult history, she had appealed to the Texas A&M faculty that leaning into the campus's haunted heritage would be a great way to drum up publicity and student activity. Under the guise of a 'performing arts' project, she'd set up her paranormal consultancy service to help people with issues beyond their understanding, and to help fund her own private research into the arcane.

"But i' is actual science, Prof!" Mary pleaded. "I've been keeping meticulous records of all of my processes, forming hypotheses, eliminating what doesn't work--"

"Which, so far, is everything..."

"But that's progress! It means I'm gettin' closer to findin' what does work!" Le Bow said. "I've been able to produce real solutions to people's problems. I just need to figure out the process of how I can do it, and then--"

"Enough, Miss Le Bow," Professor DuVall cut her off. "I've spoken to the board, and they are in agreement. Your project has been an amusement, but now it is becoming an inconvenience to the faculty and student body alike. You are to either produce tangible evidence of your supposed supernatural findings by the end of the semester, or return all of the material you've appropriated to the proper departments. And unless an actual honest-to-God ghost happens to walk by in front of my very eyes, I'm going to have a hard time believing--"

"'scuse me," a harsh, gravelly voice cut in. "'s this where ah can find a lady by the name a' Mary Le Bow?"

Professor DuVall turned to see the ugliest man he had ever seen.

Dressed in a wide-brimmed hat, long leather duster, and garb that looked like he'd stepped off the pages of an old-timey dime novel, the stranger stood out in the college science department like a sore thumb. The half of his face that even remotely passed for normal might have been carved from granite, all hard angles, his one good eye in a half-squint, his lips pressed in a cold hard line. The other half of his face was a mangle of scar tissue, a lidless milky-white eye staring straight ahead, half his mouth pried open in a permanent rictus grin.

"I...I-I'm sorry, y-you--" Professor DuVall stammered.

"I'm Mary Le Bow!" the punk girl said brightly. "Paranormal consultant and technomancer, at yer service! 'Ow can I 'elp you, love?"

"Need help findin' a missin' girl," the grotesque man said, shoving past the sputtering professor. "Rather, ah need ta find the men who took that little girl."

"Might I recommend calling the proper authorities, Mister...?" Professor DuVall tried to interject.

The half-faced cowboy glared at the professor, and DuVall felt his soul shiver. "Ah know who ah'm callin' on. You can see yer way out."

For a moment, Professor DuVall thought about protesting, then merely nodded his head and left.

"Fwoah, I never seen a bloke put that kind of fear into the Prof that quickly," Mary said with a laugh. "'ow'd you pull that off?"

"Looked into his soul," the stranger said. "Reminded him of his past. You'll wanna avoid havin' any drinks 'round him, I reckon."

Mary gave the stranger an inquisitive look. "I don't believe I've got your name, stranger."

"Just call me Jonah," he said.

"Jonah, yeah, all right," Mary nodded. "So...why d'you think I can be of any service to you?"

"Got an employer," Jonah said, staring at the wall of computer monitors in Mary's 'Technomantic Laboratory,' "says you can do things with contraptions that ah cain't. He said to find you, an' ask fer your help identifyin' some men in a film on somethin' called a 'dark web.'"

Mary's face turned sour. "Can't say I like the sound of that," she said. "Typically, someone shows up in a video on the dark web, it's usually somethin' 'orrible."

"Horrible's about right," Jonah nodded. "By my count, the missin' girl's already dead. Ah'm after the men who did it. An' to do that, ah need to see what they did. Need to pick up the scent of it."

"The scent o' what?" Mary asked.

"Sin," Jonah answered. "Ah'm a good tracker, but the physical trail's gone cold. Reckon mah employer let that happen so ah'd have to track 'em this way. Ah need to witness the sin, get a scent fer the evil that was done, an' from there me an' mah pretty side can track down the souls with that stain on it."

"Your...employer? 'oozat, then?" Mary wondered aloud. "Who'd want that to trail to go cold?"

"Calls hisself 'Mr. Church' when he's 'round me," Jonah said. "an' he's not someone you wanna get involved with."

"Mister Church..." Mary said to herself, glancing over to one of her bookcases, stacked with old books on old-world occultism, before she gasped. "You mean Mephis--"

"Careful with that name, little lady," Jonah cut her off. "You invite someone like Mr. Church into your world, he might decide to stay a while. Now then, this here film ah'm lookin' fer. Mr. Church says yer a...a tech-no-somethin'..."

Nodding, Mary turned to her wall of monitors. "A technomancer. Means I can work with machines and explore the digital world with just me thoughts. An' I can come an' go anywhere on the web without leavin' a trace. Makes lookin' around for things real easy-like. But this, ah, this video...is this something you really want to see?"

"Ah'd just as soon not see it," Jonah shrugged, "but it ain't about wantin'. Ah need to see it, to pick up the trail."

Mary shrugged. "Suit yourself, love. What's the name of it?"

"Says it's called 'Izzy Does It.'"

Mary winced. "Ohhh, no. That's a real awful one. Never watched it meself, but it's got a reputation."

Jonah raised his one good eyebrow. "How do you know about this kinda thing?"

"I'd rather not say. But suffice to say, you're not the only one 'ere that's gotten involved in evil things. I'd bet that's why your friend Mister Church knew to look for me."

Jonah shrugged. "Fair enough. Can you do it?"

"Just a tick, love," Mary said, putting her hand against the wall of monitors, her eyes rolling back in her head.

The screens flickered to life, each one a blinding barrage of images, thousands of pages flashing in and out of view across dozens of screens as Mary scoured the virtual world.

Jonah whistled as the punk girl searched. He was a creature of an old world, he'd never be able to truly understand how this technology was supposed to work, and how Mary was breaking every rule of it. But he could get the idea of just how much information she was sifting through, like running through every book in a library and reading every page along the way.

After a few minutes, Mary's eyes rolled forward. "Found the site. It's...well, I'm afraid it's every bit as bad as I thought it would be."

The only monitor still active showed a plain page, white text on a black background.

CAMP KANDY

BEYOND XXXXX

Underneath the title, there was a place to enter payment information, something called 'crypto' that Jonah didn't recognize.

"Last chance to turn back, friend," Mary warned him.

"Open it up," Jonah said, "Then you'll want to git out."

With a squeamish look, Mary bypassed the pay window, and opened a directory of videos, each with innocent-sounding names that belied their vile nature.

"Penny's Pool Party."

"Horseplay with Hannah."

"Kelsie's Cook-Off."

"A Walk in the Woods with Wendy."

And sure enough, right in the middle of them, was one titled "Izzy Does It."

Jonah stared at the nightmare he saw unfolding on the screen, and the room began to smell with smoke and sulfur.

"Innocence...defiled..." a voice came from Jonah's mouth, but not the one the cowboy had spoken with earlier.

On the screen, a young girl was being subjected to torments no one should ever know. Surrounding her were four men, five including the cameraman. They wore masks to hide their faces, but some had marks on them. Scars. Tattoos. Symbols of evil and hate that marked them for the monsters they were.

"A soul....desecrated..." the voice said, and Jonah began to burn. Quite literally.

Flames erupted from the collar of his jacket, engulfing his head. Despite the agony of the fire, Jonah did not scream. The room was filled with screams already, coming from the girl on the screen.

"Flesh...devoured..." the hellish voice said from inside the flames. Jonah's head was now a blazing skull, the room itself a furnace from the heat of the fire.

On the screen, when the masked men had sated their lecherous hunger, one of them stepped into view, carrying a knife.

"VENGEANCE...." the flaming skull demanded. "VENGEANCE FOR--....wait....no..."

The man with the knife had something in his other hand. Jonah recognized it the second he saw it.

It was a page, an old scrap of yellowed parchment. Just like the ones Jeb Turnbull had been collecting for his father a century and a half ago.

The flames dispersed as Jonah's face reemerged, as if nothing had happened.

"...that cain't be..." Jonah said, his good eye wide.

"All just dead meat in the end, little lady," the man on the screen said as he approached his victim. "You just got to yer end quicker'n most."

"Mad Dog McGill..." Jonah said as the monster on the screen carried out his ungodly work.

Mad Dog had ridden with Satan's Servants all those years ago. Jonah had seen him do some of the most depraved things imaginable on that awful ride. And Jonah had watched him die, alongside himself and the rest of the Servants, under the guns of Fort Charlotte.

And yet, the Mad Dog roamed the Earth once more.

VENGEANCE the flames roared within him, and Jonah nodded his head.

"Yeah," he agreed with the hellfire in him, "Vengeance is comin'. Fer Mad Dog, and I reckon fer all of us..."

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

That one looks good to me

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Well, we do have that spare Catapult.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

I need to get more than a single post in for Jonah/Ghost Rider before I start futzing about with collabs just yet.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Dinah is APPROVED