BCTheEntity

Capes of Denver: A Worm RP

Alessa Heather: Trainyard --> PRT HQ

The drive back passed in a bit of a blur for Alessa. Her leg was treated by medical staff in the van, though she insisted that Lillian, Overlook, and Private Skeetz receive treatment first until the medic realised she was sitting in a slowly-growing puddle of blood. She felt that didn’t matter so much. Everyone else’s injuries were worse. Alessa was just tired.

By the time they’d gotten back, she was bandaged up and able to walk about as well as she could hope. Lillian insisted on holding her hand throughout the walk through the building, and after she’d given her passcode, Alessa was asked ‘The fire leaves me heart’, to which she responded ‘Yet I shall never leave your side.’ Her voice shook slightly as she said it, but it remained steady enough to allow her access alongside Lily nonetheless.

Then came Director Kens’ rant. He’d never unleash his fury directly upon them, she knew. He wasn’t that sort of person. It was clear how upset the whole situation was making him, though... and of course he had every right to be upset. They’d failed. She had failed. It wasn’t an acceptable standard to hold herself to.

Before she could say anything, Lillian replied to Kens with an impressive speech. Clearly, something had happened other than Dean’s appearance to greatly upset her, and Alessa wasn’t sure if she could help the poor girl get over it.

Dean was dead. Him and hundreds of his fake yet far-too-real clones.

She had to stop herself gagging at the thought. Jesus Christ, so much blood.

Had Ira said something under her breath? She’d stopped paying attention briefly. Unacceptable.

By contrast, she heard every word of Elliot’s input, and that was the first thing said in the meeting that actually got her significantly more upset than before. Was that how casually he’d dismiss a former teammate? Because if it was, then he really did deserve the surname “Prat”- no, no, that wasn’t fair to him, he might not... he might not even...

‘Oh my God, you don’t know who it was,’ she concluded out loud, her voice and her look in his direction, all directions, a mixture of distress and, for the first time that day, intense anger. ‘That “freakazoid” was Dean, Elliot. Troll’s “lackey” was Dean, Overrun was Dean. Do you remember Dean, folks? Not Lillian, she had no reason to recognise him, but anyone else? Because I sure do, all three hundred and sixty-odd days of his friendship before he vanished. He died, by the way. He died right in front of me. He-’

A second of hyperventilation was strangled before she continued more somberly.

‘He was shot. I think he was, anyway, because whatever killed him sounded like a cannon. He turned to paste and gore right in front of me. It was... there... all the... and the rest...’

Inhale, slowly. Exhale, slowly. Breath, Alessa.

Oh, she was covered in blood. That was new.

Some of it was probably the real Dean’s, come to think of it.

‘I set the warehouse on fire,’ she admitted as calmly as she could, staring into the distance as she spoke, just to move on from the topic of nonononono keep talking keep talking. ‘Something smashed into Lillian. I vaporised it, and then I hit half the building with a beam of fire to save Tulpa from being beaten to death. I didn’t think, I was caught up in... with my...’

Breath. Keep talking. It’s fine.

‘...and that’s why it’s no longer standing. That’s why the evidence is gone, Director Kens.’ Now she faced him directly, her resolve set. She was the leader here. She had to take responsibility for what happened. ‘Everyone else is relatively blameless. I’m the one the rest of the team ought to be taking examples from, and yet how can they when I do stupid things like that?

‘So, please, sir,’ she begged him, ‘if you intend to punish anyone... just punish me. Give me everyone’s punishments combined if you must, just don’t blame them when I’m the one who ruined the operation in the end.’ And she had, hadn’t she? All else excluded, the warehouse would still be standing and the evidence undamaged if she hadn’t freaked out. She deserved to be punished for her misdeed. It was only just.

---

Raymond Haywood: Trainyard

Raymond nodded politely as Chatterbox instructed him on what to do to identify the real Chatterbox, considering that it’d be a good plan to know what the power's effects felt like, yet painfully aware that if the primary Chatterbox and his clone shared similar memories, then chances were the clone would also know of Raymond’s false name, since he’d given it before anything else. In which case, he needed to give out a new name, completely new...

‘It was actually Devin Crash,’ he muttered to Chatterbox, any mouth movements hidden by his mask. ‘And I might take a separate van to everyone else, if you don’t mind.’ Hopefully, the man would be savvy enough to recognise what he was doing and why; otherwise, he couldn’t help him. That said, now was probably a good time to do as he asked and stop the clone from continuing to chatter at the last two of the Jacks.

Yet chatter he did, and as Headhunter, Chatterbox and Whimsy approached the two real and two fake Jacks, the clone Chatterbox explained how he and his partner were linked, and then explained that supposedly, he was more than willing to team up with the rest of the Jacks in pursuit of even greater fame and fortune than before. Raymond considered the thought, and decided that it was perfectly reasonable to consider.

Which was a problem, because he suspected that if that Chatterbox were using his power on him, a lot of things would sound perfectly reasonable, especially if they were small suggestions like that. In other words, he had to be utterly vigilant. He’d personally witnessed the real Chatterbox turn the fool Gamble into his pliant minion in less than an hour; if he didn’t stop him talking now, he and the others might wind up the blabbermouth’s thrall before the day was out- ah, Blabbermouth. A good alternate reference for the clone, perhaps accompanying a synonym for Whimsy… he’d do some research in that regard, he supposed.

Yet it seemed his spell was already quite ingrained into both Heartless and Thunderbolt. Heartless threatened him, but didn’t so much as grapple him, and Thunderbolt didn’t even dare to touch him. That wasn’t acceptable; he had to act as soon as possible, or they’d all be lost, and he already had an idea of how to do it. The order of instructions would be important, too... yes, that should work.

As he moved toward the would-be escape van, Headhunter had no choice but to pass Blabbermouth and his smug face, gesturing as he was. He did not get into the van immediately, but instead walked slowly enough to stall until he heard the second van's near approach. It was then that he acted; quite abruptly, he booted the clone Sofia in the chest and stomach, knocking her into the van and ideally winding her. The real Sofia would suffer that indignity as well, but no matter. He supposed he'd make up for it later on, somehow.

Immediately after his boot had connected, Headhunter wrapped an arm round Blabbermouth’s chest and upper arms, yanked him away from his cloned partner, and called out ‘Heartless, Thunderbolt, help me gag him; Sofia, when you recover, stop your clone,’ at the same time ripping the glove off of the hand holding Blabbermouth in place and attempting to force it into the boy’s mouth. Admittedly, this was helped by Thunderbolt finally being useful and throwing a fist into the side of Blabbermouth's head, dazing him and his alternate self at once, but not knocking them out cold. A fantasy of many detractors of "James", he was sure - punching two of him at once.

In combination with something to stop him spitting it out, worst case scenario the still-army-gloved and thus biteproof hand presently over Blabbermouth's jaw, the clone of Chatterbox would now be depowered enough that Raymond and co. could haul him with minimal resistance to whichever other van the real Chatterbox had called forth and have them drive back to the location separately; Raymond’s own body armour ought to stop Blabbermouth from trying anything funny with any amount of success, and if he was lucky, Sofia would be able to stop herself from saving her ally from what amounted to being kidnapped.

Warhammer 40k: Enemy Without, Enemy Within - an 'Ecclesiarchal' RP [Mature][High Casual/Low Advanced]

I'll do my best to get a post out as soon as possible. In the meantime, @Jbcool I feel compelled to mention that the image given for the power armour colour scheme of the Order of Our Thrice-Pierced Martyr has stopped showing itself. You may want to rectify this at some point.

One Piece: New Horizons!

Dirk Messir - C Is For CEREAL, Also Caesar

He saw the enemy mothership, after sandviving all the other nonsense, including SLICK DIDN'T RUN IN THE SAILS YOU UTTER FOOOOOOL. Also, it was hard for the Divine Purpose to be followed properly, and if he failed, Dirk gets boat injured at times. That wouldn't be good. And then he was right up in the frontness area part of the boat which would get hit when Captain Cool Moustache Wario hits them with his their that crew's boat which is tooooooooo angry.

You may as well jump overboard now. It'd be a quicker death, and the world would be spared your visage, freak.

'NUUOOOOOOHHHH!' Dirk shrieked, both at Death and Derek, who both suck and could not channel the Divine Purpose. But speaking of that, it said do what Borne said, so Dirk can't say what I mean but can do what I mean, and I turned it to the leftleftleft, so the boat would head down right in the leftrightleftrightleftrightleftright I really love your tidy light.

Stop it Retard! You're going to die Dickhead!

You are the retarded ones. I am a genius is Dirk am is he. See, it's turning right now! Right to the appropriate area of the downstream downhill to the area where where they want to be. At the equal time, Caesar Salad was saying to have tell Lillian she needs to do the Cool Jokes, so I says to Mabel I says 'Yes. Do it.' Not in yelling, but she probably heard him. Yeah, she totally heard him say that.

The Rhythm of the Night

Brandon Whittaker

Brandon started his day, as he often did, with a quick 5K, followed by another session of the Wim Hof Method: heavy hyperventilation until his head started feeling fuzzy, almost luminous; expelling all the air from his lungs and holding as long as he could; inhaling as much as he could, then performing pushups until he could no longer hold his breath. Then, repeat, replacing the pushups with a yoga pose. He preferred downward dog, but any would do. He'd go over that cycle again and again until his entire body felt vibrant, then wrap up with a cold shower. All of this set him up for another great day.

Not least of this was the fact that today was a little bit less action-packed than usual. On any given day, he could expect to indulge in English, Engineering, Gymnastics, Dance, and Squash, in some combination or another; today, Squash and Engineering weren't involved, meaning he was left with a couple of extra hours free post-Gym to chat with his family, and then to do something with some of his college friends. They, of course, were always upset that he didn't go out so much with them beyond a certain time; he claimed it was best that they all get an appropriate amount of sleep. For Brandon, of course, that was about four hours, but they didn't need to know that. Besides, crime never slept, no matter what time of day it was.

He also knew he couldn't destroy all crime in one day. Nor could he pull it off if he was constantly wired. So, he had to relax sometimes. Ironically, one of the best places to do that was the bar sandwiched between his apartment complex and the larger, more expensive complex on the bar's other side; so many of the inhabitants of both apartment buildings found themselves there on a regular basis that it was easily the best spot to socialise in for somebody of his means, even if he didn't approve of how many substances found their way into the bodies of many patrons.

That wasn't going to stop him from flouncing into the building with a smile on his lips, though. Jennie was always quite a cool cat, even if she never seemed to slow down - and it seemed a lot of others were here too. Manny, Glenn, even Mister Rich-guy Alexander himself.

'Eeeevening, folks!' he called to everyone, not expecting too much of a reply back from any of them. 'How're y'all doin' today? Good, good? Goooood.' With his introduction made, Brandon took a seat at the bar, asking Jennie for 'The usual' once she got round to serving him - just a Diet Pepsi, in his case. Something a lot of people didn't know was that whilst Pepsi was designed to be drunk cold, Coca-Cola was actually intended to be drunk at room temperature, which was why their flavours differed somewhat when both were chilled.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

@Lugubrious Look, I can't keep not doing anything in this with no action taken on my part. I've been in no mood to keep participating, and frankly, I'm not feeling any motivation at all to post as Motley, especially with most other players at the start of things having vanished by now. I don't imagine my dropping out ruins any significant plot points at this stage, anyway; if it matters, I wish you luck in concluding the game appropriately.

The Rhythm of the Night

Brandon Whittaker - Queen of Swords

BRANDON WHITTAKER - QUEEN OF SWORDS

Mask and Costume of the Queen

---

---

Name: Brandon Whittaker; in vigilante persona, goes by "Queen of Swords"

Gender: Male

Age: 20

Appearance: For a guy, Brandon is oddly feminine. Dark-haired, light-skinned, and pale-eyed, "twink" would be the term to describe him based on his 170cm height - often dressing in dark, loose clothing in casual settings, he has a fondness for hair gel and makeup that borders on camp, not to mention a few bits of jewellery that often stand out compared to his outfit. Many people question his sexuality as a result. He also shaves his entire body very regularly, and has a lot of dark-coloured tights and gym shirts, though these are for legitimate gymnastics reasons rather than being mere fashion choices.

As the Queen of Swords, his clothing is far more distinctive, and far more girlish, showing off a black-and-red cybergoth design that combines leather, cloth, and metal in a distractingly unforgettable fashion, and very subtly adds and subtracts curves in a way that makes his figure seem legitimately female. Combined with a red and black wig, held on by the straps of a pseudo-plague doctor mask glowing with red LEDs and bearing a voice shifter to make himself sound more feminine, it is extremely difficult to distinguish who is under all the clothing and gear. All that, of course, is to hide his true identity whilst he takes on the streets - or so it would seem, as he never crossdresses outside of acting as the Queen of Swords.

Personality: Normally, Brandon comes across as quite an amicable guy. He dedicates himself suitably to whatever work he is tasked with, usually some form of gymnastics practice, but also understands the need to give himself some downtime too, and isn't so fond of those who don't see the need to calm down at any point (though not to the point of hating them if not given a reason to). That said, he's very anti-drug use, and laments how many of his neighbours indulge themselves in such vices, often encouraging them to drop the drugs in order to improve their fitness. He's also the sort of person who truly believes that the bad side of human nature is something that will eventually be excised from the species, and he nominally espouses that this will be through humanity evolving itself beyond a need for such ill traits.

As the Queen of Swords, the full depths of his delusions of grandeur come to the fore - in truth, he sees evil as something that must be dealt justice, and as evolution is very well known for being utterly random beyond whatever survives the breeding cycle, it is therefore true that evil humans must be taken out of the genepool by force rather than guile. He is fully willing to perform this work himself, considering the fact that he hears the Beat proof that he is worthy of this difficult task, and if other Beathearers oppose him, then evidently they have misjudged what they must do, or else fail to recognise what Brandon considers obvious.

History: Brandon was born into a decent enough family, but very frequently showed off tendencies toward more feminine pursuits; he never bore an aptitude for soccer or football, but loved to read and dance, was an avid theatre fan, and was very keen on gymnastics by the time he reached high school. Thus, he wound up being bullied very frequently throughout his years of education; in particular, one boy in high school found a target in Brandon, a boy who at some point developed the power to produce rocky spires to trip or hit people with. Whilst this was no fun for anyone else either, Brandon in particular often wished that boy would suffer some horrible accident, or that he'd suffer in such a way that he'd never bully anybody again.

Brandon's wish would be answered one fateful day, when in the middle of a class he started hearing some sort of music in his head. It was dramatic and fast-paced, reminiscent of a lot of the shows he watched on television as a child, shows featuring heroes beating up the bad guys, shows where the heroes were always in the right. That music inspired Brandon, when he was confronted by that boy again during his lunch break, to kick the boy in the stomach, for which he got beaten up a bunch, though with surprisingly little injury after a quick check-up by the nurse.

By the time he'd gotten out of the nurse's room, that boy's belly had split open in the middle of the schoolgrounds, spilling his organs in front of hundreds of screaming teenagers. The boy received prompt medical treatment and barely survived, but from then on was forced to use a colostomy bag, and- much as Brandon had wanted- never bullied anybody again. It took a few days for the gears to fit together, but Brandon eventually realised the truth: he'd done that. He'd manifested the Beat, and defeated somebody he considered evil.

From then on, his self-image developed in a somewhat twisted fashion, boosting his confidence greatly, but leading to some vile conclusions. He'd gained the power to fight against evil and injustice; that evil hadn't been taken down by any legitimate systems to date; the fact he existed and could do it therefore meant he must in lieu of anything else; since the tools given to him obviously encouraged doing so in a violent fashion, he'd have to use violent means; and that was fine, as those with power regularly committed far worse acts on a regular basis. At some point, something in his brain stopped functioning properly, and by the time he graduated from high school, he'd managed to convince himself that people who performed evil acts weren't human enough to justify letting them live, meaning it was fine if he mutilated them, or even killed them.

What wouldn't be fine would be what happened if he was discovered cutting people up willy-nilly. He had to do it, but he also had to avoid being seen doing it, at least as himself. He had to dissociate himself from such killings as much as possible... and how better to do so, he decided, than to pretend to be female when performing his deeds? Thus, as soon as he moved to a new town to be closer to his college of choice, he ordered a cybergoth outfit designed to make his frame seem feminine, complete with fake plague doctor mask to hide his features.

Since then, every so often, reports have shown up in town about people being discovered missing limbs, disembowelled, and decapitated, not to mention far worse injuries; yet, all victims are visibly seen to have been in the act of committing a crime in the process, and so it happens that too many of those reports simply go unheeded, whether or not they could be followed up on to begin with...

---

---

Beat Heard As: Action orchestral.
Beathearer Type: Beatrunner
Beat Abilities: Generation of ultrasonic vibrations that, when suitably focused, allow him to disrupt molecular bonds on contact and consequently cut through nearly anything with his hands, feet, arms, and legs, even allowing up to a few minutes of delay before an actual cut is made if focused correctly. Substantially enhanced speed, durability, and awareness of his own body, possibly a side effect of his vibrations. Reduced need for sleep - about four hours a night is sufficient for him to remain fully alert. Modified response to potentially traumatic events, leaving him unaffected by the sight of extreme blood and gore.

---

---

Employment: College student and aspiring professional gymnast - he hasn't decided upon Olympic or stage yet.
Accommodations: Three-room, relatively cheap apartment, about an hour's walk from college. Paid for by his parents on the understanding that he doesn't drop out.
Transport: Public or foot. Cars are expensive.
Skillset: Reasonably intelligent, with a particular bent toward kinaesthetic intelligence, providing a keen sense of balance regardless of the surface or his footwear. Extremely flexible, able to bend his body in graceful yet athletic postures. Able to leap quite a substantial distance into the air and land unharmed through a combination of his Beat-borne speed and gymnastic skill.
Anything Else: N/A

One Piece: New Horizons!

Dirk Messir - Flood The Ship With Digital Oceans

Yes. It was time for the cappen to be at the ship commands, and Dirk is ready to do his bit to start doing the bit of sailing that any am man wants to be at. For sailing, that he was already doiung and will do.

'Caaaaan do,' he said, grinning with violence intent to break all these waters. Only he, with his mighty knowledge of ship, can do that. Him and Kaiser. Why though.

'Why though.' Kaiser didn't need to be there, and then also patted his head? But also how? Caesar Inu is short, Dirk is tall, this doesn't make sense. Dirk, what are you doing?

Yes, Dirk. Why are you even there? You don't know how to control a ship. You might as well let the animal man do it; at least he'd have a chance of controlling it.

Bugger off, Caesar is a cool guy, but doesn't know how to understeer properly. I'll do it, because I hev the top mastery of rotation and is the Divine Purpose will guide the paths.

'You smell nice, Caesar,' he said to Caesar. He had a nice smell, nice comforting smelly smell, like a dry dog. Yes.

The Rhythm of the Night

Brandon Whittaker - Queen of Swords

BRANDON WHITTAKER - QUEEN OF SWORDS

Mask and Costume of the Queen

---

---

Name: Brandon Whittaker; in vigilante persona, goes by "Queen of Swords"

Gender: Male

Age: 20

Appearance: For a guy, Brandon is oddly feminine. Dark-haired, light-skinned, and pale-eyed, "twink" would be the term to describe him based on his 170cm height - often dressing in dark, loose clothing in casual settings, he has a fondness for hair gel and makeup that borders on camp, not to mention a few bits of jewellery that often stand out compared to his outfit. Many people question his sexuality as a result. He also shaves his entire body very regularly, and has a lot of dark-coloured tights and gym shirts, though these are for legitimate gymnastics reasons rather than being mere fashion choices.

As the Queen of Swords, his clothing is far more distinctive, and far more girlish, showing off a black-and-red cybergoth design that combines leather, cloth, and metal in a distractingly unforgettable fashion, and very subtly adds and subtracts curves in a way that makes his figure seem legitimately female. Combined with a red and black wig, held on by the straps of a pseudo-plague doctor mask glowing with red LEDs and bearing a voice shifter to make himself sound more feminine, it is extremely difficult to distinguish who is under all the clothing and gear. All that, of course, is to hide his true identity whilst he takes on the streets - or so it would seem, as he never crossdresses outside of acting as the Queen of Swords.

Personality: Normally, Brandon comes across as quite an amicable guy. He dedicates himself suitably to whatever work he is tasked with, usually some form of gymnastics practice, but also understands the need to give himself some downtime too, and isn't so fond of those who don't see the need to calm down at any point (though not to the point of hating them if not given a reason to). That said, he's very anti-drug use, and laments how many of his neighbours indulge themselves in such vices, often encouraging them to drop the drugs in order to improve their fitness. He's also the sort of person who truly believes that the bad side of human nature is something that will eventually be excised from the species, and he nominally espouses that this will be through humanity evolving itself beyond a need for such ill traits.

As the Queen of Swords, the full depths of his delusions of grandeur come to the fore - in truth, he sees evil as something that must be dealt justice, and as evolution is very well known for being utterly random beyond whatever survives the breeding cycle, it is therefore true that evil humans must be taken out of the genepool by force rather than guile. He is fully willing to perform this work himself, considering the fact that he hears the Beat proof that he is worthy of this difficult task, and if other Beathearers oppose him, then evidently they have misjudged what they must do, or else fail to recognise what Brandon considers obvious.

History: Brandon was born into a decent enough family, but very frequently showed off tendencies toward more feminine pursuits; he never bore an aptitude for soccer or football, but loved to read and dance, was an avid theatre fan, and was very keen on gymnastics by the time he reached high school. Thus, he wound up being bullied very frequently throughout his years of education; in particular, one boy in high school found a target in Brandon, a boy who at some point developed the power to produce rocky spires to trip or hit people with. Whilst this was no fun for anyone else either, Brandon in particular often wished that boy would suffer some horrible accident, or that he'd suffer in such a way that he'd never bully anybody again.

Brandon's wish would be answered one fateful day, when in the middle of a class he started hearing some sort of music in his head. It was dramatic and fast-paced, reminiscent of a lot of the shows he watched on television as a child, shows featuring heroes beating up the bad guys, shows where the heroes were always in the right. That music inspired Brandon, when he was confronted by that boy again during his lunch break, to kick the boy in the stomach, for which he got beaten up a bunch, though with surprisingly little injury after a quick check-up by the nurse.

By the time he'd gotten out of the nurse's room, that boy's belly had split open in the middle of the schoolgrounds, spilling his organs in front of hundreds of screaming teenagers. The boy received prompt medical treatment and barely survived, but from then on was forced to use a colostomy bag, and- much as Brandon had wanted- never bullied anybody again. It took a few days for the gears to fit together, but Brandon eventually realised the truth: he'd done that. He'd manifested the Beat, and defeated somebody he considered evil.

From then on, his self-image developed in a somewhat twisted fashion, boosting his confidence greatly, but leading to some vile conclusions. He'd gained the power to fight against evil and injustice; that evil hadn't been taken down by any legitimate systems to date; the fact he existed and could do it therefore meant he must in lieu of anything else; since the tools given to him obviously encouraged doing so in a violent fashion, he'd have to use violent means; and that was fine, as those with power regularly committed far worse acts on a regular basis. At some point, something in his brain stopped functioning properly, and by the time he graduated from high school, he'd managed to convince himself that people who performed evil acts weren't human enough to justify letting them live, meaning it was fine if he mutilated them, or even killed them.

What wouldn't be fine would be what happened if he was discovered cutting people up willy-nilly. He had to do it, but he also had to avoid being seen doing it, at least as himself. He had to dissociate himself from such killings as much as possible... and how better to do so, he decided, than to pretend to be female when performing his deeds? Thus, as soon as he moved to a new town to be closer to his college of choice, he ordered a cybergoth outfit designed to make his frame seem feminine, complete with fake plague doctor mask to hide his features.

Since then, every so often, reports have shown up in town about people being discovered missing limbs, disembowelled, and decapitated, not to mention far worse injuries; yet, all victims are visibly seen to have been in the act of committing a crime in the process, and so it happens that too many of those reports simply go unheeded, whether or not they could be followed up on to begin with...

---

---

Beat Heard As: Action orchestral.
Beathearer Type: Beatrunner
Beat Abilities: Generation of ultrasonic vibrations that, when suitably focused, allow him to disrupt molecular bonds on contact and consequently cut through nearly anything with his hands, feet, arms, and legs, even allowing up to a few minutes of delay before an actual cut is made if focused correctly. Substantially enhanced speed, durability, and awareness of his own body, possibly a side effect of his vibrations. Reduced need for sleep - about four hours a night is sufficient for him to remain fully alert. Modified response to potentially traumatic events, leaving him unaffected by the sight of extreme blood and gore.

---

---

Employment: College student and aspiring professional gymnast - he hasn't decided upon Olympic or stage yet.
Accommodations: Three-room, relatively cheap apartment, about an hour's walk from college. Paid for by his parents on the understanding that he doesn't drop out.
Transport: Public or foot. Cars are expensive.
Skillset: Reasonably intelligent, with a particular bent toward kinaesthetic intelligence, providing a keen sense of balance regardless of the surface or his footwear. Extremely flexible, able to bend his body in graceful yet athletic postures. Able to leap quite a substantial distance into the air and land unharmed through a combination of his Beat-borne speed and gymnastic skill.
Anything Else: N/A

Capes of Denver: A Worm RP

Alessa Heather: Trainyard

It didn’t take too long after Lillian was shot with whatever it was that the Wards finally regrouped entirely. Margrave managed to smack one of the clones round the head with a wooden bat, hard enough to crack it in two, before offering his assistance with carrying the injured dino-girl. Messiah accepted with a nod - she’d tell him what a good job he’d done later, she reckoned.

First, make sure everyone got out without dying. Upset was fine, dead wasn’t.

They did, fortunately. Epsilon immediately rushed forward and took a few deep breaths, saying something foul to Decoy specifically. Right. They didn’t have enough intel. Decoy was probably at fault for that, she felt. Was that fair? Probably not.

A couple of moments later, something detonated in the building, and the entire thing collapsed, crushing whatever Deans remained within. Burying them. That was it. The original was dead, all the clones were dead. Nothing remained in this universe of poor Dean.

Fuck. She teared up. She should’ve done more to help him when she had the chance. Fuuuck.

And Lillian agreed, too. Was that the first time she’d been heard to curse? Either way, she did it, and even as she struggled to remain conscious on the ground - as Alessa kept a tight hold of her hand - she detailed what had caused... from the sound of it, what had first caused her to freak out. Master protocol? Damn. Damn damn damn. The Jacks really weren’t people to mess around with, then.

Speaking of whom, some unknown approached them with a teenager over his shoulder, placing the kid in the back of their transport before addressing Lieutenant Reynolds about Lillian’s condition and leaping away. She needed medical attention ASAP, and from the look of things, so did Private Skeetz.

...oh yeah. She’d gotten injured too. Huh.

That guy was a Jack, wasn’t he. Bastard. Or, maybe not, if he helped save somebody who probably shouldn’t have been there.

‘Messiah, are you okay? You’re injured,’ Lieutenant Reynolds said, somewhat concerned.

‘Oh, yeah, I’m fine.’

When had she collapsed to her hands and knees. Why did she do that.

Oh yeah. Dead Deans.

Dead Deans everywhere. Puddles of blood and liquid meat and the real Dean exploded by some impossibly loud shot.

When did she start shrieking at the top of her lungs for a few seconds. Stop that.

Oh yeah. Dead-

She stood up, coughing away the slight pain in her throat now. She still held Lillian’s hand. ‘J-just fine. W-why do you a-ask?’ No, stop your voice trembling. That’s not leaderly. It’s not.

---

Raymond Haywood: Trainyard

For crying out loud, were they all idiots? Or was he just annoyed because they hadn’t immediately followed his orders as expected? Or, maybe Troll was having a lingering effect on him. In any case, he was somewhat upset, and short of slaying a couple more clones trying to make their escape, he could do nothing but wait for the other Jacks to show their faces.

Finally, somebody turned up before him: Jason, mentioning the presence of multiple clones of- really? Was he really under the impression Raymond hadn’t also heard Chatterbox mention his and Sofia’s new doppelgangers? And then, of course, he wandered off to help the two soldiers carry away the unconscious boy nearby. Why? Chances were, they were just going to come back later.

To hell with it. He had better things to be doing than waiting for the remaining two Jacks to get out of there. Following Jason’s one good bit of advice, he began to stroll toward the nearest car - only to see Chatterbox and Sofia on their way toward it. At least... some version of them. Quickly, and remaining as hidden as he could behind one of the external storage containers, he morphed his gun to its Desert Eagle form, then pointed it in their direction and scoped in.

Target: Chatterbox. Version currently in view-

No, not even a hint of targeting. Were they the clones? Most likely, otherwise why would they still be under cloaking? Then again, why wouldn’t the originals also remain under cloak? More importantly, it struck Raymond that Chatterbox’s advice would be utterly worthless; if they were the clones, the Chatterbox of the duo would have potentially no qualms about mind controlling any of the other Jacks around. Didn’t the original Overrun claim “This isn’t my universe, so why not screw it up a little”, or something to that end?

Unfortunately, then, there was nothing to be done with them other than let them go for now, and either meet up with them back at the safehouse, or wait for a better opportunity to take them out individually if they turned out to be the false copies. Sofia couldn’t keep her eyes closed forever, after all.

Quite suddenly, something in the warehouse exploded, and it began to collapse before him; Raymond found himself forced to scramble away from the debris cloud as the building came down, briefly blinding and choking him before the dust settled. Well, if the beings still inside weren’t dead before, they were now.

And yet, for some insane reason, Jason had decided it would be a good idea to approach the two unknowns. Not just him, but Heartless too - who at this point was just adding to a laundry list of idiocies in Raymond’s mind. Son of a... didn’t they realise how easily they could be turned to the copy Chatterbox’s will, if indeed that was a copy?

Speaking of copies, the other versions of he and Sofia found themselves visible at last. At least they’d gotten out of the warehouse before it collapsed. Though, would Sofia’s power have saved them from the building’s rubble? Admittedly, it probably would have, considering how that worked- why was he trying to figure it out? He needed to determine if they were the clones or not, because if they weren’t, Thunderbolt and Heartless were playing a very dangerous game.

Ignoring Heartless’ suggestion that they leave as soon as possible, and the loud scream of anguish that emerged from somewhere on the other side of the wrecked warehouse, Headhunter strolled casually over to the two unoccupied versions of his teammates, gun still drawn, and uttered to them ‘So what would you do if I said “purple venom” to you, Chatterbox?’

Warhammer 40k: Enemy Without, Enemy Within - an 'Ecclesiarchal' RP [Mature][High Casual/Low Advanced]

@jbeil Not quite snowed in, but we're not far off that point where I am.