DocTachyon

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

SPIDER-MAN: THE DISTANCE

Issue 1

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New York City, NY --- Thompson Memorial Hospital

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Ben’s room at the Thompson Memorial was smaller than it had any right to be, jammed into the corner of the Eastern wing, a room as far away from the bustle of personnel and people with quality medical insurance as they could find. A bundled mass of machines, all constantly blinking and churning out reports, lay in a mess around the room, jammed wherever they could fit to keep Ben Parker alive just a few minutes longer. The two seats in the room were awkwardly together against the back wall, chair legs competing for each other’s space.

Peter in one, May in the other. They’d been told a while ago that the worst of it was over, for now. Nerve damage to the spine, probably permanent, unless Stark came out with some new “revolutionizing gizmo” again. Peter never laughed at their jokes. May always looked up at them with those big, sad eyes of hers whenever they did it, trying to cling on to the hope in their jargon. Not understanding. May’s hand was around his now, white knuckled and bony as always. She stared at the rise and fall of Ben’s chest, but her eyes were glazed over, her mind somewhere else. When Peter looked at her he could only see the age in her face. Past the grief and the tracks of tears, all that was left was her years spent with Ben; walks through Central Park, long swims down at Coney Island beach. Now the wonder was how Ben could get up the stairs to his own bedroom. If he woke up, anyhow. When he woke up.

Peter shifted in his chair and the noise cut through the whir of medical machinery, hard scrape of plastic against cheap linoleum. May started in her seat and Peter gave her hand a squeeze.

“I-I'm sorry Peter dear, I…” May shook her head.

“S’okay, Aunt May. My fault. Sorry.” Peter’s thumb circled the back of her hand. ”Listen, I uh… I think I’m just gonna go outside and catch some air, okay? I’ll be right back.”

May nodded slowly and turned back to her husband, clasping her hands together and receding even further into herself, if that were even possible. Peter stood and winced as he unclenched his hands. He didn’t realize he’d been doing it that hard. Still, to think that some sonofabitch had shot his Uncle and was now doing this to his Aunt, and was… Peter’s fingers dug back into the bruise on his hand and he swore under his breath.

The room’s door closed behind him and he sucked in the stale, reprocessed Hospital air. It wasn’t much better than the stuffed up room, but it was something. The hall was silent, spare for the echoed clack of the receptionist’s mechanical keyboard and the steady hum of the white fluorescent lights. Peter dropped into one of the felt chairs outside and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. How long had it been, now? Three, four days? They weren’t expecting him in school for a while at least, but every day he couldn’t get away from the hospital was another day the shooter had to hide himself from Peter. From the police. From Spider-Man. He grabbed the arms of the chair and squeezed. Useless just sitting here and... And watching him. Peter needed to be out there, doing something, finding the bastard that… Three sets of shoes coming down the hallway. Peter tensed. Already he was up on his haunches in the chair, and he could feel the suit gurgling below the surface, waiting to spring across his body in an instant.

What was it? The killer coming to finish the job? Their steps didn’t have the cadence of the Doctors, and he and May were the only family Ben had. They were nearly to the bend now, Peter’s biceps swelled underneath his shirt and he pointed his hands forward. He reached out for his Spider-Sense and felt nothing, no chill across his mind. Suit on the fritz? Maybe. Either way, just a second now, and…

”Gwen?” Peter realized his mistake and all the fight went out of him. His balance gave and he dropped forward. His chin cracked against the linoleum. ”Ow.” Through the haze of the vague pain travelling up through his chin, he could make out the three of them; Gwen, Harry, and MJ.

“Geez, Pete! Over excited to see us?” Harry Osborn’s smile went from ear to ear as Peter tumbled, awkwardly trying to find his footing and right himself again. His arm was around MJ, she laughed as Peter finally established himself on two wobbly legs. Gwen stood before them, rubbing her hands together.

”You know me. Excitable is my middle name.” Peter rubbed his chin as the pain faded into a background throb and his friends reached him. Gwen threw her arms around him and pulled him in close. Her hair smelled like strawberries.

“Hope you’re doing okay, Peter…” Just as quickly as she’d hugged him Gwen began to pull away from him, blushing. “Sorry.”

“Uh, thanks, Gwen…” Peter patted her on the back and tried to seperate himself from her arms. ”It, uh… It means a lot, actually. What brings you guys out all this way?”

“We’re here to see you, tiger.” MJ said, untangling herself from her boyfriend and going to check on Peter herself.

“We’re, uh, all fine here now, thanks. How are you?” Peter crossed his arms and the words tumbled out. Same old stupid Parker with his foot in his mouth, right? MJ and Gwen looked him up and down while Harry shot off a text on his OsPhone, which he deposited in his back pocket before joining the girls.

”Just been missing you in school, bud. Bet even that jackass Flash is, even if he won’t tell anyone.” Harry didn’t know it but his grin was just like his Dad’s, wide and thin. He always looked like he’d just gained the upper hand. MJ swatted her boyfriend’s shoulder and reached out to take Peter’s hand.

”What Harry is trying to say is that we care about you and just wanted to check up on you.” MJ squeezed his hand and plunked down into the seat he’d just been occupying. Gwen tentatively touched his arm.

”How’s Ben?” Peter pulled his arm away and into himself, scratching at the back of his head.

”He’s uh… He’s hanging in there, yeah. Hanging like Luke in the Wampa den, but… Hanging.” Peter sighed. He looked at Gwen and she looked right back at him. Her big blues were unblemished by tears or sleepless nights over a hospital bed. No, she was just Gwen Stacy. Peter looked away. His hands were balling again. ”Have you heard anything from El Capìtan about Ben’s case?”

Gwen smiled but she looked down, shaking her head. ”I’m sorry, they didn’t put Dad on it. Said he was too close to it. They said the department was putting their best people on it, if that means anything to you.”

”Okay.” Peter nodded again and again. ”Okay.”

”Pete? You’re shaking.” Harry started.

”I’m fine, Har. I’m good.” Peter jammed his hands in his pockets and looked away. He tried to focus on his breathing, on his heartbeat, anything to calm down, but all he could hear in the back of his mind was the steady gurgle of the suit. Waiting. Wanting.

”Peter.” Gwen’s hand on his shoulder. ”I know you want to be strong. For May. But we know… I know what it’s like to lose someone, okay? You can talk to us.”

Peter bristled, every muscle coiled together and prepared to pounce, but Peter just focused on the cadence of Gwen’s voice. She was right, deep down Peter knew that. They wanted to help. But Spider-Man wanted something else.

”I appreciate it guys, really, it’s just, uh…” C’mon, Parker, think! he was never good with excuses.

”If you want us to go, we’ll go, but…” Harry scratched at the non-existent stubble on his chin. ”I just… I unno, it might be better for you if we stayed?"

MJ pulled Harry into a sideways hug as he sat and she looked up at Peter. ”You don’t need to do it alone, Parker. You’ve got May, and you’ve more than got us. Any way we can take the weight off a little?”

Maybe I don’t have to do it alone. But Spider-Man does. Peter massaged his temples. ”Look, I can stick around a while longer but, uh… I think I just need to get my mind off things. By myself, that is. Sorry. Maybe I’ll play The Old Scriptures V again, or something.”

”That works. They just released Byerim on the Os-Homes.” Harry said.

”Thanks for staying awhile, Pete.” Gwen sat and patted the empty seat next to her.

I just hope I don’t regret it…

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

D O C P R E S E N T S

S P I D E R - M A N

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^{_{P E T E R B E N J A M I N P A R K E R ♦ S T U D E N T ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y ♦ M I D T O W N H I G H}}

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

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^{"... Define witty?"}

Peter Benjamin Parker was born to Richard and Mary Parker, out of an unassuming home in Queens. What would be a fairly ordinary childhood was cut short when his parents were killed in a random car accident. The other driver was never caught, but such as it is with New York City. The young Peter, only six at the time, quickly found himself in the care of his aunt and uncle, May and Ben Parker.

Peter has found himself in their care for the better part of ten years, now. Though the Parker family was never wealthy, they found their happiness in other ways -- Peter was always fascinated with little tinker toys Ben brought for him, content to fidget and experiment his days away, while Ben and May would dance in the living room to old records. It was never perfect, but Peter always found it a certain kind of idyllic. His parents' deaths were long behind him, and he took comfort in his life with Ben and May. Along the way, he made a fledgling group of friends in and around Queens: Gwen Stacy, child of a cop and a personal confidant, Harry Osborn, son a veritable super genius and still the only man alive to beat Peter at Mario Kart, and Mary Jane Watson, a girl with a fire in her heart like nothing else. Even Flash Thompson palled around with them in Elementary School, but he'd grown to be something of a bully in recent years. Peter always knew that High School changed people, but he never really found out how much until the day of the Oscorp field trip.

Thanks to some wheedling from the Osborn heir apparent, a school field trip brought Peter's entire sophomore class for a day at Oscorp Industries. They were touring the genetics lab, but anyone who was anyone knew what Oscorp was really interested in; an extra-planetary substance that seemed somehow capable of enhancing whatever it was applied to. It was largely inert, but the substance did seem to move on its own troublingly often. Such behavior was chalked up to residual static discharge by Oscorp Weapons Mechanics, an error in judgment they would come to regret. On the day of the field trip, the substance gathered enough energy to breach containment and escape into the wider world, riding whatever host it deemed appropriate. As the visitors from Midtown High were being evacuated amid the breach, Peter spotted an unusually large, black arachnid, not of any species known to him. Concluding the spider must be playing host to the escaped creature, Peter attempted to capture and return it. He reached for it, and --

Peter awoke the next day in his bedroom, Aunt May and Uncle Ben at either side. He'd suddenly collapsed at Oscorp, evidently from stress, and was brought straight back home. The following weeks were full of revelations for Peter -- he found he had enhanced strength, speed, and even the ability to shoot webbing from his wrists or crawl on walls. On top of it all, he'd gained the ability to seemingly transform the clothes on his body to any shape he desired. Somehow, he'd gained the abilities of a spider and more, and he wasn't about to let them go to waste. It was about time the Parkers had another source of income. A three-match wrestling career as "The Black Spider" was cut short when Peter allowed an armed robber to flee the arena. The man had an armful of cash stolen from the Tournament Organizer who refused Peter what he was owed, suspecting he had stacked the deck by being a "metahuman". Once allowed him to get away, the man shot his Uncle Ben in a carjacking; nearly fatally, too. Ben suffered permanent spinal damage. Doctors suspected he'd never walk again, and none of them could tell Peter anything useful that he could do. So he decided to make his own way, and hunt down the man was shot his Uncle, as... THE INDOMITABLE SPIDER-MAN!

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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My Peter is very different from the vanilla version. He's got the symbiote suit to start, and his Uncle Ben isn't dead, at least not yet. This is a Peter who hasn't quite gotten "With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility" through his head yet, and is hell-bent on bringing the man that shot his Uncle to justice, by any means necessary. On top of it all, he's very, very green to his job and has no idea what he's doing.

To be clear, these changes aren't made to have an angstier or edgier Peter, though there will be a sprig of that as is the nature of the symbiote. I want to tell a story about a struggling Peter, his family is sinking in debt under Hospital bills, he's unraveling the case of his Uncle's shooting while contesting a Police Department that refuses to work with him, all while dealing with the trials and tribulations of High School. This will be a story about Peter being pushed to his limitations and confronting them, a story about family and expectations, and above all else, a story about what Great Responsibility really means. He's going to make a lot of bad choices, and be thoroughly punished for them, to force him to truly become The Indomitable Spider-Man.

In terms of my grander aspirations, I'm certainly starting Peter in the black suit for a reason. In time, the symbiote will come to tinge everything Peter touches. His life, his work, his villains, and especially those closest to him. This version of Spider-Man will eventually take heavy horror cues, eventually showing a Spider-Man on the run from an encroaching array of symbiote-enhanced villains coming for his head, and secretly infecting those closest to him. Peter won't know who he can trust, and he needs to stay on his toes at every moment. He's just a kid that's been thrust into this terrifying body-horror situation with an alien being that has literally fused to his body, and this run will explore the consequences of that.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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Supporting Cast

Ben Parker: Peter's Uncle. Ben's always been a father figure to Peter, trying to instill him with his values, but still letting the kid be a kid. He's been one of the biggest enablers for Peter's love of science. He's currently paralyzed from the waist down, and needs a hell of a lot of rest.

May Parker: Peter's Aunt. The old lady's always been a little coddling for Peter's taste, but her heart's in the right place. She's been a greater partner to Ben and a great mother figure for Peter over the years, but she does occasionally have a tendency to clutch her pearls.

Gwen Stacy: One of Peter's closest friends in the world, and one of the most vocal supporters of Spider-Man, despite her Police Captain father's protests. Gwen's always been a science geek like him, but she ended up getting more into the arts and activism than he ever did. She's the drummer in MJ's band, The Mary Janes.

Mary Jane Watson: One of Peter's closest friends. She comes from a bad home, and she's got an anti-establishment streak a mile wide. Harry's girlfriend. Singer, Frontwoman, and Lead Guitarist of The Mary Janes.

Harry Osborn: Son of Norman Osborn and aspiring coder. He doesn't have the head for it, but he wants to make his Dad proud, and maybe use it to make games on the side or something. Also one of Peter's closest friends, although he can be brash at times, he's always right there when you need him.

Glory Grant: Guitarist of The Mary Janes. Peter isn't very close to her, but she's a friend to MJ and Gwen. She's got the skinny on Flash Thompson's whole deal, and Peter finds it entertaining to listen to every now and again.

Betty Brant: Bassist of The Mary Janes. Peter was never very close with her, but she's a friend to MJ and Gwen. She's very close with Glory. She doesn't seem it on the surface, but she's got a thing for Death Metal.

Flash Thompson: Six feet of raw muscle and not an ounce of sense to fill that head of his. He's the QB of the Midtown High Football team, which he thinks gives him the right to lord over everyone at the school. He tends to pick on Peter more than other kids, Peter thinks its because he still remembers the story of the time Flash pissed himself in the 6th grade.

Liz Allan: Never one of the smartest kids in school, but she's always been sweet with Peter. And a little flirty, too, but that's how she is to most guys... Right? Anyway, she's Flash's girlfriend, so Peter tries to keep his distance.

Doctor Curt Connors: One of Peter's idols, a brilliant geneticist, chemical engineer, and biologist working out of his labs at Empire State University. Peter and Gwen were lucky enough to score an internship with him.

Doctor Martha Connors: Lab assistant and wife to Curt Connors, but a brilliant geneticist in her own right.

J. Jonah Jameson: Local News editor at the Daily Bugle working his way to Editor-In-Chief. JJ hasn't caught wind of the Spider-Man yet, but Peter's more than seen some of his work in the papers; he seems at least a little competent.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Sample

Issue 0

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New York City, NY

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The gunshot knifed through the Autumn air. Above the traffic and the footsteps of millions, beyond sputtering tailpipes and screaming merchants, it was the one sound that rang in Peter Parker’s ears. Over and over and over again. He felt like he was small again, hearing the phone crash into the receiver as Aunt May staggered. Death.

It hit his heart before it his his brain, and he was running. His feet cracked against the pavement. He might’ve been leaving divots, he didn’t care, just pressing forward. The suit around him tightened, he felt it in the very fibers of his muscles, giving him the boost he needed. His vision was tunneled, but it didn’t matter. He was guided between passerby as if they weren’t there at all, the only evidence of his passing left in the explosions of his footfalls. The rest of his senses had singular focus.

The gunman’s footsteps were a cacophony, echoing through a hundred yards of pavement and reverberating with every cell in his body, even his stench filled Peter, sweat and adrenaline and blood and fear -- and it was getting farther and farther away. A football field. Two. The crowds were too much. Instantaneously, Peter’s legs coiled and he launched a half dozen meters in the air. A hand snapped forward and a webline pirouetted through the sky, snagging onto a flagpole.

His momentum carried him through the swing, he released and hung over the streets for a moment. It felt like an eternity, a spider hunting for his prey. There. Peter picked the ski mask out of the crowd, bobbing and weaving, waving a gun at anyone that didn’t move fast enough. Peter’s body compressed into a missile and he shot downward. At the last second he launched another web and pulled. He sailed down the street and hit the ground in a roll.

He was almost upon the gunman, now. If he listened close, he could hear the gunman’s panicked breathing. He was already haggard from running, like there were rocks in his lungs. Peter was low to the ground, and the concrete below him was a blur as he closed the distance. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten. The gunman rounded a corner.

A web hooked into the corner of a building and Peter pulled himself around at speed, and the gunman was gone. Thousands of faces swirled before him, all staring at the man with the white spider on his chest. A ski mask. One goddamn ski mask ripped off and freeing the bastard that shot...

“Damnit!” Peter’s fist lanced out and cleaved a hunk of brickwork from the corner. Passerby staggered back, screaming. His own voice came to him as if in a dream: What am I doing? Peter shook his head. Who… Who had been shot, anyway? It wasn’t… No. It couldn’t be.

His suit began to fade as he turned, running back from where he came. A superhuman’s sprint became a teenager’s jog, black boots warping back into hand-me-down converse. It couldn’t be, right? Just a dream he’d seen in the heat of the moment. That guy shot at someone, so he’d only imagine the worse, right?

Right?

There was a crowd gathered around the car. That wasn’t Ben’s car. It couldn’t be. It was a green Honda, but plenty of people drove those. And plenty of people had the Midtown High Student Achievement stickers on the back window. And more people than that had the ESU alumni bumper plates. And Ben’s sticker for Vets and May’s stupid fish thing and that license plate number and… Oh God.

“Move! Please!” Peter’s muscles felt like they were made out of jello, a tiny little creature in a crowd full of giants. A kid again. The people interlocked and swirled, cascading over one another in waves, not a one of them stepping forward to help.

“Please!” Peter was lost in their ocean, fighting to just get closer. He remembered that day, so many people, so many gifts that were supposed to make him feel better, Aunt May hugging herself by the fireplace while Ben bounced him up and down on his knee, over and over and over again. Ben’s face through the crowds just trying to pay their respects, someone else who really felt something. He couldn’t do it again. Not with Ben.

“It’s my Uncle! Let me through!” Finally he made his way, falling forward through the group. His powers were gone from him and a scraped knee ripped across his consciousness. He pushed himself to his feet and there he saw it. Uncle Ben.

He was slumped against the side of the car. The red was everywhere, pumping steadily out of a little hole in his abdomen. Both of his hands were pressed into the wound and he was tight-lipped. Peter couldn’t see tears. He just stared right through at the ground, his mind somewhere else, trying to think of some way through this.

“Ben?” Peter’s voice cracked.

“Peter.” Red rimmed eyes met his. Still, Ben smiled. Peter stumbled closer, both knees knocked hard against the pavement.

“Ben, Ben, it’sgonnabeokay Ben, I promise, I… I--” Ben’s hand came around his back and pulled him close. He was so warm.

“S’okay, Peter. S’okay.” Peter could feel the blood leaking onto his jeans, but he pulled himself closer to Ben, running his hands through his Uncle’s hair. No no no no no no... He could hear an ambulance now, piercing the noise of the crowd.

“Peter… My father always… My father always told me: With great power must also…” Peter looked up. The ambulance was close.

“Hey! Hey!” The crowds were parting. “Help us! Please!” Maybe there was a chance. A hand tugged at his shirt. It was so weak. Ben’s eyes drifted, they couldn’t meet Peter’s.

“With great power…” Ben started again. “Comes great res--” Peter pulled Ben closer, he pumped his arms, trying to wave the crowd away, clear a path for the paramedics. They were so close.

“Save your strength… Please. They’re so… We’re so close… I can’t.” Peter swallowed. “Please.”

Ben stared back at him. His hand was stained red. Still pressed against his wounds. The paramedics were upon them now, and Peter was pushed away as they set to work, kneeling beside him.

“Okay.”

C A T A L O G U E:

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Spider-Man: The Distance

Issue 1
Issue 2
Issue 3

Doc's Chop Shop

hal

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

G R E E N L A N T E R N

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^{_{H A L J O R D A N ♦ T E S T P I L O T ♦ C O A S T C I T Y ♦ B. 1944}}

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

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^{"In brightest day, in blackest night... Uh, line, Kilowog?"}

Coast City never treated Hal Jordan well growing up. It had its own wonders, certainly. Beaches up and down the coast as far as the eye could see and rolling tracts of perfect morning dew suburbia in the hills beyond the city proper. But in Coast City, awash with lights and crowded in by the restful giants of the wartime ammunition factories beyond, you could never see the stars.

By Hal's measure, the war was the cause of all of his problems. Not Korea, the really big one where everybody joined in, Hal always had to specifiy, the one dad bought the farm in. That crack always bought him a bop on the head and some grumbling about "respect", so Hal supposed that the admonishment was the war's fault, too. It was the war that pushed the light out of the sky, changed it from the town of his parents' childhood that made Mom's voice perk up when she spoke about it into a thing of iron and concrete. It was the reason Tommy Tanaka from next door had gone, too, and he was the only kid that Hal could get to play pretend Flying Ace and Red Baron with him.

"Ma says its coz' of the war we got ta' move."
"How's that?"
"Ma says the people here used ta' keep us in cages, then. N' that things ain't got any better since."
"No better...? Do you got cages in your house?"
"I thought about that too, but Dad says this city is just a great big one."

Hal and Tommy, 1950

And then there was Dad, who Mom cried about when she thought Hal had finally drifted off to sleep. Hal figured he must've been a real important guy. In the stories Mom told him, he had some kinda magic in his heart that he must've plucked out of the sky that Mom said let him fly faster and higher than anyone else. For Hal that settled it, if Dad could do it maybe he could too, maybe even finally reach up and touch the stars that had gone missing over the city.

But flying wasn't in the cards for Hal. Instead he was saddled with a pair of coke bottle lenses and instructions to make sure to eat his carrots if he wanted any kind of shot at the controls of an airplane. Hal's first kiss ended up telling him he had carrot breath, but he figured it was worth the trade. As long as he could look forward and keep stepping towards the sky, he'd make it through anything, school, college, break ups, even every damn page of his aeronautics textbook.

Still, for every carrot he swallowed and every precaution he took to keep his eyes in mint condition, it was a miracle he got any position at all. A battery of failed FAA eye exams meant he'd never be a combat pilot, he'd be lucky to even get a job flying rubbernecking tourists across the country.

But Ferris Aircraft didn't need a combat pilot, it needed a technician that knew his vehicle inside and out. It helped that Dad did some work for them at the start of the war, that old man Ferris had a long memory, and that his daughter had a knack for finding the best in her flyboys. Hal wasn't combat-ready, sure, but he could piece together more about the quality of a test aircraft just after takeoff than most pilots could after full flights in them.

It was like this for some years, mornings spreading his wings over the Californian desert, and nights writing aching reports about every bump and hassle and errant knob his craft had on offer. That is, until the night he saw his first Coast City shooting star, a twinkling emerald jewel that came down, down, down.

It is he who shall next bear the ring, the star told him as it slotted itself upon his finger, leading him to the corpse of its former wearer. Abin Sur was dead -- and an alien, but Hal ultimately decided that the dead part was the more pressing concern -- murdered in his own spaceship.

Over the next days, the organization Hal found himself conscripted in, The Green Lantern Corps, would place a sector wide blockade on the planet. No entry or exit from Earth's solar system under any circumstances, the powers that be wanted a locked door mystery. Leaving Hal and the remnants of Abin Sur's team to keep the peace among an increasingly restless population of aliens who didn't expect to be staying on Earth for quite so long.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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Green Lantern Year One, you've heard the song a hundred times before but never from these instruments. Truth be told this is a boilerplate Green Lantern set up, chock full of power rings, intergalactic law, and more aliens than you can shake a Kilowog at. My main goal here is a pretty steep difference in execution, less a space police procedural with the nigh-omnipotent protectors of the galaxy, and more a journey of willpower and deceit as Hal navigates the increasingly complicated politics of the Green Lantern Corps and the people its meant to protect, couched in the adventure of a Green Lantern that has to figure out far too much of this for himself.

This is a story about cops and power, about lurking murderers, long shadows, and the infinite reaches of space. Most of all, this is a story of the power of human resolve.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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I'm changing some things about the Green Lanterns, eat my shorts. The things of import are as follows.

GLC Changes

-The power rings tend to be much less powerful than they are usually portrayed in the DCU. All but the best Green Lanterns often have trouble maintaining constructs of significant power, leaving such applications of their ring much less useful. As well, the ring overall does much less of the work, each Lantern must earn every benefit the ring bestows upon them, even the Lantern basics of flight or interstellar travel.

-Speaking of changes to the rings, each bearer tends to have a specialty. I won't say too much about what exactly these can do, but know that a Green Lantern can do more than a fnacy light show.

-For my story, the nature of the power rings toes the line between the mystic and extraterrestrial technology. They are said to be as old as Oa, the agents of a power that is still not fully understood.

-As well, Green Lantern Corps members are not the only ones that have gotten their hands on these handy dandy power rings, even the green ones. The Corps is instead simply the largest organized conglomerate of ring bearers who, with the assistance of their Guardians, have forged an organization dedicated to intergalactic policing.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Issue 0

GREEN LANTERN in: LITTLE WING

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“A Green Lantern’s first flight is a rite of passage. It is a demonstration of his mastery, not just of the fundamentals of his ring, but of the infinite force of his own will. Through flight, a Green Lantern is--”

“Kilowog,” Hal interrupted the creature standing two heads over him, “I asked for advice, not Sinestro’s flying speech again.”

Hal was still getting used to reading the big guy’s expressions. The structure of his face was somewhere between a warthog and a hippo, with rough pink skin that looked like sandpaper. His face shifted, opening up his parapeted lower jaw and cracking what Hal assumed was a smile.

“It’s all the advice they ever gave me, poozer. You just gotta work with it,” Kilowog said. He was sitting on the remains of one of the lawn chairs Hal had dragged out here for them, sagging with splintered plastic legs that had cried out and collapsed under the alien’s weight. But still, he sat in it, evidently it was better than getting California desert sand all over the ass of his uniform.

They were out in the reaches of Death Valley, hidden from prying eyes by plumes of cacti and the endless expanse of desert all around them. Hal liked it, out here. Away from the lights of the city, where the stars could come out of hiding and whisper of their mysteries unabated. It was like being out in the far ocean, with rolling waves that stretched to the horizon beyond and where the sky seemed to swallow up the whole world. But here in the desert, the rippling waves were frozen as sand and grit, no longer moving with the tide but sitting in meditative silence.

According to Sinestro, Hal and Kilowog’s boss, meditation was exactly what he needed if he ever intended to get his ring to take him into the sky. That was one of the things he didn’t understand, flying from his angle was never about meditation. It was about reflex and constant movement, keeping an eye on all your dials and instruments, keeping your hands flowing like water across the test console to be wherever they were needed.

“Well, fat load of good that’ll do me,” Hal said, “we’ve been out here an hour and my will definitely doesn’t feel infinite.”

“An hour that you’ve spent, nonstop, trying to take off like Superman,” Kilowog said. He scratched at the icon of a lantern on his chest with a white-gloved, four-fingered hand.

“What, you have any better ideas?” Hal whapped the ring on his finger like it was a malfunctioning TV set.

“Have you tried asking the ring?” Kilowog shifted in his seat and more plastic snapped and broke, bringing him closer to the desert below.

“Asking the -- okay, you know what? I’ll humor you.” Hal turned his gloved hand over, staring now at the icon of the lantern embossed on his ring. “Ring, how do I fly?”

There was silence, except for Kilowog’s snorting laugh. “Ask it to fly, dummy, not how.”

Hal took a moment to stick his tongue out at Kilowog before extending his arm and sticking his ring into the sky. “Ring… Fly.”

Nothing.

“Hm… Ring… Go?”

Nothing.

“Ring zoom. Ring flash! Ring alakazam!” Hal shouted. Kilowog couldn’t keep it together anymore and guffawed, his shoulders heaving and his hippo-jaws jumping open and closed.

“Kilowog! Goddamn, I knew you were hazing me.” Hal kicked the ground and sent up a plume of dust.

“Aw, man, that one’s a Corps classic,” Kilowog wiped tears from his eyes, “what is ‘hazing’ by the way?”

“I -- you don’t?” Hal rubbed his temples. “When I was growing up, I worked at one of these big chain grocery stores that were popping up all over the city. And one day, we got this new kid, Matt, and I told him to head down the checkout and grab the shelf extender. Checkout sent him to the deli. Deli sent him to produce. On and on, until he finally gave up looking for it. That is hazing. What you did to me is hazing.”

“Right. But what happened to the shelf extender?” Kilowog asked.

“There was no,” Hal saw the same smile creep up on Kilowog’s face, “no, no, you won’t get me again. C’mon, let’s figure this out. How did you do it, your first time?”

Kilowog pawed at his chin. “Hm. It’s been awhile… I just thought about what it would be like to fly. And I made the ring do that.”

“Very helpful, Kilowog.” Hal slumped into the sand beneath. Why couldn’t Green Lanterns just use planes like everybody else? If they could make these rings then they could certainly figure out the concepts of lift and drag.

Wait. Why couldn’t he use a plane? He’d already been taught the basics of ‘constructs’, simple shapes and objects he could make manifest out of the ring. What would stop him from…

“Stand back, big guy. I think I have an idea.” Hal said.

“Standing back,” Kilowog said, staying firmly planted in his seat.

Hal started small, as he had been taught, willing the first mote of twinkling green energy from the ring, causing it to coalesce into an elongating rectangle of emerald, gaining more detail as it expanded. The shape curved off from rectangle into tube as it grew beyond Hal, tapering into a distinct nosecone. The rest spread into a shape Hal knew well, forming a canopy over his head and spreading a delta of wings out behind him.

“Woah Jordan, you’re not flying anywhere in that thing. Probably can’t even maintain a construct that big, let alone --” Kilowog started,

“Just, just lemme try this, alright?” Sweat beaded on Hal’s brow as he defined the space around him, eking out his dials and instruments from the featureless green before him, his altimeter, airspeed indicator, the works… But it wasn’t enough, not yet. It didn’t feel right.

“Kilowog can you, ah…” Hal hoped the alien couldn’t see the red on his face through the shimmering jet canopy, “can you pretend to be Air Traffic Control, or something?”

Kilowog nodded solemnly and covered his mouth. “Breaker breaker nine to five, this is Biiiig Poozer, you read me Highball?”

“I changed my mind, shut up,” Hal snapped. He closed his eyes and focused, tighter. The swoop of his craft’s aileron, the way his stabilizers swept into the air around him, the press and shudder of what it would feel like to his the airbreak...

“This is Highball, reading you loud and proud Big Poozer…” Hal mumbled to himself, “let’s get this show on the road.” Hal reached for the throttle, right where it would be in his test plane, and his hands closed around something solid. He pushed forward and felt the engine spinning up in his heart, imaging the plane creaking forward steadily around him. More, more.

He reached out for the instruments, feeling their smooth plastic and glass surfaces and knowing instantly what they would tell him, arranged just so in the cockpit. He knew what they’d do, what they’d tell him as he rose into the sky, information streaming through his eyes and telling him every practical detail of his plane. He knew this, and he knew it well, just like he knew the feeling of air whipping across his skin and sweeping his hair. He knew how high he was, of course, he had to, he could practically feel it from the air pressure. His heading, his vertical speed, his navigation, that all came to him, too, as the great body of the plane rose up about him and the notion of his instruments faded into the background.

Now there was just Hal and the plane, Kilowog and Sinestro and Carol and the job and the ring and Abin Sur all seemed so far away. No, instead there was the lift and drag across his jet, the ripple and roll of each piece of his fighter, working all together in one contiguous whole, one of the finest flying machines every built.

Hal was there, the place he always reached in the sky, where the plane stopped being a plane and instead became an extension of himself, the wings slicing through the sky were his own, forging his path forward. But… He had forgotten one detail.

He never disengaged the landing gear. He reached for it in his cockpit, as he had with the throttle, and his hand passed through empty air. Nuts. Hal’s eyes opened to search for the missing instrument.

There was no landing gear.

There was no plane.

He was flying.

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 arcs and stories.

①⑨⑥⑧ — a DC/Marvel Pitch

Me rolling up to the interest check to throw my hat in the ring after flaking out of three RPs in a row

@Simple Unicycle

Me doing the same shit but in green

One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

Hey guys, thought I would pop in and attempt to explain the lack of Bat-posts. In all honesty, I've been in kind of a huge funk lately, and without getting into specifics I've been having a few relationship and school troubles. Nothing too major but nonetheless I have ended up very distracted and I'm finding it quite difficult to push through. I'm sorry to have done this, especially with a character as major as Batman and doubly so given how extreme of a take I've done on him, and I'd like to apologize to everyone, but especially our GM team and Roman. I'm going to try to get something out within the next couple of days and if I can't manage that I'm going to step back from the cowl. Sorry, y'all.

One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

@Lord Wraith More and more I've been learning that I'm a schemer, but I'm trying to tone it back. My last serious run in these games was Spider-Man, and I had planned out a full ~40 post arc, and that was probably too much. This time I have some general notes I want to hit, but I'm trying to play it a little more fast and loose.

One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

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_{Location:Gotham City, New Jersey - Midnight}

Issue #1

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Bruce listened to the drips of water echoing in from the farthest reaches of the Batcave, the steady hand of time eking out the cave’s chambers and curves, as the cave’s inlets had done for a millenia, and might continue to do for a millenia more. These were some of the few nights he really could hear the water anymore, usually instead there was always the clack of bo-staffs and the thunder of eight pairs of moving feet, his students stepping through their drills and exercises, pounding out their mark on the cave as much as the water’s flow behind every wall.

But tonight, there was quiet, but for the sluice of long-trapped cave waters and the whirring of the Batcomputer’s processors before him. The Batcomputer lived in the shell of its old self, a metal facade nestled into one of the cave’s corners, marked by screens of all shapes, sizes, and kinds, from the CRTs of days gone by side-to-side with high refresh rate digital monitors. The guts of the device had been torn out and reconfigured countless times over the years. It was retrofitted almost yearly with Waynetech processing units or anything of value other tech magnates had to offer. But, on the outside, it was still the same old Batcomputer, with thick clacking keys and hand-size buttons that had seemed almost futuristic for their time, but now sat heavily in their casing, thick with years of collected dust and wear.

Tonight, Bruce’s fingers tapped against the old keys, bouncing across his network, skimming GCPD data and what S.H.I.E.L.D. reports he could wrest from their crack cybersecurity team. More often than not, these were his nights as Batman -- hunched over his desk with a pot of coffee and braces for his hands that irritated his skin but kept his wrists firmly in place. He was piecing together those leads and intel that could give the rest of the Batman Incorporated team something to work from. Normally this would be Barbara’s job, but she was away, in the clutch of the stars on Bruce’s orders, working to ensure the success of his ‘Watchtower’ Program. He had determined that it would suit her, but since his talk with Jim, Bruce found himself glancing at the reflection of her first Batgirl suit in the dull screens of the Batcomputer. It was lit behind a glass pane at the far end of the room alongside the cavalcade of other defunct uniforms, left to collect nothing but dust and the ogling eyeballs of the young wards that passed the display case.

Most of the youths that came Bruce’s way were angry; loaded guns that needed direction and restraint, but Barbara was always different. Self assured and headstrong, ready to change the world by any means necessary, even if it meant a kooky costume and training from a nutcase dressed like a bat. Bruce thought that the Watchtower could give that to her, the world entire within her grasp. But there was a certain magic to the costume. The moments of weightlessness above the Gotham skyline, and the sight of the glittering beauty of the bay beyond. It was almost enough to distract from the muck and violence below.

“Access: A-004; Robin.” The Batcomputer’s mechanical voice chirped. Footsteps started down the Batcave’s long, stone cut stairwell that led from the broken grandfather clock in the manor to the fluorescent lights and sweat-and-oil smell of the Batcave.

“Damian,” Bruce swivelled in his chair to face his visitor, his son: Damian wore the Robin suit differently than his brothers had. Gone were the bright reds and yellows of the costume’s youth, instead replaced with swathes of black and green that wrapped up and around his body, as tall and wide as Bruce was, culminating in the dark hood that hung over his brown features.

“Father,” Damian’s fist thumped to his chest in greeting, hitting the gold ‘R’ symbol just over his heart, “the children are ready.” Bruce cocked an eyebrow.

“And are you?” Bruce asked. Damian stiffened, hiding his tension quietly as he had been taught, in the folds of his crossed arms and the gentle sway of his body from side to side. Sometimes, Bruce though, he looked less like a Robin and more like a bird of his own feathers, moving to whatever breezes suited him best.

“As ready as ever,” Damian reported. Damian’s eyes were concealed behind his green domino mask, but Bruce knew he was already scanning the Batcomputer’s readouts, counting down the seconds until his pupil’s body camera footage began to wink onto the screen.

“The kids will do fine,” Bruce said.

“That is the hope, yes,” Damian said. He forced a smile as Bruce turned back to face the bulk of the Batcomputer.

Bruce keyed a blue button the size of his hand and static fizzled across the Batcomputer’s assorted monitors in a wave, static giving way to all angles of Gotham’s harbor district. Some were from rooftops, sequestered among cranes and warehouses, watching the streetlights flicker into the night. Others were lower to the ground, hugging corrugated shipping crates spray-painted in garish colors, keeping eyes on anything and everything that moved. Each readout came with a name, a number, and a biometric panel -- heart rate, blood pressure, and all assorted vitals were accounted for. For this mission, it would be the children’s main lifeline.

Bruce reached forward, and stopped just short of pressing his microphone and giving the go-ahead to his operatives, their pupils. Damian had arrived to observe his student’s progress, but…

“Where’s Tim?” Bruce asked. In the reflections of his monitors, he saw Damian’s hand come up to stroke the beginnings of a beard forming at his chin.

“Red Robin said he had a ‘Hot Date’ tonight,” Damian grumbled, “and insisted we go on without him.” Bruce tapped the frame of the Batcomputer for a moment, and looked into the middle distance, his eyes settling on the flickering corner of an older monitor, winking back at him. Perhaps this was his way of protesting, Bruce thought. He had always wanted more safety nets for the kids, not this, not a real mission. Perhaps he was lying in wait out there, beyond the gaze of any of his students, waiting for the moment when they should need him. Once this was said and done, they’d need to have a talk. Bruce reached forward over the Batcomputer’s keyboard.

“Batman to Signal. Give me a sit-rep,” he said.

“Signal to Batman,” a green light sprung to life on one of the monitors as his first student’s voice came from the Batcomputer’s speakers, weighed down by a thin layer of static, “both teams are in position around the diamonds. No sign of our thief yet -- only real movement out here has been dock workers and homeless guys.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way. Signal, you have full operational control. Good luck. Batman over and out.” Bruce released the microphone and settled back into the arms of his chair.

“Guarding against a super thief that will never come,” Damian remarked, “you think that’s how it will go?”

Bruce steepled his fingers and let his eyes dart from monitor to monitor, listening to their radio chatter and watching every mite of movement. “No,” Bruce smiled, “not for a second.”

Doc's Chop Shop

cat

W I L D C A T
W I L D C A T

^{"I’ve fought ‘em all, and I’ve beat ‘em all."}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Theodore Joseph Grant _________________________________________________________ Caucasian | Prizefighter _________________________________________________________ Star City | Connecticut | United States C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Ted feels no need to ‘prove’ he’s beaten his opponents publicly, the knowledge that he has beaten them is enough for him. He’s fought in far too many stadiums and arenas to say he’s averse to the spotlight, but there’s something special about just slugging it out wherever you are when the mood strikes you. ► There is precedent for Ted having nine lives in the comics, more or less for having tangled with chaos and turning into a cat, though it was actually on an adventure with the JSA. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ -

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Ted Grant is a boxer. Growing up in the 30’s, he didn’t have the fastest jab or the strongest cross, but goddamn if he couldn’t take a punch. It was that grit that kept him in the gym working the bag, or in the ring working his opponents the same way every single night. It was the grit that let him sneer at Star City’s mob toughs, and it was probably the same grit that got him turned into a cat. As clashes between Order and Chaos go, this was a blessedly small one, taking place over only a few blocks of Star City, and Ted was foolish enough to walk into the center of it. Decades later, he still isn’t sure what he was thinking, except that he probably wasn’t, going for his mean hook on a Lord of Chaos. He spent the next few hours mewling and hiding as Fate, a Lord of Order, concluded his business with the villain. After being restored by Fate (and being sternly reminded that he was lucky to not be so much steaming, desiccated flesh), Ted returned to his life as a heavyweight boxer. Under his managers Flint and Skinner, Ted became one of the most respected boxers in the state. That is, until Flint and Skinner began taking money under the table from mob bookies to tamper with Ted’s opponents for a huge return. Ted found out and took a fall to get back at them. Ted and his managers were gunned down along with a passerby on a summer evening in 1941 by an unknown shooter. As Flint and Skinner bled and died around him, Ted found himself miraculously restored, and now on the run from the law for the deaths of his managers. As the sole survivor in a field of corpses, he was the natural suspect. Ted took up the mantle of Wildcat out of necessity -- to clear his name and discover the nature of his mysterious abilities. Even after bringing his manager’s true killers to justice, Ted’s nights as Wildcat continued, until the specter of the war drew the attention of every masked avenger in the country. Ted was one of the founding members of the JSA and learned from fellow member Doctor Fate the nature of his abilities: he was cursed, just as he was the day he turned into a cat. Fate had only altered the nature of the curse: no longer a feline form, but a cat’s longevity, for good or ill. At first, Ted thought he had nine lives. Yet, his adventures with the Justice Society brought him beyond the veil and back again over a dozen times by the war’s end. Further examination with Fate proved that he could have up to nine lives. Ted’s soul, at the mystic intersection of animal and man, had incredible regenerative properties. In just a month he could build up another life’s worth of energy. In the early 50’s as the need for the JSA’s overwatch dried up, Ted Grant attended a local boxing match in Long Island to witness the fighting prowess of an apparent octogenarian. The man felled opponent after opponent, round after round. Even once the day’s slate of fights was over, the old man showed no signs of fatigue. He welcomed spectators into the ring to test their mettle. All night, men came and dropped. When Ted finally stepped into the ring, the old man’s blows floored him, in one of the few matches Ted had lost in a decade. In tribute to Ted’s heroic actions during the war, the man agreed to reveal his method and its cost. The man, an italian immigrant, claimed to have invented the technique himself. He called it the Atlas Method, because it could give one ‘the bearing of a Greek god’. By using portions of the soul, the body could be trained beyond the limits of normal man. One could even use the technique in battle, at terrible cost to one’s lifeforce. He claimed he was only fifty five, yet developed the body of an ancient old man with overuse that continued to this day. After a half decade of training, Ted found himself the sole remaining practitioner of the method. His teacher died looking almost one hundred and fifty while Ted retained the sharp jaw and cut body of his early thirties. It was undeniable that the old man’s training with Ted was what killed him, pushing his body far beyond what any normal competitor would demand. Ted found bizarre peace in it. He died as he lived, pursuing the physical heights of humanity, and searching for the greatest battles the world had to offer. Ted spent the next several decades bouncing around the globe, seeking tutelage in all manner of martial arts, and competing wherever possible. He took on a variety of names as the years grew long: Tom Katzenberg, Pete Anthers, Yamaneko the Grappler, and a half dozen more title winning names, leaving little time leftover for nights as Wildcat between them. That changed with the Atlantean Invasion and formation of the Justice League. Wildcat was quick to join, finding himself teammate, mentor, and sparring partner to a new generation of heroes, and some of the greatest fighters they had to offer. He served with the League for its full tenure before Despero’s attack. Despero was like Ted. A big man looking to test his strength against the roughest and toughest there was. It was fitting that Ted was inside the Hall of Justice when Despero struck. Fighting alone and to the sheer limit of his power, Ted was able to match Despero in three minutes of combat as others worked to evacuate civilians and backup arrived. By the end of his bout, Ted lay defeated in the ruined Hall, and Despero unleashed his rage upon the assembled League. He was truly lucky, for the first time in decades, that he wasn’t dead. In the battle’s aftermath, as the ultimately defeated Despero slunk away, Ted stowed himself away aboard the alien’s ship. Ultimately ejected from the ship some lightyears from Earth, Ted has spent the last four years bouncing around all corners of the cosmos, busting the heads of every kind of alien he can get his hands on. After years away, perfecting his method and growing stronger, Ted was still unable to find Despero in the vastness of the cosmos. He resolves to return home, and defend the planet from all comers alongside the Justice League. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ I’ve had success before by combining badass normals with supernatural powers, so why not try it again? This time instead of a hellfire powered cowboy, we’ve got an old war hero exploring the highs and lows of Charles Atlas superpowers while giving the phrase “stamina freak” new meaning. After his jaunt in space, Ted has a new reality to adjust to. Without a Justice League, and with the remnants of the Justice Society dying or dead, Ted’s support network is gone, leaving him with nothing but a chip on his shoulder from his humbling by Despero. Ted’s journey will see him wander across the world entire, connecting with heroes old and new, to fight and to reminisce. Ted still wants to the be the best, but increasingly wonders what the best place for that is. The ring, or the streets? The Earth, or the stars? I’ve structured this character for maximum interactivity, his concept is compatible with just about anything. After four years away, I was thinking one of Ted’s first stops would to the various Supermen, to test his mettle and theirs now that the title has changed hands.

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One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

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

B A T M A N
I N C O R P O R A T E D

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^{_{B R U C E W A Y N E ♦ C E O O F W A Y N E E N T E R P R I S E S ♦ G O T H A M C I T Y}}

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

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^{"Bruce, why do we fall?"}

Almost fifty years ago, two ringing gunshots in the rainy, cold black of an unassuming alley would go on to change the world. For the better, some might say, sacrificing but two in exchange for the greatest hero Gotham City had ever known. Others say the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne has has only made things harder and stranger, letting new breeds of criminal fester in the city, and depriving Gotham of her last, best hope at leaping forward into a brave new world. But, with the efforts of their son, Gotham may just have a chance.

Gotham's streets have known the legend of The Batman for some-odd thirty-five years; they have known his blood and his sweat, the sweeping black of his cape, the glow of his symbol in the sky, and the blinding fury of his rage. Trained under countless masters in the Far East and pushed through endless trials, Gotham's first son forged himself into something new. No longer a mere orphan, but a weapon of devastating power, a cruel reminder of what Gotham lost that night in the rain. But this is the Batman of days gone by. A younger man, heart twisted by senseless violence into something even those closest to him would not recognize.

The Bat grew as the city did, calming with the years, settling into a new normal. From urban myth to vigilante to hero, and everything inbetween. His campaign against Gotham's criminal element has slowly morphed into something more, no longer a boy's struggle for vengenace, but a battle of hearts and minds, hopes and dreams: security for the next generation, lessons for each of his sons to wear the mantle of Robin, his faithful boy sidekick.

Since the emergence of the Superman, Batman has been preparing for the end: the day he can hang up his cowl and watch the sun set on an unwatched city knowing, for the first time, that it would be safe without him. To this end, he has established the so-called Batman Incorporated, dedicated to training gifted youngsters and up-and-comers the ways of The Batman, passing on the tutelage he recieved all those years ago to a new, extended class of proteges.

But something lurks in the back of Bruce's mind, the same paranoia that his festered within the very heart of Batman since the night in the alley. Something is changing in Gotham -- whispers of monsters and owls in the streets, talk of mutant gangs, and a new kind of unrestrained police force. Word of something that is hunting his students. The Batman may need a few more long nights, after all...

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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For most of my life now, I think we've been getting a different Batman from the one that lives in my heart. The last twenty-odd years of Batman movies have featured a dark, violent vigilante that exacts cruel vengeance on anyone who dares to cross him. I like this Batman, to be sure, and I think it's a wonderful version of the character, but I also think this is a rare opportunity to bring something else to the table.

My Batman is older, and has learned over the years that while scars will leave their marks, they can heal -- especially with a little help from your friends. This is a Batman who wants to be Gotham's protector before he wants to be her 'dark avenger', and a Batman who is getting old enough that the game might be a little more about training the next generation and a little less about making sure to squeeze into the Batsuit every night. I want to write a Batman that has a little more heart to him, one with a storied history and a list of rogues as long as his arm, a long history to reckon with, and a solid troupe of Robins and heroes to help get him through it all.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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Supporting Cast

To be updated!

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Sample

Bruce took his sake warm, in Dad’s old whiskey glass. At this point it had been Bruce’s for a decade or so more than it had been Thomas’. But Bruce still caught himself thinking of it that way, Dad’s glass, half-filled with shimmering bronze that disappeared beyond his lips in measured sips, just enough to calm the nerves and steady the hands. Bruce would think about how it looked on his return from Japan all those years ago, rimmed in dust and looking back at him sadly through the sharp angles of the glass, untouched and uncleaned by Bruce’s own orders. But that was the past.

Still: his glass or not, clean or not, the best manufacturers in the world evidently still hadn’t managed to make sake that went down as smooth Yoru-Sensei’s. Old man never did like to write anything down -- apparently recipes least of all. Bruce supposed that was the one thing he’d admonish his old teacher for, if he ever came back from the other side of the veil: you should have left us something to remember you by. Instead all that Yoru left was a burnt dojo and a class of disillusioned students wondering what went wrong. But this, too, was the past.

This was now: Jim Gordon, Commissioner of the GCPD, making his way across the Persian Rug back from the wet bar, holding his gimlet in one hand and steadying his horn-rimmed glasses with another. The scars and bruises and bullets of the years hadn’t done much to shake him. He was still the same old Jim, a little grayer than he used to be, but he still had the same set to his jaw, no matter how many times some crook had gotten the better of him and broken it.

“Sake?” Bruce offered as Jim lowered himself into his seat. He waved Bruce off.

“I’m good.” Jim set his glass on a coaster. He pushed his glasses up from the nose, the blue of his eyes had dulled with age, but they still retained their focus, arcing across Bruce’s features like a searchlight. “Thank you for having me, Bruce. I know you’ve been busy -- all these kids running around...”

“These days I can afford to make time for an old friend. The boys have a handle on things.” Bruce poured himself another glass. “What brings you my way?”

Jim took a long swallow from his drink and then turned his eyes down on it, watching the ice cubes float and bob in the glass. He looked back to Bruce, “just checking up,” he smoothed his mustache with one hand, settling in his seat, “it’s been a while since we’ve talked. Usually I only get the other guy.”

“Hrm,” Bruce tipped up his glass, letting the warm wash into his belly, still focusing on Jim. How the other man’s shoes tapped against the carpet, how he fingered the rim of his glass.

“You hear from Dick much?” Jim asked. Bruce shook his head.

“I get Christmas cards. You know how they are, at his age,” Bruce said. Some part of him wished he really did get the cards, at least. To get some indication of what his boy was up to in his own words, instead of just the whispers Bruce scraped from the S.H.I.E.L.D servers.

“Always too busy for a phone call,” Jim nodded.

“The same with Barbara, I take it?” Bruce set his glass aside and leaned back in his chair, looking out to the stretches of Gotham winking at him in the distance, beyond the ceiling-high windows of Wayne Manor that cast the house’s light across Bruce’s clipped lawn. Jim’s glass clinked against the table.

“You probably get to talk to her more than I do,” Jim said. Bruce caught the edge in his voice and let the silence sit between them for a moment, keeping his eyes out on the city, tracing out her belfries and alleys in his mind, wondering in which ones his proteges lurked, completing their rotations for the night. Jim probably did the same for Barbara, staring at the stars.

“Managing the Watchtower keeps her just as busy as Dick, I’m afraid.” Bruce said.

“I always thought she was happier as Batgirl,” Jim said, “not up there on that station, looking down on all of us.” Jim put his hands together, squeezing them. Bruce looked back.

“Why are you here, Jim? We’re both too old to do this dance.”

Jim closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with both hands. “When this started, when Batman started, it was just us and Harvey against the world. Against the Falcones, the Maronis, Cobblepot, even the old Commissioner. Do you remember what we wanted?”

“To save the city,” Bruce said simply. Jim was wound up into himself, muscles tight, with a together expression on his face, lips strained and eyes pressed.

“We wanted accountability. A world where cops like Loeb couldn’t take dirty money under the table and let the families run loose. And what do we have now?” Jim leaned forward, Bruce could smell the gin and lime on his breath.

“We wanted safety, Jim. A world where Babs and Jim Jr. wouldn’t have to worry about the gangs, the drugs, the violence,” Bruce began.

“So instead they have to worry about the Justice League hanging over their heads, and a Batman in every neighborhood? It-it’s not right,” Jim shook his head and he stood, pushing back from his chair, “Batman used to be a-a nightmare, a story we made to scare every crooked cop straight. A threat, not a plan. It was never supposed to be this, an unchecked army in your basement.”

Bruce stood, carefully, rising to face Jim, meeting the burning blue beneath his gray caterpillar eyebrows. Bruce felt the register of his voice step backwards, Batman’s voice clawing its way forward from his throat. “What’s the alternative, Gordon? Letting Loeb fester in his filth? You built this right along with us.”

“Jesus, Bruce. We need… We need reform, checks and balances… I don’t know. Harvey always knew the policy. He wouldn’t have wanted this. Big Brother in the sky, a cape on every corner that can do whatever he damn well pleases --”

“Why don’t you head down to Arkham and ask Harvey for his answer?” Bruce caught himself growling, feeling the pressure build in his chest. He fought it down, forcing his shoulders back and making his eyes stay on Jim, calm, level. Jim shrugged his shoulders, and turned, heading for the huge oaken doors on the far side of the Manor. He sighed.

“Maybe I will. I’m going to have a lot of free time.” Jim said. The gears turned in Bruce’s head. Free time?

Jim reached the coat rack by the door, and slipped his arms into his overcoat. He grabbed his hat, the same one he’d held onto since Bruce met him, an old brown trilby finally starting to be pocked with holes.

“I built all this with you, Bruce, but I can’t just sit by this anymore… But I’m too old to fight it. I’m stepping back as Commissioner. You’re the first to know,” Jim said. He took the knob in his hands and pulled, sending the main doors creaks all through the house. Jim sat his hat on his head.

“Stop this, while you still can. And take care of yourself. Give the kids my best.” Jim didn’t look back as he stepped out of Wayne Manor. Bruce watched Gordon as he went, heard his footfalls echoing down the drive as the door moaned shut behind him.

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 arcs and stories.

One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

Batman is sampled up and ready to rock! You will note that the Supporting Cast is empty, mostly because I want to see what the lay of the land is with supporting Bat-cast being nabbed by other players. And I was maybe hoping to snag a few X-Men for the Batman Inc. roster, so I'm waiting for an X-Player to help me make those decisions.