DocTachyon

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so today instead of wasting my time playing video games, I wasted my time making this:

Petition to use it on the characters page maybe?

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Hal is done! Lemme know what y'all think of the sample.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

SPIDER-MAN: THE DISTANCE

Issue 2 -- From Peter’s Playlist; I Think We’re Alone Now

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New York City, NY --- The Daily Bugle Building

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The Daily Bugle had never been a paper of particular repute. In Ben’s words they were mostly two-bits, preying upon the stories and hardships of the working person to string together a rag just barely strong enough to get pity purchases. A paper that would never rise out of the shadow of the New York Times, or even The Daily Planet over in Metropolis. There were no Pulitzers out of The Daily Bugle. Yet still, the Bugle’s investors gave it enough strength to have its own building, a blazing pillar of neon red against the black of the night, proclaiming a half-hearted message of ‘freedom of the press’, or something like that. It was a towering monolith to slipshod reporters everywhere, and unfortunately, it was the one place Peter Parker had to be tonight.

He crawled along the brickwork, fingers tracing the inlays and channels of it was he went, trying to make sure he was on the right floor. With his luck, he’d wind up smack-dab in the middle of the security office. He crept up the side, checking each window for signs of a floor number inside as he passed.

”Finally! Half worried I was gonna run out of floors.” Peter mumbled to himself as he stuck his fingers to the plate glass. He could feel it in all its detail through the fabric of the suit, every minute imperfection in the surface of its construction. It felt raw and uneven to the touch, and improperly seated in its housing, by the way it jiggled underneath his fingertips. One push and the window crashed silently into the thickly carpeted editorial office.

Peter flipped off the windowsill and onto one of the plaster pillars supporting the few floors above this one. It was an ocean of cubicles stacked high with keyboards and reams of paper, spilling over with pencils and multicolor sticky notes. There was one light source in the far corner; a corona of blue monitor screens and ancient mounted Tube TVs playing a half dozen twenty four hour news channels. Peter dropped from the pillar and began snaking between labyrinthine cubicles. Editor’s office. A fine place to start.

The office was separated from the rest by a thin wall of wood-framed glass, and all was silent but for the steady din of sleepless newscasters. Can’t turn these off when no one’s here? Save the planet, man. The door was frosted glass announcing the editor of this department, “Jameson, J. Jonah; Local News”. Peter tried the handle and popped the lock as he twisted, forcing the door across the carpet.

“Anyone home? The Spider-Scouts brought thin mints.” Spider-Man said. There was a flash of movement in his retinas and he was on the wall, scuffing the craquelure wallpaper and aiming both hands at the slowly turning swivel chair that sat before a network of interconnected monitors. No Spider-Sense again? Thing really must be bugging out on me…

“I hope you have cash in that kooky costume of yours, those locks aren’t cheap.” The man that turned to face him had salt and pepper hair that stood up like a paintbrush, and thick bushy eyebrows that gave shelter to two eyes that shone like burning coals in their darkness. He had a thick block of a mustache, and one hand on his wireless mouse, with the other on the meanest cigar Peter had even scene, unlit, with its end chewed to hell and back.

“Woah, picklepuss! Why are you here? They won’t let you shave that dead rat off your face without a hundred hours’ overtime?” Peter’s shoulders slumped and grinned beneath his mask. At least he doesn’t keep a gun in that desk. “Spider-Man assaults working stiff.” Great way to get my name out there.

“You’ve got thirty seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t call the police.” The reporter rolled his eyes and turned back to his monitors. He jammed his cigar between his teeth, stabbing at the gel caps of his keyboard. Peter tapped his palm and a glut of webbing stuck Jameson’s hand to his keyboard.

“Christ, the nerve of you to--” Jameson’s response was cut short as another glob nailed his other hand to his desk.

“Shh, Spider-Man talking now.” Peter dropped to the floor and his suit receded across his leg, revealing the battered copy of The Daily Bugle pressed to his thigh. He threw it onto Jameson’s desk. “Old man gets shot and left for dead. Bugle are the only ones to report on it. What do you know?”

”You think I remember every story that passes across my goddamn desk?” Jameson spit the cigar out in a cloud of spittle. It bounced across his desk. Peter shook his head.

“It is your byline, Triple J, and I don’t think you’re at the age for dementia just yet.” Peter dropped to the floor and knelt beside a neglected file cabinet, buckling under the weight of the dozens of folders stacked atop it. Peter sorted through them, tossing them into the trash as he went.

“So? You think I’m gonna help some webhead punk like you that muscles his way into my office?” Jameson grunted. He strained against the webbing, his feet dragged on the cheap carpet as he tried to gain leverage.

“Well, I was just gonna search your office, but why go without your pithy commentary?” Peter said. He turned from the folders and zipped to the ceiling, considering Jameson as he sat upside down. The man’s neck veins bulged as he fought the webbing, struggling with every ounce of his muscle. “The faster you tell me what you’ve got, the sooner you can see your whole paintbrush-head family.”

“Murder rates are up fifty percent this year, and I have more assholes like you flying around this city every goddamn day -- I don’t even know who the hell you are. You expect me to remember how some no name took a bullet?”

Peter’s hand cracked against Jameson’s desk and the corner splintered into a shower of sawdust. “Say that again. One more time.” Peter felt a tickle across the back of his mind, ice brushing his head. Is that…? No. No way.

“I’m not afraid of you. You go viral swinging around for five minutes and suddenly you --” Peter focused as Jameson droned and the sensation grew in his skull, spreading across his senses, at once unifying and dividing them. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Spider-Sense. His eyes flashed out the window, scarcely detectable from this height, but Peter saw the pulse of red and blue.

“What did you do?” In an instant Peter was on Jameson’s desk, scattering a hurricane of documents. Jameson howled, rocking back as far as he could in his seat.

“You really thought I didn’t already call the cops? Amateur. NYPD’s shitting themselves over the chance to grab a freak like --” Jameson was silenced with a burst of webs before he could finish and Peter closed his eyes, reaching out with his sense. The tendril fibers of his suit tuned and resonated, searching for a way out. Thump of jackboots up stairwell, safeties being released outside, rustle of equipment behind cubicle walls… Perfect, they already rolled out SWAT.

Peter opened his eyes and saw the PA microphone astride Jameson’s desk. His eyes flitted across the room, back to the file cabinet. “I really hope you don’t need that for anything.”

***

“Hold position…” Voices crackled over NYPD closed comm channels as SWAT officers tightened their grips on their rifles. Over response for a B&E, sure, but the promise of a bag and tag of a live mutant or meta-freak? The bureaucrats wanted a win, and by God would the NYPD deliver. Armor rustled as the officers shifted, double checking armor and munitions. They were sheltered behind and beneath desks, automatic rifles poking out from cubicles tracked the figure that bobbed and weaved inside the editorial office. Another squad would be up the stairs in moments, and then they could --

Four speakers situated at the corners of The Daily Bugle’s 42nd floor began to thump, in steady time with a drumbeat.

“What the hell is --?” The plate glass of J. Jonah Jameson’s office exploded behind the force of an steel filing cabinet, launched through the glass and exploding into fine metal shrapnel across the pillars strewn about the office.

“Contact! Contact!” Rifles chugged through their magazines as a black and white specter emerged from the shadows of Jameson’s office, swinging through the air on white strands of webbing. Spider-Man landed like a bomb, sending chipboard particles flying in the air as he grabbed an NYPD officer by the collar, hauling him up and webbing him to the ceiling.

The unit was already in chaos between themselves, diving between cubicles and ducking under each other’s gunfire. Peter pulled a monitor off of its housing and flung it like a frisbee, it exploded across the chest of the nearest officer and he was gone again in the shadows, barely revealed by orange bursts of gunfire.

“Guys, I swear this song was supposed to be White Wedding! I promise!” Peter’s voice was almost lost to the report of the gunfire and the thump of the beat, bullets trying to find him amid the office space and whizzing off into random directions.

“Where is he?” A stapler detonated into a million pieces against a riot helmet and another officer fell, slumped against a pillar.

“I can’t see shit!” Peter was a tornado through the newsroom, slinging tight packages of OfficeMax goods and laying high tensile weblines, clotheslining cops as they ran in the madness.

“Hold this.” Peter launched an officer from the skyscraper with a shove, the man dropped three stories before catching on a hair thin strand of webbing, but Peter was already gone, webbing another SWAT officers hands together and bowling over another pair with his body.

“Hey! Backup is cheating!” A steel door flung upon as more officers piled into the destroyed office, trampling over paperwork and the dropped forms of their friends as they hit cover and thumbed their safeties. Peter flicked his wrists and the stairwell slammed shut with a gout of webs, smashing back a half squadron of SWAT goons.

Peter was in the air again, webbing cops to printers and walls as he ducked and dived through the gunfire, weaving between the bullets as if they weren’t there at all.

“I’d love to stay boys, but I’ve gotta run. Early Spider catches the worm!” Peter slid beneath a cubicle and pounced up and over one of the last officers, thrusting into a front flip off of his shoulders and through the plate glass of the Bugle’s window, into the cool New York air.

The bursts of shots died in the background as Peter swang, webline to webline, faster and faster, further and further.

No leads? Check.
Hatred of the news? Check.
Property damage? Check.
Assaulting the cops? Check.
This superhero thing is working out great…

①⑨⑥⑧

Lreen Gantern

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.

Supporting Cast

Carol Ferris: Hal's employer and sometimes girlfriend. Yes, it is complicated, and no, you shouldn't ask.

Kilowog: A fellow Green Lantern. A big pink alien dude who worked and trained under Abin Sur for a time, who is now responsible for teaching Hal the basics.

Sinestro: A fellow Green Lantern and an asshole. He's in charge of Hal and Kilowog while the Lanterns wait for the immediate crisis to blow over.

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.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

So my question here is: Why did everyone (that isn't new/making someone new) decide to take a go at these characters again? Why bring them back?

@Sep

Echoing a lot of what Wraith is saying, I'm also pretty nostalgic for UOU, and clearly several of us are, if the characters section is any indication. That was my first one of these superhero sandbox games we tend to do, and at the time to me it felt like we had caught and bottled lightning. It felt like everyone involved was writing at their A-game, culminating in an incredible end to a wonderful season... And I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to relive the glory days a little.

This is a chance for Uni and me to settle some unfinished business from UOU with the finale of my first Vig arc and crossover with Uni's Punisher. I remember hyping myself up for it at the time, but unfortunately, Season 2 of UOU ended up petering out before we could get there. Even if it's nearly three years down the line, I'm very excited for the opportunity to bring this crossover to fruition. Plus, eventually, we'll get to do the Question / Dog Welder crossover we've always dreamed of.

And then there's Spider-Man! I'm really passionate about my Spidey story, but unfortunately, the game I got to do it in has since passed us by. I try not to repeat characters in those sandbox games, so it's nice to get back in the saddle without taking the spider out of the kiddie pool, as it were. And in this setting, it feels like there's less pressure to post which will hopefully be a boon for my productivity.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

@Dark Cloud Enjoy!

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Crap didn't mean to post in the IC, anyways I'm going to be busy and I may be unable to finish the CS this week.

@Dark Cloud

Take your time boss, we're low mantainence out here.

Anyway, posted a slightly gussied up version of my old Vigilante / Ghost Rider sheet. Unlike with Spider-Man I don't think I'll be posting the backlog here, but it is still available to read. But when things get into gear, hopefully everyone will be able to enjoy the exploits of VigRider and Chow Yun Castle.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

D O C P R E S E N T S

V I G I L A N T E

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^{_{G R E G S A U N D E R S ♦ L A W M A N ♦ W A R P A T H , N. M.}}

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

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^{"The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage."}

Background

Greg Saunders, on some level, always suspected that Warpath, Texas, was never meant for human habitation. There was an always has been a certain amount of strange to the place. Being born there, Greg would know that better than anybody. It was like a black hole to the curious and the supernatural -- always drawing them in. All the street corners had another magician who could tell your future for a dime, and every time the circus was in town, it was stranger than the last. The way his Pop described it, Warpath was a place where Hell and Heaven became kissing cousins, where reality and fictions bled together until you couldn’t tell ‘em apart no more. Greg always figured his Dad was joking around with him. Nothing stranger happened in Warpath than it would in any of the big cities. Greg would’ve been mostly right. Until things really started to get weird.

Sheriff Mort Saunders was just about the best Cop on the force, and the only one that really gave a shit. Things had a way of sorting themselves out in Warpath. Most of the offenses were just hack magicians trying to sell themselves on the mystique of the place, and swindle people out of their money. Anything worse than that was usually just petty crime. Anything that there was evidence of, anyhow. Reports would always come in from time to time. Murder, robbery, you name it; but when the Police would roll up, there’d be no evidence. Just ghosts and echoes. By the time Greg was nearing his twenty first birthday, Mort started mentioning a ‘New Case’ to him. Something that would ‘explain everything’. Six months later, he turned up dead in the first confirmed murder in the last twenty-five years of Warpath’s history. Greg took up Pop’s old revolvers and his whip, intent on delivering revenge to the sonsabitches who did this to his father. He swore on his grave to dedicate his life to the path of justice. The life of the Vigilante. The newly christened Vig spent two months tracking down and systematically eliminated a gang of bandits. As he worked his way through the higher ranking members, it was slowly becoming clearer and clearer that this was no ordinary Gang. It was a cult, devoted to finding something they called ‘The Miracle Mesa’. Vig never knew much about magic, but as he rolled up on the Cult for the final showdown, he could feel the air draw thinner. The closer he drew to them, the more he felt in a waking dream. The very reality around him seemed to pulsate with a kind of power, as if being touched by a force beyond mortal comprehension. It was around then that everything went to Hell.

Vigilante can still not accurately recall precisely what took place that day. In the face of the Miracle Mesa, reality peeled away, and all that was left was a nonsensical jangle of ideas, colors, feelings, and raw magic. What he does remember is bits and pieces. He remembers a blob of color, high in the sky, like you’d asked an abstract expressionist to design a city. He remembers emptying his pistols over and over again, shooting rounds into unholy abominations that spilled out of what seemed to be a hole in the world. What he remembers most of all is that he woke up in a place wholly unfamiliar to him, knee deep in demons.

Much like Warpath, Hell was… Unsuited to mortals, if Vigilante was still a mortal at all. God knows if he was dragged there through the Miracle Mesa, or if the demons spilling out of the thing killed him and brought him here. The one thing Vig knew for sure was that he had to get out. His experience of Hell was like a cryptic, corrupted version of the mortal plane. Everything was inverted, a perversion of itself. Everywhere was a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah, and just about all of the locals wanted him dead. In time, he found his pack. Six others who the Miracle Mesa had dragged in: Shining Knight, Jonah Hex, Johnny Frankenstein, Crimson Avenger, The Star Spangled Kid, and of course, good ol’ Stripsey. Time is a murky thing in Hell. They might’ve spent six months or a thousand years waging war on every manner of Demon and Monster they could find. However long it took them, on their way to demand passage out of the land of the damned from the Sultan of Sin himself, they ran across a demonic entity by the name of Mephisto. Mephisto’s bargain was simple: Safe passage out of Hell for Vig and all of his friends; in return for his mortal soul. By now The Seven Soldiers had learned a handful of lessons about survival in Hell. “Don’t deal with demons” was at the top of the list. In a pitched battle that lasted either a half hour or a month, the Soldiers, most of whom had all their limbs broken, were reasonably certain they’d hurt Mephisto. At least a tiny bit. Entirely beaten and with no other options, Vigilante stood up to the plate and laid down his soul, thus making him into Mephisto’s pawn, the Spirit of Vengeance. The current Ghost Rider. Now returned to Warpath, Vig and the Soldiers are planning their vengeance on Mephisto, and are seeking any magical help they can get. As Vig swore on his father's grave: Justice will be done.

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:

---

This version of Vigilante alters his traditional origins, instead placing him in Warpath from the get-go. The idea here is to blend elements from many different versions of the character; literally the Ultimate edition. The main difference from those standard runs is its heavy focus on Saunders’ time in hell, which was otherwise just a bit of narration in a Jimmy Olsen comic. This version takes major inspiration from the raw weird that was Grant Morrison’s 7 Soldiers. There’s also the introduction of the Ghost Rider elements, which I did both to strengthen the idea of the DC and Marvel connection going on in this universe, but also to boost Vigilante’s power level, so he’s no slouch around some of the heavy hitters being brought in for this(as traditional Vig is just a grease monkey who is good with guns). On top of that, it lets Vig lean into the weird/supernatural that surrounds Hell and the West more effectively.

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

---

-Unlike with Spider-Man, I won't be posting Vig's backlog here. Instead you'll find it below in the post catalog.

Supporting Cast

Shining Knight - A medieval Knight encountered in Hell. He stumbled across the Miracle Mesa while battling with Morgan Le Fay. He swears he owned a winged horse by the name of Winged Victory, and thinks it must be alive somewhere in the world.

Jonah Hex - 1800's Bounty Hunter that Vig met in Hell. He ran into the Miracle Mesa while tracking down a Bounty.

Frankenstein - Another person Vigilante encountered in Hell. He stumbled into the Miracle Mesa sometime in the late 1700s.

Crimson Avenger - The first man Vigilante encountered in Hell. Small time hero of the early 1940s. He typically did things quietly enough that neither SHIELD nor CADMUS came down on him. While tracking down a case, he encountered the Miracle Mesa.

Star Spangled Kid and Stripsey - Star Spangled Kid, former sidekick to Captain America, and his sidekick Stripsey themselves stumbled onto Miracle Mesa themselves in the late 1940’s, and have been in Hell since. That is, until Vig sprung them.

Billy Gunn - Old family friend and current Sheriff of Warpath.

Mephisto - Technically, Mephisto is Vigilante’s current Boss. The demon is responsible for his Ghost Rider abilities and his escape from Hell.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa

Vigilante could always feel it behind his eyes. The burning. The anger. It was like a little demon that lived in his head, constantly stabbing his eyes and his brain. Always screaming.

“VENGEANCE MUST BE DONE.” If he listened close he could constantly hear the click-clack of his own bones. The sound was whispered into his ear by some kind of unseen entity. Vig supposed it was Mephisto’s way of taunting him. He hoped the Demon Lord got enough satisfaction out of it before his head got turned into chunky salsa.

Vig leaned back in his rocker, polishing his pistols for the umpteenth time. He should’ve been the one to go, but according to Frank, he was best equipped to handle it if some creepy crawly clawed its way up to the surface. In his heart, Vig knew it too. But hell, maybe they were just protecting him from himself, Houston hadn’t been fine. A simple operation to wrassle a coupla Occult Books outta’ the hands of some gangbangers that didn’t know what the fuck they were turned into hellfire and screams of the damned. By contrast there wasn’t much to wake that thing in Warpath.

Hex said he’d seen it once before. The old man was tracking down a gang of outlaws led by a bandit by the name of White Face. The way Hex told it, by the time he rode up with his big iron, the whole place was burnin’ to the ground. Now, this was one of them old Frontier towns. Everything was down one long single road. Every one of the gang was laid at over the place. Sticking outta shop windows, gutted open on the glass. Speared through on a cracked post. Some of ‘em were burnin’ with the buildings. Even from a distance, Hex could see the thousand yard stares on some of the bodies. Weren’t no man that did this to them.

Way down, at the end of that long road, Hex could see White Face himself. The mask was burned away an’ his face was singed. Whatever the hell was holding him up by his neck wasn’t human, and certainly wasn’t no creature of God. Its skin was all burned away, an’ all that was left was a white skull coated in hellfire. Hex had killed many a man in his time, but he’d never seen no one beg like White Face begged that day. Hex ‘imself never got a good look at its proper face. Musta been something horrible, to make a rough sonuvabitch like White Face sob his goddamn eyes out. It was hard for Hex to see quite right at all that distance, but at some point White Face stopped struggling. He just stared through. His eyes were locked right on that skull, but they seemed to be gone for a million miles.

That was the only bounty Hex ever abandoned. He figured The Devil had come to collect his dues before mortal men got the chance, and that was a-okay with him.

On the horizon, Vig could see a dust cloud. The first to return. He holstered his pistol and drew himself out of his rocker. He tried to ignore the gnawing sensation in the back of his mind. Out of the dust, a figure cloaked in red slowly materialized. He was riding on a white steed -- that guy would never get used to motorcycle, even as Vig’s insistence.

The Crimson Avenger was the first man Vigilante had encountered in Hell. He seemed someone of solid principle, devoted to his cause -- Not unlike Vig’s father. Vig stood in the street. He wiped his hands and waved to his coming friend.

“Woah, nelly.” Crimson called out to his horse. They slowed on approach.

“Get whatcha’ needed, pardner?” Vig extended a hand to help him down from the horse.

“Yep. Now, we’ll probably have to modify the thing to make it suitable for combat down there…” Crimson took the hand and jumped down from his horse. He had a silver case attached to him at the hip.

“I’m just happy to have a fresh model of the old girl, again,” The Crimson Avenger opened the case and pulled out a gas gun -- it gleamed in the sunlight, “been too long.”

“Can’t imagine what that feelin’s like. Three years realtime was long enough fer me to be away from my bike.” Vigilante gestured to the second rocker. The Avenger nodded and obliged.

“So, what’s the word, Avenger?” Vig kicked up his legs and leaned back into the chair. The simple pleasures would be few, now. Had to do his best to enjoy them before it came time for the real war to start.

“Well, Knight, Hex, and Frankenstein are still trying to get themselves accustomed to the modern world. They were going to head up to the New York and Metropolis area to see what’s to see. They were planning on looking into the local occult locations to see if they can scrounge up anything we don’t already know.” Crimson Avenger said. He took a seat in his rocker, taking the time to press out the folds and wrinkles in his costume. It was a thing of amazing construction -- it held up all the way through his time in Hell up to now.

“Mhm.” Vig said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a cigarette. He considered it, for a moment. He felt the voice in his ear reaching out for his lighter, the call of the fire. He put the cig on the arm of the chair. “The Kid and Stripey have any word on Cap?”

The Crimson Avenger shook his head. The Star Spangled Kid had set out to find his old teacher -- Said he would’ve known it Cap had passed. The man was certain they would’ve heard tell of his passing or, God forbid, have seen him there. That meant he was out there somewhere, and hell, maybe he could be of service.

“Well Crimson, that jus means it’s you, me, and a long wait against whatever hand The Miracle Mesa deals us next. Cheers.”

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

---

Posts

Part One - The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa
Prelude
Strings; Issue 1
Strings; Issue 2
Strings; Issue 3
Strings; Issue 4
Strings; Issue 5; Finale
-
Riders on the Storm; Issue 1
Riders on the Storm; Issue 2
Riders on the Storm; Issue 3
Riders on the Storm; Issue 4
Riders on the Storm; Issue 5
Riders on the Storm; Issue 6
-
Glitter and Gold; Issue 1
Glitter and Gold; Issue 2
Glitter and Gold; Issue 3
Glitter and Gold; Issue 4
Glitter and Gold; Issue 5
Glitter and Gold; Issue 6
Glitter and Gold; Issue 7
Glitter and Gold; Issue 8
Glitter and Gold; Issue 9
-
Season One Epilogue

Part Two - Ghost Riders in The Sky
COMING SOON

Doc's Chop Shop

and now, for an old sheet in a new format.

old sheet

Ultimate One Universe: Year One Application

Character You're Applying For: Greg Saunders; Vigilante

Powers And Abilities:
Spirit of Vengeance- After surviving his experience in Hell, Vigilante has found himself possessed by the Spirit of Vengeance, thus making him the current Ghost Rider, though he has trouble controlling it once he does change. These abilities are extremely new to Vig, he does not yet fully understand the scope of his responsibilities as the spirit. Vigilante can transform into his Ghost Rider form through concentration, or he can be forced into it during life threatening situations. In this form, Vigilante becomes a skeletal version of himself, and his body, clothing, and motorcycle are wreathed in hellfire. While in this state, he is a degree faster, stronger, and more durable than any average man; and his motorcycle is much faster than an average bike. Additionally, his lariat dramatically increases in length, and is itself wreathed in hellfire. His guns can also fire hellfire bullets. The last ability this form grants is a signature ‘Penance Stare’. He can finish a sufficiently weakened opponent by staring into the depths of their very soul, forcing them to see and feel the pain they’ve inflicted upon others for eternity. Vig suspects this form may have more abilities, but he has yet to discover them.

Gunslinger- Even during his time as a normal man, Greg Saunders had a knack for his pistols. He was never masterful, but he more than knew his way around the range, and was certainly the best pistolero in Warpath. Since his time in Hell, Vigilante’s skills have sharpened a hundredfold. He hasn’t had much of a chance to test it, but Vig now reckons he’s one of the best marksmen in the world. He carries six revolvers on him, two on the front of his hips, two on the back, and two on his chest(Edward Kenway style).

Whipfighter- Vigilante had experience with his whip when he was alive, but being constantly knee deep in demons teaches a man to use every tool at his disposal. He’s grown very precise with his lariat, able to even reliably grab and throw objects with it. A few times he’s managed to use it to wrestle a weapon out of a demon’s hands.

Grease Monkey- Vigilante’s passion, before his life went to Hell(literally) was working on his motorcycle. He’s a little rusty, since he didn’t have much time for motorbike repair in Hell, but he’s excited to soup up his ride for his new responsibilities.

Origin And Backstory (In A Maximum Of Four Paragraphs):

Greg Saunders, on some level, always suspected that Warpath, Texas, was never meant for human habitation. There was an always has been a certain amount of strange to the place. Being born there, Greg would know that better than anybody. It was like a black hole to the curious and the supernatural -- always drawing them in. All the street corners had another magician who could tell your future for a dime, and every time the circus was in town, it was stranger than the last. The way his Pop described it, Warpath was a place where Hell and Heaven became kissing cousins, where reality and fictions bled together until you couldn’t tell ‘em apart no more. Greg always figured his Dad was joking around with him. Nothing stranger happened in Warpath than it would in any of the big cities. Greg would’ve been mostly right. Until things really started to get weird.

Sheriff Mort Saunders was just about the best Cop on the force, and the only one that really gave a shit. Things had a way of sorting themselves out in Warpath. Most of the offenses were just hack magicians trying to sell themselves on the mystique of the place, and swindle people out of their money. Anything worse than that was usually just petty crime. Anything that there was evidence of, anyhow. Reports would always come in from time to time. Murder, robbery, you name it; but when the Police would roll up, there’d be no evidence. Just ghosts and echoes. By the time Greg was nearing his twenty first birthday, Mort started mentioning a ‘New Case’ to him. Something that would ‘explain everything’. Six months later, he turned up dead in the first confirmed murder in the last twenty-five years of Warpath’s history. Greg took up Pop’s old revolvers and his whip, intent on delivering revenge to the sonsabitches who did this to his father. He swore on his grave to dedicate his life to the path of justice. The life of the Vigilante. The newly christened Vig spent two months tracking down and systematically eliminated a gang of bandits. As he worked his way through the higher ranking members, it was slowly becoming clearer and clearer that this was no ordinary Gang. It was a cult, devoted to finding something they called ‘The Miracle Mesa’. Vig never knew much about magic, but as he rolled up on the Cult for the final showdown, he could feel the air draw thinner. The closer he drew to them, the more he felt in a waking dream. The very reality around him seemed to pulsate with a kind of power, as if being touched by a force beyond mortal comprehension. It was around then that everything went to Hell.

Vigilante can still not accurately recall precisely what took place that day. In the face of the Miracle Mesa, reality peeled away, and all that was left was a nonsensical jangle of ideas, colors, feelings, and raw magic. What he does remember is bits and pieces. He remembers a blob of color, high in the sky, like you’d asked an abstract expressionist to design a city. He remembers emptying his pistols over and over again, shooting rounds into unholy abominations that spilled out of what seemed to be a hole in the world. What he remembers most of all is that he woke up in a place wholly unfamiliar to him, knee deep in demons.

Much like Warpath, Hell was… Unsuited to mortals, if Vigilante was still a mortal at all. God knows if he was dragged there through the Miracle Mesa, or if the demons spilling out of the thing killed him and brought him here. The one thing Vig knew for sure was that he had to get out. His experience of Hell was like a cryptic, corrupted version of the mortal plane. Everything was inverted, a perversion of itself. Everywhere was a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah, and just about all of the locals wanted him dead. In time, he found his pack. Six others who the Miracle Mesa had dragged in: Shining Knight, Jonah Hex, Johnny Frankenstein, Crimson Avenger, The Star Spangled Kid, and of course, good ol’ Stripsey. Time is a murky thing in Hell. They might’ve spent six months or a thousand years waging war on every manner of Demon and Monster they could find. However long it took them, on their way to demand passage out of the land of the damned from the Sultan of Sin himself, they ran across a demonic entity by the name of Mephisto. Mephisto’s bargain was simple: Safe passage out of Hell for Vig and all of his friends; in return for his mortal soul. By now The Seven Soldiers had learned a handful of lessons about survival in Hell. “Don’t deal with demons” was at the top of the list. In a pitched battle that lasted either a half hour or a month, the Soldiers, most of whom had all their limbs broken, were reasonably certain they’d hurt Mephisto. At least a tiny bit. Entirely beaten and with no other options, Vigilante stood up to the plate and laid down his soul, thus making him into Mephisto’s pawn, the Spirit of Vengeance. The current Ghost Rider. Now returned to Warpath, Vig and the Soldiers are planning their vengeance on Mephisto, and are seeking any magical help they can get. As Vig swore on his father's grave: Justice will be done.

What Makes This Character 'Ultimate'?:
This version of Vigilante alters his traditional origins, instead placing him in Warpath from the get-go. The idea here is to blend elements from many different versions of the character; literally the Ultimate edition. The main difference from those standard runs is its heavy focus on Saunders’ time in hell, which was otherwise just a bit of narration in a Jimmy Olsen comic. This version takes major inspiration from the raw weird that was Grant Morrison’s 7 Soldiers. There’s also the introduction of the Ghost Rider elements, which I did both to strengthen the idea of the DC and Marvel connection going on in this universe, but also to boost Vigilante’s power level, so he’s no slouch around some of the heavy hitters being brought in for this(as traditional Vig is just a grease monkey who is good with guns). On top of that, it lets Vig lean into the weird/supernatural that surrounds Hell and the West more effectively.

Supporting Characters:
Shining Knight - A medieval Knight encountered in Hell. He stumbled across the Miracle Mesa while battling with Morgan Le Fay. He swears he owned a winged horse by the name of Winged Victory, and thinks it must be alive somewhere in the world.

Jonah Hex - 1800's Bounty Hunter that Vig met in Hell. He ran into the Miracle Mesa while tracking down a Bounty.

Frankenstein - Another person Vigilante encountered in Hell. He stumbled into the Miracle Mesa sometime in the late 1700s.

Crimson Avenger - The first man Vigilante encountered in Hell. Small time hero of the early 1940s. He typically did things quietly enough that neither SHIELD nor CADMUS came down on him. While tracking down a case, he encountered the Miracle Mesa.

Star Spangled Kid and Stripsey - Star Spangled Kid, former sidekick to Captain America, and his sidekick Stripsey themselves stumbled onto Miracle Mesa themselves in the late 1940’s, and have been in Hell since. That is, until Vig sprung them.

Billy Gunn - Old family friend and current Sheriff of Warpath.

Mephisto - Technically, Mephisto is Vigilante’s current Boss. The demon is responsible for his Ghost Rider abilities and his escape from Hell.

Sample Post:

The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa - Part One

Vigilante could always feel it behind his eyes. The burning. The anger. It was like a little demon that lived in his head, constantly stabbing his eyes and his brain. Always screaming.

“VENGEANCE MUST BE DONE.” If he listened close he could constantly hear the click-clack of his own bones. The sound was whispered into his ear by some kind of unseen entity. Vig supposed it was Mephisto’s way of taunting him. He hoped the Demon Lord got enough satisfaction out of it before his head got turned into chunky salsa.

Vig leaned back in his rocker, polishing his pistols for the umpteenth time. He should’ve been the one to go, but according to Frank, he was best equipped to handle it if some creepy crawly clawed its way up to the surface. In his heart, Vig knew it too. But hell, maybe they were just protecting him from himself, Houston hadn’t been fine. A simple operation to wrassle a coupla Occult Books outta’ the hands of some gangbangers that didn’t know what the fuck they were turned into hellfire and screams of the damned. By contrast there wasn’t much to wake that thing in Warpath.

Hex said he’d seen it once before. The old man was tracking down a gang of outlaws led by a bandit by the name of White Face. The way Hex told it, by the time he rode up with his big iron, the whole place was burnin’ to the ground. Now, this was one of them old Frontier towns. Everything was down one long single road. Every one of the gang was laid at over the place. Sticking outta shop windows, gutted open on the glass. Speared through on a cracked post. Some of ‘em were burnin’ with the buildings. Even from a distance, Hex could see the thousand yard stares on some of the bodies. Weren’t no man that did this to them.

Way down, at the end of that long road, Hex could see White Face himself. The mask was burned away an’ his face was singed. Whatever the hell was holding him up by his neck wasn’t human, and certainly wasn’t no creature of God. Its skin was all burned away, an’ all that was left was a white skull coated in hellfire. Hex had killed many a man in his time, but he’d never seen no one beg like White Face begged that day. Hex ‘imself never got a good look at its proper face. Musta been something horrible, to make a rough sonuvabitch like White Face sob his goddamn eyes out. It was hard for Hex to see quite right at all that distance, but at some point White Face stopped struggling. He just stared through. His eyes were locked right on that skull, but they seemed to be gone for a million miles.

That was the only bounty Hex ever abandoned. He figured The Devil had come to collect his dues before mortal men got the chance, and that was a-okay with him.

On the horizon, Vig could see a dust cloud. The first to return. He holstered his pistol and drew himself out of his rocker. He tried to ignore the gnawing sensation in the back of his mind. Out of the dust, a figure cloaked in red slowly materialized. He was riding on a white steed -- that guy would never get used to motorcycle, even as Vig’s insistence.

The Crimson Avenger was the first man Vigilante had encountered in Hell. He seemed someone of solid principle, devoted to his cause -- Not unlike Vig’s father. Vig stood in the street. He wiped his hands and waved to his coming friend.

“Woah, nelly.” Crimson called out to his horse. They slowed on approach.

“Get whatcha’ needed, pardner?” Vig extended a hand to help him down from the horse.

“Yep. Now, we’ll probably have to modify the thing to make it suitable for combat down there…” Crimson took the hand and jumped down from his horse. He had a silver case attached to him at the hip.

“I’m just happy to have a fresh model of the old girl, again,” The Crimson Avenger opened the case and pulled out a gas gun -- it gleamed in the sunlight, “been too long.”

“Can’t imagine what that feelin’s like. Three years realtime was long enough fer me to be away from my bike.” Vigilante gestured to the second rocker. The Avenger nodded and obliged.

“So, what’s the word, Avenger?” Vig kicked up his legs and leaned back into the chair. The simple pleasures would be few, now. Had to do his best to enjoy them before it came time for the real war to start.

“Well, Knight, Hex, and Frankenstein are still trying to get themselves accustomed to the modern world. They were going to head up to the New York and Metropolis area to see what’s to see. They were planning on looking into the local occult locations to see if they can scrounge up anything we don’t already know.” Crimson Avenger said. He took a seat in his rocker, taking the time to press out the folds and wrinkles in his costume. It was a thing of amazing construction -- it held up all the way through his time in Hell up to now.

“Mhm.” Vig said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a cigarette. He considered it, for a moment. He felt the voice in his ear reaching out for his lighter, the call of the fire. He put the cig on the arm of the chair. “The Kid and Stripey have any word on Cap?”

The Crimson Avenger shook his head. The Star Spangled Kid had set out to find his old teacher -- Said he would’ve known it Cap had passed. The man was certain they would’ve heard tell of his passing or, God forbid, have seen him there. That meant he was out there somewhere, and hell, maybe he could be of service.

“Well Crimson, that jus means it’s you, me, and a long wait against whatever hand The Miracle Mesa deals us next. Cheers.”

Additional Notes:
-I tried my best, but I just couldn’t find the name of Vig’s Dad. But his original creators were both guys named Mort, so Mort Saunders was born.

-Why yes, yes I did ignore traditional paragraph rules and common sense in order to make my backstory fit the requirement. I really tried to keep it brief but most all of the details in there I thought were too important to cut out, and I really needed them to sell the concept.

new format

D O C P R E S E N T S

V I G I L A N T E

---

^{_{G R E G S A U N D E R S ♦ L A W M A N ♦ W A R P A T H , N. M.}}

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

---

^{"The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage."}

Background

Greg Saunders, on some level, always suspected that Warpath, Texas, was never meant for human habitation. There was an always has been a certain amount of strange to the place. Being born there, Greg would know that better than anybody. It was like a black hole to the curious and the supernatural -- always drawing them in. All the street corners had another magician who could tell your future for a dime, and every time the circus was in town, it was stranger than the last. The way his Pop described it, Warpath was a place where Hell and Heaven became kissing cousins, where reality and fictions bled together until you couldn’t tell ‘em apart no more. Greg always figured his Dad was joking around with him. Nothing stranger happened in Warpath than it would in any of the big cities. Greg would’ve been mostly right. Until things really started to get weird.

Sheriff Mort Saunders was just about the best Cop on the force, and the only one that really gave a shit. Things had a way of sorting themselves out in Warpath. Most of the offenses were just hack magicians trying to sell themselves on the mystique of the place, and swindle people out of their money. Anything worse than that was usually just petty crime. Anything that there was evidence of, anyhow. Reports would always come in from time to time. Murder, robbery, you name it; but when the Police would roll up, there’d be no evidence. Just ghosts and echoes. By the time Greg was nearing his twenty first birthday, Mort started mentioning a ‘New Case’ to him. Something that would ‘explain everything’. Six months later, he turned up dead in the first confirmed murder in the last twenty-five years of Warpath’s history. Greg took up Pop’s old revolvers and his whip, intent on delivering revenge to the sonsabitches who did this to his father. He swore on his grave to dedicate his life to the path of justice. The life of the Vigilante. The newly christened Vig spent two months tracking down and systematically eliminated a gang of bandits. As he worked his way through the higher ranking members, it was slowly becoming clearer and clearer that this was no ordinary Gang. It was a cult, devoted to finding something they called ‘The Miracle Mesa’. Vig never knew much about magic, but as he rolled up on the Cult for the final showdown, he could feel the air draw thinner. The closer he drew to them, the more he felt in a waking dream. The very reality around him seemed to pulsate with a kind of power, as if being touched by a force beyond mortal comprehension. It was around then that everything went to Hell.

Vigilante can still not accurately recall precisely what took place that day. In the face of the Miracle Mesa, reality peeled away, and all that was left was a nonsensical jangle of ideas, colors, feelings, and raw magic. What he does remember is bits and pieces. He remembers a blob of color, high in the sky, like you’d asked an abstract expressionist to design a city. He remembers emptying his pistols over and over again, shooting rounds into unholy abominations that spilled out of what seemed to be a hole in the world. What he remembers most of all is that he woke up in a place wholly unfamiliar to him, knee deep in demons.

Much like Warpath, Hell was… Unsuited to mortals, if Vigilante was still a mortal at all. God knows if he was dragged there through the Miracle Mesa, or if the demons spilling out of the thing killed him and brought him here. The one thing Vig knew for sure was that he had to get out. His experience of Hell was like a cryptic, corrupted version of the mortal plane. Everything was inverted, a perversion of itself. Everywhere was a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah, and just about all of the locals wanted him dead. In time, he found his pack. Six others who the Miracle Mesa had dragged in: Shining Knight, Jonah Hex, Johnny Frankenstein, Crimson Avenger, The Star Spangled Kid, and of course, good ol’ Stripsey. Time is a murky thing in Hell. They might’ve spent six months or a thousand years waging war on every manner of Demon and Monster they could find. However long it took them, on their way to demand passage out of the land of the damned from the Sultan of Sin himself, they ran across a demonic entity by the name of Mephisto. Mephisto’s bargain was simple: Safe passage out of Hell for Vig and all of his friends; in return for his mortal soul. By now The Seven Soldiers had learned a handful of lessons about survival in Hell. “Don’t deal with demons” was at the top of the list. In a pitched battle that lasted either a half hour or a month, the Soldiers, most of whom had all their limbs broken, were reasonably certain they’d hurt Mephisto. At least a tiny bit. Entirely beaten and with no other options, Vigilante stood up to the plate and laid down his soul, thus making him into Mephisto’s pawn, the Spirit of Vengeance. The current Ghost Rider. Now returned to Warpath, Vig and the Soldiers are planning their vengeance on Mephisto, and are seeking any magical help they can get. As Vig swore on his father's grave: Justice will be done.

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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This version of Vigilante alters his traditional origins, instead placing him in Warpath from the get-go. The idea here is to blend elements from many different versions of the character; literally the Ultimate edition. The main difference from those standard runs is its heavy focus on Saunders’ time in hell, which was otherwise just a bit of narration in a Jimmy Olsen comic. This version takes major inspiration from the raw weird that was Grant Morrison’s 7 Soldiers. There’s also the introduction of the Ghost Rider elements, which I did both to strengthen the idea of the DC and Marvel connection going on in this universe, but also to boost Vigilante’s power level, so he’s no slouch around some of the heavy hitters being brought in for this(as traditional Vig is just a grease monkey who is good with guns). On top of that, it lets Vig lean into the weird/supernatural that surrounds Hell and the West more effectively.

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

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-Unlike with Spider-Man, I won't be posting Vig's backlog here. Instead you'll find it below in the post catalog.

Supporting Cast

Shining Knight - A medieval Knight encountered in Hell. He stumbled across the Miracle Mesa while battling with Morgan Le Fay. He swears he owned a winged horse by the name of Winged Victory, and thinks it must be alive somewhere in the world.

Jonah Hex - 1800's Bounty Hunter that Vig met in Hell. He ran into the Miracle Mesa while tracking down a Bounty.

Frankenstein - Another person Vigilante encountered in Hell. He stumbled into the Miracle Mesa sometime in the late 1700s.

Crimson Avenger - The first man Vigilante encountered in Hell. Small time hero of the early 1940s. He typically did things quietly enough that neither SHIELD nor CADMUS came down on him. While tracking down a case, he encountered the Miracle Mesa.

Star Spangled Kid and Stripsey - Star Spangled Kid, former sidekick to Captain America, and his sidekick Stripsey themselves stumbled onto Miracle Mesa themselves in the late 1940’s, and have been in Hell since. That is, until Vig sprung them.

Billy Gunn - Old family friend and current Sheriff of Warpath.

Mephisto - Technically, Mephisto is Vigilante’s current Boss. The demon is responsible for his Ghost Rider abilities and his escape from Hell.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa

Vigilante could always feel it behind his eyes. The burning. The anger. It was like a little demon that lived in his head, constantly stabbing his eyes and his brain. Always screaming.

“VENGEANCE MUST BE DONE.” If he listened close he could constantly hear the click-clack of his own bones. The sound was whispered into his ear by some kind of unseen entity. Vig supposed it was Mephisto’s way of taunting him. He hoped the Demon Lord got enough satisfaction out of it before his head got turned into chunky salsa.

Vig leaned back in his rocker, polishing his pistols for the umpteenth time. He should’ve been the one to go, but according to Frank, he was best equipped to handle it if some creepy crawly clawed its way up to the surface. In his heart, Vig knew it too. But hell, maybe they were just protecting him from himself, Houston hadn’t been fine. A simple operation to wrassle a coupla Occult Books outta’ the hands of some gangbangers that didn’t know what the fuck they were turned into hellfire and screams of the damned. By contrast there wasn’t much to wake that thing in Warpath.

Hex said he’d seen it once before. The old man was tracking down a gang of outlaws led by a bandit by the name of White Face. The way Hex told it, by the time he rode up with his big iron, the whole place was burnin’ to the ground. Now, this was one of them old Frontier towns. Everything was down one long single road. Every one of the gang was laid at over the place. Sticking outta shop windows, gutted open on the glass. Speared through on a cracked post. Some of ‘em were burnin’ with the buildings. Even from a distance, Hex could see the thousand yard stares on some of the bodies. Weren’t no man that did this to them.

Way down, at the end of that long road, Hex could see White Face himself. The mask was burned away an’ his face was singed. Whatever the hell was holding him up by his neck wasn’t human, and certainly wasn’t no creature of God. Its skin was all burned away, an’ all that was left was a white skull coated in hellfire. Hex had killed many a man in his time, but he’d never seen no one beg like White Face begged that day. Hex ‘imself never got a good look at its proper face. Musta been something horrible, to make a rough sonuvabitch like White Face sob his goddamn eyes out. It was hard for Hex to see quite right at all that distance, but at some point White Face stopped struggling. He just stared through. His eyes were locked right on that skull, but they seemed to be gone for a million miles.

That was the only bounty Hex ever abandoned. He figured The Devil had come to collect his dues before mortal men got the chance, and that was a-okay with him.

On the horizon, Vig could see a dust cloud. The first to return. He holstered his pistol and drew himself out of his rocker. He tried to ignore the gnawing sensation in the back of his mind. Out of the dust, a figure cloaked in red slowly materialized. He was riding on a white steed -- that guy would never get used to motorcycle, even as Vig’s insistence.

The Crimson Avenger was the first man Vigilante had encountered in Hell. He seemed someone of solid principle, devoted to his cause -- Not unlike Vig’s father. Vig stood in the street. He wiped his hands and waved to his coming friend.

“Woah, nelly.” Crimson called out to his horse. They slowed on approach.

“Get whatcha’ needed, pardner?” Vig extended a hand to help him down from the horse.

“Yep. Now, we’ll probably have to modify the thing to make it suitable for combat down there…” Crimson took the hand and jumped down from his horse. He had a silver case attached to him at the hip.

“I’m just happy to have a fresh model of the old girl, again,” The Crimson Avenger opened the case and pulled out a gas gun -- it gleamed in the sunlight, “been too long.”

“Can’t imagine what that feelin’s like. Three years realtime was long enough fer me to be away from my bike.” Vigilante gestured to the second rocker. The Avenger nodded and obliged.

“So, what’s the word, Avenger?” Vig kicked up his legs and leaned back into the chair. The simple pleasures would be few, now. Had to do his best to enjoy them before it came time for the real war to start.

“Well, Knight, Hex, and Frankenstein are still trying to get themselves accustomed to the modern world. They were going to head up to the New York and Metropolis area to see what’s to see. They were planning on looking into the local occult locations to see if they can scrounge up anything we don’t already know.” Crimson Avenger said. He took a seat in his rocker, taking the time to press out the folds and wrinkles in his costume. It was a thing of amazing construction -- it held up all the way through his time in Hell up to now.

“Mhm.” Vig said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a cigarette. He considered it, for a moment. He felt the voice in his ear reaching out for his lighter, the call of the fire. He put the cig on the arm of the chair. “The Kid and Stripey have any word on Cap?”

The Crimson Avenger shook his head. The Star Spangled Kid had set out to find his old teacher -- Said he would’ve known it Cap had passed. The man was certain they would’ve heard tell of his passing or, God forbid, have seen him there. That meant he was out there somewhere, and hell, maybe he could be of service.

“Well Crimson, that jus means it’s you, me, and a long wait against whatever hand The Miracle Mesa deals us next. Cheers.”

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

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Posts

Part One - The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa
Prelude
Strings; Issue 1
Strings; Issue 2
Strings; Issue 3
Strings; Issue 4
Strings; Issue 5; Finale
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Riders on the Storm; Issue 1
Riders on the Storm; Issue 2
Riders on the Storm; Issue 3
Riders on the Storm; Issue 4
Riders on the Storm; Issue 5
Riders on the Storm; Issue 6
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Glitter and Gold; Issue 1
Glitter and Gold; Issue 2
Glitter and Gold; Issue 3
Glitter and Gold; Issue 4
Glitter and Gold; Issue 5
Glitter and Gold; Issue 6
Glitter and Gold; Issue 7
Glitter and Gold; Issue 8
Glitter and Gold; Issue 9
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Season One Epilogue

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

@Lord Wraith Do I have to have fancy headers?

@Dark Cloud

I'm in the business of putting together fancy headers for folks... And by business, I mean I do it for free... but a like wouldn't hurt.