DocTachyon

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Mario and Luigi

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

D E A D L Y H A N D S O F
K U N G - F U

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^{"There is no limit to technique. There is always room for improvement.” - Takehiko Inoue, Vagabond}

^{_{D A N N Y R A N D ♦ L U K E C A G E ♦ H E R O E S F O R H I R E ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y}}

O R I G I N S:

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Danny Rand and Carl Lucas met as children on the sweat soaked mats of Pop’s Dojo in Harlem, and have been fighting in some way or another ever since. At first it was always each other. Whether Misty or Willis or even an itinerant prodigy like Colleen were prepared for them, they unerringly paired up and went to it. They never failed to keep pace with one another; even as Danny sought outside lessons, Luke’s dedication to karate would redouble, and each would find the other an agonizingly close match.

As young adults, they had no choice but to wrestle with their memories. Lucas believed Danny was dead, in the same plane crash that took the life of his mother somewhere out in the Himalayan mountains. Danny knew all too well Lucas was alive, one of his few connections to the world outside of K’un Lun, his new home. His new path had been chosen, shaping him from a martial prodigy into the Immortal Iron Fist, Protector of K’un Lun, sworn enemy of the Hand and the Shadows. But all through his training he could not help but wonder -- Has my rival kept up? Lucas too, had a question. Would anything have changed if Danny was still here? It only takes a handful of bad choices to separate a man from his path, but Willis Stryker was always available to help Luke make those choices in just the wrong way. Stryker was from Pop’s, too, a dedicated boxer who had been thrown out once old man Pop discovered his gang connections. Lucas’s loyalty to the boy held fast, and it was that loyalty that landed him in Georgia’s beautiful, historic Seagate Prison.

Lucas’s fights for survival in prison and Danny’s trials with the upper echelons of K’un Lun’s Masters would come to define them. Behind the four walls of Seagate, Carl Lucas was selected as the first subject of an experimental super soldier serum. Lucas was able to narrowly escape the prison with his newfound, indestructible skin, and redefine himself on the outside as Luke Cage, the mysterious new owner of Pop’s Dojo. Danny was able to overcome the last of K’un Lun’s challenges with his defeat of Shou-Lao, and emerge as the latest heritor of the Iron Fist. Now, training completed, Danny returns to New York, to seek the aid of his old mentor…

S A M P L E P O S T:

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You can learn a lot about a man in one five minute round of sparring. That was one of the things Pop had taught Danny, before the cavalcade of K’un Lun’s esoteric masters had tried to dress the same concept up in thousands of years of martial history: that in a fight, the eye is the most important thing.

He saw now that Luke was only testing his guard, throwing half committed moves and waiting for Danny to set the pace. He learned fast -- their first spar after Danny arrived ended with Luke in a guillotine hold, after he tried to rush at Danny and overwhelm him with size. Luke said Danny got lucky, and he was right. If Luke hadn’t gone for the takedown, Danny would have started with his seiken. A cheeky and practically useless strike from their days at Pop’s dojo. The punch was mostly ceremonial, to train the arm’s muscles and center the mind. He only liked to use it to set the tone of a spar, but against Luke, he’d have shattered his hand.

It was only right that they set to sparring immediately, not bothering to explain the intricacies of their individual situations. It was much simpler than that: Danny wasn’t dead anymore, and that meant he could step back into the ring with Luke. On Danny’s first day back, Pop’s was his first stop. He expected to find it a shell of itself, hollowed out and turned into one of a dozen brightly colored twenty four hour fitness lifestyle places that signaled the death knell of the local gym. Instead of a prim secretary and video screens on every wall, he was greeted by the Pop’s he remembered. Every wall plastered with the yellowing posters of bygone fight promotions, with the same scrap of note paper that held Pop’s exercise routine pinned to a decaying corkboard. It still smelled like Pop’s, the old sweat mixing with the new against the strained fabric of the mats. The only thing missing from the place was Pop himself -- instead he found Carl Lucas, already gloved up and hammering away at a heavy bag.

Lucas went by Luke, now, and Danny was pretty sure Luke had come to master at least two other combat systems in their time apart. The double he had thrown in their first round was wrestling, and the blocks he presented to Danny’s probing jabs was pure Jailhouse Rock. JHR wasn’t often taught, especially not by the Masters of K’un Lun, but Danny made it a point to be aware of as many unique martial arts as possible, and JHR’s fifty two blocks were some of the most singular in all Danny’s awareness. The two styles alone were a powerful combination, and the man had untold experience in classic karate on top. Though, Danny couldn’t judge just how far Luke had gotten in Pop’s kenpo. When Danny left, they had been preparing for their black belt exams, and there was no telling how high Luke could have risen from there. With dedication, he’d have had time to get to the Fifth or even Sixth degree… but you couldn’t tell by the way he moved.

Lucas used to be a stout, immovable block of a boy who could overcome anything Danny threw at him with a little heart and a mammoth dedication to karate above all else. It didn’t matter what Danny brought: from his judo sweeps to his aikido joint locks, Luke could always get around it and slam him with a huge, audacious karate classic. Pop would always smile and call him “a karateka’s karateka.” But he wasn't that kid anymore.

Now Luke was a street fighter, through and through. Danny could tell from the way he moved his head. Over ninety percent of street fights involve head punches exclusively, and your ability to protect your head was often the only thing separating you from a brutal death on the pavement. Luke’s head movement was immaculate, and each of his guards seemed sharper than the last, absolutely denying the possibility of a headshot. The other thing about street fighters is that they, as a rule, never take fights to the ground. It was too easy for a controlling position to become a weak one in the tangle of a grapple, and you could easily wind up with your head splattered across the concrete. It was there Luke almost tricked him, with his double at the start of their matches, it was antithetical to the style. But Luke had an edge that meant a concrete concussion wasn't so much of a worry for him.

Luke hadn't gone and spelled it out for Danny, but the man had to be indestructible or something close to it. As they grappled, even the softest parts of Luke’s body felt dense, even the skin over his pressure points seemed to reject Danny’s attempts to manipulate them with steel rigidity. Danny was still managing, by centimeters, to squeeze Luke into the positions he needed for his holds to function. If the ordinary person was clay, Luke was made of iron. It was something beyond what body conditioning and partial training could give you, totally unique from the secrets of the old masters.

But Luke wasn’t stupid. He had to know Danny was holding something back, too. He told Luke about K’un Lun already in the broad strokes, a hidden society in the deepest mountains of Asia playing host to some of the greatest masters of our time. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make the unvarnished truth emerge: about K’un Lun, about the purpose of the Iron Fist, and the identity and responsibility of its inheritor… and Luke acted in kind. Danny didn’t think it was something an ordinary martial artist would notice, but he saw the flickers in Luke’s eyes. It was something he’d trained himself to look for in every fighter, it was the thing he loved about every fighter, their ability to seize their moments in the way that is just unique to them. Their build, their speed, their power, and above all their absolute unique application of their lifetime of techniques, in that one crystalline and perfect moment. But now, as they faced each other, Danny saw Luke pick out his moments, and let them pass by.

The round timer buzzed.

“Damn, already? Never got a good hit in,” Luke complained.

“Don’t sweat it. I have a feeling we have a lot of good hits ahead of us.”

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

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A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

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

@Sep

He was going to tell you we don't accept straight applications. Your Clark's experience as a paranormal investigator was compelling, but we were really looking for experience at the Ram Ranch.

See it sounds better when I say it because I'm queer and you're only Scottish

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

For reasons unknown to even me, the magnanimous @Sep and @Master Bruce have picked yours truly as a Consulting GM, which I'm to understand means all of the power and none of the responsibility. Fun!

In my first act as your local feudal lord, I must announce the results of the Superman contest. Before you, you have two truly marvelous sheets, both from seasoned veterans. But there can only be one big blue.

One of the challenges of this particular setting is getting the tone just right, mixing in comic hyper-reality with the ordinary to achieve a distinctly year one effect. In this case, we determined @Master Bruce's just slightly edges it out. We'd like to extend our greatest thanks to both applicants! We're beyond excited to see you both in action, be it in cape or claws.

Doc's Chop Shop

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

D E A D L Y H A N D S O F
K U N G - F U

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^{"There is no limit to technique. There is always room for improvement.” - Takehiko Inoue, Vagabond}

^{_{D A N N Y R A N D ♦ L U K E C A G E ♦ H E R O E S F O R H I R E ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y}}

O R I G I N S:

---

Danny Rand and Carl Lucas met as children on the sweat soaked mats of Pop’s Dojo in Harlem, and have been fighting in some way or another ever since. At first it was always each other. Whether Misty or Willis or even an itinerant prodigy like Colleen were prepared for them, they unerringly paired up and went to it. They never failed to keep pace with one another; even as Danny sought outside lessons, Luke’s dedication to karate would redouble, and each would find the other an agonizingly close match.

As young adults, they had no choice but to wrestle with their memories. Lucas believed Danny was dead, in the same plane crash that took the life of his mother somewhere out in the Himalayan mountains. Danny knew all too well Lucas was alive, one of his few connections to the world outside of K’un Lun, his new home. His new path had been chosen, shaping him from a martial prodigy into the Immortal Iron Fist, Protector of K’un Lun, sworn enemy of the Hand and the Shadows. But all through his training he could not help but wonder -- Has my rival kept up? Lucas too, had a question. Would anything have changed if Danny was still here? It only takes a handful of bad choices to separate a man from his path, but Willis Stryker was always available to help Luke make those choices in just the wrong way. Stryker was from Pop’s, too, a dedicated boxer who had been thrown out once old man Pop discovered his gang connections. Lucas’s loyalty to the boy held fast, and it was that loyalty that landed him in Georgia’s beautiful, historic Seagate Prison.

Lucas’s fights for survival in prison and Danny’s trials with the upper echelons of K’un Lun’s Masters would come to define them. Behind the four walls of Seagate, Carl Lucas was selected as the first subject of an experimental super soldier serum. Lucas was able to narrowly escape the prison with his newfound, indestructible skin, and redefine himself on the outside as Luke Cage, the mysterious new owner of Pop’s Dojo. Danny was able to overcome the last of K’un Lun’s challenges with his defeat of Shou-Lao, and emerge as the latest heritor of the Iron Fist. Now, training completed, Danny returns to New York, to seek the aid of his old mentor…

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

You can learn a lot about a man in one five minute round of sparring. That was one of the things Pop had taught Danny, before the cavalcade of K’un Lun’s esoteric masters had tried to dress the same concept up in thousands of years of martial history: that in a fight, the eye is the most important thing.

He saw now that Luke was only testing his guard, throwing half committed moves and waiting for Danny to set the pace. He learned fast -- their first spar after Danny arrived ended with Luke in a guillotine hold, after he tried to rush at Danny and overwhelm him with size. Luke said Danny got lucky, and he was right. If Luke hadn’t gone for the takedown, Danny would have started with his seiken. A cheeky and practically useless strike from their days at Pop’s dojo. The punch was mostly ceremonial, to train the arm’s muscles and center the mind. He only liked to use it to set the tone of a spar, but against Luke, he’d have shattered his hand.

It was only right that they set to sparring immediately, not bothering to explain the intricacies of their individual situations. It was much simpler than that: Danny wasn’t dead anymore, and that meant he could step back into the ring with Luke. On Danny’s first day back, Pop’s was his first stop. He expected to find it a shell of itself, hollowed out and turned into one of a dozen brightly colored twenty four hour fitness lifestyle places that signaled the death knell of the local gym. Instead of a prim secretary and video screens on every wall, he was greeted by the Pop’s he remembered. Every wall plastered with the yellowing posters of bygone fight promotions, with the same scrap of note paper that held Pop’s exercise routine pinned to a decaying corkboard. It still smelled like Pop’s, the old sweat mixing with the new against the strained fabric of the mats. The only thing missing from the place was Pop himself -- instead he found Carl Lucas, already gloved up and hammering away at a heavy bag.

Lucas went by Luke, now, and Danny was pretty sure Luke had come to master at least two other combat systems in their time apart. The double he had thrown in their first round was wrestling, and the blocks he presented to Danny’s probing jabs was pure Jailhouse Rock. JHR wasn’t often taught, especially not by the Masters of K’un Lun, but Danny made it a point to be aware of as many unique martial arts as possible, and JHR’s fifty two blocks were some of the most singular in all Danny’s awareness. The two styles alone were a powerful combination, and the man had untold experience in classic karate on top. Though, Danny couldn’t judge just how far Luke had gotten in Pop’s kenpo. When Danny left, they had been preparing for their black belt exams, and there was no telling how high Luke could have risen from there. With dedication, he’d have had time to get to the Fifth or even Sixth degree… but you couldn’t tell by the way he moved.

Lucas used to be a stout, immovable block of a boy who could overcome anything Danny threw at him with a little heart and a mammoth dedication to karate above all else. It didn’t matter what Danny brought: from his judo sweeps to his aikido joint locks, Luke could always get around it and slam him with a huge, audacious karate classic. Pop would always smile and call him “a karateka’s karateka.” But he wasn't that kid anymore.

Now Luke was a street fighter, through and through. Danny could tell from the way he moved his head. Over ninety percent of street fights involve head punches exclusively, and your ability to protect your head was often the only thing separating you from a brutal death on the pavement. Luke’s head movement was immaculate, and each of his guards seemed sharper than the last, absolutely denying the possibility of a headshot. The other thing about street fighters is that they, as a rule, never take fights to the ground. It was too easy for a controlling position to become a weak one in the tangle of a grapple, and you could easily wind up with your head splattered across the concrete. It was there Luke almost tricked him, with his double at the start of their matches, it was antithetical to the style. But Luke had an edge that meant a concrete concussion wasn't so much of a worry for him.

Luke hadn't gone and spelled it out for Danny, but the man had to be indestructible or something close to it. As they grappled, even the softest parts of Luke’s body felt dense, even the skin over his pressure points seemed to reject Danny’s attempts to manipulate them with steel rigidity. Danny was still managing, by centimeters, to squeeze Luke into the positions he needed for his holds to function. If the ordinary person was clay, Luke was made of iron. It was something beyond what body conditioning and partial training could give you, totally unique from the secrets of the old masters.

But Luke wasn’t stupid. He had to know Danny was holding something back, too. He told Luke about K’un Lun already in the broad strokes, a hidden society in the deepest mountains of Asia playing host to some of the greatest masters of our time. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make the unvarnished truth emerge: about K’un Lun, about the purpose of the Iron Fist, and the identity and responsibility of its inheritor… and Luke acted in kind. Danny didn’t think it was something an ordinary martial artist would notice, but he saw the flickers in Luke’s eyes. It was something he’d trained himself to look for in every fighter, it was the thing he loved about every fighter, their ability to seize their moments in the way that is just unique to them. Their build, their speed, their power, and above all their absolute unique application of their lifetime of techniques, in that one crystalline and perfect moment. But now, as they faced each other, Danny saw Luke pick out his moments, and let them pass by.

The round timer buzzed.

“Damn, already? Never got a good hit in,” Luke complained.

“Don’t sweat it. I have a feeling we have a lot of good hits ahead of us.”

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

---

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.

Back in the saddle again...

T H E H E A V E N - S E N T C O W B O Y

V I G I L A N T E

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^{"Witty Quote"}

^{_{G R E G S A U N D E R S ♦ W I N G E D V I C T O R Y ♦ W A N D E R E R S}}

O R I G I N S:

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In his career, Vigilante has torn apart heaven, hell, and earth... And now he's prepared to do it again, for one man.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Give an example of how you would write your chosen character. Try to focus on simple actions and a sampling of dialogue.

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

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A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.

C H A R A C T E R D A T A B A S E

Post Summaries

Ultimate One Universe Emergence Page One Summaries

Superman #1: In which Clark Kent extolls the virtues of his morning commute and gleans some details from passersby about the mysterious hacker known as the ‘Toyman’. After a heated all-hands meeting with Perry White, Clark joins fellow press Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen in the field to investigate an explosion at a Luthorcorp facility.

Thor #1: In which a Mister Keith Kincaid struggles to service a communications array in the bitter Alaskan cold, seeming to lose his friend Wilford along the way, all while a mysterious voice croons from the radio. Meanwhile, Thor himself grapples with the cold and his exile, only to see his faithful hammer Mjolnir crash beside him -- and that he is no longer worthy to wield it.

The Punisher #1: In which Frank Castle has a polite little interrogation with one Nicky Francesco. Francesco spills the beans on a club called The Stardust Lounge where Frank can find one of his targets, a capo called Billy ‘The Beaut’ Russo. Francesco adds to Frank’s body count.

Fantastic Four #1: In which hotshot Johnny Storm gets (rightfully) chewed out by his sister Sue. We get filled in on the Fantastic family’s particular and peculiar circumstances and hear about Johnny’s fiery night on the town that ends with him stark nude.

The Flash #1: In which Barry gives Iris her brand new supersuit. Flirting is attempted by both, and understood by neither. Finally, Iris races off on her first adventure as The Flash!

The Question #-1: In which The Question tries to use his position in the Hub City Gazette as a cudgel of justice against the new Mayor Fermin, and gets dumped and thrown out of his job on his ass for his trouble. He manages to find a new gig to keep his head above water, but time for Vic Sage is running out. Every violent night as The Question brings him closer to his goal, and closer to his own funeral. A fateful encounter with the martial assassin Lady Shiva finally brings him to his watery grave, but the butterfly’s wings still beat.

Question Backlog, Issues 0 - 3

The Question #0: In which Vic remembers his first time watching a man die, and struggles in the darkness to grapple with the death of his own ego. Half dead and fished out from the deep by Lady Shiva and Tot Rodor, Vic is placed into the care of the legendary martial artist Richard Dragon. After a year of training, Vic reforms himself into a new man, one ready to ask all the right Questions.

The Question #1: In which Vic begins his journey to Hub City, and takes his first stop at the home of a kindly, queer old man. Charmed and heartened by stories of the man’s late husband, another Victor, Vic reflects on all the people he’s left behind, from Tot to his new boss, and most especially his ex-girlfriend Myra Fermin.

The Question #2: In which skinhead agitators try to get the better of the old man, only to have their faces rearranged by a faceless man. Q steals their truck and hightails it for Hub City.

The Question #3: In which Q listens to the greatest hits of the skinhead’s music collection and ruminates on the enormity of the task before him, saving Hub City’s soul. Steeling himself, he takes off for Tot’s to begin his campaign.

Mister Terrific #1: In which Michael Holt has his first night out with his upgraded equipment. Mister Terrific is now fully online with nanogel and T-spheres operating in unison to great effect, complete with flight and combat modes. But Michael still isn’t perfect, and catches a thrown handgun to the back of the head for his trouble. He limps home and gets a state of the art compression wrap for his wounds. The power of science is amazing!

The Lanterns #1: Do Green Lanterns dream of electric cheeks? Hal Jordan does, and he scarcely manages to survive a high flying fighter jet test run and a near collision with a UFO. He finds himself chosen as the next bearer of the Green Lantern ring, and the new fate-chosen best friend of an angry looking red guy.

The Flash #2: The Flash streaks onto the scene of a bank robbery and foils four gunmen as flawlessly as a new superhero can, a handful of whizzing bullets notwithstanding. But now, Flash finds herself in the dill-icious court of the one and aioli Condiment King!

Iron Man #1: In which Tony Stark bursts onto the scene of the Walter E. Washington Convention Center in style as Iron Man. He denounces the mutant menace and announces a series of wargames to trial the latest and greatest prototypes of the War Machine project. It’s to be conducted by a sterling cast of test pilots, including Rhodey Rhodes, Carol Danvers, and the one and only Major Major Jordan.

Wolverine #1: In which a group of professional killers think they can get the drop on the Wolverine, their first mistake. Their second is that they want him alive, a courtesy Logan won’t extend to them. They’re dead well before Logan can learn that the next man gunning for his head is Colonel Flag, leader of Task Force X. But Logan does manage to figure out that the men were actually targeting the resident of a mysterious lighted cabin, just up the hill…

Hawksmoor #1: In which Jack Hawksmoor is in tune with the trills and timings of Tokyo, and comes upon gunmen engaging local police. The city yearns for their defeat, and as he tries to satisfy it, a katana wielding woman cuts one of the gunmen’s hands off. Named for her blade, the woman has the mark of a snake that brings back bad memories for Jack. Before he can ask her about it, a man named Sarge Steel comes bearing an offer.

Spider-Man #1: In which Peter Parker introduces us to the infinite array of spinning plates that is his life, from school to a mountain of extracurriculars and a pending internship with the brilliant Curt Conners. Mostly, Peter grapples with the bills that threaten to bring it all crumbling down, a total that’s just gotten a little higher thanks to a botched attempt at foiling a bodega robbery. It’s like old Bobby DeNiro says: always pay.

The Punisher #2: In which Frank Castle meets with his best friend David Lieberman and downloads details on Billy The Beaut from the NYPD database. Billy was a real cut up, and liked to prove it by carving puzzle pieces out of his victim’s faces. Frank leaves Liberman’s place to have a shootout in the Stardust Lounge. As good as Frank is with his handguns, Russo can more than keep up. Before long they’ve shot the weapons out of each other's hands and grappled across the floor of the bar. Frank gets the upper hand and destroys Russo’s prized face on one of the Lounge’s blackened windows.

The Lanterns #2: In which Hal introduces us to the target of his one sided hate boner, American Hero Major Major Jordan. Hal is released from SHIELD quarantine and his new pal Sinestro explains the intergalactic shitstorm that will erupt if space warlord Ronan The Executioner is allowed to get his hands on all seven Lantern Rings. Together, they set out for SHIELD HQ in the big apple.

Iron Man #2: In which Bolivar Trask takes AUSA’s stage to announce the Sentinel Program, a next generation solution to the mutant problem, and gives Tony inventor’s envy. On his way out of the venue, Tony picks up a smoking hot slavic reporter by the name of Ali Anovna.

Thor #2: In which the Thunderer mourns the loss of his Godhood. Voices and shadowed figures assail his mind from the frozen woods, and soon he’s attacked by a powerful beast with claws sharp enough to rend a god’s flesh. Before it can devour Thor, Keith Kincaid blasts it with his shotgun and finds, to his horror, the monster bears Wilford’s face. Before his old friend can claw Keith apart, Thor returns his favor and heaves the monster through the trunk of a mighty tree, and slays it with his bare hands.

The Question #4: In which Vic reunites with Tot, and his old friend gets Vic up to speed on Mayor Fermin’s activities in the Hub and sets him up with his old coat and pseudoderm for his mask, plus a new grappling gun. One of Vic’s old contacts gives him a lead on a heroin operation run by a gang known as the Gospel of Sinners, led by a mysterious Reverend. Knocking a few heads together and asking a few wise Questions gets Vic the name and address of one of the Rev’s top enforcers.

Wolverine #2: In which Logan approaches the cabin and steps inside to face its occupant, only to find it empty… Until a shadow leaps through a wall and he pounces at it. But the shadow wasn’t another killer, but an ordinary teenage girl. As ordinary as mutant like Logan can be, anyway. After a brief knife to knife-hand stand off, the pair have a heart to heart… and against his better judgment, Logan finds himself agreeing to take the girl, Kitty Pryde, cross country to New York City.

"Danny talking"
"Luke talking"
"Special guest star talking"

Marvel & DC: Emergence (Canon RP)

Does anyone else have characters they'd like to state interest in? I see @Hillan and @Roman are interested but haven't given any hints yet. Plus @Half Pint told me they have some other ideas but didn't name names. Wanna share with the class?

Marvel & DC: Emergence (Canon RP)

Not to step on MB's toes here but I think the issue if just that Transformers feel really distinct from the rise of metahumans as a phenomenon. Even if in practice the setting is actually a kitchen sink, Superman is a space alien, Captain America is a soldier from out of time, Wonder Woman is from an ancient warrior culture, the X-Men are genetic freaks, etc. etc., its still fairly easy for the average person in the setting to look at all of those and pin them all as the same kind of thing, even if they want to quibble about who is a mutant and who is a superhuman or whatever. Whereas with the Transformers, its tough to mistake them for anything but a giant alien robot.

The other thing I think is that I know MB and Sep want to prioritize interaction between characters and that might be hard to achieve when the scale between them is so different. Like, for instance, my story is going to be all about martial arts, and I thought it would be cute to try and teach most every character they interact with a move or two if the story allows, but they're kind of prohibited from doing that with the Transformers at like a basic bodily mechanics level.

Marvel & DC: Emergence (Canon RP)

With apologies to the very kind @Half Pint, I figure I should say that I'm working on an Iron Fist and Power Man concept myself. Excited to see what everyone's cooking!

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

The Adventure of the Dutch Diamonds
Part II

Paget Illustration

The dogcart delivered us from Baker Street and into Bloomsbury, as London around us began to wind down for the evening. The paper boys and street hawkers packed their day’s wares away and the gas lamps on each street corner winked to life while a menagerie of lighted windows cast their vibrancy upon the street below. As we travelled, Holmes worked to coax more details from Lestrade.

“The victim’s name is Underhill, Frederick Underhill. He was a Professor of Chemistry at the University of London, lived in University housing on Gower Street for most of his adult life. He’s a widower of some ten years, and a man of most regular habits, this according to the neighbour that found him. She had not seen him for two days, and went so far to check up on him at his office. When he was there neither, she returned and let herself in with a spare key provided by his secretary, to find him in his sorry state, dashed by chandelier,” Lestrade explained.

I rubbed the top of my head and tried not to think about the glass and metal of a chandelier shattering across it, tearing into my flesh. I had seen horrible things done to men’s heads and faces while on campaign, marred by shrapnel or worse, but here the juxtaposition of gore and domesticity created a pit in my stomach. I consoled myself with the thought that It was surely a rarer event than even being struck by lightning, to travel beneath such an ornament in the moment it should break.

“Had this neighbour anything further to say about the premises? Strange noises coming from Underhill’s domicile? Leaks in her own establishment, perhaps?” Holmes asked as the dogcart came to a halt.

This time Lestrade detected the jab, “I was most thorough in my investigation of the premises, Holmes. This wetness exists all about the victim. His clothes are far from soaked, but…” Lestrade struggled, “you will see these mysterious wet markings for yourself on our arrival, and you will conclude they are as queer as I say.” He threw open the cart’s door and gestured to our destination. Gower Street’s apartments were a dark stack of brick opposite to the University’s sweeping campus and flourishing grounds, nestling in the shade of the great institution. The apartments had surely housed many luminaries and brilliant students across its time, yet they seemed to me a dull, black mark on a street of innovation.

“But not so mysterious that the officer in charge finds it worthy of any examination? Indeed, who is this inspector you allude to?” Holmes teased. Before Lestrade could answer, 185 Gower Street’s warped, green door swung open, and a dark haired policeman of sallow complexion emerged, joining the handful of officers that provided perimeter guard outside. I recognized him from his height, two heads shorter than Lestrade, and the thickly soled boots he wore to attempt to compensate for the difference: he was Inspector Gregson. Holmes smiled devilishly the moment he too recognized him.

“Lestrade, you have buried the lede,” Holmes said, emerging from the dogcart and marching towards Inspector Gregson. Lestrade and Gregson’s rivalry was often a treat to Holmes. He loved nothing more than to toss them scraps and watch them snarl and wrestle like wolves for it, at least when their fighting did not run rampant over Holmes’s crime scene.

“Lestrade, you bungler,” Gregson groaned as we all approached the home, “you really went to the trouble of bringing Mr. Holmes around? It is hardly a matter worthy of his attention.”

“You mean worthy of yours,” Lestrade countered, “you are just trying to avoid the paperwork and cut out for the evening, without conducting the comprehensive examination the professor deserves.”

“Gentlemen, let us remain civil,” I pleaded, ”we shall simply take a brief look around to attempt to determine which theory, accident or no, is better supported by the facts. Let us spare our vitriol for the criminal.”

“If indeed there is one,” Gregson snorted. “The victim’s name was--”

Holmes waved him off, “Lestrade has already furnished us with the most basic elements of the case. If you would be so kind as to show us inside?”

Gregson compressed his already small features with a scowl, and led us past the front door and inside. The door whined as it opened, and Holmes stopped at it momentarily, trying it at its hinge and then gazing pointedly up and down the road.

“Holmes, please, we really must get a move on. My men have been run ragged this week…” Gregson said, as Holmes evidently busied himself with trivialities.

“Gower Street is University housing. Why then should the door be in such a state of disrepair?” Holmes said.

I exchanged a glance with each inspector, who in turn looked between Holmes and I for some answer. “I do not follow your line of inquiry,” I said.

“London University employs its own small staff of carpenters, contractors, and assorted tradesmen for the maintenance of its grounds and its dormitory facilities. It is the preference of these men to complete as many tasks and updates in a single area as possible before moving onto the next, to increase their efficiency. For instance, many tradesmen will update the entryways of several homes at once, even an entire neighbourhood. Yet this door,” Holmes rapped his knuckles upon it, “is the most warped and damaged on the street.”

A look at the door opposite of 185 Gower’s confirmed it, finding the other door bright green and lacquered and anything but the sickly, off-angled slab that hung from 185’s hinges. The pattern repeated at other entryways outside, and turning back inward, we found the interior doors to be of similar specification.

“I allow it is odd, but I struggle to find it ‘suggestive’, as you so often say.” Lestrade said.

“Its relevance shall be borne out by the rest of the facts. At present, it is only another data point. Pray, let us continue.” Holmes said.

We were brought from the foyer into Professor Underhill’s main room, populated by another handful of uniforms. It was a circular, carpeted space that fed the apartments various other rooms on three sides. The room was dominated by a straight staircase that connected to the second floor, and ran down with dark crimson stains in a bloody well where the wood frame met soaked carpet. A man lay on the stair, spread as though he were starfish, with the remnants of a chandelier wrapped about his head as though a crude headdress. Nausea rose in my stomach and I swallowed it down, looking from the corpse to my dear friend.

Holmes gave the body a once over, and then turned to other areas of the house. He gestured at it, clearly having already derived what he required from it, to find his attention being rapidly pulled by the rest of the home.

“Watson, if you would be so good as to examine this individual?”

“We've already had a doctor ‘round, Mr. Holmes,” Gregson said, “a doctor from the University by the name of Zachariah Pendleton. By his judgement there was nothing unusual. He said Underhill has been dead for almost two days.”

“All the same, I would appreciate it if my companion could make such a determination for himself.” Holmes did not turn to address Gregson, instead stooping in the leftmost room and sticking two fingers into the ashes of the home’s inactive fireplace. I knew no further instruction would come from him as he immersed himself in the home and its features, questing for those which did not agree with the evident reality.

“Give the doctor some room,” Lestrade ordered, ushering all other officers beside himself and Gregson from the immediate vicinity.

Any disgust I may have felt melted away as I approached the body, the inner physician enabling me to look past the gore and viscera and make objective judgement on the corpse. The Dutch chandeliers' crystal petals had exploded over the body’s head and upon the ground, destroying his skull and the case of the brain within, leaving the broken chain to dangle above. Shards of shattered crystal remained hidden in the thick carpeting and poking from the harsh pink of Underhill’s exposed grey matter, winking in the flickering gaslight like diamonds.

Professor Underhill’s muscles had relaxed before we arrived, leaving the corpse’s midriff soiled in its own foul-smelling fluids, while its wrists and ankles lay upon damp patches of unknown origin. I laid my hands on the body, finding firstly that it had been thoroughly taken by the chill of death, the temperature of a man who had indeed been deceased for at least thirty six hours. Gently, I tried the left arm to test for the characteristic stiffness of rigour mortis, to find the limb quite pliable, having fully undergone secondary flaccidity, further supporting the notion that the corpse had been left for so long. Yet, as I tried the limb and felt those rare notes of stiffness that remained, I could not help but note just how cold the man was. I placed my hand upon his forehead and frowned deeply.

“Inspector Gregson? I can construct how your man arrived at his judgement,” I said.

“Excellent! You see, Sherlock?” Gregson smiled, “Scotland Yard gets it done.”

“However, I must advise there are several curious factors. Firstly, I must inform you that the algor mortis is the most useful factor to any physician in determining time of death, as the body’s temperature decreases at a consistent rate post mortem. But this body is quite frigid.”

“Of course he is. The man has been dead for over a day and a half.”

“It appeared that way to me on the onset. Professor Underhill is actually a few degrees colder than his surroundings. The body does not drop through the whole of the temperature scale on death, but rather approaches equilibrium with its surroundings. In fact, even if a body has been made cold, as is the case in many of Scotland Yard’s morgue facilities, when left out in the warmth it shall once again return to that equilibrium. But this body, despite the supposed time of death, somehow exists below that equilibrium. Someone has kept the body cold, and kept it in this fashion recently. The unnatural cold even makes the time of death uncertain, as the body is known to stiffen over the course of a dozen hours and unstiffen again after approximately two dozen. Based on the stiffness of Underhill’s musculature alone, while it is conceivable he passed thirty six hours ago, it is just as arguable that it was as recent as one hour ago. A further factor of concern is the stench, or lack thereof. A body left to decay produces gases and chemicals of a distinctive olfactory quality. It is not unheard of for amateur physicians to mistake the odour of post mortem excretions for that of decay. My experience informs me this stench is not that particular rancidity of death, and forces me to conclude that the Professor’s passing was much more recent than your investigator indicated.”

“I must concur with Watson,” Sherlock said. He wiped ash from his fingers with his handkerchief, and returned from the home’s other rooms to stand beside me. “It is typical of me to give into the urges of the dramatist within and forestall any communication of my conclusions until our cases have reached their total end, such that I may lay out the facts and their most interesting facets in their entirety. However, in this case, I must assure you gentlemen that there was no accident.”

“I assure you, Mister Holmes, that an accident is most plausible. The Professor has an ice box and a wet bar in the lounge. He could easily have been enjoying a cold drink that dropped his body’s temperature, perhaps even after death,” Gregson suggested.

“He would need to have enjoyed a massive quantity of drink to drop his temperature beyond his body’s natural heat,” Holmes said, allowing Gregson to continue to dig.

“Exactly. The man was so falling-down drunk, he disturbed the chandelier’s chain as he stumbled his way up the stairs,” Gregson declared.

“Gregson, you will join me in observing the position of Professor Underhill. You will perceive that his dashed head lays precisely below the broken chain of the chandelier. Inference? Underhill was already laying upon the ground. If he was standing, ascending or descending these stairs, you should expect the professor to stumble forward or backward as the deadly implement struck him and he fell to the floor, and thus break alignment with the chain,” Holmes said, maintaining his patience and kindness.

Gregson grinned like a cat that had caught its prize. “You only lend more credence to my theory, Mister Holmes. He could’ve easily been making a drunken crawl up his bedroom.” Now, my friend could not help but smile.

“I have, from time to time, enjoyed my drink to an excess, Inspector. But never have I crawled up the stairs on my back.”

The simplicity of it was striking. These facts considered, it was clear to me that foul play was a certainty. Even if the man was on the floor of his own volition, surely the chandelier’s chain would not snap at this precise unlikely moment. Gregson was stock still, but his understated eyes bugged from his head.

“Indeed,” he growled, “I shall inform the men of this discrepancy.” He left the room, excusing himself further embarrassment.

“Then it’s murder,” I said. “But how should the murderer have come to destroy the chandelier chain at the right time? Indeed, how could he keep Profesor Underhill in place as he loosed the ornament? There are no obvious signs of restraint upon his wrists or legs, nor a sign of a boot planted to his chest to keep him down. It truly is as if he lay there of his own free will.”

“It is on that point Watson, I intend to conduct my own researches. It is our duty as detectives to act upon evidence and not upon conjecture. Yet, as I total the possibilities in my mind and discount those conventional notions not supported by the facts here stated, and at the terminus of my reasoning I am met with an outre result. In this enterprise, I believe the criminal has achieved his results through sophisticated application of ice.”

Lestrade snorted, incredulous. “Are you implying that the perpetrator somehow sculpted restraints out of ice, and relied upon them to melt before the body was discovered? I grant you, it would go some way to explain the temperature of the body, and even the unique water stains about his extremities, but… It is far fetched, to say the least. Who has ever heard of such a thing?”

“I have encountered such a criminal before, if you would indulge my memory. During my travels abroad, I was engaged in a case in which it appeared that a Mister Akiyoshi Fujie had been murdered. In actual fact, the unfortunate fellow had committed suicide in an attempt to cast suspicion upon his manager. By utilising a pointed icicle as the instrument of his demise, the man had effectively engineered a disappearing murder weapon. He was given away by the great effort he had undertaken to ensure the weapon melted before he was discovered, most tellingly, the presence of a recently active fireplace in a blessedly warm August. What is of great concern here is the lack of such aides. The discovery of this crime was inevitable by the inquiry of Professor Underhill’s neighbours or colleagues, and the criminal has deployed no special strategies to hide his method, yett still effectively hidden it remains. I dare say we are dealing with something of a genius, as acquainted with the minute timings and properties of his frozen medium as a symphony violinist is with his catgut strings.”

“Is such a thing truly practical?” Lestrade asked. “Snapping off a thick icicle is one matter, but to bring such a quantity of carefully sculpted ice into the home?” Lestrade shook his head. “It is preposterous. I tell you, we have a Harrison ice machine at the Yard, and it is large enough to fill a room, and scarcely precise enough to even begin to perform an operation like this. He would have had to make and preserve each implement by hand, in the heat of summer, no less.”

“The science of refrigeration advances most rapidly. Many firms, both locally and abroad, are working to bring ice makers to the home. Who is to say that an enterprising scientist might not be ahead of the curve? It would not surprise me to learn the University might possess a similar device, likely of an improved specification than the one taxpayer funds provide to the police, which could be used to manufacture such equipment. Indeed, the criminal may be using an even more advanced means. But I shall refrain from speculation until I collect more data,” Holmes said. My friend turned to me and clapped his hand on my shoulder.

“Yet of foremost concern at present is the lateness of the hour. I am aware friend Watson has a pressing engagement on the morrow,” Holmes said. I checked the hour on Professor Underhill’s grandfather clock to find it as late as Holmes said. In just twelve hours, I would play host to a half dozen Gothamites. The anxiety of missing the brunch or failing to prepare for it were subsumed by my investigator’s resolve.

“I thank you for your consideration, but you will find me as available to you as ever. In a case as cold and mysterious as this, I should be thrilled to join you in the endeavour,” I said.

“It joys me to hear it, Watson! However, it is my suspicion Gower Street will not be home to much more suggestive information on this night. While further evidence in the home is possible, I should count us fortunate to have found what little we have. A criminal of this most extreme precision will not have left many more mistakes for us to pick up upon, if any at all. No, I believe your energies will be better spent with Mary and preparations for your guests, as the constabulary and I follow up what leading threads may remain in the home. I shall remain here and verify that nothing escapes our notice.”

I begrudgingly bid Inspector Lestrade farewell and trudged back out into the fading lights of drowsing London, through Gower Street’s creaking door. Holmes followed beside me, seeing me off to my dogcart home.

“In your estimation, Watson,” Holmes asked, eyes settling on me, “how would you rate the performance of the police’s chosen medical examiner?”

“You have known me to avoid criticism of the police, but he failed to denote the corpse's temperature, and made a gross over estimation of time of death. I may only characterise his conclusions as slipshod,” I answered carefully.

“I must agree,” Holmes said, satisfied, hailing a ride, “I recall Gregson provided us with his name, a Doctor Zachariah Pendleton. Does it stand out to your mind in any fashion?”

“Pendleton…” The name was distantly familiar to me. As a dogcart pulled around the corner and came to a stop from Holmes’ request, the memory came in a flash. “Yes! Pendleton! He has composed some few monographs on the treatment of chronic pain and disease. In fact, I recall Pendleton as being attached to the University’s Chemistry department, just as Underhill was…”

“Pendleton sounds to be a witness most worthy of interview, though we must not be hasty in following this course. We must establish a motive and thus a definitive direction for our investigations, such that we may approach Pendleton with superior information. At this juncture, the man could as easily be a potential victim as the killer himself. To narrow this field of possibility, I must entreat you to join me here at Gower Street tomorrow evening, at this hour,” Holmes said, a twinkle in his eye, as he helped me into the waiting cart, “our course must be to inquire into the life and researches of Professor Frederick Underhill, starting with his University offices.”

“If that is your judgement Holmes, then of course. I shall set out from home as soon as my guests allow,” I said. Holmes closed the door between us. The dogcart’s driver stirred the horses to action, and Holmes had one more thing to say through the cart’s window.

“And Watson?”

“Yes Holmes?”

“Don’t forget your gun.”

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

Paget Illustration

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The Adventure of the Dutch Diamonds
Part I

I called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, in the summer of 1890, to find him ensconced upon 221B’s chaise lounge, wreathed in the smoke that emanated from his pipe. His long fingers probed the toe of his Persian slipper for another pinch of tobacco to fill his bowl. I counted myself lucky at least that Holmes had chosen tobacco as his poison of the day, as opposed to the cocaine solution he was known to select in the blackest depths of his boredom. It was habits like these, among his other Bohemian qualities, that rendered him quite undesirable as a roommate for most men, thus why Baker Street had remained with a sole tenant in the year since I was wed to Mary.

“Watson! This is a surprise!” He said.

“Oh, don’t get up, Holmes,” I said, placing my hat upon the rack, and righting the newspaper I carried in my arm, “I come with something of a surprise myself.”

“Do not trouble yourself, dear fellow,” said my friend, “I intuit the nature of the surprise you purport to bring.”

“Yet you still say I surprise you? I shall count that as a victory, against one so observant as Sherlock Holmes.” My friend laughed and waved me to sit in the leather armchair opposite him.

“Only with your appearance here at Baker Street, Watson. I should have thought you engaged in mingling with Mary’s visiting relations. Though I suspect now that Mary indulges in the feminine kinship of her dear cousins, and has left you to your own devices?”

Though Holmes’ observational trickery was far from new to me, it astounded me as ever. My mouth sat agape. “How could you possibly derive such facts? I have never informed you about Mary’s relations, much less their plans for travel. Even if I had, surely the assumption would be that I am off to visit them as well?”

“You are aware of my methods, Watson. As ever, it was through simple observation. I see your tie’s knot tends to the right, indicating you have done it yourself on this occasion. As well, I see the tie has returned to its state of military tightness, as opposed to Mary’s marginally more breathable loops. On the subject of your dress, I observe your pocket square is pressed and folded in the military style, whereas your wife would have applied a more decorative flourish. Finally, I see that you have breakfasted alone, for a sparse sprinkling of crumbs still exists in your moustache. Mary would have certainly detected these and dispensed with them before seeing you out the door.”

“It is a wonder I can make it out at all without her!” I brushed my moustache self consciously.

“As to Mary's relations, it is not as impressive as it may appear… I have already read the society pages I see you carry in your underarm.”

Holmes continued, “I recalled the details of our investigation into the activities of Bartholomew Sholto. In specific, that your late father in law, Captain Morstan, has a widow, a Mrs. Rebecca Morstan, who returned to America upon his death. Her maiden name, so dutifully recorded in your notes, was Kane. I see therefore in these pages that a Katherine and Bette Kane have recently arrived in London, a pair of an approximately similar age to your Mary, from the same city Mrs. Morstan was said to retire. It was a rather simple inference from there.”

“A marvellous deduction,” I declared.

“An elementary one,” Holmes said, “but perhaps an instructive example for your writings.”

“It was a stumbling point on my part, to think you unaware of the movements of prestigious Gothamites,” I admitted. “I should think one such as yourself to be professionally invested in the goings-on of the so-called ‘Capital of Crime.’”

“It is, in fact, a point of some irritation. The appearance of society figures such as these in London are wont to drown out such features as I search for in the various rags about town. The spaces of gossip publication typically reserved for those most scintillating crimes on which I thrive is often replaced with information on the comings and goings of such individuals,” Holmes said, “as well, I allow that the innumerable crimes reported out of Gotham City are not themselves without their interesting points, but what reports of them reach across the Atlantic are given to the most extreme kind of sensationalism.”

I had known Holmes to allow certain gaps in his knowledge, but this seemed a most curious one to me. Surely, one would reason, a consulting detective of Holmes’ calibre would derive great analytical experience from the kinds of bizarre tales to originate in Gotham, but Holmes was known to eschew that knowledge not essential in his business as a London detective. In the past he has claimed no knowledge of the Earth’s orbit about the sun, and in fact, had claimed the reverse, and though I suppose he was pulling my leg, it does not fail to illustrate the theme of Holmes’ focus on specific, esoteric interests.

“A handful of crimes do manage to stand out. There was the Nashton case from last year, a criminal that baffled American law enforcement with a series of logical problems and deadly riddles. Yet for the most part, the news is too full of tales of huge bats, undead men, and all manner of esoterica. Nothing to take too seriously,” Holmes assured me.

“I have known Mary to believe some of it. Perhaps on the morrow I can solicit the opinions of her cousins and their guests?” I offered. Mary’s relations had in fact arrived with an entourage. The morning’s edition enumerated that, aside from the Kanes, London would play host to Mary’s other cousin, a Mr. Bruce Wayne, as well as a number of family friends, Misters Cobblepot, Dent, and Bennett. A number of other Gothamites had arrived alongside them (the evident recipients of the same group travel sweepstakes that allowed the Kanes opportunity to attend), though those named were the only ones I planned to host for brunch the following morning. We had only learned of their arrival ourselves the previous evening, scarcely in advance of the news, and had been kindly pressed into the arrangement at cousin Bette’s request, though Mary was not displeased with the arrangement.

Holmes only offered a shrug, and said “ as much as I appreciate the offer, such anecdotal evidence would hardly lend credence to these stories. At any rate, it shall have little bearing on our daily concerns… Or those of the familiar man approaching our doorstep.”

Holmes had rightly identified the peak of a custodian’s helmet, bobbing up Baker Street’s stairs and appearing through Holmes’ windows. Holmes was up and across the room to the door instantly, leaving his still smouldering pipe askew on his lounger. I pushed myself up from my seat, ignoring the dull, cold throb of pain from the old war wound on my leg, and hobbled to collect the pipe before its burning ashes set the good landlady’s furniture alight, as Holmes allowed our guest to enter before they had occasion to knock.

“Inspector Lestrade! To what do we owe your most singular presence?” Holmes asked. Lestrade trod in on muddy boots, having failed to clean them on the stoop. He was a thin gentleman with a weasel-like face, complete with a most animal tenacity in his approach to policework. Holmes counted him as one of Scotland Yard’s best, though to Holmes’ word, finding a good policeman in London was like finding a good surgeon in a ragged school.

“I perceive you are in something of a rush, Inspector.” I observed, in my own small deduction.

“Furthermore, I perceive you to have come from Northern London. Bloomsbury, if I do not miss my guess,” Sherlock began, about to launch into the chain of reasoning from which he derived his conclusion, when he was cut off by Lestrade.

“If you shall let me get a word in edgewise, I would be appreciative!” Lestrade’s typically jocular manner was gone from him, and his hand remained upon the door’s handle.

“I apologise for the outburst gentlemen, but we must hurry. A body has turned up, indeed in Bloomsbury, and the inspector in charge of the case has identified it as an accident. The chain of an old chandelier broke suddenly and crashed down upon the victim's head. A miserable circumstance, but one hard to attribute to anything but that, happenstance. In truth, I have trouble arguing with his reasoning, and yet it does not sit right with me. The attending officer is closing up the crime scene shortly, so I rushed to collect your opinion.”

“Why should the crime scene be not shuttered? What about the poor fellow’s demise stands out to your intuition?’” Holmes pressed. I could see that Lestrade’s statement had already stirred the voracious detective within. He leaned forward with a keen ear, hands clasped. Lestrade's cheeks reddened, and he rubbed his hand over his forehead, finding the will to articulate the source of his doubt with appropriate brevity. He appeared almost embarrassed.

“To put it to you simply Mister Holmes, I feel the crime scene is too… Wet, in a word.”

“Too wet? In England?” I chuckled at the notion. “I should hardly think such a thing possible. After all, we have had that most tumultuous thunderstorm just yesterday evening…”

“Yet, the most illuminatory member of Scotland Yard still sees fit to bring it to our attention. Surely he would have already checked the establishment for leaks or any obvious cause,” Holmes began. I almost chastised him for what I thought an opaque jape, but the backhanded remark seemed lost on Lestrade. Holmes digressed, “my dear Lestrade… If it was any of your esteemed colleagues in Baker Street today, or indeed, was the colour of today’s humour anything but the dullest shade of boredom, I might deny your request for the sparsity of details you provide, but you have proven yourself over the years to be intermittently capable of identifying those cases which appeal to my sensibilities. If it would please friend Watson to join us in this endeavour, then I would be most happy to join you.” Holmes said, his eyes questing for some answer from me.

It had been nearly a year since Holmes and I had been engaged together on a case, the most recent being the matter of the ghastly Hound of the Baskervilles in the fall of last year. At the time, aside from my work on my medical practice, my schedule was largely occupied in transforming that self same adventure into a novel, as I had already done for two of our previous adventures to some success.

“A new case would most certainly help with my writing process, so long as I am returned to my Mary at a reasonable hour. I must get some small rest if I am to be a good host for tomorrow's brunch,” I said.

“You shall have time to prepare a magnificent, slow cooked roast. I do suspect this will be naught but a trifle,” Holmes said breezily, already tying his boots.

“Come along, gentlemen, I’ve a dogcart waiting to take us to the scene.” Lestrade said. He held open our mahogany door.

Coat and hat in hand, my companion and I crossed the threshold of our rooms at Baker Street, and out into our first warm night in a brand new world.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

^{Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in...}

S H A D O W O F T H E B A T
S H A D O W O F T H E B A 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 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 _________________________________________________________ John H. Watson | Sherlock Holmes _________________________________________________________ Consulting Detective | Scotland Yard _________________________________________________________ Multiverse 221B | Inquire about Collaboration 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 ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Core Cast Sherlock Holmes Mycroft Holmes John H. Watson Mary Watson, nee Morstan Mrs. Hudson Inspectors Lestrade, Gregson, and Jones Bruce Wayne Commissioner Gordon ► Wayne/Kane Family Tree - 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 ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ The Adventure of the Dutch Diamonds ◼Part I ◼Part II -

W H A T I F...? W H A T I F...? ________________________________________________________________________________________ What if Sherlock Holmes met the Batman of the 1800s? Dear Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, It is my sincerest hope this letter finds you well. I write you now to congratulate you on the success of your most recent novel, The Maracot Deep. Once again sir, you have proven yourself a masterful storyteller. Your prose remains as illuminatory as ever, with your particular attention to the vast seas and the handcrafted details with which you suffuse your Atlantean culture. I am reminded as ever, of how I could not have picked a more exemplary editor or agent for my Sherlock Holmes stories. It is on the subject of Holmes I write as well. As you know from our correspondence on ‘His Last Bow’, rheumatism has crept upon me in my old age. As a consequence of this affliction, I have been forced to give up the pen, spare the occasional correspondence, though once Holmes passed on I found little reason to continue, even with such trifling writings. I had few to correspond with, spare yourself, though I know you to be embroiled in the dramas and grand motions of the ever shifting literary world, leaving you little time to respond to one who has not been in that world in decades. Instead, I cherished what time I had left with my Mary, she as gray and wrinkled as I, yet as radiant as the day we met. I thank you for your letter of condolence for her loss from last year, though I failed to reply to it. You may have thought my response lost in the throes of my grief, but on the contrary, it has remained upon the top of my mind. Each time I take up my pen in these gnarled knuckles to begin my epistle, even as pain flares through my fingers, I am drawn back to my halcyon adventuring days with Holmes, and the plethora of stories I submitted to your humble office -- but most of all, I remembered those stories which I did not submit. Despite the breadth of my oeuvre, there are those cases which I or Holmes had deemed unfit for public consumption. As you know, Holmes and I often altered or omitted details in our submissions, as to better protect and preserve the privacy and dignity of affected parties. You will recall, for instance, the legendary scandal centered around the photographs in possession of one Irene Adler, in reality photographs of His Majesty Edward VII, late of Great Britain, whom we disguised as the king of the fictitious nation of Bohemia. Nevertheless, there are still stories which we elected not to submit even in modified form, deeming them unsuitable for mass publication. The reasons for such omissions are as multitudinous as they are varied. In many instances, this was owed less to our discretion and more to the singular natures of the cases, which we deemed to be of a quality so implausible or, indeed, even absurd, as to defy reason and beggar belief. These events, queer as though they may appear, are nonetheless as real as Holmes’s battles with the infamous Dr. Moriarty, and had an equally profound impact upon my late companion’s career. Despite the profundity of these cases, and the soundness of my past motivations to conceal them, as I advance in age, one collection of such cases lays restless in the belfry of my mind, and inspires my fingers to burn not with the pain of my condition, but with the blazing desire to record it for posterity, and, indeed, perhaps share it with the world. As fantastical as the cases herein may be, at their heart lies an ultimately flawed, vulnerable man, as human as Holmes or I, whom is just as deserving of our discretion and respect, if not more so, than any individual I have protected within my prose. You may recall hearing news of the ‘Bat of Gotham’, an anonymous vigilante and detective whose powers rivaled or even exceeded those of Holmes. Indeed, you may even recall his brief appearance in London, much noted in many major publications. Though these events were seemingly unrelated to the exploits of my friend and I, this was yet another clever omission. For in reality we had undertaken a collaboration with the so-called ‘Batman’, and forged an enduring secret partnership. We would encounter the Bat many times hence, and over the course of our campaign, we came to know his innermost secrets. Included amongst these secrets, and indeed amongst fantastical details of the enclosed cases, is the true identity of the Bat, which Holmes, Mary, and I finally uncovered during our extended stay in Gotham some years ago. Thus, attached to this letter you shall find a new Sherlock Holmes manuscript, entitled ‘The Shadow of the Bat’. Given the sensitivity of the details contained within this report, it is not to be published until the year of our Lord 1939, or after my passing, whichever should come first. The tale begins, as ever, in 221B Baker Street, on a cool summer’s evening in the year of 1890… -John H. Watson M.D., July 1929 P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ I have been reading a lot of Holmes lately. Over the last year or two I’ve been through the originals twice and several series of pastiches. Comic book fan that I am, I wondered if the Great Detective had ever crossed over with Batman, only to find only two such official instances. One features Holmes as a decrepit, impossibly old man, essentially saving the day at the end of one of Batman’s cases. The other is an episode of Batman the Brave and the Bold in a tale with elements of time travel. I want to tell a story that is slightly more grounded than either of these tales (no magic anti-aging honey and no time travel), but also one thats able to take more time to get more out of the premise. In the comic Holmes is only there for a few pages, and in the show, only a single episode. I think told in this fashion, I can plumb greater depths of both characters, holding them up as mirrors to one another. Batman is nominally an update of Holmes, so I think it will be very instructive to measure those ways they do and don’t match up. As well, I hope to have Holmes encounter a handful of other curious comic characters, each made Victorian in their own ways.

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