Hound55

MARVELS: Streets Of New York

To announce intent, and for more information - Go to The Casual Interest Check thread for this RP, linked Here.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

MARVELS: Streets of New York

New York City. A glittering labyrinth of steel, glass, and shadows. The very pulse of the city beats in rhythm with millions of hopes, struggles, and secrets. Every day brings with it a new tale waiting to be written, a new twist around every corner. Here in the big city, where ordinary men and women walk in the shadow of masked giants, life is rarely as it seems, though. Beneath the lights of Broadway, where the glow of Times Square fades into the gloom of the boroughs, the city becomes something else—a battleground where power is the only language spoken.

On the streets of New York, crime doesn't just survive—it thrives.

The story of the Bronx isn't just one of history and culture, but also of power. Tombstone, one time common thug turned fledging crime boss, runs his operations out of Harlem, turning the area into a stronghold of violence and intimidation.

Brooklyn is the epicenter of dangerous ambition. Madame Masque, the deadly and calculating woman with a face of gold, proves she's not just a player, but a force of nature pulling the strings behind the scenes as the borough becomes her criminal playground.

In Queens, grittiness is the law of the land. Hammerhead, a ruthless gangster known for his unbreakable skull and even tougher demeanor, has claimed a mansion in the heart of the borough as his personal fortress from which deals can be made in blood.

Staten Island bubbles with tension. The Maggia, a collection of crime families who once thrived in Little Italy, have now taken hold on the island—turning it into a quiet nexus for smuggling, racketeering, and power plays.

Manhattan. From the bustling avenues of Midtown to the sleek corridors of Wall Street, this is where the city's heart beats strongest. At the center of it all is Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin himself, whose reach extends far beyond his imposing Tower.

In New York, every alley tells a story. Every building, every block, every dark corner has a role to play in this tale of never-ending struggle for power. Here, crime runs rampant, and the law is just another game to play.

Welcome to the real Streets of New York, where heroes fight to keep the darkness at bay, and the villains are always one step ahead.

---

^{# Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood….
Hop a flight to Miami Beach, or to Hollywood….
But I'm taking a Greyhound, on the Hudson River line…}

^{…I'm in a New York state of mind #}

Marvels: Streets of New York is a roleplaying game based loosely in the Marvel Comics universe - specifically, in that universe’s version of New York City, and even more specifically, at the street level. The heavy-hitters of this world – the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, the X-Men – are all still very much still around, battling intergalactic conquerors and supernatural terrors and unraveling global conspiracies… but that’s not where our stories take place. This game is focused on the city itself, the heroes and villains who populate it, and the conflicts, crises, mysteries, romances, power struggles, team-ups, betrayals, falls and redemptions that happen in the Big Apple.

^{# In New York
Concrete Jungle, where dreams are made of,
There’s nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
These streets will make you feel brand new,
Big lights will inspire you,
Let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York… #}

The Marvel iteration of New York is one of the most lively cities in all of fiction, vivid and dangerous and oozing with character. And unlike the likes of Gotham City, it isn’t tied to a specific character, or even a specific mood– on any given day, you might see a rooftop duel between Daredevil and Bullseye along the blocks of Hell’s Kitchen, get caught up in some wacky hijinks with Squirrel Girl in Central Park, find a human trafficking ring shot to pulp by the Punisher in the Bronx, kick a few bucks to the Heroes for Hire to clear out a gang hideout in Harlem, and get saved from a collapsing construction site in Queens by your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, all before making it home to turn on the Yankees game and open up the latest copy of the Daily Bugle.

From a game perspective, while the Five Boroughs and their dozens of individual neighborhoods should give everyone plenty of sites to see and people to meet, keeping things contained in the city should also encourage more interaction and collaboration, since crossing from one hero’s “turf” to another is usually as simple as walking a few blocks.

^{# New York isn't New York without you, love
So far in a few blocks, to be so low
And if I call you from First Avenue
Well, you're the only motherfucker in the city who can handle me #}

Players can pick and play as any relatively “street-level” Marvel hero or anti-hero. By ‘street-level,’ we mean any character whose usual sphere of influence doesn’t expand outside of New York itself. Captain America might only be able to punch through a wall, but he goes on globe-trotting adventures and fights global threats all the time, so he’d likely be out. Meanwhile, someone like Jessica Jones could theoretically be a world-level hero, but she almost never operates outside the city.

This game also takes a fairly loose approach to canon, but re-imagined or OC characters are not allowed. While the exact details of a character don’t need to adhere to one particular iteration, the character should still be recognizable as their canon counterparts. You are welcome to pull from the 616 or Ultimate comic books, the MCU, the various animated series, or some amalgamation of them, as long as its basis is in some version of official Marvel lore.

^{# New York's alright if you like drunks in your doorway!
New York's alright if you wanna freeze to death!
New York's alright if you wanna get mugged or murdered!
New York's alright if you like saxophones! #}

Something’s always going down in the big city, whether you’re ready for it or not. In that spirit, the GMs will sporadically generate events that will happen in the various Boroughs. Some of these might be quick one-and-done emergencies like a runaway train or someone like Rhino going on a tear, some of them might be more involved mysteries like tracking down a serial killer, others might be long-running metaplots such as the never-ending power struggle between the city’s various crime lords. Players will be encouraged to participate in these events, but not required- if one event doesn’t spark your imagination, maybe the next one will.

MARVELS: Streets Of New York

MARVELS: Streets of New York

New York City. A glittering labyrinth of steel, glass, and shadows. The very pulse of the city beats in rhythm with millions of hopes, struggles, and secrets. Every day brings with it a new tale waiting to be written, a new twist around every corner. Here in the big city, where ordinary men and women walk in the shadow of masked giants, life is rarely as it seems, though. Beneath the lights of Broadway, where the glow of Times Square fades into the gloom of the boroughs, the city becomes something else—a battleground where power is the only language spoken.

On the streets of New York, crime doesn't just survive—it thrives.

The story of the Bronx isn't just one of history and culture, but also of power. Tombstone, one time common thug turned fledging crime boss, runs his operations out of Harlem, turning the area into a stronghold of violence and intimidation.

Brooklyn is the epicenter of dangerous ambition. Madame Masque, the deadly and calculating woman with a face of gold, proves she's not just a player, but a force of nature pulling the strings behind the scenes as the borough becomes her criminal playground.

In Queens, grittiness is the law of the land. Hammerhead, a ruthless gangster known for his unbreakable skull and even tougher demeanor, has claimed a mansion in the heart of the borough as his personal fortress from which deals can be made in blood.

Staten Island bubbles with tension. The Maggia, a collection of crime families who once thrived in Little Italy, have now taken hold on the island—turning it into a quiet nexus for smuggling, racketeering, and power plays.

Manhattan. From the bustling avenues of Midtown to the sleek corridors of Wall Street, this is where the city's heart beats strongest. At the center of it all is Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin himself, whose reach extends far beyond his imposing Tower.

In New York, every alley tells a story. Every building, every block, every dark corner has a role to play in this tale of never-ending struggle for power. Here, crime runs rampant, and the law is just another game to play.

Welcome to the real Streets of New York, where heroes fight to keep the darkness at bay, and the villains are always one step ahead.

---

^{# Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood….
Hop a flight to Miami Beach, or to Hollywood….
But I'm taking a Greyhound, on the Hudson River line…}

^{…I'm in a New York state of mind #}

Marvels: Streets of New York is a roleplaying game based loosely in the Marvel Comics universe - specifically, in that universe’s version of New York City, and even more specifically, at the street level. The heavy-hitters of this world – the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, the X-Men – are all still very much still around, battling intergalactic conquerors and supernatural terrors and unraveling global conspiracies… but that’s not where our stories take place. This game is focused on the city itself, the heroes and villains who populate it, and the conflicts, crises, mysteries, romances, power struggles, team-ups, betrayals, falls and redemptions that happen in the Big Apple.

^{# In New York
Concrete Jungle, where dreams are made of,
There’s nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
These streets will make you feel brand new,
Big lights will inspire you,
Let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York… #}

The Marvel iteration of New York is one of the most lively cities in all of fiction, vivid and dangerous and oozing with character. And unlike the likes of Gotham City, it isn’t tied to a specific character, or even a specific mood– on any given day, you might see a rooftop duel between Daredevil and Bullseye along the blocks of Hell’s Kitchen, get caught up in some wacky hijinks with Squirrel Girl in Central Park, find a human trafficking ring shot to pulp by the Punisher in the Bronx, kick a few bucks to the Heroes for Hire to clear out a gang hideout in Harlem, and get saved from a collapsing construction site in Queens by your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, all before making it home to turn on the Yankees game and open up the latest copy of the Daily Bugle.

From a game perspective, while the Five Boroughs and their dozens of individual neighborhoods should give everyone plenty of sites to see and people to meet, keeping things contained in the city should also encourage more interaction and collaboration, since crossing from one hero’s “turf” to another is usually as simple as walking a few blocks.

^{# New York isn't New York without you, love
So far in a few blocks, to be so low
And if I call you from First Avenue
Well, you're the only motherfucker in the city who can handle me #}

Players can pick and play as any relatively “street-level” Marvel hero or anti-hero. By ‘street-level,’ we mean any character whose usual sphere of influence doesn’t expand outside of New York itself. Captain America might only be able to punch through a wall, but he goes on globe-trotting adventures and fights global threats all the time, so he’d likely be out. Meanwhile, someone like Jessica Jones could theoretically be a world-level hero, but she almost never operates outside the city.

This game also takes a fairly loose approach to canon, but re-imagined or OC characters are not allowed. While the exact details of a character don’t need to adhere to one particular iteration, the character should still be recognizable as their canon counterparts. You are welcome to pull from the 616 or Ultimate comic books, the MCU, the various animated series, or some amalgamation of them, as long as its basis is in some version of official Marvel lore.

^{# New York's alright if you like drunks in your doorway!
New York's alright if you wanna freeze to death!
New York's alright if you wanna get mugged or murdered!
New York's alright if you like saxophones! #}

Something’s always going down in the big city, whether you’re ready for it or not. In that spirit, the GMs will sporadically generate events that will happen in the various Boroughs. Some of these might be quick one-and-done emergencies like a runaway train or someone like Rhino going on a tear, some of them might be more involved mysteries like tracking down a serial killer, others might be long-running metaplots such as the never-ending power struggle between the city’s various crime lords. Players will be encouraged to participate in these events, but not required- if one event doesn’t spark your imagination, maybe the next one will.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

Banjo couldn't sleep.

Whilst his body had well and truly healed he still felt ghost pains from that night. He'd turn and twist trying to find a way to sleep which would ease the pressure on his ravaged body which didn't have a scar to bear.

The size of the bed did nothing to help, either.

He was used to single beds and cots and swags, and in this pampered preppy school everyone got their own huge bed. A bed that was far too soft, and he could lie well across without covering the area.

He'd piled clothes on it just to try and take space. Make it feel less sparse, open and bare. Some nights it was more effective than others.

Life since he'd left the infirmary was just as uncomfortable. His Community contribution at the Collegiate library saw him inundated with a swarm, a horde, of girls who'd gossip and seemingly double in number with every passing day. Something weird was going on. Had been ever since the incident.

Calliope was acting... irregularly... around him. Inconsistent with how she'd been speaking with him before that night. She'd said she had wanted to take time to get to know him, she seemed to try to avoid him at times, but then things would run hot and cold when they were actually together, noticeably hot in particular, and she wasn't backwards in making physical contact. But she'd said earlier she didn't want things to just be physical, or her using him for that or whatever.

His life seemed almost... split... between his time before and after the infirmary.

He needed someone to talk to about all of this, but he didn't really have anyone. Old mate Butler would probably just give him shit and be less than no help. Elle kind of dodged him a little since she did the good legwork of getting Calli back in touch after they'd tried to deny him visitors. Just the thought of a repeat performance from the Hyperhuman terrorist Hyperion had been more than enough to put the wind up her a bit. That day seemed to impact everyone else pretty heavily. Probably because they were still left in the thick of it whilst he was quickly ragdoll'd in seconds. Barely had the time to regret his words... as if that were a thing he would ever do in the first place. Ground was under him. Then it was WAAAAY under him. Then it was very quickly rushing towards him.

But with Elle creating distance he just realised he didn't really have anyone to talk to about it. Most people he knew, he just didn't really have that kind of relationship with to talk about this kind of stuff. His own inexperience and Calli's seemingly strange, inconsistent behaviour. Not that he was complaining about the hot and cold treatment, it just would have been nice to have some kind of understanding about what the Hell was going on. Not like he could talk to anybody else.

Least of all his roommates. Any discussion on this would, well, kind of just be seen as rubbing their faces in it.

But still, it left him confused and isolated... whilst ironically never being more popular. It probably wouldn't last, sure. He'd do something knuckleheaded eventually and things would return to the usual status quo eventually. Inevitably. But it didn't make things any less frustrating now.

He kicked the quilt off the bed with a deep sigh.

Drink. Get something to drink. Reset. Maybe then sleep will find you.

He staggered from the bed in his boxers, to the communal kitchen and the coffee machine.

He had one eye half squinted open from beneath the unnegotiable bramble which was his hair, as he scratched his chest and considered his options.

No coffee. That'd be dumb. Warm milk's too bland... He checked the chocolate powder in the shaker, and didn't give anyone else a second thought.

"That'll do..."

Not coffee. Not at this hour.

He upturned the shaker over a mug and holding it in place, he gave it a good shake until he felt he had enough powder.

Something rustled.

He straightened slightly, a perplexed expression penetrating the exhausted face. He froze. The chocolate powder was communal. For dusting. Not for what he was doing.

The noise had stopped though, whatever it was. Somewhere in the darkness. Not that Zimmerman would ever let him have it if he found what he was doing with the chocolate powder in the first place. Big Steve wouldn't want to wake everyone over it either. He'd just hear sullen bullshit and passive aggression in the morning, that was more his M.O. The instinct of getting caught just got to him in the moment. He yawned broadly and scratched his chest again, slowly feeling more secure.

He did hear something though.

Fuck it. Whatever it was wouldn't be important.

He hit the 'Hot Milk' button on the machine, with his mug in place to cover the pilfered powder. It started it's obnoxious cacophony as it performed its task.

Then he felt it.

A-- cat--? Its tail slowly entwining itself around his calf and lower leg. He straightened again in confusion.

'When did they get a cat?'

But that didn't make sense for more reasons than one.

For one thing cats are normally furry or fluffy.

He felt someone's gaze upon him in the darkness.

This is more-- scaly.

A feminine smirk from someone he'd never seen before, barely outlined from the dim light of the coffee machine. He caught a brief glimpse of a forked tongue flicking at the air. The corners of her mouth creased even wider.

"Oh shi--..."

Before his sleep deprived mind could finish the thought, he was off his feet. The strong tail dragging him to the one room in the dorm he'd never set foot in.

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: The Foundation - Present}

Human #5.075: Shoshanna Tannin

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation}

Previously: Horses

"No." She said flatly.

"Well, that's somethin' I guess." He half-jogged at an awkward pace to keep up with her. "I mean, I'm not surprised they lumped you in the beige brigade as well, but I was worried they might make your life even--"

"No. I mean 'No. Stop talking to me.'" Shoshanna's scaly arms crossed her chest as she pushed on.

"You think they're watching us..?" Banjo quickly turned and looked around, trying to spot the surveillance.

"No, you idiot. I mean stop talking to me. I finally have a chance to start over and make a new first impression after you and that bitch played a prank on me and ruined my reputation at our last school."

"Prank? You think I pranked you - a person I had never met and never think, nor thought about - to try and commit sexual assault on me? Some prank." Lawyer Banjo flashed his head.

"Ssssssh!" She tried to silence him, unable to cover her natural lisp as she hushed him. She hoped the words wouldn't travel across the open ocean to find her here. "Sure. Is that why you bragged about it?"

"Bragged abou--?! I never told a damn soul."

"Then how'd it follow me around school for five years?"

"I. Don't. Know. Not from me. I'd just been tossed away like a used Kleenex in front of everybody into a hospital bed like it was nothing, you think I wanted people to know you were able to drag me into your bedroom and I wasn't able to do a damn thing about it?"

"Her then. Before she got expelled. She must have told everybody."

"Elle didn't get expelled. She stuck out the full four years. Course she stopped talking to me. Probably over this. Who could blame her? Believe me, she would have been just as embarrassed about the whole thing as we both were."

"That still doesn't explain why you keep trying to talk to me now."

"I told you... you've got to watch yourself here. They have... a different way of seeing hyperhumans like yourself. They see you as-- less than. 'Sub-species' is the term they use for it. Haven - girl on my team - has been on the receiving end of it. It went so far as one psychopath trying to--" He stopped. The thought was still too raw, after what happened to Calliope.

"They have some... different views about certain types of hyperhumans. Different types of views about a lot of things, by the looks..." He generalised.

"So? I'm supposed to think you care? You never cared enough to speak to me before."

"You shut yourself in your room or went out. And I didn't exactly blame you for doin' that. After everything, I kind of feel its best to respect your bloody privacy. And there's a difference between caring enough to be a friend to a person, and caring about their basic fundamental well-being and that they not be ravaged and have their shit harvested by some lunatic fringe nutbag. You'll notice I'm not asking about your day, am I?"

"That's exactly what you were asking me." She smirked back, skepticism still deeply imprinted on her face.

"From an angle of a person who doesn't want to see you get your shit harvested! 'Hey, have you come across anybody saying anything like 'Cor, check out the scales on that sub-species.'" He snapped back with no small amount of exasperation.

"Look... all I'm saying, is that if you notice anyone being particularly, I dunno, cruel over your-- whole-- deal. Or acting weird."

"Weird?" She levelled him with a look that suggested she was looking at such a person as they spoke.

"Ha. Ha. By our standards, 'weird'. Even if it's just you feel someone looking at you funny. I want to know about it."

Shoshanna snorted dismissively. Her tongue whipping out in a flash, before returning home, so quickly a bystander could scarcely tell it had happened in the first place, as she shook her head.

"What?"

"You just live such a charmed life, don't you? Do you have any idea how many people and how often I get 'looked at funny'? Even back in our old school?"

He went to reply, but it was clear she wasn't done with what she had to say yet.

"Even just studying I could feel eyes on me. Always. And after what happened with..." She sighed, and focused inwards, as if fighting off an outburst that could be a public spectacle. "After THAT it was all the time from everyone. And whispers. Always whispers. Could you imagine what it's like when you've waited so long to get into a place where you might finally be accepted for what you are. WHO you are. And then have that first impression trampled on, just to become a-- a FREAK in everyone's eyes again. Some monstrous thing that can't control herself? You both STOLE that from me."

"I. Did. Nothing. To you. I was as much a victim of what happened as I came to realise you were. Many would unfairly claim 'moreso'." He crisply fired back.

"You are just the worst--"

"--person you ever attempted to mate with against their will? Cheers. It's an Honour." He shot back, leer on his face.

Her quickened gasp, made it clear his instinctive response was a tactical error.

As she turned and ran down the hallway, he cursed at himself. "Stupid."

He'd just put more space in between himself and probably the most vulnerable target in this place. There was no way she'd trust him enough, if anything worth reporting did happen to come up and threaten her now.

No leads, few allies and his horse stirring up a tempest in his gut.

If he was honest with himself it was stirring more out of fresh guilt than ill-preparation or the origin of the meal.

He'd since formed the conclusion that on that night there were two victims. The nature of Shoshanna's hyperhuman powers and physiology went beyond skin deep. The 'reptilian brain' was more developed in her, the reptilian brain which was more susceptible to the natural urges that came from pheromone dispersal than the average person.

He found himself under direct physical threat - of sorts... - that night, but she had fallen victim to a situation beyond her own control as well.

He just hated that somehow she was attempting to blame him for it. There were enough things in this world that people COULD fairly blame him for, without concocting new ridiculous things that he wasn't responsible for. It triggered the persecution complex that drove his lawyer brain into overdrive.

Time was, Zimmerman would be able to get to work putting out his fires on this one. Quiet hushed conversation through her closed over door. But that was more complicated here and now. He was going to have to let time scab that wound and hope nothing befell her in the meantime.

She did raise a reasonable question about how it spread across the school so fast. He always just chalked it up to being such a small island, nothing stays hushed long. Some rumour snuck out of faculty somewhere into some student's ear and then it spread like wildfire. Perhaps the 'real reason' of Elodie Miller's departure. He'd never really given it much thought, because that rumour was a long forgotten one in the cacophony of gossip and scuttlebutt that surrounded him and his actions. He'd had five years of questionable behaviour which swirled those waters since then. Shoshanna had-- well, she'd always tried to keep quiet and to herself. So that one never left. And was the only thing many knew about her. It became a label, that forever stuck to her. However unfair as it may have been.

Regardless of how her actions did nothing to help people forget or move on from it, it still wasn't fair that she be viewed as little more beyond that. Her vulnerability to the pheromones he'd been unknowingly doused with making a victim of her as well.

The best indicator he had for spotting sentiments similar to those shared by Daedalus in this place was running from him and viewed him with a level of disdain that wouldn't soon be repaired.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

Zara rounded the table, she felt the fine ridges in the underside, the laminate on the top. Familiarising herself completely with where they all would sit. What they would each in turn feel and experience as she asked her questions. Probed their motives and whereabouts.

The subjects.

It had been a while since she'd done anything like this. Since she'd been allowed to.

H.E.L.P had sidelined her quite a while ago, even before the pressure on the organization ramped up. The lack of faith-- no. The lack of trust was a sleight she had found more than difficult. It was one thing from the humans, their fear of the different was a defining trait. To be expected. But her own people? This was something beyond.

"So, you want coffee? Tea? Somethin' stronger, whilst you play the disaffected detective?"

Zara smirked, her neck straightened, recognising the voice before seeing its source as her back was still to the door. The Australian Captain.

"Or do you still not trust me and view me as a suspect in this whole infernal bloody investigation?"

Turning her head to the side, she scanned his face from profile for his reaction as she told him. "You were never a real suspect. Running around the whole ship in full sight of everyone, desperately trying to pull away from shore. Killing someone at that time would have taken a level of sleight of hand that nobody would reasonably believe you to be capable of."

"But suggesting it got you exactly what you bloody wanted, didn't it?" He spat in disgust. "So quick, clean and quiet. With your ego trip. Whatever last grab at glory you call this."

He was enraged, but she could tell she'd just confirmed suspicions he already had. She briefly wondered what could have tipped her hand before it immediately came to light.

"So how'd 'bullet retrieval' go on a through-and-through, anyway?"

Ah. There it was. If anything, she should have been surprised more didn't pick up on it, although they were probably distracted by the situation. For most, a murder isn't an everyday thing.

"Judging by wound diameter, I suspect we're looking for a .38 special or 9mm round."

Zara walked back around the table towards the side that she would actually be sitting in. Facing the entrance. Back to the wall, as she was accustomed to.

He sneered, unimpressed by her deflection and choice in ignoring his point.

She expanded further.

"A .38 special or a 9mm round would mean a revolver or pistol of some kind. Can you picture many humans going Hype-hunting with a handgun and firing off blindly at distance into fog? What do you think they'd expect to hit?"

"Probably some poor bastard on stern deck about Quinn Spence's size..." The Captain muttered as he walked away.

Zara poured a glass of water for her side of the table and sat and waited for the first person she'd requested to arrive.


^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Alumni Village Port - And Surrounding Waters}

Human #5.067: If You Can't Handle The Interrogation Get Out Of The Kitchen

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): NPCs - Hyperhuman Residents of the Alumni Village}

Previously: I'm On A Boat

Lilly Marks
Celeste Boucher

She entered with an unwillingness to talk, even beyond her capacity to do so.

Lilly Marks slapped a notepad and pen down on the table top and rocked back in her chair, irritated by the whole process.

Zara maintained the silence, which seemed to irritate the woman opposite even further. Ink drew from her shoulders and swirled, until forming a clear, yet cursive 'What?' across her own forehead.

She didn't seem particularly impressed by this entire endeavour, and Zara's investigation had split the crewmembers. Not the least because of--

"The Captain asked that should I need to speak to you, I speak to you and Ms Boucher first, to not keep you from other duties. He doesn't much care for the fact this investigation is taking place, and what he views as the possible negative effects it could have on the people on this ship. I take it you feel this time could be better spent getting back to those duties as well?"

The ink on her forehead swirled and took the form of a picture of a brain. Before the word 'Smart' appeared underneath it.

Zara exhaled sharply, the sides of her mouth curling slightly at the sullen visual response.

"You like the Captain, don't you?"

Lilly's brow dropped slightly, not liking where the insinuation was going with the much older man.

She picked up the pen and started to scrawl, her handwriting much less aesthetically pleasing than the writing she could produce with her own ink and flesh. Zara sipped at the glass of water, just for something to do whilst she wrote her response.

She slapped the pen back down sharply, tore off the page and turned it, sliding the note paper to the former H.E.L.P investigator.

He's a good man. After all, he's the reason most of us have anywhere to go now at all. He seems to genuinely care.

Zara read the note and then looked at the woman seated across from her. Taking in her body language.

Lilly gave her something else to read. The ink on her forehead swirled again before spelling out. 'Probably including you.'

Empty speculation, but Zara's takeaway was different from Lilly's intent.

Deflection.

'He's funny.'

"And how did you know Quinn Spence?"

More scrawling on the notepad.

I don't really. Got introduced because he was going to be working in the kitchen. We haven't really had service yet though, so never even worked with him yet. Our prep work has been different and separate. Chef would know him better.

"Chef being Celeste Boucher?"

The ink once again swirled on her forehead to once again show the brain. This time throbbing. 'Genius' formed beneath it in pristine formal cursive.

The Chef was next. The Captain eager to let the kitchen staff be allowed to get back to work.

"Chef Boucher. What's your opinion of her?"

The question seemed to amuse Lilly. Rapid scraewling, as the smirk broadened across her face.

I think if she was the one who turned up dead, you'd have a lot more questions for me. As well as anyone who ever had to work with her and knows her personality.

Slap. Turn. Push.

Zara read the note and smirked herself.

"You mean 'personally'."

The ink on her forehead swirled and took the form of emboldened all caps 'NO.' as Lilly shook her head twice with her lips pursed. She knew exactly what she meant to say.

"Look. You were in the dining room at the time. Witnesses place you there as well during the entire incident. Main reason I wanted to speak with you first was to get whatever early impression of the victim I could, from someone who could be comfortably written off as a suspect and get your interview out of the way. Captain's orders."

Lilly shrugged, and pointed her thumb to the exit with her brow raised. The body language clear. 'So I can go?'

"Of course. You didn't do this. We both know that..."

Lilly got to her feet and made for the door.

"...of course, the question is, would you lie to cover for someone else? The Captain?"

The young mute woman stopped in her tracks and turned her face to profile. She scratched her cheek, and ink swirled around her wrist, before illustrating a perfect middle finger on the back of her hand. Less than subtle.

But then so had Zara's statement been. And needlessly provocative, by design.

If they were going to create a schism over this, become adversarial, the least Zara could do is use it to her advantage. She felt little for her fellow crew, and so would be completely unapologetic for her methods. Her investigation was still very much in its infancy, so much so she'd not even had to employ her 'special skills' yet. Nothing but the psychological training at this point.

It remained a little frustrating that she had little knowledge of the victim at this point.

Quinn Spence. Five feet eleven inches. One hundred and sixty pounds. Hyperhuman power: An immunity to radiation. Tasked with working in the kitchen, under the next subject - Celeste Boucher. Known associates: At this point none.

Frustratingly bare knowledge base.

Sure, there were things she could extrapolate from the body, but character witnesses add far more 'flavour'. Motivations and goals, personality traits, before you even get to potential background knowledge which may lead to motive for the killer.

Condensation had formed on the outside of her glass of water.

Just the first thing at this table she expected to see sweat.

Celeste Boucher stood formally at the door, awaiting acknowledgement and permission to take her seat opposite.

"Take a seat." Zara permitted.

"Would you prefer 'Chef' or 'Ms Boucher'?"

Even seated, Celeste Boucher seemed less than relaxed in nature. Completely unperturbed by the questions which may come, but more a preparedness to snap to attention. Like the very act of being stationary was itself disagreeable to her very nature.

"'Chef' in the kitchen. As for here, I leave it to your discretion." She replied simply.

"Do you feel you have anything of value to add to this investigation, Chef Boucher?"

"Yes."

"And what's that?"

"I did not do this, and, whilst I can't vouch for her on a great many other things, Lilly Marks did not do this either."

Zara dwelled on the Chef's phrasing for a moment. Tenting her fingers momentarily, she re-phrased the unasked question for the surrendered statement.

"So you are saying that this wasn't any of the kitchen staff?"

"I didn't say that. I said that I know that I didn't do this, and I can also account for the whereabouts of Lilly Marks. As for the other kitchen staff - the dishwashers - I'd granted them their leave, along with Quinn since it was general prep and there was no service at hand. We weren't anticipating an early cast-off."

Zara nodded, as if confirming a suspicion.

"An interesting choice of words regarding Lilly Marks, as well. What's your impression of her?"

The Chef considered what she was being asked, and the context her opinion had been requested in. She clearly didn't think particularly highly of her, but...

"She didn't do this. And this is meant to be an investigation looking into who did. So my thoughts on her are irrelevant."

Zara smirked at the backpedalling. Very willing to speak ill of her, until called to direct question.

"And those thoughts would be?"

"She floats. She's content to be far less than what she's capable of being. I can't respect a person without a work ethic. Especially someone who is so capable of more. A person without any sense of drive or ambition. It may win her friends, but it does not impress me."

As if sensing Zara's categorizing her statement, Celeste continued.

"...Like I said, irrelevant to the matter at hand. Speaks nothing to who killed Quinn Spence."

Zara took a sip of water and considered her statements. If nothing else, this subject seemed honest and direct.

"And if you asked her of me, I don't doubt that her response would be that I'm a cold, hard bitch."

And very willing to surrender statements to character. Especially when left with uncomfortable silence. Possibly due to seeing herself as a social 'outsider'. Eager to get her own views seen and heard.

"And you spoke of the dishwashers earlier, they also had been granted free time. What's your impression of them, and are you aware of how they got along with Quinn?"

Celeste seemed to give the question some thought. Her hand raised to her chin and her eyes lowered, as she tried to search for anything of interest pertaining to the people who were to be working in the kitchen.

"As far as I'm aware, they'd both only just met in the last few days. Ste, the Irishman. He's another floater like Lilly Marks. Made worse by the fact that he's loud. But the other girl, Suze. She tries, and she's eager to please, she's just a little... flighty. Prone to making mistakes. At the biggest moments too. But both had only just met him. We still hadn't had a service yet, for them to really interact a lot either, and as far as I know, neither of them really 'hang out' with Quinn either."

Zara made a mental note of the Chef's impression of her workers and considered what else this subject could possibly have to offer.

She'd been boxed in to speaking to the kitchen staff first, the Captain eager to provide early access so they could return to their duties with minimal disruption. Now that they were out to sea, preparation and food services would be more regular and their workload more intense. It wasn't an ideal way to run an investigation, the likelihood of solving a homicide drops to half after the first forty eight hours, and usually an investigation builds its own natural organic momentum. These early forced sessions of questioning broke that organic momentum, but they also gave important background, in a situation she admittedly knew too little about.

And most homicide investigations don't see all major players trapped in a singular location for presumably well over those first forty eight hours.

Whoever it was, the killer had nowhere to run to.

...but that could also lead to more desperation. And in turn, potential future victims.

The uncomfortable silence was whittling away at Chef Boucher's 'cold hard bitch' exterior, but she was clearly uncertain of what more she could add to break the silence.

"The Irishman will be working nights. Suze in the mornings. Actually..."

She'd finally found something else she could offer.

"Ste was quite insistent that he be working the night shifts. Which is quite irregular in the service industry. Most would prefer to work the earlier shift, get their work done, and have their nights to themselves. Especially a..."

Celeste Boucher hesitated to choose her words carefully.

"Especially someone with Ste's work ethic and personality type."

Insistent. Zara considered. Insistent on having the time available which aligns with time of death.

"That should be all we need, Chef Boucher. I'd like to thank you for your co-operation with our investigation." Again, Zara chose her words carefully.

"Well, hopefully you get to the bottom of whoever murdered poor Quinn.

Zara nodded solemnly in return. Her eyes not meeting the Chef's as if to consider the loss of the poor hyperhuman at the center of the investigation.

No closer yet. But with the formative background information from a few subjects who could not have committed the act, she was prepared for the investigation to roll downhill and find its own momentum now. With more flexibility to call people for questioning to come.

Hound's Wacky Shack of Miscellaneous Clap-Trap

D E F E N D E R S O F T H E E A R T H
D E F E N D E R S O F T H E E A R T H

^{"An athlete, a traveler and a mad desperate scientist. Alone against an empire. But Dale never gave an inch. You had two hands, breath in your lungs. It doesn't matter what changes from there. Whether it takes a few days or ninety years. You keep fighting the fight. And then the next one. Until they're all saved, every one of us." - Doctor Hans Varkov to and of Flash Gordon.
"Magic, my friends, is simply the art of illusions. Of course it's always important to spice up illusions with a little razzle-dazzle." - Mandrake the Magician
"You never find the Phantom. He finds you." - Old Jungle Saying
"Always figured Prince was just a name. Took a white bloke in purple to tell me I'm actually African royalty. Dear old Dad never had that talk with me, did he?" - Prince 'Lothar' Diallo}

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 _________________________________________________________ Alex "Flash" Gordon _________________________________________________________ King of the Impossible, Saviour of the Universe _________________________________________________________ Pilot, athlete, adventurer | Interplanetary Freedom Fighter Open 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 ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ - C H A R A C T E R 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 _________________________________________________________ Mandrake The Magician _________________________________________________________ Illusionist, Hypnotist, Adventuring Crime Fighter _________________________________________________________ Multiverse 668 - Prime | SRS&F is... Open 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 ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ - C H A R A C T E R 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 _________________________________________________________ Kit "Walker*" The Phantom _________________________________________________________ The Ghost Who Walks, Man Who Cannot Die _________________________________________________________ Multiverse 668 - Prime | SRS&F is... Open 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 ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ - C H A R A C T E R 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 _________________________________________________________ Prince "Lothar" Diallo _________________________________________________________ Strongest Man in the World _________________________________________________________ Former Performing Strongman | Adventurer and Crime Fighter Open 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 ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. - P O S T C A T A L O G P O S T C A T A L O G _________________________________________________________ [+] - P O S T C A T A L O G ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ -

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T ________________________________________________________________________________________ Three Heroic selfless defenders of justice and humanity find that the fight for justice is on an even bigger scale that they never considered. The boys names were Tim Tyler and 'Spud'. Mandrake, known as a man who could find justice and someone whose interests in challenges spanned wide, was approached with a request to find the two orphaned runaways. As always, he put the case forward to his friend, former performer and compatriot Prince 'Lothar'. The trail led them through India and Africa, as the boys last whereabouts put them working for the Ivory Patrol - a small, poorly funded group who task themselves with the destruction of the poaching industry. As the case delved deeper, and Mandrake used his many and varied means to attempt to find the boys, it looked like they had been taken, as the poachers' paths found themselves delving deeper into jungle, towards the almost untouched and unknown grounds of the Bandar - a little known pygmy tribe scarecly touched by the ever-probing hands of modern civilization. A tribe with their own interesting lore, myths, legends, and sayings. The echoes of drums became ever more prevalent as the men reached deeper into the jungle. For the Phantom has a thousand eyes and ears#. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go? Possible Plots: T H E W O R L D ( S ) O F T H E D E F E N D E R S T H E W O R L D ( S ) O F T H E D E F E N D E R S ________________________________________________________________________________________ MONGO The Planet of Ming the Merciless and his evil designs on the Earth. XANADU The mansion home of Mandrake the Magician and Prince 'Lothar' Diallo. BANGALLA The land of the Phantom

---

* For 'The Ghost Who Walks'
^# Old Jungle Saying

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

"Fiat justitia, rust caelum."

"Let Justice Be Done Though the Heavens Fall."

"Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo."

"If I can not bend the will of Heaven, then I shall move Hell" - Quoting Virgil's The Aeneid.

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: The Foundation, Various Locations Within - Present}

Human #5.056: Horses

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Former P.R.C.U transfers to The Foundation}

Previously: Midnight Man

He was far from okay.

He regretted the Beam he'd drank on the plane. Hunched and shuffling slightly ahead of where he'd stayed from the lack of space, with his pants around his heels and pissing in the corner like an animal, he had a horrible sensation that they'd choose that exact moment to open the door on him. It was what kept him from removing his makeshift scrub pants altogether, and what had piss on his shoes.

The internal conflict that wavered and tried to convince him that the nightmares he had, weren't the engraved hauntings of a past moment he no longer possessed the memory of, and were instead premonitions of his own demise.

That this is where he'd be kept to the end. How it would all end.

That his death would deny any semblance of justice. Any hope of restoring what was.

The acrid smell of his own urine periodically distracted from the worst thoughts, but ultimately they'd return to him again.

When the door flew open, the light was blinding.

He wanted to eat it all and leave everyone, victim and tormentor alike, shivering in the cold. Compensation.

But that wasn't the justice he was here for.

The hose which blasted, and then sprayed the ground and his own mess onto his clothes and himself only further cemented his resolve, as bad as it was.

Trying to keep you off balance.

He was given a beige set of clothing. He kept his mouth shut, because it was easier than trying to control what would have spewed forth if he didn't. Opening it may have meant the end of all of this; the worst of all outcomes.

Others were given black garb.

Looking around at the people given similar attire, after what they had just been through, it was easy to see he wasn't in the group which had made a stellar first impression.

He spotted two of his three roommates taking tan coloured clothing as well. Alex Zimmerman being the lone exception, led away in his black dress.

Taking his time to observe, he saw that the tan clothes were all ill-fitting. Everyone bunched at the pants in front, far too big, and with no belt included. Including some of the much larger students; and coming from the Hyperhuman school as they did, the much larger students were very sizeable indeed. It was no coincedence.

He sidled up to Big Steve in the changing facilities and swatted his pants from his hands, dropping his own in the process.

_{"No bloody point us both walkin' the traps holdin' our pants up the whole time."}

He picked up a pair of pants which were more akin to a sack than recognisable as clothes for someone his size, and left Big Steve to pick up his own which he assumed should fit comfortably.

_{"What're you going to do?"}

Keep wearing others ill-fitting bloody pants, apparently. And haven't things gone wonderfully when you did that before, Banjo...

When he finally pulled them on, they were so large at the top, he thought he could just about try to bunch and tie the waistline in a knot. But they were getting called forward before he could figure out the best way to do so.

He ambled through the maze of corridors and hallways in his clown pants, up and down, and even up and through a connection point at the surface, between two of the pods. Until he heard the clatter of metal on metal and more solid thuds, and uproarious sound of amassed people.

So I guess this is the bloody gladiatorial stadium where they're finally gonna bloody kill us...

But no. As he got closer the metal clatter became more defined. Cutlery. Tabletops. More jeering, more of the student body seeming to size up the weakest amongst them.

And Banjo wearing ludicrously sized clownish pants, even amongst the group he came in with.

Would they assume he was one of the weaker? That a larger one amongst the group stole his pants? Had he just put a brighter spotlight on himself as weaker, lesser?

He looked up to see an assortment of black clad students seated above them. Subtle. Zimmerman briefly spared a second to check on who he knew down amongst the beige morass, but not long enough to risk reprisal from assocation.

Banjo turned as a hush fell over everything.

Doors had been opened by hustling attendants to allow the entry of a solitary gray haired figure, with a stylish suit and cane.

The hush implied a degree of respect for this unassuming figure. He walked to the centre of the room and gave a singular clap, held in stark contrast to the silence his presence had drawn.

Never heard a clap and hundreds of sphincters tighten in perfect bloody harmony before...

He seemed to enjoy the silence and fear his presence drew.

Ego. Banjo thought to himself. Ever so present in people seeking the authority of the profession in the first place, but this was next level.

Then it grew, other students picked on his applause and it spread fast as others fell into line. But it quickly hushed again as it became clear he was about to speak.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Montgomery called, as his eyes scanned every new student. “I understand, it’s not quite the lavish lifestyle you’ve all grown comfortable with.”

Banjo saw no sign of recognition, or if he were in any way familiar with him. It was as if he was making it a point that all would now be within his notice. Taking them within his scope of awareness.

“My name is Dr. William Montgomery,” He introduced himself, “I am the ‘Mind’ behind the Foundation Institute, its curriculum and the strategic advancements of the Foundation. Unlike what you’re used to, I’m sure you’d consider my methods to be cold, cruel even, but I’m afraid they get results and they get results quickly. Mr. Nakamura himself has personally approved each and every one of my methods.”

“Those of you currently bearing your ‘Phi’ proudly are off to a great start and are on the path towards becoming a ‘Force’ to be reckoned with.” A smile towards the students in black, “The rest of you, have a lot more to overcome.” Montgomery added, a flat, matter-of-fact address to the beige brigade.

“That said, we have newcomers and that calls for a feast!” He shouted, and the banging of silver resumed until Montgomery waved his hand, once again immediately stilling the noise.

“Due in part to a generous donation from the incoming P.R.C.U. students, our chefs were able to prepare you a delicious and fresh meal. A completely authentic Polpette di Cavallo con Salmoriglio.”

Banjo didn't know Italian. But he did take more than a few units of Latin for its proximity to law, and one word stuck in his craw for a few reasons, he remembered it through no small part due to a phrase that seemed less poignant right now, as he looked up to the black garbed group.

Optat ephippia bos, piger optat ardre caballus.

"The ox wishes for the horse's trappings, the lazy packhorse (or nag) wishes for the plough."

He doubted there would be a horse above them who'd be willing to settle for his plough.

The gray haired man kept talking, but Banjo barely listened. Passively absorbing whatever was said. He couldn't move beyond that one statement.

He was pretty sure he knew where 'cavallo' derived from. And the use of the word 'donation' it took little guess as to what was on the plate. The hushed whispers and murmurings only confirmed his suspicions.

His ears felt hot as the rage hit him, the anger at his own stupidity. But the broad smile on his face did nothing to betray any signs of regret or dismay. But all the while, It never met his eyes. He thought for a moment, before deciding to break the hushed whispers.

"Hey, you lot ever heard this one..?"

"There's this local country cricket team, see. Worst in the sticks. Real buncha chaff. Haven't won a match in about a dozen years. So anyway, this horse is leanin' over the fence whilst they're havin' practice in the nets one week, right? Gettin' ready to get rumbled when they play the next week. Buncha no-hopers... not much... y'know... not much reason for positivity among 'em-- Oi, perk up sour-puss, you can relate, eh?"

Banjo shovelled a fork full of his pony and noodles into his gob and never broke stride.

"So the horse is leanin' on the railin' and watchin' on, and he chimes in just as the Captain comes back out of the net from his mediocre bloody session, and asks him 'Oi cob', any chance of a game?' And the Captain replies, 'Oi turn it up, horses can't play bloody cricket.' And the cheeky bastard replies. 'Well, I can. And more to the point, a damn sight better than the bunch of you, by the looks.' And the Captain of the team, figurin' as he hasn't got so much to lose anyway, well he says. 'Right, pad up. If you can play as well as you talk, we'll see what we've got here.' 'Scuse I..."

He shovelled more food into his mouth, and kept going.

"So, anatomical difficulties aside, he pads up and wanders his way out inta the nets, right. The team gets a bit shirty, but the Captain tells 'em to pull their heads in and that if the rest of them were any great shakes, he wouldn't be sendin' a horse out in the first place. So the first bowler comes hurtlin' in on his run up, WHACK! horse smacks it straight back over his head, out the nets, out the bloody park. Bowler spends the rest of the session lookin' for the bloody thing in the scrub it's gone so far. Next bowler comes dancin' in on his spin bowler's run up. Horse picks it beautifully, WHACK tonks the bloody thing over mid wicket, same story. Bowler goes lookin' through the scrub. Third bowler. 'Watch me give him somethin' short.' Comes flyin' in, bowls a bouncer. The horse... WHACK! Perfect bloody hook shot. Stays in the nets, but if there weren't nets... into next bloody week, that's where it would've gone. So before the horse can decimate the confidence of their bowlin' attack any more than he already has, Captain walks over 'Mate, that was bloody amazin', call it a day though. D'ya reckon you can make it out for a match this Saturday? We're playin' the grainies from two towns over.' Horse says that's fine. He's got nothin' on over the weekend, he'll come out and smack the ball about. Hold up..."

He shovelled more food, and the smile widened as he remembered how the joke went.

"Anyway... cut to that Saturday, horse strolls out, Captain sends him in to open the batting. Y'know... for the intimidation factor, and curiosity, I guess. The grainies pace bowler hurtles in at a million clicks, WHACK! just like in the nets. Six on the board, just like that. Next he decides he'll bounce him... WHACK! six again. Tries to york him... You ever tried to find a decent bowlin' line to a bloody horse? No chance. Six once more. Keeps on like this and the over ends, he's smacked six sixes off the over. A regular Gary bloody Sobers, he is. The other opener wanders down the pitch to congratulate the horse on a good start, and cos its cricket, the bowlers obviously change ends and the other bloke's on strike now. So he thinks, 'Right, I'll just sneak a little curly single, get this bloody wonderhorse back on strike.' Bowler comes in, and he plays a fine one for a quick single down to fine leg. Takes off like a shot. 'Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes, mate!' He's callin' for the horse to go through, whilst lookin' behind him at the ball..."

He barely pauses to shovel more food in, and keeps going with the rhythm and the pace of the joke.

"...and then he looks up, and sees the horse hasn't moved a muscle. Chewin' on a bit of straw and leanin' on his bat up the non strikers end. Old mate's eyes go wide, and he turns and quickly tries to scamper back to his crease to no avail. Bails get whipped off. Umpire's finger raised. They send him packing, and at this point he's bloody furious. Just really fumin'. So as he's got the long march back to the pavillion he detours by the horse."

Shovels more food in and chews it, before restarting so the rest don't miss any of the punchline.

"'Mate, what the bloody Hell do you call this?! Why didn't ya run!?' And the horse calmly says to him 'Cob, it's Sat'dee. If I could run I'd be at the track.' HA HA HA HA!" He broke out laughing at his own joke, which if nothing else had held all of the tan dressed sufferers attention for a few minutes, and stopped the somber whisperings and occasional sobs. A few chuckles, but no real laugh.

"Bah! That was told perfect, I bet if it were a baseball or hockey joke you'd have been laughin' your arses off..."

A thought came into his mind. "Anyhow... 'Scuse I." Trying his best to do it clean, he yanked and tore the sleeve off his shirt at the stitching around the shoulder. He did the same on the other side, and slid one sleeve inside the other before twisting the whole thing into one cord of material.

He wrapped it around his hips, just under the trouser-line and tied it off. Before pulling his pants up and rolling the waist band down until the whole thing found its tight level, having now made a makeshift drawstring, he rolled the cuffs of his pants up to a decent length and sat and waited for everyone else to finish.

He'd bounced around on farms, sheep-shearing a refuge when they had needed a temporary new room and board during school holidays. He'd seen people fed 'pet sheep', watched people cry over their favourite pig getting the slaughter.

Once it was dead, it was just meat. But that didn't make him any less angry. Most angry at himself, if anything. But that didn't mean he didn't take it as the insult, the statement it was intended to be.

But he had no intention of letting them know they'd gotten to him.

It was bad enough he couldn't mask his claustrophobia.

Obviously he hated that they had done this to his innocent pony, but also that they did it as a statement to him. An act against his interests to put him in his place. And to show what they were wiling to do.

But he even took insult in other things.

The waste of it all. It was a great horse. Incredible on the hill country.

And something else scraped up against him as well.

Cavallo, caballo...

It had a specific meaning. A word to diminish. A horse of finery... was 'equus'. Cavallo derived from the other term. A packhorse. A nag. The horse version of a beater.

For some reason that final indignity scraped more than he felt it probably should.

He shovelled the final morsel from his plate and gave a grin, holding steeled eye contact with the gray haired man.

So that's your first play, eh? Well, if I could run anywhere, I wouldn't bloody be here.

So gimme your next best bloody bowl, cun^.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Alumni Village Port - And Surrounding Waters}

Human #5.045: I'm On A Boat

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_{Interaction(s): NPCs - Hyperhuman Residents of the Alumni Village}

Previously: Not Applicable

Wingtips clacked along the pier. His cheery visage swept down to admire his most recent big purchase.

The newly painted 'Thorpedo' punctuated by a green and gold surf lifesavers hat adorned a pristine hull, scrubbed clean and ready for a new launch. A new day. A new life.

He swept onto the deck, with a singular bounce off the gangplank.

Harold Holt. Captain of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power undisclosed.

He bounced past a figure with deep rouge skin, who was ironically turning a metaphorical shade of green already, before the launch had even begun. The Captain had attempted to optimistically assure him he'd find his level and the nausea would leave soon enough.

"Mornin' Jase. Still feelin' rough 'round the edges, mate? Get y'self to sickbay, when you get the chance. I made a run and stocked up on seasickness tablets, after the last chat. They scrubbed the muck right off of the deck too. Never-you-mind- mate. It's a boat, stuff mops right on out. Nobody thinks less of ya, and the Hell with any who would."

The red figure turned back and tried to respond, only for the bubbles to rise, and he quickly shut his mouth and clung tighter to the ladder he was attempting to steady himself on with complete futility.

Jason McGee. Regular passenger pending responsibilities. Proprioception (absolute knowledge of self-movement, force and location, generally leading to perfect balance on dry land... he is not on dry land). Also... red skin.

The Captain stepped on by and passed through a hatch to the interior, advancing further through his vessel.

"Celeste, what did the inventory wind up workin' out to?"

A woman in crisp, but non-uniform dress answered in the clipped dialogue of a chef reporting with other things on her mind.

"Per head. Eighteen days of three meals a day. Additional omnipresent 'snack' foods for turnover throughout. Ration from sixteen days and we should be able to stretch food three weeks, unless you have a hyperhuman here with particularly special nutritional needs or demands that you haven't told me about. I'd recommend re-stock between day fourteen and sixteen."

"Two weeks. Should be able to get 'er well clear of here by two weeks. That or I'll throw a rod over the side to bolster it, eh?"

Celeste didn't see the humour in this comment, and had already gone on to more pressing matters. Settling in to a welcome job of high responsibility.

Celeste Boucher. Head Chef (only chef...) of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power: Ulfactory and Gustatory Hypersensitivity.

The man in the dishevelled suit continued walking through his boat, cutting through the dining room, where a girl who looked somewhat out of the ordinary in as crisp a dress as she was currently wearing. She was slowly working her way around the room polishing and replacing crockery and cutlery where it would be deemed necessary by her regimental co-worker.

"All good, Lil'? Celeste not givin' ya too hard a time?"

The girl stopped and smiled at the older man. Raising a hand to wave. Around her wrist, a swirl of ink whirled and crawled onto her palm, showing a 'thumbs up' tattoo upon her bare palm to the Captain.

"Good to hear... but ya know ya could've just given an actual thumbs up, right? Now ya just showin' off."

The girl laughed soundlessly and both continued on their tasks.

Lilly Marks. 'Thorpedo' Wait staff. Mute. Hyperhuman power: Skin Art Projection.

The Captain stepped out of the hatch to the dining room back to the open air.

"V, how we lookin'? Good for a launch this arvo?"

From above, two women peered down at him with contrasting expressions to his presence.

He seemed somewhat taken aback by the exuberance of the first. Before the second gave a more verbose answer, yet with less weight of word.

"No less suitable than if you asked me at any other time... Clear skies are waiting whenever you're ready. And if you want cloud cover on our tail, I can manage that too."

"Bloody rippa. Uhh-- good... seein' you too. Suze."

He ducked his head back underneath in a hurry, and the more energetic woman hid her face in her hands.

"Smooth." The flat utterance of the more caustic of the pair.

Viola Figueroa. Sickbay Attendant - in lieu of nurse. Hyperhuman Power: Weather Manipulation.

Susan 'Suze' Scrivener. Early Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power: Spoken Word Manifestation.

He continued on through the boat, passing a table of four men playing cards and laughing.

"All good, lads? None-ya have anythin' ya need to be doin'?"

One of them spoke up, in a garbled Irish brogue, before slapping down a winning hand, to the groans of the others.

"Wouldn'e say that. But asked 'round, everythin' seemed taken care of. Need anytin' doe, feel free to ask. 'Specially Dougie. Probably be eager to stop losin' his dosh at this point."

Ste Aisling. Night Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.

Dougie Simmons. Ship's Liaison / Radio Officer. Hyperhuman Power: Can understand any spoken language (even the thick accent of Ste Aisling...) even if he lacks the capacity to speak it himself.

Elijah Parks. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.

Timothy Adams. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Levitation, not to be confused with 'flight'. JUST levitation. His skin is an instantly recognisable sky blue.

He left the quartet to their pre-launch redistribution of wealth, and pushed on again.

He opened the hatch to the helm and a man covered in cuticle filament made efforts to scramble to stand to attention, whilst a weathered woman remained head down over an assorted series of digital mapping screens.

"Nah, mate. It's not that kind of tub."

Earl Fisher. Secondary Helmsman (owns a fishing boat). Hyperhuman Power: Covered in cuticle filament - nails or scales.

"Charlie, how we lookin'? Got it figured?"

Charlie Millett. Navigator. Hyperhuman Power: Electromagnetoreception.

"So long as it's the Pacific, mapping's good to go. And unless this tub's a secret spaceship, there's not a place you can put it, that I'm not gonna know where we are."

"Oi... Steady on. I can call 'er a tub. Let's not go gettin' too comfortable."

Earl looked at the woman out of the corner of his eye, uncertain of what to make of things.

"What? Not gonna stand at attention now when the Captain's on the bridge?"

Earl's discomfort became even more palpable. The fisherman rested his hands on the helm, if only to do something with them.

"I'm takin' the piss." The Captain finally broke, with a broad cheeky grin.

"What..?" Earl uttered.

"He's joking." Charlie replied, not looking up from mapping. "Relax.

The hatch was already open and he was gone. Earl gave a sigh of relief. Charlie shook her head.

He walked back along the starboard deck to the stern, passing three figures looking out to sea.

"Ready and eager, eh? Rafe, Kath', Zara?"

A transparent figure turned back in surprise, before realising who had addressed them.

"Oh, yes, Captain. Present for duties, sir."

Rafe LeBlanc. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Transparent flesh."

"Calm down, Rafe, I can see your heart's goin' a mile a minute. You're not going to... put on a shirt or anything?" The Australian asked.

"Ah, no sir. I know how it looks--" The polite young hyperhuman started before being interrupted.

"We can all see how EVERYTHIN' looks..."

"--But, even with the transparent flesh, I'm not susceptible to sunburn. And I'm, well, pretty comfortable with my body at this point." He explained.

"Well, ok. But if I see a burp or fart brewin' in there I'll give you a heads up, so you can keep on top of it..."

"That would be appreciated, sir."

The Captain shook his head and moved on from the earnest young man.

"How 'bout you two? Kath', Zara, all good? Any questions?"

"Yes, how can you tell the uhh-- what is it? Port from the starboard? Which side are we on?" One of the two women spoke up.

Kathleen Burns. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Undisclosed.

"Okay, well, are we still moored?"

"Yes."

"And can you still see the wharf out there? The port?"

She turned back and looked at the clear water.

"It's that easy?"

"It is when we're moored on the port side."

"Wait, so... We don't have to moor on that side?"

"No. It's a modern cruise vessel. Can moor either side."

"Then why would you explain it like that..?"

"Cos..." He pointed out to the water. "Starboard side."

The other woman broke into the conversation, until now she had been deep in thought, looking out across the water. Some thought or another. A common occurrence. After finally putting down roots on this island, she still struggled the idea that now she would once again sea other places beyond its shores.

She had long made her peace with the notion that her days of adventure and world-wandering ways.

"In his defence, he never said that was the reason why. He merely gave unconnected information which may lead you to remembering that this side of the boat is starboard."

Zara Catrell. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Powers: Undisclosed.

"Yeah. That. See in old timey boats, before a central rudder system, they used to have a guy working the tiller with a massive stearboard which would jut out on the right side. When ships would moor, they'd do it on the other side so the stearboard doesn't get all banged up and congested. So it's sort of the reason, but not on this occasion."

Kathleen looked more confused than ever and just shook her head and walked away.

"Hey... I tried." He shrugged. Then turned to address the remaining woman. "Thanks, anyway."

"Don't mention it. I know a bit about unconnected information and seemingly unrelated barely tangential thinking."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you do."

Not only was her career gone, not that she hadn't been clinging by her fingernails for some time now, but the prospective island home that she'd worked for all of these years was behind her as well now.

Zara once again looked forward - well, starboard - to the seemingly boundless open ocean ahead. Always moving, even when it was time to stop.

"You have more to check on as well..."

"That I do." The Captain adding a simple nod, and opened a hatch and climbed down an interior ladder to the engine room.

The change in aesthetic was swift. Dark, dank and with no time for setting an inviting mood, he advanced to where he could hear murmuring and the sound of metal on metal ahead.

"How're we lookin', Vincenzo, ya little master? Redundancies all good?"

A face looked up from re-tightening screws after having cleaned a spare engine block.

"Harry, please. There was only one Master, the ultimate renaissance man of the Renaissance. You do him disservice."

"Well, I sure don't want to bloody do that. How are the engines lookin' though?"

Vincenzo Angellotti. First Mate. Hyperhuman Power: Instant Mastery of Any Tool, Vehicle, Weapon or Instrument.

"The engines in place, the redundancies and working in pristine condition. Bellisimo! These, the regular engines, just been cleaned, and are awaiting final visual testing, replacement and a test."

A young woman working on the other side of the engine block held out a hand. Five eyes suddenly formed on her fingertips, and were used to scan the harder to get to locations, underneath and behind, in the darker shade of the engine block.

"Visual check comes up fine, Vincenzo... oh, and Captain. We should be good to change them back now, if needed."

Natasha 'Tash' Stone. Part-time Engineering Officer and Assistant to Vincenzo. Hyperhuman Power: Variable Cell Matter

"First, we will lunch. Then the engines this afternoon. Molto rapido. Should be ready for castoff early evening, Captain Harry.

He scratched his chin and the facial hair that resided there.

"That is pretty quick. Good work, you two. Yeah. I'd say you both earned smoko. Get it intaya."

His heels clicked crisply back towards the ladder, where he climbed up and out of the hatch once more.

"Early evenin' castoff. That'll do."

Stepping out of the hatch he crossed to the portside and heard her before he saw her.

"Yoo-hooooooo! Captain?! I'm ready for our boarding party!"

Margot Saunders. Passenger with no Additional Duties. Hyperhuman Power: Physical Rejuvenation / Agelessness

He looked out to the pier and saw Margot Saunders standing on the wharf complete with extravagent dress, wide brimmed hat and full length gloves.

And more than a half a dozen suitcases.

"How the bloody Hell'd she get all of that here..." He muttered to himself in astonishment.

"Yep, we'll get you on board lickety-spli--"

Then what he saw, chilled him to his bones. A sight he never thought he would expect to see.

A mob. He'd heard of bigotry against hyperhumans, he'd encountered it in rare pockets and on the rare occasions he'd endeavoured a trip to the mainland by ferry, and when he'd first arrived here with the boy.

But the recent news had emboldened them. They'd been waiting for a chance to move on those that had been scapegoated and maligned for so many years. A pestilence now within grasp.

The Captain ran down the gangplank and attempted to usher Margot aboard the boat, but she wouldn't move on without her luggage.

He began to throw cases up and onto the deck from far beneath and grabbed the last two, before tloosing the rope at the stern, and with one arm mustering her onwards and up the board.

"CAST OFF! EARL! BLOODY CAST OFF! VEEEEEEEEE! COVER! NOW!"

Having boarded Margot in a hurry, he quickly raised the gangplank, and with long strides ran towards the helm. Engines could be heard to re-start, but could take time.

"CAST OFF THE FORE ROPES! WE'RE GOING! NOW!"

People scurried to attention to quickly cast off, as per their Captain's orders.

He managed to get to the wheelhouse, moved Earl on and fired up the ship's thrusters and powered up the engines higher still. They'd not realised the reason for the sense of urgency in his voice.

With the manuevering thrusters in effect, the boat separated itself from the dock, as the mob came ever closer. He heard some kind of glass object shatter against the hull. He hollered out the starboard side, away from the mob.

"VEEEEEE! THAT CLOUD COVER! ANY BLOODY TIME NOW!"

Soon thick rolling fog descended all around the portside of the boat, mostly between the mob and the boat. Obscuring his view somewhat on that side, but he had no intention in going that way at all. Getting clear of other moored vessels, he opened up the engines in full and powered down the manueverability thrusters. More objects had cluttered against their hull, but fewer now. With the fog, they were now throwing blind. He began to feel safer, and his breathing and muscles less tense.

Then the shot rang out.

"Sweetbabyjesusonajetski!" The three in the wheelhouse ducked on instinct, even though they were in the safest place possible.

After a few seconds, pulling away, the Australian turned to Earl and commanded him to take the wheel and keep the current bearing; Away from the fog of the port and out to open waters.

He had to check the ship for damage.

First he went to the aft where he saw a shocked Kathleen still standing by the aft ropes.

"It-- it was a molotov cocktail." She was shell-shocked from the ordeal. "It didn't catch, but-- it was right by where I was pulling the lines up."

"It's alright, Kath'. Like you said. It didn't catch. Just gave 'er a helluva bloody christening, eh? All things bein' equal, probably would've just been better with the customary champagne bottle, eh?"

He stepped away before calling back.

"If you need, check in with Vee down in sickbay, once she's done with the cloud cover."

He didn't know what exactly that would accomplish, his ship lacked an established nurse and there was only one on board with any kind of medical training for emergency situations, and he had no intention of giving her that kind of responsibility on this boat. But if nothing else, it'd keep Kathleen from being alone, which was probably not a bad thing at this point.

He kept moving towards the stern. He saw it before he heard it.

He doubled his pace along the port-side deck. A scream came next.

By the time he got there, there was little to be done.

Quinn Spence. The Corpse on the Stern Deck. Formerly Service-time Kitchen Hand. Hyperhuman Power: Radiation Immunity.

He had no idea what to expect. But it wasn't this.

He dropped to his hands and knees to check for a pulse.

"No need. Too late for that. Through-and-through. Right temple to left cheek." A crisp, clear voice came.

The captain rocked back and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and looked to where the voice had come from.

"You're going to need to hold an investigation." She said. Almost resigned to the fate, events would undoutedly bestow upon here.

"Investigation? It was a mob of regular humans. Stormed the island. Came after the boat. Kath' said they threw a molotov cocktail at the bow."

Zara Catrell explained her reasoning. The former H.E.L.P investigator seemingly doomed to spend her retirement back on the job.

"The mob was about thirty metres clear. Thick cloud cover. The shot was a through-and-through from right temple down through left cheek. Elevated. The pier is not from an elevated position."

"A ricochet. A lucky shot. They weren't shooting at anyone in particular." He argued. "Just angry people lashing out hoping to hit anything."

Zara sighed.

"Which would be far less likely to hit anyone or Quinn in this case, than an intended shooter aboard the ship."

A small group of people by now had gathered around the body on the stern deck.

"I don't know. I think I'd feel far better if we at least had an investigation, so we could know we DIDN'T have a potential murderer anywhere onboard amongst us." Rafe said. His stomach bubbled and churned at the sight of the body.

"I mean... we're lucky enough that we HAVE an investigator here in the first place. It kind of doesn't make sense to not have her look into it, Harry. If only just to clear everyone."

But the Captain wasn't so sure.

"The last thing we need, though, is a bunch of baseless bloody accusations going on. And everyone turnin' against each other, though. That seems like a recipe for disaster... and we've been simmerin' up a big bowl of disaster for quite some time now on the mainland, let alone bringin' it out in my boat."

Zara nodded. Taking on his concerns. "Maintain discretion. Priority. Fair. I could conduct interviews in my own quarters. Is there anywhere clean where the body could be inspected?"

"Aww, Hells bloody bells, you're not lookin' to carve up a cadaver in my bleedin' sickbay, are ya?"

Zara gave a solitary grim chuckle.

"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm not trained in how to perform an autopsy. And we're unlikely to get ashore in any kind of meaningful time, where one could be performed by anybody who is. So probably, little more than bullet retrieval..."

"Bullet retrieval? What could you learn from that?"

"Easy way to find out." Came the flat reply.

"That is, of course, if you're not still afraid of allowing an investigation?"

Ultimate One Universe: Emergence

@Roman 38 too few for Lex.

@mattmanganon

Terrible...