My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.
My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles.
There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.
@Master Bruce You can pull whatever face you want baby, Iris gets what she wants.
I need an adult. I NEED MY PAREN---
Oh, right.
So wait, was SHH just a giant free for all in terms of content?
Not at all, but I was curious as to what the Guild's perspective was on such things. For one thing, openly cursing wasn't a thing we were used to over there, given the system automatically converted "fuck" to "****". So there are certain liberties to migrating over here.
The plans simple, I'll have my post fade to black and MBs post will just be him being Batman walking down the street, a flash of lightning then him just standing there naked.
The following arc will be Batman hunting down Thor.
Do you all want me banned? Fine, then I'm going out with style.
Thor celebrates International Women's Day in my next post.
Okay, genuine question here for a n00b to the bigger Guild site rules (admittedly not a great admission for the GM of a game)... are these sorts of things not allowed? Because I know 18+ games exist, and I was wondering what the hell those could be if not just full of graphic depictions of people making ham sandwiches.
You are going to have to be more specific. otherwise I am going to assume you mean something like: Diana and Abigail hooking up and Abigail using her shape shifting powers to look like Steve Trevor, Julia Roberts, Hugh Jackman, random people they see on the streets, etc etc.
Just like it's out of nowhere Diana goes by Captain Marvel or Wonder Woman or any super hero name.
I don't have to participate, if I do participate it will be with the ones I want. If they are unacceptable then I won't participate.
I don't think that this game is for you. I'm sorry to say that, but you seem to wholly miss the point of what types of characters are acceptable in this setting, and want to play a different type of character altogether.
As I explained with The Wasp app, the reason that concepts like Spider-Gwen being in this universe as the replacement for Spider-Man and Iris West being The Flash is because they were genuinely unique, character-driven concepts that forced the player to tell an entirely new set of stories from the point of view of someone we hadn't seen before. That's the goal, here.
Just giving another big superhero someone else's name or mantle is just random by comparison, and not really inkeeping with the concepts that made it through. You'd essentially be rendering Diana, John, and Abigail obsolete to other players solely because you wanted to trade labels, and that isn't really fair.
Under the direction of famed Soviet geneticist ██████████ ██████████ ██████████, Natasha was injected with a Russian variant of the █████████ developed during Project: Rebirth used on ██████████. The serum when injected within the body provided enhanced ██████████, ████████████████████ as well as other ██████████ ██████████. These genetic augmentations have pushed Natasha far beyond the physical limits of an ordinary human being and has even slowed down her aging to a near standstill.
мокрое дело:
Hell wasn't some imaginary place for Natasha, no Hell was very real and was called the Красная комната. While some may argue about the ethics involved in the Red Room’s treatment of children, you couldn't argue with the results. In the world of espionage and wetwork, Natasha might as well of written the book. She’s skilled in several dozen ways to kill somebody from traditional CQC to firearms and everything in between. Beyond straight intimidation, she is well versed in various more subtle ways to gain information through ways such as cybersecurity and straight up seduction to name a few.
Железная воля:
Blades will not break her. Bullets will not break her. Words will not break her. Fear will not break her. Naturally of courageous disposition, the training she had undertaken and several lifetimes over of wetwork experience has bestowed upon Natasha an indomitable will.
Backstory:
According to official records, Natasha was born in █████, Russian SFSR in December of 19██. Natasha would early on find herself orphaned by the German Wehrmacht. Shortly after, she would be later spotted in the company of army captain named ██████ ██████████ ██████████. █████ was reportedly with Natasha up until atomic fire devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. ████ would start a successful post war-career working for the КГБ, and it was through here that ██████ ███████ ████████ of █████████ became aware of Natasha. Soon afterwards Natasha would be sent to ██████████ to begin her studies at the Красная комната.
Inducted into the fledgling рограмма ██████████████ Чёрная вдова. Natasha would soon enough become the program’s most promising test subject. During this time she also underwent intense genetic augmentation trials administered by ██████████ ██████████ ██████████, based upon ██████████ recovered by ███████ ██████████ from Project: Rebirth. Eventually in █████, Natasha was deemed ready by her handlers and would be sent into the field..
Natasha would soon find herself pursuing Soviet interests across the globe. Sightings of a red haired women matching her description first appeared in ███████, then ██████████, and within a month as far afield as ███████. Natasha is reported to have worked with some of the USSR’s greatests assists including:██████████ ██████████ ██████████ AKA “Rocket Red”, ██████████ ██████████ ██████████ AKA “Red Guardian”, and perhaps most interestingly ██████████ ██████████ ██████████ AKA “Winter Soldier”. During this time allied agents also reported having hostile engagements with her including: ████ ███████ ██████████ AKA King, and ███████ ████████ ██████ AKA Agent A-1.
After the collapse of the USSR in the late 1990s, Sightings of Natasha have decreased from their peak during the “Golden Years”. From what little information we have gathered, Romanova still works for the ФСБ in some capacity, through in apparently a much more limited fashion saving her deployment for only mission critical assignments. Recently though our eyes in ██████ have picked up sightings of her in ███████. Whatever the reason is, we can be sure that it definitely is not in our interest that she succeeds.
Known Associates:
►Ivan Petrovich Bezukhov ► Dmitri Pushkin ► James Buchanan Barnes ► Kingsley 'King' Faraday ► Yulia Orlova - Deceased ► Ava Anatalya Orlova
What Makes This Character 'Ultimate'?:
I always wanted Natasha the spy epic that she deserved; following wetwork missions, finding herself bit by bit. Yet to my great dismay, I was never able to really make it work. This time though I think I’ve found something that work. My idea is to pull a Last of Us, God of War, Logan, or perhaps my favorite Turner’s thread in Count Zero with Natasha and Ava. (Ava in this verse is a little older being fourteen years old. Also I’ve made her mother Yulia a runaway from the Black Widow Program and a close friend of Natasha.)
Ava will hopefully help facilitate character growth and lead me to more smooth transition to Natasha’s exit from the world of wetwork. Yet beyond that, I hope to use her as a sort of mirror for Natasha to reflect on and in turn reflect upon the themes I want to hit upon. Themes that are best summarized by quoting Faulkner “The past is never dead. It's not even past”. This Natasha is trapped by her past, haunted by it both figuratively and mentally.
And unlike in some tellings of her tale, she won’t crawl out of the quagmire because she fell head over heels for some boy. She’s going to have to do what she does best instead - fight for it.
Sample Post:
The truth is, if old Morzh hadn’t firmly insisted upon his attendance Alexi would never have come to the Національна опера України at all. Alexi was not a member of those fortunate few born into money that could afford to be cultured. His father was a school teacher in a poor village outside of Luhansk and before that his family were mostly made up of simple farmers. He hadn’t been back home in some time, not since the establishment of the Luhansk People's Republic. A problem, if all was right in the world, he would of been dealing with. Instead he was to go to the godforsaken opera.
So there he was, face obscured by the tainted backseat window of his SUV, watching the slow procession of Kyiv traffic. To either side of him sat statuesque in their silence his two bodyguards: Bohdan and Ruslan. Both were dressed like him, fine suits with a concealed layer of kevlar underneath, and he knew that both carried ПКСКs tucked away in unseen holsters. Apparently the two of them had met doing mercenary work during the Second Chechen War. They, along with their two companions that rode in a secondary SUV with his wife Julija were a costly but much needed expense. People who disagreed with the Kremlin didn’t live long in Kiev these days.
It was just the other day after all that Vadzim was killed. Vadzim was a close friend of Ivan’s and worked alongside him in the Братство. They all knew when they started this endeavor that it was going to be dangerous work, but the loss still stuck with Alexi. He wasn’t even able to go to Vadzim funeral; whoever or whatever had killed his friend could still be out there. That was the main reason he agreed to this meeting with Morzh. The man used to run in some very interesting circles before the Collapse. Now everyone and their mother knew that if you needed information on anything or anyone you talked to Morzh.
“Sir, we have arrived.” announced a gruff rockslide of a voice that was Ruslan’s.
“Finally.”
With the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, Bohdan and Ruslan exited the vehicle first and checked the surroundings. When all was thought to be clear Bohdan’s meaty paw rapped against the window three times to signal Alexi to exit. His worn in boots touched upon the slickened sidewalk just outside the Oprea. It was a Wednesday Night, so the pedestrian traffic on Volodymyrska Street wasn’t too terrible, even so the small crowds that did move about made Alexi nervous. He turned to his right to sound of heels clicking against pavement to see Julija approach.
“Shall we head inside dear?” he asked through a forced smile.
“Let’s.” Julija replied as she smoothly hooked her arm with his and turned towards the entrance. Their retitutne of four now folowingly close in a loose square around them.
The National Opera House was an ornate affair. Built in the Neo-Renaissance style during the early 1900s, the building truly captured the image of a Ukraine that was at its cultural peak. In these modern times though the swooping architecture and the gilded accents stood in strange contrast to the world just outside. People died right outside on Volodymyrska either from violence or starvation everyday and parts of the country were still in open revolt, and yet the rich and famous still came to the opera. To be entrained, to be reminded about anything else besides the mess that they themselves were partially responsible for creating. Bread and circuses after all.
“Alexi!” a booming voice called.
Morzh could only be described in appearance, as closely resembling the Odobenus rosmarus, hence the nickname. A large man weighing over one hundred and thirty six kilograms and roughly six feet in height. His face, a consistent shade of flushed pink, was framed by a large red moustache that completely covered his mouth. He sat sprawled out atop a couch in the lobby like some sultan out of the Arabian Nights. Two female companions who were at least half his age sitting with him. He gestured over with a hand whose massive girth was closed around some glass of alcoholic beverage or another.
As Alexi approached Morzh, with a surprising amount of agility for a man his size, rose up to meet him and grasped him in a sweat caked hug.
“I’m so glad that you could make it!” proclaimed Morzh the blunted contours of his round face shifting as he did.
“Of course, anything for you my friend! Besides Julija was glad to have a break from the kids.”
“You woman must be some kind of witch! Three kids and you have a body like that!” Morzh joked as he gestured towards Julija who did her best to politely smile in return. Seemingly bored with the current topic he turned back to Alexi. “And we have a treat tonight! The say the young man playing Max is truly an astonishing sight to behold! He apparently have only just graduated from his classes at Leipzig!”
“You don’t say!” Alexi replied with feigned interest. “We better be going upstairs then! Don’t want to miss the show do we?”
Nodding in agreement, Morzh began to lead the couple up the stairs that lead to the upper levels. As Morzh went into finer details with Julija about the finer details of the upcoming production, Alexi noted the other men that soon began to follow them like hawks. These men were of course part of Morzh’s own private security entourage, and if the rumors Alexi heard were to be believed made up entirely of black ops types. Leading them up flight after flight, Morzh eventually turned left at a landing and lead them to his own private booth, the door already guarded by two more of his men. Julija and his female companions sat down in the row in front of them as Morzh gestured for Alexi to sit next to him in the back row.
From what Alexi had picked up during Morzh’s ranting to Julija, the performance that they were seeing tonight was about a marksman who makes a deal with the devil over magic bullets. A topic which given the current climate of things seemed a little too on the nose for Alexi’s tastes. It didn’t help win him over when he found out that the entire performance was going to be in German. Rolling his eyes as the lights dimmed and curtain opened he watched as the performers began to spin their yarn.
Roughly halfway through the first act, just as the leading man began his aria, Morzh turned his head ever so slightly towards Alexi.
“You did not come here just for your love of the arts Alexi.” his voice whispered with a hint of laughter.
“Is it really that obvious?”
“Yes but do not worry, I am not a man whose ego is easily offended.” Morzh replied with a grin. “I have looked into the “untimely” demise of your friend Vadzim”
“And?’ Alexi replied as he felt his heart pound against his chest.
“What do you know of the Red Room?” Morzh asked curiously.
“The fucking Baba Yaga breeding chamber? Isn’t that place just a tall tale made up by mother’s to get their children to go to bed on time?”
“What if I told you the Red Room was a very real place? That it produces some of the most terrifying creatures to ever be commanded by the Kremlin?” Morzh asked this time his voice flat without any sense of humor within it.
“I would say that your going paranoid in your old age Morzh. To stop playing me like a fool.” Alexi replied trying to surprise the fear that was rising in his voice. His heart was beating faster now. He could feel it in his ears.
“I’m not being paranoid Alexi. You should be though, because if one of those demons is after you it is only a matter of time.” Morzh explained with a cold bluntless as he slowly turned his face back towards the performers on the stage below.
As it so happened Alexi did not hear the faint sounds of Morzh’s guards outside the door being taken out. He did not hear as the soft press of a knife slit open the jugulars of Bohdan and Ruslan. He did notice as Morzh suddenly as if struck by something slumped down in the seat next to him. Alexi never even felt the bullet that killed him. His mind was too preoccupied with the imaginary demons that were soon to be creeping up on him.
---
Natasha watched as the weighted bag containing the knife and the PSS sunk into the dark waters of the Dnieper. She looked up at the few twinkling stars that managed to fight through the light pollution of the city below. She breathed in letting the cool air fill her lungs and waited a moment and then another before letting it release. It felt good.
She pressed a single finger to her left ear.
“This is вдова.” the voice held a icey purity to it unfettered by emotion. It felt almost alien sometimes.
“Go.”
“Mission Complete.”
...This app is so good that I don't even mind scrapping my future Batman/Black Widow romance that was gonna be a factor in a future storyline.
Very well, where do I begin?
My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.
My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles.
There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Very well, where do I begin? <br><br>My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. <br><br>My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. <br><br>My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. <br><br>There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.</div>
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