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Slypheed
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Yeah, I was imagining the big ole WWII packs when I was writing that. And..sorry about that. I just wanted to wrap that whole situation up.
///Project: STEEL COBRAS///
MISSION DESIGNATION: GEARM174-62
STAGE OF DEVELOPMENT – PHASE III; FIRST FIELD TEST - AUSTRALIAN WILDERNESS
The rebel camp wasn’t much to behold. Tents were set up back to back in rows, with a road wide enough for two tanks side by side to drive down. Everything seemed as if it had been laid out perfectly, more than likely using a laser measuring system to a-line the tents. The rebel commander was reported to have extreme OCD, and it definitely showed. The camp was exactly the same way it had been for the past two months the Australian Army has been scouting it out: The partisans even smoke in the same area at the same time of day. The tents that made up the entirety of the base were all identical: khaki-colored, square things that stood taller than a full grown man with a midget on his shoulders. It was impossible to tell which tents were used for which supplies, and which held which soldiers without a man on the inside. Fortunately for the Australians, they did have such a man. Every three tents, there stood a pole with a light atop it. Not the electrical kind, but the old fire-lit ones from back in the day.
Thanks to this generous amount of light coming from the many poles, Olympus Squad had no trouble seeing their targets while they slowly made their way down one of these avenues between tent rows. Every time they came upon a new tent, Odysseus and Perseus, both of whom were equipped with military grade automatic shotguns, would breach a tent on each side and kill any rebels attempting to hide inside. Of course, most of the partisans were gathered at the end of the avenue, hiding behind a wall of assorted crates and pieces of metal that they had quickly erected when the fighting began. The biggest piece of the wall was also the most heavily armored: An AATV-24, one of many of the pieces of equipment stolen from Fort Baracoda two and a half months earlier. The fifty caliber machine gun on the AATV-24 started to fire on the advancing men of Olympus Squad when a man crawled inside the turret.”Whoa whoa whoa!” Cadmus shouted, firing a burst from his ASM-2.”We’ve got light armor, south-west end of the compound!” Achilles shouted into his headset as the squad dove to the ground. They’d get absolutely chewed apart out in the open here.
”Orpheus! Take ‘im down!” Hercules yelled, fumbling with a rocket launcher on his back. Orpheus calmly brought the scope of his StG 58 up to his eye. Seconds after, Orpheus took in a breath, and a single bullet whizzed through the air, smashing through the gunner’s left eye and popping out the back of his head. The man’s head whipped backwards with the sheer force of the round, with his body following suit moments later. Orpheus visibly shuddered, before running a hand over his chest in the shape of a cross. The rest of the team jumped back up and began to return fire at the rebels. Man after man tried to take the turret gun back, but every time Orpheus shot them in the same exact place; and every kill brought another cross to Orpheus’s chest.
To the side of the advancing squad, Perseus fired off two bursts from his shotgun, mauling a group of rebels lying in wait. Achilles glanced around at his team, pride building up rapidly as they moved down the way, the rebel forced at the other end getting massacred by the elite team’s barrage of bullets. Then, Achilles noticed something.”Where’s Odysseus?!” He shouted, turning around rapidly.”Achilles! stay behind Cadmus!” Jason snarled, snapping off shots with his StG 58.”Hold position! I’m going back to find-” Achilles was interrupted by a massive explosion from behind him. He turned around slowly, fearing what he might see. The AATV-24 the rebels had pillaged was in flames, and the rebels that had clung to it for cover were dead.”What was that?” Hercules said in disbelief. The sound of a shotgun going off in the distance shook the squad back into reality.”They firin’ at us, mates?” Perseus asked, moving over to the others. A man climbed atop the makeshift rebel fortification, holding a shotgun in the air and yelling like a banshee.”-Odysseus..” Achilles finished, breathing a sigh filled with too many different emotions at the same time.”He did it. He bloody did it.” Cadmus muttered, lowering his shield. Achilles jogged to the front of the group, and the others followed after their leader.
Odysseus hopped off the wall and met his squad half way.”You insubordinate, crazy little ginger!” Achilles yelled, hugging his fellow Steel Cobra. The others moved in closer to give Odysseus their own unique forms of congratulations.”How’d you do it?” Hercules asked, shrugging the heavy weight on his back into a more comfortable position.”That, my friend, is a story for the bar.” Odysseus said with a sly grin.”Alright, we’ve got a compound to clear. Let’s move!” Achilles announced, holding his assault rifle in the air with a single hand.”This is Ground Cobra Command to all combat elements of Steel Cobra Company! The compound is nearly clear, but we have a situation. There’s an old Russian-made tank hold up in the south-eastern corner of the compound. No one where these backwater lobsters got a hold of such things, but the Royalists are putting up quite the fight. We don’t have any armor in the area, and the helicopters are ten minutes out. Any teams with anti-armor capabilities are to attempt to immobilize or destroy the tank. Command, out.” The static filled orders from command had reached Jason, the squad’s radio man’s, ears. Jason then relayed it all to the others, and the squad began to move. No order was given, for none had to be. They knew where to go and what to do.
They were Cobras, after all.
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
*A number of days after the above half of the post*
The sun shone brightly in the beautiful city of Sydney, its blazing light intensified as it glared off the many towering skyscrapers that dotted the city. The streets below these skyscrapers were covered by motor vehicles of all makes and models, with hundreds of thousands of citizens crowding the streets, trying to make their way to wherever they were going. So very many human lives, yet at that moment all attention was not on the city and the people within it. No, Australia’s eyes were on Governor-General Mark Chapman and Prime Minister Mary Crackenthorpe, and the mighty vessel they were preparing to board that sat in the harbor behind them. The Governor-General and the Prime-Minister stood side by side on top of a raised platform, their backs to the ocean as the throngs of people who had gotten off work a few hours ago watched their pictures get taken. The media was all over this: after all, it isn’t often your country prepares to join an empire without a drop of blood shed. After the crowd of reporters had their fill of pictures, the Prime Minister took her seat behind the Governor-General, alongside a number of other ministers, as well as General McBride and Admiral Crickett.
Chapman took a few steps to the right, until he was standing behind a wooden podium that a stage hand had dragged up the steps for his use. Mark tapped the microphone and coughed, checking if it was working. The static that followed told the Governor-General that it was, and that it was time for him to make a grand speech to the people of the world.
And he had left his cards on his desk.
Again.
The Governor-General coughed yet again, looking out over the crowd. He had no idea what he should say.”People of Australia,” he began his speech, trying to look as if he had memorized it, and wasn’t making it up as he was going along. Mrs. Chapman, standing in the first row of people, facepalmed. She could tell he had forgotten his cards, couldn’t she? She always could tell..”Today shall be forever remembered in the pages of history. Not just the history of Australia, but the history of the world.” This was going to go very, very badly.”As you all know, my family and I will be leaving for the United Kingdom today. We will be travelling on the HMAS Canberra, flagship of the Royal Australian Navy, and Australia’s only battleship..” The Governor-General turned around, spreading his arms out wide, looking over the massive vessel of war. After a moment of taking in the sight, he turns around to face the crowd and the microphone again.”A mighty vessel indeed. How ironic that Australia’s greatest tool of violence and bloodshed be the harbinger of peace with Great Britain.” Chapman received a polite amount of laughter. Alright, they weren’t all asleep. That’s good, right?”I urge all of you members of states that once belonged to the British Empire to return to her fold. Together, we might recreate that great shining light of freedom and strength, that once owned most of the known world. Under the leadership of King William, the British Empire will return to glory. Long live the British Empire, and long live William the VI, for his many strides to restoring this great Empire!” Chapman began to clap, taking a step away from the podium. The crowd followed his lead, a roar of sound echoing through the docks as the Australians present showed their patriotism.”
Good bye, Australia! I leave you in the capable hands of Prime Minister Crackenthorpe!” With that, the Governor-General and his family, as well as Admiral Cricket made their way towards the ramp that led up to the HMAS Canberra. A pair of frigates sat in front of the Canberra, dwarfed by the flagship. Behind the Canberra floated a tanker. Many miles ahead of the small sea-faring convoy, a submarine led the charge, scouting out the path that the fleet would follow to the United Kingdom..
NEAR MADIERA ISLANDS, OFF THE COAST OF WESTERN AFRICA
-Oberon-class submarine, HMAS Merciless-
Captain Archibald Donawho sat reclined in his chair, staring at the wall in front of him. The captain of the first Australian military vessel to leave Oceanic waters since the Great War, and Archibald was bored out of his mind. He’d settle for playing golf over this. Which was something he never did. Archibald turned in his chair, looking at the various instruments surrounding him on all sides. They were all copies of the instruments used by the crew sitting around on the lower platform before him. It was all the same nonsense he’d seen seen they’d left Australia: a whole lot of nothing interesting. The occasional fishing boat or trade ship popped up on the radar every once and awhile. The graph showing the progress of the mapping of the bottom of the ocean remained as it always did: never being looked at, because oceanography never interested Archibald. No, what interested Archibald was the money and the job where he got to watch ships blow up. Yet, he’d never launched a single torpedo in his entire career. There were never any pirate ships big enough to justify a torpedo attack. So Archibald and his crew were always left on reconnaissance duty.
“We’re going to be passing by the Strait of Gibraltar soon, sir.” Commander Nathan King announced, stepping through a hatch and into the command deck.”Oh?” Archibald sat up a bit straighter hearing this news. This is where all the action at sea is, these days.”Aye, Cap’n. The Spanish Armada is moving down the Suez Canal as we speak. The boys are sayin’ that the Ethiopian’s don’t have a proper navy to respond with, so it won’t be much of a spectacle.” Nathan commented.”Anything’s better than this.” Archibald muttered, resting his head on his hand.
“Well, sir-” Nathan was interrupted by the most anticipated sound that one can hear in a submarine on recon duty: the sound of a telegram typing.
“Who’s it from?!” A sailor shouted through the commotion.”Quiet! Everyone quiet!” Archibald yelled, and the entire deck froze. A man pulled the telegram off the wall, running up the short flight of stairs that led up to the captain’s platform. The sailor handed the captain the telegram, and he began to read it, his eyes moving so much faster than his brain that he had to read it twice to realize what it said.
“Command..Command wants us to document the battle in the Suez.” the captain said, his mouth agape. The captain jumped up from his chair, and began shouting orders. Things were finally getting interesting.
MISSION DESIGNATION: GEARM174-62
STAGE OF DEVELOPMENT – PHASE III; FIRST FIELD TEST - AUSTRALIAN WILDERNESS
The rebel camp wasn’t much to behold. Tents were set up back to back in rows, with a road wide enough for two tanks side by side to drive down. Everything seemed as if it had been laid out perfectly, more than likely using a laser measuring system to a-line the tents. The rebel commander was reported to have extreme OCD, and it definitely showed. The camp was exactly the same way it had been for the past two months the Australian Army has been scouting it out: The partisans even smoke in the same area at the same time of day. The tents that made up the entirety of the base were all identical: khaki-colored, square things that stood taller than a full grown man with a midget on his shoulders. It was impossible to tell which tents were used for which supplies, and which held which soldiers without a man on the inside. Fortunately for the Australians, they did have such a man. Every three tents, there stood a pole with a light atop it. Not the electrical kind, but the old fire-lit ones from back in the day.
Thanks to this generous amount of light coming from the many poles, Olympus Squad had no trouble seeing their targets while they slowly made their way down one of these avenues between tent rows. Every time they came upon a new tent, Odysseus and Perseus, both of whom were equipped with military grade automatic shotguns, would breach a tent on each side and kill any rebels attempting to hide inside. Of course, most of the partisans were gathered at the end of the avenue, hiding behind a wall of assorted crates and pieces of metal that they had quickly erected when the fighting began. The biggest piece of the wall was also the most heavily armored: An AATV-24, one of many of the pieces of equipment stolen from Fort Baracoda two and a half months earlier. The fifty caliber machine gun on the AATV-24 started to fire on the advancing men of Olympus Squad when a man crawled inside the turret.”Whoa whoa whoa!” Cadmus shouted, firing a burst from his ASM-2.”We’ve got light armor, south-west end of the compound!” Achilles shouted into his headset as the squad dove to the ground. They’d get absolutely chewed apart out in the open here.
”Orpheus! Take ‘im down!” Hercules yelled, fumbling with a rocket launcher on his back. Orpheus calmly brought the scope of his StG 58 up to his eye. Seconds after, Orpheus took in a breath, and a single bullet whizzed through the air, smashing through the gunner’s left eye and popping out the back of his head. The man’s head whipped backwards with the sheer force of the round, with his body following suit moments later. Orpheus visibly shuddered, before running a hand over his chest in the shape of a cross. The rest of the team jumped back up and began to return fire at the rebels. Man after man tried to take the turret gun back, but every time Orpheus shot them in the same exact place; and every kill brought another cross to Orpheus’s chest.
To the side of the advancing squad, Perseus fired off two bursts from his shotgun, mauling a group of rebels lying in wait. Achilles glanced around at his team, pride building up rapidly as they moved down the way, the rebel forced at the other end getting massacred by the elite team’s barrage of bullets. Then, Achilles noticed something.”Where’s Odysseus?!” He shouted, turning around rapidly.”Achilles! stay behind Cadmus!” Jason snarled, snapping off shots with his StG 58.”Hold position! I’m going back to find-” Achilles was interrupted by a massive explosion from behind him. He turned around slowly, fearing what he might see. The AATV-24 the rebels had pillaged was in flames, and the rebels that had clung to it for cover were dead.”What was that?” Hercules said in disbelief. The sound of a shotgun going off in the distance shook the squad back into reality.”They firin’ at us, mates?” Perseus asked, moving over to the others. A man climbed atop the makeshift rebel fortification, holding a shotgun in the air and yelling like a banshee.”-Odysseus..” Achilles finished, breathing a sigh filled with too many different emotions at the same time.”He did it. He bloody did it.” Cadmus muttered, lowering his shield. Achilles jogged to the front of the group, and the others followed after their leader.
Odysseus hopped off the wall and met his squad half way.”You insubordinate, crazy little ginger!” Achilles yelled, hugging his fellow Steel Cobra. The others moved in closer to give Odysseus their own unique forms of congratulations.”How’d you do it?” Hercules asked, shrugging the heavy weight on his back into a more comfortable position.”That, my friend, is a story for the bar.” Odysseus said with a sly grin.”Alright, we’ve got a compound to clear. Let’s move!” Achilles announced, holding his assault rifle in the air with a single hand.”This is Ground Cobra Command to all combat elements of Steel Cobra Company! The compound is nearly clear, but we have a situation. There’s an old Russian-made tank hold up in the south-eastern corner of the compound. No one where these backwater lobsters got a hold of such things, but the Royalists are putting up quite the fight. We don’t have any armor in the area, and the helicopters are ten minutes out. Any teams with anti-armor capabilities are to attempt to immobilize or destroy the tank. Command, out.” The static filled orders from command had reached Jason, the squad’s radio man’s, ears. Jason then relayed it all to the others, and the squad began to move. No order was given, for none had to be. They knew where to go and what to do.
They were Cobras, after all.
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
*A number of days after the above half of the post*
The sun shone brightly in the beautiful city of Sydney, its blazing light intensified as it glared off the many towering skyscrapers that dotted the city. The streets below these skyscrapers were covered by motor vehicles of all makes and models, with hundreds of thousands of citizens crowding the streets, trying to make their way to wherever they were going. So very many human lives, yet at that moment all attention was not on the city and the people within it. No, Australia’s eyes were on Governor-General Mark Chapman and Prime Minister Mary Crackenthorpe, and the mighty vessel they were preparing to board that sat in the harbor behind them. The Governor-General and the Prime-Minister stood side by side on top of a raised platform, their backs to the ocean as the throngs of people who had gotten off work a few hours ago watched their pictures get taken. The media was all over this: after all, it isn’t often your country prepares to join an empire without a drop of blood shed. After the crowd of reporters had their fill of pictures, the Prime Minister took her seat behind the Governor-General, alongside a number of other ministers, as well as General McBride and Admiral Crickett.
Chapman took a few steps to the right, until he was standing behind a wooden podium that a stage hand had dragged up the steps for his use. Mark tapped the microphone and coughed, checking if it was working. The static that followed told the Governor-General that it was, and that it was time for him to make a grand speech to the people of the world.
And he had left his cards on his desk.
Again.
The Governor-General coughed yet again, looking out over the crowd. He had no idea what he should say.”People of Australia,” he began his speech, trying to look as if he had memorized it, and wasn’t making it up as he was going along. Mrs. Chapman, standing in the first row of people, facepalmed. She could tell he had forgotten his cards, couldn’t she? She always could tell..”Today shall be forever remembered in the pages of history. Not just the history of Australia, but the history of the world.” This was going to go very, very badly.”As you all know, my family and I will be leaving for the United Kingdom today. We will be travelling on the HMAS Canberra, flagship of the Royal Australian Navy, and Australia’s only battleship..” The Governor-General turned around, spreading his arms out wide, looking over the massive vessel of war. After a moment of taking in the sight, he turns around to face the crowd and the microphone again.”A mighty vessel indeed. How ironic that Australia’s greatest tool of violence and bloodshed be the harbinger of peace with Great Britain.” Chapman received a polite amount of laughter. Alright, they weren’t all asleep. That’s good, right?”I urge all of you members of states that once belonged to the British Empire to return to her fold. Together, we might recreate that great shining light of freedom and strength, that once owned most of the known world. Under the leadership of King William, the British Empire will return to glory. Long live the British Empire, and long live William the VI, for his many strides to restoring this great Empire!” Chapman began to clap, taking a step away from the podium. The crowd followed his lead, a roar of sound echoing through the docks as the Australians present showed their patriotism.”
Good bye, Australia! I leave you in the capable hands of Prime Minister Crackenthorpe!” With that, the Governor-General and his family, as well as Admiral Cricket made their way towards the ramp that led up to the HMAS Canberra. A pair of frigates sat in front of the Canberra, dwarfed by the flagship. Behind the Canberra floated a tanker. Many miles ahead of the small sea-faring convoy, a submarine led the charge, scouting out the path that the fleet would follow to the United Kingdom..
NEAR MADIERA ISLANDS, OFF THE COAST OF WESTERN AFRICA
-Oberon-class submarine, HMAS Merciless-
Captain Archibald Donawho sat reclined in his chair, staring at the wall in front of him. The captain of the first Australian military vessel to leave Oceanic waters since the Great War, and Archibald was bored out of his mind. He’d settle for playing golf over this. Which was something he never did. Archibald turned in his chair, looking at the various instruments surrounding him on all sides. They were all copies of the instruments used by the crew sitting around on the lower platform before him. It was all the same nonsense he’d seen seen they’d left Australia: a whole lot of nothing interesting. The occasional fishing boat or trade ship popped up on the radar every once and awhile. The graph showing the progress of the mapping of the bottom of the ocean remained as it always did: never being looked at, because oceanography never interested Archibald. No, what interested Archibald was the money and the job where he got to watch ships blow up. Yet, he’d never launched a single torpedo in his entire career. There were never any pirate ships big enough to justify a torpedo attack. So Archibald and his crew were always left on reconnaissance duty.
“We’re going to be passing by the Strait of Gibraltar soon, sir.” Commander Nathan King announced, stepping through a hatch and into the command deck.”Oh?” Archibald sat up a bit straighter hearing this news. This is where all the action at sea is, these days.”Aye, Cap’n. The Spanish Armada is moving down the Suez Canal as we speak. The boys are sayin’ that the Ethiopian’s don’t have a proper navy to respond with, so it won’t be much of a spectacle.” Nathan commented.”Anything’s better than this.” Archibald muttered, resting his head on his hand.
“Well, sir-” Nathan was interrupted by the most anticipated sound that one can hear in a submarine on recon duty: the sound of a telegram typing.
“Who’s it from?!” A sailor shouted through the commotion.”Quiet! Everyone quiet!” Archibald yelled, and the entire deck froze. A man pulled the telegram off the wall, running up the short flight of stairs that led up to the captain’s platform. The sailor handed the captain the telegram, and he began to read it, his eyes moving so much faster than his brain that he had to read it twice to realize what it said.
“Command..Command wants us to document the battle in the Suez.” the captain said, his mouth agape. The captain jumped up from his chair, and began shouting orders. Things were finally getting interesting.
Thanks for the information, cap'n.
I shall try.
On another note, question. What's the size of the average navy 'round these parts? I don't want an unrealistically low number, since most of Australia's military funding would go to the navy, based on geography alone. But I also don't want to throw out a number so large that Australia could kick Spain's backend back to the stone age. Which..Yeah. No.
On another note, question. What's the size of the average navy 'round these parts? I don't want an unrealistically low number, since most of Australia's military funding would go to the navy, based on geography alone. But I also don't want to throw out a number so large that Australia could kick Spain's backend back to the stone age. Which..Yeah. No.
Right. Cercumstances have led to a whole day of dedimacation to only five hours of dedimacation. No matter, I shall press on, in the name of all that is Preciprick.
If all goes according to plan, next Saturday shall be devoted to making a post for this here thread.
Also, hello Tex.
Also, hello Tex.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: Character Sheets
Editing is finished!
Reportin' fer duty, ma'am.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: Character Sheets
His powers are entirely based around the weather. For example, he can only control a lightning bolt if it was formed from 'natural' means, as in from a thunderstorm. The same can be said for the other elements- Air can only be manipulated in the form of wind; no fancy air constructs here. I'll edit this all in later tonight.
In a major shift in relations with both other Arab states and the Western world, Syria participated in the US-led Gulf War against Saddam Hussein. Syria participated in the multilateral Madrid Conference of 1991, and during the 1990s engaged in negotiations with Israel. These negotiations failed, and there have been no further direct Syrian-Israeli talks since President Hafez al-Assad's meeting with then President Bill Clinton in Geneva in March 2000.[69]
Grabbed that from Wikipedia. The first time I read that I must have done so wrongly. More editing to do.
Ah. Alright. I was assuming superpowers were genetic. Ill bump the number up significantly, without getting into specific numbering.
Alright. I can definitely work with that.
In a major shift in relations with both other Arab states and the Western world, Syria participated in the US-led Gulf War against Saddam Hussein. Syria participated in the multilateral Madrid Conference of 1991, and during the 1990s engaged in negotiations with Israel. These negotiations failed, and there have been no further direct Syrian-Israeli talks since President Hafez al-Assad's meeting with then President Bill Clinton in Geneva in March 2000.[69]
Grabbed that from Wikipedia. The first time I read that I must have done so wrongly. More editing to do.
Ah. Alright. I was assuming superpowers were genetic. Ill bump the number up significantly, without getting into specific numbering.
Alright. I can definitely work with that.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: Character Sheets
Name: Aban Ali Sahar
Codename: Supercell
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Place of Birth: Damascus, Syria
Affiliations: Ex-member of the Syrian Arab Army, Syrian Free Army, and Supernatural Army of Syria.
Occupation: Currently jobless, has worked a number of odd jobs to survive on the road
Appearance: Aban, being a Middle Eastern fellow, has caramel colored skin and black hair. His eyes are a strikingly unnatural light blue color, a side effect of the Awakening. Prior to receiving his powers, Aban’s eyes were a more ordinary dark brown. Aban Ali Sahar’s beautiful face features a well trimmed beard, a single tiny mole on the underside of his left cheekbone, and a nasty scar running horizontally across his right cheek, that he received from a bullet that barely missed entering his face and slamming into his brain. Aban has an athletic build and a muscular body, that he attributes to his fighting in Syria and Iraq, as well as his healthy food choices. Eat your veggies, kids.
Generally, Aban likes to wear Western clothing for the majority of settings. If he’s on the move, (which, these days, is all the time) he likes to wear shorts or sweatpants and a tee. Other times, he’ll dress in his only nice clothes, which are made up of a pair of black jeans and a brown flannel shirt. The man on the go only has so many things he can carry in a single backpack.
When fighting crime, Aban dons a pair of black sweatpants and a dark red hooded jacket. To hide his identity, Aban uses a piece of one-way see through black cloth, that easily attaches to the front of his hoodie. Finishing off the practical outfit are a pair of black gloves and matching combat boots. Not your usual spandex and cape, but it gets the job done.
Powers: Weather Manipulation:
“User can sense, create, shape and manipulate weather, i.e. the meteorological patterns, creating rain, wind, hail, lightning, snow, sleet, fog and temperature changes. This includes the ability to generate various natural phenomena or control the intensity of the weather in highly concentrated (inside room) or vastly extended (continental city-wide) areas.
There are four main factors of Weather manipulation:
Air Manipulation - for wind and related effects.
Electricity Manipulation - lightning in all variations.
Thermal Manipulation - make it cold or hot.
Water Manipulation - rain, snow, fog etc.” (Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood powerlisting wiki.)
Aban is not capable of controlling the various elements required for the weather outside of actually controlling the weather patterns as a whole.
Skills: Aban Ali Sahar is a man of many talents..Most of which involve fighting and war. Aban is most skilled in the areas of close quarters combat (Trained in Shotokan since the age of twelve), marksmanship, (Noted by his Drill Sergeant in basic as a naturally good shot), and explosives. He also shows a competent ability in things such as field medicine, diplomacy, vehicular maintenance, cooking, urban and rural survival, as well as sewing. (Don’t you snicker, do you have any idea how bad it’d be if he had to have a stranger patch up his costume?)
Equipment/Resources: Aban has little in the way of resources. He doesn’t have much in the way of money, and his allies in the United States are few and far between. Equipment wise, the entirety of Aban’s possessions and belongings reside within a large backpack he’s had with him since he joined the Syrian Free Army way back when. Within said backpack, Aban Ali Sahar carries clothes, his costume, enough food to last a few weeks (with proper rationing, of course,) a pair of brass knuckles not made of actual brass, a flashlight, a sturdy camera, and a number of random miscellaneous items he’s picked up over the years. For emergencies, Aban carries an M9 pistol in a holster on his right hip. He keeps a couple of magazines in his backpack.
Aban’s most valuable piece of equipment comes in the form of an expensive suit of kevlar body armor. It was a gift from his father when he joined the Syrian Arab Army. After his escape from prison, he retrieved it from the facility’s armory. That suit of body armor has saved Aban’s life many times, and he almost always wears it.
Weaknesses: Aban is only as powerful as his stamina and concentration. The more powerful the weather he attempts to generate/and or control, the more he has to concentrate and the more energy it takes to keep going.
For example, Aban’s favorite meteorological pattern to create and control using his powers, the supercell (The most powerful form of thunderstorm, for which he is named,) is rather taxing for Aban. He can only control one at its maximum strength for about twenty to thirty minutes before he’ll pass out from sheer exhaustion. For the extent of this time, Aban’s attention has to be kept on the supercell almost completely. He’s able to listen and comprehend the things going on around him, as well as speak, however things such as walking let alone dodging an attack are impossible.
If Aban let’s go of controlling a storm, nature takes over. The storm will (generally) immediately begin to dissipate, due to the lack of natural wind currents, heat, ect.
Psychological Profile: If one had to describe Aban in a single word, it would be relentless. His most prominent personality trait is his sheer determination to get the job done. He’ll do everything in his power (that doesn’t break his personal code of conduct) to protect innocent lives and punish evil. One of his commanding officers in the Syrian army called him a ‘bull in a china shop’. If Aban sets his mind to a task, he won’t look back until he gets that task done. Unfortunately, while Aban is charging head first into every problem that arises, he doesn’t usually take care to walk softly. Socially, he’s known to step on a lot of people’s toes without even realizing it. While fighting crime, he can get a bit overzealous, and has ruined his fair share of cars and done a number on public property.
Of course, it isn’t like these mistakes of his don’t affect Aban. Far from it, in fact. Aban holds much empathy for all individuals. He tries his hardest to remember the little things in life, such as walking the old lady to her car or helping a man fix his roof. He likes to look at things from other people’s perspectives, to get other people’s opinions on the things he does. Aban genuinely enjoys helping others. That’s why he became a hero.
Biography: Aban Ali Sahar was born to a lower-middle class family in downtown Damascus, Syria. His early childhood was rather peaceful and ordinary. His parents owned a two story building, the bottom floor of which was a coffee shop which they owned and operated together, while they lived in the top floor. Aban went to school and learned what he had to and did decently well, just like most other children his age. At the age of twelve, Aban’s father signed Aban up for a Shotokan karate class to learn self defense, after a local child and his gang of misfits beat Aban up and took his lunch money. Suffice to say, they didn’t mess with Aban after a few classes. When he became a highschool student, Aban began to work with his parents in the coffee shop. He didn’t earn any money, but he didn’t care. His father had always taught him that he was working to put food on the table, not money in his wallet. Aban’s life was rather dull during his teenage years.
At least until he turned eighteen.
You see, when a boy in Syria becomes an adult, he must serve two and a half years in the Syrian military. Aban, being the patriotic man that he was, didn’t fuss as some others did when he was shipped off to boot camp. Once there, he poured all of his being into his training, and it showed. His Drill Sergeant frequently pointed Aban out as one of his top trainees, though he never said that where Aban could hear him. No, he yelled at Aban just as loudly as he did at everyone else. Aban showed excellent ability in hand to hand, his Shotokan classes he’d been taking for the last six years proved useful. He also proved to be a rather crack shot when he was handed a firearm. The only thing keeping Aban from reaching his full potential was his knack for doing things without using his head. Such as the many times he was shot while attempting to reach the objective during non-live fire training exercises. Eventually Aban got over his zeal, at least enough to pass go and collect one hundred dollars.
After his training, Aban was shipped off to assist the NATO-led coalition in their war against Saddam Hussein. It’s not something that Aban likes to talk (or think) about, but he was responsible for a number of the landmine attacks on Iraqi troops in the region his forces were fighting in. Aban spent the entirety of his two and a half year tour fighting in Iraq. At first, Aban couldn’t stomach the brutality of war. He can’t count the number of times he bent over and puked up his lunch during the first month he was there. But eventually, he became numb to the violence and the bloodshed and the war. It always bothered him, but he learned to deal with it. He still remembers the first man he shot. An Iraqi soldier, sitting on a hill about two hundred yards away. Aban put a bullet in the side of his head, and he tumbled down the hill and into the river, where his corpse floated away. He has that dream practically every other night.
After his service in the Iraq War, Aban Ali Sahar was shipped back home. He left the military, hoping to return to a normal life with his family. But of course, the universe wasn’t done screwing with Aban. Not by a long shot.
Peaceful protests against Syria’s president were starting to become riots. Soldiers were forced to put down said rioters. Those rioters’ families joined together and formed the rebellion. This rebellion was bolstered by deserters from the Syrian military, men filled with disgust at the mere thought of shooting innocent civilians for their tyrannical president. These deserters turned the rebellion into a working fighting force, and the Syrian Free Army was born. Aban, still blinded by his unwarranted patriotism, returned to the Syrian Arab Army to fight for his country, against the wishes of his parents. Very soon after his return to the Syrian military, Aban was ordered to do the impossible: attack unarmed, peaceful protesters. Aban and many of the men in his unit refused, and were taken prisoner by their own brothers in arms. Men they had bled with were the ones who locked Aban and his men behind bars.
Aban only spent a couple of weeks in the prison camp before the rebels caught wind of it. The Syrian Free Army launched a raid on the prison camp, and broke Aban and the rest free. Aban, enlightened by his previous experience, joined up with the Syrian Free Army and turned to a life of freedom fighting. Rebellion turned out to be quite a bit like the terrorism he was ordered to commit in Iraq. A few explosives buried on military roads here, a few bullets into unaware soldiers on guard duty there, and Aban started to become proficient at the whole thing.
Well, a while into the rebellion, the world experienced something entirely unheard of. Something out of a comic book, actually. The Awakening changed everything. The face of warfare would never be the same again. Aban didn’t notice his power, at least not at first. He found himself able to predict the weather with impossible accuracy. He could see storms coming in advance, and, somehow, he seemed to be able to wish away sand storms with but a thought and a headache. Eventually, Aban caught on, when he found himself able to make it rain. He continued to explore his powers as the battlefield in Syria began to change, as each side realized that every metahuman they could get their hands on could potentially change the outcome of the war. Enter the Supernatural Army of Syria, a division of the Syrian Arab Army made up of all the metahumans they could hire/persuade to join their cause. It was made up of a large number of the metahumans from Syria, including Aban. The Syrian government had mustered twice that number, mostly made up of foreign fighters sent by their many allies already shipping them weapons. Apparently, they could pay much better than the Free Army could. Aban, working with the other metahumans, was part of a special group of people who experienced metahuman warfare. While not exactly the same as the heroes and villains in the Americas, there were similarities. the biggest difference being that the other metahuman was there to kill you, not take your watch.
Three years after the Awakening, Aban had a change of heart. It wasn’t instant, like some of the other people like him. It took place over those three years Aban had his powers. Aban began to see the futility of this whole war. Sure, Aban wanted a free Syria. But it was obvious he wasn’t getting anywhere. Syria wasn’t going to make itself free, not in decades. The fighting was too close. So Aban began to concoct a plan: He would travel to America, and find that new Superhero organization, the League. He was going to go to the League, and convince them to save his people. Not many people had heard of the Syrian Civil War, not until the use of metahumans and biological weapons. So he was going to go to the League, and he was going to stay there for as long as he needed to and convince them of the truth.
So, Aban left Syria and found a ride with a shady group working under the radar to Boston. Once in Boston, Aban had all the necessary paperwork forged (which took almost all of the money he had pulled together from Syria, the rest of it having /been spent on the ride over) and took a number of courses in American English. After two years of living in Boston, working odd jobs and learning how to speak English (among other things), Aban set out on his journey to Chicago..On foot. Twenty five days of walking..and walking..And walking..And a bus ride..And walking..later, Aban stepped out into Chicago. He spent another month in Chicago before he met the man that changed his life: Malachi Elurr, an elderly Israeli-American, who was one of the wisest men Aban had ever met. Scratch that, he was the wisest; and Malachi was happy to drop wisdom on Aban every time the Syrian came by. And he came by a lot. It was Malachi’s idea for Aban to become a Superhero. So, a year and a few months of learning the ropes of Superheroing on the streets of Chicago, Malachi believes it’s time for Aban Ali Sahar to approach the League.
What’s the worse that could happen?
FINALLY! It is done! So many technical problems its not even coolio. But, here it is! My character sheet! Yay! Critique is appreciated, as always.
Codename: Supercell
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Place of Birth: Damascus, Syria
Affiliations: Ex-member of the Syrian Arab Army, Syrian Free Army, and Supernatural Army of Syria.
Occupation: Currently jobless, has worked a number of odd jobs to survive on the road
Appearance: Aban, being a Middle Eastern fellow, has caramel colored skin and black hair. His eyes are a strikingly unnatural light blue color, a side effect of the Awakening. Prior to receiving his powers, Aban’s eyes were a more ordinary dark brown. Aban Ali Sahar’s beautiful face features a well trimmed beard, a single tiny mole on the underside of his left cheekbone, and a nasty scar running horizontally across his right cheek, that he received from a bullet that barely missed entering his face and slamming into his brain. Aban has an athletic build and a muscular body, that he attributes to his fighting in Syria and Iraq, as well as his healthy food choices. Eat your veggies, kids.
Generally, Aban likes to wear Western clothing for the majority of settings. If he’s on the move, (which, these days, is all the time) he likes to wear shorts or sweatpants and a tee. Other times, he’ll dress in his only nice clothes, which are made up of a pair of black jeans and a brown flannel shirt. The man on the go only has so many things he can carry in a single backpack.
When fighting crime, Aban dons a pair of black sweatpants and a dark red hooded jacket. To hide his identity, Aban uses a piece of one-way see through black cloth, that easily attaches to the front of his hoodie. Finishing off the practical outfit are a pair of black gloves and matching combat boots. Not your usual spandex and cape, but it gets the job done.
Powers: Weather Manipulation:
“User can sense, create, shape and manipulate weather, i.e. the meteorological patterns, creating rain, wind, hail, lightning, snow, sleet, fog and temperature changes. This includes the ability to generate various natural phenomena or control the intensity of the weather in highly concentrated (inside room) or vastly extended (continental city-wide) areas.
There are four main factors of Weather manipulation:
Air Manipulation - for wind and related effects.
Electricity Manipulation - lightning in all variations.
Thermal Manipulation - make it cold or hot.
Water Manipulation - rain, snow, fog etc.” (Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood powerlisting wiki.)
Aban is not capable of controlling the various elements required for the weather outside of actually controlling the weather patterns as a whole.
Skills: Aban Ali Sahar is a man of many talents..Most of which involve fighting and war. Aban is most skilled in the areas of close quarters combat (Trained in Shotokan since the age of twelve), marksmanship, (Noted by his Drill Sergeant in basic as a naturally good shot), and explosives. He also shows a competent ability in things such as field medicine, diplomacy, vehicular maintenance, cooking, urban and rural survival, as well as sewing. (Don’t you snicker, do you have any idea how bad it’d be if he had to have a stranger patch up his costume?)
Equipment/Resources: Aban has little in the way of resources. He doesn’t have much in the way of money, and his allies in the United States are few and far between. Equipment wise, the entirety of Aban’s possessions and belongings reside within a large backpack he’s had with him since he joined the Syrian Free Army way back when. Within said backpack, Aban Ali Sahar carries clothes, his costume, enough food to last a few weeks (with proper rationing, of course,) a pair of brass knuckles not made of actual brass, a flashlight, a sturdy camera, and a number of random miscellaneous items he’s picked up over the years. For emergencies, Aban carries an M9 pistol in a holster on his right hip. He keeps a couple of magazines in his backpack.
Aban’s most valuable piece of equipment comes in the form of an expensive suit of kevlar body armor. It was a gift from his father when he joined the Syrian Arab Army. After his escape from prison, he retrieved it from the facility’s armory. That suit of body armor has saved Aban’s life many times, and he almost always wears it.
Weaknesses: Aban is only as powerful as his stamina and concentration. The more powerful the weather he attempts to generate/and or control, the more he has to concentrate and the more energy it takes to keep going.
For example, Aban’s favorite meteorological pattern to create and control using his powers, the supercell (The most powerful form of thunderstorm, for which he is named,) is rather taxing for Aban. He can only control one at its maximum strength for about twenty to thirty minutes before he’ll pass out from sheer exhaustion. For the extent of this time, Aban’s attention has to be kept on the supercell almost completely. He’s able to listen and comprehend the things going on around him, as well as speak, however things such as walking let alone dodging an attack are impossible.
If Aban let’s go of controlling a storm, nature takes over. The storm will (generally) immediately begin to dissipate, due to the lack of natural wind currents, heat, ect.
Psychological Profile: If one had to describe Aban in a single word, it would be relentless. His most prominent personality trait is his sheer determination to get the job done. He’ll do everything in his power (that doesn’t break his personal code of conduct) to protect innocent lives and punish evil. One of his commanding officers in the Syrian army called him a ‘bull in a china shop’. If Aban sets his mind to a task, he won’t look back until he gets that task done. Unfortunately, while Aban is charging head first into every problem that arises, he doesn’t usually take care to walk softly. Socially, he’s known to step on a lot of people’s toes without even realizing it. While fighting crime, he can get a bit overzealous, and has ruined his fair share of cars and done a number on public property.
Of course, it isn’t like these mistakes of his don’t affect Aban. Far from it, in fact. Aban holds much empathy for all individuals. He tries his hardest to remember the little things in life, such as walking the old lady to her car or helping a man fix his roof. He likes to look at things from other people’s perspectives, to get other people’s opinions on the things he does. Aban genuinely enjoys helping others. That’s why he became a hero.
Biography: Aban Ali Sahar was born to a lower-middle class family in downtown Damascus, Syria. His early childhood was rather peaceful and ordinary. His parents owned a two story building, the bottom floor of which was a coffee shop which they owned and operated together, while they lived in the top floor. Aban went to school and learned what he had to and did decently well, just like most other children his age. At the age of twelve, Aban’s father signed Aban up for a Shotokan karate class to learn self defense, after a local child and his gang of misfits beat Aban up and took his lunch money. Suffice to say, they didn’t mess with Aban after a few classes. When he became a highschool student, Aban began to work with his parents in the coffee shop. He didn’t earn any money, but he didn’t care. His father had always taught him that he was working to put food on the table, not money in his wallet. Aban’s life was rather dull during his teenage years.
At least until he turned eighteen.
You see, when a boy in Syria becomes an adult, he must serve two and a half years in the Syrian military. Aban, being the patriotic man that he was, didn’t fuss as some others did when he was shipped off to boot camp. Once there, he poured all of his being into his training, and it showed. His Drill Sergeant frequently pointed Aban out as one of his top trainees, though he never said that where Aban could hear him. No, he yelled at Aban just as loudly as he did at everyone else. Aban showed excellent ability in hand to hand, his Shotokan classes he’d been taking for the last six years proved useful. He also proved to be a rather crack shot when he was handed a firearm. The only thing keeping Aban from reaching his full potential was his knack for doing things without using his head. Such as the many times he was shot while attempting to reach the objective during non-live fire training exercises. Eventually Aban got over his zeal, at least enough to pass go and collect one hundred dollars.
After his training, Aban was shipped off to assist the NATO-led coalition in their war against Saddam Hussein. It’s not something that Aban likes to talk (or think) about, but he was responsible for a number of the landmine attacks on Iraqi troops in the region his forces were fighting in. Aban spent the entirety of his two and a half year tour fighting in Iraq. At first, Aban couldn’t stomach the brutality of war. He can’t count the number of times he bent over and puked up his lunch during the first month he was there. But eventually, he became numb to the violence and the bloodshed and the war. It always bothered him, but he learned to deal with it. He still remembers the first man he shot. An Iraqi soldier, sitting on a hill about two hundred yards away. Aban put a bullet in the side of his head, and he tumbled down the hill and into the river, where his corpse floated away. He has that dream practically every other night.
After his service in the Iraq War, Aban Ali Sahar was shipped back home. He left the military, hoping to return to a normal life with his family. But of course, the universe wasn’t done screwing with Aban. Not by a long shot.
Peaceful protests against Syria’s president were starting to become riots. Soldiers were forced to put down said rioters. Those rioters’ families joined together and formed the rebellion. This rebellion was bolstered by deserters from the Syrian military, men filled with disgust at the mere thought of shooting innocent civilians for their tyrannical president. These deserters turned the rebellion into a working fighting force, and the Syrian Free Army was born. Aban, still blinded by his unwarranted patriotism, returned to the Syrian Arab Army to fight for his country, against the wishes of his parents. Very soon after his return to the Syrian military, Aban was ordered to do the impossible: attack unarmed, peaceful protesters. Aban and many of the men in his unit refused, and were taken prisoner by their own brothers in arms. Men they had bled with were the ones who locked Aban and his men behind bars.
Aban only spent a couple of weeks in the prison camp before the rebels caught wind of it. The Syrian Free Army launched a raid on the prison camp, and broke Aban and the rest free. Aban, enlightened by his previous experience, joined up with the Syrian Free Army and turned to a life of freedom fighting. Rebellion turned out to be quite a bit like the terrorism he was ordered to commit in Iraq. A few explosives buried on military roads here, a few bullets into unaware soldiers on guard duty there, and Aban started to become proficient at the whole thing.
Well, a while into the rebellion, the world experienced something entirely unheard of. Something out of a comic book, actually. The Awakening changed everything. The face of warfare would never be the same again. Aban didn’t notice his power, at least not at first. He found himself able to predict the weather with impossible accuracy. He could see storms coming in advance, and, somehow, he seemed to be able to wish away sand storms with but a thought and a headache. Eventually, Aban caught on, when he found himself able to make it rain. He continued to explore his powers as the battlefield in Syria began to change, as each side realized that every metahuman they could get their hands on could potentially change the outcome of the war. Enter the Supernatural Army of Syria, a division of the Syrian Arab Army made up of all the metahumans they could hire/persuade to join their cause. It was made up of a large number of the metahumans from Syria, including Aban. The Syrian government had mustered twice that number, mostly made up of foreign fighters sent by their many allies already shipping them weapons. Apparently, they could pay much better than the Free Army could. Aban, working with the other metahumans, was part of a special group of people who experienced metahuman warfare. While not exactly the same as the heroes and villains in the Americas, there were similarities. the biggest difference being that the other metahuman was there to kill you, not take your watch.
Three years after the Awakening, Aban had a change of heart. It wasn’t instant, like some of the other people like him. It took place over those three years Aban had his powers. Aban began to see the futility of this whole war. Sure, Aban wanted a free Syria. But it was obvious he wasn’t getting anywhere. Syria wasn’t going to make itself free, not in decades. The fighting was too close. So Aban began to concoct a plan: He would travel to America, and find that new Superhero organization, the League. He was going to go to the League, and convince them to save his people. Not many people had heard of the Syrian Civil War, not until the use of metahumans and biological weapons. So he was going to go to the League, and he was going to stay there for as long as he needed to and convince them of the truth.
So, Aban left Syria and found a ride with a shady group working under the radar to Boston. Once in Boston, Aban had all the necessary paperwork forged (which took almost all of the money he had pulled together from Syria, the rest of it having /been spent on the ride over) and took a number of courses in American English. After two years of living in Boston, working odd jobs and learning how to speak English (among other things), Aban set out on his journey to Chicago..On foot. Twenty five days of walking..and walking..And walking..And a bus ride..And walking..later, Aban stepped out into Chicago. He spent another month in Chicago before he met the man that changed his life: Malachi Elurr, an elderly Israeli-American, who was one of the wisest men Aban had ever met. Scratch that, he was the wisest; and Malachi was happy to drop wisdom on Aban every time the Syrian came by. And he came by a lot. It was Malachi’s idea for Aban to become a Superhero. So, a year and a few months of learning the ropes of Superheroing on the streets of Chicago, Malachi believes it’s time for Aban Ali Sahar to approach the League.
What’s the worse that could happen?
FINALLY! It is done! So many technical problems its not even coolio. But, here it is! My character sheet! Yay! Critique is appreciated, as always.
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