Retired

MARVELS: Streets of New York

Also, just to be clear in case people are unsure on this: if you are responding to an event, you and whoever else show up have full control over what happens. The GMs aren't going to do back and forth posts, we will only post again for the event at the end when it's time to wrap it up (if dragging on), or to give a recap of sorts through in-universe sources.

The idea is that we set the scene, and you guys carry it out. The post is written in a way to set the tone and to give a sense of how bad guys might operate, and from there we trust you to continue it. We'll only step in if we feel it's necessary.

So, don't feel like you need to wait for responses from us. If you want, you can ask here if other players are planning on entering the event so you know if you're free to continue or not. But, overall, you guys get to direct the narrative, and the GMs will incorporate what happens, including any negative repercussions, into the overall story.

We want events to flow smoothly and productively.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

Someone must have cast a spell. I'm being productive and ready to post again this weekend, and the usually productive ones are slacking. The world really is going to Hell.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

I hope to have Hawkeye roll up to the fire in Brooklyn by tomorrow — I'm currently recovering from an illness that really took the wind out of me, but I'm eager to get started once I've rested up. Just swinging in with an update so no one thinks I'm dead!

@udonoodles

Appreciate the update! Hope you're good soon.

And sounds good, I'm sure he's got a chemical suppressant arrow somewhere. Or a tactical nuke.

Anyone else have their eyes on a particular event?

MARVELS: Streets of New York

EVENTS ARE LIVE!

A fire has begun in Brooklyn, and is quickly spreading.

Innocents are in danger. Worse, buildings are in danger. We all know where the real priorities are.

Stop the spread of the fire!
Rescue the damsel in distress!
_{Maybe yell at those asshats for recording the disaster.}

An armored truck heist has begun in Lower Manhattan, and the authorities won't arrive in time.

Innocents are probably not in danger. These guys seem pretty efficient. Still, probably best not to let them get away.

Stop the heist!
Avoid civilian casualties!
_{Compliment the bad guys on being so damn cool.}

---

How you guys react to these events are up to you. They are set in specific boroughs, but if you feel like your character would be justified in being around the area, even if they don't operate out of that borough, feel free to intervene—just use your best judgment in whether or not it makes sense to arrive in time.

Similarly, there's no actual limit to how many of you can involve yourself with these events. However, we GMs would request that you, again, use your best judgment. If you see a couple people already hopping in to deal with the fire, five more of you probably don't need to tag along after that.

There's also no explicit time limit to interact with the events, but GMs will monitor things and if we feel that things are dragging on, or if no one involves themselves with an event, we will move to resolve them if need be.

These events will happen relatively frequently. There will be plenty to go around for all to interact with.

With that all in mind, have fun!

MARVELS: Streets of New York

MARVELS

Streets of New York

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Brooklyn’s night hums with its usual sounds—distant sirens, the rhythmic clatter of an elevated train, the occasional shout from someone lingering outside a bar. The air is thick with the scent of rain that never came, a damp promise not delivered. Streetlights cast their amber glow over the sidewalks, illuminating the scattered figures of late-night pedestrians. A light breeze moves through the streets, ruffling discarded newspapers. A scent, faint at first, weaves into the air—smoke.

A dull glow flickers to life in the upper floors of an old apartment building. At first, it could be mistaken for a television screen behind drawn curtains, but in seconds, the light swells, pressing against the glass like something alive. Long fingers of flame stretch across the windowpane. A sharp crack followed by a cascade of glinting shards cuts through the borough’s ambient noise. Heat rolls out onto the street, thick and oppressive. Flames burst forth soon after, curling hungrily upward.

The fire spreads quickly like liquid gold, leaping from window to window with unnatural urgency. A third-story window flies open, and a face streaked with soot stumbles into view—a woman. Her coughs become swallowed by the now roaring blaze behind her. Further inside, shadows move—more people, trapped. The fire escape should be their way out, but the metal is warped, dark with heat, and already useless.

On the street below, onlookers hesitate, caught between self-preservation and the instinct to help. A few pull out their phones—voices sharp and grave speak hurriedly into the devices; others point their lenses at the growing danger. A couple take tentative steps forward, then think better of it. The distant wails of sirens near, but the flames do not wait. They claw further into the open air, raking across the neighboring buildings.

The woman at the window grips the frame, her breath in shallow gasps.

The smoke thickens.

The building groans.

The flames climb higher.

---

The financial district moves with a rhythm of its own, even in the late hours. The streets of Lower Manhattan buzz with restless energy—cabs honking impatiently as they weave through traffic, pedestrians shuffling between blinking crosswalk signals, and storefront lights flickering as late-night businesses prepare to close. Amid it all, an armored transport truck rumbles along its usual route, slow and steady, an unremarkable sight in an unsleeping city.

Then, something fractures the rhythm.

A sharp, percussive crack splits the air—then another. The truck’s front tires detonate in rapid succession, sending the vehicle into a violent lurch before grinding to a halt. The night seems to pause for half a second, a vacuum of silence before the city exhales again, this time in chaos. Pedestrians turn toward the commotion, confusion flashing across their faces before instinct kicks in. Some freeze. Others run.

From the shadows, six figures move in. They emerge with precision, clad in dark tactical gear, their movements crisp and rehearsed. Two immediately raise their weapons and unleash a barrage of automatic fire at the truck’s cab, forcing the guards to stay locked inside. The bullets spark against reinforced plating, the deafening clatter echoing off glass storefronts. Each shot is deliberate—weapons discharge in controlled bursts, hammering the driver’s side and passenger doors.

Another pair moves to the rear of the truck. One reaches into a side pouch and produces a compact device, no larger than a book. Slapping it against the heavy steel doors, the device comes to life instantly. A low hum fills the air. The metal surrounding the device darkens, distorts, and then glows. The reinforced plating groans in protest as heat spreads like an infection. These armed figures do not stop to admire their work—one remains fixed on the device while the other turns, scanning their surroundings, weapon raised, breath measured.

The last two members of the crew split off, moving to secure the perimeter. Their rifles sweep over the street, discouraging interference without a single word. Across the avenue, bystanders scramble for cover, ducking behind parked cars and diving into doorways. The gunmen are aware of them, but they don’t react. There’s no panic, no wasted movement. Every second is accounted for, and every action is a part of a larger plan.

The city is loud, but these men work in silence. The gunfire has ceased, their presence alone enough to hold the scene hostage. The device on the vault door hisses, the last layers beginning to break down. Sirens wail in the distance now, but they are far—too far. By the time they arrive, this crew will be nothing more than a ghost in the night—their job done, their escape already in motion.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

---

_{Staten Island}

The night air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of the city, but here, on the outskirts where the docks met the industrial district, everything was quiet. I crouched on the rooftop of an adjacent building, watching the warehouse like a cat stalking its prey. It was an all-too-familiar experience, and the nostalgia of hundreds of similar nights and warehouses came rushing back.

The cold bit at my fingertips through my gloves as I observed the old brick building. Two weeks ago, it might have looked identical to any other structure in this forgotten corner of the city. Still, someone had recently attempted to turn the warehouse into a modest fortress. New security cameras dotted the exterior, and freshly installed, reinforced doors were a clear message to would-be intruders. It was the kind of message I had spent years ignoring.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me.

“Anything on your end?” The voice hummed in my earpiece, steady as ever.

“Nothing yet,” I murmured, eyes sweeping the perimeter again. “Warehouse is locked up tight. No movement. How about you?”

“Same. Security’s on their usual routes. No sign of anything out of the ordinary.”

About twenty miles north, Daniel Rand was doing the same as me. He guarded another warehouse owned by the same importer—our client.

It was a simple enough gig. The client, proprietor of Brightly Imports, approached Heroes for Hire with a problem—his warehouses were being hit one by one without any sign of forced entry. There were no broken locks, hacked systems, or a single sign of any physical presence—just merchandise vanishing into thin air. So Brightly requested our services guarding the warehouses, catching the culprit red-handed, and, if possible, returning his stolen goods.

It was funny, really. If someone had told me years ago that I’d be sitting here acting as security for some wealthy businessman’s property, I would have laughed them right out of the room. Or I would have thought I’d be doing so as a ploy to gain access and take all the goodies for myself. Yet here I was, doing just that, not even for the first time. Between my part-time work with the Heroes and my own private investigation firm, this had become comfortably routine.

Sometimes, that degree of comfort left me feeling uncomfortable.

I slipped from my perch, silently dropping to the cold, cracked concrete two dozen feet below. The city’s lights bled into the horizon creating a cozy backdrop to the evening’s biting chill. I began making a slow circuit around the warehouse's perimeter, carefully keeping to the shadows as I maintained my vigil. It was the seventh time I had done so since arriving just an hour earlier, and I was making sure to do so at irregular intervals. I knew from experience that predictable security made for easy infiltrations—I had no intentions of making this easy.

That is, if anyone did show up as the client feared. Based on the information Brightly provided to Danny, his facilities weren’t getting hit every night. Instead, they had been broken into intermittently over the last several weeks. Though, broken into seemed to be a misnomer given the lack of any damages done. I had made a point earlier in the day to visit the last of Brightly’s warehouses that had been robbed. Much like the building I found myself walking around now, it had seen some security improvements, and I was mildly impressed by the amount of money that had been shelled out.

Not that any of it had done our client a lick of good. The culprit, whoever they are, never left a trace. Physically or otherwise. Brightly had sent over several hours' worth of surveillance footage to the Heroes for Hire offices, and Danny tasked me with reviewing them for any signs I might notice that others had missed. Yet, even the security cameras directly pointed at the storeroom where the crates of merchandise had been stacked failed to catch even so much as a flicker of activity. Despite this, when inventory checks were done the following day, the crates' merchandise had vanished without a trace.

My first inclination had been that the theft had taken place previously, before the shipment of goods even arrived at the warehouse. It would be a relatively simple heist to achieve, all things considered, but the client had assured Danny that this wasn’t the case. Apparently, they took daily stock of their inventory and knew for a fact nothing was missing ahead of time.

It was an intriguing puzzle, to say the least.

As I continued my circuit, I cycled through the various settings of my goggles. The lenses shifted from low light to infrared and even ultraviolet light before beginning the cycle again. I could spot the various bright flares of the camera systems easily, even from the shadowed outskirts. The yellow and orange signatures of the guards stood out against the cool purples of the night, and I paused to take in their patrol routes.

There were six security personnel outside the warehouse. I had been told that this was double what Brightly Imports usually employed, all part of the new and enhanced safeguarding measures. I knew from my initial reconnaissance of the structure that there weren’t additional guards within.

I tapped my comm. “Danny, what are you seeing on your end?”

There was a brief chirp of static before his voice came through. “Not a thing. If someone’s out here, they’re patient.”

Scanning the building ahead, I suggested that our mystery bandits were watching us watching them. A thought that had crossed my mind several times already.

“That’s a cheerful thought.” I could hear the grin in his voice.

I shifted my gaze back to the guards. “Danny, quick question.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s the security like over there?” I asked as I once again cycled my lenses through the electromagnetic spectrum.

“Same as yours, I suppose,” he answered. “Brightly said each of the warehouses got the same security package upgrade.”

“Six guards, all outside?”

“Yep. Competent, too. I spoke with one of them earlier to get a better understanding of the situation from their perspective, and the guy I talked to definitely knew their stuff. They’re a professional security firm, and they were brought on less than two months ago right after the first warehouse was robbed.”

I barely kept the scoff from escaping my lips. Danny blatantly making his presence known was a mistake. I should have expected that, given the usual jobs Heroes for Hire took on. Most of the time, all it took was for the criminals responsible to know there was a costumed do-gooder running around for them to make themselves scarce. The average petty thief would have no interest in crossing paths with Danny Rand, better known as Iron Fist, a man whose glowing hand could shatter steel. There was nothing average about this particular thief, however, and the odds were high that by now, if someone had been casing the warehouse Danny was watching over, any hope of catching them in the act was lost.

I didn’t bother pointing this out to Danny, though. The subtleties of a stakeout were clearly not a strong suit of his.

Instead, I brought to his attention something that had been nagging at me for the better part of an hour.

“You know what doesn’t sit right with me? If they’re worried about thieves, why aren’t there any interior guards? You’d think they’d have sat one or two on top of the goods.”

There was a pause before Danny replied. “Guess they thought more cameras and stronger locks would be the solution. Why? You think that’s significant?”

I didn’t answer. Something caught my attention as I did another infrared sweep across the perimeter—a faint heat signature on the ground along the side of the warehouse. Footprints in orange gradient. Fading fast, but still there. A sign that someone had just passed through that area moments before. Except I had already clocked all the guards’ routes, and none had approached the warehouse from that direction for several minutes.

I narrowed my eyes, the goggles picking up the subtle movement and reacting, the lenses focusing to produce higher clarity. I studied the prints carefully—one step, then another, then... nothing. The last footprint wasn’t complete. The heel and midsection were clearly defined, but the toes faded out. No, not faded. There was no shift in thermal colors. It was cut off—as if the foot had partially sunk into the wall itself, yet there was no indication anything had made contact with the surface.

I stared at it, my heartbeat picking up. I quickly switched my goggles’ settings to night vision and scanned the wall. I’m not sure what I thought I might find, but there was nothing. No holes, no seams. Just solid brick-and-mortar.

“Danny,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I think I’ve got something.”

MARVELS: Streets of New York

My personal Black Cat post will go up tomorrow. I decided to completely revise my initial framing for it to better fit my intent to tie it into the overall narrative of the RP.

The events post will also still go up tomorrow, either before or after my Black Cat post. I've set aside ample time to make sure I finish all revisions so that the events post won't be delayed at all. The GM team's goal is for these events to be rather regular, so if these particular two don't strike your fancy or aren't close to your character, no worries, there will be other opportunities. These first events won't have too many lasting repercussions if not dealt with, but in the future some events that aren't addressed by heroes in time may compound into later consequences. It'll probably be obvious which are which when reading.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

Hope to get a post up this weekend. I'm gonna try and make it open ended so that Matt can be free for the oncoming events/people looking to interact.

@Master Bruce

Sounds great. I plan to get my personal Black Cat post up tomorrow, and I'll immediately be jumping into a couple plots that will tie-in to the general RP narrative the DMs have planned, as well as require a couple collaborative efforts with some other players.

Which begs the question, how public is Matt's identity as Daredevil?

MARVELS: Streets of New York

Anyone who posted in the IntCheck but never actually applied for the game doesn't need to worry about "dipping." The IntCheck isn't a legally binding contract.

For those of us here in this go around, here's the plan for the first two events coming this weekend:

There will be one environmental event in Brooklyn, and a criminal event in Manhattan. As I said yesterday, both will be relatively simple and straightforward.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

B L A C K C A T

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^{_{Felicia Hardy ♦ Owner of Cat's Eye Private Investigations; part time Hero for Hire ♦ Manhattan}}

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

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^{"'Probability' is just a five-dollar word for 'luck.' And I'm nothing but bad luck, baby."}

As a teenager, her father, Walter Hardy, disappeared. In her attempts to discover the truth of what happened, she learned her father was an international art thief by the name The Cat, and met his mentor, a man only known as Black Fox. It was from Black Fox that Felicia learned the trade, all while spending the next several years searching for Walter.

In her early twenties, she found her father. In an attempt to protect his family, Walter had faked his death and gone into hiding after refusing to work for The Maggia. Tragically, their reunion was cut short by a Maggia assassin. Enraged, Felicia decided to dedicate her life to enacting vengeance on the organization that had twice taken her father from her. She underwent a surgery to bestow her with superhuman abilities, and adapted the identity of the Black Cat in an effort to honor the two men who had raised her. She began a campaign of breaking into secure Maggia facilities, then providing the stolen information and goods to Maggia rivals, such as the Kingpin.

It was during this time that she met Spider-Man, who helped convince Felicia that, while dismantling the Maggia's operations was a worthy goal, her methods of providing crime lords with intel and material was wrong, and would only serve to hurt more innocents in the long run. Dropping her vendetta, Felicia attempted to retire from from the life, but found a mundane existence too boring. She instead decided to give up her civilian life, embracing her costumed identity as the true version of herself. Meeting Spider-Man once more, the two partnered up for some time before Felicia's propensity for thievery—she had been pilfering the pockets of criminal organizations on the side—led to Spider-Man parting ways in disappointment.

Wanting a new direction in life, Felicia used these ill-gotten gains to fund her own detective and security consultation agency, of which she was boss and sole employee. She also invested in a top-of-the-line suit courtesy of The Tinkerer. After making a new, more respectable name for herself in the business, she eventually crossed paths with Danny Rand who offered Felicia a gig as a Hero for Hire.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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Felicia Hardy is an interesting character who received quite a lot of development in the late 80s and early-to-mid 90s. Unfortunately, like most characters, she severely suffers from writers constantly forcing her back into states of "status quo." I hate this trend. Despise it even. So, the motivation here is to write a story featuring an interesting character who is actually allowed to progress in their life. Call it a big "fuck you" to Marvel Editorial.

For my version of Felicia, I am borrowing from several different alternate universe sources, including the 1994 Spider-Man animated series and PS4 game, blending the origins and drives of them into something that is coherent and meaningful. Primarily, though, this Felicia is in line with a truncated version of the 616 comics—to a point. Felicia's time as a detective, and her stint as a Hero for Hire, are the main focus and will be approached from a perspective of "what would this woman be like if editorial didn't keep erasing her progressions?" We're going to pretend the dumb shit that happened in-between and afterward never existed.

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

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Powers and Abilities:

• Probability manipulation: Felicia is perpetually surrounded by a "bad luck aura" that causes improbable but not impossible events to occur. This ability is subliminal and grows stronger when under duress.
• Enhanced Strength: Her Black Cat suit, designed by the brilliant Tinkerer, increases Felicia's physical strength to that of peak human conditioning. She can lift 800lbs overhead, and leap fifteen feet into the air from a standing position.
• Enhanced Agility: The costume also augments her agility and speed to levels beyond that of even the greatest human athletes. She is capable of executing complex gymnastic feats with minimal effort, and run upwards of 30 miles per hour.
• Enhanced Equilibrium: The suit also interacts with the balance centers of her brain, increasing her balance and allowing her to perform incredible stunts or flips beyond normal human capabilities.
• Enhanced Durability: The suit gives Felicia resistance to many types of injury, protecting her from blunt force trauma. The joints are especially reinforced to enable her to withstand falls from great heights without discomfort or pain.
• Enhanced Vision: The lenses of her suit allow Felicia to see in greater clarity, distance, and various ranges of the electromagnetic spectrum, including infrared and ultraviolet light.
• Retractable Claws: The gloves of her costume form razor sharp claws capable of tearing through most materials, and enabling Felicia to scale walls.
• Grappling Hook: A miniature grapnel within the wrist of each glove can be used as a swing line, tightrope, or weapon.
• Olympic Level Athlete: Without her suit, Felicia still has the reflexes, stamina, and conditioning of an Olympic level gymnast and acrobat.
• Expert Martial Artist: Felicia has been extensively trained in several martial arts, and specializes in both judo and karate.
• Master Thief: Skilled in stealth, lockpicking, escapology, and more, Felicia is one of the greatest thieves in the world. Trained by probably the greatest thief in the world, she has considerable knowledge in security systems.
• Skilled Investigator: Felicia is fairly experienced in detective work and knows how to follow leads, interrogate suspects, and has a honed instinct to know when another person is concealing information.

Dramatis Personae:

• Black Fox: Perhaps the world's greatest thief, and the mentor of Felicia. Elusive and audacious.
• Danny Rand: Felicia's employer and coworker at Heroes for Hire. Immortal Iron Fist and filthy rich.
• Luke Cage: Felicia's other employer and coworker at Heroes for Hire. Power and Man.
• Spider-Man: One-time partner in heroics, Felicia and the Web-Head have a complicated history. Friendly and amazing.
• Phineas Mason AKA The Tinkerer: Creator of Felicia's newest Black Cat suit, former super villain, and occasional criminal informant. Terribly brilliant and terribly old.
• The Maggia: Crime syndicate that often wants Felicia dead. Multiple and stereotypical.
• Roxxon Corporation: Multinational energy and pharmaceutical enterprise with ridiculously excessive profits. Morally questionable and capitalistic.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

The warehouse was cold, the kind of deep, industrial chill that seeped into the bones. A truck idled near the loading dock, exhaust curling into the air like the last wisps of a dying cigarette. Overhead, flickering fluorescents buzzed against the silence, throwing stark white light across concrete floors and rusting support beams. The warehouse wasn’t abandoned, but it wanted to be. It was the kind of place where things happened out of sight, behind bolted doors and expired safety inspections.

Six men occupied the warehouse floor, clustered near a battered steel worktable. One stood with his arms crossed—a tall man in a tailored grey suit that fit him like a second skin. His features were sharp and angular, giving the impression of being carved from expensive stone. He checked his watch, impatient.

Next to him, a stockier man hunched over a laptop, pecking at the keys. He had broad shoulders, a shaved head, and a scar running along the ridge of his nose. He looked mean, and if not for the lines of code flashing across the screen, I would have pegged him for muscle. His fingers moved fast, eyes flicking between the screen and the small green flash drive plugged into the side.

Two more men stood a few feet away. One was a barrel-chested slab of muscle in a too-small leather jacket, the other leaner and older, with silver-streaked hair. They kept their hands close to their holsters, just in case. The last pair lingered by the loading dock doors, more brawn, more guns. Not that it mattered. Guns were only helpful if you saw your target coming.

Six men. Six sets of eyes.

None of them ever looked up.

I moved in the rafters, a whisper of motion. My boots made friends with the steel beams as I navigated the skeletal maze above the men. They were here to make a deal for some disgustingly wealthy individuals. I was here to collect a prize—but a prize wasn’t worth anything if you couldn’t take it clean. That meant timing. That meant patience.

It also meant waiting for the right mistake.

It started small. Laptop Guy reached for his coffee, more focused on the screen than his grip. His fingers fumbled, and the mug tipped. Dark liquid sloshed over the table, spilling fast toward the flash drive.

“Shit,” he muttered, jerking the cup upright, but the damage was done. Coffee trickled into the USB port, pooling in the tiny crevice around the drive.

It didn’t appear to fry the system, but it shorted the connection, causing the screen to stutter. A system message appeared.

ERROR: device improperly ejected.

The file transfer froze, and Laptop Guy hissed a curse, grabbing a rag from his pocket to dab at the device.

The tall man in the suit exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea how much time you just cost us?”

Laptop Guy was already fumbling with the drive, trying to reinsert it, but his hands were still damp from the spill. Fingers slipped, and the drive popped loose. It bounced off the metal table, skittering across the floor. It slid far and fast enough to land directly under the steel shelving behind them.

The bruiser in the leather jacket sighed, stepping forward. “I got it.”

He crouched, reaching under the shelving.

Maybe it was old. Maybe it had been loaded unevenly. Maybe, just maybe, something was working in my favor—either way, the shelf shifted, and the weight at the top tipped ever so slightly. A box of old inventory—heavy, dust-covered, and precariously stacked—leaned forward, then tumbled.

The bruiser jerked back just in time, but the box hit the ground with a crash, splitting open. Loose screws, bolts, and washers scattered across the concrete like metal confetti. The suited man took a sharp step back to avoid them. So did the others.

Just like that, all eyes were momentarily elsewhere. And in that precise, perfect instant, I dropped—no more substantial than a shadow in the night. By the time the tall man straightened, brushing dust from his sleeve, the drive was gone.

So was I.