Festive
mickilennial
Half Pint
Qia
Melissa
webboysurf
Supermaxx
Nemaisare
Aeolian<Snipped quote by Roman>
That fits with an idea I had.
If I follow through we can link up xoxo
(Big if)
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Ribbit.
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Bio
Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
Most Recent Posts
If I follow through we can link up xoxo
(Big if)
<Snipped quote by Roman>
It could do. Don't see any reason why it wouldn't. Whatcha thinking?
There's not too much in the way of magical/supernatural in the accepted roster so far but I was considering S.T.A.K.E. in its infancy through the lens of a jaded veteran S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, who spearheads the new division as weirder phenomenon around the globe starts to outpace S.H.I.E.L.D.'s understanding of mutants and meta-humans, ultimately recruiting certain individuals and building out his department into a legitimate branch of the wider organisation. This could then interact with anyone who is involved with the supernatural (so far only really looking like Allblade and Jack Hawksmoor).
Would it exist enough to theoretically have other branches? Like how S.W.O.R.D. and A.R.M.O.R. are divisions of the overall organisation.
What's the status of S.H.I.E.L.D. in this setting?
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A DG I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
Location: Infirmary Wing - P.R.C.U. Campus
Take On Me #3.069: It's so hard to be
Interaction(s): N/A
Gil sat on his dorm-room bed, his ass marveling at the stark differences in mattress comfort, his mind marveling at how keenly aware of those differences he could be after only a few days in the infirmary. He was showered and re-dressed and he felt refreshed for it, like he'd shed the skin of the last few days; he might even consider himself in a good mood, despite the lingering bruises and the booted ankle - but his head was a storm, gloomy and thunderous and looming darkly over him. Even despite the good news in the last few hours, the breaking of calamitous waves against the bough of hope, it felt bittersweet. Buoyant ends to tragedies that never should have occurred in the first place. Gil attempted optimism, tried to be grateful that Haven and Lorcán were recovered, each as unharmed as all concerned probably could have hoped for; but there was an inalienable sense that none of this - nothing at all - should have happened at all.
He stared at his phone; the missed calls from Elenora still haunted his lock screen, but beyond that there were just texts. Texts about Lorcán's declining medical status, texts about the discovery of Haven's kidnapping, texts about the aftermath of the Trials. Gil's mind whirled with the compounded events of only the last fortnight. The first fortnight of the new term! It seemed only yesterday they were catching up on the shores of the island, enjoying the last of their summer freedom before the semester began; yet at the same time, that lingering evening felt nearly half a year behind them.
The foundation intruding on their opening ceremony, and their general foreign presence at the university was an early imbalance; the invalidation of degree accreditation that threw so many futures into question; Rory and Haven's reified romance pushing Mei to flee the campus entirely; the entire sabotage of the Trials, pushing Blackjack to the very limits of both their bodies and their psyches, leaving irreversible damage on both; Hyperion's Children being discovered under the academy's nose, and Blackjack's own Pallyx a mere imposter posing as one of them among their ranks; Tad wounded and hospitalised like so many of them; Haven kidnapped from Rory's dorm, ripped from the supposed safety of a lover's embrace; and Lorcán, mortality terrifyingly clarified in a single stroke from an unknown - unknowable - assailant.
Lorcán. He had recovered, thankfully, through some manner of miracle, though not much was understood - or at least, not much was being said - of what happened to allow such a remarkable pivot. Gil wrestled with conflicted feelings; relief, obviously, and an abating sadness adjacent to grief, the anguish of a friend almost lost. But there was also anger there, seeding viscous roots through otherwise pure emotions. Lorcán had been attacked on the north side of the island, from what little Gil had been given and been able to piece together; it was untamed land, far beyond the bounds of the campus and, for that matter, far beyond Lorcán's usual haunts as well. Why was he there at all? The only three witnesses were all as reticent as each other, something oddly impressive for the Firebird girls who'd only arrived after-the-fact, considering the third was the academy's resident dog. Bafflement gave way to frustration and frustration muddled with relief to alchemise into misplaced fury. What was he doing? Days out from the disaster of the Trials and the damage it had caused, and Lorcán had taken a jaunt to an uncharted area of the island, and had suffered dire consequences for it. With Haven's kidnapping it was clear their enemies still lurked among them; had he not considered that caution may have been prudent? That Blackjack, robbed of Tad, would need a new leader, an anchor to rally around and set against their demons?
But no. Lorcán had, again, lived without consequence, his unburdened attitude lacking the tempers of real-world repercussions, and he had narrowly missed a mortal reminder. He'd forced his family, already far too familiar with death, face to face with the reaper once more; Aurora too had been completely unseated, and Blackjack at large felt the ripples. He'd left the team to scramble after Haven. He'd left Gil to pick up the pieces of himself almost completely alone...
...except he hadn't been alone. Calliope and Harper both had visited him, and while he'd rebuffed their apologies and their sincerity, he couldn't deny that the implication - that they'd thought of him at all, both reeling from their own experiences in the Trials - had touched him deep down. To be cared about was an enervating warmth. Elenora's calls, though difficult to face (and indeed, Gil continued to choose not to face them), sparked further fire within him, evidence of remaining connection he hadn't completely snuffed. And then...and then there was Amma, initially melting out of the dark that she seemed to simultaneously inhabit and embody to soothe him in nightmare hours, offer conversation on things he found himself unable to address elsewhere, and then quietly returning on subsequent nights. No promises, no sentimental words or intimate movements; just an implicit understanding, and the stilling of a disquieted mind.
And what of Haven? Traumatised by her own experiences within the sabotaged Trials, she had sought refuge in her fledgling romance with Rory, but even this was not guaranteed safe harbour. More injury, more torment, more shared woe among the team for another comrade-in-arms set upon by evil they neither understood nor knew how to combat. How would she feel safe now? How would any of them?
Everything was different now. A couple of weeks ago he'd been sat on the beach with his compatriots, discussing with no small amount of levity and hope his return to Hollywood after the year was out, listening to the planned futures of his teammates, his friends (did he dare consider?). Such aspirations now felt dashed thoroughly as driftwood against that very same shore. Hollywood was no place for him now, this post-modern Gil, a self that still asked what the self was, but nonetheless knew what the self was not; it was not Gil Galahad, Actor Resurgent. He was tired. He was so, so tired.
He looked at his phone again, navigating to his contacts, beginning to delete old networks. Three names seemed to burn brighter through the OLED display, and these names are the ones his eyes keep returning to, the ones his fingers keep hovering over.
Harper Baxter.
Amma Cahors.
Elenora Baines.
The sun is almost setting by the time he decides upon a name and holds the phone to his ear, half his body rigid in terror that they may not answer, the other half petrified that they might.
The call was picked up; he was greeted from the other end by a questioning utterance of his name, and he paused a moment too long before answering.
"Hi."
"...I'm sorry."
"I need to see you."
"Tonight."
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
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S . T . A . K . E .
"Just when you think the world's getting boring again...something new happens."
J A S P E R S I T W E L L ♦ S H I E L D I N T E R R O G A T O R ♦ N E W Y O R K
O R I G I N S:
The Sitwell's have generational history of service in the name of the United States of America; but you won't find them decorated in the annals of history, their names carved into memorial plaques, or even remembered at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. In his day, Jasper's grandfather - Jason Sitwell - was instrumental in the suppression of the mutant pandemic, working under the banner of a clandestine branch of the U.S. Government known as the Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage and Law-Enforcement Division. In Jasper's time, the organization has evolved, and so has its name, the branch referred to now as the Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate.
Either way, the Sitwell's have always, and likely will always, work for SHIELD, and their family's legacy is a colorful story of dubious service in the name of the greater good of the nation.
But you'll never hear about that.
Just like you won't hear about what Jasper's going to start working on next.
Either way, the Sitwell's have always, and likely will always, work for SHIELD, and their family's legacy is a colorful story of dubious service in the name of the greater good of the nation.
But you'll never hear about that.
Just like you won't hear about what Jasper's going to start working on next.
S A M P L E P O S T:
"Mornin' Sitwell."
Jasper lifted his sleep-heavy head and turned away from the droning buzz of the coffee machine to look at his colleague. The face was briefly familiar but he couldn't for the life of him place a name. How many people had he seen come through over the years? Between his father's and his own tenure, the numbers must have ranged in the thousands.
"Good morning, agent." He eventually replied, using a professional posture and brusque, authoritative tone to cover the fact that he had no idea who he was talking to. The coffee machine stopped buzzing and Jasper lifted the mug to his lips, taking a deep sniff of the steaming coffee before sipping gingerly. It burnt his tongue, but it tasted good, and held the promise of making him feel a bit more awake by the time he drained the cup.
"Much on your plate today?" The mystery agent asked as Jasper shuffled over and allowed him access to the coffee. Jasper sipped more from his mug, thinking on the stack of manila folders he'd walked away from yesterday, and was imminently about to walk into.
"The usual." He replied, to which the agent gave a solemn nod. ‘Sitwell’ was a familiar name to many in the organisation, and while Jasper’s official role was as one of their leading interrogation agents, in truth he was something of a general dog’s body; he had the breadth of knowledge to assist on nearly any assignment, and the network to navigate himself only to the ones he found interesting.
He’d been navigating himself less and less recently. SHIELD had become, for lack of a better word, boring.
“Well, have a good day.” Jasper said, after a lengthy pause between the two that had long become awkward. He retreated from the canteen back towards his office, wishing the front walls were made of something considerably more opaque than the partially-frosted glass that was currently in place. He’d already finished his coffee by the time he sat down, and wondered how many folders he’d peruse before boredom bid him to fetch a refill.
Not that many, as it would turn out.
Jasper lifted his sleep-heavy head and turned away from the droning buzz of the coffee machine to look at his colleague. The face was briefly familiar but he couldn't for the life of him place a name. How many people had he seen come through over the years? Between his father's and his own tenure, the numbers must have ranged in the thousands.
"Good morning, agent." He eventually replied, using a professional posture and brusque, authoritative tone to cover the fact that he had no idea who he was talking to. The coffee machine stopped buzzing and Jasper lifted the mug to his lips, taking a deep sniff of the steaming coffee before sipping gingerly. It burnt his tongue, but it tasted good, and held the promise of making him feel a bit more awake by the time he drained the cup.
"Much on your plate today?" The mystery agent asked as Jasper shuffled over and allowed him access to the coffee. Jasper sipped more from his mug, thinking on the stack of manila folders he'd walked away from yesterday, and was imminently about to walk into.
"The usual." He replied, to which the agent gave a solemn nod. ‘Sitwell’ was a familiar name to many in the organisation, and while Jasper’s official role was as one of their leading interrogation agents, in truth he was something of a general dog’s body; he had the breadth of knowledge to assist on nearly any assignment, and the network to navigate himself only to the ones he found interesting.
He’d been navigating himself less and less recently. SHIELD had become, for lack of a better word, boring.
“Well, have a good day.” Jasper said, after a lengthy pause between the two that had long become awkward. He retreated from the canteen back towards his office, wishing the front walls were made of something considerably more opaque than the partially-frosted glass that was currently in place. He’d already finished his coffee by the time he sat down, and wondered how many folders he’d peruse before boredom bid him to fetch a refill.
Not that many, as it would turn out.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
kid deadman? he's got a brother (cleveland) and an ex-girlfriend (lorna)
No, I wanna see what everyone else wants to play, and then decide if any overlapping sheets offend me enough to contest.
@Simple Unicycle Again, I am asking less "Hey, can I smash this square peg into this round hole?" More a "Hey, can I put this rectangular piece that is designed to go in this rectangular hole into this square hole that it actually has been shown to fit into."
Or this
The main punchline of that linked short being that the girl is in obvious distress at the repeated misuse of shaped holes relative to the intended destination of the pieces being inserted is clearly lost on you.
(2024 edition)
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