udonoodles

The Boys AU (Superheroes)

interested! i'm a big fan of the show and i think the setting and its themes have a lot of potential.

The Sunday Group

here's my character! i had a lot of fun writing his bio, especially when it came to researching rwandan myth.

Eli

Name: Elijah Uzeyman

Age: 28

Gender: Cisgender Male
Appearance:

Tall and lithe, Eli stands at an impressive 6’3. His earlobes and septum are pierced, and he frequently wears many rings and bracelets on his fingers and wrists. For clothing, he prefers comfortable wear such as hoodies, with neutral, dark or earthy colours. On his back, above his left shoulder-blade and at the base of his neck, he has a black star tattoo, through which cuts a lightning bolt.

Notable habits/speech features: Uses big words often. Relies heavily on nonverbal communication, such as gestures. Twirls his hair as an idle fiddle.

Concept: Paranormal problem solver

Personality:
Eli has always been a bit of an oddball. From an early age, he’s never felt he’s quite fit in, and it’s a mentality that’s chiselled his personality into the analytical, reserved and yet hopelessly awkward and socially inept mess it stands as today.

Eli is clever: He picks up on small details most would gloss over, coming to grips with new concepts with ease and keeping an open mind when it comes to expanding his picture of things. Whereas most frown when they can’t understand something, Eli smiles—he’s a puzzle fiend, craving the satisfaction of solving quandaries that others would shrug at. He asks questions, challenging his own perception regularly and constantly seeking to expand his knowledge.

Eli’s focus on details does, however, come at a detriment. Often, he struggles to see the big picture, fixating on whatever has captured his interest instead. His social skills are certainly lacking, fumbling awkwardly around small talk and tripping over social cues. He can be blunt, eschewing metaphors and clever phrasing that would soften his directness.
Contrary to what initial impressions might imply, he’s actually quite an empathetic person—he cares for the greater wellbeing of others, and can become upset if he is unable to help someone struggling or suffering. However, his inquisitiveness often trumps that empathy, and he can neglect other’s emotional needs not out of malice, but simply out of ignorance or carelessness.

His emotions are also quite unpredictable, despite what his veneer of tired detachment would imply. He can overreact in some situations and underreact in others, never seeming to find that balance. If upset, he will withdraw and act cagey and defensive, shunning sympathy and support in favour of his own company.

Traits: Logical, personable, socially awkward, intelligent, empathetic, focused, mercurial, excitable, passionate, stubborn.

Bio:
Elijah was born to Odette and Antoine Uzeyman, Tutsi people who fled their home of Rwanda to escape the ruinous civil war. Surrounded by extended family, Eli’s birth was heralded as a turn of good fortune for the Uzeyman clan after the heartache they had endured escaping their home. Regrettably, however, their misfortune had only just begun.

The whole Uzeyman family, consisting of Eli’s brothers and sisters, mother and father, aunts and uncles and grandparents, lived in their house—except for one. His grandfather, Antoine's father, was killed in the conflict, spurring the Uzeymans to finally leave. But his body was left desecrated without proper burial, picked at by carrion feeders and left to rot. His spirit could not leave the material world, and so remained in Rwanda where it wandered the bush and stewed in the miserable energy created by the horrors carried out across the country. Mr. Uzeyman became attuned to this energy, and his spirit was transformed into an Obambou: Wraiths of misfortune left behind to curse a family for not honouring their dead.

Once Obambou became tired of their wandering, they return to their relatives to haunt them, bringing misfortune in their wake. And misfortune came to the Uzeymans, who found themselves at the epicentre of paranormal retribution. It began with their family heirloom, a golden mantel clock, passed down through generations. Its glass shattered and its hands stopped, there was no positive energy left, and the wave of bad luck fell upon the Uzeymans. Nothing seemed to go their way, little lights only appearing to soon be snuffed out. Yet they willfully ignored their accidents, their bad luck, the downturns of their personal and professional lives. They had escaped their sadness, left it in Rwanda. They looked at the clock and could not see its broken face or its halted hands, could not see the fracture in their family—the only one who saw the stopped clock was the one Uzeyman who had never set foot on Rwandan soil: Elijah.

Naturally inquisitive and attentive to tiny details, Eli noticed this recurring pattern of misfortune amongst his relatives. Always, it would begin with minor turns of bad luck, which would gradually worsen into a great loss—sometimes material, sometimes personal, always irretrievable. And the cycle would repeat endlessly, and the Uzeymans would turn their eyes to their ghastly patriarch’s influence with a shrug of “that’s life”. Eli poured over every text he could find, combing his library’s local archives and plumbing the depths of the internet. He discovered the world of the unexplained, the supernatural—and was convinced this was his way out. He focused, taught himself the intricacies of the system. It took him years, years of enduring hardship and delving deeper into the studies of the arcane—but finally, he could attune himself to the spiritual.

It was a Sunday night, Eli will always remember. Sunday, September 26th. Eli’s 16th birthday was two weeks away. He had school tomorrow, but there was no time to wait: This was his moment. He reached out into the spirit world, pushing past the miasma of misery that had been blocking his third eye’s sight for so long. He called out into the great beyond, and a voice answered: His grandfather, Mr. Uzeyman.
He appeared in a ghastly shape indeed, gaunt with deep dark pits for eyes and cloaked in a woman’s mushanana dress—in his old-fashioned mind, a symbol of the shame on the Uzeyman name. He could have said many things: He could have cursed his family for abandoning their home and leaving him to rot. He could have laughed at Eli, a skinny, sorry excuse for a man, who had spent the best years of his life away with the fairies studying silly little spells. He could have simply wept, so alone, so cold, never able to see his grandson until now. But instead, he made one request, a request Eli’s research had led him to expect: Mr. Uzeyman asked for a home.

Eli brought the clock into the shed, where he worked tired days and sleepless nights to repair it. With new glass set and the gears replaced, the symbol of the Uzeyman clan began to tick once again. The family could see now it had been broken, could rejoice in it finally being repaired—could feel hope that this truly was a new beginning. The clock became a “fetish”, an object given power by magic or strong emotional energy. Hope flowed through it, and Mr. Uzeyman came to rest within, feeling the positive energy wash over him.
Eli tore the floorboards of the shed away, digging up the dirt and burying the clock six feet—lord, were his arms tired—deep. He gathered some dust from the grave, retrieving the box whittled for the clock for if ever the Uzeymans were to transport it. Today was October 10th, Eli’s birthday—and the day Mr. Uzeyman’s journey to the afterlife would begin.

The Uzeymans danced and sang as they celebrated Eli’s birthday, a vital part of the ritual to free an Obambou. The morning after, Eli arrived at the shed with the box and the smattering of dust he had collected, placing it in the cabinet. With a hammer, he nailed a white cloth to the door—and finally, the ritual was complete. The ties binding Mr. Uzeyman’s spirit were broken, the negative energy cleansed. He had been buried in his own home—the shed—alongside his family. He could finally be at peace; he was so proud of his grandson.

When it was done, Eli wept. There was a sense of emptiness: Eli had devoted much of his life to breaking the Uzeyman’s curse, and now it was done. What was he to do now? Carry on with a normal life, after all the things he had learned? The sights he had seen?
And then a thought occurred to him. The entire family had been under Mr. Uzeyman’s spell. It was only due to the unique circumstances of Eli’s spell that he was able to see past the illusion. How many more people were out there that weren’t so fortunate? How many lived under assault from the spirit world with no way to fight back, or even notice the war going on before their shut eyes? They’d have to live their whole lives in misery and misfortune, and the spirits haunting them would be trapped in an eternity of sadness. Someone had to help them—and who better than Eli? This was it. This was what he’d do: He’d help the living with their paranormal woes, and help the dead get their affairs in order and pass on.

It would be an arduous undertaking—half the battle would be convincing people he was telling the truth, and he was sure plenty of them wouldn’t listen. But he had to try. There was a whole world out there, a world most knew nothing about—and a world in desperate need of a diplomat. Eli would be that middleman, a shaman, an exorcist. With a stopgap job as a yoga instructor to pay the bills, Eli was free to pursue his passion for the paranormal. Doing it as long as he has, it only stands to reason he'd eventually become entangled with like-minded individuals...

Powers/skills:
Friends on the Other Side - From his research into the supernatural, Eli has unlocked the door keeping him out of the spirit realm. Though he cannot fully cross over, he can commune with the other side—seeing invisible poltergeists, detecting supernatural presences, and fortifying his mind and soul against paranormal assaults such as possessions or curses. He also makes for an easy conduit, allowing him to briefly share his body with spectres so they may communicate.

Magic Touch - As a shaman, Eli’s magic is primarily specialised into the supportive category. He can do psychic battle with spirits to exorcise them or free others from their possession, dispel hexes, negative energy or curses through special rituals, and anchor weakened spirits to the real world through the use of “fetishes”—items with magic energy, usually crystals or items of great sentimentality, that attract and trap wayward spirits in much the same way as a bug zapper attracts a fly.
On the human side of things, Eli can touch his fingers against a person’s temples to establish psychic contact, relieving them of negative emotional energy, inducing sleep or wakefulness, or reading or sharing thoughts and memories between the two minds.

Fate in the Cards - The spirits are an awfully cryptic bunch, aren’t they? Rather than telling Eli exactly what he needs to know, they instead communicate with him predominantly through tarot. From his well-loved deck, Eli can draw up to three cards, each carrying a different meaning: The first gives him a read on the current situation, the second hints at a possible action he could take, and the third card reveals the broad-strokes consequences of this action. For example:
The Moon - You are lost, searching for something.
The Hermit - Did you check your room?
The Wheel of Fortune - Ah, there’s your charger.
Bag of Tricks: Eli carries a variety of tools on his person to help with his job. These include:

Dowsing Rods - L shaped steel rods used to detect buried gemstones (or more often natural health shops). Gemstones can be left in the moonlight to gather magic energy, effectively acting as batteries for rituals or recharging Eli’s personal reserves.

Gemstones - Varying in size and type, Eli carries these for the purposes mentioned above.

Sage and Rosemary - Herbs with magical properties. Sage can be burned to purify negative energy, whilst rosemary can be used to ward off dark magic from malevolent entities. Eli carries cuttings of them in a small satchel, alongside a flip lighter to light the sage.

Chalk - Crayola brand. Used for drawing magic circles, through which energy can be channelled and rituals can be performed within.

Tarot Deck - A worn rider waite tarot deck, used for tarot divination.

Heavyweight Tote Bag - Well, where else is he gonna keep all this?

Well-Spoken: As his family is from Rwanda, Eli grew up speaking English, French, and Kinyarwanda.

Danse Macabre: Eli plays the violin, and he plays it quite well. A timeless instrument, its sounds please ghosts from all sorts of centuries.

Feel the Burn: Magic and spirituality are not all spells and grimoires: As the Buddhists know, yoga is an ideal way to channel ones’ vital energy. As an instructor, Eli is quite well versed in the intricacies of the ancient physical art. Thus, he is incredibly flexible, and more than able-bodied.

Paranormal Detectives

a little confused—is the thread proper open for all, or just those who were mentioned in the post? i wasn't aware it had gone up at first.

Paranormal Detectives

interested! seems like a fun concept.

Young Avengers: Secret Wars

just checking in to say i was waiting for martian to post with wolverine and darkhawk before i did anything more, but they seem to have been MIA for the past week. if there's nothing by the end of the day i'll move on with harley and jasper.

Young Avengers: Secret Wars

"Boss?"
Harley groaned, squinting as the lights in his visor flickered back to life.
"Boss? Boss!"
"F.R.I.D.A.Y....?"
She chuckled, dryly. "Who'd you think?"
Harley shook his head, grimacing as he felt the shooting pain his shoulder. "Where am I? What...the robot things...?"
"They captured you, boss. I dunno where we are now, but we've got no wi-fi or phone signal, which means we're either in a Faraday cage, or..."
"Space," Harley interjected, sighing. "Ooof course. Ugh, I should have finished that Starwalker suit before I started the Iron Legion..."
"Vital signs stabilising, boss. Rise and shine."
Gritting his teeth, Harley pushed himself up and out of the cryo-pod."Yeah, yeah, alright mom, I'm going, sheesh..."

Harley's iron sabatons hit the ground with a weighty thud, the inner mechanisms stabilising his would-be stumble. Turning towards the blinking life signs on his display, the jaw of his mask slid open. His faceplate pulled back to reveal his true face, blinking as he brushed his fringe aside.
Oh, crap, yeah. The armour.

"Um...Hi," he waved sheepishly, the servos in his suit whirring with each movement."I'm...Iron Lad, if we're doing our made up names—" he gestured towards 'Origami' and 'Speed'. "From Earth," then towards Terra. "—And I know this," and then gestured down across his suit, acutely aware of the similarities between it and the Sentinels. "—Might be setting of some alarm bells in your heads right about now, but trust me, I've got nothing to do with them. Frankly, I don't even know what they are. Although if I were to make an educated guess from what you've said, I'm willing to bet they're belonging to one of my, or my predecessor's, variants. Just...spitballing here. So..."
He clapped his metal hands together, flinching slightly at the sudden loud clang.

"Since Tommy's got clothes now, I think it's fair to say the most pressing matter we have to attend to here is getting out. I mean, we've got plenty of time to work out how to stop the Beyonder when we aren't being ferried straight to him, right? So, I know we've just met and we could all be literally anyone, but I think if we've got murderous, thieving or otherwise unsavoury tendencies, we can agree to just leave all that at the door and concentrate on not dying or being imprisoned right now. Who's with me?" He grinned, disarmingly, sheepishly.
"Aaaanyone?"

---

---

As he had suspected he would, Jasper awoke later than the rest with a horrible pounding in his skull. Christ, that hurts. His fault for fiddling with his metabolism, he supposed—all that ethanol was hitting him at once. A hangover was like a full-scale war against his body: Endocrinal, vascular, gastrointestinal—it was like doing your A-Levels with someone doing you in the A the whole time. So much biology bullshit, so many reasons to collapse into a pile of misery and impulsivity and scream into the floor until it passed naturally.

Oh, terrific. He could see again. Thank god—he’d regenerated eyes once before, and now he needed contacts.
Clutching his head, Jasper grit his teeth and heaved his heavy body out from the cryo-pod. His steps were laboured, his feet heavy, his guts doing their own little performance of fucking Riverdance from the feel of it. There was a lump in his throat, the floodgates ready to open.
He wasted no time. He didn’t readjust to take in his surroundings, nor greet the strange blurred shapes that he was pretty sure were people. “Washrooms” and “adjacent to your cryopods” bounced around his skull until they hit a brain-cell not drowning in Carlsberg, and that was his cue.

Sluggishly, he darted to the side, awkwardly staggering past anyone in his way and straight for the restroom. He headbutted the door, pushing it open with his forehead, and stumbled in.
There was a soft thud, like something hitting the ground, a horrid retching, and what sounded vaguely like the great cascading of a mighty, malt waterfall. There was a brief panting, and a sigh of relief, and then a flush.
It was quiet for a moment, and then Jasper heard the most cringe-inducing flirty back and forth he’d had the displeasure of being present for. Quick to come in after Kid Hulk fired back his response, the washroom door swung open with a kick. In the doorway stood Jasper, head back up to heaven, leg holding the door open, and mouth open.

“AAAAAAAaaaaauuuuuugghhhhhh,”

he vocalised his displeasure quite plainly, head rolling on his neck back down to its usual angle as he grimaced.
“Guh.”
There was no way he was holding that in.

Patiently, Jasper cleared his throat and kicked the washroom door fully open, stepping out from the door-frame as it slowly creaked shut behind him. He reached both hands into his jacket pocket, producing a well-worn flip lighter from one and a hand-rolled cigarette from the other. Clutching it between his pointer and middle, he slipped the business end between his lips and flipped his lighter open. He brought the flame up and lit, and took a deep puff as he pocketed the lighter.

He stared at them for a moment as they—presumably—stared at him, taking drags of his cigarette. Finally, he relented, taking one last puff and slipping the cigarette out with his two fingers.
“Jasper,” he declared, his francophonic baritone hoarse from a dried throat.

His gaze flitted towards Origami, a brow quirked inquisitively. She seemed to be just as pleased with the whole situation as he was—good. They could both suffer in silent solidarity. His acknowledgement would remain unspoken for now, though: He'd have to feel things out first before he went buddying up with anyone. Unless they had French people in space, he figured his accent was sufficient enough proof of his earthbound status. "Does anyone have any plans for 'Iron Lad', or shall I start flushing bits of myself down the toilet?”

Considering the gravity of the situation, Jasper remained remarkably calm about it all—Partially because this wasn't the first time he had woken up somewhere strange with no memory of how he'd gotten there, and partially because that cigarette wasn't just tobacco.
This was tits, as far as he was concerned. Wicked way to spend a Sunday morning.

Comic Book type superhero RP?

coming in once again to confirm i'm committed, and i'll mark my character's role in the group down as a frontline fighter: he's mainly in the thick of battle throwing hands with enemies to create openings for the specialists to do their thing—protecting the healers, causing diversions for spies or infiltrators etc. he'd be well rounded and good in a fight, but he lacks the specialised talents of other roles. as for his specific combat role, he'd tackle up close hand to hand combat rather than long ranged.

Comic Book type superhero RP?

<Snipped quote by udonoodles>

Any ideas you might already have we could doodle with? :P

@Kkushmar

in terms of characters, i was considering a burnout who recently graduated from high school and is looking for a purpose—they'd willingly throw themselves into the thick of things, possibly at a detriment, and their more malleable and proactive personality could be shaped by the people around them. as for powers, i'm not sure yet: i generally like to see what other people do first and create abilities that can synergise or bounce off of others well. i was considering a more conventional fighting style for them, however, which would lean towards more passive abilities like enhanced strength or speed rather than psychic powers or super intelligence.

ultimately, though, i'm big into cooperating and synergising with other players, so my ideas will definitely start to solidify as more characters begin to form.

Young Avengers: Secret Wars

posted for iron lad and jasper—i think that's all the characters accounted for!

Young Avengers: Secret Wars

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., what’s my schedule for today?”
Harley’s yell bounced down the hall and into the living room, where one of F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s many base stations was set upon the coffee table.
“Meeting at 9, boss,” she responded with an added boost from the television’s sound system. “The one about funding for the second Iron Legion.”
“Aaand what time is it now?”
“8:24.”
“Aaaah.”
Harley paused mid-scrub, the shower sponge that had blazed a trail of suds across his chest now still in his soapy grip. He could already tell it was gonna be a long day, wasn’t it?

Hurriedly, Harley rinsed himself off and hopped into a towel, clutching it closed as he dashed down the hall for the safety of his bedroom. Pants would be a big help, for sure. Funding meetings were pretty snooty, but not too snooty, so a pair of jeans would probably do. White button up too, maybe? Sort of a business casual type thing. And the sunglasses, so he didn’t look like he was trying too hard with the whole proper presentation business.

The shades were halfway up his face, resting on the bridge of his nose, when F.R.I.D.A.Y. called out to him once again.
“Boss? Multiple high power energy signals outside the building. Directly outside the window, actually.”
Harley paused. He chewed his lip, brow furrowed. What the hell was that all about? With his pointer and his thumb, he pushed the shades up his nose and turned towards the door. Buttoning his shirt as he went, he skidded around the corner on the heel of his plimsoll, turned to face the balcony doors.
He knitted his brow and drew his head back in confusion.

“Is that the Iron Legion?”
There were at least a half dozen of them, hovering ominously by the balcony. They stared their hollow, lifeless stare straight through the doors and right at Harley. No, this couldn’t have been his Iron Legion. The design was different, for starters, and his were only in the prototype stages—nowhere near this numerous, or this functioning.
Slowly, they each raised one hand, pointing their palms towards the door.
Ah, nuts.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.! Wardrobe Malfunction Protocol, now!”
Taking one step back, Harley darted forward, tucking into a roll as the Repulsor fire sailed over his head and shattered the table behind him.
“Armour’s on its way, boss!”
First came the legs and hands, and that was just what Harley needed: Immediately, he hopped up and threw his hands down, blasting off from the living room and straight past the Sentinels. The robots pursued, and so too did the rest of the Mark X, each armour piece accelerating towards their wearer until he was finally fully suited up.

“Brrrr,” Harley trilled through pursed lips, shaking his head to stave off the morning sleepiness. “There’s a wake-up call for ya. Beats a room full of dead-eyed execs, anyways.”
Darting to the side, Harley barely dodged a hail of Repulsor fire from the pursuing Sentinels, earning a hiss through clenched teeth. “What are those guys? Are we gonna have to sue someone for plagiarism?”
“Not ours, boss. I scanned them: All I can tell is they’ve got some serious power readings—it knocks the Arc Reactor out of the park.”
Oh, that really wasn’t good.

Flipping around midair, Iron Lad returned fire with a volley of his own Repulsor blasts, aiming true for the dead centre of each Sentinel. Though their relentless pursuit was slowed somewhat, they were nonetheless undeterred, pushing through the fire with not a scratch on them to show for it. Soon, they returned fire of their own, far too much for Harley to dodge it all: A blast to the shoulder sent him tumbling back, struggling to regain balance midair.
“Serious damage to the armour’s structural integrity, boss! Servos are knackered in the right shoulder!”
Alright, enough of this. He’d have time to figure out what the hell these things were when he put them down. He had hoped to use his blasts as a distraction to gain further height above the clouds, but he had barely managed to clear the tops of the highest buildings. Looks like he’d have to stay and fight, then.

Pushing himself back upright with his palm thrusters, Iron Lad puffed his chest and faced down the oncoming battalion. Gradually, a glow began to grow from the Arc Reactor, energy crackling across the bright blue surface. Surely, this would do it.

The Sentinels stopped, lining up single file before him, and held out their palms. More and more energy began to coalesce in the middle of Harley’s chest, power levels rising further as it sparked and shone and…
Spluttered, hissed, and went dark.

The Sentinels lowered their palms. The inside of the Mark X was plunged into darkness, the displays disappearing and F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice now silenced. An absence most notable, though, was the hum of his propulsion devices—the propulsion devices that kept him in the air.

“Ahhh, nuts.”
Powerless as the suit seized up, Harley plummeted down from the Los Angeles skyline—and the Sentinels rocketed downwards alongside him, preparing a Cryopod.

---

---

Elsewhere, Jasper was passed out in someone’s garden.

Of course, if someone asked him, his story would be far more glamorous: He’d defeated the Sentinels, he’d say. Kicked their asses and hopped on board their ship to kick the ass of their boss. But the only one kicking any ass was the frankly asinine amounts of alcohol Jasper refused to metabolise, against his liver’s better judgement.
To be fair, he had kicked ass moments ago, at some party he had found his way to. He wasn’t really sure what it was for, or who was hosting it. An invitation sort of worked its way down the social chain of higher-ups to Jasper’s…sycophants, he’d call them if he knew what the word meant. Inevitably, he looked at someone funny, and they looked at him funny, and a few insults later they were punching each other out on the dance-floor.
Jasper won, of course. Because of course he would; he could take his arm off and slap it around like a prehensile baseball bat. But decorum demanded any brawlers take their fight elsewhere, so they had adjourned to the garden.

It was a very nice garden. From this angle—half-face down in the dirt—the primroses looked lovely. So nice a garden it was, that—through a combination of enrapturement by the petunias, and an inescapable sense of awkwardness that threatened to emerge should he walk back into the party—Jasper had decided he’d stay here for an extended smoke break. And then a smoke break became a drink break, and a drink break became a drinks, plural, break, and then he was half-face down in the dirt.
But no one had to know that. Because Jasper’s made up story was definitely what would have happened had he been awake.
Certainly.

And so, scooped up rather from his resting place in a bed of daffodils, Jasper was mercifully transferred by the Sentinels to somewhere more comfortable. Which, at this level of inebriation, was really all that mattered.
Well, at least someone was enjoying all this.