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  1. ic

    Though not nearly as fast as Kid Kame, Salmon's mutated musculature pushed him far beyond what was humanly possible, meaning his arrival and first action on the field proper was a blur of motion and a low roar of displaced air. Suddenly every one of the masqued men found their clothes yanked and twisted around them, sleeves and pantlegs tearing and whirring into knots, even their light armor suddenly turning into straitjackets! Most of them managed to fight off the super-swift hands or tear out of the garments entirely, but four of the men went crashing to the ground in a spluttering thud of muffled curses and behind-the-back bowlines. For a second Paris blurred to a halt, vibrating with exertion and panting as he quickly took stock of the situation, noting with satisfaction that one of the drivers was trussed up by his own seatbelt. Unfortunately that moment was all it took. One of the men turned to him, the eyes and faded shape on his masque flaring to life. "Be still" he commanded. Paris' eyes widened as he heard and understood his mistake. With desperation he summoned up all his mental strength to repel the invasion of that one, enormous thought. He fought as fiercely as he could, every synapse a battleground and every neuron a hard-won beachhead. It was over in the blink of an eye as the young speedster froze, staring into nothing. With a ragged cheer three of the recovering men got their guns free enough to crack off a few shots. But behind the dead eyes Paris was still very much alive and though it was an impossible strain he managed to jerk and twist out of the way of all but one of the hissing bullets. That one went through his shoulder with a red splash, missing the bone by miraculous inches. With twin rumbles and coughs, the trucks began to start. Twisting his frozen eyes, Paris saw with a jolt of horror that the man he had tied up was struggling on the ground, another in the cabin still holding the knife that had cut him loose. On the ground two of the men who had been wrapped up managed to rip or wriggle free of their improvised restraints, hauling unsteadily to their feet and ready to rejoin the fray!
  2. ooc

    Okay, Salmon is up, uses his Area Snare. DC16 Reflex save for the Joqueys. Rolls. 4 fail, 5 succeed. 4 are Bound and Helpless. Of the rest, one starts the 'receiving' truck, three fire at Salmon and one uses their Masque to try and compel Salmon to hold still, while the last throws the wrapped-up driver of the 'delivery' truck out of the cab and hops in, starting that one as well. DC16 Will save: 7. Failed, voluntarily loses Dodge Bonus. Three Attack rolls, Lethal Damage: 3 hits. Toughness save vs DC25: 22. Failed, Bruised/Injured. vs 17: 22. Success. vs 17: 6. Burning a HP to reroll: 21. Success. The four try to escape: 2 success. Next round: Kid Kamehameha: Bruised(x1), 1HP Salmon: Bruised(x1), Injured(x1), 0HP Disque Joqueys(x9):Unharmed(x8), Bruised(x1), Bound-Helpless(x2)-GM Kid Kamehameha is up!
  3. OOC thread for this thread. Scarab III versus tech-crimes. @Tiffany Korta Okay, so Tiff. Would you make me a Reflex save for Scarab to get herself and the panicky guard away from the grenade? Or do you have some alternative notion?
  4. April 2017 GM GM-earned points to Salmon, please. Bloody Work 3GM posts Do It Again 2GM posts Everything Is Illegal Here 2GM posts Freedom Needs Green 3GM posts Infinite by Inches 1GM post The Speaker Meeting of the Minds on an Exponential Level 1 post
  5. ic

    GM "Ah! Awake! At last!" A gruff and slightly hoarse old voice barked gleefully, followed by the slap and rustle of powerful and weathered hands being rubbed together. A cheery, muscular man with a beak nose, bushy eyebrows and thick, receding grey hair in a military cut stumped into view. He was dressed in what, fifty years ago, would have been dressing down. Shiny leather working boots, a crisp blue button-up shirt over an impressively broad and impressively hairy chest, thick khaki slacks and a very nice hat with a pair of sunglasses on the brim. A toolbelt was around his waist, full of no tool sold in any store. He smiled down at the captive, steel-blue eyes twinkling. "Good to make your acquaintance, Dr. Anderson! Or should I say...Dr. Deoxy?! Bwahahahahaaaaa-auck!" Gulping and gasping for a second, the man's face worked fantastically before whatever was wrong with him sorted itself out. Coughing a little, he went on blithely "Sorry, got a bit of the congestion. This damned tropical air, I'll bet. Not fit for American lungs! I'm the Conductor-NO!" suddenly his smile was gone and he was pointing a thick forefinger at Nathaniel's face "NOT a lackey of that lie-abed-late lyricist Maestro! I'm my own crook! It's on account of the electric principle of conduction!" The smile was back, as if nothing had happened "Welcome to Doomsday Rock, Dr. Deoxy. I'll admit, it's dilapidated, archaic, crumbling,decrepit, other synonyms of ruinous, but it's the perfect place for our little game." "I've set up a little wager, see, with a young lady from Europe. She thinks she can best one of you super-dupes in half the time I can, just using her know-how, traps and a few slapped-together servitors. I beg to differ! I may have spent the last few decades in a villa on Sunset Hill, but I've not been idle, and I used to match wits with Daedalus himself!" The Conductor gave a sweeping gesture to the eroding room "So, the game is simple: if you can get out of our traps, solve our brain-teasers and keep from activating your armor at moments that'd make the Rock's previous landlord activate his failsafes and bathe the Emerald Cities in lethal doses of radiation, you go free. In return, you promise to forget this, us, and the Doomsday Rock." The Conductor shrugged "Or I can increase the power of the Conductron Shell by 12000%. You are, as all reasoning creatures should be, free to choose." Meanwhile Skimming through the murky grey waters of the northern Pacific, Torpedo Lass soon hit a bank of fog that hadn't been visible on the shore. It thickened until the Emeralds and eventually the Columbia delta and Atlas Range were swallowed up in grey oblivion. Which was right when it opened up in front of Mary to reveal a tower of black volcanic rock jutting from the sea, bathed in the afternoon sun and festooned with greenery. Coming closer, Mary caught the calls of seabirds, floating specks resolving into enormous, screaming flocks nesting in the porous sides of the rocky island. Among those wave-beaten gaps lay at the meeting of the cliff face and the waterline, a rounded tunnel boring through the rock and into a faintly green...something beyond. Approaching even closer, Torpedo Lass could see faint signs of long-abandoned habitation. Blocky concrete towers, satellite dishes, even the remains of an old G.222 caught in the hanging trees. But not a sign of any human life.
  6. ooc

    That works Sailor. Torpedo Lass spots a cave exposed by the low tide, leading into a sea-worn channel that delves through the island.
  7. ic

    GM Sharl could feel the look that snapped between Ochre and Green faster than a normal human could have followed. "That is...most kind, Citizen." Ochre ventured at last, something like relief and a faint Core accent slipping into the English "After this long we had hoped our past allegiances had been overlooked, or our leader pardoned at the cost of abandoning his followers. When I learned your counterpart spoke Lor, we feared the worst." "We can't go back now." Green sounded as if he had finally woken up, and didn't like it "No matter if Th'emme or Frankan wins, we'd be killed if we revealed ourselves now." "Overstatement, of course!" Ochre laughed hastily "The Act of Oh-Seventy drastically shortened the timeline of prosecution for treason." Meanwhile, OtherShar's answer came more haltingly and probably even less helpfully. A flash of a dim circular room, whose walls slid back to reveal dozens of glowing pink eyes and the faces of Negators. A crisp, aristocratic voice saying "Lincoln. Now.". Unimaginable pain. A sudden blue flash. Walking down a long stairway covered in Lemurian murals like in the Smithsonian. A sewer littered with metal limbs. A woman who looked like Temperance taking off her head to reveal a modular socket beneath. Ochre and a roomful of Hermits shouting "Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!" at a man with pink eyes and a grotesquely-swelled brain, watching his body's central core wash out into the Pacific... On the same channel, OtherSharl asked fervently Do you know any of this? I dondondondondondondon- Meanwhile... There was a lot to see on the monitors. There were bodies being dissected, there were live bodies being examined, there were the smashed, spindled and mutilated remnants of countless examples of high-technology that didn't look at all like they came from Earth. There were other monitoring stations, too. All of them empty. On the screens Emerald Spider could also more normal-looking factory spaces, full of people in more rudimentary protection gear working with electronics, overseeing assembly lines, taking breathers in the spacious and homey break rooms, working in cubicles. Side by side they looked like views from alternate realities. The guard's attention was currently on the hallway where Citizen, another Citizen, and two Hermits were standing. The hatch led to directly behind the guard's chair, the ceiling vent built to push and pull air in a circle around the room. Wonder of wonders, it was on a convenient hinge. Suddenly the guard got up, moved to the centre of the room, and started doing push-ups, singing faintly to herself about killing dragons. Her Mandarin was a little old-fashioned, however, so Peri could have been mistaken.
  8. OOC thread for this thread. You thought it was over eighty years ago but it wasn't. @Exaccus @Sailor
  9. OOC thread for this thread. Best of the 80's meets ghost haps.
  10. ic

    GM May 28th, Sunday, 2017, 5.51PM Maniac Park, Downtown Bedlam, Wisconsin The last set... It was finally here. The last step on a journey across America. The last song that would put an unquiet soul to rest. Val had met the shade named Jane Westerling months back, on a tour through LA. A cover of Michael Jackson's hit 'Billie Jean' had been interrupted by the lights shorting out, a spectral wail and the appearance of a translucent floating figure with every limb out of joint, her head twisted around and her enormous eyes on the back of her head. Thankfully, Jane had just been trying to cheer and her powers had gotten out of hand. After making her earnest apologies and providing her own illumination of shimmering ghostlight, she'd dropped backstage after the show to gush and make a very odd request. "The music makes me whole, Ms. Cain. If I could hear more like it...I could remember myself. Where I can rest. Will you carry me there?" All had become clear as the weeks went by, Val sharing her body with the bubbly, now-healed ghost. No longer monstrous, the music of her long-gone teenage years had formed her back into a flickering, tiny brunette with a small, catlike mouth and large green eyes. She couldn't go far from Val, not that she wanted to. After so long alone it had been a relief to meet someone who could talk to and see her all the time again. Most of the time, she stayed in Val's head and made occasional small talk or went on stream-of-consciousness rambles about this or that, occasionally hitting on a common interest. She had been a music fanatic as a kid growing in Woolverton back in 1983 and when she'd turned 15 in '84 had struck out into the world in a stolen Chevy, following the Star Gods, the greatest musicians of her time. Four years, many life lessons and one lost finger later, she'd finally come home. Then something had happened, she had died been shattered into pieces. A part of her in every place she'd heard the songs she'd loved so much. Right then, Val could feel Jane jittering with excitement as the first chords were struck. The crowd of tired-looking Bedlamites that had gathered in the sprawling, ill-kept park weren't nearly so enthusiastic, but they'd at least made signs. Val could see the less flattering ones at the back torn down, their holders the target of a perfunctory scrap. Everyone not involved kept their eyes front and ignored the shouts and curses drifting in the air. The people in suits around the stage weren't so relaxed. Valerie Cain's security detail were used to rough towns, but they'd been on edge since arriving in Bedlam, Wisconsin, almost paranoid thanks to the rundown city's enormous crime rate. But that couldn't stop the music or dampen the spirits of 'Sweet Child of Mine'
  11. GM May 1st, Monday, 2017, 12.45AM Emerald City, Washington, United States, Fort Brewer Naval Base, Sub-level 2, briefing room "This is the only visual we have on your target, uh...Ms. Masterson" Admiral Henry "Hank" Finley was a fit, imposing man at 6'8", with his close-cut greying hair and constant frown softened little by a short spadehead beard. He also clearly had little experience dealing with superhumans. The darkened room he and the other, conspicuously silent, officers were gathered in had enough Cold War atmosphere to choke somebody from the bright and clear Forties. The lights were dimmed to help accentuate the ten-foot-wide picture humming softly in the air. With a slight cough and a swipe of his fingers, the projected image of a distant, misty lump of grey on a time-stamped horizon sharpened and jumped into focus. Hovering above the conference room table, the picture resolved into an island. An island with towering cliffs for shores, great tangles of hanging greenery and a liberal sprinkling of palm trees. "As you can guess, there's nothing like this on any of our charts. Satellite has nothing, even got Argus down here last weekend to scan. Nada." The Old Man of Fort Brewer folded his arms and looked down into the enigma that had brought Mary Masterson, the Torpedo Lass of World War 2, to far-off Emerald City, Washington. "Sent some scouts out, they got to the spot and swear up and down the thing just vanished. But I noticed something." "The sub crew I dispatched along with the other boats, they say it vanished just a little after the others lost track. Could mean nothing, but," Finley turned to Torpedo Lass, a gleam of cunning in his dark eyes "got me thinking somebody who can go faster than anything we've ever built and do it under the surface might stand a chance of clearing this up." "What we're asking is strictly recon, understand. Just get there, take a look around, come back and give us what you get. We give that to Citizen and he takes care of anything dangerous." the admiral shook his head resolutely, and his tone became one Mary was all too familiar with. "I'm not inclined to risk your safety, miss, no matter how bulletproof they tell me you are. I've got kids older than you." May 2nd, Tuesday, 2017, 8.45PM Liverpool, England, A very nice side-street The hero Dr. Deoxy had needs any human had. Being at the center of artistic life and on the crest of the glittering wave of imagination, for one. So strolling from one dazzling get-together had seemed like a good idea at the time. Just a little shortcut and he'd be back in the circle of greats... Dr. Nathaniel Anderson only knew he was being followed when he felt the sudden shock of lightning, fell spasming to the ground and heard somebody whisper "You. Have been. Thunderstruck!" There was a giddy giggle as the darkness closed comfortably around Nathan's head "Nothing? Aw geez, overjuiced..." A squalid room somewhere The darkness slid away to reveal a room that had once been stark and harrowing. A massive, altar-like table occupied the centre, letting the eye of the Sun in to bathe Nathan in cosmic fire. The rest was gloomy and indistinct, though clearly vast and of the Modernist school. Vines and tree roots reached in through the roof, turning the yellow light a gentle emerald. Other vegetation scrawled across the walls and floor. Somewhere birds chattered and sang. Of more immediate importance was the fact that Dr. Anderson was pinned to the stony bed by some invisible force, preventing movement of any kind. And he wasn't alone. Somewhere close, and getting closer, was the clopping sound of clumsy booted feet making their way towards him...
  12. @olopi @Tiffany Korta I'm holding off on Salmon's reply until Spider and Sha'ir have had their say.
  13. ooc

    @Kolohehonu Could I have confirmation whether or nay you'd like to burn that HP to get back into the game, or else keep the Daze and chance it?
  14. Given how much schlauging a lot of folks have been having piled on in the last few years/all time, what if all Vignettes are now two-month affairs? I feel that extra time would help with participation and, for THOSE PEOPLE for whom that is not a problem, with additional polishing time.
  15. ic

    GM At the crime scene It was like most murder scenes in the Upper Emerald. Mere hours after its discovery everything had been scrubbed and painstakingly cleaned from the site for processing at the SECPD headquarters. City government had never believed in leaving messes lying around, which in this case meant doing what in almost any other city in the Union would have been a shocking breach of procedure. But thanks to the cutting-edge tech the city could afford to commission from its local companies, analyzing crime scenes was better done with sweep-n-scans in the SECPD basement than outdoors relying on fragile chemical matter. It also cut down on the crowds, potential traffic delays, chances of somebody hearing enough details to do a copycat killing and unfavourable media coverage. That and it made for incredible headaches in trying to do any kind of independent investigations. The street was clean, the sunlamp towered above in all its Modern splendour, the Columbia River rolled gently out to sea just a few meters from the road and rows of sterile warehouses running up and down the street. It was the kind of place that, even in Upper Emerald, looked out of place with any kind of high technology, like the automated railway carrying goods into the warehouses and the solar-powered streetlamps.