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Ah, okay. That sounds fine. Ready when you are.

Blackstaff Blackstaff wasn’t sure what exactly to make of the snippet of argument he heard. But he did hesitate a moment at the door as the Cat spoke. “If it's all the same to you, I think we’ll pass on the tea.” He replied and glanced back to see Dreamer beside him. Then, readying his magic just in case he needed it, he tried to open the large door.

Artificer Heroditus let out a long, exasperated sigh. "We need to follow her, of course," he said to Nick as he adjusted the straps on his sandals, "but does someone need to stay here to speak with the local authorities? Describe what we have learned? Or would the regional constabulary not be prepared for such revelations?" He knew a thing or two about keeping secrets -- as an arcanist, a craftsman, and a "super-hero" -- but even with four years of experience, there was much about Surfacer customs and social hierarchies which eluded him. People should be forewarned of any threats in the area, but too much forewarning can lead to paranoia. And Surfacers seemed especially prone to negative reactions when it came to Deep Ones (probably because they were so unaccustomed to dealing with them). The tiny wings on the ankles of his sandals began to glow and flap, and he slowly rose into the air. He held out a hand to Nick, "coming with, or will you catch up?"

Paper Leon nodded in agreement with Luke. “If this was anymore of a set-up, there’d be a neon sign with a comical oversized arrow.” He chuckled. He trusted his best friend's nose. If he said it smelt ‘techie’ he believed him. “Might be another entrance.” He nodded. “I can watch here if you wanna circle around and check.” He reached out with his sense, searching for paper. If anyone was inside he might be able to sense it. Cash (when people still carried it) and collected membership cards, receipts, and BOGO cards. The paper detritus that sometimes finds its way into people’s pockets. Sometimes he could recognize the way it was gathered and moved around. It wasn’t perfect, but he still tried. OOC: can roll a Search or Perception if you need

Legion looks like they're being handled, so we're gonna try for a ranged blast at Visor. Ranged attack: 25 Toughness DC25 for Visor

Okay, they all Fail the Reflex check to avoid the blast. And the all fail the toughness save and are out. @Avenger Assembled

Okay, time for what is likely the last round: Round Five 26 Paper 3 HP (unharmed) 25 Stormcrow 6 HP (unharmed) 19 Shadowborne 2 HP (bruised x2) 18 Ghule 2 HP (injured x2) 16 Sureshot (unharmed, bound and helpless) 16 Multi-Girl 1 HP (bruised x2) 15 Legion (unharmed x5 / Original near Visor staggered, bruised, daze, prone / one near Ghule bruised 2 / one near Ghule, bruised x3, prone / one near Ghule bruised x3, prone / 1 near SC bruised 2, staggered, prone) 13 Shift 0 HP (injured x2) 10 Visor (bruised x2) 10 Star Khan (unharmed) 9 Nightscale 4 HP (bruised x4) @Spacefurry Paper is up !

Sweet, Electronic was what I was hoping for lol, figured she'd be taking apart some of the defunct machinery for wires and components. 1d20+26 = 42

GM The mighty Cerebral set her psionic powers to the reinforced window. Concrete, steel, rivets, bolts. This was a window that was designed to keep paratroopers out. Or possibly captives in. Possibly even keep soldiers in. The cage on the window rattled. More cracks appeared in the concrete... And then, with nuts and bolts flying, the cage was ripped clean off the concrete. The window smashed. Cerebellum could hear the tinkle of glass on the floor, and the rush of cold air hit her face. She was still up - maybe ten stories. And the whole tower, reeling from the impacts it had recieved, suffering from poor architectural design, was starting to wobble...

Ripped off!

"Yep... smells like a trap..." Luke muttered. "Literally... there is like some tech stuff around here..." He added, perhaps a frontal assault wasn't the smartest idea and yet he had no trick at his disposal to check what was inside without going and taking things head on. "Do you see a side entrance or something man?" He mused giving his flat-mate a nod as he scanned the area for any sign of a way that would allow them to get inside without being seen. Not like he wouldn't get in if he couldn't find one of course, he didn't follow the strange message just to go back home after all. ooc - Luke will just skill mastery his 20 at perception to check if there is a side entrance and in general if he can spot anything unusual, otherwise he will go inside.

La Puma Negra Her mind and body had wandered around, looking rather bored as she went from one statue to other. There was plenty of these things, all of different heroic costumed figures of a large variety. It was all somewhat confusing to her, this strange and weird environment, like a look into another sort of future that seemed to exist beyond the comprehension. Michael, or at the least a future version of him as Golden Star was there but she didn't seem to be among the ones made. No future her to look at or critique. Carmen hadn't liked the idea of a statue being made in her honor, thinking it gawdy, but maybe there was something else to it? That would be lost as the statue of someone wearing the costume of the Raven fell down to land right next to her, impacting the ground alongside a blaring siren noise. Carmen is caught utterly off guard, the sound causing her typical keen senses to be distracted, jumping a little after the statue nearly hit her, "Jeez!" she says, moving towards the darkness where it had come from.

Cerebral and Cerebellum Cerebral felt the tower wobble and realised that she did not have time, so she burst into the nearest room and went straight for the window, using her powers to force the glass to break! This was the only chance she thought she had! Meanwhile, panic set in for Cerebellum, his heart was beginning to raise and his mind wandered for a moment as soon as he heard the shockwave and felt the wobbling tower! His sister was still in there! He would rush after Michael, as he could hear the other boy. They needed to find her stat!

Let's go with Telekinesis: 16

Crystal-Gazer 0 posts = 0pp Test Your Might (0) Shift 0 posts = 0PP Dance Beneath the Stars (0) The Eel 0 posts = 0 PP --Titanium Characters-- Grimalkin 0 posts = 0PP Fifteen Feet of Pure White Snow (0) Ghosts and Grimalkins: Dancing Star Night (0) Grim's posts split between Eel and Shift

Nightscale gritted his fangs as another round of psychic onslaught washed against his scales, cracking more than a few and forcing him to expel all the air in his lungs. 'This is gonna suck tomorrow...' He thought, yep he would certainly have quite a collection of bruises and hopefully nothing was too broken. "Is that all you got?" The black dragon forced a smirk as a show of confidence. Despite the evidence suggesting that the two supervillain's attacks had been far from harmless he was still standing and in fact, Mindifre hadn't escaped his claws, she was still struggling, but hopefully not for long. Now the temptation to repay fire with fire was a strong one, but unleashing his dragon breath in a city street was perhaps not the wisest, so he had to rely on the less refined method of slamming the captured telepath on the ground, not exactly chivalrous perhaps, but then again, he wasn't the one tossing psychic fire around wasn't him? "Stay put now...ok?" He his paw (but not completely just in case) to see if the villainesse underneath was still in fighting shape before turning his attention to the chaos that was still unfolding.

Neko Musume turned and stared at the man dressed as a Katanarchist, acutely aware of the blade that had missed her spine by inches. She stalked forward, not away, the metal of the catwalk ringing beneath her steps. The social media influencer, the rock band marketer, the genki girl - all fell away as she stared at the vision from her past. "<Look at me. Look at me, Katana's dog!>" she hissed as flaming horns rose above her head, topped by a flaming crown. Her perky outfit seemed to burn away in fire, revealing a long-sleeved sailor fuku beneath like an old-fashioned schoolgirl's outfit. Her ears twitched atop her head, her yellow eyes glared wide, her mouth was all pointed teeth. This was the devil catgirl who had served along Katana, the one in all the wartime propaganda, the one in the archives of the Green Dragon Society. She seemed to have two tails, lashing with unrestrained fury. She reached above her head and seemed to produce from nowhere a burning naginata, flame crackling from its tip and along its shaft, which she held weightlessly, pointed straight out at the Katanarchist. "<You know me? You know I won't miss!>"

Gonna assume I am! Neko is gonna ready an action to hit with her Mental Blast - I will have her use extra effort to add two ranks if she needs to, HPing her way out of the fatigue.

She'll exempt Kazra from the Obscure too.

Somewhere close to Esquire, a woman stumbled out of the brush and landed at his feet. She might have been pretty, once, with dark hair and striking green eyes, in clothing that marked her as one of the natives of the area. But something had happened to her, something terrible - and unholy. Blood dripped from gaping wounds in her face and abdomen, wounds so deep that Esquire could see bone and muscle beneath, and her guts churned and writhed with a foul, wretched movement that came from within. "They're here. The devils are here," she said before screaming in mortal, living agony as unholy things tore their way free from her abdomen in a shower of stinking gore, burning, shrieking fiends that revealed themselves as a horde of demonic, burning cats that overwhelmed the senses of every human there save the young heroes, so even if mechanical voices tried to tell them otherwise, all they could hear and see and know was the howling of the living dead. Neko Musume, a nekomata in a forest, stood amid the chaos visible only to her enemies and smiled. For the first time, her friends could see clearly that her teeth were very sharp. "kekeke..."

Okay, Neko uses Illusion - then surges (spending an HP to cancel fatigue) and then drops Selective Obscure on the entire area.

The Patriot spends a move action getting up, then she chucks a grenade at the remaining troopers. She'll use the Reverse Progression feat so it only affects where the troopers are, not her or Ghost. That's a Damage 10 area affect with the chemical descriptor, since she figures they might be protected against fire or ballistic effects with their space armor.

Sea Devil returned to Nick and Artificer by leaping off the roof and landing outside one of the downstairs. "It is time to go!" she bellowed in a voice like a thunderclap, striking her trident against her armor for added sonic emphasis. It wasn't that she feared the police. Even without her armor, she was a match for anything other than armored humans - in her armor and with her trident, she could probably take on the entire population of the county. But if she got in trouble with the police again, she might go back on probation - or worse - and Jessie would be so disappointed in her! I am not going back to jail, she thought with furious certainty. "I can hear it!" she added before actually leaping away in the direction to the heart of this place's terrible, unholy song.

That will work! And it sounds like Electronic, unless you're using the oil rig itself (which would be Structural) or somehow doing it analog - which would be mechanical.

Echohead in Delicious Ice Cream From Italy Umberto Velluci’s uncle was dying, apparently. Umberto reserved judgement. Alfonso Velluci had been dying several times before. Apparently, he was, in no particular order… Riddled with cancer. Arrhythmic of the heart. Inflamed of the bowel. Osteoperotic of the bones. Deficient of haeomogblobin. Engorged of the spleen. And had general malaise. Umberto had no doubt that Alfonso would complain of type 2 Chicken Swahili disease and Lumberjack chipping disorder if he felt he could get away with it. Was it a cry for attention and sympathy? Or an unconscious somatisation of anxiety? Or both? Whatever the real reason, Alfonoso Velluci was very fond of manufacturing a health crisis. And Lucia Velluci, his sister (and Umberto’s mother) was very anxious to rush back to Italy to tend to her suffering brother. And dragging Umberto along for the ride. The plane ride had been a cramped, fretful affair. Umberto did not like travel, and did not like plane travel in particular. Turbulance made his guts squeeze and his heart jump, neither of which suited his constitution. He tried listening to opera, he tried watching the inflight film, he tried doing crosswords.. all of which failed to distract him, for his mother repeatedly tugged at his sleeve and asked him yet another medical question. “I am not a doctor,” he would start. “But you could be!” she retorted. Of course, like any overbearing mother, she had fantasies that her son could have been a doctor, a scientist, or the president of the united states of America. Rather than run a flower shop (not that she had any vexation with flowers, merely that selling flowers was not the same as being leader of the free world). That was part of the equation. The other part was – she knew Umberto could “Borrow” the mind of anyone, and could, at the psychic drop of a psychic hat, gain all the skills of a fully qualified doctor. In Umberto’s opinion – and this was without the benefit of borrowing somebody else’s brains (Which he did not take lightly) – Alfonso needed a psychiatrist, not a doctor. So the plane journey was a mix of tremulous sweat and agonising eye rolling. Once in Italy, the torture ablated somewhat. True, Rome was as densely urban as ever, with the chaos of traffic and the choking air, but once out of Rome, travelling south, it was pleasant countryside basking in sunshine. Hills of green, olives, vineyards, farms with grazing animals. And Lucia’s natural language, it all made her feel at home and she began to relax. And so did Umberto. And when they reached the small town where Alfonso was lying on his “death bed”, the fretfulness came back, redoubled and reinvigorated. Umberto inwardly (and occasionally outwardly) groaned with every prayer to the Almighty, every crucifix motion, every determination that, if God would spare her brother, she would donate to the local orphanage or church roof repair fund, or pray five hours every evening on a rough carpet in penance. If Alfonso had really been dying, Umberto could have understood these manifestations of grief. But Alfonso was an entirely health sixty year old man who had been active most of his life, not smoked, drunk in moderation. As far as Umberto knew, the only medical condition Alfonso had was mild hypertension that was well controlled on a low dose medication regime. And chronic health anxiety, of course. Umberto had formulated a plan. A plan involving Ice Cream. It started with popping to the local shop in the small town. Everybody knew everybody here. The shopkeeper even gave him a cry of recognition and a faux kiss. It was, by and large, a happy town. It made Echohead wonder what made him truly happy. His fantasies of being a superhuman superspy? Did it honestly make him happy? Or perhaps the reverse? It was a hard question, and he answered it in a hard way. Did it matter if it made him happy or unhappy? He was driven to do it. Alfonso’s house was in the centre of the small town, old, creaky, collapsing in a quaint way. No doubt the maintenance took up most of Alfonsos time, or perhaps, more accurately, the families. Alfonso was on his allegedly death bed, the window open to let in dusty sunlight, incense burning to ward off evil, a slightly awkward looking priest at his side, grinding through the last rights. He surreptitiously rolled his eyes at Umberto upon the latter’s entrance. “Fifth time this month…” he whispered, clearly under no illusions. A half dozen local family were by his side, busying themselves with idle gossip. It was a precarious tightrope they had to walk on. Humouring Alfonso out of a mix of pity and “what if” fear, but not humouring him too much. Wailing and lamentations would not do, so Idle gossip filled up the treacherous silence. Every so often, one of them would pump up Alfonso’s pillow. Umberto’s mother, Lucia, predictably wailed and lamented – to the muffled groans of the rest of the family. She collapsed onto Alfonso’s bed, weeping, praying. Umberto casually put the ice creams he had bought on a dresser at the other side of the room. “I brought your favourite Ice cream, Uncle. Sorry you are too ill to have it…” “Nonsense, give it here! With a spoon!” Alfonso was already more lively. Everyone knew Alfonso couldn’t resist ice cream. “With a spoon!” he roared, suddenly possessed of a furious pair of regenerated lungs. “Nonsense! Italian Ice cream! Give it to me!” “I couldn’t possibly live with myself if I gave you your favourite delicious ice cream from Italy whilst lying down. What if something happened to you?” “Nothings going to happen to me, boy! Give it!” screamed Alfonso, who was already bolt upright, rejuvenated. Cured of his mysterious and serious ailments. A stalemate materialised. Nobody spoke, every body looked at Alfonso. Alfonso looked at his ice cream, and licked his lips. As Oscar Wilde said, he could resist everything but temptation. And it did not take long for Alfonso to crack. He leapt out of bed and stuck the spoon in the frozen delight, and proceeded to shovel it in his mouth, pausing each time to roll his eyes in delight. “A miraculous recovery,” deadpanned the priest. “Praise God.” “And praise Ice cream,” added Umberto, smiling at his mother who seemed shocked, then relieved. And then, quite understandably, angry.