Sszinid

GM The Coffinmaker laughed, a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard mixed with screeching brakes and shattering glass, as Amelyth's energy wave passed harmlessly over him. He took no notice of the thug who was hit full in the chest, driven backward toward the checkout counter, nor of the one who dove for cover rather than get in the way of the fight a second time. This was between him and the little girl, and his confidence in his victory was only growing. "My turn. A shame; I was hoping for a challenge." Lifting one sausage-like finger, he directed a ray of green-black mist to streak across the store and slam into the young heroine. It morphed into the shape of a screaming skull mid-flight, jaws open wide as if to devour Amelyth's very soul, and the Coffinmaker's nightmarish laughter echoed above it all. The effect was admittedly somewhat let down by the fact that it happened in broad daylight in a supermarket, like no horror movie ever. Meanwhile, as the thug Gideon had struck struggled to regain his feet, his partner reacted to the interloper's presence. A hasty burst of submachine gun fire shredded a fresh produce display just over the young man's shoulder, shattering the sprinklers and creating a brief rain of carrot and celery chunks along with broken glass and plastic. It was a poor shot, taken out of surprise in the heat of the moment, and the thug immediately began to adjust his aim...

Gideon's eyes widened as the requested heroine suddenly arose from the crowd within the store, unleashing a purple wave that drove one of the thugs to his knees. Well, that's convenient. But the hulking challenger remained unbowed and unbroken, casually stepping to where the blast was weaker and then letting it wash over him without flinching. Gideon swore under his breath; the brute was tough. He doubted that he'd be much help against that kind of villain, and he couldn't attack without giving himself away anyway. So what the heck was he going to do? Glancing back toward the guards at the loading dock, he felt the beginnings of a plan take shape in his mind. If Amelyth failed, or if the villain proved a sore loser, it would be better if people had a way to escape. God willing, he could arrange that without giving himself away. Swiftly and silently he launched himself into motion, headed for the loading dock at the back; it was the least conspicuous entrance. He kept low, using the aisles and tables as cover, letting the sound of the battle muffle his footsteps. Casting around for something heavy, he picked up a gallon jug of milk. He'd managed to maneuver himself behind the duo of thugs, noting their heavy body armor and confident grip on their weapons. They had literally every advantage over him except surprise, so he would have to make the most of that. Crouching, he sprang for the first one's back, lifting the gallon jug high over his head and bringing it down hard on the goon's masked noggin. Milk exploded over the two of them, the bigger man stumbling forward in shock but failing to go down. Gideon frowned; knocking people out was easier in the movies. And now he was in real trouble. As the other thug turned toward him, gun ready, he wondered if he should've left this hero business up to Amelyth...

"Mister What's-His-Bucket" makes his reflex save and the following half-damage toughness save. Thug #1 fails the reflex save and the toughness save and is Stunned and Bruised. Thug #2 makes his reflex save and his half-damage toughness save. Some really good rolls for the bad guys; we'll hope that doesn't keep up. Gideon sneaks up on the thug one and thug two guarding the loading dock entrance. He takes a -2 Attack +2 Damage trade-off and attacks thug one. He hits; thug one fails his toughness save by 9 (so darn close to a really solid hit!) and is Stunned and Brusied. "Mister What's-His-Bucket" unleashes some nasty mojo on Amelyth; it's a hit, so she'll need to make a DC 25 Toughness Save. The non-stunned thug dives for cover and does not attack her. Gideon's non-stunned thug opens up on him with his SMG but misses.

GM The Coffinmaker turned toward the voice, one little lioness among all these pathetic, scurrying curs. Truly the hand of fate had intervened to bring his prey to this exact place. Now Channel Nine would capture his victory as he broke her and burned this place to ashes around her corpse. Her costume wasn't particularly impressive, mostly civilian clothing, and her attempt at banter left something to be desired; in so many ways she was no more than a mere girl. But those wings, they were a sign of power. When he tore them away, Freedom City would know him and fear him. "Now you see that our meeting is preordained," he thundered, the mere vibrations of his deep, booming voice knocking canned vegetables from their shelves. "Come, child. I will teach you the meaning of pain and despair. But if you prove a worthy foe, then I will make your death equally worthy." He curled his massive hands into fists, the teal fires burning in his eyes glowing all the brighter. His slasher smile stretched impossibly across his face until it seemed quite literally ear to ear. And then he waited, still as stone, for the young heroine to make her move. The masked guards waited equally impassively, though their trigger fingers lay ready. The shoppers kept cowering beneath and behind racks of food, toothpaste, and tissues. Cell phones came out, calls made to the police; the hostage-takers stayed at the doors, making no move to stop the outside contact. They held all the cards; there was nothing the police could do without heavy casualties. But The Coffinmaker knew that his time was limited. Sooner or later heroes would respond in force; he would have to break this overly-brave little girl before that happened.

Ok, 10 for Gideon and 6 for the Coffinmaker and crew. I'll put up one reaction post for the baddies, and then Amelyth is up again. EDIT: Forgot to mention that Amelyth and Mindsteel both get a hero point because civilians are in danger.

Gideon gets a hero point because "Why Yes, I Did Just Combust" let Stevie get away to raise the alarm. He uses this to get rid of his fatigue.

Stevie held out a crumpled slip of paper with one filthy hand, the fingernails gnawed to angry red nubs. Gideon swiped it away with one quick motion, not wanting to touch the dealer any longer than necessary even wearing his gloves. "Good enough," he said, reading the address and then tucking it away in his coat. It wasn't far from the alleyway in which he stood. "You can go." Stevie bent over the discarded drugs, and Gideon clucked again. "Leave those. Rethink your life." As the dealer started to scuttle past him, still shaking hard, Gideon felt his spirits soar. He'd done it! Maybe he could handle this hero thing after all. Now he just had to go get a vial of Boost, tip off the police about the stash, and crack the case wide open. "And if you don't," he began, smiling beneath his mask, "remember that Mindsteel is watch-" A thick, phlegmy cough stole the rest of his words. At first he was irritated. When the coughing wouldn't stop, he was afraid. His throat was on fire, and his stomach felt like it'd been sandpapered. Every breath was labored. His eyes bulged behind his goggles as he sank to his knees, trying to hack up his lungs. The world spun around him, but he spied Stevie creeping back toward his dropped gear. If he grabbed the gun and had the courage to use it, it was all over. Gideon struggled to regain control, but his body continued to betray him. But Stevie wasn't gutsy. He grabbed his stuff and ran at full pelt. Finally managing to drag in air, Gideon used it to swear. That was twice in two days his childhood stupidity had come back to haunt him. Now Stevie would warn the Chokers, and they'd have the stash moved before the police could capture it. Frustration warmed him against the chill air and drove the tiredness from his limbs and mind. He was going to have to do this the hard way: by storm. The first real fight of his life lay ahead, and it might well be his last. But he couldn't let this chance slip away.

It was a modest collection of illicit substances that Stevie slowly produced, along with a loaded pistol. Gideon didn't really know what they were or how much they were worth, but he clucked his tongue for effect. "This is enough to send you away again for quite a while, Mr. Trump, isn't it? Fortunately for you, I'm after for bigger fish tonight. So I'm going to ask you one question: where is the Boost?" Stevie shook his head vehemently, hard enough to rattle his rotten teeth. "I can't get any, man! The Chokers and the Mumbos have that stuff locked down now!" Chokers and Mumbos; the two gangs had been mentioned in the case file as newcomers to Freedom City, minor players in the criminal scene of the Boardwalk and Southside. A monopoly on Boost, though, could change that "minor" status pretty quickly. This was progress, but Gideon still didn't have anything like a location. "Then tell me where you used to get it." Stevie shook his head again. "Always secondhand, man. I never saw the place where they make it, I swear!" Gideon suppressed a growl of frustration; this was turning out to be a lot harder than he'd thought it'd be. "That's not so good for you, Mr. Trump, because if I don't have a tip on the bigger fish I'll have plenty of time to bring you in tonight." Stevie's twitchy little eyes got even wider, if that was possible. "Wait!" he said, his voice cracking. "I know where the Chokers keep one of their stashes! Someone there will know where they get it!" Behind his mask, Gideon smiled. Jackpot.

"Ok," Gideon murmured to himself. "Channel the inner Arnold. Here we go..." Stevie Trump was a ratty little guy, maybe 5'4" and so thin that his skin was stretched tight across the bones of his hands and face. He had bad teeth and worse breath, his fuzzy, unkempt hair sticking out from beneath the bandana and sideways baseball cap he wore. His leather jacket looked like it'd been through four different thrift stores, and his jeans were actually distressed rather than pre-holepunched at some trendy teen store. Gideon felt a little sorry for the guy. Mindsteel, however, could not show any sympathy, and he did not. "Good evening, Mr. Trump," he said, his voice as low and icy as he could make it. The low-level dealer flinched, falling back from the dark figure at the alley's mouth. Stevie had chosen his spot poorly; his retreat was cut off by a chain-link fence he was in no condition to climb. "It seems you've fallen back into... unfortunate habits. After your last conviction, I'd rather hope you'd turn your life around." Stevie took a step back, hands shaking, and started to fumble with something in his coat. "Whatever you're looking for there had better be a sandwich, because I will make you eat it." Oh, that was good. Stevie froze, moving his hands slowly into the air, a look of utter panic on his face. "That's better. Let's talk about this like civilized people. Whatever you're planning on selling tonight, take it out - slowly - and put it on the ground." Gideon was sweating; it was hard work to say ice-cold. "Y... you got it, man," Stevie squeaked, slowly opening his jacket pockets. "J... jus' don't hurt me."

9:00 PM Mindsteel strode along the Boardwalk, the sea breeze causing his purple duster to billow majestically behind him as he moved. Behind his goggles his eyelids fluttered, and behind his mask he stifled a yawn, but fortunately no one could tell the difference. Seeing as next to no one knew his name yet (apart from the Justiciars, whoever they'd been) he got some strange looks, but no one gave him any trouble. People mostly just stayed out of his way, in case he was crazy. Or evil. In Freedom City, it paid to be cautious about these things. You just never knew for sure. It hadn't taken much to find out where the Boardwalk's drug dealers tended to ply their trade; Gideon was pretty good at finding things out, but he had to admit that he'd been particularly lucky this time. Yet he'd also heard that Boost was pretty hard to get from dealers; apparently a pair of gangs were feuding over the stuff and owned the vast majority of the dwindling supply. But maybe he could get lucky again, or at least get a tip as to where the stuff was being stored. He wasn't entirely sure how he was going to get the dealer to tell him anything, though; he'd done a lot of things he wasn't proud of in high school, and he'd been on community service detail with some pretty rough and rowdy kids, but he'd never shaken anyone down in his life. The scariest he got was when he hummed the Jaws theme song and ran after his sister; Ruth hated sharks. So he was going to have to improvise a bit. Maybe a lot. He swallowed hard. Taking a deep breath, he rounded one last corner and walked into a darkened alleyway.

Apologies to World of Darkness: Urban Legends for stealing their shtick. I plan to run with it for a while. I can't seem to register at Invisible Castle; the confirmation email never arrives. So I'm using Rollz instead. Wow. Natural 20 on Gather Information to locate a drug dealer on the Boardwalk. Followed by a non-natural 20 for Intimidate. Usually not Gideon's thing, but it worked out this time.

Gideon tucked the folder away and sat down heavily on the Donorcycle. This was far more than a string of cold cases. About the same time the organ theft murders began, something new had showed up on the streets. The local gangs called it Boost, and that was a fitting name; users became stronger, faster, more perceptive, jumping into a sort of heightened survival mode. Police analysis had shown that the stuff was derived from adrenal glands, alchemically altered and brewed with any number of other strange ingredients. Where do the adrenal glands sit? On top of the kidneys. There was an answer about the gambler, too. He wasn't the first non-homeless person to be targeted; police analysts theorized that healthier people provided healthier organs and thus a better quality of Boost. In any case, the gangs couldn't get enough of it, but somehow the supply was actually dwindling. It seemed likely that there was only one producer in the entire city, maybe the entire world. If Gideon could find him and shut him down, it'd all be over. It wouldn't be easy, though; he had no idea where this drug alchemist might be hiding. He did, however, have a plan to find out. If he could find and lay hands on a vial of Boost, he could read the psychic impressions off of it and find out where it was made. All he had to do was track down a dealer, and in the Boardwalk at night he was pretty sure that wouldn't be difficult to do. His phone rang, and he sighed. But he turned that sigh into a chipper answer, turning his bike around to head toward a man locked out of his house in the West End. Once again, investigation would have to wait.

"Well sh*t," Gideon muttered, eyes wide with shock, as a dozen men in halloween masks burst into the store. He let go of his basket and dove to the ground, falling hard on the concrete floor. All around him people screamed and ran, panic overtaking them. This was supposed to be a nice neighborhood. He expected bullets to start flying over his head any second now. Aaaany second now. But no attack came, only a voice that sent shivers down the young man's spine. Gideon had never heard of any "Amelyth," but given how many heroes there were in this crazy city that wasn't all that surprising. He could only hope that she was listening and nearby; this plan to get ahold of her wasn't exactly foolproof. What if she was in a business meeting or taking an afternoon nap or halfway across the city? She hadn't been given much time; there might be quite a body count by the time she arrived. That left Gideon in quite the pickle. He didn't have his costume, and if he started waving around his psiblade in public (which sounded a little dirty in his head) someone would soon make the connection between him and Mindsteel; weapons of pure thought weren't exactly common. Besides, he'd be going up against a dozen armed men and one seriously nasty-looking customer, all willing to kill everyone here if the wrong hero showed up. But if he waited, people here might die. Himself included. Picking himself up but staying low, he stared around. There were two men at each of the six exits: two automatic doors at the front, where the malicious giant was also standing, a loading dock and an employee exit at the back, and an automatic side door on each side of the store. Shelving blocked line of sight between all of the entrances except the two front ones, but it looked like the goons were carrying walkie-talkies and checking in regularly. He was going to have to be damn careful if he was going to do anything...

GM Staring out from the back of the unmarked white van, The Coffinmaker smiled. It was not a pleasant sight. He was bent double just to fit into the vehicle, easily ten feet tall when he stood upright. Whenever he leaned to the side, the van leaned with him. Stone-hard muscles rippled beneath his immaculate ash-grey business suit every time he moved. His dinner-plate hands could wrap around a man's head as if it were a baseball. The flesh of his face clung close to his skull, his thin, wide lips drawn back from pointed teeth. His sunken eyes flickered with an unhallowed teal glow. His men were in position, halloween masks and automatic weapons at the ready. It was time to make his grand entrance. Stepping out of the vehicle, which rose nearly a foot when his weight was removed, he stalked toward the entrance of Harvest Market, his footsteps somehow utterly silent. His men moved in as one, kicking in every entrance and covering it with their submachine guns. Panic erupted, shoppers screaming and diving for cover behind racks of frozen produce. But no one opened fire. The Coffinmaker walked through the automatic main doors, their metal warping and twisting with rust as he passed. And then he spoke, his voice a rasp and yet somehow a bellow, reaching every corner of the store. "There is no escape," he said, eyes flashing. Turning, he watched as several other masked goons brought forward the bound and gagged Channel 9 crew and their equipment. It took little persuasion to make them begin their broadcast. "Harvest Market has been taken," the hulking figure hissed. "The only chance for these people is to send the one called Amelyth, alone, to face me. If the police or any other hero dares approach, everyone inside will die. I will kill one person each twenty minutes Amelyth delays." The Coffinmaker smiled even wider, as though ready to swallow the world, as the broadcast ceased. This weak heroine would come, and in slaying her his reputation would be sealed. She was merely the first on his alphabetical list. More would soon follow her to the grave...

OOC thread for Well, This Is Awkward.

Monday, March 10, 2014 4:00 PM It was always a good day when Gideon got to go grocery shopping. It sounded silly, but it was kinda the highlight of the week. He got to go smell real food and then actually eat some. After taking Professor Steele out for lunch he'd had to fall back on emergency kibble for a couple of meals, but after a couple of long nights of work he was back on budget and could afford ramen noodles and lentils again. Plus, the Bayview branch of Harvest Market always had free samples in the bakery, meaning he could taste something else for once. This Harvest Market was one of the bigger ones in Freedom City, a tall warehouse-like building that took up most of a city block. Gideon took a little time and made an event of his visit, salivating over the chocolate-covered raisins and fresh salmon, collecting all of the samples from the deli and the bakery, enjoying the warmth of the store. It'd warmed up a bit outside, mostly sunny with a high of 42, but the forecast said he might be taking calls in the freezing rain that night. Better soak up the comfort while he could. His stitches still hurt. God knew he needed a break; he'd only been Mindsteel for a week and was already twice as exhausted as usual. He'd cleverly concealed his costume inside his crummy apartment with a bit of loose carpet and an unsecured floorboard; he would put a couch over it, or something, but he didn't own any furniture except his dresser, sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor. No, it was good to get out and just be normal again, doing normal person things in a normal person place. Of course, fate has a way of interfering. There's a saying about the best-laid plans...

Two men and two women were standing around the Donorcycle when he approached, clad in black leather jackets and toting holstered sidearms. They all wore sharply slanted sunglasses and serious expressions. One woman's blond hair was as short as the men's; the other's auburn locks were tied back in a high ponytail. "Mindsteel," the latter said, her voice flat and direct. "We need to talk to you." Gideon blinked, confused and worried; was he going to need his sword? The first time he'd mentioned his heroic name to anyone was an hour ago, in the shelter. So how did they know it? The woman walked forward slowly, her hands held out from her sides to show that she meant no harm, so Gideon kept an eye on the others. "The Neutralizer says you'll need this," she told him, pressing a manila envelope into his hand. "It's a token of goodwill from the Justiciars. We're hoping you'll come to understand why we do things the way we do them. Good luck with your case." With that she turned and walked away, the others following closely. Gideon stared down at the envelope, then up at the retreating backs of the Justiciars, utterly baffled. He'd never heard of any group by that name, but they knew of him sixty-five minutes into his career? How? Leaning against the Donorcycle, he opened the folder and immediately took in a sharp breath. The neatly organized sheets of paper inside were copies of police documentation, the kind of thing a civilian was definitely not supposed to have. And they were on his case, all right. Fascinated, he began to read.

Well, if even half the stories could be trusted, his theory was as good as proven. Gideon's heart sank with each new conversation, though he was careful not to let it show on his face or in his manner. The homeless who came for lunch at Our Lady were a mixed bunch, addicts and the mentally ill, petty criminals and the merely unlucky, families and loners. He was careful not to judge, to be patient and open with each person he spoke to. And it paid off in information, though none of it was good news. The organ-takers had been busy. Eyewitness accounts and secondhand gossip melded together into a rough picture: half a dozen homicides among the homeless over the past month in which surgical tools had definitely been involved. It was a little terrifying to realize just how many unsolved, unpublicized crimes took place even in a city brimming with superheroes. Still, it was starting to look like a dead end; Gideon knew one of the killer's faces (and a good deal else, he remembered, blushing), but that didn't get him anywhere at this point. And he still didn’t know why the killers had switched target types to go after the gambler. He needed another tip, some hint at where the kidneys were going or what they were being used for, and there was no reason for any of these people to have any idea. So he shook hands and bid farewells, doing his best to commit faces and names to memory so he could check up on individuals when he came back, then headed out to the Donorcycle. He'd taken the license plates off and changed the color of the seat; hopefully that was enough to disguise it. As he pondered how on earth he was going to find his next lead, it dropped into his lap.

1.5 Hours Later… It would be an incredible understatement to say that Our Lady of Mercy was a different sort of building than Atlantis. It was more shelter than church, but the influence was there, the cruciform floorplan and the statues of praying angels flanking the main doors. The walls and windows were simple but clean, two stories of white concrete and reinforced glass that led up to a well-kept tile roof. There were no cracks or bullet holes; a small army of volunteers kept the place in good repair, and the rumor was that mob protection kept the gangs away. It was a monument to open simplicity. This time it was Mindsteel who walked through the doors. Gideon wanted to start building a rapport with the homeless, showing that his costumed identity was going to look out for them. He nodded to the receptionist, who just smiled and waved him through; she was used to this kind of thing. He took a seat near the back of the sanctuary. The service was crowded, but no one sat too close to him. He was an unknown to the people here, a problem until proven otherwise. He didn't sing the hymns; his mask made it nearly impossible. But he stood with the others, shook hands with those who'd let him, dropped a little of his precious cash into the collection plate. The sermon was on the parable of the talents, and he listened carefully; he'd heard the story often, but a new take was always good. When his phone buzzed with a job, he winced at lost funds but silenced it. He had to be where he was now, one hundred percent, to make any progress. Afterward, he volunteered to help cook and pass out lunch. A few of the other volunteers asked his name, and he told them. None of them had heard of him yet, of course; Mindsteel hadn't done anything worth hearing about. One even told him that "you don't need a costume to do this kind of work, son." He took it in stride. And when most everyone had come through with his or her tray, Gideon walked and talked among them. And so the day's real work began.

Taking 10 on Gather Information with a +4 circumstance bonus from Gideon's service and use of a specifically targeted group to hit a DC of 20.

They walked to the kitchen together, through the house that Gideon considered part of the family. If he could draw for crap, he could've drawn it all from memory and told a story about every place he laid the pencil. He ran his hand along a wall, drifting in the past without the aid of any power. "Please don't do that," came a voice from the kitchen. Gideon smiled. His was pretty sure his dad had some kind of empathic dirt-sense around his home. Gideon came around the corner and there he was. He was looking over the New York Times, mouthing the words as he read. His salt and pepper hair, as prone to sticking up in odd directions as his son's, was more like salt and charcoal now. Thick-rimmed glasses sat in front of bright blue eyes. He looked up and smiled. "Hey, buddy." Gideon smiled back. "Hey, Dad." They took their seats at the table, held hands, bowed their heads and murmured old words. Lord, Gideon prayed, I'm lying to them again. Please don't let it hurt them. They deserve so much better. "Amen," they said together. "Did we hear from Ruth lately?" Dad shook his head. "Your sister is being taking advantage of her independence." "She's found a youth group and a good circle of friends," Mom chimed in. "That's good. Her first semester was a little lonely for her. By the way, darling, do you want to come to church with us?" Gideon smiled sadly and shook his head. "You know I'd love to, but I promised I'd be at a different service today." "Everything's going ok with business?" Dad asked. Gideon's guts twisted. "Fine," he lied. "A little tough, but fine."

Sunday, March 2, 2014 9:30 AM Gideon rubbed his eyes as he waited at the door, yawning widely. It'd been a rough night. No two calls to Abra Kadabra ever seemed to come from anywhere near each other, and had a way of timing themselves to the very moment he drifted off. He'd gotten good at navigating the city by night, and at taking sleep wherever he could find it. Chunks of three hours were the best he dared hope for; five was genuine heaven. He'd never liked coffee much, but he drank it anyway. Still, he thought as he replaced his glasses on his nose, I wouldn't miss this for two days' sleep. The door swung open and an older woman looked out at him, smiling. She'd dyed the bob cut framing her heart-shaped face and twinkling blue-grey eyes back to the red-brown it'd been before the grey set in. As always, she was impeccably dressed. "Good morning, dear. You have a key, you know." Gideon smiled down at his mom. "I know. I just don't want to swoop in unannounced." "We're always happy when you swoop by here, announced or not," she said, giving him a hug. He might be a head and a half taller than her, but it was like being a kid again, and he loved it. They stood there a long while. "Do I smell pancakes?" Gideon finally asked, kissing her on the forehead and stepping back. She laughed. "You can cook your own now! What do you need mine for?" He swallowed hard, trying once again to rid his tongue of the taste of the kibble he'd eaten the night before. "Mine just never come out right," he said, the first of many new lies.

The fit passed relatively quickly; Gideon picked himself up and dusted himself off, tending his bruised dignity. Things had been going so well. Usually his fits weren’t quite so severe, but he had to wonder what would happen if something similar overtook him in the middle of a fight. But there was no use worrying about it now; what would be would be. Calmly, as though he belonged exactly where he was, Gideon opened the door and left room 1414. So far, things weren’t shaping up quite as he’d imagined; between the horror of the murder and the blow to his confidence in the form of his paralysis, he found himself in subdued spirits. But when, halfway out to the Donorcycle, his phone rang, he answered in a voice so chipper he almost fooled himself. Abra Kadabra was not doing well, and it was his one shot at supporting his own life and thus showing his parents that he understood responsibility. So at this point he probably would’ve stopped a fight with Omega himself to take a call. He looked wistfully in the direction of Our Lady of Mercy as he stepped outside, but it was just as well that he had other business; he wasn’t about to wake anyone there up to ask them to help an unknown hero with a cold case. No, any further effort at being Mindsteel would have to wait for tomorrow; for now, he had a long night of less exciting but slightly more lucrative work ahead of him. Maybe he’d make enough for a decent dinner…

It always came on suddenly, the legacy of his lies. One moment Gideon was headed for the door, trying to drive the image of the murder from his mind by pouring over what little he knew so far. The next his muscles convulsed, agony shooting up his legs into his chest and continuing to spread. His eyes watered as his lips went numb. An instant later he toppled to the ground in a rubbery heap, hitting his head hard against the edge of the complimentary desk. The taste of burnt almonds filled his mouth. He wasn’t quite sure how long he lay there. Strange colors passed over his skin, bright orange and forest green. Bile rose in his throat, but refused to be expelled. Similar things had happened before, but all the same he was afraid, helpless in his own body until the fit passed. Unless he died this time. The vision of his friend Jack, twitching helplessly in his hospital bed, rose unbidden in his mind. They’d both ended up punished for their misdeeds. He wondered what had brought this particular fit on. Latent effects from toxic waste or radiation exposure? The curse of the cylinder seal he’d handled in the museum basement? There was no way to know. He could only hope that, when something like this inevitably happened while he was on patrol, no one would be able to connect Mindsteel’s strange seizure or whatever to the lingering problems of former power-chaser Gideon Kinlan. With problems like that, could he really make this hero thing work?

Gideon's "Why Yes, I Did Just Combust" complication is used here merely for dramatic effect, and to introduce the concept. No hero point is awarded. His fatigue from using Postcognition will continue to the next day, as he has not had nearly enough rest to get rid of it.