ex3lev3n

Who the hell?, Razorwing mused when the dark clad heroine dropped two of the thugs in the blink of an eye and bolted for cover under the table. I'll find out in a minute, but first, his eyes fell on the remaining threat. He sent a single, quick jab to the gunman's face.

Attack roll (1d20+12=27)

Easily evading the erratic gunfire, Razorwing closed the distance between himself and the gunmen, dodging another shot from the thug he elbowed earlier, and landed a solid blow to the thug's midsection.

Attack roll. Using Power Attack (Toughness Save DC 23) (1d20+7=16)

Indeed. Thank you for the input.

Initiative check (1d20+12=24)

hey, gang! your friendly neighborhood ex3lev3n, here, asking your thoughts on something I've been pondering: This is Razorwing's armored jumpsuit. pretty cool, I know =p Anyway, with the suits Technology descriptor, would you think it prudent to buy another rank in Device to add the Innate Power Feat on the Protection, or you think this is a waste of points? On a related note he has a rank of Leaping, Quickness, and Speed with the Training descriptor. again do you think it a waste of points to but them all up to Permanent and add the Innate Power Feat?

Characters Name: Pax[floatr][/floatr] Power Level: 7 (106/109pp) Trade-Offs: -3 Attack for +3 Damage, -5 Defense for +5 Toughness Unspent PP: 3 Progress to Bronze: 4/30 In Brief: "Teenage" clone of Centurion. Alternate Identities: Kamaka Ellison, Specimen 11 Identity: Secret Birthplace: Hilo, Hawaii Occupation: Student Affiliations: Claremont Academy Family: Centurion (genetic father, deceased), Kalani Ellison (genetic mother), Parker Stokes ("uncle") Age: 1 (DoB: November 18, 2009) Apparent Age: Mid-teens Gender: Male Ethnicity: Pacific Islander Height: 5' 6" Weight: 160 lbs Eyes: Brown Hair: Blonde Description: Tan-skinned, tow-headed, and a bit on the cute side, Kamaka has a winning smile and boyish charm. His muscles are exceptionally toned and he prefers to wear beach attire in his day-to-day life. Power Descriptions: Pax gains his superhuman abilities from a biological cosmic aura. His body produces small amounts of cosmic energy (much like the human body produces heat) which he can amplify to increase it's power output manifold, granting him super-sonic flight, immunity to environmental conditions, superhuman strength, and an increased ability to withstand damage. The aura is noticeable as a soft thrumming and translucent ripples of energy that radiate from Pax. History: When the world lost it's greatest hero, many believed that one day their hero would return from beyond the grave to continue his battle against evil and tyranny. One such hopeful was Kalani Ellison, a young and beautiful student at the Hanover Institute of Technology majoring in genetic studies. Though she soon abandoned this wild idea, like so many others had, she never gave up hope that one day a new guardian of the people would come. It wasn't until years later, after she achieved her Doctorate of Genetics and worked as a research assistant at the Albright Institute, that she was approached with a chance to see her old dream come true. Dr. Parker Stokes, her immediate superior and one of the leading authorities in genetic studies, confided in her what he believed would be his greatest experiment. For years he had tried to clone the Centurion, but was met with failure after failure. Leery of what the rest of the scientific community would do with the power to replicate the World's Greatest Hero, he worked alone and told no one of his work. After ten failed attempts to create a stable specimen, he carefully went over years of notes and found a way to counteract the flaws in his gestation protocols, though his findings left him hopeless. The Centurion's DNA, which had been collected at the end of the Terminus Invasion, was so saturated with Terminus energy that even radical cloning techniques resulted in unstable mutations in the embryo. He theorized that the DNA must be combined with that of a healthy, non-powered human, but he himself was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease a few years earlier, and his genetic material was unsuitable. In a last ditch effort to see his dream come to fruition, Dr. Stokes offered Kalani his research notes and personal funding if she swore to finish his experiment. She agreed, and began her work diligently. Combining her own DNA with the samples given to her by Dr. Stokes, she began her work in secret at a facility in Hilo, Hawaii, her place of birth. The specimen took sixteen months to grow to maturity and was educated using a method known as "flash memory", achieving the equivalent of a high school education. After the clone was "born", Dr. Ellison tried her hardest to instill in the young man a sense of right and wrong, focusing on civic duty and his responsibility as a protector of the people. The two spent nearly a year together, rock diving, surfing, and learning of their Hawaiian heritage through native dance. When Kalani deemed the young man, whom she named Kamaka ("The Son" in Hawaiian), was able to conduct himself in a proper manner, the pair took a plane to Freedom City. Kamaka, adopting the name Pax ("Peace" in Latin) in homage to his genetic forbear, took to the skies of Freedom City, willing and able to fight the good fight. Personality & Motivation: Kamaka is an eager and enthusiastic young man, though a bit naive due to his lack of real world experience. He is an idealist at heart, hoping to one day earn the respect given to his "father", the Centurion. Powers & Tactics: Pax is able to manipulate his cosmic energy aura to simulate the powers the Centurion possessed, though he isn't as powerful as his predecessor. In time, though, his powers will grow and he will become the champion of truth and justice that he was bred to be. Complications: Responsibility: Though he doesn't think of himself as a construct created to fight against oppression and villainy, Pax feels strongly about his role as steward of the people, and as such will go to great lengths to see that he is there when he is needed. Abilities: 10 + 2 + 10 + 2 + 2 + 10 = 36pp Str 30/20 (+10/+5) Dex 12 (+1) Con 20 (+5) Int 12 (+1) Wis 12 (+1) Cha 20 (+5) Combat: 8 + 4 = 12pp Initiative: +5 Attack: +4 Grapple: +9, +24 with Alternate Form Defense: +2, +1 Flat-Footed Knockback: -2, -21 with Alternate Form Saving Throws: 7 + 5 + 5 = 17pp Toughness: +12 (+5 Con, +7 Impervious Force Field) Fortitude: +12 (+5 Con, +7) Reflex: +6 (+1 Dex, +5) Will: +6 (+1 Wis, +5) Skills: 20r = 5pp Bluff 2 (+7/+11 with Attractive) Climb 2 (+7/+12 with Alternate Form) Diplomacy 2 (+7/+11 with Attractive) Knowledge (earth sciences) 2 (+3) Knowledge (popular culture) 2 (+3) Language 2 (English [native], Hawaiian, Latin) Notice 2 (+3) Perform (dance) 2 (+7) Perform (percussion) 2 (+7) Swim 2 (+7/+12 with Alternate Form) Feats: 5pp Attractive Improved Initiative Interpose Luck Ultimate Effort (Strength checks) Powers: 31 = 31pp Alternate Form 10 (cosmic aura; biological, cosmic; Extras: Total Fade; Flaws: Action [Move], Fades, Tiring; Power Feats: Slow Fade) [31pp] Enhanced Strength 10 (Flaws: Duration [sustained]) [5] Flight 5 [10] Force Field 7 (Extras: Impervious) [14] Immovable 3 (Extras: Duration [Continuous], Unstoppable; Flaws: Duration [sustained]) [6] Immunity 5 (cold, heat, pressure, radiation, vacuum) (Extras: Duration [Continuous]; Flaws: Duration [sustained]) [5] Super-Strength 10 (Heavy Load: 800 tons [small bridge]; Flaws: Duration [sustained]) [10] Drawbacks: 0pp DC Block: ATTACK RANGE SAVE EFFECT Unarmed Touch DC20 or DC25 Toughness Damage (Staged) Abilities (36) + Combat (12) + Saving Throws (17) + Skills (5) + Feats (5) + Powers (31) - Drawbacks (0) = 106/109pp

GM POST The young man in the crumpled though expensive suit turned his eyes and his .45 pistol towards the Pugilist as she spoke, the hostage grunting with pain as he wrenched her head to provide cover. "The hell are you talkin' about! Get on the grou-" he yelped as his wrist was grabbed and twisted by Orela, his pistol now in the Pugilist's possession while his escort-turned-body shield fell unceremoniously to the sand in a shocked stupor.

Random gunshot then a Mexican standoff, Razorwing thought to himself. If these "professionals" keep this up, they'll put me out of a job. However, he couldn't have asked for a better distraction than this. He stood from his crouch and hopped forward, letting his weight break the glass of the skylight, showering the thugs below with broken glass. His retractable glider wings unfurled and Razorwing landed next to the thug with two guns. He savagely elbowed the gunmen in the temple.

Razorwing's Attack roll. Using Power Attack. (1d20+8=19) The Toughness save DC is 23, DC 28 is he's surprised.

Stealth check (1d20+8=26)

GM POST Uncle Tucker's grasp was broken by the struggling young woman and Simms was too blood drunk to react quickly enough to the foot in the stomach that put him on his back on the sand. Savoring the warm coppery liquid still in his mouth, he hadn't even noticed the sound of tires on the pier above, much less the black cherry Cadillac that careened off the wooden planks and dropped unceremoniously on top of him. Uncle Tucker, however, was quick to act and stumbled behind the pylon, hoping to hide from Orela to launch a sneak attack. The rear passenger door opened, though the angle of the car had the door opening up, and a young man in a disheveled black suit pulled himself out, followed by a young woman of questionable virtue. Once the young man had found solid footing, he reached over and wrapped his arm around her neck, brandishing a pistol wildly into the night sky, seemingly oblivious of Orela or the man that had been crushed beneath the vehicle. He cried out wildly "C'mon, motherf***er!", and fired twice up towards the pier.

Crouched low on the roof of the abandoned warehouse, Razorwing peered in through the tinted skylight. Four men stood around a nondescript table with two briefcases open. He could only make out the contents of one of the cases from his vantage point, and he wasn't surprised at all that it was filled with money. It appeared he had arrived just in time for the money to change hands, but he couldn't be sure that the other case held more money or the product, though he was certain it was more money. That amount of cash would buy a truck load of cocaine. Not wanting to miss anything important, he kept his position and tried to read the lips of the men talking below.

Late December, 2009: Dasht-e Lut, Iran An unmarked Bell 214A flew silently above the abiotic desert of Dasht-e Lut. The heat of the night air was stifling, even now in the region's winter season, and the crew and passengers of the helicopter were drenched in sweat. The chopper carried six figures in desert camo to an isolated research base in the dead center of the desert. Kristian Gerber was among them, and he was running a last minute check on his gear. An M4 assault rifle with four extra magazines, a Berretta M9 with a mounted flashlight and two extra magazines, two fragmentation grenades, one flash-bang, one green smoke grenade, a Mk. III tactical knife, a gas mask, and an electronic tool kit. "Ready to rock," he said under his breath to no one in particular. The cabin light changed from red to green and a heavily muscled man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and Texas accent called out to the rest of the group, "Time to party, y'all!" The assembled soldiers lined up in a disciplined fashion and readied their repelling gear as the Texan swung open the side door. The rythmic thumping of the rotor blades kicked up a cloud of dust as it hovered some thirty feet above the rocky desert. One by one, they descended into to sandy vortex, taking up position as the rest of the team formed up. When the last man had hit ground, the chopper pulled away. "This is Big Bird. Going back home." "Copy that, Big Bird, we'll call y'all when we need a ride outta here," the Texan spoke into his tactical headset. "Alright, ladies, y'all know what I want. Target is half a klik north'a here. I want three two-man groups at'a fifty meter spread. Gerber, you're with me." Kris kept low, his eyes aimed down the sight of his rifle for any signs of trouble. The landscape itself was a barren, rocky desert, devoid of even sun blasted shrubbery. Nothing except the strike team moved on the blazing sands of Dasht-e Lut, their passage marked only by their footprints. The sliver of moon high in the cloudless night sky was their only light source, though the composition of the sand reflected the light well enough to see by. "So, Gerber, 'sit true what they say? Who trained ya, I mean?" Tex asked when they were well out of earshot from the other two groups. "I don't much care if it is or aint, but that's a helluva rep!" Kris continued to scan the horizon through his scope as he answered, appearing every bit the professional the Texan assumed him to be. "People talk, whether they know what they're talking about or not," he spoke in a low, hushed tone. "Why, would that be a problem if I was?" he asked nonchalantly, though he already knew the answer. If it wasn't for that reputation, he would've never been hired on for this job. "Naw, kid, was jus' wonderin' is all," he answered with a sidelong glance.

Nightmare check DC 15 (1d20=19) OK, he isn't Fatigued

July 20th, 9:57 PM Gunshots rang out loudly in the cramped alleyway of Southside, followed quickly by the sound of running. Miguel had been waiting just inside the alley for some customers, but when a low, gravelly voice spoke to him from the shadows, he panicked and pulled his revolver. He was maybe twenty paces from where he heard the voice when his legs were bound together and brought out from underneath him, his chin slamming into the rain slicked pavement. Grunting through the pain he rolled over on his back and leveled his pistol, ready to fire at the first thing that moved. Too bad he wasn't as quick as his target. Razorwing descended upon the drug dealer in an instant, his foot lashing out at the gun, then a hard fist connecting with Miguel's jaw. Dazed, he couldn't understand the question when it was asked by the menacing figure that hovered above him. "Wha?" was all he could manage before another fist crashed into his stomach. "I said tell me where you get your supply," he growled, "or I put you in the ground." Closing his eyes tight and stuttering an address on the Boardwalk, Miguel found himself mewling to the shadows of the alleyway when he opened his eyes a moment later.

And now you're grappled by two vampires. Give yourself an HP and post away!

GM POST The ragged clothes and hair of the felled vampire caught fire first, quickly followed by the creatures flesh. A black, acrid smoke rose from the bonfire as the body was consumed by flame faster than would be expected. For a brief moment, Simms and Uncle Tucker couldn't take their eyes away from the burning heap that was their friend and a terrible rage filled their black, unbeating hearts. With vampiric quickness the two crashed into the Pugilist, her own speed and strength unable to ward of their rush. The three lay tangled on the sand, a mass of struggling limbs and shouted threats. When it was all said and done, Tucker had Orela's arms pinned behind her back and Simms had pierced the flesh of her neck with his fangs, drinking deeply of her life's blood.

Simms' Toughness save (1d20+8=9) Wow... Just wow...

GM POST Owen pulled himself up groggily, his fractured skull slowing his actions. "You're dead! You're f***in' dead!" he roared. Closing the distance, Owen's claws raked against Orela's midsection, slashing the lower half of her shirt.

Simms' Attack roll (1d20+8=18) HIT! let me get a Toughness save DC 23 O_o

GM POST Uncle Tucker saw the attack coming and braced himself for the impact. With a bone-crunching 'THUD' Owen slammed into his partner, but to no effect. Simms only laughed at the spectacle. "We're vampires, bitch. You can't hit us hard enough to hurt us!" he yelled. The duo pressed the attack, but they still couldn't land a solid blow.

Toughness save for Uncle Tucker (1d20+8=22) He makes the save, so even though this is non-lethal against the undead, there is no knockback. Since the Pugilist doesn't realize she's not doing actual damage, she gets a Hero Point. Simms' attack roll (1d20+8=15) MISS! Uncle Tucker's Attack roll (1d20+8=16) MISS!

GM POST Owen's undead skull smacked hard against the concrete pylon of the pier, dazing the creature as it slumped to sand. Simms and Tucker leaped at the Pugilist, claws slashing and teeth gnashing at the heroine, though they missed their mark.