Raveled

Attack on Dragonfly. 1d20+7=13 Bleh.

Ironclad rolled her eyes, a wasted gesture. "You know, I'm really too old to accept 'because I say so' or 'just because' as an answer." Her head cocked the other way. "An eternal idea? Like a solidified meme? And if it works on the laws of a different universe, maybe that's the truth. Maybe it's just an extension or extrusion of a different plane of reality/comprehension. Held in place psychically? Hm." She turned away from the other heroines and began sketching in the air, calling up references and dismissing them just as fast. This was an interesting problem; the girl didn't really have the proper grounding in quantum physics, but she knew enough to start outlining theories.

Ironclad cocked her head to one side, considering the story even as her on-board computer accessed encyclopedias and displayed the information in front of her eyes. She pushed those screens to the side with a wave of her arm, though, to keep eye contact with Valkyrie. "So, wait. It's indestructible, but it's been reforged before? It's eternal, but it's been recharged? That doesn't seem internally consistent." She paused for a moment, digesting the facts, and then added, "Is this a religion thing?"

Mal's Gather Info on Dragonfly 1d20+11=29 Is extraordinarily successful.

Ironclad looked the other woman down and, well, more down, while her sensors probed the odd gauntlets and obviously hi-tech chestplate. "You're probably right," she admitted. "I just grabbed it off of these guys." She nudged the dirty pair with one boot, glancing down at them. "They look pretty strung out, wouldn't be too surprised to see that they're high or something. I'd be happy to hand this over to the proper authorities." She cocked her helmet to one side, meeting Dragonfly's gaze. "Now, where's your ID again?" Unbeknownst to the other technologically-inclined heroine on the street, Ironclad was furiously dictating a message to her grandfather. Near the city center, Malcolm Dawes was reading the text message. Age hadn't slowed down his typing skills at all, and his fingers flew across the keyboard, trying all his contacts to figure out who this new enemy was.

Initiative 1d20+3=7 And my fantastic luck with these continues.

It took Ironclad a second to puzzle through Valkyrie's speech and figure out just what she said. "Well, it's technically not steel," she said. "The armor's a titanium-aluminum alloy. But yes, I made it myself." She considered the other heroine's gear. "I see you like Vikings. What's the hammer made out of? And how'd you do that lightning bolt thing, anyway?"

Fox, time for Dragonfly to enter the picture. Basic set-up: she heard that one of her inventions had come up for sale on the black market. It gives off a certain kind of radiation, so she created a sensor to detect it. You've followed the signal to this little deserted street, where you see a figure in powered armor with a weird box in her hands. :D

I'm thinking it would be better to RP this out after all. Say, curtain goes up when Dead Head gets to the church/soup kitchen?

The interior of the van was mostly bare, rusted metal; apparently at some point the seats had been removed and never put back. The two grungy types that Ironclad had tracked were inside, cowering against the far wall. Their eyes were wide with fear, but with a suddenness that surprised the heroine they collected themselves and rushed her! The first simply grabbed at the suit, trying to get a hold on her; Ironclad twisted her arm in a certain way the man's wrist snapped with a tiny, crackling noise. He fell to the ground, skin blanching with pain and clutching his wrist with his good hand. His companion lunged at Ironclad, a small knife in his hand. The superheroine simply stood and let the tiny knife score a line across her segmented armor, then punched out and knocked the second attacker back against the far wall of the van. His mouth snapped shut and he fell to the floor, boneless. Ironclad heard the door open and looked up to see the driver fleeing down the street. She debated taking him down, too, but decided against it; someone who dressed in pajama bottoms and flip-flops at three in the afternoon probably wasn't a criminal mastermind. Instead, she reached into the van and retrieved the metal briefcase. It was surprisingly heavy, and as she rotated it in her hands the weight didn't seem to shift at al. Either the case was packed tight or something small and heavy was well secured. Part of the girl wanted to rip the case open and see what was inside, but if it turned out to be a bomb or something radioactive she'd feel stupid and guilty. So she made herself wait patiently while the suit's sensors probed at the container.

Ironclad drifted down to the ground quietly behind the van. Once her feet touched the ground, she switched the suit over to increase her strength. Carefully, almost gingerly, she lifted the rear wheels of the van off the pavement. She heard the truck catch after a few more attempts, and the rear wheels started spinning. Of course, since there was no contact with the road surface, no force and generated and the vehicle didn't go anywhere. The driver floored it anyway and probably ended up flood the engine, to judge from the sound. Satisfied that the van wasn't going anywhere soon, Ironclad set it down and marched around to the side. Her fingers were small enough, even in the gauntlets, to work the handle, but why bother? Instead, she formed her fist into a blunt spike and punched through the door. Judging that her hand was in open space on the other side, she splayed her fingers and hauled back, ripping the door off its hinges.

Ironclad floated over to the gathering of heroes; it was the work of a moment to connect to the city's emergency phone system and dispatch a 911 call, her hands flashing through empty space. That done, she landed next to the massive creature, patting gingerly. "I guess what they say is true," she said. "The bigger they are, the harder it is to take them down." She turned to the others and offered half a smile, before she remembered that her helmet was still on. "I'm Ironclad," she offered.

Ironclad managed to shake off the after-effects of the Hellhound's howl. She was still flying, which was a nice change of pace from last time. Even better, the massive beast seemed completely disoriented from the three other superheroes -- check that, superheroines -- gathered around it. Still, the creature was swiping halfheartedly, and so Ironclad lined up her sights and let off a shot from her particle cannon.

Ironclad's Recovery check from the Stun. 1d20+4=22 Yeah. Why couldn't that have been my initial check, please? Attack roll. 1d20+7=10 -.- DC 22 Toughness if that hits. And 7 Penetration, too.

Ironclad kept pace with the big dog, high in the sky. As it approached the police barricade and thrashed about, the armored hero began carefully lining up her first shot. Its titanic howl caught her off-guard, however, reverberating inside her helmet. She clutched at her head and writhed in the air, helpless before the sonic assault.

I assume Ironclad's in range? She's rocketing after it, after all. Ironclad has a +6 Ref... 1d20+6=24 And she still saves! Wow, I'm doing well in this thread! EDIT: Fort save. 1d20+4=9. The lesser of the two, but didn't help me. >.< EDIT2: DC 14 to remain flying. Ironclad actually has a decent Concentration score (Watch me roll a 1). 1d20+9=14 HA! Ex-friggin'-catly!

Still waiting on the results of that Sense Motive...

If I'm not mistaken, FA uses a gladius. In any case, I don't think the Romans had any long blades.

Well, if you're not going to ask specific questions, the only thing you can determine is that they're usually fed at a soup kitchen run by "tha nuns" and "Father Dave."

"You murdered someone," Robin said softly, "and now you're going and now you're going to own up to them about it." She shook her head sharply, like she was trying to dislodge a thought. "There are easier ways to exorcise spirits," she muttered, but even as she berated Wesley the sorceress was shaking her hands out, freeing them from the overlapping cuffs of her jacket. She placed her hand on Wesley's temples, touching him only with her fingertips. As she muttered under her breath, a faint glow encompassed them both and grew in intensity, until they outshone the lights overhead. She... Well. Words don't work so well. She thrust her mind into Wesley's, riding the current of his surface thoughts back into his deeper memories, back to the cause of his nightmares. The entire experience hit Robin at once, and she staggered back from Wesley. The sorceress clutched at her staff, leaning heavily on the shaft of wood for a moment. Her face was covered in a sheen of sweat and new lines seemed to be etched on her face. She took a few shaky breathes, then spoke. "Where do you need to go?"

We're all wondering that, Moira, but not about CC.

See my question re: Combat time vs. dramatic time.

Ehn, guess Ironclad needs an Ini roll herself. 1d20+3=21 Wow, pretty good for once! Moira, are we dramatic time or combat?

Jessica Parker was out on a fast food run around midnight. Say what you will about Lantern Hill, but the fast food options were pitiful; the teenager was forced to visit the West End when she wanted food after 10 P.M. or so. She was just making a turn in her oversized SUV when she caught of the massive animal barreling down the road at her, crushing vehicles with abandon. The girl had to wrench the steering wheel to one side and climb the curb, but she avoided anything worse than dings and scratches. Jumping out of the car with her backpack in hand, Jessica rushed into a nearby alley. She didn't go far, hoping that the sight of the creature would draw the attention of any bystanders. Seconds later, Ironclad rose from the alley in her red and gold. She waved her hand at the car absently, locking doors and setting the alarm. With that detail dealt with, she leaned forward and started off after the beast.