Raveled

For a moment none of the ghosts gathered around Robin's witchlight responded. Just as Dead Head was about to call out again, one of the spirits cried out, "That's my hand!" and started floating closer. At first the revenant thought he's grabbed an old one, because the spirit was shapeless and indistinct. As it drifted closer, though, Dead Head saw that the shade was dressed in the memory of a tattered, dirty coat and a shapeless hat. Wheat colors still remained were dirty grays and browns, and the man's face was unwashed and unshaven. The bum's ghost pointed at the Hand of Glory -- pointed with his left hand, the one that was on top of the grave marker, mummified and missing the thumb. "That's my hand," he repeated, the words slow and thick. He lifted his gaze from the macabre relic and addressed Dead Head directly. "They killed me. They grabbed me and threw a rope around my neck and hung me under the bridge. Why'd they take my hand?"

Ironclad was drowning in a deep black well, when a mighty presence reached down and grabbed her by the collar, hauling her up to wakefulness. She squinted even in the dimness of her helmet, as various system messages floated past her face. After a minute her eyes focused on the handsome, rugged face above her. She gave him a smile, a motion wasted from within her suit, and spoke. "Hey, there. You haven't seen a drunk woman on a hoverboard, have you?"

Ironclad was focused on the disorienting experience of having her sight melt through the various walls and floors within the power station, but she had some attention left to spare for the newcomer. "Nice speech," she allowed. "Is there a Norse god of nuclear fission, by any chance?"

Ironclad II

Do you just want me to NPC a spirit and tell Dead Head what needs to be said?

As Robin kept marching to the bridge, she realized with a start that she wasn't having to calm people half as much. And, of course, the spores rising from the ground and raining off the sides of buildings was a clue; the sorceress slowed and looked around, noticing how calmly everyone was going through their evacuations. Deciding that rioting wasn't likely to break out after all, Robin dismissed her illusory guard and started looking around for a police cordon. The authorities should know how she could best help, after all. So it happened that she was in the middle of the street when a centurion, complete with flaming sword and feathered wings, appeared over the streets and started marshaling the citizens. She could only stare, jaw on the ground. "Holy sh*t," she muttered, not consciously aware of the blasphemy.

Robin gave a small nod. "Walking doesn't bother me," she said, matching word to deed and setting off down the street. She walked fast, but the height difference between her and Wesley meant he didn't have any trouble keeping up. "Used to walk everyone back when -- back awhile ago. It's good exercise, anyway." Robin caught herself before she said too much. Wesley was dealing with her magic well, but she didn't want him thinking of her as being thousands of years old. It was several minutes later when the boardwalk came into view, and Robin was chatting happily away. Color was back in her cheeks, and she seemed to have recovered fully from Wesley's ill-advised gift. "... And it's because of that horse that I spent a year in college!"

Found a way to spend the three. Also found a way to grab him some Knowledge and Craft skills, to represent making his own flashbangs and the like. So, questions? Comments?

:toot: Now she can boost Emotion Control and make Wesley want to come up to her apar-- er, show her around Riverside.

Robin glanced behind her to confirm that the wings were gone, and once she was certain she started breathing slow and deep, forcing her heart rate down to a more normal level. She consciously relaxed each tense muscle group in turn, and once she was standing easily again the woman brushed a lock of hair out of her face with her free hand. "It's not that," she said. "I mean, it is that. It's freaky to have someone put wings on you when you're not expecting it. But beyond that I... I don't like heights. I don't like tall buildings, or flying, or anything that gets me too far off the ground." The sorceress opened her eyes, which had returned to their normal color, and Wesley a wan smile. Her fist uncurled and her hand took his in a light grip. "Perhaps you could show me Riverside from the ground?"

Robin looked back at the two wide, feathered wings spreading behind her. As she did, Wesley's intentions became apparent and her heart rate skyrocketed. She closed her eyes tightly and stood suddenly rigid, every muscle in her body tensed. She reminded herself that Wesley meant well, that he had no way of knowing about her mental hang-ups. It didn't really work, though, and fingers of dark blue flame began racing up her hands, over her tight fists and disappearing before they reached her shoulders. She opened her eyes and her pupils were two tiny points of flame. "Wesley. Get rid of the wings. Now."

Robin followed Wesley out the door, taking his hand but staying at arm's length. It was an odd thing to say to a woman you just met, and though Robin could take care of herself better than most women, Wesley was a fairly large man. He might get the wrong idea. At which point, Robin thought to herself, I'll have to burn his nose off. Which would be the end to an enjoyable morning. Still, she let Wesley pull her down the street. "What exactly is it you have to show me," she asked.

So is she up and moving, then?

Robin sat up a bit as she considered the idea, checking her watch. "Sure, why not? Store doesn't open until eleven, anyway. I'd love to see the neighborhood through a local's eye." She drained her mug in one long pull and set it beside Wesley's, eying the display of sweets next to the register. "Though, if you're paying..." The sorceress snagged an oatmeal cookie from the display, biting into it as she wandered to the door. She waited there for Wesley, watching him with a look in her eye that could be friendly, or simply challenging.

I've given some thought to making a PL 8 Badass Normal hero. He's based loosely off Nightwing, insofar as he uses Escrima, a motorcycle, and his fighting style involves humiliating his opponent as much as beating them physically. Some rather minor luck powers, as well.

Ironclad was caught off-guard when another armored hero suddenly appeared in their midst, but she only hesitated a second when offered a chance to "see beyond sight," whatever that meant. She gave a single, jerky nod, then spoke. "The armor's mine, yes. I'll take whatever help I can get. We need to get this station up and running, ASAP."

Know/Tech to try and figure out how to restart the reactor. 1d20+11=12 Woot! that private school education is really paying off!

Ironclad banked as she approached the power plant, shedding speed and ending up hovering fifty feet or so away from the cooling towers. "I'm not here to fight! I'm here to try and get this power station back online! We'll need lights in the city once the sun goes down," she shouted at the figure with the guitar. The sun was touching the horizon already, so she didn't waste anymore time. Instead, she turned to the bulk of the facility and began scrutinizing it, trying to recall what she knew of the lay-out. If she could find the pile and the control room, it would be a good start.

Robing Morrigan Isla Cross

Ini for Ironclad. 1d20+3=4

Ironclad sped through the night high above the city, frantically switching through the police and civilian radio bands. There were reports of hideous, gigantic monsters, stories that the Freedom League had been killed, and everyone had seen Atlas's betrayal live on TV. Part of her wanted to fly straight over to the city center and give him a haymaker at Mach 1. Rationally, though, she knew that the greatest danger was in the darkness. Modern man could endure a lot, as long as he had hot water and lights. Which is why Ironclad had turned her delta-shaped helmet east, towards the Raymond Nuclear Plant, and pinned her throttle.

Using Emotion Control (calm) to get people to, well, calm down. Only lasts a few minutes, though. Ini for Robin. 1d20+1=9

Robin walked down the streets of the North End, heading quickly for the Interstate 6 bridge between Lantern Hill and Hanover. It was one of the main roads out of the city, and she could only imagine the panic as a few million Freedonians all tried to run out the same way. It would be utter chaos, and she could only hope that her magic would be of some effect. Not that it wasn't already. She marched along surrounded by an illusory cordon of police, and as she moved through the thickening crowds her eyes darted left and right. There, a couple of looters were winding up to pitch a rock through a window; she gestured in their direction and sent out a whisper of will, and the two men dropped their implements to sit on the sidewalk, talking quietly. There, a couple were screaming at each other, strapping what appeared to be an entire dining set to the top of their station wagon; the sorceress gestured again and the two adults suddenly grew quiet, taking turns to talk and listening to each other. Through the rapidly-growing dark of a city without lights, Robin Cross's progress could be tracked by little bubbles of sanity and calm.

Robin nodded along with Wesley's statement. "I've been around to some of the, uh, competition. I don't think most of them even really believe in magic." She took a drink from her cup, licking at her lips before continuing. "I can't believe that they can sell mass-produced charms and, and psychology textbooks, mouthing the words to their customers. It really makes me sick sometimes." Her sharp cheeks were touched by a darker color than the rest of her face; it was obvious that this was a heated topic for her.

As Ironclad drifted through the air, the flight systems on the suit stuttered once, twice, then failed with a whine that went past hearing. The heroine hung in the air improbably for a moment, then gravity grabbed ahold and hauled her down the the pavement. She landed heavily, cracking the pavement as she bounced once before lying still. In his apartment, Malcolm watched the fall with his heart suddenly in his throat. His hand whipped out and smacked a panic button, transmitting a call to the police and pin-pointing the location where Ironclad had come to rest.