Supercape

GM

And so...

...In a military plane, entering Alaskan Air Space....

The plane was small and spartan, but fast and armoured. A small military recon plane, propellor based, designed for long flights at high altitude. It was not quiet inside, and the body of the plane juddered. 

Two military pilots were at the cockpit. 

One soldier, catching some sleep. 

A captain, boots up, unable to sleep. 

Both armed with light pistols. 

The captain shuffled again. "Damn it, too much coffee..." he complained, snapping his eyes open from insomnia. He raised an eyebrow at Jean. 

"Pardon me. I ain't ever seen nothing like you, mister, er... ma'am. Dang, sorry. Not used to the fur."

He held his hands up in apology. 

"Sorry. We got pulled into this last minute. Favour for WEST. Favour for the Patriot. Whatever, seemed mighty important for national security. Must be some mighty strange mission. Mind telling us what this is all about?"

Echohead

"I don't like th-this..." gabbered Echohead, sweat on his bald head. "But, the hospital?"

Hospital had people in it. Sick people. Maybe people in danger. 

They couldn't just leave people there to... to, what exactly? Die? Mutate? Become Dennis Deacon? Turn into Elvis and start dancing down the street singing a medly of his greatest hits whilst a zombie followed him, smashing out the beat on a pair of fibula?

Well, probably not that. But still, it was uncertain land. 

"We have to go there, right? People might be in danger..."

Haven

"Who? Who is coming?" said Haven, not taking his eyes - for one picosecond - off his enemy. 

He threw a couple of punches with electrified fists. They felt slow. Uncalibrated. He wasn't in tune or synchronised with this environment. Cyberspace was a varied - if not more so - than the real world. Rules worked differently, and each cyberspace had different rules. 

He still let out a grunt of frustration. At himself - not his opponent, who was fighting ably. Haven felt like he couldn't punch a virtual watermelon if it was right in front of him. 

He quickly backed off and circled round to the Lion. 

"Who is coming?" he repeated. "And where do we hide?"

[url=https://orokos.com/roll/1009613]Taser Punch[/url]: [u]1d20+12[/u] [b]15[/b]

15 is going to miss too...!

So for remaining Move round, heeding the Lions warning, going to run behind the counter of the bar

Ok If its ok with you, can we say Archer has prepared a shot. Also allowing an Aim bonus to an attack roll on the albino, so feel free to take that with an arrow of your choice!

GM

"I don't know. Get me out of here!" screamed the thug. 

But, alas, it was too late. 

The albino contorted - an impossible contortion, for nobody could bend their spine like that. Bent in half, face looking up at the moon. He screamed, a shrill, awful pitch from distorted vocal cords. His dirty clothes ripped, revealing swollen, pulsating muscles, oozing a yellow-white serum from the skin. 

And then, the strange creature ran at Archer, eyes blazing! 

Gamma Buzz

"Hey! Look! Its like, like a 50s Sci Fi show! They have got space uniforms, right? And probably those are laser blasters or something!"

Baltazar was still glowing with pride from being called Mister Botez! That's right! A mister! A proper person. Who deserved respect and everything. 

"Wait... does that mean we have to get to cover or something? I mean, I don't want to get blasterized into a pile of purple powder. Is blasterized a word? It should be a word. For when you get turned into a pile of purple powder... No, wait. Aren't sci fi people meant to set to stun first or something? Sounds a bit risky. Perhaps we should hide behind a rock or something?"

Ditto - lets go !

GM

"No reason to panic! Isn't that what someone would say just before the meteor destroys the earth?" said Lyong, wringing her hands. 

"Sorry, sorry. I'm out of my depth here. But if I can help, i will..."

She sat down by her computer and started zipping through the WEST computer. She knew what she was doing. 

"Unless someone is very good at covering their tracks, or has hacked into our network, nobody has been using Doctor North's official I.D. Probably wise, its biometrically linked. So basically only a clone or an tech whizz could use it. But his regular passport, yeah. Somebody pinged that on an internal flight from Alaska to Freedom City. Less than a day ago."

She pulled up airport security. There, in low-res herz, was what looked like Doctor North passing through airport security. A bit sweaty, agitated, perhaps. Just like... whatever had exploded in front of Jean. 

Captain Cosmos in

Drowning in Memories

The name of the town was not important. It was small, rural, some would say cut off. Nestled in a quilt of forests, lakes, even some mountains. Its main industry was tourism, housing holidayers who wished to “get back to nature” by hiking, boating, even hunting.

And with that holiday enterprise came all the orbiting industries. Tourist traps, shops selling momento’s and assorted flotsam and hideously inflated prices. Eateries, drinkeries, and even the not so legal industries involving intoxicants and sex.

The important thing was that this was Buddy Brand’s home town. And Buddy Brand didn’t want to be there. But sometimes, a compulsion, a drive, makes a man (or a woman) do something they otherwise wouldn’t. Sometimes, despite the bile in the throat, one did it anyway.

The problem with his home town was memories. Of his father, of the river where he nearly drowned. The mere thought of the sparkling frothing water was enough to make his stomach churn in acid. And his father’s responses – berating rather than comforting – was nearly as bad. And his father still lived here.

The town had conjured up an annual river-fest, to celebrate the tourism, the rafting, the great outdoors. The tall trees in newly green woods, the sunshine, the hills and mountains. And yes, that river. The river he had nearly drowned in.

Buddy had decided he needed to overcome the trauma. Then he had decided this was impossible, but he should go anyway. The trauma never healed, but open wounds could become scars. Ungainly, problematic, but not weeping blood or puss. A trauma could perhaps, if he was lucky, loosen its grip around his neck.

Of course, it could also tighten the grip.

But he had to try.

Benches were full of picnic baskets and coloured tablecloths, owned by both out of towners out townies. Along the rocky banks of the fast flowing river-stream others had set up food and drink on the forest floor amongst pine cones and roots. Beers and sausages passed from hand to hand to mouth, giving the whole event a German flavour, a testament to the original settlers from Europe. Music played from tinny speakers – a jarring mix of country, folk, and modern pop. Buddy cared little for any of it, bar an echo of desire for beer. But he was Captain Cosmos now. Alcohol didn’t make him drunk. He didn’t need to eat, or drink.

He didn’t need to breathe, either. But the river, full of froth and roar, still paralysed him with fear. He had no more risk of drowning than risk of being struck by a meteor, and yet the fear remained. Why? He asked himself. I can’t drown, even if I wanted to, even if someone forcibly filled my lungs with water. And yet the fear remained still. Memories, etched on to his limbic system. Don’t forget! Don’t forget what happened!

So he helped himself to a cheap tin of beer. If he could remember the fear, maybe he could remember being drunk.

It didn’t work.

He exchanged vapid greetings and vapid conversations with a few persons of the town, and out of town, who recognised him. Buddy Brand was not an A list celebrity, but he was a solid B lister. People knew of the Buddy Brand report. He signed a few signatures, gave a few bland pleasantries to questions, all devoid of answers. His mind wasn’t really engaged. He couldn’t stop seeing the river flow, couldn’t stop hearing its song. Yes, he was originally from this town. No, he wasn’t doing a report on it. Yes, he was just visiting, No, there wasn’t a global vaccine conspiracy. At least, not as far as he knew. And he wasn’t going to do an investigative report on it, either.

His mind snapped into focus the moment he saw his father. Old now, his hair grey, his back slightly bent, furrowed brow, wrinkled skin a testament to a life in the great outdoors. Brand Snr had spent his life in the sun, without any recourse to the unmanly use of sun cream. His skin had paid the price.

The old man had seen Buddy too, and a complex obscure war of expressions danced on his face. Joy? No, joy would not do. Anger? Too risky, warranted perhaps, but would risk alienation. Pride? Well, pride in his son was acceptable, despite the disappointment.

“Son…” came his voice. Creaky, bereft of the iron that Buddy remembered. A singular word, loaded with portent.

“Father…” said Buddy, cool and calm. A lifetime in media meant he knew how to look cool and calm. Inside, his heart was flapping around his chest like a wild horse. He feared his father had x ray vision, and could penetrate to his insides. Illusion of transparency, the psychologists called it. Buddy held his nerve… what could his father do, now? Buddy was financially and emotionally independent. What would a slap do? It would take a point blank shotgun blast to mark the flesh of captain cosmos, much less penetrate it.

Unfortunately, hearts weren’t bulletproof.

“Come to go rafting?” asked Brand Senior. A barb. A barb that stung; not something Buddy could completely call out, but the barb was there.

“Obviously not.”

A barb in return.

“Still a pussy? Buddy Brand, still scared after all these years?”

“Of some things, yes. Not you. Not your words.”

“Ha!” laughed Brand Senior, oozing contempt. But Buddy could see beyond the façade. The laugh was forced. Behind it, what? Fear? Of an old man lamenting his mistakes. Unlikely. But fear? Fear of growing old, alone, unloved. Ah! Now there was the bullseye. There was the achilles heel.

But, tempting as it was to exploit that weakness, what would it achieve? Striking an old man in the heart would just play into the old man’s court. Buddy would become the spiteful, vindictive and ungrateful son that his father believed him to be. Maybe wanted to be – how much easier to blame the son’s nature than the fathers flaws? No, Buddy would not rise to the bait. Years in the media – he had become an expert in emotional regulation. No flush to his cheeks, no sweat to his brow, face painted with an enigmatic and tepid smile. No sign that his father could call out as weakness. No matter how weak he felt, no crack in his armour. That, he had learned. Mainly from his work.

Maybe from his father.

“Enjoy the sun. And the beer,” he said, flippant, eyes away already. Every sound, every movement indicative of one thing.

His father bored him.

Of course, the reality was far different. The journey home would be infected by toxic ruminations, mulling over the whats and ifs and hows. But one thing was for sure – his father had not cracked him, and neither have the river. Whatever he felt inside, he had his mask bolted onto his face. And that was some meagre victory.

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!

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.

Or your Telekenesis, or blast

Sure Starshot will go along - taking 10 (skill mastery) for a 20 pilot check. 

Sure. Could you roll an opposed power check vs 15 to wrench the windows open? (they are reinforced). Or extra effort we can waive that and you can just crack open a hole as you wish

Gamma Buzz

"Explosions! Wheee!" said Gamma Buzz, antennae alert. 

"I mean.. Explosions. They can be nasty, right? Like, dangerous nasty? I mean, what exploded, and what caused the explosion? And are we going to be dodging missiles and hopping over mines? this all sounds like some kinda world war 2 movie. You know, like the movies they show in the movie theatre."

He trembled slightly. 

"It seemed much more fun in black and white and when it wasnt happening..."

He straightened his back. 

"But its also an opportunity to be a hero, right? Like a superhero?"

Invigorated by his decleration, he started hopping after Bernadette. 

About ten floors

Although the way the tower is creaking, it could fall over at any moment

HP!

Diamondlight

August had the distinct feeling that he had jumped in to a nest of vipers. He was being played. 

A large part of him felt a seething fury - at the casino, at the system, and in himself. 

But an even larger part swamped his fury. The adrenaline, the sweat, the challenge. He could not resist a smirk. More than one game was being played here. 

He toned down his play. 

He started to lose. Deliberately. Playing bad hands, folding with good hands. Subtle, nuanced. His aim was to play badly, or, to be more precise, randomly. To lose hands, but to lose as little money as possible. To give the impression of losing, of paucity of skill, without actually losing chips. 

Lose hands, not chips. 

At the very least it would slow down the AI's adaptive responses. And more importantly it would give him more information on what was going on here... and what the psychology of the players was. 

He ordered another drink, slightly exageratting his movements, subtly slurring his words. Maybe he would look slightly drunk, but he wouldn't drink. 

"Quite the game..." he said, excitedly, to his fellow players casually flipping the minimum bet into the pot (Despite a good hand). "Whats the prize, eh? Did you come for the glory or the rush?"

Rev

"Hey, its never too early too learn how to drive! Who knows when you might need to chase Doctor Tonic through the streets of Freedom City in a super-spy car armed with automatic glue guns, eh?" said Rev, giving a little elbow. 

She tapped her chin at the thought of a Super-Submarine.

"That does sound cool," she said to Mizuki. "And given enough time and cash, I could probably make that for you. But honestly, I am a mechanic, not an engineer. I can patch things up and build faster than anyone I know, except maybe those god-awful Speedsters like Velocity. But if you need design than maybe we need some proper scientist like Doctor Archeville. Although I have done a few repairs on Diamondlights submarine car. Very cool car, even if Diamondlight is a bit of a rich dick. What an ass, eh?"

"As for water planets, count me out! I rust!" she laughed. "And you can't drive on water planets!"

GM

The shockwave sent the soldier-goons flying, ears ringing, weapons firing chaotically (sometimes blasting each other). Scientists held onto their thick glasses as they slammed into the concrete, white coats flapping wildly, occasionally tearing. 

Lights cracked, sending glass tinkling to the floor. Predictably, as befitted the base of General Sparks, they sent sparks to the floor. A few hit the overturned tables and the scattered papers, lighting small fires. 

All in all, Golden Star had completely cleaned out the bottom floor!

And the tower? The tower was groaning. Cracks appeared in the concrete. 

And above, Cerebral could feel the tower wobble...

Thats fine - it will clear out the ground floor!

Cerebral - UNharmed 3 HP

Cerebellum - Unharmed

Golden Star - 1 HP

GM

Inside...

Cerebral could hear commotion several levels below her. 

Golden Star and Cerebellum could hear commotion several level aboves. 

The clock was ticking...

The soldiers of General Sparks were shocked, disorganised - no one had ever dared a full frontal assault on the General before! 

Armed with submachine guns and clean uniforms, they would no doubt be little challenge to the heroes one on one, but amassed might be a different matter!

The heroes had but a minute - any longer, and the defences would be marshalled, and the running guards would organise into something resembling a defence!

But for now - for sixty seconds or thereabouts, the guards were running amok, screaming shouting, running in and out of corridors, barking orders and ignoring orders...

WIP  Completed