Quinn

"...yeah." He'd clamped his jaw shut tight when Bombshell walked in - she could feel red eyes tracking her across the floor. Talk about veteran support - the urge to ask for her autograph went through his head just as quickly as supposing precisely how much she'd laugh if he did. A deep breath, and his cool baritone filled the air. Practiced, cold, and professional. Didn't quite hit walking-across-your-grave level, of course, that was reserved for real bad guys. He tapped the slate in his hand, in turn, and the runes lit up - webs of light coming up in a whorl, coalescing into a 3D wire-frame of the building, with strange arcane sigils marked all over the place. Mostly the upper floors, thankfully. "...four points. First, paralysis is a bit of a misnomer. It's more a rabbit snare. If you're lacking an ID stone, you'll find your feet stuck to the ceiling. Cheapest iteration of the trap - good news is it has a major flaw. Crack the ceiling tile, kill the power to that room or hallway. Assuming the central nexus linked to the ley-line passing through the basement isn't killed, then it's just a matter of doing a little property damage. Would rather avoid it, but there's your contingency." Tap-tap. "Second, there's a failsafe in place in the event that network goes down - a magical faraday cage. Rune plates will light up on the corners of the top three floors - housing the main computer nexus, CEO's office, and R&D vault. Anything powered by aetheric energies, supernatural, whatever - banished, deactivated, or simply doesn't come up. It's like a static field that disrupt-and you don't care. Moving on." Cough. Tappity-tap. "Only way to circumvent it would be to pry out the plates from the insulation, so don't bother. Talismans won't work, but neither will their recognition system - it'll be back to basics at that point. Stick to mundane technology up there." Tappity-tap. Two rooms got lit up, and two wire-frame heads that slowly got covered by skin and...wait - he whacked the slate on the side, THEN they got covered by skin. First was a bald, scarred man, who looked like he had no neck - just muscle. "Third. Chief of security - one Victor Baldwin, alias Viktor Laszlo, alias 'The Piemaker of Kiev'. Ex-Spetsnaz, former Russian mafiya, wanted in three European countries for assault, murder, corporate espionage, corporate sabotage, and tax evasion. Don't be fooled by his charming looks - he's got about fourteen unsolved cases to his name working for Daystrom, mostly corporate rivals and lawsuit plaintiffs. Also three successful mid-card title bouts in the Circus Maximus. He's mean, he's easily ticked off, and he knows how to fight dirty. Prefers fists to firearms, but he'll use the latter if given a chance." Tappity-tap-tap. A distinguished older gentleman, with steel-grey hair, and a silver beard. Very respectable-looking, even striking, if you went for older guys. Only problem is that sneer almost permanently grafted onto his face. Very nasty. "Richard Daystrom. CEO of Daystrom Industries, patron of the Circus Maximus, frequent world traveler, and all around horrible human being. Successfully made his way to the top of his class in Harvard using a combination of bribery, blackmail, and - you don't care." Cough. "Suffice it to say he's got a rap sheet as long as Pseudo's arm. Unfortunately, a corps of lawyers willing to sue anything in sight has left him fairly untouched. At least until now." Tap. The wire-frame rotated, leaving it up for anyone who wanted to examine it. "Daystrom should be absent for a weekly golf game during our projected time, but any emergency will bring him running. Baldwin will be on station, however - we can either take him out or attempt to avoid him." He left Terrifica to answer Bonfire's questions.

Okay, I scrapped the Super Senses (4 PP), and purchased Accurate Attack/Fast Task (Startle) (2 PP), and 2 ranks of Skills (2 PP). That oughta do it.

Player's Name: Quinn Character's Name: Outlaw Power Level: 10 (150/153PP) Trade-Offs: -2 Attack / +2 Damage, -2 Defense / +2 Toughness Unspent PP: 3PP Description: Alternate Identities: Jacob Cross Identity: Public Birthplace: Hempstead, TX, USA. Occupation: Student Affiliations: Claremont Academy Family: James Cross (Father), Harriet Cross-nee-Prophet (mother). Age: 16 Gender: Male Ethnicity: Caucasian Height: 6’4” Weight: 164 lbs. Eyes: Red Hair: Auburn, occasionally on fire. Jake’s looks match the drek he’s had to deal with over the years – which is fairly sad, because if he managed to untwist his look from the near-permanent scowl on his face, he’d actually look pretty darned handsome. He’s tanned, well-muscled – plenty of work to be done around the farm, keep him from thinking too much. Clean-shaven, oddly, even with that strong chin; try as he might, he can’t seem to grow a beard. He dresses pretty plainly, for the most part – his day wear’s a pair of sneakers, blue jeans, and sleeveless shirts (since his fire spreads up from the hands when he’s really agitated, means he can usually catch it at the elbow before it lights his shirt on fire – more difficult with long-sleeves). On the job, he dresses in a costume made himself; a blue poncho with gold stylized flame embroidery, and Claremont Academy uniform pants and boots (also in blue and gold). A belt lined with energy drink cans and a brass plate vest with odd technological gewgaws lie below the poncho, as well (the closest metal he could get to the uniform color). A domino mask and bandanna (blue) hide his identity in turn, under a broad-brimmed leather hat. He’s taken to the school colors fairly well, actually. History: It’s hard to deny, and Jake really won’t even try, that the young hero’s upbringing was fairly cliché. The Cross family owned a plot of land a few miles outside of Hempstead, Texas; not very large, but good earth. A good retirement for a pair of broken-down old heroes; James Cross, alias The Silver Rider, and Harriet Cross-nee-Prophet, alias Ace High. They used to work the streets of Houston for decades, until the Terminus Invasion – as with many across America, they’d flooded with fist and courage into Freedom City, and watched the Centurion fall. In turn, they’d had their own spirits for the life of justice and freedom broken in turn; years of fighting having wore them down. They found themselves working together during the deconstruction, and eventually struck up an acquaintance – ultimately falling in love and choosing to retire together. They actually found it funny they’d never really fallen in together back home – maybe it was just the closeness of death that finally kickstarted it? Or maybe just good luck. Either way, they hung up the mask and cowl and settled down to a simpler life. For a while, at least. To a degree, they honestly didn’t expect the world would last as long as it did, after having seen what Entropy wrought. They even prepared a shelter for the inevitable next invasion…but it never came. It took almost five years for it to truly sink in to them that the world had been saved, in truth. Their neighbours picked up on the change overnight – James found in himself a new zest for improving their home, and began really turning that old house into something special; in turn, Harriet dove headfirst into the mechanics of the machines they used; using her old gadget know-how to turn their old tractor into a force to be reckoned with! The Fieldminator 7000! And, as in all things heroic, they began to notice each other more and more in…er…different ways; beyond the loving company they simply reveled in over the past five years. Took them another two before Jenny finally had a young boy – on March 16th, 2000, Jacob Cross hit the atmosphere. And on March 20th, 2000, lit it on fire. The genes were probably from Harriet’s side, they agreed. Her family had had a legacy of heroism stretching back to the founding of the ‘States, and while James had got his power from an incident with a radioactive horse, it wasn’t something likely to pass down in the family line. Still, he was their kid, even if he had a tendency to burp out a flame now and again. And hey, it meant he’d never want for protection when he grew up, right? In hindsight, the fact that the flames were black and red should have been an indication, but they were so happy with having a child to raise that they ignored it. They did ignore it, too – ignored it as he grew up a happy young boy who would run around chasing the chickens and spooking the horses, ignored it as he went to elementary school in a town a half-hour drive from the farm and showed off the fun smoke signals he could cough out after chugging down a can of Red Bull (and proceed to be hyper as heck the rest of the day), and ignored it right up until the year before he went to high school, and the wrong person heard about the color and shape of those flames. Honestly, it was nobody’s fault that it wasn’t caught sooner. They lived in a pretty rural area, and it wasn’t like the young man was going about burning down houses or causing mayhem. In fact, outside of some shows for his little friends now and again and the occasional declaration to his parents he’d grow up to be a Big Hero like them, or the famous Pale Ranger, or Adam Prophet (his mom raised him on bedtime stories about her great-great-great-great-great-etc. grandpappy), or Emily Swift (Harriet’s personal hero), or whoever had captured his young imagination at the time – he hadn’t really done much to draw big attention to himself. Which meant when a group of The Fellowship kicked in the door one August night, wanting to see if the kid was what they thought it was, it came as one hell of a nasty shock. It was an ugly fight. James and Harriet may have been retired, but they’d been prepared for a Second Terminus Invasion for years – even if they’d fallen off the wagon a few years back. They’d taught their son how to fight, too – how to throw a punch, and how to pack enough firepower into that punch to knock out a thug clean. In turn, this batch of Fellowship agents were damned determined, and they outnumbered the family five to one; sometimes T-babies didn’t want to come quietly, or accept the inevitability of their superiority over the common man. By the end of the mess, the farmhouse was in flames, both Crosses were laid out flat – thankfully alive – and Jake was thrown into the back of an old van, with a slightly singed wild-eyed zealot explaining how he was the new face of the world, how he was blessed by entropy. How they’d seen in that fight that he really was a Terminus-blessed demigod! Jake…didn’t take it well. In fact, he spat in the man’s face, swearing up and down it wasn’t true. Right up until the man lit up his eyes with the fires of Entropy, grinning. He really didn’t take that well. We’ll gloss over the finer details of the situation – the fleatrap motel they hunkered down in, the endless natter about how pleased their superior would be, how awesome it was to find a T-baby this potent, how those two idiots had looked when the door was kicked in; sure, they’d lost half their number to traps, tricks, and good one-two punches, but it was totally worth it. As soon as the teenage T-baby woke up from that catatonic trance, he’d thank them! See, Jake had also grown up knowing what made his parents quit. He knew full well what Omega was, and what he’d done to the hero of heroes. And that thought just kept going through his head, over and over – that what powered him up, that fun little flame, that he’d played with his friends with, that he’d said he was going to be a hero with, had broke his parents and killed so many people and it was in him it was in him it was in him he couldn’t control that he couldn’t use that to help people it had killed people he would kill people he was a monster. He didn’t roast them alive when he woke up, but it was a near thing. Something in him cracked when he finally came to that conclusion. His whole self, restraints and all, lit up in a pyroclasm that set the whole motel ablaze with black fire. He managed to seize some control when he heard the screaming, saw the fleeing figures, and tore the fire back into himself – but the damage was done. And when the firefighters arrived and saw him, and the cops arrived and saw him, and the press arrived and saw him, it was all over but the crying. They returned him home, eventually. After about a day of questioning, suspicion, threats, even a government agent who narrowly ended up having him assigned to some kind of project and a whole lot of supervision – but when his mom came in and hugged him and told him everything was going to be alright, and his dad nearly threw that suited clown out, well…he didn’t quite push them away, but he mutely went with them. Even started to think it wasn’t all bad. First year high school was all that bad – started to feel like he was on a roller coaster, actually. Huge up, then the plummet, and man did it go downhill fast. The press had had a field day with the ‘Dangerous Terminus Child’ living on the ‘Death Ranch’, how he’d only narrowly escaped arrest and censure because of his ‘age’ and how his parents had ‘refused comment’ on how he was going to be kept safe and away from ‘normal’ people. He didn’t get pushed around, mind – when you have to wear a limiter vest (supplied by his mother, who still had the gift), and can still light things on fire with your mind, that’s something nobody’s likely willing to risk – but a guy can feel pretty lonely when nobody’s wanting to even say word one to you. And teachers, well, they have to help you – that’s in their job description – but them throwing shifty eyes to any doorway or window when you start to back-talk and shuffling sideways like they’re about to run; that can wear a teen down pretty fast too. Ultimately? He started skipping more often than going. Then he started running with a rougher crowd that liked what he could do. Laughed when he breathed some sparks, or blew smoke outta his nose, making people jump or run. Didn’t last long, though, when they started to flinch when his temper got up and his arms started to light up. And he wasn’t bad enough to go looking for a gang – even with all that’d happened, his parents still raised him right, damnit. He just finally sort of gave up the whole idea of being anything more than a delinquent. Not quite a bad guy, he couldn’t make that leap; but smoking behind the school, sneering when people flinched, slouching in the back of the classroom – he just gave them what he expected to see. Broke his parents’ hearts to see it, though – least until they got a call from a very concerned citizen in a city they’d been to once or twice… They packed him up with a costume, a letter, a corned beef sandwich for the trip, and a long explanation – one he didn’t quite buy. A new school. Several states away. They weren’t getting rid of him, but he couldn’t learn and grow here, not as things were. There – things would be better. He could be his own person, instead of what they saw or thought. He had family there, old family, who would help him out – the Prophets still had relatives there who knew and loved him, even without meeting him. He could still be a hero, if he tried. It scared them, more than anything else, what might happen to him; but they knew he needed it. Even if he didn’t think he did. So Jake, sixteen, gruff, surly, fearful of himself, and entirely too stuffed to the gills with teenage angst, was sent off to Claremont Academy, Freedom City. He kept the costume – even if he chucked the sandwich halfway through the bus trip and bought a burger instead. Didn’t quite take the original name he’d planned for himself, though. If Claremont wanted him to try to be a hero; and he was still hesitant, a T-baby would never make a good Marshal. But an Outlaw… Personality & Motivation: Outlaw/Jake’s a teenager at odds with himself. Granted, that’s not exactly news to any high school guidance counselor or psychologist, but in his case it’s a bit more literal. Moreso if there are any flammable objects around. To the average eye, he’s a surly teenager. He talks back, he slouches, he acts grumpy, and his whole demeanor screams “I am a porcupine. Come close and I will poke you.” He acts this way. If you managed to crack his shell, though, you’d find Jake to be a passionate, even hot-tempered young man. He wants to do, to be, to act – very much like the fire in his belly. He doesn’t want to sit back there and growl at people – he wants to be the life of the party, to pull off little party tricks and make people laugh, to see someone smile at him, and be able to smile back. Make people happy, more than happy. He grew up with parents and stories of men and women who made the world a better place, and he wants to live up to that, more than anything. He is this way. Power Descriptions: Jake’s not a subtle teen when it comes to slinging his power. When he lets rip, it’s with gouts and jets of black and red entropic fire – used to be he thought that was special and fancy, now he almost hates to see it. Came to terms with that, at least, a while ago. Still, there can be some variation in it – for his basic blasts he generally indulges in the old Western standby of a finger gun from the hip (he takes what fun he can get) – those blasts being thin and precise, along with fast and rapid-fire. In close-range, not near as elegant, just an open palm, fist, or foot covered in fire to the tender bits; his mom taught him how to fight close-up. For the bigger blasts, his gestures get larger and more elaborate; hence the poncho (he needs the arm room) – his biggest being just one great big fireball hucked with both hands. He vastly prefers to avoid doing that, though. In a pinch he can light his whole self up – but he didn’t make a habit of that until he got the morphic molecule costume. As it stands, he’s managed to develop a defensive blaze that intercepts shots or simply discourages them through heat. Same color, but in twisting loops around him. Even worked out a neat trick of using fire blasts through the feet to fly. He actually cracked a smile when he learned how to do that. Powers And Tactics: If it’s one thing Outlaw’s tactical doctrine espouses – it’s caution. Which comes as a fairly difficult thing when the angrier you get, the more likely you are to burst into flame. In truth, if he had his druthers, he’d only ever fight close-in with bare-knuckles, and save the fire for non-living targets. He generally opens with that, in turn; punching with point-blank low-power blasts in each fist. Escalation of force is a principle he’s drilled into himself over and over again since he was told he could learn to be a hero at Claremont, and he’s one he’s determined to stick to – possibly to an unsafe degree. Still, he’s not a complete pacifist. If the enemy isn’t going to go down with a few punches, and he knows he’ll get turned upside-down getting in close, he’s got no problems with taking to the air and letting rip with precision long-range shots. Even then, though, he’s sometimes a bit too careful about lining up that shot to make sure it won’t really hurt… Complications: Burn It To The Ground: Problem with being a fire controller with control issues is it’s real easy to accidentally spook and/or cook your neighbours if you aren’t careful – that’s why he wears the vest. It’s like a big warm heavy metal snuggie that protects him and everyone around him, except when it doesn’t. A GM may offer a Hero Point when the actual nullifier effect of the vest is damaged – under those circumstances, all of Outlaw’s powers immediately gain the Uncontrollable Flaw, and may backlash on him (Immunity does NOT apply in this situation). Figured You Out: Let’s face it. T-Babies do not have the best press in the world – and when your reveal as a T-baby was in a paroxym of terror and self-hatred that nearly burned down a motel (no fatalities, thank God) and throwing around one of man’s most primal fears (FIRE BAD), that doesn’t do wonders for your image when the newshounds start working you over. GMs may offer a Hero Point when the bad press from Outlaw’s kidnapping influences someone’s actions or decisions toward him. Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting: Which leads to the third part of Outlaw’s problems. He’s got…temper issues, sometimes. He’s handling it, at least, and it helps that he knows the consequences of letting off the leash – but sometimes if he gets real mad, it’s hard to think straight; and then the fire starts creeping up his arms before he knows what’s going on. Even the Nullifier Vest can’t keep it down when he’s that hot under the collar. A GM can offer a Hero Point when Outlaw’s anger issues cause him to do something that makes the situation worse – or force him to try and cool himself off when he really should be getting angrier. Rockstar: Besides being a bit of a caffeine addict, there is a reason Jake keeps multiple cans of sports and energy drink close to hand. See, the trouble with slinging a lot of power is you can get exhausted quickly - and when your power is fire and heat, sometimes you need to refuel. He's found different substances help, energy drinks to provide a jolt and a bit of extra flame when he's feeling low, and sports drink when the sheer heat began to dehydrate him. A GM may offer a Hero Point to force him to take a turn refueling or rest up - or even stop one of his powers cold - or have him actually run out/forgot his supplies. Gotta Be Somebody: And then there's the unfamiliarity problem - let's face it, despite his gruffness and attempts at worldliness, Jake's not exactly a big city kid. He grew up surrounded by cornfields, barnyard animals, and assorted back roads - not the gleaming silver spires that make Freedom City the city of the future! More often than not it's easy for him to get surprised or even overwhelmed by the sheer scope and mass of daily life in Freedom City; thank heaven Claremont's campus is, for the most part, fairly sedate and quiet. Right? A GM may offer a Hero Point when his unfamiliarity with the big city can cause trouble - whether not knowing roads or directions, or being distracted at an inopportune moment by something completely out of his experience. Edge Of A Revolution: Jake once saw a play in-city, and a line from it’s stuck with him for years since. “And therefore, since I cannot prove the lover / to entertain these fair well-spoken days / I am determined to prove a villain / and hate the idle pleasures of these days.” If the world thinks he’s a loose cannon waiting to go off? A delinquent and thug? A nascent monster who can’t be trusted? Well, he’s tried long enough to change minds, and got sand kicked in his face for it. A GM can offer a Hero Point when Outlaw’s bitterness causes him to act gruff and mean instead of trying to reach out. Abilities: 0 + 0 + 4 + 0 + 0 + 6 = 10PP Strength 10 (+0) Dexterity 10 (+0) Constitution 14 (+2) Intelligence 10 (+0) Wisdom 10 (+0) Charisma 16 (+3) Combat: 8 + 8 = 16PP Initiative: +4 Attack: +4, +8 energy attacks Grapple: +4 Defense: +8 (+4 Base, +4 Dodge Focus), +2 Flat-Footed Knockback: -1, -6 w/ Force Field Saving Throws: 6 + 8 + 7 = 21PP Toughness: +2/+12 (+2 Con, +5 Force Field [Impervious 5], +5 Protection [Impervious 5]) Fortitude: +8 (+2 Con, +6) Reflex: +8 (+0 Dex, +8) Will: +7 (+0 Wis, +7) Skills: 40R = 10PP Concentration 10 (+10) Handle Animal 3 (+6) Intimidate 12 (+15) Notice 10 (+10) Sense Motive 5 (+5) Feats: 11PP Accurate Attack Dodge Focus 4 Fast Task (Startle) Improved Initiative Precise Shot Luck 2 Startle Powers: 42 + 12 + 8 + 10 + 10 = 82PP Heartburn Array 18.5 (37pp array; Power Feats: 3 Alternate Powers, Accurate 2) [42PP] Base Power: Blast 12 (Feats: Variable Descriptor, Extras: Autofire) [37PP] (Fire/Entropy) (Fire Bolts/Punches) Alternate Power: Blast 10 (Feats: Variable Descriptor, Penetrating 3, Knockback 3, Extras: Area - Burst) [37PP] (Fire/Entropy) (Fireball) Alternate Power: Fatigue 12 (Feats: Variable Descriptor, Extras: Ranged) [37PP] (Heat/Entropy) (Heat Blast) Alternate Power: Strike 9 (Feats: Variable Descriptor, Extras: Aura, Duration 2 - Sustained) [37PP] (Fire/Entropy) (Fire Aura) Flight 6 (500 MPH) [12PP] (Foot Jets!) Armored Nullifier Vest (10 pp Container; Flaws: Hard-To-Lose) [8 pp] Protection 5 (Extras: Impervious) [10 PP] Force Field 5 (Extras: Impervious) [10PP] (Entropic Aura) Immunity 10 (all fire effects) [10PP] DC Block: ATTACK RANGE SAVE EFFECT Unarmed Touch DC 15 Toughness (Staged) Damage Aura Touch DC 24 Toughness (Staged) Damage Blast [Autofire] Ranged DC 27 Toughness (Autofire, Staged) Damage Blast [Burst] Ranged DC 22/27 Reflex (Area)/Toughness (Staged) Damage Fatigue Ranged DC 22 Fort (staged) Fatigued/Exhausted/Unconscious Abilities (10) + Combat (16) + Saving Throws (21) + Skills (10) + Feats (11) + Powers (82) - Drawbacks (00) = 150/153 Power Points

Working Backstory for Outlaw - pre-edits! History: It’s hard to deny, and Jake really won’t even try, that the young hero’s upbringing was fairly cliché. The Cross family owned a plot of land a few miles outside of Hempstead, Texas; not very large, but good earth. A good retirement for a pair of broken-down old heroes; James Cross, alias The Silver Rider, and Harriet Cross-nee-Prophet, alias Ace High. They used to work the streets of Houston for decades, until the Terminus Invasion – as with many across America, they’d flooded with fist and courage into Freedom City, and watched the Centurion fall. In turn, they’d had their own spirits for the life of justice and freedom broken in turn; years of fighting having wore them down. They found themselves working together during the deconstruction, and eventually struck up an acquaintance – ultimately falling in love and choosing to retire together. They actually found it funny they’d never really fallen in together back home – maybe it was just the closeness of death that finally kickstarted it? Or maybe just good luck. Either way, they hung up the mask and cowl and settled down to a simpler life. For a while, at least. To a degree, they honestly didn’t expect the world would last as long as it did, after having seen what Entropy wrought. They even prepared a shelter for the inevitable next invasion…but it never came. It took almost five years for it to truly sink in to them that the world had been saved, in truth. Their neighbours picked up on the change overnight – James found in himself a new zest for improving their home, and began really turning that old house into something special; in turn, Harriet dove headfirst into the mechanics of the machines they used; using her old gadget know-how to turn their old tractor into a force to be reckoned with! The Fieldminator 7000! And, as in all things heroic, they began to notice each other more and more in…er…different ways; beyond the loving company they simply reveled in over the past five years. Took them another two before Jenny finally had a young boy – on March 16th, 2000, Jacob Cross hit the atmosphere. And on March 20th, 2000, lit it on fire. The genes were probably from Harriet’s side, they agreed. Her family had had a legacy of heroism stretching back to the founding of the ‘States, and while James had got his power from an incident with a radioactive horse, it wasn’t something likely to pass down in the family line. Still, he was their kid, even if he had a tendency to burp out a flame now and again. And hey, it meant he’d never want for protection when he grew up, right? In hindsight, the fact that the flames were black and red should have been an indication, but they were so happy with having a child to raise that they ignored it. They did ignore it, too – ignored it as he grew up a happy young boy who would run around chasing the chickens and spooking the horses, ignored it as he went to elementary school in a town a half-hour drive from the farm and showed off the fun smoke signals he could cough out after chugging down a can of Red Bull (and proceed to be hyper as heck the rest of the day), and ignored it right up until the year before he went to high school, and the wrong person heard about the color and shape of those flames. Honestly, it was nobody’s fault that it wasn’t caught sooner. They lived in a pretty rural area, and it wasn’t like the young man was going about burning down houses or causing mayhem. In fact, outside of some shows for his little friends now and again and the occasional declaration to his parents he’d grow up to be a Big Hero like them, or the famous Pale Ranger, or Adam Prophet (his mom raised him on bedtime stories about her great-great-great-great-great-etc. grandpappy), or Emily Swift (Harriet’s personal hero), or whoever had captured his young imagination at the time – he hadn’t really done much to draw big attention to himself. Which meant when a group of The Fellowship kicked in the door one August night, wanting to see if the kid was what they thought it was, it came as one hell of a nasty shock. It was an ugly fight. James and Harriet may have been retired, but they’d been prepared for a Second Terminus Invasion for years – even if they’d fallen off the wagon a few years back. They’d taught their son how to fight, too – how to throw a punch, and how to pack enough firepower into that punch to knock out a thug clean. In turn, this batch of Fellowship agents were damned determined, and they outnumbered the family five to one; sometimes T-babies didn’t want to come quietly, or accept the inevitability of their superiority over the common man. By the end of the mess, the farmhouse was in flames, both Crosses were laid out flat – thankfully alive – and Jake was thrown into the back of an old van, with a slightly singed wild-eyed zealot explaining how he was the new face of the world, how he was blessed by entropy. How they’d seen in that fight that he really was a Terminus-blessed demigod! Jake…didn’t take it well. In fact, he spat in the man’s face, swearing up and down it wasn’t true. Right up until the man lit up his eyes with the fires of Entropy, grinning. He really didn’t take that well. We’ll gloss over the finer details of the situation – the fleatrap motel they hunkered down in, the endless natter about how pleased their superior would be, how awesome it was to find a T-baby this potent, how those two idiots had looked when the door was kicked in; sure, they’d lost half their number to traps, tricks, and good one-two punches, but it was totally worth it. As soon as the teenage T-baby woke up from that catatonic trance, he’d thank them! See, Jake had also grown up knowing what made his parents quit. He knew full well what Omega was, and what he’d done to the hero of heroes. And that thought just kept going through his head, over and over – that what powered him up, that fun little flame, that he’d played with his friends with, that he’d said he was going to be a hero with, had broke his parents and killed so many people and it was in him it was in him it was in him he couldn’t control that he couldn’t use that to help people it had killed people he would kill people he was a monster. He didn’t roast them alive when he woke up, but it was a near thing. Something in him cracked when he finally came to that conclusion. His whole self, restraints and all, lit up in a pyroclasm that set the whole motel ablaze with black fire. He managed to seize some control when he heard the screaming, saw the fleeing figures, and tore the fire back into himself – but the damage was done. And when the firefighters arrived and saw him, and the cops arrived and saw him, and the press arrived and saw him, it was all over but the crying. They returned him home, eventually. After about a day of questioning, suspicion, threats, even a government agent who narrowly ended up having him assigned to some kind of project and a whole lot of supervision – but when his mom came in and hugged him and told him everything was going to be alright, and his dad nearly threw that suited clown out, well…he didn’t quite push them away, but he mutely went with them. Even started to think it wasn’t all bad. First year high school was all that bad – started to feel like he was on a roller coaster, actually. Huge up, then the plummet, and man did it go downhill fast. The press had had a field day with the ‘Dangerous Terminus Child’ living on the ‘Death Ranch’, how he’d only narrowly escaped arrest and censure because of his ‘age’ and how his parents had ‘refused comment’ on how he was going to be kept safe and away from ‘normal’ people. He didn’t get pushed around, mind – when you have to wear a limiter vest (supplied by his mother, who still had the gift with tech), and can still light things on fire with your mind, that’s something nobody’s likely willing to risk – but a guy can feel pretty lonely when nobody’s wanting to even say word one to you. And teachers, well, they have to help you – that’s in their job description – but them throwing shifty eyes to any doorway or window when you start to back-talk and shuffling sideways like they’re about to run; that can wear a teen down pretty fast too. Ultimately? He started skipping more often than going. Then he started running with a rougher crowd that liked what he could do. Laughed when he breathed some sparks, or blew smoke outta his nose, making people jump or run. Didn’t last long, though, when they started to flinch when his temper got up and his arms started to light up. And he wasn’t bad enough to go looking for a gang – even with all that’d happened, his parents still raised him right, damnit. He just finally sort of gave up the whole idea of being anything more than a delinquent. Not quite a bad guy, he couldn’t make that leap; but smoking behind the school, sneering when people flinched, slouching in the back of the classroom – he just gave them what he expected to see. Broke his parents’ hearts to see it, though – least until they got a call from a very concerned citizen in a city they’d been to once or twice… They packed him up with a costume, a letter, a corned beef sandwich for the trip, and a long explanation – one he didn’t quite buy. A new school. Several states away. They weren’t getting rid of him, but he couldn’t learn and grow here, not as things were. There – things would be better. He could be his own person, instead of what they saw or thought. He had family there, old family, who would help him out – the Prophets still had relatives there who knew and loved him, even without meeting him. He could still be a hero, if he tried. It scared them, more than anything else, what might happen to him; but they knew he needed it. Even if he didn’t think he did. So Jake, sixteen, gruff, surly, fearful of himself, and entirely too stuffed to the gills with teenage angst, was sent off to Claremont Academy, Freedom City. He kept the costume – even if he chucked the sandwich halfway through the bus trip and bought a burger instead. Didn’t quite take the original name he’d planned for himself, though. If Claremont wanted him to try to be a hero; and he was still hesitant, a T-baby would never make a good Marshal. But an Outlaw…

Perhaps it was a bit politic of Crow not to mention the primary reason he'd come was to make sure this really wasn't a band of criminals out to rob a legitimate enterprise. After all - when you got paid healthy sums by Daystrom Inc. several years ago to establish a magical security grid on top of their active security, then it would rankle like hell to find out that the company was in fact run by evil bad men who'd broken the law. In this millionaire's case - repeatedly. Oh, Vickie would never let him live it down. As it stood, while she was going through the details, Crow slid down from the ceiling; setting up some small stones, engraved with odd designs, in the background. When she finished, he put the finishing touches on the odd arrangement; took out a slate tablet covered in runes (oddly reminiscent of an iPad, strangely enough) - stepped aside, and nodded. "Good to go."

Edited By Da Durf Okay, made a few tweaks to Crow's Sheet with the return! Three changes - one, letter edits to backstory; there are a LOT of funny artifacts left there from the previous forum which I never fixed! And tweaking the Spoiler so it actually HIDES things. Two, updating some Caps. 11 PP to spend, and I did so thusly! 2 PP - Constitution 20 (+5) (Fortitude +1, Toughness +1) 1 PP - Dodge Focus 9 2 PP - Fortitude +8 3 PP - Reflex +10 3 PP - Will +8 I've got some ideas for a Drawback to represent his reason for disappearing, but I'll deal with that once the basics are handled. Thanks, to whatever Ref does this!

A rasping voice from above, in the rafters. "Extremely valuable, extremely dangerous, and extremely annoying. Pick two." Any eyes looking up would have seen a black silhouette, perched high - smoke slowly curling from spots on his coat, shot-through with silver thread. Strange runes, odd designs - they mesmerized if you stared at them too long. The same designs were carved into a matte-grey mask covering the top half of a tanned face, the mask in a vaguely avian shape, glowing a very low red as they fixed on each person present at the table. The acrid scent of brimstone began to waft through the room. Those present could likely guarantee - he hadn't been in there when they arrived. And the door was still shut. ...and when did the Doritos bags appear on the table? "I brought snacks."

Working Crunch - Mark Five Power Level: 10 (150 PP) Trade-Offs: None Abilities: 8 + 4 - 10 + 8 + 4 + 0 = 14 PP Strength 30/18 (+10/+4) Dexterity 14 (+2) Constitution - (-) Intelligence 30/18 (+10/+4) Wisdom 14 (+2) Charisma 10 (+0) Combat: 12 + 12 = 24 PP Attack: +6 (+10 Adaptive Systems) Defense: +10 (+6 Base, +4 Dodge Focus) Initiative: +2 Grapple: +23/+10 Knockback: -10/-5/-2 Saving Throws: 0 + 5 + 6 = 11 PP Toughness: +10/+4 (+4 CON, +6 Protection) Fortitude: - Reflex: +7 (+2 DEX, +5) Will: +8 (+2 WIS, +6) Skills: 52r = 13 PP Computers 8 (+12/+18) Gather Information 5 (+5) Intimidate 5 (+5) Knowledge (behavioral sciences) 4 (+8/+14) Knowledge (physical sciences) 4 (+8/+14) Knowledge (technology) 4 (+8/+14) Knowledge (life sciences) 4 (+8/+14) Medicine 2 (+6/+12) Notice 8 (+10) Sense Motive 8 (+10) Feats: 15 PP Dodge Focus 4 Equipment 4 (Need to make a Spaceship!) Improved Grab Luc k Master Plan Online Research Speed Of Thought Uncanny Dodge (auditory) Well-Informed Powers: 36 + 30 + 1 + 1 + 6 = 73 PP Adaptive Systems, 30 PP Array (Power Feats: Accurate 2, Alternate Power 4) [36 PP] Base: Enhanced Intelligence 12 [12 PP] + Quickness 4 (x25, Flaws: Mental Only) [2 PP] + Comprehend (Electronics) 2 [4 PP] + Datalink 9 (anywhere on planet, Power Feats: Machine Control) [10 PP] + Enhanced Feats 2 (Improvised Tools, Jack-of-All-Trades) [2 PP] (Core Interface System) (Lower the INT, toss the Feats, what to do with the rest?) Alternate Power: Enhanced Strength 12 [12 PP] + Impervious Toughness 10 [10 PP] + Super-Strength 3 (Effective Lifting Strength 45, Power Feats: Shockwave, Thunderclap) [30 PP] (Physical Augmentation System) Alternate Power: Blast 10 (Extras: Autofire 1) [30 PP] (Particle Projector System) Alternate Power: Immunity 30 (Will effects, Extras: Duration [sustained], Flaws: Limited to Half) [15 PP] + Damage 6 (Extras: Alternate Save (Will), Power Feats: Improved Critical 2, Stunning Attack) [15 PP] (Reactive Cyberwarfare System) (Change to Impervious Will + Reflective?) Alternate Power: Nullify Technology 10 [30 PP] (Electromagnetic Pulse System) Immunity (Fortitude effects) 30 [30 PP] Immunity (aging) 1 [1 PP] Feature 1 (Flashlight) [1 PP] Protection 6 [6 PP] (Computronium Plating) Abilities (14) + Combat (24) + Saving Throws (13) + Skills (11) + Feats (15) + Powers (73) - Disadvantages (0) = 150/150 PP

Crow sez "Need magic talking runestones/cellphones?" So, who be our Miranda Zero?

"Yeah, listen to the smart one! Let's not take the cuffs off th' crazy woman with burninatin' powers in a tight space!" Breaker called over, clambering off of Arrowhawk and dusting himself off. Disgustingly, it didn't look like the bulky guy had even taken a bruise from the manhandling - though he didn't look directly at Sandstone. On the positive side, however, he hadn't taken a bruise! Already he was doing better than the last time he fought her! Not taking more time to boast, the big lug lunged forward - massive arms outstretched. Years of experience navigating chaotic gang brawls, combined with speed deceptive to his bulk, enabled him to easily skid through the melee - the Warden and the guard he'd talked to earlier now under his arms. Rather unceremoniously, he dropped the two into the elevator and out of the line of fire - now using his massive shoulders and hulking bulk to block the doorway. Sharp eyes picked out the remaining guards on the floor - he'd have to go for them next. A big hand pointed back at the sandy villainess - and the sound of super-powered knucklecracks filled the air. "A'ight. You're my huckleberry. Wanna try that one again?"

Sorry for the delay, had a weekend of murder and didn't get much time for any of my games. T_T Breaker's going to spend this turn (and an HP) to get enough Move Actions to shift the Warden and the married guard out of the line of fire - toss 'em in the elevator. Next turn, though? PUNCHINGS.

Ho boy. Okay, Impervious 10 wouldn't proc on this, which means... DC 27 Toughness save! Ah crap! (1d20+10=30) Well, on the positive side, at least thumping into an old man doesn't hurt!

Crow >In The Shadow Of Sin (Gold) >We've Got To Stop Meeting Like This! Breaker >Cry For Justice

INITIATIVE! (1d20+2=4) Slow Breaker is slow.

Well, something's gonna get broken. Breaker's going to swing left and haul on the fire alarm, hoping the sprinklers will cool down Ember and Gamma a bit - and give him a harder target on Sandstone to punch. He'll take her to a really fancy restaraunt to make up for it! REALLY fancy! Sucker punch! (1d20+10=28) DC 25 Toughness save!

"Awww..." Breaker did sound major league crushed when she said that, followed by the warden getting stolen right under his nose. His shoulders dropping along with his head - and Crimson Tiger could have sworn she saw his mohawk droop slightly. Face was a picture of sad - darnit, being good was going to be a lot harder than initially thought. After all, he couldn't let Ember and the rest of these bums get out and wreak havoc - good guy or not, the amount of collateral damage unleashed would be unacceptable. Everyone behind him in the elevator saw his mighty hands clenched. Which meant...aw, man. "I'm...sorry y'feel that way, love." Breaker's eyes flicked left, having noticed something before, before flicking back to her turned-around head. "Aw, heck...an' I'm real sorry about this." "Wha-" That was about as much as Sandstone got out - see, there was one thing Markus recalled. The last time he and Sandy had tussled - he wasn't able to bench a cement truck. Now, however? Here's hoping they shorted out the nullifier cuffs on this level; he lunged left, one hand seizing the fire alarm and hauling downwards. Now, he just had to hope the timing was right - eyes watched the sprinklers in the ceiling as mighty thews bunched underneath his orange jumpsuit, and those powerful pistons he called legs propelled him forward like a runaway freight train; a thunderous right heading straight for the side of her head! Rather incongruously - he wondered if he could make up for it with flowers. Aw, man.

Breaker'd been about to respond when the Warden spoke up, and his face got longer with each bit of explanation. "Wait, you mean that crazy bi-...what...aw, hell naw - she's a Psion?" Oh, that big man's face was a picture. Rule number seventy-seven of the underground - never go to work for groups who can have their mental issues/status classified en-masse. "Sandy, are you nuts? Busting out a buddy's one thing, but she's a ticking time bomb." The mohawk shook from side to side as he put up both his hands, wincing. Damnit, here he was trying to go straight, and already calling back to what he used to do. The warden was going to deny his parole for, like, ever. At least until his 'hawk turned gray. Effin' joyful. "You know the rules - no collateral damage, hon', that's how we operate - makes our guys a whole lot better'n the crazy ones. Lettin' a loose cannon like this out's just gonna complicate things like whoa. Ya can still get the hell outta dodge here - clear out before somebody that don't deserve it gets hurt!" Breaker adopted an earnest expression, still standing between the others and the villains - sure, his parole'd be screwed, but if she took it there wouldn't be a breakout, and he wouldn't have to swing for the fences! Win-win, right? Shame things never go that smooth.

Subtle. I'm stick. You're carrot. I'll put the fear of God in them. Anyone tries something, you put them down. Fast and hard. There was a small, very cold, smile underneath that mask - not that anyone could see it. This was why Crow existed - this was why the persona took to the rooftops, the streets, and the darkling corridors between worlds. To keep innocents safe, and so vicious bastards like this would be kept in check. You ask the questions. They talk, they walk. They don't talk, we remind them why they don't want us paying visits. He didn't notice anything off as he slipped around the side of the partying crowd - eyes picking out notable fights here and there. The murderer might be one of them - but he doubted it. Still...hard cases, the lot of them. Monsters - without even a pretense to mask it. At least the fair folk pretended to a veneer of civility, hiding their own barbarism and cruelty behind pretty words and manners. Murderous beasts. ...damn them all. A cold snarl twisted his mouth as he reached the spot he'd picked - staring out over the room. Crow didn't say a word, merely adjusting his posture just so. His coat hem brushed the floor - his hands resting in the pockets. His shoulders hunched a hair forward - the cowl over his head dipping low enough to appear as if a bird of prey's beak hung...a hair over the knight's shoulder. The Iron Mask stared - pitiless and cold - out over the crowd. The runes glowing just enough to send those wisps of smoke up; wreathing the snarl on his face like a devil out of the very pits. The concealing rune slowly dissipated - and that figure slowly coalesced into being behind the Black Knight. I love this part.

Right then. Crow's going to first pass De Plan to Blodeuwedd (short form - he's the stick, she's the carrot. And the carrot is ON FIRE.), then he's going to sneakity-sneak-sneak up to behind the Black Knight's throne. Real sneaky-like. Then he's gonna just stand there, all quiet, and tilt his head juuuust right. And then slowly drop the Concealment. And take-20 on Intimidate with Skill Mastery. DC 30 save against that from EVERYBODY please. > (Except Blod, 'cos she's awesome).

"...oh, blimey." A quiet part of Breaker's mind noted - it would be just his luck to, within one day, run into a) the girl who folded him up in one punch, and b ) the crush who flung him across a stadium with one punch. The other part of him was busy staring somewhat slack-jawed, with a similar poleaxed expression to before. Breaker blinked a few times, then shook his head to clear his mind - actually managing to give a hoarse laugh. "Good grief - Sandy! What th' ruddy 'ell! Hah!" He didn't step up and give her a hug (that would be awkward as hell), but he put up a brofist for pounding - stepping forward for that (and coincidentally interposing his massive frame between the innocents in the elevator and the villains in front; probably inadvertent, that. Probably). His free hand, behind his back, promptly started waving the others down. Ho boy. "Heh, not anymore. Made early parole on good behavior - if ya'd been here ten minutes ago, ya'd have been bustin' me outta that cell!" A chuckle. "So, who's gettin' the early release there?" Markus's thoughts were racing as he took in the rather incongruous situation - and the villains. He'd heard of Gamma, never worked with him - guy was a danger to himself and others. Hadn't operated with Downtime either (though from what he'd heard he'd be an okay guy to toss a few beers back with, if you could handle a lot of boasting). Sandstone was...well, Sandstone (though now was hardly the time to be thinking of a dinner date). And he had no idea who the prisoner was. Which was even worse. Blimey was putting it mildly.

"...oh, blimey." Breaker stopped stock-still, staring into the elevator with the air of a man who'd just been poleaxed between the legs. Which, all things considered, wasn't a half-bad metaphor for what that red-clad tosser had done to him Southside not that long ago. He wondered if she was just as surprised as he was - which lead to an excellent question of why she was here. She didn't strike him as the sort who'd end up tossed into the old nick...well, not unless she kicked someone's head off. Though given she'd folded him up in one punch, that wasn't out of the realm of possibility... He tossed a look at Joe, purely quizzical-like, and turned back to give a somewhat awkward hello; when the lights abruptly went emergency red. And the alarms started sounding. And the speakers started screaming. And the floor started shaking. "...uh." The large bruiser stood there for a moment, taking in the situation again; then gave a somewhat awkward look to both the Warden and the heroine. "I didn't do it?"

Markus blinked from his position near the ceiling - a chin-up bar having been installed (and triple-bolted, and reinforced, and distinctly anti-super-strength'd) only a few days prior. It was a temporary thing, and he'd had to ask for months before they'd let him have it; but still...totally worth it. Upper body strength, ho! And, to boot, it made for a great timekiller. If he wasn't jogging or doing push ups/sit ups, he was going up and down on the bar. Usually whistling rebellious rap music while he was doing it. Stereotype, thy name is Markus Flynt. His mohawk, slightly squished from being pushed against the ceiling glass, sprang back into place as he dropped heavily; shaking the floor a bit. A wave before the guard started talking - with a grin in his direction. "Aaaah, mornin', Joe! How's th' missus? That bellyache gone yet?" He'd done his best to be a model inmate (at least when he wasn't winning at prisoner poker nights), and building a rapport with the guards was a good idea. The hulking bulk of the ex-gang boss moseyed on over to the door, hearing that he was to be let out 24 hours early - and the only thing that kept him from skipping was the new inmate's death glare. Matter of fact, he wasn't really overly chuffed to see that sorta glare on a day when his parole was finally going through; so he matched it with a real cool stare of his own. Heck - he even quipped. "...huh. Looks like somebody woke up on th' wrong side of th' bed this morning." Beat. "Or fell off."

Feh. Redcaps. Crow was terrorizing over their weight class when he was in his early teens. Activating full Concealment, and approaching with STEALTH CHECK (1d20+15=29). Let's remind them why we don't cotton to their kind hangin' around our city's forests, hm?

Feh. Redcaps. Crow grimaced under his mask, and held up a hand to forestall Blodeuwedd. He flashed her a look, and murmured the word "Redcaps" between his teeth, leaning against the wall of the tunnel. Vicious blighters - the thugs of the faerie world. Granted, he'd punched well above their weight class from the get-go, but the blood-dipping bastards were still troublesome to deal with in numbers. Faugh, nothing more than insects. It amuses me that they trouble you. Shut up. The grimace changed more to a slight smile, though, when he realized precisely what he'd just thought. The thugs of the faerie world - and a superstitious, cowardly lot by definition. Granted, it wasn't something that he normally approved of (especially against the more benign ones) - but once in a while, though...the fair folk really did deserve a reminder why they were forced into the hidden places. He wondered if they had dipped their caps recently...especially since, on reflection, their close proximity to this exit could mean nothing good. "...divide, conquer, subdue, interrogate." Crow murmured to Blodeuwedd - slowly fading from view. The last thing she saw was the shadows of his hood swallowing up a cheshire smile, underneath that mask. Then the tunnel was devoid of all but her. "...have fun."

Crow gritted his teeth and tried to force his way through, but the electric current was playing merry hell with his muscles. He struggled again, and spat - a spark striking up where loogie met stone. Mathair na trocaire, this was no time to be dealing with a stubborn deathtrap! Faugh, extreme measures, she says. Damn that Warden, damn his hide, and damn his eyes - he'd have cursed him if he could draw more than short breaths! A voice in his head promised something, that if he found him before Blodeuwedd, Jay, or the Raven... He'd wish he'd never been born. One part of Crow didn't like that, though. Two parts did, but one part didn't. It was a quiet part in times like this. A very quiet part. It didn't speak very often when business was being done - that wasn't how it was meant to operate. But sometimes...it had to. Through a clenched jaw, nearly forced shut by the current coursing through his jaw muscles, he managed to eke out a growled "GO." And Blodeuwedd gained the distinct impression that now would be a very good time for extreme measures.