Search the Community
Showing results for tags 'ic'.
-
Freedom College, Freedom City, USA Friday, January 13th, 2012 The last class of the day had let out, at least as far as Carson was concerned. And he was glad; the first week back after winter break was always hard. The students never wanted to focus. Luckily, he'd managed to get them involved in a few simple exercises and focus that nervous energy into something other than spitballs and love notes. "Just another day in the office..." "Mister Keefe, sir?" "Hm? Oh, yes, uh...Jessica, wasn't it? What can I help you with?" "Well, I just wanted to give you this book. It's got some short skits I'd like to try doing in class this semester." "Hm. I'll take a look and see what I can work in. Let me see....That's odd. I've never heard of this author before." "You wouldn't have, not here." "What? Why...oh, my head." The contact chemical that coated the paperback took hold, and Carson started to bonelessly collapse. "Jessica" calmly caught him in deceptively small arms, before pulling out an odd-looking metal and plastic disc that she slapped on the middle of the teacher's chest, before gently laying him on the ground and gathering his papers up. The disc started to beep faster and faster, but she still had enough time to extract his keys. "I'll make sure these get put away, Sir. It's the least I can do..." And with a flash of light and a sound like tearing silk, Carson Finbar Keefe was gone from Earth Prime.
-
The building wasn't much to look at, if one was being brutally honest. Like a lot of structures in the West End, it was two storeys tall, designed to be a place for business on the ground level with small living apartments on the second floor. The space for a sign was empty and evidently had been for a while if the weathering was any indication, not to mention the birds' nest tucked in between the top of the large placard and the window sill above it. The large windows were filthy enough to make them nearly opaque and the hinges on the door were probably going to need to be replaced altogether. Despite all that, the young, dusty brown haired man in the wool-lined coat standing on the sidewalk in front of it, keys spinning around his finger jauntily, grinned broadly enough to show pearly teeth as he regarded the building. "Perfect."
-
Second Week of January 2012 Christmas and New Years were not a particularly meaningful holiday for Sharl, lacking a cultural understanding of the holiday and a chronological mindset that made the change between one year and the next relevant to his day-to-day life. It wasn't even like he'd gone onto a new grade at Claremont yet, something that made all this talk of school years seem terribly archaic. But things had gone pretty well for him; he'd gotten a house upgrade from Miss Americana that he was still customizing; the incredible, sinful luxury of another five rooms to himself, not to mention a simulated animal to tend to, was still something he was trying to wrap his mind around. Home and how different it was from Claremont had been on his mind lately: he'd managed a trip back home during the school holiday to visit his family in Tronik and to do some more superheroing in his home city, where the "mysterious Citizen" had gotten a chance to pull off some pretty impressive feats of derring-do, culminating in a spectacular rescue of a sinking exploratory ship on its way to visit the new set of islands Leroj had helped raise at the end of the previous month. No one on the outside had seen that, and maybe none of them would care, but he'd still felt good about it coming out. And that, he thought, had been that until Mr. Summers had summoned him and all of Young Freedom into his office the first day they were all back on campus after the Christmas break. Even with Mrs. Harcourt, by no means Sharl's favorite teacher, as their chaperone, Sharl was inordinately happy: they were going back to the Sanctum, the place that held his home, and with any luck his friends would be able to see it for themselves! With his usual laptop as his companion, Sharl put aside his house and went to work studying the school's files on the Sanctum again, heedless of the Arctic winter outside their jetplane window. After all, the Sanctum was one of the great repositories of super-tech on Earth, as well as the home of his home city: he'd better know something about it!
-
Ellie Espadas rarely had difficulty finding things to occupy her days. Even with her natural aptitude and the considerable knowledge she'd already accrued, her pre-med course load at Freedom City University was proving more difficult than she'd honestly expected, merging into a blur of lectures, exams and papers. Thankfully her prodigious capability for memory retention saved her from spending too much time studying and reviewing, freeing her nights for racing about the rooftops of the West End as Jill O'Cure, the metamagi medic and one of the more consistent members of the ever-shifting roster of the Interceptors. Even on top of all that, she managed to squeeze in time volunteering at local hospitals and clinics, learning from experienced physicians while surreptitiously using her superhuman abilities to make a difference where she could. With all of those juggled responsibilities, it had taken considerable effort and cunning to clear her schedule for an entire day. She'd gotten a head start on essays, called in favours and swapped shifts. Not many events would have been worth the effort. Today, however, was. Today was Mara Hallomen's birthday and, arriving at the engineer's apartment in Parkside, Ellie was determined to dedicate the entire day to celebrating it properly.
-
For all its wonders, Freedom City could be a dangerous place and it was a sad fact that the metropolis was home to more than its fair share of orphaned children. Fitting for a city known for rebirth from the ashes and undying resolution, many of those orphans had grown to become wealthy industrialists, expose-writing journalists, well known photographers and so on. Their legacy meant that Freedom boasted one of the best developed and funded social services programs in the nation. Even so, there never seemed to be quite enough beds, food or cheer to go around, particularly during the holiday season. Keith LaMarr had first become aware of the Santa's Super Helpers charity through his friend Reverend Stone of Lincoln's Church of the Eternal Rock of Justice. The concept was elegant in its simplicity: local superheroes volunteered to dress up in the traditional red and white suit of the jolly elf and spend the day with underprivileged youths at Millennium Mall, bringing some cheer in their own right and drawing much needed attention to the cause at the same time. Jingling bells next to a hanging pot taken to the logical extreme - at least logical by Freedom's standards. Certain bylaws unfortunately made it prohibitively difficult to have heroes participate in their secret identities, so those who's true names were public knowledge were typically approached. It was thus that the earsplitting educator known as Wail stepped into the bustling shopping center from the temporary changing area with a fluffy brimmed hat atop his bald head and bright red across his broad chest, stroking his grey streaked beard through a black glove that matched his boots and wide, gold-buckled belt, looking at though he could shake considerably more than a bowlful of jelly with his super-dense footfalls. The other two heroes in attendance were no less eye catching. The presence of Amir Al-Misri, the high-profile billionaire playboy turned superhero, assured a substantial media presence. His reputation as an irresponsible fop and dilettante would have raised LaMarr's eyebrow more if not for the good things he'd heard about the man as Asad, the energy absorbing metahuman. Neither of them was much comeptition for sheer visual impact next to Louis Ross, the popular cartoonist who's transformation into one of his one, massive, four-armed creations was almost too fantastical to believe. Wail knew he'd seen stranger things than the genial artist's demonic appearance in his decades of experience, but he was hard pressed to name more than a few off hand.
-
Eclipse Nightclub 11st December 2011 The club look eerie in the cold night air, an effect the owners had spent a lot of effort to achieve. This effect wasn’t reduced by the music pumping out of the building; after all it was the music that everyone was her for. And there was a rumor, always rumors, that tonight someone special was here. Someone who would take the lucky girl, or boy, to special places where they would be the special as well. Though the crowd she moved catching a fair numbers of the cueing crowd’s eye. She wasn’t especially tall, even in those impossibly tall heels, but she carried herself with a detached superiority. Her impossibly porcelain pale skin caused whisper through some of the cue that she was one of them. It was true that it was almost impossible to wear a corset that tight and still be able to breath, but even in Freedom city one wouldn’t be that obvious? She ignored all that, and the fact that everyone was queuing, and went straight to the bouncer at the door. “I’m here to see him.†it was a statement not a request.
-
Rooftop of Floyds Bar and Grill 1st December 2011 GM He shouldn’t be doing this he thought for the hundredth time as he paced the flat roof top of the bar. From below the sound of the bar drifted up, it was shaping up to be a good night down there. He had good, well cheap, whiskey waiting for him downstairs and it would be so easy to leave and go back downstairs. But they shouldn’t have done that to Mike, yeah so he squealed, but it was just too much. A simple bullet to the head yeah, only to be expected, but not this strange mystical Mumbo-Jumbo. Hands shaking he lit himself a cigarette. So he’d just tell these heroes nothing, well maybe a hint or two about Mike…
-
November 20, 2011 Southside It was unusual for criminals to talk so openly in lit areas, in Whiplash's experience. But the four men standing under the streetlights weren't even trying to be subtle. They hadn't bothered to retreat to an unlit alley or corner, the only concession to privacy being to lower their voices as they hissed and bickered. Whiplash herself watched from an alley, where she'd been forced to descend to ground level to hear the conversation. "He'll kill us if we don't bring him the money!" "Well, maybe we can... dispose of the guy responsible, instead." "You expect to find Johnny now?! We only have a couple of hours before the meet!" "Doesn't have to be Johnny, does it? He doesn't know who took it. We find someone, blame them, give ourselves some time, right?" "Yeah, like that'll work!" "Got any better ideas?!" Whiplash remained hidden and silent. Four was too many to take on by herself. She had a kid to think about. Besides, if she waited, these guys might lead her to their boss. So long as they didn't hurt anyone.
-
previously on Something Fishy GM Bessie crossed the Lindroos Bridge, passed through Kingston bringing an unusual sight to the uniform suburbs, and finally arrived in North Bay, where the houses and buildings left place for a red, yellow and brown wall, made of maple and oak trees, hiding the mansions and villas behind a barrier of autumn colors shining beautifully in the sunlight. Bessie lifted clouds of dry leaves as Steam drove her towards the ambassador’s address. The mansion called the Purple Porch appeared behind a high laurel hedge. It was a Victorian mansion, built in Queen Anne style; it was painted with a faint yellow in and growing up to two stories and an attic set below a very steep roof covered in dark tiles; Bessie seemed almost more fit to be in the yard than the Audi A8 currently parked there. The mansion was slightly below road level, built so that the back yard would end in a small beach facing Great Bay. "Purple Porch" was probably inaccurate as a nickname, though. "Giant Purple Portico" was more precise in describing how the villa greeted the guests: a large portico held by five columns, all covered in a climbing plant still brightly green, and sporting giant purple flowers as wide as Frisbee disks, in complete contrast to the surrounding flora, flowerless and covered in autumnal colors. The fine gravel cracked under the shoes as the trio got out of the car.
-
October 23rd, 2011. How do you get a bunch of superheroes to meet? Mostly it seemed like chance and circumstance were the best ways. And fortunately circumstance and his money had become a bit of a confluence. He had passed his contact info amongst various people during the Harvestfair, where a bunch of heroes had been. All he hoped was that someone would listen. And then the press conference three days earlier helped. So a meeting was arranged, he had sent out invites to the responses he got, and to some he didn't get. "I apologize for the impersonal nature of this, but you likely are aware of my recent efforts. As such I wish to discuss with you the possibility of affiliating yourself with what I am building. I prose a meeting atop the opera house. 7 P.M. on the 23rd of October. Myself and King of Suits will be there, barring some catastrophe that might arise." It was a little form letter-ish and he regretted that as he raced with Weaver towards Hanover on the Arug. But it looks like he wasn't going to be make his appointment, a call to the contact information he had for King, and he hoped everything would go smoothly in his absence. though it was more a little fear, than something legitimate. He understood he could not force things to go according to plan, as right now showed.
-
November 11, 2011 Erin White's Apartment One of the advantages of being able to jump from continent to continent was that if you wanted to go to your friend's birthday, you could just take advantage of the Armistice Day celebrations that gave most UN employees the day off and walk right over to Freedom City. So it was that when Erin White reached the age of nineteen, her high school friend and ally against the Terminus, Mark Lucas, just headed over to her place around ten AM eastern standard time, a big package under his arm fresh from a nice store in Switzerland. They'd all exchanged addresses before they'd moved out their various ways, so it was no trouble even for the usually scatter-brained Mark to find exactly where his old ally and Liberty League comrade was living these days, for all that he hadn't visited her there. He knocked firmly, whistling a jaunty tune.
-
Hours after word had reached Sanctuary from Earth-Prime of the Gorgon's defeat and the ended threat, the relocation of the evacuated populace was in full swing. It would take days to return everyone to their homes, but thanks to significant foresight and high spirits stemming from relief, thing were going as smoothly as could be hoped. Overlooking the procession from hill nearby Stesha's cottage, Erik Espadas sat on the grass divested of his alter-ego's costume and generally trying to stay out of the way. While the world's greatest scientific minds and space-borne heroes had faced the planet-killer head on, the street level swordsman was forced to admit that the threat had been well out of his own weight class. Instead, he'd done what he could in keeping Willow away from the influence of her 'elder sister' after the controlled dryad's nearly disastrous rampage through the West End. Looking over to the slender, white haired woman, he was silent for a moment before beginning, "So. We should probably talk, huh?"
-
Mara had been rather dreading this moment. Setting up the business was a lot of annoying logistics and paperwork; interviewing her new employees was just this side of headache-inducing stress and anxiety. But at some point a couple of the local newsgroups had caught wind that a 20-year-old was starting a successful new technology company, and with Halloween just ended and Thanksgiving too far away they'd decided to make a thing out of it. She wasn't quite sure how word had gotten to them. She rather suspected a couple of her failed interviewees; the one with the neck tattoo especially had seemed a little vindictive when she (figuratively) tore his work apart. It wasn't her fault his technology was lethally radioactive.... right - public speech - focus She took a deep breath for about the fifteenth time, adjusting her suit jacket for the twentieth. probably something witty to say here - 'showtime'? - note to self - think up wittier lines
-
Moving a couch was much, much easier to do when you could stuff the couch into a spatial fold and pull it back out where ever you darn well pleased. Less lifting, less backache, less sweating. No uncomfortable questions about how, exactly, she'd gotten it up there and into her apartment: she had an even stricter set of requirements for her new living space than she'd had for her new business building, and one of them had been no neighbor access. The building was old but reliable, and the front door led to only two things: a well-secured, windowless emergency stairwell, and an elevator. Not cheap, but she could afford it, and it wasn't expense for the sake of expense - the building was nondescript and she'd chosen her piece of it for things besides the price tag. Let the big business billionaires spend money on fancy, state-of-the-art apartments just to show off their wealth; she'd happily go with something comfortable and reliable with a hell of a view.
-
Friday, October 28th 5:39 PM It was another quiet day at the Black Petal Cafe, and Eric LaCroix was pretty happy about that. It had actually been a rather quiet month - ever since the incident at the Parkhurst, it had been a good month of simple dealings with the restless dead and the occasional exorcism for flavor. Every so often there'd been an attempt at a robbery, or maybe the occasional cackling supervillain, but things had been pretty sedate on the heroing front. It was good to have some time to think on things and not have to deal with a major crisis. Of course, the Halloween weekend was starting up, and who knew what would come with that, but for now, it was time meant to savor. He was in the middle of preparing a double-shot caramel latte when something pinged the distance edge of his senses. Someone dead was in the coffee shop. He scanned the crowd - no one looked like parts of them were falling off, or even had the pallor of the recently deceased. There weren't any obvious ghosts, and a poltergeist likely would've made more noise by now. He filed it away in the back of his head, waiting for the time to go on dish-clearing duty to see if he could scope out the specter. He handed the latte off to the customer and took the register once more. "Welcome to the Black Petal," he said. "How may I help you today?"
-
As the young man in the long black coat, beaten fedora and concealing sunglasses strode purposefully through Lantern Hill, it looked at first as though he would walk right by the Parkhurst Hotel, ignoring just as everyone else did. Instead, however, it seemed he was only traveling further up the street to get a better lay of the land around the apparently decrepit building before returning to its entrance. Trevor Hunter was quite so susceptible to the subtle suggestion of apathy rolling off of the building as the average person and he had taken pains to make sure he was in the right place. Without further pause, he knocked three times on the door, solid and sure.
-
October 15th (Saturday), 2011, 6:45 AM Outside the Riverdance Cafè The very first lights of dawn emerged from the far horizon line, painting of a lighter blue sky and sea alike and pushing the darkness towards the Wharton State Forest. In the cold air of a Saturday morning, Riverside looked significantly less stylish and enjoyable than just a few hours before: of the plethora of students and artists who stood drinking and talking and playing in the paved streets all that was left were cigarette butts and a couple of abandoned beer bottles and cocktail glasses. Very few people were already awake, and even fewer were still awake. Among the latter was detective Beck. His tall and thin figure stood in the silence, the red and blue lights of his parked car flashing upon his cheap brown suit. A couple of uniformed cops were securing the area, a third one was talking with a dazzled garbage man. Beck caressed his mustache. He was trying to grow it to look older, but he still looked very much like a rookie. The corpse before his eyes had dark green hair, slightly webbed hands and was wearing a breastplate carved out of a Turtleshark shell. Here’s my first night shift he thought. Ugh. Atlantean. Days would go by before we get authorization to pursue this investigation...
-
November 3, 2011 Somewhere in the Wharton State Forest Mark Lucas hated Nazis, which made it all the more awkward to be here in the middle of a growing crowd of them. His long-sleeved "Don't Tread On Me" T-shirt hid his lack of white supremacist tattoos, but his blonde hair cut very short let him look very much like an Aryan poster boy. This was not really reassuring to Mark, but this was the sort of thing you did when you took up the legacy of the greatest Nazi fighters in the world. He tried to remember his conversation with Cannonade that had brought them all there: Greta Ratner, aka the Aryan Angel, or as his UNISON file had described her "Britney Spears meets Eva Braun" was one of the most famous neo-Nazis in the country: there weren't many beautiful blonde eighteen-year-olds willing to shake their booty in the name of racial purity. But Greta had, through her own channels, approached Cannonade (the very face of skinhead superheroes) and asked for help: she was worried that her latest concert was going to be attacked by her many enemies, and that meant she needed a superhero to help. Of course it was a trap. You couldn't trust Nazis, even if they were hot blondes from the Midwest. Which meant instead of just one hero, the Liberty League was out in force! Even if Cannonade would be the only one the Nazis would be able to see in uniform. Hmming, sipping his Coke, Mark walked around the gathering crowd, looking for familiar faces.
-
With such a diverse student body, the Claremont Academy dormitories featured a number of unique rooms. Some of the teenagers living there required specific conditions to better replicate their native environments or furniture constructed of materials that would be proof against their own abilities. Others had cultural concerns or entirely personal preferences. The school went to considerable lengths to ensure that all such considerations were accounted for, but for two of the newer enrollees, even the basic room design was superfluous. Kimber floated idly in lazy circles just below the ceiling of the room she shared with Indira, making a close study every nook and cranny as she attempted to while away the hours in the middle of the night. The space below was spartan indeed, with neither girl having much to contribute beyond the standard beds and desks that had already been there when they arrive. Of the former, neither had much use as for their own reasons they had no need to sleep; in fact, they might have been cut off from electricity and heat without noticing, the necessities of living humans meaningless to them. Unfortunately, with the vast majority of the city needing to rest for the night, it was very easy to become bored. Having completed her thorough examination of the long crack in the ceiling for the umpteenth time, the translucent blue phantom heaved a sigh before turning downward to address her Kinigosi friend. For whatever reason, she'd taken to shifting the appearance of her clothes to flannel pajammas at night, purely as an affectation. "D'you think they'd let us paint the room a more interesting colour?" she inquired without warning or preamble.
-
Tuesday, September 13, 2011 11:46 AM Riverside Park, Riverside The Sentry Statue was not what most people saw when they first entered Freedom City, but it was the city's most famous landmark. Almost any citizen, and certainly any hero, could have found it, which was why Liz Moya chose it for a meeting place with Young Britannia. There was a bench there, between the Statue's legs; Liz was sitting there in tan slacks and a bulky green sweater. She had told the other heroine to look for the sweater and the messenger bag she used to haul her schoolbooks around in, but with the lowering skies and colder temperatures (a side-effect, they said, of the Gorgon's approach) the outfit was eminently practical as well. The student-hero had intended to sit there and keep an eye out for the fellow light manipulator, but she wasn't always the most patient person. The young woman decided to spend her extra time studying, and at the moment was nose-deep in a history book, trying to memorize the procession of US presidents. It was a subject she personally found mind-numbing, but it was required for her coursework so she bent all of her concentration to the task.
-
GM In most cities there are a few of these special places, tuck away only know to the locals and the lucky souls who know about such places. This was one such places a Jazz club tucked between two building looks totally innocuous, no signs showed where or what the club was called. The club had no official name but most called it after the one of freedom's cities finest jazz musician who use to play there during it heyday of the 20's and 30's Chester's. It had survived everything from the Great Depression to more recent events. The club was currently owned by Bobby Johnson who claimed to be over 90 but only looked around half his age. The only reason people believed him was that he could remember details of things that happened since the late 20's in meretricious detail. Thanks to his efforts the club was filled was jazz of all kinds all day's with the best acts even being payed for the pleasure. Of cause in the evening the best act would own the stage and Bobby would sit in the corner holding court and listening to the acts.
-
Johnny stood outside the door leading into the small apartment in little India on Freedom's West Side. For a moment, he hesitated, debating on whether to knock or not. Stalling, he checked over his clothes, a nice lightweight beige slacks and a white cotton button down shirt which hung nicely off his broad athletic shoulders, and decided again for the thousandth time that they would have to do. Which left him staring at the door in front of him. Inside, he hoped, was the girl he had met at the Renascence fair. Who, beyond being very pleasant company for the afternoon, also seemed to do just fine while tangling with dragons. He still was stunned and surprised at how that had all turned out. Which led to him being here, on a Friday afternoon, at the door of a girl he had only met once and only had walked around the fair with. "Well she did offer to teach you the Charleston..." he said quietly to himself. If she was in, and if she hadn't been kidding, he had found a band that could play all sorts of swing pieces. That coincided with a dance hall which didn't mind renting the space for a few hours as long as they could have some of their own students practicing as well. Perhaps it was a little forward, but it had taken a fair amount of work to find Lucy and her small apartment, so he figured why not? Searching archives of the city's papers as well as some internet work had uncovered scant little information on her. Although it narrowed down the areas she seemed to work in. Her home had been harder to find and required both some deduction as well as asking a lot of people in the area if they had seen a "pale, elegant, woman perhaps in her 20's". It had taken a couple of days and some greased palms, but he had a place and here he was. The moment of indecision passed, and he knocked on the door hoping there would be an answer.
-
GM October 10th, 2011 The West End, Freedom City The holiday was in full swing, and the kids of Young Freedom were doing their homework. The Columbus Day Parade was an annual Freedom City tradition. While it was nowhere near the size or intensity of the celebrations in New York City, the city's Italian population regularly congregated upon the West End to celebrate their heritage and the long road to America. Like any other city's celebrations, it had its share of controversies - several aldermen had tried over the years to get the parade officially renamed in the face of protests from Native American groups - but Headmaster Summers had put the fledgling superteam on assignment for a different reason. "The police are often overworked at celebrations like this," he had told Young Freedom, "and sometimes, things escape their notice. Especially when the person moving about has talents that go beyond what the human eye sees. Then there are the opportunists. Most supervillains aren't above a simple hostage situation, and a parade is a good opportunity. While it's hard for a single villain to control a large number of individuals, if they have the right powers, they can net enough to issue demands. Stay on observation. Keep to the fringes of the parade, but move through the crowds when you can. Odds are everything will go smoothly - but if it doesn't, I want you to be the first to notice, and the first to respond." And so, the Claremont students moved through the crowd and outside it, trying to keep a low profile. They were ready for if danger emerged... but maybe Summers was right. Maybe today would go off without a hitch.
-
Trevor Hunter stood outside the towering Parisian office building looking upward with a faint frown. The reserved young man's face was too schooled to give away whether it was apprehension, frustration or general glum despondency tugging at the corners of his mouth, but at least to the young woman accompanying him, it was clear that he was not looking forward to visitation to come. Dressed immaculately in a deceptively simple but obviously well tailored suit, the dark haired engineer certainly blended in with the bustling stock brokers and deal makers hurrying in and out of the glass doors before them, chattering loudly away on cell phones in a dozen languages, primarily French, naturally. "So," he began, turning toward Erin with a fairly transparent stalling tactic.
-
She was meant to be a Revenant a spirit of revenge on those that had ended her life, or the survivor of the mob family. But things had happened she had thanks to others become a hero and began to help people. And revenge seemed less important, but a crime family, like any family, have long memories when it comes to revenge. She even made it easy for then helping out in the soup kitchen in Broadway, a strong hold of the Mafia’s legitimate business. The soups kitchen was off limits but the rest of the strip was fair game. All it took was a scream for help in the alley, a simple ambush. When she awoke Lucy could tell that something was wrong, it was too cold. It was cold, she hadn’t felt the cold since she woken up before. Woken up dead. She tried to lift herself to have a look around briefly seeing a group of men watching her. Before one of them struck her around the face, knocking her again to the floor. She tasted blood in her mouth, but all she could think of was how healthy her skin looked. One of the gangsters lifted up her face and looked into her big brown eyes. "Long time ago one of our family tried to kill you. Guess I'm going to have to finish the job."
