Dr Archeville

Archeville again said nothing at John's refusal, and merely nodded. "No lasting damage, no," he said in as reassuring a manner as he could, "and she should be up and about in at most a few hours. She is going to be fine, John." "As for the reconstructive surgery... well," he gave a slight shrug, "that will largely be up to her, how much she wants done. She may decide to leave it as-is, as a reminder, or a... badge or some sort." His tone shifted down a notch, "what was SHADOW up to? How did she get caught up in them?"

Archeville was on his lunch break, scanning a stack of journals and symposium proceedings between bites, when his phone rang. At least, that's what he thought, but when he picked up the receiver for the phone on his desk in his office in the ArcheTech corporate headquarters, there was no call. The Doktor got up and went to his labcoat, hanging on a peg on the wall, and fished through the pockets. He retrieved his Electromagnetic Screwdriver, which was beeping and vibrating. "Only one reason you would be doing that," he thought aloud as he made some adjustments to it, "someone is trying to reach me, and that someone is in a select circle." He held the gadget up to one ear, "Hello?"

The Horned One appears! Surprise Round Standard Action: Use Area Burst Emotion Control (Fear) Need a Will save from everyone (well, everyone who does not have Fearless). DC 21. After I get everyone's saves, I'll post again describing the effects. DO NOT post IC again before I do so.

The great bonfire had been put out, but the remains still smoldered, and now the rising smoke darkened and twined about like a great serpent. The coils resolved into a roughly humanoid form, with a stag's head and ebon antlers. His entire body was covered in dripping, open sores, and its hands ended in wicked talons, cracked and yellowed. It threw its head back and let out a sound. It would be inaccurate to call it a howl, or a scream, or a wail, because those are all sounds one could find in nature. No, this was a wholly unnatural sound, made worse by the equally loud mental voice ringing in everyone's head. You cannot withstand my touch. Your courage is but a wilting flower compared to my power!

"Oh, hey, don' get me wrong, man," he said as he took off again, pulling his face back up as he went, "folks like you do a lot, I know that. Jes's seems there's only a handful'a folks what deal with my particular niche." "An', hey, if yer helpin' kids, stoppin' em before they start," he called back as he neared another fence, "then more power to ya!" Yeah, he's definitely the type what'd hang out with Heyzel. Jes' hope he don't try and do t'me what Heyzel keeps tryin' t'do! Using the shovel he'd had strapped to his back as an impromptu pole vault, the revoltin' revenant cleared the fence, and continued on through the park on the other side. To their credit, only about half the people in the park let out a scream or shriek when seeing him streak by.

Finally added in the Cannonade/Nick Cimitiere one, so now they're all up! Thanks to all who contributed! :clap:

Unchained Labor The man stood stock still, watching. Cannonade was waiting for the man to do… well, something. Anything. Even if he just looked up at him and screamed, that’d be enough. He was looking down on the warehouse from the fire escape, trying to figure out what was going on inside. For close to an hour, nothing had come in and, save for the walking mannequin below, no one had come out . He’d first heard the whispers down at the Green Shield. Greg’s brother-in-law was working on a site over in Port Regal that made use of some unregistered workers. One of the workers, Jose, had apparently talked to Greg’s brother-in-law about taking on a “side job.” Then he’d vanished. Everyone thought he’d gotten a better offer until Jose’s wife had shown up at the site, begging for answers as to why he hadn’t come home. As far as Cannonade could tell, Jose wasn’t alone. There were stories of workers going missing all over town, as well as a few disappearances among the homeless. He’d managed to centralize the disappearances around a four-block stretch in Bayview, and had been pounding the street when he found the lone slack-jawed sentry. Ideas ran through his head when he looked down at the warehouse. Drug mill? Cult indoctrination? SHADOW getting desperate for recruits? One thing was sure. He wasn’t going to find out down here. He swung down from the fire escape, landing a few feet behind the sole watcher. The watcher turned, and a stink filled Cannonade’s nostrils. And as he moved to put the guy down, he felt cold, clammy flesh under his hands, and finally got a good look at the man’s eyes. Well. That explains it. Nick Cimitiere, meanwhile, was trying to figure out what was setting off his death sense like a fire alarm. He’d been about to head out on patrol when the sudden flood of necrotic essence hit him like a jackhammer. Mind you, such a thing was remarkably easy to track, but it was definitely giving him a headache. Which was only getting worse the closer he got to the warehouse in Bayview. He could feel something pounding in there, slowly yet loudly, like a steady drumbeat or a human heart. There was a working going on inside, something powerful and complex. And whatever it was couldn’t possibly be good. And that was when he heard the fighting. He ducked around to the back alley to see a man wearing a steel helmet trading blows with a zombie. And not any zombie – to Nick’s senses, the thing was pumped full of necrotic essence to the point that he was surprised it hadn’t just fallen to pieces. Which would explain why it seemed to be giving its sparring partner an even fight, even as he picked it up and threw it with enough force to gouge a dent in a dumpster. “Goddamnit,” the man in the steel helmet yelled. “I thought you guys came apart easily!” The zombie rose up from the foot of the dumpster. And then it reached down, slipping its fingers under, and lifted the dumpster above its head. “Aw, crap." The zombie hunched its muscles. As it gathered the force within, however, Nick found the weak point in the working. With a simple exertion, the power was cut off. The zombie’s head rolled on its neck, and then it crumbled onto the ground, causing the dumpster to fall on top of it with a sick crunch. Cannonade looked down at the fallen zombie – or rather, what was left of it – with surprise. “Huh,” he said. “Guess they don’t make ‘em like they used to.” “Oh, they make ‘em strong enough," said someone in the darkness. “This one wasn’t exactly factory issue.” He stepped out; he wore a leather jacket with strange symbols all over it, and his hair was slicked back and piled high. But what stood out most was the make-up – pale white, with black around the eyes. He looked like a skeleton on a night on the town. “Nick Cimitiere, and I’m guessing you’re --" “Cannonade," he said, extending his hand. “I saw that article on the incident at the Luxury. Fairies, huh?” “World’s weird.” Cannonade jerked his thumb to the building. “So, let me guess – zombie factory.” “Or something. This isn’t your typical rise. And your standard bokor’s keen to just make something that’ll shuffle about, bring you a drink and gnaw on your enemy’s skull. This guy… this guy was the Terminator in dead flesh.” “You can’t find a way to make that sound less creepy, can you?” “It’s a habit.” “Yeah, well, all I know is, good men are dying to make these things. I’m gonna put a stop to it.” “Same here. Really not a fan of bindings. Question is, what the hell is going on in there?” “Only one way to find out.” Cannonade ran to the doors of the warehouse and burst through – -- only to come face to face with a dozen zombies in various states of decay. “I was gonna say, I could read the building’s history,” Nick called back from the alley. “Yeah, that probably would’ve been easier.” The zombies descended on Cannonade. Given the workout his fists were getting, these ones were probably like the ones in the alley – crammed with energy and fit for fighting condition. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold up against the onslaught. Which made it a welcome relief when the zombies fell to the ground. Cannonade looked down and saw hands made of some weird, gauzy material grasping at them and keeping them pinned. “That’s gotta come in handy,” Cannonade said as Nick walked in through the door. “Yeah, but it takes a lot of power,” he replied. “Means I can’t do… this!” The hands disappeared for a second, as the zombies rose from the earth – only to come tumbling back down soon after, as the light fled from their eyes. “Revocation of power,” Nick said. “Hell of a thing.” “I’ll take your word for it,” Cannonade said, casting his eye about the darkened factory. Strange glyphs seemed to cover the walls, and disassembled machinery shared the same tables as collections of gems and arcane tomes. In some cases, it looked like the machinery was wired directly into the gems. “So, what the hell’s going on here? Why does anyone need zombie workers for this stuff?” “Well, it’s a hell of a way to avoid union dues,” Nick said. “But… no. This is something larger, and the zombies themselves… too powerful…” He cast his gaze on the office at the back of the warehouse. To his inner eye, something seemed to flare up within. And it was only growing brighter… “Yeah, that’d explain it. Those zombies. They weren’t drones.” “Then what were they?” “Prototypes.” The door to the office burst open in pieces as a man the size and rough mass of a refrigerator came charging out. He was clad from the waist down in a long ceremonial robe – giving Nick and Cannonade a good look at the bleeding, gaping hole in his chest. “How dare you?” the man yelled. “How dare you? I’m so close… to apotheosis. You interrupted my working! By what right -- ?” But Cannonade was already rushing to meet him. “What right did you have to those men’s lives?” he said, driving his fist into the behemoth’s solar plexus. “What right did you have to make ‘em your goddamn slaves? Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” By the time he broke from his tirade, Cannonade finally realized that the man had not flinched one centimeter. And he was just staring down at him. “I am conquering death, the greatest of evils,” he said, grabbing Cannonade by the waist. “And I have more important things to do than bother with your trifles.” Nick watched as Cannonade was thrown over the man’s shoulder into a far wall. He called up the wellspring of death around him, coalescing the ambient ectoplasm in the form of barbarous talons. “The gifts of Irkalla,” the man said, looking on Nick. “You are practiced.” “Well, I don’t like to brag…” “But an apprentice.” The man drew forth his will, and an orb of frost and shadow formed before him. Nick barely had time to duck as the orb flew right over him; he could feel the cold burn as it zoomed right past him. “I am a master.” Cannonade roused himself in time to watch the two necromancers fight. Nick summoned ectoplasmic hands to root the behemoth to the ground, and the behemoth drew it into a lash that could split steel. Nick sundered the lash with a wicked set of claws, and shrieked at the behemoth with a guttural voice. The behemoth called the very beams to rust and fall upon Nick, but Nick managed to reduce them to ash before they hit the ground. “Cannonade!” Nick shouted from across the hall. “Hit the office!” This seemed to be exactly the right thing to say, as the behemoth turned away from Nick to Cannonade. Cannonade was already on his feet, rushing for the office. Inside, he found a motley collection of relics, blood-stained bowls, cruel daggers – -- and a heart, lying on the desk. It was shot through with veins of black and a fierce, unnatural green. And it was still beating. “Yeah, that ain’t right.” Cannonade picked up the heart in his hand – it’s just like a side of beef, it’s just like a scary, beating side of beef – and turned to see the necromancer rush into the office. “You dare?” “Yeah, I dare.” Cannonade squeezed. The lich clutched as its gaping chest and fell to its knees. “Please… don’t let me go…” “Master, huh?” Nick entered from the main floor. “You oughta know by now – there are evils worse than death.” He pulled the heart out of Cannonade’s hand and squeezed it between his; the eerie light within gave out, and the veins faded into the meat. The necromancer let out a strangled scream, and fell to the floor. “Um. Was that… kosher?” “Given what he did? He should’ve gotten worse.” Nick sighed. “I just turned off his heart. His essence is still inside, it’s just not giving him power. It’s like turning off a computer.” “Ah. So he’s not…?” “Oh, he’s dead. He’s just not… gone.” “Geez.” Cannonade looked back to the pile of zombies on the main floor. “What am I gonna tell their families?” “You got their names?” “Yeah.” “Drop a list at the corner of Green and Woolcroft. I’ll make sure their last requests get along.” “Got it.” Cannonade turned to walk out. His work was done. He wouldn’t be able to bring good tidings back to the missing people’s relatives, but he could at least rest with the knowledge that their killer had been stopped. Nick, meanwhile, watched the powerhouse walk out of the warehouse. “Good heart,” he said to himself. “At least he’s got the stuff to back it up. Don’t know what I was thinking those days…”

"Transducer," Archeville cheerily corrected, "as it changes one for of energy int another. It is not a translator, since it broadcasts in whatever language you are thinking in." "And there is no need to berate yourself so harshly, Miss Americana," he said, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Experimentation is a key component of science, after all. And you know what they say about good judgment: it comes from experience, which itself often comes from bad judgment," he chuckled. "Your idea for a containment suit, though," he continued, looking up and around the room to see what was available to work with, "is an excellent one. If we can confine Mr. -- ah, sorry, I did not catch your name -- confine him to a humanoid suit, and cool it down, that may allow him to resume his standard human shape."

Chevalier's landed, the boosters at his back flaring open to aid in cooling. "Encounters weedz culteests is why I am in dzees suit... and why eet ees less a suit and more a second skeen." "A vile sorcerer stole my seester, and left me for dead, but I pursued heem. Eet took me years to fin heem, but while I hunted I encountered many odzer supernatural foes, and fought dzem all. I saved some lives, put out a few fires... but one time, I was overwhelmed, and came close to dyeeng again. But I deed not let dzat stop me! Non!" He struck a heroic pose, "I had my life support machines converted into dzees suit, and had rockets and armor and weapons added so I could better fight dze forces of eveel! But... " The synthetic voice sighed, "I can never remove dzees suit, I am confined to eet forever... so even eef I find my seester, I weell not be able to touch her..."

Archeville said nothing, just nodded slightly. "You do know," he gestured towards Arrowhawk's bad leg, "that I can probably fix that for you. All you need do is ask." He turned back to Vivian, "I will, ah, need to do some reconstructive surgery after the major trauma is repaired. Re-set her nose, minor adjustments to the jaw... rebuild her left ear..."

Super-Hero WikiLeaks: Diplomatic Cables From Your Favorite Comic Book Universes

"More than words can say, liebchen," he replied dreamily, before bending in to give her another good, long kiss. flashback "A little... but not nearly enough to feel anyding. Mein tolerance is... impressive, even by German standards." "Mona, I-" he began, looking up at her with wet eyes, then stumbled at her pregnancy joke. "Mona..." He let out a sigh, then took in a deep breath. And a stream of words came flooding out, so fast she had to switch to her super-speed to parse it out. "There are aspects of my personality that I cannot control I try but it is so difficult it is like you know how people think that they have a single unified consciousness but really it is a dozen dozen conflicting voices, and sometimes those get strong enough or combine into a separate personality, as in dissociate identity disorder (which used to be called multiple personality disorder), well I have that or something like that" He wobbled a bit, "I first noticed it in college I thought at first it was just normal stress but my rage rage and irritations built up and up I saw everyone around me as inferior fools and potential minions or threats -- I'd show them I'd show them all AH HAH HAH HAH HAH! -- but I forced myself to not think like that but I kept slipping but eventually I stopped but found it better to let that Other side out because its energy helped me in my inventing it's the energy and drive while my 'higher' personality gives that energy focus and purpose" Now he fell to one knee, "but sometimes I haff to let it out, haff to, but just a bit, or de Other vill come out vhen it vants to, so to appease it speak in dis exaggerated German aksent -- because my Other vants to speak only in German de Father-Tongue but I vould prefer speaking mit people in deir own tongue -- und I let it out some during Oktoberfest, mit all dose vomen, all dose vomen who meant nothing to me, or to it, and even with all that my Other sometimes still slips out I will awake in th morning and found I have sleep-invented a death ray or a mind control crown or a horrendous bioweapon but den, Mona, oh, Mona, you came into mein life und shown me so much" He cradled is head, straining more and more as he spoke, "even now it fights me... tries to get out, to stop me... it did not want dis revealed, und... I had to... to trick it... into dinking I vas... vas going to... break up mit you tonight be... before it gave me... some room to... speak... but I could... never..." Viktor passed out.

So do you folks wish to do some quick late Thanksgiving night/Black Friday shopping (or whatever) posts, or shall I skip ahead to the start of the second opera?

Using an HP to have the following invention on-hand Neuradio (Neural Radio) Transducer: this device, which looks like a standard earpiece (with an extra wire connected to a small disk which attached to the temple) converts thoughts into radio waves. Communication 1 (radio, 10 feet; Extra: Area) [2pp]

"I shall endeavor to do my very best, sir," he replied to the goo, "though I believe we will need a better means of communication if talking is too strenuous. Fortunately...." The Doktor fished around in his lab coat pockets, looking over Miss Americana's notes and senor logs as he did. "Hrm, the composition is very close to petroleum; perhaps something in the scanning beams did excite him to this less viscous state." At last retrieved a small plastic box. Inside was what appeared to be a standard earpice communicator, though it had an extra wire coming off it, connected to a small thin plastic disk. "One of ArcheTech's latest inventions," he said with all the beaming pride of a new poppa, "just entering the Beta testing stage. Converts neural impulses into radio waves and broadcasts them out omnidirectionally; it was developed to allow patients who are unable to talk to communicate." He held it above the goo pile, hesitating. "Of course, this is designed for a standard human neural anatomy; this part goes in the ear and this sticks onto a temple..." he confessed/explained to them both, "but there are still mental processes going on here, so it... might function." The Doktor gently placed the device onto the surface of the goo, and watched as it sank in.

Post edited to reflect stubborn nature of the Orb.

"I am confident Vivian will pull through," he replied. Now that thing had calmed somewhat, Arrowhawk detected, despite the seriousness of the situation, a new lightness in the Doktor's voice. And, his exaggerated accent was gone. "I am not sure just how fortuitous it was that you were able to reach me, John," he said as he turned to face the archer. "Most any doctor could tell her injuries were from both combat and prolonged torture, but only someone with my... insider knowledge of SHADOW would know exactly what kind of torture SHADOW would use-" Verrill Archeville had been a noted scientist for the Nazi party, and for SHADOW. He likely developed some of their torture techniques. Techniques which he may have recorded in notebooks which eventually wound up in the hands of his grandson, Viktor. "- and thus how best to treat that trauma." "So..." he cocked his head slightly, "how long have you two been together? Since before the Brainiac Brunch?"

"Limited (Areas Devoid of Light)" is not a valid Flaw for a power when the power shares an array slot with "Create Darkness."

"Believe it or not... magic!" He squeezed her tight and laughed again, "and... and, I think... you." He leaned back a bit in her arms, "I was up at Jack & Taylor's home, a house call for their baby, back in mid-August, and while I was there Jack and I talked about my supernatural research projects. I picked up one of Taylor's books and... read a bit aloud, and... well... " He began giggling again, "these squids appeared in the air! Fortunately, Erin was there babysitting so she helped stop them from rampaging too much, and the 'Kid Cthulhu' lad happened by and assisted, too." "But once I got home, I realized that I was... alone in my thoughts." He smiled, "and after nearly a month of waiting and testing, and no signs, it appears my Other has been, for lack of a better term, exorcised!" flashback Five months ago. April 13th, 2010 (Tuesday). A dark and stormy night. Fulcrum had just touched down from her nightly patrol, and was about to open her balcony door. A quiet night so far: a few weather-related traffic accidents to help with, but not crime per se; seems even the crooks didn't want to be out on a night like this. And while nothing she'd done had been truly taxing for her phenomenal strength, and the cool, driving rain didn't physically discomfort her, she still looked forward to a hot shower. But that would have to wait, for when she opened the door, she found Viktor Archeville standing in the dining room. Several bottles of beer, wine, and stronger liquors sat on the table, and he had already downed three shots of something from a dark bottle with a stag's head on it. He looked up at her, chewing his lower lip nervously, and in a weak voice said, "Liebchen? Ve... ve need to talk..."

Poop. Drop all-Out Attack and the second Takedown Attack.

... yeah, that would be kinda important. Lemme think on how to edit that in. How much does Valkyrie-ing up change her appearance? I.e., would he recognize her as Vivian from Brainiac Brunch once he gets her armor off? (Of course, all the damage she's taken could be an effective disguise, too...)

A sharp, insistent beeping sound drew Archeville's attention. "Scheiße!! BP's dropping!" The Doktor and the robotic arms around him were a whir of motion as he worked to stabilize her, clamping blood vessels, tending to ruptured organs, and setting broken bones. He had a healing tank, a heated oxygen- and nutrient-rich fluid bath with micro-robotic surgeons that greatly accelerated recovery time, but they alone couldn't stabilize a patient, and especially not one in this critical a condition; putting her in it now would result in a nothing more than chunky soup. One minor speedbump was the orb at her neck, which resisted all attempts, by Archeville or his robotic arms, to move it form her neck. Luckily it was not in the way of any injuries, he was able to work around it, and as Arrowhawk gave no indication that it was not supposed to be there, he let it be. Hours later, she was unconsciously floating in the healing tank, clothed in nothing but immobilizers to restrain her where movement would be ill-advised, the Orb, and a harness that both kept her from floating up to the ceiling of the tank or bumping into the sides, and which housed the waste-removal systems which kept the tank clean. There was no breathing apparatus; the fluid served as a liquid breathing medium (another reason to keep it clean!), which -- combined with the microbot surgeons in the fluid -- assisted in the treatment of severe pulmonary or cardiac trauma. Archeville kept a close watch on her, consulting the holographic displays of the scans showing the microbots at work on her. "How are you holding up, John?"

Chevalier's nodded, "I dzeenk you and I are not so different. Dzees suit ees... ah, une moment." The armored hero scanned the area, and pointed to a building with a wide, clear roof. "Would you mind if we landed dzere a moment? I find eet deefeecult to talk and fly at dze same time." He awaited Kid Cthulhu's answer before banking towards the rooftop.

Quick, quick crunch overview: Saving throw totals are off. You don't need the brackets around the number of skill ranks. Fades on an Alternate Form power is tricky at best, since you'll need to decide what powers lose pps each round; adding Total Fade would fix that. Tiring is I feel not worth a full Flaw, since the Fatigue you'll get when you turn A) isn't that big a hit, and can be nixed with an HP. Growth is costed wrong, it's 3pp/rank, not 1. And you need to list what all his stats would be (like his total Str and Con and Toughness and Knockback and attack and grapple modifiers) when that Alt Form is active. As it is, it looks like you'd be breaking caps -- Str 16 + Enhanced Str 10 + 8 more Str from Growth 4 = Str 34/+12, and the Strike 4 claws do +16 damage (breaks caps); Con 16 + Enhanced Str 10 + 4 more Con from Growth 4 = Con 30/+10, and the Protection 2 bumps his Toughness to +12 (does not break caps on its own, but see below). And why does have werebear form have Slow Fall? His Magic Array is problematic, for several reasons. All the powers in it are Noticeable by default, so that's not an applicable Drawback. Well, unless we use the optional "super-noticeable" thing, which makes already-noticeable powers so obvious you can see them from blocks away. Having your primary Force Field in a Magic Array is a very not good choice, since it means you'll have to lower it whenever you use any other power in that array. Also, you'd be breaking caps with it if you used it and your Alt Form at the same time (total Toughness would be +22). Also also, Ablative Force Fields are wonky. Emotion Control cost is off, it's 2pp/rank if it's Perception range, so limited it to Calm only reduces it to 1pp/rank. Needs a DC block for his attacks.

How does this guy not know me? Seems everyone else I run inta knows me, or if they don't, they either run or start blastin'. "Dead Head," the alley echoed. "Revenant -- like a zombie, but ornerier. Organleggers is the ghouls what're responsible fer folks wakin' up in a bathtub'a ice with a kidney missin', or for someone gettin' an old cadaver's liver planted in 'em 'stead'a the healthy one from a freshly-dead donor." Now he was emerging from the alley, onto a street. "Why? Don't that sound like somethin' that should be stopped? Why ain't you stoppin' 'em? As fer October-" The... revenant (?) was interrupted by an SUV hitting him head-on, which sent him careening into a lamp post. He turned back to look at the man who'd collided with him, and, seeing that the airbag had prevented and serious injury, resumed his run. Despite half his face flapping free in the breeze, and the fractured bone sticking out of his right arm. "Danged Yankee drivers...." Gabriel heard him mutter.