Avenger Assembled

Freedom for Tarva had meant freedom to create - either in the hand-written journals where she recorded her long, over-dramatic poetry, or in her favorite thing of all, voice recording. Ghost Girl found Tarva in a windowed corner of the castle, one that gave the shadow-witch a view of the courtyard full of tourists below. "Dear Helots...no...Dear Vassals, no..." She seemed to be having trouble getting her apology to the household staff in place. Finally, she put on a big smile and said, "Dear FRIENDS! I hoped to use honeyed words to speak to you before but instead they became black, vile, poisonous things that rotted your very souls to hear them!" She was nearly shouting at the end, her shadows growing around her like a bat's wings, but gradually they and her voice faded as she dialed down her tone. "The fault was mine. I ask your forgiveness, so that we might once again work on behalf of our mistress, the Lady Martel." When it was done, she turned off her recorder, an Archetech-brand smartphone, and slipped it into her pocket, leaning forward and pressing her face against the cool glass.

They careened madly through the halls of the giant murder-palace, the maniacal laughter of its central intelligence echoing in their ears as they smashed their way through one last set of double doors and into a spaceship! Fast as lightning, Bluebird was smashed home into the wall, quickly absorbing into the walls of what looked to be a trim little yacht by the standards of the Terminus. "Quickly, ma petites, let us fly! Strap yourselves in, those of you who can be strapped! To the Silver Tree!" As they did so, lights flashing in frantic patterns all over the small vessel (no bigger than a Terran school bus), they could see the vast bulk of the gigantic station on one side, looming impossibly big. Were they really going to be at ground zero of its destruction? The same instant they were all secured, the engines of their craft roared to life, pushing the yacht free from the station even as alarms frantically sounded inside their stolen vessel. Looking around revealed they were in some kind of transport craft, its decadent, almost barbaric decor illustrating an idealized Shadivan Steelgrave in the company of lovely beings from all over the multiverse. As drones spilled from the station they'd left behind, it was clear they were cutting it close - an instant before the first explosions began to rock the hellish place they'd left behind. They'd done it!

I wonder, could we possibly get an HP for not being able to use our full power in these confined spaces?

Comrade Frost attacks the antibody that dared hurt Lady Tiamat! He'll take 10 and All-Out Attack +2 to hit it automatically.

Nina's in bad trouble here. She's going to use her move action to fly through the glass. With her standard action, she will seek to grab the Empathy by the face and use this power. Damage 5 (Extras: Alternate Save [Fortitude], Vampiric, PF: Improved Crit) {16} + Drain Fortitude 5 (PFs: Accurate 3) {8} {16+8=26/26} http://orokos.com/roll/263128= 28 So that's a DC 15 Fortitude save to avoid a Drain And then a DC 20 Fort save to avoid the Damage.

"When she infused you with entropic umbral radiation, yes!" said Bluebird, snapping her fingers silently, her eyes lighting up as she finally glommed on to Ghost Girl's mysterious point. "That was unpleasant to watch," she agreed, a scowl crossing her face. "I understand your feelings, then. I would provide better advice," she added, smiling, "if you planned to challenge Tarva to a duel to regain the honor of your lost flesh. But if you don't wish to do that..." She gave Ghost Girl a searching look, then sighed softly. "Then you should talk to her, Kimber. Wounds heal by effort, not by wishing. You and Tarva may be dwelling in this place for a human lifetime or more, assuming she is not destroyed by her many enemies. If you exist side-by-side wounded by each other, you will do nothing but suffer needlessly. And no one should suffer needlessly. Not even Tarva the Terrible."

I sense a past schism with tech money libertarians who wanted to use their power to tear down the government in the name of the nerdbro right to smoke marijuana where they please and fire women when they get pregnant. (In fact, maybe those people are still in the organization and are building the backup plan - if the plot is exposed, it can be used as proof of how stupid the government is) So the organization itself sounds doable, as long as we avoid the "the people whose politics I oppose...as SUPERVILLAINS!" trap I mentioned earlier. As for the actual plot, it's great that you liked Winter Soldier and want to see some of that imagery here. Nothing wrong with that. Why would _more_ spending make sense here? SHADOW has re-emerged but hasn't proven a serious threat (we've never done an Inundation event) and the alien invasions recently have either been largely restricted to Freedom City or to the galaxy at large. This isn't the MCU where many people in power worry about the dangers of their superhuman protectors, or wish there were more of them. Freedom City has generally turned on its heroes when they were failing - but that hasn't happened here either. Note that this is not a "no", Arichamus - but it is stuff that should be figured out. I understand you're describing the leadership of AEGIS as making a mistake - but they'd have to have a _reason_ to do this.

Steve slid under the blanket with Gina, her cold feet on his warm lap, the popcorn balanced where they both could reach it, the couch groaning slightly under his weight. All in all, it was a thoroughly domestic scene, the kind that might have taken place in any normal house in Freedom City or anywhere else on Earth-Prime. That was if you left out that one was an Omegadrone and the other a brilliant mind beyond all reckoning, that they sat together in the house because the one feared the outside more than almost anything in the world and the other would never expose her to what she feared. He caught a glimpse of their reflection on a picture frame on the wall, a 2-D printout of one of Sharl Tulink's images from Tronik. In the distorted reflection, strange though they were by the standards of any world, they looked normal. And that was good.

"Hah! That does happen," said Bluebird with a smile, obviously remembering happy past events. "Quite often. Especially with younger Furions who have not yet found the look they will wear into lifesbattle. Usually we can solve it by warrior's duel, or smith's competition where each shows their craftsmanship and martial talents in a display for the others." She frowned again, looking at Ghost Girl. "But _why_ do you feel this way towards Tarva? She is a corrupted soul drifted up from the pit like a fragment of burnt paper, you are a living phantom of what once was. Do you feel you have things in common?"

Fast-Forward zipped around the room, so fast he was a blur even to the two superheroines. He looked in cabinets, under beds, in the trash, and even in the unpleasant places behind the furniture where it seemed many of Alison's syringes had fallen. When he was done, he found himself with a pile of unpaid bills for the apartment, food, and other things, and a cheap cellphone he had to slow down to use. "Crap, stupid piece of new-fangled junk..." he muttered, despite the fact that the phone was by no means a new model. "Okay, I've got...JASE here and it says he's her DOZE guy." He looked at the two women. "Let's go find him and kick his ass."

"Oh my god," said Fast-Forward, looking with horror at the grim sight before them. "Silver Scream, this is totally freakin koozbane!" He held up his hands, keeping his distance. "C'mon, look at you! This is awful, this is...I don't even know." He zipped around her, his eyes wide as he peered over his sunglasses. "You are dressed like someone from the television," he said to the murderous ghost, a look of real concern on his face, even as he spoke with the slow, deliberate care one might used when speaking to someone hard of hearing. "Do you have some kind of problem we can help you with?" he asked seriously. "Did someone _do_ this to you?" Richard knew perfectly well he was speaking to a murderous ghost but he couldn't help but think of the old days, and his mother's stories about the men, women, and other creatures she had known as a teenage speedster at the tail end of Freedom's first age of heroes. The important thing was that he was very good at keeping himself out of danger, and as long as Silver Scream was focused on him, she wasn't paying attention to the other heroes. "You're in color!

Bluebird laughed, then looked guilty for the laugh. "Ohhh, Kimber, no, it is...Tarva will have seen much worse than you." She looked at something only she could see for a moment. "Much worse." She patted the ghost's arm, or rather a space near her arm, reassuringly. "She must have been flattered by your intentions to show you her poetry." Frowning, she drew back. "I have heard many things called awkward this year. It is not a word spoken beneath the Silver Tree. Why are things awkward between you and Tarva?" she asked, in what was evidently a very serious question. "If it is about her many crimes against humanity, there are better ways to handle your warrior's pain."

"Let's talk about real-world political figures" is not really where I was going with this, Rob.

"Is that why you watch her?" Bluebird matched Ghost Girl's posture with her own, carefully assuming a seated position suitable to Furion physiology. "I have noticed that you cast yourself into the invisible realm at her approach. As you have since her arrival." Hands folded over her knees, Bluebird went on. "She will misunderstand your attentions if they continue. Yes, she knows. For one such as her it is no hard task to see the dead even when they prefer not to be seen. What are your intentions towards Tarva now-of-DuTemps?"

"She despises it," agreed Bluebird, her cheer not fading a bit at the words. "The words are a scourge to her corrupted soul." Eying Ghost Girl, the Furion's projection floated up in the air to match Kimber's altitude. "But fear not, Ghost Girl, I watch her well enough to know how she takes my words," she added, taking a reassuring tone with the Canadian spectre. "She will return to her room and write poetry about the darkness of her Terminus-warped soul in a world of light, but then she will apologize to the cleaning staff for saying the slowest among them would be fed to blood-maddened hunting dogs at the end of the day." She looked at the door Tarva had left through. "The worst is," she admitted, "that _was_ a jest, by the standards of the world she left." Looking back at Ghost Girl, she raised an eyebrow. "You care for her welfare, then?"

Well, that's more promising, anyway! "The villainy of people whose ideology I do not share" would not make for a good story.

- Right, so let's actually invent it first! Can't figure out what a group is doing until we know what it's made of.

Maybe we could first decide if we want there to be a right-wing AIM in-setting before we figure out what their first criminal conspiracy is.

The sound of sirens screaming into the vacant lot behind her told Rampart she wasn't alone - at least not outside. But who knew what horrors might be waiting for her upstairs, horrors that might once have been her friends? All the heroes arriving on scene were familiar with the World Youth Rescue Movement. What they'd heard was that it was a private training program for young superheroes, a bit like some programs in Freedom City, one particularly active with charitable work and rescue work in the last few months. They were, as far as anyone had ever heard, a completely harmless organization. As Terrifica was the most reliable-looking adult hero on the scene, the police wound up speaking to her (after shooting a cautious look at Phantasmo) from their cordon around the building. "That's fast!" declared Officer Anderson, the lead patrolman on the scene. "Damn! We just got a call in about gunshots and explosions in the DeWitt Building. League must have sent you over quick. Anyway, it's standard protocol - we've made a cordon around the building and not letting anyone in. Somebody got in just before we got here, though, right when we were pulling in. I think it was, uh..." "Rampart!" said Andersen's partner. "You know, the T-uh, baby. I saw her on the news. Yeah, she was the one who went in there."

April 1, 2015 Dutemps Castle "They are not your slaves, Tarva." Furion's rage tempered by the coolness of Earth-Prime, Bluebird fixed a level gaze on Tarva, arms crossed over her chest, a face watching Tarva from the latter's personal computer. "They have a world that is theirs, a city that is theirs, and mighty laws and unions to guard them. If you speak to the cleaning staff like that, they will simply quit, and _you_ will have to explain to Blue Fox why you have driven away her handfast vassals." Her big blue eyes narrowed. "Do you think she will like what you said? Do you think she will laugh?" "No. No, she will not." Tarva looked away guiltily, shadows flushing in her cheeks. "I thought it a jest, to play to my-" "Would it have been a joke before, daughter of Nihilor?" asked Bluebird, her usual cheerful voice serious. "...yes," said Tarva, surrounding herself with a protective blanket of shadow. "But a true jest all the same. Please, please message them and tell them my apologies. I try so hard to be of this place, and I fail sometimes, but...I want to. I want to be a daughter of Earth-Prime." Bluebird let out a breath - an affectation for a projected consciousness. "You are a child in the soul, Tarva." It was, despite everything else, a statement of affection. "I will extend apologies. But then it must be _you_ who apologizes, shadow-witch, and takes them back to Blue Fox's bosom." "You are right. I will go write one." Tarva rose to her feet, a look of determination on her face. "I have procured several books on the subject, and with my vast brain I will surely find some..." The swinging doors closed behind her, cutting off her monologue. Bluebird herself made an appearance a few minutes later, in an immaterial holographic form. She looked around the room for a few moments before her eyes settled on one corner. "Ghost Girl." She smiled cheerfully. "Oh, was I not supposed to spy you?"

Chambord glared at Terrifica. "Middle of nowhere? This is a city of seven million people, woman!" And indeed, Kinshasa outside was substantially larger than Freedom City, a brawling, bustling, crowded place with a murder rate far worse than the grimmest American city. The twenty-five thousand students of the University of Kinshasa, though far poorer than their American counterparts, could many of them have easily appeared on a campus back in New Jersey. "In any event," said Chambord's colleague - Father Benjamin Lukunga, a man introduced as both a Catholic priest and nuclear engineer, who was director of one of the two nuclear reactors on site. "we have deactivated all the wireless devices on campus." He smiled thinly. "That was easy enough - the trick has always been keeping them running. The reactor computers are in security mode, so they are inaccessible for the moment." "There was a satellite transmitter in our equipment," said Wright, rubbing his blonde soul patch thoughtfully. "but they'd have to physically open the case, carry it over to the laptop, and attach it. Would VI know how to do that?" He shot a glance back at the frozen image on the digital display. "As far as it knows, it's 1947 and there's nothing human in Earth orbit." "Four filing cabinets worth of typewritten documents in French," said Jones in response to Terrifica's question. "I can show you where we've put it, but we were just beginning to sort through the records. As far as we can tell, this was supposed to be part of a series of computing stations built through the Congo. The Belgians wanted to use VI to run the trains, manage the mining operations...everything they wanted out of this country."

Fast-Forward takes 20 on Notice for a 25 and 20 on Search for a 20. Sadly, his Knowledge: Streetwise became Knowledge: History a long time ago.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo Kinshasa University of Kinshasa campus April 1, 2015 There was no sound on the security feed, but Terrifica and Miss Americana could see what was happening well enough. The MIT scientists flicked a row of jury-rigged switches on the desk in front of them, bringing to life the machine before them. Row after row of panels lit up, vacuum tubes and relays flickering to life, and suddenly a long-dormant machine was alive again, casting a glowing light around the bunker that was its home. "It doesn't make any sense," muttered Dr. Carlos Perez, his long hair in the same ponytail he wore on the video. Crossing his arms, he looked away from the play. "VI has the computing power of a microchip! A _small_ microchip!" His labcoat, and his demeanor, had taken some beatings since the footage was taken two weeks earlier. "She may be the second oldest computer in the world, but the Vivre Informatique had no capacity for sentience! It just didn't!" Suddenly things were happening on screen - the scientists were talking to each other rapidly, their happy faces turning to alarm. Carlos's assistant Felicity was typing frantically at an Archetech laptop slaved to the system, a laptop that began flashing alarmingly, in time with the overhead arc lights in the basement they occupied. Suddenly the lights on VI began flickering in time with the laptop as well - and now, as the heroes watched, doors were sliding open on the far side of VI, doors disgorging primitive humanoid robots! At the sight of the robots, the scientists sensibly packed it in and fled, the camera feed cutting off as the red-eyed metal automatons began advancing toward their work station and the laptop that went with it. Pressing a few buttons on the digital playback, Felicity, who like the other half-dozen scientists looked tired and worn, pulled up a phrase on the laptop's screen. "MAINTENAT, JE SUIS LIBRE!" "We tried contacting the original project team," said Franklin Wright, one of the graduate students on the project, "but of course they're long dead! And most of the records about VI were destroyed during the wars hereabouts." "Those damn Belgians," muttered Perez. "Why would they build a computer _here_? Especially right after the war?" "To keep it from prying eyes," said Dr. Chambord, the goateed, bespectacled man who was one of two actual Congo natives on the MIT team. "The Congo was the jewel of their empire, a shining beacon of European progress in Africa." He sneered. "But no one cared to see the brutality at the heart of it then. Men died in building this. We found the records of it, in the old offices down below." "It's my fault," said Felicity Jones, looking very haggard. "I'm so sorry, I just...I should have pulled the plug! But when we saw those robots, we ran! We thought we were going to get our heads crushed!" "It's not your fault," said Perez, patting his assistant awkwardly on the shoulder before looking at Miss Americana and Terrifica. "But whatever is in there, it made it right through our firewalls and it locked down the whole Computer Science building. All our equipment, all the university's equipment, including the seized supertech from the wars, is now in the hands of a Belgian computer from 1946. That's when we decided to call you."

Space is silent - but the trip into Bellephron's heart was nothing but. First the radiation alarms as Voidrunner's sensors detected the wash of hard radiation produced by a Jupiter-sized planet burning in the fires of a nearby star, then the buffeting shockwave as their bow made contact with the churning, raging atmosphere of a planet so hot as to nearly be aflame. The planet cooled as they went deeper, but then came the deep concussions of distant bolts of lightning, electrical explosions vast enough to fry the Earth they'd all left behind, and the spatter of liquid hydrogen compounds against the outer hull, like rain from the aftermath of a terrestrial storm. "621 miles," commented Zober, his big black eyes glued to the monitors while the terrestrial scientists made the necessary modifications to let the ship send the signal to the Gorgon. "Entering liquid state...now!" And sure enough came another shock as they reached an ocean - an ocean of superheated water, big enough to swallow the Earth and more besides. Sensors detected the usual Jovian-style life in this level of the atmosphere, mostly congregated liquid compounds that writhed well away from their approach. There was, fortunately, not a sign of sentient life on the planet itself. Zober slowly ate from a pot of sweet-smelling nutrient paste, his red utility harness (his only item of clothing) jingling softly as they made their bumpy way through the liquid 'ocean' of the vast planet. "Medium displacement is well above highest recorded levels," he commented as they were buffeted by a vast hurricane big enough to hold the entire Lor Star Navy - especially lately. "The result of the increased mass of the Gorgon itself. Fascinating" Gravity was fluctuating too, yet another headache for Ruby as she sat behind the controls of the ship. Finally, they broke through the ocean layer, entering a pocket of highly pressurized, exotic gases containing high levels of hydrogen and helium compounds (albeit a 'pocket' large enough to comfortably hold two Earth-sized bodies, a pocket as big as the orbit of the Moon!). Turning sensors to their utmost to break through the opaque, claustrophobic layers of tens of thousands of miles of ocean and atmosphere, they were able to find the source of much of the turbulence. The sight of the impossible itself. The Gorgon was there at the heart of the planet, massive tentacles surrounding the rocky core and shaping it, sculpting it, reforming it - into an all-too-familiar state. Looking at the sensors, they could all see the hard reality of a construction project so vast as one Earth-sized body reshaped another to its own needs, as nanites swam across the core, reshaping it "The Gorgon is...reproducing."

Suddenly, Monkey Wrench's scans detected a massive surge in dimensional energy, matched by a flash of brilliant white light from the toy chest's basement! The heroes were able to put themselves between the civilians and the flash (despite Andy's eager shout of "Wahoo!" as the light flickered), but that meant the light swept over all of them and then - They were elsewhere. The sky overhead was a strange shade of shifting gray-green, like getting caught at the bottom of a lichen-covered pond. The air was hot and humid around them, as if they'd suddenly stepped into a tropical jungle. They were in the middle of a large city's central plaza, square, boxy buildings stretching on all sides out as far as they could see. They stood on a raised platform above a crowd dressed in purple and red robes, a crowd of green, lizard-like aliens who took one look at them and fell prostrate before them. The nearest, in the most elaborate red and purple ropes, inlaid with bright silvery rope, declared, "Our champions! The world above has delivered you to us! Our salvation is at hand!"