Gizmo
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Trevor wrestled with the Night Cycle's flight controls as he set the atomic vehicle down next to the small group of costumed teenage girls. Hate. It was like they'd been designed by someone who'd seen pictures of motorcycles and planes, but never actually ridden either in real life. Suppressing his irritation, the formally clad youth turned to the group 'Kid Midnight' routinely worked with, the opaque white lenses of his domino mask narrowing. "What was that?" he demanded, indicating the point from which 'Rednaw' had abruptly disappeared.
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Erin's surprisingly chipper response was quickly overshadowed asTrevor nearly lost control of the Night Cycle as he took in the stature. "The hell?" he muttered before realizing that the Night Radio was still on. Recovering quickly, he let the pieces fall into place, dealing with them one at a time. Clearly, Erin had been just as altered as the rest of the world. Or at least the Erin I'm talking to... Between his hazy memories of his rewritten life and a growing understanding for the mechanics of this new world, the significance of the name 'Rednaw' dawned on him. Resiting the urge to sigh mightily, he turned back to the radio. "Headed that way anyway, he assured the Teen Freedomette, adding, "Don't attack until I get there. Could be a trap." It wouldn't do to have one of the Erins knock the other into a coma before the mess could be sorted out. Besides, if there really was an evil Wander clone running around, it was still pretty good advice. Toggling the radio off, he leaned forward and found out just was his ride's gaudy atomic propulsion could really do.
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Trevor looked down at the radio speaker, conflicted. That an emergency would crop up just as he was nearing the Lucas' home was a fairly transparent attempt to sidetrack him; on the other hand, if people were really in trouble... With a grimace, he punched the reply button. "On my way." With a squeal, the Night Cycle reversed its direction and sped off toward bank. At the very least whoever was taking hostages sounded like they might have some idea what was going on, which would mean Trevor wasn't alone in his memories of the real world. That thought, coupled with the obnoxiously simplified radio sparked a thought. If he'd somehow been spared the brunt of Rick Lucas' reshaping of reality, some of the others who had been at the hospital might have escaped as well. A typed label next to the first in a row of buttons read 'Teen Freedom'. The child champions counted Wander among their number, he knew. Wincing at his unconscious alliteration, he scanned the other buttons. Should try Geckoman, too. I mean Raven. ...wait, what? He blinked as he searched his mismatched memories. Oh, you can't be serious. Resolving to put off that bizarre revelation as long as he could, Trevor pressed the first button. "Kid Midnight to Wander," he tried experimentally, deciding to play along until he'd determined whether or not the others had retained their memories.
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Skidding to a halt, Trevor regarded the abomination before him with a slack, nonplussed expression. After a beat, he closed his eye tightly and rubbed the bridge of his nose roughly. Lucas, he groaned inwardly. Looking around, he spotted a row of lit display cases, each featuring a mannequin in a different variation of the Midnight costume. A blue and black number sported flippers and a pair air tanks, another covered in greyscale cameo had large flaps connecting the arms and legs for gliding. He paused briefly at a costume which seemed to be the traditional fedora and and trench coat... except that it was coloured with a rainbow of vertical bands across the spectrum. Shaking his head, Trevor finally came to what he could only assume was the Kid Midnight costume. A black leotard was emblazoned with a stylized clock that matched the front of the reworked Night Cycle, while a yellow hood sat above a black domino mask set with inexplicably opaque white lenses. Both the gloves and boots had wide cuffs and the utility belt rested adjacent to yellow briefs on the outside of the pants. Looking it over, Trevor sighed. Not going to happen. Opening the case, he removed the mask and belt, fastening the latter around his black dress pants and affixing the former to his face, finding he was able to see through it as easily as through his usual red goggles. Undoing the top button of his dress shirt, he threw his tie to the lair's floor and rolled up his sleeves above the elbow. Seeing his reflection in the case's glass, Trevor considered for a moment, then retrieved a fedora from his grandfather's costumes. Placing it upon his head, he snatched a pair of escrima sticks from their mahogany display stand and tucked them into his belt. Reluctantly mounting the nuclear powered bike, he revved its engines and raced toward the city.
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Seeing Travis and Margery so vital and alive tested Trevor's resolve, making him wonder if perhaps Rick Lucas hadn't crafted a better world after all. His grandfather's cheery sendoff confirmed his gut feeling however; this wasn't really the original Midnight, but a misremembered impostor. The real Travis Hunter would never have suggested putting off an investigation for a social visit, and he certainly wouldn't have allowed his protege to go by as jejune a moniker as 'Kid Midnight'. Suppressing a grimace at the saccharin name, a horrible thought dawned on the lanky teen. Fumbling about in his pocket for his keys, he sprinted toward the Manor's vehicle bay.
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Trevor couldn't count the times he'd wished he could have seen his grandfather in action, really learned from him one on one instead of through mere instruction. His days as the original Midnight had been over long before Trevor was even born. To have that desire fulfilled like this, as a shoddily constructed excuse for a revisionist present, was agony. So consumed was he that he almost missed what Travis had said as they walked toward the car. The teenage hero had expected Mark's resurrection, of course, but Jimmy Lucas would have to be as old as his grandfather should have been, even if he hadn't died more than a decade earlier. Just how far had Rick gone to reshape the world in his own image?
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"Yeah? I mean, yeah, yes. Yes," Trevor replied with a small cough to cover the quirking corner of his mouth, suppressing the uncharacteristic urge to pump his fist in the air. "It's formal, but that can mean whatever you want it too." Freedom's trust fund crowd tended to favour fairly traditional attire, cultivating the impression of coming from 'old money', but there were always one or two socialites who arrived in something suitably shocking and avant-garde. "Worth going once just to say you did," he assured her. "New experience." The black clad teen stopped talking, afraid that he was over-selling the gala.
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Trevor reflexively opened his mouth to blurt out a denial, then stopped and considered, brow furrowing slightly. "Yes?" he tried, almost experimentally, sounding more like he was asking a question than answering one. "Have to go anyway; if I brought someone, could avoid dealing with vapid heiress types." The lanky teen shrugged guilelessly. "Rather spend the evening talking with you, anyway." Trevor shrugged once more, self-consciously. "Sorry, not usually so forward." His expression had barely changed from what it had been all night; evidently he really did just consider honesty to be the best policy.
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Trevor shrugged awkwardly, making a slight sound of acquiescence. He supposed he'd noticed Alex's attractiveness, but the petite redhead really wasn't his type. Short, he observed privately. Not that there was anything wrong with that but, well, he didn't envy Mike the sheer logistics implied by that relationship. "Actually have a charity thing, beginning of June," he mentioned. "Not exactly robbery-foiling, but good food, good cause." He snorted lightly as a thought occurred to him. "Could meet the original Midnight, let Mark explode with jealousy."
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Jack stifled a chuckle at Dead Head's macabre slapstick humour. The undead hero's disturbing appearance took some getting used to, but once you did, he was practically a living cartoon character. "Man, you better hope Captain Broodmeister's mind whammy holds, 'Head. That chica was messing you up." The swordsman glanced over at Avenger in time to see the gasmask wearing individual approach the vampire unceremoniously and catch his muffled introduction. "Wait, I said what now?"
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Trevor crossed his arms with a flat look. "Erin," he deadpanned flatly, "Can't have my friends running about without any formal attire at all. Simply isn't done." The dark haired teen had adopted the slightest hint of a posh accent, noticeable only in comparison to his usual, soft tone. Uncrossing his arms, he spread his hands as though warding off objections. "Might be bargained down to a lady's pantsuit, but frankly I've an obligation to teenage boys everywhere to see you in an evening gown." There was a brief pause followed by a blink as Trevor replayed what he had just said in his head, eliciting a slight wince. "Sorry," he apologized quietly, a tough of colour passing over his pale skin. There was a reason he generally kept his unusual sense of humour to himself. He'd count himself lucky if the remainder of Erin's cocoa didn't end up splashed across his face. "The Prophets, yes, sure," he attempted to recover.
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Trevor paused as the painfully young Travis placed his hand on his shoulder. "...yes, of course," he answered after a long moment. Looking down at the gleaming headstone, it took every ounce of his brobdingnagian self-control not to lash out right then and there. "Would have meant the world to them." An eerie certainty that neither of his parents would have bothered themselves to care about his heroics for more than the length of an awkward phone call merely added insult to injury. "Something just occurred to me, is all. Could we stop at the Lucas' briefly on the way back?"
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Trevor tried mightily not to imagine Erin in a series of progressively slinkier dresses, an effort not helped by her blue and gold, formfitting uniform. Adjusting the collar of the jumpsuit he wore under his undone jacket, he cleared his throat to cover his momentary loss for words. "Certain tax bracket, people talk if you don't go. Appearances." Trevor had always had trouble stomaching the shallow vapidity of such events, with their pointless small talk and social maneuvering. Fortunately, most of the upper crust were perfectly happy to carry a conversation entirely on their own, letting the stoic teen simply murmur neutrally at periodic intervals. There was only so often one could pay attention to whispered accusations of outdated fashion statements. Even so, his grandfather had managed to impress upon him the importance of at least one expertly tailored set of formal wear. "Hrm, no dress?" he considered aloud before shaking his head firmly. "Can't have that."
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For a moment, Trevor stood perfectly still, rainwater trickling down his face. The the dark haired youth's eyes narrowed to slits, his mouth setting in a thin line and his hand clenching into white knuckled fist. Lucas. Pieces began to slide together despite the haze of memory. Reality had been reshaped, molded into this... farce. Lives returned or ripped away, rewritten to suit a mourning father's twisted sense of nostalgia. If the pair standing behind him noticed his change in manner, they must have attributed it to grief, and their own lack of reaction told Trevor all he needed to know. They didn't remember the way things really were, or else they were mere constructs to begin with. He knew he needed to find anyone else who might have been shielded from the full extent of Lucas' powers, but the cold rage churning his stomach screamed for a different priority. "Grandad," he began without turning around, voice precise and drained of emotion, "do you still keep in touch with your old teammates and their families?"
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ic Fisticuffs 2: Dynamo vs Jack of All Blades (IC)
Gizmo replied to Geez3r's topic in Sewers and Subways
Jack blinked a few times as he reflexively accepted Dynamo's hand. He's like me if I were played by Zach Braff on designer drugs. Now there was a terrifying thought. "Heh, if this is how you treat your idols, I hate to see what you do to people you don't like," he drawled, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ring absently. "Speed's a good trick. Fast is tough to work around, but you still gotta watch out for quick, y'know?" The swordsman cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders stiffly as he released his flicker blade and worked his jaw back and forth. "Man, that smarts. Banter needs work, more than anything." -
The idea of the physically imposing Mike being stymied by speaking with the diminutive Alex might have been amusing if Trevor hadn't been so easily able to relate. The entire situation seemed awfully convoluted, but presumably it had all made more sense at the time. "Pragmatic," he observed carefully. "I've... gone on dates," he noted with odd emphasis, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered his personal history with a critical detachment, "haven't really dated." Trevor gave a small shrug. "Debutante balls, charity galas. Make an appearance, smile for pictures." His tone wasn't bitter, but had the frosty edge of someone holding their tongue for the sake of politeness.
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On a side note, is Dynamo supposed to be obnoxiously offensive? I mean, within two posts he's covered racism and homophobia. Not making a great impression. The Flash might be annoying, but he'd never stoop to that level.
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Trevor gave Erin a flat, sidelong look. "...'practice'?" he asked, searching for some sign that she was pulling his leg. Finding none, he gave his empty cut a regretful glance and sighed. "Right." He rubbed the ever present dark circles under his eyes. It was going to take some sort of chart to keep track of all of this. The lanky teen was reminded why he'd generally avoided such topics in the past. "Don't really get those two," he murmured, referring to Mark and Faith. The Lucas scion had struck him as little flighty for any relationship, let alone one with someone so apparently needy. Then again, perhaps he was simply judging the pair too harshly, or looking at it too analytically.
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ic Fisticuffs 2: Dynamo vs Jack of All Blades (IC)
Gizmo replied to Geez3r's topic in Sewers and Subways
Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd been taken genuinely off-guard, but Dynamo was just too fast. The obnoxious speedster disappeared into a blur and the swordsman's world was suddenly filled by attacks from every direction. A momentary lull in the assault left him crouched, supporting himself with one hand on his knee as he used the back of his sword hand to wipe a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "'Broheem'?" he asked, winded. "Dios, you're white." As Dynamo streaked by to finish the job, however, Jack erupted in a flurry of movement, fiery rapier flashing about him. Just as the speedster had filled the air around him with punches, the swashbuckler ignited that same space with furious jabs. -
For the sake of argument: Sense Motive check vs. DC 50 (1d20+2=15) Well, blarg. Seriously, this isn't even fun. Dynamo's using his vibrofist, right? So that's a speed effect and not something Jack can counter with his energy manipulation. Ugh. Toughness Save vs. DC 30 (1d20+3=8) Reroll, obviously. Toughness Save reroll vs. DC 30 (1d20.minroll(11) +3=16) Ugh. Staggered and Stunned. Jack spends another HP to shake of the stun, throws a DC 33 Feint in Dynamo's face then surges to Power Attack 5. (1d20+13=21) Assuming Dynamo's Defense drops to 15, that should put the DC at 34 (15 + 8 + 5 + 6). Jack's risking fatigue, but that'll do for now.
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JoaB can oppose that with his Bluff, right? He autohits 33 Bluff and 20 Notice; plus, he's seen Avenger pull this kinda thing before, in Public Service. So, probably a goofy question, but am I blanking on Lukos and JoaB meeting at some point? It gets all confusing when both Jacks are around.
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I'm assuming it doesn't matter, but Trevor is tossing an auto 30 Intimidate at Rick, after moving between his and as much of the crowd as possible and getting his mist on as a free action. That's 50' across of visual concealment in a crowded room! ...maybe not his best plan ever.
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"Daaaaamn," Jack drawled after Avenger pulled his mind-whammy of Geckoman's friend. "Goggles, you kids be crazy. Freakin' A," the swordsman added, slapping the younger hero on the shoulder comradely. He gingerly nudged a piece of Dead Head closer to the affable zombie's body with his boot, snorting. "Right, tired of handing you your rotting butt on a silver platter." He pointed a warning finger as he remembered who he was talking to. "Don't even think about acting that out."
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A light snort signaled Trevor's agreement. "Tacky," he opined, finishing off his second cup of coffee. The over caffeinated youth scratched his chin. "Thought Alex was dating Mike." Trevor had never taken much interest in his old school's ever shifting roil of relationships and break ups, but it seemed only appropriate to at least make some token effort to understand the key events of his new classmates' lives.
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Trevor was sprinting forward before his brain could make any sense of what his eyes were seeing, fedora placed back on his head in a forgotten motion. Instinct and training collided as he bounded over waiting room chairs, inky black mist cascading from his every pore as he ran, obscuring his face then his silhouette as it spread forth around the dark haired teen. His only coherent thought was to get himself and his concealing shroud between the abruptly dangerous Rick Lucas and the crowd; between a threat and his new friends. Even so, a single, guttural syllable grated from his throat, cutting through the mist and turmoil like a cold scalpel. "Enough."