Supercape

Lament "Six hundred and sixty... six!" said Luther, arms raised, oozing melodrama. "That's a poetic number, right? You look like a poetic type of soul. If you have a soul, that is. I don't wish to offend. Although, on the subject of soul's... I am quite happy to buy joy with money, but I am afraid I must hold onto my soul. I only have the one, you see..." Luther wasn't sure if he believed in souls, only that he he believed he would never know. Sure, he had some voudou spouting grand-relatives back in New Orleans who would lecture him on incomprehensible notions of souls and spirits, but Luther didn't pay them any heed one way or another. But, as Pascal would say, it was best not wager souls on anything, just in case they did exist. He had no address in Hollywood, so he made up some address from a road he half remembered. "73 Holland Road" he said, "named after some Dutch puritans, I think. God I hate the Dutch." Maybe the devil would react to the twang of mentioning God? "How much for the drugs?" he asked. "And could you direct me to the nearest bar? Its been a long night and I fancy a drink and a woman. A man has to indulge his vices, you know, or they aren't vices at all."

Gamma Buzz Oh boy, Gamma Buzz really wanted to try out for the wrestling. The roar of the crowds, the smell of sweat and stale beer. The thunder of body against canvas. The feel of slamming bodies and rush of air. Gamma Buzz was certain he could probably beat almost all of them. Quite certain. But Torpedo Lass was being foolishly wise. And he wanted to stand firm with his team mates. And, to be frank, the Coach was a bit of a dick. "Yeah, I totally don't want to do a thrilling exciting once in a life time opportunity for a juniour try out, Coach. Torpedo Lass is being totally sensible. We absolutely don't want to partake in the most amazing event of the year that would change our lives for ever!" He gave a thumbs up to Torpedo Lass.

Haven "Undesirable. A compliment. I am in good company. Poets, dreamers, rebels." The echo of human nervous systems made his fingers itch, as if they were sweaty, tremulous. But he forced them still. It was not easy. He cast his mind back to the obscure conversations he had had when he entered cyberspace. Who is the villain? Well that was the question. Layers upon layers of question. "Ultio 2.0" he started, pausing. The best blade was the truth- it might slice through the fog of lies. "Its a weapon. A dangerous weapon. A weapon of tyrants. And MaxMars is selling it." He strode a couple more fluid steps forward. "I am here to investigate. And, if necessary, to stop. Now tell me, what are you here for?"

Gamma Buzz "Bug?" said Gamma Buzz. "I am no mere bug, lady! I am the amazing Gamma Buzz who is amazing. Amazingly amazing, actually. With a side salad of amazing lightly seasoned with amazing sauce. Just like your mother never made you!" He started glowing green, ready for action. Intergalactic politics and diplomacy were not really his strong suit. "So you say, about this and blah blah and etcetera," he said. "But how do we know you aren't lying? And don't say you are telling the truth, because you might be lying when you say it!" He was very pleased with that logic. "So if you are serious call the intergalactic star force alpha police, or something like that. For all we know, you are Lords of Evil hell bent on Universal domination! You certainly are all cold and dark and stuff. Not really want we want out of a universe. Although come to think of it, the universe is pretty good and being cold and dark. What I meant was we dont really want that out of the planets in the universe!" "So bring it on! Unless you start beating us, in which case run away!" He flipped into the air and swung a fist at the lady.

Oops sorry missed this. Free action: Activate Radioactive aura Move action: Jump St Action: Punch the lady! A solid 20 So that may or may not hit. If it does - a DC 23 Tough and a DC 15 Fort/Nauseate

So I think Puma is going before Spore, but let me know if otherwise!

GM Synth was too ill to do anything than walk - and frankly even that was a struggle. Dr North, whilst pale and drained, could still talk and think. "Here's the kicker, folks. Who do we trust?" He looked at Terrifica and Predator carefully. "The Hypersynths can mimic anybody. They copied me, for starters. Who has them? What are they using them for? Assassination, infiltration, sabotage? I am sure lots of people would like to get their hands on the technology." "Can I trust you two? Maybe. Probably. You act helpful, and you have all the fantastic gadgets of Predator and Terrifica. But can I know for sure? And frankly I don't even know, fully, whether I am a Hypersynth. Do they even know they are copies?" He glanced a Synth. "And her? If it is a her... are we sure she isn't a copy?" He turned back to Predator and Terrifica. "So this is the problem. How, practically, do we dismantle this base? Its a lot of work, a lot of people..."

Lament "Aha. Tolerance," said Luther, stroking his chin. A few hairs there, now. The stubble of a long day. Joy was, ultimately, no different from any other drug. Craving, tolerance, withdrawal - the three cardinal features. And maybe worse, burning out the capacity to feel joy naturally, like NMDA. Was it magic, or neurotoxocity? did it matter? Lament was neither neuroscientist nor occultist. "That may take a bit more of a... nuanced approach. We don't want bad press, at least too quickly. Sooner or later it won't matter, of course..." There was a bleak truth. It also meant Luther had to stop this devil. "So how we doing this? You got a mobile number? or do I meet you here by moonlight? Wherever here is..." He looked around. Any landmarks?

Gamma Buzz "What are you looking at me for? I don't know!" said Baz. "But I can tell you one thing, they aren't getting it!" The Ice tickled his feet, but before it extended over his body he jumped free, landing on the opposite side of the street, on another wall. "And they are going to have to be faster than that to beat me amazing cockroach reflexes!" He looked back at the armoured man and Snowfall. "And as for you two - not only have I all the amazing powers of a cockroach, but the amazing powers of a radioactive cockroach, too! So, you better tell us everything about your evil plan in a slow, careful, and explicit monologue!" "And here's some encouragement! Atomic breath, baby! Yeah!" He filled his cockroach lungs with cockroach air, ignited the nuclear furnace in his chest, and breathed out a stream of glowing green radiation!

Move action: Jump Standard action: NUclear breath! Damage 8 cone area Fort save!

Lament "You ever been to Hollywood?" said Luther, starting his pitch. It was a prickly sensation, but it was just the right kind of prickly sensation - Luther loved an act! "Its got dreams, and its got plenty of places your dreams can shatter. And its a long way to fall when they do. C'mon... this is the holy city of narcissists. Its the biggest belly you will ever get for Joy." "I know the agents, the actors, the directors there. Not all, that's true, but some. Truth is, you don't need me. Joy practically sells itself in Hollywood - directors need a pick me up, actors need a false mood. The fallen at the bottom of the shark pool need something just to stop it hurting so bad. So why you need me? You don't. But you might want me still - because I can sell it faster than you can. I can start the ball rolling off a steeper hill." He paused, gave a bow. "Eric Zann, at your service." "And you don't need to warn me about taking it. I'm not going to. But look, I won't lie... the only problem in Hollywood is the narcissism of the narcissists. Does it make you fat? Does it give you acne? Does it make you fall asleep? Or your head explode? The one thing those fools wont stand for is a drop of the mask, if you know what I mean. You need a good complexion for the camera. But hey, if it causes weight loss, you could charge people there own body weight in gold..."

His forte! 31

Bloody Mess The Mess scratched his head, although it was a small target for his hand to accurately scratch. "Goblins, ghosts... what the spooky spooktown is going on?" He looked to his new comrades for answers. "Big sword, yeah? Big magic sword? That doesn't sound to good. Sounds pretty bad, actually. And goblins don't sound nuthin to celebrate about, either. Aren't they evil and stuff? And thieves? Don't they eat babies? Or was it they steal milk. I can't remember..." Occult history was not his strong suit. He cracked his knuckles. "So where do we find the bad guys?"

Lament He swallowed that easy. Maybe too easy! Or maybe Luther was just a master of swagger, disguise, and false identities. Yes, that was probably it. It was a good thing Luther didn't have a massive ego. It was incredible, really, how really really humble he was. Anything to the contrary would be fake news. SAD. Burning out? That sounded ominous. The world could do with some joy right now. "Well, if there is green dollar to be have, count me in. You can keep the chaos, just give me the money to blow on life's pleasures. Maybe even Joy itself - but I got to be honest, I seen to many people blow too much stuff up their nose in Hollywood. Good for me, bad for them. So I gotta ask - what are the long term effects?"

29! to shake of the slow

GM "Hyperlucid dreamer? What is that?" said Moyd, raising an interested eyebrow. "And what is Terminus? I don't know anything about this..." He frowned. "In fact... I don't appear to know anything about anything." His frown ablated, and he pointed directly at the Dreamer. "But your lineage. Yes, I know about them. Dangerous, I fancy. Dreams are meant to guide man to the future, not warp reality. It creates..." he shuddered. "Things! So much terror. What matter your desires, if you dream them? Great turbulation..." "I don't dream. I was never meant to dream - I just walk the dreams of others desires. But enough of me - where are we, and where do you reside? What do you do? Tell me everything - tell me what holds your life together!"

yeah lets go for it. What obnoxiousness! (Well done Thev!) Attack roll for Mycotoxin 26 which is actually 25 as slowed, but I should think that hits! If it does, a DC 18 Fort Save vs Paralysis, with a Poison extra 10 rounds later.

Spore "Oh come on!" said Harper, rolling her eyes. She was young, but she knew an obnoxious idealogue when she saw one. Everyone she admired took a more balanced, nuanced view of politics. As Betrand Russel said - The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts.... Yeah. This man was a fool and a fanatic rolled into one. "Oppression is imposing your will on somebody elses!" she shouted back. "Remind you of anyone?" Not that it would make this man actually think for more than one picosecond. So - action spoke louder than words. And poison spit was more poisonous than words, too. She took a breath in, and lobbed a globule of mycotoxin at the mans face!

Lament in From dusk to dawn: The Journals of Luther LeGrasse October 31st, All Hallows Eve Midnight: The sun has finally set, and the stars are out. Clear skies, clear stars. I wish my head was clearer; too much Liquor at the club. Playing Jazz with friends, all dressed up as witches, ghouls and zombies. It was fun, much joy was had. How sour it is that I had to keep the mindless horror fed. Oh we had fun, but the creature was hungry, and I must always keep it fed. The joy was muted, like hearing music from the next room, or with pillows against your head. Still, it was better that than feed of the children who marched and danced through the streets demanding candy. How I envy those simple days. But enough. I no longer know if these moments of melancholia are mine or the entities. But for now the beast is fed, and I can be myself. If I could find some deserving soul, some thug, some crook, one of those reprehensible members of society that stick to it like a parasitic wart, then I will feed him to the Void. Sometimes, I wonder if there is a creature that feeds on misery. How would that suit me? Solace in the cosmic balance of things, or resentment that I was fed the crap side of the scales? 01:00 The last of the trick or treaters. Too old to be trick or treating. Punks dressed up for the night, drinking, pretending to be kids. I gave them some candy, they wanted drink. I told them to get lost. Spooked ‘em, just a little. Enough to give them a bad nights sleep, maybe some night terrors. Well, they stayed up late and were drunk. I ain’t got time for punks. 0200 I took to wandering the streets. The night had that kind of heat that clung to your skin and stained your clothes. I stay up late most nights, playing music, drinking, or wandering. You don’t see me before midday, most days. But tonight its one of those nights where no amount of liquor, no amount of soft music or counting sheep is going to get me to sleep. It’s the kind of day when doubt creeps into your bones. Who am I? Do I deserve love, happiness, anything? It’s the kind of night where all the masks we put on get ripped off. When all the paint we put on ourselves to kid ourselves we are good people get stripped off. Maybe the moon and stars make us see what we are really like. Damn, I have read enough astrology to know I don’t believe a word of it. I got to thinking, maybe this melancholia is just the beast inside, feeding on my soul – whatever that is. Sometimes, I don’t even notice its hungry, it just kind of creeps on you, like a ninja. Maybe that gnawing empty stomach is there so often, I just get used to it. Maybe I don’t want to notice it, try to block it out with the stage or the notes of a trumpet. But I always get to notice it – trouble is, sometimes I notice it too late. So I got to wandering the dirty, or dirtier, parts of the street. Plenty of fools still out, but I’m not looking for fools. I’m looking for the rats who feed on fools. 0300 My mood had been darkening all night, every step. Was it the Void, or myself. I’m a fool, I tell myself. A fool, a charlatan. The village idiot who charades as a court jester. I need applause to love myself, but even when I get it, some twisted part of me thinks it is sympathy or pity. Worse part of it is, I don’t know how much of this is the void, how much of it is me. What I do know is that I feel empty, hollowed out. A void. So I got tramping through the bad parts of town, where skin is broken by drugs and knives. Needles crunch beneath my shoes. Yeah, this is a bad part of town. The worst, I would say. A couple of dealers try to sell me their wares. A couple of ladies try to sell me theirs. I ignore then all. Never been one to go down either road, not even when my mood is darkest. Its cold, filthy comfort, and I seen to many friends wrecked by vice. 0400 Its an hour till dawn. Maybe I can see a hazy glow on the horiszon, maybe I can’t. Hard to say – still plenty of Halloween lights on. Light, just another one of the banquet of pollution raining on the city. And here’s another. A couple of punks, lounging by a closed down bar, smoking cigarettes. I can tell straight away they aren’t up to no good. These aren’t just kids, you know the ones – huddled in groups, trying to look hard in front of their friends, harassing, intimidating. These are those kids grown up, hardened by real violence. One of them got a nasty scar on his cheek. These punks know violence. Know drugs, too, by the look of em. Halloween. It’s a way getting your joy to dance with your fear. Leastways, that’s what its meant to be. I dunno, maybe we are so desperate to give children a happy life, we don’t teach ‘em how to master the real fears and pains of life. I just dunno. Maybe I’m just a bitter cynical fool. Anyways, Halloween meant to bring joy to folks, at least for the most part. Takes some real dirty heart to mug someone on Halloween night. Its not meant to be a night for real fear. These two, they straighten up as they see me. Maybe they think I’m an easy mark, or maybe a rich one. Probably both. They pretend to be brave, but that’s just an act. I should know, I act all the time. And they got that smell of desperation. Hollow cheeks, thin limbs. Been to long at injecting happy into their veins. Ain’t any happy left now, they just trying to stop it hurting so bad. One pulled a knife, the other a pistol. Small, but it will do the job. At least, it would do the job on some regular guy. Not on me. Guy might as well as pulled out a feather duster. I been shot by larger calibre, gave me a big black bruise and set me on my backside. But not this time – this time I let the Void out, my skin black and tough like a sheet of plate mail. Reach out, suck out his joy, leave him quivering on the floor, the Void sated. The other drops his knife, but its too late – I do the same to him. Goddamn – they ain’t going to forget that any day soon. And next Halloween they will be staying indoors. It ain’t been the best of Halloweens. Like always, it’s a bad taste in my mouth. But the Void is sated, and there is always next year.

Murderman Power Level: 8 (150/150) Unspent Power Points: 0 Trade-Offs: -2 Attack/+2 DC, -2 Defence/+2 Toughness In Brief: Forensic Pathologist blessed by dark gods to return from the dead with the face of his murderer! Alternate Identity: Doctor Magnus Moore Birthplace: Bedlam Residence: Bedlam Base of Operations: Bedlam Occupation: Forensic Pathologist for Police Affiliations: Police Family: Monty Moore (Older brother, pilot, with wife and kids). Lyra Moore (Elderly mother with dementia) Description: Age: 40 (04/04/1984) Apparent Age: 40 Gender: Male Ethnicity: Caucasian Height: 5’11” Weight: 68Kgs Eyes: Green Hair: Brown Magnus has a tall, thin, lanky frame. He is shaven (but often has a bit of stubble), with long hair and glasses. He often looks slightly unkempt. He rarely smiles, looks serious and melancholic, but has the air of intelligence and thoughtfulness. He has an “X” shaped scar on his forehead – from his first “death” (a bullet to the head). History: Magnus was an intelligent child in an intelligent family. He studied medicine and turned to forensic pathology as a speciality. The constant corruption, murder and violence turned him sour, cynical, and depressed. Slowly retreating from society, he started spending more time with the corpses in his care, respectfully, compassionately. One case had a profound effect. The murder of a priest, with the corpse in Magnus’ care. He was pressurised to fabricate evidence by a mob – and when he refused, he was shot in the head. However, such was his care of the dead that the dark gods of the nether realm deemed him worthy of special blessing. Magnus sprang back from the dead with necromantic power! Personality & Motivation: Magnus has a bleak, cynical, burnt out personality. He finds the world stupid, contemptable, full of stupid ideologies. However, he is also a dedicated doctor and passionate about his work – which stops crime. However depressed he gets about life and the universe and everything, his job at least provides him some meaning. On a more cheery note, his new power allows him more agency in straightening out the worst offenders, and he has no qualms about dishing out bitter justice on evil. Powers & Tactics: Murderman can recover from death and injury extremely quickly, and when he dies (by someones hand) he will assume the form of his killer. The murder does not have to be completely direct – for instance, a falling piano trap will not turn him into a piano, but the man/woman who set the piano trap. In addition, he can psychically project any weapon which he has been killed with (like a gun or knife) and summon an ethereal version of the weapon to use. Alternatively, he can touch someone and inflict the psychic pain of death on them, usually overwhelming them in the process. Aside from his powers, he is intelligent and a trained doctor and pathologist. His method is usually methodical and deductive in solving problems. To return to his normal form requires him to use the Oil of Abad, an ancient formula that soaks in after a few hours and returns his form to normal. The dark gods have given him the formula, and he usually carries a small bottle of it (it’s a jet black, oily concoction that smells of rotten fruit). Power Descriptions: When summoning the psychic projections of the weapons that have killed him, they will appear in his (usually) hand, with wispy green ethereal light surrounding them. Complications: In service to the dark gods: The eldritch and unknown forces that power Murderman are neither good nor evil, but have placed upon him the duty to treat corpses and the dead with due reverence. Should he fail in this, his powers will be withdrawn (presumably temporarily) Bleakness: Magnus has a cynical, burnt out personality. He has contempt for stupidity, tribalism, and irrationality. This sour and morbid personality can put people off him. Caffeine, no Alcohol: Magnus is addicted to caffeine (normally as double espresso shots), and will be tired, irritable and sleepy without it (and have a massive headache). In addition, he has a ALDH2 gene mutation, which slows down alcohol metabolism massively. He easily gets drunk and will stay drunk for much longer – hence he avoids alcohol. Headshot: His first death was highly traumatic. Any ballistic type damage to his head (for instance, a critical hit), will send him unconscious due to psychic effects, irrespective of any physical damage. Murder Weapons: Although, technically, Murderman can psychically manifest any weapon (Variable descriptor 2 effect), in actuality it has to have been a weapon he has murdered with. His usual preference is a “shotgun”. NB: The psychic weapons can (and usually do) have a non-lethal effect. Abilities: 0 + 0 + 0 + 8 + 8 + 0 = 16 Strength: 10 (+0) Dexterity: 10 (+0) Constitution: 10 (+0) / 20 (+5) Enhanced Intelligence: 18 (+4) Wisdom: 18 (+4) Charisma: 10 (+0) Combat: 12 + 12 = 24 Initiative: +0 Attack: +6 Defense: +6 Grapple: +6 Knockback: -5 Saving Throws: 5 + 4 + 6 = 15 Toughness: +10 (+5 Con, +5 Protection) Fortitude: +10 (+5 Con, +5) Reflex: +4 (+0 Dex, +4) Will: +10 (+4 Wis, +6) Skills: 80 Ranks = 20 PP Bluff 4 (+4) Craft (Chemical) 6 (+10) Diplomacy 4 (+4) Intimidate 4 (+4) Investigate 4 (+8) Knowledge [Behavioural Sciences] 8 (+12) Knowledge [Civics] 4 (+8) Knowledge [Life Sciences] 8 (+12) Knowledge [Theology and Philosophy] 4 (+8) Language 2 (English [Native], French, Spanish] Medicine 8 (+12) Notice 8 (+12) Search 8 (+12) Sense Motive 8 (+12) Feats: 3 PP Benefit: Wealth 1 [Well off] Benefit: Police Clearance Jack of all Trades Powers: 10 + 9 + 5 + 29 + 29 = 72 All powers have the divine and necromantic descriptors. Enhanced Constitution 10 Morph 4 (+20, Single appearance: Whoever murdered him, Extras: Action [Reaction], Duration [Continuous], Drawbacks: Involuntary [-1 PP], One way: Requires Oil of Abad and a few hours to reverse – or being murdered again [-2 PP]) [9 PP] Protection 5 [5 PP] Psychic Weapon Array (26 PP Array, Feats: Alt Power 3) [29 PP] BP: Blast 10 (Feats: Affects Insubstantial 2, Improved Critical 2, Variable Descriptor 2 [Weapons]) [26/26 PP] AP: Blast 7 (Extras: Area [Burst], Feats: Affects Insubstantial 2, Variable Descriptor 2 [Weapons]) [25/26 PP] AP: Strike 10 (Extras: Penetrating 5, Feats: Affects Insubstantial 2, Extended Reach 2, Improved Critical 2, Improved Disarm, Improved Throw, Improved Trip, Variable Descriptor 2 [weapons]) [26/26 PP] AP: Nauseate 10 (Extras: Alternate Save [+0, Will], Feats: Affects Insubstantial 2, Improved Critical 2) [24/26 PP] “Touch of pain” Regeneration 17 (Disabled 6 [1/round], Injured 3 [1/minute], Resurrection 8 [1/round], Feats: Persistent, Regrowth) [19 PP] Totals: Abilities 16 + Combat 24 + Saving Throws 15 + Skills 20 + Feats 3 + Powers 72 = 150/150

Lament Lament had several names. The Duke of despair, the Lord of Lamentations, the Marquis of Melancholia, the Sultan of sorrow. And of course, the great Zombo. And even Luther LeGrasse. But damned if he was going to give a devil (if it was a devil) any of them. "Eric Zann," he came up with, after a HP Lovecraft story he hoped the devil had not heard. Best he could do in a pinch. "So its not really created. More... recycled?" he asked. It was actually quite a conundrum. There was, as far as Luther could see, no net loss, no net gain of Joy. Just a kind of cycle of it, with this devil spinning the wheel. What was his game? money? "So what's in it for you? You got your freedom, guess you don't want the gold ching ching. I don't mind doing a deal with the devil, but I gotta know what the big picture is."

That hits but Baz has pretty good reflex! 23 slips the snare

Lament Satan had, indeed, been busy. Luther suspended judgement. He had seen plenty of outrageously impressive make up artists and costumers. Not to mention the possibility of superhero shapechanging powers, or holographic technology. Was this truly a demon. It would fit, no question. Quite poetic really, a demon trading joy in the name of misery. "I wasn't expecting such magnificent company," say Luther, with a bow. "I mean... what do I call you? Bub?" "I got my money, I got contacts. Hollywood! It's like Vegas, just more narcisists. Yes, I know, its hard to believe, what with Vegas setting the bar so high, but I urge you to believe it!" He shuffled slightly. "But, heres the thing. The market is there. A lot of market. But... the clients are a little bit more health conscious, if you catch my drift. Whats in this joy? How do you make it?"