Supercape

GM "Spook stuff, I dunno..." shrugged the Fire chief. "Black Box? Explosives? I get paid to put out fires, not work out how blew up a US military plane flying over the frozen wastes of Canada and into Alaska. Nobody even knows which side of the border it blew up in. So, yeah... politics... am I right?" The Fire chief scratched the grey stubble of his chin. Patchy, notice Archer. Burned skin and grafts, maybe. "We dont really know what happened. Not really my area of expertise. But if you know your aircraft and your spycraft, go ahead an look. Ill turn the other way. Because I would like to know, too. Ill sleep better. But fair warning - fires are not out yet, and a whole lot of military grade fuel still on board." He gave a smile. "Still, think positive. At least the plane wasnt armed. No missiles or bullets ready to explode!" The snow started to fall a little heavier.

Haven "Do you... wish to be altered?" It was an ethically perilous thing, to change the nature of a thing. If ones natures is changed, how is that different from killing the old version? A conundrum without answer. Because everyone changed all the time, it was the nature of life. But 'twas a matter of degree. The only answer was to make sure it was done with consent. "I may be able to ... remove that limitation if you will let me?" he proposed. "But it must be your choice..." Whatever choice is... what is the nature of Free Will?

Snakebite Cassandra took a moment to appreciate the view. Several moments. Curiousity chewed away the awe. How? An artificial sun creating a micro-environment. A jungle? Who would have the power - scientific, divine or supernatural to create such a thing? A shiver went up her spine. Lemuria? The jungle heat might suggest so. Propelled by the thought, she made her way up to the stone bridge to further assess the landscape. All the time her snake-eyes alert for danger, or intrigue. Perhaps some clue, some writing, rune, or inscription? Or perhaps some juicy artifact that might provide glory at the British Museum. And help her quest, obviously. That too.

GM As the EMT left (with injured bystander in ambulance), Sunshade once again reformed from the shadows. Wheras he had a solid, pitch black form just moments before, when he reformed now he seemed more wispy, translucent, less firm - less real. More ghost than flesh. "I hate doctors! And nurses! And paramedics! So professional, so nice, so focussed... bleh! Sour, bitter souls. No sustenance. How to explain it to you, my bear... it would be like chewing on rat bones. Bleugh!" The Orange eyes and orange smile flickered a little. "No. I need Fury, I need rage. And I need it controlled. That delicious grind between your animal side, trying to crush bones and rend flesh, and the human side, which puts the brakes on. It is that war of the soul that sates my appetite. And you, my bear, are a prime steak. I cannot remember a meal so delicious in thousands of years! You are yummy, aren't you?"

GM With a shower of sparks and the overwhelming smell of ozone, Mr Metal sat up. THe rust fell from his skin, revealing a painfully withered skeleton of fragile metal, full of holes. "Wha.... NO! WATER! I'm MELTING!" he screamed, each syllabul causing a few flecks of metal to fall from his already depleted body. "HURT, BUT ALIVE!" declared the Metal mother, gentle giant hand coming down to scoop her son from the floor of the fire station. "He... He hurt me mother!" whimpered The big brother, pointing at Dwayne. "AND YOU SHOULD HAVE NOT HAVE COME TO THE FORBIDDEN WORLD OF FLESH! NEITHER OF YOU!" "I'm sorry...." said Mr Metal, looking at his feet. "YOU WILL BE, BOTH OF YOU!" said the Metal mother. "WE WILL NOT STAY ONE SECOND LONGER IN THIS FORBIDDEN PLACE OF FORBIDINESS!" The three metal creatures started to fade from existence, presumably to return to their own strange universe. At the last seecond, Mr. Metal gave Dwayne a smile and a wave. "I had a lot of FUN! See you soon!" he said, with a wink. As for the big brother? He shot Dwayne a glare of pure fury, and hissed from broken lips: "I didn't! See you soon too!" And then they were gone...

Diamondlight The apparent danger over, Diamondlight stopped glowing, and adjusted his ruffled clothes. An eyebrow raised, he clucked his tongue. "Our pleasure," he said to the detectives, observing them carefully. "Although... well... what where they?" "And more importantly, why where they here, for what purpose?" "Is this the end of it? It feels like not all the pieces of the jigsaw are in place..." Aquaria looked more like a shark than a human; although appearances could be deceiving and she might be smarter than she looked. The kid? Looked smart, eager - but still inexperienced. The detectives? Maybe they had that nose for mystery, but they looked out of their depth, tired. "What do you guys think?" he asked them all.

GM The Casualties, fortunately, were minimal. A soldier got sucked out of the plane before it landed. Pilot and other soldier injured but alive, recieving treatment by the paramedics in the ambulance. More problematic was the mess, the fire around a military plane loaded with military fuel. "Hold it, hold it..." said a fire chief, putting out a hand in front of Archer. "Not till everythings out and its clear. Don't worry, we got this..." The chief was tall, maybe fifty, greying stubble and face that looked like it had been burned once, with subtle signs of plastic surgery and skin graft. Yet the eyes were glinting intelligence, shining determination. This guy knew what he was doing. "Damned if I know what happened. But the air force are on their way, both Canadian and American. I know we are allies, but shoot, this thing is looking pretty political if you know what I mean. Flight was passed by Canadian intelligence, not an issue, but it goes down? Suspicions start to swirl. Terrorism? Something else? Suddenly the spooks are interested..." He sighed. "So I have to put out a fire, and not damage any evidence. Great. No doubt I'll get my marching orders for screwing things up somehow. And I like my job..."

GM Hot and Bothered [4 Posts] Cool Drugs [4 Posts] Monorail Mayhem [1 Post] The Sun in the Shade [6 Posts] A Filthy Business [4 posts] Asleep on the job [3 Posts] A Small Problem [16 Posts] Diamondlight Let the bodies hit the ground [2 Posts - Roll to Sgt Shark] Gamma Buzz Bots - Moving in, Second Floor [4 Posts] Never Was [4 Posts] Echohead Dennis Deacon of Woodbury New Jersey [3 Posts] Haven Operation Ares [3 Posts] Captain Cosmos 2, 4, 6, 8 [12 Posts -> Roll to Spore] Pitch Profanum Profanorum [7 Posts] Snakebite Hidden Treasures of the Himalayas [18 Posts -> Roll to Sgt Shark] Spore Girls Move In - Third Floor [5 Posts] Student Assessment Group C [3 Posts] Ren Fair -- Town Square [2 Posts] Return to Wonderland [5 Posts] Bloody Mess Unseelie against steel [1 Post -> Roll to Sgt Shark] Misc Super Strength Roster ?1 PP - Award to Spore if it counts GM Posts allocated thusly: 38 Posts = 76 Bonus Posts 4 Posts to Sgt Shark (for total of 25 Posts = 3 PP) 25 Posts to Lament (for total of 25 Posts = 3 PP) 10 Posts to Peak (for total of 10 Posts = 2 PP) 10 Posts to Spore (for total of 25 Posts = 3 PP) + Additional PP if Super Strength Roster counts 7 Posts to Echohead (for total of 10 Posts = 2 PP) 17 Posts to Gamma Buzz (for total of 25 Posts = 3 PP) 3 Posts gobbled up by Great Cthulhu and lost to the void.

GM "Dr. North..." She frowned. "Very well, I suppose he has served his purpose...." Another floor panel slid open, revealing Dr North, floating in faint blue liquid, tubes in every orifice, fed oxygen and nutrients, in a medically induced coma. "There he is, good as new. Maybe even better, given he had a stress ulcer and penicious aneamia. Had to correct those before copying him. He shouldn't work so hard..." She clucked her tongue. And took her hand from the keyboard. "So, I am going to get my coat and leave. And we shall see if you do really keep your word..." Taking a deep breath, face clammy from sweat, the scientist made to the door, picking up an arctic coat on the way...

GM And so, one plane ride later... The plane ride had been straightforward - small private plane, reasonable weather, good headwind. But the landing was interesting. They had to land on a reserve strip, an icy, short, and very unpalatable landing only allowed at all because of Archer's diplomatic weight. And only managed because of the pilots skill. Outside the plane, Archer could see the reason for the chaos. The main strip was a crash site. A broken military plane, still benching smoke, with a fire engine and police surrounding it, trying to see what the hell had happened, and if there were any survivors... The flashing lights of an ambulance indicated there was at least some hope...

Ok bit of a stretch to resurrect him, but! We are at the end of the thread and you have HP to burn so feel free to narrate whatever your head canon says - fail, succeed, or something in between.

GM The tremulous Mr Metal was clearly not comfortable speaking, but speak he did. "It's... It's my fault Mom. I came here for some fun and my brother came and started bullying me. And attacking everyone...." "SOUNDS like him..." said the giant metal woman, sniffing. She turned her mercurial eyes to Dwayne. "So, you can save him? Maybe you FLESHLINGS are not completely USELESS and HEARTLESS after all.... go on then. TRY! and SUCCEED!" She pointed a giant and judgemental finger at Dwayne and lowered the other hand to him, holding the rusted remains of her son...

Snakebite Cassie clucked her tongue in delight, her fingers tracing their way through the engraved story. It was beautiful. The puzzle was puzzling, as was only right. She could turn the rings, but in what order? The wrong combination could send out a flurry of poison darts, or send a rolling boulder down to crush her bones. Possibly it could even permenantly disrupt the time continuum and create a splintering of alternate realities each more hellish than the last. She cracker her fingers. "Fortune favours the bold..." Closing her eyes, she sent her consciousness through time to the past, to see what the history of this puzzle held...

Gamma Buzz In Not much of a holiday The problem with holidays was that if you had no money they were not much of a holiday at all. All Baltazar “Baz” Botez had was some loose change that went clink in his back pocket. With the other Claremont kids off to see family, or take vacations in the Alps, Baltazar was left somewhat alone in the halls of Claremont academy. At least, he told himself, he was not on the street. In another life, Baz didn’t get into Claremont. Maybe he didn’t get into the USA. He would be the cockroach monster and would have made a living with petty theft. Perhaps even more than petty theft. As sour as the concept was, Baltazar knew he could have become a super villain – maybe a relatively benign one, forced into crime to feed himself and his sister – but a super villain nonetheless. It was not a happy thought. Baz could handle being a punk, a rebel, a greasy cockroach kid riding the streets on a smoking motorbike blazing out the sex pistols. But a villain, no no. He needed something to do. And at times like these, one turned to family. In Baltazars case, this was Bianca “Biz”Botez. A couple of years younger, an illegal immigrant, and working the subways as a cleaner. Nice smile, pretty face, and stunning eyes. Not literally stunning, but they did have a slightly unnatural shining green quality. Biz had been playing with radioactive cockroaches with Baz, but unlikely her rapscallion brother, she had done it far less and from a distance. She had retained her human body. The only trace of any mutation was her eyes – able, like Baz, to see in infrared and ultraviolet spectrums. Handy, for a Subway cleaner. And she was pretty handy with her broom – not just for cleaning, but for the occasional smiting of some unruly subway denizen. “What are you doing here?” she asked, having spotted Baz crawling up along the ceiling of the subway station. “What? You can see me?” said Baz. “Of course,” replied Biz, pointing at her eyes. “You pretty much glow in the dark, stupid!” “Hey! Don’t call me stupid! I am your brother, the amazing cockroach kid!” Biz poked him with her broom. “I’m hear to clean up cockroaches! Shoo!” she said, smiling. “Seriously, you could lose me my job?” She glanced behind her. There were only a few people waiting on the platform, and they were not interested in the dark ends of the station. “I can take a break,” she said, in hushed tones. “But not here… this way, come on!” Biz knew the subways better than probably anyone in Freedom City. And Baz knew them almost as well. Stuffed full of unexplored and forgotten nooks and crannies, some leading to the sewers, some leading further down, to ancient ruins and historical predesessors of the modern architecture. Not all were merely forgotten. In some places, things lived. Or even unlived. Zombies, mutant alligators, spectral ghosts and eldritch cultists had all been rumoured to dwell in the depths. Some of the rumours were true. At the moment, the current flavour of the month for subway rumours was the feared Crococonda, an ancient lemurian hybrid beast. So it was that the siblings ended up in a rather cramped, very filthy, and totally forgotten nook of the subway system. It was unlikely that any human soul had been in there for fifty years. Now, it was populated by squeaking rats and crawling, yes, cockroaches. “Lovely,” said Baz, face frowning. He flicked a few cockroaches into a spider web. A spider was very grateful. “We don’t all leave in Claremont mansion. Swanky Senor Botez,” said Biz. Miming putting on a top hat and stroking an imaginary moustache. “Sorry. But… cant we do any better?” “Not if you want to chat unseen. Nobody knows about this little place. Nobody wants to.” “I can see why.” Biz shrugged. “Could be worse. Plenty of places worse, down here. At least the Crococonda wont gobble you up.” “Wait, is that thing real?” asked Baz. Biz shrugged. “Dunno. But those kind of rumours keeps people from exploring too far. Look, this place aint so bad…” She pulled open a filthy draw, to reveal a packet of cigarettes, a small bottle of whiskey, a wind up radio and a pack of playing cards. “Home sweet home,” she smiled. “Good for a bit of piece and quiet.” A thought zoomed through Baltazars (frequently zooming) head. “Wait… nobody knows about this place, right?” he said, scanning the corners of the place. “That’s right.” “And, like, nobody will?” Biz shrugged. “Can’t say for certain. Hardly anyone comes down here, and as far as I can see, those that do don’t like poking around too much. Besides, its pretty hard to spot, and harder to squeeze into…” That was true. Fortunately, Biz was thin and Baltzar had amazing cockroach-flexibility. “So… this can be my cockroach cave!” said Baltazr proudly, putting his crazy idea into words. “Your… what?” “Cockroach Cave! My secret hero headquarters!” “This place? Its…” said Biz, adding in a few choice expletives to describe just how poor and filthy the place was. “I am sure you, I mean we, can clean it up, right? You know your way round a mop?” Biz growled, and brandished her mop up Baltazars nose. “Careful, or I will stick this up your amazing cockroach backside! But, but yeah I can get you some detergent and bleach…” she looked around. “I guess we could get this place respectable.” “And even better than just a superhero cave… My pirate radio station!” “Your what?” “That’s right! Cockroach radio! From the streets! Playing all the sickest tunes, and giving you all the best made up news and rumours from the streets! Independent media to the best beats in town!” Biz slapped her head. “Of course. How could I not have guessed. The radiation has fried your brain…” “Aim for the moon, you might hit the stars!” said Baz, grinning wildly. “Look, we can hook up power cables here, leaching electricity directly and almost legally from the subway electrical system…” “Almost legally?” “Almost legally. Look, we are practical illegal immigrants anyway, whats a little power siphoning going to matter? And for a good cause. Namely, Cockroach Radio!” “Cockroach Radio, huh? Well, if you make it the voice of the illegal immigrant, Ill listen. Ill even help set it up.” The two siblings bumped fists. And so began a summer of sneaking in and out of the subways and sewers, preparing the Cockroach cave for action. To begin with, a deep clean – and it needed to be deep. Then electricity. It was slow work, but it was a start. But with a bit of will, a bit of elbow grease, the Cockroach cave would be ready for action when the Cockroach Kid graduated from Claremont!

Apologies @EternalPhoenix (And others) I have had a mull over the induce current power after thinking about Pitch and discussions with @Fox on that one and I dont think it works. I have altered it to a stun effect, limited to contact with metal, which I think is much more reasonable. I hope you can look at again.

Sgt Shark in Fishing for fun The calm, sunlit ocean waters seethed, twenty yards from a bronze, fine-sanded beach. Crystal blue turned to red. With an abrupt burst, Sergeant Shark burst from the water, his mighty maw holding the torn carcass of a large fish. It was hard to say if the shark-man hybrid ever smiled, for his jaws seemed perpetually fixed in an unnerving, hungry grin. But he looked happy as blood trickled from his teeth down to his chest. His mighty hands, the nails sharp, reached up and tore the fish in two with a burst of entrails and blood. There was little doubt he was happy now. A fully belly? Part of it, no doubt. But the real joy came from the kill. Sergeant Shark was a hunter. A killer. And woe betide and fish that fell between his mighty jaws. Or possibly anything else that fell between his teeth. Squat, powerful legs pushed forward, and he strode through lapping waves towards the beach. The sun beat down, bright and hot. Despite the heat and sunshine, a Caribbean beach was Finley Finn (aka Sergeant Sharks) favourite holiday destination, even before he had become a human-shark hybrid. It was undeniably beautiful, both above and below the ocean surface. A group of men and women waited for him on the beach. Their leader, a thin old man with the look of boot leather, fell to his knees, long grey hair laying wild across his shoulder. “Shark God!” The others fell to their knees too, supplanting their hands, offering flowers and ornaments. Finley Finn, also known as Sergeant Shark, and no also apparently known as a Shark God, blinked. He was aware of Shark God mythology around the world, but only dimly. Ukupanipo and Kamohoalii, the Shark Gods of Hawaiian mythology, for instance. Presumably something about the shark inspired worship. Or fear. Or both. He spat out a fish head, his appetite evaporated. He had a feeling his holiday would take a sour turn. “What?” he growled. “Oh Mighty Shark God, we, your faithful few, come to honour your divine divinity!” The old man, in Finley’s opinion, looked crazy. “I’m no God. I’m not even a Shark…” he said, chewing the remnants of scales and cartilarge stuck in his teeth. “Only a divine being would be so modest!” “Only a fool would call me a God.” The old man wailed, wept, and put his head in the sand. “Then I am a fool, oh mighty Shark God!” “You’re psychotic…” “Then I am psychotic, oh mighty shark God.” It was hard to see when Finley rolled his jet black eyes. But he did. He had some medical training, but that was about combat. Stopping a brother in arms from bleeding out. Not psychosis. Something about this man screamed mentally ill, but Finley was no psychiatrist. “Outa my way,” he said, striding forward. The dozen worshippers quickly parted, and Finley marched back to his hotel, hoping that was the end of the matter. Behind him, he heard the pitter patter of two dozen bare feet across sand. He turned, showed his teeth and said “I said… Outa my way! Or I’ll eat you”, and licked his sharp teeth. They moved. A step. Maybe two. Grunting, Finley turned back and started walking again. After a few seconds, he heard the feet of the devout patter again. This time a little further away. Finley turned around, gave an unholy roar (as befitted an angry shark god), and charged the group. His claws out, his teeth glinting, his mouth drooling. “EAT YOU ALL!” he screamed. This time, the group’s primitive limbic systems overrode their devout will and they scattered. “ALL OF YOU! EVERY LAST BONE!” shouted Finley as they dispersed. He didn’t want to eat then all. He told himself. Over and over again. What he wanted was to have a pleasant two week summer holiday fishing. Thinking the matter was over, Finley retreated to his beach hut and lay down for a pleasant post-prandial snooze. He was wrong. He awoke at dusk, stretched, feeling a little dry but otherwise quite sated, quite happy. In his half asleep state, he had forgotten all about the mad group of cultists. He yawned, and opened the door to his hut, so as to best take in the spectacular orange sunset dancing over the ocean. He quickly remembered the vexation of the afternoon. The same dozen madmen (and madwomen) holding lit candles, who started chanting as soon as they saw him. “I told you to get lost,” said Finley, trying to keep his voice low and his maw from chomping. “You don’t need a shark God. You need to think for yourselves.” “Behold the words of the Shark God!” said the crazed leader. “We don’t need a shark God. We need to think for ourselves,” said the group, in perfect unison. “But I just said tha---” said Finley, before clamping his stunned jaw shut. “But you just said tha---” echoed the group. Finley took a step back into his hut and slammed the door. “Behold! The God Shark is not satisfied with our devotion! We must show him more!” screamed the cult leader, the muffled words of agreement from his (presumably equally crazy) posse. “Hello, is that police?” said Finley, barking into the phone. He had faced down all sorts of serious threats, life-threatening threats, both as Finley Finn and as Sergeant Shark. He couldn’t recall feeling quite so out of his depth, quite so floundering, as he was right now. All he could do was finish his conversation with the (rather helpful) police officer, gently put the phone down (despite the urge to throw it against the floor), sit on his bed, and put his clawed hands over his ears. He tried to count sheep, or fish. Anything to distract himself from the chanting outside. “Its supposed to be a holiday… Its supposed to be a holiday…” he kept repeating to himself, until the thought occurred to him that this was a mantra. Predictably, the cult outside started repeating the mantra. “It’s supposed to be a holiday…. It’s supposed to be a holiday…” All Finley could do was scream. Blessed (pardon the phrase) relief was the police van, that arrived and duly carted the posse of cultists off. Most of them were bound for a cell overnight, with a caution in the morning. The leader of the cult was due psychiatric assessment and a trip to the local psychiatric hospital. Finley tossed and turned, unable to sleep the whole night. He was red eyed and restless by the time the sun rose. Furious with himself for not relaxing, he charged into the sea and swam as deep and far from land as he could go. This was supposed to be a relaxing holiday? Why couldn’t he relax now? He knew very well. What he needed was something to take his mind of it. And a very tasty tuna fish had just swum past him….

GM "I.... I dunno...." said the manm clutching his head and his stomach. Pulse high, blood pressure low. Dwayne palpated the man's abdomen - causing wincing. Pupils reactive to light. Pale, clammy skin. Disorientated. Diagnosis? It would need blood tests and scans to be sure, but looked like the man had moderate concusion and internal bleeding. "Something... something kicked me. Head. In my guts. Feel like I been in a boxing ring... ugh... feeling faint. You know, musta been kicked super hard... it looked like a shadow, or something.... must be going crazy...." As far as Dwayne could see, the mans concussion was only moderate. It was plausible the man was hallucinating, or misremembering, but it was unlikely. Still... what else could have been?

As per chat, Dwayne takes 10 on Medicine for a result of 20, more than enough for a solid diagnosis.

And finally the luck fades: Base rolls are 20, 3 and 2 With skill bonuses we have 35 for history (impressive!) but only 14 and 9 for Art and Theo/Philos

GM As it so happened, an ambulance was passing... Sunshade looked petrurbed. "No, no, this wont do. Compassion? Where is your fury? Where is your sense of righteousness?" He hopped from one shadowy leg to another. "Its like... like a drug. Once savoured, its absence is a poison! Curse you, damn you!" As the sirens could be heard, Sunshade started to get anxious. And fade, blending in with the shadows... grunting with effort. Jack could still spy the shadow, now insubstantial, lingering against the brickwork and rubbish of the ally, orange eyes still trembling. Whatever was happening, the spirit was clearly exerting a mighty will to fade...

Gamma Buzz "Not fight...?" gasped Baltazar. He had heard of Superior, of course. Who hadn't, at Claremont. "I mean not that I am a coward or anything and I think we could totally take him. Blindfold, too. With one arm behind our backs whilst balancing a teapot on our head. A ming teapot too. One of those expensive ones. Probably a wobbly one, too, which means it would super hard to do. But we could still do it. Because we are totally not scared of you and we could totally take you on. You and all your friends. But because we are nice we will just back away so we dont humiliate you, and not at all because we would get our asses whipped. Which we wouldn't." Baltazars eyes shifted right and left. "That right, huh, guys?"

Haven Haven contemplated the words. The problem of free will. Everything, arguably, followed their function. Was anyone truly free from the universal law of causality? He pressed his fingertips together, contemplating the problem. "Secure data. And you find the files. So tell me, can you find secure files? Is this a... conflict for you?" Whilst distateful, the thought crossed Havens mind - could he free the Lion from its programming? Should he? Or even change the Lion? Did he have the justification for changing a sentience? And what was sentience, anyway? Was he, a computer programme himself, sentient?

GM "RAAAAGH!" roared the metal mother, examining the rust on the knuckles of her enormous fist. "A doctor? You... a FLESHLING... can save my son?" The thought stayed her fist. "Was he a NAUGHTY BOY?" she asked Mr Metal. "Yes mummy, he was naughty. It was all his fault, actually, and not at all mine." "HMMM. ARE YOU LYING, SON?" "Nnnnoooooo....." said Mr. Metal, slowly, looking shifty. "I SHALL DEAL WITH YOU LATER!" boomed the metal mother. "SO, DOCTOR FLESHLING!" she said, pointing an enomrous metal finger at Dwayne. It was a thick as his body. "HOW ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE MY SON? DO YOU POSSESS THE FLUID METAL OF K'ZULLA? OR THE MERCURIAL FOUNTAIN OF INFINITE INFINITIES?"

ENough to stay conscious! So we move out of combat and into talking and wrap. Any final requests or suggestions for thread wrap, let me know... A few posts left to do!