Supercape

19 so bruised (and injured?) and dazed. And knockbacked, too. Feel free to pop out one of Baz's limbs (Pop! Complication) from the KB, if it suits.

GM It definately did not feel like a good kind of magic. In ages past - long, long ages, longer than any human civilisation - something was born here. Some festering spirit that fed on resentment, frustration. Not the actual act of violence, no. Something much more insidious, something born from surpressed rage. And it had reawakened. Why? Perhaps it was the city, full of crushed hope and simmering resentment for the man who had it easier, for the man who had it all. The man with the yacht, the penthouse, the smart suit or designer dress. Perhaps it was something else. Forming from the shadows, a deeper shadow formed in the trees above Jack. A shadow licked by flame, with two orange eyes and an orange maw, grinning. "Quite the feast!" said the shadow, grinning wider.

More than sufficient!

GM "Wow!" said the Metal Man. "You look just like me! Or...wait..." He leaned forward, studying Dwayne with one suspicious eye. "Are you my brother? Playing tricks on me? Go on, its you, isn't it..." He poked Dwayne with a metal finger. "You are real. Who are? No, who are you really? Nobody is allowed to leave metaloworld. Too much disruption, they say. Pffft. They just want to stop us having fun. That's the real reason. So who are you? Is that you, brother?"

Snakebite "Claws?" said Cassie, aloud, feeling the edge of the journal and giving it a sniff. The Journal, even incomplete, was interesting. And worrying. Signs of intelligence? Ancient civilisation? This could be Lemurian. Her blood ran, appropriately, cold. She had Lemurian power, and it was an icy power she always half feared. The Lemurian civilisation was cruel, spiteful, and powerful. Most thought they were consigned to myth, or history, but Cassandra Crow was not so sure. Outposts might still remain, and the World could well do without a resurgance of Lemurian sorcery. She slammed the book shut and put it in her backpack. It was time to find Baiyun. But where? The old lady selling her rope had said the base camp. It was time to head there, even if it was night. Lemurian blood was good for something at least. She could see in the dark.

Gamma Buzz "Lawre--- I mean, TImeout!" called Gamma Buzz, alarmed. "I got ya, buddy!" He jumped into the air, somersaulted twice, and landed in an elegant cockroach-pose right by the feet of the four armed insect creature, his armour plates glowing with green gamma energy. "I'm the number one cockroach round here, sucker!" he said. "Get ready to meet the might of the merely magnificent Gamma Buzz!" With that, he backflipped, and in doing so stuck out his feet, intent on catching the creature with both feet!

Gamma Buzz is going to leap (move action) to his old Buddy Timeout. Free action to activate Nauseate Aura Standard Action to punch-a-doodle-do Procyus (he isn't being sensible...) 26 - not quite a critical, but should hit! DC 23 Tough and DC 15 Nauseate effects.

GM The elevator slowed and stopped at the very depths of the outstation. Almost silently, the doors opened to reveal a dimly lit laboratory. Soft lights on the banks of computers and other scientific questions. Glass cyliners, full of blue liquid, held bodies inside. Transluscent and hairless skin that Predator recognised well. A dozen bodies, lined up in seperate containers. Each body had a variety of electrodes and sensors attached to the white flesh, linked to the top of the cylinder. Life signs - present, but faint. On a solitary chair, surrounded by computers and microwave meals, was a lone woman. Small, robust, wearing a scientists coat. Maybe forty years old - a few lines, but not wrinkled. A brow that looked like a potent mix of intelligent and driven. "Not a step closer!" she barked at Predator.

Echohead "Dang," said Echohead, muttering about the ill fate. "Well, driving an ambulance can't be too hard, can it? I mean, you turn the wheel and do stuff. Probably. That's all there is, right?" Echohead glanced at the Ambulance. "It looks solid enough. I guess Ambulances have to be pretty solid? They need to work in disaster zones, right?" He swallowed. Of course, he could drive. He could drive his van through the streets of Freedom City to pick good and deliver flowers. But he didn't like driving, and he never had to drive through a zombie horde. Or drive an ambulance." "I'll do my best, anyway. Lets go!"

In that case an 18 result and a dc 23 tough!

Gamma Buzz "That went fantastic!" said Baz, giving Veuriz two cockroach thumbs upwards. "Now, lets see if these Robots are a match for my amazingly amazing cockroach strength and cockroach agility! I'm betting not! Wheeeee!" He leapt into the air, did a double somersault, and yelled "look at how cool this is, huh?" landing with remarkable elegance. "Wait..." he said. "I'm meant to do something else. Oh yes, punch!" He gave a lazy, rushed and totally wild swing so telegraphed that it predated the invention of the telegraph.

Nothing fancy: Baz is going to leap to the nearest Robot and punch it https://orokos.com/roll/1014452 getting 10 and almost certainly missing

Sounds like a plan! You want to kick that off, Spacefurry?

Thats fine by me - I always find it something of a grey area in M&M. Life support protects against environmental effects but gas effects is another matter (As clearly that's a lot more powerful!) but I think thats a good steer through those murky waters!

Rev In Golden Age Motorised Vehicle Madam Lady Lexington “Lexi” Venn had broken three ribs, amputated her right foot, and enucleated her left eyeball. And her husband was dead. This is not a pleasant way to start a story, but fear not! This is a tale of love, hope, and good old fashioned revenge. With automobiles! It was two months after Lady Lex had been involved in an outstandingly awful car crash. She had been driving a model T on a pleasant afternoon through the streets of Freedom City, when another similar car had hit them, side on, at the incredible top speed of 45 mph. The crash had crumpled the side of their car, killing the passenger (her husband), crushing her foot, and sending glass into one eye. She had spent one month in hospital, operation after operation after darn operation, her days broken up by morphine. Each operation followed by days on post anaesthetic nausea and vomiting. And yet she faced it with gritted teeth. She elected to wear a black leather eyepatch and have a steel prosthetic foot. Every day, she forced herself through a gruelling rehabilitation programme, until she could walk, and even run, unaided. See, she was driven by grief. Grief turned sour, and into malice. She had found out who had murdered her husband and crippled her body. Alfonso Cetti, one of the up and coming Mafia crooks who had a love for cars and a hatred for anyone who didn’t prostrate themselves in front of him and lick his boots. Lord Venn had done neither. The next month, Lady Lex had recovered at the Len mansion; a small but elegant piece of architecture. Lord Venn was a minor European aristocrat who had come to America to improve his modest fortunes. He was running an automobile repair and customisation shop with a couple of talented mechanics he had recruited. It was Successful, and the coffers had swollen. Alfonso Cetti had “asked” Lord Venn to produce modified T-Models with hidden compartments for smuggling. Lord Venn had refused, and it was an offer that, apparently, could not be refused. He had paid with his life. Whilst Alfonso terrorised the streets in his automobile, Lady Lex plotted. She had the money, the skills, and the determination. The streets needed a hero, or heroine. A woman of mystery. And so began a mission. Converting a T-Model to a mechanical marvel. Customised fuel injectors: to boost the top speed to an amazing fifty five miles per hour for thirty seconds. A retractable gatling gun. Smoke emitters, caltrop droppers, rotating wheel blades. What else? An ejector seat, a flamethrower, and a hidden compartment full of everything a dashing woman of mystery would need – revolver, pipe bomb, knife, cigarillo, and bottle of sloe gin. A woman of mystery needed her vices, after all. The car had to be adapted, of course. She had a metal foot now. For that matter, the metal foot had to be adapted too. No mere lump of steel, this. With a click of her heels, a poison blade would spring out of the tip. Beyond rehabilitation then; the ribs healed, the bruises faded, leading just the forged mettle of the soul. Exercise, to become fitter than ever. Driving – faster, surer, practicing all of the customised car’s particular modifications. And shooting. Yes, if it came to that, she would see Alfonso sporting a bullet between the eyes. The Lady was a Widow, and a Widow harbouring the bittersweet taste of vengeance. But there comes a time in any woman of mystery’s career when the training is complete. Learning may be a never ending passion, but at some point it must turn to action. For what good is learning without action? (and what good is action without learning?) And so, one hot winter night, with the moon under cloud, and soft rain dancing on the streets, the Lady revved up her modified black T model and drove into town. She had a tip that Alfonso would be hustling the docks, demanding protection money for the second time this month. Nobody was a fan of Alfonso – not even his mooks. It took an hour – maybe two – to find Alfonso. He and a large crony (carrying a tire iron) were shaking down to dock workers. The Lady had half a mind to ram him then, and perhaps she would have, were it not the risk to the two workers. Instead she gritted her teeth, bided her time, and waited for Alfonso and his chum to climb into their own car and drive off. She put her foot to the floor and felt the incredible power of her customised T-model. Ten, twenty, THIRTY miles and hour! It was fortunate that the streets were so empty at this time of night. Alfonso was no fool; he spotted the car in pursuit and tried to make his getaway. The two cars roared through the streets, engines humming at the top speed of over FOURTY miles an hour. Wheels screeched against the road as corners were taking at this reckless speed. Axels threatened to unhinge themselves, pistons dared to tremble. And yet for all this speed, the Lady was the better driver, thanks to her practice of driving at such breakneck speeds. And her car had that little extra punch in the engine. FIFTY miles and hour! With such lightning speed, she drew parallel to Alfonso. “Remember Me?” she shouted over the wind and rain. Alfonso merely snarled. She used her cars extra juice to pull ahead and then punched the smoke button. Grey, thick and thoroughly unpleasant smoke belched from her exhaust, blinding Alfonso, who hit the brakes and wrestled with his steering wheel. Despite the juddering suspension, he managed to keep control, and sped up again, trying to ram the Lady. But the Lady was in control. Next up, the caltrops, scattered over the road behind her, the metal tinkling against the tarmac. Then, the sound of exploding tires, ripped to shreds by the metal spikes. A horrible screeching, and sparks, flying from the grating wheels. “Bastardo!” yelled Alfonso. His car was grinding forward at barely ten miles and hour now. The Lady slammed her own breaks and in a well-practiced and elegant manuever turned around to face Alfonso. The Gatling gun popped up from the hood of the car and let rip. Cracck-crack-crack, the sound of a round of rapidfire bullets tearing down the street. Now, Alfonso’s car was on fire, its engine pulverised. The villain emerged from his car, patting down his clothes, and pulling out a revolver. The Lady wasted no time, and Revved her engine. Crack… Crack-Crack! Alfonso got off three bullets as the Lady charged him. One hit the windscreen, shattering it. Two hit the engine, but without palpable effect. And then the Lady’s car hit him, sending his broken body flying across the street, the revolved tumbling out of his grip, his body tumbling, rolling, until finally coming to a stop in a puddle of rainwater. His limbs were bent at odd angles, his mouth was bloodied and missing several teeth, and bruises were forming on every square inch of his body. “If you break the streets, the streets will break you!” shouted Lady Lexington. “Beware, villains! Beware the sound of my Rev!” And with another fierce rev of her engine, she was off!

No sleepiness for the Predator!

Name: Harper Hale Codename: Spore Year: Sophomore Pronouns: Doesn't care (Speakers choice) Prospective Roommate: Ms Grue? Goal: Better control of her powers. Making friends. Becoming an effective hero. Discussing philosophy over home-made cheese and wine. Favorite Music: World / Indigenous Music (of any type).

Superdupercape Spore Vignette (1.1 K Words) Haven Operation Ares (1 post) Bloody Mess Unseelie against Steel (1 Post) Diamondlight Vignette (1.2 K Words) -> Roll to Haven Snakebite Hidden Treasures of the Himalayas (7 Posts) -> Roll to Haven Gamma Buzz Doom Room Troop (4 Posts) Never Was (1 Post) Survival Class (1 Post) Rev Vignette (1.2K Words) -> Roll to Haven The Red Rat Vignette (1.1 K Words) -> Roll to Haven Echohead Dennis Deacon of Woodbury (7 Posts) GM The Sun in the Shade (12 Posts) Hot and Bothered (5 Posts) Digital Hex (1 Post) Cool Drugs (2 posts) Monorail Mayhem (10 posts) Total GM posts = 30 posts = 60 boosts GM Posts allocated thusly: 25 to Spore (=25 Posts = 3 PP) additional 2 from Vignette = 5 PP 17 to Haven (=25 Posts = 3 PP) additional 6 from Vignettes = 9 PP 4 to Gamma Buzz (=10 posts = 2 PP) 3 to Echohead (=10 posts = 2 PP) 1 to Captain Cosmos (=1 post = 1 PP) Should be 10 left - if there are, allocate to Peak for (10 posts = 2 PP). If I miscounted, allocate 1 post to Peak (=1 PP) and the rest to buffer up any slippage on the other characters

Spore In Burning down the house Harper Hale had turned into Spore the day she was infected with the spores of a burning mutant fungus, in 2020. But what if had happened earlier? A Decade earlier? Two Decades? In some part of the infinitely infinite multiverse, it did! Fifty years ago! In the shocking seventies. And, being a different age, with different psychic and sociological flavours, the story was different, too. Harper Hale was twenty three, in this story. Fresh out of university with a degree in mycology, for fungus and mushrooms had always fascinated her. True, the Hale family were primarily interested in the San Fransisco Vineyards, producing the finest independent wines on the coast. But they had a little side line. Cheese and Wine went splendidly together, and they had brought European cheese making to America. Not your processed rubber monstrosities of the new world, no. Cheese bursting with an assortment of flavours and a shapes, from soft creamy cheese that had to be eaten with a spoon, to hard cheeses that hard to be cut with a sharp knife. But Harper always found the blue cheeses most splendid. Stilton, in particular. What an opera of aroma’s! Cheese deliberately infected with a strain of fungus. She fully intended to develop her own cheeses and bring America diary enlightenment. The San Fransico Vineyards were expansive, bathed in golden sunlight for most of the year. Harper found few places more beautiful (perhaps her trips to Europe? The Vineyards of Paris?) and they were home. She had run through them as a child, laughing with joy. And in some lonely wooden hut, bequeathed by her parents, she had set up her cheese making experiments. Whilst she was a master of mycology, her cheese making was not quite so expert. A strong amateur, she would have said, and rightly so. But this was not a drawback; she was good enough. What she needed was the right fungus, and here she tinkered with various strains. In the universe we are all familiar with, ‘twas a mutated fungus that caused the disaster. Here, it was not some accident of DNA, but something much more esoteric and silver-age. Here, it was something psychic! Could a fungus actually be psychic? Stories and science converge to say yes! This could be true. Fungal intelligence? It may be real. And for those readers who wish a more horrific and mind-shredding titbit, how about the zombie fungus that infects ants? Spooky, to say the least! Some twist of fate, some arcane twirl, perhaps. Whatever it was, one strain of fungus in the hut started becoming psychic. Intelligent, yes, but not intelligence as we know it. This was strange, unknowable, exotic intelligence. An intelligence born from lightless stars and eldritch dimensions. A consciousness that stretched over dimensions and imaginations beyond human ken. And it was an intelligence that fed on every single particle of cheese in the hut. On the plus side, when Spore discussed how she was built, she could say her powers were cheesey. The fungal bloom had taken over the entire shed. Not just the cheese, either. It had crawled into the wood, up the walls, into the roof. Everything organic had streaks of purple fungus lancing through the flesh. The air was hazy with livid spores. Harper was almost immediately overcome. It was like the drunkedness of wine; not unpleasant, but certainly dangerous. Her view distorted, everything out of focus, alive with every colour known to man (and several that were not). It was beautiful. There was no self. Harper staggered out of the hut, fighting to maintain any sense of self amid the floral psychodelia. It was a nigh impossible. Her brain swam with fungal toxins. Her animal cells embraced the fungal intruders, creating something new, wonderful, exciting. And yet the self was lost. Behind her, some fire. Some blurred part of her brain wondered how the fire had started. Electricals? Had a light blown? Or the refrigerator? Had the fungus chewed through some wire? Or had she started it? She would never know – a horrible worm like thought that would crawl around her skull for the rest of her life. The fire blazed, strange smell smoking blooming into the wind. It started spreading. It was a dry month, and the vineyards were dry. Old, parched woods for the vines to grow on. A gentle breeze, enough to send embers from one patch to another. Soon, Harper was running across blazing fields. The light of fire mutating into vivid blooms of colour – orange, purple, yellow, in front of her eyes. Screams, now. Screams of her parents, burning. If it was not for the chemicals sloshing around her brain, it would have been a horror that would send her to her death, embracing the fire herself. But she stood, paralysed, watching the show. It was almost beautiful – for now. Later days would nail the horror of the image into her brain. Harper fell to the floor, knees scraping the earth, hands feeling the dust beneath her fingers. The hallucinations started to recede; consciousness returned, slowly, like a glacier over aeons. She grasped the dry earth, trying to reclaim the madness. It might have been mad, but it was a shield against a deeper madness. Regardless of intent, the mere possibility of having burned your mother alive was beyond bleak. So Harper Ran, across burning vineyards, away from the fire, away from the blame, until her lungs were bursting and her legs trembling. She collapsed against a tree, far from the blaze. In the distance, she could hear the signs of sirens. She felt a distant sense of relief – at least the fire would be contained. Nobody else would suffer. Nobody like her… She caught sight of her hand. Purple streaks of fungus running across the skin, boils, full of blue liquid. The wood of the tree, succumbing to the fungus that continued to spread. With her eyes, narrowed, with some transcendental state of mind, she forced the fungus to retreat back into her hand. How? Because there was no fungus, there was no Harper. There was spore. A bereaved spore. Determined, now, to undo the bad by doing good. And thus began a journey to superhero status. Spore protected the cities, the country, and even, sometimes, the world. Crooks were found asleep, infected with soporific fungus. Or foaming at the mouth, poisoned with mycotoxins. The world came to know of Spore, the protector. Thieves, beaters, dealers and stealers – all came to fear the intervention of Spore. But at least these villains would gain some comfort from the relative kindness of Spores powers. But one group of villains would tremble. They would receive no niceness, no kindness. They would receive harsh justice. Beware, for Spore had no mercy for arsonists.

Snakebite Hmmmm.... The Professor had clearly been working hard. And the Yeti? the Yeti were real - they must be. Unless someone was playing the most elegant game of deception. Yeti Burial Ground? The Professor believed they were real, and moreover, seemed intent on not offending them. So why had a Yeti attacked? And someone had come in. Stolen something, maybe? A spy? Was that Baiyun? He seemed the most likely culprit, but it was far to early to be leaping to conclusions. Cassandra started searching the room, painstakingly looking for something the Professor had hidden, or the spy had missed. Perhaps even a clue as to whom the mysterious figure had been...

Echohead "Hold up... hold up..." said Echohead, fighting the nausea. All the jumping! "There's too many of them. We will never get through," he said, holding on to his stomach and fighting the bile. "Unless you have some stealth field or something, we aren't going to get through. We need some distraction, a big boom, or a giant clown made of balloons." He looked over the top of the building. "Or, we just make a run for it. Get a car, put the pedal to the metal, and just try to outrun the damn thing. Maybe a truck, or a tank..." He tapped his temple. "With your permission, I can copy your brain. You are a tech-head, right? So I can make sure I copy your amazing driving skills!"

Given neither of them have stealth or concealment, perhaps just a mad dash? (as per IC) Comandeer an ambulance!

Journal! Thats the Most Lovecraftian.

Diamondlights (Family) In The Origin of the Origin. As readers know, the Zoss family made an ignoble fortune in the twentieth century. August Zoss became empowered by a Daka Crystal, becoming the hero known as Diamondlight. But from whence came the crystal? Read on, to find out the origin of the origin story! It was the end of World War 2. The allies were advancing on the broken Nazi War Machine from all sides. Everyone could smell it – unless you were delusional or obsessed. But the gig was not yet up. Bullets and shells were still to be fired, and the blood of young men was still to be spilled. Graves still yearned for fresh worm food. The wiser (but not necessarily kinder) of the Nazi elite were looking for ways out. South America, Africa, the middle east, or even more remote and exotic places. But wherever they were going, one thing was for sure. They needed money. Nazi gold stored were raided, empty. The black market was alive with bargain purchases of stolen artwork and cultural treasures. But Col. Ludolf Lux had no artworks or cultural treasures to sell. What he had was far better, and far worse. He had a fully powered Daka Crystal. It was essentially priceless, but he could not sell it. What he needed was a banker prepared to store it. Col Lux was a thin man, with hair and skin darker than the Aryan ideal. But he had a razor sharp mind and a crisp efficiency to him that had propelled him up the military ranks. A crack shot with a rifle and a devil with a knife, he had proved time and time again that he could get the mission done. He was not, by nature, a Nazi. He found much to admire in Africa and further abroad. The Nazi ideals hung loosely on his frame. He was an intellectual, a callous, cunning intellectual. And above all, he was a survivor. His problem? To sell the Daka Crystal. It was priceless, but of course everything had a price. The buyer would have to be rich, and discrete. Willing to trade for stolen Nazi goods at the end of the War. Talk about price deflation. The options were extremely limited, to put it mildly. Fortunately, Col. Lux had someone in mind. Rudolf Zoss. A swiss merchant, rich, and reliable. Someone who had dealt with the Thule society, and had acted as banker for many Nazi’s. On the record, and off the record. As the war engine and the bureaucracy that surrounded it collapsed in chaos, desperation – rats fighting each other to leave the sinking ship, Ludolf Lux had requisitioned a fast car and had driven to Switzerland powered with caffeine and adrenaline. His hand shook has he pulled the car up in front of the shambolic Zoss mansion by a beautiful still lake. Shambolic. Good. Zoss clearly needed the money. The Mansion looked like it was worth one tenth of what it could be worth. Less, if a stiff breeze let loose on the cracked and crumbling masonry. Rudolf Zoss met the Lux in the main hall. Twin staircases, cold air, dust. Suits of armour on the floor, Swiss Halberds on the wall. A servant, in slightly ragged attire, tried to stay awake. Despite the evidence of hard times, Rudolf Zoss was a proud man – something Lux could see, and use. Zoss had dressed himself in a fine tailored suit, carried a polished oak cane, and had his white hair well managed. His back was stiff, his heigh undiminished. “What can I do for you?” he asked in perfect German. Lux paused, took off his military cap and bowed. Zoss was prideful, but intelligent. Lux would have to be careful. No simple flattery, no brute intimidation. “A business proposal. I hear you are the banker to speak to in these parts.” “In a manner of speaking,” said Zoss, examining his fingernails. Despite the dirt of the mansion, he made sure they were clean. “I can… hold items for you.” “But not buy them?” Zoss looked around his crumbling home. “You do not seem a foolish man. And you have no doubt asked about. I do not have gold or silver. What I have, is a lot of contacts, an ability to hide what is being looked for, and a reputation that I do not relegate on a deal. I have what a gentleman would call trust.” “Because?” “I am trusted because I am trustworthy.” “Tautological,” sniffed Lux, with a sniff. “Reputational,” said Zoss, parrying. “You do have the reputation, Herr Zoss. I need to keep something with you, for the future. I am willing to pay for your banking services, of course.” Zoss carefully studied Lux. “Normally, these negotiations would involve the barrel of a gun, or the edge of a knife.” “Unsubtle.” “And drained of threat. We both know the war is over. Battles to be fought, yes. Blood to be spilled. But its over. Your Furher is finished.” Lux shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Zoss was right, not just about the war, but the play of power. Normally, Lux could raise an eyebrow and dissolve someone in terror. “Nevertheless, I have gold. And you need gold.” “It appears we can strike a deal. What do you need… storing?” The answer lay outside, in the boot of Colonel Lux’s car, wrapped in a patchwork blanket. A Daka Crystal. Large, with a streak of blue-purple flaw winding its way through the centre. Humming with some alien energy. Fizzing with power. “I never thought I would see one…” mumbled Zoss, reaching out to touch it. Colonel Lux snapped the hand away. “Careful. It bites.” Zoss rubbed his chastised hand. “Where did you get it? Wait, I don’t want to know…” He knew very well the origin. “What I want to know, is will its owners be after it? I have no wish to have African Hunters at my door.” “Let us say it was misplaced during the Furher’s African Expeditions. As far as its previous owners are concerned, it is missing. Maybe the Germans, maybe the English. Maybe the Ottomans for all I care. They have no idea where it is, but as you can see, it must remain hidden.” “For how long?” Colonel Lux chewed his lip. “For as long as it takes for me to find a buyer.” “That may be… difficult. Especially, and forgive my impertinence, for a German.” “Ah. But have you not heard. America is the land of opportunity. And I speak impeccable English.” It was a fair comment, thought Zoss. Colonel Lux was clearly not one of your regular Nazi thugs. Intelligent, Cunning, even Charismatic. He might make it. He might not. Either way, it was a win for the Zoss fortunes. “Very well, I will keep your treasure. Where might I find you?” “You won’t,” said Colonel Lux. “I will find you. But, as it happens, I hear good things about a place called Freedom City…”

GM "You won't?" asked Mister Metal. "I'll be in super big trouble if you do..." he muttered, eyeing Dwayne suspiciously. "So you better swear on Magneto-Reluctance that you won't. Otherwise I won't believe you. And we all know what happens if you break an oath to Magneto-Reluctance." It wasn't cold. Even with ice cream. But he still shuddered. "What fun is there in this dimension if you can't break things and cause mayhem and mischief? It looks super boring if you ask me. SUPER boring. Like you..." He wiggled his supsicious metal eyebrows, daring Dawyne to offer him something that wasnt BORING.