Supercape

Diamondlight Diamondlight put up his hands slowly, showing his was unarmed. "Whoa! Easy there! Don't shoot!" he said, trying to project his voice softly. "I'n not armed! Just taking a walk!" he said, calmly. "I didn't even see this...what is this? a submarine?" he asked, pretending to spy the vehicle for the first time. "Look, I'm sorry! You guys must be the Navy, or something, right? Out on exercises or something?" he asked, politely. "NATO, I guess?" he asked. He kept his accent his normal pan-European flavour. "You sound British" he commented. "Look could you put the gun down, I'm not Russian or anything! it's making me nervous..."

Diamondlight is going to ready action his forcefield to activate if they fire!

Stealth: 1d20+1 11 Stealth!

GM Ms. Moon drifted away as was hey way. She seemed to love the archaic and strange flavour of her club, and chatted to everyone, full of gossip and wit. Victoria moved around the crowd, noting a backstage which was closed off (presumably for the band), a kitchen area for snacks and the barsfatt to take a breather, and a fire escape which has a short fat man in a top hat and zoot suit sitting by it to make sure no sneaky souls got in without paying. Whilst Victoria saw many strange souls, there was nothing to pick out that was unduly strange when all was strange. And nobody was dressed like a ninja or carrying a sword. Sunset tipped his hat as Alexander (and following closely, Jon) approached Sunset. He looked up and tipped his hat. "Haven't soon you round here before. First time?" he asked. "I was playing this joint a whole month. I recognise faces" he said giving a cool smile. "You can call me Sunset. Meanest trumpet player in Freedom City..." he said with a confident twinkle in his eye.

Tis seen, and seen it is!

Knowledge (Art) as DC 15 can be untrained!

Diamondlight Diamondlight had rented a speedboat and tied it up just a hundred feet from the cove. He didn't want to alert anybody with the motors. He had clambered over the beach carefully. He had dressed in black; a leather jacket and turtleneck, and equally black pants. He checked his mobile phone; not good reception here. Maybe that was why they chose this place. He sighed and put it back in his jacket. No matter, he said to himself. He could handle a couple of smugglers. Spying the submarine however was another matter. Simple smugglers didn't have submarines. But then, they were smuggling Daka crystals. Ever since he had found out about the family secret he had made it a mission to understand the flow and trade - usually illicit - of Daka crystals through the world. It took bribes and a careful cultivation of contacts, but he had money and he had a way with words. Slower now, he carefully picked his way into the cave...

You may make a knowledge (art) DC 15 Roll to... If you have a perform (musical instrument) skill you can substitute that but it will be DC 20.

GM With fees paid, the way to the Square Moon was open. The ballroom music was odd, somehow, with a funny beat. The dancers twirled in a somewhat quaint but ungainly way on the floor, and people on the sides drank whiskey and port and unusual drinks. They dress here was varied, but tended to an antique flavour. It has a steampunk flavour without the steam, or the punk - just dressed and jackets and fascinators, and the occasional top hat. "New here?" asked one elderly woman with a fine dress and fine fascinator, holding a glass of something pungent and alcoholic in her hand. She was sixity, perhaps, somewhat short and thin, with riveting green eyes. "The band are quite good, are they not? It is a shame they lost their trumpet player yesterday. I here he was quite outstanding!" she said. "There he is! drinking away his sorrows, it would seem...." Tucked away in the corner was a thin man with dark skin, dressed in an elegant black suit and elegant fedora. He looked like he was studying the music intently, and drinking whiskey heavily whilst doing so. "They call him Sunset. Always seems to be around when the sun goes down. Played the trumpet like nobody else, they say. But he got into a fight with the band yesterday, and refused to play any more. Babbling about some horrible force. Well, I don't believe in all of that, but it does give the Square Moon a certain reputation that is good for business!" "My name is Verity Moon, by the way. I own this place!"

GM "Yeah, yeah. That's totally my sort of speciality" agreed Zyte, a crack in his confidence. Not a large one, but it was there all the same. "I mean, I am trying to steer him in the right direction. But look, you came a long and sort of distracted me!" "I know! Where did this mask come from? Maybe we could hunt down and apprehend the vile sorcerer, the malign witch, the cruel warlock, who made it? Surely there is some nefarious eldritch power behind the mask that you...ah....Chill Pill can go after and freeze them or something! I can see it now! Chill Pill stranding triumphant amd majestic on a huge cube of ice and frozen within some cackling crone with warts and green skin! Yes! And if she hasn't gone warts and green skin I am sure I can rustle up some in my make up bag!" he said, eyes glazing over as he framed the shot in his hands. "So what do you say...ah...are you any good any finding cackling crones dealing in ancient black magic?"

Lord Steam Sometimes, Lord Steam wished had a moustache so that he could stroke it. However, he decided that it would not suit his face. Maybe when he was older, then he could enjoy the luxurious and elegant art of moustache stroking. "I do not know what I believe, sir. It makes no sense, but that does not mean it is nonsense..." he concluded, looking at their own bodies. "It does have a certain ethereal flavour to it. Which means, it is all rather spooky and I understand only a thin sliver of the matter. Which in turn means we are at a considerable disadvantage. In other words, we are screwed" he concluded. "I don't know about you but I would really rather be in my body. Comfortable thing, for the most part. As to who to achieve this humble ambition, therein lies the question. And I have no answer...."

GM "The nose can! The Nose can! Well...the Nose can't" said the Nose, looking sad. "The Nose can follow her scent, yes! Very fast! Very very fast! But the Noes does not know where the scent leads! The Nose can find her for you, if you promise to not hurt the Nose" he asked, emphatically. "The Nose does not want to go to jail. the Nose will get beaten and hit, just like the Nose always does. By mummy, by daddy, by all the kids at school, just because the Nose has a big Nose! But the Nose found he could use his Nose, yes!" he said, keenly. "So the Nose wants to do something with his Nose, yes! So please don't hit the Nose, or make the Nose go to jail. Then the Nose will help you!"

GM "It end it ends!" giggled the Nose, bleeding out of one nostril. From his jacket, he pulled out a flicknife, and with a little ping! it snapped into play. It was a pinprick compared to Metal Head's wicked dagger, but it was sharp still, and Arrowhawk was peppered with wounds. "But maybe, it changes!" he said, his knife ready to strike as he slipped into a crouch. He was no fighter, Arrowhawk could tell, but he wasn't an idiot, and she was bleeding. "I can help you, I can. The Nose can find anything! Track anything! Surely the cape has criminals and nasties to find, yes? The Nose can find them. The Nose can be your sidekick, yes! You see? When one thing ends, another begins!" he smiled generously.

The Nose will ready an action (namely...stab!) and we pause for conversation and this and that!

Curveball As told by Minnie Kenson, 20 I study media arts at Freedom City University. I hope to go into multi media film after a graduate. We had a really interesting talk by Zyte Guyst last semester. I mean, he is the king of multi media, isn’t he. So cool, so smart, so innovative, so…yeah. Well he is a bit of dick too, isn’t he? Anyway, he really inspired me. Got me thinking about alternative media and alternative sub cultures and the hyper distortion dissonance of fringe existence. Or something like that. It got me thinking about Curveball. You heard of her? Bit fringe. Bit radical. Bit queer. I mean, not that type of queer. Like queer queer. Like. Odd. I heard about her first last summer when I was researching an essay on meta humans and economics: sub culture formation and transformation. I referenced her, of course. I mean, you put as many references into an essay as you can, right? Even if they aren’t relevant. I knew of her, but I didn’t think much of it. Until Zyte got me thinking about her. I think I might do my final year thesis on her. She used to be a baseball player. Was going to go far in women’s baseball. Huh, not like that’s far, right? Women’s sports don’t get much of a look in with advertising and sponsorship. Don’t get me started on that, I won’t stop. But the point is she was good. Really good. A rising star. And then something happened. In Germany, apparently. She flew over there with two arms, came back with four. And if she could throw a ball fast beforehand, she could throw it supersonic afterwards. I can’t find out what exactly happened, there are all sorts of rumours about genetic splicing, some Teutonic sorcery, or some virus. But it happened. Jasmine Rita Jagger had become Curveball. You know the rules on metahumans on professional sports. It doesn’t work. Not fair. I mean, I can see that. I can understand why top-level athletes have to be tested for mutant genes just like they have to be tested for drugs, for MAX and ZOOM and all the others. They even need to be scanned for cybernetic enhancements. Its got to be a level playing field. But I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. This was not somebody mediocre who was cheating to be the best. This was somebody who was the best, or close enough, who accidentally got changed to something better than the best. Not her choice, at least not as far as I can see. I mean, why would she change herself voluntarily? She got her career pulled from under her. So, I went to see her at freak-con. I mean, she had to make a living somehow, right? Her old career was gone, and she didn’t spend her school studying. At least, not studying maths or English or anything tangible she could fall back on. She spent it playing sports. So, what could she do? When one has no hopes, no beliefs, no morals? What can one do? No, not that. She wasn’t smart enough for law. She went into advertising. Patches and stickers sewn all over her costume. Signatures and poses, allowing slightly freaky men – and slightly freaky women for that matter to feel her arms. Double price for a full hug. Yeah, that’s freak con for you. A celebration of the weird, wonderful and freaky world of metahumans. It’s actually pretty friendly and good natured for the most part. Sure, there are plenty of geeks and nerds out there who perhaps need a good wash and a better deodorant. And a lot of them need some serious fashion advice. But they are pretty friendly, like a sort of family, like you get in sub cultures. They treat the stars with respect, for the most part. Like, when I was there, the queue to see Curveball and get a signature or photograph was one of the longest. Hell, I think it was the longest. In that world, she really is a star. Well that’s how it is for the most part. Smiling and posing, signing baseball caps and base ball bats – a fan favourite is to sign with all four arms at once – and sometimes signing body parts. Yeah, some pretty strange body parts. But that’s where it can get a little crazy, a little uncomfortable. Every now and again a fan gets a little too friendly, if you know what I mean. Now, the folks of freak con, the fans, they don’t like that at all. Don’t get the wrong impression of them, someone gets too frisky, they are lucky to get kicked out of the convention. Sometimes, they get their head kicked in too. From what I saw, Curveball was pretty friendly with the folks at Freak Con. I mean, she got them. Got that they were trying to be respectful alongside their fascination. And, you know, its hard not to get off on being adored and worshipped. I can’t say I know her well, but I would say her heart wasn’t a 100% in it. Half in it, for sure. Maybe more. And its not like the other half was poisoned against the whole scene. But, well, I just got this little scent, this little whiff, that she was a bit sad alongside the smiles. Like she was thinking of what could have been, or what could be. Then I saw this huge guy come up in the queue. Like, huge. Six foot six, tattoos, leather, piercings everywhere you could see – and I guess a few places you couldn’t see. Arms as thick as my waist (hey, I’m trying to lose weight, so keep any comments to yourself, huh?) like he spent half is life in the gym and the other half hustling body building chems and shoving them up every orifice. Guy looked pretty spiked on drugs, you could tell. Sweating, shaking, eyes like big black discs. And he starts getting frisky. Bad frisky. Laughing in a bad way. Like, he wants all four hands on this part or that part of his body. Everyone getting nervous. You know, like you don’t want to believe it is happening? Maybe it’s a joke or something? But that drops off pretty quick. You can only deny the obvious so long. And in this case, that so long was a couple of seconds. Trouble is, this guy is huge and buzzing on God knows what. Like, what are you going to do? Tell him to back off, pull him away? Guy might rip your head off. Now the guys and girls at Freak con, they are family, and you could tell the anger was buzzing quick, and give it a moment, they would swarm on him. But for a moment or two, they just get paralysed because this guy could snap anyone of them in half. Curveball though, she acted. Fast and quick. Must have been half his size, if that. But I guess having four arms helped. Punch punch punch punch. That’s what a boxer looks like with four arms. Hard enough trying to defend against two fists. You should try defending against four. And then she grabbed him. He was huge this guy, but would you believe it, Curveball was stronger! Held him tight, then through him ten feet clear across the con with a big nasty smile on her face. The place erupted! Like every man woman and child in the con sent out a roof raising cheer. She was one of them. Family. The huge thug? If he hadn’t have been out cold he might have got tarred and feathered (yeah, there is a tar and feather station set up every year there). Even still, a few people decided to give him a few kicks just to make sure. Can’t blame em, and I’m pretty sure he ain’t going to pressing charges, and I’m pretty sure the Freak Con family ain’t going to be ratting on anyone for putting their boots to good use. And guess what? Curveball spent the rest of Freak Con signing and posing free of charges. I guess she became part of that subculture full time, that day. I can’t say I am, but I did feel, for one day, part of the family.

You can however make an attack on the Nose without taking 10. He is not a minion, but the others will go down automatically, and you can still follow up with a takedown attack on a non minion.

GM "Beelzebub's Fart! She's on the roof!" screamed the driver. "I can smell her! I can smell her, yes I can!" giggled the Nose happily, tapping his huge nose knowingly. "I can smell her on the roof! And she is bleeding! Oh yes, she is. I can smell the blood!" "Stop the car! Shake her off!" screamed the passenger, pointing his gun at the roof. It was, despite the risks, as fair a plan as any... The brakes were jammed on, and there was the sound of protesting tyres. At least one burst. The Nose, had he the speed of wit to mention, would surely have publicly declared he could smell burning rubber. In fact, pretty much everyone with a nose could smell burning rubber. The driver clung to the wheel trying to control the rapid break, and for a moment, it looked like he might, until momentum caught him out and the pick up swerved, tipped, and fell on its side, throwing its passengers to one side roughly and violently. The Truck slid across the tarmac for another thirty feet, and sparks flew, until eventually it ground to a halt.

Drive Roll for emergency stop DC 15 Drive Check: 1d20+5 13 not enough to keep on four wheels, but not going into a full roll either. The truck tips onto its side, and slides to a stop. This enough for a Damage 0 effect on the three passengers: Tough save vs sliding car: 3#1d20 12 11 7 Applying toughness bonuses to the hunter, the nose, the hunter this is 14, 11, and 9. Hunter 1, Bruised The Nose, Bruised Hunter 2, Bruised and Dazed. The situation is of course considerably more serious for Arrowhawk! DC 20 Reflex Save to stay unharmed, clinging on to the car. DC 15 to get thrown off relatively safely when the car tips over at low speed (Damage 4 Effect) and ten feet from vehicle. Otherwise, get thrown off at high speed, Damage 8 effect, and land a few dozen feet from vehicle. You can make an acrobatics roll DC 15 to half that damage.

They actually cant make that, so punch/kick/whatever their lights out! Could you make a DC 10 Dex to climb up the truck? Fail by 5 or more and its a fall, other than that you get half way a bit jostled about.

Initiative: 1d20+1 11 Arrowhawk wins! For pure ease I am going to lump the Nose and the Hunters together. 15 - Arrowhawk - Bruised x6, Injured x6, 1 HP 11 - Hunters [4] - Unharmed 11 - The Nose - Unharmed

GM In the front of the Pick Up, hurtling down the streets of Bedlam in a rather alarming way, was the Nose and two hunters on either side. "KICK HER OFF! KICK HER OFF GODDAMN IT AND BLAST!" yelled the one not driving. This was surely the sentiment of the driver to, although he was gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles were white. He had not the will to speak, for his mind was dedicated to staying on the road swerving traffic and fifty or sixty miles and hour. On the back of the Pick up, the two other hunters, holding machine pistols in sweaty palms. Both started scrabbling backwards "YOU KICK HER OFF!" yelled one in retort.

Sgt. Shark As told by Doctor Leah Rhodes, 56 It was ten years ago I first met Victor Finn. Back when he was, well, Victor Finn. I couldn’t say he was “only” Victor Finn. You can’t say that about anyone who is in the [redacted]. They really aren’t ordinary guys. But…hey…can I say that? Ok sure. Well, he was a member of the [redacted] and was working in [redacted] doing [redacted] against the [redacted]. And I am sure you can appreciate just how dangerous that was. I mean, the [redacted]! You have to had into the boys in the [redacted]. I work in St Johns and St Elizabeth Hospital, where we have a central diving medicine department. I was a diver myself, and still am when I get the chance. I suppose that’s how I got into it. Fascinating physiology, being underwater. Decompression illness has some particularly interesting biophysical effects on cellular..ah…but another time. I’m not giving a lecture, am I? Anyway, that’s where we have the best dive medicine department in the country. Every now and again, we get someone from the armed forces come in after an accident or operation. Normally that’s not problematic, but we have also had a few from the [redacted] and then things get very heavy. Lots of big guys acting casual, and ready to rip heads off if something went down. I had to sign the official secrets act and everything. So I guess this testament will have to go through [redacted] and I guess they will redact all the [redacted] about [redacted]. But that’s not the point. Victor Finn came in one day, and you can tell security was tight. He had been diving off of [redacted] and got into some serious trouble with [redacted]. Had to emergency ascend. It was bad. I mean, it could have killed him. But this guy was hard core, like real peak of endurance and his physiological reserve was immense. So he was in trouble, sure, but it was looking pretty good. He had to spend two days in the chamber, and he was monitored closely. It wasn’t easy for us, or him. There were a lot of other issues. Some complex trauma, and we had to fight off infection. So we had to go in and out of the chamber putting up fluids, antibiotics, and inserting a chest drain. To be honest, one of the toughest cases we had. But he kept in good spirits. The prognosis was pretty good despite all the problems. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed and we got him in time. He had oxygen and fluids straight away on emergency ascension, so things were looking ok. He was a tough cookie. But still, it can get a bit lonesome in that chamber, so we got to talking. He even cracked a few jokes. I’m no psychologist, but he had something hard inside him. He had this drive, you know? To be tough. To be better. To be the best. You don’t get that without something cracked in your past. What, you think people go into medicine for pure love of humanity? Yeah, Victor Finn was somebody I could related to. And he made a full recovery, at least as far as I could tell. As soon as he was out of the chamber he got transferred to [redacted] for further treatment and [redacted]. I though that would be the last I saw of him. Until last year. I was taking a holiday. Sailing off the coast of North France with my husband and his sister. She had just got divorced and said she needed some time away. The sea can give that to you, just that emptiness and power, completely free to do what it will. It’s refreshing, and invigorating, but when the sea gets angry, it can turn frightening too. The forecast said it would be a bad storm, and we knew to get as near to land as possible and close the hatches. We had ridden out bad storms before, we knew what to expect. The forecast said a bad storm. But it was worse than bad. It was a monster. I swear I thought I was going to die. My husband painted the yacht green with his sickness. I thought he was going to die. I knew one thing. I swore I would never go sailing again. At its peak, we were terrified. We could hear bits of the ship cracking. John, my husband, he was too weak to do anything. But I could hear the life raft come lose, jangling around on its cord, smashing into the boat every minute or more. Boom, boom. And crack. Sooner or later, we knew, that raft would sink the ship. We had to cut it loose and that meant going out. John offered, but we all knew that he could barely stand, let alone cling to the yacht and swing an axe. It had to be me. There gets a moment when you are so terrified, you kind of zone out. Dissociation. Like everything became clear. I had to do this. Or I had to try. The boat was yawing like crazy, and as soon as I stepped out I was hit by a fist of water. I staggered, but I clung on somehow. Because I had too, I suppose. I tried another few steps. Bam! Nearly knocked off my feet by another wave. Another few steps, and then the biggest wave of the storm hit. I don’t remember exactly what happened, not even hitting the water. I just remember being a few feet under. Calm. I remember thinking it was really calm down here. Like the storm wasn’t happening. Like I could just go to sleep. And then I felt some arms around me. I must have been dreaming, I thought. I recalled all the fantastical stories of mythology and fantasy. Mermaids. Atlantis. Maybe they were true, I thought. I was not really conscious, I suppose. Then, next thing I knew I flew out of the water, held by this thing from the sea. Black eyed, sharp teeth, wet waxy skin. Like a shark, like a man. Strong as an ox, and bold as a lion. He handled me like I was a feather, like I weighed nothing. I remember the power. This man swam right out of the sea, ten feet in the air, and landed perfectly on the boat with me in his arm. With his other he took the cord to the life boat and pulled it like it was nothing. Pulled it to his teeth and bit clean through it. I was coming to. A little less hazy. A little less dreamy. He was pulling me back inside. I remember John and his sister screaming as they saw him. Although they were relieved I was alive. “Here you go. I’ll wait outside. Just in case” said the shark man. And then, well, I started to think. Something about that voice. Different, but familiar. And he stood outside, in the cold and the fury, like it was nothing. We just saw this powerful silhouette, facing down nature like he was both one with it, and immovable against it. One hour, two hours. Four hours we rode it out with him, and he stood at the front of the ship. I think he enjoyed every furious wave that hit him. It was nearly calm when we went outside, although the rain was heavy. Hard to see him. But he turned around. I saw those black eyes. Something about him more familiar now. I knew I knew him. “When I heard, I came” he said. “You saved my life once, doctor. Now, I saved yours” Victor Finn promised me, all those years ago, he would try and return the favour I was doing him. And he smiled then when he made that promise. And this shark man, he smiled that same way. Different teeth, different mouth. But the smile was the same. “Victor…”I gasped. Maybe it was a question, but honestly, I knew…and I know….it was him. He paused. He didn’t say anything. Just paused a moment. I think he was letting me know it was. And then he dived into the sea. I never saw him again. It was Victor, I know it. Even if I don’t know what the hell happened to him, I’m glad it did. I just wished I could have said thank you.

GM And so... "Sweet Mary mother of Jesus, what the hell is that?" "Oh Lordy! Its her! You know the one who..." "Horse Manure! I know who it is! STEP ON IT!" The driver did not need to look around to put two and two together. He was already soaked in adrenaline that made his thoughts nice and clear. There was of course the thought of the money Metal Head and offered. But right now, it really didn't seem like enough. No, not anything like enough. So, through the streets of Bedlam, the Pick Up Truck Flew. Once again, it had more speed that Arrowhawk, but it was a lot less agile. "FASTER! FOR GODS SAKE GO FASTER!" And, just like before, the Truck started flying towards the highway, the only place it could pick up enough speed to stand a chance of outrunning Arrowhawk...

GM And so, inside the Square Moon... 'Twas seeped in an anarcho-archiac flavour, was the Square Moon. Little, if anything was metal, but rather woods, velvet, and leathers. It was dimly lit, but not so dim one struggled to see. Candlelight was present, but so was muted lightning bulbs. The sound of ballroom dance music wafted quaintly from the main club. But between Violet, Victoria, Alexander, and the fretful tall social worker was a woman. The woman was middle aged, with a broken nose, fairly tall and very broad. She was a doorman - or woman, in this case. She looked polite and tough. "Entrance, Five Dollars" she said, polite and tough. "Sure, sure" said the Social worker, fumbling around his wallet. "I'll pay" said Violet, swiftly handing over twenty dollars for the four of them with a smile. "I'm Violet, pleased to meet you!" she said, moving into slick mode quickly. "Sure, I mean, thanks, Violet!" said the Social Worker. ""Yung. Jonathen Yung" he introduced himself, shaking her hand.

Rev Whilst Rev felt the electric blast, and felt it zing, it wasn't so bad. She could think straight anyway. Her arms, however, had an apparent mind on their own. With rapid spasms that swung that way. With tremulous jerks, they swung the other. And her legs buckled under her, unable to keep still. One arm swung straight up, punching the ceiling and letting some plaster dust - and plaster fall on her. The other swung into the cash desks, scattering glass and splintering wood. Between the dual impact and the loss of her legs, she ended up flipping into the air and landing flat on her back, completely winded, her limbs still caught in a tonic clonic seizure. "I'm shocked!" she gasped.