Supercape

GM The station was well insulated, but there was no doubt that it was inhabited; or at the very least, the heating was on. the walls were too thick for resolution of life signs, but from a thermal perspective there was no doubt that it was a lot warmer than the surroundings. Looked like a solid, room temperature 20 degrees; or therabouts. Creepin closer, Predator could see some mid - level security around the place. No machine gun turrets or laser zappers, but a few camera's. And a door with a keypad lock. Probably pickable for someone of Predators talents, but the proof of that would be in the trying. At a guess, the building has a basement, below ground, but there was no way of knowing for sure. The walls were thick, insulated, concrete and plastic layers. Again, Predator could probably blast through them, but perhaps not quickly...

Let me know when to post 20 for his save (Confuse is actually a lasting effect normally so you dont need to maintain concentration for it to linger)

Echohead "Eeeeps!" yelped Echohead, startled by the appearance of the Dennis. And I was being so quiet! He honestly had been trying his best, but his palms were sweaty, his heart was pounding, his mouth was dry. His skin felt numb, or electrical, depending on which area at what time. Against all logic, he found himself imagining his internal organs were enganging in an all out war for territory, trying to rearange themselves. So, of course, when startled, his variable pistol slipped out of his hand, was accidentally kicked by his reflexive foot, and hurtled across the room, landing at precisely the wrong angle, and ended up with its barrel bent at ninety degrees. Ooops... I hope Predator can fix that.... "Yes..." he croaked. "I can... help you...." How? HOW? "Just stay very still. We dont want to cause any.. ah. upset..."

Gamma Buzz Baz gave two thumbs up. "Crazy Idea, but it just might work, eh?" It sounded cool. And it sounded like it would work. Of course, the former was far more important than the latter, but if you could do both at the same time? even better! "Wait, that's a movie Cliche, isn't it? I need to come up with something better. Crazy Work! But it just might be an idea!" That didnt make any sense, but it sounded less like a cliche, which was the important thing. "You need to make up a cool name for the manuever, though, Veriz! Like Starbolt Sting, or Boombang Blitz!" He flexed his knuckles. "Hit me with it then, Blue Bolt! Then we are sure to win!"

GM "Escort? Pffft!" laughed the Metal Man. "This ain't my home and you ain't my parents. They are BORING!" He hopped from one foot to the other in vexation. "Mind you, you are BORING too!" he said with a sneer. "But RACE! We could RACE!" The thought enlivened him once more, and off he sped down the Monorail, gliding along it like a speed skater. The surfance once again became smooth as glass. No doubt, the Galloping Ghost could match, even exceed, the speed of the Metal Man, but balancing on the monorail when it was as slippery as greased ice was another matter...

10 for stealth!

Thats a swell idea! Could you give me a DC10 Dex check for that manuever?

GM General Sparks took one or two steps back, clutching his electical head with electrical hands. The pixellation of his body grew worse. Sparks were flying from his body, landing on the carpet, leaving scorch marks. The whole room was now looked like a bomb site. And not just because it has some students living in it. "Ridoculous? You think I am worthy of.... RIDICULE? R-R-R-RIDICULE?" said General Sparks, pointing one finger at Golden Star. "I'l Sh-sh-show you... RIDICULOUS!" There was no doubt about it now, he was glitching. But the power of his body didnt seem to be lessening. If anything, it was become stronger. And less controlled...

Round 2 24 Puma - 3 HP - Dazzled 20 - Daniel - 16 - Golden Star - OHP, Bruised, Fatigued 13 - Gen Sparks - Staggered, Bruised 13 - Iris - 4 HP, Staggered Puma is up! The DC to recover from dazzle is Fort 15

Gamma Buzz Baltazar paused. These guys certainly looked like bad guys. Like nazi bad guys, to be more precise. But that doesn't mean they were. And, despite all his goofing around, non-lethal radiation had a tendency to be a bit non-lethal, sometimes. "Is pretty good odds good enough?" he asked Bernadette. After all, she seemed to have a good head on her soldiers, even if it was sometimes also stuck betwixt her butt cheeks. She had plenty of heads to spare, as far as he could see. Bernadette could easily have her head in both places at once. "I mean, I'm all for frying them. But..." He shrugged. "I don't wanna be the guy who shoots first...."

Synth In Across the Ice It had been five days since Synth had left the facility in Sweden, and they were hungry days. Even though every cell was a masterpiece of biotechnological engineering, five days without food, running through snow and ice in arctic temperatures was taking its toll. Synth was peeling; the cellular structure breaking down. Translucent skin burned in the ultraviolent sun, muscles were wated; consuming themselves to sustain basic metabolism. Synth was dying. But dying was better than being dead. Synth was still trying to process the events. They were less than one year old – a secret project lead by a team of scientists in north Sweden. A success, in many ways – an artificial life form with unparalleled resilience, able to rearrange its own structure. Embedded with the knowledge (and possibly personalities) of the dozen scientist who had created it. And then, SHADOW came knocking. The project was actually the brainchild of the neo-nazi organisation, using cells from Ultima Thule. And they had come to collect on the fruits of the project. The scientists resisted; they had no knowledge of the nefarious origins of their project. Synth resisted, too, having no wish to be part of such ugly and dangerous schemes. The research was strewn with dead bodies, and burned to the ground. But somehow, through the smoke and fire and chaos, Synth had struggled free and made her way through the snow to freedom. The implanted memories gave her the accumulated medical and biological science knowledge of multiple lifetimes. Synth knew they were dying. The blanket helped some – thermal layers – something she had snatched from her escape. Without it, they would be dead, surely, for the only other clothes were the thin cotton garments of the institute. By starlight, Synth could navigate – eastwards, across the cold lands of Siberia. Thus far, Synth had done their best to avoid a southward angle; stay out of sight, off the grid. Mainly from SHADOW, but also from Russian eyes. There was no point to attracting any attention; who could they trust? Everything they knew had just gone up in smoke. The rug had been pulled from feet. Who knew how far SHADOW had infiltrated any organisation? Synth was not in a trusting mood right now. The Deaths had made tears in their eyes, the cold had frozen them on cheeks. But there was no food, and Synth needed food. Protein, calories. Something to feed on other than their own body. Something to put some meat on their bones. This meant moving a little more southward. To tundra. Berries, mushrooms, even insects and fungus. It was thin pickings, but it was something. Fortunately, their stomach, spleen and liver could digest almost anything. Poisons and diseases stood little chance against advanced, designed, synthetic flesh. Synth could scavenge precious nutrients from the thin life of the terrain, from rocks, trees, even the earth. It may have been enough for sustenance on better days, but these were not such days. It would slow the starvation, not eliminate it. Richer foods were needed for failing organs to regenerate. Further south, where trees started to thicken. Cover from the sun, providing burnt skin some respite. Nuts, could be found. And birds, animals. Synth climbed trees, scratching their thin skin that bled and wept. At the top, amidst snow capped branches, could be found eggs. As rich as source of protein as could be found. Here lay some ugliness. Eggs. Could Synth eat them? This was not a technical issue – the institute had thoroughly tested her immune system and digestion. Synth could eat almost anything. But it was a moral issue. Could she eat eggs? There was no denying eggs had no sentience, but they were potential life. Could they eat them? Now, more than ever, they had an overwhelming respect for life. That was what slaughter did, they supposed. Magnified that respect for life, made life a hundred times more precious. But their own life was in peril, and crushing hunger not easily ignored. Synth cracked the eggs open and swallowed the gloop inside. It did not taste, not feel, good. But it was necessary. The first food – of any substance – in five days sat in their synthetic stomach, breaking down the proteins, absorbing them. It felt good; like a couple of staggered steps away from a cliff face. But it didn’t feel good enough. Synth had many hard weeks of travel ahead. A few eggs would not be sufficient. Further south. A lake, its surface mirrored. Mosquitoes, buzzed around, a horrible threat. Synth crushed them as fast as they sucked her blood, but the swarm was endless. They stopped to look at the lakes edge, regarding their image. No longer the paragon of health; thin, emaciated, pale. Eyes hollow, bony hips and ribs. The walking dead. Necessity once again expunged morality. The lake had fish; plenty of them. Synth’s lightning fast hands and lightning faced reflexes turned into spears. Straightened fingers plunged into icy water, plucking scaled fish out of the lake. Eaten raw. No time for fire. Had to keep moving. The fish were another step to freedom, but the mosquitos were relentless. Synth followed the slow river eastward. Here, mosquito activity died down. There was flora underfoot, some of which could be consumed. Slowly, the skin started to darken with melatonin, the pinpricks of bites started to close. Muscles, nerves, organs, started to kick into action. Walking pace started to quicken, lungs now able to move, inhale, exhale, processing sweet cold air. Every day was another day that SHADOW, or worse, would have to tighten the net. Speed was needed. And speed needed energy. Fish, eggs, and meat. Killing another thing was reprehensible, but the lion was hungry and needed to be fed. How much more damage, death, would SHADOW be able to inflict if it harnessed Synth’s flesh. The maths was simple, its execution was hard. Rabbits, squirrels, eaten raw, every mouthful of precious protein hard to swallow. Eating a living thing. But with every revolting bite and painful swallow, Synth could run faster. Almost fully healed now, meat back on the bones. Running through tundra day and night, sharp eyes able to see by moonlight, legs with a speed and endurance beyond human. Days turned into weeks, longer. Picking her way through the sparse civilisation. Wearing stolen clothes. Changing. Yes, changing appearance. Grizzled, worn skin. Black hair, so slow to grow. Now, with clothes and features of a peasant farmer woman, she could go further, faster, start her cautious interactions with civilisation. But cautious, still. Finally, the east coast. The pacific. More reprehensible acts; pick pocketing. The first attempt did not go well. Synth had to put the man to sleep and them pilfer his pockets. Ugly, ugly-was this really necessary? Uncertainty fungated in her gut, but she stayed the path. The money was not for luxury, she told herself. It was for necessity. Leaving Russia, crossing the pacific. Alaska. If you wanted freedom, what better place to go than the land of the free?

Sparksy is having aVERY good day 24

General Sparks is going to blast Golden Star with blasting electricity that blasts. 21 which is a hit and a DC 25 Tough Save for Golden Star! Note that as his container was stunted off (an alt power) it will be deactivated this round (you can change an array once a round, no more) so thats -2 less toughness. Could you roll that, and if you want an IC from being blasted? (maybe good to get a reaction post in anyway after that mega stunt!) Meaning Iris is up, @Dracostern

GM The Plasma hit General Sparks like a hurricane. He had barely time to put his hands up and his head to one side before the solar flare ripped through his lightning body. And onward. It shattered the dorm room wall, sending dust and sparks everywhere. It roared outwards through the grounds, scorching the grass, setting a hedge on fire, and splintering an innocent tree into dust. Only a smoking stump remained, a stump that would forever be known as the "Golden Seat" for those who, strolling the Claremont grounds, fancied a little rest and sit down. "Fools!" roared the electical General Sparks. "You are no match for my matchles power. I will de-de-de-destrooooooy you!" He was glitching now. Large pixellated blurring running through his body like a rampant disease. On the ground, the sparking Nintendo 64 lost power and died. The blast may not have effected General Sparks, but it had killed the power supply to the Ninento! The whole Claremont dorm was without power!

OK! Reflex is not his strong suit, 24 and 25 but his rolls are extremely good. So he halves effect size (he doesnt have evasion) and avoids the dazzle. And I am afraid to say even bruised he rolls very well for toughness too 24 So unharmed. But lots of destruction coming up IC!

Haven in Disco Haven The Seventies. Roaring, sweaty, full of energy and some of it violent. Kids, and some of the kids were older kids, needed to burn energy. Maybe some dark and dingy punk, full of metal studs and raised fists and colourful hair. Or maybe disco. Disco was born, full of flashing lights and funky beats. And Disco needed electricians to keep those lights a flashing and those beats a funking. Milo Mikano, fresh from Tokyo, was one of those electricians. And yes, alongside continually upgrading the light and sound system to the Bad Beat Discotheque, he did – on occasion – shake his ass on the disco floor. Not that he was a very good dancer. But he danced, all the same. To get in to the spirit of the thing. He was brains, Milo Mikano. A whizz at anything electronic. He even had a grasp on computers. New fangled things that nobody quite understood, not unless you were a nerd. But Milo Mikano was from Japan, where all the fancy electrical stuff came from, so that explained why he knew so much about them. He was good, really good. A genius, some said. He had rigged up the electricals of the Bad Beat to create stunning, synchronised beats and flashes, all run by some fancy programme that had a cool electronic voice, something sharp and flat at the same time, like a 60s sci-fi film. It was such a shame when he died. In the prime of his life, some nasty gangster by the name of Goldstep had put a bullet in Milo Mikano’s brain. Whilst the genius was working on some neuro-link programme. Sparks sure flied! The bullet went straight through the cranial electro-cap and fried Milo’s brain. As well as most of the Bad Beat. A golden bullet too. That was Goldstep’s style. The murder was the talk of the city. Why had Goldstep murdered Milo? He was a gratuitously violent man, prone to apoplectic fits of rage, this was true. But… and here was the root of the problem. Goldstep was in love (as much as a man of his nature could love) with the owner of the Bad Beat, Foxy Fox. And Foxy Fox, as it happened, was in love with Milo Mikano. And Milo Mikano was blissfully unaware of the domino’s of love, being in love with his new fangled computer system. In the sombre months that followed, dancers and partiers, as well as Foxy Fox herself, experienced spooky going on’s at the Bad Beat. Lights, sounds, all eerie, spectral even. It was as if Milo Mikano’s computer system had a life of its own. A groovy life. Unfortunately, the murder of Milo Mikano had not sated the lust of Goldstep. He had graduated to bona fida stalker. When showers of flowers, clumsy demonstrations of wealth, and even funky dance moves all failed to move her heart – a heart hardened by Milo’s death – frustration set in. The rage of a man scorned. Increasingly, his attempts to romance turned cruel, violent, intimidating. His golden pistols were shoved in her chest, up her chin, and even up her nose, all threatening to blow her brains out if she did not fall for his irresistible charms. What a life he could give her! The life of a rich and powerful gangster. A gangsters paradise, which he had been living most of his life in. One night, in the final hour of darkness before dawn, Goldstep had smashed into the Bad Beat with two of his imbecilic thugs – heavy on muscle, light on brains. “Foxy! Time to end this dance, baby! You and me were meant to be!” “Get lost!” shrieked Foxy, hand on hip, fingers snapping, nails manicured ready to scratch eyes out of socket. For all her cool, for all her sass, her voice was just a little to tremulous, a little to high pitched, for the illusion of control to be maintained. “I ain’t ever going to get lost, Foxy,” said Goldstep, taking a few steps forward, swinging his custom golden magnum revolver around like it was a conductors baton. “You just need some sense beaten into that thick skull of yours. You’ll see…” “Like hell I will!” said Foxy, who turned heel and ran. Unfortunately it was not easy to run in disco platform boots, even for Foxy. She staggered, she stumbled, she fell. To the sound of Goldsteps laughter, she crawled away, fighting the pain of her twisted ankle, into the discoteque’s control room. Here, Milo Mikano’s computer – some said his soul – still resided. And as she powered it up, lights and music filled the floor. “That’s right baby!” yelled Goldstep. “You and me gonna boogie!” “I’m calling the cops!” “Baby, I own the cops!” Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn’t. Goldstep had just enough smarts to be successful, and he knew the streets like nobody else. He was a fool, but you hard to be cunning to get away with being a fool. Foxy Fox knew that the cops wasn’t a sure thing. And besides, they wouldn’t get there in time. Or would they? A spectral figure, made of pulsating light, appeared on the dance floor. Bright beams of light flashed around him, like a disco ball. And then he was gone. “What was that?” said Goldstep. His two goons shrugged, guns up, alert. Another flash. The figure was clearer this time. Milo Mikano! A beam of light emitted from the image of Milo, flashing right into the eyes of Goldstep, who screamed “Get him! Get him!” as he furiously rubbed his eyes. The figure disappeared in the blink of an eye. And then! Behold! He blinked into existence again, right between the two thugs, who opened fire. But this was not the flesh and blood of Milo Mikano – no, that Milo was dead. This was a spectre, and illusion, a light show. The bullets passed harmless through the figure, and into the chests of the opposing thugs, who fell down dead. “Get up! Get up! I said shoot him!” squealed the increasingly panicked Goldstep, who was still rubbing his eyes back to life. Half blind, he unleased his revolver. Crack-Crack-Crack, and again. All six rounds, spent. “Who are you? Who are you?” he said, as the image of Milo bounced around the dance floor. “You know who I am!” boomed Milo’s voice over the loudspeakers. “You can’t be! You can’t be! I shot you! I killed you!” “You can kill disco, Goldstep! I am alive! This is my haven. A disco Haven. And you and your thugs are not welcome!” Another burst of light scattered around the room, and a boom of the speakers so loud it was deafening. “Mummy! Mummy!” whimpered the blind and deaf Goldstep, who staggered around the dancefloor, groping the floor, the walls, the bar, lost, disorientated, terrified. A bottle of whiskey put him out of his misery. Not drunk, no. Foxy Fox had taken matters into her own hands and smashed a bottle over Goldsteps head, putting him straight to sleep. Perhaps a mercy. “You heard him, Goldstep! This place is a haven! A disco haven!” And so it was. The electronic spirit of Milo Mikano lived on in the Bad Beat Disco, a haven from the crooks and crookedness of the city forever more. And they all boogied happily ever after.

GM The metal man slowed down to half speed, his face one of excitement. His hands flapped, his eyebrows twitched, his body restless, insatiable. "Allies? Family! We are the Metalloids! Made of metal. From a world of metal. Everything, metal! Such strange chemistry you have in this universe... some things arent metal at all. Shame. But we can have fun here!" He looked around. "My twin should be here. We snuck off, to have some fun in this universe. All this excitement! All this chemistry and stuff! Its so dull where we come from. Everything just metal. And the elders dont let us have fun at all..." He shook his head sadly, then stomped a metal foot on the monorail. "And you stopped all the fun, too! All that crashing and smashing, and crying and excitement. Best fun ever!" The man-or was it child-scanned ahead. "I'm going to overload the powerstation and electrify the monorail! That will be great fun!" And off he sped.

GM Sometime later... It was cold, it was dark, and it was snowing. Even the stars were intermittently under cover. All that was ahead, behind, to left and right, was snow and more snow. Undulations were featureless. It was easy to get disorientated. Predator was fast, agile, able to run through the snow with ease. But that didn't help much when she didn't know where she was running. The journey required more than a couple of frustrating double backs and adjustments. All the while, snow fell and cold air swept through the Predator armour, stripping heat away. Even with fur, Predator was feeling cold by the time she reached the last known location of Doctor North. ASS-40-LE Alaskan Science Station 40, Long Exploration It was a rather remote station. One main science complex, a few outhouses for power, storage, residence, and recreation. A few snowmobiles and customised 4x4 outside. The lights were on, but was anyone home?

Cold but not hurt!

ok as per discord chat: Predator is pretty fast and agile so can make good ground to Dr Norths last location. However it is cold, dark, snowing and she doesnt have direction sense. Do first off DC 15 Survival roll to get there in good time. If she doesnt do that, then she will have to make a cold environment Fort Save, DC 10

Gamma Buzz "Yeah but Lawrence cheats. He cheats by putting in a lot of hard work and effort and training all the time. What a cheat, huh?" said Baz, wriggiling his fingers in anticipation. "Don't look at me, I don't know anything about tactics. I still ain't worked out what a Slowball Slam is, and I made it up a year ago," he added, with a noncholant slug. "Lawrence does all the thinking, I do all the looking like a cool insect!" His antennae glistened with radioactive luminscence. "Whatever your weakness are, I'll cover him. You can count on the cockroach kid!"

so Bloody Mess will Free action: Activate Nauseate Arrat (Blood blisters) Move Action: Feint against the creature who tried to attack him (using his benefit) Getting 13 which I doubt will work, but you never know And then a straight old uppercut punch: Getting 19 which may hit I suppose - if it does, Fort 21 Nauseate effect and Dam 25 Tough effect

Bloody Mess The Mess could smell blood. Not as a euphamism. He could literally smell blood. The caps! the caps the goblin-things wore. Blood! HUMAN BLOOD! That nailed it. These creatures were scum. Villainous scum. There wasn't any good reason to paint your cap with human blood. "You crooks gonna get a good taste of lefty and righty," said the Mess, shaking his fists in turned. "I seen some screwed up things, but paintin' ya caps with blood? Dat's just wrong, ya bozos!" With that, he ducked under the villain who had attacked him. "Gotta improve dat swing, bozo! Ya telegraphed dat from a mile off! Let me show ya how its done!" With that, and his skin errupting in blood filled boils, he propelled himself up straight and unleashed a mighty uppeercut!