Supercape

Mr Murk Mr Murk smiled warmly at Dreadnought's story and efforts. "Why, sir, you warm my heart. I had a good feeling about you from the start, but you are a nurse to the scarred soul" he explained. "It is empathy, Sir, that is the best juice of humanity". He was very lightened in spirit by Dreadnoughts story, but had determined to ask his questions further and deeper, even if they had the taint of gloom on them. "And now, my concern for immortals. It is my experience and muse that we are at particular threat. An insidious fear, resentment or loathing from the mortal. Quite easy to understand, in the face of death. I do not say that this is all pervasive, or severe, but rather a malign mist of sentiment that hangs in the air without ever raining" He tapped his fingers together. "The immortal soul is one that can be tormented for ever. Torture, endless solitary confinement. What if one was buried in concrete? or tied to a mountain cave like Prometheus? No crime is infinite, and neither should any punishment be" "Which brings me to my secondary concern. How to prevent cruelty to immortals, for I fear only immortals can be completely relied on to empathise..."

Mr. Murk "It is not easy, as you will find out" replied Mr. Murk with a sigh. "Although it gets easier, in many ways. These times are certainly more exciting, less cruel than any I have known. Although a certain something has been lost to machines and maths" he acknowledged. "A direction. A code. A philosophy. These things help, even if everything, in the face of eternity, is transient. Being immortal does not mean one does not transform. Although in our case, so robust and immovable, I might make exception to that principle" he said, a little smile, a little joke. "I have mine, after a fashion. I have made many mistakes, but avoided more. I am optimistic. I seek to fight cruelty, I seek to embrace love. But whilst this may sound simple, it rarely is..." he sighed. "And for you, where does your compass point?"

Mr Murk For a poignant moment, hanging in the Berlin, air, Mr Murk did not reply. Instead, he wept honest tears. When he spoke, he spoke slowly, deep, and true. "Am of the same kind as man? I have to be. I saw my people die, slowly. All that is left of my race is the genetic echo in yours. I have to believe I am of the same kind as man, or am alone" he said. "My race is now bones, displayed in museums like you mention. I am the last. And yet, for all this loss, I value life as exquisite and beautiful. How horrible it is, to see the future but obscured, to see the pieces falling into place of war, and yet be unable to stop it. Ah...you see, I cannot do what you can, I can only try to nudge a little here, push a little there, and all from the shadows" he explained. "No man can say he is never a pawn, I am sure. Only Gods can. On the other hand, one must try to be something more" He leaned back, ignoring his tears. "I play the long game. Perhaps it is all I can do. And perhaps I do not play it well".

Mr. Murk Murk listened attentively. Mr. Fiddle less so; even in an opiate daze, the story was so extraordinary that he could not help mutter "My word" and "Good Lord" and "Amazing!" now and again. The distraction from pain was welcome, but he drifted back to that penumbra of sleep soon enough. "I see many magnificent things in the future, not least of which is you" said Murk slowly and with gravity. "Darwin - X, hmmm? I can guess whom that is named after. And a disease unlike any other. But it seems the dice rolled kindly for you. And kindly for London, I think, for if some other less principled gentleman had developed your raw power it would go much more ill" "And I see..." he continued, his vision cascading forward through the years "...the Vanguard, yes? Protectors of England, nay the world. Lost once, found again. Hmmm. Well, if you ever need legal services, this law firm will stand for many years, and will I think have a good understanding of your peculiar needs" He smiled generously "And will be free, of course!" He sat back and folded his fingers. "Like you, I do not age. It is very possible I do not even die. Unlike you, I have been around for an extremely long time" he admitted. A smoky haze evaporated from his body, and then, in the candelight of midnight, sat Mr Murk in his true form. Homo Nandethalensis!

Mr Murk "Hmm" chuckled Mr Murk. "I could tell you aren't a troll. Trolls have a very particular smell, in my experience. And their manners are...different" "And yes, I am more curious about Dreadnought. Your power...could be frightening, I am sure. And unstoppable, I am certain" he said. "And more than that, you seem to have the will to both refrain from injudicious use of such strength, and the will to direct it, like a lance" he explained. "So I would be interested to hear how you became dreadnought, and how you have placed your will into the gauntlet you have been bequeathed" he asked, a trance of insistence creeping in. He leaned forward, eyes still white and unseeing, but eyes still pointed at Dreadnought even so. It was unnerving, and Mr. Murk was fully aware that it was unnerving. "What exactly can you do? And what can you not? Can you...die?"

Starshot Treacherous? You bet - thought Starshot to himself (or maybe they could "Hear"?). But then, all risk was relative, and from the looks of the surface he could believe them. At least this was cooler. Thank you for your assistance, Kahai - and Fonn-Ar...I am glad that your tribe is unharmed. He replied, honestly. I think then, our choice is clear, even if our path is not... He pulled back and snapped his helmet on again, activating the HUD and computer assisted navigation systems. Easy to get lost down here, and he wanted a careful plot of the system. Besides which, it would be dark, and a he only had a few flares left. The IR systems would at least provide a little relief. Perhaps Laark or Soreen had had the foresight to pack a torch. He sure hoped so, or there would be a bit of stumbling. Or a lot. He shouldered his plasma rifle and kept his flare gun in his hand. If need be, he had at least a few more rounds. And so armed (not as well as he would have liked, but one had to make do with what they had), it was down the cave passage to the right...

Starshot We are...replied Starshot (in a manner he was getting more used to, although it still felt most odd). There was a cave in... He pointed...rather stupidly, he realised. It would take complete blindness not to have noticed that, even with the sub optimal flare-light. What happened? Are your tribe safe? he asked, hoping that the other members were not some pulp of flesh under the rocks. He wondered if that soft strong rubbery flesh might actually survive even if it did. But even if they could contort through the tiny gaps in the rocks, he was damn sure neither he or his crew could. Can we get to them? Can we get through? he asked. He was strong, but it looked like a lot of rocks to shift...a lot of very heavy rocks...that, if shifted, might make matters even worse!

GM "Very well sir, I can see no reason to detain you from, ah, pressing matters" said the policeman, putting away his pad and pencil. "Not that we bloody well could if we wanted to..." chirped up one of his subordinates, to general agreement that even the seargant agreed with but would not, obviously, acknowledge. Mr. Fiddle made an effort to ignore his pain and grabbed Dreadnought by the arm, which meant he had to reach quite high. "Then good Sirs, I think we should all turn in. Quite the day, quite the night, I dare say we should all do better for a stiff glass of brandy and a roaring fire, hmm?" he said with a wan smile. This was thought a jolly good idea by all. However by the time Mr Fiddle, Mr. Murk, and Mr Walker had reached the outskirts of Kew, and tried to get a carriage (at most terrible monetary cost, what with the opportunity arisen for the enterprising coachman), the strain was telling on Mr. Fiddle, whose arms was burnt quite badly. He groaned, sweated, and cursed in a manner most unforthcoming. "Get me home and get me some Laudanum. By Beelzebub, this stings, I had no idea burns scorched so!" he said, Mr. Murk squeezing his hand in sympathy. They paid the coachman still further bribe for extra speed, and it was not long before.... Continued in Codex Immortus: Dreadnought ...But do not fret, dear readers, for this story thread will continue once the magnificent Dreadnought concludes his discussions and musings with the immortal Mr. Murk!

GM London, 1850, Winter...the Offices of Mr. Ebenezer Fiddle, Lawyer... An interlude from London Calling to discuss philosophy and such like and so forth... "Unngh..." groaned Mr. Fiddle, his burnt arm draped in cold wet bandages, the Laudanum having finally kicked in. "Don't mind me, please..." he mumbled at Dreadnought and Mr. Murk (whom had kindly tended to him. He might be blind, but he knew his way around the offices most well, and was tender in giving care). "Please help your selves to brandy...I know I will..." he said, floating between nearly awake and nearly asleep, and hoping Brandy might provide further relief from his injury. Mr. Murk sat down with Dreadnought, although the giant of Liverpool (or Norwegian troll, depending on which gossip one was inclined to believe) could of course not sit on any furniture. At least the floor had nice rugs. Indian, if Dreadnought were to guess. Mr, Murk himself had a brandy although only sipped it, savouring its taste rather than devouring its alcohol. "I don't think I have ever met anyone quite like you sir" he said, quite blind but seeming to look at Dreadnought nonetheless. "And that is saying something I rarely say these days. I might wonder that you have only told me selected elements of your story?" he asked, politely and warmly. "I don't know if you would care to regale me with more refinement?"

Starshot "Laark, Soreen, get behind me..." ordered Starshot firmly and quietly, indicating they should do so. He kept his rifle high, his body low, down on one knee. He wasn't about to get ambushed down here. He made a point, however, of not pointing the rifle at the Ul-Mor. That was an enemy he did not want to make. By his judgement, he and his crew were fundamentally at their mercy. If they turned, he doubt they would survive. Not that he wouldn't go down blaster firing, of course. He waited for them the two Ul-Mor to arrive, doing his best to indicate that he was not a threat, but on the alert for an attack from elsewhere. A difficult balance, but hopefully one of the two aliens could do their mind-meld trick and get a better idea of what was happening. He indicated, crudely, with one hand, that they should touch his head... ...damn. That would mean helmet off. But so be it - the flare provided a bit of light. Thus resolved, he flipped open his helmet and touched his forehead with his cybernetic hand, inviting the Ul-Mor to do so...

GM "You calling me old?" hissed Flare, not best taken by the idea. "Hell, I ain't much of a lady, either" she added, now the thought struck her. "But you have it right. This is an outlaw motorcycle club. Just a bit more crazy than the rest of them..." "Leader calls himself Chopper. Not because he rides one, well, not only that. Because he swings a six foot long broadsword whilst charging at you on his bike. Chops your head clean off!" he said, mining the action dramatically. "Rides his motorcycle dressed up like a Knight. You know, plate mail, morning stars, that kind of stuff" she added, almost impressed. "Pretty crazy. Just got a the magnetism to pull a lot of thugs, his squires, into his crazy. They do pretty much the same thing..."

Ronin "How the hell you get up there?" said Ronin, mainly to himself. But it was a silly question. This was some crazy $£!% and he wasn't dealing with punks, terrorists, or crooks. This was something eldritch or super powered. And quite possibly both. Makes no odds...ain't gonna let human sacrifice creep into Nancy Street. Not whilst I have breath in my body, anyhow... He performed an elegant roll, straight under a church bench. Always take cover, if you can! and punched up Katana again. It was a tricky shot, but he took it anyway, letting rip another gust of lead and wind towards the figure at the top of the church. "She with you?" he yelled at Lady Horus, although not as accusation. As far as Ronin could tell the floating woman was trying to stop the sacrifice, although she did speak like she had stepped out of a play.

Ronin will take cover again as a move action, and lets see if we can knock her off with another breath of divine wind and get some falling damage! (Especially if the knockback is upwards!) Fires at Zealot: 1d20+12 22 I believe that misses!

"Perhaps murder is" agreed Murk. "I have mulled over that very philosophy many years. And yet, for all its plausibility, I cannot help but wonder..." He paused, stubbed out his cigar. He felt the urge to get drunk, and that was a rare urge for him. But he had not forseen how he would feel, and never did. It was this brooding disgust at the world. "Forgive me, after so many years, cynicism is my greatest enemy. And, perhaps, in relation to your question, my greatest mistake. You see, I have my deepest regrets not for the things I have done, but for those the things I should have done, and did not. Inactivity. Cynicism. Apathy. Despair..." The emotions tingled at the fringes of his soul. But he held onto hope nonetheless. "And this has lead me here. What should, we, immortals, do? Proactively, that is? I fear that the mortal soul will tend towards resentment and fear. And this brings hate, and cruelty. I would not excuse the wickedness of our own kind for one moment, but I would protect our kind from wickedness..."

The Red Rat "Thank you for using Easy Steves Cab Service!" said Noemi, painting a smile onto her face. She didn't feel much like smiling, but she was a spy nonetheless. Smiling was the first thing they taught you. SItting back in the cab, she took a breath and closed her eyes. Someone must have hacked SLAVE - or some long dormant programme had been activated. But communication was a two way street. Very poetic! Sounds Russian. Cryptic... I'm all for freedom. Where do we meet?

GM "I see your wingman has arrived" said Flare to Spitfire. "What's in the bag? Your eggs?" She didn't wait for an answer. "So me and Snowbird been digging a little. Happyman has got Snowbird spooked, and from the stories she tells, I can see why. Wouldn't want to get hit with his little buzz" she conceded. She pointed down south. The town of Meddy could me seen on the horizon, the route peppered with Saguaro on either side of the road. "Little picturesque half empty town. More than half empty. Bikers, tattoo artists, strippers, a few novelty shops, even a casino. Of sorts. Hell, I wouldn't mind a visit myself. Anyway, Happy has holed himself up there. Seems he likes trying his powers out on gangs. Learning how to use them" "But he's getting bolder, moving up the food chain. Local gang here call themselves the Meddy Evils. Yeah, nice. Some kind of retro anarchist biker gangs. Like using bikes and axes and swords. They are in a turf war with the gang south of the Border. Some Mexican outfit called Latin Ink". "Anyway, we done business with the Ink before. Look, these guys are a bit more serious than the Leapfroggers or the Beastly Boys. Happyman kind of created those. But these are established gangs. Happyman gets his claws in these guys, he gets a lot more clout than just a second rate juvenille street gang on Freedom City" she explained.

The Red Rat By Stalin's beard, I have no time to dally! the proles were at the gates. Or, in this case, the mind controlled plebs were swarming like a zombie B movie right after her. High - Ex Round She commanded the pistol in her hand. Another day, she would have sidled up and picked the lock. But not this day. She barely aimed; a press of the trigger and a high explosive grenade shot out of the pistol to land by the foot of the door. She gauged it the best she could - to blow the hinges off the door but without (She hoped) collapsing the whole building. And she set off to dash through the whatever remains of the door was left, and see what was inside...

GM "Oh its you. I thought the handsome one would come first" sighed Flare. "I missed you like a damn broken nose...oh wait...." she said, pointing to the plaster on her face. "I didn't miss you after all" Relenting a bit she stepped, barefoot, out of the car, and brushed back her short raid hair. She tried to look hot. She didn't have to try very hard - she was pretty hot, in more ways than one. "But I admit, I did stab you first. Look, I'm unarmed, honey. You can even pat me down - if you want..." she asked, provocatively. Given the tightness of her crop top and jeans, she could barely have secreted a nail file on her body, but she offered nevertheless. "Just don't go breathing fire on me. I'll survive, but these clothes won't. We don't want me all nekkid, do we?" she asked.

Notice Zealot: 1d20+11 28 Notice!

Ronin Bitter Yule! I missed! cursed Ronin to himself. I don't miss! Well...I normally don't miss! This lunatic is fast, or I am off my game. I gotta get some focus! He took an internal, deep breath, steeling his hands. Ain't no matter whats in front of you, still the same hands, still the same Katana... He took a bold leap forward, like a pouncing cobra. "Got something special for you, sucker!" he yelled, channelling his ki into an almighty yell - even if the words where straight from Bedlam. With his mind and body in line, he squeezed the trigger of his gun, and once again fired; a puff of smoke, a blast of force, and the full force of the divine wind...

Ok Ronin will try a startle as a move action (-5 penalty) and gets: Startles shiny: 1d20+8 16, possibly flat footing the target. But wont shift his attack as they seem to have a high defence! Lets shoot again with the same AP (Trip and Damage): Fires Divine Wind: 1d20+12 25 now I think that hits! Damage 4 (Tough 19) Effect, and for the Trip 4 effect the opposed roll is Trip opposed roll: 1d20+6 15 which is opposed by worst of STR / Untrained acrobatics. And yes, going for the 80s action film slow-mo knockback through glass via shotgun effect.

OOC for this You have full narrative licence for how Flare makes contact / you get down here! Flare has asked (you need not comply but as with every choice - consequences) that you come alone and the law is kept out of this (until Mr Happy is busted, of course)

GM Dec 1st, Under a midday sun of surprising warmth and fury... The dusty town of Meddy, Arizona... Was indeed dusty and warm. It was in the low twenties, and the Saguaro of the Sonoran desert bathed in a clear light. Why anyone had tried to set up a settlement here was almost beyond comprehension, but the little town of Meddy, almost deserted, was still some how alive (if on life support). It seemed to live off old native Indians selling trinkets, biker gangs, and its central building "Wildheart", which could not quite decide if it was a gambling den or a strip joint, and had lurched around trying to be both. But the gun runner Flare was not at Wildheart. She was on a dusty road to the north of Meddy, a few miles out, in an open topped car. She had largely recovered from the beating she had received from Spitfire and Bird of Arms A month ago, although still had a plaster across her nose. Despite her red hair, she was deeply tanned, wearing mirrored black glasses, a black crop top (which was extremely conservative when it came to amount of textile, and extremely unconservative when it came to skin shown), and black jeans, barefoot, and listening to some strange jazz-metal fusion on loudspeaker. And despite the beating (and to her vexation), she was here to help Spitfire and Bird of Arms catch the Happy man. Her partner, Snowbird, had agreed to do so. Flare was not sure that was a good thing to do, but on the other hand, she was tight with Snowbird, and wouldn't let her partner down. She just didn't like it. She checked her watch again... How long do I have to wait for those idiots? she sighed to herself.

20 Questions In the depths of the Murk sits the book of gloom, mindlessly recording in its entropic pages those that visit. A cosmic joke, for few, if any, will read… The dreary voice of the book drifts through the gloom, ready to record the thoughts and truths of Mr Erasmus Murk… 1. Where is your hero from? Africa, but nobody knows where. I have consulted maps and historians. I believe it to be Northern Africa, but the truth shall never be known. 2. How would your hero physically describe him/herself? Is this different from how others would? I am from a dead race. Homo Nandethalensis, and I shed tears for this death. I am a primitive man, they would say. I would say I am from a simpler time, a time of thick bones and wise souls. 3. Does your hero have distinguishing speech characteristics or recurring mannerisms? None, for I speak every tongue known to man. 4. What is your hero's motivation? I am a soup of motivations, but the overwhelming spice in that soup is what some term humanity. I call it kindness, I call it empathy. To ease suffering. 5. What are your hero's greatest strengths and weaknesses? I have lived a very long life and have the knowledge and wisdom of ages. And yet I am blind. I wonder if being blind makes me see things better. 6. What does your hero love? What does your hero hate? With the endless crumbling of mortal bones I have felt, it is hard for me to love a person, but I do love people. I hate little if anything, but I feel sad at the circle of cruelty that spins from life to life. 7. How would you describe your character's mental and emotional state? I am have reached a balance where I swim in emotion but do not drown in it. All is savoured, but nothing overwhelms. 8. What does your hero fear the most? The endless torments that might be inflicted upon my immortal flesh or immortal soul. 9. What is your character's greatest ambition? To never lose ambition. 10. How does your hero feel about the state of the world and his/her place in it? Verily, tis better than any age before it, yet still bitter. Ah! How inequities of fate bloom in times of plenty. Surely the world can do better? 11. Does your hero have any prejudices? How does he/she get along with others? I have no prejudices. One must always give love, and that is how I get along with others. 12. Where do your heroes loyalties lie? In what order? My only loyalty, in the end, is to my own principles. On that matter, it is to ease suffering and promote kindness. I am concerned however for the life of immortals in the mortal world, and the moral philosophies that must be contemplated with them. 13. Does your hero have a lover or partner? How do they feel about the hero now? No. I am the last of my race and I cannot see this happening; ‘tis not that I have lost my lust or love, and this is a ill sadness upon me. 14. Does your hero have a family? What is the relationship there like? None, I cannot have children. 15. How would the people closest to your hero describe him or her? Wise and kind. 16. Is your hero a role model? Few know me, or understand me. I work from the shadows, and thus am no model for good or ill or anything betwixt. 17. How spiritual is your hero? Does your hero follow a religious tradition? I follow no religion, but believe in Gods, Souls, and Spirits. 18. Is your hero part of a team, or would he/she like to be? Why? I would like to establish a code of conduct between Immortals. A band of us lost souls. 19. How does your hero feel about the place of metahumans and aliens on Earth? The same as any living thing; ‘tis on their deeds and will that they must be considered, not their nature. 20. If you could give one piece of advice to your hero, what would it be? Stay out of the light.

Synth [As grunt] Synth took a moment to take a breather; there was a limit to even his endurance, and he was sweating and bleeding and out of breath. Surely just a minute...or maybe two. He focused on his breathing, his heart rate, trying to optimise them. Stimulating his marrow to replace the lost blood. He put a finger on the stab wound, and the bullet wound. Healing slowly. He reached up, and with a grunt of pain, reset his nose back to the midline with an unpleasant crunching nose. Lying flat on a rock he steeled himself. For what it was worth - which may not have been a lot... He forced his bones, his skin, and his muscles to twist and turn. He couldn't tolerate it fast, but fortunately there was not a massive change to do. After a minute of grumbling pain, he had changed to the same form as the SHADOW agent he had fought with. Now, surely SHADOW knew he could do this. And presumably they had some counter measures, but it might give a few seconds - or even more - of suspicion. That done - he judged it time to go for a swim. Stealing a boat would be too risky - although faster. And the cold would not bother him.