Supercape

GM "What the damn hell? Verity's Rubies?" said Rob, almost aghast. He started muttering something about Jann being "in on it" and "a little toerag thief", but the truth was he was hit sideways by the "gift". He tried to wrap his head around a most surprising Jann, and was slipping in his grip. Rob was not a fool, but he was hardly sharp either. He was employed for his hands, not his head. The Leap Frogger beckoned Jann over to one side. Whilst Rob was studying the rubies, to check they were the real deal rather than pretty marbles, the Leap Frogger pulled him to one side. "Come on, don't get Rob the Troll involved. Damn, this whole thing is a latrine soup already..." he shouted over the music, hauling Jann away from the Bouncer. "The man, he's at Liberty Park tonight..." he explained, sweat pouring off him like he was in cold turkey.

GM "Well...." said Spike, rolling the words around his lips and his eyes around his skull. "Look, first off, don't listen to Meathead. How do you think he got his damn name? Those biker dudes, like act all tough. Sometimes they are, sometimes they ain't. Most of the time its in between. Lets just say they tend to add some spice to the truth, ok?" He paused, weighing up the situation. Weighing up Max. "But what I heard, well, these new gangs. They sprung up like yesterday, yeah? All a bit crazy. Like whirling dervishes or something. They don't seem to be in it for the money, but just, you know, for complete freedom. Kinda sounds cool except they get violent, crazy, thrill seeking. Kids, maybe. Maybe just kids. I dunno though. Maybe something more..." he stroked his beards, pondering. "Well they sprung up yesterday. But today, well, metaphorically today, not literally, today they start getting organised. Like packs. Now its more than just thrill seeking. Like they doing crime. Organised crime. Hell knows how that happened. But gun running, yeah, I heard about that..." "Some new dealer in town, they say. Selling high tech weapon. Dunno how you could find him though. I don't even know his name" he shrugged. "Unless you want to pose as a gun runner, or buyer, yourself?" he asked. "But one thing Meathead was telling the truth about. The Beastly Boys are tearing up Liberty Park. Only a matter of time before the police properly come down on them. Only a matter of time before someone gets hurt..."

GM Rob the Troll spotted Jann almost straight away. It was as if his eyes were peeled just for Jann. Of course, wings made spotting pretty easy. He marched up to Jann quickly, just about containing himself, making himself slow sufficiently not to bowl over the music-lovers in his path. "You!" he said, bluntly. His voice could be heard even over Verity's wailing and the curdling guitars of Aortic Valve. "What are you doing here? You screwed this place up bigly last week. You gotta damn nerve showing up again. I should throw your chicken-head ass out of the club right now!" he grunted. His hands clenched in agitated vexation. "What's your damn plan this week, huh? Fly around in circles giving the crowd a taste of bird-droppings?" At that moment, Jann spotted a familiar face entering Eclipse. The Freerunner he had let go last week, his face a mask of sweat, full of jittery nerves...

GM "Sure man, I got a light" nodded Meathead, bringing out his cheap lighter with "Blacksmokers Eternal" emblazoned on it. He greedily took the cigarrette. "These things will be the blinking death of me" he laughed, hoarsely, about to light up. "Not in the damn shop, Meathead! Get yer ass out of here. Wendy will finished that stupid tattoo when you are back!" "Yeah yeah, sure think, stick man" mumbled Meathead, waddling out. For all his bulk, both fat and muscle, he wasn't the lightest on his feet. Once the biker had left, Spike leaned back with a toothy grin. "Damn idiot. But he pays. And I'm kind of fond of him. Ya know, the bikers are pretty o.k" he said airily, studying Max. "But you seem on a mission. What's on your mind?"

GM "I don't think they are suped up" said Meathead, scratching his half finished forehead tattoo. "I heard the same. Not suped" agreed Spike. "Not that I hear anything, mind ya. Not me..." he said, finishing his tea. "Nah, they just crazy. Super crazy" said Meathead, almost hopping from foot to foot. "Run around on all fours, howl at the moon. And give a damn good beating to anybody they fancy. Wild men. And women, too. Just cos' they called the Beastly Boys, don't mean no Beastly women" he explained. "Nobody can deal with them. Like, they don't want to deal with anybody. Just want to behave like animals, they say. Huh, although they listen to music and deal in guns. So I guess they ain't exactly following their own code, if ya know what I mean. Anyways, somebody has the guts to deal with them. Though hell knows why. Too unpredictable..." he sighed.

GM "You are fant-bleedin'-tastic a staying out of trouble" agreed Spike without believing a word of it. "Now, finding that where they operate from. That's beyond me. To be honest, I wouldn't ask" he continued, with a degree of firmness. "I do" piped up Meathead, getting up to the sigh of his artist. The Spiked Skull was only halfway done, if that. "Well, I know about the Beastly Boys, anyhows. Listen to rap and hip hop and that kind of %$£&!" "tsk" clicked Spike, pointing at the swearing jar. "Ah $£%! not again" mumbled Meathead. "Tsk" clicked a jubilant Spike, pointing at the swearing jar once more. "Anyways, they light up the central park around midnight. Damn, you can heal them howling and all that sh....shtuff" corrected Meathead. "Guess that's where they do their business, if ya knows what I mean...."

GM "Why you cheeky little guttersnipe" grunted Spike. "Just the kind of trash I like...!" he laughed, having another sip of tea. "But look, seriously, now is a funky time to be opening up an ink place. I mean, plenty of opportunities, but plenty of risk too. Three or four new gangs have popped up. Bang! Bang! Bang! one after the other. Some of 'em want ink too. The Chain Sores, the Leap Froggers, the Beastly Boys...." He looked left and right, worried. "And the Cheesemakers..." he whispered, clearly worried. "Anyway, you better watch yourself. Don't get to mixed up in the street life. Well, too mixed up with the wrong kind of street life, if you know what I mean" he continued, his grin coming back. "I heard they are running guns now. Big style. Bleeding Edge kind of stuff" said one big man, getting a tattoo of a spiked skull on his forehead. He looked like a biker. Because he was a biker. "What, you never run Guns, Meathead?" asked Spike. Meathead, for that was his name, shook his head in response. "Just regular stuff, shotguns, handguns, missile launchers. Nothing serious. Not like these dudes! The streets and safe any more, man..." he sighed.

GM "The rust adds texture. Don't you know anything?" said Spike, proudly finishing of his tattoo. He guffawed at Max as the woman got up and admired her new addition. She clothed herself and gave Max a wink as she walked out with a rather pronounced limp. "Looking hot!" she whispered to him. It was not entirely clear if she was referring to herself or Max or her tattoo. Or all three. "Never mind her, Max. She is bad news" said Spike as the woman left. He leaned back and sipped on some tea. "What you want to go and get a place down the West End for? Isn't the high class of the Theatre District any good for ya? Hell, you can come and work for me, ya know. My middle name is charity..." He pointed at a broom and mop. "You can start right now, if ya want. Hwah Hwah Hwah!"

GM Rusty Spike's Tattoo Parlour The Theatre District 16th September Spike Head was a tall thin man with a bald head and a long beard. He had a rather messy and wonderful scar running across his forehead, which he gave various conflicting stories about. A gang of ninja's, a jealous ex-wife, a radioactive pineapple. He had a wicked laugh and plenty of wicked tattoo's that varied from saucy to x-rated. They showed off his skill, he said. He was an advertisement for his shop. Right now he was finishing off a tattoo on the shoulder of an attractive blond woman who was leaning on a bench, topless, but wearing the most almighty hefty boots and leather trousers. Her spine was a terrifically wild line of angels and demons locked in some epic war. "Finished in a moment, Carmen..." mumbled Spike, taking pride and care over his work. There were a couple of other tattoo artists doing their trade, but Spike was clearly the boss. Spike looked up as Mr. Compton walked in, quickly recognising him. "Come to see how its done, have you, Mr. Compton?" he laughed his cackling laugh.

Ronin 20 Q It is a featureless cellar. Brick, damp, a little mould in the background. There is just one low powered bald lightbulb, illuminating Ronin from the side. The interviewer has voice a low, distorted voice and is never seen as the recording begins. This is not a professional or artistic interview. It is cheap, amateur. The video is for prosperity, to be done as way of explanation. Entrusted to the most trusted, for distribution in case of death or incarceration. 1. Where are you from? Nancy street. That’s where I grew up. Probably where I’ll die. No, I’m not saying more than that. 2. How would your friends describe you? Loyal, for sure. They know I have their backs, and, give or take, I got theirs. We stick together, through thick and thin. Trustworthy, you can call it. Determined, yeah, determined. I got something to do, you can bet I’ll do it. 3. What’s your deepest regret? I was in the army. I shot people. I guess some of them deserved it. I guess some of them didn’t. I don’t regret my time in the army, but I regret pulling the trigger. 4. What motivates you? I grew up on Nancy Street. In Bedlam. It was never a bed of roses, but now it stinks. Rotten to the core. People got to come together, build a better city. Starts with your street. 5. What is your greatest strength? The people. Always and forever. 6. What do you love? My family, I can’t tell you their names. Not here, but you know them if you dig enough. I’ll say this, I owe pretty much everything to my Grandmother. Without her, and her wisdom, I don’t know where I would be. Six feet under, or in prison, maybe. If it ain’t people you are talking about, then music, kung fu films, and noodles. 7. What do you hate? Plenty of people to hate, but I try not to let hate rule me. That poisons the soul. But, truth is, corrupt cops. They make thugs look like angels. Other than that, I hate Country and Western Music. 8. What do you fear the most? Guns, bombs, betrayal, death. I fear lots. But fear is only a feeling. It does not define me, does not control me. I act without fear, because I am one with my fear. 9. What gives you the greatest Joy? I guess when I stop someone going down the wrong road. You can’t make someone do what they don’t want to, but when can give them a choice. And sometimes, just sometimes, that means they can choose a better one. 10. How do you feel about the state of the world? World’s a goddamn mess, cleaned up by the people in it. There are good people, lots of good people. But they get infected. Like a virus. Something in the air, makes good people turn sour. Cities, countries, the bigger they get, the worse they get. And once the rot sets in, it’s a devil to get out. 11. How does you get along with others? Huh, I get along fine. I assume people are straight, honest. I assume people are kind, or at least have a drop of kindness in them. I’ll kick back, have a beer, put on some music. Hell, I’ll even dance if the tune is good. But someone crosses me, I’ll come down on them hard. 12. Where do your loyalties lie? With Nancy Street, where I grew up. With the people I grew up with. And the people I served with. The good cops. Anyone who is honest and tries to make a difference. 13. Are you single? I am. My sacrifice. Not that I wouldn’t want love, but I don’t have the space for it. Not now. 14. Are you a fighter? I am. You come at me with fists, I’ll meet you with fists. You shoot at me, well, then you throw away that right. 15. What style? I’ll use any style. I know Karate, Akido. I watched a ton of kung-fu films. Jackie Chan, Jet Li, Bruce…you know, he was the man, after all. Use what works, discard what does not. 16. Do you consider yourself a role model? Hell no. I mean, yes. Stand up for what’s right. Look after your family, your neighbourhood. Be noble and honourable. All that. But I wouldn’t say to a kid do what I do. 17. Are you spiritual? I am. Philosophy. Zen. Keeps your spirit healthy. Keeps you focussed. I don’t believe in any God, at least, no God that religion tells us about. We got to find our own God, not be told what God is. 18. Do you work alone? I believe a man stronger with people than without. But I will follow my path with people or without. So do I work alone? Sometimes. Sometimes not. Whatever gets the job done. 19. What do you think about people with super powers? I judge them same as any man. On their actions. With power comes responsibility, if a man can lift a building, I hope he is better at keeping them standing than tearing them down. I got big respect for superheroes, like in Freedom City. At least, most of them. Doing something good. I don’t know if I can call them brave, though. Nothing brave about facing down an armed thug if bullets just bounce of you. 20. What is your ambition? Clean up the streets. Maybe that will never happen. But one day I hope it’s free from fear, with cops who are straight, and people that are strong.

On request: Super Acrobat Power Level: 10; Power Points Spent: 150/150 STR: +2 (14), DEX: +13 (16/36), CON: +3 (16), INT: +1 (12), WIS: +0 (10), CHA: +3 (16) Attack Bonus: +15 (Ranged: +15, Melee: +15, Grapple: +17) Defense: +15 (Flat-footed: +8), Knockback: -2 Initiative: +17 Saves: Tough: +3/+5, Fort: +8, Ref: +14, Will: +5 Skills: Acrobatics 12 (+25), Bluff 4 (+7), Craft (chemical) 4 (+5), Escape Artist 8 (+21), Knowledge (popular culture) 4 (+5), Notice 8 (+8), Sense Motive 4 (+4), Sleight of Hand 4 (+17), Stealth 8 (+21) Feats: Acrobatic Bluff, Equipment 6, Evasion 2, Improved Critical 2 (Powered Fists (Strike 3)), Improved Initiative, Skill Mastery (Acrobatics, Escape Artist, Stealth, Sleight of Hand) Equipment (30 EP) Utility Belt 20PP Array Alt Powers 6 BP: Flash Bang Grenades (Dazzle 5) (affects: 1 type + visual, DC 15; Burst Area (25 ft. radius)) [20/20 PP] AP: Bolos (Snare 4) (Alternate; DC 14) [8/20PP] AP: Mace Spray (Linked) Dazzle 5 (Linked; affects: visual senses, DC 15; Range (touch)) and Nauseate 5 (Linked; DC 15) [5+10=15PP] AP: Sleep Gas (Fatigue 5) (Alternate; DC 15; Cloud Area (25 ft. diameter, lingers), Poison) [20/20PP] AP: Smoke Grenade (Obscure 3) (Alternate; affects: visual senses, Radius: 25 ft.; Slow Fade (1 minute)) [10/20 PP] AP: Taser (Stun 5) (Alternate; DC 15) [10/20 PP] AP: Throwing Discs (Blast 4) (Alternate; DC 19) [8/20 PP] Concealable Microphone, Mini-Tracer, Night Vision Goggles, Rebreather, Powers: Caped Costume (Device 2) (Hard to lose) Powered Fists (Strike 3) (DC 20, Feats: Improved Critical 2 (Powered Fists (Strike 3)); Mighty) Protection 2 (+2 Toughness) Super-Movement 1 (slow fall) Enhanced Trait 20 (Traits: Dexterity +20 (36, +13)) Feature: Super Balance (Enhanced Trait 0) (Custom (+5 sitational bonus to balance rolls, +2 situational bonus vs trip)) Leaping 1 (training, Jumping distance: x2) Totals: Abilities 24 + Skills 14 (56 ranks) + Feats 11 + Powers 30 + Combat 60 + Saves 11 + Drawbacks 0 = 150 Possible Complications 1. Need some special serum, or rare spice / herb, to maintain super DEX. 2. High tech devices are maintained by a mysterious benefactor who may have his own agenda... 3. Vulnerable...super senses, certain things like vibrations can make character nauseasated as propioception is so acute. 4. Shocking. Electric attacks can temporarily disable "Power Fists", or send them into overdrive (shocking everything touched) 5. Blurt out. Whilst performing acrobatics, a side effect is to babble out whatever is on the characters mind. This might be irritating, or lead to an unfortunate secret being revealed.

OOC for these threads: Prologue 1 [More to come] Basically there will be two short prologue threads for Bird of Arms and Spitfire, which may (but may well not) need no rolls, but if needed, they go here. Then we will move on to the main thread which will certainly need rolls!

GM The Eclipse Bar September 16th, 23:00 It was another packed night at the Eclipse bar. The previous weeks drama had only increased the demand for tickets. To cap it all, Aortic Valve were playing again, to show their defiance against intimidation and threat. Verity was singing again, louder and more violent than ever. There was still a line outside, trying to get in. Pleading, begging, bluffing, manipulating. But Rob the Troll, the huge bouncer of the Eclipse, with a punched up face and knuckles that did a lot of punching up, was having none of it. A police car was outside. Parked there for the evening. FC Police were not in the mood to have another incident like last week. Stolen rubies, collapsed buildings, shattered glass. It wasn't a pretty night, last week....

Swings at sort of Zombie with sort of axe: 1d20+11 20 If that hits, and improvised weapon and all that, I guess with the trade off thats a Damage 7 / DC 22 effect.

GM Arna translated as best she could. Some concepts, were somewhat alien to the native tongue, but they struggled through. Midnight spear did not appear best pleased with the situation, and gave both Arna and Mr. Hale a deep, scrutinising stare. But eventually he nodded. "He isn't happy, Jon, but as long as the falling star is destroyed or removed, he is happy. He...well, he said that he has no wish for blood shed, but he will not shirk from his sacred duty" she said, with a shudder. No doubt Mr Hale was stronger than the small hunter, but Midnight Spear had a dangerous air to him, and he moved silently, unseen. This was his ground, no doubt. Midnight spear was about to turn and leave, to stalk the other party, no doubt, but Arna begged him stay a moment. "What now, Jon? the expedition will spot us missing soon, if they have not already, and their tracks are fading fast in this snow..."

Lord Steam 2007 Earth Victoriana, England, Canterbury The young Lord Lucien Lockwood was a most brilliant man, it was said. And it so saying, they would be quite correct. He had sailed through his degrees in physics and engineering at Oxford, and was completing a PhD in quasi-liquid energetics at the London School of Metaphysical Engineering. Even the brilliant minds there could not always understand his theorems. Why, it was whispered that only a woman (an outrageous thing!) could understand him, a Ms. Henrietta Wells. The University of Canterbury was a splendid institution with splendid architecture, situated in Kent, the Garden of England. It was a sunny county, and it was the tail end of summer, with a hot sun languid in the sky, but the hint of cool breeze to take away the stifle. A most agreeable day. For most, it would be a day for cricket, tea, and cucumber sandwiches. But it was also a day for a conference on Metadimensional lensing, and Lord Lockwood was duly attending. Frankly he would rather be out playing cricket or shooting fox’s, but he had, at the lunchtime break, caught up with Ms. Henrietta Wells, whom he genuinely found interesting. Inwardly, he cursed the archaic culture of the School of Metaphysical Engineering for sealing out a woman from their inner machinations. For he would far rather have his PhD supervised by a woman of this unparalleled calibre than the stuffy old Professor Rootclamp, who mumbled most awfully. Lord Lockwood was most suspicious that Professor Rootclamp mumbled to conceal his confusion about n-dimensional ultra-fluid states. A small man in a perfectly tailored but somehow bland suit approached them. In his fifties, bald, a little fat but not too an ungainly measure. Smoking a cigar that had a unique scent (quite unplaceable to Lord Lockwood). He didn’t look memorable in any other way. It subsequently transpired that the small man was most expert in being unmemorable. Or memorable, depending on the need. “I do apologise, Madam. I would like to have Lord Lockwood’s ear in private…” he apologised to Ms. Wells, who capitulated with uncharacteristic ease. Ms. Wells was a fiery soul and thank Vishnu for that; a fiery soul had propelled her through the cobwebs of antiquated culture. And yet she recognised the small man and deferred to him. It was not clear if this was through respect, fear, or admiration. Quite possibly it was a soup of all three. The small man was polite, calm, and unhurried, but had a smooth insistence to him. As he stepped out of Canterbury university with Lord Lockwood, he put out his cigarette and placed his hands together, thumbs pressed. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is ‘M’” “An unlikely name. How do I spell it?” retorted Lord Steam, not with aggression, but something else; anything mysterious was simply irresistible to Lord Steam, and he demanded of himself that he disentangle any conundrum. “As it sounds” replied M, completely unflappable. “I note your considerable intellectual and academic prowess, your Lordship” he continued. “It has come to my attention, alongside your energy, drive, and other natures” “Talent will out, Sir” “Yes indeed it will. Although sometimes Talent should in. The obscured is sometimes more valuable that the visible. Although sometimes plain sight is the best place to hide” nodded M, who looked like he was enjoying himself. So was Lord Lockwood. “You are an intelligent man, Lord Lockwood” said M, his speech pleasantly oiled. “Quite brilliant, in fact. One of the finest minds in the English empire, I would hazard. Possibly the finest. But you are still rather fresh to the ways of the world”. “I smell diplomacy” answered Lord Lockwood, stiffening just slightly. “Then you have a fine nose, young man. An extra credit” “Do I need credit?” “Ah. Need, no. But you may wish for it. Some are able to utilise it, and a dare say that includes you” answered M, a little chuckle on his lips. “Fair point” conceded Lord Lockwood, nodding sagely. “I shall not press further today” smiled M. Was it a kind smile, or was there more complexity behind it? “But suffice to say, the Government recognises your outstanding talent. You are the kind of gentleman that have need of. And someday, you might have need of!” Without a word, but that same enigmatic smile on his face, M gave a little bow and pottered off. He looked precisely like an unassuming, unthreatening man. As opposed to, say, razor-sharp head of a secret government agency recruiting the finest men and woman of the British Empire. Purely as an example. 2017 Earth “Prime”, Freedom City The tip had come from Foreshadow II. A criminal by the name of Ms Verity Quail, set up a watch makers shop in Wading way. Respectable, arguably legitimate – at least, as far as a business was. It was still owned and run by Ms Verity Quill. Who was, by all accounts, quite the expert in watch-craft. Except Ms. Quail had tried to blow up Big Ben in Earth Victoriana with her timed explosives, and, on failure of this task (thanks to the expertise of M), had made haste to this dimension via some artful burglarising of the Institute of Metaphysical Engineering. Rather than tie himself up in red tape (the interdimensional extradition agreements become progressively more intricate in legal minutiae) Foreshadow had tipped of Lord Steam, and everyone (Freedom City Police included) had decided that it would be an awfully splendid idea if she was quickly escorted back to Earth Victoriana in a manner which whilst not arguably completely legal, did at least have no illegality about it. In other words, quite the mess. And one would not want lawyers profiteering from, and potentiating the mess. “Good afternoon, madam. I desire to peruse a selection of your finest clock watches” he said, boldly. Ms. Quail, who was discussing a repair with an elderly woman, looked up and sighed. “You…” she croaked, displeasure permeating every twitch of her face. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, madam…” bowed Lord Steam. As soon as his head was at its trough, Ms. Quail turned, and bolted, the magnifying monocle improbably remaining in her eye. Jerking his head upward and clocking the payment for his manners, Lord Steam was not far behind. He vaulted over the counter. “Desist, Ms. Quail! Let us not make a mess of this!” “Stuff your gizzards, Sir! I am off!” screamed Ms. Quail as she ran out the back door onto Toogle street. “Blast, darn, and fiddlesticks!” muttered Lord steam, following her out onto the street. He spied her using and palm and elbow to cut a path through the crowds. Freedom City crowds were not most accommodating to such behaviour, although lamentably they were not unfamiliar with it. Their lack of accommodation did, however, allow Lord Steam a few key moments to make good pace and heft cane in hand. “M would like a word, madam! He says you could be of great service!” he called out. “What? In the tower? No thanks!” she yelled back. With a flick of his wrist, Lord Steamthrew his cane, spinning and tumbling at her legs. Fortune was with him (duly assisted by a sharp eye and clever hand), and the cane entangled itself most splendidly between her feet. “Ooof!” she gasped, as she went flying, carried by her own momentum, hands forward, to land flat on her face. “That will leave some nasty grazes, madam” said Lord Steam, elegantly catching up with her prone body. The beep! Of a horn carried through the air. Blakely, ever efficient, tooting the rather magnificent copper horn on Bessie, Lord Steams’ rather beautiful antique car. Today, as so oft, it was driven by the elegant Mr. Blakely Esq, personal butler to Lord Steam. “In a spot of trouble, Sir?” enquired Mr. Blakely Esq. “Not a bit of it, Blakely. Just taking a spot of exercise!” “Very good Sir…” replied the unflappable Blakely, helping bundle the now – handcuffed Ms. Quail into the Bessie. “Nothing to worry about ladies and Gentlemen” said Lord Steam to the onlookers, some of whom were concerned. A few reaching for their phones. “My name is Lord Steam, this is a matter of national security!” he continued with a deep bow, neglecting to mention exactly which nation’s security he was referring to. “I do hope Mr M appreciates your efforts, Sir” said Blakely as they sped off back to Steam Manor. “I daresay things do not go quite as smoothly as your Lordship might have wished…” “Nonsense. Nothing a bit of diplomatic oil can’t fix” replied Lord Steam, trying to maintain upbeat. It would indeed have been much smoother if they had managed to bundle Ms. Quail back to jolly Earth Victoriana with the minimum of fuss and witnesses. But then again, everyone had implicitly agreed this was the most sensible option. And besides which, Ms. Quail would surely get the proper and due process back on her home dimension…. 2027 Earth Victoriana, London Lord Steam shared a very fine brandy with M. The man had aged over the years. He still had that sharp mind, but even this had the faintest hint of lost edge. M looked tired, and that was something Lord Steam had never seen before. “…And then Captain Thunder found the peacock in his umbrella!” finished Lord Steam, the anecdote completed to the sound of mutual appreciative laughter. Sighing, M finished his brandy and pushed aside the leather bound folder of reports on his desk. “Well you have a very interesting career with us, Lucien. Over a decade in that remarkable dimension not the least of your accomplishments. I understand your replacement, Mr. Worthington, is positively tearing his hair out. They are still asking about Ms. Quail!” “It takes some getting used to, I’ll admit” said Lord Lockwood, generously. “I dare say. And our relationships with that dimension, as well as others, are more solid thanks to your efforts” smiled M, equally generously. M rocked back in his chair and pressed his hands together, looking upwards. “I imagine you would have succeeded at most things you would turn your hand to, dear chap. I, and the government, are both grateful you came to work for the ministry of extraordinary affairs”. “It has been interesting, I’ll admit. You had me twenty years ago. Planted the seed back then. I suppose you knew I would never scratch that itch…” M smiled in response but did not reply. “But are you saying that I am no longer needed? I confess that now I immersed in this business, it would be a bitter ale to swallow, should you cast me aside…” murmured a disconcerted Lord Lockwood. “No no no, far from it, far from it…” answered M, gently. “The truth is, I am old” he continued, a bittersweet smile on his lips. “And, I shall admit it, tired. One cannot do this job forever. I have the experience, even the wisdom, but I am not a young man. My health is not what it was. I cannot even say that I am as sharp as I once was” he sighed. “Wait till you get my age, getting up twice a night to hear the call of nature, and relying on Dr Kellogg’s patented colonic mobilising fluid to keep you steady” he said. Whilst a smile was on his lips, he was bitter too. But if nothing else, M had a brutal analytical honesty to him. Sentiment was lethal. He was being candid, yes. But for the first time since Lord Lockwood had known him, he was being candid about himself. Perhaps even allowing himself a hint of sardonic humour. “Surely not” replied Lord Lockwood, upset, and upset about how upset he was. “Surely yes. You know it. Spare me the reflexive pleasantries” said M with a wave of his hand. “Do you not deserve them?” asked Lord Lockwood. “I deserve the fondness behind them, but we can dispense with the dance. I will miss my job. You will miss me. It is sad” he said. It was not often Lord Lockwood was silent, but now he was, nodding acceptance of the situation. “I must make provision for the agency. Namely, a successor. You will appreciate the qualities required. An excellent mind, a subtlety of execution, experience, of course” he said, airily. “A dedication to righteousness blended with the capacity to, yes, a certain brutality at times” he continued, more darkly. “In short, a man of exceptional qualities….and so I was wondering…” “Yes?” “If you had anyone you could suggest for the job?” said M, stony faced. Even Lord Lockwood could not keep the slight facial tic away from his mask. “Err….” He said, clearing his thought. M broke out into a laugh. “Hah. One last joke, Sir!” he explained. “There is only person with enough credit to do this job I can possibly think of…” Lord Lockwood raised his eyebrows….

GM "Gee....I mean...thank!" gulped the Leapfrogger, quite shocked his gambit had paid off. "Look, Ill try to set up something next weekend...the Eclipse, same time...." he said, looking furtively around. The cops would surely not be far behind. "Just keep that troll off me, ok? He has a reputation..." he gulped. And in this, he was not wrong. Rob the troll did not want to start a fight, but seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself when he got into one. Relished it, in fact. He was considered "over-enthusiastic" by many. But then, he (And his robust knuckles) had solved many more problems than he had caused. "TIme to go" finished the Leap Frogger, and with that, he was off. At least till next time... ~ Fin ~

Ronin Ronin / Curtis Crane Gather Info [Access to Military Record will achieve all of the below] DC 15 DC 25 DC 35

Ronin 2007, Afghanistan, Helmand Province. Curtis wiped his brow. It was a hot day in Helmand province, but he sweating for other reasons. In front of him was a simple and effective bomb. Billy Corn kept a watch out, fingering his rifle, poking his head out of cover. They were in some shelled out building. It was a miracle it was still standing, and in some places it was not. They were sweeping the area, and came across the abandoned building. Full of improvised explosive devices. Full of booby traps. And now, full of a device ticking down numbers on a dusty LED screen. “It’s gonna blow, Curtis. We gotta split…” hissed Billy, his eyes peeling the horizon. “I got this…” murmured Curtis, maintaining his concentration. Fresh into the US Army, Curtis was a good man. A good soldier. He didn’t like war, but he didn’t run from it either. No honour in shooting a man. But this, now this was right. Dismantling bombs. Stopping death, rather than causing it. “I know you got this, Curtis. But I’m telling you, lets split in case you don’t” hissed Billy, louder this time. “What the hell you doing this for anyway? Let it all blow…” “Firstly, there is enough hi-ex here to blow everything. Not sure we could even outrun this. Second, boys back at Mil Int gonna have a field day taking this apart. It’s all about the clues, Sherlock…Now let me finish this…” “Better finish it real soon, friend, or it us that are finished…” replied Billy, looking at the timer nervously. “Done” said Curtis, calmly, sitting back and wiping his brow. “What you mean done?” screamed Billy, pointing at the counter with just a few seconds left. “You mean the timer?” asked Curtis calmly, as the seconds finished their march to zero. Four…three…two…one…zero…. Everything stayed quite calm. The bomb was resolutely unexploded. “Disconnected from the bomb” said Curtis with a smile. “I thought we was kebab meat…why you son of a….” started Billy, a smile breaking out on his rage. Crack! The sound of single bullet. Billy toppled forward, spitting blood, grunting. Curtis whipped up his own rifle, dragging Billy to cover as another salvo of gunfire hit them. Automatic fire now, a bullet tearing open Billy’s leg. There. Curtis saw the attacker now. A lone women, holding her Klashnikov tightly, screaming something Arabic he could not understand. Untrained but determined. Furious. An easy target. Easy to take down. Easy to kill. He pulled up his own weapon and took aim… 2017, Nancy Street, Bedlam “Curtis!” screamed Ellie, standing up from the table and running over to her brother, embracing him. 22 Nancy Street. He hadn’t been back here in, what. Four, maybe five years. And hadn’t really lived here for over ten. He had kept away. A soldiers life, that’s what he told himself. He knew it wasn’t quite true too. He hand grown up on Nancy Street. It had bad memories. Yoshie, his Grandmother was there. Looked smaller than he remembered her, and he remembered she was small. Aside from Ellie, the only good thing in Nancy Street. She was normally calm, verging on stern. Even she broke out into a smile, as if her face forgot she her reserve. They sat down, ate noodles, talked. About Nancy Street, about love, about life. There were tears at times, but not always sad ones. And there were more laughs than tears. Nobody had heard from his father, and nobody wanted to, especially Curtis. Ellie was in the police force now, kicking up a stink. Yoshie tried to look after Nancy street best she could. Her best was good, but she was old now, even Curtis could see it. Back in the day, Yoshie could kick any street punk. Now, well, she had some of that wiry strength, and all of that steely gaze, but time caught up with everybody. And so talk turned to Nancy Street. And here, the talking was no easy listening. Curtis had seen it outside of course. Place gone to hell. But even he hadn’t guessed quite how far Nancy Street had sunk. Time was, when even the crooks had a code, of sorts. Nowadays, everybody was in a competition to see how much of the code they could break. Only code was, to have no code. Ellie took Curtis for a walk down Nancy Street as the sun set. Many folks were warm. Most folks were scared. “There’s 45” she pointed at a rundown, boarded up house. Might have been beautiful once, but now was ravaged and broken. One bum was out cold outside, still muttering to himself in the sleep. “Everybody knows it’s a drug dealers paradise. Cops don’t shut it down, of course. Say there’s no evidence. They say that, and take the pay offs” sighed Ellie. She was angry and despondent at the same time. “You gotta be Razafrikin joking” replied Curtis, shocked. “I’m no cop. I can see that place stinks from a hundred yards”. “Welcome to Bedlam” grunted Ellie. “Come on, lets go…” Curtis pulled away her hand, tugging at his sleeve. “Somebody got to do something about this. It ain’t right…” he muttered, fixing his gaze on the offending building. “And whose that gonna be? This ain’t Freedom City. No Freedom League here. No Dr Metropolis or Foreshadow. We got the Tattered Man and Lady Horus, but this is Bedlam, Curtis. Like trying to hold back the tide…” she shook her head. “Better to try and fail than stand around doin’ nothin’” grunted Curtis, moving forward, on a mission. “What you going to do, huh? So Grannie Y taught us some karate, what, you gonna go kick their ass? I’m a police officer, Curtis. I gotta go by the book, even if that book ain’t working so well right now…” “Then walk away” snapped Curtis, harder than he meant to. But Ellie neither walked away nor stopped him. “I ain’t walking. But I ain’t stopping you either”. “Huh” nodded Curtis, marching up to the front door. He knocked on the door, hard. As soon as it opened an inch, he kicked it harder. The thug on the other end flew back, stunned. He started to pull up his pistol, but Curtis punched the arm out of the way and slammed a flurry of fists into the man, who crumpled. “What in Mama Moses hell name is going on…” yawned another bare chested thug, coming out of a side door. Curtis span round and kicked once, twice, in the man’s groin and head. He crumpled even faster than the first. Now, two more thugs, faster this time, with knives. Curtis leaned back avoiding the first stab, then caught the man’s arm, twisting, slamming him into a pipe that cracked heavily. The knife skittered to the floor. He turned, not quite fast enough. The other thug slashed him, sinking the knife into his side. “That hurt, punk” he grunted, feeling the pain. He feinted a jab, then sank his elbow into the man’s nose, which crunched most satisfyingly. The last thug was a big man. The boss, maybe. Tough, old, like a seasoned oak. Scars and tattoo’s. Faster than he had any right to be for that size and age. And armed. A shotgun. Top of the range, Curtis noted. Weapon of choice in this cramped environment. He dived, as the first nest of pellets exploded from the barrel. He felt something in his leg. Something not good. He stumbled into a side room, noting the horrible state of decay, the smell of despair and ruin. His leg was bleeding. Could be worse, he thought. But could be a whole lot better too. “You stepped through the wrong door, son…” laughed the boss, pumping his shotgun for another round. Curtis kept quiet. He didn’t make a sound. His breathing, controlled, shallow, effective. The door to the side room creaked open, just an inch, the gun barrel poking through. Curtis moved, fast, unhesitating, He whipped the door open, just what the man would not be expecting, and grabbed a wrist. The man was strong, but so was Curtis, and Curtis knew just were to press, and twist. His leg might be slowing him down, but his arms worked just fine. The thug squeezed a trigger, and the blast went upwards, bringing down a little masonry and a lot of dust. Curtis jabbed the man, turned, and threw him over his hip. He caught an arm as the man landed, and twisted it. There was a popping sound as the elbow hyperextended, and a moewing noise of pain. “Wrong door for you” he answered, standing over the man, the shotgun in his hand, barrel pointed at the thug. “Nancy Street is finished. Long live Nancy Street” he added, as the Man started his begging routine. Clack, clunk, clack, clunk, Curtis pumped the shells out of the shotgun. The man beneath him looked relieved, until Curtis span the weapon and slammed the rifle butt into his head. 2027, Yoshie Chiba’s funeral. Ten years later, was Nancy street a better place? Maybe. Maybe not. Curtis would like to think it was better. Ellie would say it was better. Half the folks on Nancy street would agree with her. But he wasn’t so sure. You took down one gang, another one just sprang up. He could clean up, but better men than me needed to build something in its place that was cleaner. What would Yoshie have thought? Curtis was dressed in his suit, black. Not a fine cut, but he had made himself as presentable as he could. A mark of respect for the old woman. Ellile was virtually inconsolable, leaning on her husband, their young son not quite understanding the proceedings. She had married a good man. He never seemed to be able to manage marriage, had barely been able to have relationships at all. He had other things on his mind. Collecting scars. Yoshie had not really been the religious sort, but they had held funeral at Nancy Street church, which now looked respectable. Yoshie was pragmatic, she didn’t believe in God, but plenty of other folks did, and funerals were for the living, not the dead. Lost in thought, Curtis did not notice Billy until the man actually clapped his hands on him. Billy was older now, walking with the stiffness of a prosthetic limb, a reminder of that day twenty years ago. Married, divorced, two kids. They had kept in touch over the years, but their freindhsip had faded with time. Lost to neglect rather than malice. They would always be friends, but neither had been quite the same after that day in Helmand. Billy had lost a leg. Curtis had lost something else when he shot that woman. “So she finally went, huh? Never thought she would die. Live to a thousand years old…” sighed Billy. “Longer than me, anyway” agreed Curtis. “Damn well should have, the way you been chargin’ around here” “No more charging for me now, Billy. Resting up the street special. It’s a young man’s game” “No way” gasped a shocked Billy. “You part of the street, man. They should practically rename it after you…” “Maybe they will, one day. Crane St. Gotta ring to it” chuckled Curtis. “But seriously, what gives? Ain’t gonna be the same without Ronin pounding the streets. Ain’t gonna be the same at all. Not good, man, not good at all…” “Police can do a better job than I can” muttered Curtis, defensively. “You think? Remember how it used to be?” asked Billy, pressing the point. “I do. Billy, you know I do. But it’s no good. Violence isn’t the answer. Not in the long term, anyhow. Sure, I cleaned up some bad stuff. Did everything but get the cape. Regular superhero, they called me. Some said I had powers. All I had really had was my will and my people” he smiled, clasping Billy affectionately. “So you go. Then what? Bedlam’s gotta a way of filling a vacuum with the worst kind of trash…” said Billy, not relishing the prospect of Nancy Street without Ronin. “I don’t know, Billy. I don’t. But Bedlam, Nancy Street, it’s never gonna get better with fools like me just kicking, punching and shooting. What we need is schools, education, jobs. Build stuff, rather than tear it down. Won’t work today. Won’t work tomorrow. But it will work. I believe that, truly. That’s the way, Billy, not playing Whack-a-mole…” Billy shrugged. “I guess, man. You know Nancy street better than me…” he replied, unsure. The two men sat in silence, contemplating the future. Billy broke the silence. “But if some scumbag trashes Mr. Yip’s noodle bar, you gonna kiss his ass, right?” he asked, with a knowing smile. “Damn right I am” answered Curtis, his smile full, his eyes narrowed.

GM "The dude? He...looks like a hippy. Beard, long hair, head band. Mad eyes. Must be a smoker, if you get my drift..." he said, with a grin on his face. He was almost blank with joy a moment, before snapping back, not quite sure what he had been saying. "Nobody knows his name, man. His real name, anyway. Calls himself Mister Happy. Deals in fun" he said, without any shame. "He never asked anything from us, just...well...inspired us, I guess?" he muttered, a shadow of doubt coming over him. "Look, I can try to set you up with the dude. Just can't do it from a police car, you know what I'm saying?"

Taking 10 (Minion?) and using Polaski on the chargers head. Flat side, obviously. An improvised weapon I guess? Ill flip the attack -2 Attack roll, +2 DC.

The Red Rat Whist the thought of duelling one of the "innocents" BUT NO SUPPORTER OF THE EVIL FREE MARKET IS TRULY INNOCENT! with a polaski was most tempting, shooting him was more practical. More practical...yes.... Surely more practical... She holstered her superior soviet pistol, and turned to face the man. Hopefully his speed would be in his feet rather than his hands. This was clearly a good idea, as it would save a bullet. This was the Zombie apocalypse, after all. Conserving ammunition, especially superior soviet ammunition, was very important. She got ready to clonk the guy on the head, hefting her polaski... Thwack! Right on the head. Had it been a real zombie, she imagined, it would have been sharp side, nicely cleaving the skull as per all the usual zombie films. Instead, it was a satisfying clunk on the head, knocking the man clean out! Turning, she made all due haste towards the house...

GM "What?" said the still incredulous freerunner. He began to get his wits together. "They all operate in Midtown. At night, mainly. Less chance of being spotted. More chance of getting away. And we like to run the monorail line" he explained, referring to the state of the art line that encircled midtown. "Anywhere in there. Everywhere in there. But seems like you got my buddies. You won't be seeing the leap froggers jumping off the line anytime soon" he said, with due and genuine lamentation. He got fidgety again. "Its just a thrill ride, you see. We got some dude, like a guru, he encouraged us..." he mumbled, aware of just how thin his explanation was. "And, well, he was right. Never felt so free...." he said, more softly, sadly. He was mourning the excitement.

GM "What?" blubbered the free runner, quite surprised his gambit had worked. Or appeared to work. "Nobody knows, man. We formed last month. Alongside three other gangs" he frowned, confused. "I...don't understand it, really. Like, its not for money, or even violence. Just thrill seeking. You know, running through the streets. Flush of blood. Pounding Adrenaline. That kind of thing. We run the rooftops. The Beastly Gang howl at the move and lope along on all fours. The Chain Sores whip themselves up into a frenzy. Literally. With chains. And as for the Cheesemakers...." He shuddered. "Hell, lets not even talk about the cheesemakers..." he whispered, disturbed. "We bump into each other now and again. Can't say we do much crime. Not serious anyway..." he added, hopefully, handing over a pair of rubies.

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