Supercape

Synth "My memories? They like a storm" he replied, pressing his hands to his temples in a vain attempt to squeeze them back into shape. "I remember Anna, playing in icy fjords as a little girl with softly falling snow. Karl, leaving his wife to many tears. Horkan, discovering meterecombinant RNA strains on a newly discovered Amazonian parasite..." "They are like a bubbling soup. I have lost myself..." he conceded, feeling so alone, so vulnerable. "And now, it is my end, is it not?" he questioned, insistent. "I have no wish to die, but it would be a relief..."

The Red Rat Sound's like a bad beat... The Rat turned the events over in her mind, now free (at least she supposed) from the cobwebs of concussion. So, someone is experimenting with sonic weaponry...mind control....drugs....maybe not even experimenting now. Practice? or even further...the group last night were a target. But what for? The consolation, although spartan, was the set up looked intricate. Carefully placed speakers, plus the apparent need for psychotropics. But in the right environment, such as a disco club or some such venue, it could be potentially devastating. Superior Soviet Technology indeed. But was was the game? She approached the box and flipped it open. More sonic technology. Spinning her newly recovered guns into her thigh holsters with an elegant wild-west turn, she tapped the ear piece into her ear. "Doctor? Are you picking this up? I've got a load of beer bottles and speakers here. Any suggestions?"

Synth "A criminal?" replied Synth, feeling slightly better physically. And worse mentally. "The Law made me a criminal" he answered, bluntly. He didn't know whom he was speaking to. It looked like Sarah Shaw, but that meant nothing. He was quite probably hallucinating. "And necessity. I don't follow the law if the law is stopping me doing what's right" he explained. That seemed right, up to now. But...was it? Perhaps the law did serve a purpose. A safety net against the intoxication of righteousness. Perhaps stopping many rights was worth stopping just a few wrongs. And besides, being outside the law had got him nowhere. "I had to stop...." He stopped. "I'm not sure what I was trying to stop..." he said, meekly, dazed and confused.

Stealth Check: 1d20+14 33

Synth Synth clutched a painful rib, a painful lung. He was out of juice, both physically and mentally. His extraordinary abilities took their toll, and he would need rest and food - lots of rich protein - to recover. He could stand though. And meet his fate on his feet. "So it looks like you got your prize" he mumbled. "Just tell me this before you slice me open. What do you seek?" He paused, concentrating on standing upright. He had fought hard, but been stupid. Running, running, always running. Even he couldn't run for ever. He just hoped - and without much hope - that his cells would not end up in the hands of SHADOW.

The Red Rat The Rat crouched, scanning the joint. Particularly the trailer, the dog, and the warehouse. "Well it all looks suspiciously quiet" she said, as the her cybernetic eyes spun across the scene, measuring angles, lengths, IR heat signatures and so on and so forth. "Bar one dog and one guard. I quite like dogs. I don't really fancy putting a boot up canine ass" she explained. "I don't suppose you have any nice warm steaks laced with ketamine do you?" she asked the brain in a jar. It was an unlikely scenario. "Never mind. I'm just going to have to sneak past, I think..."

The Red Rat "The Shenandoah Trailer Park! yes of course" smiled the Rat, climbing on board. "Do excuse the bear" she added, sifting through possible explanations. They were all equally implausible, so she wasted no time in dissecting out the best option. "I am having its fur metadifistublated" she blathered, with a wave of her hand that indicated that it was ones civic duty to metadifistublate ursine fur. And not, by any means, was this a ridiculous neogilism. "And I hear the Shanandoah Trailer Park is the very best place in town for metadefistubulation" she added. "So when you are ready!" she said, sitting down. And, prudently, fastening her seat belt. After all, said bear might not be too keen on having its fur metadifistubulated.

The Red Rat "Thank Stalin I have so much money then, thanks to my excellent satisfying occupation and the just and righteous redistribution of wealth to the proleteriat!" Well, she might have a few dimes and nickels to rub together. Not a whole lot more, however. "Lets go, Bjorn" she said, patting the atomic powered bear in a friendly way and hoping he wasn't too radioactive right now. Her hand might drop off or turn into a luminous pink flipper if he was. She opened the door to the flat and walked down to said Dooper Van. This should be interesting...

GM The pepper pot automaton, barely five feet high (but with ample girth) did not reply. Whether by choice or by incapacity, one could not estimate at this juncture. It did, however, spin around a couple of times and give a "poot!" sound from a rather splendid copper tube. And with that, the portal shifted. It fizzed at the edges, buzzed like a hornet's nest, and then, in the blink of an eye, the scene change. It was still a hospital, it would seem, and still had startled nurses on the other side. But they looked like they were dressed from a century ago. The hospital was dim, to, with gaslights and tubes and what not and so forth. A rather odd antiquity, all in all. But still, the stubby robot did not move. And to compound the situation, Mr Hale, Esq, could feel the unconscious pilot in his arms begin to shake. A grand mal seizure! If that did not resolve soon, the brain would be in trouble.

GM Most of the passengers had run, stumbled, or walked through the portal now. Arnaq was bravely helping, or pushing them through the portal to the waiting arms of the Hospital beyond. There was fizz, a fuzz, and the world went black for a second. And then lights flickered. There was a smell of steam in the air. Arnaq stood by the portal, helping the last woman through, who seemed as if, at any moment, she might expire. But between the portal (and Arnaq), and Mr Hale (and the pilot leaning on him), there now stood a curious antiquity. A black pepper pot robot, with iron plating that looked like it had been coated in a century of soot. With steam emitting from its furiously hot furnace interior. With piping and clanking, like a Babbage Machine on speed, it gave an aproximation of speech. "Anomaly! Anomaly! Anomaly! Anomaly!...." and so on, to the point of most vexatious irritation, without sign of fatigue or pause. It positioned itself in front of the portal, its chubby arms pointing at the offending portal.

Synth "Jeb?" The AEGIS uniform? what was that? Was he hallucinating? He would not be surprised. Amongst the many expert memories in his cranium, psychiatry was included. And he had every signs of serious problems in that department. "What are you doing here? Are you AEGIS?" he whispered. He was not entirely sure if it was a sapping of body or will that soften his voice. He was not entirely sure he was even a he. The almost transluscent skin was there, the hermaphroditic horror that was his base appearance. Who was Synth, anyway? "Was it you? all along?"

GM The Pilot nodded groggily. The co-pilot was out cold, however. His scalp had connected with great force against a dangling piece of electronics. This had effected an impressive looking gash across his forehead that was gushing claret. In fairness to the dangling circuit boards, they did produce some rather pretty sparks. "I don't think he can though..." slurred the pilot, who took a few steps forward and slumped to the right with a rather unpleasant bend of his ankle. One would suppose it was neither right nor proper for an ankle to bend that way. Especially with the sound of grinding bones. "I can make it!" demanded the pilot, dazed and confused. His co-pilot did not reply.

You can. even faster job!

The Pilots door is nicely buckled but STR 20 can pull it asunder.

GM Every moment, the force on the portal grew stronger. A force of physics, or metaphysics. Pressing on his mind through his sword. Dimensions were splintering here, in this strange Greenland. 'Twas if an invisible hand was pushing the portal to a new view. Whilst that hand grew ever stronger, Mr. Hale Esq stepped over various luggage, broken in-flight drinks, and a bag of salted nuts. Over a few persons crawling this way and that. Over various bodily fluids that slowly congealed into a most unpalatable soup. The pilots door was buckled, not easy to open.... Sparks sparked. Smoke smoked. Emergency lights flickered and dimmed. And a load groan of "help!" came from the Cockpit.

GM The Gate wobbled into existence. It was rather wobbly. Strained. Its rim blurred and every now and again jerking as if in the midst of some Eldritch epileptic jerk. Never the less, it connected to a hospital, a reasonably good one, it seemed. And with suitably shocked nursing and medical staff peering from the other side. "Help her! Help her!" spluttered the husband, taking his wife in his arms. He was not the tallest, or strongest man. But his arms were as desperate as his heart, and managed her weight. Arnaq was familiar enough with the portal to grab them and shove them through. "Anyone else hurt?" she asked to the cabin and crew. And many a "yay!" was the answer. A few, it seemed, were unconscious. "Lets get moving then!" she demanded. But Mr Hale could feel the strain on the portal, as if something was seeking to shut it, or rip it - or...change its location?

GM Around and around the plane spun. It appeared to take most violent delight in shedding various bits of its metal skins and metal bones as it danced on the ice. The smell of the emptied stomach grew considerably stronger, and it was hardly incognito to begin with. All bad things must come to end however, and with due rumblings, the plane (or, as subsequent investigations would determine, the remaining 89% of the plane) grew to a slippery stop. Screams came intermittently. The lights flickered, and emergency hatches blew upon. The Icy Greenland air blew in - cold but not unbearable. It was almost a relief given the unpleasant aroma of the cabin. Two rows back, a middle aged business man, looking rather concussed, screamed louder than most. His wife, sitting by his side, was unconscious. Both appeared bent and most peculiar angles, and Mr. Hale was quite certain that bones should not be poking out of thighs. There was a considerable amount of blood too, pumping merrily out of the compound fracture. "That doesn't look good..." mumbled a stunned Arna.

So for the record: Black Knight - Bruised, Injured - 1 HP Arna will take a bruise and injury and be dazed one round, although this is more a narrative thing so can be largely ignored.

Ok lets have some basic saves for hitting the ice and spinning. a DC 15 Toughness save (meaning several passengers will be hurt or knocked out, or even more seriously injured), and a DC 10 Nauseate effect for the spinning.

GM A sword was a most marvellous instrument of war. And a magical sword a most marvellous instrument of war and more. However, it would appear that it was no so marvellous when it came to planes hurtling out of the sky. The icy sheets grew closer and closer. There was a sickening pop of ears with the descent. There was also a popping sick of a few nauseated passengers, who determined to paint the cabin with the contents of the gastric organs. Arna was silent, but sweaty palms dug into Mr. Hales arm. Her fingers seemed possessed of particularly prestigious strength when infused with fear. To the tune of prayers silent and spoken, the Plane hit the Ice with an almighty jarring, and started to spin on the icy sheets...

Synth Synth was not exactly sure if he was going mad, or hallucinating, or reliving a memory, or this was real. Possibly several of the above. The pain was crippling, oh the agony! he felt like he wanted to dissolve into oblivion - for surely endless oblivion would be preferable to this. Instead, he let out a full lunged scream, and was reassured he could do so. At least he had a mouth to scream with. "Please! Please! Help me!"

OOC for this

GM August 11th, Late Evening In a plane... Or more precisely, Mr Jonathon Hale, Esq, asleep in a Plane... Across endless icy plains, mountains, and beautiful bleakness...an Icebreaker was trapped. Steam poured out of engines, and whilst Ice cracked, it did not splinter asunder. Outside, Inuit and Europeans were hacking at the ice, desperate to move the ferocious ship. It groaned, full of Iron and Guns and Coal. And a black coated man with the biggest and blackest handgun one could conceive stood on the ship, bristling with frustration. The ship must break free! Seek it! Arnasaq woke him up. She was as quirky and beautiful as ever, at least to Mr Hale's eyes. A little older, a little wiser. And right now, rather worried... "Ladies and Gentlemen...please fasten your seatbelts and assume the crash position!" Screams and sweats poured forth from the passengers, who nevertheless did what they were told, and with great frenzy. As the Plane started to descend, Arnasaq pointed Mr. Hales eyes to the starboard wing, where one engine was smoking most alarmingly indeed. Below, the icy plains of Greenland, where Arnasaq had insisted they return for a break. And it look like a break was what they were getting. A quite different type of break. A piece of wing looked like it was going to break. And it did, splintering from the main wing and tumbling in a rather splendid arc, trailing black smoke.

The Red Rat "Superior news!" said the Rat, happily. She did a little jig and pointed her fingers, mime style, at the roof of her crummy flat. She fired a few imaginary rounds from her fingers at the cracks. However, it was always vexing when SLAVE was correct. Or even had an ounce of correctness. And this case, it was more than an ounce. For all the failings of communism (and there were many), it did some things well (she would grudgingly admit), and science was one of them. Particularly in the field of weaponry. "So, how do we...err....me...err....get there? I can grab a taxi even enough. But you two aren't exactly incognito..."

Synth Something horrible was happening in his head, Nyberg could feel it. Or Synth could feel it. At this stage, the fractured memories and imprints were in chaos. Like a bubbling soup of clashing spices. However bad the smells and the pains, the malestrom in his synapses was worse. "Gah! Stop it!" he screamed as he felt the protective psyche of Nyberg start to disintegrate. His skin started to fall off, and his default albino, translucent form started to take shape. This time, unusually, it hurt. The pain was surely in his head. "What's happening?" he yelled at the top of his voice. But would anyone hear?