Supercape

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!

Echohead is going to search the clothes for CLUES! Getting a 15

Echohead "Sp-split up?" said Echohead, his voice high pitched. "Well, ah, if you think its best?" "You look like you can handle the computers. Your brain is so bright it hurts my eyes..." This was true. Echohead couldn't recall seeing a brain so effervescent with intellect. At least on a human. "...I'll check the clothes. At least I know a little bit about clothes..." he smiled, thin lips, weak smile. He ran his fingers down the lapels of his cool black suit. Yes, it was stylish, or so he thought. And he reminded himself it was bullet proof and fire proof and hopefully a lot of other things proof to. Impervium weave had its uses. He gave a salute, trembling fingers touching sweaty brow, and then started off up the stairs. At least he wasn't in too bad shape...

Captain Cosmos in Cosmos Man In another dimension, in another world, Buddy Brand was – once again – a reporter. In a simpler age, a golden age. When good guys were good, bad guys were bad, and the future gleamed with possibilities. Like every Buddy Brand, in every dimension, this Buddy Brand gave a miniscule fraction of his life force to the Buddy Brand that was Captain Cosmos. So small that it was without salience, like a drop in the proverbial ocean. But a connection, all the same. Maybe it was that fraction, that atom of connection, that made mild mannered reporter Buddy Brand want to do something more. He had seen too much foul play in his career, too many crooks and swindlers. Too many mad scientists and mad science. It was enough to drive a man to don a silver spandex costume, red cape and mask, and seek justice. Armed with one of those mad science experiments from a good guy scientist (too old, too frail to don the cape himself). Professor Kosmo had created the incredible dimensionizer gun. It looked sleek. A gold and glass pistol with a wide barrel, two flashing red lights, and a magnificent yellow fin. A weapon straight out of the cheap and wonderful sci-fi serials and films that Buddy still enjoyed. Silly, yes, but fun. Escapism, hope, heroics. They inspired Buddy to put on his splendid costume, charge up the dimensionizer, and take up the mantle of Cosmos Man! OK. Maybe he felt a little silly in his costume. Maybe he was sweating more than a hero should do, trembling more than a soldier should. But this was a calling, and one he was resolved to heed. Cosmos man could do the work no other could! That’s what he told himself. As Buddy Brand, investigative reporter, he knew darn well that Hammerhead Jones was a no good mobster, blackmailing the police and the law, twisting the knife of corruption into the otherwise good soul of Freedom City. Its just that nobody could prove it – or if they could, they didn’t dare too. Hammerhead Jones would soon send some ruffians round to your door and play the piano on your ribcage with a couple of baseball bats. Hell, sometimes Hammerhead Jones did it all by himself, just to “keep his hand in”, or maybe just because the thug liked to. No place for Hammerhead Jones in this city, not whilst Buddy Brand could act – as COSMOS MAN! Hammerhead Jones base of operation was a no-good den of sleaze in the worst part of town. Suited Cosmos-Man, at least for now. The lights were busted, it was dark, and he could slip to the back of the den with ease. What next? At the back was just junk, flotsam, stench. And a brick wall. But no matter! Cosmos Man adjusted one of the five small dials on the dimensionizer. With a zim of power, the dimensionizer shone a blue-green light on the brick wall. Phasing into… ANOTHER DIMENSION! Which meant it was about as solid as one breath on a winters day. Cosmos Man quickly stepped through the wall, and turned off the dimensionizer, allowing the brick wall to resolidify. “Neat-o!” he muttered with a smile. Swing music played from a radio-an infectious rhythm and tune that almost got Cosmos man tapping his spandex feet. But no, he was not here to dance. At least not that kind oof dance. There was work to do! As quietly as he could, grateful for the background noise, Cosmos Man crept through the den of evil. There, in the lounge, four of Jones’ goons, lounging about drinking whiskey and smoking cigars. The smoke filled the room, giving the air a sickly sweet taste that Cosmos Man thought most suspicious. Apart from all the murder, extortion, theft and violence, it seemed that Hammerhead Jones and his motley crew were, even worse, junkies as well! The lounge was cramped. Battered leather furniture, a wireless, bottles of whiskey. It was not a well kempt room, either. Cosmos Man spotted more than one cockroach climbing up the walls. He turned his lips to sour disgust – typical junkies! “Halt Evil-Doers!” he yelled, making all four men jump up in alarm, spill their whiskey, spit out their suspicious cigars. “Who are you? Why are you dressed like that?” asked one. “We ain’t going to be halting for you, crazy man!” said another. “It was not a request!” said Cosmos Man, smiling. “It was a statement!” He fired another spectacular beam from the Dimensionizer, and all four men were frozen in place, including four faces with unbelieving shock painted on them! So far, thought Cosmos Man, this heroic jaunt was going very well. An excellent debut. But heroes should not rest, at least not easy. And hubris was the downfall of Cosmos Man. A baseball bat, swung hard, connected with the tip of the dimensioner, wrenching it out of the Grip of Cosmos Man. It was made of sturdy stuff, what with its drawn reciprocating dingle arm and semi-boloid laminar plates, and it would no doubt be serviceable still. But in whose hands? What if… and here your blood might run cold… what if it was in the hands of Hammerhead Jones. For it was he who swung the bat. He who grinned a toothy grin, absent more than one tooth. He, with broken nose and cauliflower ear, who stood before Cosmos Man, tapping the palm of one hand with his bat. And what did Captain Cosmos have? Bereft of his amazing weapon, all he had was sweat, fear, and a spandex costume. And, of course, a plucky attitude. Fear? Pffft! This was an age for heroes, and heroes didn’t succumb to fear. That was for commies and crooks. Besides, armed with a plucky attitude, Cosmos Man could use the most amazing super power of all. Smarts! Everyone knew that crooks weren’t smart – Crime didn’t pay, after all, so you had to be pretty stupid to be a crook. Hammerhead Jones sneered. “What you got without that gizmo of yours, buster?” “You mean the Dimensionizer?” replied Cosmos Man, keeping his cool despite the heat. “You shouldn’t have hit it so hard! The feedback of the variable lotus configurations will cause irretractable parabolic feedback. Your atoms will be reduced to subatomic particles! Look!” It was a bold bluff of babble, but Hammerhead Jones didn’t know any better. He looked down to were the dimensionizer lay, on the floor, clearly doing nothing at all. He didn’t have a chance to look up. WHAM! A solid suckerpunch from Cosmos Man, right to the jaw, sent Hammerhead Jones flying across the room, out cold. “Never forget!” said Cosmos Man to whoever might be listening. “Evil is no match for Good. Especially with science and a solid uppercut to back it up!”

Bloody Mess In Silver Age Mess It was cold, icy, but the sun shone bright. Captain Blood bounded across the frozen landscape, wearing his star spangled spandex costume. No red for this hero! This was a true patriot, fighting for truth, justice, and freedom. As mighty pumped up legs propelled him into the sky, his cape, adorned with truly patriotic stars and stripes, followed behind him. Captain Blood had a mission! And he wasn’t going to make a mess of it. Freddie Furlong had been picked up by the US military for brawling. A crook, it seemed, but a patriotic crook. And a valuable patriotic crook at that – a mutant, born from the atomic era. As strong as a dozen oxen, and able to manipulate blood. In this dark time of democracy vs communism, of freedom vs autocracy, of west vs east, Freddy Furlong was recruited. Now, it so happened that Freddie Furlong had some eastern European ancestry. That, of course, simply would not do. Agents were immediately put on the case do manipulate the data. His father suddenly became an Irish Immigrant, not an Eastern European one. New passports, papers, and a hefty sum of money to relocate with his wife, as long as they maintained an Irish backstory. Unfortunately, Mr Frederick Furlong was not the brightest spark in the book. He was, to put it bluntly (as the CIA report did), a grunt. Captain Blood was never going to be a subtle, nuanced superhero. He was going to be the sledgehammer. At least, the intelligence officers agreed, his low intelligence would allow a certain degree of leverage. In other words, his lack of perception meant he was most suitable for dirty work where a degree of tunnel vision was not only advisable, but necessary. So here he was, in Siberia, bouncing across the frozen landscape, fresh out of a week long trip in a stealth sub, ready to pound the crap out of Soviet missile silo. The specifics of the technology was far beyond that of even an average man’s, much less Captain Bloods. Something about quantum. And nano. Nanoquantum, maybe. It sounded cool. Cool and dangerous. The silo was in the middle of an icy plain under a white camouflage net. If not for the advanced laminar directants of the turbo encabulator spy satellite orbiting far above, it would have been missed. But clearly, in this day and age, the forces of freedom, liberty and capitalism always prevailed over the stodgy, autocratic forces of evil. Evil communism, that is. Which, it must be pointed out, is evil and furthermore, evil it what it was. This is clear and must be repeated constantly in this day and age. Who knew where undemocratic soviet sympathisers might bloom? The silo had turrets with thick, brutal machine guns. Designed in typical Soviet style – to pump out as many large bullets in as short space of time as possible. But it could only spit a half dozen large callibre shots before the pumped up figure of Blood Mess landed, skidded, and collided with the Silo, sending juddering tremors aroud the silo that cracked ice and unsettled snow. In but a moment, the two hammer like fists of Blood Mess were on the turret, and bent the barrel into a bow. No more bullets today. Taking a deep breath, the Mess pulled back one of his swollen fists and punched out the trapdoor, sending it flying to the bottom of the silo, singing as it clanged against the walls. With a grunt of satisfaction, he jumped down to the bottom of the base. There were, of course, soldiers. But the Mess had given them only seconds to react, and a few peashooter side arms were no match for a fully powered Bloody Mess, who thundered his way through the silo, smacking soldiers aside like ragdolls. But of course, the Soviets, whilst fully reprehensible and inferior to the power of the West, were not completely stupid [Editor-please check with McCarthy re: this], for they had brought one of their Super Soviet Soldiers to guard the Silo. Soviet Man! Dressed in shiny red spandex, complete with flared black boots and flared black gloves. His ches adorned with the hammer and sickle in resplendent gold. His hair dark and short, his eyes grey and sparkling. Soviet Man was every inch a hero, and had twice the intellect of Bloody Mess, making him entirely average in that department. “Halt, Capatalist scum!” he yelled, hands on hips, chest puffed out, full of righteous soviet confidence. Bloody Mess had brawled a hundred street fights in Freedom City before he even realised he was a mutant. He may not have been sharp in the head, but he had experience. And he didn’t fight fair, nor clean. And besides, he was just as patriotic as Soviet Man. Bloody Mess didn’t waste breath with words, nor time with poses. He just charged, like a supercharged bull, straight into Soviet Man. The result was a mixed bag: Soviet Man knew his judo, his sambo, and dragged the Mess to the floor, but he was caught by the sheer speed and ferocity of the mess. This was no elegant martial art throw, but more a equivocal scramble to the concrete floor. And the Mess came out on top. Righty, his right fist, was raised like a hammer read to fall. Soviet Man threw his own hooks that smacked into Bloody Mess’s jaw – one, two, each one jarring the jaw, grinding the teeth. But the Mess had taken a lot worse. He spat out specks of blood into Soviet Man’s eyes (alas, whilst his super suit was shiny and red, it had neglected super goggles). Dirty, effective fighting that made Soviet Man squint and rub his eyes. And made him wide open for a solitary sledgehammer punch with every ounce of power the Bloody Mess could muster. A pulsating arm holding aloft Righty came right down onto Soviet Man’s nose with an almighty wallop and crunching of cartilage. “Fbghmmmm” said the mangled mouth of Soviet Man, as his eyes rolled upwards. “Fbghmmmm ilthy capatilist… ghmmm glorious communism….” A brain soaked in communist propaganda and then crunched by a superhero (capitalist) fist could only resort to such vapid, reflexive statements, before unconsciousness set in. Standing up, breathing heavily, chewing on bloodied gum, the Mess slammed righty into the palm of lefty. “That’s the sweet taste of Freedom, folks!” he said. “Ain’t nuthin’ going to crush da human spirit!” And with his (rather short) dialogue finished, Bloody Mess set about demonstrating the humanity of capitalism by violently smashing the base and its soldiers to smithereens.

Thanks Dracostern Dont worry!

Could you throw a bluff roll for me? DC 10

GM "Roger... Paramedics en route...." called in the control tower. The Captain grabbed Predator by the arms, wincing in pain, skin pale, sweaty. Snow was falling on his face. Light snow, melting. "Listen. We are comprimised... do you understand? Nobody knew about our flight. Classified. And someone... something... was on it. They didn't tell me what this was about, but you can bet is hot, right? So take it from me, somebody, somewhere, is a mole. Whatever this is about, someone is on to you. Don't speak to anyone..." The Captain looked down to his bloodied military fatigues. "Nice job..." he muttered, before passing out.

@Dracostern the psychic blast will automatically hit, so post that IC 11 for his will save vs DC 23, so that makes him staggered and dazed

GM "What am I? What am I? I am no mere... THING!" roared General Sparks, shaking one lightning fist to the skies. "I AM GENERAL SPARKS! SUPREME COMMANDER OF EARTH!" He looked around. "Where am I? Am I on earth?" he asked, looking quite confounded and confused. The sparks still flewm however. The lights on the cieling exploded, and glass tinkled to the ground, covering the heroes. "What have you done??? Where am I?" screamed General Sparks.