Supercape

"Ye craven fool!" sighed Flintlock, letting the man fall out of her grasp. He seemed to know less than nothing, which was perhaps the average level of comprehension in the chaos. "Oh foolish men, how little ye know!" she cried to the world. But what's this! A young scoundrel, carrying a purse of suspicious familiarity. Surely no modern woman would be caught dead with such an antiquated accessory. Aha! They all carried "fashionable" purses these days, oh fickle youth! "Cut-purse! Thief! Pick Pocket!" she cried, more as punctuation to the madness around her than in any hope of garnering gallant aid. Or aid of any sort. This was a coven of thieves, not nightwatchmen. She fired her gun. Loosely aimed at the fleeing woman, but in reality into the sky. She wanted to impose herself, not kill the woman. Bullets were all well and good in a pinch, but they did have the habit of killing people, something she was not much fond of, especially when there was talking to be done. And so, boots flying across ground, she gave chase!

"Bah!" and other expletives exploded from Captain Flintlocks lipped. "I had at least six doubloons in there! If I get me hands on the cut-purse who stole them, Ill $£!& those coins down his $£"* with a great big &%$£, a purple &%$! and a rasher of bacon!" she swore by all the Gods she knew, and several she did not. The situation was, surely, getting more chaotic by the second, but that was the seas she rode best, and with most pleasure. She collared a running man, and yelled in his ears. "By all the storms and thunder of the world, what the fiery blazes is going on? Whence come the gunshots? Are we under attack?" she said, almost screaming. Hopefully by pure force of words, by sheer volume of lungs, the man would, already shocked, be shocked to reflexive answer. Plus, she was waving her gun around in a most haphazard way.

"Well there is no shortage of dirt" complained Jack, pointing at the most horrible sludge on their boots. He turned his flashlight off. "Damn, I can't see a thing..." he hissed. But soon they both could - four powerful flashbeams, and the sound of four figures in front of them. It was hard to make them out in detail. They looked uniformed - white uniforms now filthy from the sewers. Carry some kind of weapons, and probably armoured, helmed. Their leader strode ahead - it was hard to make out whether he or she was bigger or different, or just was the one in command. "Any readings yet?" the leader asked. "No, ma'am. Just the same. Damn it. This sewer is worse than the ones back home". "Nothings worse than the sewers back home! Have you been down them recently?" "No, we got enough $%£" on the surface" The banter was reasonably good-natured, but the team of four were still focused. "He can't hide for ever" "No he can't. But we have to find him first, bring him back" answered the leader. "Things going bad if one of our doctors went viral" muttered a nervous member of the team at the back. "It can always get worse..." replied the leader. "Now keep your heads. If he did go viral, he is going to be a handful..."

Given that score and the advantageous situation, you pass!

"Out of my way! Make way! Part!" shouted Flintlock at the top of her voice. She fired a few shots in the air to emphasise the point. "Man overboard! Iceberg, dead ahead! Scuttle the ship!" she added, with a flourish, giving a mean glare to anyone in her wake. She crossed her fingers the phantasm was still doings it job of looking an unearthly and horrible. She rather suspected it might be, as it was indeed unearthly and horrible. She just hoped the unearthly would not become earthly. Not for the first time that day, she wished she had taken some of the Skeleton Crew with her. She had a sensation of crawling madness around her, with bullets flying. Fists and teeth and kneecaps too, she imagined. On reflection, her unruly crew would not be a rather incendiary mix to an already flammable situation. Instead, she ran on, taking the path of least resistance.

Notice Roll: 1d20+13 14

GM Jack did his best to try and follow. "That's a whole lot of mad ya got yourself there, Buf...I mean, Echo..." he replied. He was training himself to use the right name in the right circumstance. He was getting pretty good at it. "But I wouldn't recommend dying young. I always considered dying has a pretty undesirable consequence, Namely, being dead. You wont much care what you look like when you are dead. And, hate to break it to you, but corpses don't look pretty after a few days. No matter how much make up you put on em. As we may find out if this radioactive zombie thing is true. Which, I kind of hope not. But then, something worse will surely pop up..." "I'd stick with the radioactive physicist story. And, now I come to think of it, by the time this little escapade is over, you might just have that very thing happen to you...wait...!" He paused a moment, pointing his flashlight down. "Can you see in the dark? I hear them...must be four of them...splashing....going to intersect them...." he explained. He pointed at his flashlight, questioningly. In this near total darkness, the lights could be seen easily...

GM "Neither did I. Hated it. Nothing to listen in on" replied Jack, gingerly wading through the sewer. Even with his "trick", the smell was noxious. His flashlight swept through the sewer walls. There was the odd rat, and every now again, more than the odd one. Perhaps, if one was feeling spooked and paranoid, there was the odd other thing that slithered through the muck. It would probably behove one's nerves not to look too closely at those. "Move to the city soon as a could. Carved myself a Job as a journalist, mainly on account of my snooping ears" he explained. "Started at the bottom, worked my way up. Pretty soon I was actually quite good at what I did, not just bluffing my way with my secret ability. But, like pretty much every journalist I knew, got burned out, cynical. Drank too much, ate too much, smoked too much. And you know about the coffee" he said, in a friendly way. "Practically live on the stuff. Can't sleep" he yawned. "But might be more to that than just coffee. Like, guilt maybe. Cynical, bitter guilt about a cynical, bitter job" he sighed. "To be honest, this is the first time in years I'm not cynical. At least, not so cynical. Might get sucked into a zombie dimension. But at least I feel like this is honest work. Just like mucking out the stables" He spared himself a moment, and turned his flashlight on Echo. "What's your story?"

Thanks for working with some rather brutal scene cuts, hope it works for you. If not, let me know. Id suggest a few posts of banter just to break up the action a little, but thats your call. In any case, Jack will start to hear some more of the men (or women) he hears...you may at the end of the day wish to roll stealth if you want to sneak up on them...

GM "Satan's Ass! What is that stench?" swore Jack, furiously. He had a good question, for the smell of the sewers was not for the faint of the nose. "I always knew I would end up totally in the sh---wait!" he interrupted himself, pressing a finger to an ear. "I can hear something. Somebody walking, no...more than one person, surely. Three or four, at a guess. Through the...well...through the stuff that you get in sewers. Not talking...might just be sewer maintenance. Might not be. In any case, its our best bet!" he concluded, still keeping his ears open. He peered down, into the black sewers. They had picked up two high powered flashlights from a DIY store on the way. Jack had insisted. And two small back up ones, just in case. He had bought some cotton wool, too. And proceeded to jam two pieces up his nose. "I grew up on a farm. Used this when we were mucking out..." he explained, nasally. And below, the dark, smelly, and moist sewers beckoned...

For your reference (and mine) - Jack Longwheel. This may be a helpful skeleton if you want to buy him as a future minion etc, but of course its only what I use now for this thread (I am sure you can juggle around if you end up doing so). Jack Longwheel Power Level: 3; Power Points Spent: 45/45 STR: +0 (10), DEX: -1 (8), CON: +0 (10), INT: +2 (14), WIS: +2 (14), CHA: +2 (14) Tough: +0, Fort: +0, Ref: +0, Will: +5 Skills: Bluff 4 (+6), Diplomacy 4 (+6), Gather Information 8 (+10), Knowledge (business) 4 (+6), Knowledge (civics) 4 (+6), Knowledge (current events) 8 (+10), Knowledge (streetwise) 4 (+6), Language 4 (+4), Notice 4 (+6), Profession (Journalist) 8 (+10), Search 4 (+6), Sense Motive 8 (+10) Feats: Favored Opponent (Corrupt Politicians) (+1), Well-Informed Powers: ESP 4 (affects: 1 type; Custom (Simultaneous), Duration (sustained); Subtle (subtle)) Attack Bonus: +0 (Ranged: +0, Melee: +0, Grapple: +0) Attacks: Unarmed Attack, +0 (DC 15) Defense: +0 (Flat-footed: +0), Knockback: +0 Initiative: -1 Languages: English, French, Portuguese, Russian, Spanish Totals: Abilities 10 + Skills 16 (64 ranks) + Feats 2 + Powers 13 + Combat 0 + Saves 4 + Drawbacks 0 = 45

The Red Rat – Paris on the Run It had been but a few weeks since the Red Rat had escaped Russia. And a curious escape it had been. The world had changed. She had been awake only intermittently since the cold war, spending most of her time frozen, awaiting her next mission. But then the USSR had collapsed, the intelligence community collapsed and scattered, and the Red Rat had been lost. Lost for decades, in Siberia, in a cold, frozen, and forgotten bunker. Until, that is, she was found by UNISON. The meeting did not go well. Maybe, she reflected, she was disorientated. Maybe confused. It was hard to tell. Her Soviet Handlers did not go lightly when it came to her training or her conditioning, both mental and physical. And having a computer welded to your skull full of fixed propaganda did not help. Warning: Corrupt western propaganda! Beeped SLAVE inside her head every now and again, as she scanned western adverts for jeans, hamburger joints, and luxury holidays to Barbados. Suits me she thought, silently in her head. Not willing to ever again serve a government, of any political persuasion, she went on the run. She was out of date, but spy craft never went completely cold. She was trained, and had several advantages. But still, here she was, a couple of weeks down the line, dressed in Soviet style grey clothes that would, under some circumstances, make her just another brick in the world. In fashionable Paris, it made her look like an escapee from a dubious and historical lunatic asylum. “<Oh, Pardon Monsieur!>” she blurted as she bumped into a suited Gentleman of finely cut cloth and expensive spectacles. She was pleased that the French language had been part of Soviet Spy Training school. Not ten minutes later, she walked away from a Cash Machine with a goodly sum of Francs. SLAVE could hack into the cash machine with great ease once she had inserted that very same gentlemans cash card. He was, as she guessed, rich. Commendation: Appropriation of wealth from Capitalist Tyrant is glorious act! She ignored her skull. The Man was wealthy enough to miss the bundle of cash. And, from the looks of his back account and expenditures, would barely notice. She was not without guilt, but this was, after all, survival. Off she went to the nearest clothes shop. “<Can I help you…madam…>” sniffed the assistant. His manner and tone spoke of class, style, and a sexual orientation that she judged would make him quite immune to her seductive charms. She was actually relieved. She could use plain charm instead. As it turned out, the gentleman was rather helpful. His disgust at her blandness had, once smoothed over, turned to a drive to educate her and transform her. The man was clearly most pleased to rise to a challenge. “<Oh monsieur! I do hope so. I have come into some money, and, well, as you can see, fashion has always been…>” she swayed her hands over her drab clothes, leaving the sentence unfinished in words and so very finished in meaning. “<Ah yes, I..see your problem>” he said, more keen once Noemi had showed him her considerable amount of notes and asked how much it would get her. It seemed that despite the cost of the very fine clothes at the very fine establishment, a modest little wardrobe could be purchased. And so began a whirlwind of dressed, blouses, hats, shawls, shoes, scarfs, suits and jackets. She even tried a fascinator. The gentleman was most pleased to show her exquisite French Lingerie that seemed was attractively racy, but a little too lacy. Warning: Decadent Capitalism! Warning: Decadent Capitalism! Came a flashing sign at every outrageously priced purchase. She ignored every blip, even when paying over a hundred francs for a piece of underwear that was little more than a piece of string. Even so, SLAVE was right in one regard, her priority was not frilly underwear, which was unlikely (bar some unfortunate or possibly fortunate circumstance) to catch the eye of the observer, but more to look reasonably normal in Paris and beyond. And, well, damn it. She would quite like to feel well dressed, in her own clothes, for once. Back decades ago, before ice, implanted computers, mutagenic viruses, and spy school, she had actually protested for the right to buy such clothes. “<I say Madam, you look wonderful! Full of a certain I-don’t-know-what!>” smiled the attendant, who had evolved from vaguely sneering retail assistant to fawning admirer. She suspected his commission might be the prime motivator to such evolution, but perhaps not the only motivator. She felt fabulous, and after a little time, perhaps a slightly self-obsessed time, posing in the mirror in her new costume, she judged herself to look rather fabulous too. “<Thankyou, Sir, you have certainly made me feel like a proper woman!>” she thanked, brushing her hair. “<Madam, it has been my pleasure. A woman should always look Parisian in Paris!>” he answered, eyes mainly on her, but just slightly on her cash. “<And you do look fabulous in red!>” he finished, bidding her good day as she left the shop. Commendation: Red is superior Soviet tone! The Red Rat was in agreement with both the attendant, and SLAVE. She did look good in Red. Maybe, just maybe, she might keep it…

Flintlock – London Calling Captain Annabelle Flintlock awoke at an unseemly hour of the evening, nursing a rather vexatious hangover. Her nostrils flared from a toxic aroma of bile and urine. She was most bedraggled. In was 1976, and she was in London. More specifically, she was lying, half drunk and half conscious in a street in Soho. She recalled something about seeing a group of young angry musicians. The Fornicating Flintlocks, or something. She reached up to her head, and noted that yes, she had indeed shaved a Mohican that afternoon. Whilst she could not actually see her hair, she strongly suspected that, yes, she had also died it a most fluorescent purple. She tried not to think about the piercings. “C’mon, c’mon, they are starting soon!” Ah yes, her “punk” friends she had met yesterday. Sleaze and Spiderflower. She vaguely recalled they were a couple. But frankly, in this day, age, culture and location, she had come to realise that relationships were as ephemeral as mist. Drink, music, anger. Drugs and sex. And most importantly, rock and roll. She rather liked the furious rebellion of the kids. She rather loved it. Sleaze had been tall and skinny as a pole. She kept thinking he might have scurvy. His skin was so pale, she thought he might get sunburn from watching fireworks. His hair was jet black, and greasy enough that one could fry your breakfast on it. Spiderflower had had one tattoo too many, even by her Liberal standards. Spiky green hair and a cobweb on one cheek. Plump and ugly and infuriatingly sexy, her anger powered by a lust for life rather than sullen rejection. They had been most agreeable drinking companions for the last twenty four hours. She had taught them some particularly saucy sea ditties, and they had insisted on drinking some more, urinating in public, and dragging her to some new “in” band, whose name she could not quite remember. The Fornicating Flintlocks was all that came to mind, and that their lead singer was a putrid fellow, by name if not nature. So on she stumbled, hand held by new friends, through streets she vaguely knew, to a venue she did not know. An act of spectacular blagging commenced. In order to jump the queue of this most popular show, Captain Flintlock had to threaten the bouncer with the complete [xxxxx] of his [xxxxxx] with two pencils and a walrus. She rather suspected that the rather saucy and completely deceptive insinuations of Ms. Spiderflower and her most red lips were the deciding factor in entering the establishment. Ye Gods! The heat. The smell of alcohol and sweat and, she believed, other less palatable odours of hopefully (but not necessarily) human origin. There was a resounding press of flesh. Everywhere, young and angry flesh. Colours and Lights and spitting and sound. Damn the establishment! Damn the fascist regime! So said they all, in word and deed. And so on they came, the four men of this band she could not quite recall. What they lacked in musicianship, and, to be fair, it was lacking, they more than made up in furious charisma. The crowd pressed further, like a seething monoorganism despite all protestations of individuality. This was a cult, but a cult with energy and without direction. The mission, the rapture, was all defiance. Anger is an energy. Who said it first, she did not know, but it was soon spoken, chanted, and worshipped. And yes, amidst youth who, she noted, were always angry about something or other, here was some spark. Here was barely restrained and barely contained anger. And soon she joined the chant. And danced the mad dance. And spat and drank and sweated profusely. It took quite something for a woman of threehundred years to lose herself in the novel, although she would always be wild. Anger is an energy. Gods, the false, the true, the ones that were true and you wished were false, the ones that were false and you wished were true, Gods, all of them, she was angry. For three hundred years she was angry. It spiked her insides and tainted her heart. Perhaps it always wood, but right here, right now, amongst the cult of the furious, she could revel in it. God save the Queen!

Doctor Warp – Bridge over calm water The Oresund bridge was an engineering marvel. Running between Copenhagen, Denmark, and Malmo, Sweden, the combined road and rail bridge was 4 kilometres long. Not the longest bridge in the world, but impressive by any standards. It took some persuading to use for a short man weighing a Ton. “Sir, I have researched the structural engineering of the Oresund bridge. I have a specially adapted vehicle, and I can assure you I have full confidence that we are well within the structural safety parameters…” Professor Erasmus Bolt needed to take great care, and make great expense and travel. Weighing a ton made things like flying particularly difficult. I really must invent something! Like a gravity car! He decided. In the mean time, he and his wife really wanted to get to Copenhagen. They had had a few days in Stockholm, his wife, Doctor Meredith Bolt, attending an international conference on non-epileptic attack disorder. He had spent the days strolling the city and soaking up the Scandinavian culture. Fika. The practice of taking coffee and pastries. Slowing down, socialising, relaxing. It was extremely popular, and Erasmus could see why. He was a restless man, always working. It did not do his head, or, as his wife reminded him, his heart any good. Either literally or metaphorically. The ritual of Fika had unwound him. He found himself less irritable. And, he reflected, curiously enough in that state of relaxation, he had come up with, unbidden, several rather attractive new theories and ideas. By simply not trying, his brain had come unstuck. Lagom. “Just the right amount”. Viking origin. He had discovered, contrary to popular belief, that Vikings were not wild savages wearing horned helmets and driven to excess. On the contrary, whilst far from Spartan, excess, particularly if it deprived the others of ones “tribe”, was to be frowned on. And here, in Scandinavia, Lagom persisted. Just the right amount, neither puritanical abstinence nor selfish gluttony. To a man with millions in the bank, it was thought provoking, and sat well enough with him. His money was a means to an end, not an end in itself. And his wife had done a good job – for which he was thankful – of preventing him spiralling out of control in a vortex of money and power. Lagom. He would remember that. Just the right amount. As it so happened, with a debate and a few phone calls, Erasmus and Ruby bolt were allowed to pass over the bridge. After Erasmus showed the officer all the engineering specifications and research he had done on it. Halfway across the bridge, there was an accident. Despite initial inclinations that might have prepossessed a nation more predisposed to blame, this was not the fault of Erasmus Bolt. It was an unfortunate freak accident that fortunately happened to have a freak nearby; said freak being aforesaid Erasmus Bolt. A medium sized truck had a blowout at precisely the wrong moment. It turned in precisely the wrong way, flipped in a similar manner, and rolled down the bridge, and half way through the barrier on the side. The truck had a precarious wobble. The cold waters of the Baltic were so very black and far away, but had a most present quality. Several other cars had been crushed, or swerved. No doubt there were serious injuries, and quite possibly deaths. Ruby Bolt was a neurologist, but no doctor would be turned away. She rushed off to see what she could do. “Don’t move!” she ordered her pale faced husband, who, for a moment, had been overcome by fear that he had, somehow, been the cause of this most unlikely and ghastly accident. He was caught between activity and inactivity. Panic, the urge to act, the paralysis of fear, all whirled for supremacy. A few helpful bystanders had taken out of their car and were pondering the wobbling bridge. Somehow, a precise blend of action without being reckless. A Lagom of action. Carefully, Erasmus exited his car, the vehicle sighing relief as one ton was removed from its customised suspension. Action. But not too much. He was heavy – too fast a movement could tip the truck into the cold waters below. He took a deep breath, and acted without undue speed, or undue delay. Spatial dimensions contracted around him. His arm did not elongate, but rather, the universe contracted around it, and, standing a hundred or so feet from the truck, he gripped it, with the most feather like of touches. Even that was enough to begin the tilt that would end with a plunge. But there was no surge, no sudden plummet. As he felt, with numb fingers, the balance shift, her gripped tightly and held. “Hold it!” came the cry from the helpers. A redundant piece of advice on fast glance, but perhaps not completely so. If he pulled now, pulled to hard, then he might tear the truck in two. No, he had to pull just the right amount, slowly, with caution, with love. No panic. Leaning back, his weight acting to advantage now, the truck slowly grinded against the remains of the barrier. Oh so careful, he had to be. Inch, by inch. Pause by pause. Bystanders, who weighed considerably less than he did, went by the truck, guiding him with their eyes about whether to pull, and whether to wait, which direction and which angle to take. It was fortunate that the truck driver was unconscious. It would have been a frightful ordeal to watch. With patience and help, the truck rolled back to the bridge, that stood still resolute. Flashing lights and emergency services surrounded them, and the process of saving and mending started with more vigour. Erasmus bolt was given many a handshake, and many a slap on the back. And he found himself doing the very same, and with all due gratitude and comradeship, to the people around him.

Starshot: Whip it Omecron 8 was a world full of tepid oceans and cool swamps, green, lush, and full of all manner of life. Including a primitive tribe of sentient humanoids. Purple skinned, short, and stocky with black eyes and black hair, the natives were believed to be an offshoot of humanity, placed on this mangrove world by the Preservers countless millennia ago. Normally such a world would be off limits to casual visitors, but the world was so rich in flora, fauna, and disease (regrettably) that it had been visited many times, the law on such things being bent and twisted. The natives were aware of the visitors from the stars, and had been remarkably accepting of them, whilst fiercely protecting their own customs. They had a curious mix of xenophobia and tolerance in this matter. Mindful of the unique situation, it was now possible to visit the world providing it was for scientific motivation. Of course, there was some tension with commercial, or industrial motivations, given the diverse biosphere, but by and large the world was protected from exploitation. It was not an easy world to study, or research. It was, in fact, dangerous. For this reason, Starshot had taken a job many years ago babysitting a small team of biochemists, botanists, and zoologists examining the world. They had been met by the local tribe. Communication was not easy, but over the weeks some basic understanding could be had. Starshot had taken to trying to understand the tribe as best he could. There was something noble in them. Insular, yes. Prideful, true. But something serene too. The most holy and sacred thing an adult Omecronian could own was a Sky-whip. It was most difficult, and dangerous, to obtain. Atop the huge cloud-trees lay its vines, from which could be fashioned a sky whip. Those same trees were home to brutal birds of prey. As a rite of passage, prospective hunters would climb a cloud tree, take a vine, and hunt the birds with vine. As it stood, the cloud-tree vines were strong and hardy. Excellent material for ropes and whips, which had entwined with the belief system of the Omecronian. Starshot had little time for religion himself, having seen so many. But he respected the focus of ritual. And he yearned the adventure. And so, to the valley of the Cloud Trees he went, bare chested, painted with a rather foul smelling paint. The twin suns shone bright, and he was glad of the canopy of leaves and flowers above. The trees themselves were resplendent, towering, gnarled. And easy to climb, with mottled bark and twisted form, they had plentiful holds. The gravity of the world was rather low, making the climb easier. But as the tribes hopefuls ascended, vertigo threatened. The sun shone brighter. And the branches just that little thinner. Not enough to challenge, but enough to make one think twice. Yet none of the hopefuls faltered or doubted, or even thought twice. It was, Starshot decided, a question not of faith, but of commitment. They had committed to the task at hand, and hence would not entertain confusion or doubt on the matter. They would no more contemplate turning back than they would falling upwards to the clouds. For a man infected with doubt, such as he, for a man who had been a slave of two worlds, such commitment was enthralling. A commitment not imposed, but chosen, of free will and free heart. The sweat, under the suns, ran freely. The sickly ritual paint ran. His brow was wet and came, stinging, to his eyes. He squinted under the glare. Up high, the ritual started to test ones endurance, rather than the leisurely climb at the base. Commitment! Muscles now ached. For all his strength, Starshot was not one with the branches and wood like the tribe he climbed with. Then, the first of the Sky-vines was spied, to the cheers of the half dozen prospective hunters. Just like the revered and symbolic whips he had seen on the seasoned ones. Gathering them was easy. Perhaps they were a little hairy, perhaps they itched a little, but nothing that the ritualistic curing and preparation would not sort out. And serviceable. The others started winding the vine, taking flicks into the air with the skill of ones practiced since birth in the art. For his part, he did well enough. He was no expert with the whip, but it was not alien to him either. He had felt the sting of one, on occasion. The screech of birds sliced through the air. Harsh, penetrating calls that almost hurt his ear. It was hard to see in the bright light, but the shadows of wings could be seen. Hells, they were big! Bigger than he had thought. Bigger to cast a spell of fear for a moment. But by now, he shared in the gestalt of the alien hunters. Commitment, focus. There was no choice, no dilemma, no consideration. The decision had been made, right at the base of the tree. Now, there was but implementation of action. Fast, the birds were too. Fast enough to startle if one had not chosen. But now, Starshot had, and fear melted away. Just movement. The movement of wings, the movement of hands. Like the young hunters he was with. Crack, crack crack! The whips sang. He missed, and was rewarded with a cut of talon. The pain was there, but somehow irrelevant to the task at hand. As if happened to somebody else. So too, the seeping blood, mixing with sweat and paint. Cries of success came from his fellow hunters. He cracked his whip once again, stunning a bird which fell unconscious to its doom. He was not fast enough to catch it. No despondency. Just more action. Just action. Crack again, and the vine wrapped like a web around the bird, tangling in it. No success, not yet. He yanked, hot of body but not of mind, and reached out, unafraid of falling, to clasp the bird in his metal hand. The kill was messy but again with that sense of focus; the decision had been made, there was just implementation. He cried like the others had cried, a salute to the Alien Gods of the sky. By the time the expedition was leaving, Starshot would not leave without regret. True, a restless spirit could not stay in one place long, but he was not made of stone. He would miss the world, miss the tribe, the smells, sounds, and sights. Like many worlds, it had left an impression. He brushed the Sky-Vine whip at his hip. He would take something more concrete away than a hunting trophy. More than a head or horn or tooth that adorned the lounge of his ship. And he would take something more ethereal. A restless spirit was ill often ill at ease. But the commitment, the dedication of the ritual hunt, that moment when doubt and fear melted away, where there was only perception and action, because the decision had already been taken. That, he would not forget. That would be his steel.

If you wish! You may want more banter with streetfolk, or nose poking elsewhere.

Bit of a brutal scene cut, I hope its not a problem, please let me know if it is. I have left it somewhat open as to whether you go searching for "da word" as Echo or Buffy (it makes no material difference to what you learn). You may wish to roll Gather Information DC 25 to learn his precise whereabouts, otherwise you just get the vague area he haunts (Greenbank and its sewers).

GM "I need to go where we find answers" replied Jack, resolutely. He pressed his fingers to his temples. "If it all goes badly, I couldn't live with myself. Even if I don't know karate, I know Freedom City..." A few coffees later, after nightfall... It was not hard to find hobos in Freedom City. One just had to know the right streets. Jack had insisted on coming. Out of loyalty to Echo, perhaps. But the old hack was obstinate; he would not take no for an answer. "Just cover my ass and do something heroic if I get shot, yeah?" was his only condition. The word on the street, often given freely, sometimes given with a small show of "charity", be that a coffee, a donut, or cash, was pretty much the same. Tin Hat was some veteran, got experimented on by the army, or aliens, some evil scientist, or Toy Boy (depending on whom you asked), and fried his brain. Lived down in the sewers, and swore blind that AEGIS, or UNISON, or the KGB, or aliens (Depending on whom you asked), was putting thoughts into his head. Hence, he wore a hat made of tin foil. Very paranoid, possibly dangerous. One thing that there was agreement on was that Tin Hat was a mean fighter. Sure, he might not carry an automatic rifle like in his old days, but he had a reputation for being an almost inhumanly tough and strong streetfighter. One with whom you should not mess.

Take a look at that, me hearties! The dangling, gurgling horror, churning away at the rafters, was clearly eye catching, and doing its job as a menacing distraction. She hoped that none of the thugs and goons would notice that their bullets were not affecting it. But then, a tentacled moss-fish from realms most terrible would most likely be immune to mundane gunfire anyway. She just hoped that any perceptive thug not overcome by fear would come to the same conclusion. Panic was in the air, and so much the better. Clutching her pistol, she ran screaming to the exit. "run away! run away!" she yelled, putting on her best petrified face and waving her firearm wildly. Hopefully, the men and women were too overcome with terror to notice small things like important incriminating evidence fluttering inside her blouse. And if they did, well she did have a gun in her hand...

Using Illusion power to create something as per IC post.

By the seven moons of Soggoth! No wonder her outrageous bluff had worked! Real trouble was on its way. They had presumably been expecting such an attack. And order, such at there had been, seemed to have vanished. Blood would be on the streets. True, the blood of cut throats and thieves, but still. The blood would splatter on her hands if she did not act. Mumbling under her breath, and feeling the stench of rotting swamps, the sound of piping music, and other sensations that crawled up and down her spine and gut, she reached out for some horrible spirit to summon. Something to distract them all. From the ceiling of the warehouse, something horrible emerged from the darkness. Slime, tentacles, and eyes, so many black, unseeing eyes. It was like moss, with vegetable hair and fish scales. Something that lurked in foul dimensions of dark diseased mangroves. It was horrible enough, and hanging, creeping, would surely act as a distraction...depending on exactly what was happening...

Aha! Treasure! Not gold, nor rum, this time. But information. Words. And who knew better than Captain Flintlock about the power of words. Possibly numbers, too. Maths was never her passion. Nor accountancy, bar the carefree "get...spend....get...spend..." philosophy that had served her so well and so pleasurably over the centuries. Call that a gun? she sniffed. She took it, nonetheless. Mainly to stop anyone else using it, but on the other hand, might come in handy. Not that she wanted to shoot anybody. Well, maybe just a little. She stuffed the pages into her blouse, carelessly and quickly. Crumpled pages gave her a more ample, if somewhat crinkled bosom. So be it. She stuffed a few books and ledgers under her arm. Hopes be that there was something to use; but for now, she must away! Moving quietly as she could, she went to the door of the office and peered out...

It was now or never. She had seconds, or minutes, but certainly not hours. Could she risk summoning some phantasm? It would be easy enough to summon up something horrible, or even mundane. A phantasm of dead soldiers, tentacled beasts, or just plain old men in suits with guns. But that would mean something horrible coming into this world, even as just a shadow. Ah! Begads! No! She would not do so, not unless she was about to be found out. There was no such thing as safely summoning the dread and unknowable things from beyond. The Unspeakable one always stirred in his half slumber. Every time she used her power, she could feel a tiny thread unwind on his sleep. Instead, she scurried as fast as she was able to the books, running her fingers down words and numbers. Perhaps there was something she could steal for later?

A rather weak bluff (or intimidate, her bonus is the same) but a good roll: Bluff - we are under attack!: 1d20+16 33 If it doesnt wash, then something awful from somewhere awful will be summoned!

Mmmha! There's foul play afoot! But what spooked him? She glanced around at the five people remaining. Where they listening? Where they not? Who could say? This was crimeland, and it was prudent to be paranoid, if one could even call it paranoid when alert anxiety was entirely justified. Still, the poor young sap had spilt something. Hearing, not seeing. Rumour and gossip. She dearly wished to search the office for a ledger or a book, mayhap even one of these new computer things. But she was being watched, surely. For a moment she contemplated summoning some dreadful horror to spook said gentlemen away. She wished the dread mists of Leng were still clamming her skin. But the former was to dreadful without absolute requirement, and the latter wishful thinking of a paralysed woman. No! Instead! "What's that I hear? Gunfire? Listen?" she said, cocking her ear. "Methinks we are under attack! And Vulnerable! Take cover! Run!" she bellowed at the last five men.