Supercape

Haven Operation Ares (4 Posts) Gamma Buzz Survival Class- Survival in the hereafter (3 Posts) Never Was (2 posts) Diamondlight House of the Caged Sun (3 Posts) -> Roll to Snakebite Echohead Dennis Deacon of Woodbury New Jersey (3 Posts) Vignette (1.1 K Words) Rev Torque Talk (3 Posts) -> roll to Snakebite) Red Rat Vignette (1.1 K Words) -> Roll to Snakebite Captain Cosmos Vignette (1.1 K Words) GM Cool Drugs (2 Posts) Hot and Bothered (5 Posts) Digital Hex (13 Posts) Animal Whip (1 Post) Hong Kong Hair (2 Posts) Total of 23 Post = 46 Boosts. Haven +6 to bring to 10 posts/2 PP Snakebite +4 to bring to 10 posts / 2PP (and +2 Vignette = 4) G Buzz +5 to bring to 10 posts / 2PP Echohead +7 to bring to 10 posts / 2 PP (and +2 Vignette = 4) Captain Cosmos +10 to bring to 2 PP (and +2 Vignette = 4) Peak +10 to bring to 2 PP 4 Boosts lost to the void.

GM The bound thug was in no position to bargain. Begging was more his style right now. Lying on the floor encased in a snare arrow with a menacing superhero kind of made negotiation a rather lopsided affair. "This freak's blood is the source of synthetic. And before you ask, I have no idea who or what he is. Not even a hundred percent sure its a he. Didn't dare look. Seems a bit short of brains though..." "Ugghhh...." mumbled the albino. "He got dropped off in a truck a week ago. By some boffin. Maybe the freak is some kind of mutant, or has been infected with something. I don't know. AllI know is the boffin paid me to sell synthetic. Paid me, that's right. Get paid by the boffin, get paid by the druggies. No fool is going to turn down a deal that good!" He smiled at his stupid cunning.

Awesome! Feel free to pretty much narrate whataver you fancy with that!

Diamondlight Four earthlings... most of them no more than a score years. And can any of them play poker? Are any of them even allowed to play poker? Earth rules, he reminded himself. A sage lesson to remember. They werent on earth any more. The rule book was out of the window. Had Tun even made sure the tables were accurate? What was his/its game, anyway? Ratings? Earth poker was exciting. Maybe gambling was an excitement shared by all cultures, but Diamondlight furrowed his burrow slightly, alert to the fact that he must not use Terran Paradigms here. He must be on alert. But a table was a table, and he could not resist. He adjusted his cuffs. "Pleased to meet you all," he said, graciously, to all his three fellow travellers. "I think this is a conversation to be had over a martini and a poker table?" "Assuming you serve vodka?" he asked Tun.

Haven in Memory Leek It was the leek that did it. The smell. Every four years, the charming and twee agricultural village of Blossomwell Rivers had a festival. A leap year festival. Meats, vegetables, fruits, specially planted early and harvested early (For Blossomwell was a southern town, blessed with fair weather all year round, fertile soil, and blossoms that, yes, blossomed very well). Haven fought boldly against existential melancholy. He studied philosophy, maths, theology. He would lose himself in digital worlds, and even just digits. But some blackness would ever remain, no much how much light he reflected upon it. Who was he? He was not Milo Mekano, not any more. That was an echo, a shadow, no more than a series of memories, a blueprint at best. His brain was a sphere of quantum positrons in an iridium shell. A mimic of a human brain. He was unique. Haven had no problem with being unique. In his view, most (if not all humans) craved uniqueness in some fashion or another. What beckoned the gloom as the though that he had human feelings, human thoughts, human passions, but was not human. There was the grind. It was, he had come to think, best epitomised by smell. He had no sense of smell, not any more. Just the memories of what smell was like. How he missed it! No digital recreation could create those sensations. Cooking steak, burning manure, it did not matter. There was nothing. And so, slamming his fists in frustration, he had set off to Blossomwell Rivers, to try and stimulate his senses, such as they were. To remember the memories. It was custom, on this festival, not only to serve and eat the harvest, but to dress up as vegetables and livestock. Cows, sheep, and chicken strolled past, waving at the crowds, doing occasional dances. It was rather silly. Haven liked the silliness, and disliked liking it. He sat down at one of the café’s, playing with a cup of untouched and now tepid espresso. Another taste lost. With every passing vegetable or animal, he tried to recall the smell, the taste. His gaze swept across the side stalls. Here, street food stewed and sizzled, but he smelled nothing, nothing but memories. Was the memory of barbeque sauce accurate? Did it really taste like the memories? He frowned, pressed two fingers to his forehead. Was this a journey of discovery, or had some masochistic impulse driven him here. The frown deepened, the skin furrowed. Here was the core-an existential anxiety. He needed no air, but he breathed anyway, air filling artificial sacs in his chest, then expelling. Does it matter what I am? For ultimately, like all things, I am me. A soothing philosophy. But he still missed the taste of things. What use had philosophy for grief? A thing, a pleasure, occasionally a pain, was lost. Something so very organic, a map to lost humanity. And then the leek sat down next to him. “I need a breather,” said the Leek, who proceeded to take of his leek-hat, revealing an elderly, sweating man with a grey beard, grey hair, and a broad smile. The rest of his body still wore the leek costume. The Leek man wiped his brow, and ordered a sparkling water from the waitress. “Enjoying the show?” he asked Haven. Haven slowly turned his head, and nodded silently. He didn’t feel the heat, his crisp suit was free from the stains of perspiration. Watching the old man, he realised that sweating was something he absolutely did not miss. And yet he would have the sensation for a moment, just to remember. We only miss things when we no longer have them. An obvious truth, oft forgotten. “Out of town?” asked the old man. “Yes. Emerald City.” The waitress brough the sparkling water. Haven studied it, almost hypnotised. Water, he recalled, had no taste, no smell. But it fizzed. He could still feel the fizz. “One for me, too…” he asked the waitress, who nodded. “Come here for the show? We are a bit eccentric, I guess!” said the old man, with a wry chuckle. “Why do you do it?” asked Haven. The old man waved his hand over the procession. It was hardly organised, and yet flowed all the same. Like a river. “Because its fun!” “Why is it fun?” The old mans face grew a note of sourness. “Why do you need to know why something is fun? It just is.” Haven gave the slightest of shrugs. “Because happiness eludes me, today. And I would know how to find it.” “Son, if you try to bottle happiness, you are going to end up miserable.” The words slapped Haven. “Then it appears I may be engineering my failure.” “Ain’t no failure in the blues. That thinking just makes you all the more blue. I think if it like blue waves in an ocean. They come, they pass. Would you want a life without sadness?” Haven shook his head. “It would be a lesser life. And sadness makes joy all the sweeter.” “Right, right, you got it! So enjoy the ride, cowboy. Don’t try to control the waves, surf them!” Haven turned back to the crowd, closed his eyes. Yes, he could remember the flavours of life. He could even… …recreate them. In his digital world. His brain working at quantum speeds, one second withdrawn to his digital reality was a week to contemplate. In a Bedouin tent in the desert, in a Viking hall in the snow. And then, recreations – a Tokyo restaurant, sizzling noodles, perfectly cut sushi. Or an American diner, selling greasy burgers with sauce. Yes, time to enjoy memories. Were they real? Did it matter? They were real memories, and Haven could afford the pleasure and lamentation of letting memories leak into his consciousness. Week, after week, after week. Second after second after second. But memories were seductive, and living in them addictive. It was a trap. He had to make new memories. He opened his eyes. “You okay there mister? Seemed like you had a fit or something…” Haven smiled at the old man. How long was he lost in the virtual reality halls of his mind? Months…. Maybe half a minute in the real world. How seductive! “I am quite well, thankyou, just lost in memories.” “Nothing wrong with a bit of remembering, young man. Especially a my age!” laughed the old man. Haven got up, and shook the old man. “I think you are right, sir. Remembering what we lost… I find it makes me appreciate what I have. And maybe, just maybe, what might yet come…”

GM The agent at the WEST office recognised Predator's voice, and this time was clearly anxious. "Director North has gone missing!" she said. "We can't make contact. The Hotel he was at said he just vanished, bills unpaid! Two days ago. We had some phone calls from him over the last two days, just checking in. I've reviewed the logs... he sounded a bit... odd. Confused, maybe. Oh maybe I'm reading too much into it. But, do you think he is well? WEST agents can get exposed to some odd energies. Maybe his brain got scrambled!" She paused for breath. "I've checked the local hospitals. Local police no nothing. Last confirmed sighting was the White Regent Hotel, Anchorage!" "Do you think you can help?"

Starshot "That doesn't look right..." said Starshot, through his helmet intercom. "Was it the spell? Something has disorientated them. If they keep bumping into each other like that, they could start a chain reaction." Which would not be good. "Doc, do you think we can try to communicate with them?" All the while, he was wondering why... why would the Grue tamper with the Sarcota (although it was not entirely clear they were). Why? Was this an act of sabotage? trying to weaponise them? Or were the Grue after something else entirely?

Gamma Buzz "Heads up! There are heads up!" yelled Baz, looking up and scanning all the drones. What could he do? Punch them? There would a lot of punching to do. Maybe release his atomic breath, but would that really work on drones? Were the organic, or robotic, or a bit of both? Time was precious, and he didn't have time for a long debate with himself. "Insect heads, that is. I hope they have insect eyes! Fireworks time!" He leapt straight up, several dozen feet, spread his arms out, tilted his head back, and lit up the sky with a radiation flare. A burst of lurid green light!

Baz will jump up to the insect drones (45' high Jump), and let loose a Radation Flare Dazzle 8, Area: Burst 20- 200' So keping the burst to a 40' area to save his allies!

Diamondlight "Shooting Star? Pleased to meet you. Don't worry about the costume. I never do!" he smiled. Truth was, he regretted being open about his superhero alter ego. It painted a target on his back. But he was famous enough anyway - enough to be the target of stalkers and madmen. And besides, he figured he had enough skeletons in the closet with a Nazi Dakana Cyrystal in his mansion in Switzerland. "Do you play?" he asked. "Or just here for the ride? Because its looking like its going to be quite the ride. I couldnt turn this down, but I do have a voice in the back of my head saying that I am a mouse, and this is a fabulous lump of cheese." He scanned the tables. "If you don't know poker, don't play poker. Roullette, maybe. Its a game a total luck, although the odds are stacked against you..."

GM With a bit of tinkering here, and a bit of tinkering there... Getting the olfactactron working was a bit of a challenge. It needed seven perpendicular marzal veins in a semi-lotoid postion. By isometric encabulation of the delta spurving bolts, Predator could align the modial capacitors on the prefamulated amulate, alowing the spurving veins to move in a fluroescent skor motion, hence reducing side fumbling and allowing logarathmic retroactivation of the drawn cardinal meson pipes. And, thus, hey presto, Presto had manufactured the Fleshometer. Investigation into the flow of chemicals and import / exports was more complicated. Shell company accounting was not really Predator's forte. It was a mess, that was for sure....

Yeah that works Do you want to put in an IC post for that construction or shall I narrate it?

ok as per rule book It would be 1 PP for straightforward scent detector (as it would be rare - just this particular flesh), 3 PP for Counters concealment. Design check is Knowledge (Tech) DC 11, or 13 Craft check is Craft (Electronics) DC 11 or 13 It would take a few hours, but you have a few hours so no need to calculate that.

Diamondlight Diamondlight was used to glitz and shiny, but the teleportation was a bit overwhelming; and now - this garish casino. He owned Zoss design, who prided itself on a subtle, even minimalist look. Not this overwhelming monstrosity. Still, a poker table was a poker table. He straightened his tie. He gave a look to Shooting Star. Tall, human, female. Probably human and female, he reminded himself. He wasn't in Kansas any more. He offered his hand. "August Zoss. Also known as Diamondlight. Come to join the fun?" Is she a bit young? "I fancy the poker tables, myself. That's where the fun is. Roulette is just plain luck." All the while, he was thinking - what is a good story? And did he have one? One that he could tell?

GM And meanwhile... At Thunderbolt tower... A booming voice came from the steel door. No knock, no pleasantries, just a voice of arrogance, projected by hubris and hubris alone, a voice used to power and obedience. "Rebel Scum!" it started. Deep, booming, threatening. Someone barrel chested was surely behind the door. "Your Rebel freinds dare to defy ME! GENERAL SPARKS! Their INSOLENCE shall cost the DEARLY!" Cerebral could almost see the face behiind the door darken, dark red blood flushing a face twisted in fury. "Tell me all you know of the TRAITORS! And I promise I will ONLY SLIGHTLY KILL YOU!" A few silver sparks flew from the door.

Feel free, both of you, to post IC and find the health kit and bazooka amongst the rubble.

Yeah, Health Kit! Bruises evaporato!

A bit low, but how about you find yourself a bazooka with a single rocket? Blast 10 (Area Affect)!

Ok lets go with searching for power ups and extra lifes! Could you both throw me a search roll? We can assume that taking 20 is not feasible with gunfire and patrolling tanks etc. DC 10 to find something slightly helpful DC 15 to find something moderately helpful DC 20 to find something very helpful. And if you could give me a flavour of what you would like (health potion, bonus hero point, Gatling gun, Missile launcher, unused tank)

GM The chains were no match for Madame Raven. As soon as they were off, Wrack rubbed her raw wrists, and flexed her fists. "Water? Good, good. You can drown that beached whale in his own factory," she said. "Do fat men float? We shall see!" Vengeance abated and a less palatable thought emerged. "But I can't swim. Bent spine, bent legs, bent arms. A true witch. So I hope one of you can carry me..." Her eyes glanced at Tsunami. "Remember the Codus..." she hissed at Tsunami, quiet as a snake. Perhaps another would have not caught the words, but Madame Raven was keen eared; she heard well enough. The basement had pipes, and Tsunami had noted many pipes running through the factory. More, perhaps, than might be expected for a textile factory. But perhaps this was no ordinary textile factory - plenty of chemicals were sloshing around upstairs. Acids? Poisons? Drugs? Perhaps all three. So plenty of water to work with - but things might get a bit unpredictable...

Just spotted some redundancies in fluff (working in Bedlam, redundant powers) so deleted a few paragraphs.

Rev in Spare Parts On a long dusty road in the middle of a southern desert lay a small dusty town. The town made poor look rich. It was built out of paper thin wood that would blow over in a stiff breeze. An agricultural village, built in a desert. The story behind that idiocy was never fully known, but its consequences sure were. Barely a hundred people were left living in a so-called-town that should have housed twenty times that. What was left? A gas station, a bar, a store. And the few defiant farmers who tried to keep the fields going with rusty machinery and ineffective irrigation. They would have been better off harvesting cactus and tumbleweed that wheat and maize. Old “One eye” Jack Jones had it harder than the rest. His tractor had broken down, and he was danged if he knew how to fix it. He had twisted this, oiled that, and eventually, in frustration, thrown his spanner at the infernal machine. “Can mah fortunes get any worse?” he lamented, wiping engine oil from one part of his forehead to another. “What in darning darnation did ah do to deserve such luck?” He shook his fist at the blue sky, and also at himself, for being so foolish as to try to make a living out of agriculture on land that was almost a desert. He should have been hunting snakes for snake skin. Or snake oil, come to that. His angry eyes scanned the dusty horizon. There, in the distance. More dust than there should have been. A streak of dust, like a Wild E Coyote. And then a belch of black smoke, a small like of flame. The streak of dust was heading straight for him and his broken tractor. Sliding, scraping, sometimes even bouncing of the poor soil and outcrops of rock. A few cacti were trampled. As the object grew nearer, Old Jones was gripped by panic; he might get hit! Or worse, his heap of junk tractor might be in the collision path. The Object was nearer now; a vehicle. Large tires, wire frame. Some crazy driver inside, trying to control the uncontrollable. With great skill, the driver was keeping the car from flipping, even though the engine seemed to be on fire. With a final slide, that sounded like two sheets of metal tearing into another, the car stopped a dozen feet from Old Jones, who had discovered that fear had welded his feet to the ground. He stood, mouth agape. “Now there’s sumthin’ yah don’t see every day…” he mumbled, taking off his straw hat and wiping his brow. A woman climbed out of the wrecked car. Limbs shiny and chrome, fingers made of steel. Dust over her mechanics clothes. “Shoot! Sorry mister, over charged the engine. Got in a bit of a scrape for a moment, but no harm done, eh?” “No harm? What in the darning darnation heck do you think this is?” replied Old Jones, waving his hand at the scar that had been cut across his field. “Errr….” Replied the woman. “And who the hecking heck are you, anyway? Nearly ran me over!” “I’m Lexa Venn. You can call me Rev!” smiled Rev. “What does that mean? You some kinda alien? Some kinda robot? You invading Earth? I seen it, I seen it in the movies… always starts in some kind of backwater, it does. You building a stronghold?” “Stronghold? No, I mean why would I build a stronghold here, this place is like, nowhere? I mean… wait, I’m not an alien, or a robot! I’m a superhero! Rev!” “Never heard of yah!” Rev sighed. It was true, she wasn’t exactly world famous. Even in Freedom City. “I’m a cyborg…” “A what? Sounds like a robot to me!” Rev clinked her metal arms together. “Cyborg Half Robot, Half…never mind. I’m the mechanic superhero! You need anything fixing?” Old Jones sly eyes turned to his Tractor. “Well, jess’ so happens I having a little bother…” “Well, happy to help! And maybe I might need to make some repairs myself. Some really heroic repairs.” Rev’s sly eyes turned towards her smashed up Dune Buggy. It was a tough old bird, but Rev had overcharged the engine in an attempt to break the 10,000mph speed barrier. It hadn’t ended well. She huddled over the tractor, muttering to the world about the various components that were bent, worn out, or twisted. Or that could be recycled. A few tubes and bolts were hurled out, and landed rather near her own buggy. She was cannibalizing the tractor for her buggy. “Hey now. You are tearing my tractor to bits,” complained Old Jones. “Wont be anything left of her by the time you finished. What are you playing at?” “Robbing Peter to pay Paul,” explained Rev. “But cool your jets, mister. I’m going to do it the other way round, too!” Rev leapt over to her Dune buggy and repeated the process, tearing out odd bits of scrap and hurling them towards the Tractor. After a few minutes, Rev leaned back out of her buggy engine, faced smeared with oil and grease. “Dang it! Even I can fix this. Not enough parts.” “Well hold your horses, young lady,” said Old Jones. “Don’t be giving up quite yet. We are a tough old breed down here, and we always look after each other. Plenty of folks got stuff to fix, and if you are so good at fixing…?” And so, a few phone calls later (and yes, Old’ jones was not so old, nor so poor, that he didn’t have a mobile phone) the various flotsam residents of the broken town turned up. Grandma Sprouts, Carrot-head, and Worm-eater where just some of the colourful and occasionally obnoxious nicknames of the eccentric residents. All poor, half mad. And plenty with things that needed fixing, A microwave, a freezer, a washing machine. Vehicles of all descriptions. And a few very bizzarre items, such as the whirly-thing, and the Hopper Bopper. Rev didn’t know what they did, but she fixed them all the same. It was not easy, even for Rev. She had to swap parts, steal them, twist them, and keep track of what went where in what engine or motor. Her brain hurt, but she kept at it, making sure she helped herself to water and – to keep her jets going – some petrol, which she drunk straight down her throat, to the gasps of wonder from the town folk. It was dirty, requiring lots of improvisation, but eventually all the machines and vehicles came to be fixed. Except the Hopper Bopper, which seemed to spin every third hop. But no matter – perhaps the child’s toy would be even more exciting with this unique quirk. At least that what Rev said to the dubious mother. And so it came to pass that a small town, barely holding on, had a slightly brighter day. They had a fighting chance now, with most of the machines working. And perhaps a visit from a super hero had given a little jolt of morale. And maybe, just maybe, Rev might pop in again, to check Old Jones and the gang were doing ok. Plenty of stuff to Fix, and Rev loved a bit of fixing.

GM The Tattered Man heard some rapid scuffling activity as he left the trailer - the Ringmistress, propelled into action. He had gone maybe two dozen yards from the trailer, nearly by the barrels of Ape-Juice, when he heard the trailer door spring open. The Ringmistress, half dressed in Ringmaster clothes, whip in hand. One boot on, one barefoot. A patchwork red jacket and bare legs. A magnificent top hat - the only item of clothing that looked new and quality - sat lopsided on her messy brown hair. She cracked the whip. "Tattered Man! The Circus is in town! And we will be performing whether you like it or not! Bedlam is in for some monkey business, and you aren't going to stop us!" The whip cracked again. "One more step and I will set the animals upon you!"

Gamma Buzz "I'm hungry, too..." conceded Baz, licking his armour plated lips. "Snake would be good. Or rat. Rats would be good, too. Better than cactus soup and tumbleweed pie, that's for sure..." In fact, one of the first powers Baz became aware of was the ability to eat practically anything without any ill effect. HIs stomach had apparently turned into a nuclear powered furnace that swiftly extracted valuable proteins, fats, and micronutrients, before sizzling the rest into atomic ash. A handy power living in poverty in Mexico and on the arduous journey to Freedom City as an illegal immigrants. Rats had often been the dish of the day in the sewers. "I reckon we need to get a fire going first. Part of the course, I suppose. So lets get some twigs, and lets make a fire. I am sure we can rub one out..." His antennae trembled at the clumsy words. "I mean I am sure we can rub them together really hard and fast and get them hot..." His antennae turned bright red. ".... ah I'm sure we can light a fire is what I mean."

GM And meanwhile... In Thunderbolt Tower! Cerebral knew she was in a boss level tower. It was reinforced concrete, two hundred feet tall, and - with frankly ludicrous architecture - she could see it was constructed in the shape of a thunderbolt. Everything here was reinforced. The window - overlooked a ruined city - was off thick bulletproof glass, and had a reinforced steel grid mesh on both sides. The walls were thick, and tough. The door was iron, also thick. There was no doubt that with enough time, the mighty Cebebral could tear the grill apart, or push the door off the hinges, or even crack open the concrete walls, but it would take time. Maybe just seconds, but more likely a minute or two. Boss level tower, indeed. And what was outside the door? She couldn't see. Could be one guard, could be a dozen, could be none. Could even by a nazi cyborg octopus carrying eight chainsaws. This was a crazy nazi nightmare, after all. And outside... Scanning around the ruined city the two teens could see plenty of hiding places in the rubble - although they looked structurally unsound. Good for cover, not good for burying you in a pile of bricks. Half destroyed buildings littered the city, from a hospital to a bakery to a fire station. And, if they fancied getting dirty, there was a subway and a sewer system. But what they did notice was, at the centre of the city, an impossibly large and impossibly constructed tower in the shape of a concrete thunder bolt. And, lamentably, it was riddled with guards, tanks, helicopters, and machine gun posts.