Supercape

GM Doctor North drooled from his mouth, his body still warm despite the coolant. The skin was blistering and peeling, revealing a pale skin so thin that it was slmost transclucent. "I am meant to be Dr North. Does that make me Dr North? Cant... think... straight...." Doctor North? mumbled. The blisters started appearing more and more frequently, the skin cracking and bubbling. Doctor North's eyes popped wide open, the pupils dilated. For one horible second, he went stiff as a board, his eyes in rapture. And then the process completed. With a little burst of flame from his sternum... Doctor North exploded! It was not a fiery explosion, but it was a spectacular one. Fragmented strips of flesh, splatters of blood, and assorted goo fell around everywhere. Including onto Jean. Doctor North - or whatever it was (it certainly didnt look human) was dead. All that was left was a few remnants of skeleton (gently smoking) and an empty of vail, cracked, that rattled around the ribcage!

DIamondlight in Swiss Cheese August Zoss had travelled back to Switzerland to see his father, who was not a well man. Every time August saw him, Henri looked paler, more haggard, less full of life. Which was somewhat ironic as the family secret, a shameful Daka crystal procured from the Nazi’s (who in turned procured in from the African nation of Dakana), was pumping the old man full of its strange energy, sustaining his life force. August knew this well; it was the strange energy that had slowed his aging and increased his endurance. And allowed him to fire silver-blue laser beams from his eyes. August wanted to call a doctor, but that would inevitably lead to the secret coming out. Sure, he could use his wealth and contacts to find some disreputable doctor who would keep his mouth shut, and might even know what he was doing. But that was the problem with disreputable people; they were disreputable. They wouldn’t always keep their mouth shut. Besides, August feared it was not Henri’s body that was collapsing, it was his heart. Broken, shattered with grief, ever since his wife died. There was no crystal in the universe that would repair that. Perhaps the annual Cheese festival in the nearby village would cheer him up. Cheese would cheer anyone up, right? There was a festive, communal air to the cobbled streets. Spring was nearly here, and the village had taken upon itself to hold an early cheese festival at this time; early, perhaps, for the purposes of cheesemaking and marketing, but it did attract cheese fanatics from far and wide, being the earliest cheese festival in the land. The Swiss cheeses were all there, of course, but so where staple cheeses from around the world. English and French, particularly, filled with their particular blue cheeses – so hard to resist. Every land had a cheese, even (to August’s sour shame) Dakana. Every nation on earth could produce a fine cheese. Except, obviously, America. “What’s the point?” asked Henri, walking with a cane, mood sour despite fresh air, sunshine, and a remarkable warmth to the air despite the time of year. “What’s the point in anything?” asked August, brushing off the question. “Well precisely…” August rolled his eyes at his father. With a subtle nudge, he redirected his father away from the wine store (wine, of course, was always present with anything cheesy) and onto the finest selection of swiss cheeses he could find. “The point, father, of going to a cheese festival, is to delight the palate with finest cheese. Come on, we have the money, and the atmosphere is gay. Does this not refresh your memory? Good days?” “I miss your mother,” came the black response. August winced. “I miss her too. But all love ends in tears or death, that’s the deal of it.” “You and your deals. A convoluted mess, dear boy. I have no idea how you navigate the complexities of business, or life. I yearn for simpler times, simpler pleasures.” “Like the sun. Or cheese!” said August, injecting a penetrating rigor into his words. “Well, that is true. Many suns, many cheeses in my life. Fond memories.” “Better a fond memory than a bitter future. Come, let us take a bite! You haven’t been out of that stuffy castle for a year.” The two of them took seat by the main road, drinking espresso, sampling cheeses. Henri started to smile. “You are right,” he conceded. “I do need sunshine. My wife… gone, it’s like I am living half a life. But so be it. Half a life is still half a life, and I can enjoy the part that remains. Maybe that’s really what grief is. Grief for the dead, of course. But grief for the part of you that’s lost.” “Savour what we have, right?” Henri nodded. “Savour what we have.” Their musings were interrupted by a scruffy looking man who was prematurely grey. Short, slender to the point of being bony, but with some subtle vitality to his body and eyes. Jonas Fleck, the local historian. “Zoss family, here?” he said, voice gnarly. “Flaunting your wealth like always? Sharp suits, expensive watches…” August reflexively put his hand over his watch (a special spy one, just like in the movies), and was irritated he had done so. “Not the time, Fleck,” he grumbled. “When is the time, Zoss? When would you like to explain exactly how your family came into such wealth during the war?” “Why you little toad! Say another word and I will sue!” declared Henri, ready to rise. His frail body suddenly seemed galvanised. August fear he might raise fists, which would be risky both for Henri’s health and for the legal ramifications. Zoss didn’t need any attention drawn to Fleck. “Good!” said Fleck, with a wide grin. “Great publicity!” August put his hand on his fathers forearm, gentle but clear. “Calm. This man is just trying to goad you.” Fleck frowned. “The Zoss fortunes are obscure and implausible. For the public good, it is only right they are transparent!” “We are entirely legal,” said August, confidently. He didn’t study law for nothing. “You know this, I know this. Stop harassing an old man.” “Its not just him I am harassing.” August detested bullies, but sometimes… well, sometimes it was a fine line. What was the difference between intimidation and bullying? It was perilously thin. He had concluded that the difference might usefully (for the purposes of ethics) be considered the matter of motive. The bully attacked to take, but intimidation might be a righteous defence. That’s what he told himself anyway. “Fleck, do what you will, but your actions have consequences. I choose, and mark my words… choose… to tolerate your little hobbies on most days, but not today. Today, my father and I deserve a little sunshine without your miserable grey cloud. This is a cheese festival, a necessary and vital part of the towns wealth, both spiritual and material. It would not do for someone like you to mar it, to make a scene. And if I wish to make this crusade of yours a scene, then a scene it will be. And you can also believe that such a scene will be engineered, designed to make you’re the patsy.” The threat was delivered in a cold calm manner. No raised voice, no raised hand, just a statement of facts based on absolute confidence. And a subtle glint of silver-blue in his eyes. Klent paused, visibly weighing up the options and balancing his emotions; his mission, his fear, his pride. “Very well, as it’s the cheese festival, we can’t really play this out during a cheese festival, can we? It would curdle our produce.” August nodded and kept silent, waiting for Fleck to walk off. He did not need to wait long. “Odious little piglet,” concluded Henri. “I cannot deny that. Somehow the cheese is even finer with his absence, the wine even crisper, and the sun all the brighter.” “Cheers. Too small things!” sain Henri, clinking his glass with his son. August felt a weight lift from his heart. Perhaps it was the cheese, perhaps the wine, perhaps the sun. But if he was truthful with himself, it was kicking Fleck out of the pitch and seeing his father happy.

Ok, so 1 HP to C&C for being split up! Cerebral - 2 HP - Unharmed Golden Star - 1 HP - Unharmed

GM The Screen shifted again... ...a pixel art picture of a military nazi-style commander beating a book with a club. Boink! Boink! Boink! Flashing lights, humming sounds... This was hypnotic with a capital H! It was impossible to drag ones eyes away from it. In but a moment, the three teenagres bodies were still; transfixed by the flashing images, completely mindless. So where were there minds? They whizzed through eldritch dimensions and impossible realms, to land... ...in the computer game itself! But no computer game they recognised. Golden Star and Cerebellum landed in the middle of a warn torn city, full of wrecked buildings and the sound of machine gun fire. Ad COrtex? In the top of locked tower! Grill over the window, looking over the ruined city. A four poster bed, a silver mirror... oh it was gilded alright, but still a gilded cage. She was a digital damsel in distress, locked at the top of a tower!

Snakebite in Canterbury Cabbage. Cassandra Crow pulled up outside the Crow mansion. This was Canterbury, England, in allegedly the sunniest county in the united Kingdom. But today the skies were grey, the temperature cool, and tepid rain fell from the skies. A grey day to suit her grey mood. Yesterday, she would have called this mansion her own. But then she her cousin had a baby boy. In the middle of the Canterbury harvest festival. Normally, that would be irrelevant in the matter of ownership of the estate (although of course the normal celebrations and congratulations would be due). But the Crow family wealth, considerable as it was, was tied up in arcane and obscure legislation stretching back centuries, or, in some particularly dusty tomes, more. Precisely who owned what percentage of what land under what circumstances with what contingencies and loopholes was a gordian knot. It was an irritation that consumed Cassandra. When she stormed into “Her” mansion, she was not in the best of mood. An assorted gaggle of Crow family members had gathered in the study of the mansion. Cassandra burst in, fists clenched, and eyeballed each in turn. Arthur Crow, her cousin. Handsome, elegant, intelligent. And seemingly immune to the Crow family’s bad luck and curses. His twisted body sat in a wheelchair. It was a common belief that he had had his share of curses in vitro, giving him a painful and disabled body. His wife, Tonya Crow, a rather fat dark skinned woman who was known for her big heart that could become overbearing. In her arms, their new born son, who, Cassandra noted, looked like Winston Churchill, like all babies did (to her eyes). And finally Penelope Crow, an aged distant aunt, who had a sharp mind and sharper razor. Here, judged Cassie, was the real threat, the real mastermind pulling the levers. Penelope Crow was a lawyer, and her bony hands were dedicated to consolidating as much of the Crow fortunes as much as possible under her less than benign oversight. It was not even greed, thought Cassandra; Penelope Crow did what she did for amusement. A hobby, of sorts. A very vexatious hobby. “Pleased to see you,” came the chorus of acknowledgements from one family member to another. Nobody looked particularly pleased. The baby gurgled. Penelope crow moved to the study table and gestured to a sheaf of dusty documents. The paper had turned brown, the ink had faded but the text was still legible. Cassandra processed the text style and the language. It was probably three hundred years old; at minimum. Penelope took great delight in showing Cassandra the intricate laws and agreements contained within the bundle. Cassandra was no lawyer; it would have been hard to follow even for a professional, given the archaic quality. She couldn’t follow a quarter of what Penelope said. But in summary – it was a trap of ink. If this person begat that person, and lady whatever gave birth two three sons, one of whom was his own uncle, then the Canterbury Mansion (Crow Hall) would pass ownership from this bloodline to that. At least, it was vaguely like that. The net effect was that Arthur Crow was now the owner of Crow Mansion. With various subclauses and so on and so forth. It was quite the headache. Cassandra rated Arthur Crow as the most benign member of the Crow family, even herself, and by some considerable margin. Perhaps his birth defect had given him a heightened sensitivity for the misfortunate, or perhaps he was just that kind of guy, more interested in building than breaking. Penelope Crow, however, was the kind of bottomless pit of bitterness that took active glee in the legal swipe. She stood to gain very little; other than the satisfaction of tearing the mansion from Cassandra Crow, the woman she had always envied. From whence the envy? For starters, Penelope Crow was a sour on the whole universe. But a particular sourness was reserved for Cassandra Crow, who had somehow become a legend, a hero. A superhero. Penelope Crow was born a couple of decades too early, when female adventurers were tolerated rather than encouraged. Perhaps this was the root cause of seething resentment. Perhaps this was why she was so gleeful at her legal masterstroke. Of course, Cassandra would not simply take this lying down. Or even standing up. Her fingers brushed the parchment, her eyes closed, and her mind spun backwards, traversing the centuries… …to a Canterbury village fete. The streets cobbled and dirty, the houses thatched and wonky. Rowdy drunks on the street throwing rotten fruit at the stalls where a poor thief lay clapped, lamenting his luck. The sound of fiddles and pipes, of feet shuffling and dancing, of voices singing badly. It was a very fair fair. And the sound of nobles arguing. Surely some Crow ancestors, with that classic black raven hair, that nose, that chin. The bloodline was unmistakable. With them, a gaggle of lawyers, hangers on, and beggars, and the mayor of Canterbury – grey haired, fat, an the nose of an alcoholic. The debate raged; which descendent of which line would get what percentage of the manor under which circumstance. It all looked rather gordian, as one would expect. Until the oldest Crow, a crone with bony hands and snakelike eyes, turned and pointed at Cassandra Crow. That had never happened before. But then, the Crow family line was not only cursed with curses, but blessed with blessings; wealth and eldritch third eyes. “And you, Cassandra, can tell your family that if you win the cabbage throwing competition of the fete then you get to keep the mansion! Page seventeen, paragraph eleven!” And with that, the vision faded, and Cassandra was back in the present. “May I direct your attention to page seventeen, paragraph eleven, dear Penelope?” Shock, rage and attempts to wriggle ensued, but after much wrangling, Cassandra had marched the gang down to Canterbury high street, where the famous drunken cabbage throwing competition had started. Old Bob Griggins, the regional champ, put in a great performance. Daisy Flowerbeater too, as well as her two young children (who tied the junior championship). But, at the end of the day, the snakelike power of Cassandra Crow won the day – true, one might say it was cheating – ending up with a cabbage bullseye on the golden patch. Perhaps resentment might have festered, but Cassandra swiftly gave the prize money to Old Bob Griggins (and doubled it), and declared that she would fully fund next years fair. For a fair must be fair. Irrespective of prize money or good (and bad) deeds), the task had been achieved. Cassandra Crow was the winner of the 2024 Canterbury Cabbage throwing contest, and thus, according to page seventeen, paragraph eleven of the 1459 deeds to the Crow Mansion, retained the ownership of Crow Manor. Much to the vexation of Penelope Crow. Being of good cheer, and rather liking Arthur Crow and his wife, Cassandra arranged for their family to have permenant living quarters in the east wing. Arthur was an architect and the manor could do with some renovations. Arthur found this perfectly reasonable. Which only vexed Penelope Crow more. One day, she swore, she would have her revenge!

Unless any of the teens is particularly suceptible to hypnotism (we can work that out as a complication...) the last IC post was simply a bit of flavour and foreshadowing. The excrement will shortly hit the rotating air circulation device, but for now feel free to make a few more social posts....

GM As the teens chatted, commenting on this, and commenting on that (and getting to know each other a little better by doing so), the Nintendo 64 hissed. Very slightly. Maybe a trick of the wind, maybe a fizz of an old circuit, or maybe... just maybe... something spooky was going on, like the first breath of a summoned ghost. The screen jiggered slightly, the pixels distorting for an instant. If one was really paranoid, one could almost say the sound and the image was becoming slightly hypnotic. Every so slightly. Just enough to start engrossing the teens in the screen just a bit more than was normal for a teenager...

GM The tall pale man seemed to barely register Archers presence. A slightly dazed turn of the eyes, a slight flicker of acknowledgement in the face, and a soft grunt that might, for all its volume, simply been an unusually heavy sigh. It did at least indicated the albino was still breathing. The Thug was breathing, for sure, but bound tight. His face squirmed, fighting a battle between defiance and prudence. Faced with the Archer next to him, prudence won. "Super drug? It ain't super..." he said. "Sure, it gives you a massive boost of energy for a few seconds, maybe minutes. Then you self-combust. I mean, you really self combust. At least with drugs like Zoom you stand a chance, right? Just a little heart attack. With this synthetic drug; that's what the call it, by the way, the synthetic... with the synthetic you literally burn up. I heard a few people got clever and dived in an bath of ice or the ocean. But only a few. Usually, you go out with a real good bang, you dig?"

Not needed now, but I will need some untrained Knowledge (Pop Culture) rolls DC 15 at some point so feel free to roll em

Gamma Buzz "I can heat up the ground with my incredible non-lethal radiation!" said Baz, puffing up his chest and giving two thumbs up signs. "Wait.. shoot... no powers!" he moped. "I guess we, what... light a fire? or something? Sounds easy enough. We just need wood and a something to light it with. Like my amazing laser beam eyes... no wait, those are powers too. Double shoot." Baz scratched his antennae. "And this is a desert. Not much wood around. Although I guess it would be dry, at least. Arent you meant to rub two sticks together or something, sounds pretty easy, right?"

23 for TOughness save Just made it

OOC for this.

March 13th, 2024 Claremont Academy, students residence Golden Star had booted up his Nintendo 64. It was supposedly cursed. But Blackstaff had sorted that out. Probably. And probably was surely good enough. The psychic twins Cerebral and Cerebrum had stuck their head in through the door to see what was going on. The Nintendo fizzed when plugged in, and flickered half the lights of the students residence. Booting up? What was booting up? It was taking its damn time that was for sure. As it loaded (at a relatively glacial pace), the machine displayed pixellated art: Of machine guns, of evil villains in evil costumes, of lightning bolts, of dark towers with screaming damsels in distress at the top, of a city ruined by warfare, awash with tanks and mines. It all looked very archiac, and very violent. In a quaint way. The images had a certain... hypnotic... quality to them. It was hard to drag your eyes away from the screen, despite (or maybe because) of the antique pixel graphics...

GM The doctor was still convulsing in the chair as Jean wheeled him through the lab and into the shower. The water was ice cold - and colder still. Enough to freeze skin; and it was fortunate none splashed on Jean. But on the Doctor the water merely sizzled and ran down his skin. Sizzled. That was how hot the doctor was! It seemed to do the trick though; cooling the doctor and terminating the seizure. Whatever was going on with the doctor seemed to have slowed, even stalled. His temperature seemed, for the moment, in a reasonably healthy equilibruim; the shower and his metabolism fighting for dominance but without any winner. The Doctor snapped open his eyes, and glared at Jean with mad intensity. "I was meant to fool you! Did I fool you? Tell me! Did I fool you? Did you think I was doctor North?"

Predator - Unharmed - 2 HP

Inventor feat normally takes hours (or days) to build a machine. Would you be willing to spend an HP to have that coolant "on hand"? Otherwise you could try a craft (chemical) roll to whip one up quickly.

GM And so... The town of Tez was rid of curses. The strange swamp receded over the coming months, and the diseases and infections that ran rampant throug the city started to recede with it. Even the biker gangs, deprived of their source of income, still conceded that it was better to live healthy and poor than rich and coughing up your guts in a feverish pool of sweat. The smugglers, however, did not stop. For all the decursing blackstaff did, he and Amritage noted that someone was still trying to flood America with curses. But who? Not the smugglers. Mr Silk, the mastermind smuggler had much bigger problems in Hong Kong. He soon pulled out of the whole deal. But someone else had an agenda... and there were other ways to get cursed items into America. Somewhere, the swamp would return! To be continued!.... ~ Fin ~

Starshot ...psychic... attacks... ...New... Starshot had no experience dealing with this. The uncanny and disturbing tendrils stroking his brain. He had hunted thousands of animals and beasts but none had psychic powers. "...hrgh... get out..." he muttered. He was a determined man by nature, but it took every ounce of determination to eject the intruder and roll to cover...

Great! For move action starship will scrabble (still prone but has prone fighting) to full cover

Enough for a diagnosis as per ic! Maybe some ideas for next pp award / update?

GM "What? Before? Can't... remember... ugh.... hot..." The doctors pulse was approaching 200, his respiratory rate was nearly sixty. His temperature? Warm to the touch... no, hot tother touch. The doctors metabolism had shot off the scale. No human could survive this. He was a candidate for spontaneous combustion... To emphasise the point, hus body started convulsing, in the grip of a full blown tonic clonic seizure. And his strength! The convulsions threatened to break the chair!

GIven he hasnt got much concentration, lets see if he can escape! https://orokos.com/roll/1005045 = 20 result, not bad.

GM "Do you know what he did to me?" screamed Wrack, face livid. "Cut my hair! Over and over again! He FARMED me!" She caught her breath - wheezing, straining. The curvature of her spine did not suit exertion of her lungs. When she recovered, her words were suitably softer in volume, yet still acidic! "My hair is magic. A witch, they called me, thanks to my hair. Its part of me, losing it is... whats the way to describe it. Cutting my hair is like having a tooth pulled. Do you like having a tooth pulled? over and over again?" "Pfah! Young, pretty, powerful.. and immortal! Well, some have all the luck don't they?" She calmed, slightly. "But thankyou for saving me. Both of you. I am in your debt. But... if you don't want to kill this toad..." she glared at Mr. Silk. "Then what are you going to do with him? And how are we getting out of here?"

Predator - Bruised - 3 HP

Up to you ! at this point its whatever is most cool and suits your character and future development.