Supercape
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GM One super powered flight later... Prince Amir Kahns yacht was not hard to spot. It was big, long and ostentatious. True, in this part of Freedom Cities there were a good dozen millionaires yachts (or yachts that cost a million), but it was hardly inconspicuous even in such company. Prince Kahn was not on deck. Presumably under deck, in the jacuzi or some other luxurious environment of the yacht. Given its size, Asad could almost imagine a tennis court under his feet. What was on deck to greet him where a couple of security guards. Pistols, vests, but not heavily armed. The head guard, a tall man with a nasty scar running diagnoally across his face, and thinning hair, put his hand to his gun. "Hey, what are you doing back?" he asked suspiciously, before clocking Morsi. "Morsi! You found him! Well done!" he smiled, taking his hand from his Gun. "Muqrin Ali!" hissed Morsi to Asad, low enough to look whispered, but not low enough for Muqrin to miss. "He is a dog! Brutal! Do not hand me to his unforgiving hands!"
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APPROVED!
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Actually, its a strength roll against a snare! Or, more accurately, it has a toughness of 5, and with your strength, you automatically inflict a DC 23 Toughness ROll on it! In addition, Super Strength adds to your damage effect (for the purposes of breaking things) so its another +6 to DC, making a grand total of a Damage 14 effect. (Unfortunately, if Damage is +10 over snares toughness, you break out automatically as a standard action!) Still, a DC 29 Toughness save with +5 1d20+5=8 you smash out!!! Thats a standard action, so you still have a move action to do something (or surge)
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this going live?
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"Harry!" said the Mess in a kind of splutter. He thwacked his head with one swollen arm, trying to berate himself for forgetting about his partner who was the brains of the pair. Unfortunately, that also meant he was not the brawn. "He ain't gonna last a minute in the round with that guy! I'm gonna bust the Hangman's ass!" he swore, his muscles popping with his super powered blood, and his clothes torn. With a leap he propelled himself out of the window landing in the street below. For all the knocks he had on his head, and he had had plenty, he wasn't slow in action. He paused the briefest of moments, and grabbed, almost effortlessly, a dumpster from the street. Handling it like he would a football, he once again launched into the air, propelled by his muscles.
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The Mess is moving to catch the Hangman, using jump and/or speed (whatever works) That said, he will keep his distance (say 20 feet away for now) if he can even get that close. Also using an action to pick up a dumpster (I hope that is reasonable narrative licence TT, basically looking for something to throw at the Hangman, or maybe, plonk on top of him! - I presume there is something large and heavy he can pick up on the way!)
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Hey Man, he has some bad karma, ya dig? Punching in the face is seriously ungroovy... Sunset ignored the Radicals mental mutterings about Corbin. The Radical was hardly a practical person, even at the best of times. On the other hand, punching in the face was a leap of conclusion too far. Did this guy want a punch up? Or is this place jangling with our nerves? For once, I might just want that hippy karma, hook line and sinker! You got it honeychild! Tune in, turn on and dr--- "Or perhaps without the punching, if we can help it.." she interjected, both to the Radical and Dr MacGregor. She oozed into the habitat, savouring the warmth. Her tone was soft and polite. Keep it warm, keep it cool...last thing anyone needs is people losing it here... For all her mantra, she could feel her own nerves fraying at the tips. "Just what are you a Doctor of?" she asked her politely. "What research are you doing here? It all looks pretty cutting edge!" she explained and inquired. She wondered if the Doctors Mind might be good to copy into the Radicals, what with her experience and skill. But on the other hand, she was here and available. And Doctor Johnson still rattled around. His expertise in psychology and the effects of isolation was probably more valuable. "Is this research connected with...the disturbances?" Disturbances was a good enough guess, she figured. What with the mystery around this place and the "Freaky" impression she had got.
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Cool direction! Do you want a scene cut back to the opening boat?
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What are you doing here? What happened? she said, in her head, to the Demon. Whilst the imp could remain unseen, hiding his flare from eyes, she felt more comfortable with him bottled up inside her. Perhaps not right now though... "Not dying? That's good news. I never like that much" she said to the exhausted doctor. "And I would rather keep that leg, even if I can't move it" she added. To be honest, with paralysis she sometimes wondered if a prosthesis would be better. But she was kind of attached to her leg. Literally. "That's all groovy, doc, real swell. It's just...how long to I have to be in? Can't you just plaster it up? I'm in a real hurry..."
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GM The musclebound bouncer paused for a fraction of a second, contemplating the various pushes and pulls. Loyalty, Fear, The Joy of Beating Up a Wimp, and Lust. The latter won out. "You betcha doll. Keep that smile on yer face, I'm gonna be all over it!" he grinned. He managed to fix Swish with a glare before he left. "Your lucky day, dead man. You get to breathe for another day!" he said through gritty teeth. Swish turned around to face Daphne himself. "Hey I just hit jackpot! How did you swoon into my life and make it complete?" he asked. You had to hand it to him. He was just about to have all four limbs broken but he didn't miss a beat, moving straight into a patter. He punctuated with a wink and two snapped fingers that transformed into a mimed guns, pointed affectionately at her saviour. "I'd lay of the meat head, baby! You be better off with some Swish stuff!"
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GM "Wait....they are shooting at me!" gasped Edward, still skiing past them. "I know the Olympics can get competitive, but this isn't cricket!" he complained. For all his moaning, he kept focussed on skiing past them as fast as possible. Olympic discipline perhaps, but being shot at tends to lend a burst of speed to anybody. The two Russians were still clambering, slowly, up the snowy slope, and shooting intermittently. The higher ground, and cover, belonged to Foreshadow and Synapse. It wasn't long before Synapse had put both men to sleep, courtesy of her mental might. The brainwashed musclemen had certainly put up a stiff fight, however. Their minds felt like smeltered steel, completely devoted to their purpose.
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GM Officer Estrada raised his eyebrows at that. "Biker gang? a topless chick on a bike? with big t...err....yeah..." he said stumbling over his words slightly before recovering. "Sounds like the gaschuggers to me. Bunch of southern thugs, been driving into Freedom City lately. Mean ass gang. That means trouble..." he scratched his head. "Police keeping tabs on them, don't you worry miss. If you see them again, give us a call. And, for now, don't go near Wharton Forest. They have been driving and camping out there, illegally. Protected area and all that. Not that those scum give a second thought to that. They just want to burn oil and take cash" he said, resisting the urge to spit, although in the Sidewinder tattoo parlour such behaviour was not unknown. He patted his notebook down and shoved in his jacket. "Thank's Ma'am, you have been very helpful!" he smiled, before saying his goodbyes and turning to leave.
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APPROVED
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Recite a spell? Ya think? Tazel had to obey her. But for one thing. Telling the truth. And the deceptive imp had many motives and much cunning. Very often he told her the truth - just to keep her off balance. Instead she ground her teeth in annoyance and coasted her motorcycle, engine ticking and grumbling, across the dry cracked earth to Nick. Black smoke oozed from her body and her bike, wafting up to the desert skies. When Tazel bubbled in her muscles and bones, it was hard not to notice her. The plume of smoke could be seen for miles. "Nick, these signs. Are they a spell?" she asked thoughtfully. "Might be something we should use, say the words our selves. Find out what's happening here?" Carmen was all for detective work. But more of the "Jump in and see what happens" variety of finding things out than anything methodical.
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Ok going along the lines that this was a set up. One that Carl didn't know about. King Cole is hunting the King of Suits down...perhaps to get him to help take down the Mafia? Who can tell...? Right now, though, its about getting him. Injured and after a throwaway bait (tracked by his cellphone), in an unfriendly Fens... What will the folks of Fens do? Help him? turn him in? Draw him out as hostages? Thoughts?
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GM "King Cole has got you!" blabbered Carl. "You are dead anyway, man! So please don't kill me! I don't wanna die!" The Fens was a place to die. Crime riddled it like a fungus that just kept coming back no matter how much weedkiller was poured on it. Cut down one boss, two more sprang up. Arrest a couple of thugs, no problem. A plentiful supply of upcoming kids with no prospects, poor education, and no money. King Cole had come out of nowhere a few years ago and set himself up nicely. Always working in the background. His 'thing' was retro, for sure - he wouldn't have looked out of place fifty years ago. But that worked for him. The cops and lawyers had mixed feelings about him. A crook, for sure, but one who also seemed intent on, and able to, take down the mafia and other gangs a peg or two. He was an enemy, but also an enemy of the enemy. And crafty, too. Crack! A bullet whizzed through the air. Sniper shot. Carl's leg went, and he clutched it in agony. There was blood. A lot of blood. Arterial strike.
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GM One painful tattoo and a few hours later... The Biker had left fighting tears from the tattoo. He could hardly complain, for his macho pride. Instead, he thanked Cassie for a wonderful tattoo and said to the entire shop how awesome she was, but that only bad ass tough guys could take her. Cassie's hunch was not wrong. As the shop came about to close, with the normal ritual and locking up, the end of days gossip and laughs, a police officer came in. A regular guy, looked more experienced than the rookies, a bit of a mish mash of heritage, and a goatee. He was slightly short but in good shape. Officer Estrada, said his badge. "Hey folks, any of you heard of a guy called Vince Vines? Guy got mugged last night, and looks like someone kidnapped him today....has he been in here, anybody know him?"
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"Sure" whispered the Cantos Cane. Pitch thought the words, the goats head hissed them. "Fairs fair" she said to nobody in particular, and snatched up a small crawling lizard, dropping it by the snake. Tarmac? she guessed. Black rock in the sands. Big Brother must be referring to the dessicated enormous snake. Shiny thing, light? could be anything. At least, anything that wanted to eat the snakes soul. It wasn't a lot to go on. Yig, snakes, and...presumably something else. Something even more frightening than giant snakes, as fare as she could make. She frowned, smoke belching out of her. It was dusty desert towns like this that could get swept away with some kind of ethereal bust up. And she was kinda fond of these dusty desert towns. She had sure seen enough of them, free wheeling the roads with bikers both friend and non so friendly. Why Springsvale? Just some ant in the way of the boot, or something more? "Mayor of the town gettin' some personal advice from somebody then? Wonder why he got so lucky. Are y'all sittin on an oil field or somethin'?" she asked Jane. "What makes Springfield shine?"
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HOnestly, you know more than me, so tell me what that would get you!
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"Henri Zenon, my friend! I cannot say I am surprised to see you here!" laughed Rene heartily, walking up and embracing the man. "Madam" he gestured to Daphne. "This is my friend Henri Zenon, although some know him as Deadbeat. On account of him being dead. Although he lives on in the realm of dreams" he explained. "In fact, I lead dear Henri here after he fell into some less pleasant dimension..." he said, enigmatically. Truth was, whilst both he had Henri were well versed in the dreamlands, neither of them knew exactly how it had happened. But happened it did. Rene had a suspicion he had wiped it from his own mind with the fog of forgetting in the dreamlands. Occasionally he had...dreams...suggestive ones. "So my friend, have you any light to shine on the strange map of dreams we walk? I feel a malignant presence. Although one feels so much in these lands..."
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A second bruise and daze. But now out of combat, as Gold / Ground Zero has knocked himself out!
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"Curiosity killed the cat madam!" he bowed deeply, taking a drink of champagne himself. "It is most fortunate I am thus not feline, but a primate! And I daresay one with less simian qualities than the gossiping baboons that provide such amusement!" He took another sip of champagne. Too large a sip. "Ah! Alcohol! I find that if one partakes in sufficient quantities, may produce all the effects of drunkedness" he concluded, feeling refreshed by the warmth. He knew the drink was loosening his caution. He knew that he did not want caution anyway. If somebody dangled something sparkling in front of him, he would bite, no matter what the hook beneath it. "Lead on Madam. I find entertainment most entertaining!"
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GM As it so happened... "<Obey! Stop!>" it was hardly a command, more of a mantra that the two musclebound Russians chanted as they clambered up the hill, ski's in one hand, assault rifle in the other. Well, one had an assault rifle. The other had a twisted piece of metal that had curved around Foreshadow's head. It looked handy as a brutal piece of crowbar like cudgelling apparatus, but if anyone tried to fire it now, they would probably blow of their hand. "Hey hey! What are you doing here?" yelled Edward as he sailed towards them, skis slipping expertly across the track, sweat on his brow, and his trusty sniper rifle on his back. "Why are there no officials here? where is everybody?" he mused, not loosing his stroke or pace, but frowning at his sister and Foreshadow. Crack Crack Crack! came the sound of automatic gunfire over his head. The Russians were too far to shoot accurately, but they were good shots, no doubt.
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Spooky! whispered the Radical in Sunsets mind. She was inclined to agree. It was not like anything either of them had felt before. "I..er...think...um...." she mumbled to the group, uncertain and straining her eyes - both her actual ones and the psychic ones that floated in her head. Spit it out, honeychild! This trip is freaky! "I think I can feel, like...a ghost or something!" she blurted out to the group. "I mean, I don't know what it is, but something big and...freaky....floating on the lake..." she explained. "Sorry, I can't tell you more. Maybe its just my nerves. I never felt, or seen, anything like it!" she added, apologetically. Not like they could do much but press on, anyway. Just that they would press on with more uncertainty than before!
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"Yig?" Replied Pitch internally to Tazel, who she felt was being particularly passive aggressive today. His moods were mercurial to say the least. "Nick, its a prayer to some dud called Yig!" She yelled at the necromancer dping the real legwork, in a friendly manner. "Hey buster, what happened to your big friend? Some kinda snake eater around?" She asked the reptile at her feet. Her mouth moved, but the sounds came from the unnerving whistling head of the Cantos cane, a blackened metal goats head.