Supercape

Diamondlight August raised an eyebrow. They seemed to be doing a U-turn. He pressed one of his temples. This didn't seem quite right - he felt the same urge - a feeling that there was something he was missing. Some piece of the puzzle that would change the whole jigsaw. But he couldn't place it. On the tip of his tongue, on the tips of his fingers, but something he could neither digest nor grasp. At least the park was containing the threat. Probably. Were the detactives part of this? He kept the peculiar thought to himself, for now. "I don't like this," he mumbled as they walked. "Somethings amiss... I cant quite place it. But you two have the scent, so we must track it down. But... I feel like a mouse in a trap."

Notice roll (auditory) DC 20 The ship is sinking - but the hole is very small at the moment. Also, an HP each for me being nasty and throwing all types of stuff at you at the same time! Luke - Unharmed - 6 HP Chimera - Unharmed - 6 HP

GM The accursed mystical visions died down, leaving Chimera free of their intrusions onto her mind. Powerful impressions, though - easily recalled. Not hallucinations, but some deep memories. The Gold had a past, that was for sure. Moving between the continents to and fro, seeped in blood, traded for slaves and spears. Two sounds... The sound of water, gurgling, hissing, spraying. The smell of salt water. The gold had made the smallest of holes in the hull of the ship, and the ocean was clamouring for entrance. The sound of gunfire and grenades, dull but audible. Reverberating around the rust and steel of the ship. Somebody outside, on the pier, was engaging in a gunfight!

GM "Fifty bucks? Jee mister, thats a bunch o' Generous! You are alright..." He shivered more violently, his teeth now chattering. "I g-g-g-g-g-gotta go get that c-c-c-c-c-offeee!" The squeaking and scuttling below the trick intensified. John could smell petrol now, mixed in with that odd vinegar smell. Dark purple oil swilled from below the Truck, threatening to set ablaze. You would not want to drop a match here. The Fireworks factory was only two dozen feet away...

GM It was cold, it was true. A bitter winter breeze of a bitter city. And the rags did little to hold the heat in. The man was already shivering. "Cup of coffee would be swell," said the driver. And just a minutes walk away, John would be able to find some dive serving passable coffee. One thing about Bedlam - it was awake 24 hours a day. "But..." John picked up a smell, something like sour vinegar, coming from the truck. "Smell that?" said the driver. He shuddered, not just from the cold. "It... it screwed me up. I was transporting it. Couldn't resist having a look. Chemicals, or something. Made me... what... an animal?" There was the sound of Rats from under the Truck. Scuttling, squeaking. Rats were common enough in Bedlam, but these rats sounded... big... "SQUEAK!" It wasn't just a squeak. It sounded like a human saying the work "Squeak"...

CLOAK AND DAGGERED by THEV Very small edit: The Red Rat Going to focus her down to Freedom City Could you eliminate the Alternate HQ and Alternate Vehicles (Based in Emerald City and Bedlam) Could you eliminate knockout gas/defence system from the HQ This should free up 5 EP for Boot Knives (Strike 1, Feats: Thrown, Improved Critical 1, Mighty, Multiple Weapons 1) [5 EP] Because boot knives are super cool for a super spy.

GM Professor Armitage took off his tweed jacket and draped it over his shoulder. He linen shirt was already damp with sweat. "This heat... its unnatural. Global Warming? or something else... I am no meteorologist, but this smells more than just freak weather. Its not just the heat, either. Its the humidity..." He patted down his brow. "An inhospitable place, to be sure. I dont suppose either of you are skilled in survival techniques or jungle warfare? And before you ask, no. That is not in my array of academic pursuits. Although by the looks of this place I should probably have brought my revolver." "Or let me have that Golden Wreath again?" asked Dickens. "No!" said Armitage, firmly.

Diamondlight in Light Sleeping Prince Zoss pulled himself through the undergrowth. The brambles had already cut his regal clothes to shreds, and overhanging branches had frequently tried to snag his light silver crown. It now lay at a jaunty angle across his ruffled blonde hair. He looked very little like a prince; any passer by would think him some montebanc or actor, a beggar trying to pass himself off as a prince. I’m not a prince anyway… he thought, but that was in a different life, a different reality. He blinked, it was hard to think. How had he got here? He was meant to be managing Zoss enterprises and fighting supervillains. But every time he thought about that, the memories seemed greasy, evasive. It was so easy to slip into thinking he was a prince rescuing a princess. And he was – Prince Zoss rescuing the sleeping princess of legend. Everything here appeared asleep, from the bees to the birds, all deep in some slow slumber. They had, legend said, been sleeping a hundred years. The magic spell that had cursed the princess had spread to the wildlife. They did not look a day older than when they had dropped their heads into the centennial long sleep. Prince Zoss might have fallen to the same spell, if he had not brought the fabled magic diamond of Zoss. He held it tightly in his hand, feeling its warmth. Silver Blue light glimmered from between his fingers, testament to the great power of the gem. The diamond light. The sleeping princess was in a crumbling tower that looked suitably worn and tired. Vines and brambles covered every stone – missing or present. Prince Zoss put a hand to the stone, which was surprisingly warm. On withdrawal, the skin of his hand was red from welts and scratches, and already swelling. Soon, it felt just like a balloon. He wrangled his hand in the air, in a futile attempt to shake the poison out of his pores. If anything, the swelling got worse, but at least it did not spread. If it was not for the overgrowth, climbing the tower would be easy for the charming and athletic Prince Zoss – it was not high, and the stones were loose enough that there were plenty of cracks and holes. The only risk would be architectural collapse. But with the brambles and vines, climbing would be impossible, perhaps even dangerous. Prince Zoss needed to clear the way. What would he use? Wits? Charm? Bravery? No – he needed none of the above. For he had the diamond light, the magical Zoss gem that had been handed down from king to prince for ages. Nobody quite knew where it came from; legend said some hot jungle land in a distant continent, where the men and women flew in flying cars and had spears that spewed dragon breath. The legends were not kind to the Zoss of those times; thieves, scoundrels, warlords. But Prince Zoss of this tale was a charming prince, and a prince of charm was sure to be benign and wise as well as handsome. And humble, too, although he would be far too modest to mention his humility. The Zoss diamond could only be used by the royal Zoss line. He held the regal gem aloft, closed his eyes, and lets its light flow. Silver-blue energy crackled up and down his arm, enough to turn the skin of anyone but a true prince of Zoss into a cinder. Then, the handsome prince opened his eyes and directed the mystic energy. It erupted like a storm, sending writhing bolts of lightning up and down the tower. Some of the brambles were set alight. Most turned to ash, in the blink of an eye. Witchcraft and curses were no match for the merely magnificent might of the diamond light. That sounded like an epic poem line, noted handsome Prince Zoss. He hummed a few tunes, trying to get the metre, whilst starting the climb. With his hand swollen, it was not as easy as he had liked. A few loose stones gave him a panic, and more than once he worried that the whole tower would fall to pieces, crushing both him and the sleeping beauty in a pile of rocks. Nevertheless, he arrived at the top of the tower safely, even if covered in soot and panting. The sweat on his chest started to congeal with the ash, forming unpleasant globules. Together with the ragged clothes and swollen hand, Prince Zoss did not look so princely. Fortunately, he was so handsome and modest that he could pull it off. He hoped. The soporific princess lay aslumber on a four posted bed that had not aged. Of course, more brambles and weeds had taken root around the bedroom, and some bold shoots had even dared clamber up the bed, but it was if the flora dared not intrude too deeply into the abode of the princess. Maybe it was the curse, or some reverence for the beauty. For a beauty she was; dressed in fine silks that were untouched by time, simple silver earings, her flaxen hair in braids, her skin without blemish, bar some light freckles that seemed to augment, rather than detract from her fair complexion. Yes, a beauty she was, no man (or woman) could deny. And nor could Prince Zoss. Now – the awkward part. The Legends said that the princess could only be woken by the kiss of a prince. And there, readers, lay the rub. Prince Zoss was an old fashioned – or perhaps new fashioned – kind of Prince. Kissing a sleeping princess rankled, for it would be done without her assent. Quite the conundrum. The Prince paused, enthralled by her beauty, yes, but weighing up the merits and morals of his next move. It rankled, most certainly, but if he weighed up his action, he reasoned that the sleeping beauty did not, in her current circumstance, have capacity to either consent or not consent to a kiss. And she would not, he reasoned, wish to spend eternity locked in sleep. Pleasant? Perhaps. But dreams could also be nightmares. And would any sane human wish to spend no time awake. It was a vexatious question of philosophy. Maybe the solopist would argue that we are all in a dream anyway, so what did it matter? Perhaps these questions, these actions, were all part of a dream, or even a short story posted in some kind of electronic format. He shook his head. Such meandering and mulling did not belong in this tale. He should kiss her and wake her. And in any case, her lips were plump and red, and it would be rude not to. “Cor blimey, I weren’t ‘alf sleepy luv…” said the Sleeping Beauty. “Errr….” Prince Zoss spoke a variety of European Dialects, as befitted a man of education. But he had never heard a Princess speak like that. She sounded quite common, in fact. “You look well fit…” she continued, licking her lips. Quite common indeed. “I am Prince Zoss, come here to save you from an evil hag’s curse…” he started. “Stop your gobwagging and give me another kiss. And get undressed, I fancy a sh---” “Ahem! Just one moment…” There was no room for such adult shenanigans in this tale, at least, not shenanigans that can be seen or told. So, with a jaunty wink of his eye, Prince Zoss turned your camera to the flapping silk curtains, and naught could be seen of the locking of lips and, well… use your imagination….

GM As it happened, the gold could be eaten. It almost wanted to be eaten. It responded to Chimera's touch eagerly, seeping into artificial pores and through artificial skin. There was plenty of gold to swallow, and once half had been sucked up, Chimera started to experience visions... Visions of graves, of funeral pyres. African warriors and Kings, trading gold with the Europeans, soaked in blood of war and slavery... ...Of cheap and shallow graves of the Slaves in the colonies... ...of Conquistadors in search of Lemurian gold... ...of Swamps and Marshes, ruled by a Hag, a sorcerous Hag casting curses on gold... ...of the Dead, burned alived from molten gold... It made little or no sense, and Chimera could feel the fringes of her sanity under assault. But one thing was certain, the gold was cursed, and the dead followed it. And the other half of the gold continued to drill down to the ocean. Slower, to be sure, but given enough time... What would absorbing all of the gold, all of the curse, cost Chimera?

Gamma Buzz "Coolest Cockroach Kid in town!" smiled Baz. He felt his eyes water - with slightly glowing radioactive tears. Dang! Crying was NOT cool! Why do I have to be cursed with clearly visible tears that glow - alongside everything else. "Excuse me, I got some dust in my eyes..." he said, pressing two insectoid fingers into his eyes and wiping. "But thank you partner!" he said, giving Golden Star a pat on the back. "You are pretty cool too. And one of a kind. Not a lot of Golden Star's in the world, are there? And Gold is almost as cool as Green!" he winked. A single globule of glowing green tear briefly formed in his winking eye and started to fall, before Baz quickly wiped it away and gave a cheesy grin as camouflage.

GM The town was small, hot, humid, built on swamps and marshes that slowly oozed into the Gulf of Mexico. Tezmolican, it was called in centuries past. It passed through dozens of colonial powers until they settled on Tezville. In those mad days of European colonisation, it was a home to pirates and smugglers. Now? it looked like the home to crooks, and broke crooks at that. As if New Orleans had dumped its beggars and burgulars into one small run down off shoot. There were bars, there were dives. Drunken Jazz bands played drunken tunes. Contraband of all flavours passed hands here, perhaps the only way the town had any economy at all. Yes, smuggling was alive and well in Tezmolican. And this was where the Chuggers operated, a biker gang that moved eldritch artifacts (and, more commonly, false artifacts) from smuggling ships to the rest of the states; and beyond. "The heat!" complained Armitage, wiping his brow with a white handkerchief. Tweed was not good in this weather.

GM The Gorilla landed on the tarmac. THUD! All the fire in its chest was forced out from the impact, leaving his lungs empty. Stunned, it tried to get up, wheezing from effort, shaking, legs wobbling. It staggered left and right, before eventually coming to rest with one arm learning against the truck. He was shrinking with every out of breath pant. The arms, the legs, the chest. The simian facies started to morph back into a human shape. Even the red glint of fury in the eyes started to dull. In front of the Tattered Man stood a man in tatters; exhausted, middle aged, with a receding hairline, stubbled chin, and beer belly. His clothes were ripped to shreds, leaving him shivering from the cold. "Wha... where...." he mumbled, before sinking to his knees, exhausted.

Gamma Buzz The question pricked Baz. His antenna trembled and he sucked his teeth. For all the brash exterior, inside was a raw nerve; he was repulsive. The normal teenagers who fretted about spots on their face had nothing on Baltazar Botez. "No..." he said, voice slow and soft, quite uncharacteristic. "I'm... unique..." he said, trying to find the best way to frame the question that would preserve something to hold on to. "I was born human but I had... some funny type of luck." Bad luck. With a little dash of good luck. It could, he realised, have been a lot worse. As it was, at least he could climb walls and shoot out laser vision. It could have been a lot, lot worse. He ground out a smile and a flush of positivity. It did not come easy, but it was there. "I'm one of a kind. Gamma Buzz, baby!"

Sure!

opposed grapple: 16 which means he totally grappled

Golden Star recalls reading about the Chuggers being more active recently but not much detail. Its not major news.

Yes that works; Staff is aware of the Chuggers - they are pretty much as Armitage describes them, and with a bit of snooping Blackstaff could locate some of their haunts down south

Truck stopped And you get a Gorilla fist as way of compensation! 21! Im thinking that hits, for a DC 21 Tough save

GM The Gorilla kept gripping the steering wheel, like a baby with a dummy. Was it a toy for him? or was some vestigal part of its brain keeping on task? As the Truck came to a screeching halt, threatening to keel over at one point, the Gorilla harmonised with the burning tyres, giving out a roar. "Me ---- DRIIIIVE!" came the gutteral roar. It was not best pleased with the outcome. The truck has come to a stand still just outside the gates to the firework factory, the damaged grill of the engine gently bumping against the gate iron. "DRIIIIIIVE!" roared the gorilla again, furious. Angry, and ready to smash. "ME----SMASH!" it added, but way of explanation, bringing a fist round onto the Tattered Man's face...

Thats good Tatters - Unharmed - 2 HP

Could throw me an untrained drive roll? DC 15 to break safely. Not normally that hard but you do have an enraged gorilla to contend with

The Wheel is yours!

GM "Smugglers?" mused Thomas Dickens. "I know plenty of smugglers. Pick one... hmmm.... pick one..." He snapped his fingers. "Biker Gang. The Chuggers. Work down south, just north of the border. They smuggle mexicans into the states, but not just that. Do you know how they take payment? Antiquities and artifacts. Incan, Mayan, that stuff." "Lemurian," added Professor Amritage. "The Lizard race that predates humanity. Cruel enslavers, sorcerers. Lived in the jungle." "Yeah, Lem...hmmm..Lemyoooran," repeated Dickens, mangling the word. "Anyway, they deal with all sorts of goods." "Its a good place to start," agreed Armitage. "I don't know them as...ah... intimately as my protege here, but they are probably the single biggest smuggling operation for magical artifacts. Like most items in this business, it is mainly myth and bunkum. But every now and again, the snake oil is Lemuiran snake oil..." He gave a little chuckle at his not-joke.

Haven in The Tin Man in Winkle Country He should have held a sword. Instead, he held an axe. He should have been fighting yakuza. Instead, he was fighting flying monkeys. He should have been made of polymimetic hyperalloy held together by contained electromagnetic plasma tubes. Instead… …he was made of tin. The sky was ominous, dark, pregnant with a rumbling storm that had not quite been delivered. A few flashes of lightning lit up up the air. Haven spun and chopped one of the monkeys in half, its separated halves landing on the broken land, flapping, monstrous. A tin man fighting flying monkeys with an axe. He knew what story this was. And yet, it was not quite the same – Haven was no simpleton without courage. If he had a metaphorical heart, it was quite a different one from the metaphorical heart of the tin man of the story. Haven was built from ice and brutality. He was a Ronin, but even a Ronin had a code, a bushido of sorts. These flying monkeys were beasts under a spell, pawns for their mistress. Did they deserve the chop? No. Not unless it was necessary, and by his estimation it wasn’t necessary. Monkey paws and monkey teeth would do little to tin but dent it. He dropped his axe to the ground and set about with two metal fists, plus the occasional metal foot. Haven was an expert with the sword, but even unarmed he knew how to fight. When half a dozen flapping simians lay unconscious on the ground, the other half flew off. Haven had, as he predicted, a couple of dents, and several scratches (including one across his face), but nothing that hurt, nothing that impaired. He paused, wondering how he had got here. His memory was fuzzy, beyond recall. Some magic, some sorcery-but what? Haven sailed through cyberspace, not astral planes. The world of magic was as alien to him as ICE hyperconstructs were to a witch. A witch. Yes, that was what the story said. He had a witch to defeat. In this broken and blasted land. Where would he find her? He stood on a road, and presumably one way led to an emerald city, and the other… to the witch. But which old witch? The wicked witch! He trod on, tirelessly, his tin feet clicking against the cobblestones. Every now and then, he passed yellow skinned, yellow clothed men and women. Farmers, craftsmen, traders, even the occasional soldier. All hurried past him quickly – it was clearly best not to mess with a tin man with an axe, for such a construct would surely be without mercy, quite heartless. Another few leagues, and the crows circled above him. Undeterred, Haven tried throwing stones and pebbles at them, with little effect. They kept circling, they kept crowing. At least they did not attack. If flying monkeys could not dent the tin man, then beaks and crow feet would not. Next came the wolves, hunting in a pack of two score, sprinting across the broken land with red eyes and drooling mouths. Keen noses, sharp fangs, sharp claws, all draw by the spying crows. The wolves were more dangerous. Fast and furious. Not for the first time in this wonderful land, Haven wished he could shoot lightning bolts like he could in the mundane world. But this wasn’t Kansas. It wasn’t even the Emerald City, where he lived. Nothing but a few feeble sparks would come from his fingertips, and only with great reluctance. Instead he had to swing his axe. He was, at least, getting more familiar with the weight and swing of the weapon. He was now proficient in it, almost to the point of mastery. It swung left, it swung right, cutting through fur and sinew. Soon, the hills were alive with the sound of wailing wolves, who retreated with their tails between their sorry legs. But the Tin Man was in bad shape now, with more dents than a tin can in a hurricane. His tin left eye had fallen from his tin left socket, and he walked with a lurching limp. Last, came the black bees, ferocious, stinging. If he had been made of flesh rather than tin, he would have surely met his end at that point (if anyone could die in a fairyland). But for all his scrapes and tears, the tin man was still made of tin. The stinging bees were both vexatious and vexed, but did him no harm. He swung his axe to the trees, collected the twigs and branches, and set a roaring fire (with those tiny sparks from his fingertips) to drive the bees away, sorry stringers between sorry legs. Then, to the castle of the witch. The drawbridge was up, leaving a black, opaque moat surrounding the castle. But the Tin Man did not need to breathe. He walked through the murky bottom of the moat, kicking up black silt, and reached the drawbridge. The wood was no match for the axe; a dozen swings and he was through, leaving firewood behind him. The wicked witch had the tallest, most pointy hat the Tin Man had ever seen. How did it stay perched on her head when it was taller than she was? Surely no maths or mechanics would allow such a hat; it must have been magic. The Wicked Witch cackled. “So, my pretty, you will serve me in my castle!” “Not likely!” replied Haven. “Your wickedness and your witchcraft end today!” “You have neither the brains or the heart to defeat me!” cackled the Witch, rubbing her hands in glee, stewing in her own hubris. “Actually, brains and heart? Wit and Bravery? Those are the two things I do ha… wait, you haven’t read this story have you?” “What story, my pretty?” Haven creaked open a grim smile from his tin lips. “Oh, you’ll see. It’s got a great ending!” The Wicked Witch tried spells, curses, and threats. She even tried to scratch Haven’s eyes out with her filthy and sharp nails. But he shrugged off her witchcraft with ease; he was not of this world, and her sorcery had no effect on him. Her nails did scratch his tin, but by this stage he was so full of scratches and dents that a few more made no difference. He was a mess before her nails, and he was no more the mess after them. He lifted up the Witch and slung her over his shoulder. She was surprisingly light, like dried paper. If not for her defiant contortions on his shoulder she would have been an easy load. As it was, he had to wobble and limp back to the moat. “Sink or swim? Like the witches of old!” he said, with a laugh that was as wicked as the witch. With a grunt of effort, bent tin limbs threw the witch into the moat. The waters swallowed her greedily. “Noooo!” she wailed as she tried to claw out of the waters with melting flesh. Yes, melting. She made the point in a last scream. “I’m meltiiiiing!” The black waters of the moat only chuckled back with a few jovial bubbles.

Gamma Buzz Move action - leap into melee Standard Action - punch 13 I suppose that has a small chance if its enormous and has low defence. If it does, a DC 23 Toughness and, due to nauseate aura, DC 15 Fort Nauseate effect