Supercape

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

Gamma Buzz Baz still didn't know what he was doing, but when did that stop the Cockroach Kid? Never, thats when! He leapt into the air, leaving a faint green blur in his wake, and pulled back one three-fingered fist. "I don't think dinosaurs listen to diplomacy, Laz?" he shouted at Lawrence, making up a nick name on the spot. Maybe it might stick? "Especially the talking ones! In my vast experience, I have never met a talking Dinosaur that listened to reason. So therefore there arent any. Logical, see?" Irrespective of the logical merits of his reasoning, Baltazar determined that the best way to stop the Dinosaur was with a well placed cockroach fist! A glowing GAMMA COCKROACH fist!

GM There was plenty to scan. And it was dark - if it were not for the amazing dragon eyes of Nightscale, searching would have been nigh impossible. There were several dozen crates - mostly rusted - similar to the one the golden dead had been stored in. None smelled strongly of gold, or curses - but it was hard to tell, for the stench was overpowering. Some of the crates were clearly one step away from rust death, so fragile that a sneeze could disintegrate them. And yet some where still reasonably sturdy. The only other option was some half-forgotten inflatable life rafts. Probably sea worthy, by the looks of them. A but dusty and cobwebbed. But they would need a good puff of air to inflate, and would be easily punctured.

GM The Gorilla-Man roared. Perhaps, with the eye of faith, one could make out some vague gutteral words that came out of a mad gorilla with gorilla vocal cords. "GET---GRRRROOOOFFFF!" The Gorilla Man bared its teeth and flexed its biceps, wrenching the wheel left and right violently, trying to fight the Tattered Man for control. Control? The battle of sinew on the trucks wheel was not without effect. The Truck turned left, smashing into a car. It turned right, smashing into another. The insurance agents of Bedlam would have a headache in the morning. The truck briefly tilted to two wheels, threatening to jack knife. Although that would have solved one problem... ...it was still heading for the fireworks factory!

Sounds like an opposed STR check for wheel control! 18 for Gorilla-Man

Gamma Buzz "Lawrence drives clockmakers crazy!" said Baz. "And I'm radioactive!" he added, glowing slightly. "Completely harmless lethal radiation! Green radiation, too! If you ever want to cook your chicken really fast, you know where to come! Cooked in a flash, a gamma flash. Only slightly glowing green afterwards!" He hopped from foot to foot excitedly, fighting the urge to carve "GBB" into the nearest wall with his laser vision. "And I stick to walls, too!" he added, as a bonus.

Groovy - he knows the gorilla is not a gorilla Do you want to post IC?

Gamma Buzz "And I'm Gamma Buzz, baby!" chirped in Baltazar. "Also, my proper name is Baltazar Botez. Everyone calls me Baz, so you can too :)" He was happy as can be. Aliens would be quite used to radioactive half-cockroach kids. Or at least, they would be used to not being used to things. "Different galaxy? Wow. Thats really far. I mean thats like, what, a hundred light years or something?" He eyeballed Lawrence, hoping that he had somehow got astrophysics right. Baz wasn't an idiot, by any means, but he wasn't a genius either. He knew his way around a circuit board and a keyboard, but astrophysics wasn't really on his radar. He did, however, know that galazies were pretty far apart. At least a hundred light years. Maybe two hundred. That sounded about right. For Baltazar Botez, a good guess was just as good as an accurate knowledge. Maybe better.

Life sciences (untrained) DC 15 Check

GM And inside? There was a man at the wheel, of sorts. A ferocious, eight foot tall gorilla! The huge homidid turned to the Tattered man and let out a primal roar. It was still gripping the steering wheel, turning it left and right wildly, as though it half knew what to do. Its foot was on the pedal, and the engine was revving in second gear, surely at a setting that would burn out the motor in minutes. But as they were about twenty seconds from colliding with the firework factory, that wasn't going to be an issue. The gorilla was wearing the tattered remains of a t shirt and jeans. Split boots adorned its prehensile feet. A cap with "I my mom!" sat, obstinately, on its head.