Supercape

thats going to be hard to match staggered but... thats fun! So going to fly out the window as move action, and as staggered thats the only action this round, but going to see if she can find the dune buggy.

Diamondlight "...Greetings," said August. Stroking the stubble on his jaw. Quite what to say to the creature from the depths was pure guesswork, and uneducated guess work at that. Still, he supposed that she (was it a she?) was equally awkward and ill at ease amongst humans. "We are happy to see you to. I am August Zoss, also known as Diamondlight." His eyes rolled down to the corpse and he felt a constriction in his stomach. He had seen a few dead bodies before, but not murdered and waterlogged ones. His gut lodged a protest and decided to force a spike of bile into his throat. He could not help but do a slight gag. "I am rather... sad..." Shocked, disguisted, angry, sad... "...to see you have found another victim." August forced himself to bend over and examine the corpse more closely. His nose was no better than the next man's, but he didn't need super-smell to get the whiff of the thing. It was unpleasant, to say the least. He was no detective, but he was pretty sure the corpse was dead. "Any idea who did this?"

OK, if you want guys want to engage in some respectful non-competitive PvP and acquire a few bruises, let me know (and HP inbound to both for appearing as a dragon) - I would prefer to narrate that rather than get dice rolly. Irrespective of that, lets have some IC introductions and banter between you guys!

Echohead Baseline? That smacked of something super-dupery, as far as Echohead was concerned. Perhaps even super-duper-wupery. Maybe even super-duper-wu... He shook his head to stop the ridiculous thought echoing around his skull. "That sounds like something somebody who was going to try and escape would say" he responded. "Poor old me, look at how defenceless and beautiful I am, please let me seduce you into undoing my zip ties so I can stop being at my baseline and turn into a gaint zombie octopus..." One of the few benefits of being ugly was that Echohead could never believe any woman was interested in him. As soon as even the slightest wink was offered, he knew they were trying to manipulate him. "OK, maybe not a giant zombie octopus. But Baseline? That tells me that you aren't always at baseline. And it tells me other things to, which I am too intelligent and astute to reveal at the moment..." Dang, this copy in my head is causing some serious misfiring synapses... It was like he was being clever and stupid at the same time. "Anyway, you aren't asking the question are you? Very clever of you. Very astute. Unluckily for you, as I have just informed you, I am more the cleverer, and more the astuter. So spill the beans, madam... you saw something, what was it!" Echohead finished his monologue with a threatrical wagging of his finger.

Yep, that will make em scatter! And meanwhile, you have been spotted...

GM "Stringbean? Not a zombie, thank da Lord" said Blowfish. "Useful guy, even if he is too dang thin. I try to fatten him up at da Pasta Hffft Palace, make a real man outta him..." he shook his head and slapped his ample stomach. Blowfish was not obese, but he had a fat neck and a slack midriff. "He tried to go straight after dat business with da undead. But I managed to persuade him to come back to da action. I mean, we ain't that crooked, but we ain't dat straight either..." he said, hastely correcting himself infront of Chimera. "Useful guy in a squeeze, and he got experience with da..Hffft.... dead. So I sent him with some other guys to da ship, in case my boys face da Hffft Zombie horde!" "Ah, here we are!" Da car pulled up outside the docks. A bored security guard looked up at them, until Blowfish gesticulated he look away - which he did, hurridly, suddenly becoming very interested in the Icelandic economic piece section of his newspaper, which he proceeded to pretend read over and over again. Blowfish got out of da car and started to light another cigar. Before it was lit, he dropped it, eyes wide. "Holy Motha of Hfffft...Jesus! Is dat a DRAGON?" he gasped, pointing at the sky... Meanwhile, a hundred feet away... "It's a dragon!" screamed one of the goons, a particularly tall, thin one with a baseball bat and a kilogram of explosives. The mob ran, gripped with terror, scattering themselves amongst the steel cargo crates that lay on the deck of the Lost and Found.

Starshot in Meat for Meat It had taken two days of hunting. Two days on Gelven-3-2, the jungle moon orbiting an orange gas giant. A hot world, with a thick, humid atmosphere. A world teeming with life, mainly from the jungles basking in twin stars, but also full of insects and omnivores. A dangerous, beautiful moon that only the bravest would go hunting in. Starshot was brave, but more than just brave. He was about the best at what he did. And what he did was hunt. The Research station there was well financed, and was paying him well. They needed a Green Raxor, perhaps the most dangerous predator on the planet, and certainly the largest. Apparently the ichor of one of its five spleens was a biochemical marvel-something that the Lor desperately wanted to study. The problem was getting that spleen to study. Three scientists and then four contracted hunters had died trying. Starshot had no intention of following them. The problem, as he saw it, was that the hunters had gone after the predator, rather than setting a trap for it. He had spent a day studying the research on the Green Raxor, learning its movement pattern, its behaviour, its mating rituals and digestion, and most importantly its favourite foods. The Green Raxor was a glutton with a discerning palate. And therein lied its flaw. Starshot could lay a trap. A pile of meat. But not just any meat. Meat that the Green Raxor would find particularly seductive. Its chemo-receptors would activate, the olfactory nerves would transmit, and the fronto-limbic pathways of its secondary brain (located, unusually but poetically wrapped around all three stomachs) would demand the beast masticate and swallow the delicious feast. And so Starshot had spent two days hunting the meats that the Grean Raxor would find especially delicious. All in the name of medical science. After all, the galaxy desperately needed a cure for Woodling Chips disease, and the spleen of this beast might just hold the cure. The anterior abdomiser of the Gelatin Frisco Parrot The spinal gloop sac of the Roostering Redpaw The synaptic plexus of the Paranueral Worm The parasplenic digesterator of the Flying Antiperambulator The secondary orifice of the Bony Groundhopper Each required careful hunting. Studying the environment and behaviour of the target, surveying the land, setting the target. Some, Starshot could trap with elaborate pits and snares. Some required a more direct approach-tracking the beast through the thick jungle and catching it unaware. A quick blast from his customised plasma rifle was usually enough to kill the beast, if aimed carefully enough. The Roostering Redpaw was perhaps the most difficult beast to capture, ending up in a dirty fight in the middle of a swamp between the Redpaw’s bloody claws and Starshot’s equally bloody machete. A brutish fight, but ultimately a successful one, even if Starshot had another scar to show for it. It didn’t bother him muchly; every scar was another story to tell, another piece of literature engraved on his body. And now the pile of meat lay in the jungle attracting zuzu flies and iridescent beetles. Irritating insects that also tried to suck blood from Starshot-he paid them no mind. They would not devour the meat before the Green Raxor arrived, and he could tolerate the insect bites, he had blood to spare and a med kit in his ATV ready to calm down the inflammation. But damn, they were vexatious. He slapped another feeding Zuzu fly, creating a shattered exoskeleton and a purple smear against his hand. He could already feel the itch. He muffled a curse under his breath. The thermal dissapators running down his spine and limbs started to whine in protest; the heat of the moon was insufferable. Even with the regulators and the coolant of his helmet, he could feel drops of sweat on his brow. But as toxic as the environment was, he loved the job. This was hunting at his finest, the challenge, the pulse, the primal instinct. Here, he didn’t have to worry about finances, or forms. Here, he could just concentrate on what needed to be done! There! A wriggle in the undergrowth. His Infrared HUD picked up the signature amidst the foilage. The Green Raxor. Two tons of thick hide, long claws, and muscle. Poisoned teeth, Four eyes, six limbs, and a nose that could smell a rat from ten thousand paces. A nose that could smell this banquet trap at twenty thousand. The beast wriggled towards the pile of meat, its black nose sniffing the air. The plasma rifle felt cold to Starshot’s hand, as the thermal focusing lens started heating up. He flexed his cybernetic hand, an old habit, no longer needed but part of the ritual before pressing the trigger. The HUD provided the data-distance, heat, dimensions. He took it off and breathed the hot jungle air. Sometimes you needed to use your own eyes. The beasts head was in the crosshairs. A spike of adrenaline nailed Starshots half cybernetic heart, and he held his breath. His finger squeezed the trigger as it had done so many times before. And the beam of searing plasma shot from the muzzle of the rifle, accurate, powerful, precise. The Green Raxor roared in pain. Starshot had to admire the beasts endurance. Missing half a head, but still roaring, still breathing, and still, more concerningly, running to him. Just one of those razor claws could take Starshot’s head clean off. He fired off as many rounds as he could, but it was not many-the beast was fast. Without the benefit of aiming, and firing through warped and twisted jungle trees, not all struck the beast. Singed branches and cindered leaves fell to the ground. Two-three bolts of plasma singed the beast, took off one of the six legs, but the beast kept running. Closer, closer, so close that Starshot gave up firing, cast the rifle to the ground, and jumped to one side. The Green Raxor ripped through the forest, leapt and missed its target by an inch. It was fast, but didn’t turn well. It collided with three trees, flattening them all, before it skidded to a shot. Starshot didn’t pause to catch his breath. He pulled out his side arm, the laser tracker sweeping smoothly until it locked on to the target. With a hiss of gas, he fired of three rounds, three darts loaded with knockout sedatives, three darts that swooped and turned to follow the beast. The Raxor had the endurance of a hundred men, but its hide was no thicker than a pigs. All darts found there way to the Raxor and embedded themselves in its flesh. “That should stop you…” Should wasn’t the same as would. The beast stumbled this way, stumbled that, but turned and rammed its charred and halved head into Starshot. He was caught more by surprise than speed, and was tossed three dozen feet through the air. He consoled himself with the thought that the spleen of so hardy a creature might well hold the cure for Woodling chips disease. Maybe every disease… how the creature was still alive was beyond him. Alive, but only just, it started a drunked walk towards him, craws raking the ground. Starshot discarded the handgun and pulled out his machete. It had come to this-a brutal hand to hand fight. One claw swiped at his shoulder-he ducked. Another caught his chest, raking open the military jacket and drawing blood, but not deep. His cybernetic filters started work on the poison as soon as it hit his blood stream. He raised the Machete and, with both hands, with cybernetically enhanced muscles, drove a foot and half on alloyed steel straight through the predator’s spinal column. Even the mighty Green Raxor couldn’t survive that. With a tonic spasm, it collapsed to the jungle floor. Breathing hard, Startshot pulled out the machete and wiped it on a nearby waxy leaf. He gave the creature a salute. It deserved that much. And then he got to carving. There was a spleen to recover from the pile of meat!

GM And so... ...in the car with Blowfish A small man drove. He was seemingly made of bones and reflexes, and Chimera didn't miss the way he handled the gearstick. Maybe some concealed weapon, a gun, or a knife. The driver may have been smalled but he had that deadly look, a broken nose, a cauliflower ear, two scars crossing his forehead, and eyes that seemed ready to kill. Blowfish tapped his cigar out of da window as they drove, more relaxed now Chimera was by his side. "My old buddy Chimera. Gotta hand it to yaz, you are one cool cape. Someday we may be crossing swords, but I hope...hfffft....dat day never comes. And if it does, just remember dat old Blowfish ain't so bad, huh?" The city at night zoomed past. A light rain had begun, and the moon was under the clothes. Neon lights provided the only illumination, and as they approached the docks, even that started to thin. Blowfish stroked da Tommy Gun in his lap. An antique, but well made. "I hope I ain't gotta use this. But after last time, well, hffft.,... lets just say I'd rather have Little Miss faithful with me dan have a zombie feast on hfffft... my brains..." He gave Chimera a wink. "We don't want it like last time, do we? And why ya comez down so hard on me anyhow? Not liked I raised da dead. More like I stopped 'em."

Edits cancelled at player request. I have corrected a minor power point tally error that had snuck onto the sheet, however. - Fox, 20231004 Could I make some minor adjustments to Starshot Feats: (-1 PP) Remove Attractive (why has he got this? it is a mystery....) Skills: (-1 PP) Reduce Swim to 4 ranks (+12) Equipment: (0 PP) Replace Whip with Machete (Strike 2, Feats: Mighty, Improved Critical, Thrown) (this has same EP Cost. I have another whip character and a Machete is cooler for cutting through jungle) In view of new pistol power, remove sedative injector from utility belt and adding 1 EP to the base utiliy belt and making a few adjustments, meaning new utility belt is now: Utility Belt [21 PP Array, Alt Power 4) [25 EP] BP: Blast 3 (Extras: Penetrating, Secondary Effect) Linked with Environmental Control 3 (Normal Heat, 25' Radius, Extras: Total Fade, Independent, Feats: Slow Fade 3 [1 hour total]) {12+6 = 18/21} “Thermal Pellet” AP: Environmental Control 5 (Bright Light, 100' Radius, Extras: Independent, Total Fade, Feats: Improved Range 2 [x5, 250’], Slow Fade 1) {18/21} “Flare Gun” AP: Nauseate 5 (Extras: Area [cloud], Range) {20/21} “Gas grenade” AP: Obscure 5 (Visual and Olfactory, Extras: Total Fade, Feats: Slow Fade 1) {21/21} “Smoke grenade” AP: Paralyse 5 (Extras: Alt Save [Fort], Poison, Ranged, Feats: Subtle) {21/21} "Blowpipe" Powers: Could you an an alternate Power to Starshot's Plasma Rifle, and give it the multiple weapon feat (total 2 PP) Device Hunting Sidearm (25 DP, Flaws: Easy to Lose) [15 PP] 23 PP Dart Array (Feats: Alt Power 2) BP: Fatigue 5 (Extras: Ranged, Poison, Feats: Accurate 1, Homing, Subtle) [23/23 DP] "Autoguided Dart" AP: Fatigue 5 (Extras: Ranged [Cone], Poison, Feats: Subtle) [21/23 DP] "Flechette Spray" AP: Blast 5 (Extras: Penetrating, Feats: Accurate 1, Homing, Improved Critical 2, Increased Range 2, Progression: Range 2) [23/23 DP] [Rocket Dart) Technically this will Make his Attack bonus +12, +14 Ranged, +16 w/ Hunting Sidearm

GM "Ya Goddam right someone should look into it...!" spluttered Blowfish, dribbling some red wine. "Look, I got some of da boys scouting out da ship as we speak. Good boys, dey are... hffft. Ya may not approve, but when it comes to da Zombie apocalypse, I ain't taking no chances. Zombies are bad for business. I ain't going to change da Patsa Palace to da Brains Bazaar, am I?" He patted himself down with a napkin. "Look, maybe my boyz can handle it, mebbe they can't...Hffft... anywayz, I thought you should know, maybe ya can give my boyz a hand, ya know? Before Machete Max raised an army of da bleedin' hffft...undead with whateva voodoo hocus pocus he's brought in from da dark continent? Hffft.... sometimes I wish for da old days, when we didn't have to fight zombies as well as makin' an almost honest living. We had honour in them days, hffft-yaknow? Nobody had the disrespect to go risin' from da grave when ya disembowelled em with a shotgun. Much less rise from da grave and hffft go and chew on someones brains... whatsa world coming to?" He shook his head sadly. His jowels wobbled as he did. "Ya wanna give my boyz a hand, jus' to be on da safe side?"

GM The six thugs were dressed in black and the dock was dimly lit. It would be hard to make out their bodies, let alone their faces in such limited light, but this was no problem for Nightscale! He could see in the darkest dark. The men were in that adrenaline soaked state somewhere between fear and excitement, ready for a fight, ready for blood. They moved quietly and effectively-at a guess, Nightscale would say these were some of Blowfish's best men. Hardly military standard, but with a touch more wit and experience than the common thug. Black leather jackets, black caps, black boots. Two carried shotguns, two carried silenced handguns, and two carried baseball bats. Clearly, a bit of variety was in order. On closer inspection, the two with baseball bats also carried something else, wrapped in bag paper bags. Explosives! The six of them started to creep over the gangplank onto the ship floor, and weave between the cargo crates...

Diamond Light "Southside Dragon, eh?" August kept up to date with Superhero shennanigans. Capes got a complementary meal at the High Steaks... providing they were decent ones. Which, for the most part, they were. Maybe Sergeant Shark or Aquaria wouldn't fit in. August felt those two were more likely to eat their guests than the food. "Yes I have heard of you. Done some good work, I hear. Maybe you had something to do with Blowfish getting robbed blind?" he added with a wink. "Don't worry, I won't ask, and you don't have to tell. Something tells me you are more than a petty thief, and right now we have bigger problems than theft. Murder. Unsolved murder..." August frowned. "I don't like any murder, but this sounds like a serial killer-or a serial something. Whatever is behind this, you can bet your last cent it wont be the last time someone dies in the park." He gave a lopsided yet elegant smile. "Unless we do something about it, that is! I was going to take a look at the scene of the crime, and whatever body we have. Care to join?" He looked over at Aquaria, with a bite of his lip. She didn't look safe to dine at the High Steaks, at least not if anybody else was there-bar Sergeant Shark, of course. He had a momentary vision of the two of them having a romantic date tearing apart a live octopus. It wasn't an image he liked. But still, despite her bluntness and strange palate, she could be useful. "I said... care to join us?" she called over at her, waving his hands in the air.

Ok Interview time... 32 for Sense Motive (the one thing he is agood at!) But he has also copied Intimidate skill so trying his luck at that 15 not so good! If it helps then taking 10 on any relevant knowledge skill (Streetwise would be 23 total), and using his copied Well Informed feat and taking 10 on gather information (for a 22 result)/

Echohead Echohead was glad he was wearing sunglasses. He stared at the redhead, wondering if he was admiring her beauty or scrutinising her features for the purposes of interogation. He cleared his throat. High pitched, nervous. He felt sweat on his brow. He loosened his tie. "So...ah..." He realised it was not the best opening. He wasn't really an interogator. But spending so long stealing peoples thoughts, had given him an uncanny insight into when people were lying. No, it was not mind reading. Just a skill acquired rapidly from his abilities. He poked around his own head, searching his synapses. Yes! The brain he had copied- therein lied the experience and expertise he needed. His voice didn't exactly change, but it did solidify. His back straightened, and he took off his sunglasses to reveal a searing determination. "So, you best tell us whats happening, madam. Its about as bad as it can get for you right now. Don't bother with your cover story. I'll know if you are lying..." He tapped his skull, giving her his best evil glare.

GM "WHAT?" roared Tazel, his anger making him appear visible again - a fiery skeleton three feet high, burning with fury. "Five decades I have been bound to the Cantos sorcerer, and now you have the impudence to order me again! I am already burning the fog away, and yet still you demand more! Demand, demand, take, take! My patience is frayed, my feline friend! Frayed to the point of snapping!" Juan gave a weak chortle. "Best buddies! Best buddies! You really are the bestest of bestest buddies! Hahahaha!" His smoky body started wisping towards the Church front door. "Goodbye Tazel! I may have failed to snare you this time, but Juan Kerr knows when to cut his losses! Next time, I shall be properly prepared! With Pentagrams and candles made of virgin blood... or something like that. Something that will work! Muahahahaha!" "IDIOT!" screamed Tazel, belching fire. The two remaining Choir dog-boys leapt at La Puma's legs once more, and both of them managed to grab their teeth into her fur, and start to squeeze, driving their magically mutated teeth into her sweet and suculent flesh!

Yes thats a miss Nothing spectacular from the Chior dogs - just two bites again [url=https://orokos.com/roll/989196]Bites[/url]: [u]2#1d20+4[/u] [b]18[/b] [b]24[/b] And they get very lucky, although they are not particular strong. 2 x DC 18 Toughness saves. Meanwhile Juan is making his mistake and Tazel is being Tazel.

Diamondlight "Thankyou officer. If I ever see you in High Steaks, Ill be delighted to invite you to my table." It wasn't exactly a bribe. More an acknowledgement, a thankyou. As the cop had allready agreed to help, it wouldn't be a bribe. At least, August's legal mind judged it could be defended thusly. Good man, that cop. If he ever needs a job, I'll hire him! Diamondlight strolled deeper into the park, the dim light not bothering him. He could see in even the dimmest light. He could even see without eyes. But there was something kind of satisfying about using the eyeballs, even if he didn't need them. The colours and definition were a little crisper. He raised his eye at nightscale. The young boy was vaguely familiar. August had a good memory, but not that good - he saw hundreds of people a day. But... wait... wasn't that the night that Blowfish got robbed? That was a pretty good night. "Sure kid. Ah... you will have to refresh my memory though, whats your name?" Did he even give a name? "I'm August. August Zoss. Some people call me Diamondlight. Trying to help out with... well, with whatever skullduggery is afoot!"

GM Meanwhile... ...At the Pasta Palace... Chimera had been invited, as a matter of some urgency, to the Pasta Palace, Freedom City's top cheap pasta restaurant. Whats more, Chimera had a half price discount on all food (alcohol not included!) It was past midnight and the place was shut and empty. But Blowfish was there, being served wine and smoking a cigar by the tired staff. "Hffft... There you are...." he said, beckoning Chimera in. "Come in, come in... look, ya can stuff ya mouth, if you eat that is-never know with ya capes. But ya best be quick. Ya see, we got a zombie problem. Machete Max is upping da ante... Hffft...." Blowfish didn't look pleased. He looked dowright vexed. He was drinking too quickly, and his nervous hands frequently tapped his cigar, draining it of ash quickly. "Got some voodoo hocus pocus from Africa... hffft. Dunno why. He's Jamaican, int he? Still, guess he's casting his net wide....hffft. Look, we worked pretty well da last time, and I know ya would rather work with me that let some damn zombie apocalpyse run riot. He's got some ship in da docks. Pffft. Danged if I know whats inside, but I know Max wants it." He pointed his Cigar at one of the exhausted staff. "Hey, yooz! get my friend here whataver da hell she wants and make it double snappy!"

OOC for this Nightscale has relatively little time to prepare for this but if you think he can do any prep in an hour or so, feel free Spacefurry - Chimera will be joining soon

GM Eyeball had information. Blowfish, struggling with finances after Nightscale's daring theft of gold, and caught up with fighting the Yardie gang lead by Machete Max, was moving in on the smugglers of Freedom City docks. Small time crooks, weak, ripe for the picking. Right now, just past midnight, a gang of six of Blowfishe's mooks, armed with pistols, shotguns, and baseball bats, were closing in on the ship Lost and Forgotten, a mid sized cargo ship arrived from Africa. Even Eyeball didn't know quite what was in it, but he knew it was contraband. And he knew that the ships Crew knew it to. It was going to be a bloody affair. The ships crew were sailors, not fighters. There were evenly matched in number, but were not ready, not armed. If Blowfishes thugs got the jump on them, it would be all over quickly. And that was the plan. Blowfish not only intended to steal whatever contraband was there, but to start taking over the smuggling business- or rather, start demanding protection money from the smugglers. He had sized up the docks and found it ripe for the plucking. Only thing was, Blowfish rather stayed away from electronics. He was old school. Eyeball could hack and spy, but he didn't know what precisely was in the ship. And he had only found out about the raid last minute. Nightscale had got the call, but had little time to prepare...

GM Eyeball scratched his forehead. "Fair point. Grabber Gibbons was a mistake. Its true the suit could have been a weapon, but its hard to make something that could get in that vault that wouldn't be a weapon in some shape or form." "Look, I dont thing we are singing exactly the same song, but I think we are singing the same style. I'm not out for violence. If I was, I would find more brutal ways to wage my war. I hope you can see that it's not my weapon of choice. I make crooks bleed; but bleed money, not blood." "So if you want to help me, I can help you. Blowfish will be out to get his money back, and unlike me, he has no qualms about violence. So perhaps we can bleed him a little more. I hear he has plenty of trouble already with some Yardie gang on his turf. Give me your phone number, and we can make Freedom City just a little safer..." To be continued...in The Golden Dead

Sure - go ahead

Snakebite In The Meat Grinder It would not be possible, or even wise, to count the number of years-it was an age ago. Here, in this temple of Lemuria, the snake people fed their snake beast the flesh of men. Cogs of brass and gold turned smoothly, coated with eldritch oils and human blood, grinding together against the screaming bodies of human sacrifice. Bodies that were crushed into a mangled pulp, and ejected as a blend of splintered bones and ground sinew into the pit below. Sacrifice after sacrifice. Body after body. Until the bottom of the pit was a pile of meat. Human meat. Lemurians priests beat drums made from human skip, Sorcerers praised dark gods, and soldiers with pointed bone spears poked yet more sacrifices into the grinder. The drums quickened, the chants grew louder, and a dark snake, fifty feet long, slid from a hole. It curled around the base of the pit and started to gorge on the meat the worshippers had provided. And then Snakebite took her hand from the cave entrance, bringing her back to the present. Her eyes, jet black from the vision, regained their normal colour. Her skin tingled, her spine shivered. For all the horror, something in the ritual quickened her Lemurian blood. She licked her lips. In the present day, deep in the rainforests of South America, men and women were being driven crazy by a song only they could hear. A sound of madness and alure. Each one of them had wandered into the jungle and disappeared. Some said it was a ghost, some said it was bandits. Some said it was an disease brought on from eating too many mushrooms. But Snakebite had her own suspicions. This rainforest was home to one of the centres of the Lemurian empire all those ages ago. She had consulted dusty tomes at the British Library, half mad occultists, and talked to the natives of the forest, gleaning snippets from oral histories and antique songs. This was a malign Lemurian power. More local inquiries, more village elders, more scraps of ink on suspicious looking leathers. It was difficult work, but Snakebite was the woman for the task, applying her mind and skills to piece together the jigsaw, then trekking though thick jungle, fighting off mosquitos and wild board and, yes, snakes. It was hot and sweaty work but, fuelled by exhilaration and excitement, she had arrived at the ancient and hidden ruins of the Lemurian sacrificial temple. At the meat grinder. A testament to the cruelty of ancient Lemuria. The Temple was now underground, slow tectonic movements creasing the landscape and driving the pit below the surface. Cracks of sunlight shone through the caves, providing a dim illumination. The acute senses of Snakebite could see through the darkness with no difficulty. Her hand brushed damp cobwebs that littered the cave wall. She could smell rotting flesh. And a slow, beating grind. Like a siren, something hypnotic and magnetic in the rhythm. Something that… it… was… hard… to… resist. She had dragged herself twenty yards down the cave before she woke up and shuddered. The beat was still there, but some primitive reflex had stopped her from stepping over the ledge. She slapped her face, hard. “Get it together, Cassie!” Her cheeks reddened, not just from the slap, but from the burning shame that she had let herself become hypnotised. What was she? Not just some yank hat-wearing professor of archeology! Not just some two-bit raider of tombs! She was snakebite! Gritting her teeth, she took hold of a nearby boulder – probably a half ton of solid rock, if not heavier, and, with a strength quite beyond her frame, hauled it to her chest. Few humans on earth could have done the same, but Snakebite was no longer entirely human. Didn’t mean she wasn’t going to get a hernia from the effort, though. Sweat poring off her face, trickling down her arms, face red from effort, veins in neck standing to attention, she hefted the giant rock over the ledge. “Chew on that!” The gold and brass gears did just that, but it did not go well. The teeth splintered, the axels cracked, and with an almighty screech of wrenched metal and cracking rock, the whole cruel machine broke and tumbled down to the pit below. Snakebite put her hands on her knees and panted, body complaining. The boulder had been effective, no doubt, but it had cost her too. And now she had to climb. Fingers clasping jagged rog, boots scrabbling for ledges, she descended. It was not the hardest climb she had made-the icy mountains of the Himalayas took that crown-but she was already tired. Her fingers slipped once, and her boots slipped twice, leaving her dangling by her fingernails. But it was at least not a long climb. Forty, fifty feet, and then her boots touched the bottom of the pit. Human bones, cracked, splintered and sucked from marrow littered the floor, but not just bones. Fresh meat from the natives who had been hypnotically sucked into the grinder. Strings of sinew, pulped organs. Piles of meat! And the sound of slithering. Snakebite could smell it-the smell of some twisted Lemurian abomination. The ancestor of the anaconda, twice the size. The source of myths about colossal monstrosities that haunted the jungle. From one of the side holes it poured, black skin, black eyes, fetid poisonous breath that would have killed a man and ten paces. But Snakebite had no fear of poison. She was poisonous herself. Her canines sharpened and grew from instinct, tiny beads of paralytic poison dripping from the tips. “Hold!” Snakebite reached out a hand and commanded the snake in snaketongue. The giant serpent paused, surprised that a human could speak. “Who are you!” it demanded. “Does it matter? I speak your tongue!” The snake paused. It was clearly not the quickest of wits, but it was no mere animal either. “It is true…” Snakebite cast her eyes around the pit as she spoke. The Snake was too large-even for her. If they came to a fight she was more than unsure as to her victory. Lemurian runes and script had been carved into the pit walls, ancient, eldritch, daubed in congealed blood. Runes she could read. “Ezu’sthzt Mzstho! Sthenzth Theth-ooth!” Snakebite realised she was probably saying the ancient commands in a peculiar accent. The Snake ignored her, and raised its huge head, filled with huge fangs. Snakebite held both hands out again. She really did not want to die at the bottom of an ancient pit as sacrifice to an ancient snake. She did not want to join the pile of meat! Desperation kicked a few brain cells this way, a few synapses that way, and the jigsaw puzzle of ancient Lemurian runs kicked into place! “Ezu’sthzt Theth-ooth! Sthenzth Mzstho!” There! The Command of paralysis! A poisonous spell, designed to petrify the beast-snake. It was born of sorcery, and by sorcery it would die! The giant snake slid into complete stillness. Its eyes beamed fury, its fangs dripped venom, but it was helpless. The only remnant of movement was its slow breathing. “Bon Apetit!” laughed Snakebite as she started the climb out of the pit. It was a fitting vengeance on the creature. It would starve to death, all the while tantalised by the smell and sight of sacrificial meat right in front of it!

GM Eyeball actually gave a little chuckle; a spike between his otherwise serious expressions. It was not quite malign, or benign, just a little moment of humour at the thought. "Super weapon? I am not a weaponeer. No doubt I could make my money selling weapons to the mob or in unstable areas of the words. I have certainly identified enough weapon tracking over the years. No, weapons should be in the hands of democratic militaries and no less. Hell, I would burn the second ammendment if I could." He returned to seriousness. "But as for nobody getting hurt, ah, that is a little more nuanced, isn't it. Can I promise nobody will get hurt? I can say I don't intend for anyone to get hurt. My methods are financial and information, not bullets or fists. But that can hurt somebody. Somebody probably will get hurt. No---somebody will get hurt. But the real question---will more people get hurt if I don't act. Ah... and there we have it, the real question." He leant back in his chair. "I admit Grabber Gibbons was a poor choice. But I my eyeballs have been on the mob, on crooks. He was the best I could come up with, until now. Let me ask you, Nightscale... can you promise nobody will get hurt when you fly around the sky up to Superhero antics? How do you decide what to do, and what not to do? Every cat you save from a tree is a murder in some sleazy bar, out of your sight..."

Captain Cosmos Buddy raised his eyebrows. The Captain seemed to simultaneously know what he was talking about and be avoiding some deeper truth. Maybe I am just suspicious... he thought. The nature of my job...everyone's concealing something. "Something huge? That doesn't sound good...." he said. "You really better go get the lifeboats. And make sure everyone gets off, eh?" He took a deep breath in. It sounded to him like a fight was coming. He cast a quick glance at the radar to guage the direction of the incoming beast (assuming it was a beast, but to Buddy, that was a pretty fair assumption), and flew out of the bridge, hovering twenty, thirty feet above the ocean, and moving towards the incoming object. His eyes scanned the horizon, scanned the surface of the water. Something that large should cause a wake, he thought. He hoped. He really didn't want to go under the bobbing surface again. The froth, the undulation, the disorientation, his screaming father. He shook himself out of the memory and cracked his knuckles. "Captain Comsos to the rescue, I guess..."