Supercape

Diamondlight August raised his eyebrows. "Ah yes. The bad murderer... thankyou. I... ah... wonderer if there is any other type of murderer? Murder is, I think, usually bad and always illegal. Unless you have a different perspective?" It was a needle, and August knew it. But Sea Devil looked like a bit of a, well, devil, and he couldn't help be fascinated by the creatures psychology. It felt alien, to say the least. And he would feel a lot safer he understood the creatures motivations, ethics. Sure, Sea Devil would protect from the bad murderer, but things could get a lot more complicated in the real world. What exactly would that mean. He suspected Sea Devil was one of those moral battering rams - they kept things simple even if they were complicated. But sometimes one needed a moral battering ram. They got things done. "But any protection is gratefully recieved!" he added with a smile.

Trying to grab the other car with one of her arms, to see if she can a/ lock the cars in tandem, and b/ pull herself in /onto the ghost car. Of course it might be insubstantial! Roll 24

Lord Steam In Pile of Meat Pie It was quite the conundrum. In all his years of super-sleuthing, neither Lord Steam not his butler come cook, Blakely, had ever seen anything quite like it. The biggest pie he ever did see had been delivered to Steam Manor, and was now lying on the long dining table, warm to the touch. It was behond huge. A man could comfortably sit inside the moist pastry on the outside. And that was what worried Lord Steam. And assassin? Or a body? Arguably, given the rumours of zombie yardies going around Freedom City, it could be both. However you cut the mustard (or in this case, pie), it was far from good. “Get the largest knife you can find, Blakely. And best get your rifle, too. Just in case…” The knife and rifle procured, with Blakely taking aim two dozen feat back, Lord Steam cut the pie. Inside, a moist and tender pile of meat. “It smells like chicken, Sir…” said Blakely. “Smells like a crime, Blakely,” said Lord Steam. “And that means we will be off to the crime lab!” It was fortunate that Steam mansion had a crime lab. But then again, Lord Steam was a super sleuth. The lab was dressed out in the very best in steampunk gadgetry. Pipes, whistles, Bunsen burners, strange colour chemicals, oils, powders. A vast array of brass magnifying glass. And a big gong with purple feathered hammer. Nobody knew what that was for, not even Lord Steam. But it did, he claimed, look rather splendid. The findings, however, were not so splendid. The meat was well cooked, and human. “My nose was correct,” said Lord Steam. “A crime has been committed. A crime most foul. A murdered body, cooked and baked into a pie, and sent to Steam Manor.” “Reprehensible, sir,” said Blakely. “Quite reprehensible.” “Somebody’s goading me, Blakely. Sending me evidence and asking me to solve it. Asking me to chew on it…” “Literally, sir. Quite literally!” Further tests came, with Lord Steam applying the full might of his resplendent mind to the task. No crime would go unsolved, especially not this one! Lord Steam had a strong stomach, but it felt queasy now. He swore he would not eat another pie until the mystery was solved. Not a hard resolution to make – the thought of even the finest steak and ale pie would twist his intestines into defiant knots right now. What would the Raven do? Or Midnight, or Ghost, or the Hound? Lord Steam would be damned if asked for help, even from such famous super sleuths. No, pride demanded he solve this all by himself. With Blakely serving tea and crumpets of course. The flesh was put through the DNA-spectrochemiscope. Male, with telemore length indicating middle age. More chemical tests-the man was loaded with morphine metabolites. Infected with Hepititis-B and C, and in poor health. A vagrant. And an unhappy one at that. Lord Steam could hazard a reasonable guess at the man’s life. Was the murderer trying to “clean up” the streets from the “unworthy parasites”? or projecting his own self loathing onto unfortunates? Or was it simply a man who would not be missed. Sometimes the simplest solutions were the best. Why the pie? Why the pie? Pie…Pie… Pi? The pie was ciricular, and the number Pi was all about circles. Further measurement of the dish served to confirm the hypothesis had legs. The Pie was indeed perfectly circular, and its radius was approximately 3.14 feet. Feet… an old British measurement. Yes, there was something mathematical about this. The murderer knew that Lord Steam was more than capable with mathematics. Taunting with a pie. Taunting with a pi. “Blakely, I have a hunch!” More than a hunch, but less than proof. It was a short ride in Bessie, the steam powered mechanical car. Lord Steam’s list of vexed and insulted enemies was long, but few (as far as he could guess) would murder. At least not murder innocents. But a few months ago, Lord Steam had got into quite the argument with the chef at the annual symposium of historical mathematics. The beef wellington was outstanding in quantity – quite the pile of meat – but less than satisfactory in quality. Lord Steam was rather intoxicated on the fine wine, and had demanded the chef account for his terrible cooking. Lord Steam recognised that he had publicly humiliated the oaf. With hindsight, he regretted his action. Some poor sod had paid the ultimate price. Bessie pulled up outside Freedom City University. Lord Steam could not resist honking the brass and silver horn. Then, with long strides full of confidence, he took a brisk walk to the University kitchens. “Cuthbert Wranglepork, I accuse you of murder!” Cuthbert wranglepork was a wide man with a wide moustache. He had the kind of body that was engaged in a wrestling match between fat and muscle, and had plenty of both. Lord Steam was athletic, but this man had the strength of an ox. And was holding a meat cleaver. “Bah!” hissed Wranglepork. “You can’t prove nothing!” “Really?” replied Lord Steam. “Then you won’t mind if I inspect your oven!” he said, brandishing his magnificent microscope. “You see, your victim was a heroin addict. And metabolite dimorphinase will cause a very specific black residue when heated. A residue that is quite impervious to regular cleaning agents. Unless you used triphenylyoxycarboate, of course. But I guess you didn’t!” It was quite the bluff. But Lord Steam was good at bluffing. And like all successful bluffs it was built on one truth. Wranglepork had no idea that the victim was a heroind addict. But Wranglepork had one trick up his sleeve. His carving knife burst into a brilliant purple flame. “Think yourself clever? Well I’m going to get carving! DIdn’t count on my mutant powers, did you?” “Why, of course I did!” said Lord Steam, who had absolutely no idea about Wranglepork’s mutant powers. “There was clear evidence from the trisilicate weave lattice on the deceased paramuscular fibroids!” Another outrageous bluff. Wrangepork crossed his eyes trying to compute, gave up, and charged Lord Steam with his flaming carver. Lord Steam brought up his cane and so began an elegant sword fight. Wrangleporks strength was brutal, bordering superhuman, and the flames on the knife were hot even to look at. But his blows were furious and unskilled, and Lord Steam elegantly danced around Wranglepork, tripping him up, parrying, tapping, and insulting him. Eventually, the wild swings started to take their toll, and Wranglepork slowed, his body dripping with sweat, his lungs and heart unable to keep up with the demands of the fight. And then Lord Steam struck. The poison tip of his cane delivered straight to the neck. Wranglepork went stiff, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he collapsed, like a pile of meat. It was with some satisfaction that Lord Steam noted Wranglepork had fallen flat on his face. His nose was flattened, and gushed blood that oozed over the kitchen floor. “You bloody fool!” he said, as he clamped up Wrangleporks feet and legs with brass cuffs. All that remained was to call the police. Another job well done for Lord Steam, and the mystery of the meat pie.

Diamondlight "Flesh? Blood? Hard to pick..." said August, his force field still shimmering with light. "But Blood seems the more seems more important. I'll take that path, for what its worth." Flesh and Blood? Had a poetic ring to it. He would rather not lose either, but blood had something gory about it, something sinister. Maybe he had just watched on to many slasher pictures. He really shouldn't - they were awful pieces of art. But it was like a hamburger. Sometimes you just had to enjoy something even if it wasn't the best. Sometimes not being the best was what made it enjoyable. "But I am not sure we should split up. Whatever we are dealing with... chews people up. It's going to be dangerous. I know we are all capable of holding our own against a few street thugs. But... we don't know who or what is down those paths." "Whatever we decide, we better decide it quick. Blood for me..." And so decided, he set off on a brisk stroll down blood lane...

Flintlock In Blubber and Rum The lost journals of Captain Goerge Portland, British Navy, Arctic Expedition. Flagship HMS Highhorn. December 1922 The ship is stuck. I know not if some error of navigation or other seamanship, or just a misfortune of weather, but the ship is resolutely stuck. The men have braved the temperature and been at work with picks and shovels, and we have burnt much coal firing the engines, at risk of breaking the propellors from strain. We have provisions and coal to last us several months, if need be. Morale is high. We have done much soul searching and cannot, despite every effort, find any error with our maps or our course. It appears we have been party to a freak meteorological occurrence. We pray to God that our fortunes reverse, and every common sense says that it should. We should be free of the ice in days. January 1923 We remain stuck, and morale ebbs. We attempted to raise spirits with Christmas celebrations, including double rations of rum, but alas it was a tepid affair. Why? Why is the sea frozen? It bewilders us all, even the most experienced sailor. The ice cracks and groans. Some of the men, cursed with nervous disposition, claim it is a supernatural thing. A curse. That the ice, or something in it, is a live. February 1923 It is not merely the uneducated men who fear something supernatural. The officers, too, have started whispers. And even the strongest spine crumbles amongst the ice, with the groaning and weeping. I fear it myself. The rum helps, but we are running low. Why does the ice groan so? March 1924 It was to be the last voyage of old Scrumble, the carpenter. I no not his real name, although the legers record him as John Smith. He is known as, and referred to, as Scrumble by both officer and sailor alike. He is a storyteller, and I cannot decide whether his knowledge of naval myths is a blessing or a curse. Perhaps it raises morale, perhaps it crushes it. And maybe there is a morsel of truth in his tall tales. He tells of leviathans and sea-demons, and such is common fair amongst naval men, although I confess Scrumble speaks with a haunting voice of conviction that gives his tales a weight that is hard to shake. He also tells the tales of Captain Flintlock, the pirate queen and sorcerer, who sails the dark oceans of strange realms in her ship the Black Flag, manned by the dead. Flintlock and the Black Flag, pirate scum, necromancers, witches. All these are undoubtedly correct to any god-fearing man. But then there are other stories. Of Flintlock and her unholy crew protecting seafarers from leviathans and monstrosities that, truth be told, sound far worse than ever her. The crew lap up Scrumbles tales told in the endless arctic night. Tales told by candlelight, often lubricated with rum. Some say Captain Flintlock will save us. Some say that she has summoned the ice as part of some satanic witchcraft. I cannot say either. My faith is in God, and a pray every night. This is surely a test the almighty has chosen us for. But my, how the ice whispers, and doubts crawl in my mind. April 2024 The ice has fallen to the picks, and the Highhorn is moving once more, although at a crawl. Progress is slow. Morale should be high now, but for strange things found in the ice. Tentacles, thick as a mans torso. The men whisper of the Kraken. I have taken one of the tentacles aboard. The ships surgeon, Doctor Lovecraft, a strange looking and nervous fellow, has examined the monstrosity. He told me, in private, that it was alien, not from this world, and then retreated to his quarters, barricading himself inside. I hear him scream at night and fear for his sanity. May 1924 We are now on our way to Freedom City. Forgive the poor calligraphy of this final entry, but I write with shaking hand. I am consuming too much rum, and I cannot recall a night unbroken by terrifying dreams. I can hardly believe what happened this last week, and fear to share my journal with any, for fear of being committed to an asylum. The beast we had all feared awoke. The time was early morning, the stars concealed by unnatural darkness. The whispers of the ice grew louder, till the cracks and splinters echoes throughout the wooden beams of the ship and even the screams of grown men were drowned out. The beast was twice the size of the Highhorn. I could not count the number of flabby tentacles and black eyes. Too many, too many too count, too many to be natural. I realised then that Doctor Lovecraft had been right. This was not some ancient giant squid, but something not of God’s earth. Its body was like a whale, blubber, fat, sealed in a waxy skin. Enough to feed a crew for a dozen years. The lumpy beast was a pile of meat, but rancid, horrible, infested. Strange and equally alien parasites crawled over its skin; and some underneath it. The men and the ship would both have perished then, crushed by the thousand flailing limbs of the hideous beast. But we were saved. First we heard the roar of cannons, then the flap of sail. A pirate ship, skating along the ice on ethereal green waves, as if the aurora borealis had come to settle on the ice. Its flag was black. There it was! The black flag of legend. Its crew and captain all dressed like pirates. I could not say whether they were alive or dead, saints, sinners or witches. Captain Flintlock herself was red of hair and red of face, drunk on rum, waving a cutlass in one hand and gesturing in the other. Perhaps it was the cannonfire, that drilled into the vast creatures meat. Perhaps it was the gesticulations of Captain Flintlock, and the strange magic she commanded. But the beast started to tear itself asunder, ripping in twain and then in twain again, until the ice was coated with dying fat, dripping with bloody oils, and alien tentacles danced and twitched in the throes of death. And then the Black Flag sailed past us, with Captain Flintlock giving a theatrical bow and a call of good fortune. I do not know how much of what I or the men saw is honest in recollection. Was it a dream, or a nightmare? Was it witchcraft, or some alien creature from stars and planets as yet unknown? All I can say for certain is that it has frayed my sanity to its core. The bible has helped, and so has the rum. As for me, I will resign my commission rather than sail on arctic seas again. And I will never look at a pile of meat again, without remembering the blubber and rum of our ill fated expedition.

Echohead In Meateater Madness [Events occur just after The stomach of Mr Silk] Meat! Must have meat! “But I’m a vegetarian!” MEAT! Umberto had been a fool, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. Was it fear, that drove his foolishness? It was a good guess. The bullied child became the terrified adult. Umberto had a small frame, a short stature, and a face that said “hit me”. Whenever threatened he would gabble and panic. Since finding out about his amazing mutation, he was a sliver more confident, but only a sliver. His fear remained, but now he had an unpredictable urge to reach out and steal the bullies mind. It was uncontrolled, wild, and dangerous but he struggled to contain it. Sometimes, it would be helpful, for instance stopping the bully in his track, unable to move, or making the bully forget that Umberto existed. Sometimes he would copy the brain, gleaning skills and abilities. This, in itself, was no bad thing and had even saved his (vegetarian) bacon from time to time. But when he copied someone immensely strong willed, the psyche would try to assert control, try to dominate. Bruce Yum-Fat was a bully. A big fat bully. Also known as Mr Silk, the chemist from Hong Kong who specialised in exotic poisons and addictive drugs. Bruce Yum-Fat was also huge. Close to seven foot tall and just as wide. His appetite, and his girth, were seemingly limitless. Umberto had been loitering outside the High Steaks, sparkling and elegant restaurant to the heroes of Freedom City. He wondered if he should go in, try and network. But he was cripplingly lacking confidence. As he was procrastinating, Mr Silk and a few of his goons burst out of the building, a thunderous look of fury on his face, and red wine on his shirt. “That red head singer. Get her name. Get her location. I’m gonna kick her in the face. And that idiot owner. What you looking at, squirt?” he shouted, shaking a fist at Umberto. Umberto felt his heart doing an uptempo Irish jig in his mouth. “I… er… um… that is… I…” And then it happened, he copied Mr Silk’s brain into his own skull. At first, Umberto felt cool. He knew kung fu! He felt lighter, his feet drifting across the pavements from one form to another-snake, eagle, monkey. He could feel the muscles in his arms loosen, like a waterfall. Fluid motions swam around his brain. He could shift his feet there, turn his waist thusly, and extend his arm so, and by doing inflict a tight whiplash punch more powerful than his otherwise lacklustre body could have imagined. Cool! Except… The whispers started. The copy of Mr Silk, furious at his condition, enraged by the spilt wine, and on a background of narcissistic vexation, was less than happy at being a copy. The echo started to whisper, then speak, then shout, then scream. A primal demand. Mr Silk (echo) needed to sate his insatiable appetite. He needed to salivate over food. Not just any food, either. This was not the time for cheap spaghetti at the pasta Palace. No! He needed meat, sweet succulent meat that he would swirl around the palate, be torn by teeth, and eventually settle and slumber in the stomach. From the feel of it, even a third of Mr Silk’s regular meal would cause Umberto’s stomach to explode. And yet the copy was so primal in its urge that self preservation was of no consequence. All that mattered was… a pile of meat! The Kung Fu legs evaporated and wobbled. For a moment, Umberto felt drunken master style kick in, until that too submerged under the weight of screaming appetite. He staggered left, staggered right, and clutched a lamp post to remain on his feet. “I’m a vegetarian!” he protested, loudly, to the voice in his head. His proclamation drew a few glances. Many, observing the staggering and the shouting at nothing decided-understandably-to give Umberto wide berth. A few even crossed the street. Umberto staggered forward, brain a mess, navigating half understood streets. He paused by a French restaurant, grappling with Mr Silk about whether to barge in an order veal. He twisted outside a hot dog stand, a spasm of internal conflict that only resolved when the vendor threatened to squirt mustard in Umberto’s eyes. The potential pain was enough for Umberto to temporarily regain control and stagger onwards. It was the deli that broke the back. I fine Italian deli, that Umberto knew. He liked the cheeses; especially the goat’s cheese. But Mr Sill (echo) had no taste or time for diary products. Ravenous eyes swung over the rack of smoked meats hanging on the back wall, over the sausages and prime cuts behind glass in the counter. “Meat!” he roared. “Big piles of meat!!!” “Are you alright, Umberto?” asked the owner, a fat middle aged man with a handsome face, wearing a white apron and tinted glasses. Mr Falzoni was a man who took pride in his work, and knew half his customers by name. “MEAT!” “I thought you were vegetarian. I have some nice Northern Italian Goats ch…” “—MEAT! YOUR FINEST MEAT! IN A PILE!” Mr Falzoni was aware of Umberto’s special abilities-he had some minor fame. He gulped, and started bringing down to the hanging smoked meats. “Never thought I would see the day…” he muttered, clearly discombobulated. As were the other customers, who seemed, by osmotic common sense, to exit the building in as inconspicuous and subtle a manner as possible. Nobody wanted to deal with a madman, especially with carving knives lying about. Trapped inside his own skull, Umberto flailed uselessly against the iron will of Mr Silk (echo). How he lamented his stupidity! No Kung-Fu skills were worth this! Not only had he a bully inside his head, he was about to put… … Put meat in his mouth! The vegetarian inside him recoiled. Meat! Horrible! Immoral! Rotten, stinking meat! Ironically, it was this very disgust that saved Umberto. Mr Falzoni dutifully carved off a generous slice of smoked ham, and Mr Silk (echo) with a knee jerk reflex, tore into it, stuffing as much as he could into Umberto’s mouth. The powerful response to the flavour saved the day. Smell, taste, it was this sense that evokes, in humans and most animals, the most powerful and primitive of emotions. In this case-disgust. Surfing the wave of horror, Umberto resurfaced, his disgust more than swamping Mr Silk (echo)’s appetite. Crying, frustrated, incandescent with fury, Mr Silk (echo) sunk into blackness and oblivion. And Umberto spat out the meat, choking, inserting his little fingers into his mouth to spoon out the last remains of half-masticated smoked ham. Saved. By a pile of meat. “I’ll have some of the goats cheese…” said Umberto. “Fast as possible. I need to get rid of the bad taste…” In his mouth, and in his head.

Echohead "Ukraine? Uhhh.... that doesnt sound good...." In fact, it sounded bad. It sounded suspiciously like world wall three, it sounded like a game of ping pong played with thermonuclear warheads. He called his team mates. "Predator? Mirror? Ah... I got a lead. Not much of a lead. The redhead says its all to do with the robot haven in the Ukraine. I dont know whether to believe her, but it may be worth checking out..." He cleared his throat. "Thing is, this thing is political dynamite already. And the Ukraine? Well, if someone wanted to play us, you can bet they would send us to the Urkaine. So if you have any better lead, sing out..." He felt the sweat around his neck, strangling him.

GM The Devil Stick whispered to her... ...whispered about being a key, a prison, a lock all wrapped up in one complicated architecture. Fire, metal, smoke... Carlos Cantos forged the devil stick. And somewhere, in acrid smoke in dimensions beyond, he was whispering to her. Seductive, handsome, like oil. Carlos Cantos was dead, so it was said. But he wanted freedome all the same. The Devil Stick could smite demons, ghosts, spirits. And it could smite smoke too... living smoke, like Juan. This, Carlos Cantos whispered to La Puma. "What, you think you can hit me?" laughed Juan as he ascended past the rooftops. "I have spent my whole life dodging demons. A little cat girl was never going to be a problem! Hahahahaha!"

GM Beanpole clenched his teeth, neck running with cold sweat. He screamed. He giggled. He pleaded for mercy, and his life, and swore to several Gods that it was they, not the others, that were the one true God and could they please save his life. And then he passed out. Unconscious, but alive. Chimera had done the work that would make any surgeon proud. the Mercenary was still there, hidden in the pink smoke. Armed and, presumably dangerous. For one thing, the explosives were still unaccounted for. "What you doing here? Who are you? Blowfish hired you?" There was a tiny click. "I ain't paid enough to fight off dragons. Or superheroes. I was just expecting a few of Blowfishe's clowns...."

Bloody Mess In Messy Blood It was an impressive pile of meat. Three feet high, six feet wide, compromised of every edible meat known to man. Pork, Beef, Chicken, Fish for starters, although some exotic and even questionable meats lay within the mountain; swan, crocodile, zebra. And raw, blood raw. A raw, stinking, bloody mess of messy blood. The flies were already at work, buzzing around the meat in search of some finer feast amongst the banquet. And not just the flies, the bacteria and moulds were also encroaching on the prize, beginning their endless cycle of consumption and division. But one particular bacterium was winning the brutal scrabble for nutrition. A very strange bacterium. And alien bacterium. A sentient bacterium. And this was the problem. At Sandy’s slaughterhouse, the slaughtermen and slaughterwomen had been reporting spooky activities for days. Now Sandy’s Slaughterhouse was not your upstanding slaughterhouse. It was based in the slums of Freedom City, in a kind of slum-corner that did not always operate above the radar of the law. Exotic meats for rich clientele? Check. Borderline condemned meats that with otherwise be destroyed? Check? Any law that could be bent was bent at Sandy’s Slaughterhouse. And sometimes broken. Dirty cash occasionally passed between dirty fingers to make sure that hygiene inspectors looked the other way. It was the kind of slaughterhouse that supplied cheap meats for cheap joints. Like the Schwarma joint that Bloody Mess and the Hound frequented. It was hear that the detective-ish duo first heard of the rumours that scuttled around the streets. “Ay!” remarked Hazem, owner of the finest Schwarma joint of 22 Grumblebone Road, Freedom City. “Ay! They say the meat moves in the night! What a lot of mumbo jumbo and hocus-pocus! Supernatural bah-loney! Would you like some of da special Halloween kebab? Grilled under da light of da full moon! Only five dollar extra, small price to pay for da mystical fortune of witchcraft!” Bloody Mess and the Hound elected to buy the regular kebab, and elected to investigate. As usual the Hound wanted money, and as usual Bloody Mess convinced him otherwise. If they put in a few favours with the local community, they could get a few favours back, he said. And he cracked his knuckles – both lefty and righty – to emphasise his eloquent point. It was dusk when they arrived at the slaughterhouse. The kind of dusk that stuck in your lungs and crawled on your skin; dirt, smog, humidity. Combined with the emptiness of the slaughterhouse, there was something uncanny in the air. But not as uncanny as the pile of meat in the floor? How did it get there? Bloody Mess could smell the multiple trails of blood – the meat had crawled to the centre of the slaughterhouse. There it lay, rotting, attracting the flies. A bloody mess of messy blood. “That don’t look right…” muttered the Mess. “I concur. Right is what it ain’t look like…” muttered the Hound. They both looked at each other, and approached. The Hound made sure he was almost exactly one and half paces behind the Mess. “It moved…” said the Hound. “Don’t be a numbskull. Meat don’t move!” replied the Mess. “I swear, I saw it! It moved!” “How does a pile of meat move? It don’t have no legs!” “It… crawled!” protested the Hound. The Mess sighed. “Look… ain’t no way a pile of meat crawls. Its dead…” “The dead can move! If you listen to Machete Max had his army of the dead…” said the Hound, eyes shifting left and right, spying zombies in the dark corners. “Hur hur hur…. You see any voodoo sorcerers here?” “It doesn’t have to be sorcery! It could be anything! This is Freedom City. It could be a shapechanging Grue… it could be an a giant underground rat… it could be a mutated alien bacteria!” By pure chance, the Hound had it correct. A mutated alien bacteria had ended up in Sandy’s Slaughterhouse. Quite how is another story. A story involving a cocktail bar, a clown, and a pencil. This time, the pile of meat quivered, and rose. Not even Bloody Mess could argue against the Hound. He took a step back, more from surprise than fear. The Mess feared nobody, not even a meat golem. “Pfsheesht on meee…. Human shhhhcum!” The pile of meat had formed a mouth of sorts. Gathering stray muscle fibres had created lips, and its tongue was, well… its tongue was, predictably, a tongue. The mouth, centred in the centre of the mess, was functional, but its articulation left plenty to be desired. “Feast on this!” roared the Mess, his body swelling as he pumped super powered blood into his arms and legs, making him look like a sack of watermelons. A sack of watermelons that could bench press a tank. So empowered, the Mess got to work. Bam---Bam Bam!!!! Lefty and Righty, his two mighty fists, plunged deep into the pile of meat, coming out bloody. With fists that hit like cannonballs, the Mess clearly had done some damage. But not much. The pile of meat was still there, spitting blood. Its amalgamation of fetid meats absorbed impact. “Fhlllolish huuuumans!” spat the pile of meat. “Your fisssssht are yooshhhhleshhh!” “But this isn’t!” screamed the Hound. He was an anxious fellow at best, but in truth a terrified coward. But when your back is against the wall, when your friends are in danger, and when you are facing a pile of meat animated by a mutant alien bacteria, you will sometimes find an unexpected courage. And the chainsaw helped. It was a Slaughterhouse, and slaughterhouses needed to slaughter. Amongst the myriad of instruments, they also had a chainsaw to help carve up the dead meat. And the Hound had wisely decided that he should arm himself. Bzzzzz! The Chainsaw cut through the animated meat, spraying blood and flesh like a B-movie nasty. The Hound was too scared to be terrified. Instead, he roared the howl of a wolf, and kept cutting whilst speckles of blood dotted his face. “Take that! And that! And that!” he yelled, whilst hacking and slicing like a psychotic mass murderer, cutting again and again into the flesh of the pile of meat until there was no more to cut. And yet stilled he screamed, the chain saw now scraping against the concrete floor, sending up a fountain of sparks instead of blood. “That’s enough… job done…” said the Mess, clamping both of the Hounds wrists with his mighty hands. “Wh.. wha… what came over me?” asked a trembling Hound, trying to wipe blood from his brow but succeeding only in smearing it all over his face. “Fear?” offered the Mess. “Eeeek! Look at that!” said the Hound, pointing at the shredded pile of meat. Whatever malign bacterial intelligence was inside the thing, it was no more. But they had to be sure. A few cartons of petrol and a cigarette but later, and the remains of the pile of meat were cooking. Wafts of smoke and the smell of crispy bacon filled the streets of Freedom City that night.

In your hand. the Devil stick has many features but for the purposes of right now, it is also a club Strike 2, Mighty, Affects Insubstantial 2 (the Affects Insubstantial is salient )

GM "I'm gonna die... I'm gonna die, aren't I?" "Wait, are you a dragon?" gasped Beanpole. Blood loss had already made his face pale, but now it was as white as snow. "Wait... maybe I won't die..." he said, trying to muster courage. "But it hurts... like some one has a pair of pliers and is twisting my guts like a string of sausages... say, if you are a superhero don't you have some morphine in your utility belt. That would be great, mmm... sweet morphine, that would do me great. Get yourself a proper utility belt with dragon-morphine... wait... I'm gabbling aren't I? Thats probably because I am hysterical. Hysterical people tend to gabble, you know. I saw it on a documentary once. Or wait, was that about sub saharan avian mating rituals? No, it was about hysteria. Anyway, please excuse me, I think I need to pass out..." The purple smoke from the merc's grenade started wafting their way. It was mildly irritating to the nostrils but at least not noxious or toxic. The merc's voice called out... "What the hell are you guys doing here? I wasn't expecting a dragon! And a ... what are you? the Metal hawk?"

I think you can happily stabilise with Medical skill 29, and even take the bullet out! If you want to Heal Others as a stunt go ahead but wont be necessary to save life.

Peak In Goat Curry A helicopter ride across Kashmir and Doctor Rocky Rambeaux reached the foot of the Himalayas. Even at this relatively low altitude, he could feel the crisp air in his lungs; thin, cold. To his mind it was best described as bracing. Positive mental attitude. Hiking came with hardship, with effort and strain. It would not do to fall into a negative mindset. He stopped frequently, not to rest limbs or heart, but to take in the mountain view. Layers and layers of spikes in the landscape, each topped with shining snow that swam downwards across mountain crevasses. The air may have been crisp, but it was clean, unmarred by the pollution of the urban world. There was no finer view in the world. Rocky was not here just to admire mountains. He had rumours, whispers. Mountaineers gone missing, local myths, and goat bones. Goat bones happened of course. Animals fed on other animals, and would gnaw the last scrap of flesh of the smallest of bones. Sometimes, humans would slaughter goats for food. In fact, a goat curry was a local speciality. But these were bones high in the mountains, half covered in snow. How had the goat got there? And what mountain beast would stalk the snowy and dangerous terrain of a Himalayan mountain. Rocky had to investigate. If the myths of primitive undiscovered sub-terran humans were correct, it might only be time before someone found human bones. He had packed all his mountaineering gear-ropes, spikes, picks-as well as the warm clothing and survival equipment he might need on the cold mountainside. And he packed his 9mm Automatic. He hoped he would not need it, but he would rather have it in case he did. The initial ascent was steep, but could be managed on foot, even if it did make his thighs hot with strain. Just as the mountain turned from hiking to climbing, he spied a pair of local Indians, sat by a campfire. Hands up, he approached them. They were nervous, but once he sat by the fire and started conversing, they relaxed. Rocky was fluent in Urdu, but the Kashmir were less so. Still, they managed a shacky conversation and were polite enough to share their meal; the best goat curry Rocky had ever tasted. The locals had heard the stories, heard the legends. Ancient cavemen, hidden beneath the mountains, feeding on whatever meat they could find. Recently, they had been bolder, hunting the goats of the tribe. Rocky tried not to think about what else they had been hunting and eating. Mountaineers had gone missing. Maybe just the hazards of the terrain, maybe buried under snow. Maybe something else. Time for Rocky Rambeaux to do some hunting of his own. And the best way to hunt was with a trap. And he had a good idea what to use as bait. A pile of meat! A pile of goat curry, to be precise. Delicious goat curry, so sensuous and delightful to the nose that even the whiff of tepid meat made Rocky’s mouth water. He patiently waited until the sun set, lighting a small fire to keep himself and the curry warm. Then, behind him, he heard the crunch of foot against rock, the gentle slide of snow. They were stealthy, and quick-two sub-terrans. Rocky turned, but turned to slow. The two filthy humanoids pounced him! Rocky lost his footing, but so did the sub-terran’s. In the thump of a heart, all three were tumbling down the mountain, kicking up snow with every turn of body and flail of limb. With a crunch, the three bodies smashed against rock; an undulation of the stony mountain. Rocky let out a gasp of pain, feeling something snap in his ribcage. The medical part of his brain-the doctor that had drilled in a thousand trauma assessments-started diagnosis. A broken rib, maybe two. Breathing painful, but not impaired. The risk; a rib splintering into the lung, causing air or blood to fill the chest cavity. Pneumothorax, Heamothorax, it made no difference. He would be dead either way. The two sub terrans were relatively unscathed; unfortunately, Rocky had taken the brunt of the impact. But they still had the wind knocked out of them. They had dark eyes-so dark Rocky felt he might fall into them. Adapted for the underground, where there was no light. He booted one in the face and heard the satisfying yet uncomfortable sound of a nose breaking. They at least had human anatomy. And more than human determination. The other was on him, hands round neck, drooling into Rocky’s face. “Why you come? Give meat!” The words were in halting Urdu. This creature had learned basic human tongue. Was it more than a beast? “Stop stealing goats!” Rocky spluttered, getting a foot on the sub-terrans belly and, with a grunt of pain and effort, forcing the creature off him. The two creatures scuttled back a few yards, slipping on snow but not falling. “Stealing? What stealing?” Rocky took a defensive pose, ready for another pounce. “Goat. You eat. Yum-Yum…” He got a snarl in response. “Yum-Yum… very tasty. Yum-yum… we hungry. Rat.. bird.. mushroom… no taste good. We like yum-yum…” “You like goat curry?” asked Rocky, clutching his side. It grated every time he inhaled. If he wasn’t halfway through a fight to the death, he would have reached into his medical kit and taken a short of morphine. He wasn’t a stranger to pain, and could endure plenty of discomfort, but this was the kind of pain that would drill into his brain and wear him out. “Yum-yum!” agreed the Sub-terrans, miming putting food in their mouth and lovingly masticating. “Yum-yum is pretty good, I admit…” The two sub-terrans nodded emphatically. Rocky was no billionaire, but he had money. And goat curry was cheap. If he could pay the tribesmen, then he could bribe the sub-terrans. If the rumours were true-of a vast underworld populated by sub-terrans, presided over by the Machiavellian Terra-King, then Rocky could do with some allies. He could do with some inside information. These two might become his spies. The deal was struck – awkward, clumsy – using pidgin Urdu, hand gestures, and on one occasion, drawing pictures in the snow with a stick. Rocky could not swear that everything was properly understood on either side, but hopefully he some kind of deal was made. Broad brushstrokes – Yum-yum for information. And the tribesmen would no longer have to fear random attacks on their goats or other animals. Rocky conveniently forgot to discuss the mountaineers. He didn’t want to know. Hopefully, yum-yum was a lot tastier than raw meat. Even raw human.

Echohead "That's a deal," said Echohead, who didn't trust the Iron Talon either. Mercenaries... Rent-a-good... private army... whatever you called them, they didn't sound good. And with those boots, they didn't look good either, unless one was in the business of resurrecting the third Reich. And Echohead wasn't. "In fact, I'll take you to the cops myself. Nobodies going to be beating prisoners on my watch." He guided the redhead out of the building, looking for a nearby police behicle, and calling Predator and Mirror Knight. "Whats up, dudes?" he asked, wincing at his own pathetic attempt to sound cool. "I mean, what's up, mighty heroes?" Ouch. that didn't sound any better. "I'm taking the woman to the police. Don't trust the Iron Talon. She says its some kind of robot uprising. Any leads?"

"Radiation!" replied Baz, proudly. Too late, he realised that radiation was - for those of the population that were not radioactive cockroach themed superheroes - rather scray. "I mean, not the dangerous kind. I'm not radioactive or anything," he half-lied. "You wont get lung cancer or grow seven eyeballs or nothing. I just happen to be able to fire laser beams out of my eyes, and do all kind of stuff like that..." Truth was, Baz didn't really understand physics. Who knew what kind of things he could do? At least, from a science perspective. "Plus, I can climb up walls!" he added, which to his mind was a lot less frightening than gamma blasts. "All part of being the amazing cockroach kid!" He gave two thumbs up. "And you?"

Gamma Buzz In Hot Dog Rat Trap, with radiation. The subways were cool. The sewers were cool. And sometimes, the two clashed together. Which was even cooler. Baltazar Botez, aka Gamma Buzz, aka the Cockroach Kid, loved the subways and he loved the sewers. The lighting was poor, the smells were a fragrant awful, and the cockroaches were lively. Nobody here would gasp when the say a half cockroach teenager with glowing eyes. And nobody would run screaming. When people ran away from you, screaming, it tended to knock your confidence. It was tough enough being a teenager anyway. And when they retched or even emptied their stomach it was a full-on, ten round pummelling of your confidence. Much better to crawl along the forgotten network of Freedom Cities underbelly, pretending to be the deadly superhero of the underworld. That was cool. Sometimes, he fired out green laser beams from his eyes to fry a supervillain rat, just to prove his point. Gamma Buzz, protector of the sewers! That was his hobby, his fantasy, his retreat. And it served its purpose; the solitude of dreams. But today Freedom City needed a real protector of sewers. It had a rat problem. Not your regular rats, although they were of regular size. Radioactive rats, surrounded by a toxic green vapour that would choke and poison any foolish creature that approached. Any creature, except Gamma Buzz. For him, radiation was little more than a tickle in the nostrils (if he had nostrils). He could stand in the heart of a fission reactor without a single strand of DNA complaining. A horde of mutated radioactive rats? In the sewers? This was a job for the Cockroach Kid! For real! But even for the amazing Gamma Buzz, the sewers and subways of Freedom City were large and complicated, and scurrying radioactive rats could squeeze through the million tiny gaps that peppered the cracked walls. What Baz needed was a trap. What he needed was bait. What he needed was a pile of meat! More specifically, Baz had noted that the radioactive rodents had a particular fondness for the subway hot dog stalls. Something about the stale bun and tepid processed meat clearly appealed to their rumbling stomach. Unlike human consumers, they didn’t even have to drape the hot dog in a mountain of mustard and ketchup to make it palatable. Baz had to persuade three hot dog stall owners. They were being plagued by the rats, which would render all their meat inedible anyway – nobody much cared for glowing hot dogs, except the kids. And kids eating radioactive hot dogs was not a good thing. If they could just donate a truckfull of hot dogs, then Gamma Buzz would sort the problem out. Honest. Ok, maybe he embellished the story slightly, with Space Nazi’s and Zombie Werewolves. But he got his point across. And maybe he helped himself to a couple of hot dogs (with mustard and ketchup) free of charge. But he managed to get a large sack full of hot dogs as bait. And he managed to arrange the meat in a pile! A stinking pile of half cooked hot dogs, already attracting a swarm of bacteria and a battalion of fungus. It sat there, in one of the larger cracks in the sewer, an irresistible prize for mutant rats. An irresistible prize they could not resist! For lo and behold, around the corner of one of the ancient sewer tunnels, full of dried excrement and not so dried excrement, Gamma Buzz could see a lurid green glow. The rats were coming! And he would catch them like… Like… errr…. Rats in a trap? Well there were some rats. But what was the trap? Therein lied the massive flaw in his otherwise perfect plan. Gamma Buzz kicked himself on his armoured shin plates. Fool! Now he thought about it, he could have constructed some cool cage that fell from the ceiling, or a pit full of poison spikes. Well, maybe he couldn’t, but he could ask someone else to make them. And passed it off as his own work. Which was nearly as good. In some ways, it was better. The sweet deliciousness of naughty tricksters. He had to deal with the swarm another way, and time was running out. He could seem them now, like a hundred green lights scuttling through the tunnel filth, towards the hot dog prize. Radiation wouldn’t do it. Gamma Buzz might have been immune to their toxic vapours, but equally they would soke up his gamma beam eyes without blinking. He could stomp them – but that would be unpleasant, and how many could he stomp? A dozen? Two dozen? They would flee before he could squash even half of them under his super powered four toes. The rats might be immune to gamma beams, but the architecture was not. To be honest, the crumbling forgotten sewers looked like they would crumble and collapse with a stiff sneeze, let alone a thermal-radiation charged ion blast. Baz pulled himself closer to the ceiling, hanging by his mutant hands and mutant feet. Careful now… he was itching for action, hardly able to resist the urge to live out his fantasy as Gamma Buzz, Superhero of the Sewers! But he had to wait until every single on of the rats was feasting on the pile of meat! It did not take long, for the rats were hungry and the hot dogs were just about edible. Soon, a living carpet of rats undulated over the hot dogs. It was a disgusting sight, making the rat genocide that much easier to stomach. Maybe he might have felt sorry for them, but the way they nibbled and gnawed, filing gamma bellies with cold hot dogs, fighting amongst themselves for the tastiest portions-this all made what Baz was about to do that much more satisfying. “Gamma Buzz, Baby!” he yelled, and leapt into an acrobatic spin, ending with blazing gamma beams lancing across the pipes and masonry above the trap. The metal groaned, the concrete split. And that was it. “Oh shoot…” He was heating things up, no doubt, but there was no cave in. Heat was not the same as force, and he needed force. “I said…” he started. “Gamma Buzz…. BABY!” With his battle cry echoing down the tunnels, Gamma Buzz leapt, his stubbly three fingered hands grabbing on to a hot and twisted metal pipe upon which the whole crumbling masonry seemed to rely. He pulled. “Oh come on!” he screamed. “I am meant to have super strength!” He plated two feet on the walls and hefted with all his might, heaved so hard he feared he might crack one or two of his armour plates. But with all his strength in the right place, with optimal leverage, he pulled the pipe free, and shot across the tunnel to land in a crumpled heap. “Ouch!” As hard as he had hit the ground, as much as it hurt, the rats had it far worse. The masonry and concrete, twisted rusted beams and splintered rotten planks all came crashing down on the hapless rats. Had they not been so distracted by the feast, they might have scarpered, but alas they were too slow. In seconds, they were buried under rubble. A few rat screams were heard, and then silence. Toxic radioactive vapour started pouring from the rubble, and rat blood oozed across the sewer floor. All in a days work for Gamma Buzz, superhero of the sewers! All thanks to a pile of meat!

GM "Oh Thank the Gods! You! I nearly had a heart attack!" Beanpole looked down to his stomach. His hands covered the gunshot wound, and his hands were wet with blood. A small puddle of claret oozed between his legs. Even amidst the purple smoke, Chimera could see that Beanpole looked white as a ghost, with clammy skin. "I got shot... in the belly..." said Beanpole, weakly. "I mean, do you like have any healing powers, or something? or can you magnetise the bullet out? Perhaps after I feint, so I dont feel the pain?" His eyelids started to droop. "I do feel sleepy. I think I might just have a nap... that would be alright, wouldn't it? Just have a little nap nap... oh and be careful, Blowfish gave me some explosives. Might have dropped them somewhere. Dont light a fire or anything..."

And also heroically rescuing beanpole is an HP! Chimera - Unharmed - 5 HP

More than enough!

GM The Dragon Roar was mighty to behold, and terrifying to hear. Screams of panic arose from the ship deck. Most were indecipherable screeches of pure fear, but amidst the cacophony a few words could be made out; but alas, they were not poetic or inspired, merely accurate proclamations of the situation. "Eeeaaaah! Its a Dragon!" "Run for you lives!" "This ain't worth it!" All entirely accurate. The sailors and the thugs scampered, fearing that, at any moment, the dragon would breathe fire and turn them into an agonised cinder. Fear may not have inspired poetry, but did inspire their feet. They ran as if their lives depended on it; for in their own minds it surely did. Scampered footsteps were followed by splashes. "Abandon ship!" One by one, in quick succession, they dove into the ocean waves that lapped against the ship. One thug, and one sailor, locked in a grapple, seemed too preoccupied with wrestling with the baseball bat between them to worry to much about the Dragon, or indeed the explosive that was being kicked about their feet. And the Mercenary bit his lit, clenched his jaw, and planted his feet. "Are they paying enough for a damn dragon?" he asked himself, pulling out one of the grenades on his belt and contemplating just how much this was all worth...

That effect will hit all below with a DC 19 Reflex and then Will Save. They all fail the Reflex Save Some make the Will Save More specifically: One Thug holds his nerve, and One Sailor is Shaken, but holds his nerves. The Merc has fearless feat so immune.

Echohead Echohead flapped his fingers. He didnt really keep up with the news, not as much as he should. Especially if he wanted to be a super spy. He really wanted to be a super spy. But running his gardening shop was lovely too. And there was only so much time in the day. But he had heard of the robots. "So they have a nice little fledgling uptopia?" he asked the Redhead. "So what? A thousand such promises every day! Every political party, religion, movement... they all think they are the best. So what if a bunch of robots are following suit?" He paused. He wanted to get to the nub of this. "What's this got to do with you? You seem... ah... pretty invested in this. Not just handing out leaflets or posting on internet forums..." He was tempted to say something about a fiery redhead. But he imagined if he called her a fiery redhead she would probably act like one. And bite his head off. Or, given this was the world of superheroes and supervillains, he imagined her her read hair would turn into a strands of living fire and strangle him. He gulped at the thought, thought dry.

Limb time! Splitting arms (So she now has four): Her additional limb power! Detatching two arms to carry on driving: Anatomoic speration power! Extending arm to see if she can grab the other car: Elongation power! And taking 10 on driving for a 27 result if she needs it!

Rev "Plenty of room, plenty of room!" shouted Rev as she continued pushing the Dune Buggy to outrageous speed. "I mean, we are going so fast, we will just skim across the lake like a stone. Wait. Stone sink, don't they? Dang, that's a bad analogy. I mean... errrr.... we will go so fast we will just skip across the stone like a kung fu master. Yeah. That works. The mysterious mysteries of kung fu!" She liked old kung fu films. She could just seem the buggy dancing across Lake Michigan like a white bearded kung fu master, in a cracked film with faded colours and some blaring seventies dicso music. But unfortunately the Dune Buggy was not a jkung fu master, and no matter how fast they were going, they would sink. Rev didn't work well underwater. And Pere was barely working above water. She split her arms in two. Now, instead of two cyborg arms, she had four. "I'm gonna take the wheel!" she yelled to Pete. "Keep hold of my arms!" Two arms detatched, and continued steering. Rev Stood up in the Buggy, and extended one of her remaining arms, trying to reach the ghost police car... ...if it was actually real.