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GM A warehouse by Kissinger, Southside, Freedom City August 24th, 2020 4:30 PM With the police arriving, Archer and Shooting Star had left the fight at the school behind, heading towards Southside. Before leaving, he had called Facsimile, told him where to meet them. Archer had not been amused being carried, and had insisted on a quick stop at one of his caches around town to stock up on arrows. Just in case. Now, they were ready. Standing by a rooftop on Kissinger, Archer just waited for Facsimile to arrive before they could get started.

OOC for this. @Kaede Kimura, @Exaccus

OOC for this. @Exaccus, @Heritage, @EternalPhoenix, @Brown Dynamite

GM Downtown, Freedom City October 31st, 2020 Sunset Howling. Everywhere, what used to be people were howling. Not everyone, of course. Just about 1% of the world's population were transformed, but 1% of the population of Freedom City? Now that was still a considerable number of people. Luckily, Freedom City was the home of super heroes! Everywhere you looked, you were bound to see a hero helping the day, restraining the werewolves and saving the people! If anywhere would be safe on this Halloween, it had to be Freedom City, right? For a moment, the howls were drowned out by a crack of lightning that the roof of city hall. A werewolf with white fur hovered above the building, pulling its mouth back to howl at the moon as another bolt of lightning struck above. It was wearing the tattered remains of a blue and white costum with a yellow lightning bolt on its chest, lightning crackling around its claws. It seemed not even super heroes would go untouched by the night of the wolves.

OOC for this. Y'all can probably figure out how to get in there. Dixie's rumored to use daka crystals in her weapons, for one. Worth taking a look.

The Docks. The Waterfront. Freedom City. May 20, 2020. 2 AM. Another night in Freedom City. Another arms deal on the docks. And another gaggle of goons who thought some fancy weapons could help them take on capes and the Mob. Dixie Clements knew they were a big bag of idiots, with the full cognitive power of a box of rocks. Or was it a sack of hammers? Whatever the idiom, they had money. She had fancy guns. This wasn't complicated. She was a blue eyed blonde in cowboy boots, blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a lovely brown cowboy hat. Her trademark revolvers were strung all over her body. As the leader of the goons (Dixie thought his name was...Jonesy? Maybe? Tch, like it mattered.) said something extremely stereotypical (and his goons leered at her excellent figure), her thought dwelled on her partner Reiko Hinomoto. Reiko's features and black hair betrayed her Japanese origins. Today, she was dressed in the latest in red and black motorcycle chic. She was totally unarmed, leaning in relaxed fashion against her motorcycle. Oh, right. Jonesy was finished speaking. What did he say? Guns, right. Dixie jerked her thumb at the box her motorcycle (in front of Reiko's) had on its (now disconnected) trailer. "Guns. Money please." Jonesy waved a hand, and a goon brought the usual briefcase full of cash. She popped it open, flipped through briefly, and nodded. "Pleasure doing business with you, sunshine." Another deal done, time to get the heck out of here. Freedom City had this problem with superheroes always busting this stuff up, you see.

Somewhere. Sometime. April 9, 2020 Each of them woke up alone in a featureless white room with a single equally featureless automatic sliding door. Woke up in the general sense of coming to awareness, not having actually been unconscious. This was most odd, as they had decidedly not each been alone in a featureless white room the minute before. A few seconds’ worth of remembering would allow them to recall the air wavering in front of them, several seconds of blackness, an instant of nonawareness, and then the current situation. Any superhuman sensory abilities would not penetrate the walls of the room. The door would, of course, open if they approached it, revealing a featureless white corridor with another door not a full minute’s walk away at the end of it. This second door would also open, revealing a central room into which all of their hallways fed into. This room was decorated as if for a party, with a big colorful banner that said "WELCOME FREEDOM LEAGUE!", and a circular table with several chairs around it. All of the decorations were oriented towards the doors. A glance above their heads upon entry would reveal an inactive viewscreen and camera.

GM DeCosta Construction Site, corner of Shelley and O'Donnel August 30th 8:30 PM The invite had gone out online, on all kinds of different sites. A few local news sources had even reported on it, though few had taken it seriously. Posted all over walls around Southside. The exact wording was different, but the intent was quite clear: The Contenders, a group of old 80's and 90's villains, and they'd gone mad at Facsimile. They never said why, aside from wanting to take him down a peg. They were gonna show the world that they still had it, that they could fight one of the brand new heroes of the modern day. Meet them at the DeCosta Construction site, or they'd find him and take out wherever he lived. If anyone else tried to interfere, they would blow up a nearby school. Easy, right? Quite a number people had gathered around the makeshift ring that had been set up in the middle of the construction site, though they all kept a good distance from the five men by the ring. Four of them were all obviously past their prime, but otherwise, they didn't share much in terms of looks. Heavyweight, a large, overweight man with drooping features, like his entire face was being pulled down, clad only in red and blue pants and boots. Fly-Boy, a grotesque creature, a man with the eyes of a fly, barbs on his long, thin arms and fly-like wings. He was dressed in a yellow and red one piece costume. The third, TKO, looked normal, with long black hair with some specks of grey, dressed in a grey dress shirt and black slacks. He looked around at the crowds with a smirk. The fourth was Bear-Knuckle. A large, powerfully built man. Balding, but with long brown hair and a large moustache. From around his shoulders, his arms looked like those of a bear. Where TKO's grin was one of amusement, his held far darker intent. The fifth and final was a young man in his early twenties, sitting by a table with a laptop. "About time, right? Think he's gonna show?" TKO asked, while looking at the crowd. Bear-Knuckle's grin widened. "Sure. If not, there's always all of these kids to play with."

OOC for this. @Exaccus

GM August 20, 2019 A barrier island off the coast of Freedom City 6:00 AM This was it, the fateful hour. The morning fog rolled over the barrier island, the waves calm. Rising up from the island’s rocky surface was the vessel that would take the fateful group up to the Moon: The Peregrine. Standing tall as a building, it looked like a rocket ship out of Buck Rogers, tall and thin and cast in chrome. An extendable stairway lead into its interior, inviting the people on the surface to step inside. In front, a crowd of heroes had gathered, dressed in space-suits. Rachel stood out front of the Peregrine, dressed in a labcoat and holding a datapad that she was going over intently. She paced, occasionally looking at the heroes, then at the rocketship. She sighed sharply through her nose, then nodded to herself. Stowing the datapad, she clapped her hands together. “Alright! So, I’ve quintuple checked everything, and it looks like we’re cleared to go. Just some things to cover. Flight up to orbit is going to take 3 hours, then making it to the Moon will take another hour You won’t have to do anything for the first bit, I’ve installed a guidance system. One reinforced against psychic interference, this time. However, our pilot,” she said, looking over to Black Mamba, “will have to guide it down to the surface. I’ve deliberately made the controls easy and familiar, so you shouldn’t have any problems. If you’re attacked, I’ve installed Photon Cannons. However, I would be careful, if you fire them in our atmosphere you could cause a fireball. The firing mechanism is very clearly labeled.” She gestured at their space-suits, red ones that were similarly retro. “Your space-suits are state-of-the-art and tailored to what I know about your powers so you can use them. For example, Fast-Forward’s suit has been implanted with a reactive graviton array that will allow him to use his speed powers as though he was in normal gravity. Similarly, I’ve developed a field generator that should allow Archer to use his bow and arrows effectively. The same goes for the rest of you. I’ve tried to account for everything. More than that, your suits have a nano-array that should allow them to quickly seal if you’re hit, so no worries about suffocation. There are limits, though. Take too much damage and the nano-array won’t have enough material to repair. Life support is good for 72 hours, so if for some reason you get blown away into space, we have time to retrieve you,” she said. “I will not be joining you up there, sadly. But I have an FTL-communication device set up that should mean I will be able to communicate with you instantaneously with you wherever you are, as long as you don’t all decide to like… visit Mars or something. Please don’t do that.” She paused, and then tilted her head. “Alright. Any questions?”

GM Bayview, Freedom City, USA July 27th, 10:00am Rachel Morgan would be a star employee at almost any other organization, but at ASTRO Labs, she was surrounded by all sorts of super-geniuses and was thus just one of many scientists. She had no personal workshop there, so when she wanted to tinker, she had to work at the one in her home. Which worked fine for her, she had many ideas she had no intention of monetizing. She had been kicked out of a few places thanks to problems with Home Owners Associations and late-night noise, so she had finally given up on attached homes and splurged on a solitary property in Bayview, where she could work in peace. She had the home specially built with sound-proofing in the basement so that she wouldn’t be bothered by any further noise complaints. Now, the most the Home Owners Associations mostly just bothered her about neglecting her lawn, which she promised herself she would fix the robot that mowed it for her soon. The house itself was unassuming, a fairly standard one-story building, built wide with a green tiled roof and with a cherry red electric car sitting out front. On a flag pole sat an American flag, and beneath it a pride flag. There was a porch, painted white, its front partially obscured by grass growing ever higher in front of it. The front door was protected by a screen in front of it, and a charming little welcome mat declared “I can see your underwear”. Yet in the place of a doorbell, there was a strange, HAL-looking piece of machinery. As the group approached, it chirped. “Hello there, I’m Garvey. Welcome to Ms. Morgan’s home. What’s your names, and what’s your reason for visiting?” Those with pop-culture affinities might have noticed it sounded quite a lot like Michael Caine. @Heritage @Electra @Tiffany Korta @Exaccus

@alderwitch @angrydurf @Exaccus @Tiffany Korta - feel free to make an IC reaction post, and give me a Notice check afterwards.

2019 May 17th (Friday). Evening. Cloudy, temps in high 60s/low 70s. [Continued from Upgrading the Supply Chain.] At the doorway to a small private hangar on Jameson Airport, a hole in space appeared. It was a very brief thing, and tightly controlled -- the creator knew a wormhole's varying gravimetric fluctuations could play havoc with the delicate sensors used by the aircraft in the area, so he kept things tight and focused to minimize that. Out of the portal stepped two figured, with a motorcylce between them. One was a young man, who appeared to be the vehicle's owner as he was dressed not unlike a biker. The other appeared to be an older man, middle aged, with long brown hair, in blue overalls and an orange long-sleeved shirt, with a large leather tool belt. As soon as they were through, the portal snapped shut with a soft 'boof' of displaced air. "Here we are, hangar 4P," the older man said as he walked towards the single side door, "home sweet home. Well, for now, at least." He opened the door and entered the darkened structure, beckoning for the younger man to follow.

Freedom City Friday, July 26 5:58 PM Donahue’s Dockside Bar was not exactly the most glamorous of establishments. The outer walls were coated in flaking black paint, the sign that announced the bar’s name was a harsh neon red, and the windows were tinted in such a way that peering inside was at the very least difficult. On the steel front door was a sign which declared in hastily scrawled letters “closed for a private party”. The interior was not much better.The tables were made of old, battered wood, and the chairs had clearly seen better days. The lights were dim, as if to enhance the melancholic mood of anyone who happened to drink there regularly. The only thing really livening things up was a cloth-covered pair of tables, with a bright sign saying “free food - take what you like”. A few pieces sat under cloches, and the smell of hot sauce was strong in the air. Serena paced back and forth in front of the bar, rubbing at her temples. She was dressed in her Corona costume, a grey set of tights with black trunks and a leather jacket over top, along with a pair of welding goggles resting on her forehead. She sighed to herself. “Do you think anyone’s gonna show up?” she asked. Lester Donahue looked up from the glass he was polishing behind the bar. The muscle he had possessed in his teenage years had long ago turned to fat, and now an enormous belly hung in front of him, but he still possessed the orange fur and wet black nose that had come with the transformation that had given him inhuman levels of strength. He frowned at her, his yellow eyes following the superheroine as she moved back and forth. “It’s still two minutes to six, give’em time,” he said. “Besides, at least some of them are gonna show up for the free food alone, always do.” Serena looked over at him. “Well, that’s great but I kinda need superheroes.” Lester shrugged. “Superheroes like free food too. I mean, you’re mooching off of me right now,” he said with a slight smirk as he looked back down at his glass. Serena huffed. “Not mooching, I will pay you back.” Lester waved his hand at her dismissively. “Myaaaah, it’s fine. This is sticking it to Wu, it’s on me since I can’t uh… Well with my back injury and the heart condition…” Serena smiled sympathetically at him. “Thanks, Les.” Lester shrugged again. “Eh, it’s fine. EY! I think that’s the first person now!” he said, gaze drifting towards the window.

Summer 2019 Kingston Aquaria sat in the shadow of the grim and terrible doomforge, squatting on her haunches as she meditated on the gods and their will for humanity. She didn't like it much here in the shadow of Destruction, where the world still moaned softly in the aftermath of the invasion, but she appreciated the chance for some quiet. Hopping past the memorials left behind for the murdered people of this neighborhood, she stopped at the foot of a dried-out fountain and began to sing. It was a song of mourning and loss, for all that would have been but now would never be, and the booming bass echoed from inside her opaque armor through the streets of the mostly-deserted neighborhood. Would there be justice for these people when the stars were right? Perhaps not. It was a terrible thought.

GM December 10th, 2018, 5.25 AM, five minutes to destination Mars Orbit, Solar System, Orion Arm, Milky Way Galaxy, The Universe, inside of a Pegasus-class spaceplane Light-speed travel was great. With the coordinates set, all systems nominal and nothing especially likely to be between the Pegasus and Starshell Castle, there was little to do but wait and consider what the little band was up against. The pilot and three passengers had a lot of skillsets between them; young adventurer, amateur mystic and philanthropist Veronica Danger, anxious AEGIS Eyespy agent Echohead, otherworldly wanderer Forever Boy and materials-mimic Facsimile, all of them brought something unique to the mission. The mission itself was simple enough: get into Starshell Castle, don't get caught, find out and do as much damage as they can before escaping. Of particular interest were the Nightstone, supposed power source of Blackstar and his followers, and anything to suggest how they could move between Starshell and Earth without the Lighthouse satellite detecting them. That last was of especial importance, since the refitting of the satellite and its augmentation with alien technology included some of the best sensory systems the Coalition could provide. If there was a flaw being exploited, some basic incompatibility, or even some wholly-unknown power at work, it was vital information. Outside there was nothing to see, but on the inside of the windows was a projected simulation of the solar system blurring by. If you looked too long, you started to see patterns in the stars.

Give me some Notice checks

Hanover, Freedom City June 22, 1:26 AM It was the dead of night, which only increased Serena’s dread as she approached the abandoned building just off the corner of Raleigh. Despite being far from Kingston, the damage was apparent in the stones. They’d paved over most of it, repaired as much as they could, but you couldn’t hide wounds as deep as these. She looked up at the building, watching it rise many stories in the air, the boarded up windows kindling old memories in her. But it wasn’t what was above that she cared about. It was what was below. She walked up to the glass doors, now covered in graffiti, and placed her palm on the surface. I shouldn’t be here, she thought to herself. Could just turn back now. But she couldn’t, not really. Something told her that she had to be here, had to make sure everything was still the way she left it in 1995, when the police raids came down and broke up Dr. Wu’s little experiments. Why now was she so concerned about it? She had gone 23 years without coming here, and yet now she was unable to get it out of her head that she had to come here. Back to the Lab, back to the Delinquent HQ. Looking down at the door handles, she saw that they had been locked tight with some chains and a padlock. She considered just melting them, but that’d leave too much evidence. She freed the lock release gun from the inside of her leather jacket, and inserted it into the keyhole. Within a moment, it popped up and dropped to the concrete. With that settled, she removed the chains and made her way inside. For a moment, Serena felt her breath catch in her throat. This was, technically, trespassing. She steeled herself. She would just be in and out. Make sure nothing was out of place. Then, the alarm started screeching into the night. Serena cursed loudly, looking around for the source of it as fast as she could. Her eyes settled on a red bell contraption, looking conspicuously new. She gritted her teeth, and charged up a blast with her free hand before firing a beam into the bell and melting it into slag. She took a second to hiss more curses to herself, before moving inside. She had to be even quicker now, before anyone noticed. She stowed her lock gun, and pulled out the flashlight she kept with her. Flicking it on, she drew the beam of light across the room in front of her. It revealed the lobby that helped keep the masquerade that the building was for nothing nefarious, but now it was a shell of its former self. The ground was littered with trash and rubbed, and the walls were covered in graffiti. The front desk was barren, missing the secretary - Ms. Chatham, right? - she remembered so well. An ancient, dust-covered PC lay on the floor, its monitor shattered and its tower pried open and stripped for parts. There was no sign of the mouse or the keyboard. The swivel chair Chatham had sat in was long gone. She paused for a moment. Wouldn’t they have seized the PC for evidence? Her eyes narrowed. Something to check in on later, she thought. She made her way through the lobby, the rubble crunching beneath her boots. She stopped in front of the elevator, fingers running over the up and down buttons and moving to the secret third button that blended in seamlessly with the rest of the panel. She pressed down, but nothing came. Somehow, that relieved her. The power was still off. Still, that meant she had to find another way down. @Exaccus

Deep Space, Lor Border Zone 14th Jyeshtha 2075 "I did not know that Terrans still had a nudity taboo!" A bemused Sitara walked back into the cabin of the Kavaca zipping up her freshly donned jumpsuit, the ships proximity alarm providing a well-timed distraction. The voice of Akazavani spoke as soon as Sitara entered the cabin, she could speak where she wanted in the ship and even had a holographic image for just such occasions. But she was being well behaved today, obviously, she understood Terran behaviour better than Sitara did. "We're picking up a distress call from a Lor Navy ship, the Glorious Exploration of the Unknown."

Five bored rich kids seek thrills. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. The area has 12 shops. Eats, clothing, books, alcohol, divorce lawyer. Cops have the parking lot locked down, but are unable to get the cranked out criminals under control. They're about to call in the big guns, but then you arrive. Or maybe you were there the whole time.

GM There are few things one needs in life. To live, of course. Eat, sleep, repeat. That would get boring. So we find other things to occupy our time. Action, adventure. Though some use this as an excuse to be dreadful. Luckily there are people who will stand up and protect the less fortunate. The days are long and hot in the summer, but nothing is left to chance. Or is it? Immortals hiding from society, treating humanity like a chess game. Or just the causality of the universe. You could ask this group of youth in ski masks and nondescript clothing, but they really don't care. They're using what minimal power they have to ransack a row of businesses in a mini mall. Cops are on the scene. Pedestrians are freaked out. The kids are high on a cocktail ZOOM and MAX. Guaranteed not to kill you or you money back. Suckers.

2019 May 17th (Friday). Evening. Cloudy, temps in high 60s/low 70s. On Shelley Road, in one of many squat gray buildings that dotted the neighborhood, was the Southside Family Medical Center. It was several blocks from the middle-class safety centered on Freedom College campus or the Jordan International Airport, and primarily served the far too numerous amount of uninsured people of Southside. They received some funding government grants and local charities, but it was not nearly enough to give adequate care to all who came through their doors. And many did come through their doors: college kids who partied too hard and didn't want any records, victims of gang shootings, and perfectly law-abiding citizens stuck in hazardous low-income jobs, whose poverty charged interest on their bodies. There was always some shortage or other of supplies, though most days they managed to make things stretch. Equipment too worn out even for West End's Trinity Hospital often wound up here, juuust functional enough to not be complete scrap. For the past few days, a "freelance technician" had been coming by to see about keeping their gear in functional order. He'd simply appeared on day a few weeks ago, in dingy overalls and a large tool belt, working at several such clinics throughout the area. The first few clinics were initially skeptical of this "Patch Menderson," but a lack of references or papers (and obviously fake name) were far from unusual in these parts, and his skills and oddly charming nature spoke for themselves. And so it was that on a May evening, as he left the struggling medical center, the path of "Patch Menderson" -- in reality Herr Doktor Viktor Archeville, working incognito and trying a new method of helping others -- crossed with one of Southside's more unusual defenders...

OOC thread for this thread. Get your space on! @Thevshi @Supercape @Exaccus @RocketLord

16th Feb, 2019 Freedom City Coast GM Summer was not here, but the cool chill of winter was waning. The skies were less sombre, the trees less spartan. And, best of all, 'twas the weekend. A weekend to go driving one's motorcycle along the seafront. However cautiously or legally one was driving (or not) there was always one idiot on the roads. That was urban life for you. But Fascimile, driving his motorcycle most cautiously and legally (or not) was witness, this very day, this very afternoon to a most unusual type of idiot on the roads. Even by the extraordinarily high standards of Freedom City. Whipping past him, at a speed well beyong that which was legal, safe, or even sane, was another motorbike. And sat upon this motorbike was a lunatic dressed in chainmail armour, sword by his side, and holding a lance. "AN-AR-CHY! AN-AR-CHY!" he yelled as he terrorised pedestrians and motorists by the beach and by the buildings on the other side.