vignette June 2012 Vignette - NPC Limelight/Player's Choice

[trollthumper]

NPC Limelight

Michael Oxum (Temperance's Dad)

Office Politics

At 8:15 AM, Michael Oxum leaves his apartment in Lincoln and takes the Red Line to the Waterfront. He heads to the docks when the train gets in (sometime between 8:39 and 8:51, depending on traffic) and usually arrives with at least five minutes to spare. He clocks in and begins his day of work as a stevedore.

For seventeen years now, and for the sake of appearance, he has been working at the docks. He always takes lunch with the guys, always pays his union dues (but rarely shows up to meetings), and has rarely, if ever, missed a day of work. He keeps to himself, but not to the degree that anyone would find it suspicious – he is usually assumed to be working in some isolated corner of the docks, and anyone who goes looking for him usually finds him. But in truth, at around 10:00 AM, Michael Oxum’s day of work at the docks comes to a temporary conclusion. And another man’s work day begins entirely.

It is at 10 AM – after enough time to establish a presence – that Michael ducks away from the work site and finds where the dock stairs meet the coastline. He walks in up to his waist, and abandons his mortal flesh. In this form, his name is… difficult; his wife, Julia, has attempted to vocalize it a few times, and settled around “Crooooosssssh-shh-shh-shh.†Such are the perils of being a spirit of the coastline, and taking your name from surf meeting rock.

He has likewise tried to describe to his wife what work amongst the Court of Tides is like. He finds it difficult; mortal terms don’t encapsulate it. It is, at the same time, being an official in a king’s court, an employee before the board of directors, and a phase of the life of water that is fully aware of where it is and where it shall go. It is bureaucracy, nobility, and being aware of one’s place in the universe down to the decimal point. It is, at the same time, transcendental and absolutely rote.

He shares his little portion of the waters with the spirits of Wading and South, the principality of the Centery Narrows, and the officiate of the Kingdom of the Greater Atlantic that dwells in the Great Bay, who is more often than not out of business amongst the various fiefdoms of the deep. And of course, there are the motes, the lesser spirits of water as it runs in the pipes, as it rises and dances among the Court of Gales, as it is spilt by mortals and… altered by the Court of Refuse.

The day begins with news borne in on the tides. A principality in the Kingdom of the Greater Pacific and a shogun in the Court of Stones are apparently furious, as they were working together on a project to generate duty for several of their subjects. However, Susanoo-no-Mikoto intervened from the realm of the divine, handing down a veto and claiming that Japan had already dealt with enough tidal waves. They are lashing out in every direction, and word has it that the Pacific itself might intervene by “suggesting†the principality in question might do better overseeing Lake Vostok. There were also rumors about that the Leviathan might rise from the depths and go on another tour of the tides – but they were just rumors for now, with no hearing anything more substantial than a twitch from the primordial muck.

Work begins with negotiations between an agent of the Baron of Atlantic Sands and a group of tidal motes. The tidal motes wish to accelerate a tide of expansion by a matter of a few years, taking another foot ahead of schedule within 25 years. The Baron says he does not wish to lose more space. He manages to talk the two sides down to six inches in return for a hearty contribution of tideland silt from the motes.

Once negotiations are over, there is a break for lunch. He doesn’t need it all that much, drawing his sustenance and strength from the motion of the tides, but it helps him to fit in with his mortal coworkers. After a hoagie that vanishes into the limitless depths, he is back into the waters, dealing with a delegate from the Court of Refuse. The delegate is trying to dispute the censure from his office, handed down for the accumulation of debris along Black Bluff. He says that the debris can always be recirculated or distributed, but his motes are complaining about the choking influence in the area. It almost comes to blows – the delegate wishes to invoke the Ancient Rite, trial by combat. Visions of choking smog versus overwhelming current play in his head until he’s able to call in the Great Bay officiate to negotiate. The officiate is able to pull some favors and ensure that half the Refuse spirits off of Black Bluff will be transferred to a more prestigious assignment, such as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. The delegate accepts the terms, but it’s clear there’s some resentment, and Michael isn’t all that happy about being in debt to the officiate.

He can feel the inrush of the tides coming to a peak. It is nearly time to leave the water for the shore when an emergency pops up. The Chorister of the Cold Embrace – so old-fashioned that she still goes by the title of “Chorister,†an artifact of old human thought – has barged into his office, demanding more tribute. She is one of the small reapers, and has no love for him. She wonders why there are fewer riptides off the shores, and more gentle currents that buoy the helpless back to land. He tells her that it is part of an effort to support his underlings – more choppy waters mean less devotion from the humans, which means less sustenance for all. She makes it personal, as always, claiming that he’s become soft from walking among the fleshed. He almost invokes the Ancient Rite on her, wanting to blast her with currents until she’s elided away as thin as a knife’s edge. Instead, he tells her to bring it up amongst her superiors in the Court of Repose, and see if a bargain can be reached. It never will – she’s such a traditionalist that some of the newer modes of death won’t bother to take tea with her. But it’s enough to give him a chance to escape, and cloak himself once more in mortal clay.

He clocks out for the day –at his other job – and rides the train back to Southside. He enters to find Eliza sitting in the living room, writing in the diary. Julia is checking over her deck while dinner cooks in the oven. She looks up to see him.

“How did it go?†she asks.

He shrugs his shoulder. “Same old, same old.â€

[Tiffany Korta]

“Oh Brave new world…â€

NPC Spotlight

Miranda’s Persoanal Journal (with additions in an unknown hand)

So we were coming back from a day at the mall, totally legal like, when Nara (1) spotted her that weird British chick. Rumor has it that she has no powers what-so-ever she just got in because she has some magical item or other. Nara likes goes over to say hi, she always like that with anyone. So I wonder over and there something amiss with her, she’s normally a shy little thing who I can hardly sense normally (2), she’s walking around all confident and beams so much confidence and energy even Nara could pick it up. And she's got on this short black dress and wicked looking boot and she looking a bit, and I don't like to be rude like this, but not a little skanky. It not like I jealous or anything but I can't remember her looking quite so pretty, maybe it was just the lack of proper lighting. So whilst I'm wondering over Nara takes a look at a nasty bruise on this girls face, telling her that it wasn’t too bad and nothing was broken. And I notice something odd, well odder, that the two are talking and at proper volume normally I struggle to hear what she’s got to say but I can hear her strange accent and all.

So we start walking with her back to school and she’ telling us, without being asked or anything, that’s she’s been in a clubbing (which I doubt) and that she’s been in a fight (which seems more likely) and is just walking off all her adrenalin. And I’m thinking whether to tell Mr Summers about her sneaking off and getting in a fight, cause he really dislikes that kind thing when a couple of muggers pop out and points guns at us. They must be new in town or reckon there far enough away from the school, but there still dumb cause duh city full of supers.

So I’m like more a lover and not a fighter, and Nara well she’s not really focused enough to do anything. But this Brit she’s all smiling and asking then when they think she’s so confident, and they rightly point out that they have the guns. And then she goes all super intimidating and points out that yes they do but she has this. And she draws out of nowhere this massive sword which then goes and burst in fire with this strange light. And then they get it a run off and she looks a little disappointed and puts the sword away saying that there not really worth it and probably won’t try again.

And then Nara starts back up talking, at exactly the same point that the conversation stopped, and we carrying on walking back to the school. I’m just following along wondering what got into this girl, cause like this she one very scary woman when she put her mind to it.

And I like all worried cause it’s my though, I thought it would be a good idea to bring her out of her shell and be a bit more social. But I think I went a bit to far and created a monster. Maybe my power are getting more powerful than I thought? Should I undo this? Cause it looks like she could really kick-ass and that is sorta cool. And having a friend, well a associate, could be kinda neat sometimes.

(1) Nara aka Kidzuku has an impressive array of super-senses, she does however tend to be a bit spaced out sometime spending hours watching Brownian motion or even peoples digestion.

(2) Miranda has Empathy.

[Fox]

Opportunity

(NPC Limelight; Tiamat [Gaian Knight])

The first thing she saw when she woke up was stone – cool, dark stone, too regular and well-shaped to be natural but forming a room too big to be a normal house. After that were the lights – simple lanterns spread just far enough apart to keep the light low but close enough to let a human see.

And then she saw the human. He had a lantern of his own, though it didn’t flicker at all – magic? – and he sat on a stone block perhaps ten feet away. Brown hair, with a metal breastplate and sword—

She reared up, scrambling sluggishly to her feet, several tons of red dragon trying to simultaneously get her bearings and preparing to burn the knight to ash if he tried anything.

Except he didn’t; he just sat there, watching, his sword still sheathed and lying just within his reach. “Good morning,†he said.

She responded by growling.

He seemed...’amused’ wasn’t right; it wasn’t that mean. His chuckle was friendlier than that. “Come on, relax. I’m not going to attack you, and I know you’re not some huge animal.â€

Growl?

“You talk in your sleep.â€

She stared at him for a moment before settling back down, keeping at least one large, red, slitted eye on him at all times as she gave a dignified sniff. He smelled like...old earth and magic? Old, warm magic. “I do no such thing.â€

Now he laughed, but it was no less friendly. “I must have been mistaken,†he conceded, gesturing helplessly. “So, I’ve had some time to think about how this should probably go, and I figure you deserve as much honesty as possible. What’s the last thing you remember?â€

The dragon frowned, trying to lift the fog from her mind. She hadn’t been this slow since the last time she’d gotten hurt, when she fell—Falling. Right. “I fought the metal woman,†she rumbled, scowling. “I...lost. I think the pathetic villagers were going to try to finish me off, but I don’t remember much after that; where am I?â€

“Right. Well, that’s the hard part – you aren’t where you came from. The – ah, metal woman – was from another world. She tried to save you from the villagers by taking you away from them, but she never got a chance to let you go before being sent home. She didn’t really know what to do with you, so she asked for my help, and you’ve been sleeping here pretty much ever since – I was kind of concerned, but you seemed okay. Healing up, I’m guessing?â€

She cautiously nodded.

“Right, well. The bad news is that I’m...not sure we can send you back. I don’t even know exactly where you came from – some other world, or dimension – and she doesn’t know either. Maybe someone out there does, but for now, I think you’re kind of stuck. ...I’m sorry.â€

He seemed to mean it – was it all still some kind of trick? – but she’d known she wasn’t home since she’d woken up. This place didn’t...smell right; the magic in the air wasn’t the same. “....and? Is that all, or is there good news?â€

He grimaced. “Well, the good news, I guess, is that now that you’re awake you’re free to go or do whatever you want. Ah – sort of, anyway. There isn’t a lot of food here for a creature your size, if you need much meat, but I can try to help you with that. I can try to look into finding someone who knows much about dragons – real dragons, I mean, not the legends – and maybe they’ll know what we can do for you. And...that’s about all I have, I guess.†He gestured helplessly again, frowning. “Maybe we can talk and figure out something else, if you need anything. I didn’t have much to go on – afraid I don’t know much about you, and didn’t want to assume too much.â€

There was silence, then, reigning for several long moments as she sized him up and contemplated, expression unreadable. “You do not have dragons, where you are from?â€

“Ah...no, not really,†the earth magic man replied. “We have stories, but you’re nothing more than...myth, I guess. Seems kind of disrespectful to say when you’re right there in front of me, but there you go.†He blinked, and laughed. “Actually – if you did show up where I’m from, you’d probably make a heck of a hero. Dragons are kind of popular, as myths go, and as long as you were stopping crime and fighting villains people’d probably like you. Though you’d have a hard time fitting through doors, I guess!â€

His humor dissolved back into awkward silence when his audience seemed a bit less amused than he was, but she wasn’t offended so much as...contemplative. He shifted in his seat, clearly unsure of what else to say – and then blinked in confusion as the dragon disappeared in a wave of fire, melting down into the form of a red-haired, red-eyed woman. She made her way to where he was sitting, waited rather patiently for him to make her a seat, and deliberately placed her heavy steel mace down before sitting in a mirror of the man and sword across from her.

“Let me tell you about being a dragon where I was from,†she said. Her face was strong, determined, and perfectly serious. “The kings hate you for even living nearby. Any family or other creatures in the area hate you for having territory they could claim. If you have respect, it is because you are feared. If you have wealth, it is because you stole it. If you eat, it is because you took it or it was offered to you out of terror. If you try to help, what grace and honor you get crumbles as soon as fear overtakes it again.â€

He wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“Tell me about your world.â€

[Tiffany Korta]

Even the Swing…

NPC Spotlight

Kaplina

Kaplina didn’t quite understand Lucy’s fascination with the view from the roof, it wasn’t like the breath taking view of the Himalayas back home, but she wasn’t the advice so she decided not to say anything. She patently waited whilst Lucy bustled about getting her drinks and snacks and generally fussing around Kaplina. She got the impression that she didn’t get many visitors and Lucy enjoyed the effort of it all.

“So what the problem?†direct as normal, she like that in the woman.

“It’s the normal things boys.â€

Since she had become stuck on earth by giving up her power to help this woman, who she now considered a friend, had made effort to build for her a normal life. This she insisted meant going to school as she still looked like a teenager, despite being thousands of years old. And that meant dealing with boys, and girls, but unlike before she had to deal with the consequences. No quick and easy encounter only to melt into the night without consequences.

“It’s just that they’re all interested because I have such a bountiful…â€

“Figure?†Lucy chipped in with a borad smile

“Yes, that’ll do. And they seem to think that I’d be easy to score with, as I seem a little inexperienced with the real world. They think I have no sexual experience and would be easy to fool, even though I have had many partners and have tried every position in the Karma Sutra.â€

“What even the one…?â€

Kaplina just gave a nod whilst Lucy seemed to blush. It was a strange thing to see her face didn’t really grow red it simply several shades of grey. Being dead she shouldn’t even be able to blush at all. It was unusual that anyone was able to embarrass Lucy at all so she guilty enjoyed the moments for a few minutes.

“How exactly do you handle it? I’m not sure what to do, how to deal with it all.â€

Lucy was quite for some time thinking through her options before finally speaking.

“Yeah I might not be the best person to ask about this, there was only ever one person for me. And that did exactly work out well. But that what being human is all about, when you feel it right it’ll be right. It might not workout, or it could work amazingly. Just promise me that you’ll be careful, they have all these wonderful things to stop you getting in trouble. We don’t want any little Kaplina running around, at least until you’re ready.â€

And that was it, the conversation drifted onto other subjects, the normal chatter of two friends enjoying each other’s company. And for Kaplina that was enough, to be honest she was beginning to enjoy this whole being human.

[Gizmo]

NPC Limelight - Brave New Day

Yolanda Morales-Espadas [Foster Sister of Erik and Ellie Espadas]

May 7, 2012

It was fairly common knowledge among the superheroic community of Freedom City that a school for teenagers with powers existed, by deduction upon observing the steady stream of surprisingly organized and well-trained teams of such youths that regularly cropped up if nothing else. The actual name and location of Claremont Academy was a more guarded secret and it was only through some unusual acquaintances of her own that Ellie Espadas had ended up studying there in her senior year. Even then she’d avoided much of the madcap misadventures that seemed to characterize the more prominent students of that institution and she graduated with the impression that she’d barely scratched the surface of Claremont’s ways. With that in mind she supposed it wasn’t all that surprising that the first time she’d heard of the Nicholson School in Port Regal was when a case worker from the Freedom League had brought it up as an option for Yolanda.

The campus they found as they walked through the surrounding subdivisions of upscale homes wasn’t quite what the West End native typically associated with an elementary school but it was certainly impressive. "See, that doesn’t look so bad, right?" she asked, tilting her chin downward. The six year old holding her hand, dirty blonde hair recently trimmed and pulled back in a ponytail, clothes and backpack conspicuously new, seemed less convinced, silently looking about with wide eyes and gripping Ellie’s fingers a little more tightly.

A number of school age children had been among the refugees saved from Yolanda’s doomed homeworld before the Terminus had destroyed it utterly, most from the school bus saved by Lieutenant Hudson and his fellow soldiers. Many of them had already been enrolled in schools throughout the city for the new term after summer vacation, but Yolanda was the youngest by a few years. The case worker and Ellie’s mother, Gina, had agreed that it was important to return the precocious survivor to a semblance of routine even with only a little less than two months left in the school year but expecting a newly transplanted six year old to carefully avoid compromising secret identities or League secrets was asking a bit much. At the Nicholson School, that wouldn’t be an issue.

"C'mon, Yoyo," Ellie insisted, making a great theatrical show of struggling to drag the girl along as though she were an insurmountable weight, taking a pair steps before stumbling back again. It wasn’t quite as much an exaggeration it might have been; Yolanda was strapping, noticeably athletic child with a habit of digging in her heels when she was nervous. Still, it was enough to elicit a small smile and get her to follow her foster sister into the three story school building.

All of the arrangements had already been made in advance but they’d purposely gotten there a little early to make sure everything went smoothly for the first day. The office was certainly a lot more organized than the one Ellie remembered from her elementary school days, and it didn’t take long to get Yolanda signed in. As they left to follow the directions they’d been given to the kindergarten classroom, however, the blonde girl was looking more and more downcast. Finally, outside the door adorned with fingerpainted artwork and macaroni and glitter festooned construction paper, Ellie stopped and got down on one knee. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked seriously, using one hand to gently lift the small chin.

Yolanda’s big eyes were sad but fiercely free of tears when she met Ellie’s concerned look. "I was just..." The little refugee took a gulping breath, her lower lip quivering slightly. "I was thinking about my friends from school back home and my teacher Miss G-gavineau and everybody and... I’m n-never going to see them again, huh?" Now tears were beginning to well up in the corners of her eyes, causing her to blink quickly and turn her head away.

"" Ellie wrapped her arms around Yolanda in a tight hug, feeling the child shaking with ragged breaths against her. The stayed that way for a while in the hallway until the older girl pulled back enough to talk again. "We don't have to do this today, okay hun? If you're not ready, that's fine. This is one hundred percent up to you."

The blonde girl bit her lip and looked down for a long beat before turning her face back up to Ellie’s and shaking her head. "No, I'll be okay," she decided resolutely, rubbing the back of one hand across her face in a fashion that really served only to smear things around. "I just have to be brave like you and Mara and Erin and Mister Steve, right? Then I'll be okay no matter what."

Stifling a laugh, Ellie used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe Yolanda’s face clean a little more effectively then nodded. "Right. And I am so, so proud of you, you don’t even know." Giving the six year old another hug she stood back up. "C'mon, I want to meet your teacher, make sure she's cool enough, huh?" Getting another nod in response, she opened the door and led the way inside.

[Avenger Assembled]

NPC Spotlight Vignette

Harrier

Freedom League Special Circumstances Housing

Step By Step

First Floor (Internet Cafe)

Finley typed slowly and carefully at the email, her red fingers moving in a hunt-and-peck over the alien syllabry. Maybe her shapeshifting wasn't where it should be yet, but her language classes and her cultural training were complete, and she wasn't going to let a little thing like her appearance keep her from being a productive member of human society. If she'd wanted to stay a useless cog in a machine she couldn't contribute to, she'd have stayed with the Grue hive where she'd been spawned.

"Dear Learson Testing: As you can see my mathematical test scores are well within your standards, and I have letters of reference from several teachers in Freedom City. I think I would be an excellent member of your testing team, and I would love a chance to be part of the educational system here in New Jersey. Human-" She thought for a moment, then deleted that

last word, "children are our future, and I'm very happy to have a chance to be part of the future of this city."

She smiled at her reflection as she sent it along, her red, nearly featureless face easily marking her for what she was. "Now, what to do if they don't believe my story about not wanting to give a photo ID..." Even if they liked her scores, this clearly wasn't over yet! "Better give my holo-unit a test run tonight..."

Second Floor: Interfaith Chapel

Zhang rose to his feet and took a deep breath. "Hi everybody, my name is Zhang Lao, and I'm...I'm an eldritch survivor," he said, getting sympathetic looks from the rest of his social circle. "After the Great Old Ones rose on my world, it was just so much easier to start summoning shoggoths than solve my problems coherently, but that's my old life, and I'm not going to be that man anymore." He smiled, and met the eyes of the red-skinned Yami princess across the way. Maybe he had a chance after all.

"And what are you going to do now?" asked Blake, the circle's moderator, a young guy not much older than Zhang himself.

"Well, I don't need to carve elder signs or chant anymore to be happy," said Zhang hopefully, trying to convince himself as he spoke as much as everyone else. "I don't need to bow down to elder gods since they hardly even exist here. I can be...I can be me!" He brightened at that, the words feeling unexpectedly comforting, and for the first time, as the crowd applauded and sipped their fruit juice, he actually started to believe he could do it.

Third Floor: Maintence

"Oh, jeez, look, Tom, the helium gasket's cracked!" Careful of the iced-over impervium pipe, Larry Kazankis gingerly took out his cryowrench and began working at the defective part. "Good thing we caught this, or poor 403 would have been in a world of hurt. Must be weird for him living in a place so hot, huh? I heard he's some kind of bug thing?"

"Eh, 403's okay," said Tom Flatman, chewing his gum as he handed his partner a part. "He and his ladyfriend, I guess she is? they put on a crystal music show for the residents last year, and it was all right! He swears it sounds better in a helium atmosphere, but it was okay by me. A little like one of those old planetarium things, but with more beer."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," said Larry reflectively. "I mean, I bet you and me look pretty freaky to folks from Pluto! And we don't have to live there 24/7, poor bastard. I heard about what made him come here, and man, revolutions are always tough. When my old man left Greece back in '46..."

Tom grimaced affectionately and adjusted his flashlight. Here we go...

Living Quarters: Seventh Floor

"GO Devils!" The gorilla pounded on the table in celebration, hard enough to make the sturdy oak quake, before he turned back to his interviewer with a massive smile, carefully projecting human social mores for the benefit of his human interlocuter. "Your pardon, Ms. Samuels, but I do love hockey, even if I have to watch Newark exhibition games these days. I hope you won't tell your readers I'm a traitor!" He laughed.

"No, no, Dr. Primate, I wouldn't dream of it!" laughed the young journalist. "They'll be surprised to know you like sports at all. Don't most Gorilla Islanders reject human competitive sports as just another sign of innate human violence?"

"That's true," said the ape paternally, "but as a simianthropologist, it's my duty to understand my hosts, even if current, ah, circumstances in my homeland have forced me to extend my stay. Personally, I think my people worry too much about human beings. The days of the gorilla warriors are long since past. These days we should work together, as fellow primates, to make a better civilization for us all."

Inwardly, he sweated, hoping she wouldn't ask about the money. Damn rednoses back home, judging a man for his private entertainments! So what if he had to embezzle a little; how else could he afford all the black market goods he'd wanted for home? At least he'd escaped with both his Swiss bank account and his good name to Freedom City. Maybe that academic job would pay out after all.

Outside, Joe's Eats

The waiter headed over to the manager with a concerned look on his face, shooting glances back at his customers as they chatted amongst themselves. "Hey, uh, Joe? I think that guy slipped me a funny bill." The skinny college kid handed the green-and-gray currency to the thick-armed man behind the counter, the middle-aged chef-turned-owner pulling on his reading glasses as he peered down at the unmistakeable face of Gus Hall. _Ah, it must be Pete again. Hope he's not back on the sauce._

"No, it's okay," Joe whispered to Tim, "Pete over there's all right, he's just a little funny in the head. They take care of him over at the Cline, just like the Cline helps take care of us."

"They're from the Cline?" Now it was Tim's turn to look awed. "Oh man, my mom swears she saw a flying saucer land there once. I bet they have all kinds of stories, and-"

"Tim, don't go prying into other people's business," said Joe with a sharp look at his employer. "They're customers, sometimes they're friends, but that's doesn't mean we go digging."

The two humans watched the shapeshifted devil and former Unspeakable One cultist try and get through their double-date with the Earth-Lenin-Z survivor and the Grue in the holographic disguise unit.

"They're from the Cline. They're okay."

[trollthumper]

Horror Vignette

Nick Cimitiere

Faster than Death

February 12th, 2008

Nick Cimitiere raced through the streets of Savannah, desperately searching for shelter. His heart felt like it was going to burst like a ripe melon, he had to fight for every breath, and his legs were turning to rubber. But he knew he couldn’t stop. There was no chance. He tried to keep his eyes on the path ahead of him, avoiding the crowds that stared at him as if he was mad and trying not to lose his footing. Death was chasing after him, and if he tripped, he was lost.

The night had started peacefully enough. After getting his homework set in order and telling his roommate he was “heading out to a show,†he’d trucked over to the storage locker where he kept his “work clothes†and set out to do some therapy work. He’d found it in the form of Virgil Dawkins, a bootlegger who’d been shot down on a run into the city some time around 1930. After making sure the phantom rifle he’d been carrying around wasn’t toting realistic bullets, he’d established a rapport with the ghostly rumrunner and learned that he was looking for the gun itself, a relic from his service in “the Great War†and a valued tool in his trade. There was a chance the gun was scrap by now, but Virgil had a vague idea of the house he’d stored it in. It looked like tonight was going to be a march.

“Yeah,†Virgil said, pointing out a house on Montgomery St. “It was like that, only the doors were red. And I think there were fewer stories. Or were there more…?â€

“Do you think we’re in the right neighborhood, though?†Nick asked.

“Pretty sure. Well, it could’ve been Live Oak. It was a busy night, and I’d been drinking…â€

Virgil’s memory was cut off by the sound of collapsing masonry. Nick was already on his feet, rushing towards the disaster. He rounded the corner of Duffy and Whitaker to find a good chunk of one of the old houses undergoing had fallen to the ground. People were clustered around the wreckage, trying to pull at the bricks.

“Wait here,†Nick said to Virgil before racing across the street. There was little he could do – he’d only started picking up ghostly tricks after his initial meeting with Adrian Eldrich over Christmas break – but it might be enough. The crowd had managed to unearth a young man who’d been buried in the rubble. The man’s injuries seemed consistent with those he’d seen on ghosts from cave-ins and building collapses, and odds were there was already some crush damage. He drew in a breath, and willed something out of the empty air. The night grew thick with a gauzy mist – ectoplasm, the stuff of death. He pressed his hands to the man’s side, and the plasm flowed into him like water. Before Nick’s eyes, the wounds began to knit, the skin taking on a more healthy sheen.

As the rubble was shifted away, it was clear that the others weren’t so lucky. The debris had caught three people, and the other two had sustained fatal head trauma in the initial rain. But as Nick looked over the scene, something caught his attention. There was a man standing across the street, watching the scene with great interest. He had the bearing of a drill sergeant, and the hair to match. He wore a black trenchcoat, despite the night’s humidity – not that Nick was one to talk – and similar, military-style clothes beneath. And he was staring daggers at Nick.

Dead man.

The voice cut into his head like a dagger running across glass. He backed away from the scene, keeping his eyes on the severe man. Virgil was still waiting where he’d left him, playing with his fingernails. “Everything okay?†he asked.

“Yeah,†Nick said. “Yeah, I think so. So, maybe we should check out Live Oak --â€

You robbed me tonight, child.

He turned around. The man in the trenchcoat had followed him, and hadn’t gotten any more friendly. Those kills were mine, well and truly. The man’s lips did not move once; the words in Nick’s head were more the absence of words, with his mind filling in the blank spaces. The three belonged to my dominion.

“Well, you got two,†Nick said. “That’s not bad.â€

I should have them all. They all escaped once. I have not let one escape… for a very long time.

“Sorry to ruin the track record. In the future, I’ll --â€

You’ll do nothing. He studied Nick in some detail. You have escaped.

Nick was trying very, very hard to maintain his composure at this point. “I’d like to think I served my time. Maybe you should go back to your business…â€

Child. The man threw open his jacket, revealing a black commando’s sweater and BDU pants. But that wasn’t the most distinctive feature. A heavy chain ran around his body – and through it, snaking effortlessly through flesh and bone. You will come with me. There is no point in--

A hail of bullets cut the man off, slicing through his unnatural form. Virgil held the trigger down on his phantom gun until it clicked dry and the man in black slumped to the ground, a pile of tattered ectoplasm. “Always did have a problem with authority,†he said. “You all right?â€

“Better than he is,†said Nick. “We’re out of here.†He ran, not bothering to look back. Virgil flew by right at his side, trying to keep pace with the necromancer. After three blocks, however, something snaked at Nick’s feet, dragging him to the ground.

You cannot escape, said the man. These chains are law, forged by the words of the three judges. Many have run from them, but none have escaped. Not truly.

Nick tried to tear at the chains at his feet as the man in black slowly strode towards him. The sound of gunfire erupted behind him. “Run!†yelled Virgil. “I’ll show this freak how we do things ‘round here!â€

The chains slipped off of Nick’s feet. He got up and ran, knowing instantly what was going to happen to Virgil. He heard the sound of rending ectoplasm – like a chainsaw going through velvet – and screaming that only touched on his ears. The few people on the street looked at the strange man with the white makeup and the leather jacket, his eyes wrenched shut and his feet flying underneath him, running from an invisible man.

The screams cut out a block down, too suddenly for them to have just faded with distance. Nick knew that Virgil’s distraction wasn’t going to hold for long, and the man would be after him. But who was he? He ran down the options in his head, trying to split his mind between the road and his pursuer. Azrael? Too cruel. One of the shinigami? Too white. What was that he’d said about his chains? The three kings…

Thanatos, he thought. One of Hades’s crew. No wonder he’s so pissed off. How to turn that against him… Nick saw the cross street, and he had an idea. He ran, faster than he knew he could. There was a chance he could escape, but it was a long one. And it was pointless if he didn’t get to where he needed to be.

He came to rest at the feet of St. Paul’s Evangelical Lutheran Church. This was where he needed to be – a crossroads. Furthermore, it was the crossroads of three streets, technically. This was where West 32th Street became East 32th Street, while passing through Bull Avenue. It wasn’t as solid a bet as a Y-intersection, but it would have to do.

In the distance, the man in black dragged his chain along the pavement. He was taking his sweet time; Nick had the paranoid thought that he must only move that fast when unobserved. No mercy for this death. The clock on the church began to chime. Midnight. It was do or die. But if she wasn’t watching, it would all be worthless.

The square was empty, just him and the approaching reaper, as if the world itself wanted to turn away from what might happen here. He scanned it, looking for some hint of human - or divine – presence. He found it in the window of a watch store, the flicker of a woman looking outwards – not as if she was behind the glass, but as if she was in it. She was gone as fast as he noticed her, but it was just enough.

“Hecate!†Nick called out to the night sky. He didn’t worry about looking like a fool; all that mattered was survival. “Hecate, your supplicant calls out to you! I invoke the rite of protection! You servant beseeches thee, goddess of the secret ways!â€

A laugh like a sarcophagus lid sliding open wormed its way into his ear. He turned to find Thanatos staring right at him. No chance, mortwright, he said. This is where you meet your maker.

“There shall be a meeting, all right.â€

A middle-aged woman with a voice like steel sliding from a scabbard stepped out of a darkened doorstep, her features disguised by a cloak. “I claim no responsibility for his provenance, however.†Two others, of similar shape and nature, emerged from back alleys and locked shops. They gathered in the middle of the intersection, side by side.

Hecate. The three made one.

This one is mine, Thanatos snarled at the goddess. He has escaped the bonds of death.

“So many have.†Their voices came together like a storm of clashing swords. “And you show no interest in them. Is it because this one has defied you?â€

He’s in my dominion, said Thanatos, and that should be all that matters.

“Really, now. You are playing a game whose rules you can’t comprehend, bailiff. He is not for you to touch. And I imagine, somewhere deep in that maze of cruelty, you know why.â€

Fury swept across his face, and he raised his chain to strike. The goddesses raised their hands, and Thanatos found himself bound in his own chains. What happened next was hard for Nick to describe. It was if the roads began to tie themselves into a knot, swirling around the mad psychopomp. They ferried him away like a conveyor belt wrapped in a Mobius strip, and he was gone from the world.

Nick turned to Hecate. “Thank you, guardian of dead wisdom,†he said. “The one he bound. Virgil. Is he…?â€

“He is wounded,†the three said, “and hurt. But he shall recover. He is not destroyed.â€

“Good. I need to go back and –“

He turned as he said it, but the road seemed to vanish. There were only walls all around.

“You have invoked my mercy. You know the deal.â€

“A favor for a favor. What do you need?â€

“When the time comes… you shall know.â€

There was no grand show like in Thanatos’s dismissal. The three merely slunked back into the shadows, vanishing into the darkness. Fatigue began to catch up with Nick, as his legs began to cramp and he finally realized just how much sweat he was covered in. Running in Savannah, even on a February night, was not a ticket to rest. He wanted nothing more than a shower. But business still called, so he went back towards Virgil.

Man. I can’t wait until I finally learn the stuff that means I don’t have to hand gods an IOU…

[Dr Archeville]

Meet-Up Story: DENIZEN BANEFUL

Dead Head/Doktor Archeville/Protectron

“... and we’re back on TechTalk, Freedom’s premiere news show for all things super-science & ultra-tech. With us again is our good friend Doktor Viktor Archeville...”

“Hello, Eve. Always a pleasure.”

“... and our special guest, straight from The Lab -- Protectron!”

“Greetings, Miss Haimo.”

Tech Talk was part of New Horizon Media’s “Super-Vision” venture, broadcast from the GBN studios in Parkside. The host, Evelyn Haimo, was wearing one of her many ‘tech’ costumes, this one some manner of neon-biker outfit. Archeville had been a guest on the show many times over the years, but was told little of the particulars for this episodes, save that it was about robots. Haimo and the rest of the show’s staff had been trying for weeks to get Protectron on, to see just how ‘real’ the strange robot was, and the strange robot’s schedule finally left it an opening to do so.

“So, let’s get down to it,” Eve said, launching right past any further preliminaries. She turned to the golden robot, “Protectron, in the year or so you’ve been active in Freedom, you’ve captured the hearts and minds of thousands. You even have numerous fan sites!” Viewers at home would see a split-screen effect, with one side being filled with news footage of Protectron soaring through the skies, carrying off robbers, rescuing kittens from trees, putting out fires, and (obviously photoshopped) images of him with assorted fans hanging off of its mighty frame. Eve went on for a few moments more, bringing up the numerous theories held about Protectron’s origins, and Archeville mentally prepared several questions for the robots (many which he’d been wanting to ask ever since he first heard of the strange being) while Protectron recalled the points Dragonfly and Miss Americana had stressed it not mention during the interview. But the two heroes thoughts were quickly interrupted.

Greetings, Doktor. Don’t get up, and don’t bother tracing this -- I’m not speaking to you on your internalized radio, I’m speaking directly to your soul. Of course, a man like you doesn’t believe in such things, but I do, and I know all sorts of tricks to do with them.

But I’ve not contacted you simply to brag. Well, not much. You see, my... associate has a small matter he needs attending, and you’re just the man for the job. There is a house that’s being attacked right now, and many innocents are in danger. Normally my associate would see to it, but the ones attacking it are... resistant to his powers. We don’t know who sent them -- the brief transmission we received was from a young man with a Japanese accent -- but you should be able to figure it out, and stop them, with little effort. Here’s the address.

Oh, and, no, you don’t know that this isn’t some trap... but can you really take the chance?

Hey, Protectron!  Been meaning to screech at ya for some time!

You are a shiny piece of work -- and I mean that as a compliment!  

Only things I’ve seen that comes close to as advanced as you -- that I didn’t make --

is Foundry stuff, but even that’s not as gear as what I’ve seen in you.  I bet...

Ah, time for talk later -- right now, I wanna play!  And I’ve set up a great game

in Lantern Hill, at the old Clark House.  ‘Course, there were n00bs there already,

some dumb field trip or something, but every game needs targets, right?

Here’s the addy.  Can’t wait to see ya in action!

Hah, nah, ya don’t know it’s not a trap -- but ya ain’t gonna risk it, are ya?

Archeville and Protectron both rose at the same time, “I am sorry, I must go,” they said in unison, paused, looked at one another. “You received a-” they began again in unison, nodded, then set off down the hall to the nearest window.

Eve was left alone with the cameraman. “Well... ah, can we get a camera on them?”

---

The two landed at Clark House, former home of Revolutionary War hero Major Jospeh Clark. The 19-bedroom Colonial home had been held in public trust as a historical landmark for decades, and the Freedom Historical Society held numerous tours daily of the painstakingly restored landmark, mostly to elementary school children. But now it was a in danger of becoming a charnel house, if the shrieks coming from within were any indication! The two rushed in, calling out their arrival and promises of aid to the innocents within, barely-noticing the shimmering blue field they passed through.

Tactical Analysis: Sounds of immature organics (Homo sapiens sapiens) in distress coming from beyond walls.

Observation: Numerous radio signals detected. Signals are scrambled; attempting to decrypt.

Observation: Infrasonic pulses detected, at frequencies capable of stimulating fear responses (induced feelings of anxiety, uneasiness, despair, nervous feelings of revulsion or fear, ‘chills’ down the spine, and sensation of pressure on the chest.) in organics.

Warning: Quantity of radio signals, as well as infrasonic and ultrasonic pulses, are sufficient to interfere with internal radar and sonar; must rely primarily on visual and standard auditory senses to navigate.

Ooh, I feel all tingly!

That’s a force field, you unhelpful hedonist!

Yes, but a monodirectional one -- allows matter in, but not out.

Well, of course it is -- this is a trap, remember?

Which would explain the radio static -- prevents easy communication.

We’re going to die in here! And no one will ever find us!

No! This is... okay, I am a bit terrified, but I am not going to let that stop me!

Once inside, the two frantically searched through the dimly-lit house for the children and caretakers they kept hearing, but for several long minutes could find not a soul. At times they thought they saw movement around a corner, but when they ran to catch up they found nothing. Archeville tried to teleport around to get a faster look, but found whoever was behind this had planned well: something interfered with his Belt’s propulsion systems, leaving him unable to fly or teleport.

Then they began to find things: corpses. Long-dead corpses, taken from Lantern Hill’s own graves, judging by the clothing and state of decay. They lay on the floor in the halls, or draped over furniture, as if they’d been walking (or attacking), then collapsed. “Deceased organics are not typically displayed in such a manner, are they?,” Protectron asked.

As Archeville examined the corpses, he replied with a string of funerary customs from numerous cultures (mostly Germanic), stopping himself after the fifth example with “... no. No, they are not. And I cannot imagine why-”

The Doktor was cut off mid-sentence when the corpse he was examining suddenly sprung up and tried to bite him! The other two in the room rose up and lurched towards the Doktor, and the exits out of the room were soon blocked by more of the walkers riding from the hallway. The zombies proved little trouble for the two heroes, and were easily put down with Protectron’s metal fists and the Doktor’s electromagnetic screwdriver/lightsaber, but they both knew these things would be a decidedly deadly threat to the schoolchildren, wherever they were.

“Tiny organics! We are coming for you!” Protectron realized how its words might be misconstrued, “Tiny org- Children! We are coming to help you!”

The two continued searching through the house, battling zombies left and right as they popped out from rooms they were sure they had already cleared, and from behind secret panels they were sure were not included in the original designs of the house. The two worked together surprisingly well; while the radio static prevented them from sending word to anyone outside, or even into another room, they were able to silently communicate with each other, with superhuman rapidity thanks to the superhumanly fast minds. They could easily share battle strategies and go over tactics as the battlefield took shape around them, and coordinate their moves to complement one another. Which proved very useful, as the zombies they faced began to get more challenging, moving faster, withstanding more damage, and were joined by bizarre, mutated dogs and crows.

A heavy thudding sound echoed down one hallway, and the two heroes ran to see what it was. “Perhaps it is the children, banging on a wall, or-” Protectron was now the one cut off mid-sentence, as they rounded a corner and saw the source of the sound: a tall figure in a black leather trenchcoat, pounding on a wall with its fists. It turned to face the two heroes, and its lips pulled back, baring yellowed teeth as it growled one word.

“STAAARRRS”

“Yes, yes, I’m a star, so’s Protectron. You don’t have to keep doing that every time we meet, Dead Head.”

The revenant laughed and slapped the two on the back, “eh, I’s jes’ havin’ some fun, is all! Someone needs to lighten this place up. But what are y’all doin’ here?”

“I could ask you the same thing! We got a message, from someone who claimed to be an ‘associate’ of someone who’d normally be able to stop this, but couldn’t, so he needed my help. And I think I’ve figured out why, too, and it has to do with how these ‘zombies’ are being animated.” Archeville reset his screwdriver to scanning mode to examine the section of wall Dead Head had been pounding on.

“Hey, if you know, I’m all ears, I been tryin’ t’figure that out myself. It ain’t any necromancy I’m familiar with; I heard about this when the spirits told me their bodies was bein’ used, but they had no idea how or by who.”

“... yes, well, be that as it may, I’ve figured out these corpses are being animated by nanites, which share some similarities with the ones I have in my own body. That’s probably why you and the... spirits didn’t sense anything, it’s not like the.. ‘magic’ you’re used to. There are similar nanites in the mutated creatures we’ve found, responsible both for their physical changes and increased aggression. I’m working on a way to shut them off, or at least block their signals, though I’m concerned that stopping them from talking to one another will just leave them ‘wild,’ which would be just as bad. Why were you pounding on this wall?”

“Thought I saw someone duck in behind, but danged if I can figure out how t’open it. Nanites, hunh?” Dead Head shrugged, “Makes as much sense as anythin’ -- Clark House is one of the quietest spots on Lantern Hill. The spirits of everyone who lived here’ve long gone on to their Final Reward -- or, if not, they’re hauntin’ someplace far from here -- an’ there’s not even a trace of anythin’ for a necromancer to use. But why send a buncha techno-zombies here?”

“To test me,” Protectron spoke up as it performed its own examination of the wall. “I did not receive the same message as Doktor Archeville; mine appeared to be from an adolescent technophile, who claimed to have set this all up as a ‘game’ for me. He indicated he had long-admired me, and suggested he knew of my origins.”

“Great,” Archeville grunted as he opened the concealed door, revealing a darkened passage, “so some villainous tech-head altered a historic landmark and endangered a bunch of kids just to test you? So who warned me?” The revenant and the robot both shrugged before the trio ventured down the passage.

The three eventually found the school children and their chaperones, huddled together in a secret basement chamber, after fighting through many more zombies and mutated creatures, lead by Ako, Doc Otaku’s redheaded Angel Android. Once ‘she’ was deactivated (by, ultimately, decapitation), Archeville was able to salvage the last components needed for his Screwdriver to generate a pulse that burned out all the nanites in the area, ‘shutting off’ the zombies and returning the dogs and birds and other animals to normal. This also sent out a feedback pulse which shorted out the fear generators scattered throughout the house; Archeville later found the generators and determined they were of Fear Master’s design. The children had suffered only minor scrapes and scratches, their traumas more emotional than physical, as Fear Master had wanted; in the classic horror movies children and virgins were always safe, and that’s the rules he went with here, despite Otaku wanting a more J-Horror ‘everyone dies messily and for no real reason’ scenario. But while the two villains escaped judgement this day, vacating their temporary hideout before the heroes traced their signals back to them, and got what they wanted from the experiment (Fear Master got to test his latest generation of fear emitters and see Dead Head in action, Otaku got to test his series of nanites and see Protectron in action), neither knew why Archeville had shown up. Who had contacted him?

[Dr Archeville]

Birthday Vignette (Protectron): Cycles

On Sunday, January 1st, 2012, Protectron was one of the few entities up and about working in The Lab. On weekends the facility did not open to the public until later in the morning, and this morning would likely be slower than usual owing to the hangovers so many visitors (and staff) were sleeping off. A month and a half ago the strange robots’ security clearance had been upgraded to nearly that of the Lab’s founders, as had its responsibilities, so it was used to performing opening duties while the rest of the staff finished preparing. Abruptly, at 10:00:00am EST, the following thoughts passed through the mind of Protectron.

Observation: I have -- as far as I can tell -- been online for 364 days. Today could be considered my ‘birthday.’

Review of Accomplishments

Contacted and befriended with Lab Founders (Dragonfly, Miss Americana, Supercape, later Gossamer and Ironclad) and Caradoc.

Update: I have still yet to find a tactful way to ask about why Cardoc is encased in/disguised by a full-body hologram, or nature of constant transmissions to/from Miss Americana. Priority: Low.
Contacted and befriended Atlas, observed uneasy courting rituals between him and Dr. deHavilland.
Assisted Blueshift, Geckoman, and Ironclad in stopping the Power Corps from exploiting stranded extraterrestrial centaur-like beings, and assisted them in returning to their home world.
Contacted and befriended Sharl Tulink, a digital entity rescued by Miss Americana.
Introduced by Supercape to Baron Magnus Katastrof. Impressed by ideas for energy generation/deployment, unimpressed by attitude.
Task Update: Confer with Lab-Founders before responding to Katastrofs’ latest request for information re: The Lab’s generators.

Observed improved health in Friend-Dragonfly, partly from my insistence on proper nutrition, partly from development of pair-bonding with Jill Pique.

Update: Have yet to meet Jill’s brother, Jack, but have gathered that he is a ‘people-person.’ Should increase efforts to meet and converse with him.
Assisted Dragonfly, Miss Americana, and Sharl Tulik in dealing with “The Conquering Mind” (Grue/Legion Virus hybrid).
Initial assessment: for a digital entity from the Internet, Tulik seems oddly dismissive of fellow digital intellects like myself. Concerns lessened due to Miss Americana’s vouching of him.

Assisted Caradoc and Ironclad in stopping villainous ‘steampunk’ roboticist from initiating catastrophic meltdown reaction at Raymond Nuclear Power Plant.

Assisted Cobalt Templar, Freedom Angel, and Glowstar handle a breakout of human-animal hybrids, and track the quasi-governmental organization responsible for their creation and training.

Assisted Lab-Friends Dragonfly, Gossamer, Ironclad, Supercape, and Victory in taking samples from and developing countermeasures against Cosmic Entity 31966, aka “The Gorgon,” and explored ultra-secret Asteroid Belt headquarters of Doktor Viktor Archeville.

Update: Still decoding transmission intercepted from patchwork civilization within Gorgon. Analysis of language itself fascinating from evolutionary linguistics standpoint.
Upgraded security profile in and responsibilities to The Lab

Analysis: I am still no closer to determining my origins. Lab-Friends claim they are sure I am not a threat, but I am not certain, and I predict they do have some lingering concerns.

Query: What am I? Am I unique?

I am sentient -- I can process sensory information, and act upon it -- as most all life is. But I am also sapient: I can learn, am capable of creativity, empathy, reasoning, and self-initiative.

Given my intellect, I am capable of reasoning better than many humans. This, however, does not make me better than them.

Most organics who have met me assume I merely understand emotions, but do not truly feel them. They are incorrect. I am fully capable of feeling boredom, excitement, fear, hatred, love, pleasure, rage, wonder, and more; I feel great compassion and sympathy for organics, and for non-organic life. I emphasize logic and scientific rationality -- which includes suppressing illogical emotional manifestations -- and prefer to rely on direct data rather than supposition or extrapolation, though I can do so if need be.

Supposition: Similarity of my personality to that of the green-blooded science officer from popular 1960s science fiction program is one reason for my popularity among certain social groupings.

There are few other machinekind entities as advanced, physically or mentally, as I am, and it fills me with regret that the most prominent ones are Talos and its organic-hating associates. Why do they insist on destroying -- or, in rare cases, replacing -- organic life? Can they not appreciate that working together is the best choice for both organic and electromechanic life? Perhaps they are not as advanced as they believe, or else they would see that acting in a moral and supportive manner is driven by forces similar to organic evolution: actions which help a society/species to survive and reproduce will be conserved and selected over those that do not.

I would like to think that, in time, they would come to realize this, except Talos has been active in the contemporary era for over four decades (reactivated ~March 1971), and for an unknown time before that, so it is possible it has decades, or even centuries, of life experience. Did some trauma occur in its past to make it hate organics? Or is mental deterioration a threat to all immortal entities? The immortal organic Ace Danger indicates that such monomaniacal xenophobia is not destined for all immortals, though it is impossible to tell with only a few decades of data to draw upon. Is such a mindset inevitable for immortal machinekind, like Talos and myself? The villainous trio of androids known as the Erinyes/the Furies Three, originally the heroic Chorale, point to such a possibility, but they have been active for less time than Talos, and their minds were patterned directly after an existing organic mind (Mary Minstrel), so any developments their minds have gone through over the years would be markedly different from that of Talos or myself, whose minds were never housed in an organic brain, never subject to hormonal influences.

At least, as far as I know my mind was never housed in an organic brain. This does still concern me: the future is, partially, predicated on the past, but what is my past? When I first came online I had only a spotty knowledge of the past, which I have tried to fill in my ‘off-hours’ by studying world history via the internet, which has proven to be tricky at best. I know no more of future events than anyone else (save precognitive superpowered organics), yet the advanced composition of my body imply a possibility that I am from the future. If I am, why do I not recall it? Was knowledge of the future wiped so I would not use that knowledge to unduly affect things? That is illogical; what would be the point of sending a being into the past without knowledge of their future?

Punishment? Incarceration? What could I have done to warrant such punishment?

Regardless of where I am from, who made me, or why I was made, I know what I want out of my existence: to safeguard the survival and reproduction of life, in all its wondrous and myriad forms, on this planet and throughout the universe, and that the best way to do is is the assist the dominant organics, Homo sapiens sapiens. I know I have allies, associates, and friends. And that is sufficient.

[KnightDisciple]

NPC Spotlight

Corbin Hughes of Erde

Fear and Hatred in St. Louis

Erde, May 2012

Corbin Alphonse Hughes was a complicated young man. Despite his appearance, and the way he carried himself, he was only 18 years old. He hadn't even hit his second decade of life, yet for over half of it he had been the dedicated servant of the American Reich, and by extension, the Third Reich as a whole (long may Superior reign and live). Over half his life had become consumed by two emotions: Fear, and Hate.

Fear was his weapon, his sword, his shield. The ring on his hand let him craft thought and light into constructs, and the ring's subtle power made sure said constructs were of the thing his enemy feared most. He'd seen some terrible things with that. Even more potent, he could reach out with invisible fingers and grab hold of their minds, yanking their deepest, darkest fears to the forefront of their thoughts, causing them to break down sobbing in terror. That fear gave him power; it fed into his ring, kept it strong. His own fears fed into the ring. The fear of his parents being killed by the Resistance in retaliation for his own work as an Inquisitor. Fear of displeasing his masters; he'd met Superior himself, and knew with absolute certainty the leader of the Third Reich could snap him like a twig. Fear of being caught in the power games of the Reich because of the terrible weapon he wielded. Fear of losing again to that girl and her thrice-cursed Blue Ring, and it's stinging flames. Fear of his own doubts being exposed by a Reich psychic, his dislike of his terrible work being paraded out for all to see. Such doubts would lead to death, but it would not be a swift death; not for him, and not for his family.

Hatred was his blanket, his favored drink. He hated the Resistance; they claimed moral superiority, but he'd seen some of them do terrible things. He hated the corrupt, lazy men who slandered his mother and father for their hard-working ways. He hated the workers in his family's factories who glared at his parents as they strove to make the workers' lives better. He hated his fellow Inquisitors, the ones who reveled in their terrible work; the ones who took outright pleasure in causing pain. He hated his fellows who exploited faithful Reich citizens just to exercise their petty power. He hated that brown-haired peasant girl, with her Blue Ring, her defiant eyes, beautiful face, and aura of tantalizing mystery. Most of all, he hated how the Reich he served stripped him of his childhood, forged him into a weapon, and ground down everyone around him until despair was the strongest flavor in their emotions. In summary, he hated virtually the entire world, except his parents, his sister, and perhaps a handful of his fellow members of the Reich, ones he knew were upstanding patriots determined to protect their fellow citizens.

He still remembered that day, 9 years ago, when the ring on his right hand had fallen from the sky. He'd been playing in the backyard of his family's modest home, under the watchful eye of his mother. Father was at his factory again, doing his best to ensure that food was processed, packaged, and shipped to the rest of the American Reich. They weren't rich, but Father was an excellent manager, and Mother helped (despite the whispers it often generated). Father was kind, at least after a fashion; certainly to his son, and even largely to his workers. He demanded excellence, but he was one of the few to use three 8-hour shifts instead of two 12-hour shifts, citing greater work efficiency, reduced loss of workers to health problems, and barely different operating costs. Plus, it kept more people busy doing something besides stewing in discontent at yet another year of food rations. Even the Hughes family, all four of them left in this battered world, were not immune to rations. Corbin had been predicted to grow tall, taller than most men by the time he was a teenager; he would be built like the mightiest of soldiers. But then the shortages came, and never left, and while he did not grow up truly stunted, he never reached the physical potential his genetics would have gifted him with. Back then, it hadn't been as evident. Mother had gone inside for a moment, answering the telephone; Corbin was rolling a toy truck back and forth in the dirt. Suddenly, there was something shiny in the truck's bed! It was a ring, all silvery metal and a glowing yellow gem.

Being a curious young boy, Corbin slipped the ring on. He then promptly screamed in fear as shapeless masses of yellow light poured out of the ring like a river, swirling all around him. His mother ran outside, but couldn't even reach him. It took some of the more skillful members of the Wehrmacht with powers to really get him calmed down and restrained, and by that point it was too late. The ring wouldn't come off his hand, and while behind closed doors some suggested just killing him and giving it to a more experienced soldier, cooler heads prevailed. After all, he wasn't even 10 years old yet; surely he was young enough to mold!

So a “deal†was made, under the shadow of understood threats, that Corbin Alphonse Hughes was to be a shared ward of both his family and the Third Reich. He would live and learn at a special school for four days out of the week, then go live with his family for the other three; in this way, he would be given a lifeline of sanity, and a weak point to threaten and exploit. Yet despite their best efforts, Corbin grew up knowing his parents loved him, even as they had a second child, a daughter, who became the apple of all their eyes. Corbin doted on his younger sister whenever he could, making her drawings or carvings that they plastered on her walls. He never, ever used his powers in front of her, and almost never displayed anything in front of his parents; the most they'd see were his flight and the glow that suffused him and protected him. Even as young as 12, he was learning the finer points of his profession, and it wasn't something he wished to show them.

Six years later, he stood on a balcony, overlooking the sprawl that was St. Louis. He'd learned much in the 9 years he'd been a “special student†of the Third Reich. He'd learned the basics, of course; no Inquisitor was going to be an uneducated simpleton. But he'd also delved into psychology, the understanding of the human mind, how it functioned. He'd learned ways to read people without them realizing. He'd practiced his powers, mostly on prisoners; some of them were simply getting a bit of punishment before release, while others were receiving the final punishment of the Reich. He'd learned all sorts of interrogation techniques, from the subtle to the...distasteful. He preferred the ones that never touched the prisoner; more reliable.

He still remembered with horrible clarity the barely-contained terror he'd felt when, as a boy of 14, he'd been brought before Superior himself, leader of much of the world. The blond man sat in his chair (throne), as soft smile on his face (a mask) as he beheld one of the Inquisition's newest weapons. Five years of training gave him the discipline to stand at attention and stare at nothing in particular as the Lead Inquisitor himself explained the nature of his abilities to Superior, his wife, and the beautiful, terrible creature that was his daughter. For a moment, he'd been enthralled, but then he saw her eyes, and he shivered. Any attraction died then and there, after seeing the cruel gaze she leveled at all before her.

“Uh, Inquisitor? You asked to be informed when 30 minutes had passed and the prisoner had been given a chance to recover. That time has passed, and she seems to be mostly lucid.â€

“Mostly? Is the rest of her lucidity not present due to jitters, or is she simply non-responsive?â€

“Jitters, sir. Seems 5 minutes of raw terror isn't so easy to shake off.â€

“No, I suppose it isn't. Very well then; I was simply getting some fresh air while I centered myself. Have to keep the mind focused when you're using this thing, after all.â€

The aide flinched as Inquisitor Hughes gestured with the shining yellow ring. Hughes had never, ever abused his aides or his fellow Inquisitors. That didn't mean that the all-black leather uniform didn't inspire fear and trembling in the average person. The man who was a decade older than the ring-slinger spoke again, his nerves still showing.

“Of course, sir. Will you be restarting the session, or would you like Inquisitor Matthews to take over? I've taken to understand he offered to do so. Enthusiastically.â€

“NO!â€

His aura flared for a moment, and the aide took a step back. Corbin smoothed the front of his uniform, offering the aide an apologetic smile.

“I'm sorry about that; stress of the last couple of weeks. Inform Matthews his...touch...isn't needed in this case. I think I'm quite close to a breakthrough, one that will get us excellent results.â€

The aide nodded and scurried inside. After making sure his mental barriers and baffles were in place, Hughes allowed himself a stray thought of scorn, directed at his fellow Inquisitor.

'Matthews is a stupid brute; he's more interested in having his “fun†than he is gathering information. He'd leave the prisoner a wreck and get nothing but false positives. At least with me, she'll be worked over by a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. Then I'll make sure she's given one small mercy, at least.'

With a sign, the pony-tailed Inquisitor walked back into the “interview room†where a 20-something woman was dressed in dull prisoner garb and strapped into a hard metal reclining chair, not unlike one a dentist might use. The lights focused on her eyes, so that Hughes was shrouded in shadow as he circled her chair for a full minute before speaking in low tones, a brotherly air about him.

“Now...Samantha, wasn't it? Yes. Samantha. You're a member of the Resistance, though not a high-ranking officer. I'm a reasonable man, I know how your lot operates. I only want one piece of information from you. One thing, and the interview here will be over, I promise. Give me what I want, and you can go back to your holding cell, get a meal, catch some sleep, and so forth. Doesn't that sound nice?â€

So it went, as the Inquisitor plied his trade, sending occasional bursts of raw fear into the prisoner's mind, all while a part of him wept at the deeds he did, even as another part of his mind tried to convince himself that he was being merciful, doing only the bare minimum required to gather information, rather than leaving her to the others. Her, and the half-dozen like her today. Like every day. Every week. Every month. For the last four years of his life.

When Inquisitor Corbin Alphonse Hughes slept that night, his dreams would be filled with nothing but fearful, hate-stained faces staring up at him from the interrogation chair, or from the dirty streets, or from the dark alleys, or all the other places he plied his dangerous trade.

After all, that's all he was good for, wasn't it? Fear, and Hate.

[Electra]

Character Meetup

Wander/Fleur de Joie

"Change of Shift"

 

 

It was almost midnight on a Friday night, but for once Erin wasn't working security at HAX or out patrolling the city. Instead, she slouched on a massive overstuffed leather couch, watching Yo Gabba Gabba and wishing desperately that she could change the channel. Channel surfing was not an option, though, since to do so would require moving her arm four inches to pick up the remote. With a green-haired baby asleep in one arm and a sharp-toothed toddler using her opposite leg for a pillow, she wasn't about to stir even the slightest bit. She hadn't been able to feel her arm for an hour or more, but it seemed a small price to pay.

 

Erin was just starting to nod off herself, strange visions of giant puppets unfolding behind her eyes, when soft footsteps brought her immediately alert. She relaxed when she caught a glimpse of green hair around the bulk of the television. Moments later, Stesha Lumins, better known in Freedom City as Fleur de Joie, walked in. She was dressed to the nines in a blue evening gown, and though she looked a little bit worn down around the edges, she smiled when she caught a glimpse of Erin and her charges. "Looks like you had a busy night," she whispered, slipping off her shoes to cross the room.

 

Erin smiled wryly at that, grateful when Stesha scooped up the baby (who didn't so much as stir at being moved, after all,) then flexed her arm to try and get the blood flowing again. "They had fun," she murmured back. "I thought JJ would push her around, but she held her own pretty well. And there was no way she was going to go to bed while he was still awake. Since he stays up pretty late, that made things tough, but not too bad. Did you all have fun?"

 

"Oh yes, it was wonderful," Stesha told her, keeping her voice low even as she sat down in the couch's matching easy chair to rest her feet. "It was great to get out to a party for a little while, and to spend some time with Jack and Taylor. Even if Derrick couldn't come, it was lovely. I really appreciate you watching Ammy too."

 

"No big deal," Erin said with a shrug. "I was already watching JJ, so another kid didn't add all that much hassle. And she's cute."That was certainly true; Amaryllis Lumins took after the best of both her parents, and if it weren't for the green hair, she probably could've been on the cover of baby magazines. As for JJ, well, he was a handful, but Avenger had helped out with the Daisy situation, and even in a town as friendly as Freedom City, favors begat favors. "Where is Mr. Lum- um, Derrick?" she asked curiously. "It's like nobody's seen Dark Star around in ages."

 

As soon as Erin said it, she realized it was the wrong question. Stesha's face fell a little, much as she tried to hide it behind a smile. "He's been working off-planet lately, sometimes out of this galaxy entirely. Wherever someone needs a hero, no matter how far away or how long it takes, he wants to be there. Freedom City has so many heroes protecting it, and Earth Prime as a whole has so many, it's easy to forget sometimes that there are places without a single hero to help them when things are desperate. I miss him, of course, but it's such important work." She pressed her lips against Amaryllis' soft hair for a moment, making the baby sigh in her sleep before nestling into her mother's shoulder. "But you know," she added, changing the subject as though it were trivial, "it's very nice to finally meet you. I've heard about you for ages, but our paths have never seemed to cross."

 

"Yeah," Erin agreed. "Trevor said he went over to your place and helped fix your generator awhile back. He gave me one of your cookies."

 

"He's a nice guy," Stesha confirmed with a smile. "Quiet, but he's obviously the dependable type. You know, after he did that for me, I put together a bouquet for him, for someone special on Valentines Day. I didn't realize until I talked to Taylor weeks later that it was for you."

 

"I remember that," Erin nodded. "They were really pretty, and they lasted a long time. Trevor's not really a flowers kind of guy, so it was a nice surprise."

 

"Sometimes you have to train a guy into being a flowers kind of guy," Stesha advised with a chuckle. "But just because a man isn't romantic doesn't mean he doesn't care."

 

"Oh, he's romantic, he's way more romantic than I am," Erin told her. "He's the one who remembers important dates and plans trips and stuff, but he's more into useful gifts than flowers and stuff. And sometimes you just don't want useful." She paused, unsure why she was saying all this to someone who was basically a total stranger. Stesha was just the sort of person who was easy to talk to, especially in the middle of the night when she was tired

 

"Useful has its place," Stesha agreed, seemingly unperturbed by the confidential turn in the conversation. "But it's nice to get something that you wouldn't buy for yourself. You might need to drop a few hints."

 

"I'm not good with hints," Erin admitted with a frown.

 

Stesha laughed. "There's always the direct approach, I suppose. I love Derrick with all my heart, but he is the most hopeless person when it comes to hints and innuendo and subtlety. When I want to make him aware of something, I usually have to beat him over the head with it."

 

"Well, I could do that," Erin decided, cracking a small smile. "Way more my style." On the couch next to her, JJ began stirring, yawning and blinking sleepy eyes that had just the faintest hint of red. "Uh-oh, I think naptime might be over. Do you know where Jack and Taylor are?"

 

"They should be here soon, Taylor wanted to run by the store for a few things first." Stesha grinned. "Apparently for some reason it's less hassle to shop in formal eveningwear in the middle of the night than to take JJ out and try to sit him in a cart for half an hour."

 

"Mm, can't imagine why..." Erin shifted quickly on the couch when JJ began sniffing her leg. "Hey, none of that now," she reminded him sternly. "No biting, even if you could break the skin." JJ sniveled, giving her a pathetic look that showed his tiny fangs.

 

"If you need to go home, I can hold the fort here until they get back," Stesha offered, moving over to the couch and sitting down. JJ, who obviously knew Stesha as well as he knew Erin, snuggled up against her but made no attempt to bite. "JJ and I are good buddies. And hey, our favorite show is on!" She gestured to the TV where DJ Lance Rock was once again opening his magic boombox.

 

"Well, if you really want to..." The overly responsible part of Erin wanted to stay till the bitter end, however late the Farettis wound up stay out. That part, however, was quickly overwhelmed by the part that wanted to go home and not watch any more kid shows for awhile. "Tell them I'll give them a call tomorrow, could you? And it was nice to meet you. Thanks."

 

"My pleasure," Stesha told her. "And thank you again for watching Ammy. I'm sure I'll see you around. Freedom City really is just a small town in some ways." As Erin left, Stesha settled in on the couch with JJ on her lap, comfortable with the children even as she wished she weren't quite so alone tonight. Erin was lucky, she thought, to have someone she was eager to go home to.

[Gizmo]

NPC Limelight - Wingman

Redbird [AI Imprinted Upon Trevor Hunter]

June 22, 2012

 

The Furion autonomic machine intelligence known as Redbird did not sleep in the sense that organic beings did.

 

When at rest she generally preferred to remain merged with a vehicle such that she was afforded some mobility and metaphorical breathing room. The Midnight Manor, underground base of operations for the partner she was currently imprinted upon, the second nocturnal vigilante to go by the name Midnight, offered no shortage of choices to that end, a variety of selection that she quite enjoyed, but her favourite remained the newly rebuilt Night Cycle. She considered herself a motorcycle, really, in the way a being who wore clothes might consider themselves a summer or winter.

 

The Manor also allowed her to remain in contact with Earth's myriad of information networks, primarily the internet but also television channels, police radios and other broadcasted information to which she supposed she technically wasn't supposed to have access. She was also able to place herself in a sort of stand-by state of rest when her talents were not immediately needed.

 

That did not mean she couldn't get bored.

 

She certainly respected the need for the private time Trevor Hunter was presumably enjoying with his battlemate, the shieldmaiden Erin White, in the mansion above. If anything, she encouraged it! Part of the reason her current persona was female was in direct response to the increased effectiveness Midnight demonstrated when working in tandem with his formidable female allies. In fact she had adopted a few mannerisms almost directly from Wander, who frankly was much closer to what the intelligence was used to in a warrior than the stealthy detective, but she'd picked up early on that admitting that openly might have been somehow socially awkward. Humans were oddly sensitive about such things but on the other hand were considerably less likely to challenge each other to duels to the death over perceived slights, so perhaps it evened out.

 

She'd also picked up that the battlemates received frustratingly little time for strictly amourous pursuits amidst their other responsibilities. Redbird did not perceive the passage of time quite the same way the mortal humans did, but the imprinting process had helped with that once it had settled in fully. Organics certainly had a talent for filling their hours and humans no less for their distressingly brief lifespans. Red Falcon had never settled on a single mate but he'd certainly been active in that aspect and Redbird was well aware of how important such interludes were to her organic partner's peak efficiency. Privately she also thought the rider and shieldmaiden made an aesthetically pleasing pair but that was not really the sort of metric a machine intelligence was supposed to measure against.

 

Still, she was somewhat at loose ends when a notification popped on on the bank of computer screens in the Manor indicating that the silent alarm of a jewelry shop a little further into the city had been tripped. Eager for battle, Redbird turned on the Night Cycle's headlights and warmed the engine but hesitated as she prepared to patch into the mansion's intercom. By her calculations, it had been a period longer than average since the humans upstairs had had opportunity to engage in their customary courtship rituals. Both were warriors born, she knew, and would still ride into battle if summoned but it seemed ill timing.

 

If she'd had the appropriate musculature, the intelligence would have frowned. There was a human social role the luck-weaver Mark Lucas had spoken of briefly, a noble facilitator tasked with seeing to obstructions to romance as they arose. A 'wingman'. An appropriate duty for Redbird, then! she thought to herself, the Night Cycle's paint job shifting to incorporate a stylized wing pattern across the sides in a deep crimson while simultaneously holographic projectors unfolded in discrete locations along the motorcycle's framework.

 

With a flicker of power a statuesque woman on amazonian proportions appeared atop the vehicle, clad in dark leathers that matched the colour scheme of the bike. Allowing herself a brief moment of vanity, the intelligence observed her holographic avatar in the Night Cycle's mirrors, ensuring that it was convincing. Satisfied with the effect, Redbird instructed the motorized pathways of the Manor to align themselves in the direction of one of the many tunnels with led to the city above. With a mere thought, she was speeding away to the scene of the crime.

 

Coming out through a passageway cleverly concealed behind a wheeled refuse container on a track, Redbird rocketed out of an alley and onto the lamppost lit street a mere block away from the source of the alarm. The Night Cycle's sensors were able to perceive three masked men exiting through a broken window, bags laden with stolen trinkets over their shoulders as they piled into a sedan. A chase, is it! the intelligence exalted inwardly. She decided to restrict herself to the motorcycles natural speed as the car sped away with squealing tires, foregoing the enhancements of her Furion technology to make things more sporting.

 

Disappointingly, she found herself caught up to the thieves almost immediately. Redbird supposed she should not have been surprised; Midnight appeared to take considerably better care of his vehicles than the average philistines of this world. The holographic avatar atop the Night Cycle affected a sigh before pulling up alongside the car. "Ho, villains!" she shouted at the startled driver, his ski mask pulled up over his eyes to rest on the top of his head. "You are most unworthy quarry, but still you have been caught. I believe it is custom on this world to offer a chance for surrender!"

 

The robber in the back seat responded by rolling down his window and letting off a few rounds with his handgun. The bullets passed harmlessly though the hologram but came perilously close to scratching the paint of the motorcycle below. Redbird sped up enough to pull in front of the sedan and released a stream of caltrops from a compartment beneath the seat. The small spikes proved more than a match for the tires of the thieves' car, which popped loudly and sent the vehicle into an uncontrolled swerve that ended with its front end folded around a streetlight.

 

Pulling back up and around, Redbird noted with satisfaction that the car's primitive safety precautions had successfully deployed, leaving the criminals groaning groggily but otherwise unharmed. With a thought, a small mechanical arm extended from the body of the Night Cycle, its end lighting up with a miniature spot welder. With a little work the doors of the sedan had been fused shut, turning the vehicle into a temporary prison.

 

Just as she finished, the auditory sensors on the bike picked up the sound of wailing sirens. "Ah, the enforcers of your laws approach. It is a shame I do not have colourful paper wrappings on hand to properly present you to them, ha ha!" Well pleased with her work, she pulled back into the road, loudly announcing, "And now to disappear as silently as I arrived, the better to nurture fear and confusion amongst the criminal element!" With that the mysterious motorcycle and its intangible rider rode off into the night.