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  #1  
Unread 8th of October, 2004, 23:27
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Issue #2, part 2.

Madison Square Garden, New York City.
Altitude +50 meters
11.32 pm, January 16th 2010.


Quantum

It’s liberating.

Some liberal - in the academic, rather than social sense - philosophers describe liberty as the greatest freedom one can have without impinging on the rights of others. Or, in other words, the greatest freedom compatible with an equal freedom for others.

By those terms, you’re liberty is of the first, but not the second variety.

Quantum hangs in the night air, casually dressed. A thermos is affixed in space within arms reach, not moving an inch. Likewise a folded, well thumbed newspaper and Baneman’s Introductory Laws of Quantum Imposition. Earlier, the air itself acted as a hook for his jacket, but as it gets later the chill is too sharp for that. The warmth that floods out of the arena below you carries with it the heavy beats of the Beastie Boys - it’s their farewell performance, apparently, which is odd; they’d just broken up a couple of months before you had the accident. Having held it in place so long, your aura has dimmed somewhat, to a low crackle.

You partially wish you could get closer to the concert, but when you tried, the thrumming baseline made it like plunging into boiling water. It’s not your kind of music, exactly, anyway - but one thing it is up here, apart from liberating, is lonely. The only company you’ve had all day is a jet that roared by four or so hours ago - and you only classify that as company because, somehow, you saw the little girl looking out of the window. About six, long blonde hair, haunting sort of face. How you made out that much detail at this distance, you’re not sure. But you doubt you’ll ever forget those strange, gray eyes.

Liberating. being up here. You feel like you could do it forever - and because you’re not imposing yourself on anyone, it’s philosophic liberty, too. You couldn’t call it the second kin of liberty - not everyone has this freedom. It belongs to the metahuman -

“OK, I’ll bite. Are you just tryin’ ta steal a free listen to tha show?”

You pivot on the spot, and see a tall, ox-shouldered man, bobbing gently up and down in the night. His hair is cropped marine-short, and his arms are crossed over a tight gray top with some kind of curved, orange logo. He looks fit and confident, and his gaze is steady on you, waiting, assessing, no hostility present but certainly the suggestion of possibility.

Liberation. From the law of gravity, from the press of the city... but not from the Law of Unintended Consequences.

Last edited by Dirigible; 8th of October, 2004 at 23:36.
  #2  
Unread 8th of October, 2004, 23:29
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The Black Freighter, New York City.
11.32 pm, January 16th 2010.


Wreck

Crack “Guh-aaaaaagh!” Crack “Gnnnnnnn-uhhhhhhh!” Crunch “Kaaaaaaggg! Pleasssssarrrrgh!”

You let him go.

The drunk collapses back from you the broken mass of his arm, flopping like a gutted fish, his skin turned to wax and dotted with a pointillade of sweat. He suddenly gags, pukin’ over himself from pain, fear, both - whatever.

Some guys don’t get it - you are as tough as you look. Tougher. And no matter how much they drink, no matter how hard they think they are, no matter what trick they pull (you glance at the splinters of pool stick around your stool), that ain’t gonna change.

You take a slug of brew, scowling. It takes a effort of will to get drunk, these days - you can’t do it cheerfully and inadvertently. Can’t get pissed, hit on some girl, punch a guy and stagger out for a nice curry (a bad habit you picked up from a former merc buddy - a limey psychotic called the Minister). If you do, they guy you hit’ll be in worse shape than that squirt Osprey was after that Irish motherlover went Extreme Makeover on his face. And your vomit, when expelled with enough force (say, twenty five bottles of Jaeger Premium), can dent concrete.

Ludo slides you another bottle. He knows you well enough to know your habits and limits. Pity no-one else here does. You haven’t shown your face enough lately, that’s the thing. Everyone’s forgotten that you are, without doubt, the baddest son of a bitch in the Freighter.

It’s turning out to be a crappy night, so far. You don’t know whether its the three guys you’ve had to wreck tonight, or just that this place isn’t hitting it off tonight, but you’re looking forward to the good strip clubs opening at midnight. Then you’ll find a way to get rid of some of this damn cash.

Ludo pushes a pitcher of beer and two glasses in front of you. You look up, about to question, but see a twitch of his lip and crinkle at the corner of one eye. The old Russian seaman cocks his head and nods to one side:

“From za lady.”

You look. Well... look... awwww, yes. There is a god.

The blonde you saw through the window... who’s picture now adorns the inside of your locker in t he Foundation weight room. She smiles at you, leaning against the other end of the bar, all curves. The tight, horizontal black and white striped top she wears doesn’t so much conceal, as remind you of what you saw through the telephoto. Long lashes cross slightly over blue-green eyes.

Someone puts on Robbie William’s “Angels” on the jukebox. You’ll deal with him later. Right now...

Last edited by Dirigible; 8th of October, 2004 at 23:36.
  #3  
Unread 8th of October, 2004, 23:30
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Hell’s Kitchen, New York City.
Patrol.
11.32 pm, January 16th 2010.


Osprey

The Osprey Stoops!

It’s perfectly accurate, you think, tracing a sleek parabola through the air. A bird of prey stoops on it’s victim... but that’s kinda of an archaic word.

You arc through the air, bottoming out into a beautiful roll in the air, rising again and landing gracefully on the ledge of a building. You think you see someone moving through the venetian blinds. Voyeurism ain’t your thing, though, and they’re probably just surprised by the noise of your landing, light as it was.

Nah. If you used that as your war-cry... err, catch-phrase... err, motto, people’d laugh. Say: “Why, ya got a back problem?” Besides... painful to admit, but you need that element of surprise. You’ll never have Daredevil’s ability to elude and take down the ones who know you’re there... Strange you think of that while patrolling his neighbourhood.

Well, not that strange. You leap, and land with a metallic tap on a great water tank, part of some archaic, gutted cooling system on top of a tenement block. There.

A basketball court, dark, surrounded by a rough plant wall with only a couple of small gates. Three guys on the court, barely visible in the waste light from a flickering street lamp. Not playing basketball, that’s for sure. One of them has a case, or a box, or something. Drug dealers? Fence and clients? A fourth figure, stumbling away along the street, looks like he just left - is he high? Mugging victim?

Suspicious, definitely, you think, crouching atop the water tank, minimizing your silhouette.

Last edited by Dirigible; 8th of October, 2004 at 23:35.
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Unread 8th of October, 2004, 23:31
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Temporary Camp GT-1401, somewhere in the continental United States.
Nothing You See Is Happening
11.32 pm, January 16th 2010.


The Mechanic

Twelve hours ago, a man walked into your office and brushed past your secretary.

Wind beats down on you from the double rotors of the Blackfoot helicopter, making the hem of your trenchcoat sweep through the air like the patient cuts of a kendo master. A man in dark fatigues waves you over, his lips working against the eardrum-bruising noise of the machine.

”Dr. Thomas,” he said in a crisp tone. “The Government needs your help,” hint of a wry smile. “On top of what you’re doing for us in the Centinels.” Good old ‘open secret’ identity. He was military - not regular... Defense Intelligence? DARPA? Homeland Security Combined Operations? “There is an object in our possession that we... cannot explain. Your expertise in esoteric technologies is well known... I’ve been authorized to request you as a consultant.”

You make your way over to the man, feeling the rain lash down. Despite that, and the lateness of the hour, it’s warm - you must a long way south of New York. You can’t be sure where. Normally, you would be able to make a shrewd guess: you saw how fast the rotors were turning as you got in, kept track of changes in angle, timed the speed by your heartbeat and the frequency of the rotors... but, despite that, you just don’t know. The pilot must have kinked or jaged somewhere, somehow, broken your calculations... Where are we? you mouth to the man. Can’t say, re responds, grabbing you gently by the arm and pulling you out from under the chopper.

The Blackfoot rises into the sky, and you finally straighten. You’re standing on a rocky slope, with gravel underfoot, and a cliff rising into the night above you. Small lanterns mark out a path, and you can see dozens of tents spaced around you. A hummer is parked off to one side. The man who met you salutes and starts to head up the slope. “Sir? Follow me.”

As you climb, not knowing what else to do this instant, you realise it, after just a few steps. You’re in Colorado. And in the shadow of the cliff your approach, in the horizontal cleft in the rock, are ruins. Your guide, and the lanterns, lead to a doorway into the cliff amidst the tumbled walls and tower foundations.

The military has requested you to come out to the middle of the desert to look at a piece of advanced technology... in an multi-millennia old native American ruin?

What the hell is going on?


Last edited by Dirigible; 8th of October, 2004 at 23:37.
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Unread 8th of October, 2004, 23:33
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King’s Point, New York City.
Beneath Tideway St..
11.32 pm, January 16th 2010.


Bolt

Dirty water evaporates, rises as dirty vapor, condenses on the dirty roof, and drips as dirty water down the back of your rank second-hand shirt.

You shiver, and square your hunched shoulders as best you can. Have you been down here two days? Has it been more? Less? The lack of sun... disorienting. The smell. The endless emptiness that manages to be cramped with filth and rats and roaches - huge roaches. When it’s not empty and silent and echoing, it’s packed with stinking, brawling vagrants, criminals, the homeless, the dispossessed, the lost... all trying to get by, all scared, all paranoid. A remarkably high proportion of metahumans. The so called Mole People.

You don’t know whether you’ve been roaming aimlessly, or following a careful trail - but Trisha’s been leading the way more often than not, guiding you through cramped tunnels, subterranean plazas, abandoned subway stations and teeming basements. How sure she is - or you are - of her plans, you can’t say. You’ve talked to a lot of people, some more lucid than others; the scariest ones were those in whom you could sense the powers... Novas, Altereds, geniuses... were they driven mad by the energy in their genes, in their abnormal bodies and brains? Or did life shit on them again and again til they just - gave way?

And, in either case... aren’t you vulnerable?

That broke you. Already, you were comming down from the methamphetamines. You were cold, tired, hungry, so sick, paranoid, exhausted in the soul. Collapse. You cried, afraid of dying, of being captured y the Foundation, afraid of losing Elizabeth, of seeing Trisha (or was that the other way round?), so afraid of becoming a derelict, a broken-person like those in the sewers. You cried, and she held you. Then she begged a fix off an old air force vet. And she drugged you up again.

You think she cried a little, then.

Some kind soul, mistaking you for newcommers, frightened, recently dispossessed victims of society (was he right?) moved to let you both lean against some kind of bulky, khaki electrical device that must have been part of the subway - so warm, compared to the rest of this place. She rested her head against your shoulder as you slept fitfully through the night.

Eventually, you awaken. Silhouettes crawl across the wall, hunched figures, deformed figures, human figures, attempting to be stealthy, though soft whispers, mutters and strangled coughs reach your ears. Creeping away from you. Trisha’s soft, dyed-copper hair is tangled against your neck, her face turned into your shoulder. Asleep. Beautiful.

The mole people continue their exodus.

Last edited by Dirigible; 8th of October, 2004 at 23:38.
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Unread 10th of October, 2004, 06:04
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Ryan wakes quietly almost forgetting where he is... almost... with a sigh the memories return... the wandering... the breakdown (again)... the tears... Trisha holding him, almost chasing off the depression, almost... the drugs (again)...

For a moment he wonders how much his body can withstand, how are the drugs are effecting him, not that he wasn't screwed up to begin with... But he had to hold it together, for Trisha and those poor souls trapped in cyro... more then likely against thier wills... they all needed him, once they were ok he could let the darkness shallow him but until then he had to continue, had to fight... Elizabeth would expect nothing less.

Glancing at the sleeping form next to him, he gently caresses her cheek with his fingers, careful not to wake her. Stopping for a moment as a pang of guilt flows through him... would Elizabeth not like this? Would she want him to be alone for the rest of his life? He didn't think so, she would want him to be happy again but is that possible with Trisha? She was such a complicated person... so hard to read... was she doing this just for the story or was there more to it?

Ryan sighs again, he should wake her up... should get moving again, who knew how long until his next breakdown but try as he might all he could do was wrap his arm around her protectively, lean back against the heating device and feel her be so close to him. a little piece of calm in the midst of chaos... like the eye of a hurricane.
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Unread 11th of October, 2004, 21:33
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Wreck

It's getting harder and harder to go out an enjoy himself these days. The increased body density makes getting trashed that much more difficult and his very size makes him a veritable proving grounds for any would-be macho idiot. Guys were doing it before the accident, and now? It's like he's got a god damned reputation around here. Maybe that's not a bad thing.

He's about ready to call a bad night a bad night and head back to the gym before the strip joints open up when Ludo drops the pitcher in front of him. Tracy can't believe his luck. It's her. The only good luck he's had since signing onto this damn gig. Flashbacks of the photo, and then the memory of the taking of it, surge through his mind, intoxicating him far more than the dozen brews he's had tonight. So pleased by this change of fortune, Tracy never wonders what a girl that looks like that is doing in a place like the Freighter.

Hooking the two mugs in one hand and the pitcher in the other, Wreck ambles his way across the Freighter. He inclines his head as he approaches, giving her the reverse nod. Maybe this night won't be quite so bad after all. Pulling up a stool, Wreck eases onto it and grins while placing a mug in front of her.

"Hey."
  #8  
Unread 12th of October, 2004, 10:43
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Osprey

In a world seemingly filled with Novas like Wreck, Bolt, and Quantum, heroes like Osprey often ask themselves why they should even bother. Other than a clever mode of transportation, he's just human muscle, human brain, human reflexes. An athletic young lad with an apparent talent for getting himself in over his head. He'd spent the past few days ruminating to himself in this way, thinking that maybe he should just stick to the alleys that he'd done so well in. 'Striking down the little fish in a big ocean,' he'd told himself when he first started, a fitting apropism for his chosen codename.

Of course, that wasn't exactly why he'd chosen the name. He'd hoped that people would appreciate the sublety of it, a meaning that he'd come across purely by accident, but even The Mechanic hadn't picked it up. Ah, well.

As he crouched with a somberness befitting his niche, Rob watched the youths gathered in the basketball court. The fellow lurching along in the other direction might be a victim of violence...nah. Muggers wouldn't likely just stand there as their mark staggered away to summon help. That left only the question of what was actually going on here...that good old feeling was beginning to gather in his chest, the tightness in his guts and the chill rising up his back that always came before a fight. Rob wanted to kick the crud out of these punks, needed something life-affirming after his near-death with The Hammer. But first, he had to be sure.

Rising silently from the watertank, Osprey glides cautiously until he is positioned directly above the lammpost, and listens.

Last edited by GusPorterhouse; 12th of October, 2004 at 10:45.
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Unread 13th of October, 2004, 14:27
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Osprey

It’s an effort holding your place in midair. While you’re perfectly capable of it, habit and intuition always tell you you weren’t meant to travel this way. It’s not even the tree-monkey fear, passed down through the generations: *don’t let me fall!*; it’s a personal thing, the feeling that something’s just not right about hovering like this. Your dark leathers blend easily in with the night above, but none of them chance to look up anyway.

“..d’ya mean sixty bucks! They woz pract’ly givin’ away th’ ammo last week!” one of the two men in bulky, worn street clothing asks from the shade of his hoodie.

“That was then,” the scraggly, bearded guy in fatigues replied, leaning against a large, wheeled suitcase. “Now... hell, it’s hardly worth the trouble for me to carry ‘em. Dinja hear? The capes busted some supplier. Less supply, same demand, higher cost. Basic economics.” He pauses, lighting a cigarette. “’Sides, people who carry DP-9’s, even talks about them too loud.... started disappearing. The cops, or the capes... someone’s lookin’ ta make carrying those babies,” he nods at the two men, glaring meaningfully at the bulges under their hoodies, “bad news.”

“C’mon, Eddy...” one of the buyers whines. “There’s a big thang goin’ down at AeroDyne tonight... but it’s BYOG, y’know? Bring Yo’ Own Gat. We burned up our last ammo wiping out some Puerto Rican assholes who woz hustlin’ on Riley’s turf...”

The three men continue arguing over the availability of ammunition as the street light flickers shadows over them.

OOC: Riley Kilchurch is a lieutenant in the Hammer’s Mafia clan. AeroDyne is a mid-range corporation based in NYC that got rich by buying up the patents from the ‘also rans’ in the Ansari X-Prize in 2004. You’re pretty sure it’s based up LaGuardia way.

Last edited by Dirigible; 13th of October, 2004 at 14:37.
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Unread 13th of October, 2004, 14:32
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Wreck

“Hey yourself.”

She turns as you approach, leaning against the bar with her elbows, long legs and artistically tattered jeans stretched out in front of her. She tosses the golden cascade of her hair over one shoulder and her lips quirk in a pink, cupid’s-bow smile. As you set down the mugs, she reaches out and puts her fingers on the edge of the pitcher, running them around in a slow half-circle before tiling the vessel, letting some of the beer slop into her glass.

“I’ve seen you around somewhere, haven’t I?” she asks, lifting the glass slowly to her mouth, arching an eyebrow over it up at you.
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Unread 13th of October, 2004, 14:34
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Bolt

For a long while, the stillness is only broken by the dripping of unmentionable fluids and the skittering of rats. The steps of the locals fades into the distance, and their slight mumbling.

After a while, you feel Trisha stir. She sits up a little and coughs, spitting the taste of the sewers out of her mouth, and rubs at her eyes and grubby face rattily. She looks up at you and opens her mouth to speak, but at that moment a yell echoes down the tunnels.

“Sector 14, clear!”

Torchlight flashes along the walls, and the sounds of slapping water and brick rolls through the reeking air.
  #12  
Unread 14th of October, 2004, 01:16
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Quantum

Originally Posted by Dirigible “OK, I’ll bite. Are you just tryin’ ta steal a free listen to tha show?”
Quantum squints across the twilight-darkened space, at first mistaking the speaker for Wreck. The accent's wrong, though; so's the hair. Come to think of it, Wreck would have likely just asked if his warping-sphere can keep beer cold. With no references to work on, Quantum decides to play the neutral angle.

"Sort of; I'm kinda baffled that they're still around. I'm worried that these guys are gonna be the Rolling Stones of the 21st century: dog-butt ugly, completely lacking in talent, and impossible to kill."

With a slight twisting of gravity, the thermos glides around the perimeter of the sphere, coming to rest in Paul's hand. Twisting off the cap, he holds it out to the stranger. "Cuppa joe?"
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  #13  
Unread 14th of October, 2004, 04:52
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Quantum

The newcommer frowns. "Hmm. I saw you on tha news, that right? Quasar? Quagmire? You're one of the Centinels." He floats closer, unfolding his arms, revealing the symbol on his bodysuit's chest: an orange circle with a curved, tapering tail, like a stylised comet. "Yeah, I'll take a cup. Been a cold flight, know what I'm saying?"

He reaches out for the flask. As his hand nears yours, your aura flares, and purple lightning crackles over his knuckles. He grunts, and gives you a glare. "Ouch," the african-american meta declares, flaty. "Cute."
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Unread 15th of October, 2004, 01:10
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Osprey

Patience and diligence pays off, and now Rob has his evening cut out for him. Two of Kilchurch's boys, a DP-9 supplier, and a lead on bigger happenings uptown. This is the kind of thing he lives for.

Within the span of an eyeblink, tiger-striped rattan slips into gloved hands as Rob drops into their midst, smashing the streetlight bulb on his way by and aiming to bring the stick down HARD on Eddy's collarbone as many times as it takes to put him down. Part of him wants the war-cry, part of him just wants to get the job done, part of him wants to tell these bastards why he's doing this, part of him still isn't sure. One thing he can promise, though, is that they're about to become acquainted with the root meaning of his name, a corruption of the Latin ossifrage, which made reference to the power of the bird's lunge...and simply translates as Bonebreaker.

OOC: He should have surprise this round; using Rapid Strike to first kill the light (and hopefully cause some confusion and disorientation, giving Blind-Fighting a chance to work), then Power Attack on Eddy. Anybody draws a gun, Disarm is the order of the day. That should cover his tactics through the fight. Check your PM's.
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Unread 15th of October, 2004, 04:04
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Osprey

"Yeha, I know you can get them for a nickle a round from Antonia... but you'd hava ta find Antonia first, know what I'm sayin'? She's gone ta... AKK!"

Your first hit falls with namesake's force. Eddy's left shoulder just collapses as every piece of his collarbone and humerus shatters, his arm migrating down his body as he folds in on himself with a choked scream.

Darkness washes over the basketball court and you hear the two other men curse and flail. No time for that... You lash out with your escrim sticks, and hear one satisfying *chonk*, but even with your skill a fighting unseen foes, you misjudge the strike and miss the other. Your stick lashes through the night, fast as a rattlesnake, and you hear a wheezing pop as you compact the mook's sternum, winding him so forcefully that he blacks out instantly, his body tumbling on top of the arms merchant.

The remaining man stumbles back, and you hear him fleeing towards one of the small wooden gates in the rough plank wall, his silhouette barely visible.

Initiative:
Osprey: 16
Killa: 12
Stabba: 3 [KO]
Eddy: 2 [KO]

OOC: You only get a half action on the surprise round, so you can't Rapid Strike. I'll let you smash the light as an SFX, though. Power attack plus what, please?
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Unread 15th of October, 2004, 09:28
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Wreck

Logic shuts down. Free thought shuts down. Hell, just about all non-essential functions are cut. Such is the effect of a beautiful woman, and it's something Tracy is far from impervious to. He grins, and slides the stool forward ever so slightly as he takes a swig from the mug. It's a good brew, strong and bitter. This girl must be able to hold her liquor; he's practically in love.

"Yeah, heh, I was out..." a flicker of logic escapes the blockade, carrying a message of great importance. Like a lone horseman alerting the countryside to the presence of red coats, this mental rider bears a warning.

Don't say you were watchin' her, dumbass!

He blinks.

"Out, uh, kickin' ass. You know, on tv. Those freaks tried to break up that ceremony. Had to put 'em down."

The memory of the brawl brings a grin to the big man's face. There's three things Tracy loves: women, drinking, and punching, lots and lots of punching. There'd been plenty of it to go around that day.

"So...whaddya doin' here?"
  #17  
Unread 15th of October, 2004, 09:40
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Ryan's head snaps up as the shout reverberates down the tunnel, standing he helps Trisha stand up.

"Any idea what that is?" He asks her. If she doesn't know he will shift her closer to the wall. "Hang on for a sec, I'm going to check it out."

<ooc: As fast as he can he will go check out what is making the noise>
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Unread 15th of October, 2004, 10:28
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Osprey

DAMN but it felt good to do the hurtin' for a change. Rob pauses for just a moment after the second thug goes down, taking the time to enjoy the unique savor of overwhelming victory. Part of him practically swoons as it basks in the sadistic glory of the other man's fear, a part of him that he subconciously doesn't want to acknowledge even exists. He gives the fellow a few dozen yards head start, and then the hunt is on.

When he was a kid, his mother used to take him with her to the laundromat; she'd read one of her romance novels and give him a small supply of quarters for the row of beaten-up videogames there. There was this one game that talked, spoke with a voice so inhuman and cruel that he was simultaneously terrified and enraptured. What was it? Sinestro? Sinster? Ah, yes--SINISTAR. To this day, the rumbling and ominous monologue of the game's epynonomous villain stuck in his head, and he hears it now even as his boots scrape and bite the hardpack just prior to flight. Run, run, run, coward...

OOC: Power Attack +5, man, is there any other way to use that thing? Seriously, though: sorry about that. I'm so used to maxing it out and seeing others do the same that I forget it's a variable. Tactic next round: flying charge attack, but not ramming, +1 to hit for Aerial Combat. Not using PA.
  #19  
Unread 15th of October, 2004, 13:04
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Dirigible
Nightcrawler [GM]

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Wreck

"Yeah? Oh, yeah. I saw that... you're a cape, right?" She reaches out a finger, and touches the centre of your chest, near the bruise from where Herrick shot you, point blank. "I saw you take a bullet." For a moment, white, even teeth, bite down on the voluptuous red curve of her lower lip. "Still standing. You must be tough..."

Her hand slowly drops back to the bar top, and she slinks onto a stool, picking up her mug and taking a belt of brew, head thrown back with every sign of enjoying it. Gotta love those throat muscles... She lowers the mug and licks her lips expressivly.

"I'm Dana. You wanna dance?" She stands, and offers her hand.
  #20  
Unread 15th of October, 2004, 13:04
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Bolt

"Ryan, what..."

You push her into a cavity in the wall, a gap between the concrete slabs and the machinery, and then you're off in a blur. The tunnels bend around you as you race through them, following the echoes to source.

Rounding a bend, your heels dig into the brickwork under the flowing (oozing) sludge, and you come to a halt as light arcs across your face. You squint, trying to protect yourself from being blinded, and make out five figures in body armour with lights on their helmets and gunbarrels. Two are close at hand, about 15' down the sewer from you, another 10' behind them, and another two 30' or so further back.

For a second, nothing happens as you and them both try and register what's going on. "What the... we got a live one!" one of the nearer men screams as they raise their guns. You're fast, but caught off guard; you can see the hammers of the SMGs pulling back, the magazines glistening, the silencers dull in the glare. You have only the merest fraction of a second to act before physics catches up and their bullets come your way -

And it's only then that you see the man in the middle has one leg slightly raised, resting on the still chest of a ragged man bundled up in an eccelectic mix of clothes items, his hand raised claw-like into the air in a gesture of pleading or pain.

Initiative:
Bolt: 20
Soldier: 19
Soldier: 18
Officer: 10
Soldier: 3
Soldier: 2
  #21  
Unread 15th of October, 2004, 13:07
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Dirigible
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Osprey

There was a sound that Batman sued to make in the cartoons when he moved - a sort of rustling crack, the sound of his cloak moving over itself. You don't know if you make that noise, with the fan-like projections on the side of your mask nearly covering your ears, but a part of you really hopes you do.

Your coat snaps around you as you arc up and down. He doesn't really stand a chance. Your heels hit him just under the shoulderblades, and your momentum bares him down to the ground face first. You straighten, and step back onto the earth.

He's out, along with his friend behind you. The seller, Eddy, is alive, judging by the gurgling sobs and sub voce moans of pain. A good nights work... by some people's standards... but a number of names ahve come up to trouble you: Kilchurch, Antonia, AeroDyne.... something big.

Something big.
  #22  
Unread 16th of October, 2004, 05:50
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Kaos
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Five against one... not good odds, Ryan was about to leave when he spots the man lying on the floor....

"Damnit, damnit, damnit." He mutters to himself, why does it always come down to violence. Is it all they understand, if thats what they want then that what they will get... the humiliation, the anger and frustration of the last few days well up inside him, here at last was a physical target, something he could hit...

With a shout he streaks forward attempting to strike the closest man, regardless of whether he hits or not he will move towards the other man, hoping to use him as cover from the others.


<ooc:mach one punch, move by attack>
  #23  
Unread 17th of October, 2004, 18:24
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Bolt

The man you strike flies backwards with a shriek, his helmet shattering against the sewer wall as he skids along his back through the sludge. The wildly swininng beams from his light sources cast the other four men in long limbed, eerie silhouette against the walls. Instinctivly, the second point man swings at you with the butt of his SMG, but your flow easily under the blow.

"Meta! Jenner, Tarlokskyy! Fall back!" The man in the middle, the one standing over the prone figure, slaps his hand against the side of his head. "S-51, code m! Bring the torch!" He releases the communicator button and casts a glance at you and the soldier, tangled in melee, then starts to back rapidly down the tunnel. All three of them begin raking the area with gun fire, and the clapping echoes assault you almost as much as the singing riccochets.

The bullets scream through the air around you, and you weave your way through them with difficulty. You pick up bruises as some of them graze and brush against you, but just as the salvo seems to be abating there's an awful burst of pain in your stomach - the internal damage from the 'Port's attack flares, protesting under the stress of combat. It slows you down jsut a little too much, and you stumble and gasp when one of the bullets cuts a furrow in the flesh of your thigh.

OOC: Lethal hit and renewed Stun hit from the old wound.

Last edited by Dirigible; 17th of October, 2004 at 18:30.
  #24  
Unread 18th of October, 2004, 11:20
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GusPorterhouse
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Osprey

Rob approaches Eddy with a coldness in his heart, then crouches before him. "Hurts like hell, don't it? It ain't like in the movies, where the bullet just passes through--uh-uh, the shoulder is much too complicated an area. Hard for any kind of injury to not be permanent." He prods the broken area with the butt of the stick, eliciting a gasp of agony. "Why don't you tell me about Antonia, and I won't break the other side, hm?"
  #25  
Unread 18th of October, 2004, 20:09
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Osprey

The man looks up as you squat next to him, and pales visibly, taking in the black leathers and synthetic fabrics, the sweep-sided mask, the diamond eyes. It's not really a uniform per se, but those who live on the streets soon learn this truth: anyone who dresses in black leather and a mask is either a gimp or a ticket to an experince on the business end of vigilantism.

"I... I don't know nothin' abou..."

crunch. grind. glrrrk.

After he stops screaming, Eddy continues: "Uhnnnnnnn.... you know as much as me... She's gone into hiding... keep away from the Hammer and the cops and the Foundation, now that they're crackin' down on dealers... Jesus, don't kill me... and you..." he pants out the words.

Makes sense. Antonia de Bendini is the last surviving daughter of Don Riccardo de Bendini, the former capo of New York. She, and what was left of her father's organisation after the newcommer Jerry O'Malley got through with his bloody takeover, form a minority group in the underworld. If she's dealing in DP-9s, as Eddy and his buyer's conversation seems to indicate, it seems that whoever is bringing them in really is more interested in coverage than supporting any particular side.
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