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  #26  
Unread 26th of January, 2008, 09:24
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Blackthorne
HP: 2; Status: Bruised 2, Injured

The chairman of the Centinel Foundation stops short of the emergency staircase when he notices the reflections of several members of New York's finest SWAT arriving on scene to mop up the mess.

He gives a nod to Bolt as the speedster comes to a stop -- if the high-velocity nervous ticks that blur the meta's image could actually be considered "stopping" -- next to him in front of the cheesy-moustached commander.

"My team is in pursuit of the remaining members of the Mercenaries sans Frontiers, who have fled the field," Henry offered, dismissing Tillerman's approving gaze by meeting it with easy calm, as if the businessman had just completed an afternoon jog.

"We believe there are one or two metas still inside the building. I have one man already inside investigating; Bolt here and I were just about to join him," he added. "You folks better hang outside until we can confirm the area clear. No need for unnecessary casualties. Bolt?"
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Last edited by Left-Handed Bandit; 2nd of February, 2008 at 07:58.
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  #27  
Unread 26th of January, 2008, 09:58
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Bolt
HP: 3; Status: Bruised, Injured

Ryan's hands clench unconsciously as he notices Blackthorne looking at him oddly, he gives a small sigh of relief when the SWAT member approaches them.

"One of them teleported out early in the fight," he says to the commander, "there should be another in there." He says gesturing to the destroyed battle mech, "said his name was Wargod or something like that, you might need the jaws of live to get him out. If he is still alive."

"Osprey has been gone to long, I will scout it out and see what's going on." He tells Blackthrone before he is off running up the side of the building entering the hole that the mysterious X made only a few minutes before.
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  #28  
Unread 29th of January, 2008, 01:22
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Wreck
HP: 1; Status: No more heroes.

Special Weapons and Tactics arrive on the scene, deploying alongside the regular uniformed officers. America’s breadbasket doesn’t see much in the way of metahuman activity and it shows in Oklahoma City’s lack of readiness. It occurs to Tracy that the flyover states might be ripe for heists and thuggery. But that’s the problem. He can’t pull a simple bank job. Masked robbers toting AK-47s could be anyone. There isn’t a long list of guys who can shrug off gunfire and rend open a vault with his bare hands. He has all the power and no way to use it.

It’s why he’s in league with men like X. They provide the means for Tracy to use his talents. He tried to convey that to Paul. It’s not that Tracy is a villain; it’s that he can’t do anything else. He’ll never hold a normal job. He’ll never be a normal person. When you can press an F-150 over your head, sitting in a cubicle in Accounts Receivable at the local insurance office just doesn’t work. That leaves two kinds of people to work for: the Centinels and X. Black hat, white hat—at the end of the day they aren’t that different. Neither has any regard for Tracy.

He watches the scene unfold outside. Men bark orders and talk into radios. The members of SWAT take up positions with their assault rifles, covered further back by dozens of police officers crouched tactically behind their cruisers. Likely a few snipers were taking up residence on the rooftops of nearby buildings. But it isn’t the armament of that holds his attention. It’s the looks on their faces. Uncertainty is painted across most, with fear on some. A select few hold grim determination. Tracy smiles. They won’t have to learn whether or not they’re ready for a metahuman crisis tonight. These guys will all go home safe. Sometimes it isn’t the doing that matters; it’s the knowledge that you can.

A half-empty bottle of beer dangles between his fingers, the brown glass reflecting the dim bar lights. Tracy raises it to his mouth and takes a pull. Behind him, Paul is messing with the machine inserted in his chest, trying to conjure up his mojo. The two of them are very different. Tracy rebels against the laws of physics, but with Paul the basic laws of the universe rebel against him. Paul works for the Centienls and is an all-around good guy. Tracy works for X and isn’t a good example of a decent human being.

Throughout his brief stint with the Centinels, Paul had been the only one to treat Tracy as anything more than a dumb brute. The rest of the organization had regarded him as a force of nature to be unleashed in a controlled setting. Never did the organization consult him or try to use any of his skills that fell under a category other than Savage Beatings. He was a tool to be used only as the job dictated. They had him pegged. Tracy cares for himself, first and always. He isn’t a Good Samaritan. He doesn’t feel compelled to help others. He’s not cut out to wear a cape.

“Yeah,” he says. “Anywhere in the city is fine.”

He can never be a hero. He can only be Tracy.
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  #29  
Unread 30th of January, 2008, 07:16
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Bandit Blackthorne
HP: 2; Status: Bruised 2, Injured

Henry watches the speedster streak away, then returns his attention to the SWAT commander. "If you'll excuse me, Captain," the entrepreneur adds, before turning and heading back inside the building.
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  #30  
Unread 2nd of February, 2008, 07:01
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Genesis
HP: 1; Status: Nominal

The webcam swiveled to observe him.

Subject #002 is reminded that profanity engenders an unhappy working environment, and has been linked to instances of sudden, brutal death. Question: Do you kiss your female bioprogenitor with that mouth?

The sphere clunked loudly as it hit the floor, and bounced a few times with a metallic tinkle before rolling off down the passage, apparently unmolested by magnetic fields.

What was that? the computer's oddly-modulated voice asked, watching the steel sphere roll away. Subject #001 did not waste valuable science time playing with simple geometric shapes. Please enter the DoE|BellJar Voluntary Mandatory Personal Enrichment Course. Failure to do so will result in the opening of... the Box.

Ominously, the screen flashed up a picture of a simple black plastic cube with a sealed lid as its top face, and several large tanks or gas canisters connected to it via flexible pipes.

Last edited by Dirigible; 8th of February, 2008 at 07:40.
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  #31  
Unread 2nd of February, 2008, 07:43
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Verve
HP: 4; Status: Injured 2

“Check out those legs! I mean, sure, covering in gore, ewww, but man-o-man!”

“If I had a butt like that, I'd wear a spandex thong, too. Hmph. I bet as soon as she's outta here, she's shoving her fingers down her throat and chucking up that tiny salad she had for lunch. Cow.”


Snapping on fresh gloves, nurse Pontelli gingerly pressed her fingers to the skin of Rob Thomas's stomach, and cringed as it distended wetly under her touch. “Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Suze! Get Dr. Hauser, and Alvin! And whoever's available on gastrointestinal! Jesus.” She peeled his eyelid back, and looked down into the eye. “Jesus, God. And some neurosurgeons. Lots of neurosurgeons!”

“Hey, isn't that Supra? From the Millennium Kids?”

“No kidding? I loved that show! Man, looks like she went the typical former-child-star route, though... if it's not drugs and booze, it's killing a guy with your bare hands!”

“Like Macaulay Culkin?”

“Yeah, exactly.”


Angrily, she turned to glare at Verve, her tightly-tied ponytail whipping across her back. Reaching out, she shoved the superheroine hard in the shoulder... which resulted in the nurse stumbling backwards, and Verve remaining stationary and bemused. “What did you do? Take a pogo stick? Fly a loop-de-fucking-loop? His brain... his eyes... his menginges are swelling like there's a balloon in his brain? Do you understand? The fall ruptured his lungs and bowels, and you, you... shook him up! He's drowning in his own chyme and faeces, you stupid bitch!”

“She sounds pissed... you think that super-chick wasted that guy?”

“Then brought him into the emergency room? Duh, no way. Sheeze, stop staring at that hole in her costume, man! She'll waste you, too!”



OOC: I feel kinda bad about this post... screwing you with 'realism' when you had the best of intentions. Have a couple of Hero Points.
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  #32  
Unread 7th of February, 2008, 11:02
Archermonkey
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Genesis

"Fucking great," Jase muttered beneath his breath, feeling more fear than exasperation, but allowing himself to express more of the latter. "First I get shoved in front of a bus, then I blow the damn thing up, get locked up in a sci-fi prison for God knows how long, and now I'm being screwed with by Hal-9000's psycho little sister." He sighed, and swallowed, clenching his jaw as he stared forward towards the apparently-unmagnetized tunnel. He almost added 'could things get any worse?' at the end of his subdued rant, but honest fear of jinxing himself kept Jase silent.

He looked down at himself, dressed in yesterday's clothes and feeling still like a captive. He wasn't willing to concede to that any more, not in appearance, and not in actuality. Before his eyes his plain white jumpsuit began to darken and thicken, splitting into layers of clothing and transmuting into different kinds of material. Thin cotton blend trousers became heavier and tighter, turning into faded blue denim. The material at the ends of his legs grew outwards, covering his feet while they transmuted into the more comfortable elastic-and-polyester of the socks he'd had at home, finally splitting themselves away from his pseudo-jeans altogether before hardening with the emergence of his boots. Likewise his thin white top became a large, loose khaki t-shirt, and it seemed to unfold as a new dark brown suede jacket was birthed from it too. The young man - designated Subject #002 - looked down at his handiwork, pleased. At home he would have had to work around the house for months to get enough money from his dad to afford what he'd just created in a matter of moments here. Filled now with a little more confidence, Jase looked back at the hallway he had thrown the metal ball down, and then towards the white door, intent on playing this game for just long enough to find Dr. MacIntyre (and her fabulous, no doubt grateful legs) and get out of here.

Again he clenched his fist, using his unique abilities to tear apart the protons and neutrons and electrons of the air molecules surrounding his fist. They came together again quickly, though in different configurations. Jase felt a slight breeze stir about his fingers as he created an unintended vacuum, not only increasing the density of the material by turning gas to solid, but also by encouraging the particles to take on denser configurations, requiring an uneven ratio of atoms to begin with as compared to those after he was done. These forces danced about his hands, the exotic machinery of his psionic nuclear abilities twisting the universe - or the part of it closest to Jase - into new configurations in a manner than was more alchemical than chemical. With a few well-placed strides, he moved towards the white door, which opened automatically before him. At the whoosh of the apparent invitation, Jase stood before the well-lit corridor, covered as it was in reflective ceramo-metallic tiles. Taking in a breath he opened his palm and tossed in the new ball-bearing.

To his surprise and relief, the thing bounced and clattered as he would expect a metal ball to do anywhere... for a moment at least. It wasn't until the sizzling sound of the ball-bearing being liquified and then dissolved by the strength of the magnetic fields that were bound tightly, with near-unimaginable force to the tiles, that he realised that the metal ball had left a discolouration where it first bounced, from the atoms that had been ripped away and left bound to the floor. In horror he stared at the little piece of metal while it was torn asunder on a molecular level, and frantically he tried to ward away thoughts of what that might do to him. Slowly he swallowed, and made an attempt at controlling his breathing. The very idea of the magnitude of those forces was terrifying... Suppressing a shudder, Jason Gilmore stepped forward towards the threshold of the hallway, and leaned down. He placed his hand upon the floor, just in front of the first tile as he came to a squatting, crouching position. Beneath his fingers he felt the cool hard surface of the viewing room's floor. And he felt it become softer, grainier as he applied his will to it. The tan colour of well-sanded pine spread out from his point of contact, slowly rolling forward towards the odd tiles, attempting to subsume their very nature and in so doing, strip them of the danger they posed.

Last edited by Archermonkey; 7th of February, 2008 at 12:03.
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  #33  
Unread 8th of February, 2008, 08:34
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Blackthrone, Bolt & Osprey
HP: 2; Status: Bruised 2, Injured; HP: 3; Status: Bruised, Injured; HP: 1; Status: Injured

“In there?” Tillerman said in surprise, glancing at the pile of wreckage that had once been a multi-ton bipedal warmachine. “Christ. You guys did a number there.” He turned away with a nod of recognition to the two Centinels, making a tactical gesture to his officers. “Malone, Sikorsky! Get some heavy manipulators from the boys in FD!”

Glancing back as the captain set to work clearing up after the post-human battle, Blackthorne dragged his gloved hand across his chin, wiping away some blood that was drying into an itchy, crackly mess in his beard. His own blood, he thought, looking down at the mess on his hand with a twitch of intestinal revulsion that betrayed no external sign. There was an aching tension across his chest, and dozens of spots of piercing pain all over his body, the result of exertions that were quite different from his meticulous exercise regimen and even the combat training he put himself through; and the scars and wounds of genuine attempts on his life. Despite the pain, that almost made him smile; he had many, many enemies, and it was refreshing that the ones from the Syndicate and MsF were honest enough to actually try and kill him, instead of merely sue, defame, subpoena or bankrupt him.

Bolt vanished in a blur, moving so fast that gravity had no time to raise a protest. Adjusting his grip in the multifunction hand cannon of his own design, Blackthorne walked towards the doors that Verve had so thoughtfully kicked down. A pair of SWAT officers were in the entrance, dragging the wounded and barely conscious Miranda out of the building and tagging the others hat were in no state to escape on their own, or even protest. The billionaire stepped over a patch of vomit, and was inside the cool confines of Rising Sun Applied Technologies.

The lobby was spacious, and ingenious holographic windows made it seem more so. They offered vistas of a white coral beach in the Bahamas; a sultry, bird-of-paradise haunted jungle in Papua New Guinea; a misty glen dominated by a comfortably renovated castle in Ireland, and others. The times of day in the projected images were accurate, making Blackthorne wonder if they were live feeds from remote cameras, or just synchronised holofilm loops. Either way, he made a mental note to try and scour anything the MsF and government failed to loot first, in hopes of acquiring the plans or patents for the technology. Between the diverse panoramas, a wide reception desk was scarred by the action of thuggish hands, with guttering, sparking sockets left like open electronic wounds where hard drives had been torn free. Cracked, cratered footprints marked the passage of WarGod, or the unusually careless tread of Wreck.

The way up was not hard to find; the Syndicate's gangster army had trampled an obvious path through the loose papers and wreckage of the interrupted pillage. Their trail lead to a kicked-open service door and a staircase leading up and down, which Blackthorne began to ascend. Based on the fact that X had entered through the damaged third floor window, that the Syndicate seemed to have a good deal of inside information on the RiSun operation, and making some shrewd guesses of his own on the building's layout, he began to try and work out where X's most likely escape routes would be. Even a 'progressive' high-tech firm like the Mechanic's would need facilities for the high-volume, (comparatively) low-skill code and number crunching work that defined the industry... and when Blackthorne crested the stairs, finding himself in a floor dominated by a labyrinth of computer workstations, sound and EM-proof partitions, he opened his mouth for a rare bout of self-congratulation. This area would provide exactly the kind of cover X would need to evade the Centinel's hunting him...

A wooden stick locked hard against Blackthorne's windpipe, cutting off any idea of making a sound.

Blackthorne had trained himself to be observant, but Osprey hadn't made a sound as he moved up behind the technologist. The two men were of a height, but the martial artist was a good 20 pounds lighter, lean, dense and without a scrap of excess flesh. Blackthorne could see the Centinel silently raise a finger to his lips, under the tattered and charred remains of his cowl; hush; and the pressure of the rattan fighting stick on his neck relaxed. Osprey's gaze flicked towards the infotech cubical farm, and Blackthorne pricked up his ears. There were words coming from somewhere not to far inside the maze of tall office palisades.

“It seems we are at an... impasse, gentlemen.” X's voice sounded strained, and there was the faint whirring of the mechanical limbs of his 'auto-surgeon' in the background. “I could, of course, engage my rocket and simply escape... but there is always the chance that my acceleration would not be sufficient, and that Bolt would be able to locate and catch me before I left the premises... or that Osprey would prove the superior flier in these cramped conditions. So, perhaps we can... negotiate? Something Mr. Blackthorne, you, I think, understand well.”
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  #34  
Unread 8th of February, 2008, 16:21
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Harrigan
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Verve
HP: 4; Status: Injured 2 (also, mortified)

Normally, crass comments about Astrid Brant's legs and backside, or about her aborted career as a teenaged superheroine, would draw at least a hostile glare from the attractive, dark-haired woman, and in her current guise as Verve, the woman wouldn't have to hold back at all, but then the nurse... the nurse said that the Mechanic was dying, and it was probably because of Astrid. She went numb as the hospital worker shouted at her, not even hearing the continuing banter in the background, until finally she realized that the other woman had tried and failed to push her away, and had called her a bitch.

"I was trying to help him. I was trying to save his life," the shocked nova responded. "He was -- he was just lying there, dying. The ambulance wouldn't have come in time, we didn't think -- it, it just seemed like the right thing to do, to get him to the ER as fast as I could."

Her eyes on the Mechanic and the medical team now rushing to his side, Astrid felt her knees go weak, which was highly unusual, considering the woman was able to do squats with a pickup truck on her back. "Fuck," she swore. "Fuck. I didn't know this would happen. I didn't know he would... I'm sorry. I was just trying to... do the right thing."

Verve stood dumbly by, feeling as helpless as she ever had in her life, and as doctor and technicians began working to try and save Rob Thomas' life, the assistant district attorney clenched her boxer-wrapped fists. "Fuck."

* * *

Feeling in no way like leaping and bounding her way home, Astrid took to the city's wintry streets after leaving the hospital. She did get her share of odd looks, but the fact was that most New Yorkers were just grizzled and jaded enough to simply walk past the rather ridiculously clad woman. Ignoring the few people who did gawk or comment, Verve made good time as she headed uptown, lost in thought and more upset than she'd been in a long time. A violently honking car horn shook the woman from her contemplation, but when she looked to the street she saw that the aggressive horn use wasn't directed at her, but rather at a young black woman trying to hurry her four-year-old across the street. The woman and her son had a green walk signal, but whomever sat in the car was trying to turn right and evidently didn't think they were moving quickly enough.

The vehicle was long and sleek, a late-model BWM 7-series, and the impeccably dressed, forty-something business man at the wheel had a bluetooth headset in his ear and a string of curses on his lips. When the young mother and her boy were finally out of his way, the man chirped his expensive car's tires as he spun around and corner -- and stopped with a squeal, scant feet short of Verve's stupendous legs. Walking to the driver's door, the masked woman tried the handle and found it locked, then tore the door off its hinges without effort and flung it across the street.

"Get out of the car," the woman commanded.

"John, I think I'm going to have to call you back."

"Get out of the goddamned car," Verve repeated.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

The distraught heroine answered by seizing the man by his silk tie and yanking, pulling him out of his car and out onto the street where he dangled briefly from her powerful hand before being dropped to the wet asphalt. Raising her leg as the now purple-faced man coughed and sputtered behind her, Verve drove her boot straight into the side of the BMW, sending it skittering across the street and into the curb, where it impacted and nearly rolled up onto its side. Her teeth gritted and her fists balled, Brant followed the vehicle across the road, stalking it like a panther. One mighty punch later and the vehicle was up on it's side, rocking back and forth as plastic and glass and sublime German sheet metal rained down all over the street. Jumping, the woman came down on the vehicle with both feet, crushing the rear quarterpanel and part of the trunk with her high-impact footwear. Stumbling off of the car, Verve proceeded to deliver three minutes of the worst woman-on-car violence that had ever been perpetrated. The thing was unrecognizable when she was finished, chassis torn in two, engine block smashed to pieces, wheels and dash and seats and grill and all sorts of other components strewn all over -- there was virtually nothing left. Her anger finally abating, Verve drew a series of steadying breaths and turned to the petrified driver, statuesque and somehow looming even among the giant skyscrapers of New York City.

"Sorry," she finally said, brushing metal, plastic and glass from her hands, where she'd torn her wraps to shreds. "My old boyfriend had one of those. Kind of sets me off."

The woman was gone before the businessman could answer, bounding down the street.

Last edited by Harrigan; 8th of February, 2008 at 18:19.
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  #35  
Unread 9th of February, 2008, 03:01
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Left-Handed Bandit
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Blackthorne
HP: 2; Status: Bruised 2, Injured

Henry let the silence hang for just a brief moment before answering, filling it with an almost-imperceptible nod to instruct Osprey to go right. Taking a few steps to his left, the billionaire entrepreneur switched on his IR sensing, trying to locate X's heat signature.

"As I'm sure you know, sir, negotiations require you begin with specific goals in mind," he began, wondering where Bolt was and deciding that it was probably more a blessing than a boon that the speedster hadn't found his way up here. As jittery as Bolt was down below, Henry wasn't sure he'd be able to stand still long enough for the technologist to actually get anything out of the discussion.

"For instance, my goal is to ensure Rising Sun's itellectual property remains solely in the hands of Mr. Thomas, or his estate," Blackthorne added, slowly continuing around to the left. "Your capture, while it would be incredibly beneficial to the Foundation's interests, is only a secondary goal; however, if I can't achieve the former, I'll gladly take the latter in consolation.

"What can you offer me that helps me achieve those goals?"
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Extending an olive branch doesn't count when you're trying to poke the other fella in the eye.
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  #36  
Unread 8th of March, 2008, 10:07
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Kaos
Ghast

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Bolt
HP: 3; Status: Bruised, Injured

Ryan smiled to himself as he ran up the side of the wall, even with his injuires this always made him smile, he didn't think he would ever get used to being able to defy the laws of gravity. Sure it wasn't flying but damn if it wasn't cool anyways. His smile fades as he enters the hole in the side of the building, leading into a room, a very large room that is a literal maze of cubicles...

"Shit," he thinks to himself. This was seriously going to screw with his maneuverability and that was pretty much the only thing he had going for him at the moment. He shifts slightly to the left so he wouldn't be an obvious target and waits as his eyes adjust to the different light levels.

He crouches down as X begins to talk, he is kind of surprised that X wasn't unconscious, he took a pretty good hit from that woman, what the hell was her name? He couldn't remember but she sure did have nice legs and the costume certainly was distracting to say the least.

"Focus you idiot," he mentally scolds himself, "don't lose it now." He adds as he clenchs his hands yet again to stop them from shaking. While Blackthorn talks he moves slowly into the maze before him, although he was nowhere as talented at stealth as Osprey, he was still good at it and he was pretty sure that it would be unexpected, he also picks up a few random items just in case he needs it, nothing like getting picked off with a stapler moving damn near the speed of sound to give that lasting impression.

ooc: moving into the maze in search of X using stealth, while Blackthorn distracts him. (Stealth +8) The hunt is on.
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