I really shouldn't be allowed to think, I really shouldn't.
Can Handwavium create a Bolo? And would it be space worthy?
-Cindy

I debated putting this link on the general board and then I thought - Oh GOD does it EVER belong here!
Here's the "important bit".
The Reliant Robin Launches! (Top Gear Episode Top Gear S09E04 Part 6)
Here is the rest of the program. The bits with the Rocket Reliant Robin are interspersed.
(S09E04 Part 5)
(S09E04 Part 4)
(S09E04 Part 3)
(S09E04 Part 2)
(S09E04 Part 1)
I kept thinking all through this, that if they'd only had some handwavium, that actually MIGHT'VE WORKED!!!
Actually, it DID work!
The launch anyway...
The landing was a bit dodgey though...
I love the use of the various music cues throughout. Including Superman and James Bond.
I'm still giggling like a fiend over this. ^_^
REALLY recommend you see this before BBC makes them take it down!!!-Logan
-----------------
"Wake up! Time for SCIENCE!"
-Adam Savage
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(Bloody thing keeps growing...)

It was agonizing. A line of spandex, leather; some fashionable and ultra-stylish, some banal and debased; and some that looked like a bloody clown threw up and declared the resulting detritus the hot new look for Milan this year. Lethal stood at attention at the end of the line. Staying still was hard enough, but this was worse. Lethal shifted slightly, the leather of her new coat, a present from the bloke in the Founders Falls Icon, creaked slightly. It still smelled brand new. That wasnt the only thing she smelled either.
It had been a busy day. After a dozen egg omelet, a loaf of toast and a Kermit sized serving of bacon and sausage, she had set out to negotiate a trade with the Rikti. It was a bloody awful situation. The Rikti had contracted chicken-pox, and were growing increasingly ill; they had kidnapped several scientists in hopes of synthesizing a vaccine. The boffins at Seraph had fixed up Rikti friendly counter virus, and had requested that Lethal deliver it to the Rikti.
It had been a rather spiffing cock-up; at all levels. Lethal had shown up, shown the vaccine, and had been promptly been set upon by a cadre of alien tossbags. Whether is could still be considered a mission of mercy was now significantly open to consideration. If mercy consisted to pulling out a honking great sword and giving the aforementioned sick alien tossbags a sound and thoroughly violent thrashing; then it was a mission of mercy. Still the scientists had been freed, unharmed, though slightly splashed with various Rikti Ichors, and the Rikti had been dosed, and were receiving treatment for chicken pox; contusions and various gaping wounds.
Lunch had been deferred on account of Nemesis. Those boobs in Toyland had tried to shake down a tailor. What sort of dodgy bloke sent his minions to scare a tailor? What was next? Nemesis declares all out crack-down on hairdressers and manicurists. And they called her crazy. It had taken several protracted beatings of Nemesis soldiers and the destruction of a dozen War Hulks to ensure that the message had truly sunk in. Leave the tailor alone. Towards the end of the fight she had taken to glancing over her shoulder as deep, scary, growls had been evident. War wolves or devouring earth? No. It had been her own stomach, forcefully reminding her that justice had been fulfilled, but it had not been.
She had been within a few steps of a Brickstown Mexican restaurant; a matter of hunger and convenience rather than desire for bad food, when her communicator had squawked. A priority signal to show up at the City Hall with all haste. The growl from her stomach turned into a horrified scream as if it were the digestive equivalent of the famous Munch painting. Duty was calling; her stomach was yodeling and the Mexican place didnt do takeout. However, across the street, salvation.
And now she was standing along with six other heroes; a comfortable warmth spreading from her right coat pocket. Hot pretzels from the convenient vendor. Four of the six had vanished en-route to City Hall and the last two were taunting her with the aroma of dough, salt and toxically hot mustard. The City Representative was going on about outstanding service, dedication to the community and how they exemplified that ideal. Boring. Boring. Boring. Lethal snuck a hand into her pocket and tore off a piece of Pretzel and faked a yawn so she could cover her mouth and pop the morsel in. Chewy, doughy heaven. Yum yum. The representative continued on. Boredom coupled with hunger sent Lethals hand back into the pocket for the rest of the oversized pretzel which she crammed it into her mouth. Cheeks bulging like a chipmunks Lethal savored the taste for a moment before getting down to the serious business of chewing.
And now to present your Justice Incarnate badges. The representative finished abruptly. I am pleased to introduce Statesman!
Lethals eyes widened until they took up three quarters of her face. It was him! Really him! She watched as the huge, muscled man strode forcefully into the room and surveyed them. His eyes were kind and white teeth shone as he smiled. The muscles! Perfect definition under a thin coating of spandex. Charles Atlas didnt have that sort of muscle. Lethal froze like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming truck a truck laden with a full cargo of sweaty school-girl fantasies.
Lethal Sawchyk. Statesmans voice was as impressive as the rest of him. He draped the medal around her neck. Well done indeed. You have done both of your parents proud today. I trust they are both well?
A question? Lethals mind snapped back into motion. He had asked her a question! He had spoken to her! She had to say something! Anything! Her first words were entirely inarticulate, but did manage to convey a large portion of half-chewed pretzel and neon yellow mustard across the blindingly white star on Statesmans chest. Not her finest moment.
* * *
The medal still bouncing on her neck, Lethal made a hasty retreat from City Hall. Gobbing on Paragons greatest hero, and then trying to wipe away the mess with the sleeve or her new coat had not been a proud moment. The other heroes receiving their awards had been glaring at her with a combination of disgust, amusement and a certain degree of uncertainty. If someone as pig-thick and incompetent as her was getting the Justice Incarnate, how much could it truly be worth? Statesman had weathered her inadvertent pretzel shower with far more dignity and gravitas than the situation warranted. Rather than pretend it hadnt happened, he had smiled at her, an event in and of itself staggering, as if he himself could picture himself spraying chewy pretzel chunks in a similar fashion. That just made it worse.
Lethals eyes were hot as she pushed through the double doors; perhaps with a little more force than was required. Two journeyman heroes who were trying to enter at the same time were thrown backwards, sprawling in undignified heaps in front of the door.
Liesel. A low voice called from behind her. Lethal started and turned slowly. Leaning up against the wall of City Hall as if his shoulders were the only thing holding it up, was an older man; his grey hair was cut short in a military cut. His upper lip covered by a thick, neatly trimmed moustache. He wasnt tall, no more than 5 10, but with a solid build that spoke of excessive physical activity. He was old, over seventy years, even if he didnt look it. He was also her father.
Papa! Lethal launched herself at him. In her excitement she knocked down one of the fledgling heroes who had just managed to regain his feet. Thibor Sawchyk swept her up in a hug, one hand pressed to her back, the other wrapped around back of her neck. He shook her affectionately.
Is having time between mission deployment. Thibor explained releasing her. So is coming into town to visit. Mama is only making it as far as apartment; is saying something about living conditions and then reaching for rubber gloves and disinfectant.
Oh bother. Lethals heart sank further. Great. Mama would not say a word about it; she would labor diligently to return Lethals apartment to calm, clean, almost military order. It was a double edged sword. It would be champion to have clean laundry, but the issue of locating it in the closet or dresser would add an nigh unbearable level of complication to her normal morning rituals.
Oh bother is perhaps understatement. Thibor growled. Is going to meet us later for dinner. Is going to get big dish of beef chow mein.
Lethal smiled; much of the pain of recent events washed away. Papa approved. They probably werent going out for Chinese Food; though they would be going out for excellent food. The ancient Warren Zevon song, Werewolves of London spoke of a werewolf getting a big dish of beef chow mein, and Papa always used the phrase as a compliment; the reward when her behavior pleased him. She had read enough about Pavlovs dogs to know why; but knowing about the dogs didnt mean you stopped salivating either. He stomach signaled its own opinion on the matter.
Of course dinner is not for few hours. Thibor considered the borborigmous sounds issuing from his daughter. Is wanting to go for snack?
* * *
Thibor glared at Andrea. Andrea glared at Thibor. Lethal shoveled a triple patty cheeseburger into her mouth; adding French fries to fill up any burger free nooks and crannies. Thibor had eschewed food but was lingering over a cup of thick Turkish coffee. The tension between the two men had developed swiftly. Andrea had been refused the opportunity to offer up a meal to the father of his favorite client. Thibor had refused the opportunity to be subjected to the sort of meals that Andrea served up. However the clouds of animosity were slowly lifting as Thibor continued to sip his coffee. Andrea made good coffee.
The talk was light. Her brothers were both well. Doru Harry and William Christonel. Mama and Papa had agreed that all the children would have one British name and one Roma one. Mama had let her strong monarchist tendencies rule and had reverently raided the House of Windsor for names. Her own was a compromise. Elizabeth; for the grace and dignity of the Queen. A Queen who would never, in a state function, inadvertently gob up pretzels and mustard on Statesman. Her middle name, Marta was an enigma. Papa and Mama, especially at that time, did not get along at all well with Evil Aunt Marta, so how her name ended up attached to their second child was a matter of some conjecture; or as was more likely, a subtle gypsy curse that managed to neatly side-step the various protections erected by her great mama, Nana Ruxy.
The first sign of danger had been Andrea making a slow sink behind the counter. Lethal had jumped and turned, while Papa had sprinkled a dash of salt on his coffee. The man in the doorway of the small diner was Circle of Thorns from the tip, top of his absolutely frightful hat to the elaborated embroidered hem of his ornate robes. Who embroidered those robes? All Circle Mages were men. Did they have elaborate nightly needlepoint sessions? Silver needles flashing in and out of thick velvet as they prattled on about the travails of their day. Abducting citizens, siphoning their souls away and replacing them with the festering souls of passed Circle Mages, and the distressing reality of watching their teeth skitter across the ground like bloody Chiclets as a passing hero took umbrage at the soul stealing and visited a beating up them.
The Circle declares an end to the House of Sawchyk in Paragon! A dirty hand emerged from the robe, clutching a thick, ugly, ceramic sculpture. A crudely-formed, bent, human figure that seemed to suck light from the room, leaving the air around it dim and flat. Lethal felt her stomache drop. Something was wrong. Her great sword Eisengrim was not in her hand where it was supposed to be. Papa turned slowly on his stool, his coffee in his left hand. He sipped calmly.
Fuck off. Thibor swallowed the last of his coffee, draining the thick dark dregs.
The end of the House of Sawchyk! The mage sputtered, repeating himself. I hold in my hand an artifact of power! It denies you the power of your weak Roma magic! You shall die! Screaming in agony! Your line ends now!
The Mages mouth opened and he gestured with a hand, readying a powerful spell. It never emerged. Papa flipped his right had forward, throwing a handful of white salt into the mages face. The coruscating magic sputtered and died. Lethal hopped off her stool and snatched it up by the legs. It wasnt necessary. The mage had underestimated his foes. Papa was not dangerous because he was a powerful alpha werewolf. Papa was dangerous and his powerful wolfish form only made him more dangerous. The mage never had a chance to regain the upper hand and bring his magics to bear. He reeled as Papa beat him down. Andreas eyes appeared over the counter. It was not the most efficient beating he had ever witnessed, paragon still being cosmopolitan in that regard, but it made the top five. A knife hand strike to the throat, rolling into a hammer fist to the brachial plexus. Then the left hand came into play. Papa grabbed the Mage by his face and walked forward. The mage fell back as Papa bent, driving the back of the spell-casters head into the floor with a loud crack as both tile and skull gave way under the impact. The statue skittered across the tile and Lethal jumped on it with both feet. It shattered, the magic escaping with a hiss and small cloud of foul vapor. Her sword was suddenly in her hand, and Papa swelled spectacularly, as he assumed his werewolf aspect. The mage didnt react at all, merely blew bloody bubbles out of crushed nose and lips.
* * *
The Chinese believed in many hells. A whole bunch of them, each deliberately and maliciously crafted to make those there as uncomfortable as possible. Being debriefed by your father was likely one of them. Lethal mused about the strange nomenclature. Being debriefed by your father was one thing if you were still a nipple jockey having your nappy changed after a particularly fragrant bout of bum fudge. It meant another thing in the stereotypical Deep South, but only if accompanied by the banjo. She was currently enjoying, or rather not enjoying another variation; the after-action analysis of a combat situation by a parent.
When was first aware of situation? Papa asked. The interior of the diner was a shambles, tables overturned, the door smashed inward by a creature too big to be admitted normally. The floor was a particular mess. Three circle mages rested in a large puddle of a black liquid that still steamed; Andrea wielded a mop, cursing under his breath in the sort of Greek that gets you in trouble with the gods. He occasionally visited each of the mages with a smack to the head with the sodden head of the mop; as if the small gesture could in some way make up for the difficulty in clearing the mess.
When Mr. A. moved. Lethal admitted. It was the right answer, or at least the honest one. She was about to hear the right one and tried to stave it off. Papa, Im not a bloody wolf. I cant hear and smell them like you can.
Fair is where you go on pony rides. Thibor reminded her. Were sitting with back to door. What is doing when sitting with back to door?
Find a reflective surface in my field of vision and check it regularly to make sure no one is trying to sneak up behind me. Lethal kicked at the floor with the toe of her boot. And if I cant find one, move to another seat that lets me monitor all avenues of approach.
Good girl. Thibor grabbed her by the back of her neck and shook affectionately. Is remembering for next time. Now. Why is going for saltshaker?
Most circle magic is hermetic. Lethal recited. They need to combine symbols with words and intentions through a focus. Usually it is a mystic symbol, a summoning circle. Most of them are inscribed on the robes, stupid bloody hats, or other accoutrements in silver thread. Salt can be used to create a circle or, if thrown on an extant one, cause it to ground itself out.
And few grains will also take edge off of bad cup of coffee. Thibor added, noting a murderous glare from Andrea. And no, coffee was very good, but was casual thing that would not be immediately picked up on.
Next youll be going on about my bloody swordswomanship. Lethal said sourly.
No. Is good. Not Great-Papa good. Is better than mine. Thibor nodded to two of the three unconscious mages. Was fast, efficient and very enthusiastic.
Lethal nodded. Papa was not just being kind to her. Her swordplay had improved immensely since coming to Paragon. She chocked it up to the few weeks she had spent running down the warriors. Those bits of bum-fluff didnt know the first bloody thing about the inane philosophy they spouted with all the intellectual depth of whistling kettles, but the blighters could handle their swords and axes well. It had forced her to move beyond simple hack and slash to timing and technique; she had practiced such things before, but it was very different to do so when your life was on the line. It could have gone very badly for her, and nearly did. She had been fortunate that good breeding had endowed her with the speed of an amphetamine crazed rattlesnake, combined with muscle tissue that packed more power per square inch than a can of spinach packed for Popeye. That edge had kept her out of the hospital. Well mostly out of the hospital. She had improved.
Thank you Papa. Lethal scraped a toe in the black goop on the floor, absently tracing a Rom symbol against evil. The gunk on the floor had not come from the mages, but rather the demonic overlord that had charged into the caf moments after Papa had made the introduction of magely head to previously clean floor. The fourteen foot winged demon had crashed through the door, accompanied by two more circle mages. Papa had intercepted the demon, while Lethal had faced off against the mages. Massed with muscle and sprouting sulfurous flame from skin, wings and every orifice, the demon had towered over Papa by some seven feet. It had reached out to grapple and had gratified that the werewolf had chosen to meet it in a match that pitted raw strength and power against raw strength and power. One of Papas rules was that there was always someone bigger, faster, stronger, better and meaner; and you should enter into every encounter with the assumption that you were meeting them. With the demons hands occupied, Papa had proceeded to hoy it in the crotch. Three times; a mystically significant number in that it exceeded the normal yogurt-chucker count by one. Powerful kicks that started at the creatures loincloth and ended up somewhere around its kidneys. The demon had fallen to its knees. From there Papa had grabbed it by the horns and twisted, uncapping the demons head as easily as Uncle John might flick the cap off a bottle of beer. Foaming black bile had sprayed out of the ragged edges of the neck like champagne, black, viscous, sulfurous, clotting champagne; but champagne nonetheless. Maybe not champagne. Guinness. One of the chav sized bottles, well shaken. The demon had sloughed away into corruption. That had been convenient for the mages. It gave their unconscious bodies a nice soft pillow to break their falls on, when Lethal broke their jaws with the pommel of her sword.
The sigil she had traced with her toe flashed bright green. It spread out, consuming the black bile that had once been the physical form of the demon; replacing the smell of sulfur with that of beeswax and a hint of saffron. One of Papas bushy eyebrows shot up. He had been impressed. Andrea merely swore loudly in Greek and shuffled back behind the counter to stow the mop and bucket.
Is Aunt Marta teaching you that one? Thibor asked calmly.
Not directly. Lethal admitted. She sent me a new tome for my birthday.
Liesel Thibors voice was low. Am feeling foolish asking this. Is being careful?
Too true. Lethal nodded. If I turn the page and it starts screaming, I dont read the spell.

Hi Folks!
Okay, I'm not blaming Acyl anymore - I should probably thank him for the inspiration.
I added some more to the story, rounding out the beginning exposition just a little. The character in this story is my claw/regen scrapper, Saberkitten (she's "Saberkat" on Virtue, and she is in the Legendary SG )

===============================
Just Kitten around
Chapter 1:
=========
I leaned back against the park bench with a contented sigh, letting the early afternoon sun soak into me. It wasnt often I caught a break during the day, but sometimes I got lucky. Today was one of those days all my contacts were busy, and Id already wrapped up all the cases Id been working on. Until somebody came up with something, I was free as a bird.
Crumpling up the wrapper from the hamburger Id nabbed from a street vendor on the way over, I pitched it at a nearby garbage can, and was gratified to see that it went in. Being able to have a relaxed lunch was a treat toousually I was grabbing energy bars and a bottle of water in-between missions instead of having a proper sit-down meal.
That sunlight felt *good*.I had to stifle a yawn as a pleasant drowsiness crept over me. Yawning again, I stretched indolently, hearing the leather of my costume creak from the strain. A male pedestrian walking by looked over at me, and promptly walked into a lamppost when he couldnt seem to get his eyeballs back to where they belonged.
I smirked to myself as he staggered away, clutching his head in pain. Id gotten used to how most people reacted to my looks over the years, but every now and again Id get a good laugh from some of them. And there were days when a good laugh was welcome.
Paragon City was no stranger to cute girls in skimpy (usually spandex) costumes - they were literally all over the place. Even with that saturation level, though, a fairly tall, curvaceous woman wearing a tight and revealing leather costume with high-heeled boots usually got a second glance. Especially when she also had very prominent cat ears, and a tail swishing lazily through the air behind her.
Okay, okay, maybe I had been a little exhibitionist in my stretching. But basking in that sunlight just felt SO damn good that I was giving semi-serious thought to napping all afternoon on the bench. I reached over to where my drink was sitting, condensation beading and trickling down the sides of the cup, and picked it up and took a long pull on the straw.
Cold, liquid sweetness flooded my mouth, and I sighed blissfully, savouring the gulp of vanilla milkshake Id taken for a moment. I swallowed finally, and felt the pleasantly numbing cold work its way down to my stomach. My second indulgence for the afternoonI was going to have to think about taking an afternoon break more often if this was what it could be like.
As I sat there quietly enjoying my drink and the relative peace and quiet, my ears picked up the sound of purposeful footsteps approaching my bench, coming from behind me. The drowsiness that had been hanging over me vanished in an instant as a surge of adrenaline shot through my veins.
After a tense moment, I forced myself to relax it was only one set of footsteps, and there was no attempt at stealth or subterfuge, so it was highly unlikely one of my enemies had decided to track me down to settle a score.
Besides, his scent was of somebody highly nervous and I couldnt think of anybody other than Crey goons or Council stooges who had reason to be nervous around me.
So I waited, taking another leisurely sip of my milkshake. The footsteps slowed down as he came around the end of the park bench and stopped, looking at me. Mentally, I gave him bonus points for not having his eyes fixed on the neckline of my costume.
Um, hi, he looked at me hesitantly. I cocked an eyebrow inquisitively at him and took another pull at my milkshake as I waited for the rest of whatever he was going to say. Are you Saberkitten?
Thats me, I nodded, looking him over. Typical average guy about five-foot-seven, hundred and sixty-five pounds, wearing a windbreaker over a t-shirt, jeans, and running shoes that were long past their best days. He was a clean-cut kid, with black hair, and green eyes. Age-wise, my guess pegged him at around nineteen or twenty. Something I can help you with?
Well, Professor Smythe sent me actually, he sounded apologetic. He said you might be able to help me out with, um, a problem Im having.
Great, I tried to keep my voice neutral, but it probably didnt work too well. Professor Jonathan St. John Smythe worked for the branch of the Paragon City administration that dealt with paranormal humans people like me. Smythe was a good scientist, and hed helped me figure out some of what had happened to me when Id first ended up here, but good griefthe man was the almost textbook example of a science nerd crossed with the absent-minded professor.
And he just didnt seem to be able to clue in to why I might be a little testy after hours of being poked and prodded in various sensitive places with instruments that all seemed to be glacially cold. I was convinced he refrigerated all his equipment before I got there, but I never did manage to prove it.
I sighed to myself I may not have been fond of the old goat, but if he was sending people to me for help, I at least owed it to him to listen to their story.
My visitor seemed to be fascinated by my exotic appearance, and I sighed inwardly, mentally bracing myself. Looked like it was going to be one of *those* kinds of discussions again.
How do you get the ears to stay on when youre fighting? he ventured, confirming my guess.
Well, were kind of attached to each other, I shrugged, taking another slurp of my milkshake. One of my ears twitched, unconsciously mirroring my irritation at the question. I saw the light dawn in his face as his startled gaze flicked from my ears to my slowly thrashing tail behind me.
Yes, its real too, and no, you cant touch it, I cut him off as he opened his mouth to ask another question, one I was sure Id already heard before. Two years of looking like this, and it was still the same stupid questions over and over and over again. Luckily (for him), today was a good day my earlier tangles with the Council had pretty much worked out any aggression issues I might have had.
I wasnt going to ask, he sounded wounded, but I didnt really care. Id had my tail literally yanked by grabby kids in shopping malls, slammed in doors by ignorant AND impatient bastards, and even stepped on during one of the rare occasions where my opponents had managed to put me down. When youve got a body part that seems to be directly connected to your pain receptors, you make damn sure that other people keep their hands OFF.
By the way, I dont make exceptions on that one, especially for kids. Leaving pain aside for a moment, it took me over two hours to get the damn bubblegum out of the fur the last time some little brat grabbed it.

By the way, I dont make exceptions on that one, especially for kids. Leaving pain aside for a moment, it took me over two hours to get the damn bubblegum out of the fur the last time some little brat grabbed it.
My expression mustve been pretty sour at that point because the kid was looking even more nervous that hed been when he first arrived and looked half-ready to bolt. I shoved the irritation aside and tried to give him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. So, what did you need a hand with?
Well, he looked hesitant. Its about my brother. I think hes in, um, trouble. He shifted his feet and looked down at the ground. I was kind of hoping I could find somebody to look for him.
Look for him? I echoed, cocking an eyebrow. If hes missing cant you just tell the cops?
I did, he fidgeted harder. They said theyd put out a bulletin on him, but that he was likely still out with his buddies. I cocked my head, giving him an appraising glance. His body language spoke volumes about something he wasnt telling me.
Youre going to have to level with me, kid, I noisily slurped down the last of my milkshake and tossed the cup at the trash bin nearby. How long has he been missing, and why are you acting like the cops dont care? The look he gave me was guilty and worried in equal measure.
Well, hes.hes had some run-ins with the cops before, he flushed and looked away. Ive tried to get him to smarten up, but he just wouldnt listen. He sighed. Hes been hanging around with a group of guys who want to get into one of the other gangs here, and theyve been trying to do stuff to impress the local big-shots. You know, small stuff like graffiti on walls, things like that.
Go on, I nodded. Small wonder the cops hadnt seemed interested they were so swamped trying to deal with either the Hellions, Skulls, or Outcasts they werent likely to spare much concern for somebody who was known to police. Not unless he was known for having mutant powers or something.
Well, four days ago they decided they needed to do something bigger, he flushed and looked away. I tried to talk him out of it. But they went anyway.
Talk him out of what? I prodded, wishing the kid would just get to the point.
They wanted to break into this warehouse theyd been watching, he jammed his hands into his pockets and started pacing agitatedly. He said theyd seen lots of trucks going in and out delivering stuff, and they figured there must be something worth stealing in there that they could nab. He said they didnt have any security and that the warehouse looked deserted most of the time.
Oh hell, I muttered, rubbing at the bridge of my nose with my fingers. "Deserted warehouses" didnt exist in Paragon City if you had a building that looked abandoned, then it was a sure bet that somebody had set up shop there that didn't *want* to be noticed. If it wasn't the Hellions, then it was the Skulls or the Outcasts. And if it wasn't the gangs trying to lay low, then it was probably somebody with enough firepower to make sure that they didn't get noticed. Unless they were total knuckle-dragging Neanderthals, anybody with an IQ above that of a retarded amoeba should have known that. "Anything else?"
"Yeah," he looked glum. Fishing in his jacket pocket, he pulled out an oily, stained piece of yellow paper that looked like a packing slip and handed it to me. "I found this in his things I think they picked it up when they were scouting out the place."
I unfolded the crumpled piece of paper and squinted at the faded lines on the paper. I immediately saw two things that made my blood run cold the first thing was that it was a packing slip all right, and it was for guns. Lots of guns. Very high-powered, very illegal guns.
The second thing that was making me feel like I'd been kicked in the stomach was the barely legible logo in the corner of the paper. It looked like a flaming diamond-shaped comet with a large 'C' embedded in the center.
The Council. I swore under my breath as I crumpled the paper. The stupid, STUPID bastards had tried to rip off a Council storehouse. If they were lucky, they were dead. If they weren't lucky...my jaw clenched as I tried to avoid thinking about what they could do with a batch of fresh 'volunteers' for their insane super-soldier experiments.
For one brief, disorienting second, it seemed like I could smell antiseptic fumes, and I again felt something akin to slivers of white-hot fire racing up my arms. Gritting my teeth, I shook my head, forcing away the memories.
As the pain faded from my arms, I became aware that the hand that had been holding the packing slip had clenched into a tight fist, and the afternoon sunlight was glittering off the trio of razor-edged ten-inch blades that had sprouted from between my knuckles.
My claws.
The kid had turned bone-white and started backing away from me, and I speared him with a steely glance, stopping him in his tracks. "What's your brother's name, and where was this warehouse?"

Chapter 2:
========

Independence Port. I can't think of a more wretched hive of scum and villainy anywhere, Ben Kenobi's opinion about Mos Eisley spaceport notwithstanding.
What? So I watch old movies from time to time. Did you think I spend absolutely all my time fighting for my life against crackpots with master plans to conquer Paragon City and use Statemans cape for their beach towel? Even us hyperactive scrappers need to unwind now and again, and I like watching old movies at home. I can relax and enjoy myself, munch some snacks, and not have to pretend I cant hear the whispering and muttering going on behind my back.
I shifted my position a little, trying to ease the cramps that were starting to bite into my leg muscles. Id been perched in my little lookout spot for about an hour and a half now, neatly tucked out of sight behind some steel girders and pipes running from a nearby refinery. It was the type of spot that most people wouldnt think of looking primarily because under normal circumstances, most people wouldn't have been able to get to it.
But when youve got cat-like agility and instincts, you learn really quickly that doing the unexpected can keep you alive. It's not paranoia if they really ARE out to get you and I'd managed to piss of enough of Paragon City's assorted criminal element that I wasn't going to take anything for granted.
So I waited semi-patiently, trying to ignore the pungent cocktail of dead fish, harbour debris, industrial fumes, and petroleum vapour that saturated the air around me.
As I crouched there in the shadows, factory and dock workers and other pedestrians went about their business on the streets below. I had to fight not to leap from my concealed niche a couple of times as a couple of them were grabbed by Tsoo gangsters and shaken down for 'protection' money. Part of being on a stakeout is keeping a low profile, and to suddenly have an enraged scrapper landing on them and carving dire retribution out of their tattooed hide would have given away my position.
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp I stayed hidden and silent, grinding my teeth as I witnessed a couple more shakedowns, mentally promising myself that I'd track them down later and get the victims their money back with interest. As I tore my gaze from the street, I realized that I'd clenched my hands into fists again, and my claws were gleaming brightly in the darkness. Six steely blades, slightly curved with chisel-pointed ends, much like the tip of a katana blade.
Damn it, I'd done it again. I forced myself to relax, taking deep breaths and unclenching my hands. My claws slowly slid back into my hands, vanishing into my gloves and retracting into their housings with a metallic grating noise. I stared at the backs of my hands, my jaw clenching for a moment, then resumed my vigil.
Most people thought my claws were built into my gloves in some kind of fancy high-tech spring-loaded gadget. Only a select few people knew the truth: my claws were cybernetic devices that had been surgically implanted in my arms when I'd been strapped down to a table and drugged into a stupor so that I couldn't resist. I wore the gloves partly to deflect curiosity by giving people an easy explanation for where the claws came from.
The other reason I wore them was to hide the scars.
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Bert V.V.
skyknight@sentex.net

Last night/early this morning, on Justice Server, right at the top of 1:00AM give or take a minute or two, the 3 remaining members of Task Force White Sands completed Positron's Task Force.
After starting on Friday.
This Task Force had more deaths in it than any other I have ever seen.
Highest level of members in the Task Force was 15 (My level 50 exemplered down to do this TF.)
First mission? Vahzilok. At LEVEL 17!!!
And there were a ridiculous number of spawns in that first mission. We started off with 6 people I think, and I swear, the spawns looked like they were for a full 8 person group.
We kited like mad, but still, I think we maxed our debt just on that one mission. That ONE mission I think took like three HOURS!
After a couple of people left the group, leaving us with 4, we did a couple of missions after that on Friday but decided to hang it up and come back to it on Saturday. After the first mission, things seemed to settle down and be more normal. Still slow going though. We got through about another 3rd of the missions on Saturday before a couple of the members begged off due to exhaustion.
We came back on Sunday evening to discover that somehow we were now 3 instead of 4. Nobody, including our 4th member, who logged in at the time agreed upon, knew why she had been dropped. Which REALLY sucked because she was our healer!
We decided to go ahead and try again anyway.
First mission of the evening was another Vahzilok mission with level 17 enemies. I just wanted to punch the screen through the wall at this point. But amazingly, despite some deaths, we'd hit upon some kiting tactics that seemed to mitigate most of the problems. Plus I ferried inspirations back from Pocket D for us to burn through like mad. We got through that one in about an hour and a half.
Then a Circle of Thorns mission, also with level 17 enemies. I was ready to just give up at this point. But we talked it over and tried to brainstorm it and figured out a possible cause of the problem. Two of our remaining three members were exemplered down from higher levels. The current Team Leader was actually level 28. We thought that maybe that was skewing things. So we all logged out of the game in order to reset the mission, came back on and made the level 15 member the Team Leader. Went back into the mission and - lo and behold! Level 15! Still no cakewalk, but MUCH more doable!
From there it was all standard mob bashing. A few more deaths due to lack of healing ability, but generally MUCH faster going. With only 3 of us in the group, the mob spawns were much more reasonable in size.
Anyway, success was finally achieved around 1am Central time. And Lora Doubet has only the Synapse Task Force to do to get the Task Force Commander badge.
Two things I learned about Positron.
One - make SURE your Team leader is not exemplered down from a higher level. It fucks with the level of spawns in a MAJOR way! Get the lowest level person in the group to be the Team Leader!
Only go in with 3-4 people. Larger than that and the Spawn Sizes are INSANE!!
I hope this cautionary tale is of use to someone. I just needed to vent a bit, myself.
-Logan
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"Wake up! Time for SCIENCE!"
-Adam Savage
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I'm not really taking a break. I'm trying to cut back my CoH play. Seriously, I'm playing this game too much - and I'm concerned it's taking over my life. I don't want to get into some weird addiction situation.
So, I'm trying to break away from the game a bit, and play it a lot less - and focus on well, my wife...
...and other games.--
Christopher Angel, aka JPublic
The Works of Christopher Angel
"Camaraderie, adventure, and steel on steel. The stuff of legend! Right, Boo?"

I came up with this short little thing after reading the latest chapter of the Naruto manga (342); it plays off of the last scene of that chapter.
I posted a slightly earlier draft of this to the FFML; if you read that one there's no significant changes.
All comments are, of course, appreciated.

At the very least for the convenience of those who are writing stories and need to describe the members of the Legendary, please post pics of your toons here.
This is just for members of the Legendary. If people want a general picture thread, let me know -- in another thread -- and I'll set it up. Please keep discussion in this thread to a minimum, so it's easier for people to scroll through and find the pictures they need to see.
Thanks!
-- Bob
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Visit beautiful Boston, proud successor to Seattle as
"City Most Scared Of Its Own Shadow

Heya, I sent a private message but I never used it before and am now sure it got lost in the Ether. Was just wondering if I could use some allusions to the Banzai Institute and some background political machinations that are reletively benign. Basically, Banzai Inst. gets a big donation, and a somebody's boneheaded but harmless mistake is taken care of quietly by my guys, one of whom is a quasi-reserve Blue Blazer.
If you want to see the bit I'd be happy to mail it to you at whatever address you want. I just felt since this was your area of the sandbox I'd better ask permission first.---------------
-Jon
Being the Mariner hitting coach is like being the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts.
-Poster on USSMariner.com
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Jon
"And that must have caused my dad's brain to break in half, replaced by a purely mechanical engine of revenge!"

Sometimes I really wish there was an emote in-game for your character to smack his forehead and drag his hand down his face.

-Logan
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"Wake up! Time for SCIENCE!"
-Adam Savage
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