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{RoundRobin-ish} And Justice, For Real
Our first prestige!
#26
Are your hurt or injured? If you hurt suck it up. If you are injured seek medical attention. Sometimes it just hurts. It is supposed to hurt. You press on. Fear? You press on. Pain. You press on. Emotional distress. You press on. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my chest heaved with each breath. I was sucking wind. Press on. I dropped into a fighting crouch, knees bent, back straight, arms tucked close to the chest, forearms turned to present the strong bones and muscles, rather than the more vulnerable, vein and tendon filled inner surfaces. The metal floor was cool against my bare feet, the slight ridges on the surface providing good traction. My opponent wasnt there. He existed solely in my mind. He charged.
I stepped forward and to the right, breaking myself out of the line of his attack. As I moved my empty hands filled. A pair of swords; bastard swords; my swords. The double-edged blades were a matted, the steel barely catching the fluorescent lights overhead. Their lines were simple with no ornamentation. They were tools. Physical manifestations of my will that could be created and dismissed with a thought. My feet shifted, not crossing as I pivoted. My balance remained undisturbed, my center fixed and ready. Bladework is important, but for a proper swordsman, it is footwork that is the key. You cannot dance about from one foot to another, bouncing like a rubber ball. In order to properly parry and strike, you must be centered and stable. Dont lean forward; it paints a target upon your head. Dont strike with only one foot on the ground, it robs you of power and can shatter your balance. Remain stable and centered.
I struck empty air, not absorbing the force of the blow, but allowing the strikes to flow from one motion to another. Using two swords is not, as some would think, merely a matter of slashing the air in front of you as if you were a Moulinex Magi-blender. You would tie yourself up like an INXS frontman, and in a fight, die just as badly. Though perhaps with your genitals still in your pants a very small comfort. The swords follow disparate paths, never crossing where they can be pinned or redirected with a single blade or body part.
If I was using my own swords; back in my own world, my options would have been more limited; but here my options had opened up like a flower and I was exploring the petals. I beat down a thrust with my right and moved in, opening my left hand and grabbing the wrist of my imaginary opponent driving it down. My right cleared the blade out and drove back with the pommel. The blow came right up from the deck, the pommel striking in a perfect uppercut that would snap the head back and cause the brain to take a little half-second nap. A lot can happen in a half second. My left snatched a sword from the air and slammed it into the back of my opponents neck. A killing blow. I paused, rewinding the scene in my mind. I ran the scenario again, changing the nape strike to a pommel strike to the back of the head. A blow that could kill, but would not immediately limit the victims immediate career options to soccer or basketball. According to the identity card my profession was now superhero; and my mandate was to arrest the bad guys, not render them into separate bits.
I saluted with both blades and stepped out of the training area, bowing to it as I left. Old habits, but good ones. While I could certainly fight in a variety of non-lethal ways, almost every single technique required a higher degree of risk. Worse, having to close to smell-their-breath range negated some of the tactical advantages of longer blades. I liked my arse where it was, and the thought of a troop of gibbering Hellion baboons kicking it up into jaunty hat territory was not appealing in the least. Perhaps there was a solution so obvious that it was staring me in the face. Sticking a feather in my arse wasnt that solution, though it would at least make the wear-your-own-arse-like-a-hat meme considerably more stylish. Something challenging from the Versace; this years fat ostrich line. I considered again. Bastard swords are not cutting weapons. They are crushing weapons with an edge. This can make them very efficient cutters; but that was not what I wanted. I manifested my blades and concentrated on the edge. What if the vector of the force ran opposite? Instead of shearing through, they drove away. The efficient transfer of energy should remain constant but without the mess of disembowelments, decapitations and various festive amputations. Part of my mind, a part that I was only now becoming aware of, thrummed. The blades in my hands shimmered, a cold, black, sheen briefly dancing across their surface. I continued to concentrate; my mind playing with the physical reality. There would be times that I would want to cut; there would be times that I would want to crush without cutting. I might have to switch in an instant as I changed targets. Practice. More practice. I didnt mind that. It was how you got to Carnegie Hall or created enough holes to fill the Albert Hall. I returned to the training area.
* * *
I consulted the map again and cursed my piss poor sense of direction. While our new base had a kitchen my lovely wife had seen to that as a priority we hadnt found time to get groceries. That meant dinner would be take-out. Money wasnt an issue, at least not yet, the Portal Corporation had been generous in funding us in some small apology for their monumental pooch-screw. It would not last forever, but it was more than ample to keep us clothed, housed and fed for the foreseeable future. I had money, but had encountered a cultural difference, at least in Paragon. No pizza delivery. It just didnt happen. Between the ward walls, the roving gangs and other such troubles, it was just not economically feasible. Perhaps the ritzier areas had such things, but if they existed, they were quite beyond our means. Still, I wasnt too worried about going out. What worried me was the food. Perhaps hero kitsch did not necessarily translate to bad food, but with names such as City of Gyros, Pizza Hero and Major Traumas Flamethrower Fried Chicken well my hopes were not set too high. We had settled on Pizza Hero. While indifferent pizza is commonplace, truly bad pizza takes a genuine effort on the part of a truly incompetent chef. You can do it; but you have to work at it.
Then I made a mistake.
I was so intent on the map, the new city and my inner monologue on the Tao of pizza, I walked into a mugging. I wasnt the one being mugged; but I couldnt ignore it either. Three hellions. I dont know if there was a Papa Hellion, a Mama Hellion and a Baby Hellion; I considered asking which one was Mama, but I suspect they would have volunteered me to the position. It was not a position I was particularly suited for, nor one that I would be in any way inclined to take. They were big. They were bad. They were tough. It made me very aware of the extra weight I was carrying, and the fact that while I am not a short-arse, five foot, ten inches is certainly not six foot, two inches. The lead Hellion, or at any rate, the largest of them, was, as the British might say, rock. There was a lot of rough, tough, looking muscle. His six pack, visible through his ripped shirt, looked more like an eight pack, where they slip you a couple more beers as a bonus.
I am a wise arse. I know it. My lovely wife knows it. My students know it. These guys werent going to know it. If you can spare wind to talk, youre not fighting hard enough. Three Hellions trying to steal a purse. If they wanted the purse, they would have already taken it, and been on their way; unless they decided to come back for the matching pumps. That wasnt their intent. They were there for the terror; deliberately goading their victim to further fear, and reveling in it; perhaps even growing stronger on it. Sucking at their victims emotions like a baby might suck a teat, or more accurately a vampire a neck.
Fresh Meat. The Papa Hellion growled. This lardball looks like hes going to try and stop us.
Do I have superhero tattooed on my forehead? I considered this. No. Not last time I looked into a mirror. It is the sort of thing you notice, even if you have to read it backwards. Then I noticed a small detail. Papa Hellion had a little key fob taped to a very large shotgun; a small LED blinked on it. He was pointing both at me. The little LED was green. A couple of possibilities occurred to me. Conjecture the first he needed a garage door opened for his shotgun. Unlikely. Conjecture the second he liked the pretty lights. Perhaps more likely, but again, unlikely. Conjecture the third. It was a detector keyed to the medical transport beacon system, which in turn was keyed primarily to registered superheroes. A quick and dirty way to separate the sheep from the slightly meaner sheep; green probably meant amateur hero, with additional colours representing journeyman hero, established hero, and Oh shit its Statesman.
All I wanted is a pizza. Well a bunch of pizzas. There were a lot of hungry mouths to feed at the base.
I wasnt going to get the pizza.
I was going to get an opportunity to wear my arse like a hat.
I briefly regretted not investing in the feather.
I let them come to me. I stood balanced and ready. Some people like to be a serene pool in a fight. Reflecting nothing, offering nothing; a blank space on which the story of the fight will be written. Others prefer to be aggressive; moving in with dread intent, and a face that echoes their aggression. I like controlling territory. My swords were out and comfortably held in a guard position. My weight was evenly distributed, my shoulders loose and ready; my features intent and focused. My testicles had retreated to just below my kidneys and were shaking so fast that had they been closer together, my chest would have echoed with the sound of Spanish musical theatre. They were as scared as I would have like to be. I fully understood them. They were used to hanging around with a prick, and with three to one odds, it was likely that this prick was about to get beaten.
Mama and Baby Hellion had bats. I could have kissed them. Knives are far, far, scarier than bats; perhaps even scarier than swords. They were not professionals; but could be readily called enthusiastic amateurs. They were swinging for the cheap seats. I moved. One of the hardest things to do in a fight is to enter without fear; to purposefully step into danger and towards pain. I have never mastered it; but I do a pretty good imitation. I stepped back, the bat ringing against my sword. I didnt block the blow, but let it flow past me. The Hellion checked his swing through sheer muscle, but the effort cost him the barest moment to recover. I stepped past him on the right, delivering a backhand strike to the base of his skull. Rather than carve a golf-course destroying divot in the back of his skull, the sword transferred kinetic force more broadly into the target. He hit the ground and slid for a foot on the pavement, leaving at least part of his elaborate facial tattoos, and the skin covering them, in the rough surface. I am sure he made several city scavengers happy with this generous donation. I was already thrusting in a half circular motion, the sword in my left hand dropping low and then driving upward into the plexus of Baby Hellion. I dont think he remembered eating half of what gushed out of his mouth as everything in his lungs and stomache came charging forward like the six hundred. His bladder and sphincter also gave way, but I like to think that it was their own idea. I tried to keep him between me and Papa Hellion, but he collapsed too quickly.
Then I got shot.
It was a new and terrifying experience.
Something hot and loud crashed into my chest, smashing me backwards. I hit the ground and training took over as I rolled completely over and back to my feet. I grunted and embarrassing as it is to admit it, farted. Anyone who has done yoga or lot of breakfalls and rolls has had a similar experience. Some positions and movements make it nigh impossible to maintain iron clad starfish control.
Papa Hellion thought this was funny. The victim of the purse snatching found this funny. Mama and Baby Hellion would have found it funny if they were not unconscious or puking. Hell, I found it funny and I had just been shot.
Farts are funny and for the most part absent from the Superhero mystique. Captain America has never ripped one for Truth, Justice and the American way. Superman saves his for his Fortress of Solitude; where his whiffy Kryptonian blasts will not flatten entire city blocks. Batman doesnt fart. Period. He cant. The Shadow farts, for he knows what evil lurks in the
It took me a few moments to piece together the next few moments. I am pretty sure they included delivering at least six separate strikes to Papa Hellion. He was on the ground; I was kneeling on top of him; one knee on his face, the other buried deeply in his broken ribs. I had also broken his right arm. I also wasnt dead.
I concentrated on the not dead part. I figured that it was important. At least to me; and my lovely wife. I was bulletproof, which is a strange realization to come to; especially when you really are not expecting it. While I could not complain, I felt that it was perhaps misrepresented. Catching two barrels of buckshot in the relatively small area between your east and west nipples hurts like a motherfucker. I smiled. I was hurt, not injured. Lawrence of Arabia Time. Of course it hurts; the trick is not minding that it hurts. Papa Hellion was injured.
The police will be here shortly. I informed him. Dont move.
He moved. It was everyone in the house time. I waved his broken arm in the air. I waved it around like I just didnt care.
He went ash pale with a delightful hint of sickly minty green under his tattoos.
You bastard. He managed.
No. I corrected him. Excalibastard.
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Re: Our first prestige!
#27
OOC:
Quote:
They were as scared as I would have like to be. I fully understood them. They were used to hanging around with a prick, and with three to one odds, it was likely that this prick was about to get beaten.
Now _that's_ comedy. A+, would LOL again.
End OOC.
I came to in a hospital room of some sort. Diagnostic blinkies on the left, ugly-ass potted plant on the right.
And here I was, stuck in the middle. At least this time there weren't any rising rings.
I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, and checked my status. My body sent back various A-OK reports, and the informational messages I was getting were outstanding. Better than 'home', in fact.
No smokes in the vest hanging in the tiny wardrobe in the corner.
I got dressed, thankful that I at least had more flexible 'costuming' options than some of my avatars. I opened the door and stuck my head out of the room. A young, nondescript man sitting in a chair reading a newspaper looked up.
"Awake, finally?" He asked, folding his paper and disappearing it. I blinked and shook my head, reviewing the last few seconds, and realizing that yes, he had actually disappeared the paper.
"Yes. I think. Who are you?"
"I'm a Portal Corps agent. The Corps has provided some services for your base as a form of compensation for our error."
"uhm.. base?"
"As registered superheros, you become eligible to have a supergroup, a leauge of superheros, at security level ten, which one of your number has achieved. This is that base."
I boggled, shaking my head again. I could understand what he meant, but it wasn't sinking in. "How long have I been out?"
"Approximately 48 hours, it seems there was some additional complications cause by equipment in your reality."
"Yeah, I wasn't phsically there, I was attending via teleprescence.. "
"Well, that could explain a lot! Let's get you over to the workout, errr, Danger Room." He rolled his eyes slightly pronouncing that, and I could hear the capitals. "And put you through Archetype evaluation."
I spent the next several hours hitting things and screaming and being scanned and probed in ways I won't go into here. The results, while slightly disturbing, were still completely acceptable to me. In the nomenclature of my current residence, I was a..

OOC: I got no freaking clue, man.. nothing's clicking, the sonic blaster is ringing the same 'stupid' bells as the Axe tanker was. I'm gonna try another re-roll as soon as I can get to a compy.. maybe a Dark Melee scrapper.. Wire Geek - Burning the weak and trampling the dead since 1979Wire Geek - Burning the weak and trampling the dead since 1979
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Re: Our first prestige!
#28
((Rev Dark's making me feel a bit intimidated now... sounds like we might have the same powersets too? '.' ))
I finally figured out why the way my hair moved around on it's own seemed familiar.
And after talking with Logan, I think I'm happy I didn't remember it at first.
"Bioenhancement Angel." Yeah. If he ended up with *worshippers* just like that, what sort of situation might I have ended up in before I could explain no, not *that* kind of angel?
Anyway, it's really just a fancy term for having cells that can repair and reconfigure themselves at a fantastic rate. But as usual, it's the little details that get to you.
Like pain.
I don't feel it.
Seriously, do you realize how screwed up that can make you? I'd noted it in some writing before, but I'd never really understood the implications. I wasn't what you'd call combat-trained back home, but the idea of dodging when someone was trying to hit you was one I could relate to and put into practice. But now? The drive just isn't there. It's easier to just stand there and take it, then bash them while they're looking surprised at you. And somehow none of it messes up my clothes either. What the hell? I distinctly fail to remember having worn a bulletproof t-shirt the day this all started.
Oh, and when I'm cooking, I have to be sure to tell people that yes, it's very hot, and no, they shouldn't touch it without a potholder unless they're me.
Yeah, that's one of the good parts. Potholders always make me feel like the pot's going to go flying out of my hand at any moment. That, and I can drink hot chocolate now. It's amazing how much different it tastes than when it's just warm.
This afternoon I decided to test the hair thing. I went to one place and asked them to dye my hair. Then I went to another, and asked them to bleach it. Both times, I ended up apologizing profusely for wasting their time. Eladmarium hair. What was I thinking?
Tomorrow morning I think I'll go buy a bucket of forest green interior latex and dip my head in it. That should work. I think.
-Morgan. (Note for non-me readers: Eladmarium is a made up substance that is capable of moving around under some circumstances (such as being prehensile hair), is very difficult to cut or otherwise damage, and is *always* black.)"Mikuru-chan molested me! I'm... so happy!"
-Haruhi, "The Ecchi of Haruhi Suzumiya"
---(Not really)
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Re: Our first prestige!
#29
From the moment I first heard about mind powers, I always thought they were something complex. But you know what, now that I'm doing it, it's really not that difficult.
Making people fall asleep? Just make the brain think it's tired and the rest takes care of itself.
Want them to be completely unable to act instead of being asleep? Even easier, just 'grab' the brain and twist. People can rarely work through the crippling headaches this gives them.
Confusion took more work, but once I spotted where a person's mind keeps track of who's who in a fight, the rest fell in place fairly easily.
The one thing I think is pretty much impossible is true mind control. The amount of variables to mess with and keep under control is beyond imagining. I tried to list the things to do to control someone, and I ran out of paper before I was even close to halfway done.
I only wish I had figured out it was impossible BEFORE I tried to use it on a Bone Daddy. Oh sure, my bumbling across his brain hurt him, but when the first skull hit me in the face, I was in so much pain I could barely think, never mind trying to keep up the mental assault. Good thing my force fields are a reflex.
Even then, though, it must have been an odd sight. Imagine, a moron in a green hamster ball like force field running from a maniac lobbing skull shaped projectiles and yelling obscenities at the top of his lungs.
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Re: Our first prestige!
#30
I'm a loner.
That's not perhaps the most flattering thing to admit, but it's true. Admittedly, I'm a loner who's good at talking to people - if I'm in the right frame of mind, I can run a pretty good verbal spiel.
So I'm a socially adept loner.
But a loner, all the same. I appreciate a great party just as much as the next guy, but I'm most at home...
...on my own.
Which might explain why I solo so damn much.
Still, for the life of me, I never dreamed I'd be doing it in person. Life's a funny thing. Even the Lone Ranger had Toto. And, y'know, a pretty intelligent horse.
Me? I'm crouched on a fire escape with an assault rifle.
It's cold up here. It's a distinctly windy night, and my perch doesn't do much to cut the breeze. I sorta wish I'd been wearing a warmer jacket when I transitioned.
And my hands are freezing. I'm wearing fingerless gloves. Biker gloves, actually - I remember that's what it said on the packaging. Which is ironic, I suppose. The closest I've ever been to a motorcycle is walking by one in the parking lot. But that's what they issue you in the Army, perhaps on the basis that the lack of fingers helps your dexterity. It's certainly a factor in proper trigger pull.
None of which helps the fact that, as unclad extremities, said fingers are getting increasingly numb.
First order of business...once I've got some money in the bank, I really need to see about getting new clothes. Maybe something more suitable to fighting what amounts to an urban guerrilla campaign. Warmer clothes and protective wear. That'd be nice.
For now, though, I've got to make do with what I've got.
Truth be told, I don't want to be out here. Not really. I'd like to think I'm a pacifist at heart...though in truth, it's probably more like enlightened cowardice.
But everyone else in our little band of lost boys is out there playing with their new powers...and actually trying this whole crimefighting gig.
Ngh.
The city's given us an honest-to-god base. Unfortunately, it's more refugee shelter than Justice League Watchtower. And the cynic in me wonders how long they'll let us stay rent-free.
It's not like we've got that many marketable skills, especially stripped of paper qualifications. Hard to make a resume when you're from another dimension, and employers - even in Paragon City - are only so understanding.
What we do have is Class H certification - bona-fide hero licenses.
Far as I understand, we don't legally get a salary from bringing in bad guys. Not technically. It's not a formal paycheque, per-se, but more of a..."allowance", or "compensation for services rendered", or something like that. The guys from the Federal Bureau of Super-powered Affairs spouted all sorts of legal doubletalk, but that's the gist of it.
Of course, that only holds if we actually fight crime. Else you'd see too many people throwing on homemade costumes and using it as some kind of glorified welfare.
Not that the government reps used those words, but that's the sense I got, anyway.
So.
That's why I'm kneeling on a fire escape, a few storeys above the street. I've already heard horror stories from Shayne Dark and Gabriel about tackling these super-powered gang members head on.
And while the folks that got us set up with this hero gig suggested I might be more durable than normal too, I'm...not really willing to test that hypothesis. I'll avoid empirical findings if it's all the same, thank you very much.
Now.
It's probably not very heroic to play sniper, especially camping a spawn point - but my sense of justice and fair play doesn't, I'm afraid, extend that far.
Ms. Davies, one of the local FBSA liaisons to neophyte heroes requested that one of us head to this address in Kings Row. There's a Skull member they need taken down. I suppose the conventional thing to do would be to kick down the door and go in guns blazing...
...me, I'm squatting outside in the cold, and hoping to hell there isn't another exit. I don't think there is. I circled the block before picking my vantage point. So if he's leaving the building, he should be leaving through the front. And he will be leaving, if the FBSA is correct, since he knows his hideout is compromised...
That's...probably too many assumptions. Too many what-ifs.
Hopefully, though, I'll get lucky.
There's movement at street level, across the road. The door opens, and - yes, a guy in black and greys steps through. He's a small figure, from where I'm watching, but even at that distance a chill runs down my spine, a chill that has nothing to do with the wind and temperature.
In the game, the Skulls are just guys with silly white masks. But seeing one in real-life, it's painfully clear that it's no stupid party mask. The guy's wearing actual bone, a carved-off chunk of human anatomy torn from some descrated corpse.
Ick.
I settle the rifle tighter into my arms, the butt pressing into the intersection of chest and shoulder. I'm probably gripping it with too much pressure, but that's what nervousness does to you. I squint through the sights of the weapon, my breathing slowing, then stopping entirely as I bring the weapon to bear...trying to keep the target from dancing around.
Okay. I've done this before. Good and close target grouping. Doesn't have to be precise, I just need to hit him.
Just need to hit him.
Preferably more than once. The FBSA folks said these Skull guys are supernaturally tough...and given my rifle and rounds are apparently manifestations of my subconscious, rather than actual matter, that makes damage hard to quantify.
But I need to shoot.
He's not going to stand in that doorway forever. I have to take the shot.
My index finger pulls back on the trigger, nice and even.
The gunshot echoes through the night, ringing in my ears. I see the Skull jerk wildly, his head swinging. I can't tell if I've hit him, or if he's just surprised. No time to speculate, though. I ride out the recoil, bringing the weapon back on target. It feels easier, more natural, even with stress pounding in my nerves - but then, it's not a real rifle, so maybe the stress makes it easier to handle. I don't know. All I know is...
I fire again, and again, and again. You're not supposed to pull on the trigger like that. It's supposed to be a constant, steady motion, not a sudden explosive one. But I'm nervous.
Finally, I see the Skull go down. He slumps in the open doorway, sprawled halfway down the steps, twitching weakly.
I release my breath, then gulp in new air.
He's still moving, but it doesn't look like he's going anywhere fast. His sounds of agony reach clear across the street. Looks like I hit him, but...
...wait.
Is he holding his crotch?
Damn, I was aiming for his chest.
Whoops.
Uh. I know my aim's never been good, but even so...
Oh dear.
Okay, note to self, the sights are zeroed low.
Wait. This M16's supposed to be an extension of my will. So how's that supposed to work?
Um.
Well, at least the guy isn't getting up.
I pull out my police radio, and thumb the button. Hopefully, there won't be extra paperwork for this...
* * *
OOC: I rolled my SI toon based on the model set by Rev and Cindy, really. Cindy was talking about how Rev has his swords, and one of the new bow options looks like hers.
So I joked that since the only weapon I actually know how to use, however badly, is an M16, I'd obviously end up as some sort of gun-toting Punisher maniac. Except, y'know, laughably incompetent. As the ficlets suggest, I am qualified to use an M16 from my Army training.
But...I'm an awful shot. =P
-- Acyl
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Re: {RoundRobin-ish} And Justice, For Real
#31
You guys are making me REALLY want to come back to CoH, just to participate in this concept/thread... and I can't afford it yet [Image: frown.gif]
Waah!
You gotta keep posting, so's I get my fix vicariously, at least. [Image: smile.gif]

--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs
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Getting in the swing of things.
#32
Well Mr. Dark, your Cole index is progressing faster than we had originally predicted; this is not unheard of in subjects who make extensive use of their abilities.
Mr. Science was remarkably chipper and dapper. His pressed white coat carried the slightest scent of starch. His glasses were so clean they sparkled. The steel clip on his clipboard glinted brightly, as if it had been recently polished. He made me feel rather poorly turned out and rather uncomfortable.
The poorly turned out part of it was entirely understandable. Being at ground zero of a triple Vaz embombed corpse detonation does not do wonders for personal hygiene. A couple of minutes under the attention of a fire hose had stripped the worst of the organic muck; but my clothes looked like they had been well blown up in an organic explosion of semi-rotten body parts, cleaned with a hose and then air dried on the frame of a fat bastard.
That covered the poorly turned out part of the equation. The uncomfortable part of it was the large drill that was trying to pierce the skin of my palm. It hurt; but I was getting increasingly used to that. I was spending an increasing amount of time being hurt; and a smaller, but still significant portion of it being injured. Thankfully the Paragon Hero License, for active heroes at least, comes with a very effective medical plan. I had been making quite a bit of use of it. The drill tip began to smoke and small fragments broke away from the steel, the now jagged point catching in the skin and twisting.
Excellent, at least 40% more resilience over our last readings. Mr. Science continued. It wasnt his name; OBannon was his name, but he resembled Joseph Campanella from Science International; I must not have rated Tiiu Leek. That corresponds to the readings that we took on the tensile strength of your muscles and reaction speed.
That is very interesting. I noted with as much control as I could muster in the situation. Now please stop the drill.
The drill? Oh yes. Oh No! Mr. Science was notably distressed. He had several reasons; the least of which was that his immaculate white coat was now liberally splattered with dots of crimson. I had more reasons to be distressed as the drill had passed entirely through my hand and was happily chewing through the table. Mr. Science hit the control panels and the drill stopped and withdrew, dragging my hand up with it. This capped off what had been a complete and utter cluster of a day. He stared at my hand and I could see that he was deeply considering the implications. What would Jesus do? He would have preferred Jesus. Jesus didnt have the reputation I was slowly gaining. He didnt have a meek and mild prince of peace option; he had a large, dimensionally displaced man who was leaking stigmata juice and calling himself Excalibastard. Gritting my teeth I got up, and with something approaching grace, slapped my free hand down hard on the opposite wrist. My hand slid free of the drill with an uncomfortable ripping sound, and a considerably more uncomfortable ripping sensation. I reached for a first aid pack and pressed a bandage against the wound. It was already healing, but it would still be some time before the hole closed up fully. A week ago I would not have been so blas about a hole in my hand. A lot can happen in a week. I had been shot, stabbed, pummeled, blown up, perforated, folded, punched, kicked and puked on. Thankfully several more pleasant things had also happened, but the details of those shall remain between my lovely wife and I.
Several minutes, and a half dozen apologies later, I was leaving the Atlas Medical center. My hand was fully healed, but my mood remained somewhat grim. Did I say somewhat grim? No. It was rather more than somewhat grim. I was not in emo territory; the world didnt understand me and all that self-indulgent crap. No world understands you. Its not even in the world job description. Tectonic shifts, that is on the world job description; making sure that you are understood and that your oh so tender feelings are acknowledged? No. Not just no; hell no. It didnt help my mood, but I would rather be grounded in reality than happy. I have seen what sort of evils the not-grounded-in-reality-but-happy crowd were capable of.
This thought carried me to the tram and the tram started carrying me to Steel Canyon. I like the tram. There was a lot of thought put into it; especially as it served as a primary transportation means for the citys super heroic protectors. We get free passes. The windows are mirrored. On the inside. From the outside, you can see inside; but from the inside you cannot see outside. I would estimate that over the course of the year, this saves the Paragon Transit Authority a sum on money that approaches a billion. Imagine it. Every time a hero sees a mugging; they leap from the tram, smashing through the windows to fight crime. Ignorance is bliss only to the ignorant, but I appreciated this small, forced ignorance. It allowed for reflection, both good and bad. Mostly bad. I was homesick; I missed my parents, who I didnt call as much as I should; I missed my dog; I missed many of my friends. I didnt miss my fish; a small victory that I savored. A small, ugly, part of me wished that the transfer had been fully physical, that my loved ones, missed me as much as I missed them; but that was a thought beneath me. I was still there, still living the life I had led. It was unfair; but as one of my alter egos had so succinctly put, fair was where you went on the pony rides. It didnt make me any less angry though. Angry at the situation. Angry and the helplessness. Angry at myself for being angry. It wasnt a bad anger; but it needed redirection.
If you cannot do anything about one problem, do something you can about another one. I flipped open my cell phone and made a few calls. Paragon Heroic Liaison officers are go betweens between the hero community, government, industry and law enforcement. I had been introduced to several; liked a few of them; and respected all of them. While their jobs, job skills and social skills were widely disparate, they shared a single ability. They could all multitask like motherfuckers. Where did that phrase come from? On reflection it is probably not apropos, and conjures oedipal visions that could permanently scar the mind.
No, the Paragon Heroic Liaison officers are all able to handle two phones, three conversations and a constant stream of police intelligence through an ear bud while giving you your marching officers. Incredible. On the third call I hit paydirt. Willy Starbuck was chasing down a particular line of drug pushing and had a hot tip. The Skulls were putting the boots to a new Kings Row dance club; but there was a catch, one of their big guns was along for the ride. The Grave Raper. That got my attention. Was it supposed to sound tough? I bet he wanted to be called the Grim Reaper, but the Paragon Printing Company screwed up his business cards. The Grave Raper; just the sort of guy invite out for a cold one.
I think I might have horrified Willy; I was doing a pretty good job of horrifying myself. Look hotshot. He said, You watch yourself, this guy is no good news.
Ive got the file. I was scrolling through the description. Thanks Willy.
* * *
I made it too Kings Row on the tram. As I walked down the ramp a file of Longbow agents walked patrol. Hard bodies, taut muscles and gravity defying bosoms all parading about in the thinnest coating of bullet-proof spandex. I dont wear spandex; I have standing orders. If I ever parade about in spandex, Acyl is allowed to shoot me. As many times as it takes. There are some things that the eyes should not see and the mind should never be forced to forget.
Kings Row at night is not a place you want to be. It is dark; there are lights, but a small, highly active part of the criminal community enjoys using them for target practice. I didnt fear the dark; but I respected the horrors that it could hide. Dum! Dum! Duuummm! That sort of pretentious thought I didnt need. A lean and hungry rat waddled past a sewer grating; glancing up with beady red eyes. I glanced back. The rat didnt react to my glance. The rat had bigger problems. A tendril made of slightly fluorescing green goo snaked out from between the bars of the grate and wrapped itself around the rats torso. In a moment, the rat was pulled back through the grate. It did not go gracefully, it went crosswise. Whatever was pulling had sufficient strength to snap the rat half with a fatal sounding popping noise. Tendril and crudely folded rat disappeared into the darkness. Kings Row after dark. Great.
My destination was ahead and I concealed myself in the best way possible. I didnt move. Motion, any motion, draws the eye. If you can be still and silent then the job of stealth is already three quarters won. The club was located in one of the messed up tenement buildings that dotted the row. The entrance was almost level with the road, but around three quarters of the building was a two story deep alley. Perhaps in one day and age, they were seen as mini yards, where the children could run, safe from the streets. Now they were just receptacles for dumpsters and trash.
Grave Raper might have been of questionable taste, but he wasnt a complete muppet. There were two guards outside the club, chortling as they took turns kicking the ribs of someone who writhed on the ground. Probably a bouncer; reduced by circumstances to being a twitcher and a groaner. I relayed my position to the base, along with a brief message for my wife; who was at a meeting with city officials, negotiating on our behalf.
The movies have it all wrong. Fights are not long and drawn out affairs. When done correctly, they are short, fast and brutal. While strength, skill, speed and ability all play their part; there is one key factor that can never, ever, be ignored. You have to be willing to injure your opponent. Defeating someone without injuring them is possible, but it is foolish; it increases your risk astronomically. I waited until both Skulls had turned their backs to me and then moved. No games. No sense of fair play. I slammed into the first one with both blades, left blade met right blade with his head between them. He went down soundlessly. His partners reflexes were good, his instincts were wrong. He went for his gun. I tossed my swords away and stepped inside his arms, pinning the gun in his pants by grabbing his hand. I met the dark eyes of his skull mask. The yellowing bone had been stolen from a grave. Whoevers skull that was, the reality of their death was the conduit through which the thug channeled dark energies. I didnt think they would mind what I did next.
A head-butt, Liverpool kiss, or Kiss-off Glaswegian style is a short, efficient move. I used it. The mask held, but I heard the nose behind it break. Break someones nose and their eyes fill with tears and their brain is temporarily short circuited by intense pain. The Skulls hand slackened on the gun. Mine found the trigger, which I pulled twice.
Important tip. The package, wedding tackle, or carrot and two veg of your average Paragon street demon makes an adequate silencer. The retorts from the pistol were muffled considerably. I shift my grip, releasing the gun and grasping the Skulls rapidly darkening groin. I lifted and threw, tossing him into the sunken alley that ran beside the building. He didnt scream. His abused brain was still processing the head butt; by the time he reached the bullet wounds, gravity would not-so gently remind him that he had additional problems. I doubted he would be up for anything as vigorous as screaming for mommy to make it better. I prodded the bouncer, he was still conscious, though he could not have been too happy about it.
Give me five minutes and then call the police. I told him. I glanced at the unconscious Skull. If he starts to move, stomp on him.
The bouncer nodded his agreement. As I slid through the doors to the club, I did notice a change in the game plan. The bouncer didnt feel up and able to the stomping, but he had found a brick. Good improvisation.
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Changes in Motion
#33
After-action report, Debrief.
Subject: Dunkel, Edward.
Matter: Council Research into Human/Kheldon merger.
Summary: Hero Dunkel conducted an investigation of a Council base to find research into Kheldons and an Awakened Police Officer on the Brink of death.
Report: It was not one of my better ideas to follow up on a lead that I got from some of the "Recruitment" officers of the Council without backup. It seemed that after I had sent one batch to the Zig, two more patrols would show up, forcing me deeper into their base, and the deeper I went the faster the patrols caught up after the skirmishes.
I'd have to say it was about half an hour of this run and gun before i found myself inside the Research Lab. I proceeded to lock the door with a well placed arrow before exploring the lab. There were only a few Council fighters in the lab itself, so I counted myself lucky. What I wasn't expecting was one of the Council lackeys to destroy my bow. I don't even know how he did it, but the pain was excruciating. It was like a piece of my soul at gone numb. I stumbled about the lab for a minute, attempting to get the feeling back into my body when I crashed into the "specimen" cage. With my inadvertent bump into the cage, the life support for Officer Velketor was turned off and he died. His partner withdrew from the corpse and we struck up our partnership in time to test our new union against a fresh wave to Council. I hijacked one of the Council radios in the lab to call out on a PPD frequency and now you have this nice little report. Can I go back to my apartment now. Velk has been keeping me awake but I could use some sleep.
[OK, I got tired of playing an Archery blaster, it just doesn;t hold my interest, so I re-rolled as a Peacebringer and decided to write a little piece to state and IC reason for doing it. Later, Ed]
*********************
In the epic rage of furious thunder
legends create their tales
when the twilight calls and the dark lord falls
our glory will prevail

[Image: strikersetcfinal9_th.jpg]
In the epic rage of furious thunder
legends create their tales
when the twilight calls and the dark lord falls
our glory will prevail

[Image: strikersetcfinal9_th.jpg]
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Changes in State
#34
I had spent all of yesterday sitting around the base. My emotions were doing a fair imitation of a pendulum, oscillating from happy wonder on one end to fatalistic depression on the other.
On the positive side of this raw deal I had a sword, or maybe part of me was a sword. I'm still not entirely sure. But any way you look at it, that pretty cool. The fact that it emitted a soft green light was just gravy. Ok, a fluorescing sword isn't all that much better than a normal sword. But when an object that shouldn't normally glow begins to do so, its a sign that something more is going on. I knew there was more to this sword, and I was going to find out what it was. The emotional reassurance I got when holding it further cemented this concept.
On the negative side I had just 'lost' my family for all intents and purposes. Mentally I knew they were alive and well, but I would never be able to talk to or see them again. I was stuck in a crazy world where spandex and primary colors where the height of fashion; where crime was so much of a problem that anyone could spend a few hours filling out paperwork (or have a lab technician be nice enough to do if for you) and legally engage in vigilante justice; and get payed for it. On top off all that I was stuck holding a glowing sword that I had no idea how to use. Sure the healthy green glow might mean some part of my subconscious was still afraid of the dark and I would never need a flashlight again. Or it might mean it was radioactive, and I would shortly develop large cancerous growths on my hands and arms.
I had fiddled around with the sword a bit, it wasn't sharp enough to take off part of my thumb, but it did have an edge. And I didn't trust myself (even if I kept getting the feeling that the sword did) to not inflict grievous bodily harm upon myself by pretending to know what I was doing.
In any event I needed to:
1a) get the sword looked at by someone who knew something about magic
1b) someone who knew technological artifacts
1c) someone who knew swords (I knew enough to know I had no clue what style it was)
2) learn how to use it beyond 'pointy end goes in other person'.
3) Become self-sufficient, or at least make headway in that direction.
I had asked around about who I should go see about my first issue. MAGI pointed me to DATA, DATA pointed me to SERAPH, and SERAPH gave me an address of a weaponsmith in the southeast corner of town.
It was on my way over there that I ran into trouble. More specifically two Hellions practicing social darwinism with a lady and her purse. Before I knew what was happening I found myself running, towards them.
-----
(and here is where I cut it off for now to polish up the fight scene.)
(I also hope that ViiOR isn't being forgotten in favor of this more recent plot/idea bunny)-Terry
------
"Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away." - Antoine de Saint Exupery
The problem with America is stupidity. I'm not saying there should be a capital punishment for stupidity, but why don't we just take the safety labels off of everything and let the problem solve itself?
-Terry
-----
"so listen up boy, or pornography starring your mother will be the second worst thing to happen to you today"
TF2: Spy
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Skulls Mr. Rico.... Three of them.
#35
The club was deliberately dark, lit by intermittent flashes of strobes, black light tubes and revolving spotlights. The air was rich with a variety of smells; good, bad, and knock a buzzard off a crapwagon. The last is perhaps an exaggeration; but there was a pall in the air, the slightest hint of putrescence. Carrion by Faberge or Buick bumper. I actually knew the smell. All Skulls have a trace of it; the strength of it varying from barely noticeable to I just rolled around on a dead rotted moose and my girlfriend wont return my calls This reek was approaching moose territory; perhaps even with a hint of squirrel.
What patrons remained in the club were milling about like chickens with their heads cut off; thankfully it was just like. Their heads were still attached, even if they were not making the best use of them. Many of them had glow sticks woven into their clothes and hair, adding further bursts of distracting color to the already chaotic atmosphere. The music didnt help. It sounded like Techno, which I am no great fan of; mixed liberally with Disco. Was that the refrain from Staying Alive? Irony was not dead, even when stalked by the dead obsessed.
Three Skulls ahead; dancing; badly. They were thrashing about in a manner deliberately calculated to cause discomfort; their arms, legs, torsos and baseball bats slamming into any patron stupid enough to get close to them. Okay, maybe it wasnt dancing. I can never tell. Spot check. Guns. Yes. Bats. Two. Axe. One. Testicles. Mine. Rapidly climbing up into my body. I was still afraid; you get very good at hiding it, but the fear is still there. My street reputation didnt mention the fear; I would show up, participate in an efficiently violent beating that would not look out of place in a Steve Seagal film, and then waddle off into the night.
I engaged in more than 250 pounds of diplomacy. The Skulls are lightweights on the gang scene, at least in Paragon. I was happy about that. They were all about the joys of personal combat and individual effort. Big strong guys doing big strong guy things by beating up big strong guys; or me. Yeah. Me. Perfect. For me. They train hard, but they are trained to fight as an army of one; teamwork isnt big on their list of things to do. Your mother is higher on their list of things to do than teamwork. Take that any way you wish. She will. I relayed this to them. No one likes you saying that sort of thing about their mother. They didnt. I didnt mean it. Im married, and not to their mothers. They came in with furious anger, I met them. The problem with training for individuals combat is that it breaks down when you bring your buddies. You want to shoot, swing, chop or defenestrate, so do they, and no one can do it well, because you are suddenly afraid of hurting one another. I had trained myself to fight multiple foes. I took the advantage and didnt let it go. I employed a circle, keeping them in the center of the space I was dominating. My blades licked out at the one closest, knocking his bat one way and then the other. Here is a rule of swordplay, dont aim for their shield, dont aim for their weapon. Aim for them.
So why did I swing for his bat? I wasnt trying to cut it in half or something heroically goofy. I was kneading his mind. I swung again. He shifted his grip on the bat, bracing it with all his strength. He wouldnt let the fat bastard knock him around. My sword met his bat and stopped. He was smiling behind his skull mask. He wasnt smiling when he hit the floor. He had forgotten my second sword which had come down hard on his exposed and extended arms. He was in shock. Seeing all of the bones in both of your forearms poking through the skin like a forest composed entirely of compound fractures will do that. If it doesnt you are a freak; perhaps not with a capital F.
The other two were not freaks either. I am sure their eyes were wide behind their skull masks. I pivoted to the right and cut down another one with an efficient stroke to the knee. He was down and screaming. The third one corpsed. Ironic for a skull. He didnt know what do, his bat held upright, but loose in his hands. He was caught between fight and flight. I made the decision for him. I slammed both blades into his bat, driving it backwards into his head. His loose grip was his undoing, but the concussion took him away from the pain his partners in crime. Lucky him.
A line of pain stitched across my shoulders. I hit the ground and found some cover.
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