[OOC] Heroes II Sign-Ups & Discussion

[Before you read the following, read through the Heroes Universe topic – fairly short – to understand the universe and the context for this RP. I separated the summary of the previous RP from this to reduce size and clutter from this post, but you’ll read that summary if you know what’s good for ya. Without further ado, might I present-]



    Daniel Knight had had a long, hard day at work. He was the manager of a construction site in downtown Chicago, and it’d been a rough day. There had been an accident on site – a crane had collapsed into the site and killed one man, injuring three others, causing thousands of dollars of damage – maybe a million.
    He was going to be fired; there was no doubt about it.
    Five years in the service . . . this is what I get?
    He pulled the keys out of his motorcycle and locked it in his garage. At least he still had that – his motorcycle, a birthday present from several years back – and his girlfriend, Alexis, who should be arriving . . .
    A sedan pulled up his driveway. Alexis stepped out and waved, walking towards him.
    Daniel squeezed the ring in the pocket of his jeans.
    That’s when it happened. A sudden flash, and a jolt, like the whole world suddenly slipped a few feet downwards. Daniel’s whole body seized up in a spasm of pain, his insides jerking back and forth. His world tipped upside down and he felt . . . distorted. Wrong. Not there. He saw things from two sets of eyes. Felt from four hands, four legs, two noses. The pain of two brains burned in his skull. He felt the whole chemical makeup of his body change – and that was all just the first two seconds.
    The next few brought flame. An explosion ripped through the streets, a blastwave rippling through the tar like the hump traveling along a cracked whip. Fire flooded the road and a cloud of shrapnel and a burst of fire, an explosion of red shot out suddenly like a crack of lightning, embers and clouds of red death expanding outward in the blink of an eye, smoke following. The houses around Daniel were burned away in seconds, completely vaporized in the horrible blast.
    Daniel fell to the ashen pavement, his whole body alight in a lingering flame. He shuddered on the scorched earth for several seconds, his insides still writhing. In a blurry haze of embers he made out a dark shape – a man, stumbling away, and then . . . he was gone, like in those old movies when they would pause the film, remove the actor, and resume. A small jump, and he was gone, as if he’d never been there. Daniel brought himself, shakily, to his feet. He felt . . . heavier. He looked at his hands. Rock. Hard, black rock, tongues of flame curled around it. He gasped, and the rock began to retract into his insides, the skin reforming on the surface. More pain. Immense, immeasurable pain.
    It stopped – the pain, the voice. There was no more flame on him, no more rock. Just him, wearing charred tatters of his former clothes.
    Alexis. He stumbled his way to the melted pile of liquid metal that had been her car. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen. No . . . no! This can’t- I can’t- No!
    The molten metal started bubbling. Gaps boiled away, and bright beams of light shone through. A hand shot up out of the metal and a figure, rays of light bright as the sun shining from odd splotches here and there pulled itself from the liquid, dripping and scorched black from the flaming metal. It stepped away, stumbling across what was once a street, light gleaming from it. Lexi?
    The black on her body peeled away and her skin returned . . . healing itself. The bright white light dimmed, and shut off. Daniel blinked. It was her. She was alive, unharmed.
    But what had happened to her?
    To them both?



    The Chicago Bank, though not particularly pretty from the outside, being a fairly bare, plain and boring square brick building, is far prettier on the inside, though in an entirely different way.
    Inside its droll walls, behind a six-inch steel vault with a high-tech 32-character password lock with the most expensive anti-hacking safeguards money can buy, the Chicago Bank spends what money would go to prettying the place up on protecting the money of its clients. Recently, one such client made a very, very large deposit: one Wallace Haversham, a wealthy Scott from across the pond, had entrusted the bank with keeping an exact amount of 3.5 million dollars in cash under lock and key.
    Needless to say, such a circumstance is highly attractive to those of a criminal persuasion.
    With all the 49-layers of encryption on the vault’s lock, with the 32-character password that would take any computer years to solve, with its laser grid surrounding the faraday cage holding the briefcase full of cash, with the three different layers of security one has to pass before even being able to take a crack at the vault – for all that, they forgot one very, very important thing to protect against which, if used correctly, bypasses and neutralizes all the aforementioned defenses:
    Explosives. High-powered, remote-detonated, strategically-placed, well-hidden, synchronized-detonation explosives.
    KRAKOOM
    It was a devastating series of explosions, but ones that took out only what they needed to, leaving the structural stability of the building largely intact and leaving, surprisingly, zero casualties. The first explosion destroyed the entrance to the bank, the second blew open the first secure door leading to the vault, the third the second door, the fourth the third door, and the fifth the vault door itself, also completely disabling the entire security system of the vault. Moments after the detonation, a multitude of red box-trucks with machine gun turrets on the tops – technicals – sped into the parking lot outside the bank, coming from alleys and underpasses. They came to a sudden stop in the parking lot, tires screeching to a halt. The backs of the trucks flew open and squads of men clad in brightly red-painted body armor and carrying particularly nasty automatic weapons filed out of the trucks and into the bank.
    Fortunately, it was a Sunday, and the only people in the bank were security guards and a few technicians, so there wasn’t a horde of civilians to get hurt. The security guards, competent though they may be, were outnumbered and outgunned by the red-clad soldiers, and didn’t put up an ounce of fight, and really, who could blame them? Their bank was being robbed by a small army.
    The soldiers rushed in, grabbed the briefcase, and rushed out, hopping back into their trucks and driving away, disappearing before even a single police response team could arrive on the scene. The job had gone just as planned – but who had planned it?


    “Again, I can’t thank you enough for your participation in this, Mr. Haversham,” a middle-aged man with graying hair on his balding head said. He was in his late fifties, and his brown eyes showed years of getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. They showed determination and patience behind the guise of reservation.
    “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. President,” Wallace Haversham responded. He reached out and shook the President’s hand. “But, if you don’t mind my nagging, when exactly will my money be returned to me?” President Rowen Gram Rockefeller, elected in the 2032 American elections, laughed a little, his round belly rippling in time to his jovial cries.
    “No need to apologize, Mr. Haversham. We all love our money.” He pressed a button on a keypad at his desk. “Send him in.” Shortly after, a red-clad man entered the room, carrying a hefty-looking briefcase in one hand. He set it on the table in front of Wallace.
    “Sir,” the man said.
    “Your money, I believe, Mr. Haversham,” the President said, gesturing to the briefcase, a smile on his lips. Wallace opened the briefcase and examined the contents. He nodded, satisfied.
    “Yes. It’s all here.” Wallace shut the briefcase.
    “I hope you understand why we couldn’t meet in the White House, in my Oval Office, Mr. Haversham. The circumstances of our agreement are . . .”
    “Yes, Mr. President,” Wallace interrupts, “I understand fully.”
    “Good.” There is some silence for a time. “So. You have your money, Dictator has his publicity – everyone’s happy. Good day, Mr. Haversham. Er, soldier,” he looks to the red-clad soldier still standing there, “show Mr. Haversham out, would you?” The soldier nods.
    “Good day, Mr. President,” Wallace says.
    “I insist, Mr. Haversham - call me Rowen.”


    The man was looking worse than he ever had before. More than half his body had been replaced with metal – crude cybernetic replacements for lost pieces of himself – and his skin, what left of it there was, was weathered and pale from loss of blood and pure exhaustion. His hair, once a matte of thick, black, messy hair, was falling out, graying from stress, and drenched with sweat.     But he didn’t just look physically awful; his friend could tell that recent events were taking a toll on his very mind. It was in the eyes. Above all other features, he looked decidedly, inescapably, dreadfully tired.
    His friend looked hardly better, but at least he wasn’t half metal.
    “No," his friend answered. “Not today. Today, you’re going to rest.”
    “Where's H-”
    “Had something to do." He paused, then reiterated himself. "Friend. Old, old friend . . . you have to rest.”
    “Damnit Robert. We’ve talked about this. I can’t rest. Not until-“
    “Forget it, man. I’m not letting you go again. Not yet. You’ll kill yourself.”
    “It’s not like you could stop me.” His friend threw his hands in the air.
    “So . . . so . . . what, what, the council of your friend, the only person you know left in this godforsaken world, is just . . . what, worthless? That is just typical-“
    “It’s not like that, Robert.” His voice, distorted though it was through his robotic voice box, was clearly offended.
    “Oh, it’s not like that, huh? Then what is it like? You ‘know best?’ What?”
    “I do know best.”
    His friend cursed. He didn’t usually do that. He began pacing in circles, scratching his unkempt scruff anxiously.
    “Oh, so I’m . . . what? I’m stupid?”
    “Robert, I-“
    “I’m just an idiot to you? What makes you so special? Without me, you’d be dead!”
    “You haven’t seen what it’s like back there!” the silver man shouted. “You don’t know how far gone it already is! We can’t risk all this-" he gestured to the decrepit room around them, "-happening again!” Robert went silent.
    “No matter what you do, man, it doesn’t affect us. You still remember that, right? You haven’t forgotten that, after all this . . . crap, have you?” The cyborg stands resolute.
    “You and I both know that this isn’t about that anymore. This place can’t be saved. That place can. We dedicated our lives to helping people. We can’t just stop now. Beige didn’t. Your father didn’t . . .” Robert swore.
    “Don’t you dare bring him into this. All my life, I got compared to him. ‘Why can’t you be more like him. Why don’t you act like him. Why aren’t you as smart as him.’ Don’t you think for even one second it’s okay to compare us.” The cyborg took a step back and raised his hands.
    “I know, I know, I’m sorry.” He sighed – a partially robotic sigh, his voice buzzing with artificiality. “I didn’t mean it. You know I know how you hate him. I’m sorry.” Robert sighed.
    “It’s okay. I know you know.” Robert put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, looking him in the eyes – the one real and the one cybernetic. “Listen, man . . . you’re gonna kill yourself. And that won’t help anybody at all. You need to take a break, alright? 2034 can wait for you.” He turned away. “We have all the time in the world.”


    The Chicago night, despite the breeze, was oddly quiet.
    A cold wind drifted down the dark corridor.
    No . . . it wasn’t cold. It was without temperature. Not quite cold, and not quite warm. It was just existent. A breeze without form. It sent chills down Alice’s spine, and, despite her trenchcoat, she felt like she needed to put on another layer.
    So . . . yes, it was cold.
    No. It wasn’t. She wanted to take the coat off. She could feel herself sweating – a cold sweat.
    The abandoned hospital had never been a place Alice had planned on taking a stroll through. It was dark, eerie, and ancient. She’d gone through a ward a few rooms back, and it had genuinely unnerved her – and Alice did not get scared. Never. She prided herself on it.
    But that ward had been terrifying. Empty rows of hospital beds, rotting away, but still somehow pristine, and untouched, though some had ruffled sheets, and she could’ve sworn she saw the imprint of a body in the mattress of one.
    But up ahead was something clearly not part of the hospital. At least, not part of the original hospital. It had been created. Dug out. Rooms bulldozed out, scaffolding and metal sheets as walls placed to create some semblance of structure.
    A huge room opened up before her, the corridor spilling out onto a walkway that lined the wall of the room, overlooking the ground floor. She heard voices.
    So she had been right. The manifests were real. She had proof. She turned around to face her companion. Thomas looked chilled to the bone, but she respected him for toughing through it. She had always been tough, but her recent job as a police officer only solidified her fearlessness. Thomas nodded, confirming, without dialogue, that they were both thinking the same thing.
    Get in. Take pictures. Get out.
    Alice raised a hand to a dial on her nightvision goggles, and turned it, flipping through the settings, their names flying by on the goggles. She stopped at “Camera Mode.” Thomas did the same. The two crept to the balcony overlooking the base of the room.
    Several men moved heavy crates across silent tracks on the floor, placing them against the wall, cataloguing them. They had unbranded flashlights and headlamps. They were thugs. Basic hoodies, big muscles. Easy to take if I have to. Her finger still twitched at her tazer’s holster.
    She stopped dead in her tracks. A man was on the catwalk, looking down into the area below, his back turned. But he was turning toward them.
    She scanned the room. Something. Anything! The pictures . . . it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough. There was nothing here that denoted Beige’s involvement. Only the shipping manifests, but that could easily be waved away as a forgery or an error, or the manifest could be conveniently misplaced. There was no telling how many pies Beige had his fingers in.
    The man was facing Alice. Time slowed. Alice leapt upwards and grabbed the surprised man by his collar, and spun him over the railing. He tumbled toward the concrete below, hitting with a smack. Thomas gasped. The men below turned to face her. Here goes nothing, she thought, seconds too late. She tended to do that – act before thinking. Quickly, she snapped as many pictures as she could in all angles of the room. Thomas did the same. The men below pulled guns – silenced, so the authorities wouldn’t be alerted.
    The first shot fired and panged against the railing as Alice pulled herself and Thomas back into the dark corridor.
    “Run!” she screamed, and took off down the corridor. Sparks and shrapnel rained down behind her as dozens of bullets ricocheted against the hallway. Thomas followed her, the two tearing down hallways and rooms. Alice stopped. They knew the hospital layout. She didn’t. They could flank the two of them and ambush them in a few rooms. They knew the shortcuts. Alice didn’t. She shoved Thomas against a wall as he was about to fly past her. He grunted in pain, but kept quiet. “Keep cool.” She listened.
    Some footsteps. Some muffled shouting. The hallway to their left. Alice moved them forward, back through that eerie ward. There were windows. They could jump out . . . no, they were three stories up. The jump could kill. Alice stopped them when she heard voices down that hallway. She gulped, and closed the door, clicking it quietly into place and turning the lock. She crept back to the other door and did the same.
    “Alice, what are you doing?” Thomas asked. Alice shook her head.
    “They’re surrounding us. Get in that corner,” she said, pointing to the corner by the door she just locked. She dug into her coat, mucking about with things frantically, pulling out a derringer. Thomas’ eyes, though obscured by the goggles, clearly widened. “Things are about to get messy.” She pulled out her tazer. “Pick your poison.” Thomas froze. Alice shoved the tazer toward him. He took it hesitantly. “You know how to work it? Good. Now go to your corner.” The voices were getting louder. Alice took her place in the opposite corner, by the other door, and aimed the derringer at the door.
    Boom.
    Her ears rung. She hadn’t been expecting that. An un-silenced shotgun blast blew the lock off the door, spraying shards of wood into the room, and a foot kicked the door open. A heavy man, carrying a double-barreled shotgun strode in. Alice pulled the trigger. She only had two shots.
    The bullet found its mark in the man’s chest, and he fell over, dazed. Alice lunged for him, peering out at the hallway at the same time. Two more men came down it. Alice heard another blast behind her – Thomas’ door. Alice fired her last derringer shot, then dropped it, grabbed the shotgun from the man and spun to the hallway, barely ducking under a frantically-fired pistol shot, and pulled the trigger, blasting the second man back into the hallway. She gasped for breath and looked behind her.
    Two men were sprawled on the floor, twitching. Two more came down the hallway, lights shining on Alice.
    Shi-
    She dropped and lunged away from their line of sight, bullets hitting the body of the man she had been laying on. Alice stood and rushed to the doorway. As the first man reached the door, so did Alice, double-barreled shotgun in hand, no ammo in the gun. She held it by the barrel and swung, catching the man in the jaw and sending him to the ground.
    Bang.
    It was a strange thing – being shot. Movies always depicted the bullet having force enough to throw you onto your back, and causing immediate, excruciating pain. Movies showed silenced weapons as being nearly undetectable by the human ear.
    Movies were wrong. On both counts. The shot was as loud as any pistol at this range, and the bullet simply . . . sank into her, resting in her gut. She felt no pain, only shock as she felt a trickle of blood pour from the wound. She slipped to the floor, her knees weakening. Her goggles slipped off. She saw nothing.
A flash of blinding white light. A golden-caped woman in shining purple garb, light bleeding from her every pore.
    She slipped into black.


    Dawn broke on the Windy City. And from down below, on the smog- polluted streets and back-alleys of the Industrial District, the sun barely broke through the cloud of toxicity hovering around their heads. But even through the haze, the sun perfectly silhouetted two structures rising above the stink and smoke: two night-black towers, joined by a skybridge, towering over the working class. The buildings were still under construction, large sections unfinished, like a patchwork web of interweaving steel scaffolding, the golden sunlight peeking through.
    Inside, Sepp Dietrich, or “Mr. S,” took an elevator to the underground levels, his loyal wife standing next to him, two soldiers in hellish armor flanking them both.
    He had work to do.
    The elevator opened and he stepped out into a large hall, striding towards his head architect for the building, who was walking – conversely – towards Sepp, his face red with fury.
    “Would you mind telling me, Mr. S, why there is a man and a woman locked away down here?” he screamed. Mr. S reached a gloved hand inside his coat, his hands gripping around something tessellated.
    “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Bouwmeester,” Sepp said, monotone. He produced an obsidian-black handgun from his coat pocket.
    “Wha-”
    A gunshot rang in the halls, the ever-so-loud sound bounding off of every wall in the tight space. The sound masked that of the architect’s corpse hitting the floor.
    Without a hitch in his stride, Sepp stepped over the fresh corpse and holstered his pistol.
    “You must have hated him,” his wife said, turning up her nose. She took a little longer to step around the body.
    “No, on the contrary I rather liked him – I simply do not have time for bribes, today. Today, I have work to do.” Sepp walked the halls, determination in his step, until he came to his place of work for the day – and the reason his architect had received a bullet in his brain.
    It was the cells Bouwmeester had referred to – and inside one was a woman, with blonde hair and an athletic frame. She looked horrible. Dried blood was crusted in layers beneath her eyes, the eyes glazed over. She was blind – she had used her powers of eyesight without end, in some sort of daze, not feeling the pain. She had bled her eyes into blindness. But she lifted her head when Sepp entered the room and glared through the one-way window. Somehow, she knew he was there. In the other cell was a man – old, frail, disheveled, cowering in the corner, hunched, hands cradling his head.
    They were the living members of Sepp’s family.
    He pressed a button on a small panel on the wall, linking the intercom to his sister’s room.
    “Fuck you,” she blurted the instant it connected. How had she known? Had there been some feedback on her end?
    “Now now, schwester, there is no need for oaths. Really, months since we last talked – months to stew and think up a clever insult, and America’s favorite word is all you can come up with?”
    She laughed. A distressed, confusing laugh that was a stir-fry of emotions. Anger, fear, sadness. She had been in that cell for almost a year now. The insanity had begun setting in long ago.
    “I won’t do it.” Her eyes glazed over again. She was going back into her trance. Denial. Mental breakdown. She’d been like this, on and off, since the day Sepp had stolen her away. Since that day at Beige Towers. Since the Siege.
    “And he won’t either. Yes, yes, you are a stubborn pair, aren’t you?” He eyed his father, who was sat, broken, in the corner of his cell. “I’ve made my decision, sister. Concerning your future.”
    “How lovely,” she said blankly. “What’ll it be: brick cell? Or cold slab?”
    “It will be better this way. I’ll make sure we . . . learn much from your . . . your corpse.”
    “I’m so glad.”
    “You think I want this, Kira? I risked my life to save yours. I was supposed to kill you-”
    “You old sentimental.”
    “Damnit, Kira, he would kill me if he found out-”
    Kira sprang to her feet and charged the window, slamming into it, her face pressing against the glass, eyes bloodshot, wide, staring daggers into Sepp’s soul. How could she see him?
    “I don’t give a shit, Sepp! Die, for all I care! You broke my world. It’s all meaningless now. You, me, my eyes, yours, you and your stupid neo-Nazi crap-”
    “I am not a Nazi!” Sepp slammed a gloved fist into the window. The bionic hand was strong, but the glass held – meant to withstand even the force of a small explosion. “Don’t you ever call me that! I am nothing like them!”
    “World domination, blah blah ficken blah! It’s all the same, Sepp!” She kicked the wall, breaking a toe. She didn’t care. “Nazi, Nazi, Nazi! Nazi! NAZI!” She began chanting, marching around the room in some hysterical fit, pumping her arms in the air. She swung back to face Sepp. “Fuck me, fuck you, fuck your eyes. Fuck it all! NAZI’S FOREVER!”
    “Dear god,” Victoria – Sepp’s wife – said. “She’s insane. Insane.” Sepp turned away from the window and composed himself.
    “Unfortunately . . . yes, she is.”


    “Tell me again what you think you saw?”
    Throughout the building, phones rang in their age-old, droning tone.
    “They was aliens, I tell ya! Right spooky, it was!” The Iowa hillbilly’s breath stank of corn.
    “Aliens.”
    Handcuffs jingled in the near distance.
    “Yes! They had a big ol’, weird ol’, spaceship, they did! Black and shiny like, and it came from the sky, it did!”
    “Ships of any kind tend to do that. ‘Come from the sky.’ Even those of a more . . . mundane nature.” Casey sighed. I could punch Alice in the face right now, he thought. If she was here, that is. He looked at the empty chair beside him. His partner hadn’t clocked in today. Bad news, that was – especially in their line of work. It was unsettling when cops went dark. But it was because of her extreme interest in conspiracy theories that he had now, in the only seven hours of her absence, been assigned three crazies, three nutcases.
    “There was this shinin’, shimmerin’ shape, the earth shook-”
    “I thought you said it was black?”
    “Well – it was! But first, it was shimmery! And the earth shook, and the ground, the very ground, i-it it opened! The shape, the ship, ya know, it dropped into the earth, and at the last second I saw it turn all dark and solid. That’s when I screamed.”
    “-Alright, I’ve heard enough.” Casey stood. “Just another crazy. The earth shook. I tell ya . . .”



    The earth shook. The fields and fields of endless corn were disturbed from their gentle waving, and began jittering unnaturally. A shining, shimmering distortion in the air, a mirage, moving with an indistinct shape, descended upon the rows of crops. The ground opened, splitting, halves retreating into a shallow hillside. Just as the final feet of the shape descended below the corn, it solidified into a jet-black plane of some kind, and as the ground closed again, the mechanism that was returning the ground to its natural state – ground without an abyss in it – began to produce a loud grinding and whirring, which drowned out the sound of a nearby farmer’s startled scream.
    The Chicago Five’s jet lowered into Elysium, the underground – and delightfully unknown – secret base of the band of superheroes that protected Chicago. The jet touched down, and clamps locked the plane into a massive, mechanical track.
    Elysium had not been the home of the Five for long. In fact, only a year prior, they had been in a base beneath the Atlantic that they had dubbed, unsurprisingly, “Atlantis.” Atlantis, however, their secret base, was no longer a secret. The location had been compromised. A Minneapolis-based team of superheroes, partnered with a friendly millionaire, by way of several dummy corporations, had built this base beneath Iowa soil, and had generously allowed the Chicago Five to move in. The Five wouldn’t have needed the generosity of the team from the Twin Cities, however, if their own patron millionaire hadn’t been . . . indisposed.
    The ramp on the back of the jet hissed and lowered slowly. A woman in a purple and gold, armored bodysuit rushed down the ramp. A man in a similar gray and burnt orange suit followed her, a blonde woman in his arms. A brown trenchcoat flowed off of her, and a bloodied bandage was wrapped tightly around her gut. A haggard young man in dark clothes, worry in his eyes, huge dry bags beneath them, hurried after the pair of supers.
    The man in the gray suit was hurrying down the halls of the base, the wounded woman in his arms barely breathing. The younger man without a suit rushed up to him and looked worriedly at his injured friend. She wheezed.
    “Hang in there,” he whispered.
    The young man pulled open a large metal door, giving way to the one with the wounded woman. He carried her into the infirmary, and set her down onto a gatch bed.
    “Medic!” Medic, the Chicago Five’s resident healer, out of her red and white bodysuit and only in casual doctor’s garb, rushed over. “She was shot. Bad hit. Gut,” the super said.
    “Bullet still inside?” she asked.
    “Yes. I applied a bandage and put some pressure on the wound, but that’s all we could do. There were a lot of thugs in that hospital.” Medic nodded.
    “Thanks, er,” she eyed the civilian in their presence, and opted to use her comrade’s superhero name, “-Atomic.” Atomic nodded and pulled Thomas out of the room.
    Medic laid her hand on her patient and took a deep breath. All else faded. Everything around her, unimportant. The walls, the floor, even her patient’s skin became a non-entity outside of a small patch surrounding the wound. She was in a black void, with naught but her and her patient’s damaged innards. She felt the beating heart. The ragged breaths, slow and dragging. She felt the bullet inside her patient; felt the torn flesh, the path the bullet had made. She connected her mind to that of her patient. Not the conscious mind, but her subconscious – that part that controlled everything involuntary, the systems-checker. She was taking over the autopilot.
    She willed it to regenerate, imbuing her patient’s cells with her own regenerative powers. Her innards, as they healed, gently pushed the bullet upwards, out of her body. The bullet rose, pushed by the rising tide of newly-generated tissue, and then fell out of the wound, rolling off of her stomach and onto the floor. Medic opened her eyes, snapping out of it. The wound was completely healed, some blood and a slight scar that would likely go away soon all that remained where the bullet had been.
    “D’you think she’ll make it?” Thomas asked, outside the Infirmary.
    “Trust me. Medic’s got this.” The door slid open. Medic gestured inside, returning back in.
    “She’ll be awake in about an hour.” Thomas sighed in relief and started for Alice. Atomic stopped him.
    “Hey, you didn’t finish.” Thomas had been explaining what had happened in the hospital – something he’d failed to do on the flight there, both of them scrambling to deal with the gunshot.
    “Well, then she got shot. Happy?”
    “No, what were you doing there?” Atomic asked. “I see she got shot. But why were you there?” Thomas sighed.
    “Alice and me found a manifest last year, belonging to Beige. Live cargo. Type: Homo Sapiens, it said. Beige is trafficking people. Or worse. We wanted more evidence. Or . . . she did. With Brinkley missing, she had nowhere to turn. She joined the police, hoping that would help.” He sighed again. “Didn’t really, I swear she’s on the brink of being fired. But she got a lead, finally, after almost a year – spent on wild goose chases and being bogged down by freaking ticket quotas. So, she brought me, expecting just some documents or something. Then we found that room and the crates.”
    “You think there were people in the crates?” Atomic asked.
    “Yeah. You said the Matriarchs didn’t find anything?” Atomic nodded.
    “The Matriarchs” were the superhero team guarding Minneapolis and the surrounding cities. They were an all-girl team, by pure coincidence, but they’d embraced it. They were the ones who’d built Elysium, with the help of their rich sponsor. They had been in the area recently, helping the Atlanteans get settled, and providing a fresh set of eyes on their set of problems – the missing Kira, the recent killings with a mysterious perpetrator, even helping to get dirt on Beige, too. Atomic had called them after they’d picked up Alice, and they’d rushed to the scene.
Just as Atomic, Thomas, Lux and Thomas arrived at Elysium, they called to inform them the hospital had been empty. They’d moved the cargo out that quickly.
    “Yeah,” Atomic said. “Beige moves fast.” He let Thomas into the infirmary to see Alice.
    Lux, who’d continued on down the hall, returned.
    “Alice gonna be okay?” she asked. Atomic nodded. “Good. Hey, Prosper’s got something for us.” Lux led Atomic down the hall, towards their briefing room.
    “Shouldn’t she be on overwatch for the Matriarchs?” Atomic asked.
    “They’re on their way back, now. Night’s quiet, and we have a few on patrol."
    The door swished open, and inside was a fairly large table, screens on every wall, a compact, sleek-looking laptop at the head of the table. Behind it stood Dixie Prosper, millionaire sponsor of the Matriarchs, CEO of the Prosper-Goldwin Company – a multimedia company extremely popular with the cool kids, the trendsetter of the entire metropolitan area of Minnesota, the trends making their way to the rest of America a month or two too late. Dixie often dyed her hair wildly different colors, wore it in wildly different styles, and cut or extended it at will. Today, she was sporting bright yellow dreads, and she was wearing her tight-cut immaculate white suit, golden necklace, bangles, piercings and more galore. Her eyes were colored an (unnatural) violet. She was talking quietly to Harriet Kage, leader of the Matriarchs – known to the public as, simply, “Matriarch.”
    “Ah, the unwitting leaders of the Five. I got some leads for you schmucks.” Every screen in the room blinked to life as Dixie began pressing keys on her laptop. “Something for just about all your problems.” Atomic laughed.
    “Sure. You’ve got an answer for all that.” Dixie frowned and put a hand on her hip.
    “I said just about 'all of that.' Anyways, for one, I think I know your anonymous killer’s next target. Beige is still a toughie, and those weird guys who did messed up Tross have practically fallen off the map. But- I think I found your missing person. Kira Dietrich.” Captain Lux shot out of her seat. “Two new highrises in town, connected by a skybridge.” A blueprint of the buildings appeared on the screens in the room. “Its construction is being over seen by a one ‘Mr. S,’ also known as ‘anonymous buyer.’ The project is being funded, however, by the Snakehead Foundation – the Neo-Futurists' personal bank account.” Lux raised an eyebrow. The Neo-Futurists were an odd – dangerous – bunch. They were a political party in Germany, and they practically ran the country. The worst thing? They were essentially Nazis.
    “What does that mean?” Atomic asked.
    “It means Sepp Dietrich – who Ansgar confirmed was who kidnapped Kira – Kira’s brother, who I found out is a higher-up in the Futurists, and who I also found out goes by Mr. S . . . is living right here in Chicago.” Atomic and Lux gasped slightly.
    “Right here? The whole damn time?” Atomic scoffed.
    “Unfortunately – yeah.”
    Lux swore. “I’ll get a team mobilized.”
    “You’ll need our help. But we need to take this carefully. I doubt whatever a big shot in the Nazi party is doing here in Chicago is anything good. And I read the news. Saw the pics. You were there – The Siege – those Helltroopers, you called them. No telling how many more he might have.” Dixie started pacing slightly. “And you need to get this killer.”
    Matriarch stood. She was intimidating, standing fairly tall in the room – and her mean pink outfit wasn’t any detriment. “You don’t need all hands on deck for a discreet rescue mission, so you – or even we – could stand sparing a hero or three to chase that lead. But we should get moving. She’s already been missing for a year.”
    An engineer, one of several rusted civilians Dixie had employed to keep Elysium occupied and in top shape, burst into the room. “Uhh, ma’am?” he said. “It’s the . . . the president. The President.”
    “Rockefeller? What about him?” Dixie asked.
    “He . . . he’s asking for Matriarch and Doom.”
    “What, is he lighting up ‘the bat signal?’” Dixie laughed. The engineer shook his head, nervous.
    “N-no, sir, he’s . . . he’s here. Up top. He landed in a jet and walked right up to our hidden topside camera. He’s asking for you guys.” The heroes in the room exchanged colored glances.
    “This is above my paygrade. ‘Sides, he’s asking for you guys, not me. I’m out,” Dixie said, plopping into a chair. Lux stood.
    “What even is your paygrade?” Atomic asked Dixie, about to leave the room with Lux.
    “Five figures more than all of you guys’ paychecks for life combined,” Dixie laughed. “Prolly.”
    “Well there’s no point in pretending we’re not here. I’ll . . . I’ll get Daniel,” Lux decided. Atomic and Lux left, Matriarch following, the rest about to leave as well.
    “Gotta wonder how the hell the POTUS found us,” Atomic frowned. Lux shrugged.
    “He’s the POTUS.”

    In 2033, the year prior to the move to Elysium, shortly after the events of April 8th and the Siege on Smog Towers, Dominick Tross, the man who had used his millions to build Atlantis and sponsor the Five, had been mysteriously attacked in his office. He had been beaten into a coma, and he hadn’t woken since. Doom, leader of the Five, had hunted down the guilty party – or, at least, had attempted to. The attempt had been, for the most part, unsuccessful. Almost immediately after Tross had been beaten to a pulp, the supers of Chicago and the super-powered thugs responsible for Tross’s new state of consciousness had met in combat.
    The battle ended in a stalemate – earning it its title – and afterwards Doom had resigned as the leader of the Chicago Five, thinking himself a failure, no longer trusting in his own abilities to run the team. Alexis Sunday, Daniel’s fiancée and former lieutenant was promoted to leader of the Atlanteans, and Daniel had been largely useless ever since. He occasionally joined a patrol in Chicago purely to scare off some thugs – but, being useless with computers and research, believing himself incapable of properly leading his team, and being an overall detriment to the Atlanteans’ public reputation, he hadn’t left Elysium much lately.
    And with Tross, his close friend, in a coma state that he couldn’t stop or avenge . . .
    Saying he’d been down in the dumps lately was an understatement.
    But he came topside with the other leaders of the Midwest heroes when Lux asked him, if only because it was the President himself, coming to their doorstep.

    The lift ascended, the ground opening above them, giving way to the dark night sky. Matriarch in her magenta spandex beneath black armor, her dark pink coat over that. Lux, clad in her gold and purple spandex and cape. Doom, donning his old black trenchcoat and black spandex, a fireball emblazoned on the front.
    The lift ground to a halt as it reached the end of its track, jolting slightly when it stopped. A mere ten feet away from the platform, standing face to face with them, hands behind his back, stoic as ever, was Rowen Gram Rockefeller, President of the United States. Flanking him were three dozen irregularly dressed Secret Service – elite bodyguards in hefty-looking armor, carrying large black weapons, a slight blue charge at the end of the barrel: Tesla Launchers. Those were illegal. Behind the force of men was a large, sleek jet, the back open. Inside sat an APC – an armor-piercing turret atop. Inside there, it was protected, but the turret still had a nearly-full field of fire.
    The President had not come without taking precautions. Whether or not he had personally ordered the veritable army’s worth of force remained to be seen.
    “Mr. President,” Doom said, stepping forward. The guards behind the President did not raise their weapons, but they did tense and put their fingers on the triggers a little more decidedly.
    “Doom,” the President returned. He gestured to his men – a small, firm movement of his hand. “At ease, gentlemen. These are heroes – not villains.”
    “How’d you find this place?” Matriarch said, stepping forward. The President smiled slightly.
    The sight was unnerving.
    “It’s not as hard to track you as you might think. Besides, I’m the President. I know nearly everything that happens in my country.”
    Doom clenched a fist. “Tell that to the victims of Beige’s syringe.” The President raised an eyebrow.
    “Do you imply that one of this century’s foremost philanthropists is . . . evil, in some way? Under my very nose?”
    Doom squinted at the President’s eyes. He knew. He gorram knew.
    “He’s an immoral bastard.”
    “Bold claim. I’ve heard some say the same about you.”
    “Oh, you mean Markus? One of this century’s foremost slanderers and villains?” Doom said coldly. “Outspoken here-hater? He’s a bitch, too.”
    “Language, please, Mr. Knight.” Doom’s eyes widened. Lux gasped. He knew his name. “While we’re sharing, Daniel, I’ll let you in on why I’m here.” He turned away, beginning to pace. Doom watched him with wary eyes. He’d never much liked this President.
    “What, you wanna come inside?” Doom asked when a few seconds had passed without Rockefeller continuing. “I’d invite you in, but-”
    “Daniel!” Lux whispered through gritted teeth. Doom stood down.
    “There’s a situation I need dealt with. Missile crisis. Urgent. I’d send any number of America’s proud men, but the situation is . . . foreign. An American flag hoisted on foreign soil? America’s reputation is fragile enough as is.”
    “But we’re still Americans – and you’re sending us in,” Lux asked.
    “Yes, but they don’t need to know that,” Rockefeller said. “A military team would have to be sanctioned, so all fingers would unquestionably point to American administration. But a superhero team? You’re already vigilantes. Technically, you’re criminals. The finger can only point to the everyman’s age old all-American good nature.” He turned to face them, satisfied.
    Doom shook his head in disbelief. “It’s a big media ploy,” he accused.
    “No, Mr. Knight, it’s a disaster waiting to happen – a crisis involving several highly-destructive missiles of unknown payloads, but with a boosted global reputation as a possible result . . . given you defuse the situation.”
    “Why us, specifically?” Matriarch asked. “Why not the Guardians or another team?”
    Rockefeller smiled again. “You’re the best of the best.”
    “I-“
    “Do you object?”
    Matriarch paused.
    “My team is yours, Mr. President.”
    “And you, Mr. Knight?” All eyes fell on Doom.
     He crossed his arms and whispered to Lux. “Something’s not right here, Lexi.” She bit her lip.
    “The Five are yours too, Mr. President,” Lux said. Doom scowled.
    “Please, Miss Sunday, call me Rowen.”


    In the past year, the superhero population of the world had grown – teams had been cropping up all over the globe, making names for themselves, fighting their own villains, making the world a better place. America was no exception. Despite the Chicago Five’s damaged reputation, the public accepted them, especially without Doom.
    The ranks of the Atlanteans had grown greatly in the past months, what with the increasing speed of Nuke’s demolitions creating new superheroes, the flood of powered individuals claiming to have been freed by Beige, and the increasing awareness of it all. Many of the superhero teams across America – and presumably the rest of the world – had joined forces, and frequently shared missions, villains, jurisdiction and members.
    Despite all that, the world was still a hellish place. But in the face of adversity, heroes were rising from the ashes with more determination and frequency than ever.
    And though it had been at most a year, you were still getting use to the fact that you, too, were one of these. You, too, were a hero.


    Doom seemed to find a new energy and excitement in himself when Lux told him that they’d found Kira.
    It was quickly replaced with his old anger and disappointment with the world, as he became once again thoroughly pissed at the world and the way it worked, and was filled with a determination to find and free his lost team member.
    Whatever the reasoning, you were chosen for the team performing a discreet incursion into the flanking towers owned by the villainous Sepp Dietrich.
    Why was it always a tower?

    “We have to be quiet about this,” Lux said. Doom was joining the mission – but only because he knew he had to. Lux was still leading the attack. “We will take one stealth jet, and Shepherd will land us on the roof of the north building, which Sepp’s office is in the top floor of.” She pulled up the blueprint of the towers on the screens in the briefing room. You looked closely. It was impressive – two massive structures, sleek and even curved in some places – very futuristic. One of the towers was being built over the original building, some of which was still intact. “We’ll get in, figure out where he’s keeping Kira, then . . . hopefully, we can just take the elevator.” She sighed. “But that’s unlikely. Shepherd will be on standby to deliver us to another floor. If all else fails, we’ll have to fight our way through and we will evac on the skybridge.” There was a skybridge connecting the two towers. “We’ll get up topside by this hatch.” A hatch – presumably maintenance – was atop one side of the bridge.
    “Phaedra will accompany you,” Matriarch added, standing up and gesturing to the Indian woman with the Matriarchs. Phaedra could pass through solid objects, and even teleport - if with great difficulty. Highly useful for a stealth incursion.
    “We can’t count on this going right at all,” Lux continued. “Sepp will have security, and we don’t know if they’ll be unwitting guards or his own Helltroopers, so we have to keep on our toes. But let me be clear: this is a rescue mission. We are saving a friend, not wreaking havoc. We don’t want this to even come to the attention of the press, and if it does, we want it to be a positive spotlight.”

    It would be a tough mission, and that was why Lux was bringing the majority of the Five, Phaedra – as an invaluable tool for stealth – and only a few of the very best newest recruits.     Apparently, you were one of them.


    The President of the United States himself. Too bad it couldn’t have been under better circumstances – a commendation or something, or a pardon, or legalizing of organized vigilantism.
    Instead, it was a missile crisis on foreign soil – Malawi, a country in East Africa, was supposedly gearing up for a hostile action: an aggressive missile launch, something Tanzania had apparently long suspected them of. Matriarch and most of her team had selected some few members of the newest and best Midwest supers to join the President’s mission.
    You were selected. On what merit, exactly, you weren’t sure. But hey, you were going overseas.

    The most surprising thing, however, wasn’t that you were selected. It was that the President had an airship. An airship.
    And you were standing on it. The ship was part blimp, part VTOL, and it was the size of an aircraft carrier – and it was on the highest level of classification. You were in a room, being briefed by some stuffy general as the President sat on the sidelines.
    “In addition to infiltrating the base, dealing with the guards and stopping the potential missile launch, disabling all payloads, you may come up against a Malawi taskforce – soldiers of fortune, mercenaries, veterans, elite black ops, you name it, all led by a super-powered individual they call Moto Mlezi. He’s Malawian, and he’s known for leaving no enemy alive – or intact; his powers are flame, like your Doom’s. If you see him or his team, engage immediately and neutralize with speed and decision.” The general finished, satisfied.
    “A super? I didn’t know we were going to be fighting any supers,” Matriarch said, frowning.
    “Are you withdrawing you and yours, Miss Kage?” The President piped up. Matriarch grit her teeth, and sat back down. “Good. Now, I want you all to know something: This is no ordinary crime-prevention. You are not fighting thugs. You are fighting an armed military force hellbent on launching missiles for who knows what purpose. They will stop at nothing – neither should you. You are sanctioned to use whatever means necessary to neutralize the compound and stop those bombs.” He paused. “That includes killing, and I’m afraid it will likely come to that, especially in the case of that taskforce.” He raised a finger. “Remember, eliminate them immediately. They are your largest threat.”
    The general nodded.
    “You will be taken in a stealth jet, equipped with disposable camo and parachutes, and we will drop you in from two miles above and west of the compound. You will make your way there, complete your objective, and radio for evac. The radios are synchronized to an encrypted frequency, and they are set to self-destruct in the event you are killed – they will be monitoring your heartbeats.”
    Well, that didn’t sound unnerving at all.
    Malawi, here you come . . .


    Well ain’t that a kick in the head . . .
    It almost seemed rude to send you on this wild goose chase when almost all the rest of the Midwest team was out doing more important things. One team tackling a supervillain in his high towers in a heroic attempt to save their lost comrade, the other team out performing a mission contracted by the President himself.
    But you?
    Patrol. Prevent some nutjob scientist from being murdered by some violent psycho with an axe who’d evaded the Heroes and the law for the last few months. Sure, it was saving a life, but the others were doing big things . . . and you were saving someone who was technically a supervillain’s henchman. Yes, the scientist Dixie suspected was the killer’s next target was working for Beige. Apparently all the killings attributed to this murderer were related to Beige in one way or another.

    “So for this you’ll be heading into your very favorite hellish clusterfuck of a city: Chicago,” Dixie said. “As you’ve probably heard, our very own supervillain Dr. Beige, Chicago’s resident mad scientist, is being targeted by a mad killer.” Dixie pulled up a picture of one of the crime scenes on the screens in the briefing room of Elysium. It was gruesome. Blood all over the walls, bullet shells on the floor, and a single shred of torn clothing. “Thankfully, this was taken just after they moved the body out of there. I’ve seen it. Not pretty. Torn to shreds.” Dixie sighed. “Now if it was just Beige, I’d be all too happy to let this slide, but frankly, we’re heroes and we’ve gotta do good, and this psycho is targeting his scientists and other people related to him that are, as much as we know, completely innocent. So we gotta stop this freak.” She tapped a key on her laptop – a bright yellow and white, sleekly designed, futuristic laptop that was razor thin.
    The screens in the room switched to an image of a man, balding, with a wispy beard wearing some very ancient tweed. His eyes were cybernetic.
    “Who’s that?” came a voice. It was Black Angel – Adrianna, the movie-star turned cyborg superhero. She had wings on her back.
    “That is our killer’s next target: Albert Emmet- scientist, relic. His subsidiary was shut down, and the building’s gonna be demolished. Unfortunately, he’s been in there alone the last several days finishing up some last minute work on a project, while his employees haven’t come to work in days. Perfect prey for our predator.” Vivette nodded. “So let’s go save him. And again, remember, guys, this is a civilian, who is innocent, to our knowledge, and we’re stopping a murderer. We’re doing good. Despite what Beige did at the Siege – despite him killing Felicia, that half-dino, regenerative freak, despite all that, we’re gonna save this guy. ‘Cause we’re heroes.”


    Welcome all! Now that you’re done reading (OR ARE YOU? for one did you even finish reading the main post? READ IT FOOL) allow me to give you a belated introduction to the second installment in the main series of Heroes proper. Things may be a bit confusing, but don’t worry, you’ll do fine.

    In this roleplay, you will be playing as a superhero – not a villain. I considered and attempted to find a way to incorporate players as villains into this, but it didn’t pan out, so we’ll leave that to the spinoffs. The supers you will play have been a part of the heroing business for a maximum of eleven months, and are as such still relatively new to it all, though you don’t have to be a total amateur if you don’t want. Unlike the first roleplay, this does not have to be your origin story if you don’t want. You can be a fairly recent hero, a hero around for about a year, or a hero around for only a few days. The Atlanteans could have picked you up last night, for that matter.

    Speaking of, your character can be a member of the Atlanteans, the Matriarchs (though that comes with the condition of being female) or you can make up your own superhero team as long as you give me a reason for being here and the team is fleshed out, approved by me, and does not exist in one of four locations: Illinois, Minnesota, California, or New York.

    Also unlike the first roleplay, each of the three beginning Choices you have been given (more on that later, though you probably noticed them already) will only affect the start of the roleplay, a thing I said for the last one that turned out to be a lie, as the players from the three choices only all met two thirds through the run.

    This roleplay will be character-driven, you, the players, will, 99% of the time, be able to affect the outcome of certain situations and sometimes manipulate the plot. I plan to fill out any gaps in the story I have with input from you, usually in the form of your own characters tying into the plot by way of background characters or happenings. I will message you all at a certain point to discuss with you what you want to happen to your character, how you want their arc to play out, and how I can assist by factoring things into the plot. You may start these messages with me early – there’s no harm in early planning, something I learned the hard way with some issues in Heroes I. No worries, I have planned a lot this time around.

    There are three starting Choices that you may choose in your sign-up, which will change how the initial Issue plays for you (as a fun nod to comics, I divide the “chapters” of the roleplay into “issues,” and make neat art for them). You yourself will choose one of the three (essentially a team to go with), but in-game you will have been chosen by the team leaders.

    Once again, this will just change the start – I will be practically railroading us through this to be sure that we don’t have another Heroes I-esque situation where the characters don’t meet up for twenty pages. Choose your Choice (heh) with some thought. Why would your character be chosen for that team? What do they bring to the team? First sign ups can ignore how they fit the team, but later sign ups should look at who’s already joined that Choice, and how their character adds, or if they should join another Choice because that one is too crowded. Choice Three is a good one if your character is underappreciated, an underdog, as you were left at base to pursue a simple serial killer while the majority of the team goes and does bigger things – free character growth right there.

    . . . Will let you accompany the Chicago Five and a Matriarch on a rescue mission to save Kira Dietrich, a member of the Atlantean team that was kidnapped by the villain Sepp, her brother, at the Siege. This is a covert op, a stealth incursion, with violence to be used only as a last resort – but saving Kira is the goal, and it will be done, damn the consequences. This is payback a year in the waiting for Doom and his team.
    Existing NPC Team-
    Doom
    Captain Lux
    Shepherd
    Phaedra
    (TBD) Pixie

    . . . Will let you join the team handling the mission given the heroes by the President himself. You will join some of the Matriarchs and some of the Atlanteans in deniable operation, wherein you will be infiltrating a Malawian compound, neutralizing the guards and (possibly) the elite taskforce, disabling the missiles and potentially cancelling a launch. Killing is technically sanctioned.
    Existing NPC Team-
    Matriarch
    Aegis
    Verdant
    Dust Devil
    Ferro

    . . . Will let you chase a lead on a Chicago-bound serial killer’s next target. The killer is selective, only killing people with close ties to Beige. The killer is vicious, brutally tearing its victims apart, leaving shredded corpses and empty bullet shells behind in rooms sprayed with an ungodly amount of blood. You will be attempting to prevent the murder of the killer’s next target, a one Albert Emmet, a scientist for Beige.
    Existing NPC Team-
    Dixie Prosper (As Overwatch)
    Beethoven
    Black Angel

    Choose wisely.


    When creating your character, think creatively and work within the confines of the universe, keeping the tone in mind. Anime and outlandish, vibrant concept have almost no place here – we have a realistic feel, though I hate to call it realistic and gritty and dark or any of that nonsense. This is simply a universe with a darker tone than Marvel or what have you, with a base grounding in plausible, theoretical science for the majority of our concepts. We try to keep in mind the possible, the likely, but this doesn’t mean we can’t be cool.
    When creating your character, create something fun. Create a character you want to play as, that you are excited about roleplaying with. Create a character that is unique, though don’t fuss over this. Create a character with a cool, plausible concept, but don’t base them or any major concept within them on any contiguous concept from another work of fiction. I don’t want a character in here with loads of pictures all taken from one source, with quirks clearly taken form that character. Do not pass resemblances off as the character’s own knowledge of this work of fiction.
    Just be creative. Have fun.


- Secret Identity -

    Name: It’s not as simple as one might think. Try to come up with a name that’s a little catchy, fits with the realistic tone, and sounds cool, all while maybe having a hidden meaning that means something connected to your character.

    Age: While technically you could be outlandish and be super old or super young, this is a realistically-themed universe, and though it is the 2030s (and as such life expectancy is higher), and there is more advanced technologies and also superpowers, don’t go overboard. Try to stay between 16 and 70. Not much else to say. I mean, I guess you can give a b-day.

    Gender: Don’t make any assumptions, now.

    Nationality: Are you an all-American boy or do you hail from some place across the pond? It literally doesn’t matter.

    Appearance: What does your character look like in plain clothing? Pictures are greatly preferred, but it’s understandable to not be able to find a picture you find to your liking. Remember, DeviantArt is a treasure trove for this stuff. If all else fails, though, just give a nice description about your character.

    Personality: A person’s base personality is a result of upbringing. How does your character behave? Are they generally nice, or do they discourage any attempts to befriend them with snarky comments and terrible puns?

    Biography: Long and flashy, with lots of pictures and even dialogue, or short and sweet, snappy, to-the-point (unlike this sentence). Doesn’t matter, just make it count, and give me a good idea of where your character is coming from. Include all that you think is important to who they are. Also be sure to make apparent which superhero team they are a part of.

- Superhero Identity -

    Name: Choose something memorable that relates with your character’s powers, and reflects their M.O. A hero wouldn’t be called Doom, would they? Oh wait.
Choose something flashy, but don’t make it too vibrant and keep the tone in mind.

    Appearance: This is your superhero gear. Flashy, noticeable, or dark and subtle – it doesn’t matter, just be distinguishable from your peers and keep in mind it should be relatively easy to move in, and even more so if your character is acrobatically inclined – and remember that Tross created a spandex material that is almost bulletproof; even in this “lol grimdark” world, spandex is a viable option.

    Reputation: How does the public view you? Delve a little into the why, as well. How do you operate, what gave you this reputation, is it what you wanted? Feel free to also state, in the vaguest senses, what ideals and codes your character strives to abide by.

    Primary Power: This is your most powerful superpower, the one you use most often. It is your go-to, being the most effective and easiest to use.

    Secondary Power: This is your next most powerful ability. It should be lesser in regards to your primary, but still useful in battle, if a bit more situational. It must be related to your primary. i.e. you cannot have fire as a primary and ice as a secondary.

    Tertiary Power: This is your least powerful ability. It should be largely situational, and pale in comparison to your primary. This is optional.
  
    Feel free to give all these powers cool names!

    Weaknesses: What gets under your character’s skin, physically and mentally? What is it that really hurts you in a fight? While it doesn’t have to be the opposite of your power, sometimes it makes sense for it to be. Be sure to include at least one physical and one mental weakness of some kind. The more powerful your character is, the more weaknesses you have to add to balance it out. I will assist with this if necessary.

    Power Origin: If for whatever reason you neglected to mention the origin of your power in your biography, or even if you did mention it, state or restate it here. Was your character born with it? Were they the result of genetic experimentation (a favorite perpetrator of this is Beige, who some newcomers say has been releasing prisoners)? Were you involved in some freak accident with some radiation or quantum weirdness? Was it Nuke, the teleporting cyborg who appears, obliterates a few city blocks in an explosion, giving the survivors superpowers?

    Gadgets: Does your character find assistance in battle through use of any fancy gadgets? Do you have any cool toys, situational or general, that could be found useful? Don’t go overboard (unless that’s the idea behind your character). Did your character create this gadgets, or was it a gift from our resident millionaires? This is optional.

    Choice: This is where you mark what choice you will be following - 1, 2 or 3.

    -Stats-
    In this roleplay, we will solve most combat situation through minimal dice rolling. These stats will affect some rolls. You have 40 points to allot. Distribute as you will, but you must have a minimum of 1 point in each, with a maximum of 10 per slot. Describe why you gave your character those numbers.
    (Note: HP = (A/2) + (Sx2) - (W-5), where A is Age, S is Strength, and W is Willpower.)
    Also note that these stats are somewhat relative when compared to either each other or other things. Simply number it in comparison to other skills. Think of it as ranking abilities 1-10.
    Keep in mind that five is average, and anything greater is above average and anything lesser is below average. Scores lower than five are negative modifiers, and scores higher than five are positive modifiers.

    Strength: This affects all your classic superhero musclework – lifting cars off of innocents, throwing superhuman punches at Shakespeare quoting villains, tossing boulders.

    Dexterity: This determines ability to dodge bullets (and lasers, if the Helltroopers have anything to say about it), time your attacks well, land the strikes, and even affects general coordination.

    Intelligence: This influences decision-making, planning, and greater intelligence. I trust that the scorer given here will be reflected in your roleplaying.

    Willpower: This is a measure of mental strength, aka stubbornness. This is your ability to block things out, to endure pain, withstand mental games and torture, even resist telepathic incursions.

    Perception: This affects your observation skills, including your ability to spot badguys or traps, observe oddities and aim well. Also determines how good you are at “Spot the Differences.”

    Charisma: This is the strength of your personality, affected by your looks. If you are shy, this is a low score. A silver-tongued sweet-talker with suave hair and a nice frame will have a high score. This will determine the success of persuasive rolls – Talk down a deranged man. Change a minion’s mind. Say hi to the girl at Starbucks. I believe in you.

    Luck: This will slightly change the outcome of any given roll – though I won’t always factor it in. This is simply a general modifier.

    Additional Notes/Other: Anything else you think is worth mentioning that does not fit under the given categories. If it is important enough, I’ll add a character.

    Character Theme: This is a fun little addition to mess with. Find a song that you think fits or sums up your character – it can be from literally anything, any time, anywhere, and can even be a song your character likes to listen to. If you want to, though, bonus points if you can make it fit the trends of the 2030s: techno and rock is in, and songs from the 70s to 90s are being remixed, covered, or just resurfacing. Or you can go simpler with five years hence, when 40s through 60s songs came back in style as a certain game series became mainstream.

    EXAMPLE

- Secret Identity –

    Name: Harriet “Hattie” Kage
    Age: 35
    Gender: Female
    Nationality: British-American, second generation.
    Appearance:
    
    Personality: Tough, but not to the lengths of Doom and his hardheartedness. She can take a joke, and deliver them, and she leads her team with a level head.
    Biography:

    Harriet was born to British immigrants to America. She was valedictorian of her class, head of the debate team, straight As – everything. She was that girl – except she wasn’t obnoxious about it, nor was she, herself, obnoxious. She was actually quite charming. Her twin brother, Kieran, however, was a different story. He caused no end of mischief at school, and she got flak purely for being related to him. The boy was a nuisance, and even became a bully.
    When puberty hit, the pair’s powers began to manifest. They both had the ability to micro-manipulate gravity, and for a good while, neither told their parents, or anyone for that matter. Harriet rarely used her ability, knowing all too well the damage she could cause, even in small doses, and what it might do to her family. Kieran, however, used it to reinforce his reputation as school bully. And , adults being adults, no one believed the children’s stories about the bully and his superpower.
    Hattie found out about it, and gave Kieran a talking to.
    Kieran ran away.

    Years later, Harriet, her parents unbeknownst to it, becomes a vigilante, fighting crime in Minnesota, using her powers to help. She runs across her brother, and he has only continued his bullying practices, committing crime and wreaking havoc as Shackles, the gravity-manipulating villain obsessed with cage puns. In a catastrophic event, the man lifted an entire city into the sky with his powers, ripping the rock from the ground, tearing it out of the earth with gravity. Harriet neutralized him, only just, talking him down. He safely returned the city, and she arrested him.

    As the savior of the city, Harriet became a popular heroine, and with her recognition she formed a team – the Matriarchs.

- Superhero Identity –

    Name: Matriarch
    Appearance:
    
    Harriet wear a mean pink leather coat over her gray body armor, which acts as ever more protection against harm, being bulletproof material atop bulletproof material – black superdex. She wears a lightweight helmet when crimefighting.
    Reputation: Matriarch is among the more well-received heroes, her story being far less tragic or unfortunate than Doom and the Five. She has been lucky, and the populace loves her. She almost never kills her villains, always arresting or neutralizing. “#Matriarch,” and “#BossBitch” are extremely popular.
    Primary Power: Large-scale, sphere-of-influence gravitational manipulation. While theoretically she is capable of the city-lifting feats her twin brother is, she hasn’t tried, sticking to never lifting or crushing anything bigger than a small building with the ability.
    Secondary Power: Small-scale, targeted gravitational manipulation. She is able to affect the gravitation pull of an object, pulling things to it or pushing them away.
    Tertiary Power: Small-scale, targeted gravitational modification. She is able to manipulate how gravity affects an item, able to pull an object to something else, or make it unaffected by gravity entirely.
    All this combines to give her a form of selective almost-telekinesis.
    Weaknesses: Mentions of her brother or the idea of facing him again. Her parents, her friends, her team, innocents – when their lives are put in danger, she’ll do almost anything to save them. She has a fear of loss, and this goes so far as her heroic reputation.
    Power Origin: Natural – Harriet was born with her powers, and they manifested in puberty, like most genetic powers.
    Gadgets: Communicator, tech-pad on wrist, a pocket-sized stun gun in a small utility pouch on her belt.
    Choice: 2
    -Stats-
    Strength: 5 – though not exceptionally strong in any way, she is not weak either. Harriet trains regularly and is able to lift a heavier weight than most average women her age. Nonetheless, in a fight she generally relies on her powers to do her dirty work.
    Dexterity: 4 – Harriet was never much of a gymnast, but she has kept up her limited ability to perform decently in a fight, specifically the parts about dodging bullets.
    Intelligence: 8 – Harriet is exceptionally smart, having excelled in school and just having a knack for learning and thinking. This has assisted greatly in the leading of a superhero team.
    Willpower: 6 – She can withstand a good deal, but only to a breaking point – and that point is whenever a friend or innocent’s life is directly threatened, with her the cause or an ultimatum set against her.
    Perception: 4 – Matriarch has never needed glasses, but she’s no deadeye marksman either. She can shoot a target, just to a limited ability.
    Charisma: 8 – By far one of her most prominent features, Hattie is a fine-looking young woman with truckloads of charisma, being level-headed, intelligent and a strong leader, with perfectly good people skills to boot.
    Luck: 5 – Despite leading a good life and having an incredibly good run as a superhero when compared to Doom, Harriet is no fortuned woman, nor is she cursed with bad luck. It has taken hard work to get where she is, and she’s not going to give up easily.
    Additional Notes/Other: Harriet really hates Southern accents. And the South. It’s a Minnesotan thing.
    Character Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6bikabtotw

    Good luck!

- Secret Identity -

    Name:
    Age:
    Gender:
    Nationality:
    Appearance:
    Personality:
    Biography:

- Superhero Identity -

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    Appearance:
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    Primary Power:
    Secondary Power:
    Tertiary Power:
    Weaknesses:
    Power Origin:
    Gadgets:
    Choice:
    -Stats-
    Strength:
    Dexterity:
    Intelligence:
    Willpower:
    Perception:
    Charisma:
    Luck:
    Additional Notes/Other:
    Character Theme:

    
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