|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:09:12 GMT -4
guys, was checking out the Kick Starter page and thought I would compile all the lore that has been posted. This isn't going to be a place to comment on it, just a place to read up on it. There will be a second thread below this one fore comments. Enjoy!!!
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:19:11 GMT -4
Gabby CabbieThere are as many stories in Titan City as there are citizens, but they all mean something to someone. Cab drivers see more of them most. And they're always willing to share. Even if you don't want to listen. Let's take a ride with this one. The thing about life is that you gotta know where you stand. An' you gotta know where you wanna stand. Take me f'rexample. I'm a cabbie. Been a cabbie since I turned 18. I dunno if I'd call it 'honest work' but I like it arright. Bein' a cabbie in Titan City's tough sometimes, but I wouldn't wanna live anywhere else. Sometimes I kinda feel like I'd like to have one a' them cushy desk jobs, but not really, y'know? I'd go crazy bein' stuck in one place all the time. It'd be like school all over again, 'scept with worse traffic and longer hours. I'd just be staring out the window waiting for five o'clock to roll around. An' I'd be stuck in one place when a cape battle breaks out. Oh, you new to Titan City? Well , welcome! But yeah, big crazy fights are somethin' ya gotta take a while to get used to, y'know? I'm sure you've got some sorta, what they call it, "pre-conceived notion" 'bout how it happens, but you'll get rid of those soon enough. Really, how it works out for you depends on what you do. See, that's one reason I don't wanna work in an office. You'll just be sittin' there mindin' your own business, fillin out expense forms or, y'know, whatever office people do. An' then this guy gets knocked through your window, an' he's bouncin' along like five hunnerd miles an hour or somethin', and he bounces off of computers and everything gets knocked ta bits. Statistically, you prolly don't get hurt - it's weird how that happens - but your day's all shot ta hell. Not where I wanna be standing. Funny thing, though? One of my regular customers tells me there's an internet server error just for cape battles. Dunno if I believe 'im, but wouldn't that be a hoot? Anyway. I do it a bit differnt. If I'm near a cape fight breaks out, I get a fare if I don't have one already and I hightail it outta there. You ain't gonna catch me rubbernecking. Nobody else, really; part of getting used to these things is knowing not to stay around for 'em. Everyone else reacts different too. Street vendors? They jus' stick around. Damndest thing, they never get hurt. I hear crazy rumors someone enchants the little umbrellas on their carts. Dunno if I believe it, but I seen stranger. Once had a pack of rats going around my apartment building making sure everyone woke up an' left before trouble came. They were right, too. Cops, medics, firefighters, those guys come running in. I tell you what, I wish I had the guts to do that sort of thing. What? No, of course you need cops even with the capes around. Someone's gotta read somebody their rights an' take 'em to the right jail, y'know? I mean, I know what you're thinkin', kind of. Heroes basically keep crime on the ropes. They keep people safe an' put the bad guys away. Sure, but even they insist on having duly representative, uh, y'know, people to make sure everything's good an' legal. Why don't the normal people jus' leave? What, an' miss all this? Well, all right, I guess it's intimidatin' at first. Well, first is we've got a roaring economy - prolly what brought you here, am I right? ...oh, you got an office job? Aheh, well, they're not all bad, y'know? Just not for me. I hear the pay's good, at least. Right, so uh... A-anyway, as much of a mess as they can make, the supers tend to clean up after themselves. At least the heroes tend to. Some of those super-fast guys can get a lot done with just an amateur handyman's know-how, an' there's a lot of big an' tough types take part time construction jobs. Gotta pay the bills, y'know? Bein' super doesn't mean you don't gotta eat. 'Least not most times. Insurance picks up some of the cost, an' donations pick up a lot of the rest. Some businesses are willin' to soak some just to do business here, an' the fines against the bad guys tend to pick up the rest. An' really, that's kind of the long and short of it overall. Yeah, a lot of crazy stuff happens here. Heck, most of the crazy stuff happens here. I could swear there's some sorta mole-person holiday they celebrate by invading Main Street. But over all? The heroes have it in hand. The capes keep things kinda to themselves, they don't let it spill over to us regular folk, they keep us safe an' we get a free show. And as a side effect? There's not much crime here. Or at least, I don't think there is. There's rumors that there's more than meets the eye, especially in bad parts of town. You got a place in Aurora, that's good. Really, if you mostly stick to the north side, you should be fine. An' don't go to the industrial areas unless you really gotta. But some of the things I hear, man. Anyway, they keep it low, y'know? Any other city, some of the crooks we got would be running the joint. Here? They keep their heads down 'cause they don't wanna get smacked. Sure, you hear about the usual stuff, a mugging here an' there, some knucklehead knockin' over a liquor store. Just not as much, y'know? Or maybe I jus' don't notice it, what with all the bigger stuff happenin'. I dunno. , I even had someone try an' rob my car once. Dunno why he thought a cabbie would be loaded, but whatever. I kinda thought he was stupid, an' I told 'im that too. He didn't like it. He paid his fare by offerin' to not shoot me if I took him where he wanted to go, an' , who am I to argue with a customer? So I get to his destination, an' y'know what? Cape had been crouchin' on the roof of my car the entire trip. Jumps off an' kicks the guy in the face, down he goes. Ha! Still didn't get paid for my mileage though. Why do the criminals come here when they have better chances somewhere else? Well, one reason's the feds. They can get pretty mean when you push 'em. The other reason? Same as you. A better economy means more money, an' that means more money to steal. Simple, right? Anyone can make it in Titan City, good 'r bad. An' y'know, part of it's just... this is home, arright? I grew up here, an' so'd most of the super-crooks. They don't want to conquer just any old place, they want this one, an' really, so's everyone else who lives here. This is the greatest city on Earth. Sure, lots of people say that about their home town too, but they don't got dinosaurs as part-time residents, do they? Wait, you never heard that? Yeah, it's totally a thing. An most of 'em ain't bad either, y'know? Heck, I got one drives another cab for me. Never had an accident either, dinos got great peripheral vision, no blind spots. No foolin'! Just don't stare, arright? The way we got both eyes facing forward weirds 'em out. Why's a dinosaur drivin' a cab? Well, he's gotta eat, don't he? Same as everybody else. Lotsa supers have day jobs around here. Gotta pay for those funny outfits somehow. And , some powers ain't so useful for heroics, but they're great for other stuff. There's this guy on the TCFD, he puts out fires just by bein' around 'em! Even the ones that ain't, y'know, literal fires. Great for putting out arguments. Not so good for his love life, I hear. An' some guy's power is just bein' really smart. Or I dunno, maybe it's not a real superpower, but it sometimes seems like it with those eggheads. An' that's another thing; those guys make some really amazing jails. Everyone always wonders about that, an' don't worry; we can hold our bad guys. Hardly anyone can break out of the super-prison on the island. Even when someone does, it's noisy enough that every super comes running and bam, they're back in prison again. 'Least that's how I figure it. Ah, so this is where you live now? Great, it's a good neighborhood. An' , next building over there's a sandwich shop, Liebner & Kurtzburg's, inside on the ground floor. Try it, they make everything in house. Their reuben's world famous, but I really love their Monte Christo. Here's my card. Call me when you got someplace you gotta go, I'll getcha there. An' . Welcome ta Titan City.
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:21:28 GMT -4
TCPD Alert: The Aether Pirates
Hi, all. Jack “Olantern” Snyder here again, this time bringing you a dispatch from the world of Titan City. As always, this merely reflects our current design goals and is subject to change ...
Titan City Police Department “To protect and serve the people of Titan City” Division of Tactical Units (SWAT and K-9) Office of the Deputy Chief From: Deputy Chief Gherrenfur To: All SWAT District Commanders Re: Aether Pirate Activity
This dispatch serves as a warning to all SWAT Commands to be prepared to respond to Aether Pirate activity. The Aether Pirates have grown bolder in the past several years, under the leadership of “captains” like Ser Morgan, Boilerpunk, and Captain Barbarous. I know the Pirates have the reputation of being “lovable rogues” in some quarters, and I’ve heard rumors that some officers dismiss them as “those goofy steampunks” and “refugees from a theme park ride.” This attitude has to stop. True, the Pirates are usually more concerned with loot than with inflicting bodily harm, but make no mistake. The Aether Pirates are a wily bunch of robbers, killers, and thieves. They have evaded international task forces and even armies set to capture them for several decades now. We underestimate them at our peril.
You’re most likely to face Aether Pirates in response to a major robbery or a hijacking, though some Pirate crews do mercenary work for other villains. They usually swoop in fast with jetpacks or small, highly maneuverable aircraft, then use their speed and agility to escape before opposition can arrive. Be prepared to call for air support if you’re outdoors. Aether Pirates’ weapons, though they look old-fashioned, easily outgun a beat cop’s. Their “clocklock” rifles fire dangerous bursts of energy, and the steam-powered pressure repeaters carried by the more burly Pirates and their robotic “swab-bots” can punch through vault doors. Be careful when facing a Pirate hand-to-hand! Many wield electrified “lightning sabres” or saw-like “chain-sabres” powered by clockwork mechanisms in the hilts. Some Aether Pirates, such as the soot-enshrouded “boiler-borgs,” have even replaced parts of their bodies with clockwork or steam technology.
At least five Aether Pirate fleets are believed to operate in the Titan City region. Each includes hundreds of Pirates and dozens of personal aircraft. A fleet centers on a carrier-sized airship under the overall command of a “captain.” The fleets will unite against us or against heroes, but beyond that, each fleet works independently, held together by the captain’s charisma and informal codes of “honor.” Individual captains greatly influence the attitudes and goals of their crews. Don’t assume la Cisna’s wily thieves will behave the same—or strike the same targets—as Boilerpunk’s self-styled revolutionaries.
Please brief your officers on this information. Updates on specific Aether Pirate activity will follow in the coming weeks. I know the officers of TCPD SWAT will live up to their deserved reputation for courage and face the Aether Pirate threat head-on.
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:24:29 GMT -4
A Guide to Titan City (2013 Edition)
Phoenix Plaza/City Hall Address: 1 Phoenix Plaza. Hours: Public Offices open 9 a.m.-5 p.m. weekdays; Lobby 8 a.m.-6 p.m. daily. Phoenix Plaza itself, as a public thoroughfare, is open 24 hours. Cost: Free!
No visit to Titan City would be complete without a trip to Phoenix Plaza. The shining buildings, the gleaming phoenix statue, and the brightly dressed heroes soaring overhead all combine to restore one’s faith in humanity and its essentially heroic spirit.
Like much of Titan City, Phoenix Plaza is a legacy of the fire of 1908. The fire was turned back at the nearby Central Library, but it swept through this part of Alexandria, reducing it to ash. After the fire, the settlements around Steward’s Bay united to form Titan City. The new city government selected this location for its City Hall and related government buildings, all to be arranged around a large square.
During the groundbreaking ceremonies, one politician colorfully proclaimed, “Like the phoenix of old, we shall arise from these ashes,” and the name “Phoenix Plaza” soon became attached to the square. By the 1950’s, the city’s burgeoning bureaucracy had outgrown the original, Romanesque City Hall, and a new City Hall was completed on another side of Phoenix Plaza in 1960. The old City Hall now serves as the Museum of Titan City History (see page 57 for details). “New” City Hall, with its impressively futuristic design, remains in service to this day, housing the lion’s share of Titan City’s government offices. Other notable buildings fronting on the Plaza include the city’s main courthouse and the public offices of several hero groups. Some of these are open to the public, while others are open to official business only. Check the latest information before visiting.
In 1998, disaster again struck Alexandria when Hurricane Atlas pummeled Titan City. Phoenix Plaza and its buildings suffered particularly severe damage, and reconstruction of City Hall in particular took nearly two years. To commemorate the city’s continued survival in the face of adversity, the city commissioned the large, avian statue known simply as “The Phoenix” to grace the center of the Plaza.
If you’re a first-time visitor to the city, don’t be ashamed if you spend a few minutes standing in the center of Phoenix Plaza, simply staring at all the superpowered traffic around you. Hero-watching is a popular hobby for locals, too. You may see dedicated hero-watchers on the lookout for rarely seen heroes. Many citizens have logged a sighting of Anthem, but can you spot the Ratiocinator, Golden Tragopan, or Veil, the Obfuscated Woman?
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:26:42 GMT -4
Ideology of the Arcane Sentinel - Book 1, Chapter 3
"The Three Virtues"
The system of ideology that is the Order of the Arcane Sentinel is based on a trinity of virtues. Three were our founding saints, and each left us with an individual piece of wisdom. Three conflicting ideas; three concepts that are always at odds with one another. Yet, they are always acting together to deliver our world from the threat of evil magic. This trinity of virtues forever reminds us that there is never one ultimate solution superior to all others, never one system of belief that can supersede all other beliefs. It reminds us that righteousness can exist only when disparate souls work together in harmony towards a common goal.
Jacques Blanc, "The Scholar," is our founding father of Education. He teaches us that magic is not a dark force to be feared and hated. It is, if handled with care, a source of art and self-expression, a means of empowering a person's own self-determination. It is, however, also dangerous and sinister when mishandled and a source of great peril for the world. Our goal, therefore, is to educate the next generation of budding young mystics. We must show them how to find the beauty and utility in magic while warning them of the pitfalls that it presents. We steel their minds for the road to magical understanding. This road is paved with both danger and opportunity, and we must teach the difference between the two.
Suleiman Hatar, "The Lorekeeper," is our founding father of Secrets. He teaches us of the dangers magic can pose in evil or unprepared hands. While magic itself is not inherently evil, sorcerers throughout time have crafted many ways and many tools to pervert it to evil ends. Casual distribution of the knowledge of magic is forbidden, for it is too dangerous to be allowed to exist in the hands of the unwise or the wicked. It is our goal, therefore, to hide dangerous magic such that none may abuse it or be tempted by it ever again. The legacy of evil magic and the corruption of cursed artefacts must never blight the world again.
Edith Buck, "The Sorceress," is our founding mother of Warfare. She teaches us that foul, unholy creatures lurk in depths of the Abyss and in the hearts of evil men. Demons and devils lie in constant wait to pounce on our innocent world and devour it, while foul sorcerers always look for new ways to allow them inside. While perpetuating education and hiding dark secrets can keep us safe to a point, a time will always come when the forces of evil march unbound upon the face of our world. When that time comes, we must be ready for war. We must be ready to fight for the sanctity of our lives and the salvation of our souls, for evil will give us no quarter. At the best of times, magic is a beautiful tool for creation and enlightenment. At the worst of times, it is a terrible and frightening weapon which we must wield with resolve in order to safeguard all we hold dear.
We wear the three virtues on our coat of arms - the sword, the book and the padlock, a trinity bound together by both conflict and unity. We do so to remind ourselves that we must be vigililant of all three at all times, rather than only one at any time. We must always seek to protect others from the folly of ignorance, from the corruption of evil magic and from the demon hordes which constantly threaten us all. We are the sentinels of the arcane world, and it is our duty-- our mission-- to teach, protect, and to fight for what is right. May the light of reason guide our path.
-Arcanist Duncan, Scholar of Ideology
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:28:44 GMT -4
Fire of 1908 Emergency Response Case Study - Page 1
On November 8, 1908, several tragic fires broke out across the Steward’s Bay area. The fires devastated a number of the townships across the area, on both sides of Steward’s Bay. The cities of Bradford and Clarkston had major sections all but destroyed. With the destruction of their homes and businesses as a catalyst, the people of these towns all came together with the common purpose of rebuilding what they had lost.
Late in the evening, a security guard spotted a fire at Sinclair Ship Works, along the southern docks of what is now Downtown and Old Bradford. Responding quickly, the local house of the fire department was there within only a few minutes, though during that time the fire had spread further. Realizing that they were no match for the fire on their own, they promptly called for reinforcements, and attempted to slow the fire’s progression towards the nearby residences, which housed many of the people who worked at the facility.
Additional fire companies arrived, both from on the mainland as well as from the nearby city of Clarkston on the other side of Steward's Bay and threw their support into the attempt to stop this blaze. Several factors impeded the effectiveness of this joint effort. Getting their supplies from a number of different places meant that they did not always connect with each other. Compound that with poor water pressure, and the firefighters had a hard time reaching the second floors of most buildings, much less the roofs.
As the fire spread towards a nearby housing area, a number of citizens became concerned that the fire department appeared to be having trouble containing the fire, and decided to help them in their own way. Believing that, if they removed some of the structures, the fire would be unable to spread, this group of concerned, but misguided, citizens collected a few small barrels of gunpowder and began the process of eliminating a few buildings. They selected three small apartment buildings across two blocks, and set their charges. The walls forced the blast upwards as they expected, but once above the brick façades, the blast radiated outwards, showering the flaming debris on other nearby buildings, and resulting in a larger and hotter fire than before. The debris rained down across a large area, trapping a number of the firefighters, as well as an assortment of citizens with small children that were still attempting to flee the area.
The fire continued to spread through much of the area, encroaching on what then was the back bay, now the reclaimed land of the Northeastern Research District, as well as the hamlets of Alexandria, and Aurora. Despite their best efforts, the firefighters realized that their standard methods would not work this time. Instead, they decided to form lines of men, which would hopefully stop the fire, before there was nothing left to save.
Three locations were chosen for setting up these fire lines, running between some of the narrower points of the peninsula. The first line was to be in the part of town known as Alexandria, on the southwestern side of Ephesus University by the Central Library. The second line was to be just to the north of the southern edge of the bay, where the peninsula met the mainland. The third line was to the northwest, crossing southwards across what was left of the downtown area, down through the warehouses along the docks that were still standing. Dividing themselves up into three groups, approximately even in number, they set to making their stand against the inferno.
As the longest line was beginning to be pushed back, a sudden storm system moved in from the west, bringing heavy snow and winds that blew counter to those that they had been fighting until this point. Suddenly, things were looking up for those along the long line across downtown. The opposite line in Alexandria, however, did not have such a good opinion of the change in the wind patterns. The fire was suddenly coming directly at them, hungry for more fuel.
A few firefighters left the line by the university to run into the nearby dormitories to ensure that they were evacuated, and then to start evacuating the people that were taking refuge inside the library to escape the unseasonably cold air. Before the only remaining exit from the library was blocked off by the fire as it engulfed the plants and grasses around it, the firefighters were only able to evacuate about half of the people that had taken shelter there. Knowing that not everyone had gotten out, the fire fighters believed that they could do no more for those trapped inside, and turned their efforts towards preventing the fire from going any further up the peninsula.
At some point, no one was sure just when, the library began to shimmer. Not the kind of shimmer you get when light is reflected off of the roof, but the kind of shimmer when light is reflected off of the moisture in the air, such as on a really humid day. Suddenly having a solid point that the fire appeared to be unable to touch, the firefighters began to reclaim the hope that they would yet be able to stop their nemesis. As the storm increased its power, the rain came down heavier and heavier, taking much of the power from the flames as it lost its heat. Regaining their hope as well as some of the ground they had lost, the fire was finally brought to a stop just beyond the library to the northeast.
Firefighters believe that the shimmering, whatever its cause,was the main reason that the fire did not touch the library itself. There was substantial damage to the grounds all around, but not a single piece of paper contained within the library was so much as singed. The people that remained within its walls after the fire had spread around it were unharmed, and no one claimed to know anything about the shimmering that the fire fighters had seen.
At the height of the fire in Bradford, after the entire firefighting force of Clarkston had crossed the bay to help, of course, is when the fire began on the edge of Ironport.
Study question:
How did the fire in Bradford start: a) Cow kicking over a lantern b) Kids setting fires for fun c) An unattended hearth d) That annoying kid who sat next to you in class
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:30:11 GMT -4
Oswald Lawrence’s Speech, December 1908
In December 1908, a few weeks after a devastating fire ravaged the small cities north and south of Steward’s Bay, an assortment of civic leaders, prominent property holders, and ordinary citizens gathered to discuss rebuilding. The lifesaving efforts of superhuman champions—and ordinary people—inspired those gathered to unite the settlements. A year later, Titan City officially formed.
Oswald “Titan” Lawrence, an eccentric industrialist known for his good works, was one of the strongest voices to call for rebuilding and unification. This dramatic speech, addressed to the crowd of citizens assembled where Phoenix Plaza now stands, marked the first mention of the term “Titan City.”
We gather today in the ashes of what was once a thriving metropolis. Of what was once our home. We have all suffered, the highest and lowest, as we saw our city leveled before our eyes. For most of us, this has been the darkest hour of our lives.
But though this may be our darkest hour, this is not the hour of our deaths! My fellow citizens, we are the masters of our fate, the heroes of our own story!
As our city burned around us, we saw heroes rise up. Old and young, rich and poor, man, woman, and child; when all seemed lost, they braved that inferno to save us all. And these were no gods come down from some hoary Olympus. No, these titans are our friends and neighbors, our parents and children, even our beloved spouses! Their courage, power, and imagination, extraordinary though they be, is the same divine spark that burns in all of us. We will rebuild, and their glory will be our inspiration!
I foresee a time, in years to come, when our city will stand as an inspiration. When its shining spires rise from this desolation! When this city of titans will be a beacon of opportunity for the world! My fellow citizens, I am convinced that anyone can make it in this titan city. As we rebuild, we will make that vision a reality!
I can promise you no easy time. We have faced our dark ages, and we will doubtless face them again. The coming winter may be long and cold. But certain as the chill winds howl, know that our faith and our courage will weather the storm. The year now turns toward its darkest, but I vow to you, the sun will return, and with its light, bring joy. And we, the survivors of this city, will bring forth that glorious sunrise.
Like the phoenix of old, we shall arise from these ashes, to become greater still! Our final chapter is not yet written. The book of our lives has not closed. I say to you, this is not the end!
Today, our story BEGINS!
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:32:34 GMT -4
More Tales From Gabby Cabbie Oh , good ta see ya again! Thought ya might be back. How ya been? Try that sandwich shop I told you about? Heh, told ya. Yeah, you should also try the one they call the Italian. It's got all them fancy meats with the hard to pronounce names on it. Mortasomethin' and cappawhatever. Gimme a bit, I gotta wait for these cyclists to... and there we go. Yeah, those guys on the bicycles are all over the place in Aurora here. Gotta watch out for 'em, 'cause they sure don't think they gotta watch out for traffic. 'Least some don't. But , at least they're getting' some exercise, right? Better'n I can say for myself. Heh, between the good eats and sittin' in a cab all day my doctor's really startin' to get on my case, y'know? Plus she's got like five arms, I don't wanna make her angry. And yeah, the cyclists all chain their bikes to trees. It's annoyin', but they gotta lock 'em up somehow, right? And there's lots of trees in this part of town, so it's handy for 'em. Mind, sometimes doesn't stop crooks anyway. Once saw some kinda killer cyborg jus’ cut a tree in half and take a bike, lock n' all. And y'gotta know, this guy, whatever he was, was like eight feet tall and he takes a bike made for maybe a kinda petite lady? He didn't care, tho, just started rollin' down the street, and I guess robots are just really fast on bikes, because I was doin' maybe fifty an' the thing was pullin' away from me like I was sittin' still. And sure he was dangerous, but he looked so funny hunched over that little bike I couldn't stop laughin'. So anyway, how was your weekend? Eh, yeah, unpackin's always a pain. Supers? Yeah, actually there's a super that does movin' and unpackin'. Bald lady. Has tekela, teleme, er... mind-readin' and stuff-movin' powers. You know what I mean. So she just reads your mind and puts things where you want 'em, takes like ten minutes. Charges through the nose for it, tho, so I don't recommend it unless you really need to cut down on time. An’ I’ve heard people say that they always end up missin’ somethin’, but that’s part of movin’, right? I moved across town a few years back, still haven’t found my can opener. Once you get done with that you're gonna want to try the waterfront near here. Daybreak Ridge, it's called. Absolutely gorgeous, they got a movie theater with food, good restaurants, some shopping centers, and a music hall. But it's nice to just walk around, really. An’ they got some shopping in, ah, it useta’ be a warehouse district, but they turned it into this sorta’ old-townsy mom-and-pop type shopping area. Really, you lucked out picking this part of town. Everything here’s pretty tame, comparatively. Good timing, too. Like, you missed the riot Friday night. What, you didn't hear about that? Oh yeah, that band was in town. Apokalyptykult. Yeah, I know it's a mouthful, right? But I saw their ads splattered all over town for the last month so I can spell it blindfolded now. Ugly things, too. You’d think their commercials were like, diagrams for summoning demons or somethin’. Anyway, they always cause trouble when they're in town. Can't say I like it, it's always bad for business. They show up and they sing and they're all like 'smash the state, guys' and their listeners are all 'okay, sounds great', and then they go out and start breaking things. Kids these days, am I right? So you might not've seen anything yet, really. It's been kind of a quiet... Hold on, I think this car in front of me is... yeah, it’s a weapon now. No, it’s not flyin’ on its own, that lady with the shoulders threw it. Gimme a bit, we gotta clear out, hold on to something. ...Okay, sorry 'bout that. Had to run that light. What? Oh, cops are kind of lenient about traffic violations if you've got somthin' like 'supervillain attack' as an excuse for running. Hope I didn't scare ya too bad. You didn't get any coffee on you, didja? Alright, good. Coffee's precious, don't want any wasted, y'know? What was-- I think that was Tarot, 's what the paper calls 'em. They're trouble, go around attackin’ heroes an’ robbin’ banks an’ stuff. I hear tell they’re contract only. I always think it’s weird when killers get all hoity-toity like they got standards, y’know? Always seems weird. But yeah, they're trouble. So yeah, welcome to your first bit of super-weirdness here in Titan City. I guess we got you started off with a bang, eh? ...what’s, that’s not your first? I’m a little disappointed. ...You saw a ninja? Not a lot of people say that. Real important: did it kinda glow? , calm down, easy there arright? No, they don't kill witnesses. ...'least, not that I've heard about. I mean, they're ninjas, who'd know if they did, right? Sorry, that's not helping, is it? It's just usually they kind of keep to themselves, from what I hear. I mean, the glowing ones. There used to be some that were tryin’ real hard to be a street gang an’-- Look, I don't really know nothin' worth knowin’ 'bout those guys. But I know some people who will. I can ask 'em if you want. Okay, sure. Anythin' ta help a customer sleep at night, right? So what's your new job here, anyway? Really? neat. Sounds like a fun gig. Dunno if it'll ever catch on, but , everythin’s worth a try at least once, right? Kinda sounds weird, but whadda I know, I thought Titanic was gonna stink at the box office. So you want stories from me? Yeah, I know... heh, a few. Yeah, I got some I think you'll like. An’ , here we are. I’ll have somethin’ for ya next time. You have a nice day, alright? An’ don’t forget your umbrella, I think it’s gonna rain this afternoon.
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:34:01 GMT -4
And a Cabbie New YearHeeeeey, fancy meetin' you here! How're ya-- whoa! Careful there, pal. Here, lemme help ya in. Boy, am I glad you called me. An' you'll be glad too - I got bottles of water in the mid compartment there, an that switch right there is for the seat warmer. Yer welcome. Yeah, it gets pretty cold in the winter here in Titan City. Doesn't really stop most people. Heck, in Downtown you can go walking from building to building without ever goin' outside, thanks to the skywalks an' such, so why would anyone slow down? Never stops people from tryin' new things, though. I remember one year, durrin' a pretty bad blizzard, a bunch of mad science guys got together an' did a contest to see who could do the best job a keepin' the city streets clear a' snow. So all night there were giant robots an' laser-plows an' puddles of gray goop an' all sortsa werid stuff, runnin' around, cleanin' the roads an' sometimes fightin' each other over choice pilups. It was insane! But then, what do you expect from mad science guys? The streets were clear, tho. An' I swear they were cleaner than they'd been before. I was workin' that night an' didn't even have my tires slip the whole time. Oh, sure, we've had some funny happenings. I mean, , it's New Years, any city's gonna have some crazy stuff happens. Ours just tends to be bigger'n louder. One year, we had a monster came out of the water, hadda be thirty stories tall, headed for the fireworks display an' then started torchin' things. There was a big fight of course, but in the end it turns out it was just tryin' to communicate. Get this - the poor thing fell in love with City Hall! Thought the fireworks was the buildin' comin' onta him. They fixed his vision somehow, an the guy was so disappointed. Blubbered for hours, loud enough everyone could hear 'im. What? Oh, yeah, big monsters happen sometimes around here. Don't worry, all homeowner's insurance for the area is good for monster attacks by law, and they usually don't cause as much commotion as you'd expect. Anyway, one a' my favorite stories of the season is when Hexbane was goin' around the town stealin' presents kids'd gotten on Christmas. See, Hexbane, he's this guy that collects cursed stuff. Nobody knows why, but he just can't get enough of it. Well, that year some jerk'd been passing out toys an' games with bad mojo on 'em for the holidays, an' they were startin' to take effect on the kids. Hexbane can't just do nothin' straight, tho, oh no. He's charmin' enough he could probably just tell them what's up and get it done, but instead he goes an' breaks into people's houses to collect the toys, leavin' stylishly cut-open windows in his wake. So Anthem gets wind of this, an' even tho she's supposed to be takin' th' day off she goes after 'im, because that's what she does. She an' Hexbane have history, see. They fight, an' it's always pretty spectacular to see those two fight, lemme tell ya, they just go tearin' across the city. Hexbane keeps causin' problems to distract her, or I dunno, maybe he just does it to watch her fix 'em, but this goes on a while and then he finally jukes when he should've swerved or somethin' and she grabs holda him. Delivers one helluva lecture, an' let me tell you, when Anthem shouts everybody hears it. She thought he was just doin' his usual stealin', didn't know he was doin' those kids a solid by takin' away the toys. But she does him one better. See, Hexbane's rich. Like, serious old money rich. So she grabs the guy an' they go buy some new toys - on his dime, natch- an’ she drags ‘im around th’ town collectin' the rest of the toys, and visitin' the people he'd taken the ones he already had from. An' they give the kids all new toys to replace what they'd lost. Clean a’ bad juju, a’course. She even got him to pay for the window repairs, too. All outta pocket. After that she gave the guy another browbeatin' an' then let 'im go with a warning. He took it in stride. What's his hangup? I dunno man, he just likes to be stylish. I got a million a' these, tho. Like, this one time there was... ah... uh... ... no. Nossir, you ain't seein' a forty foot tall guy standin' naked as a jaybird in the middle of the road. An' he ain't shoutin' nothin' 'bout not puttin' his pants on 'till he gets some respect. I, uh, I think we got someone else needs a ride home, tho. Oh, an’ the seatback in frontaya has barf bags. Y’know. Just in case. What? Oh, sure. Yeah, it’s possible to drive places without runnin’ inta supers in this town. ...I mean, normally. On New Year’s Eve? Nnnnnot so much.
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:35:18 GMT -4
A Saturday In The Park With Cabbie ! Good ta see ya again. Didn't expect ya ta call on a weekend. Nah, I unnerstand. I need someplace quiet an' alla places 'round here are bustling on weekends. , bad luck on that library visit, tho. I swear I never hearda' one gettin' attacked by fishmen before. That's definitely new. Gonna leave a smell, too. Those fishmen, you always know when they've been somewhere. But yeah, you need someplace quiet to get some readin' or writin' done, not many places in town better'n Rhinehart Park. Parts of it're peaceful while still bein' alive, so you get the quiet ya need without feelin', y'know, obligated 'bout it like in a library. I tell ya, I can never get anythin' done in a library. I'm always worried I'm gonna mutter 'oh yeah' or 'heh, ain't that right' an' get kicked out for it. Why the name? Rhinehart Park's named after this guy, Sigfreid Rhinehart, immigrated from Germany back in eighteen-hunnerd-sumthin'. Guy was rollin' in money and started makin' a lot of investments in the area. People asked how he got so rich, guy said it was a magic rock he'd found that brought 'im good luck. Even better, whenever anyone stole the thing, it'd always end up back at his house by morning. Man, I had one of those I could retire! Dunno if I'd stop drivin', tho. Anyway, his old estate's at the center of the park, an' the rock's still there. Maybe it's cause'a the rock, but the park's supposed to be lucky. Or unlucky, dependin' on who you ask. Either way things're a little stranger there. Or well, maybe a different kinda strange, y'know? Like, take Freetown Woods, f'rinstance. Lovely place by the way, you'll prolly wanna go there an' see if it's the spot yer lookin' for. Anyway, years an' years ago when I was still a young punk, I met my wife there. I was walkin' along the paths there, lookin' ta meet a girl. Well, first I ran inta a coupla guys lookin' ta mug someone. Gave as good as I got in that but still wound up with some lumps, y'know? So I start headin' out an' there's this girl there, an' she's just finished a first aid course an' I swear, she's there lookin' fer someone ta practice on. And up I walk with bruises an' scrapes everywhere. If you're lookin' for somethin' a little more open, there's South Field, which is sort of a basic park. Y'know, big open grassy field. Might not be the best place ta go, they've got some sorta music festival happening there. 'Least, that's what they're callin' it. I'm more of a jazz guy myself. But, you might wanna go by there anyway. They're at the ampitheatre off to the side, can't miss it. Not even if you want to. Oh! An' one other thing. There's this little snack bar there in South Field, Frankie's, got a logo of a weiner dog in a bun. Best hotdogs in town, try one. But, uh. If you see any homeless-lookin' people talkin' ‘bout dust an’ dreams an’ sparkly unicorns, you steer clear of 'em, alright? Way. way clear. Those guys're trouble. I guess that's one other other thing. Anyway. There's also North Field, an' that's always quiet, but it's kinda hoity-toity. It's got statues an' hedges shaped ta look like statues an' hedges shaped ta be mazes. Got no idea why anyone would want to get lost in a hedge, but , there ya go. Lotta weddings there, tho, an' it's good for that. Also popular with tourists in the summer. What? Oh yeah, I tried the travel agent thing once. Kinda went south when I tried driving a guy to Monaco once. Nah, nah, I got 'im there alright. Couldn't figure out how to get back, tho. Oh! An' one last piece of advice. You see any guys standin' around in robes chantin' weird mumbo jumbo, don't interrupt 'em. Either they're actual wizards from the Regency, an' they'll turn ya inside-out for meddling, or they're these guys called LARPers and then you're jus' bein' rude, y'know? Anyway, we're here. Have fun in the park! Gimme a call when ya need a ride back.
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:37:08 GMT -4
Where To Go When It Is Dark And You Are Bored Oh , you're back! Good ta see ya. So where to? ...whaddaya mean "I don't know"? Oh, arright. That makes sense. You're new, after all, ya ain't gonna know all the local hangout spots by some kinda instinct or anythin'. ...make a heckuva power, tho. "Yeah, I got super strength, flight, an' cosmic awareness of nightclubs and places that serve food after eleven." Anyway. There's a couple places that come ta mind. It really depends on what kinda stuff you like to do late at night when ya oughta be sleepin' like a sensible person. Ahhh, I'm jus' joshin' ya. If you gotta get out an' have some fun, ya gotta get out an' have some fun. Anyway, around here we've got Club Virtue. It's in an old converted warehouse, so parking's easy. They got this kind of layered thing, three dance floors, each with its own DJ an' bar. Lotsa supers there, but don't let that dissuade ya. Come to think of it, a lot of the best places in town are frequented by supers. But it's fine. Lemme 'splain. Nobody's gonna try anythin' funny in a hero bar, an' the supers usually don't get snooty. Even if you go to a place where most of the clientele is villains, you're usually safe unless everyone in there hates yer guts. No, not even the villains with big time delusions of grandeur. If they're that kind, they're not gonna spend time in some bar in the first place, y'know? They're gonna tell themselves they've got bigger fish to fry and go plot to take over the world - or whatever it is supervillains do with their Saturday nights. What some do with their Saturday nights is go hang out at the Opal Room. Kinda' open secret there - that place has tons o' notorious super-crooks in it. It's kinda dark inside, as far as lighting goes, and the music's kind of minor key - no really. But oddly enough, that also makes it one of the more relaxing clubs in town, if you can look past the fact that you might be the only guy in there without a rap sheet. An' I gotta be honest, they got the best pub food in town, hands down. It's got a Polish bent to it, since the owner's family's Polish, but they got a pork loin reuben that's outta this world, an' - I kid ya not - french fries tossed in truffle oil. Bit pricey, sure, but worth it if you ask me, if you ever wanna treat yourself. But, let's say you don't wanna rub elbows with a buncha ex-cons, an' I can hardly blame ya. Lotsa other places. Honestly, we're not far from Old Bradford, an' that whole enda' th' world's crawlin' with jazz clubs, dance clubs, an' restaurants open late. In particular you gotta try Fat Tony's, it's the kind of place where livin' legends go to play, an' the pasta's fantastic. Best jazz outside of Highpoint, if you ask me. There's some small art museums there that never seem ta close, an' some of the movie theaters an' playhouses even do late night matinee shows. Gotta warn ya, most everythin' in Old Bradford's gonna be expensive. Fortunately, ya got me drivin' ya, so you can ignore the parkin' fee, which is where they normally really get ya. Downtown's got some more reasonable places, really. Ya got th' Orbit, a restaurant an' club owned by a retired super. Nice guy, nice place. Kinda got that retro Buck Rogers look to th' place, y'know? Burgers 're good, too. They do live music on weekend nights, usually nothin' fantastic, but it's crowd-pleaser stuff. There's also about a dozen clubs around the area, like The Nightwalker, The Owl Roost, places like that. They're all kinda' hit-and-miss depending on what sorta music an' people you like, but if you don't like one, just walk to the next one over an' it's prolly gonna be better. Definitely a prime club-hoppin' spot. Alexandria's a bit quieter at night, really. There's some places there but... ennnh, I really wouldn't recommend 'em. See, Ephesus University's there, an' most of the people goin' out after dark are either gonna be getting out of their dorms to study, or getting out of their dorms to blow off a day's worth of pent-up energy after sittin' in class for nine hours. So each place is either gonna be snoozeville or outta-control crazy. , maybe that's what yer lookin' for, but 's not my speed. I mentioned Highpoint earlier, an' it'd be worth a look. It's where all the young up-an’-comers are, artists an' musicians an' the like. Some fantastic music clubs there, although a lot of the music's kinda experimental, so yer mileage may vary. They got some great restaurants, although those are kinda experimental too - the kinds of places where food comes served in these kinda clear cubes an' everything's set up like some sorta surreal painting you can eat, y'know? Can't argue with taste, tho. They got some bars that serve drinks from the Research District too - try 'the human glowstick' for a surefire conversation starter. Oh, an' if you're lookin' for somthin' a little less drink-and-dance and a bit more run-around-having-fun, there's the Beach Amusement Park. They got a boardwalk with all the games y'could ever want. They got rollercoasters an' rides, they got funnel cakes and,... oh yeah, they're open twenty-four hours. 'Cept the beach. They don't let anyone onto the beach after dark, dunno why. Heard rumors about fish-men but I'm not sure I believe it. Although I seen stranger. Should see what Frank coughed up the other day. What? Oh sure, I been to lotsa these places. I'm not drivin' *all* the time. Just, y'know, a lot. When do I sleep? Heck, sometimes I don't even know. Anyway, you pick a spot to go yet? Heh, great. We're jus' around the corner from there. Here you go. Eh, it's no big. I'm the cabbie, 's my job ta getcha where ya wanna go. Now, you have a good night, arright?
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:43:47 GMT -4
Interview with an Old Man on the Street
As I walk through the gathered crowd, I can’t help but notice the different views of the people present. There’s the families taking the kids out for the rides, there’s the young couples enjoying the lively atmosphere, the ever-vigilant TCPD, and the criminal types looking for someone to exploit. It has taken a long time for the town to get this far. This neighborhood wasn’t always so nice.
I want to take a trip down memory lane, and I know just the person to help me. His name’s Benjamin Jackson, but most people just call him Old Ben. He’s lived here in Clarkstown his whole life, even helped with some of the construction back in the ‘20s.
__________
Debbra Alexander (reporter): Thank you for meeting with me, sir.
Old Ben: It’s my pleasure, missy. What can I do ya’ for?
Debbra Alexander: Well, with this “Birthday Bash” event, I’m feeling just a bit nostalgic. I was wondering if you could take me on a little trip down memory lane, highlighting some of the history of the Briggstone neighborhood.
Old Ben: Sounds easy ‘nuf. What time was ya’ thinkin’ ‘bout?
Debbra Alexander: How about we start with the late ‘60s, and bring us to where we are today?
Old Ben: That was a good time. Businesses were booming, life was good. Many folks ‘round here were working over at the old textile mill. That is, ‘til the incident, ...you know the one I mean. All of a sudden, e’ryone was out of work. No one could afford to do right by their families, and many resorted to less than honorable practices to get by. Well, that brought all kinds of filth in. You couldn’t walk 2 blocks without running into some nastiness or another, and that was just the normal folks. The cops was too busy to do nothing ‘bout any of it, so it just got worse; then some of them dastardly super types moved in.
Debbra Alexander: How did supers moving in make it worse?
Old Ben: They was all villains ‘n scoundrels ‘n such. Not a hero in the bunch. Don’ get me wrong, some so called villains are excellent folk outside their proclivity to violate the law, but many ain’t. Things went from bad to worse around here, and then all the shops shut down, one by one.
Debbra Alexander: I see. This all sounds rather depressing. How did we get to where we are today?
Old Ben: Well, back in ‘92, after sittin’ empty for years, the old mill just exploded. Outta’ the blue! Well, you know the fire department don’t take kindly to things burning ‘round here, and there was an investigation. It dragged on and on, but I never saw nothin’ ‘bout closin’ it in the headlines. Some folks talk about a cover-up, some folks say it weren’t never solved. I don’ know what to think. All I know is, a few years later, it was all bought up. The old mill, an’ a buncha properties all around it. Sum’ fishy there, if ya ask me. Anywho, those property management folks had the bright idea to build a mall, and a convention center. ‘twas pure genius. Now we gots this big shiny mall, full of stores with e’rything you could ever possibly wanna buy. Well, it was great for a time, ‘till that convention of scientists came in, and messed the place up so bad they had to rebuild it. I tell ya’ they rebuilt it faster than you could shake a stick, and it’s still better than the first! Don’ know how they did it, but they darn sure did.
Debbra Alexander: How’s it better now, than it was before?
Old Ben: Well, to go with the mall, there’s a better convention center that houses the arena for the Tritons hockey and Meteors basketball teams. Aw, heck, they even let that girls basketball team, the Saucers, play there. And to top it off, there’s even a big beautiful park right in the middle! Well, with all the business comin’ into the mall ‘n such, more people was comin’ through. Restaurants started gettin’ busier and busier, so people started openin’ up some of the old shops, which brought even more people. Never in my life have I seen this part of town so busy, darn near every day! But that’s a good thing, I guess. Means the town’s comin’ back. Well, least right here it is. I don’ know what they gonna do ‘bout Southside. It’s been messed up down there so long, I don’ think that it can be fixed. Up here, though, well, we take our anniversaries seriously. That’s why we have this carnival every year. Been a hundred ‘n four years since Cronos Pizzeria opened up, an’ ain’t no one been able to take ‘em out.
Debbra Alexander: Thank you very much, Mr. Jackson, for that colorful trip down memory lane. I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon.
Old Ben: I will, sweetie, don’t you worry.
__________
There you have it, folks. How Briggstone came to be as popular as it is today. Come on down and enjoy the carnival, available all week long. You can find it down by the Main Street Shops, many of whom have special sales going on for the week. Why, there’s half-priced drinks at The Shipyard Public House, 20% off comics and gaming products at The Vault and Vaulted Comics, and one free scoop with every pint purchased at Briggstone Ice Creamery, just to name a few.
I hope to see you here!
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:45:38 GMT -4
Tales of the Titan City Police Department - Day One
In today’s update, future Titanites, we have something a bit different for you. Let’s visit TCPD HQ with a new recruit, to discover a little about the city’s crime factions, its most elite police unit, its districts, and herself …
Day One
Kathleen Aurelia sat on the hard seat of the beat-up, wooden chair in the Chief’s office at Preszewski Center, willing herself to stay relaxed, to project the image a SWAT Trooper ought to project. Confidence, she thought, but not arrogance. Competence, but not looking like I think I know it all. She felt a bead of sweat run down her back beneath her uniform shirt and willed herself to keep her nerves hidden.
She told herself she had nothing to be nervous about. She’d served in the military. Spent years working a beat in DC. Trained for SWAT in weapons and tactics. Even dealt with a powers-related crisis once, keeping spectators back from a duel between a flying hero and some laser-shooting airplane-thing flying down the National Mall. But that had been from a distance; guard duty. She’d never even fired her weapon. This was different. This was Titan City.
“Don’t transfer there,” her best friend had said. “Titan City’s crawling with super-fights and villains, not to mention Scorpion invasions and robots and monsters and things! Even some of the street gangs can shoot fire out of their hands! And SWAT’s gotta fight them all!”
“Doesn’t that mean that’s where I’m needed?” she’d replied. Kathleen was tired of standing on the sidelines. She had to make a difference. And the bumpers stickers all said, Anyone Can Make It In Titan City!
And so, here she was, waiting to meet her new boss, the Deputy Chief, Tactical Units (SWAT & K-9), as the lettering on the shoddy, glass-walled office put it. Just moments ago, a SWAT veteran who’d introduced himself as Lenny Alvarez had grinned at her and welcomed her to the team. “The Chief wants to see you,” he’d said. “Probably wants to give you The Speech.”
Kathleen could hear the capital letters. She raised an eyebrow quizzically.
“Don’t worry,” Lenny had said. “The Chief’s great.” Seriousness fell over his face like a shroud. “Just don’t lie to him and don’t hide anything. The Chief has high standards, and he can smell dishonesty. Oh, and don’t stare.”
Kathleen was still puzzling over that when the door opened behind her. She turned and nearly leapt from her seat. A wolf, a huge creature with thick, smoke-grey fur, a pointed snout, and a lashing, bushy tail, had just walked in. On its hind legs. Its baleful, yellow eyes locked with hers. “Don’t get up,” it said in a deep, raspy voice, and Kathleen barely restrained a yelp of surprise. It slid around the particle-board desk and sat down in the cheap, padded chair behind it, levering its tail out through a hole in the back. It sat up ramrod straight and gripped the chair’s arms with clawed hands.
For the first time, Kathleen noticed it wore a faded, navy blue t-shirt marked TCPD SWAT and a pair of sturdy sweatpants with a shiny badge slung around its neck on a chain. Now that the shock had passed, she saw it was more human-looking than she’d thought, like a fur-covered man with a lupine head and tail. “Chief Gherrenfur?” she ventured. Instinctively, she extended her hand to shake.
Gherrenfur’s palm felt smooth as soft leather. “And you’re Aurelia, the new recruit. But not new to Special Weapons and Tactics. Your record speaks well for you, Aurelia. But a record only tells you so much. Deeds are what matter, not scratches on some bureaucratic form.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I surprise you, don’t I.” It wasn’t a question.
Kathleen fought the urge to shrug. Don’t lie, she thought. With that nose, he probably literally [/i]could smell dishonesty. “Yes,” she said.
“You’re brave to say so,” said Chief Gherrenfur. “You’re nervous, but you’re not letting it rule you. That’s good. You’ll need every ounce of that courage in Titan City. I know this isn’t your first rodeo, but this is a rodeo where the bulls can fly, the broncos can walk through walls, and the rodeo clowns shoot lasers from their eyes.”
“And the trailboss can smell fear and honesty?” Kathleen’s mouth curled up in a crooked smile.
Gherrenfur’s long, red tongue lolled from his mouth, and he made a gasping noise. She realized he was laughing. “Exactly. Hear me well, Aurelia. Titan City’s got scads of heroes. Some of ‘em deserve the name, and some don’t. The costumes alone mean nothing to us. I expect the capes to earn my respect the same way I expect you to do the same: by action.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. In spite of herself, she began to relax. Gherrenfur’s ferocious honesty was refreshing.
“And at the same time, they can’t be everywhere. When Scorpion invades or some loon with a disintegration bomb blows up a pylon on the Hercules Bridge, we hold the line.” His voice growled with fierce pride.
Gherrenfur gestured toward a map of the city. “Look, there it is, the territory we guard. North Titan’s relatively safe—small-time gang activity, muggings, white-collar crime, villains by ones and twos. Exciting, but not where we’re needed. Much better than when I first got here, right after the Hurricane. South Titan, on the other hand …”
Gherrenfur’s lambent eyes lowered to the half of the map below Steward’s Bay. “The gangs alone are making a mess down there. At the bottom of the pyramid, you’ve got your Rooks—small-timers looking for edge: notice from an underworld higher-up, an in with a stronger gang, or, most of all, powers.” He shook his head.
Kathleen pursed her lips. In Titan City, it seemed, even the petty thugs wanted superpowers.
“And they get worse from there. Around here, in Ironport,” Gherrenfur gestured toward an inlet cleaving into the coastline, “and a bunch of other places, you’ve got the Pyrebrands running around. A bunch of Chaser addicts—you know Chaser?”
“No,” said Kathleen.
Gherrenfur’s ears flicked back mirthlessly. “You will. Chaser’s a fancy drug. They drink it in a shot. If they drink enough, their skin cracks open, and flames shoot out of their bodies.
“Then there’s the Unforgiven.” The hackles on his neck visibly rose for a second. “Creepy guys. I’ve heard stories about them sucking people through mirrors or drowning them on dry land.”
An hour ago, Kathleen would have been skeptical of an entire gang with such freaky powers. Then again, an hour ago, she wouldn’t have believed she’d be having a conversation with a dog.
“And at the top of the heap, you have our charming organized crime syndicates. The Black Rose has been around since at least the twenties, controlling drug trade, tech smuggling, protection rackets, human trafficking … if it has a taint of vice, it has the stench of the Black Rose on it.” Gherrenfur’s voice rose to a snarl. “And no matter how much they talk about ‘honor,’ they have no idea of the meaning of the word.”
“What, they’re, like, an Italian mob family?” Kathleen had heard FBI men discussing anti-mob operations while in training at Quantico.
“Perhaps,” said the Chief. “Only with cybernetic enhancements under their suits.”
This time, she didn’t even blink in surprise. And she could swear Gherrenfur smiled at that.
“Then, over in Lotus Hills—it’s a beautiful place, by the way; I’m told it’s like stepping into an Asian city—lies the power center of the Five Dragons. Don’t let the name fool you; there are five hundred or more of them. Where the Black Rose goes in for technology, they use magic, burning little charm-strips or invoking the power of water to stretch their limbs or the power of metal to rain down shards of iron.” Gherrenfur’s ears pricked up. “You believe in magic, right?”
Kathleen couldn’t help laughing.
Gherrenfur snorted. “Humans. Well, not to worry. The first time one of their Initiates blasts you with a thorn-storm out of thin air, you will. And much as the Five Dragons and Black Rose hate each other, the only thing they hate more is us.” He leaned back in his chair. “There’s plenty more going on, but those are the broad strokes. You’ll learn as you go. Any questions?”
How about, “What have I got myself into?” she thought. “No, sir,” she said.
Gherrenfur waved her off. “Go see Lenny outside. He’ll get you settled in. Oh, and Aurelia … one more thing.” He stared straight at her with his cold, lupine eyes. “The heroes can afford to play fast and loose with the law. Sometimes—and don’t you dare repeat this outside this office—that’s what the city needs. But we can’t be like that. We have the TCPD’s honor to uphold, and that honor begins with following the law. Without honor, we become nothing. You understand?”
And in the simple conviction of his voice, she did. This, at last, was firm ground. “Yes, sir. I won’t let you down, sir.”
Gherrenfur’s nose twitched. “No, I don’t think you will. And call me ‘Chief.’ Everyone does.” His ear twitched, and a moment later, the battered old phone on his desk rang. “Chief Gherrenfur,” he answered. “Commissioner Zheng? No, sir, that meeting finished a while ago. Wait, there’s a what in Charleston? Grrrr. Why am I not surprised? Of course, Commissioner. I’ll assemble a team immediately.” He put the phone down.
Gherrenfur bared his sharp teeth in what Kathleen was coming to recognize as his smile. “Today is your lucky day, Aurelia. It seems one of our local villains has picked this morning to flex his muscles. And he’s brought some friends along. Go downstairs and grab your gear. Time to suit up.”
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:47:54 GMT -4
Tales from the Underworld: One Night in Charleston
Fog choked the streets of Charleston. The district wasn’t the liveliest part of Titan City at the best of times, and the heavy mist only encouraged people to stay inside all the more. Once, decades ago, Charleston had been a thriving center of art. Its boulevards had played host to wealthy socialites headed to theaters, jazz clubs, and speakeasies. Today, the clubs and theaters were now long shuttered, and the speakeasies devolved into dingy, struggling bars.
And the three men striding purposefully down the sidewalk, bundled in long coats against the damp fog, weren’t wealthy socialites, either, despite their suits. Two swaggered with the broad shoulders and rough faces of experienced bullies. The third, an older man, was less bulky, but he had a look of hard authority, the look of a pragmatic man no one would trifle with. The look of a hardened killer.
“Here it is,” he said. He gestured to a flight of stairs leading down from the sidewalk to a lower-level entrance to a brick building. A neon sign above the doorway proclaimed “the Opal Room.”
They stepped into the club’s vestibule, and to the older man, it was almost like stepping back in time. His uncle, the man who’d inducted him into the Black Rose, had told him stories about this place. Being a member of Titan City’s foremost organized crime outfit hadn’t quite lived up to his childhood fantasies of respect, money, and power. But here, where a smiling hostess and coat-check girl approached to take his men’s overcoats and welcome them into the club … it felt right.
He greeted the hostess—the owner—familiarly. “Evenin’, Miz Palinski.”
She smiled coolly. “Please, Mr. Castilucci, call me ‘Opal.’” It was an apt name. Her fair skin stood out in the dimness of the vestibule, and her long, white hair glistened with a faintly opalescent sheen. “Welcome to the Opal Room, gentlemen.”
One of Castilucci’s younger guards smiled at the blushing coat-check girl, but the other reflexively shoved his hand beneath his sportcoat, toward his shoulder rig, as she approached. Castilucci rolled his eyes. That boy had always been stupid.
Opal arched a fair eyebrow at the young thug. “You know this place is neutral ground, right?” she said. “You and the Five Dragons can shoot at each other as much as you want out on the streets, but in here, you boys behave yourselves. Remember, I’m keeping an eye on you.”
The bodyguard puffed up his chest. “Listen, chippie, if you think you can keep me from—“
Castilucci held up a hand, cutting him off before he could make things any worse. It was all he could do to restrain himself from slapping the kid on the back of the head, but that wouldn’t do. Members of the Black Rose didn’t show disrespect to one another in public.
“Don’t you know anything?” he said. “You make a ruckus in here, Opal can mutant-zap you with so much bad luck you’ll cut your own throat by accident.” The threat of Opal’s powers had kept the Opal Room a safe hangout for Titan City’s underworld for years. Making a scene in here wouldn’t just get the kid killed; it’d embarrass Castilucci, and through him, the Black Rose. Father Omerta wouldn’t be happy. Especially given the reason for tonight’s visit.
Castilucci turned to the young-looking woman. “Sorry, Opal,” he said. “Joey here’s new in Titan.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said, smiling in self-satisfaction. She ushered the three men into the Opal Room’s dim, smoky interior. It was a Wednesday night, and the club was quiet. A tired-looking jazz trio played on a small stage. Tables surrounded a deserted dance floor. Most of the patrons were mundane members of the underworld, like Castilucci and his men. A few costumed villains—a man in a full suit of crimson plate armor, a guy in a black robe with glowing eyes, a woman with a cybernetic arm—rounded out the crowd. Castilucci’s bodyguards stared, but he ignored the costumes. Decades of Titan City’s crime world made even the fantastic seem commonplace after a while.
Opal jerked her thumb over her shoulder, toward a booth at the back dimly lit by an overhead, hanging light.. “Your … uh … friends are waiting over there,” she said wryly. Castilucci nodded his thanks, and Opal withdrew gracefully. Castilucci and his men crossed the empty dance floor and stood before the table.
An athletic-looking woman who appeared to be Chinese sat in the back of the booth. She had short, beautifully styled hair and wore a vivid blue business suit. Like Castilucci, she was flanked by bodyguards. One man wore a shiny suit of some cheap fabric with a wide, open collar. He smiled mockingly beneath a thin mustache. The other wore a bright green martial arts robe, a brace of wooden daggers, and a matching scarf tied around his head.
A sharkskin suit and a bathrobe? Stupid Five Dragons got no sense of class, thought Castilucci.
The woman nodded formally. “Ah, you are the emissaries of the Black Rose,” she said. Despite her prim appearance, she had a serious, contralto voice. “I am Miss Yu, Lady White’s assistant. Milady sends her greetings and honors to your Father Omerta, and hopes and trusts that he prospers.”
Castilucci slid into a chair opposite Miss Yu. The shadows beyond the overhead light hid the rest of the Opal Room, making the table seem even more private than it was
Castilucci let his bodyguards loom over the table, but Miss Yu didn’t seem intimidated. “You Five Dragons,” he said, “always gotta be polite, even when you’re shootin’ us in the heart, eh? Pull the other one, girlie.”
Miss Yu pursed her lips. “Pull the other what?”
He wondered if she was making fun of him. “Never mind,” he said. “We got business to talk. Much as our bosses hate each other, those Barons guys are cuttin’ in on both our,” Castilucci paused significantly, “‘businesses.’
“This new bokor boss of theirs in Ironport … he’s crazy. Offin’ our guys and yours right and left, then sending the bodies back to fight us as those creepy zombis--!” Castilucci choked himself off in disgust. Like many of his Black Rose colleagues, he found magic vaguely disturbing and the Barons’ necromancy doubly so. “It’s sick, is what it is!”
Miss Yu, gently raised a cup of … tea? “Indeed,” she said. “This bokor upends every form of order. Milady grows concerned. She proposes we find a … permanent solution to this problem.”
Castilucci’d thought of that, too, but there was a problem. “An’ how do we do that?” he asked. “We move against the bokor, he weakens us, and you grab Ironport. You move against him, we do the same to you.”
“A joint operation, then,” said Miss Yu.
Castilucci threw up his hands. “There’s no way I’m trustin’ my crews around your magic-flingin’ weirdoes on any ‘joint operation!’”
“You misunderstand,” said Miss Yu, unfazed. “Our two organizations will jointly fund a third party contractor. In fact, I’ve invited him here tonight.” She gestured toward a shadowy figure standing just beyond the lamplight.
The figure stepped forward. He wore a suit of matte black Kevlar and plastic plates, vaguely resembling the plate armor of a late medieval knight. A belt around his waist and a harness on his back held an assortment of dark, utilitarian-looking gadgets. His helmet concealed all but the lower half of his face and veiled that in shadows. A dimly reflective, bluish visor hid his eyes. On his back, he wore a high-tech crossbow.
A costume, Castilucci thought. The kind you don’t cross.
“Miss Yu has told me about your bokor problem,” said the man in a flat, steady voice. “I’ll solve it—permanently—just a little cash down, plus a favor.” He smiled tightly. “You can call me ‘Arbalest.’”
The bokor, Castilucci realized, has no idea what he’d gotten himself into. Uneasily, Castilucci realized he felt the same way himself.
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:50:31 GMT -4
Vril – Urban Legend Or World Domination?
Titan Chronicle By Anton Knight
In the annals of World War II, there have been many tales of the incredible programs put forth by the Third Reich. From their Ubermensch chemical augmentation program to the genetic alteration of animals to create beasts of war, it is well documented that, to the scientific arm of the Nazi party, there was no such thing as an experiment they would not attempt in order to gain an edge against the super powered elite of the Allies.
One of the lesser known programs, however, was the attempt to find, and then utilize, the forgotten technology of what they knew as the Aryan race. They had built up a huge mythology about it, believing even that the Earth itself was hollow, and that the entrance to the interior, where all of the Aryan technology awaited, was to be found in Antarctica.
Now, the Antarctican mission at the end of the war is well known, that the hidden base they had built near the south pole was destroyed by a surprise Soviet raid. What is not well known is what the inspectors of the base found, but thanks to new documents uncovered after the fall of the iron curtain, we can reveal to you now.
The base which was destroyed was manned with hundreds of men, each carrying weapons that, upon casual inspection looked to be normal German weaponry. But upon closer examination, things began to look very unusual. Instead of being assembled, the components looked to be a completely solid object, with only the moving pieces independent of the main assembly. No seams, no bolts, no welds, as if the entire system was manufactured out of a single piece of metal.
Then there were the bodies themselves. For all of the talk of a master race, Germans were as diverse in height, weight, and facial feature as anyone else. But not these soldiers. According to the records, every single one measured 184cm tall, weighed 82kg. And the faces, while not identical, looked as if close relatives, brothers, and of a uniform age. Even more unusual, the autopsies made particular note, none of the cadavers had a navel, nor any scar as if the bellybutton were removed.
Outside of the base, there were round indications in the ground, as if there had been something resting in those spots beforehand. The purposes of these were never resolved, nor were whatever had rested there located.
Within the facility, the majority of the records were burned, but a few fragments survived. These fragments discussed a facility known only by the code name Vril. In Nazi mythology, Vril was the term for a “life giver” in a novel popularized in Nazi Germany at the time. Included on these fragments was a symbol, the Black Sun of the Thule Society, a band of Nazi occultists who all had thought were extinguished years before. This same symbol was found on the armor of all of the soldiers which had been killed, adorning their helmets and chests.
Whatever this Vril is, if it ever existed at all, there has remained a school of thought focused on this strange incident. Whispers and conspiracy thoughts that they had indeed found this “Vril” and were now in control of the most powerful energies known to mankind. Serious scholars scoff at the thought of a hidden band of Nazis still existing, hiding out ready to strike at some point in the future. They dismiss claims by others of seeing flying disks, UFO's, sporting the Black Sun, or of strange masked soldiers who answer to none yet stand in support of them. But to those who believe, it is all too real.
With the real worries of the modern world, where a lone figure such as Cumulus Rex can destroy a city in a single night, worrying about strange leftover soldiers from World War II seems almost quaint.
But in the shadow, some people continue to insist, the Vril are waiting, watching, and preparing for their time to strike.
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:52:12 GMT -4
Tales from the TCPD: The Ironport Fiasco (Composition)The call for SWAT came in late in the day. Low, autumn sun shone in Kathleen Aurelia’s eyes as the SWAT van forced its way through the evening traffic on the Hercules Bridge. She’d been in Titan City only a few months, and she’d seen some frightening things here, fighting alongside SWAT. But even now, in the chilly, autumnal evening light, she loved it. “ “Nervous, Aurelia?” said Lenny Alvarez, crouched across from her on the van’s functional seats. “Not with you backing me up in that,” she said. She gestured absently at Lenny’s gear. It took up most of the rest of the compartment; they rode alone in the second of two SWAT vans dispatched to the crisis. She looked up to catch Lenny grinning crookedly at her. “You’re just jealous because my outfit’s more slimming than your body armor.” Kathleen just smiled and shook her head. This was Lenny’s way of dealing with the tension—bantering. She’d discovered over the past few weeks that it helped her, too. “Admit it. You only trained on that thing because you wanted to have an excuse to say, ‘Time to put on the old COP suit.’” Lenny pretended to think for a moment. “Well, I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a big factor.” When Kathleen didn’t laugh, he added, “Seriously, I’ve heard there were some delays on deploying these things because it took NWT and the city six months to think up an acronym that spelled ‘cop.’” He laughed. Kathleen continued watching the scenery, such as it was, through the reinforced window. She lived in Hollybriar, which remained suburban despite the development in the rest of Aurora over the past fifty years. She still hadn’t seen much of South Titan, except on rides like this. They moved faster now that they’d left the bridge traffic behind. They navigated past deserted factories and refurbished condos rubbing shoulders uneasily in Clarkstown. Soon, the eclectic, inexpensive buildings and scattered art installations of Highpoint flashed by. Kathleen had nearly moved there rather than Aurora; Highpoint had the reputation of being cheap and fun while still being relatively safe. They passed by a café, and she heard a split second of music from inside. They crossed into the unlovely, functional cinderblock and metal buildings of Ironport. Though the sky remained streaked with yellow and orange, the dim blue of early evening had fallen in the deserted streets of the shipping district, turning warehouses and loading docks indistinct. They rounded a corner and emerged beside an immense dock stacked with enormous cargo containers. Piles of wooden pallets burned like bonfires. The van rolled to a stop behind one of the containers. Kathleen donned her helmet and glanced at Lenny. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said. “Just gotta put on the old … well, you know.” Kathleen grinned. She slung her New World Technologies-made shock rifle over her shoulder on its carry strap and swung out the van’s rear doors. Outside, the damp breeze from the bay alternated with the heat of the flames. Across the dark water, the lights of North Titan twinkled. Kathleen hurried to the SWAT command post, beside two more vans that had already discharged their occupants. Chief Gherrenfur stood in the center of the group, dressed in Kevlar armor much like Kathleen’s. His eyes gleamed, reflecting the flames far more brightly than the humans’. “Aurelia,” he said, nodding in greeting. “Where’s Alvarez?” “Right here, sir,” said Lenny’s voice, now tinged with electronic overtones. Heavy footsteps rattled on the pavement beneath her. Kathleen looked around to see her fellow officer approaching, now armored in his Computer Operated Protective Suit. The COP Suit added a foot to his height and covered him in black and white plates of high-impact plastic, making him resemble a human-shaped prowl car. Behind his transparent faceplate, he winked at Kathleen. “I just had to put on my—“ “Yes, Alvarez, we know.” Gherrenfur growled softly and rolled his eyes. “Here’s the situation, team.” He gestured toward a dockside warehouse with a clawed hand. “Two hours ago, Detective Aragon of Narcotics arrived here for an undercover operation. He was posing as an envoy to the Pyrebrands from a drug cartel from someplace off in South America, where they supposedly have their own supply of Chaser.” Many of the officers nodded in immediate understanding. The Pyrebrands were Titan City’s biggest distributors—and consumers—of Chaser, the superdrug that granted advanced-stage addicts powers over fire. For over a decade, detectives had suspected that the Black Rose controlled the Pyrebrands’ Chaser supply, and thus the gang, though they’d never found proof sufficient to stand up in court. An independent source would free the Pyrebrands to make a bid for power of their own. “Aragon was sniffing for evidence that would tie the Pyrebrands to the Black Rose conclusively, something that’d hold up in court,” Gherrenfur continued. “But the operation went sour. Just as Aragon began the meeting, a hero bursts in, starts busting heads, and in the confusion, Aragon’s cover gets blown.” Gherrenfur’s hackles stood up, and several officers muttered about “stupid hero hotshots.” “Enough,” said Gherrenfur. “Stay focused, team. Plus, turns out this hero—his name’s Topaz—bit off more than he could chew. Aragon was meeting with Skullcharred himself.” A couple officers whistled, and Kathleen blinked in surprise. No wonder Chief Gherrenfur was here in person. Skullcharred—formerly pro football player Thomas “the Wash” Washington—had been the biggest sports scandal in decades when he vomited flames all over an opposing player in a championship game. His career ruined, he’d turned to Chaser with a vengeance and turned the Pyrebrands into an underworld power, ultimately taking the name “Skullcharred.” “Skullcharred,” Lenny scoffed. “Sounds like a kind of smoked fish.” “Shut up, Alvarez,” ordered Gherrenfur. “Skullcharred himself bugged out as soon as the hero showed up, but he left a big contingent of his fire-flinging senior Pyrebrands behind. We’ve forced them back into the warehouse, but they’ve taken Aragon and this Topaz idiot hostage. They’re refusing to negotiate. I don’t have to tell you how crazy threatened Pyrebrands can be. Sooner or later, they’ll take out their frustration on Aragon and Topaz. We’ve gotta get in there, rescue those hostages, and take out twenty or thirty Pyrebrands, before this turns into an even bigger fiasco.” He looked slowly around the circle, locking eyes with each officer in turn. “This’ll be a tough operation, but I know you’re all up to it. We have two viable access points: the front door and a delivery dock with a sliding gate around the back. Alvarez, you’ll lead a team in through the front door.” The circle had gone even more silent as Gherrenfur discussed tactics, and Kathleen heard a soft buzz of servos as Lenny nodded in response to the command. “Once the gangers are occupied, I’ll lead a second team in through the delivery port and hit them from behind.” Gherrenfur rattled off a string of names assigned to each team. Kathleen would be part of the second team, attacking from the back. “Let’s go,” the Chief said. “Time’s wasting for those hostages.” Whirling red and blue lights, like the light bar of a squad car, lit up on the chest of Lenny’s COP Suit. The teams moved into position. Moments later, Kathleen’s team waited silently at the delivery door. Gherrenfur’s pointed ear twitched, and Kathleen heard the sounds of gunshots, muffled bangs, crackling flame, and muddled shouting from inside. Gherrenfur nodded. Two breachers, SWAT troopers equipped with personal rams and shotguns, smashed in the delivery door. Thick smoke billowed out of the aperture. The troopers donned gas masks, and they stepped inside, covering each other with their weapons. The warehouse’s interior was chaos. Streamers of tear gas and smoke swirled through the cavernous space. Sparks of gunfire and gouts of flame from the Pyrebrands lit the clouds like far-off lightning. Flashing beams of red and blue from Lenny’s lights cut through the smoke. Above the cacophony of weapons fire, flaming blasts, and furious shouts, Gherrenfur’s voice rang out beside her, “Everyone down on the ground, now!” Unfortunately, no Pyrebrands complied. Kathleen sighted for targets down the gleaming barrel of her shock rifle. It wasn’t as easy as aiming a firearm. The glowing lights around the shroud kept washing out her vision. With a scream, a Pyrebrand charged at her out of the cloud of gas. As it always did when she faced combat, time seemed to slow down for her, and she caught every detail of the onrushing ganger. He showed only the earliest signs of Chaser dependence: a red flush to his skin, bloodshot eyes, and some slight cracks in the skin of his hands and around his eyes. He wore the gang’s usual mixture of red and black street clothes covered with flame patterns, as if he’d painted his clothes to resemble a ‘70’s muscle car paint job. He held a knife high in one hand, ready to stab down inexpertly. Spittle flew from his mouth as he charged her. Kathleen fired a short blast from the shock rifle. The lack of recoil always surprised her, but she managed not to pull off-target. The lights around the shroud flared, and a crackling beam of energy rippled from the barrel to the center of the crazed Pyrebrand’s chest. He dropped, convulsing. Kathleen scrambled atop a pile of crates in one corner of the room. There, she could look down through the chaos and spot targets for the shock rifle. Clouds of gas and smoke shifted and whirled around her, hiding and revealing a dozen scenes of battle. The chaingun built into Lenny’s suit’s forearm spun as it unleashed a hail of bullets. Energy crackled around its other hand as it backhanded a Pyrebrand away. A Pyrebrand with glowing, red-hot cracks in his skin gestured angrily and flung a wave of fire toward two troopers. Gherrenfur, his fanged jaws wide and seemingly unaffected by the gas and smoke, screamed orders Kathleen couldn’t hear over the roar of flames and gunfire. As quickly as it had begun, the battle wound down. The smoke cleared to reveal more than a dozen Pyrebrands sprawled on the warehouse floor, some slain, but most alive, cuffed with high-tech shackles, and looking none too happy. Troopers clustered around a single, fallen officer. Lenny loomed just behind them in his COP suit. “Find them!” shouted Gherrenfur. “Find Topaz and Aragon!” His nose twitched. Kathleen gingerly stepped down from the heap of crates. She stumbled over a body half-buried in broken slats and other debris. She heard a groan. She knelt down and flung the debris aside. A powerfully built man in an amber-colored outfit lay beneath it. Kathleen spotted an elaborate, Art Deco-style pistol or ray gun holstered at the man’s hip and the tattered remnants of a cape around his shoulders. Tinted goggles covered his eyes. Dark burns marred his suit. “Chief!” she cried. “I think I found Topaz! He’s injured!” Seemingly in moments, a paramedic knelt beside her, working feverishly on the hero’s injuries. When had the paramedics arrived? Kathleen withdrew to give him space. She drew up beside Gherrenfur, who stood with Lenny, watching as officers secured Pyrebrands’ cuffs and read them their rights. “Aurelia,” said Lenny, sounding more serious and more nervous than she’d ever heard him, “are you all right?” She nodded tightly. Stumbling across the horribly burned Topaz had been far more disturbing than the firefight itself. “Aurelia,” said Gherrenfur. He looked at her levelly. “Good job today.” “Thank you, sir,” she said. To her disgust, her voice came out slightly breathless. “Your first major operation,” Gherrenfur said. “You did well.” His voice dropped to a soft, steady growl. “Now, relax, and let it all go.” She nodded. “Sir!” shouted one of the other officers. “This Pyrebrand lying here, at the base of this wall … this isn’t a Pyrebrand. It’s Aragon, sir!” “Don’t tell me, you fool. Paramedic, to that officer!” Gherrenfur pointed. “No, sir,” said the trooper. “He’s been hit in the back of the head with some kind of energy weapon. Aragon is dead.” Gherrenfur snarled incoherently. Kathleen exchanged an uncertain glance with Lenny. Something told her that this fiasco was just the beginning. Discuss this update here: cityoftitans.com/forum/discuss-tales-tcpd-ironport-fiasco-composition
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:55:09 GMT -4
How the Staff Made the Paragons - Lore
“I am a Staff Writer for Missing Worlds Media.” I love saying this. It filled me with pride to be able to say it as I introduced myself to people at DragonCon two weeks ago. (See Update 102 for a video of my fellow Staff Writer Stephanie Smith and me, plus artist K.T. “Cajun Catfish” Morriss, doing our panel there!) When I say this, the question people ask most often, aside from “When is your game coming out?”, is “What do you write?”
The simple answer is “everything.” The small corps of City of Titans Staff Writers works on everything from creating the supporting NPCs who will populate the world of Titan City to the design of districts and landmarks to the engineering of stories. Our Composition (writing) Department also includes a hardworking battalion of “bullpen” writers who handle specific, targeted assignments, and their numbers and passion help keep the engine of this game’s writing going. Staff handles structuring the setting’s major story beats and makes sure the setting’s lore includes everything it “needs” to, whether that’s a faction of world-conquering, scorpion-armored troopers or a famous building for villains to menace and heroes to protect.
In particular, we make sure that Titan City features examples of, or at least references, some of the classic tropes and character types from American superpowered adventure comics. These form the central star of the setting’s lore, orbited by more unusual ideas influenced by other genres of fiction like science fiction, horror, or mystery. While individual Staff Writers “write up” particular characters, places, or groups, we often work as a team in brainstorming them. And it is all overseen by our long-suffering Continuity Department, who serves as a comic title’s editor would, ensuring a consistent tone and keeping everyone on task. All these mechanisms help us make the setting feel like a coherent whole, rather than a bunch of random ideas from two dozen different artistic visions.
Let me show you an example, and introduce you to some characters besides. We’re adamant that your player character will be the protagonist of whatever stories you choose to experience as you play through the game. Your character, not a bunch of NPCs, is the hero. (Well, unless you’re a villain; then, you’re the villain!) But Titan City has been home to superpowered heroes for many decades. We needed characters to represent, even embody, the concept of a classic, heroic team. A comics-influenced universe just isn’t the same without an Avengers or a Justice League, after all. These NPCs can serve as allies to heroic PCs, enemies to villainous ones, and, most importantly of all, seeds for stories where the PC can take center stage
Thus, the Staff team set out to flesh out the Paragons. Given the origin of our community’s seeds, we’d come up with the name even before Missing Worlds Media formed! We knew we wanted a team of eight classic-feeling, iconic, heroic heroes. But the team members did not begin to coalesce until Staff sat down and, over a series of meetings, talked through what we’d need to make a good true-blue hero team.
We knew that our leader would be Anthem. You heard from her in our last fiction-based Update. We knew that she would be the successor of the setting’s most famous hero of all time, the deceased American Star. Thus, she had to be a symbol of honor, courage, decency, and … well, heroism. At the same time, we wanted Anthem to be someone players could relate to, not just another “boy scout” type. After much work, we came out with a balance. Anthem, Harriet E. Ross, is fearless and honorable to a fault and isn’t one to mince words. Being an icon doesn’t come naturally to her, so she works diligently to uphold her ideals and honor her fallen mentor’s memory.
Now that we knew Anthem a bit better, we started thinking through the kinds of characters most iconic in superpowered heroic fiction. This offered us plenty of classic motifs to use … or to subvert. We decided to add a “super-intelligent, unpowered detective” character to the mix. Such a character could be a vital source of tips and story seeds. Rather than the standard ultra-wealthy playboy, we came up with the idea of the character being someone who’d had to struggle to get where she is. When one writer noted that a super-detective character could easily overshadow the PC, another suggested that she have an extremely idiosyncratic way of expressing information, such that she might sometimes have trouble articulating a secret even if she knew it. Thus, Codebreaker was born.
I distinctly recall saying, “Let’s have an aquatic guy. Only not make him lame.” After much discussion, we finally slotted a character designed for a different role, Vodnik, into this spot. He helped round out the team’s personality array as well as its power roster. Despite his fishlike appearance, Vodnik sees himself as a dashing free spirit, the “showboater” of the team. His dialogue, inspired by all the Russian immigrants I have known over the years, has been a joy to write for me personally.
A discussion on magic and demonic invaders led to a fun chat session about an academic who was “half-possessed” by a powerful demon, a concept that comics have explored in many ways over the years. Realizing that our team didn’t have a magician type yet, and that a story might require them to have some magical knowledge, we adapted the character for the Paragons as Cambion. In contrast to Vodnik, who ignores his inhuman appearance, we decided Cambion would be unnerved by his own powers and something of a “reluctant hero.” By this point, we were thinking of the Paragons in terms of how they might perform in battle against a full team of PC villains, and we realized Cambion could fill a “front-rank bruiser” role for them. This gave us an interesting character and another comics trope: the shy, tweedy academic in the body of a monster.
We also agreed that we needed a “team scientist,” because someone has to build those giant mcguffins that the villain (player or NPC) wants to steal or destroy. Eventually, we fit the gadgeteer Particle into this role. His powers, gained in a freak accident, focus on teleportation rather than anything combat-oriented, and we already had plenty of “leap into the melee” Paragons, so we had to struggle for a while with how he’d operate in combat. We eventually hit on the idea of his teleporting various ray-guns and other devices into his hands in battle, making him a fire support character in addition to his out-of-battle role as “tech guy.” To balance his awkward and sometimes inhuman teammates, we made Particle a charming, outgoing man who often serves as the Paragons’ public relations agent.
We also wanted a speedster. Every team needs a speedster, right? One of us hit on the idea of making him a robot named Overclock, and everything about the character immediately fell into place almost magically. Outgoing and friendly to everyone, Overclock is the kind of hero who is as happy retrieving a kid’s lost ball as capturing a villain. Plus, his multi-tasking wireless brain allows him to level up his latest MMO “alt” while going about his daily life. I suspect a lot of us can relate to that!
We also felt we needed a psychic on the team. Like scientists and magicians, they are a fertile source of story plots. At this point, we had a pretty wild crew for our “iconic” team. With Memory, we brought things back to earth, making her an ordinary, well-adjusted person with a happy, moneyed childhood and a celebrity’s comfort in dealing with the public. We also made Memory an heiress, conveniently providing an explanation for how the Paragons can afford to maintain a mansion-base in beautiful Old Bradford, not to mention any other paraphernalia they might need.
Finally, thanks to the need for a stealthy character and one writer’s passion for Japanese culture, we have Arrow Shade. Arrow Shade is a ninja. Arrow Shade does not talk about herself. Arrow Shade will mess you up.
There you have them, the Paragons, Titan City’s most famous hero team. And, hopefully, you have some insight into the process we use to create the building blocks to support the adventures of Titan City’s most important characters of all: yours!
Written by - Jack 'Olantern' Snyder
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:56:57 GMT -4
The Abandoned Mountainview Sanitarium (Lore, Seasonal)
The moon shone brightly in the night sky, casting a soft light on the woodlands below. The air was getting cold as the native animals began creeping out of their dens. Frogs and night owls could be heard, and somewhere in the distance wolves were howling. Deep in the forest, a campsite had been set up by a troop of Titan Scouts. The dozen or so scouts and their Scoutmasters were sitting around a campfire cooking marshmallows. Coming out of a nearby tent was Head Scoutmaster Connolly, who approached the fire with a large book in hand. The book was the latest edition of “Titan City and Its Notable Landmarks”. “Aw come on, Head Scoutmaster,” said Jesse, one of the scouts, “ I thought you said you were going to tell us a spooky story tonight, not give us a geography lesson!” “I can do both at the same time, Jesse!” Connolly said confidently. “Have any of you heard stories of the Mountainview Center?” The scouts looked at each other for a moment, waiting to see if anyone knew the answer. After a short pause, one of the Scoutmasters, an older boy named Curtis, raised his hand. “I think I remember hearing stories of it,” said Curtis. “Something about a haunted sanitarium here in Goodman’s Woods.” “Very good, Scoutmaster,” said Connolly. “You are correct! As Head Scoutmaster, it is my duty to not only teach you of the historical past of Titan City, but of the many perils that come with living in a metropolis such as ours. So tonight I will do both!” The Head Scoutmaster took a seat by the fire and opened his book theatrically. “Our story begins in the late forties, after World War II. The Center was built in the creepy wooded areas south-east of Titan City. The Center began accepting residents within a few days of its inauguration and was housing hundreds of patients from the City and the surrounding regions by the end of the first month. Needless to say, many of these were violent and dangerous people. The Titan City Board of Health appointed a director who would be in charge of all the Centers operations, a man by the name of Edmond Crowley. “This is worse than a geography lesson,” whispered Jesse to the scout sitting next to him, “this is a history lesson!” “My dear boy,” said Connolly, while peering over the rim of his glasses, “choose your words carefully. This close to the sanitarium, you never know when they might be your last.” After a moment, the Head Scoutmaster cracked a smile into the resulting silence and said, “It gets better.” There was a collective hiss of intaken breath and low murmuring. Connolly hid a smirk. “Now where was I? Ah yes! Edmond. The newly appointed director made no effort to hide the fact he was unhappy with his this transfer, and vowed his superiors would regret sentencing him to this dead end position. Edmond spent the following months funnelling most of the sanitarium’s income directly into his bank account. He discredited and fired employees for the slightest infractions and forced the remainder to work harder to cover his duplicity. Before long, there were only a few tired, unmotivated, frightened employees left, and the patients suffered for it. Men and women whose mental stability was not the strongest to begin with were neglected or even abandoned completely by the overworked staff. Perhaps they too began to dream of revenge…” “Whether that makes the story less scary,” countered Connolly, “may depend on your interpretation of what happened next. Without a proper staff, the building’s sanitary conditions began to quickly deteriorate. Soon, the handful of remaining employees reported patients becoming seriously ill. Not wanting his deeds to be revealed, Edmond ordered the staff to distribute whatever medicine was still available in the infirmary and to lock all patients in their rooms to avoid further contamination. “But what about the people still inside?” squeaked Anna, one of the first year cadets. “Only a few days after the initial cases had been recorded, panicked employees contacted the authorities, against the director’s express orders, warning of possible infection but imploring someone, anyone for help. Police were dispatched to the scene. Sadly,” said Connolly, “until the nature of the infection could be identified, the authorities were powerless to help those trapped inside and could only insure that the infection remained contained. By the time the police had arrived, let alone trained disease containment personnel and gear, the building was ominously silent. They had heard the patients became violent once infected, but they were not ready for what they discovered once they entered the Center.” “Z-zombies?” Jesse asked breathlessly. Anna was chiding. “Zombis are not bad guys,” she piped. “The Barons are good guys, aren’t they, Head Scoutmaster?” The Head Scoutmaster paused before replying, and when he spoke again it was in a whisper. The scouts leaned closer to him, and it seemed that even the crickets had stilled themselves to listen. The only sound was quick young breaths, and what may have been the wind moving through the surrounding forest. “As they made their way down the sanitarium’s silent corridors, the rescue party discovered a gruesome sight: dead bodies littering the floors, blood covering the walls and debris scattered everywhere. The healthy patients, locked in their rooms, had been unable to escape more violent patients when those had battered down their doors. Infected violent patients, whose illness had enhanced their strength, intensified their insanity, and granted them... hunger." “I told you it was zombies!” Jesse said, his voice equal measures of fear and triumph. “But -but zombis don’t eat people…” Anna sounded stubborn but uncertain. “As the search continued, a large group of dead bodies were discovered piled up in front of a door near the administration offices. The infected had obviously tried to break down the door before succumbing to the virus. The room in question was the office of the Center’s director, inside of which was a large suitcase filled with money, sitting on a luxurious desk. In the middle of the room was the body of Edmond Crowley, hanging from the ceiling fan. In the end, his money had done him little good. He had shattered the windows of his own office, but the bars on the other side had held. The patients had been unable to reach him, but he himself had been unable to escape." Connolly paused, as for a moment of silent respect. "Autopsies showed that Edmond Crowley himself was not infected."
"A few days later, testimonies from the investigators aired on the local news radio, retelling the events that transpired at the Mountainview Psychiatric Center. Reporters blamed this calamity on greed and lack of proper authority. The virus was later named ‘Ardens avaritia,’ which translates to "Burning Greed.”
Jesse nodded confidently. “So they ARE all dead.”
“The patients are dead. Crowley himself is dead. But what, my boy, about the virus itself?”
Jesse’s mouth worked in reply, but no sounds came out.
Shadows and firelight played across the Head Scoutmaster’s face as he leaned forward with a frightful leer. “Standing to this day, the Abandoned Mountainview Psychiatric Center remains closed down out of fear of lingering contamination, serving as a tragic reminder of man’s moral and physical frailty. Warning signs such as those you saw earlier today have been erected throughout the area in the hopes to discourage trespassers. Moreover, the occasional foolhardy explorer who has visited these woodlands have reported far more sinister reasons to willingly avoid the old sanitarium. Those who have returned tell stories of strange phenomenon, such as seeing the ghosts of the deceased residents, or being pursued by large, mutated creatures. The TCPD are confident that their continuous efforts to deter thrill seekers from going to this location, by placing warnings signs or increasing trespassing fines, will be successful. If not, they hope that the ever growing number of missing persons reports will.”
Curtis, the Scoutmaster in training, furrowed his brow rather deeply for a man of his young age. “I think you have taken this too far, Head Scoutmaster. The children are frightened enough. I am an Eagle Eye scout,” Curtis announced proudly and with some indignation, rising slowly to his feet. “I saw the fake signs you planted along our path when I checked the campsite out. I also saw the fake bodies you had planted in the area to frighten the children. And I can hear your actor accomplices shuffling toward us even now to add the final scare. But it’s too much. Call them off.“
“What makes you think that, Curtis?” Connolly regarded the Scoutmaster with a keenly interested gaze.
“What makes me think that? Jesse may have been blustering, but look at him. His face is like ash. Anna is quietly sobbing. These children have earned their bravery badges, Head Scoutmaster.”
“That’s not what I mean, Curtis.” Connolly shook his head gently. “What makes you think the signs and the corpses are fake?” With that, he deepened his voice, beginning a rolling barrage of evil laughter he had practiced for just such a moment.
At that, the scout troops’ voices were raised in a chorus of frightened screams, which echoed among the harsh and jagged trees in the dead of night beneath the swollen moon.
…
Happy Halloween...
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 18:58:26 GMT -4
Ghost Train (Lore, Seasonal)
From the Titan City Herald, Sunday Edition, “Around Town” Section: “On the Track of a Legend: the Ghost Train of South Titan” by Thomas Reyce, Herald freelance writer Every October, as Halloween approaches, Titan City gossips switch their stories from tales of the latest superpowered battles to classic ghost stories. And the city has plenty of them. A history stretching back to the first English settlements around Steward’s Bay in the 1600’s, punctuated with wild and dramatic events has left us drowning in stories of ghosts and unexplained, supernatural happenings. For all its shining, modernist skyscrapers and super-tech laboratories, some argue that Titan City is also one of the most haunted spots in the world.
For instance, around South Titan, from Clarkstown to Jenningston beyond the Titan City limits, locals tell stories of “the Black Train,” a spectral engine and cars that run by night, leaving a trail of cold, fear, and ghost sightings in their wake. While city officials will neither confirm nor deny the ghost train’s existence, hundreds of people claim to have seen it. The translucent locomotive and cars are usually said to travel over the old right-of-way of CCN Railways, most of which has been paved over or just abandoned during the last century of urban growth. The train makes its eerie way from the old CCN rail yard in Clarkstown through the neighboring districts. Then, as it reaches the site of an old rail bridge outside Jenningston, it lurches off its phantom rails and destroys itself, only to return on another dark night.
When one searches for hard facts about the Black Train, they turn out to be just as elusive as any ghost. The hundreds of witnesses who claim to have seen it over the past hundred years seem to tell hundreds of different stories. While the Black Train always consists of a ghostly, late 19th century steam locomotive with tender and several passenger cars, beyond that, as in most ghost legends, the stories diverge. Sometimes, the ghost train pulls into phantom stations to drop off ghostly passengers who wander the streets mournfully until morning. Other times, the living are dragged aboard the train and never heard from again. One account claims that the occultist Steed boarded the train in the early 1980’s and fought his way through a horde of ghosts to the engine, but given Steed’s dubious reputation, this seems doubtful. In some versions, the train travels on invisible rails. In others, it flies through the air. With so much confusion—and a complete lack of hard evidence, such as photographs—one might forgive the city for brushing aside the mystery of the ghost train’s existence.
Elga Dingler, a senior agent of the federal bureau of Paranormal Investigations and Tracking, is the city’s greatest living expert on the Black Train. A serious, bespectacled figure, she has spent years collating eyewitness accounts, examining old railroad maps, and going over the ghost train’s supposed route with mysterious, beeping, handheld gadgets. “There is no question that [the Black Train] is real,” she stated in an interview at PIT headquarters. She explained the discrepancies in eyewitness accounts with references to a “powerful trans-state metareality field” that such a large apparition generates. “Witnesses are inherently unreliable,” she said. “The human mind is not equipped to process metaphysical events of this class. It retreats into fear or confusion or denial. But psychokinetic and meta-ectoplasmic residues do not lie. The Black Train exists, and it will continue to endanger South Titan until dispelled. And make no mistake: dispelled it should be. The Black Train is a cosmological rip in the hypergeometrical skein of life. The longer it persists, the greater the danger to South Titan.”
Assuming the train is real, how, then, to dispel it? Dingler explained that, as folklore suggests, most hauntings persist due to some unresolved business in a spirit’s past. A research trip to the Titan City Historical Society reveals plenty of unresolved business swirling around the Black Train. As with many ghost stories, it’s a tale that’s blood-chilling enough even without the ghosts.
The story begins in 1900, with Kathleen Vanderyk, widow of CCN founder Jonathan Vanderyk. Kathleen was a determined woman, far ahead of her time. She rose from poverty in Dante’s Point to wed the wealthy Vanderyk. Rumor has it that she convinced him to divorce his first wife to let her do so. When Vanderyk died in an inebriated fall from his personal passenger train, she assumed control of the railroad and the Vanderyk fortune.
On the evening of October 13, 1905, Kathleen Vanderyk held a party in her private train car to celebrate her engagement to another man, also a wealthy railroad magnate. In addition, over two hundred regular passengers were riding on the same train in ordinary cars.
Unfortunately, the magnate wasn’t the only person on the train interested in Kathleen Vanderyk. According to later police reports, the engineer, a man named Patrick Sheehan, had become obsessed with her, stalking her and accosting her in private. Some accounts imply that Sheehan, not a drunken fall, actually killed Jonathan Vanderyk out of jealous rage. Regardless, Sheehan’s jealousy of Kathleen Vanderyk and her new beau apparently preyed on his mind and led him to seek revenge.
As the train made its way from Clarkstown toward Jenningston, Sheehan piled on the steam, traveling far faster than the line’s curves would allow. When the rest of the train’s crew tried to stop him, he bludgeoned them to death with a coal shovel. Then he jammed the train’s controls in place, made his way to Kathleen Vanderyk’s party car, and tearfully threatened her in front of all her guests. She cursed him as her husband’s murderer. Before Sheehan could do anything more, the train jumped the tracks on an elevated bridge in the hills outside Jenningston. The train was completely destroyed, and the entire crew and all but three passengers were killed in the wreck. One of the survivors, Joseph St. Clair, lasted just long enough to reveal what had happened at Kathleen’s party.
The incident went down in history as one of the region’s greatest scandals and most sordid crime stories, but the chaos surrounding the fire of 1908 a few years later eclipsed it in the public mind. Today, only students of historical crime, like yours truly, recall the CCN Rail Crash of 1905.
According to Dingler’s research, one year after the wreck, the ghostly Black Train made its first run, traveling the same route and derailing at the same site as the Vanderyk party train. Dingler believes the ghost train and the Vanderyk train are one and the same. “If someone could somehow get aboard the train and confront the ghost of Patrick Sheehan with his guilt, that might—might—stop the manifestation,” she said. With the help of her colleagues at PIT, she continues to research ways a hero might accomplish that.
Meanwhile, reports of the Black Train crop up every few months among the people of South Titan, and the city continues to view them skeptically. The stories have a breathless air about them, as if they happened to someone else, even when the storyteller claims to have been an eyewitness. Is the Black Train real? I cannot say. But I can say with certainty that I wouldn’t want it to roll in for me tonight.
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 19:00:38 GMT -4
Happy Halloween from the Team - and the Weird Sisters (Lore, Seasonal)Trick or Treat! Trick or Treat! Happy Halloween! CoH had some pretty awesome stuff to pull out this time of year. And so will we! Read on for a taste of a City of Titans faction all too appropriate for this spooky holiday. “We’re too old for this, Jim,” said the shorter college boy. His voice quavered a bit. Jim, a taller, thinner college kid, brushed aside the comment with a flicking gesture. “You’re never too old for free candy, Owen. Dude, I love Halloween!” Jim’s voice blared a bit loudly as he spread his arms wide to take in the entire street. Street lamps—those that weren’t broken, anyway—gleamed orange in the autumn fog. A few dry leaves skittered down the street, perhaps shed from one of the sickly, spidery trees. Back from the sidewalks, the faded, wooden siding of Widow’s Reach’s nineteenth century houses was just visible in the gloom. The only people on the streets were lurching, shabby-looking drunks with rough faces and furtive, hurrying figures with shoulders hunched against the night. Owen hadn’t spent much time in South Titan. The people might’ve frightened him even in daylight. The cheap Halloween decorations in some windows should’ve looked silly. They didn’t look silly to Owen now. “I love Halloween,” Jim repeated loudly. Owen wondered if his friend had started “celebrating” early. “Watch this, man,” Jim said. He sauntered up to a dirty, cloth-wrapped man clutching a paper bag that held a bottle. “ , dude,” Jim shouted in the man’s face. “Trick or treat!” The man flinched back, wide-eyed, and mumbled something incoherent. Owen bit his lip. “Leave him alone, Jim.” “Nah,” Jim said, his eyes still on the man with the bottle. They sparkled nastily. “See, pal, you can either give us a treat, like, say, that bottle there, or you can get a trick.” Jim shoved the man roughly and laughed. “What’s it gonna be?” He leaned over the man. The man dropped his bottle and scrambled away, shouting in a language Owen couldn’t understand. Jim snatched up the bottle. Owen walked up to his friend. “That was a rotten thing to do, man,” he said. “Shut up,” said Jim. “Who cares if some homeless drunk has to go buy another bottle?” Owen looked around. “If a hero sees …” “You see any heroes?” Jim waved the bottle around the empty street. “No heroes down around South Titan tonight. They’re all off fooling with the Regency or chasing ghost trains or whatever tonight. Man, I love Halloween!” “I saw what you did to that man,” said a soft, smooth, feminine voice. A slight, dark figure sauntered out of the fog. Owen could’ve sworn no one was there a moment earlier. He flinched in surprise, then flinched again in embarrassment at his own flinching. He peered into the gloom, trying to make the speaker out, but the fog seemed to gather around her like a cat rubbing against its owner’s shins. She approached until she stood beneath one of the streetlamps. Jim whooped appreciatively. She was a girl a few years older than the two of them. Owen figured she was dressed for Halloween. She wore a short, black dress covered in old-fashioned frills and ruffles, fingerless, black opera gloves, and tights held together with safety pins. Her black eye shadow and pale skin made her face resemble a skull, but a pair of blinking LED jack o’lantern earrings ruined any sinister effect. Oddly, her hair looked completely grey She flicked the brim of a particolored witch’s hat that looked like it had come from a cheap costume store in greeting. “I saw what you did,” she said again. She smirked as if she held a secret. “Looking for some fun tonight, huh?” “You know it,” said Jim enthusiastically. “Want a drink?” Owen noticed for the first time that Jim looked vaguely pathetic, using a bottle he’d stolen from a homeless man as a line to pick up an older girl. She rolled her eyes quickly. “Nah.” She buffed her black nails against the ruffles on her outfit. “My sisters and I are having a party tonight at our place, though. Wanna come?” She headed down the street without waiting for a reply. Jim started after her. Owen hesitated. “Jim, this is a bad idea. You gotta know this feels weird. I’ve lived in Titan City all my life, and I know that when a creepy magic woman appears out of the fog and invites you back to her spooky lair, you say no!” Jim looked at his friend as if a lobster had crawled out of his ear. “Are you freaking insane? Who cares if she’s a villain or something? She’s hot.” He pulled Owen up the street in the stranger’s wake. “Here we are,” she said as she opened a squeaky gate into a fenced yard. A plaque on the gate read, Weatherly. Owen glanced up at the house nervously as they stepped through. With its peeling paint, widow’s walk, and ragged shingles, the old, Victorian house wouldn’t have looked out of place in an old “B” horror movie. Owen half-expected lightning and a crash of thunder as they approached. Instead, he heard pounding dance music. As they drew closer, the house grew less and less menacing. At least a dozen women filled the yard. Some danced to the music, while some simply stood around talking or eating Halloween candy. All of them wore hats much like their guide’s, and all of them shared her eccentric dress. All were close to the boys’ age or a bit older. Owen saw that all the windows in the house were lit. Apparently, people actually lived in this decrepit-looking place. Orange and purple lights hung haphazard in the old trees, and “ghosts” made of old sheets hung from their branches. A plastic skeleton dangled out one window. From behind a hedge, a rubbery, life-sized “monster,” a strange hybrid of man and frog, poked up its pop-eyed head, looked around mechanically, and lowered itself back into hiding. Crudely carved pumpkins lit with battery powered “candles” sat on windowsills, on the porch, around the walk, and on nearly every other flat surface. Over all, it looked more like a party at a Halloween-themed sorority than a haunted house. Something about the whole thing stirred something in Owen’s memory, but he couldn’t think straight. Everything was happening too fast. Five or six girls, all carrying plastic, pumpkin-shaped candy buckets in eye-searing shades of neon pink and purple, stepped up to meet them. “ ,” said a tall one with a relatively modest hat. She wore studded leather jewelry and a black shirt with “WEIRD!” scrawled across it in jagged, green letters. “Welcome to the Weatherly House,” she added. She didn’t sound particularly friendly. “ yourself, babe,” said Jim. Owen winced inwardly. A blonde in an outfit covered in purple patches groaned. “Jeez. Where’d you find these guys?” she asked the grey-haired girl who’d brought them here. The grey-haired one said, “The tall one was pushing some old dude around and stole his bottle.” “Oh,” the women slowly said, almost as one. “Have some candy,” said the blonde, holding out a purple pumpkin-pail that matched her outfit. Jim reached for the candy, but the blonde jerked the pail away at the last minute. “Uh-uh,” said the one Owen thought of as the “guide.” “You didn’t say the words. It doesn’t work if you don’t say the words.” Jim laughed and leered. “Trick or treat, babe,” he said. The blonde held out the candy, and Jim drew out a tiny, “fun-size” candy bar. He popped it out of the wrapper and swallowed it. The wrapper looked odd to Owen, covered with strange writing, but he didn’t catch a good look at it. Jim raised his stolen bottle. “So,” he began, “how about a dance …” As his voice trailed off, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed like a rag doll. The women ostentatiously stepped back to ensure that he fell as hard and humiliatingly as possible. Tendrils of mist swirled around Jim, growing thicker as Owen watched. They coiled around his wrists, ankles, and mouth, binding and gagging him. All of the women burst into giggles. Owen screamed and ran for the gate. Before he’d gone ten feet, a ropy, rubbery body tackled him and hauled him to his feet. He looked over his shoulder to find himself in the grip of the “mechanical” frog-monster from behind the hedge. It stared at him with an oddly cheerful expression on its inhuman face as it held a cold, slimy hand over his mouth, cutting off his scream. “Froggie,” said the grey-haired girl, “bring him over here.” The creature complied and … well, frog-marched him back to the circle. “We should’ve just let him run away,” said one woman. “We should’ve fed them both to the froggie, is what we should’ve done,” said another. Owen glanced back at the monster in fright. It croaked softly. He could’ve sworn it shrugged apologetically. The grey-haired one knelt beside Jim, still out cold. “Cursed candy? Really?” she said with a critical look at the blonde. “If this gets around, there’ll be hell to pay. We’re the freakin’ Weird Sisters. We’re supposed to be the good guys.” Owen’s eyes widened. That was what had been nagging at his memory. He’d heard of these women, the Weird Sisters. Supposedly, they were a bunch of witches, dealing out their own version of justice—sometimes harshly—on the streets of South Titan. Owen mentally kicked himself for forgetting about them. On the other hand, there were so many stories of new superpowered groups around the city that it was easy to lose track of any particular one. “The boy was being a jerk,” the blonde maintained. “He deserved it. The question is, whadda we do with him?” “Give him a bad case of warts and acne,” said the one in the t-shirt, crossing her arms. The blonde smiled ruefully. “Oh, you’re such a traditionalist.” She leaned forward excitedly. “I say we make him unable to drink anything for a week. That’ll teach him!” “And kill him from dehydration,” murmured the guide. “So?” said the blonde. “At least it’s more poetic than just slapping a Hex of Deadly Luck on him like you did that Barons bokor last week.” Another witch waved and jumped up and down. “I vote ‘kitty ears curse!’” “Oh, that’s your solution to everything. We are not using the kitty ears curse!” declared the guide. “End of discussion.” The Weird Sisters all began talking at once. Some argued for blasting Jim with lightning (“just a little!”), some for inflicting him with sores and boils, and some for just throwing him in a ditch in Corrosion Park. One witch still held out for the kitty ears curse. Distracted by the argument, the froggie had loosened its grip on Owen. He raised his hand and said, “I have an idea.” All the witches, and even the froggie, looked curiously at him. “You’re into justice, right? Teaching him a lesson?” he said. “I know Jim pretty well. I know he’s a self-absorbed jerk. Killing him or giving him kitty ears—“ he stared at the pro-kitty ears witch—“or something isn’t going to teach anyone anything. But I have this idea …” His voice petered out as he remember to whom he was speaking. For nearly a minute, the Sisters glared at him threateningly. “All right,” said the guide finally, “let’s hear it. If it’s good, we’ll let you off with a warning.” She smiled. Two hours later, three kids, one dressed as a vampire, one as a robot made out of cardboard painted silver, and one as Anthem of the Paragons walked up to the gate marked Weatherly. “Trick or treat!” they chorused. A tall, thin man lurched out from behind the gate, shambling like a . His eyes glowed spookily. He groaned theatrically-- almost frantically, like he was asking for help-- and passed out some candy to the children … not from the cursed, purple pail. “Whoa!” said the girl dressed as Anthem. “How’d you make your eyes glow like that?” A young, grey-haired woman dressed as a witch stepped up beside him. “Oh, Jim here was a naughty boy. So we convinced him to give his wallet to a man he’d mistreated. And then he … volunteered … to stand here and pass out candy all night.” Jim lurched toward her angrily, but as he drew near, he stumbled back jerkily, as if he’d struck an invisible wall. The kids laughed. “Be thankful it’s just for one night,” the woman said to Jim. “Isn’t it dangerous, being out here all night?” asked the boy dressed as the robot, his voice muffled by the cardboard. The grey-haired witch grinned. “Not as long as we’re around.” _______________________________________________ Happy Halloween! Written by - Jack 'Olantern' Snyder Begrudging Dead and Trick or Treat pictures by Rocket Cat. (Who are the Begrudging Dead? Well, you'll have to wait and see.)
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 19:02:12 GMT -4
Tales from the Underworld: Burns (Lore)This story draws heavily on the events of the Ironport Fiasco, which can be found here: cityoftitans.com/forum/tales-tcpd-ironport-fiasco-composition__________________________________________________________ Frank Castilucci stood behind his boss’s chair, flanked by three other bodyguards. He methodically swept his eyes around the small, abandoned factory, but they took in the same thing they had last time: a couple of broken machines, some broken windows, a few puddles where the old roof had leaked, and an empty folding chair sitting in the slash of sunshine in front of him, across from his boss’s chair. Castilucci heard buzzing and clicking as a younger guard shifted his weight back and forth. He glanced over to see the kid scratching at the smooth, elegant cybernetics on his forearms. The other guard pulled out his energy pistol, pointed it at a dark corner, and pretended to fire with a mouthed, “bang!” for the fifth time in half an hour. Not for the first time, Castilucci felt out of place, not just here in this moldering factory in Charleston’s Blacksmoke Row, but in the organization. In old Giovanni Rossi’s day, the Black Rose had had class and integrity. The new kids were just longhaired goofballs using fancy ray guns and robot-parts to beat the odds. “Quit fidgeting,” Castilucci ordered. He’d never fidgeted back when he’d served as honor guard for Giovanni Rossi. His boss twisted around in his chair. “Frank,” he chided, “you sound like an old man.” Castilucci bowed his head respectfully. “I am an old man, Father Omerta.” Orlando Rossi — Father Omerta of the Black Rose, the most feared man in Titan City’s underworld — twisted around in his seat. He wore a quiet, conservative suit with a black-dyed rose in the lapel. The first wrinkles of experience lined his face, and he wore his silver hair pulled back. He held an ornate cane in his right hand. “Then since we’re the same age, clearly you think I’m an old man, too,” he said. He smiled thinly. “No, Father Omerta.” Castilucci’s guts squirmed. Orlando might’ve been teasing … or he might’ve decided Castilucci had outlived his usefulness as a lieutenant and would serve better as an example. Orlando had always been able to put him on the defensive, even when they were kids younger than the two bruisers attending them. Castilucci had always hated it. “You both old men!” said a new voice. He approached at the head of a crowd of ten or so, all dressed in haphazard, loose street wear. Even in the old building’s shadows, Castilucci could see them clearly. Faint lines around their hands and their hard faces glowed like hot embers. Some gripped guns or hand weapons. As the speaker drew close, his face seemed to be a skull, outlined in fire, hovering in the shadows. He sprawled casually in the chair. As he entered the sunlight, it became clear that the “skull” was a pattern of cracks in his skin. He was a huge, powerful man, with the build and the arrogant stance of the professional football player he’d been before a Chaser-driven accident ended his career. Now, he led the Pyrebrands. “You’re late, Mr. Washington,” said Castilucci. “Don’ call me that,” he said, squinting up at Castilucci in the sun. Castilucci could feel heat rolling off him in waves. “Call me ‘Skullcharred.’” He leaned toward Father Omerta. “Where’s your flunky get off, hasslin’ me, old man? I’m Skullcharred, man.” The cracks along his hands and forearms blazed brighter. “I’m the baddest villain in this town, man.” Father Omerta lifted one gold-ringed hand. “Please, Thomas. I think all of us are adult enough to do this without empty threats.” “You just see if his threats are empty,” murmured one of the Pyrebrands in the back. Skullcharred shut him up with a look. “All right,” he said. “You wanted to see me, old man. What’s a washed-up old dude like you need from the baddest mutha in Titan?” After decades of meetings on criminal business, Castilucci easily stifled a laugh. Father Omerta had called Skullcharred, a much weaker gang leader, onto the carpet, and Skullcharred was so arrogant that he acted like the meeting was all his idea. Castilucci remembered Washington’s football career. He’d been diva then, and he remained a diva now. Father Omerta ignored the jibes. He crossed his hands on the head of his cane serenely. “Send your men away,” he commanded. “ , man, no one gives orders to Skullcharred!” The gang leader leaned forward and screamed in Father Omerta’s face. “No one, you hear me!” Father Omerta didn’t so much as blink. He simply stared. All at once, Skullcharred sat back, cowed by the display of cool. Father Omerta glanced casually at Skullcharred’s attendants. “You may go now,” he said. Looking vaguely confused, the Pyrebrands withdrew. “Now,” said Father Omerta, “let’s discuss this like men.” He sighed. “The Black Rose has done a lot for you, Thomas. My friends provided you with Chaser when you were playing for the Captains—“ “An’ you gave me bad stuff,” Skullcharred whined. “The accident was all your fault.” He sounded exactly the same as he had ten years earlier, Castilucci thought, when he’d blamed losses on his teammates “not backing him up.” Father Omerta let that pass. “When you got in trouble, our lawyers helped you. When you had no place to go, we found you a place managing the Chaser trade. When you get arrested, we break you out.” He waved one graceful, age-spotted hand. “And all of that’s fine, just fine. That’s all favors between friends. That’s what good people do, right? Help people out when they’re down?” He leaned one hand on Skullcharred’s shoulder. “All I ask, in exchange for everything I’ve done for you, as a friend, is that you don’t break a few rules. You were an athlete, right? You understand about rules.” Skullcharred nodded. Castilucci watched, fascinated. Orlando had drawn the Pyrebrand leader in like an elementary school teacher leading a slow student. “One of those rules is that you don’t deal with people who aren’t your friends,” Father Omerta went on. “You don’t smile at your friend and then stab him in the back, right?” Skullcharred shook his head. Father Omerta’s thin lips grew thinner still. “Then what were you doing, trying to find your own Chaser supply back in September?” “You can’t blame me for that Ironport fiasco,” said Skullcharred. His voice had started to waver. “I din’ know that dude was no cop!” Father Omerta ignored the outburst. “I can forgive you being fooled. It happens. I could forgive your sloppiness in killing him.” Skullcharred’s skin-patterns flared. “My boys didn’t kill him!” Father Omerta narrowed his eyes in silence for a moment. Then he went on, “I could even forgive your two-timing, if this were just the two of us in this thing together. But it ain’t just us, Thomas. This is a matter of business.” Castilucci’s hand reflexively twitched toward the pistol in his shoulder rig. Over the years, he’d learned that when Orlando said “business” in that tone of voice, it usually meant someone was about to start bleeding. “H- , man,” said Skullcharred, “don’t you threaten me. I’m Skullcharred!” His voice cracked like a mouthy kid’s. “I’m the toughest man in Titan! You better show me some respect, or I burn all yo’ wrinkly old a—“ “You know why we’re called la Rosa Nera?” Father Omerta interrupted. He plucked the flower from his lapel and gazed idly at it. “Years and years ago, back in Rome—I don’t just mean in the old country, I m. He plucked the flower from his lapel and gazed idly at it. “Years and years ago, back in Rome—I don’t just mean in the old country, I mean ancient Rome—the guys who really ran things would get together to decide what was best for the empire. They’d hang a rose over the table. And they’d swear that anyone who blabbed about what was said under the rose …” He smiled. “Well,” he continued lightly, “the old boys looked out for each other, and they made sure anyone who blabbed would never say anything ever again. “I have my empire, too,” Father Omerta said, all humor drained from his voice. “And I make sure no one makes any waves. Just like those old Romans.” He glanced significantly at his bodyguards. He stood and loomed over Skullcharred, tall and straight despite his years. “I know you think you’re tough, Thomas. I know you think you got something to prove. But I also know you ain’t stupid. You could try to flame-broil me, sure, but even if you leave this building alive, the Black Rose will hunt you down and destroy you.” His voice grew hard and sharp, like a steel blade. “So don’t you come in here and bark at me like some yippy little dog, got it? Only a weak man has to boast about how tough he is. Yeah, you think you’re tough. You say you’re tough. But a real tough guy doesn’t need to say it to himself to prove it. You don’t wanna cross a real tough guy. Got it?” And to Castilucci’s astonishment, the big, strong, fire-flinging ex-footballer slumped back in his chair and nodded. Orlando’s force of personality had never failed to amaze him. “Now,” Orlando went on, “you do anything that stupid again, I find a new quarterback for the Pyrebrands team, got it?” Skullcharred nodded again. Father Omerta placed a hand on Skullcharred’s shoulder. “As long as we understand each other. Just don’t let it happen again, all right?” “You got it,” said Skullcharred. “Good. I’ll make sure to fix up your people who got pinched with lawyers and alibis and the usual. As a show of good faith.” Father Omerta ostentatiously turned away, facing into the sunshine coming through the window. “You can go now, Thomas.” “Thanks, Father Omerta,” said Skullcharred. He actually bowed before he left. “That was incredible, Father Omerta,” Castilucci said when the Pyrebrand was gone. He might’ve been Orlando’s comrade in arms for decades, but familiarity only went so far with someone of Orlando’s rank. “Are you sure it was safe to let him off so easy?” “I’m the one who took in a noisy dog.” Father Omerta nodded slowly the way Skullcharred had gone. “I shouldn’t be surprised when it starts barking and chewing up the nice sofa.” The two younger guards chuckled obligingly. “Besides, that kid isn’t as stupid as he acts. He’s just too lazy to think things through. He’s much more useful to us alive than asleep under a warm blanket of Steward’s Bay. And he knows not to push this far again. The real problem,” he went on, “is this dead undercover cop. Skullcharred wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t kill the narc.” “He’s dead, Father Omerta,” said one of the young guys. “We fight the cops. One more dead is good, right? What’s the difference?” Father Omerta cocked a thumb at the kid. “You see this, Frank?” he asked Castilucci. “This is what we have to work with in la Rosa Nera these days.” He turned to the bodyguard and spoke slowly, as to a child. “We don’t ‘fight the cops,’ kid. Not if we can help it. We aren’t some buncha villains in tights, punching some cape around the street for fun. We’re in this to keep the city under control and to keep our names clean. Getting their hands dirty is for goombas like Skullcharred. Some narc, murdered prominently and with an energy weapon” — he pointed to the kid’s ray gun—“is exactly the kind of thing we don’t want. Nothing stirs up the cops like one of their guys getting shot in the back. And the fact that the killer used a blaster or something …” “It’s like someone’s trying to hang the killing on us,” said Castilucci. He’d known those fancy weapons were a stupid idea. Father Omerta nodded. “It may not be like the good old days of the ‘90’s, but we’ve still got a few contacts on the force. They’re telling us that the TCPD’s up in arms over this. We gotta nip this in the bud.” “Right,” said Castilucci. “Frank,” said Orlando, “you look into this. You either find the real killer or find someone to pin it on. And do it before the cops start smashing down doors and taking heads, got it?” Castilucci blinked in surprise. “Y-yeah. Of course, sir.” “Good,” Father Omerta said. “Boys, why don’t you go ahead and start warming up the car? I need to talk to Frank alone.” He waved the younger guards off. As soon as they were alone, Castilucci said, “Why me, Father Omerta? I’ll never refuse an order, but … you gotta know this way outta my line. I’m just a regular guy. I’m no gumshoe. Why me?” Orlando sighed. “Because you are a regular guy. You remember what things were like before the underworld got all crazy, before we were all packing cybernetics and energy pistols.” He grasped Castilucci’s forearm. “You’re the only one I can trust with this, Frank. Don’t let me down.” Castilucci smiled at his boss and his oldest friend. “I won’t, Father Omerta. Orlando. I never will.”
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 19:04:06 GMT -4
I'm Thankful For... (Lore)
This week is Thanksgiving! If you could ask some citizens of Titan City what they're thankful for, what would they say? Let's find out ...
Nicholas Kuchenbecker, Nervous Citizen: “I'm thankful that heroes catch those chunks of masonry that keep trying to fall on me.”
Rich Carlyle, Limousine Owner: “I'm thankful for being a property insurer in this city."
Robert Pyle, Cruising for a Bruising: "I'm thankful Anthem wears those tight pants that... she's right behind me, isn't she."
Dan Richardson, Somewhat Worrying Citizen: “I am thankful for Doctor Tyche and the glorious future he will lead us to. ...Where am I? How’d I get here?”
Melinda Gomez, Not On a Diet Anymore: “I’m thankful for Frank’s Hot Dogs. Who needs turkey and dressing when you’ve got pork and relish?”
Hexbane, Gentleman Thief: “I’m thankful for all the superheroes in this city. Burglary would be such a dull proposition without them around.”
Ser Morgan, Aether Pirate Captain: “Me? I’m thankful to live near such a wealthy city with so much booty awaiting my hands!”
Steven Workham, CEO of Edentech: I’m thankful that I have such good people working for me. Madog’s a great head of security, Graachs is a brilliant scientist, Elizabeth keeps us afloat, and Goo-Bar is the finest legume a man could know.
Goo-Bar, Giant Mutant Peanut Creature: "GOO-BAR IS THANKFUL FOR HIS TINY FRIENDS. WHILE THEY ARE QUITE SMALL, THEIR HEARTS ARE THINGS OF MIGHTY PROPORTION, ENOUGH EVEN TO FILL THE GAP IN GOO-BAR'S OWN HEART AT BEING LOST TO HIS FELLOW GOO-BARIANS."
Madog ap Rhys, ancient druid: “I am thankful for beer. Wench! Another!”
Julia Lewis, Waitress: “I’m thankful he at least pays for all the mugs he smashes on the floor.”
Vyzyr, mystic “miracle” worker: “I'm thankful to be surrounded by so many souls in need of my help. They bring me joy every day.”
Deluge, Tyant of the Waves: "I am thankful for the bountiful ocean that will RISE UP AND CONSUME THE LANDWALKERS! DEATH TO SURFACERS!"
Lindsay Brant, Beach Vendor: “I’m thankful someone always comes along to kick that guy’s scaly rear off the beach.”
Zzorgg the Space-Tiki, creature from a far-off luau: “I am thankful for the earthling who invented the cocktail umbrella.”
Dr. Graachs, Scientist for Edentech: “I'm thankful for science.”
Dr. Zubenelgenubi, Scientist for Scorpion: “I'm thankful for SCIENCE!”
Dr. Hamelin, Scientist for Tyrosine: “I'm MORE thankful for SCIENCE!”
Dr. Gardner, Scientist for Tyrosine: “Would all of you like some SCIENCE! ... I mean, pumpkin pie?”
Winston Gardner, Tyrosine CEO: “I'm thankful that I know better than to have any of that pie. I'm also thankful for our legal department…”
Overclock, Robot Speedster and Paragon: “I am thankful I cannot taste Harriet's cooking. Why is a turkey not sufficient? Why must a duck and chicken be added, in a sick parody of gestation?”
Anthem, Patriotic Brawler and Paragon: “Overclock should be thankful he can stay out of reach of getting smacked with a wooden spoon. Besides, turducken is delicious.”
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 19:05:41 GMT -4
Heroes to Watch For (Lore)
We are moving to a bi-weekly schedule for the updates. From now on we will be updating on the first and third week of the month. Thanks for your patience, once we've finally hit the turnaround point in development where producing update material is easier we'll probably reschedule again. _______________________________________________________
[text from a flyer found in Clarkstown]
Heroes are freakin’ everywhere, man. You gotta watch your back all the time. Especially when you see one of these heroes. Or, EVEN WORSE, don’t see ‘em.
1. The Paragons, duh.
Look, you might think that the Paragons are always off doing high and mighty heroics against mutant squash monsters, but you gotta watch them. Sometimes you borrow a lady’s purse and WHAM, run straight into Anthem. Arrow Shade actually lurks around the streets, which is totally unfair. You’d think they don’t have the time for us, but watch your back, they’re too goody-too-shoes to ignore even us. Totally unfair.
2. Jarhead and Enech
Most of the CAPies are easy to avoid. Silly normie citizens with toy guns. But Jarhead and Enech? They can be anywhere, whipping the CAPies up into a half-decent patrol force. Jarhead is all, like, crazy military. Enech is just crazy. Both will punch you in the face, so stay far away.
3. Revolution
This guy. This freakin’ guy. He can be anywhere doing and saying the weirdest things. You might only be interested in a quick smash and grab, but he’ll try to turn it into this huge plot. Like you have time to make up one of those? If the cops believe him, you are screwed, man. I knew this guy, normal Rook you know?, only Revolution tied him to this big scheme the mook had wandered into. Now he’s in Hardlock for like, ever .
4. Nightingale
I mean, word is if you’re not a Dragon you have half a chance, but who wants to risk that? She knows kung-fu and everything. Will punch you. The swanky trench coat almost makes it worth the risk, because wow, but do not risk it.
5. Hazel, the Witch
Unlike the rest of these capes, this girl doesn’t look the part of a hero. Or “vigilante” as they like to be called, ugh. But she will mess you up. Like magically. She’s like the witch queen of Charleston and all the little witchlettes will do whatever she says. They’ll fight Barons, man, you don’t want near them.
6. Grimoire
Wears spandex and does magic. That’s like a twofer of Do Not Want. Years ago, it was awesome because stodgy magic dudes would stay far away from us. Now, you have heroes like her wandering around. Occasionally with stodgy magic dudes trailing behind, and one to two pathetic Rooks behind them. It’s a disgrace, not like the old days at all.
7. Dapper Spirit
This guy is like, old school. I know some people who want to get caught by him because “he’s so classy” and “I have fantasies about Sam Spade.” It’s all wrong, you know? He’s one of the serious street types, too, so you can’t avoid him. Or hearing about him. Ever.
8. Indomitable Man
He will not go away. Seriously. You can give him a super punch to the jaw one day, and the next he’s back on the street like nothing happened. It’s freaky, that’s what it is. I grew up in Liberty, man, I’ve had enough freaky zombies for an entire lifetime or two.
9. Sungazer
Yeah, she’s not all there and a hero joke to most of us. But she can turn up anywhere. Like ANYWHERE. You’re helping yourself to a nicely opened safe, and there she is, crashing through the ceiling shouting about aliens.
10. Mr. Dynamic
Okay, so the last few Mr. Dynamics have been totally weird. But my gran remembers when Mr. Dynamics were Trouble for young entrepreneurs like ourselves. These guys keep popping up and you never know what the next one’ll be .
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 19:07:17 GMT -4
Paragon Holiday Special, Part One (Lore)
About this update, I have three things to say.
1) Because Lore has really written us a full length short story here, we've broken it up into two pieces. We will be posting the second half on the 24th.
2) That makes three Lore updates for this month.
3) This month is not all Lore updates. That is all.
Master Magician held the tiny but sinister looking black object aloft with a flourish. “And with this, the Paragons’ mansion will indeed be plunged into… a silent night!” His evil laughter echoed throughout the chamber, reverberating and multiplying.
It did so until the sound of applause began (it was only Chariot, but he could sound like an audience applauding, so it was sufficient), at which point he immediately swirled his cape and bowed graciously and with aplomb. He strode away from the podium, pausing only to toss the chess piece to his “lovely assistant”, Lady Fortune, with a well-practiced motion.
“Give me that!” Lady Fortune snatched the chess piece out of the air. She wasn’t sure what made her more furious; Master Magician lifting the critically important magical object without her knowledge, him stealing the thunder of the announcement, or the fact that her long, intense labors had left her disheveled and exhausted in front of her allies. “You didn’t even work on the damned thing.” She stood beside the karaoke setup in the main room of the base, feeling foolish next to a long table covered with brightly colored festive wrapping and boxes. Her hair had long since tumbled free of its traditional wrap, and she was flushed and glistening with sweat. Most concerning, she had taken a role more direct than merely scouting: she was going to come uncomfortably close to killing someone herself. There was absolutely nothing about the situation that pleased her.
Master Magician tapped his temple in response. “The brainwork was mine. I allowed you to do the grunt work.” He took a seat in an overly padded, throne-like chair at the back of the room.
Lady Fortune was exhausted, her reserves of mana depleted. But when she felt better, she was going to make him regret that statement. She glared across the gathering of comfortable swivel chairs that stood between the karaoke stand and the big screen television. The space was large and clean but cluttered, very reminiscent of the bar it had once been. Master Magician met her angry gaze fearlessly.
Perhaps seeing the vengeful light entering her eyes, Agent Tower interrupted. As usual, his electronically modulated voice was nearly inflectionless, yet filled with a cold and efficient confidence. “Enough. Your labors are appreciated, Lady Fortune. Regardless, review the plan one more time. We need to check it for holes.” Agent Tower was cautious to the point of paranoia, as always.
“The plan is essentially complete. All I have to do is ritually wrap the packages by midnight tonight, before the festival officially begins. The spell Mister Death and I cast should cause the items I prepared to swap places with the Paragons’ at the moment they open their gifts, regardless of where that may be. This is due to the sympathetic magic in the samples you all recovered secretly from each Paragon during their public appearances over the past year. The death energy he implanted in each object will do the rest.”
“They will not be able to trace the items back to us? They have their own sorcerer, and he is even a noble demon.” Through the harsh electronics, one could hear an element of deep thought and concern, although Agent Tower did not move at all.
“No. Magical detection is my forte,” Lady Fortune felt annoyance creeping into her voice. “Besides, the spell is on these objects, not the Paragons’ actual presents. They might be able to sense something exactly as they open the presents, but only then, and it would already be too late. I even used chess pieces rather than Tarot cards, just to make sure that if any somehow survive, they won’t even associate the deed with us.”
Master Magician huffed a bit, annoyed by this detail.
“...not getting paid.” Judgment, leaning against a wall, broke his typical silence with a sullen tone.
Agent Tower slowly and precisely made a dismissive gesture. “Another reason we will not be suspected of the crime. I know you don’t like to work without getting paid, but this will pay off in dividends more important than money: tactical advantage.”
“I still don’t like this plan,” said Dame Strength as she slouched in her chair. She took a long pull from a large bottle of malt liquor before finishing her thought. “Not enough punching.” A few of the other members of Tarot chuckled in response. “I mean sure, we are villains and all that. Assassins. But this strikes me as, I dunno, TOO underhanded.”
“Dame has a point,” said Chariot. “If we don’t take the credit, someone else will, and then everyone will fear them as the guys that took down the Paragons.”
“Which means whoever does will catch all the heat.” Mister Death spoke slowly and with difficulty, his sepulchral tones chilling the air. “It’s a good plan. Not honorable, but sometimes you have to be pragmatic. Besides, sending a little present to your victim shows class. I assure you, the Paragons will be DEAD dead. Not… you know.” He straightened his tie. “Inconveniently deceased.”
Agent Tower was insistent. “There must be something that can go wrong. We should be prepared for it. How do we know this spell will even work?”
Mister Death grinned, but then he was always grinning, even when he wasn’t. “Magic is the realm of the impossible, not the precise. Even if nothing happens, nothing happens, and we are still safe. The Paragons will never even know how close they came to death. The plan is foolproof. The only way they could avoid it would be to somehow destroy the contents before opening the packages. Even if it doesn’t kill them for some reason...” He shrugged. “...we’ll at least get some gifts out of the deal.”
Chariot laughed with cruel glee. “We get to kill the Paragons and steal their presents! I love this holiday!”
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s wrap some gifts,” said Master Magician, though he did not stir from his throne.
Harriet Ross caught a glimpse of herself in a hallway mirror and chuckled. With her hair undone, maskless, no makeup, and clad in pajamas and footie slippers, she was not at all the image of the leader of the Paragons, premier heroine of Titan City. She preferred it that way. On a cozy night, in her small but warm apartment, she gripped a steaming mug of hot chocolate, looking forward to holiday DVDs and falling asleep in an overstuffed chair. Life was good.
She could not help growing a bit wistful, remembering the days when she had shared the place with her sisters; the days before the costume and the mask and the other name. But her sisters had families of their own now, and the Holidays were family time. She had called them on the phone and wished them well, and thanked them for their presents. The apartment seemed a little large and empty with them gone, but soon she would fill it with nostalgic songs and cartoon voices, and all would be well.
It was an even-numbered year, so the traditional charitable activities and celebrations done in the name of the Paragons were being officiated by Peyton, aka Particle. She relished the time away from the limelight, although when it was her turn, she did enjoy giving to the less fortunate and helping ensure they had a happy holiday. Like her, Peyton was unmarried, so he was mostly free of family responsibilities during the holidays -- although she was sure that a man as charismatic and smart as he was never lonely during the holidays.
Harriet paused, tv remote in hand. Was she lonely?
Her answer was the sound of Ride of the Valkyries from her cell phone. She didn’t have time to be lonely.
“Speak.”
Peyton’s voice was as cheerful as ever; public appearances energized him, rather than exhausting him. “It’s after midnight, Harry. Wanted to catch you before you opened your gifts.”
“Wrapped the show up right on the dot, eh, Peyton? Hot date tonight?”
“Something like that. You busy?”
Harriet sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’ve been over this, Peyton…”
“No no no. This is legit this time. Just let me bring you over to the mansion for a picture of you opening my present. You wouldn’t refuse a hero a single innocent picture on the holidays, would you? It’s for the press.”
Harriet smirked, despite herself. “I’m all civvied out. Would tomorrow work?”
“Ah, just suit up right quick. You’ll look great. Please?”
Harriet was a little taken aback to realize that she was actually still wearing the armor, retracted into armlet form on her left arm; the one without a hand. She had forgotten it was there, it was so like a part of her these days.
“One picture and then you pop me right back, you hear?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Give me a few minutes.”
A few minutes and a disorienting wrench later, Harriet was ambushed by a group a festive mischief-makers yelling “Surprise” and blowing various party favors at her. It was all she could do to keep herself from dropping instinctively into a battle stance.
The gang was all here. In holiday colors.
Harriet looked around the small drawing room they had assembled in. Behind her, stockings were hung above the fireplace with care, and twinkling lights decorated the curtained windows to one side. On a low table, beneath a tiny decorative tree, was a small collection of wrapped boxes in holiday colors. But by far, the greatest spectacle was the Paragons themselves.
“You all had holiday themed versions of your patrol outfits made.”
Arianna (Codebreaker), looked cozy in her now fur-trimmed hoodie and gloves. Harriet was shocked to see her step forward primly and clear her throat. She was going to make a speech? The room quieted in anticipation.
The words came out by rote, Arianna’s eyes scanning the room as always. “You are always saying the holidays are family time. Now is family time.” Without meeting Harriet’s gaze she stepped back to stand alongside the others, to the applause of her fellows.
Corwin (Cambion), with a devilish twinkle in his eye, offered Harriet a heavily spiked mug of egg nog. Wrinkling her nose at the smell, she waved it away. “Aw, live a little” he chuckled. “What’s the holidays without a little temptation?” He slowly turned in place, showing off the candy canes and snowflakes that decorated his overcoat in place of the usual cabbalistic symbols. Harriet smiled her appreciation. With a wink and a finger to his lips, he pointed upward, drawing her attention to a sprig of mistletoe dangling from one of his horns. He waggled his eyebrows and Harriet backed away, chuckling. “But ...tradition!” he faux protested.
Feodor (Vodnik) elbowed him out of the way. “To rescue I come! Cheating, I am, being already green. You have met angel and little goblins?” His gestures indicated a lovely young woman and two adorable kids, dressed in more normal holiday garb; sweaters, shirts, and the like. Zharptitsa, Alex and Lisa. The children had gotten so big since she had seen them last!
And so it was for the next hour or so. Everyone hugged everyone. Hot beverages were consumed. Peyton amused everyone with his powers, then bored everyone with his explanations. Melissa (Arrow Shade) duelled with Zharptitsa via pictures of their respective children. Overclock trounced the kids repeatedly in video games, despite his best efforts not to. Jennifer (Memory) led the group in some traditional songs and games.
But very soon it was time to open presents.
Feodor’s wife and children were zapped home, and the Paragons gathered for a quick toast. Each of them had gotten only a single present for one other, and that with a low maximum worth, to avoid embarrassment; a factor when only some of the Paragons were rich. Everyone insisted that Harriet go first.
END OF PART ONE
|
|
|
Post by Ms Liberty Too on Jun 5, 2015 19:09:01 GMT -4
Paragon Holiday Special, Part Two (Lore)Stick around, Titaneers! Have you been good or bad this year? Let's see what's under the tree... tomorrow! But now, let's see how the Paragons end their holiday! Hefting the basketball-sized box, Harriet gave it a gentle shake. From the heft and a small rattle, she immediately had an idea of what it was: one of those annoying transparent enclosed puzzles Peyton loved so much. It was going to be awkward: Harriet could not bring herself to feign liking the gift itself, but maybe she could instead honestly express her appreciation of his thoughtfulness. Prompted by her impatient teammates, she tore the box open. As she did so, Arianna gave a tiny gasp. Harriet looked at Arianna, but the younger Paragon’s expression was unreadable beneath her festive mask. No one else seemed to have noticed, so with a modicum of caution, she reached into the box and retrieved ...a chess piece? A queen, to be exact. Arianna deftly flipped herself behind the couch she had been seated upon. “Yellow green!” she cried. Harriet froze. Arianna’s English was not the best at the best of times, and when she was surprised (which, with her talents, was incredibly rare), it deteriorated completely. Still, the Paragons had taught her a color code to indicate the danger level of something she had noticed; a code that she had practiced until she could use it instinctively. Yellow green, however, was a new one. Overclock was first to speak up, naturally. “Harriet; I am prepping the medical, containment, and analysis facilities right now.” Harriet, holding her exact position otherwise, nodded. Peyton was next. “Molecular analysis of the item reveals nothing unusual. Hardwood, precisely machined; manufactured. No fingerprints. No diseases. No explosives or mechanisms of any kind, and no ‘black box’ areas I cannot identify. Harriet: that is not the gift I got you. But it was, until the exact moment you opened the box.” Next was Corwin. “I am not picking anything up spectrally, not even traces, but I will get my ritual implements to make sure.” Adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles nervously, he glanced about the room. “Nothing has penetrated the wards. Only Holiday spirit in here.” He hurried out of the room. Jennifer put her fingers to her temple. “No evil gloating thoughts nearby.” Within an hour, the Paragons were gathered in their War Room in the basement. Harriet had been poked and prodded and given a clean bill of health. Other than that, they were baffled. Through a warded and force fielded transparent containment unit, they were looking at a set of eight ordinary chess pieces, all black, no pawns. Harriet looked earnestly at Arianna, translating her explanations as best she could. “So, you picked up on the weight shift when the gifts were substituted. And your ...pattern analysis tells you that this was something serious, not just a prank? But it failed somehow.” Arianna gave a cautious, hesitant nod. Peyton shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Someone somehow set up these things to kill or harm or mark us when we opened our holiday presents, then just ...forgot to arm the payload?” Corwin steepled his fingers. “Sympathetic space-warping magic of some kind could perform the substitutions. But in order to prevent the, er, payload part of the spell, you would have to somehow destroy the contents of the package before opening it. Diabolical, if I may use the expression.” Peyton rubbed his chin. “Destroyed. Would teleporting do it?” “Come again?” Peyton sighed. “As I have explained on multiple occasions over the past several years, despite your eyes glazing over whenever I do so, when I teleport something as I did with all of you today, I demolecularize it on a quantum level…” Peyton was suddenly dangling from Feodor’s outstretched grip. “You are meaning to tell me you disintegrated my wife and children?” Peyton wrested uselessly at Feodor’s grasp. “They are fine! You are fine! I have done this dozens of times before and I never hid what I was doing…” Harriet’s voice was calm and quiet. “Put him down, Feodor. Focus.” Feodor obeyed immediately, straightening Peyton’s holiday uniform for good measure. “Permission to make a phone call.” Feodor said, flatly. “Granted.” He exited the room, with one backward glance at Peyton. “I will be looking forward to our next hand to hand training session.” Peyton gulped audibly. Harriet looked over at Melissa. Her eyes were wide. “Go home to your kids too. The rest of us have got this. That’s an order.” Melissa nodded in response, leaving the room so swiftly and quietly, she seemed almost to teleport herself. Overclock spoke up. “No one is claiming our demise on the news, at least not yet. No activity that is unusual for the holidays. I have been especially vigilant for any Rooks or Checkmate activity. Just the usual stuff.” After a moment’s thought, Harriet stood. She stretched and yawned broadly. The remaining Paragons looked at each other, then at her in momentary confusion. Harriet smiled. “You know what? Go home, all of you. Be with your families, or otherwise enjoy the rest of the celebration. Whoever did this just tried to ruin the holiday for everyone, but they failed. We’ll find out who, and how, and we will get them. But for now, we are not going to let them win: we are not going to let them ruin our holiday. Happy Holidays you all.” As the Paragons gathered for one last round of hugs, Jennifer spoke up with a touch of a humorous pout in her voice. “Aw, man… somebody stole all of our stuff!” ... Chariot was channel surfing as quickly as the tv system would allow. “Nothing so far. Maybe they don’t have any servants or anything, and no one will find their bodies until the morning. Heck, maybe not until next week!” Master Magician mused through steepled fingers. “Impossible. I am certain the Paragons do not do all of their own cleaning and meal preparations and such trivia. But they are soft. Perhaps they did dismiss the servants early for part of the holidays.” “You’re a… freon… Scrooge.” Dame Strength slurred at him. “ , it’s after midnight. Toss me one o’ those damped things.” She waved her hand vaguely in the air, the other being currently occupied with holding onto a whiskey bottle. Silently and deliberately, Mister Death crossed to the little table where eight carefully wrapped boxes were arranged in a circle surrounded by candles and other magical apparatus. On a couch near the table, Lady Fortune slept heavily, her fortune teller’s shawl clutched to her shoulders. Retrieving a box, he strolled over to Dame Strength and handed it to her. Agent Tower spoke without deigning to move. “Is that safe? What if something went wrong and the chess piece is in there. Could she die?” Mister Death shrugged languidly. “That would be unfortunate.” It was too late to say anything more: Dame Strength wrenched the box apart and reached inside. “Oooh! It’s a… it’s a… what the fell is this thing?” Master Magician scootched forward in his throne. “It’s a puzzle. I love those! Give me that!” He moved to grab it and Dame Strength effortlessly knocked him down with it. “I hate farting puzzles! Give me another one!” Dame Strength roared. Mister Death did so without delay. The Dame tore it open without hesitation. Her hand came out of the box empty. “What the -?” Chariot was brandishing a cute plush toy depicting a unicorn. Via velcro, it was hanging from his arm, as if for dear life. It’s eyes glowed blue. He was still channel surfing at a blinding rate. “Hidden inside the unicorn was a set of wireless earbuds and a super high speed digital wrist mounted smart phone and media device, with a buttload of songs already loaded: mostly techno. Thanks a lot!” Dame Strength wrenched herself to unsteady feet, scattering a pile of bottles as she did so. The overstuffed chair she’d been relaxing in slid across the room to one wall and shattered. “THAT’S MINE!” Chariot did not so much as pause. “No, no. I distinctly remember you giving your present away.” The Dame thought for a moment, then countered. “Gimme!” She lunged, but Chariot vanished from her grasp to appear behind her, laughing. The Dame cast about to find Mister Magician hefting and considering another unopened present. “Mine!” she roared, lunging at him to find herself abruptly holding a pillow. Slowly and deliberately, Agent Tower facepalmed. He heard the notification bleep of his communicator, and within his armor he looked at his heads up display to find a new message from Judgment. PLEASE LET ME KILL THEM ALL, it said, as usual. NOT YET, he replied, as always. AS A HOLIDAY PRESENT? Came the reply. Unseen inside his armor, Agent Tower had to chuckle at that one. He hadn’t seen that coming. He typed back, MAYBE NEXT YEAR. Appearing utterly relaxed, with his hands seemingly motionless inside his pockets, Judgment gave a tiny shrug and exited the room. Dame Strength hefted a couch as a makeshift club, with a startled and disoriented Lady Fortune on it, and began chasing (a still channel surfing) Chariot around while Master Magician directed Mister Death to move his throne to safety. For neither the first nor last time, Agent Tower wondered what he had gotten himself into.
|
|