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In Maximum Comics 16 Jul 2016 23:57 Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Rebooted Dami-Spawn's first post.

And I now own the last three IC posts with all of my characters.

I hereby declare this the Super Bounce Power Hour.
In Maximum Comics 16 Jul 2016 23:43 Forum: Advanced Roleplay

May 2nd, 2016 Bludhaven, New Jersey


The back roads outside the suburbs were empty as the car went barreling over an unpaved section of Highway 70.

...I like smoking lightning... heavy metal thunder...

A two liter four-cylinder roared over the dirt and gravel, the hubcaps spinning clouds of dust in an expansive wake behind where the red hatchback coupe was prowling along the edges of town. It was the 1973 Ford Pinto. Steppenwolf blasted from the 8-track deck in the dash, as the boy at the wheel had one hand on the wheel, one hand on the stick, a foot on the clutch and the other on the gas. The seat was as far forward as it would go, a pair of old phone books wedged between the seat and his butt in order for him to see over the dash.

To be certain, the Redbird was a complete and total piece of shit.

It was also something of a labor of love, as working on the car was a seemingly endless project to occupy the child.

When you lived in a graveyard, projects to take your mind off of things were a must.

Engaging the clutch, the boy spun the wheel and gently applied the emergency brake as a drift stick, taking the car into a controlled vertical slid as he executed a sharp turn. Downshifting, the boy let off the clutch and punched the gas, feeling the tires spinning as the car struck pavement and took off.

He'd tracked Mark to a warehouse on the old Waterloo Docks. Safe bet was that's where the heroine was moving in and out of, allowing him to take out the dealer and the supply chain all at the same time.

Cutting the headlights, the Pinto shuddered along until it arrived at a fishing pier that had been shut down since the late 1960's, when it had been a popular children's swimming hole. That was before the Environmental Protection Agency or water quality testing, which had summarily condemned the river for chemical runoff. But the old pier still offered a vantage point on the docks across the river.

He parked the car outside of an old wrought iron fence that was falling off its hinges. The chain and lock were probably the only thing still holding it upright. Without pause, the child passed straight through the metal bars as though they weren't even there. As he did, his form shifted as though his shadow had come alive.

The shadow seemed to become tangible, black as the night and red like blood. It spread across his body, as a domino mask appeared across his eyes -- which glowed with an eerie light. Heavy chains hung off his form, as though he'd broken free of some hellish bondage, clinking lightly as he walked.

The planks of the old pier had rotted completely through. The boy stood out on a pylon, out toward the middle of the river, and took a seat as he stared across at the warehouse.

There was a light on.

Someone was expecting a delivery.

As he waited, the young Hellspawn pulled out a pack of Marlboro reds. Tapping the pack against his knee, the boy pulled a cigarette free and slipped it between his lips. A flicker of hellfire glowed at the tip of one finger as he lit it up and drew in a breath.

All he could taste was ash in his mouth.

Forcing air from out of dead lungs, the child corpse exhaled into the night air, flicking some of the burning embers off to fizzle in the water below. And settled in for a long wait.
In Maximum Comics 16 Jul 2016 22:46 Forum: Advanced Roleplay

THE PENTAGON
U.S. Department of Defense
Arlington, Virginia


"The pod is roughly three by four meters. Scans have revealed an interior volume of..."

"We've ruled out a nuclear strike?"

The Joint Chiefs were assembled in a conference room, screens lit with various angles of a live feed that was streaming from the Army National Guard base in New Mexico, where the Kryptonian pod had been transported from the landing strip for initial study. A NASA flight surgeon had been brought in from Metropolis to oversee the procedure, a measure that the DoD had acquiesced to only because the doctor in question was a military officer.

As far as General Samuel Lane was concerned, this was a strictly military operation now.

"...ultrasound measurements indicate a fluctuating mass inside the..."

The flight surgeon's voice narrated the images surrounding the room. The microphone near the general muted as he posed the question to the National Security Advisor. A mousey, meek politician who seemed to shrink under the weight of Lane's glare. "Are you joking?" the man stammered, before quickly regretting the question.

Sam Lane never joked.

Clearing his throat, the advisor started again. "The Russians would have a field day. Say we're violating New START. And then there's the Chinese, the North Koreans. We'd have almost no support from NATO..."

"Fuck NATO," Lane growled, a baritone rumble as he looked around the room. "Gentlemen, if there's another Superman in that pod, we have a problem." One Kryptonian was one too many. There were too many unknowns with Superman. Least of all, vulnerabilities. How could they defend against Superman?

"We're operating on the assumption that there's someone in that pod," a Coast Guard officer said, piping up from the back end of the table. "My understanding is that the Richards' expedition was only green-lit because the going assumption was that this was a part that had fallen off the alien ship."

"And if it is a lifepod, we now face the possibility that this was an object deliberately launched into orbit," another voice, a Marine Corps officer, interjected. "We might have just picked up a grenade, ladies."

Listening to the debate, Lane's finger reached across for the button on the microphone. "What's this assholes name?"

"Donovan, sir."

"Donovan..." Lane echoed, as though it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Depressing the button, Lane's voice resonated through the speakers overhead as he asked, "Doctor Donovan, in your opinion, is there a lifeform inside of that pod?"

There was a crackle of static and a pause. On the screens, a man in a aluminum-like hazard suit stopped his work in order to turn and face one of the cameras.

"Sir, the data lends itself to no concrete conclusion at present, but..."

"Best guess, Commander," Lane snapped, cutting the man off.

"No, sir. I don't believe there is a lifeform aboard the pod."

Lane looked at the Marine. The Marine looked at the Coast Guard. The Coast Guard was looking at the National Security Advisor. And the National Security Advisor looked like he was ready to piss himself if he didn't get out of this room soon. Depressing the button a second time, Lane answered, "You don't?"

"I think there are two lifeforms, sir."

Taking his finger off the microphone, General Sam Lane -- along with all of the assembled Joint Chiefs -- looked over at the National Security Advisor.

The silence was uncomfortable to say the least. "Perhaps... an accident in-- involving one of our... nu... nuclear silos," the man stammered, pulling out a handkerchief as the sweat starting running off his forehead.

The Army Chief of Staff was locking his sights on Lane. "What do you propose? The Manhatten Project in the middle of Colorado?"

"This is an election year," the National Security Advisor managed coherently, swabbing at his face anxiously with the cloth. "The President must have plausible deniability."

"Bob," Lane's voice cut in, turning attention to the Chief of Naval Operations. "What if we put it at the bottom of the ocean?"

The Admiral gave Lane a quizzical look. "And do what? Hit it with a torpedo?"

That, and a cup of really hot coffee, were going to do absolutely nothing to Superman from what they'd observed.

"Not just a torpedo," Lane answered flatly.

The room fell silent again, until the National Security Advisor was the one to finally break the ice. "North Korea lost a sub not too long ago, if we place it in the South China Sea they couldn't easily pin it back to us."

It was the National Guard who voiced the dissent.

"I look around this room and I wonder, what happened to America?"

All eyes in the room swept to the back of the room, where the Coast Guard and Air Guard were quickly distancing themselves from the Army Reservist who, for his part, seemed to be wondering what was wrong with everyone else. "You know, this is a race we know nothing about. We know nothing about what's inside that pod. What is it. Who is it," the man said, even as he looked around the room and realized he was totally alone in what he was saying. "And we're sitting here, reacting out of fear, just wanting to... lash out and destroy what may be our one opportunity to greet an extraterrestrial race with, I don't know... what's on the Statue of Liberty? Give me your tired, your weary, your poor..?"

Lane laughed. A short, gruff, hollow sound. Standing, the General leaned over the table and answered clearly, "Today, gentlemen, that sign reads No Vacancy."

The room stood at attention, chairs scraping against the floor as all of the officers stood. Looking around at his officers, Lane raised a finger to point at each one in turn. "Now, I want that piece of shit taken out of NASA's hands and no one, no one knows it was ever here," the General stated, pausing only to get a nod of agreement out of the National Security Advisor. When he'd gotten it, Lane looked back and up and added, "We'll take it out back and we're going to put a nuke up it's Super-ass, and it can go to hell."

As he started for the door, the man stopped for just a moment, leveling a glare straight at the National Guard Chairman. "I want one thing to be very clear, gentlemen. That pod is a clear and present danger to these United States."
In Maximum Comics 16 Jul 2016 4:37 Forum: Advanced Roleplay

"From Qurac With Love" Part 2

U.S.S. CHESAPEAKE
Luxor-class Helicarrier
Somewhere over the Atlantic


A fog of solid white rolled off the carrier deck, revealing a pristine sky of blue and an endless horizon as the winds cleared away the clouds from the massive ship moving over the ocean below. Her image reflected in the glass, Rita Farr lookout out and could only sum up what she saw in one word. "Unbelievable."

"I know, right?"

The voice, behind her, caused an involuntary shudder even before Steve Dayton could continue. "I mean, where the hell is that intern with my coffee?" Steve Dayton demanded, as the man stood in the center of a military plot and map room in his Armani finest.

Turning, the brunette starlet hesitated a moment before she finally spoke. "Speaking of, Steve..."

"What?"

The response had come so quick that he'd interrupted her. Starting again, Rita tried, "Steve..."

"What, Rita!? God!"

Now they were just talking over each other. Shoulder slumping, the woman gave a heavy sigh. "Steve, why is Garfield here?" she demanded bluntly.

Raising his eyes up from the plot in front of him, Steve was absently toying with a cufflink as he looked back at the woman. "Well, first of all, Rita, did you see that kid fix the copier? I mean, if we get into a Xerox emergency here, I definitely want that kid on our team."

A Xerox emer... Reaching up a hand, Rita pinched the bridge of her nose in vain effort at heading off a rising headache. "How did I know I was going to regret asking that question," the woman posed aloud.

"...second, what if we're in the middle of Hydra agents in the Qurac Congo and I want a triple, no-fat latte with caramel drizzle? Who's going to get that, Rita? Huh? Who's going get that? You? God, Rita, take the star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame out of your ass and think about someone else for a change!"

The fingers pinching the bridge of her nose came away, as the woman planted her face in her hand. Then took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I have... no response to that," the woman answered flatly.

"...and, you know, he maybe speaks Swahili, Lingana, and Arabic. So, you know..."

"What!?" Rita's head snapped up, her eyes darting around as though just realizing that someone wasn't in the room with them. "What happened to Mahmoud?"

"Killed in a car jacking in Manhatten," Steve answered with a shrug. "It was a week... month ago. The office sent a card. I think."

Rita ran her hands through her hair, turning back toward the window out into the sky for a moment. Glancing back over her shoulder, the woman asked, "What about that ex-SEAL? What's his name? Dave? Frank?"

"Bobby," Steve corrected with perfect aplomb. "Shooting accident on the range."

"Really?" Rita uttered, finding herself stunned at the news. Two S.H.I.E.L.D. linguists gone... just like that? "Wow. That's a string of bad luck."

"I know, right?"

"Here's your coffee, Mister Dayton."

The boy was dressed for travel. An athletic track suit now dressing his form with a pair of what looked like vintage Jordans. That was probably the Garfield equivalent to Armani. Accepting the offered cup, Steve saluted the kid. "First class, Garfield."

Then, he took a sip. "Oh my god, Garfield. What... what the fuck is that? Folgers?"

"...it's all they had, sir."

Lowering the cup down, Steve put one arm straight out, finger extended. His voice boomed ominously as he commanded, "Get the FUCK off my helicarrier."

Garfield's jaw went slack.

Rita just blinked, then planted her face back into the palm of her hand. "Steve, what... does that even mean?" the woman asked, realizing it was more of a rhetorical question if anything. "We're seriously, like, thirty thousand feet here."

"Right, thirty thousand feet, and it's fucking Folgers in my cup," Dayton spat back vehemently, staring daggers at Garfield even as he growled in response to Rita's commentary. "Which, let me tell you, is NOT the best part of waking up."

With a loud, exaggerated sigh, Rita Farr shook her head and started for the exit.

She got three steps before Steve called after her. "Rita."

And she kept walking.

"Rita!"

Her hand grabbed the door handle, pulling it open.

"RITA!"

Siloutted in the frame of the watertight door, the brunette turned her head sharply to scream back, "WHAT!?"

"The fuck are you going?" Steve asked.

"Getting away from you," she shot back, slamming the door hard behind her.

"Pfft," Steve uttered, before glancing over toward Garfield with a shrug. "Women, am I right?"
In Maximum Comics 10 Jul 2016 19:28 Forum: Advanced Roleplay

WHITE SANDS SPACE HARBOR
NASA Alternate Space Shuttle Landing Site
White Sands, New Mexico


He'd gotten the call at two in the morning.

An hour before then, the Space-X Exclaibur, an experimental space plane, had been given the go-ahead to de-orbit after a NASA and Space-X joint venture to recover a piece of debris from the Krptonian ship for study. On board had been a crew of four. Two mission specialists, Reed Richards and Susan Storm, pilots Jonathan Storm and Benjamin Grimm.

As for what happened next, he'd gotten the brief on the C-12 from Metropolis to the White Sands Testing Facility that doubled as an old Space Shuttle proving ground, ditching option, and emergency airfield. It had only been used one time in the history of the Space Shuttle Program. STS-3, the third flight of both Colombia and the Space Shuttle Program, landed here when weather prevented landing at either Cape Canaveral or Edwards Air Force Base.

The Excalibur had executed a de-orbiting burn for two minutes and nineteen seconds, at which time it had turned for re-positioning to enter the atmosphere. At approximately the same time, an electromagnetic anomaly lit of alarms from the International Space Station to Houston, Texas. As to whatever that was, a massive solar flare, sun spot activity, or just a complete anomaly within the Kuiper Belt, the Exclaibur and it's crew had been exposed to massive amounts of cosmic radiation. Houston had lost contact with the crew on board the Exclaibur and enacted emergency protocols originally designed in the aftermath of the Colombia accident to remotely re-direct and land the experimental spaceplane here at White Sands.

An orange light was illuminating the horizon as the disheveled, unshaven man stepped off the C-12 and onto the tarmac. Silver oak leaf insignia stood out on the shoulders of the military flight suit that he wore. The patch on the left side of his chest was embroidered with gold wings embossed with the medical caduceus symbol, beneath which were the words:
DABNEY DONOVAN
CDR MC USN

As the sun was threatening to rise on the horizon, Donovan could see fire crews still working to extinguish the smoldering frame of the Exclaibur there on the runway. As he started down from the plane's ladder, a man in a suit called out his name.

It was never good when it was a man in a suit. The U.S. military wore their affiliations openly. NASA personnel were wearing lanyards with their names and credentials. Firefighters each bore either military or federal civilian IDs on their sleeves. But the guy in the suit? Nothing. And, yet, he was here. In what was almost certainly a highly classified area.

So what did that leave? FBI? NSA? If there was one thing that Donovan had learned to be skeptical of, it was obscure three-letter acronyms associated with the U.S. government.

"What's the condition of the crew?" Donovan asked, skipping the introductions, and doubting there would be any.

"Alive, though they appear to be suffering some effects of radiation poisoning," the man in the suit reported, falling into step beside Donovan as the doctor made a beeline toward the smoldering wreckage. "They've been evacuated to Walter Reed for observation."

Donovan came up short. "Evacuated?" the doctor echoed, turning to face the man in the suit. "I got a call at two A.M. and told to fly out here ASAP," Dabney stated, more than a little annoyed if he was in New Mexico and his supposed patients were at a hospital in Maryland. "This isn't a house call, so please state the nature of the medical emergency," Donovan uttered flatly.

If Donovan was pissed, the man in the suit was completely nonplussed. "You're here because of what the Richards' expedition recovered, Doctor," the man answered in an even tone. Gesturing toward one area of the wreckage, the man in the suit beckoned. "This way, please."

Stepping over burning hunks of metal, the man in the suit led the Navy and NASA flight surgeon toward a large, oval-shaped object. The coloration and design didn't match anything else there on the runway. It was almost... crystalline, albeit cracked and pitted as though it had just been through quite the ordeal.

"We'd thought it was just a piece of the Kryptonian ship," the man in the suit was saying, as Donovan walked past him to approach the strange, otherworldly object. Now the Richards' expedition made more sense. The public story had been that Reed Richards and his crew were going to install new capabilities and hardware on the Hubble Telescope. Recovering alien technology in orbit of the planet was a much more plausible excuse to blow money in this restrictive fiscal environment.

If there was one thing that the U.S. Government didn't have time or money for, it was NASA funding.

Leaning in for a closer inspection, as Donovan peered over the crystalline formation comprising the strange, geode-like form, he heard the man in the suit say, "Now, however, we think it might be..."

Then he saw it.

A shadow. A flicker. At first, he'd thought it might only be a trick of the light. Except, the form had been distinct.

It had been humanoid.

"...life pod," Donovan breathed softly.
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