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Bumblebee



Powers and Abilities
Bumblebee belongs to one of the smallest of the standard protoform molds, offering him less physical strength and lighter frame in exchange for an increase in speed and agility; this made him an excellent candidate for reconnaissance, courier and espionage duties during his tours on Cybertron. Decades of fighting the Decepticons have sharpened his skills as a scout, spy, and combatant. His standard armament includes his signature 'Stingers', a pair of handheld, rapid-fire blaster pistols that can tear through opponents at close range while still being threatening at medium ranges.

His current transformation is based on a Volkswagen Beetle, both because its similarly sized to his original Cybertronian form and because his human protector, Daniel Witwicky, owed a defunct version of this vehicle around the time Bumblebee came under his guardianship.

Origin And Backstory
Cybertron, once a shining hub of civilization in days long past, now floats through the cosmic sea as little more than a husk of its former glory. Its people, the Cybertronians, fought among one another for the dwindling resources that remained on their world. Two factions rose to prominence during the conflict, eventually dividing the entire population into either of the two sides: the Autobots and the Decepticons. Their civil war leveled what was left of their home, and the dwindling survivors of that centuries-long conflict were forced to flee that barren place. Many habitable worlds were chosen for colonization, though those that showed the capability to seed Energon- the primary power source of all Cybertronians- were given significantly increased priority.

One of these worlds was the tiny ball of water and dirt called Earth. The Autobot colony ship known as the Ark made its way toward Earth, captained by the paragon leader of the Autobots, Optimus Prime. His presence aboard that particular vessel attracted the attention of Lord Megatron, the Decepticon's tyrannical ruler as well as Optimus's nemesis and former friend. Megatron and his crew attacked the Ark en-route, and the ensuing battle cost both sides many lives. Both the Ark and the Decepticon's flagship, the Nemesis, were so irreversibly damaged that each was forced to make a crash landing on their destined world. The Nemesis and its surviving crew were lost at the bottom of the ocean, while the Ark was lodged up somewhere in the Andes mountains.

Both remained inactive and hidden away from the world for an indeterminant amount of time until a pair of hikers happened upon the Ark by pure chance. Word got out about its existence, quickly reaching the ears of a mysterious organization within the U.S government known as the Earth Protection Force. The EPF deployed its agents to secure the extraterrestrial vessel, discovering it to not only be empty but that its crew was missing and presumably hiding out somewhere beyond the Ark itself. A massive campaign was started to locate these missing aliens before any other nations could do the same. Those that were captured were locked away in secret to be studied and exploited for their technological advancements. This exploitation was seen as...ethically questionable by a number of members of the EPF, including Captain Daniel "Sparkplug" Witwicky, a former Combat Engineer in the USMC turned EPF technician and security personnel. Knowing that complaining about such issues was a good way to be 'disappeared,' he conspired with a number of other personnel in the unit to work against the organization from within.

This eventually led to Witwicky and his cohorts commandeering a convoy containing the captured Autobot known as Bumblebee. After escaping the wrath of the Men in Black's pursuing squads, the defectors chose to split up and go into hiding, all but one of them 'pretending' that they'd been the ones tasked with protecting and hiding Bumblebee. In reality, Captain Witwicky was the one that took on this responsibility, retreating away to a ranch in Western Colorado where he's remained under the pseudonym of Amundsen for the last twenty-five years. Bumblebee remains hidden in plain sight, acting as the Amundsen family's Volkswagen buggy and under the assumption he's the last living Cybertronian on the planet.

Supporting Cast
  • Autobots
    • Optimus Prime - Missing
    • Ironhide - Missing
    • Jetfire - Missing
  • Decepticons
    • Megatron - Missing
    • Starscream - Missing
    • Soundwave - Missing
    • Onslaught - Missing
    • Brawl - Missing
  • Human Allies
    • Daniel "Sparkplug" Witwicky
    • Stevie "Spike" Witwicky
    • Bill Fowler
    • Joe Henderson
    • Miko Nadakai


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Op. No. KY-9914; Pvt. Malik Skaya
121st Battalion, Bravo Company, 1st Platoon, 1st Squad
Lothor Minor | Planetfall - Contact
APPROX. 1200HRS; 5 BBY



"Counting wasn't on the course list in Basic. You know how it is." Trooper KY-9914 called back over the comm link, a warmth behind his ears when he realized how off he'd been. "Budget cuts." He silently chided himself for it, knowing how dangerous misinformation was during combat. Malik shrugged it off with a quick off-hand joke, hoping that'd be the end of it.

He shifted his attention fully to the firefight at hand. The volume of fire had diminished somewhat as more shots hit their mark and more of the terrorists were brought down, but the constant, thunderous thumping of the three largest cannons on the battlefield continued to drown out all other noise. The Aquellan warrior pressed on ahead alongside the rest of his unit, advancing slowly through cover with increasing bravado now that the enemy's numbers were thinning. If their momentum continued, they'd be storming the base itself soon enough.

Provided that turret didn't mow them all down first, of course.

Skaya was hunkered down behind a rusted out trash compactor, lasers whizzing right over his helmet when Kavis's next set of orders came through. The sergeant wanted Malik and one other Stormtrooper to make for the left-most flank and use the cover there to take out the enemy emplacement while the rest of the squad held their attention. He couldn't say he was all too pleased with the idea of throwing himself into a line of blaster bolts, even if Imperial doctrine dictated it was the most effective method of rapid advancement.

The gears in his head began to turn as he scanned the uneven, trash-soaked ground around him. He quickly went to clip his E-11 to his belt, bending down to grasp at an old, torn tarp that had been discarded on Lothor Minor quite some time ago. After tearing it even further, he tied it about his plastoid-encased neck, forming a rather crude cloak that matched the rustic browns that permeated the planet. "Camouflage." He explained quickly, already starting to slip over toward the left side of the hill. "Would rather not get blown to hell before I'm even in range."

Malik slid down a pile of trash and debris, his new fashion accessory flapping in the toxic breeze behind him as he made his way toward the target with Kato Okaye at his side. He didn't know the gunner well, but from what little time they'd been together, Skaya had a feeling he could trust the trooper to watch his back; and in return, he would do the same. "Let's not draw their attention this way if we can't help it," Malik suggested, "once we're close, I'm going to try to get around and get a clean shot on the rebel manning the gun; if ya could, I'd appreciate some cover from the rest of his buddies." It was a fairly basic plan, but it could prove to be fatally dangerous if they didn't execute it right.

He didn't give Kato much time to argue, either, as Malik bolted from cover the moment they were within visual range of the Junkers' position at the top of the hill. "Cover me!" He called back, his mud-caked boots splashing in a puddle of something that was decidedly not water as he charged across the hill, his E-11 now firmly in his hands as he made a mad dash for the gunner. All Malik had to do was find the angle. He just needed to find the shot-

a Junker's head swayed into view from behind a chunk of a fallen star freighter. The red light from its cycling cannon lit up the native's face mask. Too bright to be a standard blaster. Had to be the gunner. The sound of a blast whizzing just past him caused his heart to jump into his throat, but he couldn't let it throw him off. He brought the E-11 to bear, his finger squeezing down on the trigger as another shot impacted in the dirt naught by a few inches from his feet. 'Don't miss don't miss don't-'
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Witwicky Ranch, Colorado
Evening



The sun's sleepy form was beginning to lay down upon the horizon, preparing to hand its watch over to the moon in little more than an hour. Stevie Witwicky lounged on the hood of a beat-up Volkswagen, his head resting against the windshield and his laptop perched on his knees. Hundreds of lines of data raced down the computer's screen, letting the teenager know in real-time the exact condition of his livestock. Over four hundred cattle were beginning rapidly scanned, their individual heart-rates, body fat and other important health information all being fed into his single computer from over two dozen drones that were combing the pastures faster than any human field hand could ever hope to match.

A few months ago Stevie would've had to wake up before the sun did and he'd still be out working his ass off to get this much work done. It was mindnumbing, backbreaking work, and he couldn't be more happy that his drones had proved such a massive success; he could finally lounge around and do nothing at all for as long as he wanted, his dad saving money was just a nice side effect.

The final robot checked off, announcing that it had finished scanning its designated cattle and was flying back to the recharge station for the evening. Witwicky let out a self-satisfied sigh, slapping his laptop shut and setting it down beside him. "Looks like the Mini-Cons went off without a hitch. You a proud dad, Bee?"

Static sounded from the radio for a second, followed immediately by a series of high-pitched beeps and whistles.

"I completely agree." Stevie nodded. "And I definitely, one-hundo percent understand you."

Another series of lower-pitched beeps blared from the radio, intermixed with static and interference. It was the only form of communication the Autobot had used since Stevie was introduced to him- it?- and he still had little idea what it was supposed to mean. Not that he cared much; it wasn't all that hard to tell what Bee was thinking based on the tone of his beeping and whistling.

"Love you too, guy."

The sound of a rumbling engine and shouting voices drew a knowing groan from Witwicky. He sat up, sliding off the front of his car to look down the ranch's driveway. A line of dirty pickup trucks was trudging across the gravel, making a beeline up toward the ranch house itself. Stevie brought a hand up in front of his eyes to block out the dwindling sun, giving himself a better view of the men packed into the beds of each truck. He couldn't get a proper count of them, but he guessed there were at least thirty of them spread across the four incoming vehicles.

"Well, shit on a stick." He mumbled, spinning around to jog up toward the house. "Yo, dad!" He shouted, hoping his father was near enough to hear him as he bounded up the porch and through the front door. "We got trouble!"

The first truck in the column came to a grinding halt, and the rest following behind it stopped soon after. Angry mumbles left the lips of men clad in dusty jeans, flannel shirts, and wide-brimmed hats. A few carried weapons with them: bats, pipes and car irons clutched in worked and calloused palms. A handful among the crowd had shotguns tossed over their shoulders or pistols on their hips.

That grumbling crowd parted to let a single figure through their ranks. He was a tall man, with strong arms and a crooked, hawkish nose. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and his blond hair was cropped short around his ears. There was an energy to his movements, a jumpy, unfocused energy, like that of a child, that betrayed the laugh lines on his face. "Don't ya'll do nothin' til I tell ya to, ya hear?!" He yelled to the mob, his voice bellowing like thunder and his accent thick and strong. Murmurs of agreement rolled through the gang gathered to his back, though they were significantly less enthused afterward.

Daniel Witwicky shoved his way out the front door, his shoulders so broad that he had to shift sideways to keep from getting stuck in the frame. His arms were thick and lined with dark hair, ending in hands peppered with old, ugly scars. Danny's gut would've been more noticeable on a shorter man, but his over six-foot tall frame held the weight well, making out the old man to be far larger than he had any right to be. "If you boys are here to work, I apologize, we just finished for the day." He spoke loudly, projecting his voice so that the distant gang could hear him, but there wasn't an ounce of anger in his tone; he was cordial, in fact, his broad smile only barely hidden by the bushy, gray beard that covered his face.

"I don't believe we have enough plates to invite you all in for supper, either, so I'll kindly have to ask you to leave." Though Witwicky worded it as a request, it was hard for the disgruntled mob to miss the old service rifle Witwicky had clutched in his meaty hands. It looked to be the same tool he had once carried in the jungles of Vietnam, and there wasn't a man standing opposite him that didn't know he could use it.

Stevie wasn't nearly as polite, however, as he shoved an accusatory finger down at Reverend Silas. "He's sayin' you need to take your thugs and-"

Daniel placed a hand on his son's shoulder, silencing him. Stevie looked like a twig standing side by side with his old man. He was a few inches shorter and built more lithely than his pa, though his work on the ranch had refined young Witwicky's muscle well enough. Still, it didn't all mean too much in the face of thirty men with bats and guns in hand.

The Reverend was quiet for a few moments, seeming to be...elsewhere, like he was listening to someone else talk. It wasn't until a couple of awkward seconds had passed that Silas actually responded. "You can't hide it from us anymore, Mr. Witwicky. We know your little secret!" He yelled. Daniel and Stevie shared a brief, worried look as the local pastor started forward, emboldened. His wolf pack moved just behind. "We know you do the devil's work here. We know why you n' your boy are the only people you let on your ranch anymore."

Old Man Witwicky just shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about, Reverend. My son and I are born again, same as the rest of you." He nodded at the men in the back, recognizing all of them from the nearby town's single church.

Silas gave a hardy, malicious laugh. "Really?" He asked between chuckles, incredulously. "Seems to me you haven't been to service since Cathy died. She was one of the Lord's own, yes, but it seems to me you didn't quite like that-"

"The hell you tryin' to say about my mom?!" Stevie roared, leaping down from the porch before his father could take a hold of him. Immediately several of the townspeople rushed forward to stand between the angry rancher and the shepherd of their flock. Stevie must not have noticed they were there, for he just kept moving forward, going so far as to try to walk through them to scream at Silas. "What do you mean, huh? What the hell do you mean?!"

"You know just what I mean, boy." Silas snapped. "Cathy done knew the devilry you and your father were doin' out here, knew about the powers you're meddlin' in, and you two just couldn't stomach it-"

Stevie threw two of the pastor's vanguard to the ground in a quick, well-executed motion, before immediately ramming his fist up into Silas's teeth. The reverend hadn't expected such ferocity from the boy, nor that he'd be able to get past his men, so he took the full force of the punch and ended up with blood splattering from his lips and a tooth flying from his mouth. The thugs didn't take too kindly to that, setting upon Stevie and dragging him to the ground through sheer numbers. They started flailing into each other, throwing punches, knees, and kicks that could've easily killed the smaller Stevie if no one intervened.

"THAT'S ENOUGH." Daniel bellowed, lifting his gun to fire into the sky to accentuate his point. The gangle of people atop his son scrambled off, allowing Stevie to half-crawl, half-run back up the porch to where his dad was now standing with his weapon aimed at the crowd. "Nobody touches my boy." He stared, steely-eyed, into every barrel pointed right back at him.

Silas had recovered by now, though the sleeve he'd held to his mouth was now stained crimson. "You can't lie to the sons of God, Daniel. He doesn't just speak to us through his word anymore. I've seen the truth after he made the moon bleed-"

"Oh, please." Stevie sneared.

"-God showed me what's comin'. He's showed me the Black Epoch that lies on the horizon if we don't rise up n' stop all you devil worshippin' sons'a'bitches from bringin' on Judgment Day." Silas continued without skipping a beat, his every word annunciated with clear and precise emphasis, filled with an emphatic and powerful passion that roused the righteous fury of his followers. "He's told us the only way to save our town from damnation is 'ta cast out the sorcerer and the demon worshippers n' the sinners. You're on the list, Daniel. God showed me yer true face."

There were shouts of affirmation and praises to God given in response to his words. It was all the energy Silas needed to redirect toward their true purpose. "Search this property, my brothers in Christ. Find the source of their witchcraft and set it to the pyre! N' Find the body of the woman, too; God would want her to get a proper, Christian burial." The Reverend commanded, and his flock followed. They split off into smaller groups, headed up to the house, around to the garage and toward the stables. Others turned about and went for the fields, likely in search of Cathy Witwicky's grave. "And make sure these two don't move a muscle, ya hear?! They move, they die!"

Stevie was bouncing on his heels, his muscles rippling with anger despite the blood dripping freely from his nose. Daniel had a death grip on his son's arm, holding so tight that there was little Stevie could do as he watched on in horror at the sight of the townsfolk he had once called his neighbors ripping through his belongings in search of proof of devil worship. It was absolute, utter insanity, and there wasn't anything he could do but stand there and watch.

A handful of the dusty, rural thugs went up to the Volkswagen sitting in the driveway. They shattered the windows to get the doors open, throwing the contents to the ground and tearing through every compartment and pulling up the carpet in search of whatever it was they wanted to find. "HEY!" Stevie screamed to no avail. "Don't you touch that- fucking stop!"

One of the men pulled out a knife and took it to the interior leather seats, and that was enough to set Witwicky off. He ripped his arm away from his father and took only two steps forward before the sound of a shotgun firing echoed across the ranch. Stevie hit the ground, crying out in pain, and Daniel rushed down to his side. "No...No, damn it, no-"

"Stay right there!" One of the gunmen ordered, though he didn't fire when Danny knelt down at his wounded son's side.

"You stupid, stupid boy." Daniel snarled, putting pressure on the entrance wound. Most of the pellets had found their way into Stevie's shoulder and arm, avoiding major organs, yet...they were only inches away from tearing into his face and killing him in an instant. Even still, without a doctor nearby, it was possible his boy might not make it.

The Volkswagen's radio flared to life without a single person touching it. Nothing came through but blaring, blank static, blasting so loud that it gave everyone nearby a piercing headache.

Daniel stood up, holding a hand out toward the car. "No!" He shouted. "Bee, don't- Don't you do it-"

But Bumblebee didn't listen.

Bumblebee was tired of seeing his family being bullied and hurt by a bunch of tiny, useless sacks of flesh.

The car began to move. The hood flew up on its own, and the interior folded in on itself, crushing the single man that was still inside. It transformed in a matter of seconds, arms and legs of a black, unknown metal slamming into the dirt with a rumbling crash. Bumblebee slowly rose to his feet, his armored face contorted in anger and his body slicked with wet, sticky fluid from the cultist it had just compacted. A dozen different panicked screams pierced the air as eyes turned to see the impossible looming above them like a titan from a time long forgotten. He towered over the humans at a monstrous fifteen feet, like a modern Goliath, and wielded strange, alien weapons that hummed with energy. A low, unnatural gargle of static and fury left the giant's voicebox as it pointed the barrel of its guns on the people threatening the Witwickys.

"BUMBLEBEE, STOP!" Daniel tried to scream, but he found his voice lost in the commotion and panic of the moment.

"The horns!" Silas yelled at his men, pointing up at the yellow behemoth's head with a shaking, terrified finger. "Look at the horns! Its the devil we sought- The Lord has brought us-"

Anything else the Reverend meant to say was drowned out by the sound of pistols and shotguns tearing through the air, most of them bouncing harmlessly off the alien's chassis like pebbles thrown at a battleship. A few flew wide, blowing chunks out of the ranch house or kicking up bits of gravel or dirt. Daniel slung his weapon over his shoulder and slipped his arms underneath Stevie's body, lifting his son up between them as he started toward the house as quick as his old bones could carry him.

One of the cultists took notice and attempted to pursue.

The mistake cost him his life as Bumblebee turned one of his Stingers on the man, turning his entire form into a splatter of gore and ash in just a single blast. The sound of the cannon firing echoed through the wilderness like the shot heard 'round the world. It was the first sound of many, many like it before the ordeal came to a close.
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Witwicky Ranch, Colorado
Evening



The scent of expended energon rose up from the smoking barrels of Bumblebee's stingers, and the surviving townspeople had been driven away. He stood sentinel before the Witwicky house, towering above the old wooden structure; his frame rose and fell in a slow, methodical fashion as heat dispersed from his form. The Cybertronian scout watched for several moments as the tiny humans scattered into the fields, their panicked cries dying out as they gained considerable distance from the ranch in record time.

All about the yard lay piles of ash and molten organic matter with nothing that could be readily identified as human remains surviving the encounter. Energon-based weaponry was disturbingly effective against organics, Bee quietly noted. It wasn't until silence reigned over the farm that he stored his blasters in his sides, the guns disappearing up into his body so that they might recharge. The machine knelt to the ground, his shoulders sinking and his arms collapsing into themselves, continually folding and changing until the fifteen foot tall giant had compacted into a tiny, old-fashioned car. That ancient little bug drove itself up toward the ranch house's window, peaking inside to get some look at his human companions.

Daniel Witwicky had his son, Steven, laying atop the dining room table, the previous contents spilled haphazardly onto the floor. His old, gnarled hands were hidden underneath rubber gloves stained in his son's blood. The boy was howling like a banshee, but his father was yelling at him to stay still, and poking at his interior with some kind of tool. Bumblebee had seen something like it before, back on Cybertron. He'd seen the faces of old, grizzled surgeons as they tried to convince some poor wounded soldier to stay online just a little longer.

Bee grimaced at the memories, and at the ache in his spark as Rachet's face flashed before his mind. Bee remembered what it was like to be where Steven was. He didn't envy it.

Nearly half an hour passed before anything changed. Steven had stopped his screaming, and Daniel's shoulders had sunken with exhaustion. The old man slunk out the front door and cast his heavy eyes toward Bumblebee. He was quiet for a time. Not but an hour earlier, life had been...normal. He could never have expected everything to sour so suddenly. Witwicky sighed and shook his head, tossing the pair of ruined gloves down onto the porch. "Alright, Bee. You remember the drill?" The former marine asked.

Bumblebee responded with a serious of high-pitched beeps and whistles before turning about and heading toward the barn. Daniel, meanwhile, started back inside, glancing down at the watch on his forearm. They had around fifteen minutes before Steven would be aware enough for travel. Fifteen minutes to prepare all of the bug-out equipment, get the mini-cons in the air and ensure every scrap of information on Daniel, his son, and his wife was destroyed. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of leaving his life behind, but...

'It wouldn't be the first time.' He thought glumly.
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| Character You're Applying For |
Superboy // Kon-El // Conner Kent

| Age |
Appears Roughly 17

| Powers And Abilities |
Super Strength:
Superboy's most prominent and oft-used ability, his strength is only marginally less than that of a developing Kryptonian around his current age. He can lift objects weighing over fifty tons, shred steel with his bare hands and throw punches strong enough to shatter buildings. This same strength allows him to leap great distances and toss objects just as far, though it has the unintended side-effect of being quite difficult to control at times; Conner has to take considerable care to avoid doing too much damage to an opponent, often to his own detriment.

Super Speed:
Though far from an equal to speedsters like Wally West, Superboy is still quite a bit faster than any ordinary human. He has the reaction speed necessary to stop a bullet, and the ground speed to outrun any man-made vehicle. He does, however, grow quite tired after moving at max speed for any significant amount of time, equivalent to how an athletic human would grow exhausted when they sprint.

Flight:
Flight is one of the most iconic abilities of the Kryptonians on earth, and the one Kon-El happens to be the worst at. He has yet to grasp even the most simple concepts required to keep himself airborne, finding it next to impossible to guide himself through the sky; thus far, the best he can do is point himself in a direction and jump as hard as he can to achieve 'flight.' Attempts to redirect himself tend to end in a crash landing at best and a simple crash every other time.

Heat Vision:
'Heat Vision' is the release of absorbed solar energy through the eyes in the form of a pair of focused beams capable of burning through steel after an extended period of time. Heat vision is one of Conner's most energy inefficient abilities and is best used in short, low-powered bursts.

Invulnerability:
Invulnerability is a misnomer, better defined as 'incredible durability.' There are few living beings capable of permanently damaging a Kryptonian, and Superboy is no different. Though such things as explosives can cause him pain, it takes a great deal of force to wound him in any meaningful manner, provided no Kryptonite is present. It is said the best way to kill a Kryptonian is with another Kryptonian.

Enhanced Senses:
Kon-El experiences our five senses at a far higher level. Each is tuned to be much more sensitive than any human could imagine, allowing him to see on several different spectrums, hear sounds no human ear could comprehend, and feel on a deeper level than most could put into words. While typically quite useful, he can easily be overwhelmed by sensations, with a particular weakness to bright light and sonic weaponry.

| Origin And Backstory |
Project CADMUS was established in the wake of the Doomsday event by the United States government in order to create a metahuman task force loyal to the American people that could protect them from any threat. Project Legacy was one of CADMUS's first and best-received endeavors, created with the intention to breed successors to current, living heroes in case they ever fell in battle. Superboy was the first of these creations, cloned from the Kryptonian DNA presumably collected during the Doomsday event and spliced together with compatible human DNA from the research staff. The current iteration of Kon-El is the third clone in the series, created with roughly 70% Kryptonian DNA and 30% various human DNA strands taken from several different subjects. He is predicted to be nearly on par with Superman when he reaches full maturity thanks to the genetic enhancement CADMUS used in his creation.

CADMUS never intended for Superboy to break free. The mental suggestion techniques they were planning to use to keep him under control until he was fully developed and indoctrinated failed for unknown reasons and Superboy proceeded to go on a rampage that destroyed the CADMUS facility prior to him escaping into the wilderness. He wandered through the mountains for several days before he was rescued by Kara Zor-El and Kal-El and taken to the Fortress of Solitude, where the truth of the world and his origin were given to him.

Superboy struggled to accept it all at first. He was angry and confused and lashed out at the Kryptonians on many occasions. But over the course of two weeks, he came to understand his existence, and transitioned into assimilating into earth culture, under the tutelage of his adopted sister and 'father.' Conner's exposure to the outside world has been...limited, thus far, as it presents a danger to both him and others. But he's slowly grown more comfortable around humans, learning how to communicate with them and 'blend in' like a normal person. Conner is impatient, however; he despises being 'locked up' in the Fortress of Solitude, and finds every opportunity to leave Clark or Kara's side and sneak away to indulge in humanity without their guiding hand.

| Summary of Version Differences |
While quite similar to his current canon origin, I've streamlined a good deal of it to erase many of the contrivances that come with comic book origin stories. Nearly everything one expects from Superboy's backstory remains the same, though I do have a few changes in mind that should make for a more interesting departure from the norm. You'll just have to wait to find out what those are ;)
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[Intro]


We dug up the body of a dead god today.

The boys were runnin' low on steam before this. We've been huntin' on this damned rock for months, and all we had to show for it was some broken pottery and cave paintings. Millions of credits and hundreds of hours of research and preparation and the expedition turns out like this? They were just about ready to stick an ice pick through my frontal lobe for it.

But now the whole camp's celebratin' so loudly that nobody can get any sleep. We finally found him: Wodos, the Underbound. They said he forged this solar system on his anvil, and he fashioned the sun from the embers of his forge. Its a wonder somebody that powerful managed to get gutted; its only a matter'a time before we know how he ate it, though, 'cause our crew's the best in the galaxy.

I'm attachin' a couple'a picts to this file, just so ya know I'm not bullshittin' you. Should be proof enough that my theory was correct. If I'm gonna get to the bottom of this, I'm gonna need more men and hardware sent my way. It'll cost us, but I'm tellin' you, sir, it'll be worth it. I'll update ya in a week's time on what we find out.

-Last known communication from Captain Aris O'Russ of the 1st Odyssey Expedition to his sponsor in ArCo Inc.

[Setting]


Adohim: Dead Gods takes place in the Adohim Galaxy in the year 1520 PMD, one thousand, five hundred and twenty years after the Pantheon died. All knowledge of the gods prior to their death was erased from galactic memory by unknown means; every computer file, book, and scrap of paper about their existence was somehow destroyed. All that remains are the stories passed down from the lips of those that walked among them, and the handful of ancient paintings and sculptures that depict them. Most believe the godfolk to be objects of myth; mere stories created by their ancestors to explain that which the science of the time could not.

A few know better, however.

It started out as the childhood fascination of a boy with an overactive imagination. He dreamed of worlds being crafted in the hands of giants, and of titans that could change space and time with but a word. Those dreams stayed with that boy as he became a man, and once he had gathered to himself a great deal of wealth and power, he set out to prove them to be true. Aris O'Russ, once a prominent marine in the Artifel Defense Force, turned to a life of academia as he went on his foolhardy quest to prove the existence of fairy tales and visions. Most thought him a madman.

Until he discovered the Underbound's tomb in the depths of Cratix-5 and promptly vanished, giving his ravings a frightening degree of legitimacy. His sponsors in ArCo Inc, one of Adohim's largest megacorporations, have started a mad scramble to get to Cratix-5, ascertain O'Russ's fate, and retrieve whatever research he may have left behind.










[OOC Information]


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The Five Fraternities

Tyhrien:

The Tyhrien Fraternity was the first among its peers to be founded and it wears that fact with pride. The Pathos Fraternities were a concept first imagined by Ser Tyhrien Toraendel, a nobleman of great honor and esteem even before he created the hero guilds. He brought together people from all across the Kingdoms to fight against the hordes of darkspawn that had plagued Serna since the dawn of life. United in common purpose, they were able to beat back the monstrosities and set their blood-soaked dens ablaze- it was easily the most effective military campaign against the monsters in Serna's history, and its success etched Ser Tyhrien's legend into the annuals of history forevermore. Thus began the Age of Heroes, and from it spawned the Pathos Fraternities as we know them today.

Tyhrien's place as the first of the guilds and the one that led Serna into an unprecedented era of triumph has earned it a great deal of honor and respect across the Kingdoms. It has maintained a reputation as an order of honorable, noble knights that fight for the good of the realm over anything else.

The arrival of the wayfarers changed Tyhrien. At first, the Fraternity was more than happy to accept the influx of impossibly powerful warriors that suffered not from the kiss of death; they proved to be the most effective fighting force that Serna had ever seen, even stronger than the armies of the Age of Heroes. Yet it did not take long for Tyhrien's knights to see that these warriors from another realm were...different. They did not treat their fellow man like human beings. They stuck their noses up at Serna's people, even its nobility, and only ever seemed to care about the joy they gained from slaughtering the monsters rather than the good they did for the realm.

Tyhrien soured to the wayfarers, and began to refuse all but the most noble among the travelers into their ranks. They refused to work with the outsiders, grew more self-righteous in their judgment and indignation toward the other guilds that accepted the wayfarers with open arms, and in turn weakened themselves severely by refusing to bring the immortal warriors into their number. This unshakable dedication to a strict code of morality has put them at odds with their brothers and sisters in the Sikth and Draethir Fraternities especially.

Sikth:

Misplaced idealism has no place among the Sikth, who see the world for how it really is, rather than how one wishes it to be. Its founder, a shrewd spymaster by the name of Sieana Kthar, knew this fact well; back during the Age of Heroes, she often found herself fighting tooth and nail to protect Ser Toreaendel from those among their ranks that would wish to take advantage of his naivety. Though the two disagreed vehemently on many things, it could never be said that they weren't the staunchest of allies, for both knew that their movement required they stand side by side no matter how they felt about one another personally.

These same ideals of maintaining unity at any cost have been imbued into the very lifeblood of the Sikth Fraternity, though they have...faltered somewhat with the arrival of the wayfarers. The ruthless and vile among the travelers found their home in Sikth, yet many did not concern themselves with unification as the founder did, rather believing that they should do whatever they must to advance themselves instead of the group. This toxic, selfish ideology has infected the Sikth in the modern age, damaging their image across Serna and among the other guilds severely; Tyhrien especially has taken offense to the savagery in the Sikth ranks, sparking a much more volatile rivalry than the one that existed between the two previously.

Draethir:

The Draethir are the strongest of the Pathos Fraternities, wielding their manpower with brutal efficiency. Founded by a dirt-caked mercenary of the same name, the Draethir were primarily made up of sellswords, mercenaries and men who sought out coin over any sort of greater ideal. Greed, as it turned out, was an effective motivator for the common soldier; it brought in peasant-levies by the hundreds, all of them willing to lay down their lives for the chance at a better life. Their founder instilled in them the need to accomplish the job, convincing them that it was better to fall on one's own sword than to return home a failure. This extreme dedication brought Draethir a great deal of success, and their name was sang across the land.

Such integrity was not easily passed on to the wayfarers. Though they still pursued coin over all else, they cared little about accomplishing a task or completing a quest if it proved too much for them. Without that reliability and dedication to finishing what they'd started, the Fraternity became a caricature of itself; it became little more than an mob of apathetic hired muscle that appeared to be little more than a swarm of bandits that might as easily rob you as complete whatever job you had for them.

Drox:

Drox is the smallest of the five Fraternities, and arguably the weakest, though it was not always this way. During the Age of Heroes their founder, Kieamiera Drox, stood as Ser Toraendel's second in command- he saw her compassion as necessary to temper the rage and indignation of the heroes, and as a way to turn their conviction into something that could positively affect the commoners outside of simply slaughtering their enemies. Kieamiera was given plenty of resources and tasked with helping those most harshly affected by the darkspawn's invasion, and she took to this task like a fish to water. Her dedication brought her a great deal of renown, and many flocked to the banner of her Fraternity when it was first founded.

Service, compassion and humility did not prove to be attractive virtues during an age of strife and conflict, and the Drox Fraternity quickly found itself outpaced by the other guilds. They continued to grow in size while the Drox shrunk, and somewhere along the way a twisted sort of bitterness weeded its way into their ranks. The Drox look down on the other Fraternities, seeing their in-fighting and politicking as a waste of time; the Drox turn themselves away from the other guilds, looking fully to helping the Smallfolk rather than their own bickering sibling-guilds.

Queon:

Progress is the heart of every civilization, and the Queon Fraternity leads that movement with frenzied vigor. It was built during the Age of Heroes by Queon Toraendel, the eldest of the wizards and the first to explore the applications of magic in every day life. He brought together every curious mind he could find across the realm and set them to task finding a means to defeat the enemy through magic and knowledge, for the sword was beginning to fail them. It was only through Queon's genius that they discovered the means to shut down the portals that allowed the monstrosities to leak into the realm, and it was by the engineers at his side that they developed that discovery into useable technology- the same technology still employed by wayfarers so many years later.

Though curiosity remains at the center of everything the Fraternity does, a schism has broken out through their ranks with the introduction of the wayfarers. There are those who stick rigorously to the ethics Queon set out for them at the time of their founding, and those who see Queon's rules as unnecessary shackles to mankind's progress into the future. This schism is often seen as a battleground between the Sikth and Tyhrien, who both wish to see the Queons fall onto their side of the ideological 'debate.'
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Open Road, Colorado
Night

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T H E S K Y ( S O R T O F ? )

11:35 a.m. | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York City


The Summer sun beat down on a bustling urban hub built of wrought iron and glass. Millions of fragile primates weaved in-between streets of smooth stone, where beasts of steel and rubber raced bumper-to-rear to cross the expansive city. High above it all and maneuvering between the towers of glass were flocks of birds and fluffy masses of condensed water vapor- 'clouds,' the locals called them. Kon-El passed his palm through the billowing sheet, feeling each individual drop pass through the crevices in his fingertips; they slipped down his palm like a thousand, tiny tendrils reaching out to great his touch.

Though it felt like an eternity to him, Kon-El didn't linger there for long before gravity took hold of his weight and dragged him down. It was like an anchor tied around his ankles, keeping him from staying up where he belonged for more than seconds at a time. It was painfully frustrating, but he couldn't stew in his irritations at the moment.

He was more concerned with making sure he landed.

Despite hours upon hours of practice with Kal, Kon was...nervous, embarrassingly enough. Not of being hurt in the fall, obviously- nothing could hurt a Kryptonian- but of screwing up his landing and accidentally destroying something he shouldn't. Everything around him was just so fragile. The humans, their homes, their cars. His genetic baseplate had once referred to the world as 'cardboard.' As Kon understood it, that material was as fragile to humans as humans were to people like Kon.

The air bent around his sleek form as he descended from the air like a rock, his arms held out to give him balance and his feet pointed in such a way that he hoped to direct his landing. He could feel the minute changes in the air pressure and wind direction down to the millisecond. It was a lot of information, and all of it useless given how little control he had over his gravitational field. For a moment, he thought he could feel himself slowing- that perhaps he was starting to get a handle on the whole 'flying' thing-

Just before he tasted concrete.

"God damn it-" Kon snarled in a flash of red hot anger, his fingers digging into the street and shattering the asphalt like it was made of glass. In a huff he dragged himself back to his feet using a nearby street lamp, his grip just harsh enough to snap off a piece of its metal exterior. Enraged by his own clumsiness, he chucked the debris into the sky, watching as the steel disappeared above the cloud layer and soared toward the New York Harbor.

His little superpowered-tantrum drew the attention of more than a few nearby humans. The Kryptonian clone's cheeks flushed a bright red at the sight of their pointed cameras and the sound of their panicked whispers. He hadn't intended to make a scene, or to break anything, or to look like such an angry oaf while doing all of it.

"Show's over." He snapped, taking off into the air with a leap that shook the street. The Superboy carried himself with an awkward glide toward a nearby brick building, landing atop its roof in a stumble that turned into an even awkwarder roll. He couldn't understand why he was such a klutz. CADMUS had run him through simulation after simulation while he was trapped in their breeding chambers- flying hadn't been nearly so hard then. Kon assumed flying in reality was just inherently harder, but then Kara and Kal had both mastered it when they were years younger than he was.

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House Greyjoy


"We Do Not Sow"
House Information

Synopsis
House Greyjoy of Pyke is one of the Great Houses of Westeros, whether the rest of the six kingdoms acknowledge it or not. The Krakens have lorded over the Iron Islands for generations despite the best efforts of their numerous enemies, and they've only grown stronger in recent years with the efforts of their Lord Paramounts. The head of the family, who bears the name Harren The Cursed at the moment, is traditionally known as the Lord Reaper of Pyke- a reference to their House Words, and the reaping they do at the cost of the iron price. Though the Old Way waned under the reign of Asha Greyjoy, her grandson, seeing the deteriorating health of the queen and her lack of a proper heir, stokes the Ironborn's violent nature to fuel his own twisted ambition. He sees this as the perfect opportunity to finally see the dream he and his father shared come to pass: that the Greyjoys would once again rule as conquerors and kings, and that all the world would tremble at the sight of their sails and the sound of their name.

Seat
Castle Pyke

Demesne
House Blacktyde of Blacktyde
House Botley of Lordsport
House Drumm of Old Wyk
House Goodbrother of Hammerhorn
House Harlaw of Ten Towers
House Merlyn of Pebbleton
House Stonehouse of Old Wyk
House Sunderly of Saltcliffe
House Tawney of Orkmont
House Wynch of Iron Holt

Recent History
What has occured in your house's history in recent years?

Realm Relations
What are the established perceptions and alliances between your house and others in the realm?
Conceptualization & Premise

Head of House
Characterization
Describe said character's reputation and values.

Immediate Family
List his immediate family.

Storyline Premise
What is the story you are wishing to tell with this character and his house?
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A P A R T M E N T 3 0 2

Noon | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York City


"Oh, thank you so very much, Superman!" The old woman's voice pitched and shook, her lips spread out into a wide grin. She stood before her apartment door, her old, scratch-ridden key clutched between her fragile fingers as she looked back over her shoulder at 'Superman.' He was shorter than he looked on TV. And that red and blue suit he always wore was absent, replaced by some white, capeless variant; truthfully it looked like a downgrade, but who was she to tell Superman that after he helped her carry her groceries all the way up here?

"Let me give you something for your trouble," She grunted, struggling to poke the key into the lock. Her hand was shaking too much to focus. It was hard not to be nervous with the Man of Tomorrow standing just behind her, after all. "some cookies, maybe? My grandchildren say they're the best they've ever-"

"No." Kon-El interrupted, his voice more forceful than he intended. He didn't notice the affect his words had until he saw the look of absolute shock on the elderly lady's face, and he felt his own quickly heat up. "I...I mean, er, I appreciate the offer, ma'am. But I have to go. And I'm not-"

"The world can wait a few minutes!" She insisted, still fighting to even open her front door while Kon-El bounced impatiently behind her; she either paid him no mind or was too oblivious to see how eager he was to move on with his day. "You deserve a break, sweetheart."

When he ran away from the Fortress and came to the New York City his sort-of cousin had told him so much about, he'd been expecting...more. Where were all the villains Kal was always fighting? Where were the disasters he and Kara insisted they had to stop when they left Kon-El alone in that frozen castle? He didn't think they'd lie to him, yet...

"Oh, I hate this dumb thing sometimes. Always has to jam on me." The grandma huffed, slapping her palm up against the wooden frame.

She'd said something after that, too, but Kon-El missed it. It was too far away for the aging human to hear, yet to Kon it was as loud and thunderous as if it'd happened just outside. A clap like thunder rolled in the distance, followed shortly by the sound of screeching wheels, honking horns and the screams of the wounded and the dying. By the time the woman had turned around, 'Superman' was gone, her groceries scattered across the hallway and the nearby window shattered into a thousand pieces.

"How rude!"

C I T Y S T R E E T S

Noon | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


Superboy crossed the city toward the source of the explosion as quickly as he could, leaving behind broken concrete and a collapsed- thankfully empty- taxi. Each leap dragged him through the air and right back down to the earth with a crash, shaking the streets with a thunderous smack before he took off once more. It didn't take long to arrive at his destination, though how he'd handle what he found there was another matter entirely.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. CADMUS's simulations of smell were far less...visceral. He could pick out the individual stenches, differentiating each crushed body and every burning car from all the rest. Smoke choked his nostrils, thick and black thanks to the tires caught in the explosion; it was like a punch straight to his nervous system.

His ears, too, suffered. Screams of the frightened and the hurt, punctuated by the clamor of rending metal and the screeching of unearthly tongues. The flickering flames were a constant, quiet thumping in the back of his head as he rose to his feet and shook off the sensory overload as best he could.

Once Kon wrestled back control, he looked out over the street, and found it occupied by monsters. Giant, lipless lizards with bodies like gorillas and eyes burning with otherworldly hate. It didn't take a genius to know they were aliens, but it was the flying girl that gave him pause. Her skin was orange, and her eyes glowed green. Her heart didn't beat like a human's. She wasn't a meta, and the language she yelled in didn't sound like any he had ever heard.

'Another alien.' He decided with a wordless grunt, rising to his full height. He was no Superman, but Kon was still rather tall and broad for someone his age; the skin tight, white solar suit that he wore showed the contours of his lab-built body well. Strong yet thus far untested hands clenched tight into fists brought level beside the bright red crest he wore. Alien as it felt on him, Kon knew it meant something- to more than just the people of earth.

Kon took in a deep breath, empowering his lungs as he shouted at the top of his voice. "HEY!" He roared until he'd gotten the aliens' collective attention. "I'LL SAY THIS ONCE: Get down on your knees and put your hands on your heads." Superboy let power flow up into his eyes, lighting them a bright, dangerous red. "Or you're not gonna like what happens next."
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House Information


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Sticks And Stones




I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.

Science Fantasy - Post-Apocalypse - Adventure - Political Intrigue



Crumbling towers of rusted steel and broken glass reach high into the heavens, standing as stark sentinels of a bygone age. Chariots with wheels of rubber and chassis of broken iron fill unwalked roads, and cities of impossible construction stretch for miles upon miles- empty of any signs of life. Save, of course, for the Broken. Those terrible creatures of fang and claw that crawl in the darkest corners of the old world, their hives nestled in the tall towers and under the bridges of stone. Only the bravest knights or the most desperate adventurers would dare to invade the lands of the Broken, and a scarce few of them ever return.

No one remembers what destroyed the world. Perhaps it was a war that encompassed every nation and every people, where weapons of incredible destructive power were unleashed, and everything was wiped out. Perhaps disease, unknowable and incurable, spread about the land and wrought the hand of death on all that drew breath. Or perhaps it was the arrival of the Broken that claimed the lives of the Before Men. Or maybe it was none of these things. By some awful chance, it could be a combination of all of them. No one knows for sure. Even the eldest scribes and the most traveled storytellers only know tiny pieces of what the old world was like. Wild tales of fantasy had intermingled with the truth down the ages, deluding what was known with stories of ancient powers and cruel gods.

Its rebirth is similarly surrounded by a veil of mystery. It is known that all life came to an end, but something...something brought it back. Some unknown force reached down into the radiation-ridden muck of the earth and dragged forth the next generation of men. It pressed into their unbeating chests the power that would forever change the world: Magic. A gift barely understood by those that wield it, magic was the only thing that kept man alive. It cut through the darkness, drove off the beasts that nipped at man's heels, gathered people together and allowed them to climb out from the pits of hell that their ancestors had damned them to so long ago.

Thousands of years have passed, and mankind has returned to its old ways. Violence reigns as the Delphi Imperia seeks to conquer land further to the west, mustering its armies and preparing yet another campaign. The League of Free Cities scrambles to shore up its defenses, knowing all too well that the Iron Legions of Delphi would have little trouble besting the League's mercenary armies and citizen soldiers. Desperate to tip the scales in their favor, Praetor and its allies began to pour their great wealth into expeditions into the ruins of the Old World. They believe their salvation lies in those ancient ruins, that some great weapon of the Before Men might be used to turn the Iron Legions to ash and save the League from certain destruction.



The Setting/Worldbuilding




The known world is split into several regions, though our story will be focusing on just one of those regions: The Southland.

The Southland encompasses everything below the snow-covered north, east of the Impassable Mountains, and north of the Scorch. The Southland has resources in abundance, with extensive forests, rolling hills, and rich soil. This abundance drove much of the reborn mankind into the Southland, and thousands of years later they continue to squabble among one another for its riches and wealth. Though hundreds of city-states, tribes and petty kingdoms dot the countryside, the five major powers hold most of the sway.











Beyond the Northland are the Frozen Wastes, where Canada, Alaska, and Greenland once were. There is little in the way of civilized life in the Frozen Wastes, with only a few tribes of hardy nomads daring to risk the arctic frost that has turned away weaker men. Some who live on the borders of the Frozen Wastes whisper of a large gathering of Wastefolk known as the Oathhorde. Supposedly they are made up of giants and beasts with strange, monstrous appearances and a taste for human flesh, though no one has any real proof of their existence. They're a folk story as far as most of the world is concerned.

Little is known about what lies to the south of the Kingdom of Dall. The Riogra River blocks all travel, save for those most prepared for what lies beneath those vile waves. It stretches from coast to coast, sinking deeper into the earth than any river should. Broken lie within its deceptively calm waters. Those demonic creatures drag all who attempt to travel across it into the depths where they vanish forever, never to be seen again. Only a choice few brave adventurers have ever attempted to cross it, and those that do never come back. Myth says that the Southlands are full of impossible riches and cities made of gold, and that's why none return. Other legends tell of the Southlands as being the true home of the Broken, saying it is a place of vile magic and evil that slaughters all who enter it. No one knows for sure, and all expeditions to prove either myth true have failed spectacularly.









OOC Information




Welcome to Sticks And Stones, a far future Science Fantasy Roleplay set in what was once the United States. I will be your guide in your travels across this strange land wrought with danger, mystery, and adventure. Here are a few things you should know about Sticks and Stones before we continue:

-If I was to give this RP a level, it'd be somewhere around High Casual.

-I'm looking for at least four adventurers to take up this quest, though I won't be putting a cap on the number of applicants unless things get absurd. My usual rule of thumb is the more the merrier, and I will more than likely keep the RP open even after we have started. It may be difficult to join in at certain points, but I will do my best to work everyone in.

-I'd like applicants to be in it for the long haul. Posts may come slower than in some other RPs since things like school, work, or other real-life obligations can get in the way of writing. Anyone coming in should be prepared for that, and patience for your fellow writers is necessary. With that said, I'd like that we at least stay in contact so that everyone knows we're all still in the game. I ask that a weekly update is given, either in the form of a post or informing us that you won't be able to post this week. How we'll proceed when someone drops or if they have a long absence will be discussed when we come to it, though if you can't be active for a long amount of time your character may be skipped over so that the story can continue moving. A postless RP quickly becomes a dead one, after all.

-Length isn't too important to me, but substance is. All posts should offer something that others can react to or work off of. If your last post could be deleted and it wouldn't affect the scene in the slightest, something's gone wrong. In general, one-liners or very short posts that offer little in the way of substance are frowned upon. Don't feel the need to rush out a short post. You've got at least a week to write one, after all!

-When we start out, everyone will be allowed one character. As things move forward this may change, but I would like for us to keep things small and laser focused when we first begin.

-General rules for the site and Roleplaying, in general, apply, obviously. Basically: smut/+18 situations are mandatory fade to black, treat everyone else involved in the game well, and don't power/meta/god game, and all that jazz. The RP will touch on mature themes like violence and may go into detail, so just keep that in mind before applying.

-The beginning premise of Sticks And Stones is that we are a party of adventurers brought together by special order of the king. We will be sent into the remains of the city of Dallas in search of still-working artifacts from the old world.
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C I T Y S T R E E T S

Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


The scaled giants continued to pummel the alien girl, unconcerned with Kon-El's threats. His expression twisted with irritation and his eyes grew hotter, the crimson in them deepening as he cast his gaze over the scene before him. The reptiles were tearing through the streets to get at the girl. Though she was handling herself well, it would only be a matter of time before they overwhelmed her; and though he didn't trust her, Conner couldn't bring himself to just sit by and watch.

A pair of beams exploded out of Superboy's eyes and tore across the air until they slammed into the chest of a Goardanian warrior that was aiming his weapon at the alien girl's back. Kon squeezed his eyes shut, the heat still punching into his eyelids for several, painful seconds as he struggled to shut the energy off.

"I don't like being ignored." He snarled, rubbing the back of his hand until his eyes were cool enough to open.

Just in time for the invaders to return fire.

The solar suit was shredded by the blast, cutting a hole straight through it until it exploded across Conner's shoulder. A deep, arctic sort of cold spread across his flesh, turning it a bright pink and sending pain spiraling down Superboy's arm. He let out a howl and stumbled backward, his blood boiling with rage. Pain was a...new sensation. This pain, especially. It wasn't like the light numbness he'd felt during training. It was deeper. Like a series of ugly, sharp tendrils spiraling through his insides. Like many things, it made him angry.

Very angry.

Another primal howl was loosed from his lungs, and Superboy leaped across the street toward the monstrous things that had caused all of this. He cocked his arm back, locking it in place until just the right moment presented itself to let it loose. And when that moment came he loosed it like a cannon, his knuckles cracking against one of the alien's scaled, ugly faces. A sickening pop followed as the scales themselves buckled, and something warm and hot splashed up along Conner's hand; a good feeling, he decided, and one he was intent on experiencing many times in the next few minutes.

"Is that all you've got?!"
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C I T Y S T R E E T S

Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


Kon-El repeatedly rammed his knuckles into the chest of the alien in front of him, the kinetic force of each blow seeming to slide right off of its natural armor. Many of the clone's strikes went wide as the Gordanian weaved passed many of the punches, deflecting the rest with smooth, trained movements. It was clear that Kon-El lacked anywhere close to the martial skill of the giants, and his raw strength was doing little to make up for it. The futility of it only made him rage all the more, and his fists came in with more force with each consecutive hit.

"Tough...bastards..." He grunted under his breath, the earthly expletive slipping easily into his daily language; it was the easiest way to loose his frustrations that didn't involve punching something.

The situation went from bad to worse when one of the aliens began to shout orders at the rest, causing them to shift their attention toward Kon. He froze for a moment, his eyes shooting wide as he stared at six separate beam weapons aimed right at his chest. Just getting hit with one of them had hurt. He reacted as quick as he could, his arms crossing in front of his face moments before the first of the beams stabbed into his flesh. The rest soon followed, each punching into him with more force than he'd ever felt in his (admittedly) short life. Charged particles drilled into Kon-El's chest, pouring on so much heat that the remains of his solar suit caught fire. The combined force was enough to start pushing the Superboy backward, his footing so ironclad that the concrete shattered under his dug-in heels.

A puncture formed in the center of his chest and an agonized howl found its way out of his throat. Something hot and sticky began to drip down his body. It took Kon several seconds of staring down at it to realize he was actually bleeding. He didn't even know he could bleed. Some strange concoction of rage and panic caused him to fight against the pain and fling his hands down toward the street, his fingers cutting through the asphalt and concrete with frightening ease. With a quick, powerful tug upwards, Kon tore a large chunk of the roadway upward, hefting it in front of himself to act as a shield against the alien weaponry. "If you think its that easy to kill me-"

In his brief moment of reprieve, Kon caught something out of the corner of his eye. A blur of yellow and red that quickly came into focus as his eyesight adjusted to follow something so impossibly fast. "Flash?" He managed to grumble, watching the speedster as he worked to clear the immediate area of civilians. The Scarlet Speedster he'd read about in the Justice League file wasn't looking so scarlet at the moment, strangely enough.

The sound of a pair of projectiles swooping through the air drew Superboy's gaze up over the lip of his crumbling, makeshift shield. Arrows, loosed by an unknown archer posted on a nearby rooftop, came flying down at the feet of the six Gordanians trying to skewer Kon-El like a clone-kebab. When the arrows landed, they exploded on contact, knocking about the line of extraterrestrials and sending up plumes of smoke that cut off their line of sight. It finally opened up an opportunity for Kon to get his hands on their scaley hides. "My turn."

He plucked what remained of his shield from the roadway, hoisting it overhead only to promptly toss it at the Gordanians with all of his otherworldly strength. After all the hits they were able to take before, Kon was confident that he didn't need to hold back against this lot- not if he actually wanted to survive this encounter. Spurred on by the presence of other heroes, he jumped into the midst of the Gordanians, unleashing a flurry of wild, untrained punches on anything he could get close to. One of the lizards went soaring overhead, some kind of greenish energy surrounding his body as he rocketed into a building on the opposite side of the road.

"GIRL!" Kon hollered, hoping to get the alien girl's attention as he took hold of one of the giant reptiles. "HIT THIS!" He spun around, tossing the Gordanian toward her with the hope that she'd give it a similar treatment as she did her previous opponent. It wasn't the time to distrust; not with such powerful enemies around them. He could handle her once the lizards were dealt with.
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