An Outsider

Young Justice 2021

Hey folks.

Sorry for doing another vanishing act, things got heavy over the holidays there for me and Rping wasn't at the forefront of my mind. Glad to see proceedings are still chugging along nicely. Good luck with the rest of YJ.

Cheers, Sam.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

Me and Skronsky finished having our 'little chat' about five minutes ago, now I'm just scrubbing myself clean in his bathroom sink while the man himself is having a much deserved break. As I wash my hands the water comes away a deep blood red. Funny, Lady Macbeth went mad cause she couldn't get the blood of one man of her hands, yet I've had the blood of hundreds try to stain mine and it seems to me it gets easier to clean off every time. Maybe all she needed was practice. Doesn't take long before I'm squeaky clean, ready to move on to the Forge, a gym owned by Redford Stone that Skronsky tells me he can be found at most nights. Apparently the Forge was the first premises that Stone ever owned, and still serves as the epicentre to his empire, both legitimate and illegitimate, to this day.

Now I'm going on the hope that what Skronsky is telling me is on the level, which it may well not be. The thing about using torture as a means to gain information is that eventually whoever being tortured will just start spouting out anything they think they oughta be saying, hoping that it'll make the hurt stop, whether it's true or not. A quick scan of google tells me that the Forge is, in fact, owned by Redford Stone though, so chances are good that he is there, or failing that I'll be able to find someone else who can tell me where the boss man is hiding.

Suitably clean, I had back through to Skronky's room. He's still strapped to the chair, half passed out but still groaning softly. I feel a pang of guilt at the mess he's in, all because of me. Left foot pulped to a bloody mash, bone and blood staining the carpet. Both his knee caps are shattered, he'll be lucky if he ever walks again. His left hand ain't nothing but and onion looking ball now since I removed his fingers. That's an old practice that Big Murph was partial too, apparently ancient cultures used to cut off the fingers of captured warriors left hands so they couldn't hold a shield any more, making them useless as soldiers. Dunno how applicable that is nowadays, but Murph always liked the symbolism and I ended up picking up his bad habits. The rest of Skronsky is a mess of bloody welts and cuts, his face so swollen and bruised that he barely resembles a person any more. And that's where the real value of torture reveals itself. It's all about sending a message, of letting everyone know that your not to be trifled with. It's saying 'Don't mess with me, or bad shit will happen.' Prince taught me that, and here I am years later, calling myself a better man but still up to the same old tricks.

I'm throwing my coat back on when Skronsky's phone begins to vibrate on his bedside table. The man himself comes to, eyes opening groggily as he hears the incoming call. He's still gagged, but I can hear him groaning something through the cloth in his mouth. Sounds like 'who is it?'. People's minds work strangely when they're suffering as much trauma as Skronsky is right now, their priorities get all skewed, the mind struggling to put everything in order. Why else would he care who's calling him. I've got a passing interest in who might be phoning too though, so I pick up the phone, the caller ID telling me it's 'Mr Stone'. Perfect.

“Hush up now Russel, or I'll lose my temper with ya.” My host complies quick, seems he's much more amicable to my demands now. What a surprise.

“Skronsky, it’s Stone. I’ve got a lot to say and not much to say it, so keep your mouth closed.” That works for me. “We’re getting word from the Shroud Society, and its not good. That Crew’s rearing its ugly ass head again, and it seems like they’ve got some sick Meta leading them. Stands to reason that it was one of their guys that clipped you boys earlier. I’m gathering all our soldiers, ready for when the Cowl takes it to them. I need you back here at the Forge, so forget the diner, that can be dealt with later. First we deal with the Cancer.”

“The only cancer I’ll be dealing with is you pal, and it’ll be a damn pleasure to cut you out.” He set me up so well with that cancer line that I had to interject. Completely worth it too, I can almost hear his tiny mind working at the other end of the line. His breathing increases in noise and tempo. Something tells me Redford is gonna be a screamer.

“WHO THE F**K IS THIS!” Looks like I was right.

“Me? I'm the Grim North, and I'm coming for you. Best you get your affairs in order quick.”

“OH IS THAT SO?!? YOU THINK YOUR TOUGH!?! YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE ME OUT!?! I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU TRY YA MOOK, I'LL KILL YOU WITH MY OWN HANDS!?!”

“We'll see.” I answer, then hang up. Man like him, wont be used to being hung up on, probably infuriate him. Couple that with my casual death threat and let him stew on that for a while, by the time I make it to the Forge he'll be hopping mad. Good for me, mad guys make mistakes. Just like Da always said, “Keep em' mad Caine. You make a man mad and you got him outnumbered, cause he'll be scrapping with himself as much as he is with you.” Every move, every decision, every choice Stone makes with me in mind now, they'll all be that much closer to being the wrong ones, all because he can't keep hold of his temper.

One other plus side of me and Stone's wee pow-wow is that I now know him and all his guys are gonna be at the Forge for definite. Might sound strange, being pleased that all a gangsters soldiers are gonna be near at hand when your planning a one-man raid against him, but it works out in my favour. See, its not just Stone I gotta take apart, nuh, I gotta put paid to his entire organisation, otherwise there's a risk of one of his lieutenants moving in to fill the void that Stone will leave after I've dealt with him. So I might have to assault his home base with all his boys manning the ramparts, and sure that's dangerous as all hell, but once I'm done those boys will be so scared of me that half of them would rather go straight than risk crossing me before. I've done this sorta stuff before, so I know what I'm talking about.

My only concern is this talk of the Shroud and the Crew, the Cowl and the Cancer. That all stinks to high hegion, probably some type of shadowy criminal organisation, something like what my old buddy Prince is running. If Stone is a member of one of those typa clubs then that means even if I do put him down, and even if I do get rid of everyone of his guys, then chances are that somebody else will be waiting in the wings to jump into those shoes. If that is the case then I could be about to bite offa lot more than I can reasonably chew. With limited information and options, couple with the fact I'm the kind of guy that thinks he has a hammer while the rest of the world is a nail, means I ain't got no choice but to go ahead with assaulting Stone regardless, and deal with whatever fallout that the Shroud Society throws my way.

My course set, I begin to prep myself for what's to come, stuffing my jacket pockets with makeshift weapons. Good thing about this jacket, the pockets. I lifted it off a French gangster, a former rival of Prince's, who was also a amateur stage magician. The gangster had the jacket custom made with bloody hundreds of hidden pockets, all the better for conceal handkerchiefs up his sleeve. Been wearing it for three years and I'm still finding new pockets in it.

I take a rake of knives from Skronsky's kitchen. Da always said “Never can have too many knives”, that being advice I've lived by. I lift his glock, and after a bitta rummaging I manage to find a few spare clips to go with it. I ain't the best gunslinger in the world, but I know enough to know which end the bullets spew outta, and besides I'll probably need every edge I can muster. I craft a few more fun lil toys from some odds and ends that I find in Skronsky's apartment until I'm satisfied that I'm ready to party.

Before I disappear I untie Skronsky, stuanch his wounds and call an ambulance. Might seem strange, considering I'm the one that put him into the state he's in, but I need him being a message for everyone to see. Dead men make poor messages. Death's too final, at least for my purpose. Russel looks ready to pass out as I'm leaving. Not all that surprising considering.

Russel's excitement is coming to a close. Mine's just about to begin.

Young Justice 2021

I can't help that I accepted all those archers, I just wanted to fight in the shade. . .

Young Justice 2021

Ok guys, where's all the posting? Can't do much until more of you respond!

Young Justice 2021

Though he might seem an abomination to some, Fenrir always considered himself a being of nature. He preferred the icy northern wilderness of his birthplace to the hectic and claustrophobic cities that humanity insisted on raising. He would take a birdsong punctuated silence to that chaotic clamour that was passed of as music. Raw meat was the staple of his diet as opposed to meals tainted by preservatives and additives favoured by his peers. Even Star City, one of the few population centre's Fenrir had visited that had any modicum of respect for the natural world, stunk of the decay of humanity's forward progress, progress that seen them grow more and more out of touch with the world all around them.

These cyborgs were merely the latest insult, further proof of the corruption man was willing to visit upon itself and the world around him in a bid for further power. They had a look of one of Grannies enforcers to them, a monstrous mesh of man and machine that she referred to as 'The Tin Man', and as always anything that reminded the Wolfman of Granny sent him into a fearsome rage. He spent his anger on the metal legions of Kendall's forces, becoming a whirling dervish of destruction. No sooner had he despatched one foe before he started on the next, always moving, a constant dynamo of blood letting.

It wasn't entirely one sided though. The cyborgs were well trained and well armed, with a seemingly endless supply of reinforcements. For every officer that fell two more would leap in to fill the gap, fresh for the fight, while Fenrir was slowly but surely tiring. He still hadn't recovered fully from his fight with the League of Shadows, his reactions sluggy. Twice now he had narrowly avoided streams of plasma, attacks that he usually would have dodged with ease. It was only a matter of time until a more effective attack was scored against him. . .

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

The hub wouldn't be hiring security staff by any chance?

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

What seems like a whole lifetime ago. . .

Take a walk through Leith, a district to the north of Edinburgh, thirty years ago and you were like to get stabbed by one of the more colorful locals, for no other reason than being an outsider. A hotbed of prostitution, drug dealing and gang violence in the decades following World War 2, it wasn't difficult to see where Irvine Welsh gained his inspiration for Trainspotting, or why it was such a strong contender for Glasgow's 'Murder Capital' of Europe accolade. Of course those wild days were for the most part banished to the past after the Scottish governments 'Leith Project', a major refurbishment undertaking to provide the district with an economic boost in the early noughties. After that Leith became an attractive and charming center for tourists and locals alike, virtually unrecognizable from the pit of iniquity it had once been. Look hard enough though and you can still find a few blemishes on Leith's new squeaky clean image.

One of those blemishes is Christian Salvesen Transport and Logistics Warehouse situated on districts port front. At first glance little more than an abandoned warehouse, the remnants of a once great British company that had suffered a hostile takeover by a more dynamic French counterpart. Dig a little deeper though and you will find that the building is in fact owned, through several umbrella corporations and subsidiaries, by the Prince Foundation, run by none other than renowned entrepreneur and philanthropist Robert Prince. The mere fact that a man with such canny business acumen like Robert Prince would have such a rundown and dilapidated premise cluttering his portfolio may confuse most, but if you knew him better you would understand better why such a man would own such a place, and the easiest way to understand such things is to enter the Salvesen Transport building, to see for yourself what he uses the place for.

Tonight the supposedly empty building is playing host to four men. Robert Prince, Joseph 'Big Murph' Murphy, Martin Mackenzie and Caine MacFondóir. All four are in the large open space that once served as the hub of Salvesen's good's delivery service, the place cold and smelling of damp. Martin, a bald and overweight middle-aged man, is stripped to his underwear while bound and tied to a chair, a ball gag stuffed in his mouth. Prince has a look of dispassionate calculation, as if Martin is a sports car he is considering buying, but only because he feels his station dictates he should have one and not because he wants one. Murph is muttering to himself while setting up a trestle table that he had fetched from a back room, placing a variety of sharp and brutal looking tools and implements upon it. Caine merely waits, his expression fixed like stone while he waits to find out why Prince has called him out here. He doesn't have to wait long for an explanation.

"Gentlemen. Mr Mackenzie here has served my father as an accountant and trusted confidant for several years. Misplaced trust, as it has turned out." Martin wailed wordlessly into his gag, his eyes wide and bulging. If it was a plea to his innocence then no one was listening to it. Robert gave him a sharp eyed glare before continuing on.

"Mr Mackenzie has been feeding both information and funds to fathers rivals, the Morrison brothers. I'm not sure why he's been doing this, but I would like you both to find out why, and whatever else Martin may know that could be useful to me. Afterwards I never want to see or hear of my fathers wayward accountant again." Martin's wailing began again, and even Robert's glare couldn't silence him this time. With a sigh Prince turned to Big Murph, cocking his head at the bound man. Murph smirked and strode over to the accountant, barely pausing to thunder his big meaty fist into the fat man's midriff. So powerful was the blow that Martin was knocked backwards, his chair tipping him to crash onto the cold concrete. Martin's groans and Murph's chuckles mingle in the cold night air of the warehouse, the big man stooping to pick the chair and it's captive back up. Prince turns to Caine while this is happening, MacFondoir's features troubled.

"Talk to me Caine," Beckons Robert, his voice low. In the background Murph strikes Martin again, the thick thuds of a man being beaten providing what should have been an uncomfortable backingtrack for conversation, one that doesn't seem to bother any one present save for the one being beaten. "Tell me what's on your mind."

The big highlander looked glances around the room, his eyes settling on Murph, the trestle table, the implements of torture, a shattered buckie bottle lying in the corner, even upon the terrified Martin Mackenzie, anywhere save at Robert Prince. Caine MacFondóir, a man more than willing to wade into a bar filled to the gunnels with large, violent, borderline psychopathic Glaswegians and call them all a bunch of p**fs, was at that moment feart to speak to his best friend. Caine owed Robert a lot, being closer to the wealthy crime lord than he is or has been to anyone on the planet, including his parents, and the thought of disappointing Prince was abhorrent to him. That said Caine's skewed sense of morality was pricking at him now, and with some effort he brought himself to broach the subject, blowing air through his teeth in an awkward sigh.

"This don't sit right with me Rob. You know there ain't many lines I ain't willing to cross for you, you know I'll face any man you ask me to, or be a knife in the dark when it's needed, but torturing a man in cold blood? I'm struggling with this one, really struggling."

Prince looked back at his friend pensively, lifting his hand to rest it on Caine's shoulder.

"It reassures me so much to hear you say that Caine. Only a mad dog would take pleasure in a task such as this," Focus temporarily shifted to Big Murph then, whistling a jaunty tune to himself as he rhythmically slapped Martin across the face, again and again. "This has to be done though. Martin has betrayed my fathers trust. When the Morrison's rolled over our bookies on Phillips street? Don't you think it's funny they knew when to strike, the day that our money was being moved. That was because Martin sold them information. I want to level the playing field. I want him to tell us the Morrison's plans. . . "

"But torture!" Caine interjected, waving his hands at the scene of violence in the background. "The man's terrified already! He'll talk now, just ask him the questions! We don't need to set Murph on him!" Although he wasn't shouting the tension was thick in MacFondóir's voice. Prince fixed him with another steady look, slowly nodding his head.

"You're right Caine. I've already got the information I want on the Morrisons, and the iron is in the fire for that one. Here, tonight? Martin is going to suffer tonight, all because he knifed us in the back. What happens to him is going to serve as a warning to everyone else. Do not f**k with me, or it will not end well. This is about reputation. You can understand that, can't you?" Robert wasn't a lumbering musclebound giant, like Murph, or a savage with an innate understanding of combat like Caine though, but he was dangerous on a far more insidious plane. Prince could speak and make people listen, to convince them that his logic was the only type that made sense. He had an easy charm that made folk feel like they were the only thing on the planet that mattered, and an ability to read people that allowed him to slip past their defences. All these skills were in full flow now, and Caine's resolve was crumbling faster than a sandcastle during hightide.

"I dunno the first thing about this typa thing though. . ." muttered Caine, shame filling him as he realized he was really about to go through with this.

"Murph does though," Answered Robert, "He's had experience with it when he served. He'll teach you. If we want to make our mark then we need people to fear us. Your my right hand. We need them to fear you. I need you to do this." The two friends stared at each other, the air chill between them. After what seemed like an age a sigh finally dragged itself from Caine's mouth.

"Lord forgive me." He whispered, his fists clenched tight. He turned on his heel and marched towards Murph and Martin.

"Let's do this big-man." he called. Murph turned to him, a fierce grin breaking his face.

"Knew you'd see reason lad! You always do!" laughed the big man. It wasn't long before the two of them had Martin singing a merry tune, Robert Prince already fading back into the shadows.

Young Justice 2021

He looks a bit like Sasquatch from Alpha Flight!

Young Justice 2021

Good stuff so far guys. I'll see about getting a Fenrir post in tomorrow.