Byrd Man

Maximum Comics: Reboot

Tempt me not, Satan.

Maximum Comics: Reboot

What few issues I did have with the game have were already brought up in an earlier post. My issues for losing steam had nothing to do with the game was personal. I put myself in a corner and only play a few characters because those are really the only characters inside the comics universe that I can muster character ideas for. My tastes have shifted and it's harder to tell certain stories with certain characters without radically changing that characters DNA. So, I guess... it's me, not you. Turns out, I was the sumbitch all along.

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

80,000 Feet Over the Pacific Ocean
0347 Local Time

The supersonic jet streaked through the stratosphere at a speed approaching Mach 2. Matte black and lightweight, the craft was designed to be fast and stealthy. It was invisible to radar and could outrun the fastest jets of any government on the face of the planet. It had no weapons systems because it did not need any weapons. Speed was its weapon.

In the pressurized cargo hold, the two Executive Branch agents sat calmly while the jet rocked and swayed through small pockets of turbulence. Theodore Roosevelt read a small paperback book while Abraham Lincoln sharpened a rather large hatchet on a piece of whetstone. Both men wore black wetsuits and rubber shoes. Between them was a large khaki rucksack.

"What are you reading today, Mr. Roosevelt?" Lincoln asked as he ran a thumb along the hatchet blade.

"A biography on our man, MacArthur," Theodore said without glancing up. "It's very rare that you find the man you are planning to assassinate has entire volumes of books written about him. I plan to embrace this unique opportunity and do some research."

"A prudent action," Lincoln said as he stood and took practice swings with his hatchet. "I think I have a firm grasp of the man from what I know. He reminds me of an old general of mine."

"McClellan," Roosevelt stated, pausing the turn the page of his book. "There are similarities in delusions of grandeur and ostentation. If my history readings serve me, your problem with McClellan, Mr. Lincoln, was that he lacked initiative when it came to engaging the enemy. He lacked fighting spirit. With MacArthur, he has too much initiative. Franklin called him the most dangerous man in America in 1932 for a reason."

Both men looked up when the door to the cockpit opened. Orville Wright stepped into the cargo hold, dressed in khaki pants, a leather bomber jacket, and goggles perched upon his head. He approached the two ex-presidents with a wide grin.

"Gentlemen, we are fast approaching the drop zone. The jet is on automatic pilot for the time being while I help you suit up and prepare for the jump."

The lone Wright Brother helped the two men into their jump gear. Thick thermal garments went over their wetsuits to protect from the intense cold once the cargo door was opened. Roosevelt and Lincoln slipped on oxygen masks and buckled parachutes to their backs while Orville strapped a parachute to the knapsack.

"I will take my leave from you," Wright said with a small bow. "Your supplies are rigged up with a chute as well. One of you must hold on to it and activate the parachute and the flotation device beneath the sack before you pull your own chute."

"That'll be no problem," Lincoln said through his oxygen mask.

"Good luck, gentlemen. The cargo doors will open in two minutes. When the light above the door goes green, you know what to do."

Orville disappeared back into the cockpit and locked the cabin door with a loud hiss.

"How old are you, Mr. Roosvelt?" Lincoln asked.

"I shall turn 157 next month," said Theodore, grinning from inside his mask.

"Happy early birthday, you youngster," Lincoln said with a smirk. "I turned 206 earlier this year."

"Well, happy belated birthday. I must say, Mr. Lincoln, that you do not look a day past 110."

"I have been fortunate enough to find adequate physical and mental stimulation here in my twilight years."

The large ramp opened from the back of the jet. A cold wind roared through the cargo hold. A bright light above the ramp flicked on and bathed the dim cargo hold in its glow. Lincoln hefted the knapsack into his arms and walked towards the edge of the ramp with Roosevelt. The two men looked out at the clouds beneath them. Even in the dark, they could see holes in the clouds that showed the vast Pacific Ocean nestled some fifteen miles below the jet. The light went from red to green. Without hesitation, both men leaped from the ramp and plummeted to the water and mission that waited for them below.

Guardians of Infinity

Posted. I wasn't sure if I should have Star Lord show up, or it that's ole Ruby-dubby's job so I left it open.

Guardians of Infinity

Lower Westside Manhattan
Near where that one deli makes a really good open faced sandwich...
Not that one! The other one. You know which one I mean! The one where Amanda..
Ohmygod, I'm just supposed to be giving the location of the scene! I am so sorry!

Howard waddled down the New York sidewalk with his prospective client. The occasional onlooker threw a strange look his way. Even in this world of superheroes and mutants, a talking duck was a bit of an oddity to these people. Howard was used to it. He lived here among these hairless ape folks for years now. They weren't far removed from the caves of their ancestors, but there was the occasional good one.

"It might be tricky, Mr. Hou, but I think I can help you recover your wife's stolen necklace," Howard said to the tall, lanky Asian man who walked by his side. "But I don't come cheap."

"I have no money, Mr. The Duck."

"... Okay, I'll come cheap."

Hou's eyes lit up and he hugged Howard hard and tight around the shoulders. Howard tried to fight against Hou's grasp, but gave up."

"Why do you smell like buttered bread?"

"It's my cologne," Howard said, shrugging out of Hou's hug. "Poppy Seed Roll by Calvin Klein. It drives the hens wild, or so I've been told."

Hou arched an eyebrow at Howard. "Okay... thank you again for taking my case, Mr. The Duck."

"Please, Mr. The Duck was my father. Call me Howard, and thank you for seeking me out. I have so few clients, and I'm glad that you made the right decision to choose me because I stand for professionalism, dedication, and--"

"Heroes for Hire cost too much," Hou said. "Everyone says to find the duck, he works dirt cheap."

"Waugh!" said Howard. "Humans, what a bunch of cheapskates. I'll find your stolen necklace, Mr. Hou, and... I'll be taking all my coffee breaks on the clock! That's right, buster, that'll teach you!"

Howard stalked away, more of a fast waddle given his webbed feet, away from his new client and disappeared into the busy New York traffic in a huff.

Guardians of Infinity

Go for what you know, homeslice.

Guardians of Infinity

Who better to kick things off than a talking duck?

Guardians of Infinity

I can go, but it'll be tomorrow evening at the earliest before I can get it posted.

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

Executive Branch Headquarters
Mt. Rushmore, SD
1722 Local Time

From hundreds down into the heart of Mount Rushmore, Franklin Roosevelt monitored Executive Branch activity from the command nerve center. A giant map of the world was plastered on the far wall with glowing lights in each corner of the planet where an operative or operation was taking place. A half dozen computer technicians worked on terminals pointed towards the big map. Roosevelt sat in his wheelchair, hands in his lap, while one of the technicians brought up information from the blip in Brazil. From the blip, a light shone on the floor that projected a hologram of a man's shape that soon came into focus.

"Lancelot checking in," John F. Kennedy's hologram said. "I am... err... currently tracking down leads here on the Fourth Reich here in Rio De Janeiro. So far nothing has surfaced--" A feminine giggle came from somewhere to the Kennedy's right, where he looked and sheepishly smiled. A pair of tiny panties fell on his head. "But I am hard at work getting down to the bottom of it. Lancelot out."

Roosevelt sighed as the hologram disappeared. Young Kennedy always thought he was James Bond, drinking and bedding women constantly. He never took his work seriously and one day that would cost him and the Executive Branch dearly. Franklin realized that part of his complaint was simple resentment. The magic that had resurrected them had given Kennedy his vitality back, curing the diseases that plagued him all his life and left him relying on drugs and back brace to survive. Franklin was not so lucky. Not long after his death, he awoke to find his legs were still as dead as they had been. A long time ago he had been just as active and virile as Uncle Ted, it was the Roosevelt way. But the affliction that robbed him of his legs had seen to the end of that.

But, Franklin reminded himself, as bad as his situation was it could be worse. He could be like President Harrison. William Henry Harrison, ninth president, was famed for only serving a month as chief executive before pneumonia killed him. During the Great War with the Timekeepers, he was resurrected only to die thirty seconds later from a mishap with the spell. His ghost haunted the old offices beneath Washington D.C. and now he could frequently be seen floating through the halls of Mount Rushmore.

"Mr. President," said a technician. "One of our satellites spotted something."

Roosevelt turned towards the map as it dissolved away and was replaced by a live satellite feed of the ocean. The camera zoomed in further and further towards the water until a shape could be seen in the waters. The outline of a submarine that recently surfaced. The satellite spotted something on the hull and intensified its focus on the object.

"Oh my lord," Franklin said under his breath. "It's him.

Written on the hull of submarine was its name: Bataan.

--

"MacArthur is back."

Theodore Roosevelt perked up at the mention of the old general's name.

He and Abraham Lincoln sat side by side in the briefing room while Franklin presented them with their situation. On a monitor behind Franklin were surveillance photos of a submarine, an island, and a figure wrapped in a trenchcoat walking across the submarine's deck. Theodore let out a chuckle. Only MacArthur would wear a trenchcoat in the South Pacific heat.

"MacArthur was presumed dead over twenty years ago," said Franklin. "The mission to kill him was dubbed a success. But it seems our presumptions were wrong. Somehow, MacArthur was able to survive President Truman's atomic destruction."

"We of all people should know not to ever assume death for anyone," Lincoln said with a wry laugh.

"MacArthur had contacts in the Far East prior to going rogue, yes?" Theodore asked his distant cousin. "Perhaps some of them have been harboring him this whole time?"

"That seems most likely, Uncle Ted. Wherever he's been, we know where he's at."

The monitor behind Franklin focused on an island. He wheeled out the way to show the two men the information.

"We tracked his submarine to this island in the South Pacific. It's a tiny volcanic island that's at the tail end of a massive, thousand-mile chain. There seems to be very little vegetation and almost no animal life on the rock, but the heat signatures on the island are through the roof. It's believed that MacArthur is using this island as a base for whatever he's up to. I have chosen the two of you to take part in the mission because of all our available agents, you two are the least involved with MacArthur both in life and in death with the Executive Branch. President Eisenhower, Truman, and myself knew the man when he was alive, and he and Jackson were partners for the longest time. You knew him briefly when you were president, Uncle Ted?"

"Yes," Theodore nodded. "He was one of my White House aides when he was a young officer, but he was just a boy then. Nowhere near the man he later became."

"Good," Franklin said. "Because what I am asking of you two is important. You are to infiltrate MacArthur's island, find any intelligence as to what he is doing there, and finish the job Truman could not accomplish twenty years ago. We cannot suffer traitors here, gentlemen. Terminate him with extreme prejudice."

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

Sergeant Danny Johnson sat behind the wheel of his unmarked car and had to fight to keep from breaking down. He was in the parking lot of Brown's Grocery, parked near the road and away from all the cars. The last twelve or so hours had taken their toll on him. He was sound asleep when his wife woke him up with the phone. Work was calling. He got to the high school a half hour later and found a dead body. Jayson Aaron. Danny knew him in a roundabout way, his mother took him to the same church that Danny's family went to. Danny hadn't thought of him as a person. That was the key to keeping sane in a job like this. Even though another young black man from Norman was dead, he had to treat it dispassionately. Danny and Echols worked the scene, talked to witnesses, even went to the hospital and talked to the boy closest to the shooting.

Antwan Dixon hadn't had much to say, but who the hell could blame him? He'd watched his best friend die. By all eyewitness accounts, the boy saved Antwan's life by putting himself between Antwan and the shooter. Danny didn't want to bring it up with the boy. He could tell Antwan was playing the event over and over again in his mind. There was no insight to be gleaned by having him go over it again.

He and Echols were getting ready to try and compile what they knew about their suspect when Jean at the sheriff's department called Echols. The shooter turned himself in just a few hours after killing Jayson. Echols spent the rest of the night taking down the kid's statement while Danny tried to find Jayson's momma. He finally got in touch with her at eight this morning. She was out of town with her sisters in Charlotte. Danny had done so many death notifications over the years that he'd lost count, but Alicia Aaron followed the usual pattern of denial followed by complete mental breakdown. This was the second man she lost after Albert, Jayson's father and her husband, died of a heart attack six years ago. The boy was their only son and now she was completely alone.

That phone call nearly drove Danny over the edge because, as he heard Alicia's sobs, he pictured his own wife's breakdown if something ever happened to DJ. Not if, but more like when. If a good boy like Jayson could get gunned down, DJ didn't have a chance. Danny and Lesa both knew that, but they never talked about DJ anymore. It was like their only son just dropped off the face of the earth ever since that night he moved out of their house. He only lived three blocks away from their house, but Danny went out of his way to never run into the man who had his name.

Danny thought about finding DJ sprawled on the ground one night, bullets riddled in his body. The last thing he said to DJ when they last spoke was to get the fuck out of his house with that goddamn drug money. He bellowed that no son of his would help destroy this town and this community. He almost arrested him right there, but DJ ran out of the house and out of Danny's life that night.

Parked near the front of the grocery store was DJ's black Caprice. He worked here as a bagger, at least on paper. No way in hell a bag boy could afford that tricked out car, those name brand clothes, and that expensive furniture Danny saw movers moving into DJ's house. The Brown from Brown's Grocery came from DJ's real boss, the son of a bitch nobody ever seemed to want to talk about. Danny and Lesa always went out of town to do their grocery shopping, just on the off chance they ran into DJ inside.

The shit with Jayson's shooting made Danny want to go inside, find his boy, and wrap him in a big hug. He wanted to say he was sorry for driving him away, sorry that he had pushed him into the arms of Billy Brown, and he just wanted him to be safe and happy. That's what he wanted to say. He knew he'd never do it. He wasn't that type of father. Hugging and declarations of love were not his style, no matter how bad he wanted it to be.

His phone vibrating snapped him out of his thoughts. He collected himself before answering.

"This is Johnson."

"Danny, it's Scott."

"What's up, Major?"

"Need you to come out to the lake, near Jenkins Mill. We got another dead body, Danny. It's a murder."

Danny said he was on the way and hung up. Two murders within twelve hours of each other wasn't exactly a record in Pickett County, but it was the most the town had seen since those violent days back in the 80's, when the man Danny's son looked up to killed so many people, the creeks and river seemed to flow red with blood.

He cast one last look back at DJ's car before he started up his unmarked and pulled out the parking lot.