Byrd Man

Marvel Knights

Part 2:
"Redbone"

Harlem
2:14 AM

Mood Music

Detective Thomas "Red" Malone limped down the hallway of his brownstone, one hand against the wall while the other hand gripped his service glock. He was too afraid to put weight on his left leg. He knew it was broken, at least in two places. Blood dripped down the open wound on his forehead and the wounds on his chest and made the floor slick as he tried to walk across it barefooted.

He had been getting ready for bed when the bedroom door flew open and a man came in. The son of a bitch had a knife in one hand and used it like he knew what the fuck he was doing. Malone managed to get to his gun, but not before taking at least a half dozen stab wounds to the torso, neck, and face. The sight of the gun made the fucker retreat, but not before delivering a crushing kick to Malone's leg. He heard the bone snap, felt the pain so intense he almost vomited right then and there. Malone fell back on the bed screaming while the attacker disappeared further into the house.

Malone looked through his nightstand for a his phone, but it was nowhere to be found. He still had a landline down the hall that he could use to call 911 and then Abbott and the rest of the crew. If he could get to the phone then he would be safe. Malone slipped against his own blood and managed to catch himself before he put any more weight on his broken leg. When he was sure he was steady, he looked up and saw the attacker in the hallway. It was dim, but he could see the glint of a giant hunting knife in the man's hand. Malone raised his glock at the same time the man flicked his wrist. Suddenly, a great searing pain shot through Malone's chest. He looked down and saw the knife embedded in his chest, all the way to the hilt. The shock of it made him put weight on his leg and slip on the blood.

The pain and lack of attraction sent Malone down the ground, flat on his back. The fall knocked his breath from him and he gasped before coughing, phlegm and blood spraying from his mouth. Malone could feel the knife in his chest bob up and down with every breath. The attacker stood over him and looked down. There was no look of sadness, anger, or joy on the man's face. To Malone, he looked like a landscaper in the middle of mowing a lawn. The man yanked the knife from Malone's chest, causing pain to shoot through his body as blood poured from the wound.

"The only comfort I have," the man said softly. "Is in a few minutes, you'll never feel anything again."

Malone let out a scream as the man came at his face with the knife.

----

Forty-Five Minutes Earlier

Bullseye sat in his car, parked down at the end of the block from Detective Malone's house. Soul and classic R&B played on the car radio while he flipped through Malone's NYPD service jacket. Whoever hired him for the job had deep connections within the NYPD. Along with Malone's jacket, he had the jackets of the rest of the five-man squad, and a separate folder from Internal Affairs.

The Uptown Narcotics Task Force operated autonomously from any one NYPD precinct and their mandate was to stomp out major drug traffickers in Harlem, Spanish Harlem, and Washington Heights. So far they had arrested a few, but the IA folder made a compelling case that the task force ended up replacing the dealers with themselves. They were accused to skimming drug money, extorting drug dealers, and selling confiscated narcotics back to the dealers at marked up prices. IA's case was just speculation and innuendo. Nothing concrete had ever emerged. The one thing apparent was that Detective Sergeant Vincent Abbott ran the show for both the legal and illegal activities the task force engaged in.

The Crystals played "And Then He Kissed Me" on the radio by the time Bullseye started on Malone's service jacket. Abbott would have been the easy choice for a first target. As the brains of the operation, taking him out would be a sound move. Like in the military, kill the officers first to create confusion among the men in battle. But Bullseye had learned another way to operate during black ops. Malone wasn't the brains, but he was the heart of the team. The Big Man, they called him in the IA file. He was big and had a temper on him. He was suspended once when another black officer called him a "redboned nigger" and he beat him to a pulp. Malone acted as Abbott's enforcer when needed and he kept the other men in line if any of them started to question their mission. He was lovable and well liked by everyone on the team. Killing him first would sew fear and dissent in the team. Not the same as taking Abbott out, but maybe more effective.

Wilson Pickett started singing about Mustang Sally when Bullseye killed the engine of his car and stepped out into the night. He carried to guns, just the hunting knife holstered on his hip. That's all he would need. He took a deep breath and crossed the street towards Malone's brownstone.

---

Harlem
4:43 AM

Vince Abbott looked at the crime scene and tried his best not to throw up. The body of Malone -- The goddamn Big Man himself -- sat slumped against the wall with a pool of blood around him. His white undershirt and underwear was stained in blood and shredded from cuts. A giant gash in his chest still dripped blood. Abbott had begged for them to throw a tarp over his body, cover it in some way, but they refused. They needed to take pictures and collect evidence.

Abbott's eyes shifted upward. On the wall above Malone's head were words written in blood, Malone's blood.

"1 Down 4 to Go"

Abbott turned away from the scene and hurried out. The rest of the guys were out there, waiting for him to give the bad news. He pulled out a cigarette with shaking hands and tried four times to light it before it finally caught.

"Nobody goes home and nobody sleeps until this is over," Abbott announced. "Now mount up. We're about to fucking remind Uptown New York who the fuck we are."

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

December, 1956
Washington D.C.

Alexander Roy turned the collar of his coat up to keep rain away. He stood out of the Occidental Grill and tried to flag a cab down. He regretted not taking an umbrella with him to the dinner interview. It had been an interesting experience with the senator-elect. Eric Fernandez had a lot of ideas, most of them progressive but plenty of them ambitious. It was clear he saw a bright political future for himself. And he was asking for Alex's help to make it come true.

A taxi sped by, ignoring Alex's frantic gesture. He cursed and turned to head back into the restaurant when a black limousine pulled the curb. Alex looked at it while a dark tinted window slowly rolled down. Jim Sledge's doughy face stared back at him with a grin.

"Mr. Roy, need a lift?"

Alex climbed into the car, thanking Sledge as he did. He gave a slight start as he saw someone sitting in the rear facing seat of the limousine. He'd seen him before, of course, stalking through the capitol on the way to the Senate even before the election. But Alex had never been this close to Russell Reed.

"Hello, Alex," the vice president-elect said with a warm handshake.

"Mr. Vice President," Alex managed to say. "Congratulations on the election."

"We did what we could," said Reed. "We were helped by a less than stellar opposition, though. Congratulations to you and Congressman Hayes as well, Alex. Tennessee is well-served by Hayes."

"Like Wisconsin will be well-served by Eric Fernandez," Sledge said slyly.

Alex coughed and adjusted his tie while both Sledge and Reed shared a smile and a look.

"Don't worry, Alex," Reed said with a pat on his knee. "Washington is full of gossip, but Jim and I know how to keep a secret. Will is going to be crushed by you leaving him, but I get it."

"Hayes is content to keep being reelected by the people in his district," said Sledge. "You're not going to get anywhere being his chief of staff. Eric Fernandez, on the other hand? Ambitious. Just as you."

"Stoke that ambition," said Reed. "Make him look beyond the Senate to something higher, something that could easily be in his grasp."

Alex furrowed his brow and looked between the two men. "Why?"

"Trust me," said Reed. "Just work with Fernandez over the next few years, get him thinking even bigger than he already is, and work like hell for him. You won't be talking to me much, Jim here will be point of contact. But, be loyal to him except when we need you be loyal to us. You do that and I'll take you further than Fernandez ever could. All the way to the White House. "

Reed held a hand out for Alex. He looked down at it and thought for a moment. He knew about Reed's reputation on the Hill. Once he got his hooks in someone, then he seemed to have control of their very soul. It was the same way with poor Senator Sanderson and Jim Sledge. They served him without any question like slaves. But then there was the trade-off. Sanderson was a senator now, and Sledge was one of the most powerful in the party simply because Reed said so.

Alex shook Reed's hand and nodded.

"Whatever you need, sir."

"Good." The warmth that had been on the vice president-elect's face vanished. "Jim will be in touch. Now, get out the car and get to work."

---

Present Day
Los Angeles

Baxter Hotel
3:31 AM

Alex watched Eric Fernandez snoring on his bed. They'd had a few drinks to celebrate the deadlock at the convention, but too many. Eric wanted to be awake and sober when the inevitable wheeling and dealing started. He expected the calls to be coming and going from his hotel room to the other bosses, horse-trading and arguing his case as to why he was a better choice for the nomination. So he had asked for water to be generously applied to the drinks Alex was fixing.

After the fourth drink he was drunk. After the sixth he was out. Eric was a lightweight when it came to drinking. That's why Alex lied about watering it down. He knew that for the next part to work for Reed, Eric needed to be out of the picture. Alex sat down on his bed and watched his friend and employer snore heavily. He had a drink in his hand, his seventh so far. He was drunk, but nowhere near close to passing out. He wondered if that was a good or bad thing? Was he drinking in celebration for having pulled off all that the vice president had asked of him, or was he drowning his sorrows over betraying a friend.

"Don't worry," Alex mumbled into his drink. "There's always '68."

---

7:30 AM

"I just don't want to nominate a guy who is gonna lose," Lennie Parrish growled. "I don't give a fuck if he's president or not. Give me someone who can win."

"And the junior senator from Wisconsin is a winner?" Walter Babbit asked before scoffing. "He was the goddamn mayor of Green Bay before he was a senator, and that was four years ago."

"And I don't know if I like that name of his," Wilbur Helms said from his wheelchair. "It don't sound American to have a President Fernandez."

From his seat at the big table, Big Jim Dwyer took it all in while his feet failed to touch the floor. The bosses were just as deadlocked as the delegates. The Norman camp was fiercely entrenched, as were those that supported Fernandez. The president had the power of the incumbent, but he was too unlikable and his administration unpopular. Fernandez was an outsider, yes, but a political naif and idealists. Besides, his policies were too liberal for some. Big Jim glanced over to the corner where Vice President Reed and Jim Sledge sat. So far, neither men had much to contribute. Russell had delivered a few opinions on Norman's ability to win, but they seemed little more than platitudes.

Big Jim finally spoke. "Okay, so let's recap. What we need is an experienced politician, one who is still a conservative. One who has name recognition and incumbency value, but not the president himself?"

Big Jim saw Sledge and Charlie Ricketts exchange looks. There seem to be a nod that was almost undetectable from Sledge. With a gleam in his eye, Ricketts spoke the words he'd been waiting almost four hours to say.

"What about Reed?"

Half the men in the room looked stunned. The other half were pretending to be stunned. For his part, Reed stared straight ahead impassively. One man who was so shocked he seemed to be on the verge of tears was Wilbur Helms.

"By god, I never thought of Russ. It's perfect!"

"He's a southerner," said AJ Patterson. "There's stigma there."

"He is a southerner," Jim Sledge said. "One who spent the war in a federal prison with the rest of the House of Representatives. He suffered more than most during those years."

"He's also in the room," Russell said loudly. "And capable of talking to you.

"You're tied to the administration, yes," Ricketts said with a look towards Reed. "But almost all the unpopular stuff you were nowhere near. We can distance you more and more from it as we start to campaign."

"Russell Reed as our candidate," Walter Babbit said with a shake of his head.

"It's not that crazy," Parrish said. He looked over at Reed. "You ran strong in the '56 convention."

"The convention isn't the same as the general," replied Patterson. "We haven't had a southern president, a true southerner since I don't count Wilson, since before the first civil war."

"Can I say a few words?"

All eyes turned to Reed. He now stood and walked towards the big table slowly and hunched over, like a jungle cat would approach its prey.

"I almost won the nomination in '56. When I didn't it hurt like hell. It hurt even worse to take the VP spot on the ticket. It embarrassed me to take such a meaningless office as a consolation prize, but I smiled and took it. For the good of the party. And then I got to work, both to elect the president in '56 and myself in '60. Four years of plotting, of working with political machines and carefully curating my image as vice president. Showing the world that I had power and experience, but not enough to tie me to the president's more horrible decisions. I took advantage of the president's unpopularity, the overlapping interests of the bosses, and the political ambitions of the next generation of politicians. I planted the seeds of doubt in the president's mind about his reelection chances and got him desperate, I advised him the only way to get the party bosses on his side was to antagonize them and challenge them. I convinced dark horse candidates they had a shot, convinced party leaders to back the dark horses, and drove wedges through the party's entire united front. This convention was a mess, a deadlock. It was a complete clusterfuck, by my design. But that perfect storm of self-interest, one that destroyed the president's chances of being reelected, created a hole just big enough for me to squeeze through."

"Jesus Christ, Russ." Parrish said. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"I destroyed our party's convention to get me nominated," Reed said with a gleam in his eye. "Just think what I'll do to the Republicans with the election on the line?"

The bosses all looked around the table at each other. For some, like Parrish and Patterson, they were stunned to hear the admission. But Big Jim knew this was coming. He knew ever since Ricketts approached him with Reed's offer. His support in exchange for a Reed-Kane ticket in the fall.

"Let's go with Russell," Big Jim said. "He's just proven how much of a bastard he is. But, at least he's our bastard."

"Fuck it," said Patterson. "Let's go with him. If he loses the general... well, there's always '64."

---

11:25 AM

"How does Wisconsin vote?"

"The great state of Wisconsin cast all its votes for Vice President Russell Reed!"

From his box, Russell watched the votes pour in. A smile worked itself on to his face. He thought back once again to his childhood in Georgia, being the town laughingstock. He had been embarrassed back then and worked hard to be somebody, worked so hard to go to college and law school that he barely had time to eat or sleep. That need to be somebody drove him to the point of collapse and exhaustion. Four years ago, he had received a national embarrassment. And now, after four years of late nights and cross-country travels and almost no sleep, here he was.

"The great state of Wyoming cast all its votes for Vice President Russell Reed."

The phone began to ring. The one with the direct line to Washington. Russell picked it up and answered it.

"Russell...."

He sounded scary. It wasn't that he was angry. It was that he didn't sound like anything, like he was devoid of emotions all together. Russell was glad he wasn't crying. Although, crying would be better than whatever he was at the moment. But he could still savor his victory.

"Mr. President," said Russell. "I've wanted to say this to you for over four years now...."

He trailed off as Clay Foulke banged his gavel to bring the convention to order. Once there was calm, he spoke.

"It is my pleasure to announce the unanimous choice for the Democratic Party's nominee for president will be Russell Rutherford Reed!"

Russell laughed and held the phone up close to his mouth. "I have an acceptance speech to make. Go fuck yourself."

He slammed the phone down and started his victory march to the stage.

Marvel Knights

Part 1:
"Gimme the Loot"

Spanish Harlem
10:58 PM

"Up against the wall, fuck faces."

Detective Sergeant Vincent Abbott walked up and down the sidewalk, strutting almost. On the wall to his left were over a dozen drug dealers with their hands against the wall, all of their pants were down around their ankles. Some of them were as young as twelve, but none of them were older than eighteen. A pile of small pile of drugs, money, and weapons sat on the sidewalk. The rest of Abbott's five-man narco crew looked on with guns in their hands and amused looks on their faces. The big man Malone had a sawed-off shotgun cradled in his hands.

"We rolled through last night but it seemed like you didn't get the message. So, let me be clear."

Abbott pulled a telescopic nightstick out and popped it open. He walked down the line, hitting each of the boys in the back of their kneecaps. One by one, they all went down to their knees in pain. Abbott spoke as he struck.

"If. We. Don't. Eat. Nobody. Fuckin'. Eats."

Abbott twirled the nightstick in his long, slender fingers as he looked down at the hurting men.

"Either your boss bumps our monthly envelope by twenty percent, or every fucking corner he has in Spanish Harlem and nigger Harlem gets raided and indicted every night."

"It's a small price to pay for peace of mind," Malone said before laughing and adding, "Peace of mind and intact kneecaps."

Abbott laughed and bent down over the pile of contraband. He pocketed the cash and drugs before standing to look at the injured kids.

"Look at all these weapons," he said to his men. "Seems like enough probable cause to run these fuckers in."

---

Harlem
1:21 AM

Mood Music

Hip-hop blasted from the bluetooth speaker set up on the table. Naked women moved to the beat as they cut and packaged drugs into little baggies. They weren't completely naked. Topless and bottomless, yes, but they all wore rubber gloves and surgical masks. At one large table, six women packaged cocaine while six more packaged heroin at an adjacent table. They were naked to prevent any stealing. Though, each of them were illegal immigrants and had too much to lose by skimming any of the top. Raymond Jones watched the girls working from the landing above the floor.

He grunted and cracked his knuckles. He always cracked his knuckles when he contemplated and he had a lot to think about. One of his partners had just called with bad news. They'd lost a lot of product tonight, but that wasn't the problem. Product that they could eventually replace. Shit, the girls on the floor were busy doing that. But they had also lost respect. Respect couldn't be replaced as easily. Jones knew that the hard way from his days on the street. He'd been scrawny with a mouthful of rotting teeth.

He'd been an easy target growing up, they called him Shitmouth and made him eat dog shit. But he got big, he got mean, and he got a new set of teeth. He fought back with his fists and his teeth. He showed them by force to put respect on his name. But the motherfuckers disrespecting him now? That was a different case. They had no respect for the streets or the game. All they cared about was paper. But they were cops. And even thieving ass cops were still cops.

Jones pulled his phone out and dialed his partner back.

"Yo, it's me. How much you got in your rainy day fund?"

He smiled, showing two rows of razor-sharp, metal teeth that shinned in the trap house light.

"Why? Because I got an idea."

---

Bushwick, Brooklyn
1:46 AM

"Language like muttering pant smells running silver scanning

Passed down the Arab Street in the gutter patterns

Translucent medium from its like i talky you of a place

the vacuum of silent panic forgotten red mud flats

sharp fish syllables where is he now? he moved as sharp as water

assassins smile and drink--"

Bullseye left the coffee shop, fighting an urge to kill the guy reading poetry on the stage. Bushwick was a different beast than he remembered it being. He'd moved here in hopes that it was still the crime-ridden hellhole from his youth. The neighborhood that clocked in almost eighty murders and two thousand robberies a year. He was looking forward to being accosted by some crackhead with a dull rusty knife, someone he could kill with a quick move and move on.

But what he had found was far worse than crackheads. Bullseye had found hipsters. Crack had given way to kale, whores to gluten-free wheat germ. Property values were through the roof and it was artisan bakeries as far as the eye could see. He passed a group of young men and women wearing skinny jeans, flannel, and those stupid as fuck eyeglasses without any lenses in them. Bullseye reached into his jacket pocket and touched the razor-sharp playing cards he kept there. It would be the easiest thing in the world, a quick flick of the wrist, and they would all drop to the ground.

That was when his phone rang. He stopped short and watched the hipsters pass by. The phone ringing meant there was a job offer. Nobody else had his phone number. He pulled it out and looked at the number with the Jersey area code before answering.

"Yeah?"

"It's me." The man on the other end was a lawyer and a go-between that fancied himself as a kind of criminal broker. "I got a job offer but it's risky."

"How so?"

"It involves cops. As in, cops are the target. But money wise it's worth the trouble."

Bullseye paused for a moment and thought back to the poetry of the coffeehouse.

"To get out of Bushwick I'd do it for free."

Marvel Knights

So... this would be a replacement for White Tiger. Talked it over with EE.

MARVEL KNIGHTS OF NEW YORK

Bullseye

“This violent state of mind.
This violent state of mine.”
-- Don Winslow

CHARACTER BIO:

Real Name: "Lester"

Age: Mid to late 30's

Gender: Male

Powers, Abilities, and Gear:

No powers. Bullseye is one of the most deadly assassin's in the world. An expert in combat, he is a master with almost any form of weapon, from conventional firearms to edged and throwing weapons. He's even an expert in creating and using improvised weapons.

Origin:

Bullseye true origin is mysterious and unknown. His early life is a mystery. After dropping out of high school, he enlisted in the Army and was soon drafted into special forces. He became a Green Beret just as the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were heating up. He worked countless black operation across the two countries in the mid 2000's. Eventually he retired from the military to become a contract employee of the CIA. He traveled across the world, killing and causing mayhem on Uncle Sam's tab.

In late 2009, Bullseye and three other CIA contractors entered a village in Northeast Afghanistan on a mission to eliminate a Taliban leader. Things got out of hand and the entire village was wiped out by the four men. Bullseye's employment was terminated and the event was silently covered up by US authorities. Returning back to the states, he didn't have to wait long until he was contacted by the shadowy criminal underworld. They were desperate for the services of a man like him, a man who could kill. Now he works as a gun for hire. If it absolutely, positively needs to be killed as soon as possible then accept no substitutes.

STORY INFO:

High Concept:

I want to tell hard-boiled crime type stories in the a superhero setting. My biggest influences are Richard Stark's Parker, Max Allan Collins' Quarry, and Lawrence Quarry's Keller. All three are criminals with one-named alias, all three are pros who know how to get the job done. One of the things I like about comics is when a series has a villain protagonist. It's fun to be bad.

Motivation and Conflict:

Bullseye is motivated by money. A true mercenary, he works for the highest bidder and sees a job through. Bullseye does what he does because he's good at it, and when you're good at it you have to take pride in it. He seems himself as a professional and will not hesitate to kill anybody he sees as an amateur, sloppy, or untrustworthy.

PLAYER INFO:

Player Name: Byrd Man

Preferred Contact Method: Discord/PM

Why This Character?: We need a bad guy, and I'm happy to oblige.

What Can You Bring to the RPG?: Things 'n stuff.

Marvel Knights

Blame Chris Priest.

Marvel Knights

MARVEL KNIGHTS OF NEW YORK

The White Tiger

“I think of crime when I'm in a New York state of mind.”
― Nas

CHARACTER BIO:

Real Name: Kevin "Kasper" Cole

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Powers, Abilities, and Gear:

Through imbibing a synthetic drug that mimics a Wakandan herb, Kasper has peak human strength, speed, and agility. In addition, he is a trained law enforcement officer who has experience with armed and unarmed combat. His White Tiger outfit is a repurposed Black Panther suit. Vibranium is weaved through it, rendering it nigh indestructible and allowing his claws to cut through every known metal. In addition, he wields a pair of 9MM pistols loaded with non-lethal gel bullets.

Origin:

Officer Kevin "Kasper" Cole is an NYPD narcotics detective, the son of "Black Jack" Cole, former corrupt cop now in prison. During an investigation into a Manhattan gang, the ambitious Kasper took things too far. Stealing a Black Panther suit from one of the king's NYPD allies, Kasper raided the gang's cook site and ended up crossing paths with T'Challa, the Black Panther, and his adopted brother, Hunter the White Wolf. Caught in the middle of a power struggle he didn't understand, Kasper helped Black Panther defeat White Wolf and the street gang he was backing.

During the fight, Kasper was thrown into the chemistry lab by White Wolf and doused in chemicals. Afterwards, both Kasper and T'Challa realized the chemicals were a synthetic substitute for Wakanda's famous heart-shaped herb, the one members of the royal family consume in order to have the abilities of the Black Panther.

Now, Detective Kasper Cole works downtown as a member of the NYPD's Organized Crime Squad, a five-man unit that makes major cases on all the city's underworld organizations. In addition to his work as a cop, he continues to moonlight as a vigilante. While Wakanda has the Black Panther, New York has the White Tiger.

STORY INFO:

High Concept:

I want to do cops and criminals and capes. Three things I love, and three things that taste great together. Potential story idea:

Big Trouble in Little Mogadishu

The OCS turns their attention to a Brooklyn neighborhood nicknamed Little Mogadishu. The nickname is appropriate as it is a viper's nest of criminal organizations, drug dealers who style themselves as warlords, and feudal territories. As the team monitor the situation, Kasper grows impatient. As White Tiger, he enters the fray as a catalyst to an already tense situation. War breaks out on all sides and Kasper has to navigate the shifting landscape of grudges and alliances in order to stay alive.

Motivation and Conflict:

Kasper is motivated by his ambition. As the son of a disgraced cop, he wants to surpass his father and be known as more than Black Jack's son. White Tiger is essentially a means to achieve that. His activities are supplemental to his work as a cop. He's not out there taking cats out of trees or running into burning buildings. He's circumventing the law as White Tiger in order to arrest criminals as Kasper Cole. As far as conflicts, he is about as impulsive as you'd expect from a man who beats up criminals in a costume. He often gets knee deep in the shit by his rash actions.

Notes:

NPCS:

Lieutenant Francis Tork -- Supervisor of the OCS and Kasper's boss.
Detective Sergeant Jean DeWolff -- Brilliant, chain-smoking cop, second in command of OCS.
Officer Denzel "Daz" Pierce -- OCS muscle, smart and tough.
Officer Vin Gonzales -- Ambitious cop and newest member of the OCD.
Jon "Black Jack" Cole -- Imprisoned former NYPD officer.

PLAYER INFO:

Player Name: Byrd Man

Preferred Contact Method: Discord/PM

Why This Character?: It's in my wheel house, but not the same old same old Marvel character I opt for (See Luke Cage, DD, Punisher.)

What Can You Bring to the RPG?:

Nachos.

Marvel Knights

MARVEL KNIGHTS OF NEW YORK

The White Tiger

“I think of crime when I'm in a New York state of mind.”
― Nas

CHARACTER BIO:

Real Name: Kevin "Kasper" Cole

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Powers, Abilities, and Gear:

Through imbibing a synthetic drug that mimics a Wakandan herb, Kasper has peak human strength, speed, and agility. In addition, he is a trained law enforcement officer who has experience with armed and unarmed combat. His White Tiger outfit is a repurposed Black Panther suit. Vibranium is weaved through it, rendering it nigh indestructible and allowing his claws to cut through every known metal. In addition, he wields a pair of 9MM pistols loaded with non-lethal gel bullets.

Origin:

Officer Kevin "Kasper" Cole is an NYPD narcotics detective, the son of "Black Jack" Cole, former corrupt cop now in prison. During an investigation into a Manhattan gang, the ambitious Kasper took things too far. Stealing a Black Panther suit from one of the king's NYPD allies, Kasper raided the gang's cook site and ended up crossing paths with T'Challa, the Black Panther, and his adopted brother, Hunter the White Wolf. Caught in the middle of a power struggle he didn't understand, Kasper helped Black Panther defeat White Wolf and the street gang he was backing.

During the fight, Kasper was thrown into the chemistry lab by White Wolf and doused in chemicals. Afterwards, both Kasper and T'Challa realized the chemicals were a synthetic substitute for Wakanda's famous heart-shaped herb, the one members of the royal family consume in order to have the abilities of the Black Panther.

Now, Detective Kasper Cole works downtown as a member of the NYPD's Organized Crime Squad, a five-man unit that makes major cases on all the city's underworld organizations. In addition to his work as a cop, he continues to moonlight as a vigilante. While Wakanda has the Black Panther, New York has the White Tiger.

STORY INFO:

High Concept:

I want to do cops and criminals and capes. Three things I love, and three things that taste great together. Potential story idea:

Big Trouble in Little Mogadishu

The OCS turns their attention to a Brooklyn neighborhood nicknamed Little Mogadishu. The nickname is appropriate as it is a viper's nest of criminal organizations, drug dealers who style themselves as warlords, and feudal territories. As the team monitor the situation, Kasper grows impatient. As White Tiger, he enters the fray as a catalyst to an already tense situation. War breaks out on all sides and Kasper has to navigate the shifting landscape of grudges and alliances in order to stay alive.

Motivation and Conflict:

Kasper is motivated by his ambition. As the son of a disgraced cop, he wants to surpass his father and be known as more than Black Jack's son. White Tiger is essentially a means to achieve that. His activities are supplemental to his work as a cop. He's not out there taking cats out of trees or running into burning buildings. He's circumventing the law as White Tiger in order to arrest criminals as Kasper Cole. As far as conflicts, he is about as impulsive as you'd expect from a man who beats up criminals in a costume. He often gets knee deep in the shit by his rash actions.

Notes:

NPCS:

Lieutenant Francis Tork -- Supervisor of the OCS and Kasper's boss.
Detective Sergeant Jean DeWolff -- Brilliant, chain-smoking cop, second in command of OCS.
Officer Denzel "Daz" Pierce -- OCS muscle, smart and tough.
Officer Vin Gonzales -- Ambitious cop and newest member of the OCD.
Jon "Black Jack" Cole -- Imprisoned former NYPD officer.

PLAYER INFO:

Player Name: Byrd Man

Preferred Contact Method: Discord/PM

Why This Character?: It's in my wheel house, but not the same old same old Marvel character I opt for (See Luke Cage, DD, Punisher.)

What Can You Bring to the RPG?:

Nachos.

Marvel Knights

Fuck y'all. I want join, but I don't want to put out an inferior product like I did last go 'round.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Arizona

Yucca
4:10 PM

Little Walter was fuming. The gas tank of his chopper had a giant scratch all the way down it, ruining the black finish he had worked so hard to keep immaculate. He sighed as he looked at it. Compared to the others, he'd gotten off easy. Otter's hog had its back wheel warped, the ape hangers on Curly Joe's bike were so concave they touched.

Walter had been relaxing at the bar in the clubhouse, polishing off the first beer to start the day, when he heard that god awful crashing noise outside. He and Pagan were the first two out, looking on in horror at the site of their wrecked bikes. A black car with a rag top sped off from the clubhouse back towards town. He managed to catch a glimpse of a man's dark head of hair behind the wheel of the car.

It took a few minutes to get the rest of the guys up, some of them still hungover from the night before. As soon as the damage to their bikes were mentioned they were wide awake. Now Walter and the rest were surveying the damage. Pagan looked the saddest of them all. But that was to be expected. His chopper had the most damage to it. The only thing to do to it would be to gut the engine out and start over with a new frame. Even now Pagan squatted over his bike, trying his best to hide his tears.

What the fuck was going on, Walter thought to himself. They were Highway Rangers, not Girl Scouts. The meanest, baddest sons of bitches this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. They didn't cry. They made people cry.

"Corporal Paige," Walter snapped. The whole group turned to look at him. Real names were rarely used, and their ranks from the war were used only when shit got serious. It had its effect, as Pagan stood at attention. His eyes were red, but there was no trace of tears.

"Do you want to get mad, or do you want to get even?" Walter asked.

Pagan's voice cracked as he spoke. "Even, Sergeant Hill."

"Good." Walter spat on the ground. "Anybody who got their bike totaled, double up with someone else. Won't hurt you to ride bitch for a little bit. Anybody else, if your bike is ride-able then ride it. We're going to find the son of bitch who did this. For every scratch, that's a cut on his chest. For every dent, that's a bone we break. For every bike he destroyed, that's a finger we cut off. Let's go."

The gang let out whoops and cheers as they started to mount their bikes. Four of the bikers climbed on to the back seat of one of their counterparts. Walter let Pagan ride on the back of his. He started his up with a roar and looked at the others.

"Hey, hey, hey," Walter called out over the noise of the engines. "I was born a rebel, down in Dixie on a Sunday morning."

"One foot in the grave, one foot on the pedal, I was born a rebel," the rest of the group called back.

Walter let out a rebel yell and hit the gas, the bike spinning in the gravel a few seconds before it roared across the parking lot and onto the highway towards town. Pagan held on tightly as the rest of the gang following behind him in formation.

---

4:23 PM

Johnny Leggario was only one of two customers in Mabel's Diner. He sat at the counter and nursed a cup of coffee while a burly man in overalls slurped down a bowl of chill. The chill was advertised on the sign out front of Mabel's as the best in the state. Johnny had no desire for food at the moment. He only bought the coffee so they wouldn't try to give him grief about loitering. Even now, the bony looking waitress at the far end of the counter watched him warily, hoping he'd buy something else. She was probably the titular Mabel.

He was really here for the payphone at the back near the corner booths. It'd cost almost a buck to place all the calls he'd needed. From Sun City, to Phoenix, back to Sun City, and then Phoenix one more time. He was waiting for one last call from Phoenix to close up his business. Kick in the dime for the cup of coffee and he'd be out a dollar and five cents for this little endeavor.

The idea came to him after he hauled ass away from the Highway Rangers' clubhouse. He needed to do more than penny ante shit like smacking into their bikes. He needed real muscle. So far the state was powerless to do anything about these rednecks who were terrorizing a town, terrorizing this half of the state pretty much. Yucca had no standing police force since it wasn't an incorporated town. Either through bribery or sympathy, the autonomous Mohave County Sheriff's Department seemed to turn a blind eye to it all. With no state police force, Arizona had no real means to actively stomp these bastards out. But then he started thinking about Arizona's old west past and it hit him like a bolt of lighting.

The payphone began to ring. Johnny stood up, ignoring the looks from the man eating chili and the waitress, and picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

"This is Johnny."

"Mr. Leggario? This is Governor Steiss."

"Pleasure to talk to you, governor."

"Wish I could say the goddamn same," he spat. "I don't know who the hell you are, but half the State House and almost all my major donators seem to know you."

"I have a lot of friends," Johnny said nonchalantly. "Friends with influence and money."

"Well, it's because of those friends I am allowing this half-crazed idea. It also helps that another chapter of these biker gangs got into some deep shit in Nevada and the federal government is thinking of intervening. So doing this makes me look good, like I'm getting out in front of the issue. Johnny, have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

"Not in Arizona."

"Goddammit... I guess that'll work. You raising your right hand?"

"Sure am," he lied.

"Do you swear to uphold the laws and Constitution of both the United States of America, and the state of Arizona?"

"I do," he lied again.

"Then by the power invested in me by the people of the state of Arizona, I declare you an Arizona Ranger. A courier will be sending you paperwork and identification shortly. Don't make me look bad."

Just like that the line went dead. Johnny smiled to himself as he put the phone back on the hook. The Arizona Rangers had been disbanded after the territory had been declared a US state in 1909. Like their counterparts in Texas, they had a broad mandate to stop crimes across the state.

And now Johnny was the first Ranger in over fifty years. He could hear Frenchie already laughing about it when he found out. A wop cowboy, he would say with tears in his eyes. What's your name, Johnny, The Ragu Kid?! Johnny laughed to himself as he walked by the counter, placing a quarter beside the empty coffee cup he had used,and kept walking outside. He crossed the dirt parking lot towards his car and stopped as he heard the sound of approaching motorcycle engines. Johnny quickly walked across the parking lot to his convertible and opened the trunk of his car. He came out with a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

LA Convention Complex
7:45 PM

"How does Georgia vote?"

"Georgia delegates cast all their votes for Michael Norman!"

The USC marching band fired up its rendition of "Hail to the Chief." They played it every time Norman won a state's votes. So far, the band had been busy but not overwhelmed. Eric Fernandez kept a running tally in his head. Norman was out to an early lead. Rick Marshall was second only because of how many delegates California had. Eric had only twenty-four votes to his name, all of them from Connecticut. That was at least reassuring. Big Jim seemed to be keeping up his end of the bargain.

"Norman gets Idaho," Alex Roy said from beside Eric, while the band kicked up "Hail to the Chief" once again. "No surprise there."

"How does Illinois vote?"

On the floor, Mayor Charlie Ricketts stood and basked in all the attention. He gave a big smile and milked the moment for all it was worth. "The great state of Illinois, of which I am honored to speak on its behalf, have decided that it will cast all its votes for our next president, ERIC FERNANDEZ!"

The decision caused both Eric and Roy to sit in their seats and look at each other.

"Illinois has a lot of votes," said Roy. "Not as many as California, or New York..."

"But just enough," Eric said with a smile. He could feel his pulse quickening "I think we're going to do this. At least on the first ballot. Enough to give us some momentum to carry us into the second ballot."

The two men traded quick handshakes and pats on the back. Eric felt the votes from Illinois had been a shot in the arm to his chances. There would be a second ballot thanks to Eric and all the favorite son candidates. They'd defied the president and denied him, at least temporarily, the nomination he so desired. The only thing lingering in the back of Eric's mind was why? Why had Ricketts and Illinois went to him when he had made it clear that he wasn't prepared to horse trade or outright buy their votes. Something or someone had changed their minds. And the only thing Eric knew was that it wasn't his doing.

---

8 PM

"Wyoming casts all of its votes for Michael Norman."

Frenchie Gallo didn't even have to do the math to know the president hadn't won the nomination. He could see it in the posture of everyone in the private booth. They were all hunched over, refusing to make eye contact with each other. The booth was packed with guys like him. Not pols by trade, but political movers and shakers by virtue of glad-handing and trading favors. Every one of them were Norman supporters, and now everyone of them looked like someone had shit in their shoes.

Foulke read off the tabulations from the dais above the floor. The president squeaked out a simple majority of the votes, but Fernandez had stolen roughly forty percent of the vote and caused him to fall short of the required 2/3rds majority. Not just enough to deny the president victory, but enough to give him an actual shot at the nomination. Frenchie chomped down on a cigar in anger. That bastard Ricketts. He had no idea what kind of deal Ricketts managed to cut, but he would make sure to have a talk to Bobby C. after all of this ended. He might have to go to Fortunato and the commission with it, but he wanted to fucking whack Ricketts for this grief. The old men might balk at political assassination, but he knew Johnny Leggario would see to it Ricketts ended up in Lake Michigan as fish food.

"Okay, fuckers," Frenchie said with a start. "Stop moping around and get to work. We all know enough about politics to know what happens next. We all got power and influence of some sort. Let's fucking use it and get our guy elected."

Frenchie waddled across the room and picked up the first phone he could reach. Suddenly, the box around him came to life with the people doing the same. He hadn't won on the first ballot, but the son of a bitch could win on the second if they all got to work.

---

The Baxter Hotel
3:30 AM

"Voting will be suspended for and will resume tomorrow morning at 11 AM for the sixteenth ballot."

Russell heard Foulke's gavel sharply pound through the radio. He and Jim Sledge were the only two in the room. Sledge had his eyes closed as he sat in the chair facing Russell's bed, but Russell knew he was wide awake. They both were, actually. Who could even feel anything close to being tired at a time like this?

"Now is the time," Sledge said, his eyes still shut but no trace of sleepiness in his voice. "Most of the bosses are heading back to the hotel, those that are already here are without a doubt picking a meeting place. We haven't had a deadlocked convention in quite some time, so they're embarrassed and want to end it quickly. I imagine the sixteenth ballot will be the last one. The winner will be picked by them before the sun rises."

Russell nodded. "I expect the phone to ring in about five seconds or so. Three... two..."

One of the phones started to chime. Sledge opened his eyes and smiled at Russell before standing and picking it up.

"Hello?.... Yes.... I see... okay. Yes, we'll be there shortly."

Sledge put the phone back down and looked at Russell.

"They're meeting in Parrish's room. All the bosses, Wilbur Helms, and now us."

Russell nodded and stood. For the first time in years, he thought of his father. Jon Reed had thought of himself as some sort of kingmaker in Northeast Georgia politics. Without the temperament to actually be a politician, he instead relished the role of being the power behind the throne as it were. But then he went bankrupt and became a laughingstock. It forced the Russell family to taking handouts and charity from the people in Lavonia.

When he was sixteen, Russell asked Lori Jo Tyner to the homecoming dance. Her mother and father told her she couldn't, that Russell was no good. They said that no Reed would ever amount to anything. He saw Lori Jo Tyner, now Lori Jo Wilson, when he came through Lavonia during the '56 campaign. She was so fat. Russell chuckled to himself and adjusted his tie before looking over at Sledge.

"How's my hair?"

"Good," said Sledge.

"Then let's go to work."