Byrd Man

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Sep>
My father was/is a police prosecutor

@Hound55

That explains a lot

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

@Hillan You don't remember my incredible run with Bart Allan as Impulse? It lasted all of two posts! For shame, Hillan. I thought you were better than that.

@Retired

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

Maybe something X-related, I'll keep an eye on it and try to decide soon.

@Ruby

Jean Grey or...

...

Jean Grey?

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

Didn't flake out, bitches.

@Simple Unicycle

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

B L A C K P A N T H E R
B L A C K P A N T H E R

Six Months Ago
Sterling, VA

“No running in the house, please,” Everett Ross shouted. His two kids ran past him in a blur of motion and ignored his command. Ross sighed and took a long sip from his coffee cup. They were never like this with their mother. He needed a shot or sixteen of caffeine more than ever today. He'd finally gotten home around three this morning after a long night at Langley writing a report. Now he was due back in at nine to go over that report with the Deputy Director of Intelligence.

Ross was mid sip when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. The caller ID showed it as a blocked number. Not unusual in the spook business. He tried his best to hush his children before giving up and walking into the next room.

“This is Ross.”

“Hello, Agent Ross.”

Ross knew the voice right away. Deep baritone with the accent. It had been a long time since they'd spoken. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“I would ask how you got this number,” Ross said softly. “But I know you. I lost a lot of sleep over you last night, by the way. I had to write a sixteen page report on the updated political situation in Wakanda and neighboring nations.”

“I wish I’d known, but I suppose that comes with the territory as the United States' foremost expert in Wakandan affairs. You know I did what I did for my people and my family, but if I had been told beforehand it would have cost Everett K. Ross to lose a good night’s sleep, maybe I would have reconsidered.”

A silence lingered between the two men, Ross was about to speak before he had his own question answered.

“I’m calling because I need help. Your help.”

“What can I do for you?”

There was no hesitation on Ross' part. Time and time again he had helped and saved Ross when his back was against the wall. He wouldn't be alive today if not for this man.

“I will be arriving in New York City tonight. I need, what is it your people call it? A cover story? New papers and a new name.”

“A legend,” said Ross. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “You need a new identity.”

“Yes… I left Wakanda with people tracking me. Very dangerous people. I have lost them for the time being. But it is a temporary solution. In order to settle into America and hide I need to become someone else.”

Ross began to feel paranoid all of a sudden. He was worried about the security of the phone line. He knew better than most how easy phone calls were tracked, traced, and recorded.

“I’m on Wakandan technology.” He seemed to be reading Ross’ mind. “Not even the best spy equipment your country has can decrypt the signal.”

“Okay,” Ross said slowly. “When you get to New York go to the NYPD 26th Precinct. We have an asset who works there. He’ll have everything you need. Ask for Sergeant Tork.”

“I thought it was illegal for the CIA to operate on American soil?”

“Your– do I still call you ‘Your Highness’?”

“Call me what you’d like.”

“Then buddy, you are in no position to lecture me on illegal intelligence ops.”

“I will see Sergeant Tork,” he said, ignoring Ross’ comment. “Thank you, Everett.”

“What do you want your new name to be?”

“I didn't realize I had a choice. I do not care about the last name, but Isaiah for the first. It means… salvation.”

“You got it,” said Ross. “... Be safe out there, Isaiah.”

The call ended and Ross tucked the phone back into his pocket.

“Okay kids,” he yelled through the house. “Get your shoes on and get to the car. We gotta go now now now!”

---

Now
Little Mogadishu
Brooklyn

Isaiah booted up the Kimoyo card and placed it on his kitchen counter. It took about twenty seconds for it to kick on and be ready to use. It was old tech, but at the end of the day it was still Wakandan and lightyears ahead of anything else its age.

He pulled out his flip phone and searched through the few contacts he had until he found Charlie Chinwe’s number. Using the card was able to trace the phone halfway across Brooklyn to Red Hook. Most tracing programs could only triangulate to the closest phone towers, but his program got it down to the exact block. According to a map of the area Charlie was moving fast in a car, heading east towards what looked like a group of housing projects. He pocketed the Kimyo card and checked his watch. A little after three in the morning. He had to move fast.

---

Red Hook, Brooklyn

Charlie pushed the junky car as fast as it could possibly go. It felt like the car was about to fall apart as he raced down the Brooklyn streets past eight miles per hour. TT sat in the passenger seat beside him with a Glock in his hands. In the backseat Roc had an honest to god AK-47 and O cradled a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Black ski-masks disguised all their faces.

An SUV dawdled along at a slow pace. Inside that car were three armed men and over fifty thousand dollars in drug money. Their plan – O’s plan, really – was to separate those armed men from that money. Charlie held the gas pedal to the floor and took a deep breath as the car rammed in the back of the SUV. Both cars skidded sideways. Charlie steered into the skid and pulled on the car’s emergency brake, whipping the wheel so that they spun a 180 before stopping. Meanwhile the SUV spun off the street and smashed into a parked car before it pinballed to the other side of the street where it smashed against another parked car and came to a stop.

“Fuckin’ A,” TT said with a laugh. “The boy can drive.”

“Let’s go,” O barked.

The four started out the car when gunfire erupted from the SUV. Roc fell to the ground screaming while the other three would-be robbers hid behind the car. Charlie held on to the pistol O had given him while bullets peppered the car. A heavy stream of blood ran underneath the car towards a swear grate. Roc continued to moan on the other side of the car.

“We gotta move,” O commanded the two other boys. “We fucking stay here and we’re dead.”

O fired off a shotgun round over his head and began to move sideways along the car. TT followed his lead, but Charlie stayed frozen in place. He didn’t want to move anywhere, he didn’t want to fire his gun, he didn’t even want any of the money. He just wanted to be home, safe and secure with his mom. He prayed to god or whoever was above that he could get out of this safely and without going to jail.

Unbeknownst to Charlie...



He had someone up above looking out for him.

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

Long time no see.

Wrote most of this up in a daze last night, slept on whether I wanted to join, and after deciding I did, cleaned it up and now am posting it here.

Here We Go... Again

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H E Q U E S T I O N

---

^{_{V I C T O R S A G E ♦ J O U R N A L I S T ♦ H U B C I T Y , I L L I N O I S ♦ I N D E P E N D E N T}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

<sup>"I think it is more likely you are the butterfly, dreaming you are the man."
- Richard Dragon</sup>

You know the gist of it.

Charles Victor Szasz was born into poverty, the son of a prostitute. His mother died; he was raised in a home for problem children and kicked out when he was old enough. Taken in by chemist-turned-university-professor Aristotle "Tot" Rodor, Charlie was cleaned up, given a second chance at life. Going by Victor Sage now, he went to college, fell in love with a woman named Myra Fermin, and became a journalist for the Hub City Gazette.

Myra's brother, Wesley, was a corrupt politician with mob ties who became Mayor of Hub City in a landslide (read: rigged) victory against any and all opposition. Victor used some favors to squeeze an article he had written onto the front page of the Gazette's website. "Mayor Wesley Fermin: Incompetent, Ignorant, Or Insidious" was the title of the article that nearly got the Gazette sued for all they were worth, ended Vic's relationship with Myra, and cost Vic his job.

Blacklisted from every major media outlet in Hub City, Vic found work as a freelance writer for Starrstruck, a website and monthly magazine covering the latest scandals in Hub City's political scene. But he was not content, and so along came Tot, who needed help. Tot and his old colleague, Arby Twain, created Pseudoderm back in the 80s; a skin-like bandage bonded to the skin by a binary gas. The gas, however, was poisonous when exposed to the bloodstream, and so the pair abandoned the project. Twain, however, was planning on selling it. That couldn't happen.

And so, Tot created a mask for Vic using Pseudoderm to take on Twain's operation. The rest, as they say, is history. After bringing Twain to justice, Vic became The Question, Hub City's protector, taking on everything from petty crooks to mob families to attempting to expose and unravel the web of corruption that plagued the city. But one night, The Question vanished. Vic Sage stopped coming into work. Life continued on in the Hub as it so often did.

Now, a year later, he makes his return because some questions remain unanswered.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

Personally, I've been reexamining myself over the last few months, what I want to do, what I believe in, etc., etc.. I won't bore people with stuff about myself but I feel that I'm finally reigniting that spark I haven't felt since Ultimate One Universe all those years back and I'm excited to show you all what I can do now that I have both that spark back in me and five more years of writing experience since the last time I was really into these kinds of roleplays. If I flake out again, then please kill me.

Victor has technically been active as The Question for two years. However, after the first year he was forcibly removed from Hub City and planted into the woods to train with Richard Dragon, only now finally returning to his hometown to take on the faceless visage of The Question again. During his time with Dragon, he was trained in the martial arts and opened his mind up to the man's Zen philosophy, though that isn't to say that he experienced an overnight transition from a violent and self-righteous vigilante to a wisened protector of the weak; it was a slow and gradual process, one he is still undergoing. He is not perfect, nor will he ever be, but over the course of his journey he hopes to become the best man that he can be and to alleviate the suffering that permeates Hub City and its inhabitants.

I'll be taking a bit more of a self-contained approach to this, reimagining and recontextualizing some of my favorite Question stories (as well as writing new ones) in this modern day shared universe that the RP has established. I'm open to crossovers, of course, but I would have to really hash it out with whoever I want to work with (or who wants to work with me), as what has killed the little motivation I had in past Hype style games has been my overeagerness to commit to a crossover with absolutely no idea what I want to do with it. Feel free to pitch something to me, and I will hope that if I pitch something to another player that they are open to my ideas.

I don't know how long this roleplay will last, whether it be a few weeks or a few months or even a few years, but I hope to be able to write some cool stories and get to know you all better (or, in many cases, reknow).

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

Taking all inspiration from Dennis O'Neil's seminal The Question comic run that ran from 1987 to 1990, forever shaping the character as we know him in the comics and inspiring my lifelong love for Buddhist Zen philosophy.

Supporting cast is TBA.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

... Like A Butterfly

I was six years old the first time I saw a man get killed.

My mother was taking me to an ice cream shop a few blocks away from our house in Gordon's Corner, a once promising residential district in Hub City that had devolved into a slum by the time I was born. People called it Lucifer's Corner. That was underselling it. We were leaving the shop, ice cream cones in hand, when a car wrapped itself around a streetlight in the blink of an eye. The driver was killed on impact while the passenger pulled himself out of the window and barely managed to get up on his feet, stumbling in our direction.

That was when another car pulled up. A young man in ripped jeans and a tattered hoodie hopped out of the passenger's seat with a gun in his hand and a glint of hatred in his eyes. He marched right towards the man that just survived the crash, grabbed him by the nape of his neck like a puppy, then shot him twice in the back of the head. No hesitation. No time for his victim to get a word out. Didn't even look at us before hopping into the car with his friends and driving off.

My mother was screaming but I couldn't hear her. Everything seemed far away, like I had just been fitted with a new pair of concrete boots and tossed into the ocean. She pulled me away while screaming, took off her jacket and used it to wipe my face. She pulled the now bloody coat away and it was only then that I realized my face was covered in blood and brain matter. I didn't cry. I didn't understand what I had just seen. But it never left me. That man breathed his last on November 29th, 2001.

People used to ask me if I had nightmares about it for weeks after the fact. I always told them yeah and left it at that. Truth is they never stopped. Matter of fact, I'm having a nightmare about it right now. My surroundings twist and morph, my mother's crying visage fading away as darkness consumes everything. All that's left is me, the man, and the void. His cold, dead eyes peer into my own. There's no emotion there, no life, no spark behind the pupils.

As I stare into his eyes, I notice his skin is crawling, almost bubbling up as it consumes his features. It swallows his mouth, then his nostrils, ending with his eyes.

His lifeless eyes.

And then, as the skin finishes swallowing his features and his ginger hair slowly fades into black, I realize that I am looking at myself.

I was twenty-six years old when I died.

I went to the docks chasing after my latest lead on Wesley Fermin. More proof of his mob ties, some racketeering ring, all the good stuff. When I got there, they were waiting for me. Must have known I'd becoming. About half a dozen mobsters with guns and snarls, ready to blow me away. I broke one's arm. Another probably hasn't walked right since. I think the third man's cornea ruptured as I hit him right in the eye socket.

Then a woman stepped forward and they all backed off. She had black silk for hair and obsidian eyes that shined with a reflection of the pure white snow on the ground. A small smile on her face, dangerous, a look that could kill. She took another step forward and I readied my fists, a show of confidence more than an actual invitation to fight. I didn't like hitting girls; still don't. "Back off. I don't want to hurt you," I said, bravado dripping off my tone.

"Don't you?"

Before I even knew what was going on, I was on the ground. My body was broken, bruised, bloodied. Decimated by the woman with the obsidian eyes. The mobsters stepped forward, laughing, those that I didn't already beat to a pulp at least. One had a pellet gun. His specialty, "didn't need anything stronger", stupid gimmick. Shot me in the head. Threw me into the Hupert River. I breathed my last in the icy cold waters on November 29th, 2021.

And then I lived again.

She saved me. The woman who killed me. Lady Shiva. Legendary assassin, martial artist, mercenary. She saw in me a kindred spirit, a warrior's spirit, someone who could decimate his opponents the way she did to me. Just needed some guidance, a teacher, and she knew just the man for the job. She took me to Tot's, let him patch me up a bit, and when I was able to walk again she sent me on my way to Richard Dragon. Once, he was a world famous martial artist and adventurer. Now, a hermit with a log cabin, living in the wilderness, chopping wood, meditating. He didn't seem like much.

"Gonna be cold tonight," he said when I approached. He grinned. "There's an axe and some logs out back. Get to chopping."

I looked at him like he was crazy, then glanced down at the cast my arm was wrapped in. "You're nuts if you think I can chop wood like this. Is this a test or something?"

His grin grew. "You could say that. Are you so stubborn that you'll just freeze your ass off rather than try?" I blinked at that. Dragon didn't give me time to answer as he turned around and walked back into the log cabin.

I went out back and picked up the axe, trying to find a good way to hold it. Took a bit to figure out how to do it with one hand, but I got the hang of it quicker than I thought. The logs splintered against the axe's blade, growing smaller and smaller, nice chunks for loading up into a fireplace or furnace. It took a few hours, but when I was done, I had a few armfuls of firewood to take back and forth, enough to last a night.

"Good work," he said. He got to work on starting the fire as I took a seat at a kitchen table. A kettle and two tea cups sat on it. When he was done, Dragon settled into the chair across from me, grabbed the kettle, and filled the two cups. He grabbed a cup and began to take a sip from it. Hesitantly, I took the other and did the same.

As the cup left his lips, he spoke, "Do you want to hear a story?"

"Sure," I said. "Tell me a story."

He smiled at me. "Once, there was a man who dreamed that he was a butterfly. He fluttered around here and there, carefree, content. He had nothing on his mind but going from flower to flower. But as with all dreams, his came to an end. And when he awoke, he pondered something: was he a man dreaming he was a butterfly? Or a butterfly dreaming he was a man?"

I snorted. "Everyone's heard that one. It's just hokey pseudo-philosophical shit."

"But the question still stands. What was he?"

"A man dreaming he was a butterfly. Otherwise we wouldn't be talking about it."

"But what if life, as we know it, is all just part of that butterfly's dream?"

"Then I guess that butterfly's got a sick sense of humor."

It was Dragon's turn to chuckle. "That he does."

Weeks passed. Eventually, my arm was freed from the cast, and I was able to chop wood with two hands. Still no training in the martial arts from Dragon. I'd ask and he'd smile and say that it was coming. One night, we sat on the porch together, the cool breeze soothing my sweat soaked skin. Winter was winding down and giving way to spring. I didn't think Dragon would speak and I wasn't sure if I wanted to either. Eventually he broke the silence.

"Why do you think Shiva sent you to me?" he said. I turned to look at him, but saw his eyes were set on the stars rather than myself. I turned my gaze to the stars with him.

I didn't have an answer. Didn't want to say that, so I just repeated what she told me. "She thinks that I'm a kindred spirit to her. Some kind of warrior that just needs the training to unlock his potential... Or something like that."

I could hear the smile through his tone. "That is why she thinks she sent you to me. Why do you think she did?"

Guess I would have to think of something. "... Because without someone to hone my body and my mind, I would have wandered this Earth in search of answers for the rest of my life and never found what I was looking for."

"And will you find them now?"

"That's the question I keep asking myself. I won't find the answer from you. But maybe... You'll give me a hint."

I looked to Dragon and found him looking at me, still holding that content smile on his face. Then, he stood and walked past me and onto the grass. "Get up. I'm gonna show you some moves." I blinked at that, but got up and followed right after him. He showed me some breathing techniques, stances, a few punches and kicks. Practical tools and movements of the body, meant to aid my mind in its trials and tribulations... And to beat the hell out of bad guys with.

I stayed with Richard Dragon a few more months before my training came to an end. Everyday started with chopping wood, then stacking it, then studying Zen, working on martial arts, and ending each day with long talks under the night sky with my mentor. When it was time for me to leave, hike back to civilization with my newfound skillset and knowledge, he finally spoke on Shiva's assumption that I held the spirit of a warrior, for the first time since that night so many months prior.

"I disagree with her on that," he said. "You fight, yes, but it is not for the joy of fighting. You find no passion in the fight itself. What you find passion in, what you fight for, is the never ending hunt for truth." He paused, meeting my eyes. "In another life, long ago, Shiva would have been a great warrior, crushing armies, leading her flock to victory. You, my friend, would have been a philosopher."

"The man dreaming he was the butterfly?"

"I think it is more likely you are the butterfly, dreaming you are the man."

We said our farewells. He sat down on his porch, watching me go as I started the trek back to civilization. Fifty miles to the nearest town, another fifty after that to reach Hub City. Nothing but the long road ahead of me, barren, no cars or people for miles around. Long way to go with only the clothes on my back. A few years ago, I would have dreaded doing anything like this, like most people.

Now?

Now I don't care.

Butterflies don't sweat distance.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

Hopefully, this won't remain empty as it so often has.

@Simple Unicycle

What? Nooo... wow. Out of left field.

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

By the way, who is the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.?

@Mao Mao

No one person directed all the show's episodes. They had a diverse group of directors, among them Lou Diamond Phillips and Clark Gregg himself.

...

Wait-

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

George Perez, Comic Book Artist on ‘Wonder Woman’ and ‘Crisis on Infinite Earths,’ Dies at 67

:(((

@TGM

He read Hillan's post and just couldn't continue.

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

B L A C K P A N T H E R
B L A C K P A N T H E R

Six Months Ago

“Welcome back to BBC World News. Our stop story tonight comes out of Africa, as the nation of Wakanda is now without a king. King T’Challa announced in a statement earlier today that he would step down from his duties as head of state. This comes amid weeks of protests that have rocked the tiny country. With more on this, we go live to Samira Chakrabarti reporting from neighboring Sudan.”

---

Now
Little Mogadishu
Brooklyn

“Mr. Wolde, my hot water heater isn't working again.”

Isaiah Wolde peered through the opening in the door at Mrs. Leul. The elderly Ethiopian woman stared up at him with a mixture of sadness and hopefulness in her eyes. Unable to do things like she once could, and with Mr. Leul long dead, the building superintendent was her own personal superhero. This was the third time in the past month that her pilot light had gone out. It was always a quick fix. If it were anyone else Isaiah would have just shown them how to reset it so he would no longer be bothered with a minor inconvenience. But he knew there was no way she could do it on her own. Besides that, he didn't mind too much. She reminded him of his own umakhulu, now long dead.

“Let me get my toolbox,” he said in Oromo. It was just one of many languages Isaiah knew fluently. That was a must to do his job. Almost any job in this neighborhood required everyone to know almost as many dialects and languages as a UN diplomat.

On any sort of map or realtor directory the Brooklyn neighborhood was called Mapleton. But the people of Brooklyn called the six square block area “Little Mogadishu.” African immigrants from all over the massive continent settled the neighborhood starting in the mid 20th century. Back then it was one of a small number of places on the American eastern seaboard Africans could find refuge among those with a similar background. And while it was truly a pan-African mix of nationalities, the higher than average concentration of Somalians gave it the nickname of Little Mogadishu.

Ten minutes later Isaiah walked out of 4C with Mrs. Leul singing his praises. She'd tried to pay for his services with Ethiopian sweetbread known as himbasha, but Isaiah politely declined. He patted his mid-section and said he was watching his waistline.

“Just let me know if you have any other problems, Mrs. Leul,” he said.

“You know I will,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

Isaiah’s smile disappeared when he saw the NYPD officer trudging up the stairs to the fourth floor landing.

“Can I help you, officer?” he asked.

The cop hiked his utility belt up a little higher on his stomach and eyed Isaiah. It was the same look of mild annoyance any police officer developed with enough time on the job. The look put Isaiah’s mind at ease. He wasn’t there for him. He knew that was mostly paranoia on his part. If they came for him they would need more than just some middle-aged constable to take him down. A whole SWAT team would have to bust down his door, and even then it would be a close run thing.

“I’m looking for 6C,” he said, his eyes flashing down to Isaiah’s toolbox. “You the super here?”

“Yes,” Isaiah said with a slight nod. “4E is around the stairwell corner. The Chinwe family.”

“That’s the one,” said the cop. He pulled out a notebook and pen as he got closer. Isaiah saw the nameplate just below his badge had MARTINEZ engraved on it. Martinez scribbled something in the notebook while he talked.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Isaiah Wolde.”

“How long have you been superintendent here?”

“Five months.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I was the superintendent for an apartment on 63rd St,” he lied. “Does this have something to do with the Chinwes?”

“Just collecting details, sir,” Martinez replied in a border tone while he wrote.

Isaiah wasn’t worried about his lies catching up to him. If Martinez ran his name through a computer he would find a detailed paper trail on Isaiah Wolde dating back to the early 2000’s when he supposedly arrived from Ethiopia. Immigration documents, tax returns, employment history, even a marriage and divorce certificate somewhere along the way. It was all a complete fabrication from start to finish. Every now and then it paid to be close with a CIA agent.

“What can you tell me about the Chinwes?”

“Quiet,” Isaiah said with a shrug. “They keep to themselves for the most part. Grace is very nice, and Charlie is a good boy. Very bright.”

“When was the last time you saw Charlie?”

A slow realization dawned. That was the reason for Martinez’s visit.

“I don’t remember,” Isaiah said with a head shake. “Maybe last week."

“Okay, that’s all I got for you for now. I may have some follow ups if necessary.”

“You know how to find me,” Isaiah nodded.

Martinez thanked him for his time and headed towards 4E. Isaiah dawdled on the fourth floor and pretended to examine a light fixture while Martinez knocked on 4E and was let in by Grace Chinwe. When the door closed he slowly walked back towards 4E. Even through the thick walls he could easily hear the conversation between Grace and Officer Martinez.

“How long has it been since you last saw your son?”

“Early last week,” Grace said in an accent tinged with her Nigerian roots. “He stormed out the house and never came back. I filed a police report two days later and it’s taken this long–”

“Yes,” said Martinez. “I know. I’m sorry for the delay, we’re just backlogged with so many cases. I wish I could say your son is the only missing child in New York, but he's far from it. Why did Charlie storm out that day last week?”

“The last time we spoke,” she said. “We had a fight. I had received a phone call from his school. He hadn’t shown up in weeks. I asked him where was he going, what was he doing, and who with. We had a fight and he left. I said some terrible things as he walked out the door, things I am not proud of. And he hasn’t answered his phone.”

“Okay, I just need a description of the boy and I’ll put together an official BOLO–”

Isaiah stepped away from the door and started downstairs. Charlie Chinwe was fifteen, a seemingly bright young man. A few months ago Isaiah had paid him good money -- at least for a teenager -- to help him install new security motion lights around the building. He seemed to take to electrical work quickly and efficiently. In the two days he’d helped Isaiah had gotten to know the boy. He loved cars and working with his hands. He seemed to intuitively just know how things worked. He had almost gotten into a nice magnet school for science in Mid-Town, but his mother couldn't afford the tuition even after scholarship help.

His mother had fled Nigeria while pregnant with him. He was born and raised in this country, never knowing his father or family back home. He’d grown up on stories of Nigeria and raised on traditional values, but to him it may as well have been the moon. Why should he care about that country at all when it caused his mother to flee and birth him on foreign soil? It reminded Isaiah so much of himself at that age: Fearless, headstrong, and unsure if what he wanted in life.

And now he was somewhere out there all alone.

Isaiah entered the ground level apartment that served as his home. He put his toolbox down and walked towards the closet. He pushed the clothes on the rack aside and felt for the false bottom floor. If he was going to find Charlie, he’d need a more… durable set of clothes.

---

Red Hook, Brooklyn

Charlie Chinwe sat behind the wheel of the junky stolen car. It took him all of two minutes to break into the shitbox with a slim jim and hotwire it up. After that he cruised to the spot to pick up O and the other two. Charlie cruised to the entrance of the Terrace and put the car in park. That had been almost twelve hours ago. The four of them kept their eyes peeled on the comings and going of the high rise housing project. Charlie looked up into the rearview mirror. O sat in the back with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. O’s eyes never stopped watching and observing. TT in the front passenger seat stretched and yawned.

“Yo, O, can we get some food or something? I’m about to bug the fuck out out.”

“Go ahead,” said O. “But you gotta walk. I’m staying here.”

TT and Roc got out the car and started down the street. Charlie looked back up into the rearview mirror saw O looking at him. It wasn’t so much looking at him as it was looking into him. It unnerved Charlie slightly and how aged O’s eyes seemed to be. It was crazy how street life seemed to pass at a different speed. O was only two years older than him, but the boy seemed to be middle aged in the way he approached things. Wisdom, thought Charlie, earned after years of ripping and robbing on these streets.

“Why you staying, youngin'?” O asked.

Charlie shrugged. “It ain’t a stakeout if we go get something to eat in the middle of it, now is it?.”

O grinned, the cigarette still between his lips. When he spoke the tip of it bounced up and down.

“Well, what you seeing since you acting like some hardcore Semper Fi motherfucker?”

Charlie ran his hands along the steering wheel and exhaled slowly. He did his best to not let his voice crack as he spoke. “KT Crew works around the clock. Product comes in twice a day. When they bring the reup they also move the money out. The slingers look like punks, but the guys who are the couriers look like soldiers. Not the fuck-with-me types.”

“So, you being a ambitious stick-up boy like you is, how you gonna separate them fools from their product?”

“Fuck the drugs,” said Charlie. “Let the courier go in with the dope. We follow him as he leaves with the cash and hit him up then. Money splits easier and spends a whole lot quicker. They can always buy more dope and coke.”

“Okay, okay,” said O. “I see you. You out here watching and thinking. More than the other two knuckleheads. And when would you try to stick up the courier?”

“The late shift. Less police presence around when it gets to be about three or four AM and less people out in the Terrace. The courier won’t have much backup if shit goes bad.”

O chuckled and clapped his hands slowly in praise. Charlie lowered his head so O couldn’t see the smile on his face. For the first time in a long time he felt like he was being seen and valued. It felt like he had an honest to god father in his life for the first time. And Charlie was smart enough to realize how fucked up that sounded, but in this moment he was ready to go to war with O and his stickup crew.

“My nigga,’” O said proudly. “We gonna make a soldier out of you yet.”

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

roleplayerguild.com/posts/5357407

Sample post is now complete.

@Natty

Does Mera shit in Arthur's bed?

Read and find out!