Recent Statuses

4 yrs ago
Current To all I'm in RPs with: I apologise if my replies are sparse. Life isn't kind.
5 yrs ago


My name is DJ.
I am a roleplayer.
A roleplayer of roughly a good decade now.
I write a lot of things, and am able to roleplay a lot of things.

Random Things about me
- I run a small YouTube channel.
- I listen to a helluva lot of music. Love music.
- I'm from Singapore. It's a little island in Southeast Asia.

Anywho, I've not been RPing for a long long time, but here I am, hopefully to make a few friends and RP some.

Arena Stats

2 Wins / 2 Losses / 0 Draws
1200 points

Most Recent Posts

David woke to the sound of his phone buzzing on his nightstand. It was still early in the morning, and as he read the email sent by his boss, he rubbed his face and felt the stubble accumulating on his chin. The aches of his previous day's workout were still present in his muscles as he pulled himself out of bed, foregoing the exercise to make sure he got to work on time. David stared at his reflection in his bathroom mirror as he inspected himself as part of his morning routine. Same brown eyes, same slightly crooked nose, same bags under his eyes. The tired reporter took a shaver to his stubble and a brush to his teeth, along with a hot, calming shower, before he dressed in his usual; a worn leather jacket over his light blue dress shirt, denim jeans and work boots.

His breakfast was simple; pancakes, maple syrup and bacon, with a mug of black, strong coffee. One sugar. As he ate, he went over the email in his head. Elanor Tragellan wasn't one to mince words, but even this email was sparse on details. It didn't strike him as being a good omen for things to come; the fact that she had also asked them to pack for at least a week's worth of travel was the other thing setting off silent alarms in his head. But that meant opportunities to get on with his craft: that of taking pictures. So after he ate, David set about packing his essentials. Into one of his many big sports duffel bags went a few changes of clothes, toiletries and other travel essentials, along with a single paperback to read (Stephen King's "Under the Dome", a massive volume he hadn't even scratched the surface of yet) and his laptop, chargers for both that and his phone, and spare batteries for his camera.

Speaking of, his camera, a sleek DSLR, sat in its own carry case that David had mushed together with a satchel bag, cushioned by foam and fabric while allowing him to carry his laptop and other assorted papers or documents in the satchel. With his things packed, the photographer set off for work, taking an Uber since his packing was going to run him late if he took a bus. He arrived at the meeting room at 8 AM sharp, not a minute too late.
I'm still here. My post is almost done.
Writing an intro post up now
90% finished with my character. Just doing up the writing sample now. Gonna post the CS here first as a WIP.

"Well. That's a tall order. We don't even know if this Reality Bringer is an actual person or an event."

Alex strode forward and took two pagers; one for himself that he clipped to his belt, and the other went into his pocket for Shirley to have when he went back later, being careful not to crush the tiny rectangular devices in his big, augmented hands. As he walked back to his spot, he thought about what agent Reynolds had said moments prior. Hex's journals had pointed to this so-called Reality Bringer or some associate thereof and then he'd died of a supposed 'overdose'. That in itself was bullshit, he knew that. But who or what was this Bringer that they commanded such power to take out Hex? And, more importantly, make it look like a suicide? The implications worried him.

Still, there was much work to do before they could even reach that conclusion. Alex went over the events leading up to their meeting in his head, while the other, older supers made nervous banter. Hex was dead. Agent Reynolds had discovered his body. Suspected overdose. She had read his journals and found some details about a Reality Bringer. Putting two and two together, she made a hypothesis that Hex was murdered but it didn't fly in the CFPD. So she used Hex's equipment to broadcast a cry for help on the Network, attracting all these washed-up heroes and villains, including himself and his sister, thousands of miles from home. Agent Reynolds had only one hope left; he didn't know her motivations to bring this ragtag bunch of misfits together, but she knew that Hex's death was more than just an overdose. It just didn't make sense. But the only way to find answers was to embark on this sordid journey into the underbelly of Cedar Fort, of Hex's private life and the journals he kept.

And then there was the matter of their company. Stardust. Biomancer. Avant Garde. Some old crone and an armoured, what he assumed was a cop or officer of some form. The three big-name supers, he knew. Hex had spoken at length about Stardust and Biomancer. Alex had even faced down Biomancer once or twice, when the once-villain had sown terror on behest of some terrorist group in the UK who'd paid him off. But Stardust...the extent of her power eclipsed even his, as much as he was built for combat. She could vaporise him with a click of her fingers and he wouldn't be able to lift a finger, which scared him inside. And then there was Avant Garde. A man who could manipulate paint, making the world his own misbegotten canvas at some point in the past. Alex had never personally fought him, but had heard some scattered stories about him along the Network. It was strange, how many people in this room were connected to the dead warlock. But what puzzled him the most was the two unnamed people; the crone and the armoured man. He recognised neither and yet, his appearance being the most mundane of the bunch made him stand out all the more. Alex made a point to ask this armoured man about who he was later, after everyone else had taken their pagers. As he took another drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke to the ceiling, Alex spoke.

"I'm just surprised at who showed up. We're all washed up misfits of society. My sister pulled me out of bed and we flew across the pond to a country we haven't been to in years. But Hex was a family friend. Showed us a direction when we thought everything was lost. I owe what's left of my miserable life to him. Me and my sister do. We'll do whatever it takes to find out who killed him and put them down. You have our support, agent Reynolds."

As the group began talking again, Alex edged his way past the other supers and approached the armoured man, tapping him as lightly as he could on the shoulder, which would feel like Alex was lightly shoving him.

"I don't recognise you from anywhere, at least, not that I know of. What's your name?"

ET winced as the Tower nudged him, a little too strong. The man was echelons stronger than even his augmented self. But, he was non-hostile, which was a start. And unfortunately curious. He gave the Tower a once-over, then pulled his cover story from the file to the front of his mind. "They call me Arbiter." It was true, although nobody outside of his the MCPD would have any record of the name. "Private security. Not really powered, so to speak, but they give me lots of money, and lots of tech."

His eyes furrowed--not unpleasantly--as he remembered the powerset of the Tower from the file. "Nice cyber. Bit old though, eh?"

"Old, aye. 'Bout as old as I am now. But at least the boys at Hereford keep upgrades in good supply. Had to visit them before I hopped the pond."

Alex rolled his shoulders and briefly flexed the cybernetics in his arms, the machines within whirring and making soft noises as the nanites in his skin rippled and his augmented muscles warmed up briefly before cooling down again as he relaxed. None of this would be visible, of course, but the noise would be audible.

"So. How d'you know Hex? Didn't really seem likely that he would work with a small private security outfit."

ET snorted, getting into character. "It wasn't so small. One of the biggest ones, though you'll understand that I can't give too much detail. Strictly speaking, I'm here off the books, and I'd rather keep my personal life and business life separate. It's hard enough to get my suit out of the armory, but the guy there owes me a favor." He tilted his head to one side. Gabbie, can we--.

Done. And just like that, the Tower's body came alive. The cyber didn't seem to realize it was being watched, so ET nudged it gently. What can you tell me about yourself, chum? To the man himself, ET shrugged. "Hex saved my life. I doubt he even remembered doing it, and he wouldn't have recognized me anyway." He patted the retracted helmet behind his head. "But I owe him this much, at least."

"Aye. Well I guess we all owe him something."

Alex didn't realise that ET had a power. A power that let his cybernetics speak for themselves. And as ET nudged the machines within the man, the voice within them came to life.

Ho there, chum. Prodding about the ol' machinery again, are we?

"Mmm." ET said. "Besides, not all of us can be as famous as the Tower. Golden boy of England, tragedy of the Knight Anglais. My condolences, man. That's rough business." He shifted slightly, bringing his arm gauntlet up to fiddle with one of the panels.

To the cyber, he said, You've caught me. A stranger in a strange land, of superheroes and villains. Can you blame me? You're an optical computer, right? Any advice here would be appreciated--you seem like a reasonable chap.

Oho, not just an optical computer, chum. I control all the systems within the big boy here. Optics, muscles and his hardened second skin. The man here depends on me and it brings me great pride to assist a strapping young fellow such as him. Say, how are you even conversing with me?

Alex shrugged and took another puff of his cigarette, politely exhaling smoke up towards the ceiling.

"Shite happens. I didn't ask for all of that bullshite in Utah to happen. But then again, it brought me and my sister peace of mind for once in our lives. It let us live like actual people back home. No faffin' about with superhero politics and villains or worrying about public image. We were people once. Hex's death, it shook us both to the core. That's why we're out here now."

"I can respect that," ET said. He liked this man. If they'd met earlier, things might have been different, but here he sensed a kindred spirit. "We've all gone through our tragedies." His mind pulled up an unbidden flash of Dave, and his head throbbed. "My brother died to a maniac." The memories washed over him for a second, and he awkwardly dug out his flask from who-knows-where. Not too much left in there.

His mind was getting frazzled, keeping these two conversations going. Frankly, I haven't the slightest idea how. It's my gift, I suppose, but only sometimes. Apologies in advance if I suddenly ignore you, it sort of...fades in and out. Like now, as Gabbie read his mind and severed the contact. There'd be time for conversing with the machines when there weren't a bunch of supers to keep tabs on.

ET stared at the flask in his hand for a long, long second, before finally sighing and putting it down. "Thanks for not threatening to kill me. Wasn't easy to get here, and to be honest, I was starting to feel unloved."

"I wouldn't want to kill anyone here. Not unless I had to. But we're all here to find out why Hex is dead. So...let's focus on that, I guess."

Alex dropped the stub of his cigarette and crushed it under his heel, rubbing out the embers onto the cold concrete. That's what they were all here for. Hex.

Time to start getting some answers.
Interested. Time to pull my retired photojournalist out of retirement.
14/5/2047, 2:14 AM
Staithes, North Yorkshire, England

A low, soft beeping roused a sleeping woman from her light slumber. Drowsy and disoriented, she stumbled down the steps of her family home to locate the source of the beeping that emanated from the darkness below. After a few minutes of thorough searching of their house, the woman eventually found the source: a worn, barely-used closet. Inside the closet? A flight of stairs into a basement she barely remembered having. The walls adorned with old, faded posters and banners from times gone by. Utility belts, pieces of dust-covered gear and a corkboard full of notes, coloured pins and wanted posters. And, mounted on a wall, a massive monitor and a computer next to it, a single light on it flashing blue.

Thoroughly awake, the woman approached the computer and pushed a button that she knew was there, obscured by a thick layer of dust. Her memories came back to her in slow waves as the machine booted up and the screen blazed to life. A familiar logo materialised in front of her, followed by a small loading screen as the old machine did its work. Shortly after, the computer's desktop finished loading and she was presented with a familiar interface, with a flashing icon to one side. An icon for an app called...

"The Network..."

She tapped the icon and a window popped up on screen, loading something. The woman enlarged the window with her hands as the audio message finished downloading and it played through speakers that seemed to be in every corner of the room. The message was long and rambling, but the source was unmistakable, judging from the designation on the top left corner of the window.


But the voice coming from the message was a lady. A lady who explained herself halfway through the message.

Harrison Moore, also known as Hex, was dead. An apparent drug-induced suicide. The lady was a special agent of the Cedar Fort Police Department who had discovered the hero's corpse and found his journals, containing mad writings about the end of the world. The agent wanted help and she had stumbled upon Hex's communicator, connected to an old, dead Network that bound the superheroes of the US and the rest of the world together. Without any other options, she had recorded a message and uploaded to the Network, sending it to the communicators and computers of all superheroes on its system registry. Including her.

Shirley rubbed her eyes, no longer muggy from sleep. She didn't have much options, but she replayed the message several times, its contents slowly sinking in.
Hex was dead. And this agent needed any available capes that knew Hex to help her in the investigation. A date, time and place were given for a meeting, a week later. The plea was desperate and the emotion sounded real.

There was only one thing she could do.

Shirley swiftly typed in a reply to the audio message, sending it back to Hex's communicator in the hopes that the agent was still there to read the reply. Then she opened a web browser and booked two plane tickets that would land her and her brother within an hour of the time specified in the message.

Then she shut the computer off and went back to bed, but she couldn't sleep until an hour later. Her thoughts were racing in her head as she closed her eyes and tried to relax.

What had happened to Hex? And how desperate was this agent that she had to call for help on an ancient Network that almost no one used any more?

The next day...

"Thank you! Come again!"

Shirley Mackey waved as her neighbour left their family bakery, two loaves of sourdough bread tucked neatly into a basket hooked on her arm. Business was good, as usual; as their village's only bakery, Shirley worked around the clock to make sure her friends and neighbours had bread, cake and pastries to buy and eat while her brother worked his arse off at the docks, helping the local fishermen haul in catches far beyond what their ships could physically carry. Life was peaceful and she couldn't be happier.

Except, well, for the fact that just a few hours ago, a message had come through on a secure channel meant for a life she and her brother had left twelve years ago. After their parents had died in the line of duty.

Shirley's mind went back to the wee hours of the morning, when she'd been woken up by the beeping of the incoming message on the Network's secure app. The agent on the line sounded tired and desperate for help. Reynolds, her name was. She recalled the contents of the audio recording, remembering the most important detail: a family friend was dead in an apparent suicide that reeked of something else. The call for help had, unfortunately, gone out on a Network that not many supers used any more, with the advent of better, faster methods of communication between countries. But the tech and equipment left behind in their family home had its uses; it had intercepted the message and downloaded it while on stand-by mode, saving it for Shirley to view again when she woke up later that morning. She hadn't told her brother about it yet; Shirley wanted to wait until they were both off work and preparing to head home to tell him the news. Which was right about now.

She felt more than heard his footsteps coming up the cobblestone path leading to the bakery. The Mackey siblings lived nearby their workplace, using their house as a sort of secondary workplace to prepare dough for bread and pastry late at night, then leaving it to proof for the next morning. The trip between home and work wasn't too far and the siblings always walked it to get their share of exercise for the morning. Alex Mackey pushed the door of their bakery open gently, the bell above the door ringing with his entry. A moderately sized plastic bag hung from his left elbow as he stepped in, ducking underneath the low entryway. The huge hulk of a man stretched and rolled his shoulders as he helped himself to a croissant, crunching into the flaky, delicate pastry hungrily while his sister watched him with arms folded. A moment passed before he noticed her staring, an eyebrow raised in question.


"You're a pig when you're hungry, you know that?"

"That's how you say welcome back? Bloody hell, what's gotten into ya?"

"You're eating food meant for customers."

"Aye, but it's just about closing time, innit?"

With a wry smile, Shirley lightly punched her twin brother's shoulder, eliciting a yelp as he downed the last of the croissant and washed it down with a swig of water from his army canteen.

"How was work today, Alex?"

The tall man regarded his sister in the corner of his eye, before shrugging and sighing.

"Work was work, as usual. Not a whole lot of fish today, but I managed to nab us a haddock for dinner tonight."

"Perfect. You're cooking tonight?"

"Yeah, my turn tonight, as usual."

Alex smiled as he watched his sister count the money in the till and closed up shop for the day. As the siblings started their walk home, Alex noticed his sister's odd behaviour; a nervous, tense look on her face, eyes darting around more than usual, deep in thought. Something was bothering her. He slowed his pace and gently nudged her elbow with his, startling her out of her reverie with a yelp.

"Hey, you alright, Shirl? You're zoning out."

"Y-yeah. Actually, no, I'm not alright. But we should get home first. I'll explain there."

The rest of the walk went on in silence and as they reached home, Alex pulled their dinner out of the plastic bag and set about preparing the fish for cooking.

"So, what's this all about, Shirl? I've never seen you this out of it before."

Shirley took a seat at the dining table with a glass of water in her hands. A weary sigh escaped her lips as she took a drink before responding.

"It''s about Harrison Moore. Hex."

At that, Alex stopped. He hadn't heard their family friend's name in years. Not since they'd fallen out of contact a few years after...the tragedy. He stopped what he was doing and turned around, his attention fully on his sister.

"What about him, Shirley?"


Her hands tightened around the glass as her fingertips began to glow with a dim red light and tears rolled down her cheeks.

"He's dead, Alex."

Alex could feel his strength leaving him. The news was unexpected. Unheard of. Hex? Dead?

"He- he's what?"

"Dead, Alex. Suicide."

All thoughts of cooking left by the wayside, Alex joined his sister at the table, sitting down as disbelief filled his face.

"No way... No way he's dead."

Shirley didn't respond. Instead she pulled her phone from her pocket and set it on the table between them. With a tap, she played the audio message she'd received hours earlier. As agent Reynolds' words sank in, she watched disbelief, anger, then grief cross her brother's face. When the message ended, there was a moment of silence. Then Alex pounded a fist on the table, startling his sister as he took a deep breath in through his nose and closed his eyes.

"Fuck. Fuck, Shirl. What do we do?"

"We... I don't think we have a choice, Alex. We should go help her. We owe Hex that much."

A few moments passed as Alex gave the suggestion some thought. There weren't many other alternatives. Hex was a dear friend of the family and especially of their parents. His death could not go unanswered. Alex's fists clenched and unclenched as he opened his eyes.

"When do we leave?"

"End of the week. Agent Reynolds left us a date and time to meet."

"Right. I suppose that gives us some time to prepare. It's about time I went in for a maintenance run."

"I've already booked plane tickets for the both of us. Are you planning to travel to London?"

"Yeah. Don't suppose you need a lift?"

"My cybernetics doctor is in London, so yes. You're heading to Hereford after that?"

"Aye. Gonna touch base with the boys and see about getting my parts tuned."

"Alright. You do that and I'll meet you back in London when you're done. We'll go to the old HQ together and get our gear from there. At least, I hope our gear is still there. Think they'll understand why?"

"They will, Shirl."

And so the siblings set about their work. With cybernetics in working condition, their costumes retrieved and farewells said to their village, the Mackey twins left the UK and landed in the States less than a day before their scheduled meeting with agent Reynolds. Enough time for them to rent a room at a small motel outside of town and for Shirley to catch some shut-eye to fight off the jet lag. But for Alex, his old soldiering ways had left their mark; with nothing but a cheap, disgusting coffee and an equally horrid chicken pie in his stomach, the former superhero got into his rental car and headed for the outskirts of Cedar Fort. His destination: an old, abandoned warehouse, coordinates provided by agent Reynolds.

The Tower was on the move.

21/5/2047, 2:04 AM
Outskirts of Cedar Fort

The next thing that agent Addison would hear would be the low rumble of another car engine, followed by the crunching of gravel underneath wheels as a vehicle pulled up to the warehouse she was camped out in. Then the sound of footsteps. Not light, on the contrary. Heavy footfalls, thumping loud into the night, sounding much like a giant was approaching the warehouse. As Stardust revealed herself in a flash of purple fire and promptly outed the cop pulling up into the warehouse, the footsteps stopped.

Alex reached into an inner pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a worn, old, black domino mask. He gazed down at this symbol of heroism, an identity he'd once embraced with all his heart and soul and a life he'd given up twelve years ago. Turning the mask over in his fingers, he contemplated it. Sure, the people already present would've heard him arriving, but he could just as well pack up and leave. Alex didn't want to step back into the life of a cape. A life he was unceremoniously pulled back into because of the death of one man.

Harrison Moore.


But then again, Hex had been a family friend. A good friend who had offered them much guidance after the...tragedy. Hex was dead but Alex owed him enough to look into his death. That was how much he'd meant to him and his sister. And his parents. Right now, Shirley was asleep in some motel in the city while he was out here, burning the midnight oil, as it were, in a meeting that could spell disaster or give him the answers he wanted. Whatever it was, he was here and the only way to go was forward.

With a weary sigh, Alex put the mask on and made sure it sat comfortably on his nose. Then he pulled a cigarette and a small lighter from his jeans as he resumed his approach. The heavy, thumping footfalls of his combat boots against the concrete certainly didn't lend much for any sort of stealth, nor did his nonchalant gesture of lighting up a cigarette, the flame of his lighter illuminating the Union Jack emblazoned on his shirt and the black domino mask perched on his face. He took a long, deep drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, not stopping until he was a few feet away from Reynolds.

In front of him stood yet another veteran cape; Stardust, from what he vaguely recalled of the American superhero circle. He tipped his flat cap to all those present, letting the light of his cigarette butt brighten the British flag that was his signature icon. Next to the gentle glow of campfire embers was agent Reynolds from the message. At least, that's what he thought. Because surely Addison Reynolds was a bit too girly a name for the armoured man standing across from him, its glowing highlights a stark contrast to the dark of the night. The crack of a tree branch heralded another arrival; emerging from the shadows nearby, was an anarchist and a criminal. What little Alex remembered of the Gallery incident came to the forefront as Avant Garde revealed himself, the fencing foil in his hand morphing into a large knife even as he held his hands up in surrender.

"What a right little party this is. Bloody hell. Well agent Reynolds, you have the attention of the Tower. I hope you know what you're doing."

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