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I petition that all long standing players should get immortalised for Season 2 by making it onto the banner.

#EndThisOppression
#IDemandEquality


#VigilanteForBanner2018
Also, given that we're a week away from the game coming to a close, I decided that the Weekly Post Check would be frivolous at this point. Whoever's active now is in it for the long haul, or at least until Season 2 starts.

Yeah, that's it. That's what I'm telling myself to alleviate the fact that I forgot to do it.


It's okay. We love you anyway.
Always been a big fan of Dick, myself.

”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Glitter And Gold: Part Three

“The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.”

-Anonymous




Warpath, Texas




The creature slammed into the hay bales like a torpedo sending up plumes of straw up and over the barn. It’d be a heckuva thing to explain that to Ms. Hart once she -- Vig straightened up and tightened his grip on his pistol, heading for the cart of hay. The wheels of the cart had exploded into splinters like a homemade hand grenade. He’d probably be pullin’ the shrapnel out of his neighbor’s paint jobs for weeks. Not to mention re-siding a coupla houses. Like he didn’t have enough chores already. Hopefully the alien feller would repay him for the happy landing by not trying to blow his got damn head off.

The thing didn’t much look like he expected. As the thing rolled out of the trailer and smacked into the ground with a metallic ‘thunk’, Vig sized it up, other hand already getting ready to draw his second weapon. It looked something like a man all wrapped up in some kinda blue carapace, like a big ol’ beetle had done swallowed him up. It was a weird mesh of hard angles and edges, but with smooth plates connecting it all. Definitely not of this world, but by Greg’s measure, not really pointy enough to be demonic, neither. Still didn’t mean it wasn’t hostile. Those thrusters it was using looked mighty big, enough to blow him clean apart if he wasn’t careful.

"Don't- don't freak out, I'm not gonna hurt ya."


Vig took a step back. Damn him if it didn’t sound human. He, er, it, sounded mighty young and mighty wounded. Like some teenager had gotten ‘imself into all kinds of trouble. It held its hands up and Vig could practically see it wince under the armor. It had to be hurtin’ mighty bad, and it didn’t seem like it was trying to kill him. Least not yet. Vig holstered his pistols and stared out at the thing from under the brim of his hat,

"Thanks for, uh, helpin' me out back there. My name's..."


This kid, uh, thing, had to be human… Right? There was something to the quality of its voice, something real. Fact of the matter, he didn’t sound much unlike the Bounty… Vig swallowed. Whoever or whatever this kid was, he seemed in a bad way. The front of his armor was scuffed and damned if Vig couldn’t hear he was draggin’ something awful. He didn’t sound much unlike Vig did when he finally clawed his way out of Hell, just ready for some damn sleep. But he seemed… Distracted by something on the Horizon.

In that moment, The Spirit of Vengeance exploded across his brain all at once. It was like a fire alarm blasting in his eardrum. It wasn’t quite like anything he’d ever felt from it before. It wasn’t panic and it wasn’t anger it was… It was confusion.

Let me ouuuuuttt!” It hissed. It seemed to spread over and dig into Vig’s mind, trying to wrest control. Vig fought and snapped his head around. He ground his teeth and focused on what he was seeing, refusing to let The Spirit in. Whatever the hell the kid said next fell on deaf ears.

The man before him stood on the far edge of town. He felt in the depths of his soul that it was a man, no creature or devil. But it was… Tainted by something. Some swirling, black-and-silver-and-gold power permeated his form, flowing up and down his veins and into the depths of his very being. He was an eight foot slab of muscle, wrapped head to toe in a black fabric that covered everything but his lower face and his eyes. His skin seemed almost green in the moonlight, and his eyes were dark and unreadable, seeming to suck all the light around them in.


"I think you need to go. I dunno who this guy is, but he looks like trouble."


”I’m no stranger to danger, pardner. Just stay behind me, and get ready for… For something.” Vig could feel The Spirit pressing against the back of his eyeballs, like it was jockeying for a glance at the the man. The Spirit seemed to be struggling to quantify it. It was poisoned with an aura of death that sweltered about it, but at its core it was… It was a man. Just a man. Like any other. Vig took note that The Spirit was real quiet on the subject of the alien kid.

”We don’t take much kind to strangers who don’t introduce themselves ‘around here, pardner.” Vig pulled both of his guns and sighted up for center mass. The thing stood mighty close to the town’s walls, where Vig had left some leftover explosive from his time with Frank. If things went south, maybe he could tag a coupla those and end a fight before it starts.

Vigilante. In a way, I simply must thank you. Without you, I never would’ve gotten this opportunity” Vig could tell from his lips that the man spoke soft, but he could feel the reverberating bass of the man’s words in his bones.

”They call me Black Star. The Surfer sends his regards. Goodbye.” The man moved faster than Vig could react. Vig’s first shot went wild and Black Star became a blur, dashing to a nearby house. He wrenched out one of the porch’s support beams, ignoring the shots that Vig was planting in him. He turned back to Vig and cracked a smile. He threw threw the beam like a javelin at what musta been a million miles an hour.

“MOVE!” Vig shouted, shoving the kid to one side and diving to the other, firing as he landed in the dust. “Git to cover! I’ll handle this!” Vig rolled on his belly as another beam sailed over his head. He’d already emptied one pistol, and the opponent didn’t seem to be slowing down at all.

Let me fight it!” The Spirit hissed in his head. It was smashing against every mental barrier it could find, trying to worm its way to the surface and attack whatever force surrounded the man before them. Trying to keep it under was like wrestling a bucking bronco. Vig rolled to his feet and fanned the hammer of his weapon. Black Star laughed; now he was throwing head-sized chunks of ceiling and fence post like ballistic missiles. Vig swore and tossed aside his spent guns. He only had the one belt on him when he went to help the kid. Time to improvise.

Vig pulled his lariat from his side and whipped at the dirt and sand, stoking up clouds of dust. He swatted it away from his eyes and rolled, avoiding another round of ballistics. Hopefully the smokescreen would make them hard to hit for long enough for him to at least get the alien-feller to cover.
1) Light-years is a measurement of distance, not time.

2) Knowing obscure comic characters is my schtick.

What's that you all say? Me? Being petty and pedantic? Never.


I think on the lightyears thing, he means that things in space are so absurdly far apart that he needs to go FTL to reach them in any reasonable amount of time(EDIT: Reread the post and saw what you meant, whoops).@Omega Man, if this is the problem, maybe Archangel can instead open rifts with his powers that allow him to effectively warp-drive across the Universe?

”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Glitter And Gold: Part Two

“The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.”

-Anonymous




Warpath, Texas




Vigilante never gave much thought to his quiet moments, though he did get precious few of them. He sat on the roof of the local motel, swinging his legs and chewing through a baloney sandwich, watching the sun rise over the valley that lay before Warpath. His gun belt lay beside him, pistols freshly cleaned after that morning’s chores. It was these moments he relished. Calamity wasn’t hangin’ over no one’s head. Warpath wasn’t on the brink. He wished he had a player around to put in some of Pop’s old VHS tapes and curl up with a warm glass of milk like he did as a boy. Simple livin’. He might’ve settled for a sit in the rundown Movie Theater, rememberin’ what was, but most of that space was crammed with the petrified.

That was what most of the buildings were like, anyhow. Even a coupla’ the outhouses set around town. Only place he could find his peace from them was on the roofs, looking up at that sky and letting himself dream. He wondered what the team’d be up to. The Seven Soldiers hadn’t crossed his mind in a good long while… They’d left him with his hands full in Warpath.

Frankenstein was still on the lookout for some magical leads to give ‘em the edge; last communication Vig got said he was now on the hunt for a feller by the name of Doctor Occult. Sir Justin and Lee were still lookin’ for Justin’s gosh darn horse. Vig thought it was a fool's errand, lookin’ for a magic horse with wings n’ all, but if stranger hadn’t happened in Warpath already, then Vig was lyin’ like a no-legged dog. Accordin’ to Sylvester and Pat, they were havin’ a mighty kinda trouble wrasslin’ any help outta’ SHIELD. But then, those boys had a lot on their plate, yessir. Between that Silver feller n’ all manner of mutant and madman poppin’ up? No wonder they didn’t have nothing to spare. Sylvester said he’d try a few more ways, but then he was gonna set his sights on lookin’ for Captain America. That boy was plum convinced that the old timer was out there, somewhere. Maybe someone like that could set the madness in this world right. Lastly, Jonah Hex… Well, Vig tried not to think too hard about Jonah Hex. He’d set him n’ Billy Gunn sittin’ side by side in Gunn’s living room, turned toward the TV. Sometimes if he let his imagination get away from him, he could almost hear ‘em grumbling to each other like it was old times, before… Well, before all this. Before The Dummy. Before The Spirit.

The Spirit had contented itself to remain real quiet since The Bounty Hunters. There were times when Vig though to go lookin’ for it, and thought better of it. Maybe that fight did it, and that was all that thing had left in it. In his heart and in the back of his mind Vig knew it was still there, lurking. Whatever he could guess on it was near blank, just vague senses of emotion. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. It seemed absent from his dreams too, like it was trying to separate itself from the man who’d massacred those people. ”Those Bounty Hunters”, Vig corrected himself. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it. That was his first real fight since he’d been out of Hell, and he’d relished it… Even though that was supposed to be what he was getting away from. Instead he’d dug into it and hadn’t considered what those Hunters might’ve been. Who he might’ve killed. He tried to pretend it was just what was best for Warpath, but he knew those Hunters were coming for him and him alone. Maybe if he’d let them take him, those boys would still be alive.

Anyhow, best not to think on that. Least not now. Supposedly Frankenstein would be ready to rendezvous somewhere in afew days and discuss the situation down in Warpath. Til’ then, Vig just had to make sure that the town didn’t try to burn itself down again. Vig stood, wiping the sandwich crumbs off his garments. He hoisted his gunbelt and carried it over his shoulder. He took a long stretch, feeling for the subtle tension and pop in his shoulders. He rolled them, and took one long look up into the sky. Something told him this’d be his last rest for a long while.

Like it was responding to his thoughts, he was a burst of blue dancing over Warpath. It started as a tiny speck, winding through the air like it was giving itself emergency flying lessons. As it started to get bigger its flight leveled off a little, but it was losing altitude like a one-winged pigeon. Vig ran across the rooftops, gritting his teeth and flinging himself over the bigger gaps.

”Buildings ‘round here are too big to be doin’ that...” He grumbled. The thing was much lower now, and he resolved itself into the form of a man… Type thing. It was humanoid, that was for certain. Whatever it was, near as Vig could tell, but it had blue dangly bits comin’ off it all over the shop. Vig reached into his bag for a pair of binoculars and held them up to his eyes.

It wasn’t human, but it certainly wasn’t no demon or spirit neither. Plus, those things don’t exactly come from up top. It looked a bit like a man in a some kinda future armor, bit like what that Wonder Woman lady tooled around in, but.. Different... Definitely different. It had all kindsa blue spikes n’ spines n’ wing lookin’ things comin’ off it. He was holding to the air with jets in his hands and back, but he didn’t seem much like he was doin’ a great job of it. Poor feller looked like he was tryin’ his damndest just to stay aloft, say nothin’ about landing.

Well… Whatever it was, it didn’t really seem to know how to work its own contraption. Couldn’t be too darn big of a threat. Either way, it’d have to come down eventually, when it ran outta’ whatever kinda fuel it was on, or figured how to land the thing. Might as well start off on the right foot.

”Hey! Need some help there, feller?” Greg cupped his hangs around his mouth and shouted like his Pop taught him to. You could always hear Sheriff Mort from cross the clean other side of town. He bellowed deep from his lungs and his belly. Hopefully it’d be enough for the thing to hear him from that high up. He gestured with one hand. “There’s plentya hay over yonder! Land there!”

Greg hopped off the roof and landed in a roll. He dusted himself off and drew his pistol, setting off for the hay bales out front of Ms. Hart’s barn.
<Snipped quote by Sep>

Based so far on the comments in the OOC, I'd say you'd have the interest of myself and @HenryJonesJr

As for a location, there are six cities that the Surfer attacked with people from the Raft, these six cities are perfectly divided between three cities on the East Coast and three cities roughly located in the Central United States (Midwestern maybe?). So I would suggest either have the Surfer fight take place somewhere in between or somewhere notable. Off the top of my head, Washington seems like a good option because of the Triskelion being there.

Alternatively, the showdown could be at the Raft as that's in New York and accessible to Gwen. Though as Gwen and Iris have met, it's possible for Gwen to reach out to Iris for a lift.

The other big alternative is to completely jump to the West Coast which has remained out of conflict in all this and have the Surfer fight take place there. There's both San Francisco and Los Angeles for rather large targets, not to mention the DC Cities of Coast, Star and Gateway City.

<Snipped quote by Sep>

Looking at the two actors, I'm still fairly confident the Robin who uttered 'Fuck Batman' was Dick and not Jason.


Teleportation isn't outside the realm of possibility, since The Surfer teleported the villains to each hero. Maybe he somehow senses that the challenge is complete and teleports each Hero(and those that helped them, despite not officially being part of the challenge ex. Wonder Woman) to whatever the location of the showdown will end up being? That'd alleviate travel pains for a character like Gwen.

”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - Glitter And Gold: Part One

“The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage.”

-Anonymous




New York City, New York --- The Raft Prison Island






”When all the cows are sleeping, and the sun had gone to bed, up jumped the scarecrow and this is what he said.” Ebenezer Laughton rocked himself on his cot. He sang the rhyme he always did before bed, like he had for the last thirty years. Mother had taught him that one. His cellmate snoozed beneath him. He’d have gotten used to it by now.

”I’m a dingly dangly scarecrow, with a flippy floppy hat.” Ebenezer though he didn’t really deserve to be here. The glass and cinder walls. Handcuffs so tight they cut off your circulation. He’d killed a few people, sure. That didn’t make him like the rest here. The man from across time. The man who shot fire from his gun. The babbling man in yellow who drove you insane in a look. He was just Ebenezer. Not his fault he was so good at getting out of the other places. Not his fault that it felt so good to do it all over and wind up trying to get out again.

”I can shake my hands like this, and shake my feet like that.” Ebenezer curled up in his bed, pulling the paper thin sheet to his chin. They’d had a new guest here a while, a silver man. Apparently he was tough. Ebenezer didn’t think anyone here was tough. They all acted like it. Puffed out their chests and showed off their fancy powers. Said “don’t mess with me”. “I’ll fuck you up.”. It was like anywhere else. People so afraid of what would happen next that they didn’t show it. That they were just scared little kids who wanted to hide in their cells and cry the days away. The fear that escape would never come. It was delicious. They were little caricatures of how they were on the outside. But in here, it was all real. Their fear was raw, their emotions exposed. Amazing to watch. To twist, to poke, to prod, to stab into…

”When the dogs were in the kennels, and the doves were in the loft, up jumped the scarecrow and whispered very soft.” There was a rumble in the lower level. It was subtle, from where he was. A shift in that prison air. The scent of smoke just kissing his nostrils, and the sound of distant screams. How fortuitous. Earlier than he’d expected. He swung his legs off the side of his bunk.

”I’m a dingly dangly scarecrow.” He dropped to the floor. The concrete felt cold on his toes. His cellmate grumbled in his sleep and turned away, to face the wall. He heard the steps of their floor guard stop. He was listening for the chaos.

”I can shake my hands like this...” He moved his hands down to his cellmate, closing around his neck and squeezing. His cellmate shuddered and hacked out a cough. Ebenezer squeezed harder. His cellmate’s hands went spastic. He sputtered. Ebenezer squeezed.

”And shake my feet like that.” His cellmate’s protests had grown less fervent by the time the alarm started to whine. It was a low yowl throughout the prison. Heavy footsteps from the guard. He could barely hear them over the alarm.

”When all the hens were roosting, and the moon behind the cloud...” Ebenezer removed his hands. He felt his cellmates sweat between his fingers. Warm. Sticky. He dragged his feet across the ground to the stark glass wall that seperated his cell from the rest. He pounded on the glass. A passing guard, running towards the sound of destruction, paused for a moment to consider him.

”UP JUMPED THE SCARECROW AND SHOUTED VERY LOUD!” Ebenezer screamed. The guard couldn’t see him. All the man could see was Ebenezer’s panicked motions to his cellmate’s unmoving form. The guard furrowed his brow. Sweat was already pouring down his head. His eyes flicked to the readout aside the cell, assessing what he might be unleashing. He swallowed. He keyed the release.

The guard’s flesh came off in meaty chunks as Ebenezer ripped and tore. The guard couldn’t draw his gun fast enough to matter, at this range. No, now it was just Ebenezer and his rhyme left. Drenching his hands in the red. Ebenezer could almost smell the guard’s fear on the air; that lovely mix of adrenaline and cortisol.

”I’m a dingly dangly scarecrow, with a flippy floppy hat...”

New York City, New York --- The Offices of Roman J. Solomano




The city was on fire, but Roman J. Solomano didn’t seem to mind. He watched from his skyscraper like Nero as the Spider-Woman fought the giantess. She looked like she was trying to lead gianto-bitch away from the buildings, towards Central Park for their showdown. All the merrier for Solomano; meant he didn’t have to roll out rocket wielding goons to protect his goddamn property.

His last finger had gone without much fuss. There was little fanfare. Just the pain. Crippling pain. The wound still throbbed, even though it had been cauterized days ago. Whoever this sonofabitch was, he was harder to kill than your average dumbshit cowboy. He’d wasted damn near a hundred warm bodies only for the bastard to come out on top. A hundred people. You don’t just get manpower like that in this city. And now that he’d exhausted his “pretend-to-give-idiots-superpowers” card, he couldn’t pull a stunt like that again.

At least the people he’d really given superpowers were making up for the loss. Profits had jumped up more than 300 percent, thanks in no small part to the Spider and Punisher wiping out swathes of the competition. And now, word was that the Punisher was out of town, on some insane tear across the heartland. No skin off Solomano’s back. And on top, it looked like the giant was set to squash the Spider, unless one of her freaky super-pals showed up, like that fire guy from a few days ago.

It disgusted him to look at his hand. What was once his symbol of power, the mark of his lineage, was now an abomination. The three remaining fingers looked like they belonged to an alien. He’d taken to wrapping in in a bandage and tucking it deep in his coat. Even that idiot Big Caesar looked at him different for it. They all tried to hide it, but he saw their looks. The glances and the giggles… At least those stopped after he capped the last few to do it. Now there was solemnity and quiet. Peace and fucking quiet.

One of the remaining fingers on his hand itched. It started the day after his ring finger went. He still hadn’t selected a new hunter. A new finger as his sniggering goons had taken to calling the poor souls. If he focused he could feel it building. Little bits of sinew being snapped around his finger, preparing for a premature separation. But he had nothing to throw at the damn cowboy, anymore. His top hitman and a veritable legion of thugs had failed. What was left?

Either way, the police and New York’s local yokel ‘hero’ would be wrapped up with that for at least a few days. The Silver Surfer had initiated the largest security breach in Raft History -- probably world history, if Solomano was honest. Super Criminals would run rampant in the streets, making matters all the worse for the Spider, and on top, there were now countless powered ex-cons on the hunt for… Gainful employment. Maybe there was something to throw at ‘Vigilante’ after all.

Warpath, Texas




It was sad to see Frank go. Greg supposed it’d be sad with anyone, but there was a certain kinda companionship with the man. Bonds forged in fire, n’ that. Castle was a man of solid stuff, soldier n’ Greg was, he figured, on account of him not going plum mad once he saw The Spirit. That particular… Ailment was more n’ a little hard to explain. But Frank took it easy and honest, as he seemed to most things.

By his recollection, the ‘Solomano’ character the Hunter’d told them about was some big wig crime guy in New York. But supposedly, he wasn’t near enough powerful to feild anything like this attack, ‘specially on a target so far away. Far as the criminal world went, Solomano wasn’t even knee high to a grasshopper. Frank said that when the time came, he’d be there, but… Well, there was still Warpath to tend to. Greg couldn’t rightly leave these people to stew in their petrified forms to chase down some high falutin bandito.

N’ then, he still had to pick up the pieces here. They’d done things here. Were those men? They seemed to be, on some level. But would they have all been fine if he’d let the Spirit whammy them all? Or were they dying already? The question in his head felt like the one he’d grappled with in his early days in Hell, fighting through legions of once-human spirits. “Am I murderer?”

He had his sins piled high enough. Dealing with the Devil was up there far as most pastors were concerned. But to kill innocent boys tricked by a man in a suit? Maybe Mephisto really was in him, after all. But much as he hated to admit it, that couldn’t much matter right now. No matter who or what he was, Warpath needed him. They didn’t have nobody else.

All that was left to do at this point was to sit back in his chair, rifle in hand, and tick the days away until whatever hand the universe threw him next…

New York City, New York --- The Raft Prison Island






William Mowse’s cell was a small thing, devoid of any color or any forms of entertainment whatsoever. Not a pencil or scrap of paper, all he had was his bed frame and his thoughts. He’d tried scraping his ideas into the floor with the bedposts first. Then they superglued tennis balls to the bottoms. He felt like a geriatric waiting for age to claim him while he drove himself insane.

It was always the same chain of thoughts. Escape methods, plans, possible allies. Realization that it was impossible. Dreams of gadgets, and the knowledge that they were impossible, too. Tears. Then starting it all again.

It was a wonder he’d gotten here in the first place. The Raft! It was New York’s very own Guantanamo Bay. And the rest of the faculty had always thought that Mr. Mowse would never amount to anything, a deadbeat teacher on his third position in as many years. The former titan, the man that stood astride Norman Osborn, Lex Luthor, Tony Stark! A genius! By all accounts! It was a shame that people’s perspectives were so limited. His technology was the future, but paper after paper he was refuted, and farther and farther he fell down the totem pole. People refused to believe in his findings. Objects so ordinary and so blase to typical tests, that review boards across the country refused to believe their properties.

They were simple things. A rag doll. A pipe. A pocket watch. A silver dollar, and a key. Yet the power they contained was extraordinary! All he needed was a special device, or maybe one of these new metahumans to harness their power. But no. That door was closed to him. If only he’d waited. But trying to convince people of “magik” before the advent of metahumans? Foolish. All that was left to do was to show them. Try to collect the artifacts. And that was what landed him here. How reluctant SHIELD was to let a mortal man tamper in the world of magic.

So here he was. A meek highschool teacher among murderers, malcontents, and silver gods from other worlds. There might’ve been a certain irony to that, some statement about overly harsh Government oversight and a ruthless prison system designed to attack the disadvantaged. But Mowse had been through those thoughts. Over, and over, and over again. He needed something new, some information to mull over, anything to keep back the tide of insanity, wearing away at the exercises he tried to push his mind through.

Before his senses registered the blare of the prison alarms, he felt a cool presence in his mind. It was at the same time ice cold and warmly comforting. It wrapped all around him and enveloped him… It was like the cosmos itself had compressed and seen fit to flow through his veins. It promised him power. The power to show them that they were wrong. To take it back from Osborn, from Luthor... To forge the fiery new reputation. The Black Star would no longer be a crime lord… He’d be a God. All in exchange for challenging one little Vigilante...
I prefer without colors, honestly.

Especially the purple for Ghost Rider which I cannot possibly read without highlighting the entire sentence.


Yeah, my bad. I've been thinking about changing that. Probably to plain italocs and plain hold.
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