DocTachyon

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

@Dark Cloud Enjoy!

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Crap didn't mean to post in the IC, anyways I'm going to be busy and I may be unable to finish the CS this week.

@Dark Cloud

Take your time boss, we're low mantainence out here.

Anyway, posted a slightly gussied up version of my old Vigilante / Ghost Rider sheet. Unlike with Spider-Man I don't think I'll be posting the backlog here, but it is still available to read. But when things get into gear, hopefully everyone will be able to enjoy the exploits of VigRider and Chow Yun Castle.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

D O C P R E S E N T S

V I G I L A N T E

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^{_{G R E G S A U N D E R S ♦ L A W M A N ♦ W A R P A T H , N. M.}}

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

---

^{"The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage."}

Background

Greg Saunders, on some level, always suspected that Warpath, Texas, was never meant for human habitation. There was an always has been a certain amount of strange to the place. Being born there, Greg would know that better than anybody. It was like a black hole to the curious and the supernatural -- always drawing them in. All the street corners had another magician who could tell your future for a dime, and every time the circus was in town, it was stranger than the last. The way his Pop described it, Warpath was a place where Hell and Heaven became kissing cousins, where reality and fictions bled together until you couldn’t tell ‘em apart no more. Greg always figured his Dad was joking around with him. Nothing stranger happened in Warpath than it would in any of the big cities. Greg would’ve been mostly right. Until things really started to get weird.

Sheriff Mort Saunders was just about the best Cop on the force, and the only one that really gave a shit. Things had a way of sorting themselves out in Warpath. Most of the offenses were just hack magicians trying to sell themselves on the mystique of the place, and swindle people out of their money. Anything worse than that was usually just petty crime. Anything that there was evidence of, anyhow. Reports would always come in from time to time. Murder, robbery, you name it; but when the Police would roll up, there’d be no evidence. Just ghosts and echoes. By the time Greg was nearing his twenty first birthday, Mort started mentioning a ‘New Case’ to him. Something that would ‘explain everything’. Six months later, he turned up dead in the first confirmed murder in the last twenty-five years of Warpath’s history. Greg took up Pop’s old revolvers and his whip, intent on delivering revenge to the sonsabitches who did this to his father. He swore on his grave to dedicate his life to the path of justice. The life of the Vigilante. The newly christened Vig spent two months tracking down and systematically eliminated a gang of bandits. As he worked his way through the higher ranking members, it was slowly becoming clearer and clearer that this was no ordinary Gang. It was a cult, devoted to finding something they called ‘The Miracle Mesa’. Vig never knew much about magic, but as he rolled up on the Cult for the final showdown, he could feel the air draw thinner. The closer he drew to them, the more he felt in a waking dream. The very reality around him seemed to pulsate with a kind of power, as if being touched by a force beyond mortal comprehension. It was around then that everything went to Hell.

Vigilante can still not accurately recall precisely what took place that day. In the face of the Miracle Mesa, reality peeled away, and all that was left was a nonsensical jangle of ideas, colors, feelings, and raw magic. What he does remember is bits and pieces. He remembers a blob of color, high in the sky, like you’d asked an abstract expressionist to design a city. He remembers emptying his pistols over and over again, shooting rounds into unholy abominations that spilled out of what seemed to be a hole in the world. What he remembers most of all is that he woke up in a place wholly unfamiliar to him, knee deep in demons.

Much like Warpath, Hell was… Unsuited to mortals, if Vigilante was still a mortal at all. God knows if he was dragged there through the Miracle Mesa, or if the demons spilling out of the thing killed him and brought him here. The one thing Vig knew for sure was that he had to get out. His experience of Hell was like a cryptic, corrupted version of the mortal plane. Everything was inverted, a perversion of itself. Everywhere was a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah, and just about all of the locals wanted him dead. In time, he found his pack. Six others who the Miracle Mesa had dragged in: Shining Knight, Jonah Hex, Johnny Frankenstein, Crimson Avenger, The Star Spangled Kid, and of course, good ol’ Stripsey. Time is a murky thing in Hell. They might’ve spent six months or a thousand years waging war on every manner of Demon and Monster they could find. However long it took them, on their way to demand passage out of the land of the damned from the Sultan of Sin himself, they ran across a demonic entity by the name of Mephisto. Mephisto’s bargain was simple: Safe passage out of Hell for Vig and all of his friends; in return for his mortal soul. By now The Seven Soldiers had learned a handful of lessons about survival in Hell. “Don’t deal with demons” was at the top of the list. In a pitched battle that lasted either a half hour or a month, the Soldiers, most of whom had all their limbs broken, were reasonably certain they’d hurt Mephisto. At least a tiny bit. Entirely beaten and with no other options, Vigilante stood up to the plate and laid down his soul, thus making him into Mephisto’s pawn, the Spirit of Vengeance. The current Ghost Rider. Now returned to Warpath, Vig and the Soldiers are planning their vengeance on Mephisto, and are seeking any magical help they can get. As Vig swore on his father's grave: Justice will be done.

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:

---

This version of Vigilante alters his traditional origins, instead placing him in Warpath from the get-go. The idea here is to blend elements from many different versions of the character; literally the Ultimate edition. The main difference from those standard runs is its heavy focus on Saunders’ time in hell, which was otherwise just a bit of narration in a Jimmy Olsen comic. This version takes major inspiration from the raw weird that was Grant Morrison’s 7 Soldiers. There’s also the introduction of the Ghost Rider elements, which I did both to strengthen the idea of the DC and Marvel connection going on in this universe, but also to boost Vigilante’s power level, so he’s no slouch around some of the heavy hitters being brought in for this(as traditional Vig is just a grease monkey who is good with guns). On top of that, it lets Vig lean into the weird/supernatural that surrounds Hell and the West more effectively.

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

---

-Unlike with Spider-Man, I won't be posting Vig's backlog here. Instead you'll find it below in the post catalog.

Supporting Cast

Shining Knight - A medieval Knight encountered in Hell. He stumbled across the Miracle Mesa while battling with Morgan Le Fay. He swears he owned a winged horse by the name of Winged Victory, and thinks it must be alive somewhere in the world.

Jonah Hex - 1800's Bounty Hunter that Vig met in Hell. He ran into the Miracle Mesa while tracking down a Bounty.

Frankenstein - Another person Vigilante encountered in Hell. He stumbled into the Miracle Mesa sometime in the late 1700s.

Crimson Avenger - The first man Vigilante encountered in Hell. Small time hero of the early 1940s. He typically did things quietly enough that neither SHIELD nor CADMUS came down on him. While tracking down a case, he encountered the Miracle Mesa.

Star Spangled Kid and Stripsey - Star Spangled Kid, former sidekick to Captain America, and his sidekick Stripsey themselves stumbled onto Miracle Mesa themselves in the late 1940’s, and have been in Hell since. That is, until Vig sprung them.

Billy Gunn - Old family friend and current Sheriff of Warpath.

Mephisto - Technically, Mephisto is Vigilante’s current Boss. The demon is responsible for his Ghost Rider abilities and his escape from Hell.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa

Vigilante could always feel it behind his eyes. The burning. The anger. It was like a little demon that lived in his head, constantly stabbing his eyes and his brain. Always screaming.

“VENGEANCE MUST BE DONE.” If he listened close he could constantly hear the click-clack of his own bones. The sound was whispered into his ear by some kind of unseen entity. Vig supposed it was Mephisto’s way of taunting him. He hoped the Demon Lord got enough satisfaction out of it before his head got turned into chunky salsa.

Vig leaned back in his rocker, polishing his pistols for the umpteenth time. He should’ve been the one to go, but according to Frank, he was best equipped to handle it if some creepy crawly clawed its way up to the surface. In his heart, Vig knew it too. But hell, maybe they were just protecting him from himself, Houston hadn’t been fine. A simple operation to wrassle a coupla Occult Books outta’ the hands of some gangbangers that didn’t know what the fuck they were turned into hellfire and screams of the damned. By contrast there wasn’t much to wake that thing in Warpath.

Hex said he’d seen it once before. The old man was tracking down a gang of outlaws led by a bandit by the name of White Face. The way Hex told it, by the time he rode up with his big iron, the whole place was burnin’ to the ground. Now, this was one of them old Frontier towns. Everything was down one long single road. Every one of the gang was laid at over the place. Sticking outta shop windows, gutted open on the glass. Speared through on a cracked post. Some of ‘em were burnin’ with the buildings. Even from a distance, Hex could see the thousand yard stares on some of the bodies. Weren’t no man that did this to them.

Way down, at the end of that long road, Hex could see White Face himself. The mask was burned away an’ his face was singed. Whatever the hell was holding him up by his neck wasn’t human, and certainly wasn’t no creature of God. Its skin was all burned away, an’ all that was left was a white skull coated in hellfire. Hex had killed many a man in his time, but he’d never seen no one beg like White Face begged that day. Hex ‘imself never got a good look at its proper face. Musta been something horrible, to make a rough sonuvabitch like White Face sob his goddamn eyes out. It was hard for Hex to see quite right at all that distance, but at some point White Face stopped struggling. He just stared through. His eyes were locked right on that skull, but they seemed to be gone for a million miles.

That was the only bounty Hex ever abandoned. He figured The Devil had come to collect his dues before mortal men got the chance, and that was a-okay with him.

On the horizon, Vig could see a dust cloud. The first to return. He holstered his pistol and drew himself out of his rocker. He tried to ignore the gnawing sensation in the back of his mind. Out of the dust, a figure cloaked in red slowly materialized. He was riding on a white steed -- that guy would never get used to motorcycle, even as Vig’s insistence.

The Crimson Avenger was the first man Vigilante had encountered in Hell. He seemed someone of solid principle, devoted to his cause -- Not unlike Vig’s father. Vig stood in the street. He wiped his hands and waved to his coming friend.

“Woah, nelly.” Crimson called out to his horse. They slowed on approach.

“Get whatcha’ needed, pardner?” Vig extended a hand to help him down from the horse.

“Yep. Now, we’ll probably have to modify the thing to make it suitable for combat down there…” Crimson took the hand and jumped down from his horse. He had a silver case attached to him at the hip.

“I’m just happy to have a fresh model of the old girl, again,” The Crimson Avenger opened the case and pulled out a gas gun -- it gleamed in the sunlight, “been too long.”

“Can’t imagine what that feelin’s like. Three years realtime was long enough fer me to be away from my bike.” Vigilante gestured to the second rocker. The Avenger nodded and obliged.

“So, what’s the word, Avenger?” Vig kicked up his legs and leaned back into the chair. The simple pleasures would be few, now. Had to do his best to enjoy them before it came time for the real war to start.

“Well, Knight, Hex, and Frankenstein are still trying to get themselves accustomed to the modern world. They were going to head up to the New York and Metropolis area to see what’s to see. They were planning on looking into the local occult locations to see if they can scrounge up anything we don’t already know.” Crimson Avenger said. He took a seat in his rocker, taking the time to press out the folds and wrinkles in his costume. It was a thing of amazing construction -- it held up all the way through his time in Hell up to now.

“Mhm.” Vig said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a cigarette. He considered it, for a moment. He felt the voice in his ear reaching out for his lighter, the call of the fire. He put the cig on the arm of the chair. “The Kid and Stripey have any word on Cap?”

The Crimson Avenger shook his head. The Star Spangled Kid had set out to find his old teacher -- Said he would’ve known it Cap had passed. The man was certain they would’ve heard tell of his passing or, God forbid, have seen him there. That meant he was out there somewhere, and hell, maybe he could be of service.

“Well Crimson, that jus means it’s you, me, and a long wait against whatever hand The Miracle Mesa deals us next. Cheers.”

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

---

Posts

Part One - The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa
Prelude
Strings; Issue 1
Strings; Issue 2
Strings; Issue 3
Strings; Issue 4
Strings; Issue 5; Finale
-
Riders on the Storm; Issue 1
Riders on the Storm; Issue 2
Riders on the Storm; Issue 3
Riders on the Storm; Issue 4
Riders on the Storm; Issue 5
Riders on the Storm; Issue 6
-
Glitter and Gold; Issue 1
Glitter and Gold; Issue 2
Glitter and Gold; Issue 3
Glitter and Gold; Issue 4
Glitter and Gold; Issue 5
Glitter and Gold; Issue 6
Glitter and Gold; Issue 7
Glitter and Gold; Issue 8
Glitter and Gold; Issue 9
-
Season One Epilogue

Part Two - Ghost Riders in The Sky
COMING SOON

Doc's Chop Shop

and now, for an old sheet in a new format.

old sheet

Ultimate One Universe: Year One Application

Character You're Applying For: Greg Saunders; Vigilante

Powers And Abilities:
Spirit of Vengeance- After surviving his experience in Hell, Vigilante has found himself possessed by the Spirit of Vengeance, thus making him the current Ghost Rider, though he has trouble controlling it once he does change. These abilities are extremely new to Vig, he does not yet fully understand the scope of his responsibilities as the spirit. Vigilante can transform into his Ghost Rider form through concentration, or he can be forced into it during life threatening situations. In this form, Vigilante becomes a skeletal version of himself, and his body, clothing, and motorcycle are wreathed in hellfire. While in this state, he is a degree faster, stronger, and more durable than any average man; and his motorcycle is much faster than an average bike. Additionally, his lariat dramatically increases in length, and is itself wreathed in hellfire. His guns can also fire hellfire bullets. The last ability this form grants is a signature ‘Penance Stare’. He can finish a sufficiently weakened opponent by staring into the depths of their very soul, forcing them to see and feel the pain they’ve inflicted upon others for eternity. Vig suspects this form may have more abilities, but he has yet to discover them.

Gunslinger- Even during his time as a normal man, Greg Saunders had a knack for his pistols. He was never masterful, but he more than knew his way around the range, and was certainly the best pistolero in Warpath. Since his time in Hell, Vigilante’s skills have sharpened a hundredfold. He hasn’t had much of a chance to test it, but Vig now reckons he’s one of the best marksmen in the world. He carries six revolvers on him, two on the front of his hips, two on the back, and two on his chest(Edward Kenway style).

Whipfighter- Vigilante had experience with his whip when he was alive, but being constantly knee deep in demons teaches a man to use every tool at his disposal. He’s grown very precise with his lariat, able to even reliably grab and throw objects with it. A few times he’s managed to use it to wrestle a weapon out of a demon’s hands.

Grease Monkey- Vigilante’s passion, before his life went to Hell(literally) was working on his motorcycle. He’s a little rusty, since he didn’t have much time for motorbike repair in Hell, but he’s excited to soup up his ride for his new responsibilities.

Origin And Backstory (In A Maximum Of Four Paragraphs):

Greg Saunders, on some level, always suspected that Warpath, Texas, was never meant for human habitation. There was an always has been a certain amount of strange to the place. Being born there, Greg would know that better than anybody. It was like a black hole to the curious and the supernatural -- always drawing them in. All the street corners had another magician who could tell your future for a dime, and every time the circus was in town, it was stranger than the last. The way his Pop described it, Warpath was a place where Hell and Heaven became kissing cousins, where reality and fictions bled together until you couldn’t tell ‘em apart no more. Greg always figured his Dad was joking around with him. Nothing stranger happened in Warpath than it would in any of the big cities. Greg would’ve been mostly right. Until things really started to get weird.

Sheriff Mort Saunders was just about the best Cop on the force, and the only one that really gave a shit. Things had a way of sorting themselves out in Warpath. Most of the offenses were just hack magicians trying to sell themselves on the mystique of the place, and swindle people out of their money. Anything worse than that was usually just petty crime. Anything that there was evidence of, anyhow. Reports would always come in from time to time. Murder, robbery, you name it; but when the Police would roll up, there’d be no evidence. Just ghosts and echoes. By the time Greg was nearing his twenty first birthday, Mort started mentioning a ‘New Case’ to him. Something that would ‘explain everything’. Six months later, he turned up dead in the first confirmed murder in the last twenty-five years of Warpath’s history. Greg took up Pop’s old revolvers and his whip, intent on delivering revenge to the sonsabitches who did this to his father. He swore on his grave to dedicate his life to the path of justice. The life of the Vigilante. The newly christened Vig spent two months tracking down and systematically eliminated a gang of bandits. As he worked his way through the higher ranking members, it was slowly becoming clearer and clearer that this was no ordinary Gang. It was a cult, devoted to finding something they called ‘The Miracle Mesa’. Vig never knew much about magic, but as he rolled up on the Cult for the final showdown, he could feel the air draw thinner. The closer he drew to them, the more he felt in a waking dream. The very reality around him seemed to pulsate with a kind of power, as if being touched by a force beyond mortal comprehension. It was around then that everything went to Hell.

Vigilante can still not accurately recall precisely what took place that day. In the face of the Miracle Mesa, reality peeled away, and all that was left was a nonsensical jangle of ideas, colors, feelings, and raw magic. What he does remember is bits and pieces. He remembers a blob of color, high in the sky, like you’d asked an abstract expressionist to design a city. He remembers emptying his pistols over and over again, shooting rounds into unholy abominations that spilled out of what seemed to be a hole in the world. What he remembers most of all is that he woke up in a place wholly unfamiliar to him, knee deep in demons.

Much like Warpath, Hell was… Unsuited to mortals, if Vigilante was still a mortal at all. God knows if he was dragged there through the Miracle Mesa, or if the demons spilling out of the thing killed him and brought him here. The one thing Vig knew for sure was that he had to get out. His experience of Hell was like a cryptic, corrupted version of the mortal plane. Everything was inverted, a perversion of itself. Everywhere was a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah, and just about all of the locals wanted him dead. In time, he found his pack. Six others who the Miracle Mesa had dragged in: Shining Knight, Jonah Hex, Johnny Frankenstein, Crimson Avenger, The Star Spangled Kid, and of course, good ol’ Stripsey. Time is a murky thing in Hell. They might’ve spent six months or a thousand years waging war on every manner of Demon and Monster they could find. However long it took them, on their way to demand passage out of the land of the damned from the Sultan of Sin himself, they ran across a demonic entity by the name of Mephisto. Mephisto’s bargain was simple: Safe passage out of Hell for Vig and all of his friends; in return for his mortal soul. By now The Seven Soldiers had learned a handful of lessons about survival in Hell. “Don’t deal with demons” was at the top of the list. In a pitched battle that lasted either a half hour or a month, the Soldiers, most of whom had all their limbs broken, were reasonably certain they’d hurt Mephisto. At least a tiny bit. Entirely beaten and with no other options, Vigilante stood up to the plate and laid down his soul, thus making him into Mephisto’s pawn, the Spirit of Vengeance. The current Ghost Rider. Now returned to Warpath, Vig and the Soldiers are planning their vengeance on Mephisto, and are seeking any magical help they can get. As Vig swore on his father's grave: Justice will be done.

What Makes This Character 'Ultimate'?:
This version of Vigilante alters his traditional origins, instead placing him in Warpath from the get-go. The idea here is to blend elements from many different versions of the character; literally the Ultimate edition. The main difference from those standard runs is its heavy focus on Saunders’ time in hell, which was otherwise just a bit of narration in a Jimmy Olsen comic. This version takes major inspiration from the raw weird that was Grant Morrison’s 7 Soldiers. There’s also the introduction of the Ghost Rider elements, which I did both to strengthen the idea of the DC and Marvel connection going on in this universe, but also to boost Vigilante’s power level, so he’s no slouch around some of the heavy hitters being brought in for this(as traditional Vig is just a grease monkey who is good with guns). On top of that, it lets Vig lean into the weird/supernatural that surrounds Hell and the West more effectively.

Supporting Characters:
Shining Knight - A medieval Knight encountered in Hell. He stumbled across the Miracle Mesa while battling with Morgan Le Fay. He swears he owned a winged horse by the name of Winged Victory, and thinks it must be alive somewhere in the world.

Jonah Hex - 1800's Bounty Hunter that Vig met in Hell. He ran into the Miracle Mesa while tracking down a Bounty.

Frankenstein - Another person Vigilante encountered in Hell. He stumbled into the Miracle Mesa sometime in the late 1700s.

Crimson Avenger - The first man Vigilante encountered in Hell. Small time hero of the early 1940s. He typically did things quietly enough that neither SHIELD nor CADMUS came down on him. While tracking down a case, he encountered the Miracle Mesa.

Star Spangled Kid and Stripsey - Star Spangled Kid, former sidekick to Captain America, and his sidekick Stripsey themselves stumbled onto Miracle Mesa themselves in the late 1940’s, and have been in Hell since. That is, until Vig sprung them.

Billy Gunn - Old family friend and current Sheriff of Warpath.

Mephisto - Technically, Mephisto is Vigilante’s current Boss. The demon is responsible for his Ghost Rider abilities and his escape from Hell.

Sample Post:

The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa - Part One

Vigilante could always feel it behind his eyes. The burning. The anger. It was like a little demon that lived in his head, constantly stabbing his eyes and his brain. Always screaming.

“VENGEANCE MUST BE DONE.” If he listened close he could constantly hear the click-clack of his own bones. The sound was whispered into his ear by some kind of unseen entity. Vig supposed it was Mephisto’s way of taunting him. He hoped the Demon Lord got enough satisfaction out of it before his head got turned into chunky salsa.

Vig leaned back in his rocker, polishing his pistols for the umpteenth time. He should’ve been the one to go, but according to Frank, he was best equipped to handle it if some creepy crawly clawed its way up to the surface. In his heart, Vig knew it too. But hell, maybe they were just protecting him from himself, Houston hadn’t been fine. A simple operation to wrassle a coupla Occult Books outta’ the hands of some gangbangers that didn’t know what the fuck they were turned into hellfire and screams of the damned. By contrast there wasn’t much to wake that thing in Warpath.

Hex said he’d seen it once before. The old man was tracking down a gang of outlaws led by a bandit by the name of White Face. The way Hex told it, by the time he rode up with his big iron, the whole place was burnin’ to the ground. Now, this was one of them old Frontier towns. Everything was down one long single road. Every one of the gang was laid at over the place. Sticking outta shop windows, gutted open on the glass. Speared through on a cracked post. Some of ‘em were burnin’ with the buildings. Even from a distance, Hex could see the thousand yard stares on some of the bodies. Weren’t no man that did this to them.

Way down, at the end of that long road, Hex could see White Face himself. The mask was burned away an’ his face was singed. Whatever the hell was holding him up by his neck wasn’t human, and certainly wasn’t no creature of God. Its skin was all burned away, an’ all that was left was a white skull coated in hellfire. Hex had killed many a man in his time, but he’d never seen no one beg like White Face begged that day. Hex ‘imself never got a good look at its proper face. Musta been something horrible, to make a rough sonuvabitch like White Face sob his goddamn eyes out. It was hard for Hex to see quite right at all that distance, but at some point White Face stopped struggling. He just stared through. His eyes were locked right on that skull, but they seemed to be gone for a million miles.

That was the only bounty Hex ever abandoned. He figured The Devil had come to collect his dues before mortal men got the chance, and that was a-okay with him.

On the horizon, Vig could see a dust cloud. The first to return. He holstered his pistol and drew himself out of his rocker. He tried to ignore the gnawing sensation in the back of his mind. Out of the dust, a figure cloaked in red slowly materialized. He was riding on a white steed -- that guy would never get used to motorcycle, even as Vig’s insistence.

The Crimson Avenger was the first man Vigilante had encountered in Hell. He seemed someone of solid principle, devoted to his cause -- Not unlike Vig’s father. Vig stood in the street. He wiped his hands and waved to his coming friend.

“Woah, nelly.” Crimson called out to his horse. They slowed on approach.

“Get whatcha’ needed, pardner?” Vig extended a hand to help him down from the horse.

“Yep. Now, we’ll probably have to modify the thing to make it suitable for combat down there…” Crimson took the hand and jumped down from his horse. He had a silver case attached to him at the hip.

“I’m just happy to have a fresh model of the old girl, again,” The Crimson Avenger opened the case and pulled out a gas gun -- it gleamed in the sunlight, “been too long.”

“Can’t imagine what that feelin’s like. Three years realtime was long enough fer me to be away from my bike.” Vigilante gestured to the second rocker. The Avenger nodded and obliged.

“So, what’s the word, Avenger?” Vig kicked up his legs and leaned back into the chair. The simple pleasures would be few, now. Had to do his best to enjoy them before it came time for the real war to start.

“Well, Knight, Hex, and Frankenstein are still trying to get themselves accustomed to the modern world. They were going to head up to the New York and Metropolis area to see what’s to see. They were planning on looking into the local occult locations to see if they can scrounge up anything we don’t already know.” Crimson Avenger said. He took a seat in his rocker, taking the time to press out the folds and wrinkles in his costume. It was a thing of amazing construction -- it held up all the way through his time in Hell up to now.

“Mhm.” Vig said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a cigarette. He considered it, for a moment. He felt the voice in his ear reaching out for his lighter, the call of the fire. He put the cig on the arm of the chair. “The Kid and Stripey have any word on Cap?”

The Crimson Avenger shook his head. The Star Spangled Kid had set out to find his old teacher -- Said he would’ve known it Cap had passed. The man was certain they would’ve heard tell of his passing or, God forbid, have seen him there. That meant he was out there somewhere, and hell, maybe he could be of service.

“Well Crimson, that jus means it’s you, me, and a long wait against whatever hand The Miracle Mesa deals us next. Cheers.”

Additional Notes:
-I tried my best, but I just couldn’t find the name of Vig’s Dad. But his original creators were both guys named Mort, so Mort Saunders was born.

-Why yes, yes I did ignore traditional paragraph rules and common sense in order to make my backstory fit the requirement. I really tried to keep it brief but most all of the details in there I thought were too important to cut out, and I really needed them to sell the concept.

new format

D O C P R E S E N T S

V I G I L A N T E

---

^{_{G R E G S A U N D E R S ♦ L A W M A N ♦ W A R P A T H , N. M.}}

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

---

^{"The Cowboy must never shoot first, hit a smaller man, or take unfair advantage."}

Background

Greg Saunders, on some level, always suspected that Warpath, Texas, was never meant for human habitation. There was an always has been a certain amount of strange to the place. Being born there, Greg would know that better than anybody. It was like a black hole to the curious and the supernatural -- always drawing them in. All the street corners had another magician who could tell your future for a dime, and every time the circus was in town, it was stranger than the last. The way his Pop described it, Warpath was a place where Hell and Heaven became kissing cousins, where reality and fictions bled together until you couldn’t tell ‘em apart no more. Greg always figured his Dad was joking around with him. Nothing stranger happened in Warpath than it would in any of the big cities. Greg would’ve been mostly right. Until things really started to get weird.

Sheriff Mort Saunders was just about the best Cop on the force, and the only one that really gave a shit. Things had a way of sorting themselves out in Warpath. Most of the offenses were just hack magicians trying to sell themselves on the mystique of the place, and swindle people out of their money. Anything worse than that was usually just petty crime. Anything that there was evidence of, anyhow. Reports would always come in from time to time. Murder, robbery, you name it; but when the Police would roll up, there’d be no evidence. Just ghosts and echoes. By the time Greg was nearing his twenty first birthday, Mort started mentioning a ‘New Case’ to him. Something that would ‘explain everything’. Six months later, he turned up dead in the first confirmed murder in the last twenty-five years of Warpath’s history. Greg took up Pop’s old revolvers and his whip, intent on delivering revenge to the sonsabitches who did this to his father. He swore on his grave to dedicate his life to the path of justice. The life of the Vigilante. The newly christened Vig spent two months tracking down and systematically eliminated a gang of bandits. As he worked his way through the higher ranking members, it was slowly becoming clearer and clearer that this was no ordinary Gang. It was a cult, devoted to finding something they called ‘The Miracle Mesa’. Vig never knew much about magic, but as he rolled up on the Cult for the final showdown, he could feel the air draw thinner. The closer he drew to them, the more he felt in a waking dream. The very reality around him seemed to pulsate with a kind of power, as if being touched by a force beyond mortal comprehension. It was around then that everything went to Hell.

Vigilante can still not accurately recall precisely what took place that day. In the face of the Miracle Mesa, reality peeled away, and all that was left was a nonsensical jangle of ideas, colors, feelings, and raw magic. What he does remember is bits and pieces. He remembers a blob of color, high in the sky, like you’d asked an abstract expressionist to design a city. He remembers emptying his pistols over and over again, shooting rounds into unholy abominations that spilled out of what seemed to be a hole in the world. What he remembers most of all is that he woke up in a place wholly unfamiliar to him, knee deep in demons.

Much like Warpath, Hell was… Unsuited to mortals, if Vigilante was still a mortal at all. God knows if he was dragged there through the Miracle Mesa, or if the demons spilling out of the thing killed him and brought him here. The one thing Vig knew for sure was that he had to get out. His experience of Hell was like a cryptic, corrupted version of the mortal plane. Everything was inverted, a perversion of itself. Everywhere was a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah, and just about all of the locals wanted him dead. In time, he found his pack. Six others who the Miracle Mesa had dragged in: Shining Knight, Jonah Hex, Johnny Frankenstein, Crimson Avenger, The Star Spangled Kid, and of course, good ol’ Stripsey. Time is a murky thing in Hell. They might’ve spent six months or a thousand years waging war on every manner of Demon and Monster they could find. However long it took them, on their way to demand passage out of the land of the damned from the Sultan of Sin himself, they ran across a demonic entity by the name of Mephisto. Mephisto’s bargain was simple: Safe passage out of Hell for Vig and all of his friends; in return for his mortal soul. By now The Seven Soldiers had learned a handful of lessons about survival in Hell. “Don’t deal with demons” was at the top of the list. In a pitched battle that lasted either a half hour or a month, the Soldiers, most of whom had all their limbs broken, were reasonably certain they’d hurt Mephisto. At least a tiny bit. Entirely beaten and with no other options, Vigilante stood up to the plate and laid down his soul, thus making him into Mephisto’s pawn, the Spirit of Vengeance. The current Ghost Rider. Now returned to Warpath, Vig and the Soldiers are planning their vengeance on Mephisto, and are seeking any magical help they can get. As Vig swore on his father's grave: Justice will be done.

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:

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This version of Vigilante alters his traditional origins, instead placing him in Warpath from the get-go. The idea here is to blend elements from many different versions of the character; literally the Ultimate edition. The main difference from those standard runs is its heavy focus on Saunders’ time in hell, which was otherwise just a bit of narration in a Jimmy Olsen comic. This version takes major inspiration from the raw weird that was Grant Morrison’s 7 Soldiers. There’s also the introduction of the Ghost Rider elements, which I did both to strengthen the idea of the DC and Marvel connection going on in this universe, but also to boost Vigilante’s power level, so he’s no slouch around some of the heavy hitters being brought in for this(as traditional Vig is just a grease monkey who is good with guns). On top of that, it lets Vig lean into the weird/supernatural that surrounds Hell and the West more effectively.

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

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-Unlike with Spider-Man, I won't be posting Vig's backlog here. Instead you'll find it below in the post catalog.

Supporting Cast

Shining Knight - A medieval Knight encountered in Hell. He stumbled across the Miracle Mesa while battling with Morgan Le Fay. He swears he owned a winged horse by the name of Winged Victory, and thinks it must be alive somewhere in the world.

Jonah Hex - 1800's Bounty Hunter that Vig met in Hell. He ran into the Miracle Mesa while tracking down a Bounty.

Frankenstein - Another person Vigilante encountered in Hell. He stumbled into the Miracle Mesa sometime in the late 1700s.

Crimson Avenger - The first man Vigilante encountered in Hell. Small time hero of the early 1940s. He typically did things quietly enough that neither SHIELD nor CADMUS came down on him. While tracking down a case, he encountered the Miracle Mesa.

Star Spangled Kid and Stripsey - Star Spangled Kid, former sidekick to Captain America, and his sidekick Stripsey themselves stumbled onto Miracle Mesa themselves in the late 1940’s, and have been in Hell since. That is, until Vig sprung them.

Billy Gunn - Old family friend and current Sheriff of Warpath.

Mephisto - Technically, Mephisto is Vigilante’s current Boss. The demon is responsible for his Ghost Rider abilities and his escape from Hell.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa

Vigilante could always feel it behind his eyes. The burning. The anger. It was like a little demon that lived in his head, constantly stabbing his eyes and his brain. Always screaming.

“VENGEANCE MUST BE DONE.” If he listened close he could constantly hear the click-clack of his own bones. The sound was whispered into his ear by some kind of unseen entity. Vig supposed it was Mephisto’s way of taunting him. He hoped the Demon Lord got enough satisfaction out of it before his head got turned into chunky salsa.

Vig leaned back in his rocker, polishing his pistols for the umpteenth time. He should’ve been the one to go, but according to Frank, he was best equipped to handle it if some creepy crawly clawed its way up to the surface. In his heart, Vig knew it too. But hell, maybe they were just protecting him from himself, Houston hadn’t been fine. A simple operation to wrassle a coupla Occult Books outta’ the hands of some gangbangers that didn’t know what the fuck they were turned into hellfire and screams of the damned. By contrast there wasn’t much to wake that thing in Warpath.

Hex said he’d seen it once before. The old man was tracking down a gang of outlaws led by a bandit by the name of White Face. The way Hex told it, by the time he rode up with his big iron, the whole place was burnin’ to the ground. Now, this was one of them old Frontier towns. Everything was down one long single road. Every one of the gang was laid at over the place. Sticking outta shop windows, gutted open on the glass. Speared through on a cracked post. Some of ‘em were burnin’ with the buildings. Even from a distance, Hex could see the thousand yard stares on some of the bodies. Weren’t no man that did this to them.

Way down, at the end of that long road, Hex could see White Face himself. The mask was burned away an’ his face was singed. Whatever the hell was holding him up by his neck wasn’t human, and certainly wasn’t no creature of God. Its skin was all burned away, an’ all that was left was a white skull coated in hellfire. Hex had killed many a man in his time, but he’d never seen no one beg like White Face begged that day. Hex ‘imself never got a good look at its proper face. Musta been something horrible, to make a rough sonuvabitch like White Face sob his goddamn eyes out. It was hard for Hex to see quite right at all that distance, but at some point White Face stopped struggling. He just stared through. His eyes were locked right on that skull, but they seemed to be gone for a million miles.

That was the only bounty Hex ever abandoned. He figured The Devil had come to collect his dues before mortal men got the chance, and that was a-okay with him.

On the horizon, Vig could see a dust cloud. The first to return. He holstered his pistol and drew himself out of his rocker. He tried to ignore the gnawing sensation in the back of his mind. Out of the dust, a figure cloaked in red slowly materialized. He was riding on a white steed -- that guy would never get used to motorcycle, even as Vig’s insistence.

The Crimson Avenger was the first man Vigilante had encountered in Hell. He seemed someone of solid principle, devoted to his cause -- Not unlike Vig’s father. Vig stood in the street. He wiped his hands and waved to his coming friend.

“Woah, nelly.” Crimson called out to his horse. They slowed on approach.

“Get whatcha’ needed, pardner?” Vig extended a hand to help him down from the horse.

“Yep. Now, we’ll probably have to modify the thing to make it suitable for combat down there…” Crimson took the hand and jumped down from his horse. He had a silver case attached to him at the hip.

“I’m just happy to have a fresh model of the old girl, again,” The Crimson Avenger opened the case and pulled out a gas gun -- it gleamed in the sunlight, “been too long.”

“Can’t imagine what that feelin’s like. Three years realtime was long enough fer me to be away from my bike.” Vigilante gestured to the second rocker. The Avenger nodded and obliged.

“So, what’s the word, Avenger?” Vig kicked up his legs and leaned back into the chair. The simple pleasures would be few, now. Had to do his best to enjoy them before it came time for the real war to start.

“Well, Knight, Hex, and Frankenstein are still trying to get themselves accustomed to the modern world. They were going to head up to the New York and Metropolis area to see what’s to see. They were planning on looking into the local occult locations to see if they can scrounge up anything we don’t already know.” Crimson Avenger said. He took a seat in his rocker, taking the time to press out the folds and wrinkles in his costume. It was a thing of amazing construction -- it held up all the way through his time in Hell up to now.

“Mhm.” Vig said. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled a cigarette. He considered it, for a moment. He felt the voice in his ear reaching out for his lighter, the call of the fire. He put the cig on the arm of the chair. “The Kid and Stripey have any word on Cap?”

The Crimson Avenger shook his head. The Star Spangled Kid had set out to find his old teacher -- Said he would’ve known it Cap had passed. The man was certain they would’ve heard tell of his passing or, God forbid, have seen him there. That meant he was out there somewhere, and hell, maybe he could be of service.

“Well Crimson, that jus means it’s you, me, and a long wait against whatever hand The Miracle Mesa deals us next. Cheers.”

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

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Posts

Part One - The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa
Prelude
Strings; Issue 1
Strings; Issue 2
Strings; Issue 3
Strings; Issue 4
Strings; Issue 5; Finale
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Riders on the Storm; Issue 1
Riders on the Storm; Issue 2
Riders on the Storm; Issue 3
Riders on the Storm; Issue 4
Riders on the Storm; Issue 5
Riders on the Storm; Issue 6
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Glitter and Gold; Issue 1
Glitter and Gold; Issue 2
Glitter and Gold; Issue 3
Glitter and Gold; Issue 4
Glitter and Gold; Issue 5
Glitter and Gold; Issue 6
Glitter and Gold; Issue 7
Glitter and Gold; Issue 8
Glitter and Gold; Issue 9
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Season One Epilogue

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

@Lord Wraith Do I have to have fancy headers?

@Dark Cloud

I'm in the business of putting together fancy headers for folks... And by business, I mean I do it for free... but a like wouldn't hurt.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

SPIDER-MAN: THE DISTANCE

Issue 1

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New York City, NY --- Thompson Memorial Hospital

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Ben’s room at the Thompson Memorial was smaller than it had any right to be, jammed into the corner of the Eastern wing, a room as far away from the bustle of personnel and people with quality medical insurance as they could find. A bundled mass of machines, all constantly blinking and churning out reports, lay in a mess around the room, jammed wherever they could fit to keep Ben Parker alive just a few minutes longer. The two seats in the room were awkwardly together against the back wall, chair legs competing for each other’s space.

Peter in one, May in the other. They’d been told a while ago that the worst of it was over, for now. Nerve damage to the spine, probably permanent, unless Stark came out with some new “revolutionizing gizmo” again. Peter never laughed at their jokes. May always looked up at them with those big, sad eyes of hers whenever they did it, trying to cling on to the hope in their jargon. Not understanding. May’s hand was around his now, white knuckled and bony as always. She stared at the rise and fall of Ben’s chest, but her eyes were glazed over, her mind somewhere else. When Peter looked at her he could only see the age in her face. Past the grief and the tracks of tears, all that was left was her years spent with Ben; walks through Central Park, long swims down at Coney Island beach. Now the wonder was how Ben could get up the stairs to his own bedroom. If he woke up, anyhow. When he woke up.

Peter shifted in his chair and the noise cut through the whir of medical machinery, hard scrape of plastic against cheap linoleum. May started in her seat and Peter gave her hand a squeeze.

“I-I'm sorry Peter dear, I…” May shook her head.

“S’okay, Aunt May. My fault. Sorry.” Peter’s thumb circled the back of her hand. ”Listen, I uh… I think I’m just gonna go outside and catch some air, okay? I’ll be right back.”

May nodded slowly and turned back to her husband, clasping her hands together and receding even further into herself, if that were even possible. Peter stood and winced as he unclenched his hands. He didn’t realize he’d been doing it that hard. Still, to think that some sonofabitch had shot his Uncle and was now doing this to his Aunt, and was… Peter’s fingers dug back into the bruise on his hand and he swore under his breath.

The room’s door closed behind him and he sucked in the stale, reprocessed Hospital air. It wasn’t much better than the stuffed up room, but it was something. The hall was silent, spare for the echoed clack of the receptionist’s mechanical keyboard and the steady hum of the white fluorescent lights. Peter dropped into one of the felt chairs outside and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. How long had it been, now? Three, four days? They weren’t expecting him in school for a while at least, but every day he couldn’t get away from the hospital was another day the shooter had to hide himself from Peter. From the police. From Spider-Man. He grabbed the arms of the chair and squeezed. Useless just sitting here and... And watching him. Peter needed to be out there, doing something, finding the bastard that… Three sets of shoes coming down the hallway. Peter tensed. Already he was up on his haunches in the chair, and he could feel the suit gurgling below the surface, waiting to spring across his body in an instant.

What was it? The killer coming to finish the job? Their steps didn’t have the cadence of the Doctors, and he and May were the only family Ben had. They were nearly to the bend now, Peter’s biceps swelled underneath his shirt and he pointed his hands forward. He reached out for his Spider-Sense and felt nothing, no chill across his mind. Suit on the fritz? Maybe. Either way, just a second now, and…

”Gwen?” Peter realized his mistake and all the fight went out of him. His balance gave and he dropped forward. His chin cracked against the linoleum. ”Ow.” Through the haze of the vague pain travelling up through his chin, he could make out the three of them; Gwen, Harry, and MJ.

“Geez, Pete! Over excited to see us?” Harry Osborn’s smile went from ear to ear as Peter tumbled, awkwardly trying to find his footing and right himself again. His arm was around MJ, she laughed as Peter finally established himself on two wobbly legs. Gwen stood before them, rubbing her hands together.

”You know me. Excitable is my middle name.” Peter rubbed his chin as the pain faded into a background throb and his friends reached him. Gwen threw her arms around him and pulled him in close. Her hair smelled like strawberries.

“Hope you’re doing okay, Peter…” Just as quickly as she’d hugged him Gwen began to pull away from him, blushing. “Sorry.”

“Uh, thanks, Gwen…” Peter patted her on the back and tried to seperate himself from her arms. ”It, uh… It means a lot, actually. What brings you guys out all this way?”

“We’re here to see you, tiger.” MJ said, untangling herself from her boyfriend and going to check on Peter herself.

“We’re, uh, all fine here now, thanks. How are you?” Peter crossed his arms and the words tumbled out. Same old stupid Parker with his foot in his mouth, right? MJ and Gwen looked him up and down while Harry shot off a text on his OsPhone, which he deposited in his back pocket before joining the girls.

”Just been missing you in school, bud. Bet even that jackass Flash is, even if he won’t tell anyone.” Harry didn’t know it but his grin was just like his Dad’s, wide and thin. He always looked like he’d just gained the upper hand. MJ swatted her boyfriend’s shoulder and reached out to take Peter’s hand.

”What Harry is trying to say is that we care about you and just wanted to check up on you.” MJ squeezed his hand and plunked down into the seat he’d just been occupying. Gwen tentatively touched his arm.

”How’s Ben?” Peter pulled his arm away and into himself, scratching at the back of his head.

”He’s uh… He’s hanging in there, yeah. Hanging like Luke in the Wampa den, but… Hanging.” Peter sighed. He looked at Gwen and she looked right back at him. Her big blues were unblemished by tears or sleepless nights over a hospital bed. No, she was just Gwen Stacy. Peter looked away. His hands were balling again. ”Have you heard anything from El Capìtan about Ben’s case?”

Gwen smiled but she looked down, shaking her head. ”I’m sorry, they didn’t put Dad on it. Said he was too close to it. They said the department was putting their best people on it, if that means anything to you.”

”Okay.” Peter nodded again and again. ”Okay.”

”Pete? You’re shaking.” Harry started.

”I’m fine, Har. I’m good.” Peter jammed his hands in his pockets and looked away. He tried to focus on his breathing, on his heartbeat, anything to calm down, but all he could hear in the back of his mind was the steady gurgle of the suit. Waiting. Wanting.

”Peter.” Gwen’s hand on his shoulder. ”I know you want to be strong. For May. But we know… I know what it’s like to lose someone, okay? You can talk to us.”

Peter bristled, every muscle coiled together and prepared to pounce, but Peter just focused on the cadence of Gwen’s voice. She was right, deep down Peter knew that. They wanted to help. But Spider-Man wanted something else.

”I appreciate it guys, really, it’s just, uh…” C’mon, Parker, think! he was never good with excuses.

”If you want us to go, we’ll go, but…” Harry scratched at the non-existent stubble on his chin. ”I just… I unno, it might be better for you if we stayed?"

MJ pulled Harry into a sideways hug as he sat and she looked up at Peter. ”You don’t need to do it alone, Parker. You’ve got May, and you’ve more than got us. Any way we can take the weight off a little?”

Maybe I don’t have to do it alone. But Spider-Man does. Peter massaged his temples. ”Look, I can stick around a while longer but, uh… I think I just need to get my mind off things. By myself, that is. Sorry. Maybe I’ll play The Old Scriptures V again, or something.”

”That works. They just released Byerim on the Os-Homes.” Harry said.

”Thanks for staying awhile, Pete.” Gwen sat and patted the empty seat next to her.

I just hope I don’t regret it…

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

D O C P R E S E N T S

S P I D E R - M A N

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^{_{P E T E R B E N J A M I N P A R K E R ♦ S T U D E N T ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y ♦ M I D T O W N H I G H}}

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

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^{"... Define witty?"}

Peter Benjamin Parker was born to Richard and Mary Parker, out of an unassuming home in Queens. What would be a fairly ordinary childhood was cut short when his parents were killed in a random car accident. The other driver was never caught, but such as it is with New York City. The young Peter, only six at the time, quickly found himself in the care of his aunt and uncle, May and Ben Parker.

Peter has found himself in their care for the better part of ten years, now. Though the Parker family was never wealthy, they found their happiness in other ways -- Peter was always fascinated with little tinker toys Ben brought for him, content to fidget and experiment his days away, while Ben and May would dance in the living room to old records. It was never perfect, but Peter always found it a certain kind of idyllic. His parents' deaths were long behind him, and he took comfort in his life with Ben and May. Along the way, he made a fledgling group of friends in and around Queens: Gwen Stacy, child of a cop and a personal confidant, Harry Osborn, son a veritable super genius and still the only man alive to beat Peter at Mario Kart, and Mary Jane Watson, a girl with a fire in her heart like nothing else. Even Flash Thompson palled around with them in Elementary School, but he'd grown to be something of a bully in recent years. Peter always knew that High School changed people, but he never really found out how much until the day of the Oscorp field trip.

Thanks to some wheedling from the Osborn heir apparent, a school field trip brought Peter's entire sophomore class for a day at Oscorp Industries. They were touring the genetics lab, but anyone who was anyone knew what Oscorp was really interested in; an extra-planetary substance that seemed somehow capable of enhancing whatever it was applied to. It was largely inert, but the substance did seem to move on its own troublingly often. Such behavior was chalked up to residual static discharge by Oscorp Weapons Mechanics, an error in judgment they would come to regret. On the day of the field trip, the substance gathered enough energy to breach containment and escape into the wider world, riding whatever host it deemed appropriate. As the visitors from Midtown High were being evacuated amid the breach, Peter spotted an unusually large, black arachnid, not of any species known to him. Concluding the spider must be playing host to the escaped creature, Peter attempted to capture and return it. He reached for it, and --

Peter awoke the next day in his bedroom, Aunt May and Uncle Ben at either side. He'd suddenly collapsed at Oscorp, evidently from stress, and was brought straight back home. The following weeks were full of revelations for Peter -- he found he had enhanced strength, speed, and even the ability to shoot webbing from his wrists or crawl on walls. On top of it all, he'd gained the ability to seemingly transform the clothes on his body to any shape he desired. Somehow, he'd gained the abilities of a spider and more, and he wasn't about to let them go to waste. It was about time the Parkers had another source of income. A three-match wrestling career as "The Black Spider" was cut short when Peter allowed an armed robber to flee the arena. The man had an armful of cash stolen from the Tournament Organizer who refused Peter what he was owed, suspecting he had stacked the deck by being a "metahuman". Once allowed him to get away, the man shot his Uncle Ben in a carjacking; nearly fatally, too. Ben suffered permanent spinal damage. Doctors suspected he'd never walk again, and none of them could tell Peter anything useful that he could do. So he decided to make his own way, and hunt down the man was shot his Uncle, as... THE INDOMITABLE SPIDER-MAN!

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:

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My Peter is very different from the vanilla version. He's got the symbiote suit to start, and his Uncle Ben isn't dead, at least not yet. This is a Peter who hasn't quite gotten "With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility" through his head yet, and is hell-bent on bringing the man that shot his Uncle to justice, by any means necessary. On top of it all, he's very, very green to his job and has no idea what he's doing.

To be clear, these changes aren't made to have an angstier or edgier Peter, though there will be a sprig of that as is the nature of the symbiote. I want to tell a story about a struggling Peter, his family is sinking in debt under Hospital bills, he's unraveling the case of his Uncle's shooting while contesting a Police Department that refuses to work with him, all while dealing with the trials and tribulations of High School. This will be a story about Peter being pushed to his limitations and confronting them, a story about family and expectations, and above all else, a story about what Great Responsibility really means. He's going to make a lot of bad choices, and be thoroughly punished for them, to force him to truly become The Indomitable Spider-Man.

In terms of my grander aspirations, I'm certainly starting Peter in the black suit for a reason. In time, the symbiote will come to tinge everything Peter touches. His life, his work, his villains, and especially those closest to him. This version of Spider-Man will eventually take heavy horror cues, eventually showing a Spider-Man on the run from an encroaching array of symbiote-enhanced villains coming for his head, and secretly infecting those closest to him. Peter won't know who he can trust, and he needs to stay on his toes at every moment. He's just a kid that's been thrust into this terrifying body-horror situation with an alien being that has literally fused to his body, and this run will explore the consequences of that.

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

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Supporting Cast

Ben Parker: Peter's Uncle. Ben's always been a father figure to Peter, trying to instill him with his values, but still letting the kid be a kid. He's been one of the biggest enablers for Peter's love of science. He's currently paralyzed from the waist down, and needs a hell of a lot of rest.

May Parker: Peter's Aunt. The old lady's always been a little coddling for Peter's taste, but her heart's in the right place. She's been a greater partner to Ben and a great mother figure for Peter over the years, but she does occasionally have a tendency to clutch her pearls.

Gwen Stacy: One of Peter's closest friends in the world, and one of the most vocal supporters of Spider-Man, despite her Police Captain father's protests. Gwen's always been a science geek like him, but she ended up getting more into the arts and activism than he ever did. She's the drummer in MJ's band, The Mary Janes.

Mary Jane Watson: One of Peter's closest friends. She comes from a bad home, and she's got an anti-establishment streak a mile wide. Harry's girlfriend. Singer, Frontwoman, and Lead Guitarist of The Mary Janes.

Harry Osborn: Son of Norman Osborn and aspiring coder. He doesn't have the head for it, but he wants to make his Dad proud, and maybe use it to make games on the side or something. Also one of Peter's closest friends, although he can be brash at times, he's always right there when you need him.

Glory Grant: Guitarist of The Mary Janes. Peter isn't very close to her, but she's a friend to MJ and Gwen. She's got the skinny on Flash Thompson's whole deal, and Peter finds it entertaining to listen to every now and again.

Betty Brant: Bassist of The Mary Janes. Peter was never very close with her, but she's a friend to MJ and Gwen. She's very close with Glory. She doesn't seem it on the surface, but she's got a thing for Death Metal.

Flash Thompson: Six feet of raw muscle and not an ounce of sense to fill that head of his. He's the QB of the Midtown High Football team, which he thinks gives him the right to lord over everyone at the school. He tends to pick on Peter more than other kids, Peter thinks its because he still remembers the story of the time Flash pissed himself in the 6th grade.

Liz Allan: Never one of the smartest kids in school, but she's always been sweet with Peter. And a little flirty, too, but that's how she is to most guys... Right? Anyway, she's Flash's girlfriend, so Peter tries to keep his distance.

Doctor Curt Connors: One of Peter's idols, a brilliant geneticist, chemical engineer, and biologist working out of his labs at Empire State University. Peter and Gwen were lucky enough to score an internship with him.

Doctor Martha Connors: Lab assistant and wife to Curt Connors, but a brilliant geneticist in her own right.

J. Jonah Jameson: Local News editor at the Daily Bugle working his way to Editor-In-Chief. JJ hasn't caught wind of the Spider-Man yet, but Peter's more than seen some of his work in the papers; he seems at least a little competent.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Sample

Issue 0

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New York City, NY

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The gunshot knifed through the Autumn air. Above the traffic and the footsteps of millions, beyond sputtering tailpipes and screaming merchants, it was the one sound that rang in Peter Parker’s ears. Over and over and over again. He felt like he was small again, hearing the phone crash into the receiver as Aunt May staggered. Death.

It hit his heart before it his his brain, and he was running. His feet cracked against the pavement. He might’ve been leaving divots, he didn’t care, just pressing forward. The suit around him tightened, he felt it in the very fibers of his muscles, giving him the boost he needed. His vision was tunneled, but it didn’t matter. He was guided between passerby as if they weren’t there at all, the only evidence of his passing left in the explosions of his footfalls. The rest of his senses had singular focus.

The gunman’s footsteps were a cacophony, echoing through a hundred yards of pavement and reverberating with every cell in his body, even his stench filled Peter, sweat and adrenaline and blood and fear -- and it was getting farther and farther away. A football field. Two. The crowds were too much. Instantaneously, Peter’s legs coiled and he launched a half dozen meters in the air. A hand snapped forward and a webline pirouetted through the sky, snagging onto a flagpole.

His momentum carried him through the swing, he released and hung over the streets for a moment. It felt like an eternity, a spider hunting for his prey. There. Peter picked the ski mask out of the crowd, bobbing and weaving, waving a gun at anyone that didn’t move fast enough. Peter’s body compressed into a missile and he shot downward. At the last second he launched another web and pulled. He sailed down the street and hit the ground in a roll.

He was almost upon the gunman, now. If he listened close, he could hear the gunman’s panicked breathing. He was already haggard from running, like there were rocks in his lungs. Peter was low to the ground, and the concrete below him was a blur as he closed the distance. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten. The gunman rounded a corner.

A web hooked into the corner of a building and Peter pulled himself around at speed, and the gunman was gone. Thousands of faces swirled before him, all staring at the man with the white spider on his chest. A ski mask. One goddamn ski mask ripped off and freeing the bastard that shot...

“Damnit!” Peter’s fist lanced out and cleaved a hunk of brickwork from the corner. Passerby staggered back, screaming. His own voice came to him as if in a dream: What am I doing? Peter shook his head. Who… Who had been shot, anyway? It wasn’t… No. It couldn’t be.

His suit began to fade as he turned, running back from where he came. A superhuman’s sprint became a teenager’s jog, black boots warping back into hand-me-down converse. It couldn’t be, right? Just a dream he’d seen in the heat of the moment. That guy shot at someone, so he’d only imagine the worse, right?

Right?

There was a crowd gathered around the car. That wasn’t Ben’s car. It couldn’t be. It was a green Honda, but plenty of people drove those. And plenty of people had the Midtown High Student Achievement stickers on the back window. And more people than that had the ESU alumni bumper plates. And Ben’s sticker for Vets and May’s stupid fish thing and that license plate number and… Oh God.

“Move! Please!” Peter’s muscles felt like they were made out of jello, a tiny little creature in a crowd full of giants. A kid again. The people interlocked and swirled, cascading over one another in waves, not a one of them stepping forward to help.

“Please!” Peter was lost in their ocean, fighting to just get closer. He remembered that day, so many people, so many gifts that were supposed to make him feel better, Aunt May hugging herself by the fireplace while Ben bounced him up and down on his knee, over and over and over again. Ben’s face through the crowds just trying to pay their respects, someone else who really felt something. He couldn’t do it again. Not with Ben.

“It’s my Uncle! Let me through!” Finally he made his way, falling forward through the group. His powers were gone from him and a scraped knee ripped across his consciousness. He pushed himself to his feet and there he saw it. Uncle Ben.

He was slumped against the side of the car. The red was everywhere, pumping steadily out of a little hole in his abdomen. Both of his hands were pressed into the wound and he was tight-lipped. Peter couldn’t see tears. He just stared right through at the ground, his mind somewhere else, trying to think of some way through this.

“Ben?” Peter’s voice cracked.

“Peter.” Red rimmed eyes met his. Still, Ben smiled. Peter stumbled closer, both knees knocked hard against the pavement.

“Ben, Ben, it’sgonnabeokay Ben, I promise, I… I--” Ben’s hand came around his back and pulled him close. He was so warm.

“S’okay, Peter. S’okay.” Peter could feel the blood leaking onto his jeans, but he pulled himself closer to Ben, running his hands through his Uncle’s hair. No no no no no no... He could hear an ambulance now, piercing the noise of the crowd.

“Peter… My father always… My father always told me: With great power must also…” Peter looked up. The ambulance was close.

“Hey! Hey!” The crowds were parting. “Help us! Please!” Maybe there was a chance. A hand tugged at his shirt. It was so weak. Ben’s eyes drifted, they couldn’t meet Peter’s.

“With great power…” Ben started again. “Comes great res--” Peter pulled Ben closer, he pumped his arms, trying to wave the crowd away, clear a path for the paramedics. They were so close.

“Save your strength… Please. They’re so… We’re so close… I can’t.” Peter swallowed. “Please.”

Ben stared back at him. His hand was stained red. Still pressed against his wounds. The paramedics were upon them now, and Peter was pushed away as they set to work, kneeling beside him.

“Okay.”

C A T A L O G U E:

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Spider-Man: The Distance

Issue 1
Issue 2
Issue 3

Doc's Chop Shop

hal

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

G R E E N L A N T E R N

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^{_{H A L J O R D A N ♦ T E S T P I L O T ♦ C O A S T C I T Y ♦ B. 1944}}

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

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^{"In brightest day, in blackest night... Uh, line, Kilowog?"}

Coast City never treated Hal Jordan well growing up. It had its own wonders, certainly. Beaches up and down the coast as far as the eye could see and rolling tracts of perfect morning dew suburbia in the hills beyond the city proper. But in Coast City, awash with lights and crowded in by the restful giants of the wartime ammunition factories beyond, you could never see the stars.

By Hal's measure, the war was the cause of all of his problems. Not Korea, the really big one where everybody joined in, Hal always had to specifiy, the one dad bought the farm in. That crack always bought him a bop on the head and some grumbling about "respect", so Hal supposed that the admonishment was the war's fault, too. It was the war that pushed the light out of the sky, changed it from the town of his parents' childhood that made Mom's voice perk up when she spoke about it into a thing of iron and concrete. It was the reason Tommy Tanaka from next door had gone, too, and he was the only kid that Hal could get to play pretend Flying Ace and Red Baron with him.

"Ma says its coz' of the war we got ta' move."
"How's that?"
"Ma says the people here used ta' keep us in cages, then. N' that things ain't got any better since."
"No better...? Do you got cages in your house?"
"I thought about that too, but Dad says this city is just a great big one."

Hal and Tommy, 1950

And then there was Dad, who Mom cried about when she thought Hal had finally drifted off to sleep. Hal figured he must've been a real important guy. In the stories Mom told him, he had some kinda magic in his heart that he must've plucked out of the sky that Mom said let him fly faster and higher than anyone else. For Hal that settled it, if Dad could do it maybe he could too, maybe even finally reach up and touch the stars that had gone missing over the city.

But flying wasn't in the cards for Hal. Instead he was saddled with a pair of coke bottle lenses and instructions to make sure to eat his carrots if he wanted any kind of shot at the controls of an airplane. Hal's first kiss ended up telling him he had carrot breath, but he figured it was worth the trade. As long as he could look forward and keep stepping towards the sky, he'd make it through anything, school, college, break ups, even every damn page of his aeronautics textbook.

Still, for every carrot he swallowed and every precaution he took to keep his eyes in mint condition, it was a miracle he got any position at all. A battery of failed FAA eye exams meant he'd never be a combat pilot, he'd be lucky to even get a job flying rubbernecking tourists across the country.

But Ferris Aircraft didn't need a combat pilot, it needed a technician that knew his vehicle inside and out. It helped that Dad did some work for them at the start of the war, that old man Ferris had a long memory, and that his daughter had a knack for finding the best in her flyboys. Hal wasn't combat-ready, sure, but he could piece together more about the quality of a test aircraft just after takeoff than most pilots could after full flights in them.

It was like this for some years, mornings spreading his wings over the Californian desert, and nights writing aching reports about every bump and hassle and errant knob his craft had on offer. That is, until the night he saw his first Coast City shooting star, a twinkling emerald jewel that came down, down, down.

It is he who shall next bear the ring, the star told him as it slotted itself upon his finger, leading him to the corpse of its former wearer. Abin Sur was dead -- and an alien, but Hal ultimately decided that the dead part was the more pressing concern -- murdered in his own spaceship.

Over the next days, the organization Hal found himself conscripted in, The Green Lantern Corps, would place a sector wide blockade on the planet. No entry or exit from Earth's solar system under any circumstances, the powers that be wanted a locked door mystery. Leaving Hal and the remnants of Abin Sur's team to keep the peace among an increasingly restless population of aliens who didn't expect to be staying on Earth for quite so long.

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:

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Green Lantern Year One, you've heard the song a hundred times before but never from these instruments. Truth be told this is a boilerplate Green Lantern set up, chock full of power rings, intergalactic law, and more aliens than you can shake a Kilowog at. My main goal here is a pretty steep difference in execution, less a space police procedural with the nigh-omnipotent protectors of the galaxy, and more a journey of willpower and deceit as Hal navigates the increasingly complicated politics of the Green Lantern Corps and the people its meant to protect, couched in the adventure of a Green Lantern that has to figure out far too much of this for himself.

This is a story about cops and power, about lurking murderers, long shadows, and the infinite reaches of space. Most of all, this is a story of the power of human resolve.

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

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I'm changing some things about the Green Lanterns, eat my shorts. The things of import are as follows.

GLC Changes

-The power rings tend to be much less powerful than they are usually portrayed in the DCU. All but the best Green Lanterns often have trouble maintaining constructs of significant power, leaving such applications of their ring much less useful. As well, the ring overall does much less of the work, each Lantern must earn every benefit the ring bestows upon them, even the Lantern basics of flight or interstellar travel.

-Speaking of changes to the rings, each bearer tends to have a specialty. I won't say too much about what exactly these can do, but know that a Green Lantern can do more than a fnacy light show.

-For my story, the nature of the power rings toes the line between the mystic and extraterrestrial technology. They are said to be as old as Oa, the agents of a power that is still not fully understood.

-As well, Green Lantern Corps members are not the only ones that have gotten their hands on these handy dandy power rings, even the green ones. The Corps is instead simply the largest organized conglomerate of ring bearers who, with the assistance of their Guardians, have forged an organization dedicated to intergalactic policing.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Issue 0

GREEN LANTERN in: LITTLE WING

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“A Green Lantern’s first flight is a rite of passage. It is a demonstration of his mastery, not just of the fundamentals of his ring, but of the infinite force of his own will. Through flight, a Green Lantern is--”

“Kilowog,” Hal interrupted the creature standing two heads over him, “I asked for advice, not Sinestro’s flying speech again.”

Hal was still getting used to reading the big guy’s expressions. The structure of his face was somewhere between a warthog and a hippo, with rough pink skin that looked like sandpaper. His face shifted, opening up his parapeted lower jaw and cracking what Hal assumed was a smile.

“It’s all the advice they ever gave me, poozer. You just gotta work with it,” Kilowog said. He was sitting on the remains of one of the lawn chairs Hal had dragged out here for them, sagging with splintered plastic legs that had cried out and collapsed under the alien’s weight. But still, he sat in it, evidently it was better than getting California desert sand all over the ass of his uniform.

They were out in the reaches of Death Valley, hidden from prying eyes by plumes of cacti and the endless expanse of desert all around them. Hal liked it, out here. Away from the lights of the city, where the stars could come out of hiding and whisper of their mysteries unabated. It was like being out in the far ocean, with rolling waves that stretched to the horizon beyond and where the sky seemed to swallow up the whole world. But here in the desert, the rippling waves were frozen as sand and grit, no longer moving with the tide but sitting in meditative silence.

According to Sinestro, Hal and Kilowog’s boss, meditation was exactly what he needed if he ever intended to get his ring to take him into the sky. That was one of the things he didn’t understand, flying from his angle was never about meditation. It was about reflex and constant movement, keeping an eye on all your dials and instruments, keeping your hands flowing like water across the test console to be wherever they were needed.

“Well, fat load of good that’ll do me,” Hal said, “we’ve been out here an hour and my will definitely doesn’t feel infinite.”

“An hour that you’ve spent, nonstop, trying to take off like Superman,” Kilowog said. He scratched at the icon of a lantern on his chest with a white-gloved, four-fingered hand.

“What, you have any better ideas?” Hal whapped the ring on his finger like it was a malfunctioning TV set.

“Have you tried asking the ring?” Kilowog shifted in his seat and more plastic snapped and broke, bringing him closer to the desert below.

“Asking the -- okay, you know what? I’ll humor you.” Hal turned his gloved hand over, staring now at the icon of the lantern embossed on his ring. “Ring, how do I fly?”

There was silence, except for Kilowog’s snorting laugh. “Ask it to fly, dummy, not how.”

Hal took a moment to stick his tongue out at Kilowog before extending his arm and sticking his ring into the sky. “Ring… Fly.”

Nothing.

“Hm… Ring… Go?”

Nothing.

“Ring zoom. Ring flash! Ring alakazam!” Hal shouted. Kilowog couldn’t keep it together anymore and guffawed, his shoulders heaving and his hippo-jaws jumping open and closed.

“Kilowog! Goddamn, I knew you were hazing me.” Hal kicked the ground and sent up a plume of dust.

“Aw, man, that one’s a Corps classic,” Kilowog wiped tears from his eyes, “what is ‘hazing’ by the way?”

“I -- you don’t?” Hal rubbed his temples. “When I was growing up, I worked at one of these big chain grocery stores that were popping up all over the city. And one day, we got this new kid, Matt, and I told him to head down the checkout and grab the shelf extender. Checkout sent him to the deli. Deli sent him to produce. On and on, until he finally gave up looking for it. That is hazing. What you did to me is hazing.”

“Right. But what happened to the shelf extender?” Kilowog asked.

“There was no,” Hal saw the same smile creep up on Kilowog’s face, “no, no, you won’t get me again. C’mon, let’s figure this out. How did you do it, your first time?”

Kilowog pawed at his chin. “Hm. It’s been awhile… I just thought about what it would be like to fly. And I made the ring do that.”

“Very helpful, Kilowog.” Hal slumped into the sand beneath. Why couldn’t Green Lanterns just use planes like everybody else? If they could make these rings then they could certainly figure out the concepts of lift and drag.

Wait. Why couldn’t he use a plane? He’d already been taught the basics of ‘constructs’, simple shapes and objects he could make manifest out of the ring. What would stop him from…

“Stand back, big guy. I think I have an idea.” Hal said.

“Standing back,” Kilowog said, staying firmly planted in his seat.

Hal started small, as he had been taught, willing the first mote of twinkling green energy from the ring, causing it to coalesce into an elongating rectangle of emerald, gaining more detail as it expanded. The shape curved off from rectangle into tube as it grew beyond Hal, tapering into a distinct nosecone. The rest spread into a shape Hal knew well, forming a canopy over his head and spreading a delta of wings out behind him.

“Woah Jordan, you’re not flying anywhere in that thing. Probably can’t even maintain a construct that big, let alone --” Kilowog started,

“Just, just lemme try this, alright?” Sweat beaded on Hal’s brow as he defined the space around him, eking out his dials and instruments from the featureless green before him, his altimeter, airspeed indicator, the works… But it wasn’t enough, not yet. It didn’t feel right.

“Kilowog can you, ah…” Hal hoped the alien couldn’t see the red on his face through the shimmering jet canopy, “can you pretend to be Air Traffic Control, or something?”

Kilowog nodded solemnly and covered his mouth. “Breaker breaker nine to five, this is Biiiig Poozer, you read me Highball?”

“I changed my mind, shut up,” Hal snapped. He closed his eyes and focused, tighter. The swoop of his craft’s aileron, the way his stabilizers swept into the air around him, the press and shudder of what it would feel like to his the airbreak...

“This is Highball, reading you loud and proud Big Poozer…” Hal mumbled to himself, “let’s get this show on the road.” Hal reached for the throttle, right where it would be in his test plane, and his hands closed around something solid. He pushed forward and felt the engine spinning up in his heart, imaging the plane creaking forward steadily around him. More, more.

He reached out for the instruments, feeling their smooth plastic and glass surfaces and knowing instantly what they would tell him, arranged just so in the cockpit. He knew what they’d do, what they’d tell him as he rose into the sky, information streaming through his eyes and telling him every practical detail of his plane. He knew this, and he knew it well, just like he knew the feeling of air whipping across his skin and sweeping his hair. He knew how high he was, of course, he had to, he could practically feel it from the air pressure. His heading, his vertical speed, his navigation, that all came to him, too, as the great body of the plane rose up about him and the notion of his instruments faded into the background.

Now there was just Hal and the plane, Kilowog and Sinestro and Carol and the job and the ring and Abin Sur all seemed so far away. No, instead there was the lift and drag across his jet, the ripple and roll of each piece of his fighter, working all together in one contiguous whole, one of the finest flying machines every built.

Hal was there, the place he always reached in the sky, where the plane stopped being a plane and instead became an extension of himself, the wings slicing through the sky were his own, forging his path forward. But… He had forgotten one detail.

He never disengaged the landing gear. He reached for it in his cockpit, as he had with the throttle, and his hand passed through empty air. Nuts. Hal’s eyes opened to search for the missing instrument.

There was no landing gear.

There was no plane.

He was flying.

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

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A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.

①⑨⑥⑧ — a DC/Marvel Pitch

Me rolling up to the interest check to throw my hat in the ring after flaking out of three RPs in a row

@Simple Unicycle

Me doing the same shit but in green

One Universe: World Of Heroes - A Marvel & DC Comics RPG

Hey guys, thought I would pop in and attempt to explain the lack of Bat-posts. In all honesty, I've been in kind of a huge funk lately, and without getting into specifics I've been having a few relationship and school troubles. Nothing too major but nonetheless I have ended up very distracted and I'm finding it quite difficult to push through. I'm sorry to have done this, especially with a character as major as Batman and doubly so given how extreme of a take I've done on him, and I'd like to apologize to everyone, but especially our GM team and Roman. I'm going to try to get something out within the next couple of days and if I can't manage that I'm going to step back from the cowl. Sorry, y'all.