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Current still pretty alive thx
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mostly not dead
1 yr ago
i bet defenders would be even better if we just played 90s hip hop over all danny's lines
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lol bioware literally when have i ever just gone with one of the presets
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ugh dela don't be a fucking martyr it's not cute

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B A T G I R L
MARV'S PIZZA

Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


It took all of a few minutes for her to mentally retrace everything she'd seen upon entering Marv's a little under an hour ago. The kitchen was in the northwestern corner, opposite the front door and the mounting chaos outside. She'd seen the street entrance to the basement had been on the true western side of the building where the streets were narrower. Shitty for traffic, but the best bet if she was going to keep people - kids - off the street and away from the action.

Outside, a geyser of water erupted and the windows shook in their sills again.

Babs hesitated only a moment before tugging the hood of her sweatshirt up (hardly Bat-approved, but if anyone came away from the day their four-year-old's pizza party was ruined by what or whoever the hell had blown up Midtown with a perfect recall of her face, well...they probably deserved her job more than she did), surreptitiously reaching into her pocket and making a sudden motion at the wall opposite her. Careful eyes might have discerned a purple blur in the air, gone again as quickly as it had appeared. A moment later, every light but those in the kitchen flickered out.

Someone near her screamed and Babs quickly, gently(ish), ushered the woman through the kitchen doors, away from the windows.

"This way!"

Almost immediately, the crowd turned and surged toward the double doors. Babs watched a moment, wondering if there was a way for her to disconnect said doors from their hinges without drawing too much attention, but no. The bigger issue was making sure the path from kitchen to basement and back to street level was clear before all she caused was a sweaty, bloated pizza crush.

Suddenly, a large glass pane near the far side of the restaurant exploded inward, showering a group of girls not much older than herself in glass. Babs saw one, a pretty brunette she'd overheard talking about her shitty boyfriend, drop to the ground. Green eyes flickered between the growing kitchen crowd, to the girls at the window, and back.

"Oh, fuck me," she muttered. Reaching behind her, she slapped a hand against the wall, leaving a thing purple disk against the plaster, flashing red at anyone who cared to stoop to hip-height in the face of imminent death. A moment later, she was launching herself across booths and tables again to crouch at the corner where the girls were screaming over their bleeding friend.

"Hi, sorry, ladies, can I just - " She planted a single tennis shoe against the jagged edge of the sill and boosted herself up in a single fluid motion before grabbing the roll-down grate from the outside and tugging down. She paused only for a second, staring in mingled amusement and curiousity at the scene in the streets before her.

"...Clark?" she muttered before she could help herself. Only, no. That was almost immediately apparent. Clark was older, bigger, stronger...and a hell of a lot less prone to anything beyond Boy Scout language.

"Who the shit -?" was as far as she got before something collided with a streetlight at the corner. Babs watched, speechless for once, as the thing - a girl - started to roll to her feet, only for another thing (most definitely a thing this time) to follow after.

Babs took a breath to...what, warn the girl, maybe? But before she could say anything, the girl had quite taken care of herself, dragging herself to her feet as the ethereal light around her faded in the wake of her admittedly impressive attack.

Babs blinked. "Well, fuck me."

At her feet, one of the girls still in the restaurant screamed, and Babs shook herself, tugging the grate down the rest of the way. Right. First things first.

She dropped back to the floor, wrangled an arm around the waist of the fallen girl before tugging one of the girl's arms over her own shoulder.

"Hi," she said plainly. "Can you walk? We gotta go."
B A T G I R L
MARV'S PIZZA

Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


Even with the dulcet tones of a world-renowned, five-time SOCAN award-winning group of musicians in her head, Babs could see things were going nowhere fast. Extraterrestrial street battle or no, she was still all but sitting on a diner full of civilians getting fuller by the minute, with a blown gas line imminent and closing - and, if she had to guess from the geyser of water she could only just see out the crowded windows, their nearest source of water was perhaps not to be counted on.

So, okay, Babs, think. Get the people out of the kitchen and away from the fucking action. The fun part happens later, assuming Wally leaves any leftovers, and when does he ever?

Exhaling, Babs shut her eyes, retracing the whole of the restaurant before her in a matter of seconds, drawing as much on what she'd seen just sitting with her friends as she did the imagined layout of the kitchen, the bank next door, the open storage underneath -

Green eyes flew open again. Breaking into the freezers under the restaurant wouldn't hold a panicked crowd for long, but it'd get them off the streets, out of the way, and away from a gas leak long enough for the others to clean up.

Pulling herself up over tabletops again, Babs skirted the crowd in a series of quick movements until her Converse found the sticky floor again just outside the kitchen where the smell of gas was strong enough to make her head ache. With a furtive glance around her, she dipped a hand in her pocket and pulled out a small, black and purple case no larger than a compact mirror. She didn't travel her her gear wrapped around a finger like some did, but she'd been with Bruce too long not to be at least a little prepared.
B A T G I R L
MARV'S PIZZA

Now | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


Even before the explosion rattled the tiny pizza joint, Babs knew from the way Wally’s expression flashed from cautiously amused to vaguely alarmed confusion something bad was going to happen. But Wally was Wally, so even seeing his reaction didn’t give her much time to prep hers.

Fortunately, she’d never needed much.

Her ears were still ringing when Wally disappeared, though she could guess what he’d said. Barbara rolled her eyes and pulled her hair up into a ponytail. “Show off,” she muttered to herself before turning again to puzzle over the remainder of her friends. Well. Friend, plus a new guest she was going to assume was more indestructible than he looked. Most of her friends were.

“You good, kid?” she said. "What - ?" And then he was gone, and giving her a distinctly amphibian vibe at that. So, okay. She could hope he could take care of himself. And she knew Donna could. That just left -

Something else intruded on her senses, already going half a dozen miles a minute as she maneuvered herself away from their table and onto a counter stop sticky with beer.

Gas.

Her eyes darted to the kitchen. The brassy doors were still swinging on their hinges, but she’d caught a glimpse or two every time a server had walked out in the last thirty minutes, and it was enough she could have redecorated the kitchen from a snapshot if she'd wanted to.

A six-range stove, three grates burning. Two towering pizza ovens on the opposite wall, shouldering the gas line running along the backside of the building, nearest the explosion. And the steady flow of civvies seeking a safe harbor that was maybe minutes from inferno.

Barbara dropped gracefully back to the floor, just avoiding a screaming toddler as she did. Grimacing, she grabbed the kid, shoved him back into the waiting arms of the woman she'd seen feeding him when they'd walked in, and made a beeline for her table again.

"D," she said tonelessly. "Could use a hand real quick, if we can get these tables up against those windows before - "

Whatever else she might have said was cut off by another voice, and while Babs was more than used to being talked over at the proverbial dinner table, it usually wasn't quite so intimate.

A flicker of something that wasn't smug amusement or indifference flickered across her face - a flash of something genuine and just a little ugly. It was gone as soon as it had come.

Oh, for fuck's - Yeah, hey, kiddo. Cute party trick, but this headspace is strictly PG13, cool? Or is intellectual property not so much a thing where you're from?

And with that, she shut him out hard. Or tried to, anyway, shifting focus again to split her attention between the increasingly panicked diners and the unabridged drone of Nickelback's full discography. She worked better on her own, anyway.


| Character You're Applying For |
Barbara "Babs" Gordon // Batgirl

| Age |
14

| Powers And Abilities |
Acrobatics:
As a kid with a lot of energy, a knack for finding high places and tiny spaces, and a whole lot to prove, Babs made herself something of a name about town with her gymnastic ability. AKA hardcore parkour. If only it weren't for that tendency to skip classes, she might be an Olympic shoe-in in a few years.


Martial Artistry:
When it turned out gymnastics wasn't quite enough to curb the attitude, Gordon signed his kid up for martial arts, too. Figured it couldn't hurt, and any daughter of his was damn sure going to know how to protect herself. Mostly karate and tae kwon do, but her favorite is boxing.

This got dialed up to 11 after The Incident.


Eidetic Memory:
Not that Babs isn't smart, she's just...not Oracle, or not yet. She's quick on her feet, pragmatic, intuitive. But mostly, she's got crazy good recall. Any moment she's experienced she can essentially re-experience at a whim. It's got its pros and cons.


GADGETS [she's rich]:
We all saw the Justice League movie with Gal Gadot (and others, I guess?), right? And there's that kind of smarmy exchange between Ben Affleck and KF or whatever is name is?

Same same. Not rich, maybe, but she's got a solid good line of Batarangs and more, and she knows how to use 'em.


| Origin And Backstory |
Perhaps more of an amalgamation of Babs and Kate than originally intended. This Babs still lives with Commissioner Gordon, a divorced former semi-official Green Beret and vague "Special Forces" vet.

Let's say she was visiting a distant cousin abroad at age 12, and instead of being kidnapped and ransomed with her mother and twin sister, a lá Kate, she was kidnapped and ransomed with the daughter of Gordon's friend and former squadmate. The daughter was lost, and Kate Barbara was determined never to put herself, or anyone else in that position again.

Fast forward a few years, Babs sees an easy way to get around Gordon's otherwise super strict curfew. She'd been hearing about the Bat and other costumed do-gooders (her dad still insisted on calling them vigilantes...though that word had shifted in the last year or so) for sometime when his little sidekick showed up. And hell, if all it took to do something other than sit around and wait to be old enough to join a GPD she knew Gordon only just managed not to bitch about was an aerial walk or two...well, why not try her hand at it? Babs had always had a rebellious streak and now she had a grudge to match.

And goddamn did the one they called Batwoman look good in a skin-tight suit.

It was lucky Bruce found her first, probably. He didn't turn her into her dad, so that was something. Still, though. The guy made 'straight-laced' sound like a heroine bender.

And what was the point of wearing a mask if you were just gonna go by the rules anyway?

| Summary of Version Differences |
Crafted after an era of my late teenage years (and most of my 20s, tbh) spent lusting after Kate Kane. The Barbara Gordon who was smart, quick, and restless enough to play vigilante to an overbearing father figure while her actual father publicly decried her actions (for a time). OR the Barbara Gordon who looked up to Batwoman instead of Batman.

Down with the patriarchy.



Jay's Pawn Shop
Midtown East, Manhattan


It'd taken an agonizing 43 minutes to reach the store - already a miracle by late-night, Queens-to-Midtown standards, but still not quite as miraculous as Kamala could have pulled off. It would have been faster, better to run there. But if Jersey City was still adjusting to the occasional twenty-foot teen sighting, well...Manhattan wasn't going to stand for it anytime soon.

Kamala was half hoping, half terrified it'd all be done and over in the worst way by the time she reached her destination. And maybe it would be better that way. Maybe she'd heard the name wrong, or the address. Maybe none of this had anything to do with her anyway, and she was paranoid and bored and restless after too long spend at home, hero-ing in the boring, RA way, instead of...well, the alternative.

And, really, was this even her business? JC was one thing, at least people sort of knew her there. She had neighbors, she had a neighborhood to look out for. Here...it was like every block with a Starbucks or bodega had a caped crusader or six marking his or her territory, and if that was the case, Kamala was way, way out of bounds.

But.

But even if this wasn't Jersey City, this was Jay's. This was Vince. This was Bruno.

She hadn't spoken to her best friend almost since Josh had died -- the night he'd told her he was leaving notwithstanding -- but it didn't mean she'd ever stopped thinking about him. They'd always been close, and even closer after she'd become Ms. Marvel, and subsequently gotten his little brother Vince out of some seriously weird trouble.

She hated to think he might have found himself back in a mess, but more than that...she hated to think what Bruno would say if she let someone else he loved die.

So. Queens to Manhattan, and now...now to find a way into the pawn shop. Kamala thought it was weird that there could be so many police cars with so little noise, but maybe no one really worried about stuff like this so far from the UES.

In any case, crashing a heist was a hell of a lot easier than crossing the bridge. Being unrecognizable, even in a cowl and mask, had its bonuses. Being two inches tall, though, was even better. Dodging flashes of red and blue light for the safety of the shadows, Kamala skirted the outside of the building, pushed in through the conjoined (though now vacated) bodega cat door, and ducked behind the counter of the pawn shop for as long as it took her to get her bearings.

It took her about that long to realize why everything seemed way quieter than it should have been.

---

The hostage situation...wasn't. Or at least not in anyway she could tell. Definitely a situation, but hostage? Not so much. Outside, she could hear police sirens and vague, occasional mutterings through a bullhorn. Inside, the radio had been turned down just enough to hear the latest mumble-rap crackling under Vince's voice.

Any relief she might have felt that he was alive, though, was short-lived.

Vince didn't sound scared, or even all that concerned. He was bargaining, yeah, sure. Any good pawn shop employee was always doing that, but given what she'd seen, heard on the news, in the grisly scenes she'd been replaying in her head for the last hour, she'd have guessed bargaining with his life, and whatever was left in the cash box before the shop closed for the night.

This? This was not that. Without a sound, Kamala felt herself stretch back into something closer to normal seventeen-year-old size, though she didn't leave her place crouched behind the glass cases of bowie knives and gold watches just yet.

"C'mon, dude, you don't even know what it fucking is, just give it to me."

That was Vince, and then in response to him, a laugh Kamala thought sounded sort of slurred, if that was a thing.

"Don' need to know what it is to know't matters to you." The second voice was unfamiliar...mostly. She couldn't have named the speaker if she'd tried, and yet for some reason, she couldn't help but feel she ought to know him. "Somethin' big, too, or you'd'a let the p'lice in by now."

"Still time," Vince fired back, though he sounded uncertain. "They got guns, man, and your face is on cameras. They could shoot you. They could kill you."

"Faster'n I could kill you?"

Kamala moved without thinking. Again. It was a bad habit her new reflexes were making much worse. She was lucky her newfound flexibility came with built-in damage repair.

Two injured, one dead, the news had reported. And Vince's...customer, as it were, was right -- if the police hadn't stormed the building yet, there was probably a reason why.

But for now, there was only Vince, the the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest.

"Vince, move!" Kamala demand-shrieked as she lurched bodily from her hiding space.

Later, she wasn't quite sure what happened after that, only that it had happened impossibly fast.

At the same time her club of a malformed hand wrapped around the gun's muzzle, Kamala saw a new figure, pale, hulking, crouched by the door, shaking, suddenly straighten to an impressive height, even by her standards.

In front of her, both Vince and his friend turned to look at her, equal parts surprised and confused. The friend recovered faster, whipped a shadowy something behind his back, and fired his gun with his other hand.

And somewhere behind her, one of the glass display cases exploded, throwing a shower of glittering, crystalline shards into the air, each catching in a halo of flashing police lights to paint purple diamonds on the walls between new drops of blood.
<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

I don't work that way, m8.


*pointing finger emoji* seconded

---> TO THAT END next post is also a WIP, but en route. I don't think anyone had mentioned a regimented posting order, but if someone's waiting for me, you should not do that.
People probably taxi to active crime scenes, like, all the time in Manhattan, right? That feels peak New York to me. Yeah.

Unrelated: I seem to have missed this post-formatting convention of time + location + image. My bad. I'll fix that in the near future.

ETA: Or now. I can fix it now.

A Snowy Mountain near-ish the Avengers Tower
9:57 PM


"Give it up, Cap. You can't win this one. You know you can't."

Iron Man's pulse cannon glowed like a beating heart at the center of his palm, illuminating Captain America's bruised and yet chiseled visage.

For a moment, the colors seemed almost surreal, nightmare bright - befitting of this grotesque dream that still hurt too much to be real. Red blood, steaming on white snow. The figure of a gray mountain cut into the field of stars behind Captain America's head. The air fogged white in front of his face. Tony could count each breath he took.

How had they gotten here?

"Captain America," Iron Man said slowly and with masculine, yet vulnerable, power. "You are under arrest. For - "

"For what, Tony?" Steve said finally. "If we're going to do this here, if we're going to end everything we worked for...the least you can do is tell me why."

Tony clenched his shapely and rugged jaw so hard he thought it'd crack. He stared at Steven "Captain Boy Scout" America for a long time, then finally turned away with a curse whispered quietly into the snowy air.

"Jesus Christ, Cap, are you really going to make me say it?" Steve stared back at him, the barest hint of that insufferably smug grin playing across his features, in exactly the way Fox & Friends never seemed to capture. Tony liked to think it meant that look was just for him. He liked to think most of Steve was just for him.

"Fine. F**k. Fine. Cap - Steve. I love -"


Queens Community College
Sunnyside, Queens
11:54PM


Somewhere behind her, a door crashed open, and Kamala said a silent prayer of thanks to anyone listening she hadn't accidentally hurled her laptop halfway across the room. Mostly, she was getting used to these late-night disturbances. Sure, they were nothing so...exciting as they'd been before. But being an RA on a commuter campus was an intentionally quiet job, and since most of her already small handful of residents were foreign students anyway, it still felt like she was doing some good.

Plus, she got her own bathroom. That was cool, too.

As the swell of drunken shouting and fist-bumping grew louder, she shut her laptop and waited expectantly for the horde to reach her. Not five seconds later, four guys, only one of whom she recognized, stumbled into what barely constituted the tiny student lounge at Queens Community College. She watched as each of them, one by one, acknowledged her almost comedically, reactions ranging from wary to amused. The tallest of them spoke first, throwing a would-be charming smirk her way.

"What's up, Princess Jasmine?" His friend elbowed him. Kamala noted something distinctly yeasty in the air.

"Dude, that's, like...fucking racist, man."

Tall Guy scoffed. "It's not racist, dude, it's a compliment. Princess Jasmine is hot." He turned back to her and grinned. "She knows."

"Whatever, man," said a third member of their party, the one she recognized as Omar from her bio classes. "I'm out before you turn us into a fucking Buzzfeed article." He gave gave Kamala a sort of apologetic half shrug and said, "I just needa grab something from my room."

Kamala nodded, and the kid and his friends lurched out of the lounge, through the kitchen, and down the hallway. Only the Tall Guy lingered, staring at her. His expression was unreadable, which Kamala tried to make into a good thing.

"Um...are you okay?"

"I'm not racist," he said. Kamala nodded. Again.

"That's good."

"Do...you wanna go to this party?"

Kamala resisted the urge to look behind her and managed to just look confused instead. Of all the things she'd been expecting him to follow up with...that had not been it.

Still. She had plans for the night, and even if they didn't all revolve around the scripted and dramatic reunion of Earth's Mightiest Heroes, they were still pretty unbreakable. Right?

"Oh, I...can't. Busy. RA-ing and stuff."

"Yeah, but it's Friday," wheedled Tall Guy. To his credit, he seemed genuine. And even if she didn't really trust genuine anymore, she could still appreciate its effective deployment. He made a face. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said. Lame joke, I know. Won't do it again. What's your real name? I'm - "

Kamala's flip phone - her work phone - buzzed in her lap. "Sorry," she said, half sincere, half relieved. "Gotta take this. But hey, have fun at your...party."

Tall Guy looked like he wanted to add something, but Kamala dropped her eyes to her phone. He was gone before she finished reading the text alert.

BURGLARY IN PROGRESS OFF-CAMPUS (MANHATTAN SATELLITE): JAY'S PAWN SHOP. WEAPONS FIRED. HIGHLY DANGEROUS. CAUTION ADVISED.

Kamala exhaled, but her heart was already racing. None of her students would be at the satellite campus now. And even if they were, it wasn't like anyone expected an RA to do something about it, except maybe text her residents to make sure they were alive. Kamala knew that. She knew that, and yet...

Almost without her permission, she reached over to turn on the old tube TV, sitting a good six feet away from her. Risky, okay, but everything felt risky these days. She flipped through the channels until she found the local news.

BREAKING read the scrolling words at the bottom of the screen. STANDOFF IN MID-MANHATTAN. ONE DEAD, TWO INJURED. HOSTAGES LIKELY.

Kamala didn't bother to turn off the TV. She was moving before the report details had finished their second loop.
MARVEL KNIGHTS OF NEW YORK

Ms. Marvel



Don't meet your heroes.


----------------

CHARACTER BIO:

Real Name: Kamala Khan
Age: 17
Gender: Female
Powers, Abilities, and Gear: Polymorphism - a more science-y way of saying shapeshifting. Kamala can grow (and shrink!) parts of her body at will. She can also physically change her appearance to that of pretty much any other person, and rapidly recover from otherwise fatal wounds by shifting back to the not-hurt version of herself. She can't shift again until she's done healing, however, and the healing can take a hell of a lot out of her.

Also, an electromagnetic pulse (EMP) can fuck her shit up pretty good.

Biokinectic burkini + bangles - her suit shifts with her, and her cute lil wrist gauntlet can hold a cell phone and some Motrin.

Origin:


----------------

STORY INFO:

High Concept: Look, I'm all about this push to bring a new generation of young women into the comics fold. But I'm also not 12, and have little to no interest in the woes of high school. I adore Kamala & co, and I'm ready to see them out in the world. NYC is, in theory, a little grittier than Kamala's Jersey City. I wanna know what she does about it.

Also, her origin story has always felt a little vague to me. I think I'd like to explore that some.

Motivation and Conflict: Harboring a post CWII-esque sense of disillusionment with many a masked crusader, Kamala is on a path for self-discovery. Consciously, she's in training of the ethical variety -- achieving that level of hero-dom (and Adulting®) that somehow magically instills her with the unyielding sense of Right And Wrong everyone else seems to have.

Subconsciously, she's looking for a mentor. And feeling both desperate and a little raw.

Notes: Alright, so I've taken some events out of context and written out the consequences of others that haven't happened (yet).

CWII -- didn't happen (I assume?), but the much-lauded falling out between Carol & Kamala did. I've written a highly minified version of it with the intentions of keeping Captain Marvel mostly out of the way. Carol is now off somewhere Captain-ing, I guess. She can exist in just about any iteration, so long as Kamala feels cheated/abandoned/generally besmirched by her.

BFF Bruno is also MIA. Not necessarily in Wakanda, but not necessarily not in Wakanda. He's definitely not in JC, though, and his current activities may be a bit shifty. HYDRA-level shifty.

In general, Kamala is feeling pretty wary of any masked hero, herself included.



----------------

PLAYER INFO:

Player Name: Dot!

Preferred Contact Method: idk try shouting. Or PM, I guess. I can be shamed into using Discord, should the need arise.

Why This Character?: IMO, Kamala has a solid, if somewhat underrated couple of arcs, and like every woman of color ever, has to work twice as hard for half her due. I firmly believe she can hack it recast in a grittier, NYC-street light.

Also, I keep meaning to pick up Champions, and then getting distracted. This is like a cheaper way to meet that need.

What Can You Bring to the RPG?: Optimism. Tense and uncomfortable silences?
Super. I'll go drop this on the thing.

It's like I always say - if you can't be chronically chipper, why something something sage advice.
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