Ducksworth

Metropolis of Superheroes

Vector

Victor Malvern

Appearance:

Description:
Tall, lean, athletic build honed by years of extreme sports and martial training. Dark hair kept sharp and clean, grey-blue eyes, aristocratic features. Dresses like someone who grew up rich but is trying to look a little more grounded: tailored jackets over casual wear, watches that cost more than a car, but scuffed sneakers he swears are “lucky.”

19 | Gender: Male | Heir / Philanthropist-in-training

Personality:

Victor Malvern carries himself with the polish and poise one would expect of someone raised in wealth and expectation, but beneath the surface lies a young man wound far too tight. His father’s relentless drive for perfection left Victor with a deeply ingrained sense of vigilance; he is constantly measuring, adjusting, preparing for what might come next. Even in moments of calm, there’s an edge to him, as though he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

In combat, Victor is pragmatic and precise. He approaches every situation like a puzzle to be solved, stripping away emotion in favor of efficiency. This makes him appear cold at times, but in truth he’s simply learned to bury hesitation beneath layers of discipline. Out of costume, however, he is still learning how to relax. Years of pressure have left him restless and uncomfortable in downtime, though he makes a conscious effort to ease off and discover who he is beyond his father’s shadow.

Socially, Victor can be reserved, but not unkind. He has a dry wit that slips through when he feels safe enough to share it, often tinged with the gallows humor of someone who has seen too much, too young. Though he tends to hold others at arm’s length, it isn’t from disdain but from habit; letting people close was never something he was taught. For those patient enough to break past his shell, he proves loyal, reliable, and quietly protective, though still haunted by the instinct to second-guess himself.

Background:

Victor Malvern grew up as the only son of a powerful industrial magnate. His father built the Malvern estate on money and corruption, owning both legitimate R&D companies and shadowy contracts with less-than-legal partners. From an early age, Victor’s life was engineered, extreme sports like skiing, skydiving, and base jumping became his playgrounds, martial training and weapons practice his education. It wasn’t enough to succeed; his father demanded mastery.

Over time, Victor became skilled in disciplines most boys his age wouldn’t dream of, especially tactical marksmanship. But it was never his choice, only a performance for a father who saw him as the next perfected Malvern heir.

That future ended the night Victor uncovered proof of his father’s corruption. His confrontation came when his father was already deep in drink, guilt simmering beneath his anger. The argument spiraled, and instead of a violent outburst, his father made a final choice: he ended his own life. It was Victor who found himself standing in the aftermath, shaken, and it was Edmund Hale, his steward, and once a high-ranking officer in Malvern’s private security division, whom Victor called.

Edmund ensured the scene never saw the light of day. The death was reframed, the lawyers cleaned the details, and Victor inherited everything. Where the elder Malvern would have tightened his grip, Victor took a different path. He directed the Malvern estate’s immense resources into legitimate R&D and began using its output to outfit himself for a role his father never could have predicted: as a sanctioned hero.

Now, as Vector, Victor Malvern seeks to use the wealth and skills forced upon him to do something better, not for redemption, but for purpose.

Civilian Skills:

- Master marksman, trained since childhood.
- Extreme sports expert (skiing, skydiving, base-jumping, piloting small aircraft).
- Wealth management, corporate experience (rudimentary, but improving).

----- Hero Info -----

Vector

Heroic Appearance:

Natural | Blaster | 1 | ELITE

Powers & Abilities:

"Superpowers":

Primary Power: Tactical Marksmanship

Vector is a precision ranged combatant, trained extensively in firearms and advanced weaponry. His natural hand-eye coordination, combined with years of extreme conditioning, allows him to calculate angles, adjust for environmental factors, and land near-impossible shots under pressure.

Secondary Power: Extreme Conditioning

His upbringing drilled into him a peak physicality. He can withstand extreme environments, move with agility, and leverage his experience in high-risk sports to maneuver in situations others would freeze in.

Weakness: Simply Human

Supplementary Powers:

N/A

Actives & Passives:

Name: Precision Shot
Type: Active
Rank: ★
Range: Ranged
Description: A carefully lined-up shot with HUD assistance. More powerful than a standard round, often used to disarm or disable (shooting weapons out of hands, striking exposed joints).
---
Name: Adaptive Camouflage
Type: Active
Rank: ★
Range: Self
Description: Activates the poncho’s camouflage mode, breaking up his silhouette to blend with urban and natural environments. Not invisibility, just enough to evade notice or reposition.
---
Name: Combat Mobility
Type: Passive
Rank: ★
Range: Self
Description: Vector’s conditioning allows him to flow through combat zones with efficiency. He moves fluidly across obstacles, vaults cover, and repositions quickly while maintaining accuracy.

Inventory:

• Superhero Costume (Key item)
• Adaptive Poncho (detachable / camouflage capable, doubles as a deployable wingsuit with backup chute).
• Custom Modular Pistols (PROC-approved, non-lethal mods included)
• Customised Collapsible Precision Rifle
• Grappling Launcher
• Utility pouches (smoke pellets, flashbangs, tracker rounds, etc.)
• Sanctioned Hero Exam Diploma (Quest item)

[Ryke - Dungeon] Languishing Large Loner

The shards screamed out of the mist like knives of glass. Aramis yelped, nearly dropping his staff as he whipped it up in front of him, already bracing for the cut.

And then—shhk. A blur of silver and blue. Yumi spun ahead of him, her scythe and hair carving the water-blades into harmless spray. Droplets peppered his face, cool against the heat of his panic.

He froze, mouth open on the start of a spell he didn’t need anymore. Slowly, shakily, he let the breath out, forcing a laugh that came out too loud, too raw. “Oh—uh, Thanks! Good work, nearly lost it there..."

He gripped his staff tighter, knuckles white as he planted it against the wet stone. The urge to throw a barrier over the crouched woman and her beast tugged at him, but the armored soldier was already there, shielding them with the kind of certainty Aramis couldn’t fake. They didn’t need him—not yet.

But the hammer-swinging madman and the scythe-wielder? They were charging straight into the fog, into gods-knew-what. That was where things would break. That was where someone had to catch them.

Aramis shook himself like a dog after rain, shivering the last cling of sorrow from his shoulders. He licked dry lips, blinked stinging mist from his glasses, and muttered under his breath, "Alright, Endo. Time to earn your keep.”

He surged forward, boots splashing, cloak dragging heavy and sodden at his legs. The staff came up across his body—not elegant, not practiced, but ready.

He risked one glance back, voice cracking as he shouted to the figures holding the rear: "You’ve got them! I’ll cover the charge!”

And then he pushed into the mist after the others, heart pounding, lungs raw, fear and excitement tangled in his chest. Not leading, never leading. But ready, at least, to be the one they could count on when things went bad.

Redshift Blues (Space Opera)

Colour me intrigued!

[Ryke - Dungeon] Languishing Large Loner

Branches tore at his sleeves as he ran, lungs burning, boots slipping on wet roots. The jungle closed in on every side, every breath thick with rot and blossom. His staff clutched in both hands knocked against vines and trunks as he stumbled through, more hindrance than help in his mad dash, but he refused to let go of it.

“Oh, good job, Aramis,” he panted, half to himself, half to the endless green. “First job, late! What a fantastic impression!”

A frond slapped across his face. He ducked, nearly lost his footing, and went skidding sideways before catching himself against a moss-slick trunk. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his temples, the weight of his pack dragging at his shoulders. Still, his legs kept moving. Somewhere ahead there were voices, the memory of gunfire, and the pulse of something unnatural pulling at the air. He’d already fallen behind once, he couldn’t let it happen again.

“Simple!” he rasped, staff snagging on a root as he yanked it free. “Keep up with the professionals. Don’t screw it up, hah! Brilliant start.”

The trees broke at last, and the ruin loomed from the jungle floor like a carcass half-buried in vines. Stone ribs leaned inward, mist curling upward in slow, heavy breaths from the yawning stair that split the earth.

Aramis staggered to the lip of the stairs, bent double with his staff planted like a walking stick, gulping air like a drowning man. He lifted his head, caught the silhouettes of others already below, and with what little wind he had left, he shouted:

“I’m here! Sorry! Sorry I’m late!” His voice cracked on the last word, echoing sharp against the stone.

He lurched down the steps two at a time, nearly tripping as the mist thickened around him, and the moment his boots struck the water at the bottom, it hit him.

The sorrow. It pressed against his chest, soaked into his skin, wrapped around his ribs like iron bands. Whispers swelled in the haze, regrets not his own but too familiar. Goosebumps rippled across his arms, his breath catching as the air itself seemed to rot with grief. And then, recognition.

This weight was no stranger. He had carried it all his life, until he’d stopped noticing it was even there. Not home. Never home. Just a burden so constant it had become a second skin, one he’d dragged with him until the day he died.

His mouth twisted into a sharp, uneven laugh that startled even him. The sound cracked into a shiver, his shoulders jerking as if throwing off a winter chill. He steadied, chest heaving, eyes locking on the chamber that spread before him.

Water pooled ankle-deep, carved faces weeping endlessly into the rippling surface. At its heart stood the mage, mist wrapped close like a shroud. The others were already braced, grim and ready: rifle leveled, axe in hand, bat lifted, weapons drawn. Professionals, every one of them.

Aramis straightened, dragging in one last breath as his fingers tightened around the length of his staff. He had nearly lost it half a dozen times in the jungle, but now, braced in his hands, it felt steady. Certain.

He planted his boots, cloak settling heavy around him, and lifted the staff across his body in a defensive stance. His voice still carried that nervous edge, but it rang clear enough to reach his new companions.

“Aramis Endo,” he said. “Mage for hire. Ready to assist.”

Character image

Metropolis of Superheroes

Awesome! I'll start rolling up a CS!

Metropolis of Superheroes

Are you still accepting for this RP? :D

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

Sorry for the delay, all!

A Hard Rain - Urban Fantasy RP

They didn’t give him a chance to breathe. One minute Emrys was frozen in the stale, musk-heavy air of his apartment, and the next he was being shoved bodily out the door, his shoulder clipping the shattered frame on the way through. The hallway was a blur, wet concrete and flickering fluorescents rushing past as heavy hands guided, dragged, and manhandled him down the stairs like a stolen suitcase. He barely had time to grab his satchel, the strap slung over his shoulder at the last second, the canvas thudding against his hip with every jarring step.

Outside, the world was soaked in the aftermath of the blast. Sirens howled in the distance, their pitch rising and falling through the rain-slicked streets. The stink of smoke still hung in the air, mingling with ozone and oil and fur. Parked in a rough semicircle outside the building, a pack of Harley Davidsons growled like beasts held on too-short chains, each one painted in some gaudy wolf motif. Flames, snarls, silver eyes. One of them had actual teeth embedded into the fuel tank.

They shoved him toward the bikes, and that was when he saw it. Quill. The familiar's cage was stuffed into a saddlebag, mesh reinforced with hasty copper wards, sloppy ones, twisted too tight and uneven. They wouldn’t hold forever, but they didn’t have to. Just long enough. The little bird was fluffed up in alarm, feathers tight against the bars, watching Emrys with sharp, frantic eyes. Still alive. Still here. Relief hit so hard it almost staggered him.

Jack mounted his bike with a grunt and jerked his head for Emrys to follow. The young mage climbed on with all the grace of a man trying not to throw up, fingers gripping the worn leather behind the werewolf’s back like it might keep him tethered to something solid.

Jack turned slightly, shouting over the idling engines. "Where to, Harry Potter?"

Emrys didn’t answer right away. The rain hit his face, warm and sudden. It plastered his hair to his forehead, streamed down the back of his neck, soaked through the threadbare collar of his shirt. But it was the question that froze him.

Where were they going?

His mind scrambled. Elandros never mentioned a vault. No diagrams, no maps. Not even a whispered hint. For all Emrys knew, the man had kept his secrets buried in a coffee tin behind a diner. And they wanted him to take them there now. Not later. Not after research or prep or divination. Now.

Panic climbed up his spine, clawing for his throat. But he couldn't show it. Not here. Not in front of them. He forced his breathing steady, shoved the fear down deep. Let them see calm. Let them see control. Even if it was a lie.

Then, a flicker of memory. Years ago, Elandros had taken him north of the city. It had been raining then, too. The road had been narrow, trees leaning in from both sides, and they'd stopped by a rusted gate tucked into a hillside. Beyond it stood a decrepit old observatory, half-eaten by ivy and time. Elandros hadn’t explained. He’d just left up to the building leaving Emrys standing with his hand resting on the gate, before they turned around and left. Emrys never thought to ask why. But now? It was the only thread he had.

He swallowed hard and raised his voice, keeping it firm. "Old observatory," he said. "North of the tracks, rusted gate off the tree line. You’ll miss it if you’re not looking." No hesitation. No qualifiers. Make it clean. Make it sound like gospel. "If he kept anything important, it’ll be there."

Emrys stared at the cage one more time, jaw set, heart hammering. He had no idea what waited at that ruin. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But it was a start, and he’d take that over nothing.

Synopsis:

Emrys is forced out of his apartment and onto a waiting bike, bluffing his way into buying time by naming the only possible location he remembers, despite having no idea what truly lies there.

@Penny

Noble Arms: The ASEAN War - Thread Three, the Darkest Hour

Archer “Griff” Griffin

---

The Mirage Space pressed in around him like a cage. His chest still burned, his arms still shook, and the gauntlets clung to him like iron weights chained to rage itself. He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t come down. Not yet. Not when his blood still screamed for more.

And then Wu Shufen stepped into view.

That smug face, that damned staff, still standing, still breathing. The sight alone was enough to tear open every raw nerve inside Griff. His vision tunneled, the edges blurring into nothing but black and red. His heartbeat pounded like war drums. His gauntlets dragged every emotion up to the surface until it all blurred into fury.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t think.

With a roar, Griff launched himself forward, boots slamming against the ground hard enough to rattle the space itself. His fists came up, and then they fell, not in one clean strike, but in a storm. A flurry. Left, right, low, high, again and again, each swing driven by everything boiling inside of him. Every blow was a demand, a punishment, a refusal to stop.

Steel met air with the sound of thunder as he threw himself into the Monkey King, gauntlets flashing like the teeth of some rabid beast. His shoulders burned but he didn’t care. All that mattered was breaking the enemy in front of him, beating him until there was nothing left to stand against.

Whether his fists found flesh, bone, or nothing at all, Griff didn’t notice. He didn’t want to notice. He just wanted to swing until the he couldn't anymore.

Project Genesis: A New Beginning

Dante's good with a knife? He could be cook!