I do think there's something to the core Rivals conceit of: Villain X achieves a power that threatens the multiverse. Now, alternate reality versions of heroes across the Marvel catalog must team up to take them down. From an RPG standpoint, it provides (1) a clear central threat, (2) reason for heroes to work in teams, and (3) an excuse to play around with Elseworld/non-canon interpretations of characters we've all written a bunch already.
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Peter Parker's ordinary life was turned upside-down by a fateful bite from a radioactive spider. Inheriting the arachnid’s awesome power, he sought fame and fortune before learning – to much sorrow – that with great power, there must also come great responsibility! From that day forth, he made a solemn vow to use his gifts for the benefit of others. Though his true identity is kept secret, all who live in the Five Boroughs know the name of…
Parker Residence
Chelsea, Manhattan
Then.
Aunt May always used to say, “Our choices make us who we are.” A wise woman, that May Parker. For instance: do I go to the pep rally with all my classmates, or do I take a bus halfway across town to catch the science expo? Do I use my newfound powers for good, or to make a quick buck? Do I stop the robber? How do I spend the rest of my life making up for that one mistake? What do I do when the whole city's against me… when I lose faith in myself… when I can't protect the ones I love? Where do I find the strength to carry on? Choices. In the end, that's all we are.
“Green or blue?”
Mary Jane grins up at me. I've made a lot of choices in my life – most of them bad – but she's the best of ‘em by a country mile. I truly don't know what I ever did to deserve this woman. Even now, in her “knock around” clothes, with her hair a tangle of crimson curls, I can't envision a more perfect sight. I suppose it's all part and parcel of marrying a literal supermodel. Her eyes leave mine, considering the shirts in less time than it takes me to sneeze. “Blue. You're really nervous, aren't you?”
“Not at all,” I lie. It's funny: I routinely leap from tall buildings trusting in a device I first prototyped at 15, there are honest-to-God supervillains out there who know my name and face, and yet nothing makes me come unglued faster than a simple job interview. Shrugging into the chosen shirt, I start to button it up when one of them slips between sweaty fingers. Me, sweating!
Reaching up to pluck at one of my legendary cowlicks, MJ smiles and says, “Hey, they're gonna love you. Wanna know how I know?” She slides her hand down my cheek. “Because I love you. So just get out of that big head of yours, and show them who you are.”
This woman! She could make me believe I can move mountains – and for her, maybe I could. Showing my appreciation with a kiss, I then pause for a second and ask, “You mean ‘big’ in the metaphorical sense, right? Not ‘big’ like, ‘Oh my God, get a load of the melon on that guy!’” MJ just rolls her eyes, leaving me to finish getting dressed on my own.
With the help of Dr. Connors – the only former member of the Sinister Six on the Parker Christmas card list – I've secured an interview with the Dean of Science at Empire State University. After dropping out of postgrad years ago, I made myself a promise that one day I'd go back; I just never imagined it might be as a teacher, rather than as a student. Honestly, I don't know that I'm ready for this step… but I think it's past time that Peter Parker, not just Spider-Man, started giving back.
Slinging a messenger bag over my head, I start making for the front door when MJ whistles at me. “Forgetting something?” She walks up, holding something red loosely in her hand. Extending it my way, she says, “I don't really want to see pictures of you wearing a paper bag again.”
“That was one time,” I insist, taking my mask from her and slipping it in the bag. I give her another quick kiss for luck, take a deep breath, and then turn the knob.
“Hey!” MJ calls as I'm halfway out the door. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Empire State University
Greenwich Village, Manhattan
Now.
One advantage to teaching at a school you once attended is that you already know the lay of the land. You never have to stop anybody for directions, you know where all the cleanest bathrooms are, and you know which buildings don't lock their roof access doors – if, like me, you happen to benefit from that sort of information. Landing on top of the Frenz School for the Arts building with a tumble, I quickly strip off my mask, gloves, and boots and start layering on my civilian clothes.
From there, it's a short sprint to the College of Science building. A good thing, too, as the ringing of the ESU clocktower alerts me that I'm running late. Again. I never can seem to shake that reputation… One of these days, I ought to take a look at rigging up an entrance for that rooftop instead. Would make coming and going much easier, although it's probably best that Spider-Man is never skulking around where Professor Parker is known to be.
I make it to Room 220 not a moment too soon, as some of my students have started gathering their things. “Uh-uh, not so fast!” I announce, bursting into the room. There's a performative groan as people start slumping back into their seats. I can only grin. “Almost had me that time. C'mon, you really thought I'd miss DNA day? Now, who's ready to talk nucleotides?” Another collective grumble, which I wave away.
It feels good being in front of a classroom again. My time at Midtown High was enlightening, if short. In retrospect, that highly-regimented schedule was never going to work with my other “job,” but it reignited a passion for science that had laid dormant for years; it's easy sometimes to forget that this world was my life long before there ever was a Spider-Man. It's nice to stop and smell the Bunsen burners again.
As ever, the minutes slip away faster than I anticipated. Much of this job comes naturally to me, but effective time management is one skill I've yet to master. I've prepared way more material than we have time to cover in a single lecture. On the bright side, the students at least seem fairly engaged – well, except for Jeremy Hinkle, who apparently thinks this is Napping 101. “Yes, Anastasia?” I say, calling on the spectacled girl in front as she raises her hand.
“I read something about topoisomerase inhibitors being used in chemotherapy. Can you explain how that works?”
I hesitate before responding, not due to the question itself but instead by something at the back of the room which draws my eye. There's a person sitting in the back row who's not enrolled in my course. A person I've not seen in quite some time. Realizing that Anastasia is waiting for a reply, I tear my eyes away and meet her concerned stare with a smile. “That's actually a fascinating explanation, but not one we have time for today. Maybe next class,” I explain.
I lock eyes with the figure in the back and then check my watch. “Actually, since time’s almost up, let's pause here for the day, gang,” I announce. “If we start getting into RNA now, I'll never let you leave.” That elicits a polite – if forced – chuckle from the class. I make sure to maintain a calm, disarming demeanor as I remind them about the reading for next time, though I doubt many hear me over the rustling of backpacks.
Once the classroom has emptied, I can approach my old acquaintance. “Been a while, Felicia,” I say, only slightly guarded. After all, it's not everyday the Black Cat pays you an unannounced visit. “If you've just signed up for the course, you should know my grading style is tough but fair.”
S P I D E R - M A N
Peter Benjamin Parker ♦ Photojournalist, Adjunct Professor ♦ Midtown, Manhattan ♦ Independent
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:
"I'm sorry, you think defeating me is that simple? Have you seen my resumé? I've fought mutants, gods, aliens, technomalogical wackjobs, street hoods... Hell, I fought my own costume. You think its that simple? Bring it on."
Peter Parker's story is remarkably ordinary. Growing up in a loving home in Forest Hills, Queens, he had a childhood like any other -- save that he was raised by his aunt and uncle after his parents passed. He struggled to find his place in high school. At Empire State University, he started to find his footing. He made friends, fell in love, experienced heartbreak. He worked multiple jobs just to make ends meet. He got really good at couch-surfing. After years of on-and-off dating, he worked up the courage to ask Mary Jane Watson to marry him. Now expecting their first child, the happy couple lives comfortably. Peter's recently seized an opportunity to teach classes at ESU. From the outside looking in, it's a pretty normal life.
Well, except that he was bitten by a radioactive spider and has spent the better part of two decades living a double life as the spectacular Spider-Man. Peter's relationship with his masked identity has been his most tumultuous by far, yet after years of each one encroaching on the other's life, he's finally started to find something resembling equilibrium. Being Spider-Man still presents challenges; it's never a good thing when dozens of supervillains, criminals, and other ne'er-do-wells would very much like to see you dead. Yet, Peter is trying to look at the positives. Spider-Man has connected him with New York City in ways that very few other people have experienced, and he's been at this long enough to make countless caped friends who'll always be there whenever he calls.
Well, except that he was bitten by a radioactive spider and has spent the better part of two decades living a double life as the spectacular Spider-Man. Peter's relationship with his masked identity has been his most tumultuous by far, yet after years of each one encroaching on the other's life, he's finally started to find something resembling equilibrium. Being Spider-Man still presents challenges; it's never a good thing when dozens of supervillains, criminals, and other ne'er-do-wells would very much like to see you dead. Yet, Peter is trying to look at the positives. Spider-Man has connected him with New York City in ways that very few other people have experienced, and he's been at this long enough to make countless caped friends who'll always be there whenever he calls.
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:
Like many people, I have grown weary of the new "Spider-Man as a multiversal hero" trend. Into/Across the Spider-Verse was a masterpiece of storytelling; you'll not catch me arguing otherwise. However, Spider-Man's strength as a character has always come from his relatability. I long for those "friendly neighborhood" days, and where better to bring that back than in a game that's explicitly focused on the small-scale? I relish the opportunity to write a Spider-Man who can get cats out of trees, who knows the hot dog vendor by name, who's a hero of the people.
Also, unlike Marvel editorial, I understand that the eternal push-pull of Peter Parker's competing identities does not mean that he can never be happy, that he should never progress. I have no interest reading (or writing) a character who is continually shunted back to the same tired status quo. I want to show a version of Peter Parker who's growing as a person but keeping his feet on the ground. No Avengers, no Parker Industries... I want to show that being an everyman doesn't mean trapping him in arrested development for 60 years.
Also, unlike Marvel editorial, I understand that the eternal push-pull of Peter Parker's competing identities does not mean that he can never be happy, that he should never progress. I have no interest reading (or writing) a character who is continually shunted back to the same tired status quo. I want to show a version of Peter Parker who's growing as a person but keeping his feet on the ground. No Avengers, no Parker Industries... I want to show that being an everyman doesn't mean trapping him in arrested development for 60 years.
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:
S A M P L E P O S T:
Did you know the term “gridlock” first originated in New York City back in the ‘70s? If you've ever lived here for any amount of time, it's easy to see why. For an island that's just over thirteen miles long, getting anywhere by car in Manhattan is an endeavor – especially during rush hour. Walking’s a good alternative, if you don't have to go far. Or there's the subway, which is equal parts public transportation, social experiment, and performance art piece. Me? I have a different strategy. It's not recommended for anyone who has a fear of heights, suffers from motion sickness, or may become pregnant, but it's a helluva way to get around.
THWIP!
Wind whistles past my ear, blending together voices and car horns and the rest of all the other sounds of a New York evening. Out-of-towners might call it chaotic, but as far as I'm concerned, it's a sweeter tune than anything you'll find on the radio. (Do people still listen to the radio? I feel like I'm dating myself with that.) Regardless, the cacophony nearly drowns out the ringing in my earpiece. Tapping my ear to accept the call, I smile wide as I say, “Perfect timing. I just started the swing home.”
MJ’s voice comes through the line as clearly as if we were in the same room. To think, I used to mess around with my cell phone before installing a headset right in my mask. Remember, kids: don't text and swing. “Sounds good,” she begins, and I can tell by her tone that there's an ask coming. “Hey, if it's not too out of the way, would you mind stopping for a pint of ice cream? These cravings are gonna be the death of me.”
Chuckling, I tumble through a mid-air somersault as I respond, “What sort of husband or superhero would I be if I said no? Your wish is my command.” I snap a web-line off to my left and give a quick tug to change direction. “Any particular flavor?”
“Funky Monkey Fudge?”
“It shall be done,” I vow.
I can feel MJ’s grin through the phone. “You're my hero.”
We say our goodbyes, and not a moment too soon as I slow to a stop in front of Benny's, a bodega in the West Village that I've frequented. I draw a few strange looks from passersby, which is quite the accomplishment if you know anything about New Yorkers; you'd act like they've never seen a guy in red-and-blue pajamas walking into the corner store before. Ruffling the fur of Patch, the one-eyed bodega cat lounging in the front window, I wave hello to Benny and make my way to the freezers. For once, Parker luck doesn't betray me, as there's exactly one pint of Funky Monkey Fudge left.
“How’ve ya been, Benny?” I ask at the register, making small talk as I rifle through my backpack in search of my wallet. Next time I redesign this costume, I swear I'm adding pockets – or maybe just a “tap to pay” sensor on the web-shooters or something.
Benny shrugs. “Eh, my sciatica’s acting up again,” he explains.
Finally finding my cash, I slip him a ten dollar bill. “What happened to the plan of getting out and walking more?” I reply. Benny makes a face, and I raise an accusatory finger. “Hey now, remember what the doctor said. It's not gonna get any better if you don't take steps to manage it. Fifteen minutes a day isn't gonna kill you.”
Nodding in defeat, he hands me my change and the pint. “I know you're right. I'll take it under advisement.”
“S’all I ask.” No sooner have I safely stashed the ice cream than a cry rings out from the street, followed by the rat-tat-tat of gunfire and screeching tires. Benny and I exchange a glance, and I'm unable to repress a sigh. Shouldering the backpack, I say, “Guess it's my turn for exercise. Stay well for me, Benny.” I also make sure to give Patch another quick scratch on my way out the door.
It doesn't take long to catch up to the source of the commotion. Someone evidently fed up with the traffic is speeding down a nearby street in – what I must presume to be – a stolen vehicle. Landing on the hood of the car, I look through the windshield at three masked men, two of whom are holding Glocks. Unsurprisingly, they don't look thrilled to see me. “Alright, fellas, I've only got about fifteen minutes til the ice cream in my bag starts turning to soup, so we're gonna have to make this quick.”
THWIP!
Wind whistles past my ear, blending together voices and car horns and the rest of all the other sounds of a New York evening. Out-of-towners might call it chaotic, but as far as I'm concerned, it's a sweeter tune than anything you'll find on the radio. (Do people still listen to the radio? I feel like I'm dating myself with that.) Regardless, the cacophony nearly drowns out the ringing in my earpiece. Tapping my ear to accept the call, I smile wide as I say, “Perfect timing. I just started the swing home.”
MJ’s voice comes through the line as clearly as if we were in the same room. To think, I used to mess around with my cell phone before installing a headset right in my mask. Remember, kids: don't text and swing. “Sounds good,” she begins, and I can tell by her tone that there's an ask coming. “Hey, if it's not too out of the way, would you mind stopping for a pint of ice cream? These cravings are gonna be the death of me.”
Chuckling, I tumble through a mid-air somersault as I respond, “What sort of husband or superhero would I be if I said no? Your wish is my command.” I snap a web-line off to my left and give a quick tug to change direction. “Any particular flavor?”
“Funky Monkey Fudge?”
“It shall be done,” I vow.
I can feel MJ’s grin through the phone. “You're my hero.”
We say our goodbyes, and not a moment too soon as I slow to a stop in front of Benny's, a bodega in the West Village that I've frequented. I draw a few strange looks from passersby, which is quite the accomplishment if you know anything about New Yorkers; you'd act like they've never seen a guy in red-and-blue pajamas walking into the corner store before. Ruffling the fur of Patch, the one-eyed bodega cat lounging in the front window, I wave hello to Benny and make my way to the freezers. For once, Parker luck doesn't betray me, as there's exactly one pint of Funky Monkey Fudge left.
“How’ve ya been, Benny?” I ask at the register, making small talk as I rifle through my backpack in search of my wallet. Next time I redesign this costume, I swear I'm adding pockets – or maybe just a “tap to pay” sensor on the web-shooters or something.
Benny shrugs. “Eh, my sciatica’s acting up again,” he explains.
Finally finding my cash, I slip him a ten dollar bill. “What happened to the plan of getting out and walking more?” I reply. Benny makes a face, and I raise an accusatory finger. “Hey now, remember what the doctor said. It's not gonna get any better if you don't take steps to manage it. Fifteen minutes a day isn't gonna kill you.”
Nodding in defeat, he hands me my change and the pint. “I know you're right. I'll take it under advisement.”
“S’all I ask.” No sooner have I safely stashed the ice cream than a cry rings out from the street, followed by the rat-tat-tat of gunfire and screeching tires. Benny and I exchange a glance, and I'm unable to repress a sigh. Shouldering the backpack, I say, “Guess it's my turn for exercise. Stay well for me, Benny.” I also make sure to give Patch another quick scratch on my way out the door.
It doesn't take long to catch up to the source of the commotion. Someone evidently fed up with the traffic is speeding down a nearby street in – what I must presume to be – a stolen vehicle. Landing on the hood of the car, I look through the windshield at three masked men, two of whom are holding Glocks. Unsurprisingly, they don't look thrilled to see me. “Alright, fellas, I've only got about fifteen minutes til the ice cream in my bag starts turning to soup, so we're gonna have to make this quick.”
Orphaned and stranded in the mountains, young Danny Rand was rescued from certain death by the immortal mystics of K’un-Lun. Under their tutelage, he mastered the martial arts, rising to become the lost city's champion. Armed with the chi of Shou-Lao the Undying, he now defends both K’un-Lun and Earth as the Living Weapon…
The Red Lantern
Chinatown, Manhattan
Much of my life has been spent as a fish out of water – first as an orphaned novice of K'un-Lun and then as a stranger to my first home when I returned to New York – so it's a sensation I know all too well. It's the sensation I feel now, standing at the bar in this exclusive nightclub. After all, there aren't too many blonde-haired, blue-eyed patrons in this part of town. Though the clientele is doing little to hide their interest (or perhaps suspicion), no one has yet accosted me. Colleen and I had discussed sending her in alone, but it seemed unwise, given we didn't know what we'd be walking into. Besides, with all eyes on me, she's free to surveil the situation at her leisure.
We found a matchbook for the Red Lantern in one of Feng's pockets. There's no indication from our research or the word of our informants that the establishment is run by the Golden Tigers, but it's certainly a popular hangout of theirs, at least. I even spy a few familiar faces, though they don't seem to recognize me without my mask. Thus far, no sign of Feng. He'd have to be some kind of stupid to show his face in public so soon after the dust-up at the gambling den, but in my experience, criminals and common sense don't often mix. Besides, failing any other way to smoke him out, this is our next best lead.
Colleen had been approached by Lin Zhao, the owner of Lin Properties Group, LLC, an urban development company with roots in Chinatown. Zhao reports that the Tigers have always given him trouble, but the threats and intimidation escalated once LPG took on a waterfront redevelopment development project on the Lower East Side. According to Zhao, the Tigers – led by Sun Feng – ordered him to halt construction or suffer the consequences. Sometime later, his eldest daughter, Yue, went missing. Though no ransom note was given, Zhao suspects that Yue has been taken as a hostage. He asked Colleen to get her back, who in turn called on me for backup.
“Dry martini, please,” Colleen announces to the bartender as she returns to the bar. Neither of us looks at the other. As the bartender steps away to prepare the drink, Colleen leans forward on her elbows and whispers just loud enough to be heard over the music, “A group of Tigers just came downstairs and ordered bottles in the VIP section.”
I pretend to sip at the cocktail in my hand, muttering one word over the rim of the glass. “Feng?”
She shakes her head. “Not that I saw, but some of them have their back turned,” she explains. Just then, the bartender returns with her drink, and she flashes him a wide smile. “Xièxiè!” Spinning around so that she's facing the club, she rests against the bar and swirls her cocktail stick. “I want to get a closer look.”
I set down my untouched cocktail. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a handful of bills and toss them on the counter. “I'll do it,” I whisper. That surprises Colleen enough to make her head turn, but she quickly corrects herself and pretends to be interested in something along the far wall. “I've got a plan. Be ready to bail me out.”
Loosening my tie as I make my way across the club, I also ruffle my hair and adopt my best stagger. Stumbling up to the velvet rope leading to the VIP section, I mutter a few nonsensical words as I collide with a bouncer. He looks down at me with disgust and barks, “Where do you think you're going, gwailou?”
I blink a few times before slurring, “Hmm? Oh, umm, I… I just need to get up there.” I try to take another step, and his huge hand spreads across my chest, halting any momentum. I frown up at the bouncer and say a bit more adamantly, “I said I need to get up there! There's… there's someone waiting on me.” I make a show of trying to brush past his outstretched arm, and when that doesn't work, I raise my voice further. “What's the problem? What, you want, umm… you want money? Fine, here's some money!” I take out my wallet and make sure to fumble with the cash.
Someone whistles, and the bouncer eases up the pressure – though still doesn't take his hand away. From the corner booth, one of the patrons smiles. “Let him in, Lao,” the apparent ringleader commands. He motions to the bills in my hands. “He can buy the next round.” The bouncer finally releases me, and I glare at him before stumbling to the booth. “What's your name, friend?” the man asks.
Instead of answering right away, I use my feigned drunkenness to scan the faces of the VIPs. At the far end of the booth, I spot our old friend, Feng, but that's not what freezes me. Sitting next to him is a girl I recognize, if only by photograph; I looked at the file Colleen put together often enough to recognize Lin Yue on sight. Our missing girl is no longer missing – and, more than that, in no apparent distress.
“Your name,” the Tiger lieutenant – for what else could he be, surrounded by such company? – repeats more forcefully. He's still smiling, but there's more of a shark than a curious bystander in it.
“My name's not important,” I say, dropping any pretense. Straightening to my full height, I continue, “What you should know is that I was hired by Lin Zhao.” The table tenses at that name, none more than Yue who can't restrain a gasp. I lock eyes with her briefly to show that I'm speaking the truth. “He wants you to back off the waterfront redevelopment project, and he demands the safe return of his daughter.”
The lieutenant opens his mouth to respond, and Feng shoots out of his seat, but it's Yue who speaks first. “I won't go back!” she shouts, making herself sound more like a child than she actually is. “He doesn't get to control me!” As if reinforcing her autonomy, she reaches out and takes Feng's hand. So… that’s what's really going on here.
“Yue is quite happy here,” the lieutenant continues after the outburst. His tone drips with icy resolve. “And as for Zhao, if he thinks the Golden Tigers will sit back and concede turf to the Yangsi Gonshi, he is sorely mistaken. We will send him a message in the form of your corpse.”
And for the second time in as many attempts, it seems that Colleen and I will have to cut our way out of a Triad den.
Nightwing Restorations, Inc.
Upper West Side, Manhattan
I suck air through my teeth as Colleen works the next stitch. “Well, stay still, and this won't hurt as bad! Aren't you some kind of Zen master?” she admonishes me. It's a fair point, but if she wasn't standing behind me holding a sharp object, I'd point out that she's not exactly a deft hand with a needle. Clicking her tongue, she says, “I can't believe you let one of them stab you, anyway. You must be losing your touch.”
“In my defense, I thought you had him.”
I can't tell with my back turned, but I'd bet that entire Rand fortune that she's rolling her eyes at me. As she finishes up the last stitch and snips the excess thread, she asks, “So, what did your research turn up about this ‘Yangsi Gonshi?’”
This time, my grimace has nothing to do with pain. “It's a rival syndicate that's been pushing into Tiger territory,” I explain. “Apparently, the Tigers have been keeping it quiet, not wanting to appear weak. The waterfront project is just the next battlefield in an ongoing war.”
Colleen sighs. “So, the money Zhao paid us is Triad money?”
“Afraid so.”
“And Yue?”
I shake my head. “Just a young, dumb kid who happened to fall in love with her father's most hated enemy.” After Colleen finishes applying a bandage over the new stitches, I shrug back into my shirt. “So, what do you want to do?”
Colleen meets my gaze, and she's got that look in her eye. Lin Zhao is going to regret using her as his puppet. “First, we have a little talk with Zhao,” she says with steely determination. “His payment just became a charitable donation in the war against organized crime. Then, I'm thinking we pay this waterfront project a visit and find out what he's trying to hide. After that? I'm open to suggestions.” As if for emphasis, she picks up her katana and loosens it in its sheath, inspecting the blade.
“Sounds to me like you plan to stop a Triad war,” I remark.
This time, it's Colleen who shrugs. “Maybe. You up for it, Iron Fist?”
I can only smirk. “Always.”
<Snipped quote by Eddie Brock>
I may or may not have held off on sending a PM to set up a collab with someone else because I thought this would happen. If not you, then another. Spidey is just too tempting, I knew someone would crack.
Hopefully this Peter isn't so old that it would be awkward for Felicia and he to have had a moment in years past...
My version is definitely younger than the previously approved one. I included a reference to "two decades" of Spider-Man because I imagine him in his mid-thirties. I think that's the sweet spot to allow your Mileses and Gwens of the world to exist without stepping on anyone's toes, while not aging him up so much that it creates odd scaling with other heroes of his cohort.
<Snipped quote by AndyC>
*heavy breathing*
(I jest. Perfectly happy with my Living Weapon.)
Well...
I lied.
Obviously, if approved, I would be dropping Iron Fist. I do love my Living Weapon, but... y'know. We could all be dead in a week, so why sit back and say, "Next time," eh? Plus, if no one else is gonna do it, I mean...
While I await the decision, I'm gonna try to do my level best to disentangle Danny from the opening storyline so that he's (mostly) a clean slate for anyone else. It probably won't be the most graceful storytelling ever put to page, but what can ya do.
Wow I love all four of those newly released characters.
I feel confident in my familiarity with playing as DD, Punisher or plot twist: Kaine Parker’s Scarlet Spider.
Do any GM’s have thoughts on which would be most beneficial to have on hand for story purposes?
Not a GM, but I feel a street-level Marvel game without a Daredevil is a bit like going to the beach in jeans.
Much as it pains me to do so, it's time to make some cuts. The following have been removed from the roster for inactivity:
Spider-Man
*heavy breathing*
(I jest. Perfectly happy with my Living Weapon.)
I'll have to apologize if we ever pick up a Shang-Chi, but Run It by DJ Snake from the movie soundtrack fits the aesthetic too well not to use it for Iron Fist, too.
<Snipped quote by Eddie Brock>
I do like how Immortal Iron Fist tied all that together with Orson Randall though.
And the kind of spin on fate where Wendall's not actually meant to ever be the Iron Fist, and the depth in trying to return to that world after he was kind of scared off of it by Orson who had his own views on the role and place of the Iron Fist.
The fact Wendall basically turned Orson's accrued family wealth kind of de-fangs that incredulity as well.
Wendall was forever chasing Orson's shadow, and the one he wound up accepting was less the one he actually wanted... and more what was less intimidating.
I like the Randall intrigues as an addition to the larger narrative. It introduces the idea of technology corrupting K'un-Lun from the inside, provides a convenient plot device to allow Heavenly City travel between scheduled appearances on Earth, and sets up motivation for the Yu-Ti as a materialistic hedonist who just wants to enjoy the pleasures of Earth -- which in turn informs why Orson and later Danny were chosen to become the Iron Fist, thereby subverting the white savior trope.
For my personal tastes, having Wendell connected back to it all just makes the world feel a little small. And I suppose I lied earlier: making Davos a rival of Danny, and not Wendell, is another Netflix adaptation that I happily adopted. I don't think I even realized back when I first read Immortal Iron Fist that it wasn't Danny who usurped his right to the title.
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