Ezekiel

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

I hope no one minds the slight narrative confusion but I cleaned up the press briefing I was writing with Mao Mao to post (with their permission) as it was fun to write. This would take place just before my last Warbird post.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

Written with @Mao Mao
Relates to This Post

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Patricia "Trish" Tilby listened in as the President of the United States spoke at the podium, an unusual sight for her colleagues. For her, it was astonishing to see someone so significant up close. As a correspondent for WNA, she was accustomed to reporting on the ground across the country. And no matter where, she often found herself in mutant affairs one way or another. Trish ensured her coverage of the issue was always fair and balanced, that it didn't feed into growing anti-mutant biases. Plenty in her field couldn't care less as long as there was a chance to gain prestige and notoriety from it. Even if it meant being morally dubious.

Of course, Trish wasn't a saint. How else was she able to be sitting here in the briefing room? It cost a lot of favours, but seeing the President walk in was definitely worth the price, and as was learning about the country's newest weapon, who single-handedly defeated an invasion force all on their own: Warbird. Based on footage of them in the field, they were quite powerful and distinct from other powered heroes through their light show. It was incredible but also an alarming development, one that could trigger a superhuman arms race, spark global tensions, and transform the military-industrial complex in its entirety.

But as intriguing as it was, there was a more pressing matter on her mind.

"Will there be any questions?"

Trish was quick to raise her hand, but among the sea of hands, it wasn't fast enough. Franklin Stern of the Daily Planet was the first one to be picked, a notable professional in the field. He cleared his throat and began to speak, "Thank you, Secretary. This revelation from the President himself is, quite frankly, astonishing for all of us to bear witness. And with the little time to process.. well, everything, we hardly know anything about this Warbird besides the fact that they're a powered individual. And that factor alone will undoubtedly contribute to the debate regarding masked vigilantes, whether you intended it or not. So, for the sake of transparency, will this administration divulge who is behind the mask? If not, why?"

"That is a good question, and this administration understands that the American people, at this time, have plenty of reason to fear the increasing number of 'powered individuals' that are appearing in this day and age." The Secretary responded with characteristic tempered optimism, a friendly face that could often hide an incoming barb. "However, we would stress that the Warbird is not a masked vigilante, but a unique and unprecedented member of the military's special forces, and as with many individuals within our great nation's security infrastructure, will remain anonymous to the wider public to protect both herself and our strategic interests. Unlike individuals working entirely outside the legal infrastructure of the nation, however, she is beholden to both the rule of law and the operating parameters applicable to any application of decisive force by the United States of America."

Trish wrote the answer down in her notebook quickly, but only did it out of obligation to her job. She wanted to ask about the administration's stance regarding Genosha and the recent developments in the island country. A country considered a rising star in AI research and development, which had only recently begun opening its market to the international community. Funny enough, it had signed separate multi-billion dollar investment pacts with the European Union, the People's Republic of China, and the United States hours before the Chippy scandal broke. And that ultimately culminated in the government's dissolution by its citizens, leaving the deals in limbo for the foreseeable future. Not to mention th-

"Thanks so much, Secretary. Staying on the topic of transparency, will they answer directly to the President or the military?"

She completely forgot to raise her hand.

"The Warbird will operate under the authority of the United States Air Force, although as the Commander-In-Chief of all branches of our military, the President, of course has final say on any matters."

"So, isn't it then, concerning for one singular person to suddenly have a power unprecedented in American history? There will be people who are going to be naturally afraid that such power could easily be abused in the future. What sort of safeguards have been put into place to prevent the President and, to a larger extent, future administrations from misusing Warbird?" The Daily Bugle's Washington correspondent asked derisively to provoke a more emotionally charged answer.

"The currency of our military is unprecedented power. Three of the top five largest air forces in the world sit within the branches of our military might. Our nuclear capability has remained unmatched since we first harnessed the power of the Atom and will continue to do so." The Secretary paused for a moment after evoking the dominance of recent years, before continuing.

"The US military, especially under this administration, takes the duty of remaining the world's premium warfighting force with the seriousness it deserves. You may ask what dangers this new power presents, but we ask instead of the greater danger we should face should our enemies, which we now know exist even beyond the confines of this planet, harness such a power before us. That would be an intolerable risk to the nation and people that we will not risk." This was more in line with the fire and fury of the administration's dealings with rivals, although it soon eased through the softening of the Secretary's words. "But to those with concerns, we say this: the President remains beholden to the rule of law, the American Constitution, and finally and most importantly, the judgment of the American people. This is the case with past administrations and our own, and we trust the people to continue to elect those who would take such duty seriously."

Trish raised her hand yet again, not expecting to get picked at all. But then the Press Secretary gestured at her.

"Thank you, Secretary." Trish flipped her notebook to the next page and then continued. "It's only been two days since protesters in Genosha elected a mutant to lead the country's interim government after overthrowing the previous government. The same one who led the militant group, Brotherhood, in the 1960s and now leads an entire nation, seemingly with the people's blessing. What's the administration's response to the recent developments? And secondly, there have been reports that the former president plans on forming a government in exile in the coming days. He also plans to seek out international support to facilitate his return to power. That includes the United States, where he and the remnants of his cabinet are currently residing."

“We are monitoring the situation in Genosha closely and believe this only further reinforces the need for this Administration’s current policy, of which the Warbird is but one, if a foundational part. We strongly condemn the previous actions of the Brotherhood and view this matter with great concern. The United States will continue to host the as of yet officially recognised Genoshan government with the hope of pursuing a lasting and peaceful solution to recent troubles. Our commitment to not risking the lives of American service men and women where possible means we will consider any direct involvement as a matter of last resort.”

With Trish’s final question answered, the briefing moved on into a cascade of far more trivial questioning, a constant buzz of back and forth around the room that lasted for a few further minutes. Everything of great value had already been said, however, and was no doubt spreading across the globe before she had even finished writing her short hand notes.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

<Snipped quote by ThatDeercat>

Speaking of Christmas episodes. How would you all feel about a Santa mini event since he exists in both DC and Marvel?

@King Kindred

I think it's a fun idea. I'm not sure it really suits the vibe of either storyline I am currently telling so I don't think Carol or the X-men would get involved but I am very happy to read it!

Sheets and RP Plans

Construction In Progress

Not intended to be a complete record. ASOIAF Game sheets can be found in their relevant RPs due to being largely canon adaptions.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

Short post but thought I'd try and get some X-men stuff done and couldn't cap the post without it spiralling into a whole essay.

Next X-post should cover why they're currently in New Orleans which will also lead right into Goblin Queen post #1.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

New Orleans
New Orleans

Lousiana
Lousiana

---

“Som’thin’ going down in New York?”

“Seems it, you thinkin’ they’d have this on if tha’ happin’ here?” The bartender didn’t look up to the screen as he motioned with one cloth-covered hand in its direction as he continued to clean glasses, the small stack of returned drinks steadily diminishing as he worked. Not all of them matched the general design of the other glasses, a sign of New Orleans' unusual laissez-faire attitude towards allowing drinks to be brought in from different establishments. Eventually, they’d get back to their place of origin, the honour among bars.

“Mon Cher, if you t’ink the ratings care about if a disaster be in the South or the East Coast, I got an ad scheme to sell you.” Remy laughed, but without any cruelty as he took a sip of his drink, earning a somewhat derisive snort of dismissal from the bartender as he worked.

“This ain’t the South, Sugah, not even close.” The voice, in typical Southern drawl, sounded from behind him just a moment before Anna Marie slipped onto the stool beside him. Much like Remy she was dressed down from their usual work attire, although still suitable for a more casual night out. The long set of lace gloves adoring Anna’s arms the only hint to the nature of her mutation, while the ever-persistent sunglasses across Remy’s features his own means of hiding the impact of his X-Gene.

“What are you talkin’ ‘bout now chérie? Only thing more south than here is the ocean.” Remy laughed as Anna waived over for her own drink, Remy wordlessly noting in an amused way just how much faster the service was for her than him. What a kind smile and a tight set of jeans could do in this own.

“That’s south, not South Remy. My daddy used to say if the sweat you can smell is the ocean, not off a farmer’s brow, that ain’t the real South.” She looked over to him with a slight grin, and the deep black of the lipstick on her full smile imprinted into his mind. No wonder she was served so fast.

“Oh, you a hick, hick, chérie.” He laughed, longer this time, especially as she laughed alongside him.

“That’s me Remy, cornrow bred, cornbread fed.” Her eyes drifted away from him for a few moments, even as she still laughed, and even if they were ‘on the job’ he regretted it, losing the spark of her amused eyes. He didn’t have long to mourn though, as his attention was drawn to the entrance to the bar as an assortment of men entered. Armed men. Headed up by a face he unfortunately recognised.

“Remy LeBeau. I felt the implications of your return were made fairly clear.” The man spoke with the hint of a French accent, not a local, but of the founding naton across the sea. Those who flanked him were unfamiliar to Remy, no doubt newer additions of the Thieves’ Guild he had long left behind. The barman had made himself scarce a moment before, no doubt in on it.

“Friends of yours, darlin’?” Anna stood from the stool beside him, casually stretching in a manner which belied the obvious hostility from across the room.

“You’re going to want to leave this alone, girl.”

“Well, now I am definitely not going to do that.”

The tone in her words was suddenly deadly, even as Remy also stood to join her, rolling up his sleeves as he did so.

“If we’re going to do this, Monsieur, I just have one question for you.” The roll of his sleeves hid the sudden motion of the deck falling from his concealed place into his outstretched hand, a slight flick of his fingers heralding his next words. “Is this your card?”

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

---

A Land Far From Anywhere

---

From a distance, the fortress rose from the wasteland like a mirage. Its walls were thick and sloped, built from sun-baked brick scavenged from the bones of old cities and glazed in patches of turquoise and lapis, their colours muted by dust but still defiant. Minarets crowned the corners, not for prayer but as watchtowers, their balconies the domain of watchful guards rather than philosophers and priests of old. The irradiated desert bent around it: dunes broke against the outer ramparts, and the wind sang through carved calligraphy praising endurance, dominion, and the mercy of shelter.

A dry moat encircled the stronghold, choked with shattered concrete and the husks of dead machines, funnelling attackers into narrow kill-paths watched by hidden embrasures. Heavy gates of layered steel and cedar stood beneath pointed arches. Above them, tiles formed geometric stars and interlocking vines, each shard carefully placed. The gates were rarely opened; expected visitors passed through smaller posterns masked by hanging rugs and mirrored screens that distorted silhouettes.

Within the walls, the fortress unfolded as a city-palace. Courtyards bloomed with stubborn gardens fed by underground cisterns, where water trickled through qanats dug deep into forgotten aquifers. Date palms and fig trees grew beside solar arrays framed like ornamental lattices. Guards in layered silks and elaborate armour moved silently through shaded arcades, their curved blades etched with verses promising swift judgment. Every corridor bent and doubled back, designed to disorient intruders while guiding residents by scent—incense, oil, and warm stone. It was both an homage and a mockery to the courts that had come before it. Culture itself a tribute paid to the conqueror who had smashed aside superstition and mysticism in the name of his master’s code of reason.

At the heart of the fortress stood a domed sanctuary clad in gold-leafed panels salvaged from relics of ancient Terra. By day, it reflected the merciless sun; by night, it glowed with soft internal light, a beacon of controlled splendour in a dead world. From its high terrace, the ruler could survey the wasteland in all directions. an ocean of ash and ruin. There were parts of this world that could perhaps one day be healed, but this small citadel welcomed the isolation the vast emptiness provided.

There was a sombre mood about this private court, at odds with its usual sense of cheer. A time that all had foreseen but none had wished for approached. The usual vigour with which good humour pushed back against the dark realities of the world had become subdued.

Aristagoras, he-who-bears-the-names-of-the-conquered, regarded the vast painting before him with a tone of contemplation. The visage was that of a woman in semi-abstract. The only evidence that she had existed, yet even still distorted from recognition into a word of representative art. When he looked upon it, however, he saw her smile as it had truly been.

“I wish I recalled her, as you do.” The feminine voice, laced with a sad bitterness, snapped him out of his contemplations. He turned to face the one main reason he could never forget the face on the wall, for he beheld the mirror of it as he did.
“We were forged to be guardians and assassins both; it would do poorly for us to ever forget a target.” The Emperor’s Second Blade spoke with a sad smile. It was not often he addressed the very clinical nature of his origin, and such only caused the scowl on the woman’s features to deepen. Not at him, but at the truth of his words.

“You know well enough that whatever gene-sorcery was used to form you and your brethren is different in you.” The woman’s words were softer than her expression. An untrained eye might consider her of similar origin to him, to the female guardians of the Emperor. She was only a little shorter than Aristagoras, her form also holding the inherent strength and danger of the talons of the Emperor. Despite anyone with any thorough knowledge of the Custodians, the Thunder Warriors or even the newer Astartes wouldn’t take long to understand she was different. In many ways she was too human, a softness to her frame and a character to her eyes that gave away that she was grown and raised, not chiseled and forged for war.

“That has cost you everything. Cost us her.” The olive skinned giant motioned his hand towards the painting, of the face that even in abstract haunted his dreams and waking thoughts. The last daughter of Memphos that had been taken as spoils, yet became the joy he was never meant to feel.

“No, he cost you that. It is the potter who is at fault, not the vase, when it is forged crooked.” Those eyes, without the predatory glean that marked out every Custodian as a killer masquerading as a human, held very little else but the same righteous anger as they met his own. Bearing the burning gaze of the Butcher of Shangri-Laren with as much ease as any had ever done so.

“You think I am of ill-make now?” A humoured deflection, but it worked for a moment, a slight laugh gracing the dark tan of her lips as she shook her head in frustration.

“I think it is cruel to demand of you things beyond your nature, when it is your nature that makes you his Second Blade. You speak often in the flaws of your making, but what if it is that making which made you the greatest of his warriors.” Pride ran through her words, but not for herself, for the giant she now spoke to in what could be their final conversation.

“I am sure Constantin might challenge the bias of your assessment there, little viper.” The First and Second blade had known each other for as long as any being could claim to familiarity with the pair, but that did not mean there was familiarity in their bond. The first and second forged, one with too few deviations, one with too many. Yet both knew the call in their blood was the greatest cause they could ever hope to fight for.

She shrugged as she approached him, taking his hands in her own with a gentle squeeze. “A man who fights without the flames of passion cannot hope to withstand the inferno.” He did not encourage her boasting of him, but still, there was some pride to her surety. Pride that faded when her expression turned sorrowful once more.

“You do not have to go, you have given him the world.” She did not vocalise what they both knew. There was little and less place for the more experimental of the Master’s creations in the world, the galaxy, he was building. If Aristagoras was, finally, called to the front once more, it was likely a journey he would not return from. This isolated oasis of the old ways could no longer survive the force of the Master’s vision.

“I must, for all that I am different, in this way I am not. I am called. I will answer.”

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

Wow Zeke that looks like a Carol post. Didn't you say you were just wrapping up an Xmen/Goblin queen post and didn't know what to write for Carol yet?

Silence brain worm! We're working on vibes here.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

---

The United States of America, Washington DC

---

“On behalf of my administration and the American people, I thank you for your service to both our nation and the world in halting this latest threat to our way of life.”

“Just doing my duty, Mr President. It's an honour to be here.”

The first time she'd heard his name was in one of her dad's more targeted rants, positive this time. He said he'd vote for him three times if he could. She hadn't brought this up; in her mind, it wasn't a compliment.

Her time back on Earth had been a blur so far. As instructed, she'd flown through Boston on her way back to Project Base. A particularly well-timed photo of the Warbird soaring through the air above Boston Common was already being plastered across the Internet and print media alike. It was being sold as candid, but she was fairly certain they'd paid someone to camp out the angle. It was an exceptional shot; she was almost tempted to ask if they could sneak the same guy in for Prom photos.

The official meeting with the President wasn't meant to be her first meeting with the man, that would have suggested the President had little and less to do with America's new, deadliest weapon. So they feigned a false sense of professional familiarity for the cameras. She got through it well enough. A brief burst of mental communication from Mar'vell informed her that the Director had even smiled for once.

She promised to look out for any flying pigs.

The private meeting afterwards was something of a different story.

“Jesus Christ, Oliver, you didn't tell me she was this young.”

The President directed his question to one of the suited and booted individuals who followed them into the Oval Office. No press this time. She was stunned for a moment, but Mr Suited replied in her stead.

“It wasn't a matter of choice, Sir, we’ve been told she has characteristics that make her a unique candidate for the program. One of one.” It wasn’t spoken in a tone that could be considered supportive of her, even if the words were making her case. Everything about the men in the room with her currently reeked of derision, enough to make her wring her fingers together as she felt the familiar creep of anxiety down her spine and into her gut.

“I suppose that accounts for the apparent delay I am supposed to anticipate when calling on her … abilities.” The President continued to speak as if she wasn’t there, but it compelled her to answer, even if she almost immediately stumbled over the words.

“I do everything I can to ensure my sch- personal life, doesn’t delay my response in times of emergency.” She caught herself, but not quite in time, the dismissive look on the President’s face deepening as she spoke.

“Indeed, how generous of you.” He moved around to the other side of the Resolute desk, taking his seat with almost a slump as he leaned down to pour himself a drink from a concealed shelf. He didn’t offer her one, but then, he didn’t provide one to anyone else in the room either. “We should probably find a way to extract ourselves from this situation before this turns into a disaster.” It was very much as if she wasn’t in the room, he even seemed to look through her to whichever of the various experts he was talking to.

There was a momentary deluge of conversation around her as they all looked to present either their opinion on the matter or their strategy.

Carol froze in place, her fingers wringing together ever more tightly on her own digits. Her fear bubbled up only more so, burrowing into her chest with a cold grip on her lungs. She could feel her breathing start to shallow, growing more frantic.

Focus

Breathe

The conversation continued to dance around her for a few moments as she tried to bring her breathing back under control. Lessons learned in school counselling sessions, and far more helpful ones from Mar’vell, played across her mind. Eventually, it was her turn to speak and remind those in the room with her that she existed.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Excuse me?”

It wasn’t the President who spoke, one of the other suits in the room replied first, but the sudden forcefulness of her tone brought the attention of the room back around to her.

“All the ICBMs in the world aren’t going to help you if those who just saved New York decide ‘you’ are the new problem. What’s the largest military in the world going to do for you when the God of Thunder lands in the Oval Office?” Her arms moved behind her back as her confidence returned, the easy kind of flippant charm she managed when she knew she held the cards. “I’m the only thing that can help with that, so I’d think twice before deciding on any reason why you’d want to wrap up Project Warbird.”

“And how are you any different from them?”

“Easy, Mr President. Right now, I work for you.”

---

Oh God

She’d flown off in just about the first direction she picked as soon as she’d made it out of the White House. Her thoughts pounded in her head all the way.

She’d made it to this random diner in the middle of who knows where. She had almost dived straight in, but thought better of showing up in her costume. So now she was standing on the flat concrete roof, desperately trying to not throw up over the edge.

Did I just threaten the President?

She hadn’t meant it to come out like that, but the energy in the room had gone ice cold. She preferred that, though, to before. At least they respected her.

There was a brief buzz from her communicator before she heard the voice in her ear.

“It’s manic here, Carol.”

Jim’s voice, one of the few to check in with her over the last day or so. If it was him on comms everyone even slightly important was clearly very busy.

“OhmygoshI’msosorrytheywereignoringmeandIpanicedhowmadishe?” She unleashed a stream of vocal anxiety, entirely forgetting to keep her voice down in case someone noticed the pacing blonde superhero on their roof.

“Mad? The President’s staff are on the line, they’re demanding all sorts of testimonials and assurances. Probably a written apology.”

“I’m going to be sick.” In truth, she was going to be sick again but Jim didn’t need to know the details of her panicked flight.

“But, the Director’s over the moon.”

“What?”

“Carol, the President of the United States is concerned enough to actually care who everyone is on the Program. Whatever you said to them worked and the Project has never been more important.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been told to call you to let you know your first bonus is being paid out, enjoy Uncle Sam’s dollars. Just not all at once.”

“Oh.”

With a notification, her phone registered a new banking balance. One that had at least another zero than it had before.

“Ooooooooh.”