Posted. The base is officially on fire.
Just on a side note, Gabe ain't dead, just bleeding to death.
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Ditto and Booster Gold were shot. Patriot had crashed through walls, destroying them and weakening the base's structural strength. Fenrir was down, shot and buried underneath the lighting fixtures he'd detached from the ceiling. And the Deathstroke impostor was standing in front of the remaining young heroes, holding his rifle in his hands.
Hellfire clenched his fists, looking over his shoulder, surprised to see Apollo up and out of his coma along with Fate, Orbit, Patriot and the other two Dittos. Immediately Gabe came to the conclusion that his priority was to protect his teammates, to keep them from being harmed. If anything were to happen to them, he would never forgive himself, and he knew it. Especially if Orbit was hurt...
Looking back towards Deathstroke, Gabe thought of what he could do. He could attack using his flames, cranking the heat up to the point that everything would turn to dust. But he couldn't. There were his friends to think about. And if this was the real Deathstroke, Slade Wilson, Batman would not want him to engage. He'd want Gabe to run as far away as possible, to get out of the assassin's sight and hope he wasn't on his trail. But Gabe couldn't run. The base was underground, sealed away from the world above, and the way out would certainly be blocked by Deathstroke if anyone would try to get out. That, and Gabe wouldn't, couldn't, abandon his friends. So he came to the conclusion that the only thing he could possibly do was stall for time, wait until someone with the power to stand toe to toe against the enemy without jeopardising the team came.
"Don't make another move. Take one more step and I turn you to ash," he threatened, knowing full well Deathstoke would see through it.
"You wouldn't do that. You'd kill your teammates- your 'friends'- too. You wouldn't take their lives just to defeat me, would you?" said Deathstroke.
Hellfire hesitated to answer. Should he reply that he wouldn't, it would show a sign of weakness that Deathstroke would likely exploit. But should he reply that he would, the mercenary would expect him to follow through with it.
"... No."
"And do you think your teammates would do the same for you if they were presented with this chance?"
Anger began to brew within Hellfire. His body heat rose, emanating from him, causing those near to him to begin to sweat.
"Yes."
"Your trust, your liking of your supposed friends, betrays you. Do you really think they care about you? Each and every one of them has their own agenda. They're in this for themselves, and no one else."
"That's not true." His anger rose even more.
"And do you even think your mentors give a damn about what happens to you? All they care about is that they have heirs, vessels, to carry on their legacy. Just think of Batman: each time one of his 'precious' Robins moved on or died, he just replaced them with another child. What makes you think he wouldn't do the same to you?"
"He wouldn't... The Leaguers wouldn't just throw us away. They care about us. We mean something to them!" Gabe's voice was rising, almost yelling now.
"Wrong. You mean nothing to them. NOTHING! Just like how my wife ment nothing to them! They stood by and did nothing as my wife was killed! THEY LET HER DIE! AND THEY'LL LET YOU DIE, JUST LIKE THE SCUM THAT THEY ARE!" Deathstroke screamed, emotion suddenly taking him over. But the information provided to Gabe by this outburst was only heard, not registered. Instead, the rage grew inside him, until Hellfire himself snapped.
"SHUT UP! YOU'RE LYING! THAT'S NOT TRUE! SHUT! UP!" he screeched, shooting a tendril of intense black flame at the man that stood before him. Deathstroke dodged it, jumping to another spot in the cavernous monitor room. The spot he'd stood on just moments before caught fire. Hellfire aimed and fired again, only for his blast to be dodged once more, and where his flame hit a fire was started. He wasn't thinking straight. His anger was making all the decisions. And those were to keep blasting away at Deathstroke, until he was incinerated into nothing. So he kept firing, Deathstroke dodging each time, the place of impact catching on fire. If his teammates were yelling at him to snap him out of his rage, Gabe couldn't hear them. All his concentration was on killing Deathstroke.
But this murderous concentration brought forth his downfall: He didn't see Deathstroke take aim at him with his rifle, didn't see him pull the trigger. And all at once, his vision faltered, and he fell to the ground, the monitor room burning around him. Gabe had failed them. He'd failed his friends.
Hellfire clenched his fists, looking over his shoulder, surprised to see Apollo up and out of his coma along with Fate, Orbit, Patriot and the other two Dittos. Immediately Gabe came to the conclusion that his priority was to protect his teammates, to keep them from being harmed. If anything were to happen to them, he would never forgive himself, and he knew it. Especially if Orbit was hurt...
Looking back towards Deathstroke, Gabe thought of what he could do. He could attack using his flames, cranking the heat up to the point that everything would turn to dust. But he couldn't. There were his friends to think about. And if this was the real Deathstroke, Slade Wilson, Batman would not want him to engage. He'd want Gabe to run as far away as possible, to get out of the assassin's sight and hope he wasn't on his trail. But Gabe couldn't run. The base was underground, sealed away from the world above, and the way out would certainly be blocked by Deathstroke if anyone would try to get out. That, and Gabe wouldn't, couldn't, abandon his friends. So he came to the conclusion that the only thing he could possibly do was stall for time, wait until someone with the power to stand toe to toe against the enemy without jeopardising the team came.
"Don't make another move. Take one more step and I turn you to ash," he threatened, knowing full well Deathstoke would see through it.
"You wouldn't do that. You'd kill your teammates- your 'friends'- too. You wouldn't take their lives just to defeat me, would you?" said Deathstroke.
Hellfire hesitated to answer. Should he reply that he wouldn't, it would show a sign of weakness that Deathstroke would likely exploit. But should he reply that he would, the mercenary would expect him to follow through with it.
"... No."
"And do you think your teammates would do the same for you if they were presented with this chance?"
Anger began to brew within Hellfire. His body heat rose, emanating from him, causing those near to him to begin to sweat.
"Yes."
"Your trust, your liking of your supposed friends, betrays you. Do you really think they care about you? Each and every one of them has their own agenda. They're in this for themselves, and no one else."
"That's not true." His anger rose even more.
"And do you even think your mentors give a damn about what happens to you? All they care about is that they have heirs, vessels, to carry on their legacy. Just think of Batman: each time one of his 'precious' Robins moved on or died, he just replaced them with another child. What makes you think he wouldn't do the same to you?"
"He wouldn't... The Leaguers wouldn't just throw us away. They care about us. We mean something to them!" Gabe's voice was rising, almost yelling now.
"Wrong. You mean nothing to them. NOTHING! Just like how my wife ment nothing to them! They stood by and did nothing as my wife was killed! THEY LET HER DIE! AND THEY'LL LET YOU DIE, JUST LIKE THE SCUM THAT THEY ARE!" Deathstroke screamed, emotion suddenly taking him over. But the information provided to Gabe by this outburst was only heard, not registered. Instead, the rage grew inside him, until Hellfire himself snapped.
"SHUT UP! YOU'RE LYING! THAT'S NOT TRUE! SHUT! UP!" he screeched, shooting a tendril of intense black flame at the man that stood before him. Deathstroke dodged it, jumping to another spot in the cavernous monitor room. The spot he'd stood on just moments before caught fire. Hellfire aimed and fired again, only for his blast to be dodged once more, and where his flame hit a fire was started. He wasn't thinking straight. His anger was making all the decisions. And those were to keep blasting away at Deathstroke, until he was incinerated into nothing. So he kept firing, Deathstroke dodging each time, the place of impact catching on fire. If his teammates were yelling at him to snap him out of his rage, Gabe couldn't hear them. All his concentration was on killing Deathstroke.
But this murderous concentration brought forth his downfall: He didn't see Deathstroke take aim at him with his rifle, didn't see him pull the trigger. And all at once, his vision faltered, and he fell to the ground, the monitor room burning around him. Gabe had failed them. He'd failed his friends.
KL still exists. He PMed me yesterday about how Gabe might burn the base. I think it might just be his work that's hectic.
Sure, it'll just have to wait until sometime tomorrow. Probably around about 3:30pm Australian Eastern Time Zone (UTC+10:00). If not, then that's too bad,
riurik said
If you want, we can collaborate in Titanpad.
Sure, it'll just have to wait until sometime tomorrow. Probably around about 3:30pm Australian Eastern Time Zone (UTC+10:00). If not, then that's too bad,
Lucian said
Sheesh, where be the posts, people?
I'm pretty sure riurik's working on a post, after that I think I'll do a post as well.
Andy Hughes stood against an alleyway wall, hood up, on the Thirty-Fifth floor of Metro-Tokyo. He had arrived in the city just weeks before, and was currently thinking of ways to start off his movie. He was thinking of starting it with a big turf war between some major gangs, but was a bit reluctant to send himself into the middle of one, knowing of the sheer brutality of some the big name organised crime syndicates. Maybe a bar fight would be a better opening, just to showcase his skills as a fighter against some (hopefully) drunk men. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’ll do,’ he thought, stepping away from the wall.
At the press of a button on a touchpad, reading RETURN & STOP REC, which he’d had attached onto the sleeve of his hooded top, he summoned forth his trusty camera, the Panasonic Paracam, which he affectionately referred to as Bill. The camera had been acquiring footage of the city streets, hopefully catching some dodgy, illicit activity as it unfolded, to provide the viewers of the currently untitled Ultimate Action Movie an idea of just how corrupt and unsafe Metropolis was. The small, sleek, compact drone hovered down towards Andy, lowering itself to the ground, keeping off it only by a few centimetres. Using the touchpad, he commanded Bill to focuse on him, pressing record as he walked out into the streets.
A certain bar had caught Andy’s eye, and he was hoping it would contain some sort of drunken thug itching for a fight. It was called ArcCorp Bar, owned by one of the many corporations that used Metropolis as their base of operations. Beverages were generally cheap there, though the prices went up the more drinks one ordered. Call it a side effect of corporate greed.
Andy entered through the bar’s doors, hood still up, head down, his hands in his pockets. Bill followed silently, his ventilation fans barely making a sound, lens aimed at his owner in an over-the-shoulder shot. The main bar stood in the centre of the building, the menu and a television screen hanging from its wall, bar stools in place in front of the barman, who wore a suit and sunglasses. On either side of the entrance were tables, drilled into the floor, surrounded by cushioned seats. All were occupied. Suspended from the ceiling were replicas of parts from the rockets that were once used in the ages of old, to add a touch of the past to all of the modernity in the building.
As Andy walked down the three steps leading to the bar, he got hostile looks from a group of four rough looking men. ‘Perfect,’ he thought, keeping a stoic expression, ‘they might be the first people to star as cannon fodder in the movie. Awesome.’
Taking a seat on a bar stool, he ordered a regular beer, paying the amount that was required. Keeping his head down, Andy emitted a brooding aura, recalling his acting lessons of the past. Looking over his shoulder as he took a sip from his beer, he saw that one of the rough men had gotten up out of his seat and was on his way to Andy, fists clenched and shoulders tensed. The man stopped centimetres from Andy, whose back was turned towards him.
“Aren’t you a little young to be in here, kid?” remarked the man, his breath reeking of alcohol.
“Aren’t you a little drunk to be talking, mate?” retorted Andy, prepping for an attack that may come his way.
The man, who shall be referred to as Cannon Fodder #1, suddenly snapped, the alcohol taking over his thoughts. He grabbed Andy by the shoulder, about to pull him off the stool and onto the floor. But Andy was ready for this, and he raised the arm closest to Cannon Fodder #1, turning towards him, knocking his arm off his shoulder. He followed this up with a punch directly onto the guy’s nose, the extra substance provided by the knuckle dusters on his gloves making it easy to break it, causing blood to spurt down Fodder #1’s face. And just like that, he was out of the running.
Seeing this, Fodder #1’s friends, Fodders #2, #3 and #4, got up out of their seats, stumbling drunkenly towards Andy. Fodder #3 and #4 made to grab one arm of Andy’s each, in an attempt to give Fodder #2 some easy hits. However, before they could even reach him, Andy let loose a combo of a roundhouse kick to the face followed by a spinning hook kick, the first attack connecting with #3’s cheek, the second with #4’s temple. They both crashed to the floor, landing one on top of the other, leaving only Fodder #2 to deal with. Seeing the drunken fear in #2’s eyes, Andy raised his arms in the air.
“I give up,” said he.
“W-what?”
“I give up.”
“O-oh! Good. Y-you’re no match for me anyway,” blabbered Fodder #2, stepping within Andy’s reach, not realising it was a ruse before it was too late, a fist meeting his face, knocking him out and thus ending the fight.
Andy then proceeded to placing some extra cash on the bar counter, before turning around and walking out of the bar. As he walked, he noticed that the entirety of the bar’s customers had watched the fight, and were still watching him as he exited the bar. Commanding Bill, which had filmed the entire goings-on in the bar in the best angles possible, to stop recording, Andy took a breath of not-so-fresh air.
“Scene 1 of an undetermined amount completed. I think we’re off to a great start, Bill.”
At the press of a button on a touchpad, reading RETURN & STOP REC, which he’d had attached onto the sleeve of his hooded top, he summoned forth his trusty camera, the Panasonic Paracam, which he affectionately referred to as Bill. The camera had been acquiring footage of the city streets, hopefully catching some dodgy, illicit activity as it unfolded, to provide the viewers of the currently untitled Ultimate Action Movie an idea of just how corrupt and unsafe Metropolis was. The small, sleek, compact drone hovered down towards Andy, lowering itself to the ground, keeping off it only by a few centimetres. Using the touchpad, he commanded Bill to focuse on him, pressing record as he walked out into the streets.
A certain bar had caught Andy’s eye, and he was hoping it would contain some sort of drunken thug itching for a fight. It was called ArcCorp Bar, owned by one of the many corporations that used Metropolis as their base of operations. Beverages were generally cheap there, though the prices went up the more drinks one ordered. Call it a side effect of corporate greed.
Andy entered through the bar’s doors, hood still up, head down, his hands in his pockets. Bill followed silently, his ventilation fans barely making a sound, lens aimed at his owner in an over-the-shoulder shot. The main bar stood in the centre of the building, the menu and a television screen hanging from its wall, bar stools in place in front of the barman, who wore a suit and sunglasses. On either side of the entrance were tables, drilled into the floor, surrounded by cushioned seats. All were occupied. Suspended from the ceiling were replicas of parts from the rockets that were once used in the ages of old, to add a touch of the past to all of the modernity in the building.
As Andy walked down the three steps leading to the bar, he got hostile looks from a group of four rough looking men. ‘Perfect,’ he thought, keeping a stoic expression, ‘they might be the first people to star as cannon fodder in the movie. Awesome.’
Taking a seat on a bar stool, he ordered a regular beer, paying the amount that was required. Keeping his head down, Andy emitted a brooding aura, recalling his acting lessons of the past. Looking over his shoulder as he took a sip from his beer, he saw that one of the rough men had gotten up out of his seat and was on his way to Andy, fists clenched and shoulders tensed. The man stopped centimetres from Andy, whose back was turned towards him.
“Aren’t you a little young to be in here, kid?” remarked the man, his breath reeking of alcohol.
“Aren’t you a little drunk to be talking, mate?” retorted Andy, prepping for an attack that may come his way.
The man, who shall be referred to as Cannon Fodder #1, suddenly snapped, the alcohol taking over his thoughts. He grabbed Andy by the shoulder, about to pull him off the stool and onto the floor. But Andy was ready for this, and he raised the arm closest to Cannon Fodder #1, turning towards him, knocking his arm off his shoulder. He followed this up with a punch directly onto the guy’s nose, the extra substance provided by the knuckle dusters on his gloves making it easy to break it, causing blood to spurt down Fodder #1’s face. And just like that, he was out of the running.
Seeing this, Fodder #1’s friends, Fodders #2, #3 and #4, got up out of their seats, stumbling drunkenly towards Andy. Fodder #3 and #4 made to grab one arm of Andy’s each, in an attempt to give Fodder #2 some easy hits. However, before they could even reach him, Andy let loose a combo of a roundhouse kick to the face followed by a spinning hook kick, the first attack connecting with #3’s cheek, the second with #4’s temple. They both crashed to the floor, landing one on top of the other, leaving only Fodder #2 to deal with. Seeing the drunken fear in #2’s eyes, Andy raised his arms in the air.
“I give up,” said he.
“W-what?”
“I give up.”
“O-oh! Good. Y-you’re no match for me anyway,” blabbered Fodder #2, stepping within Andy’s reach, not realising it was a ruse before it was too late, a fist meeting his face, knocking him out and thus ending the fight.
Andy then proceeded to placing some extra cash on the bar counter, before turning around and walking out of the bar. As he walked, he noticed that the entirety of the bar’s customers had watched the fight, and were still watching him as he exited the bar. Commanding Bill, which had filmed the entire goings-on in the bar in the best angles possible, to stop recording, Andy took a breath of not-so-fresh air.
“Scene 1 of an undetermined amount completed. I think we’re off to a great start, Bill.”
Heath wasn't going to lie, the de-contamination at the hands of Sparkles was painful. It hurt. Heaps. But Teleporto stayed strong, clenching his teeth and holding on tightly to Tanya's hilt. Once Sparkles was finished, Heath thanked him, before watching on as Alexei continuing acting as Team Mildly Competent's leader. The more he saw of the man leading, the more he began liking him as the main man. Alexei was definitely one to be trusted.
I have a question... Would the MetPo break up a bar fight? Or would they just let it pass?
EDIT: I posted, the MetPo have not intercepted. I hope that that's fine.
EDIT: I posted, the MetPo have not intercepted. I hope that that's fine.
Peter Queen/Spiderbolt
"According to the news, there was an attack by a dragon some time ago, but it was stopped by some super-humans. If we're lucky, they'll still be there, and will be happy to help us out. If not, then we try to track them down individually, using some... unorthodox means. Let's hope it won't come to that. So-" he grunted as he got up, "We'd better get going before they leave the scene of destruction."
"According to the news, there was an attack by a dragon some time ago, but it was stopped by some super-humans. If we're lucky, they'll still be there, and will be happy to help us out. If not, then we try to track them down individually, using some... unorthodox means. Let's hope it won't come to that. So-" he grunted as he got up, "We'd better get going before they leave the scene of destruction."
Peter Queen/Spiderbolt
Kurt had taken Spiderbolt with him to his apartment to get Maria, a sword that was mounted on his wall. He had then taken Spiderbolt to an apartment in the Thomas Enterprises Hotel, which, unbeknownst to Kurt, was Spiderbolt's. When there, Spiderbolt took his laptop, and when asked who's it was, he replied saying that it was owned the person who funded him, Peter Queen. Hoping that Kurt wouldn't put two and two together, Spiderbolt checked the news, and was surprised by the first headline he read, and horrified by the second. They read: DRAGON ATTACKS MANHATTAN and THE DARK GOBLIN STRIKES AGAIN!
Shutting his laptop, Spider bolt turned to Kurt.
"Dark Goblin just massacred a Thomas Enterprises building. We're going to Manhattan. Now."
Kurt just looked at him, as if to say, 'Dude, you're still hurt, shouldn't you be resting?'
"Oh, we aren't going to the scene of the massacre. We're going to do some recruiting."
Kurt had taken Spiderbolt with him to his apartment to get Maria, a sword that was mounted on his wall. He had then taken Spiderbolt to an apartment in the Thomas Enterprises Hotel, which, unbeknownst to Kurt, was Spiderbolt's. When there, Spiderbolt took his laptop, and when asked who's it was, he replied saying that it was owned the person who funded him, Peter Queen. Hoping that Kurt wouldn't put two and two together, Spiderbolt checked the news, and was surprised by the first headline he read, and horrified by the second. They read: DRAGON ATTACKS MANHATTAN and THE DARK GOBLIN STRIKES AGAIN!
Shutting his laptop, Spider bolt turned to Kurt.
"Dark Goblin just massacred a Thomas Enterprises building. We're going to Manhattan. Now."
Kurt just looked at him, as if to say, 'Dude, you're still hurt, shouldn't you be resting?'
"Oh, we aren't going to the scene of the massacre. We're going to do some recruiting."
Yeah sure, I'll make it so.
Edited with those new details.
Edited with those new details.
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