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In Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay → 2 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
The Therapeutix Gala
Collab with @Cyrania



Bond was watching the nervous looking man out of the corner of his eye as he approached the bar, clutching the snapped champagne flute together as best he could as a faint trickle of blood made its way down his palm. For a moment he considered if he could be a threat, the nervous vibrations of a would-be amateur assassin. But this was something different - anxiety - social anxiety.

He slid down the bar slightly so that he was closer to the man. None of these heroes would know who he was and this guy seemed a bit too salt of the earth to be any of the CEOs well versed in high society functions. Out of interest, and part safety he scanned the man's face with his contact lenses. Strange - he was a NYPD detective by the name of John Jones. Perhaps he’d won the tickets at a policeman’s ball? It would be out of the ordinary for a seasoned detective to be nervous if he was stalking a job like this.

Either way, this felt like a way in. Information on any supers was his mission here, and if this guy was at the bar then this was his best shot at breaking the ice. To tell the truth, Bond also wanted to have a few supers in his back pocket. He was ready to do some ‘extracurricular’ activity to help some of these extraordinary individuals if it meant they would return the favour in future. Things seemed to just be getting more dangerous in the world, and it likely wouldn’t be long before James faced something a bullet couldn’t kill.

He pulled a handkerchief, monogrammed Orbis - Non - Sufficit and handed it towards John. The motto taken from the Bond family crest. It was a direct replication of his fathers handkerchief, one of the last and only mementos he had of his parents taken far too early from him.

“Please, my friend. I’d hate to see you ruin your shirt.” He continued. “And a club soda? Surely, the detective who solved the Davies case isn’t teetotal. If it wouldn’t be uncouth I’d be honoured to buy you a drink, detective. I read about the case in the paper.” He lied, skimming vague details about the case through the lenses as he spoke. “Do you prefer something smokey, or something lighter?”

J’onn paused, looking between the handkerchief and man. It would seem that he had gained the hunter’s attention. The handkerchief though was well made, and clearly sentimental. The man then either was genuinely kind and he wasn’t the target or the man was seeking to curry favor and force him to let his guard down. Either way though, he may as well accept the gesture. So he took up the handkerchief with a “thank you” then sought to only bleed away from the monogram. Then the rest of the words caught up to him. Oh moons, he was wearing his John Jones face here! Why had he made such a rookie mistake?!

This time though, he managed to tighten his expression from nervousness to mild surprise. “Something lighter, if you please. Though I don’t get much of a chance to partake in spirits, so I’ll leave the exact beverage up to you.” He had survived the alcoholic hot chocolate and most of the foods of Earth so far. Surely it would be alright to be a little bolder tonight. Any inadvertent poisoning could be disguised as him being a lightweight. “Truly, the Davies case was nothing that special. I’m surprised to have anyone recognize me, Mr…?”

“Bond. James Bond.” He replied, signalling the bartender over with a wave of his hand. “Two Botanist Islay Gin and tonics, if you have it. Premium tonic. A twist of grapefruit.”
The bartender smiled, replying only with a nod as he reached for a pair of copa glasses, filling each generously with ice before measuring the gin and topping it with tonic. A deft twist of grapefruit peel released a mist of citrus oil over each glass before it was dropped in.

Bond waited until the bartender had stepped away before lifting his own. “A small tip.” he said. “If a bartender reaches for the lime before asking, they're making their gin and tonic, not yours. A good gin tells you its own garnish.” He made a tipping motion with his glass before taking a drink from his own goblet. He preferred the darker spirits, but catering to his ‘guest’ mattered more than personal tastes.

“-And don’t put yourself down. A good case of detective work no doubt. It must be difficult doing good, honest police work in a city full of supernatural heroes. I don’t doubt you’ve encountered your fair share?” He slipped a note towards the barman, a sizable tip was included.

J’onn nodded. ”I have, in one capacity or another…In most cases, heroes have certainly been of help. There are just some times where a police officer cannot do what a super can, such as dealing with someone who managed to kidnap Santa Claus. Before you laugh, that was a real event. My precinct had to deal with the logistics behind arresting the man and figuring out what sort of trial court could take him…” He took a sip of his goblet, managing to keep an even composure as he let it slip down. It was certainly, strong tasting. Much stronger than any moonwater he’d tasted before. But it was also much smoother, with the grapefruit blending surprisingly well. Perhaps he could get used to this.

“...However, that is as long as the heroes are willing to work with the police. Super vigilantes only seeking vengeance or to be judge, jury, and executioner are just as, if not more, harmful than an officer going rogue as they are still at their core, merely men. And men are fallible and should never hold that sort of power over others.” He certainly should never have had that power as Manhunter…He took another sip, better braced for the impact and finding it going down easier.

Bond smiled at the detective's candor. So few times in his line of work did he meet a good, honest man. "A healthy outlook." He rested an elbow against the polished mahogany bar. "I've met a fair few men convinced the badge or the mask somehow makes them infallible. It rarely ends well."

He glanced across the room as a caped hero posed obligingly for a photographer while a cluster of guests applauded. "Power has an unfortunate habit of convincing people they're above consequence. It doesn't seem to matter whether that power comes from a government, a gun…or the ability to throw tanks through buildings."

Bond took another sip before setting the glass down. "The difference, I suppose, is accountability. Policemen answer to the law. Soldiers answer to their commanders. Even politicians, eventually, answer to the public." He looked back towards John. "Who exactly do superheroes answer to? Other superheroes? - Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

This wasn’t an accusation, Bond was still under the impression that John was an un-powered individual. He wasn’t unaware of the hypocrisy in his statement. With his double-oh status he only answered to 3 people, M, the king, and the prime minister. And to tell the truth, it was only really M that he answered to. There was very little outside of trust in the way of safeguards should he have gone rogue.

"Forgive me, detective. It's all rather new to someone from my line of work. My world is built around knowing who holds the authority in a room." He gave an almost imperceptible nod towards several colourful figures scattered throughout the gala. "And tonight I'm struggling to tell whether I'm attending a charity gala or a gathering of gods at Mount Olympus. My question is, which one has decided he, or she is Zeus?"

J’onn’s eyes flickered towards Thor and the sea of people surrounding him. He’d declared himself a god, but he hadn’t really changed himself towards anyone, right? He didn’t really think of himself as above everyone else nor as someone who had an ultimate right to control the lives of everyone around him, right? ”...I do not think anyone has decided they are Zeus, yet. You are very right to point out though that power can make people think of themselves above consequences.”

He then turned back to his drink and took another, larger sip. ”For the heroes, we have to trust they can hold themselves accountable to their own consciences, that they believe in some higher power above themselves that would hold them accountable to any choices they make, whether that higher power is God, gods, or anything else…”

He then took another drink. ”Other heroes have a responsibility to keep each other in line though, certainly. If anyone else tried to, such as a government…”

He grimaced, tightening his grip on his goblet as he fought back against more memories. Not now. Not now! ”There are certainly good reasons for most heroes to not want governments to know who they are. Even if a hero were to genuinely volunteer to serve, a hero in any hands not their own can quickly become a weapon, targeted at whoever is deemed a threat and stripped of their own rights if he-they don’t hold the same views.” He gulped down another drink, starting to feel a tingle in his fingers. That, was probably a sign he needed to slow down. He needed to change the topic. Then he blinked, turning to look at Bond, eyes narrowed. ”What is your line of work?

A knowing smile grew on Bond’s face. He finished his drink and signalled for the barman to pour him another. "Universal Exports." He answered. "A rather dull little firm in London with a surprisingly generous travel budget."

There was just enough truth in the sentence to satisfy anyone not trained to look for the lie. "My work mostly consists of solving awkward little problems for important people. Usually before they become tomorrow's headlines." He continued. "Though I imagine detective work and my profession have more in common than either of us would care to admit."

His attention wandered around the ballroom. It drifted now away from the costumed heroes to the regular folk. The staff, the almost pointless security detail, the caterers. Guests slipping in between conversations trying to act natural around their idols. "Observation. Listening more than speaking. Knowing when someone is lying. Knowing when to pull the trigger." He shot him a knowing look out of the corner of his eye.

J’onn stilled, eyes fixed more on Bond now. How much did the man suspect? The man was a smooth liar, smooth as the gin he was drinking and helped by the parts of that statement that were truthful. Any hunter of man, whether an officer of the law, an assassin, or a more freelance bounty hunter, did indeed need all those traits to truly succeed. Really, the only blatant lie in his statement was about ‘Universal Exports’, clearly a cover name for, whatever organization he was part of. (It sounded like a perfect cover name for human traffickers, but he rather hoped he’d not just accepted the handkerchief from and shared a drink with a man like that. Whatever he was, he did not seem that morally corrupt. And this was certainly not the time or place to try to delve into the man’s mind.)

He allowed his eyes to drift around the room before coming back to Bond. ”...And with all that knowledge is carried a heavy amount of responsibility.” He finished up his drink. There was just one question he really needed answered. Reflexively, his hand tightened again around the goblet but the rest of him appeared perfectly nonchalant ”What ‘problem’ brings you here then?”

"Let's call it market research for an American firm who wanted to employ my particular set of skills." He smiled. [color=0072bc]"I was invited to take the temperature of the room. Learn who's who. Who gets on with whom. Who leaves early. Who drinks too much. Who might be keen to do some freelancing for the firm."[/color He raised the glass slightly "The usual corporate espionage, only with considerably more capes."

His eyes drifted across the ballroom again. "I've found people reveal far more about themselves at a party than they ever do in an office. Give a man a desk and he'll tell you what he thinks you want to hear." He paused for effect. "Give him an open bar and he'll tell you everything else."

J’onn gulped. Oh, that was as direct as anything. Just how much had he given away?! He forced himself to relax though. What was done was done. Whatever consequences came from it, he’d face as they came. ”I’m sure your employers will be pleased with your results.” Then he took up the club soda that had lingered where it had been set and drank it down in one gulp.

In Golden Age → 10 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Alistair couldn't suppress a smile beneath his moustache. For all the trouble the imp caused him on a daily basis - and there was rather a lot of it - Nate possessed an uncanny instinct for battlefield chaos. Most commanders sought to scatter an enemy formation. Nathanael somehow managed to arrange one.

"That's it, Nate." Blackwood muttered to himself. "Teach those Krauts how to queue up - the British way."

The flying Germans banked after the daemon in exactly the formation he'd hoped for. He relinquished the wheel without ceremony, trusting the little boat to continue charging over the harbour. It skipped violently across the waves, sending spray over the bow as he rested The Surveyor against the control console.

With practised movements he twisted the crook of the cane. The polished cap at its tip rotated free, unfolding into a compact telescopic sight, whilst the ebony shaft split almost imperceptibly as a slim rifle barrel extended from within. It remained unmistakably a gentleman's walking cane - it simply happened to be an exceptionally accurate and deadly one.

The first Silverwing swept into view behind Nate. Blackwood steadied his breathing, holding his breath to steady his aim. Finally he exhaled to the noise of a loud CRACK echoing through the air.

The leading German spun violently as the round struck the rocket pack slung between his shoulders. Flames blossomed across the apparatus before it cartwheeled into the harbour with an enormous splash.

"One."

He worked the reload almost lazily. Another shot fired off not long after the first. A second rocket pack erupted, sending its unfortunate pilot spiralling straight through the wake of his companion.

"Two."

A third darted wildly, trying to compensate for Nate's infernal trickery. He was getting wise to what was going on, perhaps all too late. He was zigzagging through the air, reaching out with a gloved hand to the flying boy as his other aimed a pistol at Blackwood.

"Oh, don't overthink it, old chap."

The shot clipped one of the stabilising vanes. The Silverwing lurched into another flyer with all the grace of two drunken pheasants colliding mid-flight, both disappearing into a spectacular tangle of smoke, wings and German profanity.

Blackwood lowered the rifle and flicked out the casing onto the boat below. He smiled up at his weird ward and gave a friendly overhead wave.

"Good show, old boy!" he called over the wind. "Would you terribly mind bunching the next lot a little closer together? Kill a few Krauts with one stone, eh?" He guffawed.

His laughter was cut short by the rattle of machine-gun fire. A Silverwing had broken from formation - no doubt enraged by the childish trickery his comerades had been killed by.

The first burst stitched across the launch's bow, showering Blackwood with splinters. The second chewed through the engine housing. Steam hissed skyward as the motor sputtered and coughed once, twice and then died altogether.

The boat slewed violently across the harbour, waves crashing over the sides. Blackwood steadied himself against the console. "Well that's rather put a damper on things." He rushed to the engine and fiddled with the machinery, pulling parts out and rearranging him as best he could.

The German banked hard for another pass just as the crippled engine coughed back into life. It sputtered and protested, but found just enough strength to keep the little boat skimming across the harbour. It wouldn't last long, but it was enough to stop Blackwood becoming a sitting duck.

Blackwood's eyes darted to the stern. His mind a race at formulating a plan. He had to get off this boat and fast - and he didn't fancy getting his uniform soaking by swimming. Finally his eyes rested on the console at the back of the boat. Of course, the emergency harpoon.

He'd insisted it be fitted after an unfortunate incident involving smugglers in the Aegean. Yanking the brass firing lever, the launcher discharged with a thunderous noise. The steel harpoon screamed through the air, cutting through the wind like a knife.
It struck the diving Silverwing square through the chest, not even giving him time to cry out before he was impaled. The combined momentum of the harpoon and rocket pack carried the body onward. There came the horrible shriek of straining steel against the rocket's furious roar as the cable hissed from its drum.

It snapped taut with a crack that nearly capsized the little boat. Dragged behind the still-flying corpse, the launch lurched violently across the harbour, the line stretched tight between them.

Blackwood grinned.

"I knew that would come in handy."

Before the cable had a chance to slacken, he vaulted onto the stern rail, clipped the Pathfinder Harness onto the line and launched himself outward. His gloved hands moved from grip to grip as he hauled himself skyward with astonishing speed, boots braced against the cable as though scaling an Alpine cliff rather than a flying corpse.

The wind howled in his ears. Hauling yourself hand over hand up a steel cable being dragged through the sky proved considerably harder than climbing a mountain. By the time he reached the dead Silverwing his arms burned with the effort, but with careful hands he unclipped the rocket harness, making certain the line never lost its tension, before shrugging into it himself.

The body disappeared into the water below. Blackwood glanced down at the unfamiliar controls. "Let's see, here..."

He pressed one of the switches and the engines promptly died. His stomach lurched as he began plummeting towards New York Harbour. "Good Lord!"

He frantically jabbed at the remaining levers and buttons until one answered with a deafening roar. The engines burst back to life, hurling him skyward. He immediately listed sideways. Every correction became an overcorrection somewhere else. One moment he was climbing, the next he was nearly flying backwards.

"I really should have asked for an instruction manual."

Another Silverwing came screaming towards him. Blackwood instinctively raised the Surveyor in its rifle configuration, only for the sights to dance wildly with every wobble of the unfamiliar machine.

"Blasted thing." His thumb found the release catch and the telescopic sight folded neatly away just as the rifle barrel disappeared into the polished ebony. Not a second later he'd removed the bottom of the cane to reveal the ornate sword hidden with in. "Let's do this the old fasioned way."

He lowered the cane-sword into a fencer's guard. Then, with all the enthusiasm of a cavalry officer hearing the charge sounded, Lord Alistair Blackwood accelerated straight towards the oncoming German.
In Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay → 19 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


It had been half a day or so onboard the helicarrier and Bond was still, even now, amazed at the size of the thing. By all accounts something of this magnitude should have been spotted over a dozen times, but the crew onboard were obviously professionals. Not to mention their cloaking technology, far surprassing anything close he'd seen in Q-lab. The preliminary tests on an 'invisible car' were less than satisfactory to say the least. He could only assume that as per the usual modus operandi of SHIELD - their tech had been backwards engineered from some captured alien craft.

He'd been given his own room aboard the craft - one that served as a prison cell in the small period of time while the operatives onboard verified that he was, in fact, who he said he was. He'd insisted they use the analogue communication device rather than their onboard computer to get through to M. Bond had stressed that it was of the utmost importance that his name and whereabouts were not mentioned. He doubted Scaramanga could intercept encrypted communications coming from SHIELD to MI6, but somewhere in the back of his mind he worried about the extent of this mans power.

Unfortunately for him, the operatives on hand did not heed his advice.

M was contacted through the usual SHIELD channels. A direct call through a computer more advanced than any consumer had had the chance to come near touching that reached a modified rotary dial phone - one that only rung when something of the utmost importance had to go to M. She was informed of the situation and verified that James was the double-oh agent he said he was. Shortly after he was given free roam of the ship, and Felix had taken him to the mess hall for a much needed meal.

"It's not exactly foie gras, but it'll do." Said Leiter, sliding his tray onto the table and taking a seat on the plastic chair. Bond did the same opposite him, tucking into his burger. He was no snob, and in this moment he was much happier to see the plain, straightforward meat sandwich over anything fancy.

The two exchanged the usual small talk agents do after a successful mission, followed by the expected patter Felix expected from someone new to the helicarrier. Finally the conversation drifted to what personal details they felt secure enough to give each other - usually talk of pop culture or sports. Despite their mutual connection through bloodshed they were both experienced enough to know this proved nothing in the long run.

"So, what now? Your boys work over the agent and I continue on my merry way?"

"Not sure. Have you got any other leads to follow?"

"None at all. Maybe the girl who sent me after you, I've got a tracker on her, but I fear it might be walking into a trap. Scaramanga let us live in Kowloon he had us dead to rights."

"You're not wrong there, chief. I say wait until we can get some info out of this guy and sit tight here before you go off getting yourself killed. Not my decision though, the director has requested to speak with you."

Bond raised an eyebrow. "The director, huh? I guess I'm finally moving up in the world."

"I wouldn't look too pleased." Felix checked left and right quickly to make sure no one could overhear him, then leaned in and whispered. "The guys a real hard-ass. I guess you've got to be to run a place like this, but don't expect him to pull any punches."



After their lunch and a quick tour of some of the more interesting parts of the heli-carrier, Felix led Bond to the mission control room of the vessel. The place was swarming with staff, bustling about or looking busy at their desks. The room was abuzz with chatter and the tapping of keyboards. American efficiency was at its peak here.

At the back of the room, facing out towards the rows of workers and out further through the large window at the front of the ship stood the director. His platform was elevated, and he stood like Napoleon gazing out towards his empire. He'd already clocked Bond as soon as he entered the room, and with a relaxed hand beckoned the two over.

"Show time, buddy. Try not to piss him off."

"I'll do my best."

The two walked past all the uniform rows of staff, Bond sneaking a quick glance at a few of their high-tech screens and any information about the various missions their field agents might be on.
____________________________________


Once a spy always a spy. it was hard to turn off his penchant for information gathering. Finally they approached the main man.

"Like what you see, Mr. Bond? How does SHIELD compare to your standards across the pond?" Boomed the voice of Nick Fury. He spoke with authority, yet one that was relaxed enough to know he didn't need to force anything to gain it.

"Let's just say I'm glad you're on our side." He held out a hand for Fury to shake. Fury almost smiled as he returned the gesture, it had been a long time since anyone had bothered with such formalities with him. He'd always enjoyed working with the Brits, they held themselves to a standard most other countries had stopped bothering with. "And if the rest of your field agents are anything like Felix then I'm sure America is in good hands. I doubt I'd have made it out of China without his quick thinking."

"Well that means a lot coming from a double-oh, especially one without any proper missions under his belt." Fury's comment was cutting, but something underneath the surface told bond that this was probably the closest thing to a compliment he could expect to receive from the big man. "Regardless, I've had my people speak to M. Unfortunately I wasn't available at the time, it's been too long since I've had the chance to speak to her, how is she doing?"

"Is 'good' ever the word to describe how M is doing?"

"You make a fair point there, Bond. Regardless, I'm glad SHIELD is getting the opportunity to work with MI6 again. We've been far too insular over recent years." He tapped a few keys without looking and a large holographic image was projected just behind him. "We've got your agent simmering in a cell right now and we'll get our best men on extracting as much information from him as possible. I'm sure Agent Leiter already let slip just who these guys were working for."

Felix looked nervous. Bond rushed to his defence. "Yes, I'm afraid it was pertinent to the mission at the time. HYDRA was it?"

Fury shot a glance at Leiter that would send a panther scurrying away. "Correct, HYDRA, despite our efforts, seems to have returned. We aim to squeeze as much info out of our man as possible. Possibly set up a web of sources before they can close the gap. It's a good job you brought him back this has really given us a leg up."

"I've got to say it was all Felix's doing, director. I was content to get out of there in one piece." He took a look at the screen, it was displaying a map of a city along with some scrolling text. "Although, if I could make a humble request - I was actually in Kowloon hunting the man hunting me. Scaramanga. I can only assume that HYDRA being so close behind him means they're working together. It might be in our mutual interest if you can squeeze any information out of him about my assassin and I can go and deal with my problem with a leg up."

"Consider it done. Now, onto the matter at hand." Fury gestured towards the map. "M has given us permission to make you an honorary SHIELD agent, Bond. Congratulations, we don't normally allow limeys through the door."

Bond smiled. "I can only assume this comes with some strings attached. Hows the pension plan?"

"Fantastic. You'll be living in Cabo by the time your hair turns white. We've got a mission for you, one that fits your skillset rather than our usual branch. We need a scalpel for this, not a hammer."

"Sounds interesting."

"Oh it is, Mr. Bond." He reached into his coat, pulling out a brightly coloured strip of paper. "We've got you a ticket to the Therapeutix Annual Gala. This years theme is superheroes. SHIELD needs a man on the ground, someone to take note of any important individuals you might see there - anyone that could be an asset or, worst case scenario - a threat."

Bond smiled. There were far worse missions to go on than attending a party - especially one where the alcohol is free and not free of alcohol.


The Therapeutix Gala
@Cyrania@King Kindred@ThatDeercat@mattmanganon


He'd suited up before he'd been dropped off inside his Aston Martin on the outskirts of New York City. He wore a midnight-blue Tom Ford suit tailored in London; a single-breasted jacket cut close through the waist, matching trousers pressed razor-sharp down the leg, a crisp white shirt and a dark navy silk tie secured with a subtle silver tie clip. The outfit was understated enough to disappear into a room full of billionaires, politicians and celebrities, yet cut well enough to be remembered afterwards. Bond considered that the hallmark of any good suit. It had been specially made to conceal his shoulder holster, along with having enough room to fight in - as were all of his suits provided by MI6.

To go with this was a pair of clear contact lenses, the kind even the most acute eye couldn't detect on inspection. These served as a real-time HUD - spitting out information with facial recognition, heart-rate monitoring, building schematics, and a variety of other tools that would no doubt come in handy if the metaphorical shit hit the hypothetical fan.

He pulled up to the door where a long queue had been forming, full to the brim of those dressed their best - in one way or another. Some in suits, some in costumes, some in both. He handed his keys off to the valet, and straightened the sleeves of his suit jacket as he stepped onto the lavish red carpet. One of the bouncers quickly unhooked a velvet rope to allow him through as the other stopped a short young chap wearing an ill-fitting tux at least 2 seasons out of fashion over his rather high-tech looking superhero costume from getting past. Bond shot him a wink as he was turned away despite his best efforts to argue otherwise.

He avoided the pacing sentries of waiters expertly trained in their movements across the lavish space. He was never a big fan of champagne - or any sparkling or carbonated alcohols for that matter. And while the canapes did look delictable he refused any offered for fear of spoiling his breath. An event like this was just the place to make first impressions, and gather information - and one couldn't do either effectively with bad breath.

Instead he manoeuvred his way over to the bar, taking a seat at the far end where he could keep one eye on the entrance and the other on the room itself. Old habits died hard. A man in his profession quickly learned that the best seats were rarely the most comfortable ones.

The bartender looked up from polishing a crystal tumbler. "What can I get you, sir?"

Bond took a moment to survey the impressive collection behind him. Scotch from the Highlands, cognac from France, bourbon from Kentucky and enough champagne to bankrupt a small country. "Any chance you've got haig and haig?"

"Unfortunately not, sir. Although I commend your taste."

"Ah, well then. When in Rome do as the Roman's do. How about a tumbler of Four Roses Single Barrel? Neat, please."

"Not a problem."

The glass arrived a moment later. Bond lifted it slightly, taking in the aroma before allowing himself a small sip. He slipped the bartender a nice tip, despite his objections that the bar was free. Bond had been in enough bars to know that keeping one of the staff sweet meant information was easy to come by, and more importantly, drink. No doubt he'd get preferential treatment once the bar started to become more busy.

He let the conversation around him wash over him as naturally as the music. Politicians making promises they had no intention of keeping. Industrialists discussing markets. Scientists trying to explain their work to people far more interested in the food than the future of mankind.

His contact lenses quietly went to work. He scanned the room, washing his vision over unimportant hero after unimportant hero. Most of them had very little information, and if any none of it was very interesting. Then he began searching for the businessmen.

Names drifted across his vision, along with a surprising number of tax investigations. One gentleman currently explaining the finer points of renewable energy had apparently once attempted to steal a tank. He wondered if any of this was useful for SHIELD. Fury seemed much more concerned with getting a good look at some of the bigger heroes, none of which had been spotted yet.

A movement at the opposite end of the bar caught his attention. Rather than because it drew any attention it was for the opposite reason, it was because it was so subtle. She was beautiful, with dark hair complimenting her mediterranean features and a stunning dress which was a deep shade of burgundy, the colour of old wine, cut elegantly without ever straying into extravagance. A pair of modest silver earrings and a matching bracelet completed the look.

He watched her without watching her. She'd somehow managed to claim the only other stool at the bar with an unobstructed view of every entrance and exit to the ballroom. Better still, the mirror behind the bottles offered a reflection of almost the entire room without requiring her to turn around. Not many people thought like that.

Bond allowed himself another sip of bourbon, studying her reflection rather than the woman herself. She wasn't chatting with anyone - other than ordering a drink. She wasn't scanning the room nervously either. She simply watched, taking the measure of the crowd with the sort of patience usually reserved for hunters.

He zeroed in on her with his contact lenses - sending minute movements that began to scan her appearance. No match. None at all. Sure that made sense for some of the more masked heroes wandering around, but for someone with their entire face visible?

The bartender wandered back over. "Another, sir?"

Bond glanced down at his glass before nodding. "And whatever the lady's having."

"Sorry, sir, which lady?"

Bond looked back and she had disappeared. This night just got more curious by the minute.

"Never mind." He picked up his drink after thanking the bartender and moved away from the bar.
In Golden Age → 20 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Tallyho & Trouble

Joint post with @Bounce


The depths of a tomb somewhere miles under Egypt

Dust poured down from overhead as the thumping and clattering of amateurs disrupted the seasoned adventurers work. He instinctively looked up, a stern look across his face and an eyebrow raised. He brushed a finger across his preened moustache - not quite a nervous habit these days, but one done more in aggravation these days. Those blasted Germans. What was once an honorable vocation of conservation and discovery had been perverted into a race against time to prevent the forces of evil from using ancient magic and undiscovered technology for nefarious purposes.

He turned back to his work. He brushed off the last bit of dirt and sand from the large ornate chest - it looked to be from the ptolemaic period if not earlier. He’d seen similar inscriptions and hieroglyphs on this before, whatever was in this was powerful. Powerful enough that a chest with a formidable locking mechanism was buried deep underground in a tomb full of traps and false corridors.

Unfortunately, in his journey down here Blackwood had given the Nazi’s on his trail a relatively easy path to follow behind him. Something like this deserved the respect it was due. He wished times were different. If it were a few years ago he could have had a team of professionals down here, analysing this chest to see if it’s something that even should be opened. Deciphering every glyph and pattern on the walls. Giving this place the reverence it was due.

But as it stood he was on the clock. Preservation meant being one step ahead and currently he was two behind.

“Blasted Krauts…” He muttered under his breath, reaching into his open red jacket and pulling a pair of lockpicking tools from his inside pocket. “Sorry, old chums. It’s not by my hand that I force your secrets open.” He began to jimmy the lock as gently as he could. With tools like these he could only go so far before he had to force the lock.

The noise of boots hammering down the ancient steps only forced his hand further. With a final twist the lid popped open slightly and Blackwood forced it open completely. Thankfully the spirits of the damned hadn’t poured out - not like that time in Burma. Instead inside the large container was a small cylinder, ornately marked and with a twist off top in the shape of Anubis - the Egyptian god of death.

He took it in hand and gave a quick glance around the room. This was truly the final room of this labyrinth. The only way out was the way he came in, and that was quickly going to be blocked by a wall of fascists.

He’d need to act fast or he’d be painting the walls with his blood. There were so few of these Nazi’s who would prefer to opt for diplomacy over a firefight. Blackwood made a decision that would usually go against his personal code, but had to be made to save his skin. He rushed over to a pillar near the back of the room and unhooked The Surveyor from its place hanging on his shoulder. With a few quick smacks at the base of the pillar he loosed it from its foundations and pushed it over with his shoulder and dove behind it as cover.

He flicked The Surveyor round to its rifle setting, and felt for the revolver at his side. He took it from its holster and flicked open the chamber, it was fully loaded.

Finally German’s filled the room, pointing submachine guns and bolt-action rifles towards the gentleman adventurer. An officer sauntered in behind them with the confidence of a man arriving for a dinner rather than a confrontation.

His black greatcoat hung immaculately despite the desert dust, polished boots crunching over centuries-old stone. A silver-headed walking cane tapped lazily against the floor as he surveyed the chamber with pale blue eyes that settled upon the toppled pillar.

A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Lord Blackwood. One step ahead yet again."

Blackwood closed one eye behind the Surveyor's scope, raising his rifle and balancing it against the toppled pillar. The soldiers instinctively readied their guns against him "Oberst Falkenrath. We really must stop meeting like this."

"So..." Falkenrath sighed theatrically, removing a pair of leather gloves one finger at a time. He held a hand up to stop his men from firing at his adversary. "Another civilisation disturbed. Another priceless relic moments from my possession. I sometimes wonder whether you excavate these places simply to save me the trouble."

"I always did enjoy doing the difficult part."

A ripple of restrained laughter passed through the German soldiers, Falkenrath merely smiled. "You know..." he continued, strolling a little closer. "When we first met in Tibet I genuinely believed you were a practical man. Someone concerned with the good of the Human race."

"I am."

"No." Falkenrath shook his head. "You are an idealist." He gestured around the tomb. "Look at this place. Forgotten, buried, meaningless. Humanity abandons its own history beneath sand and jungle until men like us uncover it."

"'Us' is doing a tremendous amount of work in that sentence."

His eyes drifted towards the small Anubis cylinder still clutched in Blackwood's left hand. "There is no escape. I’ll do you the service of taking you in alive. Even the great Lord Blackwood would succumb to the Reich’s expert torturers.”

Another laugh from the soldiers. Blackwood wondered if they were paid by the chuckle. He looked down at the container in his hand. No time to properly decipher what it said on the base, but he could tell it amounted to a very strong ‘DO NOT OPEN’.

"My men cover every exit."

"They generally do."

"You are outnumbered."

"Appallingly."

"You have nowhere left to run."

Blackwood looked thoughtfully around the ancient chamber before returning his gaze to Falkenrath.
"Falkenrath, when have you ever known me to run?"

For the briefest moment the room fell silent, and then Blackwood smiled. It was the smile Falkenrath knew all too well. The smile that meant Lord Alistair Blackwood had already done something extraordinarily reckless.

Falkenrath's expression finally changed from that smug smile to one of shock. "What have you done you silly British fool?!"

Blackwood slowly raised the little Anubis cylinder, turning the head and pulling it free. "Well," He looked down at it. “We're about to find out.”

A gout of greenish hellfire shot up from the ground at Alistair's feet, quickly spreading outward as a circle of flame surrounded him. Smoke seemed to fill the vaulted chamber, as a shadowy form, like that of a great horned demon, appeared cast on one wall.

A voice spoke, echoing off the walls in a language none alive now recognized.

Another statement, a different language by the tone, for a fleeting moment it might have been mistaken for a form of Ancient Hebrew, but not.

Finally, the voice spoke in Greek. “A new hand touches the beacon,” the demon of smoke and fire boomed. “You stand before Nathanael, daemon of..."

The demon paused, the shadow on the wall appearing to produce a scroll that was opened as if he were reading from notes. “Was it Phelgethon? I think it was Phelgethon. Which was the one of fire and which was the one of wailing? Who can remember. I haven’t even been to Greece in an age.”

The giant shadow seemed to put the scroll aside, peering down at Alistair as it remarked, “Normally this is the part where I ask you to bring me into your world and you tell me your terms, but I’m rather tired of being bound into a piece of jewelry. Being a bauble was boring thousands of your years ago. So if that’s all you’re here for, you can...”

It was only then that the shadow seemed to notice the Germans.

“Oh, hello. Are they with you?”

Blackwood barely had time to quip before the sanctimonious German officer yelled for his force to open fire. A shower of gunfire was his answer instead.

“Not quite!” Blackwood had dealt with daemons before. Albeit he’d never called one for reinforcements before, more to banish them. “Whoever your master is, whatever your terms are, I command you to get me the blazes out of here!”

He turned back over the pillar after a small break in the gunfire and squeezed off a few rounds of his revolver, missing twice and landing a couple more shots in the stomach and then legs of two of the soldiers.

The vanished from the wall. As Alistair ducked behind the pillar, his own shadow seemed to animate. “We’re actually hiring for a new master. Would you be interested in the job? Issuing commands is one of the qualifications,” the imp-ish shadow remarked.

“Yes, yes, bloody hell! I’ll sign on the dotted line just get me a way out of here!” He was out of ammo after another few shots of his revolver and had switched to his cane-rifle.

The thing that the man and the others were holding, which boomed like thunder, seemed a rather curious weapon. “It is quite loud in here with those... things. Perhaps an alternative venue would be a better place for discussion.

Smoke seemed to blanket the Germans, as a doorway was illuminated in a ray of light for Alistair. “In case of emergency, please proceed to the nearest exit,” his shadow quipped lightly.

“Jammy bastard…” Said Alistair through gritted teeth. Something about this felt off, becoming a daemons master. What was the catch? Was his soul damned for all eternity now? Soul or no soul, it was time to save his skin. He leapt over his makeshift cover and barreled through the room, shoulder bashing through coughing German soldiers with the same techniques he’d used on the Rugby pitches of his old private school.

What a way to start it all.


New York City, New York
June

The Terrific Two were hot on the trail of the notorious Nazi Überheld group known only as the Silverwings. Through a canny bit of spywork they’d uncovered the German plot to attack the beacon of liberty standing proudly in the New York City harbour.

It had been some time since they had been acquainted, and while rocky at first, Blackwood had grown fond of Nate in some strange way. It was a weird feeling taking what seemed to be a younger version of himself on as his ward, and he had to keep reminding himself that this was not, in fact, a young boy and was an ancient demon sealed away for who knows what kind of torment he’d inflicted on the Egyptian people.

They sped along as fast as they could in the modified small boat. Bumping and bouncing across the water. The design was taken with great gratitude from the American Navy’s Frogmen, and this was the first time Blackwood had the opportunity to use the vessel.

He wiped his goggles with the sleeve of his arm, steadying himself against the wheel as he did. He turned over his shoulder quickly and called back to the Imp.

“How are we doing back there, sprog? I shouldn’t think the water is really your element!” He teased, smirking.

“Tis a bit much,” the green-eyed imp remarked. The Egyptians, the Greeks, they had all loved their rivers. But crossing the Sea of Atlas was nothing short of lunacy. For one, last he’d checked, humans had it on very certain terms that the world was flat and they were going to sail straight off. Along with languages, clothing, and all manner of strange devices that they had fashioned for themselves, it seemed that humanity had significantly upped their game over the last thousand years.

A gleam, something gold, moving through the air caught the boy’s eye. “As spiffing as a ride on a motor boat may be, I think we may be two steps behind again,” he remarked.

“Story of my life…” Muttered Blackwood under his breath. They closed in around the statue just as the American poster boy flew down to confront the Silverwings. He hadn’t had the pleasure of being introduced to the USA’s face of the war, and only heard of his exploits through the radio or newspaper. By all accounts he was powerful. In this world of gods and monsters Blackwood was pleased he was on their side. “It seems we’ve got some allies joining the fray, Nathanael! Those jerrys are a crafty bunch though. What say you take them high and I’ll pick them off from the boat?”

The boy’s pennyloafer’s floated off the deck of the ship, as the youth in short trousers and suspenders glided up into the air. “I feel like this is going to be Cairo all over again,” the impish figure complained. “Try to at least save me a cup of tea, this time?” he deadpanned, seeming to shimmer and disappear as he glided further away from the ship.
In Golden Age → 27 days ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In Golden Age → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks
<Snipped quote by Cyrania>

Maybe someone will come in with a female hero. There’s a lot of dudes.

Not that I mind.


I was just thinking this! I was actually going to apply for an Italian female version of Alistair when I saw the ratio, but I couldn't find a good image to use, and my original idea was for him based partially on a heroic version of the Flashman novels.
In Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Very tempting to take Peter Parker in a completely different direction after finding this image...

In Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Using the Gala as an opportunity to write posts in advance for Bond and Otto

In Golden Age → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks
@Half Pint The only things I'd want changed is the grapnel launcher in his weapon, and the cable launcher in his harness. The rest of the multi-tool equipment is still pretty standard stuff, but even Batman used grappling hooks and batarangs on ropes till the 80's. If you want you could go Indiana Jones style and just give him a whip. Doc Savage is a personal favorite, and I like the look you went with in the image as well.


No problem, removed these now! For the walking stick I was imagining more of a sort of Indiana Jones style swinging gadget if that works better? Like the handle unscrews and he swings and tosses this to jump over gaps? No problem if this isn't doable either!
In Golden Age → 1 mo ago Forum: Casual Interest Checks
I could actually see the fate of Alistair's parents be in some way related to Tommy's parents and/or how he was born with the ability to talk to animals. They were quite close (well, the full breadth of Pakistan apart but in terms of the world map,that's quite close)


That sounds fantastic! They'd have been explorers anyway so distance is no problem. Reading through all of the other apps so far I think Alistair could have some really cool plotlines with everyone.

That's my application completely finished also. I changed his surname as it felt a bit too close to Sentinels surname and refined his equipment a little bit.
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