Hound55

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

I'm Australian. I'm more shocked when I discover things here don't have venom.

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

Completely unrelated to all this marshmallow talk but can you guys believe Platypuses have venom?

@rocketrobie2

Yes.

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H E P L A T Y P U S

^{_{E R W I N P E R R I E R E ♦ M A L E ♦ 2 0 ♦ B R I S B A N E , Q U E E N S L A N D}}

Erwin uses the unimaginable power and diversity of an Australian's capacity to swear

@Bork Lazer

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

R E D M O N D
" B I G R E D "
M O R R O W

---

^{_{R E D M O R R O W ♦ M A L E ♦ 18 ♦ T . O . M O R R O W ' S L A B O R A T O R Y}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"For someone born perfect I keep finding a lot of ways to make mistakes..."}

After yet another failure to destroy the Justice League, T.O. Morrow grew frustrated.

This time they had the audacity to seize his robot Red Tornado, and not only that, the little turncoat decided he wanted to join them and find out what it means to be human!

Thes second time now that he had lost a robot to "wanting to find out what it means to be human", only this one wants to wear a cape!

So Morrow went back to work, and planned and schemed - as he would - a loyal agent of the Light. Biding his time for whatever opportunity presents. And opportunity came as the Light set him to work alongside another man by the name of Dr Mark Desmond, whose own specialty was in genetics. Using a small robotic drone, Morrow stole notes from the acclaimed scientist.

With so many robots to date failing due to the 'Pinnochio problem' Morrow decided to get to work on a backup plan. His latest agent to destroy the Justice League would never fail him by deciding it needed to learn what it means to become a real boy... because he'd be born as such!

All the while, Morrow continued work - planning to return Red Tornado to his fold and beginning designs for a potential future 'Red Volcano'.

Alas, age began to take its toll and Morrow saw need to create a perfect robotic version of himself to continue his own work - the boy in the tube was far from ready, such limitations are to be expected when working with weak flesh instead of cold, strong steel.

* * * * *

On the day of his eighteenth birthday, the autmotated tube would open, and the youth would find himself cold, wet, naked and alone in a new world. The remnants of his android father, which had been torn apart by its own creation, swept aside in the corner. Desperate for answers he searched the entire laboratory, found his father's notes and discovered the truth.

He was born by a broken man for dark purposes. To destroy some group called the 'Justice League' for reasons he was unable to determine, even after reading everything in the laboratory. The motivations behind the obssession against these people were still unclear. His father was working for people that much was clear, but it wasn't purely mercenary - their goals alighned with his own - and there was frustratingly little information on these other people he worked for, or even what their group called themselves.

He burst onto the street wearing only a flimsy labcoat he'd thrown on to try and get some semblance of warmth.

He was born to be perfect, but perfect people don't run naked through the city streets.

He ducked down an alleyway, to avoid the scene he was causing and found himself looking at two men who had cornered an elderly woman with some kind of weapon in their hands.

They turned their attention to him, intimidated by the large youth, and in self defence he brutally disarmed the two men, leaving them a crumpled mess as he had found his android father - albeit still with their arms in tact - and held the gun and handbag out for the old lady to retrieve.

She screamed and ran back down the alleyway after snatching only the bag, leaving him perplexed.

A B I L I T I E S:

---

Red Morrow was born without any and all of the genetic impurities that we other human's are born with, and was grown as the first 'perfect' human, in the laboratory of his father T.O. Morrow.
His musculature system develops rapidly, and efficiently with upkeep (exercise), he's highly intelligent if lacking in real world experience.
He speaks english, chinese (but only mandarin), japanese, hindi, french, spanish, arabic, german, italian and russian. He also knows all computer programming languages and latin. These were programmed into him as he developed in his tube and come as second-nature to him.

Physically, think a Captain America sort. Peak human condition, but he does have to put in work - even if that work comes easy for him. Mentally he's a genius, but he thinks logically and with no real world experience he is coming to terms with the fact that socially, quite often, other people don't.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

Red was born 'Perfect' but has very little idea what that means, or what to do with it. He doesn't "feel" perfect, and even has some inferiority issues in part due to his father's preferences for the robotic and mechanical. Born a perfect human when his father really wanted a robot.

He knows he doesn't want to be like his father, but is still skeptical of the Justice League. He suspects there MUST have been some kind of reason for his father's obsession with destroying them even if he doesn't yet know it. That said, he WANTS to do good and be good. He's just still figuring out what that entails.

He doesn't really hate anybody, and genuinely wants the people around him to feel good and the 'bad' people to be rehabilitated.

He's coming to terms with his hormones which currently hold a powerful sway over him and can often see him become distracted or dictate his life. He doesn't really understand this, or the effect they have on him because he's lived eighteen years basically in sensory deprivation. He's a horned up kid like a raw nerve, and doesn't get why he acts the way he does sometimes... particularly around the female members of the team.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

He's 6'5" and 240lbs, powerful build, fast, athletic and agile.

He spends a lot of time in the gym, because his powerset actually requires it. It also clears his mind to think.

Likes girls, but has no social sense or 'game' whatsoever. Is built like he doesn't need 'game' but 'thinks and acts kind of weird'.

Shaves daily, because the pencil thin moustache of his father keeps coming through.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S:

---

TBD

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

posts coming

@nitemare shape

Yup.

I actually have a free day tomorrow for the first time in...

...well, it's been a loooooooong while.

①⑨⑥⑧

Tell me I did a good job. Give me a gold star.

@BangoSkank

①⑨⑥⑧

Flames lick up the face of an old cuckoo clock. The fire fuelled by wisdom of the words of thousands of years. Suddenly the trap door opens and the bird within finds itself overcome with the rising blaze, paint cracks under the extreme heat, and the clock is crushed under the weight of more books, a phonograph player and a golden Buddha.

The destruction of a trail of unique teachings, stories and wisdom, juxtaposed with the brevity of the new slogan seemingly repeated ad infinitum by the crowd en masse.

“破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新!”

“Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!
Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!
Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!”

---

---

The pocketwatch ticked on once more.

Orson drifted awake from the poppy’s haze with the repetitious chanting from out in the street. His head lifted from the pillow which covered The Book of the Iron Fist, once his legacy, now his burden.

Every day he felt the sharp edges of the book, he was reminded of the day he’d taken the damnedable thing. After the wrath of K’un-Zi had been determined to be righteous. When his fate was to be sealed. His life forfeit.

He’d crashed through a sacred building to steal the tome, a man seeking to bring the cycle of violence to an end.

When he was kinder to himself he would call it the foolish action of a desperate man, drugged out of his mind.

But deep down he knew the poppy never hit that hard, due to the undying essence of what writhed within.

It was merely the stupid action of a desperate young fool.

Wisdom earned through the benefit of time made that much clear to him now. It changed nothing and was nothing but an unpleasant reminder, too dangerous to be left anywhere for just anyone to find, awkward both in size and weight to carry. A true burden earned.

The chanting grew louder. Orson would benefit from tea. Or perhaps something stronger. He sat up with the book in his lap and took the pocket watch from the small crate that functioned as a night stand and put it in his pocket. He’d reset the time on it and since got the hands moving again, it had returned to proper function as he’d begun to move on again. As he’d started his long trip West towards the returning city of his birth.

The chanting boomed louder still and there was a beating at the door. They were going to break his door in with whatever this nonsense was! Still more about these four ‘olds’ and ‘new’s he could make out from the echoing Mandarin.

He stepped to the door with the book in his hand, contemplating the door. For a second his hand glowed as he contemplated ‘unleashing the dragon within’ upon these men, but let his hand fall dim once again just as quickly.

When was the last time he’d taken of the poppy? How close was K’un L’un to realigning?

Whilst the power was his alone to wield, he wasn’t the only one who could sense the presence of the dragon’s life force. And as this world would realign with his old one, it would be quite possible for those who believed him dead to sense his presence if he allowed his own lifeforce to extend into the font of the chi of Shou-Lao the Undying. All the work in hiding himself for years ruined, for what? To halt the progress of a handful of unruly people beating down his door. No. He couldn’t allow this.

Orson turned the handle and the mob burst through, they never stopped chanting, they grabbed at the book, they grabbed at his clothes, his arms. Dozens everywhere! Taking his space!

_{<”Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!
Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!”>}

Orson felt the book torn from him, he had seconds to turn this. He remembered the lessons of his Master Lei Kung the Thunderer. His words would always come when he needed them most. Always when his own nature seemed to be set against him in times of turmoil.

“Be like the water, Randall-Kai. You are so adept in the form of the Earth. Your blows are strong, as your foundation is strong. Punches rooted from the feet, developed in your legs, directed by your waist, and expressed through your hands. You have always taken for granted that the Earth can absorb water. But even with that which flows through your chakras… do you still believe you could best me?”

Flow. It never came to him naturally. But he could master it within himself, if he had the forethought.

The men gripped him and pulled him towards the open door, he stepped willingly, arms gripped and pulled, he twisted and writhed, but not resisting. He twisted to find a comfort in this new reality, his arms turned, hands open. He felt something solid within a pocket of one of the men, grasped it and drew it forth.

He opened his mouth and chanted with the other men, his Mandarin perfect in pronunciation. He drew what was in his hands to the sky. It was a Little Red Book.

<”Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!
Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!”>

Orson chanted, the men chanted. The morass of humanity chanted.

The mob hit the street and the book was tossed into the fire. It was the early afternoon, Orson had mostly been travelling by night. He stood on the street holding the Little Red Book aloft and barked until the night came. Riding the flow until the moon presented itself and the crowd dissipated for another day.

---

Li Hong Jianguo raced home as the school's clock signalled the end of another day. He rushed, desperate to complete another chapter of his latest obsession. He'd found an old copy of some kind of manuscript containing an old tale in amongst his parents things and was desperate to see where the main characters' story would progress to next.

It seemed to be a story of some old monk journeying to the West, with his three servants. One a pig-man of some kind with another being some type of reformed water demon.

But the real character of interest, the real star of the show, was the other 'servant' called Sun Wukong - the Monkey King. He was clever, and brave, and an excellent fighter, and tricky and cheeky in all the right ways. In fact, Li Hong Jianguo could barely even talk about what he'd discovered to his friends without getting overly excited and talking a mile a minute. About this Monkey King who had been kicked out of heaven for being so naughty and wreaking havoc, and almost nothing could be done about him because he was such a powerful force. But now he was being taught a lesson and had to go back West to help this monk bring back these Holy teachings so he could get back in to heaven.

<"He can jump 108,000 li in a single leap! And he's mastered 72 earthly forms! And he can run faster than a meteor! And he can freeze his enemies! And he can avoid water so he doesn't drown! And he can avoid fire so he doesn't burn! And in fact--! In fact! When he was trapped in a furnace from this guy for 49 days he stayed in there safe! And when he came out he had--!>

"火眼金睛!" Which the young boy stumbled over with his immature pronunciation, as "Hy--Huǒyǎn-jīnjīng!"

<"This fiery-golden eye glare! That makes all of his enemies be revealed in their true forms! So he can tell if they're demons--! And-- And fight them with his magical staff!">

Li Hong Jianguo finally got home and called out for his parents, hearing no reply he went to where he'd stored the old manuscript and lay it out on the floor before himself to continue reading. Flipping through the wad of pages in search of where he left off it fell to a section in Chapter 87 where he was barely able to quickly get a glimpse of the writing before it was whisked away...

_{人心生一念，天地悉皆知。善恶若无报，乾坤必有私。}

<"I did not raise you, Li Hong Jianguo, to waste away your time with this sanctimonious old drivel! Of all the things you could be doing, you fill your head with this nonsense! You shame--! You shame your name!> The older man snatched up the manuscript and started marching towards the front door.

<"Father, no! Where are you taking-- PLEASE NO, FATHER! Don't do that! FATHER!"> He chased him out the front door and watched as the manuscript was flung into the flames, rendering the boy speechless and aghast.

There was chanting all around but the boy heard nothing. He was too shocked. Trying to understand why he would be so quick to do such a thing. Why had they had it in the house if it could not be read? Chairman Mao was so strong, and he was helping make China so strong, so why were people so afraid of simple stories? What possible explanation could there be for everything that was happening in the world today? The boy watched it turn to embers before he returned to the house.

He tried to remember something of what he had just read. Hoping the burning words may have left their own scolding mark in his memory, as well as they had in the flaming pile.

He decided to write what he had just glimpsed. In some endeavour to try and cling to some meaning or memory from everything that had just taken place. He'd barely had time to register the characters, and hoped by writing what he could remember perhaps the rest would form some kind of sense.

When he lifted the pen from the paper he looked down at the characters for the meaning the poetic prose revealed:

_{人心生一念，天地悉皆知。善恶若无报，乾坤必有私。}

<"One wish born in the heart of man
Is known throughout Heaven and Earth.
If vice or virtue lacks reward,
Unjust must be the universe.">

He uttered the words, and then sensing their power and ability to get him a thrashing within an inch of his life, he tore the page from his book and ate it. He made a silent vow to himself that he'd never forget the words, nor stop considering them.

Whatever the vow of an eight year old boy means...

---

Shadows cast a flat matte across all as night had fallen heavily in the town, and whilst the blaze no longer roared, the embers still glowed brightly, giving proof to the will of The People which had been done on this day.

Orson had decided he'd wasted enough time in this township, and under cover of darkness it was time to push on further West - to continue his Journey onwards to the Heavenly City. He'd collected all of his personal items into a makeshift bindle and wrapped the ceremonial mask of K'un L'un around the top half of his face in some small effort to hide his identity for what would have to come next.

A white man wandering around Mao's China already aroused more negative suspicion than he would have liked, without anybody recognizing him for anything actually negative. Which this certainly would be, if he was seen.

But again... this was his burden.

Li Hong Jianguo awoke from his fitful sleep, his cheeks salty dry from earlier tears. He stumbled to his feet and went to the bathroom. On his way back to bed he found himself walking to the front door. He didn't decide to, at least he didn't think he did. He just found himself there, watching on.

Perhaps it was in memory of how the Monkey King had survived Lao Zi's furnace? But that was just a story. Surely a character therein could not survive a similar crucible?

Orson knelt down and hunched over the smouldering embers, as if he were a poor man of the streets looking for warmth.

Li watched on as a hunched figure with something wrapped around his head huddled by the fire. Something wrapped around his head? Could it be the headband the monk Tang Sanzang gave to the Monkey King? Li Hong Jianguo gasped.

The figure turned...

Li covered his mouth as he saw the elongated eyes that seemed to extend as if crackling like fire. He saw the "staff" that held the man's bindle and gasped again, but this time muffled it into his hand.

_{<"Huǒyǎn-jīnjīng! The fiery-golden eye glare! And Ruyi Jingu Bang! The double golden banded staff! It couldn't be!">}

Orson could have sworn he heard something, but couldn't see anyone as his eyes still adjusted to the darkness. Nevertheless, the longer he spent here, the more dangerous things would become as his presence would be more likely to gain attention. Time being of the essence, both for what may lie waiting for him in this world as well as the other. No time to drag out what must come next.

He lets the icy calm flow over him once more, for when the flow of water meets the burning fire in equal proportion no harm can be done, and iron becomes tempered, not damaged.

He calls silently upon the will which writhes within him, heavenly chi which was never originally his, but he has earned by combat. By deed. That which has never left him, which forms the very core of his being, regardless how surpressed - he calls it forth, to flow, meld and merge into a single place.

Into his hand -- until it begins to smoulder and glow -- until it becomes LIKE UNTO -- A THING OF IRON!

Orson plunges his glowing hand into the hot embers of the still smouldering flame pit, and removes the book, glowing as it was reconnected with it's original source. The book remained unharmed, unburned.

For what damage could fire hope to do against pages comprised of the scales of a dragon?

Li was astounded. It seemed very much to him, like the Monkey King had himself managed to survive the burning of the books, and hid, only to return and pull HIS OWN STORY from the flames! Which glowed golden with its power, and now he would continue on his Heavenly Journey West.

Orson gave one final cursory check around, as he let his hand fall dim. He tucked the book under an arm within the thick folds of his clothes, threw his bindle over his shoulder and took off West through the streets at a fleetfooted pace, eager to put some distance between himself, the fire and what had taken place.

The K'un L'un Mountains were still many miles away. The Heavenly City awaited, but would not wait long.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

GM Note for those of you who may be behind In Contiunity:

So... for those of you in Lost Haven. That's heavy alien reinforcements coming now. Both in terms of flying fighters and ground infantry.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 3- Shattered Dimensions

Much Later...

It was horrible, Dennis was muttering barely coherently. The Vigilante kicked the bottom of the door until the old man finally opened up. He carried the younger man with his torn flight jacket, who was covered in cuts and abbrasions.

_{"mmm-mmm mmm-oo mmm-t..."}

The Vigilante put the new Aquilifer down on the lounge in Alan's living room.

_{"mmm-mmm mmm-oo mmm-t..."} He muttered again.

"Sssh-ssh... It's alright. You rest for now, Dennis. You've been out there for hours." Coghlan said, his concern for his grandson shining through, before turning to the man in black. "You too, can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?"

"I'm fine. My rest was carrying him here. You just watch him til he can get back out there. This is a long way from over." With alien ships still filling the Lost Haven skies, he stated the obvious. He stretched his back with a crack and then walked back out the front door.

_{"mmm can't mmm-oo it..."}

"What was that?" The old man rushed to his grandson's side. "What did you say, Dennis?"

A tear ran down a swollen eye that was lightly blackened. The younger man rolled gingerly away on to his side in shame, turning his back to his grandfather.

"I'm not ready. You were right. I can't do this... I'm not ready." He mumbled, giving voice to one of the older man's greatest fears. In a few moments he would pass out from exhaustion.

The Golden Rod would fall from the unconscious young man's grasp.

---

Now...

"It's... *HFF* ...the last... *PFF* ...one now." Dennis grunted, as he lowered the last car onto the stack, blocking a side street.

"Great. Just in time. Because we have incoming..."

The three stood in the middle of the road as an onslaught of flying alien vessels whistled past from overhead, shooting up the street and cratering the bitumen with energy weapons.

"So... any kind of plan?" Dennis asked nervously, as he shielded them from the first pass with a construct from the Golden Rod.

"Always." Smirked the Vigilante. "Protect the building where your grandfather used to work..."

"Got it!" Flux looked at the man in black quizzically.

"And I don't think it'll be necessary, because they'd hit too many of their own people, but..."

"But what..?"

The Vigilante sighed out of concern for if it came to it. But contingincies. Always contingencies.

"But if they decide to drop any more rocks from above, I don't want you making out like Icon. Don't try and catch the thing. Use that fancy metal spoon of yours and just deflect them out to sea, 'Kay?"

Dennis just nodded, and watched on with more than a little panic as a stream of flying ships broke from the mothership far ahead and down towards the street ahead of them.

"I'm assuming you just nodded to me even though we have our backs to one another..."

"Ye-- Yeah. Sorry."

"It's OK. But you're going to have to speak up. Communicate. We're all going to need to if we're going to last. That goes for you too, Chrissy. Same page."

"I'm sorry. I'm still not very familiar with many of your world's books yet..."

"That's fine. You'll undoubtedly get on fine with this one then..." The Vigilante jerked a thumb to gesture at the Aquilifer.

"Hey! I'll have you know I was an English Major!" Dennis yelled back defensively.

"Fantastic, you simultaneously proved a point to me, and made me feel you have less chances of making it out of this fight alive..." He riffed through his voice modulator.

"Have you two been great enemies in the past?" The friendly Arlaaekian asked, a look of concern crossing her face.

"It's called banter. It's what experienced heroes do to take young people - who happen to be out of their depth -'s minds off of the fact they're going to die."

_{"STOP TELLING ME I'M GOING TO DIE!"}

"Then stop arguing with me and prove you're not."

"YAAAAAARGH!" Dennis took three steps forward and set a solid construct, which half of the first wave of flying ships plowed into. There was a loud rending of alien metal screeching, and wreckage bursting into flames, before many ships were left falling impotently to the street below.

"That half's yours, I'll take care of these!" The younger Aquilifer rushed forward to continue his attack on the ships, in various states of disarray.

Isaac turned to Flux and offered a wry knowing grin.

"He's also a whiner." The Vigilante explained his actions to Chrissy as if anyone had asked. "So if I needle him a little it'll get him to speak up and communicate. Even if it's just to complain. You take those three, I've got this bigger one that's coming." The Vigilante pointed to three ships tearing down the right side of the wide street. Chrissy flew off to find a way to stop them, looking back over her shoulder to see what the strange one in the black clothes was going to do about his. He seemed to be picking up a stone from the street.

Chrissy concentrated and rode his anger once more, letting it wash over her she timed a jump perfectly with a furrowed brow and landed on the front of a ship. Red lights flashed in the cockpit as the ship seemed to suffer in a way not unsimilar to being caught in a gravity well. The Arlaeekian pilot panicked, and was shocked at the appearance of one of his own kind thrashing at the machinery with her bare hands and unbridled rage. As it started to be pulled down, she telekinetically dragged a second ship into the first whilst jumping clear of the explosion in her wake, onto the third and final ship behind the first two.

The pilot tried to scream, there was no time. A large teal fist punched straight through the avionics and tore the guts of the machine out. Chrissy jumped clear, trying to make it to another rooftop but fell short, managing to instead grab hold of a fire escape. She looked back to see the one in black staring down his ship with some kind of strange amateur gun under one arm. What was he doing?

The Vigilante gave a knowing smirk and tossed his grapple gun to the side. He watched as the larger ship started to bear down on him, small hatches with some kind of laser weapons opened up on the wings as it prepared to arm itself. The Vigilante wound up and hurled the stone in his right hand, tapping his gravity gauntlet with perfect timing as the small stone was hurled with increased mass. The kind of force you would expect if a man could throw a truck like skipping stones.

Chrissy gasped as the tiny stone crumpled the front of the ship. It began to sway, red lights blaring within the cockpit. The ships shielding did not anticipate significant force to be able to be generated from such an action.

"Well if these two humans could do this..." Chrissy thought to herself. "Maybe... Perhaps... Do we dare have hope?"

---

Admiral Keelan stood in the Operations Center aboard the Bridge of the mothership, closely observing the changes on the most recent three dimensional holographic Battle Assessment feed. It took the form of a massive, user friendly hard-light globe, that could be turned and manipulated, and displayed orbital ships and attack formations. To his right were live feed screens of numerous points of interest, one from the perspective of the Golden Rod itself as the new Aquilifer looked to try and take the fight to the preliminary rank and file Arlaaekan force, alongside some lowlevel human of little importance and someone else of considerably more interest.

Keelan twisted the globe to give a better angle of North America.

This place. Here where they were believed to be a "Superpower", here is where he would break the earthmen's spirit.

<"Sir! The initial push seems to have been remarkably effective, Admiral Keelan, sir!">

The Admiral grimaced at the unwelcome interruption, his face curling into a sneer which was enough to silence the bombastic underling and his unwanted praise.

<"LEAVE US!"> Barked Commodore Bayla, entering the room with two ceremonial glasses and a bottle of J'un'J'nna mead. A refined delicacy of fermented nectar from one of the earlier conquored worlds. The underling scurried away with little idea of the wrath the Commodore had spared him from Keelan. He abhored being interrupted in the middle of planning a campaign, particularly for prattling praise with no suggestion of appreciation for strategy. He seldom had time for sychophants, and never at times such as these.

<"What news from the front, Admiral? And what adjustments need we make? Let us discuss such things over a glass or three.">

Keelan glanced over his shoulder and considered the offer. <"J'un'J'nna mead? I thought we finished your last bottle during the celebrations over the fall of the Chlorostrians?">

The Commodore grinned and began to pour a glass. <"We did. This bottle belonged to a Lietenant-Commander whose son was... not going to pass muster. An arrangement was made. Now his son was transferred to the Southern contingent - I believe he's part of a unit securing the South pole, an assignment I doubt even he could screw up, and his bottle is here quenching our thirst. But enough of such trivialities, what news of the initial incursion?">

The Admiral checked the screens, and turned one off as he walked to the Commodore and took the first poured glass, waiting for the second to be filled as etiquette dictated.

<"Initial bombardment was 97.5% effective across targets. The one they call Icon, that Rod Intelligence informed us about, intercepted the one targeting their city Lost Haven.">

<"But you'd anticipated this possibility, correct Admiral?"> The Commodore asked.

<"I'd anticapted the PROBABILITY."> Admiral Keelan corrected. <"The likelihood that he would spare his home city and divert a lengthy gravity-based ranged attack from an asteroid, was estimated to be about 85-95%. It was a mere shot across the bow, more intending to produce a response than to remove a significant target from the field.">

<"Well, of course. Bombardment has never been the beginning and end of our strategy. There is neither glory nor riches to be had in smashing the prize.">

Keelan downed the glass and placed it on the table awaiting a refill.

<"Exactly. We have scattered their forces to the four winds. Captured their attention, made them watch as meaningful historic locations lie in rubble. Now, we apply pressure. Then, we crush their hope. And then... the final push.">

Commodore Bayla began refilling both glasses, starting with the Admiral's. <"But first, manouevers and applying that pressure.">

Keelan picked up the now full glass and walked back to the holographic display. He murmured and mused, considering the action in the field to date.

<"I'm going to call in extra forces to support the Lost Haven contingent, there appears to be some of this world's splinter-species metahuman "superheroes" amassing in the city center. Likewise, we'll be pulling an additional carrier for more aerial and infantry support from their "New York" region to take care of a situation on a specific street also in Lost Haven. New York has been less trouble than we initially suspected."> Keelan ran his hands over the globe despatching select units.

<"A street?!"> Commodore Bayla could barely contain his amusement.

Keelan murmured again. <"Not just any street. Rod-Intelligence has it marked as the street where the former Rod-Wielder worked for several decades. It's presently being defended, not only by the current Rod-Wielder, but also some human who seems to be armed with some kind of weapon reverse-engineered from rod-technology. Given the strengths of the current Rod-Welder and the previous ones, we assume that weapon was created by the initial Rod-Wielder.">

<"Worked?"> The Commodore seemed stuck between shocked and amused once more.

<"Yes, for some reason the initial Rod-Wielder chose to work and win the adulation of the rest of his species from other means, rather than merely by seizing power and commanding it. It's not the first time Rod-Wielders have done this, many seem bound by the shortcomings of their peoples' customs.">

Keelan finished the drink once more and continued.

<"But that's missing the point. We have a Rod-Wielder who appears to be reverse-engineering the technology of the Rod, and the place where he used to work is now being defended from our forces by another human using one of those reverse-engineered weapons, and the current wielder of the Rod.">

Now it was Commodore Bayla's turn to murmur and muse, as he got to his feet and refilled the Admiral's glass once more.

<"So you're thinking Weapons factory? Some kind of "super-weapon" to use against us which he had long been working on?">

<"I am.">

<"So why not move in Destroyer forces?"> Bayla pointed to reinforcement large ships still kept in orbit and their vast plasma cannons. Ideal for obliterating ground force targets, major ground to air missile sites and the like.

Keelan pondered how to describe the enemy combatants' teal ally. <"Two reasons. First, there's an additional piece of strategic value in the region. This needs to be a precision strike. Secondly, consider me overly sentimental, but it has long been tradition to remove the current Rod-wielder at the Invasion's conclusion. At this point, their destruction has been... almost ceremonial to me.">

---

"REGROUP!" The Vigilante cried out as the trio saw off yet another wave of aliens.

Dennis was flagging, starting to get tired more from fatigue than specific overexhaustion.

"So how are you going?" The Aquilifer asked their newest ally between deep breaths.

"I feel fine!" Chrissy answered merrily with a big goofy grin.

"Hopefully not too bloody fine..." The Vigilante grumbled through his voice modulator, as he returned to his starting position. Looking both ways down the street and seeing no more alien ships coming he walked down a sidestreet, opened a car door, and with a well timed gravity-affected punch broke the door clear off. He picked it up off the streed and carried it back to his spot.

"Geez, you really do feel fine, don't you?" Dennis said, noticing that Flux had not a drop of perspiration on her brow despite all of this fighting.

Chrissy kept the grin and just offered a shrug as an explanation.

"No, I mean it. I mean she's handling them just as well as we are. If she's one of them, how's she making such short work of them?" The Aquilifer asked, perplexed.

"She's different from them." Was the only answer the Vigilante offered. "Leave it at that. We don't have time to get into it."

"Oh you don't mean..."

"Yeeeep. Here they come." The man in black confirmed as more fighters swept forward from the horizon, and a carrier ship appeared in the distance, presumably dumping alien infantry for the trio to deal with eventually as well.

"Are you kidding me, they don't even give you time to go get a gatorade..." The Aquilifer complained, before flying ahead to drive a solid construct into the first wave of fliers as they's break through the road-block of cars ahead. Making best use of the situation to further bottleneck the street with fallen alien ships.

A few slipped through, squeezing around his construct and scraping against the building's wall. The Vigilante grabbed Flux and put the car door between them and the ship. He heard the screech of their "cannon-fire" and tapped the gravity gauntlet to try and put the weight of a truck behind the fibreglass and steel door that stood between them. It tore through the fibreglass and scorched much of the door, but somehow stopped before teaming through the pair of them. Relief washed over the Vigilante and his joy inspired the ability of flight in Flux once more. He took the scrap metal that was what was left of the door and tried to hurl it at the ship.

This was completely ineffective. He bellowed in frustration, and it's what prompted the rage that allowed Flux to do what came next.

Anger seethed within the teal alien and a diving attack from Arlaaekian ships in tight formation was swiftly terminated as they found themselves caught in a gravity well, pulled into each other and were grounded, with the screech of twisted metal and fiery explosions.

But how long could the three keep this up?

①⑨⑥⑧

1902...

"Orson!"

The boy kept swinging. "HAAAAAIII!" He focused on form, smooth angles, no wasted movement, all energy condensed and focused through the strikes. The Thunderer preached form until form came without thought.

"Boy! Listen to me!" The old man called out again in a barking tone. However it wasn't the ageless immortal of K'un L'un who had been calling him, but the boy's father. He'd long been growing resentful of the Martial Arts master, but the boy had never picked up on it. After all, how could he when so many adults in his life communicated like that? Perhaps they felt it resonated better in the growing minds of young boys? Perhaps that resonance was why he was called 'The Thunderer' in the first pl--

"ORSON! Boy, come here!"

The young boy trudged over to the old man's workbench. Phineas Randall sat working away with a small pair of tweezers at a pocketwatch, that shined of gold. "You spend all day learning that celestial barberism, for a night at least you can look here and learn from me."

"Why? What's there to learn from you..?" Orson asked, not intending the sass that the question seemed to be loaded with.

The old machinist turned and glared at him through a telescopic monocle. "Do not try me, boy, or we'll see how much he's taught you..."

The older man cleared a place for the boy to sit. "Now sit there and learn." He forcefully demanded, as if the words would now be imprinted just through blunt force trauma.

"Now, do you see what I'm holding, Orson?"

"Yes. It's a watch."

"Good." The father seemed to calm, as if relieved that this place hadn't driven that Western knowledge out of his son. "Now do you know how it works?"

The boy thought for a few moments. "Well, the astronomical clock outside of the Central Hall of Ancestors, Lei Kung told me is worked by Shaolin monks who collect water from the ceremonial fountains and carry them to the top of the clock tower, where..."

Phineas Randall clipped his son around the ears, more due to the name who he cited for information than the incorrect answer. "No! You don't operate a fine pocket watch like this with water. This is a mechanical watch. Now, do you know what makes it work?"

Orson thought for a few seconds before he dropped his head glumly and shook it from side to side, awaiting chastisement.

"Good!" His father answered with a cheerfully smug grin. "That's a perfectly fine answer. If you're aware of what you don't know, then you know enough to find out, yes?"

Orson thought about the confusing string of reasoning that had just been said to him, and replied with a quiet, "I guess so."

"Alright, every mechanical watch has to have five things." Phineas proclaimed, putting the watch on the bench and digging into it with his tools.

"First, the Mainspring. The mainspring is the source of the watch's mechanical power. Keep it well wound and it'll run. Understand?"

Orson looked down at the watch and nodded.

"Next you have the balance wheel. The balance wheel maintains steady pace. Like a pendulum or metronome, understand. That's what keeps the watch true."

The boy had never heard of a metronome, never having been musically inclined, but nodded his head. He seemed to understand from the swinging arm gesture his father made.

"Next, you have the gear train. Now the gear train sends power from the mainspring to the balance wheel and adds up all the swings of the balance wheel, getting you your seconds, minutes, hours... days depending on the watch. Understand?"

Orson looked down at the string of complicated looking cogs with a furrowed brow. But quietly nodded.

"Then you have your escapement mechanism. Now the escapement is what allows the gears to progress by a set amount with each swing of the balance wheel. It's called the escapement because... well, look, see how the gears seem to 'escape' by a single jump? Before it seems to rest, waiting for the next swing?" Phineas picked the watch up and held it to the young child's ear.

"The escapement process is also what leads to the ticking. You hear that?"

Orson said "Yes, father." With a growing sense of confidence. This much was clear for the young boy, even if he'd struggled with following some of the rest.

"The escapement also gives the balance wheel a very slight push with every swing."

"The escapement mechanism seems very important. Like it does a lot."

"They're all important. All vital. Like I said at the start, you don't have a watch without any one of them. And they all allow the other parts of the watch to do their job. To play their part."

Phineas Randall closed up the back of the watch, with a few precision screws.

"I suppose it's not too dissiilar from what mystical, Eastern dance-fight carry-on you were just pursuing there. Show me again."

The boy beamed with joy. His father NEVER took any interest in Lei Kung's teachings and the fighting techniques which were so starting to captivate the young boy.

And he never would again.

But for now, the boy got to his feet and started to progress through the forms. He focused on form, smooth angles, until it came time for strikes, and eager to show off for his father he thre strikes beyond his weight and balance. Looking to give extra to make his father proud.

But as he so often did when it came to his father, his intentions missed the mark.

"Much like the watch. It's about efficiency of movement, precision, constant smooth mechanical response. See when you threw that left there, you overcommitted, the intention behind this form I suspect is for that left strike to then lead to your weight shifting..." He grabbed Orson's arm and pivoted his hip. "THUS-ly so that you could then flow into the right you were supposed to throw after. But your balance was off. Because you overthrew the left."

He readjusted the telescopic monocle, and his jacket. As if trying to restore his own dignity after playing in such uncivilised things.

"Ah*Hem... Well, the escapement mechanism is there to prevent that. As we just said, the gear only moves so much, it then gives the balance a slift push. Keeps the works moving. Efficiency in movement."

The young boy looked up in awe at his father, his mouth agape for quite a few seconds before a question finally occurred to him.

"Father, you said every watch has five things. But, mainspring, balance wheel, gear chain, escapement... that's only four?"

The father grinned wryly with pride. "So you HAD been paying attention." He stepped back and plucked the watch back up from the workbench and walked over to the son.

"And the fifth. The face. The side we all see. The dials which take all of those seconds, minutes and hours and display them on an interpretable dial. So YOU can tell the time on YOUR new watch." He put the pocketwatch in the young boy's hands and clasped them with his own for a moment with a widening smile.

"Mine?!? My new watch? I'll-- I'll wind it every day and--!"

"And much as I appreciate the sentiment, THIS watch happens to be self-winding." The older man said with a sense of pride, realigning the jacket he'd just readjusted less than a minute ago.

"Self-winding?"

"Yes, there's another mechanism within. Regular daily movement 'pon the chain, as it swings by gravity's steady hand, shifts a subtle weight within the watch. That shifting of the weight winds up the mainspring. No hand-winding required. So long as you don't oversleep and miss a while."

"Wow..."

---

1915...

A trenchwatch hangs on a rung about shoulder height off of a ladder with feet set in the horrendous mud, muck and mire of the region.

"CHORES! You got here! When did you get in?" Orson called out to his old friend from the days of the Confederates of the Curious.

Seamus MacGillicuddy looked up from his transactional business. He was talking with another young soldier who was pointing to a watch wrapped around his wrist. Seamus nodded excitedly and the younger man unwravelled the watch and gave it to the Irishman.

"Oi! Carry!" Some other soldiers down the trench called out towards the young salesman, who waved them off and gestured for them to wait, whilst he wrapped up his sale here first. Seamus pulled out the small packet of biscuits he'd just agreed to trade from his pocket, but quickly grabbed the soldier by the shirt to prevent him going anywhere. He held the watch up to his ear to check he could hear the trenchwatch ticking before releasing the other soldier's shirt and handing him the biscuits.

"Pleasure doin' business with you too! Eh! Lemme know when you get them boots in too."

The soldier quickly ran down the trench to get to the others who were calling him for his next point of sale. 'Chores' instead joined Orson and the pair went for a walk down the trenches.

"And Orson, mate. It's great to see you too! The Irishman said with a big grin.

"Just got in Four Ack-Emma on the latest Omms-N-Chevoos." He said, referring to the trains delivering soldiers to the French front.

"Pretty feckin' tired truth be told. But seems my luck might be turnin' around. I'm situated 'round the corner from my old mucker Orson Randall. And less than five minutes inta my time here I run into that bloke - whadid you say his name was again? Harry?"

"They said Carry, but that--"

"Aye, Carry. and with a spot a luck, he's got some friend called Bill who offloaded a watch onto him, and he's lookin' to do a deal on it. He even said he was able to get a pair of pristine boots offa this boy Bill as well. So how bout that, eh?"

Orson winced, unsure how to tell his old friend the truth as the pair progressed through the trenches, some in various levels of disrepair or flooding.

"Well they said 'Carry' but it used to be 'Carrion', bunch of Australians in - I think it was their fifth - started calling him that and then shortened it to Carry because they thought i was funny..."

"Aye, presumably because he's always carryin' somethin' on him like those watches, lookin' to sell, eh?"

"Well, not exactly..."

"Must meet this boy-o Bill as well. Scored meself a watch and a new pair of boots because of this bloke and it only cost me a half eaten pack of biscuits. Food 'round here must be a bit rough, eh? You know which one Bill is?"

"Well... Not exactly..." Came the sombre reply.

"Well, what's got your goat anyhow? You've seemed pretty morbid since I got in. Haven't lifted that chin a yours once. I'd ask if someone put your dog down, but I know for a fact Barko was fine when I left him. What's happened?"

The pair walked past a collapsed segment of trench. Stray limbs and assorted arms and legs were protruding from the mud. Chores and Orson stepped to the side as they saw walking soldiers coming from the other direction so both lots could pass by. Assorted soldiers called out to the pile in gallows humour.

"Mornin' Bill."
"Holding that salute a tad long, aren'cha Bill?"
"A bitter Bit-a Bill this morning, eh?"

Orson and Seamus stood by the mud pile in solemn silnece. Chores looked down at the leather strap around his wrist.

"Well, Feck..."

---

Present Day
2 Twelfth Month 1967 (ding-wei), year of the Goat

Orson's pocketwatch sat, long since stopped from lack of movement, on a small crate by his bedding. Orson stared into nothingness. He felt an effervescence in his core not unlike a pregnant woman sensing the new life within, and in a strange way it wasn't far from the course. He also felt something else that he hadn't in a long time. Something that he was trying to kill with the poppy, just like the bubbling within.

He felt fear.

For he knew what this must surely mean.

In the country which discovered fireworks, none were exploding, despite the world around it believing this was the dawn of a new year. Another rotation.

Orson didn't even know what year it was, let alone day. But he knew any failure to observe the celestial mechanics would just be ignorance.

The lifeforce of the dragon writhing within him told him that much.

Far away, on the other side of China. Beyond Tibet, beyond the K'un L'un Mountains worlds were realigning.

New life was bursting forth from it's sacred egg.

Heavenly cities were reuniting in a way none on earth would have ever lived long enough to see.

Those who wished him dead - believed him dead. Believed to AND wished him dead might soon find the contrary to be true.

He needed Feng. He needed the poppy now more than ever. Maybe he could drown out the chi enough to further mask himself. He had doubts, with the closer proximity to a new incarnation of Shou-Lao permeating the celestial walls, the well of chi now seemed to flow like a torrent. He quickly put on pants and staggered to the door without care of a shirt.

He burst onto the street with more cognitive grip than he'd had in years. His mind was clearing so rapidly. His hiding place dissipating like the wisps of a cloud.

He pushed through crowds of people and had almost broken out into a complete sprint at this point.

"FENG!" He called out, as if it could have ever possibly even helped.

Memories flooded back, things he long forgot even played a part in his running to begin with. Names and places. And wisdom.

Lei Kung the Thunderer's words. The culture of a people he had foresaken. The death of a peer.

He pushed through another throng of people and crashed into the wall they had been looking at, he fell to the floor and looked up. He saw what the people had been looking at.

He looked further down the wall. More posters. Onlookers.

"破四旧" Orson read. "'Smash the Four Olds'. You wouldn't be the first to try..."

Orson got back up and continued to Feng's. But it would be his final visit.

He needed provisions to head west. Whether the old world would've wanted him to or not.