Avatar of Hound55

Status

Recent Statuses

12 mos ago
Current A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing

Bio

So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.

Most Recent Posts

I should have another post up this weekend.


Awesome! Was hoping to get stuff done last night, but thaaaat... did not happen.
J U S T I C E F R O M A ' 6 8 M O N A C O
J U S T I C E F R O M A ' 6 8 M O N A C O

"Stink's particulate, Montoya. You hang around enough dirt and death, eventually some of it's going to stick." - Captain Rob Probson
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________
Renee Maria Montoya - GCPD Badge # 2442
_________________________________________________________
Latina. American of Dominican Heritage | Detective for the GCPD
_________________________________________________________
Gotham City | New Jersey | United States of America

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

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________
Marcus Driver - GCPD Badge # 3187
_________________________________________________________
Caucasian | Detective for the GCPD
_________________________________________________________
Gotham City | New Jersey | United States of America

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
_________________________________________________________
P O S T C A T A L O G
P O S T C A T A L O G
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
In the Gotham City criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: The Batman, who beats criminals into unconsciousness and stuffs them in a mental asylum, and the police, who investigate crimes.

These are their stories. Bumm-bumm!

The Major Crimes Unit, a hand-picked group of clean detectives selected by Jim Gordon who handle the crimes the other cops call "the Freak Beat", operate out of Gotham Central.

In the last year both Renee Montoya and the final officer selected by Gordon, Marcus Driver, have both lost their partners in the line of duty. For Montoya, Crispus Allen would be the second partner she's lost in the last 12 months - with Harvey Bullock, the grey line between "old school" and dirty - suspended indefinitely after a very public case dragged his past actions into the spotlight.
As whispers around the lockerroom start to pose questions regarding whether she can hack it anymore, her private life (she was recently outed as gay by an unknown stalker figure) and what kind of police she is, Captain Rob Probson has paired up the two in order to stop hemorrhaging morale by allowing them be anyone else's problem.

Everything reminds Marcus Driver of his late partner Charlie Fields, and the night which saw Firebug take his life from a random doorknock. He's since thrown himself back into his work with many questioning whether he's really ready to return. But where's the line between a hungry police, and a man with a death wish?

Executive Producer
Dick Wolf

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
________________________________________________________________________________________
Roaming characters.

Plots pending. I would like to discuss characters the various Bat-family members would like to introduce before locking myself (and them) into any hard future plots. But as GCPD I think they make good establishing characters for introducing the next big antagonists and introing plots they may like to pursue.



That's a funny looking Ted Kord.


I contain multitudes.
J U S T I C E F R O M A ' 6 8 M O N A C O
J U S T I C E F R O M A ' 6 8 M O N A C O

"Stink's particulate, Montoya. You hang around enough dirt and death, eventually some of it's going to stick." - Captain Rob Probson
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________
Renee Maria Montoya - GCPD Badge # 2442
_________________________________________________________
Latina. American of Dominican Heritage | Detective for the GCPD
_________________________________________________________
Gotham City | New Jersey | United States of America

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

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________
Marcus Driver - GCPD Badge # 3187
_________________________________________________________
Caucasian | Detective for the GCPD
_________________________________________________________
Gotham City | New Jersey | United States of America

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
_________________________________________________________
P O S T C A T A L O G
P O S T C A T A L O G
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
In the Gotham City criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: The Batman, who beats criminals into unconsciousness and stuffs them in a mental asylum, and the police, who investigate crimes.

These are their stories. Bumm-bumm!

The Major Crimes Unit, a hand-picked group of clean detectives selected by Jim Gordon who handle the crimes the other cops call "the Freak Beat", operate out of Gotham Central.

In the last year both Renee Montoya and the final officer selected by Gordon, Marcus Driver, have both lost their partners in the line of duty. For Montoya, Crispus Allen would be the second partner she's lost in the last 12 months - with Harvey Bullock, the grey line between "old school" and dirty - suspended indefinitely after a very public case dragged his past actions into the spotlight.
As whispers around the lockerroom start to pose questions regarding whether she can hack it anymore, her private life (she was recently outed as gay by an unknown stalker figure) and what kind of police she is, Captain Maggie Sawyer has paired up the two in order to stop hemorrhaging morale by allowing them be anyone else's problem.

Everything reminds Marcus Driver of his late partner Charlie Fields, and the night which saw Firebug take his life from a random doorknock. He's since thrown himself back into his work with many questioning whether he's really ready to return. But where's the line between a hungry police, and a man with a death wish?

Executive Producer
Dick Wolf

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
________________________________________________________________________________________
Roaming characters.

Plots pending. I would like to discuss characters the various Bat-family members would like to introduce before locking myself (and them) into any hard future plots. But as GCPD I think they make good establishing characters for introducing the next big antagonists and introing plots they may like to pursue.



I have something I want to work on App wise but I'm going to sit on it as I don't have the time. How does everything think this is going? I know the pace has slowed but I think we're at quite a healthy place right now.


I feel fine with the pace from people in general, and my own 0ace should pick up now as I go back to work.
A warehouse full of the damned.

Emaciated men and women stripped of their clothes, as newborns do not enter this world with more than their first skin. The Neonates manufactured and packaged the Bliss for the Juvenile street dealers, and did it for no recompense beyond the Bliss they could consume, the paltry food rations to keep them as lean as their god, and the accommodation of the Den.

It was certainly rare amongst drug operations for the allowance of the workers to get high off the supply - but profit was not the primary motivation. They sold cheap to new local customers, as could often becomre customary, but not for the simple purpose of profit motivation behind getting them hooked. At least not for the money. And they were always hiring. And always growing.

This warehouse was but one of three dozen in this city itself. The year before they had two dozen, not all in the same locations. New York was, after all, a city of heroes, and any time anyone came close they would close up and move. They had the resources behind them to do that easily enough. Who could be more adaptable than they? Whilst one day they would bask in the sun, it would not be beneath them to flatten themselves out and hide in the rocks and crags until their season would come. After all, they followed a perfect one.

The Yearling called the Neonates to order. Kept them focused on the task at hand. Bliss for the Kali-Yuga! Bliss for Kobra! Bliss for the Lord Naga, his generosity that allowed the bliss to overflow unto them!

Lanceheads were scattered here and thereabouts. Unlike the Neonates they were of course fully clothed. Their task called for it. As they had been tasked with protection and maintaining order, for in order for the day of Kali Yuga to come - Freedom in its Holy Ultimate Chaos - there must be moments of order to bring that day to pass. The Lord Naga understood this even if it were a fact too complicated for most OTHER Neonates, Juveniles and even some slower, more jaded Yearlings to understand... The bigger picture. But YOU understand, yes? The same greater wisdom that allows you your Bliss. The same greater wisdom that protects and houses you. The means to the greater end that our All Knowing Lord Naga will one day bring to pass, for the betterment of all who have the wisdom to follow the serpentine path.

But as the Lanceheads were assembled for the daily briefing, they failed to notice the SkyCycle that passed silently overhead. Nor the purple masked figure overlooking the warehouse from the clear plastic sheeting of the skylight which kept the working environment warm and well-lit for the naked Neonates...

"Well, there's something you don't see everyday..." Hawkeye muttered at the strange naked assembly, and their foreman in his scaly leather jacket.


H A W K E Y E
H A W K E Y E

SEASON ONE Sensation & Wonder
HAWKEYE #3.1 An Archer And a Pit of Snakes




Hawkeye had stumbled on the place by luck. He was going to shake down some junkie street dealer for the location of his supplier, but reconsidered and tailed him after realising he was probably going to be no more forthcoming than the last half dozen he'd questioned. Following him from a distance he stumbled upon the handoff point. Observing a few handoffs he was able to tail a bagman to a second handoff point... a long story short, the countless tails eventually brought him to this warehouse.

It had been long and tedious, basically policework, and not at all why he'd got into the capes and cowls business which regularly saw him firing a weapon from the paleolithic era at gods and monsters.

He reached into his quiver for a fletching. Explosive arrows were out, he didn't know the chemical makeup of the drug in question and if it were flammable... well, he wasn't looking to roast a warehouse full of poor, starving, desperate drugden workers. It also wouldn't get him any answers. That ruled out flare-arrows, rocket arrows and, for that matter, acid arrows as well as well. Such was his poor grasp of chemistry and the composition of Bliss they were working with.

He drew back and released. A Putty arrow, hit one of the largest drug tables, expanding on impact and ruining the product. Two more putty arrows took care of the rest.

Naked neonates scattered, many headed for the door. A single bola arrow wrapped up the frontrunner, and he fell blocking the door.

Then the stacatto of semi-automatic rifle fire burst to life. Predictable, as always. He pulled back from the lifted plastic of the skylight after letting loose a smoke bomb arrow. Time for Position B. There's a word for a sharpshooter who only plans to stay static from a singular primary firing position - A corpse.

Clint ran across the roof to his secondary position; a lifted sheet of corrugated iron which provided a new vista over the warehouse beneath him. Men and women coughing, some lay prone. Perhaps passing out from too much excitement - which would seem unusual, if not for how starved they appeared to be. He counted six armed guards, with various weapons. With no knowledge of their level of training he decided to target them in accordance of their weapon's threat level. Two men with AR-15s were dropped in rapid succession with stun arrows. A woman with an uzi responded by firing at his initial position by the skylight. They didn't seem to realize he'd relocated yet. He downed her with another stun arrow.

One of the naked drug cooks picked up an AR-15 and started desperately spraying the roof with no clear target in mind. Clint cursed himself for leaving it in play, pulling back to avoid any stray lucky shots, before drawing an electro-arrow and firing it into the barrel of the gun. The drug cook spasmed briefly from the shock before dropping the weapon. He fired another into the trigger-guard of the other fallen AR-15 to prevent it from happening again.

"He's over there!" Calls came from below.

Clint didn't hang around to wait and see their response. Position C. He'd removed three heavily armed guards from the field, and a wild card he'd sloppily allowed into play. Three more remained if he played this right.

As he took position he now saw a fourth threat. The foreman had retreated to an office somewhere and returned with a sidearm. Clint watched how he handled it, the nerves, and recognised the awkward desperation of a man who was required to have a weapon for his position, but no real training or mind for how to use it. Hawkeye mentally prioritised him last, the guards were clearly the bigger threat as they had some level of organised training with the arms they carried.

A soldier would have set a tunnel focus on mission goals. Eliminate the three guards, disarm and interrogate the foreman in the leather jacket.

Hawkeye was nobody's soldier. And nobody would ever question his creativity, nor his skills.

The SkyCycle tore through the roof, with a purple archer firing a bevy of arrows crouching from atop its seat, with a wide grin displaying the enjoyment he gained from such a bombastic move. A sonic arrow disoriented two guards on his left, one heavy-set and a smaller one armed with a Glock. Another stun arrow took down a guard to his right. Another putty arrow eliminated his weapon from the field. He flipped over the seat and let fly a bola arrow towards the two guards. The heavy balls from the bola crashed through the jaw of the first and ricocheted into the second, knocking out the first and incapacitating the second.

Not what they were designed for... but hey, creativity is what keeps this hero stuff interesting.

Small calibre gunfire rang out. The foreman ducked back behind the cover of a supporting beam. Clint turned and smirked, drawing a fletching with a very specific arrow, eyeballing some geometric calculations and letting it loose.

"Drop the bow! I've got a gun, archer! You're outmatched!" The foreman called out, the shakiness of his voice proof that he did not even believe it himself.

He got the shock of his life when he heard a compound bow clatter to the floor, and stepped out with his sidearm drawn...

...to receive the second shock of his life. The boomerang arrow smacking the handgun out of his hands and across the floor.

Clint's smirk never left his face. He stepped forward and scooped his bow back up, approaching the man in his shimmering scaly leather jacket.

"No! Get back!" The foreman called out, backpedalling away from the Justice Leaguer. "You can't! Don't!"

"Relax. Ol' Hawkeye only has a few questions for you..."

And those were the words that doomed the man.

As Clint approached he watched in horror as the foreman's mouth started to froth and foam. Clint ran towards him, with the first signs of genuine fear in his eyes. The fear for another's well-being.

"Aww Hell, poison?! This isn't bad enough to go and poison yourself..."

He ran up and shoved his fingers down the man's mouth to try and get him to vomit... but with his final efforts the man bit his fingers to keep his secrets. His loyalties.

Desperately, Clint grabbed him from behind and attempted some haphazard form of the Heimlich manouever, only to be stopped by a handgun emptying its clip into the foreman, rendering the drug boss limp in his arms.

"No!" Clint looked up and saw the handgun in the hands of a young woman; naked, starved and wired from the drug du jour. She kept dry-firing at the foreman, and Clint raised a hand to the girl to try and calm her.

"It's Ok! Everything's going to be OK. I'm sure he put you through... all manner of Hell. Stripped you naked. Did-- God knows what to you. It's going to be alright. He can't hurt you anymore."

The young girl gave only a quizzical look to Hawkeye, wide-eyed and still on another plain of existence. And in an instant she dropped the gun, and turned and ran.

Not to the exit. Clint would have understood that. He would have been prepared, a simple net arrow would have wrapped things up nicely. But in a direction he didn't fully comprehend until too late. Towards one of the fallen guards...

"WAIT! NO!"


But he was too late. The young girl had thrown herself onto the electro-arrow. Sparks flew, and whilst it would act more as a non-lethal taser shock to a person of average to high-level physique... the starved drug-workers of this facility were in nowhere near that kind of shape. She lay and twitched until there was no life left in her form, and the muscles spasmed still even afterwards.

Clint ran his hand over his masked head in despair.




"Lord Naga," The herald messenger called out into the darkness of their leader's quarters. "It seems we have lost one of our many warehouses in the New York region. A Justice Leaguer--"

"In New York?" Kobra queried, from whereabouts unseen. "Ahhh... the Archer." He answered his own question.

"Yes, my Lord Naga! Hawkeye stumbled upon it's whereabouts and brutally--"

"The Yearling?"

"Perished, my Lord. By his own hand as is your will. As is the way. Hawkeye was left helpless trying to steal our secrets from a corpse. Your methods are most wise."

"And the Lancssseheadssss. They sssshould not talk. Have bail provided by the regular channelssss."

"Yes, my Lord Naga. But what of the Archer?"

Kobra pondered this for a moment.

"He issss not the Batman. Nor doessss he know anything. To move againsssst him for the moment would be to give him a tail to follow back to itssss head. For now we do nothing. Let him be the fool who launchessss an arrow and givessss ussss a fletching to follow back to his possssition. Sssshould he act sssso brazenly we sssshall move not with but one sssstrike, but with the full forcssse of the Ssssosssiety." He said, referring to the Serpent Society, the group's most elite strike force.

"A ssssmall error on hissss part, sssshall see him looking for an esssscape from a pit of ssssnakes."

He hesitated, basking in his sychophantic Herald's revelry for his Holy words of divine wisdom.

"...where none sssshall be pressssent, and all hope losssst."


Keelan glowered sullenly as he stood in front of the displays. The resistance of these three had gone on for hours.

Frustration set in long ago, the high value nature of two of these targets had so far prevented him from taking off the kid gloves. Hard earned regimental discipline and spite was all that had prevented him from calling in bigger reinforcements so far. He refused to let his military opponents dictate terms.


<"You know it is not my way to second-guess, old friend. But murmurings from the top seem to bring your handling of a certain smaller resistence in Lost Haven into doubt."> Commodore Bayla spoke, breaking the silence and startling the Admiral, causing him to turn around.

<"Some view your maneuvers to be overly passive. It seems that many of their other forces have managed to re-group and take up effective positions due to the additional support you've been sending towards this suspected weapons factory.">

Admiral Keelan furrowed his brow in contemplation. The Commodore functioned well as a go-between who would keep the higher-ups out of his business, and also find and disseminate political information from rumours, innuendo and officers' meetings. Keelan considered his position and the unspoken nature of what Bayla was saying.

The Commodore needed more. A wry smile crossed the Admiral's face.

He'd give him more than he'd bargain for. He'd make him complicit.


<"Perhaps...">

Keelan turned the display around for Bayla to see. It showed the small rebellion battling Arlaaekans in the city street, with the focus being a certain teal fighter causing significant damage to their fighters and ground troops.

<"Is that--? The General's daughter..?> He turned and checked the Admiral for confirmation. His grin was all the confirmation he needed.

<"So when you said there was an 'additional piece of strategic value', you were talking politically...">

The Admiral went back to assigning troops and arranging formations.

<"I take it, you would take great interest in my finding out how much value this piece is? With subtlety being of paramount importance?">

<"What I like most about you Bayla, is how rarely you need to be given a direct order...">

With unspoken commands issued, Commodore Bayla took his leave to find out just how much the General's defector daughter would be worth to him.








At this point the trio had been fighting for hours, punishing wave by wave of precision strike-force teams hellbent on their defeat. By now they had discovered efficient methods of teamwork - the Aquilifer would target airborne craft, Flux would cut a swathe through any and all both in the air and on the ground, and the Vigilante would "play clean-up" and target predominantly ground-based targets.

So far they had proven to be devastatingly effective at each of their specific roles.


"They don't-- they don't let up! We've been going for hours!" The Aquilifer complained between gulping down lungfulls of air. "Exhausting!"

"My people are most relentless." Flux explained. "If they sense an objective is attainable towards achieving victory they will not cease in their willingness to pour men and ships until they seize victory."

"You can expend energy talking about how hard things are, or you can make the most of the few seconds break before the next wave and suck down more air."

The Aquilifer made a pained face in response to the Terrarian brawler before exhaling out a sigh.

"Hey! Wait a minute! Why am I the only one here who's gassed?! Aside from being teal, she looks like she just stepped out of a health spa, and you look like you've only just warmed up as well!"

Isaac shrugged. "I've been fighting and scrambling through sewers for thirty-six hours before, WITHOUT your grandfather's gravity gauntlets. I AM just getting warmed up."

"And I am Arlaaekan."

Dennis hunched over with a deep sigh and gulped in more air, before letting out a long groan as the trio saw another stream of aircraft bearing down on their position.

"I told you, you can expend energy whining about how hard things are, or you can make the most of the break before the next wave and get air..."

Dennis straightened up with another sigh, as he got ready to take to the sky.

"Yeah, something tells me you and my grandpa would get along great..."






Keelan's glower grew deeper with each passing failed wave. The trio had settled into a rhythm by now, with each insurgent knowing their role and tackling threats which their abilities were most effective at. Until he received further news though, this was all he had. Wave upon wave crashing upon them wearing away with fatigue like erosion upon solid rock. It was slow, it was tedious, it did not feel particularly rewarding, but he knew each attack brought them closer to inevitable success.

<"I have news."> Commodore Bayla announced before his presence was even known.

<"Good news?"> Keelan queried.

<"Unfortunately not. I have news of the value of... the unique strategic threat... in question.">

The Admiral didn't ask for a follow-up, his glower being all the interrogative required.

<"Unfortunately she has no value. She has been disavowed. The General has made no attempt to spare her officially, all paperwork has been lodged appropriately. If he has any desire for his daughter to survive her treachery he had made certain to cover his tracks in official channels.">

The Admiral growled out his frustration audibly. This complicated matters.

<"And unofficially?">

<"The few bits of information I've been able to glean from whispers throughout the armada seem to support this position. She fled. Her treachery is not to be forgiven merely because of his status, and he feels his status makes the shame greater still.">

The Admiral turned back to his screens, following the battle once again.

<"Keelan?">

<"Well, what else WOULD he say publicly?"> He snapped out his frustration. This complicated matters. It rose further questions of his handling of the situation in Downtown Lost Haven if the Arlaaekan traitor truly had no political value. A situation he should have crushed swiftly had been treated far too softly. It reflected poorly, and without justification the wolves would soon be at the door. <"Have you heard from the Zlaxon's mouth itself?">

<"And what if the answer remains the same?"> Commodore Bayla's sense for the political tensions as acute as ever. <"How shall you respond to criticisms?">

A wry grin crossed the Admiral's teal face. <"Why with spin seeded with truth, my friend."> A predatory tone of voice couched by his smirk. <"We found the General's traitorous daughter and were seeking out information on how we were to handle the situation. The delays were the result of my waiting for a subordinate trusted enough to properly carry the message without fear of exploiting the information for blackmail."> The wry grin apparently contagious as it now had been communicated to the Commodore.

<"In other words, it took time for you to get here. Now go. Go and bring me back my answer, one way or the other.">

Bayla turned on his heels and set about his mission. Keelan returned to his console.

Should the General not want his daughter back, that explanation would unlikely be believed by the Autocrat and the ruling class. They'd likely suspect his hesitation for the ranking officer he sent was as likely due to waiting for a trusted officer to carry out an intended attempt at blackmail - as was indeed the case - but such an accusation would be impossible to prove, with all evidence of any wrongdoing actually supporting his claim as to what occurred.

If the General did indeed want his daughter returned to him, their combined power would be enough to see off any internal political threats to his position. Waves would continue to wash against the human in black, the rod wielder and the traitor until their inevitable defeat. Should the General decline - well, the Destroyer-class DC Doomspear that was presently fulfilling a support role would make short work of the corner.

Sure, it would indeed be a shame to end things prematurely with this rod-wielder of what the locals called Earth - he indeed had come to enjoy the tradition of savouring in their destruction to conclude the invasion. He enjoyed the pomp of ceremonially delivering the rods to the Autocrat himself, who had even allowed him to keep a select few over the years. These rested in artisanly created cases of high quality which he kept in proud places within his quarters. But this preference he held could not be allowed to get in the way of the war effort. It would never be permitted.

Keelan despatched another wave upon the trio and awaited for Bayla to return with news of his answer.

An hour later, as the DC Doomspear edged closer to downtown Lost Haven, it's pulse cannon running preliminary diagnostics and being primed for firing, gave proof to the General's response.









Flux floated back down to the street as the three re-grouped after another wave's conquest. Isaac exhaled audibly through his voice modulator.

"So you're finally starting to get tired, huh?" Dennis said gleefully, pleased to see some cracks of humanity showing through in the black-garbed hero.

"That wasn't me sucking in air. It was a sigh. You're getting tired and you're starting to get sloppy. It was going to happen eventually, but I was hoping it'd take a bit longer. You were slower when you plowed through on those three up there, you left your backside unprotected. If it were earlier in the wave or they still had stragglers, one of them probably tags you."

"Oh come on!" He cried out in frustration, throwing his hands on his head and walking away shouting.

"I'm not being critical. It's fatigue. It's inevitable. I just hoped you'd last longer." The Vigilante glanced down towards the building which Dennis said his father used to work out of.

Flux looked at the Vigilante perplexed. She opened her mouth to speak and--


"Say anything and you doom us all." The Vigilante hissed, out of earshot of the ranting wielder of the Golden Rod.

Flux nodded glumly, not understanding, but believing him. This strange man who seemed to know more than anyone should about a great many things. The ranting hero re-joined the three, pointing at the one in black ready to sound off until...

Another swarm of small craft swept down towards them from the distance, with an ominous floating disc seemingly in tow.


"It's the Doomspear!" Chrissy cried out.

"Doom-SPEAR?? The thing's round. Who came up with that name?"

"The Doomspear was a mythical artefact from Ancient Arlaaekan legend. All of our largest ships are named after things from legend, our history, people or places. What are your ships named after?"

"..."

"...Well alright then."
Dennis replied, avoiding the question.

Flux looked glumly down the street back to the familiar building, before casting another glance at the Vigilante.


"I know. Soon." He uttered opaquely.

"If the Doomspear's pulse cannon is allowed to go off, all of this shall be in a crater." Her brow uncharacteristically furrowed in an attempt to adequately explain the severity of their situation.

"How far?"

"About six of your city roads worth." The teal alien held her hands out and made three little 'jumps' further each way with her fingers.

"Six blocks?"

"That is what I said."

"Then we'd better make sure we're somewhere else by then..." Chrissy nodded in response. "What about their own small fighter craft and infantry? Surely they don't want to lose them to friendly fire. Will they withdraw, or what happens there?"

"They all receive an internal communications ping once the pulse cannon is charged and primed."

"So we wait until then and--"

"--and by then its too late. The ping happens seconds before it fires. Aerial manouevers are choreographed around it, then the ping aids with timing."

The black garbed vigilante stopped and considered what he was being told. So we need to be elsewhere. He thought to himself, watching the enormous disc and it's prominant weapon drift closer to their position. Pretty much now--

"So here they come again!" Exclaimed the Aquilifer, taking to the sky once more with the Golden Rod, before the Vigilante could get a word out. "I got these three!" He called his shot, as he soared into combat once more.

Flux looked on stunned, as the Vigilante watched Dennis once more take the fight to the invaders, before he was able to offer any order nor warning to the contrary.




The older man was surrounded by two soldiers in crisp Marine uniforms. They spoke in short bites, concise and to the point.

Or would have been if they had been instructed on exactly what was going on and were to actually convey the point...

He'd been separated from his home, his wife and plunged into a world equal parts as vaguely familiar as it was foreign.

Similar to the sensation you have when the world you know is invaded by aliens intent on conquest. But as much as that was related to this, that wasn't this. Whilst the soldiers did their utmost to convey the implied presence of control which lay in procedure, the tradition of the Marine Corps, and chain of command, the old man knew enough to know this was wrong. Which may have been the most deeply disquietening in and of itself.

No... that was still probably the alien craft and weaponry raining down outside above ground. But if you were at all familiar for how fond of procedure the Corps is... well, it was a close second.

"Retired Colonel Lewis 'Gunny' Bracken?" A voice in a different kind of suit spoke ahead of the trio.

The fact it seemed to be a question rather than a statement did not seem to put him at ease. Even when the man then commanded the other two to--

"At Ease!" Well... yeah. When he ordered the other two to do that...

Gunny nodded gently, his expression never changing from a squint.

"Dismissed! I believe we can handle it from here." The two younger Marines saluted, turned on their heels ad departed, leaving the older man with this strange man in his suit.

"I trust you and your wife are satisfied with the accommodations, given the situation?"

"And what situation is that?" Gunny replied. "Answers have seemed to be a scarce commodity today."

"Heh. They often are. I can see you probably have some reasonable questions, given everything that's--"

"Given that you had me dragged from my home by military escort. Yes, quite a few." His expression still hadn't changed.

"Perfectly fair." The suit eased. "Perfectly fair." He repeated, as if saying it twice would warm the frost from the older man's tone.

"They saluted you."

"Pardon?" Suit queried.

"They're Marines." Gunny clarified. "They saluted you. A civilian. Presumably you're the new Commander in Chief. So... we have a designated survivor situation here? The President's dead?"

"Nothing so morbid, fortunately." The suit smiled, pleased to actually have the opportunity to impart positive information. "No, I'm one of several people currently tasked to hold the power of Commander in Chief, as well as the Senate under special circumstances by proxy."

"To what ends?"

"How do you mean?" The Suit looked puzzled.

Gunny sighed. "I mean 'What am I doing here?'. You said 'tasked'. Presumably there's a task you're here to do."

"Ah. Well, today, you'll be pleased to know I'm tasked with restoring your career in the United States Marine Corps and with promoting you to the rank of Brigadier General. As you're well aware--"

"As I'm well aware, the rank of Generals can only be nominated by the Commander in Chief, namely the President, and confirmed by the Senate. Yeah, I see where this is going. My question is 'Why?' There's gotta be about--"

"In the first three hours of combat we lost eighty-fave to ninety percent of our Generals. As well as a significant number of obvious officers to be next to step into command. The President had the bright idea of re-commissioning past officers, beginning with those most recently retired - in order to prioritise more current and therefore more useful military knowledge."

Gunny's thoughts immediately went to his wife, currently being kept elsewhere in quarters within the vast underground facility. "Ninety percent in three hours?!?"

"Please remain calm, sir. The casualties already began to fall to a tickle in the last hour of those three hours, and further still since then. We believe the... unconventional nature... of this recent directive to find new high ranking officers has gone a long way to protect these officers. We suspect the invasion force had intel and targeted them early, to limit our ability to manouever and counter-strike."

Gunny remained introspective, soaking in everything he had been forced to absorb.

"In fact, sir. I suspect you and your wife may currently be in one of the safest facilities not only in the mainland United States, but the world entire."

"So the question is: Now, when that world needs you most, Brigadier General Bracken, will you serve once more?"









Rock encircled Flux and decimated any and all stray Arlaaekan forces that had the wrong idea. The Vigilante threw impossibly heavy blows repeatedly with the help of the gravity gauntlets of the original Aquilifer's design, and Dennis soared through the sky blasting and hammering different sized alien craft with the Golden Rod.

The trio could hear some kind of white noise emanating from directly above as the primary weapon of the Destroyer Class Doomspear took position and was primed for firing. It was almost completely over the building the original Aquilifer had worked out of for so many years at this point.


"HEY!" The Vigilante called out, trying desperately to be heard by the other two over the din of war.

"TOGETHER NOW!" He pointed to space between the three of them.

Dennis lifted his head, distracted almost took a plasma blast to the chest until he used the Golden Rod to safely deflect it into other Arlaaekan fighters, purely by accident. He nodded to the man in black and refocused, trying to find a way to free up time to get himself where he was needed, for reasons he didn't know.

But then this guy seemed to have a lot of reasons for various things he did which he felt he didn't need to tell anybody.

The Vigilante bounced over scattered infantry, punched a few stragglers and got to where he told the other two to meet. Only to find himself all alone.

The Aquilifer was distracted and being held up by aerial combatants, but Flux looked even more absorbed in her combat. It didn't look like he'd even heard her. She was battering ground force infantry with a fervour that showed she had precious little control over the rage she had absorbed from the Vigilante. He'd let it go too far. Let her feel too much. She had no way of dealing with the concentrated bitterness he functioned with on a daily basis.

She was the priority.


"GET THERE!" He called back to the Aquilifer, who nodded. He was free to now, as fighter forces began to withdraw. But for no positive reason. The Vigilante sensed something going on far above, but didn't dare take a peek.

He dove just beyond Flux, pulled by the added weight of the gravity gauntlets, before performing a roll to come to a stop. He quickly got to his feet and raced back to her. Pointing at the place where the Dennis now stood, and to the sky above.

She turned and saw the Aquilifer gazing at the ship directly above, completely aghast, as the primary weapon charged.

The Vigilante put an arm around Flux and threw a fist out in the direction of the Rod-Wielder, he tapped the gravity gauntlet and hoped it would be enough.

The Aquilifer fired up an energy construct in the form of a golden dome. Chrissy and Isaac flew under the dome just as it began to seal them off completely.

The pulse cannon fired and the force was felt by Dennis like nothing he'd ever felt before. He winced and shrunk the size of his energy shield in an attempt to keep it as strong as he could. Still the pulse cannon rained down on him with a crushing sensation, unparalleled by anything he'd experienced. A wince turned to a cry of anguish. Which turned into a silent scream in the cacophony of the pulse cannon's shriek.

The energy shield went from fifteen feet, to ten, to six, to protecting the trio as they crouched in its final refuge.

A bright pale blue light which echoed and painted everything a cleansing white even when you closed your eyelids enveloped everything.

And when their sight was restored they saw first that they were still alive, and second that their saviour the Aquilifer was left unconscious on the only untouched patch of asphalt that remained in the enormous crater that was previously the city streets.

Flux looked down at their fallen comrade and the desolate space where the building once stood. Before returning her view to the downed Aquilifer, her heart rapidly filling with sadness, anguish and despair.


"For-- for nothing..? He saved us all. And for-- nothing?"

She began to flicker once more. Her powers teleporting her away under the shear weight of emotion.

"No." The Vigilante corrected. "Not for nothing."

"For nothing!" Chrissy echoed, as she was whisked away by her teleportation abilities.

"What-- What's she talking about..?" The battered and bruised Dennis Connolly murmured from the pavement.

Far above, the pulse rifle began to whirr as it was once again primed for firing, as the swirling swarm of alien fighter craft moved back in eager to clean up what little resistance remained.





"You're asking me to co-ordinate a force of... have you even got ten thousand to give me? And be in charge of tactical operations under the kind of duress you would see in the middle of a hurricane. With no notice whatsoever. I couldn't even brief my men?"

"Only by Zoom. That's correct. Given the loss of elite officer leaderhip we would expect you to command from your present location."

"How many?" Gunny sighed, feeling every year of his age.

"How many men?" The Suit clarified his question.

"Of course."

"About eight thousand, five hundred..."

"How? I was out there remember. It was chaos. How could you possibly have pulled together anything close to a Regiment in this chaos?"

The suit smiled a wry grin. "Well, there have been some interesting developments in the last few hours, Brigadier General..."








Urban sprawl had given way to an artificial wasteland. A cratered city street, and two remained.

No powers, mo metagene - alone before the might of an invasion force which had seized so many worlds just like theirs.

The Aquilifer, the grandson of the man who had sold out the world, gurgled and slowly rolled to one side.

The Vigilante, the paradoxical man born out of extreme agony who was incapable of experiencing pain, stood over him against the next Arlaaekan onslaught.


"Wh--what was she saying..? The alien girl..?"

Isaac turned back to the laid out hero, and considered his situation. The force that opposed him, and the potential for others to be harmed. He sighed and bent over to try and help pick the younger man up.

The fighter craft screeched down. Far above the white noise of the pulse cannon gave way to a whirring, which gradually increased in pitch and volume.

The Aquilifer managed to get to a knee, the Vigilante hooked his arm around underneath the rod wielder's armpit. The fighters close enough that he could see finery of the detailing on the craft. Their plasma weapons fired, the Vigilante spied a building, and the boxer threw an uppercut to the heavens with all the hope of a punchdrunk shuffler on his last legs in the final round, down on all cards. He tapped the button on his gravity gauntlet and for a moment a man could fly.

The pair soared towards a distant apartment complex.


"Rod's... so gentle... I can barely feel it..."

The Vigilante looked down at the battered hero and flashed a smile behind his black balaklava.

As their feet touched down on the roof, he looked up as the Doomspear's pulse weapon whirred louder in it's final throes. The Vigilante looked onwards and found another building and threw another flying uppercut.

As the pair flew further away the Aquilifer looked down and saw the crater where their last stand took place.


"So-- so whatdid she say..?" He repeated. "Or did you think you wouldn't have to say..?"

"She's an empath. She reads emotions. And in this case she could sense... how I felt about something, was inconsistent with what I told you."

"She knew you were full of shit..." The Aquilifer said, laughing at the thought of other heroes being as - less than perfect - as he knew himself to be.

"She did.

"So... what was it..? You saved somebody's cat and gave it to the wrong little girl?"

"That building, that corner, everything we've been fighting over for the last... Five or six hours..?" He said, not looking down at the battered hero, as they came to another landing, before another uppercut sent them sailing away again. "Yeah, that was all a bluff. It was for nothing. I was hoping they'd view it as having some kind of strategic value since your grandfather worked there. All of this. It was just about buying time, not for us, but for them. The people who are trying to organise, rally and fight this. The most valuable thing we can give them is time."

"--what..?"

"It wasn't about us, or beating them here and now. I found ourselves a bottleneck where we could take a vast number of them with us, with a fake strategic point to draw them here, and just bought as many hours and dragged as many of them into the muck with us here."

"Wait-- how..? Why..?"

"Three hundred Spartans once held back a seemingly insurmountable force two thousand, five hundred years ago at the Hot Gates of Thermopylae. Didn't have anything like that here, so I made my own."

"It was all-- for nothing?"

"Not for nothing. For time. For them. The people. It's kind of what this hero business is all about... Now, I'm taking you home. Because that's also what it's about. And I happen to be pretty good at it."

The pair kept taking their gravity-affected leaps back towards the home of the Aquilifer.

"You fought-- for almost six hours, not knowing if you'd live or die... for no other reason but to buy people time..?" The Aquilifer considered everything he'd just been told. The sacrifice that this man was prepared to make. Not even to save people, just to buy time.
"I'm not ready. I can't do this... I'm not ready."




Now...


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.

Alan Coghlan looked down at the rod which had caused so much anguish, but brought so much excitement into his life. He turned and looked at the television, and the devastation that was hammering humanity all around the globe.

One more time Alan Coghlan picked up the Golden Rod.

It had been an unwanted gift, but he was in a unique position to stick it to them personally.


@John Table MAGNIFICENT! May there be a thousand more!
Looks like I'm going to have to throw together another solo post (to jump forward and hint towards a future arc) just to nudge the deadline along.

Back at work in another week, but it's tough to find the time whilst I'm still at home.
I'm also thinking of picking up a Gotham based sheet - we have quite the hub forming there, and it might be nice to jump in somewhere active with another "Roaming".

Also... I may be using it somewhat as practice for another game elsewhere...
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet