Hound55

Camp Athens - Closed

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"...You're doing it again." He said to himself the second the time was announced and began with an unacceptable 'eleven'.

"Anyone who finished in under fifteen minutes is excused for the rest of the day. For everyone that remains, you will run the course a second time."

He cringed. That made things more socially difficult. He'd want to get down the front early to start as soon as possible, lest it appear he's trying to 'show up' the people who HAD to be here.

Which would mean he'd have to rush to get to the start. Which would itself see people making their own judgements about him, or even add further credence to such a notion that he's trying to show them up.

People who were already suffering and irritated by the fact they had to repeat something they didn't want to do once were prone to forming such conclusions, after all.

'Move swiftly, don't run.' He thought to himself as he cut a path to River as the new leader began to get himself situated in a position on a bench, his primary duties over the whole group concluded, to now only watch over the remainder and lend aid and support on request. Pallas managed to get himself there first, just in front of the one armed man from earlier.

"If runtimes aren't being tracked for the second attempts of the others, would you be able to use the stopwatch for--"

The stopwatch was airborne. Pallas snatched it out of the air, from the leader who already seemed through with the conversation.

He looked down at it, standard two-button electronic stopwatch.

"This'd all be fine if it weren't for the pool..." He turned the stopwatch over, checking the battery compartment's seal. If it had ever had the batteries changed it wouldn't be waterproof anymore.

"Look man, you passed. You can borrow my stop watch if you want, but there are others who might need my help. They take precedence."

Pallas recognised the tone. He knew the the social exhaustion that he was hearing in River's voice as if it was his own. He wasn't going to get any more out of this conversation, and he barely had the social battery to expand it himself. Besides, he still wanted to get started soon, so he wouldn't be blowing past anybody and raising others' ire.

You couldn't just start it and leave it at the finish line... He thought to himself as he left the new leader's audience. As he stepped away he saw that the line up was expanding, including an assortment of women, most of whom hadn't made the cut-off, but also curiously 'Haughty' from earlier who comfortably had.

His curiosity finished there for now, though.

No matter. Pretty much the same game plan as earlier. Ten minutes. Control pace, control breathing. You know how to do the crawl now. Technique up, strength down. Throw the stopwatch to the finish end of the pool, before you turn to get to the start. When you hit water, stay submerged and kick hard for as long as you can, to limit the time you're leaking. Control pace, control breathing. Precision, precision. Ten minutes, P. Ten minutes. He re-affirmed the game plan, instilling it into his being as he focused inwards, striding towards the start.

Without fanfare he hit the button to start the stopwatch and he jogged out to the tires, before exploding, his legs firing like pistons as he accelerated through the first obstacle on arrival at the tyres. Precision, precision. Perfectly placed feet as he burst through. His speed dropping quickly back to the controlled jog as he cut a path to the logs once more.

He completed the logs in identical style to the first attempt; hop, bounce, hurdle, box jump and box jump back to springboard over the last. His brething was balanced and perfect, as he returned to his bouncey jog advancing once again to the crawl.

He dove forward onto his belly, under the netting and immediately started and settled in to the technique he'd found worked best on the first occasion he'd attempted to do the course. This was a mental test as much as a physical one, but now he felt confidently reassured that he'd found the best way to progress through, he focused on his breathing and technique and made far better pace through the obstacle than the first attempt. He exited at a more stable pace, keeping his run within himself and his breath held steady.

He locked his feet on the rope and settled in to once again display perfect form up the rope as it stayed ramrod straight during his steady ascent. With a solid slap on the beam at the top, the rope again burst to life as he swung his way down, biceps swelling as vice like grips once again saw him rapidly descend the rope, avoiding ropeburn. Technique up, strength down.

Back to the bouncey jog, he exploded onto the rope bridge with his confidence brimming. He made great time on this last time, and now with his fine-tuned sense of balance, and precision over his body he could really take advantage of this obstacle as all movement within the system of the rope bridge was due to his own. He perfectly moved with the sway of the bridge and anticipated every motion of the apparatus. His run was building its own momentum now. He dropped down from the bridge, his breathing perfectly balanced, and the bouncey jog once again returned to maintain a steady pace.

Ten minutes, ten minutes...

He grabbed the rope swing and threw himself through again without losing stride. And when his feet squelched in mud once more, he didn't sweat a moment of it. He returned to his bouncey jog, knowing the arena's sands would speckle and dry his feet from the first run giving him fine purchase when he hit...

He exploded through the balance beam, practically breaking into a sprint on the ascent, his confidence bolstered from the knowledge that his minor concerns were proven waylaid in the first run. He let the steep ascent from the first beam steadily slow him, so that he merely moved at a rapid pace across the flat section before raising his arms briefly to make certain of his descent to not risk wasting the good work that was already in place. He needn't have bothered. He grabbed the stop watch just as he stepped from the beam, and got ready. He took two quick steps towards the far end of the pool and lobbed the stopwatch into the sands beyond the end, before quickly cutting back to continue his run towards the start of the pool.

He made sure to regain control of his breath in this, the pivotal moment.

Ten minutes. This is doable... Ten minutes.

Without hesitation he lauched himself into a textbook dive and began kicking, his arms forming a perfect 'torpedo'.

Stay submerged, kick-kick-kick. Stay submerged, kick-kick-kick. He held to game-plan, a stream of bubbles leaving in a steady exhale whilst he extended length on the elevated-pace entry stage to his swim.

There was no hitch. No burst to the surface gasping for recovery. Only perfectly executed plan. He eventually surfaced and began to pull through the remainder of the pool with strong freestyle strokes, before reaching the end and lifting himself from the water. Golden confidence as he began his bouncing jog to the ladder, but first, he opened up one side to drop his weight and sweep through re-gathering the stopwatch and--

The time was stopped.

Don't stop. Maybe this is something else.

He looked at the display and the numbers still held.

Oh wait. Maybe it fell on the 'Lap' button rather than the 'Stop' side...

He tapped the 'Lap' button and watched as the numbers all reset to zero.

Of course... No such luck.

With his time long gone, he returned the stopwatch and just focused on closing out his run.

Surely you're pushing ten minutes though. Or at least better than you were...

He threw himself against the ladder and took his frustration out on the physical demands of scaling the obstacle, making good pace as his arms and legs worked in unison, scaling the tallest monument in the arena.

If nothing else, it certainly feels better... Close it out.

He began a rapid descent knowing he wouldn't have to hold much back left in the tank for what little remained in the course, dropped from one rung higher than his first run, now confident that he could comfortably do so without harm to his bare feet, and broke out into a swift sand-skimming sprint towards the long jump at the end.

He lunged, this time with more thought for distance than he did on the first run through, when he had more mind for time and completion of the course. And turned to look back and gauge just how far the jump was, whilst pacing, remaining upright and concentrating on breathing through his core until his need and desire to bend over, hands on his knees, panting left his mind.

Surely that was ten minutes... Surely.

He kept pacing and considered the two runs.

It was better. That's enough. He answered his own clawing thoughts. That rising pride threatening to show its face and symbolise that he'd truly neglected to learn the most important lesson from the first run. Maybe I could have squeezed a few more seconds out, if I rode my confidence higher. If I had to.

But that aside, the self-assured promise that he could always do more. Always improve. The drive which would always see him arise early the next day to keep working, keep trying harder. But he hadn't shamed himself with this run, hadn't done himself an injustice.

He looked across the course at the others far in his wake, who hadn't been as eager to return to the scene of hurt quite so quickly. Many of them were in pairs, finding their way through the course already receiving aid from friends, presumably gained from their longer stay at the camp. Or perhaps getting to know new friends better.

He wasn't sure how to offer his own help without interjecting or forcing himself upon people. Made worse by being 'the guy who just ran through the course twice and now wants to show that he's better at X, Y or Whatever else'.

It seemed like a minefield.

Owl-eyes hung a few seconds longer just to make sure nobody really could use his help. They held an extra beat again at the waif-like blonde who didn't seem to even be able to consider how to approach the climbing rope.

That was something he felt he could actually help with.

But she'd already been smothered by her own brother, the big blonde guy, earlier and seemed to ardently push away help.

But could that be more of an issue of rejecting where the help was coming from.

Pallas looked down at the stopwatch in his hand and negotiated a meaningless promise with himself, bargaining over social interaction.

Go return the stopwatch, and get your shoes and socks back on, your clothes together... and if she still looks determined enough to try to figure it out, and hasn't got any other help. You at least ask if she wants some.

He cut a path to River, who now seemed to be running some kind of gym session with people pumping out pushups and basic exercise around his feet, and grunted out a 'Thanks' as he returned the stopwatch, before looking to the stands where he left his belongings and figuring out how to best get there from his current position.

He curiously looked around the prostrate assembly of bodies at the leader's feet in various stages of exhaustion, and began to make his way to the stands when--

“Oh my God, you have the most beautiful pair of eyes I’ve ever seen in my entire life,”

He stopped like he'd been stung.

That was... new. He'd never had anyone compliment his eyes before.

But then, until he came to camp he spent every public minute of his life wearing his brown contacts.

He was wary. Everywhere he'd been, the charter schools, the rich kids of class - and surely demi-gods weren't a far cry from those experiences - these first interactions were always something to be cautious about. They'd almost all been downright predatory.

But it hadn't been sarcasm. He felt no... it was hard to describe... vibration?

When people were deceptive, when they'd try to lie to his face. To trap him, to catch him out, their words were accompanied by something which was hard to describe, he'd feel it in his bones like an old man feeling a coming squall in his trick knee.

It didn't always work... or at least he didn't always pick up on it... and sarcasm certainly screwed with its effectiveness.

But his mother had told him that he had an innate ability to divine truth.

He just generally didn't see the benefit to being around people enough that he'd ever really had the opportunity to hone the ability.

In his own case, the most obvious way it had ever shown itself to him is that in twenty years of various martial arts, sports and other training he'd never bitten on a fake or feint. Ever.

So, he was pretty sure that the source of the comment. She genuinely meant what she was saying. Or she thought she did. For whatever that's worth.

“Oops!” Ariana exclaimed with a giggle, shifting up into a seating position and looking back up at the young man. “Sorry! Guess I should’ve at least introduced myself before I went off on you like that,” she simpered, mindlessly flipping her silky mane over her shoulder.

As the woman apologised for her spontaneous outburst, Pallas realised he'd been thinking far too long about what was just said, and left far too long without any reply to it at all.

As he took in all of the glory of the sight of the woman in front of him, Pallas didn't realise that all thoughts of the waif-like blonde and her prior plight with the climbing rope had been stricken from his mind completely.

“My name’s Ariana. Would you mind helping me up, please?” she asked the man, extending her arms in his direction and casually batting her eyelashes.

He shook the haze from his head and realised for some reason he'd stopped breathing entirely.

He exhaled and held out a calloused palm for Ariana to take.

"Pallas. ...or Paul."

^{interactions ....|.... River and Ariana............... mentions ....|.... Iliana (and unseen vague reference Heath), Wes, Maylisse ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Camp Athens - Closed

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"Good morning everyone. If it wasn't already obvious, I am River, your new leader… And son of Poseidon, if that matters."

"Per my father’s orders I’m here to help get camp back on track. Ajax let camp fall into disarray and my late brother was not around long enough to accomplish much."

"Andy stepped up when no one else did and helped rebuild… Which isn’t a small feat and her efforts shouldn’t be overlooked." He turned and gave the first woman Pallas had identified earlier. A new name. ‘Andy’, Pallas noted. "Now that everyone has had time to recover from the horrors of Pandora’s Box, my focus is going to be on training, the original purpose for camp… Not parties every night or the Greek tragedy that was the Valis’s chokehold on this place." River nodded his head, his pacing slowing until turning to face everyone head on. "No one likes training, but it’s important. The world won’t forget you’re demigods just because you ignore it. We can’t stop things from happening, but I can help prepare you all so if the time comes, you can defend yourselves."

‘Valises. Internal unknown politics.’ Pallas noted. ‘The horrors of Pandora’s Box’ another new term noted, but accepted as swiftly as the name ‘Andy’ and with just as little surprise. Merely a new fact brought to his attention to be catalogued.

"Alright. Because half of us here are new and I don’t know your capabilities, the first three days of training will be assessments. This will help get a baseline for where everyone stands so I can better tailor the training to you specifically. Today’s test is agility."

‘Three days. Your capabilities. Where everyone stands. Agility.’ Pallas’ mind echoed the important pieces of everything he was hearing. Agility was a strength of his, by his own consideration. Something he’d put years of time and effort in to bring to the fore. He suspected long ago that demi-god or not that he would never be a ‘Hercules’, so best to hone that which would most keep him alive until his mind could calculate a solution. Swift movement in controlled bursts was the kind of thing which could keep him alive in fights out of his weight class, but also had offensive benefit for when he had the initiative.

A further stroke of fortune and good sense for his fitness routine prior to the call to come here.

"There are ten obstacles, starting with the tires and ending with the long jump." Golden eyes once again scanned the course. "And while I could try to explain each one to you, I feel leading by example might be the best approach."

He considered what he saw, and his eyes narrowed. He could have done with more focus on burst-agility for a course designed to identify agility, but there was nothing here beyond him. His arms crossed and a palm came to his chin, as he stroked it considering the example he was about to be presented with.

‘Son of Poseidon. Someone who comes from a house which doubtlessly values and holds power paramount.’ Pallas suspected a strength baseline which was beyond his own, and that the water leg of the course would disproportionately be a point of difference between their efforts.

As he watched River complete the course, he noted a few places where he could gain seconds on River – the man leant more to strength than technique on the rope climb for one, he suspected he had a better method for the five log hurdles – and places where he’d likely lose seconds, the pool obviously chief among them.

‘Control breathing earlier and treat it like some Olympians deal with the short pool races. Dive crisp, stay submerged and kick as long as possible before surfacing.’ Limiting his strokes should get him through the pool stage faster. Although it would give less opportunity to display competency in that one skill, which may be against the spirit of the activity. Something else to consider…

“Nine minutes and thirty seven seconds.” His time was announced loudly. More to give the onlookers an opportunity to acknowledge what the benchmark that was just set actually was, in proportion to the course time limit. “You have fifteen minutes to complete the course—“ That time limit now stated aloud, clear for all to hear.

“—Because this is an assessment, there will be no skipping obstacles, no cheating, no powers, and no helping each other. Break any of the rules and it is an automatic failure.”

‘More than fine.’ Pallas thought to himself. Even beyond wanting to keep some cards close to his chest, he felt he was looking at a course where his own powers had limited additional value in the first place – remarkable for an agility course. Not to mention he was curious to see how he could compare with this ‘River’ and his recent benchmark unassisted anyway.

‘Ten minutes.’ His self-assessment concluded to himself, calculating the loss of seconds to the pool, and considering his own methodology and game plan for tackling the course. ‘Maybe Nine fifty-something if I handle the pool particularly well.’

River announced the first group of five, of whom he only recognised Andy by name. Still, he supposed it should provide another baseline for how the average camper would perform. This five had the largest man he’d seen amongst them as well, a dark looking individual who Pallas had thusfar been unable to place. A self assured smirk which briefly flashed through had him wondering if perhaps he was another son of Poseidon, before Pallas quickly dispelled the thought. The surface distances between how he and River carried themselves seemed too stark. Zeus then? For some reason Pallas doubted it, whilst the ‘self-assured’ part sounded right, he couldn’t see one like them trying to hide that confidence. Similarly that decision to stow the look didn’t ring true to those sons of Ares. He decided he’d spent more than enough time trying to crack a puzzle which might reveal itself later anyway, and considered the others. A mousey woman, who seemed to pray for the world to open up and devour her to prevent herself from being seen here. She certainly didn’t seem to have any self-confidence to hide in the first place, on first thoughts. Or maybe all of that self-confidence had been absorbed by the other woman amongst them – by elimination one was ‘Sloane’ and one was ‘Maylisse’ – who seemed beyond just self-assured.

The word ‘haughty’ flashed across his mind. This was a woman who certainly knew she was the child of a god, and carried herself in such a way that demanded you acknowledge it. He recognised that kind of hyper-confidence from the schools he had attended.

And finally, the other man who looked like he was about to engage in something fun. The sort of quiet confidence of one who didn’t fear any sort of failure in the situation, but was excited for the opportunity. He had exchanged words with ‘Andy’, none of which Pallas had any kind of context for, nor could he hear, and there was little time regardless. Since…

Then River started them off – fifteen or so minutes later and ‘Andy’ had ensured the self-assured smirk wouldn’t return to the biggest man again any time soon, and seemed to flash him with the kind of rage which would have had Pallas reconsider Ares as a possibility again, if he hadn’t eliminated the probability. The look of anger flashed away just as fast as the earlier smirk had. He couldn’t place the man. Regardless, he seemed no less impressive than the first impression his size gave off. ‘Haughty’ finished third. And well within herself. Pallas could tell she was capable of much more, but for whatever reason seemed to struggle with either herself or aspects of the course in places. And whatever frustrations she’d had with the course evaporated with the water as she seemed to once again hold her head high with dignity at the completion, regardless of whether she was actually satisfied with her performance. She was a clear daughter of Poseidon – the pool performance convinced him of that – her performance was more attainable than River’s was though, due to those issues. He doubted they’d be repeated if she had another chance at the course though, unless it truly had gotten to her head. The other smaller man seemed to struggle on energetically with enthusiastic vigour which never died, but waned as the course took its toll. More than a few stumbles, including one painful looking one, but his mad-dash scrambling made up for those issues.

And finally the mousey woman who clearly brought up the rear, her lack of confidence prior had seemed a true precursor. She looked like she’d been dragged through something backwards.

After seeing the first group, it was enough to send Pallas back to the stands. He pulled his shoes and socks off and left them with his breakaway pants. He’d been weighing whether they’d be beneficial since he first saw the pool stage. Having walked across the arena’s divine sands earlier, he decided it was worth it to reduce the drag on the swim and to gain ‘feel’ on the numerous log and rope balance stages.

He took the stairs back down again after in time to catch the second group’s attempt. This had a group of four women and one man, he found himself disappointed he’d missed the start because the first four seemed even faster than the first, overall – maybe they’d figured something out from watching the first group and changed tactics.

Instead he was left with mostly watching the woman who was bringing up the rear after the other’s completed the course, with a close finish.

She was… not doing well. Even by comparison to the mousey woman from the previous run.

And she purged her stomach’s contents at the end as evidence…

Pallas unzipped his tracksuit jacket, and was about to drape it over her shoulders when another man stepped in and intervened.

Pallas hit the skids. Very close to doing something stupid.

‘How much of that was your own decision, P?’ Was the first thought which passed through his head. But he felt confident it was his own thought, because as soon as he saw that someone else was tending to her the urge to lend haid himself subsided. He was satisfied that she was being looked after.

Allure doesn't work like that does it? If that wasn't my own thought, if I were being controlled, it wouldn't have stopped when I saw she was getting help. I'd still feel something... about needing to help, which is beyond just the help itself. Right?

Then that thought was followed up by another to highlight just how stupid it would have been, its not like he could have done it without anyone knowing who did it. The realisation that he was wearing an all-matching tracksuit, and his own stupidity blared cacophonously through his skull.

You didn't do anything. Nobody saw nothing. Blow the scene.’

He didn’t change speed to draw attention to himself. ‘Cool breeze.’

He walked on towards the start to watch the next group. But his mind was so busy spiralling he couldn’t really say he watched anything. Nobody approached the course in a noteworthy enough way to yank him from his own train of overthought. Including revisiting one of his main concerns.

‘That wasn’t one of Aphrodite’s daughters was it? That wasn’t at the root of your decision there. No. There wasn’t a pull. Was there? No. There was… social gravity. Someone was vomiting in front of you and needed it, so there was… pressure. But it wasn’t a draw. A pull. Not anything weird like… 80-something degree heat with snow falling all around.’

‘That’s not what that pull is like is it? A pressure you feel you can overcome, but really won’t? A pressure you can fight, but don’t want to?’

…

“Shit.” He muttered to himself.

‘She was in the second group too… so she would've had, what? An hour and a half, maybe? To feel better and watch you mill around. In matching athleticwear.’

‘And you don’t know anything about her. Complete wild card.’

And he found himself in the awkward jam of not being able to look back to try and figure out who she might be either.

‘More of that same social pressure, or something else.’

Those large golden eyes, boring through her like an owl. While he didn’t know who she was, he couldn’t imagine it would help things if she caught him staring at her after she vomited.

‘You are way too smart to be so stupid, P.’

The third group had wrapped up and all he noticed was the bouncy exuberant redhead he’d noticed earlier won her heat over a solidly built guy. One of the girls – a struggling redhead, contrasting the winner – in that group fared no better than the mousey girl in the first group. But he had taken on little more.

Pallas hunched and scratched his chin, looking on to the start line for the next group, in part just because he felt he realised he hadn’t moved in a while, and it didn’t seem like he was keeping in-line with that ‘Cool Breeze’ thought he’d had earlier.

Nobody else yet had finished in as bad a state as the girl he’d almost given his tracksuit top to, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that the group as a whole was at very disparate levels of ability and training.

Leo was in the next group and was getting ready. He seemed a little more focused than the energetic man in the first heat, but mostly, similarly non-plussed. But there was something beneath the surface, just waiting to explode.

And explode it did, as his blood raised instantly as they were urged to start.

He was in a only a group of four, and it made them much easier to watch. With the gap between him and second place being substantial.

And Pallas could easily see that second place as a proxy for himself. A solid, steady performance. But slowed by a connection to another in that same group. A relative, or possibly some other kind of relationship was clearly between them. But his performance lifted markedly once she urged him to run his own race.

‘Wise counsel.’ He thought to himself. ‘Not only to get him performing better with better focus, but also to avoid instant disqualification for the pair of them from the all too understandable sudden instinct to help, should the situation arise.’

Which he had so freshly been reminded of.

If Leo wasn’t the new frontrunner for the camp over River, at the conclusion of his run, then it was certainly close. Could even come down to time operation.

The trailing two girls finished about the same level as the mousey woman from the first group, and the struggling redhead from the last.

‘Alright… I think I’m getting a sense of the groupings… A strong performer or two, then steady competency, then a straggler. He’s bundled these groups so they’re less likely to get in each other’s way in their runs.’

Pallas could only watch the first few minutes of the next group, before he had to look away.

‘Yeah… there’s nothing positive to take away from this…’

Four girls and a one-armed man, and most of the girls seemed more enamoured with looking for style points on dress than any interest in proving competency in the course.

Pallas instead took the opportunity to stretch. It had been a while now since he had done his own agility work behind his cabin and he didn’t want to come in cold.

Enough could be said about the previous group by stating that the person who completed the course first looked nonetoopleased at what she’d just had to do. And then it mostly got worse from there. With a loud person who seemed to seek to be the center of attention bringing up the rear, who would be the lead candidate for the goddess of disdain and disgust if Olympus were seeking any openings.

His name was called in the next group.

Not particularly surprisingly. There was less than a dozen left uncalled, so it was probably about 50/50 odds.

The names Fiona, Colton, Heath and a semi-familiar Iliana drifted in and out of his mind. His focus elsewhere for now, making final mental preparations, based on what he'd already seen.

He dropped his unzipped jacket at the start choosing to run the course in just his matching athletic singlet and shorts; the singlet probably wouldn't provide too much drag in the pool.

With his plan well formulated in his mind, he took a brief glimpse at the other four people in his group. A diminutive red-headed girl who's expression suggested she was all too ready for things to kick off - this assessment or anything else. An unfamiliar man who was roughly Pallas' size, but gave off the strong aura of 'country strong'. Another blonde man, perhaps slightly larger than Pallas who's attention seemed to be distracted by the final member of their group. And finally, the small waif-like blonde from earlier who seemed nonetoopleased that the blonde man wouldn't stop fawning over her.

Brother-sister dynamic. Pallas quickly discerned.

Not that it was particularly relevant to the here and now, but it would probably be a useful note in understanding the dynamics of this place later.

Pallas took up a comfortable stance and awaited for the group to be given the all clear.

Ten minutes. Control pace, control breathing. Technique up, strength down. When you hit the pool, stay submerged and kick hard for as long as you can, to limit the time you're leaking on that leg. Ten minutes, P. Ten minutes.

And as River gave the signal to start, he seemed to spring across the top of the sands in a bouncey jog, as the other four burst out of the blocks faster. That gap between himself and the front two halved though after the first obstacle. Precision. Precision. True to the command, his legs fired in rapid succession like pistons, in precise timed accuracy as he sped up through the obstacle. His pace stalled to return to the bouncey jog immediately afterwards as he moved ahead to the next obstacle, counting off seconds in his own head in lieu of any clock provided for keeping track of their own performance.

He hopped the first and bounced over the second. Before putting some effort in to hurdle the third whilst never breaking that bouncey jog pace. He stopped and dropped his hips taking the fourth in a single box jump, stepping down on the other side. Finally he box jumped back to the fourth hurdle, using it to bounce off of it as he cleared the fifth without ever laying a hand on any of the logs, and clearing the second obstacle at a quick enough pace to pass briefly pass the other two campers.

Before the bouncey jog saw them pass him by once again.

He lost time on the crawl, as he attempted to figure out the best approach for the task. It was not an activity he'd ever performed before, and his solid build didn't help him in the close confines, but about two thirds through he settled on something which seemed most efficient and stuck pushed onwards with only a little frustration. Finally emerging from under the frame neck-and-neck with the larger blonde male. Putting a little more in to trying to come out first.

Before the bouncey jog returned and saw him comfortably reach for the rope fourth. But whatver time he'd lost between obstacles he started to swiftly make up with form. His bare feet locked the rope and with smooth arms he began his climb. It wasn't the fastest climb of the day, but his technical proficiency made it clear that he would have been fine if the rope were several times longer than the twenty feet, as the rope below him stayed ramrod straight and motionless throughout his incline.

This was contrasted heavily by what happened after the loud slap on the beam at the top, sucking a half-breath, as the rope suddenly burst into spontaneous life with uncontrollable shakes, as he climbed down using pure strength, with hands like vices on the rope and biceps starting to swell from exertion, avoiding rope burn on the decline. Technique up, strength down.

He bounced along to the next obstacle, where precise feet once again saw him make up considerable distance on the front two. He moved with the sway of the system, with accurate feet never missing, and riding the motion of the apparatus. After a minor gasp, he kept counting off the seconds under controlled breath, and felt confident that current trends would likely see him make up more time on the balance beams. By his estimate the frontrunner was a little off pace with River, he'd probably want to pass him by the pool though. It was unlikely that 'Country strong' could hold that desired pace to keep him in the hunt of his ten minute goal if he hadn't passed him by then. The smaller redhead though, he had no idea what to expect.

He bounced along after and never broke stride, grabbing the rope swing and hurling himself across the gap, before once again trying to re-find his breath control. He had cleared the water, but his feet squelched in mud at the end.

Brow furrowed, he bounced through the sand, hoping to dry it out by the beams, and was mostly successful. He accelerated into the beam, and didn't even raise his arms for balance on the ascent. His choice to run with bare feet paying off, even with the quick flash of fear from the mud only seconds ago. His balance was exquisite, with accurate feet pounding the beam with precision, he passed the red-haired girl, only raising his arms as he began the descent as his breathing hitched slightly.

He saw 'Country strong' hit the pool with a big splash and no finesse, and felt suitably buoyed by his chance to pass, and maintain that pace which would have ten minutes remain possible. With a contrasting perfectly textbook dive he counted the seconds and kicked, and kicked. Arms in a perfect torpedo as he looked to extend his submerged portion and minimise the distance for the slower strokes.

And then his breath hitched.

He burst to the surface, and with no small amount of irritation with himself, began to stretch out full freestyle strokes. Fundementally sound in nature, but clearly slower than his previous efforts as the gap remained. The other man hit the end of the pool first and scrambled out with strength and determination, and little mind for anything else. Pallas hit the end and pulled his form clear.

Breathing. Controlled breathing. You were so careful until you weren't.

He bounced along at a slightly accelerated clip watching the gap grow, before throwing himself onto the log ladder without breaking stride. He smiled as he watched the other man ascend. He was large and making good pace, using his strength well. Perhaps 'Country Strong' hadn't lost as much time to the first demonstration by River as he thought. He drove any more consideration from his mind, and focused on his own performance and the count in his head. If there were one obstacle you were given the all clear to use your powers on, this one would have been Pallas' choice. But he continued on working at finding a positive rhythm for his ascent - as his arms and legs worked in unison to haul his form thirty five feet in the air.

Turning, he began his descent. He would have to drop from closer to the ground for his decision to not wear shoes, but it still seemed like a sound one, all things considered. His count in his head had him behind pace, but he couldn't be sure he hadn't fast counted a few seconds in the pool earlier.

Finally, after interminable seconds he dropped to the ground, and the bouncey jog gave way to a rapid skim across the surface of he sand, as he broke for the final task, the long jump. 'Country Strong' had finished just ahead, but that didn't matter now. He hurled himself across the gap, his knees raising to his chest, before his legs stretched out to receive the ground on the other side. He bounced up to his feet and began to pace. His hands knitted behind his head, and breathing through his core, as the adrenaline coursed through him still.

He paced, and turned and paced some more. Irritation palpable, until he'd finally properly caught his breath a few seconds later.

He looked back at the pool with a furrowed brow.

No... that's not where it was. That's just where it hit you.

He re-traced his run. A hitch on the beam, a gasp on the rope bridge. Sucking in extra on the rope climb...

The crawl. It was the crawl. You overpushed at the end because you just had to get out first in front of someone you finished way in front of.

He scowled at his own stupidity and continued to pace. Controlled breathing doing nothing for him now. It was too late to put the air back.

Control pace, control breathing. You had a plan until you didn't. Pride is just the kind of stupid thing which will get you killed here. There's worse things than identifying it on an agility run and suitably getting slapped down for it. Still, all the same...

He approached the man with the clipboard and stopwatch, and asked the question he'd been working himself up to.

"Don't suppose I finished in under ten--? No? Stupid question..." He walked away, answering his own question feeling unworthy of an answer to something asked so clearly out of desperation.

^{interactions ....|.... Almost sorta Blair and River............... mentions ....|.... An obscenely large number of you ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

T H E B L U E B E E T L E
T H E B L U E B E E T L E

^{"God, look at this place! What a mess! A perfect microcosm of my life!"}

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 _________________________________________________________ Theodore Stephen Kord _________________________________________________________ 26 | It's complicated. Shut up Namor, Yes it's complicated! _________________________________________________________ Superbuddies / Kord Omniversal R & D | American A L L I E S & A N T A G O N I S T S A L L I E S & A N T A G O N I S T S & O T H E R S _________________________________________________________ [+] T H E S U P E R B U D D I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Booster Gold - A schmuck from the 25th Century. Also happens to be Ted’s best friend, if only because he knows him personally in both his chosen identities. When he was younger he was sent back in time to ruin Ted’s life and send him on a trajectory that would teach him humility under the pseudonym “Carter Johns” by a person who’s identity has thus far not been revealed… Neither he nor Ted knew this purpose at the time. He merely thought he’d met a new best friend. The two became reunited after he grew bored with his dead-end job as a security guard at the Metropolis Space Museum, stole a bunch of superhero artefacts and decided to try and make something of his life in a simpler time. He’s barely held in check by the supervision of Skeets – the security/automated tour guide of the museum that took the trip with him. He brings chaos to Ted’s life, but also friendship. But also chaos. Even for Ted’s already fairly chaotic lifestyle. He brings chaos. ◼ The Wasp (Janet Van Dyne) - Owner of her own fashion label, when Janet Van Dyne discovered that Ted was engaging in activities as Boston’s latest hero - The Blue Beetle - she became enamoured with the swashbuckling romantic connotations of the hero life. Outfitted by her husband Hank Pym, who is one of the foremost geniuses in the modern world, the Wasp packs a wallop that belies her diminutive size when in costume. Janet has stepped up and more than capably filled the team's leadership void in Ted's ten month absence. ◼ Ice (Tora Olafsdottir) - Tora Olafsdotter was formerly a security officer for a branch of S.H.I.E.L.D known as the Global Guardians, who dealt with providing security for foreign dignitaries and private citizens of international importance. Was also Ted’s girlfriend and a metahuman/mutant. In Ted's ten month absence she has since moved on, and is now in a relationship with Namor the Sub-Mariner. ◼ Fire (Beatriz DaCosta) - Beatriz Da Costa was Tora’s best friend and almost like a bigger sister for her when the two worked previously for the Global Guardians. She barely tolerated Ted and trusted that this whole thing will soon end once Tora comes to her senses, sees him for the geeky dork he is and dumps him for someone better suited to her. That was, until she began to realise she's fallen in love with the superhero lifestyle. She remains extremely protective of Tora. Bea is extremely supportive of Tora's relationship with Namor, in particular. Who she believes to be far worthier of her affections tha Ted. ◼ "Ant-Man" (Scott Lang) - If Tora and Bea's presence is there to prove that collaboration between humans and mutants/metahumans is possible, Scott's proves the idea of rehabilitation and the notion that its possible to walk back a life with mistakes. After being released from prison, Scott Lang was only able to get a job as a cleaner. The Cross brothers got to his parole officer, and attempted to turn Scott to rob those he was contracted to clean for. Including Hank Pym's RedAnt and Ray Palmer's PalmerTech. After finding a way to refuse to steal from Hank, the less stable Cross chose to kidnap Scott's daughter Cassie for further leverage before setting their sights on PalmerTech. With little to no time or planning provided, Scott needed a miracle. Or the next best thing, Pym Tech. Scott stole a suit with the capability of shrinking and changing mass of Pym's own design. He now had the means to potentially burgle Ray Palmer's secure building with the limited time available to him, and intended to return the suit upon completion. Then he met the Blue Beetle and the stingers of the Wasp. Fortunately, after explaining the predicament, the pair chose to help instead of punish and between the three of them were able to free Cassie and have the brothers Cross brought to justice. Now Scott Lang has a new parole officer, stable employment and a new place of residence - the Superbuddies, and their Headquarters 'The Embassy'. ◼ Maxwell Lord - A former CEO for a Fortune 500 pharmaceutical company, Maxwell Lord acts as a figurehead organizational leader planted by Ted Kord as a front for explaining where the money has come from in return for a share of the revenue streams. Unscrupulous and money-grubbing by nature, he can be quite a stringent taskmaster in keeping the team on mission to preserve their brand as heroes which makes up his mealticket. With Ted lost in time (leading to no more Kord investment), Max had tightened the belt on the team significantly, leading to the Embassy being far less luxurious than Ted's original vision. ◼ Hank Pym - Generally introverted and reclusive, Hank Pym also has numerous mental issues and social disorders which often cause troubles in his own life and for those who care about him. He very much loves Janet though and has joined the team out of a feeling of necessity. Even though this will actually mean occasionally dealing with people and spending less time at work in his lab. Might just be the smartest person in the world. Has no personal interest at all in the superhero lifestyle and his presence seems to hinge entirely on Janet's. ◼ L-Ron - A one of a kind Organisational tool of Hank's own design, inspired by Ted's own Butler Excel system - who clanks around making a nuisance of itself, but has no field capabilities whatsoever. ◼ Namor - The newest team member. Currently in a relationship with Tora Olafsdottir. Somehow, despite being literal royalty, does not own a closed shirt. Flies like an idiot with stupid flying fish ankle wings. Who the Hell needs him? ...although he is the strongest and most versatile team member with the most experience and blah-blah-blah experience in diplomacy and acting like a shirtless walking hard-on. Whatever. ...WHY DO YOU NOT OWN A SHIRT?!? A N T A G O N I S T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ "The Beetle" (Abner Jenkins) - K.O.R.D's previous Chief Financial Officer. Became disillusioned with the way Ted was running the company, after he had created the brilliant all-terrain exo-suit 'The Beetle' which Ted kept on the shelf for a later reveal when their first mission to Mars would be announced. When Tony Stark brought a similar item - the Iron Man armour - to the world's knowledge, and announced that it was not for sale, it left a hole in the market which the defence industry would be eager to see filled, and with K.O.R.D in a potentially advantageous position to exploit it. Ted Kord did not have the moral flexibility to do so. Abner Jenkins did. Ted overruled him. Abner Jenkins instead chose to apply pressure and show the world his creation at a public Expo. Where he believed shareholders would apply the necessary pressure and make it impossible for Ted to put the genie back in the bottle. Instead, Abner Jenkins efforts and pubic endangerment were foiled, he found himself imprisoned. With only Ted's promise to ensure Abner's wife Mimi still have access to his 401k pension and stock options. After his removal, Ted's longtime family friend Veronica Sinclair was given the role of Chief Financial Officer. ◼ "The Mad Men" (Farley Fleeter and Associates) - The head of the Farley Fleeter Advertising Agency and what remains of the skeleton staff as the company circles the drain. Planned to steal the Beetle suit from the New York Science Expo, out of desperation, to re-inject capital and give them all a piece of what would be the new Advertising Agency. The stylish Ad Men (and women) avoid recognition by wearing outlandishly colourful clothing and masks, and attempt to use superior numbers to succeed. Their efforts failed when it came to the Beetle suit, although they did manage to take the Blue Beetle's first B.B. gun in the chaos. Evaded capture and are still at large. ◼ The Squid Crew - The first criminals Blue Beetle ever fought, when he was first testing his equipment. Were caught rubbing a skyscraper with their suction cup equipped suits. Apprehended and currently serving time. ◼ "Major Disaster" (Paul Booker) - The supervillain who cost Ted Kord ten months of his life. Able to produce waves of Nega-Quantum affected energies, creating a field which expands and generates outcomes of increasinly negative probabilities. The team was able to defeat and apprehend the supervillain, albeit after the loss of the Blue Beetle. ◼ "Crossfire" (William) and Darren Cross - These brothers sought to capitalise on others work and efforts. First their intermediary Scott Lang, and then those who created the technology that they hoped Lang would steal for them. Darren Cross is a businessman, the head executive of of Crossroads Innovations, but his former CIA-operative brother is an unhinged, violent individual who doesn't seem to realise there are lines and things you don't do. The pair of them are nasty pieces of works. Both are serving time. And both probably have issues with Scott Lang, and now the team at length. K . O . R . D B O A R D A N D N O T A B L E E M P L O Y E E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Ted Kord - Chief Executive Officer ◼ Jeremiah Duncan - Chief Operations Officer ◼ Veronica Sinclair - Chief Financial Officer ◼ Randall Truman - Chief Marketing Officer ◼ Melody Case - President of K.O.R.D East Division (Boston) ◼ Curt Calhoun - President of K.O.R.D Central Division (Chicago) ◼ Conrad Carapax - President of K.O.R.D West Division (Pasadena) ◼ Angela Revere - Secretary to the CEO ◼ Murray Takamoto - Head of Cybernetics/Electronics/Online Security - P O S T C A T A L O G U E P O S T C A T A L O G U E _________________________________________________________ XX - Post Name -

T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... ___________________________________________________________________________________ Ted Kord is the pre-eminent astronomical engineer on Earth. He's also one of the most brilliant engineers in general. Unfortunately, he has been forced to swap his labcoat with a suit in order to take over the Chief Executive Officer role at the Research and Development company his father built, due to his rapidly declining health. Gifted with an eidetic visual memory, more money than sense and that engineering brilliance he was inspired by a growing number of superheroes to try his hand at going down the same path. After being publicly put in the spotlight, saving numerous lives during a crisis of some kind, Ted Kord chose to ride his wave of popularity to form his own privately funded Superhero team, called "The Superbuddies" which would combine human and metahuman/mutant heroes to show that collaboration across such lines was possible. Headquartering in New York, at a facility he designed called "The Embassy", the Superbuddies reputation has wavered between being seen as something of a joke, and uniquely competent as a team in a capes and cowls world. - - - After eventually finding their level and balance, the team took on a supervillain called Major Disaster, who's unique ability, coupled with Booster Gold's misplaced confidence in his own abilities saw team leader Ted Kord lost in time in the horrifying hellscape of 2002's New Jersey. What had been several weeks to Ted, was ten lost months before he was returned to his own time by Booster. Upon his return, he finds himself negotiating a world which has begun to move on without him. His company had started to right itself after an initial stock downtick, and concerning financial dips coinciding with his disappearance. The Superbuddies reputation has started to find its feet under the leadership of the Wasp, Janet Van Dyne. And his girlfriend, Tora Olafsdottir - the superhero known as Ice - had moved on and begun seeing somebody else. The new addition to the team, Namor the Sub-Mariner. - - - The Blue Beetle, Ted Kord has found his way back to our time. Now how does he find his feet in a world that seems to have come to terms with his not being in it? P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) __________________________________________________________________________________ Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go? We're bringing the LOLs. Bwa-Ha-Ha by the barrelful.

_{__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

^{"In the super hero game there's usually one fail-safe technique used to solve problems.
Beat the stuffing out of the bad guys. Other times you gotta use your brains. Or lack of them."___}

Camp Athens - Closed

---

---

Golden eyes burst forth from their lids, before the sun could do likewise.

Steady footsteps to the kitchen, he prepared a protein shake.

He gave the bookshelf a cursory glance on the pass. That was all the consideration it would garner for now, however. Now was not the time.

It was morning in a new place, and important to establish a routine.

He pulled on a pair of green and gold shorts, and a matching athletic singlet. He gulped deep from his shake whilst observing the snow resting on the ground outside, through his large window basking in the warmth of his cabin, before next adorning himself with a matching green and gold tracksuit top and breakaway track pants.

He pulled on tube socks and kicks.

He imagined there'd be people in various states of passed out to hungover, and smirked slightly at the thought of the opportunity his sobriety would give him to get the lay of the land and a good start to his day, without having to deal with too many people. There was the main arena, but he wasn't certain of standards of use regarding it, whether he could just go to work alone during his own hours or if it required monitoring. But more important still, he wanted to come to terms with the interior of the grounds. There were tracks and paths which interconnected all of the cabins in this place, and whilst he had walked the perimeter from beyond the walls, he still held his curiosities about the layout within the camp itself. A morning run along the paths would accomplish all goals at this stage, and thanks to the party last night the drawback of running into other people had likely been removed.

But first...

Pallas walked out of his front door, and cut back in behind the cabin into the woods. Tall trees and saplings. Tree trunks of various widths, he walked, eyes wide like an owls until he found an area as he'd hoped.

Five lean poplars in close proximity, about a yard and a half apart. Growing in the shelter of the taller timbers. He approached the trees and started to break off the branches, their slender brittle lengths giving way easily. The sun slowly rose behind him. He continued until he was left with only the lean trunks of the five poplars, standing before him in a 3-2 formation. He approached the middle one and slip'n'dipped. Shadowboxing the tree with open palm strikes and a commitment to focus on bob'n'weaves.

Precision of movement... Speed... Leverage...

Good balance starts with a solid base... But you still need to be able to move that base...

He finished shadowboxing the tree and took up a three-point stance, just to the left of the same central tree.

Never going to be the fastest... Never going to be the strongest... Not here, anyway...

He burst forward explosively, weaved around a poplar, then backpedalled to the left to round another, a rapid strafing slide around the center tree, before weaving around the one on the right and finally exploding forward beyond the last. Completing a weave around all five trees.

Not bad... He walked back to his starting point.

So you've got to know your spots. Pick your spots, get there quick. Solid strong base. Work angles, use leverage.

Another explosive burst, weaving, cutting, sliding, sprinting, strafing...

Better. Again.

Quickness, not speed... Know where to be, when, and be there...

He shot forward again; torque, burst, angles.

Again...

Again...

He was walking back to his starting position again, when he heard a voice echo around the camp, from speakers unseen.

"Good morning, campers. This is your new leader, River, speaking. It is currently 7:30 a.m. on January 1st. Your first training will begin in 1 hour, at 8:30 a.m., in the arena. Please arrive promptly and dress accordingly."

So there was training.

He mentally cancelled his morning's run. People would start to get on the move, and it didn't make sense to exhaust himself with cardio before their first session.

But how to fill the hour?

He turned and left the five sapling poplars standing steadfast from their own workout.

Back to his cabin, he bypassed the bookshelf again, added three eggs to a pot of water and set it to boil on the stove.

He moved on from the kitchen to check himself in the bathroom. The quick decision to workout this morning before he felt the other campers would be up, left him sacrificing appearance and first impressions for expediency. He put his hands on either side of the sink and ran the water, looking down and grabbing something from the sink before raising his eyes to the mirror.

His brown contact lenses. He smiled. There was no need to hide anymore. Not here.

The minor irritation that he'd always felt from wearing them, much like the minor irritation he'd had from actually having to.

Here he didn't have to pretend anymore. The initial dishonesty with anyone new he would meet was gone.

Or could be. Maybe.

His face firmed with resolve. He grunted out a snort.

Almost caught slippin'.

"Nobody's sucker. Paul Robinson, Pallas Robinson, ain't no difference. Nobody's sucker, either way."

"People will be as good as you let them be."..? His father's words echoed between his ears. Sure... but you give em an inch, they'll take a mile as well.

So let them show you who THEY are first, and then play them on their merits.

Seems prudent. If what 'you know' is true, there's a truly awesome amount of power within these walls.

He scooped handfuls of water and splashed his face.

He barely spoke to two people the night before. Of dozens. It exhausted his social battery, and left him in this stupid off balance place he was in now, where he thought he could let his guard down with 'like minded folk'.

As if the children of gods weren't the most dangerous people he'd met in his entire life.

He looked back at the golden-eyed face that watched his every move with an owl's eyes.

You look fine. He told himself.

He left the bathroom and scooped the pot off of the stovetop. Pouring out the hot water, and running the tap to fill the pot with cold water in its stead, until the eggs would be merely warm to the touch.

Taking them with him, he left his cabin and cut back behind it again, this time taking the shortcut for the arena. He cracked an egg against a tree and started to peel it on the go, dropping shell as he cut through the thin veil of brush and scrub.

Arriving through the smaller entrance, he cracked his second egg against the stone on the way in and looked upon who was already present.

Just the quiet man from last night. Poseidon's son, whose voice he recognised through the P.A. And a young brunette woman laying on one of the stands, using her coat as a pillow.

Already he coud see the arena's sands themselves sporting numerous obstacles and tasks for the upcoming training session.

Fitness tests?

He presumed this River probably wanted to know what he was working with. Remembering that he wasn't the only new arrival from the day prior. He wondered just how long everyone had been here, and who had the advantage of being here longer and forging existing relationships and connections.

He decided to move to one of the less conspicuous stands of the arena, and keep a watchful eye as others came in.

A young blonde woman came in and similarly staked out her own place alone in a stand. Pallas immediately identified her as a daughter of Ares. Purely based on appearance and the way she carried herself. The steely focus on the task which was to be at hand, didn't seem to cloud things either. She was the second he'd seen, and he didn't find too much subtlety with them. Which made its own kind of sense.

He looked back at the first brunette woman who was attempting to sleep, and tried to put his mind to her legacy and came up blank.

Then he noticed a second smaller blonde woman, and immediately wondered how long she'd been here. Waif-like she'd been milling around the entrance looking on. Presumably having been here a while before his notice. Which unsettled him. As surprises sometimes could.

Pallas cracked the third egg against the seat next to him and began peeling it.

How long had she been there?

Deciding it didn't matter, he struck it from his immediate thoughts. His immediate thoughts from watching her, pegged her as quiet and an introvert. Possibly even nervous. Easy for people like that to slip under the radar, because it was often exactly where they wanted to be - as a defense mechanism.

Pallas finished the third egg and quietly snapped off his breakaway sweats, folding them up and placing them on the seat beside him. Before a redhead burst onto the scene waring garishly bright fitnes attire that made sure he wouldn't make the mistake of missing her entrance like he had with the smaller blonde.

She made her entrance known and greeted people energetically. A vigorous wave to who he felt quite certain was 'River', bouncing to the smaller blonde woman.

They knew each other. He made a mental note.

As he'd previously noted, the blonde woman seemed quiet and introverted. Pallas deduced that she would have been considerably more uncomfortable if being greeted by the energetic extrovert quite vigorously if they weren't acquainted.

A one armed man approached next, approaching the focused blonde daughter of Ares from behind.

He'll be lucky if he doesn't lose the other one... He thought to himself, before concluding again that this pair also knew each other.

As more people began to filter in, and it became clear that whatever was going to happen would be starting soon, Pallas slowly began to walk down from the stand to the arena itself. The more people came, the fewer he could keep track of at once. And with his eyes looking on at everyone... it could very easily come across as 'creepy'.

The cost to the first impression were that to happen would probably more harmful than any information he may gain.

^{interactions ....|.... Nil............... mentions ....|.... River, Andy, Trinity, Iliana, Wes, Leo ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Hound55>

Just wait till I introduce Ted as a functional mute, forcing you to apply as him.

@Sep

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

That post ended up being very back-and-forth dialogue-heavy. Hopefully it is enjoyable to read.

@Sep

You just described my entire catalogue in recent years...

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

Okay, so inspiration struck me not long after I announced I would be retiring Question and Huntress.

Hit it.

Dracula's #1 Hater

M O O N K N I G H T
M O O N K N I G H T

^{"I was given a second chance. Don't know why. All I know is that I need to do my best to make sure it counts for something."}

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 _________________________________________________________ Marc Spector Steven Grant Jake Lockley _________________________________________________________ 26 | Single _________________________________________________________ Unaffiliated | Jewish-American N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S _________________________________________________________ [+] - A B I L I T I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ N/A Marc doesn't possess any metahuman or mutant abilities. At least it seems that way... - T O O L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ MOON KNIGHT ARMOR A form fitting black jumpsuit padded with kevlar and white armored breastplate, gauntlets, and boots. A black face mask and white hooded cloak completes the ensemble, with the cloak doubling as a glider. ◼ COMMS EARPIECE An earpiece in Marc's left ear that allows him to communicate with DuChamp. ◼ CRESCENT DARTS Small darts in the shape of a crescent moon, flung at criminals to disarm and disorient them. ◼ TRUNCHEON A decently sized baton that can be broken down into two smaller clubs held together by a chain. The chain within is also deceptively long, able to be used as a grappling hook if Marc needs it. ◼ HELICOPTER Mostly piloted by DuChamp, though Marc occasionally takes it for a spin. It's a plain and nondescript helicopter capable of seating four passengers and two pilots. What, did you expect it to be moon themed too? - N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S _________________________________________________________ [+] - S K I L L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ MARTIAL ARTS Marc is a trained martial artist, skilled in Krav Maga and Judo as well as traditional boxing. ◼ MARKSMANSHIP A trained soldier, Marc is skilled with all sorts of firearms and even some heavy duty machine guns and artillery. He's also skilled with thrown weapons such as his crescent darts. ◼ INVESTIGATION With a keen eye and clever deduction skills, Marc is able to crack cases that would leave most men stumped. ◼ PILOTING Marc is skilled in operating various land, water, and aerial vehicles, though he prefers to let DuChamp fly the chopper. - T A L E N T (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ PAIN TOLERANCE Marc was built tough. Over the years, he's gone through severe injuries that would leave most men down for the count, but not Marc. He gets back up and he takes even more punishment. -

T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... ________________________________________________________________________________________ Born to a rabbi in Hub City, Illinois, Marc Spector was raised to be a good man, one who sought to solve conflicts with words and not violence, one who studied the Torah and believed wholeheartedly in his God. He doesn't know where it all went wrong, but maybe it started with the visions of two boys named Steven and Jake, two identities that would become part of his own. At the age of 12 he was interred at the Putnam Psychiatric Hospital in rural Illinois, where he would stay until he was 19. His father passed away then and Marc was allowed to leave the hospital to attend the funeral. At the memorial service in his childhood home, he took the chance to sneak off into the night. Enlisting in the Marine Corps, Marc served for three years in Syria where he saw combat in war torn urban environments and out in the desert. However, he was prone to episodes where he would wander off in the middle of the night, eventually being found wandering in a minefield without any clothes on. His commanding officers did some digging into his past and discovered his time at Putnam. As soon as this was discovered, Spector was dishonorably discharged and was going to be put on a plane back to Illinois where he'd be put back in Putnam. Marc did the obvious thing and went AWOL. Acting as a gun for hire mostly and occasionally partaking in underground fight rings, Marc drifted around throughout Syria and the surrounding countries for a year before he was found by Jean-Paul "Frenchie" DuChamp, a fellow mercenary who became his partner. The two traveled all over Africa and the Middle East, partaking in many paramilitary operations. Three months ago, they met a man named Raoul Bushman, the leader of a mercenary group operating in Africa. Marc and Frenchie joined up with him for a job investigating an archaeological dig site on the border of Sudan and Egypt. There, they found that an ancient Egyptian tomb had been uncovered with riches unlike anyone had ever seen. The head archaeologist, Peter Alraune, pleaded with the mercenaries not to disturb the site. In response, Bushman gunned him down. He was going to do the same to the rest of the dig crew when Marc sucker punched him. In the chaos, Alraune's daughter Marlene and a few of the dig crew managed to escape. Bushman shot Marc in the chest before going on to execute the members of the crew that hadn't been able to escape. As night fell, the mercenaries left the dead and the dying behind. Marc crawled his way into the ruins, where he found himself beneath a statue of Khonshu, the Egyptian god of the moon. Marc died in the tomb beneath the statue. "Rise, my Fist." And then he lived again. Donning a white robe, Marc set off after Bushman and his men. He assaulted the town they were terrorizing and made short work of Bushman's mercenaries. After rendezvousing with DuChamp and Marlene, Marc found that Bushman was long gone with no trail left behind to follow. He offered to escort Marlene back to the States, the young woman accepting but deciding that it was the farthest she would go with Spector, as she blamed him partially for her father's death and as such wanted nothing to do with him. The trio returned to America, Marlene taking her leave and walking out of Marc and Frenchie's lives for good. The two men found themselves in Marc's hometown of Hub City, barely recovering from a devastating societal collapse the year prior. Marc, plagued by visions of Khonshu, was driven to vigilantism by his patron's desire to watch over the travelers of the night. Donning the guise of Moon Knight, Marc stalks the streets of Hub City with DuChamp as his faithful pilot and companion, while Marc's alters Steven and Jake build a fortune and gather intel on the streets respectively. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ The thing that got me hooked on Moon Knight wasn't a comic book or even the Disney Plus show, it was actually a run in one of these various DC/Marvel crossover games by our beloved Hound55. His Moon Knight run in Master Bruce's Ultimate One Universe intrigued me and led me to checking out more of the character in the comics and I fell in love. If the Question is my favorite DC hero, Moon Knight is easily my favorite Marvel hero. I've only ever written him very briefly in a previous game, so I'll have to find my footing there, but I hope to do a good job with it. I don't have much in the way of an overarching plot beyond Marc's eventual rematch with Bushman, intending to do a fairly episodic and serialized run where Moon Knight will tackle everything from bank robbers and mobsters to vampires and werewolves. I'm setting him in Hub City so that I can be relatively self-contained, but I do hope to see Marc occasionally travel to other cities or have other heroes come to the Hub for the sake of crossovers. In regards to Hub City's usual vigilante, one can assume he's off traveling the country as per my previous concept, and the events of Denny O'Neil's run of the Question occurred in some form which led to the city collapsing in on itself and only just recently regaining a semblance of law and order. Also, I'm taking Marlene out of the picture because honestly, I just don't really find her that interesting. Sue me.

---

@Simple Unicycle

Give that man a shield faceless mask disconcerting amount of firearms and some John Woo camerawork debilitating mental illness and a truly disturbing penchant for ultra-violence!

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

"You made it sound like you were giving us Kirby 4th world, meets Kirby Captain America... and now that I read this, it seems more squints... Captain America S.H.I.E.L.D meets Archer..."

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

C A P T A I N A M E R I C A
C A P T A I N A M E R I C A

May 1944

Steve Rogers greets the various dignitaries and society's more successful sons and daughters with politeness, a smile, and a crisp handshake which draws guffaws from some of the more liquor and humour-filled gentlemen.

James Buchanan Barnes had been booked elsewhere for this one. A debutante ball, the coming out party for some of the more eligible youth of the city. Doubtless being fawned over by the girls in attendance.

The Army seemed to almost have them on double-duty, wringing out every dollar they could before they'd be sent off-shore to the front, where they'd doubtlessly be used more indirectly to raise more with tales of what CAPTAIN AMERICA AND BUCKY BARNES! were up to.

Still... it'd keep the boys armed, and all went to the war effort.

It never sat well on his shoulders though. Even these new broad ones. The American Army. Not 'One Man's Army' where all your sons had lesser roles, to potentially die for a country which dedicated itself to a man's right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

He understood as much as anyone could the importance of the propaganda movement, but when he was put on a pedastal over the rest... it didn't seem to be consistent with any of what he'd been taught was America's own story about itself.

Give a King the boot just to fight for an nation's army where one man stands above as some idealised figure.

An idealised figure who happened to have blonde hair and blue eyes, as well. The fact was certainly not lost on him.

Talk of Nazi fifth columnists was already rife. He'd busted a few small Nazi sympathiser groups here himself already. He was all too pleased to actually be put into action to do something positive about the issue at home. For what little he could do. He'd be concerned about more goose-stepping out of the shadows if not for the fact that his activity had seemed to inspire other similar minded folks to take action against similar groups already. Some from the shadows, others more at home in the light. Forming their own Society for justice, they'd seemed to rise up more out of inspiration to action than from any real organised movement.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, for your edification tonight, we have a real treat. What was once called 'An Experiment in Modern Music', we have here tonight, Big Band-leader Paul Whiteman, and George Gershwin himself, to present Gershwin's own groundbreaking, experimental masterpiece 'Rhapsody In Blue'. And so, without further ado, I leave you to Mister Paul Whiteman..."

Steve heard a small mumble of dissent to his right and looked over the disagreeing party. 'Rhapsody In Blue' had been critiqued quite harshly by many... Wagner-enthusiasts as vaguely 'derivative' and 'stale'. And whilst disapproval alone certainly wasn't reason enough to suspect the gentleman of other sentiments some of those people shared. It did certainly make Steve curious about the root-cause for his disapproval in the first place.

He ran eyes over the man, dressed in his crisp suit. Bespectacled, the light shone too bright to clearly make out his eyes, but the man had soft features. Approaching middle age. A tall wine flute in front of his face, paired with the spectacles obscuring his nose and mouth, combining to mask his face.

"Sir..?" Steve asked.

"Hmm? Oh. I was just thinking 'the most groundbreaking and experimental aspects of 'Rhapsody in Blue' could have been regularly found on a hot Harlem night at the Alhambra.'"

Steve's back relaxed, with the response. He hadn't expected that response, but was willing to be pleasantly surprised.

Rare would be the Nazi who would be willing to pay respects to the African American community and their role in jazz.

The bespectacled man took a drink from his glass and lowered it. A wry smile crossing his gentle face. He too seemed pleasantly surprised with the response to his comment.

It seemed it was equally rare to find the man who wouldn't seek to diminish the African American influence and their role in jazz, regarding their influence on the works of the highly respected Mister Gershwin.

"I can't tell you I've given much thought to music appraisal. If I'm being perfectly honest."

There was no aggression in his words, it was as if the bespectacled man's comments had just called him to 'Rest'.

"Abraham did say he had found a good one."

Abraham. He knew--

"Dr Erskine. Yes. He's one of the few people I've known in my life, who I've never known to introduce me as 'a sensitive fellow'." His wry smile creased wider, in reflection of his friend.

"I think--" He continured, in reflection. "I think it's because..." He started, before realising he needed to add some context.

"I've heard him mention a few times that the ideal world would be one in which a woman, a black man, or any hypothetical caste or class that a society may most deem as 'lowly' or 'lesser than' can ascend to the pinnacle of power and respect in their own field of endeavour, and such a thing would not be remarked upon, because such a thing is no longer seen to be remarkable."

"Some dream, isn't it? But I think that's why he never referred me as a 'sensitive fellow', because I think he-- liked the thought of a world where the ways I think, ways we thought, aren't viewed as the wispy dreams of a sensitive man, and are merely the way the world we woke up to happens to be."

Once again, the glass held long in front of his face, in reflection of a better world. Before finally taking a sip, and then making a sudden realization.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, Mister Rogers. I neglected to introduce myself." He placed his glass on a passing tray, withdrawing a napkin in payment and held out his other outstretched hand in the regular cultured greeting.

"Wesley Dodds. And if even half of my father's stories are true about the Great War, I don't envy what you're about to be marching into. But I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for your service."

His hand shake was firm, but held no test of his mettle. This wasn't a man for such things.

"Dodds. Not enlisting yourself?" Steve asked.

"The war effort is not yet so dire, that they're relying on this aging body just yet." His smile cracked with the remark. He'd started to turn the napkin in gentle hands.

"But should it come to it..." Wesley shrugged. "Not a one of us can change the world ourselves, nor should we hope to. The best we can do is bend it back in the direction we hope it to be. And that sweet dream I mentioned before? Well, for that to be the dream that we one day wake up to. Then a man like this Hitler - and there will always be men like this - these men MUST fall."

He kept manipulating the napkin, as he spoke, almost without thought.

"I'm not a warlike man, Mister Rogers. In fact, I believe you'd be hardpressed to get me to go along with most international conflicts - after my father's stories, the way he was when he returned home, political frittering and arguments over lines on a map, in search of colonies in the Philippines? That's not for me. But I do believe that THIS fight is a just one."

"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour!" Another man approached the pair. This one larger, and far more full of excitement than Dodds had beeen. Clapping Steve on the back.

"Hello, Rex." Wesley simply offered, a gentle attempt to keep Rogers at ease, displaying prior knowledge of the boistrous man who was now upon them.

"Rex Tyler. I saw you over here talking with Wesley and just thought I'd come over and make sure somebody kept you awake!" He held out a palm in greeting. This one absolutely searching for a test of strength.

"Wow. The grip on you! A-dolf better mind his Ps and Qs!" He emitted a low whistle, stretching out his hand afterwards. Steve had enough experience dealing with people like Rex, that he knew the kind of interaction he was hoping to have with him.

"Rex here, like Dr Erskine, had also been looking into similar methods of--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's not compare the work I've been doing to the only successful administration of the Super Soldier Serum. Sorry 'bout your loss with Erskine, by the way. Only met him a few times. Wes' here seemed to get on with him better."

The uncomfortable pause seemed to beg for an explanation of what work Rex had actually been doing.

"Well... in the light of Erskine's success. The American government looked into various means of creating various weapons, both human and otherwise. There's the work I've been doing in the pharmaceutical sector, then... well, anyone other than Captain America I'd keep my mouth shut... but down in _{^{Los Alamos}} they're working with radiation. Stupidly dangerous, if you ask me. Not that you did. But yeah, like I said. I've been working in the pharmaceutical sector, something a bit different than what you went with, which was aiming for a rounded self-sustainedupper level limit. I'm more working on... ehhhh... Red-line-and-recovery."

"Red line and Recovery?"

"Yeah. In response to finding 'Psycho Pills' on Nazi soldiers out in the field. I'm currently contracted, working on this 'Miracle drug' pharmaceutical flipside of what Erskine did for you. Basically a short term pill solution that will give a quick HIGH LEVEL 'red line' performance, which the human body can struggle to maintain, and then safely secrete waste toxins in a recovery phase."

"And you-- you've been able to come up with this miracle drug? A breakthrough?"

"Ha! Relax, Cap. You're still one of a kind yet. I mean, I've made in-roads... I've got ideas... but, nothing I'd feel would be safe enough to distribute widescale across the US Army."

"As glib as Mister Tyler can be. He's very thorough, and highly competent with his work."

"...and that's about as glowing as Mister Dodds praise can get. So with that, I'll quit while I'm ahead and take my leave. Don't go winning the war til I can come up with my Miracl-- oh!" Rex realized how loud he was discussing his highly-sensitive project and mimed zipping his lips shut, before pointing to both Captain America and Wesley, suggesting they do likewise.

"I should go and find Diane. She'd never forgive me if I had the opportunity to introduce the pair of you and missed the boat. Would you please wait here for me?" He put the finishing touches on his napkin, now perfectly folded into a small eagle, it's wings outstretched, and handed it to Steve, before intending to cut a path to find this Diane in the throng of people.

"A hobby I picked up in the Orient, when my father sent me there for my studies." He explained.

Steve looked at the folded paper, the detail belied the minimal effort he had seemed to put into the work.

"Dodds." He asked before the smaller man could leave. Wesley turned back to look at him.

"When I shook your hand. Your breath. You were drinking ginger ale."

Wesley raised an eyebrow, but his smile remained. Not entirely sure of what Steve Rogers was saying to him.

"You were drinking ginger ale. And this." He held up the origami crane.

The unspoken connection.

Origami found by police and reported in the papers at several smashed crime scenes, of both criminals and fifth columnists across New York alike.

The ginger ale to keep his head for further activities tonight, after the pomp and circumstance that the pair had subjected themselves to, tonight in this place.

The strange sightings of the man capable of great feats of strength and daring beyond that which most men could even imagine, albeit for only one hour.

"Mister Rogers. I believe I thanked you for your service. Both for the Hell that you're going into, and that which you've performed for your country already. The nation will be in good hands whilst you're gone."

Then, with that, Wesley turned and went back through the crowd to find Diane.

* * *

June 1944

_{"EXTRAAAAA! EXTRAAAA! CAP SHIPPING OUT TO GIVE OL' ADOLF WHAFFOR!"}

"Scrap' there's no way that's in there."

"Latest edition." Cap flipped him a nickel. The boy made with the newspaper. "Keep the two-bit."

He opened the paper up and gestured to the contents to the small boy. A judgemental expression on his face.

"Hey! Editorial licence." Patrick 'Scrapper' MacGuire replied with his thick Brooklyn licence and a shrug, before pulling his hat down over his eyes with a cheeky grin.

"So how'd you hear?"

"There's chatter. Just cos it ain't fit to print don't mean there ain't chatter."

Steve didn't like it. Shipping out to storm some beach in France, and already a kid like Scrapper knew when he was about to depart.

"Jes' you make sure you sock ol' A-dolf one on the jaw for the Scrapper."

"It's getting hard to keep track of his tab at this point."

"Yeah well, jes' make sure he makes payment. Didn't get into the newspaper business to have people skipping out on the readies. Goosesteppin' rat-zis or whoever."

It was as simple as that. He had to march his way to Berlin to collect. Scrapper MacGuire told him so. IOU one sock in jaw. Machinegun fire be damned.

"Yeah well, gotta be going, Scrap'. Take care of your mother."

"Hey! Whadda you know about my mother? You watch yourself! You have any idea how many papers I could move sayin' Steve Rogers is my Dad?" The cheeky grin returned.

_{"EXTRAAA! EXTRAAAA! YOU HAVE GOT TO READ THESE GOSSIP PAGES! CAPTAIN 'MERIC--!"}

"Don't you dare, Scrap'!"

Laughter echoed from Patrick MacGuire's corner as Cap made his way to the docks.

* * *

Modern Day

They're gone. They're all gone.

Everyone Steve knew was dead.

The adults he didn't even bother to check. But Bucky's friends, and the kids he knew. He went digging online, both alone and with some help. Just hoping for any outreach. Any possible connection, that he may have had, who might just be much, much older today.

But no. Everyone he could think of.

He sat in the small room he was provided, in the S.H.I.E.L.D facility - the legacy of friends he had, and their attempts to clean up and finish the job he'd started in World War II - holding the small device that could connect the world, but held no living connections left for him.

What... are you gonna do now, Rogers?

He seemed to be getting pushed into a box.

Not by anyone specifically. He wouldn't have stood for that. Not after the war. Not after the Pits.

But by fate.

There was just so little options that actually made sense for him, to the point that he felt he was being guided to a singular solution.

What, was he going to just be a man from 1945, making new friends, new connections, a new life, from scratch in 2025?

What possible frame of reference could anyone have to try and get to know him, or he them?

He raised his head and looked at the S.H.I.E.L.D logo that adorned the wall.

The logo of the organisation that was the remaining legacy of friends. Who sought to finish the job they started, and couldn't before their deaths. Friends who had continued in his absence.

Friends who had always shouldered each other loads. In the muck and the mire, under inclement weather and under gunfire.

It was a choice which wasn't even a choice.

Fate was stuffing him in a box.

* * *

"--your team. This, is Sam Wilson. Codename: Falcon. For reasons which will become more than apparent."

"Hey."

"Hey." Rogers matched the greeting.

"This is Sharon Carter. Codename: Thirteen. An immensely skilled infiltration and espionage specialist. I would not recommend attempting to initiate contact with Thirteen in the field. She will find the means to communicate with you."

"Besides," interjected another blonde haired man seated amongst them, leaning back on two legs of his chair eating an apple, "its not like--"

"Careful..." Sam warned, trying to put the cork on this before it got messy.

"--she's one for--"

"Where are you going with this?" Sharon cut him off.

"Well, there's 'cool professional' and then there's--"

"Barton, just don't man."

"What?"

"Frigid."

"..." Sam shook his head in the uncomfortable silence.

"Barton," Agent Thirteen spat between gritted teeth, "they will never find your body."

"So I'm just like any other man someone went looking in your room for?"

Carter burst to her feet, slapping both palms down on the table. Fury finally interjected. "Carter, down."

"BARTON."

"What? She can't expect to serve me up a target like that. I never miss." He turned the apple and took a loud bite out of the fresh side.

"And the man making the first impression which is... sadly indicative of what you can expect from here on out, is your final subordinate, Clint Barton. Codename: Hawkeye. Sniper/Weapons specialist."

"Wait... Fury? Subordinate--?" He erupted from his recline, straightening in an instant.

"That's right." Nick Fury flashed a grin, that suggested he revelled in his selection of those words. Guaranteed to get under the blonde man's skin as much as anything.

"He's been inactive for decades! What could possibly make him qualified to tell me what to do?"

"Besides a pulse? A functioning brain?" Sharon shot back.

"Not now. We're not talking about your uncontrollable unrequited love for me. There's bigger fish to fry here. Or are you okay with having to answer to Captain Relic over here?"

"Personally, I didn't have a problem with it. And now that I see you do, I'm feeling better about it every minute."

"See, my feelings shouldn't have such an impact on you, Carter. You really need to let this obsession go."

"Wait-- what is all of this anyway. I thought you were seeing--"

Clint started to shake his head and mouthed 'No' at Sam.

"Who was it... Agents whoozit--? What happened?"

"It didn't work." He said flatly.

"Well, you know now I'm just going to ask her." Sharon said. The thought of avoiding transferral of intel to Sharon Carter a near impossibility.

"I-- may have called Agent 24... Agent 42s name."

"You're such a pig."

"Hey! You're in no position to say that... well, not unless I ever get you in the position I had Agent 47."

"Ugh..."

"That... really wasn't enjoyable for anybody in the end. I just started to feel bad." Clint grimaced in retrospection.

The cracked stone faced look of disgust on Fury's face as he saw a world of HR despair unravelling itself in front of him, was enough to prompt his leave.

"Rogers. Your team. I need to be elsewhere. If anyone asks, I heard none of this-- whatever this has been."

Steve looked around the table at the three people forming his new 'Team' and how he was supposed to bring this rabble together.