Hmm. Does anyone want to jump in and spearhead that, or should I have Lynn do it in my next post? I was waiting for someone else, but I can do it if y'all want.
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Evil Ghost Note
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Most Recent Posts
Sheet posted, happy to make any changes that are necessary.
Name:
Coyote-Teeth. She goes by Livia, or Liv, now.
Race:
She is a human.
Age:
32
Height:
5'11
Weight:
135 lbs.
Appearance:
Perhaps the best word to summarize Liv is harsh-her hair has only just begun to grow back after an unforgiving buzz cut, her face bears its fair share of scars, and her smiles are about as commonplace as the Enclave these days. She has neither the frail build of malnourishment or the thick curves of someone with an abundance of food-lean, sculpted muscle clings to her arms and legs, the strength built from hard labor and many miles. Her skin is a dark bronze, a mixture of her heritage (while her tribe no longer exists, it lives on for a little while longer in her skin tone and features) and years spent traversing the open plains and deserts of the Southwest. Her hair is a dark brown-at one point, she enjoyed braiding it back, but after a few scuffles where her long, all-too-easy-to-grab-a-hold-of-hair was used against her, she elected for a more pragmatic look. It currently has the disheveled lack of a style you’d expect from a traveler-it’s been a bit since Liv has crossed paths with a mirror, and she’s not particularly concerned with her appearance any longer. On her right bicep she has a tattoo, one that has faded with the years (quality ink is in short supply these days), which is an assortment of curves and lines, jagged symbols she barely remembers the meaning of. Running vertically across her stomach are two scars, faded, but relatively fresh. She wears a set of Brotherhood dog tags around her neck, albeit she usually keeps this hidden and discreet.
Equipment:
She travels light, and carries only what she needs. She has no use for scavenge or scrap, and gets away with the bare minimums. A few canteens for water, flint and steel, a blanket, a pouch of old a herbal remedies, an emergency wallet of NCR money, Legion denarii, and old-fashioned bottlecaps, a pair of binoculars. She carries this in a worn but functional pack, slung by one strap across her chest. For everyday wear, she generally makes use of a leather jacket (it’s got holes and is bound with duct tape in a few places), a pair of mirrored sunglasses, time-tested combat boots, and jeans. She had a set of armor-way back-but it was too bulky to carry on the move. She carries some bandages and gauze, and a small cluster of nightshade is pinned to her lapel, perhaps where she can rip it out with her teeth if necessary.
Weapons:
Liv’s an old-school kinda girl. She wields a machete, fashioned as a gladius. It’s name is Gaul¬. When Liv was more warrior than scout, a number of NCR dogtags hung from the pommel, but these are a bit conspicuous now. She keeps it well-honed and ready for use, and the trusty weapon has never let her down thus far.
While Liv is not fond of firearms, she understands the necessity for them, particularly in her newest line of work. She carries a Winchester 1892 Short and just enough ammo to squeak by-she rarely uses it.
Specializations:
Liv is an adept scout and skilled survivalist. She has trekked many miles, nursed many wounds, and brought down many foes with nothing but what she could carry at a dead run. She’s an adept close-quarters fighter, making up for her lack of raw muscle and size with technique, experience, is and brutality. She’s determined and cunning, but also possesses the capacity for discretion and patience-she has learned that moving erratically will only earn her more scars, and as such she takes time to plan and think over her strategies. She’s an experienced combatant and cowers from neither pain nor (seemingly) imminent death-she’s faced both before, and come out roughed up but still kicking. From her time in the Legion and her time as a tribal, she has a number of natural remedies and poisons-these are crude and inefficient, but effective.
Other:
Negative Attributes:
First and foremost, her inexperience with technology. Liv, as per Legion doctrine, shies away from using electronic crutches, and she’s rather baffled by anything related to computers or even mechanical repairs. Her general response to robots is to smash them into scrap metal, and she underestimates their capability and intelligence. Secondly, while she can handle a rifle, she’s no Annie Oakley, and generally only uses it when she absolutely must. She’s also averse to modern medicine, and while she understands basic first aid and can patch herself up, she’s ignorant to the nuances of medical theory-if willpower and her tribal cures can’t overcome it, then it’s bad news for Liv.
Biography:
The most obvious question, I’m sure, is not only how a woman came to like the Legion, but how a woman was able to join the Legion. The first is rather simply answered-they offered security where others could not. Coyote-Teeth (so named for her tendency to painfully bite her siblings and friends while wrestling) grew up far outside the NCR’s civilized towns or Megaton’s safe walls. She watched friends get mauled by the beasts of the Wasteland, had to witness the Hobbesian demonstration of what Raiders are capable of when no one’s watching. Mothers dying in childbirth, fathers dying in fighting. It was a tough existence, and while she didn’t know it as a young girl and teenager, she longed for something more substantial.
It came wearing crimson and speaking through a vexillarius’ lips. Coyote-Teeth was immediately fascinated with the Legion-because they brought immediate results. The costs in freedom were well-worth the feeling of genuine security, the sudden peace her people obtained. While her brothers and male friends were conscripted, it didn’t seem a tremendous loss-after all, their life expectancies were not tremendously high, and service in the Legion was temporary. Being tasked with carrying children for Caesar? She hadn’t expected to live in a world where she could raise children safely, securely-she’d have as many sons as he needed if she knew they wouldn’t be killed young, wouldn’t be taken by mutants or slavers or disease. The Legion’s rule was not an enlightened one, but it was prosperous-her people and village began to grow steadily and surely, the enemies they’d been too weak to defeat now brought low by the Bull and its horns. Al seemed well.
And all was well. But as the years passed, and Coyote-Teeth fulfilled her duties-two children she bore, marked by the Caesarian scars across her stomach-she felt a sense of….emptiness. She was no great feminist, she was content with her role in life-but she felt that she could do more. The Legion had brought prosperity, shielded them from hardships. Days spent at home, tending for crying infants…she’d never admit it, but a part of her missed the struggle of her youth, of surviving an attack by merit of being stronger and faster, of gathering plants in the dead of night to scrape together a midnight cure for a sick relative.
Her attempts to enlist were, of course, scoffed at.
But Coyote-Teeth was resourceful and determined, two attributes which would take her quite far in life. Her tribe lacked this iron will-that cold sort of tunnel vision that lets someone forget morality and ethics if it means accomplishing a goal. The Legionnaires her tribesmembers were made into were weak, undisciplined. This being the Legion’s frontier in Colorado, it was not an issue that was of active concern to the central Legion forces-their lack of discipline went more-or-less unnoticed, the resident Centurion more focused with seizing larger swathes of territory than firmly ruling that which he already had.
This, of course, backfired eventually. A mixture of external attacks-a local Brotherhood of Steel chapter, a few violent tribes who rejected the Legion’s offer of membership rather forcefully-and internal weakness (some, even within Coyote-Teeth’s tribe, were split over the issue of Legionhood, with a few discussing secession) led to a battle in her village. Nothing to the scale of the Hoover Dam, but it was a tremendous failure-the Legion was pushed back, and the cowardice of the local Legionnaires and their Centurion meant execution.
When they came down the line, Coyote-Teeth saw her opportunity. She moved, ripped a knife from one of the marked recruit’s sheaths, and did it herself. It wasn’t hard or difficult. Just…simple. She struck down most of her old tribesmembers, the Centurion. She hadn’t the authority to do this, of course, and this merited more serious attention. What saved her from the cross was a rather interested frumentarius who’d noticed her not only during the executions, but during the battle-the untrained tribal felled a number of invaders, did more to keep their lines steady than the Centurion had.
Her loyalty was proven a dozen times over in the coming months as the frumentarius’ new vassal. The Legion was unaware of this issue, the records of what happened in her village’s execution smudged a bit. She escaped death by doling it out to several others. After enough time had passed, the frumentarius presented his idea to Caesar-a frumentarius amongst frumentarii, a spy amongst spies. Even amongst Caesar’s inner circle, there were elements of dissent-and after the fall at NCR, internal tensions were more strained than ever. Many questioned Caesar, the Legate. Left unchecked, these sects could gnaw the Legion away from within, attempt to seize power. Regardless, it spelled certain doom for the Legion-particularly if they managed to win over a few of the frumentarii, ones who could provide valuable intelligence, be just as potent adversaries as they were allies.
And a woman-well, who was better poised to keep an eye on them? Caesar may have spouted his domestic cult ideology for the purposes of unifying his society, of ensuring enough soldiers to fill his ranks, but the man was no fool. He gave Coyote-Teeth a new name-Liv, after Livia-and gained a rather useful internal affairs asset. As a woman, he needed to give her no resources, and had no need to stand up for her should she mess up-if she was captured, attempted to invoke Caesar’s protection, no one would believe her. She set out scouting the Legion, serving as Caesar’s proxy-where there were whispers of secession, hushed questioning of the Legate’s ability, Liv carried out her orders.
With time, this shifted-a new frontier. With the West firmly out of the Legion’s hold, the Great Caesar turned his eyes to the East. And so he sent Liv, a wild tribal to an untamed land, to scout ahead. She holds no official ties to the Legion, and only a mere handful are aware of her association. In secret, however, she works in tandem with local forces, keeping her ears open when she poses as a slave. She works-if not in Caesar’s name-in his will, doing as would best benefit the Legion.
Zero liability asset? The man may be cruel, but he’s shrewd-and history’s shown ideologues with nothing to lose can get a lot done if you point them at your enemies and turn them loose. Caesar pointed her East and removed the shackles she’d been wearing all her life. God help the Memphis profligates-if Liv has her way, there’ll be crucifixions all the way down the Blue Ridge.
Coyote-Teeth. She goes by Livia, or Liv, now.
Race:
She is a human.
Age:
32
Height:
5'11
Weight:
135 lbs.
Appearance:
Perhaps the best word to summarize Liv is harsh-her hair has only just begun to grow back after an unforgiving buzz cut, her face bears its fair share of scars, and her smiles are about as commonplace as the Enclave these days. She has neither the frail build of malnourishment or the thick curves of someone with an abundance of food-lean, sculpted muscle clings to her arms and legs, the strength built from hard labor and many miles. Her skin is a dark bronze, a mixture of her heritage (while her tribe no longer exists, it lives on for a little while longer in her skin tone and features) and years spent traversing the open plains and deserts of the Southwest. Her hair is a dark brown-at one point, she enjoyed braiding it back, but after a few scuffles where her long, all-too-easy-to-grab-a-hold-of-hair was used against her, she elected for a more pragmatic look. It currently has the disheveled lack of a style you’d expect from a traveler-it’s been a bit since Liv has crossed paths with a mirror, and she’s not particularly concerned with her appearance any longer. On her right bicep she has a tattoo, one that has faded with the years (quality ink is in short supply these days), which is an assortment of curves and lines, jagged symbols she barely remembers the meaning of. Running vertically across her stomach are two scars, faded, but relatively fresh. She wears a set of Brotherhood dog tags around her neck, albeit she usually keeps this hidden and discreet.
Equipment:
She travels light, and carries only what she needs. She has no use for scavenge or scrap, and gets away with the bare minimums. A few canteens for water, flint and steel, a blanket, a pouch of old a herbal remedies, an emergency wallet of NCR money, Legion denarii, and old-fashioned bottlecaps, a pair of binoculars. She carries this in a worn but functional pack, slung by one strap across her chest. For everyday wear, she generally makes use of a leather jacket (it’s got holes and is bound with duct tape in a few places), a pair of mirrored sunglasses, time-tested combat boots, and jeans. She had a set of armor-way back-but it was too bulky to carry on the move. She carries some bandages and gauze, and a small cluster of nightshade is pinned to her lapel, perhaps where she can rip it out with her teeth if necessary.
Weapons:
Liv’s an old-school kinda girl. She wields a machete, fashioned as a gladius. It’s name is Gaul¬. When Liv was more warrior than scout, a number of NCR dogtags hung from the pommel, but these are a bit conspicuous now. She keeps it well-honed and ready for use, and the trusty weapon has never let her down thus far.
While Liv is not fond of firearms, she understands the necessity for them, particularly in her newest line of work. She carries a Winchester 1892 Short and just enough ammo to squeak by-she rarely uses it.
Specializations:
Liv is an adept scout and skilled survivalist. She has trekked many miles, nursed many wounds, and brought down many foes with nothing but what she could carry at a dead run. She’s an adept close-quarters fighter, making up for her lack of raw muscle and size with technique, experience, is and brutality. She’s determined and cunning, but also possesses the capacity for discretion and patience-she has learned that moving erratically will only earn her more scars, and as such she takes time to plan and think over her strategies. She’s an experienced combatant and cowers from neither pain nor (seemingly) imminent death-she’s faced both before, and come out roughed up but still kicking. From her time in the Legion and her time as a tribal, she has a number of natural remedies and poisons-these are crude and inefficient, but effective.
Other:
Negative Attributes:
First and foremost, her inexperience with technology. Liv, as per Legion doctrine, shies away from using electronic crutches, and she’s rather baffled by anything related to computers or even mechanical repairs. Her general response to robots is to smash them into scrap metal, and she underestimates their capability and intelligence. Secondly, while she can handle a rifle, she’s no Annie Oakley, and generally only uses it when she absolutely must. She’s also averse to modern medicine, and while she understands basic first aid and can patch herself up, she’s ignorant to the nuances of medical theory-if willpower and her tribal cures can’t overcome it, then it’s bad news for Liv.
Biography:
The most obvious question, I’m sure, is not only how a woman came to like the Legion, but how a woman was able to join the Legion. The first is rather simply answered-they offered security where others could not. Coyote-Teeth (so named for her tendency to painfully bite her siblings and friends while wrestling) grew up far outside the NCR’s civilized towns or Megaton’s safe walls. She watched friends get mauled by the beasts of the Wasteland, had to witness the Hobbesian demonstration of what Raiders are capable of when no one’s watching. Mothers dying in childbirth, fathers dying in fighting. It was a tough existence, and while she didn’t know it as a young girl and teenager, she longed for something more substantial.
It came wearing crimson and speaking through a vexillarius’ lips. Coyote-Teeth was immediately fascinated with the Legion-because they brought immediate results. The costs in freedom were well-worth the feeling of genuine security, the sudden peace her people obtained. While her brothers and male friends were conscripted, it didn’t seem a tremendous loss-after all, their life expectancies were not tremendously high, and service in the Legion was temporary. Being tasked with carrying children for Caesar? She hadn’t expected to live in a world where she could raise children safely, securely-she’d have as many sons as he needed if she knew they wouldn’t be killed young, wouldn’t be taken by mutants or slavers or disease. The Legion’s rule was not an enlightened one, but it was prosperous-her people and village began to grow steadily and surely, the enemies they’d been too weak to defeat now brought low by the Bull and its horns. Al seemed well.
And all was well. But as the years passed, and Coyote-Teeth fulfilled her duties-two children she bore, marked by the Caesarian scars across her stomach-she felt a sense of….emptiness. She was no great feminist, she was content with her role in life-but she felt that she could do more. The Legion had brought prosperity, shielded them from hardships. Days spent at home, tending for crying infants…she’d never admit it, but a part of her missed the struggle of her youth, of surviving an attack by merit of being stronger and faster, of gathering plants in the dead of night to scrape together a midnight cure for a sick relative.
Her attempts to enlist were, of course, scoffed at.
But Coyote-Teeth was resourceful and determined, two attributes which would take her quite far in life. Her tribe lacked this iron will-that cold sort of tunnel vision that lets someone forget morality and ethics if it means accomplishing a goal. The Legionnaires her tribesmembers were made into were weak, undisciplined. This being the Legion’s frontier in Colorado, it was not an issue that was of active concern to the central Legion forces-their lack of discipline went more-or-less unnoticed, the resident Centurion more focused with seizing larger swathes of territory than firmly ruling that which he already had.
This, of course, backfired eventually. A mixture of external attacks-a local Brotherhood of Steel chapter, a few violent tribes who rejected the Legion’s offer of membership rather forcefully-and internal weakness (some, even within Coyote-Teeth’s tribe, were split over the issue of Legionhood, with a few discussing secession) led to a battle in her village. Nothing to the scale of the Hoover Dam, but it was a tremendous failure-the Legion was pushed back, and the cowardice of the local Legionnaires and their Centurion meant execution.
When they came down the line, Coyote-Teeth saw her opportunity. She moved, ripped a knife from one of the marked recruit’s sheaths, and did it herself. It wasn’t hard or difficult. Just…simple. She struck down most of her old tribesmembers, the Centurion. She hadn’t the authority to do this, of course, and this merited more serious attention. What saved her from the cross was a rather interested frumentarius who’d noticed her not only during the executions, but during the battle-the untrained tribal felled a number of invaders, did more to keep their lines steady than the Centurion had.
Her loyalty was proven a dozen times over in the coming months as the frumentarius’ new vassal. The Legion was unaware of this issue, the records of what happened in her village’s execution smudged a bit. She escaped death by doling it out to several others. After enough time had passed, the frumentarius presented his idea to Caesar-a frumentarius amongst frumentarii, a spy amongst spies. Even amongst Caesar’s inner circle, there were elements of dissent-and after the fall at NCR, internal tensions were more strained than ever. Many questioned Caesar, the Legate. Left unchecked, these sects could gnaw the Legion away from within, attempt to seize power. Regardless, it spelled certain doom for the Legion-particularly if they managed to win over a few of the frumentarii, ones who could provide valuable intelligence, be just as potent adversaries as they were allies.
And a woman-well, who was better poised to keep an eye on them? Caesar may have spouted his domestic cult ideology for the purposes of unifying his society, of ensuring enough soldiers to fill his ranks, but the man was no fool. He gave Coyote-Teeth a new name-Liv, after Livia-and gained a rather useful internal affairs asset. As a woman, he needed to give her no resources, and had no need to stand up for her should she mess up-if she was captured, attempted to invoke Caesar’s protection, no one would believe her. She set out scouting the Legion, serving as Caesar’s proxy-where there were whispers of secession, hushed questioning of the Legate’s ability, Liv carried out her orders.
With time, this shifted-a new frontier. With the West firmly out of the Legion’s hold, the Great Caesar turned his eyes to the East. And so he sent Liv, a wild tribal to an untamed land, to scout ahead. She holds no official ties to the Legion, and only a mere handful are aware of her association. In secret, however, she works in tandem with local forces, keeping her ears open when she poses as a slave. She works-if not in Caesar’s name-in his will, doing as would best benefit the Legion.
Zero liability asset? The man may be cruel, but he’s shrewd-and history’s shown ideologues with nothing to lose can get a lot done if you point them at your enemies and turn them loose. Caesar pointed her East and removed the shackles she’d been wearing all her life. God help the Memphis profligates-if Liv has her way, there’ll be crucifixions all the way down the Blue Ridge.
Wouldn't take much convincing on Lynn's part.
Hey, really liking this. Is it still open?
Lynn will probably get involved against her better judgment, but she's trying hard to toe that probationary line-if anybody wants to do something that would help her jump into the dogpile, feel free.
I'm envisioning Rick throwing shot puts at the kids or something.
I'm envisioning Rick throwing shot puts at the kids or something.
Some notes (I'm co-GM/mod/whatever vaguely defined position of authority/vassalhood Lone gave me is)
-While submitting the sheet in character is cool, there are details that are needed. Name, age, etc being among them. Given that other people have to describe and react to your character, a more fleshed out description is also necessary, as I couldn't really comment on any aspect of his appearance other than the mask.
-I also know nothing of his personality beyond that he likes killing. Surely he has motivations, fears, etc, and we're not clear on any of those. Some more detail on that would be necessary. This character just seems hell-bent on wanton destruction, which very few people in real life are. If I'm going to go out and murder a bunch of people, I need a reason to do so. Am I a terrorist, doing so for a noble cause? Am I mentally unhinged, and if so, what led me to that point? How did he acquire the gear and training necessary to carry this out, and what is his endgame?
-Not to be a killjoy, there's now way your character as is could function. I don't have the facts to check, but I very, very strongly doubt your character could murder 67 people at once and escape police custody. Overcoming 1/3rd of the police department (if he's suspected to be meta, that means NEST would be involved as well. And after he killed that many people, every single gang would be after him too, they're not fond of mass killers). There are a lot of aspects of this character that need more realism. I strongly doubt they would use helicopters with miniguns in a populated area, given their capacity for destruction. Your post seems incredibly focused on the violence and gore but less so on the details. Anybody can pick up a rifle and start on their way to hell, as Big Boss would say. We're more interested in why. As is, I just want somebody to kill this psychopath, because there's nothing redeeming or even human about him: he's just violence for violence's sake. Also, his escaping the police like that is not really plausible. They don't all stand right outside and wait. They set up rings, they cordon off areas. He would not have gotten away, especially with that kind of a track record. At all. There's no possibility.
I don't think this character will be a good fit. We're looking for more fleshed-out psychological profiles and more nuanced motives. This RP isn't going to be superhumans running amok destroying everything they can. There's going to be a lot of realism to this RP, and in that regard it'll be more a deconstruction of superhuman RP's than one played totally straight. If you want to go through with this character, you'll need to flesh it out considerably. We're not going to kill you off two posts in, we're not dicks. But we also don't babysit from the repercussions of actions, and if your character murders someone, they'll be living with the consequences. If not, nothing we did in the RP would have any weight. And, in that regard, your character likely would die very early on, because there's no way that kind of lifestyle overlaps with "people who are going to live long, successful lives". Your character would die pretty much instantly, metahuman or no. The fact he made it through a building of gangsters, with door guards, is surprising; that he made it past the police is a half step from impossible. Especially carrying a hostage. Assuming the police's dogs didn't check for explosives. Or the helicopters didn't follow him. Or police snipers didn't put a cold round through his CNS the minute they heard bombs go off. Etc, etc.
Also, pretty sure Hotline Miami is a deconstruction, whereas the Tormentor seems to be played straight. We've accepted killers in RP's like this before, but this kind of senseless destruction doesn't really fit in an RP, and doesn't, from what I can see in this sheet, indicate a developed, rounded character. We would need some extensive expounding upon his personality, history, appearance, etc, before we'd consider it, and the level of destruction he's caused is frankly unacceptable. No way around that. If he did a tenth of that kind of damage, he'd be Verthaven's Number One most Wanted. Killing 70+ people would have the FBI, every LEO in California, and probably the National Guard and the CIA for good measure coming to bear on his ass. He would have no allies, criminal or legal.
-While submitting the sheet in character is cool, there are details that are needed. Name, age, etc being among them. Given that other people have to describe and react to your character, a more fleshed out description is also necessary, as I couldn't really comment on any aspect of his appearance other than the mask.
-I also know nothing of his personality beyond that he likes killing. Surely he has motivations, fears, etc, and we're not clear on any of those. Some more detail on that would be necessary. This character just seems hell-bent on wanton destruction, which very few people in real life are. If I'm going to go out and murder a bunch of people, I need a reason to do so. Am I a terrorist, doing so for a noble cause? Am I mentally unhinged, and if so, what led me to that point? How did he acquire the gear and training necessary to carry this out, and what is his endgame?
-Not to be a killjoy, there's now way your character as is could function. I don't have the facts to check, but I very, very strongly doubt your character could murder 67 people at once and escape police custody. Overcoming 1/3rd of the police department (if he's suspected to be meta, that means NEST would be involved as well. And after he killed that many people, every single gang would be after him too, they're not fond of mass killers). There are a lot of aspects of this character that need more realism. I strongly doubt they would use helicopters with miniguns in a populated area, given their capacity for destruction. Your post seems incredibly focused on the violence and gore but less so on the details. Anybody can pick up a rifle and start on their way to hell, as Big Boss would say. We're more interested in why. As is, I just want somebody to kill this psychopath, because there's nothing redeeming or even human about him: he's just violence for violence's sake. Also, his escaping the police like that is not really plausible. They don't all stand right outside and wait. They set up rings, they cordon off areas. He would not have gotten away, especially with that kind of a track record. At all. There's no possibility.
I don't think this character will be a good fit. We're looking for more fleshed-out psychological profiles and more nuanced motives. This RP isn't going to be superhumans running amok destroying everything they can. There's going to be a lot of realism to this RP, and in that regard it'll be more a deconstruction of superhuman RP's than one played totally straight. If you want to go through with this character, you'll need to flesh it out considerably. We're not going to kill you off two posts in, we're not dicks. But we also don't babysit from the repercussions of actions, and if your character murders someone, they'll be living with the consequences. If not, nothing we did in the RP would have any weight. And, in that regard, your character likely would die very early on, because there's no way that kind of lifestyle overlaps with "people who are going to live long, successful lives". Your character would die pretty much instantly, metahuman or no. The fact he made it through a building of gangsters, with door guards, is surprising; that he made it past the police is a half step from impossible. Especially carrying a hostage. Assuming the police's dogs didn't check for explosives. Or the helicopters didn't follow him. Or police snipers didn't put a cold round through his CNS the minute they heard bombs go off. Etc, etc.
Also, pretty sure Hotline Miami is a deconstruction, whereas the Tormentor seems to be played straight. We've accepted killers in RP's like this before, but this kind of senseless destruction doesn't really fit in an RP, and doesn't, from what I can see in this sheet, indicate a developed, rounded character. We would need some extensive expounding upon his personality, history, appearance, etc, before we'd consider it, and the level of destruction he's caused is frankly unacceptable. No way around that. If he did a tenth of that kind of damage, he'd be Verthaven's Number One most Wanted. Killing 70+ people would have the FBI, every LEO in California, and probably the National Guard and the CIA for good measure coming to bear on his ass. He would have no allies, criminal or legal.
Lynn smirked. Small class? "Yeah, it'll get smaller," she muttered.
Lynn didn't know if that would wind up applying to herself or somebody else, but it just seemed unavoidable to her-this many hormonally-addled, superpowered fuckups running aroudn? Somebody was punching their ticket sooner or later.
Then Grandpa Asshole had to come along. Lynn, inherently, had a violent reflex towards authority. She was not born this way, but it set in pretty quickly after that-whether it was nursing ruler bruises on the back of hands from the Sisters or staring murder at whoever was in charge of detention that day or questioning the sexual fidelity of a police officer's mother as she got shoved face-first onto the hood of a cruiser, the instances of Lynn bowing her head and going with the flow were few and far between. It was a learned practice-authority had not been nice to Lynn (whether this treatment was deserved is, perhaps, debatable, but Lynn certainly hadn't thought of it like that), and in turn it had earned no quarter from herself. She didn't try and hide the judgment in her eyes as she watched Dick Eatsmen shamble on over. You hit your glory days a good three decades ago, didn't you? She thought she heard a military tone in his voice-he was standing up too straight, too much iron in his voice to just be a gym teacher. Barked like a drill sergeant. Coupled with the politically incorrect slurs....eh, it made sense to Lynn. She noticed little things like that. Who had bulges in their pockets. Who wore Rolexes. Who looked like they might be able to snap your thumb off if they found it checking out the insides of their pockets. She looked at his hands to see if there were any rings-because, Jesus, who would marry that-but couldn't get a good look.
Lynn snarled quietly as they took off running. She was fond of an old story she'd heard about the Native Americans. No idea if it was true, but it made sense to her. When they trained their dogs for hunting, they'd kill off the ones who fell behind. They'd do the same to the ones who ran ahead. Lynn had no intention of sticking her neck out or lagging behind-she'd cluster down in the middle until she got the feel for this school. Much as she wanted to cup check Mr. My-Daddy-Didn't-Hug-Me-Enough, it wasn't gonna do her any good. She'd glare at the prison guards, but she wasn't gonna give them a reason to whip those batons out.
Lynn took off running, a steady, well-maintained pace. She was more of a sprinter-and in that endeavor, Lynn excelled. Scrambling up fences and fire escapes, darting in and out of alleys? She could accelerate fast and haul ass. She hadn't had much practice when it came to the marathon, though-but a few laps? She'd be damned if she got her ass handed to her in the first few laps. While her nutrition may not have been the best, Lynn's body was used to taking a beating, and she gritted her teeth and kept pace towards the front.
Just not too far to the front.
Mason fell behind, and Lynn refrained from asking if he could go faster if he goose-stepped instead of walking. Lips sealed. She grunted and turned a corner, wincing as Mason replied to Rick. Don't give them ammunition. Another good rule. And don't give some pansy-ass "I'm doing my best". Just do better. Lynn's options in the past had been "Run faster" or "put on this orange jumpsuit and smile for the camera". She generally preferred the former.
Push-ups. Lynn let out a particularly violent curse, quiet enough to escape the notice of the gym teacher. Yeah, this guy had to have been military. Dividing everybody up against Mason, that was smart. Dick move, but smart. If he'd kept on cracking the whip, everybody would turn on Rick. Instead he threw a sheep to the wolves, made it look like Mason's smart ass was to blame for doing pushups. Dick Wheatmen might've been an ass, but he was a somewhat intelligent kind. Those were Lynn's least favorite brand of assholes. And fifty pushups? Lynn glanced at her arms, which likely contained more tattoo ink than muscle mass. She could throw a decent suckerpunch, but her only saving grace for pushups was that there wasn't much weight to pushup. She dropped down, feeling a trace of warmth running down her skin. Jackass had said no powers. Eh.
Lynn's arms crunched as she did the pushups, feeling the burn after the first few. Upper body strength and Cordelia Lynn Holmes weren't on speaking terms. She threw punches with her shoulders and abs, pulled herself up over fences with her core and her legs. Still, she wasn't about to ask for a handicap. Lynn grunted, forcing her body down and backup. She didn't touch her nose to the grass, figuring she'd need to save what power she had. She folded her arms, dropped low enough to avoid scolding from Coach, and hammered on. Casper crossed her mind-and while Lynn normally tried to stay pretty focused mentally, keep her eyes open and her thoughts clear, she entertained it, figuring anything that took her mind off the searing in her biceps was welcome. Wondered how his pansy ass was going to hold up against Rick, given that Mason had crumpled after about thirty seconds. Lynn, busy cursing with each inhalation and exhalation, figured this was a set-up. Granted, Lynn firmly believed most things were a set-up, and could entertain even the most delusion of conspiracy theorists, provided the government and the prison-industrial complex had a hand in it. But this seemed....pointless. Surely there was some fucker whose power let him do pushups really well or whatever. Or maybe somebody whose heart could beat more oxygen through or whatever, Lynn didn't know biology. They'd blow this out the water, maybe using their powers without even knowing. So Lynn figured her earlier hunch-and, generally, for her lack of formal education, Lynn's instincts can be trusted-this was just a test. They didn't care about pushups, no, they wanted to see who was gonna try and run ahead, who was gonna fall behind, and who was gonna keep their head down and do as they were told. Lynn would play along-for now. Her pride didn't like it (she almost felt a sense of nausea at having to comply with orders), and she couldn't even attempt to hide the fury on her face, but she played along. This was just another juvy guard, another nun. As Lynn kept pushing, her body started to slow down-the involuntary trembling that comes with exhaustion. Grunting harder, she poured everything she had into it, biting back the urge to start tapping into her powers. That being said, she wasn't sure if she was gonna hit fifty.
Nothing to do but look busy and hope Wheatmen was as bad at counting as he was at making good first impressions.
Lynn didn't know if that would wind up applying to herself or somebody else, but it just seemed unavoidable to her-this many hormonally-addled, superpowered fuckups running aroudn? Somebody was punching their ticket sooner or later.
Then Grandpa Asshole had to come along. Lynn, inherently, had a violent reflex towards authority. She was not born this way, but it set in pretty quickly after that-whether it was nursing ruler bruises on the back of hands from the Sisters or staring murder at whoever was in charge of detention that day or questioning the sexual fidelity of a police officer's mother as she got shoved face-first onto the hood of a cruiser, the instances of Lynn bowing her head and going with the flow were few and far between. It was a learned practice-authority had not been nice to Lynn (whether this treatment was deserved is, perhaps, debatable, but Lynn certainly hadn't thought of it like that), and in turn it had earned no quarter from herself. She didn't try and hide the judgment in her eyes as she watched Dick Eatsmen shamble on over. You hit your glory days a good three decades ago, didn't you? She thought she heard a military tone in his voice-he was standing up too straight, too much iron in his voice to just be a gym teacher. Barked like a drill sergeant. Coupled with the politically incorrect slurs....eh, it made sense to Lynn. She noticed little things like that. Who had bulges in their pockets. Who wore Rolexes. Who looked like they might be able to snap your thumb off if they found it checking out the insides of their pockets. She looked at his hands to see if there were any rings-because, Jesus, who would marry that-but couldn't get a good look.
Lynn snarled quietly as they took off running. She was fond of an old story she'd heard about the Native Americans. No idea if it was true, but it made sense to her. When they trained their dogs for hunting, they'd kill off the ones who fell behind. They'd do the same to the ones who ran ahead. Lynn had no intention of sticking her neck out or lagging behind-she'd cluster down in the middle until she got the feel for this school. Much as she wanted to cup check Mr. My-Daddy-Didn't-Hug-Me-Enough, it wasn't gonna do her any good. She'd glare at the prison guards, but she wasn't gonna give them a reason to whip those batons out.
Lynn took off running, a steady, well-maintained pace. She was more of a sprinter-and in that endeavor, Lynn excelled. Scrambling up fences and fire escapes, darting in and out of alleys? She could accelerate fast and haul ass. She hadn't had much practice when it came to the marathon, though-but a few laps? She'd be damned if she got her ass handed to her in the first few laps. While her nutrition may not have been the best, Lynn's body was used to taking a beating, and she gritted her teeth and kept pace towards the front.
Just not too far to the front.
Mason fell behind, and Lynn refrained from asking if he could go faster if he goose-stepped instead of walking. Lips sealed. She grunted and turned a corner, wincing as Mason replied to Rick. Don't give them ammunition. Another good rule. And don't give some pansy-ass "I'm doing my best". Just do better. Lynn's options in the past had been "Run faster" or "put on this orange jumpsuit and smile for the camera". She generally preferred the former.
Push-ups. Lynn let out a particularly violent curse, quiet enough to escape the notice of the gym teacher. Yeah, this guy had to have been military. Dividing everybody up against Mason, that was smart. Dick move, but smart. If he'd kept on cracking the whip, everybody would turn on Rick. Instead he threw a sheep to the wolves, made it look like Mason's smart ass was to blame for doing pushups. Dick Wheatmen might've been an ass, but he was a somewhat intelligent kind. Those were Lynn's least favorite brand of assholes. And fifty pushups? Lynn glanced at her arms, which likely contained more tattoo ink than muscle mass. She could throw a decent suckerpunch, but her only saving grace for pushups was that there wasn't much weight to pushup. She dropped down, feeling a trace of warmth running down her skin. Jackass had said no powers. Eh.
Lynn's arms crunched as she did the pushups, feeling the burn after the first few. Upper body strength and Cordelia Lynn Holmes weren't on speaking terms. She threw punches with her shoulders and abs, pulled herself up over fences with her core and her legs. Still, she wasn't about to ask for a handicap. Lynn grunted, forcing her body down and backup. She didn't touch her nose to the grass, figuring she'd need to save what power she had. She folded her arms, dropped low enough to avoid scolding from Coach, and hammered on. Casper crossed her mind-and while Lynn normally tried to stay pretty focused mentally, keep her eyes open and her thoughts clear, she entertained it, figuring anything that took her mind off the searing in her biceps was welcome. Wondered how his pansy ass was going to hold up against Rick, given that Mason had crumpled after about thirty seconds. Lynn, busy cursing with each inhalation and exhalation, figured this was a set-up. Granted, Lynn firmly believed most things were a set-up, and could entertain even the most delusion of conspiracy theorists, provided the government and the prison-industrial complex had a hand in it. But this seemed....pointless. Surely there was some fucker whose power let him do pushups really well or whatever. Or maybe somebody whose heart could beat more oxygen through or whatever, Lynn didn't know biology. They'd blow this out the water, maybe using their powers without even knowing. So Lynn figured her earlier hunch-and, generally, for her lack of formal education, Lynn's instincts can be trusted-this was just a test. They didn't care about pushups, no, they wanted to see who was gonna try and run ahead, who was gonna fall behind, and who was gonna keep their head down and do as they were told. Lynn would play along-for now. Her pride didn't like it (she almost felt a sense of nausea at having to comply with orders), and she couldn't even attempt to hide the fury on her face, but she played along. This was just another juvy guard, another nun. As Lynn kept pushing, her body started to slow down-the involuntary trembling that comes with exhaustion. Grunting harder, she poured everything she had into it, biting back the urge to start tapping into her powers. That being said, she wasn't sure if she was gonna hit fifty.
Nothing to do but look busy and hope Wheatmen was as bad at counting as he was at making good first impressions.
Between authority-figure-gym teacher and Gene, I'm beginning to suspect you two are coming up with ways to irritate Lynn. I'm loving it.
Granted, pissing her off isn't really that hard to accomplish.
Also, relevant question, do the pants that Rick are wearing having pockets? If so, is there anything in the pockets?
Granted, pissing her off isn't really that hard to accomplish.
Also, relevant question, do the pants that Rick are wearing having pockets? If so, is there anything in the pockets?
Just sayin', Inertia, you not ready for that, you get out of this RP now. Hahahaha did not even realize I did that
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