My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.
My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles.
There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.
Johnny Storm by @Retired is also in the above group, considering his 24 hours went by as I was posting.
My Superman app will be judged when Andy's app is 24 hours old. Not normally how it'll be done, but the GM apps (note: mine, not Sep's or Doc's) will be considered special circumstance.
Well, we did it. The first 24 hours went by for the first applications that were posted. As a result of any lack of competing apps, and because there are no issues to be seen with them in accordance to the rules and premise, the following characters...
But I guess there's no clearer way to announce that second slots are allowed.
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
"Go ahead. Try and piss me off."
David Bruce Banner ♦ MIA Nuclear Physicist ♦ Formerly Albaquerque, New Mexico
O R I G I N S:
There was always something wrong with Bruce Banner. Following frequent bouts stemming from alcoholism, his father Brian would meticulously belittle him and his mother and make the family's lives a living hell. By the time he was seven, Bruce would often shield Rebecca from Brian's increasingly violent outbursts, becoming unhealthily attached to the only source of stability he'd ever known. But at a short frame and severely underdeveloped due to malnutrition and stress, Bruce never stood a chance against Brian's fists and array of hurled household objects. It wasn't until he was twelve years old that he'd finally had enough of the daily trauma, and snuck a firearm from a classmate's father while visiting the house. It was loaded, and Bruce was fully prepared to pull the trigger on Brian without so much as a second's hesitation.
Then Rebecca found it. While she had every reason to be horrified that her son would go to such a length to finally be rid of their shared tormentor, her reaction was much different. One of calm serenity - of a way out. Weeks later, Rebecca saw her opportunity and sent Bruce off to stay with relatives for the night, having saved enough money for him to see a movie. Even made the excuse that the reason she wasn't going was because Brian had given her a black eye - a lie that, at any other time, would have been true anyway. Whenever Bruce returned home, police were outside and had Rebecca in cuffs. A pool of blood and clear signs of a massive struggle were visible from the kitchen. Brian Banner was murdered by his tortured wife - all breathed a sigh of relief. But despite it being the end of one problem, a much deeper problem had made itself apparent: before this, Rebecca had long suffered from paranoid schizophrenia that had manifested as a low-level Dissociative Personality Disorder. And it was genetic.
The revelation guided Bruce throughout the rest of his youth, pushing him to keep others at an arm's length as he entered school studies to become a geneticist - to find a way to cure his mother and prevent himself from suffering a cruel twist of fate. There were methods of treatment available, and Banner even insisted on entering intensive therapy early. But the nightmares began to pop up more frequently and the mood swings made themselves apparent when he'd begin viciously arguing with his high school teachers and eventually, college lecturers. He'd even garnered a nickname for himself - Bruce "The Hulk" Banner, with the joke being that if he didn't get his way, he'd become not unlike a big unwieldy boat in a storm. It was only through falling for one of his many therapists - Dr. Betty Ross, the fiancee of Dr. Lenoard Sampson - that Bruce managed to quell his often volatile reputation. The two began an affair that would last off and on for years, completely without Leonard's knowledge. An affair that only ended when Bruce got his degree and established himself in the field of science, eventually bound for New Mexico under a top secret radiation research assignment codenamed "Project Worldbreaker".
The events that transpired would break the world more than anyone ever knew. And gives a new meaning to the phrase "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."
S A M P L E P O S T:
"Sorry, Len, I'm just a bit rattled. Had to deal with Mr. Kerns again. You know how that goes..."
Elizabeth Ross pinned the cell phone between her ear and shoulder as she exited the car. A bag of a few meager groceries in one hand, and some Chinese takeout in the other, she nonchalantly marched up the driveway to the modest house she shared with her husband. Before she even reached the front door, she noticed a stack of letters sitting on the porch. Frustrated, she sighed to herself softly enough not to rouse Leonard's suspicion. The truth is that she had been anticipating this exact sight for weeks, given that neither she nor Leonard were around the house enough to collect the mail during the daytime. They were both workaholics and managed to keep all intimacy regulated to these evening phone calls, when he was amid a heavy caseload and she was just getting home. It was an uneventful life, but she had grown used to it. She silently hoped they both had, considering he never complained.
"That's the, what, hypochondriac? The one that told you he was convinced he..."
"Had eleven different tumors and they were all terminal? Yep. That's the one."
"Ouch. Sorry you had to sit through that again."
"The real problem is that he had me refer him to see a specialist, but she tells me that he didn't show up for the CT. And that she's been in contact with his radiologist, who's dealt with him before. His results have always been negative. The man's healthier than you and me and he still can't calm down about it."
"Maybe there's something else beneath the surface. A traumatic medical history when he was a kid..."
"Maybe he just won't rest until he's developed a few of them."
Betty paused, sighing out of frustration as she opened the door, the stack of letters shoved beneath her otherwise occupied arm.
"Sorry. That was testy."
"Testy, sure, but not entirely inaccurate. Sure you don't want to refer him over? Let me put him through the ol' highly-reliable Samson review?"
"No. Dammit, it's not even about him. Len, I'm just so... exhausted. It feels like it never ends over there. The office is great and the pay is the best I've ever had, but the clients... I swear, they're gonna be the death of me."
Placing everything on the kitchen counter, Betty placed her hands against it and leaned. The stress of the day washed over her and slowly made it's way out, now that she was in a calmer environment.
"Why don't you consider some vacation time? You know how much I've been begging you to go to Bermuda. And a buddy of mine tells me that the fishing up there is grand, this season. You'd get a hell of alot of sun, I'd get about three hundred types of oysters..."
She smiled to herself. Not at his corny proposition, but just at the mere thought of getting away to somewhere that wasn't... here. A different place that didn't carry these memories. These ghosts, as much as she didn't want to admit it.
"Mm. I'm not saying no, Dr. Samson..."
"But you're not saying yes, which is the clear sign of a woman who's reached her wit's end."
Removing her jacket and slipping out of her very tight shoes, she hesitated for a moment before answering.
"I... don't know. I'd have to think about it. Let me get back to you after I've had a very long, very hot and extremely bubbly bath."
"Nice. I can't think of a better way to ratchet up the water bill."
Betty smirked. "You know, you could join me if you hurried..."
"Tempting, but I'm afraid my schedule is about three times as long as yours. If we're gonna even consider this, I need to wrack up the PTO."
A crash.
Betty jolted upward, eyes widened, her heart pounding for what seemed like an eternity. Something had fallen over in the bedroom across the hall. Something made of glass, it sounded like to her, meaning that it was either one of the photos by the bed or one of the couple's mounted plaques by the dresser. Her hand trembling, unable to process whatever Lenoard was saying on the other end of the line as he droned on while oblivious to what was happening, Dr. Ross slowly pulled open the drawer beside the oven and quickly pulled out a large kitchen knife.
"Len. Someone's here."
"Hah. Good one. Yeah, bet it's your hypochondriac friend looking to verify another diagnosis..."
"Len. For god's sake, I'm not joking."
There was a pause.
"What?"
"Someone's in the house. Right now. I heard something fall."
"That's... honey, that can't be. We have an alarm system installed, the windows and doors are locked electronically, there's no..."
"Len. Shut up. Shut the fuck up and call the police."
"Call the... Betty? Betty, what are you doing? If you think someone's in there, get out of there! Get out of there right now and run!"
She placed the phone face-down on the counter, her eyes never leaving the door to the bedroom for a millisecond. Even as she heard her husband's pleas to get out of the house grow louder and more frantic, she began to ignore them. The fear was taking over, and her heart was now exploding in her ears louder than it ever had. Raising the knife infront of her as she slowly approached, Dr. Ross felt herself detached from the situation as quickly as possible. A sort of mental exercise to allow herself the ability to act first against this intruder and question everything second.
"Len? S-Sorry, you're breaking up. Say that... say that again?"
It was a pitiful lie meant to keep whoever was inside from guessing that she suspected anything. But it was the only lie she could muster up. There was even a part of her that began to think that something could have just fallen over of its own accord, that a slight breeze from the air conditioner had knocked over a frame. That she was being irrational and that there had never been anyone there at all.
Then she saw something move. Between the crack of the door as it hung slightly open, a shadow distinctly crossed the path where light would have otherwise protruded. Betty's heartbeat launched directly in her throat, and her breathing ceased. She stood motionless, the knife nearly falling out of her grasp.
There was someone here, alright. And she was all alone with them.
"Wh... Who's..."
Taking a deep breath, she strengthened her grip on the blade handle and began to frantically rush toward the door, her deep sense of panic be damned. This was her home and she was not about to be taken surprise in it. Not after the month she'd had, not after everything she'd gone through in the last year. It wasn't going to end like this, and whoever had broken in was about to get a rude awakening if they thought otherwise.
"STOP!"
Bursting through the bedroom door, shoulder first, Betty raised the knife into the air and closed her eyes. She tried to open them, but she was utterly too petrified at first. But she could hear it. The breathing that emanated from the other side of the room. It wasn't labored, but something about it was off. Like her would-be attacker was trying to register what they were looking at with her abrupt arrival. Shaking, her eyelids gently began to peel themselves apart...
It was a man. Hidden entirely in shadow, a man had somehow found his way into the bedroom. He was large, with an intimidating build. Betty could barely manage to pull herself together as she realized that her little kitchen knife might wound, but probably wouldn't kill this person if she had to attack.
Betty grit her teeth, her heart now firmly beating in her throat.
Her palms sweating.
Her mind screamed.
This was it. Now or never, she had to fight.
"Don't you move."
The man paused. Then, he stood up, revealing that he had been partly lying on the floor.
He was... tall. And he was growing even taller.
Betty's mouth went agape as he demonstrated a height that defied a conventional human. His muscles practically pulsated out of his skin. His skin was a pigment she had never seen in her life, a sort of gray... and a sort of green.
It took her a second to even realize that the entire southern wall of the room had been entirely knocked away, a dusty pile of rubble lying atop the soiled carpet. This man hadn't just broken in - he'd smashed his way through the house like a bulldozer. It was the only possible reason that no alarm had gone off. There were no entrances breached.
He'd made his own.
"I... I'm... I'm warning..."
Without warning, he stepped forward. A grunt emerged from within him. His face was suddenly fully in view, clear from the shadows.
Betty's heart stopped altogether. She recognized him.
"Oh my god."
He stood over her. Looked down at her. His expression turned from neutral to... rage.
"Bruce?"
Before she could scream at the top of her lungs and feel the nightmare finally end, she saw a massive palm reach out to her and grab hold. Crushing. Blinding. Without a hint of humanity living within his grasp. She felt her bones begin to crumble beneath the massive surge of pressure, and without so much as a word, she surrendered to it. Because at this point, there was no point in fighting - he had her and he wouldn't let go.
This was how Betty Ross now believed she would die.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
“I know the costume isn’t much. My mom’s making a new one for me."
Clark Joseph Kent ♦ Journalist ♦ Metropolis
O R I G I N S:
Clark Kent was always different. For as long as he could remember, he could do things that no one else could do, see the world in ways that no one else could see. While his mother and father always did their best to make sure he was accepted and loved, he never exactly had what could be called a ‘normal’ childhood in Smallville. Whether it was the time he flipped a tractor over as a toddler to find a lost toy, the time in fourth grade when he thought his classmates had all turned into skeletons because he could see through their skin, or the time on his fifteenth birthday when his feet lost touch with the ground and he fell up into the empty sky, Clark was always reminded that even though he was surrounded by people who cared for him, he wasn’t one of them.
Things came to a head when he was eighteen, and one of the largest tornados in Kansas’s recorded history blew through the state, threatening to obliterate Smallville and everyone in it. In what some journalists called a ‘meteorological miracle,’ the tornado stopped dead in its tracks, and then dispersed like it had been blown apart from the inside. While the story everyone gets told is that the weather just changed inexplicably, the town has kept the truth a secret for years: that night, Clark Kent fought the forces of nature itself, and by the accounts of everyone who saw it, he won.
After a long conversation with his parents, Clark left Smallville soon after, partly to protect the people there from out-of-towners asking too many questions, and partly to look for more answers about who and what he really was. For seven years, he’s traveled the world, helping people where he’s needed, and looking for anything to lead him to the truth. Along the way, his drive for truth and passion for justice has developed into a knack for journalism, eventually growing into a budding career as a freelance reporter. Unfortunately, he also developed a tail, as for the last three years, his activities as a “paranormal rescuer” (he’s still working on the name for it) have caught the attention of a rival reporter named Lois Lane. Just recently, Clark has returned to the US, to the bustling mega-city of Metropolis, for an interview at the Daily Planet. The only problem being that once again, Lois Lane is hot on his trail, and there’s only one spot open on the Planet’s staff.
I plan on playing Clark himself (as well as most of the principle cast) fairly close to what you’d expect, but with the expectation that all the pieces aren’t quite in place yet. This will eventually become the Superman we’re all familiar with, but not on day one. He doesn’t know about Krypton yet, he and Lois are rivals, he’s going to screw up and make bad calls and learn and grow into the \S/ before he’s really ready for it. Along the way, I’m hoping to lean into the manic energy of Metropolis, the fun will-they-won’t-they between Clark and his various paramours, and have some high-octane action with some fun disaster scenarios and some (hopefully) fresh takes on his rogues gallery.
S A M P L E P O S T:
Give an example of how you would write your chosen character. Try to focus on simple actions and a sampling of dialogue.
Before I even reach the lower east side of New Troy, I can hear the crunch of crumbling asphalt with every step he makes, followed by the sizzling of melted pavement.
I hear the crash of glass breaking, the groans and shrieks of metal twisting in his grip.
I hear the screams of people desperately trying to get away, some of them cut short with a sudden gasp, followed by nothing.
And I hear his voice, a pained, hoarse rasp.
"Sssssuuuu-perrrrrr-maaaaaannnn....."
I don't know who or what he is, but he's calling me out, and people are getting hurt. I can't let that happen.
The buildings around me become a blur as I shoot through the air, stopping and starting as I home in on the source of the chaos. Handling sharp turns at speed still isn't easy for me, so more often than not I just cannonball myself down the long straightaways of the city's major streets until I reach a corner, come to a stop, then launch again at a new angle. I'd prefer to just go over rooftop level and fly more directly at the problem, but the last time I tried that, I nearly plowed through a Lexcorp air-train full of passengers, so I find it's better to stay at an altitude where I'm less of a collision risk.
"Sssssuuuuu-perrrrr-maaaaaannnn....."
It takes almost a full forty-five seconds to navigate my way to the source of the commotion. He's made it all the way to Metro Square, and left a horrible mess in his wake. I can see cars that have been melted into slag, buildings warped and buckling as their facades have bubbled and burned away...shadows on the walls that used to be people...
...and I see the monster responsible for it all, shambling out into the center of the concrete-and-steel canyon of Metro Square.
He's wearing the tattered remains of what looks like some kind of hazmat suit, crumpled in a way that suggests it's been fused to his flesh. Most of the suit has been charred and blackened, but I can see patches of its original white, and the remnants of a S.T.A.R. Labs logo on the shoulder piece. Where pieces of the suit have been ripped away, there's a glow of sickly green.
"You called for me, so hear I am," I call out to the monster, trying to get its attention. "I don't know why you've decided to hurt these people, but--"
With one hand, the thing reaches up to its helmet, and rips it clean off. For a moment, the whole world turns green, and my skin starts to feel like it's on fire. My stomach lurches and turns, and it's hard to stay on my feet.
"...good God," I manage, as the green light subsides and I get a look at what was under the helmet. In the center of a pulsing green flame, there's a blackened skull, staring at me with empty eye sockets.
"Sssssuuuuu-perrrrr-maaaaaannnn....." it calls out again, its other arm shakily reaching out towards me. "Ss--AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!"
A blast of that sickly green light erupts from its hands, and before I can react, it engulfs me, sending me tumbling backwards at least a full city block. I tumble end over end, only coming to a halt when I smack, back-first and upside-down, into the side of a garbage truck. After leaving a dent roughly the shape of my head and shoulders, I fall to the pavement, disoriented and sick to my stomach.
"What...what the..." I groan as I struggle to get up, my vision blurry and my muscles screaming.
"Superman!" I hear a muffled voice call my name. Four people in hazmat suits-- no, just two, I'm still seeing double-- approach me. "We know who that is! His name is Dr. Albert Michaels, he's a senior engineer at S.T.A.R. Labs, and he's somehow mutated himself into some kind of living radioactive plasma!"
"I'm thinking of going with 'The Atomic Skull' for a name!" the other suited figure adds. "Sounds pretty epic, right?"
"You can't get too close to him!" the first one says, ignoring the second, "They told us ten meters is instant death for anyone who isn't, well, you."
"Well, I can't just let him irradiate half the city, so I'm going to--" I stop, as I turn towards the two hazmat suits and realize I know those voices. "Wait a minute...Miss Lane? Jimmy?! What the hell are you doing here?!"
Great. Now not only is there a killer radioactive monster on the loose, but Lois Lane has scooped me on the story, so I can kiss that freelance paycheck goodbye. I'll see if I can't pick up a few more night janitor shifts at Lexcorp Tower to make up for it.
"Watching you stop this guy and save the city, what else would I be doing here?!" Lois answers as she helps pull me to my feet.
Meanwhile, I can already see Jimmy loading up another reel into his camera-- an old-fashioned film one so the radiation won't burn out his digital cameras. "Superman vs. the Atomic Skull, now that's a main event! It's a shame that Clark is going to miss this one."
"Oh yeah, my heart just bleeds for him," Lois says, her smirk practically visible from inside the polarized visor of her helmet. "Now go get him, Big Blue!"
For a moment, the painful burning of the Atomic Skull's radiation stings just a little less than Lois having a barb at my expense, but when she pats me on the shoulder, I can't help but notice her hand stays on my arm just a little longer than usual.
"Right," I say, a rush of confidence coursing through me as a grin reaches my face, "You two stay clear and get to safety. I'll try to make this quick."
As the Atomic Skull shambles in our direction, I line myself up in a three-point stance, chunks of debris lifting around me as I shift my gravitational field around me, pinching the gravity behind me and making it lighter in front. I can't quite explain how I know how to do it, but it's almost like squeezing a ketchup packet from one end until the other bursts open.
"Sssssuuuuu-perrrrr-maaaaaannnn....." the Skull rasps, its arms up and wide, that awful green radiation flaring out from him.
Just as the proverbial gravity 'packet' bursts in front of me, I shove off with my legs and shoot forward, faster than a speeding bullet. Lois said his radiation is instant death for most people. Fortunately, I'm not most people. I just need to tough it out long enough to get him out of a populated area, and then....well, I'll just have to wing it from there.
I crash into him at full speed, reflexively wrapping my gravity field around him to avoid accidentally tearing him in half on impact, and immediately the burning and nausea makes my world spin.
"All right, Dr. Michaels," I say through gritted teeth as I carry him up and out of the city, looking for somewhere safe to land before the radiation sickness makes me pass out. "I'm putting a stop to--"
"Sssssuuuuu-perrrrr-maaaaaannnn....." the Atomic Skull says my name again.
Then he finally says something else. Something that, even with the horrible radioactive burning, makes me go cold.
"Hhhhhheeeeellllllp......mmmeeeeeeeeeee......."
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
Y'all know me.
Y'know how he's been split up in the comics? Maybe you could be Superman Flesh and I could be Superman Blue.
Clark Joseph Kent ♦ Intern At The Daily Planet ♦ Metropolis
O R I G I N S:
The City of Metropolis, 1994. On the heels of a breakthrough discovery by STAR Labs director and renowned astrophysicist Doctor Alexander Luthor, something went horribly wrong. After a beacon was inadvertently shot into the vast reaches of deep space carrying an extraterrestrial code, meteors began to appear in the skies directly above. And with their arrival came absolute devastation. Buildings were smashed, cars were flattened, and explosions rippled across the skyline. A brilliant emerald fire consumed the heavens, striking below at helpless pedestrians and leaving a trail of massive craters for miles. And in the private lab in the bowels of STAR's main facility, Luthor lay nearly lifeless, disfigured with burns.
But with this devastation came a life-changing discovery by a kindly couple from Kansas. Having recently moved into the city to start a corner grocery store in Suicide Slums, Jonathan and Martha Kent heard a massive boom erupt just beyond their shop's walls. Thinking only of potential harm having come to one of their neighbors, they both bravely ventured into the destruction to try and help - and instead found a small silver craft with unrecognizable symbols etched into it, it's hull revealing an infant baby shielded inside. Taking the child into their arms, they immediately returned to safety for it's sake before helping survivors. By the time Jonathan returned to the crater, the craft had destroyed itself. The true nature of the baby's arrival was never discovered, as the Kents decided to adopt the child as their own, hoping to teach him how to exist within the confines of a city being rebuilt from the ground up - becoming 'The City Of Tomorrow', as shaped by the now reclusive billionaire Luthor.
But it became clear as he matured that their son Clark was developing in ways no other child would - that no other human could. The Kents went to great lengths to protect the nature of his strange abilities, teaching him right from wrong in a city that threatened to swallow up their old-fashioned goodwill in a siege of technological prowess. Still, they were never able to curtail Clark's boundless need to utilize his gifts - perhaps to atone for the violent nature of his arrival, perhaps because he simply needed to let it out of his system. A need that he carried with him into adulthood, where he has recently been granted a journalism internship for The Daily Planet, the television news network that employs Lois Lane, James Olsen, Cat Grant, and the legendary anchor-turned-news director Perry White. For his part, Clark didn't plan on revealing his powers to the world... but he also didn't plan to accompany Lane and Olsen on an assignment the very same day that a madman named Winslow Schott decided to attack the city with a series of heavily modified attack drones.
S A M P L E P O S T:
"How's it hanging, rookie?"
Surprised, Clark Kent glanced over at one of his approaching senior co-workers as he finished preparing a fresh pot of coffee in the breakroom. It wasn't out of any sense of genuine fear on his part, but despite being officially interning for The Daily Planet for at least three days? Barely anyone had said so much as a word to him. The announcement of his arrival to the network had barely even been audible, between the introductions of a few others joining the staff - a kid named Troupe hired as a field correspondent, a woman in her mid-thirties named Izquierdo being transferred in as a producer - and the immediate devolution into a staff-wide debate on how to handle a chaotic breaking story, so Clark more than understood any confusion. But the complete inability to notice or greet him whatsoever was new.
The man was only seemingly a couple of years younger, if that, sporting a thin orange beard and nicely cut hair to match. He was instantly recognizable based solely on his vest, which was made of a thick material and covered in deep pockets. This was The Daily Planet's primary field cameraperson, a man whose picture was one of the lucky few to adorn the wall to the lobby of the building. He exuded a confidence that nearly took Clark aback, but it was a friendly kind of confidence. The kind that he had yet to see around the office so far.
"Uh, there's coffee."
Clark meekly pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose, before sticking his hand out.
"Hello. I'm one of the interns."
"Interns? Oh! Right, you guys. I forget that old man Perry hires a couple of you around this time of year to break up the monotony. You're in for a wild ride, let me tell you."
Clasping Clark's hand with a firm grip, the man grinned.
"Name's Olsen. People call me Jim. I prefer Jimmy, if you don't mind."
Clark quietly breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed by at least one count, the abrasive world of nightly news wasn't as abrasive as it had appeared to be.
"Clark Kent. Nice to meet you."
As Olsen began to speak about how the coffee in the breakroom was the best in all the city, aswell as recommend a couple of good local spots to get a fresh cup for the lunch commute, Clark's ears automatically attuned to a couple of voices coming from the other side of the massive studio building. Having become used to this, Clark instinctively began to feign attention to Jimmy's rambling. He legitimately wanted to engage with the friendly co-worker, but it was as if his ears had a mind of their own. Listening in on conversations he would otherwise never hear or even know about was just one of the many burdens that came with Clark's series of "talents", as his mother affectionately called them.
"Are you kidding me?! That Luthor piece was a ratings smash in the making, Perry!"
"Ratings don't really mean much when they could invoke an army of litigators, Lois. You know that, considering the amount of them you've brought to our door..."
"Oh, like I asked for a Senator to cheat on his wife with a Mayoral candidate!"
"The station's still paying out to their campaign..."
"Regardless! Lex Luthor has been one of the top newsmakers in Metropolis since before you were even going gray. Which should tell you something about how long it's been..."
"Watch it."
"...and we finally put together a potential lead into why the rich weirdo's been hiding out in that literal ivory tower of his, but you want to kill it? What exactly does he even have to sue us for?"
"With the story? I'm not sure yet. With you being the one to read it on air? Plenty. Your objectivity has been waning in the past few months. You've been creating soundbites for the internet to stick every pitchfork they have at."
"It's called editorializing. Which I seem to remember you hiring me for in the first place."
"When you were behind a desk! When you were behind a desk and absolutely nobody had to pay the consequences for the things that came out of your mouth."
"S'a bit sexist, chief."
"First of all, your ability to spin things like this defies any gender-based discrimination. Secondly, DON'T call me..."
"The point is. The Planet finally has an angle to work from on the day-to-day of one of the world's wealthiest men on the cusp of a new scientific discovery. It's news, and you can't tell me otherwise."
"It is news, that I'll grant you."
"So why are you..."
"You seem to be confused about this request. And I'm calling it a request very generously because you're on my very last straw. I'm not asking the story to be buried altogether. I'm asking that you not be the one to deliver it when we go live."
"I'm the host of the damn program!"
"Yeah, and I'm starting to wonder for how long."
"What?!"
"How long you stay in that position, how long this station even exists at the rate you keep taking the legal department into court..."
"So, what, I should be more like you? Is that what you're asking? I should start developing a catchphrase to sell on the mugs in the station gift shop while being told to ignore the big stories?"
"You damn well know that I didn't come up with the Great Ceasar's Ghost thing. That was a producer's dumb idea in 1997, and it's haunted me ever since."
"The mug sitting on your desk right now begs to differ..."
"Lane. I'm telling you now. You're off the story. You wanna take on something in the field with Olsen, be my guest. But as far as the main broadcast is concerned, Cat's got it covered for tonight. By my request."
"Oh, screw you, White!"
"Lane? Lane! Get back here! We're not done! Great Caesar's... goddammit!"
Clark blinked once, unable to grasp the nature of the argument that he'd just heard.
"...and then there's Bibbowski's on 7th and Morrison. Bee-autiful selection of cocktails if you get there before the afternoon rush."
"Oh, I... don't drink, actually."
"To be honest? Me neither. I prefer a mountain of Red Bulls. But I like telling people about it, because believe me, a month here and you'll be desperate for something to kill the nerves."
As he and Olsen continued the mundane chat, he noticed a beautiful dark-haired woman fuming and muttering unrepeatable words at no one in particular as she cut across the news floor with a vengeance, a fresh pack of cigarettes visible in her back pocket. This was confirmed to be Lois Lane as she passed a giant mural on the far wall with her face plastered several feet high, paradoxically smiling widely and exuding an on-camera friendliness that didn't seem possible from the person he'd just heard.
Clark sighed. Even with all of his "talents", he didn't know if he was cut out for this business.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
This is an open-ended roleplay. Prospective players can apply at any time. To be considered for the game, you must fill out the character sheet above to completion. Choose either a canon DC or Marvel Comics hero or anti-hero character when you apply, making sure to portray your intention and take on them within the provided parameters. You may apply for up to two characters at a time.
Once you apply for a character, you must wait a full 24 hours for the GMs to consider whether to approve it. Should you want to apply for a character not yet approved by the GMs, you may challenge someone else for the role.
By applying, you agree to participate in the IC at least once every two weeks. Failure to do so without prior notice to one of the GMs will result in your character being removed from the roster without question. You may attempt to re-apply, but it's to be entirely at the GM's discretion.
Remember the setting. This is a world in which superheroes as a whole are a week old when the game begins. Referencing other heroes and their pasts needs to be done with absolute caution. Don't reference things like rogues galleries and sidekicks or other comic book/alternate media-based snippets of information. Failure to do this will require a GM intervention, likely resulting in extensive editing. Multiple instances could result in removal from the roster.
You may use different colored text for each character in your posts, or you may leave the color blank, but please try and make it legible. Often, brighter colors for text work much better than darker colors.
In the IC, you're free to utilize any supervillain from Marvel or DC to tell your story in the best way you see fit. But don't use an already taken hero character's archenemy. These characters are needed for a hero character's specific development. If you're unsure of who those characters are, wikipedia.org, comicvine.com, and plain 'ol Google are your friends. You can also simply ask in the OOC if you're unsure.
The RPG is currently PG-13. Cursing is allowed, as that isn't against any Guild rules, but any territory that crosses into 'R' such as graphic sex and violence needs to be handled way more delicately.
◼ G M (s): Master Bruce & Sep ◼ C O N S U L T I N G G M (s): DocTachyon ◼ G E N R E: Fandom ◼ T Y P E: Collaborative Linear Sandbox
"To me, writing is fun. It doesn’t matter what you’re writing, as long as you can tell a story." S T A N L E E ( 1 9 2 2 - 2 0 1 8 )
I N T R O D U C T I O N: I N T R O D U C T I O N:
W E L C O M E F A N S O F D C, M A R V E L, A N D A L L C O M I C S A L I K E !
Ultimate One Universe: Emergence is a roleplaying game based loosely on the canon of DC and Marvel Comic book superheroes, with their accompanying supervillains and supporting characters all playing a narrative factor dictated by the players. Merging the two universes (hence the 'One Universe' moniker), the idea is to create a cohesive shared experience where players build relationships, rivalries, and anything else in between for fiction's most legendary superheroes, working together or standing apart to solve obstacles that are larger than life and threaten both their respective cities and humanity as a whole.
Where the 'Ultimate' part comes in is that players also dictate exactly how these characters are written and representative of their larger ethos. Should you wish to combine the backstory of a chosen hero character with one of their alternate universe interpretations, invent modernizations of what already exists, or take a 'What If?' approach to the whole thing and wildly mix it up, you're allowed to do that. Or you can literally play the character as they're classically perceived. The only stipulation is that the chosen mantle is represented accurately at its core - IE: If you're called Captain America, you can't suddenly be a Russian agent. You have to represent some part, big or small, of who Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, or Sam Wilson are during their fictional appearances when acting in the role.
S U M M A R Y: S U M M A R Y:
The year is 2024. For most of mankind's history, it has been largely assumed that superpowers and those who wield them were merely an invention of popular fiction. Going back to the days of the Greek pantheon and the Norse Gods, those with abilities far greater than that of mortal men were deemed impossible in reality. There were once rumblings of something greater for humanity being developed during the heyday of World War II, but as far as that was ever proven, it was mere propaganda to sell war bonds and comic books. Titles such as "The Invaders" and "Captain America & The Howling Commandos" were just tools of the U.S. Army to raise the spirits of their brave soldiers abroad, and the accompanying movies and television series based on them were disposable children's entertainment.
Then the 1960's came about, and the world was introduced to the concept of genetic mutation. Though the capabilities of their "powers" were debated hotly in Congress, the fact remained that some individuals could briefly defy the laws of physics and channel energies that seemed to break what little humanity understood about science. By the time the 1980s rolled around, however, the situation was mostly controlled: through a collaboration between the United Nations and such ambassadors as Professor Charles Xavier, mutants were both given safe harbor protocols and a mandatory drug inhibitor to allow them to better integrate into the larger society. The 1990s all but eradicated the supposed threat of mutant annihilation, and few mutants began popping up at all.
Something has changed. When a terrorist attack by a deranged engineer calling himself The Toyman unleashed chaos across the city of Metropolis, a mysterious man in red in blue seemed to appear out of nowhere and vault into the skies to combat this threat. A green-skinned behemoth had been sighted all across the American countryside, not unlike the cryptid legends of the Bigfoot and the Moth Man, and leaving tangible destruction in its wake. Criminals harboring dangerous weapons and illicit drugs were suddenly being targeted by a shadowy wraith that most described as being inhuman, like a giant-sized bat. A young man wearing a brightly colored uniform had begun interfering in police matters, leaving some sort of 'webbing' behind in his wake and scaling up walls. And at the center of it all seemed to be a question lingering on social media: were those Captain America & Invader comics some sort of biography all along?
This is the Ultimate One Universe. One week in, and barely anyone has the answers. But make no mistake: everyone is going to be changed.
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
A L I A S
"Witty Quote"
B I R T H N A M E ♦ O C C U P A T I O N ♦ L O C A T I O N
O R I G I N S:
Preferably limit this to three paragraphs, maximum. Can be shorter, but not longer.
S A M P L E P O S T:
Give an example of how you would write your chosen character. Try to focus on simple actions and a sampling of dialogue.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed interactions and stories.
All formatting originates via the work ofLord Wraith
Very well, where do I begin?
My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.
My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles.
There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Very well, where do I begin? <br><br>My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. <br><br>My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. <br><br>My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. <br><br>There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.</div>
Member
Captain Uni,
Supermaxx,
Eddie Brock,
Divine Darkness,
Neziul,
Iluvtoji,
Hound55,
Hillan,
abcabc,
Melissa
