Unfortunately, I think I'm going to have to drop out of this one. I was unable to post for a few days and it looks to have moved too far ahead for me to realistically catch up. Apologies for any inconvenience, and all the best.
Polyphemus Member
They/ Them
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- Polyphemus 12 yrs ago
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@Polyphemus@Xenonia You're both welcome to stop by Dark Ridge Resort, it's and advertising resort with a website so you can find it pretty easy, especially if you're looking for a mountain vacation. (or a couple hundred easy pockets to pick a several miles from the nearest cop station)
I think Hannelore is going to catch a train to Raleigh, then, thanks for the suggestion!
Still just wandering around outside the plot.
"Lufthansa Flight 709 from Frankfurt, now disembarking. Welcome to John F. Kennedy International Airport."
As she lifted her small bag, Hannelore still wasn't sure why she had decided to do this. She was not by nature an impulsive woman, far from it. She was usually cautious and meticulous in everything, carefully planning out everything well in advance. Usually, when a famously long German holiday came about, she spent it at home in Frankfurt. Sometimes, if she really felt like leaving the city, she would drive out to Cologne and enjoy some dining or shopping.
But to just up and leave the country like this for her holiday, well, that was unlike her. To come all the way to New York City, somewhere she had never even considered going, with no plan or itinerary, that was just unthinkable. Especially considering her hotel was only booked for one night. Tomorrow, she had no idea what she would do.
Everything was just so strange these days. She could suddenly turn into metal. That hadn't been the case before. What else was going to change?
She could only wonder what it meant, a faraway look on her face as she hailed a taxi outside the airport. Maybe being in America would help her to make sense of it all. Maybe.
As she lifted her small bag, Hannelore still wasn't sure why she had decided to do this. She was not by nature an impulsive woman, far from it. She was usually cautious and meticulous in everything, carefully planning out everything well in advance. Usually, when a famously long German holiday came about, she spent it at home in Frankfurt. Sometimes, if she really felt like leaving the city, she would drive out to Cologne and enjoy some dining or shopping.
But to just up and leave the country like this for her holiday, well, that was unlike her. To come all the way to New York City, somewhere she had never even considered going, with no plan or itinerary, that was just unthinkable. Especially considering her hotel was only booked for one night. Tomorrow, she had no idea what she would do.
Everything was just so strange these days. She could suddenly turn into metal. That hadn't been the case before. What else was going to change?
She could only wonder what it meant, a faraway look on her face as she hailed a taxi outside the airport. Maybe being in America would help her to make sense of it all. Maybe.
It was yet another day at the Stock Exchange, really. With a heritage dating back as early as 1585, the Frankfurt Stock Exchange was unquestionably one of the world's foremost financial institutions. Though the methods had changed over the centuries, the simple facts were the same- fortunes made and lost within moments, the financial word divided between the quick and the dead.
Outwardly it was the same for Hannelore Buchholz, a middle-aged woman married to her career. She was, as always, seated between Schumann and Nguyen, having orders barked to her by her boss Weisser. Billions of Euros she would never see or touch passed tantalizingly close before her, untouchable despite being only inches away on her computer screen. Pantsuit, earpiece, screen, it was all there, all comfortingly familiar.
But today things were a bit different.
Unnoticed beneath her desk, Hannelore was practicing with her free hand. It had been two months since she had figured out what she could do with her entire body, and she had spent a couple nights afterwards at the old railyard, cautiously lifting coaches when she was sure no one was around. But she was unsure of the extent to which she could control her transformation, and so here she was today. Her left hand out of sight under her desk, she tried to will it to turn into titanium- her left hand and nothing else. Her educated, orderly mind insisted on these tests, it was good to know her limits and capabilities as she searched for an actual use for this strange ability.
She concentrated, eyes squinting, brow sweating. Perhaps too much.
"Buchholz!" Weisser, her supervisor, snapped. Despite his dreamy expression and wooly cardigan, the old man always knew when someone's attention lapsed, even momentarily.
She automatically spun around, looking guilty and apologetic, as she had done a hundred times before. But this time was different, of course. She miscalculated her turn.
And her hand tore through the wooden desk without difficulty, simply the horrendous sound of wood splintering and tearing. Guiltily, she looked down to her left hand, only briefly taking in Schumann's open mouth or Nguyen's subtler arched eyebrow. She expected to see metal.
But instead, her hand was only flesh and blood.
"Frau Buchholz," Weisser said after a long moment, staring at the massive hole in the wooden desk. "Perhaps you might like to return home for the remainder of the day?" It was a rare display of charity from the unforgiving old man, doubtlessly brought on simply by confusion.
Nevertheless, Hannelore took it. It would be smarter for her to practice at home, anyways. "Yes, Herr Weisser, perhaps I should," she said humbly, gathering up her few items as Nguyen and Schumann stared at the torn desk in confusion. She left quickly, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The confused silence was soon overtaken by the sound of typing once more, though. The quick and the dead.
Outwardly it was the same for Hannelore Buchholz, a middle-aged woman married to her career. She was, as always, seated between Schumann and Nguyen, having orders barked to her by her boss Weisser. Billions of Euros she would never see or touch passed tantalizingly close before her, untouchable despite being only inches away on her computer screen. Pantsuit, earpiece, screen, it was all there, all comfortingly familiar.
But today things were a bit different.
Unnoticed beneath her desk, Hannelore was practicing with her free hand. It had been two months since she had figured out what she could do with her entire body, and she had spent a couple nights afterwards at the old railyard, cautiously lifting coaches when she was sure no one was around. But she was unsure of the extent to which she could control her transformation, and so here she was today. Her left hand out of sight under her desk, she tried to will it to turn into titanium- her left hand and nothing else. Her educated, orderly mind insisted on these tests, it was good to know her limits and capabilities as she searched for an actual use for this strange ability.
She concentrated, eyes squinting, brow sweating. Perhaps too much.
"Buchholz!" Weisser, her supervisor, snapped. Despite his dreamy expression and wooly cardigan, the old man always knew when someone's attention lapsed, even momentarily.
She automatically spun around, looking guilty and apologetic, as she had done a hundred times before. But this time was different, of course. She miscalculated her turn.
And her hand tore through the wooden desk without difficulty, simply the horrendous sound of wood splintering and tearing. Guiltily, she looked down to her left hand, only briefly taking in Schumann's open mouth or Nguyen's subtler arched eyebrow. She expected to see metal.
But instead, her hand was only flesh and blood.
"Frau Buchholz," Weisser said after a long moment, staring at the massive hole in the wooden desk. "Perhaps you might like to return home for the remainder of the day?" It was a rare display of charity from the unforgiving old man, doubtlessly brought on simply by confusion.
Nevertheless, Hannelore took it. It would be smarter for her to practice at home, anyways. "Yes, Herr Weisser, perhaps I should," she said humbly, gathering up her few items as Nguyen and Schumann stared at the torn desk in confusion. She left quickly, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The confused silence was soon overtaken by the sound of typing once more, though. The quick and the dead.
Morgan nearly jumped out of her skin when the other woman ran over with a tablet. Her wings almost came out involuntarily, but she caught herself just in time. It'd be a shame to shred her top, at any rate.
She relaxed, though, when the other woman began working to help her. "Relaxed" was a relative term, considering the two of them were trying to disarm a deadly chemical weapon together, but you have to take what you can get in this situations. Morgan took a moment to glance over the melee. The Raiders seemed to be getting the worst of it, by far- here a car mowed down a group of them, there more were cut down by heavy bullets.
And all the while the countdown ticked on unabated.
After what seemed like an eternity, punctuated by gunshots and the cries of wounded, the newcomer announced she had reconfigured the timer to accept the captive's fingerprint. Unwilling to speak and knowing the mask would muffle her voice, Morgan flashed a thumbs up with one slender hand, then grunted as he strained to lift the dead weight of the limp man's hand to the terminal. She pressed his thumb against the screen, heart in her throat as she waited to see what effect it might have.
COUNTDOWN SUSPENDED
She wanted to jump for joy and scream, but instead settled for a satisfied nod. The danger was far from passed, though. Someone could easily detonate the weapon remotely, or even a few stray rounds might puncture the seal. With that in mind, she took up her baton once more, crouched down and looking for a more permanent solution to the problem.
She relaxed, though, when the other woman began working to help her. "Relaxed" was a relative term, considering the two of them were trying to disarm a deadly chemical weapon together, but you have to take what you can get in this situations. Morgan took a moment to glance over the melee. The Raiders seemed to be getting the worst of it, by far- here a car mowed down a group of them, there more were cut down by heavy bullets.
And all the while the countdown ticked on unabated.
After what seemed like an eternity, punctuated by gunshots and the cries of wounded, the newcomer announced she had reconfigured the timer to accept the captive's fingerprint. Unwilling to speak and knowing the mask would muffle her voice, Morgan flashed a thumbs up with one slender hand, then grunted as he strained to lift the dead weight of the limp man's hand to the terminal. She pressed his thumb against the screen, heart in her throat as she waited to see what effect it might have.
COUNTDOWN SUSPENDED
She wanted to jump for joy and scream, but instead settled for a satisfied nod. The danger was far from passed, though. Someone could easily detonate the weapon remotely, or even a few stray rounds might puncture the seal. With that in mind, she took up her baton once more, crouched down and looking for a more permanent solution to the problem.
Is it strictly necessary to use the Titanpad? I just find the whole thing a little unwieldy.
Our characters seem to be scattered all over the US and Europe. New York, North Carolina, Frankfurt-am-Main, Moscow, Glasgow, and that's just from a quick glance at the CS board.
As the fight raged around her, Morgan continued to intently study the terminal on the massive tank, even as time continued to count down. It had to be fairly simple, right? If Raiders (not known for being Ivy League graduates) were expected to use something like this in the heat of battle, it would have to be.
The interface wasn't terribly intuitive, though. Old-fashioned and clunky, it was clearly cobbled together from some outdated tech. 80s stuff, really. It took her a few moments of fiddling to reach what she wanted.
SUSPEND TIMER? YES/ NO
"Hell yes I want to suspend the timer," Morgan said triumphantly, unheard and unnoticed amid the general chaos. She punched at a few more keys.
ACCESS DENIED
"Damn."
FINGERPRINT AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED
"Damn!"
Maybe this would be a good time to just cut her losses and fly out of here. Morgan wasn't motivated by altruism or heroism, really, just more a feeling that someone had to do something. She was tempted to just extend her wings, even beginning to flex the muscles required to extend them from her back.
But then serendipity reared its head.
The horrific, towering demon abruptly appeared in the midst of the crowd, making an unusual day even stranger. Long story short, the end result was one of the Raiders backpedaling in abject terror, firing clearly ineffective rifle rounds at the abomination.
Right towards Morgan.
"You just might do," she mused, reaching into her purse and closing her hand on the familiar weight of the telescoping baton. Sure, it was a bit of an old-fashioned weapon, but it did the trick nicely. She knew that physically attacking someone was too obvious even for her natural camouflage to disguise, so she had to make this decisive.
With a practiced flick of the wrist, she deployed the baton, and then went to work. Two quick strikes- wrist and elbow, forcing the man to drop his weapon. A third to the temple, just behind his gas mask, and a fourth again just to be sure. The Raider went limp, crumbling like empty clothing. Morgan knew that now she was visible and had to act quickly. She quickly tore the mask from the man, fitted it over her own face- both to protect her identity and for protection should the gas be released despite her efforts.
Then she grabbed the man's limp hand and pressed a thumb up against the terminal, hoping he would have sufficient access to curb this madness.
The interface wasn't terribly intuitive, though. Old-fashioned and clunky, it was clearly cobbled together from some outdated tech. 80s stuff, really. It took her a few moments of fiddling to reach what she wanted.
SUSPEND TIMER? YES/ NO
"Hell yes I want to suspend the timer," Morgan said triumphantly, unheard and unnoticed amid the general chaos. She punched at a few more keys.
ACCESS DENIED
"Damn."
FINGERPRINT AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED
"Damn!"
Maybe this would be a good time to just cut her losses and fly out of here. Morgan wasn't motivated by altruism or heroism, really, just more a feeling that someone had to do something. She was tempted to just extend her wings, even beginning to flex the muscles required to extend them from her back.
But then serendipity reared its head.
The horrific, towering demon abruptly appeared in the midst of the crowd, making an unusual day even stranger. Long story short, the end result was one of the Raiders backpedaling in abject terror, firing clearly ineffective rifle rounds at the abomination.
Right towards Morgan.
"You just might do," she mused, reaching into her purse and closing her hand on the familiar weight of the telescoping baton. Sure, it was a bit of an old-fashioned weapon, but it did the trick nicely. She knew that physically attacking someone was too obvious even for her natural camouflage to disguise, so she had to make this decisive.
With a practiced flick of the wrist, she deployed the baton, and then went to work. Two quick strikes- wrist and elbow, forcing the man to drop his weapon. A third to the temple, just behind his gas mask, and a fourth again just to be sure. The Raider went limp, crumbling like empty clothing. Morgan knew that now she was visible and had to act quickly. She quickly tore the mask from the man, fitted it over her own face- both to protect her identity and for protection should the gas be released despite her efforts.
Then she grabbed the man's limp hand and pressed a thumb up against the terminal, hoping he would have sufficient access to curb this madness.
Name: Hannelore Buchholz
Element: Titanium
Age: 41
Gender: Female
Appearance: Hannelore is a tall Caucasian woman, tall and perhaps a little thicker in the middle than might be fashionable. She wears the latest business fashions. Her blonde hair is beginning to fade, but her blue eyes maintain their sparkle.
Powers: Hannelore Buchholz can, at will, turn her body into pure titanium. In this form, she has massive immunity from harm and possesses immense phyiscal strength, able to press up to 25 metric tonnes. However, she also had no feeling in this form, nor is she able to speak.
Weapons: Improvised from the environment.
Backstory: Hannelore Buchholz. College graduate, single, no children. Career woman. Broker at the Frankfurt Stock Exchange. Her ten-year plan has never included superpowers, though. That's a recent development, and as yet Hannelore is unsure what to make of it. Her life has been largely unremarkable up until now, it's time to decide whether or not it stays that way.
Element: Titanium
Age: 41
Gender: Female
Appearance: Hannelore is a tall Caucasian woman, tall and perhaps a little thicker in the middle than might be fashionable. She wears the latest business fashions. Her blonde hair is beginning to fade, but her blue eyes maintain their sparkle.
Powers: Hannelore Buchholz can, at will, turn her body into pure titanium. In this form, she has massive immunity from harm and possesses immense phyiscal strength, able to press up to 25 metric tonnes. However, she also had no feeling in this form, nor is she able to speak.
Weapons: Improvised from the environment.
Backstory: Hannelore Buchholz. College graduate, single, no children. Career woman. Broker at the Frankfurt Stock Exchange. Her ten-year plan has never included superpowers, though. That's a recent development, and as yet Hannelore is unsure what to make of it. Her life has been largely unremarkable up until now, it's time to decide whether or not it stays that way.
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