Recent Statuses

20 days ago
Current You either die poggers, or you live long enough to see yourself become cringe.
3 yrs ago
Could do with a GM-partner for some world-building. Anyone know how to make friends?
3 yrs ago
To every player or game I've ever Ghosted on; sorry! I'm just super bad at procrastinating on my life obligations.


Watch out.

The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?


Most Recent Posts

All The Rest Of Us
Issue Two: Companions

I am curled into a fetal ball, spinning and kicking aimlessly in a void of bright nothingness. I can’t see - my eyelids refuse to open and I have not been granted eyes for sight regardless - but all around me, on all sides pressing against my skin, colours and light flows through this shared liminal space and onwards through seams in reality. Claustrophobia settles in and only gains ground against my mind as I feel the space shrink and trap me, my muscles screaming against themselves as I push outwards against invisible walls, trying to postpone my fate but failing unquestionably. The void freezes my chest in place and I cannot draw breath into my lungs, and I am on the verge of asphyxiation when the nothingness opens up beneath me and spits me out like primordial ooze, a stain upon the carpet. I can stand, with difficulty. I am knee-high in thick black mud, and the cold mire clings to my skin. There is nothing here, just myself and the mud, a bog that spans as far as the horizon and far over.

I stand in the mud for years. As the sunless days pass me by and I gaze up at starless night skies, I strain every sense I have for any sign of life. It takes several lifetimes, but eventually I hear it: a blunt, rhythmic thudding, somewhere in the distance beyond the mud. There was no source that I could see; but the thudding was all there was, and so I moved towards it. Slowly, at first, every step demanding all my body has to give to wrench my foot from the grip of the mire and place it forwards, plunging down again into the muck and again the momentous effort to bring the other foot with me...but at the same time I glide effortlessly forwards without movement, the mud motionless around me as I sail on. I see both. I do both. The thudding gets louder as I persist.

I am at the centre of the swamp. There is a small grove of scorched trees here, little more than blackened trunks and a few branches between them. They form a circle around a singular mound of dirt, upon which rests a wooden block, stained with blood, muck, ooze and foul scum. The thudding is at its loudest, and as I listen to it I can begin to discern figures surrounding the block. They look roughly human in a crude manner - but their outlines are frayed and warping, their faces are blank and featureless but radiate hatred, and I can see each of them holds a cleaver, chopping incessantly at something upon that filthy block. They hurt to look at, but I peer closer, desperate to see the meat they are butchering. I vomit when I finally make out what lays upon their table.

It’s me. I lie on the table, every blow of the cleaver carving away at my body. They start at my feet and I cannot move as every landing of the blade bloodlessly hacks away a sliver of flesh, only for the cleavers to rise and fall again. Another figure at the end of the of the block tears away each strip and tosses it behind itself into a dark hole in the ground. I thrash and struggle and attempt to break free but I am unable to move as the cleavers move up my body and the chopping grows louder until it is all there is; I can only watch as I am portioned up into neat sections and discarded into the hole.

As the last cleaver lands across my eyes the hole behind the last figure opens up and envelopes the world. The figures, the trees, the block - it all melts away as I fall, now little more than remnants of a spirit forgotten. My fall is long and gentle, a slow sink into an inky darkness, but eventually it ceases and my ethereal feet touch solid black. In front of me is a woman, back faced to me while she quietly weeps into her hands. In front of her is a bloodied pile of viscera, the scraps of my body cut, quartered and discarded. I reach out to touch her, to console her of my death, to comfort her that I am not all gone - but my hands fall through her. She turns. She has my face. I see through her eyes as her arms raise and take a tight grasp around my neck. I can only watch as she slowly strangles what it left of me.

John wakes sharply with a shout and startles Francis, who swerves the car as he involuntarily pulls the steering wheel a bit. The car on the inside lane blares their horn and Francis swears out the window, before he settles himself and gets comfortable again. John quietly breathes deep and slow, and holds a hand to his chest as he calms his pulse and anchors himself on his surroundings. He is in the passenger seat of Francis’ car, and they are just outside London, travelling on the M1 towards the city proper. Maybe an hour left to go. John’s been asleep since Milton Keynes.

“Bad dream there?” Francis asks, and John frowns to himself trying to recall the details. Dread fills him as he searches his mind and he quickly tucks the emotion away in a dark corner.
“Horrendous. Can’t remember it now.” John replies. Francis nods in that wise-looking way. John shifts in his seat and fishes for the photo of Cheryl out of his pocket - his memories of his sister are fresh as ever, and he looks over the picture trying to shake the despair he feels at seeing her face. The dream eludes him, but scraps of Cheryl, of dread, and of an immutable oncoming disaster linger with him. Francis looks over John’s shoulder, curiosity trumping privacy.
“Who’ve you got there then? Old friend? Paramour?” He puts an extended, exaggerated tone on ‘paramour’ that irritates John. “That who you’re off to see?”
John pauses, wondering how best to respond. He has not shared any aspect of his personal life with anyone since Cheryl’s disappearance, and it almost feels like he has forgotten how.
“She’s my sister. Cheryl Constantine. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
Francis nods again. “Moved away? Or fallen out of touch? Can’t say I like to spend much time with my family.”

John hesitates , and then decides to be done with it. “She disappeared. Nearly two years ago now. Coppers couldn’t find anything. Thought my father had done it for a while but...probably the only thing he’s genuinely clean on. Missing presumed dead.”
Francis swallows the confession quietly and surveys the road ahead as he digests. When he replies, he asks only one question. “Do you think she’s dead?”
John takes a long moment to search his core. He hasn’t dwelled this long on Cheryl since he got out of Ravenscar. It hurts in a way that feels cold inside. He had never considered that she may be dead after all, that closure would never come and his life would be forever defined by the hole she had left in it. But something stirs inside him and it is with a resolute and absolute confidence that he says: “No. She’s alive.”
Francis draws a deep breath. “Alright then.”

They drive for a bit longer; then Francis changes the subject, hoping to lighten the atmosphere in the car. “Who you off to see then? This old chum of yours.”
“Gary Lester.” John pauses, but Francis doesn’t respond, so John elaborates just to fill the silence. “We used to go to school together, all three of us. Weirdos, we were. Those kids who drew spells on each other in biro during class and made oujia boards on our school books. Never knew anyone else other than Gary who liked the macabre like I did, and I think Cheryl just humoured me so I didn’t feel like so much of a freak. And we were all into our punk. Used to dream that we could cast some magic to turn us into rockstars. ‘Mucous Membrane’, we would’ve called ourselves. Soon grew up, though. And then when Cheryl went missing...we were all out of our minds. Said some things I regret. Made some cruel accusations and poked at open secrets. His mum moved him to London and we haven’t spoken since. Wrote him some letters while I was…” John pauses. He’s not sure how much he should open up yet. “...away, but never got anything back. If he’s still around, I need to repair what’s left. Make my apologies. Find some closure. Un-burn the bridges.”
Francis gives John a look of respect. “That’s some very noble honesty there, Johnno. Takes a lot to allow that humility in yourself. When do you plan to go see him?”
John shrugs. “Dunno. Day’s getting on now. Guess it’ll be tomorrow.”
“You got anywhere to stay when we get to the city?”
John shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything or look at Francis.
“Got a free sofa. And I’m still off work tomorrow so I can give you a lift to the address. And to the hospital after, if needs be.”
John feels the same warm swell of gratitude again, and envisions a tether between himself and Francis. He feels an innate sense of trust in the London cabbie, and hopes that Francis feels the same in him. John nods.
“Yes, please. Thank you. You’re being...very kind.”
“It’s no bother. You seem a decent bloke.”
“All the same. Thank you, Francis.”
“You’re welcome, John. And call me Chas. All my friends do.”
“Chas.” John repeats, nodding. He smiles, for perhaps the first time since he went into Ravenscar. The smile quickly turns into a scream of fear as John is forced to brace himself against the door as Chas brakes and swerves across all three lanes of the motorway to gun down a slip road to services. He cuts off a lorry as he does so and the horn from the front cab pierces through John, although Chas only responds with more swears and gestures out the window as they accelerate away and into the carpark. John’s face is a picture of stunned fear as Chas parks up, and Chas chuckles as he pulls the handbrake up and takes a look at John as he steps out of the car.
“Sorry pal. Got distracted and nearly missed this turn off. Last whoppers before the city. Can’t be helped.”
John just blinks, and then laughs a deep, long laugh while Chas watches, puzzled but amused.

All The Rest Of Us
Issue One: Departure

John Constantine’s room is a shithole.

Wall-to-wall, the floor is visible only in scraps, littered with garbage that feels like aggressive white noise in its hostile repetitiveness. Beer can, discarded food packet, dirty laundry, beer can, discarded food packet, dirty laundry, beer can, scrap of carpet. Foil sheet, emptied of pills. Beer can. Empty plastic bottle of six bob voddy. Beer can. Laundry. Beer can. Beer can. Beer ca-

John wakes up. His neck hurts, and he knows this is because he has no pillow, but he is inwardly angry anyway, resenting his body for being damaged by his own poor caretaking. He rolls over onto his stomach, and the physical exertion makes him feel nauseous, and he reaches for a plastic carrier bag to vomit into. Nothing comes up, but John tastes bile in the back of his throat and spits thick saliva into the bag. He throws the bag away, another movement he immediately regrets, and while it lands atop one of the scarce few bits of carpet left, John tears rapidly through the closest pile of rubbish and fag-butts to find at least one smokeable cigarette. He comes up empty, and now his hangover, a fetid miasma of migraine, nausea and muscle ache, begins to crash in waves against him, and his scorched throat begs for further lashings.

Ignoring both, or at least ignoring the ever-increasing urge to vomit, John sits up on his mattress. His duvet, thin with no sheets, falls off his torso quietly, the change in temperature barely noticeable. He splays his legs out in front of him, kicking aside empty cans and paper wrappers with his heels as he waits for the dizziness to subside. John rubs his eyes. He stands, legs cold and shaking, and then makes a quick trip to the bathroom across the hall, where the nausea overcomes him and he empties his stomach and his bladder in quick succession.

It is while John washes his hands, mouth, and face under the cold tap in the sink that he thinks of his stash. He finishes off, patting himself dry on a stained, ragged old towel that he scoops from the floor and then returns there, and crosses the hall again back to his room. His stash is hidden behind his chest of drawers, and he has to move a pile of laundry before he can move it, but when he does he can see the cracks in the wall almost instantly. He can't remember the last time he used his stash, but to his nicotine starved mind, behind that small section of pull-away wall hides John's earthly salvation: a small white box, adorned with a simple purple square.

John feverishly works his finger into the small hole carved into the wall and pulls at the section. It is stiff but comes loose without much effort, and John quickly pushes his free hand into the compartment. His fingers find no box, but instead touch glossy paper. John seizes the object and pulls it out for inspection.

He barely glances at the old photograph before he drops it reflexively and casts his gaze away, his whole body flinching before going rigid. He is dumbfounded, all thought function seizing up and clattering to a halt. His vision swims and his heart-rate and breathing speed up involuntarily, as his surroundings seem to swell against him and push upon his skin. He places a hand on the chest of drawers to steady himself, and screws his eyes shut tight enough to hurt. His blood pounds in his ears, drowning out all other sound, and though John breaths he is asphyxiating, his chest feeling like a clockwork spring with its key being wound; tighter and tighter, twisting his innards into a tense ball that grows smaller withe very turn, every gasp for air a new threat that it would burst and punch a hole clean through John's torso, killing him and letting loose every demon and insecurity, every bad though he'd ever had, for everyone to see and point and judge and laugh and ostracize and -

And then it's over. The coil unwinds, slowly but gently, and John's breath and vision come back to him. He lets go of the drawers, his knuckles brilliant white and his hand aching, and carefully, slowly, picks up the two pill boxes that stand alone atop the unit, pulling a foil rack from each and pop-pop releasing the pills from their containers. John reads the words 'citalopram' and 'clozapine' with glazed-over eyes as he swallows the tablets dry, and then takes some deep, steady breaths as he bends down to retrieve the photograph, holding it with both hands as he stands back up.

The photo is of a young girl, center frame, water behind her and the light of the sun reflected off of it to illuminate the girl from behind, giving her an ethereal golden outline. John is almost moved to tears just looking at the picture.

Instead, he tears his eyes away from the smiling face of the girl and sets the photo down next to his pills. He looks around his room, allowing the true scope and meaning of the filth to sink in, and then dresses himself in the least-smelly pair of jeans and top with the fewest stains. He pockets his pills, and then carefully folds and pockets the photo as well.

Downstairs, John pads quietly from the hallway to the kitchen in search of water and food. He drinks from the tap and takes a half-empty packet of digestives from the cupboard, and then makes his way to the front door. Behind him, through the hallway into the living room, he can see Thomas Constantine - a father to the letter of the law and no further - sound asleep on his worn and rotted old armchair. A can of lager has fallen from his hand and spilled across his lap and the floor. From here John can smell piss as well. He nervously eyes the small mound of empty cans beside Thomas, and can't help but picture the cans on his bedroom floor upstairs.

John turns around. Thomas' jacket is hung beside the door and John does not hesitate to pilfer the wallet from the inside pocket and empty it of the cash within. He turns, putting a hand on the handle of the door, and hesitates only long enough for his other hand to touch a finger to the photograph of his sister in his pocket - and then he leaves.


John was ten, Cheryl fourteen. Summer in Liverpool, as much as Liverpool could allow, and the sky was covered by a pallid shroud of grey clouds. They were collecting change - running through the streets, spotting shrapnel on the floor, on abandoned tables, in phoneboxes and ticket machines. John's pockets rattled melodically with coins as he joked, jostled, teased and cracked wise. Cheryl downplayed her amusement but could not stifle a chuckle here and there.

At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu, while John took the opportunity to dip his hand into the tip jar and came up with a few more silvers than he had gone in with. Cheryl had ordered cola and sandwiches and the pair ate outside; when the owner turned to serve another customer, the pair had ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts grew quieter and quieter behind them.

Back on the high street they ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera; John emptying his pockets into Cheryl's outstretched hands so that she could count out their collection. They had only scrap left after their purchase, but they left the coins and the plastic wrapping of the camera on the counter behind them as they left with their prize. They filled the camera roll in only a few short hours, and then returned to Boots to develop the film. The lady behind the counter huffed and puffed as they turned out their pockets to pay the fee, and eventually, just waived it entirely as their performance grew too tedious to deal with any longer.

John and Cheryl sat on a street bench in the fading sunlight, thumbing eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many were unfortunately marred by poor lighting, lens glare, or even intrusions from John's clumsy fingers as he had played with the camera. But one picture stood out: Cheryl, standing center frame with the Royal Albert Docks behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to stream sunlight down onto the water, and it bounced off the surface of the docks to light up the photo from behind. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the greatest accomplishment of his young life so far; it held a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to capture an angelic quality about Cheryl. The photo was a gleaming representation of John's sister through John's eyes; he loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their return home any way they knew how.


John sits on his arse on the kerb outside of Leicester central station, staring at the creased photo of Cheryl he holds out in front of him. The cash in his father's wallet got him from Liverpool to Nottingham, and dodging the ticket man had gotten him from Nottingham to Leicester, and here he had been caught and summarily ejected when he was found unable to pay the fine.

The sun he sits in is suddenly blocked by an approaching figure, who casts a large shadow across John as he stands watching. John looks up, squinting against the sun that shines behind the man.
"What do you want." John demands, his back bristling on habit alone. Liverpool didn't teach him to be friendly.
"You look lost."
"What's it to you, geez? Shove off."
The man chuckles, and this both irritates and disarms John.
"Thought you might need a hand."

John pauses, hesitant. This stranger's forward nature unsettles him. He is not used to kindness.
"I'm fine. Shove off." The man does not move. This annoys John. "You bored?"
"What's that photo?"
John stands up, and pockets the photo. The man is taller than John, and wider, and John is cold and hungry, but John has anger and a wild, nervous energy building inside him. John thinks he could take the man if he had to.
"None of your business." He responds, looking the stranger directly in the eyes and locking his jaw. He waits.

The man steps back, and without the sun behind his head John can see him clearly. He has a friendly face, and in his eyes is a look of genuine concern and empathy. The man holds both his hands up before putting them back in his jacket.
"Fair enough. Bad start.” He steps forward, only slightly, and extends a hand to shake. John does not take it. “Francis Chandler.”
John does not offer his name. Instead, he sits back down. Francis stays standing. After a long pause, John explains.
“I’ve come from Liverpool. Trying to get to London to visit an old friend. Cash ran out at Nottingham. Narcs caught me here. Now I’m stuck.”

Francis rubs the messy stubble of his chin and sits down next to John, taking off his flat cap.
“Well, that’s a fair bit of luck to get from Nottingham to here.” He days after a moment of deliberation. John murmurs an unenthusiastic agreement. “And I reckon you got chucked just in time too.”
John frowns and looks at Francis. He smiles, a wry little smirk that forces John to like him a little. “I’m leaving back to London today. Just escaped a visit to my ogre of a ma. Car’s parked at the station. Saw you first, though. Lucky bugger, don’t you think?”

John stares at Francis, his face conveying all manner of emotion: incredulity; confusion; distrust; disbelief; hope. He doesn’t know how to respond, or whether he should. Most of him thinks Francis is playing a cruel joke.
“If you get your jollies being a cunt I reckon you’re done for the day with this one.” He finally says, and Francis laughs. John waits for a response, but Francis doesn’t reply. “Why?”

Francis shrugs.
“You look like you could use some help.”
“I could be about to take you for all you’re worth.”
Francis laughs again. “You’re welcome to, got fuck all anyway. I’d let you drive away with me in the boot if it got me away from my mother.”
“Why do you want to help me so bad?”

Francis stands up, John does the same. Francis stands across from John, regarding his skinny frame in the sunlight.
“I’ve got a nose for good hearts. Good people. You got an aura about you. I can tell. You just need a break.”
John could cry. Francis has compassion he hasn’t felt since...that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He clears his throat.
“I think you’re full of shit.” He pauses as Francis chuckles. “But I could do with a break.”
John extends his hand to shake. Francis takes it firmly.
“John Constantine. Nice to meet ya, Francis.”

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

"S'just the way of it. We all sell our souls sooner or later."

Every time I've tried playing Constantine in the past, I've started slap-bang in the middle of his career as an occultist, exorcist, detective, magician, etc etc, and often include nearly every major event of his canon in the biography. And I usually end up directionless after 2/3 posts with no real plan or solid character development to pursue. No more!

This Constantine is young. He's just been released from Ravenscar after an eighteen-month incarceration, with no home, family, friends or life to return to. His sister is still disappeared; his mother is still dead; his father still may as well be. He's a blank slate to carve scars and stories into, and there's a clear vision to begin setting him up as the equally legendary and infamous mage we know from DC today.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

I've had a lot of ideas for John over the years, varying from continuing the canon to retelling an old story to redirecting existing character goals. This is none of them; this is a new origin story, this is taking the themes and story notes of the character that I love and running them through my personal lens, and developing a brand new Constantine that can be definitively mine while avoiding a complete departure from the source material.

John is young; 20-something, still several years before 30. His sister disappeared over a year ago, and he suffered a nervous breakdown that got him sectioned; he has only just been released from mental care at Ravenscar. He's done a lot of introspection and reflection during his incarceration and has come out of it seeking to repair the damage he's done to his minimal existing relationships and at least come to terms with, if not solve, his sister's disappearance. Unfortunately, he is yet unaware of the supernatural brush his life is about to be stained by, and the events shortly about to unfold that will change John’s life forever, and force him down terrible, grievous paths for a greater good he will never live to see.

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

P O S T C A T A L O G:

So my question here is: Why did everyone (that isn't new/making someone new) decide to take a go at these characters again? Why bring them back?

As someone who will be taking a run at Constantine again for what is probably the fifth or sixth time:

Because the last time I played Constantine I burnt out and the game ended before I got into the meat of it, but I still have all my notes and the old posts and it’s probably one of the best stories I’ve ever come up with and some of the best writing I think I’ve ever done.

So instead of waiting for the right game with the right setting at the right time to come around and I’ll post my CS for approval and I may face some derision for repeating myself again and then I’ll Copy/paste old posts to pick up from and face more derision and then the game will die anyway......I just put it here and carry it on here. And I don’t have to worry about, how does my story fit into the setting? How does it fit into the character? Who’s interacting with me and how does that affect what I’m trying to achieve? What kind of widespread events are happening elsewhere in the game that I need to take into account in my story? Will my sheet even get approval? If it does, as I robbing someone else of the chance to tell their Constantine story? Am I robbing people not playing Constantine of the chance to use Constantine in their character’s story because if I get approved I’ll be the final authority on Constantine and how/where he appears, and what they want to do doesn’t work with my story? If I get Constantine and I write my story, what happens when the thread dies? What happens if I lose steam and the story is left unfinished and the character inactive?

I don’t worry about any of that. I just fuckin’ write the damn shit.

1- Game Title
2- Premise (use for Int.Check too)
3- Setting
3a. Location - station map? system map?
3b. Factions & VIP
3c. History - Timeline?
4. Character sheet skeleton
5. Rules & FAQ

Vitae: A deep-space research facility orbiting a black hole at the edge of the galaxy, and mankind's most distant and isolated outpost. A mixture of scientific, military, and civilian staff - the latter mostly the families of the former two, but also a more generalized workforce for the basic day-to-day running of the station.

The station is primarily invested in the research and development of FTL-travel, using the naturally-occurring, but still puzzling, phenomena of the black hole to inspire/feed the research, and also expanding on humanity's already-existing use of [subspace], seemingly a separate dimension that mankind have begun to breach, and have been using for the past few decades to successfully send signals and communications across vast reaches of space near-instantaneously - the dream outcome of the Vitae facility is to develop the successful sending of objects, both organic and non-organic, through this [subspace] to further empower mankind's exploration of space and the universe, and enable humanity to find a new home-world in a conceivable, achievable time-frame before extinction by attrition.

Recently, the research staff on-board were successful in sending and retrieving an extremely simple, extremely small probe, however upon return the probe showed extreme damage of various kinds, including blunt force, corrosion, and both heat and cold damage, with minimal data recordings still usable. Additionally, based on previous research, existing knowledge about [subspace] transmission, and projections for the experiment, the probe took 26 times the originally estimated travel time to appear at its destination. Research into [subspace] travel is still ongoing, but the probe's success, despite the hitches, has inspired some hope in what was beginning to feel like a dead-end field.

Due to Vitae's extreme isolation and remote location, it regularly receives shuttles of rations, equipment, and maintenance supplies. These shuttles are the lifeblood of Vitae, as the station is unable to self-sustain, and collapse and evacuation would become inevitable without them. However, the facility has been struck by disaster; on approach, the latest supply shuttle went dark, and subsequently crashed into a section of the facility, doing considerable damage and accruing a number of casualties. An emergency shuttle is then dispatched, containing extra supplies, as well as a contingent taskforce of maintenance engineers, security personnel, and UN investigators, to help repair the damage, pacify or subdue the civilian unrest, and determine the cause of the crash.
Working on something with @Master Bruce. Keep your eyes peeled people.

Eve stood rigid and brittle, mind racing. She played back the events of the previous twenty-four hours over and over, analyzing and scrutinizing every hour, minute, second - every interaction, every line of dialogue, every word of her inner thoughts. She’d arrived; drank; slept; buried a suspicious bird; then the girl had been murdered, she had been arrested, and promptly shipped out of town. Out of town. Distinctly out of town - she recalled the large wooden sign at the town border bidding her farewell, a grinning woman paying her a fond wave of the hand as the other wrapped around a large gnarled and white tree trunk, all leering out from what remained of faded and cracked paint. It had passed by the window of the coach and she thought she’d seen the eyes of the painted woman move to watch her go, but had quickly succumbed back to sleep. When she woke it was time to alight, and that was when she had found herself here, once more, in this rundown and decrepit bar that felt haunted by something other than Eve’s own unexpected presence.

The voice of the barman came in like lantern light through swamp mud.
“Miss? Lady?”
Eve snapped back to reality - what appeared to be reality - and focused on the man in front of her, who was frowning, with his hands on the bar and leaning ever so slightly forward. She realized she’d been stood unmoving just inside the doorway for the better part of ten minutes.
“You drinkin’ or not, ‘cause I’m gonna close up otherwise and I ain’t got time for backwater weirdos.”
Eve glared, but approached the bar. “I’m drinking.” She answered, firm and with finality. The barman paused.
“...alrighty. What can I getcha?”
Eve tapped the handle of the draught pump, her fingernail clacking against the plastic. “Clean your pipes lately?”
“They gotta be cleaned?”
There was a pregnant pause.
“I’ll take what you have that’s not from those pumps.”
“Can of Lone Star Red, then.” The barman said, begrudgingly and with a hint of embarrassment. He fetched the beer and Eve cracked the tab quickly and took a long first swig. She grimaced as she swallowed.
“God, that’s still awful.”
The barman just nodded and picked up a broom that was resting against the counter, going back to idle sweeping. Eve didn’t look at him, but paid attention nonetheless while she continued her drink; the third time she caught him stealing a nervous glance at her eye, she turned on her stool to face him entirely. He cleared his throat and focused on the floor.
“New in town?” He finally asked, a hint of shakiness in his voice.
“Just tryin’ to pass through.” Eve answered, flat and emotionless.
“Won’t be stayin’ then?”
“Not if I have any choice in the matter.”
The barman nodded again, responding in a non-committal hum. Eve finished her can and set it aside. The barman paused his sweeping.
“You wanna start a tab, or just pay for the one?” He waited patiently as Eve remained silent, staring hard at him. He began to sweat. Eve stood up, walking towards him, studying him with every step; the barman felt like he was suddenly in grave danger, and had been since the moment this woman stepped foot in his bar. There was an aura of wrath about her that enveloped him whole.
Eve stopped a few inches from his face.
“You really don’t remember me, do you?”
“N-no, miss, p-promise, I ain’t seen you n-never, n-nor anythin’ ya d-done!”
Eve stepped back; the barman took a breath and relaxed his hands, which had gone knuckle-white gripped around the broom handle. Eve seemed satisfied; or, at least, pacified. She sat back down.
“Alright then. And I’ll start a tab.”
The barman walked back around the bar and fetched another can. “I’ll need ya name, in that case.”
“Eve. Eve Coffin.” She answered, holding a hand out in front of her. The barman looked at it quizzically, before micro-shrugging and taking it to shake.
“Samuel Black.”
Eve nodded and cracked her next can. She resolved that, at least for now, her circumstances were dire, but there was little to be done with the oncoming fugue. When the haze cleared, she would investigate; but for now, she would drink. If the tab ended up needing paying in the end - that would likely be a good thing.


She had no need to ask for directions this second go-around; she traced her steps from the previous night - same night? - and made her way back to the halfway-house. She’d saved some cash on drinks by opening the tab, but divorcing herself from the Coffin family, and thereby forgoing their considerable fortune, had opened up some financial vulnerabilities. Five dollars for a bed and a roof was considerable value from where Eve currently stood.

The book and the sign were still there. “NATE” had been scribbled again in the column for room 5, but not crossed out this time; she dutifully wrote her own name in the column for room 6 instead, and then went in search. The layout was familiar, the memory of her last stay not even 30 hours old in her mind, but when she approached the room she had stayed in the night before - number 5, it had been at the time - she noticed the painted digit upon the door undoubtedly read ‘6’. She looked at the nearby doors for 5, wondering if she’d somehow gotten it wrong, but while 3, 4, and 7 were all visible, 5 was not. It should have been this one - and yet it wasn’t. This one was 6. Unequivocally 6.

Eve placed a hand on the edge of the door, looking up and down the corridor before she pushed through into the all-too-familiar room. She had that feeling of being watched again; a pervading sense of unease, the uncomfortable aura of being victimized by voyeurism. She didn’t undress this time; instead, she fished the athame from her bag, and carefully carved a crude representation of the nazar at the top of the door-frame, whispering quiet, steady chants as she did so. When she finished, she stepped back, breathing heavily, and then took one deep breath that seemed to suck all sound from the room and leave a vacuum of stillness and silence; then she exhaled, and the carved eye splintered out into the wood slightly, and then the feeling went away.

Eve collapsed onto the mattress, pulling the thin sheets up and around her; her last registered sight before she lapsed into sleep again was of a near-identical carved eye in the very bottom corner of the wall - only this one was closed.


Eve dreamt of little girls and looking into ponds and seeing more than the silt at the bottom. She dreamt of thrashing fish and clouds of mud from the riverbed making murky viewing. She dreamt of iced over lakes that reflected cold sunlight and splintered threateningly.


Eve woke to a rough jabbing in her side with the toe of a leather boot. In her half-slumbered haze, she recognized that there was a foot inside the boot; that foot was attached to a leg, and the leg in turn attached to the old hag that she'd encountered on her last stay. Eve guessed she was the proprietor, or at least some kind of housekeeper. Not that the house was all that kept.
"Witches don't get discounts." She said, and Eve rolled her eyes. The woman crooked an eyebrow, but let it go. "But I seen your carving up there. So either you made a raw deal with somethin' best left alone, or you're tryin' to repent for some old sin."
Eve sat up, already reaching for her bag. She said nothing, but couldn't help diverting her gaze when the woman mentioned sin.
"Runnin' from sin it is. You had a look about you. Five dollars for the room."
Eve fetched her bag and stood up; she hadn't even taken her shoes off when she'd laid down to sleep. She handed a five dollar bill over, and the woman took it wordlessly, which Eve thought a small mercy. The woman turned and left, putting a hand to the nazar above the door as she went. Eve followed her shortly, and did the same.

On the ground floor, the old woman was sat at her desk again, still not looking up from the ragged magazine she leafed through. Eve didn't stop this time. As she stepped out of the front door of the house into cold daylight, she saw a magpie perched on a rooftop a couple buildings over; it flew away as she started down the street toward to the promenade.


The high street was already lurching sleepily into the day as Eve made her way to the town square; she traveled in search of a decent breakfast, something to chew through as she analysed and re-analysed her situation. The young couple she’d seen yesterday - today? - setting up chairs for their cafe were there again, dutifully unfolding their undoubtedly cheap furniture, and as she approached the shopfront she could hear the telltale sounds of a coffee pot being made and a grill being fired up. The smell of the ground beans was rich and enticing, and Eve’s stomach groaned with demands. She realized she hadn’t eaten since before her first visit to the town, and that hunger came full force from the pit of her belly. Shit beer and dread did little to nourish her. She pushed forwards into the shop, and quietly took a seat by the window; idly, she once again watched the old man across the street waft incense, and then pause to stare at his reflection. The moment protracted itself, and then the shop-keep turned away from his reflection, swinging his gaze to fix eyes with Eve. She felt a pang of unease as the old man furrowed his brow and then looked at his reflection again, before nodding much as he had the day before, and retreating back into his shop. Suspicion grew in Eve, but as the smell of bread being heated began to blossom through the cafe, hunger overtook any urge of investigation.

She was approached timidly by the hostess, a waif of a woman with long brown hair drawn back into a high ponytail that brushed the nape of her neck. She had a sharp nose and sharper eyes, but an aura of self-doubt pervaded any sense of a cunning intelligence. Eve thought of the paten rolling around in her bag, and how it could be used to impart confidence and assurance should she wish it. Eve also thought of how her family had misused or outright corrupted spellcraft for material gain. Better to leave it alone. She requested a coffee and a breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs. The hostess departed with her scribbled order, and returned quickly with a chipped white mug of hot coffee, and a clumsy handful of salt, pepper, sugar, and creamer, that splayed across the table as everything was set down. Eve quietly thanked her for the coffee, trying a terse smile, and then pushed the creamer away as she dumped sugar into her mug and stirred, sipping the scalding sweet liquid quickly. It seared down her throat into her screaming stomach, but rejuvenated Eve as it went; she eagerly took another sip and savored the taste and scent.

She carried on like this, sipping and savoring and burning her tongue, tapping her fingers against the ceramic as she waited for the food. She almost felt normal - she could be any individual public citizen, any sleepwalking denizen, going through the motions of her daily routine; lurching from one auto-piloted action to the next, drudging on through days and weeks fantasising about escaping the monotony but too cowardly to break out of the well-worn rut. Comfort could have come easy to Eve had she toed the line her parents and predecessors had set for her. Instead, a teenage act of petty rebellion had irrevocably altered the course of her life; a forbidden epiphany had her perspective reeling, and she had chosen - chosen, she reminded herself - to sever the familial connection.

Rumination on Eve’s bloodline was interrupted by the appearance of breakfast. The toast was burnt - the smell caught in her nostrils and she suppressed a cough - but the eggs were a appetising golden colour, flecked with pepper and still hot. Eve thanked the hostess, who apologised for the bread before departing, and hastily scooped up her knife and fork to dig in; with food in front of her, her appetite truly reared its head and she found herself famished and voracious. She devoured the egg and a slice of toast, and was chewing on the second when the hostess reappeared with a pot of coffee.

“Top you up?” She asked, and Eve smiled - a genuine smile, for even Eve Coffin could not sour hearty breakfast and good coffee - and gestured eagerly towards her mug, nodding. The hostess poured, and then lingered.
“Nice to see a new face in town.” She said, making idle conversation.
“Came in on the bus yesterday. Just passing through.” Eve replied, mouthing words around the last swallowed pieces of bread.
“Funny, I thought the station was closed on Sundays. Been wrong before though, ha!” She paused awkwardly as Eve shrugged, sipping more coffee to wash the taste of burnt toast away. “Anyway. I’m Sandy.”
“Eve.” Eve replied, reluctant. Sandy stood silent for what Eve felt was just a second too long. There were two loud BANGS on the front window of the cafe, and Eve jumped; when she looked, two distinct patches of feather-dust and blood stained the outside of the glass. Eve didn’t need to peer over the lip to know there were two dead magpies on the ground outside.

“You stayin’ for a while, Eve?” Sandy asked suddenly, like snapping out of a fugue. Eve raised an irritated eyebrow.
“Like I said. I’m just passing through.”
Sandy laughed. “You stayin’ for a while, Eve?”
Eve pushed her coffee away and stood up. “No.”
Sandy laughed harder. “You stayin’ for a while, Eve?”
“I said no! Eve answered, raising her voice.
Sandy bent over, struggling to breathe between laughs. She gasped for air as her body shook with racking guffaws. Eve seized her by the shoulders, chanting a fierce and furious counter-ritual. The words Sandy got out were pained and wheezed, and underpinned Eve’s chant hideously - some kind of distraction, a counter-counter-spell.
“Let her go!”
“I said stop! She has no part in this!”
FOREVER CURSED BY EVIL EYE. The words were fading as Sandy struggled for oxygen. Eve chanted harder and louder, trying to weave her work above the din of twisted laughter.
HAUNTED NOW UNTIL YOU DIE. There was no stopping. The convulsions and chittering continued as Sandy collapsed to the floor, Eve unable to hold her up.
ROTTING SICKLY SWEETLY EVE. The final chortles ballooned up from Sandy’s chest through her throat, expelling the last bit of breath left in her body. Her final words were a forced, choked whisper, spoken like someone was stood on her chest, pushing out the words.
No-one left on earth...who’ll grieve.
I am working on Eve currently. I’m also working on a Suicide Squad app, which I just want to run past @GreenGrenade if I can take Captain Boomerang (George Harkness) and @AndyC if I can take Typhoid Mary (we don’t have a Daredevil player but Mary crosses over with Spider-Man occasionally). Also with no Aquaman player I’m also looking to take King Shark, if anyone wanted to use him let me know though.

Despite the thoughts I’ve voiced previously I’m not intending to drop or quit. I find it harder to motivate myself, but I still love storytelling and what we do here. I just might have to look to taking up side projects to hit that classic interactivity itch.

Edit: Also @AndyC again, do you have any plans for Mysterio (Quentin Beck)? If not can I use him on the Squad? I’ve flipped him on and off my roster a couple times as he’s a big name but I think he’d be good for the dynamic.

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

"So that’s it then? We some kind of...Suicide Squad?"

TASKMASTER, A.K.A. Anthony Masters. Ex-SHIELD agent, proto-type attempt at replicating Cap's super-soldier serum. Now 'Captain' of the Squad; on a short leash, as he has been deemed 'untrustworthy' by Fury due to his mimicry erasing previous memories. Waller believes she can still direct him by feeding him new auto-narratives, but as he continues to lose memories his personality gets worn away and it's harder for him to hold on to the mission.

CAPTAIN BOOMERANG, A.K.A. George ‘Digger’ Harkness. An Australian asshole who was, in a previous life, a member of the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, before a mission went FUBAR and his team got scrubbed. He faked his death, smuggled himself out of the country, and used his skills to become a freelance mercenary and heist criminal, no longer affiliated with any nation or any morals, motivated only by money. His crimes were eventually thwarted by The Flash and he was incarcerated; however, Waller advocated for his inclusion in the Squad due to his past experience on tactical assignments and his unquestionable combat skills.

MYSTERIO, A.K.A. Quentin Beck. Former stage magician and practical effects artist, he felt his talent was overshadowed by the rising tide of metahumans and alien beings; believing he could make a fortune selling his hologram tech, he constructed the heroic persona of 'Mysterio', using his talent and technology to contrive illusory villains for him to best - however, his trickery was discovered and exposed by Spider-Man, and Beck vowed revenge - revenge he would seek as part of the Sinister Six. Beaten again and handed over to SHIELD, Beck stewed in incarceration until Waller offered him a place on the Squad, hoping to put his engineering genius and team-based experience to better use.

KING SHARK, A.K.A. Nanuae. A powerful hybrid being from deep in the ocean, who claims to be a reincarnation of his father, the God of the Deep, Devourer of the Sea. He clashed with Aquaman, believing his heritage afforded him a better claim to the oceanic throne. After destroying a large section of Atlantis, undersea forces were mobilized against King Shark as his destructive influence was recognized as a threat to all denizens of the water. Expelled from the ocean, weakened by the lack of water, he remained in maximum security care of SHIELD, until Amanda Waller campaigned for his inclusion in the Squad based on his formidable physical capabilities and easy manipulation through ocean access.

TYPHOID MARY, A.K.A Mary Walker. A bizarre, yet highly effective, mutant assassin-for-hire, she is afflicted by Dissociative Identity Disorder and is in fact three women residing within one head: ‘Innocent Mary’, a pacifist woman, with no powers but an excellent strategic mind and a well-practiced charm; ‘Typhoid Mary’, a more chaotic and care-free woman who possesses enhanced strength, reflexes, and low-level psionic abilities; and ‘Bloody Mary’, a psychotic and destructive woman, who possesses powerful tele- and pyrokinesis. Hired by Kingpin to kill Daredevil, the Innocent persona fell in love with Matthew Murdock; when she realized her lover and her target were one and the same, she had to work together with the Typhoid persona to prevent Bloody Mary from killing him - and once Bloody Mary was secure, she handed herself in. She is the only willing member of the Squad, offered the position by Waller due to the formidable combination of her Typhoid and Innocent personas, and in return promised help to find a method to keep Bloody Mary trapped permanently.

ONOMATOPOEIA. No other known identity. SHIELD holds no information about this mysterious serial killer who seems to exclusively target vigilantes, particularly those early in their career. Since his capture he has resisted all attempts to be unmasked, and yet has made no attempt to escape his incarceration, sitting in complete silence in his cell. He appears to have the ability to perfectly mimic any sound he has heard, although it is unknown whether this is a mutant power or simply a well-practiced skill, and it is unknown if this extends to speech, as he has never spoken either before or during his capture. Amanda Waller has cautiously advocated for his inclusion in the Squad due to his undeniable combat ability and his exceptional talent for espionage and infiltration.

TASK FORCE X. Brain child of Amanda Waller and only just-barely approved by Nick Fury; a task force of criminal candidates captured by SHIELD and hand-picked by Waller, chosen for their combined tactical efficiency, combat efficacy, and extreme disposability. They are a deep black squad with ethically ambiguous assignments and the ultimate cover story in the event of mission failure, and their status as federal enemies allows their assignments to achieve things outside the usual legal and moral restrictions that hamstring more public figures. They are the Suicide Squad, their members coerced into service, and they’re here to thrust their hands into the muck to protect society’s greater good.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

If there’s one thing that bugs me about myself when I write it’s that I’m always so damn serious all the time - even my OC stuff (See: Blighted Kingdom/LoZ:Lost Knight) is so grounded and stern in tone that it doesn’t lend itself well to humour (my last TBK game actually struggled to survive amidst the current world predicament because it itself is so bleak and hopeless). Yes I’m naturally drawn to serious dark stories about monsters and psychological horror but hell, I still have the capacity to get silly every now and again. Speedracer is one of my favourite movies of all time, for gods sake. Add a bit of levity to your repertoire, man!

So this is my attempt at that. Suicide Squad has always been (in my eyes) a black comedy property, and with such a mishmash of inherently dick-ish characters there’s a lot of humour to be had in wanton recklessness and team dysfunction. I can trail after the destruction lead by our main heroes, clash with them at times to, and in general just pursue government-sanctioned black-ops mayhem in the name of feeling a bit more ‘comic-book-y’ in this game about comic books.

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

The Squad members were carefully picked for both their interesting characters, and their abilities to fill specific niches within the team:

Taskmaster - The Leader, also the most serious and grounded of the group, a straight-man amidst the buffoonery and silliness of the rest of the squad.

Boomerang - The Lancer, the wise-cracker, the love-to-hate, most at-odds with the leader. Also the token asshole.

Mysterio - The Smart Guy, the gadgeteer, the hacker, also the one with something to prove and most likely to work against the squad in the inevitable betrayal arc.

King Shark - The Big Guy, the Muscle, the Heavyweight. Also the Quiet One, and a good outside-perspective due to his oceanic origins being so alien to the rest of the land-dwelling squad.

Mary - The Face, the Smooth Talker, the one with charisma. Also the cheery, optimistic one, comic relief of a different kind to Boomerang's general dickhead nature, and inevitably the token woman.

Onomatopeia - The Weirdo. Also the spy, the cold killer, the emotionless, the inscrutable one. The one that gives the others, even despite their own personal brands of nastiness, the creeps.

And of course, Waller - The Voice with an Internet Connection, and the taskforce leader, the assignment-giver, the ball-buster.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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P O S T C A T A L O G:

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