Roman

Roman's Scrapbin

---

_{The Return Of The West}

A Man Came Walking...

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

These are the players that were accepted prior to the beginning of the IC. As such, players such as Roman's Jonah Hex, Cybermaxx's Teen Titans, and more recently accepted characters have no reason to worry this week.

@Master Bruce

Also it's my birthday so today doesn't count

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

---

^{_{J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T}}

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

---

^{"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."}

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

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:

---

"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

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

---

Revenant

"Revenent, [ˈrɛv(ə)nənt], Noun. A person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead." Jonah has returned from the grave, and he's picked up some peculiarities with it: resistance to pain; extraordinary stamina; no need to eat, drink, or rest. He has also lost his memory and has no idea why he's suddenly alive again, but has a burning purpose to uncover his mystery.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

[+]

Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required.

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat.

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him.

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head.
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air.
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it.
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge.
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.”
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed.
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house.
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question.
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona America?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed.
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.”
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking.
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again.

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted.

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

---

TBC, partner.

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

<Snipped quote by Roman>

You're right. I have a life outside the internet.

@Retired

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

No one would ever seriously call you "our dear Roman," though. I'm starting to suspect those weren't genuine quotes.

@Retired

You clearly don't spend time in the same chatrooms that I do.

DC Universe: Genesis - Justice For All

Rootin’, tootin’, toil n’ shootin’

Fire burn and cowboy bootin’

Eye of newt and spicy beans,

Toe of frog and denim jeans,

Whiskey, grits, n’ demon spittle

Tossed into my iron griddle

With the tannin’ of our hides,

Somethin’ wicked this way rides

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

---

^{_{J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T}}

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

---

^{"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."}

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

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:

---

"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

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

---

Revenant

"Revenent, [ˈrɛv(ə)nənt], Noun. A person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead." Jonah has returned from the grave, and he's picked up some peculiarities with it: resistance to pain; extraordinary stamina; no need to eat, drink, or rest. He has also lost his memory and has no idea why he's suddenly alive again, but has a burning purpose to uncover his mystery.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

[+]

Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required.

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat.

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him.

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head.
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air.
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it.
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge.
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.”
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed.
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house.
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question.
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona America?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed.
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.”
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking.
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again.

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted.

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

---

TBC, partner.

Roman's Scrapbin

Whiskey, grits, and demon spittle
Tossed into my iron griddle
With the tannin’ of our hides
Somethin’ Wicked This Way Rides

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H E B O U N T Y H U N T E R

---

^{_{J O N A T H A N W O O D S O N H E X ♦ B O U N T Y H U N T E R ♦ T U S C O N , A R I Z O N A ♦ T H E W I L D W E S T}}

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

---

^{"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."}

What makes a man an outlaw?

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life?

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love.

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains.

What makes a man come back?

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:

---

"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.

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

---

Revenant

"Revenent, [ˈrɛv(ə)nənt], Noun. A person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead." Jonah has returned from the grave, and he's picked up some peculiarities with it: resistance to pain; extraordinary stamina; no need to eat, drink, or rest.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

[+]

Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required.

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat.

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him.

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head.
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air.
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it.
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge.
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.”
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed.
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house.
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question.
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona America?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed.
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.”
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking.
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again.

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted.

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

---

TBC, partner.

The Curse of Crestwood Hollow - A Hyperhuman Story [CLOSED]

JENNY VENOM
JENNY VENOM

---

^{Bordeaux House, October 18th // ft. @Hillan as Victor Bordeaux}

The party was already in full swing when Jenny Venom and her cronies arrived. She’d had to walk, her parents refusing to give her a lift, and despite her father’s lucrative job they had not gifted her with her own vehicle upon her birthday, unlike many of her more fortunate peers. Micheal had offered his daughter use of his bike, a gesture that was equal parts genuine and passive-aggressive. Jennifer had quickly decided that the only way she would depart on the rusted, out-of-style old frame would be to ride it directly into River Shannon, and then dive in after it holding the sincere hope that no one she knew had seen her on its saddle in the first place. So she’d walked instead, setting off as early as she could so she could loop around into town to her usual hang-outs; it was there that she found, as she’d hoped, her usual companions, a mixed bag of Mathers Memorial students and alumni, all on the social fringes and united under a banner of defiance and ‘fuck you’.

Whys and Hows and Whos aside, they arrived late. The gang immediately went for the kitchen, a roving pack of booze-seeking missiles; Jennifer hung quiet and secluded on the outer circle of the party, carefully observing. Everyone was here - most of MMH in fact - and as Jennifer’s eyes scanned the ebbs and flows of social interaction, cliques forming and breaking and reforming, she spotted the key players: Dexter, the ex of the star guest; Andy, the best friend; RJ, the bad-boy wannabe with a thing for the girl-next-door. Autumn was hanging around, by herself as usual, moping and likely pining for the birthday girl. Victor was flitting about as well, once again playing understudy at his own birthday. No one of note had noticed her belated entry, or the uninvited she’d brought with her. Better that way. She slunk across the living room towards the kitchen after her friends, silently sneering at the records piled up next to the stereo waiting to be played, and no sooner than she had crossed the threshold from beige carpet to white tile, she had a plastic cup of beer thrust into her hands. She drank quickly, handing it back to be filled again.

“Man it’s all kids here, Venom. The place reeks of freshmen. ’ Danny piped up, the oldest and tallest of the group, kept around by virtue of his fake ID being the one most consistently accepted. He’d passed the initial beer, and now passed her the refill, of which Jenny threw back half the cup before responding.
“It’s the Bordeaux’s party. Who did you think was gonna be here? Most of Mather’s here tonight.”
Danny shrugged, looking to the others, who also shrugged. Half of them were Jennifer’s year anyway, and were well aware of Vanessa Bordeaux. The party had been well-anticipated by most of the school.
“If I didn’t show after getting Vanessa’s pity invite I’d have caught hell from most of everyone. I don’t need every grody loser and nerd getting rips on me for not being at the ‘It’ party of the year. Shit, half of these burnouts have just clawed their way up to zeek just by being here. ”
Danny nodded, half-listening. Jennifer was sour - it wasn’t a pity invite, it was Vanessa extending an olive branch, but Jenny wasn’t the accepting-olive-branches type, and she damn sure wasn't going to show just what kind of years-old regret and heartache the gesture had dredged up in her.
“Not even,” he eventually replied, but it was clear he was only rebutting for rebuttal’s sake, “but we’re bouncing anyway. Scoop a couple dollars and score some more booze from the 7-11 downtown. You in?”

Jennifer took stock. There wasn’t really anything here that she felt the need to hang around for; her face had been seen by the miscellaneous and she would be officially recorded as ‘in attendance’. But still, something wanted to linger here, a misplaced sense of wistfulness. Jenny looked around and saw, clear in her mind, a ‘What If’. She could have been here early, welcomed in by the twins before enjoying a slow glass of wine as more guests trickled in and then switching to beer as the energy and tempo in the house built. She could have kissed someone and laughed about it with Vanessa, speaking in hushed tones about who likes who and who had a totally hot bod and who needed to bag their face. Jenny put her hand in her jacket pocket and held a tight fist around the object she’d stashed in there to be presented tonight, crudely wrapped in some torn up newspaper. At the same time, she watched from the far side of the kitchen island as Vanessa trailed through the lounge straight to Andy’s side, dancing and laughing, before collapsing onto the sofa next to Autumn. Jenny’s knuckles were white gripped around her present as Vanessa led Autumn away by the hand to the upper stories of the house.

“I’m out.” She said simply, taking Danny’s cup of beer and swiping a liquor bottle from the countertop before pushing away from the kitchen, snaking her way through the lounge - swiping a pack of nails from someone’s back pocket as she did - before quietly climbing a short set of stairs and pushing through a door onto the balcony that overlooked the backyard. She finished the beer and poured in some liquor - gin? fucking gin? - and then sipped that as she sparked up a cigarette. Her plan was to reluctantly sip the gin until everyone else was inebriated enough to sneak out, and then finish the cigs on the way home to cover the smell of booze. And then Jennifer heard the balcony door open and close behind her, and she stiffened up as she turned around to discover who had deliberately sought her out, despite her caution to avoid those that would otherwise only serve to make her uncomfortable, or instill her with melancholy nostalgia.

Out of the door stepped the older of the Bordeaux Twins. He had a sheepish smile on his face. He walked up next to Jennifer and leaned over the railing on the balcony, gazing out at the people in the yard.
“Party too lame for you Jennifer?” He joked, as he got out a cigarette from his pack. Producing his father’s zippo lighter from the other pocket and lighting the smoke.
“Jenny.” She corrected emphatically. Victor conceded wordlessly as Jenny turned around to lean next to him.
“If I have to fake one more conversation about football, I’ll blow my brains out.” Victor said, miming two fingers next to his head.

Jenny “hmphed” instead of laughing, not wanting to give Vic the satisfaction, and they silently stood side-by-side, taking drags from their smokes and watching as the party began to spill out from the house into the spacious Bordeaux garden. She finished her measure of gin and poured another, pushing the cup across to Vic and keeping the bottle for herself. She sipped again before she spoke.
“You ever get sick of sharing your birthday, Vicky? Being overshadowed every year?”

Vic smiled as the cup slid it’s way over to him, catching it, he didn’t drink from it. He simply whisked the alcohol around in the cup by playing with it in his hand, watching the gin float from one side to the other. He glanced over at Jennifer and a soft smile crept up on his face. Dragging the last bit of tobacco out of his cigarette.

“A little. But I often put myself in the background. My sister thrives in the spotlight. I think I work best in the shadows. Behind the scenes.” His words were soft, almost solemn. It was clear he wasn’t jealous of Vanessa, but he also wasn’t satisfied with his position in the grand scheme of things.

This time Jenny did laugh. “You sound like you’ve practiced that line a lot, Vicky.” She drank, swilling the gin around in her mouth, letting the flavour mix with the rough smoke of the cheap cigarettes. “Believe yourself yet?”

Victor chuckled. “Maybe I have. At least twice a day in the mirror.” He finally took a swig out of the gin and almost spat it out. That was disgusting. As much as he tried to hide the fact that he thought so from his companion. “Remember when we were kids and I’d punch you for calling me ‘vicky’?” He said, after he had finally forced the alcohol down into his stomach, the burn hitting.
“Yet, I feel like you’d kick my ass now. So I guess I’ll just have to live that nickname down.” He concluded. He opened his pack again and got out another cig. Lighting it up, flipping the lighter with the dexterity of a Wild West desperado, thoughtlessly.

“You’re welcome to try.” She replied. More quiet. Jenny stubbed her cigarette on the railing. “Why are you out here, Vic? Go enjoy your party. Nessie’s hogging the guests. I came out here to be by myself anyway.”

Victor smiled. “It’s my balcony. Isn’t it? Party’s getting a little too much for me. I like smaller crowds. We ended up getting talked into inviting the entire school with their plus one. I haven’t talked to half of the people downstairs before in my life, and suddenly they’re buying me birthday gifts. It just doesn’t feel genuine.” He looked up at the sky, and then back down again. Eyeing the tree that had branches that almost reached all the way up onto the balcony. It was a big oak tree. Had been there for fifty years. Planted back when his mom was a kid. “Remember when we’d climb that tree and Vanessa couldn’t get down? She got so scared.” Victor chuckled, taking another swig of gin. It was truly awful.

Jennifer considered the tree and the memories its branches bore. The memories of childhood turned sour mixed with the experience of aging, and she felt bitter about Vic’s seeming ungratefulness for the outpouring of friendships laid before him. Jennifer remembered her last birthday; a sixer from Danny that she split into 3 pairs, and her father refusing to purchase the latest Ramones record, instead banning Jenny’s music from the house. She put her hand in her jacket pocket, and pulled out the gift. Scraps of torn newspaper drifted to the floor, but the sellotape and sheets held together. It was rough, and crude, and messy, but so was Jenny. She set it on the railing, balanced carefully between the two of them.

“That’s your present. Joint present. But Vanessa's too busy with her real friends, so you can have it. Hopefully it feels more ‘genuine’ for you than everything else you’re getting tonight.” She sparked up another nail, finishing the dregs of Vic’s cup for him before pouring the last of the gin into it and tossing the empty bottle over her shoulder onto the grass. She sipped as she took two short steps to the door, pulling it open and lingering on the threshold back into the house, head cocked to look over her shoulder, the shape of Vic blurry in her peripheral. “Happy Birthday, Victor. Enjoy your night.”

And with that she left him alone on the balcony.

The rest of the night passed quickly for Jennifer. The gin settled in her stomach as she emptied the cup before she made her way from the Bordeaux house, and by the time she walked through the garden, kicking the discarded bottle as she went past, moving past the tree line with a third cigarette lit and burning, she was decidedly drunk and well on her way to wasted. ‘Home’ barely registered in her alcohol-addled mind, and instead she just wandered as the roads took her, eventually ending up downtown again and causing trouble.

Three DC Comics RPGs, one game. Which moves forward? You decide!

I would weigh in for Pitch 2; I’m always interested in the reinterpretations of characters we know and love and it always feels a lot more personal. It would be great to start from true scratch and build our own timeline.

Roman's Scrapbin

V A N E S S A B O R D E A U X

_______________________________________________ Vanessa Patricia Bordeaux _______________________________________________ DOB | | Caucasian _______________________________________________ Female | ‍Pansexual | Deceased _______________________________________________ Sister, Daughter, Friend, Companion | Gone, but not forgotten _______________________________________________ Physical Profile ___________________________________ • Height | 5'2" • Weight | 115lbs • Build | Thin • Hair Colour | Brunette • Eye Colour | Brown

Hyper-Human Abilities ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ power description here