Supermaxx

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Supermaxx>

Damn. RIP Vân.

@King Kindred

He died as he lived: wishing he was getting a beer.

Per previous discussion on interaction, my next post is going to be present-day Punisher hunting enforcers for the Costa family in NYC. He'll be dropping enough bodies to warrant a looksy if anyone's interested.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

lemme tell you somethin, chat

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

_{PUNISHER: WAR JOURNAL}

CHAPTER #1: Headcase

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_{Su Tinh Lang Valley - War Zone F ♦ Sin-Cong}

^{When I came back from Luang Prabang
I didn't have a thing where my balls used to hang
But I had a wooden medal and a fine harangue
Now I'm a fucking hero}

August 29th, 2015. Another Yankee went down over the Su Tinh Lang Valley. Third one to go down since I rotated back in, if I kept my count right. Air Force kept expanding the no fly zone and the rebels kept blowing up helicopters. Rebels. That's a funny word for the guys that hold ninety percent of the country. Thoat Nihn is the only major city the republic still held uncontested. Probably had something to do with the fifty thousand American guns still in country.

I'm riding into the valley in the back of a covered truck. Local civilian model. There were five marine raiders shoved in the back along with enough crates and farm supplies to fool observers. First element. Slow insert, recon the crash site with minimal enemy contact. Second element waited in the wings for rapid extraction if we found anyone alive.

Diesel sits across from me, a cheap cigarette in his teeth. He only took it out long enough to pop a pair of pills. Dexedrine. They were meant to keep a marine awake and alert during extended engagements, but Diesel swallowed pep like it was candy. A stench followed Diesel everywhere he went. His breath stunk of snakes melting in napalm. His sweat reminded me of a gasoline can lost in the back of the hot garage for half a decade.

"Damn it, D." Curtis Hoyle sighed. He reached across the truck and grabbed the fanny pack on Diesel's belt. Diesel tried to shove Hoyle back only to find an elbow planted into his throat, shoving his face up into the canvas covering of the truck. Hoyle snapped open the med pouch and rummaged around until he found the contraband.

Hoyle fell back into his seat, stashing the three extra bottles of pep in his own kit. "I swear to God when we get back to base I'm going to shoot the dumbass selling you these."

"Don't be an asshole, doc," Diesel whined. "I ain't dyin' sober."

"You're not living sober, either."

I did my best not to smile. SARC Hoyle kept our band of delinquents alive through thick and thin. On matters of my unit's health, Curt was king. He could've told me we needed to throw away our bullets because the metal was toxic and I would've listened. If he wanted to replace our morphine with grape juice I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I wasn't worried about D. Drug-addled junkie he may be, but he was a functional junkie. Could fight like hell even if he was half blind on so much speed it'd kill a rhinoceros.

Stephen Goodwin held onto his M39 EMR like drowning man clinging to a life preserver. His hands were shaking something fierce. That caught my eye. I'd never seen him so much as flinch before.

Stevie had been in the Corps for eight years, and Force Recon for two of those. I served with him in recon for several months in Afghanistan. The guy was a hell of a shot. I was happy to recommend him to the Det One pilot program that turned us all into raiders.

"You got that letter from home yet, Stevie?" I asked. Kept my voice at an even keel, trying to keep it casual.

He blinked six times too many and shook his head, like he was waking from a bad dream. Then he looked at me. I recognized that misty glint in his eyes. Can't remember how many times I'd seen it before; more than anyone should.

"Y-yes sir, yeah. I did."

"Your wife doin' okay?"

Stevie nodded. He looked down at his boots.

I tried on a smile. It looked as fake as it felt. "Boy? Girl?"

He looked back up at me, and the mist turned to fog.

"Ah." I sat back. "Boy." Everyone in the unit knew he wanted a boy. All he'd talked about for months was turning the kid into a real cowboy. Take over his dad's ranch, raise a head of cattle all his own, everything.

"Yeah," the kid choked on a sob. "I didn't think this shit was gonna bother me, but-"

"Hey." I leaned across the truck to slap Stevie's shoulder. "I get it. When junior was born it scared the hell outta me. All'a the sudden I wasn't just watching my own ass out here. Now there's a kid in the world who'd be missin' his dad if I got shot. It changes you. You know what I mean?"

Stevie buried his snotty nose and bleary eyes into his sleeve. "How do you deal with it, man?"

"Use it. You don't wanna die? Good. Do your job. Kill every motherfucker that comes at you. 'S the only way to get home."

Once I knew Goodwin got the message, I shifted in my seat to face the last member of the tactical element: their bald-headed giant shoved into the back of the truck bed. Belts of ammunition wrapped around his thick shoulders and ran down his chest. His SAW leaned against his shoulder. A small cross on a beaded necklace sat in his catcher's mitt of a palm as he muttered a prayer in Latin. Honest to God Latin.

"Hey, Monk. Watch the kid for me, okay?"

Monk didn't stop his prayers. He didn't even nod his head. It was like talking to a statue. I shook it off and prepared myself for the work ahead.

My radio buzzed to life with the voice of our driver,Vân, a soldier in the SNRA. "Road block ahead. They're uniformed PRA."

The People's Republic Army had uniformed soldiers this far south? That didn't bode well. The rest of the team turned to stare at me. Their eyes were hard set, but it was impossible to hide the cold terror behind them. This valley was contested territory. There should've been at least two battalions of national republic troops between this road and the reds.

"Those motherfuckers ran." Diesel spat a chunk of yellow bile and spit onto the floor. "Country's fucking doomed. Damn cowards."

"We don't know that." Hoyle contested, but doubt laced his words.

"W-what're we going to do, captain?" Stevie asked, staring up at me.

I checked my DAGR- a blocky, Nokia-looking GPS receiver. A dull green glow flickered over my face as I examined the map. Two and a half klicks to the crash site. Wasn't a long walk on foot under normal conditions.

Enemy held bush wasn't exactly premium hiking in my book. I grabbed my radio and got back into contact with our driver. "Alright, Vân. Approach as normal. See if they'll let us through."

The line buzzed for several seconds before Vân radioed back: "You don't pay me enough for this. Bah, fine, fine. Driving up now."

The team's chatter died out. I turned, facing out. The soft cover on the back of the truck obscured all but a tiny slit of the road. I listened. Past the rumbling of the engine, I could make out voices growing closer. My Siancongese was limited to 'surrender,' 'stop' and 'beer.' I heard a couple stops before the truck came to a halt. Vân started up in a friendly tone, and he mentioned something about beer.

I slung my rifle down around my chest and unholstered my sidearm. Curtis motioned for me to listen, and signaled a count for how many voices he could hear. I did the same. We both came back to three on the left, four to the right, and indeterminate front.

The conversation outside took a turn. Vân argued with someone through the driver side window. I could hear a pair of people walk up to the side of the truck. Boots appeared in the gap between the tarp and the wall of the truck bed.

I motioned for readiness, and the team took up firing positions with practiced efficiency. My blood turned hot as the moment of contact grew closer. When Stevie and I talked earlier, I told him Frank Junior's birth terrified me. It did. Just not for the reasons I talked about.

Diesel took a long drag from his terrible cigarette. He lifted his gun, tracking someone's movement just on the other side of the tarp.

I watched my duo make their way around the side of the truck. They were moving slowly. Not carefully, though. I could hear them talking. One of them laughed at something the other guy said. I lifted my pistol to where I figured their heads were.

Dying never scared me.

My hands were steady as a surgeon's. The two soldiers wrapped around to the back of the truck. I saw the tops of their helmets peaking through the piles of boxes meant to hide our presence from prying eyes. It wouldn't hold up to a search. My finger brushed the trigger. Gentle as could be, I started to squeeze as I kept the barrel lined up with the lead man's head.

The moment I saw his face was brief. He smiled. His head was turned slightly toward his partner. The other man saw me first, his expression twisting from joy to confusion, and then terror. I finished squeezing the trigger. The first man's face exploded in a spray of blood.

A quiet voice in the back of my mind celebrated it as an act of mercy. 'At least he didn't die afraid.'

The second wasn't so lucky. He started up a strangled cry of alarm just before Diesel put shots into his throat, cheek and forehead.

A storm of gunfire filled the air as I dove out of the truck. My boots barely kissed dirt before I dropped, turning mid-fall to put my back to the ground so I could get a line of sight under our vehicle. My rifle came up in the same motion, smooth as butter. It was like I'd done it a thousand times.

Two shots went into my targets: the first took out one of their knees and made them drop. The second went into heads if I could find them and chests if I couldn't. Sin-Cong regulars had shitty plate carriers. They couldn't stop anything over pistol caliber. 55.6 popped straight through. I couldn't imagine sending my team into combat with gear like that.

The rest of my team flooded out of the truck moments after me. Monk took the right, the machine gun in his fists playing the devil's song as he sent the enemy to hell. Stevie went after him, nakedly using Monk as a human shield as he kept his head low and tried to get a bead with his EMR.

Hoyle and Diesel went left. Diesel covered the corner with his M4 screaming at full auto while Hoyle crouched beside me, leaving my line of fire clear while he grabbing at my vest to check for entry wounds.

As soon as I saw the last of the upright hostiles sprinting back to their vehicles, I let my hand off the trigger to slap Hoyle's aside with a snort. "I'm good, doc."

I got up, stacking behind Diesel with Curt behind me. I tapped D's shoulder, and he started forward. We shot five men in the back before they could get back to the road block. A handful of troops had taken up hard points behind the engine blocks of their cars, but they weren't shooting back. Their heads stayed down as Monk sent bursts of fire down the line.

An officer stood with his hands up, pleading the word for surrender twice before Monk's SAW tore him to shreds.

"Wait."

Hoyle pushed me to the left, off line, so he could approach the driver side door. I was pissed at him for knocking me away from cover before I realized what he was doing. Doc pulled open the bullet ridden door, freezing. Vân lay limp in the seat. His shirt was sticky with brownish red blood. His gun lay in the footwall, jammed up behind the brake. The magazine sat a few inches away, empty.

"Shit," Hoyle cursed, grabbing at Vân's wrist to check for a pulse. It seemed silly to me. "He's dead."

"I could'a told you that." I mumbled, distant.

"He was your friend, Frank." Hoyle breathed. He was staring at me like I was a space alien.

On an intellectual level, I understand that I should be afraid. I was in a gunfight, after all. And I understood that most people grieved when men they drank and gambled with were lying in a pool of their own blood.

Feeling fear or grief is different, though. Its physical. Runs through the body like a lightning strike, or an avalanche. Those were the words Maria used to try and explain it to me when I got back from my last tour. She was trying to get me to understand why she didn't want me to rotate back in again.

I didn't get it.

"Oh." I told Hoyle. "Yeah."

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

P U N I S H E R
P U N I S H E R

^{"People don't change. They can pick new wallpaper, sure. Find just the right shade of paint for the new drywall. Put a shiny finish on the hardwood. Doesn't matter. It all just hides the rot underneath."}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Francis 'Frank' Castle _________________________________________________________ 43 | Widowed _________________________________________________________ Formerly U.S Marine Corps, ARGUS | American N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S _________________________________________________________ [+] - A B I L I T I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Physical Evaluation You can't do what I do with a beer gut and a love of hot dogs. You need discipline. A training regime. The human body loves patterns. Get into a bad one and you'll have a hell of a time digging yourself out. Keep up a good one, though? You'd be surprised what a person's capable of when they put everything they've got into it. I've been beat to hell with baseball bats and crowbars, had my face stomped into hamburger meat and ate more knives to the gut than I can count. Had to fight a lot of guys bigger than me. Haven't found one that's really got the best of me yet. Not unless you count the freaks of the world. - T O O L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ A lot of damn guns I've had a long time to build up our arsenal here at the bunker. When I started this mission I figured I'd be working with limited resources. Handguns, semi-automatic rifles and shotguns were easy. I knew a thing or two about improvised explosives, too. But this beautiful country is full of surprises. Who knew you could pop over to the corner store and pick up an MANPAD with your monster and two dollar pizza? Micro's got his tech, too. All sorts of fancy drones and surveillance equipment. - A L L I E S & A N T A G O N I S T S A L L I E S & A N T A G O N I S T S _________________________________________________________ [+] - A L L I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Curtis Hoyle - (Flashback) ◼ David 'Microchip' Lieberman ◼ Diesel - (Flashback) ◼ Francis Castle Jr. - (Mentioned) ◼ Lisa Castle - (Mentioned) ◼ Maria Castle née Falcone - (Mentioned) ◼ Stephen Goodwin - (Flashback) A N T A G O N I S T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ A.R.G.U.S ◼ Amanda Waller - (Yet to Appear) ◼ Sasha Bordeaux - (Yet to Appear) ◼ Rick Flag Jr - (Yet to Appear) ◼ Macauley 'Nuklon' Sharpe - (Yet to Appear) ◼ William Rawlins - (Yet to Appear) Task Force X ◼ Abigail 'Mercy' Wright - (Yet to Appear) ◼ Robert 'Bloodsport' DuBois - (Yet to Appear) ◼ Billy 'The Beaut' Russo - (Yet to Appear) ◼ John Pilgrim - (Yet to Appear) Costa Crime Family ◼ Bruno Costa ◼ Frank Costa ◼ Enzo 'Big Bumpy' Guzzera ◼ Luis 'Lulu' Allegre ◼ Mark Scotti ◼ Matthew Skinner ◼ Rico 'The Beard' Colicos - N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S _________________________________________________________ [+] - S K I L L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Hand to Hand Training isn't just weights and cardio. Training the skills is arguably more important. Doesn't matter if you're seven feet tall and three hundred pounds of muscle if you can't throw a punch. Train hard, often and well. Train until every strike, grapple and throw is second nature. If you're fighting for your life you don't have time to think about kata and combos or whatever other bullshit. The style doesn't matter. Just focus on making it instinctual. Addendum, actually: that K'un-Lun, focus-your-chi shit is fake and it'll get you killed. Never trust a coach you find at a strip mall. Wrestling or boxing are fine for fighting strangers looking for your wallet but if you're chasing the life, go wider. I had a long, boring deployment in Thailand, so Muy Thai's my base. Pick your poison. I saw a piece in the Times once that said I was 'the logical conclusion of the vigilante phenomena.' Said I was what happened when you took one of those guys like the Bat or the Devil- a monster of muscle, tech and will- and took away the 'moral subversion to lethal violence.' It was sensational horseshit, yeah. But I gotta admit: I kinda like it. I mean, they're batting .500, right? Takes a real tough son of a bitch to wade into the muck with only your fists and Peter Pan boots. No powers. Part of me always wondered how I'd stack up. Maybe we'll find out someday. ◼ Military Service Enlisted in October, 2001. Completed training at Parris Island depot before transfer to Camp Geiger for infantry training. Based on my aptitude scores an instructor recommended me for recon screening. I must've impressed him because he had me ship down to Little Creek for RIP and BRC. More training. More tests. It was more grueling than half the shit I did later. But I came out the other side a Recon Marine. I was proud of it, too. Sent pictures of my buddies and me back home to the family. Deployed with 1st Recon for the invasion of Iraq. Earned a Bronze Star in Fullejah kicking in doors. Bialya in 2007, chasing rumors of Al-Queda operatives. Didn't have the government's permission to be there, though, so they kindly asked us to leave- using a lot of bullets. Helmand River Valley, Afghanistan in 2010. Silver Star for dragging Lieutenant Geller's ass thirty yards through open ground under enemy fire. Received a special recommendation for Assessment and Selection for MARSOC. Special Forces. More training, even worse than the last go around. Still, managed to punch through it, and came out the other side a raider. Me. Some kid from New York. Next deployment was Sin-Cong, 2011 to 2015. Got a few more stars and four purple hearts. That jungle was hell on earth. Wouldn't recommend visiting. They don't much like tourists there anymore- not that I can blame them. If another country full of rich assholes decided to drop a firestorm on the U.S because they didn't like our politics I'd probably hold a grudge too. Met a guy named Rick Flag while I was there. He was running something called Task Force X, a joint military and intelligence task force headed by ARGUS. They took us all over the world- had us doing all sorts of unethical and illegal shit. The short version: I'm very good at what I do. The best. I've been running special operations for longer than some of you have been alive. Been to every corner of the world. Learned everything from small unit tactics to hostage extraction, interrogation and long term surveillance. MARSOC and Force Recon took me in, crushed me into a ball and spat out a half decent marine. And that was all before ARGUS. Before Task Force X taught me how to spell 'black ops' in big, red letters. - T A L E N T (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ The Craft I've always been a hell of a shot. Always been good at keeping my hands steady. Not something you can really train, I think. I used to spend summer break hunting upstate with my folks. Dad would have us live out in the woods for weeks at a time. Only ate what we could catch or shoot ourselves. I didn't balk. Even as a kid seeing things die didn't bother me. Skinning deer wasn't any different from folding laundry. He was never father of the year but he taught me how to take care of myself. Taught me how to use what I was good at. -

T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... ________________________________________________________________________________________ THE WAR JOURNAL - INTRODUCTION, DEDICATION, pg 2 This book is dedicated in loving memory to: Maria Elizabeth Castle Lisa Castle Frank Castle, Jr Your lives were stolen for my mistakes My name is Frank Castle. If you're a federal agent, let's start with the ass covering: This is not an admission of guilt. Doesn't matter if it was, though. Only way anyone gets their hands on this is if they've killed me already. So congratulations. You took down the big, bad Punisher. Don't let that put you at ease. They might be lowering me into the earth now but I'm still gonna bury you assholes. If you're reading this, there's already a few thousand copies headed to newsrooms across North America. You're too late. The world's going to know what you've done. For everyone else: this document is a record of everything I know, everything I've experienced and everything I plan to do to make them pay. Lieberman calls it the War Journal. Kitschy, but hey. Need a way to keep me entertained while I trawl the depths of my worst memories. Consider this an apology for what we'll call my 'informal style.' Was never much of a writer growing up. English period was too early in the morning for me to still be awake. You understand. Where was I? Right, the beginning. My name is Frank Castle. You know me better as the Punisher. Blame the papers for the name, not me. I'm a marine. Joined up a few weeks after September 11th. I'm a New Yorker. I took it a little personally. Not much of what I did had anything to do with Al-Qaeda: Suddam in Iraq, Harjavti in Bialya, communists in Sin-Cong. Did fight the Taliban in Afghanistan for seven months there, so that was pretty close. Al-Qaed adjacent, at least. I married Maria when I got back from my first tour and found out we'd accidentally made a kid before I shipped out. Oops. I'll be honest. Before Lisa and Frank Jr, I never thought that life was for me. I wasn't built for picket fences and soccer games. I thought I'd burn my wick at both ends for a short, chaotic life and hopefully die doing something important. Then the kids showed up and I realized how much of an idiot I'd been. Highsight's 20/20, I know. But I wish to God I'd gotten out sooner. Spent more time at home and watched them grow. I should've been to more recitals. Should've encouraged Junior to keep at baseball. But like I said: I used to be an idiot. I took them for granted. Maria and I had problems that I wanted to run away from, and I always did my running in McRaes. During my last tour with the marines I met a man named Rick Flag. Guy was the real deal. Cut him and he bled red white, and blue. He convinced me to transfer to his unit: Task Force X. An ARGUS headed op, but it was a joint task force with every branch of the military and a number of civilian operators attached. Our first mission had us pulling off a hostage rescue in Madripoor. It felt good to save people for a change, and the pay was phenomenal. So I stayed. I stayed, and ARGUS showed me the depths of evil humanity can go to. They performed acts so heinous my stomach churns just writing this. Just a warning: this book is not for the faint of heart. Don't know why you thought the Punisher's war journal would be rated E but if you did, close this. Go outside. Hug your kids. Cherish the mundane while you still have it. Amanda Waller is the devil in a flesh suit. Before I die, I promised God I would plant a bullet between her eyes. Hunting her's one of the few joys of my life left. At central park, she took everything I had left. I intend to return the favor. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ I like Frank. I think he's character with the potential to be complex and multifaceted or brutishly simplistic. Here, I intend to explore a variant of Punisher based partially on his portrayal in the Netflix series: he is a violently traumatized force of nature, intent on hunting down the people he blames for ruining his life. I want to write a political thriller about a corrupt intelligence agency sacrificing normal people on the altar of national security. Since this is a shared universe game, ARGUS seemed like the perfect candidate for that role. Amanda Waller stars as Frank's primary villain, manipulating the world from the shadows. Frank's war against street level crime exists mainly as a means to hunt down connections to shadowy government agents. ARGUS is a kraken with its tentacles spread all across the underbelly of America. It has connections to the Maggia, the Dos Soles Cartel, and even a few cults. I'm hoping to experiment with the format somewhat compared to my previous runs. I want to use the War Journal gimmick to document Frank's experiences from his own eyes. He's a biased actor, and having to get into the mindset of a character like him has been an interesting challenge.

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Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

I'm done...

B L U E B E E T L E & N O V A
B L U E B E E T L E & N O V A

^{"That was dumb, hermano.""Shut up."}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Jaime Reyes // Sam Alexander _________________________________________________________ 17 // 16 _________________________________________________________ El Paso High School | Hispanic American // American N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S _________________________________________________________ [+] - A B I L I T I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ ABILITY Abilities, or Superpowers are characteristics that your character possesses which are considered extraordinary when compared to a standard human. - T O O L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ TOOL Tools are weapons or objects employed by your character to fight, defend, or otherwise augment their natural abilities. - N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S _________________________________________________________ [+] - S K I L L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ SKILL A skill is a trained expertise or capability. This is something that your character has been to taught to recall or perform such as martial prowess or technological proficiency. - T A L E N T (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ TALENT A talent is a gift that comes from natural aptitude such as perfect pitch or natural athleticism. This is a boon a character has not had to develop necessarily in the same way others might have. -

T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... __________________________________________________________________________________ Jaime is a normal teenager from El Paso Texas Sam is a normal teenager from Carefree Arizona P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) __________________________________________________________________________________ Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go? For a driving character, there should be enough of an outline present to interest other players along with specifications towards how many players you're looking to involve or available roles. For supporting characters, this should indicate either a plot you've arranged to be part of or the type of plot you're looking to be involved in. Roaming characters have the privilege of doing either or simply stating a roadmap for the character to exemplify how you'd ideally like them to move between plots.

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^{All formatting originates via the work of Lord Wraith}

@Sep

One of Sep's best sheets, honestly. What an extensive background. A powerful foundation to build a truly successful run upon. I cried a little

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

<Snipped quote by Supermaxx>

That's the weirdest looking Superboy sheet I've ever seen

@Sep

You can't predict me. I'm dangerous like that.

Worlds Collide: A Merged Universe Superhero Roleplay

P U N I S H E R
P U N I S H E R

^{"People don't change. They can pick new wallpaper, sure. Find just the right shade of paint for the new drywall. Put a shiny finish on the hardwood. Doesn't matter. It all just hides the rot underneath."}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Francis 'Frank' Castle _________________________________________________________ 43 | Widowed _________________________________________________________ Formerly U.S Marine Corps, ARGUS | American N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S N O T A B L E A B I L I T I E S & T O O L S _________________________________________________________ [+] - A B I L I T I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Physical Evaluation You can't do what I do with a beer gut and a love of hot dogs. You need discipline. A training regime. The human body loves patterns. Get into a bad one and you'll have a hell of a time digging yourself out. Keep up a good one, though? You'd be surprised what a person's capable of when they put everything they've got into it. I've been beat to hell with baseball bats and crowbars, had my face stomped into hamburger meat and ate more knives to the gut than I can count. Had to fight a lot of guys bigger than me. Haven't found one that's really got the best of me yet. Not unless you count the freaks of the world. - T O O L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ A lot of damn guns I've had a long time to build up our arsenal here at the bunker. When I started this mission I figured I'd be working with limited resources. Handguns, semi-automatic rifles and shotguns were easy. I knew a thing or two about improvised explosives, too. But this beautiful country is full of surprises. Who knew you could pop over to the corner store and pick up an MANPAD with your monster and two dollar pizza? Micro's got his tech, too. All sorts of fancy drones and surveillance equipment. - N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S _________________________________________________________ [+] - S K I L L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Hand to Hand Training isn't just weights and cardio. Training the skills is arguably more important. Doesn't matter if you're seven feet tall and three hundred pounds of muscle if you can't throw a punch. Train hard, often and well. Train until every strike, grapple and throw is second nature. If you're fighting for your life you don't have time to think about kata and combos or whatever other bullshit. The style doesn't matter. Just focus on making it instinctual. Addendum, actually: that K'un-Lun, focus-your-chi shit is fake and it'll get you killed. Never trust a coach you find at a strip mall. Wrestling or boxing are fine for fighting strangers looking for your wallet but if you're chasing the life, go wider. I had a long, boring deployment in Thailand, so Muy Thai's my base. Pick your poison. I saw a piece in the Times once that said I was 'the logical conclusion of the vigilante phenomena.' Said I was what happened when you took one of those guys like the Bat or the Devil- a monster of muscle, tech and will- and took away the 'moral subversion to lethal violence.' It was sensational horseshit, yeah. But I gotta admit: I kinda like it. I mean, they're batting .500, right? Takes a real tough son of a bitch to wade into the muck with only your fists and Peter Pan boots. No powers. Part of me always wondered how I'd stack up. Maybe we'll find out someday. ◼ Military Service Enlisted in October, 2001. Completed training at Parris Island depot before transfer to Camp Geiger for infantry training. Based on my aptitude scores an instructor recommended me for recon screening. I must've impressed him because he had me ship down to Little Creek for RIP and BRC. More training. More tests. It was more grueling than half the shit I did later. But I came out the other side a Recon Marine. I was proud of it, too. Sent pictures of my buddies and me back home to the family. Deployed with 1st Recon for the invasion of Iraq. Earned a Bronze Star in Fullejah kicking in doors. Bialya in 2007, chasing rumors of Al-Queda operatives. Didn't have the government's permission to be there, though, so they kindly asked us to leave- using a lot of bullets. Helmand River Valley, Afghanistan in 2010. Silver Star for dragging Lieutenant Geller's ass thirty yards through open ground under enemy fire. Received a special recommendation for Assessment and Selection for MARSOC. Special Forces. More training, even worse than the last go around. Still, managed to punch through it, and came out the other side a raider. Me. Some kid from New York. Next deployment was Sin-Cong, 2011 to 2015. Got a few more stars and four purple hearts. That jungle was hell on earth. Wouldn't recommend visiting. They don't much like tourists there anymore- not that I can blame them. If another country full of rich assholes decided to drop a firestorm on the U.S because they didn't like our politics I'd probably hold a grudge too. Met a guy named Rick Flag while I was there. He was running something called Task Force C, a joint military and intelligence task force headed by ARGUS. They took us all over the world- had us doing all sorts of unethical and illegal shit. The short version: I'm very good at what I do. The best. I've been running special operations for longer than some of you have been alive. Been to every corner of the world. Learned everything from small unit tactics to hostage extraction, interrogation and long term surveillance. MARSOC and Force Recon took me in, crushed me into a ball and spat out a half decent marine. And that was all before ARGUS. Before Task Force C taught me how to spell 'black ops' in big, red letters. - T A L E N T (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ The Craft I've always been a hell of a shot. Always been good at keeping my hands steady. Not something you can really train, I think. I used to spend summer break hunting upstate with my folks. Dad would have us live out in the woods for weeks at a time. Only ate what we could catch or shoot ourselves. I didn't balk. Even as a kid seeing things die didn't bother me. Skinning deer wasn't any different from folding laundry. He was never father of the year but he taught me how to take care of myself. Taught me how to use what I was good at. -

T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... ________________________________________________________________________________________ THE WAR JOURNAL - INTRODUCTION, DEDICATION, pg 2 This book is dedicated in loving memory to: Maria Elizabeth Castle Lisa Castle Frank Castle, Jr Your lives were stolen for my mistakes My name is Frank Castle. If you're a federal agent, let's start with the ass covering: This is not an admission of guilt. Doesn't matter if it was, though. Only way anyone gets their hands on this is if they've killed me already. So congratulations. You took down the big, bad Punisher. Don't let that put you at ease. They might be lowering me into the earth now but I'm still gonna bury you assholes. If you're reading this, there's already a few thousand copies headed to newsrooms across North America. You're too late. The world's going to know what you've done. For everyone else: this document is a record of everything I know, everything I've experienced and everything I plan to do to make them pay. Lieberman calls it the War Journal. Kitschy, but hey. Need a way to keep me entertained while I trawl the depths of my worst memories. Consider this an apology for what we'll call my 'informal style.' Was never much of a writer growing up. English period was too early in the morning for me to still be awake. You understand. Where was I? Right, the beginning. My name is Frank Castle. You know me better as the Punisher. Blame the papers for the name, not me. I'm a marine. Joined up a few weeks after September 11th. I'm a New Yorker. I took it a little personally. Not much of what I did had anything to do with Al-Qaeda: Suddam in Iraq, Harjavti in Bialya, communists in Sin-Cong. Did fight the Taliban in Afghanistan for seven months there, so that was pretty close. Al-Qaed adjacent, at least. I married Maria when I got back from my first tour and found out we'd accidentally made a kid before I shipped out. Oops. I'll be honest. Before Lisa and Frank Jr, I never thought that life was for me. I wasn't built for picket fences and soccer games. I thought I'd burn my wick at both ends for a short, chaotic life and hopefully die doing something important. Then the kids showed up and I realized how much of an idiot I'd been. Highsight's 20/20, I know. But I wish to God I'd gotten out sooner. Spent more time at home and watched them grow. I should've been to more recitals. Should've encouraged Junior to keep at baseball. But like I said: I used to be an idiot. I took them for granted. Maria and I had problems that I wanted to run away from, and I always did my running in McRaes. During my last tour with the marines I met a man named Rick Flag. Guy was the real deal. Cut him and he bled red white, and blue. He convinced me to transfer to his unit: Task Force X. An ARGUS headed op, but it was a joint task force with every branch of the military and a number of civilian operators attached. Our first mission had us pulling off a hostage rescue in Madripoor. It felt good to save people for a change, and the pay was phenomenal. So I stayed. I stayed, and ARGUS showed me the depths of evil humanity can go to. They performed acts so heinous my stomach churns just writing this. Just a warning: this book is not for the faint of heart. Don't know why you thought the Punisher's war journal would be rated E but if you did, close this. Go outside. Hug your kids. Cherish the mundane while you still have it. Amanda Waller is the devil in a flesh suit. Before I die, I promised God I would plant a bullet between her eyes. Hunting her's one of the few joys of my life left. At central park, she took everything I had left. I intend to return the favor. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) ________________________________________________________________________________________ I like Frank. I think he's character with the potential to be complex and multifaceted or brutishly simplistic. Here, I intend to explore a variant of Punisher based partially on his portrayal in the Netflix series: he is a violently traumatized force of nature, intent on hunting down the people he blames for ruining his life. I want to write a political thriller about a corrupt intelligence agency sacrificing normal people on the altar of national security. Since this is a shared universe game, ARGUS seemed like the perfect candidate for that role. Amanda Waller stars as Frank's primary villain, manipulating the world from the shadows. Frank's war against street level crime exists mainly as a means to hunt down connections to shadowy government agents. ARGUS is a kraken with its tentacles spread all across the underbelly of America. It has connections to the Maggia, the Dos Soles Cartel, and even a few cults. I'm hoping to experiment with the format somewhat compared to my previous runs. I want to use the War Journal gimmick to document Frank's experiences from his own eyes. He's a biased actor, and having to get into the mindset of a character like him has been an interesting challenge.

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MARVELS: Streets of New York

T H E S P E C T A C U L A R . . .S P I D E R - M A N

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^{_{Peter Benjamin Parker ♦ Photojournalist ♦ Queens ♦ Independent}}

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

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^{"How witty are we talking?"}

With great power comes great responsibility. These were the last words of advise Uncle Ben gave before his death at the hands of a common mugger. Peter Parker took those fateful words to heart, dedicating the rest of his life to protecting the people of New York City. Wielding mutated powers gifted to him by a genetically-altered spider, Peter Parker is your friendly neighborhood SPIDER-MAN.

His first love, Gwen Stacey, died in his arms at the hands of the Green Goblin. When Peter discovered the Goblin was actually his mentor and his best friend's father, Norman Osborn, Peter confronted him. Their climactic battle ended with Norman suffering mortal wounds. Harry Osborn preserved his father's life with experimental cryogenic tech, and vowed terrible vengeance against the violent vigilante, Spider-Man.

Since gaining his powers at the tender age of fifteen, Peter's vigil over New York City has stood unbroken for over two decades. He's clashed with dozens of costumed villains, murderous vigilantes, corrupt businessmen and petty tyrants.

Peter married Mary-Jane Watson, acclaimed actress and close friend. The two had a daughter together, Anna-May Parker, and moved into Forest Hills, Queens. Peter finally received the recognition he deserved from J.J. Jameson and earned himself a permanent position at the Daily Bugle as a crime reporter and photojournalist.

Anna-May is sixteen years old now, and Peter's worried she may be developing superpowers of her own. Raising a teenager is hard enough on its own without superpowers involved. He wants nothing more than to let her live the normal life that he never did.

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:

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I've been greatly enjoying the Ultimate Spider-Man run and started re-reading Renew Your Vows, and felt inspired to write a Spider-Man that's grown up. He's a family man now, with even more personal responsibilities than ever before. Peter Parker's struggle to juggle the many different facets of his life is a core part of his character, in my opinion: can he really continue to protect the city as Spider-Man without neglecting his personal life? Can he hold down a decent job, pay off his mortgage, and afford to send his kid to school someday? His every day struggles are deeply relatable to me, and those are the aspects I find most compelling and plan to integrate into his story.

Of course, the hard part isn't just getting by: its doing all that while villains in colorful costumes and gangsters in pin-stripped suits attempt to tear New York City apart, and Spider-Man's the only one that can stop them. At this point in his life, he's battled all of his classic villains: from Doc Ock, the Lizard, and Sandman to his arch-nemeses, Venom and the Green Goblin. Norman Osborn is trapped in a life-threatening coma after his last bout with the webhead, yet his son, Harry, has donned the goblin's mask in search of retribution.

Peter's been Spider-Man for over twenty years now. He's been in more superhero team-ups than there are hours in the week. I'm hoping to leave a lot of room for other spider-adjacent characters like Miles Morales, Silk or even a heroic Venom to be picked up by interested parties.

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

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► Mary Jane Watson-Parker: MJ is a lifelong friend of Peter Parker and, as of fifteen years ago, his wife. She's an award-winning actress, best known for her role in the action-comedy trilogy Jackpot by Cage McKnight, and a former fashion model. Since the birth of her daughter, Annie, she's moved back to NYC to focus on her family. She regularly acts in and directs smaller, indie projects with local Hollywood hopefuls. During emergencies, she dons the Regent-powered Spinneret suit, which allows her to borrow Peter's powers for a short time.

►Anna-May Parker: Daughter of Peter and MJ, Anna is sixteen years old. She's inherited the fierce intellect and endless curiosity of her parents. Ever since she learned her father was Spider-Man she's dreamed of having powers of her own and fighting crime alongside him, despite his insistence against it. More than once Peter has found Annie tinkering with his web-shooters and spider-bots when she should've been sleeping.

►Harry Osborn: Harry Osborn was once a brother to Peter Parker. The two grew up together, thick as thieves all the way from childhood to the end of high school. One would've thought them inseparable before the death of Gwen Stacy at hands of the Green Goblin. An enraged Spider-Man sought out the Goblin in his home- Norman Osborn's home- where he had neither his glider nor his pumpkin bombs to aid him. Peter would've killed Norman if not for Harry's intervention. Angry, confused and betrayed, Harry did all he could to save his father, freezing him in a cryogenic tank in the hopes of finding some means to save him. Grieved by what's become of his father, Harry took a sample of the 'Goblin Formula' that Norman once consumed: trading his already strained sanity in for the power he needed to reap retribution from Peter Parker.

S A M P L E P O S T:

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Sample Post

_{MARVELS: Streets of New York Presents: THE SPECTACULAR SPIDER-MAN}

ISSUE #0: ALONG CAME A SPIDER

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_{Queens ♦ New York City}

The L train screamed through Broadway Junction station like a bat out of hell, smashing apart a hastily erected barricade in the middle of the track. NYPD officers and MTA workers scattered as debris flew through the air in every direction. At the front of the train, a man in a yellow-quilted costume stood in the cabin, his vibro-shock gauntlets embedded in the controls. "What do you think, boys? Can we make this thing go any faster?!" He cackled, sending another wave of electricity flowing through the system.

A gang of turtleneck-wearing, assault rifle wielding professionals made their way up and down the train's cars, stripping the trapped passengers of all their belongings. After being sufficiently departed from their valuables, the passengers were herded into the central cars and zip-tipped together.

"ACC-EL-AR-ATE! Hahaha!" Shocker shouted over the radio.

One of the hired guns looked to his partner and smacked a palm against his forehead. "This idiot's going to get us all killed."

"Y'know, I was thinking the same thing." Spider-Man agreed, wrapping an arm around the gun-totting thief's shoulder. "You guys deserve better. You think Kingpin's hiring these days?"

The gunman shouted a confused splurge of curses, each gaining an octave as he realized just how screwed he really was. Before he could shift his rifle around or take a step away, he found his feet leaving the ground and the ceiling quickly approaching. He screamed, and his face smashed directly into the roof just as a white, sticky substance slapped against the back of his head, pinning him in place.

The second thief whirled, firing a spray of bullets right where he'd seen Spider-Man just a moment ago. Instead of tearing holes into his blue-and-red spandex-ed ass, they instead poked holes into the windows and seats of the train car. "Where'd he-"

"Over here, champ." Spider-Man tapped the guy's left shoulder so he'd twist toward it, only to slam a fist into his right cheek. He was sent careening head over heels to the floor, where another spurt of webbing stuck him firmly to the floor. The thief groaned.

"Hm, sounds like that hurt. Make sure you apply for worker's comp. And put some ice on that!" Peter wagged a parting finger down at the goon before turning and jogging down the car.

There were a lot of people tied up in this car. Peter felt a twist of anxiety in his gut as he realized how stupid it'd been to stunt on those guys with so many innocent people packed in like sardines here. It was pure luck no one had been hurt. Stupid; the kind of mistake he would've made when he was a rookie, but he should know better by now.

"Everyone okay?" He asked, slipping through the train car and freeing each and every one of them. People grabbed at his arm for his attention, looking for comfort in frightening times. Peter felt woefully under-qualified to offer it. All he could do is offer confident words and held hands. They were fathers, mothers, someone's kids. They all reminded him of people he'd failed to protect before.

Parker stood. "Alright, everybody. Stay here. Find something to hold onto." He turned, and started toward the next car. "I've got a train to catch."

Clearing the next car took no time at all. Peter had his game face on, and a handful of frightened train robbers fell quickly. They could barely see the blur of multi-colored, arachnid-themed pajamas as he web-zipped from one side of the car to the other. He needed to be quick about this, but the real struggle was never going too fast. Too much momentum, or one reckless punch and one of these jerks might be headed for the morgue instead of a hospital.

A faint buzz in the back of Peter's mind told him to duck, and he obliged. Just as he did it started raining bullets as machine gun rounds tore down through the ceiling and peppered the interior below. With a flick of his wrist, he attached a web to the wall and flung himself through a window and flipped up to the top of the train. A blur of buildings and treetops flew past as he confronted the gunman: a burly man the size of a hotdog cart, a massive, belt-fed fire arm in his meat paws.

"Hey, jerkface!" Peter rushed him, ducking underneath another spray of bullets and sliding between the gunman's legs just to pop up behind him. With a quick pat to the back Peter attached a drone to his shirt, grabbed him and tossed him into the air.

A parachute burst out of the back of the drone, catching the train's slipstream and launching its passenger into the great beyond.

"That's what you get for not paying the fare!" He shouted after the rapidly ascending balloon-man.

With the last of Shocker's henchpeople dealt with, all he had left to do was take down the head honcho himself.

New York's tackiest-dressed supervillain had no idea what was coming for him. He was all too absorbed in the thrill of pushing the train to its absolute maximum speed, blowing through every station and grinding down the railway in the process. At this speed, the chances of derailing at every sharp turn were high. Too high. The NYPD had helicopters pursuing it, but even they were having trouble keeping up at this point.

Shocker didn't see much more than a flash of red booties before the front window shattered inward and double kick sent him careening out of the driver's seat. Tumbling head over heels, he tore chunks of steel out of the flooring with his gauntlets as he flailed wildly about in surprise.

"A train robbery, Herman? Really? Were you stuck watching nothing but Gunsmoke re-runs in prison?" Spider-Man crouched atop the busted control console, every muscle in his body tensed like a spring even as he ran his mouth.

"What else we s'posed to hit in this town anymore?" Shocker grumbled, stumbling back to his feet. "Half the banks are owned by Maggia n' the other half's Kingpin's turf! Even I ain't crazy enough to mess with 'em. Guys like us can't make a living these days."

"Have you considered opening a quilting boutique? I know a few grandmas who'd go buck-wild for that costume."

"Screw you. Imma finally squash you like the bug you are!" Shocker growled, and charged.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

<Snipped quote by Supermaxx>

The age gap isn't as severe as I first thought. However, still no bueno. If he knocked MJ up at 22, Felicia would have still been a teen, even if barely. The timeline of her being Black Cat and meeting Spider-Man would put Pete and MJ as firmly in wedded territory. Guess their previous partnership will have to have been purely business.

Gowi will be so disappointed.

@Retired

Yeah, I think that works out. I could probably shift the timeline back a few years, but I like the idea of Pete's kid developing powers around the same time that he did. Dramatic parallels or something like that.

MARVELS: Streets of New York

<Snipped quote by Hound55>

You expect Maxx to quality check his own material?

@Retired

Hurtful, but true