The Man Emperor

The Wards: A Grimdark Teenage Superhero Story (Rebooted!)

.

The Wards: A Grimdark Teenage Superhero Story (Rebooted!)

Alman Kastrati, the Astromancer

---

---

"Sometimes, the stars gaze back."

---

---

Name: Alman Kastrati

Alias: Astromancer

Nicknames: Alms

Age: 17

Gender: A boi

Personality: Alman has a generally pleasant demeanor, and seems to be "chill" most of the time. He is noted to be highly enamored by ‘cute, fluffy animals’, and possesses a keen sense of intuition of trustworthiness. Alman is pretty protective of those folks he happens to like, though those that he had a bad experience of could expect to be suddenly abandoned in the middle of a fight.

Aside from that, Alman is incredibly petty. Ruin his day, or his property? He’ll do the same, but he’ll try to make it a bit worse for whoever pissed on his parade. He is pretty much the embodiment of karma in this regard; actions will come back around, so better be nice to the guy, or else you’ll find yourself randomly inconvenienced by small, but infuriating things. Rule of thumb with Alman, then, is that he always returns to sender.

Appearance:

My Hider

Alman is 5’3” in height, with markedly Caucasian features, though he gravitates to the somewhat tanner side. His pupils are amber in color, accompanied by black framed glasses. Those glasses are auto-darkening, and react accordingly whenever he summons stars. His clothing choices usually gravitate around cloaks and other comfortable, flowing garments. Apparently, he sees it as ‘liberating’.


As a Cape, he uses a suit that is shielded from the effects of his own stars, such as bright flashes and radiation. The cape on his back has a star pattern on it, which seamlessly blends into the starry sky at night. The vital areas are covered by protective kevlar, while a high grade helmet with a wide visor keeps his head safe. Overall, it is quite comfortable to be in, just as he prefers all clothes to be. It is not the most mobile of outfits, but it serves its purpose.

Biography: Alman wasn’t from Redline originally. Nor was he originally a citizen of the United States, either. His earliest memories, at least as far as he is willing to admit, traces back to their apartment in the city of Pristina, Kosovo, as the firstborn son of Selim and Jelena Kastrati.

Either way, Alman doesn’t remember all too much of his home country, as his family left it when he was five years old due to the highly volatile situation that it was in. They first arrived in New York City, and then moved up further north into Maine, where they finally settled down, somewhat. Now, they faced a whole new world.

As a child, he had the dream of becoming an astronaut, and reaching out towards the stars. Every night, he would look through the telescope, thinking of impossible dreams as typical for someone of such a young age. He knew every famous star and constellation, recognizing them as they shone in the night sky. Alman had quite a few difficulties with the English language, and was as such bullied for it in school, though that was simply the first reason. Other causes arose, namely because of his lack of aptitude for sports, and other generic reasons. He was passive though, and simply took it without telling anyone else, as he knew he couldn't fight back against the likes of them. Not like this. He would just get beaten even more. To make matters worse, his mother had been feeling unwell a lot of the time, but she always said that it was just her getting tired at work, which just made Alman worry to the point of being nearly physically sick. It seemed that the sorry state of everything was going to stay that way for a very long time.

One day, however, everything changed. Alman' mother had fallen ill. All those headaches weren’t just from the stress of work; it was a brain tumour. Alas, they didn't have the money to pay for the medication/medical bills to aid with her situation. She was, in all respects, dying.

In desperation, Alman’ father and uncle went to a dangerous, but deceptively friendly connection. They did not know what price they might pay in the process of getting the funds they required, but surely any sacrifice was worth it, if only her life was saved? By this point, Alman’ mother’s cancer was close to getting to a terminal stage, and there was little time left before it would begin to be difficult to dislodge.

That connection that they went to, it turned out, was a group for organized crime, who had them meet outside at night, where the Milky Way itself was visible in the sky. They were apparently willing to provide the money that the Kastratis needed, if only they would do something in return. That something, however, was heinous in its nature. Murderous, even. The boss wanted someone dead, and the assassination was their price. Alman father and uncle balked at this. They had expected something that would involve them and themselves alone, but it now seemed that this would be a life for a life. Now that they know who was the target, though, they cannot leave. Not until they say yes to the deal.

And so, the gangsters took hold of Alman’ father and uncle, and began to beat them to submission. The crime lord made him watch, forcibly keeping his eyes open even as he tried to look away. Here, he felt rage, and chaos. Rage at his father for believing that it was a good idea to plead the mafia for aid. Rage at the mafia for what they were now doing, and what they would make them do in exchange for a promise they may never carry out. He managed to close his eyes shut, if only for a moment, and heard only the chaos from his surroundings; the laughing of vicious thugs, the cries of pain, the sounds of blunt implements impacting against flesh. Rage. Disorder. They were all his to bear.

At that moment, an entity that skirted in the dimensions far above the ken of mortal perceptions found a suitable vessel. A shard unraveled, and in a split second, Alman was enlightened. He could now create the shiniest of lights, the fiercest of flames, the purest manifestation of starfire. And so, instead of his family being the victims that night, the gangsters were annihilated. Orbs of starlight burst into existence, setting clothing and flesh alight. The chaotic constellation that ensued wiped out the gangsters, purging them from the face of the earth. The gang were all dead, and the Kastrati clan still lived. The money, which had been in a suitcase as a fleeting proof of the deal they could have made, was now theirs for the taking. His mother will live, but at what cost?

Later in the morning, as the Kastratis recovered and spoke to one another about the events of last night, PRT investigations found traces of ionized gas within the area of concern, as well as charred bodies belonging to some of the most notorious gangsters in the state. Investigations pinpointed just who these gangsters were supposed to meet at the night, which led them to this moment. Self defense was cited as defensible cause for such wanton destruction, but such an ability was still extremely dangerous for public life.

The PRT caught wind, and showed up in the Kastrati doorstep, having found that he had obliterated around two dozen or so 'people'. It was clear that Alman cannot remain in regular society like this. His parents were somewhat resistant to the idea that their only child is to go away from them, but they relented after about a week as the ultimatum became heavier. In exchange for around the clock protection for them, Alman was to enter the Wards Program.

Powers:
Classification: Blaster 6
Astromancy: Alman produces and channels plasma energy. He is as such able to create and maintain up to four miniature stars at a given time, with three distinct modes that operate in a sliding scale of heat and light. They can move at around 7 to 8 meters per second, with any turns requiring pauses in movement.

Mode 1 (Searing Star): Capable of melting through most metals, as well as turning sand into glass at physical contact. By far the dimmest, but the most potent in terms of destructive potential. These can immolate most materials that they may come across.

Mode 2 (Blinding Star): Little to no destructive capability, but the brightness emanating when it is created acts as a powerful flashbang, temporarily disorienting and blinding those who had not protected their eyes.

Mode 3 (Main Sequence): Seemingly unremarkable, these main sequence stars, as he calls them, are able to sear wood and stone, and can be difficult to look at for prolonged periods. This is the foundation from which the other two derive from in their creation.
Skills: When he was still unpowered, Alman was noted to be a great painter.
Other: No girlfriend since birth, sadly.

The Wards: A Grimdark Teenage Superhero Story (Rebooted!)

@The Man Emperor

Alright, I'm finally running through and reviewing the stragglers to get this started. Not much to say about Alman here, except, uh...Isn't this just his original power? Y'know, the one we had ya change? xD. Point is, though, firing several hundred-feet spanning heat beams of death is a tad extreme. If what we came up with last time isn't to your liking anymore, we can figure something else out, but this one can't run as-is.

@RBYDark

This looks promising, but let's touch base on a few things; firstly, backstory. The main thing that strikes me as odd is how, er....Emotional his spiders come off as? That was my best way of describing it, but my point being this. End of the day, they're still spiders, so beyond being piloted by his intents (which is what some of this could be viewed as, but it's put forth in a kinda odd way), they're still very simplistic creatures. As for his power, the ability-copying needs to last for a far shorter frame; I'd say at most is perhaps 10 minutes, to prevent him from simply having access to a massive collection of powers of his choosing that can last him for potentially a whole hour lol. Oh, and also, how exactly do these 'power transfusions' work when it comes to giving him multiple Parahuman abilities at once, or when (theoretically, given this is not dismissed in the Power section itself) granted to other Parahumans? Does it simply not work? Or does he gain those multiple powers, perhaps at some cost, like the duration, potency, or control of said abilities? Some things to think on that I'd like to see handled before I fully accept him, but overall, it's lookin' good. :)

@LostDestiny

I honestly don't have a ton to say here, which is a good thing, cuz it means the sheet is really solid lmao. Accepted! Bring Fuse on board. It's not directly mentioned, but I suppose he's going to be apart of the Redline Guardians, correct? If so, no complaints here lol

@Crusader Lord

Aight Crus, apologies for the wait, but Luna is accepted!...Unsurprisingly, I mean ya personally worked with me for like 3/4ths of this sheet xD

@Mintz

Oh I see. I'll just use the old one then XD

Pariah

Murder Express

Zahariel smirked as Shawn left the shop at last, his lone employee disappearing into the night. He took his time, taking the cash register's contents and placing them into his bag in order to deposit them in the bank later on. A few hundred dollars

Today was a good day for business. An elderly couple came in, looking for the biggest and baddest cactus Zah had in sale, so naturally he directed them to an absolutely enormous specimen in the back of the shop. It was easily as big as the average person, and the spines could be used as deadly weapons. Zah mused that they wanted to use it for self defense as well as house decoration, but alas, they bought it along with some of the water lilies.

Anyway, Zah had been looking at the news. The Scourge seemed to be pretty busy nowadays, seeing as how they had just burned down a laboratory. Plus, they've stolen some chemicals.

Zah sighed. Why can't they be content with living in isolation from the rest of humanity? Why must they pull these antics and ruin the lives of everyone else in the Pariah Underground? Things are bad enough as is…

Taking his cane, Zah walked to the back of his shop. It was open and had a telescope in it, lending him a view of the stars. Sometimes, he'd catch a glimpse of his old homeworld, the Red Planet, glinting in the night sky. He remembered how he lived underground, and only ever got out of that little world on a world with a suit on.

Now, here he was, on Earth. He could sense that his body was still having trouble with the gravity, even after a whole decade. Zah quickly downed one of those pills with a glass of water, making sure that he didn't suffer any health issues when he got home.

Speaking of which, it was getting dark. And so…

A dark mist surrounded Zah. Out of the black smoke emerged his transformation; an eldritch raven, exuding pure shadow.

The news reported that the Scourge members went in different directions. He didn't want to deal with Flea, as she could jump up and catch him in mid-air, so he'd rather deal with Graphite and Ruby. True, his raven swarm cannot harm Graphite, but he didn't need to harm them- not yet, anyway. They needed a good talk.

"Well that's relieving," Zah thought as he witnessed a bunch of small shapes fight in the dark alley below him. Let's see, a pyromancer, a smoking skeleton, then those two. Must be… Sear and Grassbones.

Zah flew down, perching on one of the nearby rooftops, deciding not to interfere- yet. Though to those four, he's not exactly hard to miss.

"Cute…" Zah simply mused, watching Ruby and Graphite's irritation.

---

The Collector

"Sir. SIR! Please step away from the-"

"Step away or you'll, what, shoot me?"

The Collector stood in front of the set of jewels, his eyes filled with greed and exquisite taste. The glass box was an easy matter. He could just take it along with the set, as the Tesseract Labyrinth would have no trouble swallowing the whole thing into its unfathomable dimensions.

Either that, or let his pets break it.

"Uh…"

"Darling," the Collector said, stepping forward while Satan and Lucifer, those mechanical centipedes, crawled beside him. "I tell you this. Are you implying that you, a man who in most likelihood, has a family to feed, an ambition to reach, will willingly fight me? And for what? How much do these people pay you anyway? Minimum wage?"

Collector lazily tossed a black cube at the jewel set, causing the precious relics to disappear into a pocket dimension. "Word of advice, my dear. You shouldn't do for others what they aren't willing to do for you. For instance, fighting to the death. You know who I am, no? You know what I can do? Bullets simply… stop."

The security guard whimpered, though he still pointed his gun at the completely unfazed Collector.

"You know, with a face like that, my parents would be telling you to marry my sister," Collector said, giggling. As if in cue, Gloriana Hellas and Sol Invictus floated towards from elsewhere in the mansion, bearing news.

"Gold plates and vintage wine bottles have been found," Gloriana Hellas said in a monotone, robotic voice. "On the second floor."

"Most excellent, my love," the Collector said with an amused tone. He then looked back at the security guard, who was still standing there, scared. "How old are you? 20? 25? You have a long way to go, my good sir! I suppose that your cooperation and generosity should be rewarded here and now, no?"

"...what?"

"Oh, you misunderstand," the Collector said, taking out another of the cubes from his pocket. "Here, take a peak."

The Collector plunged his right hand into the cube, the point that he touched turning into a semi-liquid. He then pulled out a large, glowing ruby that reflected the light of the nearby chandeliers with absolute beauty.

"Glorious, isn't it," the Collector answered, holding out the ruby. "This is worth more than the salary you'll get in a whole year. Or your life, depending on how brain-dead your owner, err, employer is. Anyway, if you'd kindly just leave, you can have this."

Satan loomed behind the Collector, its mandibles excitedly clicking. Its eyes alternated between red, green, and yellow, as if they were a set of Christmas lights.

"Satan, don't scare him, can you?" The Collector chided the machine.

Satan looked dismayed, and crawled away. The Collector turned his attention back to the guard, who had his gun down now. Not waiting for anything else, the Collector took the man's hand, and placed the ruby on his palm.

"Go on now! Be free!"

Surely enough, the guard ran away, leaving his gun behind.

And so the ransacking continued. The Collector was very, very pleased.

Pariah

The Collector

Name | Javier Alejandro Santa Ana Gamarra
Alias | The Collector; however, he prefers to be called "The Grand Archeoivist of the Eternal Galleries." He always corrects people who "get it wrong".
Age | 36
Gender | A Man
Appearance | The Collector carries himself with a proud demeanor, almost as if he's passively exuding an aura of arrogance and self importance. Standing at about six feet tall, a head of auburn hair visible behind his mask, and glimmering amber eyes, the Collector is an imposing figure.
Notoriety | Wanted
Danger Level/Variant Type | Class 2 Distortionist/Architect
Abilities |

Tesseract Labyrinth: In essence, the Collector can create handheld cubical devices that contain pocket dimensions. Any inorganic object no larger than a man battle tank that is struck by these devices will be taken into the pocket dimension. They can be thrown out and taken back in at any time.

If a vehicle with living entities in it gets struck, they are instantaneously teleported a few feet away from the vehicle.

(These are literally Pokeballs, if they were pitch black cubes)

Stasis Field: The Collector can lock inorganic objects in place within a small field around him, preventing any movement. This can be used to stop falling objects of up to several tons in mid-air and pause incoming bullets. However, another person coming in will find themselves only slightly slowed down by the field.

Hyperspace Oubliette: By bending the fabric of space, the Collector can teleport within a distance of 100 meters, whether through line of sight, an up-to-date picture, live feed, or memory.

[Gear]
Attire | One can say that the Collector "has a lot of drip." In stark contrast to his downtrodden origins, the Collector wears robes of purple, red, and blue, sometimes with fur trimming. He always has this dragon mask on when meeting with interested buyers, or when he's "requisitioning" (aka stealing) important stuff.

Armament/Equipment |
Prowler Drones: Lovingly named "Satan" and "Lucifer", these robotic sentinels (courtesy of Lockheed Martin) guard the Collector whenever he's out "retrieving" special objects. These 10 feet long mechanical monstrosities look like metallic centipedes, armed with razor sharp claws, jaws, and a set of dual machine guns. He may summon them at will using a Tesseract Labyrinth.

Flak Drones: Fabulously named "Gloriana Hellas" and "Sol Invictus", these levitating drones also defend the Collector during his acquisitions. Designed by Angstrom Defence, these machines are armed with a pair of carbines and advanced scanners. May or may not have been stolen.

The Boomstick: Of course, the Collector's personal weapon is also given an overdramatic name. It's basically a high powered pistol, but with a seemingly ancient design filled with runes. The runes don't actually do anything, but the gun itself will surely do great harm.

[Temperament & Lifestyle]
Affiliation | Independent. He'll help anyone at the right price, however.
Personality/Habits |
"I welcome all to a place in my carefully curated collection!"

To those that have interacted with the Collector, the first thing they'll notice is that he seems completely… different. His attention seems to fly from place to place, though his eye for detail is said to be impeccable at the same time. He's very eccentric, asking seemingly inane questions at random. He speaks of the nature of the universe, of reality, and… other random topics.

Based on these observations, it would seem that the Collector is a self interested curator of relics and technology, whose primary goal is to have a sample of everything that ever was. Of course, he's willing to part with the less "valuable" parts of his collection to get something that he doesn't have currently, though he's just as inclined to take what he wants by force.
Occupation/Trade | Black Market Trader
Skills/Talents |
Stealing
Marksmanship (with a pistol)
Haggling
Deception

Family |
Leonora Gamarra (mother)
Salvomente Gamarra (father)
Background |

The earliest guesses of the identity of the Collector was that of a certain Javier Alejandro Santa Anna Gamarra. His family was said to be buried in the poverty so rife in New Haven then and now, so they barely scraped by, day by day. Perhaps it was this situation that inspired the nature of the Collector; a driven curator and thief, interested only in self preservation.

One day, though, he disappeared, or so as the neighbors said. He left and just… never came back. The family came back, too, but they didn't seem to acknowledge that Javier was gone. They kept assuring everyone else that he had just found a job elsewhere.

But where?

Either way, the headlines on the Collector began when random but valuable objects began to go missing around town. Luxury cars, shiny museum relics, and even the marble statue in one of the squares went missing. The rich folk of New Haven were rather irritated, but no one could really know who the culprit was. Surveillance cameras only confirmed that it was a teleporting Variant wearing rich people's clothes, who threw pitch black cubes that seemingly consumed whatever they touched.

The black market knew differently, though. Suddenly, there was a new masked face in town, making deals with all the dangerous crime lords. He was difficult to take down, too: it seemed that he could summon a pair of robotic guardians at will, who would then proceed to rip and tear his enemies. Most gangs would learn to make use of the situation, though, as he was… generous, to say the least.

Who knows where the Collector hides? None had ever laid their eyes upon the Eternal Galleries, as he calls himself the Archeoivist of. If anyone has been there, it's likely that they're not coming back.

Or perhaps it doesn't exist.

Pariah

Zahariel Angstrom

Name | Zahariel Angstrom
Alias | Murder Express
Age | 30
Gender | A Man
Appearance | Some might say Zahariel is a disaster man that does not sleep. Well, he does sleep, but it never seems to be enough. Despite his not-too-old age, he uses a cane to help himself get around.

Other than that, he's… mostly indistinct. At a glance, he's the last person you'd think to be capable of turning into a shadow demon of your deepest nightmares.
Notoriety | Indistinct
Danger Level/Variant Type | Class 2 Metamorphic/Architect
Abilities |
Transformation: Zahariel has the ability to turn into a fifteen feet tall eldritch raven. In this transformed state, he has powers of flight and sharp talons. Strangely enough, he exudes a dark mist, which leaves a fleeting trail of shadow wherever he flies. He can intensify this mist to mask his escape.

Fortunately for everyone involved, this transformation doesn't destroy his clothes, unlike the entity known as Hulk.

Murder Assault: Summons a flock of spectral ravens from the mist that trails off his transformed state. These bite and tear at anyone he directs them to; it would feel like getting attacked by a swarm of flying, feathered piranhas.They seem to be fully integrated to this plane of existence, and can get damaged and destroyed by conventional weapons. Despite their spectral nature, they are unable to phase through solid objects.

The flock can also function as a makeshift bridge for a single person, though this would purely be for the benefit of others as he doesn't require any bridges to go anywhere.
[Gear]
Attire | Zahariel's attire is… variable. It could be said that he "changes clothes like a popular girl does with her dresses." Whatever the case, though, he always carries himself well. In casual settings, you can expect him to be wearing a shirt with a jacket over it, which are usually in the darker tones. In more official things, he'll be using something that's perfect for the occasion, but never overly opulent or luxurious; it's always "just right". The stuff he wears always seem to be well maintained and ironed, resulting in an orderly vibe about him.
Armament/Equipment |
As a necessity of his… special situation, Zahariel always has a box of supplement pills in his bag. These help maintain his health when he's out of his Metamorphic form, as he'll otherwise start manifesting cardiovascular and respiratory issues.

Other than that, he always carries a smartphone, a taser, a wallet filled with cards and a spare dollar, a load of cash stashed in his boots (yes, he keeps most of his pocket money down there), and the keys to his house.
[Temperament & Lifestyle]
Affiliation | Pariah Underground
Personality/Habits | Despite the intimidating and almost eldritch vibe of his Variant powers, Zahariel is a friendly, swell dude. It's always been said that he's an exemplar of good behavior back then. Well, except for that one little incident back home, but we don't talk about that.

That doesn't mean he's above violence, though; if a mysterious character were to approach and try to squeeze from him the location of a Pariah Underground safehouse, a swarm of angry birds won't be too far behind. That is, if he doesn't just transform at the spot and bite off your head. He may be nice, but he'll do whatever it takes.

Occupation/Trade | Professional gardener that makes a living by selling pots and plants. Formerly a botanist in the Martian colony in Mariner Valley.

Secretly, he's a ferry for the Pariah Underground. With his transformation, he can evacuate one Variant at a time to safety. Or more, if they're small.
Skills/Talents |
Salesmanship
Gardening/Botany
Power-based combat
Near perfect recall
Family |
Johan Angstrom (father)
Sylvia Angstrom (mother)
Imrahil Sabat (brother, deceased)
Background |
The Murder Express is an oddity in NOVA's files. Supposedly, it's a Variant that stalks the night, interrupting agents in the middle of sting operations. A swarm of spectral ravens attack, disrupting them for a few precious minutes.

Each time, the Murder Express is seen flying off with the operation's target on its back, disappearing into the darkness as a black mist covers its escape. The true, human identity of this Metamorphic had never been confirmed so far, and many agents favor pursuing easier projects than trying to know who the hell this is.

The Variant that would go on to become the Murder Express (named so because a group of ravens is called a murder and it summons just that each time it is encountered, not because it murdered anyone) was born not on Earth, but on Mars. There, the first fruits of humanity's first forays beyond the homeworld have begun to bear fruit. Domed and underground settlements lie within suitable locations such as Mariner Valley and Olympus Mons. Thousands of people now call the Red Planet home, and one of them was Zahariel Angstrom.

His family was part of the later waves of colonization; wealthy tycoons and industrialists that came after the scientists and engineers made their first marks on the world. The Angstroms owned a Swedish defense contractor: the aptly named Angstrom Defense Corporation. And so, at first, Zahariel had it pretty easy, if we're talking about material possessions. While he got all the money that the second world could offer, he only had maids, pets, and robots as company. His parents, ever the obsessive masters of an industrial military complex, were as hands off as they could ever be. They didn't bother to check if their son was getting into gambling and
… more gambling.

It was during a heated argument and fight in a casino that the 19 year old Zahariel first manifested his Variant Powers. After being engaged in a lengthy fist fight, he suddenly transformed into a great raven and tore off the other man's arm.

Of course, while neglectful, his parents were quick to cover up the incident. They accomplished this with the trusty method of applying more and more money into the problem until it stopped being a problem. In short order, all records were destroyed and all witnesses suffering seemingly convenient accidents, such as 'falling through a window'. In exchange, though, Zahariel was given a massive stash of supplements, a boatload of cash, and a one way trip to Earth. Make no more trouble, they said. And don't ever come back.

The problem, of course, was obvious. While he did have his own professional skills, he was Martian, and would always have health problems while on Earth. The situation forced him to finally wise up. Within the decade, got a quaint little plant shop and a decent enough house.

At the same time, Zahariel experimented with his Variant powers. He found that transforming into the great raven nullified his problems with the different gravity, but he can't stay that way forever. So, he usually slept while transformed, and never invited any friend over.

Well, that was until his brother knocked on the door.

Turns out, when Zahariel was five, his older brother "died". That much wasn't true, as Imrahil was a Metamorphic Variant, though he turns into a tentacle monster, apparently. The approach of their parents to apply money to problems and then kick those out was a recurring theme, it seems.

As part of their reunion, Imrahil told Zahariel of the Pariah Underground; the network of Variants with abilities that made them unsuited to living with regular society. Imrahil often talked about how they're despised by everyone else for being strange and different when they had no control over their situation. He never said it directly, but Zahariel felt that his involvement would be appreciated.

That was an unspoken offer that he sat on, unfortunately. After a few months, Zahariel wouldn't see Imrahil again. He wondered what had happened for another month, until other members of the Pariah Underground came over, regretfully informing him that Imrahil was killed by the Syndicate.

Understandably, Zahariel was utterly pissed, and also regretful. He aligned, albeit secretly, with the Pariah Underground.

And so the mystery of the Murder Express began.

Pariah

Zahariel Angstrom

Name | Zahariel Angstrom
Alias | Murder Express
Age | 30
Gender | A Man
Appearance | Some might say Zahariel is a disaster man that does not sleep. Well, he does sleep, but it never seems to be enough. Despite his not-too-old age, he uses a cane to help himself get around.

Other than that, he's… mostly indistinct. At a glance, he's the last person you'd think to be capable of turning into a shadow demon of your deepest nightmares.
Notoriety | Indistinct
Danger Level/Variant Type | Class 2 Metamorphic/Architect
Abilities |
Transformation: Zahariel has the ability to turn into a fifteen feet tall eldritch raven. In this transformed state, he has powers of flight and sharp talons. Strangely enough, he exudes a dark mist, which leaves a fleeting trail of shadow wherever he flies. He can intensify this mist to mask his escape.

Fortunately for everyone involved, this transformation doesn't destroy his clothes, unlike the entity known as Hulk.

Murder Assault: Summons a flock of spectral ravens from the mist that trails off his transformed state. These bite and tear at anyone he directs them to; it would feel like getting attacked by a swarm of flying, feathered piranhas.They seem to be fully integrated to this plane of existence, and can get damaged and destroyed by conventional weapons. Despite their spectral nature, they are unable to phase through solid objects.

The flock can also function as a makeshift bridge for a single person, though this would purely be for the benefit of others as he doesn't require any bridges to go anywhere.
[Gear]
Attire | Zahariel's attire is… variable. It could be said that he "changes clothes like a popular girl does with her dresses." Whatever the case, though, he always carries himself well. In casual settings, you can expect him to be wearing a shirt with a jacket over it, which are usually in the darker tones. In more official things, he'll be using something that's perfect for the occasion, but never overly opulent or luxurious; it's always "just right". The stuff he wears always seem to be well maintained and ironed, resulting in an orderly vibe about him.
Armament/Equipment |
As a necessity of his… special situation, Zahariel always has a box of supplement pills in his bag. These help maintain his health when he's out of his Metamorphic form, as he'll otherwise start manifesting cardiovascular and respiratory issues.

Other than that, he always carries a smartphone, a taser, a wallet filled with cards and a spare dollar, a load of cash stashed in his boots (yes, he keeps most of his pocket money down there), and the keys to his house.
[Temperament & Lifestyle]
Affiliation | Pariah Underground
Personality/Habits | Despite the intimidating and almost eldritch vibe of his Variant powers, Zahariel is a friendly, swell dude. It's always been said that he's an exemplar of good behavior back then. Well, except for that one little incident back home, but we don't talk about that.

That doesn't mean he's above violence, though; if a mysterious character were to approach and try to squeeze from him the location of a Pariah Underground safehouse, a swarm of angry birds won't be too far behind. That is, if he doesn't just transform at the spot and bite off your head. He may be nice, but he'll do whatever it takes.

Occupation/Trade | Professional gardener that makes a living by selling pots and plants. Formerly a botanist in the Martian colony in Mariner Valley.

Secretly, he's a ferry for the Pariah Underground. With his transformation, he can evacuate one Variant at a time to safety. Or more, if they're small.
Skills/Talents |
Salesmanship
Gardening/Botany
Power-based combat
Near perfect recall
Family |
Johan Angstrom (father)
Sylvia Angstrom (mother)
Imrahil Sabat (brother, deceased)
Background |
The Murder Express is an oddity in NOVA's files. Supposedly, it's a Variant that stalks the night, interrupting agents in the middle of sting operations. A swarm of spectral ravens attack, disrupting them for a few precious minutes.

Each time, the Murder Express is seen flying off with the operation's target on its back, disappearing into the darkness as a black mist covers its escape. The true, human identity of this Metamorphic had never been confirmed so far, and many agents favor pursuing easier projects than trying to know who the hell this is.

The Variant that would go on to become the Murder Express (named so because a group of ravens is called a murder and it summons just that each time it is encountered, not because it murdered anyone) was born not on Earth, but on Mars. There, the first fruits of humanity's first forays beyond the homeworld have begun to bear fruit. Domed and underground settlements lie within suitable locations such as Mariner Valley and Olympus Mons. Thousands of people now call the Red Planet home, and one of them was Zahariel Angstrom.

His family was part of the later waves of colonization; wealthy tycoons and industrialists that came after the scientists and engineers made their first marks on the world. The Angstroms owned a Swedish defense contractor: the aptly named Angstrom Defense Corporation. And so, at first, Zahariel had it pretty easy, if we're talking about material possessions. While he got all the money that the second world could offer, he only had maids, pets, and robots as company. His parents, ever the obsessive masters of an industrial military complex, were as hands off as they could ever be. They didn't bother to check if their son was getting into gambling and
… more gambling.

It was during a heated argument and fight in a casino that the 19 year old Zahariel first manifested his Variant Powers. After being engaged in a lengthy fist fight, he suddenly transformed into a great raven and tore off the other man's arm.

Of course, while neglectful, his parents were quick to cover up the incident. They accomplished this with the trusty method of applying more and more money into the problem until it stopped being a problem. In short order, all records were destroyed and all witnesses suffering seemingly convenient accidents, such as 'falling through a window'. In exchange, though, Zahariel was given a massive stash of supplements, a boatload of cash, and a one way trip to Earth. Make no more trouble, they said. And don't ever come back.

The problem, of course, was obvious. While he did have his own professional skills, he was Martian, and would always have health problems while on Earth. The situation forced him to finally wise up. Within the decade, got a quaint little plant shop and a decent enough house.

At the same time, Zahariel experimented with his Variant powers. He found that transforming into the great raven nullified his problems with the different gravity, but he can't stay that way forever. So, he usually slept while transformed, and never invited any friend over.

Well, that was until his brother knocked on the door.

Turns out, when Zahariel was five, his older brother "died". That much wasn't true, as Imrahil was a Metamorphic Variant, though he turns into a tentacle monster, apparently. The approach of their parents to apply money to problems and then kick those out was a recurring theme, it seems.

As part of their reunion, Imrahil told Zahariel of the Pariah Underground; the network of Variants with abilities that made them unsuited to living with regular society. Imrahil often talked about how they're despised by everyone else for being strange and different when they had no control over their situation. He never said it directly, but Zahariel felt that his involvement would be appreciated.

That was an unspoken offer that he sat on, unfortunately. After a few months, Zahariel wouldn't see Imrahil again. He wondered what had happened for another month, until other members of the Pariah Underground came over, regretfully informing him that Imrahil was killed by the Syndicate.

Understandably, Zahariel was utterly pissed, and also regretful. He aligned, albeit secretly, with the Pariah Underground.

And so the mystery of the Murder Express began.

The Star-Breakers

"5,000 years ago, our ancestors braved the cold darkness of intergalactic space to flee our long lost homeworlds. Many perished in the void, but many more survived, coming to this galaxy to find a new, glorious life. And so, I tell you this: we are here to stay. No cosmic horrors, no legions of the other races, not even fate itself can remove us. We foresaw what destiny had in store for us, and we defied it. It is what we do, and that is what we will always do."

- Sovar Qel'anis, Supreme Chancellor of the Convocation of Kul'Zarr

---

"Kelmandrar! Why you not a doctor yet?"

Kelmandrar resisted the urge to roll his eyes as his mother asked him one of thos inane questions again. While he did treasure and love his family, they could be… frustrating to deal with. Even when he was hundreds of light years away from them, he could feel the pressure that they're trying to impose. Oh, who cares about that. In this economy? No way.

Though there's no way they could really find out. He could just… say that he was already one. That he got a doctorate in one of those space academies in the Rainbow Comet City, whose inhabitants were known for their culture and love for art more than anything else. Perhaps he'll just say that he is a doctor, technically… but in philosophy, that is. The art of overthinking and random bathroom thoughts about the laws of the universe.

"Oh didn't you know?" Kelmandrar finally answered. "I am already a doctor. From the… Academy of Sciences in the Rainbow Comet City. You know that place, right?"

"Oh, those folks," his mother said, squinting. Conveniently, none of the Hyrocs actually knew anyone from the Rainbow Comet City. Probably because the place is constantly moving around the galaxy's core and thus a pain to warp into.

Kelmandrar pouted. "You're not going to congratulate me?"

"Oh, yes, yes, I will. I'll send you an extra pack of credits this month. We are truly proud! But… it's just me at the moment. Your father is… I don't know. I have a suspicion that he's cheating with one of those les- I mean other species."

"... I'm not surprised. Well, I have work coming up now, so…"

"Yes, yes, goodbye. When will you come back here, to Sar-Vantha?"

"When the captain of the Eye kills himself," Kelmandrar answered. "Or dies in battle. I prefer that he keel over and die from food poisoning to be honest. Or gets stabbed in the back by an alien assassin. Any end that's not glorious."

Unfortunately, or fortunately, the signal began to sputter, and then died.

"Oh," Kelmandrar shrugged. "Well, anytime now-"

"Rise and shine, crew. Get your asses to the Mission Deck in ten, gotta brief everyone before we touch down."

"I'll be bringing this shiny ass to the Mission Deck," Kelmandrar said to himself, taking a moment to look at mirror to check the serrated teeth in his beak. He was sure that he flossed everyday…

Soon enough, he was down in the aforementioned deck, wearing a black cloak over his more… normal clothing. Of course, this cloak wasn't just plain; it was adorned with serpentine void dragons and golden flowering vines, with the centerpiece being a circle with white calligraphy written in the Kul'Zarrah Lexicon. The text read, 'weak'.

"Hello, captain," Kelmandrar cheerfully greeted, too cheerfully perhaps. "Tis a good day yes?"

Warhammer 50k: The Second Age of Strife

Silas Celeton
The Rogue Trader

The Chaos Sorcerer howled as Paolo nullified his vile incantations, the feedback loop of Warp energy cascading within his mind. The Tzeentchian psyker knelt down, screeching in pain, blood flowing like tears from beneath his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking what his Astartes masters would think of him should they learn that he was bested by one of the servants of the Dead Emperor.

Still, the sorcerer would not give up. If he was going down, then, he declared in the name of the Changer of Ways, he shall take as many worshippers of the Emperor with him.

Whatever promises or pacts he made with Tzeentch, the fickleness of the Chaos God of Deceit took hold as the Sorcerer delved deeper and deeper into the Warp, further risking eternal damnation. With one final heave, he attempted to cast another spell… only for it to backfire and leave behind a charred corpse. That, and several Pink Horrors jumbled out, with the spell apparently succeeding at the price of his life.

He'd have to put his faith in their capabilities to not buckle so soon in the face of trouble that found them this soon.

It was soon apparent that the Chaos cultists were beginning to lose momentum. The casualties they suffered were double of what they inflicted on the naval infantry, and the screeching Tzaangors were being picked off one by one. Still, they still fought on, elated by the promises of the ruinous powers.

The Tzaangor that Stukov fought brayed and screeched, angry that its prey wasn't folding as fast as the others. Its fury was only compounded when another of the naval infantry stabbed it in the back with a bayonet, prompting the beastmen to turn around and grab him by the throat...

“No time t’be lazin’bout! Yer Voidmaster is go-” His remark was cut short as a grenade went off, thankfully the full force of it was absorbed by the small pile of corpses that the Frontiersman was using as cover but the blast of it was still enough to send him tumbling past, concussed by the explosion.

Silas, in a similar vein, was affected by the explosion, though not as much. Along with the pile of corpses, the Tau shield generator that he used absorbed the impact. Though his ears rang and his vision was dazed, if only for a moment, he quickly came to the Kin's side, using the power blade to slice apart a pair of Cultists that were rude enough to approach with chainswords drawn.

"Grummore? Grumm? By the Throne… are you alright?"

Silas, worried, considered calling a medicae if the Kin didn't wake up within the next moment…

Outside, the situation had evolved rather quickly. The remaining Chaos vessel was successful, ramming and disabling the Gladius frigate owned by one of the other Rogue Traders. The spectacle was visible from the observation deck, with the two ships slowly crashing down towards the bottom of the Webway tunnel.

In the bridge, meanwhile, the augur arrays flashed with new, unidentified signs, yet again. What else was coming…?

The Star-Breakers

Kelmandrar Hryoc

---

---

"We will bring peace after we kill- I mean, shove the gun barrel of democracy down the collective throat of the current government."

---

---

Name: Kelmandrar Hryoc

Nicknames/Titles: Kelmie, Bird Person, Nevermore, CAW CAW, Chicken, Birb,

Age: 97

Gender: A Man

Ship Role: Member. Could go to be a marine or fighter pilot, though he clearly likes to marine more.
Race: Kul'Zarrah - Translates to "Children of the Void"

My Hider

An enigma of the galaxy, it is said that this race of crowfolk came from a star system located within intergalactic space. Those who are present in the Milky Way are hypothesized to either be the survivors of some catastrophe, or a mercantile group that split off from mainstream society. The Kul'Zarrah are famously unforthcoming when it comes to their origins, instead speaking in convoluted riddles when asked about it. Or it could be that they themselves don't even remember.

They are divided into two subspecies. First are the Sarveli; biologically immortal, psychic, enigmatic, needlessly mysterious, possessing glorious wings, and some of the biggest racists you'll ever meet.

On the other hand are the humbler Hursar. The vast majority of them don't have psychic powers, and those who do are weaker than their Sarveli counterparts. The Hursar also lack wings, and aren't immortal (though they still live for around 500 years), but they have supremely perfect memory recall and a sweet disposition. In addition, they are far more numerous. It is unknown just what caused the divergence of the two, but rumors say that it was socioeconomic classes, with the Sarveli being the rich folk that thought dying of old age was cringe.

A high resistance to radiation is how they have inhabited the galactic core for at least five thousand years. It is thought that they genetically modified themselves during their journey from intergalactic space. They can walk around a leaking nuclear reactor without any ill effects.

A curious exception in this galaxy, the Kul'Zarrah practice democracy, with an elected Senate and Chancellor leading them.

The Kul'Zarrah average between 5'2" to 5'8" for the Hursar, while the Sarveli tend to be around 6'1" to 7'.

The Kul'Zarrah are an entirely voidborne race, living in scattered, continent-sized chains of titanic space stations orbiting stars. They are complete with their own ecosystems and geographical features, such as forests, plains, mountain ranges, and seas. Needless to say, these stations are self-sufficient. They're also warp capable, so good luck trying to commit war crimes on them.

Curiously enough, they are most common in the galactic core, forming the Convocation of Kul'Zarr as their united government.

Kul'Zarrah warships are renowned for high quality throughout the galaxy, and are regularly hired by other races to participate in planetary invasions, convoy raids, and full-blown Interstellar wars.

Personality: Kelmandrar is a pretty light-hearted kind of guy, often cracking jokes for no apparent reason other than… well, there's no reason, actually. Either way, being a Hursar Kul'Zarrah, he has what one could describe to be a chill disposition. He has been described as slow to anger, though that just means that pushing over the edge will be extra… spicy.

Nevertheless, having served in the navy as a marine over his long life, Kelmandrar is a fierce warrior. He often taunts and insults his enemies in the middle of a fight, goading them to attack without sufficient preparation. This tactic has been effective at times; sometimes, it's not.

In general, you'd want to keep this Kul'Zarrah around. He listens to the raging vents of other crew members, offers hugs when someone is sad, and will kill your enemies while calling them a bunch of weaklings. Who doesn't want that?

Biography: Kelmandrar hails from the Sar-Vantha Coalition, one of the many Kul'Zarrah station chains that lay within the deepest regresses of the galactic core. There, he lived in what was one of the most dangerous regions of the galaxy. Deadly stellar phenomena, such as gamma ray bursts, supernovae, nebulae, cosmic radiation, and so on were part of everyday life for the Kul'Zarrah of the Sar-Vantha.

Luckily, or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, Sar-Vantha shared the star system with a human colony planet. The humans of that world were descended from a fallen colony ship, which had been lost for years at that point. The Hursar Kul'Zarrah of the Sar-Vantha aided them in surviving on their new planet, while the Sarveli watched from afar with thinly veiled contempt.

And so, Kelmandrar was born into this whole affair. Having a normal childhood and adolescence aside (which, of course, included a 'phase'), he would grow to join the Sar-Vantha navy. He was a marine at first, defending the armed trade ship Solar Seeker from pirates as it travelled from the core to the galactic arms. After about two decades, Kelmandrar went on to become the marine chief of the cruiser Eye of the Storm, which would routinely sortie out to purge pirates and alien monstrosities. The Eye of the Storm also helped defend other worlds from invasions, for the right price, of course.

The turning point would be when the Eye, having been richly paid to participate in a planetary invasion, nuked several cities (probably killing a few million or so) at the behest of their employers. Kelmandrar despised that action, as their contract supposedly didn't have that in mind, but the captain wanted the extra money, either way. And so, Kelmandrar left the Eye of the Storm's crew, not even bothering to leave a letter of resignation. He just left aboard an FTL capable starfighter, wandering from station to station before eventually coming across the Star Breakers.
Powers/Skills:
Path of the Witch: Kelmandrar is one of the few psychics of the Hursar Kul'Zarrah. This isn't too apparent, though. Instead of flashy lightning or cackling pyromania, it consists of short term precognition and enhanced reflexes. He can see attacks coming in about 2 seconds before they hit, making him a menace in a duel. However, multiple opponents attacking at the same time can easily overwhelm this future sight.

Radiation Resistance: Just like the rest of his race, he doesn't give a damn about radiation. He can walk around Chernobyl and simply laugh at its feeble attempts to kill him.
Way of the Sword: Kelmandrar is great at melee. He just is.

The Gun: As a former marine, Kelmandrar is a decent marksman, though he's no sniper.

Starfighter Pilot: He's no fighter ace, but he certainly knows how to use one and dogfights reasonably well.

Equipment:

Chainsword: Kelmandrar's melee weapon of choice is a blade with superheated, revolving teeth. It can grind through most body armor, and will cauterize any wounds it inflicts (while grinding up the insides, because, well, teeth).

Blast Rifle: Versatile, reliable, and.. did I say it was reliable? This laser weapon has a rate of fire comparable to an assault rifle, and a high shot capacity. Shots could be concentrated for more penetration and damage, but it becomes a single shot rifle in this mode.

Powered Armor: The main benefit this has is making him taller than he actually is defence. It's a light variant of powered suits all things considered, with protection mainly derived from the shield generator built into it. It can shrug off quite a few rounds, but slower moving things, such as melee weapons, can simply bypass the shield.
Other: Kelmandrar is 5'4". Weight is around 58 kg.
My favored sci-fi works? Hmmm, The Expanse, Space Battleship Yamato, Warhammer 40k, and League of Legends Star Trek.