South Bronx, New York
September 7th, 2012
11:23 AM
Remy laid half nude atop the motel bed, his white boxers caught the sunlight like a crystal, refracting and reflecting. He snored loudly for a moment, which turned into a steady moan. He fumbled with the pillow as if it were uncomfortable and turned into a fetal position. A small discolored circle on Remy’s waist was all that was left of his physical wounds from the fateful day when he lost his family; the mental wounds would always be there, like a ghost, they would appear and chill him to the bones.
A quiet noise breached the humid summer silence. A humming signaled the presence of a drone, it’s shadow was cast into the motel room from the window. The little white floating robot was no larger than a microwave, no smaller than a toaster. It was a disk with an armored shell. A small prong extended from its centrifugal form and tapped the window, it shattered. Remy awoke violently from his sleep, in a moment he was stood atop the bed. The little drone expertly floated into room and landed on the floor, a hologram appeared above it, Fence’s face.
“Glad to see you’re up.” Fence was sitting in a train headed down the eastern seaboard, he’d catch a biplane in Florida. Fence was rather picky about how he traveled, never in a way where he was completely trapped in, what he considered, a death trap. He’d fly the biplane, he could leave the train at any of the many stops. He was sitting in a private booth by himself, speaking into his newly fixed HUD.
“I wasn’t till yo’ damn drone came through the window!” Remy sat at the edge of the bed, lazily stared at the virtual representation of Fence. “What dis doing here anyway?”
“I’m on my way down to Florida, I won’t be able to meet you. But, HARDy here has some equipment and documents for you. I found a place for you to stay, a friendly place. Make sure you read everything I sent you before you head out…”
“HARDy?”
“Oh, yeah, I built him last night, while you were out. Cool hu? It stands for Helpful Assistance and Recon Drone.”
“Well, dat’s just adorable.” Remy responded as he wiped the tiredness from his eyes. “When will you be back?”
“I’d like to be back by Monday, we should be able to hit the target a few days after that.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t say too much over dese channels.” Remy felt a little vulnerable in this motel. He knew the espionage game, he knew the different ways in which people could gather information. Remy was pretty sure no one had followed him to the motel, so physical surveillance was very unlikely. And, of course, Remy trusted Fence’s encryption methods. But if there is one thing the Cajun learned during his escapades with espionage types, it was that you could never be too careful, or too paranoid.
“Please, Remy. I built HARDy, and set up his comm channels myself. Do you think I’d leave a hole in the gate? Don’t insult me. This is a secure channel. Anyway, see ya!” Fence replied, smiling. He was proud of Remy, they were going into the breach, two adventurers out on a limb. Remy was always prepared, always thinking; Fence couldn’t think of a better partner.
The hologram disappeared and the drone lifted off of the ground, that’s when Remy noticed he wasn’t being controlled, HARDy was intelligent. He hovered right over the bed, the cameras twirled from the plastic band running along it’s center, positioning itself perfectly over the pillow. A PDA fell from a compartment at the bottom of the drone’s body, a GPS came out behind it, and then a paintball case filled with the prototype metal balls.
The twitching feet came back into Remy’s mind, his throat ripped to pieces by metal bits and his face burned to a crisp. Seeing the metal orbs again made him feel a twinge of regret, they were killing machines, especially when combined with Remy’s deadly powers. Cards were far less deadly. Sure, there would be scratches, at the worst someone would die days later from impact shock, but nothing so brutal as fragmentation explosions.
“Hey, can I speak to Fence again, HARDy?”
HARDy bobbed a little in the air, hovered over to the ground and sat again. Fence came up as a hologram moments later.
“Fence.”
“Yes, Remy.” Fence seemed a little annoyed. The fact was that a very beautiful woman had slipped into his booth, she was a bit of a technophile, it seemed. There was a blossoming of those. Fence had just promised to order a bottle of chardenea.
“I don’t know if I want to use these pellets.”
“Why?”
“I killed an agent last night…”
“What?!? Where?”
“In my apartment, it was terrible. There was shrapnel, Fence.”
“Yeah, I was worried about that. The batch I just gave you have been redesigned. The shrapnel was an accidental consequence of the old design. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“I think I’ll be alright. It’s not the first time I’ve killed a government official.”
There was an eerie quietness over the line, both Remy and Fence were embarrassed by that truth; each for different reasons. “Anything else?” Fence finally asked.
Remy thought for a moment, shook his head. “No, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah, HARDy will patch us through once you get to your new home.” And with a click the hologram was gone. HARDy zipped up and out of the room as Remy slid into his body suit.
59th St Subway station, New York
3:30 PM
The glistening A train started up and then chugged out of the station, almost everyone left on the platform made their way to the stairs. Remy, wrapped in his overcoat, slid into the shadows of the subway tunnel and began running down the darkened highway. A puddle of muck splashed under his feet as he detoured into a small hallway which ended in a manhole. Remy dropped down in and plunged even further into the muck. Remy ended up at a delta of sewage-ways, he stood on a platform on the side, looking down the red-lit corridor. Remy carried a duffle bag over his shoulder, he turned to his right and began walking. It was easy to ignore the smell, Remy had surprisingly been in worse. He smiled when he saw the green light which signaled the location of his safe zone. A vaulted door, outfitted with a security panel, shone in the verdant light. Remy plugged the numbers he’d been given into the keypad, a fingerprint scanner revealed itself directly below the keypad. Remy removed his glove, unlocked the door, and stepped in. It was a moderate space. Nearest the door was a small cot with a dresser at its feet. Opposite the cot was a couch and desk. Set up on a concrete dais was a kitchen area, a bathroom was hidden to the side behind an opened iron-bar gate.
Remy placed his bag down and sat on the cot, the vault door closed automatically behind him. “I could get used to this place,” Remy commented as he fell to the pillow, he’d need some rest before a heist Fence had planned for him for later that night.
Player Name: The New Yorker
Character Name: Matthew Miyahara
Moral Alignment: Walking the Line
Affiliation: NYPD (briefly with IA during recruitment), Columbia Law School, Lehman University
Character Origin & Backstory
Matthew Miyahara was born to a brilliant scientist and a former Japanese Special Forces Commander, Beth and Hideo respectively. The married couple moved to the United States after a frightful encounter with Yakuza members in their home. In reality, Hideo was forced to move, for the sake of his family and his honor on the force, it was an order. When they came to America they did not have a child. In 1989 Hideo was 37 and Beth was 31. As soon as they landed on the rainy shores of Seattle they conceived Matthew. So they hit the road and headed east. Beth already had a job lined up at the blooming Fisk Industries*, and Hideo had family in New York anyway. They moved into a quiet brownstone in Riverdale and began creating a home for a toddler. Matthew was born in 1990 May, 27th in that brownstone’s living-room surrounded by family. And so he was raised in this family of three in the Bronx and so he was nurtured by his brilliant mother and strict father. Hideo was stern, certainly, but also very loving of his family. He thought of them, almost, as art, something he helped create with his blood, sweat, tears. And it was in his blood, sweat, and tears that he was forever snuffed from this world, taking with him a portion of the art that was his family. He was followed shortly after by his wife, some suggest she killed herself, Matthew holds that it was foul play, though no body has ever been found. By ’98 Matthew was orphaned and his grandfather and grandmother became his legal guardians, they were his father’s parents.
Matts Grandfather Daisuke, known locally as Stick, was one of the first and only heroes operating in the Bronx in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s. He prowled the rooftops in light armor refitted with armor plating from a Samurai suit. The history of Daisuke is long and fantastic but very few know of it, and Daisuke never speaks of it. Matthew only learned of his grandfather’s alter ego through researching into the most obscure newspaper articles and tabloid headlines in order to barely scratch the surface. After understanding the greatness of the man he called “pop-pop” at the age of 13 Matthew was proud, he reeled, asked his Grandfather to teach him the intricacies of the Japanese martial arts. Matt was never old enough for his father to teach him anything and he was, shamefully, disinterested at the time. Matt felt like this would help him better remember his father, by consuming something his father held so dear. And so Daisuke taught his grandson the art of Jujutsu, Kenjutsu, Ninjutsu, and Aikido.
By 14 Matt is enrolled in the prestigious Bronx Science, one of the best High schools in New York. By 16 Matthew graduates. Matthew was home schooled by his mother while she was alive, she imparted great wisdom onto him and fostered a feverish interest in knowledge in the young man. That most likely led to his successful academic career. At 16 Matt wanted to enter the police academy, he is turned down and is told to go to college instead, he does so. A full scholarship sweeps 16 year old Matthew Miyahara out of the Bronx and into Columbia Law School under incredibly special circumstances, he is to take supplementary classes at Lehman, near where he lived. For 4 whole years Matt devotes himself to his simultaneous BA in Political science, and Doctorate in Criminal pathology. At 20 years old Matthew Miyahara is a well-trained, Pathologist with the skills of a samurai. He gets a fast-track through the NYPD and passes through the academy with flying colors. During his internship in the Academy he works with Internal Affairs in order to help take down two crooked instructors, they ran a drug scam with some of the students. At 21 Matt is on the force and is not too well liked, he finds a dead rat in his locker at the end of his first month. Matt is enjoying his time on the force, almost a year in, despite his co-workers attempt at the opposite. Matthew responds to a call of shots fired at the midtown docks, a call that will change the rest of his life.
Powers and Abilities
-Genius level intellect: Matthew is incredibly perceptive, and not just in a strictly sensory way. He knows when things don’t fit, he can tell when something doesn’t make sense, and how the dots connect. He also has a huge wealth of information and knowledge regarding legal, political, and scientific matters. Beside all of that, Matthew is an excellent learner and listener.
-Acrobatic dexterity: Matthew’s training with his grandfather has made him lithe and agile. He is able to make huge leaps, climb over vertical surfaces with ease, and perform acrobatic tricks.
-Martial arts: Matthew is skilled in joint-locking, “soft skill” force indirection, stealth, swordsmanship, and all the other tiny skills involved therein.
-Radar senses: Once Matthew is blind he gains the ability to perceive things around him by the use of an electromagnetic pulse radar which mutated in his brain. He isn’t seeing anything, just receiving feedback from this mutated electromagnetic pulse mechanism which projects images in his consciousness.
Weaknesses
-Blind: Despite his extrasensory mutant abilities, Matthew is still blind. He doesn't receive constant feedback from this sort of echo location, so someone moving quickly and stealthily could elude Matthew quite well.
-Emotional: Despite being a logical and rational thinker, Matthew can sometimes loose control of himself, allowing his emotions to run amok on his thinking. Revenge is currently an overriding element.
Sample archs:
-Building the Man: Matthew needs to regain his confidence, reassure himself of his abilities and place in the world. Getting a job as a lawyer should do the trick. Here he starts understanding more about his radioactively induced mutations as well.
-Building the Machine: Matthew begins his proper work as the Daredevil, setting out on a course of vengence to find the truth behind the killing of his family.
-Building the Legend: With the hunt for the Kingpin behind him, Matthew and the Daredevil venture even further into the darkness in order to spread light. The man without fear becomes a Marvel Knight.
The muffled, tinny voice from the radio crackles the atmosphere of the interior of the Police car as Matthew drives down 53rd and 6th. The crimson glow from the taillight speeds along the black road behind the white and blue steel beauty as it hovers past closed restaurants, and a doctor’s office, and a Starbucks. Matt’s bony hands clutch the steering wheel until his knuckles are white and his fingers are red. He quickly lifts the radio receiver to his mouth and clicks the button on the side.
“10-4, I’ve got that, Stace”
Matt turned into 47th and let the car glide down the little road without any extra speed. Matthews’s partner held onto the dashboard like he was afraid he might go crashing through the window pane. He was a portly man who looked to still be capable in a fight. His white mustache crossed his upper lip like a badge itself.
“Ease up there, cowboy.” Terry McGillan said quietly, not wanting to instigate.
“It’s an emergency, Terry.” Matt said, smile on his face. He turned up into 8th and around another corner toward the docks.
The two boys in blue exited the vehicle in proper police protocol when dealing with a shooting call, guns drawn. They eased up to the chain-link gate and tested it, it didn’t open.
“Ah, damnit, don’t tell me I gotta hop this goddamn fence.” Terry blurted, holding his gun to his side like some kind of play thing.
Matt holstered his gun, and without saying a word, mounted the fence. He flopped onto the other side unscathed and went to retrieve the keys that were likely in the guard house a few feet away. He wasn’t even near it before he heard a single gun-shot, then another. A white flash illuminated the far off dock and Matt could see some standing figures etched in the distance. He sprinted down the concrete road to the dock and the gunshots.
“Hey! Hey, hold it! Wait for back up, boy!” Terry screamed behind Matt as he dashed down the pavement. “Son of a bitch—“ he whispered to himself, half-running to the radio in the car. He called in back-up in rushed, yet professional tones.
Matthew’s sprint was even and fast as all hell. His pistol was in his hand, his index finger readily extended near the trigger. Now that he was closer Matt could see two standing figures, drenched in the shadows of the sepia colored lamplight. One tossed a body into the river and the other held what looked to be a bat. On the ground were three bodies, laid out like dolls, a woman kneeled like an angel under the bat-wielders shadow. Matt quickly stopped in place, no more than 25 feet from the scene and pointed his gun forward. He was sweating a little and his vision shook but his hand was gratefully steady. The barrel lined up with the chest of the man holding the bat. The man lifted the bat behind his head and twisted his body.
“Freeze! Right now! Police!” Matt’s voice was load, clear, commanding. He felt a rush of adrenaline, the confidence gleamed from his badge and gun. He felt good about himself.
The man with the bat let his bodyweight take over then, the bat swung around his body like a comet to a planet and crashed into the head of the woman kneeling. Her body slumped to the floor and Matt was certain he saw a piece of her skull skitter across the concrete.
The man who was previously dumping a body wheeled around and his hand lifted from his coat. Matt shifted his weight and brought the pistol’s barrel to the left, his hand went a little too far and so he brought it back and fired. The man to the left twitched and almost fell to the ground, his gun hand dropped to his side and he fell to one knee. The man to the right, holding the bat, sprinted off down the dock lane. Matt fell to one knee and took better aim, just as the man with the gun, who remained near the bodies, tried to do. Matt fired two more shots, the second capped the man. Matt rose and sprinted toward the bodies.
What he found there was a heart-splitting disaster. Two men and two women dead, all beaten and shot. Matt looked at the latest victim, most of her head was leaking onto the floor. He was drawn in by the gruesome display. It called to him, not just in desperation, as dead bodies do, but aesthetically as well.
That single thought made Matt shiver, and he glanced down the lane to make sure he wasn’t being aimed at. But just as he turned away he saw something in her cold, pale face. She had familiar almond eyes. Matt searched her nametag only to be struck with utter shock. Miyahara was her last name, Janice Miyahara. His heart was pounding through his shirt and his could feel the pulsing of his chest. Matt stood, he was wrapped in his blues, the badge on his chest gleamed dangerously in the lamplight. Two more cop cars wailed at the entrance, the red and blue lights breaching the darkness.
Matt sprinted down the dock lane like he’d never sprinted before, he was propelled by the thirst for knowledge, just as he’d always been. This time is was deep, it was emotional, and it was for his family. A figure just disappeared behind a truck, seemingly a gas truck, it’s metal cylindrical train shining. Matt approached it quietly, yet quickly. He turned the corner that was the truck only to receive a personal greeting from a bat. It swung in the air trying to hit is head, knocking the gun from his hands as he recoiled backwards. The bat swung into the trucks train instead. A big dent formed around where it was struck. Matt drew his billie club and blocked another attack. The man wore a leather jacket, corduroy pants. Matt smacked the guy in the stomach with his club and tried for the head. The man ducked and hit Matt in the ribs, then he grabbed the cop by his collar and threw him against the back of the truck, knocking the air out of his lungs.
Matt thought about his grandfather’s training, it was always about presence. About maintaining a consciousness even when you should not have one, a presence. Matt maintained consciousness and so blocked the incoming, lethal bat attack. He lifted his club over his head and knocked the bat into the train once more, this time directly at the point where it’d already been hit. A small rupture expelled gas and then whatever incredibly dangerous toxic waste the train was housing. The waste completely covered Matt’s assailant, knocking him to the ground and drowning him in the stuff. Matt was able to get away with only a spray on his face. However, when he got the goop from his eyes, and it wasn’t painful to try opening them any longer, he did so only to find darkness.
“I’m… oh, hrmm… I can’t see anything.” Matthew sobbed as Terry ran up to him, crouched on the floor. Both of their voices cracked with shock and despair.
“You’re going to be alright, kid.”
“Fuck, Terry… No, no, no, no, no!” He screamed loud enough for every cop and pedestrian in the area to hear him. He yelled and no tears streamed from his white eyes though he felt like crying until he was dead. Spittle fell to the floor as he writhed and sobbed in Terry’s grasp. He knew right then that he’d never see again. Terry felt like he’d lost his son all over again, and so he cried when the boy could not.
*** Three months after the accident***
Laudanum is a tincture of opium and alcohol, and is often used, recreationally, with hard liquor. It is an incredibly addictive reddish brown liquid, and some of the stuff sat in a snuff glass on Matt's nightstand. His head was hunched over his bare curved body. Some scars laced his back from days gone past, and the most recent scar was ever present, as it always would be. Matt lifted his head into the smokey air, his face bore the burned stains of a splash mark, splayed across his nose and eyes; they were a cold white, inattentive to the world. He grasped the glass of liquid dreams, and brought it to his lips. He tilted his head back and some of it dripped into his mouth when the door of his room was opened. Matt took the glass from his mouth and set it back on the nightstand. Karen Page stood in the doorway, her hands placed firmly on her hips. Her blue eyes pierced through the smoky darkness.
Karen walked into the room and opened the window blinds, releasing the bright, mid-day sunlight into the room. Matt could feel the heat of the sun on his forearms and across his collar bone. He quietly sat as Karen walked around the room, picking up bottles of liquor, loose clothes, and dishes. She took them from the room, purposefully ignoring Matt, and into the living room. Matt grabbed the Laudanum from the night table and sipped it. He was flushed with euphoria, then relief, then memories, then sadness, then shame, and finally anger. He smashed the glass on the nightstand next to him, breaking it utterly. His hand was immediately cut up, some rogue shards managed to cut is forearm slightly as well. Matt could feel the warm, sticky, liquid on his hand and arm, and was thrown back into sadness. He could sense the long corrupted tendrils of insanity creep up beside him as Karen entered the room again, annoyed. She looked at Matt’s hand in shock, completely confused about what’d happened, she quickly left the room.
Matt stood, mostly naked, and began on his way to the bathroom. Karen bumped into him as he tried to leave his room, medical supplies flying from her hands; she allowed a small scream of shock to escape her mouth.
“Get back in bed.” Karen said, after picking the medical supplies from the floor.
Matt stood in the doorway, his eyes blankly staring at the space above her head. “I can take care of it.” He said softly.
“There’s fucking glass in the cuts, just let me help you!” she almost yelled but managed to keep her voice down. Karen pushed Matt back into the room. She led him to the bed and sat him down. He was silent, tears welled in his eyes and he wasn’t sure why. Karen began removing the glass from Matt’s cut up hand, then cleaning it. He was able to keep the tears from falling.
“I could have handled this on my own.”
“You can’t even handle getting high on that antiquated shit alone.” She began applying the bandage. “You should really slow down on that stuff.” Matt didn’t respond. “I come in here in the morning and you’ve already had a glass…”
“Why do you come here?”
Karen stopped what she was doing, stared into the almond shaped orbs of white. She didn’t quite know what to make of the statement. After Matt was released from the hospital Karen started dropping in to clean up after Matt, feed him, clean him, and most importantly, love him. The two had been going out for about three months prior to Matt losing his sight. Karen stepped up to the plate with magnificent grace and dignity. So, when Matt asked her the question, she made an insult of it. She stood, letting the bandage unravel at her feet.
“What are you talking about? I come here because I want to help you.” She said, before walking to the door and turning on her heels. “You goddamn asshole. If you think I come here so you can just insult me, then fuck me like some street corner slut you have another thing coming!”
Matt stood quickly, furry in his blind eyes, “I never said that, Karen.”
“It’s the shit you don’t say that’s more fucked up.” This time she yelled
“I’m sorry.” Is all he could manage.
“Oh, yeah. So you just apologize and what? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Take all your shit then brush it off?” Matt remained quiet. “You just want to me fall into your arms?” Karen walked forward to push Matt on the bed, anger streaming from her cold, blue eyes. Matt suddenly saw the outline of what he knew Karen to look like. He smiled for a moment, caught one of Karen’s flailing hands. She looked up at him, her bright blues reflecting the beating sun, scowled, and started slapping Matt in the head. “You cocky bastard.”
The thoughts in Matt’s head raced a mile a minute. What was that? Was it a flashback? A hallucination? Can the blind sometimes catch glimpses of the world? Whatever the case, he would have to do plenty of research. Matt grabbed Karen’s other hand from the air and wrapped her arms around him. Her pallid cheek met Matt’s hard chest and for a while she was still angry. Then she noticed that their heartbeats were in-synch, then she wasn’t so angry. Matt fell to the bed hugging Karen, they sat there for a few moments. Karen stared at the slowly setting sun, Matt couldn’t help but continue running the questions in his head.
Soon Karen and Matt were kissing, then they were laying down, passion overtaking them.
Remy made his way from the subway to the surface quickly, taking long strides, all wrapped in a leather overcoat. He wore sunglasses to hide the glow from his radiant eyes. As he walked down the nearly empty, damp street and turned into an alleyway, Remy thought about the conversation he’d had with Fence only an few hours before. He turned down another alley and stopped at a dumpster. He figured that going in through the front door of his appartment building might be a little too risky. 110th and Lexington was a major thoroughfare and it would be hard to spot a marker in the crowd. Going through the alleys and up the fire-escapes would be a safer bet. The fresh memories still rang in the darkness of Remy's mind, as if they held a valuable lesson.
“See these?” Fence held several small metal balls in his hand.
Remy stood from the loveseat and put his coffee mug down. He was tall and skinny, but his tight, black sneaking suit also showed his solid muscular build. He pulled a wedgey from his crotch as he walked to the powering station. “What are these? For me?”
Fence dropped the balls into Remy’s hand, turned around to open and read from a holographic screen beside him. “Yeah. I was thinking of an alternative to your cards. They work well, I won’t deny you that. But sometimes we might need something with a little more ‘umph’. These babies will make someone think twice about getting into it with you. Even someone as super-powered as you.”
Remy juggled the four balls, smiling wide as he did. He tossed one behind his back and it fell right back into his juggling orbit. He tossed one onto his shoulder, caught the other three in one hand, rolled the one on his shoulder to his palm and forced it into the air with his power, caught it in the other hand. He started another round of juggling. “Aw, you been thinking of me, Fence?” His drawl was so strong then, as if to extend it.
One ball goes over his shoulder and behind him, another higher than the other two. His foot knocks the one behind him further into the air and he catches the two in normal rotation in his right hand. The highest one falls back into his left hand, and he continues the rotation normally as the final one rejoins the juggle.
“Yeah,” Fence puffed, “whatever you say, loverboy.” Fence turned to see Remy begin a feat the Cajun clearly considered to be impressive. He juggled two balls normally while dribbling one with his foot and the other with his knee, like a mad soccer player. “Alright, enough with the circus act. You ever heard of Trask industries?”
Remy kicked and kneed all the balls into his hand and then dropped them confidently on the table next to him, he breathed heavily (despite his attempts to continue looking as cool as a cucumber). “Sure. You had me hit them in ’06. Some sort of capacitor?”
“It was a solar powered portable generator. And you used it for that mission in Kuwait last year (don’t know why the fuck I gave it to you in the first place).” Fence was salty but Remy could tell that he was being reasonable, he wasn’t angry anymore.
“What about Trask?”
“Right, well, there’s info in here saying that they’ve approached the government with a prototype Sentinel, these mutant hunters. As far as I’m concerned, the CIA is peripheral to stopping this nonsense. I want you to infiltrate their headquarters. This is a big mission, Remy. Infiltration, subterfuge, sabotage, photographs, evidence. You could be in there for days, who knows? So we need resources, technology, backup even. Do you have any contacts we could use?”
Remy looked down at the floor, his crimson eyes scanned his memory for potential allies. He came up short; as far as he knew, Fence was the only friend he had in the world. “Everyone I knew in the CIA is dead. I don’t think…wait, maybe.” Remy looked in the direction of Fence, yet was doing anything but acknowledging him. He was looking through the metal man, and toward the recesses of his memory, that place which he’d shrouded in the eternal darkness of his mind. “Down south, I could know some people down south.” Remy finally said. “But Fence, I can’t go back there. I—I can’t.”
Fence put his hands on his waist and pondered the situation for a moment. “Alright, you stay up here and gather all the resources and tech that I mark for you. When I get back we can finalize all of our plans and hit Trask.”
“Wait, wait, Fence, where are you going?” Remy had extended his hand, he was touching Fences metal arm. Yet, despite the lack of flesh contact, they were connected, friends again.
“The Bayou,” Fence said with a smile, “gonna’ round up some sewer rats.”
“Fence, you don’t have to do that on my behalf.” The Cajun was touched, he felt a kinship with this metal man.
“Everything we’re doing is on your behalf, Remy. The fact of the matter is that you’re my only friend in the world and I don’t know what I’d do without you. Okay? So don’t start questioning my plans simply because they are about you. You start doing that, you might as well kill yourself now.” Fence ended his conversation by pulling the powering cord from his chest and stepping from the station.
Remy stood at the dais a little embarrassed, but mostly proud.
The Cajun climbed the narrow, steep steps of a fire-escape all the way to the 12th floor. The reputable Manhattan skyline hung before him in the humid air like a painting. It was just as beautiful as it had always been, a stunning spectacle. He turned to look into his window, noticed the light was on. Either there was someone in there currently, or there had been someone there before. Fence had warned him about that, about going back to his apartment, but Remy wouldn’t listen. Just as he didn’t listen to his instincts which screamed at him to run away now. Instead he opened the window slowly and carefully. There were simply things he couldn't run away without. He wore his armored suit now, the one Fence designed for him. It was light and allowed agility but had dark purple plating all about it for enhanced protection. Most of that was hidden underneath his coat.
“Why do you have to go back? If you’re going to fucking kill yourself I might as well know why!” Fence was furious at this point, a little drunk as well. After they made up and planned the hit on Trask, they drank plenty of rum and vodka.
“My cards, asshole! I need my cards, and my staff. Pictures, too, damnit. Leave me alone.” Remy calmly stumbled to the door, Fence stayed at the table rubbing his belly.
“Turn your locator on!” he yelled behind the Cajun, just in case.
That was a few hours before Remy crouched on the precipice of his window suffocated by the hot, dense New York air. He was a little more sober now, a little calmer. Remy had turned his locator on, he figured it was the least he could do. Fence was currently watching the Cajun’s vital signs and Seinfeld concurrently.
Remy stepped from the sill onto the hardwood floor. He was careful not to make it squeak. He superhumanly shifted his weight so he wouldn’t be putting excess pressure onto the foot on the floor. Once he was comfortably inside he heard a small clattering, it came from the kitchen. Remy quickly pressed the small device Fence had worked out to deliver the small metal balls he’d gifted the Cajun earlier. One smooth orb fell into Remy’s waiting palm, he rubbed it lovingly. The thief walked from the living-room, where he’d entered, and slipped into the hallway heading into the kitchen. Remy heard a ruffling behind him, his bedroom, and quickly spun in time to see an MIB, utterly unprepared. Remy acted quickly, sending the uncharged ball into the man’s chest. It knocked the air from his lungs and sent him back a little. Remy completed the attack by kicking the man in the chest, and following him further into the room. The spook crashed into the closet behind him and tried to draw his pistol. Remy kicked the man in the face, breaking his nose and knocking him unconscious in one hit. The Cajun turned toward the door of the bedroom, saw another spook in the kitchen. He dropped a ball into his hand just as the MIB drew his pistol. Remy tossed the charged orb into the kitchen and jumped to his side just as the agent fired. Remy bounced over his bed and dropped to the other side, he looked under the bed to find his bo staff case. The Orb exploded and a scream came from the kitchen.
Remy stepped out into the hallway, broken glass crunching under his feet, bo staff in hand. He entered the soot covered kitchen, noticed the twitching feet poking out from behind the island countertop. The agent had been blown to the other side of the kitchen, shrapnel was stuck into his neck and chest. Remy’s heartbeat increased and his breathing seemed sporadic. Fence looked over from Seinfeld to see the spike in Remy’s vitals. He leaned forward and whispered to himself, “Come on, Remy. Get out of there.”
The metal man couldn’t tell what had Remy so worked up, he couldn't know that he was no longer in immediate danger. He was frightened because he’d just been responsible for the death of a government agent. And, if the .22 caliber pistol next to the corpse meant anything, it was probably a CIA agent. Remy was fast after that, he packed some clothes, and his bo staff, and pictures of him and his adopted family, the LeBeau’s. Along with all that came a pistol, and a few extra clips.
3:30 AM
Remy sauntered up to the reception area of the motel, tapped the bell. It didn’t take him too long to head uptown and find this motel in the North Bronx. He signed a phony name in the registration book, gave the clerk 50 bucks, and made his way upstairs. Remy stripped the bed clean, found no bedbugs, and so laid his head on the naked pillow. He hoped to get enough sleep to be functional for the mid-afternoon meeting he had scheduled with Fence. The Cajun’s stomach growled and he tried his best to ignore it.
My computer is experiencing severe issues. I may not be able to post for a while. Which may not be too big of a problem since I haven't even started yet. If you don't see any issue with it, I expect to return to stay after my computer is fixed.
I should say, my computer is currently experiencing severe issues. I will leave this on hiatus until I get it fixed. Hopefully, this will leave time for everyone who is currently inactive to return back to normal.
So, yeah, should be a couple of weeks to a month.
Gambit is in the character tab. Ill move him over when I can (currently having computer trouble).
Ad for the team up idea, it could work. It would provide opportunities for the lower level heroes and give back up to those in need. With the group we have so far, I can see it making sense (including future DD). We would, of couse, have to manufacture how and why they meet. Steadily, Id imagine.
Player Name: The New Yorker
Character Name: Remy LeBeau
Moral Alignment: Walking the Line
Affiliation: The Thieves Guild, CIA, NSA
Character Origin & Backstory:
Remy’s mother worked in a restaurant in Back of Town, New Orleans as a waitress. She had her ass slapped more times than she could remember, but that Cajun kid with the darling eyes was the only one she never slapped back. They got married, had a little red-eyed child, and everything went downhill from there. That Cajun kid with the darling eyes couldn’t stand that he was a big nothing in the middle of nowhere, ball and chained in the swamps as a mechanist. He drank, and he smoked, and he got high; then he’d slap that little waitress everywhere but her ass. The kid (Remy) got to sleep on the porch under the awning if it was raining and his mother would make sure he got food every once in a while even. But that damn kid was so rowdy as a toddler that his papa had taken to chaining him up to the front porch. If his dad wanted to come out and have a beer or something, Remy would have to get off the patio or risk getting a licking.
At night, when his papa was done screaming, and hitting, and drinking, and he’d fallen asleep, Remy would sneak out of his chains and collar. He used the paper from his papa’s matchbook, which he molded into a fine picking device, to open all the locks that were thought to keep him chained. He’d run off into the vibrant New Orleans streets and just bask in it all: the people, the lights, and the smells. The puffed, pungent smells of gumbo wafting from street-side diners mingled in Remy’s nose with the sweet, buttery smell of fried choux paste. He’d sit at a bench, where he met several other children, all seemingly street urchins, and watch them perform tricks. The group of children were like a traveling band of street performers, yet not an adult among them. Remy met them every so often, he learned tricks and skills which he’d commit to memory. None of the children made fun of him, the way everyone at home did. They didn’t seem to mind that his eyes were different, they didn’t seem to instantly despise him. Then, after the children had played, and some had earned a little bit of money, they’d separate. Remy would shuffle back from the city and walk the dark, dusty road to his country house. He’d quietly put the chains back on and sleep on the cushioned mat his mother had made for him. Then he’d dream, the kinds of dreams where it was only him and his mom. The kinds where he got to sleep inside and talk to people without getting hit. He knew that this dream would come true, he’d just need to be strong for his momma, she’d come through.
Remy’s mother ran off when he was 8, left him shivering on the porch with the looming shadow grasping at her heels with every step. It didn’t take Remy long after that to realize that the next time he snuck out, he wouldn’t be coming back. Remy joined the gang of street urchins instantly, feeling finally free. He learned that the group was actually led by someone older, a teenage acolyte of the Thieves Guild. The gang was a way to breed new promising members, Remy was instantly recognized as an impressive force. One day, at the ripe age of 12, Remy was following a mark, a juicy one at that. He snagged the man’s billfold while the man was picking up a paper, then slid into an alley way. He counted the bills under the florescent lamp light, but was stunned to find a note, stuck in the middle of it. Two red eyes drawn in the center of the piece of paper floated above the words, “Come Meet Mr. LeBeau”. Remy had no idea how important that name would become to him. The invitation was to meet the leader of the Thieves Guild, who had been awaiting the prophesized diable blanc to show his face, or his eyes in Remy’s case. The prophesy foretold of a young thief with red eyes and pale skin who would reunite the two warring guilds, that of the Thieves and the Assassins.
So Remy agreed. Soon he began showing signs of mutant abilities, which pleased Jean-Luc LeBeau greatly. He adopted the boy and taught him all of his tricks, the tricks of a master thief. Remy grasped the ideologies of the guild very easily, it was easy to accept a family when he’d never truly had one. He even agreed to the arranged marriage between himself and Bella Donna Boudreaux, the granddaughter of the head of the Guild of Assassins; not as if he would have any reason to deny the southern beauty. The wedding day, in order to completely understate it, was destroyed by the intervention of Bella’s brother Julien. He challenged Remy to a duel, saying that he would not have some glorified sewer rat marrying his sister. Remy, in self-defense and through pure ignorance, obliterated Julien. The Assassin’s attacked first, of that Remy is sure. Everything after was a bit blurry. When Remy awoke on the crimson painted rooftop the wedding was taking place on, he was horrified. He was covered in blood, as was everyone and everything else around. A bloodbath had occurred and there were very few survivors. Remy was lucky enough to limp away with several broken bones and a very bad bullet wound.
It wasn’t long until Remy was out of the south, he traveled to New York in search of some work. In search of a life away from the sweet scented swamps which brought only bad memories. He was quick to find Fence, a half robotic man who dealt in stolen goods. Remy was a talented 19 year old as far as Fence could see, so he put him to work. Remy was hitting museums and laboratories in no time. The Guild had him stealing jewels and paintings, Fence had him hunting blueprints and scientific do-dads. Soon Remy got word that the CIA was on his trail, and the NSA, too. Knowing that hiding was more of a death sentence than the alternative, Remy gave himself up to the agency.
They knew all about le diable blanc, had a fat ass stack of files and everything. They asked him to cooperate with them, help them help him. Nothing made Remy more uncomfortable than working with the government, but what could he do? They had information on his life on the streets, his life in the Guild, and his involvement in the massacre. They could pin the whole thing on him if they wanted, him being a mutant. So he played along. He got them plans, and planted bugs and did some field work for the NSA every once in a while. He interrogated some prisoners, planted a couple of bombs, and dealt with a little insurrection. No biggie. They kept him fed, housed, hidden, and happy. Besides, it allowed him access to some high priority places, which made Fence pretty happy. Though not too happy, since Fence was furious that Remy was in so deep with the government. That was a big no-no for thieves. Remy didn’t mind until he got the word of his next assignment. He was to join up with a top secret team, created with people just like him. The assignment was concerning insurrection, terrorists. It outlined plans for attacks on whole communities of mutants. Once he heard about that he called Fence immediately, they’d need a plan to make Remy disappear.
Powers and Abilities:
- Psychokinetic manipulation of energy. Remy is capable of changing items on a molecular level, invigorating the cells of any non-living organism to an instable level. This generally leads to an explosion, proportionate to the size of the object and its level of instability. Currently his powers are reliant upon Remy touching things. Remy isn’t quite sure what the limits of his powers are concerning size, so he’ll have to keep practicing.
- Heightened athletic skill. Remy has learned how to effect his own kinetic energy. Making him faster, more balanced, and all around more confident in his movements.
- Psychokinetic mental barrier. Remy possess an amazing gift which he has no control over and hardly understands. His mind is mostly untouchable to telepaths.
- Charm. Remy has an irresistible charm. It’s origins are a mixture of his time as a thief, a secret agent, and an inherent likability. It is yet unclear whether his powers have anything to do with it.
- Master Thief…
Weaknesses:
-Paranoid: Remy’s time with the government, and his subsequent departure, have etched a foul distrust in him.
-Embarrassment/Sullied reputation: Remy ran after most of the Theives and Assassins guild had killed each other. That in itself is enough to damn his name in some parts of the south. Working for the government as a weapon was only icing on the cake.
Easily distracted: If Remy needs to stay focused, he can. Especially when there are NATO rounds flying over his head. However, when things are a little lighter, Remy can get confident, and that confidence manifests itself most readily as flirtation or comedy. It hasn’t bitten him in the ass yet, but he still has a long way to go.
Sample Story Archs:
-The fugitive: Remy works with Fence in order to get the CIA off of his back. He must infiltrate Trask industries to sabotage prototype mutant killers (sentinels), and find info on the CIA by accessing the Trask industries mainframe.
-The Marauders: Having only stalled Trask’s eventual goal of building his Sentinels Remy decides he must intervene in a secret attack on the Mutants of the New York city sewers, the Morlocks. Here he meets members of the X-Men.
-Thief No More: Remy joins the X-Men in order to put a stop to the draconian Magneto and his Brotherhood.
A Thieves End: If we make it this far, Remy will leave the X-Men after a tragic loss and try his hand at Thieving again. Perhaps, for the very last time.
September 5th, 2012
9:31 PM
Remy’s boots squeaked against the polished ivory floor as he darted down the plain white hallway. As he rounded a corner out of the hallway, a platoon of guards rounded a corner on the other end into the hallway. They shot at him for a few moments before he was out of sight, and then followed after him. The Cajun’s blood was warm as he felt the thrill of the chase once again. Sure, the idea of being a thief is that you shouldn’t even be seen, but the blood boiling excitement of being chased was something Remy could never get over. It would be absurd to assume that Remy had let the guards see him, because an assumption of that caliber would also assume that Remy was unprofessional. Of course, that wasn’t true, because Remy was, indeed, a staunch professional.
He giggled as he sped down the hallway, briefcase filled with precious information hoisted over his shoulder. He was nearing a reception area and an eventual exit. He rounded the corner and spotted a quiet brunette, shell shocked, with a phone pressed to her ear. Remy slowed his sprint into a run then a jog, and eventually a steady, easy walk. The cool Cajun rested his arms up on the reception desk and let himself breathe for a moment. He took the phone from the Brunettes hand and placed it back on the receiver.
“You got a ball” he asked, his drawl dripping onto the desk, melting the young woman.
“A… ball?” She looked down in her desk and noticed there was a ripe blue rubber ball, calling to her. She gave it to Remy and smiled. The Cajun charged the ball, allowed his red eyes to wallow in the putrid pink. The girl must have seen all the pain in his heart, all the years of running, and probably how much he’d just been running. She rested her hand on his free one, sighed deeply. This was most certainly the man she’d been waiting for. They’d go on really romantic dates and meet each other’s parents. He would cook her dinner sometimes and she’d give him massages. They’d get married and her mother would stop nagging about her going back to school, because she’d have a husband. Then maybe they’d have children, though they wouldn’t have to. She always wanted to adopt. He’d probably want to adopt, too.
Remy threw the ball into the hallway, winked, and dashed off. The ball exploded, dislodging cement structures around her, stunning the young brunette and waking her from her dream. A thick dust cloud rolled in from the mostly destroyed hallway and filled the reception area. The doe-eyed receptionist coughed in confusion as Remy jumped from a window onto a nearby roof.
It didn’t take long for Remy to reach the headquarters Fence ran out of his bakery in Brooklyn. He settled up with Fence, handed him the info, and took a seat with a cuppa at his side.
“What do you think?” he asked with the cup hanging under his nose.
“I don’t think much, Gambit.” Fence responded. His human arm was hairy, the other was a cool blue steel. He had a gruff voice which carried in it decades of coffee, and heartache, and lies.
“Well give me something, damnit!” Remy responded with an exasperated yell.
“Jesus, calm down, Remy. Drink some of your fucking coffee and give me a second.” Fence said cooly as he continued with his work.
“I would be calm if you haven’t been treating me like an asshole for the last two weeks.”
“Please not now.”
“Well when Fence? I mean… Where the hell were you when I called you?”
“Guatemala. No Egypt.”
Remy didn’t have to look at all the tiny cables attached to Fence to get the joke. He’d been resting right here, obviously. No more than a month ago Fence was pulled out of a club and beaten half to death by some men in black. They tried wiping his memory core. Luckily Fence was a lot better than them, and Remy. He stayed away from the Devil eyed thief for a few weeks while the heat on him wore off. It isn’t clear if he felt guilty or just obliged, but he contacted Remy a few days ago asking him to retrieve some information. The deal was simple: retrieve some intel and some tech, and Fence would try his best to help get the Cajun out of this mess with the CIA.
“I was stuck on top of a 65 story building with combat drones up my ass. I could have used your help.” Remy said, coyly chiding.
“Well you seem fine. I was rebuilding what was left of my arm, so I was a little busy myself.” Fence responded without looking from the datapad. Remy nodded, allowed Fence to have this one.
The big half metal man flipped through pages of info on a holoscreen he had displayed in front of him. His blue eye made note of every detail, his lips flicking as he tried to remember it all.
“Well,” Remy said after calming down, “What it say?”
“It say you’ve been blacklisted. It say you a terrorist. And, as always, they called you a slut.”
September 5th, 2012
11:58 PM
“Here’s the problem, Remy, we’re dealing with the fucking government.” Fence stood on his powering station, a partially raised, circular dais with a bright blue light shining upward. Sprouting from his mechanized hand was a flat hologram which he read from intently. His eye was damaged in the beating he received a month ago on the Cajun’s behalf, he could not use it to project holograms or virtual reality HUD’s. The aforementioned Cajun was laid in a loveseat set between two marble columns. He still wore his sneaking suit and running shoes, his legs were innocently slung over the edge of the loveseat. The joe in his hands had cooled since he got there, and coincidentally, so had he. He took a sip of the brown stuff as his red eyes pierced through the light steam which rose from the cup. “If we were dealing with some kind of a street hustler, sure, easy-peesey. A mob-boss? Easy as the shit I pass off as cake here. But what I can’t do…”
“I thought you said there was nothing you can’t do.” Remy interrupted. He looked sly, and vicious, he wanted blood but he wasn’t ready to kill for it. Remy sometimes felt like that, like he was impotent, like he wasn’t a man of integrity. But what does a thief know about integrity?
Fence seemed annoyed by the suggestion Remy made, he stepped off the powering station and pointed his human, broken, hand at the devil in the darkness. “That was six years ago, before you started playing footsies with government organizations. And,” he added, continuing where he’d left off, “what I can’t do is hide you from every security agency in the United States, public, private, or, otherwise, deeply, deeply hidden.”
Remy’s eyebrows perked up, he was interested in the implications of Fence’s statement. Fence was particular, he was a man of practicality. He never said anything that didn’t need saying, unless he was hyping himself up. “What do you mean? There info in there about secret organizations, looking for me?”
Fence calmed and got back to the station. He waved his hands behind him and flipped through the hologram. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “Not explicitly, but yeah.” Fence made a throwing motion with his robotic arm toward the smart board which sat at the opposite end of the basement they were talking in. The walls were exposed stone and the floor was red cracked marble aside from the area around the powering station; that was metal tile. Remy assumed it was because there was some sort of defense mechanism around the station, Fence was paranoid like that. Fence had put a lot of money into this place, Remy was happy that when the spooks came around they couldn’t find this place too. Behind the smart board was a door, one of two. It led to a vault and more things beyond that which Remy wasn’t even entirely sure about. At the opposite end was another door which led to the elevator to the bakery. That end was stocked with tables, and tools, and computers, and weapons, and all sorts of do-dads. The document flicked onto the screen moments later.
On the screen was a long document which included lots of codenames, and locations where Remy had been, and security business lingo. Fence circled all the names he brought up on the board from where he stood. “I’ve never heard of the Murauders. Or Project X. They must either be new or top secret. I’ve never had a non-doctored document like this.”
Remy made sure to let Fence know he was still worth something, “You’re welcome,” is all he said.
“There’s also this Sentinel program, very troubling. It implies, whatever this project is, will be able to track down mutants.” Fence stopped as he read on, things he hadn’t yet differentiated from the lingo and backtalk around it. His organic eye widened as he began to understand it. “They’re saying you were instrumental in making all of this possible.” Fence was a little dumbstruck. He turned to the red-eyed devil sitting in the love seat, cooing over a cup of coffee. “Did you do this, Remy?”
The Cajun sipped his coffee again. He felt a sudden chill crawl up his spine and he swallowed the coffee hard. His eyes unfocused and refocused again, and for a moment the Cajun felt like he was falling through the world. “I—I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Come on, Remy. I mean, Jesus Christ, don’t you know never to trust the fucking government?!?” He wanted an answer, the metal man stood on the station staring at Remy, every second the Cajun didn’t answer infuriated Fence. “Well!?!” He bellowed.
Remy was jolted from a daydream, “I—I didn’t know.”
“Well now you know.” Fence stared at the thief, cradled by the cushions, and unraveled what he saw. Remy looked frightened, shocked, betrayed, and embarrassed; Fence could see that. He pursed his lips then exhaled, “I can help you, Remy, I think. It’s not a sure thing, by any means. But it has to be done my way.” Fence was clear, deliberate, forgiving. “My way or the highway.” He punctuated.
Remy hadn’t been looking at Fence for a while, he stared at the cracked red floor and descended into a short burst of agony. With Fences last words Remy’s red eyes flicked over to the metal man’s blues. “Yeah,” he accepted weakly, “yeah, you got it, Boss.”
Concerning the Daydream: Remy was sent to China in 2008 to retrieve plans, and potentially materials, from a secret base in Karamay. Remy led a team of four. It was supposed to be easy, simple. After the rendezvous, which involved Remy boarding a train via helicopter, the team picked up their weapons in a storage crate outside the city, and headed to the base. They hadn’t killed any guards by the time they reached their destination. All four team-members had powers, similar to Remy. One young man could teleport, which came in handy. Another could read minds and the other possessed technokinesis, like Fence. It was the latter teammate who made this distinction between what the team was told they were to collect, and what they were actually collecting. He hijacked the database while Remy searched the storage bins for the marked materials. Remy found it, a green matte suitcase locked and sealed. He brought it over to a table and opened it, it looked like some sort of polymer.
“They sent us out here for some damn plastics?” Remy commented. His hair was longer then, he had it wrapped in a ponytail.
Gerald, the young man mentioned earlier, stood from the laptop he worked at and looked at the material. He waved his hands over the case and small lights flicked on inside the opaque material. He smiled as his hands hovered over the box. “There is no metal in them at all, but they’re electronic all right.” Gerald stopped manipulating the material and went back to his laptop. “You shouldn’t have opened that.” He said coyly.
“And why’s that?” Remy questioned, he shut the case.
“I didn’t see anything, man.” Gerald responded.
“Say what’s on your mind, Frtiz.”
Gerald hesitated a moment and then turned in his chair, he looked up at the Cajun and frowned. “That’s not what they told us we were getting. This is very serious, very scary shit.”
Gerald died on their way out of the base. The two other agents died in a freak fire in the west end no more than a week later. And the Cajun realized now that he was meant to die in that fire as well. Or perhaps the CIA got Gambit out of that room on purpose, to keep him. Either way, remembering that moment made Remy sure that he was a fool, and any work he’d done for the government was pure evil.
Member
cider
South Bronx, New York
September 7th, 2012
11:23 AM
Player Name: The New Yorker
Character Name: Matthew Miyahara
Moral Alignment: Walking the Line
Affiliation: NYPD (briefly with IA during recruitment), Columbia Law School, Lehman University
Character Origin & Backstory
Matthew Miyahara was born to a brilliant scientist and a former Japanese Special Forces Commander, Beth and Hideo respectively. The married couple moved to the United States after a frightful encounter with Yakuza members in their home. In reality, Hideo was forced to move, for the sake of his family and his honor on the force, it was an order. When they came to America they did not have a child. In 1989 Hideo was 37 and Beth was 31. As soon as they landed on the rainy shores of Seattle they conceived Matthew. So they hit the road and headed east. Beth already had a job lined up at the blooming Fisk Industries*, and Hideo had family in New York anyway. They moved into a quiet brownstone in Riverdale and began creating a home for a toddler. Matthew was born in 1990 May, 27th in that brownstone’s living-room surrounded by family. And so he was raised in this family of three in the Bronx and so he was nurtured by his brilliant mother and strict father. Hideo was stern, certainly, but also very loving of his family. He thought of them, almost, as art, something he helped create with his blood, sweat, tears. And it was in his blood, sweat, and tears that he was forever snuffed from this world, taking with him a portion of the art that was his family. He was followed shortly after by his wife, some suggest she killed herself, Matthew holds that it was foul play, though no body has ever been found. By ’98 Matthew was orphaned and his grandfather and grandmother became his legal guardians, they were his father’s parents.
Matts Grandfather Daisuke, known locally as Stick, was one of the first and only heroes operating in the Bronx in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s. He prowled the rooftops in light armor refitted with armor plating from a Samurai suit. The history of Daisuke is long and fantastic but very few know of it, and Daisuke never speaks of it. Matthew only learned of his grandfather’s alter ego through researching into the most obscure newspaper articles and tabloid headlines in order to barely scratch the surface. After understanding the greatness of the man he called “pop-pop” at the age of 13 Matthew was proud, he reeled, asked his Grandfather to teach him the intricacies of the Japanese martial arts. Matt was never old enough for his father to teach him anything and he was, shamefully, disinterested at the time. Matt felt like this would help him better remember his father, by consuming something his father held so dear. And so Daisuke taught his grandson the art of Jujutsu, Kenjutsu, Ninjutsu, and Aikido.
By 14 Matt is enrolled in the prestigious Bronx Science, one of the best High schools in New York. By 16 Matthew graduates. Matthew was home schooled by his mother while she was alive, she imparted great wisdom onto him and fostered a feverish interest in knowledge in the young man. That most likely led to his successful academic career. At 16 Matt wanted to enter the police academy, he is turned down and is told to go to college instead, he does so. A full scholarship sweeps 16 year old Matthew Miyahara out of the Bronx and into Columbia Law School under incredibly special circumstances, he is to take supplementary classes at Lehman, near where he lived. For 4 whole years Matt devotes himself to his simultaneous BA in Political science, and Doctorate in Criminal pathology. At 20 years old Matthew Miyahara is a well-trained, Pathologist with the skills of a samurai. He gets a fast-track through the NYPD and passes through the academy with flying colors. During his internship in the Academy he works with Internal Affairs in order to help take down two crooked instructors, they ran a drug scam with some of the students. At 21 Matt is on the force and is not too well liked, he finds a dead rat in his locker at the end of his first month. Matt is enjoying his time on the force, almost a year in, despite his co-workers attempt at the opposite. Matthew responds to a call of shots fired at the midtown docks, a call that will change the rest of his life.
Powers and Abilities
-Genius level intellect: Matthew is incredibly perceptive, and not just in a strictly sensory way. He knows when things don’t fit, he can tell when something doesn’t make sense, and how the dots connect. He also has a huge wealth of information and knowledge regarding legal, political, and scientific matters. Beside all of that, Matthew is an excellent learner and listener.
-Acrobatic dexterity: Matthew’s training with his grandfather has made him lithe and agile. He is able to make huge leaps, climb over vertical surfaces with ease, and perform acrobatic tricks.
-Martial arts: Matthew is skilled in joint-locking, “soft skill” force indirection, stealth, swordsmanship, and all the other tiny skills involved therein.
-Radar senses: Once Matthew is blind he gains the ability to perceive things around him by the use of an electromagnetic pulse radar which mutated in his brain. He isn’t seeing anything, just receiving feedback from this mutated electromagnetic pulse mechanism which projects images in his consciousness.
Weaknesses
-Blind: Despite his extrasensory mutant abilities, Matthew is still blind. He doesn't receive constant feedback from this sort of echo location, so someone moving quickly and stealthily could elude Matthew quite well.
-Emotional: Despite being a logical and rational thinker, Matthew can sometimes loose control of himself, allowing his emotions to run amok on his thinking. Revenge is currently an overriding element.
Sample archs:
-Building the Man: Matthew needs to regain his confidence, reassure himself of his abilities and place in the world. Getting a job as a lawyer should do the trick. Here he starts understanding more about his radioactively induced mutations as well.
-Building the Machine: Matthew begins his proper work as the Daredevil, setting out on a course of vengence to find the truth behind the killing of his family.
-Building the Legend: With the hunt for the Kingpin behind him, Matthew and the Daredevil venture even further into the darkness in order to spread light. The man without fear becomes a Marvel Knight.
