Yeah, I'm just sitting here cause Dev did his thing. Gonna wait for everything else to fall into place before doing anything else.
webboysurf Member
Live, Laugh, Love
STATUS: Some of y'all are either too old to act the way you act, or too young to be taken seriously. Hard to tell some days. 2 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 14 hrs ago
- Joined: 8 yrs ago
- Posts: 990 (0.34 / day)
- VMs: 1
-
Username history
- webboysurf 8 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
Antlers,
King Xerxes,
CabbageAngel,
Oso,
Eddie Brock,
Mjolnir,
Obscene Symphony,
OfficerHeadbutt,
Half Pint,
Not a Sayan
Status
Recent Statuses
2 yrs ago
Current
Some of y'all are either too old to act the way you act, or too young to be taken seriously. Hard to tell some days.
5
likes
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
The elevator doors opened into a spotless, state of the art base that instantly sparked Sling's jealousy. The vigilante had to live in a decrepit building and use that as a base of operations over the past few months, rather than live in a luxury hero-cave. Regardless, Sling shook his head as he picked up the two cases he had on him and walked into the base. Rather quickly, he noticed the hulking figure of Alistar approaching. "Sling I don't know how you run interrogations so I will follow your lead, oh and is it safe to assume shield has a document on me? Oh yes I know about them and Hydra, perks of being old as I am. If they do, you know about my techniques?" Jackson gave a short nod. "I read your file on the way over. Open the wounds one at a time. I've heard it's effective."
Sling nodded, and the two finally made their way into a small concrete room where the last surviving Hydra agent from the Rum House sat, chained into a metal chair in the middle of the room. He couldn't move a muscle, which was quite frankly what the two men wanted. The hydra agent's cold steel eyes scanned both of them, and the intent was crystal clear. Slingshot made his way to the wall, leaning against it and watching as Alistar got to work. The demonic man placed a hand on the Hydra agent's chest, and blood began to pour out from his right arm. Even for an individual used to dealing with some powered individuals, the shock and the pain sent the hostile into a screaming fit.
Alistar spoke up, his deep voice echoing in the small room. "Who were you after?"
"Go... to Hell..."
Alistar's lips curled into a knowing smile. "I've already been." Another touch, and another gaping bullet wound opened in the agent's right forearm. Relived pain tempered the agent's attitude rather quickly. "Jackson Hurley and Ava Alkaev... Those were the names given."
Slingshot gave a small smile as he approached, Alistar taking a few steps back as the former SHIELD agent approached. "Who sent you?"
"I... I don't know."
Another wound opened after the non-answer, and blood was clearly beginning to pool on the cold, concrete floor. The screaming was muffled by five feet of concrete. "I've had a real shitty day motherfucker. Who... sent... you?" Jackson's voice was filled with rage. It had been over a year since his last "enhanced interrogation," but to a man like him it was like riding a bike: you never really forget.
"They... call us on burners. Voice modulator. No names, no faces."
Jackson gave a nod to Alistar, who gave a small nod back. The agent was being more compliant than either had anticipated. Jackson leaned in towards the agent, getting only inches from his face. "Where can I find more of your friends? You had to have organized somewhere."
The agent shook his head, keeping his mouth shut. This wouldn't do. Jackson dug his thumb into the bullet-hole in his right arm, and the agent squealed in pain. "Fuck! Warehouse A8... Hell's Kitchen."
Jackson gave a small smile, wiping his bloody finger on the agent's shirt. He had nearly all of the answers he could have asked for... except one. "Why were they after Ava? I get having me as a target... but why her?"
The Hydra agent gave a small smile. "She's our assassin... Guess she outlived her purpose." Jackson's persona of power shattered. He took a few steps back, making his way towards the door while pulling out his phone. He needed to warn them. as soon as possible. Before he could navigate towards the burner phone he had given Joc, the agent spoke up once more. "Cut off one head... another two take its place. You can't stop us... but Lester told us you'd try anyways if we didn't kill you."
Slingshot's blood ran cold and he darted out of the room with Alistar in pursuit. "Draku, we need to get the others fast. Here are the keys to a hog upstairs." He tossed the keys with precision, before calling after Sling. "I'll drive the Ferrari, you try the cell." Jackson shook his head as he was typing a quick text on his cell. "I'm taking my own wheels, it's faster than it looks." He joined the others in the elevator, pressing send on his text.
<We need a team meeting ASAP, we'll come to you. Where are you?>
La Vida: Wayward House --> Lobby
Knight wasn't particularly fond of the scenario. He was far too close to the people who wanted to kill him to be fond of an unorganized attempt at "inspiring the people." Knight was a man of action, not one to sign up for some crusade to change hearts and minds. While Ashlyn was clearly older by about a decade, the teenage vigilante considered himself to be the only "adult" in the situation. And so, in his anger, he rejected the handshake and attempt at pleasantries. Instead, James readjusted the pack on his back. "It's clear that no one here knows how to run a team. I came her to solve a problem, not to sit around and talk about my feelings like this is kindergarten. If you think the gangs are killing families, I'll knock some head together and find out who's responsible."
He knew as soon as he turned his back and went towards the stairs he had made a mistake, but he'd just put it on his social tab. Another punch of powerful people who would get angry and try to kill him... quite frankly, they'd be far from the first and not nearly the last. Regardless, James wanted to get up to a room and set up his gear. He wasn't sure how this gang killing mattered, they happened all the time. It was a sad truth to shitholes like La Vida. Nonetheless, James deep down wanted to bring some justice, having been a little too familiar with families being murdered by power-hungry scumbags.
Once in his room, the teenage vigilante closed the door behind him and locked the door. He set the bag down on the floor and immediately got to work unpacking his things. The room was sparse, and the bed looked more comfortable than what he was used to sleeping on. Nonetheless, James began to remove his weaponry from the bag. Of course, he had his two swords, a katana and a Wakizashi. On top of this, he had an arsenal of various ninjutsu weaponry: A kusarigama, an ono, a few kunai, and a four-hooked kaginawa. James had a few modern additions: his vigilante gas mask that also helped hide his identity, a few tear gas grenades, various small explosive devices used as makeshift flash or smoke grenades... the kinds of things he could use to help make a quick escape or cause mass confusion. His former master had always warned him that it was the mind was the sharpest weapon, and the greatest way to defeat your enemy is to dull it. His former master had also lied to him his entire life and secretly ran a criminal empire... but you know, no one is perfect.
James sat on the ground and unsheathed his blades, pulling out a wetstone and sharpening his equipment. It was a calming action for him, and gave him ample time to think of a game plan on how he was going to start working on the gang issue that night. He ran through a list of local gangs in his head, and his mind wandered as he began to map out an attack plan...
Jackson stood outside of the establishment. He wasn't clad in his typical apparel at three in the morning. He was, however, still wearing all black clothing. Sweatpants, a hoodie, and a black ski mask with eye holes cut out... he looked like a proper criminal. The teenager approached Steve's shop, noticing the lack of cameras outside and the lack of light emanating from the building. This was going to be easier than he thought. The teen tried on the front door, and of course it was locked. This wouldn't stop him. Jackson pulled out his cheap set of lockpicks and got to work, occasionally looking around to make sure no one was around. Within a few minutes, the door gave a distinct click. Jackson wasn't exactly one to break into places, but he had watched a few YouTube tutorials in case he ever needed to do something like this. Turns out it came in handy.
Jackson pulled out a small flashlight from his pocket as he entered the dark store. The faint smells that distinguished this place from most still lingered even after hours, apparently. The teenager made his way past the store shelves and made his way to the cash register. With a few button presses for a fake transaction, the register slid open. Turns out Steve didn't empty the register last night, so Jackson quickly bagged the money. It wasn't bank heist level, but a few hundred dollars was a fortune for a kid like him.
As he was finishing bagging the cash, a chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong... and Jackson's instincts kicked in, quite literally. A quick swipe of his leg knocked the shotgun out of Steve's hands, and a punch to the chest was enough to practically throw him a few feet into the wall. Steve was unconscious, and Jackson took a quick look around. He felt like an idiot when he noticed a small security device attached behind the front door... probably just to notify Steve if anyone entered. With Steve unconscious, Jackson felt no remorse as he went into the back of the shop.
Jackson never realized what had been happening behind the scenes. There was a small little workshop set up to work on guitars in one corner of the open "storage" space, but several tables filled with instruments and bags of various substances were what caught the teen's attention. It wasn't just weed... but Cocaine was apparently another one of Steve's illicit products. Of course, also in the back was a mattress with dirty sheets in the corner, along with a case of shotgun shells. Jackson had never realized the drug dealer lived in his own shop. Jackson approached the bed and lifted the matress, smiling as he noticed what lied underneath. A few hundred more dollars... enough to make the thief drool. He quickly went to work bagging the cash before noticing the security console nearby, dimly lit with a small alert on screen. It had detected someone entering the building, and was asking for confirmation to alert the authorities. Clearly Steve would never do such a thing, especially when the back of his shop was a drug-bust gold mine.
Of course Jackson had pressed "Yes" on the device before running out of the store and into the night to get back home, removing the ski mask when he was a few blocks away and tossing it into a nearby garbage can. By the time he got home, it was about 5 am. He snuck in through a basement window before sneaking into his bedroom, closing and locking the door. He removed his clothes and stuffed them deep into the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. He then reclined into his bed. He figured he'd be able to sleep in if he pretended to be sick. Greg was certainly still feeling guilty... and Jackson felt bad for exploiting him like that. But old habits die hard.
@Gisk One question that's actually beginning to arise in my mind is where are we looking at in regards to a relative Spider-Man timeline? How long ago did Peter get his powers, and how well known is he? Is he flying around with the Avengers and shit now? And how prevalent are other Marvel heroes and villains? Just small things I was hoping to get fleshed out a little more in preparation for my next post.
Titan Tower, San Francisco
Glass shattered in onto the tile floor of the small mom and pop bakery as a red-clad archer vaulted over and behind the counter, snatching a somewhat fresh bear claw nimbly during the maneuver. He had just gotten the message and was getting close to the location of the...control-entity... who even fucking talks like that? The archer took a bite out of the bear claw, nearly choking on it as he was nearly out of breath and scarfing down the delicious pastry. Superheroes use up a lot of energy, and Roy was fairly certain the family running this bakery would be fine with him eating if it meant...
Just as he had swallowed, the archer watched a giant hulking fist of steel burst in through the front of the bakery, decimating the interior of the bakery. Roy was becoming less certain the family running the place would be fond of him now that some reject transformer decided to "bull in a china shop" the place. Regardless, this was the kind of opportunity Roy was looking for. The hostiles appeared to be trying to adapt to fighting styles, but the Green Arrow had always cautioned Speedy to be unpredictable. It's fairly difficult to pick up on someone's fighting style when they quite frankly don't know what their next move is sometimes.
Within a minute, the transformer fell to the ground after a few well-placed arrows managed to impale into the battery of the former Semi-Truck and disrupt the charge. Roy was being conservative with his explosives, not knowing necessarily what to expect once he reached the location he was sent. Shit, what was his name? The Whizzer? Whiz-Kid? Quicksilver? Gahhh, can't keep their damn names straight. The archer fought to remember the speedster's name as he continued pushing closer towards the city-center. He had put something together that he felt the others might find particularly helpful, given his last experiment on discount Optimus. The archer placed two fingers up towards his ear, pressing in on the earpiece. "Arsenal to Titans... The robot goons cease to function if you take out their power supply. I would suggest focusing your fire. See you lot at the finish line." With those last few words of encouragement, Roy continued dashing through the streets of San Francisco, closer and closer to the "Overload" until its odd form was just within view...
What the fuck is that?!
[Edit]: Nvm, figured out the answer to my question.
Jackson's hand shot up and caught the gum with the minimal effort he showed in practically everything he did... but the speed was still somewhat alarming. He unwrapped one of the sticks of cinnamon gum, chewing it slowly as he rolled up the paper and slide it into his pocket. Shortly thereafter, the frame of the principle filled the doorway... and of course Gregory Mudge was behind him. The lawyer was practically fuming, and Jackson wished he was the kid that was being carted away in the ambulance. Would have saved him a long lecture about responsibility.
Jackson stood up and was the first one out the door, walking past the Principle and his foster father. Gregory followed, and the two went out front and got into the car silently. The black Hyundai Sonata hybrid drove away as the two men sat in silence during the two minute drive home. When the car stopped in the driveway, Jackson immediately went for the doorhandle. A strong grip met his arm, however. Greg never touched Jackson, so the change in behavior sent shivers down the teen's spine. He turned his head towards Greg, and the father had a sad look in his eye. "If you were sick you should have said something. I would have called you and Tyler in sick."
The teen sighed. Greg was trying to show affection and blamed himself for Jackson's ailment, just like he always did. Apparently the sight of the other sick kids was enough to convince Greg that the troubled youth wasn't faking a sickness, but instead that something was going around the school. "It's fine, Greg. Didn't know I was sick, a bunch of us showed symptoms in class. I should get some rest." The teen pulled away and opened the door, making his way into the house as Greg sat in the driveway and watched for a minute before peeling out onto the street and driving back to work.
Once inside, Jackson made his way to the fridge and grabbed a few waters, downing two before he even reached the bottom of the stairs and entering his room in the basement. He still felt groggy... yet he somehow felt better than usual. Jackson sat down at the edge of his bed and reached towards his guitar. He quietly strummed away for a few minutes, his fingers nimbly reaching the strings at just the right time. He sped up the song, and the tune became more chaotic and violent. A quick downward strum ended the song... and proved too much for the simple guitar strings. All six strings snapped and shot into the air, a few hitting Jackson's hand and arm and drawing blood. He swore and licked his thumb where one of the strings had struck him. It stung like a bitch... but he was more concerned with the strings. Jackson, despite his better judgement, quickly packed his guitar up in his case and made his way upstairs, determined to get his guitar fixed as soon as possible.
Within the hour, Jackson was at Steve's Guitar Emporium, a generous title for a run down music shop. The bell rang as the door collided into it, and the faint smell of marijuana and alcohol swarmed the teen's senses. The place was far from clean or respectable, but they performed cheap service and sold a few "goodies" on the side. Jackson gave a nod to Steve Barkin, the owner of the establishment who stood behind the counter. "I need the strings replaced, quick as you can."
Steve gave a toothy smile as the teen placed the broken guitar on the wood counter. "thirty bucks... ten if you make a pit stop." This was how Steve made business with regulars. The guitar store was a front for Steve's true passion, and teenagers with empty wallets and a love for music could get cheap or free service if they ran errands for the 30-year-old. Jackson gave a nod, and Steve placed a nearly full paper bag on the counter. "You can pick it up tomorrow."
Jackson was far from surprised when things went sideways in the back alley off of Seaview Avenue. What he was surprised by was his instincts. Somehow, when the tough bastard with the "HATE" tattoo on his neck threw a punch towards the scrawny teen's face, Jackson was already dodging out of the way and countering. What was even more surprising was that the thugs could be taken down with a single punch each. If Jackson hadn't fought these fuckers before when they tried to mug him a year back, he would have guessed the three just had glass jaws. But something was different this time. But he didn't want to dwell on it for too long. Jackson grabbed each of their wallets, pulling out about $180 in cash amongst the three of them, and left the unconscious drug dealers in the alley with the product they so desperately wanted for free.
He called the cops from the Walgreens across the street, tipping them off to a bad drug deal he saw. An anonymous tip from a payphone, the one way Jackson always dealt with assholes who got on his bad side. Once that situation was taken care of, Jackson grabbed the next bus he could and made his way back home, trying to get back before anyone had realized he had stepped out. But as the teen pressed his head against the cool glass on his ride on public transportation, he tried to piece together what was going on. He had never been that nimble and coordinated ever before in his life, at least not in a fight. For the first time in his entire life, Jackson actually felt powerful and a small sense of urgency. If he was so strong and nimble... maybe he should test out his new limits. After all, he needed to pay back a certain store owner for walking him into an ambush.
© 2007-2026