I'm working on a more comprehensive writeup for the coming week, along with a CS template. I want to give people an opportunity to roll with anything from the superhuman to the vaguely supernatural, or somewhere in between.
Supe Kitchen. The Ninth Circle. PowerMax. Countless other monickers that one can ascribe, though there is one that is almost universally recognisable.
The Borehole
Somewhere in the Rockies
ADX Florence was something of an inspiration for it, as far as security and retention was concerned. Except in this case, it was for those who weren't just defined by their humanity - that were greater than their mundane counterparts. An element-bender here, a nigh-unstoppable, mutating behemoth there. Prisoners that held a status far above their mundane counterparts.
Any world with its so-called supers, metahumans, abnormals, demigods, whatever you'd call them - would find a need for a place like this. Miles apart from civilisation, behind literal ironclad perimeter defences and buried under what feels like a mile of rock There are, of course, other places like this - but the Borehole stands out as the example - the standard by which prisons of its caliber are measured. To date, none have got in or out without the system's say-so.
You, or specifically, your character is an inmate here. Perhaps a recent transfer. Perhaps not so much. Whoever you were. Whatever you did, whatever or whoever you damaged, modern society judged you unfit to remain walking free among its denizens - so they sent you here.
Countermeasures specific to your circumstances have been in place from the moment you walked in. Maybe there's an electrified ankle bracelet to prevent you from phasing out of your cell. Maybe you're kept in constant light to avoid drawing sustenance from the shadows. Or perhaps you're just given a dairy-free diet, so you don't try and wrap cords of cheese around some other poor bastard's brain stem like that obnoxious regenerator working for the white hats.
Either way, an opportunity is about to rear its ugly head. Freedom might be yours.
Consider this a very loose concept I'm batting around at the moment, and just putting feelers out to see if anyone might bite in the next few weeks/months or so. Hemming and hawing over whether I have this in a standalone setting, with a hint of both scientifically grounded and supernatural powers, or lean more towards @The Ghost Note's classic setting (get in here and bring me my mail you fucker)
redirected here at the recommendation of a friend to catch a wider audience - RP is still gonna be leaning on advanced - roleplayerguild.com/topics/186675-the…
Appearance: Clark is what some might disparagingly refer to as a 'Pinocchio' - a vampire trapped in a child's body, allowed to turn at a young age. He carries the frame of a pubescent boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, with a voice that just about veers on the cusp of breaking. His features are smooth, with not even a wisp of body hair apart from that found on his head - an unkempt mass of charcoal fuzz. His eyes possess a dull, grey tone, resembling flinty chips of ice - and his skin is a pasty white, cool to the touch. Though undeath leaves him relatively unblemished, he does have a rather deep gouge running along the underside of his left arm, from the elbow to halfway up the sleeve - acquired during an early childhood mishap.
Clothing choices deemed 'sensible' for a child tend to be limited, but Clark usually finds room to wear a mottled-green flannel lumberjack hoodie over a khaki-tone undershirt, usually with a laced pair of sneakers. Sometimes with a pair of fingerless gloves, if it's winter.
Concept: A responsible, pragmatic member of the group stuck in a child's body. Older than most of the group, but not old enough to shave - apparently.
Powers/skills: Though locked in a child's body, Clark has doubtless been blessed with the unholy gifts bestowed by vampirism - particularly his senses. His eyes have adapted to maintain visibility in the dark, his ears are so fine-tuned that they could probably pick up local radio and his nose could rival a bloodhound's. If there's a trace of anything left at a scene, be it gasoline, ectoplasm or, above all else - blood - Clark can pick up its smell, even its taste from mere presence. Were he a decade older and precluded from the predatory habits of his kind, he'd have probably made Chicago's finest forensic investigator.
Perceptive capabilities aside, Clark is far more robust than his appearance would suggest, able to commit to admirable feats of speed, stamina and endurance while exhibiting a degree of strength that far exceeds what a 12 year old boy should be capable of demonstrating. He can scale steep walls and adjust his center of gravity to cling to the ceiling, too - among other troubling examples of behaviour uncharacteristic for 12 year old boys.
Sunlight, silver and other appropriately treated materials are corrosive to the touch, burning his skin upon contact and would doubtless prove fatal if exposed for sufficient duration, with fire having a similar effect. A stake or some other such implement impaled through the heart probably wouldn't do him much good either. Otherwise, he is functionally immortal, capable of regenerating from the most grievous of injuries in a matter of minutes.
Of course, all of the above does largely depend on Clark sustaining himself through feeding on the lifeblood of other living creatures. His robust capabilities wax and wane, depending on how much and often he sates the thirst, with wounds lingering and strength faltering when deprived of blood for too long. This growing weakness, coupled with the addictive nature of the thirst, is often enough to drive him to moments of frenzy if left unsated for too long.
Certain religious symbols, specifically those of the Abrahamic denominations, do produce a certain unease in him - personal scars from an unpleasant incident in the late '90s when some would-be evangelist attempted to 'redeem' his soul by locking him in a basement surrounded by silver implements and religious imagery.
Other gifts of vampirism - telepathy, shapeshifting and the power to enthrall other beings - all remain beyond Clark's reach, having little practice, understanding or awareness of the true heights of vampiric power. Perhaps, with time, he might be able to explore this ceiling, but that may take decades - centuries even, provided he even tries at all.
And unholy capabilities aside, Clark's not above using his diminuitive form to deceive or manipulate others into getting to where or what he wants - perhaps without even needing to play into the magnetism that vampirism lends its gifted. After all, nobody's likely to gun for the child as a suspect at the scene of a disaster - though it is a very, very sore spot of provocation for him.
Though not a conventional fighter, Clark has learned to be pragmatic and opportunistic where appropriate - relying on more underhanded tactics to compensate for his smaller stature on those occasions where he's needed to be forceful for his own good. He knows how to operate a firearm, but anything larger than a pistol or a plinker tends to be a little too clunky for his diminutive form and most would raise an eyebrow to the prospect of leaving a child with access to a firearm. He's a better pitcher than a marksman, anyhow - anything from baseballs to bricks.
In theory, Clark knows how to drive stick, though he can only just about reach the pedals and not without raising eyebrows. Bicycles are a little more manageable, though typically made redundant when not keeping up a public face and on occasion he's taken a dirt bike for a joyride when walking, running or climbing haven't been so convenient.
A product of his time, Clark shares an eclectic fondness for rock and heavy metal music to help him focus, with a select collection of tracks on his phone. The same applies to his tastes in media - though where video games are concerned, he struggles to appreciate anything newer than the SNES - perhaps his perspective was a little skewed by the unconventional controller layout of the then-revolutionary N64.
Across various social media outlets, Clark has established quite the footprint under various aliases, surprisingly enough - though it serves an ulterior motive that few would find as a good topic of conversation for the dinner table.
Things Your Character Wants to Happen: Money, continued independence. A solution to the 'pinnochio' problem that doesn't see him well and truly dead.
Things You as a Writer Wants to Happen: Interesting concept I want to give a go. I am very vaguely taking some inspiration from other media in broad strokes (think Worm/Ward/Parahumans, Fables etc) but nothing specifically derivative.
Writing Sample:
The faint thrum of hospital machinery, ventilators and heart monitors pulsed against his temples. A dozen footsteps and voices idly chattered outside the hospital room, unaware that an interloper had scaled the wall to clamber in through the window.
Clark blinked at the fragile creature resting on the bed, garbed in a speckled-blue gown that ran from shoulders to knees, an IV line snaking its way from the bedside stand into her sleeve. Time had robbed her of many things: her youth, her memories and now? Her health.
His sister wasn't long for this world, that he knew, from what he could follow of the countless conversations and private doctor's messages he'd pried upon. Illness was terminal, this time - and even if it wasn't, lucidity eluded her more days than not. Her own children couldn't bear to watch their mother fade away, seldom making personal calls anymore, and for all intents and purposes she was the last of their family.
Clark knew he shouldn't interfere. Shouldn't say anything. He was a ghost, and yet...
“Judy?“ The name slipped out of him.
His voice was barely above a whisper, yet her frail form seemed to stir in mere seconds and her withered expression seemed to light up.
"Clark?“ she spoke hoarsely, "Is that you?“
Too late to back out. "It's me, Judes..." The words spilled out awkwardly.
"Clark... where've you been, huh?" her greyed brow furrowed, leaning forward as though she wasn't aware of the IV drip feeding her fluids, "We've been worried sick." Age had robbed her of just enough lucidity to to deceive her into thinking they were just children once more.
"Mom and Dad, they've been worried sick for you.." Dad died in '91. Mom in '98.
But Clark tried to pass it off, best he could with a kind lie. "I was just with Tommy, y'know?" A retiree now, last he knew. At least he got to grow up. He knew the truth was too much to bear or believe. Far better to tolerate a gentle scolding - any excuse to spend a little time with her, face-to-face.
"Even Frank.." Judy's features creased a little more as she chided him, slowly forming the words, "H-he went looking all over for you, he can't sleep." Frank enlisted in '65 and got shipped off halfway across the world to Vietnam. In '67, they shipped him back home in a box. Clark loosened a soothing hush to try and calm her, leaning in close enough to be drawn into her embrace.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, with a childlike sincerity he hadn't felt for some time, clutching her tight as he felt her heartbeat strum a familiar, waning chord. "I didn't mean to upset you." Perhaps for just a moment, he could truly be a child again, in body and mind. Forget about what happened to him. Forget about everything he'd done - had to do, wanted to do. Forget that he was stuck somewhere between spending eternity as a child and the black oblivion which lay beyond. For a moment, Clark could be the little brother and forget.
But not the thirst. No, never the thirst. It was always with him at the best of times, like a scratch on the paintwork of a brand new Camaro. And for a brief moment, perhaps by instinct alone, he became acutely aware of her heartbeat. How even her ailing body carried blood - that it would be such a tempting moment, an opportunity. And there he was again, no longer a child.
No.
The thought shamed him, and he stiffly drew back from the thin, leathery arms that had been drawn around his shoulders. Even as that part of him tried to justify the notion, that Judy could join him - he recognised the folly of it. What life would that be? Her mind addled, her body at its final juncture. Would she have ever entertained it if her mind was her own?
He decided not. Better to let Judy rest. It was time he made his exit, before his senses failed him.
"I'll go tell Mom I'm home, Judes." Clark lied, turning away so she wouldn't see the black finger creeping from eye to cheek. "Just get some sleep." He didn't stop to see if she acknowledged that, but he felt the faint murmur on her lips. Goodbye.
As he left the room, he felt the reverberating thrum of the burner phone resting in his side pocket. Idly slipping it out, it took him but a few seconds to scan the SMS that had crept across the screen.
looking forward to seeing u buddy. ;)
Another matter to attend to, a friend - the kind that were easy enough to bait out if you trawled the right places. The kind that might've been a predator to some, but prey to him. Which was for the best, really.
The thirst was never truly apart from him. Self-control had its limits.
Clark keyed a few letters back in a well-rehearsed motion, then hit send.
MUST be an infantryman or medic, MEDICS ARE WEAKER SINCE THEY HAVE MEDICAL TRAINING!!!
Yes, because it would make plenty of sense for a corpsman to be weaker than the men he's supposed to be able to take care of and potentially haul out of harm's way.
With all due respect, I really don't think you get a lot of the nuances invokved in, nor should you be running a setting in WWI. And using CAPSLOCK and shouting isn't exactly endearing to folks.
NOTICE: All information is considered confidential to the Federal Agency of Metahuman Affairs. Disclosure of information is subject to disciplinary actions up to imprisonment.
Accessing Personal Records...
Open Data for (Your character name Here): Y/N?
Y.
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Rowan Campbell
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PHYSICAL EVALUATION PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION BACKGROUND INFORMATION POWER EVALUATION OTHER INFORMATION
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▼ PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:
Rowan's a lightweight, topping out at 5'9. His skin bears a somewhat pasty white complexion that's only taken a light beating from the warmer climate, and fits over an almost wiry frame that's not quite muscular enough to stand out. His features are sharp, his cheeks appearing almost hollow and gaunt when viewed from the side, with oak-brown eyes.
Sandy-blonde hair sprouts from his head and clings to his cheeks and jaw in coarse, wiry stubble if he doesn't keep it in check. Usually, he shaves just often enough that he never really grows a proto-beard, and treats his hair the same - leaving it to grow to fringe length before running a number three razor guard over it a few times a year.
▼ ATTIRE:
Something simple - usually a hoodie or a jacket with cargo pants or something similarly utilitarian and comfortable. Rowan's not got a particularly accentuated sense of fashion and growing up on a limited budget has shaped his view to roll with whatever works. He usually does wear a rugged pair of ankle boots or sneakers though - something that gives him steady footing getting around, and he's never usually far from his canvas knapsack.
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▼ PERSONALITY:
Rowan's mindset is one largely tempered by adifficult upbringing, manifest in the form of an inferiority complex that leaves him prone to lashing out when his insecurities are exposed. Control, or specifically being unable to control a situation where he's crucially involved is something that particularly gnaws at him. His temper flares, often manifesting in frustrated outbursts where he says or does something he might later come to regret. He's picked up bad habits. Rowan's no bigot, but he grew up amidst a real representation of the white trash stereotype with a racially bigot parental substitute who did their damnedest to instill their views upon him. That bias occasionally slips out, either in his assumptions or the wording that he uses.
Trust issues come with that too, but a fierce sense of loyalty and responsibility comes into play for things that matter to him. He might be an asshole about it, but he'll be honest where it counts.
▼ SKILLS/TALENTS:
Though no Picasso or Van Gogh, Rowan is a competent artist, at least when it comes to sketching or applying paint to a wall. He can carve out a decent stencil or throw up a graff piece without making too much a mess of it. For him, throwing up MAG3 across a billboard one night was the highlight of his career, prior to FAMA getting involved in his life. He's slowly gained a little practice with physical sculptures though - twisting metal into shapes and familiar forms.
And of course, that aforementioned need to get to high places has left him a decent climber. Granted, he's no parkour practitioner - but he's a better chance than most at clambering up the side of a building without tumbling off the edge and ending up in the morgue.
Otherwise, that's about it. He's not book smart, but he's not stupid either. He can take a punch, but he's not a big fighter either - just used to taking the abuse and limping away from it. If it came to it, he's more likely to pick up a brick and brain someone on the back of the head the moment they turned their back to him.
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▼ BACKSTORY:
Rowan came from a blue-collar background up in Michigan, a world apart from the warmer climes of South Carolina. His father (Gabe) left the picture before he hit the toddler years and and his mother (Steph) went through a string of loose relationships before eventually settling on a blue-collar worker, Vernon Mackenzie.
Vernon was by no means a pillar of the community, a closet-bigot who regularly skirted with the local white-nationalist crowd in bars, but he was a stable source of income for Steph to latch onto and, in his own way, tried to bring Rowan under his wing and pass on the values he saw fit.
Unfortunately, that led onto a great deal of emotional, verbal and, occasionally, physical abuse along the way. This didn't improve much when Vernon fathered a child (Vernon Jr.) of his own, discarding Rowan as a lost cause at best. Rowan, for his part, was happy to recede into the background, venting his frustrations in the form of graff writing and sketching in his blackbook.
Though it doubtless contributed, the difficult home situation wasn't the catalyst that triggered Rowan's Delta traits. That came when he was jumped, beaten and mugged by a group of kids on his way home late one night; the resulting injuries that left one kid dead, two in the ICU and a fourth permanently brain damaged were misattributed to the collapse of a street light. Rowan kept a low profile after that, weary of FAMA getting involved, but it took another few months before he was forced into the open.
An argument emerged at home over Vernon discovering some letter in the trash from a collection agency that Steph had withheld from him, annd things grew physical. Rowan tried to intervene and got pushed down, which was enough to make him 'hit' back with a metal cabinet that crushed his stepdad through the drywall. Steph was horrified, siccing the authorities on her own son. FAMA got involved shortly thereafter and it took a sympathetic caseworker to interceded on Rowan's behalf and ensure that any criminal charges were dropped, in light of the circumstances. Steph signed away her parental rights to the state and he wound up getting mandated through the Academy system and transferred to 002 shortly thereafter, far away from his troubled home life. He's still a work in progress, but things have improved since then.
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▼ CLASSIFICATION:
Type-Red
▼ POWER INFORMATION:
Rowan is able to generate and manipulate a powerful electromagnetic field to exert his will upon ferromagnetic materials, in addition to holding an effect over other elements naturally influenced by magnetism (such as electrical energy or lead). Though technically manifest through thought, Rowan consciously exerts his powers through body movements, which can range from something as subtle as tightening his fingers into a fist, to swiping his arm in a particular direction to swiping his arm in a particular direction. Generally, the stronger the force he wants to exert, the more sudden and direct his movements will be.
Theoretically, the scale of his ability could range from the scale of grain-sized materials (allowing him reshape or easily move such objects) to those the size of a building (allowing him to twist or alter larger structures, possibly even pull them down one day), though how refined his control is still has yet to reach its full potential as he is still somewhat lacking the experience and tuition necessary to understand the full capabilities.
Given the nature of his power, Rowan has a permanent sense of direction that works off sensing the Earth's poles - like a human compass.
▼ LIMITS:
Rowan's abilities wane the further something moves asay from him, bottoming out somewhere after 50 metres depending on the mass he's influencing and what he's doing with it. Generally speaking, the further away, the less refined his control. Likewise, greater mass means less refinement.
▼ WEAKNESSES:
Rowan's power can exert both a physical and psychological toll on him, with greater feats draining his batteries quicker. It also has a nasty habit of kicking in reflexively - being stomped to the ground or pushed being previous examples where he lost control and lashed out with catastrophic results. Being shocked or exposed to similarly powerful electromagnetic influences also play havoc on his senses, leaving him disoriented.
Again, Rowan's understanding of his power remains limited. He's yet to fully push himself or explore the breadth of his capabilities. Place him in an insulated set of shackles and he'll struggle to manifest his power, due to not having the understanding or even awareness of manifesting through thought alone.
Accessing Miscellaneous Information Processing...
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if you reject this character I will come to your home, burn your kitchen, violate your laundry and feed your dog chocolate
Atrophy,
Punished GN,
AtomicEmperor,
Byrd Man,
NoriWasHere,
DELETED08741,
xxjessicaxx,
Bartimaeus,
Fetzen,
pollo
