Storm Rider
Essence of Awesome
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2004
- Messages
- 288
BananaLee: Well, yes, but it's also a chance to use a totally geeky reference just for personal amusement. 
CONES - The Hero (or Villian) Within Us All
- Thread starter conehead234
- Start date
JosefStalinator
Я буду снова здесь
His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Nelson II, Emperor of the Unnited States and Protector of Mexico, greets his old friend Chef Brian, and hopes that together we can cooperate to spread the great philosophy of Discordianism. Perhaps Chef Brian would be interested in being ordained by the Pope, me, himself?
Grandmaster
Deity
EDIT: Nevermind
Finmaster
The White Ghost
- Joined
- Apr 13, 2003
- Messages
- 2,716
Template
Lord Bellerofon
Hometown: Rome, Italy
Base Level: Basement
Funds: 1000 WC
Weapons: A pistol and a knife and a Bible
Stockpile: nothing but faith, which is all it takes to move mountains!
Henchmen: 5 good catholic christians
Vehicles: Red Toyota Corolla '89. With a recently purchased CD player. Japanese cars rock.
Superhero level: 0
Strength:0
Speed/Agility: 0
Endurence:0
Powers
Telepathy:
Mind Reader: Read people's thought
Research:
Description:
Named "Colin Bellefonito", the American-Italian started out a decade ago as a simple catholic priest, at the age of 20. As the second world war brought it's horrors into the world, Colin decided that a simple priest could not do enough. He decided to become a Christian superhero!
He had had the capability to "guess" what people were thinking ever since he was a little infant. Nowdays he has developed this strange skill into real telepathy, thus being able to connect to people better. Knowing about everyone's life this way, he had no trouble in "pulling the right strings" and get 5 members of his parish to join what he calls "the new Christian crusade against modern-time paganism".
Now, at the age of 30, Colin lives a double-life: in his civil-life he is Colin Bellefonito, a simple priest of a small parish. But when the night comes, he puts on his crusade clothing and becomes Lord Bellerofon, named after the hero who killed the evil Khimaira and was known as a model for archangel Michael.
Lord Bellerofon
Hometown: Rome, Italy
Base Level: Basement
Funds: 1000 WC
Weapons: A pistol and a knife and a Bible
Stockpile: nothing but faith, which is all it takes to move mountains!
Henchmen: 5 good catholic christians
Vehicles: Red Toyota Corolla '89. With a recently purchased CD player. Japanese cars rock.
Superhero level: 0
Strength:0
Speed/Agility: 0
Endurence:0
Powers
Telepathy:
Mind Reader: Read people's thought
Research:
Description:
Named "Colin Bellefonito", the American-Italian started out a decade ago as a simple catholic priest, at the age of 20. As the second world war brought it's horrors into the world, Colin decided that a simple priest could not do enough. He decided to become a Christian superhero!
He had had the capability to "guess" what people were thinking ever since he was a little infant. Nowdays he has developed this strange skill into real telepathy, thus being able to connect to people better. Knowing about everyone's life this way, he had no trouble in "pulling the right strings" and get 5 members of his parish to join what he calls "the new Christian crusade against modern-time paganism".
Now, at the age of 30, Colin lives a double-life: in his civil-life he is Colin Bellefonito, a simple priest of a small parish. But when the night comes, he puts on his crusade clothing and becomes Lord Bellerofon, named after the hero who killed the evil Khimaira and was known as a model for archangel Michael.
Attachments
conehead234
Braves on the Warpath
Just remember, the time period is the early cold war, around 1950.
Insane_Panda
Deity
Can I change my hero? BTW - map is comang!
Kal'thzar is here
And leaving on vacation tommorrow
Ah well i'll send even more general orders for a few weeks!!!
Kal'thzar dreamt, He dreamt of power, of Wealth, Of Total domination.
He helped himself to a cherry. He liked to spit the seeds.
He formulated a plan, he struck a particularly devious idea, his eye became alive he began to laugh, his manical laugh:
"Bwwhahahahhahahahahahahahhahahahahahahaha....
*hack* *cough* damn*cough* it *gasp* choking *splutter* dieing!"
Kal'thzar grasped for the water at his side but couldn't reach....his face turned blue, his eyes bulged. He wove desperatly at his neighbours, then began throttling himself, trying to force the stone down. A child came to him. Grinning from ear to ear.
"Help *cough* me" he said, indicating his neck.
The child giggled and laughed.
He blacked out.
He awoke bleary eyed, where was he? What had happened.
All he remembred was this small child smiling, mocking....
OOC: Hatered to mankind, Check.
OOC: ye gods, simple story though
And leaving on vacation tommorrow
Ah well i'll send even more general orders for a few weeks!!!
Kal'thzar dreamt, He dreamt of power, of Wealth, Of Total domination.
He helped himself to a cherry. He liked to spit the seeds.
He formulated a plan, he struck a particularly devious idea, his eye became alive he began to laugh, his manical laugh:
"Bwwhahahahhahahahahahahahhahahahahahahaha....
*hack* *cough* damn*cough* it *gasp* choking *splutter* dieing!"
Kal'thzar grasped for the water at his side but couldn't reach....his face turned blue, his eyes bulged. He wove desperatly at his neighbours, then began throttling himself, trying to force the stone down. A child came to him. Grinning from ear to ear.
"Help *cough* me" he said, indicating his neck.
The child giggled and laughed.
He blacked out.
He awoke bleary eyed, where was he? What had happened.
All he remembred was this small child smiling, mocking....
OOC: Hatered to mankind, Check.
OOC: ye gods, simple story though
JosefStalinator
Я буду снова здесь
ROYAL DECREE OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY
Whereas Many of the decrees of my predeccesor, Emperor Norton I, have been ignored, I hereby redecree his former decrees:
Whereas the currency used by the current government of the United States is corrupt and full of the lies and curses of Greyface, a new legal tender straight from his imperial majesty himself has been created, in honor of my predecessor, Emperor Norton I.
Whereas Many of the decrees of my predeccesor, Emperor Norton I, have been ignored, I hereby redecree his former decrees:
Whereas the currency used by the current government of the United States is corrupt and full of the lies and curses of Greyface, a new legal tender straight from his imperial majesty himself has been created, in honor of my predecessor, Emperor Norton I.
Proffesor Thrax
Beijing, China (no secret base yet)
Base Level: Basement
Funds: 1000 WC
Weapons: A pistol and a knife
Stockpile: nothing
Henchmen: 5 men
Vehicles: An old van
Superhero level: 0
Strength:0
Speed/Agility: 0
Endurence:0
Powers
Pick one:
1) Cough: Create a teargas cloud
Research:
Description: Proffesor Thrax was hired during WW2 secretly by the Japanese to investigate something they called Bug Weapons (A.K.A Biological Weapons).
Working and researching for them brought many things his countrymen didnt have money food and a place to live also he got to test his experiments on Chinese prisoners. When the American and Australianforces moved in after the fall of the Japanese their was a mad rush to cover up the operation which had been conducted in a secret Lab. The proffesor was just about to test a new strain of what is commonly known as Anthrax when the base was bombed, Prof. Thrax was exposed to lethal amounts of Anthrax but before it killed him it mixed with several other agents and cures. Upon infection Prof. Thrax died, and several days later was buried. This of course did not stop him from returning and so he did waking up a year or two later and digging up. Ever since he rose again he has been looking for a way to get back at the world for all the horrible things he had to suffer (Twisted view thinks he didnt deserve it). Moving into Beijing he found 5 homeless children whom, after he took them in, he taught and was especially generous to. By the time they were adults he had their full devotion. He shows no sign that he was once dead and is in perfect physical condition. However he must be carefull not to cough on anyone.
OOC: Uh no one else had so i didnt but when do i put the points into Strength:0
Speed/Agility: 0
Endurence:0
?
Looks good cant wait.
Beijing, China (no secret base yet)
Base Level: Basement
Funds: 1000 WC
Weapons: A pistol and a knife
Stockpile: nothing
Henchmen: 5 men
Vehicles: An old van
Superhero level: 0
Strength:0
Speed/Agility: 0
Endurence:0
Powers
Pick one:
1) Cough: Create a teargas cloud
Research:
Description: Proffesor Thrax was hired during WW2 secretly by the Japanese to investigate something they called Bug Weapons (A.K.A Biological Weapons).
Working and researching for them brought many things his countrymen didnt have money food and a place to live also he got to test his experiments on Chinese prisoners. When the American and Australianforces moved in after the fall of the Japanese their was a mad rush to cover up the operation which had been conducted in a secret Lab. The proffesor was just about to test a new strain of what is commonly known as Anthrax when the base was bombed, Prof. Thrax was exposed to lethal amounts of Anthrax but before it killed him it mixed with several other agents and cures. Upon infection Prof. Thrax died, and several days later was buried. This of course did not stop him from returning and so he did waking up a year or two later and digging up. Ever since he rose again he has been looking for a way to get back at the world for all the horrible things he had to suffer (Twisted view thinks he didnt deserve it). Moving into Beijing he found 5 homeless children whom, after he took them in, he taught and was especially generous to. By the time they were adults he had their full devotion. He shows no sign that he was once dead and is in perfect physical condition. However he must be carefull not to cough on anyone.
OOC: Uh no one else had so i didnt but when do i put the points into Strength:0
Speed/Agility: 0
Endurence:0
?
Looks good cant wait.
Storm Rider
Essence of Awesome
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2004
- Messages
- 288
In the trunk of an ancient VW Bus splattered with countless unidentifiable stains, Chef Brian rocked back and forth. Without the voices, he felt so alone...
But then, he straightened up with such sudden joy that his dirt-encrusted chef's hat nearly toppled from his head. He could hear them again! They would tell him what to do in this insane, dangerous world.
"Why yes," he said aloud to the empty vehicle. "I do have a secret lust for common garden plants. Indeed, my nonexistent placenta is stuffed with bits of candy-covered meats. I enjoy their extraplanar goodness with the utensils of eons of shattered dreams."
A brief silence filled the van, and then he resumed his conversation with his unseen companion (companions?).
"I must deal out buttery justice to those who dare to spin unicycles on Thursdays. I now understand the popping of the kangaroos."
His hands were covered with an unearthly orange glow, and flames licked along his fingertips. "It is bright like the grandmother of my beloved lawn chair!"
Throwing open the rusty back doors, he burst through the back of the van like a cannonball. Standing before him, cooking their measly dinners over a tiny fire made of discarded trash, was his tiny band of followers. Four of them, startled yet eager, waited for some new revelation to be given to them. One, however, looked decidedly skeptical.
Tim didn't understand why the others in this band were so convinced the chef was some kind of prophet. So he could make fire with his hands and did nothing but babble incoherent nonsense; that didn't make him the bringer of the Second Coming. As far as Tim was concerned, their leader was nothing more than a nut. But his buddy Bob had found out the consequences for leaving the group, and Tim had no real desire to decorate his face with third-degree burns.
Chef Brian addressed his followers, or at least spouted sentences in their general direction. "A camel's greetings, my dearly departed muffin men. Our path is now clear as a barbell with a head cold. I ask only that I be given complete and gooey clicky pens."
The four devoted ones nodded in ferverent agreement as if their master had actually made a logical assertion. Tim merely shrugged in desperate confusion.
Chef Brian smiled. "Muave! We shall raid the cookie jar come the third solstice of the floating carrot."
With that, he retreated to his van and fell into a deep, contented sleep.
OOC: Yes, I realize that made no sense. In case you didn't get the idea already, it's not really supposed to.
Also, congratulations to Conehead for what might be the greatest NES concept ever.
But then, he straightened up with such sudden joy that his dirt-encrusted chef's hat nearly toppled from his head. He could hear them again! They would tell him what to do in this insane, dangerous world.
"Why yes," he said aloud to the empty vehicle. "I do have a secret lust for common garden plants. Indeed, my nonexistent placenta is stuffed with bits of candy-covered meats. I enjoy their extraplanar goodness with the utensils of eons of shattered dreams."
A brief silence filled the van, and then he resumed his conversation with his unseen companion (companions?).
"I must deal out buttery justice to those who dare to spin unicycles on Thursdays. I now understand the popping of the kangaroos."
His hands were covered with an unearthly orange glow, and flames licked along his fingertips. "It is bright like the grandmother of my beloved lawn chair!"
Throwing open the rusty back doors, he burst through the back of the van like a cannonball. Standing before him, cooking their measly dinners over a tiny fire made of discarded trash, was his tiny band of followers. Four of them, startled yet eager, waited for some new revelation to be given to them. One, however, looked decidedly skeptical.
Tim didn't understand why the others in this band were so convinced the chef was some kind of prophet. So he could make fire with his hands and did nothing but babble incoherent nonsense; that didn't make him the bringer of the Second Coming. As far as Tim was concerned, their leader was nothing more than a nut. But his buddy Bob had found out the consequences for leaving the group, and Tim had no real desire to decorate his face with third-degree burns.
Chef Brian addressed his followers, or at least spouted sentences in their general direction. "A camel's greetings, my dearly departed muffin men. Our path is now clear as a barbell with a head cold. I ask only that I be given complete and gooey clicky pens."
The four devoted ones nodded in ferverent agreement as if their master had actually made a logical assertion. Tim merely shrugged in desperate confusion.
Chef Brian smiled. "Muave! We shall raid the cookie jar come the third solstice of the floating carrot."
With that, he retreated to his van and fell into a deep, contented sleep.
OOC: Yes, I realize that made no sense. In case you didn't get the idea already, it's not really supposed to.
Also, congratulations to Conehead for what might be the greatest NES concept ever.
conehead234
Braves on the Warpath
Nice stories guys, I would really like to update, but I only have 5 orders. *hint hint*
JosefStalinator
Я буду снова здесь
I shall send mine soon.
Storm Rider
Essence of Awesome
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2004
- Messages
- 288
Can you give us some kind of price table for different stuff we can buy (Black Market or otherwise)?
conehead234
Braves on the Warpath
A list would have to come tomorrow, because it is late here.
blackheart
unenlightened
BAABABABABABA DADADADDA RURURURRUM
IT'S BLACKHEART COME TO KILL THE BAD GUYS AND SAVE THE DAY!
HURRAH!
HURRAH!
RAH RAH RAH.
With a swift thrust and a kick in the arse, Blackheart will save you. Using his mind boggling mindpowers he'll lift you up real high (provided you're under 250 lbs.). No need to fear, he hasn't been deemed mentally insane.
Fear, capisce?
IT'S BLACKHEART COME TO KILL THE BAD GUYS AND SAVE THE DAY!
HURRAH!
HURRAH!
RAH RAH RAH.
With a swift thrust and a kick in the arse, Blackheart will save you. Using his mind boggling mindpowers he'll lift you up real high (provided you're under 250 lbs.). No need to fear, he hasn't been deemed mentally insane.
Fear, capisce?
Prof. Thrax sat in his basement... he had sent his henchmen across the world looking for more to join him in his research. He was looking over his plans for his new devices and currently everything looked good, very good. Soon he would have a device that would let him get around easier and a weapon to let him deal with his many enemies to be (Thrax was disturbed by the current lack of Arch nemesis' and was planning to do something about that.). But there was somethuing missing... something vital to his success... of Course! His disguise!
Running up the stairs he made a phone call to a very inmportant person who could do almost anything with a needle and some thread.
"Hello Mum, i have something to ask you..."
Running up the stairs he made a phone call to a very inmportant person who could do almost anything with a needle and some thread.
"Hello Mum, i have something to ask you..."
Grandmaster
Deity
Sheffield Steel
Home town location: Sheffield, England
Base Level: Basement
Funds: 1000 WC
Weapons: Pistol, knife, Advanced Infantry Armor (torso)
Stockpile: nothing
Henchmen: 5 men
Vehicles: Old car
Superhero level: 0
Strength:0
Speed/Agility: 0
Endurence: 1
Powers
None
Research:
Description: A former Royal Commando "killed" in action during a raid on a secret German weapons laboratory, John Cutter only survived the terrible wounds he received during the mission by donning a secret experimental German armored chestplate with built-in life-support systems. Returning home to learn his parents had been murdered, Cutter took the name of Sheffield Steel and dedicated to life to fighting crime and forces of evil.
Origins:
John Richard Cutter was born into a working-class family in Sheffield, England. The only son of George and Martha Cutter, young John excelled at school and in athletics. Money was always short in the Cutter household, George Cutter being employed as a factory worker in one of Sheffield's many steel plants, but the Cutter's refused to allow their son to become of a victim of poverty and the underclass culture. George and Martha raised their son with strict Christian values, teaching him from an early age the virtues of honesty, justice, respect, and love of country.
When Hitler invaded Poland in September 1939, Cutter enlisted in the Royal Marines to serve his country and fight against what he saw as evil and injustice. From the first days of his basic training, Cutter distinguished himself as a soldier and a leader, excelling in physical fitness, gunnery, hand-to-hand combat, and combat leadership. For these reasons, he was invited into the Commando program, where he further earned the respect of his superiors and his fellow soldiers.
Cutter led Commando teams on numerous missions throughout the war, participating in raids throughout France and Norway, and ultimately storming ashore with his men at Normandy. Through all these dangerous missions, Cutter succeeded in fighting the Nazis without being harmed.
As the war drew to a close in late 1945, Cutter was ordered to lead his men on one final mission. British officials had received a report of a secret Nazi weapons laboratory in eastern Germany, which was said to house the most advanced experimental weapons in the German arsenal. Cutter was ordered to capture the lab and its secret weapons before the Soviets could get to it.
Initially, the raid went smoothely, everything according to plan. Under cover of darkness, the elite British and Canadian soldiers under Cutter's command parachuted into the countryside near the secret laboratory. As promised, they encountered no resistance as they advanced through the flatlands of eastern Germany towards their objective; it appeared that, as intelligence indicated, every German unit in the area had been sent further east in a desperate bid to hold back the advancing Red Army.
The Commandos had come upon the laboratory and factory without firing a single shot or encountering a single German soldier. The buildings were simple structures, constructed of rought wood and brick with corrugated tin roofs. Despite the fact that Allied bombing had cut off all electricity in this area of Germany, light could be seem through the rough-hewn doors and windows of the structures. The sounds of engines and machinery indicated that, even with the war all but over and the Russians at the gates of Berlin, the scientists of the Third Reich were still hard at work designing new and terrible weapons with which to turn back the tide of the war.
The Commandos approached the buildings cautiously, their weapons at the ready. On Cutter's signal, charges were placed on the doors and front walls of the two buildings. With another signal, the charges were detonated; with precise timing, the doors blew in and the Commandos stormed the lab buildings.
Cutter was shocked by what he saw inside Laboratory #1. While the place had looked small from the exterior, Cutter now realized it was in fact massive; recessed deep into the ground, the facility housed a great number of labs, testing rooms, and other chambers. Sprawled out in front of his eyes were strange sights: scientists experimenting with powerful guns and guided missiles, advanced jet engines and improved tank armor. All the so-called "Wonder Weapons" of Hitler's Reich, concentrated in a single facility. Cutter now understood why the Allied High Command had put so much importance on this mission; they did not fear the Germans using the weapons so much as they feared these advanced and dangerous technologies falling into Soviet hands. Cutter cleared his throat and called out to the scientists. "Achtung! By order of the High Command of the United Nations, this facility is hereby under the occupation and control of the forces of the United Kingd..."
A shot rang out, followed by several more, and then the bark of an MG42. Surprised, the Commandos dove for cover and returned fire in the general direction of the German attack. Explosions were heard coming from the neighboring building as a company of fanatical SS guards advanced from their hidden position at the far end of Laboratory #1. Cutter and his men regained their composure and fought back, returning the German fire with improving accuracy and effectiveness. For a moment, it appeared that the Nazis would be defeated and the facility secured.
BANG! An explosion shook the entire compound. BANG! Another. The crackle of flames could be heard coming from the adjoining structure. Gunfire continued to ring out. Germans, Britons, and Canadians fell. A grenade was tossed. BANG! Three SS men fell in a shower of fragments. The chatter of a machine gun. Two Englishmen were hit. The crack of a rifle. The sudden, incendiary roar of fuel catching fire. A burst of flame, a flash of light, the roar of inevitable death.
The very ground shook. Men screamed as the billowing cloud of fire engulfed them; German and Ally, soldier and civilian alike were incinerated. The corrugated roof was torn asunder as the mushroom cloud rose above the facility. The crackling of burning wood and the cries of burning men mixed with the roar of an insatiable inferno. Cutter scrambled for an exit, covering his face with his hands. The world went black.
He remembered nothing. He recalled entering the building, seeing the weapons, engaging the SS... and then nothing. He did not know where he was. The walls were strange and unfamiliar. The sheets on his bed were white, and smelled like the linens in the hospital he had visited to mend the arm he had broken when he fell out of that tree as a young lad. The man sitting at his bedside looked at him in a strange manner. He was an unfamiliar man. Cutter tried to speak, but could not.
"No, no, save your strength, Comrade. You are amongst friends. Vodka?"
Cutter took a drink. The alcohol burned in his throat, but deadened the pain that was racking his body. Slowly, the pain subsided into a dull numbness; whether from the potato liquor or from shock, he did not know.
"Good, Comrade, very good. Now, let me introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Dmitriev. You are in a Soviet military hospital in Gdan... I am sorry, Danzig, as you would know it. Yes, Comrade, we have won. The war is over, and the Fascists have been completely defeated. But I should not get ahead of myself. My men found you in the ruins of a Fascist slave-labor munitions factory; you had been quite badly burned. Sadly, we found no other men alive. We brought you to a field hospital outside Berlin, where the miracles of Socialist Science saved your life. From there you were transferred here. Now, I am under orders from our comrades in Moskva to see to it that you are brought back to good health, and to then facilitate your return to England. Do you understand?"
Cutter tried to nod, feebly; he honestly didn't fully understand, but he couldn't muster the strength to speak, least of all to ask any questions.
"Very good, Comrade. Then I shall leave you. You must rest. The nurses shall be in to check on you occasionally."
With that, the Soviet officer left.
Over the following weeks, Cutter's condition did not improve. Indeed, quite the opposite, he grew weaker and weaker, drifting in and out of consciousness. From what little he could observe of the nurses' charts, his vital signs seemed to be falling, his heart becoming ever weaker. Numb from the constant pain and from the morphine his Soviet caretakers injected every morning, the once-sharp eyes of an elite warrior were now cloudy and covered in haze. Then came the awakening.
Through the semi-consciousness of his morphine-induced state, Cutter heard the voices of two men. Through the haze of his eyes he could make out one of them as the doctor in charge of the hospital; the other he did not recognize, though he appeared to wear a uniform and a great many decorations. For reasons he did not know and did not care to contemplate, Cutter struggled to listen to the words passing between these two men. His hearing was poor, and his mind wandered, but Cutter made out what words he could:
"Yes, Comrade, the experiment progresses well... Our English Comrade is indeed a good subject... No... No... His condition worsens... There is nothing we can do... He will die... I am certain... What about the 'item'?... 'item'?... German technology... miracle... I do not understand... room 47a."
Cutter, even through the drug-induced haze and numbing pain that clouded his mind, knew they were referring to him. He would die. They intended for him to die. An experiment? What experiment? The men left. Room 47a. The 'item'? What 'item'? Something from the laboratory they had attacked? Cutter did not know. But his instinct told him he could not sit and wait to die in some Communist hospital bed in Germany, or Poland, or wherever he was. Gathering all his remaining strength, the Commando rose from his bed and wandered out the door of his hospital room, into a dimly lit corridor. The lack of sunlight through the windows told Cutter it was night. He searched the hall, searching for 47a. 45. 46. 47. 47a. He found it. He reached for the handle. It was unlocked.
He walked inside. Shelves lined the walls; shelves covered in medical supplies and strange instruments. The walls, floor, and ceiling were painted an austere hospital white. In the center of the room was an operating table. And atop that table was what Cutter could only think to call an "item."
It was constructed of metal, what looked to a Sheffield boy like regular steel. Its form was reminiscent of the old cuirasses worn by Royal cavalrymen: two sections, foward and back, covering the torso. Lights and displays did not register; it was not powered on. Groping around the bizarre chestplate, Cutter found what seemed to be an on-switch, which he hit; and the lights and displays illuminated. Cutter was exhausted. Pain was welling up in his chest; it felt as though his heart would stop. It seemed to alternate between bursts of mad, rapid activity and periods of incredibly low rate. Cutter was fast losing his sight and his hearing, and his thinking was becoming muddled and nonsensical. Thinking of nothing better to do, he placed the armour over his head.
The armour whirred and chirped. The sound of metal hermetically sealing was followed by the buzz of electronics. Cutter noticed a new regularity to his heartbeat. He regained feeling in hi extremities, his vision became clearer. It took less effort to raise his arms; shortly thereafter, none at all. He could feel his body stabilizing. Whatever this "item" was, it was saving his life.
He had regained his senses. In a moment of sudden clarity, he knew he had to escape from this place, this prison. He knew his Soviet captors would not tolerate this, would not tolerate him. He had no intention of dying in the hands of his supposed allies after surviving the fiercest battles against his enemies. Cutter pushed open the door of room 47a and walked out into the hall.
A doctor gasped. The nurse who walked next to him dropped the tray she carried. Cutter's combat instincts took over; he sprung forward, launching himself at the unwitting Russians. With one punch he ended the life of the doctor; a second punch laid the nurse unconscious at his feet. Reaching into the doctor's shirt pocket he grabbed a scalpel; a strange weapon, true, but a weapon nonetheless.
He advanced through the hospital as he had through the submarine base at St. Nazaire. He came upon an off-duty Soviet soldier, who had been visiting a comrade in the hospital; before the Ukrainian could even react, his throat had been slashed wide with a precision medical tool. A wounded Soviet rifleman, walking the hall during his recovery, was the next to fall victim to being in the Commando's way; he ended up face down on the tile floor, a scalpel placed precisely between the base of his skull and his first vertebra.
Cutter reached the door. In a strange city, wearing the strange combination of hospital linens and steel armor, he had few ideas of how to procede. However, his instincts told him he must return to England; and so he stowed away upon a British-flag merchant vessel, the last one to leave Gdansk for several years. Weak and hungry, only the miraculous article of armour he wore kept him alive. When the ship reached the docks of London, Cutter deboarded and snuck aboard a train headed to his native Sheffield. Johnny had come marching home again, back to the soil of his birth.
--------------------
More tomorrow.
Home town location: Sheffield, England
Base Level: Basement
Funds: 1000 WC
Weapons: Pistol, knife, Advanced Infantry Armor (torso)
Stockpile: nothing
Henchmen: 5 men
Vehicles: Old car
Superhero level: 0
Strength:0
Speed/Agility: 0
Endurence: 1
Powers
None
Research:
Description: A former Royal Commando "killed" in action during a raid on a secret German weapons laboratory, John Cutter only survived the terrible wounds he received during the mission by donning a secret experimental German armored chestplate with built-in life-support systems. Returning home to learn his parents had been murdered, Cutter took the name of Sheffield Steel and dedicated to life to fighting crime and forces of evil.
Origins:
John Richard Cutter was born into a working-class family in Sheffield, England. The only son of George and Martha Cutter, young John excelled at school and in athletics. Money was always short in the Cutter household, George Cutter being employed as a factory worker in one of Sheffield's many steel plants, but the Cutter's refused to allow their son to become of a victim of poverty and the underclass culture. George and Martha raised their son with strict Christian values, teaching him from an early age the virtues of honesty, justice, respect, and love of country.
When Hitler invaded Poland in September 1939, Cutter enlisted in the Royal Marines to serve his country and fight against what he saw as evil and injustice. From the first days of his basic training, Cutter distinguished himself as a soldier and a leader, excelling in physical fitness, gunnery, hand-to-hand combat, and combat leadership. For these reasons, he was invited into the Commando program, where he further earned the respect of his superiors and his fellow soldiers.
Cutter led Commando teams on numerous missions throughout the war, participating in raids throughout France and Norway, and ultimately storming ashore with his men at Normandy. Through all these dangerous missions, Cutter succeeded in fighting the Nazis without being harmed.
As the war drew to a close in late 1945, Cutter was ordered to lead his men on one final mission. British officials had received a report of a secret Nazi weapons laboratory in eastern Germany, which was said to house the most advanced experimental weapons in the German arsenal. Cutter was ordered to capture the lab and its secret weapons before the Soviets could get to it.
Initially, the raid went smoothely, everything according to plan. Under cover of darkness, the elite British and Canadian soldiers under Cutter's command parachuted into the countryside near the secret laboratory. As promised, they encountered no resistance as they advanced through the flatlands of eastern Germany towards their objective; it appeared that, as intelligence indicated, every German unit in the area had been sent further east in a desperate bid to hold back the advancing Red Army.
The Commandos had come upon the laboratory and factory without firing a single shot or encountering a single German soldier. The buildings were simple structures, constructed of rought wood and brick with corrugated tin roofs. Despite the fact that Allied bombing had cut off all electricity in this area of Germany, light could be seem through the rough-hewn doors and windows of the structures. The sounds of engines and machinery indicated that, even with the war all but over and the Russians at the gates of Berlin, the scientists of the Third Reich were still hard at work designing new and terrible weapons with which to turn back the tide of the war.
The Commandos approached the buildings cautiously, their weapons at the ready. On Cutter's signal, charges were placed on the doors and front walls of the two buildings. With another signal, the charges were detonated; with precise timing, the doors blew in and the Commandos stormed the lab buildings.
Cutter was shocked by what he saw inside Laboratory #1. While the place had looked small from the exterior, Cutter now realized it was in fact massive; recessed deep into the ground, the facility housed a great number of labs, testing rooms, and other chambers. Sprawled out in front of his eyes were strange sights: scientists experimenting with powerful guns and guided missiles, advanced jet engines and improved tank armor. All the so-called "Wonder Weapons" of Hitler's Reich, concentrated in a single facility. Cutter now understood why the Allied High Command had put so much importance on this mission; they did not fear the Germans using the weapons so much as they feared these advanced and dangerous technologies falling into Soviet hands. Cutter cleared his throat and called out to the scientists. "Achtung! By order of the High Command of the United Nations, this facility is hereby under the occupation and control of the forces of the United Kingd..."
A shot rang out, followed by several more, and then the bark of an MG42. Surprised, the Commandos dove for cover and returned fire in the general direction of the German attack. Explosions were heard coming from the neighboring building as a company of fanatical SS guards advanced from their hidden position at the far end of Laboratory #1. Cutter and his men regained their composure and fought back, returning the German fire with improving accuracy and effectiveness. For a moment, it appeared that the Nazis would be defeated and the facility secured.
BANG! An explosion shook the entire compound. BANG! Another. The crackle of flames could be heard coming from the adjoining structure. Gunfire continued to ring out. Germans, Britons, and Canadians fell. A grenade was tossed. BANG! Three SS men fell in a shower of fragments. The chatter of a machine gun. Two Englishmen were hit. The crack of a rifle. The sudden, incendiary roar of fuel catching fire. A burst of flame, a flash of light, the roar of inevitable death.
The very ground shook. Men screamed as the billowing cloud of fire engulfed them; German and Ally, soldier and civilian alike were incinerated. The corrugated roof was torn asunder as the mushroom cloud rose above the facility. The crackling of burning wood and the cries of burning men mixed with the roar of an insatiable inferno. Cutter scrambled for an exit, covering his face with his hands. The world went black.
He remembered nothing. He recalled entering the building, seeing the weapons, engaging the SS... and then nothing. He did not know where he was. The walls were strange and unfamiliar. The sheets on his bed were white, and smelled like the linens in the hospital he had visited to mend the arm he had broken when he fell out of that tree as a young lad. The man sitting at his bedside looked at him in a strange manner. He was an unfamiliar man. Cutter tried to speak, but could not.
"No, no, save your strength, Comrade. You are amongst friends. Vodka?"
Cutter took a drink. The alcohol burned in his throat, but deadened the pain that was racking his body. Slowly, the pain subsided into a dull numbness; whether from the potato liquor or from shock, he did not know.
"Good, Comrade, very good. Now, let me introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Dmitriev. You are in a Soviet military hospital in Gdan... I am sorry, Danzig, as you would know it. Yes, Comrade, we have won. The war is over, and the Fascists have been completely defeated. But I should not get ahead of myself. My men found you in the ruins of a Fascist slave-labor munitions factory; you had been quite badly burned. Sadly, we found no other men alive. We brought you to a field hospital outside Berlin, where the miracles of Socialist Science saved your life. From there you were transferred here. Now, I am under orders from our comrades in Moskva to see to it that you are brought back to good health, and to then facilitate your return to England. Do you understand?"
Cutter tried to nod, feebly; he honestly didn't fully understand, but he couldn't muster the strength to speak, least of all to ask any questions.
"Very good, Comrade. Then I shall leave you. You must rest. The nurses shall be in to check on you occasionally."
With that, the Soviet officer left.
Over the following weeks, Cutter's condition did not improve. Indeed, quite the opposite, he grew weaker and weaker, drifting in and out of consciousness. From what little he could observe of the nurses' charts, his vital signs seemed to be falling, his heart becoming ever weaker. Numb from the constant pain and from the morphine his Soviet caretakers injected every morning, the once-sharp eyes of an elite warrior were now cloudy and covered in haze. Then came the awakening.
Through the semi-consciousness of his morphine-induced state, Cutter heard the voices of two men. Through the haze of his eyes he could make out one of them as the doctor in charge of the hospital; the other he did not recognize, though he appeared to wear a uniform and a great many decorations. For reasons he did not know and did not care to contemplate, Cutter struggled to listen to the words passing between these two men. His hearing was poor, and his mind wandered, but Cutter made out what words he could:
"Yes, Comrade, the experiment progresses well... Our English Comrade is indeed a good subject... No... No... His condition worsens... There is nothing we can do... He will die... I am certain... What about the 'item'?... 'item'?... German technology... miracle... I do not understand... room 47a."
Cutter, even through the drug-induced haze and numbing pain that clouded his mind, knew they were referring to him. He would die. They intended for him to die. An experiment? What experiment? The men left. Room 47a. The 'item'? What 'item'? Something from the laboratory they had attacked? Cutter did not know. But his instinct told him he could not sit and wait to die in some Communist hospital bed in Germany, or Poland, or wherever he was. Gathering all his remaining strength, the Commando rose from his bed and wandered out the door of his hospital room, into a dimly lit corridor. The lack of sunlight through the windows told Cutter it was night. He searched the hall, searching for 47a. 45. 46. 47. 47a. He found it. He reached for the handle. It was unlocked.
He walked inside. Shelves lined the walls; shelves covered in medical supplies and strange instruments. The walls, floor, and ceiling were painted an austere hospital white. In the center of the room was an operating table. And atop that table was what Cutter could only think to call an "item."
It was constructed of metal, what looked to a Sheffield boy like regular steel. Its form was reminiscent of the old cuirasses worn by Royal cavalrymen: two sections, foward and back, covering the torso. Lights and displays did not register; it was not powered on. Groping around the bizarre chestplate, Cutter found what seemed to be an on-switch, which he hit; and the lights and displays illuminated. Cutter was exhausted. Pain was welling up in his chest; it felt as though his heart would stop. It seemed to alternate between bursts of mad, rapid activity and periods of incredibly low rate. Cutter was fast losing his sight and his hearing, and his thinking was becoming muddled and nonsensical. Thinking of nothing better to do, he placed the armour over his head.
The armour whirred and chirped. The sound of metal hermetically sealing was followed by the buzz of electronics. Cutter noticed a new regularity to his heartbeat. He regained feeling in hi extremities, his vision became clearer. It took less effort to raise his arms; shortly thereafter, none at all. He could feel his body stabilizing. Whatever this "item" was, it was saving his life.
He had regained his senses. In a moment of sudden clarity, he knew he had to escape from this place, this prison. He knew his Soviet captors would not tolerate this, would not tolerate him. He had no intention of dying in the hands of his supposed allies after surviving the fiercest battles against his enemies. Cutter pushed open the door of room 47a and walked out into the hall.
A doctor gasped. The nurse who walked next to him dropped the tray she carried. Cutter's combat instincts took over; he sprung forward, launching himself at the unwitting Russians. With one punch he ended the life of the doctor; a second punch laid the nurse unconscious at his feet. Reaching into the doctor's shirt pocket he grabbed a scalpel; a strange weapon, true, but a weapon nonetheless.
He advanced through the hospital as he had through the submarine base at St. Nazaire. He came upon an off-duty Soviet soldier, who had been visiting a comrade in the hospital; before the Ukrainian could even react, his throat had been slashed wide with a precision medical tool. A wounded Soviet rifleman, walking the hall during his recovery, was the next to fall victim to being in the Commando's way; he ended up face down on the tile floor, a scalpel placed precisely between the base of his skull and his first vertebra.
Cutter reached the door. In a strange city, wearing the strange combination of hospital linens and steel armor, he had few ideas of how to procede. However, his instincts told him he must return to England; and so he stowed away upon a British-flag merchant vessel, the last one to leave Gdansk for several years. Weak and hungry, only the miraculous article of armour he wore kept him alive. When the ship reached the docks of London, Cutter deboarded and snuck aboard a train headed to his native Sheffield. Johnny had come marching home again, back to the soil of his birth.
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More tomorrow.
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