Mutant NES: The Rising

[bestshot9]

Al awoke, tied up in the middle of a tent somewhere in the middle of the night. Before him, his back to Al, sat a soldier on a computer. Al groaned, and the soldier nearly jumped out of his seat, frightened by the fear that the monster had awoken and, broke free, and was coming to eat him. When he saw Al groggily lifting his head, his fear subsided a bit, and he rushed out of the tent, yelling, “Captain! Captain!”.

A few minutes later, the same young soldier lifted the tent flap, with an older soldier stepping in, taking off his black beret as he did so. The man walked across the tent to the green man in the chair and quickly slapped him across the face.

“Hey, mutie, what’d ya do to piss off your own kind like that?” he asked, a mocking grin on his face. The young soldier, probably a private, though Al didn’t know military rank structure, grinned dumbly behind the captain. “Private, keep your pistol ready, I want you to drop this thing if it tries anything.” the captain said, turning to the private as he did so.

“Roger, sir.” the private said happily, upholstering his 9mm pistol and gripping it firmly in both hands, aiming it at Al’s chest.

“Well, mutie? Ya gonna answer the question?” he asked impatiently, still grinning in Al’s face.

“They weren’t no good mutants. Tried to kill them’s, what’s I did.” he said plainly.

The captain laughed, stepping backwards, true amusement on his face. “Why, you ain’t nothing but a redneck underneath them scales, ain’tcha, boy?” he asked with his own thick southern accent. “Why, if more y’all muties started killin’ each other, it’d make our job a lot easier.”

Al didn’t respond. He just sat there, staring at the captain with unblinking, red eyes. After a moment’s more laughter, the captain began to take notice to Al’s demeanor. He composed himself.

“Ahem. Alright, boy, we didn’t see any ID on ya, so that right there’s a fed’ral offense. One you can bet they’ll be punishing you severely for. Now, if ya want them to maybe go a bit easier on ya, tell me your name.”

Al continued to glare at the captain, but did not speak.

Anger flashed across the captain’s face at this act of defiance. He grabbed Al by the shoulders and shook hard, getting right in his face. “I said, tell me your name, boy!” he yelled angrily.

Al still did not respond. The captain succumbed to his anger, and punched Al in the mouth, catching him by surprise, and sending his neck snapping backwards. Al shook his head and spit blood out on the captain’s shoes.

“Why you freak-son-of-a-*****!” the captain bellowed, and punched Al again, this time in the nose. It didn’t break, but it sure hurt like hell. “I told you to tell me your name, now you tell me your name or this private here will testify that you attacked me and had to be put down.” he screamed into the scaled-face before him, gesturing to the private behind him who shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably, unsure if he should be thrilled and excited or scared and serious.

“Lee.” Al said, simply, quietly.

“What’d you say, boy?”

“Lee.”

“Lee who?”

“Robert E. Lee.”

Another punch to the face. “Don’t you get smart with me, boy! Ain’t a mutie around should ever even be allowed to utter the name of such a great American hero!” he punched Al yet again, trying to drive home the point. “Now, goddamnit, tell me your name!”

Two quick shots rang out in the camp outside the tent. The captain immediately spun around, glaring now at the private. “What the hell was that all about?!” he demanded.

The private, in suddenly in shock by the gunfire and the captain’s oppressive stare, mumbled, “Uh, uh, I dunno, sir!”

“Well, go find out! Hurry, I don’t wanna be alone in this tent with this freak for too long.” he ordered. The private nodded, said “Yessir”, holstered his pistol and ran out of the tent. The captain, meanwhile, upholstered his own sidearm and backed away to the tent entrance, aiming the weapon at Al’s chest.

“I oughta kill you right now, you damn freak.” the captain said quietly, calmly. His face still burned with anger, but he was noticeably in control of himself right now. “No one would question it, no one would care. Just another dead mutie that we don’t have to worry about no more.”

Al just continued to stare at him, blood dripping from his mouth, running from his nose. But he did not let his pain show. He was stronger than these humans, and better than them. He wanted them to know he wasn’t afraid of them. He’d die, but he’d make sure they paid first.

A crow flew into the tent, flying straight into the back of the captain’s head. The captain spun around in surprise, swinging at the big black bird who was pecking and scratching at his face. In the struggle he dropped his pistol, but Al was too well constrained to make anything of it.

Al smiled, watching the show. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t be getting free, probably would be killed right here in this very camp, but before he went, he’d make the lives of these soldiers a living hell.

Finally, after only a few seconds which seemed to last forever, a loud crack emanated from the bird’s neck. It dropped lifeless to the ground. The captain, panting, his face flayed by the crow’s talons, bent down to pick up his pistol with his right hand, and covered his left eye with his left hand.

“Damn bird took out my eye!” he screamed, at no one in particular. “What the hell?!”

Just then the private ran back into the tent, panting. “Sir, it was one of the MP’s dogs, killed his-” he stopped mid-sentence when he noticed the damage to his commander’s face. “Did that freak do that to you?” he asked, true concern and fear in his voice.

The captain waved him away, then pointed at the ground. “No you idiot, the monster is tied up, he didn’t do anything. It was that damn crow. Argh!” he cried out at the end, his damaged eye pulsing with pain. “Private, go back to your squad. I’m going to post guards at the entrance and the head to the medical tent. We’ll save this freak for the state to deal with.” he said, marching out of the tent, followed by the private, who turned off the one and only light dangling above Al’s head before he, himself left.

In the darkness, tied to a chair, Al realized just how much fun this really could be. He’d have some revenge against humans tonight, that was for sure. The swamp around the camp was crawling with all sorts of weapons. Al smiled, focusing.

 

[SKILORD]

A curfew closes a Wal mart.

Raul smiles, “The US plan for occupying unfriendly territory is all laid out so plainly for us.”

They are around the back at the rear door, near them, behind the building, a pair of national guardsmen cuddle as they dream peacefully.

All the lights are out, a breaker box is open and has been overcharged, blown. Very precisely, the power is only out at this closed down for the curfew Supercenter.

“They will just do the same things they did in Iraq,” Raul shoves his kerchief into the bolt, “And Afghanistan.

“And they might get control of the urban centers,” he pushes the door open, “But only in the most predictable and easy to counter ways.”

People scatter to get food, fill up satchels with provisions, Alice heads to the book section after shoving a selection of fruit and jerky into her bag. Electrician’s books… she was hooked, more control, more precision!

Raul has his own variety of ready to eat food, him and August nod to each other as they walk with determination in the same direction.

Raul shoves his kerchief into the lock on the gun display.

He turns to August, “Guns are dangerous.”

“Yeah, so let’s get them.”

“Not with the sleep problem,” Raul says, kerchief still cloth in a lock.

“What do you mean?”

“It could happen to anyone, what if they shoot us?”

August frowns, “Maybe the problem is the bullets?”

The cloth flashes, Raul smiles and pulls out a pair of shotguns and a variety of shells.

“Water rounds now,” Raul says. Still effective enough, moreso since they could be used to subdue whoever was possessed. Lucy was a good counter as long as she didn’t get possessed, but Raul knows better than to force sole responsibility on her, everyone has to sleep.

Ricky hands Raul the pile of trenchcoats he asked for, he turns the lining to Kevlar, smooth tough webbing thick enough to deflect an indirect shot.

Uniforms are not as much a hazard in a state of emergency.

Twenty three minutes, too long, Raul checks his watch as everyone meets up at the back, “And now, like the Taliban, like good old Fidel, let us take to the countryside.”

-

In Raul’s wallet there is only one picture, in front of his stack of cash, tucked neatly into the slot intended to hold a driver’s license or some sort of legal identification is a picture of the Statue of Liberty, a picture from the bottom that he had taken himself.

He looks at it while the others doze off.

They have to sleep in shifts, you never know when the attacks will come.

Ricky’s eyes are glowing.

Fire pops up in his hand.

“Slow down there buddy,” Raul says,

A Water round extinguishes the flames, but Ricky just raises his fist.

Water rounds, at least, are loud.

Ricky’s fist stays in the air; he even seems so confused that he looks at it, as though he doesn’t recognize it. His eyes still glow, for a moment, before the mist rises out of him.

Lucy shakes her head, “Getting more Westward,” she says.

“Because we’re moving North,” Raul reminds her, “We aren’t taking a boat.”

“You sure it’s not coming from Mexico?” she asks him.

August answers with his own question, “How many Mexicans did we kill in Indianapolis?”

 

[Seon]

"Hey.... hey!" a voice called out. Cody glimpsed back. IT was the same obese man he saw running away from the white hatted freaks. "Ah, Mr. Orwell," Cody said, smiling. "Nice to see you."

The man stopped. "How do you know my name?"

"...I have my ways," Cody replied. "Why were you running away from those fine group of people back there?"

"They were trying to kill me, that's what!" The man yelled.

"Yes. I got that much from the sheer number of guns they had. They were rather determined too. One actually made a hole in my coat. But why were they so intent on chasing you?"

"They shot you?!" the man yelled. "That's not answering my question," Cody replied.

"Fine, fine. You probably know that I am a technopath, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, I didn't tell anyone that."

Cody stood dumbly. "I was an electrician."

"Ah," Cody replied. "And then they found out that you were a mutant."

"Yup, and all hell broke loose," the man said. "Uhh.... if this isn't too much to ask..."

"What?"

"Can I come with you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?" the man said. "Just get me a ride out of Florida. They... I think they are still looking for me!"

"I would think not," Cody replied. "I made sure of that."

He made sure of that after 68 broken legs, 42 broken arms, 237 counts of illegal weapon possession, 32 counts of conspiracy to murder, and 5 counts of resisting arrest.

"Are you kidding me? There are a lot more of them! I know because I hacked into government..."

"You what?"

"I said I hacked into the government's files... put down that gun please. I discovered that the former governor was behind much of the anti-mutant crimes in Florida! Do you know that they have been torturing mutants? Experimenting on them?"

Cody paused. "No, no I did not. Where are the files?"

"I have it in my phone." He said.

"Good," Cody replied. "You are coming with me. You can send the files to me on the way out of state."

"Can you drop me off... way...WAAAY out of here? Up North, maybe?"

Cody sighed. He didn't have time for this. "I will see what I can do."

 

[Megaman_zx]

Barnabas gunned it onto the street and was started snaking his way through the maze of suburban streets. If he could make it to the highway, he stood a chance of escaping. Suddenly, a 10 foot diameter circle of light surrounded him and the vehicle. The helicopter was right above them. He looked into the light, but despite his dark glasses couldn’t tell if it was armed or not. He quickly turned the corner to see a squad of National Guard killing off some of the last members of the gang. He rammed through the squad, then skidded to a stop in the front yard of a house across the street. The guards turned on him, and started firing at the car. Barnabas was not hit, but the kid next to him yelped and fell back against his seat. At first Barnabas thought he was dead, but after looking at the wound, and feeling a strong pulse on his neck, it was obvious he was merely asleep.

He crawled to the back of the car and pulled out the duffle bag with the guns in it. Withdrawing two glocks he kicked open the door and started towards the guards. Most were reloading but a few raised their guns at him. He assaulted their minds with a psychic attack. Making them feel with more intensity than he himself his depression, anger and frustration. Some dropped their weapons to hold their heads, and others simply ran. He unloaded the two glocks on the gauds and luckily, most were kill shots, only a few hitting the bullet proof vests. He went back to the car, grabbed the kid and the duffle bag, then carried them towards the armored transport which the soldiers had arrived in.

He climbed down the hatch into the vehicle and found the driver sitting nonchalantly at the wheel. After shooting him cleanly in the head, he hoisted the body out of the vehicle. Where to go now…. He could try to escape the city, and with the armored transport, he stood a good chance of busting through the perimeter of lockdown surrounding the city, but that one interrogator was still alive, and he had a grudge a against Barnabas. The only thing he could do was bring the whole thing down, or die trying. He revved up the powerful engine of the armored transport, he had always had a death wish, and if things didn’t work out there was always tomorrow. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and started towards the city.

 

[Megaman_zx]

I think we all learned a valuable lesson from this most recent update.....

DON'T F**** WITH MUTANTS

 

[SKILORD]

It's up to you, but characters I name are recurring characters.

I will update it, just tell me what has changed, and yeah I'll proabaly do something like that.

Obviously there is no getting rid of Alice, even if I weren't sure that she would just continue to show up if I were inclined to ditch her... but I'm not inclined to ditch her.

I thought about it, Maybe something like this?

Name: Raul “The Alchemist”/SKILORD
Ago: 29
Occupation: Revolutionary
Home: Washington Heights (NYC)
Physical description: Latino, short cropped hair dresses in black tees and blue jeans with a black bandana wrapped around his arm. Extremely wiry.
Possessions: Aforementioned kerchief, copies of Art of War and the Manifesto, cash, cell phones, calculators, shotgun, bullet resistant trenchcoat
Injuries: None
Affiliation: Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front
Followers: Alice “Sylvia” Simmons (Electricity/Bruises), Simon “The Sandman” Freeman (Sleep Inducing/Scrapes, Rope Burns), Lucy “Bloodhound” (Psychic/Rope Burns), Ricky “Mountain Man” (Cybernetic superstrength, Fire Control/None) “Single bound” (Jumping/Scrapes, Rope Burns)

Name: August Salazar “Father Time”/ Sonreal
Age: ~24
Occupation: Varies
Home: Indianapolis, Indiana
Physical Description: Average height. Average weight....average. Brown hair. Blues eyes. Biracial.
Possessions: Average-looking clothes and shoes, shotgun, bullet resistant trenchcoat
Injuries: None
Affiliation: Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front
Followers: Alice “Sylvia” Simmons (Electricity/Bruises), Simon “The Sandman” Freeman (Sleep Inducing/Scrapes, Rope Burns), Lucy “Bloodhound” (Psychic/None), Ricky “Mountain Man” (Cybernetic superstrength, Fire Control/None) “Single bound” (Jumping/Scrapes, Rope Burns)

Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front- Headed by Raul and August the Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front has been found responsible of a number of acts of terror, including mass murders in Indianapolis and the shutdown of the New York Stock Exchange. Followers: 5

-

Then you could keep track of mutant abilities and injuries even for follower NPC's right there, and if people needed a reference they would have it. At least as long as Sonreal and I are travelling together I think we can list the followers on both.

I also added the things we looted to the inventory. At the end of the day though, you're the moderator, take or leave whatever you want.

 

[Shadowbound]

The mongrel took Hoffman’s passport and flipped it open. His eyes, an unpleasant brown, widened as he flipped through it. He hated going through this deception, these ridiculous disguises, but they couldn’t afford to reveal themselves just yet. For all their power, they were still very vulnerable.

“Mr… Chong, I’m going to-“

“Chang! My name is Chang, stupid American.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll need to search your bag.”

He scowled as he grudgingly placed his single-strap pack on a fold-out table. Off to his left, Klauss was doing the same. Another soldier opened it up and rifled through it. He looked at Hoffman alarmed, and called over more soldiers, keeping his hand near his side-arm.

“Sir, why are you carrying all these knives?” the man asked, careful to stay out of reach.

“I am famous sushi chef! Very famous in China!” Hoffman growled, the clipped growls sending the checkpoint guards back another step, “I call consul, he get you fired!” he continued, in his best (and incredibly racist) interpretation of a Cantonese accent.

The first soldier spoke up, “His papers are fine, he’s legit, just a little weird, man.” Hoffman just kept glaring straight ahead at the bag-searcher, who, after silently polling his comrades around him, closed the bag and handed it over. Klauss, not carrying anything conspicuous, was passing through behind him without drama.

“What’s up with those dudes?” one of the soldiers asked.

And here, constant awareness and peripheral vision turned out to be a bad thing. Hoffman, out of the corner of his eye, saw the hand gesture the first soldier answered with. He touched his thumb and forefingers together to make a ring, and pushed the index finger of the other hand through it. The implication is not something safely made at the best of times, and he'd just done it to the two most dangerous men in the entire city of New York.

A knife appeared in Bloodwolf’s hand from further up his sleeve, and he jabbed it into the jugular of a nearby National Guardsman. Then he cut the straps holding the soldier’s M4A1, grabbed it, flicked off the safety, spun around, and put a bullet in the offending guardsman’s head. It took a little over a second. It was quick and efficient, and it took the rest of the squad several seconds to realize what had just happened. They did not have that time.

“****,” Hammer said, before he wrapped his hands around a stunned soldier’s head and crushed it, helmet and all. Bloodwolf shifted his target and fired a three round burst into a soldier sitting in the open door of a hummvee, sending him toppling back. He moved and fired again, hitting another guardsman, just starting to act, dead center.

At four seconds in, one of the soldiers brought his weapon up and fired at Hammer. The bullets bounced off, and Bloodwolf took him down half a second later. Hammer, in the middle of the checkpoint, punched an American hard enough to snap his neck, then smashed another in the chest and sent him flying through a second story window. The eighth soldier, at seven seconds, had the presence of mind to run. Hoffman aimed again and pulled the trigger, but the rifle had been spent. Bloodwolf, in three-round bursts, had emptied the thirty-round magazine in six seconds.

It was Hammer’s turn, and how did he stop the runner? He strode over to the humvee, picked it up, got a bit of a running start and then sent it flying horizontally down the street. It crashed into the last guardsman, continued to carry him for another twenty feet, touched down, flipped over and rolled down the street, sending civilians scrambling.

“You goddamn idiot, how are we going to stay quiet now?” Hammer asked his companion. Bloodwolf licked his knife clean and shrugged. People died. It happened. Usually because of him. Sometimes it happened when it was inconvenient. He'd learned to deal with it.

The two Nazis disappeared into a side street, a pair of predators in the concrete jungle that was New York. Three minutes later National Guard reinforcements arrived and found only stunned witnesses.

 

[Megaman_zx]

Barnabas had always struggled with his depression. It had inspired almost every move he made, and was the most dominant emotion swimming around his head… until now. Now he was mad. He drove through the streets of new York, watching as civilians swerved off the road to avoid the armored transport barreling down the highway. Turning the corner, he saw that there was a mass of troops and vehicles parked in front of the police compound. This wouldn’t stop him… it couldn’t. He crashed into a humvee, rolling it over a few surprised soldiers. The transport spun around, killing more soldiers and almost flipped, but righted itself and came to a stop. Jolted, but still ok for the most part, Barnabas took two uzi’s from the duffle bag on the passenger seat.

He prepared himself mentally, then exited the vehicle. He poured forth rage from within himself infecting the people around him. Civilians started rushing the soldiers and each other, soldiers turned on their commanders and each other, shots were fired, and what was once the pseudo-peace of the terror stricken city became a violent riot around the compound with police running out to see what was going on, and then joining in the bloodbath.

Barnabas walked into the compound killing anyone he saw with his twin uzi’s. He eventually made his way t the underground mutant area. There was a huge blast proof door blocking his way. He stared at the keyboard for a minute, then punched in some random numbers. The doors slowly began opening…lucky guess.

He passed the mutant cells, and, after repeating the process on the second set of blast door entered the control room at the other end of the hall guns blazing. He stared at the complex prison control board and began hitting buttons. Doors began opening along the hall, and mutants began to warily leave their cells.

Barnabas walked back into the hall, surveying the mutants he’d rescued. There were a few with real power, but most were just freaks who were hard to kill. Every battle needed cannon fodder, and there would be a battle. He turned back to the control panel and found a way to bring up the cameras outside the building. The vision was clouded with smoke…probably tear gas, and he thought he could hear helicopters through the poor audio feed. He pointed the camera down at the entrance and saw that troops armed to the teeth wearing gas masks were running into the building. Just now the mutants were running out the blast doors. There was a boom, and he looked up from the display to see mutants thrown backwards. Some still alive with ragged holes and burn marks lacing their bodies, but most dead.

There was gunfire now, and he pulled up the hallway’s video feed to see soldiers firing into the mutants. The few that didn’t go down rushed into the mass of soldiers… some plowing through them before being taken out, others hiding behind cover, trying to wage psychic battle with the spec ops. Barnabas was no longer angry, and could only think of his own death. He picked up the uzi’s and left the control room. He was going to die…. But he would kill as many sons of b**** as he could before it happened.

He walked towards the now small crowd of mutants hiding behind the partly sealed blast doors. He could see the soldiers pulling their dead comrades out of the way through the bullet proof glass. He stepped around the doors and they raised their guns. He held down the triggers, his vision mottled by flash of the muzzles. Something rolled near his feet. There was a flash of light, and he could no longer hear a thing. He tried to take a step forwards and tripped. Something collided with his head and He lost consciousness.

 

[Seon]

I think my Role needs an update as well...

Name: Cody Tepper/Seon
Age: 28
Occupation: Field Agent of the Special Bureau of Mutant Affairs.
Location: Washington D.C.
Physical Description: Broad-shouldered (realistically, of course) male. Brown hair and brown eyes. Fairly average and unassumiing looking face had paid off many times.
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Superhuman speed and agility (enough to dodge a bullet with ease) and strength (enough to punch through people). He also has slight regeneration and resistance to damage.
Other Skills: Weapons proficiency. Investigation. Tracking. Close-combat mastery.
Possessions: Desert Eagle (.50 cal). Wakizashi (small katana). HUD sunglass. Other various anti-mutant kit and weapons, such as an earplug which can provide some defense against psychics.
Injuries: None
Affiliation: DMA
Followers: Dlanor Knox (Telekinetic. Burnt). Orwell (Telepath. Uninjured, but obese).

 

[Anonymoose]

Magnus chambered some birdshot into the chamber of the 4410 ‘The Judge.’ He applied the insect repellent and put on the gas mask and the goggles. Some National Guard amateur had informed him that animals were going wild and the ‘gator man’ was bound in a tent. His captors had left him with a note detailing their names and affiliation. Magnus observed the images of the plate on his phone one last time before putting the phone into a compartment in the plane. It was going to be a wet affair, and he didn’t need his phone fried. The helicopter he had appropriated was about to stop over the tent housing the monster.

Magnus dropped down with six Kappa Team members. He strode into the tent and tied a line around the monster’s feet. Then another member tied another line to his feet. Then another, until six lines were tied to his extremities. Most of the team ascended their ropes and the helicopter air-lifted the gator man to an appropriated warehouse in Orlando. After utilizing some advanced interrogation techniques, Magnus ‘broke’ the gator man. His name was Lee Roberts, he had a fitting childhood, and he could talk to animals. This was pathetic nonsense. He wanted details about the fools who turned paper into titanium. The lab rats were telling him that titanium doesn’t get this way with a hammer or with any machinery in existence now. We have another transmuter on our hands, they said. These bastards were obviously procreating like filthy rats.

Magnus finished the interrogation and called the Kappa team members and told them to take care of the witnesses. The agents comm-linked to one another and systematically eliminated the National Guard idiots still hanging around the area with silenced weapons and steely resolve. Pictures were taken and fed to the propaganda machine. “Mutant killed innocent citizen-soldiers. When will they become tame?” It may as well be in the papers already. As far as the world was concerned, Gator Man escaped and killed these honorable soldiers, and he is at large, roaming the streets as we carry on with our lives. Magnus removed The Judge from its holster. He aimed the revolver at Al’s face. The hazel eyes gleamed with hatred and confusion and sadness and some other sensations that Magnus hadn’t felt in a long time. He fired the birdshot into Al’s face. The lead balls dug into his flesh, but the beast didn’t bleed. He fired again, with similar results. A trickle of blood came from his forehead. So he’s bullet-resistant.

“Men, bag him and have him taken to the facility. Put him in the cast-iron chamber with the brass mesh liner. He’s got some kind of mental power, and we don’t need that interfering with research.”

They expressed affirmation and literally bagged Al in a rubber bag with mesh air holes.

Two hours later Al was in a holding cell for the psychically enabled. Research crews would work on him for days before he gets put down. Valuable data could be collected about his skin and his brain.

Al sat alone in the tank. He couldn’t see, but he distinctly felt the presence of the green anole in his pocket and the half-dozen flies that had snuck in with the bag. He was no longer bound. He didn’t know where he was, but he had to get out. The sterilized air and the dry floor felt so unnatural to him. He needed escape, and the researchers knew that was his greatest desire.

Magnus returned to his jet. A transmuter, a hypnotist, and some other rabble were on the loose, but the assassin was in custody. He checked his watch and realized he had not slept in over sixty hours. He crawled into the bunk and drifted into that sleep that passes dreaming, into total darkness without worries of mutants and more mutants. A little peace and quiet before the next round up, surely, and tomorrow would be even worse. The mutants… they’re always getting worse.

 

[Freemanuncg]

“A mutant, suspect in the murder of Florida Governor Rick Scott has been apprehended, there are reports that an organization known as the Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front was involved in the capture...” he pressed the little knob that would silence the radio, well wasn’t that interesting Set thought to himself. Well, he would deal with that later; he had other business to attend to tonight.

He parked the car on the side of the deserted road and got out more than a mile from his destination. Within seconds he had crossed the open ground to the installation tough looking men with guns guarded the gate, he leapt the fence but the men saw and heard nothing. This was a stronghold for the Christian Identity; he hoped he would find more than flunkies sent north to start trouble here.

“Who is in charge here?” Set asked the room of militants at least three score men drinking and waiting on their leaders instructions before seeking out mutants to kill.

“Bob’s in there.” One of the men pointed at a door leading off of the main room. The men went about what they had been doing unaware of the interaction that had just taken place and that they had given information to a mutant, the kind of person they hated most.

He knocked on the door “Come” the voice from within replied. He turned the handle and stepped into the room.

“Bob, I need you to tell me where you get your orders.” Questions were asked, answers were given; the Christian Identity was a highly celled organization to protect the wealthy benefactors and high ranking members. Happy with what he had learned, he quickly drained Bob’s body of blood and dropped him to the floor. One by one the members of the Christian Identity were called into the office each hearing the voice of their leader.

Gasoline, everywhere. Set struck a match and let it fall.

He could see the fireball that leapt up when the match stuck the floor, but he never heard it. He was moving so fast that the trees were a blur on either side of him, a skip in his step as he crossed a river. He climbed a hill and jumped to the next hilltop the blood coursing through his veins; he landed lightly and kept his stride, keeping to uninhabitated areas, running North West.

If he kept up this speed he could reach his destination by dawn, the name that Bob knew had given was Jeffrey Roark. He was the head of a cell that was amassing weapons at a stronghold deep in the Appalachians, if Set kept chewing up members of the Christian Identity he would eventually work his way to the top.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

[sophie]

Name: Hermann Schatten a.k.a "Projekt Nichtvorhandensein" a.k.a. "Noman"

Age: 88
Occupation: Prisoner
Location: Currently in a high security detention center somewhere in S Nevada
Physical Description: Hermann does not have any appearance per say. Generally he is a shapeless darkness residing in low-light areas. He occasionally takes a more ethereal, humanoid form, and this looks vaguely like an obscured man in a trenchcoat and hat.
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Shadow powers. Hermann is immune to physical damage of any kind, and does not age. He can change size and form at will, allowing him to fit in the smallest of cracks. As for attacks, when he touches someone he paralyzes them and drains them of life force, killing them if given enough time. For the weak-willed, this can happen in a matter of seconds, though in the empowered, this process can take far longer to bring about. Hermann is weakened by pure light, and is susceptible to energy-based attacks as well.
Possessions: None
Injuries: Hermann is currently weakened and has trouble maintaining thoughts due to being kept in a room filled with pure light for 70 years, though these will go away should he be freed from his containment.
Affiliation: Nazis
Followers: 0
Background: Hermann was a soldier of 22 when he was selected for the Ubermensch program in 1943. Like most in this program, Hermann was not given the choice of entering the program, and like most, the experiments he was subjected to in order to bring out the "best of his Aryan blood" was brutal, wreaking havoc on his body. In September of 1943 an error in the process resulted in Hermann losing his physical form, and becoming the shadowy figure of today. Seeing the grand potential of such a being, Nazi administrators of the program detained Hermann and throughout 44 and into 45 performed experiments, testing the limits to his abilities, referring to him as "Projekt Nichtvorhandensein." In the early months of 1945 an American division discovered the testing facility and unwittingly released the abomination into the world, all losing their lives in the process. Having not seen the outside world since his transformation, and having only a hazy recollection of his past life, Hermann wandered aimlessly for some time, before coming upon a village, killing all the inhabitants therein. This aggression attracted the attention of the Allied Generals, who lost a large contingent of troops who were dispatched to investigate. Once realizing the nature of the creature that was Projekt Nichtvorhandensein, the United States dispatched a mutant of their own who possessed powers over light, who subdued and captured Projekt Nichtvorhandensein in 1946 in US occupied SW Germany. Hermann was taken to Arizona where he was dubbed "Noman" after the Homeric myth, and subjected to experiments by the US Military. Over the next couple of months, Noman proved difficult to test upon, mounting several successful escape attempts, resulting in the deaths of several soldiers, as well as a couple civilians during one escape attempt. Sometime in the mid-50s Noman was deemed too dangerous to entertain as a potential weapon for use by the US, and so was moved to a specially created detention cell in Area-51 in Nevada, where he has resided ever since.

 

[Freemanuncg]

So. Many. Nazis.

 

[erez87]

*Ah handcuffs. Not the first time. Perhaps I should ease my friends here.*
"My brothers. Have no worries. We have done nothing wrong, only protected ourselves."
A younger man also handcuffed next to him turned and asked "Should we free ourselves from this?"
"Can you young one?"
"Easily"
As soon as the boy finished speaking you could see his concentration. In second the sound of cracking came from his back as the handcuffs on his hand break into the pieces without any movement from the young man. I smiled to see that. "What else can you do to release us all?"
Before I even had time to finish my question a much younger girl from the back easily broke the handcuffs with her bare hands and another middle aged man sitting in front of me apparently just slipped his hands out of the handcuffs as if made of rubber. "I never had a power so amazing, so active. What are your names?"
"I'm George" the young man answered first, "Lea" said the girl, "Richard" said the older man.
"I am Syson my friends. My ability is to never die no matter what happens to me. I've had so many terrible things done to me and I felt the pain of each, but I always seem to survive in return to normal body structure. I do apparently age, or at least aged in the past. What do you guys do?"
"I'm strong. Really strong. I can punch through a building."
"Shut up behind there!" one of the cops in the car screamed "Filthy mutants!"
"I wanted to think the human mutant problem can be solved peacefully, but I saw humanity for eons, and while eventually all solution were peaceful, they took far too long and with too many casualties."
"I can change the density of my body in order to become harder or softer, for example into rubber to slip out of the cuffs."
"And I can move things with my mind." George finished the little talk with all the rest glaring at him. "Thats awesome" Lea said with a smile but also a roll of the eyes.
"Truly 'awesome'. Can we leave this car?" Syson finished his words moved his hands a bit, broke the toe on each hand and released himself from the handcuffs. "Oh that hurt, I haven't done that for a while."

Than the car rose a few millimeters high and stopped moving. "Hey whats going on there mutants?" one of the policeman shouted. "We have done nothing wrong according to the laws of the united states and so we would be leaving." Syson answered with ease. Lea punched through the wall of the car while George held the Policeman frozen in place. "Come young man" Syson finished as all four existed the police car and walked slowly away from the event.

"My friends. I think this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship" I smiled. Such powers, I am truly at awe of them. Just not dying seems useless sometimes.



ooc: should I make character sheets for this people?

 

[Lord_Iggy]

Mark felt a sinking feeling as he realized his situation. He heard more voices talking, and felt the truck shake as people started to unload it.

Fearfully, he peeked through a hole in his box. Outside, he saw a few asian-looking people coming closer, removing crate after crate, coming ever closer. Mark briefly wondered if he was in California, but decided that the mystery of his present location could wait until a later moment.

A sliding noise. They were at his box.

Mark played dead as they pulled out the box. He would just stay completely silent until they were done, then-

CRACK! The end of the box containing his head hit the concrete. Someone shouted, conveniently at the same moment that Mark gave out a grunt of pain.

The area felt silent. Someone shouted again, and the box was placed down. Someone started to open up the top of the box.

Play dead, play dead, play dead…

Mark felt cold air on his face. The voices went silent again, then someone gave a surprised exclamation. A hand roughly grabbed the boy and pulled him out. His eyes shot open. An angry face greeted him.

“The **** is this?”

“I… I… uh.”

“This Petrelli’s idea of a joke?”

Mark scrambled.

“No! I was… locked, locked in! In here, to the box. In the box!”

“Bull! This box was full of high-grade when I packed it.”

“I swear-”

“The boss didn’t pay forty grand for a box filled with some ****ing kid!”

“Hey, I-”

The man tightened his grip on Mark and smashed the boy’s back into the side of the truck.

“So what, you were just hopping a ride in my shipment then??”

“Oh god no! Not really! Maybe! I didn’t mean-” Mark was motormouthing at this point.

“Then where the **** are the goods?”

Mark remembered clearing out several heavy bags from the box in which he had hidden- they were only stashed.

“WHERE?” Mark was smashed against the truck again. In a tiny, winded voice, he tried to speak.

“…hnngh. It’s...”

The man roared in anger, punching Mark’s head against the metal wall for a third time. The boy sputtered in pain, but held back tears. He’d been beaten before, he could take it. The man was barking out a series of threats now, about how much he had riding on this shipment, and what Mark was going to have to do to pay it off. It involved several very inappropriate things, but Mark was hardly listening. He had withdrawn into his shell, where nothing spoken could hurt him, where all physical pain was numb. There was nothing there but anger, a slow, toxic, seething anger. Everything that had gone wrong in Mark’s short life was concentrating into a singlular point of hate with each blow. Hate towards this violent, petty, self-interested gangster. Hate towards the adults who’d betrayed him, hate towards the friends he’d never had. Hate towards his mutation that had forced him out of what little a home he did have. Hate towards the god who’d stood by and watched as everything went so terribly wrong. Mark felt blood flowing into his mouth, but felt no pain.

His eyes opened, nearly tearing up out of fury. The gling of a knife was the first thing he saw. A horrible hollow feeling engulfed his torso as it plunged in through his jacket.

Mark’s body fell heavily to the floor.

“Chin, what the hell are you doing?” shouted another voice.

The burly man pulled out the knife after several further stabs.

“Little **** thought he was clever hitchhiking, stealing my ****! Besides, he’s seen too much in here anyways.”

The man gestured around the warehouse, and to the partially-unpacked drug shipment, with his knife hand. His completely clean, blood-free knife-hand.

The rising realization slowed his motion to a stop. Both men, and the gathering crowd around them, looked down at the fallen body, each making the same simple observation.

“He’s not bleeding.”

Mark’s body twitched, before his head turned over and he began to push himself off the floor.

“He’s a mutie!” exclaimed someone.

“Right, and right.” Growled Mark through gritted teeth.

With that, he let out a vicious punch. All of his anger concentrated into his swinging fist. It was as if all of his essence was concentrating into this one single action.

His fist contacted the skull with a crack, then kept on going. As if in slow-motion, Mark felt all of his anger release itself against this icon of hatred, the face distorting, splitting apart, splattering and separating as if it had been struck by a sledgehammer.

The man’s pulverized head splattered across Mark’s arm and face. Just like last time.

But this time, he meant it.

 

[Haseri]

Hunter was now with Schwarz, in the car. "Got your papers kid? And your wife?"

"Uh, yeah, she got hers yesterday, I got mine in the post."

"We probably don't need them. We don't look like mutants, see? Pity the poor guys that do. Did you hear that some kid with Down's Syndrome got lynched out west?"

"A few seconds before you said it, yes. Good thing he got away."

"Didn't have a power at all. That's what this sort of thinking gets you - innocent people get hurt. Protection of the innocent, not punishment of the guilty. That's what law should be about."

"Vimes."

"What?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing."

"Alright. You know, in Europe, they abhor this. I was speaking my German cousin the other day, and when I told him about this, I think he threw up in his mouth."

"Yeah." Hunter was rather disinterested. In an effort to change the subject, he said, "Where are we going?"

"To meet the Boss."

"What, in person?"

"Naw, he's in Washington. At least, I think he's a he."

"He - or she - 's a blank."

"How did you...? Oh yeah. Yep, I can't remember a thing about him. He's just the Boss. And only a he for convenience. Here we are."

It wasn't an abandoned warehouse, which was narratively disappointing. But it was a warehouse and, if one mentally removed all the people and vehicles, it at least looked the part.

"It's you he wants to talk to, so go on up to room 88. The link will be up there."

The room was bare white, with a projector hanging down from the ceiling and a sheet at the wall the projector was pointing at. An image was being projected, a shadowy figure sitting at the far end of a table. "So sorry to keep myself hidden, Mister Hunter, but I feared my powers would be useless against you, just as yours are against mine." The obviously altered androgynous voice was correct. The figure was, indeed, silent on the thought front. "Ess-oh-pea for people to whom my powers don't work on. Call me paranoid." Not that he could see, but Stephen expected the figure just smiled. "Mister Hunter, I have a job for you..."

****​

I'm assuming it's supposed to be the Russian Mafia vs. Chinese Mafia war?

 

[Lord_Iggy]

It seems to be a bit of a 3-way mafia war in New York, at least.

 

[Karalysia]

It's been brought to my attention that some of you are metagaming. You know who you are. Tone down your powers yourself to a reasonable level or I will do it for you and plus I will visit unfortunate events upon your character. That is all.

 

[Karalysia]

Obviously there is no getting rid of Alice, even if I weren't sure that she would just continue to show up if I were inclined to ditch her... but I'm not inclined to ditch her.

I thought about it, Maybe something like this?

Name: Raul “The Alchemist”/SKILORD
Ago: 29
Occupation: Revolutionary
Home: Washington Heights (NYC)
Physical description: Latino, short cropped hair dresses in black tees and blue jeans with a black bandana wrapped around his arm. Extremely wiry.
Possessions: Aforementioned kerchief, copies of Art of War and the Manifesto, cash, cell phones, calculators, shotgun, bullet resistant trenchcoat
Injuries: None
Affiliation: Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front
Followers: Alice “Sylvia” Simmons (Electricity/Bruises), Simon “The Sandman” Freeman (Sleep Inducing/Scrapes, Rope Burns), Lucy “Bloodhound” (Psychic/Rope Burns), Ricky “Mountain Man” (Cybernetic superstrength, Fire Control/None) “Single bound” (Jumping/Scrapes, Rope Burns)

Name: August Salazar “Father Time”/ Sonreal
Age: ~24
Occupation: Varies
Home: Indianapolis, Indiana
Physical Description: Average height. Average weight....average. Brown hair. Blues eyes. Biracial.
Possessions: Average-looking clothes and shoes, shotgun, bullet resistant trenchcoat
Injuries: None
Affiliation: Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front
Followers: Alice “Sylvia” Simmons (Electricity/Bruises), Simon “The Sandman” Freeman (Sleep Inducing/Scrapes, Rope Burns), Lucy “Bloodhound” (Psychic/None), Ricky “Mountain Man” (Cybernetic superstrength, Fire Control/None) “Single bound” (Jumping/Scrapes, Rope Burns)

Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front- Headed by Raul and August the Mutant Inspirational Liberation Front has been found responsible of a number of acts of terror, including mass murders in Indianapolis and the shutdown of the New York Stock Exchange. Followers: 5

-

Then you could keep track of mutant abilities and injuries even for follower NPC's right there, and if people needed a reference they would have it. At least as long as Sonreal and I are travelling together I think we can list the followers on both.

I also added the things we looted to the inventory. At the end of the day though, you're the moderator, take or leave whatever you want.

That's a good idea, I'd like everyone to do this for their characters, update it with your followers, their powers, injuries, poessessions and so forth and I will edit it in the stats. .

I'm assuming it's supposed to be the Russian Mafia vs. Chinese Mafia war?

Yeh pretty much.

 

[bestshot9]

Is it okay if I edit out the whole, "Gator's Army" and sympathetic mutants posting fliers calling for mutants to take up arms? After I posted it and began writing my first two stories, I realized Al's character is better off as a solitary person, so if he does have an army, it wouldn't be made up of mutants but rather random critters and animals found around him, as he hasn't had a whole lot of human contact since his father dumped him?