SuperNES I: Gods Among Us

[Nuka-sama]

Sebastian was on the ground, suffering a merciless beating. His bones felt like they were shattered. He wanted it to stop, to end it, but they wouldn't stop. It wasn't like yesterday. There were twenty of them, beating, stabbing, kicking him. Blood was flowing out of him like a river, as cut after cut opened up.

"STOP IT" He screamed, but they continued as if nothing happened. They mean to kill me he thought. Tears were rolling down his face, despite his best efforts to contain them. He was going to die, here and now. Never see any of his siblings or his mother.....or his father. Never to see his home again. He would die on this godforsaken island...

He closed his eyes, thinking he'd pray before he'd die. But when he closed his eyelids, he was seeing...something....a cloud of smoke in the form of a man. He had the man's form, but none of his features, his defining characteristics. All he had was a smile...a perfect white smile, and then he said I can't have you die just yet


He screamed. His blood rushed out of his cuts, impaling the men beating him. His entire body was open with cuts, the blood flowing out of him like hundreds of whips. There were ten men still alive, and with a flick of his finger, Sebastian impaled all of them. He screamed and as they died, he collapsed to the ground. Only one man was left, the elderly asian man from earlier. As Sebastian fell to his knees the old man smiled as he said"It takes life or death to push you to your depths? Very good then. She will be most pleased to hear this" Sebastian could make no response though as he crashed to the ground, unconscious to the world.

 

[bombshoo]

Character Name/Player Name: Jonah Archard/bombshoo
Nationality: Born English/American
Location: New York City
Power: His extreme age (344) gives him a great deal of knowledge of the world. Also, since he is basically undead, he cannot feel pain and he cannot "die" by most conventional means (though since he is entirely physical, he can still be burned to nothing but ash, ground into a dust, dissolved in acid, etc).
Weakness: He smells like death and decay and his "true form" is quite rotten and disgusting, requiring him to use huge amounts of cologne and makeup to maintain the appearance of a normal human being.

More to come in a bit.

 

[Terrance888]

Sighting the German Part 1

The tenement flashed with green light, shining through the overcast January sky. Pleading excuses could be heard within, followed by cries of pain, then of mercy. The green light surged, then dissipated, a bit of mist flowing out the top floors to join the ever growing cloud of coal dust that hung over the city.

A well dressed man walked onto the streets, subconsciously wiping at a spot of blood which had stained the shoulder of his suit. With a brief flash of green, it disappeared. He quickly scanned the streets as he begun walking towards the bus station. His eyes slid smoothly over various porters and agents carrying on their day to day business, as well as one of his own men arranging “security payment”. Satisfied that no one seemed to have noticed his little performance, he turned and faced ahead, muttering ever once in a while as he walked past the the billowing smoke and chattering machines of the industrial district.

Except someone did. Bernard Whitless, an independent agent for the investment firm Cain Capital, watched in the midst of the slurry of humanity. He is also better known as “Babyface” when not at his official duties. Rough and tumble Irishmen grumbled as they carried heavy packages to the cart, subconsciously walking around the brown-suited man they could not see as they loaded up the cargo. Meanwhile, he held his hand out, a smile on his face, while watching one of the local Mob strongman try to bring up the urge to shake his hand and seal the deal.

Com’n, hurry you papist git, he thought to himself. Finally, the red-furred limb lightly caressed his hand, as if trying to avoid pressing his Irish skin against his American palm. A swift shake and it retracted. Whitmore took another glance at the bus station as he gave the Irishmen a big one as an “investment downpayment”. The foreman quickly made himself scarce as Babyface grimaced, crossing the street and avoided by traffic.

It’s bad enough he has to rub shoulders with foreigners to get close to his target, but it’s worse that THEY treat HIM like he’s something to be avoided. He knows that this reawakening of power is different from his brief surge a few years ago, for he can feel it’s constant flow beating alongside his heart. No, it’s that he is almost unbearable to be interacted with by the rest of the world.

He took a deep breath, enjoying the relatively clean morning air and clearish skies. At least these joys don’t make him exhausted to enjoy. As he arrived at the other skies one of those newfangled Electric Buses arrived and was promptly filled with Irishflesh. The well dressed German, seemingly convincing himself to risk his dappler outfit to join aboard, muttered to himself before being jolted by the Conductor’s cry. Babyface walked faster, forcing his feet past the soft edge of resistance to press firming against the ground. The final call was given as Babyface neared the bus, the press of humanity parting seamlessly before him to reunite after as he raised his hands, risking detection to get closer to his mark.

But yet again, his hand was ignored or more likely, repelled the gaze of the Conductor who knowingly avoided acknowledging the raised hand as he closed the doors and reengaged the electric engines. As Babyface watched, it accelerated away, the German gentlemen engaging in talk with an Eye Tie, casting wary gazes at the metallic structure as if it was a cage.

Babyface slowed down and looked distastefully towards the manhole cover. Sighing, he heaved it open and jumped in once more.

 

[erez87]

"Ok boys, wait out here with the horses. I'll be handling the bank." Electric spoke softly to the two men he picked earlier to work for him. "A million each eh? We may get more men soon enough!" one of the men nodded and Electric entered the bank, still dressed in his strange ripped suite.

Inside things were going normal when suddenly a lamp exploded. Some guy shrieked, but the bank workers just everyone to relax. That was when everyone saw him shooting the next lamp with electricity from his fingertips. Some people fainted, the guards rushed to stand. Everywhere staring at the strange man.

"Ha ha! I thought it would get your attention. Five guards eh? New York is in a problem here." One of the guards aimed a gun at him, "Stop or I shoot".
"Seriously? I just shot a lamp from my fingers and…"
"I said stop freak!" the guard yelled again. Electric went from a smile to an angry grin in a second.
"I do not." He looked at the guard directly, slowly raising his hand, "Like." He was now pointing at the guard. "To be called names." A large electric shock was shot, burning the poor guard in the spot. The people in the bank begun to scream and run around, heading out.
"Everyone! STOP!" electric shouted as an explosion of electricity emerged from his body, burning a few people around him, and especially the guards. The crowd fell to the ground from the shock and from fearing for their lives. "I just came here for the money! Do you think I can take so much by myself?" that was when the sirens were heard outside. "Now those fools will run. Agh! This went badly so fast!" he yelled in the middle of the bank, while everyone were still on the floor screaming with fear.

"Come out with your hands behind your head!" he heard from outside. "We know you are alone."

"Pff. Just when I thought this will go smoothly you bring the cops for me to slaughter. Who called them?"

ooc: so many banks got robbed, I guess they had higher security by now...

 

[erez87]

One of the Policeman knocked on the door. "May I enter?"
"Yes yes you may enter. Pff. I'm so angry at you for coming here." Electric answered.
"I am not armed and I am…" the policeman said as he slowly entered the bank.
"You can be armed for all I care. I'm still going to have to rip through you all to get out."
"You don't have to do any such thing. You are surrounded and" the policeman closed the door behind him.
"Pff. Surrounded. I guess you want… need… my story to get the hell away from my way." Electric mumbled out.
"Yes please. Talk with me. What can we do?" he answered and hinted to the men outside through the windows.
"It was on Jasunry 1st. Not long ago. You see. I woke up to the sound of my clock. It has that annoying sound, you know." Electric walked around the room. The people were still on the floor, he actually accidently stepped on a few. They were all in silence. The policeman looked around, trying to assess the situation.
"So it ranged so loud. I was pissed, waking me up in the morning for work. I hit it with my hand when a huge power shock came up and blew it all over my room." The policeman stopped immdietly. He looked at electric with a strange look…
"What do you mean blew?" he asked. Electric smiled and looked at him.
"Do you know why all these people are so afraid they won't even make a peep? They won't even tell you what happened?" electric spoke and pointed at the burned bodies. "That."
"You did that? How?" the policeman looked somewhat puzzled.
Electric looked at him. "You know? It is a very good question. I must really not care about people if I can kill them so easily." He looked contemplating. The policeman's face suddenly showed a lot of fear.
"How… How did you…?" he asked, trembling in his voice, he knew of the weird stuff going on in New York lately. Shadows robbing banks and worse. Electric smiled again and pointed at the policeman.
"I'll do one better. I'll show you."

…

The bank was in shambles and the entire police force was left to blow in the wind as ash. Everyone in the surrounding was killed either by bullets or electric shock as the coronary checks will say afterwards. A lot of money was stolen, whoever stole it had plenty of time to move things around with everyone around dead. It wasn't that hard finding his course out of the bank. He left broken building, dead bodies and burned out police cars everywhere in his wake. Few surviving witnesses said nothing that was shot at him could stop his movement. His power just stopped everything in midair, sometimes even sending it back. It has been five hours since this had begun. Could anyone stop the chaos? Will New York be saved?

ooc: I guess update should come next...

 

[Arrow Gamer]

OOC: This takes place after the battle with GK, which will hopefully happen soon.

Jake woke up, exhausted from his battle with the Chinaman. He walked out of his new apartment, purchased with a small fraction of the bank robbery profits. Soon, he reached the bottom of the steps and walked south, heading for somewhere. Anywhere.

Before long he was walking among docks, filled with fish and grime. As he approached a candy seller, hoping to purchase a treat, a man jostled Jake. Without a second thought, the man was sent to the ground, his neck broken and his bones shattered. Peering down in contempt, he examined the face of his most recent victim. With a shock, he realized he knew the face.

In a flash he was running, jumping, climbing, diving. Any way to get away from the face. That horrible, leering, evil face. It was seared in his mind, unable to be purged. He knew it would stay forever, burned into his brain and there to stay. Finally, Jake collapsed in an alley, hiding from the world and he evils it contained. One thought repeated in his mind: I do not deserve to live.

Soon that thought was overcome by many others: how could I do this? Is this how the family of my victims feel? Are these powers a good thing? And one thought repeated most often: am I evil?

He knew what had happened, and he knew it was his fault. He took a vow to never kill again. He would work for 'good': the elusive moral standard he had never even contemplated. These powers were a gift, and he needed to use them as a blessing. otherwise they would become a curse.

He had a plan. He would go after the elusive 'Baron,' a murderer if he ever met one. Such evil men could not be allowed to live.

And through it all, the face of Johnny, his boy, burned in his consciousness.

 

[Grandkhan]

still writing it. Action scenes take a while for me.

 

[Arrow Gamer]

It's fine. I can wait.

 

[Grandkhan]

OOC: Chronologically before Arrow Gamer's last story, but after my last one.

Conolly and Long Shan faced each other, as the street rapidly emptied of people. Faces peeked out from the rooftops and from windows, as the populace of Chinatown watched excitedly.
"My name's not important." Conolly replied cooly, grinning. "Whats important is, Chinatown is mine."

"Chinatown is under my protection." Long replied, not moving from the Tiger Stance. "Though they do not know it yet, this suburb serves me."

"I'm willing to contest that."

"I welcome your challenge, American." Long bowed, but midway he felt an immense blow to his stomach which sent him flying backwards onto the street. Somehow, the newcomer had crossed the distance between them and hit Long when he was midbow - a distance of nearly thirty feet. Truly, his enemy was some sort of superhuman. Long felt his blood begin to boil. Finally, a challenge worthy of his prowess. Long got up, dusting off his clothes.

The American had already closed the distance, sprinting to catch him and attempting to grab the martial artist. Long dodged out of the way, Conolly almost grabbing his pigtail as he moved, and spun behind the American. Before he could react, Long blurred into a roundhouse kick into his back, slamming him face first into the pavement. The American was swift to get up, however, and attempted to backhand Long as he rose. Long barely dodged the blow, but it clipped the side of his face and sent him flying back again, into another building.

Conolly grinned, as the Chinese man got up and brushed the dust off himself. He sprinted at Long, but as he approached he felt a powerful blow to his chest. Long's palm was firmly planted there, knocking him backward. As he staggered, Long's rammed his fist upwards into a rising uppercut, striking him into the air. As he came down, Long hit him with a roundhouse kick and sent him backwards into another building, which collapsed around him.

As Conolly staggered up, Long ran at him once more, seeking to land a blow to his throat which would finish him off once and for all. But as Long reached the American, he grabbed him and lifted him in the air by his arms. As Long felt the American prepare to rip him apart, he struggled out of the vicelike grip and hit him in the solar plexus with his palm. Inside Conolly's grip, Long planted blow after blow with rapid speed, hitting him the a succession of punches and palm strikes leaving him breathless. Finally, he jumped backwards, slammed the American's shoulder with a brutal axe kick, and punched him into a fourth building, which collapsed around him.

Long waited for the American to get up, but as rubble shifted slightly, nobody came out. He stood in the middle of the street, panting.

"Chinatown. Is. Mine."

 

[J.K. Stockholme]

OOC: I should steer my man towards America me thinks...

To bestshot: my character is not selfaware of his power yet.

 

[Seon]

“Tosca is a fascinating play, do you not agree? It’s about this woman who fails at rigging an execution and kills herself. I hate mysteries so I just told you the ending right now, isn’t that really annoying?” the stranger said in a sing song voice. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“mmmmph mmmph MMMMMMMMMMPPPPH”

“Okay mmph,” the stranger muttered. “It was very rude to steal into my home like that. Had to grab a new lock from some weird and sketchy merchant in CHINA. I don’t even speak their language!” the stranger gesticulated wildly. “But don’t worry, I’m just going to take you to see the opera. Will be an enlightening experience for a hobo like you.”

The young man raised his eyebrow.

“After watching the opera,” the stranger continued. “I’m going to cut you open from your bowels to your brain to see what you are made out of. Unless you prefer a horizontal incision, of course. I’m considerate.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The stranger found himself in the armory of the local police departments. All the heavier weapons that the police kept for true TRUE emergencies were here. He grabbed an armful of these things and disappeared. He did it over and over and over again until the entire place was empty. It would be quite amusing for the police to discover that they were unarmed when the time for real trouble came. Besides, these things sold for quite a lot… if you knew the right people to sell them too.

Luckily he could find such people.

 

[Nailix]

The Show Begins​

Alright, you got this... Don't worry it'll work...

James thought to himself as he exhaled deeply. The mysterious man was in the building James found vacant, the man turned out to be an illusionist with the ability to create copies of himself which is how he was able to catch James in the first place.

“Alright pal, you ready?”

The man said with a grin. James nodded slightly but didn't say anything, he just peered out the dirty window towards the theater.

“It's almost show time man so lets get movin!”

The man grabbed James by the tricep firmly, letting him know he was ready to go. James took another deep breath, looked down for a brief moment, then looked toward the theater roof and the two appeared there.

“That's goin to take a little getting use to, but good work pal!”

The man said staggering towards one of the windows above the audience.

“I was hoping to watch this...”

James muttered under his breath which caused the figure to freeze in place as though he was petrified.

“Well tough pal, you wanna survive more don't ya?!”

James didn't answer, but the man continued about his business. He pointed out an empty hallway leading to one of the restrooms.

“There, lets go pal make it quick. Then remember you sit up here until I give ya the signal to come get me.”

James didn't answer the man, he just grabbed his coat and jumped them into the hallway. Once there the man immediately darted for the restroom as James jumped back onto the roof.

About a half an hour had passed and James had propped one of the windows open slightly to hear the opera while he watched from his great vantage point. It interested him a lot and he had all but forgotten what he was there for. Then, all of a sudden, around fifty men in same trench coat and hat burst forward from that vacant hall way all armed with a different sort of melee weapon.

It begun.

James thought to himself as he hopped to his feet ready to make a jump the moment he needed to. The gang flooded the stage and blocked the exits. Another man had exited the bathroom moments later and casually walked out of the hallway only to be forcefully put into a nearby seat by one of the goons.

“Now ALL of you will go to the nearest person with us and give them all your money if you want to make it out of this alive.”

One of the men shouted loudly, and when the people were hesitant to move he motioned to a nearby goon who grabbed the man from the bathroom out of his seat and held a knife to his throat.

“I'm not joking here folks, hand over the money or you all die!”

Immediately after the crowd began shoving their money into the hands of the nearest trench coat wearing man around. The apparent leader grabbed the man now and forced him to his knees as he pointed a gun to the back of his head.

Once all the money was collected the handed it over to their leader who filled his trench coat full of it.

“Thank you all for your cooperation, and now if you'll excuse us we have business to attend to.” He said loudly then pulled the trigger, firing a bullet into the back of the man's head. The leader then looked up toward James and nodded.

That's the signal!

James thought and teleported next to the man. James grabbed the man and jumped to the roof in the blink of an eye. The people in the theater were all shocked and the illusions began beating everyone around them.

“Good work pal, I knew I could count on...”

The man was cut off as James had taken the gun and shot him in the chest, sending him falling backwards through the glass ceiling. At that moment all the illusions froze, turned to look at their creator and vanished. The crowd was stunned as James teleported back down, he dropped the gun next to the illusionist and checked to see if he was still breathing.

WHACK!

James was struck hard in the back of the head by a bat, as he rolled over he recognized the man as the victim who was shot in the head. The man picked up the pistol, grabbed James tightly by the collar of his shirt and whispered to him.

“Get us the hell outta here now, or you're getting a bullet to the brain!”

To Be Continued...

 

[Anonymoose]

Spoiler :

Brother Mateo felt a mental intrusion coming from south of the city, a demand to surrender by one "Paul-Henri." This demand, startling in a manner not unlike a stranger yelling at another stranger randomly in the street, was disregarded. A later intrusion, however, was not so easy to ignore. A sprite, a pixie, perhaps, or some preternatural spirit of some sort strolled through the closed doors of the cathedral like fog through a sieve. It bowed and offered the sincerest regards of the Lord and Master of Paris, The honorable Professor Gebbard. Messr. Gebbard required an oath of fealty to his 'expanding kingdom' and an immediate appearance at the University, Gebbard's current headquarters. Brother Mateo indicated the sovereignty of the cathedral and its status as a sanctuary, which infuriated the fairy. It became apparent that the apparition of the sprite was an avatar for Gebbard himself, as it stretched and grew into the shape and likeness of a rubicund, rotund, balding man. He swore at Mateo until he was even redder in the face and swore utter destruction to him and his temple. Gebbard listed his power over lightning and fire and all other manners of destruction in the world to Mateo,

"I have been granted great power of death and terror, friar! I have called the lightning and made fire and obliterated the stone on which your temple stands and of which the shanty is made. My apparitions may smite the stone in my stead and they may conjure lightning as I do, all in my name. Accept me as your sovereign. Cast aside your idols and accept the one king of Paris!"

Mateo made the sign of the cross and explained to Gebbard,
"My King is the First and the Last, and there is no God besides Him. You may leave me be, Gebbard, and I will pray for your reform. That is all."

Gebbard's apparition laughed at the blind faith of the young man,

"Hahaha, well I suppose you have had your mind made up for you, friar. And that is why I will now kill you and make your temple my seat."

The apparition took the visage of a devil and spewed flame onto the floor and pews. Mateo stood passively and allowed the childish display to continue. He turned the other cheek, as it were. The demon turned to Mateo, spitting lightning and melting the stones of the floor, shouting,

"Fear ye death and pain, BROTHER! Fear the darkness and the furious light of the might of Gebbard!"

"I will fear no evil, for He is with me, brother Gebbard."

"And soon you will be with Him."

The demonic tongue dragged the floor and the stormy fire maelstrom blew the windows out and nearly frayed the hem of Mateo's robe.

"Brother Gebbard, do you see what you have wrought? With some time and great effort, you have smitten the inside of the house of our Lord, and look what I have been blessed with."

Mateo needed no grandiose gestures or loud demonic wailing. He ended the calamity instantly and the cathedral was exactly as it was before the apparition walked in. The demonic face was already a grimacing caricature, but its jaw was even more slack, and soon assumed the dumbfounded visage of Gebbard.

Mateo spoke again,

"You have no more power here, Gebbard. You may destroy no more and your apparitions will nevermore cross the threshold of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Any transgression on the Île de la Cité will result in more extensive banishment,"

The apparition and Mateo were now outside the immaculate cathedral.

"and you now know the extensive power granted me to protect this holy place from the ill intentions of individuals like you. If ever you desire to repent and reform your minor skills to help make the world a better place, you may contact me."

Before the illusion could speak, Mateo did away with it. The island was lonely again, but this time Mateo did not dread it. He appreciated the reclaimed silence.


At the University, Professor Gebbard stormed about and did inflict great destruction upon his small kingdom. Gebbard calmed after he realized the childishness of his behavior, but was angered repeatedly as he remembered what he had witnessed. He felt like the child with a ball who is upstaged by the neighbor with the newer velocipede. Gebbard was not a fan of this feeling at all.

 

[J.K. Stockholme]

A Guarded City

The trainyards were crowded with guards. Officers were carefully monitoring all movement in and out of the city after the striker riot. Harald sat, hunched in his usual posture, on a wooden stool in a bar, waiting. A crumbled newspaper in his trenchcoat pocket, and a workers cap to fit the part, he was fully equipped for the escape.

Whoever he'd impressed in the jail before the riot, they'd remembered his name. The communists spotted his distinctive suitcase the day after, approached Harald with a grin, and, before they knew it, were arranging to help Harald escape the city. They'd originally come hoping to use of his talents for crowd morale, but he had so thoroughly convinced them he'd be better used outside Berlin, they duly changed plans.

Harald never drank, but he liked bars, felt like they gave him an energy. Just by being around folks who'd gotten themselves into a bit of an impulsive state. Tonight was the planned time for exiting the city. The communists were to hold a rally not to far, expecting resistance from the police.

Helmut entered the bar, and four men followed him. Harald turned around, and silently walked out the same door, as they followed single file.

Like a small brigade, an infantry line, five communists and a conman beamed down the street.

"We could hire a man like yourself." Helmut declared straightforwardly.

"I'm a music man, not an orator." Harald rebutted.

"We could use a music man. I know we could, and I'd tell you who could prove it if I knew."

"If you don't know who'd be paying me, then there is hardly a deal."

"What you did at the jail, you mobilized the German people to our side, shots fired into a crowd of singing proletariat, honest people protesting. If you could meet with my allies in Munich, and do it again, I know you'd be paid handsomely. No conditions. You would be un-obliged to further help us, but we would continue to pay." Helmut was visibly stressed trying to persuade Harald, as if he was taking a physical toll from the output.

"I'll go to Munich, but not necessarily to help, we'll see what happens there. I have contacts of my own to meet up with in between," specifically, Harald meant unsuspecting villages he would con, but Helmut would not have known, "so I'll be there in over a month."

The six men arrived at the small group of guards who were watching them lividly. They were evidently disturbed by their presence, to which the highest ranked officer now stood up to confront them. Helmut looked uncomfortable, but Harald smiled at him confidently, looked at the officer, and said:

"Now I know what your thinking," the officer paused quizzically, "why would you let us pass through, we're exactly the folks you were told not to let through. But your not a brute, a hired man for other people's gain, your a decent German man, embodying the best traits in humanity, and you know we're of the same, brother."

To the astonishment of Harald, they were let through. Harald was nearly ready to burst with laughter, at what he was getting away with. Helmut gave one restive nod to Harad, before they turned at a fork in the road outside Berlin. Harald might actually keep his promise to visit Munich.

 

[Grandkhan]

Sam Wan Fat was having a bad month. After six years of running the Ce Ong Triad's operations in New York, this was probably the worst month he'd had, ever.

"This was not worth coming over from Hong Kong," he groaned, "Dragon Head is going to have a hit on me for this." As he sat in his office, he heard a frantic knock on the door. He waved his hand, and a bodyguard opened the door.

"Found the b******, Johnny?" Sam said. Johnny Wu almost fell to the ground, panting.

"Nah, boss. He found us!"

"What?! Where the hell is he?"

"Downstairs! He's kicking our ***!"

Sam beckoned for his two bodyguards to follow and ran down the stairs. When he got there, the first thing that greeted his eyes was another triad member flying backwards into the wall next to him. In the centre of a rapidly growing circle of unconscious, bleeding, or dead Triad footmen, stood a single Chinese man in a kung-fu stance, as the other footmen slowly backed away.

"Enough! Who the hell are you?" Sam yelled. The fighters stopped. His feet clattered over a cleaver, which had been discarded in a fight.

"My name is Long Shan."

"What the hell do you want."

"Your gangs are inefficient and weak. You have no discipline. No power. You are relegated to one corner of this city, while the gwai lo gangs run rampant. Yesterday, you were attacked by Italians. Where were your men? Where were your soldiers?"

"They were busy. We're busy men, Long. Make your point."

"I fought off the Italians and their superman leader. Where were you? You have no rule over this city. I can help."

"Help? Hah. How?"

"Look around you. Look at your men. They are weak. I am strong. I am the future of Chinatown. I can help you take over this city."

"What, like the underground?"

"No. The entire city."

Sam's eyes perked up. He waved away the footmen. "Leave us," he said. Johnny hesitated.

"You sure, boss? He might be…" he said.

"Shut up. We need to talk. Come into my office," Sam replied. Long marched up the stairs into the office and sat down without waiting for an invitation. Sam followed him with his bodyguards, and sat down opposite him. "What do you want, Long?"

"Martial artists. I am the last practitioner of the Drepang Lo in the world. I can train your footmen. Drill them into powerful soldiers, capable of taking over this city. The Triads will profit. Chinatown will profit."

"Huh. I'll put it to the boys."

"No you won't. I will do it." Long stood up. The bodyguards began to flank him.

"Last time I checked, I was running the Triads round here."

"Not any more," Long said. As the bodyguards tried to grab him, Long swiftly dodged out of the way and planted his palm into one's chest, smashing it inwards and killing him instantly. His foot spun around and crushed the second's face inwards, killing him again. As Sam jumped backwards, Long attempted to punch him. Sam blocked, but the second punch hit him directly in the face and caved his face in. He died instantly.

Johnny Wu sprinted into the room. Seeing Long standing over his former boss' body, he came to the logical conclusion and bowed.

"Orders, boss?"

"Gather the triads in Chinatown to me. We have work to do."

 

[bestshot9]

Nice stories so far guys, I'll catch up on them all tomorrow and hopefully post Issue 1 tomorrow as well. Until then, I leave you all with a little story of my own.

-----------------------

A Shocking Discovery

Abraham Martin sat in the dank saloon, at the bar, listening to the piano playing and a card game going on behind him. Before him sat a small glass of what the locals called bourbon, but what he considered rotgut. He sipped on it, anyway. He stared into the glass, thinking about the war.

It was a little under two years ago when he answered the call. He was just twenty-six years old, a member of the US Marshalls, stationed out of San Antonio, Texas. Once the US and the Empire of Spain were at war, the president had called for volunteers to go to Cuba and fight. One of his own cabinet members, Secretary of the Navy Theodore Roosevelt, helped raise up one such volunteer regiment. He called for men from Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona.

Men streamed in from all over. More than Roosevelt had expected, so he and his companions set out to cut those who wouldn’t make it. Martin had shown up, hoping to find some more adventure and fight in a real war, not the skirmishes with outlaws and Indian renegades he was used to. Somehow, he managed to make the cut, and he was granted position as a Lieutenant in the Rough Riders.

That was the high point of his time with the Rough Riders. Hanging out in bars in the states, getting rowdy and having fun. When they went to Cuba, things were different. He saw that the adventure he seeked was not what he had imagined. Even before facing the Spaniards, many of his comrades had died from malaria and other jungle diseases. The battles he took part in, the carnage he witnessed (especially that caused by the fabled Gatlin Gun) stayed with him up to this day.

He finished his drink, placed two bits on the bar, and turned to walk out.

“You daggum cheat, George, you cheat!” one of the men at the poker game yelled at another. He slapped his cards face down on the table and stood up, poking his finger in the other player’s face. “You gimme back my money!”

The sudden outburst caught Abe’s attention. He glanced at the table, at the man accused of cheating. His eyes suddenly widened. This was the man, Jim Hotchkins, who he had been hunting for the past month. Hotchkins was a horse thief, and had recently murdered a rancher out near Fort Worth, which was why Abraham was currently here. Apparently, he was going by the name of George, now, but there was no denying the distinctive scar which ran across the bridge of his nose.

In the blink of an eye Marshall Abe Martin had his .45 Colt revolver cocked and drawn, aimed squarely at Jim’s chest. “Jim Hotchkins,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”

By now the other players at the table had darted for cover. The man who felt cheated, however, stood in between Jim and Abe, a look of confusion and shock on his face. Hotchkins was likewise in a state of shock. He stared at Abe with his mouth open, unblinking, registering slowly what was just now going on.

Abe began to slowly approach the seated man, his gun still trained on Hotchkins. “Make this easy on yourself, Hotchkins,” he said, “don’t draw iron on me, turn yourself in. If you don’t, I wont hesitate to put a new hole in you right here.”

The Marshall badge was clearly visible on the collar of the long trail duster Martin wore. This did not escape Hotchkins’ attention. “The hell you will, Marshall!” he yelled, finally snapping into action. Pushing the other gambler out of the way with his left arm, he drew his revolver with his right hand. Just as it was clearing the holster, Abraham Martin’s world changed.

Martin was quick on the trigger. That was the last mistake Hotchkins ever made. Shooting a wanted man who pulled iron on him was a normal occurrence for Marshall Abraham Martin. The fact that, seconds before he fired, his gun began to glow and, as he pulled the trigger, expelled what seemed like a bolt of lightning into the man’s chest was anything but.

Martin stared dumbfounded at the now plain looking pistol in his hand. Around him the gamblers fled the saloon in fear. The bartender hid, ducking down behind the bar. In the center of the room a number of chairs had been knocked over, silver pieces were spread across the floor, and a dead man with a large black burn smoldering in the center of his chest lay spread eagle, his revolver laying just a few inches away from his right hand, his lifeless eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.

The Marshall shook his head, blinked his eyes, and then slowly, cautiously slid his revolver back into its holster. He made his way to the dead man and examined the wound, still not believing what had happened. Quietly and slowly he picked the body up and lifted it over his left shoulder. Without saying a word, he made his way out of the saloon and back to his horse hitched up outside. He couldn’t explain what had just happened, but he knew he was going to get paid. That thought comforted him. He would have to figure out what had happened later. Now, he had to get the body back to Ft. Worth.

The date was January 14th, 1900. Two weeks after the “Awakening” as it was becoming to be known. And, out in the west, Marshall Abraham Martin still had no idea it was affecting him.

 

[Luckymoose]

Opposed Reactions: Part 2

The fire escape that clang to the side of his tenement building had never been sturdy. Even now, the rusted steel bolts hung loose in the brick and mortar, precarious and untrustworthy. The one room apartment he shared with Babes Bernard sat on the fifth floor of the eight story building, so the climb was bearable. He knew he had nothing to fear from falling, but that new knowledge hadn’t had the chance to sink in. His knees still wobbled, defiant, not wanting to risk the unstable architecture of what had to be an immigrant designer. But he took the steps from the window of his tenement, into the cold, foul smelling New York night.

His goggles snug against his face, no air could sting his eyes. He wore his green vest and pants, but left his coat behind. His white undershirt had become so stained with soot that it looked gray and spotted. New York was a filthy place for a man to live.

She holds the downtrodden and corrupt.

Thomas heard screams from the Papist whores that walked the streets of Harlem below. They were either dragging drunkard clients into their beds or being killed by petty thugs, neither concerned him. He took one step after another, up and up the steel stair to the roof. Electric trolleys could be heard in the distance, braking, and beyond them the clop of hooves as horses marched the paved roadways.

The city awoke from her daily grind, the night air fueling the foreign horde’s depravity.

He arrived atop the roof. Sections of it sagged under the mold and rot of years of moisture. He scratched at his neck, feeling the coarse whiskers where he’d not shaven in a week. There were more pressing matters to attend to these days. Men like him, men like Babes, walked the streets with newfound power. They killed. They robbed. None of that bothered Thomas. Their worst crimes were of birth. He would do whatever he could to purge his city of the filth that came through Ellis Island. He could feel no sympathy for dead immigrants. Their passing only improved the situation.

He inhaled sharply. The air tasted of sulfur and waste, and chilled him to his core. Harlem would best serve the world by burning to the ground.

He balled his hands into fists, stretching his fingers out again and again. Inside, he could feel it growing. That power he knew was there, but could not explain. He focused, pulling on the invisible forces around him. Small puddles of water that littered the rooftop began to shudder and ripple. He looked on, through the freshly polished glass of his goggles, as individual drops of water removed themselves from the puddles, rising up like spires before separating entirely. The droplets hung in the air, perfectly spherical.

He stepped forward, exhaling lightly. The vapors on his breath sank before him, a sight he struggled to get used to. He placed his booted foot against the ledge of the roof and pushed.

Gentle, he thought.

He allowed the power within him to take over. The world around him felt lighter. The light step on the roof was enough to send him gliding across the gap to the next building over, some fifteen feet, without any physical exertion on his part. He felt as feather might, on the wind. He repeated this process a number of times, gliding from rooftop to rooftop, until he found himself far enough away from his own tenement to begin the real fun.

He inhaled, deep, pulling all the air he could into his lungs. And with a horrendous grunt, he forced the power from within to the roof below, pushing against it as he lightened his own body. He heard the building groan beneath him in the moments before he leapt. Wooden planks that made up the roof crack and warped under the stresses. And then, he flew.

Well, he jumped with extraordinary capability.

He held his breath tight as the wind ripped at his face. His could keep his eyes open, however, as the goggles were successfully doing their job. Dozens of buildings whipped by beneath him as he arced over Harlem. The street lamps were blurred lines of light below. No man was meant to move this fast.

The ground approached as quickly as he had leapt, but he was far from his tenement now. The rooftops shifted, or maybe he had? Now, he fell to the paved street below, where dozens of people walked in the night, dodging horses and carriages as they went about their lives. He prepared for impact, knowing full well that he had to exert the same force from before to slow. Pushing his hands in front of him, palms open, he grunted as the energy within him pulsed outward, to the pavement. He could feel the strains on his own body, caught between two opposing forces.

He landed as a dove on a branch, graceful. The pavement below him popped and cracked, leaving hairline fractures around his feet. The people around him stopped to stare, confused by the goggled man that had appeared from nowhere. Before they could think it over twice, he repeated his process, throwing himself into the air. He heard more cracking in the pavement the moment his feet left it.

Off again he flew once more, a smile on his face. He could do it. With practice, he knew he could. He could control this. Better. Faster. Endless. He could fly.


~~~

16,000th post!

 

[merciary]

It was a fairly boring day at the station so the officers on duty took their time getting to know their newest ward.

“So you’re tell’n me that your some fancy officer who died doing his duty and what not and then you woke up here in London in someone else’s body?”

“Yes I know it’s quite strange but it’s the truth.”

“Oh it’s not strange at, just this morning I passed a wolfman and the Invisible man on my beat.”

This brought snickers across the station.

“Listen to me, you’d better give me the respect I’ve earned. I’m Sir Nigel Gibson and
I’ve given everything to the Empire including my life.”

“Clearly you need to work on that been with you all being alive and all.”

“I’ll make sure your superiors hear of this! You’ll all be lucky if you have jobs after this!”

“Okay we’re just going to put you here in this cell until you can figure out who you really are.”

Three officers, barely able to keep themselves from laughing, grabbed the man who was still shouting at them.

“Unhand me you fools! You’ll regret this day!”

“Hey James check him to see if we can find anything about our “Sir” here.”

“The only thing odd on him is this fancy ring. It’s a shame to waste such a pretty
little thing on the likes of him, it would do much better on me.”

“Keep your fingers off that! That’s my ri….”

The poor man stopped in the middle of his sentence and his face went blank. A moment later the blank look was replaced with one of confusion.

“Oi what am I doing in this cell? I ain’t done noth’in wrong.”

“Are you alright there? You were just claiming to be some dead war hero, Nigel something or other.”

“I what? My name’s Henry. I was just down at the Pawn getting myself something nice and then I’m here.”

“Is that really what I was walking around in? How can one keep one’s self like that? Though I suppose this body isn’t much better.”

Everyone turned to see the officer James with the ring on his finger appearing to inspect his body.

“How does everyone keep their body in such a poor shape? And so filthy. Have none of you any sense of hygiene? I kept myself cleaner during the campaigns.”

“He wasn’t lying!”

“It’s the ring! It’s cursed!”

“Grab him!”

“Take the accursed thing off him”

Five of the officers jumped on the still muttering “James” and tackled him to the ground. Once on the ground some brave man pulled the ring off “James’” finger. The ring dropped to the floor and there it laid until some official looking men came by to investigate what happened.

 

[bestshot9]

Alright guys, good stories, I've enjoyed them all so far. I will post the first Issue tomorrow, hopefully in the morning, I'm just too tired right now to write it, but finished reading all the stories so if there are no new ones tomorrow, I should be able to update fairly quickly.

 

[Terrance888]

Well, my only other story would be finding out one of Thomas' bases. Since you are updating soon, I'll stay up and finish it tonight.