United Heroes MUSH - User contributions [en]

10615/A Hellish Game of Horse

2020-01-02T18:15:30Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2020/01/02 |Location=Basketball Courts - Harlem |Synopsis=Multiple Man meets up with Magik to ask about a case he's working. She ends up hiring her..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2020/01/02
|Location=Basketball Courts - Harlem
|Synopsis=Multiple Man meets up with Magik to ask about a case he's working. She ends up hiring herself to X-Factor... Jamie agrees. Wisely.
|Cast of Characters=1245,145
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Most people look forward to the holiday season for the great atmosphere. The family. The vacation time. Jamie? He always sees a rise in case work after the stressful stretch between Thanksgiving and New Years. Oh, Lord. Especially after New Years. This year had been little different in that regard but one the of many cases piled on his desk... has been a little worse for wear than the others. No sneaky spouses. No missing teenage metahuman. No... something all together stranger. So what does he do? Why, he texts Illyana Rasputina. New Mutant. Sorceress. Demon Queen(though he still plays at mock skepticism). Sure, he could meet her at the Mansion. Maybe at the park or a classic like an empty parking garage. Instead, he asks her to find him. He makes that easier by sending an address and not being in too many places at once. With school out and the weather frigid, the courts are almost empty this morning. Yes, morning. Jamie stands at the free throw line, lidded cups of coffee on the asphalt beside his feet. He's not dressed for sport. He's dressed how he -always- dresses. Always. Every time. Same thing. Cigarette dangling from his lips, he bends at the knees... slow, precise form. Shoot. Swish! "The crowd goes wild. Do you believe in miracles, sports fans?" He takes a drag off his cigarette as he watches the ball bounce. "No. No, we do not. Yet." He says in a dead pan, sleep deprived drone. 

:'''{{#var:145|Illyana Rasputina (145)}} has posed:''' The time of year encompassing a western Christmas doesn't even count for a Russian. They still have another week to go after New Years before the party sets in, albeit not many Russians at Xavier's deal with that. Little Odessa, the pet name for the southerly neighbourhood of Brighton Beach, is another matter altogether. There the community of Russian Orthodox and associated members of the old Iron Curtain might as well be ramping up for what the average American put aside a week and some ago. The Demon Queen in question is already up and about, given the speed with which she responds to Jamie's texts. That she has three bags slung over one arm from a shopping trip to prepare, no doubt, for Christmas Eve as Moscow sees it has something to do with that. The scent of fresh bread spins around her as she approaches the basketball court. No telling if she hauled that all the way over on the subway, but chances are fair to good a teleportation circle was involved at some point. Those stepping disks make rush hour less hellish; the less she has to rely on a failing subway system, the better. "Pity, miracles are the seeds of hope," she opines. Perfect English by way of Novosibersk or Irktusk lilts behind him as she crosses the chain-link fence. Not looking much older than a few of those seniors normally gathered around the far side of the basketball court, she carries herself with that supreme confidence they won't possess for another fifteen or twenty years, if that at all. Snowflakes dance on a slouchy knit hat covering her blonde hair in part; the leather pants, curb-stomping boots, and coat are all pretty de rigueur when it comes to the demon queen. Jamie's form is assessed as he tosses the ball at the net. "Da, happy new year." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Bounce. Bounce. Bouncebouncebounce. Jamie stares at the ball, willing it to bounce his way. Just a nudge. A little push at the right time from behind the ball. Eyes narrowe in concentration. The cigarette trembles between his fingers as he reaches out. Iron will. Steel resolve... The ball rolls the opposite direction. With a smokey huff, he drops the arm and stomps toward the tratorous orb. Clearly still not a TK sprinkle on his Mutant sundae. Cigarette back between his lips, Jamie snatches up the ball and straightens to regard Illyana with a lopsided, half-assed smile and an upnod of his scruffy, unshaven mug. "They're also a little too convenient, if you ask me." He says while giving the ball a bounce. "They have Black Friday in Russia? I didn't screw you out of getting me a new television, did I?" Shaking his head, tsking in mock self-disapproval, Jamie goes to the cups of hot coffee he'd left. Boot stamped down on the ball, he offers one of the cardboard cups in greeting. "For most, I'd hope it is. For James Shaw of Bushwick Storage? Not so much." An eyebrow hoists high beneath the black M etched into his face. "You wouldn't happen to be stealing storage units with crazy demonic sink holes to pad your Christmas shopping, have you?" 

:'''{{#var:145|Illyana Rasputina (145)}} has posed:''' Speaking of those who have lost out on the mutant lottery -- no psychic talents natively found here -- Illyana watches the basketball trace its treacherous journey towards the fence rather than flipping up into the air and scoring a basket for itself. While she might deign to participate in mischief, it's more likely putting her paper bags down and dusting off her hands. Anyone else coming too close earns that flat, blunt stare responsible for countering the mass melting of permafrost in the Arctic. She need only deliver it for longer than a minute of unblinking intensity to counterbalance twenty years of escalating carbon emissions. It's nice to think that might work. "True miracles, not the lottery winnings miracles," she confirms over the staccato smack of rubber and vinyl into bleached concrete. Meeting Jamie's gaze, she tips her head slightly. "No, we do not have Black Friday. If you have petrodollars, every day is robbing the nation blind. But then, our comrade in power is a kleptocratic oligarch. I should make a visit of state, and convince him this is a terrible idea." Her mild tone might be more concerning than a devilish smile, since at least the latter goes with the alternate persona. But imagine her showing up in Red Square for a proper state visit, and no doubt Russia will be claiming Limbo as a colony. Or maybe the other way around. "They are not so far apart, his domain and mine." She flicks her tongue against her eyetooth and nods to the bags. "Do you like pastries? I have... you would call them honey sticky-buns rolled in chopped almonds or powdered sugar. Two kinds." Just the sort of sweet to go with savory coffee, which she accepts with grim appreciation. "Thank you." Oh yes. Coffee. It's the swill of demons and gods alike, and she -clearly- likes that one. "Ask Sam." Guthrie, not the other one. "He heard my shopping list. No. I do not even know what Americans buy one another except too much." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Anyone else coming close to this particular court would be brazenly foolish, self-destructively curious and probably a little half mad. Jamie, overcoated and looking every part the hung over investigator with a chip on his shoulder... and the intimidating poise and demeanor of Illyana. One considers it. He decides to sit by and watch the odd pairing instead. "I've seen living islands, angel winged philanthropists, talking gorillas and alternate time lines. Still going to be a hard sell on 'true miracles', Illyana." Jamie says, hot coffee in one hand. Cigarette in the other. Basketball beneath the worn heel of his boot. Taking a sip after blowing a little toot-toot-toot tune through the lid, he hisses and sneers at the immediate tongue burn. "Gah, dammit." He says before a light chuckle leaves him. "More and more every day, every news article, I start to wonder if and when you will. When all of us will. But... until then? There's always coffee and donuts." Her offering of pastries, topical as they may be, brings a paleness to Jamie's features. Jaw tenses and he shakes his head while centering his upset insides. "Thanks but no. Think I drank Brooklyn dry last night." Rolling the ball to her feet, he gives a sideways nod to the hoop. Unspoken indication for her turn. He seems to think an early game of hoops in the freezing New York winter is perfectly natural. "You're welcome... and no, I don't think you actually did it." A drag off his smoke and he pinches the cherry off, stowing the smooshed cigarette butt in a pocket. "Too much is about right. It's how we show our corporate godkings that we still love them." Again that smugly bemused smile returns. "Sam, huh? Still alive too? He must have something on you." Another toot-toot as he blows on his coffee more intently. "Guy across town runs a small self storage joint. Used to be a homeless shelter. Now he's got whole unit boxes going empty. Ten foot holes in the ground. The special touch? Livestock blood finger paint on the doors." 

:'''{{#var:145|Illyana Rasputina (145)}} has posed:''' He's the hungover one, and she might be wise never to touch alcohol. The day after New Years and it may be doubtful the young woman has suffered its consequences at all. Then again, based on the Julian calendar, New Years hasn't even hit yet. Give her another week and watch what happens, right? She circles Jamie with her coffee, steam rising off of it still. "Skepticism goes with it. I am a strict agnostic, as far as those terms go. Still, elder gods of destruction and darkness want my soul. I am their gateway, and I would be mistaken not to think they do in fact exist." Ipso facto, one David Haller juuuust in case. His cigarette is tolerated, though the wave of a hand -could- be a bubble of fresh air conjured by a murmured spell. Hard to say, really, though a sympathetic wince follows if he burns his palate. Coffee at a scalding temperature is no joke, even if she seems almost immune. Pure Russian masochism there; jumping in snowbanks in -40'C weather and drinking 110'C coffee on a regular basis is par for their demented course. Even if they have a lovely fatalism and one of the most beautiful landscapes to quench the pain with, she still gives that faint smile. "I already have countless hordes to take care of. Adding a hundred million people who expect me to fix things? How well does that work out for Latveria? I notice the Sorcerer Supreme doesn't rule a nation -here-." Emphasis, important to have. His refusal of hospitality of sorts doesn't phase her in the least. Another nod; "Brooklyn has a lot of overpriced alcohol. I stayed in, for the most part." Things not said there are about twenty kilometers wide, pushing into Connecticut, but no more need be said there. When he looks at the hoop and the ball, she returns a relatively uncertain look. "We never played this where I came from." Basketball, that most Russian of sports, right up there with cricket and golden eagle falconry for 'top things we cannot afford to do when the polar vortex has tumbled off its axis and frozen Sochi again.' Sipping that coffee with intent to make it last at least a little, she observes the burning ember glow while Jamie explains his predicament. "Homeless shelter made self-storage. Price of property is very high with gentrification." An idle observation. "The contents vanish overnight? He has no security cameras or they show nothing of how it gets there?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Jamie Madrox and vices go hand in hand. He has too many. Happens when -you- are -too many-. If it wasn't for a couple dedicated Dupes, he'd likely have kicked smoking by now... but alas. Such is not the way. As Illyana circles him, he gets the distinct feeling of prey. Brows furrow, clearly steeling himself against the intrusive thought with the stiffening of his spine. "Not gonna lie, Illyana. There's enough in the world to make most anyone a believer but me? Pretty sure it's all one big circus without a ring leader. Crap tons of lions and clowns though." Jamie pauses. Mulling it over. "More acrobats than I can count now that I think of it." The scalded tonge and palate will be worried at for the rest of the morning. Just another rock in his proverbial shoe. "To be fair, I don't think Strange even gets out of bed unless there's a giant, reality eating worm in his kitchen. Keeping just New York in line sounds like enough to put me in a bunker with a security blanket." "Smart play." He concurs at her staying in for the night. Seven of him decided otherwise and he's paying dearly for it today. A brow arches sharply at her admission of unfamiliarity with basketball. It actually catches the man off guard. "No kidding? Huh. Woulda guessed Limbo would be on the NBA watch list for expansion." He says with a light chuckle. "Throw the ball in the hoop. I try to make it from the same spot. Horse. Every time one of us misses, we get a letter. Once we spell the word, the loser owes the other person a horse." The say he says it. So matter of fact. Even if it is most likely an absolute imbellishment, the tone is so very honest. A pensive sip and Jamie nods along with her questions on his current predicament. "Don't even get me started on that part. Why give people a roof when you can keep your karaoke machine warm and dry, right?" Jamie snorts, already lighting a new cigarette. Careful to exhale upward aftef her wave of smoke warding. "Vanished over night. Says the cameras were malfunctioning but a little look around and some questions make me think he never turns 'em on. Less than reputable fella. The bloody chicken scratch looked almost Norse but too thin. Flowing. Almost geometric." 

:'''{{#var:145|Illyana Rasputina (145)}} has posed:''' Vices exist certainly in multiple orders. She might just be the embodiment of the seven deadly sins, minus a touch of gluttony; not really the style of the Darkchylde or Limbo itself. Everything else is fair game, from simmering wrath at being cut off -- hence, not driving -- to overweening avarice when it comes to... coffee? Such terrible, wicked things. "You can believe what you want. No one has all the answers. Much of what happens is purely of human foibles -- or alien, pick a race." She shrugs slightly. "What was done to me was by a fiend, intending on greater service. We have a god serving the Avengers. But if there is something bigger than it all, I have more than a few questions." Let it be that way, set aside, while she scuffs her foot against the ground. Well, figuring out how to bounce and throw a ball isn't that hard, especially with good hand-eye coordination. So it begins, set in motion by Jamie and all his vices. "Where would you put a horse? There are no stables in Manhattan or Brooklyn anymore, I am fairly sure. All the rich children who are horsey go to Connecticut." Jersey, everything's legal in New Jersey. But evidently not horse riding. She tests the feel of the ball, bouncing it unless he takes it away, rhythmically shifting right to left, left to right. "Geometric writing limits the options. Runes are an obvious one, but there are other terrestrial alternatives." Thank you Xavier for implanting the English in her mind, otherwise the technicalities might botch them up. "Chicken blood for chicken scratch. How did he know the units were empty? How long was it before he identified it? I assume soon." A shrug. "The marks would have triggered interest in most. Did he notice any smells, anything on the inside?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Jamie can't help himself when that smile of his explodes into a wide, toothy grin of self-satisfaction. He snaps his fingers, ash tumbles to his feet. "That right there. 'We have a god serving the Avengers'. And then you factor in immortals, alien races and their gods... The show must go on." He holds up a hand at that. Dimming his semi-triumphant grin to a light, unintentionally smug smirk. "We could be here all day discussing that whole dog and pony show. My money is still on Ororo." Another testing sip at his coffee, careful and slurping while he watches Illyana find her stance. Get used to the bounce and feel of an ice cold basketball. "Probably wrap a bow around its neck and rope it to Cyclops's door at about two in the morning." The fact that Jamie didn't even hesitate before his reply may be worrisome. He just said it. Way, way too easily. He may have been thinking that exact same question earlier. Or he's a weird guy with a terrible sense of prank boundaries. "This arcane stuff is out of my wheelhouse. The guy has some serious beef with an ex wife and astronomy. So he called me instead of Dresden. Which is just... yeah." Taking a long drag, Jamie looks over shoulder to a group of young men watching them from another court. Exhaling a smoke and steam cloud, he passes a teasing wink before attention returns. "The markings on the outsides of the doors. Thought it was spray paint. Until he tasted it. Not sure why he had to follow that urge but it answered a question quick. Opened up the door and boom. Big ole hole in the ground. Exact outline of the unit. Scorch marks on the ground but not the metal. Smelled like sulphur and burnt blood. Only three units so far but the last one was two nights ago. So that ruled out my theory of a vengeful Santa aggressively settling his return policy." 

:'''{{#var:145|Illyana Rasputina (145)}} has posed:''' "Indeed. Though even a god -- or gods -- are different than the elder gods and greater powers. How deep and far does this well go?" To the smile, a smirk comes from the blonde. She adjusts her knit hat to stop covering her ears, the warming morning slowly improving the temperature and the need to protect herself. "Consider that, we might have gods who are ants to another god, to another layer that is an ant, and so it goes. Here, I am not as strong as in Limbo. Where..." She doesn't complain, still bouncing the basketball and lifting it to make a shot on the net. Accuracy and keen dexterity don't make up for being a total neophyte. A throw to hit the backboard inside the rectangle is easy, but the shot goes wide, and she runs after to catch it and make another throw. When a bit unrestrained, as ought to be expected of a girl who wields the mutant equivalent of a lightsaber, she is damn fast. "No horse for Scott. He would vaporize it. Who would be made to clean it?" Another double bounce, and a throw with less force, so it glances off the rim and looks promisingly close to sinking. It won't, though. "Me. No thank you." She zips back and forth while Jamie explains the situation. Hard to think she isn't paying attention, considering her laser focus is on not crushing the New Years pastries. Run, bounce, toss. "Sulphur and burnt blood? Hints at black magic, but not wholly." Her eyes glint. "I could spell trap it to see what happens. Or keep watch. It happens at night, he does not have cameras for time stamps. Any kind of security otherwise?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "If I wasn't violently opposed to it right now, I'd day this topic demands a two drink minimum from me. The well is dark and way deeper than I'd like to follow in this life time." Interesting choice of words when he thinks back at it. Could he, in fact, send a Dupe out to discover that great mystery? Sure, there's John Madox. The Dupe who found a place in the pulpit but he and Jamie don't really see eye to eye. He grunts in acceptance of her informed agnosticism but pushes no further. "Which is bad for the horse. The vaporizing. Here I was internally giggling at the idea of Scott having to clean up after a horse all day and now I'm sad. You ruined it, Rasputina." A theatrical huff and he gets over it. Contented to watching Illyana -quickly- begin getting a handle on the alien sport and its basics. Given more time, she'd be a quick pick for the summer games. "Fine, fine. After you buy me a horse, I'll give it to Vi. She's never had so much as a hamster, I think. But I'm not keeping it at the office in Williamsburg. Absolutely not." "Hints? Would have assumed devil horns up and proud right out the gate. Oh. Nice shot. Spell trap? That like... setting a wide net or taking a magical crime scene photo?" Curiousity written on his face, the twisted topic holds his interest with ease. "No cameras. Has dogs but they're fine. Not scared, not dead. Barked at me just fine when I broke earlier. Teleportation doesn't usually steal a ton of concrete and dirt with it, does it?" 

:'''{{#var:145|Illyana Rasputina (145)}} has posed:''' "Water," suggests the sorceress-queen of Limbo. She ducks as the ball rebounds hard off the backboard, coming straight at her. Time to chase that thing down before it ends up in the next court, though fleet of foot as she is, not an issue for her to capture it. Not particularly. "You could not afford the extra five hundred square feet the horse needs. It would be a $5,000 investment a month." So unfair to face someone on those fronts. Well and true, though, she spins the ball around and takes another shot. Whoops, wide. Her glare is enough to consider hurling a portal after it. But that wouldn't be cool when they're just two people having an odd if not entirely kosher conversation. So dash after the ball again it is. Running about is tiring for most. Not her at the moment. "If I wanted to get Scott," she calls, "I would tell him we have a new mutant stuck in their alternate form. Watch him try to parse how a horse works. Code name... Chiron, probably. Cannot allow him to be speciest, can we?" Her smirk is a living kindling of flame. She shakes her head to the questions given by Jamie. His skills as a PI are clearly above and beyond 'hey what's that' and 'ask the neighbours.' As she dribbles the ball with more confidence -- probably prefers to kick it, but the other players are giving her ideas -- she manages to walk and hold a conversation. Bubblegum, though, right out. "Some kinds of magic do not invoke devil horns. Other signatures can come from different things that aren't inherently evil." Rare, that tone suggests. "Spell traps work in different ways. Setting up a spell to snapshot what happens is possible. Setting up another to alert me so I can react, also possible. Or something that literally sticks you like a fly in amber." She rolls her shoulders. "Everything has drawbacks. Did you see a pattern to the units affected? What was he storing that they were so eager for?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "There's water in coffee. That counts." Jamie says with a half-assed smile on his scruffy mug. The usual stylishly short trim has gone weeks now without attention. He looks like a haggard, half zombified noir protagonist in a B film. Or so a Dupe helpfully told him as they passed eachother on 119th Ave. "Affording it isn't the problem. It's what it'd do to the hardwood floors that gives me pause. Used to have horses growing up. Farm. Had all kinds of critters.... Okay, that was just a bad shot. You've been in the Danger Room. A lot. Just gonna point that out." He says with an audible smirk hidden behind his coffee before an obnoxiously slurping sip. Blink. Blink-blink. "Oh. That's good." Jamie, wide eyed with clearly impressed surprise, points his cigarette at her from a safe distance. "See, that's why I like you, Rasputina. You introduce crippling psychological warfare into a prank that's already gone well past the line. I don't care what Hank says, you're good people." Again he pinches the cherry off his cigarette with bare fingers. Hiding the evidence away in a pocket somewhere. Odd quirk or perhaps an aversion to littering. Now free hand remaining in his pocket, he lifts that coffee cup in cheers with kurt nod of determined choice. "That last one. The magical sticky trap. You can do that? Do you need, like... okay, I feel terrible for asking this but... I don't need to climb a mountain for a rare flower as an ingredient to anything, do I? Because I was perfectly fine with trying to bribe you the old fashioned way. Money and concert tickets. I hear Rihanna is doing a comeback tour." Brows knit low, Jamie pouts a tad bit. "This whole thing has a pattern I don't like. He says they're all past due units. One of the units former renters? Well, found a problem with Jake Sloane. He doesn't exists. Him or somebody else is playing with magic and with my schedule and I'm not a big fan." Giving his coffee mug a swirl or two, Jamie blows into the tiny lid hole. Toooooot. Toooooooot. "Oh, and I won, by the way. I took all my shots before you got here. So Chiron, huh? You think Scott will figure it out before or after its first mission?" 

:'''{{#var:145|Illyana Rasputina (145)}} has posed:''' A bad shot indeed. "I learned how to fight before I went into the Danger Room. For me, the Danger Room is like yoga." Illyana isn't bragging. She rarely does, giving everything a flattened statement of fact instead of pursuing something worse. Enough with the basketball: she dumps it, aiming it on a low, wide bounce to Jamie. "Scott is the one who always says we should be prepared. Well, he should be prepared for a shapeshifting mutant with skill to become an animal so well, their thoughts and aural signature read as an animal to any psychic. Maybe we could ask Jean very nicely if she would be willing to go along with it." A beat. "For scientific purposes." Or to see Scott insist the horse climb mountains and run laps and attack Sentinels with the best of them. To determine whether horse tactics are ideal for young mutants to pick up. Maybe? Maybe not. "Three weeks without her help. Four months with." She pauses to consider him for a time. "I would like a job. Call it a ... consultant, that's the right word. Something interesting to pick up, yeah?" Her fingers arc as she picks up the cup, and her eyes narrow with a dangerous light. "Jake Sloane is not real. The rest of the records aren't real either, are they? Find that out if you can. Past due units with low security suggests something is -in- those units. I have no problem staking out the building." Heck, she can sit in Limbo and wait. Four hours, four weeks, not a big deal, right? Her eyes narrow a fraction still. "Playing with magic is never so smart. Lucky you have a sorceress on the payroll, yes?" 

:'''{{#var:145|Illyana Rasputina (145)}} has posed:''' And so deals are struck, Chiron's tenure begins, and a game ends on the basketball court for two very unusual mutants. After all, they may have coffee but who wants to tangle with high school students wearing a look of famished wolves? 
}}

10413/The Power of Change

2019-12-13T20:29:35Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/12/13 |Location=Third Gotham Bank and Trust, Red Hook |Synopsis=A bank robbery in Red Hook draws in some Mutants and some Robins. Nobody dies..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/12/13
|Location=Third Gotham Bank and Trust, Red Hook
|Synopsis=A bank robbery in Red Hook draws in some Mutants and some Robins. Nobody dies and an uncomfortable truth is revealed.
|Cast of Characters=1245,9031,54,973
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "I'm not saying everyone in Gotham is a deranged criminal, Vi." Jamie Madrox states with an almost exasperated sigh. The massive land barge of a classic low slung Impala parks at the curb of the Third Gotham Bank and Trust. Tugging his overcoat collar high against the biting cold, he hip checks the door shut and rounds the vehicle to open the other side for Vi. "It's just that every time I come down here, I end up giving a police statement." The icy streets of Gotham are not kind to Jamie Madrox. They never have been and he assumes that trend will never change. If not for the grabby hands of a particularly shady Duplicate, he'd still be driving. Instead, he needs to pull some funds and without a card? Well, you get to stop and mingle with Gotham's finest. "C'mon. And remember: no matter how convincing, you don't need a checking account. Unless there's a free microwave in the deal." Hands stuffed in deep pockets, Jamie stalks up cold, stone steps to pull the door and get blasted by tbe contrasting heat of the building interior. Multiple Man isn't the only one with plans on making a withdrawl tonight. As the two mutants set foot inside, a navy blue panel van rolls to a stop behind a double parked Impala. Exhaust billowing out the back, it hums with muffled, bass heavy hip hop. "We make this fast. We can't afford to make another mistake." A man says in the dark of the van. "We should be taking it all." Says another to the groups mumbled agreement. Across the street, two men exit a roof access with bulky duffle bags. Both clad in black and charcoal grey attire. Urban tactical seems the theme they were going for. Though the Ewok and Wookie mask are decidedly unexpected. The two drop bags at roof edge and start to unpack. Blistering chill in the air, Gotham seems to hold its breath against the cold. The city always knows when it's all about to go down hill. For those familiar with its secrets, the signs point toward Third Gotham Bank and Trust. The previous failed robbery across town three nights ago may also help in that regard. 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' Vi steps out of the car as Jamie opens the door for her. The girl's wearing a plain dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, with the boots that Lara Croft originally bought for her when she first arrived in the city. State. Country. Once out of the car, the nineteen year old pulls her attention from what Jamie's saying to pause and look around at all of the gothic architecture. "Why do they put those stone monsters on the corners?" she asks of some of the gargoyles adorning a tall building nearby to the bank. "Do they keep all of the flying rats away?" she says. That name stuck in her head better than 'pigeons' so far. Vi turns back, hurrying to catch up with Jamie as he holds the door for her to get in out of the cold. She slips through the door ahead of Jamie and then waits for him, having missed the arrival of the men. She looks around the rather fancy-shmancy interior of the bank. "This reminds me a lot of the school," she comments to him. "So they have microwaves here then? One of you said it shouldn't take so long to make a 'hot pocket'," she tells Jamie as she lets him lead the way further in. 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake is out making the rounds. the recent robbery attempts have Red Robin out a bit earlier than normal. He is on patrol, checking out places that have not been robbed first. This is how he finds himself in the area and a few rooftops over stops noticing the others on the roftops 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      Failed robberies of banks have made the local flying mammal population more vigilant when it comes to banks in the area. Robin had come to rest over the rooftop of the bank. He was keeping an eye on the area, as a Bat would do.   It was about then that he found Tim sling the same thing. Should he go and say hi? Probably. Will he? Nope. Robin was more than happy to pull up his hood and obscure his face even further instead. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "Hmmm?" Vi has a certain knack for asking questions Jamie just plain doesn't see coming from time to time. Keeps him sharp, he tells himself with a faintly bemused smirk on his scruffy mug. Attention briefly drawn upward, he regards the gargoyles with a certain degree of trepidation. Gotham. He half expects one of the stone sentries to blink. "Pretty sure they're just there to give people things to stand on while looking angrily across the street." As the two step inside, warmth becomes almost stifling. You almost choke on the dry heat after stepping out of the unforgiving freezer that is Red Hook. A laugh escapes him as he settles in line behind three other people at the tellers windows. "Flying rats? Nah, not at all. It's mostly the bats you have to worry about around here." With his attention on the people ahead of him, Jamie impatiently shifts weight foot to foot. "It's the armed guards, isn't it? Real homey... and don't trust any Me that eats hot pockets. Only a madman gambles with the roof of their mouth." Inside the bank, it's business as usual. The late comers, just off the clock trying to settle before close. Impatiently waiting patiently one and all. Outside? Well. That's a scene about to play out favorably for the nvestigative winning streak that Robin and Red Robin are on. The streets are crowded. Traffic moving at a stop-start, stuttering pace that drives half the motorists mad with powerless rage. The two men roofside are -clearly- up to something. Masks. Kevlar. Setting up low profile tripods... and then a rifle. Blocky, powerful looking and not of any design currently on market. Black market gunsmith special. "You set up, Martin?" The Ewok asks the Wookie. "Gagagagaggllaarrr." He says in -attrocious- Wookie. "You're an idiot." The two men set up their snipers nests. Which, when considering the previous robbery left no culprits, wounded or even anything stolen, this made for an unexpected twist for those topside. The slide panel door jolts open, rolling to the side as a deep, resonating bass thumps obnoxiously. Not exactly low key. Neither are the four armed men bursting out onto the sidewalk. Each one in civilian soldier attire. Black kevlar. Sub machine guns. Rubber Luke mask. Rubber Leia mask. Storm Trooper and Lord Vader himself bringing up the rear as they storm the door. A heavy boot sends the doors wide, a security guard turning just in time to catch an elbow to the jaw. The older man hitting the floor in a heap, then men step unceremoniously over the body and fan out as Vader makes his opening statements. "YOU ALL KNOW THE DRILL! NOBODY MOVE! NOBODY GETS GOT!" In line for the teller, Jamie Madrox sighs heavier than he ever has in his life. "Seriously?" 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' Vi peers back towards the rooftops but they are already inside. Like many of Jamie's explanations, she grasps he's talking about a number of things the young woman isn't familiar with, but she does pick up bits. She assumes the things she doesn't understand are clever. Most of the time. The eye-rollings of other Madri in the area sometimes dispel that notion though. Though today, it's just Jamie Prime and Vi here. Vi moves to wait in line with him. She's been taken by the holiday music, having made Jamie listen to it on the way over, and no one of the song is stuck in her head. She sings quietly, but loud enough to be heard. "Oh the weather outside is frightful... and the hmm hmmm hmmm is frightful. And since there... hmm hmm hmm hmm.. hum dee dum dum dee dum, let it snow." The doors bursting open interrupt the butchering of the Christmas lyrics. Vi whirling about in surprise. She looks to Jamie, seeking a lead on what to do. 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake will frown a bit at the guns. He sees his little brother and knows how much of a pain he can be, but he will radio him over the bat-com. "You see these guns, they are custom jobs, not the normal we have been seeing." He will use his training to be all sneaky. He makes his way to the roof behind one of the gunmen, looking into the best way to take him out quietly and quickly but waiting to hear back form the boy bat. 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      Robin zooms in on the snipers on the outside, scowling at the masks they wore. He simply makes his way down to an alley, starting to flank the snipers. "They are either well trained, or well funded. If this is the same team from earlier in the week, I would guess well funded. They got nothing that time."   That was when Robin shot a grapple up to the rooftop, pulling himself fast, joining Tim on the roof. He holds up a hand, splitting two fingers, suggesting a simultaneous strike. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' No rowdy crew of mouthy Madroxen tonight. Vi is left to her own readings on Jamie and his somewhat acidic mood he's found himself in. One that just keeps gnawing away at his holiday cheer. The inescapeable reality that the music follows him at every step is one he can't help but find a bit of wry amusement in as Vi cheerfully mauls a Christmas classic. A smirk on his lips is soon dashed away in favor of a frown. He should have seen this coming. He couldn't have known but he feels a touch of guilt none the less. "Don't make eye contact. You want to blend into the crowd, Vi." He says in a hushed, hurried tone as panic overtakes the bankers and Gothamites just trying to get home safely. "We play this quiet and easy. These kind of things all go the same way. Like connecting the dots." Roofside, things are much calmer in comparison. The gunmen absorbed in the task at hand, laser focused in on the doors and windows of the Third Gotham Bank and Trust. Rifles assembled, stocks to shoulders, the two furry faced snipers take aim through soohisticated scopes. "Remember the plan. You see him, you drop him." One says with a muffled, gruff tone. "My cousin Davey didn't see him. Now he eats through a tube. A fuckin' tube, man." The two shake their heads in united disapproval and zero in. Unaware of the company they now keep. Inside the bank, tensions are ramping up. The other two guards are caughtbdead to rights. Troopers in black kevlar weave and strike plates advancing on the younger men. Revolvers placed on the floor, hands up. Lord Vader continues as he stalks toward the tellers line. "Nobody breathe. You hit that button, we'll know and it's over. Messy." He adjusts the strap on his shoulder, grip shifting to one hand the sub machinegun as he stomps toward Jamie and Vi. Under his breath, Jamie continues to offer reassuring wisdom to the songbird that is Vi. "See? Nobody move, nobody gets hurt. Next he'll say they want us all rounded up as hostages." Immediately Vader proves Jamie wrong. "Everybody stay where you are. We'll be gone before you know it." Jamie scowls. "We just want the money." Jamie whispers. "Keep the money, we just want into one safety deposit box." Vader growls out as he nears. Categorically wrong over and over, Jamie Madrox grits his teeth. "What horse shi-" The muzzle of an automatic death dealer shoves against his head behind an ear still red from the cold. Jamie's expression is one of absolute disappointment and annoyance. "Tell them to bring us the keys." Jamie flicks a glance to Vi. Don't get her shot. Don't get her shot. "Are you guys seriously wearing store bought Star Wars masks? Where's the pride in your craft?" The gun barrel shoves his head forward. "KEYS!" 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' Vi's life is about blending into a crowd. As Jamie glances back for her, he finds she's done as he said and has slowly drifted back amongst the other people in line, putting bodies between herself and the men in the strange masks. Report card. Follows Instructions Well: Exceptional. Vi keeps her eyes away from the men, not making any eye contact. Avoiding drawing notice is her trade. Though she's keeping an eye on the men, and one one of them puts a gun to Jamie, Vi's hands tense. She is already burning all four of her metals, though only the pewter that increases her durability and strength to anything other than the slowest burn. Her senses are sharper though, and she watches the gun, afraid to intervene with so many guns in the room. 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake will nod, and gives Robin the sign so the two Robins can act as one. He steps in his staff moving to catch the man upside the head. He is counting on the mask not providing protection and knowing where to hit to KO the man without killing him. His hand moving to grab for the man's radio as soon as connection is made, to try to make sure there is no grunt or such over the radio to his friends. 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      Two Robins, one swift maneuver. Damian leaps into action, literally, jumping on the guy's back in order to put him in a sleeper hold. As the man loses consciousness, Robin begrudgingly allows the man to come to rest on the rooftop. "Definitely well-funded." He comments, taking the sniper's position, opening the bolt to see what kind of ammo they were packing. Batman hates guns, Damian grew up shooting them, the boy was at home with all weapons. This was no exception, looking through the scope to see how many were inside wearing toy masks. "Everyone has to have a fucking theme these days. What the hell was wrong with ski masks?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Jamie Madrox is -not- a happy camper right now. All he wanted was to buy some Christmas presents and what did he get? A gun pointed at his head. He sucks his teeth, hands lifted slowly from his pockets. Nothing in his grip, nothing up the sleeves. Nothing to stop a bullet to his brain either. "Just yelling 'keys' isn't working out so well, is it? And to be honest, you said nobody was going to get hurt but I'm pretty sure I heard you cold cock a guy on the way in." He points out snidely. Then there's the jingle of keys as the bank manager, a silver haired woman a little on the lanky side and shaking like a leaf, making her approach and pleading for no more violence. That cold gun barrel grinds in behind his ear. Vader laughing as he yanks the keys from the womans trembling hand. "Anybody ever tell you that you talk too much, Trench Coat?" Jamie grunts. "You have no idea." As Vi melts into the gathered crowd, one of the gunmen flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED and latches the door with an ominous clack. Vader has Jamie dead to rights. Leaving one robber at the gate, waiting to go down and catching the keys tossed his way. "You know which box. Hurry!" Leaving three topside, Jamie locks eyes with a bank teller. Mouthing the word 'button'... The teller shakes his head rapidly. He mouths it again. For another quick shake of the head. He can only sigh and close his eyes. It's about timing, he tells himself, and right now he doesn't have it. Vi, however, will find the odds shifting in her favor as she goes unhindered and unnoticed among the crowd of bank goers. Back to the roof. It's a thing of quick, brutal efficiency when Tim and Damian close in with expert precision. "Wha-" Is all Chewbaca can utter before he takes a staff to the head and buckles sideways. The rifle falling backward to clatter on the roof as Damian latched onto the Ewok. A surprised yelp of the tone between kicked dog and surprised grown man is cut short. The grip proving perfected, blood supply shut down. Letting the man down easier than Tim, the roof is theirs. Having plucked the earpiece from Chewbaca, Red Robin will be relieved to find no worry coming from the other end. Though if he holds it long enough, seconds really, he'd hear a relaxed baritone voice on the other end. "Box 10275. Careful and quick. No alarm yet. Go." 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' Vi's eyes weave back and forth between the different gunmen. Hiding is what she would do in a situation like this, but Jamie is there with a submachine gun pointed to her head. There's no way she's going to leave him like that. Vi falls back on what she knows when working with others. When her guild are at risk of discovery, it's time for a diversion. She suddenly starts sobbing, tears coming out of her eyes on demand. "Please, please don't hurt anyone," she says, waving her hands about spasmodically like she's overwhelmed by fear, adrenaline spiking. She leaves the crowd, "Please, don't shoot, anyone! I just want out!" she says, moving at more hurried pace over towards some windows. Just a petite teenager, frightened out of her life, but a potential problem if she's not dealt with. Vi is watching the gunmen though. The moment the guns are pointed her way rather than at Jamie or the other people, Vi flares her pewter strong. She doesn't know if enhanced durability will be enough to stop a bullet or not, but she risks it. The pewter burns through fast, on pace to be exhausted within 20 or 30 seconds. The moment her body is strengthened, the gunmen and Vader each find about 1000 pounds of force pulling their submachines, straight towards Vi. 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake will make sure to disable his goons gun, and then fires a grapple to the bank building to swing down making sure to keep out of sight of the guys in the bank. As he is moving "I got left front, where you want to make your entrance?" He will tell Robin. He does make sure to put the goons com onto his so he can keep track of whats being said across it. 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      "Hold..." Robin says on his comm, watching a gun suddenly leaving a stormtrooper's hand. "There's a meta in there...or something else. Someone or something just disarmed all the gunmen in the scope."   Robin himself kept prone, looking through the locked and cocked rifle to the situation inside. "There's only one way in..." He comments, looking through the scope still. "Go in, you're covered." Yes, he was going to keep on this high powered rifle. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Jamie is no stranger to being held at gunpoint. His life has been anything but peaceful and this just cements the notion that he should look into more bullet resistant attire. Being shot is less than pleasant but he'd prefer to keep the guns trained on himself than... "Ah, dammit." He mutters as Vi's voice echoes off the high bank walls. The gun presses forcefully against his skull again as Robber Vader's attention is pulled back to Vi. "Kid, you need to shut up and calm down! Don't rock the boat or you're-" It all happens fast. The events speeding up almost too fast to follow for the civilians. Jamie and Vi? Damian and Tim? They're no strangers to these high tension moments, are they? The Storm Trooper at the door, the one near the windows and Vader too. All looking her way as she goes frantic. "Get her away from the window!" Vader shouts. A Trooper is stalking toward Vi, gun trained and demanding her to sit down. He feels that tug first. "Hey, what was... no! NONONONO!" As the gun ya ks forward, the man is carried with it Jerked forward hard enough to make the gun strap crack ribs. The doorman loses his, arms flying up in immediate surrender. Vader loses his too, spun around and shocked to watch his custom shooter zip through the air. "Guys, we got powers in play! Chino, GET THE BOX!" Tim catches the smooth jazz voice again on the comms. Too calm. "Get the box out of there. If Dresden finds out, this is all over before it begin." As Red Robin swings wide, all hell is breaking loose inside the bank. People start screaming. Running for desks. Walls. Anything as Vi's power flares. Damian, through the scope of the powerful rifle, sees the man being dragged by his own gun. The Storm Trooper pulls one of the guards stolen revolvers. Firing off a wild shot at Vi as he's pulled across the marble floor. Vader? He's running toward the vault. "Scatter! You know the meet point! I'll get Chino and the box!" Now free of almost certain death, Jamie looks back to Vi as he races for one of the loan officer's desks. Snatching the first thing he can grab, he frisbee chucks the desktop monitor at Vader's back. "Vi! I told you to blend in! Not kick ass!" The monitor connects to kidneys just as Vader reaches the stairs. It hits hard, dropping the masked robber down marble stairs toward the vault. "But since you started... Damn. Cap can eat his elderly heart out. You see that?!" 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' The guns fly towards Vi with a half-ton of force, though Vi forgot to anchor herself, and the guard with the strap around his gun weighs enough that Vi's pulled towards him at an even faster rate than he's pulled towards her. The airborn guns, Vi and the Stormtrooper all arrive together at roughly the same time, give or take. It's a hard collision and the guns slam into Vi's chest hard enough to break ribs though she doesn't make a sound of complaint. Just punches the Stormtrooper with a punch a little less than Captain America might have delivered. The guns drop to the ground just as Vader opens fire with the revolver. It's hard to see if she was hit or not, as she runs and dives behind a desk where people sit to talk about loans. She digs in her pocket, hands shaking with adrenaline. Pulling out vials, looking for the one with the pewter colored top and finally opening it and swallowing the contents. 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake will hit the window with something a kin to what is used on car windows to shatter the glass in the door, and tosses a smoke bomb in following it in. "These guys got some kind of magic bent, last time I saw Dresden he was throwing fireballs at vampires." He says over the com. Seeing one of the men up close with one of the hostages, he will toss one of the blunt Robin-rangs at the thug trying to keep him from hurting the girls. He will read off where each thugs is from his poisition for the boy sniper. 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      Even without sound, Damian can see the emotions escalate in the way that the door man acts. Once the revolver is pulled out, Damian takes the shot, right at the silver revolver in Vader's hand.   His own training reaches up to the bolt, ejecting the cartridge without looking. The door man is targeted now, at least his leg is. Robin squeezes the trigger again, the snap of the supersonic projectile was distinct, and would definitely attract the police.   "Some are still armed, keep an eye out." He comments to Red, right now looking at the gun, two shots down, he doesn't see any more magazines. >tt< "I'm coming in." He says, ditching the rifle, in order to jump off the roof, and turning his cape rigid, gliding to the large window, now compromised with bullet holes. When he reaches the window, he pulls himself into a tuck, feet first, in order to shatter and rain down glass from the front of the bank. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' He'd seen her flex mutant gifts before but it was small. An example. This? This is at a level he hadn't expected to come from Vi. The sheer force was impressive. Also a reminder of his metal fillings. Keep that under wraps just in case, he tells himself as he sees her smash into one of the Troopers. "That's going to bruise." He mutters under a breath with a wince. A wince that turns into a full body cringe when she lays out the man with a brutal strike. Helmet cracked in half, the ruddy faced and once conscious ginger tumbles end over end across the slick floor. "Good God, woman! You didn't tell me about that!" Too much is happening at once now. It's anarchy and the Robins are well equipped to take full advantage of it. Glass shatters and spills in a sparkling mess around Tim's feet. Jamie seeing the smoke popper roll across the floor has a split second to wonder what else could be going wrong(or right!). "Vi, we got company!" A quick look around the room and he doesn't spot her. Smoke filling the room, people are running in every direction now. The ruined revolver on the floor is scooped up in Jamie's hand, a look back at the window and BOOM. Another shot goes off. "Craaaap, we got snipers!" Attention drawn to the door, gunman howling in pain as he clutches his knee. Blood pooling fast as the man screams wordlessly. Rolling in broken glass and probably never going to play soccer again. He tries to get up and takes one of Tim's Robin-rangs right upside the head. Out cold, at least -his- screaming has stopped. Switching to crowd control, Jamie hucks another monitor through a window to usher people out. As Robin glides fast and sails through the window, Chino the Bandito finally makes it up the stairs with a long security box in hand. The mask obstructs the look of absolute horror on his face as he sees all Hell breaking loose. Door Man down. Trooper down. Vader likely at the bottom ofnthe stairs with a broken wrist from Damian's initial shot and battered from his tumble down the stairs... Chino is all alone. "You're on your own." The voice sighs over comms before killing the connection. Chino the Storm Trooper stands stock still and terrified. Robins coming out of the wood work. Smoke everywhere. Broken glass still falling... "See?! See?!" Jamie shouts triumphantly about the one thing he hot right. Gotham, man. Gotta watch out for those bats... and Robins. 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' While Vi may have mutant powers, the difference between someone with training, and her, is quite apparent as she doesn't know what to do next. "I'm here," she calls when she hears Jamie's voice. Vi peeks out from behind the desk, and flinches at the sound of the gunfire. Thankfully having her pewter burning to strengthen her body helps her dealing with those loud noises while her senses are acute. She spots Jamie and hurries over to his side, sliding on the marble floor and crashing into the desk he's behind. Vi grabs him, hands moving over him checking him for holes, even though it was she that was shot at. "Are these more bad men?" she asks as Red Robin and Robin come bursting in, the smoke making it tough to see. 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake will toss another type of robin rang as Chino. this one a taser ring, he does not know what he is carrying, but figured it is some type of magical do-dad. We will probably need to call Constatine or Zatana in to see what it is the box." He says calmly as He and the shorter man go about dealing with the goons. He will do a survey of the room, seeing if anyone is left to deal with. 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      Damian's hood rests on his head. He walked with purpose over to Darth Vader, at the foot of the stairs. He was cool and collected, and under all of that, he was pissed. Grabbing the Dark Lord of the Sith by the shirt and jerking upward, taking that mask and removing it. "You...-fucked- up in the wrong city. Time to spill the beans. What is in the box, and who wanted it?" He demands, palming a sharpened birdarang, and pressing it just slightly into the abdomen, not enough to puncture, yet. "Before I start to get tired of keeping his from being your new organ." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "Storm is going to literally kill me if she's hurt. I might need to move to Central City." Jamie, having ushered out a group to safety, takes refuge behind a desk. Checking pockets for a knife or... oh, there's his debit card. He didn't need to stop here after all. Hearing Vi call out her position, he's immediately relieved. "Oh, thank god! I hate Central City!" He shouts back at her with little context to go along with it. As the teenage mutant metal manipulator slides up beside him, he doesn't have time to explain before she's patting him down for bullet holes. "I'm good, I'm good! You're the one who got shot, not me!" Hands up, he dares not fight back. He just watched her punch a dude into an alternate universe(not for real but maybe). Chino. Oh, poor Chino. Holding that metal box in hand, he's about to rabbit when that taser-rang hits him in the neck just beneath the Storm Trooper head gear. "AGAKAKAK!" Siezed up, muscles contract and the would be robber bits the floor spasming and gasping. The box? Falls with a hard clatter. A vibrant, bright blue light radiating from the joints in the metal. There's a -fwump- sound, the box contracting in on itself before going still and quiet. Almost. Vader, having come to his senses, started that slow crawl up the stairs. Broken and beaten. He's not thinking straight as Damian walks toward him with violent potential. Jamie, peeking around the desk, watches Robin grab the man and knock the ridiculous helmet off his head. "I think our side, Vi. Wanna ask?" He smiles back at her before crawling toward that box. Jostled and disoriented, the man settles just now focusing eyes on Jamie. "Th-that guy... he set up the job... tattoo on his face... " Jamie Madrox, reaching for the safety deposit box, goes still. "Do what now?" 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' The safety deposit box obliges by sliding across the floor towards Jamie as he goes after it. Technically it slid towards Vi, but she's behind him, so same direction anyway. After a moment the guns go sliding across the floor, including the one strapped around the unconscious guard which pulls his body along the floor with it. This time she remembered to anchor herself against some other metal in the building, like someone hanging onto a heavy object to not be pulled away by something heavier. Vi removes the gun from the man, tossing it aside where he can't reach it, and then doing the same with the others. "Hate those things," she says. "I don't think I want to ask. The little one kind of reminds me of Mr. Logan." 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake 's brow raises a bit at Vader's commen, and will quick step it over putting his foot on the box, and says "I don't think you really need to be touching that mr?" He leaves it open to hear the man's name. He is trying to make sure his foot says on the box and keeps it closed for now. 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      Vader's accusation has Damian turn his head and stare down Jamie from across the room. Robin, who is -shorter- than this man, lifts him up to his feet, and pulls him by the arm to approach Jamie. "This guy." He asks Vader, holding his arm behind his back as he looks at Madrox. "You better be fucking sure or I take out my knife again." He was already getting flustered by the situation. Even now, he is hearing the sirens of GCPD coming their way. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' The box sliding to him, Jamie gives Vi a thumbs up in approval as he crawls over bits of broken glass that had scattered far across the floor after Damian's entrance. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Almost there. "Tell me about it. I don't even like my own gun." Luckily, that cute little .38 Special of his wasn't on hand to hear that. As Vi gathers up firearms for safe keeping(away from their previous owners), Jamie finds himself in a rather awkward position. On his hands and knees, looking up at Red Robin with furrowed brows and a jaw set in consternation. "Honestly, I called dibs like four seconds before you did. Cross my heart." Jamie slooooowly lifts his hands up and away from the box as Robin drags that much, much larger man to the conversation at hand. "Madrox. Jamie Madrox. And I can explain. I hope." Sitting back on his haunches, hands up, Jamie is not in a good bargaining position and he knows it. Vader, actually a bald man with a thick jaw and beady eyes, is looking right at Madrox. Anger flooding his features. "You... YOU SET US UP!" The man roars in outrage, struggling unwisely against Damian's grip to try and get at Jamie. "You know, Vi? I think I see it too. A little intense. Heh. Get it? A little?" Oh dammit, Jamie. 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' Captain America. Wasp. Daredevil. A few news reports. Vi has started to realize what costumes mean. When she sees Jamie being confronted by Robin and Red Robin, she moves over to back him up, moving to stand behind him. Adding all of the intimidation factor that a 90 lb, rather scrawny girl can muster. That is, not much. "Maybe not," Vi says to Jamie. "He hasn't stabbed anyone yet." Yes she's overheard stories about Mr. Logan being told by the other students. She clears her throat. "We didn't have anything to do with it," she says, eyeing Red Robin and Robin. She has her pewter going, but only a medium burn that won't exhaust it quickly. 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake does not know who the Logan is, but says "Don't give him an excuse to, he is on a pretty good streak not stabbing someone, hate to give him a reason to. So, you think you can explain why this fellow says it was you, and I heard you on their radio?" 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      Damian's eyes keep on Jamie as Vader keeps struggling against his grip. Once Damian has enough of it, he uppercuts Vader almost like Ryu gives a Shoryuken. Right on the jaw, perfectly placed.   "You have five seconds before I lose my...>tt<" he tsks LOUD at the little comment. He took out the katana on his back, the blade singing with the vibration of removing it from its scabbard. The blade tip is brought to Jamie's neck, just resting there for now. "I would talk, because my blade has not tasted blood in at least three months. She is thirsty." Yes, Damian's katana is a lady. Who knew? 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "Fair point, Vi. Let's try and keep it that way." Jamie says with a faintly nervous chuckle. With her now at his back, the intimidating 90lb power house is leaned back into. Hands still held aloft, fingers point at her when she attempts to clear his 'good' name. "She's right, by the way. -We- didn't have anything to do with it. Other than this part. Here. With the trying to stop it. Serious." Right eyebrow jumping upward, the M inked into his face warps with his confusion. "Wait, wait. You heard me on the radio? Their radio?" He swallows hard at a suddenly dry lump in his throat. The sirens closing in doing nothing to calm the situation at hand. "Okay, you guys aren't going to like this but there's a very sensible explaination here. One I am not really jazzed about." The quick, rising uppercut sends Vader off to dream land and a tooth across the floor. Jamie winces at the impact. That tense cringe forcibly loosening up as a blade is introduced to his throat. Chin lifted, he grimaces ever so slightly. "It's cool, Vi. It's cool." He starts by trying to keep things from escalating again. "I'm Multiple Man. Mutant private investigator? I uh... I make duplicates of myself. You know. Multiple Man? You've heard of me. I'm sure." They may or may not have. He continues. "Now, this is not a fun revelation for me but I think I may have a rogue out there. Heh." Brown eyes glance down to the katana caressing his throat. "She got name? Looks like a Chantel." 

:'''{{#var:9031|Vi (9031)}} has posed:''' Jamie's words to calm Vi come at just the right moment to prevent something untoward from happening as she was about to blast every bit of metal Robin and Red Robin have on them, including the sword, across the room. As it is her stare is intent on Robin and that sword. "He's speaking the truth," she says. "His duplicates don't come with the same exact personality," Vi adds, while her focus is still on that sword. "So why don't you pull that away from his throat," says the girl who is no taller than Robin, but staring at him with the eyes of someone ready to strike out to protect someone they love. 

:'''{{#var:54|Tim Drake (54)}} has posed:''' Tim Drake 's brow raises a bit and says "Duplicates? And yes, I heard your voice. So let me guess you can make duplicates of yourself but they don't always listen to you, and could turn out to be your arch enemy?" 

:'''{{#var:973|Damian Wayne (973)}} has posed:'''      "No, he heard you on the 90's throwback station where they insist on playing two hours of non-stop Guns N' Roses every -fucking- day." Robin holds the katana fast, but the sirens are doing nothing to alleviate the tension. The question from Jamie does have him answering sooner than later. "It is Akuma no Yubi."   Robin lowers his hood with his free hand, looking at Red Robin, the boy's undercut hair on display for all to see, his emerald green mask kept in place by some unknown force, or just spirit gum. He is looking to Red for his opinion. When it seems that Tim would rather talk it out, Damian removes the sword from against Jamie's neck, his level of control over the razor sharp blade left absolutely no trace of a cut, but if he had 5 o'clock shadow, he may notice a small part where he was now shaven. The sword is flourished before putting it back where it came from, resting on his back. Does he apologize? Nope. Not one bit.   Damian's ruthlessness and olive skin set him apart from the other Robins that have served in the past. He won't admit he has no clue who Multiple Man is, but the two believed this truth. And honestly? He's seen more preposterous things in his lifetime. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' A trickle of cool sweat rolls down his back. An unseen tell of his predicament. This isn't the first time he's had a teenager threaten to cut his throat and it likely won't be the last. This thought comes as no comfort. Upraised hands go palms up, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "This is why you're the best employee of X-Factor Investigations, Vi." The only one but not the point! "She's honest as she is refreshingly accurate." Jamie, visibly taken aback by Tim's spot on summary, pouts his bottom lip out a bit. "That's... uhhhh.... yeah, man. That's pretty much a hole in one. Embarassing, huh?" Attention brought back to Damian, Jamie offers a wider and apollogetic smile. "Pretty name. Pretty lady." He says with breath held. When that blade is snatched away, that breath rushes out. "Woooooo, boy. That was close." The newly shaved spot on his neck to be noticed with much chagrin in the morning. "Okay. Cops on tbe way. You know how this will play out. We go our seperate ways. Cops clean this up. We hash this out like reasonable, costumed vigilates." Slowly. Cautiously, Jamie gets to his feet. Backing up against Vi and still going as he ushers her out. "Cops and mutants don't mix. Not even in Gotham. Come find me if you want more answers. Lord knows I need 'em too now." 
}}

10342/First Nail in the Coffin

2019-12-07T14:59:52Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/12/07 |Location=Two Bridges (Chinatown), Manhattan |Synopsis=Jamie Madrox draws out Tombstone and ends up paying for it. A gang war in the mak..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/12/07
|Location=Two Bridges (Chinatown), Manhattan
|Synopsis=Jamie Madrox draws out Tombstone and ends up paying for it. A gang war in the making.
|Cast of Characters=1245,9223
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' His work never starts with a smile. There's never been a happy reason that Jamie Madrox has inserted himself professionally that has either started well... or ended well. This is one of those gigs. One of those nights. The death of one Cory Masillo, a young mutant with limited telekinetics and unlimited appetites for the wrong crowds, drew his attention. An overdose. Messy business. It's the business side of this tragedy that one Jamie Madrox, the ever curious private snoop, has found most interesting. At first it was anger and fists. He took out his frustrations and outrage on a whole crew representing the Sons of the Dragon. They weren't hard to find. Flashy cars. Fast women with vacant, drugged out stares. When word got out that eight Sons were beaten to a bloody pulp by some interloping wannabe cop in an overcoat? It tends to get noticed. That's exactly what Jamie wanted. Setting foot in Chinatown proper, he wasted little time. In lighting on fire a tricked out, neon orange Supra. The car goes up fast. A rag in the gas tank neck, a cheap lighter and... FA-BOOM! Across the street, a man with a black M inked over his right eye waits. Sparking a cigarette, Jamie tugs the collar of his overcoat against the biting cold breeze carrying the stink of burning plastic. Holy crap. Okay. Maybe he was a little angry. Perhaps he just went too far. But as far as messages go? He was pretty sure this was a good one. 

:'''{{#var:9223|Tombstone (9223)}} has posed:''' Before the raging inferno that would claim Johnny Fa's new Supra was lit, Tombstone was discussing business with The Sons, who were a recent, but surprisngly very profitable arm of his drug trafficking ring. He was currently in the Pagoda Club, a surprsingly high-class night-club frequently used by the Sons as a hangout. Tombstone was right in the middle of sipping a Jack Daniel's shot when someone burst through the door. It was Vinny Jones, a member of the Sons, as evidneced by wearing the gangs colors, which were Red and Gold. In this case, Vinny was wearing a red and gold football jersey. He also had a Chinese Dragon emblem on his right sleeve Vinny panted as if he just finished running a marathon and looked up at Johnny Fa and said," Yo Johnny! Your ride is on fire man!" This got a immediate response from Johnny Fa, who ran outside the club, follwed by five more Sons and by Tombstone. As Johnny freaked out and swore in Mandarin, Tombstone looked at the burning wreckage with a glare, someone clearly did this to send a message and Tombstone was clearly looking to kill the messanger. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' It's your moment, Jamie. He tells himself this while watching the car burn. Flames roaring as the car across the street burns in sacrifice to a boy that's never get to buy his first pack of cigarettes. Legally. Jamie muses to himself, cigarette dangling limp on his lips. The immediate activity is not unexpected. Sirens in the distance. Orange glow radiating throughout the cold, icy streets of Two Bridges. "Might have been a bit much." He admits under a smokey, steamy breath. Shoulders hitched high, hands burried in his pockets, he considers this. "Naaaah." He says with a bemused smirk on his scruffy, bearded mug. The frantic racing of Vinny to the doors is exactly what he wanted. He's bringing an audience. Sniffing hard to clear his sinuses, Jamie plucks that cigarette from his lips. Last pack, he swears. Ashing to the wind with a light tap of the finger, he lofts a brow hiiiiigh as the crowd brings Tombstone with it. The man stood out like a sore, deadly serious thumb. Pale. Massive. The way those Sons of the Dragon mill about him, it's like a wolf pack. People react much like animals in times of stress. It singles out the alpha for him. Tombstone. Jamie, at first, watches the disfigured but not wholy monstrous countenance of the man across the street on the other side of a fire now being somewhat helpfully put down by civilians and gang members alike. High above, seated on a lawn chair atop the dry cleaners half a block down, a man sits in the dark with his own cigarette and his own agenda. Watching it all unfold from a safe distance. "Nice night for it, yeah?! Bit cold out!" The shout from Jamie Madrox singles himself out to the gang and their admittedly intimidating master. Lifting his head, he offers an upnod before flicking his smoke at the burning wreckage that once was a quite sexy looking sports car. 

:'''{{#var:9223|Tombstone (9223)}} has posed:''' Tombstone head immediatley jerks to where he heard the voice and is greeted by the smug looking face of a man with a overcoat. Tombstone glares at the man as the Dragons all turn to him at once, with the fire now being put out. Johnny Fa tries to rush towards the man, but is restrained by three Sons. He struggles and starts to swear at Jamie, which was made even louder when he flings the smoke at his now ruined car. Tombstone himself takes a slow, intimidating step towards Jamie, murder and anger written on his face as he says," Who da fuck are you and why are you here?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' The corners of his eyes tighten ever so slightly as smoke billows his way. A squint through the black, acrid haze sees the Dragons all turn as one. He feels his pulse jump. It's not fear, per se, but the initial surge of adrenaline that sets a tension in his back and arms. Breathe, Jamie. Be cool. Be Iceman cool... just without the speedos. He looks too calm, this stranger with the tattoo on his face and a smug, punchable smirk. Well, he wanted attention. Like always. Now that he has it? Time tonsee what can be done with it. The restrained lunge of Johnny Fa is met with a taunting, purposefully infuriating wink. Thin ice and he's determined to tap dance on it. "Jamie Madrox." He states in a half shout. Let the gang hear it. Let the locals remember it. Crazy white boy. Dime a dozen, right? "Your good doggies there have been pissing in the wrong yard. Cory Masillo died three nights ago. Last night, I put some of your friends in the hospital. Tonight? Tonight we're gonna talk about you keeping your drugs outta Mutant Town." Tough talk coming from a guy half Tombstone's stature and considerably more squishy. 

:'''{{#var:9223|Tombstone (9223)}} has posed:''' Johnny Fa continues to swear and curse as Tombstone soaks in Jamie's name and reason for being here. Upon hearing that he was the one who put those Sons in the hospital last night, the rest of the Sons start to murmur angrily in both Mandarin and English as some of them pull out their pieces or pocket-knives. Tombstone's face still remains the same as it was before. "So we are eh," Tombstone says with a hint of a chuckle. Tombstone starts walking towards Jamie slowly and deliberatley as he says," Let me get this straight, yo ass is comin here, burnin up my boys property and you are demanding me to take orders from you. Well little man, you are dead wrong. Now, i will give ya to the count of three to get lost or i will break your fuckin skull!" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' The shift in mood within the gang at Jamie's revelation does not go unnoticed nor unappreciated. Taking his hands from those deep overcoat pockets, he's clearly unarmed. The Son's guns and knives? Well, it does bring a trickle of sweat down the spine of Multiple Man. "I know I'm the wrong guy to advocate restraint after torching that car but, c'mon boys. Too many eyes. Messy. Problematic." A nonchallant shrug is offered at Tombstone's intitial question. Slowly, making a show of care, he opens his overcoat and takes out that pack of smokes. Tapping two out, he offers one toward Tombstone as they approach eachother in the middle of the street. "Your boys sold to a kid. Sure, fifteen isn't a bouncing baby boy but... Well, burning that car made -me- feel a bit better. So there's that. Smoke?" He asks with a too cheerfully polite smile. "The way I see it? I can't stop you from doing business without some losses I'd rather avoid. But. I can convince you to keep outta that neighborhood." Stopping five feet shy of Tombstone, Jamie Madrox presents an easy looking target. "Or you can -try- to break my skull. I want the Sons out of Mutant Town. Period. You want to make money... How you going to do that if I send a few more of your pups to the vet." 

:'''{{#var:9223|Tombstone (9223)}} has posed:''' Tombstone meets the man in the center of the street, his eyes still stuck in a glare as he looks at Jamie with a look of fury mixed with a bit of annoyance. Tombstone does not respond to Jamie offer for a smoke and says nothing as Jamie explains more in detail why he wants his boys out of Bushwick. Tombstone than says," First of all, let me say it is unfortunate that the kid is dead and all. But, i really have no control over who my boys sell to or how much the customer buys. But, my answer is no! I ain't letting go of a profitable part of the city just because some scrawny asshole demands me too! Consider this a warning!" Tombstone then attempts to throw a jaw shattering punch at Jamie. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "I heard they call you Tombstone. That was a pizza brand like, twenty years ago. You know that?" Jamie, asking the real questions. If Tombstone could get away from wise cracking meddlers, would it even feel like crime anymore? Looking up into Tombstone's pale, craggy face... He wonders if he could have approached this differently. An eyebrow arches upward curiously. The inked in M on his face shifting. "I can tell you're real broken up about it." He says in regards to Tombstone's summary of the boys death. The shout. The insult. Jamie scoffs. "Man, I spend way too much time in the gyn to be-WHOA!" That lethal punch comes in fast and Jamie, luckily, has experience and training on his side. Too much in both cases. Shaolin Kung Fu. Streetfighting. Exotic dancing. The man can -move- and he does. Ducking the punch closely, Madrox makes the same mistake many before him have. He swings back. When his fist makes contact, there's a crunch of bone and it's not Tombstone's. Knuckles crack, wrist snaps. "GAAAH! What?!" Clutching his forearm, pain explodes up his arm. 

:'''{{#var:9223|Tombstone (9223)}} has posed:''' Tombstone is barely effected by Jamie's punch and appears to be even grinning when he hears Jamie's cries of pain. Tombstone lets out a boisterous laugh as he says," My skin is as hard as diamonds little man. I fought Spider-Man, what makes you think you can take me?!'' Tombstone then reels back and tries to punch Jamie very hard in the chest. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' The pain is intense. Shattering a joint is agony. It clouds the senses. Dulls reaction times. Trying to focus out the pain, Jamie sucks in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. His hissing reply is venomous at the least. "You're going to wish you took that deal, you ugly motherf-" He isn't fast enough. Not in this state. Trying to lean back with the blow and lessen impact, he doesn't see that super strength coming. He doesn't see much of anything. The impact was enough to kill ten men. Ribs pulverized. Sternum smashed to paste. His heart stops dead mid beat as his body rockets back across the street. His body hits the wall hard but he doesn't feel a thing. A lifeless body now laying in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk. A block down, Jamie Madrox stands up from his chair after a wave of migraine like psychic backlash fades. Cigarette butt flicked off the side of the roof, he tugs his overcoat closed. "Should have taken the deal, big man." Sirens screaming louder now, the fire truck nears a smoldering Supra. Ambulance not far behind. 
}}

Azazel

2019-11-30T06:07:33Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Azazel
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=1235
|Img= http://tinyurl.com/rzgwquy
|FullName=Azazel
|Gender=Male
|Species=Mutant
|Theme=Marvel
|Chartype=VFC
|Active=Approved
|Occupation=Ruler of the Neyaphem
|Citizenship=Brimstone Dimension
|Residence=Brimstone Dimension
|Education=Self-taught
|Groups=[[Hellfire Club]], [[Dark Universe-OOC]], [[Mutant-OOC]]
|Quote="Your initial reaction is: 'How is this possible'? But contrast it with this: Think of all the times you enriched the powerful. Every time you stamped your boot down on the oppressed and scorned...because it made you feel good to win an easy victory. Because the wealthy and the corrupt let you stand by their side for a time, it almost felt like you were as important as they. When you did all those things...you already served me. Now we're just putting it in writing."
|PAge=
|AAge=
|DOB=9,000 BCE
|Height=183 cm (6'0")
|Weight=68 kg (150 lb)
|Hair=Black
|Eyes=Yellow
|Actor=Gaspard Ulliel
|Song="Year Zero" by Ghost B.C.
|Profile=An ancient mutant from biblical times, Azazel is the undisputed ruler of a demonic mutant tribe known as the Neyaphem. Along with his his legions, he has been banished to the Brimstone Dimension for millennia. Finding escape in the 20th Century, Azazel now barters in souls and influence as a member of the Hellfire Club's Black Court. Slowly furthering his promise to free the Neyaphem from eternal exile and retake that which he long ago claimed to be his. Everything. 
 
You could say he's an ambitious sort.
===Current Player Approved: November 28, 2019===
|Description=
'''Description:'''
 
Azazel's influence in the classical descriptions of devils and demons as red-skinned tricksters is hard to ignore. The scarlet skin tone, the pointed ears and elongated canines in a wicked smile. The long tail ending in a dangerous point does little to dissuade the immediate apprehension most feel in his presence. Void black eyes hold the glimmer of malevolent yellow pupils. Dark hair, swept away from his face and those handsome, if sharp features. A black beard or goatee often a staple in his appearance. Unlike many of his offspring, Azazel has the usual five fingers and toes instead of three on each appendage. Gifted with a naturally(or unnaturally, depending on your politics) tall and slender frame, Azazel enhances his imposing stature with attire befitting one of his primacy and influence. Favoring dark suits and elaborately knitted ties when visiting Earth on his "business trips". When shapeshifted to fit in with the flock of humanity, his attire and demeanor are sure to follow.
|History=
'''History:'''
 
Before the rise of civilization, an ancient tribe called the Neyaphem made their claim for control of all. Led by Azazel, this horde of demonic mutants waged a bloody war upon the Earth in an attempt to overthrow Celestial forces and their agents, a group of angelic mutants known as the Cheyarafim. With the intent to enslave or erradicate humanity, seeing the species as a toxic presence to the planet, he was met with staunch resistance. Eventually defeated, Azazel and the Neyaphem were exiled to the Brimstone Dimension for all of eternity. The Brimstone Dimension, a hellscape with thin barriers between various dimensions and a close link to Earth, was to serve as their prison. For thousands of years, Azazel watched humanity thrive in his home while he was trapped. He watched them grow and advance, listening and learning along with them. Over millennia, he formulated a far reaching plan to free the Neyaphem(and most importantly himself) and retake what was rightfully his. Theirs. His rule over the Neyaphem persisted, their loyalty resolute. It was his powerful teleportation gifts and black sorcery that allowed him and only him to leave the Brimstone Dimension for brief periods of time. Using these excursions to bring mortals under his sway through magically reinforced pacts, Azazel slowly expanded a web of influence. Establishing "anchors" through bloodline ties and summoning rites, he gained more and more of a foothold on Earth. It wasn't until the late twentieth century that Azazel began exploring new means to the same end. Overtly plundering souls from Purgatory and nearby Underworld Dimensions, in some cases even bartering them back for favors or more "lesser" souls. Empowering him enough to placate his Neyaphem armies with hopes of ever closer freedom, they wait for the grand portal to finally open. Azazel, on the other hand, has begun setting his sights on more than just Earth. Looking greedily at nearby Hellscapes and territories, Azazel is making powerful allies for his next go at fulfilling his destiny. Forging new pacts with the gifted and strange in this modern world filled with so much power and opportunity. He's also -rapidly- making enemies while he's at it.
|Personality=
'''Personality:'''
 
Manipulative. Egotistical. Treacherous. Azazel offers almost exactly what one would expect when looking upon his devilish self. Adhereing to a code of ethics forged by thousands of years ruling over a demonic tribe of exiled mutants, Azazel brings a special brand of corruption to the world at large. Driven by obsession and megalomania, this otherworldly tyrant uses those around him with promises of success and riches to move forward his agenda of eternal rule. Patient beyond measure, his exceptional greed can override a sense of prudence when an opportunity appeals to his baser demands for more and more. Not one to shy away from conflict, this ancient warlord may not be known for a hot temper but the cruelty he inflicts on enemies surely reveals a taste for violence that has not at all been tempered by his millennia of imprisonment.
|Abilities=
'''Camouflage:'''
 
A deep connection to the Brimstone Dimension allows Azazel to blend almost flawlessly into darkness and shadow. Clothing or objects he is holding are not altered. This ability can be overcome by enhanced vision and does not impact the other senses. 
'''Dark Sorcery:'''
 
The powerful degree of mystical might that Azazel has demonstrated is said to be the cause of his possibly demonic blood. Branded a demon regardless, it's the time he's spent in deep study and his ties to the Brimstone Dimension that truly elevate this ancient mutant to the top ranks of the magical food chain. Though his chosen fields of study may be limited in scope, it would be no embellishment to call him a Master of the Dark Arts. Azazel's black magic, empowered by the Brimstone Dimension and pilfered or bartered souls, brings a potent mix of spells and rituals. Some even thought lost to the dust and rot of history. Insidious curses and debilitating hexes, scrying, true name spells, conjuration, binding/freeing and even some dabbling in necromancy. Though he may know spells from less corrupted sources, their uses can be unpredictable or short-lived and are mostly avoided for more dependable results. 
'''Demonic Constitution:'''
 
Whether due to mutation, ancient lifespan or mystical gifts, Azazel is more durable than the average mortal man. Skin and muscle all more dense but far from invincible, he's withstood direct impacts of great force that would normally kill or seriously injure a human. 
'''Devil's Tail:'''
 
Keeping true to his image, Azazel posesses a prehensile tail that is more than strong enough to support his own weight. Known to even wield an extra weapon in a pinch, though nothing demanding fine dexterity. While able to draw blood against flesh with the barb at tail's end, he cannot damage metals or other hard materials with it. 
'''Flexible Bone Structure:'''
 
A gift of his mutation, Azazel's bones and joins, ligaments and all are highly flexible, allowing him to perform acrobatic and contortionist feats with ease. Aiding in escape artistry, combat, stealth and even a night spent on the dance floor. 
'''Immortality:'''
 
While it could be an evolution of his own mutation, mystical effects or the eleven thousand years bound to the Brimstone Dimension, Azazel has proven to be quite functionally immortal. Regenerating rapidly from mortal wounds and even destroyed or severed limbs, this regeneration is obviously quicker than a human but absolutely not at the same potency of other mutants or beings that claim a Healing Factor as their primary power. Near fatal wounds and horrible disfigurement may take a week or two to recover from, for instance. Though that speed can be enhanced by resting primarily in the Brimstone Dimension. 
'''Inhuman Agility:'''
 
Possessing enhanced agility to go along with his unique demonic appearance, Azazel is capable of extreme levels of flexibility and dexterity that seem effortless to him but are simply impossible for others. A flexible bone structure, extreme elasticity in the ligaments and a prehensile tail to counter balance makes him a challenge to keep up with. Professional gymnasts at the height of their careers could not compare. 
'''Night Vision:'''
 
Mutation granted, Azazel has an enhanced, reactive dark sight that lets him see in complete darkness and still operate normally in regular light. Though sudden shifts from pitch to flare will cause more than a bit of discomfort. 
'''Shape-Shifting:'''
 
Azazel possesses an ability (and affinity) for disguise and camouflage. While unable to alter his mass by very much, he tends to prefer sticking to humanoid forms rather than the often asked for mythical creature or animal. Skin tone, hair color and length, body shape and more is easily accomplished but things like wings and or massive height are beyond his reach. 
'''Teleportation:'''
 
Azazel, quite possibly the most potent teleporter alive, is able to transport himself, his gear and additional mass across vast distances by moving through Brimstone and/or Earth dimensions. With no known limitations on the distances he can reach, Azazel has no need to see or even to have previously visited his targeted destination. Needing contact to teleport additional mass or at the least to be touching something the target is also in contact with, he is capable of truly disorienting feats of teleportation. Transporting chains of individuals and, in the past, proving the power to teleport an entire ship, its cargo and crew without showing any visible strain. This, of course, is most likely near the limits of his power. 
'''Unnatural Reflexes:'''
 
Similar to but seperate from his enhanced agility, Azazel also possesses greatly heightened reflexes to compliment his feats of acrobatic wonder. Enhanced reaction times are necessary with increases of agility beyond the human norm. Having demonstrated the ability to reflect and dodge maintained gunfire, this is often accomplished in conjunction with his teleportation abilities. 
'''Wall Crawling:'''
 
Able to cling to nearly any surface through highly sensitive micro-suction discs on his hands and feet, Azazel can crawl and run walls and ceilings. At most, he is able to hold up to an additional two hundred pounds while adhering to a surface.
|Skills=
'''Ancient Academic:'''
 
Exiled from his home, Azazel spent thousands upon thousands of years watching and studying humanity from afar. Bordering on obsession, he's followed the advancements of Man with a curious and jealous eye. An aready gifted intellect fueled by a voracious hunger for more has led Azazel to consume and retain not only academic works from around the globe and from every era but also rare views of history thought lost to time. While nowhere near the level of those with superhuman intellect, Azazel's time spent enviously watching humanity grow makes him far more knowledgeable than quite a few career scholars. 
'''Leadership Experience:'''
 
On the battlefield, from the throne or through a series of inspirational text messages, Azazel has mastered the art of command over the many and the few alike. Formidable charisma, artful intimidation and effortless dominance have given him a natural apptitude for guidance. One he's only expanded upon in the eleven thousand years of his rule over the Neyaphem. Whether leading a project to completion or an army to victory, Azazel has a style all his own. Somewhere between demagogue and warmonger. 
'''Linguistics Scholar:'''
 
Having watched and studied humanity from afar for so very long, Azazel has learned their ever evolving languages along with them. Fluent enough to be considered a native among native speakers, his knack for talking the talk isn't hindered by borders or local dialects. He's forgotten languages. He's learned new ones when they come. From Arabic to Russian, Mandarin Chinese to Bengali, knowing how to communicate is paramount to slithering into influence. 
'''Master of Steel:'''
 
While he is clearly no amateur when it comes to empty-handed techniques, Azazel prides himself on his mastery of the sword in all its shapes and styles. Coming of age when the sword proved to be the most effective weapon of the era, he spent the next eleven thousand years perfecting this deadly skill. Given his time of study and combined with his mastery of teleportation and other powers, it's easy to say that Azazel is one of the deadliest swordsmen alive. 
'''Silver-Tongued Devil:'''
 
Often said to be one of the many influences on the traditional devil as a trickster and manipulator, Azazel possesses a charm that seems almost supernatural at times. A master of negotiation and diplomacy, his talent for uncovering weaknesses and exploiting them with a smile has sealed more than one ill-fated deal over the years. Double-talk, expertly veiled threats, sealing the deal and outright lies are often his first tools brought to the table.
|Resources=
'''Anchors:'''
 
Through connections to his living bloodline(of which only three or four currently walk the earth), mystical items, summonings and demonic pacts, Azazel has created a means to anchor himself briefly to Earth. In theory, this may also extend to other realms though he hasn't had the priveledge of exploring that potential as yet. While ties to his bloodline(Such as Abyss, Kiwi Black and Nightcrawler) only offer brief stays of a day or two at a time, other means such as summoning rituals, binding spells and possibly even scientific methods offer him more prolonged stays. The less "natural" means tend to have drawbacks such as conditions and discomfort imposed by the caster or casters. 
'''Brimstone Dimension:'''
 
The hellscape prison that is the Brimstone Dimension is a still, desolate landscape ruled by the Neyaphem. Ruling over the Neyaphem, Azazel claims significant control over this realm through dark sorcery and his personal ties to the dimension. While not a complete mastery of the place as a god, his home dimension being that of Earth limits his potential complete mastery. The Brimstone Dimension acts as a nexus of sorts, connected to all points on Earth and allowing Azazel to view anywhere on the planet with appropriate effort and preparation( i.e. Scrying spells and the like). The realm acts as a natural focus for Dark Magic, allowing Azazel to perform much more powerful feats of arcane might within its dead lands. Further, the Brimstone Dimension's walls feel "thinner" between other realms like Purgatory and other Hell Dimensions. Something he uses occasionally obtain souls through bartering and or outright theft to empower him temporarily. This is something that has earned him no small number of enemies. 
'''Demonic Bamfs:'''
 
A horde of little, red devils resembling Azazel. These little monsters mimic his abilities, mischievious personality and tend to have a bit of a cruel streak. How they became his loyal servants is likely best left unsaid but now that they loyally follow his command? They've proven invaluable. Capable trackers and a little on the vicious side with little fangs and claws, this surprisingly intelligent rabble often act as scouts, thieves, distractions and threats. Linked through a chaotic hive mind, they have shown limited telepathic resistance. 
'''Hellfire Club:'''
 
Beholden to the Hellfire Club and particularly the Black Court, Azazel has taken the role of Black Bishop. An advisory role, the Black Bishop works to further the agendas of both the Black King and Black Queen, though is not adverse to assisting other Members in much the same capacity. Standing within the Inner Circle, of course, greatly increases his motivation. Able to call upon the vast resources of the Hellfire Club and its world wide chapters, it is more a network that he uses to compliment any societal shortcomings he may come across. His disdain for the Hellfire Club's human shock troopers is widely known. Information, favor trade, diplomatic access and the like are his favored tools. He prefers to use the softer influences the storied Club has to offer. 
'''Pacts:'''
 
Often summoned by the greedy, the envious and the outright mad, Azazel lays claim to a network of infernal contracts stretching the globe. Bargains struck in moments of weakness by mortals and even the rare non-mortal being have kept Azazel's influence in the halls of power for thousands of years. Politicians and warlords, esoteric occultists and movie directors, men and women from all walks of life. It's these ties that he uses to influence the earth and its people when a direct hand is impossible or too costly. 
'''The Neyaphem:'''
 
A race of demonic mutants orginating from before biblical times, the Neyaphem wait in seething frustraion in their Brimstone Dimension prison. Ruled over by Azazel and the only one capable of escape from the realm(albeit only briefly), these allies are of limited use on Earth. That is, until he can open a portal large enough for his sinister forces to wage war upon the earth once more. In the Brimstione Dimension, they provide comfort, counsel and legitimacy to his primacy. As varied in mutant gifts as homosuperior, these devilish hordes follow his command loyally but not without question from time to time. (Note: Small groups of Neyapham may be brought to Earth with staff approval but no more than four in number. The act leaves Azazel drained and weakened for a day, further limiting their impact on the earthly plane.)
|Weaknesses=
'''Angelic Blood:'''
 
The blood of the Cheyarafim, historic enemies of Azazel and the Neyaphem, is incredibly dangerous to come in contact with. Even the blood of angels or angel-like celestial beings is casustic to the touch. Cellular degradation, intense agony and the fact that it tremendously slows his regenerative capabilities. Wounds caused from angelic blood take twice the time to heal and, given a large enough quantity, may be able to completely negate his regenerative abilities and finally kill him once and for all. 
'''Brimstone Prison:'''
 
After losing a decisive battle with the Cheyarafim, Azazel and the Neyaphem were forcibly exiled to the Brimstone Dimension for all of eternity, never to return. They claim to rule the realm but it's really like taking over a prison. You make the rules but you still can't leave. Except for Azazel, of course. Brimstone calls to him while he's on Earth. Unable to spend more than two days and two nights away from his prison even with the use of his anchors, he requires the same number of days and nights rest to regain his strenth. 
'''Extradimensional Rivals:'''
 
Azazel has, as expected by many, made more than his fair share of enemies across the various Hellscapes and Celestial realms. His excursions from the Brimstone Dimension to plunder and barter souls has put him at odds with many a demonic and angelic being for his clear disregard for their borders and dominion. Given the games of intrigue often played by various lords of Hell, it should be no surprise that many an extra dimensional being would like to put the King of the Neyaphem in his place. Angelic realms and their agents will also view his many "visits" to Earth and elsewhere to be nothing short of prison break and won't need much incentive to try and hinder his schemes and or re-inforce his exile back to where he came from. 
'''Summoning Magic:'''
 
The double edged sword of his nature and influence has left Azazel vulnerable to the magical arts and rituals of summoning magic. With the right preparation and correctly performed rites, almost anyone of sufficient arcane strength or talent can summon Azazel and attempt to bind him to their will. Due to Azazel's circumstances and mutant gifts, a binding of permanence is near impossible to maintain by any but the most powerful of practitioners. Not one to ignore an opportunity, Azazel has often come to agreements in exhange for extended access to the earthly plane.
}}
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[[Category:Dark Universe-OOC]] [[Category:Mutant-OOC]][[Category:Hellfire Club]]

File:Azazel4.jpeg

2019-11-30T06:05:16Z

Panic:

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2019-11-30T06:04:28Z

Panic:

File:Azazel1.jpeg

2019-11-30T06:03:49Z

Panic:

10134/That's Not Weird, Is It

2019-11-21T05:06:21Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/11/20 |Location=Harlem's Paradise - Club |Synopsis=Dazzler and Multiple Man hit the town. They are almost definitely banned from Harlem's Para..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/11/20
|Location=Harlem's Paradise - Club
|Synopsis=Dazzler and Multiple Man hit the town. They are almost definitely banned from Harlem's Paradise.
|Cast of Characters=1245,60
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' What harm can come from an app? A simple thing, really. Safe as Nerf guns. Get out and meet more people, they said. But I am more people, he was quick to reply. That was not the answer you give to a psychic trying to get you out of their hair. So Jamie himself out there. No filter. No curtain of normalcy. Who would believe it anyway when it comes to Multiple Man? Not even Jamie, that's who. He matched. He avoided. He matched. He ghosted. He matched... and he kind of freaked out a little bit. So he put himself out there. In Harlem. To meet up with none other than Dazzler. An X-Man of repute. A star in more ways than he can point out. He even put money on it. She won't respond. Damn. She did. There went a hundred. Double or nothing, he picked a place. Harlem's Paradise. It was either this or the Fifty-Fifty and strip clubs don't often make the best first impressions. That's a second date or parents anniversary kind of thing, you know? He made it past the door with a bribe and a smile. He found the bar quicker than he should have but it was either that or just stand in the middle of the club, looking out of place and out of his mind. Something about wearing an overcoat in a club. He wasn't listening to the bouncer earlier. So he stands out. He's used to it. Face tattoos are fun like that. Tall, dark beer in hand. Did he use too much cologne? Oh god. Did he forget cologne?! No, no. It's in his hand. Pulled from a pocket, he spritzes at himself. The cap turned wrong, he sprays an unsuspecting woman right in the eyes. She's cursing at him in Spanish as he tries to offer a wet nap he stole from a sleazy pool hall in Bludhaven. 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' Apps are dangerous things, as Alison is quickly learning. Of course, there were some initial ones that were just.. No. Just no. But much like Jamie there is a continued mantra of get out there, make connections. It's hard, being a popstar. Even one that hasn't released anything recently makes it pretty difficult, she's still visible. Well known. People KNOW HER. When she arrives there is no hiding the fact that she's here, that she's arrived. Maybe she counts on the recognition to get her into places like this, because she has zero trouble getting past the bouncer. And she's dressed for the club in a black dress full of sequins and glass beads that make a sort of shimmering light all their own. What it does make hard, though, is getting from the door to the bar, but she eventually manages it just in time to hear the woman cursing at Jamie, her brows lifting upwards and she starts to turn around and go right back the way she came. But she doesn't, instead she clears her throat. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' The club isn't exactly crammed to the walls mid week but the popularity of the place is enough to keep them active at the expense of less popular locales nearby. Even so, the appearance of Alison Blaire has an immediate reaction. Jamie himself is in no wqy immune to this. People turn. People look. Jaime's eyes widen for far too many reasons to count. A little human stick of dynamite is yelling in his face, unaware of the commotion outside her own. Finger in his face but not touching. Ignoring the noisy lady, Jamie just now realizes what he's done. "Craaaaaaaap. This is gonna be in a magazine." A hand goes to the back of his neck, a sheepish smirk on his face as Alison -almost- skips out on it all. People watch. Point. Talk. They always do. He's made a living on those habits. So when Dazzler clears her throat, Jamie offers an upnod in greeting. Lopsided, semi-appologetic smile on his clean shaven mug. "You know, you almost made it back out. Almost." He says, which turns a furious latina in red on Alison. Who -immediately- shrieks and changes tune. Madrox takes the opening and steps around the previously livid lady in scarlet. Putting himself between the two. "Hi. I accidentally maced her with Polo Black. Glad you could make it and prevent my grisly murder." Jamie is not dressed in club chic. He's wearing the exact same thing he wears every day. Green, form fitting shirt with goldenrod yellow geometric design. canvas slacks. Boots. Stupid smile. He honestly couldn't decide what to wear. So he didn't. "I should have picked Red Lobster, huh?" 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' Almost. But in the epic words of that one movie, it doesn't matter if you win by inches or a mile. That's relevant right now, right? She didn't win. She's come in second. Although, the yelling woman and the fact that yes...this is going to be in a magazine, might make this coming in last. But a star to her very core, the woman gets a smile. Even when Jamie moves to step between them she keeps her attention on the woman, a hand lifting, one finger held up. She's begging for a moment from him and his explanation because very clearly the words are addressed to the previously angry woman. "I am //so// so...so, totally, sorry. Really, so sorry." She lifts her hands to her chest, pouring it on thick, "Please, your drinks tonight are on me to make up for it. But if you'll excuse me, I need to steal him away." There's no wait for a reply, instead Alison moves with the long practice of herding and side-stepping to try and get him moving away from the woman even as she lowers her voice, "The club is fine. Really, it's fine. You might have maced your lobster with Polo Black instead, and that wouldn't be good. Very bad tasting I bet." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' To be fair, Jamie thinks to himself, this could have all started off worse. He's not bleeding, SHIELD hasn't shown up with black bags and he's almost certain that he wasn't followed by a werewolf. This last concern is becoming a tad upsetting. His head ducked backward a bit as he recoils ever so slightly at the upheld digit. Brows furrow low in vague annoyance even as he chuckles under a breath to himself. Alison hammering the generousity down, possibly saving herself more headache than she'd like. Jamie is of little help. He sips his beer. Thumb jerked back over shoulder at the placated woman and company. "Hold on now, I'm pretty sure she said something about my grandmother and a farm animal. Gam-Gam doesn't get disresp-" Her herding technique comes in handy. The skill definitely well worth the practice when it comes to getting Madrox moving away from the start of another scene. The corner of his mouth hitches into a self-amused smirk. Punchably smug, it's been said. "She didn't say anything about the taste. Just the whole occular inferno thing. They really should put a warning label on the box." They did. A glance back ovet shoulder and Jamie passes an insufferable wink back to his new nemesis. He gets the bird. He's more a cat person. A hand lightly rests at her back as they move away from the bar, he leans close to hear her over the music. A mellow, slow walking jazz groove. "I'm honestly surprised you're here. You look great. It's been, what? Two years? Three?" 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' They've safely escaped, and that is all that matters to Alison, because it really does save her from a lot more mess and drama later on. Now the woman has a story to tell all her friends, and potentially make money off of if she knows how to make that happen. "Gam-Gam?" This is received with an amused laugh, but then she's quiet as they move along, and he just keeps talking about things. Inferno eyes, warning labels. There are sounds made, indications that she's totally listening to him and in fact not just focusing on finding a place to go sit. When he says that she looks good, she flashes a smile at him, a sign maybe that she really is actively listening instead of just looking around. "Why wouldn't I be here? Seems reasonably safe." Unless those werewolves turn up. Or SHIELD with their black bags. Or angry "fans". "As it been two or three years?" She shakes her head a bit, then glances towards the dance floor before asking a more important question, "Sit down somewhere or you want to dance?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Jamie may just turn a buck on it himself it the story swings back his way. Okay, he wouldn't but he'd agonize over it until the oportunity faded or a case sidetracked him. Finishing his beer to free up his left hand, he hands off the empty to a complete stranger. The man looks confusedly at the empty glass and then the retreating pair. "Gam-Gam." Jamie says confidently. While she's looking for paths through the crowd, openings to take, Jamie is watching... well, everything. It helps when you're in more than one place at once. As Alison and Jamie weave and dance through humanity, -another- Jamie Madrox leaves the restroom and hits the bar. There, he begins an awkward conversation with a woman in red. Jamie OG? He's probably the one with Alison. Probably. Right? "Oh so many reasons. Reasonable safety being chief among them. No disease-touch gremlins. No robotic terrorists spouting corporate approved death threats. Not even one single, solitary brainwave sucking hyper ninja." Jamie tsks in mock disapproval before the question is asked. His heart stalls. Decision. Decision. A glance back at his Dupe proves fruitless. Bar Madrox and Lady in Red both flip him off. "Errrr... Dance. Yeah. I think I can keep up. Spent a year on stage myself, you know." 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' There is probably something good about the fact she doesn't appear to notice the Jamie Madrox at the bar, because there might be no dancing. No drinks. And there might be a second woman mad at him all in the course of....five minutes? Is that a record? "Were you?" On stage. Alison considers it, then she reverses, "Were you dancing on stage for a year?" Because these are very, very important distinctions, and she realizes that there are still probably half a dozen potential problems she didn't address. Like what stage. Was he good. Was this real or just a nightmare. "Come on then." If he's going to embarass her on the dance floor, she might as well front load all the nights embarassment and awkwardness to get it over with. She starts to move out to the dance floor as the song switches over, and it's not at all a fast song. Which might or might not help the potential awkwardness. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' It is assuredly -not- a record. For a man capable of making every choice at once, he seems so damned dead set on making the wrong ones half the time. Half may be short-selling the duplicating degenerate. It likely wouldn't be great if she knew there was a third Madrox back at the office, playing video games and drinking absinthe from a sippy cup. "I were." Madrox confirms with an easy, relaxed baritone. He nods along as he looks for an opening to hit the floor and do his level best to not bring shame to himself, Alison, this club and mutant kind. "It had ups and downs. Got to pick my own music though, so that was nice." He says it with a light, faintly bemused smile. An eyebrow arches high, the M etched into his face wrinkles with early worry lines. Jamie doesn't keep the woman waiting. They get room. When Alison Blaire is on a dance floor, people notice. Especially when it's with some half mad, mutant wanna-be Sherlock. The song switches. Jamie cricks his neck and offers a hand before letting the other hand rest at her hip. Fingers drum. "The Hot House in Chicago, incase you were wondering." A wink then. "You smell nice. Not at all like Polo Black." 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' "A str..." Oh, oh, she almost said it. But she's saved from asking if the stage be danced on was at a strip club, or if there was a pole involved, by his statement of where it was. Which is impressive. There's a very noticable reaction to the name drop as her eyes widen a fraction, "That place is legendary." It's a bit of an awkward moment where she misses the hand because she's just so stunned about the other. But there are people watching, and that sense of always being in the public eye kicks in and she reaches out for the offered hand as she drags her focus back to the reason they were talking about stages in the first place. Dancing. "Thank you, I almost wore the Polo Black, but instead I decided to opt for my favorite girl...Shalimar. I'm glad that she didn't let me down." It'd be easy to wait for him to take the lead, he lead sort of already. But Alison doesn't wait, instead she begins to let the music lead and dictate the dancing. If his eyes fail him, the hand on her hip can certainly help out by cluing him in to the dancing as she begins to move. "So, explain this to me...How'd you end up at The Hot House?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' That expressive and often times betraying arch of his right eyebrow returns. His lips twitch with the threat of an explosive smile. The faint tilt of his head. Cheerful. Self-satisfied. Her reaction was worth it. "Ansel Badams. That's what I went by. Had a whole theme. Haven't been back since. Still get Christmas cards from the guys." As The stunned realization fades and Alison snaps back to the situation beneath her feet, Jamie patiently waits. Her fumbled reach covered by his quick yet not stern grasp. "I think she's got the upper hand for a reason. Shalimar. Going to remember that." Inwardly, Jamie is relieved beyond words when she takes the lead from him. Letting her dictate the pace, the flow of it all, Multiple Man proves to be no slouch at all. His hands don't wander, his boots don't mash her toes. He steps in close and actually dances with her without a second thought. Natural. Easy. Shockingly light on his feet. "I saved one of the dancers from a beat down. He said he couldn't pay me but he knew who would. Made some friends. Drank too much. Amateur night. Next thing I knew, I was oiling up and stretching before a set. Happens all the time." He chuckles quietly. Breath faintly minty. Sweet tobacco. Amber beer. 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' Her toes are greatful, because while she might be wearing boots they aren't the kinds with steel toes, and instead are the kind that sport too tall heels that add to the dangerousness of dancing and getting her toes smashed on. Twisted ankles waiting to happen, right there. "Shalimar is worth remembering." It's an easy agreement that he should remember, even if she's slightly curious about why he wants to remember. Or suspicious about his reasons. One hand in his leaves one hand at loose ends, so after a moment she lifts her hand to settle it on his shoulder. It is oddly formal for a moment, she realizes that, and adjusts her hand to instead settle on the back of his neck. "Sounds like quite the adventure, I can't say that I can relate to that kind of random adventure." Honestly, she really probably could. But maybe not in as humorously random of a way. Either way, as she's mulling something over she continues to move to the music. There's a distinct difference between dancing to impress someone, or how you dance when you know that everyone is watching and dancing for the sheer joy of it. The dancing she does is the latter, the movements loose and easy, comfortable and relaxed even as beats change and speed up or slow down. "I'm going to be up on stage again soon...got asked to guest appear at a concert at one of the clubs in town. You smell nice, too. By the way." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "I don't think they could ask for a better endorsement." Madrox states with the light lift of his shoulders. That's when he sees the other him. At the bar. Laughing and drinking with a slowly building group of strangers. The hand at the back of his neck finds him craning back against it. Head tipped back to give her a clearly disbelieving look. "You teach at Xavier's. You're an X-Man. I know for a fact that's not right but my ego appreciates it none the less." Sometimes a little too observant for his own good, Jamie finds himself accidentally staring at her. That unblinking, invasive stare of someone trying to look past her eyes and into her brain. "Still with me, Sparkles?" He asks with a light laugh. An uptick in the beat sees him step away, yet not letting her go that easy. "No kidding? That's great. Never have caught one of your shows live before. Between you, me and the twenty people around us? Kinda amped. Is that weird? Ahhhh, screw it. It is what it is." The compliment gets a brief glance away. He swallows hard before choosing his next words. "Now, it's no Shalimar but I do try. New soap. A little pricey but it's already paying for itself. What club? Lux? Iceberg? That spot Thor always goes to? Can never pronounce the name." 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' "I'm sure that they could ask for a better endorsement...but maybe I can convince them to give me an endorsement deal." She lifts her hand from his neck, maybe in response to his pulling away, maybe because it helps when she can use her hand to paint across the air between them, little hazy sparks spelling out the word Shalimar for a split second before she breathes the word in a reasonable impression of all the whispery commercials, "Shalimar..." But in answer to the question she just smiles, "I haven't gone anywhere." Even if her thoughts did wander for a minute, they seem to be firmly back in the here and now instead of chasing rabbits down thought-holes. "Amped about what? Just in general...or the concert? If you really are amped about that, you should come. But it's not at Lux, or Iceberg, or even Mjolnir." Guess who CAN pronounce it. "It's at Sam Guthrie's club...it's that young ex-Disney singer, Andrea Jackson, it's her concert." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "There you go, undercutting your own marketability. Tragic." When she waffles back on the endorsement talk, Jamie snaps his fingers and points with a waggling index finger. "That's better." The space between them sparkling and spelling out that now unforgettable word, Jamie laughs. He can't help it. A free, unhindered and abrupt thing, he doesn't mask his delight at the display. "Yeah. You just sold about fifteen bottles just now and I'm only four of them." Brazen, emboldened or just letting go of that lingering tension, Jamie pulls her back in close. A sudden tug, that, if she follows... leads to less personal space indeed. "Concert. Long as I'm not trapped in some nightmare realm or anything, yeah. Why not?" Jamie rolls his eyes with a huff of a sigh at her immaculate pronunciation. "Show off." Says the show off to the super powered celebrity. Hand at her lower back, he tries to keep her gaze directed. At him. At the wall. Anywhere but the bar as Bar Jamie challenges two titanic bouncers to shots. Yup. Keep Alison looking anywhere but that way for now. "Is it just me or does the fact that Good Ole Sam has a club... is a tad bit mind melting? Of -all- the people. Sam. Kentucky Fried Ballistic Missle Sam. Club owner. It sometimes wakes me up at night. The existential terror of it all." 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' "Only fifteen bottles?" Alison shakes her head, her nose scrunching up and her face saying it all. Not enough. Especially not four bought by one person. There needs to be more. More imaginary bottles of expensive perfume sold. "Maybe if I make the lights brighter, the letters bigger." She lifts both hands, and starts to show what she means. Only she never gets that far as she gets pulled back in, closer this time. Instead her hands drop back down, sans any sparkles, "Do you get trapped in nightmare realms very often?" She raises a brow at him, expression dubious and curious all at the same time, "I'm fairly certain that if you do, we could set up something. Like a bell on a string, you give it a good tug when you need...?" Thankfully his efforts all work out, and she's not looking at the bar. Yet. Eventually she might think about the fact that she might want her own drink, afterall. She did skip getting one earlier to instead rescue him from being murdered. "It is a little not what I'd have expected. But I wouldn't say there is an existential terror involved in it, although the club plus the girlfriend that is a singer? I forget her name, he's said it a few times. That is shocking...you think she sings country?" 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "Hey, I'm just a fragrance market speculator. Just doing my job, ma'am." Her disapproval is contrasted sharply by Jamie's amusement. An entirely too bright and straight smile for a guy who gets punched in the head a lot. "Bigger and brighter is always a crowd pleaser, he says without having to raise his voice as much this time. "Does the C Train count? I've been more worried on that commute than I have uselessly punching Sentinel boots." The dubious narrow of her eyes gets a little laugh. A nonchallant shrug as they navigate the dance floor with ease and more than one confused look. Who is that guy with the letter on his face and what radio contest did he win to get this dance?! "Alternate timeline once. Future thingy. Reay, really could have used that bell and string idea earlier. Kind of hurt that nobody offered now that I think of it." Something breaks behind her. Jamie smiles wider. Grip tightening for the flicker of a second as one of the beheamoth bouncers lifts Bar Jamie off his feet by the collar. Set to drag the mouthy Dupe out of the place as Jamie Prime(probably) starts to panic. "Okay, so you can picture Sam doing lines off a giant glass table with a black panther base too? How does that not terrify you?" Blink, blink. Jamie looks at her as if she just poked him between the eyes. "Well, I sure as hell do now. Oh god. You think there will be a duet? I should bring a camera. This must be recorded for future generations." 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' "Worried you'll..." How does one delicately ask if someone is worried about suddenly being the magical cup from Harry Potter, only in a train instead of a magic vault. So, she doesn't. She leaves the thought unfinished, and instead nods in a very understanding way, "Alternate timelines are incredibly frustrating sometimes." So speaks some experience there. Which she is certainly not expanding on, instead she reaches up to pull out her earring and hold it out towards him, "It's not a bell, but it can serve until I get you a bell and a string. We'll tie the string to your finger.." It was going so good, too. Not noticing the Bar Jamie, until something breaks. She starts to look in the direction of the bar, and the evidence of the Dupe that has hopefully not been drinking on her dime with the lady in red, until he both tightens his grip, and asks about duets. She snaps her attention back towards him, "With Sam and his girlfriend? No...I doubt that." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "You don't even have to finish that sentence. Yes. Yes, I am." A blanket statement works for the deplorable C train. The reason he bought a classic Cadillac. That he can barely park anywhere half the time. Eyes widen, he's got this look on his face that just screams 'Finally!'. "I know, right? And when you get back, did you really get back or is it just a really similar but different dimension or did the timeline go all Back to the Future 2?" Talk about a classic in this day and age. The offering of her earring stuns Madrox for a moment. He blinks dully before a lopsided, distracted smile starts to grow. "Now, now. You know what happens if you give me that. I get my freedom and then it's all downhill from there." He's taking his hand off her waist when she starts to look back. "AHEMHRMHRMPH." He clears his throat exaggeratedly. Bar Jamie sees him and starts fighting back against the bouncer. Now two have him. Then al of a sudden a punch is thrown. Common bouncer gut punch. Unfortunately, now they have two Madri on their hands. "I know, that would be crazy, right?! Say, do you wanna get out of here? I wanna get out of here. You like uh... uhh... " Headlocked Bar Jamie is being dragged past, the new Dupe on that bouncers back. Bar Jamie and Jamie OG meet gazes. "I don't know that man!" Is the first thing out of sober Jamie's mouth. About the unmistakeable mirror image being, well, bounced. Well. There goes that. 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' There is a slight widening of her eyes, "I figure it's never the right one." Because he knows! He gets it! "You know how many times someone tells me something I did or said and I don't //remember// it?" The earring isn't anything that fancy, or expensive, so she is very comfortable with moving to put the earring into a pocket before she shrugs at the question thing, then there is a whole lot of things happening. The first among that being the Dupe that is quickly being bounced from the club, and despite sober Jamie's exclamation of not knowing that man no one is fooled. Not a single person. Alison's mouth opens, and she starts to say something before she closes her mouth, that dubious look popping up as she stares at him, waiting perhaps to see what he's going to say. There's no yelling, though. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Oh, how he does get it. He wishes he didn't but the fact of the matter is, these days... it's almost impossible to tell which memories are his and which ones came from Duplicates. His every day is spent half on the defensive. He opens his mouth to loudly agree but all Hell breaks loose before he gets the chance. For a second, he wonders why he claimed ignorance. Then he remembers. He's an idiot. Not truly, of course, but he sure does feel the part as Alison stares at him with disbelief and apprehension. "Look." He starts. The dancing, of course, has come to a close. "It's kind of like... " The additional bouncer moves to Jamie Prime and Alison, anger in his eyes. Madrox lets out all the wind from his sails. Shoulders sag. Arms fall low. "It was nice while it lasted, Sparkles." Taking a pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket, he sparks up. Which is frowned upon, to say the least. As Bar Jamie's get tossed out on the the street, two becomes four. Outside, their uproarious laughter is unheard by the clubbers and superheroes alike. Lifting his hands in surrender, he turns his back to the approaching bouncer and offers Dazzler an appologetic, half-assed smirk. "Guess I'll see you around campus, Ali." Grabbed around the neck with a burly arm, Madrox Prime doesn't resist his own ejection from Paradise. That'd just cause more problems. More Madri. 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' "Like..?" Oh, but the answer to that question is never going to come. Not with the bouncer turning his attention onto the sober Jamie. It's a scene, and one that the tabloids are probably going to lap up like cream. Even more so when Alison doesn't opt for outrage or suspicion in the face of it all. Instead. Shocker of shockers. She gives him the benefit of the doubt that it wasn't all some terrible joke at her expense, and when the bouncer starts to do what all burly bouncers are trained to do, she launches into motion. "Run!" Run? Run where? How?! The answer comes when she employs a very underhanded tactic and attempts to momentarily blind the bouncer before applying heel to instep. Does it work? Will they both get banned for LIFE? 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' There would be talk. Oh, there would be talk. Dazzler! Embarassed by drunken mutant siblings in Harlem! Jamie was not going to live it down any time soon. It's added to the top of a large pile filled with these sorts of moments. It feels more frequent these days but he's a touch frightene to address it. Lately the Dupes seem to be more... independent. For better or worse. Tonight? Worse. With a touch of better. Nobody joined a cult this time. Small victories, right? The cigarette snatched from his lips, Jamie gets hauled backward in a full nelson. Arms pinned upward over his head. "Run?!" Immediate pulse drop and floored expression on his face. Eyes wide, mouth open wordlessly. Instinct and training kick in. How do you keep hold of a kung fu master? You don't. Eyes squeezed shut, Jamie drops his weight. Shifts hips to the left and as the light flares, he doubles over and pulls Burly the Bouncer eyeballs first into it. With a heel to the mans foot, he folds awkwardly. Gasps of shock! Shouts of outrage! Jamie straightens up after plucking that cigarette off the floor. Right to his lips. Five second rule, y'all. There's a pause for the flicker of a second where Jamie looks relieved to not be the only one making a scene. Then he bolts. Right to those doors and a crew of trouble incarnate Madri. Yeah. They probably can't come back here. 

:'''{{#var:60|Dazzler (60)}} has posed:''' What does a world famous mutant singer do when trying to make a scene? On purpose. Make more of a scene. That bouncer is going to be very angry as soon as he can see to grab people. Instead of running like she told Jamie to she walks, slow as can be towards the exit, like she wasn't ready for that bouncer or one of his buddies to be right there any second to grab her. She gets as far as the door before she spins around on a heel, her arms flinging up and wide and when she does it there is lights. Lots of flashing lights, it puts the Shalimar sign to shame, and then she sweeps a bow to the room of people paying attention, and those that might have been lucky enough to miss it all until she went and lit things up like a Christmas tree on cocaine. "Thank you! You've been a wonderful audience...I love you all!" She blows kisses, then finally turns to make a run for it herself without regard for the possibility that she might trip over a Jamie or three outside. 
}}

9578/Unnatural History

2019-10-14T19:27:40Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/10/14 |Location=American Museum Nat. His. |Synopsis=Jamie Madrox and Monet St. Croix meet up in the Natural History Museum. Jamie gets some un..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/10/14
|Location=American Museum Nat. His.
|Synopsis=Jamie Madrox and Monet St. Croix meet up in the Natural History Museum. Jamie gets some unexpected assistance.
|Cast of Characters=1245,1102
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' After that little ambush meeting at Four Freedoms, Jamie Madrox told the socialite St. Croix that he would be in contact. Usually people see that as more of a threat than anything else. Strange. So mere days later, getting a text on a number she didn't give out is one thing. A selfie of Jamie holding two tickets to the museum. Big smile on his face. That M still there. Same clothes. 'Still want to school me, Professor?' was al it asked. At the museum itself, Jamie left the ticket for Monet with security. He wasn't going to stand outside like a schlub all day, waiting to be quite possibly blown off. No. He had to go see some dinosaur bones first... before firmly settling down in the darkened Hall of South American Peoples. Low light. Restrained and drab decour to draw attention toward pieces of history in gold and silver. Wood and bone. Jamie Madrox? He's on a bench. Staring at a rather large metallic llama. 

:'''{{#var:1102|Monet (1102)}} has posed:''' When Monet gets that text, she's getting a massage in a serenely lit spa -- her dark eyes narrowing on her phone as the nondescript masseuse works out her tense back muscles, "The balls on this one," mutters M, texting back 'When?' and then laying her head down. She'd not blown him off after finding the ticket -- approaching, wearing a sleek longsleeved black turtleneck, a pair of fitting skinny jeans, and a pair of black red-soled heels. She comes into this hall of South American peoples, wandering by the gold and silver. "Wonder how much of this was looted," she wonders darkly, coming to stand near the metallic llama. "I want that," Monet protests, eyebrow furrowed at the longnecked creature. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' What's better than a lunchtime stroll through the bloody remains of a crushed empire or three? He's regretting not waiting outside. He'd kill for a smoke right now. Quitting is hard when half of your Dupes keep smoking despite the protests. Monday, this hour, this exhibit? The place is near empty and Madrox planned it accordingly. Standing for her arrival, he regards the large, silver figurine with a rather uncomfortable glare. "All of it. All of it was looted. Just thought that while I was sitting here. Kind of irked me." He huffs out a sigh. Still the same overcoat. Same snug shirt, green with that yellow geometric design. Slacks. Everything. "One of the few pieces that escaped the Spanish. Melted down almost all of it for easy transport. And, you know, to be dicks. But I don't have to tell you that." A brow arches curiously as he slips a side-eye to M. "You're ahead of your time. Gifted like whoa. Smart enough to sass Reed Richards without him even noticing. Slick... Now, that brother on the other hand..." 

:'''{{#var:1102|Monet (1102)}} has posed:''' She's having a real hard time not poking around in his surface thoughts, and ignores the urge -- looking at the llama. "Sometimes I want to buy all of it and give it back." She walks around the llama -- slinking more than anything before her attention turns to several headdresses made of vivid, unbelievable bird feathers. "I'm glad it irks you," she says with a shrug, finding the greed of the human race to be a little senseless. "You noticed the sass?" She asks him with a broad, toothy grin that's more dazzling than anything else -- she does stiffen a little when he mentions her brother. She sighs, too. "Oh yes, him. He's awful, I wouldn't put it past him to do those things. Vampire things." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "Yeah, but give it back to who? It would just sit in another museum. Or some guys bedroom. Den, maybe. A lot of people still see it. Read about it. Plot out elaborate thefts of it. You know, keep up with tradition." Madrox rambles all too casually. Keep a Psychic listening and they won't have time to -listen-. So he says to himself. His gaze leaves the llama, watching Monet circle the display then wander. He follows, hands in pockets. "It irks me still. But what can you do, right? Here it is. Here we are." "I noticed the sass. C'mon. Professional investigator. I'm practically Batman. Just without the car and... is it weird with the sidekicks? It's weird, right?" He asks half jokingly. Her reaction from brilliant smile to brooding dismissal is noted with an obvious 'hmm'. "Vampire things. But the question is... would he work with... shapeshifters?" Jamie pinches the bridge of his nose. Eyes squeezed shut. "I'm trying really hard to not use the words 'vampire' and 'werewolf' here." 

:'''{{#var:1102|Monet (1102)}} has posed:''' "Usually the tradition is to return them to national museums where ever they may be from so that they can be enjoyed. You would just probably sell them on the black market," She says to him with a sly look, "In any case," She trails off, wandering the wall of war masks with a subdued measure of swagger in her step. "First, you're talking to a girl who can fly and throw cars and read your mind and you're sitting here aching over the existence of Vampires and Werewolves?" She snaps her finger in his face, snap snap. "Earth to Jamie, guy who has multiple versions of him self wandering the world, they do exist. Second, my brother would do whatever he can to feed himself." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "I'd call it a grey market at best." Jamie replies a little too quickly, even offering a hand wobble. He almost lays that hand on the glass surface of a display case when a little cautionary sticker catches his eye. M sauntering away catches it next. "Yes, but there are scientific reasons for that. Genetic markers. Actual hard facts and real math to back up the fact that-" The snaps in his face brings Jamie to a halt. A flinch? Not so much but he does duck back a step. Kinetic Duplication and a.... wait a damn second. "I didn't tell you what I could do. Somebody has been asking questions." Eyes narrow ever so slightly and he taps two fingers against his temple. "Or you've just been listening past the noise." A cluck of his tongue, Jamie looks Monet up and down. Sizing her up before -he- can swagger away. "You look around behind closed doors, don't get mad you see something you didn't want to." Pausing at the barely preserved shards of farming tools, Jamie steers it all back. "But he feeds primarily from one source and doesn't deviate. Shit. This complicates things." 

:'''{{#var:1102|Monet (1102)}} has posed:''' "If you could read minds, you'd have done it too if some strange man asking about your horror show of a brother came poking around.. asking questions." Monet does not even blink when Madrox figures out that she'd been poking around his brain. She sweeps her hand through her hair, left in wild curls that frame her terribly pretty face -- reaching her waistline. She looks down at her shoes, peeking back over at him as he comes to realizations that she'd been blunt about. M wanted him to know she could read his mind -- she purposefully presented that information. "What am I going to see that I don't want to?" She wonders, watching him as he tries to steer it back. She doesn't go that way because she's stubborn and she likes this track, damn it. She grins at him, knowing she's being difficult. "What if I look now? Is it fun stuff or is it gory? I hate gory," M sighs. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "... Yeah but-" Jamie furrows his brows. Come on quick wits, do your thing. "I wou-" Jaw sets, he tugs both hands from his pockets to point in half-hearted accusation. "That's not the-" Silence lingers for a longer than comfortable for Jamie three seconds. Someone coughs across the room. "Okay, I get your point." A glance back over shoulder, Jamie watches the only other person in the exhibit until he feels confident in their indifference. Looking back to Monet and she's already staring -right- at him. "Oh, god. Like a tirade of weird and ugly. Halloween is coming up. Costume options. Cases I'm on. Wondering what my other selves are doing and at the same time realizing that's probably why I wanted to pass the Bar in the first place. Then there's the -weird- and degenerate stuff but that's besides the point." Jame lifts his chin imperiously. Thinking he's pretty damned clever. "You think the V word and W word are real, don't you?" 

:'''{{#var:1102|Monet (1102)}} has posed:''' Monet's sleek arms fold as he starts to point -- and then he's silent, and then he gets her point. "You're not a hopeless moron and you can see reason, I am impressed." She really is. People are hopeless, largely. She keeps her arms crossed, watching Jamie before she cuts her eyes back to him. "You can be all of the Village People or all of whatever other group we can think of. Group costumes sound a-maz-ing," she sighs. "Untapped potential." "I know they're real. Magic is science and if you think we know everything about biology or what's out there, you need to send some more clones out into the world and get more of a clue. Do you want to meet a Vampire? I know one, she's older than both of our bloodlines and deals in volunteer blood supplies. Would that put this to rest? Also she'd be very offended at you calling /Marius/ a Vampire. He's a parasite, you realize." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "You give me too much credit. It's still early in the day yet." Jamie retorts easily. God, he wants a smoke. Somewhere out there, one of his Dupes is on his third in a row... bastard. Taken aback by Monet's sudden costume enthusiasm, Madrox balks. "What? Vilage People? No, god no." Shaking his head rapidly, he tries to come up witb an alternative. Frowns. "I was... I dressed up as... " He shrugs then, just shaking his head. "I don't think I've ever dressed up for the holiday." Wow, he thinks to himself. Just wow, Jamie. Dropping his head back, Jamie groans loudly at the ceiling in very reluctant acceptance. "Fiiiiiiiine. I get it. Science is just old magic. Magic is iust new science. She was really a vampire. That dude was a wizard and I am tracking murderous werewolves through Gotham." A heavy, huff of a sigh and his shoulders sag. "Ohhhhh, that's the weirdest relief ever. And yes, Marius has different feeding patterns and I ruled him out but I did get to use my second ticket to the museum so... sort of a win there." 

:'''{{#var:1102|Monet (1102)}} has posed:''' "I'm going to dress up. Maybe you can be the Seven Dwarves and I can be snow white. I'm not white and you're no dwarf, but imagine how fun it'd be. Don't waste your potential, Jamie Madrox. I'll see to it that you don't. If you even so much as attempt to lame this Halloween, I will track you down and drag you bodily from your home and dress you up." She says to him matter of factly; glancing over at him with a grin on her face. "Do you need help? I can smell Vampires.. dead things. Blood. I love investigating things and looking into them and.. it's a good feeling, slaying the murderous undead." She says slyly, before she walks toward the section with the botany stuff -- rare orchids and a large, stinking rafflezia plant. She gags a little bit, her eyes watering as she power walks out of the room so fast that her legs are a blur. He can catch up in the hall leading to new rooms. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' It's one thing to be told that you're going to be festive for a holiday. It's an entirely other thing to be told so by a beautiful young woman who can throw a city bus while solving complex algebra problems and do it in -your- head. A look of apprehension, muted by confusion and startling curiousity is her reward. "That sounds... that sounds so fun." He says cautiously with a smile. Bright and sunny. "Do I need help?" Again caught off guard, he lifts a finger to protest his -need- of help when it all clicks into place. "Yes." He admits it. Finally. It doesn't count when you're panicking and yelling at a roomful of yourself. "Monet, I could use some help. The fact that I don't have to bullshit with Summers for a solid assist is also a boon." Hands back in his pockets, Jamie shuffles along beside Monet as they approach a rather pungent plant. "You'll absolutely regret it. I can't wait. Gotham is absolutely horrible this time of year. And, of course, the murders... are giant dog-men who can be literally anybody. And Vampires are involved. You know, if you just turn off my brain instead, this will all be so much... faster....?" Turning to look where Monet stood, he's instead looking at where she's going. "Hey! Wait up! You haven't even heard the worst part yet!" 
}}

9438/Details in the Blood

2019-10-08T19:13:22Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/10/05 |Location=West Chelsea Hill, Old Gotham |Synopsis=Jamie and Selene cross paths at a crime scene. Jamie keeps his blood and Selene gets s..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/10/05
|Location=West Chelsea Hill, Old Gotham
|Synopsis=Jamie and Selene cross paths at a crime scene. Jamie keeps his blood and Selene gets some extra hands for a Lycan hunt in the making.
|Cast of Characters=1245,761
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' It's raining again. Isn't it always around this time of year? Summer heat is an afterthought. Carved pumpkins have taken up places on stoops and steps. Merely place holders as the holiday season ramps up toward the end of the year. It's usually quieter this time of year. Cooler. Less active. Preparations for travel or time with the family. These kind of things don't come to mind when walking into 2634 W. Gardenview. The wealthy, lower-upper class neighborhood has seen violence before. Police and ambulances, firetrucks and the like. But never like this. The day prior had been one of turmoil, fear and unanswered questions. Why would someone release wild animals into a home and murder a small family? Why here? The Baumgartners are no more. All that remains is a house cordoned off with crime scene tape and neighbors too scared to even look out their windows. The crime scene techs have come and gone. Taped outlines and bloody carpets. Jamie Madrox stands in the kitchen aftr having just broken in. He had questions. This place had answers... and as the smell of old blood, wet dog and terror wash over him, he wonders if the money is even good enough. It isn't. Curiousity will hold him to contract regardless. 

:'''{{#var:761|Selene (761)}} has posed:''' Selene was aware of this attack, though she didn't know the details of it. Gotham has a lot of strange things happen in it, but she needed to make sure this was or wasn't related to the Lycans that she's hunting. Its a little odd for them to tear apart a family that wasn't involved in their age-old war, but its not out of their realm of possibilities... look at her family from 600 years ago after all (She doesn't know yet know it was the Vampires who killed her family, not the Lycans). Selene's black sport motorcycle is parked at the far end of this city block. She'd made her way here to this home on foot via the use of the back alleys. Drenched wet from the rain, she doesn't seem to mind, the chill in the air doesn't slow her down one bit either. She just looks extra pale tonight in the darkness of Gotham's dreary atmosphere. Her black hair hangs against her face in wet strands as she watches a man breaking into the home. She draws a single handgun from beneath her leather trenchcoat and then sets forward to sneak her way to join him... What Jamie will find next is the sound of a gun clicking behind him, and then the sultry voice of a woman speaking out. "What business do you have here?" She'd tracked him inside and clearly intends to find out who he is... with her right hand clutching her handgun by its grip, aimed right at him. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Details. It's all in the blood. The attack the day before was particularly savage. The facts had been muddied and obscured by both authorities 'in the know' and perhaps even a Vampire or two from Selene's own coven. What the public knows is that a family of four is dead. Some kind of exotic animal attack. These newly wealthy sorts buy dangerous animals all the time, right? Peter Baumgartner was a lawyer. One who worked closely with a certain Vampire... This was, no doubt, a Lycan hit. But why such force for a mortal servant and his family? He'd broken in with little time or hesitation. He knew what he was doing. Thief? Gore seeker? Reporter? Lycan? None of the above. Jamie Madrox, in his worn and weary overcoat, clucks his tongue at the sound of a hammer pulled back. Shoulders sag and sloooooooy, his hands lift. Cautious. No fast movements even as his pulse quickens. "If I said housekeeping, would you shoot me or laugh?" A brow lifts, he dares not turn. That tone of voice, smooth and calm. Much calmer than his now racing pulse. He's looking for anything to serve as a distraction in this ultra modern steel and glass kitchen. "And if I threw that pasta maker at you, would you maul me or shoot me?" 

:'''{{#var:761|Selene (761)}} has posed:''' Selene stands there before the man as he turns around with his hands up. She doesn't make a move, just stands there in her black leathers, dripping rain water from the same window that he'd entered through. She'd gotten through it without even making a damn sound, the first thing he'd heard was that hammer being pulled back, maybe she was already in the house? That can't be, she's drenched from the rains and her skin looks pale as a snow covered road... "I'd shoot you." She replies coldly in that European accented voice, but pauses, her eyes flicker a little as she very quickly takes in more of his form. "Probably in the knee." She adds then before she parts her pale lips and lets a breath in between them. "You don't strike me as a Police Officer, nor a looter." She continues then, the gun still aimed right at his nose. "Are you a member of the Baumgartner's family? A brother of Peter's perhaps?" She knows he's not a Lycan, after 600+ years of this, she can tell pretty easily. " 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "Then I'm definitely not housekeeping." Jamie deadpans all too quickly. Not a moments hesitation from a little quip even at gunpoint. He either can't help it or won't. Slow to turn, he leaves both hands raised. Unarmed. The barest hint of a smirk on his lips. The lift of his eyebrow creases the black 'M' inked over his right eye. "The knee? Why does everybody always assume that's a nicety? Do you have any idea how much physical rehab I'd have to go through?" Regarding the pale woman with unexpectedly calm eyes, he looks right past the barrel of that gun to the blue eyes aiming down the sights. "I'm going to reach into my jacket. Slowly. I have a gun but it's in the car sooooo... " Eyes on Selene, Jamie carefully reaches for his wallet to offer up ID. He flips it open but the lack of an actual badge takes away some of the dramatic effect. "I'm a private investigator. I'm looking into a money trail that started at a human trafficking case three weeks ago. If I knew it was going to take me here? I'd have probably just stayed home. Buuuuuut I didn't. So here we are. You pointing a gun at me and me trying quite hard to not pee a little." 

:'''{{#var:761|Selene (761)}} has posed:''' Selene's gun stays on him throughout his response and the reveal of his wallet. Her eyes go to his ID for a split second, long enough to confirm what he's telling her. A lingering moment of decision takes place there-after and... then she lowers the gun down to her thigh level. "You shouldn't leave your weapon inside your car." Selene says then as she steps around him, turning herself enough to glide past him on her way deeper into the home ahead of him now. She has business here as well after all. "Not everyone you meet in this town is as generous as I am." She adds then. Selene sweeps around a corner of the house, out into a hallway, her leather trench coat swaying around her legs as she walks. Quiet footfalls take her the various hot spots of violent activity that have occurred here-in. She's scanning the place with the thoroughness of an investigator herself... though Jamie's never likely seen one dressed like her, Cop or otherwise. She does glance back though to see if he's pursuing her in this endeavor, or without her aiming down on him, if he'd make a run for it. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Eyebrow poised in a high arch, Jamie lets time stretch out like an eternity made of taffy. A half chuckle is immediately followed by the rush of warm breath as he sighs with clear relief. This man has had entirely too many guns pointed at him for such a short time. Then again, Jamie tends to royally screw statistics just by existing. "See, you'd think that's a smart play. Especially considering how... " Brows furrow, Jamie stuffs his wallet away as she walks around him. Annoyed momentarily, he gives her a quick once over. Hands drop finally as he moves to follow. This was his crime scene, dammit! "Well armed you are. Then you factor in the police presence. Breaking and entering. With a firearm? That ups the ante big time." Smartest dumb move ever. Or so he tells himself as he follows after the rain drenched assassin(?!) The attacks started in the living room. Blood dried and tacky on leather furniture and well polished floors. The shape of a body outlined in tape. The trail leads up the stairs. Jamie following her and the trail alike. "This isn't your first murder scene, is it? Look, I showed you mine. Now it's your turn. Who are you? What's your interest in this nightmare? Peter owe your boss money?" Run for it? No. The curiousity would literally kill him if he left without some answers. 

:'''{{#var:761|Selene (761)}} has posed:''' Selene lingered on the first floor as long as she could find more things to add onto the case she was building inside her own head, the case toward Lycan involvement in this home's recent history. She does keep her senses primed, and does listen to the P.I. as he trails after her. Her tall boots lead her to the stairs, the soles of those boots quietly depressing their individual surfaces as she starts up them. She hears his question with regard to who SHE is and she just keeps her eyes up to the second level. "I'm a Vampire." She replies to him bluntly. "I'm hunting werewolves, as you'd call them here." Thats as silly of a response as his housekeeping attempt with her mere moments ago! Isn't it? What he might notice, though, is she glances back down at him once she reaches the top of the stairs and her eyes aren't that silvery blue anymore like they had been when she had the gun trained on his face, they're a dark brown hue now. But her stare leaves him fairly quickly so he may miss it in that instance. Up on the second floor now, Selene continues to follow the trail, forming her own idea of what happened within this quiet home. "I think this case might be beyond what you should put your efforts toward, Mister Madrox." She'd gotten his name off of his ID, but has yet to give him hers in return. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' The first attack was, from evidence of blood spray and body positioning, one taken on a fleeing victim. Brought low, likely the wife, dead before she hit the ground. The spatter patterns were dead on for Lycan or other large, clawed sorts. Definitely not knives or guns. Her admission of Vampire-ness gets the a half-assed laugh from the man. Disbelief to be sure. "Of course. That explains the amazing skin and night shift tone." Looking down at the rust brown stain on white carpeted stairs, Jamie rolls the words in his head. Vampire. Werewolves. He pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. "I really should have asked for more money." Looking up the stairs to Selene, he's taken aback by the change in eye color. Contacts? Shapeshifter? Eyes narrow ever so slightly as she continues on. He considers doubling up. Maybe three Madri. In the end, he goes up those stairs by himself. Another wise choice, to be sure. "You'd be surprised. If I'm not punching well above my weight class, I'm clearly taking the day off." Pausing to examine the bloody bunk beds, Jamie feels a certain pit grow cold in his gut. No point stopping now. Claw marks and bloody prints lead to the master bedroom. The outline of a body near the back wall. Window smashed inward, glass on the carpet. Wall safe ripped open. "Who are you? What's your stake in this for real?" 

:'''{{#var:761|Selene (761)}} has posed:''' Selene is definitely coming to the conclusion that these attacks were orchestrated by the Lycans infesting Gotham's underworld now. But why... the why is whats keeping her here, searching for more. She gives a glance back at the P.I. as he proceeds on after her and as they end up staring at the bunkbeds in the bedroom together, she pauses to look over at him when he says the word 'stake' as if she'd taken offense to that word usage. But she doesn't say anything to indicate she had! "Not much surprises me anymore." She replies to him though before she turns and looks further around the room before she pauses and offers him something. Her left hand reaches out and she offers him... a silver stake? Its long and very pointy. She lets him take it to examine it if he'd like, and the end of it is actually loosened and open, should he pull it further apart he'll find that there's a vial of... blood inside it? Her 'Vampire' story might start to take more form and shape for him, not that its true, of course, but that she might be a crazy person who believes it is! Either way, the woman disappears out of the bunkbed bedroom and ends up in the master bedroom now. "A simple robbery..." She murmurs. "This feels unlikely..." Nevertheless, Selene steps toward the safe to tip it open to peer inside, though she expects the Police have already removed anything that was in it, but still... leave no secret left un-looked for. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' While Selene connects the dots, centuries of experience showing her the clear and near feral craft of a Lycan pack in full, furious swing. Something set them off to the point of massacre. Bloody bunk beds will be burned into the memory of Jamie Madrox for all his days. The shadow of sorrow darkens his gaze momentarily. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he shakes his head regretfully and moves on. The stake lands firmly in palm and Jamie pays it proper concern and care. "Ever see a man turn into pink goo to kill a robot taller than this house?" He asks with a faint smirk, smug and self satisfied when he manages to open the tip of the stake. Brows knit low and close. Blood? "What the blue fu-" Looking up, he notes Selene has moved onward. With a huff, he follows. She's quiet. The way she moves, it's a natural grace. Predatory. Shit, he thinks to himself... Vampire. Stopping in the space beside Selene, Jamie offers the stake back without looking at her. His eyes are on that hole where tbe safe once sat intact. "Simple? How many burglars you know can rip three inches of steel apart like cardboard and would maul a family to do it?" Jamie, tone serious and steady l, brings attention fully to Selene. "Peter was either going to get something from the safe or protect it. Whatever it was, it was worth killing for." 

:'''{{#var:761|Selene (761)}} has posed:''' Selene did respond to his pink mist question with a 'Yes, once' before she'd left him back there. Whether it was a joke or not was anyone's guess though as her dry sense of humor is as well formed as the clothing she wears. But once he joins her in the study and hands her the silver spike back, she accepts it and slides it back up inside of the cuff of her leather coat's sleeve where it vanishes once more there-in. Her eyes then return to the safe's hole and she just exhales. His vocalized rundown of what happened here causes her to just turn around and look the office over again. "What you've stumbled across here tonight, Mister Madrox is the initial steps into a world I don't think you want any part of." She's now standing beside the nearby desk and her brown eyed gaze is back upon Jamie's face, calm and cold, just as cold as her skin looks with that damp black hair framing her face. "Werewolves did this." She notes, glancing around the room and then nodding her chin toward the study's doorway. "Slayed the family, took whatever was in that safe, and left this house a blight upon this otherwise quiet neighborhood." She looks back over to him then. "Werewolves, though my people refer to them as Lycans. They come in many varieties however. American... and otherwise. I believe the ones that struck here where the ones I'm hunting, with rooted origins in eastern Europe. The same as myself." A short pause is taken then before she glances down at the desk. "Why they did this? I don't know... yet." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "You know Federico too, huh? Small world." Jamie says with easy acceptance. Flat out assuming she actually did know the young mutant in question. After all, who else could turn into a sentient pink cloud-thing? Rummaging in his overcoat pockets, Jamie takes out a pack of cigarettes and lighter. Not sparking up, he just likes to roll a cigarette between his fingers. Helps him think. Lighter tumbling over and under the knuckles of his other hand as he drinks it all in. "Yeah, I'm gonna need your name if you're going to keep using mine." Lifting the cigarette to point at her, he lifts his chin ever so slightly. "I don't know who you asked but I don't run from a job. The Yelp reviews would eat me alive." When Selene drops terrible, unnatural truths on him, Jamie Madrox takes it -shockingly- well. A blink at first. Then a slow nod of actual acceptance. He is currently in three places right now. Strange things are his bread and butter. "Shapeshifters. Lovely. No chance they wear matching uniforms or insignia to make this easier? No?" Jamie takes in a deep, chest swelling breath... and lets it out in a heavy, suddenly exhausted sigh. "Werewolves. Vampire. Mutant. Missing three million dollars and a dead family. Yeah. Sounds about right for a weekend." That said, Jamie cups his hands and sparks the cigarette. Shielding the flame from the windows. Can't have that get spotted. "So. Mysterious vampire lady. Looks like we're on the same case. Wouldn't happen to have more of those silver stabbers, would you?" 

:'''{{#var:761|Selene (761)}} has posed:''' Selene seems to be formulating thoughts and ideas inside of her head as she stands there beside the desk and stares off toward the window where the rain is still rolling down behind the drapes that cover them, at least somewhat offering protection from prying eyes even if they're sheer and not doing the job entirely. After he lights up and asks those questions her eyes dart back over to him, almost suggesting that she'd forgotten they were sharing a room together. After a second she just upturns the corners of her pales lips into a light smile then dips her chin once in a nod. "Selene." She tells him, it might come off as an alias though since she doesn't offer a last name, but there is some sincerity to how she says it. She then turns to face him and her head tilts toward her left shoulder ever so slightly. "I have many of them. The blood that you saw inside of it, assuming you opened it after I left of course." She unscrewed it so he could look inside after all. "Is synthetic. My people are wealthy and have extensive resources, we've synthesized human blood so that we may feed from it without endangering any of your kind with our ways. Its our hope to finish off the Lycans that we're hunting, and remove ourselves from society as entirely as we possibly can. To live simple lives, of solitude." Or at least thats what she's been told for the past six centuries. "I can give you some of the silver stakes, if you truly do plan to investigate this further. But I should ask that you take my telephone number as well, so you can have me at your disposal... in-case you do stumble across something that might be... out of your element." Selene is after all the contacts and leads she can get. She's not from the United States, she's trying to re-establish so many things she's lost since leaving Hungary for the shores of America. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' He quit smoking four days ago. For the second time in a week. Yet here he is, quietly enjoying this cigarette in the one place he knows nobody would think to look for him. Gotham is a long stroll to secretly steal a smoke. Exhaling upward, Jamie ashes into an overcoat pocket. Leave no trace. "Selene." He repeats the name for himself, trying it on for size. Earnest sounding or not, he assumes the name is a placeholder. "Jamie." He says, touching his chest above that yellow geometric design on a form fitting emerald shirt. Introductions Now formally made, Madrox seems to release the tension in his shoulders ever so slightly. Still that tightness of caution remains. After all, the lady is claiming Vampire cred. Crazy or cannibal, he plays it semi-safe. "Couldn't resist." Jamie says with a shrug in regards to opening the stake. Regarding her evenly though unmistakeably intrigued, he sucks his teeth before pointing the orange tip of that cigarette at her. Expressive hand movements. Energetic but trying to play at restrained. "So until these wild, murderous mutts are out down, you guys can't go to Vampire Vacation. Rough trade. Not exactly what Bram Stoker told us but... who am I to judge?" Cigarette left to dangle between his lips, Multiple Man talks around it expertly as he takes out that wallet again. His card snatched up between two fingers. "I'm not going to turn down a free parting gift. Especially if these things catch my scent on the wind behind them." A brow arches, Jamie chuckles under a breath and offers the card. X-Factor Investigations. Mutant Town, NYC. "Hey, I'm all for expert opinions at my disposal. Skin tight leather or latex being a bonus." A chuckle, he clears his throat. Cigarette bobbing lazily as he speaks. "Looks like you found yourself a spotter on this little hunt." 

:'''{{#var:761|Selene (761)}} has posed:''' While he speaks, she's already turning to the desk to pick up one of the expensive pens resting in the bronze statuette that is holding three more that look identical to the one between her fingers. She picks up a small notepad thats on the desk and glances over to him while he speaks about the vampire vacation which causes her to show another very faint and ghostly expression of amusement, as though its an expression rare to grace her visage. She jots down a number and then offers him the whole notepad before she places the pen back where she'd gotten it and reaches out to accept is hard. "It would seem so." She replies to him in that husky voice of hers with the mixture of many European accents flavoring every word that she does vocalize. There's a roll of thunder outside followed by a heavier spread of wind against the back of the home as the winds seem to pick up. Selene glances at his X-Factor labeled card and then to the windows before she looks back to him. "I should be on my way. Thank you though, Mister Madrox." She states. "For not making me have to shoot you." With a much more visible sly smirk, Selene starts for the doorway back onto the second floor landing, leather coat whipping around her legs, over that very same tight leather and all. She does look back over her shoulder too. "And do consider carrying a gun, it won't stop a Lycan, but it can scare them off if they're not looking for a confrontation. If you're lucky..." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' That barest hint of a smile. Jamie is no stranger to those. Give him enough time, he'll either pry one of those out of the sternest of sorts... or get his face pummeled. It's a 50/50, really. Self satisfied with that and not bleeding from the nose, he counts itbas a win and takes the notepad. A glance to memorize the number and its gone in the overcoat. Thunder rolling, rattling the windows in that long, drawn out rumble. Jamie plucks the cigarette from his lips, clearly watching her with the utmost of his attention. Vampire. Lycans. Murder and money. The perfect set up to go out with a bang. He smiles wide, sunny and all too cheerful for a man at a murder scene. "Trust me, Selene. The pleasure of not being shot was all mine." Quiet steps take him from the desk, watching Selene in her departure. He wonders if it was wise to give a possible cannibal his address. Then she looks back. He averts his eyes a little too quickly. Clearing his throat behind a loose fist. "Yeeaaaaah... once you see that gun, you'll change your mind." A shake of his head, Jamie nods and gestures with a politely dismissive wave. He still has a house to comb. 
}}

9395/Painkillers and Paychecks

2019-10-02T16:33:12Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/10/02 |Location=Dining Hall - Xavier's School |Synopsis=Multiple Man finally pays Domino back. No, seriously. He did. For real! Oh, come on......"

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/10/02
|Location=Dining Hall - Xavier's School
|Synopsis=Multiple Man finally pays Domino back. No, seriously. He did. For real! Oh, come on... it's true this time!
|Cast of Characters=1245,180
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "No, that's not what I... whoa, whoa, whoa. I am -not- that bad. Look, I... Yeah. Uh huh. Right. No, that won't fit there no matter how much of a runnig start you take." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jamie listens to Domino verbally eviscerate him with a bit of impressed, if moderate horror. "Hey. Whoa. Dining hall. Meet me there in a few. Yes, for the love of god, bring something to drink." Snapping his cheap burner phone shut, Jamie huffs a heavy sigh. "Alright. Auditions." Jamie Madrox claps three times and three Madri do appear. "You first." He says to the first Dupe. D1 "I'll go. Maybe she's wearing that black rubber thing." D2 "Man, fuck that. I'm going to bed." D3 "Have you tried sending her a cookie basket? I have a great-" "Noooope!" Jamie Prime declares and absorbs all three. Brows furrowed, he decides to take matters into his own hands. To the Dining Hall he goes. Shouldering the doors open to stalk inside with heavy bootfalls. "Okay, so you were right. But you were wrong. I just want to point that out." 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Domino is unimpressed - as always when it comes to Madrox. When a guy can split himself into so many he has to lose something along the way - like sanity. Her arms crossed she is dresed in a royal blue blouse and a pair of black cargos with her rig right in view to offer reconsideration value to anyone that gives crossing her a second thought. Blue eyes stand out agains ther usual monochromatic form.     "Hello Jamie. I do hope you did not send one of your asshat doubles," she remarks.     She is eying him critically now, up down, side to side and looking ready to shoot him in the face if she need as her hands drop and she's got her guns positioned left on hip and right under her left arm for maximum quick draw effect. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' Jamie, dressed as he ALWAYS is, stomps right on past Domino on his way to a small cart off in the corner of the vast room. Talking louder as distance re-extends between them. The same green shirt with yellow geometric design. Slacks and the beat up overcoat. All so he never has to actually choose what to wear. "Oh, I really thought about it. The three I asked all told me same thing. You'd shoot them. So they... sent me." Jamie says with a half hearted chuckle before snatching up two coffee mugs. Making his way back to Dom as she eyes him up, Jamie underhand tosses her a ceramic mug. Freeing his hand to fish for that pint of Walker Black in his overcoat. "I'm not sending you to Genosha, Dom. I'm still going to pay you back. But... hey. You gonna shoot me or drink with me? Make up your mind so we can either tie one on or... Hey. Still shook? Heard about that thing. At the cabin. Stand down, soldier. It's me. Jamie." 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     "So in essence, I am shooting you all," Domino points out with a tick of her finger in the air. His horrid sense of fashion and color choices make her eyes narrow as she turns about to watch him - not yet ready to recover that distance between them. Domino likes it that way. But suddenly there is a mug flying her way and her hand shoots up to catch it deftly from the air. She tosses it up to right in the air and slide her fingers about the arm before letting it swing at her side.     "You are in a school," she remind as she finally decides to not let him finagle things in the school on his own. He talks FAR too much. FAR too much.     Rubbing at the bridge of her nose she holds up her hand. "I will drink. But only a little." She holds up her finger to indicate two stacked and presses it to the side of the mug she holds up and then waits, holding it out. Did she not just tell him that its a school? "Yeah, myt life is colorful even if I am not." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "Yup. So, really, it'd be like a bonus round. Get it? Round?" A wry smirk, he watches her handle the mug. A little pat, pat to the heel of his palm in a golf clap before he drags a chair out with the toe of his boot. Plopping down unceremoniously, Madrox twists off the cap and pours a few fingers of scotch. "Riiiiiight, right. Like Logan is walking around here, sober as a judge on Tuesday." He smiles, warmer and reassuring. A nod at the two tone Merc before he reaches up to pour out her own smaller portion. School or no, Jamie tends to bend the rules where he feels fit. That done, the bottle vanishes and he leans back into his seat with a lobg, weary sigh. "Yeah. I don't envy it one bit either. I'd be lying if I said I was calling it off just because of that. You need to heal, sure but... I'm going to Genosha myself." Lifting the white mug, Madrox takes a sip. That black M inked into his skin warps with the furrowing of his brows. The stern frown. "I get to ask Magneto uncomfortable questions." A pause and he takes another sip before setting the mug down. "Look. Sit down or something, Dom. You're making me nervous. It's a good day for you. I'm actually paying you back. I mean, who even seen that coming?" Leaning to the left, Madrox frees an envelope from his back pocket to lazily frisbee it into the table. It thuds heavy, thick with cash. "I'd say it's a sign of the Apocalypse but last time I made that joke, Warren almost killed me." 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Drawing the mug back and shifting her weight to her other hip, Domino sips from the mug. "I don't judge what he does and I have a lot to prove around here. I think I like sticking around," she points out from over the rim and then arches a brow, watching him curiously. A half laugh cuts through the silence she offers in the moment. "Me heal? I did not know you cared so much, Madrox. I am ...shocked. But I am doing rather well thank you..just the hands needing a bit more time now. Janky spikes that fucking animal drove through them," she holds up the bandanges that are smaller now but still meant to keep the wounds from getting infected.     "I see him again I am shooting him in the dick." She growls. That said she eyes the chair and finally sits and settles back, one arm draping on the side of her seat as she wathces him fish for that envelope. "I did not..maybe Xavier," she points out. But as it slides across the table her boot lifts quickly and she stops the twirl of the heavy envelope with the rubber sole set there. She eyes it and then him before she sits forward in his direction to pick it up. The look she gives him and fact she opens it up with a peek inside says she was not quite ready to believe him yet. 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "You have less to prove than you think. Or maybe I'm just a softie for a mutant with. rough past and a rougher present." Leaning waaaaaay back in the chair, Jamie plants his boot on the edge of the table. Balancing on those two back legs. After snatching up his mug, of course. He keeps it almost cradled close. Comfort. "I'm not an asshole, Neena. Well, one of me might be. I... Jesus. I'm sorry. I heard but... I'm so sorry." The apology is about as sincere as any, perhaps more sincere than expected. "You see Creed again, put him down like the animal he is. Every mutant is special. Important. Him? Yeah, nobody is going to miss that freak when he's gone." Chair legs squeek, Jamie taking a sip, watches as Domino inspects the envelope with obvious trepidation. "It's all there and interest. This case I took is... a big one. Pay is incredible but if it goes south, I don't get to spend it. No sense dragging you and Hisako down that nasty little path. Besides, Scott and Jean might actually freak if I tried. Worth it for the looks, not so mich for the headache and internal bruising." Knocking back the mug, Madrox finishes his drink and clacks the mug down as he lurchs forward. Chair legs loudly making contact with the floor. "You're actually making a go of all this, aren't you? Going straight or just tired of going in circles?" 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     "No, you /are/ an asshole but not such a big one today," Domino counters after seeing it all there and him confirming there is interest. "Well damn." Is all she can seem to say as she sets it on her lap and sips at her drink after, smoothing her fingers over the mug as she considers him at length. "Why would Mister Smart Pants and Bedroom Eyes ever care about me, hmmm? I am new, I am the wild card...look. You need back up Madrox..I am there. Heal? I got this, can shoot a gun again and my abilities never really turn off.     Victor though. That gets a sneer, "As for pond scum with fur? He needs to be burned alive to make sure it sticks." Her hand tightens on the mug. "I actually hope for a rematch," she hisses out and then shrugs her shoulders before she downs what is left in her glass and leans forward for more. The conversation deserves a drink, or three.     "Tired of fighting for the wrong side. I always tend to flip anyways. Not sure why the others think to trust me if it puts innocents in harms way. Never gonna end well." 

:'''{{#var:1245|Jamie Madrox (1245)}} has posed:''' "Yeah, can't deny that. Glad you noticed the shades of brown at least." Madroxnsays with a bemused yet ever smug smile. Can't help it. Paying her back put them on even ground and he's loving it. Financially, at the least. "Contrary to popular belief, I do give a shit about people other than myself. Don't spread it around. I have a reputation to uphold." The subject of Creed turns his stomach. Madrox has done some wild and unethical stuff in his day but it was always with a greater good in mind. People like the Brotherhood? "I hope you get it, Dom. I'll even buy the gasoline." They can all hang. Sparing a glance over shoulder, Madrox gets to his feet. Taking the two steps and topping off Dom's mug after she made the contents vanish. It's a neat trick he practices often. Stowing that half empty bottle back in his overcoat, Jamie offers Domino a light, noncommital shrug. "Maybe they see you trying to make a difference in your own way. That's why we're all here, right? I'm here to see Emma Frost... at a safe distance. But you? It can end well. Long as your luck holds out." A wink and Jamie nods back toward the double doors. "Gonna jet. Need to let Hisako off the hook. Get my ass to the airport. You... take it easy, Dom. As much as you can." 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     The glass refilled, Domino gives it a little swirl before knocking it back and letting it burn on the way down. Eyes water very briefly before she blinks that away and she rises to her feet as well. "I get that second chance, we will have a brat roast or something. Really give it a good send off. By enjoying ourselves after." She smirks at him, danger in those blue eyes sparking as she considers the talker that is Madrox.     "Here and Gone Again, Just Another Typical Madrox story," she muses at him. Her eyes narrow, give him a good long study before she upnods and then glances towards the door.     "I do not say it often," she remarks, "To you that is but be safe in Genosha. Magneto's still one of them," she points out and gives a roll of her shoulders. "And that Frost girl. Also be careful." She winks and then reaches out to take his mug from him as well, meaning to set them straight in the sink and destroy the evidence with some H2O.     She tucks the money under her arm and then nods to him. "Take a breather, yeah?" That said she turns and walks away, heading for the sink. 
}}

9231/Along Came A... Wizard

2019-09-17T18:44:26Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/09/17 |Location=Greenwich Village, Manhattan |Synopsis=Kid Arachnid gets an arcane save from none other than Zachary Zatara! |Cast of Characte..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/09/17
|Location=Greenwich Village, Manhattan
|Synopsis=Kid Arachnid gets an arcane save from none other than Zachary Zatara!
|Cast of Characters=7711,1693
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:7711|Miles Morales (7711)}} has posed:''' "Wait, wait, wait. You don't understand!" Miles exclaims while hurtling through the air at break neck speeds. He'd hoped that luring his would-be captives past Stark Tower that they'd activate some sort if... laser? Robot? Thing? Nope. Nadda. "I'm not running because I'm scared." Another webline zips and Kid Arachnid takes a sharp turn down 214th and toward Strange's place. Maybe this will work. Pass the buck and get to work on time? Probably not. "I just don't want to be seen actually fighting you, man. No offense." Turning in mid air, Miles Morales lets off rapid bursts of webbing at the... well, the half naked elderly man in gym shorts that's riding some sort of silvery sky chariot. That looks like the Silver Surfer had taken up sledding. Green bolts of energy fire from the contraption. As webbing splats the pilot, Miles takes a bolt of light to the black and red spandex clad chest. Rag doll effects are not flattering. He barely has time to stick the landing and web that wild sky sled thing. He certainly doesn't have time to stop the blue sedan that's barrel rolling through the air at him. Eyes widen as he looks over shoulder, time slowing in his head enough to wonder if this is how it ends? Splattered by a Chrysler while trying to stop some deranged and off his rocker scientist on a... weird, futuristic Hoverround? Please no one be filming... 

:'''{{#var:1693|Zachary Zatara (1693)}} has posed:''' Street performances are a little below most Zataras' pay grade, but Zachary didn't have the fame and renown as his relatives, loathe he is to admit, and there was a trendy, artistic bunch out today that pressed him for a trick or two. Naturally, that led to an impromptu show that's gathered a healthy (and growing) crowd. Luckily, Bunny's shooting. He loves this stuff, really. Internet trolls and magic debunkers sometimes call him out for doing most of his illusions right in the comfort of his own studio. Turns out, fooling an audience in person is just as easy. And that's why he does it: the gasps, the applause, the amazement. "Um, Zat?" His assistant, a black-haired woman who is wearing a tank top and a fishnet shirt, is looking up. Who looks up? "Gimme a minute, Bunny," Zachary's holding a dulled sword. "Who wants to see me shove this down my throat?" Crowd. Goes. Wild. "But," She protests. "He really looks like he could use some help. I don't know why an old man is chasing him. Maybe it's his-" "What," Zach follows her gaze, bites down on his lip, and turns back to his energic audience with a megawatt smile. "It's your lucky day folks! Today, you will witness what it means to be a true magician." "Dnepsus eht rac ni eht ria!" 

:'''{{#var:7711|Miles Morales (7711)}} has posed:''' He keeps telling himself that one of these days he's going to fight a big time bad guy. You know, Rhino or Punisher, right? Maybe kick it up a notch and take on Killer Croc. But no. He's dealing with a senile space segway jockey. Arms trembling, Miles held onto half a dozen web lines connected go the silver sky sled as it powers harder and harder to try and break free. Asphalt cracks under Kid Arachnid's feet. He has enough time to register the facts. The underside of that car is filthy as it bares down on him, mere feet from his masked face. A crowd on the sidewalk, clearly out of harms way and most now looking at him. "Really?!" He exclaims as a flash goes off. That's when the car just... stops? Blinking dully, Miles looks at the levitating cars undercarriage. The crowd. Eyes widening with recognition, he transfers the web lines to his left hand. Arm shaking with strain as he keeps that weird rocket cart from escaping. Free hand pointing a red finger at Zachary. "Bruh! I follow you! This you or am I dead?" He asks with a nod at the suspended Chrysler. 

:'''{{#var:1693|Zachary Zatara (1693)}} has posed:''' "For the moment, you are very much alive. How long that holds true remains to be seen," The young magician bows. The top's missing, so it doesn't look as good as it could, but the motion's clearly well-practiced. "Zachary Zatara, at your service. You're a spider-person...but with the wrong colors. Spider-Lad? Spider-Boy? Anyway." "Who let this guy out of his nursing home?" Zachary approaches, and Bunny tuuuuuuurrrrrnns the camera towards him. "Oh, is this, like, a family matter? I'm not supposed to get into those unless they're demons involved." He doesn't look like a demon, though, does he? So Zach figures he's safe to cast another spell. "Ecrofnier sih gnibbew htiw ym skcigam!" The web lines take on a glittering golden glow, not too unlike a famous lasso. It should hold now. Should being the operative word. 

:'''{{#var:7711|Miles Morales (7711)}} has posed:''' "Why does -everybody- assume Spider-Lad? Don't get me wrong, that's almost better-" Miles asides as he digs his feet in harder, bend the knees to get that better anchor. Concrete crunches. All the while, a car remains levitating and an almost ashen grey old man frantically jams on controls. Webbing muffling very, very profane curses. "Than Kid Arachnid." The sleds jet engines shriek, green flames roaring from turbines while Miles tries to hold as casual a conversation as he can manage. Which, in black and red skin tights is tough enough but adding all this? A challenge. "Yeah, yeah. He was all 'revenge against Luthor' and blah, blah, blah. Sucker zapped me over Incredible Amir's. You know, with the crazy good falaffel rings?" The sled tugs, webbing starts to fray and Miles returns to a two handed grip. "Hey, that trick you did when you breathed fire, was that kerosene and muscle control or are you -really- part demon? Because both are... Oh, hey!" Hiss webs start glowing gold, tingling watmly in his grip, Miles feels the strain lessen. Swining hard, he flings silver sky sled and rider straight at a bus stop. "Both are killer. Bus STOP!" 

:'''{{#var:1693|Zachary Zatara (1693)}} has posed:''' "You're a lad, you're a spider," Zachary shrugs. "I admit I'm not very creative with superhero aliases, considering real ones work just as well. Rewol eht rac." He drops a hand and puts the car back on its wheels. "Never been, but I've heard good things," The Zatara wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. He pulls off the 'casual sorcerer' well, but sustaining certain spells actually take a degree of concentration. "A real magician never reveals his secrets, right? Stick around and find out. Spoiler: I am not part-demon. That's not an actual option." "Oh, the property damage," He sighs and lowers both hands, as the sledder crashes. "Sbew emoceb epor." The elderly man finds himself expertly tied in rope where there was once web stuff. 

:'''{{#var:7711|Miles Morales (7711)}} has posed:''' "You're a lad." Kid Arachnid fires back without skipping a beat. That wide arching swing didn' either. Carrying that streamlined vehicle a d rider crashing into steel and safety glass. It's a mess. "Nobody -ever- talks about how hard that is. Super hero names aren't easy. Then when you pick one, some newspaper says 'nope' and slaps 'lad' on you." Miles clucks his tongue at the wreckage but ultimately gives a non-challant shrug. Clapping his hands relatively clean, Miles hops up onto the roof of that now grounded sedan. Crouched and resting both hands atop knees. "Not part demon, huh? I'll buy it for now." A brow arches, surprised and still pretty awed by the magic on display. He snap-points as webbing morphs into actual rope and entwines the would-be assailant. "That is so cool. Oh! Aaaah, man! Were you doing a thing? I didn't ruin it, right?" 

:'''{{#var:1693|Zachary Zatara (1693)}} has posed:''' "Well, let's see what they think..." Zachary turns and gestures towards the crowd that's expanded maybe tenfold in the brief heroic interlude. And, of course, the two teenage supers are greeted with an enthusiastic wave of applause and a few flashes. "They love it. They might think the whole thing was staged, or controlled, but when the curtains fall, this won't be something they'll ever forget." "Might be able to help you with that name problem," Zach retrieves his phone from his pocket. "Selfie? I'll use the proper hashtag, and come tomorrow, a newspaper or two may just stop calling you Lad-anything." 

:'''{{#var:7711|Miles Morales (7711)}} has posed:''' The applause is -startling- to say the least. Taken aback at first, Miles almost cringes back but ends up chuckling under a breath at his own reaction. A black gloved hand waggling crimson webbed fingers in a little wave. "Between you and me, Mr. Zatara? I'm still not convinced it wasn't staged." He says with a wide, unseen grin. He just can't help it. A wave here, a wave there as Miles drinks it in. Oooooh man, what a rush to the ego. Snatching out his own phone, Miles hopes down off the sedan to snap a picture with Zach. "Ahhhhh, you're too righteous. Don't let anybody tell you different. Thanks for the assist! They guys'll never believe it until they see it!" That said, Miles leaps upward and THWIP! Off he goes. Making it look all too easy. 
}}

9183/The Birthday Blues: Blow Out the Candles

2019-09-14T03:59:14Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/09/13 |Location=Campsites - Breakstone Lake |Synopsis=Sabretooth brings Wolverine a birthday gift of violence. Domino and Wolverine return the..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/09/13
|Location=Campsites - Breakstone Lake
|Synopsis=Sabretooth brings Wolverine a birthday gift of violence. Domino and Wolverine return the favor in kind.
|Cast of Characters=787,202,180
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Peace and quiet. It's what people are seeking when they hike the trails around the lake. It's what they need when making a home for themselves away from the immediate hustle and activity around the mansion proper. It's peace and quiet that Logan may have sought but tonight is where any brief notions of comfort and normalcy are dashed against the lake rocks and bled out into the waters. People think that you have to be a brilliant tactician or some variety of super being not of this world to get one over on Logan or even the X-Men he surrounds himself with but in the end, the simplest of plays can go unnoticed in search of larger concerns and threats. Victor Creed knew damn well what he was signing up for when he put his event in motion for his long time 'friend'. Distance was key. Cheap drones, burner phones and patience gave him everything he needed to get insight to habits and schedules. He'd mapped out routes, laid down deterrents that would sway foot traffic away from Logan's territory. There would be no interruptions... This is a special night, after all. The wind and humidity work against Logan as he's coming back to the cabin. The scents all natural and expected. Then he smells it. Faint but not unexpected. It's been three days since he's seen Domino. Three days since anybody has so much as even heard a whisper from her or about her. Professionally. Socially. Not a peep. It wouldn't be the first time that Neena has gone to ground after a contract and from what word in the market was saying, she was last seen entering Madripoor. So it may not be of much surprise when Logan catches the hint of her scent. Her perfume. On a tree twenty yards off trail. Then another. Thirty paces out, back toward the path. Again and again... he'll know it's a trail. He'll feel the horrible truth dawning on him long before he gets to the cabin. 

:'''{{#var:202|Logan (202)}} has posed:''' "When my life has en-ded, and time has run out," Logan half-sings, half-mutters to himself as he trudges up the winding dirt pathways that lead to his cabin in the woods. An evening spent in a bottle somewhere other than his cabin, by the smell of it thick on his clothes, "My friends and my love-d ones, will lea -" He pauses for a moment, sniffing the air at that faint hint of a familiar scent. His lips quirk slightly at the corners, a smile that creases the corners of his eyes like worn leather. He follows it - almost compelled - until he's closing in on the cabin. But something is off. Other scents mingled in there that don't belong. The way the scent seems to die off almost entirely before it springs forth again, keeping him on the trail. Dragging it out. A trap? As he steps into the clearing at the base of the wooded hill that his cabin sits upon, Logan's head shifts slowly to look this way and that. Keen eyes pierce the murky evening, ears listen to the faintest shuffle of small creatures in the grass and trees, nose picks out the individual colors of this grim tableau's palate. SNIKT. Three claws, blood-soaked and almost glowing in the pale moonlight, pop free from his knuckles as though they were spring-loaded. His smile shifts into a pained grimace, the red pit-pattering against the dead leaves and underbrush at his feet. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' It's a game, right? The thrill of catching a scent familiar to you. Welcomed even. Following it to the source and moving to the next and next. Nothing more natural. Pure. This game is not one with pure intentions. As Logan goes to the next tree, there's the dab of her sweat. The next... lipstick. Then a scrap of leather from her holster. A strip of her usual work attire. This is absolutely a trap. Logan breaking the clearing, the familiar sight of his cabin has been twisted into somethibg out of nightmare. His kitchen table brought outside, a red checkered cloth held down by a store bought birthday cake. So many candles jammed into the top that wax has pooled and dripped, ruining anything even remotely edible. The stink of diesel fuel plays Hell on his keen senses. The smoke of candles... and beneath it all... Blood. So much blood. The flickering canlde light casting a ghoulish light on the once peaceful lot. In the front window of the cabin, a shadowy X is emblazoned against the glass. A sickening realization bubbling to the surface that the X... is Domino. Crucified to the mans window frame on grisly display. "Happy biiiiirthdaaaay toooo yoooouuuuu..." Croons the savage growling tone of Victor Creed standing in the doorway. 

:'''{{#var:202|Logan (202)}} has posed:''' There's a thing about Logan's healing factor that even he does not truly understand. It heals any kind of injury - psychical or psychological. As the harsh imagery coalesces before him to form a narrative in his mind, his mutant gene revolts. It fights to push them into the depths, to callus over them like so much mental scar tissue. The side effect of it all being that the beast within him - the beast he works tirelessly to contain - threatens to break loose. It could so easily be a violent bloodbath. A whirlwind of death and blood that he wouldn't even remember clearly come the next morning. He could protect himself from the pain that's waiting around the corner here, if only he were to just give in. There are two dogs within me, he thinks to himself, one is good and one is evil. They fight tirelessly. Which dog wins? The one I feed. He remains here. Present in the moment. His teeth bare, sharpened canines glinting. His shoulders hunch, clawed hands held at his sides. The weapons he knows best. The weapons he has used all his life. Inside, he calms himself. He quietens himself. Pushes that ravening bloodlust down deep where it belongs. But it's still there. Still growling. "Creed." 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     The world is a haze and coming out of a rather long unintentional sleep, Domino is hit wtih the aches and pains of one dealing with a nasty hangover. A hangover when you mix all the wrong things together. Her body feels like dead weight but then she goes to move and there is a catch in her throat. Pain seers like fire from her hand and down to her arm, pale flesh splattered and painted her own blood. The ache of old wounds made before this day of days are stitched, closed up and given some time to repair themselves.     "Unngh," is the only sound she can make. Sure it was meant to be a word but then those are hard to come by. Tongue and lips not yet willing to form them as she rests there in the window. Where is she? That is not important at this stage in her mindset, its the pain and the discomfort from how she is set at an angle to make that X. One hand is definitely far more strained than the other as she lets out a shuddering breath. Nerves are firing and reaching out to other nerves to shake them away so that soon she's just flesh made of pain and pinned to a crooked cross. Blazing blue eyes open, perhaps not as keen as they usually are but there is definitely focus to them as the garish birthday hat atop her head definitely stands out against the dark of her hair.     The world is a blur outside that window and her foot, not bound starts to move, the sole of her boot squeaking against the glass - yep, she's alive here. To top it off, there is a collar about her neck and a steady bright BLIP of a light goes off.     SQUEAK SQUEAK..SQUEEEEEAAAAK goes that boot against the glass. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' It's why Sabretooth does this. It's the whole reason for all this planning. All this violence. He did this for Logan. It's the gift that keeps on giving. Every twelve years. The day may change, the bait may be different but the gift is ever the same. A chance at -honesty-. The opportunity to let the leash go and run screaming into a whirlwind of hate and fury. Massive. That's one way to describe Victor Creed as he dominates the doorway with his inhumanly powerful frame. A simple white tank top. Clean and new. Tucked into durable canvas pants. Hideously large belt buckle with an etched image not suitable for anyone under the age of 26. It's vile. Bare feet and in that clawed hand of his... a home made trigger. "Logan. C'mon, where's your birthday cheer, runt?" He asks while waggling that remote mockingly between two fingers. "Sit down, Logan. You know why I'm here." Rolling his shoulders, the animalistic brute pushes away from the cabin. Pausing to slap his dinner plate sized palm against the glass window. "HEY! We're having a MOMENT, Neena!" Laughing, he shakes his head and approaches that little cake and table with an all too cheerful smile on his scruffy mug. "Now don't you go blamin' me for all this, runt. You know damn well it's your fault. You. Got. Soft." 

:'''{{#var:202|Logan (202)}} has posed:''' "Yer a maniac," Logan growls, taking a few slow and considered steps towards the table but not sitting down, "A rabid dog tryin' a' prove a damn fool's point." Even though there's no immediate fight, Logan's claws remain unsheathed. He knows enough about these little get-togethers to know that they don't end well. Already his pulse has quickened, the blood coursing through his veins so quickly that their shared sense of animal hearing can pick it up. His heart pounds heavy in his chance, eyes flicking towards Neena where she's been strung up. "Neena," he calls, no panic or fear in his voice - only grim determination, "You hang on, darlin'." Maybe there is a part of him that's afraid of Victor Creed. There certainly has to be, doesn't there? If there's a part that hates him, then a part that fears him must be there, too. But he doesn't show it. He's furious, of that there is no doubt, but it is a rage tempered like Samurai steel. Focused and deadly. "If you hurt her again," he says, low but still loud enough to be heard, "I'm gonna forget we're acquainted." 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     The smack against the window draws Neena's glittering gaze. Anger mixes with pain before a coolness greets him. She still can't focus like she wants to and the squeaking of her boot against the glass does not change despite Victor's bid for her to quiet so that Logan and he can have a moment. Like hell.     The pale mercenary moves a shoulder and not long after Logan bids her to hang in there, she lets out a strangled sound of pain. That large spike through her hand is stretching the wound when she moves and more blood trickles down her palm. If she could even think to curse she would but right now its pain, annoying evil doers and that glass she's nearly pressed against.     She drags her foot back and kicks again and again, sensations and motions coming a bit more readily with each moment. It does not break, does not give and she wants to cry out again as the movement stretches her hand just a bit more, tearing flesh upon that spike that bears most of her weight. She blinks, eyes rolling a moment as she starts to make out their shapes a little more clearly but really its a bit of a fuzzy mess that looks like shapes and figures at times.     There is no warning yelled back to Logan. No promise to end Victor. But then Domino has never been one with quippy remarks when the going gets tough. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' "Now, now. This is your day, bud. No need for all the compliments. Might just make me blush." Creed taunts with that impossibly deep and rough tone. Bare feet pad on cooling grass as the sun sets behind the cabin. If it wasn't for the crimes against humanity and baked goods, it's be a downright beautiful night. At the table, Victor gestures to the ruined and partially burning cake with an upturned palm. That remote device loose in his other mit. "She ain't got a choice but to hang around. You know if you do it right, crucifixion actually suffocates the victim? Not blood loss or exposure. Wild, huh?" A blond eyebrow, bushy and expressive, arches upward. A glance back over shoulder levels a dissatisfied frown on Domino. He doesn't notice the crack starting to creep up the glass as Neena keeps applying pressure. "Don't worry none. I ain't gonna kill this one. I mean, why throw out a piece like that, am I right or am I right?" That smile of his goes wider. Savage and toothy. All too cheerfully insane. "You already got them pig stickers out, boy. What's holdin' you back?" Amber eyes widen and he throws his head back. Slapping his knee with a chuckle. "This?!" He asks while mockingly offering the trigger to Logan. "Probably right. I mean... this thing has a hair trigger. Literally could go off for any reason. Like, say... admitting I'm right. Walking in there. And killing her yourself. Like a goddamned man." 

:'''{{#var:202|Logan (202)}} has posed:''' Logan's eyes flick to the device in Victor's hand, trailing the invisible thread to the collar around Domino's throat. He sniffs at the air; the chemical tang of explosives is there if faint. His teeth bare once again, though the claws do not disappear. "Theatrical," he rumbles, blue eyes burning hateful embers, "Guess I figured wild animal like you'd be itchin' fer an actual fight. Not playin' games." He once more drops his eyes to the trigger. Evaluating it. They've had a lot of the same training, the only difference being that Creed remembers where they got it. "C'mon, you mad son of a bitch. You wanna see if I'll snap? Drop that trigger 'n see if I don't rip yer fuckin' HEAD OFF!" The last words raise quickly into a shout so bestial, so furious that the birds roosting in the pines take wing and flutter off into the gloaming sky with squawks of protest. For all his effort to focus his rage, it always boils there beneath the surface. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Time. Logan needs time and that is registering in her head. The exchange muffled by the glass she looks at Victor when he looks at her and there is teeth, gritted together in a ferocious press of white expanse. She may not be like them but Domino's got a wild streak to match them. When Logan finally yells she takes that moment to press. The top hand suddeny lurches free, dragging the tent spike with it as she cries out and the glass begins to spider vein.     She can see the lines in her vision. Is that her eyesight or is that the glass? No time to question as she is struggling to stay awake as one leg slips down to try to catch herself and the other hauls off and slams her booted toe into the breakable mass before her.     In her view the world shatters into millions of pieces before her eyes and she rips her other hand free. Down she goes, lost from sight as she presses her back into the wall and draggs one spike out of her hand. She can not seem to catch her breath as the room spins and she digs a knee into the glass strewn floor. Cut. She can feel it bite into her.     Distraction enough? 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' "Aaahhh, there it is. Explosivo. Boom-Boom... just with less back talk." He says with a fanged grin of complete sadistic glee. He's savoring this, the bastard. He's milking it for every drop of torment he can strangle out of them. "What? I can't get a little flashy for my boy? C'mon. You -deserve- it." The smell of explosives is there. Muted but there. Battery acid. Plastic. But... it smells closer, somehow. "I wanna see you work, boy. I wanna see you put those claws where they belong." Sweeping his arm back, Victor Creed points an ultimately deadly talon back at Domino. "IN HER DAMN HEART!" Roaring out the words in direct challenge to Logans taunts, he doesn't see Domino finally work herself free enough to cause some damage. To create a distraction. Glass shatters and Sabretooth lifts that trigger between them a d smiles beautific and sweeter than he ever should. "Time to blow out the candles." Click. BOOM. The world flares white and hot between Logan and Victor as that birthday cake detonates. The explosion is fire and force. Shrapnel kept at a minimum, it's for effect... and the effect absolutely shreds them both. Flinging both men in opposite directions and helping thow Domino a little further onto the softer surface of an area rug. 

:'''{{#var:202|Logan (202)}} has posed:''' Faster, Logan thinks to himself, daring for just a moment to let his eyes drift past Creed to the figure of Domino, Faster, damn you. Crash! That's what he needed. The distraction! Enough to lunge for the trigger, only for it to be raised into the air and activated. His mouth opens, a wordless cry of protest as the explosion rocks him and sends him tumbling sidelong away from the table and the cabin. Air is forced from his lungs, flesh shredded by chunks of chipped wood and twisted, burning metal flung with concussive force. The red flannel shirt he wears is shredded now, what few tatters remain soaked bright red with blood. He lays there on the grass, dead silent - the flesh on one side of his face sheared away, revealing only tendon and sinew clinging desperately to bone and cartilage. But his adrenaline is racing, and his healing factor responds in kind. Flesh grows where it was lost in a time-lapse of the healing process, spreading out across bloodied mess to leave his face pink and clean. The stubble and hair that had grown there gone for now, leaving him with an odd half-shaven look. As he rises to his feet, one hand reaches to pluck a chunk of table from where it digs into his shoulder. He throws it to the ground forcefully, the wound already knitting up. Other wounds are less lucky, flesh closing over smaller pieces of embedded shrapnel he will need to cut himself open and fish out later. His healing factor has little regard for his comfort, only keeping him alive. In the haze he searches for him. Creed. Any and all concern for Domino is shoved deep down, the berserker within trampling it underfoot as it bays for blood like some wild hound. "CREED!" he screams, head thrown back and claws thrust out to either side of him. Only his jeans remain roughly intact, the rest of his body smeared with blood, dirt, and birthday cake. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Domino was up, rising to her feet and pulling the last tent spike free of her hand. She never hears it clatter when the explosion just outside the window deafens eveyrthing. Her ears ringing, heat searing at her back she is thrown forward, feeling something tear slightly that had been crudely stitched up as she grunts and slams into the couch. CUSHY She comes to a halt on her side, staring at the kitchen as she groans. "Psychopath," she hisses lamely, her voice cracking. Did she even get water? Nope.     Neena gets a hand beneath her, bloodied and leaving a mark as she winces when pain spikes through it. She can hear the scream of Logan's war cry outside in the form of 'Creed'. She nearly turns around to see if she can do something when her beretta's are noted. "Fucking idiot," she hisses out, a faint grin pulling at her lips as she walks her way over to the counter. "Or lucky." She's not about to question it as she pulls on her belt, wincing as she has to really work around the holes in her hands, some fingers not responding the way they should in that moment. Then her deft hands take hold of her guns and she breathes in.     Slowly her head turns and she looks at the front door and instead, walks out the back. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' The smile on his face, he hopes will be forever burned into Logan's mind. The satisfied smile of a man getting what he wants on someone elses birthday. He wanted to push Logan past his breaking point. The flash and flare of explosives wipes that smug ass smirk off his face. Clear off. Logan rag dolls one way and Victor the other. Hitting the cabin hard enough to crack supports. Burnt hair, broken bones and ruptured organs. Sabretooth gasps as consciousness snaps back into place. Drawing in a ragged breath, his lung popping back into proper shape. Bones creak and crack as his healing factor works in triple time. Muscle growing over stark white bone. He's pushing himself up from the now hot grass, ears ringing and blood trickling from blown drums. "Hhhuuuurrrrrrgggghh" He manages before dragging a chair leg from his throat. Fire flickers and licks at his skin, the huge beast literally aflame here and there. Hair. Scraps of cotton or canvas. Uneasy at first, Victor straightens up and draws in a deep, life affirming breath. Those amber eyes flaring a sickly greenish yellow in the fire light. Lips growing back just as he lets out a primal howl of agony and rage. Luck was on Domino's side for sure when she found those shooters. Creed having completely forgotten them in favor of the tent stakes he found to pin her up with. Out the back door she goes and it's a completely different environment. No fire. No debris... nevermind that. A chair engulfed in flame lands beside her. The murderous cries of two clawed madmen still reaches her ears. She's armed. She's wounded. She's got a bone to pick. Flash to the other side of the cabin and Victor Creed launches himself at Logan. Claws extended, wild fury in his eyes as he flies at the other man with the force of a head on car crash. 

:'''{{#var:202|Logan (202)}} has posed:''' The roar that scratches its way free of Logan's chest is more animal than man, primal hatred and fury wrapped in an overwhelming urge to kill. This is the base equation of the wilderness. Kill / Be Killed. There is nothing more to it than that. He understands that all too well, and even as tries to rein himself in that wild spirit has gone too far. He fights like an animal now, and it is truly a terror. As Victor leaps at him, Logan dives headlong with clawed fists clutched at his side. They meet in the air with a heavy thud, the Wolverine's adamantium skeleton likening him to so a Mack truck wrapped in so many pounds of sinew and flesh. Sabretooth's claws rend at the flesh about his shoulders, new rivulets of blood pouring out to mix with sweat and the ragged remains of what was once a shirt. He grimaces, the pain no less excruciating for having felt it a half a million times. When Logan opens his mouth, there are no intelligible words. No taunts or threats. Only growls, roars, and snarls. His clawed fist plunges at Victor's side, looking to stick him in the flank with those long razors. Once is not enough. He stabs over and over, arm like a piston back and forth in a haze of bloodlust. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Domino has more than a bone to pick. She has a cat to tear apart.     She has no claws but with subtle clicks and presses of her guns, both now house that special ammo she has just in case for moments like this. The flaming chair slams into the ground not far away and she eyes it a moment before she starts around the house. She can hear the thudding of her heart, blood pounding like some war drum that is accent to the raging brawl going on not far from her. Just another turn and she will have them in sight.     Neena is still feeling sluggish from the sedatives, not to mention the feeling of hot blood spilling free of a wound stitched up. She's got this.     This is fine.     She rounds the corner and the two are far too close together for her to feel good about firing so she scans the grounds, looking for anything and when they roll just right, a gun lifts and she pulls the trigger. The gun jumps a little in her weakened grip but the bullet has its course set right for Victor's spine.     Kiss. Hello big fella. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Happy Birthday, Logan. This unhinged, instinct driven killing frenzy is brought to you by the letter K. The number six and a bloodthirsty psychopath. This is what birthdays are all about. This is why Victor Creed revisits these little moments. Reminding the othr man that the world was so much simpler when you narrowed it down to two things. Life and death. The two make startling impact. It's not one of those 'unstoppable force, immoveable object' moments. This is a display of violence not often seen on this world. The two collide and claws start flying. For Logan, it's direct assaults. Go for vitals, reach through and swing for fences with surgical precision. For Victor, it's a dance. You have to move differently when fighting Logan. You have to twist just right before those claws punch home or it's game over. Speed is key and as Wolverine stabs again and again, Victor is literally tearing chunks off the mans adamantium skeleton. Ripping at connective tissue. It's a blur of intensity. Blood spattering as Victor snarls wordlessly in Logan's face. He really, really needs to stop coubting Domino down and out. Underestimating women may be a bit of a problem for him but with this particular mercenary? It's damn near suicidal. Wrapped up in the dance of death that has the two men so completely engaged... Victor feels that hot kiss of thought obliterating pain. Legs go slack as he curls black talons around Logan's ribs. Making a mince of his lung as he screams bloody spittle into his face. Crippled but they all know that won't stick. 

:'''{{#var:202|Logan (202)}} has posed:''' Logan's own healing factor works at a slower pace than Victor's. Something about the adamantium grafted to his skin constantly poisoning him, requiring it to always leave a little juice in the tank to take care of that. His own wounds knit closed quickly, but not quick enough that he doesn't paint a grisly picture. Chunks of flesh dangling by meaty strings, the glint of bloody silver beneath the mess that is his flank. Even as his body begins to heal, he's still dealing with vital tendons being severed. The strength in his arms slackens as muscle is shredded away from his shoulders, though the same burning intensity remains in his eyes. The sudden, punctured lung leaves him unable to make a sound save to gasp throatily and choke up a bubbling foam of blood across snarling lips. The sound of the bullets cracking through the air reach him, and he feels Sabretooth's legs go slack. He doesn't let up, barely able to stand himself as his claws retract and he grabs the other man by both shoulders. His teeth clench tight, grinding together as he leans back and drives his adamantium forehead into bridge of Victor's nose. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     With half of Victor unable to move Domino pushes her luck and advances, strafing to the left and into view of his peripheral. That black patch over her eye noticeable from the distance she is at as another bullet sparks free and goes right for Victor's jaw, meaning to cleave the lower half of his face off. But why shoot one bullet when you have many in a clip oh and look - another gun.     The second shot comes from her other gun now leveled towards a hand, meaning to render it unusable. Disable him and let Logan do what he likes with his sadistic clinger of a friend. Really, no one needs that kind of negativity in their life.     These bullets are special. Made just for mutants like Sabertooth and sadly, also Logan. She is doing her best to get clean shots. "How the fuck does he even die?"     A question for the ages. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' It's like 1990's splatter art on bath salts and mescaline. There's blood and viscera in every direction. Victor Creed himself is a horrific mess of carved off muscle and spouting stab wounds that seal almost immediately after those long claws pull out for another assault. He's not letting up. He has to get to the -heart- of the matter. Wrap his fist around it and show him what he's talking about. Life and death. Nothing in between but fleeting moments of distraction. He's gripping those adamantium laced ribs like safety rails. Eye to eye with Logan but the tides have turned... Now it's -him- looking up at Wolverine. He does not particularly care for this change. Teeth and vicious fangs stained crimson, he smiles wicked and clearly insane. "W-what's another... twelve years?" A laugh bubbles up from his throat but it's cut short by the CLANK and darkness of a headbutt from Wolverine. It rattles the cage and knocks the hamster right off the wheel. Victors eyes roll but his grip remains. Locked like a snapping turtle. That is until Domino chimes in. Head thrown back, he takes a round to the jaw. Eyes snap toward Domino as a tooth lodges into Logan's cheekbone. A guttural sound leaves him and that wicked grasp loosens... the next shot takes his hand. Not off but his claws finally slip free of Logans chest. The heavy thud of his body hitting the earth is louder than expected. The low, barely audible chuckle that rocks his body as he begins to freel his toes? Now -that- is a gift worthy of any birthday. "You can't kill me. I'm a recurring nightmare. You deserve me." His laugher rises, louder still. Madness and homicidal urges never mix well. "Shakily, his healing factor slowed by those damn rounds, he points a claw across the lake. "B-but the other bomb? They don't deserve that..." 

:'''{{#var:202|Logan (202)}} has posed:''' Logan's only response as Victor falls to the ground is to scream at the top of his lungs. A victory cry. The sought of terrifying howl that drifts across the treetops and causes those people living safe at the mansion to shudder like someone just walked over their collective graves. His claws still unsheathed, burnished with blood, he hunches over the prostrate form of Sabretooth and raises them before him. His breathing is heavy, a rattling growl running through his chest. His flesh is a mess of blood so thick and gruesome that it's impossible to tell if the wounds beneath have even healed. "CREED!" he shouts again, lifting one of his clawed hands up and leveling all three prongs at the man's exposed neck. He holds in there, arm quivering. But a moment from unleashing and ending this sick game for all. Which dog wins? The one I feed. With a grisly sound, his claws retract back into his hands. He steps over the bloodied body of Sabretooth, moving towards Neena and stretching a hand caked with blood and sodden earth out towards her. "Come," he growls at her, breath still ragged and words not coming easily. He doesn't wait for her, turning instead and lurching off in the direction of the mansion and Creed's promised bomb. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     "NO! Logan no! End him!" Neena is so desperate for it, SHE can taste it as those claws slide back out of view. A few more shots are let loose of her gun before the general thrum of it cause her hand to shiver. SHe no longer trusts herself to not hit something else and stops, glancing up at Logan when he extends his hand.     Domino stares at him up until Victor's sudden sharing. "Right, you ...gonna kill kids. Yeah not sure why I question that, go..I will be right behind." She watches him take off and its a struggle, a visible one for a split second. She's got more bullets, a lot more with Sabertooth's name on them. "Enjoy the pain. I will see you again." She offers the promise or threat depending on how one looks at it. Pivoting she does her best to keep up with Logan but no where near fast enough, not with the stitched wound open again and angering her side. She slides her guns away and prsses her hand to the glossy wet feeling of her suit.     She gets a fair distance and then her legs just give out. Blood loss, unwanted drug abuse and adrenaline wearing a little thin she takes time to get to her feet again but definitely not as steady as Logan.     "I actually have the excuse of being too old." She rumbles out to no one but the air. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Retaining consciousness is a struggle even with his ramped up stamina and regeneration. So much blood loss. Surviving such a truly staggering number of outright killing blows takes a toll on a man. Even a man like Sabretooth. Vision fading in and out. It's a sickening sensation being lifted off the grass when you can't really feel anything. A weak yet all too contented smile plays across his lips. That fanged display of crimson and white growing all the wider at the sound of his name roared so defiantly. The business ends of adamantium claws scoring thin lines in his throat as Wolverines arm shivers with both restraint and no doubt an intense need to finish the curse that is Victor Creed. "Listen.... listen to the frail. Do it." Neck straining, Victor lifts his head to those deadly claws. Only to be denied a fitting end. His head falls back. Chest rocking with the beginings of laughter as Logan races off to ensure the safety of others. Leaving him alone with Domino once more. "It's been real, Neena." He says before she takes off after Wolverine. The sadistic, unhinged laughter of a monster following them until it can no more. No bomb is found. No danger left behind. The only thing left in Victor Creeds wake is a bit of destruction, a lot of questions and a bloody trail that ends at the waters of the lake. No body to be found. 
}}

9135/Just a Few Pointers

2019-09-10T03:14:59Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/09/09 |Location=China Basin, Old Gotham |Synopsis=Morrigan getting mugged wakes up Victor from a hangover. He then teaches her how to knife. |..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/09/09
|Location=China Basin, Old Gotham
|Synopsis=Morrigan getting mugged wakes up Victor from a hangover. He then teaches her how to knife.
|Cast of Characters=787,228
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' It's not unnusual for a woman to look into self defense. Some kickboxing lessons, maybe some time at the range with a new Glock. Stereotypical, expected and boring. No, Morrigan wanted to learn the art of the blade. The sweet science of slice. The finer points of... finer points. So when she started looking around and not finding all too many master swordsmen laying about, it could get frustrating. Luckily, that frustration was not to last. A young man emailed her back, saying he heard from a friend that she was looking to learn. Meet in China Basin. Across the street from Dang's Fine Laundry and Dry Clean. The only issue was that upon arrival, the only place across from Dang's was... well, a martial arts studio. That looks like it closed back in 2015. Windows dusty and clouded over with grime. A sign on the locked door, fresh printer stock with an arrow pointing to the right. 'Door Broken. Use Alley Entrance'. Absolutely above board, right? Right It's getting dark. The humidity never left. It's one of those muggy, sticky Gotham nights that always just goes completely according to plan... Yeah. Right. 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan was convinced that this was going to be alright. It was just a new experience. And she definitely needed to learn how to defend herself more while she was learning magic. She just didn't like guns. She'd leave all of those to Mister Castle. The red headed woman gives a look over the building after she's exited the Uber and her hands go to her hips as she looks the place over. This was fine. She approaches the door, her bright violet gaze reading the sign, then she checks her phone. Reception was shady. Much like this place. She thinks for a moment and then peers around the corner to the alley, "You got this." she whispers to herself. She then steps around into the alley, dressed in jeans, black -shirt and a duffle bag. She brings it closer to her body as she looks around for where this entrance might be. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' This was too good to pass up. For three arrogant, criminally inclined young would-be Triads, this was easy money. Answer the ad. Get a feel for if the person is worth rolling and then dangle the hook. For Twuan, Heely and Nito, it's too easy. Heely had karate classes as a kid so he knew the terms. Nito was the looks and Twuan? Twuan was big and angry. They made a great team. For low rent thugs. Heely watched from across the street, smoking a cigarette outside Dang's. As Morrigan steeled her resolve and headed into the alleyway, stereotypical danger reared its multiple heads! Really, Morrigan... maybe Mister Castle was onto something. Twuan and Nito, a contrasting pair of very tall and athletic beside skinny and haggard lean. The big man puts out his smoke, Nito pushing away from the wall with hands in his pockets. "You lookin' for Heely? Lessons, right?" Asks the whip thin thug in flashy, second hand attire. A low whistle sounds behind her as Heely, all swagger and piercings, closes off the escape. Mugging 101 is in session. "First lesson is free, lady." He says when the flash of a switchblade catches the light from a flickering alley light the color of dirty amber. 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Maybe Mister Castle did! Morrigan stops short when someone steps away from the wall. The red head giving the men a look over and there's a moment she calls herself an idiot mentally. Shouldn't have done this. "Yeah, I'm looking for Heely. Not the Scarecrow, Tin-Man and the Cowardly Lion." she states with a look around. The third one that closes off the end of the alley gets her attention and she takes a moment to breathe. When she turns back to the other two those eyes of hers glow for a moment, "Alright. There's no need for violence. Want the money I brought. You can have it and I'll go. Won't even bother the cops with it." she tells them as she starts to wrap the strap of the bag around one of her fists. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' She's not the first person to have fallen for the schtick these three put up. There's always somebody willing to pay for 'authentic' lessons down in China Basin. Heely, Nito and Twuan haven't paid for booze in weeks because of it. The two keep a slow, confident approach. Relaxed with their backs to a dead end stacked high with refuse and discarded furniture. "I'm Heely. Scarecrow doesn't know fear like I make it. Ask him." He says all too confidently. Scarecrow would turn the boys mind into paste. That would be a kindness in the end. Pointing the blade at Morrigan, he approaches and reaches for her bag. "Give it all." The little man laughs when she looks back to him and Twuan. "Yeah, that's the thing though. We don't trust tourists." The glow of her eyes catches the two off guard and both give pause. Looking at eachothet for support here. Encouragement. That's all it takes for Heely. He doesn't see the danger. He sees the dollar signs and tries to grab her bag while slashing that knife wildly. "No witness, no cops!" Somewhere back in the dark, a low rumble is heard. Like a train rolling down distant tracks. 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan's going to put this down in the books for 'Dumbest Thing To Be Done This Year'. Seriously. She should just pick up a gun. "You really have NO idea what you're talking about. You're all just punks." she tells them. When Heely goes for the bag, she swings it at him, smacking him in the side of the face with it as that knife goes wildly through the air. And it definitely slices her skin open. She gives a yelp at the pain that runs up her arm. That is followed by the scent of blood in the air and the woman recoils a bit. Her blood pumping hard enough that she's trying to overcome the fight or flight instinct to stay and kick this dude in the balls. "Motherfucker!" she hisses at him. He manages to cut the strap of her bag and it dangles between them. She hears the rumble, but she just thinks it is a train or a truck far off. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' "Punks?! I'll show you-!" THWUMP! Heely takes a bag to the side of the dome, it's not filled with marshmallows and as his ear rings, he makes a note to next time cut first then go for the purse. Young Heely is not a man of moral fiber. The trade is made and Morrigan takes the bad end of it, catching a semi-dull switchblade across the back of her forearm. Nito is the first to have second thoughts. His pulse picked up, blood thundering as flashes of news footage pass before the mans eyes. Visions of alien laser eyes. He starts to shout for reconsideration. Twuan, tall and covered in tattoos and no shirt(fashion statement!), rushes Morrigan from behind as she struggles with Heely and her bag. FWUMP! Heely takes a toe to the stones and crumbles to his knees, visibly nauseated but still managing to keep his blade aloft and pointed at Morrigan. They don't see it. Not a single one of them was looking down the dead end way when Victor Creed woke from his blackout drunk nap. Do you have any idea how much this man has to drink to get that drunk? Madame Pigeon over at the Laughing Tiger knows. Enough to put her daughter into Gotham U. The scent of blood is what roused the beast. It was the strangled, cut short cry of surprise fron Nito that drew eyes back toward the dark... Back to the looming, brutish mutant known as Sabretooth with bloody talons held aloft. Crimson spattered like hot paint across all three of them as their little friend falls... in two directions at once. "I hate being woken up before my alarm." Growls that impossibly deep voice. Eyes glintng a haunting yellow as light reflects. 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan's bloody and cut open by the time Heely gets the bag. The toe of her boot had been planted firmly in his junk. Somehow being slashed didn't seem so bad. But she was betting that she was going to be brutally murdered in a few moment. Then there's the warm wash of blood...and not her blood. Her nostrils flare and her head turns slowly to see who or what is talking. She recognizes that face. From many months ago. She swallows and just lets go of the strap that she was holding onto. She wasn't going to need those clothes, no. All the blood rushes from her already pale face as she looks at the two halves of the one that has been cut in half. Because that's crazy to comprehend for the moment. Do you run or do you stay really really still? She didn't know which one. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' There's a saying in the underworld that Bullseye only gets out of bed for two mill, Sabretooth gets out of bed for two pints. Blood is the grand motivator. It floods his senses. Sparks a wildfire of regeneration and instinct. He's up. He's sober as a judge and his right arm is already awash in hot life. The smile that creeps to his face, fanged and savage, when Morrigan recognizes him. "Hello, frail." He growls cheerily as Nito breathes his last, dropped like so much garbage. Heely is stunned. The kick to the jewels and the unceremonious murder or a man he's known since grade school has left him shaking and babbling incoherently. Looks like he does know fear after all. Twuan? He's not smart but he's not stupid. A glance back at Victor and he tries to run. A massive hand grips the back of the would be assailants neck. Peering down at Morrigan, Twuan clawing and slapping frantically at Sabretooths hand as he's lifted off the street with too much ease. The man is choking. Victor is staring right. At. Her. "Why do I recognize you?" He asks, a dead mans blood misted on his skin like war paint. He seems serene. A sleepy sort of chipper for a murderer the size of a Prius. 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan's brain kicks in for a moment when Victor greets her and there's a curl of her fingers in a wave that she manages to give. A bloodly one. That was going to be an issue. She doesn't really gain any of her color back. The blood standing out in stark contrast against her skin. She watches Twuan being lifted off the ground. Then she's looking up to Victor, "Ran into you at a coffee shop months ago." she tells him. Why wouldn't she just give over information? I mean, he's currently turned the dude that sliced her up into a puppet. So she's not wanting to join the show. She also didn't realize he was this huge. But up close in blood covered it becomes something you can't miss. She still doesn't move. She keeps her feet planted where they are and she watches the mans eyes. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Blood brings everything to a crystal clarity that Victor simply cannot achieve without. Spilled by his hand or another, his blood or someone elses. Doesn't matter. It sets the world alight. The spatter of bright crimson on near snow white complexion causes Victor's reflective stare to linger. Heely struggles to stand, Victor's narrowing gaze and increased growl puts the man back to the asphalt in a puddle of his own making. Suspicious at first, Victor Creed's nostrils flare. Lips part as he draws in her scent, rolling it over his tongue with ragged purr in the back of his throat. Clawed fingers snap and he smiles wide, those fangs all too prominent. "Right, right. I remember you now. A little Irish with your Colombian, right?" That's when Twuan, turning purple, decides to jab a hunting knife into Victor's forearm. Growling low and warning, he grabs the offending hand and blade alike. Pulls them free and.... crunch... crackle. Twuan screams as his hand is ruined. Heely starts to sob quietly. "Well, Red. Time to get what's yours. Which one you stabbin', hmm?" What kind of psychotic question is that?! The kind that he means. A red smeared hand extends, palm up with a knife offered out. The one he just had in his forearm. The forearm that is -already- healed. "Only fair, right?" 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan looks to Heely as he gets up and for a moment she ALMOST tells the man to stay down for his own safety. Because she was pretty sure if he moved that the big guy was going to murder him. Maybe she was sure of it. Then her attention is back on Victor and there's a quick nod of her head, "Aye." she tells him. Then Twuan takes the chance to stab him and the woman flinches at the sound that follows. Her eyes closing for a moment. When she reopens them, she's looking at the bloody hand that's offering the knife, she feels a little green around the gills for a moment. "Someone would be very cross with me if I murdered them. Even if they are scumbags." she tells him. Doctors, that whole Oath thing. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Heely, dropping his switchblade from shock numbed hands, tugs weakly at Morrigans's pants leg. The man who literally just cut her over a bag is now looking up at her with pleading eyes. Begging in rapidfire Mandarin. Victor ignore the broken one. Twuan in his near strangled grasp, is slooooooowly let back to the ground. Claws lightly bite into the mans throat, just barely breaking skin. A deep, resounding chuckle leaves the big man. Victor keeping his prey captive. The young mans eyes wide, tears glittering with a mixture of terror and rage. "Aye, she says. Don't you live the accent, junior?" He asks Twuan, fangs close to the mans ear. He can almost smell the fear radiating off of them. Twuan manages a strangled affirmative before beggibg to be let go. Victor squeezes. The knife remains offered in that palm the size of a dinner plate. The smile takes a colder twist after he licks his lips. Amber eyes narrowed, focused. Even as two grown men quietly sob and beg, Victor offers his heartfelt advice. "They were gonna kill you, girl. Leave you bleeding out right.... well." He nudges half of Nito with his boot. "Right about here, probably. Take the knife, darlin'." 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan is a bit terrified at the moment so when Heely tugs at her pant leg she almost jumps out of her skin. She jerks away from him and there's a moment she moves down the wall, but not moving very far away. Not acting like she's running. For once she doesn't know what to do. But Victor speaks and she looks to him, even if she's not agreeing with him on things. A shakey hand reaches out and takes the knife, "I'm sorry." she tells him. Sorry for what? They'd find out. She grips the knife in her hand, not having held one like this before. It was all terrifying. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' It's like a drug to Sabretooth and the feral nightmares out there like him. Fear. He breathes it in like a perfume, eyelids fluttering as he allows himself a brief moment to revel in it all. The chaos of scents. Blood. Fear. Sweat. Urine. Garbage. Old fry oil. When his eyes snap back open, he snarls down at Heely with unexpected force and ferocity. "Don't -touch- her, meat." Broken, he curls upon himself in the middle of the alley. Sabretooth smiles wide and encouragingly as she takes that large blade with an unsteady hand. "I know, I know. Ole Victor is about to make it right though, darlin'. Just you wait and see." Amber eyes flick to Twuan, his chin lifted high by the clawed grip of a beast with over a century of blood on his hands. With his free hand, Victor pantomines her grip on the knife with a disturbingly polite tone of voice. For him. "Thumb here. Like This. Don't fight the weight of the knife. It's a tool. You're a doctor, think of of it as... as... " Fingers snap-snap-snap "What's that word? Scalpel? Right, right. Tighter grip. Not too loose." 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan is on autopilot for the moment. Do you really know what to do in a situation like this? No. The redhead is going to be pale for the rest of her life after this. She jumps at the sound of Victor snarling at Heely for touching her and for a moment there's a soft spot for the large man. At least /HE/ wasn't trying to gut her. It would be a short show. She grips the knife, as much as her fingers will let her do it and she listens to the advice he gives, "Your name is Victor?" she asks as she is trying to figure out what exactly she's going to do with this knife. "Yes, scalpels..." she murmurs to him. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' This isn't Victor's first dance. He knows stunned acceptance when he sees it. Do what the boogie man says and you get out alive, right? Heely is broken, beyond repair and catatonic. It seems fear was not his forte after all. Twuan, athletic and tall. A basketball players build. He's still as his absolute terror will allow. Sabretooth, his fanged grin left bright and unsettlingly cheerful. "Good, good. I know it's a little slippery but my blood ain't so bad." A blond eyebrow arches upward at her question. His left hand lingering infront of Twuan's torso. A single digit raised, claw wickedly sharp. "Victor Creed." He confirms with an all too contented, self satisfied rumble in that deep voice. "Sabretooth when I'm... working..." A talon slides slow, cutting the shirt fabric like a razor until he exposes the arched tattoo over Twuan's abdomen. The man whimpers, quietly praying for the first time in a decade. "Precision is key, Darlin'. You go for vitals. Liver." He says, claw digging into skin. Blood drawn. "Lungs. Heart. You punch that pig sticker past them. Not at them. Past them... understand?" 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan's eyes find that glow again as she steps away from the wall and closer to Victor. She gives a look to the others that were scattered about the ground and then back up to the man. "It smells fine." she tells him idly. His blood? What weirdo knows the smell of blood? She looks back to the young man in front of them and there's a bit of a moment she feels sick. She lifts the knife, listening to his words, but she doesn't stab them. She listens very closely. He was just giving her pointers. "Go for vital organs..." she whispers as she tries to focus on things. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Those amber eyes watch with the unblinking stare of a predator locked onto his prey. Instinct always so close to the surface. He idly wondered, as she stepped away from the wall, if he would give chase had she chosen to run. "Does it now?" He asks almost rhetorically. The statement held his curiousity none the less. He lets a silence linger between them. If the crickets weren't scared shitless, there might have been that. Instead, it's just the tragic and unanswered prayers of Heely. Twuan? He flinches at almost every word. Every touch. "Go for vital organs. Nerve clusters. Here. Here. Herrrrrre." The last word drawn out as he digs in a talon into his captive and current practice dummy. Twuan's scream is cut short as Victors hand claps over the mans mouth. Leering down at Morrigan, he lets the smile turn sour into a critical sneer. "You cut first." His words drip with venom. Hatred. A spiteful disdain for human life on display as he digs talons into the mans ribs. It's a killing blow and one drawn out slowly. Twuan fades fast. Going slack. Finally silent. "Or you end up like him. Nod your head." 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Morrigan probably would have ran if she figured he wouldn't chase her. There's just something about things that make her not take off and she doesn't want to piss off the big dude. Because she was guessing she wasn't as tough at the trio of dumb asses. When Twuan screams it makes her eyes flick to the man and then up to Victor when he sneers and those unatural eyes of hers go wide as she looks to him. She's drawn back to the sound of the ribs being bent in on Twuan's body and the man is dead. She nods to the man when he tells her to. Because he was right. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' It's instinct. Even after thousands upon thounds upon thousands of years, evolution still hasn't quieted the flight or flight whispers in the back of ones mind. When faced with something like Sabretooth, it's almost natural to understand... it's the ones that think beyond natural impulse, it's those who get cut down more often than not. Twuan has left this plane. Not in a pleasant way. The body held like so much meat now, Victor regards the slack body for a moment before looking back to Morrigan. A gun metal black talon tap-tap-taps almost impatiently above the now still heart of a once locally reviled thief and thug. "Good girl. Show me." A small blessing for the Doctor. She wasn't forced at clawpoint to break her oath. This time. Sabretooth stares down at her. Expectant. Surely deranged but patient. So there's that. 

:'''{{#var:228|Morrigan MacIntyre (228)}} has posed:''' Victor was huge and terrifying and Morrigan was sure that if she tried to stab him that he would kill her without blinking. Not that she'd stab the man after he saved her. She wasn't going to be an asshole. She is still shaking, though not as bad as she was. Apparently the men were done for and not a threat. She looks up to him when he calls her a good girl and there's a quirk of her eyebrow. Then she understands what he wants her to do. Demonstrate what he'd just explained to her. The red head swallows and takes a breath. Then her hand rises to stab, going for the vital bits he'd told her to. Well, this was a gruesome way to learn, but she had learned. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Those eyes of hers. Unnatural. He couldn't see exactly why but when someones eyes glimmer? Glow? It's usually a sign of potential at the very least in Victor's experience. It's when the woman grips that knife and puts to practice what Victor had terrorized i to her brain. The massive maniac that is Sabretooth smiles all too sweetly when Morrigan makes her last mark. "A little sloppy but.... eh, not too bad." Victor says, surveying her work on the fresh corpse before simply dropping it in a heap. A heavy, huff of a sigh and Sabretooth looks over the alley while resting bloody hands on his hips. "Guess that went about as well as can be expected. Huh. Think I'll go get a beer." He says while casually stepping over a dead man and past Morrigan. Leaving her to this carnage. 
}}

Kid Arachnid

2019-09-05T23:55:19Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Miles Morales
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=7711
|Img=http://tinyurl.com/y4h3uyth
|FullName=Miles Gonzalo Morales
|Gender=Male
|Species=Metahuman
|Theme=Marvel
|Chartype=FC
|Active=Approved
|Occupation=Full-Time Student
|Citizenship=United States of America
|Residence=Brooklyn, NYC
|Education=High School
|Groups=[[Spider-Verse]], [[Street Level-OOC]]
|Quote="A hero isn't the one who always wins. It's the one who always tries."
|PAge=18
|AAge=18
|DOB=08 March 2009
|Height=175 cm (5'7")
|Weight=77 kg (169 lbs.)
|Hair=Black
|Eyes=Brown
|Actor=Justice Smith
|Song="What's Up Danger?" by Blackway and Black Caviar
|Profile= Bitten by a genetically altered spider, Miles Morales didn't just get amazing spider powers. He also obtained an impossible schedule, dangerous responsibilities and the biggest shoes he could possibly find to fill. A gifted student, unexpectedly brave and full of potential, he's following in the wall-crawling footsteps of iconic webslingers that have gone before him. All while trying to carve his own path as an idealistic firebrand in web themed spandex. 
 
A full-time student, Miles is struggling to balance his academic demands against a growing list of enemies, allies and life altering weirdness. Having a normal life is getting harder and harder with every rooftop jumped.
===Current Player Approved: July 15, 2019===
|Description='''Description'''
 
Lanky, lean and lethal. Well, maybe not that last part but who's going to tell? Miles Morales is growing into his own. Big brown eyes, and a bright smile full of youthful energy and optimism. The round features of youth are starting to fade, lending a sharpness around the eyes and a more defined jawline. Long limbed and athletic, he's got the build of a natural runner or gymnast. Narrow. Fit. The embodiment of energy given over-priced sneakers. 
 
While personal time is a rarity, Miles can more often than not be caught in a school uniform or his not-as-yet iconic costume. Well, sort of costume. A midnight black, skin tight affair with ghostly silver webbing. Reflective silver eye shields and an eye catching red spider emblazoned across his chest and back. Either he's not yet comfortable in the onesie or he likes layers, Kid Arachnid often has an oversized hoodie, basketball shorts and surprisingly well kept running shoes. 
 
Stylish. Sorta.
|Personality='''Personality'''
 
Compassionate. Miles feels. He can't help it. A soft spot for those in need, he finds it difficult to leave someone in a bad situation. The kind of guy to give a homeless woman his last five bucks. His school uniform jacket to someone cold even though he's going to forget it and get chewed out at home for losing yet -another-. Miles will dive head first into a burning building to save a man, woman, cat or dog without a moments hesitation. Isn't that what he's supposed to do? It's what his dad would do. What Spider-Man would do. Seems good enough for him. 
 
Brave. Sure, that's pretty basic. There are millions and millions of brave souls out there... and then there's Miles Morales. Personal danger, future consequences and common sense be damned. If there's something wrong, if someone is in trouble and nobody is stepping up? Even if they are, yet not doing it fast enough? Miles jumps into it. He puts himself in the crosshairs for the same reason his heroes would: Somebody has to. Why not him? It's this selflessness that separates him from the average. While most brave men and women are quick to leap into a potentially dangerous situation, Miles dives in with no intention of backing out until the wrong is righted. 
 
Idealistic. Holding yourself to a high standard is one thing, comparing yourself to near impossible feats of heroism and self-sacrifice? That's a toughie. Miles is walking a path few would ever consider in their wildest dreams. Super Hero. But not just any! A friendly neighborhood super hero! He's taken this stance further with the addition of youthful, teenage optimism and a hardline stance that you don't have to win to be a hero. You just have to try.
|History='''History'''
 
Born and raised in Brooklyn, NYC to Jefferson Davis and Rio Morales, Miles enters the world screaming, bloody and adorable. The only son, he recieved the whole of their attention. Granted, that sometimes waned as both worked high demand jobs but Miles occupied himself well enough and kept out of trouble. Mostly. Father a police officer, mother a nurse, Miles gravitated toward his Uncle Aaron when time allowed. His parents didn't know this and would not approve due to Aaron Davis's background of crime and violence. That's not the side Miles was presented though. Miles grew close to Uncle Aaron, the two bonding over street art and kung fu flicks. 
 
It was during one of these secret visits to his uncle's that Miles was bitten by the genetically enhanced spider that Prowler(AKA Aaron Davis) had stolen from an unknown source. Having come to tell his uncle about winning a scholarship to a prestigious school, he instead left with... super human abilities. The bite nearly killing him, he instead recovered over night. New, improved and scared out of his mind, Miles tried to hide his abilities as best he could. That didn't last long. 
 
Discovering his wall-crawling, Miles started to tag and paint more inaccessible areas. With what? Mostly his usual style of highlighting personal struggles but more and more he's mirrored the accomplishments of Spider-Man and other webslinging heroes. Stylized murals depicting costumed heroism. In his spare time from school, he painted. He dated. He made friends. Discovered more powers still. Prepared to move into the new dorms and... experimented with his new powers. Even saved a lady from a burning building! 
 
Which, of course, gained attention. 
 
Now Miles is putting on spandex, running walls and doing his level best to live up to the standard set long before him. 
 
With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility. 
 
But more important to Miles is the equally powerful question: What would Spider-Man do?
|Abilities='''Bio-Electrokinesis'''
 
Miles is able to manipulate the natural electricity his body generates. So far, he's only utilized this ability for offensive reasons. Able to store and release this energy with some concentration or as an instinctive defense.
* Venom Blast - Miles can release stored energy as a bio-shock to enemies and technology. The severity of this attack depends on many factors such as 'charge' and conductivity. This seems most effective on beings with genetic alterations. 
* Venom Punch - Charging his fists with bio-electric energy before a punch can greatly increase the power of his strikes. 
* Mega Venom Blast - Able to release a massive burst of stored energy in times of extreme stress, Kid Arachnid can cause large scale damage in a 30 yard radius. Using this completely exhausts Miles to the point of unconsciousness.
 
'''Regenerative'''
 
Possessing an enhanced stamina already, it's should come as no surprise that Kid Arachnid heals much faster than a normal person would. While not instantaneous, he's still capable of healing broken bones, burns and cuts in a matter of days. Massive injuries may still need medical professionals to reset shattered bones but given time and attention, he could possibly even bounce back from a spinal injury.
 
'''Spider Physiology'''
 
Gifted with the proportionate abilities of a spider, Miles Morales far exceeds human physical limitations. This rather thorough suite of bodily and mental enhancements altered Miles at the genetic level.
*Enhanced Agility - Gold medal gymnastics is amateur hour for this young man. Superhuman muscle elasticity and improved connective tissue make him unnaturally limber. Uncanny balance pairs excellently when doing corkscrew flips away from rockets and such. 
*Enhanced Reflexes - Coupled with impressive eye sight, Miles benefits from reaction times easily exceeding twenty times the human limit. Bordering on precognition, he's absurdly quick and frustrating to hit. 
*Enhanced Stamina - Able to maintain peak exertion for hours upon hours without fatigue, he's able to keep a pace few can match before needing to rest and restore. 
*Enhanced Strength - Capable of easily lifting up to five tons, Miles tops out near an eight ton limit but is capable of moving up to ten tons of weight in extreme stress situations. This, of course, greatly improves his running speed and jumping to almost impossible levels.
 
'''Spider-Camouflage'''
 
Not an option on the standard webslinger package, Miles Morales can turn invisible. His skin, his clothes and to an extent, small objects in his posession. While not perfect, this active camouflage is impressive enough to fool direct line of sight. This does not negate sound or environmental disturbances.
 
'''Spider-Sense'''
 
Bordering on precognition, Miles has the ability to sense impending danger. An early warning system of a sort, he feels a buzzing sensation in his head when disaster and damage target him and, to an extent, those around him. Most often, it's an aggressive tingle in his skull that alerts him to a bullet about to be fired at him. An ambush from the shadows. A blade coming in from an unseen angle. Then there are the dreams. Strange and vivid, he doesn't yet know that it's a warning of impending doom.
 
'''Wall-Crawling'''
 
Miles can cling to any surface he touches. It's been theorized that he subconsciously manipulates the electrostatic force between himself and an object. Perhaps a side-effect of his bio-electrokinesis. Able to adhere to surfaces through gloves and even shoes, direct skin contact is clearly not needed.
|Skills='''Freestyle Fighter'''
 
He doesn't have years of villain brawling under his belt. Infact, he's got very little experience with violence period. Relying on his superior agility, speed and reflexes to keep an edge in a fight, he employs a strange mix of kung fu movie tactics and raw talent. With some more experienced mentors, Miles is becoming quite the unexpected force to be reconned with.
 
'''High Art'''
 
Art is his passion. When not jumping around the city and fighting crime, Miles Morales unwinds with... illegal street art. Vandalism. Urban Beautification. The irony of a super hero breaking the law to unwind is not lost on him. He's actually very talented with it. Add wall crawling and super jumping and he's expanded his medium much higher.
 
'''Linguistics'''
 
Raised in a bilingual household, growing up in Brooklyn, you pick things up fast or lag behind. Culture and diversity at every corner, Miles finds it easier than some to pick up new lingo and languages. English, Spanish and he's working on Japanese. With effort, he could easily learn a multitude of exotic tongues.
 
'''Math Wiz'''
 
A head for numbers, this kid is going places. Game Theory being a bigger interest, Miles shines brightly when immersed in probability and statistics. He's a details kind of person and nothing gets more detailed than infinitesimal calculus.
 
'''Roof Runner'''
 
The web heads have a tendency to loiter far above street level. Way above. Taking a pretty deep knowledge of the city streets and expanding it vertically, Miles navigates a city like few others. A natural free runner, he blends acrobatics and speed to make his own short cuts. Rooftop to rooftop, power line to flag pole.
|Resources='''Class Act'''
 
Having tested and been chosen for a special scholarship or two, Miles' parents chose the best for their one and only son. His higher learning comes with a dorm room, food and security. Not to mention lab access, computers and other resources. Within reason.
 
'''Costume'''
 
Iconic. Well, getting there. Maybe. Kid Arachnid's costume bears the telltale spider images and web patterns that mark him as a web slinger. While not exactly of global recognition, it definitely gets attention both good and bad around the Tri-State area. If he's respectful or annoying enough, he can count on pulling additional support due to the accomplishments of others.
 
'''Major Mentors'''
 
Kid Arachnid, by way of being new and personable enough, has managed to find himself under the wings of more than one big time super hero. This is absolutely invaluable to Miles as he pulls experience from multiple sources. Able to call on harder hitting support when you -really- need it is sometimes only a frantic text away.
 
'''Son of a Badge'''
 
While not something Miles can abuse in any way, being the son of a NYC police officer has its perks. If he plays his cards right, he's able to get information on some criminal activity. Sometimes just guarded street rumors but a head start is a head start.
|Weaknesses='''Big Bad Uncle'''
 
Aaron Davis. Better known as the Prowler, a renowned and reviled thief, is the uncle of one Miles Morales. Sticky situation to be sure but once Prowler puts one and two together, he will likely complicate things further. Prowler having stolen the enhanced spider that bit Miles could easily be twisted back upon the young Kid Arachnid.
 
'''New Hero'''
 
He's not exactly seeing his mask on t-shirts, you know? Kid Arachnid is fresh, relatively unproven and easily mistaken for other web spinning vigilantes. Heck, most big time cape wearing sorts may not even recognize him as a fellow fighter for truth and justice! It's all rather unfortunate.
 
'''Secret Identity'''
 
Nobody knows and Miles wants to keep it that way. If he's unmaked, the problems in his life will multiply so fast that the chaos will definitely impact those close to him. Nevermind jail or college plans, people could die.
 
'''Spider-Sensitive'''
 
Miles has a problem. His Spider-Sense borders on 'too good'. It's distracting for a beginner webhead. It wakes him up in the dead of the night with vivid dreams, can make him abnormally tense in seemingly safe situations and sometimes triggers responses that may seem a little excessive.
 
'''Student'''
 
Giant robots attacking Soho during third period? Unless Miles finds a darned good reason to skip class, Kid Arachnid is going to sit this one out. Very, very begrudgingly. Homework, class projects, calls to his parents if he gets too rambunctious, he's got consequences coming if his balance between hero and student shifts too much.
}}
<gallery>
MM7.png
MM4.jpg
MM9.jpg
MM5.jpg
MM2.jpg
</gallery>
[[Category:Street Level-OOC]][[Category:Spider-Verse]]

9082/It's Business. Not Personal: Part 1, The Contract

2019-09-05T02:47:07Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/09/05 |Location=St. Molly's, Lowtown |Synopsis=Victor and Rose talk money. Vic sets his sights on Deathstroke. |Cast of Characters=787,73 |pre..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/09/05
|Location=St. Molly's, Lowtown
|Synopsis=Victor and Rose talk money. Vic sets his sights on Deathstroke.
|Cast of Characters=787,73
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' It's been a long while since Rose has heard from Sabretooth. That's not an odd thing for the famously hard to pin down Victor Creed. Assassins and murderers tend to lay low from time to time, right? Right. So when she gets a message offering a meeting in Madripoor? Something is up. Lowtown, Madripoor is a straight up nightmare realm of crime and hurt in every direction. Poverty and Power running side by side in the gritty streets. The famously violent St. Molly's is no exception. Meet at Molly's, he said. Big money, he said. Gauranteed to be of interest, he said. When it comes to blood and money, Victor Creed never lies. Picking the massive mutant out of the crowd is 't hard. He's white, blonde and two times larger than any of the other South Asian patrons easily. At a table in the back, a pitcher of beer in his massive hand. Half smoked cigar in the other. The brutish killer and famed psychopath, Sabretooth, waits patiently. Watching the door for his future business partner. Rose Wilson. Oh, this was bound to be entertaining. Or Violent. Likely both. 

:'''{{#var:73|Rose Wilson (73)}} has posed:''' Ravager walks into the most wreched hive of scum and villainy around. It appears she didn't wear her helmet and her scope and her laser sight and her other stuff that's awesome, but those things are lacking. She just slinks down through the room in her dusty trenchcoat and approaches the Victor Creed, who used to be a contact. Ravager is not completely off the radar, but she's not exactly in the phone book. These assassins and jackasses do have their ways however. At the side of Victor's table, Rose Wilson says, "You left a message. Don't sound too desperate," she adds the last part with some playfulness and chuckles at him, because she knows what's up or at least thinks so cause she believes she's smart like that. She drops into the chair and leans her elbow back across the head of the chair, parting her mysterious coat, showing that she's not that ill-equipped after all, because she's wearing her stylistic chainmail. "Congrats, I'm here," she adds with her usual tone. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Even over the stench of sweat, smoke, booze and blood, Victor can -smell- her as she hits the door. Humid air, still damp from the storm moments before, pushing at her back as the door opens. Amber eyes lift from his beer with a slow, reptilian blink. Watching Rose cross the room, he visually dismantles her to the bones as she nears. strengths. Weaknesses. Targets all the same. He smiles that wicked, fanged grin of his and kicks a chair out from under the table toward her in offering. "I left two but you haven't found the body yet." Victor retorts with a laugh. Hard to tell if he was laughing at a ioke or laughing because he's a sick bastard. Tough call. Black t-shirt. Clean khaki slacks. Victor cleaned himself up a bit. Mostly due to healing massive amounts of damage. A long shower usually follows. Loosen the regrown muscles. A blond eyebrow arches sharply when she opens her coat. "Shiny. Don't tell me you think that little tin sports bra is gonna slow down my claws, Rosie." A bemused smirk and he gestures for more beer. So much more beer. "Kiddin', sweetheart. No use killin' you when I'd rather pay you. To really, really stick it to your old man." 

:'''{{#var:73|Rose Wilson (73)}} has posed:''' Ravager taps her chainmail collar, "Double tin," she smiles and then hmms depressingly, pursing her lips, "Actually, it's funny that you say that. Cause you know what, I'm not gonna be the sometime daughter anymore. I'm gonna be f***** Deathstroke. Yeah, that's right. I'm Deathstroke," she says, then taps the table in front of her with her white painted nail, "And guess what? I stole one of his f***** jobs. Yeah, that's right. So pony it up. I'm totally wheeling and dealing and Deathstroke planning, baby. No more sorry ass sometime daughter anymore." 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' "Double tin? No kiddin'?" Sabretooth asks rhetorically, head tilting aside with a spill of long, blond hair. Those amber eyes catching light and glinting a haunting shade of luminescent yellow. He didn't think he could smile any bigger but damned if he did jjst that! A toothy, all to satisfied grin on his scruffy mug. As a little old woman with burn scars and face tattoos drops off more pitchers of beer, Creed pushes one at her. Sloshing foam onto the marred and abused tabletop. "I heard about that, darlin'." Lifting his pitcher for a long drink, throat gulping once. Twice. Empty pitcher is set aside and he reaches for another. "That's why you're here. That's why I'm dropping two mill. Cold, hard cash." Leaning forward, Victor crosses massive arms over the tables edge. The muscles in his forearm twitching as he drums claws on wood. "I like what you're puttin' down, kiddo and I want to make sure it's well worth your effort. You wanna stick it to the old man?" Victor looks over shoulder at the sound of a jaw breaking in the pit. "God, I love that sound." Clearing his throat, he returns to the conversation. Voice an almost impossibly deep tone that can't help but rumble with a natural intensity. "I've set up another contract. For Slade. It won't hit the table yet because I want you waitin' to take it the second it shows. Total mayhem. No sneak. Straight up carnage. Guaranteed workout and solid pay. I want survivors. I want collateral damage. I want it -sloppy-. The goal is to kick some sand in that grey hairs one good eye. You wanna put on your beach sandles, kid?" 

:'''{{#var:73|Rose Wilson (73)}} has posed:''' Ravager ppffts and shakes her head, "Yeah, nobody ever says 'hey, I wanna be a badass like Ravager or hey, I wanna take Ravager's f**** job and be like her'. Oh no, it's all Deathstroke is totally awesome no matter what he does. Yeah well, you can guarante that contract done cause /I'm Deathstroke/," she says with emphasis. "I'll have the costume and the helmet and the guns and the f***** bars of boom boom. She fingers her beer and seems stuck on this point or obsessed over it or something, though she does smirk politely at his directions. "I got steeltoe kickass boots," she reports, apparently not getting the reference or maybe trying to be funny. She has a drink of beer and adds, "When can 'Deathstroke' scoop the details?" 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' If there's anything Victor enjoys, it's enthusiasm in terrible behavior. A single talon curls back, gouging into the table top to leave his mark. He didn't even realize he was doing it. Perhaps some strange, animalistic impulse to mark territory. He listens to Ravager rant and rage, all the while grinning from ear to ear. "Girl, you are -all- fired up. Good. Gonna need that energy. All that hate." Lifting that gun metal black talon, he points to her with a little squint of mock scrutiny. "Tie them laces tight. You don't wanna track sand back after this job." Lifting one of those large, plastic pitchers of beer, he holds it above the table toward her. Cheers, mate! "Right now since you're all fired up. Four years ago, Wilson pulled a job. Assasinated a sitting senator. The guy who filled that seat? He was the contract holder. You're gonna kill him and a load of his security team. Gonna make it look like Slade went back on his professionalism. Reputation is important to him. You're gonna put a black mark on it. Gonna drive him up the damn wall. Make people think a minute before hiring him. Aaaand if it makes me look better in the process? So be it." 

:'''{{#var:73|Rose Wilson (73)}} has posed:''' Ravager pauses for a moment and considers what Connor or Caitlin might say, "Deathstroke is, you mean," she tells him as she raps her fingers on the table, "My friends probably wouldn't like Deathstroke killing a buncha people," she states in a tight-lipped way, "I don't think they like him at all, really." She lifts her beer and toasts with Victor quietly, "You know I used to do plenty before I came to New York. Then I worked security at a dance club," she smirks and wrinkles her nose, "Maybe you should do the job." 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' That smile of his finally fades. Fangs poking out past his lips regardless of the disapproving frown. Amber eyes narrowed, Victor leans in closer over the table. Dwarfing Ravager but when has size ever slowed down her sword? "I don't give a flying crap about your friends, Rosie. You're a killer. I know for a fact it's in your blood and there ain't no escapin' blood, girl." Sniffing hard, he clears his sinuses and locks onto her scent. Pitcher collides with pitcher, foamy beer suds sloshing before Victor kills half of the contents in a gulp. "You wanna stick it to your daddy? You hit his money and his pride." Victor Creed snorts once with dismissal and stands up from the table. The man is massive. Shoulders broad as can be. He casts a ridiculously large shadow. "I ain't doin' the job. You are. You already got the costume and if I need to prove you got a killer in you again? Follow me." He says with a growling rumble like distant thunder. A nod to the door and Victor is on his way toward the back. "I ain't got all night, Rosie. I mean, I do but... you know what I mean." Smaller people, no matter how big and bad they think they are, all part from Sabretooths path. Like a murderous Moses parting a sea of degenerate criminal scum. 

:'''{{#var:73|Rose Wilson (73)}} has posed:''' Ravager leans back in her chair away from Victor and drinks down her beer as she considers all of what he's said, "Fine, whatever," she mutters, "Yeah, I'm Deathstroke alright," she adds, as if not believing it now. She downs the rest of her beer, "I got all the details. I got the costume. I got the guns and the knives. I got it all..." she says and lifts her beer to toast him as he gets up. "Maybe I'll retire after this one. I'll be better than Deathstroke and that'll be it. What do you think of that?" 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Sabretooth, unseen by Rose, smiles wide and amused. Gotcha. A low chuckle rolls out of him, shaking those broad shoulders. Head bowed, Victor takes a pull off his cigar before he looks back to her over shoulder. "There you go, Deathstroke. You got all the toys but that won't mean a damn thing if you suddenly don't have the stones to use 'em proper no more." Dropping his cigar, he crushes it out under heel and stalks toward... the pit. Clawed hand pausing at the reinforced doorway as two men drag the bloody, broken body of a fighter out. "What I think about that? I think you're about to prove it to me in this here ring, girly. Starting to sound like you went -soft- on me. I need to beat that outta you? Get your head proper in the gig? I will. Better than Deathstroke? Let's see it the , Ravager." 
}}

9006/The Birthday Blues: Make a Wish

2019-08-30T05:45:54Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/08/30 |Location=Lowtown, Madripoor |Synopsis=Sabretooth lures Domino into a deadly game of cat and mouse. For Wolverine's birthday. |Cast of C..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/08/30
|Location=Lowtown, Madripoor
|Synopsis=Sabretooth lures Domino into a deadly game of cat and mouse. For Wolverine's birthday.
|Cast of Characters=787,180
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Madripoor. Nobody goes to Madripoor without knowing what to expect out of the city. What should you expect? Why, the Travel Board would say that you should anticipate 'exotic views, rambunctious night life scene, amazing beaches and first class cuisine'... but what people that survive the town say? Expect the worst. Rainy, muggy and dark. Neon glares off the gritty, gleaming surfaces of Madripoor's Lowtow. Cramped streets leave haggard, wary and hungry bumping shoulder to shoulder on their way to percieved safety. The smell of street food vendors hard at work mingles with the sweet, cloying stink of rot beneath it all. Madripoor is a city devoid of conscious but not a soul. The soul of Lowtown, it would seem, is half dead but beligerantly clawing onward. Which brings Domino across the world. To try and save a fragment of that soul and to do it for money. Through one person, then another and another still, Victor Creed set a contract out. Rescue a young mutant girl from captivity as a slave and curiousity. A life as little more than a play thing and victim awaiting a girl born different. Victor knew the bait was sweet smelling. He was on contract with Domino five years prior when she flipped the script. Put a phosphorous round in his gut and left him for dead to free six young women mutants from a shipping container in Hong Kong. She saved those womens lives and cost Victor seventy five thousand dollars in the process. It wasn't the money that hurt. Or the gut shot(even though that hurt plenty)... it was the betrayal of conscience that upset him. Then. Now? Well, this is something ele entirely. Doesn't mean Sabretooth can't enjoy the little things. Deep in the heart of Lowtown, the contact is to be met. An older man named Fuma. His niece must be returned. Meet in the old garage one block west of the old foundry. A green circle will be painted on the window... and it is. Though only a single candle or small flame burns iside. Steel door, half rusted and long since bent beyond the ability to close, stands open a few inches... 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Domino has never been one to complain about the places her work takes her. Usually. She's really seen it all so Maridpoor as cramped and insufferable as it is, is just another check on her box along the way. Not her first choice but there is work and its got the ring of a good ending to it should she succeed. She strides through the pathways and byways, weaving her way towards the district and location given to her as she holds up a plastic poncho over her head as it lays down her back to keep the water rolling along its surface. Keeping her relatively dry.     The green circle is noted and she glances back and around at her surroundings. She pauses a moment more, studying dark corners and little recesses for future notation before she drops the plastic poncho, letting it hit the ground behind her so that she can free up her hands. Pistols are pulled free of their hip side holsters as she leads with one pointed in through that opening and then steps with the corresponding leg in.     Its like some cabaret show how she moves through it, carefully glancing back and forth like she's leaving the audience in anticipation. But better ready than dead. The mercenary slinks through then and brings her other leg in out of that rain and into the humid interior.      Little to no light limits her eyesight and so she waits near the opening a moment to adjust from the street lights outside. Only then doe she draw both guns up and slowly pan back and forth looking for her contact. Fuma.     The soft scrape of her boots the only sound of her presence, her breathing slow and measured. With no initial sighting she slowly lowers one pistol at her side. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' The rain beats down with fat, lazy drops. Pummeling the filth loose in the streets. Some of said filth not so swayed by the summer shower and instead more curious of Domino. Three young men, tattoos marking them as members of the same gang. The empty, angry stares proving them veterans of these streets. They watch her from the relative dryness beneath an old, half rotted canvas awning that used to be owned by a cleaner. Down the other direction, she sees an older woman with dangerous body language directing children toward the crowded streets. Her little magpies. They are forgotten easily here in Lowtown. Her drawn guns avert gazes immediately. Survival isn't about being the biggest and baddest. It's about smart choices. Instinct. Like the feeling Domino gets when she walks into the old, condemned building. Dust, blown refuse and debris cover the floors. Ahead she sees a single set of foot prints, perhaps Fuma. Leading around the corner to the flickering, guttering light. It smells like wet dog. Wet dog, old drywall decay and... iron? Something coppery. Thick in the air. Her eyes adjust, bringing the grim scene to life in horrid clarity. It's not graffiti on the walls as she rounds that corner. Paint isn't catching the dancing light of a single candle held in bone white hands much like her own... It's blood. Splashed on the walls. Splattered like a mist against the grey ceiling tiles. Darkening cobwebs. Fuma, nailed to the wall with a piece of rebar. Horrified shock carved eternally on his face. That's when she hears him. That voice is unmistakeable. Deep. Impossibly low with the backbite of a permanent growl bringing menace to even his sweetest of pillow talk. "Neeeeeenaaaaaaaa." A chuckle, amused and hauntingly casual. "I've missed you, Nena. Did you miss me?" Unseen, the dangerous murderer known as Sabretooth taunts her from the shadows. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' The rain beats down with fat, lazy drops. Pummeling the filth loose in the streets. Some of said filth not so swayed by the summer shower and instead more curious of Domino. Three young men, tattoos marking them as members of the same gang. The empty, angry stares proving them veterans of these streets. They watch her from the relative dryness beneath an old, half rotted canvas awning that used to be owned by a cleaner. Down the other direction, she sees an older woman with dangerous body language directing children toward the crowded streets. Her little magpies. They are forgotten easily here in Lowtown. Her drawn guns avert gazes immediately. Survival isn't about being the biggest and baddest. It's about smart choices. Instinct. Like the feeling Domino gets when she walks into the old, condemned building. Dust, blown refuse and debris cover the floors. Ahead she sees a single set of foot prints, perhaps Fuma. Leading around the corner to the flickering, guttering light. It smells like wet dog. Wet dog, old drywall decay and... iron? Something coppery. Thick in the air. Her eyes adjust, bringing the grim scene to life in horrid clarity. It's not graffiti on the walls as she rounds that corner. Paint isn't catching the dancing light of a single candle held in bone white hands much like her own... It's blood. Splashed on the walls. Splattered like a mist against the grey ceiling tiles. Darkening cobwebs. Fuma, nailed to the wall with a piece of rebar. Horrified shock carved eternally on his face. That's when she hears him. That voice is unmistakeable. Deep. Impossibly low with the backbite of a permanent growl bringing menace to even his sweetest of pillow talk. "Neeeeeenaaaaaaaa." A chuckle, amused and hauntingly casual. "I've missed you, Nena. Did you miss me?" Unseen, the dangerous murderer known as Sabretooth taunts her from the shadows. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Sniff. Sniff....Neena's senses come to life as she susses out her environs. The smell could be anything including strays that likely feed off the accumulative refuse of Lowtown. Each step she takes is slow, steady and anchoring her before she moves on. Scuff and crunch of the floor sounds, more because of the various detritus that has accumulated in what is likely an abandoned building save for those of unsavory quality. The copper scent though, it becomes stronger the further into the building she gets and closer to the light - that smell she is familiar with. Tension draws up through her spine and brings both guns up at ready even before she sees the choice of decor that spatters and colors the wall.     It sends adrenaline plunging through her veins and she keeps her distance. She gets the idea of what happened no need for an up close and personal of the victim. The voice however, that stops her with one last crunch scrape of her boot and she pivots, trying to follow the voice.     "I knew you would hold a grudge. Sometimes other things outweighs money...hard to believe I know." She says back as her bright electric blue eyes narrow and her dark painted lips thin out. "Come out pussy cat, stop being a pussy." Eye flit up towards the air ducts however, slowly backing up a step even as her head turns to give a quick glance around. One pistol lifts, angled at the ducts and she shoots at one point, then another. This is not a friendly reunion where they get to share stories and exclaim over how they have changed - this is a showdown and that steady feeling of dread is already working overtime with Domino's powers. Just got to line them up. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' He can smell it. Even through the stink of Lowtown. Even above the aroma of fresh death. He can smell -him- on her. It brings a fanged and savage smile to the dry, cracked lips of Sabretooth. The sweetness of her sweat does little to hide the memorized stink of the Wolverine. Light sways, the flame almost dying out with the movements of stale air. It holds strong. Not that the sights are something one would want to see in the first place. "Is that fear, Dom? Excitement? You don't have to tell him how I get your blood pumping, sweetheart." His taunts echo through the ducts. Haunting and distant. "Oh, I always hold a grudge, Dom. Just not against you. You know, not -everything- is about you." Shots fired! Victor laughs as the rounds bounce and ricochet around the duct work. "That was a close one. I felt it go right by. Lucky shots are your specialty, right? Remember what mine is, frail?" She's looking at the vents. Which is exactly where he wanted her to look. Everyone looks at Victor Creed and sees unchecked aggression. Fury. Power. They never expect the cunning. The decades and decades of experience. This is why Sabretooth is feared. The floor beneath Domino heaves upward. Wood bowing, splintering then exploding in wooden shrapnel as Sabretooth bursts out of the basement and through the flooring. Wicked claws shaving the air milimeters from that soft belly as he roars. That candle doesn't stand a chance. Darkness races in fast. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     "Then if it is not about me, what's got you all riled and ready?" Fear? There may just be a little. She would be absolutely moronic not to have some fear. Fear creates a healthy wariness that all creatures need - prey or predator. "Lucky shots, exactly why you are hiding right at this moment. Afraid I am going to put another round in you? I might make it permanent this time." Her voice is even, if a little cocky as she takes a step back and another but its not enough. She's not expecting the floor and Dominos's eyes widen as her pulse races and seconds stretch out.     Adrenaline kicks in hard like a freight train and she reaches her foot out. Luck is with her and instead of meeting claws she meets his thigh and pushes off of it backwards into a flip that clears her of the now ruined floor, shrapnel and just narrowly those claws that he is so known for as little bits of wood ping off of her here and there - doing no lasting damage. She lands and skids a few precious inches while her guns aim as she squeezes off shot after shot, the mercenary following his motions with a trained deftness even as she begins to run counter to him.     He's an animal. A close quarters beast and she does not intend to let him close enough to get another chance at making her into pale ribbons. There is no time to hesitate as her blood sings in her ears and that old battle focus settles into place. Keep moving, keep firing. Don't let him close the distance. Basic battle strategy when facing one big blood thirsty cat. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' So close! Sabretooth snarls in outright disdain as she uses his own rising force and frame as a springboard. Sending the pale merc launching safely away from him. Just out of his reach. They always assume safety with distance. Rotted insulation, wood splinters and years of dust cloud the air. His savage swipe creating whirls and swirls in its wake, churning the filthy air like muddy waters. "You don't have the chops to take me out, Neena. I'm above your pay grade." The renowned killer taunts her. What little light that dares make it through the spaces between boards in shattered window frames catches the eyes of Sabretooth. A haunting, balefire green glimmer locks onto her just as bullets hit his considerable mass. "Hot lead kisses. I knew you cared." Snarling, he somehow ducks the last shot. He's faster than she remembers. She creates distance and Victor will have none of it. With one hand, he grabs the remnants of the counter and flings it at her center mass. Whether she catches it in the lungs or not, the wall behind her explodes outward like a car bomb went off. "I can smell him on you." His voice calls from the dark of the building that's now starting to come down. "Logan." A chunk of flooring frisbee'd outward smashes through the closed tourist shop across the street. "Get it now, Neeeeeenaaaaaa?" He laughs. The brute laughs. It's all a game to him. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades. Lucky for Domino those are not his forte or weapons of choice. Dust causes her to cough though as her bullets tear through him, all but one and she can hear their sickening sound as each one strikes the flesh of Sabertooth's massive form. Sucking in a breath through her teeth she catches the sound of movement attached to those glowing eyes that have focused on her. This is the part where you run, where space might not be enough and Victor proves that.     Domino's blood is running hot below that pale surface as the terrible brute strength powers the flight of the counter. She angles down, allowing gravity to be her friend as she tucks and twists, throwing her knee down to try to catch herself. In those precious moments where the inbound projectile of considerable mass is headed her way she squeezes off a few more shots in her fall. Her knee breaks through the floor, dropping her just enough as a the very tip of the jagged counter trails a thin slice along her cheek. Narrowly it misses taking off her head and smashes through the back wall taking out a few supports that make the building creak.     Luck saved her by breaking the floor but now her knee is stuck and her thigh caught. She grunts and pulls back, tucking in as she tries to get to her back only to feel her muscle strain and finally roll free. She winces some, knowing she's pulled something and rolls once more to use the momentum up onto her feet as she heads for the gaping hole in the side of the building and towards the rain that makes the outside of the building look almost cleansing, like some veil that might keep him at bay - she knows this not to be true as she blindly trusts in her luck and angles her gun over her shoulder, letting go of a few rounds. She's lost some speed due to the strain. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' The dust creates a hazy scent shield but not nearly enough to keep him off her. He could close his eyes and follow her through these streets. Victor Creed knows Madripoor like he knows the last sound a man makes before he goes to meet his maker. Those glimmering green dots start to advance though not a sound comes from his footfalls. The predator lets out a grunt as more rounds hit him. The previous shots pushed from his flesh to clatter on the flooring. He heals so damn fast. Too fast. "What? Got nothin' for your old buddy Victor now? Cat got your-hrk!" A round hits him square in the throat. A massive hand clasps the wound in surprise but his steps don't stall. A messy, choking sound follows... gagging... Voice all the more damaged and ragged, he mocks her still. Why didn't he move in for the kill?! As Domino pulls herself up and free, turning to take flight toward the relative freedom of Lowtown streets... that bloody bullet hits her in the back. He actually dug it out of his own necm and threw it at her! "Hot kisses for Victor. I knew you cared." As she hits the wet pavement running, the cover fire peppers Sabretooth as he gives chase. Heavy fist smashing away whatever barrier remains between him and the street. "Don't take this so personal, Dom!" Victor calls after her. A scream sounds, sharp and cut short when Victor dispatches a bystander simply for not being fast enough to escape him. He doesn't skip a step. "This is all for Logan. I'll even leave you kinda recognizeable! What are pals for, huh?!" 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     His dialogue is grating at best and Domino is using the terrain to her advantage. The bullet hits her, stings a bit but falls to the floor harmlessly behind her. It does not stop her. Nothing stops her onward trajectory as she slides around the corner she takes just as she hears the building screech in complaint overtop the sound of the rain and the thundering of her heart. Neena even catches the scream as she cuts down a dark narrow alley, which could very well spell doom for or funnel him as she lets a half used clip hit the street. She shoves open the pouch on her hip and slams down the pistol, sliding the new clip in with its special rounds. The flap falls forward again but remains open.     Old construction. The kind that got abandoned when everything went pear-shaped. She notes the scaffolding and glances across from it to the brick buildings. She moves then, rushing forward to take the first few rungs with just her boots but then she hooks her arm around and grasps the side of the ladder with the inside of her elbow. Up, up, up she goes, climbing hire to get a vantage.     She gets to the top level of the rickety scaffolding and aims down, her gaze focused on the way she had come, the watery thing blood from the cut on her cheek a stark contrast to her near white skin. She waits, readies and squeezes off those special rounds. "Come on you feral cat..someone has to put you down." She's not yelling, keeping those muttered thoughts for herself. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' Victor watched with satisfaction and twisted glee as she sprints in the general direction of AWAY. Rounding the corner, his voice followa after. Clearly having healed, his still growling tone sounds clear. Amused. He's enjoying himself. Then again, when doesn't Victor Creed love a good chase? "This is your fault, Neena." He chides her, letting the distance grow. -Letting- her take the percieved advantage. He doesn't know about those special rounds. He will. Silent stalking in the rain, he reaches out to drag his talons along old brick, leaving gouges deep and ominous. A predator marking his territory. "It could have been someone else. But no. You had to snuggle up with the runt." Rounding the corner himself, he blows the mortar and red brick dust off those terrible claws. Following her scent. The rain isn't enough. He can almost -feel- it. Her jackrabbit pulse. The bitter tang of adrenaline and fear. Sweat and gunpowder. Date night for a psychopathic animal in a mans skin. Blood soaks the front of his white tank top, clinging now dark fabric to the muscular wall that is Sabretooth. No shoes, his bare feet cold on the wet asphalt. "I'm going to kill you, Domino. I'm going to kill you and use that pretty little corpe as a party favor at Logans birthday party." He's calling her out. Ducking under scaffolding, he rolls those glittering eyes upward toward her and smiles a wicked, fanged sneer. A bloody hand raised, talon aimed at her heart. "I'm the hook, little worm." 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Patience. Slow the rate of your heart. Focus. Domino does that with no lively quips back at the massive force of raw strength and power gifted the mind of a killer that is now striding after her. The anticipation is a ticking time bomb that steadily increases her heart rate that she actively fights against. Neena says nothing, she knows he knows where she is. They both are hunters with very different skill sets. Primal urges versus cold calculating luck driven moments. She exhales as those gleaming eyes look up at her with a set of glimmering waiting teeth.     She aims down. One shot. It will give her a head start, possibly enough even with her slightly gimped leg. "You talk far too much," she says loud enough for him to hear and squeezes the trigger of that special round right at his eye.     CRACK goes the gun.     It's going to be a crazy rush after this and beating him to the punch she charges other side fo the scaffolding and slams herself into the bar. The whole setup gives easily, teetering forward and starting its rapid descent towards Victor and the ground.     Her boot pushes off the railing she slammed into as she gets an angle and she launches herself towards the other building. Its not a clean landing as she sails through the air and ultimately hits the edge of the roof with her chest. It knocks the wind out of her, guns clattering to the rooftop as she starts to slide, leaving her hands free to grapple as she wheezes and finally, painfully fills her lungs with air. That is going to leave a mark.     Her boots scrape, scrabble and try to gain her purchase on the slick brick as the crash of the scaffolding and screeching of metal can be heard behind her - dulled only a little by the rain.     Finally her arms tense, her muscles feeling the strain finally pull her over and she rolls out onto the roof top on her back. She grimaces and lays there a moment, catching her breath in searing lungfuls before slowly rolling over and reaching for the first gun, getting her hand around it and then pushing herself up to unsteady feet to begin walking towards the other. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' His eyes narrow in suspicion as her pulse slows. The woman forcing a calm in the middle of this storm? Not good. If he can heart the blood in her veins, her soft spoken words are recieved in full. "Don't you even think ab-" Bravado cut short with the squeeze of a trigger. Barely managing to turn his head in time with the report of carefully aimed gunfire, Victor catches a hot one across the left eye. The pain is immense. One hand clapped over his eye, the beast roars in outrage. A snarling outpouring of rage and rekindled fury. This has devolved from a playful romp through Lowtown into a bloody nightmare and Sabretooth is determined to make it one to remember. Lifting his head to the noise of creaking, rusted steel. "Oh, I hate this luck crap." Victor manages to declare as the scaffolding collapses on him. Steel bars pierce flesh. Ragged wooden planks batter and pound at him. Pin cushioned by four steel poles, shards of lumber and hardware... Quiet settles in. The sound of her boots scrabbling againsy brick, the patter of rain. It's deafening in contrast. Dust billows upward in the form of a mushroom cloud. Not even the snarl of a feral assassin to be heard. She gets respite for a lingering minute or two as Victors body reknits itself together. Bones crack and reset. Consciousness flickers behind those bloodshot eyes. The noise of rubble shifting reaches Domino on the rooftop. She slowed him down but he she knows he won't give her a second chance. The low, thunder-like rumble of a growl sounds deep down in the dark. He's caught her scent and judging by the tone of that beastly noise, he's quite finished with snappy quips. She's made him angry. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     That sound is what does it, what gets her moving and inspires the flight response from Domino. That is not animal. THAT is the sound between primal rage and honed intent. Her last gun scooped up she hurries across the building rooftop and thankfully - LUCKILY even there is a fire escape. Her boots hit the top landing and she winces, sucking in a breath as the muscles of her left thigh strain beneath her, compensating for the sudden impact. The metal is slick and she easily whips around the corner, riding the slick surface with her boots. She places her feet to either side of the stairs and slides down, pulling herself around in a quick fashion to repeat. She heads down a good four stories and by the bottom she hits the ground after the ladder hisses down with her on it.     Lights ahead. People. There might be a chance he could lose her smell amongst the food and other bodies pressed in around each other.     Possibly. Or she could be endangering a great deal of people. Domino has few choices at this point and with her left leg tense and taut she hurries forward, throwing her weight into her forward movement to keep up her pace - which is not really that impressive. Her ribs, they ache and the feel of one moving and creating a sharp pain right up and down her right side is likely a sign she's cracked one or two upon throwing herself at the building.     The sound of life, loud and true hits her ears, drowning out the rain and any sound of Victor behind her - so far. Neena lets out a breath just as she steps into the radiant circle of neon lights, not caring if the air smells rancid. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' All he sees goes black... soon replaced by a brilliant shade of red. An all consuming fury takes hold and Victor puts everything he has behind it. Shoving that futy down hiz veins, kickstarting an already incredible healing factor. Muscle, skin and bone growing around the near deadly spikes and bars that impale him from different directions. Left leg protesting under the strain, an angled shard of steel pinning his calf to the rubble. Something hard in his lung. The taste of dirt and rust in his mouth. He can't turn his head... Then it hits. Like an afterburner, Victor Creed is propelled onward by sheer rage. The rubble cast aside, Sabretooth returns to the chase. Hastily tugging the metal from his body as he goes. It's instinct. The drive to hunt and kill. To feel flesh tear under his nails. Hot blood on his face. It seduces him into a feral reflex. Purity of mind and purpose. He doesn't think. Doesn't have to. Nature takes its course. Boots on steel railings, squeeking wet in the rain. Her blood, faint and diluted by the dirty, smog tainted rain. She expects him from below. To maybe round a corner? Barreling through the alleyways? What she likely doesn't anticipate is the rapidfire crunch and crack of brick above her. Wild eyed, half his face torn away and muscle growing over ruddy bone. Claws punching into the wall as he rapidly gives chase down the side of ghe damned building itself. Run, Neena. Run. Sabretooth takes air and lunges. Giving truth to his namesake, the mutant killing machine pounces. When he hits, it feels like being in a car accident. Without the car around you to soften the blow. Broken ribs are the least of her concerns as Sabretooth sends the woman spiraling into traffic. Tires squeal on wet pavement. Glass smashes. Someone screams as a small truck goes flipping into the crowded sidewalks. 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     That. Is. The. Most. Terrifying. Thing. EVER. As bricks hit the ground yards behind her, Domino feels the world slow down, it drags like her leg drags as the muscle pulls tight and complains due to being strained. She winces, gritting her teeth as her arms pump and help propel her forward. Her boots slide on the wet ground but find purchase, traction, forward propulsion but just not enough. What does propel her forward, AWAY from the horrific sight of a half faced raging Sabertooth is the creature himself.     The world twists, turns and bright lights flash around her not just from the impact but as she sails through the air. Neena cries out, pain searing through her body as her smaller, far more human form is crashed against by the freight train that is Victor Creed. It all ends in motions around her and a sickening crunch as she lands on her shoulder the wrong way and skids across the ground before rolling sideways. She stops in a ruined mess, gasping for breath as her arm won't work and she can't seem to fully fill her lungs - ribs.     The ringing in her ears drowns out the honking of cars and the screams of civilians as the mercenary wearily pushes up to one knee, one foot beneath her. It takes a few breaths and still the world is spinning as she gets to her feet and sways, nearly collapsing again as her one arm lays unmoving in its socket, her other lifting slowly as she aims down the gun at him, firing off rounds until it's empty and the barrel is smoking. Last ditch effort as she stares death right in the face. "Lucks run out.." she says and wavers, side stepping. Blood pours from a head wound, hidden beneath her dark hair and the brilliant contrast gleams in the nightlife lighting like some B rated snuff film.     "I bet that hurt," she says to him, watching his body still healing from the mess she put it through. Domino's heart is racing in a culmination of pain, fear, and coursing adrenaline that helps most of the pain fade at the moment - something she will likely wish for later. If there is a later.     During this time the gun's clip had been ejected with a SHINK and she pulls back the flap of her pouch, slamming the gun down. Special rounds. They slide home and Domino gives him a stare off, shooting straight from her hip. She's going to make him hurt like hell before he gets to her. The first one released with the word 'hurt'. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' He feels impact. Satisfaction. The feeling of flesh and bone bouncing off his shoulder brings a twisted, unhealthy glee just beneath the churning surface of all that Rage. His body burns. Agony with every movement as the shards and spikes, pieces and fragments grind against his bones. He may have pulled the larger pieces free but the man still looks like a gargantuan pin cushion. One eye starting to regrow, dangles from the empty socket. He's missing large pieces of bodily real estate but the healing factor is working double time. Fueled by hate. Screams all around him, he barely notices the three wheeled taxi barreling down on him. Swatted aside like a toy, blood spatters and arcs through the air. The gas tank ruptures, light flares daylight bright as he stares down at Domino, sprawled on the street twenty yards away. Bloody spittle hangs from his lips, fingers twitching as talons force themselves somehow longer still. He's leaving a crimson wake in the street puddles as people scatter for safety. There are no heroes here in Lowtown. Hydra seen to that long ago. Words are difficult. Her only return of phrase from Sabretooth.... a deafening roar that would put an African Lion into fits of shame. He lunges with claws extended, fangs barred. Light fades as his mass eclipses the street light above. Bullets let loose from Dom's handgun all find home in center mass. Chewing a gaping hole in his pectoral and deeper still. Shattering ribs. Pulping lung. Sabretooth lands the blow with near deadly precision. Jaw clenched tight enough to make molars crack, Victor snarls through grinding teeth tinted red. "It did." 

:'''{{#var:180|Domino (180)}} has posed:'''     Innocents are dying and if Domino runs more die and she dies. If she stands her ground, well then its been a good run and she can say that she gave others a chance instead of dragging this inevitable end out. The space between them is eaten up far too quickly, where time had slowed this is in rapid succession with bits of it missing like some strobes effect. This is likely due to the concussion she got upon hitting the pavement hard, the evidence of it still dripping along her pale skin and down around her jaw. Some already curls it's way down her neck and chest.     Eyes lift that moment he steps in and the shock blocks the pain at first. Still her dark lips part and she gasps, tensing up as his claws dig their dagger ends into her right ribs and lift her from the ground at first. The cry leaving her lips as blood starts to flow from her wounds is cut off by the solid grip of his right hand over her throat.     Domino's chin is angled up towards his face and her feet kick a bit, twitching as she gurgles and struggles to breathe. Normally pale skin begins to grow ruddy and red, her eyes catching a pink edge to it as her windpipe is effectively squeezed shut by one meaty paw. His nails rake at her skin, cutting at the delicate covering and adding to the visceral scene rather effectively. Another kick, another and she lifts one good hand. as her gun clatters to the ground to try to break that grip on instinct.     Her eyesight is fading in and out, his slathering maw with its frothing red bubbles and dripping saliva is seen. The heat of his breath smelled as it pours over her skin. That is the last thing she's going to see. Air does not come, not one bit of it and the sounds she makes her utterly dreadful as Victor's left hand starts to become slick with her blood, dripping readily to the ground from the curve of his palm. 

:'''{{#var:787|Victor Creed (787)}} has posed:''' It's a lose/lose situation when Victor Creed gets his hands on you. Even in survival, nobody walks away unscathed. Not even a healing factor can hide the mental trauma inflicted by his sheer savagery. El Tigre leaves broken people in his wake and tonight is no different. Her blue eyes contrast so sharply against that chalk white skin. The shock of fresh blood, so bright red. The vivid play of color startles him out of that frothing frenzy. It's not fear or revulsion that shakes him out of that killers high. No. It's pride. His smiling face flickers in and out of her vision. Not a pretty sight but at least his face has regrown. Left eye sucked back up into his skull and looking back at her with the gleam of excitement. There are no sirens. Not yet. No, in Madripoor, they wait their turn. As Victor lifts Domino up from the pavement by the ribs, claws curling under to score bone. She cries out and his right hand slowly encircles that slender, red webbed throat to squeeze. Her boot thuds against dense muscle. Laces catching on the twisted steel barbs poking out of his side. Eh, that liver will grow back just fine. His fanged smile, those bloodshot eyes and a face misted in red, smeared with dirt. War paint. "Shhhh-sh-sh-shhhhhh." He whispers almost sweetly into her face as consciousness fades out. Lifting his chin, Victor savors their last moments together for the evening as he watches the light fade out of her eyes. "Sleep now, sweetheart. Sleep. You have a party to attend." His laughter rises up through the narrow streets of Lowtown. Windows shuttering at the terrible sound. The rain letting up, silence taking over for the violent anarchy that has come to a close. Domino does not die tonight. Stabilized and sedated, Victor Creed takes his trophy back to New York. Back to Westchester. Back to remind Logan what they truly are. Animals. 
}}

Sabretooth

2019-08-26T00:26:43Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Victor Creed
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=787
|Img=https://66.media.tumblr.com/db78116712005d9bf95afc1a7eafe8cc/tumblr_my2o2dHcmp1sotybdo1_400.jpg
|FullName=Victor Creed
|Gender=Male
|Species=Mutant
|Theme=Marvel
|Chartype=VFC
|Active=Approved
|Occupation=Mercenary/Contract Killer
|Citizenship=Genosha
|Residence=Madripoor
|Education=Infantry School & Special Forces
CIA Team X & Weapon X Training
|Groups=[[Mutant-OOC]], [[Brotherhood]], [[Hench]], [[Light]], [[SHIELD]]
|Quote="Sure you boys ain't hungry? There's plenty for everybody. Just carve off whatever you like. Don't know about ya'll ... but I like mine rare."
|PAge=148
|AAge=38
|DOB=6 Jun 1879
|Height=198.12 cm (6'6")
|Weight=125 kg (275 lbs.)
|Hair=Blond
|Eyes=Amber
|Actor=Jason Momoa
|Song="For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Metallica
"Creatures of the Night" by KISS
 
"The Trooper" by Iron Maiden
|Profile='Slasher', 'El Tigre', 'Der Schlächter'... Many names, uttered in the shadows, tell the tale of one man whose ruthless violence turned him into a legend on the battlefield - Victor Creed. He has worn many hats in his life: lawman, professional soldier, underworld crime-figure, CIA black ops assassin and, most recently, a follower of the proclaimed 'Saviour of Mutantkind'.
 
Leaving a bloody trail through history, his primary motivation has always been finding an outlet for his primal urges. Whatever the job, whoever signs the paycheque; as long as Victor Creed gets his claws wet with blood at the end of it, he's willing to consider any offers.
 
Though he formally holds citizenship on Genosha, Victor's status within the mercenary community means that he frequently travel. His 'career' takes him to conflict zones and hot-spots in order to ply his trade in wartime, and the slums and backalleys of the more 'civilized' world.
 
One of the most skilled operators to come out of the U.S. military. A hunter in the night. A beast, unfettered by morals and only chained by the desire to remain out of SHIELD custody (or worse). A man, who willingly became an animal.
 
Sabretooth.
===Current Player Approved: Not Applicable===
|Description='''Description'''
 
In another life, Victor Creed could have passed as a biker enforcer, or dive-bar bouncer, or professional wrestler. 
 
His hair, at present, is straggly and long; blond, greasy locks displaying a disdain for most modern grooming practices. This seemingly carries on to his facial hair, with thick and curly blond sideburns covering most of his cheeks and leading down into a slightly thinner, but equally unkempt and messy, beard that covers his jutting chin. 
 
Even when not smiling, his large and pointed canine teeth are obvious - often sticking out from his top lip at even the slightest hint of a grin, and bringing a certain menace to the man's already intimidating appearance. Each of his nails extends outwards far beyond normal human length (roughly two inches in length), taking on the appearance of claws - deadly sharp and glinting with a metallic sheen in the light 
 
6'6" in height, Victor Creed cuts a terrifying figure to normal individuals, his thick muscles and tall frame giving off a dangerous air; somewhere between professional bodyguard and cage fighter. 
 
Victor Creed is currently dressed down, a camo vest over a gray tee. He has on ragged, dusty green army khakis; and on each of his hands, fingerless leather gloves. A ragged black overcoat is draped over his shoulders, and dusty, brown leather boots cover his feet. The air of a man who doesn't really care what kind of impression he leaves on people, beyond 'intimidating'.
|Personality='''Personality'''
 
Long before he became a subject in the Weapon X program, Victor Creed was already more animal than man in many ways - his mutation and the cruelty he endured at his father's hands combining to make the man unusually feral, prone to sudden outbursts of violence and utterly ruthless in terms of morality or methods. Through time and plentiful military training (spanning decades, in fact) Victor has learned some level of restraint, though even his actions in Vietnam immediately prior to being picked up by the CIA and Team X speak to a man with no qualms about carrying out orders, or acting beyond in the rules of engagement in ways that would make most men recoil in horror. 
 
This learned restraint has come after many post-mission admonishments of his behaviour - court martials, stints in the brig and, finally, a summary execution that revealed the extent of his mutant powers to the U.S. Government during his time in Vietnam. The CIA and the Weapon X taught him to, if not completely control, than work with his cold, brutal nature - using his terrifying methods to his advantage while still learning to keep a minimum of collateral damage whenever possible. 
 
Victor Creed is a man who, above all else, needs some purpose in life - in fact, since childhood (and no doubt a direct result of the abuse, both mental and physical, he suffered at the hands of his devout father), he has carried around a deep-seated self-hatred and overwhelming desire to prove himself - carrying over into his rivalry with Wolverine, who was frequently considered his superior in the battlefield (and the recipient of the first adamantium skeleton, which Victor long sought for himself). 
 
As a result of his nature and his training in Special Operations and off-the-books missions, the man is about as cold-blooded as it gets - willing to kill entire platoons in the dead of night just to fulfill his mission, but also equally capable of sneaking into a secured facility and eliminating just a single target (should the job call for it). 
 
Although he puts forth a ruthless front, and his reputation backs it up, there is a side of Creed that takes a certain pity on outcasts and those who don't seem to fit in - even in the mutant world. He has often taken other loners, particularly younger ones, under his wing as a sort of 'protector' or 'mentor', teaching them to harness his abilities as a certain Weapon X Colonel once taught him. He also frequently teams up with other mercenaries to complete more difficult contracts; although he greatly prefers to work alone whenever possible, he is not one to turn down a beneficial partnership with the right person. It's perhaps the most human aspect of this man-turned-beast, and the only part of his psyche that doesn't fall prey to his savage urges. 
 
Despite the fact that he frequently lives and hunts alone, Creed is more than capable of working in a team-setting and is quick adept at dealing with people; a side benefit to decades spent in the criminal underworld and intelligence communities. His reputation and presentation hide a cunning intellect and tactical ability that most people overlook in favour of his sheer intimidation factor. Able to spot weaknesses almost instantly both in mind and body, Sabretooth is particularly adept at finding out where his opponent or target is most vulnerable (be it an addiction, a family member, a mistress, or a physical ailment - Victor has a certain knack for sniffing out the soft underbelly of his chosen prey), and then strictly in that particular spot.
|History='''History'''
 
When young Victor Creed's powers manifested, he viciously murdered his older brother over the last piece of pie. In response, his father chained him up in the cellar. This was back in the day, before people had electricity, running water, or nosy neighbors. So Victor stayed in the cellar, like a character from the Rob Zombie remake of Sling Blade. Every so often, Victor's father would pull out his claws and canine teeth, and try to beat 'The Devil' out of him. 
 
Eventually, Victor chewed off his own hand to get free from his chains. After slaughtering his father, he disappeared into the Canadian wilderness. If only he'd had the decency to stay there... 
 
Instead he made his way across Canada, getting whatever work was available to an unskilled youth with a strong back. Eventually he came to the attention of the kinds of people who need dirty work done. Over the years he served in various Army outfits, for his native Canada and later for the United States. No matter how many times he was shot or stabbed, he could always recover, and he always made his presence felt on a battlefield. When there wasn't a war going on, he found other ways to occupy his time and slake his growing bloodlust. 
 
As the methods of warfare evolved, so did Victor, becoming ever more lethal as the decades rolled by. The OSS, the CIA, the SSR, Department H, and even S.H.I.E.L.D. all found uses for his talents. He went by friendly-sounding codenames like 'Butcher', 'El Tigre', and 'Der Schlächter' before the name 'Sabretooth' finally started to stick. He smuggled drugs from Colombia. Ran casinos in Las Vegas. Managed brothels in Madripoor. He murdered Mafia dons, heads of state, women and children. And nearly all of it was done under some flag or another. 
 
During the 60s, Sabretooth was recruited into the Weapon X Program. Subjected to the latest in shady science, and trained in all the latest murder techniques, Sabretooth became one of the most efficient killers on the planet. Unlike most of the other members, Sabretooth didn't need to be coerced into the torturous program, he was just an eager student. Sabretooth was already an animal, but Weapon X made him a monster. 
 
Sabretooth's post-Weapon X career has been especially bloody. He's done stints with the Brotherhood of Mutants, The Hand, and the Marauders. He's sub-contracted for major players like the Hellfire Club or Hydra. But nobody pays better for Sabretooth's unique skills than the good ol' US of A.
|Abilities='''Acute Senses'''
 
Sabretooth's senses of hearing, sight, taste, and smell are all at superhuman levels. His sene of smell is particularly advanced, allowing him to identify individuals by their unique scent years after he first met them and track targets from miles away. His cat-like eyes help him see in low-light environments, and his vision is better than 20/10. He can identify an impressive array of objects, substances, and chemical compounds by tasting the residue left behind. So sharp as his taste buds that he can even tell the difference in types of amunition by licking the inside of the expended casing. His hearing is advanced enough that he's able to detect nearly-silent footfalls behind him, or tell when a victim's heart is starting to beat faster.
 
'''Agility'''
 
Sabretooth possesses the agility of a jungle cat, and is able to move much more swiftly and gracefully than a man of his size has any right to. He's able to rip off soldiers' arms before they can pull a trigger, or chase a fleeing victim like they were standing still. He can even run on all fours like a tiger, increasing his movement speed while making him even tougher to shoot.
 
'''Animal Empathy'''
 
Sabretooth would be much happier living in the wild with animals. Long contact has enabled him to develop an affinity with wildlife that enables him to pass as just another beast. He's especially fond of the big cats, and he's one of the few people living who'd be able to walk with a tiger or amongst a pride of lions without risk of being mauled. They seem him as another predator, not as a potential meal.
 
'''Claws'''
 
Each of Sabretooth's fingers end with a large, partially-retractable claw. Normally, they're about two inches long, but can be extended to about three. The claws are extremely sharp and mostly unbreakable. Combine that with Sabretooth's massive strength, and he can easily shred just about anything in a few seconds. Obviously, exotic metals are immune to Sabretooth's claws, and enough force can certainly break them. Technically he can sheath them a bit more to do fine-manipulation with something like a weapon, but rarely does so, as it is not comfortable.
 
'''Enhanced Durability'''
 
While able to lift and swing for massive force, even up to near ten tons if he's feeling kamikaze, he doesn't have the body structure to really withstand huge amounts without breaking his own limbs. He can't take more than about five tons of incoming pressure on his bones without breaking, but that's still more than admirable. And he can heal his bones rapidly, so there's that, too. With enhanced sense of feeling, though, he doesn't go around trying to hurt himself.
 
'''Enhanced Strength'''
 
While able to lift and swing for massive force, he doesn't have the body structure to really withstand huge amounts without breaking his own limbs for any real period. He is capable of lifting nearly ten tons if he wanted to hurt himself, or putting that proportional amount of force behind each swipe of his claws, but is most likely to break something if he does that against something that actually hits back, and so, he usually stays down at say five tons or less weight.
 
'''Fangs'''
 
Sabretooth's teeth are hardened, and strong enough to dent or tear some general metals. These regenerate fast if needed, but are pretty strng as is. It keeps his teeth from getting knocked out and keeps him from needing to brush, but most importantly this strength in the bone makes it even easier for him to rip out an opponents throat with his fangs.
 
'''Pounce'''
 
Like his namesake, Sabretooth is able to pounce on his prey and incapacitate them almost instantly. Unlike his namesake, he's able to leap roughly half the length of a basketball court. If only he'd joined the NBA instead of becoming a hitman.
 
'''Rage'''
 
Unlike some people, Sabretooth doesn't see any harm in getting mad once in awhile. In fact, he embraces it. Sabretooth has found that using his anger correctly makes him almost unstoppable, and it makes him feel like a demigod. When he's faced with a hopeless situation, when someone is trying to tamper with his mind, or when he's not doing well in a fight, all Sabretooth has to do is get mad and his mind is clear and focused. Of course, he tends to 'focus' only on ripping out throats when he's good and mad, but everyone needs to set realistic goals for themselves, right?
 
'''Regeneration'''
 
Sabretooth's healing abilities are massive. He doesn't have metal in his body that might slow such a thing (unalike some people), which makes his system masterfully efficient. He's able to regenerate damaged tissue at a vastly accelerated rate. Surface damage heals within seconds. Minor wounds, like a stab or gunshot, heal within a matter of seconds. Multiple stabs/gunshots can heal within minutes, or even faster, in some situations. He can even come back from having his entire body burned, or huge chunks of his abdomen (and the accompanying organs) ripped out. This can take awhile, however. 
His healing abilities make him practically immune to all but a few extremely exotic poisons and intoxicants (but not, say, drowning). That doesn't mean he's going to stop drinking beer, it just means that it doesn't really make him drunk. Interestingly, it also repairs damage to his muscles and eliminates fatigue poisons far more efficiently. This allows him to operate at peak efficiency for hours, which helps explain why his workout routines are so effective.
|Skills='''CQC'''
 
Anyone who has ever gone up against Sabretooth knows that he's a vicious, relentless hand to hand fighter. Over the past century he's evolved from a tavern brawler to a highly inventive close-quarters combat master. His recent stint at Weapon X has sharpened his skills a bit and made him work on his form, but he's never really been one for 'practice.' Instead, he keeps improving his skills by killing someone almost every single day.
 
'''Soldier'''
 
Back when Sabretooth first joined up with an army, they still stood in rows and fired at each other across an open field. So he's had to evolve with the times, changing up his tactics each decade. Sabretooth could easily fall in with a team of modern special operatives and outperform most of them. In a way, he's become institutionalized as paramilitary outfits are the only social structures that really make any sense to him. He understands the rules and the culture, and is able to thrive there. More importantly, he's able to give and receive orders, understand the mission parameters, and achieve the objective in a tactically sound manner. 
 
These days, a lot of the old rules are being thrown out of the window. Between drone strikes and superpowered opponents, an operator like Sabretooth has to be more creative than ever before. So far, he's managing just fine.
 
'''Stealth'''
 
As a master tracker, Sabretooth knows exactly how to thwart any attempts to track or detect him. When he wants to, he can move undetected through dense foliage or through a guarded facility. Or even when climbing on vertical surfaces or ceilings.
 
'''Tracking'''
 
When Sabretooth feels like relaxing, he often goes out into the wilderness and lives there. He's been doing this off and on for more than a hundred years. 
 
Sabretooth is a master tracker, able to find and follow his prey even in the densest jungles. Humans are far easier to track than the animals that Sabretooth usually tries to catch. Humans are noisy, messy and smelly, and they tend to leave all sorts of clues behind. 
 
Even when he's not in the wilderness, Sabretooth is still able to track targets using various clues and his sense of smell in conjunction. The simple uptake is that nobody's able to get away from Sabretooth if he's looking for them, no matter where they are. 
 
Well, maybe if they went to space. Or the ocean or something. But nowhere else.
 
'''Vehicles'''
 
At this point in his life, Sabretooth has probably logged more hours behind the wheel of a car than most Indycar drivers, more hours behind the controls of a helicopter than most Army pilots, and more hours in the cockpit of a jet than most Thunderbirds. But just because he 'can' operate these vehicles doesn't mean he's going to volunteer to do so. He prefers to sit in the back and drink.
 
'''Weapons'''
 
Yes, it's more fun killing a man with your bare hands. However, Sabretooth has been trained to use just about every other instrument of death commonly used by men. When he first started fighting, the Springfield 1861 was the weapon of choice for many servicemen. Sabretooth has had to evolve with the times, moving from Bowie knives and revolvers to Ka-Bars MP5s. Along the way, he's had to pick up and use many more esoteric designs, but he generally prefers to avoid using anything too weird. 
 
Is there really any point to learning how to use a sword or a throwing star? Honestly...
|Resources='''Brotherhood'''
 
For years now, Sabretooth has been a card carrying member of the Brotherhood. If he were bit better suited to leadership roles he might be one of the top-ranking members of the group. However, his unique skillset and temperament have led him to become more of a special operative who tends to get called upon only for certain types of missions.
 
'''Genosha'''
 
His service during the Genoshan Civil War has resulted in Sabretooth having official citizenship on the island of Genosha. This is only moderately useful, since he tends to travel through illegal channels or under assumed names. But it's nice having a country that will allow him to claim it, since none of the other countries want him.
 
'''Madripoor'''
 
Although his official citizenship is on Genosha, Sabretooth does a lot of his shady dealings on Madripoor. He owns several business interests there, which serve as his main sources of stable income and wealth storage.
 
'''Reputation'''
 
Over the last few decades, Sabretooth has built up a solid reputation as one of the most vicious and effective mercenaries that can be bought. There seems to be practically nothing that he won't do for a price, but he virtually never accepts a better offer after the deal has been closed. That may not be much of a code of honor, but it's enough in most of the circles that Sabretooth swims in.
 
'''Smuggling'''
 
One of Sabretooth's more lucrative operations doesn't involve him doing much, if any, actual killing. Instead, he tends to make quite a bit smuggling various goods into economically distressed areas like Genosha. Sabretooth is uniquely suited to getting goods past the international sanctions that tend to be imposed on smaller countries, and he makes a (virtual) killing doing it.
|Weaknesses='''Reputation'''
 
For some customers, Sabretooth's reputation is a definite selling point. But for most people, the kind of track record that Sabretooth has is a definite turn-off. Only the worst criminals tend to purchase Creed's loyalty. Or people who hate someone bad enough that they want to see them mauled to death and possibly eaten. Funnily enough, this doesn't seem to keep Uncle Sam from hiring Creed on a fairly regular basis...
 
'''Senses'''
 
It might not seem like a 'weakness' to have heightened senses, but it can be if the right tactics are deployed. Sabretooth's senses can be overloaded, usually by extremely loud noises or blinding lights. These types of attacks tend to be even more effective against him than they are against normal humans.
 
'''Wanted'''
 
Sabretooth has been leaving a bloody trail of carnage across the planet for about a century. He's officially wanted in almost every country on the planet (Genosha and Madripoor being notable exceptions...). When travelling to other countries, he has to use a fake identity or deal with annoying SWAT teams.
 
'''Weight'''
 
Sabretooth is a big, heavy guy. There aren't many people capable of pulling his wounded body off of a battlefield. There's also a much higher chance of objects (like furniture or floors) giving out when his full weight is applied to them, limiting his options for pursuit when a lighter target manages to find an escape route.
}}
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</gallery>
[[Category:Mutant-OOC]] [[Category:Brotherhood]] [[Category:Hench]] [[Category:Light]] [[Category:SHIELD]]

Sabretooth

2019-08-25T23:48:18Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Victor Creed
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=787
|Img=https://66.media.tumblr.com/db78116712005d9bf95afc1a7eafe8cc/tumblr_my2o2dHcmp1sotybdo1_400.jpg
|FullName=Victor Creed
|Gender=Male
|Species=Mutant
|Theme=Marvel
|Chartype=VFC
|Active=Dropped
|Occupation=Mercenary/Contract Killer
|Citizenship=Genosha
|Residence=Madripoor
|Education=Infantry School & Special Forces
CIA Team X & Weapon X Training
|Groups=[[Mutant-OOC]], [[Brotherhood]], [[Hench]], [[Light]], [[SHIELD]]
|Quote="Sure you boys ain't hungry? There's plenty for everybody. Just carve off whatever you like. Don't know about ya'll ... but I like mine rare."
|PAge=148
|AAge=38
|DOB=6 Jun 1879
|Height=198.12 cm (6'6")
|Weight=125 kg (275 lbs.)
|Hair=Blond
|Eyes=Amber
|Actor=Jason Momoa
|Song="For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Metallica
"Creatures of the Night" by KISS
 
"The Trooper" by Iron Maiden
|Profile='Slasher', 'El Tigre', 'Der Schlächter'... Many names, uttered in the shadows, tell the tale of one man whose ruthless violence turned him into a legend on the battlefield - Victor Creed. He has worn many hats in his life: lawman, professional soldier, underworld crime-figure, CIA black ops assassin and, most recently, a follower of the proclaimed 'Saviour of Mutantkind'.
 
Leaving a bloody trail through history, his primary motivation has always been finding an outlet for his primal urges. Whatever the job, whoever signs the paycheque; as long as Victor Creed gets his claws wet with blood at the end of it, he's willing to consider any offers.
 
Though he formally holds citizenship on Genosha, Victor's status within the mercenary community means that he frequently travel. His 'career' takes him to conflict zones and hot-spots in order to ply his trade in wartime, and the slums and backalleys of the more 'civilized' world.
 
One of the most skilled operators to come out of the U.S. military. A hunter in the night. A beast, unfettered by morals and only chained by the desire to remain out of SHIELD custody (or worse). A man, who willingly became an animal.
 
Sabretooth.
===Current Player Approved: Not Applicable===
|Description='''Description'''
 
In another life, Victor Creed could have passed as a biker enforcer, or dive-bar bouncer, or professional wrestler. 
 
His hair, at present, is straggly and long; blond, greasy locks displaying a disdain for most modern grooming practices. This seemingly carries on to his facial hair, with thick and curly blond sideburns covering most of his cheeks and leading down into a slightly thinner, but equally unkempt and messy, beard that covers his jutting chin. 
 
Even when not smiling, his large and pointed canine teeth are obvious - often sticking out from his top lip at even the slightest hint of a grin, and bringing a certain menace to the man's already intimidating appearance. Each of his nails extends outwards far beyond normal human length (roughly two inches in length), taking on the appearance of claws - deadly sharp and glinting with a metallic sheen in the light 
 
6'6" in height, Victor Creed cuts a terrifying figure to normal individuals, his thick muscles and tall frame giving off a dangerous air; somewhere between professional bodyguard and cage fighter. 
 
Victor Creed is currently dressed down, a camo vest over a gray tee. He has on ragged, dusty green army khakis; and on each of his hands, fingerless leather gloves. A ragged black overcoat is draped over his shoulders, and dusty, brown leather boots cover his feet. The air of a man who doesn't really care what kind of impression he leaves on people, beyond 'intimidating'.
|Personality='''Personality'''
 
Long before he became a subject in the Weapon X program, Victor Creed was already more animal than man in many ways - his mutation and the cruelty he endured at his father's hands combining to make the man unusually feral, prone to sudden outbursts of violence and utterly ruthless in terms of morality or methods. Through time and plentiful military training (spanning decades, in fact) Victor has learned some level of restraint, though even his actions in Vietnam immediately prior to being picked up by the CIA and Team X speak to a man with no qualms about carrying out orders, or acting beyond in the rules of engagement in ways that would make most men recoil in horror. 
 
This learned restraint has come after many post-mission admonishments of his behaviour - court martials, stints in the brig and, finally, a summary execution that revealed the extent of his mutant powers to the U.S. Government during his time in Vietnam. The CIA and the Weapon X taught him to, if not completely control, than work with his cold, brutal nature - using his terrifying methods to his advantage while still learning to keep a minimum of collateral damage whenever possible. 
 
Victor Creed is a man who, above all else, needs some purpose in life - in fact, since childhood (and no doubt a direct result of the abuse, both mental and physical, he suffered at the hands of his devout father), he has carried around a deep-seated self-hatred and overwhelming desire to prove himself - carrying over into his rivalry with Wolverine, who was frequently considered his superior in the battlefield (and the recipient of the first adamantium skeleton, which Victor long sought for himself). 
 
As a result of his nature and his training in Special Operations and off-the-books missions, the man is about as cold-blooded as it gets - willing to kill entire platoons in the dead of night just to fulfill his mission, but also equally capable of sneaking into a secured facility and eliminating just a single target (should the job call for it). 
 
Although he puts forth a ruthless front, and his reputation backs it up, there is a side of Creed that takes a certain pity on outcasts and those who don't seem to fit in - even in the mutant world. He has often taken other loners, particularly younger ones, under his wing as a sort of 'protector' or 'mentor', teaching them to harness his abilities as a certain Weapon X Colonel once taught him. He also frequently teams up with other mercenaries to complete more difficult contracts; although he greatly prefers to work alone whenever possible, he is not one to turn down a beneficial partnership with the right person. It's perhaps the most human aspect of this man-turned-beast, and the only part of his psyche that doesn't fall prey to his savage urges. 
 
Despite the fact that he frequently lives and hunts alone, Creed is more than capable of working in a team-setting and is quick adept at dealing with people; a side benefit to decades spent in the criminal underworld and intelligence communities. His reputation and presentation hide a cunning intellect and tactical ability that most people overlook in favour of his sheer intimidation factor. Able to spot weaknesses almost instantly both in mind and body, Sabretooth is particularly adept at finding out where his opponent or target is most vulnerable (be it an addiction, a family member, a mistress, or a physical ailment - Victor has a certain knack for sniffing out the soft underbelly of his chosen prey), and then strictly in that particular spot.
|History='''History'''
 
When young Victor Creed's powers manifested, he viciously murdered his older brother over the last piece of pie. In response, his father chained him up in the cellar. This was back in the day, before people had electricity, running water, or nosy neighbors. So Victor stayed in the cellar, like a character from the Rob Zombie remake of Sling Blade. Every so often, Victor's father would pull out his claws and canine teeth, and try to beat 'The Devil' out of him. 
 
Eventually, Victor chewed off his own hand to get free from his chains. After slaughtering his father, he disappeared into the Canadian wilderness. If only he'd had the decency to stay there... 
 
Instead he made his way across Canada, getting whatever work was available to an unskilled youth with a strong back. Eventually he came to the attention of the kinds of people who need dirty work done. Over the years he served in various Army outfits, for his native Canada and later for the United States. No matter how many times he was shot or stabbed, he could always recover, and he always made his presence felt on a battlefield. When there wasn't a war going on, he found other ways to occupy his time and slake his growing bloodlust. 
 
As the methods of warfare evolved, so did Victor, becoming ever more lethal as the decades rolled by. The OSS, the CIA, the SSR, Department H, and even S.H.I.E.L.D. all found uses for his talents. He went by friendly-sounding codenames like 'Butcher', 'El Tigre', and 'Der Schlächter' before the name 'Sabretooth' finally started to stick. He smuggled drugs from Colombia. Ran casinos in Las Vegas. Managed brothels in Madripoor. He murdered Mafia dons, heads of state, women and children. And nearly all of it was done under some flag or another. 
 
During the 60s, Sabretooth was recruited into the Weapon X Program. Subjected to the latest in shady science, and trained in all the latest murder techniques, Sabretooth became one of the most efficient killers on the planet. Unlike most of the other members, Sabretooth didn't need to be coerced into the torturous program, he was just an eager student. Sabretooth was already an animal, but Weapon X made him a monster. 
 
Sabretooth's post-Weapon X career has been especially bloody. He's done stints with the Brotherhood of Mutants, The Hand, and the Marauders. He's sub-contracted for major players like the Hellfire Club or Hydra. But nobody pays better for Sabretooth's unique skills than the good ol' US of A.
|Abilities='''Acute Senses'''
 
Sabretooth's senses of hearing, sight, taste, and smell are all at superhuman levels. His sene of smell is particularly advanced, allowing him to identify individuals by their unique scent years after he first met them and track targets from miles away. His cat-like eyes help him see in low-light environments, and his vision is better than 20/10. He can identify an impressive array of objects, substances, and chemical compounds by tasting the residue left behind. So sharp as his taste buds that he can even tell the difference in types of amunition by licking the inside of the expended casing. His hearing is advanced enough that he's able to detect nearly-silent footfalls behind him, or tell when a victim's heart is starting to beat faster.
 
'''Agility'''
 
Sabretooth possesses the agility of a jungle cat, and is able to move much more swiftly and gracefully than a man of his size has any right to. He's able to rip off soldiers' arms before they can pull a trigger, or chase a fleeing victim like they were standing still. He can even run on all fours like a tiger, increasing his movement speed while making him even tougher to shoot.
 
'''Animal Empathy'''
 
Sabretooth would be much happier living in the wild with animals. Long contact has enabled him to develop an affinity with wildlife that enables him to pass as just another beast. He's especially fond of the big cats, and he's one of the few people living who'd be able to walk with a tiger or amongst a pride of lions without risk of being mauled. They seem him as another predator, not as a potential meal.
 
'''Claws'''
 
Each of Sabretooth's fingers end with a large, partially-retractable claw. Normally, they're about two inches long, but can be extended to about three. The claws are extremely sharp and mostly unbreakable. Combine that with Sabretooth's massive strength, and he can easily shred just about anything in a few seconds. Obviously, exotic metals are immune to Sabretooth's claws, and enough force can certainly break them. Technically he can sheath them a bit more to do fine-manipulation with something like a weapon, but rarely does so, as it is not comfortable.
 
'''Enhanced Durability'''
 
While able to lift and swing for massive force, even up to near ten tons if he's feeling kamikaze, he doesn't have the body structure to really withstand huge amounts without breaking his own limbs. He can't take more than about five tons of incoming pressure on his bones without breaking, but that's still more than admirable. And he can heal his bones rapidly, so there's that, too. With enhanced sense of feeling, though, he doesn't go around trying to hurt himself.
 
'''Enhanced Strength'''
 
While able to lift and swing for massive force, he doesn't have the body structure to really withstand huge amounts without breaking his own limbs for any real period. He is capable of lifting nearly ten tons if he wanted to hurt himself, or putting that proportional amount of force behind each swipe of his claws, but is most likely to break something if he does that against something that actually hits back, and so, he usually stays down at say five tons or less weight.
 
'''Fangs'''
 
Sabretooth's teeth are hardened, and strong enough to dent or tear some general metals. These regenerate fast if needed, but are pretty strng as is. It keeps his teeth from getting knocked out and keeps him from needing to brush, but most importantly this strength in the bone makes it even easier for him to rip out an opponents throat with his fangs.
 
'''Pounce'''
 
Like his namesake, Sabretooth is able to pounce on his prey and incapacitate them almost instantly. Unlike his namesake, he's able to leap roughly half the length of a basketball court. If only he'd joined the NBA instead of becoming a hitman.
 
'''Rage'''
 
Unlike some people, Sabretooth doesn't see any harm in getting mad once in awhile. In fact, he embraces it. Sabretooth has found that using his anger correctly makes him almost unstoppable, and it makes him feel like a demigod. When he's faced with a hopeless situation, when someone is trying to tamper with his mind, or when he's not doing well in a fight, all Sabretooth has to do is get mad and his mind is clear and focused. Of course, he tends to 'focus' only on ripping out throats when he's good and mad, but everyone needs to set realistic goals for themselves, right?
 
'''Regeneration'''
 
Sabretooth's healing abilities are massive. He doesn't have metal in his body that might slow such a thing (unalike some people), which makes his system masterfully efficient. He's able to regenerate damaged tissue at a vastly accelerated rate. Surface damage heals within seconds. Minor wounds, like a stab or gunshot, heal within a matter of seconds. Multiple stabs/gunshots can heal within minutes, or even faster, in some situations. He can even come back from having his entire body burned, or huge chunks of his abdomen (and the accompanying organs) ripped out. This can take awhile, however. 
His healing abilities make him practically immune to all but a few extremely exotic poisons and intoxicants (but not, say, drowning). That doesn't mean he's going to stop drinking beer, it just means that it doesn't really make him drunk. Interestingly, it also repairs damage to his muscles and eliminates fatigue poisons far more efficiently. This allows him to operate at peak efficiency for hours, which helps explain why his workout routines are so effective.
|Skills='''CQC'''
 
Anyone who has ever gone up against Sabretooth knows that he's a vicious, relentless hand to hand fighter. Over the past century he's evolved from a tavern brawler to a highly inventive close-quarters combat master. His recent stint at Weapon X has sharpened his skills a bit and made him work on his form, but he's never really been one for 'practice.' Instead, he keeps improving his skills by killing someone almost every single day.
 
'''Soldier'''
 
Back when Sabretooth first joined up with an army, they still stood in rows and fired at each other across an open field. So he's had to evolve with the times, changing up his tactics each decade. Sabretooth could easily fall in with a team of modern special operatives and outperform most of them. In a way, he's become institutionalized as paramilitary outfits are the only social structures that really make any sense to him. He understands the rules and the culture, and is able to thrive there. More importantly, he's able to give and receive orders, understand the mission parameters, and achieve the objective in a tactically sound manner. 
 
These days, a lot of the old rules are being thrown out of the window. Between drone strikes and superpowered opponents, an operator like Sabretooth has to be more creative than ever before. So far, he's managing just fine.
 
'''Stealth'''
 
As a master tracker, Sabretooth knows exactly how to thwart any attempts to track or detect him. When he wants to, he can move undetected through dense foliage or through a guarded facility. Or even when climbing on vertical surfaces or ceilings.
 
'''Tracking'''
 
When Sabretooth feels like relaxing, he often goes out into the wilderness and lives there. He's been doing this off and on for more than a hundred years. 
 
Sabretooth is a master tracker, able to find and follow his prey even in the densest jungles. Humans are far easier to track than the animals that Sabretooth usually tries to catch. Humans are noisy, messy and smelly, and they tend to leave all sorts of clues behind. 
 
Even when he's not in the wilderness, Sabretooth is still able to track targets using various clues and his sense of smell in conjunction. The simple uptake is that nobody's able to get away from Sabretooth if he's looking for them, no matter where they are. 
 
Well, maybe if they went to space. Or the ocean or something. But nowhere else.
 
'''Vehicles'''
 
At this point in his life, Sabretooth has probably logged more hours behind the wheel of a car than most Indycar drivers, more hours behind the controls of a helicopter than most Army pilots, and more hours in the cockpit of a jet than most Thunderbirds. But just because he 'can' operate these vehicles doesn't mean he's going to volunteer to do so. He prefers to sit in the back and drink.
 
'''Weapons'''
 
Yes, it's more fun killing a man with your bare hands. However, Sabretooth has been trained to use just about every other instrument of death commonly used by men. When he first started fighting, the Springfield 1861 was the weapon of choice for many servicemen. Sabretooth has had to evolve with the times, moving from Bowie knives and revolvers to Ka-Bars MP5s. Along the way, he's had to pick up and use many more esoteric designs, but he generally prefers to avoid using anything too weird. 
 
Is there really any point to learning how to use a sword or a throwing star? Honestly...
|Resources='''Brotherhood'''
 
For years now, Sabretooth has been a card carrying member of the Brotherhood. If he were bit better suited to leadership roles he might be one of the top-ranking members of the group. However, his unique skillset and temperament have led him to become more of a special operative who tends to get called upon only for certain types of missions.
 
'''Genosha'''
 
His service during the Genoshan Civil War has resulted in Sabretooth having official citizenship on the island of Genosha. This is only moderately useful, since he tends to travel through illegal channels or under assumed names. But it's nice having a country that will allow him to claim it, since none of the other countries want him.
 
'''Madripoor'''
 
Although his official citizenship is on Genosha, Sabretooth does a lot of his shady dealings on Madripoor. He owns several business interests there, which serve as his main sources of stable income and wealth storage.
 
'''Reputation'''
 
Over the last few decades, Sabretooth has built up a solid reputation as one of the most vicious and effective mercenaries that can be bought. There seems to be practically nothing that he won't do for a price, but he virtually never accepts a better offer after the deal has been closed. That may not be much of a code of honor, but it's enough in most of the circles that Sabretooth swims in.
 
'''Smuggling'''
 
One of Sabretooth's more lucrative operations doesn't involve him doing much, if any, actual killing. Instead, he tends to make quite a bit smuggling various goods into economically distressed areas like Genosha. Sabretooth is uniquely suited to getting goods past the international sanctions that tend to be imposed on smaller countries, and he makes a (virtual) killing doing it.
|Weaknesses='''Reputation'''
 
For some customers, Sabretooth's reputation is a definite selling point. But for most people, the kind of track record that Sabretooth has is a definite turn-off. Only the worst criminals tend to purchase Creed's loyalty. Or people who hate someone bad enough that they want to see them mauled to death and possibly eaten. Funnily enough, this doesn't seem to keep Uncle Sam from hiring Creed on a fairly regular basis...
 
'''Senses'''
 
It might not seem like a 'weakness' to have heightened senses, but it can be if the right tactics are deployed. Sabretooth's senses can be overloaded, usually by extremely loud noises or blinding lights. These types of attacks tend to be even more effective against him than they are against normal humans.
 
'''Wanted'''
 
Sabretooth has been leaving a bloody trail of carnage across the planet for about a century. He's officially wanted in almost every country on the planet (Genosha and Madripoor being notable exceptions...). When travelling to other countries, he has to use a fake identity or deal with annoying SWAT teams.
 
'''Weight'''
 
Sabretooth is a big, heavy guy. There aren't many people capable of pulling his wounded body off of a battlefield. There's also a much higher chance of objects (like furniture or floors) giving out when his full weight is applied to them, limiting his options for pursuit when a lighter target manages to find an escape route.
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[[Category:Mutant-OOC]] [[Category:Brotherhood]] [[Category:Hench]] [[Category:Light]] [[Category:SHIELD]]

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{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Jamie Madrox
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=1245
|Img=https://illustrationage.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/xfactor-final.jpg
|FullName=James Arthur Madrox
|Gender=Male
|Species=Mutant (Changeling)
|Theme=Marvel
|Chartype=FC
|Active=Approved
|Occupation=Private Investigator
|Citizenship=USA
|Residence=Bushwick(Mutant Town), New York
|Education=Law School, and well other things!
|Groups=[[Mutant-OOC]], [[New Mutants]], [[Xavier's School]]
|Quote="Maybe in the end, what makes heroes into heroes... is that we're just too stupid to quit and as a result, even in the face of total defeat... we occasionally luck into a win."
|PAge=25
|AAge=25
|DOB=9 September 2001
|Height=180 cm (5'11")
|Weight=70 kg (154 lbs)
|Hair=Brown
|Eyes=Brown
|Actor=James Franco
|Song="Myself" by Madchild
|Profile=Jamie Madrox has had an interesting life. In fact, he's had quite a few of them. Gifted from birth with the ability to duplicate himself down to the change in his pockets, Jamie experiences life from every angle. He's been a cop, a paramedic, a lawyer, a monk, an exotic dancer, a cat burglar, an Olympic gymnast, etc. He's lived, loved, died and kept going. Now he's a private detective. Taking cases that nobody else wants. Giving back to those unable or unwilling to help themselves. 
 
Jamie Madrox will figure it all out. As long as it isn't his own problems.
===Current Player Approved: August 21, 2019===
|Description=
'''Description:'''
 
The man(or men) before you stands about six feet tall with a deft, muscular build that proves to most others that he is no stranger to some serious gym time. Keeping up with superhumans demands at least some cardio. Deep brown hair is somewhat wavy and kept cropped short and neat. Brown eyes help soften the somewhat sharp angles of the rest of his features, giving him a roguish look. He's lithely built, more like a gymnast or swimmer then a body builder, and his clothes are cut to show that. A tight long sleeve black shirt clings to his torso, an emerald green design of interconnected circles crosses the front of it, an odd geometric pattern that's not any logo or symbol anyone might recognize. A pair of comfy black cargo pants, faded black and green sneakers, and over all of this a dark chestnut trench coat that's obviously seen enough action to be thoroughly broken in.
|History=
'''History:'''
 
Mutants generally don't exhibit their genetic differences at birth. Jamie Madrox is not your general mutant. In fact, it's said that's he's not even a mutant at all. That can wait. A smack to the bottom and newborn baby Jamie duplicated before the very, very surprised eyes of hospital staff and his parents. Two weeks later, the Madrox family moved to Kansas. Scientists became farmers. Isolation was the plan. It worked a little too well. Confronting the Madrox family on their farm, Damian Tryp informed them that Jamie was not a Mutant but a "Changeling". A precursor to Homo Superior. Whether that is true or not didn't stop Tryp from leveling the farm with a tornado after being denied, killing Dr. Daniel Madrox and Dr. Joan Madrox. Jamie spent the next six years in quasi-isolation caring for the family farm. Six years. The malfunction of his specialized containment suit ended that abruptly. Terrified and alone, Jamie fled Kansas. Once in New York, he did what anyone in his position would do. Jamie Madrox started a riot. Well, he -became- a riot, more like. The intervention of Xavier and the X-Men brought the bizarre events to an end. Back at the mansion in Westchester, Jamie was helped through his manic episode and calmed. It's there that Jamie remained for the better part of a year, enrolling in the Institute while working on his mental health and social adjustment. Turning down an offer to join the X-Men(who does that, right?!), he instead followed Xavier to Muir Island where he worked in the capacity of a research assistant. An invaluable one. After all, pulling a two hundred hour work week, fighting aliens and reality warping mutants is... difficult to top. Turning down a -second- offer to join the X-Men, Jamie chose to remain on Muir Island with friends and newfound family. Over the years, he would always find a reason for himself or a Dupe to visit Muir Island again. It's there that he really started opening up, forging friendships that last to this day. Somehow. He's still not sure why they like him. Leaving a Dupe behind, Madrox left Muir Island for a return to the United States. More confident in himself and his powers, he took the first steps toward expanding his brand. So to speak. The revelation that he could -retain- the memories and knowledge of his absorbed Duplicates changed the game completely for him years back but he never had the personal freedom to act on it. With a newfound plan written in figurative pencil, Jamie sent himself out to the winds. One Dupe with instructions to become a detective. Another a doctor. A spy. Jamie even sent a Dupe off to China with the goal of becoming a kung fu master. For a while, this seemed to be working out well. That's when he found out that some Dupes don't always play ball. The longer they spend apart from 'Jamie Prime', the more independent they become. Jamie's master plan started to unravel. The Dupe he left on Muir Island had joined with the Nasty Boys after a brief stint with the Fallen Angels. In a risky move, Jamie absorbed the Dupe that had joined forces with Mister Sinister and the Nasty Boys. Exposing the illegal activities of a Senator and Sinister with the help of some of his friends and Dupes, Jamie was living high but left with an uncomfortable inevitability. He had to go and track down his Dupes and absorb them all again. Some of these Duplicates were quick to accept returning to their source. Becoming one with Jamie Prime... no matter how odd that may sound. Some resisted. Absorbed all the same, he -knows- there are a few still out there on the loose doing only God knows what. One in Genosha sends him crude pen pal letters with no return address. Another he's allowed to stay free. Independent. Calling himself John, he's taken to religion for a reason Jamie can't understand. Putting the year on the road spent literally finding himself behind.. himself, Jamie returned to New York once again. He could never seem to get the city out from under his skin. So he bought a plane ticket and came up with a new plan. A better plan. The Council of Madri. Just kidding! No, no. Jamie Madrox, seeing his path more clearly now that he's more "consolidated" had decided to open a private investigations agency. So he bought a building with cash. Put a sign on door and parked a new car in front. How did he get all that? Well, he went on and won a game show. Ethical? Not even slightly with his methods but it was legal. With newfound freedom, a place of his own and a new path before him, Jamie Madrox sets out to see just how much good he can get done in this world. Starting with Mutant Town.
|Personality=
'''Personality:'''
 
Jamie Madrox is pretty messed up. As a person. As people. He can send a carbon copy of himself out to do almost anything and that leaves -him- indecisive more often than not. The splintering of his personality when he's spread himself too thin has left a mark in the form of mental illness. He's restless. He's falling apart. But he cares. Too much in some cases. He puts himself out there, on the line for both his friends and complete strangers alike. He's driven by an almost compulsive need to impact the world in some way, some place in a positive fashion. He wants to make the world a better place for Mutants. For Humans. For people. He's soft hearted, a natural jester, bit of a charmer and a sucker for a sob story. He's increasingly scared of his own power. Scared of what he may be. Yet embracing it all the same. He doesn't trust himself or even some of himselves. Fun word that. He's playing a dangerous game, balancing between spread too thin and just enough. At times, he's just Jamie. At others, he's empty and withdrawn. Or someone encounters a Dupe instead and experiences a sort of 'avatar' of Jamie Madrox's personality bits and pieces. He's complicated.
|Abilities=
'''Kinda Immortal:'''
 
It's said if you kill the OG, another takes his place. It's mostly just a theory but the possibility remains. Killing the original Jamie Madrox transfers the whole of his personality and experiences to the nearest Duplicate within a ten mile radius. In theory. 
'''Kinetic Duplication:'''
 
With a bump or a slap, one becomes many. Jamie Madrox can create a perfectly identical living duplicate of himself. All he needs is physical impact. Kinetic energy. The harder the hit, the more of him there are. This process, possibly extra dimensional mass acquisition, is spontaneous and cannot be prevented by Madrox. While he can create many duplicates, his copies can only replicate themselves once at a time. The Dupes all feel, think and act on their own will though usually guided by the OG Jamie. Each Duplicate manifests an aspect of Jamie's personality, increasing in intensity the longer spent apart from the original. This has been getting worse. Linked through a telepathic and empathic hive mind of sorts, Jamie experiences severe psychic trauma if one of his Duplicates dies. It is virtually impossible to tell Jamie apart from his Duplicates. Any tattoo or attire, loose change or small objects on his person are copied exactly into the next Jamie.(3 to 5 Duplicates "active" at a distance at most) *Duplicate Absorption - Jamie Prime is able to absorbs his Duplicates from a distance of fifty yards. Doing so consumes and retains the skills, memories and experiences of the Duplicate. This is limited in that he cannot absorb an already dead Dupe. *Experience Transference - Merging with his copies, Jamie retains the memories, knowledge and experiences of a Duplicate. Not -perfectly- but close enough. However, if the Dupe kills itself, Madrox can still absorb it's collected experiences. *Duplication Healing - Absorbing a wounded Dupe damages, absorbing a healthy one... Heals. Merging can be used as a form of healing but there are also risks. While he can absorb a healthy Dupe to heal himself, absorbing an injured or poisoned Duplicate transfers the damage but only by half.
|Skills=
'''Combat Medic:'''
 
While the Dupe didn't become a surgeon, he did become a paramedic. That alone has saved more than one life following Jamie absorbing that Duplicate back into himself. He's no brain surgeon but he can still save a neck or two in a tight spot. 
'''Detective:'''
 
The Dupe that Jamie sent out to become a detective went a little harder than he expected. The copy burned himself out terribly in the process but gifted Jamie with the skills and instincts of a seasoned homicide detective. While not the worlds greatest, Jamie has a knack for putting together motives, gathering evidence and not making a fool of himself at a crime scene. 
'''Languages:'''
 
English, Mandarin and Spanish so far but he's working on French, Italian and one of these days? One of those alien languages. It's not that he naturally picks up languages faster than anybody else but when you can create your own study group, it goes a little faster. 
'''Legal Advice:'''
 
One of his Dupes passed the Bar Exam. So you know what that means... Jamie Madrox can practice law in the state of New York. While he doesn't work for a firm or moonlight as a public defender, he can offer sound legal counsel. Who better to call if you end up in cuffs? 
'''Quite Sneaky:'''
 
Shaolin stealth technique. No, really. Kung Fu Stealth. While it's true that he knows such a thing and has used it once or twice in the past, it's really all about blending in. Jamie is good at shadowing people, blending into crowds and getting the drop on people that don't have super senses or the like. 
'''Renaissance Man:'''
 
Through absorbing his well traveled and learned Duplicates, Madrox has collected a list of life skills and occupational talents that would take... well, multiple lives to accomplish. He may excell in certain specific fields but his ever expanding resume includes experience as a gymnast, burglar, spy, locksmith, insurance adjuster, fire fighter and escape artist which he can be conidered to have an amateur to expert level of knowledge of. 
'''Strong Kung Fu:'''
 
One of the first Duplicates that Jamie sent out on a mission was sent to China. Years of study among the Shaolin Monks was absorbed, giving Jamie Prime expert level techniques in multiple styles. He's not going to defeat Iron Fist or Lady Shiva but he can hold his own with the greats for a moment or two. He's also very handy with a baseball bat and has been known to carry brass knuckles and/or a snub nose .38 revolver. Which he protests is part of the uniform.
|Resources=
'''Business Men:'''
 
Multiple businesses, various accounts. Jamie and his selves have been busy. He's got a few small businesses up and running to variable productivity. Nothing international by any means. The detective agency being his current obsession, is much more hands on. He can still call on his small medical transport company, his tire shop and a pawn shop in the rough part of town. It's a living. Or three. 
'''Extreme Social Network:'''
 
So many lives lived already. So many people met. Jamie can call on a vast network of low key friends, acquaintances and people he's helped in the past. It's nothing ground shaking but he can get gossip, street rumors, some real estate tips and the general rumblings of Mutant Towns more vocal malcontents. Mostly mundane but it helps when the chips are down. 
'''Not So Idle Rich:'''
 
Jamie went on a gameshow and won a million bucks. That's no joke. Using a team of duplicates, he worked his way to the top of the prize heap and took home entirely too much money. He's blowing through it relatively quick but for now, it's keeping the lights on and the take-out fresh. 
'''The Council of Madri:'''
 
Yearly absorption and duplication. It's not a real council so much as Jamie sending out a version of him that he's vetted for a specific field of study. After a year, they "catch up". So far, this is going without a hitch. Inevitably, one of the Duplicates will find the deal less than favorable for them. 
'''X-Factor Investigations:'''
 
The place for the case. It's not funded by Xavier, it's not linked to the X-Men or the School. It is catchy though. Jaie Madrox runs a small private investigations agency out of Mutant Town. Focused on community cases for the most part, he can use company tools and expenses in a pinch. After all, they're his. Stake out van, some recording gear, a few comm sets and even a spare overcoat.
|Weaknesses=
'''Accidental Duplication:'''
 
Sometimes a bump causes a Dupe. Impact can knock a Duplicate right out of Jamie and it's not always in his best interests to be -more-. Confined spaces and his power tend to not be friends because of this. 
'''Bi-Polar Disorder:'''
 
He has his ups and downs. A lot of them. Having spread himself out so many times, having died a couple times as well, Jamie has some mood balance issues. While not prone to the extremes of the condition, he has been known to display difficulty in self-control and rather heavy bouts of depression following excessive duplication. 
'''Fragmenting:'''
 
As Jamie spreads himself too thin and Duplicates become more independent, they manifest heightened aspects of his core personality. Jamie Prime slowly loses that aspect as they gain more freedom and distance. This can leave him feeling sluggish, depressed and near catatonic with indecision in the extreme circumstances. 
'''Indecision:'''
 
For a man capable of every choice, he can't choose. The more Duplicates he has in the field, the worse it gets. Even if he's flying solo, Jamie still has difficulties making decisions. So accustomed to sending out a copy to experience the outcome or multiple to play the odds, he sometimes just can't seem to make a choice when pressed. 
'''Memory Maze:'''
 
So many lives and memories, it's hard to sort through. Keeping track of which memories are his and which are those of Duplicates past is getting more and more difficult. Jamie doesn't want to admit that it's become impossible but it very well could be. Not only that but the memories and experiences absorbed aren't always one hundred percent. 
'''Rogue Dupes:'''
 
Not all of them want to play ball. One may be in Hydra. He's not sure anymore and that is very, very bad. With time and distance, Duplicates gain more and more autonomy. While the majority invariably end up playing ball, so to speak, occasionally one will fight back against re-absorption. Even going as far as to scheme and betray to avoid the fate. 
'''Sharing the Pain:'''
 
When a Dupe is killed, he feels it. Hard. The psychic backlash of a Duplicate's death is enough to temporarily incapacitate Jamie. Causing temporary pain, disorientation and confusion. This rarely happens in anything short of a terrible time.
}}
<gallery>
JM2.png
JM3.jpg
JM4.jpg
JamieVacation.jpg
</gallery>

File:JamieVacation.jpg

2019-08-22T06:50:46Z

Panic:

File:JM4.jpg

2019-08-22T06:50:21Z

Panic:

File:JM3.jpg

2019-08-22T06:49:50Z

Panic:

File:JM2.png

2019-08-22T06:49:14Z

Panic:

Multiple Man

2019-08-22T06:38:02Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Jamie Madrox
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=1245
|Img=http://pbs.twimg.com/media/DgtDsY0V4AAXHpj.jpg
|FullName=James Arthur Madrox
|Gender=Male
|Species=Mutant (Changeling)
|Theme=Marvel
|Chartype=FC
|Active=Approved
|Occupation=Private Investigator
|Citizenship=USA
|Residence=Bushwick(Mutant Town), New York
|Education=Law School, and well other things!
|Groups=[[Mutant-OOC]], [[New Mutants]], [[Xavier's School]]
|Quote="Maybe in the end, what makes heroes into heroes... is that we're just too stupid to quit and as a result, even in the face of total defeat... we occasionally luck into a win."
|PAge=25
|AAge=25
|DOB=9 September 2001
|Height=180 cm (5'11")
|Weight=70 kg (154 lbs)
|Hair=Brown
|Eyes=Brown
|Actor=James Franco
|Song="Myself" by Madchild
|Profile=Jamie Madrox has had an interesting life. In fact, he's had quite a few of them. Gifted from birth with the ability to duplicate himself down to the change in his pockets, Jamie experiences life from every angle. He's been a cop, a paramedic, a lawyer, a monk, an exotic dancer, a cat burglar, an Olympic gymnast, etc. He's lived, loved, died and kept going. Now he's a private detective. Taking cases that nobody else wants. Giving back to those unable or unwilling to help themselves. 
 
Jamie Madrox will figure it all out. As long as it isn't his own problems.
===Current Player Approved: August 21, 2019===
|Description=
'''Description:'''
 
The man(or men) before you stands about six feet tall with a deft, muscular build that proves to most others that he is no stranger to some serious gym time. Keeping up with superhumans demands at least some cardio. Deep brown hair is somewhat wavy and kept cropped short and neat. Brown eyes help soften the somewhat sharp angles of the rest of his features, giving him a roguish look. He's lithely built, more like a gymnast or swimmer then a body builder, and his clothes are cut to show that. A tight long sleeve black shirt clings to his torso, an emerald green design of interconnected circles crosses the front of it, an odd geometric pattern that's not any logo or symbol anyone might recognize. A pair of comfy black cargo pants, faded black and green sneakers, and over all of this a dark chestnut trench coat that's obviously seen enough action to be thoroughly broken in.
|History=
'''History:'''
 
Mutants generally don't exhibit their genetic differences at birth. Jamie Madrox is not your general mutant. In fact, it's said that's he's not even a mutant at all. That can wait. A smack to the bottom and newborn baby Jamie duplicated before the very, very surprised eyes of hospital staff and his parents. Two weeks later, the Madrox family moved to Kansas. Scientists became farmers. Isolation was the plan. It worked a little too well. Confronting the Madrox family on their farm, Damian Tryp informed them that Jamie was not a Mutant but a "Changeling". A precursor to Homo Superior. Whether that is true or not didn't stop Tryp from leveling the farm with a tornado after being denied, killing Dr. Daniel Madrox and Dr. Joan Madrox. Jamie spent the next six years in quasi-isolation caring for the family farm. Six years. The malfunction of his specialized containment suit ended that abruptly. Terrified and alone, Jamie fled Kansas. Once in New York, he did what anyone in his position would do. Jamie Madrox started a riot. Well, he -became- a riot, more like. The intervention of Xavier and the X-Men brought the bizarre events to an end. Back at the mansion in Westchester, Jamie was helped through his manic episode and calmed. It's there that Jamie remained for the better part of a year, enrolling in the Institute while working on his mental health and social adjustment. Turning down an offer to join the X-Men(who does that, right?!), he instead followed Xavier to Muir Island where he worked in the capacity of a research assistant. An invaluable one. After all, pulling a two hundred hour work week, fighting aliens and reality warping mutants is... difficult to top. Turning down a -second- offer to join the X-Men, Jamie chose to remain on Muir Island with friends and newfound family. Over the years, he would always find a reason for himself or a Dupe to visit Muir Island again. It's there that he really started opening up, forging friendships that last to this day. Somehow. He's still not sure why they like him. Leaving a Dupe behind, Madrox left Muir Island for a return to the United States. More confident in himself and his powers, he took the first steps toward expanding his brand. So to speak. The revelation that he could -retain- the memories and knowledge of his absorbed Duplicates changed the game completely for him years back but he never had the personal freedom to act on it. With a newfound plan written in figurative pencil, Jamie sent himself out to the winds. One Dupe with instructions to become a detective. Another a doctor. A spy. Jamie even sent a Dupe off to China with the goal of becoming a kung fu master. For a while, this seemed to be working out well. That's when he found out that some Dupes don't always play ball. The longer they spend apart from 'Jamie Prime', the more independent they become. Jamie's master plan started to unravel. The Dupe he left on Muir Island had joined with the Nasty Boys after a brief stint with the Fallen Angels. In a risky move, Jamie absorbed the Dupe that had joined forces with Mister Sinister and the Nasty Boys. Exposing the illegal activities of a Senator and Sinister with the help of some of his friends and Dupes, Jamie was living high but left with an uncomfortable inevitability. He had to go and track down his Dupes and absorb them all again. Some of these Duplicates were quick to accept returning to their source. Becoming one with Jamie Prime... no matter how odd that may sound. Some resisted. Absorbed all the same, he -knows- there are a few still out there on the loose doing only God knows what. One in Genosha sends him crude pen pal letters with no return address. Another he's allowed to stay free. Independent. Calling himself John, he's taken to religion for a reason Jamie can't understand. Putting the year on the road spent literally finding himself behind.. himself, Jamie returned to New York once again. He could never seem to get the city out from under his skin. So he bought a plane ticket and came up with a new plan. A better plan. The Council of Madri. Just kidding! No, no. Jamie Madrox, seeing his path more clearly now that he's more "consolidated" had decided to open a private investigations agency. So he bought a building with cash. Put a sign on door and parked a new car in front. How did he get all that? Well, he went on and won a game show. Ethical? Not even slightly with his methods but it was legal. With newfound freedom, a place of his own and a new path before him, Jamie Madrox sets out to see just how much good he can get done in this world. Starting with Mutant Town.
|Personality=
'''Personality:'''
 
Jamie Madrox is pretty messed up. As a person. As people. He can send a carbon copy of himself out to do almost anything and that leaves -him- indecisive more often than not. The splintering of his personality when he's spread himself too thin has left a mark in the form of mental illness. He's restless. He's falling apart. But he cares. Too much in some cases. He puts himself out there, on the line for both his friends and complete strangers alike. He's driven by an almost compulsive need to impact the world in some way, some place in a positive fashion. He wants to make the world a better place for Mutants. For Humans. For people. He's soft hearted, a natural jester, bit of a charmer and a sucker for a sob story. He's increasingly scared of his own power. Scared of what he may be. Yet embracing it all the same. He doesn't trust himself or even some of himselves. Fun word that. He's playing a dangerous game, balancing between spread too thin and just enough. At times, he's just Jamie. At others, he's empty and withdrawn. Or someone encounters a Dupe instead and experiences a sort of 'avatar' of Jamie Madrox's personality bits and pieces. He's complicated.
|Abilities=
'''Kinda Immortal:'''
 
It's said if you kill the OG, another takes his place. It's mostly just a theory but the possibility remains. Killing the original Jamie Madrox transfers the whole of his personality and experiences to the nearest Duplicate within a ten mile radius. In theory. 
'''Kinetic Duplication:'''
 
With a bump or a slap, one becomes many. Jamie Madrox can create a perfectly identical living duplicate of himself. All he needs is physical impact. Kinetic energy. The harder the hit, the more of him there are. This process, possibly extra dimensional mass acquisition, is spontaneous and cannot be prevented by Madrox. While he can create many duplicates, his copies can only replicate themselves once at a time. The Dupes all feel, think and act on their own will though usually guided by the OG Jamie. Each Duplicate manifests an aspect of Jamie's personality, increasing in intensity the longer spent apart from the original. This has been getting worse. Linked through a telepathic and empathic hive mind of sorts, Jamie experiences severe psychic trauma if one of his Duplicates dies. It is virtually impossible to tell Jamie apart from his Duplicates. Any tattoo or attire, loose change or small objects on his person are copied exactly into the next Jamie.(3 to 5 Duplicates "active" at a distance at most) *Duplicate Absorption - Jamie Prime is able to absorbs his Duplicates from a distance of fifty yards. Doing so consumes and retains the skills, memories and experiences of the Duplicate. This is limited in that he cannot absorb an already dead Dupe. *Experience Transference - Merging with his copies, Jamie retains the memories, knowledge and experiences of a Duplicate. Not -perfectly- but close enough. However, if the Dupe kills itself, Madrox can still absorb it's collected experiences. *Duplication Healing - Absorbing a wounded Dupe damages, absorbing a healthy one... Heals. Merging can be used as a form of healing but there are also risks. While he can absorb a healthy Dupe to heal himself, absorbing an injured or poisoned Duplicate transfers the damage but only by half.
|Skills=
'''Combat Medic:'''
 
While the Dupe didn't become a surgeon, he did become a paramedic. That alone has saved more than one life following Jamie absorbing that Duplicate back into himself. He's no brain surgeon but he can still save a neck or two in a tight spot. 
'''Detective:'''
 
The Dupe that Jamie sent out to become a detective went a little harder than he expected. The copy burned himself out terribly in the process but gifted Jamie with the skills and instincts of a seasoned homicide detective. While not the worlds greatest, Jamie has a knack for putting together motives, gathering evidence and not making a fool of himself at a crime scene. 
'''Languages:'''
 
English, Mandarin and Spanish so far but he's working on French, Italian and one of these days? One of those alien languages. It's not that he naturally picks up languages faster than anybody else but when you can create your own study group, it goes a little faster. 
'''Legal Advice:'''
 
One of his Dupes passed the Bar Exam. So you know what that means... Jamie Madrox can practice law in the state of New York. While he doesn't work for a firm or moonlight as a public defender, he can offer sound legal counsel. Who better to call if you end up in cuffs? 
'''Quite Sneaky:'''
 
Shaolin stealth technique. No, really. Kung Fu Stealth. While it's true that he knows such a thing and has used it once or twice in the past, it's really all about blending in. Jamie is good at shadowing people, blending into crowds and getting the drop on people that don't have super senses or the like. 
'''Renaissance Man:'''
 
Through absorbing his well traveled and learned Duplicates, Madrox has collected a list of life skills and occupational talents that would take... well, multiple lives to accomplish. He may excell in certain specific fields but his ever expanding resume includes experience as a gymnast, burglar, spy, locksmith, insurance adjuster, fire fighter and escape artist which he can be conidered to have an amateur to expert level of knowledge of. 
'''Strong Kung Fu:'''
 
One of the first Duplicates that Jamie sent out on a mission was sent to China. Years of study among the Shaolin Monks was absorbed, giving Jamie Prime expert level techniques in multiple styles. He's not going to defeat Iron Fist or Lady Shiva but he can hold his own with the greats for a moment or two. He's also very handy with a baseball bat and has been known to carry brass knuckles and/or a snub nose .38 revolver. Which he protests is part of the uniform.
|Resources=
'''Business Men:'''
 
Multiple businesses, various accounts. Jamie and his selves have been busy. He's got a few small businesses up and running to variable productivity. Nothing international by any means. The detective agency being his current obsession, is much more hands on. He can still call on his small medical transport company, his tire shop and a pawn shop in the rough part of town. It's a living. Or three. 
'''Extreme Social Network:'''
 
So many lives lived already. So many people met. Jamie can call on a vast network of low key friends, acquaintances and people he's helped in the past. It's nothing ground shaking but he can get gossip, street rumors, some real estate tips and the general rumblings of Mutant Towns more vocal malcontents. Mostly mundane but it helps when the chips are down. 
'''Not So Idle Rich:'''
 
Jamie went on a gameshow and won a million bucks. That's no joke. Using a team of duplicates, he worked his way to the top of the prize heap and took home entirely too much money. He's blowing through it relatively quick but for now, it's keeping the lights on and the take-out fresh. 
'''The Council of Madri:'''
 
Yearly absorption and duplication. It's not a real council so much as Jamie sending out a version of him that he's vetted for a specific field of study. After a year, they "catch up". So far, this is going without a hitch. Inevitably, one of the Duplicates will find the deal less than favorable for them. 
'''X-Factor Investigations:'''
 
The place for the case. It's not funded by Xavier, it's not linked to the X-Men or the School. It is catchy though. Jaie Madrox runs a small private investigations agency out of Mutant Town. Focused on community cases for the most part, he can use company tools and expenses in a pinch. After all, they're his. Stake out van, some recording gear, a few comm sets and even a spare overcoat.
|Weaknesses=
'''Accidental Duplication:'''
 
Sometimes a bump causes a Dupe. Impact can knock a Duplicate right out of Jamie and it's not always in his best interests to be -more-. Confined spaces and his power tend to not be friends because of this. 
'''Bi-Polar Disorder:'''
 
He has his ups and downs. A lot of them. Having spread himself out so many times, having died a couple times as well, Jamie has some mood balance issues. While not prone to the extremes of the condition, he has been known to display difficulty in self-control and rather heavy bouts of depression following excessive duplication. 
'''Fragmenting:'''
 
As Jamie spreads himself too thin and Duplicates become more independent, they manifest heightened aspects of his core personality. Jamie Prime slowly loses that aspect as they gain more freedom and distance. This can leave him feeling sluggish, depressed and near catatonic with indecision in the extreme circumstances. 
'''Indecision:'''
 
For a man capable of every choice, he can't choose. The more Duplicates he has in the field, the worse it gets. Even if he's flying solo, Jamie still has difficulties making decisions. So accustomed to sending out a copy to experience the outcome or multiple to play the odds, he sometimes just can't seem to make a choice when pressed. 
'''Memory Maze:'''
 
So many lives and memories, it's hard to sort through. Keeping track of which memories are his and which are those of Duplicates past is getting more and more difficult. Jamie doesn't want to admit that it's become impossible but it very well could be. Not only that but the memories and experiences absorbed aren't always one hundred percent. 
'''Rogue Dupes:'''
 
Not all of them want to play ball. One may be in Hydra. He's not sure anymore and that is very, very bad. With time and distance, Duplicates gain more and more autonomy. While the majority invariably end up playing ball, so to speak, occasionally one will fight back against re-absorption. Even going as far as to scheme and betray to avoid the fate. 
'''Sharing the Pain:'''
 
When a Dupe is killed, he feels it. Hard. The psychic backlash of a Duplicate's death is enough to temporarily incapacitate Jamie. Causing temporary pain, disorientation and confusion. This rarely happens in anything short of a terrible time.
}}
<gallery>
</gallery>

File:MM2.jpg

2019-07-24T19:35:37Z

Panic:

Kid Arachnid

2019-07-24T19:35:02Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Miles Morales
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=7711
|Img=http://tinyurl.com/y3f7l7fl
|FullName=Miles Gonzalo Morales
|Gender=Male
|Species=Metahuman
|Theme=Marvel
|Chartype=FC
|Active=Approved
|Occupation=Full-Time Student
|Citizenship=United States of America
|Residence=Brooklyn, NYC
|Education=High School
|Groups=[[Street Level-OOC]]
|Quote="A hero isn't the one who always wins. It's the one who always tries."
|PAge=18
|AAge=18
|DOB=08 March 2009
|Height=175cm (5'7")
|Weight=77kg (169lbs)
|Hair=Black
|Eyes=Brown
|Actor=Justice Smith
|Song="What's Up Danger?" by Blackway and Black Caviar
"Quiet Dog" by Mos Def
|Profile= Bitten by a genetically altered spider, Miles Morales didn't just get amazing spider powers. He also obtained an impossible schedule, dangerous responsibilities and the biggest shoes he could possibly find to fill. A gifted student, unexpectedly brave and full of potential, he's following in the wall-crawling footsteps of iconic webslingers that have gone before him. All while trying to carve his own path as an idealistic firebrand in web themed spandex. 
 
A full-time student, Miles is struggling to balance his academic demands against a growing list of enemies, allies and life altering weirdness. Having a normal life is getting harder and harder with every rooftop jumped.
===Current Player Approved: July 15, 2019===
|Description='''Description'''
 
Lanky, lean and lethal. Well, maybe not that last part but who's going to tell? Miles Morales is growing into his own. Big brown eyes, and a bright smile full of youthful energy and optimism. The round features of youth are starting to fade, lending a sharpness around the eyes and a more defined jawline. Long limbed and athletic, he's got the build of a natural runner or gymnast. Narrow. Fit. The embodiment of energy given over-priced sneakers. 
 
While personal time is a rarity, Miles can more often than not be caught in a school uniform or his not-as-yet iconic costume. Well, sort of costume. A midnight black, skin tight affair with ghostly silver webbing. Reflective silver eye shields and an eye catching red spider emblazoned across his chest and back. Either he's not yet comfortable in the onesie or he likes layers, Kid Arachnid often has an oversized hoodie, basketball shorts and surprisingly well kept running shoes. 
 
Stylish. Sorta.
|Personality='''Personality'''
 
Compassionate. Miles feels. He can't help it. A soft spot for those in need, he finds it difficult to leave someone in a bad situation. The kind of guy to give a homeless woman his last five bucks. His school uniform jacket to someone cold even though he's going to forget it and get chewed out at home for losing yet -another-. Miles will dive head first into a burning building to save a man, woman, cat or dog without a moments hesitation. Isn't that what he's supposed to do? It's what his dad would do. What Spider-Man would do. Seems good enough for him. 
 
Brave. Sure, that's pretty basic. There are millions and millions of brave souls out there... and then there's Miles Morales. Personal danger, future consequences and common sense be damned. If there's something wrong, if someone is in trouble and nobody is stepping up? Even if they are, yet not doing it fast enough? Miles jumps into it. He puts himself in the crosshairs for the same reason his heroes would: Somebody has to. Why not him? It's this selflessness that separates him from the average. While most brave men and women are quick to leap into a potentially dangerous situation, Miles dives in with no intention of backing out until the wrong is righted. 
 
Idealistic. Holding yourself to a high standard is one thing, comparing yourself to near impossible feats of heroism and self-sacrifice? That's a toughie. Miles is walking a path few would ever consider in their wildest dreams. Super Hero. But not just any! A friendly neighborhood super hero! He's taken this stance further with the addition of youthful, teenage optimism and a hardline stance that you don't have to win to be a hero. You just have to try.
|History='''History'''
 
Born and raised in Brooklyn, NYC to Jefferson Davis and Rio Morales, Miles enters the world screaming, bloody and adorable. The only son, he recieved the whole of their attention. Granted, that sometimes waned as both worked high demand jobs but Miles occupied himself well enough and kept out of trouble. Mostly. Father a police officer, mother a nurse, Miles gravitated toward his Uncle Aaron when time allowed. His parents didn't know this and would not approve due to Aaron Davis's background of crime and violence. That's not the side Miles was presented though. Miles grew close to Uncle Aaron, the two bonding over street art and kung fu flicks. 
 
It was during one of these secret visits to his uncle's that Miles was bitten by the genetically enhanced spider that Prowler(AKA Aaron Davis) had stolen from an unknown source. Having come to tell his uncle about winning a scholarship to a prestigious school, he instead left with... super human abilities. The bite nearly killing him, he instead recovered over night. New, improved and scared out of his mind, Miles tried to hide his abilities as best he could. That didn't last long. 
 
Discovering his wall-crawling, Miles started to tag and paint more inaccessible areas. With what? Mostly his usual style of highlighting personal struggles but more and more he's mirrored the accomplishments of Spider-Man and other webslinging heroes. Stylized murals depicting costumed heroism. In his spare time from school, he painted. He dated. He made friends. Discovered more powers still. Prepared to move into the new dorms and... experimented with his new powers. Even saved a lady from a burning building! 
 
Which, of course, gained attention. 
 
Now Miles is putting on spandex, running walls and doing his level best to live up to the standard set long before him. 
 
With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility. 
 
But more important to Miles is the equally powerful question: What would Spider-Man do?
|Abilities='''Bio-Electrokinesis'''
 
Miles is able to manipulate the natural electricity his body generates. So far, he's only utilized this ability for offensive reasons. Able to store and release this energy with some concentration or as an instinctive defense. 
 
* Venom Blast - Miles can release stored energy as a bio-shock to enemies and technology. The severity of this attack depends on many factors such as 'charge' and conductivity. This seems most effective on beings with genetic alterations. 
* Venom Punch - Charging his fists with bio-electric energy before a punch can greatly increase the power of his strikes. 
* Mega Venom Blast - Able to release a massive burst of stored energy in times of extreme stress, Kid Arachnid can cause large scale damage in a 30 yard radius. Using this completely exhausts Miles to the point of unconsciousness.
 
'''Regenerative'''
 
Possessing an enhanced stamina already, it's should come as no surprise that Kid Arachnid heals much faster than a normal person would. While not instantaneous, he's still capable of healing broken bones, burns and cuts in a matter of days. Massive injuries may still need medical professionals to reset shattered bones but given time and attention, he could possibly even bounce back from a spinal injury.
 
'''Spider Physiology'''
 
Gifted with the proportionate abilities of a spider, Miles Morales far exceeds human physical limitations. This rather thorough suite of bodily and mental enhancements altered Miles at the genetic level. 
 
*Enhanced Agility - Gold medal gymnastics is amateur hour for this young man. Superhuman muscle elasticity and improved connective tissue make him unnaturally limber. Uncanny balance pairs excellently when doing corkscrew flips away from rockets and such. 
*Enhanced Reflexes - Coupled with impressive eye sight, Miles benefits from reaction times easily exceeding twenty times the human limit. Bordering on precognition, he's absurdly quick and frustrating to hit. 
*Enhanced Stamina - Able to maintain peak exertion for hours upon hours without fatigue, he's able to keep a pace few can match before needing to rest and restore. 
*Enhanced Strength - Capable of easily lifting up to five tons, Miles tops out near an eight ton limit but is capable of moving up to ten tons of weight in extreme stress situations. This, of course, greatly improves his running speed and jumping to almost impossible levels.
 
'''Spider-Camouflage'''
 
Not an option on the standard webslinger package, Miles Morales can turn invisible. His skin, his clothes and to an extent, small objects in his posession. While not perfect, this active camouflage is impressive enough to fool direct line of sight. This does not negate sound or environmental disturbances.
 
'''Spider-Sense'''
 
Bordering on precognition, Miles has the ability to sense impending danger. An early warning system of a sort, he feels a buzzing sensation in his head when disaster and damage target him and, to an extent, those around him. Most often, it's an aggressive tingle in his skull that alerts him to a bullet about to be fired at him. An ambush from the shadows. A blade coming in from an unseen angle. Then there are the dreams. Strange and vivid, he doesn't yet know that it's a warning of impending doom.
 
'''Wall-Crawling'''
 
Miles can cling to any surface he touches. It's been theorized that he subconsciously manipulates the electrostatic force between himself and an object. Perhaps a side-effect of his bio-electrokinesis. Able to adhere to surfaces through gloves and even shoes, direct skin contact is clearly not needed.
|Skills='''Freestyle Fighter'''
 
He doesn't have years of villain brawling under his belt. Infact, he's got very little experience with violence period. Relying on his superior agility, speed and reflexes to keep an edge in a fight, he employs a strange mix of kung fu movie tactics and raw talent. With some more experienced mentors, Miles is becoming quite the unexpected force to be reconned with.
 
'''High Art'''
 
Art is his passion. When not jumping around the city and fighting crime, Miles Morales unwinds with... illegal street art. Vandalism. Urban Beautification. The irony of a super hero breaking the law to unwind is not lost on him. He's actually very talented with it. Add wall crawling and super jumping and he's expanded his medium much higher.
 
'''Linguistics'''
 
Raised in a bilingual household, growing up in Brooklyn, you pick things up fast or lag behind. Culture and diversity at every corner, Miles finds it easier than some to pick up new lingo and languages. English, Spanish and he's working on Japanese. With effort, he could easily learn a multitude of exotic tongues.
 
'''Math Wiz'''
 
A head for numbers, this kid is going places. Game Theory being a bigger interest, Miles shines brightly when immersed in probability and statistics. He's a details kind of person and nothing gets more detailed than infinitesimal calculus.
 
'''Roof Runner'''
 
The web heads have a tendency to loiter far above street level. Way above. Taking a pretty deep knowledge of the city streets and expanding it vertically, Miles navigates a city like few others. A natural free runner, he blends acrobatics and speed to make his own short cuts. Rooftop to rooftop, power line to flag pole.
|Resources='''Class Act'''
 
Having tested and been chosen for a special scholarship or two, Miles' parents chose the best for their one and only son. His higher learning comes with a dorm room, food and security. Not to mention lab access, computers and other resources. Within reason.
 
'''Costume'''
 
Iconic. Well, getting there. Maybe. Kid Arachnid's costume bears the telltale spider images and web patterns that mark him as a web slinger. While not exactly of global recognition, it definitely gets attention both good and bad around the Tri-State area. If he's respectful or annoying enough, he can count on pulling additional support due to the accomplishments of others.
 
'''Major Mentors'''
 
Kid Arachnid, by way of being new and personable enough, has managed to find himself under the wings of more than one big time super hero. This is absolutely invaluable to Miles as he pulls experience from multiple sources. Able to call on harder hitting support when you -really- need it is sometimes only a frantic text away.
 
'''Son of a Badge'''
 
While not something Miles can abuse in any way, being the son of a NYC police officer has its perks. If he plays his cards right, he's able to get information on some criminal activity. Sometimes just guarded street rumors but a head start is a head start.
|Weaknesses='''Big Bad Uncle'''
 
Aaron Davis. Better known as the Prowler, a renowned and reviled thief, is the uncle of one Miles Morales. Sticky situation to be sure but once Prowler puts one and two together, he will likely complicate things further. Prowler having stolen the enhanced spider that bit Miles could easily be twisted back upon the young Kid Arachnid.
 
'''New Hero'''
 
He's not exactly seeing his mask on t-shirts, you know? Kid Arachnid is fresh, relatively unproven and easily mistaken for other web spinning vigilantes. Heck, most big time cape wearing sorts may not even recognize him as a fellow fighter for truth and justice! It's all rather unfortunate.
 
'''Secret Identity'''
 
Nobody knows and Miles wants to keep it that way. If he's unmaked, the problems in his life will multiply so fast that the chaos will definitely impact those close to him. Nevermind jail or college plans, people could die.
 
'''Spider-Sensitive'''
 
Miles has a problem. His Spider-Sense borders on 'too good'. It's distracting for a beginner webhead. It wakes him up in the dead of the night with vivid dreams, can make him abnormally tense in seemingly safe situations and sometimes triggers responses that may seem a little excessive.
 
'''Student'''
 
Giant robots attacking Soho during third period? Unless Miles finds a darned good reason to skip class, Kid Arachnid is going to sit this one out. Very, very begrudgingly. Homework, class projects, calls to his parents if he gets too rambunctious, he's got consequences coming if his balance between hero and student shifts too much.
}}
<gallery>
MM7.png
MM4.jpg
MM9.jpg
MM5.jpg
MM2.jpg
</gallery>
[[Category:Street Level-OOC]]

File:MM9.jpg

2019-07-24T19:34:57Z

Panic:

File:MM7.png

2019-07-24T19:34:09Z

Panic:

Kid Arachnid

2019-07-24T19:33:46Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Miles Morales
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=7711
|Img=http://tinyurl.com/y3f7l7fl
|FullName=Miles Gonzalo Morales
|Gender=Male
|Species=Metahuman
|Theme=Marvel
|Chartype=FC
|Active=Approved
|Occupation=Full-Time Student
|Citizenship=United States of America
|Residence=Brooklyn, NYC
|Education=High School
|Groups=[[Street Level-OOC]]
|Quote="A hero isn't the one who always wins. It's the one who always tries."
|PAge=18
|AAge=18
|DOB=08 March 2009
|Height=175cm (5'7")
|Weight=77kg (169lbs)
|Hair=Black
|Eyes=Brown
|Actor=Justice Smith
|Song="What's Up Danger?" by Blackway and Black Caviar
"Quiet Dog" by Mos Def
|Profile= Bitten by a genetically altered spider, Miles Morales didn't just get amazing spider powers. He also obtained an impossible schedule, dangerous responsibilities and the biggest shoes he could possibly find to fill. A gifted student, unexpectedly brave and full of potential, he's following in the wall-crawling footsteps of iconic webslingers that have gone before him. All while trying to carve his own path as an idealistic firebrand in web themed spandex. 
 
A full-time student, Miles is struggling to balance his academic demands against a growing list of enemies, allies and life altering weirdness. Having a normal life is getting harder and harder with every rooftop jumped.
===Current Player Approved: July 15, 2019===
|Description='''Description'''
 
Lanky, lean and lethal. Well, maybe not that last part but who's going to tell? Miles Morales is growing into his own. Big brown eyes, and a bright smile full of youthful energy and optimism. The round features of youth are starting to fade, lending a sharpness around the eyes and a more defined jawline. Long limbed and athletic, he's got the build of a natural runner or gymnast. Narrow. Fit. The embodiment of energy given over-priced sneakers. 
 
While personal time is a rarity, Miles can more often than not be caught in a school uniform or his not-as-yet iconic costume. Well, sort of costume. A midnight black, skin tight affair with ghostly silver webbing. Reflective silver eye shields and an eye catching red spider emblazoned across his chest and back. Either he's not yet comfortable in the onesie or he likes layers, Kid Arachnid often has an oversized hoodie, basketball shorts and surprisingly well kept running shoes. 
 
Stylish. Sorta.
|Personality='''Personality'''
 
Compassionate. Miles feels. He can't help it. A soft spot for those in need, he finds it difficult to leave someone in a bad situation. The kind of guy to give a homeless woman his last five bucks. His school uniform jacket to someone cold even though he's going to forget it and get chewed out at home for losing yet -another-. Miles will dive head first into a burning building to save a man, woman, cat or dog without a moments hesitation. Isn't that what he's supposed to do? It's what his dad would do. What Spider-Man would do. Seems good enough for him. 
 
Brave. Sure, that's pretty basic. There are millions and millions of brave souls out there... and then there's Miles Morales. Personal danger, future consequences and common sense be damned. If there's something wrong, if someone is in trouble and nobody is stepping up? Even if they are, yet not doing it fast enough? Miles jumps into it. He puts himself in the crosshairs for the same reason his heroes would: Somebody has to. Why not him? It's this selflessness that separates him from the average. While most brave men and women are quick to leap into a potentially dangerous situation, Miles dives in with no intention of backing out until the wrong is righted. 
 
Idealistic. Holding yourself to a high standard is one thing, comparing yourself to near impossible feats of heroism and self-sacrifice? That's a toughie. Miles is walking a path few would ever consider in their wildest dreams. Super Hero. But not just any! A friendly neighborhood super hero! He's taken this stance further with the addition of youthful, teenage optimism and a hardline stance that you don't have to win to be a hero. You just have to try.
|History='''History'''
 
Born and raised in Brooklyn, NYC to Jefferson Davis and Rio Morales, Miles enters the world screaming, bloody and adorable. The only son, he recieved the whole of their attention. Granted, that sometimes waned as both worked high demand jobs but Miles occupied himself well enough and kept out of trouble. Mostly. Father a police officer, mother a nurse, Miles gravitated toward his Uncle Aaron when time allowed. His parents didn't know this and would not approve due to Aaron Davis's background of crime and violence. That's not the side Miles was presented though. Miles grew close to Uncle Aaron, the two bonding over street art and kung fu flicks. 
 
It was during one of these secret visits to his uncle's that Miles was bitten by the genetically enhanced spider that Prowler(AKA Aaron Davis) had stolen from an unknown source. Having come to tell his uncle about winning a scholarship to a prestigious school, he instead left with... super human abilities. The bite nearly killing him, he instead recovered over night. New, improved and scared out of his mind, Miles tried to hide his abilities as best he could. That didn't last long. 
 
Discovering his wall-crawling, Miles started to tag and paint more inaccessible areas. With what? Mostly his usual style of highlighting personal struggles but more and more he's mirrored the accomplishments of Spider-Man and other webslinging heroes. Stylized murals depicting costumed heroism. In his spare time from school, he painted. He dated. He made friends. Discovered more powers still. Prepared to move into the new dorms and... experimented with his new powers. Even saved a lady from a burning building! 
 
Which, of course, gained attention. 
 
Now Miles is putting on spandex, running walls and doing his level best to live up to the standard set long before him. 
 
With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility. 
 
But more important to Miles is the equally powerful question: What would Spider-Man do?
|Abilities='''Bio-Electrokinesis'''
 
Miles is able to manipulate the natural electricity his body generates. So far, he's only utilized this ability for offensive reasons. Able to store and release this energy with some concentration or as an instinctive defense. 
 
* Venom Blast - Miles can release stored energy as a bio-shock to enemies and technology. The severity of this attack depends on many factors such as 'charge' and conductivity. This seems most effective on beings with genetic alterations. 
* Venom Punch - Charging his fists with bio-electric energy before a punch can greatly increase the power of his strikes. 
* Mega Venom Blast - Able to release a massive burst of stored energy in times of extreme stress, Kid Arachnid can cause large scale damage in a 30 yard radius. Using this completely exhausts Miles to the point of unconsciousness.
 
'''Regenerative'''
 
Possessing an enhanced stamina already, it's should come as no surprise that Kid Arachnid heals much faster than a normal person would. While not instantaneous, he's still capable of healing broken bones, burns and cuts in a matter of days. Massive injuries may still need medical professionals to reset shattered bones but given time and attention, he could possibly even bounce back from a spinal injury.
 
'''Spider Physiology'''
 
Gifted with the proportionate abilities of a spider, Miles Morales far exceeds human physical limitations. This rather thorough suite of bodily and mental enhancements altered Miles at the genetic level. 
 
*Enhanced Agility - Gold medal gymnastics is amateur hour for this young man. Superhuman muscle elasticity and improved connective tissue make him unnaturally limber. Uncanny balance pairs excellently when doing corkscrew flips away from rockets and such. 
*Enhanced Reflexes - Coupled with impressive eye sight, Miles benefits from reaction times easily exceeding twenty times the human limit. Bordering on precognition, he's absurdly quick and frustrating to hit. 
*Enhanced Stamina - Able to maintain peak exertion for hours upon hours without fatigue, he's able to keep a pace few can match before needing to rest and restore. 
*Enhanced Strength - Capable of easily lifting up to five tons, Miles tops out near an eight ton limit but is capable of moving up to ten tons of weight in extreme stress situations. This, of course, greatly improves his running speed and jumping to almost impossible levels.
 
'''Spider-Camouflage'''
 
Not an option on the standard webslinger package, Miles Morales can turn invisible. His skin, his clothes and to an extent, small objects in his posession. While not perfect, this active camouflage is impressive enough to fool direct line of sight. This does not negate sound or environmental disturbances.
 
'''Spider-Sense'''
 
Bordering on precognition, Miles has the ability to sense impending danger. An early warning system of a sort, he feels a buzzing sensation in his head when disaster and damage target him and, to an extent, those around him. Most often, it's an aggressive tingle in his skull that alerts him to a bullet about to be fired at him. An ambush from the shadows. A blade coming in from an unseen angle. Then there are the dreams. Strange and vivid, he doesn't yet know that it's a warning of impending doom.
 
'''Wall-Crawling'''
 
Miles can cling to any surface he touches. It's been theorized that he subconsciously manipulates the electrostatic force between himself and an object. Perhaps a side-effect of his bio-electrokinesis. Able to adhere to surfaces through gloves and even shoes, direct skin contact is clearly not needed.
|Skills='''Freestyle Fighter'''
 
He doesn't have years of villain brawling under his belt. Infact, he's got very little experience with violence period. Relying on his superior agility, speed and reflexes to keep an edge in a fight, he employs a strange mix of kung fu movie tactics and raw talent. With some more experienced mentors, Miles is becoming quite the unexpected force to be reconned with.
 
'''High Art'''
 
Art is his passion. When not jumping around the city and fighting crime, Miles Morales unwinds with... illegal street art. Vandalism. Urban Beautification. The irony of a super hero breaking the law to unwind is not lost on him. He's actually very talented with it. Add wall crawling and super jumping and he's expanded his medium much higher.
 
'''Linguistics'''
 
Raised in a bilingual household, growing up in Brooklyn, you pick things up fast or lag behind. Culture and diversity at every corner, Miles finds it easier than some to pick up new lingo and languages. English, Spanish and he's working on Japanese. With effort, he could easily learn a multitude of exotic tongues.
 
'''Math Wiz'''
 
A head for numbers, this kid is going places. Game Theory being a bigger interest, Miles shines brightly when immersed in probability and statistics. He's a details kind of person and nothing gets more detailed than infinitesimal calculus.
 
'''Roof Runner'''
 
The web heads have a tendency to loiter far above street level. Way above. Taking a pretty deep knowledge of the city streets and expanding it vertically, Miles navigates a city like few others. A natural free runner, he blends acrobatics and speed to make his own short cuts. Rooftop to rooftop, power line to flag pole.
|Resources='''Class Act'''
 
Having tested and been chosen for a special scholarship or two, Miles' parents chose the best for their one and only son. His higher learning comes with a dorm room, food and security. Not to mention lab access, computers and other resources. Within reason.
 
'''Costume'''
 
Iconic. Well, getting there. Maybe. Kid Arachnid's costume bears the telltale spider images and web patterns that mark him as a web slinger. While not exactly of global recognition, it definitely gets attention both good and bad around the Tri-State area. If he's respectful or annoying enough, he can count on pulling additional support due to the accomplishments of others.
 
'''Major Mentors'''
 
Kid Arachnid, by way of being new and personable enough, has managed to find himself under the wings of more than one big time super hero. This is absolutely invaluable to Miles as he pulls experience from multiple sources. Able to call on harder hitting support when you -really- need it is sometimes only a frantic text away.
 
'''Son of a Badge'''
 
While not something Miles can abuse in any way, being the son of a NYC police officer has its perks. If he plays his cards right, he's able to get information on some criminal activity. Sometimes just guarded street rumors but a head start is a head start.
|Weaknesses='''Big Bad Uncle'''
 
Aaron Davis. Better known as the Prowler, a renowned and reviled thief, is the uncle of one Miles Morales. Sticky situation to be sure but once Prowler puts one and two together, he will likely complicate things further. Prowler having stolen the enhanced spider that bit Miles could easily be twisted back upon the young Kid Arachnid.
 
'''New Hero'''
 
He's not exactly seeing his mask on t-shirts, you know? Kid Arachnid is fresh, relatively unproven and easily mistaken for other web spinning vigilantes. Heck, most big time cape wearing sorts may not even recognize him as a fellow fighter for truth and justice! It's all rather unfortunate.
 
'''Secret Identity'''
 
Nobody knows and Miles wants to keep it that way. If he's unmaked, the problems in his life will multiply so fast that the chaos will definitely impact those close to him. Nevermind jail or college plans, people could die.
 
'''Spider-Sensitive'''
 
Miles has a problem. His Spider-Sense borders on 'too good'. It's distracting for a beginner webhead. It wakes him up in the dead of the night with vivid dreams, can make him abnormally tense in seemingly safe situations and sometimes triggers responses that may seem a little excessive.
 
'''Student'''
 
Giant robots attacking Soho during third period? Unless Miles finds a darned good reason to skip class, Kid Arachnid is going to sit this one out. Very, very begrudgingly. Homework, class projects, calls to his parents if he gets too rambunctious, he's got consequences coming if his balance between hero and student shifts too much.
}}
<gallery>
MM7.jpg
MM4.jpg
MM9.jpg
MM5.jpg
MM2.jpg
</gallery>
[[Category:Street Level-OOC]]

Kid Arachnid

2019-07-19T01:33:15Z

Panic:

8243/A Little Distracted

2019-07-10T22:01:59Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/07/10 |Location=Back Alley, Mutant Town |Synopsis=Armor encounters some Darklings up to no good. |Cast of Characters=1410,1395 |pretty=yes }}..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/07/10
|Location=Back Alley, Mutant Town
|Synopsis=Armor encounters some Darklings up to no good.
|Cast of Characters=1410,1395
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Just another night like any other, right? Summer heat setting in. The city gets a little... twitchy in the summer. Antsy. The potential hanging in the air like the calm before a sudden downpour and storm. A certain tension hanging in the humid night. On the outskirts of Mutant Town, that tension could be cut with a knife. Everyone feels it. From the elderly, ghost seeing shop clerk to the stone skinned street tough, they all can sense the possibility in the dark. It's in that dark that little voices can be heard. Just off the beaten urban path, trash piled high on one side, forgotten and stagnant. Stale. Little voices, raspy and grating. Tiny whispers and laughs. "-The Boss said we need to keep a low profile.-" "-Nobody lower than your profile.-" "-Shut up! Shut up! Help me drag this dead guy!-" The scritch and scratch of dress shoes being dragged across gritty asphalt escapes the alleyway. A young man averting his gaze and hurrying past. The cackles and jeers from the shadows quicken the boys pace. 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki was going into Mutant Town for class project of sorts. Her white socks and the striping of her outfit gleam under the street lights, though the bounce in her skirt is muted by the humidity. She's on her way back HOME though, having left later than she expected from doing an interview of an elderly mutant for a project. Right down the sidewalk, heading toward the nearest subway station. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Scriiiiiitch. Scraaaaaatch. Draaaaaag. A bottle hits the ground, clattering noisily but not breaking as the three shadowy, mishapen figures drag what looks like an overweight private detective or a down and out door to door salesman. The shadows in the alley thicken, black and heavy like tar. Baleful yellow eyes glowing in the shade, glittering with terrible intelligence. "-Hey, lookit! Lookit! A straaaaanger!-" "-Nothing stranger than you!-" "-Shut up, idiots! How are we supposed to work with... with... Wait, what are we doing again?-" The little ragged voices grow bold, taunting. Laughter again, like the cackle of angry ghosts with smoking habits. A pair of tan slacks clad legs get pulled in small, jerking tugs from the light into the garbage strewn alleyway between that abandoned clinic and the closed pawn and gold shop. 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki hears noises. And voices. Not entirely sure of what's going on, she adjusts the strpas of her leather backpack, and starts walking in the direction of the noises. "Someone there?" she asks crisply. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Silence lingers for a moment when Hisako asks the million dollar question. Silence and then abrupt, sharp laughter. Cackles. Giggles and snickers. Another tug and the scuffed leather shoes vanish into the deep shade of the alley. The slow, reptilian blink of those six yellow eyes. If they belonged to people, they couldn't be more than two or three feet tall. "-Someone here? Oh, yes. Yes, there is someone here.-" "Come see. Come see. He's probably lonely.-" "-Can you be lonely if you're dead? Hey, girly. Care to weigh in?-" As Hisako nears the commotion, light seems to grow muted. Fading as if in retreat while the shadows grow longer. Even Hisako's own shadow seems to stretch and peer toward the three, malformed things. 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki blinks, and takes a deep breath, Tugging on her backpack straps, steadying herself. Her polished shoes click on the sidewalk after having crossed the street to come closer. She stares at the eyes, into the alley, but doesn't go close enough to be grabbed, or so she expects. But onguard, definitely on guard. "Did you... what have you done?" 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Even with light itself having second thoughts on entering this particular alley on this particular night, it doesn't keep from catching the savage and uneven little smiles of too many fangs in inhuman jaws. The creatures grin, cheering and jeering. The low, pained moan of a man returning to consciousness is clearly the gentleman in the wrinkled tan suit and not the Darklings. "-I didn't do it, I swear! I'm a good boy, momma!-" "-You haven't been good since the Spanish Inquisition.-" "-Shhhhhh. Shut up, she's onto us, boys!-" The critters laugh and snicker. The man, waking further, starts to scream only to have his voice muffled by a taloned, skeletal hand. Unmostakeable is the sound of class ripping at wool and skin, muffled shrieks of pain as the Darklings drag and attack their prey. Dragging the man rapidly away from Hisako into the dark. 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki shivers as this whole thing is quite weird. But she's a hero. Though one with only so much experience. Inhaling deeply, forcing herself to stare into the darkness. Then the attack, and she moves. Armoring up, the girl is elevated two feet off the ground, as a glow emanates around her body, and she races toward the sounds, doing her best to look. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Quite weird is about right and getting stranger by the moment. The coppery tang of fresh blood on the concrete mingles with the stale stench of hot garbage. Muffled screams growing frantic as the man struggles against impossibly strong, tiny hands. The Darklings drag and assault the man with a glee that rivals a pack of sugar high toddlers on Christmas. "-Make him scream louder, The Boss said to make it big!-" "-Guys, is it just me or is that fresh meat over there glowing?-" "-Did you eat that guys pills? What's wrong with... oh... yeah. She glowin.'-" The largest of the three shadow cloaked gremlins takes his hand off the mans mouth. He immediately begs for his life only to have that bony, sharp fingered hand clap back down and Shhhhhhhhhh him. Drawing Armor deeper into what could easily be a trap. 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki doesn't care. She borrows a move from wolverine, turning her armored hands into claws, and does a spinning attack at the ... creatures... around their target, tr ying to send them back and away, ideally with injurise in the process. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' As Hisako becomes a glowing, bladed and armored wall of justice, the Darklings cackle and taunt her still. The man reaches out toward her, trying to grasp at anything at all to get away from the little fiends that have tormented him. When she lashes out, the trio of darkness minions scatter from their prey. One climbing up the wall, one swatted by her armored fist to fly into the refuse noisily as the last lunges at her hissing. "-No fair! No fair! We don't have glowing stuff!-" "-I think she broke my everything. I taste my lungs. Ow.-" "Die, Sailor Moon! Diiiiieeeeeeee!!-" 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki ends up standing over the man, protecting him in the most basic way she can. "Stay back! In the name of the mutants I Will punish you!" And she does the hand pose! They did ask for it. At that, she then trise to pick the man up and run back OUT of the alley. She has to try! 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' With Hisako towering over the man now drifting into unconsciousness at her feet, the mutant psionic defender now has a Darkling up close and personal. Skin dark grey like charcoal. Eyes glittering yellow, teeth long and sharp. Dripping saliva and breaking against the armor it tries to bite. Another jumps from high on the wall to land on her back. The third one dragging itself and the near severed half behind it on a slow path toward her. "What'cha gonna do, Sailor Sparkle?! Gonna saaaave him?!-" "Nnrrgfff! Ngrgglaaagh! PTOO! She tastes like my teeth!-" -Death from abooooove!-" Semi-Swarmed by Darklings, Hisako has her hands full. Well, sort of. At least one hand full. 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki winces as monsters fall on her, and grows her armor. The teen grew two feet taller, filling the alley. At best, she'll scrape some of the beasties off. At worst, she'll just hold them off long until until she can get the man ot of the alley, put him down on the sidealk, and whirl bak around to start clawing. "I'm warning you," she pants, "My energy level is over nine thousand." 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Darklings start coming out of the wood work as Hisako fights back. One after the other springing from the shadows to pile onto that armor. Scraping and clawing, biting and striking with more force than the little monsters look capable of. Luckily, Armor is holding her own. Fighting back the tide of wildly shaped, foul mouthed Darklings and dragging a half conscious man out of an alley. The strange thing is... it almost feels like they let her. As she turns to face them again, the man in the tan suit left safely in the light, she hears it. BANG. A gunshot. Just the one. Decisive. Then the creak of a steel door, a tall, shadowy figure in a long coat stepping into the alley. The Darklings all eyes on Armor and... not the stranger? As he lights a cigarette, orange light flares against Jackie Estacado's movie star good looks. A faint, amused amile as he exhales a cloud. "Good work, boys. You pissed off a Mutant." 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki puts her armor to good use once the victim is out of the way. she starts BANGING herself on to the brick walls on either side of her, and well, if the darklings are in the way, it's their own fault. A few claws get to work too, trying to scrape them off of her armor. But itall stops when the gun fires. She turns around, spinning another darkling off of her and into the wall with the move. Staring at the new arrival. "Are they yours?" 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Darklings shriek and curse as they get mashed between insanely powerful armor and old brick. Stone turning to a mess of ground up darkness demons... and with Jackie now behind them? The little monsters back off Hisako. Some of them dragging their busted and mashed bodies past her toward Jackie and Company. "Yup." The man says, a cheerful and all too dangerous smile creeping to his lips as he boldly holsters that shiny handgun inside his jacket. A dark eyebrow lofting high as he looks Hisako and her armor up and down. "Thanks for playing with my boys. I'm sure they weren't too rough on you. Say... you a cop?" He asks with a bemused, easy going baritone voice. Smooth like late night jazz music. 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki glances at the man JAckie shot, grimaces, and at that, she lunges. Leaping forward, she puts her armor's strength, the will of her ancestors, into trying to grab Jackie's shoulders, which will amount to a pretty rough bodyslam attempt. "No!" 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' The grimace from Hisako is met with a careless, confident smile. Murder clearly meant nothing to this well dressed monster in the skin of a man. When she leaps forward, Jackie takes a long drag off his cigarette. Beckoning her closer with his free hand. "Closer, sweetheart. I can't hear your pulse pounding from there." Just like that, she charged. That's when all Hell broke lose. Shadows explode in size and depth, swallowing the alleyway whole and plunging it all into abyssal black save for the glow of Hisako's armor. She's like a beacon in the pitch night. A void populated by howling, screaming abominations that crash against her in a tidal wave. Her armored fingers just barely missing Jackie as the shadow serpents, dragons, ogres and nightmarish demonesses pound at her defenses. "No? I was thinking the same thing, babe. Don't wrinkle the jacket." A wink and the killer starts to melt into the black void around them. "Love the skirt, by the way..." A devilish Cheshire grin lingering in the shadows. 

:'''{{#var:1395|Hisako Ichiki (1395)}} has posed:''' Hisako Ichiki lets out a small curse in Japanese as he gets away. Claws returning to her hands, she spins around again to face what's after her. Clawing as she backs up, backs up, backs up until she can scoop up the body of the man who was shot, and take off RUNNING. Unfortunately her skirt does move with the run, but so it goes. 
}}

7923/Dead for the Money

2019-07-10T21:59:48Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/06/17 |Location=Luke's Bar |Synopsis=Jackie and Floyd meet up to talk business. |Cast of Characters=1410,307 |pretty=yes }} {{Poses |Poses=:''..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/06/17
|Location=Luke's Bar
|Synopsis=Jackie and Floyd meet up to talk business.
|Cast of Characters=1410,307
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Pick a place, he said. So Jackie picked a place. He could have chosen any one of a hundred scum bag dives, low light Itallian eateries or filthy back alleyways... and he chose Luke's. It has to be a joke, right? Not so much. But it is funny. Seated at a booth in the corner, back to the wall so he can face the door, Jackie Estacado awaits a man known among the elite and the deceased alike as Deadshot. The young hitman with an ancient soul sits with a glass of milk before him. Casually thumbing through something on his phone. The dark and dim corners of Lukes all filled with potential. Outside, the rain has let up. The streets are coming back to life as pedestrians sneak out from cover to go about their lives. For however long they may last. 

:'''{{#var:307|Deadshot (307)}} has posed:''' The door opens as Deadshot walks into Luke's Bar, the rain sliding and dripping off his armor and suit. The assassin is here for money, for payment. Turns out.....everyone's got a price, and in today's world that turns out to be just shy of 495,000 dollars for a rat to the NYPD. Funny how traitors and snitches end up dead. Deadshot's come to get money and catch up with Jackie. The mob guy with the freaky tentacles is as close to organized crime as Deadshot wants to get....as he slides into a booth with a wett squeak. "Hey" he says and keeps his face plat and visor operational. "You know one of your goons has been passing info to the cops, right?" he asks, sliding across a picture. "That's the guy, I got four ninety five coming from you guys to take him out, he's getting real friendly with the law. Your folks don't like it. I've had some of your guys, some of the Mob across the Tri State area put up the cash. Apparently they hate snitches.. So what's it to be?" he asks. All business, then he seems to relent a little. "Ain't seen you around though, you been running things in your little Italian empire?" he asks, pronouncing it eye-talian and ordering a soda water. "See, my problem is this. I don't want to do this too close to the cops, ya know?" he asks, and sighs. Being an assassin that makes impossible shots isn't hard. It's hard when he's a /wanted/ killer.... 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' A little smile creeps across the killers face as he watches Deadshot enter Luke's in full-on regalia. Jackie in his deep blue suit and merlot red tie. White shirt, crisp and clean as the day it was cut. Phone stowed away in his pocket, he leans back in his mooth seat and upnods the famed marksman. "Hey yourself." A brow arches, he tilts his head aside when Deadshot immediately brings down the hammer. Snitch. To the young mans credit, he didn't flinch or scowl. Just sniffs, clearing his head before nodding in understanding. "See, thats's funny." Jackie looks down at the photo. Lifts a hand to drag a fingertip along his temple, tucking black hair behind his ear. "If it was one of my guys, one of the Don's guy," He corrects without a blink "Then you wouldn't have that contract. See, we take care of our messes." Lifting the picture from the table, he keeps it so an eye is always on that visor. That faceplate. That door. "So the job comes from -outside- of town. Which is why they got you. So what's it gonna be?" Jackie Estacado smiles wide at that. Toothy and predatory. Amused somehow at this prospect. "You got more than one problem, One Eye. You came at me hard. In costume." He chuckles quietly under a breath, picking up that glass of milk. "About somebody in the family bein' a snitch. I'm supposed to believe you?" 

:'''{{#var:307|Deadshot (307)}} has posed:''' "Right" Deadshot says and laughs softly. "Came from out of state, one of the big families up in Hartford found out. They sent their snitch to you. The way I understand it is...he's their problem. They ssent him to you. You ain't his boss, so you don't have to feel bad for killing him,....yet they set me up with the info. How do I know he's a snitch?" Deadhsot asks, sliding a manila envelope over. "Guy I know got me transcripts of interviews and calls. Apparently, he got life for it,bbut....those interviews are revealing" Deadshot shrugs. "You want my help on this, or are you gonna match Hartford's offer? If I get a half million from Hartford, and you pay me less.....I get paid, right?" he asks, then smiles, sliding his face plate and visor down. "Now. I have a business proposition for you. I need information. I got another contract I'm running.....so, what do you know about the mob guys in Empire Bay? There's a lot of cold, hard cash on the line, five and a half million for getting rid of a pair of bodyguards. What do you know about that group of guys?" Deadshot asks patiently. "You help me out. I'll make sure you get your cut, Jackie" he says, he's willing to at least offer the mob guy that much....if only to ensure no Mafia guys crash one of his kills, that is..... 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Jackie Estacado sits across from the armored, elite killer of killers. Blank faced except for the hint of amusement just threatening to break free. The twitch at the corner of his lips, the sparkle in tbose baby blue eyes. "So I wouldn't feel bad? Considerate of them." The talk of transcripts, evidence, that dashes all cheer from the man. He'd have to look at it himself or hear directly from Family but the effect is all the same. Business. It's business. "Here's the deal, Deadshot. If that is, infact, your real name." Jackie begins with a half hearted chuckle. No more twinkle to those baby blues. Just cold, calculating intent. "I don't care about the money. Sure, it's nice but... that little mess? You're gonna have to beat me to him if you wanna get paid. Simple as that." One of the most feared and reviled hitmen in New York simply shrugs, listening to the counter offer brings an eyebrow upward in curiousity. "If I knew anything about any Family Guys in Empire Bay, why would I tell you for an indie gig and a maybe at that? There's something you high price, hunter of men types don't get... Loyalty. I know nothing." Lifting his glass in cheers, he takes a sip. Using the pause to consider Deadshots words. "Tell you what, Deadshot. If this word on high about a snitch pans out? I'll hit those two mooks -for- you. You scratch my back, I scratch yours." 

:'''{{#var:307|Deadshot (307)}} has posed:''' "No. I don't get loyalty, Jackie. But think on the upside. Empire Bay's mob gets scared. You get less competition" he points out watching Jackie, studying the Mafia guy intently with a deliberate look. Sitting back, Deadshot smiles, taking out a small flash drive. "A friendly, kind officer slipped somebody I shot these recordings" he says. "Plug it into your phone and listen. It's the two mooks being as subtle as.....well.....a ton of bricks and, oh by the way, bragging about being informants. Snitches, call it what you will. I got offered that money to kill them, but if you do this for me, we split the cash evenly, and I owe you a favor" The last bit has Deadshot knowing he's at Jackie's mercy. But it's one favor....and he knows he can demand payment before a trigger is pulled. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' "A silver lining in every dark cloud, right?" Jackie responds with a low chuckle, a nod of the head as he takes the tiny drive. There's a lingering second or five where he's got the drive, simply watching Deadshot watch him back. "Fine. I'll bite." Relenting finally, Jackie plugs the drive in and gives it a listen. There is no tantrum of rage, no cursing and throwing his glass. He doesn't even shoot anybody! What he does do is look disappointed. A sigh, soft and theatrically defeated. Slumping back into the booth seat, Jackie ejects the drive and slides it back across the table between them. "I grew up with one of those guys." He says flatly. Did somebody mess with a dimmer switch? The room feels somehow smaller. Shadows deeper, filled with potential. "You keep the money. I'll take that favor. We have a deal, Deadshot." 

:'''{{#var:307|Deadshot (307)}} has posed:''' Deadshot nods and smiles. "Good" he says, looking amused, he got the Mob to be on.....well....Jackie to bite on this. "I'll keep my ear out and make sure Mob justice is served. My question is why. I wonder who got those guys to talk" he says simply, looking around then over to Jackie again. Deadshot nods. "Oh, I feel like the cops involved need to go. They are dirty, I saw them....through a scope, taking bribes from the snitches" he says looking worried, then shakes his head again. "So you have a favor. I get money. It works fine for both of us" he nods quietly, leaning back. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' Deadshot hit the mark yet again. Getting Jackie Estacado to do anything is a challenge, he figures with orders from Frankie... why listen to anybody else? Stoolie antics? Clearly works. Loyalty is important to the man. "They probably got their reasons for doing what they did. Everybody does. Doesn't mean they get to survive it." Hands resting on the edge of the table, Jackie leans forward. A savage, if sweet smile on his face. Jackie Boy could light a room with that smile. He prefered gunfire. "They're cops, man. Don't matter if they're dirty or not." Pushing up, Jackie gets to his feet. Quite the tall young man. "You won't have to keep your ear down long. I'll be in touch." That said, he straightens his tie and makes for the door. He's got some business to attend, it would seem. 
}}

7908/What's In That Barrel

2019-07-10T21:58:00Z

Panic: Created page with "{{Log Header |Date of Scene=2019/06/16 |Location=The Beach |Synopsis=Crystal stops somebody from littering. Maybe saves a life or two. |Cast of Characters=1410,293 |pretty=yes..."

{{Log Header
|Date of Scene=2019/06/16
|Location=The Beach
|Synopsis=Crystal stops somebody from littering. Maybe saves a life or two.
|Cast of Characters=1410,293
|pretty=yes
}}
{{Poses
|Poses=:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' It's coming. The rain. You can feel it in the air, that thickness. The humidity clinging to skin, the earthy scent of it all. The sun going down may have lowered the temperature but it brought something to replace the discomfort. A storm is somewhere out there off the coast but that's not the unpleasantness being warned of. "I know, Uncle Frankie. Yeah, I said I'd take care of it so I took care of it." Jackie Estacado, man of talent. Man of fashion. Man of absolutely no moral compass to speak of. Standing at the foot of the old pier, his black suit and tie left unbuttoned and loose. Cigarette in one hand, cellphone in the other. Sunglasses? Still. "-These things don't weigh any lighter, boss!-" "-Put your hips into it, Bumper! Like this!-" Thunk, thunk, thunk. "-He said your hips, not your-" "Hey, shut up already, I'm on the frickin' phone." Jackie snarls at the dark, twisted little figures rolling three steel drums down the dock. The lamp light flickering above as twisting vines of inky black wind up the corroded poles and snuff the buzzing flourescent glow. The barrels thump and bump along. To his back, the beach. The sand. The tall, sparse grasses of the breaks. This seemed like the perfect place to put the fear of God into three, all too ambitious young mooks on a night out. The Don wants respect? He sends people like Jackie Estacado to enforce it. In this case, by having stuffed three grown men into steel drums and roll them off a dock into the bay. But, you know, we'll get to that part. 

:'''{{#var:293|Crystal (293)}} has posed:''' The city is hard for Crystal. Not because it's a city, per se. She doesn't really care that much either way about tall buildings and lots of people. Her bigger problem with cities is the pollution. Every now and then she needs to get out far enough to actually have a chance at cleansing the air and the water around herself. So she rented a nice little airbnb by the beach. Away from people. Perfect for getting a breath of fresh air. And for dumping bodies, apparently. In jeans rolled up past her ankles and a plain dark t-shirt, she's walking along the shore when she catches sight of the man on the phone and the barrels. She hasn't noticed what's making the barrels //move// yet, which is probably for the best at the moment. "Excuse me," she calls over, brows furrowing. "Hey!" 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' It's out there. That storm. The faint, distant rumble of protest can be heard just barely over the crash and lap of the waves on a sandy, rocky beach. It doesn't hold a candle to the protests of Frankie "Kill-the-children-too" Franchetti. Jackie holds the phone away from his ear, wincing while taking a drag off his smoke. The tiny, furious voice unintelligeable. "Okay, okay. Look, I haven't taken care of 'em yet. I'm in the process of... Yeah. Uh huh. Right." Jackie shrugs to no-one before pocketing the phone. "Alright, boys. Let's bring it on ba-" Jackie begins. "-Bring it on back?! What?! This one is still crying, come onnnnnn!-" "-I think I broke mine, boss.-" CLANG, CLANG, CLANG, CLANG. Then dead silence. The shadowy, mishapen figures ducking down behind the barrels on the pier. Jackie quirks a coal black eyebrow above the gold rims of his sunglasses. The approach of Crystal not changing the mans demeanor but it does seem to halt the slow, bumpy procession of oil drums. The orange cherry of his cigarette goes spiralling through the air as he flicks it away with a gloved hand. A faint smile creeping to his lips, Jackie upnods the approaching -witness-. "Hey. You miss me that much, had to come find me?" He asks with a smooth, easy baritone. Accent in check. Mostly. 

:'''{{#var:293|Crystal (293)}} has posed:''' Crystal arches a brow, looking back at the barrels when they seem to stop moving. "You know this is a protected beach, right?" she says as she comes closer. Really, anyone with sense would be turning around and walking the other way. It's night. A storm is coming. And someone in a suit is standing on a deserted beach with suspiciously noisy barrels. That's not the sort of thing that invites intervention. "You can't dump or burn stuff here." Next thing you know, she'll be asking to talk to a manager. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' "It is? Huh. Ain't that about a kick in the neck?" Jackie asks with a deadpan. She keeps approaching and the man simply sighs. This is decidedly not what normal people do when confronted by this scenario and Mr. Estacado is keenly aware of the fact. This isn't his first rodeo. Taking that left hand from his pocket, Jackie tightens and straightens up his tie. A simple, black and narrow affair with a silver tie pin. White undershirt, crisp and clean. You can't fault a classic black suit and tie combination. Shoes far too nice for this environment. "You see, I didn't know that. Now that I do, guess I won't be doing that." He offers a smile, charming if cold. Beautiful in the way a sharks grin is but no less promising of nature taking its course. He jerks a thumb back toward the steel drums, stationary in their shadowy place on the dock. "Not even, like... camp fires? People see that and report it, huh?" 

:'''{{#var:293|Crystal (293)}} has posed:''' "Cool," Crystal says at the statement that he won't be dumping or burning things tonight, tipping her chin upward as if that closes the topic. "You need some help getting those barrels back to your..." Trailing off, she looks around, then quirks a brow back at him. "Truck? Limo? Flying car? Seriously, do we need to pretend like it's not weird that you're out here in a suit with three rusty oil barrels? At night? Also, there were voices, I am //pretty// sure of that." 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' That's when one of the barrels starts to jerk and thump, muffled screams from inside. A small, raspy voice in the distance snarling in contempt. "-Hey, can't you see the boss is talking?-" "-No, he can't, idiot.-" "-The drummer from Def Leopard doesn't have an arm.-" Jackie's smile does falter, fade and turn to a frown. He huffs a sigh and looks right back to Crystal as if those voices just plain didn't happen. She's the crazy one here, not him. Right? A glance to those drums, the corner of his lips threatens to break into a smirk of sorts. "The help still on the table, sweetheart or are you going in one of those barrels tonight?" Oh boy, did that ever escalate. "-I can take this one out, boss.-" "-It stopped crying, I want my money back!-" "-Hey guys, watch this!-" Thump, thump, thump. The lid popping off, a grown man stands up from it in a gasp. Suit torn, nose busted. Blood on his teeth, dark hair curly and damp with sweat. "I'll never steal nothin' again! I swear! I swear! It was all Dino's idea!" "-Was it Dino's idea to crap in your pants?-" Darklings, always an ever helpful peanut gallery of horror. 

:'''{{#var:293|Crystal (293)}} has posed:''' Crystal, to her credit, does not look particularly surprised when a man pops out of the barrel, simply quirking a brow at Jackie and gesturing between him and the barrel as if her point has been made. "Better idea," she posits. "You give me a //really// good reason why these people belong in these barrels, and //maybe// I decide it's just none of my business." Let's be fair, it's not like the Inhuman royal family has never executed someone in a really unusual way. "Also, seriously, what //are// those things?" She's caught a glimpse of something at least, but instead of walking //away// from it like a normal person, she moves to walk closer for a better look. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' That eyebrow arches again but Jackie doesn't look away from Crystal even as she points out the obvious. "Yeah, about that." Is all he says at first before bowing his head, nudging those sunglasses down the bridge of a narrow nose. Clearying sizing this Inhuman Princess up. It's not a polite gaze. "One size fits all." He says with a chuckle, taking those expensive looking aviators off. Gesturing lazily with them in hand. "I want a Tesla with a Portugese bikini model in it too." Jackie says with a smug, punchable smile. Clearly having fun with this all of a sudden. "I wonder which of us will get what we want first." It's then that he points a gloved finger at the man standing in the barrel. "Shut your mouth. Step out of the barrel. Bring it right. Over. Here." He demands from the man who clambers and falls in a racket, the barrel nearly rolling off the side of the dock. Darklings howl with laughter. "-You sure you wanna reuse this one, boss? Smells like Kentucky!-" "-Hey, isn't she on TEEVEE?!-" -"She will be after tonight!-" Again their little, terrible laughs. Glowing yellow eyes peering bravely from behind the barrels. Clawed hands reaching up to unlock the bands and release two more gasping, sobbing captives. "You don't wanna know about those things, gorgeous." Jackie says with a laugh. "Which reminds me. Tough talk aside, you didn't see nothin', right? You look like you wear glasses. Hard to make out faces, you know?" 

:'''{{#var:293|Crystal (293)}} has posed:''' "Huh." Crystal seems more interested in the darklings than in Jackie for the moment. Because clearly, that's the interesting manifestation here. "That is both fascinating and a little bit gross. Are they actually sentient, or just...mouthy? Or are they you?" She straightens up a bit, gesturing between Jackie and the darklings and leaving the issue of the actual people in the barrels for another time. If it's a distraction tactic, it's one she's committed to. At his last, she tilts her head, smirking slightly. "I can't tell if you're trying to flirt with me, or intimidate me. But neither is particularly effective at the moment. Portugese bikini model is //awful// specific, though." 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' "I get that from time to time." Jackie muses under his breath, watching Crystal watching Darklings. The little abominations, while under his control, are gregarious and not at all shy. This is a problem from time to time. "-She says you're mouthy.-" "-I'll show her mouthy. I'll show her all kinds of-" "-The boss looks mad. Does he look mad? Hey, boss! You mad?!-" The two men still standing in barrels also beg and plead in the background, one screaming and ducking back IN the barrel at the sight and sound of the Darklings around him. They laugh. Jackie sighs. "I like to keep my options open." Jackie says, pointing to the men in the barrels and the mishappen, skeletal little demons around them. "Those are my employees. I made a deal with some sort of space god that's popular right now. The men in the barrels will not be pressing charges. Will you boys?" A chorus of NO! GOD NO! And a little no. "See? Hmmm? Oh, right. I like to be specific in my dreams that sure as shit won't come true." Jackie says with a quiet laugh before taking a step -toward- Crystal. The first movement he's made toward her yet. "What's your name, fearless and proactive stranger?" 

:'''{{#var:293|Crystal (293)}} has posed:''' "They're fascinating, regardless." Niiiiiice little creepers. Crystal doesn't seem inclined to press the issue of the men just yet. As long as Jackie's willing to play nice, then she's willing to play nice. "Crystal," she answers his question, turning to face him a little more fully as he steps forward. "I'd ask yours, but I have a feeling you're about as likely to share it as you are to share that Portugese model and the...wait, did you say a //Tesla//?" Because that's the sticking point here, clearly. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the environmental standpoint, but I've got a friend who'd probably die at the idea of a Tesla being a car worth putting a bikini model in." 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' "They're morons." Jackie corrects to the chorus of Darkling protest some 20 yards away. There's the first of the Free'd Barrel Boys coming up to the two, Jackie and Crystal, with obvious trepidation. Jackie cuts him off before the man can utter a stuttered word. "You're not gonna do it again, right?" A quick shake of the head, he starts to open his mouth but Jackie again beats him to it. "Go. Take your friends. Leave your wallets on the ground." Shocked by their freedom, the men hurry to act. Adrenaline is a mighty fuel. "Crystal. You don't look like a Crystal." Jackie muses before offering that smug, movie star smile of his. The man is a looker, that much is obvious. The insides likely do not match the outsides. "I've always liked the name Doug." He says before scoffing at the talkative witness to an almost double homicide. "Hey, I don't want it for -her-. I want it for me. Flashy cars are all well and good as bait if you need it. Some guys don't. The new suspension system is supposed to be like riding on a cloud." Nodding sagely at this, Jackie Estacado lets the cool slip as the three men hurry as fast as the sand will allow. "You've taken all this about as well as can be expected. You gonna make this any more difficult or are we going to keep playing nice? I'd hate to find out if somebody who looks a Hell of a lot like..." Jackie pauses. Squinting ever so slightly. "Boys, you say you seen her on the TV?" He asks, turning his head toward them even if his eyes stayed on her. Shadows deepen. Darklings laugh. "-The news?-" "-They don't have those kind of shows on the news.-" "-Who even wants a Tesla anymore?-" 

:'''{{#var:293|Crystal (293)}} has posed:''' "Doesn't look to me like there's any trash getting dumped in the ocean today, so I can't imagine why I'd need to call anyone," Crystal says with an easy smile, head tilting ever so slightly at the deepening of the darkness. It seems more curious than anything else though. As if she's taking its measure. "Very kind of you, cleaning up your mess like that. If only more people were more cognizant of what they're leaving behind, the world might be in better shape." It probably doesn't help, though, when she snorts back a laugh at the last comment. "You sure they're not a manifestation of your subconscious or something?" 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' "No, it looks all about cleaned up on this section of beach. It'd be a really boring call to make anyway. 'Hey, nothing to see on the beach. Okay, bye bye'. Total time sink." Jackie laconically bemoans with a flippant wave of the hand before tucking his sunglasses away. Inside his jacket. Nickel plating and pearl handle catching the light before he tugs his jacket back into order. The shadows seem... curious. Just as much as Crystal. A looming presence, an unseen but felt heaviness on the back of the mind. The feeling of being watched. From where though? "-He's very environmentally sound!-" "-So was Ghengis Khan.-" "-She laughed at my joke. I'm now the boss.-" A small scuffle for dominance occurs in the almost too dark shadows on the docks, a barrel rolling off the wooden planks to splash below. Revealing the spindly, stunted forms of the Darklings as they claw and bite at eachother. Jackie seems to ignore it. Or he's just used to the commotion. "Not leaving two idiots in the bay? I think I did worse by letting them out to breed and make more idiots. We'll see. Maybe over drinks in about ten years. You know. See if I was right." Jackie clears his throat. The brawl stops. A series of appologies and one admission of theft is all the Darklings give. "I'm not sure of anything anymore. People fly and shoot lasers. I mean, really... who or what can you trust anymore?" 

:'''{{#var:293|Crystal (293)}} has posed:''' "Not a whole lot," Crystal shakes her head, hands in her pockets as she starts to take a few backward steps along the beach in the direction she came from, casual. "You just never know what you'll run into." She starts to turn, though pauses half-way, lips twisting in a mischievous grin as she leans around him to point in the general direction of the darklings. "That one's kind of cute." A last trouble-bomb delivered, she winks at Jackie and turns to head back toward the airbnb. Mission...accomplished. 

:'''{{#var:1410|Jackie Estacado (1410)}} has posed:''' "No, you really don't. Always best to be prepared for the worst, I suppose." Jackie says casually. Sometimes even he doesn't know if he's laying down threats or not. It's almost reflex when you're raised by murderers and goons. When she steps back, Jackie steps forward. Just the once. A glance away from Crystal to the Darklings as they huddle and wave at Crystal from their little patch of abyss. "That one has brain damage." Jackie quickly says of the more precocious Darkling. Head tilting aside, that long black hair spills down his cheek. Too blue eyes watching the Inhuman royalty depart. He doesn't follow but he does watch. The shadows are his eyes, after all. "We're going to have a long talk about inside voices and outside voices, boys. Bring one of those drums. It'll be a useful teaching tool." The groans of Darklings and the sudden THUMP THUMP THUMP of an oil drum gets quieter and quieter as Crystal retreats to the comfort of light and air conditioning. 
}}

Dean Winchester

2019-07-01T06:53:36Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Dean Winchester
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=306
|Img=http://tinyurl.com/y4ybx5pb
|FullName=Dean
|Gender=Male
|Species=Human
|Theme=Other
|Chartype=FC
|Active=Dropped
|Occupation=Hunter
|Citizenship=American
|Residence=Black 1967 Chevy Impala (or Anywhere)
|Education=GED
|Groups=[[Scooby Gang]], [[Dark Universe-OOC]]
|Quote="Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole." "Leave your name, number and nightmare at the beep." "Demons, I get... but people are crazy."
|PAge=30
|AAge=30
|DOB=24 January 1997
|Height=182.88 cm (6')
|Weight=74.84 kg (165 lbs.)
|Hair=Brown
|Eyes=Green
|Actor=Jensen Ackles
|Song="Back in the Saddle" by Aerosmith
|Profile=Everything changed when Mom died. He was six at the time. His father dove head first into getting revenge on the monster that killed his wife, bringing his two sons along for the ride. Since before he was ten years old, Dean Winchester has been trained to hunt and kill supernatural threats to humanity. One at a time. Coast to coast. Living life on the outskirts of society, he uses a formal and informal network of supernatural hunters, theorists, lorekeepers and survivors to continue his family business.

Saving people and hunting things.
|Description=You know what keeps you in shape? Constantly hunting supernatural abominations and trying to knife fight them into submission. Dean Winchester is what you would call in pretty good shape. Broad shoulders, strong arms and a sturdy frame. A natural tan, left arm a little darker than the right. The mark of the Driver. Those green eyes hold the classic depth of a rough past, the spark of an unrepentant jester. Strong jaw, classical good looks. A light brown Ivy League hair cut, goes well with the five o'clock shadow he's been rockinfg as of late. Fashion or procrastination is anyone's guess. A roguish smile, amazingly the man still has all his teeth and in fine order at that.

His style is, well... telling of the man. T-shirts and Henley's, jeans are a constant. Well traveled and faded. Favoring leather jackets for durability and that extra layer of protection, the weight of a concealed firearm sometimes comforting burden under his left arm. Jewelry isn't a big concern for the man but he always seems to have at least that old brass steer skull on a leather cord around his neck. A simple silver band around his middle finger. Nothing special.
|History=Dean Winchester was born fighting and screaming on January 24th, 1997 to John and Mary Winchester in Lawrence, Kansas. The first born son. Something he will rub in his little brothers face for decades to come. Great life, really. Warm and happy. Until the begining of November in 2001. That's when Dean's life -really- started. Mary Winchester was murdered in Sam Winchester's nursery by the demon Azazel, pinned to the ceiling and engulfed in flame. With his little brother in arm, Dean raced out of the burning building under the orders of his father. Get Sam to safety. That protective responsibility was burned into him early.

Tasked with basically raising his little brother while his father hunted, both revenge and a growing list of supernatural creatures, Dean grew self sufficient at a young age. He had to. Between the constant moves about the country and the extensive training recieved from his father, Dean Winchester experienced a childhood far, far from the norm. At the age of sixteen, he was arrested for theft. Given a taste of a different life, he chose to return to the family.

When Sam left to experience life away from the supernatural, Dean continued to hunt with his father across the country. Coast to coast. Honing his skills to a razors edge. A decade of the Family Business. Let that sink in. A decade of motel rooms, stitching himself up, chasing deranged monsters through the dark and somehow surviving. Thriving even. Building a network of like minded hunters and gaining the attention(and eventually support) of the Watchers Council, Dean became a known quantity in the fight against the strange and unnatural.

All good things, bloody and nightmarish as they were, must come to an end. John Winchester gave Dean a direction. A lead. The keys to the Impala. Then disappeared. Said he went on a hunt but didn't take the journal. The. Journal. So he did the first thing that came to mind.

He went and got Sam. Dragging his brother away from a full ride at Stanford, Dean was... admittedly happy. It was like old times. Him and Sam. Back in the swing of the Family Business. Then Azazel did what Azazel does. Namely murder and arson. Killing Sam's girlfriend in the same manner as Mary Winchester. The hunt for Yellow Eyes began. Which put the boys in the path of their previously missing father. Nevermind that Dean was pretty sure Sam was becoming a mutant or something. Oh, but they hoped it was that. It wasn't. When it all came down to it, the truth and road ahead was beyond rough.

In the confrontation with the yellow eyed demon Azazel, Dean watched his little brother die. Watched him die and couldn't stop it. Couldn't live up to the oath he made to always protect Sam. So he did what anyone would do. He tried to make a Deal. Timing, however, is everything. The angel Castiel, restoring Sam's life, also saved Deans. Turning their attention back on Azazel, they forced the demon's hand to free John Winchester from Hell. Then immediately turned their guns back on the yellow eyed demon.

A couple-few hundred demons escaping Hell in the ensuing chaos left quite the mess to clean up. Their father vanishing again with Bobby Singer, the brothers and their angelic cohort turned their attention now to cleaning up this catastrophic mess. Try and find their father again and maybe save the world along the way.
|Personality=Dedicated. Clearly not the first thing that comes to mind when describing a man who changes aliases like some people change socks. Yet true. Dean Winchester is devoted to that which is close to him in a way that borders on obsession. Unquestioningly following the orders of his father, putting his life on the line for total strangers, literally offering himself as a sacrifice in the stead of others. That unwaivering devotion to his little brother Sam. When Dean decides something is worth fighting for, it's worth dying for.

Uncomplicated. The man likes what he likes and dislikes what he dislikes. He tends toward a very black and white mentallity on things. He's either for it completely or against it absolutely. Not to say he can't be swayed from one side to the other, he just takes a steady stance when given the choice. He prefers classic rock, has a casual style of jeans and leather jackets, doesn't like ketchup on hotdogs and is a sucker for a woman that can swing a solid punch. He's not simple, but he is a little predictable at times.

Aggressive. When on the hunt, Dean tends to have a more enthusiastic approach than most would. Ruthless when closing in for the kill, it's pretty evident that he passionately despises what he hunts. A real 'shoot first, ask questions later' approach when he gets the target in his sights. In spite of that, he is capable of seeing the line when nearing it and being able to avoid crossing. Mostly. This forward nature isn't exclusive to the hunt. Quick to offer assistance, wasting no time in flirting, naturally competitive, Dean is just a forward momentum kind of guy. It works for him.

Of course, this does not mean that is the whole of Dean Winchester. He's smarter than he lets on, genuinely open hearted toward those in a bad situation and a consumate jester. Generous and irresponsible all while coveting the last beer and sticking his neck out for a stranger. An unexpectedly skeptical man considering his constant encounters with the unexplainable. All said and done, Dean is what he thinks he needs to be.
|Abilities='''ANGELIC VESSEL''' While not necessarily a power in the traditional sense, Dean Winchester is destined to become the vessel of an insanely powerful celestial entity. Whatever you want to call it. Namely the Archangel Michael. What this means is that at some point, Dean Winchester gets to look forward to being the skin suit of a near omnipotent angel. He's not particularly fond of this.
|Skills='''Consumate COn Man''' Dean Winchester is living life off the grid and against the grain of society. Constantly playing a shell game with various fake identities, he lives life by cash and stolen card. He's good at it. Picking locks is a snap, breaking and entering is a habit, alibis flow like water. The fact that he's charming, good looking and generally holding a fake badge helps too. '''Family Business''' Dean is an accomplished hunter and killer of supernatural and mythical creatures. You read that right. He's a professional slayer of Things(tm). Following rumors, local legends and rattled witness testimony all lead to the culmination of this profession. Killing the monster. When it comes to the Hunt, Dean Winchester has it down. Known weaknesses, specialized gear and straight up dedication means the job gets done. '''The Wheelman''' Maybe it's a control issue but Dean insists on driving. Luckily, he's very good at it. A knack for getting the feel on muscle cars and trucks, he's been known to lose a tail or two. He's also been known to use a Cadillac as a weapon, so there's that. '''Two-Fisted Hunter''' Dean Winchester is what many in the Hunting business would call a natural. When the clues line up, when the target is in his sights, few can compare to the enthusiasm and skill that Deano brings to the game. Whether it means putting silver slugs in a fleeing shapeshifter, a knife fight with a vampire or trading punches(and the occasional headbutt) with a pack of ghouls, Dean seems to have it under control. While not a master assassin or martial arts luminary, there are more than a few dead monsters out there that made the fatal mistake of underestimating him. Decades of experience in dire situations has left Dean with a firearms skill rivaling career soldiers. His expertise with a blade is impressive, especially the two Bowie knives he often favors. Taking pointers from his father, he's blended hints of martial arts with a no-nonsense, bar brawling style that has kept him alive pretty well so far. Factor in his experience with the more esoteric and bizarre tools and tactics of his chosen trade and Dean Winchester is a definite challenge for almost any combatant.
|Resources='''Baby, The Impala''' Don't you dare touch the radio. Dean lives and works out of this immaculately maintained 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Pretty much everything the man owns is in this car and it's shockingly spartan in that regard. Until you pop the trunk. Originally his fathers, Dean has kept this ride in outstanding shape. Which is impressive considering how many times it's been wrecked, shot, jumped and rammed. Still purrs like a kitten. '''Dad's Journal''' John Winchester liked to keep notes. Thankfully. In his possession, usually in the trunk of the car, Dean has a near encyclopedia of Hunter's knowledge. Facts and rumors, maps and diagrams. The Journal is filled to the brim with everything from tips on tracking, trapping and killing vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons and more to guides through some low magic in the form of wards and exorcism pointers. It's not exactly completed but it is a bizarre read for sure. '''Hunter's Network''' Years of contacts. Decades now. The Winchesters are a known factor in the Hunter lifestyle and have built quite the web of informants, friends and allies. Other hunters, survivors, conspiracy theorists, low-lives and drifters. It's a wide net but one that Dean can call on for direction, aid and interference. This is not without a price as favors demand favors. While sometimes at odds with the Watcher's Council, they are a more formal source of support. Which Dean is sometimes loathe to accept even if the rewards are generally far better than his usual fare. '''The Colt''' Halley's Comet. The Alamo. Samuel Colt. All these things came together in 1835 to make the legendary .36 Colt revolver. A supernatural six shooter capable of killing anything. Originally made with thirteen shots, twelve were used. On who or what is up for endless debate among occult theorists. That one bullet somehow became six. Then... none. Intimidating as the weapon may be, especially to those in the know, without the bullets? Just a gun. Rumor has it that somebody out there knows how to make more. '''Trunk Stockpile''' Lift the false bottom of the trunk in Baby and you'll find a plethora of weapons both legal, illegal, homemade and... unexplainable. Nothing of military grade(except for that hand grenade), the collection is still quite impressive. Handguns, shotguns. A rifle. Knives, bats and stakes. Throwing stars(right?!), hand axes, machetes. Then it gets weird. Ritual daggers, a dream catcher, holy water and flare guns. Jars of salt, grave dirt and... is that... is that a jar of blood? Silver bullets, wrought iron rounds. A lock box of credit cards, fake IDs and falsified badges. If someone with a real badge gets in that trunk, Dean is going to have a very, very bad day.
|Weaknesses='''Aviophobia''' Nope. Full on nope. In Houston and need to be in Bludhaven? Not taking a red eye, that's for sure. Dean and flight do not mix. It's not so much the height being an issue. Again, maybe it's a control issue. He's not behind the wheel and that uncertainty does not work for him one bit. In the end, no matter what the hang up may be, Dean Winchester would rather walk across two states than fly over one. '''Family Matters''' A classic. Go after his brother, his father, anybody he allows to get that close and Dean is off the rails. Good judgement goes out the window, patience is an after thought and self-control is laughable. In a situation this dire, Dean will make the ultimate sacrifice without question. That does not make for a long, full life. Not in the hunting life. '''Instigator''' Comedy as a defense mechanism can sometimes backfire. Especially when you just can't help but push a few buttons. Dean has a penchant for trash talk and pushing some boundaries, normally in an attempt to throw off an oponent and gain the advantage. Sometimes just because. This makes earning enemies entirely too easy for the man. When tied to a radiator, sometimes you just have to make fun of a vengeful skinwalkers mother. '''Way Off Grid''' He doesn't have a work history. The last permanent address he held was before puberty. The man rarely uses his real name. Dean Winchester is a ghost and this is not always helpful. A real job? Never going to happen. Retirement? 401K? A shallow grave more likely. No social media presence can be seen as strange. The usual comforts of life just won't be available. He's got no idea what's trending right now.
}}
[[Category:Scooby Gang]][[Category:Dark Universe-OOC]]

Dean Winchester

2019-07-01T06:47:13Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Dean Winchester
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=306
|Img=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/ac/5f/cc/ac5fccdc0468cef9da0a711df71c3847.jpg
|FullName=Dean
|Gender=Male
|Species=Human
|Theme=Other
|Chartype=FC
|Active=Dropped
|Occupation=Hunter
|Citizenship=American
|Residence=Black 1967 Chevy Impala (or Anywhere)
|Education=GED
|Groups=[[Scooby Gang]], [[Dark Universe-OOC]]
|Quote="Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole." "Leave your name, number and nightmare at the beep." "Demons, I get... but people are crazy."
|PAge=29
|AAge=29
|DOB=24 January 1997
|Height=182.88 cm (6')
|Weight=74.84 kg (165 lbs.)
|Hair=Brown
|Eyes=Green
|Actor=Jensen Ackles
|Song="Back in the Saddle" by Aerosmith
|Profile=Everything changed when Mom died. He was six at the time. His father dove head first into getting revenge on the monster that killed his wife, bringing his two sons along for the ride. Since before he was ten years old, Dean Winchester has been trained to hunt and kill supernatural threats to humanity. One at a time. Coast to coast. Living life on the outskirts of society, he uses a formal and informal network of supernatural hunters, theorists, lorekeepers and survivors to continue his family business.

Saving people and hunting things.
|Description=You know what keeps you in shape? Constantly hunting supernatural abominations and trying to knife fight them into submission. Dean Winchester is what you would call in pretty good shape. Broad shoulders, strong arms and a sturdy frame. A natural tan, left arm a little darker than the right. The mark of the Driver. Those green eyes hold the classic depth of a rough past, the spark of an unrepentant jester. Strong jaw, classical good looks. A light brown Ivy League hair cut, goes well with the five o'clock shadow he's been rockinfg as of late. Fashion or procrastination is anyone's guess. A roguish smile, amazingly the man still has all his teeth and in fine order at that.

His style is, well... telling of the man. T-shirts and Henley's, jeans are a constant. Well traveled and faded. Favoring leather jackets for durability and that extra layer of protection, the weight of a concealed firearm sometimes comforting burden under his left arm. Jewelry isn't a big concern for the man but he always seems to have at least that old brass steer skull on a leather cord around his neck. A simple silver band around his middle finger. Nothing special.
|History=Dean Winchester was born fighting and screaming on January 24th, 1997 to John and Mary Winchester in Lawrence, Kansas. The first born son. Something he will rub in his little brothers face for decades to come. Great life, really. Warm and happy. Until the begining of November in 2001. That's when Dean's life -really- started. Mary Winchester was murdered in Sam Winchester's nursery by the demon Azazel, pinned to the ceiling and engulfed in flame. With his little brother in arm, Dean raced out of the burning building under the orders of his father. Get Sam to safety. That protective responsibility was burned into him early.

Tasked with basically raising his little brother while his father hunted, both revenge and a growing list of supernatural creatures, Dean grew self sufficient at a young age. He had to. Between the constant moves about the country and the extensive training recieved from his father, Dean Winchester experienced a childhood far, far from the norm. At the age of sixteen, he was arrested for theft. Given a taste of a different life, he chose to return to the family.

When Sam left to experience life away from the supernatural, Dean continued to hunt with his father across the country. Coast to coast. Honing his skills to a razors edge. A decade of the Family Business. Let that sink in. A decade of motel rooms, stitching himself up, chasing deranged monsters through the dark and somehow surviving. Thriving even. Building a network of like minded hunters and gaining the attention(and eventually support) of the Watchers Council, Dean became a known quantity in the fight against the strange and unnatural.

All good things, bloody and nightmarish as they were, must come to an end. John Winchester gave Dean a direction. A lead. The keys to the Impala. Then disappeared. Said he went on a hunt but didn't take the journal. The. Journal. So he did the first thing that came to mind.

He went and got Sam. Dragging his brother away from a full ride at Stanford, Dean was... admittedly happy. It was like old times. Him and Sam. Back in the swing of the Family Business. Then Azazel did what Azazel does. Namely murder and arson. Killing Sam's girlfriend in the same manner as Mary Winchester. The hunt for Yellow Eyes began. Which put the boys in the path of their previously missing father. Nevermind that Dean was pretty sure Sam was becoming a mutant or something. Oh, but they hoped it was that. It wasn't. When it all came down to it, the truth and road ahead was beyond rough.

In the confrontation with the yellow eyed demon Azazel, Dean watched his little brother die. Watched him die and couldn't stop it. Couldn't live up to the oath he made to always protect Sam. So he did what anyone would do. He tried to make a Deal. Timing, however, is everything. The angel Castiel, restoring Sam's life, also saved Deans. Turning their attention back on Azazel, they forced the demon's hand to free John Winchester from Hell. Then immediately turned their guns back on the yellow eyed demon.

A couple-few hundred demons escaping Hell in the ensuing chaos left quite the mess to clean up. Their father vanishing again with Bobby Singer, the brothers and their angelic cohort turned their attention now to cleaning up this catastrophic mess. Try and find their father again and maybe save the world along the way.
|Personality=Dedicated. Clearly not the first thing that comes to mind when describing a man who changes aliases like some people change socks. Yet true. Dean Winchester is devoted to that which is close to him in a way that borders on obsession. Unquestioningly following the orders of his father, putting his life on the line for total strangers, literally offering himself as a sacrifice in the stead of others. That unwaivering devotion to his little brother Sam. When Dean decides something is worth fighting for, it's worth dying for.

Uncomplicated. The man likes what he likes and dislikes what he dislikes. He tends toward a very black and white mentallity on things. He's either for it completely or against it absolutely. Not to say he can't be swayed from one side to the other, he just takes a steady stance when given the choice. He prefers classic rock, has a casual style of jeans and leather jackets, doesn't like ketchup on hotdogs and is a sucker for a woman that can swing a solid punch. He's not simple, but he is a little predictable at times.

Aggressive. When on the hunt, Dean tends to have a more enthusiastic approach than most would. Ruthless when closing in for the kill, it's pretty evident that he passionately despises what he hunts. A real 'shoot first, ask questions later' approach when he gets the target in his sights. In spite of that, he is capable of seeing the line when nearing it and being able to avoid crossing. Mostly. This forward nature isn't exclusive to the hunt. Quick to offer assistance, wasting no time in flirting, naturally competitive, Dean is just a forward momentum kind of guy. It works for him.

Of course, this does not mean that is the whole of Dean Winchester. He's smarter than he lets on, genuinely open hearted toward those in a bad situation and a consumate jester. Generous and irresponsible all while coveting the last beer and sticking his neck out for a stranger. An unexpectedly skeptical man considering his constant encounters with the unexplainable. All said and done, Dean is what he thinks he needs to be.
|Abilities='''ANGELIC VESSEL''' While not necessarily a power in the traditional sense, Dean Winchester is destined to become the vessel of an insanely powerful celestial entity. Whatever you want to call it. Namely the Archangel Michael. What this means is that at some point, Dean Winchester gets to look forward to being the skin suit of a near omnipotent angel. He's not particularly fond of this.
|Skills='''Consumate COn Man''' Dean Winchester is living life off the grid and against the grain of society. Constantly playing a shell game with various fake identities, he lives life by cash and stolen card. He's good at it. Picking locks is a snap, breaking and entering is a habit, alibis flow like water. The fact that he's charming, good looking and generally holding a fake badge helps too. '''Family Business''' Dean is an accomplished hunter and killer of supernatural and mythical creatures. You read that right. He's a professional slayer of Things(tm). Following rumors, local legends and rattled witness testimony all lead to the culmination of this profession. Killing the monster. When it comes to the Hunt, Dean Winchester has it down. Known weaknesses, specialized gear and straight up dedication means the job gets done. '''The Wheelman''' Maybe it's a control issue but Dean insists on driving. Luckily, he's very good at it. A knack for getting the feel on muscle cars and trucks, he's been known to lose a tail or two. He's also been known to use a Cadillac as a weapon, so there's that. '''Two-Fisted Hunter''' Dean Winchester is what many in the Hunting business would call a natural. When the clues line up, when the target is in his sights, few can compare to the enthusiasm and skill that Deano brings to the game. Whether it means putting silver slugs in a fleeing shapeshifter, a knife fight with a vampire or trading punches(and the occasional headbutt) with a pack of ghouls, Dean seems to have it under control. While not a master assassin or martial arts luminary, there are more than a few dead monsters out there that made the fatal mistake of underestimating him. Decades of experience in dire situations has left Dean with a firearms skill rivaling career soldiers. His expertise with a blade is impressive, especially the two Bowie knives he often favors. Taking pointers from his father, he's blended hints of martial arts with a no-nonsense, bar brawling style that has kept him alive pretty well so far. Factor in his experience with the more esoteric and bizarre tools and tactics of his chosen trade and Dean Winchester is a definite challenge for almost any combatant.
|Resources='''Baby, The Impala''' Don't you dare touch the radio. Dean lives and works out of this immaculately maintained 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Pretty much everything the man owns is in this car and it's shockingly spartan in that regard. Until you pop the trunk. Originally his fathers, Dean has kept this ride in outstanding shape. Which is impressive considering how many times it's been wrecked, shot, jumped and rammed. Still purrs like a kitten. '''Dad's Journal''' John Winchester liked to keep notes. Thankfully. In his possession, usually in the trunk of the car, Dean has a near encyclopedia of Hunter's knowledge. Facts and rumors, maps and diagrams. The Journal is filled to the brim with everything from tips on tracking, trapping and killing vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons and more to guides through some low magic in the form of wards and exorcism pointers. It's not exactly completed but it is a bizarre read for sure. '''Hunter's Network''' Years of contacts. Decades now. The Winchesters are a known factor in the Hunter lifestyle and have built quite the web of informants, friends and allies. Other hunters, survivors, conspiracy theorists, low-lives and drifters. It's a wide net but one that Dean can call on for direction, aid and interference. This is not without a price as favors demand favors. While sometimes at odds with the Watcher's Council, they are a more formal source of support. Which Dean is sometimes loathe to accept even if the rewards are generally far better than his usual fare. '''The Colt''' Halley's Comet. The Alamo. Samuel Colt. All these things came together in 1835 to make the legendary .36 Colt revolver. A supernatural six shooter capable of killing anything. Originally made with thirteen shots, twelve were used. On who or what is up for endless debate among occult theorists. That one bullet somehow became six. Then... none. Intimidating as the weapon may be, especially to those in the know, without the bullets? Just a gun. Rumor has it that somebody out there knows how to make more. '''Trunk Stockpile''' Lift the false bottom of the trunk in Baby and you'll find a plethora of weapons both legal, illegal, homemade and... unexplainable. Nothing of military grade(except for that hand grenade), the collection is still quite impressive. Handguns, shotguns. A rifle. Knives, bats and stakes. Throwing stars(right?!), hand axes, machetes. Then it gets weird. Ritual daggers, a dream catcher, holy water and flare guns. Jars of salt, grave dirt and... is that... is that a jar of blood? Silver bullets, wrought iron rounds. A lock box of credit cards, fake IDs and falsified badges. If someone with a real badge gets in that trunk, Dean is going to have a very, very bad day.
|Weaknesses='''Aviophobia''' Nope. Full on nope. In Houston and need to be in Bludhaven? Not taking a red eye, that's for sure. Dean and flight do not mix. It's not so much the height being an issue. Again, maybe it's a control issue. He's not behind the wheel and that uncertainty does not work for him one bit. In the end, no matter what the hang up may be, Dean Winchester would rather walk across two states than fly over one. '''Family Matters''' A classic. Go after his brother, his father, anybody he allows to get that close and Dean is off the rails. Good judgement goes out the window, patience is an after thought and self-control is laughable. In a situation this dire, Dean will make the ultimate sacrifice without question. That does not make for a long, full life. Not in the hunting life. '''Instigator''' Comedy as a defense mechanism can sometimes backfire. Especially when you just can't help but push a few buttons. Dean has a penchant for trash talk and pushing some boundaries, normally in an attempt to throw off an oponent and gain the advantage. Sometimes just because. This makes earning enemies entirely too easy for the man. When tied to a radiator, sometimes you just have to make fun of a vengeful skinwalkers mother. '''Way Off Grid''' He doesn't have a work history. The last permanent address he held was before puberty. The man rarely uses his real name. Dean Winchester is a ghost and this is not always helpful. A real job? Never going to happen. Retirement? 401K? A shallow grave more likely. No social media presence can be seen as strange. The usual comforts of life just won't be available. He's got no idea what's trending right now.
}}
[[Category:Scooby Gang]][[Category:Dark Universe-OOC]]

Dean Winchester

2019-07-01T06:25:37Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Dean Winchester
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=306
|Img=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/ac/5f/cc/ac5fccdc0468cef9da0a711df71c3847.jpg
|FullName=Dean
|Gender=Male
|Species=Human
|Theme=Other
|Chartype=FC
|Active=Dropped
|Occupation=Hunter
|Citizenship=American
|Residence=Black 1967 Chevy Impala (or Anywhere)
|Education=GED
|Groups=[[Scooby Gang]], [[Dark Universe-OOC]]
|Quote="Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole." "Leave your name, number and nightmare at the beep." "Demons, I get... but people are crazy."
|PAge=29
|AAge=29
|DOB=24 January 1997
|Height=182.88 cm (6')
|Weight=74.84 kg (165 lbs.)
|Hair=Brown
|Eyes=Green
|Actor=Jensen Ackles
|Song="Back in the Saddle" by Aerosmith
|Profile=He was a normal kid until he lost his mother when he was about 6. After that, his father delved into gathering information on the supernatural and turned himself into a hunter- raising him and his brother the same way. With his father gone often as they were taken around on his hunts, Dean spent a lot of time helping to watch over and raise his little brother. The two were inseparable until Sam decided to make a life for himself outside of 'the hunt', and went to college. Continuing to work close with his father, Dean lived his life on the fringe of 'existence', always using some fake name or scammed identities to get by. He's learned a lot of tricks of the trade and knows how to stay just on that edge. Free. No ties. Always on the road and always something to hunt and someone to save. That is, until a splinter cell of 'Blue' people decided to start murdering parents on the edge of the coast in New York and he went to investigate. This is where he disappeared for almost a year. His father on a long hunt, his brother out of contact- he wasn't really missed, was he? Enduring a long haul of torture of the creatures, he finally was freed. On solid ground and recovering losses, he's getting back on his feet to get back into the game and find his brother and father. This isn't something he can be the lone rider on anymore. (OOC NOTE: For those unfamiliar with the character, Dean is about as Non Politically Correct as is possible. You've been warned.)
|Description=Dean stands at a lean 6 feet even, lightly tanned hinting to not being a stranger to the outdoors. Sporting an ivy league haircut, it is clean cut with that same light roguish sense of dark brown hair that fits his personality. Green eyes with the darkness of a forest of night almost always have a glimmer of some humor or mischief that he surrounds himself with. A sharp jaw, shaven but with an almost constant 5 o'clock shadow and slightly full lips make up the rest of his facial features. There are a few faded scars on his jaw and temple from previous scuffles along with one on his neck- a year or more old. On his lean and muscular build he dresses casually, but with what he considers a cool look. A black t-shirt slightly hugs his chest and arms, showing a teasing of the cut body beneath. Over this is a dark grey-green collared button up shirt that remains undone and untucked, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. When it is chilly out, he sports a brown, slightly weathered leather jacket over this. Though one thing remains constant in his attire- blue jeans and black boots. He wears very little jewelry. A pendant of what looks like a bulls head made of brass rests on a black cord around his neck. A silver band is on the middle finger of his right hand, along with leather corded bracelet on his wrist. A watch on a thick leather bracelet-band is on his left wrist.
|History=January 24th, 1997, Dean Winchester is brought into the world kicking and screaming in Lawrence, Kansas, his hometown. His childhood was like any other- he was happy, it was a happy life, happy family. When his brother was brought in to existence, he was about to turn 7. Six months later, everything changed. He watched as their mother burned on the ceiling, he carried his little brother out of the fire at his father's order- and then.. the happy life was over. His father obsessed with finding the demon responsible, he was changed from a boy into an adult rather quickly. Trained in various fighting techniques, reading mythology and learning about supernatural creatures and their weaknesses, even having a gun of his own as early as 9 years old. Living on the road with his dad, he took care of his brother. Staying behind to help raise and tend to him while their father went off to battle the evil that plagued the world- all on the crusade to avenge his wife. He went to school after school, never staying in the same place long, always having a different last name and learning quickly that to keep his brother safe, he has to basically not exist to everyone else. His brother and father quickly became all he had as he never could have real friends outside of them. Growing into a young man, he was angry when Sam left for college. While he understood his brother's want to have a normal life, doesn't mean he agreed with it, or the fact his brother abandoned them and the work they were doing. Dean was always hardcore into the Hunter's life and adopted it like a second skin without regret. He never understood why Sam didn't. Four years later, his father abandons him as well, leaving his journal behind with a cryptic clue of coordinates pointing to New York City. Investigating a problem on the coast led him into a bad scuffle with the Blue People, creatures that live deep in the ocean. A splinter cell, bent on bad things- he learned. Overpowered and drug under, he spent close to a year in torture as they wanted to know if there were others like him- who he worked for, who he was affiliated with, anything to lead them to protect themselves from losing more of their kind to Hunters. Of course, he never gave up anything. He even started to give up hope of ever leaving the underwater prison. That is, until Aspen appeared and saved him. Even saved his Impala from the ocean's floor. Recovering on the edge of town, with her help, and getting back on his feet- he is determined to find his brother. Right some wrongs- make sure he is alright and return to the family business and find their father.
|Personality=Dean is a lot more complicated and intelligent than he puts off, and generally people take that for granted. With his upbringing, he has a keen perception to the world around him and things that are off. Just the same his training in investigation has taught him to gently interrogate through multiple personas without giving any of his true self or past away. Though sometimes, he may offer a truthful revelation about himself if it will help him get what he needs. While not considered a bleeding heart, the hardened soldier of a Hunter does care. When people are in danger, he doesn't run away, and will jump into the fray to protect them. Generally, though, he comes off as slightly immature, mischievous, funny, but an understanding guy. Generally has much better luck with ladies than his younger brother, not quite being a womanizer, but the type to enjoy the fairer sex without attachments. He also has an affinity with communicating with children, helped by how he aided in raising his brother- he has that gentler protective older brother feel. One thing about him is that he could be fairly considered Old School. Almost stuck in the 90âs. The way he dresses has that somewhat feel, the putting out of a cool guy front to easily fit in. Not to mention, he doesn't have a CD Player, or iPod or any of that like his younger brother. While he does know how to use computers, his car is kept very old school with just a tape deck. His phone is even a very basic burner flip phone.
|Abilities='''ANGELIC VESSEL''' While not necessarily a power, he is unknowingly wrapped in some heavenly plot that may not have started yet. He is supposed to be the 'vessel' for the ArchAngel Michael.
|Skills='''SURVIVALIST''' Raised on street-smarts and a con artist, Dean knows how to live on the fringe of society and do so well. Credit card scams, cheating, impersonating, hustling, even stealing... Whatever it takes to survive and get the job done. Not to mention, have money for food, the upkeep of his impala and a hotel room to sleep in when he can for a real bed. '''UNARMED COMBAT''' Another thing that was drilled into him from a young age was fighting unarmed, or Hand to Hand Combat. Trained by his father and various of his hunter network allies along the way, he is able to hold his own in a fight without weapons. This includes a small touch into various martial arts, wrestling, and general scrap-bar fighting. '''WEAPONRY''' Raised as a hunter and expertly trained by his father, Dean is proficient on a variety of weaponry, from common and available weaponry to making his own. This includes knowing how to make special bullets with silver, salt, etc. As well as knowing how to use available weapons around him from ordinary wood to whatever he can get his hands on. Variety of supernatural beings means you have to be well versed on the various ways to repel, expel or defeat them.
|Resources='''CON ARTIST''' Living as he does is its own resource. Credit card scams, hustling, etc. It is his income. He uses fake names, identity theft, whatever he has to (without bringing harm to others, of course), to get by and live 'comfortable' while on the road. He doesn't do anything lavishly expensive, of course. Just enough to comfortably get by and handle supplies when he needs to 'restock'. '''DAD'S JOURNAL''' When his father disappeared last time, he left his journal behind. Finding it, there was a message in the back with the coordinates for New York City. It is filled with his father's personal notes and logs of encounters and hunts over his career and is an invaluable resource. '''HUNTER'S NETWORK''' Thanks to his father, he's met a few hunters growing up and still keeps in contact with several of them. It is a great information network, and can connect or call for help if he really needs to. '''IMPALA''' His car is his sanctuary. It was his father's, but now his, he takes extremely good care of it. Its how he goes across the country, and also serves as a 'mobile home' of sorts. He has everything he owns pretty much, in that car. A couple bags of clothes, a satchel of first aid items- not to mention the loaded weapons locker in his trunk.
|Weaknesses='''ALIAS''' He rarely gives out his real name and living behind fake names and aliases tend to bite you in the backside at times. There have been a few times that stolen identities have landed him in some kind of official custody though he's always managed to get out. Especially in the Supernatural community, he hides his real name as often as he can. But his name or using others- it makes him rather 'non-existant' which presents problems at times. '''AVIOPHOBIA''' Dean has a serious fear of flying. Partly fueled by what he knows about the world and the fact that a plane is something he can't control. Not to mention- Planes crash. Yes. Cars crash too, but he at least has control of that. But it is a very big reason why he drives everywhere he goes. Also- why he's never left the continental US. Plenty enough for him to do here, thank you very much. '''LOL YOU MAD''' As wrapped into the Supernatural World as Dean is, he's made many enemies. Its not uncommon for a being higher than one he's killed before try to find retribution against him in some fashion. Generally why Hunters don't live long, healthy lives. And the enemies just keep on counting... Pissing off the Demons, for instance? Oh boy... The Winchesters are infamous, to boot. Its been done before that Dean would be targeted just to try and draw out his father, even. Can't catch a break, man. '''MY BROTHER''' While he cares for some people, the one that is his biggest weakness is Sam. He feels stronger when they are together and he will protect him the best he can until the bitter end. But because of his sense of obligation to care for his younger brother, Sam can be exploited to force Dean into submission when there is no other choice. He won't hesitate to put his life down for his brother and that may very well be his downfall.
}}
[[Category:Scooby Gang]][[Category:Dark Universe-OOC]]

Darkness

2019-06-22T06:53:33Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Jackie Estacado
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=1410
|Img=http://i.ibb.co/stBh054/JED.jpg
|FullName=Jackson Estacado
|Gender=Male
|Species=Primordial
|Theme=Other
|Chartype=VFC
|Active=APPROVED
|Occupation=Mafia Hitman
|Citizenship=U.S.
|Residence=New York City
|Education=Thug Life
|Groups=[[Dark Universe-OOC]], [[Street Level-OOC]]
|Quote="I've always believed that everyone has a good side, and a bad side. Even a guy like Eddie Shrote. Sure, he's tortured and killed a few people but then again - you should see his bad side. And for what he did to you? Both sides are as good as dead."
|PAge=23
|AAge=23
|DOB=22 December 2003
|Height=193 cm (6'4")
|Weight=101 kg (224 lbs.)
|Hair=Black
|Eyes=Light Blue
|Actor=Barrett John Lucak
|Song="The Reflecting God" by Marilyn Manson
|Profile=Jackie is not a nice person. He's spent the last 15 years of his life under the care and tutoring of one of the most ruthless mafia bosses in New York. His penchant and talent for violence earned him power and respect. His ability to turn off his conscience has kept him sane through it all. Now that he's the host for the Primordial force called the Darkness he's struggling to control even baser urges.
===Current Player Approved: June 10, 2019===
|Description=The man before you stands a head taller than most. His height is almost six and a half feet tall, and is only enhanced by the athletic build to his frame. His athletic form is well proportioned, sporting broad shoulders that slim down to a trim waistline. From what can be seen it's apparent that his body carries very little fat complimented by a muscular physique. He has black hair that sits about shoulder length, and is currently tied back away from his face. His eyes are bright blue, holding a coldness to them despite his handsome features, and giving the impression of an icy lake early in the morning.
 
He's currently wearing an expensive, and tailored all black suit. He has an off white button up shirt underneath, and appears to be sporting a black silk vest as well. His charcoal gray tie is thin, and tied with precision. Finishing off the outfit are a pair of dark leather shoes, probably designer in fashion, that are buffed to a nice shine.
|History=At the beginning of the universe, there was ageless chaos. The Earth was formless and void and darkness was over the surface of existence. Then God said, "Let there be light." And there was light, and God saw that the light was good and so separated the light from the Darkness. The Darkness resented this and so bitterness and spite were born before time itself.
 
Since the creation of the universe, the Darkness and the Angelus waged an eternal war as stars and planets took form around them. These two primordial beings, being equal in power and status, were unable to destroy each other without causing significant change to the universe or even destroying it altogether. To avert mutual destruction, a truce was struck. The Angelus and the Darkness consummated and in so doing conceived the Witchblade, creating peace and balance between them.
 
Despite the birth of the Witchblade, the gnawing anger of the Darkness found no expression for age upon age, festering, putrefying, distilling to seething perfection, until a vessel for his boundless hate was found: mankind, God's most favored creation. The Darkness seeped into the genes of a particularly fertile bloodline and used them as his medium to manifest his fury on Earth. Each generation was set loose with nearly limitless powers and only one calling: to spill Chaos over the world of light. The Darkness chose hosts from the ranks of murderers, thieves, rapists and warlords, steering them to ruin in the process.
 
Christian Estacado was the earliest named host of the Darkness. He was a dark prince of the House of Estacado who reigned cruelly over a darkened world. He was tricked into mating with an an Angelus host and his child inherited the Darkness power.
 
Centuries later in 15th century Spain, Michelangelo Estacado was raised by gypsies after his mother was burned as a witch by the Inquisition. On his 21st birthday, while witnessing the execution of innocents by Inquisitors, his powers manifested and he slaughtered the Inquisitors.
 
The Darkness manifested in Jackie as his apartment was rampaged by Brotherhood soldiers, who were subsequently slain by Angelus Warriors sent to kill Estacado as he manifested the Darkness. Jackie manifested his armor and slew the warriors before slaying the head of the Marchianni family. He subsequently used the power to destroy the Angelus host and free himself from the Brotherhood.
 
Jackie's conception was not a process of love, but between his sadist father and a random prostitute he found that evening. He was born on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, December 22nd in 2003 somewhere in New York City, New York. His mother died shortly after giving birth to him and his twin sister Capris. Having no known relatives both children were given over to the care of the city. Each child ended up going to a different orphanage, and Jackie would never know that he has a twin sister. He was enrolled at Saint Garards orphanage at the same time as one Jenny Romano. Jackie developed a close relationship with Jenny and would look after her while they were growing up in the orphange and on the streets together. Whenever anyone hurt or abused Jenny, even orphanage officials, Jackie would become violent towards her abusers and would not rest until he put them in the hospital.
 
He joined the Mafia at the very early age of 6, after being found by a mafia don named Frankie "Kill-the-children-too" Franchetti. He was picked up at the orphanage after Frankie was prompted by a mysterious stranger named Sonatine, who told Frankie that having Jackie around would bring him tremendous power. Jackie would try to bring Jenny with him, but Frankie declined with the words, "You want to take care of her, you learn how to take care of yourself, and then come take care of her." With those words in mind, Jackie decided he would put everything he had into learning what he needed to do exactly that. Before he left, though, he told Jenny, "I will come back for you..." and every day he could, he did exactly that.
 
Jackie was exposed to the life of greedy, power hungry, and violent forces as he grew up. Luckily, he was also exposed to good morals and was taught the value of loyalty by a few unlikely sources within the Don's organization. Jackie came to the mafia life easily, losing his virginity to a female officer during interrogation at age 14 when he was being questioned about a drug deal his Uncle Frankie had taken part in. Jackie performed his first hit at 16, tasked with taking out a rival small time gun runner in Uncle Frankie's neighborhood. He grew up, or more accurately matured, very quickly, and soon enjoyed the life of power and violence. His actions within the mob caused Franchetti to become the most powerful don in the city, fulfilling Sonatine's prophecy. All during this time, The Angelus kept watch of Jackie with a mystical mirror within the top of The Empire State Building. Keeping his promise, as soon as he could arrange it, he provided Jenny a job as a Bartender at one of the Mafia Clubs, and a place to stay in New York City.
 
On the eve of his 21st birthday, Jackie was in his apartment when the clock struck 12:00 A.M. Jackie heard The Darkness speaking to him with telepathy, telling him that he could have anything he wanted and that all he had to do was let The Darkness out. The Darkness awakened within him and he learned of his birthright as host of The Darkness. At first, this power was a blessing, allowing his job as a professional hitman to run more smoothly and work in more novel ways. However, with this power came many enemies.
 
Early on, Jackie spent much of his time escaping from or fighting The Angelus (who wants to kill him), Sonatine and his Brotherhood of The Darkness (who wish to capture him and either control him or steal his powers for their own agendas), and various other religious orders that saw his existence as an abomination. Through all this his violent tendancies grew, and in time people used his connection to Jenny as leverage. Eventually he was forced to rescue her from Sonatine, destorying a large portion of the Brotherhood's presence in New York, and forced to kill the current Incarnation of The Angelus. Having seen his violent ways, Jenny told him that she had to leave, and couldn't stand by as she watched him go down this Dark Path. Her final words were, "You are a good person, Jackie. You can protect instead of kill, create instead of des
|Personality=Even from his early childhood, Jackie was very violent, ruthless, intelligent, and brave. Despite this, he has a strict set of noble (even heroic) morals and a fierce loyalty to those that earn it. He has matured somewhat over the span of his adult life and his experiences with The Darkness, though his core personality still remains the same. He is also very prideful, sociopathic, and insecure - Overall, Jackie Estacado is thought to be a murderous bastard to the eyes of his enemies, but the most loyal, caring, and defending man to the ones that earn his full trust. If it is one thing Jackie does not tolerate, it is his loved ones being harmed.
|Abilities='''DARKLINGS'''
 
Darklings are the impish, deviant, base and foul-mouthed servants of the Darkness. Created from necroplasmic materials and animated by the spirit of the Darkness, the Darklings are the foot-soldiers of the Darkness host - serving and obeying his every whim, protecting him from harm, and tending to his needs. The hosts communicate with the Darklings through telepathy, able to give them commands and receive messages and images wherever they are as well as see and hear through their eyes. Superhuman Physicality - Darklings are superhumanly strong, agile, resilient and fast, regardless of size. They are able to evolve to become stronger, bigger and more viscous. They can scale sheer surfaces, and jump several feet into the air. Their teeth and claws can rend steel and many possess prehensile tails and large bat-like wings for flight. Many also have corrosive saliva or fiery breath, depending on the will of the wielder.
 
'''DARKNESS ARMOR'''
 
The signature ability of the Darkness is the creation of an invulnerable mystical armor about the host. This armor significantly augments the host's strength, speed and endurance, making him a powerhouse and a challenge to even the most physically powerful of meta-humans. The appearance and design of the armor is a reflection of the host's character.
*Invulnerability - The Darkness armor is impervious to even the most destructive of kinetic and energy weapons. Although, some very high leveled attacks - repeated blows from class 100 meta-humans have been able to incapacitate the host but not actually kill him. The armor supplies oxygen and protects the host from extreme environments such as outer space, underwater, or in a gas-filled room.
*Shape-shifting - The host can alter the appearance of the armor to perfectly mimic the appearance and voice of another individual. The host can use the armor to mimic any type of clothing. On an advanced level, they can take on the forms of dragon-like creatures. The host can manifest either bat-like or feathered wings to allow flight at a fast enough speed to reach escape velocity. The host can grow razor-sharp talons at the ends of their fingernails, blades, and spikes sufficient to pierce incredibly hard and dense materials easily. These claws also aid in adhering sheer surfaces.
 
'''DARKNESS MANIPULATION'''
 
The Darkness is shadow and can create and mold it to his will. The Darkness describes shadows as "merely the imprint our presence leaves on this plane".
*Tendrils - The Darkness can form tendrils that can be used to tear enemies apart or destroy obstacles. The tendrils can extend to considerable length within line of sight and are most likely as strong as the armored host.
*Darkling Heads: The darkness manifests itself in the form of eel-like Darkling heads that can devour enemies or rip them apart.
*Darkness Constructs: The darkness can create various constructs out of the darkness and bend them to his will. The more that the host masters the Darkness the more complex the constructs can become. Currently Jackie knows how to build working ranged weapons, similar to guns, that fire mystical projectiles of Darkness. His Blades and Claws are also mystical in nature like a magical weapon.
 
'''HEALING FACTOR'''
 
The Darkness bestows his host with inhuman powers of self-healing. As long as there is darkness, the host will reconstitute himself no matter how little of his current body remains. The host is capable of healing minor damage almost immediately, smaller portions of the body up to the size of a hand is replaced in seconds, arms/legs are returned in up to two minutes, half the body can be fixed in several minutes, and the entire body can be rebuilt in a day. His advanced self-healing abilities also make his host immune to all Earthly diseases, toxins, poisons and all supernatural afflictions (Vampirism, Lycantrophy, etc.).
 
This ability becomes more limited the brighter natural or mystical/holy light is in play.
 
'''MYSTICAL ABILITIES'''
 
The Darkness allows the host other, more arcane abilities that defy the laws of physics.
*Teleportation - The host can travel anywhere in the shadows to other places that have shadows. This is instantaneous, and he can carry no more than 5 additional individuals with him.
*Immortality - Hosts of the Darkness have the potential to live eternally as time and death have no full dominion over them. What does matter is the minute they pass on the Darkness to their male child.
*Reanimation - The Darkness can reanimate the dead as zombies-like creatures. They are about half as durable as the Darklings, and will only follow the simplest of commands.
*Magical Negation - In certain instances, the Darkness has shown strong enough to overpower various mystical abilities or rituals. The host does not seem to be in full control of this power, and only works if there is an attempt to drain the Darkness or it's hosts memories.
 
'''SUPERHUMAN PHYSIQUE'''
 
Superhuman Strength - The armor dramatically increases the host's strength to the point of reaching levels on par with the most physically potent of super powered beings. The armored host can lift cars with no apparent exertion, bend titanium, break chains, crush stone, send grown men flying across a room through a wall with the slightest touch, uproot trees, overpower Demons, slaughter Werewolves and Vampires, demolish a tank, and many other feats of inhuman strength. His level of strength fluctuates with access to darkness. His range can be anywhere between class 25 to 100.
 
Superhuman Speed - The host can run in excess of a hundred miles per hour while in the armor. Their reflexes are similarly accelerated, allowing them to deflect bullets with their limbs. In close distances, hosts can seem to appear and disappear from sight because of the speed of their movement.
 
Superhuman Stamina - The armor energizes the host and allows him to remain active indefinitely without tire.
 
Superhuman Agility: The Darkness also increases his host's agility allowing them to jump high over long distances, scale sheer surfaces, and to perform acrobatic and parkour feats at a superhuman level.
 
'''SUPERHUMAN SENSES''' The hosts senses are heightened - such as the ability to literally feel a person's footsteps from several yards away, even while underground. The ability to see in complete darkness, magical or otherwise, and retain his ability to determine depth and color. His sense of smell is enhanced to the degree of a bloodhound, not only being able to determine individuals by scent, but learning each supernatural creatures own unique scent. His sense of hearing is strong enough to identify an individual's heartbeat in a crowded room.
 
True Sight - The hosts can occasionally perceive a person as they really are, beyond the glamour of humanity, and identifying mystical creatures by sight unless they take strong precautions to ward themselves.
 
Death Sight - The host can see a person as they will be when they die and can instinctively know when, where and how that person COULD die. Since the future is always fluctuating there is no guarantee, but the closer to the time of death the more clear the image will become.
 
Empathy - The host can interpret a person's emotions and understand to a limited degree what they may be thinking. This is not as fine tuned as telepathy, and it's more impressions on the intent or interests of an individual.
 
'''THE DARKNESS'''
 
The Darkness is a Primordial force of Chaos and Creation that bestows his hosts with nearly limitless Dark power as well as allows them access to an otherworldly dimension and control over the veritable legion of Darklings who dwell there. All of the following powers are based on this connection with the Darkness. The only way the Darkness can be taken from it's host is via conception of another male child.
|Skills='''CHARISMATIC'''
 
Jackie possess natural charm and charisma that easily attracts people to him. He is capable of interacting with people in a way that draws them to him, instilling belief and trust. This translates into the ability to interact with individuals, and generally have them view him in a positive manner.
 
'''EXPERT MARKSMAN'''
 
Jackie is an excellent marksman. Comes from years of shooting people in various different ways with various different weapons. He can work any number of firearm based weaponry with ease. He's particularly talented with pistols, though semi-auto and automatic weaponry are well within his range, as well.
 
'''EXPERT MARTIAL ARTS'''
 
Jackie is a highly accomplished fighter, trained in many forms of hand-to-hand combat, and experience in fights from a very young age. He has no issue doing what he needs to win, and he believes the only â fair fight is the one you walk away from.
 
'''GIFTED INTELLIGENCE'''
 
Jackie possesses impressive natural reasoning and logic capabilities, as well as an amazing ability for information retention, and uses them to great effect. His mental acuity allows him to pick up all manner of information from various sources, decide what is relevant, and apply that information appropriately.
 
'''TACTICIAN'''
 
Jackie has been fighting since as long as he can remember. This experience only heightens his gifted tactical intellect, making him very observant and easily able to analyze his enemies and find their weaknesses. He often finds creative ways to use his abilities even in extreme circumstances, and on the verge of death.
|Resources='''FRANCHETTI MAFIA'''
 
Jackie is the most feared and reviled Hitman in the Franchetti Mafia organization. For this reason he's given the largest amount of lenience from any, to include the Don, and is able to call on the resources of the Mafia whenever he needs. He can go to restaurants, and not worry about paying. He can go to stores, and pick up whatever equipment he needs. While the technology may not be incredibly advanced, if it's something that a rich person can get than he has access to it.
 
'''PERSONAL WEALTH'''
 
Jackie has made the Franchetti family one of the most successful mafia families in New York. With that comes a large scale of personal wealth. His available funds is on par with a multi-millionaire. He doesn't have investments, or a reasonable type of reoccurring income. Still, he lives very comfortably, and can easily buy what he wants when he needs within reason.
 
'''WEAPONS'''
 
Jackie has access to most types of legal and illegal weaponry he needs in order to kill however many people the Don wants. He actually has a fully legal set of credentials to carry the two Glocks he has on him at all times.
|Weaknesses='''ANGELUS'''
 
The Angelus is the eternal enemy of The Darkness. The Angelus retains the memories of all of her previous host's lives and has led many crusades against Jackie in seeking to rid the world of The Darkness.
 
The powers of the Angelus are similar, yet opposite, to the powers of The Darkness as both have the ability to create sentient beings, both commands a host of minions to do their bidding, she is immortal and has the power of flight, possesses superhuman strength, invulnerable to mortal weapons, can conjure weapons at will, breath fire, and fire bolts of light and teleport herself and other beings.
 
'''APPOLONIA'''
 
The daughter of Don Frankie, and the vengeful child of the catatonic Lauren Franchetti, who watched as her father murdered her mother's lover, which caused her mother to go into a coma. Responsible for The Angelus' return, and trying to overthrow the Franchetti family. Appolonia appears to be in league with The Angelus.
 
'''BRIGHT LIGHT!'''
 
The powers of the Darkness depend on Darkness, as they are banished away by bright natural or mystical light. The host is rendered mortal in the light of day. Anything created by The Darkness is burned away by bright natural or mystical light. The Darkness host can become more tolerant of light with time, experience, and training. Weapons of light are harmful to wielders of the Darkness. Some enemies carry light cannons or flash bangs, and certain areas have lighting that severely limits the wielder's mobility and distorts their senses. To combat this weakness, hosts can destroy the light source (turning off lights in a room, smoke grenades, etc.) and sticking to the shadows.
 
'''DARK SIDE'''
 
Left to it's own devices, the Darkness will try to corrupt the host to all the darker and baser emotions of humanity. The more power that the host draws on the more likely they are to fall to these emotions. Without any outside influence, the host will become the worst that humanity has to offer, and the power to back up his sadistic whims.
 
'''MAGDALENA'''
 
The Magdalena are descended from Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ, the first Magdalena that Jackie encountered was Sister Mariella, the daughter of Sister Rosalia. Mariella was prematurely sent to battle and kill Jackie on the church's orders, and since she was brought up in a crooked sect of the church, was a wild Christian fanatic who did not know right from wrong.
 
'''OVERCONFIDENT'''
 
Jackie is extremely confident in his combination of his experience, abilities, and the Darkness. He sometimes acts too hastily, often underestimating his enemies, which can lead to his defeat against weaker opponents.
 
'''PASS THE CURSE!'''
 
If a host conceives a male with a mortal woman, the spirit of the Darkness is passed to the newly conceived child and the host dies at that moment.
 
'''SUN DAGGER'''
 
A powerful blade created by The Angelus from the essence of a dying star for the purpose of slaying the host of The Darkness. The Sun Dagger is a long, golden, double-edged dagger. It could easily kill Darklings and was powerful enough to kill a host of The Darkness, at least so long as the blade remained in the host's heart. The host would heal and resurrect as soon as the Dagger was removed.
}}
<gallery>
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</gallery>
[[Category:Street Level-OOC]][[Category:Dark Universe-OOC]]

File:JE5.jpg

2019-06-22T06:53:22Z

Panic:

File:JE4.png

2019-06-22T06:52:52Z

Panic:

File:JE3.jpg

2019-06-22T06:52:05Z

Panic:

File:JE2.jpg

2019-06-22T06:51:35Z

Panic:

File:JE1.jpg

2019-06-22T06:50:36Z

Panic:

Darkness

2019-06-19T19:11:35Z

Panic:

{{CharacterNew
|NameOnMUSH=Jackie Estacado
|Color=#333
|TextColor=#c1c1c1
|Char_id=1410
|Img=http://i.ibb.co/stBh054/JED.jpg
|FullName=Jackson Estacado
|Gender=Male
|Species=Primordial
|Theme=Other
|Chartype=VFC
|Active=APPROVED
|Occupation=Mafia Hitman
|Citizenship=U.S.
|Residence=New York City
|Education=Thug Life
|Groups=[[Dark Universe-OOC]], [[Street Level-OOC]]
|Quote="I've always believed that everyone has a good side, and a bad side. Even a guy like Eddie Shrote. Sure, he's tortured and killed a few people but then again - you should see his bad side. And for what he did to you? Both sides are as good as dead."
|PAge=23
|AAge=23
|DOB=22 December 2003
|Height=193 cm (6'4")
|Weight=101 kg (224 lbs.)
|Hair=Black
|Eyes=Light Blue
|Actor=Barrett John Lucak
|Song="The Reflecting God" by Marilyn Manson
|Profile=Jackie is not a nice person. He's spent the last 15 years of his life under the care and tutoring of one of the most ruthless mafia bosses in New York. His penchant and talent for violence earned him power and respect. His ability to turn off his conscience has kept him sane through it all. Now that he's the host for the Primordial force called the Darkness he's struggling to control even baser urges.
===Current Player Approved: June 10, 2019===
|Description=The man before you stands a head taller than most. His height is almost six and a half feet tall, and is only enhanced by the athletic build to his frame. His athletic form is well proportioned, sporting broad shoulders that slim down to a trim waistline. From what can be seen it's apparent that his body carries very little fat complimented by a muscular physique. He has black hair that sits about shoulder length, and is currently tied back away from his face. His eyes are bright blue, holding a coldness to them despite his handsome features, and giving the impression of an icy lake early in the morning.
 
He's currently wearing an expensive, and tailored all black suit. He has an off white button up shirt underneath, and appears to be sporting a black silk vest as well. His charcoal gray tie is thin, and tied with precision. Finishing off the outfit are a pair of dark leather shoes, probably designer in fashion, that are buffed to a nice shine.
|History=At the beginning of the universe, there was ageless chaos. The Earth was formless and void and darkness was over the surface of existence. Then God said, "Let there be light." And there was light, and God saw that the light was good and so separated the light from the Darkness. The Darkness resented this and so bitterness and spite were born before time itself.
 
Since the creation of the universe, the Darkness and the Angelus waged an eternal war as stars and planets took form around them. These two primordial beings, being equal in power and status, were unable to destroy each other without causing significant change to the universe or even destroying it altogether. To avert mutual destruction, a truce was struck. The Angelus and the Darkness consummated and in so doing conceived the Witchblade, creating peace and balance between them.
 
Despite the birth of the Witchblade, the gnawing anger of the Darkness found no expression for age upon age, festering, putrefying, distilling to seething perfection, until a vessel for his boundless hate was found: mankind, God's most favored creation. The Darkness seeped into the genes of a particularly fertile bloodline and used them as his medium to manifest his fury on Earth. Each generation was set loose with nearly limitless powers and only one calling: to spill Chaos over the world of light. The Darkness chose hosts from the ranks of murderers, thieves, rapists and warlords, steering them to ruin in the process.
 
Christian Estacado was the earliest named host of the Darkness. He was a dark prince of the House of Estacado who reigned cruelly over a darkened world. He was tricked into mating with an an Angelus host and his child inherited the Darkness power.
 
Centuries later in 15th century Spain, Michelangelo Estacado was raised by gypsies after his mother was burned as a witch by the Inquisition. On his 21st birthday, while witnessing the execution of innocents by Inquisitors, his powers manifested and he slaughtered the Inquisitors.
 
The Darkness manifested in Jackie as his apartment was rampaged by Brotherhood soldiers, who were subsequently slain by Angelus Warriors sent to kill Estacado as he manifested the Darkness. Jackie manifested his armor and slew the warriors before slaying the head of the Marchianni family. He subsequently used the power to destroy the Angelus host and free himself from the Brotherhood.
 
Jackie's conception was not a process of love, but between his sadist father and a random prostitute he found that evening. He was born on the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, December 22nd in 2003 somewhere in New York City, New York. His mother died shortly after giving birth to him and his twin sister Capris. Having no known relatives both children were given over to the care of the city. Each child ended up going to a different orphanage, and Jackie would never know that he has a twin sister. He was enrolled at Saint Garards orphanage at the same time as one Jenny Romano. Jackie developed a close relationship with Jenny and would look after her while they were growing up in the orphange and on the streets together. Whenever anyone hurt or abused Jenny, even orphanage officials, Jackie would become violent towards her abusers and would not rest until he put them in the hospital.
 
He joined the Mafia at the very early age of 6, after being found by a mafia don named Frankie "Kill-the-children-too" Franchetti. He was picked up at the orphanage after Frankie was prompted by a mysterious stranger named Sonatine, who told Frankie that having Jackie around would bring him tremendous power. Jackie would try to bring Jenny with him, but Frankie declined with the words, "You want to take care of her, you learn how to take care of yourself, and then come take care of her." With those words in mind, Jackie decided he would put everything he had into learning what he needed to do exactly that. Before he left, though, he told Jenny, "I will come back for you..." and every day he could, he did exactly that.
 
Jackie was exposed to the life of greedy, power hungry, and violent forces as he grew up. Luckily, he was also exposed to good morals and was taught the value of loyalty by a few unlikely sources within the Don's organization. Jackie came to the mafia life easily, losing his virginity to a female officer during interrogation at age 14 when he was being questioned about a drug deal his Uncle Frankie had taken part in. Jackie performed his first hit at 16, tasked with taking out a rival small time gun runner in Uncle Frankie's neighborhood. He grew up, or more accurately matured, very quickly, and soon enjoyed the life of power and violence. His actions within the mob caused Franchetti to become the most powerful don in the city, fulfilling Sonatine's prophecy. All during this time, The Angelus kept watch of Jackie with a mystical mirror within the top of The Empire State Building. Keeping his promise, as soon as he could arrange it, he provided Jenny a job as a Bartender at one of the Mafia Clubs, and a place to stay in New York City.
 
On the eve of his 21st birthday, Jackie was in his apartment when the clock struck 12:00 A.M. Jackie heard The Darkness speaking to him with telepathy, telling him that he could have anything he wanted and that all he had to do was let The Darkness out. The Darkness awakened within him and he learned of his birthright as host of The Darkness. At first, this power was a blessing, allowing his job as a professional hitman to run more smoothly and work in more novel ways. However, with this power came many enemies.
 
Early on, Jackie spent much of his time escaping from or fighting The Angelus (who wants to kill him), Sonatine and his Brotherhood of The Darkness (who wish to capture him and either control him or steal his powers for their own agendas), and various other religious orders that saw his existence as an abomination. Through all this his violent tendancies grew, and in time people used his connection to Jenny as leverage. Eventually he was forced to rescue her from Sonatine, destorying a large portion of the Brotherhood's presence in New York, and forced to kill the current Incarnation of The Angelus. Having seen his violent ways, Jenny told him that she had to leave, and couldn't stand by as she watched him go down this Dark Path. Her final words were, "You are a good person, Jackie. You can protect instead of kill, create instead of des
|Personality=Even from his early childhood, Jackie was very violent, ruthless, intelligent, and brave. Despite this, he has a strict set of noble (even heroic) morals and a fierce loyalty to those that earn it. He has matured somewhat over the span of his adult life and his experiences with The Darkness, though his core personality still remains the same. He is also very prideful, sociopathic, and insecure - Overall, Jackie Estacado is thought to be a murderous bastard to the eyes of his enemies, but the most loyal, caring, and defending man to the ones that earn his full trust. If it is one thing Jackie does not tolerate, it is his loved ones being harmed.
|Abilities='''DARKLINGS'''
 
Darklings are the impish, deviant, base and foul-mouthed servants of the Darkness. Created from necroplasmic materials and animated by the spirit of the Darkness, the Darklings are the foot-soldiers of the Darkness host - serving and obeying his every whim, protecting him from harm, and tending to his needs. The hosts communicate with the Darklings through telepathy, able to give them commands and receive messages and images wherever they are as well as see and hear through their eyes. Superhuman Physicality - Darklings are superhumanly strong, agile, resilient and fast, regardless of size. They are able to evolve to become stronger, bigger and more viscous. They can scale sheer surfaces, and jump several feet into the air. Their teeth and claws can rend steel and many possess prehensile tails and large bat-like wings for flight. Many also have corrosive saliva or fiery breath, depending on the will of the wielder.
 
'''DARKNESS ARMOR'''
 
The signature ability of the Darkness is the creation of an invulnerable mystical armor about the host. This armor significantly augments the host's strength, speed and endurance, making him a powerhouse and a challenge to even the most physically powerful of meta-humans. The appearance and design of the armor is a reflection of the host's character.
*Invulnerability - The Darkness armor is impervious to even the most destructive of kinetic and energy weapons. Although, some very high leveled attacks - repeated blows from class 100 meta-humans have been able to incapacitate the host but not actually kill him. The armor supplies oxygen and protects the host from extreme environments such as outer space, underwater, or in a gas-filled room.
*Shape-shifting - The host can alter the appearance of the armor to perfectly mimic the appearance and voice of another individual. The host can use the armor to mimic any type of clothing. On an advanced level, they can take on the forms of dragon-like creatures. The host can manifest either bat-like or feathered wings to allow flight at a fast enough speed to reach escape velocity. The host can grow razor-sharp talons at the ends of their fingernails, blades, and spikes sufficient to pierce incredibly hard and dense materials easily. These claws also aid in adhering sheer surfaces.
 
'''DARKNESS MANIPULATION'''
 
The Darkness is shadow and can create and mold it to his will. The Darkness describes shadows as "merely the imprint our presence leaves on this plane".
*Tendrils - The Darkness can form tendrils that can be used to tear enemies apart or destroy obstacles. The tendrils can extend to considerable length within line of sight and are most likely as strong as the armored host.
*Darkling Heads: The darkness manifests itself in the form of eel-like Darkling heads that can devour enemies or rip them apart.
*Darkness Constructs: The darkness can create various constructs out of the darkness and bend them to his will. The more that the host masters the Darkness the more complex the constructs can become. Currently Jackie knows how to build working ranged weapons, similar to guns, that fire mystical projectiles of Darkness. His Blades and Claws are also mystical in nature like a magical weapon.
 
'''HEALING FACTOR'''
 
The Darkness bestows his host with inhuman powers of self-healing. As long as there is darkness, the host will reconstitute himself no matter how little of his current body remains. The host is capable of healing minor damage almost immediately, smaller portions of the body up to the size of a hand is replaced in seconds, arms/legs are returned in up to two minutes, half the body can be fixed in several minutes, and the entire body can be rebuilt in a day. His advanced self-healing abilities also make his host immune to all Earthly diseases, toxins, poisons and all supernatural afflictions (Vampirism, Lycantrophy, etc.).
 
This ability becomes more limited the brighter natural or mystical/holy light is in play.
 
'''MYSTICAL ABILITIES'''
 
The Darkness allows the host other, more arcane abilities that defy the laws of physics.
*Teleportation - The host can travel anywhere in the shadows to other places that have shadows. This is instantaneous, and he can carry no more than 5 additional individuals with him.
*Immortality - Hosts of the Darkness have the potential to live eternally as time and death have no full dominion over them. What does matter is the minute they pass on the Darkness to their male child.
*Reanimation - The Darkness can reanimate the dead as zombies-like creatures. They are about half as durable as the Darklings, and will only follow the simplest of commands.
*Magical Negation - In certain instances, the Darkness has shown strong enough to overpower various mystical abilities or rituals. The host does not seem to be in full control of this power, and only works if there is an attempt to drain the Darkness or it's hosts memories.
 
'''SUPERHUMAN PHYSIQUE'''
 
Superhuman Strength - The armor dramatically increases the host's strength to the point of reaching levels on par with the most physically potent of super powered beings. The armored host can lift cars with no apparent exertion, bend titanium, break chains, crush stone, send grown men flying across a room through a wall with the slightest touch, uproot trees, overpower Demons, slaughter Werewolves and Vampires, demolish a tank, and many other feats of inhuman strength. His level of strength fluctuates with access to darkness. His range can be anywhere between class 25 to 100.
 
Superhuman Speed - The host can run in excess of a hundred miles per hour while in the armor. Their reflexes are similarly accelerated, allowing them to deflect bullets with their limbs. In close distances, hosts can seem to appear and disappear from sight because of the speed of their movement.
 
Superhuman Stamina - The armor energizes the host and allows him to remain active indefinitely without tire.
 
Superhuman Agility: The Darkness also increases his host's agility allowing them to jump high over long distances, scale sheer surfaces, and to perform acrobatic and parkour feats at a superhuman level.
 
'''SUPERHUMAN SENSES''' The hosts senses are heightened - such as the ability to literally feel a person's footsteps from several yards away, even while underground. The ability to see in complete darkness, magical or otherwise, and retain his ability to determine depth and color. His sense of smell is enhanced to the degree of a bloodhound, not only being able to determine individuals by scent, but learning each supernatural creatures own unique scent. His sense of hearing is strong enough to identify an individual's heartbeat in a crowded room.
 
True Sight - The hosts can occasionally perceive a person as they really are, beyond the glamour of humanity, and identifying mystical creatures by sight unless they take strong precautions to ward themselves.
 
Death Sight - The host can see a person as they will be when they die and can instinctively know when, where and how that person COULD die. Since the future is always fluctuating there is no guarantee, but the closer to the time of death the more clear the image will become.
 
Empathy - The host can interpret a person's emotions and understand to a limited degree what they may be thinking. This is not as fine tuned as telepathy, and it's more impressions on the intent or interests of an individual.
 
'''THE DARKNESS'''
 
The Darkness is a Primordial force of Chaos and Creation that bestows his hosts with nearly limitless Dark power as well as allows them access to an otherworldly dimension and control over the veritable legion of Darklings who dwell there. All of the following powers are based on this connection with the Darkness. The only way the Darkness can be taken from it's host is via conception of another male child.
|Skills='''CHARISMATIC'''
 
Jackie possess natural charm and charisma that easily attracts people to him. He is capable of interacting with people in a way that draws them to him, instilling belief and trust. This translates into the ability to interact with individuals, and generally have them view him in a positive manner.
 
'''EXPERT MARKSMAN'''
 
Jackie is an excellent marksman. Comes from years of shooting people in various different ways with various different weapons. He can work any number of firearm based weaponry with ease. He's particularly talented with pistols, though semi-auto and automatic weaponry are well within his range, as well.
 
'''EXPERT MARTIAL ARTS'''
 
Jackie is a highly accomplished fighter, trained in many forms of hand-to-hand combat, and experience in fights from a very young age. He has no issue doing what he needs to win, and he believes the only â fair fight is the one you walk away from.
 
'''GIFTED INTELLIGENCE'''
 
Jackie possesses impressive natural reasoning and logic capabilities, as well as an amazing ability for information retention, and uses them to great effect. His mental acuity allows him to pick up all manner of information from various sources, decide what is relevant, and apply that information appropriately.
 
'''TACTICIAN'''
 
Jackie has been fighting since as long as he can remember. This experience only heightens his gifted tactical intellect, making him very observant and easily able to analyze his enemies and find their weaknesses. He often finds creative ways to use his abilities even in extreme circumstances, and on the verge of death.
|Resources='''FRANCHETTI MAFIA'''
 
Jackie is the most feared and reviled Hitman in the Franchetti Mafia organization. For this reason he's given the largest amount of lenience from any, to include the Don, and is able to call on the resources of the Mafia whenever he needs. He can go to restaurants, and not worry about paying. He can go to stores, and pick up whatever equipment he needs. While the technology may not be incredibly advanced, if it's something that a rich person can get than he has access to it.
 
'''PERSONAL WEALTH'''
 
Jackie has made the Franchetti family one of the most successful mafia families in New York. With that comes a large scale of personal wealth. His available funds is on par with a multi-millionaire. He doesn't have investments, or a reasonable type of reoccurring income. Still, he lives very comfortably, and can easily buy what he wants when he needs within reason.
 
'''WEAPONS'''
 
Jackie has access to most types of legal and illegal weaponry he needs in order to kill however many people the Don wants. He actually has a fully legal set of credentials to carry the two Glocks he has on him at all times.
|Weaknesses='''ANGELUS'''
 
The Angelus is the eternal enemy of The Darkness. The Angelus retains the memories of all of her previous host's lives and has led many crusades against Jackie in seeking to rid the world of The Darkness.
 
The powers of the Angelus are similar, yet opposite, to the powers of The Darkness as both have the ability to create sentient beings, both commands a host of minions to do their bidding, she is immortal and has the power of flight, possesses superhuman strength, invulnerable to mortal weapons, can conjure weapons at will, breath fire, and fire bolts of light and teleport herself and other beings.
 
'''APPOLONIA'''
 
The daughter of Don Frankie, and the vengeful child of the catatonic Lauren Franchetti, who watched as her father murdered her mother's lover, which caused her mother to go into a coma. Responsible for The Angelus' return, and trying to overthrow the Franchetti family. Appolonia appears to be in league with The Angelus.
 
'''BRIGHT LIGHT!'''
 
The powers of the Darkness depend on Darkness, as they are banished away by bright natural or mystical light. The host is rendered mortal in the light of day. Anything created by The Darkness is burned away by bright natural or mystical light. The Darkness host can become more tolerant of light with time, experience, and training. Weapons of light are harmful to wielders of the Darkness. Some enemies carry light cannons or flash bangs, and certain areas have lighting that severely limits the wielder's mobility and distorts their senses. To combat this weakness, hosts can destroy the light source (turning off lights in a room, smoke grenades, etc.) and sticking to the shadows.
 
'''DARK SIDE'''
 
Left to it's own devices, the Darkness will try to corrupt the host to all the darker and baser emotions of humanity. The more power that the host draws on the more likely they are to fall to these emotions. Without any outside influence, the host will become the worst that humanity has to offer, and the power to back up his sadistic whims.
 
'''MAGDALENA'''
 
The Magdalena are descended from Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ, the first Magdalena that Jackie encountered was Sister Mariella, the daughter of Sister Rosalia. Mariella was prematurely sent to battle and kill Jackie on the church's orders, and since she was brought up in a crooked sect of the church, was a wild Christian fanatic who did not know right from wrong.
 
'''OVERCONFIDENT'''
 
Jackie is extremely confident in his combination of his experience, abilities, and the Darkness. He sometimes acts too hastily, often underestimating his enemies, which can lead to his defeat against weaker opponents.
 
'''PASS THE CURSE!'''
 
If a host conceives a male with a mortal woman, the spirit of the Darkness is passed to the newly conceived child and the host dies at that moment.
 
'''SUN DAGGER'''
 
A powerful blade created by The Angelus from the essence of a dying star for the purpose of slaying the host of The Darkness. The Sun Dagger is a long, golden, double-edged dagger. It could easily kill Darklings and was powerful enough to kill a host of The Darkness, at least so long as the blade remained in the host's heart. The host would heal and resurrect as soon as the Dagger was removed.
}}
[[Category:Street Level-OOC]][[Category:Dark Universe-OOC]]