sabetoonth
Where You Get Those Eyes?
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EDIT: Can't find the muse, gonna try something else.
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Rise of Marvels: Year One -- Sign-Up/OOC Thread
- Thread starter Carnage27
- Start date
Mr. Marko
Canada Wants You!
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Age of Marvels: Character Application:
Character Name: Rocket
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
Somewhere, on some God-forsaken moon or something...
A large metallic dome, the only artificial structure on the entire planet, looms against the otherwise barren grey landscape. Until...
KABOOM!!!
An enormous explosion erupts from inside the structure, sending pieces of steel flying into the emptiness of the atmospherely void around it. Suddenly, two figures emerge from the hole in the dome.
One of them, a tall, plant-like humanoid pulls the smaller one up and onto his shoulder. "I am GROOT!"
The smaller of the two, a small humanoid raccoon in a space suit, shrugs with a chuckle. "I know, but it sure looked cool!" He reaches into a pouch on his belt, and reveals a small device. "We got it though, didn't we? We always do."
Groot nods, apparently slightly annoyed at their success. Or, rather, the fact that his companion, Rocket, had yet to learn his lesson. "I am Groot."
Rocket chuckles, patting Groot's shoulder as hit sits down on it. "No hard feelings, pal. She wasn't that interested in me anyway." Suddenly, a barrage of laser fire begins erupting from inside the dome. "Oops, that's our que!" He smiles, holding his hand out in front of him. "After you."
With an enormous bound, the tree lunges forward away from the hole, and the two of them begin sliding down the side of dome. As they fall, Rocket presses a button on his wrist, and a couple hundred feet away, a small spaceship lights up and lifts off the ground.
"I am...Groot?" Groot's right...and they begin picking up speed too fast.
"Slow down, pal! Geez!" This wasn't something he had considered. This dome was getting pretty steep. REALLY steep.
"I AM Groot!" Groot slams his hands against the dome, trying to slow them down. "I am Groot!"
"Hey, don't get your flora in a twist right now! You didn't think of it either!" Suddenly, the incline become just short of a straight vertical drop. "Ahhhhhh!"
As they fall, Groot wraps his long arms around the raccoon and pulls him into his chest. At the ground below, half a dozen grunts with blasters have already emerged from the dome, and begin firing at them. "I am-"
KA-THOOM!
In cloud of splintered wood and moondust, two figures quickly emerge. Rocket pulls a ridiculously sized plasma rifle from his back and quickly takes out half of the grunts. Groot, now extremely angry, roars loudly as he swings his right arm (now in his left hand and slightly...broken off), sending two more grunts flying into the air.
"I AM GROOT!"
"Ugh...enought with the know-it-all act already. Jeez!" Just then, the shapeship flies just above their heads. As if they had done it a hundred times before, Rocket jumps onto Groot's back, and Groot grabs a hold of an open hatch on the underside of the ship. With one swift movement, both of them jumped into the ship just as the hatch closed and the thrusters sent them barelling back into the void of space.
"I am Groot."
The raccoon, now realizing he had wood splinters in his fur, sighed. "Alright already. We got it didn't we?!" He held it up so his friend could see.
"I am Groot," the tree said.
Rocket chuckles, allowing himself to sigh away some of his tension. "You have fun?!"
Groot stares at Rocket for a minute, then smiles an enormous wooden smile. "I am Groot!"
"Atta-boy! Now, let's go see what that meat head wanted with this anyways."
Character Name: Rocket
Alignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line): WtL
Character Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda): Comic Sans Bold Orange
Powers and Abilities: Enhanced senses, like a raccoon! Rocket is also a skilled martial artist, master tactician, genius engineer/weapons-maker, and pilot. Also is cybernetically & genetically enhanced, making him a killing machine. Also, he somehow understands whatever tree language it is that Groot speaks.
Character Origin/Backstory: Rocket travels with his enormous friend, Groot. The two of them are outcasts together, and look out for each other. They are mercenaries who can/will do just about anything for the highest bidder.
Why this character? I have been a fan of Guardians of the Galaxy for a couple of years now, and am up to date on the comics as well. Also, he's awesome.
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
Somewhere, on some God-forsaken moon or something...
A large metallic dome, the only artificial structure on the entire planet, looms against the otherwise barren grey landscape. Until...
KABOOM!!!
An enormous explosion erupts from inside the structure, sending pieces of steel flying into the emptiness of the atmospherely void around it. Suddenly, two figures emerge from the hole in the dome.
One of them, a tall, plant-like humanoid pulls the smaller one up and onto his shoulder. "I am GROOT!"
The smaller of the two, a small humanoid raccoon in a space suit, shrugs with a chuckle. "I know, but it sure looked cool!" He reaches into a pouch on his belt, and reveals a small device. "We got it though, didn't we? We always do."
Groot nods, apparently slightly annoyed at their success. Or, rather, the fact that his companion, Rocket, had yet to learn his lesson. "I am Groot."
Rocket chuckles, patting Groot's shoulder as hit sits down on it. "No hard feelings, pal. She wasn't that interested in me anyway." Suddenly, a barrage of laser fire begins erupting from inside the dome. "Oops, that's our que!" He smiles, holding his hand out in front of him. "After you."
With an enormous bound, the tree lunges forward away from the hole, and the two of them begin sliding down the side of dome. As they fall, Rocket presses a button on his wrist, and a couple hundred feet away, a small spaceship lights up and lifts off the ground.
"I am...Groot?" Groot's right...and they begin picking up speed too fast.
"Slow down, pal! Geez!" This wasn't something he had considered. This dome was getting pretty steep. REALLY steep.
"I AM Groot!" Groot slams his hands against the dome, trying to slow them down. "I am Groot!"
"Hey, don't get your flora in a twist right now! You didn't think of it either!" Suddenly, the incline become just short of a straight vertical drop. "Ahhhhhh!"
As they fall, Groot wraps his long arms around the raccoon and pulls him into his chest. At the ground below, half a dozen grunts with blasters have already emerged from the dome, and begin firing at them. "I am-"
KA-THOOM!
In cloud of splintered wood and moondust, two figures quickly emerge. Rocket pulls a ridiculously sized plasma rifle from his back and quickly takes out half of the grunts. Groot, now extremely angry, roars loudly as he swings his right arm (now in his left hand and slightly...broken off), sending two more grunts flying into the air.
"I AM GROOT!"
"Ugh...enought with the know-it-all act already. Jeez!" Just then, the shapeship flies just above their heads. As if they had done it a hundred times before, Rocket jumps onto Groot's back, and Groot grabs a hold of an open hatch on the underside of the ship. With one swift movement, both of them jumped into the ship just as the hatch closed and the thrusters sent them barelling back into the void of space.
"I am Groot."
The raccoon, now realizing he had wood splinters in his fur, sighed. "Alright already. We got it didn't we?!" He held it up so his friend could see.
"I am Groot," the tree said.
Rocket chuckles, allowing himself to sigh away some of his tension. "You have fun?!"
Groot stares at Rocket for a minute, then smiles an enormous wooden smile. "I am Groot!"
"Atta-boy! Now, let's go see what that meat head wanted with this anyways."
Carnage27
No one's puppet
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Blacklight
Revamped and Renegade.
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Age of Marvels: Character Application:
Character Name: Peter Parker/Spider-Man
Alignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line): Hero
Character Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda): Comic Sans MS (Blue for Pete/Red for Spidey)
Powers and Abilities: Able to cling to any surface, enhanced agility and reflexes, disproportionate strength, "Spider senses" that allow him to sense dangers that approach him. He also was able to create webshooters from OsCorp prototypes to dispense artificial webbing he modified, and using said webbing he's able to swing around the city (his preferred method of transportation).
Character Origin/Backstory: High School sophomore and orphan, Peter Benjamin Parker's story started not with the infamous death of his Uncle Ben... But rather the departure of his parents, where they met their early demises. Demises orchestrated by the nefarious OsCorp.
OsCorp.: Pioneers of the new decade. As a result of a joint venture between Roxxon Corporation and Osborn Industries, OsCorp quickly became a powerhouse in the weapons manufacturing industry, second to Stark Industries. Led by CEO Norman Virgil Osborn, they made great strides in working on experimental new miniature fuel-propelled aircrafts, as well as explosives and conventional arms. But whatever extra time and money they had leftover went to their Research Division, which mainly focused in genetics and physics. Particularly projects that delved into what the head of the research division, Dr. Curtis Connors, called "cross-species genetics". Their task? Developing physiology enhancing drugs for the military, particularly the same one used on Steve Rogers, to turn their soldiers into the next generation of Captain Americas, or possibly even better versions with the attributes of the greatest animals on Earth.
Enter Richard and Mary Parker. Gifted scientists and loyal OsCorp. employees given the task of directing the project of developing the serum. And after years and years of trial and error, they finally had their first success with a venom from a genetically created spider-hybrid. During those years, however, they gave birth to a child. A son. One who would change the world. A future marvel...
His name was Peter. Peter Parker.
Richard and Mary loved their little boy with all their heart. But fate had different plans in store.
Realizing Norman Osborn's true motives to sell the serum under the table to terrorists willing to pay the high price, as well as cure himself of a life-threatening disease, Richard and Mary refused to give him the replicant formula for mass production. Something of which angered Norman immensely.
Not wanting to give him what he wanted for the fear of knowing the thousands upon thousands of lives it would cost, they made the formula so it only worked for one of Parker's DNA, so that if they were to ever discover the spider-venom serum was complete, it would have an adverse effect and possibly fatal outcome to any who would dare inject themselves with it. Then, they hid their research away.
Upon the realization that the Parker's were deceiving Connors in hiding their research, OsCorp. had someone break into the Parker home to have someone locate it, but came out empty handed. Nonetheless, the Parkers feared for the safety of their son, and decided to leave him with his aunt and uncle. Upon their attempt to flee the country, they met their end when Osborn had their plane infiltrated, and subsequently crashed.
Peter was 6 years old when his parents left and were subsequently killed. He doesn't remember much, but that was when he was sent to live with his Aunt and Uncle, Ben and May Parker, in their quiet suburban home in Queens. From that day forward, they loved and raised him as their own, instilling in him the sense of responsibility and morals that would forge him into the man he's destined to become...
10 years later, and Peter Parker is just starting 10th Grade at Midtown High School. But, like every year before it, he's always being picked on by bullies Kenny McFarlane and, more prominently, his former friend Eugene "Flash" Thompson. Mostly because of his lanky stature and for being the smart guy. Yep. Things were shaping up pretty "well" for Peter Parker. But, as with any Spider-Man story, just when things are looking pretty rough for Peter, that's when things start to take a turn for the worst...
OsCorp., still looking to create a perfect replicant super soldier drug, hired scientists Mendell Stromm and Miles Warren to replace the Parkers under Connors as heads of the project, and continue exploring cross-species genetics, from monkeys, to lizards, to bees and even spiders. The same spiders that, unbeknownst to everyone at OsCorp, even Norman and Connors, still have that serum injected into their venom. A venom that will very soon find it's way into Peter, changing his life... forever.
Why this character? Spider-Man comes to me as easy as breathing. I'm a massive Spider-Fan and have been for the longest time. It would seem, given how in multiple games now, it seems that whenever I get the reigns to the webshooters, games die, and my tenures along with them. If I can prove to everyone that I'm the best choice to play Peter right off the bat? Then maybe that luck will change. Here's hoping.
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
The definition of the noun "Luck" is something that happens to someone by chance, or a superstitious feeling that brings one fortune or success... Except when the word pertains to me. In which case, it is something bad that happens to someone by chance, or a superstitious feeling that brings one pain and misery.
I've even coined a name for it. I call it the "Good ol' Parker luck".
I can be so clever sometimes...
But anyways, going back to my rant... It seems when something can or will go wrong, it usually does in my case. That's the Good ol' Parker luck in a nutshell, and it's the reason why the house myself and my Aunt May live in is going to be foreclosed unless I can make some extra bucks to help her pay for it. It's the reason why a genetically engineered spider bit my neck and the next day I could climb walls, and last but certainly not at all the least... It's the reason why a robber I could've stopped killed my Uncle Ben.
Notice the pattern?
So that's why I have taken it upon myself to change that. From herein, my luck's gonna change. I came up with a great idea while reading today's Daily Bugle. Seems they're on the lookout for some good pictures of Spider-Man, and they're willing to pay for them. So who better to provide some than Spider-Man himself?
Oh yeah. Where are my manners? My name's Peter. Peter Parker. And I'm insane. I must be... Because here I am, in a dark and dirty warehouse, clinging to the ceiling about to tangle with the "Big Man's" men for the sake of photographing myself doing it and all this while the Mets game is on, no less.
"Hurry up and get this s*** on the truck, O'Hirn!"
"Yeah, yeah, ya big mook..." he muttered.
Great. I think I found our weakest link here. If there's one thing I know, it's always go after the small fry first, and save the big fish for last.
...Or was it the other way around?
Either way, I had a plan and I'm sticking to it...
No pun intended.
*THWIP!*
"What the-- AAAAHHH!!" O'Hirn screamed as I yanked him up towards the ceiling and webbed him up to a girder.
"...O'Hirn? ALEX!!"
"Holy crap, he's up there!"
"What is that thing!?"
"Does it matter? SHOOT IT!"
The two henchmen pulled out their automatics and opened fire, which sent my spider-sense for a loop. Quickly I crawled away from their fire and back into the shadows.
"Where did it go?"
"I dunno..."
"Did you see it?"
"Yeah. I think it was wearing red and blue."
"You think it was that Miss America chick or whatever from the papers?"
"Ahem... So not Captain America..." I informed them as I came out of the shadows and quickly fired new weblines, aimed for their guns.
*THWIP! THWIP!*
"Do you see me sporting a giant trash can lid with a flag motif?"
Yanking the guns from there hands, I used my strength to break all of them in half.
"Besides... Hello? No flowing blonde locks here... Or, you know... breasts." I joke, motioning to my pecs and how they're, contrary to popular belief, flat.
Jumping down from the ceiling, I vaulted off the ringleaders head and plowed my foot into one of his cohort's faces. Then I proceeded to yank the other one with my webbing towards me, punching him in the temple as he got close enough. Finally, I webbed up the leader's ankles and began to spin around on my heel, letting the centrifugal force of the spin send him reeling into the nearest crate.
"Hmm... Maybe I should leave a note?" I told myself, surveying my work.
"Nah... Too 60's. This is going on Instagram." I joke.
I then jumped back up into the scaffolding of the warehouse where my camera was webbed up. I already had the perfect hashtag in mind to go along with a pic of one of the unconscious bodies below.
"Hashtag 'FriendlyNeighborhoodSpiderMan' sounds good. Now to see what I managed to..." I trailed off as I noticed the battery died during the fight.
"...Shoot."
That's the Good ol' Parker luck, right there. But hey... Like I said.
It's gonna start changing.
Character Name: Peter Parker/Spider-Man
Alignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line): Hero
Character Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda): Comic Sans MS (Blue for Pete/Red for Spidey)
Powers and Abilities: Able to cling to any surface, enhanced agility and reflexes, disproportionate strength, "Spider senses" that allow him to sense dangers that approach him. He also was able to create webshooters from OsCorp prototypes to dispense artificial webbing he modified, and using said webbing he's able to swing around the city (his preferred method of transportation).
Character Origin/Backstory: High School sophomore and orphan, Peter Benjamin Parker's story started not with the infamous death of his Uncle Ben... But rather the departure of his parents, where they met their early demises. Demises orchestrated by the nefarious OsCorp.
OsCorp.: Pioneers of the new decade. As a result of a joint venture between Roxxon Corporation and Osborn Industries, OsCorp quickly became a powerhouse in the weapons manufacturing industry, second to Stark Industries. Led by CEO Norman Virgil Osborn, they made great strides in working on experimental new miniature fuel-propelled aircrafts, as well as explosives and conventional arms. But whatever extra time and money they had leftover went to their Research Division, which mainly focused in genetics and physics. Particularly projects that delved into what the head of the research division, Dr. Curtis Connors, called "cross-species genetics". Their task? Developing physiology enhancing drugs for the military, particularly the same one used on Steve Rogers, to turn their soldiers into the next generation of Captain Americas, or possibly even better versions with the attributes of the greatest animals on Earth.
Enter Richard and Mary Parker. Gifted scientists and loyal OsCorp. employees given the task of directing the project of developing the serum. And after years and years of trial and error, they finally had their first success with a venom from a genetically created spider-hybrid. During those years, however, they gave birth to a child. A son. One who would change the world. A future marvel...
His name was Peter. Peter Parker.
Richard and Mary loved their little boy with all their heart. But fate had different plans in store.
Realizing Norman Osborn's true motives to sell the serum under the table to terrorists willing to pay the high price, as well as cure himself of a life-threatening disease, Richard and Mary refused to give him the replicant formula for mass production. Something of which angered Norman immensely.
Not wanting to give him what he wanted for the fear of knowing the thousands upon thousands of lives it would cost, they made the formula so it only worked for one of Parker's DNA, so that if they were to ever discover the spider-venom serum was complete, it would have an adverse effect and possibly fatal outcome to any who would dare inject themselves with it. Then, they hid their research away.
Upon the realization that the Parker's were deceiving Connors in hiding their research, OsCorp. had someone break into the Parker home to have someone locate it, but came out empty handed. Nonetheless, the Parkers feared for the safety of their son, and decided to leave him with his aunt and uncle. Upon their attempt to flee the country, they met their end when Osborn had their plane infiltrated, and subsequently crashed.
Peter was 6 years old when his parents left and were subsequently killed. He doesn't remember much, but that was when he was sent to live with his Aunt and Uncle, Ben and May Parker, in their quiet suburban home in Queens. From that day forward, they loved and raised him as their own, instilling in him the sense of responsibility and morals that would forge him into the man he's destined to become...
10 years later, and Peter Parker is just starting 10th Grade at Midtown High School. But, like every year before it, he's always being picked on by bullies Kenny McFarlane and, more prominently, his former friend Eugene "Flash" Thompson. Mostly because of his lanky stature and for being the smart guy. Yep. Things were shaping up pretty "well" for Peter Parker. But, as with any Spider-Man story, just when things are looking pretty rough for Peter, that's when things start to take a turn for the worst...
OsCorp., still looking to create a perfect replicant super soldier drug, hired scientists Mendell Stromm and Miles Warren to replace the Parkers under Connors as heads of the project, and continue exploring cross-species genetics, from monkeys, to lizards, to bees and even spiders. The same spiders that, unbeknownst to everyone at OsCorp, even Norman and Connors, still have that serum injected into their venom. A venom that will very soon find it's way into Peter, changing his life... forever.
Why this character? Spider-Man comes to me as easy as breathing. I'm a massive Spider-Fan and have been for the longest time. It would seem, given how in multiple games now, it seems that whenever I get the reigns to the webshooters, games die, and my tenures along with them. If I can prove to everyone that I'm the best choice to play Peter right off the bat? Then maybe that luck will change. Here's hoping.
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
The definition of the noun "Luck" is something that happens to someone by chance, or a superstitious feeling that brings one fortune or success... Except when the word pertains to me. In which case, it is something bad that happens to someone by chance, or a superstitious feeling that brings one pain and misery.
I've even coined a name for it. I call it the "Good ol' Parker luck".
I can be so clever sometimes...
But anyways, going back to my rant... It seems when something can or will go wrong, it usually does in my case. That's the Good ol' Parker luck in a nutshell, and it's the reason why the house myself and my Aunt May live in is going to be foreclosed unless I can make some extra bucks to help her pay for it. It's the reason why a genetically engineered spider bit my neck and the next day I could climb walls, and last but certainly not at all the least... It's the reason why a robber I could've stopped killed my Uncle Ben.
Notice the pattern?
So that's why I have taken it upon myself to change that. From herein, my luck's gonna change. I came up with a great idea while reading today's Daily Bugle. Seems they're on the lookout for some good pictures of Spider-Man, and they're willing to pay for them. So who better to provide some than Spider-Man himself?
Oh yeah. Where are my manners? My name's Peter. Peter Parker. And I'm insane. I must be... Because here I am, in a dark and dirty warehouse, clinging to the ceiling about to tangle with the "Big Man's" men for the sake of photographing myself doing it and all this while the Mets game is on, no less.
"Hurry up and get this s*** on the truck, O'Hirn!"
"Yeah, yeah, ya big mook..." he muttered.
Great. I think I found our weakest link here. If there's one thing I know, it's always go after the small fry first, and save the big fish for last.
...Or was it the other way around?
Either way, I had a plan and I'm sticking to it...
No pun intended.
*THWIP!*
"What the-- AAAAHHH!!" O'Hirn screamed as I yanked him up towards the ceiling and webbed him up to a girder.
"...O'Hirn? ALEX!!"
"Holy crap, he's up there!"
"What is that thing!?"
"Does it matter? SHOOT IT!"
The two henchmen pulled out their automatics and opened fire, which sent my spider-sense for a loop. Quickly I crawled away from their fire and back into the shadows.
"Where did it go?"
"I dunno..."
"Did you see it?"
"Yeah. I think it was wearing red and blue."
"You think it was that Miss America chick or whatever from the papers?"
"Ahem... So not Captain America..." I informed them as I came out of the shadows and quickly fired new weblines, aimed for their guns.
*THWIP! THWIP!*
"Do you see me sporting a giant trash can lid with a flag motif?"
Yanking the guns from there hands, I used my strength to break all of them in half.
"Besides... Hello? No flowing blonde locks here... Or, you know... breasts." I joke, motioning to my pecs and how they're, contrary to popular belief, flat.
Jumping down from the ceiling, I vaulted off the ringleaders head and plowed my foot into one of his cohort's faces. Then I proceeded to yank the other one with my webbing towards me, punching him in the temple as he got close enough. Finally, I webbed up the leader's ankles and began to spin around on my heel, letting the centrifugal force of the spin send him reeling into the nearest crate.
"Hmm... Maybe I should leave a note?" I told myself, surveying my work.
"Nah... Too 60's. This is going on Instagram." I joke.
I then jumped back up into the scaffolding of the warehouse where my camera was webbed up. I already had the perfect hashtag in mind to go along with a pic of one of the unconscious bodies below.
"Hashtag 'FriendlyNeighborhoodSpiderMan' sounds good. Now to see what I managed to..." I trailed off as I noticed the battery died during the fight.
"...Shoot."
That's the Good ol' Parker luck, right there. But hey... Like I said.
It's gonna start changing.
Last edited:
Blacklight
Revamped and Renegade.
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Come on, Spider-Dudes. My app wasn't THAT good. Throw down, people! Got an hour left!
Blacklight
Revamped and Renegade.
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It could. But I already have plans for Osborn, and like I stated in my app, he's head of OsCorp.
Keyser Soze
AW YEEEAH!
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Thanks! Though we're still looking to fill out the roster. 
Byrd Man
El Hombre Pájaro
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I'm flip flopping again. Been trying to write a Punisher post, but it's just coming out as more of the same. Gonna try something else.
The story of Luke Cage can be told in verse. The early days are when his life went from bad to worse. Carl Lucas, a would be gangster working around Harlem town, working as a strongarm lackey to that Willis Styrker clown. Styrker had Harlem tight in his grasp, strangling the community with his criminal clasp. Young Luke fell for Lenore, Stryker's sweetheart. Styrker went mad with jealousy, his sanity fell apart. One day Carl was headed home when he got stopped, ya dig? It was two NYPD uniforms and a detective pig. They ran Carl in because an eyeball witness, the man said Carl was around a murder scene the night before and acting suspicious. Carl's fingerprints matched the ones on a piece, so he was arrested for murder by the police. A swift trial commenced, so fast you couldn't blink. The end result was predictable, Carl sentenced to life in the clink. Carl's heart was tortured, his spirit maimed. He knew that he was framed.
Ten years in the slammer seemed to rapidly pass, all the while outside Stryker's kingdom gained mass. Losing hope on getting out and his prospects dim, Carl decided to volunteer for a project most grim. An experiment to create the durability of a famous super-soldier ended in disaster thanks to an evil poacher. Carl lay in a science chamber, his body resting, when a vindictive guard broke in to where they were testing. The guard smashed the console and dial. The chamber began sparking, its insides filling with bile. A massive explosion rocked the prison then, a force that was like a keg of dynamite times ten. The guard, the doctor, and the whole experiment were lost in the detonation, nothing could survive that great conflagration.
Out of the fiery rubble and debris a lone figure came crawling. It was a naked Carl Lucas who ran, his own ass he was hauling. He ran into the woods to avoid any guards. Through some odd happenstance he was now out behind bars. What's more his whole body seemed unreal. The explosion hadn't hurt him, his body tougher than steel. With new powers at his command and ten years spent spurned, he set his sights for Harlem and home he did return.
Once home he started a crusade for payback, Willis Stryker and his criminal rackets were prime for attack. A new life and fresh start he had acquired. Carl Lucas was dead, believed perished in that fire. Soon after coming home he sought out his former love Lenore. He was shattered when he discovered she was no more. She had died six years back, overdosing from mainlining pure smack. He made a promise that day, for letting her die Stryker would pay. Adopting the alias Luke Cage, he tore up Harlem fueled by his powers and rage. It didn't take long for Stryker to get mad. He put out a million dollar hit for Luke Cage, man he wanted that brother reaaal bad. Cage tore trough Styrker's men like butter, setting the residents of Harlem's hearts aflutter. For a long time now they had needed a defender to help them thrive, but Cage didn't want none of that jive! He wasn't a hero to speak for the masses, he just wanted to kick Styrker and his men's asses.
Cage dispatched Styrker's men at their nightclub without breaking a sweat. They were the bad mothers, but to him they proved to be no threat. Cage finally set his sights on Styrker, that villain. The two fought each other, both intent on killin'. Stryker tried his best to fight off his former friend, but the steel skinned man was too much to defend. Desperate to kill and half crazed, Stryker decided to kill both he and Cage in a massive blaze. Up went his nightclub in a red hot spire. Nobody was getting out of that fire. If you think that's the end of this story and Cage is dead, then what the hell's wrong with your head? Out of the fire came Cage choking, unharmed and unhurt but his body smoking. While he came out of the fire okay, Stryker had been consumed in the infero's fray.
Gathered around the blazing hulk were the people of Harlem so grateful, they were glad to be rid of the crime boss that was so hateful. In the embers of the building Cage watched it burn, while a feeling inside him did churn. His vengeance was complete now that Stryker had died, but he still felt hollow and empty inside. That day Cage made a solemn vow, he would change his life and his ways somehow. From that day forward he decided to work for the people as best he could, writing wrongs and injustices in the 'hood. If you need help and your situation is dire, then you can always call Luke Cage: Hero for Hire.
Harlem
4:24 AM
Anton Morrison hadn't felt this alive in years. His heart pounded in his chest and the adrenaline coursing through his veins made his teeth chatter. He walked at a herky-jerky pace down the sidewalk towards 120th Street's collection of rowhouses with his woman. It was chilly that night and he wore a leather jacket, but he was sweating through the chill. Anton wiped his forehead and felt Isabelle's soft hand on his.
"It's gonna be alright, daddy," she said reassuringly.
She knew how much he loved it when she called him daddy. Just her touch and few words put his mind at ease. Good God, did he love that woman. Isabelle was the type of woman Anton never thought he could get. Sophisticated, well-read, and beautiful. Was she ever beautiful. They'd been together for a few months now and Anton still couldn't figure out how he managed to get her. He remembered her asking him something one night at the club. He replied and saw her smile... that smile that made him feel warm inside. After that it was nothing but a blur.
Isabelle was cultured, the type of woman Anton couldn't afford on his meager salary working for Mr. Davis. She needed the finer things in life. She had to have them, Anton thought, or she would leave him for someone who could give her what he wanted. There were lots of brothers in the neighborhood who were caught up in the Game and had fat pockets. Anton had always been a square, never even getting close to anything stronger than a joint. His mamma worked hard to keep him off the corner and out from slinging. For twenty-nine years her hard work had been a success. Tonight was the night that all ended.
"Who is it?" a voice asked after Anton banged on the front door of one of the houses.
"Morrison..."
"I don't know no Morrison," the voice said. "You best get outta here before I mess you up."
"It's Anton," he said louder. "We spoke on the phone about that package. C'mon, man."
"Calvin," Isabelle said with a sharp tone. "It's me, Izzy. Open the damn door up, boy."
A few seconds later the heavy door of the rowhouse opened up and squeaked on its rusty hinges. A fat, light-skinned black man in a greasy tanktop and boxers stared at Anton and Isabelle before stepping aside to let them come into the house. Once they were in he locked the door with a heavy deadbolt. Calvin looked at the two lovers with indifference before shuffling through the house towards a sofa.
"Go on back. They waiting on you."
Isabelle led Anton through the cluttered rowhouse towards the very back of the house. In the kitchen a dark-skinned and muscle bound man with sunglasses and a do-rag watched them enter. On a card table in front of him were two bricks of white powder.
"There's my man," he said with a giggle. "Tony Montana himself. What's good, man?"
Anton shrugged sheepishly and shook his head.
"Just looking to get that package, man... like we talked about?"
"For sure," the man at the table said with a wide grin. "Just, gotta pay before you can play. Let's see what you brought."
Anton reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the manila envelope stuffed with cash. It had sixty grand, his entire life savings plus a little something extra he borrowed from his boss. Well, borrow wasn't the right word. Borrow always implied there was consent from both parties to the borrowing. Anton more or less stole the ten thousand dollars. Getting involved in a coke deal was Isabelle's idea. The plan was that Anton buy two keys wholesale and cut them up before reselling them to a few of the dealers around the neighborhood. With markup and his cut from the slingers he could easily net eighty thousand. Isabelle said she did it because she wanted the best for Anton, she wanted him to have the cash that would keep him happy. She knew all the right people, made all the calls and the introductions. She did the easy work, Anton though. He had to scrape the money together.
"Here it is," Anton said as he passed the envelope over.
The man at the table scrutinized the money and counted it, his lips moving as he counted the six hundred one hundred dollar bills. When he was satisfied he pushed the two keys across the table towards Anton.
"And here it is," he said with a giggle. "How's it feel to be in the Game, player?"
Anton was about to respond that it felt pretty damn good. What stopped him was the loud bang from the front room. Calvin's loud cursing could be heard on the other side of the house, followed by more bangs and yells. Anton's blood went cold when he saw the black man in a kevlar vest and pistol round the corner. The vest had NYPD stamped on it, a badge dangled from a chain around his neck.
"NYPD! GET THE **** ON THE GROUND!"
Anton was about to comply when the man at the table cursed and flipped the table up unto the air. Shots rang out from the cop's gun and Anton hit the deck. On the way to the ground the metal folding chair the dealer had been sitting on hit him square in the head. His head took further damage when it smacked against the tile floor of the kitchen. Groggy, he heard more shouts and gunshots and footsteps that got louder before they receded and disappeared all together. It was several minutes before he got the cobwebs out of his mind. Anton stood up and felt the small cut on his forehead while he looked around the kitchen.
The table was flipped along with the chair. The cop, the dealer, and Isabelle were all gone. Anton nursed his head and looked for the coke or, more importantly, his money. Neither were around. His heart raced even faster when he went through the house and couldn't find fat Calvin. All four of them were gone... along with the coke and his money....
Ray's Social Club
Harlem
11:32 AM
They call it Ray's Social Club to make it not sound like the low-rent bar it is. Still, they make a mean hamburger. The lack of hamburgers was one of the many things I hated about prison. They had burgers every so often as a treat, but a prison burger was about as tasty as you might imagine it would be. Burgers and women were two things I got denied after ten years in the joint, and I've managed to get ready access to both in the year I've been home.
One of the few good things about prison though were the books. I hated reading before I went in, but with nothing to do in there but lift weights and read I managed to make a habit of both. I figure I had to be the strongest man alive who could quote Proust. At Ray's that day my meal was a crunchy burger with all the fixings and a paperback copy of A Rage in Harlem by Chester Himes. I like Himes' work since it seems the black crime writers are few and far between, and he was one of the best regardless of skin color. Twenty pages and half the burger went by before I even noticed the man sitting next to me at the bar. He was a straightjohn if I ever saw one. Looked to be on the backside of twenty with a sizeable gut and a plaid shirt. He had watery doe eyes that looked to be on the verge of tears.
"You been watching me this whole time, homie?" I asked after a bite of my burger.
"Yes, sir, Mister Cage... I just... I don't know how to do this."
"If you trying to pick me up, I gotta say I'm not interested."
"No... I mean... I wanna hire you. You the Hero for Hire, right?"
"That's me," I said as I dog-eared the page of my book and tucked it into my coat. "What is it you need from me?"
"It's just..."
His battle with keeping the tears back soon became a losing one. I let him sob himself out for a few minutes and went back to my food. He blew into a napkin I had passed him and sighed.
"Sorry about that... It's just, I need your help. They ran off with my girl, my money, and my blow."
The word blow had me keyed. This man who looked as square as a right angle was bringing up drugs. Stolen drugs. On top of that there was something about a girl and money. Had this been any other day I might have told him to take it somewhere else. As it was I hadn't had a job in nearly two weeks. Even though I swore I wouldn't do it, I let curiosity get the better of me.
"Tell me what happened. I'm listening."
Age of Marvels: Character Application:
Character Name:
The one man that's the realest of the real, the one smooth brother that makes all the women squeal. I'm talking about the baddest mofo that ever fought with righteous rage: The Harlem crusader Luke Cage.Character Name:
Alignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line):
Hero Character Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda):
Black and Bold, like the man himself.Powers and Abilities:
Cage has street hero level super strength and steel-hardened skin.Character Origin/Backstory:
The story of Luke Cage can be told in verse. The early days are when his life went from bad to worse. Carl Lucas, a would be gangster working around Harlem town, working as a strongarm lackey to that Willis Styrker clown. Styrker had Harlem tight in his grasp, strangling the community with his criminal clasp. Young Luke fell for Lenore, Stryker's sweetheart. Styrker went mad with jealousy, his sanity fell apart. One day Carl was headed home when he got stopped, ya dig? It was two NYPD uniforms and a detective pig. They ran Carl in because an eyeball witness, the man said Carl was around a murder scene the night before and acting suspicious. Carl's fingerprints matched the ones on a piece, so he was arrested for murder by the police. A swift trial commenced, so fast you couldn't blink. The end result was predictable, Carl sentenced to life in the clink. Carl's heart was tortured, his spirit maimed. He knew that he was framed.
Ten years in the slammer seemed to rapidly pass, all the while outside Stryker's kingdom gained mass. Losing hope on getting out and his prospects dim, Carl decided to volunteer for a project most grim. An experiment to create the durability of a famous super-soldier ended in disaster thanks to an evil poacher. Carl lay in a science chamber, his body resting, when a vindictive guard broke in to where they were testing. The guard smashed the console and dial. The chamber began sparking, its insides filling with bile. A massive explosion rocked the prison then, a force that was like a keg of dynamite times ten. The guard, the doctor, and the whole experiment were lost in the detonation, nothing could survive that great conflagration.
Out of the fiery rubble and debris a lone figure came crawling. It was a naked Carl Lucas who ran, his own ass he was hauling. He ran into the woods to avoid any guards. Through some odd happenstance he was now out behind bars. What's more his whole body seemed unreal. The explosion hadn't hurt him, his body tougher than steel. With new powers at his command and ten years spent spurned, he set his sights for Harlem and home he did return.
Once home he started a crusade for payback, Willis Stryker and his criminal rackets were prime for attack. A new life and fresh start he had acquired. Carl Lucas was dead, believed perished in that fire. Soon after coming home he sought out his former love Lenore. He was shattered when he discovered she was no more. She had died six years back, overdosing from mainlining pure smack. He made a promise that day, for letting her die Stryker would pay. Adopting the alias Luke Cage, he tore up Harlem fueled by his powers and rage. It didn't take long for Stryker to get mad. He put out a million dollar hit for Luke Cage, man he wanted that brother reaaal bad. Cage tore trough Styrker's men like butter, setting the residents of Harlem's hearts aflutter. For a long time now they had needed a defender to help them thrive, but Cage didn't want none of that jive! He wasn't a hero to speak for the masses, he just wanted to kick Styrker and his men's asses.
Cage dispatched Styrker's men at their nightclub without breaking a sweat. They were the bad mothers, but to him they proved to be no threat. Cage finally set his sights on Styrker, that villain. The two fought each other, both intent on killin'. Stryker tried his best to fight off his former friend, but the steel skinned man was too much to defend. Desperate to kill and half crazed, Stryker decided to kill both he and Cage in a massive blaze. Up went his nightclub in a red hot spire. Nobody was getting out of that fire. If you think that's the end of this story and Cage is dead, then what the hell's wrong with your head? Out of the fire came Cage choking, unharmed and unhurt but his body smoking. While he came out of the fire okay, Stryker had been consumed in the infero's fray.
Gathered around the blazing hulk were the people of Harlem so grateful, they were glad to be rid of the crime boss that was so hateful. In the embers of the building Cage watched it burn, while a feeling inside him did churn. His vengeance was complete now that Stryker had died, but he still felt hollow and empty inside. That day Cage made a solemn vow, he would change his life and his ways somehow. From that day forward he decided to work for the people as best he could, writing wrongs and injustices in the 'hood. If you need help and your situation is dire, then you can always call Luke Cage: Hero for Hire.
Why this character?
I like Luke Cage, and I want to do the Hero for Hire stuff more like PI stories with superheroic twists in them.Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
The Harlem Shakedown
Harlem
4:24 AM
Anton Morrison hadn't felt this alive in years. His heart pounded in his chest and the adrenaline coursing through his veins made his teeth chatter. He walked at a herky-jerky pace down the sidewalk towards 120th Street's collection of rowhouses with his woman. It was chilly that night and he wore a leather jacket, but he was sweating through the chill. Anton wiped his forehead and felt Isabelle's soft hand on his.
"It's gonna be alright, daddy," she said reassuringly.
She knew how much he loved it when she called him daddy. Just her touch and few words put his mind at ease. Good God, did he love that woman. Isabelle was the type of woman Anton never thought he could get. Sophisticated, well-read, and beautiful. Was she ever beautiful. They'd been together for a few months now and Anton still couldn't figure out how he managed to get her. He remembered her asking him something one night at the club. He replied and saw her smile... that smile that made him feel warm inside. After that it was nothing but a blur.
Isabelle was cultured, the type of woman Anton couldn't afford on his meager salary working for Mr. Davis. She needed the finer things in life. She had to have them, Anton thought, or she would leave him for someone who could give her what he wanted. There were lots of brothers in the neighborhood who were caught up in the Game and had fat pockets. Anton had always been a square, never even getting close to anything stronger than a joint. His mamma worked hard to keep him off the corner and out from slinging. For twenty-nine years her hard work had been a success. Tonight was the night that all ended.
"Who is it?" a voice asked after Anton banged on the front door of one of the houses.
"Morrison..."
"I don't know no Morrison," the voice said. "You best get outta here before I mess you up."
"It's Anton," he said louder. "We spoke on the phone about that package. C'mon, man."
"Calvin," Isabelle said with a sharp tone. "It's me, Izzy. Open the damn door up, boy."
A few seconds later the heavy door of the rowhouse opened up and squeaked on its rusty hinges. A fat, light-skinned black man in a greasy tanktop and boxers stared at Anton and Isabelle before stepping aside to let them come into the house. Once they were in he locked the door with a heavy deadbolt. Calvin looked at the two lovers with indifference before shuffling through the house towards a sofa.
"Go on back. They waiting on you."
Isabelle led Anton through the cluttered rowhouse towards the very back of the house. In the kitchen a dark-skinned and muscle bound man with sunglasses and a do-rag watched them enter. On a card table in front of him were two bricks of white powder.
"There's my man," he said with a giggle. "Tony Montana himself. What's good, man?"
Anton shrugged sheepishly and shook his head.
"Just looking to get that package, man... like we talked about?"
"For sure," the man at the table said with a wide grin. "Just, gotta pay before you can play. Let's see what you brought."
Anton reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the manila envelope stuffed with cash. It had sixty grand, his entire life savings plus a little something extra he borrowed from his boss. Well, borrow wasn't the right word. Borrow always implied there was consent from both parties to the borrowing. Anton more or less stole the ten thousand dollars. Getting involved in a coke deal was Isabelle's idea. The plan was that Anton buy two keys wholesale and cut them up before reselling them to a few of the dealers around the neighborhood. With markup and his cut from the slingers he could easily net eighty thousand. Isabelle said she did it because she wanted the best for Anton, she wanted him to have the cash that would keep him happy. She knew all the right people, made all the calls and the introductions. She did the easy work, Anton though. He had to scrape the money together.
"Here it is," Anton said as he passed the envelope over.
The man at the table scrutinized the money and counted it, his lips moving as he counted the six hundred one hundred dollar bills. When he was satisfied he pushed the two keys across the table towards Anton.
"And here it is," he said with a giggle. "How's it feel to be in the Game, player?"
Anton was about to respond that it felt pretty damn good. What stopped him was the loud bang from the front room. Calvin's loud cursing could be heard on the other side of the house, followed by more bangs and yells. Anton's blood went cold when he saw the black man in a kevlar vest and pistol round the corner. The vest had NYPD stamped on it, a badge dangled from a chain around his neck.
"NYPD! GET THE **** ON THE GROUND!"
Anton was about to comply when the man at the table cursed and flipped the table up unto the air. Shots rang out from the cop's gun and Anton hit the deck. On the way to the ground the metal folding chair the dealer had been sitting on hit him square in the head. His head took further damage when it smacked against the tile floor of the kitchen. Groggy, he heard more shouts and gunshots and footsteps that got louder before they receded and disappeared all together. It was several minutes before he got the cobwebs out of his mind. Anton stood up and felt the small cut on his forehead while he looked around the kitchen.
The table was flipped along with the chair. The cop, the dealer, and Isabelle were all gone. Anton nursed his head and looked for the coke or, more importantly, his money. Neither were around. His heart raced even faster when he went through the house and couldn't find fat Calvin. All four of them were gone... along with the coke and his money....
*****
Ray's Social Club
Harlem
11:32 AM
They call it Ray's Social Club to make it not sound like the low-rent bar it is. Still, they make a mean hamburger. The lack of hamburgers was one of the many things I hated about prison. They had burgers every so often as a treat, but a prison burger was about as tasty as you might imagine it would be. Burgers and women were two things I got denied after ten years in the joint, and I've managed to get ready access to both in the year I've been home.
One of the few good things about prison though were the books. I hated reading before I went in, but with nothing to do in there but lift weights and read I managed to make a habit of both. I figure I had to be the strongest man alive who could quote Proust. At Ray's that day my meal was a crunchy burger with all the fixings and a paperback copy of A Rage in Harlem by Chester Himes. I like Himes' work since it seems the black crime writers are few and far between, and he was one of the best regardless of skin color. Twenty pages and half the burger went by before I even noticed the man sitting next to me at the bar. He was a straightjohn if I ever saw one. Looked to be on the backside of twenty with a sizeable gut and a plaid shirt. He had watery doe eyes that looked to be on the verge of tears.
"You been watching me this whole time, homie?" I asked after a bite of my burger.
"Yes, sir, Mister Cage... I just... I don't know how to do this."
"If you trying to pick me up, I gotta say I'm not interested."
"No... I mean... I wanna hire you. You the Hero for Hire, right?"
"That's me," I said as I dog-eared the page of my book and tucked it into my coat. "What is it you need from me?"
"It's just..."
His battle with keeping the tears back soon became a losing one. I let him sob himself out for a few minutes and went back to my food. He blew into a napkin I had passed him and sighed.
"Sorry about that... It's just, I need your help. They ran off with my girl, my money, and my blow."
The word blow had me keyed. This man who looked as square as a right angle was bringing up drugs. Stolen drugs. On top of that there was something about a girl and money. Had this been any other day I might have told him to take it somewhere else. As it was I hadn't had a job in nearly two weeks. Even though I swore I wouldn't do it, I let curiosity get the better of me.
"Tell me what happened. I'm listening."
Carnage27
No one's puppet
- Joined
- Dec 5, 2007
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Doctor Seuss ain't got crap on you.
Keyser Soze
AW YEEEAH!
- Joined
- Mar 9, 2002
- Messages
- 21,405
- Reaction score
- 14
- Points
- 33
We're suffering from a worrying lack of villains!
Carnage27
No one's puppet
- Joined
- Dec 5, 2007
- Messages
- 4,405
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 31
Yea, we are. I considered Doctor Doom before settling on Daredevil.
If we continue going well for a month or so, I may up the character limit and pick up a baddie.
Hopefully we can pick up someone else who wants to pick up a villain too
If we continue going well for a month or so, I may up the character limit and pick up a baddie.
Hopefully we can pick up someone else who wants to pick up a villain too
Andy C.
Repent, Harlequin!
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2006
- Messages
- 3,707
- Reaction score
- 0
- Points
- 31
Funny you should mention that.....
Osborn has no supernatural or mutant abilities, but he boasts a genius intellect, particularly in the field of chemistry. He also wields nearly limitless resources, both from his own personal fortune, and from the vast corporate empire of OsCorp. In addition, Osborn is a ruthless strategist, and a master of manipulation.
Norman Osborn's personal biography is heavily censored, but what little is known of his early life suggests an unhappy, abusive childhood. His father, a failed industrialist himself, ran Osborn Industries into the ground after one failed attempt after another to re-create the legendary 'Super Soldier Serum' that created the original Captain America. While Norman has never officially commented on it, it is believed that Ambrose Osborn took his years of frustration out on his son, mentally and physically abusing the boy. Years later, Dr. Bart Hamilton, a professional psychologist who once treated Osborn, said the young Norman often told him about recurring nightmares that followed him well into his teenage years, nightmares of an abusive, lecherous, nihilistic "green-skinned goblin" that would torment him, possibly manifestations of the abuse leveled at him by his father.
When Norman was eighteen, Ambrose Osborn was killed in an unexpected car accident, the car catching fire with Ambrose still inside and immolating his body. Curiously, around this same time Dr. Bart Hamilton was arrested for abuse of a minor, despite no previous criminal record.
Norman Osborn spent the next twenty-four years reversing the financial failings and tarnished reputation of Osborn Industries, which eventually became the cornerstone of a global conglomerate simply called OsCorp. Norman's brilliance in the field of chemistry completely eclipsed his father's, as did his shrewd business tactics and cut-throat approach to competition. Under his guidance, OsCorp dominated all of its competitors in the corporate sector, playing second only to Stark Industries as the largest and most powerful scientific firm in the world.
Unfortunately, wealth and corporate power were not the only things that Norman inherited from his father. The Osborn bloodline contains a rare mutation, though a defective one; unlike the astonishing mutants that have appeared with superhuman abilities, the 'Osborn Curse' eventually causes degeneration of the body and mind. It is extremely painful, exclusive only to the specific bloodline, and currently, it is incurable. This terminal heritage, this helplessness in the face of mortality, may be what causes Norman Osborn to fight so vigorously for everything he has achieved, to win at any and all costs, to gain no matter what lines he has had to cross....
One such line was in the case of Doctors Richard and Mary Parker, two assistants of Dr. Curt Connors in the field of cross-species genetics. Along with Connors, the Parkers had made phenomenal breakthroughs, in particular a hybridized spider whose venom was the key to unlocking and molding the human genome itself. This would have been the key that Osborn had spent years looking for, the new Super Soldier Serum to succeed where his father Ambrose had failed....
Eventually, however, Connors's and the Parkers' research was not enough to produce the results Norman wanted, so he had to cross ethical boundaries, and make deals with an extremely disreputable organization: Advanced Idea Mechanics. AIM could provide the missing pieces of the puzzle, giving Norman not just the new Super Soldier Serum, but the key to eradicating the Osborn Curse in his blood. However, AIM's reputation preceded itself, and when the Parkers found out that OsCorp was working with "terrorists," they sabotaged the project. Since he could not risk them exposing the collaboration with AIM, Osborn crossed another boundary, and had the Parkers eliminated.
Since then, Osborn has surrounded himself with all of the trappings of the wealthy and powerful-- priceless artifacts that he takes for granted, classic works of art he never bothered to understand, a luxurious Manhattan penthouse where he spends hardly any of his time.
Some people would say that this collection of unappreciated treasures might also include his wife Emily, and his sixteen-year-old son Harry.
Those people, however, would be wise not to say that within earshot of Norman Osborn.
Lex Luthor, for his narcissism and megalomania, can make a convincing point when he talks about protecting humanity from encroaching aliens. The Joker, for all his madness and nihilistic lunacy, can carry with him a spirit of anarchic freedom. Osborn, though? Norman Osborn is pure ****ing evil. In many ways, I think he's the perfect supervillain, able to play both the calculating chess-master and the madcap psycho-killer, like some screwed up Jekyll and Hyde routine where both of them are Hyde and you don't really know which one is worse.
Besides, if BL finally gets a crack at the webs, somebody's got to make his day a little more difficult, right?
"Before we do this," Osborn said hesitantly, looking out the window of the hotel suite at the illuminated skyline below, "It's important that you understand, this sort of thing......it's not easy for me. I imagine it's not easy for anyone."
The young man in the room with him, a toned male escort barely a day over nineteen, gave him a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry, Mister Osborn, I--"
"Please," Osborn cut him off, curtly. "You see, a man in my position, a man with the kind of power that I wield, with the responsibilities I have to deal with, feels all sorts of different, well....pressures. Pressures that need release."
The escort nodded in understanding.
"It's important that these pressures are released properly," Norman continued, contemplatively, "So that they don't build up and cause undesirable outbursts. I would never wish that these pressures are released on, say, a co-worker, or my family. So what we're going to do tonight, it's not just good for me. It's good for my wife, and for my son. It's good for the people who depend on me at OsCorp, which in turn is good for the customers who buy our products. So, when you think about it, you're going to be doing a lot of good for millions of people."
Osborn walked towards the young man, discarding his robe and tossing it aside, before placing a hand on the escort's shoulder.
"And, of course, we will be good to you in return," he said. "OsCorp has some of the finest medical facilities in the world, as well as world-class therapists, psychologists, and pharmacists on our payroll. We'll make sure you're well taken care of for the rest of your life. Is that something you're okay with?"
The young man nodded, smiling.
"Good," Norman said, returning the smile, "because I'm about to beat you within an inch of your life."
With lightning-fast speed, the hand that was on the young man's shoulder seized the back of his neck, pulling the man's face hard into Norman Osborn's knee. Norman's smile didn't fade a bit as he heard the satisfying crunch of the man's nose, or as blood sprayed across his bare chest.
"I've rented every room on this floor and the two beneath it," he said calmly, before driving the ball of his foot into the younger man's stomach, sending him sprawling to the floor. "No one is going to hear you. No one is coming to help you. You'll never tell a soul about this-- hell, by the time I'm through with you, you may not even know how to speak at all."
The bleeding man held out his hands, pleading.
"Wait....Mister Osborn, please, don't--"
A fist smashed into the boy's face, sending teeth clattering across the floor.
"Oh, don't give up on me now, boy," Norman said, stalking over his quarry. "You've still got a long night ahead of you....."
Character Name:
Norman OsbornAlignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line):
VillainCharacter Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda):
Georgia, Dark GreenPowers and Abilities:
Osborn has no supernatural or mutant abilities, but he boasts a genius intellect, particularly in the field of chemistry. He also wields nearly limitless resources, both from his own personal fortune, and from the vast corporate empire of OsCorp. In addition, Osborn is a ruthless strategist, and a master of manipulation.
Character Origin/Backstory:
Norman Osborn's personal biography is heavily censored, but what little is known of his early life suggests an unhappy, abusive childhood. His father, a failed industrialist himself, ran Osborn Industries into the ground after one failed attempt after another to re-create the legendary 'Super Soldier Serum' that created the original Captain America. While Norman has never officially commented on it, it is believed that Ambrose Osborn took his years of frustration out on his son, mentally and physically abusing the boy. Years later, Dr. Bart Hamilton, a professional psychologist who once treated Osborn, said the young Norman often told him about recurring nightmares that followed him well into his teenage years, nightmares of an abusive, lecherous, nihilistic "green-skinned goblin" that would torment him, possibly manifestations of the abuse leveled at him by his father.
When Norman was eighteen, Ambrose Osborn was killed in an unexpected car accident, the car catching fire with Ambrose still inside and immolating his body. Curiously, around this same time Dr. Bart Hamilton was arrested for abuse of a minor, despite no previous criminal record.
Norman Osborn spent the next twenty-four years reversing the financial failings and tarnished reputation of Osborn Industries, which eventually became the cornerstone of a global conglomerate simply called OsCorp. Norman's brilliance in the field of chemistry completely eclipsed his father's, as did his shrewd business tactics and cut-throat approach to competition. Under his guidance, OsCorp dominated all of its competitors in the corporate sector, playing second only to Stark Industries as the largest and most powerful scientific firm in the world.
Unfortunately, wealth and corporate power were not the only things that Norman inherited from his father. The Osborn bloodline contains a rare mutation, though a defective one; unlike the astonishing mutants that have appeared with superhuman abilities, the 'Osborn Curse' eventually causes degeneration of the body and mind. It is extremely painful, exclusive only to the specific bloodline, and currently, it is incurable. This terminal heritage, this helplessness in the face of mortality, may be what causes Norman Osborn to fight so vigorously for everything he has achieved, to win at any and all costs, to gain no matter what lines he has had to cross....
One such line was in the case of Doctors Richard and Mary Parker, two assistants of Dr. Curt Connors in the field of cross-species genetics. Along with Connors, the Parkers had made phenomenal breakthroughs, in particular a hybridized spider whose venom was the key to unlocking and molding the human genome itself. This would have been the key that Osborn had spent years looking for, the new Super Soldier Serum to succeed where his father Ambrose had failed....
Eventually, however, Connors's and the Parkers' research was not enough to produce the results Norman wanted, so he had to cross ethical boundaries, and make deals with an extremely disreputable organization: Advanced Idea Mechanics. AIM could provide the missing pieces of the puzzle, giving Norman not just the new Super Soldier Serum, but the key to eradicating the Osborn Curse in his blood. However, AIM's reputation preceded itself, and when the Parkers found out that OsCorp was working with "terrorists," they sabotaged the project. Since he could not risk them exposing the collaboration with AIM, Osborn crossed another boundary, and had the Parkers eliminated.
Since then, Osborn has surrounded himself with all of the trappings of the wealthy and powerful-- priceless artifacts that he takes for granted, classic works of art he never bothered to understand, a luxurious Manhattan penthouse where he spends hardly any of his time.
Some people would say that this collection of unappreciated treasures might also include his wife Emily, and his sixteen-year-old son Harry.
Those people, however, would be wise not to say that within earshot of Norman Osborn.
Why this character?
Lex Luthor, for his narcissism and megalomania, can make a convincing point when he talks about protecting humanity from encroaching aliens. The Joker, for all his madness and nihilistic lunacy, can carry with him a spirit of anarchic freedom. Osborn, though? Norman Osborn is pure ****ing evil. In many ways, I think he's the perfect supervillain, able to play both the calculating chess-master and the madcap psycho-killer, like some screwed up Jekyll and Hyde routine where both of them are Hyde and you don't really know which one is worse.
Besides, if BL finally gets a crack at the webs, somebody's got to make his day a little more difficult, right?
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
"Before we do this," Osborn said hesitantly, looking out the window of the hotel suite at the illuminated skyline below, "It's important that you understand, this sort of thing......it's not easy for me. I imagine it's not easy for anyone."
The young man in the room with him, a toned male escort barely a day over nineteen, gave him a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry, Mister Osborn, I--"
"Please," Osborn cut him off, curtly. "You see, a man in my position, a man with the kind of power that I wield, with the responsibilities I have to deal with, feels all sorts of different, well....pressures. Pressures that need release."
The escort nodded in understanding.
"It's important that these pressures are released properly," Norman continued, contemplatively, "So that they don't build up and cause undesirable outbursts. I would never wish that these pressures are released on, say, a co-worker, or my family. So what we're going to do tonight, it's not just good for me. It's good for my wife, and for my son. It's good for the people who depend on me at OsCorp, which in turn is good for the customers who buy our products. So, when you think about it, you're going to be doing a lot of good for millions of people."
Osborn walked towards the young man, discarding his robe and tossing it aside, before placing a hand on the escort's shoulder.
"And, of course, we will be good to you in return," he said. "OsCorp has some of the finest medical facilities in the world, as well as world-class therapists, psychologists, and pharmacists on our payroll. We'll make sure you're well taken care of for the rest of your life. Is that something you're okay with?"
The young man nodded, smiling.
"Good," Norman said, returning the smile, "because I'm about to beat you within an inch of your life."
With lightning-fast speed, the hand that was on the young man's shoulder seized the back of his neck, pulling the man's face hard into Norman Osborn's knee. Norman's smile didn't fade a bit as he heard the satisfying crunch of the man's nose, or as blood sprayed across his bare chest.
"I've rented every room on this floor and the two beneath it," he said calmly, before driving the ball of his foot into the younger man's stomach, sending him sprawling to the floor. "No one is going to hear you. No one is coming to help you. You'll never tell a soul about this-- hell, by the time I'm through with you, you may not even know how to speak at all."
The bleeding man held out his hands, pleading.
"Wait....Mister Osborn, please, don't--"
A fist smashed into the boy's face, sending teeth clattering across the floor.
"Oh, don't give up on me now, boy," Norman said, stalking over his quarry. "You've still got a long night ahead of you....."
Oh really? Then say hello to the bad guy.
Character Name:
En Sabah Nur | Evan Sabahnur | Apocalypse
Alignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line):
Villain (Neutral Evil)
Character Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda):
Indigo Verdana
Powers and Abilities:
Apocalypse is a mutant who possesses two distinct powers that have a wide range of effects. As a cellular metamorph, Apocalypse can control his size, shape, and density to varying degrees, allowing him to elongate his limbs, harden his skin, and repair damage to his body at the cellular level. This latter attribute gives him physiological immortality and prevents him from suffering the effects of age as his cells are constantly regenerating. Apocalypse is also psychokinetic, using force of will to generate energy fields (e.g. force blasts, force fields) or manipulate objects through telekinesis.
Thousands of years ago, Apocalypse was infected with a techno-organic pathogen of alien origin, possibly a proto-Phalanx organism, which allows him technopathic abilities, including the ability to infect both machines and organisms with a techno-organic virus. This contributes to the historical phenomenon known as "Blood of Apocalypse", allowing Apocalypse to re-shape both humans and mutants, leading to the creation of a techno-organic generational cult known as the Akkaba Tribe, with both T-O and genetic traits passed down through family lines that have been both directly and indirectly manipulated by Apocalypse, allowing him to control the evolution of the bloodlines.
Trained in Ancient Egyptian strategy and combat, En Sabah Nur is a fierce combatant who has a classical understanding of warfare. He has studied the Egyptians, the Romans, the Byzantine, Ottomans, and - more recently - the Axis and Allied Powers whose art of war and diplomacy has led to the creation of modern Europe and the Middle East. As a strategist and tactician, Apocalypse possesses a formidable mind for direct and indirect conflict, conventional and unconventional warfare, and international relations. As a combatant, En Sabah Nur is skilled in a variety of armed and unarmed conflict. He also has extensive knowledge of a variety of living and dead languages, including Assyrian, Demotic, Greek, Latin, Chinese (Mandarin), Arabic, French, and English.
Character Origin/Backstory:
Considered by history to have been the first mutant, it is impossible to recount all of Apocalypse's history. Born between 3500 and 3100 BC in Ancient Egypt, En Sabah Nur was born into the Akkaba tribe shortly before it was conquered by the warlord Baal, who had been sent by Pharaoh Rama-Tut in search of a child born with gray skin and dark lines on his face and body. Bringing the child to Rama-Tut as a trophy and the Akkaba tribe as slaves, the young Apocalypse was raised among animosity from among both his own people and the people of the Pharaoh's court for his disfigured appearance. Educated in the ways of the world by the Pharaoh's vizier, Ozymandias, and schooled in the arts of war by Baal, Apocalypse's mutation manifested itself while he was still young in a defensive reaction to the beatings he would receive as part of his educational sparring matches - during one in which he killed three armed guards bare-handed.
Escaping the oppressive Pharaoh, the young Apocalypse evaded Baal's attempts at recapturing him and hid within the temple known today as the Egyptian Sphinx. Within the ancient Sphinx, the boy found ruins of an advanced technology and came in contact with a morphogenic techno-organic pathogen which, combined with his malleable cellular structure, assimilated itself into his body and allowed him to communicate with the machine. He learned that it was of extraterrestrial origin, having been constructed by beings known as the Celestials. It was while exploring the extent of the alien artifacts within the Sphinx that Apocalypse was discovered by Ozymandias and, further, that Rama-Tut was a traveler from the future who had come to conquer Egypt for the express purpose of finding Apocalypse in the past so that he could usurp the destiny of the future conqueror. Murdering the vizier, Apocalypse used his new-found techno-organic abilities to resurrect and re-shape Ozymandias into a servant for himself and then set out to depose Rama-Tut.
After leading a bloody rebellion against the time-traveling Rama-Tut for several years, Apocalypse emerged the victor and elevated the Akkaba tribe from slavery with the installation of the first Pharaoh to unify Upper and Lower Egypt, an Akkaba kinsman of Apocalypse known alternately as Menes or the Scorpion King, though there is scholarly dispute today as to whether those were the same or separate individuals. Shunned for his monstrous appearance, Apocalypse nonetheless ruled Egypt as the power behind the Pharaoh, manipulating allegiances and rivalries to achieve his own political and dynastic ends; including, perhaps, the liaison between Cleopatra and Mark Anthony that marked the decline of Egyptian civilization and the rise of a Roman Empire. As the world shifted to Rome, however, Apocalypse had his eyes on the globe and, through use of the ship, traveled into China to observe the clash of civilizations there.
When Apocalypse would travel West again, he would do so riding with a horde of horseback barbarians which swept out of greater Mongolia through Indo-China and into Europe. He is said to have called these riders the Horsemen of Apocalypse - the first instance in which the name appears attributable to him. The head of this horde was called Death, though history refers to him as Genghis Khan.
The silk road established trade between Europe and China, altering both civilizations irrevocably, and shifting human perspectives away from regional liaisons toward global commerce, leading ultimately to the New World in the Americas. A place that, through use of Celestial technology, Apocalypse had already been. Worshiped in Central American as a god, Apocalypse may have manipulated the Conquistador arrival in order to study the inevitable clash of civilization. The resulting outbreak of disease, harmless in Europe and fatal in Central America, was a stunning lesson in biological warfare - resulting in a much clearer and uneven victory than Apocalypse had thought possible.
Through the Victorian Age through the End of the Cold War, Apocalypse all but disappeared from history, now manipulating and controlling events through shadow agents carefully recruited and cultivated from out of the bloodlines that had been spawned from the Egyptian Akkaba tribe - the so-called Children of Apocalypse. He briefly participated in the Axis Powers of the Second World War, once encountering the hero known as Captain America before disappearing again. His return to direct interference with global events did not emerge until the growth of terrorism in the 1990's. Developing a Darwinian cult out of Akkabas descendants, known as the Dark Riders, Apocalypse appeared on the FBI's Most Wanted List under the anglicized alias Evan Sabahnur as a result of his financial support to a pseudo-clerical extremist named Bin Laden for the planning of an operation that came to be known as the 9/11 Conspiracy.
Operating globally from the sentient ship, as well as enclaves in Mongolia, Egypt, Colombia, and Greenland, En Sabah Nur continues to operate through a web of descendants operating as his eyes and ears, now so many generations that many are not aware of who the "godfather" of the operation is anymore. Through corporate subsidiaries and holdings leveraged by his agents, Apocalypse finances governments, terrorist organizations, or even the World Bank or International Monetary Fund according to his own reasons and the slow progression of social, economic, and political moves on the proverbial global chessboard intended to ensure Apocalypse's own vision of the evolution of humanity and the idea that which survives must be worthy of survival.
Why this character?
Because I haven't played a villain yet and I was looking at this RPG. Plus, I've been toying with a way to revamp Evan Sabahnur (Genesis) in a way that incorporated Apocalypse as well. So this achieves both ends.
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
| Caracas, Venezuela
| South America
"No."
Twenty miles outside of Maduro's capitol, two men in black, nondescript suits sat opposite a barrel-chested Hispanic whose strung-out appearance did nothing to alleviate concerns over the copious amounts of heroine and ammunition lying around the opulent ranch-style house that resided behind guarded walls in a fortified compound. The drug czar's shirt was open, revealing a body that had - at one time - been impressively maintained. Now he was showing age, slowing from ****ing twenties to rapidly approaching forty with every indication that he'd never live to see it.
"No. It is you who do not understand," the cartel lord snapped harshly, slamming the butt of the nickel-plated Glock that he was waving around as he spoke. "I am tired of having the terms of the agreement dictated to me by lackeys."
The two, roughly Egyptian-looking men exchanged a brief, almost bored, look between them.
The sound of a gunshot precipitated a splatter of blood along the back wall, as the suit on the left fell back out of his chair with a hole in his head. "ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME!?" the drug czar demanded harshly, leveling the pistol at the remaining suit.
Nonchalantly, the man used the back of one hand to brush the flecks of blood from off his coat. Nonplussed, the olive-skinned man merely said, "Our employer is not in the habit..."
"**** your employer," the cartel lord screamed, pointing the pistol up at the ceiling. "That's right, cabron. ****. Your. Boss." Pounding himself on the chest with his pistol hand, the drug czar rose from out of his chair and stood, lording over the table, as he yelled, "I am Miguel Luis Escobar. And I refuse to accept this insult."
The man in the suit looked at the cartel boss with an expression that almost bordered on pity. "You... understand what you're asking?"
"Asking?" the cartel boss echoed, mockingly. "I am not asking," he barked firmly, leveling the pistol at the suit again. "My agreement is with Apocalypse. He wants to deal with Escobar? He will come to me."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| Akkaba, Egypt
| The African Nile
Thousands of generations before society as it was known now existed, he had been born here, in this place, this fertile crescent - the cradle of civilization - a slave.
His inheritance had been poverty, the scorn of men, and a life devoid of any higher meaning. He had been cast out before he had even left his mother's womb. Another slave, another worthless life, another piece of fodder to be used and discarded.
Yes, on the banks of this river he had learned many lessons about the value of life and the fickle nature of power. He had killed kings and crowned peasants, orchestrated the rise of innovative and benevolent monarchs... and then destroyed them with violent and oppressive uprisings.
Each tested the fabric of society, either expanding it beyond the limits of what it believed it could achieve, or else burning away the cancer eating away at it. Ensuring that which survived would be something worthy of survival.
The desolate sands of Egypt were a stark contrast from the lush green that spawned along the banks of the fertile Nile. The boy lay, relaxed, on a beach chair underneath a colorful umbrella, which shaded his ash gray skin from the bright sun overhead. A pair of board shorts left most of his body exposed, revealing the intricate, tattoo-like lines that decorated his body.
As it had always been.
As he had always been, since the dawn of modern man.
Resting back on the beach chair, the once and future ruler of Egypt scanned the Kindle that was propped between his hip and right hand, sipping on a cold bottle of carbonated water as the young-looking immortal perused an American treatise of the current state of politics in the Middle East.
Along this privately owned stretch of the Nile riverbank, the mutant overlord had no concern of being interrupted. For miles out, the only people in this part of the world were family. Descendants of the same Akkaba tribe that had birthed him three thousand years before a man named Jesus of Nazareth had even been born.
And still, he was interrupted.
The young woman's presence was noticed, but not addressed, the boy quietly continuing to read the Kindle until he had completed the chapter that he was on. And then, when that was done, he merely looked up.
The young woman immediately cast her gaze down, bowing her head so not to look at him. "Apologies, Ancient One," she offered in Arabic, the language of the second people to have conquered his conquerors.
Setting the Kindle aside, the boy flipped himself around so that he was seated upright, his legs thrown over the side of the arm-less chair. "What brings you to me?"
"The situation with the Escobar Cartel continues to be a problem," the woman reported succinctly, adding, "Your presence has been requested as part of the cartel's aggressive stance on re-negotiating our control over their operations."
Propping his elbows on his knees, the boy covered a fist with the opposite hand and then leaned his chin against his hand. He was silent for a moment. "What is the assessment of the removal of the Escobar Cartel?"
"Miguel Escobar has been careful to ensure that none of his lieutenants have either the knowledge nor the resources with which to challenge him. As a consequence, there is no single agent positioned to take control of the cartel's operations," the woman supplied in answer, keeping her head down as she spoke. "Escobar's removal would likely result in fracturing along family and locality ties, with violence escalating over a ten year period before control over the resources would stabilize and be consolidated once more."
"An appealing outcome then," the boy remarked flatly, looking up at the woman as he asked, "And what if the United States was the agent of removal?"
The audacity of that question, so simply answered by even a novice of international relations, nearly prompted the young woman to look up at him. Blushing in embarrassment at her faux pas, the girl bowed her head further as she answered. "Such a blatant operation inside Venezuela territory would be an incident in international media, Ancient One. I do not believe the sitting President would authorize such a risky endeavor for a single cartel boss. Or even a moderate-to-high level terror threat."
The black lines around the boy's mouth shifted as he smiled - a cold expression that was eerily similar to a serpent's smile. Standing, the boy left the water and Kindle behind as he stepped over toward the woman. "Then we will have to appeal to their American sensibilities," the immortal stated with a touch of mirth. Cupping the woman's chin in his hand, the boy tilted her head up so that he could look her in the eye as he asked, "Do you still have that friend at the NSA?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| The National Security Agency
| Washington, DC
"...Charlie-two-five, this is Tango-nine-four. We have visual. I repeat, we have visual on the target."
The audio feed was crackling over the speakers recessed into the walls and ceiling of the situation room, as a pair of suited agents with Secret Service badges heralded the arrival of an even more familiar suited figure who needed neither a badge nor introductions.
"What's the situation?" the President asked simply.
A balding man in a dark suit, surrounded on ether side by generals, glanced up from a series of monitors depicting satellite imagery of a compound-like house in a forested area. Gesturing to the large screen on the far wall, the man looked at the President and answered, "Mister President, this is a live feed from an overflight into Venezuelan airspace. One of our deep cover informants just tipped us that ESN is meeting with one of the Dark Rider's money laundering agents. A cartel operative named Miguel Escobar."
Even without his Chief of Staff there to run the lexicon for him, the President indicated an understanding of the term. ESN. The three letter abbreviation for one of the more enigmatic financiers of 9/11. Evan Sabahnur. "Do we have confirmation?"
It was one of generals that answered. "Mister President, we still have no idea what ESN looks like."
So, no. No confirmation that their target was actually there, and a lot of hell to pay if Venezuela - or anyone - discovered that the United States attempted a drone strike in South America. "How reliable is this information?" the President asked, shifting the thought process slightly.
"It's the best lead we've had since Cairo in 2009," the bald man stated, tapping a pen against the desk before adding, "Mister President, that was the last time we had any indication of movement by ESN. He's a ghost. This may be the only chance we get."
"Charlie-two-five, this is Tango-nine-four. The vehicles have stopped outside of the meeting location. They are exiting the vehicles. I am transmitting images now."
The bald man was on the move before the speaker had finished the last statement. "Facial recognition," he remarked, propping himself up over the shoulder of a female analyst. "We have anyone from Cairo?"
It was a minute before there was a response, as the woman worked at shifting the different images through filters and programs, scrubbing the data and then running comparisons of a database of terror suspects. "I've got seven possible IDs," the woman remarked finally, before pausing again to narrow the search. "Three matches from Cairo..." she began, only to trail off as one in particular flashed across the screen. Turning her head, the analyst looked up at the man with a grave expression on her face. "Sir, we've got KBR."
This time the President didn't get the reference. Seeing the man's perplexed, and annoyed, expression the bald man clarified, "Kabar Brashir." When the President's look of mild annoyance grew even more so, the bald man elaborated further. "He's one of ESN's top generals. Our analysts report that the Dark Riders call him War."
Pausing, the bald man looked at the file photo on the analyst's screen and then up to the satellite imagery of Venezuela. Finally, he turned back to the only man in the room whose opinion mattered. "Mister President, ESN is there."
All eyes shifted to the one person in the room who wasn't wearing any kind of ID badge on his suit.
Finally the President spoke. "Pull the trigger."
Last edited:
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