Rise of Marvels: Year One -- Sign-Up/OOC Thread
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sabetoonth
Where You Get Those Eyes?
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Okay my post will be up within the hour. Its been sorta hell for me to be able to sit down and write for a bit.
Keyser Soze
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Worryingly, so far I've found this writing works as a nice, relaxing cool-down after... doing other writing.
Keyser Soze
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Hey guys, if anyone out there wants to play Drax or Gamora... I think that'd be pretty neat. 
Carnage27
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Sorry to do this to Blacklight, but he's been absent since being approved over a month ago. Andy's been waiting around, and if I can get another poster active here I have to try.
As long as Blacklight doesn't come back and start posting, I'll be dropping Daredevil for the below character.
Peter Parker's story started when he was born to Richard and Mary Parker, two accomplished genetic scientists and genetic engineers. The two were employed by Oscorp at the time, working with Doctor Curt Connors on cross species genetics. The project, like many across the world, was meant to unlock the secret of the world's next super soldier serum. Norman Osborn was obsessed with the results, and often worked the team to excessive hours.
Still, Peter's parents loved him dearly. They doted on Peter, and fostered his quickly developing brain. Peter walked and talked earlier than most children, and his mother and father often were amazed at how quickly he was developing. While his parents worked their long hours, Peter often stayed with Richard's brother Ben and his wife May. The two had never had children, and cared for Peter as if he was their own.
Unfortunately, Norman Osborn's obsession over the Parkers' research crossed over into dangerous levels, forcing Richard and Mary to go into hiding. The two said their goodbyes to Peter, leaving him with Ben and May for now, promising they would return. It was not to be, however, as their plane went down over the Atlantic during their escape.
The loss of his parents scarred Peter deeply, but he loved Ben and May as if they were his true parents, and he grew up to be a well adjusted, yet socially awkward, boy. He made three close friends in his childhood: Gwen Stacy, Eugene "Flash" Thompson, and Norman Osborn's own son Harry Osborn. Flash eventually became popular, leaving the other three behind and started bullying them, followed by Harry who was sent to boarding school.
Gwen and Peter shared a love for science that kept them close, and Peter harbored deep feelings for her, though he never said anything about it. The two continually battled over being first in their class. Peter also took up photography as a hobby.
Peter's life changed forever on a field trip to Oscorp. On a tour of the facility, Peter was bitten by a radioactive, genetically-enhanced spider, granting him amazing abilities. The following weeks were a flurry as Peter practiced with his powers. He decided to enter himself in an amateur wrestling competition, winning and scoring cash he hoped would buy him a car to impress the girls at school.
Unfortunately for Peter, before the competition, he and Uncle Ben got in a fight, and during the competition Ben was shot and killed by a carjacker. Peter furiously tracked down the carjacker, beating him nearly to death. As he did, however, Uncle Ben's final words to him echoed in his head.
"Remember, Peter. With great power comes great responsibility."
Peter decided from that day forward he would fight injustice in New York, and would protect the innocent in memory of his Uncle Ben. He created a costume and special webbing substance, becoming the Amazing Spider-man.
How did I end up here?
I jump out of the way of a hail of machine gunfire, flipping heels over head as I do, firing a few balls of webbing at the armored car hijacker, trapping him against the truck he attempted to steal. Petty thugs don't stand much of a chance against me. I got the tools, and I got the talent, to paraphrase one Winston Zeddemore.
Where was I? Oh, right. How I got here. Well, I was bitten by a genetically-modified, radioactive spider. You would think that would kill me, right? Or at least give me cancer or something. Nope. Superpowers. How cool is that, right?
"Stand still, insect!" the thug's accomplice attempts to taunt me, firing at me with his weapon.
"Well, spiders are arachnids," I respond, yanking the gun out of the man's hand, smacking him in the face with it in the process. "You could have said bug. That'd work."
The two criminals squirm against the webbing as I suspend them from a lightpole, "Now, now, gentlemen. I'd hate to see you fall from this pole. Please keep all arms and legs inside the webbing at all time."
"I'm gonna get you, bug!" one of the men screams.
"Hey! There ya go! Learn something new every day, huh?" I say as I swing away. "Courtesy of your friendly, neighborhood Spider-man!"
As long as Blacklight doesn't come back and start posting, I'll be dropping Daredevil for the below character.
Age of Marvels: Character Application:
Character Name: Peter Parker/The Amazing Spider-man
Character Name: Peter Parker/The Amazing Spider-man
Alignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line): Hero
Character Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda): Red Comic Sans/Bold for Spider-man
Powers and Abilities:Thanks to being bitten by a radioactive, genetically enhanced spider, Peter Parker was given extraordinary powers. Spider-man is super strong, super fast, has super agility, dexterity, endurance, and reflexes. On top of this, his rearranged biology has granted him a reflex that warned him of danger. Dubbed his "Spider Sense", Parker uses the ability to stay one step ahead of his enemies. He is also able to stick to nearly any surface, allowing him to scale the buildings of New York with ease.
Peter is also a scientific prodigy, and using his prowess to invent the webbing he uses to fight crime and swing through the city.
Peter is also a scientific prodigy, and using his prowess to invent the webbing he uses to fight crime and swing through the city.
Character Origin/Backstory:
Peter Parker's story started when he was born to Richard and Mary Parker, two accomplished genetic scientists and genetic engineers. The two were employed by Oscorp at the time, working with Doctor Curt Connors on cross species genetics. The project, like many across the world, was meant to unlock the secret of the world's next super soldier serum. Norman Osborn was obsessed with the results, and often worked the team to excessive hours.
Still, Peter's parents loved him dearly. They doted on Peter, and fostered his quickly developing brain. Peter walked and talked earlier than most children, and his mother and father often were amazed at how quickly he was developing. While his parents worked their long hours, Peter often stayed with Richard's brother Ben and his wife May. The two had never had children, and cared for Peter as if he was their own.
Unfortunately, Norman Osborn's obsession over the Parkers' research crossed over into dangerous levels, forcing Richard and Mary to go into hiding. The two said their goodbyes to Peter, leaving him with Ben and May for now, promising they would return. It was not to be, however, as their plane went down over the Atlantic during their escape.
The loss of his parents scarred Peter deeply, but he loved Ben and May as if they were his true parents, and he grew up to be a well adjusted, yet socially awkward, boy. He made three close friends in his childhood: Gwen Stacy, Eugene "Flash" Thompson, and Norman Osborn's own son Harry Osborn. Flash eventually became popular, leaving the other three behind and started bullying them, followed by Harry who was sent to boarding school.
Gwen and Peter shared a love for science that kept them close, and Peter harbored deep feelings for her, though he never said anything about it. The two continually battled over being first in their class. Peter also took up photography as a hobby.
Peter's life changed forever on a field trip to Oscorp. On a tour of the facility, Peter was bitten by a radioactive, genetically-enhanced spider, granting him amazing abilities. The following weeks were a flurry as Peter practiced with his powers. He decided to enter himself in an amateur wrestling competition, winning and scoring cash he hoped would buy him a car to impress the girls at school.
Unfortunately for Peter, before the competition, he and Uncle Ben got in a fight, and during the competition Ben was shot and killed by a carjacker. Peter furiously tracked down the carjacker, beating him nearly to death. As he did, however, Uncle Ben's final words to him echoed in his head.
"Remember, Peter. With great power comes great responsibility."
Peter decided from that day forward he would fight injustice in New York, and would protect the innocent in memory of his Uncle Ben. He created a costume and special webbing substance, becoming the Amazing Spider-man.
Why this character? I was considering picking him up earlier, but withheld because I had Cap as well. But at this point I'm just gonna go with it.
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
How did I end up here?
I jump out of the way of a hail of machine gunfire, flipping heels over head as I do, firing a few balls of webbing at the armored car hijacker, trapping him against the truck he attempted to steal. Petty thugs don't stand much of a chance against me. I got the tools, and I got the talent, to paraphrase one Winston Zeddemore.
Where was I? Oh, right. How I got here. Well, I was bitten by a genetically-modified, radioactive spider. You would think that would kill me, right? Or at least give me cancer or something. Nope. Superpowers. How cool is that, right?
"Stand still, insect!" the thug's accomplice attempts to taunt me, firing at me with his weapon.
"Well, spiders are arachnids," I respond, yanking the gun out of the man's hand, smacking him in the face with it in the process. "You could have said bug. That'd work."
The two criminals squirm against the webbing as I suspend them from a lightpole, "Now, now, gentlemen. I'd hate to see you fall from this pole. Please keep all arms and legs inside the webbing at all time."
"I'm gonna get you, bug!" one of the men screams.
"Hey! There ya go! Learn something new every day, huh?" I say as I swing away. "Courtesy of your friendly, neighborhood Spider-man!"
Keyser Soze
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I'm still around and checking the thread daily, just need a cue before I can go into my next post.
All right, I hate to do this but... villains are just not my schtick. I'm totally racking my brain for what the hell an end goal is, or even which heroes would be good foils to play off of. And I'm coming up empty.
I'm dropping Apocalypse and I'm going to consider whether there's another character I want to run or not that could be more WTL. I can usually pull off the anti-hero, but this full time villain PC gig is ******** in my opinion.
I'm dropping Apocalypse and I'm going to consider whether there's another character I want to run or not that could be more WTL. I can usually pull off the anti-hero, but this full time villain PC gig is ******** in my opinion.
Carnage27
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*cough*Loki*cough*
Andy C.
Repent, Harlequin!
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I really hate to be that guy, I really do. But I've been trying for over a month to think of something to do with Jean Grey and the X-Men, and I've just been drawing a blank. So sadly, I'm going to have to drop her.
Fortunately, though, I do have a replacement in mind. And I think the results will be positively......smashing.
Fortunately, though, I do have a replacement in mind. And I think the results will be positively......smashing.
Keyser Soze
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I've guessed it: you're playing Iron Man.
sabetoonth
Where You Get Those Eyes?
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No, no, obviously he's bringing Union Jack
English people say things are "smashing".
English people say things are "smashing".
Carnage27
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As long as you're not dropping Norman...
Keyser Soze
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Age of Marvels: Character Application:
Character Name: The Kingpin
Alignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line): Villain
Character Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda):
DarkSlateGray
Powers and Abilities:
The Kingpin has no superhuman powers, though he has what could be considered peak human strength, and remarkable speed and agility for a man his size. But more formidable are his brilliant strategic mind, and the vast network of resources at his disposal.
Character Origin/Backstory:
Wilson Fisk is, to the world at large, a humble dealer in spices. But behind his facade as successful legitimate businessman, Fisk is in fact The Kingpin of Crime: a single, monarch-like ruler of all organised crime on the East Coast. Even among those few who have heard of The Kingpin of Crime, most believe him to be a mere myth. The thought that one person could be the ultimate figurehead of such a vast, sprawling crime network? Impossible. In fact, Fisk's influence goes beyond even that, into the realms of property, media, the financial markets, and more. This has been the way of things for many years, his beginnings as a young street thug in Hell's Kitchen who clawed his way up through the ranks long forgotten by history and erased from the record books. As right hand man to mob boss Rigoletto, he masterminded a plan where all the East Coast's major crime families would pool their resources to create a "Kingpin," a ghost to distract and misdirect the authorities. But then Fisk betrayed all the bosses, Rigoletto included, and actually claimed this false identity and the fortune invested in its upkeep as his own. That was the foundation from which he built his now vast empire.
Why this character?
The main reason I've picked this character is that he's a villain. The game is desperately low on villains, and I've picked someone who can be a relevant foil for the largely street-level heroes on the roster, and who can hopefully facilitate and coordinate other villains as the game progresses. But on a more personal note, I've picked The Kingpin because he's one of my favourite Marvel characters, but one I've never actually got to play in an RPG, to my recollection. A few of you may remember that, when I first started playing in Hype! RPGs over a decade ago, my username was Keyser Kingpin. Even back then, Wilson Fisk was a favourite of mine. Indeed, back when I first picked up Bullseye in the first season of the World of Heroes Marvel RPG, my intention was to play Bullseye for a stint, likely the length of a storyline, then drop him and progress onto playing Kingpin. But then I ended up having too much fun as Bullseye to drop him, and so I kept on playing him, and the rest is history, I guess. So, I kinda see playing this role as a chance to go full-circle in my RPing career.
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
In the heart of Manhattan, there is one skyscraper that stands amongst the others, fairly non-descript amidst some of its flashier contemporaries. There is no lavish signage, nothing to suggest extravagance. It is, by all exterior appearances, a fairly unremarkable office building, the kind of building countless people will walk by on their regular commute every day without ever once giving a second glance. The whole building is owned by Wilson Fisk. Like his building, there is nothing about Fisk that would suggest extravagance. He is a soft-spoken man, not given to media appearances or publicity, and though he is one of the wealthiest men in America, few would recognise him if they walked past him on the street. Like his building, he is largely unremarkable. On the exterior.
His skyscraper, which does not bear the name Fisk Tower or any such ostentatious branding, serves as the primary US base of administrative operations for his multinational company, which handles the import of authentic spices and flavourings from Japan and other key locations across Eastern Asia into the US and other Western territories. It also houses several ostensibly independent legal offices and accounting firms which are in fact also owned by Fisk. Much of the top portion of the massive building, sealed off to general employees, acts as the home of Fisk himself. Three floors are dedicated to being his personal abode, making for a living space the size of many a grandiose country manor. The top of these three levels is sealed off even from the rest, set aside as Fisk's private working area, including a self-contained bedroom and en suite bathroom. The two levels above this, near the very top of the building, include Fisk's personal gym and swimming pool.
As the sun sets on New York City, Wilson Fisk awakens from a short slumber in the aforementioned private bedroom. The longest rest Fisk allows himself at the end of the night is 2 hours. To compensate, the rest of the day is punctuated with brief, 15-30 minute "power naps" to maintain his energy and maximise his productivity. He's a busy man. Upon waking, he takes a brief shower - he cleans obsessively - in his en suite, especially converted into a large, open-plan wetroom to accommodate his hulking frame. Yes, if there were to be anything at all about Fisk's exterior that could be said to be more than unremarkable, it would be the sheer size of the man. Very tall, and almost as wide, he had by all accounts a massive frame. As a child, some may have made fun of him for being fat. As a young adult, those who learned it would be unwise to say such things to his face may have joked about his weight behind his back. Nowadays, nobody said anything about Fisk's appearance, to his face or otherwise.
Pulling on a bathrobe and lighting a cigar, Fisk sat himself down at his computer, a mental list of housekeeping points to run through and check for updates on. One notification he was pleased to see was more news on the status of one Abel Wyatt...
...
Abel Wyatt is an incredibly ill man. Before his illness rendered him unable to work, he was a journalist for the Daily Bugle, a financial columnist to be precise. A little over a month ago, he published an article commenting on some financial irregularities in Wilson Fisk's spice importing business. This did not make front page news. It was a largely-overlooked piece, not picked up and explored to any great detail by any other publications. Even Wyatt himself did not write it with the intention of implicating Fisk or his organisation in any deeper wrongdoing, with the tone implying middle-management incompetence more than anything else.
But it was a thread. Something that someone, most likely Wyatt himself, might be inclined to pull at. They wouldn't find anything, not directly. But there might be holes, absences, further threads for someone who looked too closely to keep on tugging at... and who knows where that might lead? The parties within the organisation whose negligence had caused these irregularities had already been neutralised, and so that only left Wyatt himself. He couldn't just be killed, because then some other journalist might view that as suspicious and start following it up. And so, Wyatt's trusted family doctor broke the news to Wyatt last week that he had a rare chronic illness whose symptoms included constant pain and the loss of bodily functions. He prescribed Wyatt with medication to ease these symptoms, which he warned him would be sure to present themselves in force before long. In fact, the trusted family doctor was being blackmailed into dosing Wyatt's medication with a poison which would replicate the symptoms of the chronic disease Wyatt didn't actually have. The more pain Wyatt was in, the more medication he'd take, which in turn would steadily worsen his symptoms. A few weeks from now, Wyatt would be dead, left lying in a puddle of the contents of his voided bowels, having endured constant, unspeakable agony.
This is what The Kingpin of Crime would call a precaution.
...
Fisk was pleased with the latest round of updates, save for one minor niggle he would take further measures to address shortly. For the most part, his operations were now so stable and efficient that oversight was all that was required of him, the occasional nod of approval. Any kind of action from him, even indirect, was uncommon. But he was able to do when required. But first, it was time to get himself ready for the evening. Fisk drew from his closet the tailored suit he had chosen for the occasion: white in color, with a purple tie. Fisk was just adjusting his tie, when he received a new message. It contained some photographs of Stacy Albright, and he needed to choose which one was most suitable for use by the third party who would be distributing them. Fisk smiled thinly...
...
It had been a long time since The Kingpin of Crime had convened a roundtable of the East Coast's various crime families. He was long removed from such things. The heads of each family were his people, handpicked and groomed for leadership by him, and they now had enough autonomy to hold their own meetings... with the content of the meetings reported back in full to him, of course. These were powerful men, but these days were mostly beneath The Kingpin's notice. The roundtables he held these days included corporate CEOs, heads of legal firms, newspaper editors, Governors, the Police Commissioner, The Mayor. These days, The Kingpin only revealed himself to those who were the most powerful. Those who had the most to lose.
One relatively recent addition to the table had been Nathan Albright, a Wall Street high-flyer who had found increasing sway over the financial markets. The Kingpin had learned that everyone has a pressure point, a weakness to exploit, and for Nathan, it was his wife, Stacy. The public story, which in itself had been "hushed up" to give it some air of legitimacy, was that Stacy had been struggling with addiction, and had been admitted to a private clinic in order to deal with her issues. In truth, though, the institute belonged to The Kingpin of Crime, and Stacy was being held hostage. Not permanently, but long enough to let Nathan know how little control he had over his own life, how easily those he loved could be crushed under heel, and to ensure his compliance for the foreseeable future. And it seemed to have worked, until the last couple of meetings. Of course, Nathan had not said anything, or made any overt expression of dissent. The fact that he was still alive attested to that. But The Kingpin had sensed something sullen and obstinate in Albright's demeanor that displeased him, a whisper of backbone yet to be broken, and decided it best to temper that before it blossomed into anything that would jeopardise Albright's usefulness to his operation.
So, yesterday, Nathan Albright received a parcel by courier that contained two of Stacy's toes, delicately encased in bubble wrap. At 3am tomorrow morning, a masked man would enter Nathan's home and personally deliver to him a photograph - carefully selected - showing an unsettling act of violence being committed on his wife. This would likely be enough to ensure that Mr. Albright behaved himself in future meetings.
...
Now dressed, Wilson Fisk poured himself a glass of scotch. He sat himself down in his luxurious leather sofa, positioned to let him look outside at the New York City skyline, survey his kingdom. He dialled a number on his phone. He was addressing that niggle now, and this would require him to actually deign to talk to someone to get something done. The number he was calling was known only to him. The phone was used only for receiving these calls - utterly untraceable, like all other communications coming from Fisk's private office - and so when it rang, the recipient of the call knew exactly who wished to speak with him.
"Hello?" Silvio Manfredi stammered, a note of unease in his voice.
"Silvio," Fisk said plainly, "I have been hearing of disturbances in your harbour operations. Something to do with a vigilante?"
The Maggia was an international crime conglomerate, one whose influence extended far beyond New York City. But in this particular corner of the world, this wing of the Maggia had been conquered long ago by The Kingpin. While The Maggia might have been feared rivals back when Fisk worked for Rigoletto, Manfredi was his man, unbeknownst to anyone, even other branches of The Maggia outside the East Coast.
"A minor inconvenience," replied Manfredi, "I have already tasked the Enforcers to deal with this devil character."
"The Enforcers are good men," said Fisk, "Bobby Karnelli, however, is not."
"Excuse me?"
"Bobby Karnelli. He is the one who gave up the whereabouts of this dock to your vigilante, was he not?"
"Well, yes, but how did you..."
"He is a liability. Have him killed. I trust you can handle this business on your own."
"No, now look here, I can't just kill one of my top earners..."
Fisk took a sip of whisky. He had little tolerance for people questioning his instructions.
"Silvio, stop talking. I would like you to take a hold of your testicles for me."
"...What!?"
"Was I unclear?" Fisk asked casually, "Your testicles. They dangle down underneath your member. Your medical report informs me the one on the right is a little bigger. Reach down your pants and cup them in your pants. Just pretend that I'm watching and know whether you're actually doing it or not."
There was a momentary pause. Fisk smiled at the thought of Manfredi realising that it wasn't outwith the realm of possibility that Fisk could somehow see what he was doing in the privacy of his own home.
"Okay," came a small voice from the other end of the line.
"Good," said Fisk, speaking with the calm, measured tone of an accountant giving financial advice, "Now, I want you to remember something. Those balls in your hand don't belong to you. They belong to me. I sub-let them to you. And if at any time I decide your performance is unsatisfactory, or even if on a whim I decide I would like a change, I can rip those balls off of you and hand them to one of half a dozen people I have ready to take your place. So, when we have these conversations, it is not a place for you to haggle or negotiate with me, or for you to get across your point of view. I am giving you orders, and you are receiving them and putting them into action. Do you understand?"
"...I understand."
"Well, then. I trust you will take care of Mr. Karnelli, then. Good evening."
...
Bobby Karnelli would be found dead later that night in an alley behind the brothel he routinely frequented, a bullet hole in the back of his head. A local gangster dying violently would not be viewed with much in the way of surprise or suspicion, and any investigation would find that mid-level Maggia enforcers were behind the hit. That's what gangsters did, after all: kill each other. The Kingpin of Crime was beyond that. All he needed to do was whisper the right words in the right ears to make things happen. He didn't kill people anymore. Not unless he needed to. Or wanted to.
...
Wilson Fisk viewed New York City not as a metropolis of brick, steel and concrete, but as a living, breathing entity. And like any living body, there was always dead material on the periphery waiting to be scrubbed off. Frayed nails, split hairs, fragments of dry skin, these would be snipped or swiped away to keep the body clean and tidy, and would not be missed. Fisk recognised that a little snipping and swiping was necessary to keep the body of his empire running at peak capacity. A comfortable, successful life on the scale he has achieved always requires a little death.
Now ready, and with his housekeeping attended to, Fisk stepped into his private elevator and exited his office. When he got into his main living area downstairs, he momentarily squinted. He liked to keep things so dim and moody upstairs that the bright, homely lighting down here momentarily took him aback.
"The Kraken awakes!"
Vanessa, his wife of 15 years, was waiting for him. She was dressed in a stunning evening dress, and in Wilson Fisk's eyes, was as beautiful as the day he'd met her. He drew her in for a kiss.
"Let's skip this event tonight," he whispered playfully in her ear, "All of a sudden I feel like a quiet night in."
Vanessa laughed and his him playfully on the arm.
"I get to talk to actual, living, breathing people rarely enough as it is, Wilson," she jokingly chided, "Just because my husband's a hermit doesn't mean I'm going to miss this gala!"
The event was a charity fundraiser to benefit struggling schools in Hell's Kitchen and other inner city areas. Fisk had donated generously, as it was a matter close to his heart. He too was, after all, a child of Hell's Kitchen.
"Okay then, I'll endure it," Fisk sighed, "But just for you."
Vanessa took Wilson's hand and looked up at him lovingly.
"I always can get you to do what I tell you," she laughed, "My big, gentle giant."
They kissed again, and headed for the elevator down to the ground floor. The security detail was already waiting at the entrance to escort them to the gala.
One of the things that Wilson Fisk loved about Vanessa was that she believed he was a good man. Of course, he knew better. He knew that there was no such thing as a truly good man. In his experience, it was easy to be good when circumstances were in your favor. But everyone had the right trigger, the right weak point, and when you found it, you could just keep turning that screw and watch as people cast aside every moral and principle they had ever acquired. That was the core of the human condition, the one thing that Wilson Fisk had learned was the most valuable currency of all. More than money, more than firepower, more than anything, it was what ensured his position as The Kingpin of Crime had remained unchallenged for so long. Fear. And no man could ever stand against him for long... because nowhere in this world would you find a man without fear.
Character Name: The Kingpin
Alignment (Hero, Villain, Walking the Line): Villain
Character Speech Color and Font (ex: Red Bold Veranda):
DarkSlateGray
Powers and Abilities:
The Kingpin has no superhuman powers, though he has what could be considered peak human strength, and remarkable speed and agility for a man his size. But more formidable are his brilliant strategic mind, and the vast network of resources at his disposal.
Character Origin/Backstory:
Wilson Fisk is, to the world at large, a humble dealer in spices. But behind his facade as successful legitimate businessman, Fisk is in fact The Kingpin of Crime: a single, monarch-like ruler of all organised crime on the East Coast. Even among those few who have heard of The Kingpin of Crime, most believe him to be a mere myth. The thought that one person could be the ultimate figurehead of such a vast, sprawling crime network? Impossible. In fact, Fisk's influence goes beyond even that, into the realms of property, media, the financial markets, and more. This has been the way of things for many years, his beginnings as a young street thug in Hell's Kitchen who clawed his way up through the ranks long forgotten by history and erased from the record books. As right hand man to mob boss Rigoletto, he masterminded a plan where all the East Coast's major crime families would pool their resources to create a "Kingpin," a ghost to distract and misdirect the authorities. But then Fisk betrayed all the bosses, Rigoletto included, and actually claimed this false identity and the fortune invested in its upkeep as his own. That was the foundation from which he built his now vast empire.
Why this character?
The main reason I've picked this character is that he's a villain. The game is desperately low on villains, and I've picked someone who can be a relevant foil for the largely street-level heroes on the roster, and who can hopefully facilitate and coordinate other villains as the game progresses. But on a more personal note, I've picked The Kingpin because he's one of my favourite Marvel characters, but one I've never actually got to play in an RPG, to my recollection. A few of you may remember that, when I first started playing in Hype! RPGs over a decade ago, my username was Keyser Kingpin. Even back then, Wilson Fisk was a favourite of mine. Indeed, back when I first picked up Bullseye in the first season of the World of Heroes Marvel RPG, my intention was to play Bullseye for a stint, likely the length of a storyline, then drop him and progress onto playing Kingpin. But then I ended up having too much fun as Bullseye to drop him, and so I kept on playing him, and the rest is history, I guess. So, I kinda see playing this role as a chance to go full-circle in my RPing career.
Provide a sample post as your character, with at least three paragraphs and featuring at least one line of dialogue:
In the heart of Manhattan, there is one skyscraper that stands amongst the others, fairly non-descript amidst some of its flashier contemporaries. There is no lavish signage, nothing to suggest extravagance. It is, by all exterior appearances, a fairly unremarkable office building, the kind of building countless people will walk by on their regular commute every day without ever once giving a second glance. The whole building is owned by Wilson Fisk. Like his building, there is nothing about Fisk that would suggest extravagance. He is a soft-spoken man, not given to media appearances or publicity, and though he is one of the wealthiest men in America, few would recognise him if they walked past him on the street. Like his building, he is largely unremarkable. On the exterior.
His skyscraper, which does not bear the name Fisk Tower or any such ostentatious branding, serves as the primary US base of administrative operations for his multinational company, which handles the import of authentic spices and flavourings from Japan and other key locations across Eastern Asia into the US and other Western territories. It also houses several ostensibly independent legal offices and accounting firms which are in fact also owned by Fisk. Much of the top portion of the massive building, sealed off to general employees, acts as the home of Fisk himself. Three floors are dedicated to being his personal abode, making for a living space the size of many a grandiose country manor. The top of these three levels is sealed off even from the rest, set aside as Fisk's private working area, including a self-contained bedroom and en suite bathroom. The two levels above this, near the very top of the building, include Fisk's personal gym and swimming pool.
As the sun sets on New York City, Wilson Fisk awakens from a short slumber in the aforementioned private bedroom. The longest rest Fisk allows himself at the end of the night is 2 hours. To compensate, the rest of the day is punctuated with brief, 15-30 minute "power naps" to maintain his energy and maximise his productivity. He's a busy man. Upon waking, he takes a brief shower - he cleans obsessively - in his en suite, especially converted into a large, open-plan wetroom to accommodate his hulking frame. Yes, if there were to be anything at all about Fisk's exterior that could be said to be more than unremarkable, it would be the sheer size of the man. Very tall, and almost as wide, he had by all accounts a massive frame. As a child, some may have made fun of him for being fat. As a young adult, those who learned it would be unwise to say such things to his face may have joked about his weight behind his back. Nowadays, nobody said anything about Fisk's appearance, to his face or otherwise.
Pulling on a bathrobe and lighting a cigar, Fisk sat himself down at his computer, a mental list of housekeeping points to run through and check for updates on. One notification he was pleased to see was more news on the status of one Abel Wyatt...
...
Abel Wyatt is an incredibly ill man. Before his illness rendered him unable to work, he was a journalist for the Daily Bugle, a financial columnist to be precise. A little over a month ago, he published an article commenting on some financial irregularities in Wilson Fisk's spice importing business. This did not make front page news. It was a largely-overlooked piece, not picked up and explored to any great detail by any other publications. Even Wyatt himself did not write it with the intention of implicating Fisk or his organisation in any deeper wrongdoing, with the tone implying middle-management incompetence more than anything else.
But it was a thread. Something that someone, most likely Wyatt himself, might be inclined to pull at. They wouldn't find anything, not directly. But there might be holes, absences, further threads for someone who looked too closely to keep on tugging at... and who knows where that might lead? The parties within the organisation whose negligence had caused these irregularities had already been neutralised, and so that only left Wyatt himself. He couldn't just be killed, because then some other journalist might view that as suspicious and start following it up. And so, Wyatt's trusted family doctor broke the news to Wyatt last week that he had a rare chronic illness whose symptoms included constant pain and the loss of bodily functions. He prescribed Wyatt with medication to ease these symptoms, which he warned him would be sure to present themselves in force before long. In fact, the trusted family doctor was being blackmailed into dosing Wyatt's medication with a poison which would replicate the symptoms of the chronic disease Wyatt didn't actually have. The more pain Wyatt was in, the more medication he'd take, which in turn would steadily worsen his symptoms. A few weeks from now, Wyatt would be dead, left lying in a puddle of the contents of his voided bowels, having endured constant, unspeakable agony.
This is what The Kingpin of Crime would call a precaution.
...
Fisk was pleased with the latest round of updates, save for one minor niggle he would take further measures to address shortly. For the most part, his operations were now so stable and efficient that oversight was all that was required of him, the occasional nod of approval. Any kind of action from him, even indirect, was uncommon. But he was able to do when required. But first, it was time to get himself ready for the evening. Fisk drew from his closet the tailored suit he had chosen for the occasion: white in color, with a purple tie. Fisk was just adjusting his tie, when he received a new message. It contained some photographs of Stacy Albright, and he needed to choose which one was most suitable for use by the third party who would be distributing them. Fisk smiled thinly...
...
It had been a long time since The Kingpin of Crime had convened a roundtable of the East Coast's various crime families. He was long removed from such things. The heads of each family were his people, handpicked and groomed for leadership by him, and they now had enough autonomy to hold their own meetings... with the content of the meetings reported back in full to him, of course. These were powerful men, but these days were mostly beneath The Kingpin's notice. The roundtables he held these days included corporate CEOs, heads of legal firms, newspaper editors, Governors, the Police Commissioner, The Mayor. These days, The Kingpin only revealed himself to those who were the most powerful. Those who had the most to lose.
One relatively recent addition to the table had been Nathan Albright, a Wall Street high-flyer who had found increasing sway over the financial markets. The Kingpin had learned that everyone has a pressure point, a weakness to exploit, and for Nathan, it was his wife, Stacy. The public story, which in itself had been "hushed up" to give it some air of legitimacy, was that Stacy had been struggling with addiction, and had been admitted to a private clinic in order to deal with her issues. In truth, though, the institute belonged to The Kingpin of Crime, and Stacy was being held hostage. Not permanently, but long enough to let Nathan know how little control he had over his own life, how easily those he loved could be crushed under heel, and to ensure his compliance for the foreseeable future. And it seemed to have worked, until the last couple of meetings. Of course, Nathan had not said anything, or made any overt expression of dissent. The fact that he was still alive attested to that. But The Kingpin had sensed something sullen and obstinate in Albright's demeanor that displeased him, a whisper of backbone yet to be broken, and decided it best to temper that before it blossomed into anything that would jeopardise Albright's usefulness to his operation.
So, yesterday, Nathan Albright received a parcel by courier that contained two of Stacy's toes, delicately encased in bubble wrap. At 3am tomorrow morning, a masked man would enter Nathan's home and personally deliver to him a photograph - carefully selected - showing an unsettling act of violence being committed on his wife. This would likely be enough to ensure that Mr. Albright behaved himself in future meetings.
...
Now dressed, Wilson Fisk poured himself a glass of scotch. He sat himself down in his luxurious leather sofa, positioned to let him look outside at the New York City skyline, survey his kingdom. He dialled a number on his phone. He was addressing that niggle now, and this would require him to actually deign to talk to someone to get something done. The number he was calling was known only to him. The phone was used only for receiving these calls - utterly untraceable, like all other communications coming from Fisk's private office - and so when it rang, the recipient of the call knew exactly who wished to speak with him.
"Hello?" Silvio Manfredi stammered, a note of unease in his voice.
"Silvio," Fisk said plainly, "I have been hearing of disturbances in your harbour operations. Something to do with a vigilante?"
The Maggia was an international crime conglomerate, one whose influence extended far beyond New York City. But in this particular corner of the world, this wing of the Maggia had been conquered long ago by The Kingpin. While The Maggia might have been feared rivals back when Fisk worked for Rigoletto, Manfredi was his man, unbeknownst to anyone, even other branches of The Maggia outside the East Coast.
"A minor inconvenience," replied Manfredi, "I have already tasked the Enforcers to deal with this devil character."
"The Enforcers are good men," said Fisk, "Bobby Karnelli, however, is not."
"Excuse me?"
"Bobby Karnelli. He is the one who gave up the whereabouts of this dock to your vigilante, was he not?"
"Well, yes, but how did you..."
"He is a liability. Have him killed. I trust you can handle this business on your own."
"No, now look here, I can't just kill one of my top earners..."
Fisk took a sip of whisky. He had little tolerance for people questioning his instructions.
"Silvio, stop talking. I would like you to take a hold of your testicles for me."
"...What!?"
"Was I unclear?" Fisk asked casually, "Your testicles. They dangle down underneath your member. Your medical report informs me the one on the right is a little bigger. Reach down your pants and cup them in your pants. Just pretend that I'm watching and know whether you're actually doing it or not."
There was a momentary pause. Fisk smiled at the thought of Manfredi realising that it wasn't outwith the realm of possibility that Fisk could somehow see what he was doing in the privacy of his own home.
"Okay," came a small voice from the other end of the line.
"Good," said Fisk, speaking with the calm, measured tone of an accountant giving financial advice, "Now, I want you to remember something. Those balls in your hand don't belong to you. They belong to me. I sub-let them to you. And if at any time I decide your performance is unsatisfactory, or even if on a whim I decide I would like a change, I can rip those balls off of you and hand them to one of half a dozen people I have ready to take your place. So, when we have these conversations, it is not a place for you to haggle or negotiate with me, or for you to get across your point of view. I am giving you orders, and you are receiving them and putting them into action. Do you understand?"
"...I understand."
"Well, then. I trust you will take care of Mr. Karnelli, then. Good evening."
...
Bobby Karnelli would be found dead later that night in an alley behind the brothel he routinely frequented, a bullet hole in the back of his head. A local gangster dying violently would not be viewed with much in the way of surprise or suspicion, and any investigation would find that mid-level Maggia enforcers were behind the hit. That's what gangsters did, after all: kill each other. The Kingpin of Crime was beyond that. All he needed to do was whisper the right words in the right ears to make things happen. He didn't kill people anymore. Not unless he needed to. Or wanted to.
...
Wilson Fisk viewed New York City not as a metropolis of brick, steel and concrete, but as a living, breathing entity. And like any living body, there was always dead material on the periphery waiting to be scrubbed off. Frayed nails, split hairs, fragments of dry skin, these would be snipped or swiped away to keep the body clean and tidy, and would not be missed. Fisk recognised that a little snipping and swiping was necessary to keep the body of his empire running at peak capacity. A comfortable, successful life on the scale he has achieved always requires a little death.
Now ready, and with his housekeeping attended to, Fisk stepped into his private elevator and exited his office. When he got into his main living area downstairs, he momentarily squinted. He liked to keep things so dim and moody upstairs that the bright, homely lighting down here momentarily took him aback.
"The Kraken awakes!"
Vanessa, his wife of 15 years, was waiting for him. She was dressed in a stunning evening dress, and in Wilson Fisk's eyes, was as beautiful as the day he'd met her. He drew her in for a kiss.
"Let's skip this event tonight," he whispered playfully in her ear, "All of a sudden I feel like a quiet night in."
Vanessa laughed and his him playfully on the arm.
"I get to talk to actual, living, breathing people rarely enough as it is, Wilson," she jokingly chided, "Just because my husband's a hermit doesn't mean I'm going to miss this gala!"
The event was a charity fundraiser to benefit struggling schools in Hell's Kitchen and other inner city areas. Fisk had donated generously, as it was a matter close to his heart. He too was, after all, a child of Hell's Kitchen.
"Okay then, I'll endure it," Fisk sighed, "But just for you."
Vanessa took Wilson's hand and looked up at him lovingly.
"I always can get you to do what I tell you," she laughed, "My big, gentle giant."
They kissed again, and headed for the elevator down to the ground floor. The security detail was already waiting at the entrance to escort them to the gala.
One of the things that Wilson Fisk loved about Vanessa was that she believed he was a good man. Of course, he knew better. He knew that there was no such thing as a truly good man. In his experience, it was easy to be good when circumstances were in your favor. But everyone had the right trigger, the right weak point, and when you found it, you could just keep turning that screw and watch as people cast aside every moral and principle they had ever acquired. That was the core of the human condition, the one thing that Wilson Fisk had learned was the most valuable currency of all. More than money, more than firepower, more than anything, it was what ensured his position as The Kingpin of Crime had remained unchallenged for so long. Fear. And no man could ever stand against him for long... because nowhere in this world would you find a man without fear.
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Keyser Soze
AW YEEEAH!
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Oh wait, I just looked up and saw that Carnage27 DROPPED Daredevil for Spider-Man. I thought he'd picked up Spider-Man in addition to Daredevil! Damn!
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