The Create-A-Post Thread

[Carnage27]

Family Secrets
Finale

Fire rains down from the sky as I hobble up to the top of the building, leaving Raphael where he fell, gravely wounded. I leave him like we left Donnie and Mike behind as well, pushing ourselves towards the top of the Foot Clan's stronghold in order to achieve our destiny and enact revenge upon Oroku Saki and bring the Foot Clan crashing down.

They've done so much to this city, to this world, that justice must be done. Weeks ago they assassinated every government official in the city to send a message after weeks of us and the police working in tandem to shut their operations down. Not only that, but they helped that Rasputin guy bring about what ever is happening out there tonight. Some are calling it the end of the world. If that's the case, Oroku Saki will die before he sees it.

As I push open the door to the roof, I look up to see the immense dragon heads still writhing in the sky, reaching down to seemingly devour the earth.

"So one of you actually made it?" I hear the same sinister laugh that taunted me the night I failed to save Splinter from April's burning building. I turn to see the immense form of the Shredder standing in the middle of the roof, his armor glowing orange from the fiery rain. "I'll have to better train my elite guard next time."

I draw my last remaining katana and face him, "There won't be a next time, Shredder. Tonight you die, and justice will be served at the world's end."

He laughs a deep laugh, "This is not the end, freak. The world is merely being reborn in my friends' and I's image. And I will not be the one dying tonight. Come now, and let me gut you like the pathetic creature that you are."

Gathering my remaining strength, I rush at him, my sword raised and prepared to strike. As I reach him, though, he moves like lightening. His sword is drawn and I have to move faster than I ever have to block his strike. After a few more strikes and counters, he drives his foot into my chest, sending me tumbling backwards. I slip over the side of the building, but manage to grab the side before falling to my death.

"You fight well," he laughs from above. "I'm not surprised you made it all the way to me. But you must realize you really don't stand a chance. I'm your superior in every way, turtle. It's why no one has stopped me in my lifetime, and it is why no one ever will. But I am impressed. Come up here if you have the strength. I want to give you the gift of an honorable death."

I manage to swing myself back up onto the roof, and grab my sword where I dropped it, "You're awfully sure of yourself. You'd get along with my brother Raph."

Rolling towards him with surprising speed I bring my blade up, catching him across the front of his leg. His armor takes the brunt of the blow, but I hear a satisfying grunt of pain from my opponent. But as I bring my sword down to attack his shoulder, he brings his own sword up and the clang of metal rings out.

"That may be so," Shredder says with vile joy. "It's too bad he is dead."

I shouldn't allow the comment to get to me, but it does. Raph was alive when I left him, but I'd be lying to myself if I thought there wasn't a good chance he was dead, as well as my other brothers. And Splinter. It's just then I realize that I very well could be alone in this world, and that thought breaks my concentration.

Shredder shifts his weight, allowing his clawed hand freedom. He slashes it across my face, sending white hot pain running through me. I attempt to raise my sword to defend myself, but it's easily batted away and out of my hand, clanging across the roof of the building. My vision is blurred as blood seeps into my eyes, but Shredder is visible enough to avoid most of his attacks.

But eventually my impaired sight causes me to trip over piping laid across the roof, and I scramble backwards on my hands and feet, attempting to distance myself from him.

He laughs at this, "There. Now you look like a real turtle. Crawling like the scum you are trying to flee your superior." He raises his sword and says, "I will honor you by hanging your shell in my trophy room."

I prepare myself for the strike that will end my life, and I say a silent prayer that I will be reunited with my family soon.

But the sword doesn't fall, and instead, Shredder yells in pain and I look up to see an arrow sticking out of his arm. He drops to a knee, and behind him stands a ghost.

"You will not win tonight, Oroku Saki," Master Splinter says angrily. "Tonight justice will be served for my master, Hamato Yoshi."

I scramble, gathering my sword and stand by Splinter's side, not sure if this is real, or I've died and gone to the after life.

But Shredder just laughs again, louder and with more enjoyment than before, "It all makes sense now. The fighting style was so familiar. So very much like my own. Splinter. My old rat."

He takes off his mask, and Splinter draws a sharp, surprised, and pained breath. The man is horribly burned, but Splinter obviously recognizes him. "No. It cannot be. You died."

"No," he shakes his head with a grotesque smile on his face. "Saki died in the explosion, and I saw the opportunity I always craved. Freedom. My own criminal empire here in America. It's why I came here in the first place. The Foot in Japan had become soft, but America was open for business. I would start my own branch, and I would make the greatest criminal empire the world had ever seen. The Foot sent Saki to stop me before I started. But obviously they failed."

Halfway through his speech, I realize what's happened. Oroku Saki has been dead for my entire life. The Shredder is Hamato Yoshi. The man my father idolized and respected. My entire life, hell, Splinter's entire life has been built on lies and deceit.

"So, rat, you've wasted your entire life trying to exact revenge on a man who's been dead and actually is more in line with your teachings than the man you wanted to avenge. This is an even sweeter victory than I ever could have imagined."

"Who says you're gonna win, Shred-head?" a voice comes from the door to the building. There stands Raph and my other brothers, bloodied but alive. "Last time I checked we got an undefeated record against your goons. Now it's your turn."

"Impossible," he mutters under his breath.

"Come on dude," Mikey laughs painfully. "We're six foot, walking, talking turtles. Now that's impossible."

"You're done, Shredder," I say, pointing my sword at him. "Give up or fall on your own sword. You decide."

"I'll take option three," he responds, pulling another thermite grenade, the same kind that engulfed April's house.

"No!" Donnie yells, sliding towards him and knocking the grande from his hand and over the side of the building.

I waste no time, I duck beneath a slash from Shredder's sword and drive mine through a weak part of his armor. I whisper in his ear, "Justice has been served."

Pulling out my sword, and with a quick flick of my wrists, I decapitate The Shredder. The leader of the Foot Clan. Hamato Yoshi. My surrogate grandfather.

I drop to my knees as Shredder's head rolls away from us, and my father and brothers embrace me as the world nears its end.

********

OOC:

Needless to say this would have been the climactic showdown at the end of the first season of the Turtles in the Independents game. Since that game is never going to work, I figured I'd just post it to show the twist I was planning on implementing with Shredder's identity.
​

 

[Carnage27]

So I've got a project idea I'm going to start this weekend. Started out as an idea for a Independents arc, but I'll morph it to be more of a standalone thing.

 

[Byrd Man]

Don't jibba jabba about it! Do it! Do it!

 

[Carnage27]

Don't jibba jabba about it! Do it! Do it!

I will, dangnabbit! I've got a big action sequence to deal with in OE first!

 

[Carnage27]

The Gathering
Part 1
​

"I thought you said I was clear!" he yells into the communicator as he scrambles over a street vendor's stall, almost falling in the process. He turns to see the man in hot pursuit, and the vendor yelling obscenities in Arabic his way. The man glides smoothly over the stall and gains a little ground. "Damn this guy is good."

"I dunno what to tell you kid," his partner says on the other end of the line. "You were clear goin in. The guy doesn't match out records of the guards. And it looked like he was waiting for you to leave."

The man being chased hops onto a few crates and then jumps, barely grabbing a hold of a rooftop ledge. He climbs over it and springs to his feet, hoping he can get enough room between him and his pursuer.

But as he hops over an air conditioning unit, he turns to see the man come over the rooftop, "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

Coming to a drain pipe, he shimmies up it to a higher level, interupting a couple having a romantic nighttime dinner on a terrace. He accidentally knocks over their wine bucket and apologizes, "Sorry, folks! But hey, it'll be a story!"

Stumbling onto the roof, he almost falls as the shingles slide out from under his feet, sending a few cascading onto the streets below. He hears the faint shattering as they hit the ground, but manages to keep his footing and heads towards the opposite end. But he comes to a sliding stop after seeing the courtyard below, and the gap to the nearest ledge.

But the decisions is made for him, when he hears more shingles shattering, meaning the other man has reached the roof. He backs up and readies himself for the jump, "Ah hell. I need a new job."

He makes the leap easier than he anticipated, smashing though a set of shutters and rolling into a patron's room. A woman shrieks and covers up her bare bosom, while her partner starts to threaten me. Getting up and running towards the exit to the hallway he remarks, "Man I am such a cock block tonight."

Barreling down the hallway, the man's screaming intensifies, meaning his new friend made the jump as well. The one fleeing hopes the angry partner will slow the other down, but he wouldn't be on it.

He makes it down to the kitchen, but the seeker has caught up. In a desperation move, the man swings open a freezer door trying to knock the other down, but to no avail.

The two of them spill out into an alley, and finally, the man is cornered. He draws his weapons and points it at the aggressor, "I don't want to shoot you. But I will. There's no way I'm ending up in jail tonight. Or ever really."

​

"I wasn't planning on taking you to jail, Mr. Drake," the other responds in a British accent. He's masked in shadow, so Drake can't get a good look at him. But he's confident, that's for sure. And athletic. And probably knows hundreds of ways of killing Nathan. "But I must say, your reputation is obviously earned. You were not easy to catch."

"British? What are you, private security?" Drake asks, not caring for small talk. "Or are you someone hired to come after me for revenge? I hate those kinds of guys. And let me remind you, I'd rather not shoot you."

"I'd rather you not as well," the other laughs. But not an amused laugh. More of a cold, calculated laugh. A laugh that says, "If you tried, it wouldn't work". But he continues, "I'm not here to take that piece you just stole from you. No, on the contrary, I'm here to ask for your help."

Drake, while still uneasy, lowers his weapon, "You do know there are better ways of going about hiring me, right? Like maybe a phone call. Email? Text message? Anything is preferable to the whole rooftop chase. I do that too much as is."

"Yes, well, I needed to make sure of your prowess," the other man responds. "You are a professional, that's for sure. Most people would have needed at least one partner to pull of the heist you just did."

"I learned from the best," Drake says proudly.

"Indeed you did. Now, would you like to hear my offer? It's incredibly important and time sensitive."

"Sure," Drake nods. "But first, I'm at least gonna need a name."

"My name?" he says, stepping into the light.

"Bond. James Bond."

**********

"So what's this important job you've got lined up?" Nathan Drake asks, taking a sip of beer and leaning back in his chair. He didn't very much trust the man sitting in front of him, but the urgency in the man's voice meant there could be a big pay day in line.

"I'm putting together an expedition for the United Nations," Bond responds, taking a sip of his own drink. A martini. A little frilly for Drake's taste, but the British man made it work. The guy just oozed class. The complete opposite of the rough-around-the-edges Drake. "We set out in a few weeks."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Victor "Sully" Sullivan says from the third chair at the table. Sully has basically been Nate's father for the better part of his life, and the man that taught Drake everything he knows. And he is not happy with what he's hearing, "I don't know if you realize, buddy, but we're not the most respectable people. Teaming up with people who would probably like to arrest us doesn't seem like that great of an idea."

"They're willing to overlook past transgressions for your cooperation," Bond says. "As well as providing hefty compensation."

Sully is about to protest more, but Drake waves him down, "Relax, Sully. So where are we headed. What are you looking for?"

"Have you ever heard of Hamunaptra?'

Drake lets out a chuckle, "Come on. That old bedtime story? Yea I've heard of it. Old city of the dead in Egypt. Lost for centuries until it was found in the 1920s. Supposedly some sort of evil magical force was awakened, defeated, and then the city was swallowed by the sands. You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not," he shakes his head. "And you know it had a sister city?"

"I know some British engineers came about something that the locals called Hamunaptra in India when building a railroad. But it's nothing more than some simple ruins."

"Yea, nothing of value was ever found there."

"Until recently...at least that's what we're led to believe," Bond says, sliding a folder over the table towards Drake. "I have to go. I have other places to be. But if you're interested, meet in London exactly one week from now. This will give you the location and some minor details."

Before either of the other men can speak, Bond excuses himself and leaves. Drake picks up the folder, noticing the small label in the top right corner, the only mark on the entire front, but says more than the man can understand.

"Kid," Sully says, looking at it too. "What the hell have you gotten us into?"
​

 

[Byrd Man]

An American in the League?! Blasphemy!

 

[Carnage27]

An American in the League?! Blasphemy!

Deal with it!

The majority will be British characters.

 

[Byrd Man]

Boo this man!!!

 

[Carnage27]

Boo this man!!!

 

[SuperFerret]

"I was raised very religiously. I mean, growing up in rural Kansas, you kind of have to be. I'm familiar with the Bible, but it's only now, as an adult, that I understand Jesus Christ.

It must have been hard to be him, and I'm not even thinking of the people who hounded him and persecuted him. Every hero has his villains, I know that better than most, but for someone like Christ, someone like me, living up to your own legend is a much bigger cross to bear.

I'm sorry, I'm not too prone to quips like that. What I'm saying is that, while I don't doubt that he performed miracles (and let's be honest, we see miracles all the time these days), I think the accounts have been exaggerated, and I'm sure he knew that they were if my suspicions are correct. Imagine going to a place you've never been to before and the locals there are already worshiping you based on a story they heard about something you didn't actually do! I bet he dealt with that all the time, I know I do.

I admit, it's a bit egotistical to compare myself to Jesus Christ, but to be frank, I'm far from the first to do so. Also, I'm not claiming to be a messiah. I don't want that. What I'm saying is that I feel that Jesus didn't seek it out either. He was just a man, granted, an extraordinary man, who had some abilities and felt a need to show people how best to live by setting a good example. That's how I'd like to be remembered, as a good man who set an example, not canonized as a saint for embellishments and things I'm not responsible for.

Look, I'll give you an example. Last month, that bridge collapse in Russia? Everyone got off it before it fell. No casualties. Just dumb luck, but I get the credit there, even though I was in California at the time. It's pretty frustrating when that happens, when I'm given credit for something that's just plain luck, and that's really a tough act to follow.

I remember once, one of the younger guys, Kyle, told me that it's hard to live and work in my shadow. I told him, 'I know.' I don't think he quite got my meaning.

When I arrive on a scene, people act like the day is automatically saved, but it's not. People have died on my watch, and for all my power, I can't save everyone. When I fail, it's always met with surprise, and even outrage, like I had done it on purpose, or was lazy, or whatever. Those accusations cut deep. Forget Kryptonite, that’s my biggest weakness.

I just wanted to make the world a better place, but I’ve created a monster, and made my work harder for myself. I hope you don’t take this as some sort of self-torturing angsty monologue. I’m not that guy, trust me. I’m not the quitting type. I’m just an imperfect man with a perfect reputation, and even though I’ll never live up to the Superman that people have made me into, I’ll never stop trying to.

It’s the never-ending battle.”

​

 

[Andy C.]

Awesome.

 

[SuperFerret]

Coming from you, Andy, that's high praise.

 

[Batman]

My name is Oliver Queen.

You... might not have heard of me.

Ain't your fault. To be fair, no one should ever remember a drunk billionaire who fell off his own yacht and was washed astray on an island for five years.

Or maybe you have. Maybe there's someone out there that also remembers that the same drunk billionaire not only survived to tell the tale, but survived his way back home on nothing more than a desperate need to see the sun rise each and every morning.

And maybe you also remember that when the same drunk billionaire made his way back to Star City and saw that it was going to hell, he started using the same skills he'd utilized to survive that nightmare in order to dispense some local justice.

No, you probably don't remember that either. Because as soon as that drunk billionaire decided to go and play social crusader, he made some powerful enemies. Enemies that had friends in high places who weren't intimidated by some crazy idiot dressing up as Robin Hood and fighting guys with machine guns armed with nothing but a bow.

Then he was arrested, unmasked, and humiliated before his little crusade even began in earnest. Slapped with a small prison sentence and got out, only to find every penny to his name stripped away by those powerful people who decided he didn't need to be humored for his flights of fancy.

Now that drunk billionaire can't even afford the wrapper that a bottle of booze would come in, living out his days in misery, watching a dusty old mansion filled with shadows and regret grow as old as he has.

My name is Oliver Queen. And let me tell you right now, even if you've never heard of me, I used to be somebody.

And now I'm not.

Don't worry, though, because this isn't my story.

It all starts with a young punk who decided to wander in on my property, running from some drug peddlers he'd managed to piss off with a gunshot wound jutting out of his left thigh.

His name is Clint Barton...

 

[Eddie Brock]

... the Hell are you doing posting this in here? Get your ass over to UOU and make this an actual application!

 

[Byrd Man]

My name is Master Bruce.

You... might not have heard of me.

Ain't your fault. To be fair, no one should ever remember an internet moderator who never posts.

Or maybe you have. Maybe there's someone out there that also remembers that the same lazy sum***** survives with nothing more than a desperate need to see the next Batman film/game/comic/etc. whenever it arrives.

And maybe you also remember that when the same lazy ***hole came back to the Hype RPGs and saw that they were inactive, and how he promised to get back into the swing of things.

No, you probably don't remember that either. Because as soon as that Taco Bell lovin' Witness decided to come back and post, he made some powerful enemies. Enemies like sloth, gout, and Skryim. Enemies who weren't intimidated by some lazy guy's need to pretend to be superheroes using nothing but his imagination.


Now that ***hole can't even muster the drive that a paragraph of writing would cost, living out his days in misery, watching a monitor covered in dust, in a room of Batman memorabilia.

My name is Master Bruce. And let me tell you right now, even if you've never heard of me, I used to be "somebody", if being a big deal on a weird internet subforum counts.

And now I'm not.

Don't worry, though, because this isn't my story.

It all starts with a young Southerner who decided to wander in on my property, running from some NAACP members he'd managed to piss off with a gunshot wound jutting out of his left thigh.

His name is Byrd Man and he says to POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOST

 

[Andy C.]

My name is Inigo Montoya.

You.....might have killed my father.

Prepare to die.

 

[Andy C.]

Dammit. Didn't know there was a page break between the last two posts. Now the joke doesn't work.

 

[Byrd Man]

Remembrance Day (Veteran's Day here in America) is coming up tomorrow, and with the WW1 centennial upon us, I've been reading a good deal about the war and wrote this up.

June 30th, 1916


I’m going to die tomorrow, of that fact I am almost certainly sure. Tomorrow is the day the artillery stops and we go over the top into no man’s land. For six days we’ve heard the guns firing morning, noon, and night. The plan is to blow the holy hell out of the Huns and their trenches and simply advance. That is the plan, but I doubt that is what will happen. They say that our artillery has fired nearly a million shells, and still we can see the German’s fortifications and that barbed wire that’s still standing.

It’s been almost a year since I signed up, a year spent just outside of Liverpool training and drilling and preparing to save Europe from the dreaded Hun, the bloodthirsty savages who are trying to conquer it. To think I couldn’t wait to get to France back then, back before I knew what hunger and violence and madness really were. I’m one of the last of my unit still left alive. We lost Sergeant Ames last week when an artillery shell turned him into a greasy spot on the ground. As long as I live, all twenty-four hours anyway, I’ll never forget the sight of McDonald shuffling around the crater, picking up the chunks that were left of Ames and cackling as he said “Here’s a bit of Bill… oh, and another bit of Bill here, too. I would say old Bill quite left a mess of himself, wouldn’t you?”

Townes died just a month ago. The closest thing I had to a best friend here and he drowned when we were marching through no man’s land in the middle of the night. He fell into one of the shell craters that had filled with rain water, some of them as deep as twenty feet with stagnant water and the poison from the gas that settled on the ground. All that stuff in his kit weighed him down and he sunk like a stone. What’s left our unit seems destined to die here on the Somme River. I used to read when I was a child; one of my favorite books was Alice in Wonderland. I feel like this place, this time, and the entire world can be summed up by one passage in that book: “We’re all mad here.”

As bad as we British have had it, the French have had it far worse. The reports from Verdun are kept under wraps, but scuttlebutt through the army is that it is the worse battle yet, even worse than our lot at Gallipoli. Our whole reason for being here at the Somme is to strike while the Huns are busy there, to breakthrough and race towards Berlin once and for all. That is the plan, but again I doubt that will happen. I do not know if the armies will run out of bullets first or men to be shot, but I can bet it won’t be the bullets.

I think about my own death now constantly. I am just eighteen, but yet my life hasn’t been without its special memories. I shall always remember playing with my friends back home, my parents and brothers, the girls I loved and the girls I never got a chance to love. A lesser man would be bitter about having his life snatched away from him so early on, but that is not in my nature. I understand that everyone must die, but I admit I do not want it to be here and now. My only hope is that my death will mean something. Not only my death, but the countless others who have been ripped to shreds by this war, a whole generation of youth snatched from the world by forces and trends we did not fully understand.

I think I hear the guns starting to slow; the barrage is coming to an end. We shall shortly go over the top and I shall shortly die. We will trudge through a mile of craters, barbed wire, and poison gas to charge an uphill embankment manned by German machine gunners all because some chap from Austria was killed. If you are reading this, remember our story and remember our sacrifice. Make sure the world never forgets that we died here.

--Unnamed British Private
1 of 19,240 killed on the very first day of the Battle of the Somme

 

[Misfit]

I felt like telling an origin story for Hal Jordan as a lesson in appreciation for Jordan, because I've honestly never been too much of a fan for him in particular. Writing this helped me like him a little bit more. I took a bit of inspiration from Flashpoint, and instead of him witnessing his father's death during his early childhood, it was recently from cancer. This is his father's funeral. It's loosely compliant with the continuity of Ultimate One Universe.

Green Lantern: Emerald Angel

Hand Funeral Home
Wichita, Kansas

"Now we'll have a word from Martin's oldest son, Harry Jordan," the speaker stepped away and off stage to make room for yours truly, bomber jacket and all.

Stepping up to the microphone, I looked sternly at the chairman, shaking my head and warning him "Don't ever call me Harry, again." Rolling my shoulders, I coaxed myself into speaking, slapping a leaf of paper against the podium. I sized up the audience, everyone from my brothers, sis, cousins, and dad's coworkers, to mom, who I hadn't seen in years. Oops. "Well.. here we go."

"When I was seven years old, I watched my dad at the airstrip every day. Gee, that was somethin'. No matter how many times he jumped in that cockpit, and took off to the skies, my heart always fluttered right up with him. When he'd hop out, I'd run over and pounce onto his knee. I loved my dad and every second I'd ever spent with him.

My brothers, and mom were always worried when he'd be up in the air. He tested the most advanced flight machines of his day. While the nerds who drew up the specs, n' the stiffs who paid for the things had time n' money on the table, my dad was the one who put his life on the line every single day. My dad was so stubborn and strong-willed, there wasn't a machine on the planet that could kill him.

Y'know, any time dad was late on the way home, mom was so far gone- so worried that he wasn't gonna be coming home. But there was only one time I ever thought she was right. I got home from school and mom said we got a call from the company, there'd been an accident, the landing gear didn't work and dad'd been in an explosion. They said no one could survive that, but he did. By the ripped skin of his teeth, by the sheer force of his will.

We went to see him at the hospital. He 'ad the nastiest burns you'd ever seen covering his body like a secon' skin. It looked like he got all tatted up by the blast of fire. The doctors said he would die of lead poisoning in a few days, all kinds of shrapnel all over his body. But the doctors were wrong again. As always, he pulled through. Well, almost. When I heard he had cancer, I figured he'd beat it. My dad, tough as nails ya' know. I mean, he should've made it. My dad was stronger than any superhero.

Back in school, when the kids were talking about how awesome the Justice Society was and how cool the Human Torch was, they'd ask who my favorite 'hero' was. Superheroes? Really? I mean, what a bunch of wussbags. A real man doesn't need anything other than his own two fists and the mind to put them in the right places. I told them that that my dad could take their capes and use them as a napkin.

Let's be honest, America is screwed over and the world is skipping from one catastrophe to the next. Wars, oil spills, floods, mutants.. I could go on. But what we need isn't more dipssticks in capes. The problem is that we need more men like my dad, and we're short on those lately. And we lost the best of them all, last week. Hardworking Americans who will do what needs to be done. When push came to shove, my dad was gonna shove," I had to stop. I was out of time for the speech. I was almost done, but there was something else that needed to be said.

"Time and all these stupid magazines," I threw up and flapped around a trio of tabloids "they have their stupid people of the year awards. Superman? How stupid can they possibly be. Like they really think he doesn't wear a mask because he wants trust. No! Glory hog! If you're really going to help someone, don't do it to be worshipped. Do it because it's the right thing to do. If my dad had crazy superpowers, he'd step up and end all the wars on this planet. He'd clean the gulf. He'd help the elderly cross the street and do it without breaking everything in sight. M-m-my dad was the greatest man that ever lived. A real hero, the last of a dying breed. And no one will ever be able to replace him. Thank you for your time," I stepped down, but took the time to throw my blank sheet of 'script' paper at the chairman's face first. Loser

 

[Eddie Brock]

As another year draws to a close, I take time to reflect on my past before looking to the future. I have been roleplaying both here on the SuperHeroHype! forums and elsewhere, off and on, for the better part of eight years. That number still pales in comparison to some of you out there, but it nevertheless seems astonishing to me. In all those years, I've tried my hand at more characters than I care to count - to varying degrees of success - but like anyone else, I have my staples. Of all the characters I've had the pleasure to write, though, there's one who holds a special place in my heart.

Technically speaking, she wasn't my first - I had managed a post or two of no consequence as other characters before - but she was certainly the character that ushered my true breakthrough into this community. To this day, she still probably holds the record for my longest consecutive run on a character, spanning a few seasons/revivals/re-imaginings. Because she was born in Ultimate Marvel, it's exceedingly unlikely that I'll have the chance to play her again, so I wanted to give her a proper sendoff. In what may be my last ever post as her, I give you...

Ultimate Spider-Woman
in
"... And to All a Good Night!"
​

Christmas time in New York City is a beautiful thing. The wreaths hanging from every streetlamp. The sparkling lights on the enormous tree at Rockefeller Center. The light dusting of snow which reflects the moonlight in such a way that the whole city itself seems to twinkle. Even the citizens themselves seem to get into the spirit, acting just a tiny bit less selfish or rude towards one another. Crime... well, okay, it doesn't go away, but it does seem to lessen in severity a bit. No costumed wackos running around, causing havoc. Even they have Christmas obligations to fulfill, it seems. Yep, I love Christmas time in the city.

But the one thing I can live without? The cold weather. Seriously, you try insulating a skintight spandex costume! I layer up on thermals as best I can, giving me the appearance of a slightly pudgier crimefighter, but even that can only do so much. When you're swinging around the city on patrol, the cold cuts right through you. It's all I can do to stay in constant motion and try to keep my blood from freezing. At least my mask keeps some of the heat from my breath trapped against my face, I guess. Besides, I designed the darned thing, so I only have myself to blame!

Meanwhile, the clunky web sack I'm wearing like a tote bag bounces relentlessly as I jump, spin, and swing. There's another fundamental design flaw: no pockets. Not like I could fit all of this stuff in my pockets, anyway. Not tonight when I'm carrying packages in addition to my usual personal items. I stop for a moment on the edge of a gargoyle - just long enough to spray a new webbing strap so that I can wear the sack more like a backpack. A little better, I think to myself as I redistribute the weight.

I bring my gloved hands to my face, rubbing them together fiercely as I blow hot air on them. Keep moving, Jess, I urge myself. You're only making it worse sitting here like this. Taking a deep breath, I launch myself from the gargoyle and point the first two fingers of my right hand at a building in the distance. With a sound not unlike the firing of a can of silly string, a strand of organic webbing shoots from my fingertips, anchoring on the edge of the building. I let the momentum carry me through a long, looping swing.

A few minutes later, the pack of webbing on my back begins to buzz as my phone rings. I vault myself up onto a nearby roof, landing in a three point stance. I slide the sack off my back and tear open a hole so I can reach inside for the phone. My numb fingers barely register on the screen as I answer the call. Pulling up the bottom half of my mask, I say, "Hey, Deb. You just get off work?"

"Yep," answers the voice of Debra Whitman, my fantastic girlfriend. It probably wouldn't be an exaggeration to say I don't deserve this girl. Shy, adorkable, gorgeous. Brilliant and sharp as a whip, if a bit absent-minded at times. In my life, relationships are... complicated. Deb un-complicates things. "You sound cold. Your voice is shaking," she observes. "I hope you bundled up before going out."

I glance down at my scarlet and white bodysuit. "As best I could," I reply honestly.

Deb laughs softly. "Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to let you know that I was on my way home. I guess I'll see you when you get back." After a pause, she says, "Though, I do have to ask: when am I going to get to meet these mysterious brothers of yours?"

"Brothers." That's the best term I could come up with for them. Somehow, I don't think "genetic copies" or "clones" would fly with Deb. She's a smart girl, and she could handle the science behind it. It's just not a can of worms that needs opening. It took me a long time to wrap my head around it, and I'm one of them. No need to burden her with that. "Well, they're... shy," I offer, immediately wishing I had come up with a better excuse.

"That or you're embarrassed by me," Deb fires back playfully.

"Pfft. You know that's not true," I answer. My hands are starting to shake. I've stayed still too long. Biting my lip to keep it from quivering from the cold, I say, "I'll see you when I get back, though. Love you."

As soon as Deb says, "Love you, too," I hang up the phone and toss it back into the web sack. Patching the hole with a new blast of webbing, I spring to my feet and get moving again. It's almost the hour we all agreed to meet, so I better start heading over there. As always, we're meeting in the only place it makes sense to do it: the old warehouse where MJ and I... where MJ and Peter used to go.

As soon as the warehouse comes into view, a flickering light in the window confirms that I'm not the first one here. I land softly on the roof, crawling over to the skylight to peek in. Nothing from my Spider-Sense, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious. Through the dingy glass, I can make out the forms of the two figures inside the warehouse. They're both familiar sights. Propping open the skylight, I drop down into the room.

Two of my fellow clones, Scarlet Spider and Tarantula, are huddled around a trashcan fire, both with their masks down. S.S. is the "perfect" clone, an almost exact duplicate of Peter Parker - save for the mop of golden hair he dyes himself. Of course, appearances aren't everything. S.S. - or Ben, as he's taken to calling himself - is actually a stable reproduction of the Carnage lifeform. Meaning he got to add shapeshifting to our already impressive list of abilities. I like to think it also explains his at-times prickly demeanor.

Tarantula, meanwhile, is as far from being a "perfect" duplicate as it gets. Something went haywire with the mutated DNA in his blood during the cloning process, and it put the emphasis on the "Spider" in Spider-Man. Sporting six arms, enlarged canines, and a furry face, Tarantula's intimidating appearance couldn't be any more opposite to his positive, friendly attitude. Any time I want to throw myself a pity party about the imperfection in my creation, I remind myself what T had to go through... and how steadfastly he handled it.

The three of us are the last clones standing, as it were. There were others in the early days. One with a disfigured face called Kaine who marched to the fife of our "beloved" creator, Dr. Miles Warren. I accidentally killed him in an altercation. Another called Scorpion whose spinal column degenerated so rapidly that he was fused to a suit of battle armor complete with a tail, hence the name. He wasn't always lucid, but his heart was in the right place. He went missing after we took down Dr. Warren's lab. Then there was the mindless beast called Spidercide, another partial recreation of the Carnage lifeform but without any of Ben's restraint. He went down when Dr. Warren did, and good riddance to them both.

"Hey, Jess," Tarantula - now known as Anton - calls out as he notices me first. He waves one of his six hands while keeping the other five hovering over the fire. He wears a costume similar in design to mine, black where mine is scarlet with a large, white spider-logo.

Ben turns to look at me now. Above an all-red bodysuit, he wears a simple blue hoodie with the sleeves removed. Across the front, he has painted on a black spider of his own design. With his shapeshifting abilities, he could wear any costume he likes, but I think he's partial to his original look. "What's with the sack?" Ben asks.

As I step towards the inviting warmth of the fire, I lower my mask. "Well, I know we said no gifts, but I couldn't help myself," I explain. I shrug the sack off my shoulders and let it drop to my feet. Despite how weird and existential this whole deal is, I really do view my fellow clones like family. After all, they're the only people in the world who truly understand what I've been through. I ask, "Have either of you heard from Pete?"

"He's on his way."

Anton steps towards me, rubbing a pair of his hands together. With a twinkle in his large, black eyes, he says, "So, gifts, huh?"

"Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up," I answer slyly. I give Anton a soft punch to the upper arm. "I'm no Tony Stark."

"God, I hope not," calls out a voice from above. We all turn to see our progenitor, the person from whom we were all created and whom we all, at one point or another, believed ourselves to be. But if there's one thing we all know: there's only one Spider-Man. "That would certainly make me have to rethink a few things," Spidey continues as he drops down from the ceiling, landing gracefully on his feet. He pulls down his mask and reveals the face we're all used to seeing in the mirror.

"You need a haircut," Ben snorts.

"You're one to talk, Slim Shady," Pete fires back with a smirk. The two take one another's hand and pull themselves in for a bro hug. As they break the hug, Pete turns to Anton with a smile. "Tarantula, buddy! Up high!" Pete raises a gloved hand, which Anton slaps with one of his own. "Down low! Too sl--" Before Peter can pull his hand away, Anton reaches out with one of his lower arms and slaps at it. Pete frowns. "I feel like that's cheating."

Finally, it's my turn. Peter greets me with a warm smile. "Jess." We embrace. You know, it's funny. When we first popped on the scene, Pete wanted nothing to do with us. In fact, I think he kinda hated us. Not that I could blame him. His life's already crazy enough before you throw cloning in. But even with Peter Parker's particular talent for self-loathing, he couldn't stay mad at us forever. After all, it's not like we asked to be born.

"I thought we agreed no gifts?" Peter announces while pointing an accusatory finger at the sack of webbing at my feet.

"It's really nothing," I insist. I kneel down and tear open the sack, revealing three neatly wrapped packages. Looks like they didn't take too much of a beating while I swung around. "It just didn't feel like Christmas without presents," I explain. I scoop up the packages in my arms and stand. "Ben, this one's for you."

He accepts the package I've extended towards him - though not without eyeing me leerily. As I said before, Ben can be a bit... standoffish, and thus we aren't exactly close. Not in the same way that, say, Anton and I are, anyway. Still, when it's Christmas and you share 45 chromosomes with someone, you get them a gift! As Ben tears at the wrapping paper, Anton practically bounces, asking, "What'dja get?"

"It's Reed Richards' autobiography," Ben answers. He looks up at me, amazed and confused. "I've been meaning to read this for the longest time. How did you... ?"

I reach over to him and tap my knuckles against his temple. "We're clones, stupid," I tease. "We think on the same wavelength, remember?" He thanks me and gives me a quick hug. I then pull out the next package. "Anton, here's yours."

Anton snatches the package, and it's off to the races. With six hands tearing away at it, the wrapping paper's obliterated in no time. When Anton gets down to the box underneath, he shows a little more restraint and opens the lid slowly. "Woah!" He holds out a deep red sweater marked with a pattern of little black spiders, complete with six arms.

"I figured that it must be hard finding well-fitting attire, so I thought I'd put all my sewing experience to good use for you," I explain. "You like it?"

"It's great!" Anton answers enthusiastically. "I think I'll wear it home." He reaches out with his middle arms and pulls me in for a hug. It takes a little getting used to with a six-armed hug, but I think we're getting better at it. "Thanks, sis."

Peter's standing with his arms folded, a half smile on his lips. "So, I guess that makes it my turn, then?" he asks.

Pete's package is the smallest of them all. I hold it out for him. "I thought about getting you a 'World's Greatest Dad' mug--"

"Oh, ha ha," he rolls his eyes.

"-- but then I thought of this."

Peter eyes his package curiously. While glancing up at me, he starts peeling away the wrapping paper. When he gets down to the box underneath, he furrows his brow. Throwing open the lid, his jaw drops half an inch. When he looks back up at me, there's total wonder in his eyes. "Is this... ?"

"Uncle Ben's watch," I confirm with a nod.

Pete lifts the watch out of the box, holding it up to examine it in the light of the fire. He shakes his head in disbelief. "I thought he lost this years ago!"

I explain, "He did. That's not the original, unfortunately. Just a reproduction. It's fully operational, though." I chuckle as I rub the back of my head. "Had to save up a few weeks for that one."

"I... don't know what to say."

"I've rendered Spider-Man himself speechless?" I remark. "Wait until Osborn and Octavius hear about this."

"Thank you, Jessica," Peter says as he returns the watch to its box. "That was amazing."

I'm about to humbly reject the praise when the telltale sound of a distant siren pierces the night. We all turn our heads in unison, and I'm sure they're all feeling the same tingle on their necks that I am. When I turn back around, Ben's already pulling on his mask. Anton quickly follows suit. I glance at Peter. "You thinking what we're thinking?" I ask.

Peter grins before lifting his mask. "You even have to ask?"

I nod as my mask goes over my face. "Last one there has to visit Shocker at Ryker's!"

 

[Carnage27]

Now I want to post as my Nightcrawler from the original One Universe.

Well done.

 

[Blacklight]

I miss that game, Eddie. Now I miss it all the more...

 

[Eddie Brock]

I miss that game, Eddie. Now I miss it all the more...

You and me both, buddy. There's really no other way for me to get my Ultimate Spider-Woman fix. And when we had all those PC clones bouncing off one another? Beautiful times. Right up there with the Titans' heyday in World of Heroes for my favorite collaborations.

In any case, you should join us over in Ultimate One Universe! Plenty of untouched ground yet!

 

[Andy C.]

Well, since we're in the mood for giving out Christmas presents, here's one I've been holding onto for years.

I first found my way to the Basement via the One Universe RPG, and while it was fun, my first love here was always Ultimate DC. It's been around through several variations at this point, and on multiple sites, but we never made it to the endgame, did we? As hard as we tried, UDC never quite made it across the finish line......


.........until tonight.

The Big Goodbye
I:​

The sky is boiling.

Images of conflicting events, timelines that never were, impossible universes, bubble in and out of existence. The line between what is real and what isn't is deteriorating.

"The end of the world as we know it" doesn't quite do it justice-- it may well be the end of every world that could ever be.

"I already told you, ugly," I say through gritted teeth, my left arm broken and dangling uselessly as I pull myself to my feet, "Not today."

Lex always said he was going to change the world-- I don't think even he imagined quite the degree to which he was right.

The Apokolips War raged across the cosmos before reaching Earth. Entire civilizations were wiped out in the wake of Darkseid's Anti-Life Crusade, devastating the mighty Green Lantern Corps, nearly annihilating the 31st Century's Legion of Superheroes, polluting the history of countless worlds, and poisoning even the Fifth Dimension itself.

In the end, I managed to defeat the mad god, with some help-- Brainiac 5 from the Legion focused stellar energy from every star in the universe into my body to deliver a blow that would disintegrate Darkseid's corporeal form, then disperse his essence with a harmonic wave at the exact frequency of the Source itself. To get there, we lost a lot of good people: Billy, Hal, Phantom Stranger, Tornado....Kara.....and thousands more. But we survived. We won.

This, though? There may be no winning this.

In the wake of my battle with Darkseid, the military obtained blood samples of both myself and the Apokoliptian god. It was only a matter of time before those samples found their way into the hands of Lex Luthor and Brainiac. The two most brilliant minds the universe had ever produced, in possession of the DNA of the most physically powerful beings who have ever existed. Between the two of them, they believed they could create a god of their own, loyal to their designs.

This being, omnipotent in every sense of the word, all-powerful and all-loving, wanted to create a perfect universe, and reached into the minds of all people to see what that perfect universe might be. The problem, of course, is that no two people have ever agreed on what utopia might be, and this god-being was driven into madness by trying to create a billion different Heavens all incompatible with each other.

Corrupted physically and shattered beyond repair, this creature has become something beyond monstrous.

Doomsday.

DIE.

The voice doesn't come from the monster's fanged, slobbering mouth-- it's a concept, an idea forced into my head, slammed into every corner of my mind, the commandment of an entity beyond gods and twisted beyond devils.

But I'm no god either, and I'm sure as hell no devil. I'm Superman. And I don't take orders from the bad guys.

I rush towards Doomsday far faster than light, time and space warping in my wake, and with my one good arm, I deliver a punch that bores a hole in causality.

Doomsday staggers back for a moment.....but that's all.

"You actually felt that one, eh?" I say, the barest trace of a smile on my face. "There's plenty more where that came from."

It's a lie, of course-- even burning through the combined stellar energy of the entire cosmos (as well as three other universes before Doomsday snuffed them out)-- I'm worn out, a bloody mess with fewer bones that aren't broken than are.....and I've barely put a scratch in this thing.

Doomsday shakes his head, flaring out some half-formed timelines like a boxer spitting out blood from a busted lip. He rears back his massive arm, the air between his fingers being crushed into black holes as he makes a fist.

I try to move, but my reserves of energy are all depleted, and instead of speeding away, I limply fall onto my back. This is it. This is where I die.

"I'm sorry, Lois," I whisper as Doomsday looms over me. "I tried."

The monster lets loose with its fist, ripping a gash across six dimensions as it bears down on my face.......


........and it stops, frozen completely in place.

"Fourth Dimensional stasis-lock online and holding," the voice of Brainiac states.

"Not for long, I imagine," I hear Bruce answer as he pulls me up.

"Dispersing tissue-regenerative nanites into Superman's bloodstream now," Brainiac 5 says as the grievous wounds Doomsday dealt me begin to knit back together.

There aren't a lot of them, but enough. Bruce and Diana, Bart, Kyle, and Rhianna. The Justice League, or what's left of it, still fighting the good fight even at the end of everything.

Brainiac 5, the last of the Legion of Superheroes, is overlooking some kind of vacuum chamber, with a swirl of nanoparticles circling each other inside. Behind him, his predecessor, the original Brainiac, one of the most powerful and dangerous threats I've ever faced, watches over what remains of the Monitors' Orrery of Worlds.

And directing them all.....is Lex Luthor.

"Glad to see you're still in this, Superman," he says. "I suppose I'm a little late in seeing the error of my ways. But here, now, I'm going to do what I can to set things right. How would you like to save reality itself?"

 

[Andy C.]

II:​

"Luthor," I say, barely able to suppress my anger as I approach him. "You have a lot to answer for."

"I'm well aware of that," he says with a sigh, "but if any of us are going to make it through this alive, you're going to need to listen to me. The Brainiacs have created a 4-D stasis lock around us, freezing time in place so we can get this done, but it won't hold forever. Doomsday's already seeping through it."

"Clark, I don't trust Luthor any more than you do," Bruce says, "but together we've come up with a plan that might work, and we don't have enough time for a Plan B. The League has rounded up all of the surviving population, who are currently being stored in a pocket universe in the Monitors' Orrery-- a 'life-boat' universe, but it's a stop-gap measure. Sooner or later Doomsday will find its way into the pocket world and destroy it as well."

"Unless, of course, he can't get into it," Luthor chimes in.

"Warning: Fourth Dimensional Stasis-Lock now at 75% integrity," Brainiac announces.

"I always envied you, Clark," Lex says, smirking just a bit at my immense discomfort towards him knowing my real name. "I had all of the brains and money and power the world could offer, but you......you could do things that were genuinely impossible. See the world in ways that no one else could, even other members of your species. That's why it perplexed me so much that you chose not to impose your will on the universe, but instead do everything you could do keep things the way they were. Some people claimed that you and the Justice League were gods in every practical sense, but that's not quite right, is it? Superheroes protect and defend, reward good and punish evil, but gods.....gods are Creators."

"Fourth Dimensional Stasis-Lock now at 45% integrity."

"Get to the point, Lex, we're running out of time."

"We're going to create a whole new multiverse, from scratch!" Bart blurts out.

"You're familiar with String Theory," Bruce explains. "The notion that matter and energy are derived from vibrations emanating from higher dimensions, infinitessimal cosmic 'strings' plucked and playing a certain 'tune' that make up the contents of the multiverse. Brainiac 5, his predecessor, Lex Luthor, and myself, have created a device that will enact this process, using literal strings as the medium."

"Specifically, the strings that compose my Lasso," says Diana. "The threads of Truth will be fed into every particle of this new reality."

"I've consolidated the Batteries of each Lantern Corps to power the process," Kyle says, his usual green uniform now every color on the spectrum. "I'm going to personally act as the power source of a new Big Bang."

"Once the Lasso is broken down to the yocto-scale, I'll be in charge of putting together every atom and photon we need," Rhianna says.

"And I'll be pumping the Speed Force straight through the whole thing, so an eternity's worth of labor happens in an instant," Flash concludes.

"Once the new multiverse is online," Brainiac 5 chimes in, "I will oversee the placement of the surviving refugees into new homes in time-space."

"They'll wake up with no knowledge of any of this happening," Bruce says. "They'll have new names, new memories, new lives.....new everything."

"Since this new world will have Truth itself embedded throughout every inch and instant of it, it will assert itself as the prime reality, the 'True' world. And that means that anything not inside of the Creation radius when it goes off....."

".....ceases to be real," I conclude.

"Precisely," Lex replies. "There will be some residual presence in the timeline, but only in the form of half-remembered imaginings. Doomsday won't be able to harm anyone ever again, because Doomsday will become fiction."

"Warning: Fourth Dimensional Stasis-Lock now at 12% integrity. Temporal direction is beginning to re-assert itself."

"So what's to stop Doomsday from getting into the new multiverse before you're done creating it?"

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but.....you."

"I'm sorry, Clark," Bruce says, with a sadness I've never heard in him before. "Someone has to be on the outside holding the line, pushing Doomsday away from the edge of the Creation Radius. And you're the only being in the universe who can do it."

"Well, not quite," Luthor interrupts. Batman, the League, and the Brainiacs turn and look at Lex in surprise, clearly not expecting him to have another card up his sleeve. "My ill-fated attempt at creating a loyal deity was not the only thing I did with your blood samples. By modifying Kryptonian DNA and molding it with New Genesis, Apokoliptian, and Coluan technology, I created a nanobite serum that could bond with the cellular structure of a human being, and permanently grant him the same powers as you--infinite strength, complete invulnerability, the whole works. Two last hopes for the universe are better than one, I'm sure you'd agree."

I nod, and shake his hand.

"I always knew you had it in you to do great things," I say with a weary smile. "Together, I'm sure we can stop this monster."

Lex raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, I didn't use the serum on myself," he says as another figure emerges from the shadows. "When it really came down to it, there was only one person worthy of spending the rest of eternity fighting at your side."

I stand there for a moment, gaping.



"Well, come on, Smallville, we've got work to do!" Lois says as she strides towards me, grabbing me by the hand and leading me to the edge of the League's pocket dimension base.

"Fourth Dimensional Stasis-Lock breached!" Brainiac declares as Doomsday rips his way back into the temporal continuum.

Before he can charge on the Creation machine, Lois intercepts him with a straight shot that sends the monster reeling light years away.

"There's no more time to waste; we have to begin the process now," Bruce says as everyone springs into motion. "You and Lois have to keep pushing that monster back. Don't give it an inch of ground."

The shock of seeing the love of my life suddenly transformed into an infinitely powerful being like myself begins to wear off, and I'm back in the moment. No use in standing still and gawking when there's an enemy to be fought.

"Got it," I nod. "We'll see you on the other side, Bruce."

"I doubt it," he says as the Creation machine begins to hum to life. "But for what it's worth.......it was a privilege knowing you."

He gives me one last look and puts three fingers to his forehead-- the Boy Scout salute. I return the salute in kind, and watch the Creation sphere wash over Bruce Wayne.

There's only one thing left to do now. Lois and I speed off into the far reaches of space, trailing after Doomsday to bring the fight to him.




















Back inside the Creation Sphere, the Batman gives Lex Luthor a skeptical eye.

"You may have convinced everyone else that you've turned over a new leaf, but there's still something else you're not telling us," he says.

"The two of them know exactly what's going to happen if they stay out there to fight Doomsday," Luthor responds. "And all of us know exactly what is going to happen once the Creation machine completes its process. Barring that last parting gift to our mutual friend Clark, I've omitted no detail to anyone involved."

"I don't buy it," Batman says. "Even in the face of Armageddon, you'll always find an opportunity to seize, something to gain above everybody else. So what is it this time, Luthor? What are you getting out of it?"

Lex Luthor sighs, a strange serenity on his face.

"I get what I always wanted," he says. "I get a world without Superman."

TO BE CONCLUDED​