[Twi]Chronicles of the Impaler: Crisis of Infinite Draculas OOC

[darkblade]

Japan's Justice: Part 1

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Tokyo, Japan 2001

Gendo Ikari was not a man who enjoyed the political games he had to play. He had no sense of diplomacy or compromise and why should he? After all he was the one leading the charge against the coming Angels. He was the one standing between humanity and Third Impact. Perhaps that was why he got along so well with General Nick Fury. They both had their goals and made no bones about it, even if they usually did not see eye to eyes. “Is this a joke General?”

“I am not a joking man Ikari. While I won't condone the Authority their reign could get in the Avengers duties overseas. I need a team somewhere else and Japan has almost as many Metahumans as America.” Fury explained placing a folder full of dossiers on Gendo's desk. “You will make that team for me.”

Gendo flipped through the files absentmindedly. He recognized many of the people described within. Superheroes, mecha pilots, monster hunters, mages and mad scientists. All the sorts of people he hoped he'd never have to deal with personally. People who didn't believe in the need for NERV and the Evangelions. “If I reuse?”

Fury almost chuckled at Gendo's retort. They both knew the answer before the question was even asked. “Evangelions, cloned Angels wrapped in Stark tech armour. Would be a shame if something were to happen to SHIELD's funding or Stark's agreement to allow you to base the designs on his tech.”

“Very well. You will have your team Fury.” Gendo said closing the folder and placing his hands under his nose.

“It's not my team Gendo. I already have one team on my books, two if you count the Fantastic Four but they mostly fund themselves these days. It'd be improper for me to run another one, so far from home too.” Fury said with a wicked smile.

Gendo's calm facade slipped for a moment, even he had not forseen this. “You mean?”

“It's your team Gendo, or should I say Section Head Ikari.” Fury laughed as he slid a SHIELD badge across the table.

Gendo just sat their stunned. This was never part of the plan, the additional responsibilities would greatly outweigh the new powers that came with the position but his life's work depended upon SHIELD's funding.

“I should be going now.” Fury says rising from his seat and heading toward the exit. “Oh, yeah congratulations on your new son. I look forward to meeting him since we will be working together much closer now.”

I'm still working on who should be on the team I currently have two models one based on the DCAU Justice League and the other based on the movieverse Avengers

JLJ

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Batman: Hei, known as "Chinese Electric Batman" for a reason. He has the mysteriousness, the ninja moves, the urban myths surrounding his identity and most lesser criminals who cross him end up wetting themselves in fear before he hurts them.
Superman: Ultraman, an insanely powerful alien that has adopted Earth as it's home and lives among us as a mild mannered citizen.
Green Lantern: Space Sheriff Gavan, a human chosen by a higher extraterrestrial power to represent Earth as part of the greater universe's law enforcement and gifted with powerful weapons.
Flash: Either Kamen Rider Kabuto for the speed powers and red colour scheme or Kamen Rider Fourze for the friendly attitude and willingness to try and talk down adversaries before resorting to super powered violence.
Hawkgirl: Sayaka Miki, mostly as a place holder but a magical girl who primarily fights with melee weapons and is destined to betray humanity by becoming a Witch fits most of Hawkgirl's rolls.
Wonder Woman: Sailor Moon, warrior princess in exile from a secret ancient Kingdom. Wielder of strong magical powers and a magical tiara. Frankly I'm kind of impressed no one got sued here.
Maritan Manhunter: Frankly I got no idea. I was thinking Ms. Maritan in reference to Sailor Mars sharing a name with one of J'on's many civilian identities but that seemed a little forced.

Japanese Avengers (Needs a better name too)

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Captain America: Shinken Red, a natural leader and beacon of patriotism for Japan. Also the sword makes him a nice counterpoint for Cap's Shield.
Thor: Raiden, Japanese Thunder God. Nuff said.
Iron Man: Some mecha pilot, I'm not too knowledgeable on the genre to pick one.
Hulk: Kamen Rider Shin, I know Draxx wanted Godzilla for this roll but I've never been comfortable with Godzilla as a hero. He is a monster who intentionally destroys the city, mostly fighting the other monsters to keep them off of his territory (Mothra and Gamera could be argued to be heroic monsters but not Godzilla). Shin on the other hand is a hideous green mutant with massive strength and rage issues. Much closer to Hulk if you ask me.
Black Widow: Major Motoko Kusanagi, fan service, martial artist, marksman and general kickass woman.
Hawkeye: I'm still not sure. Possibly Kagome Higurashi, Sailor Mars or Mami Tomoe Japan diffidently sees the bow as a woman's weapon.

[AnimeKid]

Actually Darkblade if it would be okay with you KOS-MOS could be the Japanese Ironman. A robot girl instead of an actual pilot. Would be a nice counter point. Plus she has plenty of gadgets she can use.

[Draxx]

First up, I want to say two things. One, that's almost perfect as far as line-up is concerned. All direct analogues, but that's more or less how Fury would do it, so why not? If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Now, here are my suggestions, contributions and thoughts.
For the Hawkeye equivalent, I'd recommend some sort of utility ninja, like Naruto or something (not really all that clued in to him, that sorta passed me by). Someone with a lot of punch, a fair amount of utility, but not much durability, in a bright costume. Besides, a ninja would help since you need someone sneaky.
Next up, the reason I suggested Godzilla is because he doesn't make a good hero, but then again, neither does the Hulk (most of the time, anyway). My favorite interpretation of the green behemoth is always been that he's the last resort, if things are bad enough the Avengers just line him up so he's rampaging in the right direction, let him go and hope that there isn't too much collateral. And I imagine that Godzilla would work more or less the same way. You'd be mad to bring him out most of the time, but if there is, say, an alien invasion, you want him desperately. Besides, let's face it, he's a really recognizable character, and he's actually been in these games. Still, Japan is your call, and I trust your judgment, so if you want to ignore me then you are probably right.
Next up, the Iron-Man analogue, I'd suggest Astroboy. Another very recognizable character, perhaps the definitive recognizable Japanese animated character, with some added depth that would probably help you quite a bit. Remember, that in this world a lot of japan's technology was reverse engineered from Decepticons, ergo they probably have a lot more sentient machines then the west given the long term trade restrictions kept them fairly isolated for a long time.
So it makes sense to toss him in, and he is essentially ironman in terms of power-set and skills, just without the guy inside the suit (bit more Pinocchio). Also, gives you a way of looking at the (potential) civil rights debate for androids and machines. Do they have the same liberties as humans? Should they?

As for Martian Manhunter…
…
…I'm drawing a blank. Sorry.

[Colesign]

Who are the Jacks of all Trades? They're the librarians secret police, enforcers, spies and all that. They're almost undetectable, except by their names (They all have the first name Jack), and hide, melding seamlessly into society until the time has come to strike.

[...]

However, with the Alcatraz family, it's personal. Long time ago, one of their people – that was back in Egypt, in pyramid days – foresaw that one day, there would be a Smedry child born who would walk where he was not welcome. If this child grows to adulthood it would mean the end of our order and all that they stand for…
There's my attempt at librarian mythology. How is it?

Pretty cool: you've created a sort of Croup and Vandemar-inspired group of agents for the Cult of Evil Librarians: polite, well dressed, symbolic, ever so slightly uncanny, and deeply sinister. I like. Especially the connection to the Smedrys in terms of rivalry: it ties in nicely with all the in-series portents about the Smedry Talents, particularly Alcatraz's breaking Talent, having dark portents, roots in antiquity, and the capacity to wreck civilization.

And it fits wonderfully with Librarian mythology, because ultimately, the Librarian conspiracy as depicted in Sanderson's books is a labyrinthine, monolithic, world straddling secret tyranny...with all the convolution, sub-orders, bureaucracy, and backstabbing that implies.



So all I say is...show variety, be ridiculous, and don't stint on the horn-rimmed glasses.

[Colesign]

So, you've taken the driver's seat in this game again?

[Cracklord]

They're taken mostly from the Graveyard book by Neil Gaiman. Not my favorite story, but I don't mind them as antagonists in this sort of game. Jack Horner has his own comic series. He's in the group to clearly contrast everyone else in the group. So, they're men from a variety of trades that are all named Jack. Who happen to practice some form of necromancy. Their magic is powered by death, and their powers are vaguely defined but include greatly enhanced senses (such as smell), magically barring and unbarring thresholds, creating personae for themselves (essentially, they're all Manchurian Agents. Happily working at their trades, quite unaware of their affiliation and capabilities and all the rest, until they're needed, at which point the dormant killer wakes up), and setting magical traps. And anything one Jack can do, another can undo, and they can transfer their skills to each other.

I tossed them in as the first hint that it's a wider conspiracy, that's not magicians hiding from the world, but not Librarians either. And because I'm still figuring out how everything is going to fit together, so needed some kind of delaying action, and this was the best I could come up with.

And yes, I'm running the show until Darkblade gets back on line or something comes up.

[Colesign]

Well no wonder the Jack of All Trades sounded like the Vandemar and Croup duo! Ha! I feel illiterate. And feel the need to read more Neil Gaiman.

[Cracklord]

In this case, read Kipling, not the appropriation. It's just the Jungle Book with the whole graveyard theme tossed in. But yes, can't go wrong with Gaiman.

[Draxx]

The Suicide Squad, Chapter II

Gathering the Team

Undisclosed Location
September 10, 11:15 EDT

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A bald man with a slightly misshapen skull, wearing tinted rounded glasses and a raven black beard faces Amanda Waller squarely. He's wearing a stark white uniform, plain and sterile, and his hands are folded in his lap. Hugo Strange is small and sleek, but in terrific shape. His body was his temple, one that he took exceptional care of, and though he was far from bulky had a proportional strength that was very misleading. "I take it then you intend to round up the usual suspects?" He said, his voice deep an richly accented, though difficult to place. Somewhere in eastern europe for certain. Hugo Strange was a former psychiatrist at Arkham, who eventually lost his job due to misusing his authority for the sake of his experiments. A man obsessed with the human psych and interested in the breaking strain of the human mind, and the potential to remold a broken psyche into something entirely other, not to mention his fixation on mental manipulation through chemicals. He was certainly a genius in his way, however he was as much a victim of his own obsession as anyone he turned it on. He was, however, extremely useful for keeping dangerous and extreme personalities under-control.
“Wonderful. What I don't yet understand is how you intend to put me to use."
Amanda Waller is rather taller then him, but he projects such an aura of confidence that if anything he seems to overwhelm her. "I take it the president insisted? Or is Maxwell Lord going behind his back again? You are in an unenviable position, caught between two very powerful, ruthless people."
The Waller frowns at the psychiatrists statement. “I am not one of your patients, Professor Strange.” She said, eyes narrowing. "And the state of this nations leaders isn't for you to speculate about. So keep your opinions to yourself until we tell you otherwise." She looks briefly at the two people behind her, a tall African-American male, with a physique like a marble statue, dressed in loose trousers and a leather and bronze harness and open jacket. The other man was shorter and slighter, dressed in a white coat and slacks, with his hands in his pockets and sunglasses on despite there being no sun and certainly no glare indoors. His features were handsome in a plain and unexciting way, and he looked to be of asian extraction. Neither said a word, but they stepped back, to give the two of them some room. Amanda turned back to Professor Strange. “Don't get ahead of yourself, Strange. You're insane, but that doesn't mean you're not useful, long as we keep you pointed in the right direction. But don't make the mistake of thinking you're off the hook, or any closer to freedom then you'd be rotting in the deepest, darkest cell in Arkham.” Hugo raises an eyebrow before lowering his arms. “You now work for me."
Seeing that Strange is interested and is willing to listen, Waller continues. “Welcome to Task Force X. The Suicide Squad. You're to keep all the members under control, and keep friction between them to a minimum. And if you do enough good work, you will have full amnesty.”
Strange rubs his chin before responding. “And if I refuse, I will have to go to prison. I have been off the grid, so to speak, for ten years. I have had time to think. To consider my actions, my ambitions that got the better of me time and time again, and where that has left me. I have intended to reinvent myself all this time. And now you want to put me to work for you, to use me to eliminate high level threats, steal important data from countries, and to sabotage the works of the illegal kind in ways that would get you in jail if the United Nations ever found out? And the mortality rate is extremely high, especially given the name of the team?” As Amanda gives a simple nod, Hugo smiles in anticipation. “I fully trust you that the targets will deserve what’s coming to them. I’m in.”

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Streets of Hub City
September 13, 01:07 EDT

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The streets were choked. The air was full of revving engines, taxi horns and the screech of tires, A buffet of conflicting air currents pushed and pulled, and the air was full of the stink of gasoline and exhaust. Hub City, notoriously corrupt and one disaster away from a complete collapse of social order on it's best days.
In a one-way alley, midway across 110th street on the way to Roosevelt plaza, three men stood, glaring at each other. The three of them were assassins, mercenary's and career criminals, who belonged to a small faction called the Secret Six, a 'any dirty job if the money was right' outfit. They trusted each other, for a small and cautious value of trust, and got on far better then perhaps could be expected. It was one of their great strengths.
A week ago, they had been hired on retainer by mafia don Frank D'Amico. Their target was an urban myth, the shadowy killer known as Grendel, who had taken control of much of the cities underworld and was now tightening his grip and killing anyone he wanted to. Beyond that, nobody could say. He was certainly human in appearance, though he always wore a mask, and apparently killed dozens of men with his forked staff without suffering so much as a scratch. Beyond that? A mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a lie. Nobody seemed to know what he looked like or who he really was. The police investigation had turned up nothing, and when then finally found someone willing to talk, he'd been cut to pieces by a forked staff.
"Well, where are we going. Nowhere. Fast." Said a wiry, rawboned man in his thirties, with ink black hair, a lean, gaunt and fleshless face and a painfully appropriate short-handlebar mustache that he most likely shaved to a millimeter's precision, though the rest of his jaw was unkept and scruffy with stubble. He was wearing a pair of big old-fashioned sunglasses, and a dark gun-metal coat over a red bodysuit fitted with chrome plates over his vitals. His wrists bulged slightly where weapons were implanted into his suit. The wrist mounted guns were connected to a feedback of micro computers, and programmed to respond minute changes in the electrical conductivity of the nerves, meaning to fire them all he had to do was think about it. "How the hell did he know?"
"The man's commendably well informed." The second of the men said, a little taller and much heavier-set than his companion, with tousled sandy blond hair, a chiseled jaw, and a nose that was crooked from being broken, His eyes were clear blue, a little sad, and his build was thick and well-defined, with muscles like sculpted marble. He wore a tan overcoat despite the dry heat, over a fawn costume of subtle padded leather. He was in excellent shape. At forty, he could have competed successfully in a regional body-building competition, and was possessed of an icy, somewhat feral calmness. "No evidence either. Like a ghost. But I'll find him. It's what I do."
"Yeah? Well don't feel any need to hurry on my account. Take as long as you like. I suppose I'll just stand here and wait." Deadshot replied, leaning back. He knew it was a bad idea to get involved in this, gang wars were almost as bad as religious wars, yet somehow here he was. He should listen to his common sense more often.
"Nag, nag, nag." Blake replied, rolling his eyes while he picked his way across his memories carefully. His recollective abilities were extraordinary, he was quite capable of returning to an event that had happened a month ago, and still recalling the scents, sounds and textures with perfect clarity.
"You both need to start applying some lateral thinking." Maerlyn said softly. He was lean and spare, with a severe widow's peak, dark hair streaked with oddly virile streaks of iron grey swept back from a high clear forehead. He had a close trimmed beard along his jaw, dark eyes that were cool and clear, and there was a sneering quality to his face. He wore a harness with a powerful composite bow and a quiver full of arrows clipped to the back. "He is making a fortune. He must be laundering it somehow. So follow the money."
"And how are we supposed to do that?" Deadshot asked, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. "It might have escaped your notice, but we're not exactly well connected."
"Perhaps not, but our boss is. He can ask the questions for us."
"That could work, I suppose. But…" Before he could elaborate further, there was a tap at his shoulder. Without stopping to think, he turned, and a hard fist mashed his face. Brilliant light exploded in his head as it drove against the point of his chin. He didn't lose consciousness, but he did lose control over his arms and legs. He sprawled over onto his back, dust puffing around him, and the world became a blur. There was a high ringing in his ears. By making a tremendous effort, he was able to turn his head. He didn't like what he saw. Not at all.
"Bronze Tiger." Catman said. He didn't get ready to fight. Smart man.
"In the flesh." Benjamin Turner replied, glaring at Maerlyn until he lowered the crossbow. "You know why I'm here. It's been decided that the three of you, former members of the mercenary group 'Secret Six' are of use to our operation."
Maerlyn frowned. "We've served our time. Ten missions was the deal, which we did."
"And now you're going to serve even more. Welcome back to to the cracks under the pavement, mister Lawton, mister Vortigan, mister Blake. Looks like you might get to die for your country after-all."
"Or…"
He hauls up Deadshot in one hand, whose head was lolling, and smiles at the two of them. "Or you'd best take a good long look at the sun, because you'll never see it again as long as you live."

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Santa Prisca Cell
September 17, 03:33 EDT

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Thomas Arashikage and Benjamin Turner, also known as Storm Shadow and Bronze Tiger, walked down the stone corridor, their strides determined and purposeful. Both of them were out of costume and dressed in civilian clothes, Storm Shadow wore a long white coat that brushed the ground, white slacks and a smile the cut like a knife. Bronze Tiger wore a muscle T-shirt and jeans, his face thoughtful and his dark eyes sad. The two of them had been in the program long enough for a certain autonomy, to the point that they were actually allowed to handle such delicate recruitment themselves. To the small island nation surrounded by powerful communist neighbors, any deal with the US was well worth it, even if it meant handing over this man. And so Waller had sent these two, given that they were the only ones on hand who might be able to deal with him.
The two of them were not so much as civil to each other, it was a good day when they would even acknowledge the others presence. However in this case, the two of them were necessary, so they conducted themselves with a certain amount of professionalism.
It was around 1972 that a coup attempt took place in Santa Prisca, a small island nation about halfway between Jamaica and Cuba. After three days of fighting in the capital, the coup failed, and the surviving dissidents were captured and tortured so they would reveal more names. Once sufficient arrests were made, a former monastery was converted into a facility to hold the insurgents, suspects, unlucky bystanders and unpopular persons denounced as convenient, as well as all the other criminals they could toss in. Most of them were still in here.
The guard is a short, scruffy man, who twirls his baton as he leads them down the stone corridors. The warden of Peña Dura, this prison, is bald, with a fringe of short black hair around his ears and the back of his head. He had giant black mustachio's that drooped past his chin before turning up at the ends, waxed to sharp points, and a protruding belly. Both were equally unlikable. Coming to the end of the corridor, he raps the door twice with his baton, then addresses the two in badly accented English. “You have 15 minutes. Any longer is dangerous. Do not approach the subject, or we will not be responsible for what occurs. When you're done talking, you both leave. Understood?” As soon as the two made it clear that they understood the guard turns towards the occupant who sits silently on his bed. “Bane. You have guests. 15 minutes!” The guard then leaves the cell, closing the door behind him and cutting the three men off from the world.
Benjamin stares at the big man and shudders at the feelings of déjà vu. This felt too much like a countless number of now deceased comrades who entered Task Force X. Arashikage inclines his head, then steps into the confines of the cell. After a moment, Benjamin steps in after him.
The cell was almost completely bare. The only furnishings were those which the prison had provided- a bed, a blanket, a small table, all flimsy and nothing else. There was no window, or artificial light, and the ground was damp. And this was one of the better cells. The door was steel and a handbreadth wide, with a tiny slot for observation, and a bolt the size of a mans wrist to hold it closed. Anything less would not hold this man. He'd been born in this prison, and risen out of it triumphant. Even now, despite all their preparations, they would not long hold him.
“I take it your coup here didn't work out, then.” Benjamin said softly, meeting the massive terrorist's eyes. Bane stared back, offering no reply. His considerable bulk was seated on the bed, resting his elbows on his thighs, and interlocking his fingers, perfectly at rest. The man had grown up in this prison, serving a sentence in the place of his father from infancy. By all rights it should have broken him, it had been the end of uncountable fully grown men in the older, crueler regime. It should have broken him.
Instead it hardened him into something that civilization wasn't entirely prepared for, a paragon of humanity unlike any other, bar perhaps the ancient and savage barbarian of the Hyborean Age. It had made him into a man perhaps as dangerous as any alive, a powerful athlete and strategist. And then they'd experimented on him, with a super-steroid made from synthesized Miraclo termed Venom. Before, he'd been tight and lean. When they were done, he'd been almost monstrously bulky. Shortly after he'd escaped, killing those who tried to stop him and had come to America, where he had been regarded as one of the most dangerous criminals in Gotham up until around three years ago, at which point he'd had a change of heart and started to pursue a life fighting dictatorships and war criminals, doing work for the League of Shadows as well, whose goals tended to coincide with his. "Your revolution was well-covered for the last few weeks. You were doing so well, it was something of a shock when you didn't win."
Bane was enormous, tall and built to a bulky muscular perfection with a chest that was as broad as a fully grown bears'. His pectorals were thick and slablike, and the muscles of his abdomen rippled whenever he moved. Dozens of scars marred his form, and he had enormous, powerful arms. His face was broad and bullish, though at the same time his flesh was wasted almost to the point of emaciation. He was bald, and beardless, and his eyes were deep set and fierce. The powerful body held a brilliant mind every bit as exceptional, however Bane was not a subtle man, he was direct, all brute power and smoldering anger. But rough as he was there was a strange, difficult to define weary nobility to him, that gave him the look of a tired poet. His eyes stared at them intently, but he didn't stir or offer any sign of recognition or interest. His chest was bare, he wore only dark cargo pants and no boots. For years, he had been on a personal vendetta against government and social injustice, operating mostly in Asia, South America and Africa, causing the free world far more trouble then he ever did as a terrorist and criminal on American Soil.
When he spoke, the voice was measured and deep, with a tiny trace of soothing latin in his accent. "Flattering to be so regarded, however that is of no concern of yours." He spoke english very well. "Nor is the reasons for my incarceration. So what is it you desire of me?"
This time, Thomas Arashikage responds instead of Tiger. “We have influence, more then you can imagine. A phone-call, and you are pardoned and free to go. However, if you take this offer, you we sign you up for a group called Task-force X, or the Suicide Squad. You will undertake highly dangerous, classified missions that we designate, until you earn your freedom, for the ‘good’ of the world. And if you make it out alive, you will be free of all charges, and given a fresh-slate. Or we walk away and let you rot in this cell.” Bane blinks once, slowly. "You realize they shoot political prisoners in this part of the world, right? The only reason you're still alive is they haven't put on a show-trial yet that would do you justice. You're quite the prize"
Bane blinked again once, his face like stone. Then he scoffed softly, as though the idea a firing squad could do him in was patently ridiculous, and Storm Shadow was some sort of simpleton for suggesting it. "Your offer is generous, however I'm afraid you have wasted your time. Do you really believe I suffer in this prison? Do you believe they could hold me if I did not allow it? Nothing could be further from the truth. I will be free, but in a time of my choosing. By the same token, my revolution is not over until I say it is, no matter what your broadcasters and journalists claim. A fight is never over until you win, regardless what the other man thinks." He rested hands the size of shovels on his knees and bent forward. "No, for now this is where I need to be. Soon, I shall leave, but when I do, it will not be to exchange one captor for another."
"Some prisons are more rewarding then others. More luxurious, too." Thomas Arashikage noted.
"Surely you cannot be so naive as to believe that I desire such things." Bane said contemptuously. "They breed weakness and dependence. And were I to wish for them, then I would not need to be given them by you or anyone else. What I want, I take."
"Well, we do have something you want that you can't get anywhere else." He smiled. He was never one for dancing around the point. "What do you know about your father?"
Bane's face was unreadable. "Little."
"There are records of everything these days. Even in tiny dictatorships like this. And we have people who can fill in the blanks. It took us a while, but we've found him. The man who condemned you to grow up here."
Bane didn't stir. He didn't even breathe. "Think about it." Storm Shadow said, when the moment had stretched to a minute with no reaction, and he had about given up. It was only as he was turning towards the door, that Bane finally replied. "I suspect it is a bluff, but any chance of finding him is worth my time." He stands up, towering above both of them. "I am where I wanted to be. However, the personal nature of resolving the distraction you have brought me is more important then liberating this nation. I'll work with you, provided that you can give me what you have promised."
Tiger smiled. "And I'm assuming this will not be about repairing a relationship?"
"Don't be ridiculous." Bane replied, as though wanting to kill your father is the most natural and normal thing in the world. Thomas Arashikage gave Bane a bemused look and then laughed.
"Welcome to the Suicide Squad. Try to stay alive, I have a feeling I'm going to like you."

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Rikers Island
September 22, 09:01 EDT

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"So this is him?"
"This is Prometheus, yes."
"Why's he call himself that? Doesn't look like the type to shape men out of clay, or steal fire from the gods."
"Doesn't matter. Just load up his effects, restrain him, and send him up to the facility. Let them sort it all out."

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New York - Police station
September 22, 09:01 EDT

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"Now this is a joke. Should just shoot him and get this all done with." Said Detective Christian Walker, hooking his thumbs in his belt and leaning back, as he and his partner watched the lawyer and the assassin through a two-way mirror from an observation from. There was no sound, they had to let them keep it confidential, but when dealing with a man like the one in the cage, they'd be mad let him out of their sight for a moment.
Walker was a big, top-heavy man, with a weight-lifters build. All that bulk actually slowed him down a little. He had a strong jaw, a heavy brow and dark hair cut short. Deena Pilgrim offered him a cheeky, lop-sided smile, dazzlingly white. "Taking this personal, aren't you? Know someone he killed?" She said chirpily
Walker didn't reply. But his lips tightened, and he rested the palm of his right hand against the mirror.
"Or maybe you just see a certain inevitability with it all. He has a show-trial, he beats the system and gets back on the streets, one way or another, and leaves us another trail of corpses to follow."
"Not if I have anything to say about it." Walker replied, then took a long drink from a coffee mug, watching symbol on Bullseye's forehead. "Even if he's not a power, cocky son of a bitch thinks he's untouchable. Puts a ****ing target on his forehead for everyone to take shots at him." He glared at the symbol carved into the Irish killers forehead.
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Bullseye sat in silence in the interrogation room. He was tall and long, with well-developed muscles and a shaven scalp. A target was scarred into his forehead lovingly. They'd taken away his clothes, and given him a jumpsuit that was lacking in the improvised weapons front. All he had was his wits. That was fine. That was all he needed. Occasionally, his eyes would twitch, and he'd lick his lips, giving the impression of not being a man who was entirely stable.
He watched his expensive gangster of an attorney, Wesley Owen Welch, as the short man paced and tried not to glance his way. Wesley was small and vulnerable, he broke into a sweat balding; he was the epitome of the corrupt lawyer. The kind who would never so much as have a parking ticket, but spent his day getting murderers, drug-dealers and rapists back onto the street and told himself his hands were clean.
Bullseye hated guys like him. He sat in silence as the lawyer droned, his hands fidgeting impatiently. As Welch continued his dialogue about how Bullseye could be out by the end of the year, Bullseye let his mind roll over the different ways he could kill the little turd. He could gouge his eyes out with his thumbs. He could wring his throat. Or he could put him through the two-way mirror that they two cops on the other side were watching through, and go from there.
Wesely trailed off, and tapped the statement he'd prepared and placed on the table. "…So you see Mr…John Doe…Your best option is to plea not guilty, hold up the proceedings and take advantage of the fact that the prosecution doesn't actually have a lot of evidence. So…"
Bullseye looked at the lawyer, then the piece of paper, then back to the lawyer. When he spoke it was in a soft Irish brogue. "Have ye' got a pen?" Wesley smiled, then took a fine silver pen from his jacket and slid it along the aluminum table to Bullseye.
"One thing I can't figure out is…" The lawyer began, "How do you kill someone with a playing card?" He looked to Bullseye, who was smirking. There was a dark gleam in his eye.
"Well I'd show ye, 'cept all I have is this here." He replied, and the man flew back into the two-way mirror; his own pen lodged within his larynx. He instinctually brought his hand to his throat, blood running out between his fingers as he slid down the mirror to the floor.
Bullseye's smirk turned into a grin, and he leaned close, wanting to catch every moment. Bullseye loved that part of his life. Some men loved women. Some love cars. Status. Fame. Bullseye loved to kill. It was pure, the sweetest thing there was. Watching his prey as panic set in. Nothing compared to the look in a man or woman's eyes in those last seconds, when their final breath rattled from their lungs and they realized all they amounted to was nothing compared to him, the man who had killed them.
"Down on the floor now!" screamed Detective Christian Walker as he moved in, pistol drawn. Deen Pilgrim followed, her gun out but not pointed anywhere. The Detective couldn't resist a glance at the expensive lawyer the man had killed for no reason, now dead on the floor, a pool of blood forming beneath his head. Then he converged on Bullseye, finger almost involuntarily tightening on the trigger, "You son of a bitch!"
Bullseye grinned again, then held up his empty hands to show he was unarmed. Walker nearly shot him anyway, but managed to keep a lid on it. Big mistake. Guns. They give a man a sense of power and control. And it's not always true.
Moving slowly, not making any sudden motions, Bullseye lowered his hands, and pointed an empty hand at him. He grinned, and made a shrugging motion as though to say 'what, me?'. "Walker, no? The guy on Adam West's TV show?"
The Detective took his free hand and removed the handcuffs from his belt. "Yeah. That was me. Hands"
"Used to be a superhero, right? Hate those buggers. Got any family, a lady-friend perhaps? You know what they say, if they're not invulnerable, neither are you." Bullseye said, pushing his wrists together, but staying where he was, and letting the Detective come to him.
Walker's jaw tightened. Every instinct insisted he shoot the man, and only a fading sense of duty made him reel it back in. "No. I don't."
"Sorry to hear that. And thanks." Bullseye smiled. "You left me my fingernails."
"What?" Walker asked in a perturbed manner.
Bullseye flicked his fingers, still grinning. The only sound was a gurgling rattle as it punched into the soft flesh of his throat. Deena watched with wide-eyes as her partner, a man who had lived fifty thousand years, swayed then fell. The hit man turned his grin on her, and held up a bleeding index finger. "That's one nothing."
Pilgrim took aim and shot at Bullseye, too shocked and emotional to take her time. She was a good shot, but Bullseye was too quick and dove out of the way. He slid under the table, using her dead partner as a human shield, and landed next to his lawyers body, all in one, smooth movement. She attempted to keep her pistol trained him, but was forced back when Bullseye tossed Detective Walker at her, sending her staggering back, firing twice into the floor and hitting nothing at all. Bullseye took hold of the pen in the lawyers throat. He snapped his hands out at Pilgrim, the pen flying from his index and middle finger. Then the Irish hit man chuckled merrily as his weapon hit its target… her eye. She howled in pain as the pen pierced it, the end protruding obscenely.
Before she could get her bearings, Bullseye lunged from his place on the floor, his right hand lashing out and smashing the pen further into her eye socket with the palm of his hand, the detective's blood spattering the Irish killer's face. She howled again and crumpled to the floor. Bullseye licked at some of the blood as he used his right thumb to drive the pen as far in as it would go. Her cries of agony gave way to the sound Bullseye loved most… The rattling last breath of another corpse in the graveyards he's filled.
Bullseye made easy work of finding handcuff keys on her body. He then shed his restraints and searched his victims for tools of his trade. He left the interrogation room with five paper clips, a toothpick he found in Walker's pants pocket, and three pens, one of which dripped with the combined blood of the lawyer and the detective. But not before leaving his mark on that scene of carnal mayhem. On the confession Forester had offered Bullseye was a simple statement written in blood.
Hope the lawyer wasn't too expensive, boss.
His escape, if you call it that, was fast. He walked out of the station, getting onto the street before his handiwork was discovered. He promptly hot-wired a motorbike, robbed a gas station (killing three men in the process), dumped the bike, and headed for a hotel where he could spend the night in anonymity. And then a hand the size of a shovel rested gently on his shoulder (Bane had a disturbingly quiet tread for such a large man) and it all went dark.

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Gotham City - Iceberg Lounge
September 24, 20:01 EDT

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Oswald Cobblepot was a short portly fellow with a scar down his right eye, a hunched back and a long beaky nose. He was slowly losing his hair, he wasn't what many would call attractive but in the scheme of things it didn't really matter mostly because what he lacked in looks he definitely made up for in money, power and dangerous qualities. He wore a tuxedo, and had an umbrella that he used to gesture about flamboyantly, as though it were a cane.
He waddled eagerly towards the club dining room – perhaps with just a tad more waddle than usual, breathing a sigh of contentment as he took in the room appreciatively. The little bird had spent a bundle, but he didn't begrudge a penny – the effect of a room interior carved out of a glacier was stunning – as was a conspicuous hole in the ice-effect behind the bar.
In one respect, the Iceberg Lounge was no different from other urban nightspots: there was a core of regulars, consisting of costumed and non-monikered criminals, and there were the new people. New faces drifted in - henchmen, fences, bookmakers, working girls, assorted riffraff - they stayed a while, mixed with the regulars for a few weeks, then, as often as not, they drifted away again.
Oswald Cobblepot had become a bit of a snob about 'the New People'. In one sense, this fresh meat was an important factor in the running of his business – both the legitimate business of the club, and the illegitimate fencing and racketeering operations for which the club fronted. But Cobblepot wasn't some nameless crime boss, he was the Penguin, one of Gotham's oldest and most established rogues. He didn't care to learn the names and gimmicks of all these flash-in-the-pan newbies.
Flashing lights, music bumping loudly and cheers of enjoyment filled The Penguin's ears as he and his entourage entered the doors. He looked around his large lavish club with a sense of pride and along with that pride he felt a sense of happiness mostly because he growing up never had anything and it was long ago that he decided that he would have everything and to see that dream realized was the best feeling in the world.
The Business Room is what The penguin had dubbed the backroom of his club, the reason being is because this where most of his business meetings took place. It was the place where he would meet powerful figures from what he fondly dubbed 'the old days', who he'd shared cells with at Blackgate. He would meet them here where they would talk, laugh and play a round of high stakes poker.
He entered the room and saw that his Poker table, where a few of the more famous faces could be seen. Edward Nygma sat at the far side, occasionally giving the dealer penetrating looks. Selina Kyle sat beside him, looking absolutely ravishing in a long, slinky black dress and a slight more Décolletage revealed then was absolutely necessary. She had a pair of priceless cat's eye emeralds at her ears, and some other priceless egyptian jewelry that she had liberated on her neck and fingers. To be fair, it looked a lot better on her then it did in any museum or private collection. He also noticed she'd lifted Nygma's wallet. She might have class, but she still had a compulsion.
There were also a few of his brother rogues, from Central City. Captain Cold and Weather Wizard, discussing the usual….money, territory and protection. He unhooked himself from the women and he took his regular seat at the table. His men flanked him and his women stood on either side of him, and smiled.
"Gentlemen, and lady. Pleasure to see you all again."
* * * * *
Skipper, Kowalski, Private, and Rico, the Penguin's bouncers and onsite muscle had reported for work to learn he'd been promoted from muscle to Doorman – and unfortunately, there was no doubt as to why. The Joker's visit last night had put his predecessor into the hospital, along with the bartender, a dozen of the guests, and a few others. As the biggest muscle on site, he was promoted to doorman and everyone else was given less distinguished positions, like bartender or Maitre'D. It was cheeper then hiring a new staff, and Cobblepot was tight as they came.
The boss was in the backroom, drinking and smoking with his cronies. Mr Cobblepot had given explicit instructions not to let "him" in, but when Daniel asked who, Mr Cobblepot merely stated "Who? You need a description? It's not like you can mistake him for anybody else."
That statement applied to almost everyone the Penguin might have a beef with, from Batman to Bane. And since Daniel had no hope of stopping any of the costumed lunatics of Gotham (or indeed, anywhere else) from going anywhere they damn well pleased (and no intention of trying), he figured he'd be much happier tending bar, even if there was a fortune to be made as Doorman.
The Iceberg Lounge. Perhaps not all it's cracked up to be. Most of the clientele were rich people wanting a feeling of danger while they drunk, or tourists who wanted a 'piece of the real Gotham', drinking with the villians and greasing their palms as they did. They were all thinking of the even more exclusive part of town, the backroom, which was what the entire club was sold as. And the Doorman had veto who got in and who didn't. Some people could be very generous if that's what it took to get in.
When he saw who Cobblepot had warned him about, he didn't even think of getting in the way. he just stepped aside, then took cover.
* * * * *
At two AM, Oswald Cobblepot excused himself from his hosting duties and strutted up the stairs which lead to his private offices, just above the main floor of the Iceberg Lounge. The Iceberg Lounge had two floors, the one for the regular patrons, and the one for those who for reasons that were self-evident, kept out of the public eye. But they had their own reasons to want to meet up, and they always had plenty of money. And Oswald had no problem facilitating things for them, even if they were a bunch of lunatics.
As he stepped through his door, he allowed himself a smile- it had been a profitable evening for him. The club had been full all night long, with patrons buying drinks and food. Moreover, he had been informed by some of his men that his more…unorthodox enterprises would soon yield handsome profits. A shipment of luxury cars was even now being secretly offloaded onto the Gotham docks, along with a number of beautiful girls from the Third World, headed for an uptown escort service. And to think he'd only taken this work up to launder money!
Entering the luxurious office, with its thick green carpet and wide mahogany desk, the former super villain chuckled. He was making more money as a 'legitimate businessman' than he ever had as the Penguin. As he hefted his bulk into the leather chair which sat just in front of his large window, Cobblepot reached down and opened the hidden safe that rested just beneath his desk and withdrew a small brown ledger. He had two, one that would be a credit to Ghandi, and another that had some bearing on reality. Taking a fountain pen from its holder he began to jot down the evenings takings, making a few alterations to conceal what he didn't want to be known as necessary. he had only been gone ten minutes.
But When he came back down, it looked like there had been a raid, or a visit for Azaral. Everyone in the backroom was unconscious, and badly beaten (except Selina, who was just missing). In the main room, everyone was cowering under their tables, or again, unconscious and badly beaten. And Weather Wizard was missing was missing as well.

[Draxx]

Epic Fails

There is a type of character I despise. You know the type without me needing to tell you, though if you're not sure, it'll probably come to you when you read these. As such, if your series needs a character to be a sort of cosmic plaything (to whit, need a guy to constantly suffer horrific injuries for the sake of comedy/drama/sadistic need to assert yourself over imaginary beings to keep you from lashing out in the real world), or you want to just kill someone and need an expendable character nobody will miss, look no further because I declare open season on guys like this.

Open Season: Issue I

New York - Fisk Towers
September 17, 18:51 EDT

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He was the Kingpin, the most prominent figure of organized crime in the whole US east coast. He is not merely a mobster, but the king of mobsters, and his empire is such that America's entire economy depends on his legitimate holdings, let alone his criminal activity.
He was every bit as impressive as his title and his reputation.
Wilson Fisk was a stout man closer to seven feet then six, and almost as wide as he was tall, with massive arms, a heavy chest and a slablike gut. More then anything, he was an immense, physical wall of towering bulky power, with massive arms, hands like shovels and a head shaved bald that added to his already imposing appearance, though it seemed somehow absurdly small perched atop his enormous body. His features were heavy and thick, his neck was bull-like, and his hands were as big as shovels.
He wore a double-breasted white power suit, with ivory cufflinks and a diamond tiepin, and three rings on his big fingers. He leaned on a steel cane because he liked the effect, not because he needed it.
The man he addressed was muscled in a more conventional way, powerful and sleek without the bulk to slow him down. He wore white, a heavy white cape that made him seem far larger then he really was, white boots, gloves, and a white cowled mask leaving only his chiseled jaw visible. His hands were folded, and his head inclined, though there was something like defiance in his gaze.
Wilson Fisk paid no mind to it. "Well, you are certainly highly recommended." He said, his voice as deep and powerful as the guttural tones a bear might speak in. "You inherited a billion dollar electronics business, but have defined yourself. Large scale drug trafficking, leadership of a Zoroastrian death-cult, and using your inheritance to buy stock in my conglomerate. And now you want to be my enforcer as well?"
"It's a start." The man replied, his voice soft and harsh, grating almost.
Wilson didn't stir. "I like to have a man on hand with the ability to remind people why they fear me. However, those I have used in the past have proved…unreliable." Wilson replied. "And yet you feel …"
"I am quite capable of murdering anyone you set me against. I want to increase my influence in America, and apart from everything else your enforcer, as the most visible display of your strength and the recipient of the fear your enemies feel you, it is the obvious person to be your eventual successor."
Wilson stared another moment, then laughed. "My. You are ambitious, aren't you? Never achieved anything yet, and already looking to be the next me."
"Oh no. No, you laid the foundation, but I have the vision to take your work to the next level."
The room went dangerously quiet. "Explain."
"We expand the operation. Gotham, Basin City, the rest. Drugs and prostitution to start with, but in a few years we'd be running everything."
"Not profitable enough to justify the expenditure of resources." Fisk replied, growing bored. He'd heard it before. Time and time again.
"No, but it could be."
"You think so? And how would you do what so may have failed."
"Simple." Nemesis replied. "We kill the Batman."
The room went quiet again. "Don't be an idiot." Fisk said at last. "People have been trying that for a decade, and he's still alive. But they're mostly maniacs. Do you know why? Because a sane man thinks 'What do I next?'."
"Then I'd take…"
"I told you not to be an idiot. You kill Batman, and I don't deny it can be done, then you'll be made an example. Is it martyrdom you want? Unless that's the case it won't do you any good. Because it's not him, not only him, it's his friends. You kill Batman, you'd better be able to kill the alien who lives in Metropolis as well, because once you do he'll come after you. And if you can deal with that, then what the hell are you doing going after Batman anyway?"
"Trust me. I'm good at what I do."
"Perhaps, but you're of no use to me."
It was like watching a child throw a tantrum. "Look, I don't need your bull****. I'm Nemesis. I've killed more people then cancer, and I'm going to be…" A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see Fisk staring down, and he realized he'd gone too far.
"I think you will make a better example then enforcer." The Kingpin said softly. Wilson lifted him up as though he was as light as a feather, and threw him the length of the room to smash painfully against the wall. Nemesis let every muscle in his body relax, bouncing off the wall with bruising but nothing broken.
He looked up to find The Kingpin looming above him.
Nemesis was too demented to be scared. He lashed out with a series of blows, any one of which would have been crippling if not fatal to a normal person. They bounced off Wilson Fisk like a fly attacking an Abrams Tank. Which is not to say they didn't hurt. His trained hands felt like heated brands where they impacted. Fisk's only reaction to the pain was a slight tightening around the corners of his mouth.
So Nemesis hit harder, with not much more effect. Then he got scared, which made him sloppy, he threw everything he had into one punch, drawing back his fist and swinging it in an arc. Wilson caught it. Nemesis' fist was big. The Kingpin's was far, far bigger. It swallowed his easily, enfolding it like a vice.
"Disrespect is not wise. Not unless you are sure of your abilities."
Fisk told him, then broke all four of his fingers to make sure he'd gotten his attention. Blood poured from his clenched hand, but his grip only tightened still further. He ground his fingers down once more, than stepped back, letting go of a horrible crushed thing that looked like a mangled pinwheel. Nemesis' fingers stuck off at jagged angles, and his hand was so mangled it was painful to look at. Broken shards of bone poked through the skin, and two of his fingers were bent the wrong way, while another was only attached by a tiny thread of ligament.
Matthew Anderson looked at it uncomprehending, shock and the massive quantity of adrenaline pumping through his veins numbing the pain. Then with a trembling hand, he reached up and forcibly reset the fingers, snapping them back into an approximation of their correct place.
He flexed it experimentally, wincing a little as they protested, then clenched his broken hand into a fist and faced The Kingpin again, ready to fight. "That all you got?" He asked defiantly.
Wilson shook his head, with something very much like pity. "I'd open with that next time. You might just impress me."
"**** you." He replied, reaching for a gun, then remembering it wasn't there. Fisk loomed above him, then brought his hand down around his skull, each finger the size of a fat sausage, and hard as an iron band. There was a terrible noise, and his head split like a piece of over-ripe fruit, leaking blood, grey matter and wet chunks of bone. "Handkerchief." Fisk said loudly into the intercom, then walked over to his desk, blood still on his hands and splashed across his suit.
Nemesis. Was that what they were coming too?
The world deserved a better class of criminal.

New York - Scarab Corporation Office Block
September 17, 18:51 EDT

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Vandal Savage was a huge, physically imposing man with a bulging cave-man's forehead and brow, and a prothagonous jaw to match. His skin was a dark grayish pallor, his nose flat with wide nostrils, and his lips thick. His eyes were dark but intelligent, and his face was broad and bullish. Three faint scars trailed along his face, he had a trimmed beard and long, dark and course virile hair pulled back in a ponytail.
He wore fashions of the bygone Victorian era, a conscious decision not to adapt with the times, complete with a waistcoat, greatcoat, lace, and intricately knotted cravat. His hands were empty, but on the table beside him was a series of knives that had been recently used, and a long-handled executioners axe, that he hefted with a worrying amount of skill. There was also a china plate, which had contained the remnants of his meal.
The man he addressed was seated in a chair. He was unrestrained, but had been so badly beaten it was doubtful he could move anyway. His lips were swollen, his jaw cracked, his gums bled from torn out teeth, one of his eye-sockets had caved in completely, and his right arm was broken in three places. The left side of his chest had been crushed, breaking ribs like match-sticks and puncturing a lung. And there was a precise cut across his midsection, done with a sharp knife and surgical precision, then stitched up neatly so as to do do no permanent damage.
The tattered remnants of his costume still hung off him, where they hadn't been ripped away. It was enough, at least, to preserve modesty.
"Wesley Gibson. I knew your father." said Vandal Savage, sounding – as he always did – as if he was committing murder simply by speaking. He effected an air as though they were meeting the first time, though in truth he seemed more a disappointed parent educating a wayward child. However, in truth he was more a man attempting to save what he could from a failed investment. Wesley only mattered to him in terms of expended time. "Your father understood things you don't seem to have grasped, Wesley. His place in the scheme of things, for one."
Wesley is conscious, though barely. his breathing is shallow and rapid, to compensate for his damaged lung. There are tears in his eyes, tears of shame and terror and impotent rage, and a look of hopelessness on his face, that of a man who didn't know what to say or do. He had become so proud. So haughty. Just a few months ago, Wesley Gibson was an insignificant wasted potential with a horrible life, reduced to contemplating suicide he didn't even have the purity of purpose to carry out. Wesley had possessed no self-respect, or courage to stand-up for himself, and had let everyone treat him appallingly because he was terrified of being alone. He had a girlfriend who was cheating on him with his best friend and a boring, dead-end job working for a boss he hated who hated him right back.
It would have been easy for him to be overlooked, and to have been left to spend a life achieving nothing. But he had been found, recruited, and trained by the Illuminati on behalf of Savage, after they confirmed he was a carrier for a very specific meta-gene. They had honed the talents he'd inherited over a period of months to make him into an assassin, teaching him to fight, to take a beating, to kill. Then they'd set him loose, and Wesley had resolved to get even from his perceived victimization by his immediate society. He went on a rampage, killing everyone connected to his old life in a brutal manner, then when he ran out of acquaintances had simply targeted anyone he could think of. He had believed that he could kill, rape, mutilate and steal anything or anyone he wanted without any consequences, thanks to an over-inflated image of himself and his capabilities. It was a fairly common psyche to find in extreme personalities in the metahuman community. Though Wesley's case was far more extreme than his actual capabilities would warrant. It wasn't difficult to figure out. Deep-seated insecurity and abandonment issues which have made him deeply insecure, then having a reason for self-confidence for the first time in his life had made him out of control, but he was still an arrogant, egotistical psychotic with a god-complex despite his psychological issues, not because of them.
Vandal didn't articulate any of this. He had no interest in helping the boy come to terms with his own existence, that was a matter for the boy himself. He just clasped his enormous hands behind his back and began pacing, never taking his eyes off 'The Killer'. The first killer had been an assassin built by the Ultra-Humanite, who most likely created Wesley as well, but abandoned the experiment before it blossomed into anything useful, as he was wont to do. It was hardly unusual, most of the small names served their betters one way or another, whether they realized it or not.
"I offered you so much, and this is how you repay me. To think I thought you had potential, Wesley." Vandal said. "To think I offered you so much. But only a poor craftsman blames his tools. The truth is, I failed you." He stopped his pacing, and faced the Killer II. "The truth is, I taught you your talents, I honed your body, but I left your mind the same weak and sniveling weakling you had let yourself become. You used your powers to assert yourself over lesser men without the blessings you have received. You tortured those who you knew would break. You fled those you knew to be your equal. I cannot stand a craven." He took a deep sniff. It sounded like a bull snorting. Vandal was such an over-powering presence, his every action seemed more then human.
Vandal's stare was so contemptuous Wesley felt himself wither. "I saw your actions, what world you desired to build yourself. And I knew, that it was as far as you dare dream. I had told you what was coming, what I shall achieve, and you sought to hide away from a war that would extinguish the gods themselves and force reality to bend to it's winners will, because all you can imagine is a tiny corner of the world full of cheap wine and expensive prostitutes," He shook his head, looking disappointed. Then he sighed, a touch theatrically.
"Your failure is perhaps forgivable, but mine? My only excuse is that I wanted what I thought you could give me too much to consider matters impartially. I have proved myself infinitely patient, and yet I failed to take the time to do a thorough job. You see, I have dreams of my own. I am a visionary, and as I am humanities past, so to am I it's future, and I will continue to shape the world of tomorrow. My tomorrow. You could have been a part of that Wesley, if you weren't too scared to dream of more then your own life. If you could but show a little foresight, you could see the world as I do."
"So what should I do with you? I think perhaps I should start again, simply cut you loose, and yet perhaps I am still too invested. What do you think, Wesley?"
"…Kill me." Wesley forced out, his voice a hoarse wreck from all the screaming he'd been doing a minute ago. The tears in his eyes now fell down his cheeks, cutting through the crusted blood of his skin, and lined in his face was a look of heart-breaking terror. "Just… just kill me."
Vandal paused, then laid a gentle hand on his cheek. "Pardon?"
"Kill me. Just… Just don't let me go back. I don't want to be a nobody again. Please. Just kill me."
Vandal reached down, and rested his hand almost gently on Wesley's cheek again, giving it a soft pat. "Mankind is not made for defeat, Wesley. A man can be killed, but defeated? Never. There is no need to be afraid of that, Wesley. Once things have been put into motion, they can never return to what they once were. Besides, you're not entirely useless. You don't have to go back to who you were."
He took his hand away, and replaced it, clasped behind his back, keeping him ram-rod straight. "I am sentimental. I still do not desire you dead, so I shall let you redeem yourself. My daughter, Scandal. I think that you are the man to find her, and explain the reality of her situation to her in a way that she understands. I want her branch of my line to perpetuate itself, and she is willfully defying me. Like you, she fails to grasp her role in the scheme of things. That if she does not continue my line, I shall cut her limbs away until she's but a head and torso, and use her as a brood mare. You are much the same, Wesley, though in your case I do not require such crude measure. You are not so far gone that you can't be brought to heel."
He paused. "But learn from this, Wesley. Learn the realities of your situation. And don't make me doubt you again, or I'll make you watch next time, when I eat your other kidney."

New York - The Bronx
September 17, 18:51 EDT

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The five of them were known euthanisticly as 'The Boys', which was appropriate, as they were essentially just a gang wandering around the globe committing hate-crimes wherever they could. They likely would have died long ago, if not for having been treated with Compound V by an out of control faction in the CIA, vastly improving their stamina, durability and physical strength. Compound V, originally referred to as the 'Captain Nazi' formula, is the substance that Vought-American and the CIA used to mass-produce superhumans during the eighties and nineties, through human experimentation the drug these days has been refined. It was safer and more stable then the alternatives, though it did often have unforseen side-effects on the psyche that quickly strained it. Most samples only give temporary superpowers but the pure stuff makes the effects permanent, granting increased strength, stamina, speed and durability.
There were many such drugs, most a great deal more dangerous. The dream of the perfection of mankind through chemical means and genetic engineering, thereby moving beyond the sum of human potential began with Steve Rodgers in many ways. Although he was not the first, he was in many ways the ur-hero, the one who inspired them all, in some way or another. Without him, the world would be a very different place. And like many paradigm shifts, the full force of the result was not fully understood until much later. The age of the superhuman had begun.
The problem was, most of the successes in manufacturing protohumans were not repeatable, or too hard to reproduce. You could always fall into a nuclear reactor and hope for the best, inject an unstable compound or isotope into your bloodstream, or rewrite your genetic code, but in most cases you'd just die. And since the government made it illegal to intentionally turn yourself into a metahuman (after the Pym debacle), most of the successes were accidents, or completed by criminals (who, more or less by definition, don't obey the law), accounting for America's incredible number of rogue metahumans.
Carrick Masterson, the chemistry guru of Oscorp before his mysterious disappearance, was responsible for FX 7, better known as OZ, the singularly disturbing, sometimes permanently deranging and occasionally spectacularly fatal unstable 'conventional' method of manufacturing post-humans out of people without a latent meta-gene. It determines what the recipient is like and manifests it in super powers, changing individuals into twisted reflections of their own psyche. It either enhances their best qualities or bring out their worst qualities by making them into exactly what they subconsciously want to be, turning good into great and bad into worse. It is apparently produced from rendered corpses, and is naturally completely illegal, but New York was still infested by those who had it, or some modified variation of it, over-write them and turn them into monsters.
Any small-bit drug dealer could get Mayfly, now that the formula was on the internet, but there wasn't much call for it as it caused rapid cellular decay and killed a user within twenty four hours. While it might be fun to be as smart as Reed Richards or Lex Luthor for twenty-four hours, most people would prefer a boring life then risk a roulette that probably wouldn't work, but would definitely kill them.
Miraclo, on the other hand was the opposite, highly sought after though not readily available. The drug energized the cells, giving the subject an extreme boost in strength, limited invulnerability and heightened stamina for about an hour, before it burns itself out and waste toxins are eliminated from the bloodstream over about twenty four hours. It was highly addictive, but didn't take any toll on the body or mind beyond that, however the only way to get it was to get at the original stock from Bannerman Pharmaceuticals.
Venom, the super-steroid, required a constant supply to keep the effects, as well as fostering a terrible dependency that left you a wreck without a constant supply. Mutant Growth Hormone required a constant supply of mutants to harvest from. Gamma radiation would probably just kill you, even if you had been given all the biological treatments and stimulants beforehand. But Anabolus Serum, the origonal source of the super-soldier Captain America, that was the holy grail. A drug with no side-effects, requiring one single treatment. Unfortunately, since Dr. Erskine had never taken the time to record the details of the vita-ray treatment, the experiment could not be duplicated. Subsequent attempts to replicate the super-soldier serum, such as the treatments that turned Slade Wilson into Deathstroke, and were used by Weapon X to manufacture some of the most dangerous people in the world, had unfortunate mental and physical side-effects on most participants, often permanently crippling them or driving them insane. So the formula had to be redone from scratch. And what technologies could create stable superhumans were for the most part so expensive that they existed as the results of an intellectual exercise, but duplicating them was quite impractical. Which was why the world still depended mostly on conventional weapons and forces. They needed something more reliable. But not everyone was so sensible.
The five of them had, as already been mentioned, created during the nineties after the Keene law was over-turned, designed to act as a deterrent against out-of-control super-powered individuals. None of them were anything like stable enough for the job, but their bosses hadn't care about that, only that they had all volunteered—somewhere along the line you have to stop guarding the guardians or everyone in the world would be a turnkey…
Billy Butcher was their leader, a child of a broken home, a former Royal Marine fighting in the Falklands dishonorably discharged due to excessive brutality, a former drinking buddy of Manchester Black, and an all around first-class psychopath who had gotten his hands on a (flimsy) government sanction and used it to pursue his vendetta as long as he could until he'd been cut loose. Billy had lost his wife in extremely tragic circumstances and had a lot of built-up anger that he spread around as much as possible to try and fill the empty hole in his heart by making others as miserable as him. He was a brutal, imposing and violent man, whose idea of courage and manhood was to get together with anyone he could coerce, bully or otherwise convince to follow him and attack anyone he viewed as responsible, which came down to anyone who wasn't completely human (him and his boys were an exception, of course). And yet as twisted as he was, he was also unusually bright and charming. He will say or do anything it takes to to get the results he wants.
In the Frenchman's case, there was no great, sad origin story. He was just an angry young man who had grown up to be a bad, nasty individual that has no care for the welfare of his fellow human beings. He needed to assert himself, and to do that he used violence since he lacked the talent to do anything else. He wasn't intelligent, though he did have a certain, ruthless cunning and willingness to screw everyone else over that served him pretty well in it's absence, and he was willing to be a follower as long as that led to more opportunities to hurt people. Which wasn't to say he wasn't completely nuts. He might even be delusional about his nationality.
'The Female of he Species' was a tangled, neurotic mess of mental issues, a seemingly mute japanese girl with an addiction to violence and psychotic qualities, who was quite happy to follow the others around since they always gave her someone to attack, given that she started to show withdrawal symptoms when she went too long without hurting anyone.
MM (Mother's Milk) was a large, African American man, patient and methodical, who was born to a poor family in Harlem. He had been through a lot, given that he was contaminated by Compound V at a young age forcing him to need to suckle from his mother to survive, and took his anger out on other people he irrationally blamed for the mess of his life, because it was easier to hate then to rebuild. More to the point, he was a naturally subservient personality that needed clear directions. He idolized Billy's crusade, and so followed him for no other reason then he was not the sort to make decisions for himself.
And to round the group's psychosis off, 'Wee' Hughie Campbell was delusional. A shy, lonely individual, after losing his girlfriend he had created an elaborate fantasy to account for a new relationship, that featured Starfire, the Tammaranian princess. He had convinced himself she was in love with him, but kept from him by the other metahumans and sexually abused, and that he was fighting to save her.
The five of them were dressed identically, long flowing black leather trenchcoats, dark clothes and eyes bleak and empty, five people who had learned to hate so well that they had forgotten how to do anything else. They had killed some thirty metahumans, mostly young mutants who had been at the wrong place in the wrong time, but they'd killed a few of the genuine article as well.
But it was too slow for Billy. He wanted more. So here they were, in New York, to pick a fight with The Avengers. It was almost funny, in a sad sort of way. So they'd come, and began their preliminary reconnaissance, which mostly consisted of finding a pub, getting sloshed, bitching about whatever was on their minds and telling one another a series of sometimes amusing, always obscene rumors about their enemies sexuality. Then, when they were mad and drunk enough, they'd ambush any metahuman they could find, and do their best to beat him or her to death.
So far, that had been a winning formula. But one constant of the universe was that you adapted, or you died. And the night before, they'd beaten on the wrong girl. They had targeted Jubilee, who was a former X-Man and more capable then the average unsuspecting citizen. She had been brutally beaten when they ambushed her, but they hadn't killed her. They'd dragged her back to their hide-out (a warehouse full of microwaves), and waited for her to come to, so they could torture her some more. But they'd been seen. Jubilee had friends. Help was on it's way.
Billy Butcher cupped her chin, and roughly tilted it up they could see her face. Where it wasn't bruised or bleeding, it was swollen.
"She was fine. Now, she's a little poorly, what with her bleedin' internally and all. Thinkin' I might hook her up to the generator next, see if she gets better with a good jump-start from electricity."
"Do we… Couldn't we just…" Wee Hughie stuttered, uncomfortable at the sheer delight Billy was taking in this. Billy ignored him, like he always did before it was time to dispose of the corpse, and he pressured Hughie into actually making the victim one. He walked over to the boot of his car, and got a set of jumper cables.
Luke Cage kicked down the garage door.
There is something in the national unconscious that likes 'buddy' stories, that has made authors and directors who realize and capitalize upon it very wealthy indeed. Two men, whose backgrounds, attitudes and personalities are completely and humorously incompatible are thrown together through circumstances beyond their control, such as a roadtrip, a prison break, or an invasion of intergalactic bugs or demons from dimension X – and by the end of two hours they're the best of friends.
And like the best stories, this is a fundamental truth, there is something on the Y-chromosome that enables men who are at odds on any number of subjects to put their differences aside and achieve an eerie camaraderie through shared experience, a sort of testosterone solidarty. Danny Rand and Luke Cage's relationship may have been strained at times, but no rift could have prevented them from sorting this out together.
Jubilee was a friend.
"I'll make this quick." Luke towered above the five of them, a raw mountain of physical power, six foot six and nearly as wide across the shoulders. When he flexed his shoulder muscles, his other muscles had to get out of the way first. He was dressed casually, a white tee shirt, black cargo pants, and a loose coat. He'd just shaved his head, and it gleamed. "Let the girl go, an' maybe I don't put you all in traction. That fair?"
"Speak for yourself." His best friend said, reaching a hand to the back of his neck and tilting it so that it popped, loosening him up. He was dressed in a green and gold martial arts gi, open at the front to show his washboard abs, with a high collar, a sash and a mask that left his jaw open. He was lean and strong, with a smooth and perfectly defined sculpted physique. There wasn't so much as an ounce of fat or padding anywhere on him. "When I'm through, they'll have three teeth, two legs and maybe one spine between the lot of them that isn't broken. And then I'll get nasty."
Luke cracked his knuckles with a sound like shinbones snapping. "Your call. Got any favorites?"
"I'll take any that try and run. You take the rest."
"Much obliged, my man." Luke replied, nodding to Danny. "Alright then, time you got a little grief." Luke said, cracking his knuckles with a sound like shinbones snapping, then wading in.

I'm sorry to say, the last one was hurried, and is mostly a product of my lack of ability to capture what I wanted. I planned to have them beaten to hell by a couple of non-powered guys from the Justice Society, but I couldn't figure out how to get it to work, and it just felt forced.
Then I figured I'd write a horrific tale in which the five of them tried to roll Willy Pete (of Empowered fame), and the horrifying consequences that befell them as a direct result, but that would be becoming what I hate, as would having The Authority torture them.
And letting someone like Superman deal with them… well, that's not even a conflict. I considered complete humiliation by way of the spectacular, sensational spider-man, but I'm not ready to include him in the proceedings quite yet. So…
Heroes for Hire. One more chapter, then over to you, Cracklord.

[Cracklord]

So I'll be the first to comment on the new material. First up, I quite like the team so far, although it's not exactly a team of specialists, given that they all do the same thing (sneak around and kill people). You probably want to toss in some with a range of talents, like people good with computers, good at opening doors, and good at explosions. However, a special mention has to go to Bane, and his air of dignified brutality, although Bullseye deserves a special mention for being so out of it.
I like Wilson Fisk, he gives the impression of being formidable in every way that counts, practical and spectacularly ruthless. And I like your send-off for Nemesis, a frankly rather boring character, although the whole thing felt extremely contemptuous.
Finally, I see a real wasted potential. If you're going to use Vandal Savage, killing off Walker was probably a mistake. The two immortals could be very interesting, particularly since Walker doesn't remember any of it, and is in many ways the anti-Vandal Savage.

[Colesign]

Which Walker are we talking about? Nightside Walker, or another fellow?

And I think I'll wait for Draxx to respond before posting Smedry's next action.

[Draxx]

Detective Christian Walker, a cop in a series called Powers by Bendis, and a former superhero who had all sorts of powers (he lost them all, however he's not aging so maybe there's more to it then readily apparent). He started life as a Neanderthal Man, '2001 a space odyssey' style, but only has about a hundred years worth of memories, so most of his life is a total mystery to him. And he hooks up with the same two girls (both of whom reincarnate constantly) every generation, without ever realizing it.
He was killed by Bullseye in my short.
And I was actually planning on using another character for that. But that's a good point, so I'll make Savage make a surprise appearance at his funeral, and make a wonderful speech.

[Cracklord]

Hey Doliest, I want to begin Heroes for Hire in a High Society Party in Wayne Manor, is that possible at all? Given that this is a new team, I figured I'd start them off out of New York, and see where it went from there, and so I figured I'd start with basics. Danny Rand is a billionaire, after all, and it would let me do all the billionaire philanthropist superheroes in one place, which might be funny as they all snub each other and try to steal each others girlfriends.
I suppose I could start it off at Stark Enterprises instead (though that would still require Bruce Wayne), but since you're actually doing Gotham, and since it's practically required that a maniac fresh-out of Arkham attacks the proceedings if that's where I do it, I thought I should ask you when's the earliest issue you can pencil it in, in the first crossover in the project so far.

[Draxx]

Well that would be a good first cross-over actually. All the space one could need for establishing characters in a fairly easy environment. If I were you, I'd go for it.
By the way, update to Suicide Squad. Just need to do Prometheus, and we have lift off.

[doliest]

I'll get right to work on it Cracklord, and on more Gotham updates. And obviously the posting on the game.

[Cracklord]

Sweet. Danny Rand, Bruce Wayne, Tony Stark, and anyone else who counts as 'society' hobnobbing with the nobs, and getting robbed blind by Selina Kyle. Now that's gotta be fun. That is, in fact, the premise that dreams are made of.

What villain should we use? Wait no, that's obvious. Mr Freeze, of course.

[Draxx]

We could make it our first cross-over. Everyone has to deal with some bizarre conspiracy involving all the cold themed villains.

[Cracklord]

Ha. Well I can get behind that. Let the puns (It's traditional) commence.

[Draxx]

Cold based characters it is. They shouldn't be too dangerous, but that is a… cold comfort. (Still got it).

The Ice Pack/Cold war

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Dr. Victor Fries - Mr. Freeze
Dr. Joar Mahkent/Cameron Mahkent - Icicle
Leonard Snart - Captain Cold
Killer Frost

Oh, and better get this out of the way as well. There you go Cracklord, all free to write Heroes For Hire.

Open Season II

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They should have rushed him all at once, trying to overwhelm him through weight of numbers. Instead they turned to their hardest hitter, and let her go crazy. The Female blinks slowly from underneath a curtain of dark hair. Her eyes are unbelievably black and wide beneath it, and the rawness of the hurt in the oily darkness would have made him sympathize, if not for what he'd seen that morning. Now, it only made him madder.
The poor stupid bastards never had a chance.
Luge knocked her down with one punch, not holding back at all. Then before they could digest what happened, he stepped over her and began on the others, fighting like a brawler.
Danny crossed his arms, leaned back against the wall, and waited for it to all be over, until one of them staggered out of the fray, yelling obscenities, and threw a punch. If it had connected, it would take his head clean off.
Danny Rand backhanded his opponent, achieving nothing, then got serious. An Oi-Tsuki, a lunging punch, followed by a Sanbon-Tsuki series of three strikes, then a Hirakin flat fist punch— none of which did more then stagger the guy. Mallory had known what he was doing, they were all durable enough to shrug of gunfire without a scratch to show for it. Danny dodged another clumsy haymaker, and responded with a magnificent Mawashi roundhouse that actually knocked him off his feet and sent him sprawling backwards into the broken window.
But Danny knew it was only a start, he didn't let up, following through before the man was even back on his feet. A finger thrust to his throat made the point better than the words they cut short. By necessity, a high crescent kick followed a knifehand block, then a reverse wedge and Kosa pin later, he had exhausted his options and not done more then rile the psychotic up. He might not be overly skillfull, but his powers made up for it. So Danny stopped using conventional Martial Arts, and it got interesting.
Danny focused his chi, his eyes flickering closed for a minute as a deep calm settled over him. When he opened them, they were the eyes of a dragon. His fist glowed red hot, and he remembered his lessons. The Frenchman closed in. 'Descent of the Second-most Evening Star' caught him in the chin with such force it lifted him off his feet and sent him flying in an ungainly mess. He cleared ten feet before he crashed to the ground like a sack of potatoes, bounced once, then skidded to a stop and did not move bar a few sad twitches. Danny rolls his eyes, now back to normal. "How you doing Luke?"
"How's it look?" Luke rubbed his hands, a touch theatricly, then turned to his friend. "Settled then."
"Not quite. There were five. The leader guy ran off."
"Hey!" Yelled Billy Butcher, in the seat of a four wheel drive towards the back that they used to travel around in. He revved the engine, then hit the accelerator. "Your mother's a whore!"
The car kicked forward, building up a suicidal, uncontrollable speed as it hurtled towards the two of them. The martial artist stepped forward and faced it unmoving, a small smile on his lips, as he began to focus.
The car's tires squeal as it flies toward him, but Danny only smiles and his eyes narrow. Suddenly going taunt as a steel cable, power thunders through his blood and his body burns like the inside of a forge and his eyes begin to glow. Drawing back his right fist, a pillar of fire burns up into the sky a hundred meters tall, enfolding all around him, and the air roars like the dragon. The Immortal Iron Fist takes a step forward, shifting his weight, his fist still drawn back, then at the last moment before the collision he brings it forward, slamming his fist into the front end of the incoming car, stopping dead and crumpling it like a beer can.
The car loses its grill and bumper immediately and the hood is crushed, as the sudden loss of momentum sends the back rearing up. The momentum lifts it off the ground, and the entire car flies end over end over his head, fliping twice and attempting to once more before coming to a crash behind Danny, smashed by its own weight. From there, the car slides back several feet, shooting sparks as it grinds into the pavement, at last coming to a rest. The car completely totaled and the Frenchman is more or less stuck inside, with no way to get out due to his broken back. Danny turns and walks away, whistling. He didn't want to kill them. He didn't like killing, wasn't comfortable with it, even if they probably deserved it. But he had no compunction about permanently crippling, maiming or otherwise putting them in traction due to massive internal bleeding.
'Enter the Dragon'. Works every time.
Luke Cage stares at him, then shakes his head. "Now you're just showing off, my man."
"You had your chance." Danny replies good-naturedly, with an open, artless smile. "Tonight, I'm on a roll. Now lets go make sure Jubilee is alright."

Just want to stress something. This is all very, very rough. Almost stream of consciousness. So if you see anything that bares impovement, please, please tell me. Got that?

Task Force X #3
Suicide Squad HQ, two weeks after the recruitment process

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It was the first time they'd all been together in one place, since the recruitment they'd been kept in separate cells under constant supervision, and they were doing their best to get acquainted without old grudges, enmities and rivalries flaring up and necessitating a fight.
Bullseye in particular eyed his new comrades, getting a feel for the group and what that meant. He didn't like what he saw. He had to assert himself, demonstrate his power so they'd take him seriously, and to do that he needed a target. It was basic mentality, establish yourself as a threat early on and you could coast on that for as long as you wanted. Plus, he hadn't killed anyone in two weeks and counting, and he needed to at least hurt someone or he was going to start to go apart at the seems.
He had what he needed, anyone who couldn't manage to get armed in solitary wasn't going to last long in the Suicide Squad, but what he didn't know was just what he was going to do. Looking across, Bullseye eyed up a hulking figure who barely managed to fit on his chair, with shoulders as broad as Wilson Fisk's. It wasn't hard to recognize Bane, a South-American criminal turned freedom fighter, the black and white luchadore mask was a dead give-away. He also wore a kevlar vest and gun-metal combat pants, giving him a strange sort of martial pride. His massive arms were still covered with track marks from where he was experimented on, woven around the ropy scars of a dozen desperate battles. Bane's body acted as both a lethal weapon and walking war memorial for those who he has freed, and those he had killed. They said he'd even broken the Batman on his knee. Nobody else had done that. A few had outfought the Bat, Bronze Tiger for one so the story went (maybe he should ask), Ra's for another, even Catman once, but actually breaking him? That was hardcore.
Bullseye met his gaze for a second, then turned away. Don't confront a man like that, unless you are certain you'll come out ahead, or you'll most likely get snapped in half like a matchstick. Even being knocked out like a chump wasn't going to make him try and take revenge on Bane.
"Heard you were dead." Thomas Arashikage said to Prometheus (another dangerous one), raising an eyebrow. It was hard to believe he'd spent so many years working for the Hand, he had to be about the most self-congratulatory person Bullseye had ever seen, always looking down on other people. How he'd made it as a faceless and identity-less ninja, Bullseye would never know. He was wearing a loose white gi, and a harness of blades and hooks and all the other toys he needed to ply his deadly craft. Most of his toys were a lot more high-tech then the traditional methods, but having adapted to the times had given him an edge, and put him well ahead of his former masters.
"Legally for only an hour or so. I wake up in a restraints in a private hospital, and now I hear I'm about to become a real American hero. Lucky me." The big man white haired man replied, frowning. Prometheus was never one for dancing around the point.
Bullseye spat. "Lucky you. You get to die doing something stupid."
"Think we're supposed to call it patriotic. God bless America." Merlyn replied with a sneer. He wasn't even an American citizen, not that the government cared. Bullseye flashed him a grin. He could push around Merlyn, but he was the only person in the room he didn't actually want to. He liked that archer.
Thomas Blake was talking to Benjamin Turner in a low voice. The two of them had noted the disproportionate number of assassins in the group, and were speculating. He didn't want to get into anything with Bronze Tiger. As for Blake, pushing him around wouldn't really give him any credibility. Take the outfit. It is made, so he claims, from some mystic fabric taken from a hidden temple in the jungles of wherever he used to shoot things. He says it gives its wearer the nine lives of a cat. Which might be worth looking like a witless ********, if it was true (which would explain a lot). Pass. Then his eyes narrowed, and he smiled his twitchy, unpleasant smile.
Floyd Lawton, better known as Deadshot, one of the most efficient assassins in the world, who rarely missed and never stopped once he accepted a mission. He and Bullseye had a rivalry, mainly on Bullseye’s part admittedly, although Floyd does seem to go out of his way to goad him. Now that would…
"Get it over with, will you?" Deadshot asked, not looking up.
Bullseye chuckled affably, nodding his head, then pulled a small swiss army knife out of his sleeve, and turned, meaning to cripple. He'd worked hard for a reputation that nobody made fun of, and meant to demonstrate just how dangerous he was.
The knife stopped an inch from Deadshot's eye. The two-shot derringer pressing hard his chin was extremely persuasive. It wasn't a big gun, but it was pressed against an artery. And he hadn't even seen the other assassin draw. "You're quick." Bullseye complemented, with a smile, as though their little tussle was nothing at all. The two of them were some of the best names in the business, as far as killers for hire are concerned. Bullseye was at once assessing the competition and gauging the capabilities of a man he intended to kill. But you wouldn't know that, looking at his smile. They were just two guys who had more in common then they thought, and were going to be the best of friends, the smile seemed to say.
Deadshot did not return the smile. "Going to leave the job half-finished?" Deadshot said softly, pressing the gun harder, so that Bullseye started to choke. "You talk a good game, lets see what you're really made of. Come on. Do it. Lets see you do it." Bullseye's eyes widened, and his hand developed a minute tremble. This was not a direction that he saw this going. Not at all. "Do it." Deadshot said again, his voice soft but oddly compelling.
"What are you, crazy?"
"Just curious. Kill me if you can. Or don't you have what it takes?"
There was a long moment, then Bullseye let the knife drop to his side, and stepped back, sitting back down. Deadshot replaced the gun in his sleeve and sat back, no longer looking at the former hitman at all. He might as well have dropped off the face of the world, for all Deadshot cared about him.
"You'll have to turn your back sometime." Bullseye snarled, trying to save face. Deadshot reached up and removed the glasses. Cold dead fish-eyes stared back at the hitman, as emotionless and soulless as a corpse. If he hadn't put the knife down, Bullseye would probably have stabbed him out of reflex. "We'll see, won't we? Now sit down and shut up. My trigger fingers itching."
"Going to have to learn to play nice with others, now that he's dealing with the big boys." Hugo Strange tittered. He fell silent when the knife sliced into his the joint of his elbow. Bullseye leaned back, arms folded, sulking. That hadn't made him feel any better at all.
Hugo ignored the open cut, even if it was bleeding rather painfully. This was too good an opportunity to miss. Hugo Strange was truly creepy. Bullseye figured he has a frequent-renter discount card at every Sleezo-Video on the Eastern Seaboard. "So, Bane. What makes a terrorist and mercenary decide to work with the government on an unprovoked attack on Africa?"
"Such an obsession with boundaries, you 'civilized' gentlemen insist on, doctor." Bane said, sounding bored by the line of questioning. "I myself couldn't care less whether they said the place was or who claimed to own it, no more then I could care less at demands people have no ability to enforce."
"Wait a moment. Africa?" Bullseye said, raising an eyebrow. "Am I the only one just gettin' that now?"
“Yes. Africa. You are an interesting case, Mr. Dorrance. But, I want to bring a few details to light before we continue with your session. One, I am a professor, not a doctor. Two, please do not feel you have to assert your independence in my presence. We are all here under duress."
Before Bane could answer, a voice goes out from the loud speaker. “Suicide Squad! Report to the main lobby. Incoming transmission from Amanda Waller.” Hugo Strange stands up, a little irritated by the interruption, and walks out of the room. The others follow him, with varying levels of interest and curiosity.
Amanda Waller is waiting for them, dressed in her deep blue sensible suit, and with two men with her. Maxwell Lord, and King Faraday, both of them with an even mix of contempt and smug satisfaction, Lord in particular.
“As you can no doubt guess, you were all chosen for your capabilities that, together, make you perfectly suited to the task facing us. Within Wakanda…"
"That's in Africa."
"Speak when addressed, mister Arashikage." Waller replied, her eyes narrowing, and for a short, plump lady it was remarkable how much she could look like Batman.
"Storm Shadow when we're working, miss Waller." He replied, but quietly, shying away.
"In Wakanda, a state that has always been isolationist in politics but has recently opened up dialogue with it's Communist neighbors. Wakanda has been a reluctant Ally of the US foriegn policy, and contains huge natural deposits of Vibranium, so naturally we do not want to be accountable for any perceived breach of the peace and our agreement, hence you."
"So not only are we patriots, we're also expendable. Lovely." Merlyn laughed. Nobody responded, as much as they might agree with his sentiments.
Waller cleared her throat. "Next one of you that interrupts me gets to serve another term when we invade Apokolips. Got that? Good. Now what we want you to recover is an artifact. A magnetic skull composed of crystal. But I don’t want to take chances. Lethal force is allowed. I want this to be swift and efficient. Bronze Tiger will be the field commander. Hugo Strange will stay here and give radio support. Stray too far or disobey his orders for the wrong reasons, and the nanobots within you will go off. You're leaving in 0200 hours. Dismissed.”

[Colesign]

And I'm back. Sorry if I left any game threads hanging.

[Terry576]

I am also back.

[Cracklord]

Welcome back. How are you doing?

[Draxx]

I need a thunder god for EXCALIBUR. Unfortunately, I can't decide on one. Anybody got a suggestion?

[darkblade]

Taranis, he doesn't have a pop cultural identity but he is a Thunder God from the British Isles.

[Draxx]

Oh good. And here I was worried I'd have to use Zeus. Excellent suggestion.
…I suppose this means I'll have to design a said cultural identity…

Hey, ever get around to updating your line-up? I'm anxious to see the finished model.

[Cracklord]

The Page Sisters:

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Yes, I agree. Who knew that librarians had such dangerous jobs?

Anyway, I'm trying my best to keep all the plots going, but I need a little help in a few places. Mostly the grail war.

[doliest]

ON the writing: Will get right on it tomorrow night/wens-morning; test came up in my Court class, seven chapters to study.

On the game: I'm using Sebastian's 'true form' since, well, situation; but the Anime/Manga never said what it really was, just that it allows Sebastian to beat up on an angel. I can retcon it if, given our fused continuity, that's too much. Alternatively, I'm willing to run with it being a last resort because it draws the attention of, well, bigger fish to him.

[Cracklord]

No, please. This is what I want, I never can figure out what to do with the wolves.

[doliest]

Ah. Problem solved then, Sebastian goes true form, kills everyone, and is trying to kill 'sam' before Oberon/Cthulhu/Lucifer/Michael Carpenter/Old Man Henderson show up.