Jon's Super Hero College game: Audition

[Fatso]

((This probably would have turned out better if I hadn't stuck with the 'shoehorn my pet musical reference in at every opportunity' theme, but I figured since my entire character is a sort of musical reference, I may as well go all in.))



Peter Hammill set down his book, his scribbled notes scattering across the desk. He sighed. "When I began, I was full of altruistic dreams - believed in princes and princesses, kings and queens," he read off one slip - lyrics, his namesake's work from a time long past, now more relevant than ever in the face of this essay for Kovacs on the downfall of once-prominent heroes.

Peter Hammill. A very British name, suitable for a child of two Brits who had left for college in America together after meeting in a London public school. It was also the name of a famous rock musician, a guitarist and vocalist some decades his senior, whom he'd discovered during the requisite self-Google-search of teenage years. His parents were familiar with the other Peter Hammill and enjoyed his music, but dismissed his lyrics as "fantasy rubbish" entirely typical of his contemporaries. Yet now they seemed so much more meaningful, so much more profound. Why couldn't they see what a visionary this man was?



Peter set down his book, his will to continue reading momentarily extinguished.

"The Prince", by Niccolo Machiavelli. Hammill knew that Machiavelli had a good reputation as a historian and political analyst of his times, so he'd picked up this book in hopes of discovering the world of Renaissance Europe with the bounteous spare time he had stumbled upon at college.

He'd discovered much more than that. "The Prince" turned out to be a handy guide for men of sufficient character to create (or take) and maintain their own principalities. Hammill was fascinated by the anecdotes of great men who held their territories long (and lesser men who lost them), inspired by the more virtuous suggestions it made (ally yourself with the people over the nobles), and a little horrified by some of the more pragmatic suggestions (it is generally more wise to appear benevolent and then act in a more self-interested manner than to actually practice widespread benevolence). Still, even some of the most personally disgusting recommendations seemed to make sense within the framework of a principality.

But this was the United States, a long-standing constitutional republic (one of the longest-standing!) with no real ties to the old monarchy, despite Tintagel's assertions to the contrary. Why did all these character traits seem so familiar? Why, in the land of the free, did the politicians all act as though carving out their own states? Why had Hammill not noticed this suspicious behaviour until now?

Most importantly, though, why wasn't he as outraged as he ought to be?

"Now I find they're all human inside, all bitterness and pride - so why shouldn't I be like that too?" that old lyric continued, as though in response. Subconsciously, he must have expected this. Consciously, he needed to know more. More about America. More about politics. More about why politicians would act as though such a great republic were some kind of kingdom to be cut up into fiefs.

His parents needed to be made aware of this, but only in due time and after thorough research. It was best they did not know his intentions for now, until he had a clear, concise, complete report to deliver. They worked for the government, after all - perhaps they were in a position to deal with this corruption.

"It seems I've forgotten all I tried so hard to learn..."



Peter set down his book, his need to get to the bottom of this corruption stronger than ever.

Politics in the United States, it turned out, was a tangled mess of checks and balances with no real way for any one person to accomplish anything meaningful, not even the President. So you needed friends, alliances, parties. "Friends - they're all harbouring knives," the lines echoed in his head, "to embed in your back out of revenge, or spite, or indifference, or lack of other things to do." And so it was in the political sphere - a cutthroat game of shifting alliances, shifting agendas, shifting players.

So he'd gone deeper. He'd uncovered efforts to subvert American democracy dating back further than he could have possibly imagined. The menace posed by corrupt politicians today was no greater than it had been in the '50s and '60s, for example, with McCarthy's red-scare witch-hunt (exacerbated by his army of super-powered 'investigators'), or way back in the '30s when, to some, Mussolini's fascism and Hitler's Third Reich seemed more appealing than FDR's New Deal economics.

The problem seemed to be buried deeper in the roots of the political system than Hammill could have possibly imagined. It was nearly time to report on the sad state of American politics. "It seems there is nothing left but hatred and lust in the world..." It seemed so indeed, at least in Congress.



Peter set down his receiver, his mind reeling from the apparent ignorance of his parents to the enormity of the problem they faced. They'd commended his efforts at research, but dismissed his findings.

"Corruption exists, Peter, and it probably always will, but it's not even remotely as bad as you think, and we are always hard at work rooting it out and eliminating it. Trust in the American way, and you'll pull through just fine, just like we have."

Trust. What a bitter word. Who could he trust anymore? His parents were well-intentioned enough, but they seemed unable to grasp the stakes of this game the politicians played.

The lyrics. Once again, he could not escape their grasp. There was one verse at the end that he could never quite relate to before... but now he began to see its meaning.

"I don't give a damn anymore - I've only wound up betrayed. It's all been absolutely worthless - all the efforts I've made to be gentle and kind are repaid with contempt, degraded by sympathy and worthless kindness and love that isn't meant." Peter reached for his earpiece, which had been left off for most of the past month. He activated it, tuned it to a random frequency, and, in his darkest, most sinister voice, intoned:

"I'm through with joy and company, I've done with pretty words. I'm betrayed - there's no hiding-place anywhere in the world. I've nothing left to fight for except making my passion heard - I don't believe in anything anywhere in the world." And he crushed the earpiece.

[kultz]

Tuesday, fall, 2012.
I am going to keep this journal in case of my untimely demise. I am going to hide this somewhere safe, where nobody can find it. I will  put this behind the fridge.
Recent events have led me to believe that the remainder of my life is going to be shorter than I had anticipated. Ill health aside, it  would appear that the world conspires against me at every turn.
It has been over sixty years since I last put my thoughts on paper, and even longer since the last sincere thought. Hopefully, by the time  this writing is discovered, I would be remembered as a hero. Somehow I doubt it, as what I am planning is perhaps anything but heroic.
I have not confessed my thoughts to Nazis, Communists, or even aliens from the invisible moon of Mars, but sitting here in my old age, I  feel an urge to put down my thoughts before it's too late. McArthur was wrong. Old soldiers die. I do not know what awaits me in the  everafter, but I find it difficult to believe that there exists an afterlife that would be kind to me. Oblivion is preferable at this  rate.


Thursday, fall, 2012.

The year was 1944. I was part of something called Operation Cobra. Back then I served as a soldier for the United States Army, as a member  of the 3rd Experimental Scientific Assault Battalion. I do not know if this name would even mean anything to the readers. So much of my  past, my life, has faded from the people's memories. After I'm gone, there wouldn't be anything left. Not even a name. Nobody would
I'm rambling. Sorry, future children admiring this piece of history through your textbooks, I'll try to make it understandable.
As a member of the 3rd ESAB, or the Elite Sons-a-bitches, as we called ourselves, we were given dangerous tasks no ordinary human could  handle. As we were legally no longer human, the same rights did not quite apply to us. We were more like equipment, the general staff  numbers us, gives us nicknames, and hides our faces behind costumes and masks. Nobody knew our real names, nobody knew whether the Patriot  Marine wearing the cape was the same one last week. It wasn't. His name was Tony Rizzo, he was an only child. He was executed by Nazis on  June 7th, 1944, in a little village just outside of Caen. His parents were told that he was washed away during Normandy. His replacement  was John Berman, a Jewish boy from Minnesota. John died leading a charge on foot in Korea in 1952. The army couldn't replace him quietly  because the Chinese hung his corpse from the edge of a cliff. He was an orphan.


Friday, fall, 2012.
I remember, very distinctly, the first time I faced certain death. Over the course of my long life, I have faced such prospects many  times, but the very first time is ...special. I am no poet, the best I can do is to tell my tale to this piece of paper, and hope that the  future judges me kindly.
We all die. Some sooner than others. I thought I would die on that cold day in December 1944. The Germans were on full retreat. That's  what the commanders told us. We of the 3rd ESAB were to lead the pursuit of the retreating SS divisions. The boys were happy. After all  these months of being shot at it finally looked like we were going to be the heroes like the eggheads promised. At 1023 hours, Frank  Copperfield was shredded into a thousand little meat ribbons by Nazi flayer beams. Left and right, as far as the eyes could see, German  troops poured from the woods. The 2nd SS was throwing everything and the kitchen sink at us. From outdated rattling tanks, to a gorilla  man thing sewn together with little copper wires, and even a woman made of gears. The fighting lasted for two hours. It hadn't occured to  us at the time that we were used as bait to force the SS Ubersoldaten's hands. Looking back, it seemed so obvious. The artillery shellings  were no mistake. The coordinates were given correctly. It was not an accident that the fire support blew up everybody in that godforsaken  forest. The high command never intended to deliver those hefty pension packages they promised.
I lost my first set of eyes that day. Blinded, deaf, and torn open, I was left for dead on that battlefield. Blurring in and out of  consciousness, I knew I was dead. It was only a matter of time. I wondered for a moment what the secretaries will tell my mother. Will  they say that I tripped and fell? Will they say I died peacefully in my sleep? The next thing I remember was waking up to the smell of  antiseptics, with my eyes sewn shut, my limbs tied down, and a feeding tube in my mouth. I screamed. I screamed until the medics punched  morphine into my veins. I was immune to morphine. They tried everything. They probably tried talking to me. I can't hear them. Eventually  I was too tired. I knew then that I was alive, and I hated every moment of it.

[Jfan999]

Tone: light comedy with serious moments

At least by comparison the shit I'm going to do to Steph's character won't seem so bad now.

[kultz]

This is our idea of light comedy.

[Tweak]

Cool, wait- what do you mean about my character? O_O

[Cataphrak]

MOAR LIGHT COMEDY!

(Note: Arthur is now 18, as his birthday is in late September)

OCTOBER 22nd, WALES, BRITISH EMPIRE

The sleek iron-grey helicopter set itself down gently on the pad. Immediately, a quartet of power-armoured soldiers stormed out of the concrete bunkers surrounding it, forming a cordon around the of the newly-arrived aircraft. The door slid open and a tall, muscular boy - almost a man - hopped out from within.

And thus, Sartorius Rex found himself, once again, standing on the soil of his native Britain.

The leader of the armoured soldiers snapped to attention. She was the owner of a stocky, obviously female body and a very imposing powered gauntlet which crackled and hissed with static energy, The others followed suit.

"Welcome to New Cardiff, Lord Arthur."

Arthur Tintagel almost broke stride for a moment as he was hit by the unfamiliar style. It was only half an instant before he reminded himself that, seeing as King-Emperor George VI had finally created the title of Baron Pendragon for his father the day before (which was the real reason for his hop across the pond), he was, indeed, properly styled "Lord Arthur".

It was all very disconcerting.

"Good morning Major Willows, I supppose you know why I'm here?"

Major Susan Willows was one of Sir Donalbain Canmore's senior aides, and thus, one of the most powerful figures in S.E.C.T.I.O.N. More specifically, her job was to maintain New Cardiff Prison, its battalion-strength garrison of SAS men and women and to make sure that the singular occupant stayed where he - or rather, she, was. Major Willows had been briefed on the visit before Lord Arthur's helicopter had even left RAF Cranwell. Still, the circumstances were strange. Out of all the people in the world, why would her sole inmate call upon this young and untested heir to the Tintagel Dynasty? Why not his more proven and more politically acquiesent father? Why not Director Canmore himself, who had been a sympathiser in the early days?

Those were not questions for her to ask, Major Willows did not ask them.

"Yes sir, all seems in order."

Willows turned to one of her armoured subordinates, a statuesque young blonde with a single chevron on her pauldron.

"Lance-Corporal Dulac, you remember Lord Arthur, of course. Escort him to the cell."

The girl nodded and quickly led the way.

"The lift's this way sir."

-----

New Cardiff Prison was one of the most secure facilities on the planet, one of the rare feats of genuine cooperation between the Empire and the United States. The main elevator shafft, protected by automated gun turrets and power-draining fields of all types, descended 800 metres into the earth, going through 6 consecutive layers of concrete and adamantium. It took nearly four minutes for the lift car to get from the surface to the very bottom, where New Cardiff's sole inmate resided.

It was a very awkward four minutes.

"Congratulations sir."

Arthur blinked.

"Pardon me?"

"On your elevation to the peerage."

"My father's elevation. "Lord" is just a courtesy style in my case."

"Sorry sir"

There was a distinctly uncomfortable pause. Finally, Arthur spoke.

"Don't do this Charlotte."

"Do what?"

"This whole pretending we're total strangers thing. It's a wee bit creepy."

"So what do you want us to do?"

"Interact like normal, well-adjusted human beings."

"Very well then sir..."

Another pause followed, almost as uncomfortable as the first. It persisted for nearly thirty seconds before Arthur broke it.

"So, how's Gwen."

There was another pause, filled only by the whirr of the travelling lift car. Then:

"Pretty good. She passed field agent selection last week."

"Good for her."

Charlotte Dulac's eyebrow climbed up her pale forehead.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Charlotte sighed. After all this time avoiding it, she was going to have to say it anyways, and right to the man's face no less.

"After all she- after all we did to you, that's all you have to say?"

Gwen de Vere had been Arthur's first... well, everything. A year and a half older and seemingly infinitely wiser. From her, Arthur had learned a lifetime's worth about life and love.

In return, Gwen had learned that she wasn't as interested in boys as she had thought.

Although, to be entirely fair, the rather impetuous advances of a young special forces candidate named Charlotte Dulac may have had something to do with that.

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to remember those days which seemed so long ago, buried under the memories of the intervening years. After a moment, he left it alone. It was better off left where it was.

"Charlotte, are you happy with Gwen?"

"Yes."

"Is Gwen happy with you?"

"I would hope so."

"Then I don't really see an issue."

"But-"

"But what? I was fifteen and she wasn't much older. You helped her come to grips with a part of her which I was too inexperienced and too foolish to even touch. Any sentiment of betrayal or anger which I might have had are long buried. The fact that I have moved on and the fact that the two of you make each other happy is are the reasons I need to keep them buried."

An electronic bell sounded and the lifts's blast doors slid open.

"So if you were expecting some sort of rooftop duel between rival suitors in the thick of a thunderstorm, you have the wrong man."

As Arthur Tintagel walked out of the lift car, Lance-Corporal Charlotte Dulac somehow felt more hopeful and optimistic than she had in a month.

-----

The world called her many names: "Marguerita La Loca", "The Iron Lady", "The PMS".

Arthur Tintagel however, only knew her by one.

"Hello Aunt Maggie."

Margaret, 1st Countess Thatcher, looked up from her half-written memoirs at the young man sitting across from her, separated merely by three forefields of unique polarities, a laser grid, a metre-thick wall of armoured glass and a very long tea table.

"Why hello there Arthur. Has your father gone and made himself Lord Protector yet?"

"Uhm, no, Aunt Maggie."

The former Prime Minister looked barely a day over fourty, a legacy of the S.E.C.T.I.O.N. enhancements designed to make her Britain's answer to the American supersoldier programme. Her eyes, however, had long lost the focus of her earlier years, and now darted around in a sort of fevered mania.

"Really? Perhaps he should. He's the only real Tory left in this Empire you know. Certainly better than that fool in Downing Street these days. 'Call me Dave'! Indeed! Why should that poltroon..."

Arthur cleared his throat politely, bringing the former Prime Minister's rambling diatribe up short.

"Aunt Maggie, why have you asked for me?"

"I'll get to that in a minute dear boy. Tea?"

"Of course. Two sugars, no milk."

For a moment, the former PM sank into the role of a doting old woman, making tea for her favourite colleague's son. From his side of the forcefield, Arthur found it very hard to picture this old lady in a middle-aged body as the mastermind who very nearly razed Manhattan to the ground in 1990.

Soon, she returned with the promised tea, the steaming pot clasped in the steel jaws of the mechanical arm which doubled as her manservant, controlled with a panel on the cell wall.

"I'll be mother."

Thatcher poured two cups of tea, put two cubes of sugar in one and used the steel arm to push the saucer and cup through a small hole in the armoured glass (tea and porcelain were the only things the forcefields let through).

Thus supplied, the incongruous pair started their normal teatime conversation.

"How are your studies Arthur? I suppose the Yanks are filling your head with all sorts of nonesense."

"Only the suitably British bits stick Aunt Maggie."

"Good, good. Who is your supervisor?"

"A retired American supersoldier, Major Kovacs."

"Gene Kovacs? I remember him. Very nice fellow for an American. A sort of decent, upstanding chap. Very naive though. Never had the eye for hidden enemies that I did."

"He sees enemies everywhere these days."

"Good, it's about time he did. I never could abide blind idealism. It's so very... continental."

It was at this point that Arthur decided that it might be a very good idea to change the subject, seeing as they had fully consumed the entire pot of tea.

"So, your reason for bringing me here."

"Yes, of course! I called you here for a purpose my dear boy."

"A purpose, Aunt Maggie?"

"Indeed. The Empire is surrounded by enemies. Despite the efforts of loyal men like your father and Director Canmore, these foes gain ground with every day. You seek to follow their footsteps thinking that becoming an example of virtue and an unyielding bulwark will be enough to save Britain in her hour of darkest need. You are wrong. Britain does not need another protector of the innocent. Britain needs a warrior avatar, someone who must represent every man and woman in England, Scotland and Wales, maybe even a handful of of Irish as well. You will not fight back our great nation's enemies by merely being a shield, you must be a sword."

Arthur bit his lip as he considered the consequences of the former PM's words. He'd killed before, certainly, but never on the scale which the old battleax seemed to be demanding him to.

"Conflicts are best ended through discourse, not-"

The teenaged super was brought up short by Thatcher's eyes, now glaring pale blue under her inpeccably coiffed mass of blonde hair.

"Saint George slew the dragon, he did not seek compromise with it. England's enemies are not to be reasoned with, they are to be DESTROYED, without remorse or pity. The time and circumstances of that destruction, I leave to you, but make no mistake, you must rid our Empire of its enemies permanently. You must place yourself as a servant of the Empire first and a hero second. Do you understand?"

Arthur thought about it for a moment. A moment was all he needed.

"I understand."

The former Prime Minister nodded, her lips twisting into a satisfied grin. She touched a button on the wall.

"Lance Corporal Dulac, bring my gift for Arthur."

A moment later, the blonde SAS operator reappeared. In her hands rested a sheathed longsword, its hilt simple, but exquistely worked, bound in a scabbard of real leather and inlaid in silver.

"I had this forged for you Arthur, made from the armoured shield of my dear old instrument of policy. Well, the blade anyways. The hilt is made from the crankshaft of my old Toyota Hilux."

Arthur's eyes widened. Countess Thatcher's "instrument of policy" had been fifteen metres tall and had been capable of shrugging off 16-inch battleship shells. Even he wasn't cleared to know what had gone into that thing's armour.

"It will cut through flesh, steel and stone. Call upon it, and it will give you the strength of five men. It can only be drawn by someone of your blood, for I know that your house's loyalty to the Empire is absolute."

Arthur took the sword and drew it from its scabbard in one smooth motion. The shining silver metal glistened under the flourescent light. It was a plain blade; all straight lines and business, a bit heavier than steel. The only concession to decoration had been a single line of script, engraved into the forte:

"BRITANNIA VICTOR. G VI R"

Arthur pursed his lips at that. The royal cypher marked the sword as property of the British Government, just as he technically was.

"So long as your conviction and loyalty do not waver, this blade will not fail you. Should any wielder attempt to turn upon Britain with this sword as the instrument of treason, it will shatter. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Once Britain was a power to be feared. Once Britons looked up to the old Union Flag and knew that under the aegis of that proud banner, that we were the richest, strongest and healthiest people in the world. Those days are gone, but with that sword, you shall make what was once, be again."

Countess Thatcher leaned in, her gaze as flinty and focused as they had been during the first glorious years of her office.

"Make Britain great again."

"On my word of honour, it will be so."

The pale blue gaze disippated, the stern expression faded.

"Now put that thing back in its scabbard before you hurt yourself with it."

"What? Oh! Yes!."

"Now, you have a flight to catch tonight, do you not?"

The Iron Lady had once again become an old woman, a favourite aunt, a befuddled mind in a too-young body.

"Er- yes, Aunt Maggie."

"Then I shall not be keeping you. I do not wish to make you late."

"Of course, Aunt Maggie."

"Say hello to your father for me."

"Yes Aunt Maggie."

"And wear a coat! Wales is cold this time of year!"

"I already am, Aunt Maggie."

"Very well. Off you go then! Lance Corporal Dulac, show Arthur out, if you will please."

"Yes ma'am."

-----

Arthur turned the sword over in his hands as the helicopter lifted off from New Cardiff. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Aunt Maggie given him a fine gift and told him to use it and make Britain, thus the world, a better place.

Aunt Maggie was also a borderline insane megalomaniac who had nearly started a war with the United States.

Lord Arthur Tintagel sheathed the weapon and tucked the scabbard back into the seat next to him. The weapon was the past, something which needed to be reconciled he was ever to make his mark on the future.

Sartorius Rex switched on his phone.

"AWAITING VOICE COMMAND."

"Phone, arrange an appointment with Terrance Blair."

-END-

[captaincommunism]

Spoiler for ???:

I've decided to split this up into multiple parts. goal is to write a page or so a week. Maybe more, maybe less. also:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HK2lNuiD7gM

Stalingrad was my home. It had large open parks, and broad streets, with massive housing complexes lining them. I was playing with my sister of 5, Masha, when my father came to put me back inside. He never could make me stay. The house was so drab, everything looked the same, brown, grey, white. No variety. The only thing that was special were the trees in the parks, and the grass and flowers. My sister and I loved them. The apple tree was the best to climb. There was a reward at the top. Every time, the face of my grey haired, moustached father would shake it til we dropped down. Every time he'd catch us. Each time, He always told me to take care of my sister. Every time, I replied "It is the goal of every soviet citizen to take care of each other!" -- I was a good little communist.

My Father ran a factory. It produced tanks for our great soldiers. True sights to behold, during the parades. After the winter war, where we reclaimed our rightful land from the Finns, we kept production up. Happiness through work, as the slogan went.

The Nazi's had invaded Poland and France, but we knew that our work would make sure they never set foot on our soil. In 1943, everything we knew was wrong. My homeland lost all it had gained. The fascists took over all of Eastern Europe. They utterly smashed our brave soldiers' lines. Those that escaped told tales of disgusting brutality. I would not let them do that to me. I would not let them do that to any of us.

The radio blared out plenty of propaganda. But some was believable at least.
“In just one month, the Fascist swine took over all of eastern Europe, and its southern arm was charged with attacking Stalingrad, the North with Moscow. Though we have lost much, Comrades, Marshall Stalin’s men have killed tenfold the number of fascists in return. Annihilate the fascist bandits! Make them pay! Honour the October Revolution! Not one step back!”

That night, the Nazis began bombing stalingrad. not with bombs, but with missiles. They had no planes flying over us. we had no way of countering them. They flew too fast. My father's factory was hit. In war, all factories run through the night. I ran out to find him, and found the firemen trying to extinguish what they could. Then the carbide stores went up. the factory was gone. The flash was blinding. When I got back to my home, I found my sister huddling under her bed. she couldn't say a word. I did what I could for her. I put some wood in the fireplace, and tucked her into bed.

[captaincommunism]

Spoiler for ???:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=YEt41bYQBgE

Holodna hmoora.

>> Cold, hard, empty.

Eemruchnoh v'doosheh

>>Light that has left me,

Kak mohg znat ya shtoh tee oomriosh?

>>How could I know that you would die?

It was winter in Novosibirsk. Mikhail Gregovitch, the glorious people's commissar led me to the fortress of science, Akademgorodok. A huge building from the time of imperial Russia. The people were hungry, and it showed. The military gets top priority. It's my fourteenth birthday. The people are going crazy without food. They tried to claw at me while I tried to get into the facility. They throw things. Our soldiers gun them down. They run. Were I in their position... well, I can't blame them.

Numerous vats of chemicals littered the facility. It's cold in here. Must be out of coal.

Several needles surround the tank I’m going to climb into. Filled with multi-coloured liquids, blue, red, pink, black. I hate needles.

“Comrade Commissar, this treatment will make me strong?”
“Yes Vasilliy. This will make you strong. This will make you the new soviet man.”
“Will it be enough?”
“Has Mother Russia ever failed you? Trust in me and trust in Stalin. We will see you through.”

The doctors assure me the Nazi’s are still a day away.  I never trusted these doctors, not that I have a choice…

Gregovitch and I climbed one of the numerous towers of the facility. A pair of sniper rifles, heavy machine guns, and a small anti-aircraft gun were there for the men to fall back to. Eagle's nest. It isn't much, but it's something.

I survey the city. A layer of frost and snow cut the landscape. I can see the smoke of the Panzers from here. Once one of the most populated cities of Russia, almost all the civilians had run and those that couldn't, or wouldn't, were conscripted. The oldest are the most attached. It might have been a beautiful city, if not for the circumstances. Almost every street was lined with tank traps, trenches, dragons teeth, and anti-tank guns.

I see the first artillery blast hit the outskirts of the city. The last division of the Soviet army had dug in there. The only ones left were either the best or the luckiest. The Germans spared no one. The P-1000's they had brought hammered the rest of the city. The naval artillery they mounted leveled whole apartment blocks in single shots. Thousand tonne beasts.

"Come, Vasiliy. it is time." Gregovitch's stubble had grown to a scraggly beard. he chewed through his cigar and said "The process will take eight hours. We will let you know what to do after that."

"Da, comrade." at that moment, artillery struck a house a block away. I felt the shockwave from here. "What about the Germans?"

"Leave them to us, Vasiliy. You have a more important task. You are our last hope. just..." -- He gives me a cigar. "My last one. For luck."
He gives me a light.
"Go."

By the time I climbed down from the tower, and entered the academy proper, I knew that I had seen
light for the last time.

Spoiler for P-1000?:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P-1000

[splinterchaos]

The cold air ravaged the innocent cement, tearing the newly settled yellow paint. The steel underneath felt nothing. But the stones felt the chill, as the paint felt the wind... And as I felt them both, before I felt the hot, searing flame of a bullet being fired.

It left the chamber like a bat out of hell, shreeching and tearing at the wind, claiming sweet revenge for the paint. The man behind the bullet, Danny Forlioni, was screaming as well. He'd killed and raped fifteen women in the past month, and Noir pays its debts in kind. So I dug deep into the cavern of Noir, and found myself looking down into a dark abyss of shit and deciept, and left so much dirt on my hands I couldn't tell where the dirt ended and my arms began. Eventually I dug too deep, and the cave fell around me. I'd stumbled into a trap, and Danny with two of his goons had cornered me on Weir and Dim.

"You son of a bitch, HURT! You kill my men, my friend, and then you killed my fucking dog. I'm going to make this slow, real slow. Your feel this... I'll fuck you up like I fucked those bitches! Haha! You'll HURT LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER!!" He said, moments before he fired the gun. His face drooped on one side like a bad mask, a side effect of acute paralysis he'd received, probably from the drugs he'd likely been taking since birth. It had earned him the name Droopy Dan, a moniker that put him into a rage anytime anyone used it. Rage I could use.

"Bitches? You rape your dog too Droopy Dan? I always knew you were a sick one, but this takes the case." I said, laughing inside at the rage playing upon his face like the final act of Phantom of the Opera. I felt a vibration from my leg, but I ignored it.

"You killer, your murderer! You killed my dog!!" he said

"If it's any consolation, that dog did try to bite my ear off... Before I blew its head off. It's done worse things than that though, and you know it." I said, the gun I'm his hand twitching.

The dog had done worse things, and Danny was a regular Diomedes, feeding the dog the flesh of the people he'd killed.

"You're a sick bastard, and so was your friend. That dog deserved nothing more than hell, and so do you!" I said, 10 feet from a loaded gun.

"I'll see you there then, Mortan Hurt!" He said, as the gun fired.

And then it all slowed, the wind picked up the new paint, the chill against the stones, the heat of the gun... And the leap I took toward the lackey you hadn't aimed yet. Bullets, with trails of rippling water behind them, whined past my face and feet. His face was priceless, as I took his gun and shot his leg. His gun sang, music pouring out with every shot. Suddenly, a sudden risk of pain shot up my leg, and I felt warm blood streak down. A shot met its mark, though nothing serious... I hoped.

The wind picked up again, screeching, sailing past the leaves, and railed upon every brick and branch. Music permeated the air, and I felt the pain vibrate in my leg. I picked up my cell phone, it was Whiskey.

"Whiskey! Argh, what's going on? Where we're you?"

Whiskey Wu, my partner, a good man, and crackshot with a rifle. He was investigating the connections between Danny and the local mob, while playing office wingman.

"Mor, something importants come up... You need to come down to the station" he said

"Whiskey, I just took down Droopy Dan, what could be..."

"Moreton, your wife called, she said she couldn't get a hold of you... Your going to be a father"

And then, the world froze.

[Cataphrak]

Note on International Relations:

Anglo-American:
The United States and the British Empire have a complicated working relationship. While there are occasional moments of ugliness between the two premier Western Powers, the Grand Alliance is still functional, though extremists on both sides occasionally bring up the concept of "Exporting our Manifest Destiny Across the Atlantic" or "Reclaiming those 240 years' worth of back taxes". While not as close as in our timeline, the US and the Empire still work together decently enough.

Anglo-French:
France is something of an anomaly in Western Europe. While its government has a relatively warm relationship with its British counterpart, its superhero community is in the middle of a decades-long feud, generally started by the indiscriminate destruction to the French countryside by liberating British forces in WW2, the British Valiant V "accidentally forgetting" a few of their surplus superweapons on the doorstep of the Viet Minh and the general dickishness of French interim leader Charles "Le Gaulle Blindee" de Gaulle (The Armoured Gaul). Thus the British and French governments try to keep their respective superteams away from each other, except during staged "grudge matches" far away from each others civilian populations.

[splinterchaos]

To whom it may concern.

Under the surveillance of the governing body, and the current requirements of the Noir, New York City Police Department, the city of Noir hereby requests that William Hurt, son of the well known detective Morton Hurt, be transferred from Black Equestrian University, to your own. The talents seem in William can only be seen as extraordinary. His abilities range from creating a sort of "Time Bubble", to performing gravity defying leaps. With these combined, Will has been known to "dodge bullets" and avoid death when it would be otherwise inevitable. Therefore, under the current law of government, it is clear that special instruction and certification must be given in order for William to flourish as both a police officer, and as a man of power.

Any questions may be directed toward Williams's father Morton.

Commissioner Gabriel Freist, NNYC

P.S. May he bring his dog?

[Tweak]

Exerpt from the diary of Shannon Anastasia Steele:

Weird being so far away from mom and dad. I keep expecting them to show up and inspect things. Kovacs is insane and my dorm mates are... interesting, but it's nice here. A lot friendlier than I was expecting. 10/09/12

Mom called today to check up on me. Wanted to make sure I was wearing "sexy" underwear, then dad started shouting that he didn't want me having sex, and they started arguing. I didn't want to hang up before she said bye because otherwise she'd get mad. Thankfully she ended the call before I had to listen to them much. Like I HAVE any other underwear... 15/09/12

I don't usually write down what I dream about, but jeez that was weird. It was me, smaller boobs, different eyes, less skin showing, in the mirror. We argued a bit and there was green mist and I woke up. Freaked me out for a while, but the pills calmed me down again. Her outfit was... interesting. 20/09/12

Apparently I got really drunk last night. Needed twice the pain-killers I usually do. Dad called and asked if I wanted a laser cannon installed on my stomach. He said it would be awesome and he wouldn't tell mom. I told him if she ever decides to put me in an outfit like her old one, she'd definitely find out. I don't want a laser cannon anyway, but I didn't tell him that. 21/09/12

Blacked out at a pub and got another dream. Dream-Me isn't so bad. She doesn't like to listen to my parents though. Easy for her, she doesn't have to deal with them. Just to drive that point home, I got a care package from mom. More condoms. I haven't even touched the other ones. It's like she thinks that's all you're supposed to do at school. But none of the guys are even like that. Ok, maybe a few, but it's not crazy like she seems to think. I did get invited to a fancy party though. 30/09/12

It's weird. I still make my bed and put on makeup and take my pills like my parents tell me to, without thinking. They're not here, but it's just so routine. I wonder if they'd notice if I didn't take some of the pills. It's not like they'll be around much. 01/10/12

Just got back from the garbage dump. A lot has happened the last few days. Kovacs tried to irradiate the party. Mom said my dress wasn't skimpy enough. I liked the dress a lot. The government facility, the hot tub, a Naziman. The bastard ripped my legs off. Arthur protected and carried me home and I decided to regrow my old legs thanks to Garburator. I'm scared of what my parents will say, but I like having legs again. Also wishing I'd tried on hoodies sooner. They're sooo comfy. 05/10/12

Went without makeup today. No one even noticed. Don't know why I ever bothered. Oh, right, mom. Ah well... whatever. Also joined the wrestling club. Because I wanted to. 06/10/12

Mom and dad visited out of nowhere. Thank god mom only noticed the hoodie and not the lack of makeup, earrings, hair bauble, pills, geez I've been slacking. Thankfully Arthur was awesome and distracted dad so I only had to deal with mom. That settles it. Mom doesn't notice little things if you distract her with big things. Also, Arthur is awesome! 02/12/12

Got new boots. It's cool being able to feel things on my feet. Having fun with Dream-Me. We're starting to look the same too. She still has smaller boobs though. I don't think I want to remove the implants though. I like the bullet resistance. Also I want a water slide. 03/12/12

You know... Mom and dad... they aren't too bright, are they? A lot of the older heroes are kinda, short-sighted... Are heroes supposed to be so simple-minded? Am I simple-minded? I can't be, if I'm questioning it... 04/12/12

[captaincommunism]

Spoiler for ???:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2YlbiyiuMc

Gregovitch made sure Masha and I were safe... well, as safe as safe gets when your country is being invaded by Nazis. He was our father after our father. He brought us food, and told us stories of Great Soviet victories of earlier wars. Against the poles, against the Estonians. Against the Finns... to an extent. Even napoleon. The light in his blue eyes had faded though. The war had worn on him, even now. I think he dreaded each propaganda posting. He always made me turn off the radio.

And then I found out why.  
Every able bodied Russian was to serve in the people's liberation army. When the war started going bad, which was within the first weeks of the war starting, they started lowering the draft age. average training time of "men" was one week. I say "men" because we were not men. I was among the eldest. Just 12. I could barely hold the papasha, let alone fire it. I can still remember Gregovitch's hands trying to steady mine. he just kept saying "shoot the fascists! Never drop your gun!" -- every time he did that, I remember the night of the rockets. Every time, I know I can do it. I can do it.

Masha was playing in the fields near stalingrad the day I heard the last radio signal from Moscow. the Nazi's had taken the city, and rather than let it fall into their hands, Stalin elected to destroy it, with them inside. I know not what became of him. It was not but chaos afterwards. But my sister was out there when the air raid sirens went on. I had to find her.

My uniform didn't fit. The boots were too large, but were the smallest available for a soldier. The helmet covered my eyes and nose. I had to cut off the sleeves and the pant legs to make them reasonable. I can't run very fast. But I ran to the fields nonetheless. Then I saw what the air sirens were about. It wasn't just the Luftwaffe.

The Nazis had a mechanized force from the second SS Panzergrenadier division. Elites. Half tracks. Trucks. Scout tanks. Nothing but the quickest. The Stukas pummeled our trenches. There's been no communication. Nobody knows anything. Have to find Masha. I keep running. Running in the direction of these bastards. Don't want to. Have to find Masha.

She was playing in a garden of flowers, next to a tiny hovel of a small farmhouse, near the train station. I found her alive. She was alive. My god. But the Germans came close. I could hear their shouts and the sound of their engines. I picked her up. she was heavy. I could barely walk. Each step was like walking with boots of lead. All I could do was get her to the hovel. It was a shack. A piece of sheet metal attached to four corners of wood, and a door.

All I do is tell masha to keep quiet. she's scared. "what do we do now?" she asks me. I just put my finger to my lips. we barely breathe. I hold onto her, my chest on her back.

Spoiler for Not For the faint of heart. (IE, Steph.):

Then a molotov smashed right next to her stomach.

[captaincommunism]

Spoiler for ???:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0hSAuf20XIo

I entered an elevator that went lower into the facility. On the way down, I could see large number of civilians that had entered this fortress as their last refuge. Huddling together for warmth. There isn't much time left. Only the natural light of the fading sun lit the rooms now. The windows of this place, some of them stained glass, some of them not. If not for the war...

I entered the room with the tank of needles in it. It looks like an iron maiden. A single light lit the room. A doctor stood to greet me. Bald, glasses, and a lab coat. he looks the part. “Doctor Rasputin. It’s time.” I say.
 
"Yes Vasiliy. this way. I will give you a sedative, first." He took my arm and started digging for a vein. a large control booth up above had the clicking of various mechanical devices, and a recording device. I started feeling claustrophobic.

The tank’s liquid was cold. I couldn’t feel anything, until they started pumping the Ichor in. my muscles spasm. My heart quakes. I feel my all my muscles growing. My brain is expanding. Quickening. Skin tightening, strengthening. My heart can’t take it. Keeps on going. Feel heavy. Feel… limp. Body shuts down.. The electricity courses through my entire body for but a moment. Then it happens again.

They hadn't disconnected me when the Nazis breached the compound. They had to give me another defibrillation. It shocked the hell out of me. I could feel every nerve on fire. A Nazi soldier entered the lab, and everything inside me went to instincts. New instincts. New powers. I held my hands out, and in a moment, he was nothing but a husk. Then ten more came in. More Husks. And… I could fly. I could fly.

Then I heard the machine guns. They had started butchering them. I flew. I flew up the elevator shaft. I flew into the middle of that room. I saw the bodies. Old people, women, children, hundreds of them. The stench of death already started. I remember every moment. I remember becoming as strong as a hundred men. I remember seeing the corpses of shrivelled stahl-helmed husks. I drained… hundreds of them. The rest I pulverized into the concrete floor, or through into other troops. Most of all though, I remember when Gregovitch saw me. He was shocked. But he… he came to a realization of sorts.

He looked down, and opened one of his pockets. He held out a floorplan of the facility. "Vasiliy, there is one door not marked on this map. it will have no room number. A trapdoor leads to it," he started. "That place holds the key to our salvation. I will go with you as far as I can, but the rest is up to you."

About twenty people followed us. Some went in front of us, others behind us. they kept on chanting something along the lines of "The commissar will keep us safe. follow him comrades! he is a man of Stalin!" When they saw me, they started saying “Follow the Marxist Man!” “Follow the Last hero of the Soviet Union!”

Down we went, chased by Nazis. every time we lost somebody on the way, we knew we had to be faster. Gregovitch shot who he could. They knew something was up. shrivelled corpses leave that impression on people.

Finally we came to the mysterious door. at that point, Gregovitch smiled grimly at me, and gave me an envelope. "Orders. I will stay here and hold them as long as I can. Do whatever it is you need to do, fast.” I looked at who was left. Gregovitch, and five other men. I move into the room. The rest stay outside. It‘s nothing more than a closet. Just a cardboard box was in this room of 10 feet. I hear yelling behind me. Gregovitch is calling them traitors. Then I hear some gunshots. I act fast.

I pick up the box. underneath is the trapdoor. I shut the trap door behind me. I lock it with a bolt.

The room I entered was pitch black. It took about thirty seconds for my eyes to adjust. This room is a hundred yards long. a massive, almost impossibly large room. It should not be this big, yet it is. Inside this room is a machine, and an old man. it looked like he had not bathed or seen light or another living thing in over a month. He was more hair than man, a huge, white, whispy beard and the same style of hair. "I knew you vould come. good." he started. "This," -- his entire body shook and rasped with each breath and word -- "is the Chronosphere. It can send you through time und through space. Give me the orders." - I did as he said. He started tearing them with huge fingernails.

"I vill send you back to 1921." he handed me back the orders. I start hearing shouts in Russian from up above. "Qvickly now. into the machine."

The machine was controlled by levers, buttons, and cranks. A tiny piece of Thorstoff powered it. I was secured into a large gyro. metal rings surrounded and moved around the machine as it powered up. The old man made impressive gasping noises as he operated each control.

Then an explosive detonated the trapdoor, The last of the civilians with guns rushed in, along with a flood of Nazis. They gunned down the old man. They started shooting the controls. I held my hands out, trying to drain them. I tried. I could not make it work. They kept on shooting. The machine... it almost squirmed with metallic whining sounds as the shots kept hitting it. I saw Hitler. I saw all history flash. Then... everything was nothing.  

[The Goliath]

Ok guys bad news yet again. I'm starting to feel pretty sick. So to keep this from being a 2 week absence like last time I'm going to need a couple days off to recuperate. That means my session this week is cancelled.

 

[Gaming]

Summer 2013:

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