fuck this new forum


on smoke break, bother somebody else
Staff member

It was not company that Emryk Vakaan sought.

The Baron's presence was not something easily veiled. His form was wide and his steps were loud; and with the door to Lucien's chambers now torn asunder, the faint approach of bootfall would be plenty apparent. Emryk did not find a need to mask the fact he was there; the vampire no doubt possessed senses beyond that of mortal men. Though any man could see the shadow that cast itself along the doorway, blotting out the lantern light from the outside corridor as the Baron's form stopped in the threshold of the chambers.

His jacket was gone; only a white button-down hugged his frame, wrappings wound along the brunt of his hands and wrists. He lingered in the doorway a moment longer before he stepped in, uninvited. He did not look to be his usual self, even with the scarce interactions he'd held with Lucien. The reason would hopefully be apparent to the navigator; if not, that was even further cause to be incensed.

"Why are you still here?"

The question came after another period of silence.

"Humor me, a moment. The old Captain is dead. What keeps you here?" A pause. "Is it her?"

Lucien would know who he meant. The only one he could possibly care about.

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"Being free from worry is not a liberty most can afford, Emer." Zadari replied a bit dryly, stroking the cat in his arms with a light touch of the fingertips to silken coat. The smile returned to his face, ever-shining and ever-fake. "Though ignorance is bliss, I suppose."

And then they were each off to their respective little preoccupations. Zadari, finding that continued interaction with his old allies was becoming as tedious as plucking a hen, quickly turned his attention back to waiting tables and tending to his kitchen; he released Pumpernickel upon the ground, but not without a stern word of warning. "Drive away business by snatching their food, and so help me God, I will be roasting you over a spit by sundown." A gentle stroke down her back, at that, and he left her to do exactly what he'd told her not to. Unfortunately, his own attention became preoccupied by Caleb once more, who had snapped at him to get his attention after Zadari returned from the kitchen with a platter of food.

"I'm sorry, was somebody speaking over here?" Zadari called out melodramatically, wandering his way over to the table with narrowed eyes as if he were having trouble picking the one-eyed prick from the tarnished rug beneath his table. "Oh, of course-- where are my manners." He slipped a menu from his pouch, and placed it on the table before the man opposite Caleb-- entirely ignoring the captain, at least for a moment. Giving him a taste of his own little silent treatment. "Look over your options here. Maybe you can teach your new Captain here some fucking manners while you decide what to order."

His glance to said captain post-insult was one of abstract, and sarcastic, pity. A little pout to the face-- a flutter of the eyes. "Caleb. I know you hardly understood how to conduct yourself as a cabin boy, but you can at least attempt to feign maturity here. For me. Can you? Now, look over the menu with your friend, and I'll be back in a minute."

And then he was off, shawl fluttering behind him as his boots neatly clacked along the floor. Tables were served; stomachs were filled. The now-empty bowl of soup opposite the fortune teller was replaced with a steaming, fresh serving-- an unusual occurrence for Ruby to be fed free of charge, but not unheard of. Handouts were usually reserved for high-traffic days-- or when Julian was feeling charitable. He lingered at the table a moment, giving an apprehensive stare between the two birdwomen as a hand went to his hip.

"I wouldn't trust a word out of her mouth, love." He muttered to Ruby, gaze still trained upon Emer. With her shawls, and her gormless little expression of warmth as if she were immune to the crushing weight of guilty by sheer vapid ignorance. "She'll just as easily put a knife in your back as she would a compress if you come between her and her folk."

He leaned down, lips an inch away from Ruby's ear. Speaking so only she could hear.

"The worst enemies are the ones who pretend to be your friends, dear. They're killers. All of them."

FILE COPY - ACF | L-5 | SV-5

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THE FLAME. Prometheus has been blessed with the power to grant temporary, yet potent, abilities to those that he touches. To grant such power is a conscious thought-- and while it requires little strain upon his physicality, exhaustion from successive instances of empowerment inevitably sets in. The highest number of individuals he has been able to grant power to in a single sitting has never gone above ten-- though, in due time, perhaps he could eclipse the record.

THE FLAWS. The powers are temporary-- if Prometheus were to grant a man extraordinary abilities at dusk, they will have faded by dawn. Additionally, the abilities are mutative and often carry explicit side-effects; a pyrokinetic may not be afforded resistance to extreme temperatures, for instance, or a cryokinetic might have his limbs freeze solid if his powers are used too heavily. Imperfections linger, too, even in the aftermath. Physical deformities remain; damage to the mind and body persists, and withdrawals begin to occur in those who sustain repetitive exposure. Granting power quells the disquiet of the mind and numbs the shock of mutation; oftentimes, these deformities carry with them new avenues to channel their respective gifts. Every successive bestowal of the gift breeds addiction and dependency.

And yet, in every instance, there is one unifying quality. No matter the power used, the ability displayed... there is always pain.

THE ODDITIES. Manifestation of abilities are entirely random and unique to the individual, but never seem to be all too powerful-- what is given can never approach that which has been inherited. The gift seemingly has no effect upon already-enhanced individuals.

However, Prometheus appears to possess a means of self-defense in the form of the Flame weaponized as conceivable energy-- namely, a burst of radiation from the chest that burns and strikes any target with conceivable, unrelenting force. Utilizing this ability seems to instill a great amount of fatigue in Prometheus, and as such, it is used sparingly.


EQUIPMENT. A Sig Sauer P220 Legion handgun, chambered in .45 ACP. A Level IIIA ballistic "soft armor" vest with trauma inserts upon the front and back, protecting against small-arms fire and 12-Gauge. A Mossberg 590 Shockwave, utilizing 12-gauge shotgun shells and equipped with a laser module upon the side.

Other items-- such as job-specific equipment and vehicles-- are sourced whenever available.

MANPOWER. Drug addicts, criminals, released convicts, and similar populations all represent those employed under Prometheus. At a bare minimum, targeted personnel all possess firearms training and a base degree of loyalty. Most notably, all subordinates are unpowered individuals.

For now.
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The Idol
Make sure to get my good side, chump.

NAME: Vernon Iago Prince
You've probably seen it before-- I'm a big deal "across the pond", as they say. Do they... say that, here?

The "prime of your life". Worse ages to be stuck at, I guess.

CURRENT AGE: ... 33.
I'm what you might call recently-acquired talent.

CLAN: Vermes
Could you not fucking tell, dipshit?

Studio applause.

"First off, Vernon, I want to just say-- you're braver than all of us for what you're going through, right now, and I want to thank you personally for coming out to the show for tonight. Can we-- get him a round of applause for this, I mean, seriously--"

The cheer of the studio audience was, for the most part, ecstatic. Small little whistles and cheers from the crowd prompted a thankful wave from the show's guest-- Vernon Prince, a Hollywood darling whose meteoric rise to stardom was owed to a series of successful box-office blockbusters. The new Tom Cruise, they were calling him-- a man's man, through and through. With hits like Lever-Action Lover, Blood in the Chamber, and Fearmonger: Los Angeles, how couldn't they love him?

Smile for the camera. Just don't flash your teeth.

"Well, Jimmy, it's been--" A short cough, and a rumble in the back of his mouth. Vernon cleared his throat, muttered an excuse me, and continued-- his fully-bandaged head offering little insight as to his expression. It was stoic, though, no doubt-- he was the strong, silent type, after all, and that was all they needed to know. "-- it's been difficult, as I'm sure you could guess, but the-- the outpour of support from fans, family, and friends has just been... God, it's been reaffirming. I just-- I feel validated, still."

"Hey-- of course, right? I mean, it's been a few months and I wanted to-- I talked to you before the show, as you know, and I wanted to know what you were comfortable talking about, and--"

"Yeah, of course, of course. And we agreed--"

"-- right, whatever you were comfortable with, and you were surprisingly just... open about it, which I-- I'm in awe of, honestly, I don't know how you've remained so strong this whole time--"

The delicate dance. What they'd agreed upon before the show. Selling the story that this dumb fucking asshole didn't even realize was a complete fabrication.

"Well, the accident took-- it took a lot to bring me back, you know? They said I was dead for 3 minutes, and I just..." A pause, there, to let the audience give a small little rustle for the broadcast to pick up. "... well, it's not all great underneath the bandages, let me tell you, but-- I'm getting there. Baby steps," Vernon held out his hands as if to steady himself, emphasizing the uncertainty of it all-- and trying not to have his talons shred through the gauze every time his fingers moved. "But hey. 'Least I won't be looking as bad as you, still."

"HAHAH!" A slap on the knee from the host, and a little chuckle from the audience. His interviewer did a little double-take over the shoulder, acting out a small bit, and adopted an expression of distress for a few moments. "What are you trying to say, Vernon, I--" An adjustment of the hair. Selling the joke. What a fucking tool. Vernon gave a laugh-- the razor-sharp point of fangs hidden from the cameras-- and leaned back, giving a dismissive wave. "I'm just joking! I'm just joking. C'mon."

"I know, I know. Now-- before we cut to break, I know that I've been wondering-- as have a lot of people here, I imagine-- Stakeout. What's the status of the series? We've heard little... whispers of a remake here and there, and I know that you've been pushing for the rights to get picked up again on social media--"

"Yeah, yeah, I... okay. So, I wanted to talk about that, actually," Vernon began, letting his hands fall onto his lap as he crossed a leg and spread both out. Settling in. Stakeout was probably his most famous series-- a gritty action-thriller about a Los Angeles detective combatting corruption, only to find out that the entire hierarchy is dominated by vampires. Installment after installment had him fighting the living dead and saving the love interest-- and Vernon was well-known in the series for insisting that he did his own stunts. The end result was a surprisingly good franchise that was shot practically, and earned Prince's status as an action star.

"Well, recently, we got the rights picked up. By..." Applause was already filtering in-- Vernon continued. "-- A24. We're making a sort of independent, smaller-budget installment-- a reboot, of sorts-- and it's very conscious of what it is, I think. We're getting a new director in, and I think it's in extremely good hands. We're going for a sort of... deconstruction of the vampire mythos, I think-- playing into the tormented romantic angle we saw with older monster movies, making them sympathetic, making them... real, you know?"

Enthused reactions from the audience. "And we might see Christopher Redwynn--" The name of the protagonist that Vernon played, of course. "-- in a different sort of role than you'd be expecting. I think you guys are gonna love it. It's a way to keep the franchise fresh, I think, and introduce it to a new generation."

The host gave an approving nod, then looked to the cameras. "After this break, we're gonna have a clip from... The Stakeout, in theaters October 31st! Stick around, don't go anywhere!"

More cheering from the audience. Vernon gave a cheerful wave, then stood up once the cameras turned off, moving past Jimmy's desk without a word and pushing towards the wing. A youthful PA came up, nervous, and gave a thumbs up.

"Vernon, you were great-- just-- so brave, and--"

"Shut the fuck up and tell Jimmy fucking Fallon I'm leaving."
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The debate between incumbent councilor Carter Wynn and challenger Henry O'Shea for the District 6 seat on the Pittsburgh City Council begins at 3 PM EDT. Current debate topics include the actions of the Committee on Public Safety, of which Wynn is the Chairperson, and recent proposed legislature to address growing concerns over "metahuman" activity in Pittsburgh; current police resource allocations for increased crime; animal control funding in fringe neighborhoods, following recent cuts to pest control services; and modifications to firearm permit application processes within Pittsburgh.

Additional questions from the audience permitted.

Phone calls had been made. Acolytes had been prepped.

The goal? Simple. Target incumbent councilman Carter Wynn, along with Henry O'Shea. Prometheus' words to his subordinates had been deathly clear: kill O'Shea, and bring Wynn to an undisclosed location on the outskirts of Pittsburgh so his execution could be televised. Do not stop until the job was done; if they had to, kill Carter Wynn to cut their losses. Pay would be half upfront, and half upon successful getaway. Armor, weapons, and a getaway vehicle were to be supplied-- as would the Flame. Four prospective recruits in total heeded the call to action, and all eyes were upon their performance this afternoon. Those who lived and escaped would find themselves in the favor of their mysterious benefactor; those who died, or were detained, would forever fall into the shackled obscurity of their own mortality.

It hadn't been nearly as eloquent in the conversation with the four ex-cons Prometheus had chosen for the job, though the point was delivered all the same. Money, fame, notoriety, and power were all within grasp-- so long as they did as Prometheus asked.

Kieran Bell.

Irish-American; born to an immigrant family. Raised in Boston; family involved in numerous mob activities. Did time for racketeering and narcotics charges in the 2000s, released in the 2010s on good behavior. Moved to Pittsburgh to start over; fell back into the same routines. A creature of habit. Mid-40s, slightly-greying hair. Habitual smoker, cool under pressure. Good with a gun. Money was as good a motivator as any, for him, and he was no stranger to killing whoever needed to be killed.

Carmine Moretti.

Italian-American. Not quite as old as Kieran, but older than the other two gunmen; late 30s, claims to have connections to the remnants of the LaRocca crime family in Pittsburgh. Despite these claims, available information suggested it was a lie Carmine fabricated to keep himself alive in prison. Jailed for narcotics charges; could never find stable work, on account of an excitable temperament. Perhaps it was the money that motivated him to accept Prometheus' offer; perhaps it was an outlet for his anger. Whatever the case, he was a trained gunman and well-versed with working in a stick-up crew, which would hopefully transfer to matters of political assassination.

Mike Rober.

Mid-20s. Drug addict; jailed on narcotics and robbery charges. Could never get a foothold in civilized society, unfortunately, which meant the same downward spiral and the same mistakes. Easily-exploitable paranoia meant convincing him to take the plunge was negligible effort on behalf of Prometheus. Surprisingly decent with firearms, though not nearly as much as the former two.

William LaVerne.

Mid-20s. Former enlisted service member in the marines; received a BCD, or bad conduct discharge, after a court martial. William refused to elaborate upon the specifics of the departure, though he certainly seemed to display signs of mental instability during the interview with Prometheus. Nevertheless, he was perhaps the most skilled member of the crew with a gun, on account of tangible military training; is in possession of a Distinguished Marksman badge and Inter-Division Pistol Competition Badge. Eerily quiet, and strongly focused upon whatever task is presented. A true grunt, through and through.

Each of them had been given their powers the day of, at the advent of dawn; each of them only had a few hours to familiarize themselves with their temporary gifts, and had been explicitly warned not to push themselves unless they were in immediate danger of being killed or detained. Prometheus would not be present, but he would be watching, which meant they had a show to put on. With how they were dressed, it certainly seemed like they would.

The van they arrived in was a sleek black; street-side parking in an adjacent alleyway ensured their getaway vehicle would hopefully remain undisturbed while they were in the convention center proper. Each of them only knew one another through their given codenames-- an intentional factor introduced by Prometheus to limit the amount of information that could be extracted from them if they were incarcerated. Ignorance was stronger than loyalty, after all-- a suspect couldn't give up information they didn't know. A single stripe of color down the ballistic mask each gunman donned was an indicator of identity, along with a matching tie, armband, and an off-center stripe down the back of the suit-jacket to provide identification from all angles.

Kieran was the aptly-named Mr. Orange, even if the others didn't know he was a ginger; Mike was Mr. Green, which seemed to have little association with any physical traits. Carmine was Mr. Blue, and William was Mr. Pink-- a fact that Carmine seemed to poke fun at, despite the lack of engagement from William entirely. The group had reached an uneasy state of camaraderie, at this point, though the tension between them all was still an irreconcilable obstacle that could only be cleared by seeing the job through. Each of them knew that there was a good chance one of them wouldn't be walking away from this, and each of them were determined to have it not be themselves. The lack of connection helped incentivize prioritizing the job above all else.

"... calls himself Prometheus, but names us after colors. Kind of fuckin' name is 'Prometheus', anyways?" Came a small chirp from Mr. Blue as he adjusted the chest-sling for his rifle. They'd each been given consumer-grade AR-15s-- single-fire, as was the case with civilian models, and chambered in .300 AAC blackout. Serial numbers had been scratched off, and attachments had been sourced anonymously-- along with ammunition. Each rifle had been given three 30-bullet magazines, along with a sling to hang the AR-15 off the chest. As for sidearms-- subcompact Glock 26 handguns chambered in 9mm were conceal-carried on the hip, with a spare 10-round magazine. A fallback option, above all else, in addition to their powers. Prometheus had been nothing but benevolent in arming them, it seemed. Protection came in the form of lightweight Level III ballistic vests that fit under the suits they wore, along with padding to the thighs that fulfilled a similar purpose. Small-arms fire, they'd been told. Rifle rounds would punch through, though that wouldn't mean much if they moved quick.

"Metaphor, if I had to guess." Was the inevitable reply from Mr. Orange. His thumb gently tapped upon the safety selector as he watched Mr. Pink pull into the alley proper from the passenger seat. As his gaze moved into the rear-view mirror to watch the other two associates, he sighed. "Fuckin' mustache-twirling shite, but he pays well, dun't he?" A scoff from Mr. Blue, at that. "Understatement, if you ask me. Should've gotten into political assassinations sooner. Ten fuckin' Gs for this?"

"... he told me five." There was a soft mutter from Mr. Green as he stood from his seat in the back of the van, exchanging a glance between Orange and Blue-- and provoking a chuckle from the latter, a playful shrug given. "Guess he pays based on experience, junior." Carmine stated, brushing past Mike and pushing open the back doors after checking that they were clear through the windows.

"Shut the fuck up." Mike growled, pushing his senior aside and stepping into the alleyway to approach the access door to the convention center. A camera blindspot was present here, apparently, which meant they'd have a bit of wiggle room to rush the stage. Mr. Blue rose both hands, scoffing. "Oh! Maybe that fuckin' lip of yours is why you're getting paid half of what I am, shitbird. Let me take point, I don't want you tripping in front of me."

Mr. Pink had joined his orange passenger in leaving the van, by now, and had grouped up behind the bickering pair-- his eyes narrowed beyond the slits of his ballistic mask. "This guy ever stop breaking balls?" He muttered, looking to Kieran.

"Doesn't seem like it." He offered flatly-- and then the four pushed inside, taking them into a service corridor. They were on the clock, now-- no wasting time. A fact that Mr. Green was fond to remind them all of.

"Security guard sees us on cameras, so that's-- what, 10, 15 seconds before he sends an alert out? You think they got locks, or-- anyone know what the response time for PBP would be for this?"

"We're whacking a fuckin' councilman, junior. I'd wager they wouldn't have their thumbs up their asses."

End of the service hall-- Mr. Pink narrowed his eyes and stood still a moment, giving a soft grunt before he shook his head and nodded. "Yeah, this is the place. Hall E-- full conference. Maybe 200 feet away, we can book it out through the concourse if shit goes south."

"Make a break for it, and don't fire any shots until we get a look at O'Shea."

"... right." A pause. "See anything clearer? Like... guards?"

Mr. Pink shook his head. "Only outlines, like I told you. Can't discern anything too detailed."

There was a snort from Mr. Blue, and he turned the handle. "We see any guards, we'll take 'em out without guns." The door was pushed open, and the four rushed out-- breaking into the open space of open corridor and rushing past confused and ignorant worker alike. Carmine shouldered past a woman and kept a keen eye out for any security guards-- and sure enough, a uniformed officer spotted them sprinting towards the wing access for Hall E, hand raising to a radio as the other moved to the gun on his hip. Mr. Green didn't need much of a reason beyond that; rather than take aim with his rifle, his hand shot out, fingers splaying--


-- and a wayward storm of electricity flooded from his fingertips, striking the woman square in the chest and slamming her back into the wall. A scorched path ran up the length of her torso; her body spasmed, smoke wafting from her body, and she instinctively curled upon herself without a sound. The four kept running, with Mr. Orange taking point as his steps seemed to take on a thundering pace; Mr. Blue kept up by his side, huffing, before placing a hand on the man's shoulder for a moment mid-sprint and lifting it to step back. Kieran kept running, shoulder dropping as his body met the twin doors to the convention hall--


-- and burst through them with an explosion of sound from his shoulder, cracking the lock and warping the impact site as the doors flew open. Kieran's arm radiated with a throbbing, persistent agony-- enough to make him grunt, audibly, as his footsteps drew to a stop-- but he was still lucid enough to draw his rifle and aim towards the stage. The three following him did the same; the raised platform sporting each candidate's podium was right in front of them, with the candidates looking over in shock to the four gunmen's arrival. O'Shea was closer; Kieran could even see the whites of his eyes.

He was shocked, but that shock was quickly fading to realization as his body turned, instinctually trying to get down--


The cacophony of rifle-fire filled the convention hall; screams instinctively drowned them out, but the staccato chorus remained audible all the same. O'Shea stumbled and fell, not unlike he'd completely evaded the hailstorm, but went deathly still after hitting the ground; as the group of four moved onto the stage, though, their second target presented himself.

Unfortunately, Carter Wynn was a staunch proponent of the second amendment.

Two bullets hit Mr. Green center-mass, leaving him to stagger onto O'Shea's podium and let out a brief "FUCK!"-- Mr. Blue, meanwhile, took aim and shot Wynn before he could wound another gunman, hitting him square in the shoulder and sending him onto his back. Mr. Orange cursed and ran over to the councilman, letting his rifle hang from his sling as he flipped Wynn over, wrestled his hands behind his back, and zip-tied his wrists and forearms together tight enough to hurt. Carter, predictably, let out a yell of pain as he was dragged to his feet; a flurry of gunfire from the rest of the crew pinned down the guards that were already streaming in from the front of the hall, having responded to the commotion.

"THE HELL IS THIS?!" Carter roared out. Mr. Blue gave a laugh, then pulled him roughly off the stage as the rest continued to fire intermittently. A shove pushed him to the wing, back where they'd launched the attack from, and the rest began to follow in a systematic retreat from the stage. By now, the convention hall was in complete chaos; guards were either fighting the wave of fleeing civilians, or shot, with attendees still cowering on the ground or simply running out the front into the concourse. Mr. Pink fired a few rounds into the air to reinforce the message, and brought up the rear of the group as they filtered out back into the wing.

"Prometheus sends his regards, you lousy prick." And with that, Carmine turned to the rest of the group as he gripped Wynn by the neck, rifle barrel pressed into his back.


Hi, this is where I report everything like a tax return so the IRS doesn't take my house away. In layman's terms, I will be listing powersets here for posterity, so there's a clear reference for people to look back on. This will be general-- I will be introducing things into the scene as necessary, like small details of how the power works or potential uses, but it'll all be under the framework given here.

If you want the powers to be a surprise, don't read on any further! Or read it, whatever, this is all performative activism anyways

Kieran Bell, or Mr. Orange, has the ability to convert kinetic energy into sound energy, i.e. large sonic claps and whathaveyou.

Carmine Moretti, or Mr. Blue, has the ability to manipulate the gravity of objects by touching them. Effect's instantaneous. He's not gonna make a truck float, but he can make things slightly lighter or heavier for various effects. Effect lasts for a few seconds, with longer periods dependent on how long he touches things.

Mike Rober, or Mr. Green, has the ability to generate electrical discharges from his body. Pretty self-explanatory.

William LaVerne, or Mr. Pink, has the ability to use radar-esque energy wavelengths to see through walls. Can see the outline of objects, but precise details/colors are unable to be discerned.

All of these powers will have different scalability based on how much the gunmen push themselves. Doing so will have various effects on their biology as per Prometheus' sheet.

This motion picture is protected under the copyright laws of the United States and other countries throughout the world. Country of first publication: United States of America. Any unauthorized exhibition, distribution, or copying of this film or any part thereof (including soundtrack) may result in civil liability and criminal prosecution.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

No person or entity associated with this film received payment or anything of value, or entered into any agreement, in connection with the depiction of tobacco products.

No animals were harmed in the making of this motion picture.
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William considered the cop's offer for a moment, gave a heaving sigh, and nodded, watching his approach like the cornered animal he most certainly was. Not your friend. Not your friend. He'd put a bullet in your head if he had the chance. Not your fucking friend. Once the officer moved into the car, William finally let go of the woman and motioned with his gun to the booster seat. Kid had calmed down, somewhat, but the mother looked like a wreck. "Get your kid." He muttered. "Go."

And then it was into the car. William slid the seat back and kept one hand on his pistol, but held it in his lap. A wary, predatory gaze was given towards the officer, but he kept his eyes on the road once the woman cleared away. Having been towards the midpoint of the bridge, there was still moderate traffic behind the car-- though it was easy enough to throw the car in reverse and weave around the abandoned or standstill vehicles. While the sedan backtracked along the bridge to the opposite end the van had crashed into, Will flicked the safety on his pistol and left it in his lap, using his free hand to switch the radio to an AM news radio station.

-- active shooter threat, leaving multiple potentially dead at the David L. Lawrence convention center. Suspected targets include the political debate between incumbent candidate Carter Wynn...

"Maybe." Was all Will said, for a moment. "Don't watch sports much anymore." Once they were clear enough down an open stretch of the bridge, William floored the car a moment and spun the wheel into a J-turn, seamlessly skidding the car in a 180 as his foot pressed upon the brake and he swapped from reverse, to neutral, to drive. They were driving in the wrong direction, now, but that would be easy enough to fix once they reached the end of the bridge.

"You have

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The adder awaits its fangs.

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Pervoy Zorkin

Домово́й | "Fever"


1.75 m

78.1 kgs

Variable EMS Vision
Pervoy's oculomotor nerve (CN III) and retinas have been genetically modified to transduce a greater range of electromagnetic radiation within photoreceptor cells. This range extends to the upper and lower wavelengths past the visible light spectrum; longer wavelengths include infrared radiation (~10-4 m), and shorter wavelengths include ultraviolet radiation (~10-8 m).

Enhanced Physicality
Designed primarily as an infiltration operative, Pervoy possesses far greater dexterity and stamina than that of a baseline human. Nerve reflexes are approximately 10 ms faster than that of a standard male due to mutations within the central and peripheral nervous systems; additionally, enhanced speed of afferent signals (especially through ocular nerves) have allowed for rapid processing of stimulus and faster response from the motor cortex of the brain.

The slow-twitch postural muscles of Pervoy's physicality have been modified to fatigue at a far lower rate than baseline, allowing for continuous activity and a higher tolerance for strain. Tendons and ligaments have shown higher tensile strength compared to in vitro sample testing; a greater degree of resistance to impact and of force absorption has been hypothesized as a result. Visual acuity borders above baseline, allowing for faster target acquisition and improved hand-eye coordination. Fast-twitch muscles show greater force production and ideal crossbridge linking to allow for maximal force output by locomotive muscles.

For the first of his kind, he has shown great promise.

Microwave Radiation Generation
Perhaps the crowning achievement of the experimental gene modification regarding Сирота-1. Domovoy's fast-twitch muscle fibers within the eye contain the ability to convert available energy by the body into microwave radiation, which is then gathered through the fluid of the eye as a conductor and released by the eye through the retina and lens within the ocular cavity. The release is instantaneous, without sound, and the only notable precursor is a blinding flash of light from the eyes (avg. flash time of ~200 ms). This process releases a gratuitous amount of microwave energy that, when directed at biological sources, is able to penetrate and flash-boil from an effective range of 10 meters. Choice of clothing material and available obstacles influence this range.

This ability is most effective when directed at the victim's eyes, where the concentrated microwave beam will trespass the ocular cavity and primarily heat the brain, inducing a rapid-onset fever, encephalitis, denaturing of grey and white matter, and death. Line-of-sight and eye contact are most important when deploying Domovoy, and assumed identity which allows face-to-face contact with the target is preferred during available contract missions. The microwave emission is also effective at triggering detonations of all applicable explosive materials, and may be considered as a secondary tactic where direct eye contact is not possible or impeded.

Other Skills
Pervoy is fluent in French, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, Ukrainian, English, and Mandarin. His status as a polyglot allows him to blend into environments where his ethnicity is not called into question (I.E. most European or Caucasian-dominant locales), or pass as a tourist in other regions where he may not be considered a native.

Portable Backpack
- iPhone 8
- Dell Laptop
- Nikon Binoculars
- HK45 Sidearm, suppressor
- [2] .45 ACP Magazine for HK45
- [2] Camel cigarette pack
- Zippo Lighter[/td][/tr][/tbody][/table]

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Arlecchino possesses the ability to generate, retract, and manipulate a monofilament wire from his palms; the act of summoning the wire is not unlike a sleight-of-hand magician's act, appearing with a flourish of the hands and the seemingly incongruous noise of an unspooling reel. The wire is far from any mundane fishing line, piano wire, or other adjacent substitute-- it is fili d'argento, a filament that is nigh-invisible to the naked eye, save the bright shimmer of refracted light as if the wire were made from the air itself. The idiosyncratic properties of bending light and its spontaneous fabrication-- not unlike the phenomena of refracted light about a black hole-- are unique only to the fili d'argento that Arlecchino produces. It doesn't seem to be a biological substance, nor is it truly made of silver as the name would suggest; if anything, its existence falls under the realm of the supernatural.

The wire appears to have many applications for a man of Arlecchino's talents. In some instances, it is the perfect tight-rope to walk across; for others, the perfect garrote. Indeed, the only limits of its use appear to be the imagination of the summoner-- as well as the intrinsic limits of the wire itself. Single strands may only bear a few hundred pounds at a time before snapping; Arlecchino is able to dissolve these threads at will with a clap of his hands, at which point the wires seem to shatter like glass. When throwing out the end of a wire, the termination point appears to be sharp-- it is able to puncture and stick into surfaces as needed.

Additionally, Arlecchino himself seems to display minor feats of supernatural agility; his leaps are higher, his somersaults quicker, and he always seems to land on his feet-- and appears able to break his fall from far greater heights than the average man. While his strength is that of an unpowered individual, his acrobatic ability is that of a professional performer, as reflected in his principles of showmanship and flourish.

Arlecchino has little fluency in the English language and speaks mainly in Italian (and the minority language Sicilian). Additionally, his knowledge of firearms use is severely limited. Furthermore, he is an undocumented immigrant from the southern coast of Sicily; why he is in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania of all places, nobody quite knows.


Arlecchino possesses his signature outfit modeled after typical Carnevale di Venezia fashion, complete with a harlequin-esque patterned tunic, cape, and mask made of silver and rose gold. Similarly, he possesses five silver throwing knives, each decorated with appropriate filigree and numbered uno through cinque upon the handle. He has been known to tie his fili d'argento upon these knives for various usages, whether it be a more secure anchoring point, or a retrievable throwing knife.

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{ ah·or·ee besh }

Former Jedi Knight. Current transgalactic smuggler and bounty hunter.
Mid-20s, in Galactic Standard Years.
Take a look at the ID.

Barely. Best-trained abilities would be the intuition to block blaster bolts and saber-toss maneuvers; anything else has been dulled.
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Jedi Knight. If the archives are still correct, that is. Don't think Zatoq would be letting one of her best duelists go, now, would she?
Late twenties, in Galactic Standard Years.
A Kaleesh; nearly six feet tall. Often clad in a turban, traditional robes that bear similar patterning to that of his kin. A carved mask of bone taken from a felled erkush completes the ensemble.
Yes. Even with the alcohol. Imagine if he were sober.
– Starfighter, Aurek-class.
– Lightsaber, standard configuration. A burnt orange blade extends from the hilt when activated.
– Cylindrical "ravado" saber sheath and blade-diffuser (experimental).
– M3-M8 ("Me Mate") Astromech Droid.
– BL-28 Blaster Pistol.


Life, I have found, is often unforgiving to the loyal.

Take Awarani. A fine student-- the finest a Jedi could ask for, really. Had to leave her family behind, but ensured her loyalty to the Order. Asked the right questions; believed the right lies. Even still, she'd always asked if she could visit her family, her sister-- but never pushed too hard, never called my judgement into question. When I'd caught her attempting to send a letter back home, I'd let her; she'd apologized for days after. I understood, really-- the need to say something, anything, so I allowed her the chance I'd never been given. And beyond that day? Excelled in training-- a natural talent for the Force. Would spend hours in the Archives, reading what she could about the history of the Jedi, absorbing their past teachings to better understand my own. Loyalty.

Loyalty to me. Loyalty to the Order. Loyalty which meant accompanying me upon a mission to a fringe colony to investigate rumors of Sith occupation.

Loyalty that ensured her faith in my ability to save her when a stray bolt struck her neck. My connection to the Force was weak; weaker than hers. Wasn't able to heal the damage. Sabers were always her blindspot-- I'd always told her that, always drilled deflection maneuvers. Form V, Shien variant. Even worked a few teachings from Ataru into sparrings-- she was a novice, yes, but all apprentices were. She'd needed more time. I'd told them she'd need more time, and they sent her along with me anyways. And while we had been sitting in that damned Republic transport cruiser, approaching that backwater shithole of a planet, Awarani had turned to me as if she'd known. I trust you, she'd said. Loyalty.

Sitting in that damned Republic cruiser, she'd died in my arms while we'd departed. And what did she get for being loyal, then? A remembrance, a word of grief from her acquaintances, and a firm order not to disclose any important details to the family. So I obeyed, for a while, until I couldn't stand the guilt and sent a singular message to Felucia, hoping that Rani's relatives could, at the very least, find closure. So they could be rewarded for their loyalty to their daughter by receiving a letter I wasn't even allowed to send, bearing information they weren't even allowed to know. And perhaps it was for the best, I'd reasoned. For a time, I'd wanted to visit the planet myself, tell them myself. I had been forbidden from going.

And so I remained.

They'd buried her, and that was that. I tried to move on. Moreover, I turned to my old Master for guidance. Ulten Syvor was hardly a perfect man, but he'd raised me into the Knight I was then. Taught me all I knew. We were close with one another; we trusted one another. There was hardly a man more devoted to the Order, at the time-- a man whose heart bled for peace, ached for balance. The Mandalorian Wars extracted a toll upon the Order that was felt for over a decade; no aid was to be extended, no intervention that would not be met with exile. He opposed the ambivalence of the Order as much as the war itself, but kept his lips tight and his mind at peace. Focus on what you have the power to change, he told me-- and so he did. Loyalty.

And so the Mandalorian Wars ended, and a new front began. Poetic, perhaps, that the Jedi were such a fierce target of Revan's new order-- and fitting that it were the loyal Jedi that so readily bore the cost. Syvor, being a skilled warrior and Force user, was a primary target of Revan's sweeping cleanse of the Order-- which meant the constant threat of Sith assassinations. The constant threat of death being a mere misstep away would begin to crack any man's conscience, and Ulten was no exception. He began to become weary. Paranoid. But, above all else, that trust remained. I stood by him, at his guard, when he received anonymous correspondence that a Sith adept-- Vinor Jakal, a name he hardly knew and hardly cared to know-- and his apprentice were currently bound to intercept our travels. We lured them to Rodia, kept ourselves company with stories and holochess, and waited to spring our trap.

We hadn't expected it to be easy, and yet the result was still far worse than we could have imagined.

Jakal's apprentice had been tenacious. Skilled in the force, from what he could tell, though an apprentice all the same-- the force-lightning she unleashed nearly killed herself in addition to Master Syvor. Presuming her dead-- or, at the very least, deserving of some measure of mercy-- I turned to the matter of Jakal. Syvor had nearly been incapacitated by the lightning, and a slice to his midsection put him down for the rest of the fight; it was up to me to finish what my former master had started. Jakal was weak; a cornered animal. I cut his saber arm from his shoulder. Then, when he begged like a dog-- as men like him were apt to do, in their final moments-- I lopped his head from his neck. By the time I'd returned my attention to the apprentice, they were gone. Dead, hopefully. I alone stood the victor, avenging my master. My friend. Loyalty.

And yet, the victory was short-lived. Ulten became a cripple; worse still, he became jaded with the Order, their teachings, and their treatment of him in the aftermath of our phyrric victory. Blind in one eye, and stricken with spasms in his dominant arm, he confided in me the depth of his injury and the nature of his helplessness. I listened, for I could do nothing else to help; I watched, agonizingly, as the great man I knew fell to darkness. Innocent inquiries as to the true allegiance of our betters, at first. Then, nights spent in the Archives, reading forbidden entries. Whispers of Korriban. Of Revan. The Order was weak; he was not. The seduction of unnatural power had stolen away his reason, and I was forced to act when he confessed his desires to defect. Out of courtesy-- out of loyalty-- I gave him a chance to leave, to exile himself and never return. The pain in his eyes was secondary only to his rage.

And so I fought him. For the Order. To preserve balance, and to kill this thing that had poisoned the memory of the man I once loved as a brother. It was simple enough, really. He knew he was in no shape to duel me, but he fought regardless. Perhaps to make me hurt. But it was a simple bout-- I knew his weaknesses, after all. The weakness in his right arm, the blindspot of his right eye. How could I not best him?

The Order accepted my recounting of the incident. An audit of his activity within the Archives and a search of his starship revealed plenty more beyond my testimony, and I was hailed as a hero for the murder of my friend. For his years of unyielding faith to the Order, Ulten Syvor was rewarded with a death reserved for lame cattle. They did not bury him, and so I returned his body to Corellia; they did not grieve him, and so I bore the burden alone. I see them, sometimes-- Awarani Tor and Ulten Syvor. Visions of the dead, here to remind me of what I have taken from those who trusted me. The liquor is often enough to dull the shades, but there is no escape within my dreams. Those, I bear forevermore.

That is my reward. For my loyalty.

And so I remain.


Your blade is your arm. It is your hand, your fingers-- your bone and sinew, your flesh made iron will. Pray you do not lose it.

Trained in the arts of swordplay from a young age, it was only natural that Aorri translated these skills to lightsaber combat upon induction to the Jedi Order. His extensive discipline in the Seven Forms has come at the expense of his force abilities; while his copious alcoholism has neutered his connection to the force to basic offensive maneuvers-- simple force leaps and saber-tosses-- the relative dampening of emotions and flow state the Kaleesh experiences are both enablers of terrifying skill. Those who have yet to see him fight drunk are apt to underestimate him.

Aorri Besh welcomes this blunder.

The oldest of forms, and the most fundamental. With an emphasis upon collected, unrelenting strikes and non-lethal disarming of the opponent, Aorri mastered as much knowledge as was necessary to move onto subsequent disciplines; however, given its potent similarity to traditional swordfighting, much of the Kaleesh's blend of styles incorporates defensive stances reminiscent of ancient weaponry. The shorter blade of Aorri's saber-- not quite as small as a shoto, but not quite as long as a traditional blade-- allowed him to practice a method of swordplay that was largely one-handed, with the off-hand often used as a counterbalance.*
*For visual reference, think of a traditional chinese jian and the flourishing stance used therein. - Q

Arguably the form with which Aorri is most well-learned, the Second Form encouraged flourished movements, elegant movements in tune with strikes, and precision with the strikes of a lightsaber. It was the use of Makashi-based feints that allowed him his victory over Vinor Jakal-- a fitting fate, perhaps, given the form's proclivity for use against Sith duelists.

Aorri's skill in this form extends to tight defensive maneuvers when cornered; additionally, under conditions that may exhaust the Kaleesh, the Third Form is a reliable means to conserve stamina while maintaining a proper defense against opponents. While not as extensive as his knowledge in Makashi, Aorri's study of Soresu has afforded him foundational defensive tenets that help to cover blindspots in his skillset.

By far the least-studied of the Seven Forms for the Kaleesh, given its reliance upon the Force. While his baseline skills as a Jedi allow him basic maneuvers-- longer strides, stronger leaps, and the ability to manipulate his blade with the Force-- anything advanced is simply beyond his reach, and leaves a gaping weakness in an otherwise strong defense. Given his propensity for practical combat over that of the Force, Aorri has opted to study that which allows him a concrete defense against force abilities from potential opponents, and nothing more-- as anything more is beyond his capabilities, given his present condition.

Given his unreliable ability to detect blaster fire with the Force and dodge accordingly, Aorri has adopted tenets from the Shien variant of the Fifth Form to aid in his ability to defend against blaster fire and deflect bolts when applicable. Given his propensity to rely upon the Second Form, he has not given much time to study or practice Djem So, the second variant of the Fifth Form.

Derivative. All that he could learn from Niman has been tought in prior forms; he avoids the Sixth Form like the plague, and looks down upon practitioners of Niman. It is complacency.

The forbidden form; the Ferocity Form, as known in restricted archival retellings of the Seventh Form's tenets. Reliant upon fervent emotion and controlled rage to garner a relentless offense that surpassed even Shii-Cho, it has been promptly banned in several circles of the Order due to its tendency to seduce practitioners to the dark side of the Force. That ruling was, of course, when the Jedi were not being slaughtered like cattle in their very temples.

And what better duelist to rely upon anger than one that has dulled it beyond relief?

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Aorri grunted in response to the Grandmaster, finding that her answer was exactly what he had suspected. He plucked the datapad from the air and settled it in his hand, scrolling through idly as he took in what she had told him. Factories. Belonging to Revan. The information upon the tablet was negligible-- boilerplate, even, which did not help his confidence if this was the intelligence that the Supreme Chancellor was privy to. Though, if they had summoned him for matters such as these, perhaps he should have expected that.

"Has the Republic scouted Rakata Prime, recently?" He muttered, not even bothering to look over to the Grandmaster as he kept his gaze held upon the datapad. Another scroll. "Isolated. Hyperspace anomalies make it difficult to locate, approach, and attack. Fueling station within orbit-- and Sith presence, if memory serves." He shrugged. "Also far from Revan's territory, which makes it less likely a target. Or an obvious one." A pause. Another scroll. His eyes narrowed, then relaxed. "Just a consideration--"

He would have finished his thought, if not for the interjection of yet another meeting-goer. At that, Aorri's gaze finally lifted, settling upon the two women who he had yet to place-- though one was certainly familiar, the particulars eluded him. One realization was quite obvious, however, and Aorri looked to the Grandmaster at the Sith's accusation of passivity. He bit back a chuckle-- not necessarily directed at either party, but moreso at the simple absurdity of the situation-- and finally spoke in a low tone, staring forward. "There are Sith here?" He muttered, quaint surprise present in his voice. He considered the Sith's insult of hypocrisy, discarded it, and stood a moment later-- avoiding the gesture of contact from the Grandmaster as he raised himself from the chair. While he did not know who she was, Aorri Besh certainly picked out one name from her tirade.

"I would not trust the notion of a Jedi's passivity from a dead man who begged for mercy at the hand of one." The Kaleesh stated, looking down at the datapad-- and then back to the Sith duo. "I cannot speak for Grandmaster Zatoq, but I was reading." Then, with a flourish of his hand, he tossed the datapad into the air, softening its trajectory like a calmly-thrown discus. Hardly offensive, and easy to catch. "I suggest you do the same." While inherently against his normal instincts of self-preservation, it was ultimately practical to work with whoever these folk were; desperation bred strange bedfellows, and an outburst at the Supreme Chancellor would hardly change things. Passive, yes-- and rational. At that, he looked to Zatoq, brow furrowing. Unlike her own, his was a gaze of true pity. Dantooine?

"Nothing out there." He stated, softly. "For me, at least. It appears I am needed here, and I go where the Force wills me. Should you require anything of me here, do let me know."

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