Wolfram

There's also a Hawai'i Creole that I keep meaning to read more about, since Wavekite should probably have some sort of working understanding of it.

I agree that representing your character's cultural background realistically is an important part of making that character believable.* It can sometimes be easier said than done, though. German people who are fluent in English do have a recognisable accent, but they don't, in my experience, usually confuse V and W sounds. That mistake is the "standard" way of representing a German accent in text, but I don't use it for Wolfram because I don't consider it believable. Lapsing back into occasional words of one's native language is fine for characters who are still learning, but again, not for someone who's fluent.

So as you say, it's a matter of coming up with quirks. I try to establish those when and where I can, and it's always interesting doing the research behind them.

*Edit: Not that I'm ever really sure if I'm representing my characters believably, but that's a whole other thing.

Despite the fact that almost of all of the characters I've made speak at least two, I've never yet actually had to speak anything other than English in RP. If I did, I imagine I'd mainly use the "Wolfram: <German>" approach.

However, the difference between that case and Loup Garou's is that Wolfram habitually speaks only in English when addressing other people who don't understand any of the other pile of languages he's familiar with. He doesn't lapse back into German because that's not a natural way of speaking, whereas someone from Jean-Luc's background might well habitually use a mixture of English and Creole.

In short, what I'm trying to say is that in my view, sentences completely in a foreign language are best represented by English with a <Foreign language> tag (so that people with insanely polylingual characters don't have to go off and learn, say, Quechua to be able to back up their claim), but for characters who speak in broken or dialectical English that's not really an option, so you just have to throw in foreign words as and when it seems appropriate.

Which turned out not being all that short after all.

Epilogue
Brickstown Infirmary

Jack Simpson thanked the orderly at the front desk and followed his directions through the medical centre's corridors. Most of the rooms he passed were in darkness, but there was a dim light in the one to which he was headed - enough to make out of the distinctive shape of Jennifer Sula, asleep in a chair by the bed.

The man in the bed was... remarkably unremarkable. Jack had heard people talk about the Portent, but he'd never seen the man in person, with or without the helmet. He paused for a moment to reflect: the man he'd been prepared to suspect of a brutal murder had come within a hair's breadth of being the real killer's next victim.

Jennifer stirred slightly. Jack gently put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, "Hey."

Jennifer opened her eyes and sat up, wearily. "Hey Jack," she murmured.

Jack glanced over at the unconscious Portent. "How is he?"

Jennifer sighed. "Concussion. Fractured collar-bone. They say he'll be fine in a couple of days. Might be able to get him moved to the Dugout."

Jack nodded. "That's good. And you can get some proper sleep."

"Jack - " Jennifer protested.

"I know what it is you're thinking, Jenny." Jack cut her off. "We made mistakes. Big, serious mistakes. All of us. At the end of the day, everyone's still alive, and you caught the bad guy. You can't beat yourself up."

Jennifer shook her head. "Maybe we all did make mistakes, but this? This thing here? This is my fault. I gotta deal with that." She sighed. "Talk to me in the morning. I'm not in the mood to forgive myself right now."

Jack opened his mouth to argue the point, but thought better of it. He hesitated before continuing. "Delacroix pulled through. [censored] has some kind of enhanced healing ability. He's been moved to the Zig. Forensics took the scene apart, it's pretty much open-and-shut. He's going away for a long time."

Jennifer said nothing. Jack nodded slightly and turned to leave, but paused at the door.

"You told me there was someone, a city technician, who pointed you to Delacroix's hideout?"

Jennifer looked up at him. "Yeah? So?"

"I, uh, I checked with the city maintenance authority." Jack looked uncomfortable. "They say they didn't send anyone out to that part of Brickstown today - there's no record of a fault in the power grid."

Jennifer stared at him. "What... what does that mean?"

Jack shook his head. "I have no idea. Did you get the guy's name?"

"I... I can't even really remember what he looked like..." Jennifer closed her eyes. "He... he had a nametag on his uniform. I didn't get a good look at it. Might have been... Manson, or something, I don't know. I just thought..." She trailed off, staring at the floor.

Jack nodded. "I'll get them to check their employment records. Maybe something will come up." Even as he spoke the words, he knew that nothing would.

Nice ideas. I certainly agree there's no RP problem with heroes or villains taking part in cage matches - there's no end of perfectly plausible reasons, from training to charity fights.

As for the question of IC vs IG power, I guess Pious is right - the only thing to do if your character underperforms is to work something out with your opponent, improve your tactics or optimise your build. I don't have any expectations from WarpLocke (except that he'll lose every fight, given my PvP record ) so it should be good fun finding out how he does.

Steel Canyon - Then

"Delacroix!"

Hank jumped down from his bunk, saluting the officer who had called his name.

The officer looked him up and down. "Adjutant Delacroix?"

"Reporting, sir," Hank replied.

The officer nodded. "Good. The results from your genetic screening have indicated you're a prime candidate for serum augmentation. In recognition of your service to the Penumbra, you're to be elevated to the Elite. Proceed to sector 13 immediately."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Hank held his salute until Archon Milos had turned away, then began to gather his belongings. So this is it. Good ol' predictable fascists. One super soldier, coming up.

****

Sector 13 was a high-security area beyond the medical bay. Hank saluted the Galaxy guards by the door and tapped his security code into the access pad. The door slid open, and he stepped through into a rocky corridor.

The lights flickered slightly as he made his way forward, charged with anticipation and a little fear. All in the plan, he reminded himself. Nearly there.

The end of the corridor opened into a well-stocked medical bay. A man in medical overalls bearing the Council emblem was standing by a surgical bed, flanked by pair of heavily-armoured Ascendant troopers. Hank cleared his throat. "Adjutant Delacroix, reporting as ordered?"

The doctor turned, and smiled. "Excellent. You're just in time, Mr. Delacroix. Please lie on the bed, and we'll get started."

Hank climbed onto the bed, his trepidation increasing with each moment. Too late to back out now. This is why I'm here. He raised an eyebrow as the doctor leaned down to fasten a set of sturdy restraints over his wrists and ankles. "What's this for?"

The doctor looked up from his work. "Just a precaution. Initial introduction of the Serum can induce involuntary muscular contractions. It's for everyone's safety."

Hank nodded slightly and lay back, heart pounding in his chest.

"Now then." The doctor reached over to the supply stand by the bed and retrieved a large hypodermic syringe. "Just relax, Mr. Delacroix. I'm Dr. LeVine, and I'll be performing today's little procedure. I can assure you it won't hurt... very much."

Hank grunted as the needle was jabbed into the arm, and tensed himself for... whatever was supposed to happen next.

Nothing did. Hank frowned as his vision blurred slightly. He felt numb and light-headed. "Wh-what the hell...?"

"Now." Dr. Levine opened the second drawer of his supply stand, and took out a very large scalpel. "We'll start small, I think. Never any point in rushing into these things."

Hank struggled feebly against his restraints. "What the hell is this? I'm here for..." He paused. It was getting difficult to think straight, but one realisation stood out in his mind, clear as day. "Lied to me! Son of a [censored]!"

LeVine nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid your superiors decided you would be unlikely to submit to this procedure voluntarily, so they modified the truth a little. But you needn't worry, you're in excellent hands." A slight smile touched his lips. "Dr. Vahzilok himself made them for me."

Hank gritted his teeth, trying desperately to stay awake as the sedative took hold. "You can't do this!" he shouted. "You don't have the right!"

"Haven't you read your Heller, Mr. Delacroix?" The doctor's voice was faint as the world began to swim away. "We have the right to do absolutely anything you can't stop us from doing..."

Galaxy City - Then

"Delacroix!"

Hank rose from his chair and moved to the desk, where the SERAPH registration officer was holding his file. The officer looked him up and down. "Henry Delacroix?"

Hank nodded. "I prefer Hank."

"Sure." The officer looked down at the form in her hand. "Just need to confirm a couple of things. License to be issued in the name of Shining Shield. Uh, for place of birth, you've put 'unknown'?"

Hank nodded. The registration officer frowned. "You don't know where you were born?"

"Not exactly." Hank shrugged apologetically. "My folks moved around the country a lot, y'know? I didn't wanna put 'side of some road, Missouri'."

"Alright." The officer looked down at the form again. "Nature of powers - bioelectric forcefield." She looked up. "Any side effects associated with that? Interference, radiation, containment failure?"

"None that I'm aware of."

"We'll need to do a proper screening before we let you near certain high-security areas. One last thing - our evaluators noted an above-average level of hand-to-hand fighting ability. Any formal training there?"

Hank shrugged. "School of one bar-fight too many, darlin'."

"Right." The officer glanced back over the form, then stamped it at the bottom. "Well, your application's been approved, so you're all set. Pick up your license from that desk over there. Welcome to Paragon City, Shining Shield."

Sounds like a fun idea alright. Until now my RP characters have been a little too reserved to go brawling in the Cage, apart from training with friends, but I've got a new villain lined up who would love this sort of stuff.

The question is, how do we balance IC ability with the rules of PvP? I don't like to predetermine the result of any fight based simply on who's "better" in an abstract sense, but as mentioned a veteran like Jean-Luc should be portrayed as able to hold his own.

WarpLocke
Secure infirmary, west tower, the Zig - Now

Hank Delacroix opened his eyes, and stared up at a reinforced ceiling. "Well, [censored]," he muttered, sitting up, noting a considerable amount of protest from his heavily-bandaged chest, as well as a sturdy-looking chain connecting his manacled wrist to the wall. His last waking memories returned in a rush of surprisingly intense pain: the cold, determined expression on the face of Jennifer Sula as she put five bullets into him. He would have laughed at his own stupidity in underestimating her, but even breathing hurt right now.

"Ah, Mr. Delacroix," said someone to his right. He turned painfully to see a man in a prison officer's uniform, sitting by the door of the infirmary. "Welcome back to the world of the living," the man continued, getting to his feet. "I hate to see one of our guests sleep through his whole stay."

"I never was the world's best guest," Hank managed, squinting at his visitor. The sheen of the brass-bound plaque on his uniform made it painful to look at, but Hank thought it read 'Warden Trent.' "Mind turnin' that light down, or getting me my shades?"

Trent's mouth curled in a slight smile. "Yes, the doctors told me about your little eyesight problem." He reached over to the dimmer switch, and turned the light up to full.

Hank closed his eyes and leaned back against the bed. Yep. Should'a seen that one coming.

"I know that right now you're just being held for trial, Delacroix," Trent went on from somewhere near the door. "But let me say, I for one am hoping we'll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few years."

The door closed with a click. Hank sighed, and settled down to heal.

((Little bit late, but:
Warning! Part of a villain origin story. Depicts scenes of unpleasantness, and censored swearing. Proceed at your own risk.
Enjoy. ))

Brickstown, 21:38

Jennifer walked in the shadow of the Ziggurat, brooding. She'd persuaded herself to make one more sweep of the local Freakshow activities, but they seemed quiet, by standards. The Vahzilok infighting should have been the end of it, but Jack was obviously not convinced, and that worried Jennifer. Jack hadn't made detective with just his good looks - he was very seldom wrong about things like this...

"Hey, you're that hero lady. Wavekite, isn't it?"

Jennifer turned. A man in a hardhat and reflective overalls was waving to her from near the door of one of the prison power substations. "That's me. Something I can help you with?"

The man nodded. "I work for the city, maintenance stuff. You don't want all the details, believe me. Got a report that the system's been acting up on this grid, so I came to check it out and..." He indicated the maintenance access door. "It's unlocked. Definitely shouldn't be unlocked. I think the lock's been forced. In this city... there's no knowing who or what might have done that, right? Figured this was probably a crime scene."

Jennifer examined the lock. There were scratches from when it had been picked, and... burn marks? "The hell is this?" she muttered. "Who'd want to break into one of these places and leave it running?"

"Guessing someone who needs a lot of electricity," the mechanic offered, pointing a thumb upward. "All that stuff up there. Transformers, high-tension cables, the works. If you needed a good power supply you couldn't pick a better spot. Plus, it'd mask any transmissions you happened to be making."

Jennifer nodded. "Ok, I'll check it out. Go somewhere safe, this might get ugly."

"Sure." The mechanic turned away. "Good luck."

Jennifer pushed open the unlocked door, and stepped inside.

The access corridor was dark, and it stank. Jennifer made her way down the steps to the interior access door, which was closed tightly but unlock. She pushed it open, and recoiled as a pungent stench filled her nostrils, blood and death and decay. The station's backup lights were on, casting a fitful light over the grimy stone and metal. She pressed on, bow raised, ready to shoot.

She spotted the first body a short distance in, and took some time to make sure she wasn't going to throw up. The man's flesh was rotten and bloated, and his chest was a vast, wide-open wound.

The two after him were the same. Some makeshift medical equipment had been set up next to one of them, something with blades and tubes and... Jennifer tried not to look too closely. Her gaze fell upon the rusted metal wall, on which a maze of shorthand notes and equations had been scrawled. The word "corruption" stood out more than once.

Gagging on putrid air, Jennifer turned to make her exit, and came face-to-visor with the Portent. His hand was held out, powered gauntlet inches from her face.

"You!" Jennifer exclaimed.

"You," the Portent replied. "Release her. I will not ask again."

Jennifer blinked. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but you have a lot of explaining to do!"

The Portent faltered. "You do not..." He paused, as if listening to a sound Jennifer could not hear, then whipped around just as a bulky figure stepped out of the gloom. Jennifer recognised Hank Delacroix, though he wasn't wearing his heavy gauntlets, or his trademark sunglasses. His pale eyes seemed to gleam in the dim light.

Jennifer stepped forward, but the Portent shoved her aside, one hand reaching to the back of his belt. There was a blur of motion, and Hank staggered back. The Portent's hands came to rest, holding a long metal staff. He stepped into the attack.

Jennifer stared, struggling to comprehend this sudden development. Hank was fighting the way he always did, with grim, deliberate determination. His powerful fists swung time after time, never finding their mark. The Portent moved like a dancer who'd forgotten most of the steps and was improvising in the gaps. His staff whirled and struck with snakelike speed but little precision, each time ricocheting off Hank's shimmering forcefield as he calmly parried.

Jennifer got to her feet, readying her bow to shoot. The air was filled with madness and corruption and death. What the hell have I wandered into here?

Something was wrong with the Portent's gauntlets. Power seemed to be building up in them, sparking off at odd angles. Hank was pressing him harder now, and his movements seemed ever-more erratic.

He's snapped, Jennifer thought to herself. Whatever crazy [censored] was going on in his brain has just taken over. She took aim, hesitantly, unable to line up clear a shot into the ongoing brawl.

Then the Portent ducked a wild punch and jammed his sparking gauntlet into Hank's face. Hank staggered back, clutching at his eyes, his forcefield flickering out. The Portent drove his staff into his opponent's gut, forcing him to his knees.

Jennifer took aim. "Freeze! Leave him alone!"

The Portent looked around. "Wavek - "

He got no further before Hank's fist collided with the side of his helmet. The Portent staggered back, drunkenly, blood trickling down from beneath his visor. A second punch caught him in the chest with an audible crack, then Hank smashed his fists down on the detective's shoulders, and he fell.

Jennifer lowered her bow, but only slightly. "You didn't have to hit him that - "

Hank advanced on her, knocking the weapon from her hand in a backhanded swipe. Before she could recover from the shock, he grabbed her by the throat and pinned her against the floor, rage-twisted face held close to hers. "How did you find this place?" he hissed.

"Hank, what the f - " Jennifer choked slightly. "Someone... someone saw the door left open, asked me to look, I - "

"WHO?" Hank roared. "Who else knows about this place?"

"What...?" Jennifer went pale as the realisation struck her. "You. You did this, all of this..." She tried to form a cage to separate them, but pain and rising terror made it difficult to concentrate.

"You really thought it was him? Hank hoisted her up, easily holding her off the ground by her throat. "You really didn't know him at all, did you? To think I could have pinned it all on him and got away with it... I just never realised you'd be so easy to fool."

Fury filled Jennifer. Fury at the killer who was choking the life out of her, fury at herself for her terrible mistake, it didn't matter. "Yeah, I was wrong. He's the good guy. And he had your [censored] number, [censored]," she growled. "Guess it's up to me to finish what he started!"

She focused her power as best she could. The air around her vibrated with a burst of raw noise, and Hank recoiled in pain. As his grip loosened, Jennifer shook free and grabbed an arrow from her quiver.

"Why, Hank?" she asked, holding the razor-sharp tip a hair's breadth from his face. "Why did you do... all this?"

Hank looked up. Blood was tricking from his ears. "I didn't want it to be like this, Jen. You're a strong person, and I respect that. It's a shame things have to end like this. But it was killing me, you see?"

Jennifer shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"They tore out my heart!" Hank hissed. "They cut me apart and... and changed me. I have the power now, the power to make a difference. It's just that there's a price..."

Hank's hands lashed out at her. One grabbed her wrist, twisting it until the makeshift weapon tumbled from her grip; the second grasped her armoured chestplate, and pulled hard. Fabric tore, and the armour came away in Hank's hand.

"I'm sorry things had to be this way," he drawled, tossing the plate aside with a wry grin. "But I don't think it's going to be all bad..."

"[censored] you!" Jennifer concentrated what was left of her power, hitting him with everything she had. He gritted his teeth and held his ground as the field tried to force them apart, but the distraction was all Jennifer needed as she reached down to draw her .38 from its compartment in her quiver.

"You... you're stronger than I realised," he observed, as Jennifer gasped for breath, exhausted. "Shame I can't - "

In the enclosed walls of the substation, the shot was deafening. Hank stumbled back, oily black blood oozing from the wound in his shoulder. He stared in disbelief at the gun in Jennifer's hand, then down at his injury.

"One step," Jennifer warned, "and I will [censored] end you."

Hank looked up, and stepped forward.

Jennifer shot him, four more times. He managed one faltering step forward, and then collapsed sideways.

Jennifer darted toward the doorway until her communicator found a signal, and sent out a call for police backup and an ambulance. Then she ran to where the Portent had fallen. He was breathing, just about. She knelt by him, gun with its one remaining bullet trained on the motionless form of Hank Delacroix, and waited.

Detective Jack Simpson's office, PPD Headquarters, 9:14

"...can't say for sure, but that's the way it looks."

Jack rubbed his forehead, glancing between the two heroes. "Vahzilok factions fighting? That's a new one. Maybe someone from the Facemaker faction making a play for power back in the city? Just doesn't fit."

He shook his head. "Well. You've both done an excellent job, in any case. Thank you." He managed a half-smile as he sat back down behind his desk. "There's, uh, a specialist division that deals with situations like these. I'll need to turn this over to them, let them coordinate the cleanup."

Hank nodded. "Sorry to disappoint, compadre. You've got my number if I can do anything else to help." He adjusted his shades and turned toward the door. "Detective - ma'am - see y'all around."

Jennifer watched him close the door before turning back to face Jack. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to lose this one either, but a gang war kinda changes everything..."

"Nothing to apologise for, Jenny." Jack sighed. "Just feels wrong, is all." He glanced through the door glass at the departing Shining Shield. "What did you make of him?"

"Hank?" Jennifer shrugged. "Nice guy, I guess. Knows what he's doing. A little over-eager, but he'll learn soon enough."

Jack nodded. "The cowboy routine is a little off. There's more Louisiana than Texas in that accent. And self-cleaning spandex or not, he needs to learn to be careful where he steps in the sewers."

Jennifer smiled. Always the detective.

"Well." Jack shrugged resignedly. "I'd better get this information filed. You still up for dinner on Sunday evening? Danny tells me if you try and dodge it for another week, I have to make it an order."

Jennifer laughed. "I'll see you there. Take care of yourself, Jack."

* * *

As Jennifer was closing the door behind her, Jack picked up the phone on his desk and began searching for Detective Minkowski's number. It was disappointing to have the case taken out of his hands, but he was slightly relieved nonetheless. The only other lead he'd managed to find was... not something he would have relished telling Jennifer about. It was always painful when one of the city's heroes switched sides, most of all when it was someone you knew.

For once, Jennifer's prayers were answered: it wasn't a sewer. The address she'd been given was for a condemned office block hidden away in the shadow of the War Wall. She landed a short distance away to approach on foot, figuring the Vahzilok had probably learned to keep a sky watch by now.

She'd figured wrong. As she drew close, the muffled sounds of fierce fighting began to filter through the cracked walls. She darted to the door and kicked it open, ready to fight.

The Vahzilok had started without her. A mob of animated corpses of various shapes and sizes were brawling shambolically among themselves on the main floor, while masked Reapers crossed bonesaws on the stairs. Jennifer shook her head; this was definitely new.

She launched a riot arrow into the midst of the melee of living fighters, leaving the cadavers to their own devices, and advanced into the main corridor. The first office door on the right was hanging off its hinges, and as she drew near, a zombie was hurled through it, crumpling against the wall like a rag doll. Jennifer readied a stun arrow and crept up to the doorway.

The sight that greeted her did little to clarify the situation. One Eidolon, its stitching slightly frayed, was holding a terrified Mortificator aloft by his throat. In the corner, another wrestled with a blond-haired man dressed in red spandex with a silvered shield on the chest, and a pair of heavy-duty fighting gauntlets strapped to his arms. He looked up at her and mouthed, "Little help?"

Jennifer loosed her arrow at the nearest Eidolon, knocking it off-balance and forcing it to release its grip on the hapless doctor, who made a break for the door. Jennifer tripped him as he tried to pass and aimed another stun arrow at the second Eidolon. The blunt tip glanced off its leather-bound head, and the moment of confusion allowed its opponent to gain the upper hand. His gauntleted fist connected with the unsuspecting monster in an explosion of energy, and it keeled over.

"Appreciate the help, darlin'." The other hero got to his feet, adjusting his sunglasses, and landed a punch on the other Eidolon for good measure, sending it sprawling. "Didn't figure on this turnin' into a civil war on me."

"Any time." Jennifer lowered her bow. "You're the Shining Shield?"

"That's me, when I'm on business anyway." He smiled. "Hank Delacroix, at your service, ma'am. I figure I've heard of you, but I'm godawful with names. You one of the Militia, maybe?"

Jennifer nodded. "Wavekite. Pleasure to meet you, Hank."

Hank grinned and tipped an imaginary hat. "Pleasure's all mine, ma'am."

"Uh-huh." Jennifer looked around the room. "So... they all just turned on each other?"

"Near as I could make out." Hank shrugged. "I came here to have a 'chat' with the local Vahzilok leader, see what he wanted to tell me about that killing in the Bricks. I've barely even started workin' him over when three of those Eidolon freaks and their posse of docs and zombies break down the door and drag him off. I tried to stop them, but..." he looked apologetic. "You saw how that went."

Jennifer shook her head in disbelief. "So we've got, what, a Vahzilok civil war going on here? It can't all be about those three bodies."

Hank nodded. "I reckon not. I'm guessing that was just the first move by one of the sides, and after that all bets were off." He shrugged. "Not exactly the ending we were all hoping for, but at this stage we're pretty much down to damage control."

Jennifer sighed. Looks like I won't be keeping that promise. Damn it all. "Ok, we'd better get started. You up for cleaning this place out?"

Hank cracked his knuckles. "Ready as ever, ma'am. Reckon there's more than one out there whose hospitality I need to repay."

PPD Headquarters, Kings Row, 22:13

Jack Simpson stood by the helipad on the roof of police headquarters, looking out across the city. On warm nights like these, there was something comforting about coming out here, so high up that the electric sparking of the Clockwork and the sickly glow of the Circle's rituals were lost in the gloom. The problems didn't go away just because they were out of sight, but it was good to be reminded, now and again, what everyone was fighting for.

He felt a gust of cold air on his back, and turned as Jennifer Sula lighted silently on the roof behind him. "Jenny. Glad you're back. Any luck?"

"Not really." Jennifer shrugged apologetically. "The Freaks have a hundred and one crazy-[censored] plans on the go, but I couldn't find any sign of them needing bodies." She paused. "Jack, I wouldn't put it past them to just kill the guy and toss the bodies in some sewer. We might be chasing shadows here."

Jack shook his head. "This wasn't random. Our victim had a good reason for being in Brickstown. He must have had a buyer of some sort for those bodies. Whoever it was obviously didn't like the price." He sighed. "I guess we can cross the Freaks off our list for now, anyway."

Jennifer nodded slightly. "Any other leads?"

"Could be. There's a guy calling himself..." Jack reached for his notebook, "uh, Shining Shield who's been finding out what the other Vahzilok know. You might want to track him down. I got word from Vic Johannson earlier that he was going to check out a suspected base in High Park."

"I'll go see if he's found anything." Jennifer hesitated a moment before putting a hand on Jack's arm. "We'll get them, Jack. Whoever's behind this, they won't get away with it. I promise."

Jack half-smiled. "I know, Jenny. I shouldn't let it get to me. I just... I have a really bad feeling about this one."

Beneath Kings Row, 14:32

"Rise and shine, pal. I ain't quite done with you yet."

The Vahzilok doctor opened his eyes. The large man in the red spandex and the brutal-looking armoured gauntlets was sitting a few feet away, watching him with amusement. He looked down at his right arm, which had been cuffed to the sewer pipe behind him.

"Let me introduce myself," the other man continued in his soft southern drawl. "You can call me the Shining Shield. And right after you do that, you can tell me about that body the cops found in Brickstown. You folks been havin' some disciplinary issues?"

The Reaper looked away. "I won't tell you anything."

The hero nodded. "Figured as much. More fun this way, after all. So here's how I'm figurin' it. You guys go to the bother of swiping three fresh bodies from the city morgue, and then one of your own docs runs off with them. I mean, of all things. Here you are, hackin' limbs off of innocent folk for the greater good of mankind, and someone just has to go and cheapen the whole thing by trying to make a profit from it." He shrugged. "So you track this guy down, make like you're an interested buyer, set up a deal, and then one of your... wha'dya call them glow-in-the-dark freaks in the gimp suits?"

"The Eidolons are the next stage in human evolution!" the doctor spat, struggling against the cuffs.

"Yeah, totally superior beings." The Shield held up his gauntleted hand, idly picking off specks of dried blood. "Supremely satisfying to beat on." He grinned. "So anyway, you get one of those things, with those funky radiation powers, surprise your wayward colleague at the dropoff point, and fry him alive. You get your corpses back, city pins it on the Freakshow, and the world is back in balance."

"Interesting fantasy you've spun," the Reaper replied, "but you're not even close. We don't know where those bodies are, but whoever has them is going to regret robbing Dr. Vahzilok."

The hero nodded. "Well, I'd wish you the best of luck with that, if I wasn't about to haul your [censored] in for a long stay at the Ziggursky Penitentiary. If you see the big V in there, tell him I said hi."

At this hour of the night, Crey's Folly looked like a scene from the Portent's personal hell - a twisted, poisoned industrial ruin, a world fully corrupted by human hands. He'd slipped past Crey's patrols to reach a good vantage point above this supposedly abandoned lab, one of the few left on his list of possible staging areas for whatever viral attack the corporation was planning. There were no signs of life from within the stained brickwork and corroded metal of the outer walls, no light from the windows. Whatever awaited within, the Portent already knew that it would not be what he sought. There was just no way to be sure without checking everywhere.

And when you do find it, what then? The voice of doubt was palpable in the Portent's mind, the voice of fear and hate and anger and pride. Destroy the weapon, turn their scientists over to the authorities you so distrust - to serve their time in prison and return with their secrets to Crey, or to surrender them to the govermment itself? What good will you really do?

The Portent ignored the voice, concentrating on watching the ground below for movement as he rappelled silently toward the lab roof. It continued, mocking.

It won't end until you have the strength to end it. Send them a message - let them know that their lives are forfeit. You know that the Priest was right. They've made their choice, all of them - they chose to kill hundreds, thousands, for greed's sake. They don't deserve to live - and they can't be contained. They're monsters. If you really must insist on trying to protect the weak... there's no other choice. To protect the sheep, you must kill the wolf.

"I do not have the right," the Portent muttered to himself as he made his way across the roof to the broken skylight. "It is not my place to pass that judgement."

Does the physician have no right to judge how to heal? The corruption of the Crey is at their very core, in the choices they have made, just like the Rikti. A cancer that resists treatment must be excised from the body. Crey is that cancer. The corruption goes to the heart - so the heart must be cut out.

The Portent paused. A moment's concentration sent the voice to the back of his mind, silenced for now. The night was only beginning, and doubt was an alien distraction, nothing more.

((A short pseudo-plot leading to bigger things.))

Strength of Corruption
Part 1

Brickstown, 8:39

Detective Jack Simpson stepped out of his car, looking up at the office block whose address he'd been given. The police sergeant on guard at the door nodded to him as he approached. "You from the department?"

Jack nodded, holding up his badge. "Simpson, homicide. What've we got?"

"Wish I could tell you." The sergeant shrugged. "Day janitor found the scene. One of those Vahzilok doctor freaks and a whole lot of zombies. No idea what they were doing here, but it looks like it didn't work out too well."

Jack ducked under the cordon across the door. The lobby of the building had been a mess before it became a crime scene; now it looked like something out of a horror film. Jack stepped over the fallen form that had once been one of Vahzilok's cadavers, and headed for the forensics team who were zipping up a body bag over the only corpse in the room that had been alive the previous day.

Jack cleared his throat. "Got a cause of death?"

The lead doctor looked around. "For the moment, we're guessing it's something to do with the burns over most of his body. Pretty much fried where he was standing. Probably looking at superpower involvement."

Jack nodded. "So we're looking for pyrokinetics? Not exactly Outcast territory around here." Not exactly Vahzilok territory either, but that's another question.

The doctor shook his head. "Not fire. Something burned this guy, but the temperature was barely enough to singe his clothes. Whatever killed him was... conducted through his body."

Jack frowned. "Electricity then?"

"Maybe. Tell you the truth, though, superpowers tend to rewrite all kinds of rules. There's probably more than one kind of localised energy burst that could do this."

Jack looked around the room. "Why aren't the zom-bots burned the same?"

The doctor shrugged. "Good question. They were beaten physically with a blunt instrument until they stopped working. Something like a metal pole. Quite a lot of force used. Ask me, the whole thing's got Freakshow written all over it."

Jack nodded absently. Brute force and electricity, and the location right here in Freak territory. It would explain everything, except what the Freakshow wanted with the one thing he'd been hoping to find here, and hadn't: the city morgue's three missing cadavers.

But the case wasn't solving itself. He'd have to dig into the local Freakshow politics to see who might have decided to branch out into necromancy or some such thing. That and get Officer Johannson in Kings to get in touch with a hero who was working on the Vahzilok problem...

Terrifying as it is that webspeak is beginning to leak into the everyday speech of us gamers, it doesn't necessarily make it believable behaviour for our characters. I don't know how Wolfram or Wavekite would react if someone said "lol" to them in a conversation, but I'm pretty sure they wouldn't consider it normal.

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I'd imagine, though, that generally people didn't switch genders... It's a bit immersion breaking afterall!

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It's not as common, but it still happens. GMs in particular often don't get a choice; if you have any NPCs of the opposite gender, you're going to have to go IC as them at some point. I think the difference is that in PnP games, you're already imagining everything else, so the voices aren't any more of a problem. In CoX, we see the character talking, not the player, and I imagine it would grate a lot more if the two didn't match.

First things first: :ets Hates::

Now. I'm not sure which of these count as pet hates, but, whilst we're a-hating:

Spelling and grammar used to bother me quite a bit. I just seem to have got used to the mistakes. A lot of the time there is a good reason - English not a first language being the main one. For myself, I'm a ruthless perfectionist, so I tend to second-guess my spelling and grammar so much that I fall behind in IC conversations.

The IC consequences thing is quite a big one for me. The problem being that without any way for us to enforce such consequences (we can't actually arrest that hero who just admitted to a crime without the player agreeing to it), we just have to trust everyone not to break the RP world in which we're working. If you're a hero, the default assumption is that you're a hero. Blur the divide, ok, but if the believable consequence of your action is arrest and imprisonment - accept the consequence, or don't do it.

The one about the Zig is a niggle, too. It's not good for our poor little heroes' minds to have them assume that escapes from the Zig are frequent, just because the same villains seem to keep turning up. It raises the question of why they keept trying. There've been plenty of good ways around the problem - with the Militia, when we kept on facing FrostFire in the early days, we decided among ourselves that the name was just a title, and that we weren't just fighting the same guy over and over.

Edit: I'll throw in the canon/consistency one, too. Little inconsistencies don't annoy me too much, but when someone decides to rewrite history for all of us, that's just going too far. No, your character didn't kill everyone in my character's home town, or avert the well-documented disaster that defined his life. Because otherwise he wouldn't be here, see?

Jennifer Sula sat on the edge of Aerie Plaza, staring into the darkness. Her body wanted to sleep, but her mind didn't dare. The nightmares had lessened in the last few days, but they could still be there, waiting, whenever she tried to sleep.

She heard footsteps on the concrete behind her, and looked around. Officer Hugo Alvarez was making his way toward her. "What are you doing out at this time, Sula?"

"Could ask you the same, Alvarez." Jennifer motioned him to sit. "Bit late to be still in uniform."

"Just got off the late shift." Hugo took a seat beside her, stifling a yawn. "Gotta let the damn coffee get out of my system. What's bothering you?"

Jennifer shrugged. "Be more specific?"

"It's like that?" Hugo nodded. "C'mon, let's have it. All of it."

"Where do I start, Hugo?" Jennifer sighed. "This job... this life... one minute, everything's coming up roses, you're learning new things, stopping the big crimes, really making a difference... and then something comes along to remind you that the bad guys, the real bad guys, haven't played their hands yet, and they're holding all the aces.
"I got one friend who's been missing so long, some of the guys think he must have... really gone rogue on us. I've got another friend who was murdered, when he was just doing his job - just like that. Now there's this... this plague, whatever you wanna call it, that's gonna kill half the rest of us..."

Hugo looked down. "Having superpowers not all it's cracked up to be?"

Jennifer shook her head. "'Fraid not."

They sat in silence for a while, before Alvarez spoke again. "You gonna tell me the rest?"

Jennifer shot him a glance. "Nothing gets past you, huh?"

"Used to be partners, remember? That's how it works." Hugo smiled crookedly. "Talk. You'll feel better."

"Doubt it." Jennifer shrugged. "Anyway, you know the next bit. And no, I'm not going to tell him."

Hugo raised a hand. "I didn't say anything."

Jennifer nodded. "So, this is the part where you say something profound that makes me feel better about it all?"

Alvarez yawned. "Nope."

Jennifer shrugged. "You could make an effort, is all I'm saying."

"I don't have to say a damn thing. I know you, Jen. I know you better than to believe you're considering giving up. Yeah, it's hard, and you and I both know it. It's a long and painful and thankless job, and the fact we stick with it instead of turning away? That's just part of who we are. As long as there's hope, we press on for that one chance. And there's always hope.

"Now go get some damn sleep."

I have to say that it's the characters that really hold me here as well - mine and other people's and their various connections. There's a vast wealth of deep, interesting, well-thought-out characters to meet and interact with, and I've barely scratched the surface with my Militia-centric activities.

Still, the setting has its charms. I'm a big fan of the Rikti, who are quite an original take on the "alien invasion" theme, and I'm glad they seen some development recently. I'm also quite fond of Nemesis, who's just such a likely-seeming comic book villain that following his stories is always fun.

Then again, for me, the setting and world of WoW were one of the main reasons why I despised it. The horribly mangled rendition of the setting I'd been looking forward to just grated too much. City of Heroes had the advantage that it had no ideal to live up to.

Something I should have done a long time ago...

Global Name: @Wolfram
Server: Union mostly.
City of Heroes/City of Villains (in theory)
RP Characters (varying degrees of active-ness):
Wolfram - Sorceror extraordinaire of the Knights Exemplar
The Portent - Conspiracy theorist of the Militia
Wavekite - Police liaison officer of the Militia
Planetar - 30s archaeologist turned brawler, supergroupless

Type of RP: Pretty much anything, but favour IC missions/TFs, plots and intrigue.
Can be contacted: The Militia Forums, PMs here (maybe) or in game.
Times on: Mondays for Militia meetings; Thursdays 7-ish onward; erratically at other times.
Timezone: GMT

Tricky questions indeed. I think I'm pretty much with the "put it in the bio" camp. If some of the information is secret and some public, mark it as such. Beyond that, it's a matter of trust. If someone misuses OOC information from your bio IC, that's just not good RP behaviour.

There are limits to what this can achieve, though. As concepts and powers get weirder, there will always be unforeseen possibilities. I hadn't actually considered whether the Starlit Spirit would read as "Kheldian" to the senses of other Kheldians. A being that cannot see visible light and relies entirely on super-senses might or might not have a really hard time holding a conversation with Wavekite. The relevant information is in each character's description, but it may not be enough to figure out just what the hell should happen, and it takes even more fudge to patch together an answer.

Putting in your character's actual biographical details is more a matter of choice. I have to say, I've more than once found it useful to be able to remind myself of a hero's name from their bio, even if it's just the spelling, but it's not really essential if you want to keep the identity secret. Still, for high-profile characters who frequently hit the front pages for great heroism/altruism/debauchery, such information could be considered essential. For example, everyone in the city theoretically knows that Jay Reynolds is the Crimson Archer (going by the number who own the action figures, anyway )

Funnily enough, a hero all-tech team would be an easier way for me to play the concept I designed for your earlier Steampunk Pirate SG idea. Still got that problem freeing up slots on Union, though...

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Large section of the building 'atomised"?

"Hereafter"?

To what dimension/future has Britanic been thrown to?

Perhaps the universe where evryone is the opposite sex/moral mindset?

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Britanic's adventures in the Mirrorverse? That would make for one hell of a comeback story...

Late with this, as always - all the best, Brit, you'll be missed. Hope to see you back here before too long.

Sounds like a good idea to me. I've toyed with trying to come up with something similar in the past. About the only thing I can offer is the idea of having an impartial GM in case of disputes - someone who can be the final arbiter/roll dice when the combatants can't agree on the outcome of an attack.