Maltese_Knight

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A Tankers job is do soak up damage so they get a bonus to their resistances. Scrappers and Brutes make up for this by dealing more damage.

How can you complain that Brutes have to wait 8 more levels to get an inferior version of Unyielding when they're getting powers like Knockout Blow at level 8 compared to a Tanker at level 20?

Powers are balanced by the grand scheme of the archetype, not via individual powers so it's not fair to compare power for power versus the various archetypes. Brutes are more than fine as they are.

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So in the "grand scheme of the archetype", making you wait 8 more levels for your status resist power that comparatively hangs a WORSE boat anchor of -DEF around your neck than the tank version does? Because you can get Knockout Blow at 8, this basket of insanity jives? That the Tank version of Unyielding's DEF debuff is equivalent to the Brute version of the DEF debuff because they get a bonus to resists?

Because of Knockout Blow.

Why don't you just come out and SAY, "Maltese Knight, we WANT you to suck. But you won't be SUCKING, you'll be BALANCED."

Ohhhhhh... Balanced. Gotcha. Like the -12.5% debuff compiled with nerfed resists in I5 were balanced. Ludicrous.

Obviously not, if it bit you on the nose, Ravenlute.

Pain in the butt, ain't it? Drives me crazy, especially when you should be wastin' a mob just by lookin' mean at it, only to push enough air to sail Old Ironsides. And to be honest, I've never heard the Tank version of this issue addressed.

Have you guys?

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Guess what dillhole.....you are in the one percentile with your friggin blah blah blah. I spend a boatload of time on the test server and ya know what? I5 does suck! for almost all AT's. EWWWW good for you....you've been playing since I1...hmmm just like a ton of the rest of us. The only time you should open your mouth is when the devs jiggle their zippers! The bottom line is that FUN is the only factor that matters in this game and the people that play the game have been screaming that they dont think it is as fun anymore.....and its not! Look Im not against everything that has come out of I5 there are some things that I thought were brilliant as do many of my counterparts but the massive nerfs to AT's and the diminishing effect of enhancements were total crap.

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BALEETED!

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Do you guys really listen to our suggestions for powersets, costume options, map, etc....? If so can we have a example?

Oddly, ED came as a suggestion for diminishing returns on the forums. Archery and Sonics were both mentioned.


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I would like to know the name of the person who suggested this...

He also confirmns that a shield powerset is on it's way and that it will be for tanks and scrappers

Overall he dodge alot of the more interesting ED-questions and nowhere does he adress the problem with tankers being obsolete...


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Actually I think a system of diminishing returns is good. It makes everyone very close to equal in effectiveness. The only thing I wouldn't have done is scroll back defenses like they did in I5.

Diminishing returns though makes it so someone that 6 slots their passives, gets that boost in defense, but they also won't be head over heels better than someone who only decided to 3 slot. The MMO that I played before this had a very similar system to this, and it makes balancing a lot easier. Now they can balance for people with 3 slots, letting those with 6 be powerful and know that it won't be as glaring of a difference as it was in I4, where anyone that 3 slotted was considered unwise.

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You sure you're lookin' at the same difference in 3 slots compared to 6 slots that I am? For example...

3 slotted, RPD is what, around 12% RES S/L, right?

6 slotted RPD is what, around 13% RES S/L, right?

Give or take a few hundredths of a point.

And considering we don't have a diversification option for slotting with passive, resist only powers, your boost in defense, yet no head over heels difference is a mighty 1 percent.

"Letting those with 6 be powerful and know that it won't be as glaring of a difference as it was in I4, where anyone that 3 slotted was considered unwise."

That's funny. That's downright hilarious. Wait, that wasn't considered a joke?

I've noticed my raspberries are only half as effective as they once were. What a ripoff.

HOWEVER...

With a Defender buffing my raspberries, I can use them to almost I4 capacity. This is just wrong. Raspberries are inherent to the success of my tank when soloing on Heroic. Which as we all know, is the most fun anyone can have in the entire universe. EVER. IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND.

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This is also interesting:
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Do you guys really listen to our suggestions for powersets, costume options, map, etc....? If so can we have a example?

Oddly, ED came as a suggestion for diminishing returns on the forums. Archery and Sonics were both mentioned.

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I would like to know the name of the person who suggested this...

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I believe it was Havoc that brought up the idea first.



Everyone might as well not even bother anymore at this point. They want us playing on the heroic standard and that is possible with every combintaion of character that I have seen to date. We ran some missions on test last Saturday to see if a Tanker would be missed in teams and we came to the conclusion that the ATs are fairly well-balanced for the Heroic range and that team composition mattered much less than the mission length and skill of the players in a team. I don't mind being weakened down to this level anymore, I just wish that my passives didn't seem to be such poor choices for my Tanker to take.

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Well I still run my mission on Unyielding with no issues whatsoever, so I think it's specific groups of people that have issues running on anything higher. My controllers and scrapper find it way to easy to run on any setting under Tenacious. I normally run in teams of 4-8 because soloing missions is utterly pointless and boring.

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Quoted for OPINION. *pppppbffbtbppfbfbfbpttt*

Running missions at Heroic solo is the only way to have fun.

OPINION. *PPBBFBTBTBTPPPPFBTFBTPBPTBTP*

The Maltese Knight is a forum trolling stud amongst the Tanker community.

Now that's a FACT! *wheeeeeeeee!*

Count the Maltese Knight in on that one.

Just post when.

Welcome to the PCFD, Joe. Remember when you swore your oath of service? Watched your old man in the third row actually tear up a bit when Chief pinned your badge on your chest for the first time? The mindbending drunk you tied on afterwards at the party, the first run you made, the first fire, first cardiac save, first time in the seat? Yes you do, Jody Boy. Yes you do, and that's why you're here. Don't ever forget that. It's what pulls you through the tight spots when your muscles, guts and that damn stubborn head a' yours ain't enough.

And as the crisp chill ruddies a hardened, chiseled jawline and high, defined cheekbones, the Maltese Knight looks to the Paragon City skyline, barely discernable through the sickly shimmer of the warwalls. Almost as if on cue, the faint warble of a federal windup siren catches the currents of rapidly cooling air, drifting its way to trained, patiently waiting ears. Yeah, Joe. You heard it. Punch the clock and let these folks have their party. Let these folks drink it up and chase dreams of handshakes and political influence. Collars of blue make it all happen beneath the gleam and polish... And yours is as blue as the daylight sky.

The familiar voice stops him though, even as the class A dress uniform jacket once again slides from his shoulders. A navy blue uniform ballcap finding its way from a pocket to his awaiting crown sits comfortably as he turns to address it, finding the eternal eyes of one Juan Ramirez and his quips on whiskey almost as old as the nation herself. Timing at its finest...

"Ramirez, you dirty ol' <BLEEP>. You shine up like a brand new penny." Hands deftly course down the front of the uniform shirt, releasing buttons with nearly a blur of motion as he finally wiggles free. Taking a split second to assess the finished product, white undershirt, ballcap, black, pressed slacks, uniform spit and polish complete with just a touch of redneck. It will simply have to do. And with one last touch, removing the eyecatching silver badge with flip of a clasp, the Maltese Knight stuffs it in his pocket, pitching the coat and button up shirt toward his long time friend and compatriot.

"Hold this crap for me, Juan. That is, unless you'd rather saddle up instead a' dancin' with a bunch a' jerks wit' starched underwear and forty pound stock portfolios. I heard th' boys at seventeens go out... And with th' damn Rikti makin' a press out here, we can't leave 'em by their lonesome."

"Yer hootch is just gonna have to wait, my friend."

*Back to the party! It's an open bar!*

"For th' love a... Jack and coke, partner. N' stand it up straight, it's gonna be a looooong night." The smooth ebon finish of the jacket that once adorned the Maltese Knight's shoulders sat limp across the barstool adjacent to him. Even the sparkle of the side-by-side silver bugles and slim, yet proudly etched captain's badge seemed dim in the easy, cool lighting of the mansion. Maybe the festivities of the statuary, the falling snow, the fading frost on the windows, and the sudden inexplicable chill in the air is responsible for the lackluster shine. Maybe... Or maybe it's the celebrity, the fanfare, the personalized invitations and the blatant, gut-wrenching hype. And as half melted ice cubes tinkle in the bottom of an empty glass, clinging tenaciously to their former grandeur even as the Tennessee whiskey strips them of their form, the Maltese Knight sighs deeply, pulling a calloused hand across a drawn, tired face only to push the glass once again across the bar.

"Fire me up another, hoss. This time, hold the coke."

Figure after figure, costumed juggernaut after wealthy debutante, scantily clad hostess after corrupt city leader, each one filing toward doors, windows, any position that affords a view to the suddenly changing climate. It would be romantic in a sense if not for the ever fading gleam of silver, still holding the gaze of one former Captain Joe Gage. That is, between ever growing sips of the nectar nestled within the glass walls of a prison known as a highball. Eventually a finger reaches out and runs down the badge's polished edge, pausing at the engraved arching letters that say 'PARAGON CITY FIRE DEPARTMENT', longingly, yet absently caressing the parallel depiction of twin bugles. Then, this badge rested on the chest of a man that carried it like a beacon of hope, the Lone Ranger on a twenty ton, scarlet red Silver. But now... Is this what the honor and pride is reduced to? A trinket, a bauble to wave before the awed masses of the citizenry? And even as the faded lines begin to form crystalline frost at their edges, the glass falls to the bar with a clank, a frown, and yet another request.

"Leave the bottle, hoss."

The ice bobs like buoys on rough seas as the liquor flows, this time finding solace in nearly attaining the edge of the glass. Maybe next round. And as the massive fists of the Maltese Knight surround both the black labeled bottle and its fine crystal partner, breath escaping in a visible flowing fog, the firefighter raises the glass only to pause midway to his patiently awaiting palette. A revelation of sorts, found in the bottom of Tennessee's finest. And as simple as it is, was and ever will be, it finally dawns on the man once known as Captain Joe Gage as the potables are abandoned to once again return to the chilled, yet still faded firefighter's badge. No, this party's over as far as the Maltese Knight is concerned. There is work to be done and it doesn't involve shaking hands, drinking whiskey and scratching your head at the sudden change in the weather. It involves doing one's duty, standing as one of the many that are the embodiment of what that dim piece of silver stands for. It stands for Paragon City's frontline, the army of her own that stands against the worst of odds with no magic, machine gun or mutation to aid them. Just a hoseline and courage unchecked.

Standing up and slipping his dress uniform coat around the herculean width of a chest and shoulders, he smiles, popping the seams and smoothing his hands down the lapels. Tip money thrown to the satin sheen of the bar surface with nary a glance, Captain Joe Gage moves toward the door, the remnants of the crowd thinning before him as if Moses himself parted them. No, parties, crowds, heroic adolation and worship has no quarter in regards to duty. And with that in mind he takes his leave, letting the abnormally cool night air snap the whiskey induced numbness from his lips as his smile grows even wider.

Silver has never shined so bright...

"GAGE! Get in here."

The rookie paused for a moment as the District Seven chief bellowed from his office, even as coffee continued to stream from the pot he was dangling over Captain Joe Gage's worn, but comfortable cup. Yet with a upturned eyebrow and a gentle wave of the hand the mighty Maltese Knight, known as 'Cap' to the crew of Engine Two-Five, stared the probationary firefighter back into action just as the dark brown elixer reached the brim of the container.

Shift change.

Between cups of pick-me-ups, lies about the latest fishing trip and the most recent dirt-encrusted rumors of the Paragon City Fire Department, Captain Gage rose from the miniscule chair, took a long draw from his favorite mug of joe, and winked at his former crew. "You piss Chief off, probie? You DO realize if he chews MY <BLEEP>, the crap's gonna flow downhill, right?"

Stifling his own outburst of laughter by biting a lip, Jimmy 'Buckethead' Dunn peered at the already fidgeting firefighter still holding the steaming pot of coffee. "I dunno what to say, Cap. I guess they just don't make 'em like they used to." A chorus of agreement rising from the table, a rustling of chairs, the rattling of the Times, and the ever present background din of radio traffic... Shift change. The opening salvo of another 24 hours of dedicated service to the citizens of Paragon City.

Squeezing his herculean form through the chief's office doorway only greets Captain Gage with yet another gruff exclamation from the District Chief himself. A grizzled veteran, a man rumored to have had his badge pinned to his bare chest, growled deeply as he pushed the cream colored envelope across his desk toward the still hunched over form of the Maltese Knight.

"What th' hell is this, Joe? I'm tryin' to run my district here. But I'm busy gettin' calls from Headquarters, the Commissioner's office, some God-forsaken clown with th' Mayor's IMAGE COMMITTEE... Do I look like a damn bookin' agent, Joe? Am I schedulin' your public appearances now?" For emphasis, Chief pushes the envelope even farther, as if its plague-lined contents could thermonuclearly explode in any second. And not allowing for a response, he continues.

"Anyway, word from Downtown says you gotta attend. Represent the Department. Class A dress, badge and bugles, the whole nine yards." Taking the envelope from the desk and sliding a thick, calloused finger beneath its flap, Captain Gage sees the invitation, scanning it nonchalantly as his eyes drift back to Chief and his fingers that drum rapidly on the desk. The silence hangs for a moment until finally Chief waves his hand toward the door. "Dismissed." And with a nod, the Maltese Knight moves toward the exit.

"And Joe... Try not to break nothin'."

*BEEPBEEPBEEP*

*crackle of static*

"Engine 25, District 5, stand by for a business fire alarm, 1505 Kings Parkway, Kings Row."

As doors to the antiquated, yet wellkept stationhouse flared open, the chains of rattling garage door openers sounding an almost musical background to the sudden burst of the dispatch from the firehouse speakers, a crew of four men, everyday men in an everyday role, exploded from chairs, desks, even the shower as they ran to the patiently waiting fire apparatus. Legs slid effortlessly into bunker boots, arms deftly into coats, faces gingerly into flashover hoods and facepieces. Yet another run on an already busy day for Engine 25 and in standard form, Captain Joe Gage reached to the console sprawled out before him, taking the microphone of his radio even as a hand cinched the last strap of his airpack harness.

"Dammit Jimmy, turn that down."

Jimmy 'Buckethead' Dunn. A twenty year veteran of the Paragon City Fire Department, a fire equipment operator, a two pack a day smoker, and an absolute heartstruck lover of Aretha Franklin. As he scowled, fired up the massive diesel and pulled it onto the pad in front of the station, a thumb flicked outward, catching the volume knob on the antiquated cassette deck that sat on the dashboard. It quickly silenced the First Lady of Soul as she sang on the battered machine and instantly put a long, drawn frown on his face. He never asked much from his captain, and gave all he had. But he had to have Aretha Franklin when 'Big Two-Five' was thundering down the road. Anything less would simply be unacceptable.

Quiet enough to keep the Godmother of Soul from blasting across the emergency airwaves of Paragon City, Captain Gage keyed his microphone, even as the fire apparatus began its turn toward the west and the just now setting sun. It glowed a dangerous crimson in the skies, serving to illuminate the already rising column of deadly black smoke on the horizon. Flicking a glance to Buckethead and the firefighters on the back, a small smile touched the corners of his mouth, disengaging the button on the microphone for a split second to mutter, "We got one..."

"Engine Two-Five to main, we have visible smoke to the west. Open up the assignment." The mouthpiece rattled harshly against the dashboard as it fell from his hand, discarded like rubbish as Buckethead began to smile, a hand already reaching for the silent tape player. And as Big Two-Five, the pride of District 5, tore a swath down the roadway, closing rapidly upon the raging inferno in the distance, Aretha Franklin once again began to sing...

Rescue me...
And take me in your arms
Rescue me...
I want your tender charms
'Cause I'm lonely and I'm blue
I need you and your love, too
C'mon and rescue me...

Brakes pinched thick steel rotors with a protesting squeal and a whoosh of released air as Engine Two-Five came to a halt before the spread out facility. Flame and smoke vomited in sickly greenish-black gouts from windows already shattered by the intense heat within. Words didn't need to be spoken at this moment in time. The crew knew their roles, knew their duties, and leapt from the truck to attack their responsibilities with a feral tenacity. Hoselines advanced to the doorway, axes were taken up in gloved hands, and Buckethead, in all his glory, pulled a half bent camel non-filter from his pocket as he pulled the levers to open up water flow from the engine's massive pump. It lit from the lighter in his free hand as the other twisted the throttle knob to increase the pressure. The outstretched hoselines bucked against the sudden charging of water, snapping kinks into gentle curves, folds into rigid yellow lines of 1 3/4 inch fire suppression fury. And the scene was set, even as Jimmy 'Buckethead' Dunn poked his jowled face from behind his pump panel, the cigarette already hanging a teetering column of ash from its tip. "CAP! Watch yer <BLEEP> in there! It's gonna be ugly!" And Aretha, voice like an angel and apple of Jimmy Dunn's eye, continued to sing as Captain Gage and the others slipped into the opaque maw of hell on earth.

C'mon baby and rescue me...
C'mon baby and rescue me...

It wasn't soon after, though time does seem to disappear when you're in that set of circumstances. I personally don't know for sure, but I was there when Captain Gage went down. Of course we couldn't see three foot in front of us with the smoke. Whatever was there, I DO know, it could've killed us all. And it would have, had Cap not physically pushed us out a window. All of our SCBA had failed. Corroded and melted from the soup of chemicals in that damned building. But Cap stayed behind, made sure we got out.

One thing I'll never forget, though... As I scrambled out away from the building, tearing off my bunker gear as it rotted into nothingness before my very eyes, was looking up just in time to see the explosion. Looking up to see Cap's face in the window, his facepiece already gone, his face contorted in pain, just before the blast threw him from the window.

I thought we lost him...

But he made it. 18 long months in the hospital, but he made it. Something about how the chemicals mixed, his exposure, no one really knows for sure. The papers call him the Maltese Knight now, with what all happened to him. When he stops by the station, we just call him Captain.

And Buckethead?

He hasn't listened to Aretha Franklin since.

As told by:
Bobby Simmons
Firefighter, Engine 25

Known as: The Maltese Knight
Real Name: Joseph T. Gage(on public record)
Status: Captain FD-03, PCFD(RETIRED)

Initial dispatch, <ADDRESS REMOVED, PENDING ARSON INVESTIGATION>, Kings Row, full class 1 assignment.

E-25 E-27 E-20 E-22 E-28 L-27 L-20 C645 C762 AL4

Initial size up reported as visible flame and smoke, south wing of facility. First in engine company assigned fire attack. NFPA 704 and hazardous material placarding not present. Initial attack faced severe impingement, E-27 assigned to assist. Explosion of hazardous material containers at 19:43. Attack teams withdrawn, defensive placements established. Scene declared under control by IC C645 at 22:12.

Addendum: Capt. J.T. Gage E-25 exposure report filed. Failure of SCBA upon explosion of materials within. Exact quantity and types unknown, pending investigation. Capt. Gage transported unconscious to Crowne Memorial.

Addendum: Capt. Gage medically retired with full honors 10-12-2002. Assigned to SERAPH liason Rebecca Brinell to investigate physical changes suspected as a result of chemical exposure.