SusieBot

I personally find two aspects of this whole "rage issue" particularly offensive.

1.) That it was released, even though it was deemed "too harsh". As has been said, it's been a banner month for Inv/SS Tankers.

2.) The soft-shoeing around the issue. This is a Nerf, okay? It wasn't "re-balanced to help non-hardcore players". It certainly wasn't to help the Super-Strength Tankers out there. It was a nerf, so call it a nerf. Come on the boards and say "Hey, we think Rage is over-powered, so we're nerfing it."

I guess I've just found this whole process -- the short time frame, the "patching anyway", the lack of creative solutions, and the mealy-mouthing -- insulting. I'm normally not this crabby about patches -- I mean, I loved the I3 changes. Err, once I got my respec.

[ QUOTE ]
1.) Rage is going to change so that everyone is going to suffer a penalty. Not my idea (although I support it; if some should be able to get around the penalty and others not, that's not fair). Just relaying what the devs said.


[/ QUOTE ]

This is the only one that really bugs me. You can feel one way or the other about Rage, but the above statement makes no sense. A Tanker makes it far enough into the game to get Rage, but has no status protection? So they spend all their time getting chain-sleeped by Yellow Ink Men, but have some sort of beef with the minor disorient at the end of Rage?

Can someone please explain this to me? I mean, if I spend all of my power slots on Travel powers, am I really entitled to complain that my Tanker's defenses are inadequate? Is it somehow "unfair" to me? I am just not getting this line of reasoning...

((Please add Susie-Bot to the list of "please leave Rage alone" heroes. As has been said, the idea that a "casual" player would not have Unyielding is daft...no one can survive that far into the game without some status protection.

Secondly: lay off the endurance penalties. As it is, with stamina 5-slotted, I already spend a significant amount of time sitting around, staring at walls, waiting for my endurance to come back. I've been down this road before (with the same character -- SB's been around for a while), and before the endurance adjustment on attacks, I had stopped playing Susie-Bot altogether. I just got tired of spending all my time watching a little blue bar creep back up.

I'm beginning to believe that this is all a conspiracy to make everyone roll Regen scrappers. I mean, seriously, who are they sleeping with?))

Accents and catch-phrases are an essential part of role-playing. A lot of the best role-players use them because it's an easy device for establishing a memorable character. I think most Virtue players would know who I was talking about of I mentioned a hero that called everyone "Jack".

Nonetheless, the polite thing to do in this case would have been for the individual in question to desist when you asked him to. I wouldn't say that he had an obligation to stop, but it would have been polite.

That being said: You may want to develop a thicker skin if you're going to play a character of another gender. Since people in-game don't know you in real life, they're inclined to relate to you as though you are the gender of the character you've created. Pet names are a fairly minor example of this -- down the road, you may encounter unwelcome touching (slaps on the rear and whatnot), compliments on your appearance, and flirting. If this type of behavior is going to make you uncomfortable, you might want to save yourself the trouble of policing such behavior, and just create a male character.

Of course, the inevitable response is "Why should I let the behavior of others dictate my playstyle?" And that's absolutely correct. However, given that other players have no ability to discern your true gender (even I don't read every bio, and I'm a bio junky), you may have to get used to this kind of unwelcome behavior.

And, as the above poster said, some people just want to antagonize you -- and, knowing that it bothers you, will make all the more effort to make you uncomfortable.

Chapter 2: Something Fishy

Malloy walked past the warehouse three times before he noticed the rust-eaten address sign lying on the sidewalk, crusted with snow. Standing next to the sign, the reporter peered through the collapsing chain link fence at the squat, black mass of the warehouse. Condemned tenements rose on either side of the warehouse, giving the entire neighborhood a palpable aura of dilapidation and abandonment. The flicker of trash fires shone in a few tenement windows, but otherwise the entire block seemed lifeless.

A single black sedan was parked in front of the warehouse, turned at an odd angle as though the driver had lost control in the final moments of parking. Malloy belly-crawled under the fence and approached the car, drawing his notebook from his pocket and thumbing to a blank page. He quickly jotted down the plates – no doubt stolen – and tried to open the trunk, to no avail. Watching the front of the warehouse for signs of movement, Malloy continued around the car.

The reporter froze as he approached the front fender. The entire fender and half of the engine compartment had been caved in, looking as though the car had been hit with a boulder, or had had a safe dropped on it. The front tire had been smashed nearly parallel to the ground, and oil and gasoline leaked from the wounded auto onto the snow.

“Ho-lee cow,” Malloy said under his breath. Fascinated by the damage, Malloy continued to circle the vehicle, until he reached the driver’s side door. He peered in, and then recoiled violently, falling to the snow and scrambling backwards on his hands.

Malloy blew out a shuddering breath, and slowly rose to his feet. Suddenly thankful for the gloom, he peered at the car, reluctant to get too close, yet compelled to determine if his eyes had seen truly.

The driver of the car was still aboard, but his head was missing, the neck cut with surgical precision. The body was draped in strings of rank yellow flowers and bones, all soaked in blood from the grievous wound that had obviously ended the man’s life. Of the head, there appeared to be no sign, though Malloy was reluctant to search the area for the missing appendage.

Instead, the reporter crept past the car, towards the front door of the warehouse. As he approached he fancied that, in the permeating gloom of the night, he could see the faint flickering of a ghastly green light through the filthy, paned windows that fronted the warehouse. Diverting from his course, he approached one of the windows and rubbed at it with his jacket sleeve until the filth was sufficiently moved about that he could see within.

The windows afforded a view of what was once the front office – an overturned desk, some scattered chairs, and a carpet of half-rotted papers testified to the room’s former occupation. A narrow door with a trestle provided access to the warehouse proper, and through the door’s smashed-out window, Malloy could see figures moving about on the warehouse floor. Barely visible through the twisted wreckage of storage shelves and packing crates was the flicker of a perverse green fire. The black outlines of human figures moved back and forth in front of the horrid illumination, casting grotesque shadows on the wreckage around them. But the strange illumination and filth of window’s interior precluded the discovery of any further detail.

Malloy stood transfixed, squinting at the distant figures, and was nearly ready to retreat to the distant safety of his car when a gargantuan figure moved in front of the office door. The man, if it was a man, filled the doorway, his tiny head barely visible below the huge mass of his shoulders. The figure seemed to be peering into the office, and Malloy fancied that he could hear sniffing and grunting coming from the creature. Panicked, the reporter fell to his knees and cowered below the level of the window until the snuffling sounds retreated.

As his fear subsided, Malloy’s reporter instincts took over. Prodded by an insatiable curiosity as to the identity of the gigantic figure, and its purpose within the warehouse, Malloy crept to the front door of the building. He tried the door and, finding it open, slipped through the narrow aperture and into a musty gloom that smelled of rotting paper and damp cloth. As the door slowly closed, Malloy did not see a shadow-cloaked figure slip through the narrowing gap behind him. As silent as a falling snowflake, the newcomer was briefly silhouetted as he slipped through the door, and then vanished into the inky blackness of the unlit warehouse.

Hello all --

Inspired by my Pulp-era hero, I have attempted to write a Pulp-style story. This is not an origin, but rather a single short adventure to introduce the character and to experiment with the Pulp form.

Words of warning: In the tradition of many great Pulps, this story does not feature the "hero" a great deal. There will be some bang-up super-hero action, but not for a while.

Constructive criticism is certainly welcome, especially from any afficionados of the Pulp form. Thanks!


The Green Haunt Strikes!
King’s Row. February, 1938

Chapter 1: Malloy Gets a Lead

It was just past midnight, and it was bitterly cold in King’s Row. Snow the color of ashes fell in tiny flakes and swirled across the cracked sidewalks in the bone-chilling breezes that blew between dilapidated warehouses. Barney Malloy pulled his threadbare overcoat tighter around his shoulder and adjusted his scarf, but his hands were still shivering so badly that he could scarcely read the hasty notes he jotted down on his notepad. He paused and peered into the darkness, cursing the run-down neighborhood and its broken streetlights as he searched the gloom for signs of his contact.

Malloy tensed and listened – footsteps approached, crunching faintly in the new-fallen snow. “Hello?” he whispered.

From the gloom, his contact appeared – a run-down looking gangster with a rumpled hat and a severe case of buck teeth. His name was Charles Puggles, but everyone called him the Chipmunk.

“Uh, hey Malloy,” the Chipmunk said, looking about nervously. “Hell of a night, eh?”

“You’re late, Chipmunk.”

Chipmunk shrugged. “Sorry, Malloy. Business, you know…”

“Sure. You boys knocking over warehouses again?”

Chipmunk pasted an exaggerated look of surprise on his face and shook his head. “No, Malloy. We’re legit now. Completely legit.”

Malloy waved a five-spot in front of his face, and Chipmunk’s eyes followed the bill as though hypnotized. “Then I guess,” Malloy said, “you wouldn’t know anything about some artifacts going missing from the Museum two nights ago.”

The crook, still watching the bill, nodded. “Yeah, I mighta heard something about that.”

Malloy reached over and tucked the fiver into Chipmunk’s breast pocket. “What’d you hear?”

Chipmunk grinned, his head bobbing excitedly. “You’re practically right on top of the guys that done it, Malloy. I hear that they’re in a warehouse not two blocks from here, waiting for the buyer to show up.”

Malloy asked for the address, and carefully wrote it down in his pad. Chipmunk craned his neck to watch, trying to read Malloy’s shorthand upside-down.

“Say, Malloy,” Chipmunk said, squinting at the notepad, “You gonna mention me in the article this time?”

The reporter shook his head, chuckling, and said “So these guys are pros? They aren’t keeping the stuff they stole?”

“You didn’t hear this from me,” Chipmunk replied, grinning, “but the crew that done it was Stumpy Johnson’s. Antiquities just ain’t Stumpy’s thing, you know?”

Malloy nodded. Stumpy Johnson was strictly smash and grab, and spent more time in prison than out of it. Only his buddy-buddy relationship with Sonny Morelli kept him from going up the river for the rest of his days.

Malloy fished a cigarette from a cheap case and lit it. Chipmunk looked at the smoke eagerly, but Malloy ignored him, slipping the case back into his coat pocket.

“You got anything else for me, Chipmunk?”

Chipmunk’s face fell, any visions of bigger payoffs disappearing. “Naw, Malloy. It’s been a slow week, you know? And the big boys don’t always tell me things.”

“That’s because you’re a rat, Chipmunk.”

“Aw, Malloy, why d’you say things like that?” The crook stuffed his hands into his pockets and slouched over. “That ain’t nice. I just want to be in the papers…”

Malloy grinned and slipped his notepad into his pocket. “See you around, Chipmunk. I’m gonna go check on a warehouse.”

I've found this irksome as well -- my character bios usually take the form of newspaper articles, news reels, and the like, and the current limits on space make it hard to write a bio with any real panache that still contains the relevant facts.

So basically, I've given up. I cram what I can into the bio, and everything else just has to come out in the course of conversation. It would be nice if they were a bit longer, but it's not the end of the world -- for every bio I read that I wish was longer, there are ten that I can't even get all the way through at their current length.

Honestly, I'd be happy if they'd just fix the formatting -- the typesetting on the character info pop-up is crummy.

Except, of course, for the thousands of other players that you could role-play with.

Character Name: Susie-Bot
Server: Virtue
Archetype: Tech Blaster (Ice/Ice)
Inspiration: Where to start? Most of my ideas are an odd confluence of various obsessions/fascinations, recent conversations, whimsey, and the vagaries of the costume creator. Susie-Bot is a giant, armor-clad robot built and controlled by an eight year old girl that lives in the suburbs of Paragon City. The interesting thing about Susie-Bot is that he's just a shell -- there's no brain in Susie-Bot, just Susie controlling him from the other end.

The inspirations for this character were: my obession with super-brilliant child inventors, my desire to make a hulking character, and my recent reading of the Ultimates (featuring Iron Man). There's also a touch of "The Iron Giant" in there somewhere, as Susie-Bot is a hulking shape with glowing green eyes.

((OOC: That was nice of you Calash, but I'm aware that Strike's webbing is pretty wimpy. I was IC-irked, not OOC-irked -- I'm actually playing Strike as not-so-powerful, just kind of tactical, and lucky in avoiding death. So it's appreciated, but no need to fall down ))

"I require an explanation," the armor-encased hero said, holding the 5th Column commander by the throat. The man's feet kicked feebly several inches off the ground.

Patriot Strike stood up from her squat, glaring at the robot. The creature sounded almost...angry. Perhaps it was some sort of cyborg? Either that, or one of the most advanced artificial intelligences in the world. Regardless, she was not used to having scumbags snatched out from under her. She was also a bit irked that the cyborg had torn through her webbing like it was tissue paper.

The commander's face was bright red, and his kicks had slowed to twitches. Strike whistled sharply, but the cyborg was entirely focussed on the nazi scumbag.

"Listen, Coppertop," she said, waving at the robot, "if you keep that up, you're going to kill him. And then we'll just be a bunch of chumps in a filthy alley."

As the melee, and the flames, slowly died down, Patriot Strike stood up from beind the dumpster, awkwardly slinging her rifle with one arm. She pushed a few stray blonde hairs back under her bandana and, wiping sweat and grime from her face with the back of her hand, leveled an appraising gaze at her saviors -- some kind of flame-spewing robot, and a woman in dark armor who was still busy pounding one of the 5th Column troops into submission.

"Are you damaged?" the robot repeated. Strike thought she detected a bit of inflection in the voice -- perhaps the creature was not entirely robotic?

"I've had worse," she said. And it was true, though the feeling returning to her shoulder was an agony. Her hand and arm were still numb -- probably a blessing, considering how uncomfortable her shoulder was.

She threw a quick salute to the robot. "Thanks for the assist. Let's see what we can do with the leftovers."

As she walked to the mouth of the alley, Strike glanced surreptitiously at the two "super-heroes" that had rescued her. That chafed -- having to be rescued, especially by two of the ultra-powered "protectors" of Paragon City. Back in the service, it was humans looking out for humans -- you knew who, and what, was watching your back. In Paragon, plain humans had given up on defending their own liberties -- and why shouldn't they, when there were god-like beings walking the streets who could do it for them?

At the mouth of the alley, the 5th Column commander was still encased in strands of webbing. Her cursed at Strike, and the new arrivals, with a colorful string of German. 5th Column soldiers were strewn about -- some singed, some beaten and stunned -- though, judging by their numbers, at least a couple had escaped. Strike glared at the officer, and then struck him across the jaw with the butt of her rifle, dislodging his mask to reveal a hard, age-lined face with piercing blue eyes.

"Nice try there, Fritz," Strike said, holding his gaze.

The man smiled. "Lucky for you, girl, that the real heroes were around to rescue you, no?"

Strike grabbed the man by the front of his uniform and slammed his head into the ground.

"They're pretty good, aren't they?" she snarled. "Let's see if they're fast enough to stop me before I can shove a handful of caltrops down your pants."

The officer smiled, but said nothing. This guy is a serious hard case, Strike thought. This isn't going to be easy.

Strike dropped the man and sat back on her haunches. "So, what's so interesting about this alley, Fritz?"


OOC: I hope that no one's offended by Strike's attitude -- the distrust of super-powered heroes is something I'm trying with her. As a player, I'm genuinely glad that two new heroes have joined the fight.

In lieu of posting a detailed physical description, here are some of the covers I've done for Strike over in the Screenshots forum. If anyone's interested...
Patriot Strike #0 Cover
Patriot Strike #2 Cover

OOC: Hope I'm not treading on toes by not getting abducted...I thought it might be interesting to have heroes fighting their way out while other try to get in to...well, whatever this Facility is.


Patriot Strike rapped sharply on the 5th Column commander's helmet, and jabbed her rifle into his back. "Start talking, Fritz!"

The commander chuckled, a harsh sound through the helmet's breath mask. "Lieutenant Klink," he said, addressing the trooper with the freeze rifle, "Shoot her. If your shot hits me, I shall see to it that you are roasted on a spit and served in the mess before I expire."

Well, thought Strike, so much for things going as planned. As the trooper raised his rifle, she crouched quickly, kicking out at the back of the commander's knee. With a faint "pop", the knee went, and the commander dropped, clutching at his wounded limb.

"KILL HER!" the man shouted, his voice hoarse with agony. The 5th Column squad snapped into action, bringing weapons to bear on Strike as she squatted behind the commander's body.

Desperate, Patriot Strike dropped a grenade to the ground between the commander's legs, and then slapped the activation stud for her 'porting harness. As the harness hummed to life, she felt an icey pain in her shoulder, and then she was gone.

But unfortunately, not gone far. Strike materialized behind a dumpster at the far end of the alley. Falling to her knees, she reached up and touched her hit shoulder, feeling the glaze of ice over her leather jacket. The shoulder and arm were completely numb.

With a soft thump, her grenade went off at the mouth of the alley. Peering over the edge of the dumpster, she saw the commander enveloped in silky threads of "web" -- actually a high-tensile polymer coated with a viscous adhesive. She grinned as the commander tried to wiggle free, but to no avail.

Unfortunately, not all eyes were on the commander. Klink, the goon with the freeze rifle, locked eyes with her.

"There she is!" he yelled, pointing at her position. A moment later, a 5th Column grenade went off in front of the dumpster, creating a noxious cloud that smelled of gunpowder and burnt garbage.

Patriot Strike raised her rifle with her one good arm. There are worse ways to go, she thought. If I'm going out, I'm taking a bunch of you Nazi scumbags with me!

OOC: Whoo! Someone's playing the 5th Column. Nice work!

Patriot Strike hit the ground running, palming a handful of caltrops as she sprinted the two blocks between her sniper perch and the alley. The 5th Column scumbag she had spotted had managed to put himself out, and had disappeared back into the shadows. Hissing a curse between her teeth, Strike slapped the activation stud for 'porting harness, and cleared a half-block of distance in the blink of an eye.

In the second that it took to re-orient upon entering normal space, Patriot Strike's tactical situation took a turn for the worse. A dozen 5th Column soldiers spilled from the mouth of the alley, weapons at the ready, with the singed joker in the rear, issuing orders.

"Aim!" he barked in a harsh Teutonic accent. The front line of Nazis dropped into a prone position, weapons trained on Strike's position, with the back row kneeling behind them. At least three of the troopers had grenade launchers, and a tall soldier with the look of an officer about him was toting one of the 5th Column's notorious freeze rifles.

This is not a fight I can win, Strike thought. Gritting her teeth, she flung the caltrops at the line of 5th column troops, but the spikes fell well short of the enemy line. She could imagine the self-satisfied grin on the face of the 5th Column officer.

"FIRE!"

At the sound of the officer's voice, Patriot Strike triggered her 'porting harness, blinking into the extra-dimensional space as her position was engulfed in fire. Multiple grenades erupted geysers of flame, as bullets and ice bolts sizzled against the pavement. A taxi that had the misfortune to be parked at the side of the street caught fire, and then exploded with an eardrum-shattering roar as the gas tank ruptured and ignited. Still the Fifth Column poured munitions into the street.

"Hold your fire!" the 5th Column officer shouted over the roar of gunfire. As though a switch had been flipped, the sounds of gunfire ceased, leaving the too-quiet crackle of flames and the wails of innocent citizens.

"Find the body," the office barked. "I want that wonderful rifle she was carr-"

He fell silent as Patriot Strike pressed the multiple barrels of her rifle into the man's back. Grinning, she tightened her finger on the grenade launcher's trigger until the pre-fire articulator clicked loudly.

"What do you think would happen," she said quietly, "if I fired a grenade at this range? My theory is that the shell would go through you, leaving a nasty hole. Or it might go off, taking us both out."

She jabbed the rifle sharply into the man's back, and he grunted.

"Shall we find out," she cooed, "or do you tell me what the hell is going on here?"

Patriot Strike shifted her position slightly to keep her feet from going to sleep, moving slowly to keep her rifle from drifting too far off target. The afternoon sun beat down on her shoulders, and sweat beaded on her back. Her finger resting lightly on the rifle's trigger, Strike peered through the high-powered scope and sighted in on the mouth of an unremarkable alley two blocks away.

She been tracking an active Fifth Column cell for two weeks, chasing them from office complexes and warehouses, always catching little fish, and always a step behind the leaders. Desperate for results, she had decided the evening before to use one of the little fish as bait. Her bait had wandered up that alley an hour ago, and she and her rifle had been in position at her rooftop perch since then.

I could do an hour standing on my head, she thought. I'll do a week on my head if it gets me closer to these scumbags. A hero type had wandered down the alley just after she'd set up, leaving a few frozen goons in his wake. Strike had been sorely tempted to change positions and get a better angle, but she remained in her current position -- when one was dressed in a star-emblazoned blue motorcycle jacket and a red cap, one did not casually bound from rooftop to rooftop while tailing a target.

Eventually the cops had shown up, toting the frozen offenders away with no sign of the hero, or her bait. Now, she was giving little fish two hours to come back out a seemingly dead end alley, before she lobbed two grenades down there and called it a day.

Several minutes passed with Strike staring intently through the scope. Soon, another hero type -- this one some sort mutant or pixie with pointed ears -- wandered onto the crime scene and promptly spilled himself on some ice. Supressing a grin, Patriot Strike sighted in on the back of the guy's neck as he manifested some pyro powers to clean up the ice, and promptly set himself ablaze.

One thing about this town, Strike thought, is that it is never boring. The new hero wandered up the apparently popular alley, and Patriot Strike relaxed her trigger finger and let her breath out. Still no little fish, and two heroes lost in her stakeout alley.

"This is ridiculous," Strike whispered. Easing back into a crouch, she slung her rifle and prepared to move. As she moved to the edge of the building and prepared to jump, a flaming figure bolted out of her alley and into the street. Strike snapped her rifle into position and sighted on the figure, expecting to see the new hero trying out his powers on his own costume.

What she did not expect to see was a Fifth Column goon in full uniform, desperately trying to put himself out. Grinning, Patriot strike turned off the safety on her grenade launcher and leapt from the roof.

OOC: Hopefully, I haven't screwed up anyone else's narrative here. I just wanted to get Patriot Strike peripherally involved, without bungling whatever you have in mind for the plot of this thread.

Well, I came back to playing Totally Awesome today -- I think, out of all the characters I've created, she's the real keeper. I think I just needed a couple of days of not being a Valley Girl.

I am tired of her costume, though. I can't wait until the first big update is published.

Yeah, that's a tough one -- you can't pay tuition with "influence", though if you're nice, maybe the Mayor will kick a "scholarship" your way.

One of my characters has something of a chronological dilemma as well. In 1984, at age 16, she was frozen in a block of ice beneath a shopping mall. She's been thawed out in the present. Does that make her 16 (her biological age, since she was technically in suspended animation for 20 years), or does it make her 36? Totally Awesome's been steering clear of drinking and voting until this issue is resolved.

Also, she never finished high school, and has been fighting crime full-time since she was thawed. While she is a technological genius, she doesn't even have a high-school diploma. Not so great for a 36-year-old.

Oh, and T.A. is also from the non-tragic school of origins. She first used her "Wham! Hands" gauntlets to save people from a burning Mall. She was then invited by the government to join a teen crime-fighting group called "The Radical Teen Heroes", until she was frozen. So the whole "fighting crime" thing has just been kind of a hobby.

Does anyone else have this problem? I've developed three characters to level 18+ so far. The first was a complete botch job, but I've just kind of...drifted away from the other two. It seems that Level 18 is my "attention span" point, where I begin getting ideas for new characters.

I think my problem is that, at Level 18, the character's identity seems pretty well set. I've worked out their personality, and their core power set seems to have taken fairly firm shape. Or maybe I've just gotten tired of their costumes. I don't know. Either way, the characters always seem to have become who they're going to be around Level 18.

Now I'm on my fourth character, who's currently level 10. Has anyone else experienced this?

I would like to change my answer. Totally Awesome was flying through Steel Canyon at sunset when "You Belong to the City" by Glenn Frey came on Club 977. It was quite a moment -- I felt like Don Johnson. Only, you know, female. And flying. And wearing kinetic energy gauntlets.

For "Totally Awesome", my new 80s themed Energy/Energy Blaster: "Hey Mickey", by Toni Basil, or "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" by Wham!

A thread containing the links to the threads containing fan-fiction would be nice -- each thread with a synposis/review. I think a single thread with all of those stories would get HUGE.

Now, the question we're all dying to ask: Is it City of Jai-rows, City of Ghee-rows, or City of Yee-rohs?

Part 2: A Conversation

When Bridget awoke, she was seated on the deck of the viking ship, but the ship was no longer ice-locked within the geyser. It drifted in golden sunlight, upon a crystal blue river that ran between vast orchards that stretched to the horizon. A fire burned in a pit on the deck, and seated across from her was a giant of a woman -- the woman from the ship. Her blue eyes shone fiercely beneath a flowing mane of red hair, which was held back by a winged tiara wrought in silver. Her skin was pale and unblemished, her muscles smooth but powerful. She wore silver mail, crusted with jewels and etched over its entire surface with harsh runes, and a great mace lay across her knees. The woman peered at Bridget suspiciously, and it was all the Professor could do to meet the fierce gaze.

Bridget shook herself, running her hands along the smooth planks of the deck, convincing herself of its tangibility. A minute passed, and the warrior woman was as unmoving as a statue.

"Who are you?" Bridget ventured.

The warrior woman nodded, a slight smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "I am Ygrid, daughter of Ymir!" The woman's voice rang like a great, silver bell, seemingly echoing from the horizon. "And who art thou, Mortal?"

Frost paused for a moment, stunned by the force of the woman's voice. "I'm Bridget," she replied. "Bridget Frost."

The warrior nodded. "Hm...I knew this, Professor Frost. That is strange, is it not?"

"How did you..."

The warrior woman peered into the fire between them, nodding her head, her red tresses shining in the sunlight. "What is this place I see?" she said, ignoring Bridget. "The great, gray towers...the smoke. Hast thou been to Hel's realm? Hast thou travelled among the dishonored?"

Bridget glanced at the fire, and within the flames she saw the skyline of Paragon City. The towing edifices of Steel Canyon stood in great rows behind the looming statuary of Atlas Park.

"No," she said, watching the scene within the fire. "That is Paragon City. That is where I live."

"Mortals live there?"

Bridget shrugged. "Yes, mortals. Just mortals."

The warrior woman -- Ygrid -- nodded again, and then peered at the sky. "It would seem we are in Asgard," she said, "but the All-Father's presence I feel but dimly."

"All-Father? Odin?"

"Aye, Woden. In Asgard, his wisdom shines as the sun, and its warmth covers everything. But I feel it not...just a dim echo of his majesty..."

Bridget was suddenly aware of being quite cold. She shivered, and watched the warrior woman's gaze return to the fire. Within, she could see a pack of zombies attacking a bus -- a scene she had witnessed a year before, soon after she had move to Paragon City. One of the zombies – a huge one, held together with stitches and staples – grabbed a young girl and shuffled down an alley.

Ygrid nodded, the flames dancing in her blue eyes. “It certainly seems as though thou dost hail from Hel’s realm, or from a place more awful.” She looked up, calmly assessing Bridget. “Though thy mind sayest otherwise. Aye, I know the truth.”

Bridget was finding it easier to meet the other’s gaze. “And from whence dost…where do you come from?”

“I am the born daughter of Ymir, the Frost Giant. Dost thou know of him?”

Bridget nodded.

“Aye, that is good.” Ygrid grinned. “Ymir did force himself on a daughter of Asgard – a valkyrie – and thus was I spawned. I came of age in Asgard, at the foot of the All-Father and under the tutelage of his kin. Thus did I grow wise, swift, and strong, and when it was my time, I became a Valkyrie, fighting at the side of my mother. ‘Twas a good life.”

Bridget nodded. “How didst…you end up here?”

Ygrid smiled and shrugged, her great shoulders rising and falling. “I know not. There was a pitched battle with the spawn of Loki and my father’s people. Boulders fell from the sky like rain, and the enemy piled up around us until we trod upon a carpet of corpses. It was glorious.”

“I was struck with a boulder, and my shield arm shattered. I rose to continue the melee, and I slew many more, wielding my mace in my left hand. At the last, I grew weary, and was struck down by a vile half-brother.”

The warrior maiden smiled, as though reminiscing on a gentle summer’s day, rather than her own violent death. “’Twas not the first time I have fallen in battle – for I served as a Valkyrie for many ages – but I did not wake in Valhalla with my sisters. Instead, I awoke upon this ship, with thee. It makes little sense to me.”

The frost maiden sighed, and an icy tear dropped from her cheek, shattering against the deck of the ship. “Perhaps Ragnarok has come and gone, and the presence I feel is but a memory of the All-Father.”

Bridget shook her head, and nearly reached for the woman, until Ygrid raised her head, glaring up at the woman with her ice-blue eyes ablaze.

“I will not take pity from a mortal,” she growled.

Bridget rocked back, shaking her head. “I merely meant to say, that if Midgard still exists, then surely Ragnarok has not yet come.”

“If that be so, then where be the All-Father? Where be Thor? Freya? Heimdal? Where be Asgard, beyond what we can see from this cursed funeral ship?”

Frost could only shrug. “I don’t know.”

Ygrid’s eyes returned to the fire. The Vahzilok continued to plunder the schoolbus when, from above, a trio of heroes dropped to the ground. They swiftly decimated the assembled undead, leashing out with lances of energy or pounding the enemy into paste with swift punches. The Valkyrie watched with rapt attention until the melee was ended. The heroes began tending to the wounded, as more conventional authorities appeared.

“Who were those beings?” Ygrid asked. “New gods?”

“No. Those are super-heroes.”

“Super-heroes?” Ygrid nodded slowly, as though listening to a voice that Bridget couldn’t hear. “Ah, I see.” The valkyrie nodded and looked up, grinning at Bridget in a way that made her nervous.

“What?”

“My path is clear!” Ygrid cried, and smashed her mailed fist upon her leg with a thunderous clatter. “A quest has been laid before me, and I will take it! I will go to Midgard, to this patch of Hel that thou callest Paragon, and I will slay the demons that reside there until the All-Father can do naught but summon me!”

“And thou, mortal,” she continued, her eyes sparkling, “’Tis thy destiny to aid me!”

Bridget shrugged helplessly. “How?”

“It would seem that I can not leave this place without a mortal vessel. Thou art that vessel, Bridget Frost.”

The professor shook her head. “What will happen to me?”

Ygrid shrugged. “I know not. Perhaps thou shalt stay here. Perhaps thou wilt travel within, as observer. Perhaps we shall share the shell.” The valkyrie dismissed her concerns with a shrug. “It matters not. With the might of Asgard behind me, it shant take more than a fortnight to cleanse thy village of its demons, and thus return in glory to my kin! Then shall thy body be thine once more.”

Bridget continued to shake her head. “I don’t think…”

“Thou didst make thy choice when thou didst touch my helm. It is done!” The valkyrie grinned widely and stood. “Bridget Frost, we shall be a super-hero!”

“But I…”

“It would seem that my armor is no longer the fashion in Midgard,” Ygrid continued. “What is the armor that the heroes in thy memories wear?”

“That would be spandex.”

“Ah. Then I shall need new armor, fashioned of this ‘Spandex’.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I have need of a super-hero name, for though Loki’s minions tremble at the mention of Ygrid’s name, ‘tis not likely that the demons of thy realm have heard of me. Perhaps they would tremble at the might of ‘the Valkyrie’!”

Bridget grinned. “I think we have one of those already.”

“Ice Queen’?”

“Taken.”

Ygrid scowled. “’Wonder Maiden’?”

“Very taken.”

The valkyrie sighed and shook her head. “’Frost Giant’s Daughter’?”

Professor Frost shook her head. “A touch too long. How about...’Frost Daughter’?”

This is the origin story of my character, Frost Daughter. I am much enamored of this character, so I wrote this mostly for my own edification. But since this seems to be the place to post stories, I thought I would torment everyone else with it while I was at it:
--------------------------------------------
The Origin of Frost Daughter!

Part 1: A Discovery - Greenland, 2 months ago

The world was white and blue, to the very edge of vision -- the great frozen waste of wind-blasted snow, the harsh line of the horizon, and then the unbroken blue of the sky. The woman turned in place, peering over the white hump of the tent and the scorched circle of their fire, soaking in the vastness.

"Professor Frost?"

The woman stopped, turning her head slightly to peer at her assistant. Beneath the fur-lined hood of his parka, and the ice-crusted orange goggles that he wore, icicles hung from his sparse beard. He held a steaming cup of coffee an inch beneath his nose, savoring the brief warmth.

"Aaron, I have asked you repeatedly to call me Bridget. I refuse to return from a two-week expedition with you still calling me 'Professor Frost'".

Aaron nodded, a slightly more pronounced gesture than his constant shivering.

"Sure thing, uh, Bridget," he said.

Bridget grinned at him. "Are we ready to go?"

He nodded again. "All set, Prof...Bridget. The lines are in place, radio's good to go. Frigga just blew her stack, so we've got a good hour and a half."

Bridget looked past him at the diminishing plume of steam that marked the geyser's – named Frigga by Aaron -- location. Sunk several feet below ground level, the opening to the great vent was all but invisible in the unbroken whiteness of the land. Only the thin, black struts of their rappelling gear marred the pristine view.

Bridget strode briskly to the edge of geyser, sweeping Aaron up in her wake. She pushed back the hood of her parka, revealing a mane of fire orange hair above a wind-burned face, and squatted above the geyser. Traces of steam whirled about the dark hole, and she could feel sensation returning to her skin with Frigga's warmth and moisture.

"Well," she said, clipping on her headset, "time's a-wasting."

"Professor...," Aaron began, "Bridget....Look..."

"We are not having this conversation again, Aaron." She clipped her harness to a line that disappeared into the geyser's mouth.

"But this is work for a team! We were just supposed to find evidence!"

Bridget sighed and sat on the edge of the geyser, testing her lamp by shining it into the geyser. The light revealed glistening ice formations, sparkling in the dim illumination.

"We do not have any evidence, Aaron," she said. "What we have is some strange stories and a chunk of petrified wood. I am not going back to the University and asking for a twenty-person team with a chunk of wood and an old woman's story about a frozen viking ship."

With that, she launched herself from the lip of the geyser. The frame from which her line was suspended creaked briefly as it took her weight. She flicked on her headlamp and let out a few feet of line, until she was level with the mouth of the geyser.

"Now," she said, smiling up at her assistant, "Get on that radio. If anything happens, you won't be doing me any good standing there like a dope."

Aaron shrugged and shook his head. "You sure are brave, Professor."

"Not brave," she replied, "just crazy." With that, she let out some more line, and disappeared into the darkness of the geyser. Aaron retreated to the tent and sat in front of the radio set.

Frost's voice immediately came through, crystal clear, on the receiver. "You there?"

"Roger."

A laugh. "Right. Proceeding -- I've turned a bend, and I'm losing daylight fast. No sign of the actual geyser yet, but things are getting pretty steamy."

"We should have camped down there," Aaron said.

"Right...as long as you don't mind getting parboiled every hour and a half."

For fifteen minutes, the Professor proceeded through the tunnel, chattering constantly. Aaron took notes rapidly, struggling to keep up with the Professor's flurry of observations.

Then, suddenly, a silence.

"Professor?"

A second, then two passed. Aaron rose from his seat.

"Professor?"

"It's here..." Bridget's voice drifted from the radio set. "It's here, and it's amazing."

Aaron sat down quickly, grabbing up his pen again. "What do you see, Professor?"

"It's unlike any viking craft I've ever seen," she replied. A burst of static, and then "...a hundred feet, stem to stern. Perfectly preserved."

"Great, Professor! Get some pictures and come on up."

"I'm going aboard...there's a gangplank extended. I don't see any crew, not even a sign of them."

"No armor? No weapons? No skeletons?"

"No. Nothing...wait. One body, on top of a funereal cairn. It's a woman!"

Aaron grinned. "Maybe we should let the forensic anthropologists decide that, Professor."

"No, she's perfectly preserved."

"That's not possible, Professor. Are you pulling my leg?"

"And the way she's dressed...this armor. It's beautiful! This flies in the face of everything we know about the Vikings!"

Aaron leaned closed to the microphone. "Professor, don't touch..."

A burst of static and feedback screamed from the receiver, and Aaron feel backwards out of his chair. Jumping up quickly, he snatched up the microphone.

"Professor?"

Silence. A moment passed. He listened intently, and thought he could hear the Professor breathing on the other end. "Professor?"

Frost's stunned voice drifted from the receiver. "Who are you?"

"It's me Professor!" he yelled back. "It's Aaron!"

A strident voice rang from the receiver -- Frost's voice, perhaps, but stronger, brighter, more urgent than Aaron had ever heard it. "I am Ygrid, daughter of Ymir! And who art thou, Mortal?"

"Professor!" Aaron shouted again. "Snap out of it!"

A pause on the other end of the connection, and then Frost's voice.

"I'm Bridget. Bridget Frost"

What are you hoping to accomplish, and what's getting in the way? I'm quite the shrinking violet as well, and I always have to keep in mind that, on CoH, nobody knows me. It's quite unlike real life in that a.) nobody can judge you on your appearance, since everyone looks awesome, and b.) you can dodge the "awkward" bullet because you have all the time you need to type what you're going to say. No stammering, no stuttering, no drooling.

And the best part of all is that everyone has something in common -- the desire to kick butt for goodness. I've met some very nice people by just randomly joining teams and pounding on things for a bit. I've also met some mean people, but such is life.

The only downside, really, is that people are so busy busting heads that there isn't much chatting.