Todd_3465

As a fairly recent college graduate, I'll chime in.

As many have noted, completely divorcing yourself from CoX is your choice. I will say:

1. if you're only going to take 12, 13, or 14 hours, then keep the account active, bring your compy, and play when you have the time. You'll have some, even with working out, finding other activities, clubs, maybe even a part-time job, and that's putting in plenty of time and effort to get honest-to-goodness A's in all of the classes.

2. if you're going to go into the 15 and on up to 20 credit hours of classes, then cutting out CoX is fine. You'll be spending a lot of time in out-of-class academic work, but you should still be able to do the odd activity here & there.

You can greatly influence how much time your academia takes outside of class: can you type? Being able to type (not hunt & peck, but the fast, no-looking, keyboarding) will shorten how long it takes to do 85% of all the assignments you're going to get. If you have to look at the keys, I strongly advise you to fix that. Message me if you want more info about how best to do that.

I graduated with a 3.5 GPA. BA in four years. First couple of years, I took 12, 14 or so hours per semester. Last couple of years, I took 15 - 20 hours per semester, and two classes during one summer term also. My last three semesters, I felt like a destroyed, overworked piece of meat all day, every day. Was not a good time.

If I had it to do again, I would've looked at the complete list of classes I needed to take over the four years, and marked all of them that could be taken in the summer. Then, I'd take one or two classes (3-6 Cr hours) each summer, and stick to 12 - 14 Cr hours every regular semester. I'd have been able to play my video games, do my little activities, and study plenty.

Lastly, one of your replies about field-interest has me wondering if you know what you're getting into. (re: head in the clouds...) If plugging & chugging numbers into formulas, writing mathematic formulas (doin' math), comparing brittle-fracture curves, comparing charpy V-notch tables (staring at number-tables), measuring every F'in thing (rulers, meters, etc), and taking tiny amounts of data (as in, insufficient) in an almost comedic attempt to find out "what went wrong?" is what you think you'll enjoy doing, then you're on track. If some kind of coolness-factor about planes, jets, & rockets and what they do when a pilot jumps inside is what's on your mind, then you're kidding yourself in thinking you'll be doing what you love.

Find out all the "stuff" that aerospace engineers do with 95% of their at-work time. Then, imagine that you're doing all of that stuff in an effort to design/build/whatever the best toasters. Why? 'Cause engineering anything doesn't mean you'll ever be near what's being made. You certainly won't be piloting/using what's made. Enjoying what you do is not about liking the end-product. So, if you could do all that stuff in order to make toasters, and be happy, then great, you really are embarking on a field in order to do what you like/love. However, if it's *got* to be jets, autos, or rocket ships, then you're probably chasing the respectability angle. As in, you desire to be respected for doing important work, and would like to make really good money while you're at it, which may even add to the being-respected angle.

You may want to list every activity that you enjoy doing (things you would do with your free time with no outside impetus.) Really basic activities, for example, CoX is actually a whole lot of activities, too general. Think, "I like throwing things accurately (frisbee, darts, etc.) Then, list every job you can think of that has notoriety and respect from others, even jobs you never thought you would like. You'll be surprised how many fields will satisfy your desire to be respected, while being composed of actions that are fun for you. (Related story: a friend never ever thought he would like any kind of service job. Doing things for others was a total turn-off. Tried to do design and real high-cognitive stuff in college, it never worked out. His jobs just to "get-by" were frustrating as well.)

(Turns out, he really enjoys reacting to excited, stressful situations, having to run, carry things, and fixing problems. He's a firefighter/paramedic now, and literally loves everything about it except the long periods of time that his section of town is safe, and is sitting/waiting at the station-house. He gets the adoration of the public for free, and I even get to say "see, I told you there's nothing wrong with serving the public!" His life doesn't suck now, and only wishes he didn't live his 20s and early 30s in a continuing cycle of failure and frustration before he figured out what was really going on in his head.)

Good luck at college!

A really big vehicle blocking the way might not be such a dangerous thing to try pushing around with an RV. Maybe a semi with a tanker-trailer? Depending on what's inside, it may be anything from risky to virtually fatal to disturb it.

For in-depth writing flavor, you could look up the diamond-markings for hazardous items, the four-part symbol made up of the red, blue, white, and yellow diamonds. For example, seeing a "4" in the red block would be in the "why are you looking at this still, this stuff ignites way below room temperature, run you dummy!" category. The other three categories get even more fun.

When I shoot power bolt on my blaster, i get 4 little beams in pew! pew! pew! pew! action. The other day, I made a grav/energy dom, and when I shoot power bolt, I get two little beams.

Is this the way it's always been for dom power bolt, or is the animation broke like when flares was playing only half the beams a while back?

There's only so many letter-spaces in those bio fields.

Personally, what bugs me more than non-realistic justice systems, is that nine of ten biographies read:

____________ is a mutant. Their powers came out one day when his wife/GF/sister/brother/parents were killed. ____________ now uses their powers to avenge their murdered______________ .

So much slacker-itis. Don't want to create an origin for the powers, well, they were always there, because of biology and DNA, check. Why do they fight, well, it's because they got johnny! check. I think this outcome really is the only thing I consider Stan Lee & Marvel's greatest disservice to people everywhere. Once 'mutant' became the origin story for power, reason, look, & feel, pandora's box of diseases was opened for all to partake.

That, and TV really has had a profound effect on creativity.

I also saw the issues with bane mace ranged attacks after the patch. I /bugged it in game.

So let's see, the bruiser KB->KD didn't actually get changed.
The base items didn't actually get set to accept 9 blah blah blah.
The introduction of more lag, crashes, etc.

Did *anything* get actually fixed or changed this patch? Other than heroes getting locked out of a badge, we got what, chat colors? I have to watch half my /tells come in empty, wondering who sent them, but... we got chat colors?

Somebody tell me if the AR blasters got their changes, or if those are broken too, 'cause without that, this patch looks like it's hittin' negative numbers. No fixes or benefits, and introduced more broke stuff.

EPILOGUE

The vision of Mystic Inferno sat, in a warm, comfy inn bathed in the yellow-orange glow of firelight and candlelight, sitting easily in a large, heavy wooden chair at a dense wooden table. He cradled a cup of piping-hot tea, and the warmth seemed to radiate from the tea, through his hands, and out past his body and into the surroundings. The room had the feel of cozy, social ease, although he was the only one there at the moment.

Soon, the image of Newton walked in, and sat down, sitting at a proffered chair while nodding to Mystic with a smile. Newton broke the silence. “This is nice, but next time, it’s my turn to set the venue. A couch, a living-room, a TV playing, and an ice-cold Mt. Dew can be just as cozy a spiritual setting as this.”

“That’s fine, for now, just enjoy this particular manifestation of... bliss.”

Then, the vision of Brian Wincott entered from the other direction. Just before he sat down, he paused to look around, and almost seemed to... feel... the room about him. “This one’s nice.” He said to the others. “We’ll have to remember this one.” He took a seat.

“Well?” Mystic said. “What did we make?”
Newton answered “I think this one’s good. A real keeper.”
“We’ve seen them like this before.” Wincott said, in turn. “The fun is seeing what happens this time.”

Mystic spoke next, as they continued to speak once each, going around the table in the same order each time.
“Time will tell.”
“As it happens, we’ll be there.”
“Helping them shape their futures.”

“History will mark their feats.”
“Opportunity is there for all.”
“The possibilities are endless.”

They sat in silence, and then looked upward toward the ceiling for a moment. Wincott spoke. “You old dawg,” he said looking up. “And you said there was nothing you could do for her.” He said, with a smile. He raised a small cup of tea toward the ceiling. “Good one, bro.”

The three of them then looked at each other. Newton’s vision spoke. “Well, we started something. C’mon, let’s go see what we’ve made. I bet they’ll love it.” His smile was like that of a child, about to tear open a Christmas gift under the tree.

The three stood, and nodded to one another. They left in warm spirits, trailing good works in their wake.

She watched as his form became smaller and smaller in the distance, but so intent on that she was, that she didn’t notice that the surroundings had changed once more. She now stood inside a clean, well-kept place, and a few seconds later she realized that she was in a hospital. She walked into a small room, devoid of patients or workers, and looked out the window. Angela was about to turn away, when she noticed a hovering form approaching the window from outside. She saw as the person started to pick up speed, and almost yelped in alarm as he came right at her in a blink. Insangel threw herself backward, and the large, round form of Newton swooped to a stop just in front of her, having gone straight through the window in ghost-like fashion.

“So, done with him, are you?” he asked expectantly.
“Uh, you mean Mystic? Yeah.”
“Ah, is that who he looked like to you?”
“Hmmm? What do you mean, looked like to—“
“Oh, it’s not important. Not as important, as, say, what’s going on right now.” He said, and nodded to focus her attention to matters behind her.

Just then, two orderlies wheeled a patient into the room, and Angela quickly saw that it was herself she was staring at. She had just come out of an emergency surgical procedure, and still looked the part. Spectating, she stood, and watched herself breath slowly, in, out, in, out.

“I look terrible.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, now.” The large man said in a ‘chin-up, trooper!’ fashion.
“I would. I thought... I thought that I was dead right now, and that’s why I was seeing those... things. I mean... am I? Or am I about to?”
“Hmmmm, well, I guess that all depends.”
“Depends? Depends on what? On all of this Christmas stuff? And why is that all around, anyway? It’s after Christmas already, by months now.”
“Well, apparently, your thoughts dwell on it. Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of leader in all of this. I’m just a guide.”
“But why a guide for this? It’d be better if I check out now. Christmases, life, everything, what did any of that ever get me? I mean, I don’t have anybody! Christmas is for people, and togetherness, and friends, and family. Nobody cares about me. What’s any of all that got to do with ME?!”

She looked at him for answers, but all Newton said was simply “everything.”
Angela just stared, and watched as he floated out the door into the hallway. She jaunted over to keep up with him. “So, where’r we going now?” she asked quizzically.
“You tell me.”
Angela looked around, and noticed that they were no longer in a hospital medical bay, but instead, were inside a small entry-room she knew well.
“I’m... back. It’s... in our ready-station, in The ‘Zone. We’d come back in this way, and in those doors, we’d... celebrate.”

“Celllll – e – bra – tion – time – alright!” Newton spoke/sang, to a tune he must’ve known, and threw himself toward the mentioned room. Angela went in as well, and was surprised to see that there were several Vanguard Scouts and other soldiers in the small cafeteria, enjoying a little Christmas party. She felt like she was coming back, to someplace familiar, and warm, and wondered if this is how it felt to have a real home, and to return to it. Looking on the walls and ceilings, she recognized the decorations from Christmas day, the one just passed, the day after... It would mean that she had just been shot, and taken away not even a day before.

She walked around the room, remembering faces and names, smiling at her fellows’ antics. “Oh, there’s Davis, he could do amazing things with the MREs, oh, the MREs were already so good to begin with, but it wasn’t good enough for most of them, so they’d get him to work on a meal when they could, it tasted so, so good. He’d always have something ready for me when I came back in from a scout-stint, and we’d all—“

She was stopped mid-reverie by one of the men loudly barking to the only female soldier in the room “hey Santiago, c’mon, do it! We got music all ready to go!”
She quickly replied “go to hell, drooler, this chica don’ dance fo’ you!”
“Ah, you’re too much like one o’ the guys!” the gruff man yelled back. He turned to the man standing next to him, and Angela then saw that ‘man’ may have been a bit presumptuous. The grizzled man was talking to a fellow that looked like he had never shaved a day in his life.

“He must be new here, and new to adult life, too” Insangel said to Newton. They listened as the large man spoke to the boyish new scout-trooper.
“Oh, you shoulda been here when Angel was here, last May. We were partying on Cinco-de-Mayo, and she did this dance, oh it was... she was amazing.”

Angela blushed fiercely as she vividly remembered what he was talking about.
“Whoa, what’s the story, mornin’ glory?!” Newton chided. “C’mon, out with it!”
It took a few prods, but she did start to share the details. “I had been back a few days, and those of us here found out that a bunch of us Scouts still out in The ‘Zone were coming back at the same time, on the fifth of May. So, we threw up some decorations, and I… well, I found my standard issue bra & panties, and set up a tarpaulin center-pole in the middle of the room, and I… gave ‘em a show. We celebrated almost all night, oh, I danced with every guy, but they were all sweet, I always felt like I was their little sister, you know… protected. Even Santi there got into it that day a little bit, dancing with the guys, though she never likes to admit it.”

Newton’s eyes had widened and he rolled his eyes and head back as she finished the story, his face a beaming smile. “ Oh, man, and I missed that?! Oh, fate, how cruel art thou.”
Angela was smiling as well, and glanced back to the sergeant’s conversation with the very young new trooper.

“Yeah, shoulda been here...”
“So? Where’s she at?” he asked loudly, expecting that she would appear if enough people asked about her. “Where’s Angel?”

The room suddenly became dead quiet, and all eyes turned toward the young man, who immediately became ill-at-ease. The sergeant just turned away, while another Scout walked up to the new fellow. He physically grabbed the young-man’s shoulders, and pointed them toward the “front” of the room. When he saw the small table with a picture in a frame sitting on it, he took a step towards it. The Scout who had just come over then stiffarm-palmed the young trooper in the back so hard it would bruise the next morning, propelling him toward the small table. Angela walked up there, too, to see.

On the table was a picture of Angela in the dark-grey with deep purple trim coverall fatigues, kneeling near the center of a group-photo of the rest of the scouts assigned to this unit. They were all smiling pleasantly, the picture having been snapped after an especially tough battle that they had all lived through.

Just as she read the message, a voice from one of the troopers sprang up, saying “To Angel.” He had raised his cup, holding it high, and quickly everyone followed suit. “The wings over our shoulders. Godspeed.”

After that, Angela and Newton heard the conversations all around the room, that were meandering around various stories and happenings while she had been around. Here, one man was alive because she had broken radio silence to tell him to get away from his position ASAP – just before a platoon of Rikti walked directly over his position. And there, a man who got to go see his wife on his wedding anniversary, because Angela took his scheduled two-week recon – leaving the same day she had returned from two weeks in The ‘Zone. And of course, the stories of the infamous Cinco-de-Mayo.

After a time, she heard the sergeant again talking to the young man from earlier. “We watched over her. There’s two stiffs out in The ‘Zone in Vegas-graves, two pencil-necks in white coats that came around asking questions, demanding to see her, have her handed over.” He let the meaning of his words sink in to the private, who soon gulped down the lump in his throat. “We watched over her, but that was because more than we ever could her, she watched over us. Somethin’ you oughtta remember. That, and: there’s plenty of wasteland space left.” The private gulped again, and then decided that he had seen enough for one day, excusing himself.

Angela said to her guide, Newton: “I was shot... the day before Christmas. It was like... my horrid life was trying to tell me something. As for the guys, though... I never knew... how they felt.”

They were again in the hospital room where her present self was recuperating from dire injuries, standing on either side of her comatose form. “But still, that was only one group of a few scouts, and I’m not even with them anymore. Now that I haven’t been there in a while, it’ll be like it always is. Not one person who gives a toss what happens to me.” Newton just sighed, and shook his head ever-so-slightly side to side a couple of times. Angela suddenly felt like she had just said something wrong, and then looked around her, side to side.

Directly behind her phantom self, was Abbie, sitting next to Insangel’s still form. Angela watched as she reached a hand, lightly touching her shoulder. “Angela. Don't you dare give up on me now. I-- We need you too much for that. You're a part of the team."

Angela’s stomach folded in on itself, as she heard and watched Abbie stay by her side. Newton spoke up. “And how do you think you got here? An ambulance would’ve gotten to you about 15 minutes later than would’ve lasted.” She just remained silent, deep in thought. “And were they not fighting their own... demons... do you really think she would be the only one here by your side?” He laid a soft, assuring hand on her shoulder. “’be a shame to bury the flower before it had a chance to bloom. Take it easy, kid.” He said, and then floated out of the room and down the corridor.

She held her head in her hands, deep in thought. There was so much to think about. What had happened, what was happening now... It was a little while before she looked up again, to find that she was back at the Two-Six. She looked around, and then realized that something was a little off about the place. She then realized that it was because the building looked... well, derelict. Only a single small lamp on at the unmanned desk, nothing running anywhere, the silence spoke volumes. Only uninhabited places were this quiet. What had happened?

A door opening and shutting startled her, coming from behind. She saw that it was Col. Mustard, coming in with a box under one arm, half full of file folders with varying amounts of paperwork. As she looked, though, there was something wrong about him. It was Col. Mustard, that was a surety, but he weighed even more than before, by nearly another hundred pounds, and he looked ten years older. Just the walk up the steps from the car had him huffing, so he sat the box and files on his old desk and caught his breath. She could see his breath making fog in the air, it looked like it was not only very cold outside, but it was fairly cold inside as well. A minute later, he opened a file cabinet, saying “merry Christmas, guys,” and put the file folders into the cabinet. He then reached in, and pulled out a file marked: INSANGEL. He thumbed through the items, stopping at the back, to an old and worn picture of her in shades and leather jacket in front of the PPD HQ. Quietly, he said “only one of ‘em that ever said my name without it comin’ out like they were sayin’ screw you.” He looked a moment longer, and then put it back, and closed the cabinet drawer, saying “so long”.

Angela watched as he looked around a final time, before making his way toward the door. He pulled out his keys, and suddenly dropped them, wincing in pain and clutching his chest. Fear crept into her as she watched his fear grow with the realization of what was happening. He padded his pockets like he was looking for something, and then looked toward his car. A cell-phone left behind? He then started stumbling, deciding to crawl across the floor, to get to the phone sitting on the desk. Angela’s fists were clenched, and she started talking, even though she knew he couldn’t hear: “keep going. Don’t stop! Go!” Her heart sank when he slowly sat himself up against the front side of the desk, seated on the floor under the window he looked out of for so long before. She watched, as his eyes closed.

She then had the sensation that she was not alone, and looked to her left, and saw... it? It appeared to be a person, but wrapped in dark grey robes, with a face that was completely obscured by hood & shadow. “Help him!” she yelled. The other phantom only stood mute. “HELP HIM!!” again, nothing. “G—D—n you! She screamed, lunging at him, but only passing through him as immaterially as she had passed through others this day. She turned back toward Col. Mustard, who took one breath, before letting it out one final time. Angela turned to look at her third spirit guide. “[censored]! What the HELL could this possibly serve?!”

Again, the phantom in cloaks said nothing. Then, everything started shifting around them, reforming into the interior of a small cabin in the woods. They watched, as an orange-clad, overweight man toting a ¼ full whiskey bottle walked slowly over to a calendar hanging on the wall. All of the days leading up to December the 25th of 2027 had been crossed off. The man who was obviously Wyld Pyre picked up a marker, uncapped it, and was about to place an X over the day, when he decided not to make a mark after all. Instead, he took a swig from the bottle, and after swallowing, spat some of the liquid onto the calendar, then snapped his finger, flinging a jet of flame onto it. “Merry F---ing Christmas” he spat out.

A female voice came down the stairs soon after. “The hell are you—oh, for—oh, spirits, preserve me—Drinking AND the fire?! Can’t you just spend another year moping around here, like a good little burnout?!” Angela looked toward the stairs, and saw that it was the tall form of one of the sword-wielding women, Quex. Wyld answered back immediately.

“F--- you, lo-jack” The warrior-woman continued down the stairs, but Angela then noticed a gleaming, metal device attached to her left ankle. She expected the response to elicit a thunderous tirade, but just as she seemed about to erupt, the fire died out of her eyes, and she just turned her head towards another part of the cabin. Walking to the back, into a tool & storage room, out of sight from Wyld, she slammed her fists into the workbench, and stood, in silent frustration.

Just as Insangel was about to ask about them, again her surroundings metamorphosed, swirling until they became the scene of a grisly bloodbath. There were easily a dozen victims, all having either energy burns, or horrific lacerations, or both in the moderately-sized apartment living room. Angela recognized them both quickly, as Jaded Secret and Warpshroud. She was relieved to see that they both looked physically well, in fact, they both looked much better in this future time, their bodies showing a lean, strong state obviating constant, high-output use. Only... their faces were... she couldn’t place it... almost as if they were emotionally “switched off.” As she looked around the room at the recently-inflicted carnage, Angela wondered if she would retch or vomit in this form, as the number and method of deaths in the room sickened her. She then heard a voice, but oddly, neither of the women had spoken. “You sure got used to this arrangement of ours, didn’t you Jade?
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You enjoy being used, and inflicting harm, you are a weapon after all. I enjoy using you to hack everything bloody. Win-win.” It became apparent to Angela that Jaded was actually talking to her sword, which wasn’t her usual blade, but was in fact what she had seen in the hands of a wolfman, the Sentry’s Blade.

“Well, since I agree for the time being, why don’t we just mosey 20 ft to our left and finish our work here?”
“What, we got a live one? I know it isn’t one of mine.” Jaded said, looking over at Abbie.
“Yeah, I got it, the squiddie tried to slip one past us, don’t worry, I tamped her back down.” Warpshroud calmly walked across the room, and picked up one of the men, who had been lying with a large burn-mark borne of nictus energy on his back. He had been lying still, but was now squirming since he was found out as still alive.

“Oh, no, Abbie... don’t... don’t do it...” Angela pleaded. She watched in horror, as Abbie held the man in a vice-like grip by the neck in one hand, and reached back with her other, to measure out the final strike. “Oh, god, no, please...”

Suddenly, she dropped the man onto his back. Angela breathed a sigh of relief, and then listened to the goings-on again. Apparently, Abbie was in a very heated discussion internally, as she suddenly yelled out loud what she was probably thinking to her other half: “I said NO, I don’t know what you’re talking about, NO, this doesn’t look familiar to me at all!” and then lashed out with her foot, crushing the man’s skull with her thick, heavy-booted heel. As an afterthought, she said to the now-dead man “Merry Christmas. And tell your friends: don’t mess with the U.S.”

“Oh, no, Abbie, no, no, no, not you!” Sadly, she watched as the duo moved about the room, searching methodically. The Sentry’s blade spoke up again.
“I still think she’s going soft. We’re better off without your friend.”
“News flash.” Abbie retorted. “I don’t have any friends. Just like the two of you. Those days are... long gone.”

Just then, Egregore Device walked into the room.

“Let’s go, we’re exfil in five. Skipping the next site, probability is too low for a search & clear. We’re doin’ it simple and getting set for our next good prospect.” He pulled out a little button on a small, silver cylinder, and depressed it. A few hundred yards away, and across the street, an entire building went up in flames and explosions. Let’s go, agents.”
Both women answered their acknowledgements, quickly grabbing a few things before running out the door and down the hall. When they were both safely out of earshot, Angela watched him pull out a cell-phone, and dial out.

“It’s me. Yeah, it’s fine.”

“No. Remember, we solved that problem a while back. The alien spends life as a spectator now.”

“No, not yet, no idea.”

“They still think they’re U.S. agents. And they’ll keep thinking that, as long as you keep the money and equipment rolling.”

“At least a couple more years.”

“Don’t worry so much, it’s all fine. We still have Mr. backup ex-Russian-stockpile nuke on-tap, installed in their safehouse soon’s it’s necessary.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Oh hell naw, I’m sanitizing that one as we speak.”

“Alright. And I need the next batch of evidence.”

“Because I’m going to make sure it looks authentic this time, last time it was way too close. Your people suck at this stuff.”

“OK, will do. ED out.”

Angela was numb from all of the things she had seen and heard. She looked over at the spirit, pleadingly, as her surroundings morphed to a bleak area of poorly-kept grassland. “I... I don’t want this future, for them. Are you showing me... what’s already happened? Is this what happens when you die? You see how they do without you?” She bit her lip and a few tears that had welled up fell from her face, as she looked down at the floor. “What... what about the last one I met? What about... Brian?”

She looked up at where the spirit was, and saw that the hooded garments over it’s head were now gone, revealing the haunting, zombie-like visage of Brian Wincott. She let out a little yelp when she saw his face, as something that looked... dead. Slowly, it started walking toward her. “Oh god, Brian, what... what happened?” Brian said nothing, walking slowly until it passed by Angela, and then stopped in front of a headstone in what was now their surroundings, a cemetery. It was small, barely containing the words BRIAN WINCOTT 1983 – 2009. She held her hands over her mouth, as she realized Brian was dead. She turned to look at the spirit, and ask again what happened, but held her breath when she saw that protruding from the spirit’s back, was a very ornate knife-handle. The wound it inflicted was most certainly fatal. Then, something occurred to her. She looked back at the tombstone. "How can I..." she said, puzzlingly. She turned back towards the spirit with Wincott's shape. "You're letting me... read, aren't you?"

Everything started shifting again, but this time it didn’t stop, instead it picked up pace, and then Angela started seeing a multitude of lives, all marked by varying degrees of misery. Images of the Two-Sixers in their lives, Wyld & Quex in their stressful solitude, Abbie, Jaded, Sentry, and Egregore in their heartless endeavors, began mixing into the cacophony of experiences she was witnessing.

“MAKE IT STOP!!” Angela yelled at the top of her lungs, shutting her eyes and clutching her hands to her ears.

The images subsided, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that she was back at the cemetery with the spirit, again garbed in cloaking head to toe. “Please. What can I do? Please, let me do something, I...” the spirit calmly raised one hand, and pointed at the headstone overlooking a freshly-dug grave. Turning to look, she read on the stone:

[ QUOTE ]
ANGELA VANSEN
1990 – 2008
Taken before flight. Rest easy.

[/ QUOTE ] Just under the epitaph was an image of a nest of chicks, with a mother-bird sitting on the edge, looking towards the heavens.

“Oh, no, please, no...” she pleaded, falling to her hands and knees. It was so unfair. Unable to read all her life, and now that magic or spiritualism or something was making it possible to read, and it was two tombstones, one of them hers besides. “Please, don’t make me go, I don’t...”

The apparition closed the distance between them, intent on her. “I don’t...” frozen in fear, she watched as the spirit moved to her, and then pushed her backwards, into the yawning abyss of her own grave. She screamed once, as she fell, through depths that seemed to never end, the light from above getting smaller and smaller. “I don’t want to die, please, I WANT TO LIVE!!”

She kept looking up at the tiny speck of light that marked the surface world that she had fallen from, reaching out with a hand in futility as the wind rushed by her. Gradually, the air noise subsided, and she had the sensation she was not falling, but was suspended. Staring at the speck of light, she thought that it seemed to be like a star, in the night sky. And then, there were stars. Stars in abundance, she was surrounded in the blackness of space all around, but also all around her were the stars of the heavens. She couldn’t understand how they had appeared without her noticing, but they were definitely before her now. She looked, and just reveled at how beautiful the night sky was, realizing she had never really looked up at them very much at all.

Slowly, she started to make out areas of the starfields that had much fewer stars than others, and looked to see how those areas traced around, making curved shapes, tracing lines. She couldn’t see a single star move, but somehow, as if a curtain of realization had been pulled away from her eyes, she realized that the stars gathered in lines, depicting… something grand, something greater than mortal ken. As she looked, she saw depicted in stars, the image of a pair of wings, and draped as they were, they created what looked to be the image of a male humanoid attached to them inside, depicted in blackness of empty starfield. She looked, and realized that the stars, the heavens were his wings, and the grandness, the majesty of it all brought tears to her eyes as she stared in wide-eyed wonder.

In a small voice, she spoke to the image before her. “I want to live. Please, let me live. Whether it’s for another 100 years or 100 seconds. Please...

She watched, as a single star that was where an eye would be in the angelic image before her gained in brightness, quickly overpowering everything near it. As the brightness of light enveloped all of her, and whited out her vision, she knew. Somehow, she knew she was going back, getting another chance. Tearfully, she said one thing as her senses slid from reckoning in the whiteness: “Thank you.”

(( This story is my Christmas gift to my fellow posters in The Two Six: season 2. ))

(( It's something I started thinking about a few days ago, and this morning I decided to flesh it out. Just now finished. To my fellow Two Sixers, I hope you read it, and enjoy it for the familiarity of your characters. No need for comments on this thread, it can go down into forum-storage. I'm going to link to our OOC thread and we can yak about it there. ))

(( Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! ))

It was dark all around, and Insangel was basking in the simple pleasure of being surrounded by pure nothing. She knew it was dark, black all around, even if her eyes weren’t shut. She didn’t try to change it, she just kept as-is, hoping that it would stay this warm and secure forever. As soon as she had that thought, then she immediately thought “well, what would interrupt—“

“oooo, whoa!” came a startled cry, at the same time, someone roughly stepped first on, and then over her supine form. Bolting upright, she looked around, thoroughly confused by what she saw around her. Her cozy repose had been disturbed by none other than Mystic Inferno, as far as she could tell, but what was really bothering her was that she was nowhere near where she expected to be. While the older mage was picking himself up and dusting himself off, she stared at the piles of rubble and run-down, dilapidated structures surrounding them, in a terribly impoverished neighborhood. She was not supposed to be here, but after a few moments, something seemed... familiar... here.

“Rassum frassum... just a good cup of... all I wanted, and...”
“Mystic?! What are you—what are WE doing here?!”
Mystic finished dusting himself off, while saying “We? Young missy, ‘we’ are not doing anything together. I came down here to show someone great things. To impart wisdom. To help them see. That, and a good cup of tea. Now, who might you be?”

“Who am—Mystic, it’s me, Insangel. From the Two-Six! Cut it out, it’s not funny.”
Mystic just stared blankly at her for a few moments, and then turned around and started walking away from her, muttering under his breath. Angela jogged to keep up with him. She was just about to ask him what was going on as she matched pace with him evenly, when he stopped short, his attention on a child up ahead. The little blonde-haired girl, dirty from head to toe, who must have been around five years of age or so, was busily putting the finishing touches on a decorated “tree.”

“Aw,” Mystic intoned. “Isn’t that sweet?”
The tree was more correctly a pitiful shrub evergreen, that would probably be dead within the week. But the child had taken to putting scraps of colored paper on it, and straightened out the worst of the bent branches. She continued to work on the tiny plant, her back to the two of them. She was dressed only in a torn, oversized T-shirt, which must have been discarded by someone much bigger than her, so she wore it as a makeshift ‘dress.’

Again, Insangel thought that something here was a little too familiar.
“You see,” said the elder man. “She has the Christmas spirit.” As he said it, the child had taken something from her lap, and began affixing it to the top of the miniature Christmas tree. It was a typical tree ornament, a globular, gold-colored and shiny piece made out of thin glass. In any typical home, it would be surrounded by dozens of similar items, but here, in this blasted area, in the midst of poverty, it was unique. They watched her now, a little to her left while still behind. She stared at the ornament, and it was obvious that her eyes glowed with a life that only the innocent could produce.

“Christmas spirit.” She almost spat out the words. “Hmmmph. It’ll probably only get her a slap in the face, especially in a place like this.”
“Oh, so you know about places like these, do you?” Mystic intoned.
“Yes, I came from a place like this. Her hopes will get her nothing but heartache.”

Almost in answer to her comment, a group of children, who ranged from what looked to be five to ten years old, came toward the little girl and her tiny, decorated tree. The largest boy spoke up when they got to her. “Oh, let’s see what the freak’s doing!” The girl had stood up, and was shielding her tree behind her with her body.

“Go away! This isn’t yours!”

Insangel then yelled over to the little girl. “Run! Just go! RUN!” The small girl, however, seemed to not notice in the slightest. The boy roughly shoved her to the ground, and then laughed.

“Oh, look, a kwismas twee! Hey, let’s show her what we do to a freak’s things!” The group then went over and started stomping on the tree in all places, mashing it with their feet.
“NNOOOO!!” the little girl cried. The largest boy had picked up the round ornament she had painstakingly set atop the tree. Sneering, he dropped it and crushed it underfoot, turning it into tiny splinters of glass. The small blonde-haired girl looked, then held her head in her hands, crying as the other children laughed and departed. Insangel and Mystic continued to watch, and as the girl stood up, dropping her hands to her sides, there under the right eye of the little girl was a familiar, red-colored streak tattoo that almost resembled a fishhook. Angela breathed in sharply, her hand suddenly tracing the identical mark on her own cheek.

“That... I...” Angela struggled to find the words to describe what she was feeling. The little girl, quite obviously Insangel at a very young age, then turned and ran, off to hide somewhere, a look of sadness and anger adorning her face.

“Someone’s first Christmas wasn’t so good, was it?” the older man said. “Heartbreaking.”
Angela quickly replied. “Where ARE we?!”
“Oh, I think you know where. And maybe even starting to understand when we are, too. A time when a little girl lost a little something, but it wasn’t the last time, was it?”
“What do you—oh, no...”

Their surroundings had changed, and now they were inside the dimly-lit interior of a condemned house, half the roof and one wall destroyed. Insangel looked around, knowingly, and walked to one corner of the hovel. On the wall, suspended by a nail, was a worn piece of paper, with a green depiction of a pine tree in crayon. She knelt, and stared at the picture, which also had two little stick-figure girls drawn on it, holding hand, and several little box pictures under the tree. It was all done in the same green crayon.

“I had found a half of a crayon, and hid it safe, for months. And that piece of paper, I almost got caught stealing that, from a deliveryman behind some building. We drew that, to be our Christmas tree. That’s us, holding hands, getting ready to open presents, me and my fr—“

She caught herself, not wanting to say anymore.
“You were about to say, friend, right?” Mystic said softly.

Before Angela could reply, they heard footsteps from two children running into the broken-down house. One of them was young Insangel, a little different than before but still very young, maybe six years of age. With her was another little girl, maybe six or seven, with short-cut brown hair. They ran right by Angela without noticing, and giggling among themselves, busily produced two crayons, and started filling in areas of the picture with red and blue.

Angela walked near them, waving her hands near their faces a few times. “They can’t... see us. Can they, Mystic?” The elder just looked on, his head making one slow nod, but she couldn’t tell if it was in answer to her, or just something he was doing for his own sake.

They watched and listened for a time, and heard them exchange things they wanted in the future. Little Angela had just finished saying that she wanted to be in a home, in a family, maybe with her friend. Suddenly the spectator Insangel’s eyes widened to horror. She began to yell at her younger self. “Get out! Go, go NOW!!” Again, the child didn’t hear, but this time Angela wasn’t going to just let this be. She ran over to pick up the little girl, and bodily take her from this place. Or she would have, had she not passed straight through the child, as a phantom would. “What... what is... oh, no!”

She turned around, and at the same time, her younger self was turning around the same way, and then both of them raised their hands up in front of their faces. Only the younger version of herself had an assailant, the darker-haired girl bringing down a chunk of stony concrete down on her in a murderous lunge. Tears filled both their eyes, as the drama unfolded again before the older Angela’s eyes. Her younger self then ran, the other one giving chase only a short span before changing direction, and heading elsewhere, leaving the two of them alone in the ramshackle living space.

“Another Christmas, come and gone. Oh, my.” Mystic said.
Angela stood back up, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. “I didn’t do anything to deserve that. Any of it. All of what always happens, especially at Christmas! I never treated anyone even remotely badly!”

Mystic suddenly got a sour expression on his face, and walked out of the hovel, moving purposefully quickly. Angela moved in his wake. “Hey. Hey! What’s wrong with you?!”
Muttering, Mystic’s words became louder as she jogged up to him.
“...n’t come to hear lies, fool child. Now’s a good time for that tea—“
“Hey! Listen to me, I was right on about that! I don’t—“
Mystic quickened his pace, and Insangel slowed. She didn’t understand, and just stared as he walked up the steps to a porchfront-area just outside an eatery, and took a seat. A minute later, although she never noticed anyone server him, or he himself, he was sipping a cup of hot tea. Had she missed it when she blinked? She didn’t know what to make of it, so she walked over to him and stood off to the side of him as he looked down the street.

“Cures the ails, it does, aahhh.” He said, sipping enjoyably from his porcelain cup.
It was then that Angela noticed that there were Christmas decorations up on the walls, and on the banister of the porchfront. Again, something seemed familiar to her about the surroundings. “where—when are we, Mystic? This isn’t the same time as where we just were, is it?” she asked, a little knowingly.
“Hmmm?” Mystic hummed. “How should I know? I came here to get a good cup of tea. Maybe you should ask why you came here?”
“How I—damn it, old man, you brought us here! Why are you—“

A metallic crash cut her off, the sound drifting out from the open door of the eatery. A moment later, two girls ran out, their arms laden with several bread-rolls. They ran, scrambling over chairs and tables, and hot on their heels were two waiters giving chase. The girls were in their early teens from the looks of it, and both wore fairly long, unkempt blonde hair, as well as dirty, well-travelled clothes on painfully thin bodies, minus shoes or socks. They would almost be mistaken for twins, at a distance, they were so similarly shaped in body and facial features. However, while one, obviously a younger Angela, wore her trademark red streak tattoo, the other had a deep, black streak tattoo instead.

As they ran into the street, a flatbed truck rumbled past them, a bit slowly, but starting to accelerate. They both threw their armloads onto the back of the truck, and jumped up to ride the back away from their pursuit. Young Angela pushed herself upward, and landed on the flatbed on her knees, and started to scoop up the bread that was rolling around. Her companion also landed on the bed, but suddenly the truck took a pothole on one set of wheels, and the bouncing jounced her right off of the truck. She reached up, and with both hands, grabbed the bumper, body trailing behind her. “Angela!” she called.

Young Angela looked over at her, and then at the bread in her arms. A moment later, she dropped the bread and then reached over to take the other’s hand, but she was already gone. In the few seconds she had waited in consideration, the girl had lost her grip and was now lying in the street, the two waiters grabbing her roughly. Sitting on the truck bed, she watched, along with Insangel and Mystic, as the waiters handed her over to two large men in thick, black and dark red combat armor, their bladed maces at the ready as they manacled her and led her away.

Angela dropped her head in shame. “Those two looked like they had been running together for a while,” Mystic said. “To be left, like that, tch tch tch.”
“I hadn’t… we hadn’t eaten in five days. Five. Days. You show me to act any quicker when—oh what would you know about—I—“
She looked at the two young girls lock eyes for one last time as the truck turned down a far off street, the other girl now being put into a vehicle obviously headed for incarceration facilities.

“Oh, god, Kyrielle, I’m sorry!” she called after the girl, even though she knew it would be on deaf ears. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have waited, I shouldn’t have left you!” Angela sank to her knees, as a few tears dropped from her eyes.

A soft, but firm hand on her shoulder let her know that Mystic had stood up and come over next to her. “And on Christmas day, again. Oh, my.”
Angela looked up at him. “I’m sorry I… the way I talked to you. You’re right, I wasn’t always… right, or innocent.”

In the most gentle voice she had heard him use yet, he said “dry your eyes, child. I’m all done here. Time to go on.” She stood up obediently, and walked beside him for several minutes, mollified in thought. Soon, he stopped their pace and looked in her eyes while he held her hands in his own.

To Angela, he said “Tea. A good leaf, piping hot, fresh from the kettle. Be surprised what it can do for you. Remember, and… be well.” He then let go of her hands, and turned around to leave. She sensed his intent, and called after him.
“Wait, Mystic, I... I thought you had someone you needed to help.”

He stopped, and turned his head partway toward her. “And perhaps... I just may have. We’ll see..”

Some info about Insangel, that your characters may act on if they've had a chance to observe it:

-- Angela's eyes are artificial. The whites are bare, perfectly white while the rest is deep black because they are completely man-made. (Hiding them is why she almost always keeps really dark sunglasses on.) She has no trouble seeing with dark glasses on, even at night.

-- Insangel appears to be 32, 33 years of age. Extremely astute and experienced people, Brian for example, would place her at 25, 26 years of age. The rest of you would have to determine how insightful of this your characters are.

-- Her "invisibility" is a niche-talent. Her limited psionic ability allows her to intercept her own visual information from others' minds. She has to choose to hide from specific people. For others to see her, they would have to be either one of (1): whereabouts unknown to Angela at the time, or (2): have some way to address the psionic activity that's causing the mental trickery.

-- Related to the above entry, some ways she is still observable:

-- -- mechanically, such as robots. Also, visual recordings pick her up normally. (if someone she's hiding from is looking at a TV screen of her at the same time, though, then they don't see her. They'd have to watch the recording at a time when she wasn't tricking them to see her.)

-- -- She can't hide anything she changes around her visually outside of a foot, 1' 1/2'' or so. So, on a beach, for example, she would leave observable footprints.

-- -- The other senses. She's really good at being quiet, but being heard is a possibility. Someone/thing could smell her. She can be touched. Taste... uh, skip. Let's keep this PG-13, guys

-- -- It only works on people. Animals, aliens... plants? Their minds and/or thoughts are too different for this to work on. Rikti are close enough to humans that it works against them though, except for the monkeys. (for those of you that don't know from in-game story arcs or other sources of CoH lore, Rikti were humans, now they're changed.) (for the times she tries to hide from aliens/animals, I could even RP oddities. Such as, a big, tentacle-ey alien she tries to hide from, suddenly sees her in various shades of hot-pink while everything else becomes more greyed.)

Edited to add my vote for Averick winning the Two-Six's Goober-natorial elections.

(( and rouge is women's eyeliner. you want Rogue. that is, if you don't follow paradigm's fine advice to run this RP in the other thread ))

Insangel arrived at a scene of utter mayhem. Landing on a rooftop about 20 yards away from the apparent nictus-user, she tried to comprehend just what the hell was going on.

Many injured, most of them burned. Several who were obviously too far gone to be alive. A maniacal woman, displaying frightening powers over fire. She has to be these poor victims' "smoking gun."

Mixing it up with anything they could nearby...
"Skulls." She had thought it interesting that the PPD had an informative file on them, she thought they were trying to have a most comprehensive database. "No, they don't have a file on them because they're a gang from where I used to live... They have a file on them because the Skulls are here, too."

There were three in costume down there now, two of them moving to engage the fire-wielder. The one that had just arrived in teleportational flashes, looked to be surveying the scene, and is he... she glanced to the other two in costume. "Yes, they're all communicating to each other by comm devices."

Insangel concentrated for a moment on everyone down in the bedlam below, and masked her presence from them. "Well, they won't see me. Starting to get close to my limit on how many I can fool. Still, long as nobody I haven't spotted sees me, I'll be unseen."

Then, her attention returned to the woman who had just arrived. "You don't have a comm device... what are you going to do? What, what, what... and what the hell am I going to do? Nothing makes sense down there!"

Then she noticed: none of the Skulls had burns. That means Fire-woman is in league with them, and all the costumes down there are fighting for the good.

Just then, the woman across the way dove off of the building top, and just before hitting the ground, slowed her descent in a display of dark, purplish energy. Insangel tightend up, ready to dump her concentration on hiding and be revealed. She would have to, to wield her attack powers.

The woman then immediately opened up on the Skulls, first with a wide, explosive blast of energy, and then more singular attacks on individuals. "Whooooo," She breathed in relief. As crazy as it seemed to Insangel, this woman was a City Hero, wanting to help when she saw a fellow Hero pass by. "I guess she isn't using Nictus powers, just something that looks like them. Amazing. Well, it's two on one against the fire woman, dark woman engaging the Skulls, and the levitating one still yet to join in the fray."

She looked toward where several police cruisers were blocking the road, lights on, and a little ways beyond them, emergency services men waiting. "The paramedics can't go to the victims, because it's still a combat zone!"

Angela went down to street level in the midst of the injured people, continuing to mask her presence to those she had seen. She let the ones moving of their own volition be, and started checking the non-moving for signs of life. The first three were gone. Then, she got to one still with a pulse, but obviously in critical need. "OK, now it's gonna get tricky." Concentrating even further, she then made her victim invisible to all those that she had been keeping fooled as to her own presence. "And we'll just hope that in all of this chaos, nobody noticed you winking out, so that I can carry you to the medics."

She hoofed it to where the medics were waiting, their mouths agape at having just witnessed a woman jump down from rooftop, run around in the warzone, pick up a victim, and run carrying him to them. After all, she had not tricked them as she had the others. However, time was of the essence, so she just put him on a stretcher and ran back into the fracas, to check the rest of the insensate.

"Stan, did... did you just see..."
"The woman in the leather jacket and bellbottoms? Yeah. Yeah, she's gotta be a Superhero, there's no WAY a non-meta would run around in there like that, frickin' nuts!"
"Did you see the amount of fire from that woman, and all of those gang-bangers? It's frickin' nuts for the supes to be in there!"

"Hopefully, there are more survivors," Insangel thought, "and everyone else will be too busy fighting to worry about the disappearing victims." She passed by a horribly mutilated corpse, and her stomach turned inside her. "Firewoman, you're lucky there's a bunch of others on top of you, because taking down hard targets like you is my specialty. You deserve pain for what you've done here today." Angela continued to search and rescue the nearby victims.

Thanks for the info Riptide, If I do more writing with this I'll definitely look into the writer's guild you suggested, that seems like just the answer.

Insangel was skyskipping. That was how she described, it, anyway. Land, lunge, lunge, and, leap! She could go for ten, eleven seconds on a leap, a little more if she really ran full out before jumping. "Back and forth, over and over. Not much more now Insangel, but we need you to go back to... God, who knew in-processing could take as long as physical therapy? Oh well. At least the City is good scenery. Even here, in Kings Row, it looked good. She'd heard the way people talked about it, heard some complaints. Was the rest of the City really that much better? The Row looked a hell of a lot better than--"

She was about to take a couple of running steps again for her next leap, but just before she touched down she had seen something interesting, so she stopped and kneeled on a rooftop to watch. She had just seen a large man blink in a bright flash, then reappear farther down the street, and do it again a few times. "Wow, he can do what the gunslingers do." She thought. "Wonder if he uses their tech, or does it... some other way. So, there really are "caped crusaders" running around the place. I wonder if the people around feel better for it? Like her, for instance?" Her gaze fell on a woman, who had craned her neck around and watched the blinking man go. "Wait, she's in costume, and is that a... suitcase?" Just then, the woman seemed to stuff the case into... vaporous dark energy... where have I seen something like those energy trails before?"

Angela immediately concentrated on the woman's mind for a moment, then masked her presence to the woman. Odd things were afoot. She watched, amazed, as the woman then did the same thing that the large man had done moments before, but with the same vaporous, dark swirl energy trails. "Oh, no..." Now she remembered where she had seen that effect. Once while on recon, she had called in a report of large, hulking beasts doing the exact same thing into & out of a cave. Peacebringers in the area were alerted, and massed at the caves, and after a full-out fight had put them all down. Later, when back at her staging area, they had thanked her for the call. Nasty pieces of work, they had warned her. That they had struck with no mercy and taken no prisoners hit Angela hard that day. Obviously these were dangerous.

"I didn't know that they could make themselves look human too..." she thought, remembering that the Peacebringers could do so. "And now this one is tailing a City hero." Why would it risk exposure by emanating it's nictus powers? It was walking in the open, in costume... She didn't need to be at her appointment for an hour, so she took off after the woman, continuing to mask her presence using her talent. She wouldn't detect her unless Angela willed it. She pondered more. "The woman was as surprised as I was at seeing the man. She then changed her mind about whatever it was that she was doing, and took off after him. That means he has no idea she's behind him." She was definitely in recon mode now, but this time, she was under very few orders. "And if anything foul starts to happen, I'll shoot first and ask questions later." Heroes had enough to worry about without metahumans jumping them from behind.

A mail courier stepped into the sergeant's desk room and crossed to where Col. Mustard was sitting.

"Whaddaya got fer me this time?"

"A light one, just some documents feels like." He said, handing a full-sized manilla envelope to Mustard. "Sign here, please."

The package was addressed to the precinct proper, so Mustard opened it. Two documents, and a few photos. "Ah, who's the filly in the shades, I wonder?" he thought as he looked at the photos and began reading the first document.

[ QUOTE ]
To: precinct 26
From: Dir. Personnel PPD
Re: personnel transfer
Subject: Van, Angela "Insangel"
Encl: subject photos, x3


Subject: Angela Van is hereby transferred to precinct 26 effective this date. Subject is operating with the PPD as part of the vigilante assistance clauses currently employed. This is her initial assignment. More in-processing at HQ is required, expect Miss Van to arrive within the next two days, after processing is complete.

Additional Information:
Vigilante reference file: none
Arrest record: none
Current address: none
Last three addresses: no file
Contact numbers: home: none, cell: none.

Most recent affiliation/duty: St. John-Smythe Institute/test subject, 1 mo.
Next previous affiliation/duty: Crowne Memorial Hospital/patient, 3 mo.
Next previous affiliation/duty: Vanguard/extended wasteland reconnaisance, 10 mo.
Next previous affiliation/duty: State Abnormal Psychiatric Ward/patient, 3 mo.
Next previous affiliation/duty: St. John-Smythe Institute/test subject, 1 mo.


[/ QUOTE ]

The next document was handwritten on notebook paper.
[ QUOTE ]
This is a strange one, lots of holes in the info. As far as Paragon City, Rhode Island, and the United States is concerned, she didn't even EXIST until two years ago. Seems she was shot by her supervising officer in the Vanguard after ten months of duty, hiding out in the Wasteland on individual recon, gathering intel and supporting ops. The bullet missed her heart by a hair. Witnesses prevented him from landing any more shots. The officer in question still serves Vanguard in the same supervisory capacity, and has had NO punitive actions taken against him nor letters of reprimand assigned. I don't know what to make of this one, guys. We don't know what she can "do" as far as metahuman abilities. She's playin' it close to the vest on that one, and she's not required to tell us. St. John-Smythe's people have gotten the request from the City and from us for a writeup on her abilities, so when they hand in their writeup we'll forward that to you as well. (don't hold your breath, you know how inter-agency paperwork shuffling is.) Being that she'll be working in the field with you all, maybe she'll be more forthcoming about describing her abilities to you. We snapped a couple of photos of her while she's been here, we'll put 'em in the package.

The last two things we know at this point:

1) She asked to work with the PPD. Prof. St. John-Smythe greased the wheels with folks over my head to make it happen. I assigned her to you. It's a little odd, that she wanted to do this even before she joined the City's Vigilante program. The City's processing her into the Vigilante program now, it's part of what's slowing her in-processing. What that means is that as far as "super-heroing" here, she's fresh outta the gate. She doesn't know the City, it's obvious she didn't live here before she arrived here 18 or so months ago.
2) She's got no place to stay, she's been sleeping in the waiting room.

Do what you can, guys.

[/ QUOTE ]

photo 1 photo 2 photo 3

Mustard put the documents into a file folder, and put a yellow stick-note on the outside labelled: Attn. Newton.

This, he put into Newton's in-box. "He can tell the other capes what's goin' on with the fruit-loop new-fish." He thought as he returned to his chair.

((Anyone else want to provide screenshots here, but don't have a photo-website? PM me and i'll give you my email. You can email me pics, and I'll put them up on my photobucket, Then email you the addys so you can splice them into your post(s).))

((warning: shameless self-promotion attempt: if any of you fancy a short bit of CoH fan-fiction, try my first attempt at creative writing here . And post, telling me what you think! I wanna know if writing is something that I can do.))

The breeze of onrushing air whipped past her, tugging on her chestnut-brown hair braid. As it bobbed, up and down, she realized that very soon it would be time to tuck the braid under her collar and don the helm. The air was warm, and humid midsummer night’s air, but still it cooled her face and the faces of her fellows seated nearby as it rushed past. Oh, but what a night to savor! All of her hard work was coming to fruition. The high-risk nature of the moment, the speed of the small inflated watercraft along the water’s surface, and the elation of starting a glorious new chapter of her life all mingled, and stirred such excitement that she could actually feel goosebumps all over her body.

“And that’s only happened twice in my life, ever!” She thought. “I can’t wait to get started, such works I will do!”
They were really starting to pick up speed now, but that was standard OPro (Operating Procedure) now that they were nearing landfall. She idly fingered the gray and black two-toned arm sleeve she wore, and then pulled it up at the wrist to check the time. Being careful to shield the glowing numbers, lest any light give away their position in the blackness of night, she quickly looked and then re-covered it. For a fourth time this night she checked her equipment:

Weapons, check.
Injectors, full, check. These she primed.
Injector reloads, check.
Tac-armor: vest, check.
Emergency ID cards and currency, check.

She drew in a deep breath, but when she blew it out slowly, instead it came out as a long exhale with dozens of tiny tremor-breaths. There was no doubt about it: the electricity of excited anticipation was palpable. She almost leapt straight out of the craft when the bosun (boatswain) sitting beside her, called into her ear: “one minute!”

Looking ahead at the others in the craft, from her position aft, she could tell some had heard his announcement over the wind and outboard motor noise. She drew in a quick, sharp breath.

“One minute!” She yelled to the others. She looked at them, from face to face, some now donning their helms. She paused for a moment, and remembered some of the trials she had endured to get to this point. Her selection, Basic Training, graduation, first duty station, and now this, an almost guaranteed career-long stay on the promotional fast-track if all went well: Organized Undercover Detail. The wet-dream of wet-dreams for all specialized personnel, that she was selected for OUD was cause enough for elation. Finding out that she would be working with and directly under the local OUD Commander was nothing short of miraculous.

“Undercover.” She mused. “Makes it sound like what we do is so… dirty. Dirty, it isn’t, but if it is, then dirt is needed, because this work is necessary.”

She would be part of the vanguard, those leading the way, to make things right. There was so much that was wrong with these people, so much that needed to be done to make things better.

“They’re so fragmented, disjointed, and chaotic. There is so much potential in them, so much good they could do, if only they were able. That’s why I’m here. By setting up the initial groundwork, to pave the way for future advances, we can bring them out of the darkness.”

Is this what BT, Op-Tran (Operative Training), and OUD were leading her up to? Would this be her crowning achievement, the great thing she did with her life, for her and others to reminisce, or would this be just the beginning? A stone to step for even greater works in the future? She noticed, now, as she looked at the others, that they were also looking at each other. Were they thinking about their lives, their past choices? Were they wondering now, as she did, if the others nearby were also contemplating their past? Almost as if in silent answer, her gaze met the gaze of an ebon-haired, steel-jawed soldier just before he set his helm. She nodded once, ever so slowly, as he did to her, in mute testimony to their shared thoughts.

“Twenty seconds!” she called out while tucking her chestnut-brown hair-braid beneath her collar, and donned her helm. She checked that everyone else had done so also. Those members with electronic devices installed on their tactical gear left them off, to keep light discipline. “Good, our training is showing well so far,” she thought. The bosun turned the craft a bit more than 30 degrees, he had apparently just spotted a landmark or two and was now guiding them to debark point. He now cut the motor to one-quarter, the highest no-noise setting the outboard was capable of. Unnecessary, most likely, since the landing point would be prepped and manned by several on-site OUD men, but still standard OPro. This meeting was very crucial, because it would be very difficult to proceed if they were not smuggled to their safehouses, to get brought up to speed on local operations. True, they were in combat loadout and apparel, but even though they were on undercover ops it was still sound OPro. Engagement was not expected and definitely not desired, but still, if worse came to worst, they would be reasonably prepared. The plan was to meet the local OUD commander, and then a hasty trip to unmarked vans, where they would change into civilian attire en route to their safehouses.

The outboard cut out and they drifted into the telephone-pole sized stanchions of the pier. She could make out another pier about 30 yards to the north of them, also leading to the shore. The tide was low, so they used a rope dangling from the corner stanchion to haul themselves up to the pier proper, about 15 feet from the water’s surface. The shoreline was still over 50 yards away, but she could just barely make out the sand-water line and the outlines of some beachfront buildings maybe 30 yards from there. Hopefully, just behind those buildings, would be the vans that would take them safely out of here. She stuck her head out over the pier’s edge to make eye contact with the bosun. He was expecting her, and when she nodded, he flashed a five-fingered open hand to her, then closed it to a fist. He showed “five” three times quickly to her, then sat down quietly as she showed him a thumb’s up. He would wait here for fifteen minutes, before returning to the mini-submersible that would take him back out to his submarine, his regular duty-station. If they had not established contact with the onsites in ten minutes, they were to return here and go back with the bosun for later re-entry. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Let’s move.” She said quietly to the others with her, and led them in a brisk walk toward the shore. She walked ahead of six young men and one other woman, also youthful. When they got to the sand, they saw a tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the corner of one of the beachfront buildings. Dressed in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and a sky-blue & white two-toned windbreaker, He wore his brown hair in a high & tight flattop that would make any Marine proud. He walked toward them with a purpose, and she could see now that he had a full mustache trimmed just a little past the corners of his lips, and piercing, alert blue eyes.

“The mind is willing.” He said quietly to her, since she was in the lead.
“And the body is strong.” She said in reply, the correct answer to the code-phrase he had just selected. It was as if weights lifted from their chests, everyone breathed a sigh in relief. Things were going well.

“Operative Dreama, good to meet you.” He said, and noted the ever-so-slight flushing of her face as he spoke. “Ah, yes, fresh from Op-Tran Academy,” he thought. “I’m probably only the second or third person to address her with her newly-earned title. She must still be flying high on pride, like I was. I am Operative Lexon,” his voice resounding in a rich, clear baritone. “Call me ‘Luthor.’”

She raised an eyebrow at his statement. “Luthor?” she repeated half-quizzically.
“I know, it was someone’s idea of a joke that stuck. Given our situation, not altogether inappropriate, yes?”
She smiled for a moment. “Then please, call me ‘Jeannie.’” She said, telling him her own call-sign. Straightening up, she decided to give him a proper report-in: “Operative Dreama reporting, Sir. Six Wolves, two Widows, all members of detachment 08-1B present and accounted for.”

“Very well Operative Dreama.” He replied. “’Jeannie, hmm? You’ll have to tell me about that sometime.”
“No, I won’t.” She said with a smirk.
He eyed her a moment, and then they both chuckled. “Hmmm, eight in this group. A good omen?”
“I thought that as well, considering our Lord. I think it’ll be luck for us.” She said with a quick nod.
“I certainly hope so.” With that, he waved over several men and a woman standing near the back corner of the nearby building. They were also dressed in laid-back civilian attire, mostly jeans and T-shirts, though there was one Hawaiian-print shirt among them, maybe a group joker. He addressed them: “these are your new charges. Find yours, intro, and we’re out in five.”

They all paired off, and hushed conversations between them ensued, mostly the onsites giving them immediate instructions. “Impressive,” Jeannie thought. “He had each of the new operatives’ handlers make this meeting. Not a requirement, but unexpectedly pleasant nonetheless.” She now noticed that Luthor was armed, concealing a spec-ops tactical auto-gun in a sling rigged to snug the weapon under his right armpit. Resembling a stockless shotgun in appearance, the red LED ammunition indicators were all lit, indicating a full loadout. A quick glance confirmed that the other onsite OUD Operatives were similarly armed.

“You’re not… quite what I expected.” Jeannie said to Luthor.
“Oh? In what way?”
“Well, given my training and specialty, I just thought that… well, another Night Widow would be my “handler.”
“Ah, but you haven’t been told everything… yet.” He said, with a one-eyed wink. “But don’t worry, there’ll be time for all of that later. For now, transportation is in the parking lot just up those stairs.” He said, motioning to a set of wooden stairs at the end of the row of buildings, that climbed a rocky, grassy cliff face that went some 50 or so feet up.

“Who’re they?” Jeannie asked, motioning to a man and woman she had noticed just after reporting to Operative Lexon. They were sitting back to back, feet tied and arms bound behind their backs, dressed in sandals, shorts, and T-shirts. Blindfolds and gags completed their attire.
“Local lovebirds in the sand when we arrived to prep the site. We waited until we absolutely had to round ‘em up.”
“Ah, civvies, heh…” she chuckled.
“I imagine you’re gettin’ a little hungry?”
“That’s a fact.” She said in acknowledgement.
“OK, then we’ll hit a spot I know that’s great on the way back to the ‘house. It’s a little out of the way, but worth it. So, what do you think so far?”
“Well, it’s an island, but it isn’t… the isles… if you know what I mean…”
“That’s a fact,” He said, also expressing his understanding using the oft-used but much beloved cliché adopted by serving soldiers. “That’s a fact. Talos is nice, it’s too nice. Happy little playland it is, although a local gang, and believe it or not, some reports of spirits or ghosts or something are starting to worry the locals.”
“You’re twisting me.” She said, unbelievingly.
“Hey, that’s a no s$%@#er, as I’m standing here.”
“Wow, unbelievable, I--

“NOBODY MOVE!! YOU’RE SURROUNDED!! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND LAY FACE DOWN ON THE GROUND… NOW!!” A booming male voice said, but she knew what it was that had said them even before she had turned her head skyward, along with the others, to see the source. Suspended in midair, a young, clean-cut young man in royal blue and white spandex, blue cape, and metallic boots/gloves pointed downward at them with brightly glowing, white-red hands. “DON’T MAKE US DO THIS THE HARD WAY!! THIS… IS YOUR FINAL… WARNING!!” A %$#%^ing vigilante caped crusader. Other, similarly colorfully-costumed men and women appeared around them on all sides.

Luthor spoke first. “Oh, no, no, no, this isn’t happening!” He leapt over to the two lovers bound in the sand, pulling one of the young man’s arms out to where he could see it. He was wearing what appeared to be a medical wrist bracelet, but Luthor quickly flipped it over to reveal a glowing red button that was lit. God$#@*$!! He’s a protected civvie!”

Operative Dreama would later remember her only repetitive thought, just moments before the storm: “Only been on the ground five minutes, and everything’s gone to Hell!”

To be continued...?

Today I decided to write what I would consider an "opening scene" to a buncha stories I've thought about centered around one character. My following post is the result.

I've always wondered about doing some creative writing, but never taken the leap 'till now. My professors in college said I wrote well, but that was purpose-driven stuff.

I guess I would like it to be considered a prelude to the rest of the tale. What I wonder is:
Does reading this make you interested in what happens next?
How do you feel about the delivery of the situation?

If I did continue to write from this setup onward, a concern:
I really don't want my periodic writings to be buried in one thread, amongst others' replies such as critiques & such, because then interested readers have to keep clicking and scrolling, over and over, skim skim skim to find the next part. What would be a good way to have alla "the story" in one place, easily accessible so that this thread can be the "comment repository" only?

Thanks for any insight, pros & cons.

also, is there any way to get beginning of paragraph indentions into forum posts? Now that I've dragged and dropped it in here it looks... bad since it's all flush left justified.

omg, 5, and 11 minutes after posting even. and they're funny, too!

ah, isn't steel canyon /broadcast great? /b how do i FLY?!?!

someone's gotta photoshop this into a heroic something-or-other. i mean, when else are you gonna get a photo of a cat in superman flight pose like this?

Hero:
Renee Force
gravity/empathy controller lvl-50

description:
Dr. Renee Forseral was raised by her father, a career technologies researcher. His love of technical ways and know-how rubbed-off onto his daughter. Her heart is as big as the world though, so she earned her Ph.d in medical surgery, and set about helping the sick and injured.

Her background in technology and physics soon served her well. With the help of her father's facilities, she pioneered a set of gauntlets that could do many difficult surgical procedures, using gravimetric and magnetic forces in fine-tuned ways. (These, many times, without the need for cutting open the patient.)

Some time after the Rikti invasion, her hospital was attacked by Vahzilok zombies. Overriding her gauntlets to produce a maximum-force output, she was able to keep a zombie away from her and many patients just barely long enough for a hero to come and save them all. She decided to join the fight against Paragon City's invaders, and further developed her gauntlets' output capacities for use against her enemies.

I like this thread idea a lot. I don't take part in a lot of stuff in the forums, but I think I would like to here. I think... one a day, to make for less-intimidating length. Aaaanndd... in the order that I created them.

Hero:
Hand of Annubis
fire/energy blaster lvl-50

description:
Anna Wells was trapped exploring a lost structure in Egypt. She emerged from beneath the sands amid a fiery explosion 4 days later, forever changed. The incredible energies contained in her body manifest in several ways, but most obvious is that at rest, her hands and lips are approx. 700 degrees F, while the 'cooler' parts of her body are around 400. Specially designed clothing and heatsink bands (costing more than a squadron of F-14's all told) allow her to interact in public areas outside of her refrigerated apartment.

--- I remember a voice. . . "You have trespassed, become trapped, and died in MY temple, MY place of rest. I offer you a choice, death-bound mortal. Pass on, as your kind do; or be restored by MY hand, the Spirit of the Dead, to be my next agent in living lands. Very well. The compact will now be sealed." Soon after, pressure on my chest, more and more, too much! Then a burning, searing heat! Now. . . a scar. What is to become of me?
--- Diary excerpt

we tried this just an hour ago. we entered the final mission with a 27, two 28s, and two 31's. the 31's were Malf'd down to the 28's. the enemies were lvl 32 and 33. this tactic of malf'ing down and getting to the tree, then un-malf'ing DOES NOT WORK. obviously the game goes off of something else, but it definitely did NOT give us +2's to 28's.