Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Hello again!

 

First off, thanks to Thrakazog, Vassoom, Edsel and Trebuchet for their praise of my efforts. It's always great to know that I'm entertaining somebody.

 

Second, here's the script from the newscast that will be used to open session five. Enjoy!

 

IT’S 7-55 AT NEWS-PULSE 10-50 W-C-X-Z. I’M KEVIN STONE AND IT’S TIME FOR THE LOCAL AND REGIONAL NEWS BRIEF, BROUGHT TO YOU BY GREAT WALL ORIENTAL GIFTS ON THE CORNER OF CUTLER AND WELLSLEY –- YOUR GATEWAY TO THE MYSTERIES AND BEAUTY OF THE FAR EAST.

IN THE NEWS, HUDSON CITY POLICE HAVE OFFICIALLY ENDED THEIR MANHUNT FOR THE VIGILANTES KNOWN AS CYPHER, POWERHOUSE AND THE SENTINEL. THE THREE WERE WANTED IN CONNECTION WITH AN EXPLOSION AND FIRE AT AN ABANDONED BUSINESS IN THE FORSYTH DISTRICT WHICH KILLED FIVE PEOPLE LAST MONTH. IN A MEDIA RELEASE RECEIVED BY FAX THIS MORNING, THE H-C-P-D SAYS IT IS DROPPING THE MANHUNT DUE TO NEW EVIDENCE WHICH – QUOTING THE RELEASE HERE - “DEFINITIVELY PROVES THAT THE VILLAINESS KANDI CAIN WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE BLAST AND SUBSEQUENT FIRE” UNQUOTE. KANDI CANE, ALSO KNOWN AS CANDICE KENNEDY, DIED TWO WEEKS AGO FROM COMPLICATIONS RELATED TO THE SYMPTOMS OF WITHDRAWL FROM AN UNIDENTIFIED DESIGNER DRUG. THE VILLAINESS WAS ACCUSED OF THE MANUFACTURE AND DISTRIBUTION OF THE DRUG KNOWN AS PIXIE, AS WELL AS THE ATTEMPTED MURDER OF BUSINESSMAN JAMES ROMAN LAST MONTH.

POLICE ARE INVESTIGATING THE KIDNAPPING OF NOTED FORTUNE-TELLER AND MYSTIC MADAME KEJA RIGO (KAY’-JAH REE’-GOH) FROM HER PLACE OF BUSINESS IN GADSDEN LAST NIGHT. WITNESS REPORTS INDICATE THAT A GANG OF COSTUMED MEN AND WOMEN FORCED THEIR WAY INTO THE ESTABLISHMENT ON ELEVENTH STREET AROUND TEN P-M. INVESTIGATORS REFUSED TO COMMENT ON THE CASE TO REPORTERS, BUT THE ABDUCTION MAY BE RELATED TO TWO OTHERS INVOLVING NOTED MYSTICS IN HUDSON CITY OVER THE PAST SEVEN DAYS. BOTH SELF-PROCLAIMED PSYCHIC AMANDA GALLAGHER AND NOTED SCHOLAR OF THE OCCULT PROFESSOR ADOLPH GOTTLIEB (GOT’-LEEB) WERE ALLEGEDLY KIDNAPPED BY A GROUP OF COSTUMED INDIVIDUALS. SO FAR, NO CLAIMS OF RESPONSIBILITY OR DEMANDS FOR RANSOM HAVE BEEN RECEIVED FOR ANY OF THE MISSING MYSTICS.

THE COAST GUARD WAS SUCCESSFUL LAST NIGHT IN ITS EFFORTS TO FLOAT A CHINESE FREIGHTER WHICH CRASHED INTO A PIER ON OWL BAY LAST WEEK, BUT ARE NO CLOSER TO DETERMINING WHAT HAPPENED TO ITS CREW. THE YIN GAI (GUY) IS AN INDEPENDENT TRAMP FREIGHTER OUT OF SHANGHAI WHICH IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE A CREW OF TWENTY, BUT NOBODY WAS ABOARD WHEN COAST GUARD OFFICIALS BOARDED THE VESSEL AFTER THE CRASH. COAST GUARD OFFICIALS HAVE SPECULATED THAT THE FREIGHTER MIGHT HAVE BEEN SMUGGLING ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS, SINCE THE SHIP WAS CARRYING NO CARGO AT THE TIME OF THE CRASH. REPAIRS WERE MADE TO THE VESSEL DURING THE WEEK, BUT COAST GUARD OFFICERS WAITED UNTIL LAST NIGHT’S HIGH TIDE TO FREE THE SHIP FROM THE WRECKED PIER FOR SAFETY REASONS.

MILITARY BUFFS AROUND THE AREA WILL BE CONGREGATING NEAR THE HUDSON CITY CONVENTION CENTER AND COLISEUM THIS WEEKEND FOR THE ANNUAL MILITARY EXPOSITION. THE TRADE SHOW FEATURES THE LATEST HARDWARE FROM ARMS AND MILITARY SYSTEMS MANUFACTURERS FROM AROUND THE WORLD. THE SHOW IS CLOSED TO ALL BUT DISTRIBUTORS, LAW ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATORS AND GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS; HOWEVER, THE PUBLIC IS INVITED TO BLACKBRIDGE PARK ON SATURDAY TO PARTAKE OF THE CELEBRATION OF UNITED STATES MILITARY. THERE WILL BE A SERIES OF STATIC DISPLAYS OF MILITARY HARDWARE BY THE 294TH LIGHT INFANTRY COMPANY, RECENTLY RETURNED FROM A YEAR OF SERVICE IN IRAQ; A CIVIL WAR ERA ENCAMPMENT AND MOCK BATTLE; AND MILITARY FLEA MARKET FOR MEMORIBILIA AND SOUVENIERS. THE PUBLIC SHOW RUNS TOMORROW FROM NINE-A-M TO SIX-P-M, WHILE THE EXPOSITION BEGINS THIS AFTERNOON AND RUNS THROUGH SUNDAY.

THE LATEST TRAFFIC REPORT AND NATIONAL NEWS FROM C-N-N ARE COMING UP NEXT ON NEWS-PULSE 10-50 W-C-X-Z. W-C-X-Z NEWS TIME IS 7:58.

 

Game day is Friday, so gotta motor!

 

Matt "What's-the-frequency-Kevin?" Frisbee

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

SESSION #5 – 26 AUG 06 “MYSTERIOUS WAYS”

 

Starring: Barry as Powerhouse (AKA Rhonda Savage)

Brad as Nightblade (AKA Jack Kuragawa)

Guest Villain: The Golden Phoenix

Co-Starring: Sgt. Faith Padruski

Game Date: 1200 thru 2300 – 25 AUG 06

Session Synopsis (from the personal journal of Faith Padruski)

0915 – 27 AUG 06

It’s getting too easy to rely on these people. The department can’t handle a bunch of costumed clowns with guns the way these people do. I find myself torn between not wanting to encourage irresponsible crime fighters to take the law into their hands and the growing knowledge that corruption is rendering the department incapable of protecting the public. In the end, the needs of the people have prevailed, at least for tonight.

For the past week, Card Shark had been kidnapping the more famous mystics from around the city. Rumor had it that the big man of the organization was trying to make a move on the venerable dragon of the Qi On tong, Mah Sze, by leaving him without a spiritual playbook. While that was enough explanation for the boneheads running the Major Crimes Unit, it left me wondering why the enforcers of the Qi On, the Amber Moon gang, were tearing up every antiques and jewelry store and every pawn shop in Chinatown. They were looking for something called the Jade Dragon, but it didn’t seem to tie into Card Shark building its own Psychic Friends Network.

Around midday, my partner and I rolled on a call that someone had found a couple bodies floating in the river on the east end of Chinatown. I’d been assigned that part of town on account of Patrolman Lo Mo-Bang, my current patrol partner. He spoke five different Asian languages, and was pretty good with English, too. I went along for the ride because of my knowledge of the streets and my instincts. It doesn’t hurt that we’re both mavericks and outcasts, since we both only take money from the city and guff from no one.

The bodies turned out to be some missing sailors from a tramp freighter that plowed into a pier on Owl Bay last week. When the Coast Guard boarded the Yin Gai, there was nobody on board, so they figured it was a weird take on smuggling illegal aliens. Who ever they were, it didn’t take a CSI guy to figure out that someone had beaten both of the guys to death. Lo managed to identify the two from their waterlogged passports, which had been stamped in San Diego a couple of months prior. It was the cell phone one of them carried that brought matters to a head.

As a sailor, I’d guess you’d need a waterproof cell phone, but this one also took pictures. A quick run through the pictures gave us a slightly blurred one of his buddy getting the snot kicked out of him by a woman in gold tights with black accents. The background of the shot, while dark, was distinctly nautical. The bird emblem on her chest was plain to see, though – a firebird, a phoenix. That’s when things clicked and I left a message for Powerhouse.

Three hours later, I was sitting on the hood of my Freetown Ferry in some Pierpoint alley, waiting for her to arrive. Getting caught associating with known vigilantes would not only cost me my badge, but I’d be doing time in prison shortly thereafter. You could probably count the days of my life expectancy in prison on one hand and still have enough fingers left to eat a sandwich.

She strode into the alley like she owned it, throwing back her blonde hair with a toss of her head while she expertly avoid the refuse (human and otherwise) that littered her path. She stopped when she got to the car, pausing to turn and then lean upon the hood. I could feel the front springs depress slightly at her touch, as if the car was supplicating to her. She wore a midnight blue bodysuit with off-white trim, big biker boots, fingerless gloves and a red bandana style mask that covered the upper third of her face and the crown of her head. Pale blue eyes behind that mask blazed coldly on the world, speaking of barely contained violence and rage.

“You said it was urgent,” she said in a low voice.

I nodded. “You ever hear of an assassin called the Golden Phoenix?” I asked.

She turned to look at me, and I barely registered shock in her face before her usual scowl settled back into place. “Came close to knocking off the White Lotus in Lakeport a few years back,” she commented, “She’s a metahuman assassin. The INTERPOL database says she’s pretty quick.” She turned back to study the alley and casually cracked her knuckles.

I nodded again. “She’s here,” I said, “I think she stowed away on that Chinese freighter that crashed around Owl Bay last week.”

It was her turn to nod. “She killed the crew to keep their mouths shut,” Powerhouse commented. “It makes sense, but she still screwed up.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “How’s that?” I asked.

“I would have scuttled the boat and swam ashore than make that kind of an entrance,” she said coolly. “No, that was a publicity stunt. Whoever hired her wanted her to make a statement.”

I shook my head. “A statement to who?” I asked.

“Mah Sze,” she said with a grim smile. “My partner ran the shipping records of the Yin Gai. She’s done business exclusively with only one company in Hudson City.”

I slapped my forehead with an open palm. “The one owned by Mah Sze,” I said and paused while I remembered the name. “Autumn Moon Imports & Exports!”

She nodded again. “Very good,” she commented, “Card Shark has been trying to get a toehold in Chinatown for years, because he wants access to the foreign drug trade. Organic hash and opiates demand premium prices and have the most devoted customer base in the business. My guess is that Card Shark hired the Golden Phoenix to off Mah Sze.”

I mulled it over, and suddenly something snapped into place. “The Jade Dragon,” I said. Powerhouse shot me a confused look. “The Amber Moon gang has been turning Chinatown upside down while looking for something called the Jade Dragon, presumably for their boss, Mah Sze,” I explained. “Mah Sze is what, 75 years old? Some young mover should have displaced him a long time ago, but hasn’t.”

“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” said Powerhouse.

“Traditions are paramount in Chinese culture,” I continued, “but what if this Jade Dragon is a symbol of authority in the tong? Mah Sze would need to pass it to a successor when he wants to step down. If he doesn’t have it, or refuses to give it over, then the next leader could be openly challenged by anyone in the tong! And since he’s got the Amber Moon gang looking high and low for it –“

“—It has either been stolen or lost,” said Powerhouse as she nodded. “That would explain a lot. That also means the kidnappings are a ruse – a way to draw vigilantes and the police away from the real play that Card Shark wants to make, which is assassinating Mah Sze.”

I nodded with a frown. “If I’m right about the Jade Dragon,” I added. “Card Shark’s next kidnapping target is obvious – ‘Father Miguel’ Bressard of that magic shop on Randall Avenue in North Elmview – but we don’t know when they’ll move on him.”

She nodded, still looking down the alley while flexing her hands. “Actually,” she said, “ we do. I got a tip that Card Shark is going to move on Bressard tonight, around ten o’clock. I know the department has some people watching him, so tell them it’s a set up and to be ready for reinforcements to arrive after the first group hits the place.”

I looked at her in confusion. “You’re not going to stop them?” I asked.

She shook her head. “With that many people in the field,” she said, “Card Shark’s manpower will be stretched pretty thin at the hideout where they’re keeping the rest of the mystics, and my informant. I’ll hit them with their pants down and spring the hostages.”

I was still confused. “Where?” I asked.

The grin was feral this time as she balled her hands into fists. “The place where my informant made the call to tip me off. The one she was coerced into making by our mutual enemy,” she said, “That’s where you come in.” She fumbled in the carryall pouch at her waist and passed me a folded Post-It note with a phone number on it. “Find it,” she said.

I felt a wicked grin forming on my features. “That I can do.”

I called back to dispatch to get the information. It took them a couple of minutes to come up with an address for the number. “We’re in luck,” I said as I put away my cell phone, “It’s a landline at 6863 Lennox Street.”

“That’s less than a mile from here,” she said as she he stood up, “Let’s go.” She walked around to the passenger side of the car.

I stood and stared at her. “What about your partner?” I asked.

She stopped with her hand on the door handle and sighed. Her shoulders slumped a bit. “He’s taking a sabbatical,” she said somewhat sadly. She looked me in the eyes with a decidedly vulnerable look. “The Cain Gang messed him up pretty awful last month. He’s talking about hanging it up.”

I nodded in understanding. “Yeah,” I said at last, “That happens a lot in the department, too. Everyone talks about getting back up on the horse that threw you, but you only do it if you love horses.”

Her expression started to harden again and she jerked open the car door. “Yeah,” she said as she got in, “So I’ll go it alone.”

I climbed in behind the wheel. “And what if Golden Phoenix is there?” I asked. “I’m good for a human, but not good enough to get your back against her.” I picked up my spare cell phone and punched in a number. “Let me bring in some backup for you. He’s new, but he’s quick.” My finger hovered over the “send” button.

There was a pregnant pause before she nodded. “You’re still coming along,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

We waited for the new guy a half-hour later in an alley behind a fast food restaurant. The smells of congealing grease, salt, decaying fries and vagrants mingled there as we waited. Several serving trays sat just outside the back door. As we waited, a worker from the store set a tray laden with wrapped burgers and fries on top of the stack a ducked back into the store. Like flies, a swarm of vagrants – mostly youngsters – descended on this platter, grabbing what they could and running to get away from the others. I heard Powerhouse sigh but she said nothing.

“Guess I missed intermission,” said a masculine voice behind my left ear. Both Powerhouse and I whirled and saw the newcomer had arrived. He was an Americanized Japanese man standing five feet and nine inches with an athletic build. His homemade costume was basic but serviceable – a cage mask enclosed the lower half of his face, his hands and lower forearms were swathed in Asian-style boxing wraps. The rest of the outfit was a basic black T-shirt, urban camouflage pants and black work boots. Across his back in a scabbard he wore a katana.

I smiled and glanced over at Powerhouse, who wasn’t smiling. “I guess,” I said sheepishly, “I should have told you that he’s stealthy, too.”

“I’m Nightblade,” he said simply without a trace of accent and bowed slightly before extending a hand toward her.

Powerhouse gave him the once over. “Show me how well you can jump,” she said at last.

Without a word, he sprang straight up from where he was standing, completing a full flip with a half twist in the air to land facing her on the passenger side of the car. She nodded and looked at me. “He’ll do,” she said to me. She turned back to him and said, “I’m Powerhouse. Get in.”

Nightblade had the good sense to speak only when spoken to, though the quieter he got, the more unsettling he became. You can chalk it up to feminine intuition or cop instincts; the guy had murder on his soul and a lot of it. It was almost exactly like having death looking over your shoulder, which is not the best position to be in when driving around Hudson City.

“Nightblade,” I ventured after the silence had dragged out a bit, “do you know anything about the Jade Dragon?”

“Wasn’t that a movie with Jet Li in it?” he asked.

Powerhouse snorted explosively and I had to laugh, too. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said as I turned my junker onto Lennox Street.

The south end of Lennox Street is mostly small commercial buildings and short-term retail spaces where mom and pop enterprises last a season or two before going belly up. A couple of the more successful bail bondsman operations in town have lasted ten years here. It took two runs on the street before we finally located the address, but when we did, it all made a sick sort of sense.

Aces High.

The high-end fern bar occupied the ground floor of the five-story building, which was the only one on the block. The rest of the block was sectioned into parking lots for the neighborhood, and most of them were full. Fortunately, the buildings across the street were just as high and there were alleys behind and amongst them. I killed the lights as soon as we were off of the street and threaded the car into the shadow of a fire escape. We were behind a dumpster which had been recently emptied but still stank of rotting garbage, much to the frustration of the flies in the area.

Powerhouse didn’t bother opening the door, but just slid out of the window of the car. Nightblade followed suit from my side of the car as I pulled my tactical radio and my trusty .45 automatic from the hidden compartment in the back of the glove box. “Comm check,” I breathed into the microphone of my headset as I settled the earpiece in place. “Check,” came Powerhouse’s reply. Nightblade didn’t have a radio, but soon he was on-line as well – I figured that Powerhouse had brought along The Sentinel’s old set.

It took the pair less than a minute to reach the roof of the building across the street. “I count four lookouts on the roof,” whispered Nightblade over the link. “Radios and pistols, and something that looks like a handcuff holder on their belts.”

“Brass knuckles,” corrected Powerhouse, “These guys play rough.”

I peered through my monocular at the building. “No guards at ground level,” I murmured into the link, “and none I can see on the second floor.” I put the monocular down on the dashboard. “Where do you think the hostages are?”

“Top floor,” said Powerhouse, “That’s where I’d stash them.”

“We hang out here much longer,” said Nightblade, “and they’ll spot us. They’re randomly shifting position so nobody gets bored looking at the same piece of real estate.”

“Then let’s do this thing,” said Powerhouse. “Foxtrot, you cover the ground floor. Nothing in a Card Shark costume gets off the block without a fight. Push comes to shove, I’ll buy you another car.”

A few seconds later, I saw Nightblade flying across the gap between buildings, flailing his arms and legs to maintain his balance. Powerhouse probably gave him a boost, I thought as she followed him a few seconds afterwards. The guards on the roof only got off two shots before the fight was over. I couldn’t see much of it from my position, but I caught one of the guards caroming off of one of the rooftop air conditioners, while Nightblade executed a somersault kick on another that sent him flying. Just that quick, it was over.

“Three down,” breathed Powerhouse, “Two of them are up here, the third is in the dumpster out back – if he doesn’t suffocate in garbage, he should live. We’re interrogating the last one now.” A half-minute later, I distinctly heard the impact of another body at ground level. “Correction,” said Powerhouse with obvious glee, “make that two in the dumpster.”

“All’s quiet on the ground,” I whispered. “Next move’s up to you.”

“We have keys from the guards,” said Powerhouse, “We’ll try being sneaky.”

The link went silent and the minutes dragged out. There was no room for error. If the room or rooms the hostages were in were booby trapped, the rescue would go sour very fast. Quite literally, my life was riding on the trust I had invested in these two people to do a job the police could not. While I waited, I slid into my tactical vest, its Kevlar panels both reassuring and smothering at the same time as I began to sweat underneath them. I chambered a round in my pistol and watched the building through my monocular.

Suddenly, I heard a window shatter explosively on the fifth floor. I looked up in time to see a golden-garbed woman diving through the scintillating shards of glass. As I watched, the Golden Phoenix twisted her body as she moved one arm across her body in a throwing motion. Though, I didn’t see it, she must have cast a line up to the corner of the building, because she smoothly pulled out of her death plunge some ten feet above the parking lot, turning it into a soaring arc that carried her across the street and out of my view. “Discretion is the better part of valor,” I said to no one in particular, “but she made that look too easy.” Looking back to the window, I could see smoke billowing out of it, but no sign of anything else.

The link was still silent. A window on another side of the building shattered and an office chair made a ballistic descent to the street. Panicked drivers desperately but expertly avoided wreckage, and went on like nothing had happened. I felt my hackles come up. That is what’s wrong with this town, I thought bitterly; almost nobody is involved in the world around them. It has to come up and take a chunk out of them before they notice how bad it really is. I heard a single burst of automatic fire, but nothing else.

Just when I thought I’d lost the link completely, I heard two pops over the link. Powerhouse had keyed her mike open twice, which was my signal they were okay. My relief was short-lived, however, as a limousine raced into the parking lot with three black-and-whites on its tail. I saw a flash of color in the windows of the limo, and recognized more Card Shark agents. I checked my watch, then keyed open the mike. “The strike team from Father Miguel’s is back!” I growled into the link as I started the car’s engine, “I’m going in to cut them off!”

Without waiting for a response, I threw the car into reverse until I could clear the dumpster, then gunned it forward across the sidewalk, four lanes of late night traffic, the other sidewalk. In retrospect, it was a wonder I didn’t get killed doing just that much – I wasn’t even wearing a seat belt. Regardless, I was into the parking lot and headed straight for the limo, which was rounding the rear of the building and racing back toward the street with at least two of the original trio of police cruisers still in pursuit. I threw the car into a right-handed skid and yanked the emergency brake lever, throwing the length of the car across the lane in front of the onrushing juggernaut.

The impact was beyond anything in my experience. The driver of the limo changed his direction slightly, centering his bumper on the rear axel rather than center-punching my vehicle. As it was, the limo sent my sedan spinning into the row of parked cars next to me. Fortunately, the car was too cheap to have air bags (which would have killed me if they had gone off), but I still got knocked around and wound up on my back in the floorboards on the passenger side. Somehow, I had managed to hold onto the pistol through the whole experience and not shoot myself or anyone else.

I pulled myself up, and saw the limo had gone nose-first into another parked car after the impact. One of the cruisers had piled into the back of it to keep it in place, while another had pulled into position to shield me. The officers were screaming at the occupants of the vehicle to throw out their weapons, release their hostage, and surrender. I noticed that all of these cops were wearing body armor and brandishing shotguns, so I figured they were from the group watching over the Father. The occupants of the limo were screaming that they’d kill the hostage if the cops didn’t back off. It was a classic Mexican Standoff, and the tableau held for ten seconds of frenzied shouting.

As if on cue, Nightblade seemed to come out of nowhere with his katana bared, using it to shatter the limo’s sunroof panel, as Powerhouse ripped one of the limo doors clean off in one savage motion. Nightblade managed to grab Father Miguel and pull him through the hole in the roof as Powerhouse dove into the hornet’s nest inside the limo. There were three shots inside of the vehicle as it lurched and bounced. Cries of defiance quickly turned to screams of pain and terror, and over it all were the sickening cracks of breaking bones and the dull thuds of flesh being subjected to blunt force trauma. Within fifteen seconds, the voices were silenced.

“If you’re mobile, Foxtrot,” said Nightblade’s voice over the link, “you’d better evacuate. Leave no trace.”

I lingered just long enough to slip my weapon in my waistband, fumble my loose equipment into various pockets and slid out the driver’s side window to the parking lot asphalt. From there, I crawled on all fours between several rows of cars before getting clear of the overhead lights and into the shadows of the alleys beyond. As the adrenaline rush faded, I could taste blood in my mouth and smell my own stale sweat trapped inside of the vest. I staggered along for a block or two before my link woke up. “I have you in sight,” assured Nightblade, “I’m on my way, so don’t be surprised.”

I sat down on the steps leading up to a fire door and panted. Nightblade was there a moment later. He helped me out of the tactical vest then gave me a quick damage survey. He fingered a spot on the side of my head, and pain snapped me back to full alertness. “Thought so,” he said, “you bonked your head while playing demolition derby out there.” He sighed heavily. “I’d really like to run you to a hospital so they can check for a concussion, but I know that isn’t going to happen.”

Powerhouse was there, throwing my equipment into an oversized nylon gym bag. “No hospital,” she said to Nightblade, “but I have a place not too far from here with a minimal triage setup. I’ll carry her, you carry the stuff.” Her voice seemed to be coming from a greater distance with each passing second. “Hey catch her!” Powerhouse shouted from a mile away, “She’s passed out.”

When the world snapped back into focus, I was sore, had a terrible headache but was otherwise whole. The place was a basement of some kind and I was lying on a rollaway bed under a wool blanket. I groaned and tried to sit up. I instantly regretted it and flopped back onto the bed, regretting that as well. Powerhouse sat on the bed and looked me over. “No permanent damage,” she said, “so it looks like you’re going to live, though you aren’t going to feel like it for a while.”

I looked around the room, recognizing it at last. I was in The Bunker, the secret subterranean lair of Powerhouse and The Sentinel. “You’ve made some improvements,” I said.

“Three weeks on the city’s wanted list allows one to get some home projects done,” she said with a smile. “I’ve also had time to work on designing a new bad ass costume. It should be ready in a few weeks, provided I live that long.”

I wasn’t used to seeing her smile. “You’re in a good mood,” I observed.

She laughed. “I only get nasty when I’m out on the streets,” she said, “this isn’t exactly me, either, but I don’t want to give away too much about myself.” The smile faded. “I trust you, Faith, but you know that we can’t know too many of each other’s secrets.”

I nodded. “That’s the part of this business I hate the most,” I said as I felt my eyelids getting heavy again.

“Me too,” she said as consciousness slipped away again.

SESSION NOTES

A fairly short session held on Saturday instead of Friday due to a last minute scheduling conflict.

Nightblade has now been introduced, and he is a slightly more combat intensive character than The Sentinel, but still has skills that are not as pronounced in the others.

Barry figured the priorities of the session out early, and made an end-around on my slightly more convoluted plot, while Brad did a good job of playing a still-slightly inexperienced vigilante.

Too many segues – but we were all having fun. It’s too bad the gaming cats photos didn’t turn out for that particular thread.

FUTURE PLOT ELEMENTS

Established that Nightblade has Faith as a contact, so he’ll have to put points toward that in the future.

Jack Kuragawa works as a paramedic for the HCFD, which will allow him to be at key crime scenes before anyone else. Jack’s scene with the shop owner was fun, but he didn’t step in to ask questions like he probably should have. (Not covered in synopsis.)

James Roman has been having issues since his attempted murder by Kandi Cain, but still wants to be with Rhonda. He thinks he’ll just need some time to mull over past sins. Barry did an excellent job during this bit – part of the reason he got an extra experience point. (Not covered in synopsis.)

OVERALL SELF-EVALUATION

This session was sincerely victimized by inability to tie the various plot elements together into a cohesive session outline. I had to rewrite the session outline four times in four days and still wasn’t happy with it until I doctored it over breakfast before the game. I have to remember that DC:TAS isn’t a Sherlock Holmes tale, it’s supposed to be a three-act plot with a fairly linear construction. However, I have this really bad habit of trying to write non-linear sessions, where the characters’ actions are driving the story. I may need some sort of opening vignette that impresses the characters in the game of the importance of getting in motion to solving the problem. Or I’ll have to accept that a session can be fun without actually getting to the final scene and revamp the thing to be Electra-Woman and Dyna-Girl.

SIDEBAR

Barry and Brad expressed some interest in doing a Mystery Men – esque session or two with seriously low powered characters of around 150(!) points, and of course, Barry would also like to do a Cosmic Heroes game like the old JLA with 500+ points per character. I hate shooting down the latter, but it would take some serious number crunching to do that game, and I have a hard enough time with standard-level games.

Also, a big thank you to those of you who have been reading these. I’m glad you’re enjoying them.

And yes, these are being embellished a bit by me to make a slightly more entertaining read. It’s a tradition. J

-- Matt Frisbee 0425 – 27 AUG 2006

 

Enjoy! More to come...

 

Matt "Insane-Carpal-Tunnel-Posse" Frisbee

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

CHARACTER BACKGROUND – NIGHTBLADE (by Brad)

So how does a half-Japanese American become a Yakuza enforcer? Same way every one else does – have a relative in the business.

In 1974, Kenji Takahashi – an up-and-coming Yakuza soldier – was in San Francisco on business. While there, he met a young, naïve college student named April Danvers. Their one-night stand stretched into a torrid one-month relationship, but Kenji’s “family business” eventually brought his stay in the states to an end. April still had college and couldn’t leave, so they parted friends.

Soon after he returns home, Kenji’s venerable father dies an unusual death for a member of the Yakuza – one of natural causes. As the oldest son, Kenji inherits the family’s sole heirloom – the last katana Hitori Hanso made before taking a blood oath against making things that kill people. The blade, stained black with the blood of that oath, was considered by many to be cursed. However, Kenji’s father had died in his sleep after living in comfort and respect to the end of his days, so Kenji kept the sword with him at all times.

By 1979, Kenji had climbed a blood-soaked ladder of success to become leader of the Miyamiji-Kai in Osaka. During this time, he earned a nickname that is still feared throughout the Japanese underworld – The Nightblade. Kenji has a house, a future and permission from the head of the gang in Tokyo to take a wife. After a brief search in the United States, he finds April. He also finds that he has a young son -- Isamu. Overjoyed at his luck, he took both back to Japan.

Sixteen years later, Isamu Takahashi has become a high-ranking soldier in his father’s gang. He has done all that his father has asked of him and much more. He trained in the martial arts of Karate and Kendo until he had mastered both. The discipline of both arts has taught him to be a ruthlessly efficient fighter – a lethal weapon who was his father’s most entrusted lieutenant. Even though his young heart burned for more than the life of a gangster, his honor bound him to his father’s side, if not his fate.

Two more years pass, and Isamu begins to reflect on his dark and violent life. While his father rose to become the Golden Dragon of the Miyamiji-Kai, Isamu had to pass on his own dreams of power to be at his father’s side. Isamu understood his father had made powerful enemies, and that not even the Golden Dragon could escape the vengeance of those who had already lost everything by his hand. Isamu saw the gathering storm clouds but could do nothing to stop the typhoon that was about break upon his father’s house.

The attack was swift, ruthless and brutal. All of Kenji’s enemies had united in their hate and fell as a rain of blood upon that house. No one within the confines of the house lived – save Isamu, who took up his father’s black blade in the heat of battle. The blade cut through both air and sinew with horrific ease, spattering Isamu’s foes with the blood of their comrades, the cursed blade wailing in triumph and sorrow as it blurred around its wielder like a swarm of enraged hornets. Sprays of bullets could not touch him, as the blade swept them aside like so much sleet. The few who witnessed this nightmare of steel and fury could do more than make an insincere plead for mercy before being sent screaming to the underworld.

Suddenly, Isamu realized that there was no one left to fight. The piles of bleeding, twitching mismatched limbs around him offered no further resistance. He also knew there was no one left to defend in the gang. Both his mother and father’s bullet-ridden corpses, and those of his closest friends and associates lay cooling in the rooms behind him in rapidly congealing pools of blood. He could not stay to bury them, for he knew that his only chance at life lay in escape. Pausing only long enough to pray for forgiveness from his family and friends, he took The Nightblade and left Japan forever.

A year later in the United States, Isamu became Jack Kuragawa, a medical student who hoped to atone for his blood-soaked past by helping people instead of hurting them. At medical school, he met Stacy O’Connor. They dates, they fell in love, he proposed, she accepted, they married, and Jack became a paramedic to support Stacy’s dreams of being a doctor. Stacy got pregnant during the final year of school, and Sakura Kuragawa was born just three weeks after Stacy’s graduation.

Stacy eventually found an internship in Hudson City, her hometown. Jack went to work for the HCFD, while Stacy struggled through her internship and then accepted a position as a staff physician. Two more years flew by in wedded bliss for Jack as his daughter learned to walk and talk. Jack had all but forgotten the life Isamu has left behind, but The Nightblade’s curse returned.

On the evening commute last spring, Stacy blundered into the middle of a firefight between Mafioso gunmen and the costumed enforcers of Card Shark. Stacy was hit multiple times and died on the way to the hospital. Jack’s grief plumbed the depths of his soul until he found himself standing on the roof of a building looking into the depths of an artificial canyon of concrete, glass and steel with The Nightblade’s razor edge cutting his palm. He watched his blood trickle down the blade and into the emptiness beyond the lip of his building.

As he watched the blood fall, he could see costumed men on the sidewalk below him. Without thought, he leapt at those who had taken his loving wife from him. None of the enforcers ever had a chance. But instead of lying dead in pieces in the street, the battered gangsters lay in a pile of pain on the sidewalk. The only blood The Nightblade tasted on that night was Jack’s. And on that blood, Jack swore never to use that cursed weapon on another human being.

In the depths of his despair, it was The Nightblade that had saved him. The next day, he embraced his daughter for the first time since her mother died, and took her back home.

Life after Stacy is different for Jack, but Sakura still brings him joy when he most needs it. Sakura still visits her mother’s parents for days at a time, while Jack assumes another identity to hunt the nighttime streets – taking the name of that which had saved him. He is – The Nightblade.

(Thanks to Brad for submitting this to me! I just hope he doesn’t mind that I altered it slightly to fit into the campaign! – Matt)

[longbow]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

No worries Matt, we dont need to do a cosmic adventure.i can olny imagine the pain to set that up.

 

I really like the revision of nightblades bio. I am sorry that mine was really weak but i did have a nice foundation for ya.

 

And Don't be beating yourself up about the adventure it was fine, oyu are the best gm I have ever had. I really mean that, cant wait for the next sesion.

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Thanks for the praise, Longbow!

 

Lucky for you, next session is Friday 09/01! As for the adventure, I really flailed around with the plot, trying to tie together too many elements. In the end, Barry's end around really put a quick end to the session, but at least a satisfying one.

 

As for being hard on myself, well, sometimes I'm my own worst critic. But I have to be harsh sometimes to remind myself not to repeat mistakes. Still, a bad day at the gaming table beats the best day of real world work, so don't think I'm not having fun as well.

 

Matt "Ever-the-critic" Frisbee

[Vassoom]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Still' date=' a bad day at the gaming table beats the best day of real world work, so don't think I'm not having fun as well.[/quote']You know, I say that exact same thing every time I lose at craps.

 

Great writeup! Looking forward to the next one.

 

- Vassoom

[Edsel]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

I copied the session log and character write-up so I can read them once the firewall goes up at work.

 

Out of curiosity do your campaign logs work like mine? We finish a session and I figure that I can bang out a nice summary in a page or two. Six pages later I am wondering how it got so long.

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

I copied the session log and character write-up so I can read them once the firewall goes up at work.

 

Out of curiosity do your campaign logs work like mine? We finish a session and I figure that I can bang out a nice summary in a page or two. Six pages later I am wondering how it got so long.

 

Since I try to make my campaign logs an interesting read, I face the problem of 1) finding the right person in the story to tell the tale and 2) finding the pivotal scenes to include. It usually takes me about six hours of thrashing on the keyboard to get something on the page that doesn't make me want to barf when I read it, but if you walk over to my Bay City Rollers thread in the Champions Forum, you'll get a taste of how I did it when I didn't think other people would be reading it.

 

Again, thanks for both the inspiration and the praise -- and remember that this is all your fault for getting me started with your Weekend Warriors logs!

 

Matt "The-blameless-one" Frisbee

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

SESSION SIX NEWSCAST

"Good morning! It's 7:55 at Newspulse 1050 WCXZ. It's Friday, September 1st, 2006. Time now for the local and regional news brief, brought to you by the Victims Of Lawlessness and Terror Foundation. Wishing you and yours a happy -- and safe -- Labor Day weekend. VoltFoundation.org

"In the news, Hudson City police confirmed this morning that the body of a young Chinese woman found in the Chinatown district yesterday is that of the notorious metahuman assassin Golden Phoenix. The bullet-ridden body was discovered near the south end of the Hite Rail Bridge around eight am yesterday. The infamous assassin had been charged with over one hundred murders around the world. She had most recently been associated with the criminal organization Card Shark in their kidnapping of prominent mystics last week.

"Eyewitnesses to the murder are claiming that the vigilante Renegade was responsible for the death of the Golden Phoenix. While police refuse to discuss the case as their investigation is ongoing, witnesses report seeing the two battling near the docks just west of the Harrison Street bridge. Police were seen collecting evidence from that area yesterday afternoon, but offered no comment to reporters on the scene.

"Preparations are underway for two major street festivals that have become annual events in Hudson City. The Elmview Street Festival gets underway at ten am tomorrow with a 'Parade of Workers' down Parmiter Street. After the parade, the area around Five Points will host a day-long street dance with music from local performers, plus games, food and a large flea market.

"On Monday, the Red Hill Street Festival begins at noon with a Labor Day parade down Platt Street to Janson Field, followed by speeches and live music in and around the field until ten pm. Both events are open to the public.

"Police are investigating a bizarre spree of vandalism in the Guilford district. Over the past three nights, street signs around the area have been replaced with oddly misspelled versions. Although there have been no injuries or other damage associated with the spree, the Department of Public Works is not laughing. Each sign which needs to be replaced will cost the city fifty dollars in material and labor, bringing the total bill for the prank to over one thousand dollars for the city. Police are warning possible copycats to think twice, as the penalty for tampering with or removing public signage is a mandatory five hundred dollar fine and one day in jail for each offense.

"For Felicity McQuade fans, it's not a matter of when, but where? Hudson City's most famous resident actress is going the route of many other Hollywood film stars by trying on a singing career. The story broke last week on the actress' website FelicityMcQuade.com that she would debut her voice at an unrevealed club in the city tomorrow night. Both Hollywood reporters and fans alike have flocked to the city for a chance to be among the first to hear her sing professionally, but no one, as yet, has admitted to having knowledge of the venue.

"For the past two days, armies of reporters have been camping out around Felicity's apartment in Guilford and her condominium in Bankhurst, to no avail. The actress' publicist says that she will arrive in Hudson City incognito later today, and will change her appearance significantly before Saturday's performance. There have reportedly been offers as high as ten thousand dollars to some club owners for information on Felicity's venue from various entertainment news organizations and tabloids.

"The latest traffic report and national news from CNN are next on Newspulse 1050 WCXZ. WCXZ news time is 7:58."

 

More to come...

 

Matt "The-radio-guy" Frisbee

[WimpyBrick]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

 

And yes, these are being embellished a bit by me to make a slightly more entertaining read. It’s a tradition. J

 

-- Matt Frisbee 0425 – 27 AUG 2006

 

I, for one, enjoy the embellishments. Cypher always gets cooler lines when you write it than when I actually get to play him.

 

-Shawn "So, an 18 misses, huh?" Hauk

[longbow]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

I also liike when Matt adds the really cool stuff in his write ups.

 

 

[Vassoom]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

I, for one, enjoy the embellishments. Cypher always gets cooler lines when you write it than when I actually get to play him.

 

-Shawn "So, an 18 misses, huh?" Hauk

 

Nice sig, Shawn.

 

As a fellow GM who also drafts extensive session write-ups, I actually look forward to the significant time it takes to embellish the "original" dialogue and descriptions to match the more intricate story I visualize in my head during the game. In the moment-to-moment improvisation that is role playing, we rarely have the opportunity or the time to come up with the precise words or the ideal phrasing to perfectly match our characters' inner thoughts or the intricacies of the physical world they inhabit...but we all try our best to approximate them as best we can while "in the moment".

 

The extra time during the write-up allows us that chance to truly put to paper the more subtle and exact feelings and perspectives of the characters, making it yet another tremendous opportunity to significantly enhance the storytelling for everyone involved.

 

And I, for one, also appreciate the obvious effort you put into it, Matt. The extremely enjoyable results speak for themselves.

 

- Vassoom

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Okay, Vassoom -- thanks again for the praise. As it stands right now Brad (Nightblade) [longbow] will not be able to make this week's game, so I'm hoping that Shawn (Cypher) [WhimpyBrick] will be able to make it. Barry (Powerhouse) is hosting the space, so I'm pretty sure he'll be there.

 

With this session, I intend to get the campaign back to the tone I originally intended, instead of the gritty exercise in tactics we had last session. But then, sneaking and ambushing is part of the genre, so it wasn't too off base. Still, I'm a big fan of the three-act story with some wiggle room for character development, just because it is easier to write.

 

Usually, I come up with the opposition first, then try to figure out why the characters would be fighting them, which is a holdover from the old school days of my Champions experience where everyone would design combat monsters, pick sides and duke it out. Sometimes, I try to arrange an adventure around a scene I would like to have in the session, but it usually has to happen early on, else the characters have run so far away from the plot that the scene becomes moot.

 

One of the best adventures I ran was a four-color affair where the home city was subject to a natural disaster (severe thunderstorms with a tornado thrown in for good measure). The characters got to be real heroes for a few days as they rescued people, cleared debris, interacted with the general population and the elements of the city government. There were no battles, villains or combat -- just metahumans being humans with powers. That was a very welcome change of pace.

 

Matt "Reminiscing-on-the-old-school-one-step-from-wargaming-goodness" Frisbee

[Edsel]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

My Weekend Warriors Campaign Log reads much more smoothly than the actual game runs. The campaign log is a chance to clairify the story and fix minor continuity problems that crop up.

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Yeah, if I did a verbatum translation of a session, there would be more segues and sideboards than actual roleplaying. Part of that is my fault.

 

Still, since we're all comic book and gaming geeks, the conversation does eventually get back around to the game at hand -- and nobody segues when a fight is in progress...

 

Matt "Roll-dem-bones" Frisbee

[oroborous]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

I forgot I had a copy of this lying around from when I had Hero Designer 2.0. I figured that I would include it here since the other PCs have had their characters posted. Here is an HTML version for those who would just want to print a copy or don't have Hero Designer.

 

In fact, if the PCs don't mind I'd like to transcribe the write-ups on this board into Hero Designer 3.

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

I forgot I had a copy of this lying around from when I had Hero Designer 2.0. I figured that I would include it here since the other PCs have had their characters posted. Here is an HTML version for those who would just want to print a copy or don't have Hero Designer.

 

In fact, if the PCs don't mind I'd like to transcribe the write-ups on this board into Hero Designer 3.

 

I certainly have no objections if you have the time and energy. I'm sure the others won't mind either. Admittedly, we're running this one in 4th Edition rules, but go ahead. I'm looking forward to seeing them.

 

Matt "Curious-George" Frisbee

 

P.S. We did game on Friday, but I've had a busy Labor Day Weekend! I'm hoping to finish the write-up for Session Six tomorrow, and will probably be posting it late Monday night or early Tuesday morning. -- Matt

[oroborous]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

I certainly have no objections if you have the time and energy. I'm sure the others won't mind either. Admittedly' date=' we're running this one in 4th Edition rules, but go ahead. I'm looking forward to seeing them.[/quote']

 

Okay here is Powerhouse in HTML format, as well as a .hdc version.

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Okay here is Powerhouse in HTML format' date=' as well as a .hdc version.[/quote']

 

It looks very nice! The differences between 4th and 5th Editions obvious explain the slight point differential.

 

Session Six Summary is next!

 

Matt "Had-a-great-but-busy-weekend" Frisbee

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

SESSION SIX – 01 SEP 06 “SIGNS, PART I”

 

Starring:

Barry as Powerhouse (AKA Rhonda Savage) & Shawn as Cypher (AKA Jay Dietz)

 

Guest Villains:

Anagram

The Astrologer

Leo the Chemist

Shango

 

Co-Starring:

James Roman

 

Game Dates: 0755 – 01 SEP 06 thru 0230 – 02 SEP 06

 

Session Synopsis

 

Cypher: 0210 – Saturday, September 2, 2006. Bayside.

 

The key to a fighter is the will – the will to endure and overcome mental, physical and/or emotional obstacles. If the fighter has the will to resist, he has the will to fight and the resolve to carry through to the battle’s ending, regardless of the cost to his own faculties. There is no room for fear, no time for hesitation and no allowances for doubt. Once you start a fight, you must have the will to accept nothing less than victory, for death or complete humiliation is all that can be expected from most victorious supervillains.

 

I let that mantra of victory play through my head as I scaled the building in the dark, knowing full well what awaited me inside. The trail, which had started that morning, had led me through the various labyrinths of logic to this place – unanticipated as it was to be the goal of my day’s efforts – at this time to face an adversary with a well-deserved reputation for malice. It was time for me to find out once again if I really had the will to fight crime in whatever form it chooses to take.

 

I finished scaling the wall and took a moment on the roof to catch my breath. The air at the building’s summit was tinged with the salt of the sea, blowing fresh, cool and clean above the stink of the city’s urban decay. The lights of the docks to the east masked the stars while the glare of the city to the west obscured the fat crescent of the setting moon. The roof was old and soft underfoot with creaking members protesting presence with each step.

 

After a dozen careful steps, I came to the ventilator grate. It was three feet on each side and the grate was caked with bird droppings and corrosion. I fumbled around in my jacket’s breast pocket. I carried only two items there – one of them was an auto-injector loaded with a special pharmaceutical cocktail from a mercenary alchemist named Leo the Chemist. My fingers pushed past its smooth cylindrical shape to find the more familiar irregular contours of my multi-tool. Pulling it out, I made quick work of the six screws holding the grate in place. I carefully lifted it out and set it down, then returned my gaze to the vent hole which made a graceful right turn no more than four feet below the opening.

 

“Okay,” I breathed into my tactical headset microphone as I replaced the multi-tool, “I’m ready when you are.”

 

A female voice tinged with a trace of sadistic happiness responded. “Got it,” she said, “Here’s the plan – when you hear the signal, you slip into the building as quietly as you can, find the hostage, shoot her up with the contents of that auto-injector and get her out of there as fast you can.”

 

“Sounds good,” I replied untruthfully, “So what will you be doing?”

 

“Keeping the drama queen’s goons busy,” she replied meaning our adversary, “before I punch his lights out.”

 

“Too bad for him,” I replied, “But one more question – what’s the signal?”

 

“Me kicking in the front door,” she said with mounting tension in her voice, “Just…like…THIS!!”

 

I heard the door explode inward with the force of a gunshot. I swung my body over the lip of the hole, lowering myself slowly to the duct’s interior surface a few feet below. I eased down to my belly and crawled along the duct, hearing the distant sounds of battle in the building below me. Barely a body length beyond the cavernous opening, the duct narrowed down considerably. I crawled forward a foot and a half at a time, hoping Powerhouse could hold our opponents long enough for me to find the hostage and escape.

 

* * *

 

Cypher: 1130 – Friday, September 1, 2006. Elmview.

 

It took an act of vandalism to get my attention. Actually, it was twenty-eight acts of vandalism strung out over three days. Street signs around the Guilford area had been substituted with ones that had added a letter to the name of the street. If you weren’t looking closely, you’d miss it – things like an extra “y” in Taylor Street and the like. The thing that made it odd was the level of detail of the fakes – they looked like and were made of the same material as the originals.

 

It would have been easy to shrug it off as a back to school prank by the students of nearby Hudson City University or one of the area high schools – if it hadn’t been so concentrated. All of the streets intersected with one another – six blocks east to west and eight blocks north to south. That wasn’t random vandalism for the benefit of someone’s camera phone. This particular prank was designed to get media attention. I had to go to the local newsstand to get a paper that listed the streets and their vandalized spellings.

 

On my way back to my apartment, the cell phone I reserve for my alter ego rang. I flipped it open. “Cypher,” I said, adding a strident tone to my voice, “State your name and what you want.”

 

“I’m Larry Guiles,” said the voice on the line, “a reporter for Hollywood Beat. I would like to hire you to find something out for me.”

 

I frowned. Hudson City had been crawling with entertainment reporters and fans of Felicity McQuade for most of the week. The actress was trying to rebound from the beating the critics had given her over last year’s performance in the movie Gemini. Although her presence in the movie helped it make some money, it wasn’t enough for the studios and she had been strangely absent from the tabloids since.

 

Early this year, rumors began to circulate that Felicity was spending a lot of time in Virgin Records’ studios. Her website kept mum about it until last month, announcing that actress was working on a CD release in time for the holidays. Two weeks ago, the website said that she would debut her singing act on September second, but the entertainment section of the paper had bumped it up to that night.

 

There was only one problem: Felicity’s publicists – hoping to avoid a mob scene – did not announce the actual venue in Hudson City. The result was exactly what they wanted – everybody was suddenly spilling mass quantities of ink and burning precious airtime on Felicity McQuade again. The one question still remained unanswered: where?

 

“Uh, hello?” asked Larry from my cell phone, “Are you still there?”

 

“Sorry,” I said, “Got distracted on my end. I presume you want to know where Felicity McQuade is singing tonight.”

 

“You got it,” affirmed Larry, “If you can tell me by six o’clock tonight, my organization will pay you ten grand.”

 

I nearly dropped the phone. People knew that Cypher was not above being a hero for hire on occasion, but Larry was talking about more money than I had ever seen at one time outside a bank vault. It only took me a second to decide. “I’ll get on it,” I said, “You just make sure you have it in cash when I ask for it.”

 

“Right after my organization confirms the singer’s identity,” replied Larry, “which will be no more than two business days after the event. Agreed?”

 

“No,” I said flatly, “You will supply the money when I ask for it or it’s no deal.”

 

The silence on the other end was deafening. “Only after she sings,” said Larry said at last, “not before.”

 

“Deal,” I said, “I’ll be in touch.”

 

Once I returned to my apartment, I hunted up my copy of the game Scrabble. I sorted out fourteen tiles, matching the extra letters in the prank signs. It took three minutes of experimentation before the words “Zodiac” and “Felicity” were staring back at me from the kitchen table. I shook my head in disbelief. It simply could not be that easy.

 

The Zodiac is a dance club that features local talent on occasion, but mostly acts who are running through the busy schedules that club bands on the east coast are forced to endure. I checked the entertainment pages in the paper for a rundown of talent on Saturday and found that only the Zodiac and four other clubs had not advertised their weekend bands.

 

I went to my computer and accessed the public police files of known fugitives. It took five minutes of searching, but I discovered that Anna Graham had sprung herself from Toddberry Asylum two weeks ago, and was wanted in connection with a jailbreak at Oldemyer Prison just a few days later. Anna had apparently figured out how to bypass the keypad locks at Oldemyer as easily as she bypassed similar locks at the asylum. Besides springing William Starkey (AKA The Astrologer), she had also sprung three bush-league supervillains named Bulwark, Whiplash and The Archer.

 

Anagram is all about matching wits with heroes and making them look foolish compared to her, I thought. This little bit with the letters is child’s play! Anyone with a little brain juice could figure this one out! It’s almost as if she wants… I checked the street map again, referencing the streets victimized by the prank and the address of the Zodiac.

 

The Zodiac was almost precisely in the middle of the area bounded by the misspelled street signs.

 

But it couldn’t be right. Kidnapping isn’t Anagram’s modus operandi, I thought. She does property crimes almost exclusively. This whole business of springing another group of supervillains is outside her M.O. And she’s been out of the asylum for two weeks without committing a major crime other than jailbreak. “It’s like she’s running publicity for someone else,” I said to myself, “But who?”

 

* * *

 

Powerhouse: 1230 – Friday, September 1, 2006. Bankhurst.

 

 

In the other room, the phone was ringing.

 

“Linda – “ I began for the tenth time, only to realize, again, that she wasn’t in the office today. She was in Hawaii on a well-deserved vacation. I even let her start her vacation a day early – the poor woman had it so bad that she was humming island tunes for the week before, and had started wearing Hawaiian-print blouses to work.

 

The problem was, it had been a year or two since I had done both Linda’s job and my own at the same time. Fortunately, most of the investors on the Hudson City Stock Exchange had the same attitude toward business with the extended holiday looming and a short trading day on the exchange, so I wasn’t swamped.

 

I remembered the good old days just a couple of years ago when I was just starting out, and only managing my own finances and those of a handful of friends. I watched trends in overseas markets while munching cold Chinese take out food and washing it all down with lukewarm coffee. There were weeks I didn’t sleep as I plotted my moves, building my capital. These days, I juggle over a hundred clients who have hitched their financial futures to my instincts, savvy and judgment. I can sleep at night, knowing that my financial boat is now secure enough to weather the trends of the market.

 

The phone was still ringing.

 

I finally found it behind a stack of paperwork in Linda’s “In” basket and picked it up. “Rhonda Savage Investments,” I said into the receiver.

 

“Shorthanded today?” asked the amused voice on the line. I instantly recognized the voice of James Roman – a fellow investor and occasional boyfriend. It had been more occasional than usual for the past month or so, ever since the villainess Kandi Cain had tried to kill him. Lately, I had been more mother than lover to him as he came to grips with the realization he’d been treating his partners about the same way a baby treats its diapers. The situation had also made me fonder of him than I had been before, seeing the lonely guy behind the playboy façade he offered up to the tabloids.

 

But he was still James Roman – the guy who had dated every girl who was anyone in Hudson City. He had even hooked up with Felicity McQuade for a month a few years back. I remember his sadness in confessing that their relationship was a contrivance of their publicity firms to increase each person’s media exposure. She was an actress playing a part and he played along – but it was all business and no pleasure.

 

It was good to hear a smile in his voice again. It had been awhile.

 

“Well, hello James,” I replied, “Ready to call it quits for the weekend?”

 

“For business purposes,” he said, “I think I’m ready to have a good time this weekend.”

 

“By yourself?” I purred, “Or were you looking for company?”

 

“That depends,” he said, “Because I’m only going to settle for the best kind of company – yours.”

 

“Flatterer,” I chided him, “but I appreciate it.” My tone grew more serious for the next. “Seriously, James, it is great to hear you sounding like your usual perky self.”

 

“I used to sound perky?” he asked with an incredulous tone of voice.

 

“You used to be perky,” I said slyly, “In more ways than one.”

 

“Yeah,” he admitted as his voice lost its enthusiasm. “Rhonda, I want to thank you for seeing me through the past few weeks. I know I haven’t been, well, pleasant to be around, and – “

 

“Hush,” I said to him, “I’m still here, and that should tell you something.”

 

“It does,” he replied, “that’s why I want you with me. Have you ever been to Malta?”

 

That set me back on my heels. “You mean the island in the Mediterranean?” I asked.

 

“Yeah,” he replied with a laugh, “The little one just south of Sicily. Wanna go? We can take my private jet.”

 

I was still in shock. “Um, sure!” I managed, “When do you want to go?”

 

“I was thinking about leaving tonight,” he said, “I still have a few loose ends to tie up here and at home.”

 

“Okay” I said after a beat, “I’ll pack light.”

 

“Great!” he beamed. “I’ll give you a call around eight o’clock.”

 

I hung up the phone and sat for a few moments staring at nothing. “Eat your heart out, Linda,” I said with a smile, “I’m going to Malta!”

 

* * *

 

Cypher: 1320 – Friday, September 1, 2006. Guilford.

 

I have the entire collection of Sherlock Holmes stories in two budget volumes on my bedroom bookshelf. When the title character of those stories had a serious conundrum confronting him, he would sit in front of the fireplace and smoke his pipe until he had come to a conclusion. It was rare indeed that Holmes was confronted by a “three pipe problem,” but it was a ritual he performed to devote his full energies to devising a solution. I’ve noticed the reliance on ritual amongst the detectives of the HCPD as well, back when I was a part of that organization.

 

My ritual is a pilgrimage to Avalon Books in Guilford. The place is not your typical factory floor book warehouse – it has character. There are numerous alcoves designed to set a mood for the types of books that are sold there. My favorite alcove is a recreation of Holmes’ study with a fireplace, worn leather furniture and the faint smell of fine pipe tobacco. Classic mysteries, Victorian era historical texts and puzzle books line the three wooden bookcases placed strategically around the niche and I sat in one of the chairs, staring at the gas-fed flames of the fake fireplace.

 

I found my gaze drawn to the books on the “Puzzles and Games” shelf. Aside from the usual selection of crosswords and word-find books, there was an entire shelf devoted to Sudoku books and another to winning strategies for board and card games. The bottom shelf, however, was devoted to logic and word puzzles. I had been to this section many times over the months since I had left the force, and found some comfort in the haze of dust that cloaked those tomes. My eyes widened in realization – the shelf had been rearranged!

 

I went over to the shelf. The volumes had been arranged in alphabetical order, but no longer. It took me a few moments to realize the current arrangement wasn’t random, but deliberate. Going by the first letter of the authors’ last names yielded “Signs Has Fame” spelled out from left to right. The rightmost tome had a barely protruding bookmark within its covers, so I drew it out slowly.

 

The bookmark was simply a piece of white paperboard with a stylized Roman numeral two on one side. It took me a few moments to realize that it was actually the astrological symbol for a major constellation – Gemini. “Signs has fame,” I murmured to myself, half lost in thought, “If Felicity is ‘fame,’ then ‘signs’ is… The Astrologer.” I shook my head at that, saying, “Then, who is leaving the clues and why?”

 

I turned the book that had contained the bookmark over in my hands. “The History of Logic Puzzles & Word Games,” I read aloud, “by Professor Morton Englewood and Professor Anna Graham!” This was one of the books she wrote back in the happy days before her obsessive/compulsive disorder came to rule her life, transforming her into the villainess Anagram. I turned the book back over, opening it to the marked page. It read “Chapter Seven: Anagrams.”

 

It took me only a moment longer to make my decision. I closed the book as I stood up. I flagged down one of the store’s clerks. “I need a comprehensive book on astrology,” I said.

 

* * *

 

Powerhouse: 1740 – Friday, September 1, 2006. Blackbridge.

 

 

It’s a fairly rare thing for me to be in girly girl mode, but I was doing just that. I had spent the past two hours lost in my closet and posing in front of a full-length mirror, trying on various outfits, desperately trying to find a couple that would soften the hard lines of my superhuman musculature and yet be stylish enough for travel. I had just settled on a bright white sleeveless dress with a flirty skirt that came a couple of inches short of my knees, when the phone rang.

 

It was not my regular landline phone, nor was it my everyday cell phone. It was my other cell phone – the one that was to be called when there were new voicemail messages in the blind message box Powerhouse’s associates and contacts would use. The phone was in a dresser drawer across the room. But, for the first time since I had started my campaign of justice as Powerhouse, instead of rushing over to pick it up, I stared at the drawer. I was suddenly torn by indecision, frozen into immobility. I was caught between the feminine vision in the mirror and the promise of being with…James, or the harsh reality of facing down death or worse at the hands of some scumbag in a nameless dark alley.

 

It rang three times and stopped – the phone’s voicemail would bag the prerecorded message from the other voicemail service. I sat down hard on the bed, scattering the pile of clothing that had accumulated there in my search for something to wear to Malta. I felt my shoulders shake as I made a shuddering sob of frustration. “I don’t know what to do,” I whimpered.

 

And suddenly, I was back in the place where it had all started – Justin Patrick and I cowering behind a lab bench as gunmen filled the air with intermittent sleets of lead from their weapons. Professor Marks lay just a few feet away, writing in agony from a bullet-shattered femur, a bright red streamer of blood spraying from the wound where a bone fragment had severed the femoral artery. He was screaming, but I couldn’t hear him over the roaring echoes of automatic weapons in close quarters.

 

I knew what to do – the professor needed a tourniquet and a splint immediately to survive, but the gunmen were so amped up on adrenaline, they were shooting anything that moved. He was just out of reach, but in the line of fire. Several times, I tried to reach out to him, only to recoil back to safety as bullets and ricochets snapped and whined past me. I began crying uncontrollably, though no one could hear me in the din. “I don’t know what to do,” I sobbed to him, “I don’t know what to do!”

 

And just as suddenly, I was back in my bedroom. My vision swam and tears traced cooling lines on my cheeks as I looked at myself in the mirror. My right hand hurt. I looked at, realizing that I had clenched it so tightly into a fist that my nails had drawn blood from my palm. Back in the mirror, my mouth had formed itself into an-too-familiar line of determination.

 

The fight in the lab was history now. Fourteen people died, including Professor Marks, who bled to death while I watched and could do nothing. Frozen in that horrible tableau, the cosmic ray experiment we had been invited to watch – the one damaged in the firefight – mutated my physiology, forever changing my destiny.

 

I stood as I unclenched my fist. “I’m sorry, James,” I said to my reflection.

 

* * *

 

Cypher: 2026 – Friday, September 1, 2006. Guilford.

 

The man dangled several inches from the rooftop, gurgling slightly around the grip Powerhouse had on his neck. His fingers desperately sought a way to loosen that vice of flesh and bone, but his frantic struggles were no match for the superhuman strength of the woman who held him at arm’s length.

 

“The next time I tell you to do something,” she growled at him, “don’t waive papers in my face, just do it.” She let him drop to the rooftop in a heap and turned her back on him while he coughed and wheezed. “You’ve got ninety seconds to pack your equipment and leave,” she continued, “After that, I’ll start chucking it and you into the river.”

 

Even considering her considerable strength, I doubted she could throw any of the reporter’s equipment that far. But I also knew she would try. In the reporter’s defense, he was from out of town – just one of the many people looking for an angle on Felicity McQuade’s singing career. Anybody who had been working in the business here in town would know that Powerhouse had considerable brawn to match her beauty – I found myself comparing her to Bridgette Nielsen every so often. The locals also know that when she barks, she has the bite to back it up. This one had the good sense to know when he was beaten, and was hastily gathering up his gear and beating a retreat.

 

“That was a little extreme,” I ventured.

 

“I don’t do subtle,” she growled as she cast her gaze to the nightclub across the street. “Are you sure about this?”

 

“Reasonably so,” I said gesturing to the throng in the street below us. “And it would seem I’m not alone in my deductions – at least as far as the street sign vandalism is concerned.”

 

They had been gathering for hours. As I watched the television reports, the little clusters of the hopeful grew larger, their edges beginning to mingle. As the hours ticked by during the afternoon, the large clusters began to merge into the solid mass of humanity now filling the street and sidewalks around the club. The erection of large projection screens on the roof of the Zodiac only seemed to confirm their suspicions, and roars of approval greeted the technicians who put them in place and ran them through their test patterns.

 

“If these people see a helicopter, they’ll stampede the club,” commented Powerhouse as she surveyed the crowd then turned back to me. “So your guess is that The Astrologer and those other goons from the prison break already have McQuade?”

 

I nodded. “That’s my guess,” I replied. “We should find out if I’m right shortly.”

 

 

Just a few seconds later, the screens came to life with the classic facial lines of Felicity McQuade. The masses greeted the image of their idol with a spontaneous outpouring of wild adulation. The moment didn’t last, though, for something was wrong, and the crowd sensed it. “I regret,” she began, “that I cannot be with you tonight. Circumstances beyond my control prevent me from debuting my singing career tonight as I promised. I hope to sing for the world in the near future, but for tonight, I am deeply sorry.”

 

The camera panned away to reveal that Felicity was bound securely to a straight chair. The crowd below gasped and moaned as it took in the scene. Standing next to the actress in a black robe embroidered with silver stars, moons and planets was The Astrologer. His brown hair was held back by a circlet of silver fashioned into a four-pointed star in the center of his forehead. I watched his eyes twitch slightly side to side as he spoke. Reading from cue cards or a teleprompter, I thought. I forced myself not to focus on the waxed Fu Manchu moustache of The Astrologer, but on the surroundings.

 

The two were upon a barren hardwood floor worn matte gray with age. They were in front of heavy red curtains with intricate gold stitching. There seemed to be a second set of curtains behind the red ones, but it was almost impossible to gage a color with the lighting being used. Felicity’s voice had seemed hollow with a lingering echo.

 

“Greetings to that Cancer on this planet – you drooling, vacuous and shallow Felicity McQuade fanatics,” said The Astrologer in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “While you’re picking up the Pisces – I mean, pieces – of your shattered hopes for making actual eye contact with your fantasy object, I will inform you that I have kidnapped her.” Moans and wails of dismay floated up to my ears from the throng.

 

The Astrologer then raised a small pressurized-inhaler unit with a clear mask attachment to the camera. Wordlessly, he clamped it over the face of the bound actress. He then mercilessly tickled the actress’ ribs, administering the contents of the inhaler as the mask muffled Felicity’s tortured laughing. Seconds later, her laughter continued, but she wasn’t making a sound.

 

“This,” said The Astrologer, “is a derivative of the Mother-in-Law plant.” A look of horror crossed Felicity’s face as he continued. “This variant, however, has been tweaked by Leo, my resident chemist. After hearing her sing at the studios of Virgo – sorry, Virgin Records, I’m really doing the world a favor.”

 

The crowd below us stood in stunned silence. Even Powerhouse seemed slightly taken aback by the development. Focus, I reminded myself, get the clues. Don’t let passion rule you. Be detached, be methodical, and be thorough.

 

On the screen, The Astrologer seemed to be amused by the actress’ distress. “Relax, dear,” he said to her in infuriatingly condescending tones, “My chemist has formulated a compound that will counteract the effects, but only if it is administered in the next 24 hours. After that time, the effects will, unfortunately for you, become permanent. But in reality, I don’t think the world was quite ready for your rendition of ‘The Age of Aquarius’anyway.”

 

The Astrologer turned his attention back to the camera. “Her ransom is 12 million dollars, and it is to be delivered to me no later than nine o’clock tomorrow night, which gives you just over 24 hours to pay up. Since you Aries – I mean, airheads, actually shelled out five times that for tickets to see her last waste of celluloid in just one weekend, I’m sure that sort of money will be no problem. But if certain members of the audience can read the signs, and locate me before then, they can join me in the balcony for some hot buttered popcorn while we look to the stars for a sign about the starlet’s future.

 

“Until then, why don’t the rest of you morons go to the Libra – um, library, and read a book for a change?”

 

 

The screens faded to black. I turned to look at Powerhouse, but she had backed away from the lip of the building facing the Zodiac. Her mouth was a hard line of anger. Her eyes were ablaze with rage. She slowly backed up to make a running leap. “Where are you going?” I yelled.

 

“To give that word twisting witch Anagram a message!” she snarled.

 

“What good will that do?” I cried as she planted her back foot and began to throw her weight forward. “The Astrologer is the one we want!”

 

She nodded as she broke into a jog. “The Astrologer is using Anagram’s play book!” she shouted as her pace and speed quickened. She raced the length of the building, planting her last footstep on the lip of the building and launched herself across the gap to the Zodiac in a single bound. Somehow, she managed to avoid all of the temporary technical junk on the roof of the building.

 

Minutes later, the screens above the Zodiac lit again, displaying a simple text message:

 

Utterance Lass,

Coronet Peninsula be someplace in the direction of discovery of oneself. Rally, my own person, upon emerald within Conqueror Ring. Hours of darkness centered is the instance.

-- Generation Station

 

By the light of the screens I saw her launch herself back to the roof upon which I was standing. “Gotta hand it to you,” I said with a grim smile, “That’s going to get her attention. But do you honestly think she’ll respond?”

 

“Anagram can’t resist a challenge of lexicon,” she replied with a disturbing lack of mirth. “She’ll respond.”

 

I nodded. “In the meantime,” I said, “did you notice The Astrologer’s used a bunch of astrological names in his speech?”

 

“Yeah,” she said with a note of irritation, “I presume the drama queen is leaving us a trail of bread crumbs to follow.”

 

“Maybe,” I conceded, “but he specifically mentioned by name seven of the twelve constellations of the Zodiac.” I counted them off on my fingers. “Cancer, Pisces, Leo, Virgo, Aquarius, Aries and Libra – which leaves Capricorn, Gemini, Sagittarius, Scorpio and Taurus.”

 

She nodded in agreement, saying, “I was more focused on that crack about Leo. Leo the Chemist is a mercenary alchemist of sorts, providing all kinds of special compounds for specialized uses. My old partner had some dealings with him in the past. Unfortunately, Leo has climbed under Shango’s protection lately, so he could be a tough nut to crack.”

 

“Why crack him at all?” I asked. “The Astrologer has the antidote – “

 

She cut me off with a savage gesture. “Said he has it,” she said slowly for emphasis, “and he may. But I want some in our pockets, just in case.” She turned to go, tapping her tactical headset. “I’ll be in touch,” she added, and then she was airborne again – a shadow against the glare of the streetlights.

 

I watched her go. I turned back to the screens atop the Zodiac, which were still displaying Powerhouse’s message to Anagram. “Projection screens,” I mumbled to myself and something clicked. I stood there for a moment, weighing the idea. “Balcony,” I intoned, “Hot buttered popcorn.” And then I had it. “Fire curtains!” I cried in triumph, “They were fire curtains!”

 

And then I was moving. I didn’t know where The Astrologer was, but I did know where to look.

 

* * *

 

Powerhouse: 2128 – Friday, September 1, 2006. Garlock, in southwestern Freetown.

 

Shango’s flat was the top floor of a depressingly uninspired ten-story pillar of utilitarian architecture. You could tell it was his place because it was the only one with the shades open. “Like lording over your little corner of the world, don’t you?” I growled to myself as I sized it up from a block away through the cheap plastic lenses of a vending machine telescope.

 

Movement on the roof caught my attention. “Guards,” I breathed as if my voice could carry that far, “Two of them…armed,” I paused squinting through the tiny eyepiece at them as they stopped together. A brief light flared between them, twice.

 

“Smoke break,” I said around a feral smile, “Play time.” I tucked the toy into the carryall pouch where I kept a plastic raincoat and pair of sunglasses, and then I was leaping across rooftops and grabbing some airtime on my way to the roof of Shango’s place.

 

Strong as I am, I couldn’t make the roof in a single bound, so I settled for a fire escape landing five stories up, nestled in the shadows of the building’s parking lot floodlights. My landing was a little rough, so I stuck to the dark places as I clambered up the side of the building, alternating between windowsills slick with years’ accumulations of bird droppings and the corroded, creaking landings of the fire escape. Even though I have excellent night vision, I worried that the guards above me might have night sights on their weapons, so I spent much of the climb agonizing over an approach to the roof that could be unobserved.

 

I carefully pulled myself even with the lip of the building’s roof and hazarded a peek. Both the guards were still dragging on their coffin nails, talking that hyperdrive street jive Freetowners use. I crept over the lip and crouched below it recovering my wind in slow, even breaths. This pair talked with their hands, gesticulating and shouting at times to emphasize what their limited vocabularies could not express adequately with words, but I didn’t care what they had to talk about.

 

Their weapons were slung over their shoulders. I shook my head in disbelief, feeling that dark, ugly part of me – the part that actually enjoys dishing out the pain – lick its chops. “Show me a good time, guys,” I said quietly then sprang at them from the shadows.

 

They never had a chance. I drove my left shoulder hard into the middle of the spine of the guard on that side, sending him tumbling across the expanse of rubberized asphalt roof. I went down to my face and swept the legs out from under the other guard, who went down hard on his side. I used my arms to force myself backwards and mule-kicked him in the chest with the heel of my boot. He pin-wheeled backwards and lay still. Then I was up and moving for the guard I’d blind-sided first, only to find he was already out at the base of one of the building’s air-conditioners.

 

The dent about the size of his head in the unit’s sheet metal just above where he lay told the story. I checked them both for a pulse (which they had) and keys (which the second one had) and then made my way down the roof access stairs.

 

The thin and lanky kid guard watching the hallway was jamming on his iPod with his eyes closed as I crept up to him. I deftly plucked the device from its belt clip and touched the pause button. The guard opened his eyes, but I clamped my hand over his mouth, pinning him to the wall. Keeping him pinned, I crushed the device with one hand, allowing the fragments to tumble out of my hand. “Now that I have your attention,” I whispered, “go tell your boss that I’m here, and I’m waiting.”

 

The kid scampered down the hall and I strode after him at a languid pace, brushing the last crumbs of silicon and plastic from my palm as I went. When I reached the door to Shango’s place, I found it open. “Come on in,” said a rich, bass voice with an accent I couldn’t quite place.

 

I stepped through the doorway and was greeted by surprisingly tasteful décor with a strong African motif. Most places that I had seen attempt the effect wound up looking hopelessly dated. Shango’s place was vibrant, fresh and alive with it. The colors were bright without being artificial and there wasn’t undue emphasis on the art pieces to hammer the point home by looking like a set from Shaft. There was a large semicircular leather couch in the center of the room, flanked by two large end tables. The wet bar in the far corner of the room was unobtrusive but still managed to grab my attention with its richly finished mahogany and gleaming brass accents.

 

“If you’d like a drink,” said the large man I’d somehow missed seeing in the large couch, “please fix yourself one. I gave the help a coffee break.” The man was bald, muscular and his unusually large hands were delicately pecking out a sequence of keystrokes on a laptop next to him. He wore a simple, loose-fitting tunic-styled shirt made of burgundy silk over a pair of perfectly pleated khaki slacks with very expensive leather shoes.

 

“My compliments to your interior decorator,” I said honestly, still drinking in the room’s style and sophistication. “I presume the artworks are the genuine articles.”

 

Shango looked up at me for the first time since I’d entered. He looked imposing even while sprawled across the couch. His smile was wide and white against the glistening dark chocolate color of his skin, and distinctly unsettling. “Where possible,” he acknowledged, “though I admit, I’d commission an artist to capture your unique beauty to grace one of my alcoves, if you’d permit it.”

 

“Thank you, no,” I replied, “I came here looking for Leo the Chemist.”

 

The smile faded as he rolled off of the couch and stood. He was both taller than me and completely unafraid of what I could do. “And I’m just supposed to give him up, is that it?” he asked in a distinctly unpleasant tone of voice. “Suppose I don’t. You going to try to do me the way you rolled those morons of mine on the roof?”

 

I caught myself glancing at the laptop, but Shango caught it and smiled again, nodding. “I didn’t think the front door would be the smart play,” I answered. “As for the rest, well, that depends on you.”

 

“What do you want with him?” he asked.

 

“I need to get something from him,” replied truthfully. “Did you know he’s been freelancing pharmaceuticals?”

 

“I was aware he was selling them,” Shango said slowly, “but never to whom.”

 

“He sold at least two compounds to The Astrologer,” I said, “possibly making your pet alchemist an accessory to a kidnapping, which is a felony. At the very least, the Pearl City’s finest will come calling with a warrant for Leo’s arrest and be looking for any excuse they can find to bust you, too.”

 

“So what are you offering me?” he asked.

 

“An out,” I replied. “My partner and I nail The Astrologer before the cops decide to come looking for Leo.”

 

He thought about it for a moment, then turned his back on me. “Downstairs,” he said, “on the other end of the building, apartment 9-E. You’ll know it by the smell.”

 

I cocked an eyebrow. “Hygiene issues?” I asked.

 

“Hardly,” replied the big man without turning around. “They say that every artist has to suffer for their art to truly be great. When it comes to the art of chemistry, Leo’s not only great – he’s a master. The apartment is his lab.”

 

* * *

 

Cypher: 2307 – Friday, September 1, 2006. Elmview.

 

Five signs, five possibilities, five choices – Taurus, Gemini, Scorpio, Sagittarius and Capricorn. That’s what I faced when I returned to my apartment. After I got back to my apartment, I eliminated one – Gemini. I figured that’s what Anagram had been trying to tell me on her homemade bookmark from the rearranged bookshelf.

 

The Astrologer’s beef with Felicity McQuade was obviously her last movie effort – Gemini. Watching a rental copy on my computer while I kept several Internet search engines busy made me understand why. Aside from a confusing plot about gender-bending twins trying to pull off the perfect murder of a popular college classmate (played by Felicity), there were a number of pseudo-astrology references that were substantially off base.

 

For a guy like The Astrologer, a person who truly believes in the power of the stars over one’s life and destiny, this movie was a slap in the face – much like telling a survivor of the holocaust that the Nazis were just a misguided group of people who were trying to the make the world a better place. It must have incensed him to think that the only reason this movie was in theaters at all was because she was in it. He made it a point to repeatedly insult her fans, the ones he also blamed for giving the movie such wide coverage. He obviously felt that taking away her voice would doom her career. Thus, Gemini is paid in full.

 

And then there were four.

 

Three of the rest I could only speculate about, but it was a speculation with merit. Bulwark, Whiplash and The Archer were all sprung at the same time as The Astrologer. Substituting astrological names for their villainous natures would give us Bulwark as Taurus, Scorpio for Whiplash and Sagittarius for The Archer. Of course, it is just a guess, but it is hard to counter-argue it.

 

And then there was one – Capricorn.

 

I had been running several searches trying to lock down a theater with Capricorn anywhere in the name. It took nearly an hour, but I finally had located a website which talked about saving the old Capricorn theater. The problem was the hookup to the real deal was a dead link. Fortunately, the search engine still had an archived page on file, and from that I got what I needed: The Capricorn Theatre & Cinema in Bayside.

 

I keyed open my tactical headset. “Still awake?” I asked.

 

“Yeah,” came the terse reply from Powerhouse, “You got something?”

 

“A possible hideout for The Astrologer,” I replied, “That old art deco movie theater in Bayside – The Capricorn.”

 

“Makes sense,” she said with a dejected tone, “My lead hit a dead end – Leo says it’ll take four days to formulate an antidote to whatever he cooked up to silence Felicity.”

 

“He could be lying,” I ventured.

 

“Not after what I did to him,” she replied, “The good news is I have something that Leo says will stabilize her until he can make the antidote.”

 

“So I’ll meet you at the theater, then?” I asked.

 

“I have one loose end to wrap up,” she replied, “but you go on ahead and scope the place out. If it looks like you need to raid the place sooner than later, don’t wait for me.”

 

“Understood,” I said with some trepidation, “but I’d prefer you being there. I’m not really the combative type and The Astrologer is going to have backup.”

 

“I’ll do what I can to speed things up on my end,” she said with some uncertainty of her own, “but if I don’t show by one AM, presume I’m not showing up at all.”

 

“You think Anagram will give you trouble?” I asked.

 

“We have some history,” she replied, “and she has a bit of a vindictive streak.”

 

“I could back you up,” I suggested.

 

“No,” she said with a note of finality, “I threw down the gauntlet and she’s going to pick it up. What happens after that will depend on her mental state.”

 

“Got it,” I said, “See you at the scene of the crime.”

 

* * *

 

Powerhouse: 2357 – Friday, September 1, 2006. Crown Point.

 

I was glad I stopped at the all night burger stand on the way to the meet with Anagram. The double cheeseburger and fries went down greasy, but I’d been burning a lot of energy recently and had missed dinner between my primping for James’ weekend getaway and my current situation. The bouncy, bubbly beverage was coming back to haunt me, though, and I had to smother belches to stay stealthy.

 

The Hudson City Heroes were out of town for the extended weekend, entertaining the New York Mets, so the Herodome was quiet and dark. I surveyed the place with my toy telescope, eventually discovering a doorway that had been propped open with the prone form of a security guard. “She’s already here,” I whispered to myself, “so I won’t keep her waiting.”

 

I negotiated the maze of hallways that eventually led to the lowest level of seats in the stadium. Although the playing lights weren’t lit, the maintenance lights provided adequate, if somewhat dim, pools of light around the stadium seats. The playing field was dark, though my enhanced night vision allowed me to spot her. Anagram was waiting for me on a bench just behind the pitcher’s mound, casually munching Cracker Jack from a box beside her.

 

“Come on over,” she called out to me, “Have a seat.” She was dressed in a colorful baseball uniform that retained a crossword motif on the pants’ piping and had “Anagram” in block letters across her chest. She was wearing high-socks with athletic shoes, but had dispensed with the ball cap, allowing her lustrous red tresses to fall softly around her shoulders. Instead of wearing her usual full-face mask, she had on a stylish domino.

 

I leapt to the field and jogged over to the bench – which was padded, no doubt, for the butts of the millionaire athletes who had to sit upon it. Anagram continued to munch tidbits of caramel corn and peanuts as I stood there, finally looking up at me. “I got your message,” she said at last, “though I have to admit that it surprised me at first. I really didn’t think you had it in you to be subtle. Did you make that one up on the spot, or did you need a thesaurus?”

 

“Two of them, actually,” I admitted, “I’ve been saving that one for your next appearance.”

 

“Smart in a different way, then,” she commented as if she were talking about the weather. “That I can respect.” She wiped her hands on her pants and then stretched, cracking her knuckles. “So what do you want to talk about?”

 

“Why you’re helping The Astrologer,” I said, “and why you’re helping us at the same time.”

 

“The former because I’m obligated,” she replied easily, “The latter because I don’t agree with his methods, though I can sympathize with them. My own history with a certain university president bears that out.”

 

“And now he’s repeating the same crime with his own little spin,” I replied. “What kind of obligation do you owe him, to allow such a thing?”

 

She stood and took a step or two away from me. “In order to survive in the supervillain business,” she said with a note of sadness, “you have to be able to network. We all share information about superheroes, current events, possible opportunities and the like to aid those of us who manage to break custody for a while.” She turned back to face me. “But in reality, it’s a way to relieve the crushing boredom of being incarcerated and to fight the depression that invariably settles in from a lack of intellectual stimulation.”

 

“You went out of your way to bust The Astrologer out of his cell at Oldemyer Prison,” I said with an accusation in my voice.

 

“I’ve already been certified as criminally insane,” she said, “But that was strictly a mercenary job. The psychotropic drugs I need to keep a handle on my sanity cost a lot, even before they hit the black market. It’s only when I start running low that my other, highly obsessive/compulsive half comes out to play.”

 

“But if you stay in Toddberry – “ I began.

 

“Yes! I know!” she interrupted, “But let me ask you this – What’s worse? Being in a nuthouse because you really need help forced on you, or being told that even though they can cure you, they can’t ever let you out?” She took off her domino mask and wiped at her eyes. “You have no idea how awful that place is,” she said, her voice trembling, “especially at night before the sedatives take hold – the ones they force-feed the patients just so the staff can get some peace – when the screams of madness, rage and despair echo through those halls, until you realize that you’re doing it too.”

 

Anagram sat down hard on the bench, scattering the remnants of her Cracker Jack, breathing deeply to get a handle on her emotions. I waited until she had wiped her eyes again and replaced her mask before I spoke. “How much of your drug supply is left?” I asked.

 

“About a week,” she said quietly, “After that, the madness will take hold a few days later.”

 

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said, “You give me a list of the drugs you need, and I’ll make the arrangements to get them for you. If you can keep your alter ego under chemical control for a month, I’ll hire some serious psychiatrists and lawyers to get your case reconsidered.”

 

She looked at me with an incredulous expression. “You’d really do that?” she asked and I nodded. Her expression of hope faded, “And what would I have to do to earn it?”

 

“Spill everything you know about the Astrologer’s plan, including the three losers you sprung with him,” I said, “right here and right now.”

 

“And if I don’t?” she asked.

 

“Then I’ll hold you partially responsible for whatever happens to Felicity McQuade,” I said with a darker tone, “by leaving you to the whims of your madness. It’s your choice, but you make it now.”

 

* * *

 

Cypher: 0201 – Saturday, September 2, 2006. Bayside.

 

I had thoroughly checked out the theater by the time Powerhouse arrived. Aside from a couple of cars parked around back, and a panel truck snug against the building’s only loading dock, there was no activity, not even a lookout to warn anyone inside. “Great place for a trap,” I commented when Powerhouse arrived, “The place is an Andrew Lloyd Webber fortress, though I think Ming the Merciless designed the façades, with all those radiator flanges.”

 

We were on the rooftop across the street from the Capricorn, hunkered down behind the building’s elevator equipment shack. So far, though, I hadn’t seen so much as a lookout.

 

Powerhouse shot me a look and bit back a smile before putting her game face back on. “The Astrologer’s got a crew of three borderline metahumans in there,” she said, “plus our hostage. Aside from the notes you’ve been compiling on art deco architecture of the mid 1930’s, have you come up with anything useful?”

 

“There are two possible entry routes,” I replied, “The ventilators from the projection room up behind the ruins of the neon sign,” indicating them with a toss of my head, “or the front doors. Everything else would make too much noise and/or take to much time to get through to keep the element of surprise.”

 

Powerhouse nodded as she stood up. “Good work,” she said giving me a hand up. “You take the scenic route and I’ll take the freeway. Radio me when you’re in position.” And then we both were moving.

 

SESSION NOTES

 

I keep forgetting how quick Shawn is on the draw when it comes to mental challenges. The whole street sign clue thing took him about three minutes to solve, and he spent two of them looking for a set of Scrabble tiles. Barry’s message to Anagram was suitably inspired as well, as he took the scenes when I was working with Shawn to compose it.

 

(In case you didn’t guess it, the gist of the message was an invite for Anagram [utterance Lass] to meet Powerhouse [Generation Station] at the Herodome [upon emerald within Conqueror Ring] at midnight [Hours of darkness centered]. Admittedly, it was synonyms rather than anagrams, but it was still a word puzzle of sorts, and I figured it would still have the desired effect.)

 

Powerhouse may be getting herself into hot water by her offer to aid and abet a known fugitive (Anagram), but she thinks that a sane Anna Graham would be an asset as a contact for her crime-fighting efforts.

 

Cypher played the detective all the way through this session, and made all the right moves, too.

 

OVERALL SELF-EVALUATION

 

It was an excellent, if combat light, session of roleplaying. I awarded both characters 3 XP for their great work. Admittedly, Session Seven is going to get combat heavy, and I’ll probably have to allow for Nightblade to join the fun as well.

 

-- Matt Frisbee 1635 – 04 SEP 2006

 

Thanks for waiting, and I hope you enjoyed it!

 

Matt

[longbow]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Hey I hope you would let me in for the fight.

 

If I had my choice I would play every session but alass I do have someone else that likes my company.

 

It sounded like a real good session cant wait for the next onw.

 

[oroborous]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Here is the HTML version of The Sentinel. The Detect rules must have changed a little bit in 5th edition, because it gave me some trouble. Also, the write-up posted on the board seemed to be lacking any martial arts maneuvers, so I added a few, and I still ended up with a respectable 301 CPs instead of 300.

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Here is the HTML version of The Sentinel. The Detect rules must have changed a little bit in 5th edition' date=' because it gave me some trouble. Also, the write-up posted on the board seemed to be lacking any martial arts maneuvers, so I added a few, and I still ended up with a respectable 301 CPs instead of 300.[/quote']

 

I really like what you did with this one -- heck, I'd run this character if Brad hadn't retired him. But then, I've been a Batman / Daredevil fan for years.

 

Matt "Dark-and-gritty" Frisbee

[Matt Frisbee]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

Hey I hope you would let me in for the fight.

 

If I had my choice I would play every session but alass I do have someone else that likes my company.

 

It sounded like a real good session cant wait for the next onw.

 

 

You're always welcome at my table, my friend. Whenever you can make it is great -- and we all understand about your significant other issues. It just complicates things for me, because I have to either plan on you being there or not, so the advance warnings are a blessing.

 

Matt "Still-the-busy-GM" Frisbee

[Edsel]

Re: Knightshift Stories -- Campaign Log

 

The session six entry was another hit. Well written and very entertaining. I always have a hard time writing accounts in first person since I'm always a little worried about puting words into the mouths of player-characters. That's why I usually stick to the third person perspective.