Speedball

Re: Where'd this base come from I would, but I've already maxxed out my disads, so I can't take "reputation: cheap bastard" I already spent 15 points on "ridiculously wealthy," so I think the rep would be justified, tho.

Re: journal of a hero Entry #7, dated July 30, 2004 Who the Hell was I fooling? Lucy will be here in an hour.

Re: journal of a hero Entry #6, dated July 30, 2004. I flew home this morning ahead of everyone other than Owens, who came with me. I’ve become strong enough to lift a tank (I think) and he’s gotten more protective—I think we’ve found a new definition of irony. Still, it’s a bit of a relief to talk about this with someone. Owens, though he’s been mother hen-ing me near to death, has also been quite good at seeing different angles to this situation; I mentioned to him that I never knew he was smarter than I was before and he said “I’m not smarter: I’m older. That’s the difference between intelligence and wisdom—life experience.” He sounded like my father when he said that, but he said it without smiling—and without a glass of Glenmorangie in his hand. We spent the trip home (or a commercial flight, no less) on laptops, searching the web for information about other “specials,” as Owens likes to call them. I prefer the term meta-human, myself, but let’s not get picky. We poured over Google news, searching for needles in haystacks and found nothing firm. If I’m not the only one, I’m also not the only one who’s decided to keep these abilities secret. What’s not a secret is what kind of attention this would attract if the press got hold of it. God, as if the paparazzi aren’t all up my bum enough as it is. Owens, of course, keeps a scrap book and pulls the damned thing out every time there’s a picture of me in the Sun or the Mirror with a woman—and he acts like he doesn’t have himself a giggle about it. Bastard. Anyway, when we arrived at The Croft [the Windsor family estate in Southern Hertfordshire—ed.] we determined that we should begin making some calls to family friends who might be able to make some discreet and effective inquiries. I haven’t spoken to any of them in months—not since just after dad’s funeral, mostly, but most of them owe us favors in one form or another, so I think that if there’s information out there to be found, I’ll find it. And if there isn’t, well, that’s the next bridge we’ll cross. Speaking of cross—another ridiculous paternity threat. I didn’t even sleep with this one. I don’t understand how they think, that with DNA testing, that we’ll pay child support—or that I’ll just marry some woman who shows up out of the blue. “Barmy gits,” as Saint John-Smyth used to say. That reminds me, actually: it’s been positively ages since I’ve had a proper snog. I should call Lucy—or Cathy. No—best keep my mind on business at hand, as Owens would say. Time for that later.

Re: journal of a hero Here's something that's been sticking in my craw: how do you write the words for someone who's twice as smart as you are? It's like trying to will yourself to be a better chess player. Very frustrating. Still, a nice puzzle to try and get myself out of. Anyway, another installment in a little while.

Re: Where'd this base come from I set aside 18 points for a base when I made a new character for a high-powered game only to discuover that I was the only one! grrrr....

Re: journal of a hero Entry #5, dated July 29, 2004. I've just had what has to be one of the all-time oddest conversations. Owens heard me come back aboard last night after a trip into town. I came back at 3 and Owens, always the mother hen, shuffled out of his stateroom in his robe and slippers--the man's only 45 and he dresses like he's a pensioner. He gave me a Hell of a scolding. It was a real hiding--actually the worst he'd ever given me. I don't think I'd realized until he was laying into me (telling me how dangerous the dark alleys of Alexandria can be for a young white man) that he missed my father almost as much as I do. Even with the realization, I couldn't help but smirk when he asked "and what would you do if someone cornered you with a razor in his hand? Cambridge is a nice place for a certain kind of education, young sir, but I will not have the heir to one of the largest fortunes in Britain dying from a knife wound in a pile of filth!” He took my smile as youthful denial or avoidance. He was about to start in on me again when he noticed I was floating a few inches above the deck. Well, I don’t have to tell you: that shut him up right quick. It was childish, I know, but I’d decided a couple of days before to tell him about what’s been going on and it just seemed like the right moment. Owens, the poor bastard, was totally flummoxed. I’ve never seen him like that. Seems fair, since he’d never seen me fly. We talked for a few hours. He thought of something that I can’t believe I hadn’t: is there anyone else like me?

Re: journal of a hero I feel the same way Storn does about this--I can see the progress in my own writing for this genre as I look back on old posts--and the old stuff can be tough to read. I'm just glad my students aren't on the boards to point out all the typos, grammatical errors, etc.

Re: journal of a hero Thank you both. I find that journalling is a great way to discover the character's background and get into his or her head for more realistic or truer gameplay. I'll keep them coming for as long as they seem useful and interesting.

Re: journal of a hero Thanks, Battlestaff. More: Entry #4, dated July 27, 2004 Egypt now: in the harbor at Alexandria. I had the urge to go somewhere really, truly old to get some perspective on what’s happening. No sign of Margaret—she must’ve flown to see her friend Charlotte in the States. The girl knows how to use her summer breaks, sure. I can’t even remember the last time we spent more than a couple of days in the same house. Well, of course I can: the funeral. That reminds me—Owens gave me granddad’s old journal from the war; he told me dad wanted him to give it to me at the right time. I remember dad talking about what it was like knowing his dad was fighting the Germans up in the air, protecting London in his Hurricane. Other boys at Ashdown House had fathers in the service, of course, though mostly in the Navy. I’m glad that dad didn’t donate everything to the Imperial War Museum; it’s good to have a few things left for the family. Found this in the journal: “The other Group-Captains were all sitting down to tea, discussing the word that our Hurricanes would be swapped out for Spitfires. I told them all to go to Hades. I’ve flown the Spitfire. She’s a fine plane—a real thoroughbred; Fighting’s no job for a thoroughbred, though. What we need is a shire horse—and the Hurricane’s it. She’s as sturdy as Albion herself and capable of bringing down as many bombers as Jerry wants to throw at us.” I’m wandering. I’m forgetting to write down what I picked up this journal to get down. I finally found something I couldn’t lift, for God’s sake. Last night, late, after dinner and an evening wandering from one café to the next, I came back to the Saint George [Windsor’s boat—ed.] and made sure the crew knew I was aboard. I waited a few more minutes, grabbed my rucksack and flew off due South. In the dark I hovered over Alexandria a while, listening to the wind carry people’s conversations upwards, like prayers. I could smell the late dinners cooking—or maybe early breakfasts—and then I set off for the Valley of the Kings. I finally found something heavy enough that I can’t lift it: the pyramids. So that puts my strength somewhere between train-car-lifting (Crete was quite an adventure: my God, the women!) and pyramid-lifting. I wonder how much a train weighs, anyway…

Re: Character for review An interesting write-up and a very flexible character. Is that jpeg going to be her costume? If so, it should be interesting having her on a team with hurricane, who's an inveterate womanizer. "battle? what battle? I'm busy trying to shove pound notes in her g-string!" or something like that..

Re: journal of a hero Entry #3, dated July 20, 2004 I flew. I actually flew.

Re: journal of a hero Entry #2, dated July 19, 2004 I went into town last night, as usual, though this time it was on Patmos, not Rhodes. I had dinner (brilliant, with a decent but not fantastic local wine) and then went for a walk after dark. I needed to be alone. Not to think—I can do that anywhere and I’m sleeping less and less these days (hardly a surprise, considering), so it isn’t like time is short—but to try and find something heavy—really, really heavy. I went to the beach, figuring that I might be lucky enough to find a quiet stretch of beach with some rocks. It took almost an hour. The beach was crammed with bloody kiwis (Sic—ed.) and Yanks having a camp out of some sort. I stopped to chat, seeing as how they were accompanied by some rather fetching young Greek girls, but only to find out that the girls really were young—too young, in fact. Seeing as how none of the kiwis or Yanks spoke a word of Greek, I translated and told them that unless they were careful, they’d end up with a bunch of 15 year olds in their tents and a village worth of brothers and fathers waiting outside with pitchforks and gaffs on the other end of that little adventure. They were annoyed to learn the girls’ ages, but relieved and genuinely thankful that I’d found out for them before there was any irreparable harm and the girls were subsequently shooed off. I promised to stop by their little camp again, thought about inviting them aboard, but thought again when Owens’ frowning face came to mind. Maybe if they could find themselves some women of legal age… I continued on the walk and by midnight found a perfect little stretch. Rocks from the size of my head to the size of a Mini and a Range Rover. Looking around, making sure it was just me, I tentatively began grabbing them and lifting them up. The small ones were easy, but I suspected they would be after the incident with the anchor. What really made my eyebrows arch, though, is that even the bigger rocks, the ones that probably haven’t moved in hundred of years of getting pounded by waves, went right up when I grabbed them. I mean, we’re talking TONS here. I’d say I need a doctor, but I feel so damned good! Plus, when I was holding one of these mini-sized rocks, a hermit crab dropped off it and right down my shirt. It scared the crap out of me (this all has me pretty nervous) and I dropped the rock—right on my foot. I yelled—from the shock of the crab and the rock landing on me—but not from pain. When I lifted the rock again I expected to see a mashed pulp that my body was too dumb to realize had been pulverized. Instead, all I saw were some little red marks like the kind one would get from lying face down on a patterned pillow. I walked back to the launch in a daze. Had to write. I sent an email to Margaret [Windsor’s younger sister—ed.] asking her to come down but didn’t tell her why. I think she’s still in London.

Re: journal of a hero Entry #1, dated July 17, 2004 I had Owens take the launch into Naxos [Greece—ed.] today to get me a blank book—something for me to scribble in. Typically, he brought back three for me to choose from and said we could give the other two the children who always seem to follow us wherever we go, always asking for money. Better a book than money for cigarettes or sweets, I suppose. We’ve been in the Aegean for the better part of the month now and I’ve never felt so relaxed. Exams finished for the last time and a First secured. Funny to think of myself as an alumnus of Christ College rather than as a student, but the next time I play cricket team, it will be as a member of the old boys’ team, not defending against them. Still, while I’ve felt more relaxed, I’ve also felt…strange. There’s no other word for it. Yesterday I swore I felt one the crewmen walking up the gangway toward me as I was sitting with my back towards him. It was the oddest sensation, like he was wading through a pool and I could feel the ripples he was sending out in the water. I’d put it down to the Mediterranean sun, but what happened before breakfast today makes me think twice. Being Sunday, a couple of the crew were in town at Church (or seeing girlfriends?) and after the storm last night, we needed to shore up our anchorage. I decided to give a hand and told Peter I’d go fore and retrieve the anchor and make sure it didn’t get fouled in the line if he operated the windlass from the cabin where he’d have a better view and be able to steer us towards more solid ground for tonight. Now that anchor weighs a good 500 lbs and the windlass is the only way I should’ve been able to maneuver the anchor into its cradle, but I’ll be damned if the windlass didn’t cut out with me standing there, holding the anchor—in one hand. It was probably in my hand for a good five seconds before I realized it—and promptly dropped the damn thing over the side (scraping the Hell out of the hull, by the way) from shock when I did. I’ve heard of mums lifting cars off their children or grannies knocking out muggers, but I always put those stories down to wives’ tales or some bizarre adrenaline rush, but there was nothing like that here. I just stood there with a 500lb anchor in my left hand like it was nothing. What the Hell is happening to me?

[Editor’s note: the following are the contents of Simon Cooper Windsor’s journal; Windsor was a meta-human who emerged in the first wave, exhibiting super-human strength, resilience, and various wind-based powers. Windsor’s identity as a costumed hero was initially kept secret, though his position as a public figure in his civilian identity lead him to be under consistent scrutiny in both aspects of his double life. It is this editor’s contention that Windsor’s journal provides the historian of meta-human society a unique perspective. His insights, while sometimes profound, are mixed with entries that discuss what we might otherwise describe as the bland, everyday concerns of a normal (if very, very wealthy) young man.]

Re: Seeds of Change PBEM Nexus, I just sent you a revised character sheet and a separate email containing my response to your call for the first round of posts. I'd like to recommend that we digest the posts online (at some later point, if not right away) like RDUNeil has been doing, in order to let the rest of herodom lurk and to foster meta-game discussions... Your thoughts?

Re: Seeds of Change PBEM I'll echo that. In the realm of last-minute details, did anyone else put aside some points for a base? Hurricane has 18 he can devote to the cause... Are there just the three players, or are there more of us?

Re: Character Post: Android and Gadget I think that if Android and Hurricane are going to be on a lot of magazine covers and posters together--they're going to wind up the being the next Lennon/McCartney for the teen girl set... Nice character build and background writing.

Re: NewCharacter for Review: Hurricane

Re: Inspirational Reading I'd like to throw in "Motherless Brooklyn," by Jonathan Lethem. The protagonist is one of the quirkiest characters around (and may have inspired TV's "Monk") in that he has Tourette's, but the feel of the novel remains gritty and dark. Plus, it all takes place in my 'hood. A quality read--and might get you thinking about disads in a whole new way.

Re: NewCharacter for Review: Hurricane

Re: Here's the character, now give me a picture I can't draw worth a lick, but if you've got $45 handy, you can hire "the" Storn Cook to draw up a pic for you--he does commissions, and they're excellent. You can check out his work in the Storn Cook art thread. Oh, and "Stan Marsh?" Why don't you name him Timmy? If you're doing an homage to (or ripping off) South Park, you might as well make it complete...

Re: Storn's Art & Characters thread.

Re: Another gun that makes even ME go "WHY?"

Re: Another gun that makes even ME go "WHY?" and the obvious question to come next is. . . what damage would this gun do in hero terms?

Re: NewCharacter for Review: Hurricane A fair question: part of it came from the GM's advice that we have high defenses, since there will be a lot of damage dice being thrown around. Part of it comes from a lack of mechanical knowledge of how to expand the multipower any more and part of it just wanting to play a split brick/EB. oh--and thanks for the noblesse oblige comment. I thought he'd have a little Rudyard Kipling in him.