BoloOfEarth

Many years ago a friend (Luis) and I went to a small gaming convention on the other side of the state.  Luis had found out there was going to be a Car Wars game there, so he and I created a few cars, hoping the GM would okay one of them.  No dice (not really surprising, in retrospect -- I'd imagine some players would bring pretty abusive builds to try to slip past someone), and we had to choose from among the GM's selection of vehicles.  Not a problem, really, though IIRC they were pretty weak / dull creations.
 
Anyway, one of the players had never played Car Wars before, so Luis and I decided to take him under our wings - help him understand what he could and couldn't do, give him some advice, and generally avoided shooting at him so he's have a chance to have some fun.
 
The scenario was basically an arena battle, and was going okay... until the GM decided to roll out his *own* car.  A gas-powered high-speed rammer, that he proceeded to use to one-shot take out players' cars.  It was an extreme example of "GM-I-Wanna-Play".
 
As the GM smashed through car after car, Luis was jotting down numbers.  And then the GM finally got to the newbie's car - smashing right through it with an instant kill, like all the rest.  That's when Luis asked, rather innocently, "How much front armor does that thing have?"  The GM gleefully told him, so proud of his creation.  And Luis said, "Well, even with a ram plate on the front, by my calculation he should have take X points of damage, so this last ramming would have breached his front armor and damaged his engine pretty badly.  His gas-powered engine.  Isn't there a chance for it to explode?"  He pretty much forced the issue, and as luck (or karma) would have it, the GM's car did explode. 
 
All of the players decided that the newbie had effectively killed the big bad and was the winner of the event.  Lots of slapping him on the back and congratulations all around.  Luis managed to turn a potentially crappy experience into a good one for that player. 

A playtest of a D&D game, set in Virginia during the American Civil War, February 1862, playing as Union soldiers and associates hunting down what are effectively land-based privateers.

Me: So basically we’re hunting down an adventuring party.

The Willis Gang used to be ‘bountyhunters’, but have now graduated to general brigandage. We’re playing McAllister’s Scouts and assorted Unionist locals. The brigand’s camp is up in the mountains, and despite the fog we can see they have a number of horses hitched up.

Andy McClintoch: *turns to Injun Joe* Your lot steal horses, don’t they?
Injun Joe: ಠ_ಠ

The lawman attached to the party, one William ‘Bull’ McClintoch and brother of Andy, says he’ll go in first and try to end this peaceful, like. The rest of us exchange glances and prepare covering fire.

‘Bull’: I am the Law! Stand and deliver! Wait, that’s not the law.
Andy OoC: Exact opposite, really.
Module’s writer: In response you get a mouthful of stuff we can no longer say in this shop.

Bull shoots Willis’ pistol out of his hand, grapples him, and cuffs him in one round.

Andy: That’s my brother.

There’s somebody else in the building that the bushwhackers are holed up in - one Major George Planter, who tried to take over the town for the Confederacy at the start of the war. He sounds a bit upset about our arrival. Andy discovers the half-hidden back exit on the cabin, and grins. While the rest of the scouts set the cabin on fire, and try to bash in the front door, some of us will be lurking near their escape route waiting for the Major and his allies to sneak out. It helps that in bear country, the doors open outwards and the hinges are on the outside.

Of course, the cave mouth in the hillside near the campsite is probably going to be relevant. Especially since it’s full of Confederate troops. Still, we manage to pull a victory out of our collective arses - Buck & Shot ammunition is a useful thing for firing into crowded cabins and caves. Bayonet training is also handy.

Andy: I got no problems about stabbing a rebel in the back. My brother might, but I ain’t him.

The surviving bushwackers and Confederates in the cabin are choking on smoke in the cabin while we help ourselves to the coffee they had brewing on the fire outside. The wounded corporal in the cave is a McClintoch cousin.

Bull: Went and joined the Confederates, did ya?
Cousin Reb: They were mighty convincin’.
Bull: Well, don’t give me any trouble and I’ll get you some coffee.

Then Bull finds the pen of ‘contraband’ in the back of the cave, and elbows his cousin unconscious.

Bull: On second thoughts, no coffee for you.

There’s a white boy in here too, carrying a satchel with letters of commission for company officers under Planter’s command, and some useful letters from the Confederate governor.

Andy: Hey! You guys in the cabin! You know we hang bushwhackers, right? But if you come out dressed as rebels we have to treat you fairly.
GM: They don’t have any spare uniforms.
Andy: I know >:D
 

Absolutely.  Obviously being in a superheroic world, there is leeway to introduce fantastical elements.
 
I think the Gothic backdrop provides for something that visually lifts it out of typical police procedural, the superhero world allows for elements of colour in contrast to that Gothic world.  It would need a responsible attitude to villains like Joker. If you make Joker casually homicidal then you raise stakes about killing him, if you use him as a challenge to Batman's ingenuity then you have puzzles with high stakes IF Batman cannot deliver.  In Dark Knight Batman fails to stop either of the explosions set up by the Joker.  In this series he should find a way for noone to die and possibly prevent both explosions.
 
I want my superheroes to start being not only heroic, but superheroic. 
 
Doc

ARES Arms CEO Wayne Fairborn: "Gentlemen I welcome you to this demonstration of our latest product...the Spartan MK7!"
 
(The gathered crowd of military and private contractors gape as the armored figure flies at them from around a mesa in a dramatic reveal)
 
Fairborn: "Yes it is quite impressive. Functioning VTOL system and capable of reaching just below supersonic speeds. The armor design protects the user from environmental extremes with a built in oxygen supply and filtering system to block toxins. It can withstand repeated fire from high caliber armor piercing rounds, high explosives, fire, electrical attack...basically anything and everything has been thrown at the Spartan and it's still standing."
 
General Andrew West: "Armaments?"
 
Fairborn: "Ah yes, always interested in the flashy toys eh General? The Spartan is equipped with two railgun pistols that can deliver high velocity rounds with deadly accuracy and the pilots aim is enhanced by an on board hud targeting system. This hud also gives access to GPS, satilitte tracking, worldside communications and I believe SiriusXM. The pilot's reflexes and strength are also enhanced by the armor and they can easily manuver in the air, lift several tons and deliver devastating hand to hand damage. Now enough talk...let's get the demo going shall we? Jensen let's begin!"
 
Spartan Armor: "Oh I am sorry Mr. Fairforn...Jensen was...indisposed."
 
(Shock erupts across Fairborn's face as he stares up at his creation)
 
Fairborn: "My God...Waingro?!"
 
Spartan Armor: "I won't be using that name anymore. Now...I am IRON SPARTACUS!"
 
(Iron Spartacus draws his railguns as the crowd begins to panic and Fairborn futilely raises his hands in surrender)
 
 

To be specific, it would be a Minor Transform if the Dependence (Addiction) Complication being added is 10 points or less, and a Major Transform if the Dependence (Addiction) is 15-20 points.
 
If her AoE Mind Control is Cumulative, I'd just link a smaller Transform to it (Transform is inherently cumulative unless bought as All or Nothing), with the Limitation that it doesn't take effect until EGO+30 is achieved from the Mind Control, even if > 2x BODY is rolled.
 

"Mr. Crandall.  Mr. Dugan is here to see you."

Lawrence Crandall pressed the button on the intercom.  "Send him in, please, Michelle."  He adjusted his tie and smoothed down some loose wisps of snow-white hair. 
 
A few moments later, a man in his mid-20s entered the office.  His rumpled suit and the camcorder he was carrying both looked like they had seen better days.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Crandall.  Or should I say Battlestar?" 

Crandall grinned.  "I haven't put on the Battlestar suit in nearly two decades.  Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dugan."  The two shook hands, and the reporter sat in the chair across from Crandall's desk.  "Since you know about me being Battlestar, I'm guessing you know that I worked with your father on a number of cases prior to my retirement.  You won't remember but I met you, Tommy, back when you were a toddler.  Tell me, how is ol' Jimmy doing these days?"

"Enjoying his retirement.  I think he's up in Alaska this month."  The young reporter seemed uncomfortable talking about his father and quickly changed the subject.  "So, I understand you're starting a new superhero team."
 
Crandall smiled and nodded.  "Straight to business; I like that.  Yes, with the recent rash of supercrime in San Angelo, including several attacks on Crandall Industries facilities, I've decided it's time our fair city had an official superhero team again.    I've contacted four individuals who agreed to come here and help restore order.  CI will be donating one of our closed factories and a few million dollars to help turn it into their base."
 
Tommy Dugan nodded as he jotted down notes.  "So Battlestar will be coming out of retirement to lead this team?"  He was surprised to see Crandall shake his head.
 
"No.  For one thing, that battlesuit is so old it would take a fortune to bring it up to snuff.  And for another... off the record?"  Dugan nodded, and Crandall continued.  "I have a heart condition.  Pretty major one.  If I tried the superhero gig again, I'd probably have a fatal heart attack within a month.  No, this team will be all new.  I'm just going to help them get off the ground; after that, they'll be charting their own course."
 
"Does this team have a name?"
 
"We've been tossing a few names around.  I think we're leaning toward Citadel, but that's not etched in stone."  Crandall slid a few papers across the desk to Dugan.  "Here's the press release to bring you up to speed.  I'm hoping I can talk you into putting together a nice feature piece on SNN.  Interviews, maybe a ride-along on their first week."
 
Dugan started reading the press release and looked up in surprise.  "Bulwark?  That growth brick out of St. Louis?  I heard Chicago tried to recruit him away when S-Squad disbanded, but he turned them down flat.  How'd you talk him into coming to San Angelo?"
 
"Off the record again -- he has a... family member who moved out here.  I can't say who, or what relation, but Bulwark wanted to stay close by.  Of course, there was some financial compensation as well, but mainly it was to be close to his, um, his family member."
 
"This one, Reprisal, looks familiar."  Dugan squinted at the picture, then read the blurb about the young man with the gun and knife.  "Wait... he wouldn't be Vengeance, would he?  That vigilante out of Miami, took out a drug smuggling ring.  This kinda looks like his mask.  Isn't he wanted for tossing the head of DVS Security off a roof?"
 
Crandall gritted his teeth.  How the heck did he make that connection?  he thought.  Bright lad, just like his father.  Best to not get caught in a web of lies, though.  I just hope he'll play ball.  "Officially, no.  Vengeance has long black hair, while Reprisal's a buzz-cut blonde.  V uses a rifle, and Reprisal carries a pistol.  Off the record... he's trying to make a new start.  That guy he tossed off the roof had ordered V's daughter killed, plus a bunch of others, but he was Teflon coated - nothing was sticking to him.  I'm not trying to justify V's actions - he and I have talked about this, and he knows he can't be judge, jury, and executioner."  He looked Dugan in the eye.  "Tommy, believe me, he feels horrible about stepping over that line.  I don't think he'll ever go that far again."  He paused.  "I'm not going to insult you by trying to tell you what you can and can't report.  All I ask is that, before you say anything on-air, you have an off-the-books sit-down with him, and then we go from there."
 
"Fair enough," said Dugan after a long pause.  "So, what's the deal with Ronina?  Aren't you going a bit risque?  I thought ninjas typically wore a bit more clothing."
 
With a chuckle, Crandall nodded.  "They usually do - unless their skin can project light.  Ronina can shine like a mini-star, creating a blinding field only she can see through.  The more skin showing, the more light she projects.  Not for publication yet, but she can also make laser beams and even create an energy katana, though she prefers her steel one.  But if you don't mind, I'd like stuff like that to be a nice surprise for the bad guys."  He paused, then added, "Strictly CvK by the way.  Light powers aside, she has phenomenal control with that blade, can disarm people and take 'em down without drawing blood.  I'd say she can cut the wings off a fly, but she wouldn't hurt one."
 
"This last guy, Zat," Dugan said.  "Isn't he that teen mutant the Purity League tried to take down at some community college in Texas?  Took out all their high-tech weapons with an EMP.  Also trashed every smartphone and laptop in a half-kilometer radius, which made a lot of people unhappy."
 
"That's right, you've got a good eye," said Crandall.  "Electrical and magnetic powers.  I convinced him there's safety in numbers and got him a transfer to U-C San Angelo.  We're working with him on controlling his power so we don't have a repeat of that EMP incident.  He's a quick study, can already generate a taser-like blast that'll incapacitate VIPER agents like nobody's business.  Also not for publication, but he's working on riding magnetic lines of force to fly - kinda sorta.  Currently, he's either pushing himself away from or pulling himself toward large ferrous objects, but it looks like flying, and we're hoping with experience he'll learn how to 'surf' Earth's magnetic field."  He stood up.  "So, Tommy, are you ready to meet the team?"

Well, you do have to do as your boss says...

Well, you do have to do as your boss says...

This would be a classic example of a Transform.
 
It would be a  Limited Power only to targets she had achieved the EGO+30 against and either Constant or Damage Over Time, shutting off whenever the target makes a breakout roll for the Mental Power.

I don't.  They're required to be at least partially clothed, to meet Comics Code criteria.

"Mr. Crandall.  Mr. Dugan is here to see you."

Lawrence Crandall pressed the button on the intercom.  "Send him in, please, Michelle."  He adjusted his tie and smoothed down some loose wisps of snow-white hair. 
 
A few moments later, a man in his mid-20s entered the office.  His rumpled suit and the camcorder he was carrying both looked like they had seen better days.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Crandall.  Or should I say Battlestar?" 

Crandall grinned.  "I haven't put on the Battlestar suit in nearly two decades.  Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dugan."  The two shook hands, and the reporter sat in the chair across from Crandall's desk.  "Since you know about me being Battlestar, I'm guessing you know that I worked with your father on a number of cases prior to my retirement.  You won't remember but I met you, Tommy, back when you were a toddler.  Tell me, how is ol' Jimmy doing these days?"

"Enjoying his retirement.  I think he's up in Alaska this month."  The young reporter seemed uncomfortable talking about his father and quickly changed the subject.  "So, I understand you're starting a new superhero team."
 
Crandall smiled and nodded.  "Straight to business; I like that.  Yes, with the recent rash of supercrime in San Angelo, including several attacks on Crandall Industries facilities, I've decided it's time our fair city had an official superhero team again.    I've contacted four individuals who agreed to come here and help restore order.  CI will be donating one of our closed factories and a few million dollars to help turn it into their base."
 
Tommy Dugan nodded as he jotted down notes.  "So Battlestar will be coming out of retirement to lead this team?"  He was surprised to see Crandall shake his head.
 
"No.  For one thing, that battlesuit is so old it would take a fortune to bring it up to snuff.  And for another... off the record?"  Dugan nodded, and Crandall continued.  "I have a heart condition.  Pretty major one.  If I tried the superhero gig again, I'd probably have a fatal heart attack within a month.  No, this team will be all new.  I'm just going to help them get off the ground; after that, they'll be charting their own course."
 
"Does this team have a name?"
 
"We've been tossing a few names around.  I think we're leaning toward Citadel, but that's not etched in stone."  Crandall slid a few papers across the desk to Dugan.  "Here's the press release to bring you up to speed.  I'm hoping I can talk you into putting together a nice feature piece on SNN.  Interviews, maybe a ride-along on their first week."
 
Dugan started reading the press release and looked up in surprise.  "Bulwark?  That growth brick out of St. Louis?  I heard Chicago tried to recruit him away when S-Squad disbanded, but he turned them down flat.  How'd you talk him into coming to San Angelo?"
 
"Off the record again -- he has a... family member who moved out here.  I can't say who, or what relation, but Bulwark wanted to stay close by.  Of course, there was some financial compensation as well, but mainly it was to be close to his, um, his family member."
 
"This one, Reprisal, looks familiar."  Dugan squinted at the picture, then read the blurb about the young man with the gun and knife.  "Wait... he wouldn't be Vengeance, would he?  That vigilante out of Miami, took out a drug smuggling ring.  This kinda looks like his mask.  Isn't he wanted for tossing the head of DVS Security off a roof?"
 
Crandall gritted his teeth.  How the heck did he make that connection?  he thought.  Bright lad, just like his father.  Best to not get caught in a web of lies, though.  I just hope he'll play ball.  "Officially, no.  Vengeance has long black hair, while Reprisal's a buzz-cut blonde.  V uses a rifle, and Reprisal carries a pistol.  Off the record... he's trying to make a new start.  That guy he tossed off the roof had ordered V's daughter killed, plus a bunch of others, but he was Teflon coated - nothing was sticking to him.  I'm not trying to justify V's actions - he and I have talked about this, and he knows he can't be judge, jury, and executioner."  He looked Dugan in the eye.  "Tommy, believe me, he feels horrible about stepping over that line.  I don't think he'll ever go that far again."  He paused.  "I'm not going to insult you by trying to tell you what you can and can't report.  All I ask is that, before you say anything on-air, you have an off-the-books sit-down with him, and then we go from there."
 
"Fair enough," said Dugan after a long pause.  "So, what's the deal with Ronina?  Aren't you going a bit risque?  I thought ninjas typically wore a bit more clothing."
 
With a chuckle, Crandall nodded.  "They usually do - unless their skin can project light.  Ronina can shine like a mini-star, creating a blinding field only she can see through.  The more skin showing, the more light she projects.  Not for publication yet, but she can also make laser beams and even create an energy katana, though she prefers her steel one.  But if you don't mind, I'd like stuff like that to be a nice surprise for the bad guys."  He paused, then added, "Strictly CvK by the way.  Light powers aside, she has phenomenal control with that blade, can disarm people and take 'em down without drawing blood.  I'd say she can cut the wings off a fly, but she wouldn't hurt one."
 
"This last guy, Zat," Dugan said.  "Isn't he that teen mutant the Purity League tried to take down at some community college in Texas?  Took out all their high-tech weapons with an EMP.  Also trashed every smartphone and laptop in a half-kilometer radius, which made a lot of people unhappy."
 
"That's right, you've got a good eye," said Crandall.  "Electrical and magnetic powers.  I convinced him there's safety in numbers and got him a transfer to U-C San Angelo.  We're working with him on controlling his power so we don't have a repeat of that EMP incident.  He's a quick study, can already generate a taser-like blast that'll incapacitate VIPER agents like nobody's business.  Also not for publication, but he's working on riding magnetic lines of force to fly - kinda sorta.  Currently, he's either pushing himself away from or pulling himself toward large ferrous objects, but it looks like flying, and we're hoping with experience he'll learn how to 'surf' Earth's magnetic field."  He stood up.  "So, Tommy, are you ready to meet the team?"

It was the dinosaurs, wasn't it?     I mean, when I first saw it, I thought "meh.  random over-anatomized Barbie clone in spandex, posing in the water---
 
then I saw the dinosaurs.  That made it awesome!
 
 
 
Same.  My search-fu is weak, Dude.
 
 
 
Don't sweat it.  We have similar opinions on down voters, it seems.  I mean, I don't wish them ill, but I do wish them the spine to explain themselves.  And I promise you, I don't do it.
 
Now I have _never_ played this game before  (it's a time thing, usually), but the dinosaurs were so damned cool I wanted to take a shot at it.
 
Moving forward:
 
 
      "General Cribbs, that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
The words hit the general like a boot in the gut.  It's one thing to be randomly called out, but when the President of the United States stands up just so he can more cleanly point a finger directly at you in the middle of a locked-door planning session.... well, it's hard not to take that personally.  Cribbs took a moment to consider his next statement, and to make sure the humiliation he felt was securely locked and under control.  
   Finally, he spoke.  "Mr. President, it is with all due respect that I am going to go back over everything that was said here.  I want to make it perfectly clear to---"  he caught himself, and corrected almost completely without a hitch-- "everyone in this room  just why this is not just a vital proposal, but a necessary one."  He sat, unflinching, waiting to be shut down or allowed to continue.
   "All right, Cribbs," the President acquiesced, almost smugly, "let's hear just why we need yet another Flag Suit."  The most powerful man in the free world mistook the half-second of silence while the General framed his thoughts as a sign that perhaps the General himself had lost faith in the whole ridiculous plan:  "No; _please_, General! "he oozed sarcastic obsequiousness.  "You _have_ the floor."
   'One day,' Cribbs thought to himself, 'that little Ivy League snot is going to realize that not a single one of those halfwits that voted for him is going to lift a finger-- let alone a gun-- to defend him should we be overrun.  One day he will figure out that the people in this room-- the people he sits here and patronizes and insults before going on television to brag about our lack of need for a defense budget-- are the only people here willing to fight to keep his dumb ass alive.'  He sighed, wishing almost whole-heartedly that this was that day.  'No.  Not yet.  If this works-- God help us, if either he or Congress one signs off on this, then that day may never have to come.'  Finally, he spoke aloud:
 
    "Mr. President, as you know, our position in world politics is laughable, and has been since the War for American Independence.  Tradition blames this on our getting our start as a free nation by aligning ourselves with France.  I disagree, of course: without a wealthy European ally at that time, our independence would not have even been possible.   However, the United States of America has never really managed to rise to a place of prominence in the world political or economic theaters, and our prolonged policy of isolation has done nothing to improve our position."
    "Explain yourself, General!" snapped someone from behind him.
    "We have stayed out of every event that shaped the world from the time we gained independence.  It doesn't take a scholar to note that every single participant in World War 1 today banks on the fact that they rose to the occasion to stop war, to stop evil.  That today they all enjoy the technological and manufacturing principles developed under the strains of that war.   Then again in World War 2: we stayed out of it.  The Russians stopped the Nazis as they marched toward Asia, and they followed the German retreat all the way into the heart of Germany itself.  We ignored cries from our eldest and even our first ally, first as the Nazis tore down their infrastructures, then again when the Russians came through planting flags.    Mr. President, the United States of America, Australia, and in their own unique way Scotland-- once all under the rule of the mightiest empire ever to live, are today the last two-and-a-half nations on the globe that speak English."
   "That's not entirely true!"  the President smirked.  "I think if you'll check, the Canadians speak english--"
   "Yes; the border states of Canadia speak _some_ english!  And why is that?  Did anyone in the Free States of Canadia speak English before 1962?  No!  They did not.  They _learned_ English, en masse, in 1963, for the sole purpose of taunting and jeering at us until 1969, when we were forced to admit that empire building was not our forte, and that our prolonged sieged was going nowhere.  The last free people of Eastern France-- our first ally, for the love of all that's just-- sailed across an ocean just to _give_ weapons to Canadia as a retribution for our completely ignoring their pleas during not one, but THREE separate invasions!
   "And what did Canadia do with them?  Tell me!  What did Canadia do with the cutting-edge military hardware that was -given_ to them, without asking, by our former ally?  They made fools of us with them, that's what they did!"
   No one spoke.  Every face was looking down, protected against eye contact.  Everyone in this room was alive during the Expansionist Wars.  Everyone remembered how the Canadians, a people without even a military, at that time, had sent volunteers armed with beautiful and fascinating weapons, routed the Americans and their brass-and-wood cap-and-ball weaponry at every skirmish.  Canadia had no military, but had sent food stuffs and wealth and engineers to the allies in both World Wars, and had been invited to play on the world stage.  She gained new technologies and manufacturing techniques, became a world leader, and today dominates the western half of the globe.  Everyone in this room was powerful and wealthy, at least by American standards.  And every one one of them knew that when they left this meeting, they would ride to their homes in chauffeur-driven limousines of various Canadian makes.  No one of worth wanted to be caught in one of the open-wheeled,smoke belching, steam-driven American monstrosities.
   "No one?  No one at all?   They _THREW THEM AT US!  That's right; pretend you don't know!  Pretend you don't know that in 1968 the Prime Minister of Canadia decided that the United States of America was such a militaristic joke that he ordered the construction of over one thousand trebuchets, and on Christmas Day, 1968, began the Twelve Day Siege, throwing a million or more tons of technology-- weapons, assembly lines, massive computer banks, tanks, cars, even maglev train cars!-- on the camps of American soldiers, desperately trying to hold the territories they had captured during the war--"  his voice had crescendoed, and here it snapped; flattened.  He spat the next few words-- "All twelve thousand feet of it."
    They all knew it was true.  In years of siege, at the cost of nearly two million American lives, and almost seven hundred Canadian lives, the United States of America had managed to push their northern border less than seven miles into the nation of Canadia.
  "We are a joke, _gentlemen_"  he stressed hard on that last word, knowing that each of these assembled individuals lived as high and dandy aristocrats on nothing but the last of the wealth of the United States.  There was little left that wasn't silver or coal.  The Aztecs...
   Oh, the Aztecs....  Once, there was no serious trouble between the US and Azteka.  Once disputes were settled between men, as often as not with a revolver against an Aztec spear.  Those were glory days, then.  American superiority.  The Aztecs were welcome to use the river, but never to cross it.  Then the gold.  When the word got out that Gold had been discovered in California, well the Aztecs wanted it, too.  Upward they came, as an army-- even recruiting the Reds straight off the reservations, marrying them into tribe after tribe.....  The gold in California, the copper in Nevada...   America had been unable to defend even its own lands.
   The Atecs left, of course, but not until the metals were gone.  Some stayed, and their cities were dangerous places, the residents declaring them to be conquered trophies for the nation of Azteka.  No American would admit it, even though he knew it was true.  There never had been a reason for them to leave: with no wealth to draw American settlers westward and no American interests to defend-- and in the twentieth century the massive influx of commie Chinese trying to take land for who knows what reason-- and the only force fighting against these Asian invaders?  The stinking Aztec invaders!  Finally, tiring of Canadia's demand that they do something to stem the tide of Aztec migrants sneaking into Canadia through US soil, the government very quietly ceded everything west of the Rockies to Azteka.  It didn't stay quiet for long, though.
   "How about it, Gentlemen?  Can't say anything?  Then answer me this:  How many Americans does it take to change a light bulb?  Or this:  Did you hear about the American Submarine?  It's got screen doors!  Why does the new American Navy use glass bottom boats?!"  He began to froth, the muscles in his neck tightening to the point that his starched collar was restricting bloodflow from his purpling face.  "What the HELL is wrong with you?!  Why is this okay with you?!  We are the absolute most hated nation on the face of this earth!  Those that don't hate us just point and laugh at how ridiculous it is to see a third world county try so very hard to play on the international scene.  What do we do?  We try to _buy_ respect?!  With _what_?!  Our reparations to Canadia have cost us the oil reserves of Alaska!  The Aztecs have taken our precious metals!  We gave them a fifth of our continental holdings just because they were doing a better job defending it against people who had to come here in ships!  This is lunacy--"
 "And _your_ suggestion" interrupted the President, who had, amidst this shaming session, finally found both his voice and his arrogance, "is yet another Flag Suit?!  Are you just plain _daft_, Old Man?!"  he sneered, hungrily.  Someone would pay for making him feel shame, no matter how briefly it had been.  Tell me, _General_" the ice in his voice told Cribb with crystal clarity that when this meeting was over, he would be general no more "do you not remember the _stupidity_ of the Flag Suit Wars?  Every nation on earth was having super-powered individuals popping up all over the place-- everyone but _us_, here at home!  Suddenly, every nation had dozens or even hundreds of super beings, and to a country the various nations of the world selected the most powerful of their supers to be wrapped in a flag and trotted around like ponies!  Wars were almost a thing of the past-- disagreements were settled in the Warzone, on global television, Flag Suit against Flag Suit.  Suddenly, all you needed was a super-powered individual, and they could be found _anywhere_!  Anywhere, General, except right here in the United States of America.  You think you've heard all the American jokes?  You think we _haven't_?!  Remember this one?  That comedian back in the seventies, the Australian guy, whatever his name was-- Why don't Americans have super humans?  Too stupid to mutate!  Or the Scottish guy-- 'because you can't have an industrial accident when you don't have any industry!.  Yeah; we've heard them all.
   And what was the military's answer to the super deficit?  Flag Suits!  You idiots started training agents to _fake_ super powers!  You idiots built gadgets and clunky gizmos and machinery and painted flags on it and said "Look!  We have supers!  Hell, we have so many that we had to pick ten of them to wear flag suits!"  Then what did you do?  You put them into the goddamned Warzone, like you were betting on territories with poker chips--"
   "Bullspit!"  The general was livid.   "That was all _your_ doing!  Every last bit of --"
  "I was barely a kid, General; you have a lot of--"
  "You and others like you!  Spoiled little aristocratic dipshits who decided that these poor bastards-- meant do to nothing more than be displayed, or maybe filmed doing super things-- were suddenly commodities with which you could win land or wealth and you even got a bonus blood sport!  All you sick bastards did was make us more the laughing stock of the world, add another layer of failure to our legacy, and make sure the rest of the world branded us as sadistic slavers, never to be allowed back on the worlds stage.  Those people were willing to live their lives as frauds, separated from their families forever, just to try and get a small amount of respect for their countrymen.  You aristocratic children might just as well have murdered them."
  "So what?  What's your plan now, General?  Yet another Flag Suit?  No one wants to play with us anymore; don't you remember, Old Man?  You _just_ finished saying that, Grandpa."
Cribbs steadied himself.  He counted his breaths.  He searched consciously for a song in tempo with his pulse.  When he calmed down, he spoke again.  "We found one."
   "Found one _what_, General?"
  "We found a super human."
  "Oh _good_...  "the President rolled his eyes.  "What kind of sham gadgets have you built for this one?  Or will he just explode when you kick him?"
Rage.  Rage tore through Cribbs again-- jokes about people who were murdered as nothing more than gambling wagers.  His own son had been amongst the original Flag Suits.
  "This one " he modulated through clenched teeth "is real."
  "Great.  That doesn't help us, unless he wants to defect to the poorest county on earth, does it?"
More anger.  How could he speak so glibly about poverty while wearing a suit that cost more that Cribbs would earn in a lifetime?
  "THIS ONE " he caught himself-- "is _real_.  And from right here; born in Pickett, Virginia."
   A solid silence fell onto the room.  It seemed that even breathing had stopped.
   "Really?"  asked the President, earnestly.  "You found a real super, here in the US?"
   "We did.  Almost by accident."
   "What can he do?  Can he take the Warzone?  No one fights very hard for Cambodia these days---"
 
The painful ringing in his ears told Cribbs that his blood pressure had finally gone too high.  He was going to die.  
   When he didn't feel anything he thought might be a heart attack, he began to turn. There had been a noise-- a loud explosion.  He turned into a cloud of acrid gun smoke.  From the corner of his eye, he could see a shocked look growing across the President's face as he looked down at his chest, where a stain of red began to grow rapidly.  The Secret Service men flanking him leapt away, looking for any cover should the shooter have another round prepared.  Cribbs finished turning and saw a giant of a man calmly re-loading an empty chamber in his brass revolver.  The man was a Secret Service agent; one of two placed behind the Joint Chiefs to ensure the President's safety from his own advisors.  Cribbs stared, incredulously.
   The man shrugged, and reholstered his weapon.  "My father was a Flag.  He had a couple of gimmicks that would let him climb walls and leap really high.  Bullet proof costume.  The President at the time put him in the Warzone against a flying flamer.  He wasn't settling a dispute.  He was "negotiating" a vacation in Spain.  My father never had a chance.  I met the President, just before my father had the "honor" of "defending the US from our enemies."  He wasn't any different from this putz."  He nodded toward the not-quite dead President gasping on the floor.  "Hell, none of them nave been...."
  "They will kill you when we leave here" Cribbs stated flatly.
   "Can you restore my father's honor?  Can you make our country and our people something the rest of the world could  be inspired by?"
   "I believe so; yes."
   "Then it's worth it.  If it's okay, I'd like to hear your plan."
 
    Cribbs turned to the Joint Chiefs.  "Gentlemen, we have found the fist U.S. born super powered human. Not only that, but she is unique in all the world.  She is the first known superhuman who can travel through time.  We have been training and coaching here for seven years now-- since just before that ass" he jerked a thumb behind him " won the election.   We believe that she is now ready.  Our plan is complex, but we have the best historians, the best sociologists and the best  civil psychologists in this country working with her, and on the plan."
   "So what is it that she is meant to do?"
   "She can travel through time, and evidently as far as she wants to, in either direction.  She can stay as long as she wants as well.  This is tailor-made for our plan.  We have identified key moments in history that we, as a country, mismanaged.  Her mission is to correct as many of those moments as possible.  With any luck, she can place the United States of America in the position that we know it deserves:  We can make it a major power in the world; a safe haven for the weak and downtrodden.  We can make-- _she_ can make-- us into an industrial powerhouse with the wealth and the means to defend ourselves and others.  And she is committed to doing this.  She shares our dreams for this nation.  She will correct our mistakes, and guide us to become better people than we have ever been in the past.
  The plan becomes complex as every action will have an effect on the next action, requiring constant changes and updates to the plan.  After every mission, only she will remember the previous condition; only she will remember the plan.  She will have to track us all down after each change, and train _us_ in what the world was like before.  We will have to restudy the then-history, and plan again.  She claims that she is immortal, and has been doing this already for nearly six hundred subjective years.  I don't know; we have no way to prove that.  But gentlemen, I believe her.  I believe in her motivation, and I believe in her aspirations to make the United States into the same vision she learned from her father as a child."
  "How can you trust her?  What is her true motivation?  Why would we think her vision is any better than what we have now?"
  "Because," General Cribbs began, his voice soft, hard, and solemn "she learned it from her father, and he learned it from me."
  "Why would she want to do this for hundreds of years when any other country on earth would give her anything she ever wanted if she really is a time traveler?  Who the Hell is she, anyway?"  The questions poured in.
  The general looked away, over his audience, then his gaze wandered around the room."Her motivation is the desire to both create the society that her father hoped his own efforts might create.  Her desire is to right his senseless death, not through retribution, but through prevention.  Her father, she says, died in the Warzone when she was nine years old, and he died for absolutely no righteous reason.."  Behind him, an impossibly tall woman, nearly seven foot in her heeled boots, strode in proudly, wearing a costume that appeared to made of material salvaged from a flag--- closer inspection revealed it to be material salvaged from a Flag Suit.  A bodice covered her when the fabric ran short.
   "Her name," his voice cracked with emotion, "is Rebecca Leigh Cribbs.   But she prefers that we think of her as American Glory."
 
 

Personal Journal - New Glory
 
I'm not sure how to date this entry - it's not like they had calendars back in the Jurassic, and my smartphone went nutso as soon as we went through the time gate.  Major Patriot says I'll have to wait until we get back before I can tweet about our trip.  Bummer.
 
So anyway, I had Major P take the attached pic right after we got here.  Major suckage that we landed in the water, but at least it wasn't deep enough to get my hair wet.  The bugs are a pain, but the big leather birds are cool, and the dinos are freaking awesome.  I'm half-hoping we run into a T-Rex - I bet with my strength I can pick one up by the tail and spin him around like a toy!  Yay, me!  #dinogirlrulz!
 
Major Paintriot keeps telling me that we're not here to ride dinos, or fly with the pteroduckbills or whatever.  He's such a downer.  I was kinda hoping going back in time would pull that stick out of his butt, but whatever!  So we're off to chase down Doc Diabolical before he does whatever he's planning to do.  Major P keeps talking about the butterfly effect, but I haven't seen a single butterfly since we got here, just dragonflies the size of your fist. 
 
Wonder if I should warn the dinos about the asteroid that's gonna wipe 'em out...

Quackhell, I really want to play in one of your games some day.  From your posts here, I have a feeling they would be pretty cool.  Do you ever run games at conventions (and if so, which ones)?

Well I was going to ask "which time?", but Cancer beat me to the punch with this rimshot-worthy entry:
 
 
 
So let me start the story of how I became the most hated man in Lakeland, Florida.
 
First, the disclaimer:  No!  I am not from Florida.  I may be a filthy heathen toothless, odious, knuckle-dragging swamp scoggin, but I am _not_ a Floridian (thank you, God.)!
 
I don't even go to Florida (or Atlanta, for that matter) if I can help it, because I don't like to leave the South.
 
 
You know what?  Outside my workplace, it's not that interesting a story.  I'm also rapidly running out of time, so let me tell you about the most hilarious e-mail I have ever received (also work-related).
 
For fourteen months, I have been fighting shipping issues from one particular supplier (a nameless company of nepotism and thumb-filled anuses who shall not be identified).  The thing that has really been killing me is that it is the _same_ problems, twice a week.  And even when told specifically "do x and the problem will go away," I get met with nothing but almost-commital "hunh." every time I speak with someone about this issue.  Better still?  There was a six-week period where they actually _tried_ the two suggestions I made, and in that time, there was _zero_ damage (missing items was still a serious issue)!  Zero!  So of course, they stopped doing it and went back to ensuring that at least 30 grand worth of every shipment was unusable.  Morons!
 
Last week, I totally lost my shitake with these nimrods, and broke pretty much every communication and discussion rule of polite society and my own company.  Over the next few days, I was getting phone calls and e-mails from people I'd never even _heard_ of!  "I'm Jeff Jeffson, Vice-President of placing thumbs in anuses!  What can I do to address these problems?"   "I'm Luther Andluther, executive in charge of not getting sued.  Tell me about the troubles you're having!"  
 
But the one that took the cake showed up yesterday afternoon:
 
I'm Theguy Wholoadzyertrux, and I want you to know that I have been doing this job for nearly eight years.  The next three paragraphs will demonstrate clearly that English, the language of both of my parents, is a strange and abstract concept with which I have only begun to wrestle.  The gist of this is that I am a dedicated professional loader of trucks, and not only do I take a great deal of pride in my work and it's quality, but I also take my job very seriously!  There is no one who takes more care and more pride in their work than do I, and I go so far as to check myself and my work through the following four methods to ensure that my work is absolutely perfect!  Let's assume I have already listed those four checks, because the current audience doesn't really care about that.  In fact, I take my job so seriously that I have taken the time to send pictures of your load for tomorrow, on the truck and secured for transport.  Fourteen of them!  Please note that your material is stacked and organized better than it ever has been in any truck that you have ever received in the past, just as I always do it.  Try to ignore the fact that the truck in the picture is half-empty and that I have yet to jam in orders for two other companies that I am pretty sure will almost fit pressed tightly against your material, just as you would ignore that the truck this material is pictured on also not the truck that runs the route your company is on.
 
So I would like to close saying that you have seen proof that I-- myself--  load your truck personally, and that I am a serious professional, who cares about the quality of his work and who checks his work four different ways to ensure that it is completely perfect.  Also, as I am typing this e-mail to you, I see that there is some material that someone has left off your truck.
 
Sincerely, Theguy Wholoadzertrux.
 
 
[some paraphrasing has occurred.  Names may have been changed-- ed]
 
 
 
And then HE SENT IT!               HE SENT IT!  Holy crap, he _actually_ SENT IT!    
 
Would you?  Would _any_ of you?!  
 
If it had been me, I'd have seen the missing material and thought   "Delete?  Save as draft?  Can't send that.  I should save that self-righteous rant for the day I finally _don't_ make a shockingly-expensive mistake."
 
But _NOoooOOOooo_!  Not "Theguy!"  No, Sir!
 
 
I forwarded it to the guy who keeps a lose eye on me:
 
"You, uh...  You _really_ want to reply to this, don't you?"
 
Oh _yes_!  Yes-yes-yes-yes! I _really_ do, so very, _very_ much.....!
 
"You know what?  I think you should.  Go ahead!"
 
"Are you _sure_ about that?  I _guarantee_ I'm going to break company communications policy....."
 
Yeah.  They sent me that last eye-splitting thing you sent them.
 
"So it's okay....?"
 
"By all means.  I've had enough of this crap, too."
 
DONE!
 
 
Mr. Wholoadzyertrux:
 
Thank you for taking the time to reassure me that my material may, for the first time ever, arrive here completely undamaged.  Well, undamaged, anyway, because you have also forewarned me that it will not be complete.
 
Mr. Wholoadzertrux:
 
I trust you are aware that we get an advanced copy of what is _supposed_ to be on the truck.  Two of them actually, so that when we figure out what's wrong this time, we can make changes on both copies, and send one back with your driver for billing correction.  I have just compared the list of material that you left off the truck this time (and thank you: we've never had an advanced copy of your F-ups before; this is an exciting change) that you discovered, and I appreciate that you took the time to list this missing material instead of moving on to something else- like maybe GETTING OFF YOUR ASS AND PUTTING THAT MATERIAL ON THE TRUCK!
 
I also appreciate that while you "personally loaded the truck" and "personally quadruple checked the truck," that material caused an interesting switch from first person to ablative, because that material "was left off."  Some other guy left it off while you were loading and checking it, I'm sure.  I strongly suggest you audit your load-checking methodologies, as I couldn't help but notice that the six items you listed are THE FIRST SIX THINGS ON YOUR LOADING LIST!  THE VERY FIRST THINGS!  They weren't obscurely buried in microfontic type somewhere; they were bulleted, plainly, in extremely large, bold print, black-on-chrome yellow (a color combination that, I'd like to point out, was selected by the DOT for road warning signs as test after test found this to be the absolute most visible, most easy-to-read combination in existence anywhere on this planet).  It's like a grocery list with part numbers, and that was right there, in the space usually reserved for things like "Whatever you, Baby, please don't forget we are completely out of toilet paper!"  That critical area of your list seems to not get quadruple-checked.  Perhaps a quintupling would help with that.
 
Again, I appreciate you taking the time to contact me, provide me with pictures, reassure me, and remind me how important this work is to you.    However-- and I don't say this to discourage similar discourse in the future, I am remarkably busy after about ten AM, and I would appreciate a more concise summation of the topic in any e-mail.  For instance, you could have made every point simply by stating "I am the guy who personally loads your truck, and I just wanted to send you undeniable proof that I am a complete moron."
 
 
Thank you for your time.
 
Duke Oliver
The Place I Work
 
 
 
 
Sure, that sounds like a lot of rage and frustration being vented, but that's mostly because it was.  I'm serious, folks: twice a week we go through this.  It has gotten so bad that we now only buy from them once a week, and have moved half our needs to a vendor who, sadly, as-yet cannot meet our weekly needs.  We're looking into a third vendor to cover the rest.
 
But that's not all!  
 
Oh, no!  It gets so much _better_!
 
Our material arrived today, and I opted to unload and inspect it-- you know, personally, professionally, pridefully-- all that stuff.  I mean, Theguy went out of his way to do it for me, right?  He deserves no less!
 
The material-- for the first time _ever_, I'd like to add, was completely undamaged.  I mean complete, perfectly undamaged.  Granted, it was also loaded and secured with a care and skill never before demonstrated by any member of this company-- you know:  normally, like the way a ten-year-old kid might do it.  :/
 
I was astounded!  I really didn't think they could load the material without _somehow_ having to smash something!
 
Then I noticed the truck itself.  Not the trailer; no....   The one-hundred-and-eighty-six-thousand dollar new truck with the double-berth sleeper and separate diesel generator.  Once side nicely caved in.   I called to the driver (who was regaling me with stories of just how hated I have managed to become "back home")  "Dude!  What happened to your brand new truck?!"
 
Oh, that dumbass Wholadzyertrux F'n smashed it with the forklift trying to finagle your crap into it without bashing it around the way he usually does.
 
 
    Okay, not funny.  Dude's a great guy, a family man, and works his butt off to get ahead.  All-business, and I respect him a great deal.   I was amused not about the damage to his truck, but about having been proven right!  It's like some kind of voodoo ritual!   They _must_ smash something in order to get the material onto the truck.  If it's not the material, then something else must be sacrificed.....
 
 
 
 
 
I gotta go.   
 
 
I meant to be gone already.
 
 
Y'all have fun.
 

The American Dream Girl
 
An android created by Professor Wesley Essex as part of the Omega Initiative, a government program aimed at created super beings. Her synthetic skin covering is resilient to damage and her omni-ware exo-skeleton even more so. She has heightened strength and a kinetic energy control array that allows her to redirect physical attacks back on her opponents. She also possesses her beguiling gaze, as Essex dubbed it, which transmits a light wave that calms and pacifies targets. 
 
She has joined with other OI successes Kid Turbo, Steadfast, The Banner, and Steeleheart to form the Icons. Their victories over The Baffler, Minor Domo and his Major Minions, Long Shadow and the League of Pain are the stuff of legend. However their strangest adventure was saving the science team, including Professor Essex, who were thought lost in the alternate dimension Earth known as Pangea Ultima. This would also end up leading to the invasion by Triassic Rex and his dinosaur army, but that is a tale for another day. 

Personal Journal - New Glory
 
I'm not sure how to date this entry - it's not like they had calendars back in the Jurassic, and my smartphone went nutso as soon as we went through the time gate.  Major Patriot says I'll have to wait until we get back before I can tweet about our trip.  Bummer.
 
So anyway, I had Major P take the attached pic right after we got here.  Major suckage that we landed in the water, but at least it wasn't deep enough to get my hair wet.  The bugs are a pain, but the big leather birds are cool, and the dinos are freaking awesome.  I'm half-hoping we run into a T-Rex - I bet with my strength I can pick one up by the tail and spin him around like a toy!  Yay, me!  #dinogirlrulz!
 
Major Paintriot keeps telling me that we're not here to ride dinos, or fly with the pteroduckbills or whatever.  He's such a downer.  I was kinda hoping going back in time would pull that stick out of his butt, but whatever!  So we're off to chase down Doc Diabolical before he does whatever he's planning to do.  Major P keeps talking about the butterfly effect, but I haven't seen a single butterfly since we got here, just dragonflies the size of your fist. 
 
Wonder if I should warn the dinos about the asteroid that's gonna wipe 'em out...

Okay, that was a lot of wasted effort--
 
not you guys; the wall of text I just wrote and deleted.  My apologies, but upon proofing it, I realized it sounded far more adversarial than I ever intend _anything_ (not work-related) to sound.  After a couple of attempts at tweaking it, I realized it just couldn't be salvaged, and frankly, with the down votes already being thrown around, I'd have to say that things are already adversarial enough in here without accidentally contributing to it.
 
So let me try again, if you would be so kind as to bear with me.
 
First, I'd like to say that I'm human.  I'm willing to be that everyone here is _human_-- except possibly Hugh-- who isn't here yet-, and may well be a web-based AI whose sole purpose is to remember every single detail of a rulesbook and several thousand conversations, all the while mathing our entire universe down to it's base prime number.     (Love ya, Hugh.  Seriously: thanks for all the times you've been a great sport, and hopefully will be one for this, too.    ).  Because of that, and because this is a both an informal and a  conversational format for communicating to people who have at least one thing in common (appreciation or at least interest in some incarnation of the HERO System), our opinions are _going_ to leak out; they are just going to leak out.
 
And before anyone points out that I have no right to speak for everyone, you're absolutely correct.  That was my opinion leaking out.  It's going to happen a _lot_ throughout the rest of my life, and while we can all protest otherwise, I am willing to be that makes me the very-most-possible opposite of unique here.  When you see my opinion leaking out, I implore that you do _not_ assume that I am presenting it as any kind of fact; more importantly-- much, _much_ more importantly, I humbly request that you do _not_ read it as any kind of insult to anyone in any form or fashion.  For example: do not assume that I insult the way you or someone else is playing the game.  I play 2e, for Pete's sake!  I _know_ I play it different than most of the people here; I'm not going to call you out for doing your thing different.  So again, I ask that you take no offense at opinions leaking out: that's all they are: conversation, sometimes offered as quips, humor, lightening tension, or something that I personally (you know: in my own opinion) thought might be interesting to think about to perhaps one person who might read it.
 
And that's _it_.  No insult; no sarcasm; no attack.
 
You know, if I was Canadian, I wouldn't have to make such a preamble.....
 
 
Second, I almost _never_ get involved in these "how do I build an everyday thing" threads.  Why?  Because they end up adversarial.  Assumptions get made, down votes get tossed around, and people start getting their feelings hurt.  (No: I will never down vote anyone for anything but the most extreme and offensive of personal attacks (against anyone who isn't me.  I genuinely cannot get too terribly worked up over a total stranger's opinion of me, so have fun with it  )-- well, and that one NGD thread where we are all passing out down votes for fun.  That was damned amusing   .  I tend to think of the down vote button as a special kind of passive-aggressive dickishness that I just can't get behind.)
 
At any rate, these tend to break into two camps:  the camp of "I just want to play with this idea" and the camp of "you must do this."  I only decided to post to this one because, after a quick read of the thread, the OP doesn't say at any point that he is either going to require players to do this, or that he is being required by a GM to do this.  Without that direct statement, I'm going to work on the assumption that this is one of those "fun ideas I want to play with" posts, and run with that.
 
That being said: 
 
I'd build a smartphone using the computer rules of whatever edition you're using.  That will cover pretty much all your apps-- they're just programs.  Your processor is just INT.  I'd take a really hard look at what actually _is_ an app, and what is actually web-based: while they may be out there, I've yet to see a phone where "Translate" was hard-coded into the phone as opposed to being something web-based that is accessed through your phone.  Now you can build a special "internet accessing device" perk for your gadget (I wouldn't), or just let that fall into the SFX of your HH Radio Communication: Phone, Text, internet access.  Ho-yeah!
 
Then-- now keep in mind that this is assuming it's an off-the-shelf phone-- I'd mandate that it be a fragile/breakable focus.  Yep: you get hit with the fire blast or whatever it was that Doc D mentioned up above, there's a good chance you'll break it.  However, you paid points for it (in a game run by someone who wasn't me), and I'm not going to keep you from your points; I am merely applying the Foci rules.  You will be able to replace it-- without the expenditure of additional points-- by either handing it to the team gadgeteer (if you have one) or stopping at the next phone store (or Wal-Mart, or Dollar General, or Family Dollar, or pharmacy, or large, upscale gas station-- or pretty much anywhere that doesn't sell building materials, potpourri, or gold chains by the foot (14 or less for the gold-by-the-foot kiosk selling them anyway))  you pass.
 
I would implement the other disadvantages of a "real" cell phone, too: as mentioned above, you can be tapped, traced, hacked, located, and telemarketing robots can call mid-stealth roll.  You _did_ remember to silence it, right?  NO, DAMNIT!  I _don't_ mean put it on vibrate, since that seems to be the loudest damned setting the things have!
 
All that being said, I wouldn't do it, period.  If my game was still set in 1982, sure: these things would be _amazing_ game-changing devices that could provide a _huge_ advantage over the bad guys!  Well, except for translation, streaming, texting, and anything else that's internet-based.  If memory serves, the internet was a pretty dull place in 1982.....
 
But let me explain why I wouldn't charge for it, at least not one bit more than HH radio com, as a phone, if someone really felt that was a game breaker or charged more than a single point for a team communicator:
 
What can we do with it?  We can put books in it!  Cool.  So we first have to find out the point value of a single book.  Then we can charge that much for each book that's loaded into the phone.  Or we could, since you'll never read more than one at a time, charge for that one book and sort of "gadget pool" it out via the internet when you need a different book.
 
So let's build a book in HERO.  To use something I think most of us are familiar with, let's use HERO System 5e book.  What value does this book have?  Well, it's bulletproof; we know rPD is worth some points.  So let's day that books have what--?  3 rPD?  Was it a high-powered rifle?  We'll give books 5 rPD, just in case.  Having access to this book at a moment's notice means we effectively have the all-important skill set all superheroes and adventure characters need:  KS: how to use the HERO System, 14-  (because you were probably wrong, and should look it up); Extra Time (you have to look it up, remember?)  Okay, now what's that skill?  Well, for most of us, I guess it would be a KS-- just a couple points.  But for those who have to be _way_ more familiar-- those who write for or about good ol' HS, well it's going to be the source of a Professional Skill: some part of their income depends on getting everything right, after all.  You know, let's just call it 2 pts anyway.  We know now that books are worth character points, the same value as a die of blast or doubling your lifting strength.
 
Seems right.
 
But there are disadvantages to books, too: they catch fire.  They hate water.  They fall apart under extreme abuse.  So let's call them fragile foci, too.  What's the final value on 5 points of OAF fragile/breakable in your favorite version of the game? What other advantages or limitations are there to carrying around books?  I'm not going to worry about that simply because this has already gone on far too long; I have little doubt that anyone more interested than me could justify both books that cost 30cp and books that were completely free; possible even books that give you a point back just for owning it (I'm looking at you, Deepak Chockra or however you spell it).
 
But once we have that cost, we multiply it be the number of books we want in our phone: using the base five points determined above by not-quite-completely-arbitrary means, I decide I want sixteen books in my phone  (I cheated: I just looked at how many books I actually have in my phone right now    ).  At five points each, my phone-- before anything else gets bought-- costs 80cp.  I think I'm going to build a gadget / book pool instead: after all, I can only read one at a time, and I can switch back and forth almost whenever I want; it's a nice simulation of downloading / deleting, too, so... Bonus!    .   Of course, if I just pay the 80 cp, then my phone now has 80 rPD, because five per book, right?  No?  Is it because different books have different rPD and we have to figure all sixteen of them individually?  I'll need to make a cheat sheet for my book pool, then.
 
That wasn't the problem?  Ah, of course: the STR minimums for the books!  I could never hope to carry sixteen copies of HS 5e without suffering an encumbrance penalty.  What was I thinking?  So let's round it off and say that with these sixteen books my phone now weighs  one-hundred-and-twelve pounds.  That's not going to cut it.  Fine.  We'll use PDFs.  No STR minimum; no encumbrance, much more powerful reliance on electricity.  So now we've got to figure out the value in CP of PDFs.  For simplicity's sake, let's say that they are the same AP as books, minus that rPD.  Sounds like a savings, but you don't get to down-cost with STR Min, either.    
 
Yes; that's gone on _way_ to far.  Thanks for indulging it.  Sincerely: thanks for putting up with that.  But it does come down to what do you charge a superhero for a book?  What do you charge him for a calculator?  What do you charge him for the world's absolute crappiest flashlight?  What's the END cost for lighting up the screen?  How does it vary when it auto-levels the brightness?  How much END for each additional window / tab / program you have open?    We're going to have to keep up with that if we build the thing.
 
 
Now I'd like to take a minute to revisit an earlier comment: I would charge for this sort of super crime-busting equipment were my game set in the world of 1982 because of the advantages it presents.  Maybe not much, because of the disadvantages it has as well.  To be equally straightforward, I would charge _today_ for a no-limitations custom, super-device with none of the inherent problems of an off-the-shelf phone.  But I can't charge for a cell phone because it doesn't provide an advantage or a leg-up or anything that your villains don't already have.  In fact, unless you were born super, you probably had this amazing device-- or something not unlike it-- before you actually became a made character.  It's something that, in the first world, at any rate, a staggering number of adults and pre adults have.  I might actually consider giving a _disadvantage_ to a character who refuses to have one in a modern setting.  (which, interestingly enough, is another rules-legal way to give everyone an "everyman" cell phone that works the way the GM says it does).
 
 
And this whole thing-- well, mostly the reactions of "you have to build it and charge points for it"-- is what drove me away from this board years ago.  In my heart, I truly believe it's why HERO died in popularity:  when I hear or read people complain about the "complexity" and the "math" involved, I ask questions.  More times than not, it is not the actual math (though that comes up a lot-- unfairly, I think-- with regard to character creation),  it boils down to being sick to death of "_having to_" build every little piece of the universe.  Not GMs so much (we tend to enjoy that nonsense, just as a thought exercise), but even as players who suddenly find themselves required to "build" a costume that stays clean or a cape that always moves as if stirred by a soft breeze, or being told that their secret ID character cannot use the spike of her high-heeled shoe as a weapon applied to the temple of her assailant because she hasn't paid points to assign damage to it as a weapon, so she just gets STR damage.
 
  "No, Jimmy: you're clothing never has dryer lint!  No; I would _love_ to charge you for dryer lint, but I haven't had the time to build dryer lint just yet.  Give me a couple of weeks; things will slow down some, and I'll get right on it."
 
Cell phones.  Home furniture.  A place to live.  These are super-ubiquitous items that I just _can't_ charge for.  Doing so just drives home that nitpickiness that outsiders hold against the system to begin with, and ultimately, except as a fun thing to wonder about, it's a huge waste of both my time and the players' XP.  I won't charge for a cell phone anymore than I would charge for a domino mask.
 
 
Oooh!  Domino mask!   Concealment, 22 or less...    Or maybe +5 to the character's existing concealment?-- personal identity only... OIF-- OAF if we're feeling risky.....   Maybe plusses to PRE, since no one is _really_ comfortable being yelled at by  a stranger?  Actually, that sounds good:  Concealment 22 or less, personal identity only, +5 PRE.  Oooh-- would the Reputation Disadplication hinge on that mask?  If Robin showed up without his mask, would people still know he was Robin?  If not, then the value of the Reputation total should be reduced to show it's Linked to the mask.  Linked?  Only in HERO ID?  Does anyone have a reputation that only applies in HERO ID?  We should retcon all the characters in this campai-- nah; too much work.  We'll start it with the next campaign.  Maybe the Reputation has a Dependance on the domino mask?  Or it's like a spell ingredient?  Have to give that one some thought. :/  Wait!  Reputation:  Triggered by viewing the domino-- eh.. I think that has some problems, too.  Granted, when Robin's not there, he's still got the reputation when people speak of him...  Though they are going to see him as having the mask, every time.....  So the mask is important to it....
 
Oh-- can he get accidental change if the mask is prone to fall off?  Or take the same value as the focus and remove that value from his super-heroic physical and psych lims....?
 
 
It just goes on.
 
Some stuff just isn't worth doing, and for my games-- do yours how you want, obviously-- everyday stuff-- the things you have in pocket (unless you're like me enough to have a couple of knives on you as you sit here) as you sit down to browse a good book....   I'm not going to charge for, period.
 
(Cue Hugh finding some really clever and highly lethal combination of the stuff in my pockets that's worth at least 30pts as a combat-usable something or other.        (You can't use the knives; I've already copped to those))
 
 
 

Personal Journal - New Glory
 
I'm not sure how to date this entry - it's not like they had calendars back in the Jurassic, and my smartphone went nutso as soon as we went through the time gate.  Major Patriot says I'll have to wait until we get back before I can tweet about our trip.  Bummer.
 
So anyway, I had Major P take the attached pic right after we got here.  Major suckage that we landed in the water, but at least it wasn't deep enough to get my hair wet.  The bugs are a pain, but the big leather birds are cool, and the dinos are freaking awesome.  I'm half-hoping we run into a T-Rex - I bet with my strength I can pick one up by the tail and spin him around like a toy!  Yay, me!  #dinogirlrulz!
 
Major Paintriot keeps telling me that we're not here to ride dinos, or fly with the pteroduckbills or whatever.  He's such a downer.  I was kinda hoping going back in time would pull that stick out of his butt, but whatever!  So we're off to chase down Doc Diabolical before he does whatever he's planning to do.  Major P keeps talking about the butterfly effect, but I haven't seen a single butterfly since we got here, just dragonflies the size of your fist. 
 
Wonder if I should warn the dinos about the asteroid that's gonna wipe 'em out...

I prefer "clock roaches"

Every source I've read has noted that the investigation of the Burisma company for corruption had been inactive for over a year before Joe Biden, with the support of other world governments, pushed for the ouster of the Ukrainian chief prosecutor, Viktor Shokin, over inaction in fighting government corruption. Had Hunter Biden been engaged in any compromising activities as a board member of Burisma, it would have been to his benefit to leave Shokin in office, not agitate for a more pro-active prosecutor.

Because thus far, the Trump presidency has been smooth as can be... 

Because thus far, the Trump presidency has been smooth as can be... 

She can power stunt her fine control.  The autofire attack is supposed to drain her endurance, making her switch to the powers.  I made the other changes including the costume, but just made the entangle to cost END as she's supposed to "heal" the entangle if she desires.  
 
The combat piloting and driving skills give you a free 1 point familiarity with a vehicle when you take him.  As a cosmonaut, she's got it.  Zero-G movement won't come until play so I'm not going to make her blow points on it.