The Golden Age (IC Superhero Roleplay)

[Cush Almighty]

Intro


"The Golden Age, That's what the new generation of superheroes deem it. We just called it the 40's, The first boom of Superheroes(and Villains) appeared around that time. The boom was World wide but mostly in America, The cultural melting pot. The spike in superpowered individuals was sometime at the beginning of the world war 2. I remember hearing about the terrifying things that came to light once the fighting was over. The Nazi War Machines, Super Soldiers, Death Camps and other atrocities committed by the Axis forces. America its self isn't excluded from these atrocities sadly, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, A means to a end. It was a different time back then, No cellphones, internet or video games the kids seem to love so much. It was a simple time even with men that could fly and rip metal apart like card board with there bare hands. Now I won't lie to you, At that point in time in America had it's social problems, Racism, Sexism, Homophobia and more. Society wasn't so accepted back then, People were excepted to stay in there place. This was the Golden Age, The push that was needed to make a change."

City

Geld City is where this story will start from. This city is the most technologically advanced city in America. Do not be surprised by seeing out of placed like AC, Colored TV and other minor early technological advancements like robots. Geld is a very affluent city shown throughout the city, With that said Geld, of course, has its slums. The Slums can range to Poor, broke down and completely horrendous as if these people never left the depression. This city has many farms and small town on route to it. This city is located east coast of America and has its own bay with ships from all around the world docked in it. Geld is located in NC, North Carolina.

Setting
07/01/1948
Wednesday Morning on a hot day(83F)
10:00am

_______________________________
​

 

[Cush Almighty]

Earl lays in his bed motionless like he was dead. His signature snore filled the room letting you know he was still among the living. His mouth was agape and drool had fallen from out it, Down his cheek and soaked into his pillow. His body had a few bruises and a few healed stab wounds earn from carelessness. 5 hours ago he was busy knocking a tooth out of a thief who had robbed a local home in Earl's neighborhood. The man only had a monkey wrench on him so Earl went 'easy' on him. The guy wasn't even a fighter and just gave up after the first few punches. He didn't even fight or say a word when the cops had caught up and threw him in the back. He did break down crying which was a first for Earl.

The officers that showed up didn't even show one lick of gratitude toward earl. They just looked at Earl with disdain in their eyes. The police didn't really like Earl or at least a majority of them didn't. They looked at Earl as an Uppity Negro with a smart mouth. In the past, He has had a few exchanges with officers before but it never got out of control, Possibly because they know what he could do. He only had about a few officers that would shake his hand and thank him. This is all just Earl's opinion and he could just be one being the dick but he doubted it. This was the treatment he received in the slums, He never found himself up in the more affluent areas too much and imagine he would receive the same treatment. That was the last of Earls night so he decided to return home and get some much needed rest.

If Earl could he would sleep until past noon but he heard a knock on the door and the booming voice of his Mother. "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up Earl. You want to be a drop out and not amount to shit and not do shit! I won't let you! Not as long as I breath and you live in this house!" Earl opens his heavy eyes slowly and whispers a few curse words and he got up and crack his neck. He heard her and naturally he became cheeky. "House? Is this the wrong place or something? I thought we live an apartment." he replied groggily. He got up from his bed and wrapped his cover around him to cover himself. He walked up to his room door and opened it. "Howdy!" He said with a smile.

His Mother looked at him and shook her head. "What are we going to do with you?" She told him chuckling. "Come on bum, I need to run to the store for me and pick up some meat from the butcher." She then stuck her hand out which had a dollar and some change in it. Earl reluctently took the money showing he has accepted this errand Quest. "I need 1 pound of chicken..." She paused for a second. "Make that 2 actually." She said as she walked away. "Don't take to long too!" She yelled.

Earl watch her walk away and still had a tired look on his face. He still had bags under his eyes. "Fuck." Was the only thing that he could say or cared to say at the moment.

 

[Razilin]

07/01/1948
Wednesday Morning on a hot day (83F)
10:00am


Daylight was supposed to be a source of refuge from the night. In daylight, everything looked better, more pristine. There were no rapes or murders or robberies. There were no gangsters, no violence. No stains on the flawless American Dream. Daylight was supposed to hide all of that, by banishing the darkness.

Sometimes, the darkness just finds somewhere else to hide.

The Setting Sun finds them.

The building in question was just another warehouse, much like a dozen others in the district. Longshoremen and stevedores rallied up and down the docks, hauling cargo and freight to and from such facilities with the regular tempo of a marching band. It was the perfect place to hide the ugly stains castigating the virtue of the American Dream. Irony of ironies, such criminality simply worked in broad daylight, their shadows completely hidden by the bustle of the light.

Within the warehouse were well-dressed men in fedoras and pinstripe suits, playing cards over a wooden freight box. Poker was the game of the day and it looked like one of them was far, far in the lead. He raised a match to his nose, striking it on fire against the smooth steel prosthetic where his snout used to be. Soon, a cigar was smoking away, filling the air with its heady Cuban scent.

"We gotta get these crates movin' today, see?" the steel-nosed man ordered to the other rapscallions seated around him. They listened with bated breath. The man waved his cigar around like a conductor's wand. "Get these shipments through the Jap district."

"Smart move, Boss," agreed a swarthy goon with more muscle than sense. "Dem coppers, if they find us out, they'll jus' think it was dem Japs that are resper...uh, respara...um...."

"'Responsible,' Mack," steel-nose supplied, "the word yous lookin' for is 'responsible.'"

"Yuh! Dat's right! You so smart, Boss!"

"That's right! An' that's why I'm the boss of this here outfit, see?" The steel-nosed man tilted his fedora down over his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and puffed away on his cigar.

That was when the lamps in the warehouse went dark. Slashes of sunlight came through the windows along the walls of the warehouse, but the shadows played eerily across the floor and scattered crates. All the goons suddenly leaped to their feet and drawing pistols.

"Wot's goin' on there?" Mack demanded. "Who's there? You got sum nerve, bustin' in here! C'mon! Show yous-self!"

One of the lingering shadows suddenly...moved. It streaked past Mack like a silent breeze. Mack was a giant of a man, closer to seven-foot than six, and closer to three hundred pounds than not. And yet, that sliver of shadow took him away with all the effort of lifting a newborn infant. There was a gurgle and a splash.

Mack's severed head bounced across the freight box, staining cards and poker chips alike with his blood.

"What the hell!?" the other goons exclaimed. Steel-nose began sweating profusely. All peered into the shadows. It suddenly seemed so much darker within the warehouse. The slivers of sunlight did nothing to allay their terror.

Shadows moved yet again. One by one, the gangsters fell. None of them screamed. None of them had time to. Each time, there was a splash and the thud of a body. In less than a minute, steel-nose stood alone, panting in unmitigated terror, firing haphazardly into the shadows. He struck nothing but air and his own imagination.

As he stepped backward, inching toward the door, he finally bumped into something. He spun, pistol at the ready, only to let out the first cry of pain within the warehouse since this horror show began. When he looked down at his gun-arm, he was not only disarmed of his weapon....

...but his hand, as well.

"Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod," he sputtered as agony raced up the stump of his hand and his life-blood began leaking forth.

He had bumped into a man. He wasn't very tall, easily head and shoulders shorter than steel-nose. He was clad in black, the only spots of color were a conical straw hat hiding his face and a bright red scarf wrapped around his neck. In his hand was a naked, curved sword.

"Steel-Nose McGinty," the swordsman intoned grimly with a heavy accent that the gangster recognized as that of a Jap, "you are found guilty of abusing this community's good nature. You intend to smuggle contraband and leave these innocent people to take the fall. For that, you will face heaven's justice." The sword came up high, catching a sliver of sunlight, and showcasing the blood already staining its edge.

Steel-nose was openly weeping in fear. "Oh, God...."

The blade came down.

"Tengoku no seigi o kanjimasu."

And so did McGinty's head.

The Setting Sun wiped his blade clean on the corpse of his victim. The steel returned to its scabbard with a quiet hiss. And then the warehouse was once again silent. The Setting Sun left as he came - a ghostly wraith that made not a sound.

Hours later, a longshoreman would find the massacre and notify the authorities.

It wouldn't matter. They wouldn't be able to track one that left no trace.

 

[Zarko Straadi]

Emilie:

Emilie was just about done running a brush through her hair when her mother tapped on her door. "Dear, there's someone on the phone for you, a Veronica Fox. Have we met her before? I'm sure that name sounds familiar..." Emilie's hairbrush hit her dresser with a loud clack. She ran for her bedroom door and swung it open, eyes wide with excitement.

"Veronica Fox? The Veronica Fox? Calling for me? Omigosh!" She stared to step around her mother and hurry to the phone when April suddenly remembered where she'd heard that name before, and sidestepped to stay in her path.

"Hold on dear," April said with sternness creeping into her voice, even as she spoke in a low tone to avoid being overheard by the receiver in the kitchen. "She's the one who does bawdy shows, isn't she. Why is she calling for you? If you think for one minute that your father and I are going to let you go audition to be some kind of...dancing girl you're out of your mind!" she hissed.

"Huh?" Emilie said, then caught on and blushed bright red. "Oh, no, Mother, it's, it's nothing like that!" she stammered. "Miss Fox is also Vixen, she's a superhero," she whispered.

"'Vixen?' Is that supposed to be an improvement? I can't recall ever hearing of her rescuing anyone."

"Mom! It's not about her shows or anything like that, I swear! Vixen doesn't really go out and fight crime, not that I've ever heard. She's more like the Ma Bell of the whole superhero community! All the heroes know her, and she knows them! So if she actually hires me to make her a costume, or a costume for someone who came to her asking about costumers, and they like it--this could be huuuuuuge!" Emilie bounced on her toes and tried not to pace, antsy to get past her mother and to that phone. "Can I go talk to her, pleeeeeeeeeaaaaase?" Emilie said, putting on her very best Entreaty Face.

April's face softened a little. "Alright, but if your grades start to suffer, the costume thing stops, and you will have absolutely nothing to do with any of those performances of hers, is that clear?"

"Yes mom!" Emilie said, nodding enthusiastically. Reluctantly, April stood aside, and Emilie ran for the phone.

"Hello? M-miss Fox?" Emilie said, hoping she didn't sound as nervous as she felt.

@Mippu

 

[Zarko Straadi]

Carnelian:

"Shaddap ya dirty Commie!" someone shouted from the crowd of striking cannery workers. Carnelian shouted through a horn, trying to be heard over a growing chorus of boos, catcalls, and slurs, but it was no use. She willed herself to ignore the ones that attacked her for being a Negro, or for not being home churning out babies, and focus on statements relating to ideology, economy, and the future of the working class. Reluctantly, she had to face the fact that the New Deal and the G.I. Bill had been true political master-strokes, and the new storm of hysteria about Communism was an even mightier force poised to sweep away the last vestiges of the anti-capitalist Left. It was as if workers were starting to see themselves not as workers, but as miniature Capitalists. It was no longer true that they had nothing to lose but their chains; some of them had automobiles, or homes in the new suburbs, and the rest aspired to the same.

Suddenly, the crowd fell silent, and started staring past her. Carnelian turned around to see a group of men in fedoras and long coats armed with barb wire-wrapped baseball bats, brass knuckles, knifes, even a few firearms. Strike-breakers. The one that drew her attention however, was a bare-chested man in a loincloth who towered nearly twice as high as any of the others, with shoulders at least three times as wide. He had bumpy grey skin that reminded her of rough granite. Some of the workers started tearing their cardboard signs off of the stout shafts they'd affixed them to, or producing knives and knucks and pistols of their own. They steeled themselves to hold the line, but all were looking worriedly at the muscular giant.

All but unnoticed, Carnelian climbed down from the speakers' crate and slipped away, with only a few snide comments mocking her for cowardice launched in pursuit. Finding an isolated alleyway and checking for onlookers, she pulled up her sleeve to expose her Bracelet. Then, she ritually raised her right fist, knuckles facing forward, then touched the red-orange crystal with her other hand. Waves of red light washed over her and sprayed out from her, enveloping her in a glowing cocoon. When the light faded, an armored figure stood in her place.

"...so you boys better just go home now, if you know what's good for ya, an' come back to work on time in the morning," Frank Giovanni said, "unless you wanna find out what Brutus here can--" A blur of black and white streaked in a high arc over the factory, landing between Brutus and the workers in a crouch, down on one knee with a fist punched into the pavement creating a small crater. The strange figure rose to...her...full height.

"If you wish to call yourself 'Brutus,' you should be stabbing Caesar instead of serving him," an eerily melodious, yet metallic and inhuman voice said. "These good people are exercising their right to peaceably assemble for redress of grievances. You can respect that right, and go home in peace now, or find out what I, Black Flag, can do."

 

[AshenAngel]

Leone jerked awake, gasping for breath when his little nightmare reached the bang you're dead part. He groaned as he felt the tedious aches and pains radiate from his multitude of bruises, earned by pissing off a few security personnel at a lab that he attempted to break into last night. He didn't get very far with that before he figured the smartest idea was to turn tail and run. He needed to get better with his trouble estimations.

He slowly rolled out of bed and stood up, stretching with a yawn. He could hear someone stomping around in the apartment above him. Next door he could hear some kid throwing a fit. This was the Island of Misfit Toys of apartment buildings. When he was looking for an apartment, he tried to get into a nicer neighborhood, but after the landlord heard his accent he raised the price of the apartment. It turns out that that was a common procedure for landlords that didn't want unsavory individuals in their buildings. So instead they were casted out into slums with paper thin walls. For someone with heightened hearing, this place was not where he wanted to be.

After getting dressed in his standard flannel print shirt, tan work trousers, and tan trench coat, he made his way to the kitchen. He filled a kettle with water, planning on having a cup of tea in order to wake himself up a bit. With the water on, he turned his attention to his briefcase. It had a few important papers in it which detailed several procedures used to determine if a test subject would accept a particular gene. Besides those papers, he had his costume of sorts neatly packed away in there. He'd head out to the warehouse and try to really make sense of it all there, where he could actually get some peace and quiet.

When the kettle gave its wonderful morning shriek, there was an immediate response from his next door neighbor. A harsh bang on the wall, followed by a few harsh words. "Keep it down ya damn Red!" Those words struck a nerve with Leone, and just for that, he decided to be an asshole. гребаные американцы... He let the kettle whistle for an extra forty seconds before pouring himself a cup of tea. He'd start moving into the warehouse once this Red Scare cooled down. He knew someone from the government was probably watching his cave right now, and with them, most likely the hatchetmen would follow, and it wasn't a very comforting thought.

He let out a soft sigh as he finished his tea and set the cup in the sink. He picked up his briefcase and headed out to face the day. Or more accurately go hide in the abandoned warehouse and read through complicated scientific papers all day. At least he wouldn't have to deal with anyone today, or so he thought. He opened his door and paused when he saw a newspaper clipping on his door.

He stared at it for a long moment, his stomach tightening up a bit. Gathering himself, he removed the clipping and silently walked over to his neighbor's door. He placed it on the mat and stalked away in a calm and controlled manner. He wasn't going to deal with that today. He was just going to quietly make his way down to the docks, get to the abandoned warehouse and disappear. Unfortunately, there was a strike or riot or something going on that had drawn a large and rowdy crowd, blocking his typical route to the docks. кукла имеет свой спецснаряжении на... He frowned softly when some person, a girl if he went by her voice, appeared before the strike-breakers in white armor. He had no reason to get involved, so he instead watched in silence since getting through the crowd was an arduous task that he wasn't ready to complete just yet.

 

[Razilin]

Harry Himura was nestled in the crux of a support strut beneath a highway overpass. The roar of cars overhead filled his ears, yet he found them more comforting than distracting. Despite his family's best efforts at instilling a sense of tranquility within him, he was indeed a creature of the city. Years of training in the family's martial arts in the serene solitude of the ancestral estate in Japan could not shake the excitement and verve that overtook when when he looked upon the skyline of a true metropolis.

And Geld was just such an urban paradise.

Too bad it had its cancers, like any living, breathing entity. The sword strapped to his back would be the surgical implement that would carve out that malignancy. He had vowed it. And a Himura never broke his word.

Harry took a pull from a bottle of water, replenishing his body after the exertion of a scant hour ago. He had killed Steel-Nose McGinty and his crew. Yet, he felt strangely at peace with himself. By ending their lives, he saved many more. The family sword upon his back - Monohoshizao - was as light as a feather and came to his hand just as lightly. This, Harry knew, was his purpose: to defend the defenseless, particularly his beleaguered Japanese-Americans, from those who would oppress or harm them.

He could do far, far more for his community as a vigilante than he ever could as a mere half-breed, half-Japanese philanthropist and corporate importation guru.

Harry pondered on these thoughts while looking out at Geld's beautiful skyline. Morning was beginning to give way to noon, with the sun at its zenith, and the brilliant sheen of the day casting away the shadows that he lurked within.

That brilliance, as it did at the warehouse, only served to illuminate the very flaws of the city it strove to hide. Harry heard the commotion on the streets below. A woman, clad in armor with her face obscured by its helmet, was holding her own against strike-breakers. It looked like the armored woman was defending a crowd of peaceful protesting cannery workers from the strike-breakers.

Harry wasn't expecting to someone in full armor out on the prowl. When he had a the bright idea to put on his training gi, a straw hat, and a scarf, he thought he was the first to try his hand at vigilantism. It seemed he was under a misapprehension.

He reached behind him, where his had hung loose against his back, and replaced it on his head. He pulled his scarf up to cover the lower half of his face, obscuring his identity behind the guise of the Setting Sun. The vigilante swordsman perched upon the support strut, looking down at the growing conflict below with interest.

"Well, then, little senshi...let's see what you can do...."

 

[Zarko Straadi]

Carnelian:

Carnelian hadn't planned on wielding her armor. If not for the powered individual on the other side, she would have faced these strike-breakers as she had faced others before: with her tongue, and if necessary, her fists and feet. Suddenly, she realized an immense disadvantage of the battlesuit: the time limit on its use did not leave her the option of trying to negotiate a peaceful resolution.

"Ay, Brutus, take care o' the little lady."

"My pleasure," Brutus grunted in a deep, gravely voice. The strike-breakers parted for their powered muscle as he stomped forward to meet her. Carnelian lunged at him, raining a fusillade of blows on him in the Wing Chun style. Whackwhackwhackwhackwhack! Sparks and flakes of stony material flew with every hit, but Brutus merely grunted and swung at her with fists nearly as big as her head. Though she nimbly dodged and wound around his attacks, even glancing contact was bone-rattling. She used a jump-kick to his chest to send herself flying back, drawing her sidearm as she landed.

"Tommy, go call the Boss an' tell 'im they got their own super," Frank said. "The rest o' yas--get 'em!"

Carnelian telescoped the blade and shifted the handle to ranged configuration. "No firearms!' she said, then picked out a thug with a rifle and shot a laser through his shoulder. Brutus roared and came at her like an avalanche in human form. She bounded away from him, and a hail of return fire from the strike-breakers, downing another gunman before she landed.

"You wanna run away little girl?" Brutus growled. "I'll smash your friends," he said, charging the strikers.

 

[Razilin]

A dark shadow suddenly fell over Brutus as he made to rush down the panicking cannery workers. There was another shower of sparks as metal screamed against stony flesh. Brutus fell back, bearing a deep cut along his arm...his flinty, rocklike flesh was somehow marred. The brute looked up in amazement at the figure that literally dropped upon him.

Standing between Brutus and the strikers was a short man clad in black, his face obscured by a red scarf and a straw hat. A long, curved sword was in his hands.

"Interesting," the swordsman said lightly. "Haven't fought anyone I couldn't cut, yet."

The sword flipped up, parallel to the ground with the hilt in both hands. "Lay a hand on these innocents, and we still see if steel can cut down a mountain."

 

[LuckycoolHawk9]

Nathaniel Stone woke up in the mansion rather later, as compared to normal. He was normally dressed and out of the house by this time, but not today. Between accidently causing a fight last night and staying up late musing about the possibilites of where his brother was ( he had come up with 750 different scenarios and of those 750, 250 of them had his brother dead, 250 of them had his brother boiled down to his brother having amnesia. The remaining 500 was dedicated to stranger ideas that ones get after midnight). He needed to get up, though, no sleeping the day away in this city. He changed into his suit and walked into the main room. Resting on the table was his rapier and his gloves. He slid the gloves on and placed the rapier in a case that was meant for a musical instrument, nobody questioned that case in the slightest. He left the house- and went to go and meet Vixen, maybe today would be different, maybe she would have some information on his brother.

He could certainly dream so.

@Mippu @My first post should be longer, but I'm tired and got school in seven hours and need to go to sleep

 

[Mysty]

D A S H I E L L
{x} location: diner in the center of town. [spoili]

[/spoili]
{x} mentioned: --
{x} interactions: --

For being a super hero, Dashiell didn't do much... well, super 'hero' was certainly a stretch. He was super, but he was no hero. He just let the events around him happen, usually other heroes, better ones, had it covered. He didn't want to try to be the next Clark Kent, that was for sure. The Silver Witch had some appearances, he wasn't entirely unknown. The thing was, he didn't know his powers very well. He didn't want to charge into the battle field when he didn't even understand how his weapons worked. There were plenty warriors better than him, stronger than him. If he showed up on the scene, he'd most likely ruin everything for the veterans.

"For God's sake, can't have a second of peace in this town." A woman with pale brown hair murmured as she took a sip of her coffee, and Dashiell looked up from wiping down the counters to see just the edge of a worker's riot. He tensed up for a moment, watching the riot from the corner of the street. He couldn't see much, but from what he could usually tell from these types of things, they escalated quickly and turned into blood-shed. He didn't take his eyes off the riot, especially as it seemed to freeze and slowly escalate. The boy could only assume that somebody had shoved their way in front of the strike to silence it, the peaceful strike was going to end up being a riot. Dashiell had a feeling.

He saw a flash of action, for just a moment. It had to be the white knights of the town, riding in with their heroic charm and stopping things from getting too bloody. Fighting for the people, fighting for the American dream, the perfect super heroes. He couldn't tell who had made an appearance as the shop on the corner obstructed his view, and he tried to slightly crane his neck to get a better look without being too obvious. He didn't want to ditch his spot at the counter to go press his face against the window like a weirdo, but curiosity was getting the best of him. Dashiell wasn't about to Silver Witch himself up to go be the savior to a situation that seemed to be getting handled already, but he at least wanted to see who it was.

 

[Banana-senpai]

Vixen
Involved: @LuckycoolHawk9 (mentioned) @Mysty (talked to) @Zarko Straadi (spoken with)​​

Diners weren't always her waiting spot, but Veronica Fox felt like a nice cold milkshake as a relief from the weather. She stood out from her pink silk headscarf, round sunglasses, slightly swaying steps and her red lips. She was expecting a client at the little diner. She pretended not to notice the stares as she walked to the counter with the very pronounced clicks of her heels. Taking off her headscarf and sunglasses, she beamed at the young man cleaning the counter. "I'd like a strawberry milkshake, please."

Veronica took a seat, observing the young man who was probably a decade younger than her. She crinkled her nose when age came to mind, but focused on him again. His scent was definitely not a typical one. "Excuse me, where's your payphone?" She asked, just so he would turn to her. She couldn't pinpoint what kind of energy she felt from the boy but knew he must have been keeping a secret.

When directed, she thanked him and payed for the milkshake, telling him that she would be right back. Veronica took out a leaflet from her purse, took her milkshake with her and walked to the payphone to dial the number of an Emilie Jameson.

A woman picked up the call and Veronica's first thought was, she sounds like a mother. She expected this Jameson lady to have a boutique somewhere, however. Perhaps it was a secretary? She politely asked to speak with Emilie and waited. She chuckled at the conversation and cleared her throat quietly before she heard a different voice.

"Hello? M-miss Fox?"

"Hello! You'll have to pardon me, sweetie. I heard a little bit of that." Veronica said with a friendly tone and a lighthearted chuckle. She twirled a finger on the cord. "Anyway, it seems you've heard of my line of work. I'm honored. I don't need a costume for myself for the alter ego work, but I'd like to have some dresses for my performances. And a few other types of clothing." Behind her, people were having a commotion for some reason, and her voice nearly got buried by the noise. "I work evenings, so when can I see you?"

 

[AshenAngel]

Leone was shoved along with the panicking crowd as gunshots rang through the air. He forced his way through to one side of the crowd, hoping to find a private spot to put on his costume because he hadn't been planning on partaking in any violence when he got dressed this morning. He hadn't been planning on dying anytime soon either, but when he saw rockman charging at him, he could have sworn that death had appeared briefly in his day planner. Then quite suddenly some short guy in a straw hat with a fucking sword just fell out of the sky... And blocked the rockman's forward assault.

Deciding not to question the matter until later, he turned and fled back into the crowd. He weaved his way through the crowd to some quiet office building and calmly walked to the restroom. No one seemed to notice him, or at least think anything of it. When he got into the bathroom, he glanced at the mirror and frowned when he noticed a bullethole in the sleeve of his coat. "Fuck..." He growled softly, before heading into a stall in order to assess the damage. It was just a graze, thank goodness. He quietly changed into his costume after wrapping the minor wound in toilet paper since, again, he hadn't packed for action today. With that taken care of he hurried out the door. He'd transferred his papers into a pouch on his belt while he was in the bathroom, so he had no qualms about abandoning the briefcase for this fight.

The crowd had thinned out a bit. Hatguy would handle Rockman, hopefully, and that left Black Flag and him to fight the other strike-breakers. His nails had morphed into claws and poked through the black gloves he wore, mostly due to the temper he felt building inside him. "Which one of you ublyyudki shot me, hm?" His thick Russian accent rang out as he glared at the men, and with that he ran at them.

 

[Razilin]

The Setting Sun rose into the sky as he backflipped away from Brutus' meteoric punch, which left a crater in the concrete. The burly giant of a man was slow, yet as sturdy, unyielding, and strong as mountain stone. His fists were thick enough that even a glancing blow would have rent steel bars. However, he was a lumbering tree compared to his opponent, who moved like a gentle, relaxed breeze dancing through a forest.

Each haymaker took out a chunk of concrete, or knocked down a street sign, or blasted in the side of a car...but not one ever touched the Setting Sun. The lithe swordsman weaved under hooks, sidestepped crosses and uppercuts, and leaned away from jabs.

The counterattack came as swiftly as the initial cut of the swordsman's blade, and just as surprisingly. Brutus threw a mighty cross, but overextended - just as the Sun wanted. The swordsman baited the bigger man into that precarious position and slammed the pommel of his weapon into the stone-skinned brute's armpit. Pain exploded throughout Brutus' body as the nerve cluster spasmed from the impact.

The Sun did not relent. Monohoshizao flashed in the sunlight, once, twice, thrice - each blow so quick in succession that they seemed to blur into a single moment. Brutus fell back, three large cuts scouring his rocky chest and abdomen. The force of the triple strike sent him flying into the side of a building with enough impact to leave a crater. Brutus groaned and his head lolled to the side.

The swordsman leveled his blade at the remaining strike-breakers. "Anyone else?" He looked over to Black Flag. "Need an assist?"

 

[Zarko Straadi]

Emilie:

She heard us? Emilie thought, blushing. But she didn't hang up... Thankfully, Miss Fox didn't seem to be offended by Mother's comments. "Dresses?" Emilie repeated, picking up the tablet by the phone and making a note. "Um...what 'other types of clothing?'" she asked, the nervousness in her voice rising a little. Her mother, standing a few feet away, didn't like the direction her daughter's half of the conversation seemed to be headed in. "So I can make some design sketches to show you..."

Carnelian:

I'll have to resort to lethal force, Carnelian thought. It would be the only way to have a chance to stop both Brutus and the rest of the strike-breakers from unleashing a massacre. Then, as if from nowhere, a man in Asian clothes and a conical straw hat landed softly as the petal of a cherry blossom, between Brutus and the workers. He held an elegantly curved sword that reminded her of a Japanese officer's blade she'd seen in a newsreel once, but his was significantly longer, almost as long as its wielder was tall. When he spoke, Carnelian smiled behind her helmet's mask. She'd never heard anyone turn a threat into such beautiful poetry before. And most importantly, he was on her, and the workers' side.

With no time for introductions, she gave him a fencer's salute, then took aim at a man who was drawing a bead on him, her weapon shifting between rapier and firearm modes as automatically as her own body's responses to her intent. "Fucking J--" the rifleman said reaching for his trigger just before a laser cut him down. With the swordsman to keep Brutus occupied, Carnelian shot toward the facade of the cannery building, then kicked herself off. Bullets stitched the bricks in her path, and a couple spanged off the thicker parts of her armor, but at least she was drawing most of the gunfire away. Her cape shaped itself to swerve her toward the knot of strike-breakers. She landed in their midst, scattering them like tenpins with rapid-fire punches, kicks, and slashes or thrusts with her sword. Against ordinary flesh, her blows broke bones and sent men sprawling. Someone swung a club at her. She caught it with the forte' of her blade, which glowed red, cutting into the barb-wire wrapped Louisville Slugger like a chainsaw. He tried to pull the weapon away, but she wound around it and thrust into his chest.

By now, some of the men were fleeing, while the rest tried to fall back and rally around the remaining few with firearms. Bright flashes caught Carnelian's eye. The movement was so fast Carnelian couldn't tell what it was. Only when the Japanese warrior finished into a balanced stance could she see that it had been his sword slashing in a triple-strike that sent Brutus flying back, to crumple to the ground in a heap.

"Which one of you ublyyudki shot me, hm?" A Russian-accented voice said. Carnelian turned to see another costumed fighter dressed like a black cat running toward the action. The claws that curved from his fingertips looked quite real, and deadly. Have I heard that voice before? Then she remembered: a young Russian man living a few doors down from her, who was regularly harassed for being a "Red." Ironically, Carnelian had made the opposite guess: that he was most likely here instead of in his homeland, because he was from a White Russian family in exile, or otherwise an opponent of Stalin's regime. That was one reason she'd never tried to approach him to talk about Anarchy. He had enough trouble without being tarred with her brush.

"Anyone else?" the Japanese swordsman said, aiming the tip of his gleaming blade at the remaining strike-breakers. "Need an assist?" he said to her. Faced with three supers, and most of their gunmen taken out of the fight, the remaining thugs broke and ran.

The striking workers stared in shock. One second they were about to be dead, the next...they were having a hard time bringing themselves to cheer for a Jap, a Russki, and...whatever the woman was. Curses, Carnelian thought, feeling her time running out. "Thank you both," she said, nodding her head to the men who had come to her aid. Then, she turned to the strikers. "Without these men, many more of you would be dead or bleeding. Gratitude is in order." Finally, they did start to cheer, hesitantly. "I must go. Wherever injustice rears its head, the Black Flag will fly against it!" she said, then launched herself into a high arc.

Spotting a tenement rooftop with no one on it and high enough to be out of sight of the ground, she steered toward it. Come on, come ooooooonnnn, get there! she thought. It would be quite humiliating--not to mention fatal--if her armor quit before she was on terra firma. She used her cape to brake, then landed in a skid just as a flash of light left her in her normal clothes. She dove into a roll to slow herself enough to come back to her feet and skitter to a stop. Taking no time to worry about bruises from the fight or scrapes from her landing, she ran for the nearest fire escape so she could dash down to ground level and Act Normal.

I need to find out who he is, she thought pressing details of the Japanese swordsman into her memory, and find a way to confirm the cat-man is who I think he is. Maybe the three of us can work together! And I need a second costume. One I can wear under the armor, so I can power it up only when I'm fighting, and be able to power down to talk. Then she remembered a classified ad she'd seen in the paper:

SUPERHEROES!
Don't just be super, LOOK super!
Emilie Jameson, costume designer
555-3379

The ad's spare wording indicated that "Emilie Jameson" didn't have a fat advertising budget to work with. Which indicated, in turn, that she was not running some mammoth capitalist enterprise of the sort that Carnelian had just been protesting--and fighting--against. So how do I meet her, without a costume?

 

[Razilin]

As Black Flag jetted off after a bold declaration to the crowd, the short swordsman sheathed his blade with a flourish and leaped onto the eaves of a nearby building - a jump that was easily six feet overhead, and without a running start, no less.

The little senshi likes her speeches, the swordsman thought. He caught sight of a third, cat-themed vigilante helping out and gave the man a nod of acknowledgement before bounding yet again into the air. With agility born from grueling practice, he hopped up from windowsill to windowsill until his feet softly padded upon the building's roof. There was astonished gasps below at his feat of physicality. It was unlikely that anyone on this side of the Pacific had seen such a demonstration; even in his native Japan, few had the leg strength to manage it.

The Setting Sun darted over the rooftops, vaulting past obstacles and leaping between buildings with ease as if he were walking on flat ground. He followed the Black Flag's trajectory and watched as she used her cape to brake slowly through the air until she landed upon the roof of an isolated tenement. It was with no small amount of wonder that he watched a brilliant light envelop her, only to fade an instant later, revealing a Negro woman clad in rather pedestrian clothes - especially in comparison to the unusual armor she had worn scant seconds before.

The swordsman leaped through the air and landed beside the woman with the silence of a cat. "An impressive trick," he said by way of greeting. "And here I thought only evil men wielded powers. What are you?"

 

[Zarko Straadi]

Carnelian:

Before Carnelian could reach the fire escape, a voice spoke beside her where there should have been no one. Startled by the sound, she spun into a wushu stance. Then, recognition and the content of his words kicked in. She rose from her stance and bowed to him with her hands at her sides, as she might have to her Sifu or a sparring opponent. She had never met a Japanese person before; she could only hope that the customs were similar enough to convey respect, as she was sure she could not trust any portrayal of the Japanese in movies or in print to provide accurate information.

"You do not strike me as an evil man, sir," she said, hoping she was correct in that assessment. "To the best of my understanding, my abilities are the product of the technology, and perhaps the magic, of another world. I was subjected to experimentation against my will by a secret agency. I was exposed to several pieces of technology. One of them seemed somehow to be compatible with me. Please excuse me, I do not like to speak of those times. In time, my rapport with it enabled me to manifest my powers, which I used to make my escape. I am Carnelian Douglass. May I ask your name sir, and how you came by your abilities? If you are an enemy of the oppressor, it is my hope that we will be able to work together."

 

[Razilin]

Harry almost stumbled at Douglass' ready admission.

Is this girl a fool, or just that naive? he wondered, studying the earnest expression on the Negro woman's face. To reveal all her secrets, including her name, so easily!

"My name is my own business, as are my abilities. But you may call me...the Setting Sun," he replied. "I don't mind working together, since it seems we both seek to mete out justice in an unjust time. But, Douglass-san, you realize that you've just told me everything I need to know about you?" He kept his hat and scarf in position to obscure his own features and expression. He didn't want her to see his incredulity. "If I were an enemy, I would have everything I need to destroy you." He raised a calming hand. "But fear not; I am a defender of the defenseless, like yourself."

He looked her up and down, but found no further trace of the strange armor she wore. "Magic and aliens. 'May we live in interesting times,' indeed," he mused, marveling at the mysteries still in the world. "Use this armor of yours responsibly and I believe we can be powerful allies. There is another you may wish to get in contact with."

He pointed to a mid-sized office building near the docks. "That is the Himura Corporation local headquarters, run by Harry Himura, the importer. He is a fool, like you, and a bleeding heart who uses his wealth and influence to provide for the needy - especially Japanese-Americans. He did much for those who wished to flee the Axis during the war and continues to do what he can to protect his kinsmen suffering here in the Americas. Like I said, he is a naive fool, but with a good heart."

He gave Carnelian a hard look, hidden behind the rim of his straw hat. "He is also well-connected and wealthy - two important resources if you wish to continue to your own fight for justice."

The swordsman walked over to the edge of the roof and gave the woman a final look over his shoulder. "Seek him out. I am sure he will aid you. Ja mata." Suddenly, he jumped off the edge, seemingly vanishing into the alley below.

 

[Mysty]

D A S H I E L L
{x} location: diner in the center of town.
{x} mentioned: --
{x} interactions: Vixen @Mippu

Dashiell had been a little startled to hear a sudden voice, directed at him, in the quiet little diner. It was time to be friendly, to act like he didn't loathe this dead end job and be a good server. He turned just enough to flash the woman a kind smile, soft brown eyes lingering for just a moment. The woman was absolutely stunning, he had to take a moment, or else he would've quite literally squeaked instead of spoken human words. "Coming right up, Miss!" He responded in a kind, peppy voice, one that servers often put up as a facade to their customers. He placed her milkshake down in front of her when he was done making it, about to turn around to continue cleaning off the counter.

When questioned about the payphone, Dashiell did indeed turn around like Veronica had hoped, gesturing off to the side a little as he spoke. "Oh, it's right by the restrooms." He responded. At the motion of the turn, his hair moved, revealing the smallest sliver of the scar on his forehead. It was nothing much unless you stared at it intensely, but it was still there and still ever so slightly visible.

The boy glanced up as Veronica vanished to go speak on the phone, deciding to focus on the stupid stain on the counter that refused to come off, rather than the ruckus (that seemed to be dying down) outside, or the beautiful woman who had walked in so confidently. And he wasn't even straight.

 

[LuckycoolHawk9]

Diners weren't always her waiting spot, but Veronica Fox felt like a nice cold milkshake as a relief from the weather. She stood out from her pink silk headscarf, round sunglasses, slightly swaying steps and her red lips. She was expecting a client at the little diner. She pretended not to notice the stares as she walked to the counter with the very pronounced clicks of her heels. Taking off her headscarf and sunglasses, she beamed at the young man cleaning the counter. "I'd like a strawberry milkshake, please."

Veronica took a seat, observing the young man who was probably a decade younger than her. She crinkled her nose when age came to mind, but focused on him again. His scent was definitely not a typical one. "Excuse me, where's your payphone?" She asked, just so he would turn to her. She couldn't pinpoint what kind of energy she felt from the boy but knew he must have been keeping a secret.

When directed, she thanked him and payed for the milkshake, telling him that she would be right back. Veronica took out a leaflet from her purse, took her milkshake with her and walked to the payphone to dial the number of an Emilie Jameson.

A woman picked up the call and Veronica's first thought was, she sounds like a mother. She expected this Jameson lady to have a boutique somewhere, however. Perhaps it was a secretary? She politely asked to speak with Emilie and waited. She chuckled at the conversation and cleared her throat quietly before she heard a different voice.

"Hello? M-miss Fox?"

"Hello! You'll have to pardon me, sweetie. I heard a little bit of that." Veronica said with a friendly tone and a lighthearted chuckle. She twirled a finger on the cord. "Anyway, it seems you've heard of my line of work. I'm honored. I don't need a costume for myself for the alter ego work, but I'd like to have some dresses for my performances. And a few other types of clothing." Behind her, people were having a commotion for some reason, and her voice nearly got buried by the noise. "I work evenings, so when can I see you?"

Nathaniel walked slowly to his destination, uncertain about how this meeting was going. Would it end well and he would recieve some new information on his missing brother? Would it be a waste of his time or perhaps it would be the most beneficial things that he had ever done in his whole life. He took a deep breath and decided something in that moment, he needed something to relieve his nerves so that he didn't stutter or lose his mind too much. He need a cigarette, that would be just the thing that would make him feel better.

He felt around in his jacket pocket and saw that he had forgetten his pack, it must have fallen out when he had put the suit on, or was in the wash. Either way, it was not here and he was already late to the meeting. He couldn't exactly stop, but he was sure that Miss Fox, his contact would understand that he was very stressed out. He hadn't always smoked cigarettes, but now he did for many reasons.

He had picked up this habit about the time that his brother had gone missing. His vice was smoking, his mother's was alcohol and his father's was working more and more each passing day. He knew that he had made promises to never follow the crowd, but this was a rare case.

He walked into the nearest general store and brought a pack of camels and lit one with his lighter and huffed it out. Ah, this felt good to him and his nerves felt better. He dropped the cigarette on the ground and smashed it with his foot and then proceeded to pick it up and threw it in the proper bin as he continued to walk to the dinner, it wasn't too long until he got them, hopefully it would be fine.

After a few minutes, he arrived at the dinner and entered and looked for his contact too.

He didn't see her immediately and went over to the man and paused. " Have you seen a woman waiting around here?" He asked. He had hoped that he wasn't too late and she hadn't left. He would have liked any information on his brother and she was his only chance in this city, nobody else worked with the heroes so closely that they would know what his superhero identity had been doing when he had been missing. Perhaps she knew someone that was there when he vanished- or perhaps it would prove to be fruitless as he feared too.

@Mippu (mentioned) @Mysty ( spoken with)