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🎨 Creative "O.G./Next Generation" Draft!

Shawn_Hagen

Shawnya the Evil?
RPGnet Member
Validated User
OOC:
The Shi'ar Majestrix has given Rocket Raccoon some new fighters to help protect a lawless of space. He has come to earth to pick them up and has to get a few Earth people pilots. The first one was Ramona Quill, US Air Force Captain and a relative of Peter Quill. After visiting the President of the United States he is off to get a new pilot.



Rocket waited until he was some distance from the White House and the sensor web it employed before rolling the Kludge and heading west. He climbed rapidly, entering an intercontinental ballistic flight path.

“That was the president,” Ramona said. “He knows who I am. He shook my hand.”

“You gonna wash that? I’d wash that.”

“He’s the president.”

“Look, Ramona, I get it, you’re young, you’re stupid, you’re easily impressed by shiny things and laser pointers.”

“You’re an ass Trash Panda.”

Rocket laughed. “Listen, Fisk is just a crook who made good. If that impresses you the Galaxy is going to eat you up, cause there are lots of crooks who made good who are on planets bigger than this one calling themselves president, or king or the Great and Powerful Oooze.”

“You mean Oz.”

“No, I mean Oooze. Slimes. Horrible all around. You got to look past the title and see the selfish bastard behind it and ask yourself, how can I con this joker for everything I can get.”

“The fighters you told me about, they better be good.”

“They’re good. Trust me. I wouldn’t be hunting primitive pilots if the payout was not good.”

“Is that where we are going now?”

“Yeah, place called Japan.”

“The pilot is in Japan?”

“I’m not going there just to buy the Retsuko and Fenneko Nendroids,” Rocket said as he reached forward and pulled back on the throttle.

The Kluge leapt forward at several times the speed of sound.



Senior high student, or maybe a youthful looking college student, or Office Lady. Jeans, ankle boots with kitten heels, a leather jacket. Nothing that stood out.

Late night Roppongi, she was hunched over the keyboard of an ATM. Looking like anyone else who was making sure to hide their PIN.

But she was not entering her PIN. She was looking into the ATM, through its network, into the accounts of its clients. And she found what she wanted, illegal money, slush fund, the told the system to take the money from that, obfuscate the removal, and told the machine to spit out the funds.

With a hum, the ATM fired out a large number of the thousand yen notes. The girl grabbed them from the tray, pulled a few loose and stuffed them in her jeans pocket, put the rest into her purse.

When she turned around she found the ATM vestibule crowded with ninjas.

“Roppongi,” she said with a shake of her head.

One of the ninjas spoke, with their faces covered she was not sure which one. “Digi Maou, you will come with us.”

“It’s not Digi Maou, It’s Miki, and if you want someone you want my sister Yukio, she’s the crazy ninja type. So shoo.” She made a gesture with her hand. “Go and hunt mutant gaijin or red-suited vigilantes or whatever it is you do these days.” She sounded remarkably calm.

“It is you The Hand wants.”

“Give me a break,” Miki said, then stepped forward as if ready to go with them.

The bank alarms went off, howling sirens and flashing lights. Security gates rolled down across the doors and windows. The gate across the entrance into the bank proper was slower, and the lock on it was, at that moment, unlocked.

Miki dashed through it, and the security gates crashed down at her heels.

The ninjas were trapped in the vestibule, and she was free to run through the bank and out the back door. None of the cameras recorded her, and the lock on the back door let her pass.

She paused and bowed to the back door. “Thank you,” she said, and then turned and free climbed her way up the side of the opposite building.

Sure, Yukio was the actual ninja, thief, ronin type, but Miki was not without her own skills.

And having been in both the gymnastics club and the mountain climbing club in high school means going up the side of a Roppongi building was no big deal.

However, she did not lose the ninjas for long.

Leading them a race across the rooftops Miki jumped over the alleys and narrower streets, her low heeled boots often scuffling centimetres from a deadly fall.

She really should not enjoy it so much.

Her older sister probably loved this kind of stupidity.

She climbed higher and higher until she suddenly realised she had nowhere left to go but back, towards the ninja.

She cursed. There was machinery all around her, but none of it was immediately useful, and the door on the roof as barred on the other side. She cursed again, louder, more vehemence. The ninja were close now.

That they wanted her did not reassure her.

It just meant they would not kill her.

Well, not immediately.

She was about the curse again when she felt something.

It was not of her world.

Then, like a portal in space opening, a rectangle of light appeared a ramp and hanging from it a tanuki with a gun.

Had her power finally driven her insane?

Were the gods and monsters of Japan making themselves known to her?

And then her brain caught up, made sense of what she was seeing, what she was feeling.

Alien spaceship. Cloaking device. The tanuki with a gun still made no sense.

Then it began to fire that gun, muzzle flash and the crack of hypersonic rounds. Boom, boom, boom. Ninja fell.

“Blam, I murdered you!” the tanuki was yelling.

“Wierd,” Miki said.

“Quill, spin us, ten degrees port!” the tanuki yelled.

The ship began to turn.

“You’re other port!” the tanuki screamed.

The ship began to turn the other way.

The tanuki continued to fire, ninjas continued to fall.

Finally, there were no ninja’s left.

The ship put down on the roof, not its whole weight, and only part of the structure, and the cloak was shut off.

Miki approached. She had to accept what her eyes were telling her. That a tanuki flying in a spaceship had saved her.

In the bay of the ship she saw a woman in an American air force uniform. She was saying, “Do you even know what port means?”

“I think I know what port means,” the tanuki said, waving his impossibly large gun.

“Excuse me,” Miki said.

The tanuki turned to look at her. “You Digi Maou, the Digital Demon Lord?”

“I do not call myself that. I am Miki.”

“Well Miki, I’m Rocket, this is Ramona Quill.”

“Captain Quill.”

“Lieutenant Commander on my ship Quill.”

“Port means your left.”

“Shut up!” Rocket looked back at Miki. “So, I could use a good technopath. Wanna come to space with me?”

“No,” Miki said. “That would be insane. I don’t even know you.”

“I got candy,” Rocket tried.

“Creepy,” Ramona said, drawing out the ‘e’s.

“Okay, how about I take you away from all those ninjas coming this way?”

Miki looked, saw more of The Hand.

Well, that reduced her options. She ran onto the ship. “”Let’s go,” she told them. “But I’ve not agreed to go into space.”

Rocket hit a control, and the ramp began to close. “You will.”

OOC:
Miki, younger sister of Yukio, is a Techopath, and she is probably going to be Rocket's second pilot.
Some people call her Digi Maou, the Digital Demon Lord... she does not.
 

Troy Swain

Registered User
Validated User
Nothing better than coming online for some sweet Draft shenanigans. Two tough kick-ass women in a tight spot. And I never thought about Rocket as a tanuki. Of course he is. That makes as much obvious sense as him being into Retsuko.
 

beachnik

Man of Action!
Validated User
"Sorry... anger got the better o' me" Ben swept up the shards of pottery into one hand, and somehow against all odds managed to move more coffee onto adjacent surfaces than there had been before. Amidst much grumbling Ben tidied the remains of his coffee and mug, and sat down across from Lily.

"So whatcha doin' here? World's a big place, why'd you come down to my neighbourhood?"

In an obvious attempt to dodge the question Lily rose to her feet and wandered along to the wall of photographs.

"Who are all these then? Friends of yours?"

With a sigh Ben rose to his feet and joined her. "Used ta be."

"What happened?"

"It's a dangerous job this heroin' business. Most o' the folks up here are six feet under. Either that or retired, or hidin', or who knows. All I know is they don't show up to the poker games no more. Piece of advice kid: don't ever get old."

Feeling as though she had suddenly stepped on dangerous ground, Lily backed away cautiously.

"Listen, Mr. Grimm. Thanks so much for breakfast, and for somewhere to stay last night. I'm gonna get..."

"No." Ben said. Not with anger, but with a weight to it, finality. "No, you're gonna stay here and tell me what's going on. I'm not in the habit of lettin' young folks who don't know any better run off half-cocked..." Lily recoiled as anger grew in his voice, "...anymore, at least."

For a moment Lily again pondered fleeing, but before the decision could be made the far wall of Ben's apartment exploded inwards, showering debris, and making the building groan as weight shifted in directions it was never meant to.

"ENOUGH OF THIS FOOLISHNESS CHILD! IT IS TIME TO RETURN HOME!"

A large, purple draconic figure with one last beat of it's mighty wings landed in the wreckage of Ben's kitchen. Speaking with a voice that Ben found eerily familiar despite how long it had been since he'd heard it, it spoke again.

"YOU. I THOUGHT IT WAS YOU! BURN!!!"

With a bestial roar Dragon Man opened his maw and unleashed a torrent of white-hot flame, washing over The Thing as he rolled to shield Lily with his body.
 

Myth

Southern Mane
RPGnet Member
Validated User
Yay! And so far un-pickageddoned! (Be pretty sad if I got pickageddoned on an original character...)
 

HNutz

Knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men!
Validated User
Yay! And so far un-pickageddoned! (Be pretty sad if I got pickageddoned on an original character...)
Yeah, but I could kinda see it happening somewhat if your OC was the kid of one or two OGs...
 
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Troy Swain

Registered User
Validated User
A Very Bad Morning
Part Five | Snippets


OOC: Previously: The Hulk Virus rages throughout the Southwest of the US. Quarantines are quickly enforced, but still the virus spreads. There was recently a case outside of the Southwest. And the military and super-organizations struggle to keep up.
Every year, Ty Johnson, formerly Cloak, dances in a sad ritual from sun up to sun down on March 7th. At the same corner in Koreatown.
The young woman formerly known as Shi Min, The Personator, stalks Las Vegas, unseen. She searches out an artificial sun hovering in the desert.

Chicago, 2016
Watching The Cloak


Projected on the walls are videos of The Cloak dancing on Wilshire. Different angles for different walls. Even in video, The Cloak’s dancing is elegant, beautiful, and sad.

A young woman, dressed roughly like The Cloak, awkwardly tries to copy The Cloak’s dance moves. But she is not a good dancer. Her cloak constantly gets under foot. Her dance moves do not look like The Cloak’s. They look like the moves of a spastic child. After she trips on the cloak and falls on her ass for the third time, she gets up and shouts, “Pause!” She is breathing heavily.

A man in a black suit with a black tie is standing against the wall watching her, impassively. He’s clearly a Fed.

“What do you have?” asks The Fed.
“Not a damn thing,” says The Mage.
“The Director wants answers.”
The Mage towels herself off. She is still breathing heavy. She leans against a chair. “Gyrich can go to hell. You can tell him I said that.”
“Is it magic?”
She clasps her hands behind her head, trying to catch her breath. “I have no idea. Last year I definitely felt reality manipulation, but… Well, motion based thaumaturgy simply isn’t a prominent tradition.”
“You’re supposed to be an expert. One of the best,” says The Fed.
“I am! And I’m not a fucking dancer,” says The Mage. “I spent my youth studying dusty tomes, not… in the club.”
“So we have nothing to charge him with?”
“Look, movement based magic is old. Remnants of it exist in most magical traditions. But… if— and I say IF— his dance is a ritual, then it is something old, and something I haven’t encountered. I can’t imagine how he acquired it. And these last two years, his dance has changed. The Cloak’s dance is somewhere between choreographed and improvised. But his movements are mainly contemporary, as far as I can tell. Hip hop based.”
“So?”
“Well… It’s not an ancient set of dance moves because it’s fucking hip hop. Maybe we seek out a chi practitioner? You guys follow all of the Iron Fists and… that martial arts stuff, right?”
“We do,” says The Fed.
“So movement magic is closer to what they do, and some of their traditions are intertwined, obviously. And I just can’t replicate any of his moves. I mean, it’s a good work out, but I look stupid doing it, and I’m not good at it, and I’d rather do yoga.”

________________________________

San Fransisco, 2019
Dr. Richards and the first identified victim of the 'Hulk Virus'


The young woman rubs her temples. She stares at her green hands. She calls over Mr. Snuggles, who jumps in her lap. “What’s going on, Doc?”
Dr. Richards is behind the force-bubble. He clearly is having a hard time holding his shape. “We’re running tests,” he says.
“No shit, Doc. What’s going on?”
He looks at her and smiles, “It is not virus based. I am not quite sure how it transfugfffguuz—” and suddenly his face droops as if he was a cartoon in a horror movie. She recoils.
Dr. Richard’s face snaps back to his handsome older form. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t have the control I used to.”
“Doc… Doc… I can definitely feel it coming on again.”
“I’m sensing that. Can you pinpoint anything? Can you see what is around you?”
“Yeah… Oh god… a few… images… Uuugh!”
“Listen to me carefully. I need you to concentrate on those images.”
“I’m… I’m at school… Caleb is picking on me. He’s such a dick! Oh… and I’m someone else. Someone different. A girl— There’s two— Oh god, there’s three of me! We’re really close. Two of us are in the same class? They always fucking pick on me! They always fucking pick on me! They always fucking pick on me!
Dr. Richards touches some screens and reads some projections and then calls the WCA. “Praxis,” says Dr. Richards. “We have an outbreak near San Diego. Apologies, but you have no time to prepare. You need to leave right now. … Ok. Ok. I will keep in touch. I will keep you informed.”

________________________________

Las Vegas, 2018
The unseen woman formerly-known-as-Shi-Min, The Personator


She dances through the casino. I want to kiss you, she says. And I want to kiss you. And I want to kiss you. She pulls some quarters out of a slot machine’s bin and giggles. Time to have some fun.

She is in The Mirage! What a pretty name! Mirage! Like her, not there!

She dances up to a blackjack table, leans over, and swings her arm wide, tossing all of their chips and money and cards onto the ground. She laughs uproariously, and the people around the table look around with confusion. A few beefy guards run up, and she goes to lick one of the big men on their cheek. The big man topples to the floor. She straddles him. The big man is panicked and can’t move and he doesn’t know why. Other beefy guards go to help him up, but they stop in front of her, and they also don’t know why. There is confusion. And she laughs and laughs. And suddenly she falls off of the beefy man, and the quarters in her hand go scattering across the floor.

Pain.

She stands up, woozy. What the hell? She picks up a handful of chips, but trips over an upturned stool. The chips go flying. People are walking over her. What is going on? She gathers up the chips.

She stands up, but bumps against the blackjack table, and drops the chips, again. What is going on? This isn’t natural.

The people around her aren’t moving out of her way quite right. Something is wrong. It’s like she’s getting pushed around. And suddenly one of the beefy guards reaches out to her. Like he’s going to touch her! She freezes and closes her eyes, suddenly terrified and exhilarated. But after a second, she feels no touch. She opens her eyes, and the guard is lifting up someone who was prone near her head.

She crawls away but bangs into a slot machine. It hurts. And then she bangs into a stool— with someone on it. And they don’t move!

It’s not right!

She stands up— and there is a woman.

She has no face!
No face; just blank!
Skin the color of snow, and her suit is blazing white. And she’s staring at her! But there’s no way! Not only does no-face woman have no eyes, but no one can see her! So no-face woman isn’t really looking at her, right? But no-face definitely seems to be looking at her— or for her. No-face seems to be sniffing the air, even though she has no nose.

So she runs. She trips, maybe on someone’s foot?! Pain! And as she gets up, she notices that her nose is bleeding! And the no-face woman is still searching… for her? Smelling for her. Oh god! So she runs, and bumps into things, and is hurt.


Since then, she’s avoided all of the casinos. Now they are scary. She doesn’t want to see the no-face woman again.


OOC: [ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 ]
 
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ThePhantom

Registered User
Validated User
“Look, I get that the bus can move more 100 mph and fit over a hundred people, but it breaks so of the travel guidelines. I don’t care, my job is help keep things within the law to limit issues that can occur. That’s what you hired me for.”

The red hair woman talks into a device while sticking pins into a map of the USA.

“Look, I’m just minding those instructions about those groups and the movements. Don’t you try that with me. You already made it so my taxes jumped.”

Saffon Gilbert works for Victor Von Doom, Doombot! as secretary and general aide, given that she was one of the people who vouched for its public role. (O.G.)
 
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