Megajoule

(Thank you, everyone.)

ah, that reminds me.

Statesmanicus - Imperious

Positronus - Daedalus

On that note, it's not uncommon in my playgroup for a character (especially tankers) to go through a couple of spawns before someone notices they forgot to put their pants (toggles) on.

I wouldn't put anything past certain intelligence agencies. Especially if the system was milspec to begin with (then again, part of that often involves having a self-destruct), or you were half-***ed about the melting-down part.
(On the other other hand, you're getting into diminishing returns at that point. Probably best to find another system, or someone else who knows the info, and sweat it out of them instead.)

The first example is trivial, with physical access. They might not have to power the system on, or open the case up. I wouldn't know, I'm not cleared for that.

No, the usage is accurate. There are still ways to get at the information on such a system (most of them require physical access, however, as well as specialized equipment and probably some lab time).

Another one of these threads?

My reward for playing a Rogue or Vigilante is (1) access to the other side, as a "tourist", to claim badges and/or run content with friends' characters on that side; (2) the alignment/morality missions themselves, which are still interesting and fun new-ish content to me; and (3) simply having the alignment which is appropriate to the character recognized by the game.

If I want to grind merits - which I rarely do, unless it's with friends - I have several heroes and a couple of villains with which to do so. Doing so on just one or two of them, up to my daily limit, along with everything else I like to do in a typical day or evening of play, fills up my limited/casual playtime just fine.

My tribute.

(New chapter at the end of that thread. If you require context, read the first and second chapters first; the one for Astoria is also recommended. All chapters are also on Virtueverse, per the link in my signature.)

SEPTEMBER 13, 2011


The air is thick with smoke, sounds of combat and cries for help. The sun struggles to shine through the amber haze. A grey shroud - dust, ash, pulverized concrete - lies over everything.

He looks like a palooka on his last legs, a noir detective in the third act, after being roughed up a few times by the crime boss's goons and the cops too for good measure. There's a strip of plaster across his nose (which looks like it was broken, again) and another over a cut on his cheek. Under the shirt and long coat, there are enough bandages around his ribs and left shoulder to wrap a mummy. And someone might have stepped on his hat.

But the gamine with the gams curled up in his lap, tiny and pathetic like a broken doll, is even worse off. Her pretty heart-shaped face is a mask of bruises and soot and thin rusty trickles; her short hair is a dirty tangle. One of her arms, left bare by her fab sleeveless dress and covered with small cuts from falling glass, hangs by her side at an unnatural angle. Her nylons are in shreds and her shoes and jewelry nowhere to be found, save for one pearl earring. And the aforementioned slim, stylish dress is soaked with blood.

This sort of thing isn't supposed to happen to city spirits. They're not supposed to be bloody or burned or pale and shocky. And they certainly aren't supposed to have heat-blackened stone shards embedded in their chest, dangerously close to their heart, giving off a sick, unearthly green glow. (He'd pulled another one, long and wickedly sharp, out of her leg when he found her; he hadn't liked the look of the veins around the wound, red and green mixing to make a black spiderweb.)

The Row speaks softly to his fellow spirit, urging her to wake up. His heart lifts a few notches when she finally opens her eyes (one only partly, thanks to a beaut of a shiner) and manages a ghost of a smile at the sight of him.

"King. You came."

"Soon as I heard," the Row acknowledges in his gravelly voice. "How ya doin', kiddo?"

"It hurts." Her eyes overflow with sudden tears. "It hurts so much. Everywhere."

"I know. But I'm here now, and so are the heroes. Ya gotta hold on until they can fix this... like they always do."

Her head rolls to the side on her limp neck, looking away from him. "I don't know if I..."

"Sure you can." He squeezes her shoulder, very gently. "Listen, I got tore up pretty bad when those big robots came through, but here I am. And Sky, she lost a couple a' bridges to those earthquakes, but she's... she's gettin' by. Steel's back on his feet, too, though he's still leanin' on that fancy cane, playin' for sympathy."

"I'm not... as strong... as you." Her breaths come quick and shallow.

"Don't say that. Just... just hold on, okay? Stay with me. Please." The Row's big hands hold her like fine china as he begs, trying to lend her some of his strength. Trying not to let on how bad it is, though she must already feel it.

The warehouse districts are on fire. Spiders have taken most of the park, their glossy black fliers squatting on the grass where picnickers and off-duty heroes once relaxed. Cygnus Medical filled up hours ago; now it's emptying out again, as doctors and staff try to evacuate patients to Atlas Park or anywhere that will take them. A hole's been knocked in the dome of the arena, off-center, with black smoke rising from it. The streets are full of craters, abandoned cars, and bodies. Most of the tall office and apartment buildings along the Orion Beltway have collapsed or have gaping wounds where meteors struck; on the upper floors, trapped civilians take deep breaths and step off... into the waiting arms of flying heroes. But there aren't enough of them, and the Longbow perimeter around Freedom Court and the hospital is barely holding under heavy assault from Arachnos and meteor-spawned monsters.

She stirs in his arms, looking past him. "it's getting dark..."

"That's just the sun goin' down," he assures her. "Soon the stars'll be out. Ya always did love the stars." For the stars she was named, and now her ruin has come from them, the fists of Shiva... He pushes the thought from his mind. She'll make it through this. She's got to.

He doesn't notice, at first, when her slight weight in his lap becomes even slighter. But there's no missing it when she starts to fade like a dream, crumbling like a sand castle, slipping through his grasp. The dissolution is swift; in mere moments, his arms hold only air and memory. He scrabbles desperately at the dirt, trying to wring her essence from it, but she's gone.

All the color drains out of the world. There's nothing under his knees but rubble, chunks of concrete and lifeless stone. Even the distant sirens have stopped.

The Row only cries when no one is watching.

SEPTEMBER 13, 2011


The air is thick with smoke, sounds of combat and cries for help. The sun struggles to shine through the amber haze. A grey shroud - dust, ash, pulverized concrete - lies over everything.

He looks like a palooka on his last legs, a noir detective in the third act, after being roughed up a few times by the crime boss's goons and the cops too for good measure. There's a strip of plaster across his nose (which looks like it was broken, again) and another over a cut on his cheek. Under the shirt and long coat, there are enough bandages around his ribs and left shoulder to wrap a mummy. And someone might have stepped on his hat.

But the gamine with the gams curled up in his lap, tiny and pathetic like a broken doll, is even worse off. Her pretty heart-shaped face is a mask of bruises and soot and thin rusty trickles; her short hair is a dirty tangle. One of her arms, left bare by her fab sleeveless dress and covered with small cuts from falling glass, hangs by her side at an unnatural angle. Her nylons are in shreds and her shoes and jewelry nowhere to be found, save for one pearl earring. And the aforementioned slim, stylish dress is soaked with blood.

This sort of thing isn't supposed to happen to city spirits. They're not supposed to be bloody or burned or pale and shocky. And they certainly aren't supposed to have heat-blackened stone shards embedded in their chest, dangerously close to their heart, giving off a sick, unearthly green glow. (He'd pulled another one, long and wickedly sharp, out of her leg when he found her; he hadn't liked the look of the veins around the wound, red and green mixing to make a black spiderweb.)

The Row speaks softly to his fellow spirit, urging her to wake up. His heart lifts a few notches when she finally opens her eyes (one only partly, thanks to a beaut of a shiner) and manages a ghost of a smile at the sight of him.

"King. You came."

"Soon as I heard," the Row acknowledges in his gravelly voice. "How ya doin', kiddo?"

"It hurts." Her eyes overflow with sudden tears. "It hurts so much. Everywhere."

"I know. But I'm here now, and so are the heroes. Ya gotta hold on until they can fix this... like they always do."

Her head rolls to the side on her limp neck, looking away from him. "I don't know if I..."

"Sure you can." He squeezes her shoulder, very gently. "Listen, I got tore up pretty bad when those big robots came through, but here I am. And Sky, she lost a couple a' bridges to those earthquakes, but she's... she's gettin' by. Steel's back on his feet, too, though he's still leanin' on that fancy cane, playin' for sympathy."

"I'm not... as strong... as you." Her breaths come quick and shallow.

"Don't say that. Just... just hold on, okay? Stay with me. Please." The Row's big hands hold her like fine china as he begs, trying to lend her some of his strength. Trying not to let on how bad it is, though she must already feel it.

The warehouse districts are on fire. Spiders have taken most of the park, their glossy black fliers squatting on the grass where picnickers and off-duty heroes once relaxed. Cygnus Medical filled up hours ago; now it's emptying out again, as doctors and staff try to evacuate patients to Atlas Park or anywhere that will take them. A hole's been knocked in the dome of the arena, off-center, with black smoke rising from it. The streets are full of craters, abandoned cars, and bodies. Most of the tall office and apartment buildings along the Orion Beltway have collapsed or have gaping wounds where meteors struck; on the upper floors, trapped civilians take deep breaths and step off... into the waiting arms of flying heroes. But there aren't enough of them, and the Longbow perimeter around Freedom Court and the hospital is barely holding under heavy assault from Arachnos and meteor-spawned monsters.

She stirs in his arms, looking past him. "it's getting dark..."

"That's just the sun goin' down," he assures her. "Soon the stars'll be out. Ya always did love the stars." For the stars she was named, and now her ruin has come from them, the fists of Shiva... He pushes the thought from his mind. She'll make it through this. She's got to.

He doesn't notice, at first, when her slight weight in his lap becomes even slighter. But there's no missing it when she starts to fade like a dream, crumbling like a sand castle, slipping through his grasp. The dissolution is swift; in mere moments, his arms hold only air and memory. He scrabbles desperately at the dirt, trying to wring her essence from it, but she's gone.

All the color drains out of the world. There's nothing under his knees but rubble, chunks of concrete and lifeless stone. Even the distant sirens have stopped.

The Row only cries when no one is watching.

Dark Sweater has it just right here.

I'm there right now.
And I have... plans for tomorrow.

Speaking of improper usage, about you stop using it as a verb? Then we'll talk.

Statesman Fun - Things that are fun as defined by Jack "Statesman" Emmert, such as getting wiped twelve times by a boss before finally defeating it. May or may not bear any relationship to actual fun.

brb soloing - Hey, where'd the scrapper go? (god damnit, shad...)

Defeat 12 Orphans - The objective of a hypothetical mission, as written by the devs that gave us the first few issues, to save children from a burning orphanage. A poke at the quality, limited options, repetitiveness etc of the game's oldest content.

Spawnmower - A team that can ki-- er, "defeat" large numbers of foes at a fast, steady pace.

Commerce Break - Everyone's salvage and/or enhancement inventories are full, time to visit the market and/or a vendor or quartermaster to sell it all off.

Council-sized - Large spawns, particularly of Council or Fifth Column. Beloved of characters with AoE powers.

Yeah No Button - Incarnate Judgments. "Look, a spawn of--" "Yeah, no." *ASPLODE*

Facepull - Pulling with a character that has few or no ranged attacks, usually by running up into aggro range and then back to the rest of the team.

Grenade Jumping - Volunteering to sit out a task force, etc when there are more than eight players present from the SG who wish to go. Sometimes several players will attempt to do so at once.

Orangebagel - Lost City of.

Wakie - Awaken inspiration.

Vengeance Bait - A character who expects or actually plans to die in a difficult fight, so as to grant a Vengeance buff to the rest of the team.

If I may (and I apologize for not seeing this thread sooner)...

It sounds like Death_Badger's complaint is not that they want access to Incarnates for free; rather, that they want to be able to BUY it, for a one-time payment, rather than RENT it as an ongoing monthly subscription.

As I understand it, there's no way for Premium players to buy a "lifetime Incarnate license"; that endgame is being dangled as one of the big carrots to get people to subscribe. (By contrast, I gather there IS a way to get a "lifetime IO license" - I think someone mentioned 27 tokens?)

EDIT: Oedipus Tex, I feel for your friends, but Paragon/NC can't give free accounts completely unrestricted chat. They just can't. We'd be buried in spam. (Again.)

When I visited Freedom to level a disposable character and get the "Defender of Primal Earth" global badge:
Yes, just like that. Constantly.

I was working part-time in a law office. I didn't have to be there until 11:00 Pacific (2:00 pm Eastern), and I often stayed up late and didn't get up until 10 or even 10:30. This meant I rarely checked the news before coming in.

This time, when I arrived, one of the other secretaries sat me down and told me something unbelievable: "The Twin Towers of the World Trade Center no longer exist."
... what?

IMO (and I don't believe I'm alone), Janeway's character suffered greatly from being written by committee - all of whom had different ideas of what the "first female captain" should be.

Personally, I tend to compare her to the very first captain ever, Christopher Pike (as played by Jeffrey Hunter) - thinky, curious, intense, serious. They have a tendency to let that curiosity lure them into bad situations, then angst and brood about it later. They're parental figures: a father to his men, a mother to hers. Threaten that crew and/or the ship and you will find yourself on the receiving end of a cold, steely, implacable anger dedicated to neutralizing that threat, whatever it takes.

(The network didn't like such a cerebral hero and had Roddenberry retool the role into more of a swashbuckling maverick, with a twinkle in his eye and a smug grin as he cheats his way out of death yet again. You may know the guy.)

The power I want... is far too serious for this thread.

VERB! That's what's happenin'!

Late to this thread - I've been busy, and still am, and don't check this sub-board often - and I don't have a really coherent idea at the moment of what I'd like to see in a new Trek series. I just wanted to point out that what BrandX was wishing for back on page 1 - a show where a Federation starship is thrown into a broken-down future - has already been done. It was called Andromeda, based on a concept by... Gene Roddenberry.

(And then around the second or third season, "Shatner" got creative control and used it to run the show into the ground, including getting rid of the fan-favorite "Nimoy" character who kept stealing HIS spotlight.)

One of my characters is a native of GC. He's going to lose a home and a family member when it's destroyed, and it's going to hit him pretty hard (and start him on the Incarnate path out of a desire for vengeance).

Several of my characters have a "classic" build full of SOs - some dating from before ED - and a modern build with IOs (none of them purple).