Megajoule

(( I would usually say that horror is one of my least favorite genres. ))

(( I'm loving this. ))

Let me break it down a little further:

Having a disrespectful attitude toward authority does not, in and of itself, make you admirable. It just means you don't respect authority. Depending on circumstance, this might make you a heroic rebel or just a jerk.

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I've had a few posts modded, and I've had a few traffic stops. In both cases, I'd broken the rules, gone out of bounds, and I knew it. I didn't curse the guy who caught me doing it.

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To extend your analogy:

What if you consistantly saw the same cop at an intersection, and consistantly saw him ignore people running a stop sign but only stopped you? In fact, what if someone ran said stop sign right in front of you, but you made a "rolling stop" and he pulled you over and gave you a ticket? I think you might wind up cursing the guy that pulled you over.

I think this is a better representation of what many of us feel is going on here.

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One, it's not the same cop. There's a new cop on the beat, who seems more inclined to hand out tickets for minor infractions than the last one. Guess you'd better learn to slow down, signal your turns, and not floor it through yellow lights.

Two, perceptions of things like your example are notoriously flawed and biased, often unconsciously. There hasn't been a patch that's gone by without someone complaining that Accuracy has been stealth-nerfed. 99% of the time, it's just an artifact of the human mind's tendency to focus on the negative and dismiss the positive... like all the times you did get away with bending the rules.

IMO, if you come into this situation with an existing bias, that will cause the perceived data to match your hypothesis. Data that doesn't fit the theory is discarded as inconsequential. This is not to say that Lighthouse is infallible... but neither are his observers.

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After ironically having my pro-Lighthouse post deleted because I attached it to another post that got squished, I'll start at the top.

To reiterate - Lighthouse is doing a better job than CuppaJo. Yes, stealth-mods and stealth-deletions still occur, but when Lighthouse acts he tells us why. CuppaJo occasionally did, but usually she just threw a black bag over the head of the offending thread and had it dragged into an awaiting van.

I didn't (and still don't) get the fandom that surrounded Cuppa. She was nice enough for a voice on the wire, sure, but nothing special. But that's all she was for 99% of the forums - a voice on the wire.

But then I don't actually want the mods to be my friends. I don't want them to be friends with players because I think it creates the chance that they will let too much slide from certain people. I want the mods to be efficient, to be open about what they are doing / why they locked a thread and to show a steady hand. Lighthouse is doing all of this.

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I disagree with pretty much everything you say here.

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And I disagree with your disagreement and say that, in my opinion, UnSub is absolutely right.

Lighthouse is here to do a job. Being your friend is optional.

When you have a stuck/bugged mission, and you /petition for a GM, do you want someone to come in and joke with you about it for a half hour, or do you want someone who will fix it?

I've had a few posts modded, and I've had a few traffic stops. In both cases, I'd broken the rules, gone out of bounds, and I knew it. I didn't curse the guy who caught me doing it.

I've got friends in the game, outside the game, and a couple here on the forums. I don't need the board-cop to be my friend; I just want him to do his job, efficiently and fairly. I haven't seen any credible (IMO) evidence that Lighthouse is not doing exactly this.

I believe that some people got used to a very lenient standard of enforcement and are now having to deal with a much stricter one. It's unfortunate that we've gone from one extreme to another, but I disagree that the solution is for the new moderator to unilaterally loosen up. Posters are going to have to learn to behave better, as they always should have.

I'm not saying this stuff because I want Lighthouse to like me. I want him to keep doing his job. That's all.

(( *applauds loud and long, now that the tale is fully told* ))

Not sure if this is the right place to post this, but...

I try to run with my inspirations bin full, or close to it, as much as possible. I believe that this is true of many if not all players.

The latest patch seems to have added the 'feature' that when the inspiration bin is full, the "Inspirations" text in your tray turns red, much like when you have an email. The color red is typically used to attract one's attention to a problem or something that requires action (such as when your enhancement tray fills up, and you might wish to delete or sell some). However, having a full bin of inspirations is not a problem; it is the desired situation.

The result, therefore, is that I now have a red warning light on my "dashboard" telling me that... I have a full tank of gas? What? Am I supposed to start deleting inspirations to "make room"?

Please roll this change back. I do not need to (almost) constantly see a bright red word on my tray telling me that ... everything is fine, actually.

(( *quietly applauds her courage, then bows head* ))

(( *shivers* ))

... have you done the Seer Marino arc?

11. FOUNDERS FALLS


He finds the old man sitting on a dock, leaning up against a lamppost, with his bare feet in the water. His head is dipped toward his chest and loud snores issue from his long white beard. A fishing pole with an unbaited hook is held slackly in his almost skeletal hands. A tricorn hat and musket have been set nearby, within easy reach.

The Row simply stands there for a few minutes, uncertain how to proceed. Clearing his throat does not change the steady in-out rhythm of the snores. Finally he puts a huge mitt on the old man's shoulder and gently shakes him. The elder awakens with a start, jerking upright and nearly fumbling the pole in his excitement.

"Got one! I got one!"

The Founder gleefully yanks his line out of the water, only to scowl at the empty hook. Muttering grumpily, he lowers the string back into the canal. Only then does he seem to notice the figure looming over him; he turns his head, squinting up at the newcomer. "Eh? Who are you, sir?"

"I'm the spirit of the Row. Some folks..."

"You must speak up," the Founder interrupts, jabbing a finger at his ear. "My hearing is not what it was."

"I said some folks call me King," the Row repeats in a louder voice.

"King?!" The old man in the brass-buttoned coat recoils, glaring. "I've no use for kings, not anymore. So be off with you, George or Louis or whatever your name is, before I put a ball in your backside!" The Founder grabs his musket and leans on it to pull himself to his feet, then points it at the interloper. "Go on!"

"Whoa, easy there," the Row says, holding up his empty hands with palms out. "I'm not really a king, that's just a nickname, see? I'm the spirit of a place, same as you."

"Town spirit, eh?" The Founder still regards the Row with suspicion, but lets the weaving muzzle of the musket droop to a less threatening angle. "Which are you, then? Fossburg? Eastgate? Baumton? Aye, you're big enough to be Baumton..."

"Nah, none of those. Like I said, I'm Kings Row - part of Paragon City, same as you."

The Founder looks the Row over again before declaring testily, "Never heard of you." He bends down and reclaims his hat, plunking it on top of his wispy white hair. "Paragon what? You really must speak up, boy!"

"Paragon CITY," the Row grumbles as the Founder brushes past him. "You don't talk much to the others, do ya?"

"I prefer peace and quiet. And I have found few worth listening to," the Founder replies, climbing the short flight of steps to a cobbled plaza, using the musket as a walking stick. "Woodvale isn't so bad, but the rest - oh! Especially that rude fellow who's moved in to the north. No respect for his elders, that one. Intolerable."

The Row chuckles. "Guess we agree on somethin'."

"Eh?"

"I said I was in the neighborhood, and thought I should pay my respects!"

"Ah!" The Founder smiles and pats the Row on his thick bicep. "That's good of you, lad, very good. Courtesy has not been completely forgotten." He sets off at a brisk walk along the canal. "You may accompany me on my rounds!" The Row hurries to follow, especially when it looks as if the old man might march right off the promenade and into the water.

"I walk the length and breadth of my estate each day, making sure all is as it should be," the Founder explains as he leads his guest through narrow back alleys between buildings - many of them hundreds of years old - placed with little apparent rhyme or reason. Guardian statues, their hands folded over the top of their shields, watch them pass without comment. The canals are crossed by arched foot bridges and lined with docks for tying up boats. "Can't have any trespassers disturbing the peace. No no, won't allow it."

"Uh..." says the Row, stopping to stare at a squad of Rikti loitering on the cobblestones in broad daylight. The aliens and their hovering nautiloid drones look like lost tourists, gathered around their leader - the only one wearing battle armor, or anything more than wrinkled pink skin - who is consulting a datapad. The Founder does not pause, and the Row has to run to catch up. "Hey, did you see...?"

"-- particular about the sort of people I allow to walk my streets," the Founder is saying, having taken no notice of the invaders or of the Row's brief absence. "Why, I don't even abide one of those newfangled trolleycar stops. Imagine all those ruffians and rum-runners from up the coast riding down here to cause trouble. No, I only want solid members of the community: hard-working craftsmen, landowners, gentlemen and ladies of good names and breeding, like--"

"Crey!" the Row shouts, as the pair emerge from another alley to find themselves facing half a dozen men in dark suits, blue uniforms, and power armor. They've set up some kind of security checkpoint and are inspecting the identification of passing civilians.

"Yes, the Comtesse du Crey's men have been most helpful, most helpful in looking after things for me," the Founder acknowledges absently, peering at the sign above the entrance of the nearest building. "Could have sworn this was the silversmith's... perhaps the next street over?" he murmurs, then shrugs and starts off again. "Hurry along, lad! Much ground still to cover!"

They haven't gone far, no more than a few blocks, when the sound of an explosion echoes down an alley at them; briefly seen between buildings, a mushroom-shaped plume of green smoke rises into the air. It's followed by another seconds later. The Founder is furious, waving his musket and shouting at the miscreants: "NO FIREWORKS! I expressly forbid fireworks except for celebrations of Independence, and that's not for... er..." He tries to count on his fingers, then abandons the attempt and grips the musket tighter. "Stand forth and present yourselves!"

"How about you let me take care of that for ya, gramps?" the Row suggests carefully, having a pretty good idea of what he'll find at the end of the alley.

"Really?" The Founder blinks at him in mild confusion. "Well... if you want... I suppose." As the Row starts forward, balling his hands into fists, the old man warns, "Be careful, boy - they may have knives!"

"Oh, I bet they do," the Row mutters as he plunges into the dark alley. There are sounds of a scuffle, a short blast of fire, and then silence. Presently he returns, leading a young black woman who's just had the scare of her life.

"Did you put them to rout, then?" the Founder demands. "What about their rockets, their pyrotechnics?"

"They, uh, used them all," the Row explains to his companion. "They was holdin' this one... you'll be okay now, miss."

"Mm, yes," the Founder says kindly, looking to the rescued woman. "Run along to your master's house now, girl." She stares at him for a moment in mute shock and anger, then turns and runs off.

There is the sound of stone on stone as the Row palms his face in dismay. "You really haven't kept up with the times, have ya?"

"What do you mean?" the Founder asks, his bushy white eyebrows drawing together.

The Row has made up his mind. "Come with me. I got somethin' to show you."

"But, my rounds..."

"We ain't leaving your domain, just goin' up to the lookout in the park."

"Hrm. Well, I suppose that's all right, then." The Founder starts to follow, then stops and points, beaming. "Ah, here, that's the kind of thing I like to see in my town: a young wedded couple walking their dog." The Council soldier, vampyr, and warwolf stare back in confusion, then move along quickly when the Row cracks his knuckles.



It's a long steep climb up into the green hills that surround the town, especially since the Founder insists on stopping often to rest, to point out the picturesque Blackstone Falls (of which he is obviously very proud), or to complain about the terrible state the groundskeeper has left the hedges in (as one of them attempts to claw the Row's face off). Daylight fades and night comes as the sun sets. But at last they achieve the summit, where a monument park of four lions on pedestals guard a group of stone angels atop a central pillar and an overlook offers an unparalleled view of the surrounding city. Even through the shimmering forcefield curtain, the city lights shine brightly.

The Founder removes his tricorn and holds it over his heart as he gazes raptly at the earthbound constellation. "Ohhh," he sighs in wonder. "Would you look at that. Oh my."

"That's Paragon City, gramps," says the Row. "Ain't it somethin'? And it all started... right here."

"I... we made that?" The Founder's eyes are suddenly full of tears. "We... we did good, didn't we?"

"You sure did, gramps. You got us all off to a great start."

The Row stands silent and proud for a long time, looking out at the great tapestry of which he's a part. Eventually he becomes aware that the old man is leaning against his arm and shoulder, snoring quietly.

"... Gramps?"

(reposted from another thread)

I'm going to take this opportunity to plug a few groups that usually don't get much press here on the forums. The reason I'm mentioning them all at once is that many of them share the same players, who hang out on a common global channel; the various groups allow for different themes and concepts for our many alts. We're constantly running character plots, roleplaying in the base and on missions, being silly in the channel, and just having fun. We also have our own forum.

Death From Below Crew (D.F.B.): Street-level heroes, based out of Kings Row. Paragon natives. Local boys and girls made good. This is where it got started, and several of the founders are now Heroes of the City... but they haven't forgotten their roots, and there are new up-and-comers all the time.

Do-Gooders: A somewhat looser-themed group, with a substantial Kheldian contingent. Spandex types go here. More bright and optimistic. Very active.

Brigands of Light: A magical girl squad. Pretty soldiers always welcome, and we even have a few gentlemen in masks and formalwear.

As for villainy, we have several options there as well...

Foxtrot Company: The thread in Roleplaying describes it better than I could. Rather exclusive, but mentioned for completeness. They've attracted some allies and associates who aren't actually of the Five and Twenty.

Old Money: You know what they say about the root of all evil. Whether you have it, want it, or work for someone who does, Old Money is a group for both the decadently idle rich and those who'll do anything to join their ranks.

Evil Geniuses for a Better Tomorrow: Bad, mad, or just misunderstood, this group stands boldly at the forefront of Science. The "Evil" Geniuses accept examples (creations and former experimental subjects) of what the uneducated and superstitious call "mad" science as well as practitioners of it.

Evil-Doers, Inc.: The grab-bag counterpart to the Do Gooders. Any resemblance to the Island of Misfit Toys is purely coincidental.


If any of these concepts sound interesting, and you'd like to play with the likes of myself, Twoflower, kusanagi, Silver Gale and other wonderfully creative roleplayers whose names you probably wouldn't recognize, drop us a line.

10. TERRA VOLTA


With Indy as his guide, he descends into the underworld.

Down, down, down, through vast spaces filled with pipes and the unmuffled roar of machinery, through basements and sub-basements, through steam tunnels and utility rooms. Down flights of stairs and across walkways that clang and quiver under each heavy step. Down into darkness, pushed back only by the dim glow of red and white-gold bulbs or the harsh light of buzzing fluorescents.

The streets above are lined with factories and refineries and warehouses. Acres and acres of industrial park, almost a square mile of silos and sheds and substations and smokestacks, stretch from one edge of the walled-in island to the other. What was once a gentle slope has been built up into a series of terraces and retaining walls with a deep trench cut down the middle. The great dome and cooling towers of the Terra Volta Reactor stand at the top with their backs to the south wall, the control and maintenance buildings almost lost at their feet.

Even in these difficult times, when Power Island needs its own set of War Walls, when renegade soldiers own the skies and freaks of nature and of cybernetics roam the service yards and slag piles, Terra Volta continues to hum with power and purpose. Raw materials are unloaded at the dock at the base of the steep-sided island and brought inside the wall through massive doors below the public security checkpoint; finished goods leave by the same route. Skeletal transmission towers carry thousands of megawatts of electricity to a city that depends on it for light and life.

They are already below the level of the trench and the guarded access tunnels when they come to a large unmarked door. Indy turns to his brother spirit. "This is as far as I go. You can find your own way from here." When the Row simply nods, Indy takes off his ball cap and wipes at his forehead. "Listen, King, this guy... he's young, but he's playin' with a lotta juice, okay? Watch your step, and your mouth."

The Row chuckles and claps his brother on the shoulder. "Yeah, I know. Relax. I used ta be him, y'know?"

"Yeah, well... times change." It's not often that Indy looks worried. "Just be careful. S'all I'm sayin'."

With a quick but firm shake of hands, the two part ways. Indy starts back the way they came, vanishing swiftly into the darkness, while the Row squares his shoulders and pushes the door open.

The chamber beyond is not on any map or blueprint of the Terra Volta Power Authority. It is a brick-walled pit sunk into the earth, perhaps forty feet in diameter; steps are built into the wall, spiralling down into the depths, with landings every hundred feet or so. The shaft is filled with flickering orange light and the pounding of a hammer on metal, both coming from somewhere below.

Keeping one hand on the wall and placing his feet carefully, the Row begins to descend. The light gets brighter, and hotter. The ringing of the hammer gets louder. By the time he reaches the bottom, he is walking through an oven and the sound of the hammer is like a ten-ton piledriver:

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

In the center is a bronze giant - literally a man of bronze, some eight feet tall and almost half that across his shoulders - relentlessly beating away at the anvil before him. His back is to the visitor, and he is silhouetted against the leaping flame of his forge.

Just as the Row is trying to decide how or if to interrupt, the smith pauses in his constant hammering... then suddenly whirls, hammer raised to smash. Eyes that are glowing windows to the molten fires within regard the intruder.

"Oh. It's you."

Without another word, the smith returns to his work.

BANG!

BANG!

"So, you know me, huh?" the Row asks, shouting to be heard over the blows of the hammer and the crackle of the flames.

"Of course I do," the smith replies. "You held this office before I came along." Another pause; the living metal flexes like muscles bunching tensely under skin. "You've come to challenge?"

"No, no, nothin' like that," the Row quickly explains. "I just wanted t'ask a favor."

The smith considers this. "Well, make yourself useful," he finally says, aiming the hammer at the forge's bellows.

The Row does as he is bid. Sparks fly from the forge and threaten to set his hat and scarf ablaze. The smith uses a pair of tongs to hold the piece of metal he's working in the heart of the flames until it glows cherry red, then returns it to his anvil and continues pounding. When the Row lets go of the bellows, the smith speaks without looking up: "I didn't say you could stop." Setting his jaw, the Row goes back to pumping.

The banging and pumping go on for a while before the smith asks, "What sort of favor?"

"My people need jobs," the Row says, getting right to the point. "Can I send some of them to you?"

"You could," the stoker allows, his broad flat shovel digging deep into the loose pile of coal. "But then they'd be my people too," he points out, thrusting the heaping mound of black lumps into the hungry mouth of the furnace. "We'd have to share. You okay with that?"

The Row nods grimly, scooping up his own shovelful and heaving it into the flames. "If that's the way it's gotta be... yeah."

The stoker nods, firelight glowing on the faces and edges of his dark bronze skin. "What else?"

"I got a power plant too," the Row says, choosing his words carefully. "Coal-fired. Maybe I could... spell ya sometime, take a little load off?"

The bronze man laughs as he turns the crank of the humming generator like an oar. There's the sharp smell of ozone in the air and the occasional fat blue spark leaping to the walls as the massive coils of copper wire spin in their housing, rotating against lines of magnetic force to make lightning in a bottle. "Thanks, but I've got that covered. I make all the power Paragon City needs - what's left of it - and the War Walls too. Don't need anyone's-- ungh!" The giant winces in pain, though he doesn't stop cranking the generator.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh... nothing... just the Sky Raiders again, or maybe the Freakshow." For the first time, the Row notices the hundred ghostly lines and snares wrapped around the tall bronze figure, like Lilliputian cables. "Always trying to bring me down, but the heroes... ah, there we go." As the Row watches, the thin strings go slack or snap and disappear. The pitch of the generator's hum rises as the giant's strength returns. "See? Nothing to worry about."

"Well... if you're sure you don't need any help," the Row says awkwardly, looking around for a second crank or something. There doesn't seem to be one.

"I don't. Thanks."

The Row sighs and nods to himself. "Guess I'll be goin', then. Nice meetin' ya."

"Hey, King!"

The Row turns, his foot on the first step. The man of bronze now looks like an alchemist or sorceror, his cauldron bubbling over with steam and emitting a weird green glow as he stirs it with a long rod of dark metal. The eerie radiance plays over his features as he peers into the cauldron, watching the reaction closely. He raises his head to look the Row in the eye. "If something ever does happen to me... I feel better knowing you're ready to back me up."

The Row considers this, then smiles and nods. "You're welcome." It's a small thing to take with him on the long climb back to the sunlight, but it warms him inside.

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There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of a Trip Mine binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

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As a player of an AR/Dev, I have to say:
It's true. *sob* It's all true.

Wouldn't be at all surprised.

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"Pure" Superadine doesn't seem very consistant with what we know about Superadine's effects.

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This is the same drug that, in a small percentage of the users, lets you see into other dimensions. Increased strength is clearly the primary effect, but not the only one.

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i remember when martial arts really stunk..you think you have it bad now? the one kick was basicly flurry, the whiffing was legendary,

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I liked that animation. Like you said, it went with Flurry, and both of them fit my speedster perfectly.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't the most efficient in terms of DPS. But it was perfect for the superhero that I wanted to play. Someone who could punch and kick you a dozen times before you finished falling down.

... besides, today I'd slot it 3 Acc, 3 Dam, and never miss.

I'd like to see this too... with recommended slotting, if possible.

Severance

I knew it was a mistake working for Crey.

Hadn't I seen the cages full of "test subjects" in their compound? Hadn't I heard the rumors? Back in Paragon City, they tried hard to keep their image squeaky clean, even though it seemed that every month there was a story (usually buried on page twelve) about some hero busting up some "rogue operation." Here in the Rogue Isles, with the likes of Lord Recluse and Dr. Aeon running things, I guess they thought they had a freer hand.

But a job's a job, and after I cut a swath across Nerva to Thorn Isle and back, work seemed to dry up. Beating on Longbow and Thorns was fun, but it didn't pay the bills. So I talked to a good friend, and he gave me a name, and pretty soon I was on the payroll as an independent contractor.

I hated it right from the start. I didn't have a problem working for "acquisitions" - I've stolen lots of stuff, some of it even for me - but the first thing I was sent to grab wasn't some gizmo, but people. Scratch that, not people: Rikti. The alien monsters that almost destroyed the world, killed a lot of people in my old neighborhood, and did to my friend Tim what Vahzilok's rippers did to me. (That's why we were so tight, see.) My new boss wanted them to help Crey understand their tech. I wanted to turn them into mulch. In the end, the paycheck won that argument.

Then she started sending me around to lean on people, rather than just taking their stuff. It was like I was working for the Family, not a biotech company. (And I would have liked to break Buzzsaw's legs and maybe a few other things, and her Freak bodyguards wouldn't have stopped me, but Mz. Uqua called me off; said she wanted to come to some other kind of "arrangement.") This might sound crazy coming from ME, but it made me feel... dirty.

The last straw was when she sent me after an Arachnos operative who'd been snooping around. Again, I've got no problem beating up Arachnos, or doing jobs for them if that's how it goes. But after I worked the guy over, I found out who his informant was, the next poor [censored] Uqua wanted me to "deliver a message" to: my best bud, Tim Raymond.

I was already dialing her number when I got outside. It took me a couple of tries, 'cause I've got big clumsy fingers and I was so mad I couldn't see straight. When she answered, I didn't let her talk; I just yelled obscenities at her for about a minute, then hauled back and pitched the phone in the general direction of Primeva. Then I went to see Tim.

He wouldn't listen. He wouldn't believe that I'd come to warn him, not as her goon, but as a friend. I said I was done, through, that I wasn't ever going back to her. He asked me how I could live with myself.

Then he turned his back on me.

"Our paths no longer converge."

I haven't seen either of them since.

Great composition there, Leo.

9. ASTORIA

The Astoria he remembers was a classy lady - the society type, old money but not stuck up about it. She loved poetry, The Great Gatsby and all that jazz. Always dressed to the nines. Showed up at the best parties, though few ever knew who she really was. When "the incident" happened, the whole city mourned. So when the security chief asked him to go in and clean out some of the Banished Pantheon's servants, he said yes, out of respect for her memory.

His first clue that this isn't going to be as easy as he'd thought is the fog. The miasma blocks his sight, something ordinary fog doesn't do; it shrouds the neighborhood in hazy twilight even at high noon. The shapes of buildings loom out of it, more suggested than seen. And it's cold, a chill that penetrates his stone shell and goes right to the spirit within. It throws him off his stride, makes him wary and uncomfortable, and he's only just stepped through the gate.

Then he sees the people.

There aren't supposed to be any people in Astoria, not anymore. Not since the worshippers of a bunch of really nasty gods that no one else had heard of for thousands of years worked a ritual that plunged the area into perpetual semi-darkness, killed everyone within its boundaries, and raised the bodies along with those buried in Moth Cemetery - a sprawling necropolis dating back to the first white settlers in the region - as an undead army under their control. The spirit of Astoria wasn't able to do anything because, by all accounts, she'd been the first victim. The dark gods tore her apart and ate her.

It's the sort of thing that gives even city spirits nightmares. To the Row, this place feels emptier than Fossburg or Baumton. It's the silence of the grave. The fog just makes it worse.

Aside from small parties of Tsoo or Thorns on their own mysterious errands, there shouldn't be anyone inside "Dark" Astoria but the witch doctors and their shambling zombie horde. Certainly no civilians. But he can see them, as clearly as he can see anything else in this place, walking along the sidewalk in front of him. Ordinary people going about their ordinary lives.

"Uh, 'scuse me..."

The closest, a woman in a sleeveless dress, stops and stares at him. "Hello?"

"Can ya tell me what's goin' on here?"

Another two passers-by, a man in a suit and a teenaged boy in T-shirt, jeans and ball cap, have also stopped now; they're as surprised as the woman. "You can see us?" she asks.

"Sure," the Row replies, brows drawing together. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I... I'm not sure." She seems both puzzled and annoyed at not being able to answer.

"We see others sometimes," the man adds, "but they come and go so quickly, and they aren't... they're sort of like ghosts, you see. But you're real!" He steps forward and puts a hand on the Row's arm. The touch feels freezing cold, making the Row flinch in surprise.

"Are you a hero?" the woman asks. "Please, can you help me find my husband? He went to work in Steel Canyon this morning and he hasn't come home for lunch. I tried calling his office but the phone lines are dead."

"And I'm looking for my daughter," the man says. "She goes to Campbell High School. I've been looking for her since... since... why can't I remember?"

A crowd is starting to gather. Everyone marvels at the brick man's solidity and ability to perceive them. They press closer, all of them asking for help, clutching at him with icy hands.

"Can you get a message to..."

"... been looking all over for my wife..."

"... please, mister..."

"... tell us what's going on..."

"... meeting my boyfriend..."

"... seen my dog, he ran off..."

"... Freedom Phalanx coming to help us?"

The Row has never felt this bitterly cold, not even during the worst New England winters. It saps his strength. He struggles to be heard over the rising buzz of the crowd, to push them away without hurting anyone.

"... so glad you showed up..."

"... never met a hero before..."

"... need you to..."

"... help me, please..."

The mob has grown large enough to attract the attention of others. Suddenly the gloom is pierced by a bright flash and the crack of thunder, followed by a deeper rumble. The crowd dissolves into panic and chaos as half-seen figures in tattered rags lurch out of the fog and begin to drag people away. Some scatter, seeking safety in flight, only to have their feet encased in rock or their bodies lifted into the air, surrounded by a sickly green glow.

Help us, the crowd screams. Save us!

Walking corpses with glowing sigils on their dried-out skin take aim with Winchester rifles and flintlock pistols. Spectral bullets tear through shrieking civilians and blast chunks out of the Row's rocky hide. He staggers, trying to wade through the crowd and attack, but there are too many, too many...

Save us!

As another volley of shot rips into him and icy daggers reach for his heart, the Row roars... and lets go. A few hundred pounds of stone and brick and pavement, suddenly unoccupied, fall to the ground in a shapeless heap.

Half a city away, a figure slumps against the wall of an alley and slides down into the trash and clutter. Big hands gather up a discarded copy of the Paragon Times to wrap around itself like a blanket.

"Too many," it rasps. "I can't... I can't..."

It's said by some that those from the Row are too tough to cry, or that they're all cried out. Neither is entirely true.

The Row only cries when no one is watching.

8. TALOS ISLAND
(with special guest Pocket D)


Crossing his arms over his rocky chest, the spirit of the Row glowers at the suspicious truck.

He doesn't know exactly when it showed up here, parked in an alley behind some brownstones, not far from the police station and the Yellow Line. Much of what goes on in the Row is below the level of his conscious awareness, like a mortal's breathing. Perhaps a week went by, or two, before he noticed the increased foot traffic in that alley; another few days before he got around to checking it out, and discovered the truck.

The truck is unmarked, its plates registered to an obvious alias. No one shows up to drive it away or answer questions. Plenty of others come and go, especially during the evening hours: party-goers by the look of them, both civilians and heroes, whooping and laughing and staggering as they climb in and out of the back of the truck like it was a clown car. A party on wheels that never goes anywhere.

It's a mystery on his home ground, and he doesn't like mysteries.

The Row steps up to the truck and unlatches the doors, throwing them open to reveal... an empty cargo area, just like the last two times he's looked. This time, however, he climbs inside (making the rear of the truck dip noticeably) and walks around a bit. Still nothing. Definitely no party.

One of the doors has swung back into place, casting the unlit interior in partial darkness. He pulls it tight, then reaches out to pull the other one shut.

And the world drops out from under him.

When the doors close, the inside of the truck isn't in the city. It isn't even on the same planet, or in the same universe. It's somewhere else.

He can't feel the rest of himself. He can't feel the Row. It's all gone. What surrounds him is more than blackness; it's total sensory deprivation.

Faced with such a shock, some beings might succumb to madness or dissolution. But Kings Row is made of sterner stuff. The portion of its spirit contained within its stone avatar refuses to be snuffed out; it digs in, clinging to existence, fighting its way back to consciousness.

When he comes to, he's on his hands and knees, surrounded by loose chunks of rubble. His massive frame shivers and trembles. If he had a stomach, it would be empty. It's another minute before he can pull himself together and stand up.

He's not in the truck anymore. He's in a small lobby or waiting room, like hundreds of warehouses and small businesses all over Paragon. But around the corner is no warehouse, just a short corridor leading to a three-way intersection and a freight elevator. The smartly-dressed woman standing next to the doors greets him warmly.

"Hello, sir, and welcome to Pocket D."

"Pocket D, what's that?" he rasps. He's got plenty more questions - like where the Hell am I and how do I get back? - but he's trying to play it cool, take it one step at a time, not let the dame see how rattled he is.

"Paragon's newest, hottest dance club, and it's just a short elevator ride away." She poses artfully, gesturing to the doors with a turn of her hand, and for a moment the memory of a cigarette girl he knew back in '39 snaps into clear focus. "When you're ready to return to Kings Row, the exit is behind you." She points back the way he came. "Or if you like, you can leave by way of Talos Island or Founders Falls." She gestures to the other two exits.

"So..." he asks slowly, just to be sure he has it straight. "I go through any of those doors, I end up back in the city?"

"Yes, sir." The hostess looks him over again. "If this is your first time in Pocket D, tell one of the bartenders to receive your complimentary drink. On behalf of DJ Zero and our staff, welcome."

"Thanks," he rumbles, touching the brim of his fedora politely. He's tempted to leave right now, to turn around and see if that door really does lead back home. But...

The Row don't back down, and the Row don't run.



Music, that buzzy techno stuff the kids listen to, washes over him as the elevator doors open and he steps out into a place that reminds him of a dozen other clubs and speakeasies he's known. The clothes and the songs are different, the lighting is cool blue neon, but the mood's the same as it always was - the flirting, the bad jokes, the too-loud laughter. The colored barman catches his eye and flashes him a grin. It's not until he shoulders his way through the crowd and wanders out onto the big dance floor that he gets a reminder that this is no regular gin joint.

Red sky... floatin' rocks... is that the moon, or the sun? Ain't nothin' about this place that makes sense. The loud music doesn't fill the deeper silence within him.

He's just about to climb up on the bandstand and try to get some answers out of the floating guy who looks like he's running the show when he feels a hand on his elbow. The mook standing there, his hair slicked back into a ridiculous little ponytail, is too skinny to be muscle; an errand boy, then.

"Mr. King, right? There's someone who'd like to see you."

At first, he can't believe it. Who here could possibly know who he is? Then he follows the gopher's gaze up to the second floor balcony, overlooking the dance floor, and thinks he understands.

By the time the Row gets up there, the figure he glimpsed is back in his private booth, holding court, flanked by tough-looking men and dames in slinky dresses. Short and wiry, in expensive sunglasses and a cream-colored suit from twenty years ago (that somehow looks hip and retro on him), he's almost swallowed up by the upholstery; but as the Row approaches he jerks upright and leans forward as if about to bolt, a curly-haired bundle of nervous energy and glib talk.

"It IS you, I knew it! Sky's told me all about you, man. I feel like I know you already. You know, you're bigger than I thought. But those clothes!" A short, scornful laugh. "What'd you do, find 'em in a Dumpster? Let me give you the number of this tailor I know, he'll set you up. Make you look like a million bucks." He holds out a hand without looking and someone puts a little black book in it, which he begins to thumb through.

The Row clears his throat. "So... you'd be Talos Island, huh?"

"That's me, babe. Call me Talos, everyone does." He passes over a pair of business cards with a grin. "That's the tailor, and one of mine too, in case you ever need to get in touch. Heck, take some more, pass 'em around."

The Row tucks the cards away without comment. "This your place, then? You run this juke joint?"

The smaller man laughs again, though it's more of a giggle this time. "No, the D is Zero's, but him and me are tight, know what I'm sayin'?" He leans back, spreading his arms expansively to gather his women closer. "When he wanted to start this up, he came to me first. Yeah, everyone comes to Talos, because they know I've got it goin' on. Boardwalk, high-rises, trendy apartments? Me. Stores, arena, ferries? Me, babe. And now I've got the D, too. Yeah, things are pretty sweet." He grins broadly as his girls fawn over their sugar daddy. "Wanna know my secret? You're a pal, so I'll tell you. Location, location, location. I'm where it's happenin', King."

The Row considers his fellow city spirit, his entourage and his surroundings for a moment before speaking again. "Well, if your patch is so great... what are you doin' here, and not lookin' after it?"

It's one of those moments when everything stops but the music. As the molls draw away and one of the assistants murmurs an apology and quickly ends his call, the lean man gives the Row a long hard look over the top of his shades. His voice is as cool as the waters of Eastgate Bay: "... I could ask you the same question."

Then the one known as Talos smiles again, breaking the brittle tension. "But the Row doesn't fall apart because you're not all there all the time, right? Same thing with me. Besides, I've got people looking after things for me, people I trust. You've got to learn to delegate, King. My domain practically runs itself."

The Row coughs grittily. "I talk to Sky, remember? I hear things too. About the Warriors..."

"The Warriors?!" The reply is quick, scornful, dismissive... and perhaps just a little too practiced. "The Warriors are nothin', King. They're nothin'!"

The Row is unmoved by the denial, continuing to tick off items on his thick fingers. "... Tsoo, Thorns, witch-doctors and zombies comin' in from Astoria, Freakshow, plant-things..."

Everyone in the booth is watching the Row closely. Those glossy black lenses are unreadable, reflecting the Row's own features. "What are you saying, King?"

The Row shrugs. "Maybe you should keep a closer eye on your own domain."

"Maybe you should." The other man abruptly stands up, his much taller goons doing the same a moment later.

The Row looks left, then right, then nods. His gravelly voice is deceptively mild. "You're right. Ladies." He half-turns to leave, then looks back. "One more thing. 'Talos' was a hero. You ain't him. As totems go... you're a weasel."

That's T's cue to leap over the table at him, face twisted into a snarl and fingers curled into glass talons, but suddenly there's someone else between them: a smiling man in a dark suit and tie, glowing faintly and stopping the attacker's charge with nothing more than a hand on his chest. It's the floating guy, only he's not floating anymore.

"There a problem here, fellas?"

"He started it, Zero," T accuses, too angry to realize how ridiculous he looks crouched atop the table. His sunglasses have come off and his beady eyes are wild. The bodyguards stand around uncertainly, hands inside their jackets.

Zero tsks, his smile never wavering. "You know the rules. No fighting here." He turns to the Row. "Sorry about that. Should have asked you before I put the truck there. Hope there are no hard feelings."

The Row shrugs. "Hey, it's okay. Now I know what's goin' on..." He looks around the club again. "You got a nice place here, Mr. Zero. And if some of my people wanna come here, drink some beers, shoot some pool, have a good time, forget their troubles, that's okay by me. They earned it."

"Thanks. Glad you understand."

"But this guy's right about one thing: I should be getting back to where I belong." The Row tips his hat again and walks toward the exit.

"Yeah, go back to your [censored]-hole!" The man in the cream suit has climbed back down and now stands behind Zero, sneering and gesturing rudely. "Your worthless dead-end pile of dirt! You're what I clean off my [censored] shoes!"

"And you're just a bantam rooster who thinks he's [censored] o' da walk," the Row observes without looking back.

For all his eagerness to return, he pauses at the intersection of the three hallways, looking toward the door that the hostess said leads to Talos Island. If he were to step through and walk its streets, examine its docks and beaches, survey its dense forest of glass and neon... would he find it missing a soul?

Count me as another person who's suffered from unrecoverable CTDs on two iterations of my high-level Brute - one from trying to go through the door behind the Rikti ambassador, and one from trying to go to the hospital.

So much for trying to explore (or even test) the new content before it goes live.

Bump.

[ QUOTE ]

IF we were to ever add a way to get Isolator post-Tutorial, it would most likely be incredibly hard to get. Annoyingly hard. Irritatingly hard. There-would-be-a-zillion-people-asking-to-make-it-easier hard.


[/ QUOTE ]

Never let it be said that Positron doesn't deliver on what he promises.

7. INDEPENDENCE PORT

The morning fog is lifting as he emerges from the tunnel, the sun rising at his back. The span of Valor Bridge can be seen dimly through the gray haze; somewhere out there, Power Island lurks in the middle of the harbor, protected by its own curtain of light. The chill air tastes of salt. A horn's single note carries mournfully over the water, backed by the faint clank of metal on metal and the shrill cries of wheeling gulls.

He turns left and walks along the road a bit, then makes a right into a parking lot between two warehouses covered in peeling paint and rust. It's still cool and foggy here, in the shadow of the War Wall. No one else seems to be around; the lot is deserted save for an old pickup truck, an equally decrepit forklift, and some wooden shipping pallets. He crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

Presently the mist clears enough to reveal another figure, as tall and broad-shouldered as the Row's manifestation. He's dressed in the flannel shirt, bib overalls and steel-toed boots of a longshoreman, with a filthy rag tucked into a back pocket and a ring of keys jingling at his waist. His unshaven face is as gruff and homely as a bulldog's, but it splits open in a warm grin as he steps forward. The two embrace as brothers, clapping each other on the back.

"King."

"How ya doin', Indy?"

The longshoreman shrugs affably. "Same as always. Tide goes out, tide comes in. I keep busy. How 'bout you?"

The Row shrugs back. "Same as always."

"That bad, huh?" Indy tries to make it sound like a joke, but it's not, not really.

"Yeah." The Row chuckles. "It's okay."

Indy nods with understanding and sympathy. The two of them go way back, back to when the Row was just getting started. Independence Port was already a century old by then, named in the aftermath of a revolution, born along with a new nation. The original harbor had been dredged and widened, with slips and quays and silos and cranes built to accomodate modern ships. The paint on the bridges was still wet and weeds and wildflowers grew on the bare top of the big island. Much has happened since then - the Depression, two World Wars, the splitting of the atom, the rise of the heroes - but Indy hasn't changed all that much. The tide goes out and the tide comes in again.

"So... what brings ya down to the docks?" Indy knows his neighbor and little brother too well; he can tell something's up.

In the shadow of his fedora, King's eyes narrow. "Last night, I caught some Marcone torpedoes havin' a meet in the garment works."

"Marcones?" The longshoreman scowls. "The hell are they doin' 'round here? They're strictly Rogue Isles."

"Yeah, but that's not all. Guess who they was meetin'? Nicky Vitelli."

"Vitelli?" Indy blinks. "I ain't heard nothin' about them since..."

"Since Tommy 'the Turbo' got blown to bits back in '75, yeah. And his kid's a real piece a' work too. Kept mouthin' off to me, talking trash. I had to hang him off the roof of the Carradine Building by his ankles to get anything useful out of him."

"Heh. Same old King."

The Row smiles faintly, then gets serious again. "So here's how I figure it. The Marcones want to carve themselves a new slice here in Paragon. And they're lookin' for little fish like the Vitellis, guys who're tired of being pushed around by the Frosts, to give them a foot in the door."

"Hrmm. I got enough problems with the Family as it is." Indy begins to pace back and forth on the cracked asphalt. "They're this close to going to war with those Chinese gangsters. Not to mention not one but two private armies making trouble on the docks, and that damn octopus." He stops and turns to King with a frown. "If the Marcones make a play, that could be the match that sets it all off. We could be lookin' at a mob war right in our backyard."

The Row nods. "That's why I came to you. I can't stop this alone."

"You know I'm with ya, King. Always." Indy offers his hand, which the Row shakes firmly, not letting go.

"Yeah, I do. Thanks. And if there's ever anything I can do for you..."

"Actually..." That grin is back, this time with a bit of mischief to it. "A little bird told me there's somethin' goin' on in Liberty Quay this morning that could use my personal attention. Might be right up your alley too."

"No kiddin'?" He doesn't have to think about it long. "Okay, I'm in."

One moment, the two of them are standing in a parking lot; the next, they're inside another warehouse, appearing in the midst of some very surprised and angry mobsters and the Sky Raiders they were about to close a major arms deal with. The Family underboss demands an explanation, over the clicks and scrapes of weapons being readied.

"Where the hell did you come from? Who ARE you?"

As they move to stand back to back, the Row grins under his scarf. "You wouldn't believe us if we told ya." Then, over his shoulder: "Ready?"

Indy's holding a crowbar now, one as long as his arm, and doesn't bother to hide his smile. "Ready."

The next few minutes are very exciting. But when the Tsoo show up to take the weapons and money for themselves... that's when things really get fun.

6. SKYWAY CITY


Some of the zones that made it through the Rikti War more or less intact, sheltered behind the force-field barriers, soon succumbed to other problems. Perez, traumatized and abandoned to gang violence, withdrew into herself. Others had it even worse.

The war was hardly over when Overbrook was shattered, fractured, torn apart by the villain who gave it its new name: Faultline. A few years later, the same thing happened to Eastgate at the hands of the Trolls. The spirits of these places, riven to their very foundations, went insane. Today, even mortals who listen carefully can hear the faint murmurs of madness, rambling and disjointed, from the deep cracks in the earth. The sane do not linger in Faultline or the Hollows.

There are not even whispers in what remains of Baumton: only the crackle of still-smoldering fires and the mournful wail of the wind that blows through steel skeletons. Whatever once lived in Baumton is long dead, blasted to ash and rubble by the worst of the Rikti onslaught. It was human agency, however, which wiped out Siren's Call two years later, when the hero Sunburst exploded with the force of a hydrogen bomb. The siren's song has been forever silenced; the echoes of a great shout still seem to ring in the air, underscored by the clash of arms and the warning clicks of a Geiger counter.

But Skyway is different. Skyway's been messed up for almost thirty years. Usually she's more or less functional; like most drug addicts and mental patients, she has her good days and her bad days.

This is not one of her good days.

"Sky?"

Blonde hair, blow-dried and feathered. Huge rose-tinted sunglasses. A little too much makeup, still not enough to cover the wrinkles. A hideous polyester jacket over a glittering low-cut disco dress, both of which have seen better days. And roller skates, of course.

It bothers him, more than he lets show, to see her like this, strung out and old before her time. Back in the Fifties she was wholesome and All-American, poodle skirts and bobby socks. Her optimism about the future - that Big Bright Beautiful Tomorrow - was enough to rekindle some hope in him. Once they sat on a rooftop together under the stars, bathed in television's flickering glow, and watched a man walk on the Moon. And now here she is, down in the gutters with him.

Sometimes, when you're already at the bottom, it hurts worse to see someone else fall.

"What do you need, King? Mm, so many kings. There's you, and Elvis, and that guy with his head in a jar..." She waves him closer, speaking in a husky stage whisper. "Tell ya a secret? I think he's kind of nuts." She giggles, twirls on her skates, and nearly falls; this only makes her shriek and giggle more as she tries to regain her wobbly balance.

The Row waits patiently until her attack of mirth has subsided. "I'm tryin' to find out more about the dope the Lost take that changes 'em. What it does, where it comes from. Thought maybe you could help me out."

"Naaah, you don't want anything to do with Shift," Sky says, waving one hand dismissively and putting the other to her brow as if pained. "It'll mess you up, make you hear voices. Bad trip. Supes, King. Supes is the good stuff."

"You shouldn't be on the Dyne, Sky." It's a tired refrain, even to his ears.

"But I can't help it!" She laughs. "It's everywhere! It's on the streets, under the bridges, in the sewers... rivers of Troll piss runnin' right into my veins." She snuggles up to him, a little too bright-eyed. "You want some? I can get you into a Troll party... they'd love a big, strong, tough guy like you." She purrs, running her hands over his chest. "Course, you might have to beat a few of them up... but I bet you'd like that, huh?" Her grin shows lots of teeth.

"No thanks," he murmurs, pushing her away as gently as he can.

When Sky's offended, she gets pouty and sarcastic. "Oh, riiight... you're clean and sober." She smirks and pokes him square in the chest. "'cept for all that beer and whiskey and gin, huh? We've all got our ways of dulling the pain, King."

The Row sighs and nods. "I guess you're right." Privately, he thinks there's a world of difference between a little booze and stuff that turns you into a green monster.

Sky isn't finished. "But you wanna know the best part about Dyne? Sometimes... when I'm really flying high, sometimes I can see through time."

He just looks at her, cocking a skeptical eyebrow.

"No, really! Not up and down, but, like... sideways. Like, a world with no people, just dinosaurs. I've seen it, King. I've seen a world where Mu never fell and magic rules." Her voice is awed, her eyes wide as she looks past his shoulder at things only she can perceive. "Oh, King... I've seen another Skyway. Where the dream came true and the roads go everywhere. It's the year two thousand, and everything is clean and bright and shiny like a silver rocketship, just like they promised. It's so beautiful." She's almost trembling with emotion as she describes her vision.

Then it all comes crashing down, her face twisting into something ugly. "... and I HATE HER! That was supposed to be me! My future, and she stole it from me!" She beats her fists against his broad chest. "I hate her! I hate her!" Tears and mascara leave dark tracks down her cheeks.

The suddenness and intensity of her mood swing leaves him at a loss for words. "Sky, I..."

"Get out!" In an instant she's a foot taller, her voice deeper. Her next blow pushes him back. "I hate you! Get out of here!" Is her skin, perhaps, a little greener?

He doesn't wait around to find out.