punching in a dream

[frisson]

name
Cliff Haywood
sex
Male
age
20

physical description
Light brown wavy hair. Hazel eyes. Navy-blue cardigan. White, long-sleeve collared shirt. Grey, slim-cut slacks. Off-white loafers.


psychological profile
Expressing a desire to shake up the world for the subjective good, Haywood's ideals were just the fantasies of an ignorant youth, nurtured by hollywood screenplays and independent rock bands. Now that his threat vector bends at hyper lethal... his words hold some level of salt.


unique characteristics
A proper autopsy could determine the exact mechanics, but it looks like Haywood possesses an anbnormal magnetic charge and/or electrical current... possibly the result of a bionic implant or an additional organ? The threat of this abnormality lies in his ability to magnetise objects he comes into contact with and project them at dangerously accelerated speeds estimated to max at around 2500mps. This can include his own body, to a much lesser degree of course, as he seems to be aware that hurling his own mass at an opposing force would cause him to disintegrate on impact. Haywood keeps on hand a collection of batteries of varying sizes/charges and are in a way his signature weapons. But he can also turn his surroundings into ammunition; even the air he comes into contact with can be fired in pockets of kinetic energy. The bigger the object, the greater the destruction. But that also means a greater physical strain and consumption of energy. The ability is solely limited to whatever Haywood can touch.

brief
Cliff Haywood awoke to find himself one year into the future. He'd either been projected there somehow or he had no memory of what had happened during that time. Legally dead, he found his own way home, but through a series of encounters that led to the discovery of his strange new abilities, decided to postpone a reunion with his past. This involved bank robberies, vigilantism and varying acts of political terrorism. He's met his fair share of villains, figures of justice and even the odd interdimensional being.

 

[Ðari]

Name
Avery Stessel
Sex
Male
Age
20

Physical Description
Of Russian descent, with a rugged face, currently shaven. His brown eyes seem to fit the feeling of the icy home of mother Russia. Hair cut to that of a russian infantrymen in arms, graced with only his burlap overcoat of tan opacity and white fur. Lightly browned gloves, and pants of the same color, somewhat thick.

Psychological Profile
A stern and often brazen individual, as rigorous as he was filled with vigor. He was not that different from his brethren and friends in arms. Allies where like family and enemies where the putrid scum of his country's pride. His own demeanor and views were politically just and empathized hated relations with a few countries. Upon his 'programming' at a prison, this greatly snapped his perspective and corrupted his pride into a kind of individual and fascist outlook on mankind.

Unique Characteristics
By means of under the table tampering, its likely depicted Avery's mind was drastically boosted. By means of tuning one's initial output of the brain from an average nine percent, greatly surpassing even the abnormal thinking capacity of thirteen and extending the flexibility of his mind to thirty four percent. In further examination, Avery has displayed a kind of amplified form of knowledge by individual intuition or noesis, to where the interpretations of whats going on, simultaneously configuring a counter measure if said event develops hostility. Avery's last and most immediate recognizable trait is in the moving of inanimate objects, namely matter in question. Illegitimate construction of said matter isn't feasible by his mind nor ability. The weight of which he can lift levies between ten metric tons, naturally surpassing the weight posses and even greater strain and harm is done by means of recoiling back unto his mind.

brief
Originally a captive of the U.S. Government's 'No Russian' project. About the time skirmishes were broken out between the two, few battles erupted, and their dimes the brainwashed super-soldiers, one Avery Stessel were commissioned. Memory was but a memory, but in his rapid realization he recollected it all within mere days and plotted his escape. Returning to the homelands, he'd decided to rise is something of an inspirational political figure, become something of a prophet and move across the countryside sweeping the east hemisphere in a few short years. Labeled a vagrant, crazy, and hero by numerous.

 

[frisson]

Location: Loch Lomond



'The song is not the same when we're all palayed out, palayed out, palaayed ouuuuut...'

'Cliff! Enough! Come on, what the hell are we doing out here?'
'Ar... come off it arready, Jean... ainit obvious by now?'
'Mmm yeah, "ainit obvious", Jean?'

Cliff peeked a smile back at Jean from the passenger seat, which sent chills down the recipient's spine. Jean had been found out. Ratted, even. Was it Ryan who did it?! Well he ought to kno-
'He arready knows about me, Jean,' interjected Ryan.
'Then why the fock are you still driving?!' hissed Jean, dumbfoundedly.
Cliff took the liberty of replying on Ryan's behalf:
'Because... unlike you, Ryan has the sense ta do whatever the "fock" I tell'im ta. So he also gets ta live a little longer.'

The grey sedan pulled over at the threshold of a cobblestone shore, overlooking the black expanse of Loch Lomond. It was a late summer night and particularly quiet save the white noise of a hidden cicada choir. The three exited their respective doors one by one; Jean the last and most reluctant. Cliff eyed his movements with a childish smile of curiosity. Jean's stiff exit, the way he almost seemed to hide his right leg with his hand.
'Y'know, you might o'had a better chance... had you used that thing while we were in th'car,' laughed Cliff, pointing at Jean's gun.

The man's face drained of colour. Ryan somehow managed to distance himself from the two without moving at all. The cicada song ended. Jean fired at Cliff. Cliff had already rolled away from the car, snatched up a pebble from the ground and with a pop pegged it at Jean's hand.

'FOCK!' screamed Jean, hunched over, hugging his bleeding hand. The gun was gone. So were his fingers.

'Ow, I only meant t'disarm 'im.'
'Y'still can't control it that well aye.'
'Shodup.'

Jean looked up at Cliff and Ryan's little exchange, his expression completely changed.
'Ah... that's the face I wanted t'see... mister secret services,' taunted Haywood, 'You don't have ta act around us no more.'
'Ryan,' cursed Jean, 'you traitor.'
Ryan stayed silent.
'Well,' continued Cliff, 'I dislike killing people such as yerself, Jean, but I can't exactly let you run off now, can I?'
Jean clenched his teeth as Cliff closed the distance between them, gently placing a hand on his head.

'Any last words?'

'Fock yo-'

And so Jean's body was sent skimming across the lake surface as if it were a pebble and Cliff were a schoolboy. A slightly troubled schoolboy... with superhuman abilities and an ever-growing narcissistic personality complex.
Haywood turned to face Ryan, but where the man once stood only a pool of blood remained, smeared along the earth and trailing into the forest entrance.

'Em...'

 

[frisson]

Ok I finished it .

 

[Ðari]

-that entailed more than I initially imagined, har'-

Undoubtedly the stale and stiff scent of the air plagued, even him. A second inhale, though not required, kept his all but vintage inquiries at bay. A cheeky, albeit brazen smile ripened with delight as it edged the maniacal mechanics of his mind. For this patriarch, a menace that strayed outward this way gave him intentions of practicing.

"I smell blood, brewing is it not? But surely, like massacre of American infidels, but is British count'ere part no?"

Strumming along his way, not even in his visage for the within the first moments his presence was confirmed. Volitile and slow, a figure brushed past Avery with a form of haste trailing the es-pure of his afflicted wounds. While Avery didn't move, he merely glanced, networking through limited afflictions of their natures of origin, he broke it down within seconds. Then turning his head to strum to the blood trail's driest soil.

"You've been a jewel, friend."

As Stessel took his first step, the sound behind him was that of the wind picking up, followed by a thud, capitalizing with a excruciating loud splash. His imagination painted the morbid scene crimson, images of a rather unpleasant, if not horrified scene followed. In the clearing is where he'd landed, a mere vagabond upon first glance and surely subject to further inspection.

Avery himself had resolved to much warmer attire, a swamp green shirt, shortsleeved. Worn with a khaki vest of garnered pockets, and jeans of the very same color, their ends wrapped right above his boots. His his left wrist a watch, of which he glanced at for the time, before his focus was then again recaptured by this unprecedented endeavor.

"Was he a comrade of yours? You needn't worry, mother russia commends his honor, no matter how shallow a grave was dug."

He began to think, he spent to much time in america, or that it was just his accent he was loosing.

 

[frisson]

"Was he a comrade of yours? You needn't worry, mother russia commends his honor, no matter how shallow a grave was dug."

'Em...' Cliff repeated, 'it's a long story. By the by, y'didn't happen to see me other "comrade" perchance?'

Cliff didn't need an answer. Surely there was no-one else out here? What luck, he picked this place on a whim and they just so happen to run into some misplaced, seedy Russian, of all the types to run in to. This guy must have killed Ryan while he wasn't looking. A shame, he had developed a bit of a soft spot for the kid.
Haywood did poorly to mask his tension in the face of this unforeseen possibility. It displeased him.

But what was there to be worried about? Cliff was superhuman. If anything he should be capitalising on that strength before he too was killed in whatever mysterious manner Ryan was. Without further contemplation Cliff pitched a pocket of air at the Russian, which resounded in a soft sonic boom. He had no reason to assume his target was anything more than human.


((If you're interested in surprises, I can show you what actually killed Ryan in a few posts.))

 

[SupahMataMato]

I'll join, mostly 'cause I'm bored waiting for A Free for All at Fragment's Crossing to start.

Name: Sharwell
Gender: Male
Species: Xeqa Human (Cross between Xeqa Elf and a Human)
Age: 13 human years (26 in Xeqa Elf years)
Home World: Heraglos Xeqa (Destroyed in a massive nuclear reaction, following a time spasm, where Sharwell was transported to Earth's Time)

Appearance:
As a cross between a Xeqa Elf and a human, Sharwell posses the Xeqa Elf pointed ears and short height (Despite being 13, he only stands at 4 foot zero), the natural Xeqa Elf magic, large blue eyes that always have a faint glow around the irises, (Xeqa Elves' eyes have colors from bloodred to indigo, but have a faint glow around the Iris' no matter the color) and wings. The rest of his features are all human.

Loadout:
N.I.T.R.O Rifle
Discrip.: The N.I.T.R.O Rifle stands for Non Intelligent Terminating Ravaging Oblong Rifle. It fires a bright blue beam of energy that will penetrate armor and knock out an enemy for a varying time depending on the setting. The settings are:

1. Smooth K.O : Pull. Knocks out an enemy for up to 1 hour.
2. Rush Knockout: Rapid Fire. Knocks out an enemy for up to 4 hours, but poses minor danger to the enemy in question.
3. Ravage: Semi-Automatic. Knocks out an enemy for 3 to 6 hours, and poses danger to the enemy in question.
4. Terminate: Unlike other settings, the N.I.T.R.O Rifle fires a single capsule out of the end that explodes in a wide arc that knocks out any enemy in range for 36 hours. The enemies in question are in danger of being killed.



Hydrophilic Nitrogen Suit, Model 1
Discrip.: The trademark armor of the Xeqa Elf Task Force (XETF for short), this suit is chrome, with lines containing liquid nitrogen in them starting from the tip of the spine, heading down toward the back and along the arms, with circles resting on the gauntlets. These suits are flame retardant, shock proof, and carries and on-board computer, which can detect pierced skin, detect fractures and broken bones, and diagnose blocked organs. The 2nd and 3rd models are more lasting, and their on-board computers are more advanced, but some XETF jocks prefer the Model 1 for it's reliability. The liquid nitrogen serves as a freezing agent should the armor be shattered. If (or when) the armor is shattered, the liquid nitrogen flies out and freezes the assailant. The suits hydrophilic properties rends the suit highly resistant to physical blows, also rendering the liquid nitrogen as a last resort.

Hydrophilic Nitrogen Helmet, Model 1
Discrip.: Though part of the Model 1 Hydrophilic Nitrogen suit, the helemt considered separate from the rest of the armor because of all it's different functions. It is slim and shows no signs of an oxygen tank, though it contains enough oxygen for up to an hour of air, because the air is spread out in a 1-inch layer throughout the helmet. The helmet also contains an on-board computer, though it functions to monitor brain waves instead of diagnose physical problems, and it has a mouthpiece that slides up from the metal seal on the chin to use the oxygen tank, and a visor that has night and thermal vision modes.The helmet has a built-in communicator, video camera and flashlight. Again, while the 2nd and 3rd Model Helmets are more advanced, some jocks prefer the Model 1 for it's reliability.

Background:
Because age on Heraglos Xeqa is measured in Xeqa Elf years, Sharwell joined the XETF at age 11, and has since become a skilled and normally relied on sniper. He has been offered the promotion to Major many times, but has declined because he is more comfortable being a Capitan. When Heraglos Xeqa was destroyed along with it's moon, Heraglos Karta, A machine that was still in production caused a minor time spasm that affected 300 of the 6 trillion or so inhabitants of Heraglos Xeqa.
Sharwell was one of those 300 people. The other 299 elves and humans where spewed onto different planets in different times, but Sharwell was spit out into Earth's present.

 

[SupahMataMato]

Sharwell flew out from the sky and onto the ground with a crash. "D'ARVIT!" He swore aloud. Sharwell sat up. His Helmet had mostly protected him from the impact, but Sharwell's forehead was sore. I'm adjusting to the new heliosphere, Sharwell realized. Now, unlike when most foreign species come to a new planet, Xeqa Elves do not need to adjust to the amtnosphere, they need to adjust to the heliosphere, for that is the only sphere they are affected by. The heliosphere on Heraglos Xeqa was thick, like Xantax Mix. This heliosphere was light and airy. "Zantal," Sharwell muttered to himself. Zantal was the equivalent of idiot in Xeqa, the language spoken by Xeqa elves and humans alike on Heraglos Xeqa and the colony on it's moon, Heraglos Karta, though Taiwanese had been taking root on Karta. Sharwell sighed. Heraglos Xeqa and Karta where gone. It saddened him as he remembered the whole thing. For some unknown reason, a large explosion had taken place in the core of Heraglos Xeqa, and the explosion massed to engulf the planet and it's moon. He had survived, though. How many others had? Sharwell could not be certain. Sharwell sighed again. He had to focus on the here and now. For one, where was he? Deciding to investigate, Sharwell moved behind a tree. From what he could see there where two figures. Sharwell lowered his visor and changed to thermal. Defiantly two figures. I'll only fire if necessary, Sharwell thought. He watched as the the figure on the right pitched something at the figure to the left, resulting a small sonic boom. Oh, screw it, Thought Sharwell as he flicked the setting on his N.I.T.R.O Rifle to 2 and began firing as fast as possible at the figure on the right.

 

[frisson]

I'll wait to see if Citrus approves or responds.

 

[Ðari]

-I've got no quarrels, lets let him in. As for what happened to Ryan, I'm curious.-

From his ear, he'd then plucked the cigarette but so kindly and placed it in his mouth. With a steady hand it rose with a match, struck with the friction formed around the stud. As this humble flame went up, he held it close to his mouth, cupped by his hand as to keep the flame alive. Taking his first puff, the trail of flame followed and he'd thrown the match aways.

Smoke aloft his mouth, he blew a nigh invisible cloud of methanol on his front. His eyes paid this Englishmen fairly respectful observations. Questions of his not to attached acquaintance were deliberate, yet unwanted. In his picking up of information, his disposition however revealed his uneasy nature towards Stessel. The Russian prophet blew smoke directly aways in front of him, seeming to appeal and become even thicker. It was then he noticed the slight rush of the pocket, over the smoke.

'Little devil' he'd thought, with a twist of his mind the smoke spread and was superheated to combust with the torn air. Rather than travel in a linear manner, a foot where it formed, the soft boom became a loud bang. Colors of bright orange and yellows trailing upward into a miniature bomb explosion. Not far enough in between the Russian and Englishmen to actually prove a bother to either.

Like clicking and the sound of a feint charge, Avery's eye shifted from the Englishmen for a brief second. "You're quite the popular man, no?" the Russian jested, waving his arm to the right. As he watched the bullets run their course, he was wrapping his advanced mind across the moving blue beam-like projectiles. Rather than deflect them, they pivoted and ricocheted back to negate the next beam, in something of a looped manner. This was known as friendly fire directed back upon the shooter, but surely the moment the beams became uneven, the recoil would do the justice and incapacitate the shooter.

 

[SupahMataMato]

Sharwell saw the beams deflect and rich-rocket back toward him. Sharwell flew up, searching for the source of the deflection. It seemed that there was nothing that had. However, his thermal-vision visor detected high levels of heat in the figure to the right's head. Interesting. This thought distracted Sharwell, and it took him a moment to realize that he was a visible. And then it was this distraction that caused him to forget about his deflected bullets. Darvi- Sharwell began to think, but he was hit with his own projectiles and went spinning down to the earth, leaving the thought trailing in the air like a speech bubble.

 

[frisson]

((Trivia: Even though Cliff is technically English, due to his heritage he's more likely to be mistaken as a Scotsman.))

There was little time to register what was happening, but thankfully everyone's attention seemed to be diverted evenly between each other, rather than focused solely on Cliff.
At least, that's what could be said, now that he was aware of a third competitor. He shifted back several steps and took stance.

Doubt briefly crossed his mind. Maybe the Russian didn't kill Ryan. He negated Cliff's attack and instead of retaliating, actually saved him, it seemed. Was it this third player, then, who was responsible for his subordinate's unwelcome end? Had these two been dealing with each other before Cliff even arrived? No matter. These were "extraordinaries". People like him. He'd began to notice their presence in the world ever since he had changed. But sentiments of familiarity were wasted on their kind. It showed prudence to be wary of one another.

"You're quite the popular man, no?"

Haywood sneaked a harrowing glance in response, before returning his sights to Sharwell. Or to be more precise, where he thought the man was. Snaking his pocket, Cliff retrieved two small items. A pair of "AAA" charge batteries. Hoping to draw the man out, one was fired into the shrubs of Sharwell's vicinity. The battery glowed a white hot and exploded on impact. The other was held threateningly in Avery's direction.

'What can I say? I cause a "bang" with people.'

((bleh corny))

 

[SupahMataMato]

Sharwell was awoken with by a small explosion. Sharwell turned his head to the sound. A small shrub was burning. "D'ARVIT!" Shouted Sharwell, back-peddling. From the smell of burning plasma which, to any normal human, would smell like very, very, strong sulfur, Sharwell realized that his N.I.T.R.O Rifle had landed in the shrub. "I've got no weapon," muttered Sharwell. Now he had no way of defending himself, but Sharwell had an idea. The gauntlets on his Hydrophilic Nitrogen suit could give a person a broken bone if they had enough momentum behind them. While he was not strong enough to do this, Sharwell could seriously injure somebody this way. Taking a few seconds to mull it over in his head, Sharwell came to a decision and flew out of his cover, tiny fist held back, ready to punch.

 

[Ðari]

With Avery's disposition shifted, he did a rather rapid lean pull back. As he watched the other vagrant take the front of the single shot of the reflected rapid fire. His lean was more so directed with the other vagabond's reflexes. The white hot emanation of the battery scuffing heat, pushing the super-heated acid to flow over him while keeping himself at a perfect zero degree angle steadily getting lower.

((lol matrix))

He had to admit, it was too close for comfort. The heat the passed over him, had caused his face to sweat and most of his Newport to burn out. As he took an affirmative stance. Blowing smoke, between them it thickened. "I'll tip to that." he replied, sliding from his pocket a pencil tossed through the bare visibility of the smoke, bolted with his mind to jettison in position of Haywood's forehead.

"Its Avery Stessel, who might you be?"