The ThrowawaysWARNING: THIS RP WILL CONTAIN VIOLENCE, LANGUAGE AND SEX, AND IS THEREFORE DEFINITELY NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED. IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY ANY OF THE ABOVE, TURN AWAY NOW. IF NOT, COME ON IN!
"Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men." - Lord Acton, 1887
-Twenty-one years ago-
Fluorescent strip lights hummed, suspended from the high, vaulted ceilings of the long, narrow underground room, casting their pale, sickly light over the wooden workbenches and the equipment scattered across them. Large glass cases filled with dark, slowly-shifting shapes lined one wall, and a thin, hunched man with a dirty white lab coat draped over his wizened frame shuffled along the rows of cases, looking carefully into each one as he passed, scribbling rough notes on the battered clipboard in his hand.
"No change," he whispered, his voice hoarse, and tinged with disappointment. He looked deep into one of the cases, with a yellowing label in the corner which read "Subect #003", and softly tapped his finger against the glass. The shape inside stirred, moving towards the front of the case, and pressed itself up against the glass.
It was a small, male child, seemingly no older than eighteen months, now pressing his hand against the glass and blinking his large blue eyes at the old man. The old man's narrow mouth curled up into a smile, and he pressed his index finger against the glass, where the child's hand was pressed on the other side.
Suddenly, the door to the room exploded open, and two metal canisters flew in high arcs through the air and clattered to the ground, smoke gushing from them and engulfing the old man. He choked on the acrid smoke and blinked as he saw bright red beams shining through the gloom, the ends dancing around his chest.
"Step away from the case!" came a booming voice, echoing around the room, but the old man was disoriented and confused, and he stuck to the spot in his panic. He heard more shouts, then sound exploded in his ears, and his chest exploded where the lasers had been aimed. He fell slowly to his knees, then slumped to the ground, blood pumping from the chest wound.
"Target down, we have secured the hostages!" were the very last words the old man heard as darkness clouded over everything...
-Eleven years ago-
"You're such a freak," spat the unusually muscular young man, wiping the smear of blood off his knuckles as he stood over his smaller, weaker classmate, who had sagged to his knees under the weight of the first punch. Blood was dribbling from his nose and top lip in a steady flow, and he could feel the place where a bruise was bound to form around the bridge of his nose. He blinked to hold back the hot tears he could feel welling up in his eyes and struggled slowly to his feet, blocking out the jeers and insults of the crowd that was surrounding the fight.
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" he murmured, flecks of blood spraying to the floor as he spoke, "Please, just leave me alone!"
"What the ****, Slate? Are you crying?" asked the bully, barely stifling his laughter and leaning back on the metal school gate, "Slate's a little *****, everyone!"
The crowd started laughing and jeering louder, and the twelve-year-old felt his anger building inside him, but unlike all the other times this had happened it seemed like something tangible. His breathing grew heavier, and he turned, his whole body trembling, to face the bully. The school gate which he was leaning on was rattling, and the bully moved away from it, advancing slowly on the angry young boy.
"Now you're spazzing out on us? What next, are you gonna piss your pants?" he snarled, and at that moment the smaller boy flung his hand out, and the metal gate swung open violently, slamming into the bully's back and sending him to the floor with a thud. A moment later, he pushed himself to his feet, his face now bleeding more profusely than his victim's, pure anger etched across his face.
"You're ******* dead!" he scowled, but then he noticed the weaker boy slumped back down on his knees, still trembling, and decided this particular victim wasn't worth his time, and walked away, but not before spitting a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the boy's back.
-Five years ago-
The alarm screeched, echoing around the marble lobby of the bank. The group of men in black combat gear hefted sports bags full of money out of the vault, assault rifles slung around their shoulders. Bank customers were lying on the floor, covering their heads with their arms and shaking, some of them crying in fear, hoping not to be shot like the man who had tried to stand up to the robbers a few moments ago.
Suddenly, the glass doors of the bank exploded inwards, sending shattered glass flying across the lobby, and a dark-clad figure swooped in through the gap where the doors had just been, landing on the floor in front of the lead robber. He was a tall, almost unnaturally muscular man dressed from his neck to his feet in a thick black leather jumpsuit, with a black mask over his eyes.
"What the **** is this?" spat the lead robber, "A ******* superhero?"
"You're damn right, asshole," replied the newcomer, slamming his hand into the criminal's chest and sending him flying across the lobby, slamming hard into the wall with a loud crack, and slumping to the floor. The rest of the robber watched this, shocked, and began firing their assault rifles at him. The man moved so fast all that could be seen of him was a black blur, dodging the bullets and attacking the robbers in quick succession, knocking them all to the floor and disarming them. The hostages began to shakily get to their feet, in awe of the man who now stood in front of the pile of money.
"Who...who are you?" asked the man closest to him.
"I am The Patriot!" he boomed, standing tall, hands on hips.
"The first of many, ma'am. The first of many," he said with a smile as cameras flashed from outside the bank.
-Six weeks ago-
"The country is in a state of panic," said the reporter, "The Big Five, those superheroes we have all known, respect and loved for the past five years, have seemingly turned on the country they supposedly protect. Many people have been killed in what is now being called "The Rebellion", there has been an extensive amount of property damage and people are living in fear. It is expected that the President will be forced to hand power over to The Patriot, who is now heralding himself as the One True Leader of America..."
The reporter was cut off mid-sentence by an enormous fist slamming down on top of the television, crushing it almost flat.
"Fuckin' news!" growled the owner of the large fist, a similarly large man, covered in rippling muscles and a suit of sleeveless red armour, "Makin' out like we're the bad guys just for takin' what we deserve!"
"Well...we are the bad guys now, Freight Train," said a slender, blue-haired woman as she slinked past.
"Hydro-Girl's right," said a young man crouched on an armchair in the corner of the hotel room, "By all definitions of the words, we are the bad guys."
"And don't you just ******* love it?" said The Patriot, a wide grin across his face and a devilish glint in his eyes.
-Two weeks ago-
The young man's boots slapped on the hard concrete as he ran full pelt across the rooftop, breathing hard as he moved. A few feet behind him, a man in a grey suit and holding a handgun ran at a similar speed, although his movement was somewhat hindered by the nature of his clothes.
Leaping over the gap between the building he was on and the next one, the young man rolled as he landed and continued to run, his arms and legs pumping. The suited man followed him over the gap and landed harder, skidding a few feet across the ground as he landed, before getting up and continuing his pursuit, only stopping to aim and squeeze off a few shots at the young man.
Concrete exploded by his head as the bullets just missed, and he reached out as he ran, spotting a metal pipe lying on the ground, which flew into his hand as he ran. He ducked behind an air-conditioning unit on top of the building, wielding the pipe like a club, and swung out as the suited man rounded the corner, slamming the pipe into his chest and knocking him to the floor.
"Stay away from me!" he panted as he stood over the suited man, who lay on his back gasping for air, his gun now just out of reach. The young man flicked his hand out, and the gun skittered away across the rooftop. He turned to walk away and leave the suited man where he was, when something stung his neck. He reached his hand up and found a small plastic dart stuck in his neck. He yanked it out, but it had already deposited it's payload into his bloodstream.
"Oh ****..." he murmured as he lost consciousness, dropping to the floor hard, just making out the two suited men stepping into his vision as he blacked out.
We live in a world where superheroes are very much real. America was protected by the Big Five, five of the most powerful supers in the world: The Patriot, Starlighter, Hydro-Girl, Freight Train and Oracle. That is, until they went rogue and began attacking innocent Americans, and using their powers for their own personal gain.
But this is not their story. At least, not yet.
Twenty-one years ago, Special Forces stormed an underground research lab where an informant claimed experiments were being carried out on children. This information was proved true, the scientist involved in these experiments was killed in the operation, and all twelve children were recovered. The nature of these experiments was unknown, but the children were both unharmed and completely healthy.
Unfortunately, their parentage could not be ascertained, and thus they were all relocated to an orphanage run by a woman named Alexandra Foster. In the following years, some were re-homed, but others remained in the orphanage until they were old enough to move out and find their own ways in life. For all intents and purposes, their upbringing was normal enough, except for one thing.
When each of the children reached puberty, they manifested strange abilities. For example, Subject #003, real name Jonathan Slate, developed the ability to control magnetic fields with his mind, and Subject #009, real name Katherine Bell, manifested the ability to pass through solid objects. For the most part, they managed to keep their abilities secret, but in the past twelve months they have been disappearing without explanation, abducted by men in grey suits.
This is their story.
Welcome to The Throwaways, a brand new original superhero story. There are a number of mysteries to be solved in this RP, and answers will come steadily throughout. However, you should have everything you need to know thus far, aside from the sign-up, which is here:
Subject Number: (between #002 and #012, excluding #003 and #009)
Codename: (this will not be used at first, but it is important for later in the RP. Make sure it is relevant to your abilities)
Age: (this will be either 22 or 23, sorry for the limitation but it is important for the story)
Appearance: (as with all my RPs, a picture or a detailed description is great, both is fantastic)
Powers/Abilities: (make this reasonable - think X-Men, anyone that I consider to be overpowered will not get in. Also consider that, while we've had these abilities for 10 years or so, we've never received and formal training, so you won't be very good with your powers)
Writing Snippet: (write a short piece describing how your powers emerged - see my "Eleven years ago" section for a guideline)
Other Skills: (can you fight? Pick locks? Anything helpful that is not a facet of your powers will work here)
I will post my character sheet once I've seen some interest in this, either here or in the Backstage thread which I will post momentarily. If you have any questions, comments or queries then don't hesitate to let them be known!
Edited by DeLarge, 09 July 2011 - 11:51 AM.