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Thread: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

  1. #1
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    Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    This is the world of Earth in our universe, where I and my fellow Game Masters are the sole powers. This universe is ours to shape to our will, and those that defy us cease to exist.

    In the center of this universe resides the planet known as Earth. Being the center of the universe, this blue world has a special significance to us Game Masters, and so many cosmic events shall involve or focus on this infinitesimal, yet important sphere. This is by design, not accident. Unfortunately for the planet, they know not of our existence, nor their importance in this universe. They simply exist in a world they think they control.

    To most of the people on this world, everyday life does not involve aliens, supernatural battles, or cosmic conflicts. However, this is about to change, for my fellow Game Masters and I have chosen to ignite the spark in this planet as well as in other worlds. Soon heroes and villains alike, both powerful and powerless, will appear and the conflicts will begin.

    Much mystery will be revealed by these noble and nefarious beings. Marvels both technological and magical await those who possess the fortitude to seek them out, however this would be their choice. We Game Masters only interfere when times require it.

    There is but one organization the Humans have already. This organization is called S.H.A.P.E, which stands for Strategic Headquarters: Allied Planet Earth, and it searches already for the unknown, yet known to us. It is the secret, collective defense force for the planet earth, funded by the United Nations. These humans have already been preparing for the event that my fellow Game Masters and I will initiate, and soon they will be busy trying to catalogue and enlist the enhanced humans and non-humans in their organization.

    Will these beings join with them or spurn their offer? Only time will tell.

    The sudden birth of powerful beings will urge some un-enhanced humans to harbor fear and resentment. Some will take up weapons and technology and form groups to protect themselves and their families. They may be the most powerful yet for they fight as though their very existence is at stake.

    So, let the Great Experiment begin as the spark of evolutionary power finds it's way into the creatures of the cosmos. Only time will tell if we chose wisely, for even we Game Masters cannot see the future...

    To see comprehensive rules for this RPG or to sign up, come on down to our Sign Ups and Rules thread. Please keep all OOC (out of character) discussion limited to that thread as well, as thread is for storylined posts only. Please turn your signatures off when posting in this thread.

    Last edited by Jiggy; 08-16-2021 at 05:55 PM.

  2. #2
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread


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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread


    Episode One has begun. Episode One will last 15-20 pages or until a Game Master has decided to end it to advance the story.

    Gordon Coldiron, an MIT graduate and world renowned tech genius, was an inventor and former head of Research and Development for Cosgrove Synthetics, the leader in worldwide robotics technology. For 5 years, Marty was heading the Galaxy Brain project, where he was creating computer chip systems to be implanted in the brains of Alzheimer's patients and stroke victims who had lost their memory. The Galaxy Brain chip was to restore lost memory and restore motor skills. Gordon would later come to find that Grayson Cosgrove, CEO of Cosgrove Synthetics, intended to weaponize the chip and sell it to the highest bidding military forces, domestic and foreign, as the chip could be altered to provide the user with advances combat skills and encyclopedia level knowledge, as well as unlocking the ability to use 90% if the human brain function, essentially providing an army of super soldiers to the highest bidder. Taking an ethical standpoint against this, Gordon resigned and destroyed all documents of the Galaxy Brain chips existence. In retaliation, Cosgrove had Gordon's family assassinated, however Gordon and his son, college student Marty, survived, though the bullet to the head left Marty comatose and in a vegetative state. Gordon was also worse for wear, and slowly dying. However, he used his remaining hours to perform the required brain surgery on his son Marty and implant the Galaxy Brain chip. By the time Marty had awoken, his father had already passed away during the night. Imbedded in the chip was all the knowledge of Gordon's research, advanced combat training and a message from his father regarding Grayson Cosgrove and his nefarious plan.

    Awakened with the knowledge of the world before him, and an insatiable thirst for vengeance, Marty utilizes all the knowledge and resources handed down to him from his father by way of the Galaxy Brain to construct an exo-suit providing him with enhanced physical attributes to aid him in his war with the villainous Grayson Cosgrove.

    Upon further investigation into Cosgrove's nefarious plan, Marty learns that the Legacy City police force is corrupt and under Cosgrove's thumb. Recognizing that Legacy City and the world at large needs a hero to protect them when the police and the military won't, Marty see's himself as a protector that will usher in his own brand of justice on his road to revenge. He is...

    King Boulevard, 12:30am. Salvatore DeMarco takes his final breaths as gun smoke exits the open hole in his chest. It wasn't supposed to be like this. One more job and then he was going to retire, spend the rest of his life caring for his grandchildren and repairing the damaged relationship with his daughter. Drug running for the Carrelli family mafia had paid him well over the last few years, but it was a life that had him always looking over his shoulder in anticipation for a moment like this.

    He lets out a cough and the blood begins to pour from his mouth. His vision hazy, he looks out of the space where his windshield once was before a hail of bullets left it nothing more than shards of glass on his lap. He sees two men approaching, their weapons drawn, but he makes no effort to pull his pistol from his holster, he knows he's dying, and he's dying fast. With his last thought, he thinks of his daughter Samantha, the one that told him never to speak to him again. He knew her life would be better without him, though the thought of it didn't bring him any peace.

    Nunzio raises his pistol and fires one last shot into Salvatore's skull. That's the last thing Salvatore DeMarco saw before going gently into that goodnight.

    "Cocaine, Paulie. A whole fucking lot of it. We'll be set for life once we meet Rubio" Nunzio says as he opens the back of the van to feast his eyes on their score. Paulie nods his head in agreement, a big dumb smile on his fat face.

    Neither Paulie nor Nunzio were good with math. There was $80,000 worth of cocaine in the back of the van, and surely Tony Rubio, Legacy City crime lord, wasn't going to pay them full price. As members of the Rubio crime family, they were required to kick this up to the don, and they'd get their 10%, a paltry 8 grand split two ways. $4000 was two months rent and a few hot lunches, hardly the retirement plan Nunzio was making it out to be.

    "The boss is going to shit his pants when he sees this haul, Nunzi. This might finally be the gig that makes us Made men." Paulie says, grabbing a brick.

    "Don't suppose we take a little piece for ourselves, huh Nunzi?" Paulie says.

    "What the boss don't know, Paulie." Nunzio says with a smile.

    "A lifetime of bad decisions, leading you to this moment, here and now. Leading you to ME." A voice calls out from the darkness.

    Paulie and Nunzio raise their weapons, startled by the mystery man speaking to them from the shadows.

    "Who the fuck is there!?!" Nunzio asks.

    "Show yourself you cock sucker, where are you!?!" Paulie follows up.

    Out of the shadows he emerges, his white and grey armor looking foreign to them, like something out of a science fiction film. Nunzio tilts his head in confusion at the sight of our White Knight.

    "The fuck are you, some kind of robot?" Nunzio asks with a chuckle.

    "The comic book convention is on 7th street asshole, you found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time" Paulie says before raising his pistol and firing away. Much to his dismay, the shot bounces off of The White Knight and does nothing to stop him as he approaches, inching closer and closer.

    "Maddone! Sweet virgin Mary, you see this shit Nunzi?" Paulie asks, paniced.

    "Fuck, cap this cocksuker Paulie!" Nunzio responds.

    They both open fire on The White Knight, shot after shot, each one bouncing off of him, until finally, one shot ricochets off of The White Knight and shoots poor Paulie dead in the head.

    Paulie falls to the floor, falling victim to a bullet that came from his own firearm, one that was intended for The White Knight. Nunzio panics. He turns around and runs, faster than he ever has in his adult life. The sounds of metal feet clanking on the ground offer no reassurance to Nunzio that he'll escape, the tin man is right behind him.

    Nunzio breaks off into an alleyway and looks back to see The White Knight gaining on him. Not that it would have mattered if this was avoided, but the act of looking behind him causes Nunzio to trip over a steel garbage drum and fall over. As Nunzio's head hits the concrete, it's painfully obvious to him that this was in fact the night that would change his life forever, just not the way he wanted it to.

    The White Knight hovers over him, drawing his sword from the mechanical holster on his back.

    "'re that guy that did Johnny Leotardo. You're the guy, The Knight..."

    "Johnny Leotardo was a murderer and I executed a swift and merciful justice that the police wouldn't have afforded him. And now, here you are. Another murderer, in my crosshairs."

    The White Knight raises his sword above his head.

    "Please...please don't... I got kids..."

    "And the man in the van? Salvatore DeMarco? He did too. Three children. Four Grandchildren. You stole him from them." The White Knight responds.

    "Marty we talked about this, you can't keep killing these guys" Gemma says over his communicator.

    "He'll just walk again, The police are in Rubio's pocket and he's one of theirs" The White Knight says.

    "Who the fuck are you talking to, man!?!" Nunzio asks, his eyes wide with fear.

    "Yo, Marty, Cops incoming man. You might want to bounce" Says Decon, the other voice in The White Knights comms.

    "Not yet." The White Knight says.

    "As I was saying, Nunzio. That's your name, right? Nunzio? You took something from this mans family when you killed him. Now I'm going to take something from you. Tony Rubio will see to it that you're back on the streets in no time, so I'm going to see to it that you're as useless to him as you are to society."

    The White Knight flips a switch on the swords handle and the sword begins to emit smoke as it heats up.

    "No...No please" Nunzio begs.

    After a few seconds, the silver steel of the swords blade takes on an orange hue as it becomes burning hot. With one swift slice, The White Knight slashes Nunzio's left hand off, and then...the right hand. The hot blade cauterizes the wounds instantly, dismembering without letting him bleed to death.

    "AaaaaaaAaaAaaAHHHHH" Nunzio screams, The scream is brief however, as the criminal goes into shock, immediately, passing out at the sight of his charred stumps where his hands used to be.

    "Jesus Christ, Marty..." Gemma says over the comms.

    "It had to be done." he replies.

    "They are getting close, Marty. Now's your time to book it, dude" Deacon says

    "Truck full of cocaine. Cops are in Rubio's pocket. It's just going to wind up back on the streets."
    he says before sprinting off back into the direction of the van.

    This isn't the life Martin Coldiron's father wanted for him. But it's the life his father left behind for him when the void of evil beneath Legacy City swallowed Marty's father whole. As The White Knight approaches the drug fan, he pulls a grenade from his belt and pulls the pin before tossing it in. In 5 seconds, the grenade will have exploded and will have taken the drugs with it in a blaze of glory. The White Knight begins to scale the building nearest to him, an old cigar factory, as the police sirens draw closer and closer. He'd nearly reached the top of the building by the time the van exploded.

    It had to be done, he thought to himself once again. The role of judge, jury and executioner was not one that Martin Coldiron took any pride in, but this was Legacy City, where the worst criminals were the ones that hid behind a badge, and once they arrived on the scene, his efforts with Nunzio and Paulie would have been for naught as the drugs would have been kicked back to mafia boss Tony Rubio. This was the right decision.

    But as Marty sits perched atop the cigar factory, watching the police cars approach the burning van, he thinks to himself, that more than anything, that he wasn't the one who had to make these decisions.
    Last edited by Jiggy; 08-12-2021 at 04:11 PM.

  4. #4
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    We hear something before we see anything, grand soothing bombastic violins serenade us as We open on the image of a rising sun gently beginning to illuminate the vast and majesty scenery of the grand canyon….before transitioning to a close up of some wheat, swaying in the breeze, just one piece of literally thousand in a wheat field a symbol of the heart of American rural culture, and again we transition to a shot of several American flags fluttering in slow motion as words appear in front of us.


    Next is a shot of some kind of skyscraper being built, we see several men in hard hats aiding in the building of said skyscraper, and one of these men in hard hats speaks.

    "She built her company from the ground up, and she can do the same for America"

    We see more shots of men working diligently as the music swells and more text appears on our screens.


    We now see several close-ups of people tinkering with various microscopes and computers as a scientist stands in front of a lab of hard-working people speaks out towards camera (How do we know she's a scientist? Because she has a lab coat on and is holding a clipboard. What more do you need?)

    "Emerald industries provided fifteen thousand jobs for Americans, and that's in the last six months alone."

    She smiles in a way that you might think she has some modelling experience, but you'd be wrong. She's absolutely a scientist. We see more shots of scientists working hard and doing complex work on computers, but the scene quickly transitions to more text, this time with the background of a tractor going through a field.


    We see various shots of grain being poured into containers and livestock happily frolicking in a field before a real salt of the earth looking guy, complete with checkered shirt and trucker cap, has his say pausing momentarily to wipe the sweat from his brow no doubt after a hard days work.

    "After the damages caused by the stock market collapse, Jasmine Perlot made sure three million Americans had food and shelter, including my family.

    We now transition to something completely different; Shots of sky scrappers, of American cities. Of cars going up and down the highway, and so many scenic views of American landscapes, you'd think you're watching a live postcard, but we quickly hear a new voice overcoming over these scenes.

    "I grew up in Legacy City. Along with Night City and Cliquetown, these are shining examples of our country. As president, I'll be dedicated to finding new jobs, resources and finding alternate sources of power to keep them shining bright..."

    We slowly fade in on a woman with incredibly dark features, pale skin and red lips that could only be Jasmine Perlot, standing proudly in front of a green screen of a superimposed image of an American flag, and when she speaks, she speaks softly, in a tone of voice that oozes with sincerity and moral integrity.

    "...Now it's time we gave back to the country; that's made us great."

    Slowly just to the left of her, a boom mic becomes clearly visual, listing lazily onto the screen; her eyes flicker to it momentarily, and her sweet demeanor cracks noticeably as her face gives way to clear irritation, but like a pro, she tries to ignore it.

    "I'm Jas-Jasmine Perlot, and I approve th-GOD DAMN YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!"


    The music stops. The flag goes away, and the director yells cut as a small woman in glasses quickly walks into the scene to retouch her makeup.

    "Can someone fire that boom operator, please?! I'm announcing my bid, next month people. We have to get this right!"

    "That was great, Jasmin-"

    "Miss Perlot."

    "Um, Miss. Perlot. Let's just take it back to one and do the same again."

    "If you insist."

    "Ok, and everyone back to their original spots…"

    Jasmine resets, clearing her throat and trying to wipe the irritation off her face as she looks into one of the many cameras surrounding her.


    "I grew up in Legacy City. along with Night City…"




    -Deep sigh-

    "What's the name of the other godforsaken hell hole?"


    "You know what. Can you people please fix your god damn teleprompter?! In fact; Your teleprompter operation? He can share a taxi with the boom mic idiot. I thought you people were pros-"

    "Miss Perlot, maybe if we did one where you smile…"

    "You tell me that one more time, and you'll finish the day wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the sea."

    Jasmine Perlot sighs and rubs her templates, hoping to stem her normal allergic reaction to stupidity in her general area.

    "You guys got a day; You hear me? A day to reshoot this. So sort your shit out. Otherwise, I'm replacing you all with monkeys with electrodes in their brains. Ok? Ok."

    With that, Jasmine storms out of the room and into the vast hallways of one of her buildings, and various worker drones do their best to get out of her way, like Jasmine was somehow Moses parting a red sea of minions, of course. The idea that Jasmine Perlot was some kind of religious figure would be the proof many of her subordinates would need for the non-existence of a loving God.

    Jasmine stomped down the hallway like her feet were physically trying to cause the floor pain as one of her many P.A.'s struggled to her keep pace, struggling to hold the bulging files in her arms.

    "Ok, what's next?"

    "Well, you have a meeting with congressman Elsen in the town hall in an hour."

    "Make it two. Meetings with those crusty old bastards are slower than a blind paraplegic.

    "Ma'am, if I may, Veterans make up thirteen per cent of potential voters. Some of whom are blind AND paraplegic."

    "Never tell me statistics."

    "What if one of them was watching when you said that?"

    "Um, obviously not; because they're blind. Think it over, honestly; where do they find you people?"

    "Well- my name is Ap-"

    "Ok, so you're clearly new here; So I'll keep this brief; I don't give a shit what your name is. God, how do I put this in terms a "little person" would understand. You remember the video game Pong?"

    "I'm not sure-"

    "Well, that's how your brain works; slowing batting a simple fact back and forward; my brain, on the other hand, is like a giant supercomputer, processing facts and figures that would make your tiny head explode in seconds, do you think I have room in there for names?! No, when you walk through my doors. You'll be Idiot number twenty-eight. Because that's what you are to me, just another idiot in a kingdom of them."

    "Thank you?"

    "You're welcome Idiot Number Twenty-Eight"

    Jasmine continued to stomp her high heels against the floor, making her way to her office before she stopped suddenly, her attention caught by something out of the corner of her eye, a widescreen T.V. in the hallway just at the tail end of a news report.

    "And if you're just joining us, we're getting reports of two murders last night in relation to mob activity; we're also getting unconfirmed reports of the cities so-called "White Knight" being seen in the general area... We'll bring you more when more information comes to light."

    Jasmine's eyebrow quirked just a little, a slight twinkle of intrigue coming over her features as she took this information idea was forming.

    "You can go away now", Jasmine sighed, causing her P.A. to scurry off and to get as much distance between herself and her boss as possible as Jasmine took out her phone (Encrypted, of course) and let her perfectly manicured fingers dance along the pad before holding the phone to her ear. It isn't long before there's an answer.

    "My. My. My Signor Rubio, we ARE in trouble, aren't we…."


    "... It's not what I want, Tony. It's about what you want, or to be more forthright; What you need, we both know; you have a freak problem, and he's working his way through your organization, and soon, your head is going to be on the other end of that sword. Corrupt cops and politicians on the take don't have the means to stop him...but I do. Which I'll be more than happy to provide to you. For a price, naturally."


    "That depends; what do you need?"


    "Urg. Of course. Guns. Your lack of creativity is disappointing but expected. I can certainly send you specialized guns."


    "An hour. On the outskirts of the city, I'll send someone to give you the weapons you need. We can discuss my payment after he's dead. Do we have a deal?"


    "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Rubio."
    Last edited by An Original Name; 08-12-2021 at 07:35 PM.
    The most amazing thing about this recent conversation is that I've learned AON is even more of a waste of space than I thought he was previously

  5. #5
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    "You hear about Nunzio?"

    Downtown in the seedy underbelly of Night City, outside of the Sanctioned Entrepreneur Socialite Clique, a pale, gaunt man in a grey suit grimaced as his lighter failed to work. Holding the unlit cigarette between his lips as he flickered the ignition of his lighter again and again, the gaunt man glanced at his companions, and squinted.

    "Who the fuck is Nunzio?" He asked, shaking his head.

    The slightly taller companion, a ginger fellow in a tan suit, knelt forward, as if divulging some hidden secret of the world. "One of Mr. Rubio's stooges. Shit talker, but dumb as a box of rocks."

    "Doesn't really narrow it down there, Bruno." The gaunt man bluntly replied, tossing his lighter in his pocket in defeat. "Either of you got a light?" He glanced between his two cohorts. Ginger shook his head. The other man, a rather portly man in a brown suit and an ugly fedora, simply stared.

    "Word on the street is, he and Paulie - you know Paulie, right?" Ugly Fedora stopped, until Gaunt Man rolled his eyes and nodded. "He and Paulie got into a bit of a scuffle with a certain someone, see. Dunno the finer details of it all - people are tight-lipped right now - but Paulie's got a bullet in his head, seventy or eighty thousand dollars worth of coke went up in flames, and Nunzio, get this, got both his fuckin' hands burned off."

    Gaunt rolled his unlit cigarette between his fingers, wondering if he'd be able to light it from the charred remains of Nunzio's incinerated hands. "Waste of some good cocaine." He mused. "So, what, some firebug set fire to his hands?"

    "Not what Nunzio's saying." Ginger interrupted. "When he woke up, he kept babbling on about some kind of... Cyborg Ninja thing. Some kinda android that made Paulie just die on the spot without even lifting a finger."

    "And," Ugly Fedora jumped in. They had probably rehearsed this, Gaunt realized with a pang of defeat. "White Android just sliced off Nunzio's hands, just like that. Instantly cadatherized the wound."

    "Cadatherized?" Ginger blanched, cringing.

    Ugly Fedora raised an eyebrow. "What? Cadatherized, y'know, burned it shut."

    "Cauterized." Gaunt pointed out, rubbing a finger against his temple in aggravation.

    "Oh. Yeah, that's what I meant, cauterized. I knew that." Ugly Fedora said, in the tone of voice that meant he clearly didn't, but he's not going to admit that up front.

    "So, basically," Ginger continued, swiftly moving on. "No-one's entirely sure what happened, but Mr. Rubio's pretty pissed off, see."

    "Ain't that just the bee's knees." Gaunt dryly replied, tucking the cigarette into his jacket. "But I think I got a fair theory of what happened. Nunzio stuck his oversized head out a little bit higher than he was supposed to. Got greedy and figured he could get away with it, except he didn't, because he's a damn idiot who thought he was invincible. Now we're down a truckload of product, the big boss man is ragin' like a wildfire, and it's going to be everyone's godamned problem until someone's head rolls. Blistering idiot."

    Ginger and Ugly Fedora exchanged a glance. "What about the white cyborg?"

    Gaunt shrugged, kicking a peddle down the alleyway. "How the hell am I supposed to know? Maybe it was God himself, arriving to give Nunzio a firm kick up the ass for being such a screwup. Maybe it was nothing, just Nunzio trying to cover his own ass for being a screwup. I don't know. That's the kind of shit that happens when you draw attention to yourself - you either buy into your own hype and think you're untouchable, or someone sees a target on your back and a chance to make a name for 'emselves."

    A knock on the door of the club broke the conversation, as an olive-skinned bald man poked his head out. "Boss wants us." He said curtly, before ducking back inside quick as a flicker.

    Gaunt, Ginger, & Ugly Fedora shared a brief look - unease on Ginger & Ugly Fedora, apathy on Gaunt - and all started for the door. "Discretion is the name of the game, lads." Gaunt muttered, more to himself than the other. "The better part of valor and all."

    Ginger & Ugly Fedora didn't respond, as the trio entered the seedy, gravelly bar. Red velvet walls, smoothly polished floorboards - not polished quite enough to get a few bloodstains out - and a bar lined with a handful of similarly suited men, waiting expectantly. A smooth, jazzy tune played on the jukebox, as the trio sat and waited with the others.

    After a few seconds, a black woman in a navy blue suit walked down the steps of the second story of the building, face a mask of impassiveness as she tucked a phone into her jacket... Though with the barest hint of a smirk. "Apparently Mr. Rubio is having some housing issues." She began, eyes sweeping the bar and it's patrons. "Someone he thought he could rely on might've fucked him over, so he's doing some... Internal housecleaning." She paused, as if daring someone to speak up. But silence greeted her, for Dominique Van Dorsen was a lady who commanded respect. In this line of work, it was very easy for someone to take a glance at her and decide she wasn't worth respecting, even as an immediate authority. Those kinds of people usually ended up missing some teeth, and in rarer cases, some fingers.

    Finally, after some seconds, Dominique continued. "But as the saying goes, a fuckup for someone can mean a fixup for someone else, so as a favour to Mr. Rubio, I've offered our services in assisting with some tasks while he sorts his shit out, so to say." A few of the mobsters exchanged glances, but wisely, none spoke up. Ambitious to a fault, Miss Van Dorsen was. Even if it meant throwing those under her command into the line of fire.

    Ginger cleared his throat. "What kind of services, boss?" Beside him, Gaunt closed his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. Did he not hear a single word he said? Don't poke your head out. Don't draw attention. You won't get a step up the ladder, you'll get a step down into an early grave.

    Dominique stared at Ginger for what felt like an eternity, as Ginger suddenly felt himself feel very, very thirsty. "Just a bit of errands here and there." Dominique replied. "A couple of men to help pick up a shipment at one of his pickup spots, deliver it to where it needs to go, to start. Simple shit, I'm sure you can figure it out. Any takers?"

    A couple of hands raised, some instant like Ugly Fedora, some slow like Ginger. Gaunt kept his hands firmly behind his back, knowing it was pointless. Miss Van Dorsen already had names picked out - this was just show and tell.

    "Klein. O'Banion. Gats. Thompson." Dominique nodded absently at several of the mobsters, Ginger & Ugly Fedora among them, before she paused in front of Gaunt, observing him. "Think you can handle a delivery, Winx?"

    Behind his back, Wesley Winx's fingers began to glow, as he casually stuffed them into his rear pockets, forcing a grin onto his face. "Of course, boss."

    Dominique smirked. "Good. Try not to get yourselves killed now."

    Wesley Winx held back a remark, and merely offered a thin, tight-lipped smile. "Now scram, all of you. We're working on a time limit here." Dominique said, turning on her heels and marching back up the stairs.

    Inside his pocket, Wesley Winx turned one of his glowing fingers, as he glared into the back of his boss's head.

  6. #6
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread







    U’cuntkeelmeh closes the flip phone and drops in the coat pocket.

    “On Monday, I put up an ad to let people shoot me for one thousand dollars a bullet.”

    “You’re not gonna die on me, are ya?”

    “I’m not gonna die on you. I’ll die on this chair.”


    “That’s just a joke. Come on, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I promise you, I won’t die.”

    “What if this is the one time you die.”

    “Then you’ve got awful luck, mister. Are you gonna pull the trigger or what. I’m running on a schedule here.”

    “Fine. Fine.”

    He frowns. Aims his pistol. Bites his lip, still uncertain. And pulls the trigger. The bullet goes through their neck. Blood sprays out the exit hole into the formerly white sheet behind them. Their eyes widen, one hand tries to cover up the bullet hole but it doesn’t do much to stem the flow of blood.

    “Oh my, oh my-”

    The man starts to panic, dropping his gun in fear. He gags and-

    “Wait! The puke bag, the puke bag!”

    They say, jumping up to their feet, hand away from their neck where a wound is no more, though nevertheless stained with blood. The man doesn’t reach the puke bag.

    “Come on, dude. I warned you to use a puke bag if you needed to puke!”

    “I wasn’t ready.”

    “Man, clean that shit up. There’s a mop over there. You really paid one thousand dollar just to puke?”

    “That can’t be true.”

    “I don’t care if you believe me or not. That was my Monday.”

    “If that’s true, you’re just enabling bad people. Giving them practice to become murderers.”

    “It’s Night City, everyone’s one bad day away from being a murderer. I’m just staving that off. I’ve got rules obviously. If someone breaks them, I chop their hand off. Usually one hand on display warns off the rest.”

    “Alright. Here’s another possibility. What if you’ve got a special weakness, an Achilles heel and someone has the magic bullet to kill you and they take advantage of it.”

    “I’m wearing a full body suit. It’s anonymous. No one knows its me.”

    “You’re not exactly super secretive. What if they did know?”

    “You’re asking me too many questions. Can I go on?”

    “Okay, okay. Go on.”

    “On Tuesdays, I’m in a fight club.”

    “Fight club? Like an underground fight club?”

    “Like an underground fight club.”

    “You sure. You don’t wanna be the champ?”

    “I do, Man. I do. But I’ve been saving up for this brand new RV and I’m thinking of going on a roadtrip.”

    “You wanna lose then? You know Manny hates you, right? He gets ya down. He’s gonna try and kill ya. No one’s gonna be in a rush to save you.”

    “You know I can take a hit. As long as I get paid, it’s all good.”

    “Well. You’re definitely gonna make some good money on this one.”

    The bell rings. U’cuntkeelmeh sizes up Manny. They avoid two punches, and feigns dancing to taunt Manny. Manny gets riled up and catches them with a right. U’cuntkeelmeh catches it square in the jaw and drops. Manny jumps on top of them and unloads. Left, right. Left, right. U’cuntkeelmeh stops resisting pretty quickly. The bell rings. Left, right. Left, right. Security unhurriedly works to open the cage. Left, right. Left, right. They tell Manny he’s won. Left, right. Left, right. Finally, they decide to drag him off. U’cuntkeelmeh’s face is a mess, a cheekbone peaks out, a couple of bloodied teeth lie in front of them. Drenched in blood, their face is largely unrecognizable. Someone tosses a towel on them.


    “What can I say? It’s a good way to make money.”

    “I’m sure there’s gotta be better ways to use your… powers.”

    “On Wednesdays I had to babysit a golden-haired Tibetan mastiff. Apparently it’s worth like a million dollars.”

    “How’d you get that?”

    “I don’t know. My handler arranged it. Butler dropped the dog off in the morning. Pretty easy gig actually. I was expecting someone to come after it, I’ll be honest. But not much action that day. Want to hear what happened Thursday? I actually did some pretty cool… vigilante type stuff.”

    “Actually… I’m just about done all the paperwork.”

    “Seriously. Everything's green? Everything worked out? The RV’s mine?”

    “All yours. But I’ve got to ask again, are you sure you don’t want to wait till you’ve got insurance before you take it out?”

    “Do I look like the kind of person that pays for insurance?”

    “Maybe not but you strike me as the sort to attract a bit of trouble.”

    “I’m taking a break from all of that. I’m going to take a roadtrip all around America. I’ll hit up Canada. I’ll go to Mexico. Brazil. I’ll do the whole tour.”

    “Even more reason to get insurance.”

    “I'm telling you, it's fine. If anything goes wrong, I’ll figure it out.”

    U’cuntkeelmeh gets inside their brand new Newmar King Aire RV. They don’t linger too much getting used to the RV. Actually, they’d a spent a whole night in it just to test it out. But don’t tell the salesman. They put the key in, twist it, and luxuriate in the revving of the engine. The RV pulls out of the park and into the threeway stop. The threeway is empty but for a truck some distance away coming from the left side. The RV unhurriedly turns to the right. U’cuntkeelmeh looks again to the left and realizes the truck hasn’t slowed down yet. And alas, it’s way closer. They press on the gas but it’s too late. The truck T-Bones the RV and it goes skidding several meters before falling into one side, the other horribly indented. U’cuntkeelmeh pushes the driver side door open and crawls out. Their many wounds already healing. They stand on the RV, their eyes immediately looking for the driver’s seat of the truck but seeing nobody there. Though the smart bet would be the driver ran away, there’s actually a hole in the window in front of the driver’s seat. A man-sized hole. U’cuntkeelmeh turns around and sees what’s left of a body not far past their RV.

    “Fuck! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

    They descend back into the RV and scramble for the flip phone. The entire of their savings. Gone in a second.











  7. #7
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    Four Years Ago

    "I was hoping you'd follow in my footsteps Marty, and perhaps that was my fault. Not yours."

    19 year old College Sophomore Martin "Marty" Coldiron pushes his roasted potatoes to the sides of his dinner plate as his fathers words cut him off at the kneecaps. He hated the thought of disappointing his father like this, but in this exact moment Marty Coldiron knew two things. One, his mother was a wonderful woman but a lousy cook. Two, as sure as the potatoes on his plate were undercooked and underseasoned, Marty knew that this moment was unavoidable. He had first disappointed his father two years ago, when he failed to get into MIT, The country's most renown Technological institute and his father's alma mater. He settled on Legacy University, his backup choice but one that would never even crack his father's top ten. Now, at just 19 years , he's disappointed his father once again and will have to explain why his college career was to be prematurely cut short after dropping out of school altogether to pursuit a career in humanitarian activism, aiming to draw attention to the disenfranchised and the downtrodden by creating a viral social media presence and attending rallies, protests and conventions all across the world.

    "I know you were. Really, I do. And I tried, Dad. I tried really goddamned hard. My hearts just not it in, I don't think" Marty says to his father, Gordon, who's looking down at his plate rather than his son who is under the impression that he's being guilt tripped into oblivion.

    "You didn't let me finish." Gordon says, looking up at his son.

    The long, Cherrywood dining looks to be much too large for for the four of them. Barbara is quiet as her eldest son and her husband continue their back-and-forth. Across from her, her younger son Aiden thumbs through his iPhone, updating his Snapchat and tuning everyone else out as he was known to do. Gordon looks up from his food to look Marty directly in the eye for the first time since they all sat down for dinner.

    "What I was trying to say, Marty, was that this was wrong of me, you understand? I've recently had something of a, what would you call it, a moment of clarity. All it took was me leaving my job to achieve it, but alas, here we are." Gordon says, taking a sip from his red wine.

    "Wait, you what?" Marty says, his eyes growing wide and his jaw hanging open as he tilts his head in confusion. His brother Aiden doesn't even look up from his phone, as the conversation around him as it's all inaudible background noise to him.

    "That's right. I'm no longer with Cosgrove Synthetics. I told your mother this morning, and now I'm telling you. I won't get into the specifics as to why, at least not now anyway, but I'll say this much, Marty. You're right. There are a lot of people out there that need an advocate to fight for their cause. People who being held under the oppressively thumb of a government that has turned it's back on them. Each day I worked for Grayson Cosgrove, I learned more and more how corrupt Legacy City is, and truly how hopeless it's people are." Gordon says.

    "I've gotta be honest with you Dad, this is some pretty heavy shit you're hitting me with right now." Marty replies,

    "I'm well aware, son. But the fact is, being on the other side of the curtain and seeing how the sausage is made, well it makes me sick to my stomach when I try to reconcile all that I know, all the desolation that my scientific contributions have inadvertently led to, behind my own back." Gordon continues.

    "You're being cryptic as fuck right now, Dad" 15 year old Aiden finally says, finally looking up from his phone to offer his unwarranted two cents.

    "What exactly are you talking about Dad. What do you mean, 'the desolation your contributions have led to?" Marty asks, his father in possession of his full attention.

    "One day, sooner than later, I'll explain further, son. But for now, I'll simply reiterate that I don't disapprove of your decision. Not that you need my approval regardless. You're a grown man now Marty. And I'm proud of the man you've become. This city, no- this world, needs an advocate. More than that, it needs a protector."

    An awkward silence falls over the room as Marty tries to find the words to respond, taken completely by surprise both his father's reaction to Marty's lifechanging news, and the revelation of the crossroads his father now finds himself at. Then, the awkward silence is broken as his mother stands up.

    "Who would like some pie? Key Lime, Marty. Your favorite." Barbara asks with a smile as she stands. Marty didn't know then that those were the last words his mother would ever speak, but this is how he'd always remember her, in servitude to her husband and her children, a woman who always did her best to balance the black and white nature of her husbands world with colorful good nature and her happy-go-lucky demeanor.

    He smiled and nodded at her mother and thought that a slice of pie would be nice. He knew she didn't make it, heavens knew she didn't know how to bake, but she did however frequent the best Italian bakery in three cities, Rubio's.

    From here on out, it replays in Marty's memory in slow motion every time he recalls it. The first gunshot making it's way through the nearby window, penetrating Barbara's chest, leaving a golf ball sized hole where her heart once once. She looks down at the shot and finds herself in a state of bewildered confusion before dropping the stack of dinner plates she'd begun collecting, the glass shattering upon the floor that she'll fall to just a second later.

    "MOM!" he remembers his little brother Aiden screaming before dropping his iPhone and rushing to her aid. That's when the second shot from the sniper rifle fires off, catching the young man in the throat. Then another to his abdomen, probably overkill at that point.

    "NO!!!" Gordon yells. It all happened so fast. The fourth shot hits and Gordon is caught in the shoulder. The fifth shot goes through both his forearm and stomach in one hit. Before the gravity of it all could even register with Marty, he saw the sixth shot penetrate the large dinging room window. The bullet catches Marty in the left of his head, shattering his skull and grazing the side of his brain. The seventh shot tags him chest, but he doesn't remember feeling that one after the first one. No, after the first one his entire body went hot before going completely numb.

    7 shots. Marty Coldiron's life changed forever with those 7 shots from an unknown sniper in the adjacent condo building. As he lays on the floor, bleeding out, the last thing Marty remembers from that moment is his father crawling towards him, covered in his own blood.

    "Marty...." Gordon cries out.

    "Marty, can you hear me!?!?" He asks.



    "Marty? Hello, earth to Marty?" Gemma says as The White Knight sits at the computer station in his base of operations. A single fluorescent light flickers on and off over White Knight and Gemma as Decon is seen in the background working a motorcycle, an all white Kawasaki Ninja.

    This isn't some elaborate, Batcave like facility with all the bells and whistles. While there are many technological marvels unlike anything we've ever seen, several computers and high tech pieces of equipment, a vault of exo-suits and a docking station for said suits, this is all contained within a simple, deluxe sized storage facility, with bare steel panels lining the walls and ceiling.

    The White Knight looks up at Gemma, snapping out of his trance.

    "Where'd you go just now?" She asks.

    "Nowhere. I'm here. In the flesh" he says as he looks at the large computer monitors before him. On the screen, a feed to the local news is playing. A reporter interviews eye witnesses who were on scene at the drug van hit on King Boulevard.

    "And then the robot guy just tosses a hand grenade or something into the van and then BOOM, man. Never saw anything like it!" The homeless man tells the reporter.

    The White Knight closes the stream to the local news station and stands from his chair before walking towards the large round docking station. Once he steps foot on it, the iron exo-suit opens up and Marty Coldiron steps out of it.

    "Armor Charging- 73%"

    "Congrats Marty" Decon says without looking up from the bike he's currently modifying.

    "You're a celebrity now. After months of operating in the shadows, the whole city is talking about The White Knight." he continues.

    "Nevermind that. Decon, the hand grenades, they are a bit...archaic, don't you think?" Marty says.

    "Got the job done, yeah?"

    "Yes, but it was messy. And loud. I need you to manufacture a new explosive for future use. We're not guerilla soldiers, we'll need be better going forward." he says.

    "What did you have in mind?" Decon asks.

    "Fulminate base, plastic shell housing. No bigger than a Golf Ball. You're familar with fulminate, right? fulminated mercury? It's created by dissolving mercury in nitric acid and adding ethanol to the solution. What we'll need is Silver fulminate, can be prepared in a similar way, bit iodizied. Make it in small batches and not large amounts because it detonates under its own weight. Understood?"

    "I'll have you a weeks supply by this time tomorrow, yeah" Decon says with a nod as Marty walks off.

    "Where are you off to now?" Gemma asks as he walks away.

    "I need a hot shower and a few hours sleep. Big day ahead of us. Right now, Tony Rubio is likely pooling all of his resources to try and find me. He won't, but that's not important. Tomorrow, I'm going to him."

    And with that, Marty Coldiron exits his base of operations through the side door.

    "Holy fuck, Gemma. He's really doing it. He's going after Tony Rubio. This man is really going to take the Legacy City Mafia down." Decon says.

    "Tony Rubio is just one finger on the hand that is the Legacy City mafia. There are four more just like him and that's not to mention what's brewing over there in Night City. No, he's not taking down the entire mafia, Decon. But he's about to piss off some more important people than Tony Rubio."


    The hot water on his skin is a welcome addition. It's been days since Marty Coldiron had a proper shower and heaven knows he needed one. The stink of 3 days worth of hard work was easy to mask under the exo-suit. Outside of it, however, was another story. It was here in the shower where Marty would often find his mind wondering. The problem with having a technologically enhanced photogenic memory was that you literally forget nothing. Every moment of your is accessible and replays in your head like a video stuck on repeat. He closes his eyes as he runs his head under the water.

    "'re that guy that did Johnny Leotardo. You're the guy, The Knight..."

    "Johnny Leotardo was a murderer and I executed a swift and merciful justice that the police wouldn't have afforded him. And now, here you are. Another murderer, in my crosshairs."

    The White Knight raises his sword above his head.

    "Please...please don't... I got kids..."

    "And the man in the van? Salvatore DeMarco? He did too. Three children. Four Grandchildren. You stole him from them." The White Knight responds.

    "Marty we talked about this, you can't keep killing these guys"
    Gemma says over his communicator.

    He opens his eyes and begins scrubbing the side of his face with his washrag. He knew wondered if it was the right time to go after Tony Rubio. He knew Rubio would go after him, but that was far and away the least of his concerns, he knew he could handle a couple of mafia wiseguys with relative ease. But Gemma and Decon? If their connection to The White Knight were to ever see the light of day, their lives would be in constant jeopardy. When you've lost your entire family, your friends become your family, and Gemma and Decon were his only two friends in the entire world.

    The weight of the world would have to wait until tomorrow to rest itself upon Marty's able shoulders. Tonight, he was going to finish his shower, have a much deserved hot meal and then tomorrow was the first day of the rest of his life, as far as he was concerned.

    Last edited by Jiggy; 08-16-2021 at 11:46 PM.

  8. #8
    Friendship King

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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    "-so anyway, I walk into the joint, and the guy's just sleeping on the couch. No guards, no protection. Just right fuckin' there. Put the gun right to his face and pulled the trigger, in and out in five seconds."

    The sun had nearly set, casting an evening glow across the air as two sedans - one green, one brown - drove down a off-road trail, the leaves of low-hanging branches gently swishing over the bonnets. In the second car, a smooth tune gently played on the radio, a soft muzak in a decidedly un-soft world, the lyrics being completely drowned out by the driver, a tall ginger man who steered with one hand and gestured with the other as he spoke. Ginger pointed his hand at the man beside him, a portly man with an ugly fedora, and pantomimed a gun shooting off. "Bam. Easiest job I ever did." He said, turning a corner.

    Ugly Fedora slapped his hand away. "Get your hand outta my face before I break it, Klein." He spat, frowning. "The question wasn't 'easiest job', ya ginger shit. It was 'most memorable.' What one hit, above all, do you want tied to you? Like last year, LaMouche stabbed a lawyer with his own pen, and tried to make that his thing, y'know? Said 'The pen is mightier than the sword' every time someone asked him about it, started taking pens to every job. Very niche, but it worked enough to give him some notoriety, a bit of fame in our ranks, got him semi-known. That's what I mean. Not you walking in on some bozo taking a nap and popping him off."

    Ginger - or Klein, if you preferred names rather than descriptors - nodded his head. "Well maybe I could make that my thing. Whack people when they're sleeping. Call me the Sandman. 'Better sleep with one eye open!' Tell me that's not intimidating, Gats."

    Ugly Fedora - or Gats, if we prefer - scoffed. "That ain't intimidating. Ey, Winx, what's your take on this?" He asked, twisting his head towards the backseat, where a third man sat, idly spinning an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

    Blinking, Wesley Winx turned away from the window, contemplative as he furrowed his eyebrows. "Let me respond with another question. What happened to LaMouche? Either of you chucklefucks remember?"

    Gats & Klein glanced at each other, shrugging. "I havn't heard about him in a while. Thought he skipped town."

    "No. You don't get to make a name for yourself, then skip town out of the air." Winx paused, took the cigarette to his mouth, then remembered it wasn't lit and set it back down. "He got too big. Too full of himself. Thought he was invincible. Talked shit about Van Dorsen, word got back to her, and LaMouche ended up with too few pieces of him left to bury."

    Gats squirmed uneasily. "Ouch."

    "Yeah. Ouch." Wesley leaned back, tucking his cigarette behind his ear, his black floppy hair swept to the side. His gaze fell back to the night air outside the car, the sea of trees and leaves whipping gently in the wind. Gats, or maybe Klein, said something, but Wesley was already, despite himself, thinking back about a more recent job. The answer to Gat's question he didn't feel inclined to speak about aloud.


    Click. Click.

    It was a busy train station, somewhere in the East district of Night City. Swathes of people stood or sat on the platform, huddling against the cold wind as they waited for their train to pull up. Murky, grey clouds littered the afternoon sky - not quite on the verge of rain, but close to it. One man, with a thick, black goatee, stood on the platform, one hand buried deep within his pocket, the other idly clicking a pen.

    Click. Click.

    And several feet behind him, another man sat on a hard, uncomfortable bench, the newspaper open in front of him to a page he wasn't reading. Wesley Winx flicked a page over, stealing a glance at the man standing with his back to him.

    Click. Click.

    Exactly what LaMouche said about his boss, Dominique Van Dorsen, Wesley didn't know. Didn't care either, though he'd probably agree with him on the topic if he heard it. Whatever it was, it pissed Van Dorsen off big time - enough to try and have LaMouche terminated, probably to prove a point about respect, or something similar. Except someone tipped LaMouche off, and after disposing of his first assassin with a gun - not a pen, something Wesley ticked away for no reason other than his own self-satisfaction - LaMouche took off and made a run for it.

    Click. Click.

    Of course, he had forgotten the lesson you learn from working with the Mafia.

    You don't get to skip town. You don't get to quit. You don't get to walk away.

    Click. Click.

    Even now, LaMouche risked a glance over his shoulder, as he awaited the train that would take him to CliqueTown. He didn't notice Wesley hide his face behind the newspaper, scowling at the situation - both at LaMouche, and at Van Dorsen. At one person stupid enough to think they could mouth off and get away with zero repercussions, and at the other who considered such a thing worthy of a death sentence, and more than willing to send expendable man after expendable man to an early grave just to prove a point.

    Click. Click.

    Wesley glanced at his watch. LaMouche's train was ten minutes away. It had been delayed at Legacy City, and thus LaMouche could do nothing but wait, clicking his pen in a vain attempt to steady his nerves. The next train was a freight train - specifically a BR Class 28 Co-Bo diesel-electric engine, currently travelling at 75 miles per hour - passing through in one minute's time. Normally it wouldn't take passengers.

    Click. Click.

    This freight train would be taking one.

    A train horn sounded in the distance - the signal to step away from the tracks, speeding train passing through. In the distance, the vague shape of the fat green locomotive grew from a glimmer to a speck. As the seconds counted away, and the train grew closer, Wesley waited for the right time.

    Click. Click.

    Click. Click.

    Click. Click.

    Click. Click.

    Click. Click.

    Fuck it, now'll do.

    With the platform rumbling from the speed and weight of the train about the pass, no-one noticed several of Wesley's fingers start to glow.

    Click. Click.

    LaMouche blinked. He thought he had heard the sound of a horn, the sound of freight clattering along the tracks, but his ears must be playing tricks on him, for he heard nothing.

    Click. Click.

    The platform felt calm and steady underneath his expensive suede shoes.

    Click. Click.

    And as LaMouche started to look at his watch, a sleek silver V-Line train slowly ground to a halt, it's eight passenger carriage's springing open their doors to welcome passengers. Someone behind him shouted something that might've been 'All Aboard!' but LaMouche wasn't listening clearly. His train was here, his train to CliqueTown, and freedom. LaMouche stepped forward to the first carriage, where a beautiful conductor beckoned him aboard. She made eye contact, winking, and LaMouche grinned in response. He raised one foot into the carriage, shifting his weight-

    And promptly fell through the carriage floor, onto the shaking, rumbling tracks below.

    The silent beckoning of the conductor had vanished, replaced by a screeching horn and a shriek.

    LaMouche raised his head from the tracks, dizzily scrambling to his knees - and saw not the sleek silver V-Line, but a thick, green locomotive, bearing down on him - the horrified expression of the driver furiously honking the horn, knowing it's already too late.

    LaMouche raised a hand, as if to defend himself, and opened his mouth to scream.

    In the frenzied aftermath of security guards and traffic controllers trying to cordon off the area, no-one noticed the man in the grey suit rise to his feet and tuck the newspaper under his arm. Casting a disgusted glanced at the mess that was once LaMouche, Wesley Winx started to step away - before pausing.

    Rolled against his foot was LaMouche's pen.

    Glancing, Wesley picked it up, spinning it in his no-longer glowing fingers, and turned to leave.

    Click. Click.


    "Winx, wake up. We're here."

    Shaking his head, Wesley blinked. They were at the meeting point, where whoever it was that would be selling them guns would be waiting. Unless they got there first, which... Who knows. With Gats & Klein already out of the car, joining Thompson & O'Banion from the other sedan, Wesley ripped off his seatbelt, stepping out of the car to join his fellow mafia goons.

    It was a shaded area, somewhere past the forestation - shaded enough to block out the sun or moon. It was silent, save for the cracking of crickets in the distance and Wesley's shoes brushing through the dirt. Glancing at his watch, Wesley noted they were two minutes early. It seemed fine, but just to be safe, Wesley rested a hand on the grip of his gun, tucked into the side of his belt. He noted that his fellow goons all had their weapons out and unholstered, but he decided to keep his in his holstered for now. Soon, their seller would be here, and with thousands of dollars in the trunk of each car, it wouldn't do to make rash decisions. He had other ways to keep his guard up for some kind of... White Knight thing.

    "What kept you, Winx?" Gats prodded, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "What's on your mind?"

    With his other hand, Wesley swept his black hair out of his eyes, before he fished out his cigarette and popped it between his lips.

    "Do any of you have a light?"
    Last edited by Smooth Jazz Wolf; 08-17-2021 at 11:14 AM.

  9. #9
    I'm a Stone Cold Lee Guy.
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    At EXACTLY the agreed-upon time. Not a minute later, not even a second later. At precisely one full hour since Jasmine Perlot cut off her phone call with a willing buyer. Things began to happen.





    Every thug and guard in the area would be forgiven for thinking some kind of abrupt localized earthquake was happening, as the ground shook under their feet, and the tremors only seemed to get stronger and faster-paced with each passing second.


    “The fuck is that?!” was the unspoken question among the gang members, an edgy vibe coming over the scene, and instinctively hands gripped guns, just a little tighter, even though they’d probably never admit that.

    They shouldn’t have worried, of course. It wasn’t an earthquake, despite what it felt like. And it wasn’t a fully grown elephant just out for a soothing dockside stroll, despite what it felt like. Instead, calmly walking into the clearing came, without question. Without any kind of hyperbole. The single biggest man anyone of them has ever seen. A dapper gentleman, well over seven feet, somehow seemingly as wide as he was tall, he looked like a walking brick wall clad in a pretty sleek three-piece suit complete with tie and black ray band sunglasses. The suit, while nice, seemed to be on the verge of tearing totally at the slightest pressure, such was the sheer mass of the giant.

    Without any noticeable expression on his face, he matched right in front of the waiting thugs and simply stood there, his massive hands clasped together in front of him. Motionless. Silent.

    The merry band of mobsters seemed unsure how to take this new arrival. Until eventually, one raised his gun.

    “The hell are you doing?”

    “Watta mean what, I’m I doing? What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m doing my job; that’s what I’m doing. Who the fuck is this guy?!

    “He has even said anything yet! You idiot! What if he’s the buyer?”

    “Ain’t gonna take that chance! Look at him!”

    “You can’t just shoot someone because they’re scary looking!”

    “Really? I’d argue that’s the perfect reason to shoot someone! It’s like Mickey said-”

    “Oh my god! You’re not listening to Mickey, the ice killer, are you?! The guy is a psychopath. He’s shot more people in an hour than the two of us have all year. Do you even know why they call him Mickey “The Ice killer”

    “I never asked; everyone seems to be scared to talk about it; What?! Did he kill someone with ice?!”

    “What? No! In the winter, he runs a family ice rink, and he makes a killing for charity.”

    “Wow, what a weirdo.”

    “Well, that’s all semantics, but go on; what did he tell you?”

    “He said after the whole White Knight thing; We should start shooting first and asking questions later.”

    “..and you wanna listen to THAT guy? He told me he saw a flying girl in a cape and spandex, stop a building from falling down.”

    “...So what? Fashion is a varied and multifaceted beast that is ever-changing; in six months, we might all be wearing capes!”

    “THAT’S the part you want to push back on?!”

    No doubt this sparkling conversation would have lasted all night if the gigantic man didn’t pick that moment to reach calmly into his suit jacket, and this time several nervous goons followed suit and pulled out their guns, suddenly feeling very threatened, but what came out, wasn’t a weapon. It was an iPad. His massive hands stabbed against the touch screen before he haphazardly tossed the iPad on the ground in front of the gang, screen up, which sparked to life, and it wasn’t long before bright lights began to shoot out from it, shifting and merging into one coherent 3D image formed from the interference patterns of a coherent light source; A hologram showing Jasmine Perlot, staring out, towards to the group, at first a look of cool professionalism on her face, but after scanning the scene, her face couldn’t help but to curl into a look of disgust

    “My god, you’re all so... ugly.”

    Sighing to herself, she wiped down her suit jacket and began to speak.

    “ Please excuse these unusual circumstances, I dislike getting truly involved in this side of affairs for obvious reasons, yet I find myself in the position where I’m the only one who could accurately explain by devices so; ici Je suis gia cinéma. But in my stead is my associate you can refer to as Mr Grim. Mr Grim, why don’t you say hello?”


    “Please note; That Mr Grim did not, in fact, say hello. Because he doesn’t wish to lower his standards to acknowledge you, I point this out to show you how far I have to lower MY standards to speak to you. You’re welcome.”

    Clearing her throat, she gestures idly to the inky black behind her.

    “Just behind me is quite a large van, within you will find, a large supply of assault weapons of my own creation, heavy-duty weaponry, military-grade, with ammonium of my own design, coated with a combination of Liquid Nitrite and Mercury these bullets are designed to spark into flame upon impact meaning…”


    “Ah, forgive me, I forgot with whom I was speaking to. A motley crew of high school drop outs and products of broken homes. So, please allow me to explain it, in a lexicon you’re more accustomed to..-a-hem; “GUN. GO BANG. BIG BOOM.”
    Last edited by An Original Name; 08-19-2021 at 06:29 AM.
    The most amazing thing about this recent conversation is that I've learned AON is even more of a waste of space than I thought he was previously

  10. #10
    Huggin' and Kissin'
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    8♥ J♥ 3♠ 6♠ 10♥

    “Ha-ha! Oh, I got ya now, I got ya now!”

    The sound rang out across the mostly quiet Legacy City 3rd Street Casino Club. It wasn’t quiet due to the lack of people present at the club but rather it was quiet due to every eye on the place being trained on one particular table of action. The stacks of chips in the middle of the green felt suggested a rather large pot had already been built up between the two men contesting the pot. One was older in age, Caucasian in race and portly in the belly. He was a regular at the Legacy City 3rd Street Casino Clubs and known around the tables as Bobby The Bus. Why? He drove a bus.

    “You’ve made your bed, kid. I gave you every chance to get out of this hand but now you’re going to pay the price! Nobody gets the better of Bobby The Bus!”

    The younger – well presumably, his face was somewhat obscured by the cap and shades that he wore - of the two adjusted some in his seat and scratched his right arm.

    “Taking the last three pots isn’t getting the better of you? I must have taken five hundred off you by now, I didn’t know a bus-driver’s salary was that good.”

    “You-what?! You little shit! You think I’m fuckin’ around here? Dealer, what’s the pot?”

    The dealer does a quick count of the chips gathered in the middle.

    “I make it four hundred, Bob.”

    “Four hundred? What did you say you took off me, kid?”

    “About five. Maybe six.”

    The man speaks in a clear tone, though there is a slight twang to his voice. Bobby’s eyes bulge out of his head.

    “You’re a cocky little shit, aren’t you?”

    Bobby looks down at his stack and does a quick count before pushing all his chips into the middle of the table.

    “Five hundred. Let’s see what you do now you little twerp.”

    Bobby The Bus leans back in his chair, sticking his belly out proudly. Seemingly happy with the position he’s put himself in. The younger man sits stoically before scratching his right arm.

    “You’ve got nothing Bobby, do you?”

    “You think I’d play a grand pot … with nothing?”

    The man scratches his arm again.

    “Absolutely nothing. You haven’t even got a pair.”

    Bobby laughs aloud as do the majority of the table surrounding him. Even the dealer has to suppress a smirk.

    “Not even a pair? I don’t know who the hell you are, kid, but when I finish clearing you out you should go get that head of yours examined.”

    This time the younger man’s right arm actually jerks. He nearly knocks over the bottle of water in front of him but smoothly transitions it into pushing all his chips into the middle. It was barely even noticeable.

    “Well, let’s see – call.”

    Bobby The Bus’s face drops as everyone eyes him in anticipation. He then momentarily looks enraged, but it ebbs away as quickly as it came. He drops his head in shame and lowly speaks as he flips over his hand.

    “Good call, kid.”

    Q♠ 7♠

    Immediately the hushed voices begin sounding around the table-side.

    “Oh my god - he was bluffing!”

    “He had nothing!”

    “Queen HIGH?”

    “Busted flush, the kid must of made it!”

    Bobby looks dejected by the comments, but he is, naturally, as a poker player, interested to see his opponent’s hand.

    “You make the flush kid? Or gambled on the straight holdin’?”


    The voices kick in again.

    “Damn! The kid called that with three-of-a-kind!”

    “For a thou?”

    “Against Bobby The Bus!?”

    Bobby looks a little more peeved than he did initially, calling an all-in on the river with three-of-a-kind when it was dominated by several hands was pretty bad play.

    “Damn kid, I would be impressed but I think that you lucked out with that one. Three-of-a-kind? With a straight out? A flush. Damn. You’ll go broke playing like that, so what was it – Jacks? Threes?”

    The young man flashes a smile as he puts his hand over his cards, preparing to flip them.

    Nobody gets the better of Bobby The Bus?”

    K♦ Q♦

    “HOLY SHIT!”


    “Did he just call with …?”

    Bobby The Bus is shaking with uncontrollable rage at what he’s witnessing. The dealer looks a little shocked but gathers up the chips and pushes them towards the young man.

    “Uh … King high wins … pot of fourteen hundred.”

    The young man smiles and flicks a fifty-dollar chip towards the dealer before scooping the chips into a plastic bag.

    “Thanks for the game, dealer. Bobby? I suggest you get good.”

    The young man laughs as Bobby The Bus begins shouting expletives. He doesn’t like taking money off your normal Joe Soap types but a bit of hustling around the Legacy City games-rooms and he’d had reason to suspect that Bobby The Bus wasn’t exactly earning his money … above board. Not that he was either but ehhhh needs must. The young man cashes in his chips and nods his thanks to the young female cashier. He exits out the front door and slips into a side-street.


    We flit back to the casino where we see a burly looking dark-skinned man in a pressed suit running out to the table where the big pot just went down. Bobby The Bus seems to be seething, talking in a hushed voice on the table to somebody. The casino manager frantically addresses the dealer.

    “The man who just won that pot. What was the exact pot? We couldn’t see his hole cards from the fish-eye, it’s like he knew where the damn camera sensor was!”

    “Uh … King high won fourteen hundred at showdown.”

    “WHAT?! King high!? Fuck.”

    “Is everything alright, boss?”

    “I don’t know yet … was this dude fuckin’ around with his arm?”

    “No, I don’t think-”

    Immediately Bobby takes his phone away from his ear and pipes up.

    “He was! The dude was scratching his arm like crazy! I thought it was some kind of tell, that’s how I noticed.”

    “God DAMMIT! That was freakin’ Ricky Matthews you fools! He’s barred from every damn casino in Night, Clique and Legacy City! How the fuck did he get in here?”


    We cut back to the alleyway where the young man has removed the shades and taken off the cap so his long blonde hair could breathe more freely. He counts out the wad of cash and nods his head, it should be enough to keep him going for a couple of weeks. More importantly, it meant Bobby The Bus was likely broke and that meant he was going to do something bad …


    This was one of his favorite ways to earn a little illicit cash. Bobby The Bus had just finished his business with a street prostitute behind a dumpster in an alleyway and as he zipped up his jeans, he gruffly asked the prostitute a question.

    “How much, toots?”

    “Fifty, hon.”

    “Sure thing, sure thing just lemme grab my wallet.”

    Bobby’s hands reached for his wallet and as he did, he kept one eye on the prostitute opening up her own handbag to put the money if after the exchange. Bobby notices several bills and his eyes light up. Jackpot. He curls his right hand into a fist and raises it, about to lay out the prostitute and take her nights earnings. He does it on the regular. Anytime he loses money on the cards really.

    “Sorry, toots, nothin’ personal!”

    The prostitute looks up, clearly confused.


    A flashlight gets shined down the alleyway and the prostitute immediately high-tails it. Bobby curses loudly and sprints the opposite direction and bundles over the police officer! Except … it’s not a police officer. At least they’re not wearing uniform and the figure lying on the ground is clad in a balaclava. Definitely not a police officer.

    “What the fuck is going on here? Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re messin’ with the wrong motherfucker ...”

    Bobby leans forward and pulls the man’s mask off.

    “What the fuck!? You’re that fuckin’ Matthews kid!”

    It is indeed Ricky Matthews. He crawls backwards on the floor but Bobby quickly pins him against the ground, his size 11 boot pressing against his wind-pipe.

    “D-D-Don’t k-k-kill me!”

    The wheezed command does nothing but make Bobby laugh and press harder.

    “Don’t kill you? Kid, you freakin’ owe me. How would you be able to pay me back if you were dead?”

    He leans even harder against Ricky’s windpipe and menacingly airs a warning.

    “Though it would be sooooo easy … no … I think you could make me some money. See, I got a friend who runs a pretty high stakes game. Private type. Haven’t had the buy-in to compete in a while but I’m sure I can hit him up for a spot at a table except … it won’t be me competing. It’ll be you. Get good? That’s what you said you little twerp wasn’t it? I don’t think I’ll bother when I have you.”

    “I-I-I-I’ll … d-d-d-do it.”

    “Of course, you will. I wasn’t asking.”

    Bobby The Bus finally releases his foot from Ricky’s windpipe. Ricky immediately gulps down air and massages his neck.

    “Get up. We’re going.”

    “What, now?”

    “You think I’m goin’ to give you a chance to dart away? Yes. NOW!”

    Ricky grumbles as he pulls himself up. He was only trying to do a bit of good. He hadn’t expected Bobby The Bus to charge a damn police officer. He dusts himself down. He was really freaking in for it now. But he was a little surprised. A high-stakes card game he hadn’t heard of? He followed Bobby up the alleyway as he pulled out his phone.

    “Who’s game is this, anyway?”

    “Guy by the name of Nunzio. Now shut up, I need to make a call …”

    3X World Tag Team Champion (w/Christian Quinn, w/Randy Ramon & w/Ryan Rondo)
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  11. #11
    Friendship King

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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    Wesley Winx withheld a scoff of indigitation.

    Backlit by the headlights of their sedans, the mafiosa fivesome lowered their guns, as it became rapidly apparent that yes, their seller was indeed the hologram lady and her bigass mute bodyguard who had a face like roadkill. As brazenly unpleasant as she was, Hologram Jasmine Perlot offered the exact cargo Mr. Rubio demanded. Nevermind the fact that Perlot's first thought was to call all of them ugly, there was business to attend to.

    At least his hair was still real, unlike hers. That's right, he reads the gossip sites.

    Tucking his gun back into his holster, Wesley let one of his fingers glow for the briefest of seconds, behind his back. Just for half a second, even that much, to increase his internal danger radar. The radar came back clean. No extra heartbeats or whispers in the wind, nothing waiting in the trees. The only people in the immediate area, as far as his brief sensory radar could tell, were them, Mr. Grim, and the hologram of Jasmine Perlot. Satisfied, Wesley watched as Klein stepped forward.

    "Listen, lady," Klein the Ginger said, puffing his chest out. "I don't know who you think you are, but-"

    Swearing under his breath, Wesley darted forward and grabbed Klein by the shoulder, dragging him back and halting his tirade.

    "What? Dumb broad's disrespecting us." Klein protested.

    "Shut that fucking mouth of yours or you'll get us all killed." Wesley hissed in his ear. "You have any idea of who that is? Rattle that head of yours around, shake the loose change out, you got any fuckin' idea who we're dealing with?"

    "I ain't gonna stand here and take lip from some kinda..." Klein waved an impotent hand at the visage of Jasmine Perlot, looking at the commotion the way a cat would look at a dying housefly. "... Light show dame."

    "It's a fuckin' hologram you dipshit." Wesley shook his head. "Christ on a stick, I'm supposed to be at the poker game tonight, not dealing with your dropout ass. You're talking back to one of the most powerful women in the city, someone who can buy and sell your life for pocket change. Shut the fuck up before you put your foot in it."

    Klein opened his mouth once again. Wesley promptly shoved his palm over it. "Not another word." And so, turning back to the hologram of Jasmine Perlot and the silent foreboding figure of Mr. Grim hovering behind her, Wesley Winx stepped up, as much as he didn't want to. "The explanation is... Appreciated, Miss Perlot. Mr. Rubio appreciates your discretion and quick action in this troublesome time."

    The hologram of Jasmine Perlot flickered, as the barest hint of a smirk passed over her face. "Well, well, well. And who are you supposed to be?"

    Wesley forced a casual, polite smile onto his face. "No-one important, ma'am. Just an envoy for Mr. Rubio. Nothing more."

    "Aw, look at you, using your manners." Perlot noted in an almost patronizing way. "I was starting to worry what kind of training methods Mr. Rubio has for his employees that encourages such a hard-headed approach from your cohort. Though I loath his bland and dull approach to our mutual problem, I really shouldn't be expecting anything more from him... Or his underlings, no less. Mr. Grim, kindly bring these boy scouts the gifts Mr. Rubio's expecting, won't you?"

    Without even a change of expression on his steely, unreadable face, the tall frankenstein turned and stomped away, towards the inky darkness of the forest behind him. The floor seemed to rumble beneath his mammoth footsteps, but his gait never changed from anything other than a casual walk.

    "We're happy to do business with you, Miss Perlot." Wesley continued, watching Mr. Grim step away. "Rest assured, Mr. Rubio w-"

    "Boy scouts?" Klein spat, offended, pushing past Wesley to glare at Perlot. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to, lady?"

    "This isn't the time, Klein-" Wesley interrupted, trying to drag his cohort away, only for Klein to shove him off.

    "No, I ain't gonna stand by and be lectured by a fuckin' strobe light." Klein whipped out his gun, aiming it at the hologram. "You think you're smarter than me? You don't know who you're dealing with, lady. You're real mouthy for a bitch who doesn't want to get their hands dirty, what the fuck makes you so special, huh?"

    Silence echoed through the scene, as Wesley Winx facepalmed, shaking his head. The loud thudding of Mr. Grim's footsteps reached the scene, as Mr. Grim himself returned, several cases tucked between his arms, to the sight of a mobster pointing a gun at his boss. He paused, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as he lowered the cases onto the ground.

    Jasmine Perlot, meanwhile, simply raised an eyebrow. "You really don't know what a hologram is. Oh, this is going to be borderline merciful. Mr. Grim, if you could?"

    And with sudden speed, Mr. Grim reached out with a hand, wrapped it around one of Klein's wrists, and squeezed. The sound of bones instantly cracking filled the scene, as Klein dropped the gun with a shriek of pain and surprise. Wesley and the other mafiosa raised their guns, to no notice.

    "Now, I don't know how Mr. Rubio runs things, but I prefer to have my underlings well-trained and obedient." Jasmine continued as Klein fell to his knees, trying to wrench his arm out of Mr. Grim's iron grip. "Employees that know their place, that are seen and not heard, so to say. In short, nothing like you, you poor, vapid excuse of a henchman. In light of Mr. Rubio's current issues, I'll be gracious and let the deal go through in spite of your behaviour. After all, we both want the same thing, and at the end of it all, I'm still being paid. However, I will not tolerate such blatant disrespect... Especially from someone of your standing."

    "Miss Perlot," Wesley began, raising his palms in a calming manner. "Let's all just calm down for a second, shall we? Some shit was said that wasn't meant, and I'm sure he's more than willing to apologize, yeah?"

    But Jasmine Perlot merely laughed away the comment. "Let me put it in ways you all understand. I am an important person. Mr. Rubio is a important person. People like myself and Mr. Rubio, we make waves. We make things happen. But people like you? You dime-a-dozen dollar-store lackeys? You're expendable. You're disposable. You can be thrown away and replaced with zero preamble. If I were to ask for all five of you to be exterminated, Mr. Rubio wouldn't even blink, because he values my assistance more than he values any of you walking nobodies. To tolerate such comments from someone like you, is to tolerate a stain of waste on the side of my shoe. And I cannot stand waste. Mr. Grim, if you could?"

    Mr. Grim released his grip on Klein's wrist. Wesley winced at the sight of the pulverized wrist, the hand connecting to it hanging limply as Klein cradled it. With a flick of his finger, he decreased Klein's sensitivity, dulling his nerves to the pain. It was a small mercy.

    Then Mr. Grim gripped Klein's head, one mammoth hand on each side, and thrust his palms together.

    A sickeningly wet cracking noise filled the area.

    "I trust my point has been made." Jasmine Perlot noted. "Give Mr. Rubio my regards."

    With that, the iPad flickered off. Mr. Grim bent down, scooping up the device in hands soaked in gore, tucking it into his jacket. With a final impassive glare at the mafiosa, he turned and walked into the darkness, rumbling footsteps vanishing into the night.

    Grimacing, Wesley glanced at his remaining cohorts.

    O'Banion looked like he was about to vomit. Thompson had pissed himself. And Gats, trembling, stared at the unmoving body of Klein.

    Wesley cleared his throat, and gestured to the body. "Gats, there's a rug in the back seat of our car. Go get it. Thompson, O'Banion, start putting the cases in our cars. Let's clean up this mess and get the fuck outta here."

    No-one moved.

    "What, am I a fuckin' mime? Get going." Wesley gestured, perhaps a bit more forceful than he should've, but the point was made. As Thompson, O'Banion, & Gats retreated to their tasks, Wesley knelt down by the body of Klein, reached into his jacket, and stole his wallet.

    "Dumb fuck ain't gonna need this. If we make it quick, I can still make the poker game."
    Last edited by Smooth Jazz Wolf; 08-22-2021 at 01:02 PM.

  12. #12
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    Years Ago

    "Do I really need to do the kids too?" Gus Trask asks the man speaking to him on his blue tooth ear piece as he stares down the scope of his Denel NTW-20 sniper rifle.

    "Afraid so, Gus. The husband. The wife. The two teenage boys. You're going to kill them all." Grayson Cosgrove says over the other end of the phone.

    "I know. Figured I would ask anyway." Gus says as he lets out a deep sigh. This isn't how he planned to spend his 59th birthday, but after the last 11 years that he's worked for Grayson Cosgrove, he knows better than to be surprised.

    "You don't have to make it quick if you want to. I'd love nothing else than to see Gordon Coldiron suffer. Maybe do his kids first and make him watch. That would be kind of funny. Up to you though, really. Any questions?" Grayson says.

    "Yes, many, but I know better than to ask." Gus says.

    Another deep sigh is released as he centers the target on the wife, who's collecting the dirty dishes from the table. "Happy fucking birthday to me, I guess" he thinks to himself as he remorsefully pulls the trigger and fires off the first of seven shots.

    From here on out, it replays in Marty's memory in slow motion every time he recalls it. The first gunshot making it's way through the nearby window, penetrating Barbara's chest, leaving a golf ball sized hole where her heart once once. She looks down at the shot and finds herself in a state of bewildered confusion before dropping the stack of dinner plates she'd begun collecting, the glass shattering upon the floor that she'll fall to just a second later.

    "MOM!" he remembers his little brother Aiden screaming before dropping his iPhone and rushing to her aid. That's when the second shot from the sniper rifle fires off, catching the young man in the throat. Then another to his abdomen, probably overkill at that point.

    "NO!!!" Gordon yells. It all happened so fast. The fourth shot hits and Gordon is caught in the shoulder. The fifth shot goes through both his forearm and stomach in one hit. Before the gravity of it all could even register with Marty, he saw the sixth shot penetrate the large dinging room window. The bullet catches Marty in the left of his head, shattering his skull and grazing the side of his brain. The seventh shot tags him chest, but he doesn't remember feeling that one after the first one. No, after the first one his entire body went hot before going completely numb.

    7 shots. Marty Coldiron's life changed forever with those 7 shots from an unknown sniper in the adjacent condo building. As he lays on the floor, bleeding out, the last thing Marty remembers from that moment is his father crawling towards him, covered in his own blood.

    "Marty...." Gordon cries out.


    Tony Rubio is nervous. As he sits at Grayson Cosgrove's backyard patio manically shoveling steak into his mouth, he's sweating bullets, and not just from the summer's sun beaming down on his bald, fat head.

    "That's a very nice filet you're just swallowing whole, Mr. Rubio. You really ought to take the time to enjoy the finer things in life, my friend" Grayson Cosgrove says from behind his oversized sunglasses as he sits back in his chair, sipping on his glass of wine.

    "I'm enjoying it just fine, Mr. Cosgrove. It's good, thank you." Rubio says, barley looking up at Cosgrove.

    "Very well. Have it your way." Cosgrove replies.

    "I assume you know why you're here, Tony. It's never easy when two of my trusted associates fuck up this tremendously, I My goodness." Grayson says, swirling his wine around.

    Behind Grayson is his right hand man and muscle, Gus Trask, standing with his arms crossed. Tony observes Gus but doesn't make eye contact. Gus' reputation preceded him. Spent most of his life in the marines, but learned the hard way that life as a civilian after 34 years in the service was a difficult adjustment and not one that paid the bills. And now, here he was, the trophy thug for a rich asshole in a pink polo shirt.

    "John Santoni brought the attention of the FBI to his doorstep, implicating me in the process. And you? That stunt with that drug truck? For what? A measly 80 grand? Come on now, Mr. Rubio." Grayson says.

    "Mr. Cosgrove, I didn't order that pull, my men acted independently, trying to impress me, I don't know. But you have my word I wouldn't be stupid enough to..."

    "That's not where you fucked up, Mr. Rubio. Please, finish your steak. I'd hate for it to get cold." Grayson replies.

    "What did I do, I don't..." Rubio says.

    "You went to Jasmine Perlot for guns, Mr. Rubio? Imagine my surprise, hearing that. Here I am, your employer, the man who stands between one of Gus' bullets and your sweaty bald forehead at any given moment. I'm also the owner of several companies, Mr. Rubio. Cosgrove Synthetics, Cosgrove Logistics, and most importantly, Cosgrove Arms. I have more guns than I know what to do with, which has me asking myself why you went to Jasmine Perlot. It's almost as if there's something you don't want me to know." Grayson says.

    "You said John Santoni fucked up with the FBI, why isn't he here too, getting the third degree?" an increasingly agitated Tony Rubio asks.

    "Oh, he's here." Cosgrove says, motioning down at the steak Rubio is eating.

    When Tony Rubio realizes he's eating John Santoni, he springs from the table and hunches over the nearby swimming pool, vomiting into the water as Grayson Cosgrove has a hearty laugh. Gus doesn't seem to find the whole thing amusing at all.

    "Well this is insulting, to say the least. Both to my chef and to poor Mr. Santoni. And in my pool, no less!" Grayson says with a smile.

    Tony Rubio sits by the poolside collecting himself as Gus readies his hand over his pistol. Rubio looks up at Grayson and wants to scream at him, but he wisely refrains.

    "So Mr. Rubio, the way I see it, there has to be reason you didn't come to me for the guns, and it's because you didn't want me know about them. It stands to reason that the rumors are true and you're planning your exit strategy from my organization and you're quietly prepping for a war you know you can't win, I think. I could kill you right now, Rubio. Really, I could. Or I could let you go, and within a day and a half I could have your little mafia family "whacked" as your people call it and THEN save you for last. I know you'd prefer option B, little weasel that you are, give you time to flee the city. But then again, you know I'd find you. Mr. Rubio, you should be happy to know that I've opted for a 3rd option, an option C. Here's how this is going to go down. I let you walk, for now. We'll chalk this up to a "teachable moment" of sorts. But I'm going to need you to do something for me."

    "I...I...yes...Anything!" Rubio says before kneeling over once more and spewing even more remnants of Mr. Santoni into the pool.

    "This White Knight that keeps giving you problems, It's only a matter of time before he makes his way up to me. I can't have that happen. That being said, Mr. Rubio, I want him dead. Some costumed vigilante sticking his nose your business is bad for MY business and the last thing Legacy City needs is some do-gooder running around leaving a breadcrumb trail to ME, the man who does so much for this city AND this country. You understand me, Rubio? You have THREE DAYS to kill The White Night. If you don't, I'll make good on my promise to scorch the earth of you and your little mafia family. You know good and well the only possible chance you had against me, as improbable as it would be either way, was with the element of surprise. Now that you no longer have that, your entire existence is leased out to me with interest. Are we clear?"

    Rubio wipes the vomit from his mouth and looks up to Grayson Cosgrove, fear in his eyes.

    "Crystal." Rubio replies.

    "Perfect. Gus, show Mr. Rubio to his car. Mr. Rubio, are you sure I can't have the help wrap the rest of your meal and send it home with you?" Grayson asks.

    Rubio looks up at him like he has seven heads, completely dumbfounded with Cosgrove's eccentric sense of humor.

    "Yeah, I didn't think so. Gus, my friend, after you show this cockroach to his car, I want you to do me a favor. Get Jasmine Perlot on the phone for me. Her and I have some business to discuss" Grayson says before taking another nice, long sip of his red wine.
    Last edited by Jiggy; 08-24-2021 at 08:16 AM.

  13. #13
    Jungle Life
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    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread


    Issue 001:

    "Dead Men Tell No Lies"

    Thomas Zayne sat in his car moments after killing his father inside the parking lot of Zayne Enterprises. His brand new black suit was covered with red blood. His face had a fresh cut across from one side of his cheek to his other as he looked into his rear view mirror. He could see his eyes pure black as if it was staring into a black hole. He quickly shakes his head as his eyes went back to normal.

    You know must people when they do something so evil so vile would fill remorse.

    A voice would catch Zayne off guard as in the mirror he sees his father. He quickly grabs the staff on his passengers side seat and goes to stab him. He puts it into his father chest who says nothing.

    Jacob Zayne:
    So nice you just had to do it twice huh... Thomas...

    Thomas Zayne:
    This isn't real. I killed you are dead...

    Jacob Zayne:
    Yeah, That's right I am dead guess what though here I am and I am not going anywhere.

    Thomas Zayne:
    You son of a b**** get out of here.

    Jacob Zayne:
    You know I should of seen this coming. Your mother always saw the best in you but, me I knew something was brewing underneath the surface and I lied to myself into thinking you were gonna change.

    Thomas Zayne:
    It didn't have to be this way. All you had to do was retire. You could of traveled the world you could of let me run Zayne Enterprises and take it too new heights that you were afraid to go too we could of been kings... Now I am going to be it.

    Jacob Zayne:
    You never could see past the picture could you? I was trying to save you. I was trying to make sure you didn't end up like how I was.

    Thomas Zayne:
    Successful... Wealthy.... You power hungry bastard....

    Jacob Zayne:
    No I was trying to save you from IT.

    Thomas turns to him looking on confused as his father stares back at him with anger before going back to this sort of comical thing with him staring down as his son still had that object in his gut. Thomas let's go as Jacob pulls it out throws it to the ground. He readjust his suit before going back to speaking.

    Jacob Zayne:
    Do you know how I made my fortune?

    Thomas Zayne:

    Jacob Zayne:
    Before I had Zayne Enterprises... I worked as a grunt for a company called Morningstar Inc. Now they were a company that had a number of rare items that they wanted. I say they when in reality it was that damn Yusef Tahir the CEO that was searching for relics that were said to have made men into kings.

    (Oded as Yusef)

    Yusef didn't know how but, through all these old pictures of hierographic pieces he found that a staff.

    That very one was in each of them.

    I was at this old tomb and my job was just to do some of the grunt stuff like I said so I was moving heavy object lugging them back and forth until I found the staff inside this hidden room upon a wall and the staff hung above these set of stairs. . Yusef started talking about it how he was going to be King and we were all going to bow to his feet. However as he went to go grab it the chain snap and it fell to my feet. I grabbed it before Yusef said a word. I don't know why I don't know how but, it was like as if it was talking to me. I don't remember much but, I do know when I came to it. Yusef was dead at my feet and there was some worker staring at me ready to go find help. I told him no to stop. He didn't make a move.

    I didn't know at the time but, I do now I could see into this man's darkest fears and clear as the day I could see a spider and my eyes turned black and next thing I know he is screaming about how there's a giant spider and how he can't move it's getting closer until he stopped speaking and as I went to him and I touched him he fell to the ground. I went to listen for a heartbeat and there was none. I took the staff and I learned that I could do things with it that like Yusef said I could be a King. I went from rag to riches overnight. I convinced them too turn the company over to me. I never wanted to be a King. The staff did something to me. Thomas it did the same thing to you.

    Thomas looks back at his father as the sound of a knock can be heard.

    ???: Mr. Zayne are you alright?

    Thomas rolls down the window to see a security guard staring back at him. Thomas puts on a smile to the man.

    Thomas Zayne:
    Hello, Yeah sorry was just finishing up some business same old stuff.

    The guard pulls out a flashlight shines it into the car and you can see the blood on the seats and the staff .

    Mr. Zayne you been sitting in your car for over 30 mins talking to yourself. I could of sworn when you came in you had blood on you too. I am gonna have to ask you to step out of the car please.

    Thomas laughs it off but, says fine as he does he grabs the staff and his eyes turn black again the guard is taken back. He tries to call for help on his walkie talkie.

    Thomas Zayne:
    You don't want to do that. That walkie talkie in your hand is actually a snake.

    The man screams as he tosses it scared as the coiled snake shows it fangs. Thomas gets a sinister smile on his face as this power rushes over him. He stands over the man the staff gives off a green like charge as it turns into a scythe in his hands. Jacob reappears trying to talk to his stun telling him don't do this as then Jacob is covered by blood and the sound of a cut is heard and we fade to black for a moment. When we come back to it we hear footsteps and the lights flickering on and off there is a laugh as the a hooded figure stands suddenly they look up to see black eyes of Thomas Zayne.


  14. #14
    Fight The Power
    Jiggy's Avatar

    Join Date
    Nov 2013
    Tampa, Fl
    Rep Power

    Re: Clique Comics: Create a Hero/Villain RPG SEASON ONE Game Thread

    Grayson Cosgrove stands at his office window overlooking Legacy City, his arms crossed as he watches the streets below. Everyone looks like ants to him all the way up here, and to be honest their lives aren't worth that much more to him either.

    Gus Trask, his right hand man, sits on the sofa in the corner of the room, his eyes buried into his newspaper as he fills out his crossword puzzle. This is how Gus spent most of his days, just hovering around Cosgrove, waiting to be told who to kill, waiting to be told where to pick up cash drop offs and waiting to be told which business owner he was to extort later in the evening. Mostly, he just waits. He didn't mind the waiting part, this level of patience was afforded to him as seasoned gentleman in his mid-sixties.

    "Mr. Cosgrove? Jasmine Perlot is here to see you, as requested" The soft, feminine voice over the intercom chimes in.

    "Thank you Chelsea. Please, send her in." Cosgrove replies.

    Jasmine Perlot hated waiting, but more then that she hated people.

    At this particular moment, she hated Chelsea, and she let her know it. Not with words, of course; she simply made those minutes. Jasmine was stuck in that room with her for the longest of her life. For some years, Jasmine has been fighting the compulsion to blink as she's actually done quite well for herself, and so she just stared at her. Quietly. Silently. Like she was trying to melt the PA's face with only the sheer rage that seemed to radiate from her death stare. For twenty painful minutes, she stared at Chelsea. She did not blink. She did not speak. She did not turn away. She just stared.

    Jasmine was a master of making people wish she wasn't in a room with her. and why wouldn't she? She was about to enter the rat's nest with her least favourite person, and the man who DARED fired her despite being the cornerstone. The Ace. The beating heart of his business. Yes, she did have hard feelings, wouldn't know it once she was finally called into the office.

    "Grayson! Darling! It's been far too long!" She cried as she walked into the room like he was her long lost best friend, smiling keenly at Gus, knowing full well Mr Grim could have him for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

    "You don't mind if I smoke in here, do you?"

    "Of course not, Jasmine, heavens no. My god, has it been ages. It's so good to see you!" He said to the bitch, secretly wishing to himself he had killed her as he'd done everyone else he seemed to "let go" from the company.

    "You are just the picture of health and beauty. I can call you beautiful now, can't I? Don't suppose you can report me to human resources these days. Can I get you something? A beverage? Coffee? A nice steak dinner, perhaps?" he asks, grinning from ear to ear as he walks to her and wraps her in his arms for a hug.

    Jasmine froze up noticeably. the one thing she hated more then people? Said people touching her, her face formed into a mask of disgust as she shuddered noticeably as the hug happened...

    She couldn't bring herself to hug back. She just couldn't bring that out of her, but nonetheless, she smiled back—all business.

    "Tempting as that may be, I rather know what you'd want of me...You know, people to talk to. People to see. Busy times"

    "Oh I'm well aware, yes. A Presidential campaign? Jasmine, if I didn't know any better, I'd dare say your global notoriety is about to surpass even mine. Oh you know that ego of mine, I shudder at the thought of it. Of all the regrets I have in life, letting you go is among the top, no doubt. Yes, yes, you've been quite busy. Please, have a seat" he says, motioning towards the chair in front of his office desk.

    Reluctantly, she takes a seat, her smile remaining in tact though she does her best to not scrunch her nose at the smell of his bullshit.

    "John Santoni is dead. I'm letting you know that as a professional courtesy, as I'm aware you had your share of business dealings with him, as did I. You may be interested to know that the the FBI was investigating him for that whole human trafficking business. Wouldn't be long before both of our faces were were on a cork board somewhere with twine taped to our faces and connected to his. So, you're welcome." he says, leaning back in his expensive leather office chair and propping his feet up on the desk.

    "If something like that was to see the light of the day, well I just find myself overcome with worry when I think about what that would do to your campaign, perish the thought. I would also just hate it so much if the press was to ever find out that you recently supplied Tony Rubio with munitions, him being a local celebrity these days with just how sloppy he's been. Jasmine, I thought you and I had an understanding? Legacy City, Night City, Cliquetown, Afghanistan, Iran, Korea. Those were my territories. You're free to peddle your 2nd rate weapons wherever you see fit outside that bubble but we both agreed that the small dog doesn't dig up bones from the big dog's yard. Where did we go wrong here? Surely you're making money hand over fist with your contacts in New York, as well as the entirety of the western coast, all of California and beyond. Is this personal? Why are you trying to hurt me?" Grayson asks, pulling an expensive Cuban cigar from his the mahogany box on his desk and clipping the end.

    Jasmine face could have been made of stone, her face betraying no emotion whatsoever as she pulled out her long cigarette and quite calmly smoked it, looking quite unconcerned with the questions being thrown her way.

    "Second rate."

    "Small dog"

    God, she hated this man.

    "Is this the part where I'm meant to be scared? Mhh? Is this how a traditional Cosgrove shakedown goes? Is the walking tower of muscles going to break a finger or two? To send a message? All very twee, don't you think? As far as I'm concerned, my affairs are none of your concerns, and I answer to you as much as you answer to me. Now, if that will be all I really have to be going."

    "A shakedown? Jasmine, please! You should know that I adore you, I'd never mean to threaten you. You've got me all wrong. Please, stay. Typically, I would agree that your affairs are none of my concern. I've seen the business you pull, you're a Mom and Pop shop, I'm a corporation, and usually I find your insistence on staying as close to me quite endearing. But here's the thing, you selling guns to a man who works for me? That's very much MY business. This is how I see it. Tony Rubio was scared, scared that the same fate that John Santoni suffered was heading his way and fast. He speaks of a White Knight but you and I both know every bullet you sold him had my name on it. Which one is it, my strikingly beautiful friend? Am I just being paranoid, and in that regard, you're just painfully stupid? Or were you really banking on Rubio and the Five Families going to war with me? Don't be afraid to answer truthfully, I hold no ill will either way, as we have a much larger issue to address"

    Jasmine grits her teeth and looks away. She already knows what the larger issue, she just wasn't sure when that issue would catch up to her, and she hates that the issue has brought her face to face Grayson fucking Cosgrove. She knows what he wants to talk about. The White Knight. The one thing that Jasmine Perlot could seem to agree with Grayson Cosgrove was this: The White Knight was bad for business.
    Last edited by Jiggy; 08-25-2021 at 04:44 PM.

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