# We were like gods once...  BIG UPDATE Friday Nov 5!



## ledded

The year is 1944.

The world lies under a pall of darkness, wracked in the throes of a World War.

The allies have invaded Normandy, and are attempting to consolidate their position and loose the strangle-hold of iron the Axis has on the world.

There are men, ordinary men, in extraordinary circumstances; men who give their all so that others may live free. 

Men who sacrifice everything for their ideals, their country, their buddies, or just the man in the next foxhole.

And then there are men who are something.... more.

...


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Introduction]*

France, somewhere near St Lo, June 1944, 4:22 am.

Major Jansen, US Army 1st Division, entered the room in his usual brisk, efficient manner, his relatively clean uniform and freshly shaven face a testament to just the kind of officer he was.

“Ok boys, here it is. We’ve got some fellas reporting in with a recon platoon of the 503rd about 12 miles from here that they’re tracking a Panzer Grenadier platoon that broke out through our advance and are high-tailin’ it back towards the Reich land”, he fires off in his unmistakable Massachusetts drone at the combat officers in the small barn now serving as a temporary command post. Weary and battle-stained, they quiet to impudent murmurs and look on with resigned acceptance.

Unruffled, Jansen gestures towards several points on the map spread before him on a makeshift table of .50 cal ammo cans and bullet-riddled splinters of old barn door, and looks up to make eye contact as the officers gather around.

“The colonel says we’re to take one of Captain Michaels mechanized platoons and D Company’s 2nd platoon and head up there ASAP to provide support…”

“Beggin’ the major’s pardon, sir, but aint we a bit thin right now for that sorta thing? Sir?” interrupts Captain John Michaels. His tone takes on the quality of a hard whisper as he continues through clenched teeth. “We barely got enough gas to get my boys into town, and 4 outta my 5 remaining Shermans is down for essential repairs. Those 88’s a couple days back caught us nappin’, and we’re due a rest and refit, or we aint gonna be able to push the door offa this barn, much less a line across this gol-darned peninsula. An’ I also know that Murphy’s D Company took it pretty hard from Omaha up till now, ‘specially since I just seen Murphy ride outta here on a jeep with a pressure bandage holdin’ his insides in. Hell, there probably aint enough left o’ D Company to make a damn platoon out of”.

Jansen takes a deep breath before he replies. 

“Dammit John, don’t ya think I know all that? We have reliable intelligence that there are some high-ups riding in that caravan, maybe even with assets essential to this whole damn operation, and I don’t have time for your belly-aching, soldier. You will take command. You will scrape up whatever you can out of your company and the remainder of D, and you’ll leave here within the hour. The Brit’s are sending along a couple Cromwell’s, under your temporary command, to help out along with enough gas to get you there and back. But right now, the Jerry’s are moving fast, and you here are all I’ve got.”

Captain Michaels’s eyebrows raise slightly, “Hmph. Must be damned important if someone’s got the Brit’s *offering* to help us”.

He starts giving orders to his officers as he pours over the map, mind already at work. Major Jansen steps back into the shadows, lights a cigarette, and silently thanks whoever is listening that he’s not the one going out this morning. But then, being an S-2 does have it’s advantages, and so does an Ivy league education.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once...  [Hanks intro]*

France, somewhere near St Lo, 4:52 am.

“So, Hank, whattaya got for me” Capt Michaels sighs to the slight, grease-stained southerner kneeling next to the M3 halftrack.

“Ding-dang ol’ shoot cap’n, that there thang, ya know, weeeell, we jus’ aint got much with the, er, I got one Sherman, a few trucks an’ jeeps there, dangit, and ya know, them ‘ere Limey-boys. An’ yer M20 car thangy tho' it need a bit ‘o tunin’, ding-dangit. Coulda gimme s’more time ‘ere, cap, coulda got them Shermans back a-rollin”, SSgt Hank Johnson rattles off in a mumbling north Texas drawl, voice half-muffled by the bolts he’s holding in his teeth as he continues to affect some repairs to the vehicle’s tracks.

The Captain ignores Hank’s rambling mish-mashed southern patois as well as his marked lack of “sir’s” and salutes; he’s the best damn mechanic Michaels has ever seen, a regular gol-darned miracle worker. If he didn’t bother with military protocol it’s because he had more important things on his mind at the moment.

“Sergeant, just get what you got ready to roll within the half hour. Oh, and Hank… thanks. Make sure you’re on the radio when we roll out; half these youngsters can’t raise nothin’ but Wagner on ‘em” the Captain replies over his shoulder as he walks back towards the CP. Hank continues to work on the halftrack without sparing him a parting glance.

Hank Johnson, kneeling down by that halftrack, is indeed distracted, but not by the work. 

Oh no. Never that. 

That just comes natural; just comes out of him like the sweet singing voice of Carol Dupree of the 1st Baptist Church choir back home, in Lipscomb, Texas. 

No, his thoughts are turned to something entirely different…


----------



## Len

Over here you said:


			
				ledded said:
			
		

> Yep, look for "We were gods once... a WWII Supers Story Hour" to appear sometime very soon in a forum near you, as soon as I can edit enough 'suck' out of it for public consumption...



I was going to tell you to post it anyway, because there's always someone on the internet willing to point out the suck so that you can remove it.  But you beat me to it.

[Edit] Nope, no suck here.


----------



## ledded

*Hank:  Lost in thought...*

Lipscomb, Texas, 11 years earlier.

“Boy, gimme a hand with that last bit, an’ lets head up ‘fore these rains get started down on our ding-dang ol’ heads”, rattles off Boyd Johnson to his son Hank, as the younger hands up fence rails from the trailer behind their old International. 

“Ding-dang that ‘eres the last ‘un, paw”, as Hank, 12 years old, relinquishes the last rail to his father’s sure grasp and hops up onto the tractor’s seat. Boyd smiles at Hank’s attempt to copy his “swearin” ways, as his wife puts it, knowing that he just wants to feel like a man, if only as long as he’s away from momma’s skirts. As well he should, being a child doing a man’s job on their farm, and doing it well.

“C’mon ‘ere boy, and don’ be ding-dang cussin’, y’know swearin’, around yo momma less she be up in-nere beatin’ me widda rollin’ pin ding-dangit”, Boyd jokes with a wide-smiling Hank as he puts his arm around him on the single seat and trundles off on their temperamental tractor, empty trailer in tow.

Half an hour later, their jovial mood has all but washed away under the unexpected fury of the deluge they now faced. Boyd, his face now only a set of grim dark lines in the fading light and hellish downpour, holds Hank close to him as he navigates the treacherous last muddy rise towards their back pastures and home before it completely washes out.

Boyd is muttering angrily to himself under his breath, “Ding-dang ol’ stoopid feller thar Boyd, goin’ out gonna get this ding-dang ol’ thing stuck, shoulda known better thaAAHHHHSHHIIII…”. His self-deprecations end as the trailor slides viciously to the left into a small gulley, yanking the tractor enough to start it on a backwards slide in the slimy mud. 

“Jump there Hank jumpjumpJUMP”, Boyd screams at his son, feverishly working the controls as the rear end of the tractor suddenly slips off the trail. Boyd grabs the frozen Hank and hurls him off as he, the tractor, and the trailor roll out of Hank’s sight.

“Paaaaawww!”, Hank cries as he lifts his head from the slimy muck of the trail and scrambles on hands and knees to the rapidly crumbling edge. He can see it, 6 feet or so down in a narrow wash created by the storm, and he can see that his father is pinned under the mangled wreckage of the trailer, though it’s still connected by twisted metal to the tractor. Hanks leaps and slides down the crumbling hill to his father’s side.

“Pa! Pa! Paaaawww! Tell me whatta do, ding-dangit!” Hanks frantically shakes the limp and bleeding head and shoulders of his father, trapped under the trailer.

“Ding-dangit boy, yer ‘bout to rattle mu teeth loose” comes the weak reply, as Boyd opens his eyes and tries to survey the damage. “Well hells-bells, I gone done and did it now... see <cough> see if you can start th’ tractor… should be able to pry up this <cough> ding-dang cart and pull it off enough…”

Hank returns in a few moments, tear streaming down his cheeks in synch with the increasing flow of muddy water pounding into the tractor and his trapped father.  “I can’t get her ta turn over, ding-dangit! She’s busted, Paw!” he screams in near-panic at his father.

“S’allright boy, s’allright… you run… run hard up ta… <cough> Perkins’s place… short-cut the pasture and bring ‘im back with his tools… hurry boy”, Boyd orders his son, and Hank runs for all he’s worth.

..…………

Ol’ man Perkins mops the rivulets of rainwater from his face and gives the ignition another try; he turns back, tears of frustration in his eyes. 

“Well, just dammit Boyd, I cain’t get it to crank! She’s got a busted distributor or sumthin’, I dunno!”

Hank is holding his fathers nearly submerged head and shoulders above the flow of rain and mud, while Perkins’s son Mathers is trying to pry and lift the cart with a 4-foot prybar. 

Perkins jumps down, puts a hand to Hank’s shoulder and somberly adds, “Son, there just aint no doin’. I’m ‘fraid there aint nothin’ we cun do”.

“No! You can’t let ‘im die! Pa!”, but as he screams the water surges, covering Boyd’s pale and lifeless face.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO…”

Hank leaps through the rushing water, slapping both hands on the tractor, sobbing… praying… begging… **willing* *it to start, to pull that wreckage off his pa. 

All sound stops, all sensation stops; he feels the cold surface of the tractor, feels the components, the individual wires, bolts, pistons… he feels them and **pulls* *at them, desperately… and they answer. 

The distributor fuses together, the cracked piston re-aligns itself, torn cables pull back together, electricity flares and courses like hot life-blood through the cold, dead machine.

Perkins stands there, mouth open wide, watching as the tractor shakes and shudders like a thing possessed, the headlights weakly flickering, the boy standing there with hands-wide splayed on it _like one of them tent revivalists_.

But that isn’t the strangest part, he thinks to himself as all the hair on his body is standing on end _bending_ towards Hank. 

He just can’t fathom why his pocket watch would be standing straight out from his overalls by it’s chain, pointing straight at Hank like an arrow.

Hank slumps, and Mathers leaps onto the running tractor and guns it, skillfully pulling the wreckage away and tumbling Boyd out from under it.

Ol’ man Perkins is standing there in the downpour holding his now-limp pocket watch, when he notices Hank standing there. 

“Hank… boy…what… wha… didja do… wha”, he slowly stammers.

Hank, wiping away the blood running freely from his nose, sniffs once and replies.

“You goin’ ta ding-dang pick up mu damn Paw an’ carry ‘im home, or I gotta do ding-dang everythin’ for ya?”

….......

6 days later:

Hank, quietly peering through the cracked door into his father’s room, can clearly see Ol’ Man Perkins pacing the room and his recovering father, still abed.

“Dammit, Boyd, I know what uh saw, man, and I caint dodge that feller forever”, Perkins near-screeches at the prone Boyd.

“I don’ care what no G-man wants, Perkins, you don’ tell ‘im a ding-dang thing… ya hear me, ya can’t trust ‘im”, Boyd replies in a hoarse whisper, occasionally clutching at his bandaged chest.  “Ya tell ‘im what I told ya ‘fore… that yer boy took a lump to th’ head, and imagined it, and ya didn’t see a thang, that he was talkin’ nonsense ‘round town”.

“But this feller, well, ya don’t unnerstan’ Boyd, he… he… unnerves an honest man so…”, Perkins weakly cries, all attempts at modesty thrown aside.

“Perkins… “, Boyd starts, but is cut off by a wracking wave of coughing, reaching out for the bed stand next to him. Perkins runs over, leaning over Boyd, pulling at the bed stand drawer with Boyd.

“Whut is it Boyd, whut can uh getcha son, can uh getcha anuuURK”, Perkins, cut off, glances down using only his eyes at where Boyd has one hand wrapped in his shirt, the other pressing an old Colt Revolver into the underside of his jaw, against his throat.

There is no weakness in Boyd now, no sign of caution; sweat rolls off of Perkins’s bald head as his eyes meet the unflinching, feverish orbs of Boyd Johnson, his friend and neighbor of 14 years.

His voice holds the certainty of the grave, _or a tax assessor, _Perkins thinks, as Boyd finally speaks.

“If you tell him *anything*, so much as a *peep* ‘bout what you think you saw, Perkins, he’ll take mah only boy and they’ll hurt ‘im and chop ‘im up fer study and then he’ll be *gone*, an’ my heart with ‘im. “

“And then... I’ll hafta kill ya.  Then I’ll take this here Colt and kill all yer cattle, and burn all yer crops, and I’ll stand right here and watch yer family starve this winter and I wont feel a ding-dang thing ‘bout it neither.”

“We unnerstand each other, Perkins? Shake yer head up and down iffin’ you unnerstand.”

Perkins, sweating, and in dire and earnest danger of evacuating himself there on the spot, jerks his head like a marionette.  Boyd slowly releases him.

“Da-da-da-dammit Boyd… ya din’t hafta… well, well heck Boyd you know ah’d never do nuthin’ on purpose that’d hurt yer family…”, Perkins nervously stutters.

“Ah know Perkins. Ah know. Not a peep, hear?”

“N-n-n-n-nossir, dunno whatcher talkin’ about Boyd, that boy o’ mine is a loon, he hit ‘is head and saw thangs was all…”

Boyd lays back, chest afire with pain, and tries to relax as Perkins rambles on about the farm and nonsense.  He spots Hank, then, through the cracked door.

Hank, watching in shocked silence as their eyes meet, is further stunned by a single tear running down the tough old man’s cheek.

………..

The next day:

Hank hid just outside the open window this time, cautiously peering at the stranger talking with his pa.

“Soooo, Mr. Johnson, you say that you didn’t see aaaaannny such thing as what the Perkins’s boy, Mathers, described to the fine citizens of Lipscomb last week?”, the pale-skinned man purred to Boyd with a voice like oil running over a hot rock.  His dark suit was so black it seemed to almost leech the sunshine right out of the room.

“Nossir.  They jus’ banged on it, and, well, ol’ Perkins aint the most reliable fella… ah’m not surprised if the boy got it ta crank where he give up”, Boyd replied in a tired voice.

The pale man seems almost bored as he writes in his notepad before flipping back a few pages and continuing, “Say, weren’t you delivering produce and livestock to that base over there in Los Alamos, oh, about 7 years back?  You know, where there was that terrible, terrible accident?  All those people killed, all that fire?”

“Yessir”.

“And wasn’t your oldest boy was injured that day, also?  Burnt terribly, if my notes are correct.  Yes, says here he was injured and taken to the nearest military hospital, where he died 4 days later.”

“Yeah”.  Boyds voice grows hard.  Hank shivers, heart skipping a beat.

“Say, your younger boy was hurt as well, wasn’t he?”, Mr Pale continues, not looking up from his notebook.

“Twernt there”, Boyd replies.  _A stone_.  His voice is like a stone, _cold and hard_, thinks Hank, as his heart starts to pound in his chest. 

“Mmm-hhmm.  Well, it seems that you and your wife never had any more children after that, even seen your doctor about it.  That true?”

“Yessir.  God didn’t see fit ta bless us again, and I’m not mucha one ta question his ways.  Ya see, Hank’s all we got left now, the wife and I”. 

“You sure about your younger son, seems there was reports of...”

“He twernt THERE.  Was with his momma back home at th’ time, God as my witness”.  The Pale man looks up at the interruption, casually noting Boyd’s hand on top of the bed stand, the tendon standing out in his jaw.  Hank swears his heart is about to leap free, hammering against it’s cage of bone and flesh.

Mr Pale takes a few more notes, then stand up.  “Well then. Thanks for your time, Mr Johnson.”

Suddenly, he looks straight at the wall Hank is hiding behind as Hank ducks back behind the window.  Hank can feel the Pale man’s dead eyes boring into him, and he gets a feeling like standing too close to a brush fire; flaming nervous prickles rove up and down his body in waves, and he feels like the steaming, smoking ground after the blaze when it ends seconds later.

“I’m sure things are just as you say sir. Good day”. And with a cold smile, the Pale man was gone.


----------



## ledded

*Back to the present...*

France, somewhere near St Lo, June 1944.  5:28 am.

“C’mon Hank, mount up! Get your butt in here and lets go!”, yells Smitty, a scoped 1903 Springfield held protectively in one hand as he extends the other towards Hank from the back of the troop truck.

The yell stirs Hank from his reverie, and he looks around for a moment, blinking, confused.

“Well, you coming, sergeant? Hank? Son, you ok?”, the Captains voice cuts into his thoughts from the seat of his freshly maintained M20.

“Er.. um… errr….yessir… yessir, ding-dang ol’, y’know I jus’, well, err, um, ah… yessir”, Hank trails off as he adjusts his radio and runs to accept the hand up from Smitty and into the accelerating deuce-and-a-half.

“Say, Smitty, ‘at there’s a ding-dang fine ol’ y’know, rifle, there, y’know. They sez yer purty dang-ol’ good withit, too, y’know?”

Their voices are lost to Captain Michaels as his driver starts the M20 and they roll out with the column.

_Damn_, Michaels thinks with a shiver, _I have a bad feelin' about this one_...


----------



## fludogg

ding dang good ol write up there,

keep up the good work,

Flu Dogg


----------



## Piratecat

Suck-free!

What system are you using? D20 Modern? It makes me think of Godlike.


----------



## ledded

Piratecat said:
			
		

> Suck-free!
> 
> What system are you using? D20 Modern? It makes me think of Godlike.



First of all, thanks for the "suck-free" PKitty.  

Second, it's a base of d20 Modern with a mish-mash of house rules and stuff for the WWII stuff.  Basically, a combination of V for Victory, Hell on Earth, info culled from some of the more knowledgeable folks on the Wizards boards, some of my own research and insanity, and a healthy helping of inspiration/flavor from Godlike and Weird War II, which I worked all into a couple of doc's for the guys to use.  It's a rather eclectic mix that seems to work out pretty well so far;  a lengthier description can be found here.  Then for the Supers part tack on Blood and Vigilance from Chuck Rice (a *great* product) and some additional stuff from the ever-gregarious and helpful author himself, plus some new powers and rules for gadgets I dreamt up in another of my caffeine-induced psychotic episodes.  I can't stress enough how much fun BnV has been for us, and how easy it was to use it to extend Modern into Supers.



			
				fludogg said:
			
		

> ding dang good ol write up there,
> 
> keep up the good work,
> 
> Flu Dogg



And thanks to you too, Flu Dogg... you Boomhower-talkin' headcase.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to *write* like that so someone can read it, much less understand it when it's spoken?  

Nevertheless, keep up the danged-Ol ding-dang talk there Flu Dogg / Hank.


----------



## jezter6

As usual (at least for your group), consider this Story Hour subscribed to.

You guys never cease to come up with something wierd and turn it into a great sounding game.


----------



## Len

ledded said:
			
		

> Second, it's a base of d20 Modern with a mish-mash of house rules and stuff for the WWII stuff.



 Between this and Medallions, you guys have invented about 2.3 complete RPGs!


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Moose's story]*

France, somewhere near St Lo. 9:52 am.

Robert “Moose” Pressman sat in the bouncing deuce-and-a-half cradling his BAR, smiling at Hank and Smitty going on about the finer points of gunsmithing and feeling like a comfortable part of the conversation without adding anything to it. 

But he rarely ever did; Moose was a quiet man for the most part, slow to move and to anger. Not that he was stupid or clumsy; he was just so big, and strong, that he was afraid that he would hurt someone or break something on accident if he acted in haste. At 6-feet, 7-inches and 265 pounds, he was a behemoth of a man, with a quiet, rumbling northern Minnesota accent on the few occasions that he chose to speak. Hence the nickname “Moose”; he suspected it was tacked on more because of his Minnesota/Canadian-influenced speech or ancestry than his size, but either way he didn’t really care. All he cared about was making his folks proud, and staying alive long enough to get home to see it. Though he seemed to always be lucky when it came to getting hurt, if luck is what you wanted to call it…

Moose lets his thoughts wander.


Several weeks earlier, England:

“Yeah, Moose here was actually one of the youngest guys to ever play in the CJFL ya know”, Frankie bragged to the 82nd Airborne guys. “Damn good, he was too.”

At their skeptical looks he added “Canadian. Junior. Football. League. Jeez guys, don’t get out much, do ya?”.

“Oh yeah, that a fact? Sheez man ya expect me ta believe dat? Whaddaya say, Bullwinkle? Rocky just pullin’ my leg or what?”, the big airborne corporal tossed at Moose in a thick Brooklyn brogue and cocky smile.

“Oh ya. Last played in ’36 for da Moose Jaw Maroons dere, dontcha know”, Moose rumbled, embarrassed.

Frankie jumped right back in, “Yeah, you remember, the ’36 Winnipeg St Johns game, they dropped it 13 ta 0 seein’ as how Moose here got hurt in the first quarter. His family moved to Minnesota right afterwards, and now *boom* he’s here. So, whaddaya think, we got a game or what? Or are ya too yellow?”

Moose thought back to that game, his last one with the Maroons; he was a kid then, but still a big one at 6-foot-4 and 200 pounds. He remembered running with the ball that day, feeling like nothing could stop him; remembered that monster linebacker, that fearsome brute that everyone was so afraid of, cutting an angle across to intercept him. He also remembered his own stark fear when he realized he was about to get nailed by this guy, this vicious guy who had ended the careers of 5 poor schmucks that season alone. Moose remembers dropping his shoulder and bunching himself as tight as possible in anticipation of the linebacker’s rage to fall on him like a hammer blow from the gods, legs driving towards the goal line.

He remembers, in distinct detail, the look of surprise on the linebacker’s face then they connected; the SNAP of the boy’s femur; the jarring shock and debris and blood from his shattered teeth; the horrible “whuuuff” noise he made as his ribs collapsed; the feeling as all 235 pounds of him rolled over Moose’s back and spun lazily, kite-like, in the air a full revolution and a half before SLAMMING into the ground like a sack of boneless meat.

And Moose also remembers how he didn’t even slow down on impact, how he felt like a loaded lumber truck hitting a deer when he slammed into the guy. How he stopped a few yards later, and then just sat down on the field in his shock and guilt.

He knew he couldn’t play anymore after seeing that boy put on a stretcher and carted off to the hospital, crying and gasping for breath and bleeding everywhere. So, guilt stricken, he acted like his shoulder was torn up from the impact and quit football forever from that moment on. Later that year his parents moved to Minnesota and the ever-growing and self-conscious Moose was more than happy to pack up and leave all of the strange looks and whispered comments behind him. 

“Sheesus Moose, what are ya doin’? Go man, GOGOGO… I got 5 bucks ridin’ on ya!”, screamed Frankie, pushing him, as Moose realized that the Airborne fella was taking off down the yard, another Paratrooper pumping the ball in his hand getting ready to throw a long one.

Moose shook off his ruminations and took off after him, fast for such a big guy. He could see the Airborne fella looking back now as he gained, a look of glee on his face when he realized that he could snatch down the pass before Moose could get a hand on it. Moose could also see that the pass was overthrown, that the guy was getting close to the street. Too close. Moose *pushed* himself, and ran faster, huge thumping legs tearing furrows in the damp English turf as he closed on the paratrooper.

He could see the paratrooper’s foot hit the edge of the road, the look of exultation on his face as he caught the pass; he could see the speeding Lorry, fully laden with supplies begin to skid on the damp road.

Moose’s feet slipped on the wet pavement just as his hand closed on the paratrooper’s jacket. He *heaved *the man as hard as he could and caught the Lorry’s grill, like the teeth of some great predator, just out of the corner of his eye before everything became a bright, white light, and silence.

……

“Moose! Moose! Ah, crap, Moose! I’m sorry buddy, come on now, Moose… Jeezus…. MEDIC!!! Somebody get a freakin’ Medic over here!”, the muffled, underwater voice came to Moose.

It was Frankie, shaking him. Looking down at him from up above the sea he was gently afloat in. _The sky is a nice shade of grey today_, bubbled up into Moose’s mind, _funny how it looks almost normal from under water_. 

Moose winced as he tried to get up; his head, arm, and ribs hurt bad; _probably broke something,_ Moose slowly thought to himself with an almost sunken, surreal quality.

“I’m okay dere, eh”, Moose groaned to Frankie as he sat up. He remembered now. The airborne guy. The football. The truck. The world came into focus, and the water seemingly drained away all at once.

“Is that dere fella ok, eh?”, Moose queried as Frankie sat back, wide-eyed, while Moose shook out the last cobwebs from his head.

“Yu-yu-yeah, well, yeah man, t-t-take a look for yourself.” Frankie’s eyes were all whites around the pupils, and moving wildly in his head.

Moose looked over where Frankie pointed, and saw the big Airborne guy sitting on the grass, surrounded by a few of his buddies. 

Fifteen feet *back* the way they had just been running flat out from.

_Fifteen feet_, wondered Moose. _Must be that English food dere. Yeah, all dose potatoes, eh? _“Gosh, I hope I didn’t hurt ‘im”, Moose inadvertently mused aloud.

“Hurt him? Hurt HIM? Are you nuts Moose? Jeez man you *saved* his life, I aint never seen nothin’ like that before… he… he... _flew_! Like, in the friggin air! Over your shoulder! And you! Are you sure you’re ok?”, rattled off a visibly shaken Frankie.

“Well, yeah dere, I’m ok, maybe some busted ribs or somethin’. Why’re ya so worried, Frankie? Da truck musta just clipped me, eh?”, Moose replied, smiling.

Frankie’s voice was a whisper, eyes wide, when he replied, “Clipped ya? Moose… lookit… look at the…”. His voice, failing him, Frankie just pointed a palsied hand.

Moose looked, and saw the Lorry. And saw how the front was crushed like it had hit a boulder, how the axle was visibly broken. He noticed, now, how the stacked supplies lay broken and scattered in the road all around them, past the truck.

“Um, he must have, well, dontcha know, uh, well I guess I got lucky dere, eh?”, Moose replied nervously, already feeling a little better.

“Yeah, Moose. Sure. Lucky”, Frankie mumbled, with that familiar look of fear and awe that Moose dreaded so badly.

Worse yet was the amazement of the doctors when his broken ribs and arm were only bruised the next day, and two days later when the bruises were but a memory.

He was almost glad when the order came to get ready to load the boats; the invasion day had finally come, and with it all thoughts of what happened faded to myth in men’s minds in the rush to take the fight to Hitler.

Though later, in retrospect, he would think that he would have rather faced that day a hundred times instead of the horrors soon to come.

Anything but Omaha...


----------



## ledded

*A quick note*

Just wanted to make a couple notes for ya'll.

First, keep in mind that the melodrama and the types of imagery you see are my somewhat feeble attempts to _write_ how a comic book/strip of this sort would _read _from that time period.  Which in retrospect may have been a bit silly because I dont have the advantage of nice storyboard effects like thought bubbles and frame transitions .   But still, it's intended to try and instill a bit of a Sgt Rock meets Captain America and the Fantastic Four with Dick Tracy tossed in to boot.

Hence, also, the flashbacks that are intended to give a little background to our main characters.  I know flashbacks can get a bit tiresome, but once through the "who are ya, and how do ya do's" the story will roll along a bit faster with some action and good old four-color BAM and KAPOWS.

Anyway, thanks for picking up the first couple of issues, and be careful not to crease the covers folks


----------



## Salthorae

*nice!*

I'm loving this SH so far! I don't mind the flashbacks at all, they are great characterization and that is always the best part of any story, getting to know who you're reading about. 

just out of curiousity, why didn't you use the Godlike system? I've been wanting to play that system for a while now, but haven't had the chance...were there too many quirks with the system that you decided to patch together your own WWII superpower system or what? I read what you did with all those games together and I must say that if it plays like it reads I'd love to have a copy of that handout you gave your players!


----------



## ledded

Salthorae said:
			
		

> I'm loving this SH so far! I don't mind the flashbacks at all, they are great characterization and that is always the best part of any story, getting to know who you're reading about.
> 
> just out of curiousity, why didn't you use the Godlike system? I've been wanting to play that system for a while now, but haven't had the chance...were there too many quirks with the system that you decided to patch together your own WWII superpower system or what? I read what you did with all those games together and I must say that if it plays like it reads I'd love to have a copy of that handout you gave your players!



Thanks.

To be honest, I havent had that much experience with the Godlike system, though I like what I've seen of their presentation of genre material.

We really wanted to stick close to the d20 Modern-type mechanics, with our own personal house rules attached (we use the VP/WP system and a few other little things) which we have all come to very much like.  So I wanted to do WWII one day, and Supers one day, but since they would be one-off's from the main campaign of d20 Modern (see Medallions, in my sig) I wanted to:

1) Stay close to that mechanic we like so much with d20 Modern, because we liked it and were accustomed to it.  We also have a very nice alternate magic system in the Medallions campaign that I'm using also.

2) There really wasnt any WWII supplement out there that I was truly satisfied with, being a little bit of a armchair historian.  Plus reading all the different game stuff and research books was fun for me.

3) I wanted to try my hand at coming up with a set of mechanics, flavor, and rules to overlay on d20 Modern for WWII, kinda like designing/piecing together my own PDF add-on in a way.  Our group has a rather ambitious project for the future in mind, and in a way I wanted to see if I could come up with something for a game that read well, worked in play well, was fun, and then see if I could write some kind of story out of it, sort of a little test for myself to see if I could do something truly useful to contribute to our future project idea.  The Supers added into WWII was a last minute thing, so I took inspiration where I could as quick as I could;  I couldnt do a better job than Chuck Rice (Vigilance) on that Supers stuff so we are pretty much using it in it's entirety with a few small add-ons that I've done.

I will probably check out Godlike in more detail later, as I like what I've seen of it so far.

I would normally be happy to post up my document for the game, unfortunately about 50% of it or more belongs to someone else;  I wouldnt want to hose Chuck Rice, Bloodstone Press, the Godlike designers, Paizo publishing, etc by doing so.

Maybe one day I'll post part of it with references to other folk's work where appropriate.


----------



## Tellerve

Oohhh, I like it, looking forward to some of the stuff you've mentioned in other posts about what they've done.

Tellerve


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Smitty's introduction to hell on earth]*

Back to the present, France, late June 1944, 9:58 am

Moose shakes his head to clear the strange ponderings away, and catches back up on the conversation in the truck as they bump and trundle along. 

"Dang, man, Itellyouwhat, man, that damn bunker thang lit up like a ding-ding ol cherry bomb, man, jest hisss-Boom!", Hank, gesturing wildly with his hands, finished to the laughter of Smitty and a few other GI’s as their truck roared along.

The radio began hissing static and garbled communication and Hank set to tuning it in properly.

“So dere, Smitty, how’d you do on the beach before I caught up with ya, eh? Not too many guys made it in dere from your wave, dontcha know?” asked Moose as much to keep someone else from forcing him to relive his day there as to give Smitty a chance to talk about his.

“Yeah. It was a big SNAFU, like everybody, I suspect. Don’t know what happened at first. I was comin’ outta the boats, and trying to wade ashore, when a big 88 shell or mortar or somethin’ hit near me. Lifted me plumb up in the air and dropped me out cold for a while”, started Smitty.

“Probably a good thing, too, Moose, ‘cause when I woke up there was dead fellers all around me, cut to ribbons by those damn MG42’s up in the bunkers, and they were walkin’ those mortars up-and-down the beach…”, Smitty’s voice trails off as he loses himself in his thoughts.

……

The NormandyCoast. June 6, 1944, just weeks earlier.

Omaha beach.

_Phfft-Phfft-Phfft_, something was making noise and tossing sand into Smitty’s face, and damn was it annoying; can’t they see he’s trying to get some rest here? Saltwater was stinging his nose and eyes.

_Saltwater_? Smitty snapped opened his eyes, sputtering saltwater, to a scene of near-biblical hellishness.

Men were crawling everywhere, screaming, clawing through the sand. Many were lying still. They were missing legs, arms, heads. Larry, who came off the boat next to him, lay just a few feet away. Wide-eyed and making gurgling, mewling sounds through the blood pouring out of his mouth, he weakly tries to pack sand into a gaping wound in his ribs. He meets Smitty’s eyes, breathes a bubbling, keening sigh, and lays still.

Smitty glances over his shoulder, and realizes his legs are pinned under the guy who came off the boat right behind him. Several other GI’s were screaming at him from behind the meager cover of a hedgehog; as a beach defense made of three or four steel rails cut in two meter lengths and welded together at their centers, it made poor cover, but better than none. They were motioning to him to come, get cover, and every few seconds a hail of bullets would strike the area, PINGing on the hedgehog and causing them to scramble over each other trying to get deeper behind it. 

He could see their Higgins boat, stalled and starting to smoke, trying to get back into deeper water out from under the withering fire from the heights. Several men were attempting to scramble back over the sides, hoping to escape this chapter of Dante’s inferno; most were viciously cut down by fire from the Tobruks and trenches up the beach.

Phfft-Phfft-Phfft. More spraying sand, _from machine gun fire, _Smitty realized as the winking of muzzle flash blinked from all over the hill, and their staccato canvas-ripping sound filled his ears. THUMP-swooossshhh a mortar round striking nearby in the water line sprays sand and water all over him.

“Well hell boys, I aint one to out-stay my welcome”, Smitty mutters to himself and starts moving. Where, he isn’t sure yet, but he sure as hell isn’t staying here.

When he reaches back to push the guy off his legs, the poor man’s torso flops free of his waist and legs, stringing organs and bodily effluence over Smitty’s legs. “Oh dear God hurrkkkKKK”, Smitty reflexively vomits into the surf.

Jerking his legs free, Smitty hazards a glance at the boys motioning from behind the hedgehog; his rifle lay several yards ahead of him on the beach, and he could see pockets of men trying to move from cover to cover up the beach, but that road led to a sure death. He is frozen for a moment, indecision racking him.

That decision is taken away from him in a screaming whistle and detonation and spray of red gore-and-sand-laden rain. 

Smitty, trembling hands wiping the sticky wetness from his face, looks back and sees the Higgins burning, and only a surf-swirling red hole where the guys and the hedgehog were.

“Damn. Didn’t care for another ride on them boats anyway”, he says through clenched teeth as he scrambles, running crouched over, and snatches up his 1903 Springfield, sand kicking up in his steps behind him as some happy Jerry homes in on his movement.

He moves behind a wrecked Sherman, tears the rubber off of his barrel, starts checking his rifle and getting the scope cover off. The Krauts persist in their efforts to perforate Smitty at every turn as he tries to get his rifle set up, mumbling the whole time.

“ ‘Join the *Army*’, they sez.”. PING-PANG.

“ ‘See the *world*’, they sez.”, PING-PING-KaPHWING.

“ ‘Think of how proud yer girDAMMIT WILL YOU JACKASSES STOP SHOOTING AT ME ONE MINUTE!!!”, Smitty yells, flinching, hot fragments of tank and bullets flying all around him as he scrambles to get his rifle ready.

He has to drop flat and fast-crawl as several machine gunners lay deadly sprays of lead all over the burning tank, and then mortars start walking in like a visit from unwanted relatives. WHUMP… WHUMP… WHUMP… 

“Say Jerry, I’m startin’ to take this a bit personal now…”, Smitty muses sardonically through clenched teeth as he slithers into a small depression. There is a guy already there, kneeling and firing up the beach. As he turns to Smitty as if to say something, a shell hits on the opposite side of the hole and he looks at Smitty for a moment, confused, unable to talk with half his face missing. He topples almost comically and the unquenchable french sands drink yet another life.

Smitty tries to move to more cover, but the machine-gun fire intensifies and he flinches back cursing; the mortar shells seem to be aimed straight at him now. He tries again, and more MG fire erupts into the sand around him and a round creases his thigh; another mortar hits nearby and knocks his helmet off of his head and peppers his side with small burning fragments. He tries to crouch deeper into the sand, but they just keep firing, and firing, and firing, and dropping those teeth-rattling mortars all around him.

“Damn damn DAAAAMN. WHATTHEHELLDIDIEVERDOTOYOU!”, he screams as he crouches in the shallow crater, mortar shells THUMPing, men screaming and crying, machine guns RRIIIIIPPing, bullets Phfft-Phfft-Phffting, more sand and red rain spraying all around him. He instinctively curls into a ball under the unabated rain of deadly metal. 

His throat is burning, raw, and after a while he realizes it’s because he’s screaming.

He knows then, in his heart, that he is about to die. Why not? Everyone else seems to be doing it; what makes him so special? Smitty goes perfectly still; his eyes stare sightless at the grey sky, and the sounds of battle fade from his ears.

He starts remembering his hunting days, the days where he was one of the best in the tri-county. How the deer never saw him, how he would stalk them and be so quiet that they never heard the shot that took 'em. And how he seemed to never miss, how he put it to them as merciful as he could. He didn’t hunt because he loved it or even enjoyed killing; he did it because they needed the game, and he was damn good at it. 

Oh, how he wished he were back home, 15 years old, snaking peacefully through the quiet woods; moving from tree-to-tree, unseen, unheard, like the wind, until he came to the perfect place to set up for the shot. 

Smitty opens his eyes, and nearly stumbles out of his crouching walk. 

_Walk_? 

He is further up the beach, close to the draws leading up to the bunkers and trenches and their deadly fire. He looks around incredulously. He has walked almost 100 feet without being shot at. Or even noticed.

He walks by three G.I.'s, two officers and a radioman, who are taking fire from the trenches above. They don’t notice him, even when he waves a hand at one looking at him. He wonders if he's dreaming, or dead already, when a FWING and a sharp pain hit him; a piece of shrapnel has torn superficially across his left arm, and torn through his confusion.

He looks forward, and concentrating on moving like he did when hunting back home, he carefully but with incredible swiftness picks his way up the beach face and obstacles as men behind him come under heavy and direct fire; soon he comes up to a trench with several Germans in it. Three are manning a machine gun; four have their Kar98 rifles and potato masher grenades and all are firing to great effect on the men below. He is standing up only 20 feet from them and _they don’t even see me_, thinks Smitty.

With a grunt of effort, Smitty sprints up the last distance in a blur of terrain, leaps over the trench like a jackrabbit and drops a grenade in the midst of the Germans, rolling into the trench intersecting the one they are in. He comes up instinctively, and immediately after the BOOM of the grenade he fires… 

CRACK! One, 

CRACK! Two, 

CRACK! Three Germans cease their flailing in the grenade’s aftermath. He notices the last one, with an almost bizarre look of confusion on his face totally out of place with the neat hole just to the left of his temple. _He never saw it coming_, thought Smitty with a grim, humorless smile.

He sits quietly, concentrating on remaining unseen. He moves forward in the trench, and notices that the dead Germans had quite a view of the main draw, and the main bunker over it, from where they were. He sees men trying to place their bangalores, sees ol’ Hank Johnson screaming at the next man in line to move into place with his so they can blow a clearing and advance up the hill as the Krauts lean forward on their MG’s to rain certain on them all. He can see Germans moving in the trenches, in the bunker slits, and sees one on a radio; probably calling in coordinates to drop those deadly mortars and artillery. Smitty settles into a depression in the front of the trench, unseen from above, takes a deep breath and steadies his shooting hand.

“Welcome to the 1st annual Normandy Turkey Shoot ya Kraut bastids”, he whispers as he lines up the officer on the radio in his sights.

One by one, as fast as he can reload and cycle the bolt on his Springfield, he fires 12 more shots, kills 12 more men. Six of them at over 100 feet, through the slit of a near-dark bunker. He sees Hank creeping up unchallenged towards the bunker front with a satchel charge, as the remaining inhabitants have wisely shied away from the slits. 

Suddenly he hears voices, and sees that there are reinforcements, wheeling a 20mm cannon and carrying more MG’s, heading down the trail and trenches to his location.

He swings, reloads the Springfield, and keeps half-hoping they don’t see him, half not-caring if they do. 

“Gobble gobble, boys, you’re just in time”

CRACK!


----------



## Tellerve

Ugh, great update...I saw Ugh for the thought of D-day.

Anyways, so when the players all got together finally they all sorta had their powers?  Or was this just backstory worked out between you and each player?

Tellerv


----------



## fenzer

A great read, Ledded.  Thanks and sorry for walking in late.  This is good, I wont be late again.

Thanks for the fun and post soon.


----------



## ledded

Nope, I mostly made all the backstory up based on how they played their characters, their mannerisms/speech, and a few comments or one-liners on their background.  It was/is a one-off game, one we do on occasion, and to start with there were so many new rules and powers to learn that they didnt bother with a lot of detailed backstory.  The exception is OldDrewId's character, who has the most, um, creative character of the bunch, and a nicely done brief backstory to build from.  He will show up soon (OldDrewId missed the first session).

As far as the full manifestation of their powers, stay tuned.  Suffice it to say for now they all know they are maybe a little different, but they dont have access or knowledge of their powers.

Sorry if the Omaha beach scene was a bit graphic for ya, but I felt it needed a very gritty treatment; my first cut was a bit more kid-gloves and it just didnt feel right.

If it makes you feel any better, the part about the guy splitting in half on Smitty's legs actually happened;  in 1985 I had the opportunity to interview a couple D-Day survivors for a high school ROTC project and one of them told me about that happening to him, but he described it a lot more graphic ("splittin' open like a rotten melon when ah kicked 'im off").

And thanks Fenzer for the props.  Dont worry about being late, this comic shop keeps back issues.


----------



## Tellerve

No worries on your interpretation and telling of the invasion.  It was me just saying, 'ugh' as more of a well.  More of a weight to think about what the men accomplished and went through that day, and the days before and after.  I thought you got the "feel" of it quite well.  Like Saving Private Ryan, the beach invasion was amazing, but also so utterly chilling.

Anyways, keep it up, looking forward to the Tigers meetin' up with Moose.

Tellerve


----------



## ledded

ledded said:
			
		

> <snip>
> “Yeah, Moose here was actually one of the youngest guys to ever play in the CJFL ya know”, Frankie bragged to the 82nd Airborne guys. “Damn good, he was too.”
> 
> At their skeptical looks he added “Canadian. Junior. Football. League. Jeez guys, don’t get out much, do ya?”.
> 
> “Oh yeah, that a fact? Sheez man ya expect me ta believe dat? Whaddaya say, Bullwinkle? Rocky just pullin’ my leg or what?”, the big airborne corporal tossed at Moose in a thick Brooklyn brogue and cocky smile.
> 
> “Oh ya. Last played in ’36 for da Moose Jaw Maroons dere, dontcha know”, Moose rumbled, embarrassed.
> 
> <snip>



I wanted to post a quick note, as I meant to put a link in the SH post here.

Just so you don't think I make all of this up:

http://www.cjfl.ca/records/champions.cfm

Look down the page to 1936...

Okay, I'm a geek, but I try to be an *accurate* geek.


----------



## Len

ledded said:
			
		

> Sorry if the Omaha beach scene was a bit graphic for ya, but I felt it needed a very gritty treatment; my first cut was a bit more kid-gloves and it just didnt feel right.



I echo Tellerve's "ugh", and I think you did a great job with that scene. It seems wrong to comic-book-ize D-Day, and besides it makes your heroes more heroic if you show the desperate situation they were facing.



> Just so you don't think I make all of this up:
> http://www.cjfl.ca/records/champions.cfm
> Look down the page to 1936...



_Three cheers for the Hamilton Italo Canadians!_


----------



## Eyas

No reason other than to BUMP this back to page 1 in the hopes that ledded will post my characters intro/back story


----------



## Hatchling Dragon

One-Off?  Say it isn't so!  Or maybe you meant to say "One _*War*_ Off", yah, I could live with that!  

Oh, I've just completed extensive "Suck-Factor" scans, I don't know what you were warning us about, I failed to detect any signs of the phenomenon at all.

Hatchling Dragon


----------



## Piratecat

This is so cool.


----------



## ledded

Hatchling Dragon said:
			
		

> One-Off? Say it isn't so! Or maybe you meant to say "One _*War*_ Off", yah, I could live with that!
> 
> Oh, I've just completed extensive "Suck-Factor" scans, I don't know what you were warning us about, I failed to detect any signs of the phenomenon at all.
> 
> Hatchling Dragon



Thanks for the kind words Hatchling Dragon, and thanks again Piratecat for stopping by to see us.

And dont worry, there's plenty more material... I've just gotten to the end of the introductions and not even deep into any game yet.  We've played 2 sessions and there may be another tomorrow night, and most of it was fun supers power-flingin' KAPOW and KABAMM.  With tanks!  

I had a little writers block, and then when I got myself started back up I started getting hammered at work;  I'll try to post up an update sometime this week.  I am considering posting up digital pictures of the combats in progess that we took with my new camera, but I'm not sure if it would bust up the story or not.

Thanks again guys, your considerate posts make me want to buck up and get some posting going on.

Ledded


----------



## Broccli_Head

Now ah know what gol-darned system yer usin'! 

Thanks for all the ding-dang cool language from Hank and Moose, eh. 

My _Champions_ training is already trying to put a "schtick" on each of the three principles in your story so far...please excuse....Moose = Brick, Hank = Telekinetic/WWII equiv of a Cyberkinetic or may its specific-like...a Mechano-kinetic  

Smitty, well either luck or light manipulation for the invis, and very good with a rifle kinda like Alan Quartermain in LXG, maybe he's more magically-oriented(?)

But now I'm here! Oh, don't forget the "What in tar'nation?" for the Northwest Texan


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Destiny Approaches, and she's got a Tiger]*

Back to the present, France, late June 1944, 9:58 am.

Smitty stares out of the back of the truck, watching the hedgerows and flooded fields roll by from the column’s position on some kind of raised road or dike.

“Smitty? Hey dere?”, Moose’s northern accent breaks into Smitty’s thoughts.

Smitty looks up, fishes a smoke out of his pocket, and continues.

“Oh. Well, I managed to make it up our part of the beach, got the drop on some Krauts, and then hid out in their trench and popped enough of ‘em for the boys to get their bangalores and satchel charges to take out the main bunker, like Hank was talkin’ about. Boom, like a cherry bomb.”

“About that time, ya’ll happened up on me fightin’ off their reserves, and you know the rest.”, Smitty finishes, exhaling smoke with an audible sigh.

“Fighting ‘em off? Sheez man, you clocked sumthin’ like 9 or 10 of ‘em before I got up there, dontcha know. Stacked up like firewood ‘round that 20mm, eh?”, Moose adds, then looks ahead for a moment. 

“Hey, it looks like were comin’ up on somethin’, dontcha know… the point is callin’ a stop here”, Moose calls over, craning his big neck to see up ahead of the truck.

“Figures. I just lit this smoke”, Smitty sighs.

Hank is tuning the radio and picks up the Airborne guys ahead.

“ksssssh… tanks, house glowing like it’s on fire.. ksshhsssshhh… too many… kksshhshsh... hands! Fire on his ha... ksskshhshshksshsh...oh my God… gotta get out… oh sweet Jesus help me… kssshhssshhhshshs… help… kshshshshsh… AAAAHHHHKsshshshhss…”

Hank glances shakily at Smitty and Moose; they see his adam’s apple bob when he lets loose an audible gulp.

The Captain pulls up in his M20, and confers with Hank a minute before pulling ahead.

Hank watches him go, and turns back to the others, worried.

“I’lltellyouwhatnow, ding-dangit, them Krauts is jest ahead ‘ere. Cap’n sez ta raise that gol-darned air corp and ding-dang see ‘bout our fire support”, Hanks add in as he absentmindedly starts making miniscule adjustments to the radio. Soon there is the hiss of static and somehow he has got a line on a couple Mustangs running support.

“This here’s Alpha one Bravo, ding-dang ol’ flyboys, gimme yer ETA we got…”


----------



## Broccli_Head

ledded said:
			
		

> Back to the present, France, late June 1944, 9:58 am.
> 
> "This here’s Alpha one Bravo, ding-dang ol’ flyboys, gimme yer ETA we got…”




We got? We got what?!  Why ya gotta leave us hangin', ledded?

_sigh_...but glad you posted  and hungry for more!


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [John's story]*

In the skies near St. Lo, France, at that moment:

Lt John Brighton, US Army Air Corps, is lost in his own thoughts. That often happened when he flew; the coolness of the clouds, the open sky, the steady drone of the plane’s engine, the feeling of freedom and speed that came with it. 

Having joined the RAF before the US got into the big one, he fought in the Battle of Britain and took his fair share of kills in that time. When the Air Corps finally got themselves over, he re-joined his old unit, though at his previous rank. It didn’t matter to him though, his Kansas-farmer father always taught him to take pride in the work itself, not just in the fruits of it. Back in Kansas what mattered was the work a man did, not what he wore on his shoulder-boards…

…

7 Years ago, Kansas.

“It can’t be helped Mr. Brighton. Sammy says he can’t fly is this weather, not with a busted arm. Hell, he says he probably couldn’t even with two good arms”, the youth related to Marcus Brighton, owner of the triple-L farm in north Kansas.

“Thanks Bobby. You get you something hot to drink from the missus and stay here till this storm blows over”, came the tired reply.

The storm had blown in quick and unexpected. With howling straight-line winds and snow, the temperature dropping rapidly below even a normal Kansas winter. A storm that had stranded Marcus Brighton’s oldest son Michael and several of their farm hands somewhere out there without any way to protect themselves; they were 8 hours overdue as it was, and Marcus was deeply worried.

So was John, Marcus’s younger son. Having no interest in farming, he had been eagerly learning how to fly from Uncle Sammy when he could, and loved nothing more than taking that old biplane up. He loved hearing Grampa’s stories about The Great War and what it was like to fly back then; it was Grampa who got the old biplane to help out around the farm. Plus, he was good at flying it, and he knew it. John chafed at his father’s reluctance to let him help out; it rubbed him raw that he wasn’t even going to be on the next search party, due to mount up and leave any minute. Well damned if he was going to let his brother die; he knew he could find them with the old biplane, even if his father would never allow it.

“Pa, just lemme help somehow, I know I...”

“John, I’ve told ya before, it’s too dangerous. You stay here and keep an ear on the radio, and keep the fire stoked for when we get back with Michael. Do your job, boy, and I don’t want to hear any more guff about it”.

“Yessir, I’ll do my job”.

_Though I’ll be the one deciding what job that is, old man_, John added as an afterthought.

They were just out of earshot when John opened the barn and pulled the cover from their old biplane. _Damn, he’s right, it’s colder than a witch’s teats in a brass bra out here_, he thought to himself, _and it’s only gonna get worse up there_. 

Normally John loved the cold; he would fly without a jacket or scarf because he loved the feel of the cold air whipping across his skin. His mother always worried, but he never got sick from it. This time, though, it was night, the winds were howling like the hounds at the gates of hell, and their breath was a wall of ice and snow that swirled and slashed like millions of tiny, glacial teeth. _And it’s only gonna get worse, but Mike’s out there in it._.

So he put on hat, goggles, scarf, and his Dad’s old leather car coat and fired up the old girl. John waved jauntily, grinning, at his mother and the farmhands as they ran from the house waving frantically at him as he moved down the lane and into the frigid, keening night. He just wished he felt as confident as he tried to look as the dark landscape all but disappeared and the plane took air, bucking and weaving under the punishing winds.

He saw his father’s party, on horses with lanterns glowing, and tipped the wings with another grin as much to let Pa know it was him as to rub his old scraggly face in it. _I can too help out, and fly this ole girl better than half-drunk Sammy too_.

45 minutes later:

The weather was worsening by the minute, everything was white snow or dark ground, and the horizon was a like a thing he had heard about once, maybe seen in a picture book, but could barely remember. The gauges were unreadable, and the stick fought him like a crazed weasel; it took both hands, all his skill, and every bit of his dwindling strength just to keep the groaning and straining old plane from tearing apart or tumbling like a leaf. _Yeah, but leaves don’t burst into fireballs when they hit the ground, _thought John as his breath came in ragged, icy gasps.

He could feel the control surfaces gaining ice in the storm; the sweat off of his nose was frozen in a stream against the side of his face though he couldn’t feel it much any longer. John swallowed his fear and brought the plane back in lower over the trails his brother should have taken on his way back, eyes straining for all their worth. 

Just then, a sudden downdraft tore control away from him, and the plane spiraled out of control with an ominous tearing sound. He smashed his head against the side of the open cockpit and the bitter winds tore his hat and goggles away.

John gritted his teeth and through flashes of light that seemed to be all that was left of his vision, struggled to get the plane back under control. “Ok, maybe this… wasn’t… such a good… idea… after all”, he confided to no one in particular as the darkness in front of him grew larger and broader. 

_Darkness? The ground!!!,_ came the realization as he heaved back on the stick; he was rewarded with a tortured screeching and a loud, sparking crash as the plane’s nose came sharply up and the gear scraped the top of a small rise. 

Another flash of light in his peripheral vision came to him just as he was smoothing out his ascent when he realized that this flash had no afterimage like the others; it wasn’t from the bump on his head this time. He turned the shaking, heaving plane that way and was awarded with another flash.

His mind was filled with jubilation; A _Rifle! It’s Mike, it has to be! And he’s trying to signal me!_

He circled as low as he dare and saw the shapes of several men huddled against lying horses, probably for warmth. John straightened up and tried to make a heading towards where his Pa should be; after a few moments he realized Pa’s party was heading in the wrong direction and had been all evening. Mike must have gotten turned around in the storm.

The plane made several more sounds of complaint, and the engines were revving up and down forcing him to constantly try to make throttle adjustments, but determination filled him now.

Soon the lanterns of the search party came dimly to view and he flew over them as low as he dare; several times he crossed over them, back and forth in the direction that his brother Michaels party lay, nearly losing control with every effort. After the third pass he was rewarded with the flash of several shots, a clear signal that they finally understood.

He turned off towards Micheal again. Suddenly, a cross-draft took him and the stick tore from his aching, frozen grasp with a terrible grinding sound of protest. The plane turned over and John fought, screaming, for control.

Finally, the plane righted, but as he tried to make a last correction he felt the stick give way and move freely in his hand, the plane unresponsive. _Oh damn. That can’t be good_, thought John. Then the engine, tortured beyond it’s endurance, sputtered to a cold death. _Well, heck, doesn’t *that* just beat all._

It was almost surreal; his glide perfectly silent except for the wind whistling across the plane as it coasted off to who-knows-where. He tried to pop the latch on the belt, but it was frozen solid to his chest and he was having trouble getting his fingers to work. John sat back, defeated, and let the white-speckled wind wash over him as his last remaining strength fled; his fading mind took in the whistling, gliding spectacle as his tears left frozen tracks on his face. 

_This must be what birds feel like… so… beautiful…_

…

John realized that he had been awake for some time, daydreaming. He opened one eye slowly, and felt the lashes painfully break off the ice rimmed over his eyelid.

The plane lay a short distance away, a mangled and torn wreck. He lay propped against a tree, and he was colder than he ever thought he could be. “C-c-c-colder th-than a w-w-welldigger’s b-b-butt”, he croaked out loud, shattering the early morning silence. 

His cheeks and lips felt like they were cracking when he spoke, they were so cold. His body hurt badly in places, but in most places he could feel nothing. Nothing at all. _I should be dead_, he realized, weakly looking down at the frozen blood on his body and the ground. _So cold… so damn cold…_

He wanted so badly just to go back to sleep; he would warm up if he went to sleep. If he slept, all would be well. He could see Mike again, and have a big breakfast by the fire with his dad, who would be proud of him finally, if he just slept a little while longer. _Sleep_…

A shuffling sound brought his heavy eyes open again, then they flew wide at the sight before him.

A large white wolf, all pearly menace and staring eyes like ice, stood less than 10 feet from him in the snow.

_She’s gonna eat me. Oh man, I don’t wanna be no overgrown dog’s Alpo, _came his frenzied thought, although try as he might he couldn’t move any of his numb limbs enough to shoo it off.

But the wolf just stood there. Staring. John sat, heart hammering, staring back at the wolf’s eerily ice-blue eyes, for what felt like an eternity.

The wolf padded over silently in the snow and licked some of the blood off of John’s legs; not in a predatory sense, but as if she had noticed something in John, something that amounted to… kinship? John didn’t know what it was with this wolf, but he wasn’t questioning it as long as it didn’t include tearing off chunks of his flesh with needle sharp teeth. He even thought he started to feel some warmth flow back into his limbs, and then prickles of pain.

The wolf’s head suddenly jerked up. He heard it about that time too; his name, called over a long distance.

The wolf stepped back, brought her head up and HOWLED as long and loud as she could; to John it felt like he was brittle ice being hit with a hammer and he joined his tortured scream to hers. He kept screaming until he realized that her howl was long gone, and when he opened his eyes, she was too.

And he could just see his father’s search party in the distance, struggling horses puffing clouds of breath, frantically trying to pick up speed in the frosty snow.

…

“Well, Mr. Brighton, it seems that we have somewhat of a miracle. It seems like his legs had some, er, minor breaks, but they are starting to heal up quite nicely. Really strange. And he didn’t lose any fingers or toes either, what with the frostbite and all. As far as his story about seeing things after the crash, well that was a pretty hard bump he took to the head so it’s to be expected, especially since you found no signs of anything.”

The old doctor stopped to take a drink of his coffee, looking at Mr. and Mrs. Brighton’s worried faces. Mr. Brighton spoke next.

“But what about his unnatural pallor, doc, it’s like the storm took all the color from him.”

The doctor looked up towards the ceiling, as if in memory, and replied “well, I haven’t seen it before m’self, but I guess that kind of cold could stick with a man. I do know his skin is healthy and undamaged, if a bit pale, given what he’s been through”.

“But what about his *eyes* doc, what do you think about those?” Mrs. Brighton blurted out frantically, worry evident in every fiber of her body.

“His eyes work just fine. He can see just like anybody, heck, better than most…”

“But the COLOR doc…” Mrs. Brighton interrupted.

“Yes. Well. Very odd. Such a pale, icy blue… for a man. Almost like, er… well, ah… a wolf’s…” the last finished in a soft whisper.

The three, lost in their own thoughts, continued to drink their coffee in silence.

…….


In the skies near St. Lo, France, late June 1944, 9:58 am

“…got us har a gol-durned heckuva knock-down drag-out comin’ up right-quick-like”, the chattering Texas drawl burst over Lt John Brighton’s radio in his P-51, and shook him out of his reverie.

“Gerald, I’ve got the ground-pounder’s we’re looking for on the horn, watch our six while I figure out where the hell they are”, he spoke into his radio.

“Kshshsh, check Johnny boy, I got your back. Let’s light up some Jerry’s and get out of here, I’ve got a bacon sandwich and a nice little French mademoiselle waiting for me back at base”, came the reply from his wingman.

“Copy, let’s just do our jobs and we’ll worry about the fun stuff later. You have the wing.”


----------



## Broccli_Head

Cool! It's the White {war} Wolf . 

I know...I'm such a fanboy when it comes to Comic Books. Ya know gettin' tired of the same ol' fantasy stuff


----------



## fenzer

Thanks Ledded.  That was the best character background yet.  Thanks for putting this together.  I look forward to your next update.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Locked in Battle]*

France, near St Lo, late June 1944, 10:00 am

“kkssshhhhseven-zero-niner, alpha one, repeat, relay position of Jerry’s shooters, over”, the tinny voice comes over the radio.

Moose jacks the slide on his BAR, Smitty checks his scope once again, and they feel the truck slowing down. Men are jumping off the trucks as the distant *boom* of cannon fire reaches their ears.

Smitty rolls over the side and takes to the woods, flitting like an old memory from tree to tree looking for a good position. Hank jogs over by the Captain’s armored command car with his radio as the Captain is calmly relaying deployment orders for his tanks and halftracks. Moose jumps down out of the back of the truck and runs towards the front where men are spreading out into the flooded fields for a little cover, to form an advancing line. 

_Maybe they can hook around and sweep behind the Krauts before they know what hit ‘em_, Hank thinks as he nervously surveys the scene.

Up ahead the M2 Halftrack is blazing away with its .50 cal at one of the two two-storey buildings in the open area ahead; they make an “L” shape in the clearing as the road veers off at a 45 degree angle to the right. The area around them is raised slightly above the flooded fields, just as the road they are approaching on is; the muddy fields limit the approach for tanks and vehicles. There are a couple Kubelwagons and Hanomag SdKfz 251/1 halftracks visible, so they may be able to… 

*BOOM*

The M3 halftrack in front of the American column detonates in a shower of burning metal and screaming men. A Tiger becomes visible as it finishes the turn around one of the buildings, and a cunningly hidden Panther becomes visible by the second house as it rolls out from under its camouflaged netting, main gun smoking. 

The Sherman and one of Cromwell’s fire, their shells SPANGing harmlessly off of the Tiger and Panther’s front armor. Men quickly duck and run for cover as the tanks MG’s open up.

The second Cromwell places a shot right in the drivers compartment of one of the Hanomags and it hops like a schoolgirl under the impact. A burning German soldier manages to slide over the side and crawl a few feet before rolling onto his back, flaming arms raised to the sky as if in supplication. Hank watches in morbid fascination, sure he is going to be sick.

G.I.’s are spread out and moving forward from cover to cover, slowed by the treacherous mud on the sides of the raised road. Two machine guns open fire from the second storey windows of the houses and men scramble for cover and several fall, screaming in pain.

Hank grabs his binoculars gets as good a look as he can. He keys the mike for the Air Corp fellas above him.

“Ding-dangit, gots us a couple ol’fat tanks, some Hanny-maggers, ITellYouWhat we caint drop that-thar Tiger and he’s blockin’ the road dingdang ol’ sumbeech, drop us some fire on that sucker at these coordianates…”

Hank watches in growing horror, rattling off the Tiger’s position, as yet another tank, a Mark IV Panther, becomes visible off to the right; it bursts through a hedgerow and fires into the side of one of the Cromwell’s with such force that the driver’s hatch blows open, flames shooting skyward. 

A tank driver’s helmet, smoking, bounces onto the road; the MG42s in the houses cut down the fleeing survivors as they try to get away from the smoldering tank. An American halftrack fires its .50 cal’s at it to little effect as it scrambles back trying to get some distance. A bazooka team, momentarily scattered when the tank burst over the hedgerow, snaps off a rocket at the side of the tank; the round hits squarely, but only manages to mangle the _shurtzen_ the wily Germans have installed for combating that tactic. 

Hank looks back towards the houses, and as he spots the first MG nest the gunner’s head kicks back, a neat hole drilled into his forehead. Hank swings the binoculars back and notices Smitty, in cover from the trees, cycle the action on his Springfield. He fires again, and Hank is sure somewhere up ahead a Nazi just met his maker. _Bet he wishes he weren’t no ding-dang ol’ Godless heathen now by gumption_.

Moose is up ahead with some other men trying to lay down suppressing fire; he calmly aims his BAR and rips loose a hail of lead at a window. The other MG falls silent as a soldier silently tumbles from the window, splashing blood onto the front of the house as he bounces into the yard. Several G.I.s, covered by the burning halftrack and out from under the MG’s fire, move forward to make the advance, throwing grenades and firing wildly as they advance.

Suddenly there are some _swooshing_ and _thumping_ sounds in the distance and large streaks of smoke appears behind the main house, the one that it looks like is on fire. Hank swings his binoculars back towards the main house and peers ahead.

_Funny, that house is flickerin’ yeller, but it aint on fire_, he thinks to himself as the smoke billows *behind* it. He spots a Wermacht-grey Hanomag, roll cage on top and strange boxes attached to the sides. _Oh ding-dangit, them’s one o’ them ole rocket halftrackers, whatcha call ‘em, dang ‘ol Wurfrahme, and them suckers go boom big time_, he realizes. He also notices the smoke of what appears to be mortars firing to the left of the houses, and decides that this is not the place to be standing. 

“Hey-o, Cap’n, we gotta ding-dang getthehellouttahere, man, danged ole bushwackers Itellyouwhat, we got incomin’ ! It’s a damn ambush Cap’n. Gotta go” and with that warning he sprints off carrying the radio for cover in the trees, dodging MG fire from the Tanks and halftracks coming down the road.

Captain Michaels surveys the rapidly deteriorating situation; the Tiger has held up their advance from the crossroads, and was taking some cover behind the destroyed Hanomag while firing to great effect down the road. His Sherman is smoking with a busted track but still firing, one of his halftracks was a burning wreck, the second in a very dangerous place near a Panzer. The first Matilda was a flaming metal coffin, and the second was trying to get into position to get a shot at the Tiger or the Panther ahead; he probably won’t penetrate their armor at this angle, but the stubborn Brit just wouldn’t back it up even if he ordered him to.

Just then, Michaels spots German infantry, Fallshirmjagers by the look of them, sneaking from the left to the edge of the road; undoubtedly they have Panzerfausts and MG34’s and are looking to get the drop on his stalled advance. He knows he should call a retreat and move back in his M20, but he can’t leave those men to be cut to pieces without doing something. He knew he should have listened to his bad feeling that morning.

_What was it those Lakotas Indians used to say back home?_, he thought, as the scene became even more chaotic.

_Oh yes_, he continued, _now I remember_. Captain Michaels yanks back the bolt on the .50 cal mounted on his M20, and takes aim at the sneaking Fallshirmjagers.

“Today is a good day to die. Only the sun and moon last forever”. _I always liked that one_.

“You say somethin’ sir?” asked the M20’s driver.

Whatever the Captain said was drowned out by the stocatto fire of his machine gun, and the driver took that cue to move the car into better position to fire. _Where is that damn air support_, the young man thinks as he maneuvered the M20 around the troop truck just ahead of him, oblivious to the arching trails of smoke overhead.

...…

John Brighton deciphered the ramblings over the radio, and moved his aircraft on that heading. Very soon, he saw the smoke ahead, and could almost make out the camouflage pattern of the Tiger that was wreaking so much havoc.

He checked his systems, armed the rockets under his wings, and took one last look around before beginning the shallow diving run required to hit the Tiger.

“Check, Gerald, you got anything?”, he asks over the radio.

“That’s a big old negatory there, ell-tee. Wait, I think I saw a flash…”

BRRRRAAAAPPP

A long stream of metal walks up Gerald’s wing as 2 BF-109’s fall out of the sun like screeching predatory hawks and fire on them.

“Holy crap, John, we got 2 Messerschmidt’s coming out of our six… where the heck did *these* guys come from?”, came Gerald’s panicked voice over the radio.

John glanced back, saw them, and replied. “Check that, Lt. We have to drop this fire and we’ll take care of Jerry. We have a job to do. Just try to keep ‘em off me for a second”. John, realizing the plight of the boys on the ground, tries to move evasively as he sets his nose on a course with the rapidly approaching Tiger belching death on the Americans down the thin road.

BRRRAAAAPPP!

“Oh dammit John, I’m hit… I’m hit…”

John looks back at Gerald, covering John’s wing and juking about to keep the Jerrys occupied, as smoke began trailing from his plane. 

“Get out of here Gerald, a few seconds and I can take these guys”, John yells into the radio.

“<cough> That’s another negatory there, ell-tee, we gotta hit that tank. Can’t be <cough> leaving my wingman and all that…”, Gerald replied calmly and moved back and forth on John’s tail as the Nazi pilots moved in close for the kill.

_Just a few more seconds_, thought John frantically, as he could hear the whizzing of MG rounds and the occasional PLINK of contact with his aircraft.

“John! Look out, he’s making a move for ya…” came the yell across the radio and John hazards a quick look back as the lead BF-109 releases a flashing hail of metal at him. Just as he nearly yanks the stick to move out of reflex he sees Gerald’s Mustang purposefully cross into the fire, smoke trailing from the engine and cockpit as the rounds chew brutally through the wounded plane.

“Gerald! Bail out… Bail…”, yells John into the radio as Gerald’s Mustang BLOWS into a thousand flaming fragments.

His mouth a grim line, John turned just in time to depress the firing switch on the rockets, and his plane rocks under their ignition as they streak away from him towards the Tiger on the ground. 

He immediately pulls up hard and banks tight, hoping to shake the BF-109’s.

“How’s that for made in the U.S. of A. ya Nazi pinhead!” yells John as the rockets detonate on target, shearing off part of the Tiger’s turrent as they drive explosively into the weaker top armor. 

John banks hard back the other direction and gives the throttle everything she’s worth, and his sudden climb and banking has put the first Messershmidt dangerously close to his tail but in no position to fire on him. He had hoped to shake or scare them both off, or at least bring them in too close to fire, but the trailing 109 was able to peel back and set up. 

_Damn, these guys are good._

John glances back he sees the German’s guns light up. _Aw, here we go again…_

The long burst walks up the side of his fuselage, and his canopy cracks and shatters as the rounds continue up and into his engine. The P-51’s screaming engine is silenced in an explosion of metal and the cockpit fills with greasy black smoke.

“Sonuva…”, John chokes out as he jukes a stalling roll-over, knowing this may be his last act among the living.  His move pushes his rapidly decelerating and burning plane crossways straight into the path of the oncoming BF-109s. He thinks he can almost make out the near-comical look of shock on the closest pilot’s face as he punches through John’s smoke and realizes his mistake. 

“How do you like that, Jerry”, John muses as he coughs on the burning smoke just before the Messerschmidt slams into his tail section, shearing off the nose and engine of the craft in a fiery detonation. They both spin out of control and fall, as the second BF-109 narrowly escapes the same fate as his wingman.

John tries to get the canopy open but knows he doesn’t have the height to make a jump; he mutters a quick prayer as the world ceases to spin with a loud crash.


----------



## Eyas

hmmm....seems I have a tendancy to crash the planes I am flying....


----------



## Salthorae

Wow...that was an amazingly written post. I got emotional and stuff with Gerald's self sacrifice for his friend and the mission, got me all patriotic and emotional and...stuff  Great writting ledded


----------



## ledded

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> I know...I'm such a fanboy when it comes to Comic Books. Ya know gettin' tired of the same ol' fantasy stuff



Cool, my very first fanboy 

Seriously though, thanks for stopping by and adding some comments.




			
				fenzer said:
			
		

> Thanks Ledded. That was the best character background yet. Thanks for putting this together. I look forward to your next update.



Thanks again Fenzer, I appreciate your subscription . It just wouldnt feel like a Story Hour without you stopping by every now and then. I'm glad you enjoyed Eyas/John Brighton's backstory, I had a lot of fun writing that one.




			
				Eyas said:
			
		

> hmmm....seems I have a tendancy to crash the planes I am flying....



Heh. And we havent even mentioned the C-47 yet, have we? 

Hope you enjoyed the background.




			
				Salthorae said:
			
		

> Wow...that was an amazingly written post. I got emotional and stuff with Gerald's self sacrifice for his friend and the mission, got me all patriotic and emotional and...stuff  Great writting ledded



Wow. What can I say... thanks for the kind words, that's one to frame for me . You should have seen how p*ssed Eyas/John was when they shot down his wingman, then when he realized he wouldnt get a good crack at that last BF109. He's *still* talking about getting back up in a Mustang and dogging it out with some Nazis.


Thanks all for the encouragement, it makes it a bit easier to write stuff.

Also, I have digital pictures of various scenes in this battle from our game table, and even though several of the tank models were unfinished at that time I'm going to post 'em up somewhere real soon if anyone wants to see them. You'll get to see just what kind of terrain geeks we really are


----------



## Broccli_Head

So far, this is such an amazing piece of prose. In fact I'd rather see less if the final product is of such good quality!

I'm really gettin' into the characters...can't think which one is my favorite yet, though. 

Ding-dangit! D-day the Hedgerow fighting gets me all misty-eyed.   

It's like I'm seeing _Saving Private Ryan_ and _Band of Brothers_ all over again.

Oh, BTW how do you do vehicle combat? Maybe I haven't read _d20 Modern _ enough, but I don't remember it.


----------



## fenzer

Broccli_Head, you be careful now.  You're liable to give old ledded a big head.  

Big head or no, the praise is spot on.  Excellent work ledded, your writing is descriptive and flows easily.  It is a joy to read.

By the by, what rules, if any, are you using for air combat?  I have to say that Pinnacle's air combat rules in Dead From Above are excellent.  They way you wrote out air combat lead me to believe that perhaps you used those rules.  True?

Thanks for the update but post soon you old koot (I can say that because I guess you are about my age.  If not, I'm going to feel real sheepish), I aint getting any younger.

By the by, thanks for the kind words.  I have the easy job though, you're the one with the blistered fingers and the brain cramps.  I just sit back and enjoy the ride, and a damn good one to boot.


----------



## Len

Eyas said:
			
		

> hmmm....seems I have a tendancy to crash the planes I am flying....



Stick to the Hawg.


----------



## ledded

fenzer said:
			
		

> Broccli_Head, you be careful now. You're liable to give old ledded a big head.



*_swivels slowly in his seat towards fenzer so as not to unbalance himself with his obscenely distented brain-bucket and topple over onto the floor_* 

WHAT?!?  The impudence!  I am GOD her... er, ahem.  Excuse me.

I meant, um, whatever do you mean, fenzer, old pal?

*_Puts on his best Legolas-constipated stare, wishing he had more sharks.  With laser beams on their heads._*

 

(Seriously, though, dont worry about that too much.  I have trouble taking this seriously enough to get too worked up about it, and I still don't think it's that good.  But then again, I game with OldDrewId, and after reading his latest updates it makes my writing brain feel very small and feeble .  Between him, Jonrog1, Piratecat, and a few others it's a wonder I dont have some kind of neurotic complex)



			
				fenzer said:
			
		

> Big head or no, the praise is spot on. Excellent work ledded, your writing is descriptive and flows easily. It is a joy to read.
> 
> By the by, what rules, if any, are you using for air combat? I have to say that Pinnacle's air combat rules in Dead From Above are excellent. They way you wrote out air combat lead me to believe that perhaps you used those rules. True?



Actually, we use another mish-mash (big surprise!) of rules that comprise what we think are the best elements of Star Wars (revised), d20 Modern, and Spycraft (heavy on the spycraft).  I used some aircraft manuvers and stuff from Hell on Earth that I really liked, and they worked out for a nice, easy, fast abstract aircraft combat.   I also used some of the extended stuff from HoE for tank/ground vehicle combat, such as environmental modifiers to movement, etc.  Plus, we are a good group, so if there is a question at the table over something in our mish-mash, we ajudicate it on the spot and let the dice fly.  Seems to work out nicely most of the time.

I'll have to check out Dead From Above if we do more air combat;  I'm kind of hoping that the guys get into some kind of dogfight situation so we can do more of it.

Oh, and Broccoli_Head, Moose should be your favorite, because he's my character!   

Seriously though, we have yet to introduce OldDrewId's character (who missed the first session) or really see the guys flex their actual Super Powers and when we do, well, just hold onto your opinions until then.  Because it really starts to get fun about that time.



			
				fenzer said:
			
		

> Thanks for the update but post soon you old koot (I can say that because I guess you are about my age. If not, I'm going to feel real sheepish), I aint getting any younger.
> 
> By the by, thanks for the kind words. I have the easy job though, you're the one with the blistered fingers and the brain cramps. I just sit back and enjoy the ride, and a damn good one to boot.



*_Puts on his best TV commercial voice_*

And thank you for yer support!

(note:  No sheep here man.  I am positively ancient by most gamer standards... I remember *vinyl records*, *8-tracks*, parachute pants, Duran Duran's first single, and saw Disco Duck sang on TV live once, though I was young for most of that.)


----------



## ledded

*Ledded's story hour miniature thread*

I just posted up the first few pics for the game in this new thread:

http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?p=1390757

It has a few table pics from the first battle near St Lo.

Please forgive the use of a few unfinished minis and vehicles, we started the game before I got them done.  I've since gotten a lot more work done on them.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [The Battle Continues]*

Branches whip by his face; terrain and grey sky flash in a jerking montage of movement, half-glimpsed. 

The _huff… huff… huff…_ of his breathing and the hammering of his own heart fills his ears; the shock of his feet pounding rapidly into the turf is barely a counterpoint to the terror clawing at his pounding chest.

The distant thump of fire, men yelling, and the popping and ripping of small arms comes softly to Hank, half-smothered under the blanket of dread he is cloaked in as he sprints for his life.

Trees and hedges in front of him light up in stark relief and his shadow leaps out in front of him black as night; he has a split-second to wonder about the brilliance of the flash before the hand of God reaches down and tears the ground away from his feet with a resounding SLAP and he hears nothing, sees nothing but the flashing of sky-ground-fire-trees-sky, over and over.

…….


The building continues to increase glowing in amber intensity, and Moose wonders for a moment why it seems like the edges of it are _bending_ away from the center. 

_Must be fumes or da fire or somethin’ dere_, he dismisses the phenomena in his mind as more pressing concerns take over his attention.

Concerns like the infantry spilling out of the second building and also across the yard in front of the Tiger, whose MG mounts are tearing through the hedgerows and the men taking cover around them.

The Sherman BOOMS behind him and the ground erupts next to the Panther as it tries to maneuver around the building; the immobilized American tank has managed to shear away a large piece of the Panther’s track. A second report, from the surviving Cromwell, comes from closer near him as he realizes it is maneuvering around the disabled tanks in the road to try to get a better shot. The Brit’s shot hits the Panther square on and seems to do some damage; the Panther’s MGs stop firing and go silent as smoke rises from the side.

The Tiger suddenly _compresses_ downwards and explodes out, sending the turrent into a crazy lean and scattering nearby infantry with shrapnel. The sound of the P-51 that fired the rockets comes to Moose as it climbs sharply out of the shallow dive, a couple Messerschmidts right on his tail. He spares it a glance as the BF-109’s chew into it, and he is dimly aware of an explosion as he brings his BAR to bear on the stunned infantry recovering from the shot.

He squeezes the trigger and watches in grim satisfaction as several Nazi’s fall under the withering fire, then kneels to reload the emptied weapon.

There is a tremendous noise, the ground jumps, and hard push from behind sends his helmet flying. Sprawling over his weapon, Moose realizes that something big has hit behind him and hazards a glance back.

The entire command section is a burning, cratered mass of wreckage back down the road, the trucks and jeeps scattered like children’s toys and burning merrily around the still bodies and body parts of men. Trees are sheared off, huge splinters and gigantic handfuls of earth are spread around like a colossal child’s sandbox. The report of the explosions are still fading away like distant, ominous thunder.

Moose recovers his BAR, and turns back to the front. The Cromwell has just passed him now, and on the other side of the road from him G.I.s are entering the hedgerows near the second building with grenades at the ready.

The men suddenly yell in surprise and are near instantly cut down by a hail of fire as a group of camouflage-clad Germans rise up from hiding and tear into them; one of the fallshirmjagers leans forward from a hidden break in the hedgerow and fires his Panzerfaust directly at the side of the last Cromwell, cleanly holing it and setting off it’s magazine as pieces blow off in the ensuing explosions. The british crew, jubilant as they were aiming their turrent towards the Panzer Mk IV struggling towards them through the hedgerows off to their right, never saw what hit them as the interior of the tank became a swirling maelstrom of deadly fire, shrapnel, and molten metal.

A SdKfz 251/1 Halftrack pulls from a position just around the front of the hedgerow near the second building, and the gun mounted behind the driver ignites a large gout of flame that leaps across the road, covering the Sherman in a bright blanket of sticky, fiery death.

Men around Moose begin to panic and run. “Well iddint that just swell”, Moose swears as he fights the urge to do the same. 

More Germans are pouring out of the second building and across the yard, cheering and yelling as they advance behind a virtual storm front of small weapons fire; the fallshirmjagers have them partially flanked and men are getting cut down as they leave cover to flee. 

Moose jacks the slide on his BAR, turns, and lays down suppression fire first on the fallshirmjagers, then at the Germans in the yard. He takes a few steps back, quickly reloading as he goes, bullets ricocheting around him, and repeats the move again. More G.I.’s turn to flee under his damnably accurate cover fire and manage to make the woods. Moose reaches for another magazine, but the bandolier is empty and his ammo carrier is nowhere to be seen. 

He decides that now would probably be a good time to run also, and he takes off lumbering towards the edge of the road intending to jump into the ditch and try to work his way back towards where the men are fleeing.

There are several sharp, hornet-stinging impacts on Moose’s back, and he pitches forward hard onto his hands and knees. _I didn’t know dey had hornets over here,_ comes the shocked thought_._

He struggles to get up, wondering why his nose is running so badly. Moose suddenly feels tired, terribly tired, and looks at the hand he just wiped his running nose with, a confused expression on his large baby-face as it comes away covered in red. 

If he could just catch his breath, he could catch up to the guys, but he feels so tired, and his legs won’t work right, and those damn hornets are stinging him again… 

……

Hank, eyes rolling wildly, realizes through the haze in his mind that he is on his hands and knees, a long line of drool connecting his stunned mouth with the torn ground beneath him.

He shakes his head to clear it, and some sound is starting to come back to him as he glances back towards the American column.

Or what is left of it.

The trucks, halftracks, and jeeps jammed up behind the tanks are scattered everywhere, and he can’t see the Captain’s M20 anywhere. The ground around, and behind it is a masticated mess; chewed and slashed and burning everywhere.

_Ding-dangit, I tried to tell ‘em ‘bout them danged ole rockets_, Hank thinks as his eyes sting. He brings up the radio, but as he takes the receiver to his ear the frayed wire just swings freely, back and forth in front of him. Looking dumbly at the radio, he sees a large chunk of smoking shrapnel jammed into the side.

He grabs his binoculars in shaking hands, has to close one eye because the left glass is shattered, and sees the fallshirmjagers spring their ambush.

_Oh, dammit, it’s danged ole LONG past time to git up an’ go_. He stands and sprints towards the shattered column, spotting a jeep that may be serviceable enough to get him the hell out of here.

……

Smitty cycles the bolt on his Springfield and fires. Cycle, fire. Reload, cycle, fire. Cycle, fire.

Germans fall wherever he points his rifle, and he barely registers anything else as his scope fills with moving, firing targets.

He almost, _almost_, feels sorry for the Germans as he strikes them down, unaware, one by one like a bolt from the heavens.

_Lord, _CRACK!_ they just wont… _CRACK!_ stop… _CRACK!_ coming…_

Just then the rockets hit behind his position and he is thrown violently as the tree he is hiding behind EXPLODES outwards in a shower of splinters and flame; he looks up from the ground to see a jeep, trailing flame, cartwheel over his head off of the raised road, the driver screaming as he keeps a death-grip on the wheel.

He looks back at the tree, sees where the shrapnel pieces as large as dinner platters sheared through it, and silently thanks Dad for passing on his good reflexes.

Smitty surveys the destruction around him and glances through the scope again. He sees how badly the battle is going up ahead, and remembers what his Dad told him on some of their South American and African expeditions together. 

_Never be afraid, boy, to pack it up and go home if it gets too rough, no matter how bad you want the hunt or what you have in it; a lion’s skin does you no good if 30 pissed off tribesmen stick you in a pot for it_.

“Yep, Dad, you are damn well right about that”, Smitty remarks as he spots Hank fiddling with a jeep that was tossed off to the side of the road. He grabs up his Springfield and runs, praying that good old Hank has got it started when he gets there.

……

John Brighton realizes that he is, indeed, alive.

Nothing could possibly hurt this bad if you were dead.

_Wow. That’s two now. For chrissakes, how many times do I have to do this?_

He opens his eyes and sees the ground under the remains of his canopy, and realizes that he is upside down. He can smell the fire on his plane, and feel the pain of broken bones and the cold pressure of blood loss. The sound of the battle carries to him pretty well, and he realizes that his plane must have dropped very close to the action on the ground. Blood runs from a nasty cut on his forehead and elsewhere, but he is just glad to be alive. _Only gonna stay alive if I get out of this wreck_. _NOW_.

As hastily as he can, he pushes, claws, and squirms his way out from under the wreckage and crawls painfully a few feet, collapsing onto the ground.

He opens his eyes and sees the tire to a jeep. And two pairs of polished, black boots.

“Hande hoche! Hande hoche! Schnell!”, rings out from the owner of the boots.

“Kommen sie bitte mit uns!”, the second pair adds.

John glances up. Not a jeep. A Kubelwagon. And it brought 2 fellas with schmeissers. 

_Boy oh Boy, this just isn’t one of my better days_, he thinks, shaking his head as he clasps his hands behind his aching neck.

……


“Dammit Hank, come on! Get ‘er moving”, Smitty nervously exclaims.

Hanks voice is muffled from having his head stuck under the steering column. “Dingdang ole thang is busted to tarnation n’ back, Smitty, gimme a danged ole second thar”.

Hank has a hand full of severed wires, in a state of near-panic, and *feels* his way around for the right combination to fire the ignition. They seem to almost squirm in his hand as he rapidly twists them together, the Jeeps engine turning over in protest as the ignition fires.

Smitty looks ahead, sees Germans advancing from everywhere up the road, shooting wildly at fleeing G.I.s, and takes aim at the occasional German soldier, hoping to give the boys a little more time to get away. “Hurry up NOW Hank!”

_Vrroooomm_, the jeep roars to life as Hank bangs his head on the steering column, emerging with a cheer and a goofy smile while rubbing his head and slams the jeep into reverse.

“’Bout time, Hank…”, Smitty starts, as the ominous buzzing roar of an aircraft in a dive reaches their ears...


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Conclusions, and new beginnings]*

Little did Smitty know, just a short ways behind them a Kubelwagon with 2 passengers has stopped, one of them standing beside it looking at a battered M20 command car.

Captain Michaels stares weakly at the strange figure in black leather standing before him, blood trailing from his nose, too badly injured to lift his body off of the mounting ring for his .50 cal.

The… _thing_… lifts its hands, and a voice like someone speaking deeply into a large barrel bellows forth.

*“Amerikanischer Affe. Mai der Fuhrer Piss auf Ihrem Grab.”*

Captain Michaels defiantly spits a gobbet of blood onto the Nazi’s boot, and the last thought he has is of his wife and kids back home before his world is filled with flame, and then darkness.

……


Smitty and Hank swivel back, look in open-mouthed surprise at one another, and both dive leaning to the side as the BF-109’s guns roar.

BRRRAAAAPPP!

Smitty quickly sits up just as Hank leans back up into his seat beside him.

Hank half-stands, laughing and shaking his fist at the climbing plane. 

“HaHAAAA ding-dang ole dummy! Ya missed us ya danged Kraut sissy-boy! HaHAHA!”

Smitty taps Hanks arm, and Hank plops down into his seat.

“Dangit Smitty, leave me be a sec ole buddypal-ding-dangit, we gots ta GO”, Hank shoots over at Smitty as he looks back over his shoulder and pops the clutch, slamming the accelerator to the floor with a silly grin on his face.

Nothing happens.

Smitty taps Hank again, but this time he’s standing beside the jeep. Hank looks at him, a confused look on his face, and a wide-eyed Smitty jabs his finger a couple times in rapid succession towards the front of the jeep.

To where, much to Hank’s chagrin, the smoking engine and front end of the jeep is riddled with bullet holes and spread out all over the road.

“Well hell, I caint fix THAT so easy…”, Hank mumbles, in a daze.

“Hank, gotta go buddy, we got company!”, Smitty says as he pulls Hank’s arm towards the woods and they take off running. They notice a Kubelwagon approaching rapidly, and Smitty wonders how the guy in the back seat is standing up so tall as the little car careens towards them, hitting the brakes.

Germans are closing in from everywhere shooting at them. Smitty duck-slides under several bursts from MP40’s into cover behind a tree, bringing up his Springfield and snapping off a shot at the approaching Germans.

Hank turns back when he hears screeching tires, and then spins back away from Smitty as a round tears into his body, hitting the ground in a boneless lump.

Smitty turns back towards the Kubelwagon, sees the driver cycling the bolt on a large scoped rifle and fires at him. The bullet rips through the windshield and creases a red line across the side of the German, who quickly looks up at Smitty. And smiles.

Just as Smitty is about to chamber another round, the standing German in black leather actually *stands up*, and the Kubelwagon rocks under his weight. Smitty just stares, mouth hanging open, in shock. The Nazi is wearing a black leather overcoat and gloves, a black officers cap, and his face is covered in some kind of black mask, with goggles and 2 hoses that lead off over his shoulders. 

He is at least 9 feet tall.

And then, with a leap, he _flies_ at least 30 feet into the air, stops, and huge gouts of flame race out of his hands to hit the ground explosively into the spot Smitty just rolled out of.

……


John painfully gets to his knees, then to his feet in front of the jeering Nazis. He can see the large house from the crossroads behind them, and is shocked to see the walls contracting and expanding, almost _breathing_, amber light crackling with lightning forcefully spilling out of the windows. There is a teeth-grinding sound building, a dull whine starting to overtake the sounds of the battle.

“Was denken Sie, Hans? Schießen Sie den amerikanischen Flieger und gehen Sie dann haben etwas schnapps?” one of the Nazis, MP40 leveled at John, remarks to the other with a cordial smile.

“Ja. Läßt gehen”, the second, more serious one replies.

John takes a deep, resigned sigh, shoulders slumping, then explodes into action. His fist catches the first one under the chin and he shoves him into the second, then turns and sprints as fast as he can away from them.

_Master race my ass_, he thinks with a rueful smile_, too stupid to figure out if someone speaks German before talking about killing him right in front of him_.

He hears them recover and fire, the bullets kicking up blasts of dust around him, but he’s in rare form, adrenaline pumping wildly through his system, and though injured he is convinced he’s not too injured to get the hell out of here.

Their footsteps ring out behind John as they scream for him to stop, firing their MP40’s to little effect.

John hazards a smirking glance back, catches his toe on a root, and stumbles.

Just then, the entire world seems to go dark for a second, as if holding in a large breath, and slows to a tenth of its normal speed.

There is a WHUMP followed by a high keening as a perfect dome of crackling amber energy sweeps outward from the house, sloughing it off like a dried snakeskin. It SCREECHES horribly as it grows outwards in size, sweeping up tanks, trees, and loose earth before it and tossing them like a tidal wave of rumbling lightning.

John feels his body start to hit the ground as time slows, sees the Germans start to glance backwards in slow motion as the SCREAMING amber semi-sphere overtakes them.

John raises his hands protectively, a “no no nonono” escaping his lips involuntarily as both Germans FLASH to skeletons when the wall of energy reaches them, their bony faces locked in a fleshless rictus of surprise and intense pain, and continues unabated towards him.

……


Hank blinks through the pain in his side and tries to sit up, wondering when it got so dark, as a strange ground-shaking WHUMP sound brings him back to reality.

He hears Smitty screaming wildly and when he looks, he inhales a deep, stuttering breath, choking back bile, as everything slows around him to a crawl.

Smitty is on one knee, left arm raised protectively over his face and mouth wide in pain and anguish, as the enormous German hovers above him, gouts of flame from his hands burning the flesh on Smitty’s arm to the bone and washing over the left side of his face.

Hank begins to scream as the hairs raise all over his body.

A rippling amber wall of WAILING lightning races towards them, trucks and trees bouncing down the road ahead of it, and then passes over Hank, Smitty, and the Germans.

The world becomes a bright, white light for all of them.

There was no more sound.

There was no more pain.

And then, there was no more anything.


----------



## pogre

The mini-thread got me over here, and I am sure glad it did! Cool stuff.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Dang! What a cliffhanger! That's not the end, is it?

BTW, I also started reading *Medallions*, but I got a long way to go...


----------



## Len

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> Dang! What a cliffhanger! That's not the end, is it?



No, I don't think so:


			
				ledded said:
			
		

> Heh. And we havent even mentioned the C-47 yet, have we?


----------



## barsoomcore

Holy crap.

Led, you're kicking some serious narrative rear end. This thing is FLYING.

Keep it coming, keep it coming...


----------



## fenzer

No kidding Ledded.  This is really good.  Don't leave us hagging man!  Post!


----------



## caixa

*Think I found some "suck"*

Sorry Ledded,

After reading your storyhour, and then comparing it with both the Medallions storyhour and your own Minis thread, I must admit that I have found some definite "suck"....

It *SUCKS * that I haven't played in one of your group's games!  The plots you guys come up with, the eye candy of terrain and minis, the flavor of characters - it all burns my eyes in the most delightful way as I read each and every post!  

Okay, that's the only "suck" I could find!  Keep up the good stuff, not only do you guys impress the hell outta me, you keep me inspired - allowing me to do things like Castle Lionguard!

Desperately wishing you would run a Con-game near Michigan,
Peterson


----------



## fenzer

How do these get to page two so fast?  Bump.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Aftermath]*

………

France, Near St Lo, late June 1944, 12:47 pm

“Get this one loaded and we’ll finish this up”, the scarred man ordered the two American sergeants as they loaded a stretcher bearing an unconscious, red-headed man into a military ambulance truck.

He surveyed the scene; even if he had ever read, or heard of, Dante’s Inferno, he would have been hard pressed to find a passage comparable to the blasted and twisted landscape around him. Tanks lay buried barrel-first in the mud, trees were blackened and twisted, their bark peeled off like some kind of obscene banana. Even the grass was gray and dead, it’s life pulled free of the confines of tissue just as it’s color was. 

And then the bones. Piles of twisted skeletons, devoid of any living tissue, lay among the ruins, some still maintaining a hold on their weapons as they were fired in life. Upon inspection, even their marrow had been dried to soft, chalky debris. But more amazing had been the discovery of several living subjects in the 200 yard perfectly circular killing zone.

“Sir! Sir? I think we have… something… over here”, the voice breaks into his thoughts.

“What is it, lieutenant?”

A young man came jogging up in an American uniform with an odd insignia on one arm.

“Well, sir, it’s… well, um…”

The scarred man interrupted in a harsh, tired growl as he lit another camel and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Spit it out, son, I don’t have all day here!”

“S-Sorry sir, it’s just that…”, he stops, and places one hand against his temple and slowly looks around the area, a look of concentration evident on his face.

“Well, sir, the energy readings, as you know, are off the roof. It’s made it a bit tricky to find, um, subjects among the wreckage”, the young lieutenant speaks more rapidly as he stops his panning and concentrates in one direction.

“Yeah? And?” the scarred man replies.

The young man starts walking back the way he came, carefully picking his steps among the debris and ruin in the area.

“You see sir, I found elevated energy readings indicative of elevated ESS activity like the others, but performing a cursory scan found only traces of living tissues, so I think it was overlooked earlier”.

The scarred man, following, replies “Could you get to the point, son, I am startin’ to lose my patience here”.

The young man stops by the boles of several twisted trees, then carefully steps into the mess.

“Here sir, just look… it *looks* like a, um, man, only, well… it’s not. It’s not really *alive*, or at least how we define ‘alive’. ”

“What do you mean by that, soldier?” comes the skeptical reply.

“Only, well, the concentration of ESS activity comes from it, er, him, though he doesn’t read as alive, but it, er, 'he' is organic, at least partially”, the young lieutenant nervously stutters out.

There is an impatient sigh and the young lieutenant is pushed out of the way. 

“Move, lemme see there boy.”

The scarred man pushes forward and does indeed look. There, in a small depression, lay a man. Or at least he thought it was a man. He had the requisite amount of limbs and digits all right, and skin, if the skin was a bit of a strange color with a slightly waxy quality. It was the eyes, though, silver and staring, and the strange, whitish-yellow waxy/runny quality to several areas on the body that looked like wounds of some sort that was the most peculiar. Even as he watched, of the eyes began blinking with a soft, blue light and several of the injured areas slowly _congealed_ and began reforming back to the whole.

The scarred man’s cigarette hung limply from his lip, his one good eye like a saucer, when he finally, softly, spoke.

“Well. You just don’t see that every day.”

“Yes, sir, which is why I wanted you to see this. I theorize that from the… sir, Sir? I don’t think you should be… sir don’t…”

The scarred man reaches forward and pokes the thing in the chest with his finger.

Immediately, both eyes SNAP blue, and the scarred man jumps as the ends of the fingers pop up like a hinged cap to a pez dispenser, releasing long metallic claws with an audible SNIKT.

……

S-s-s-syste… s-systems coming online…, the words scroll up what looks like a glass window, a distorted figure in view behind it with a scarred face.

Serrr.. sens… Sensory apparatus indicating po-po-po-potential thrrreaaatt…

Cautionary derrr… deffff… defense measures activatiiiiiiiiiid…

Potential…thrrrr…thrrreat analysis… holding… recognition…

dEErrsssHHKKKS eAkls diaffffflles… diaaaag… diagnostic measures inititated…

d-d-daaaammarerre d-d-daaamage to cognitive systems… Repairing…

Self repair… engaged at 47%...

Power systems as 9% and holding…

Movement systems… 12% operational; motive actuators offline…

Initiating core programming and memory checks…

…pattern recognition sensors… 96% effective and operational…

…hard imprint kernel and core programming systems… 63% operational and online…

…random access flashable memory systems… ERROR ERROR ERROR

…ERROR widespread damage and systems corruption: Cause: energy surge temporal associative and/or causal dislocative non-compensation

…operational capacity 0.6% and failing… ERROR 

…engage emergency data recovery, hard-systems commit…

…replay analysis dump of existing data begins in 3… 2… 1…


……


----------



## Broccli_Head

ledded said:
			
		

> The scarred man’s cigarette hung limply from his lip, his one good eye like a saucer, when he finally, softly, spoke.
> 
> Immediately, both eyes SNAP blue, and the scarred man jumps as the ends of the fingers pop up like a hinged cap to a pez dispenser, releasing long metallic claws with an audible SNIKT.




No you didn't! 

Great lil' tribute, ledded, if I'm reading this right...a double tribute? (Nick Fury/Wolverine combo?)

Can't wait until the next issue!  Love the way you visually convey a comic-book feel.


----------



## ledded

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> No you didn't!
> 
> Great lil' tribute, ledded, if I'm reading this right...a double tribute? (Nick Fury/Wolverine combo?)



 

You may be at least partially correct.  Stay tuned, there is another update coming tomorrow.



> Can't wait until the next issue! Love the way you visually convey a comic-book feel.



Now that is the best compliment I've received yet, as that is what I'm trying to do and often feel like I'm *not* doing well enough.  Thanks.


----------



## fenzer

Okay Ledded.  First I was thinking Data, then Borg, then holy crap!  Nicely done buddy.


----------



## Old Drew Id

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> if I'm reading this right...a double tribute? (Nick Fury/Wolverine combo?)






			
				fenzer said:
			
		

> First I was thinking Data, then Borg, then holy crap!




 NO, I am proud to say that this is the unveiling of my PC for ledded's game. And I assure you; a cross between Data, a Borg, and Wolverine would still be way more _normal_ than this guy


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?]*

He opens his eyes, and scans the room around him. The viewer of the playback sees from within his viewpoint, and realizes that this *is* him, some time in the recent past.

He is connected to some sort of powerful machine, a variety of tubes, wires, and transparent display screens scrolling characters in French and German surrounding him. There is a low thrumming of power that is steadily increasing in counterpoint to some distant machinery sounds, presumably above him.

A grey-haired man in a lab coat stands nearby, making adjustments to floating touch-panels that appear to be made of some kind of chromatic constructs; like living keypads made of color. His old and overweight frame belies the deft workmanship in his hands as they rotate, select, pull, and push different data objects across his workspace of color. He is Dr. Surendiere-Munke, French underground scientist turned owner of one of the best _fromage_ factories in all of France.

An attractive woman of late middle-age moves into view, and places her hand almost lovingly on the doctor’s arm. Dr. Adalia Groebels, former German heuristics and artificial intelligence expert in hiding, and wife of Dr. Surendiere-Munke. 

Dr. Surendiere-Munke glances at her and nods, smiling, and then looks back at him.

“Ah, you are ready, no? You are recording? _Oui?_ Very good then” he speaks in a heavy French accent. “You will be the first, _mon ami_, to help reclaim our peoples birthright. You, along with your brothers, will set right the evils of long ago”, he says, gesturing at a bank of similar looking creatures, all with identical features but in the uniforms of a different country.

Allied uniforms, comes the thought in the mind of the viewer as he watches the playback.

Thought? Define ‘thought’. Unit not designed for human ‘thought’. Store inquiry for later analysis.

As the playback pans vision, there are 2 maps on the one wall not covered in machinery and wires. The first has a digital readout with the date of June 22, 1944 10:04 am on it, with a large circle in red light on a specific spot in France near the long dead town of St. Lo. The map shows the spread of axis forces during the Second World War, their footholds in Europe, Italy, and Russia with swastikas and black inking over the German war machine’s territories.

The second map is nearly covered in black ink; the island of England is covered with a large swastika, and most of Ireland also. What would be the United States is broken into many different areas, many of them black, and Canada is a dark threatening mass hovering over it, South America a black cancer eating at its soft underbelly. Russia, Africa, the Mediterranean, even most of Asia are shown under the dark emblem of the Third Reich, barring small pockets of national colors here and there, mostly surrounded by the dark stain of tyranny and ugly stamp of the Nazi swastika.

The clock on the map reads June 22, 2059 09:59 am, and the seconds continue to tick as the surrounding machinery begins to THRUM more insistently, and a metal-tiled circle on the floor begins to slowly glow, filling the air with a column of sparkling amber energy.

Dr Surendiere-Munke hums the old French national anthem, from before the Great Collapse, and Dr Goebels shakes her head with a smile.

“Oui? Love, what is it? My singing offends you?”, the Doctor looks to his wife in concern.

“Ach_, __meine liebe_, your anachronistic love for your near-dead culture is vat has endeared you to me in ze first place”, she replies to him, love apparent in her voice.

“Ah, and I thought it was your love for fine wines and my astute intellect that brought you to my door, _mon bonbon_”, he replies playfully.

“Yes, it vas zat, but also because I knew about vat you vere secretly doing, and wanted to… help”.

“You mean, you were a human among animals, no?”, comes his soft, serious inquiry.

“_Ja_. And now we have created them, from materials even ze Reichlund cannot trace to us, in a place underneath your cheese factory that they would never have thought. Warriors all, to send back in hopes to prevent the end, zeir _verdammt_ Gotterdammerung, one for each of the Allies. Armed vis knowledge, vis hope, vis power…”

“With a true appreciation for fine French culture! Do not forget!”, he interrupts passionately.

She replies, smiling. “How could I_, meine liebe?_ You are truly a brilliant man._”_

“Well, yes, that is true, but my secret advances in cybernetics, enzyme reclamation and therapeutics would have been nothing without your brilliant work in machine intelligence and temporal anomolies. But enough back-patting, _mon ami_, it is nearly time; we cannot be so much as a second late in matching the energy signatures or we shall fail.”

The doctor steps in front of him, holding up a small plaque on a chain, similar to ancient dogtags; he has a strange look on his face as he slips the dogtags over the viewer’s neck.

A memory painfully flashes in the viewers present self’s awareness, a brief tag about the AE Genetic Harmonious Stabilization Act of 2022. 

More commonly known as the Axis Empire Great Sterilization Act.

Pride? Fatherly Pride? Does not compute. Unit not known to be equipped to convey/interpret emotions, comes the confused thought to the viewer, as his present self’s programming underlies the playback analysis with a short message about non-terminal visual actuator orifice fluids leakage.

On the tag is spelled out a designation which the viewer notes with familiarity.

*French Resistance Operative Guerilla-Built Operational Trooper*, the text scrolls across his display.

*That* is who I am. Query: concept “who” foreign in processing reference to unit? Please clarify.

The viewer’s attention is redirected to the playback as Dr. Goebels suddenly stops, cocking her head.

“Doctor, do you hear that?“, she asks.

“What? I hear nothing but the temporal transference device reaching it’s apex, so now is not the time to...“

“EXACTLY... the machinery upstairs has stopped.“


“Nonsense. The machinery never stops, all day and night, we make the cheese and wine for our black hearted oppressors“, a look of confusion on his face.

They turn to one another as the temporal transference device revs up to a shimmering, droning crescendo, a look of dawning comprehension on their faces.

“Quick! To the defensive phasing array, we must...“, Dr Surendiere-Munke starts to yell.

There is a quick, red seam appearing on the opposite wall, and the hidden blast doors suddenly melt into the floor into a rapidly cooling pile of metal. Blonde haired, blue eyed troopers in black ceramic-composite body armor with the dark eagle insignia and swastika of the Reichlund, the Axis Empire’s secret police, burst into the room carrying their disrupter rifles. They are followed by a large, 9-foot black-leather clad Nazi giant, his facemask and breathing tubes obscuring his face.

“Too late“, Dr Goebels says to her husband.

“We have been betrayed, _ma beauté_“, the doctor realizes aloud with growing horror.

The Nazi’s voice BOOMS throughout the room.

*“We have found you both at long last. Now, you, the final thorn in our side, shall die. Long live ze Fatherland!“*, and with an abrupt motion molten fire erupts from his hands and tears through the line of still android troopers, and his men begin firing.

Dr Adalia Goebels, wanted fugitive from the Axis Empire and shame to her fore-fathers, pulls a particle accelerator rifle from a nearby rack and begins firing wildly into the soldiers pouring into the room. 

“Complete the process, _meine liebe_, or all will be for naught!” she screams as she lays down a stuttering barrage of particles ZIPPING near the speed of light, cutting down several Reichlund agents like wheat and forcing many others to take cover. She yells commands and the remaining androids, all except for the one connected to the machine recording the scene, leap into the fray claws extended. Troopers scream and die as blood paints slashes of red across the walls in surreal patterns.

His concern for all of humanity the only thing stopping him from running to his wife’s side, Dr Surendiere-Munke, crouches and pulls the final linkages and, glancing at the time actuation meters, triumphantly enters in the final parameters as the column of yellow energy takes on a near-solid form, and the device SCREAMS in protest. He glances at the power indicators… and realizes that the final transference will not occur without a final burst of energy. The Reichlund must have cut the power to the upstairs machines, which they bled energy from, and now they did not have the final 0.2% necessary. They have only seconds before the optimal transfer window. He turns to yell to his wife in frustration.

Dr Surendiere-Munke looks on in horror as Adalia is struck several times by disrupter bolts and stumbles, raising her weapon weakly to fire at the nearest trooper, and is struck full-on by a huge gout of plasma-flame from the gigantic Nazi. She falls, her lifeless eyes seeming to implore him to save her, to put life back into her fragile, smoking breast.

His eyes fill with tears as smoke and fire begins to spread throughout the room as android and trooper body parts are blown and strewn all about, and Dr Surendiere-Munke feels all hope flee from him. “All is lost”, comes the hoarse whisper, and he hangs his head with a sob.

The viewer sees a trooper bring a plasma cannon to bear, hoping to smash the machinery. “Doctor, the cannon“, he hears his own voice reply, as his future/past self steps into the shimmering column of energy. Already he can notice his molecules losing cohesion and solidity, and the scene around him blurs and warbles in the playback.

Dr Surendiere-Munke looks up, sees the cannon, eyes wide in understanding. He grabs his fallen wife’s PA rifle, and turns grimly to him with a nod.

“Viva la France! For Adalia!” is his cry as he leaps in front of the device and his last android. He fires at the cannon wielder, narrowly missing, screaming insults relating to the trooper’s racial lineage in German the whole while. 

The enraged trooper taking the doctor’s purposefully ineffective fire aims the shoulder-fired plasma cannon, meant for blowing blast doors and felling tanks, at the screaming Dr Surendiere-Munke.

“*No! Do not! Noooo!*” the Nazi giant BOOMS, and sends a stream of flaming death to envelop the soldier in a cocoon of immolation.

But not before he fires.

The huge bolt of energy takes the doctor square in the chest and hurls him backwards, past the cylinder of dazzling yellow energy and the form of the Android which is losing corporeal form. The energy bolt stops, however, on the column as it is absorbed. The column of amber energy becomes almost solid looking, strengthened by the needed burst of power. 

The doctor, his last breath slowly leaking from his ruined form, reaches out with a shaking hand towards where his android is fading away, and his last whisper escapes before his eyes glaze over in death, as the last second ticks onto the clock display and a warning siren sounds.

“viva.. la… france…”

The room explodes in the brilliance of a thousand suns, and the playback becomes nothing but static.

……

Playback completed… Last intact memory committed to hard programming storage…

Attempt to access further data for mission deployment…

Accessing history nodes… ERROR… discontinuity detected, WARNING…

Continue access… programming imperatives engaged… for mission success…

The android feels his world seem to quake as his systems delve hard into the memories downloaded into his soft memory core, and a series of rapid, disjointed images flash before his mind.

Images of Nazi supermen by the hundreds wreaking havoc on the battlefield.

Flashes of Allied ships, sinking in harried retreat across the Atlantic as a horizon of dark clouds roil behind them.

Long strings of destroyed cities and countryside across Europe, Africa, Asia, North America, South America.

Millions of dark-clad troopers, swastikas prominent, with more or them flying overhead, filling cities and occupying every aspect of peoples miserable lives.

An image of the Eiffel tower, then immediately another of it’s bent and molten remains.

An image of Big Ben, seconds before it explodes under the power of a titanic detonation which destroys all of London.

A huge rent in the earth, causing oceans to flood and fill around it as an entire city slowly slips into the crevice. A sign that says “Welcome to New York” is one of the last sights before all is a swirling, debris filled sea.

A family plays in a park, then looks up in fear as the sky is filled with thousands of droning aircraft and the entire city of Beijing erupts into flame and death. Millions die.

More destruction.

Amoral killings. Secret Police wanton cruelty. Oppression. Miserable, exhausted people standing in long lines stretching away from Sterilization Centers. Work camps filled with starving children. 

The obliteration of entire races. 

He attempts to re-route the images and data into his core memory, but his perception of the world begins to shake and shudder, like someone violently grabbing a movie projector, and everything starts to crumple in from the edges as if it were celluloid film being slowly crinkled in a giant, invisible hand.

EMERGENCY. EMERGENGY. Temporal disturbance detected. Mission-fatal anomalies sensed.

Everything, the entire world, the entire *timeline* feels as if it is being crushed inwards and torn apart simultaneously, and ROARS towards a certain doom…

CLICK. Then silence.

Paradox Fail-safe initiated. Dumping soft memory core…

Timeline preservation complete, paradox averted… 99.8% soft memory failure…

Core hard-kernel programming 96% intact. Core mission may proceed.

There is a figure in his viewpoint, a scarred man looking down at him concerned.

Ally detected, non-Axis. Disengage defensive/offensive system.

SNIKT. The claws retract and the fingers re-cap themselves.

Unit powering down non-essential systems… Enter repair/recover mode…

The scarred man lifts the dog tags around the android’s throat, and reads the inscription with curious tone.

“French Resistance Operative Guerilla-Built Operational Trooper?”

“Frogbot…” the android whispers, proudly, and then his visual actuators are shrouded in darkness.

……

The scarred man leans back and watches the claws retract and the lights die down in the… things… eyes with a mixture of curiosity and calculated intent.

“I’m not sure what this is, but we better take it with us. Lieutenant, get a stretcher.”

“Yes sir”, the young man replies and sprints off.

The scarred man rubs his face with his hand, and then stops and looks at the finger that he poked the… thing… with. 

He brings it close to his face and sniffs.

“Whew! That’s… strange. Why on earth would it smell like… cheese?”

......


----------



## ledded

ding-dang ole double-posting dagnabbit


----------



## caixa

Just wow.  

I think that's really all that can be said.

Wow.

Peterson


----------



## Old Drew Id

ledded, amazing job. Simply amazing. 

For the other readers out there, I have to remind everyone about that ledded's impressive DMing and story-shaping skills here, because all of this that he is describing was for a game that was initially just supposed to be a one-shot experiment with the d20 supers and WWII rules. And instead he crafted it into all of this. (And it was even more fun to play in that it is to read about!)


----------



## fenzer

Damn Ledded.  That was really good.  You don't mess around do you.  I love this stuff.  I have a similar story of time travel and nazis but I think I like this one better, so far anyway.     

Sorry for the brain cramp but I want to make sure I follow what has happened here.  A number of our heroes see a light eminating from a building on the German side of the battle field wondering what it could be.  The pulsating light coming from inside the building is the visual representation of the temporal transference device in this timeline, correct?  And the big boom that vaporized everything and everyone was not some nasty nazi weapon but infact the effect of temporal tranference, right?

I'm sure this is absolutely clear for everyone else.  Sometime my synapsies oppperate on a five second delay.  Thanks for the clarification.


----------



## Broccli_Head

ledded said:
			
		

> “Frogbot…” the android whispers, proudly, and then his visual actuators are shrouded in darkness.





That's rich! 

Great Acronym, and a very nice post...with enough cheeziness to make like a comic book


----------



## ledded

fenzer said:
			
		

> Damn Ledded. That was really good. You don't mess around do you. I love this stuff. I have a similar story of time travel and nazis but I think I like this one better, so far anyway.
> 
> Sorry for the brain cramp but I want to make sure I follow what has happened here. A number of our heroes see a light eminating from a building on the German side of the battle field wondering what it could be. The pulsating light coming from inside the building is the visual representation of the temporal transference device in this timeline, correct? And the big boom that vaporized everything and everyone was not some nasty nazi weapon but infact the effect of temporal tranference, right?
> 
> I'm sure this is absolutely clear for everyone else. Sometime my synapsies oppperate on a five second delay. Thanks for the clarification.



EDIT:  I realized belatedly that I wrote it a bit vague so you could form your own conclusions and have them set on their ear later.  Man, sometimes I'm dumb as a post, I can't even keep my own story mechanics right.  So the real answer to your question is:

Dont you wish you knew   .



			
				Old Drew Id said:
			
		

> ledded, amazing job. Simply amazing.
> 
> For the other readers out there, I have to remind everyone about that ledded's impressive DMing and story-shaping skills here, because all of this that he is describing was for a game that was initially just supposed to be a one-shot experiment with the d20 supers and WWII rules. And instead he crafted it into all of this. (And it was even more fun to play in that it is to read about!)



Hey look everybody, it's OldDrewId from Medallions! *Waving*  

Thanks for the kind words, man.  It's nice to hear coming from one of the board's unquestioned masters of storytelling  



			
				Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> That's rich!
> 
> Great Acronym, and a very nice post...with enough cheeziness to make like a comic book



I accept no credit... that was all OldDrewId's doing. He came up with a couple paragraphs of description and backstory which threw me out of my chair laughing when I first read it; it helped provide me the final push of inspiration I needed to try and write this SH, because it was just too good not to share. Frogbot is entirely his whole creation that he sprung on me about 2 days before I ran the session that he brought him in on, and we haven't even gotten to the good parts yet.

EDIT: oh, i get it now.  "Cheeziness".  Heh.  Hehheh.

....


----------



## fenzer

ledded said:
			
		

> EDIT:  I realized belatedly that I wrote it a bit vague so you could form your own conclusions and have them set on their ear later.  Man, sometimes I'm dumb as a post, I can't even keep my own story mechanics right.  So the real answer to your question is:
> 
> Dont you wish you knew   .




You may be able to edit out the copy my old friend but my mind is a steel trap.  Oh, I remember what you wrote and I'm not likely to forget any time soon.  So  right back at ya!


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [You're In The Army Now]*

England, July 1944, 9:24 am.

John slowly stirs from a dream-filled slumber, his sleep filled with disturbing half-images and vague rememberings of pain.

He looks around blearily, and notices the room is mostly white, and quiet except for the low hum of some kind of machinery.

John tries to raise his head, and realizes that he can barely move. His body is surrounded with a strange contraption of metal bracings, tubes, and wires, and the hum is coming from machinery just out of his limited field of vision. Something reminding him of pieces of an iron lung crossed with being in traction. There is the occasional _hissss-pop_ of some device pumping fluids.

He is able to move just enough to notice that there are several other men in similar situations in the room; machinery and white beds, tubes feeding into and out of their bodies and their limbs restrained by some kind of framed-metal and wire harnesses.

There is movement near the door, and a British voice fuzzily penetrates the fog in his mind.

“Hey, one of ‘em’s coming ‘round. Go fetch the Captain, will you old boy?” the voice says as a blurry image of a man in a lab coat comes closer.

“It’s all right there, son, just stay still. You were in a terrible accident, and you don’t want to start moving just yet”. John can barely feel the pressure of a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Then, the voice continues softer, as if spoken to someone else, “Hurry, get a team in here, we need to get some energy readings while he’s conscious.”

“And get the guard in here, double watches… just in case”.

John struggles to make out more, but he can’t fight off the inky shroud of unconsciousness as it slowly wraps him once again in its firm, warm embrace, and the dreams begin again.

……

There are 7 of them in the room, all in hospital beds surrounded by a network of machinery, braces, wires, and tubes. All of them feel weak and strange, but after regaining consciousness this morning they have been hand-fed and are mysteriously without pain from their last injuries.

While the British nurses and orderlies have been friendly, they haven’t told them very much of anything at all, and with the limited amount of movement they have it’s growing a bit frustrating for them all. 

The silent, armed MPs in all corners of the room are a bit nerve-racking too, especially since they seem even more nervous than the bed-ridden men caged in their hissing, popping contraptions.

They’ve managed to talk a little, and introduced themselves to John Brighton after the last nurse left and they gave up on trying to get the MPs to talk.

“Hey Smitty, ding-dangit, you alrighty there, danged ole buddy?” Hank calls down to the bed a couple down from him.

“Yeah, I’m swell. Cant move, and my arm and head are in some kind of bandages, but I’m not hurtin’ very much so it can’t be all that bad. Feel pretty strange though”, Smitty replies.

Smitty looks at the large form in the bed next to him and calls over, “How ‘bout you Moose? You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m ok, a bit sore, and I want outta ‘dis thing. But I’m ok, dontcha know”.

“You guys remember anything, ya know, like what happened to us dere? John, whatta ‘bout you dere?”, Moose inquires.

Before anyone can reply, the doors burst open and several men enter.

Two of them come to stand in the middle of the room, where the men in their beds can see them.

One of them is a large, stiff, scowling man, a thumb-thick, nasty scar running out of his short hair and down across his puckered cheek, disappearing for a moment under his eyepatch. His good eye is dark and intense as it sweeps, hawk-like, across the prone patients. He is obviously a man built for action from the way he moves, confidence and the promise of violence in every step. _Like a big predator cat, _Smitty thinks when he sees him. He is dressed in the uniform of an American paratrooper and a Captain’s insignia rests on his collar; a black glove covers his right hand and wrist.

The second man provides quite a counterpoint. He slouches slightly, a cigarette held loosely in one hand, the other in the pocket of his British paratrooper’s field jacket. His dark red beret is cocked at a jaunty angle, and a quirky smile turns his lip, as if he’s heard a joke that no one else has heard, or gets. He is impeccably clean, and incredibly handsome with clear, toned skin, flashing boyish eyes, and straight white teeth framed in his smile that just seem to say “hello love, it’s all in a bit of fun, there, hey?”.

The scarred man’s voice is a deep, commanding growl as he stubs out a cigarette and speaks.

“Gentlemen. My name is Captain Smith. Jonathan Smith, United States Army. This here”, gesturing to his British counterpart, “is Captain Errol Smith, we…”

“_Smythe_, old boy. _Smythe_. Long “i” sound”, interrupts the British Captain with a mocking smile and a foppish gesture with his cigarette.

Captain Smith spares him an annoyed glance before turning back to the men. “_Smythe_. We have good news and bad news”.

“The… explosion… that you witnessed killed nearly every man it reached. You are the only survivors. We aren’t quite sure exactly what it was, but is _awoke_ something in each of you, and there are several doctors here that wish to interview you individually about the occurrence later. But, first things first.”

Captain Smith hesitates for a second, takes a deep breath, and continues. Even Smythe seems lost in thought for a moment.

“Well, there is no better way to put it. Each of you, I suspect, has always felt a little… different. There is something that has happened to you, or something you’ve done in the past, that you couldn’t explain.”

Hank swallows hard, and when he peers around the room he sees the others looking around in a similar nervous manner, as Captain Smith continues.

“Look, some men are survivors. Some men are great soldiers or great warriors. Some men are great leaders. Some men will do anything, give anything, for a cause that they believe is just.”

“And some men are something… more”, Smith lets the thought hang for a moment, then continues.

“Mythology, folk tales, movies, comic books, even religions are chock-full of stories about these kind of men.”

“Exceptional men. The Nazis call theirs Ubermenschen. Super-men. Proof of Aryan supremacy. Of course they leave out the part where they can come from all walks or life and all races, except that the Nazis have been gathering all that they could since the early 30’s, while assassinating every one that wouldn’t join with them.”

“To put in simple, people with enhanced talents, Supers, are real, and you are all one of them. As are Smyth and I.”

The room sits in perfect silence.

……

“Now for the bad news”, and with that he gestures at several nurses, who hold up for each man to read a single sheet of paper.

The heading is “United States Army”, it is addressed to “Mr and Mrs _________”, and begins with this sentence: 

“We regret to inform you that your son, _______, was killed in late June in heroic action against German forces. He was a good…”

“Boys, you are dead”, Captain Smith’s growl interrupts their reading.

“One of those was delivered to each of your surviving family 2 weeks ago. You have been here for several weeks recuperating from your experience, and quite frankly, being studied and measured to make sure you are not a threat to Allied security. I know this is a harsh measure, but it has been taken quite frankly for your safety and ours.”

“Since there only exists rumor and innuendo about ‘super humans’ in our history and any that may have existed in the past have probably stayed underground for fear of oppression and whatnot. But now we know that many of our myths and legends are in fact, true. The last 20 years has apparently seen more and more activity of this nature. The public isn’t quite ready for this, but Hitler wants to show the world his supermen, claiming that it’s proof of his race’s purity or some-such horse manure. We want to stop that, and him, before it’s too late.”

“You see boys, your country needs you. Hell, the whole world needs you. Before we truly understood the implications of Super Talents, the Nazis had an entire program of them. And they are so far beyond us in their understanding and their technology. Actually, most of the technology in this program has either been smuggled or stolen from them.”

“We need you to join us, to keep this silent until we are ready. You have no more ties to your former life; like I said, everyone who ever knew you thinks you are dead. Here you will begin fresh as the spearhead against Nazi aggression. There aren’t many of us on the allied side, and the Nazi’s have technology and plans we don’t understand; they have at least dozens of Ubermenschen that we know of. It won’t be easy, but we need you. What do you say?”

Hanks looks to the others and begins to speak, “Ding-dangit, um, sir, jus’ whatcha want us ta do?”

John Brighton looks coldly at Captain Smith and asks, “Do we have a choice, sir?”

Another man immediately speaks up from the second bed, “Are you friggin nuts? I’ve had about ALL of this I’m gonna take there. Lemme go now, I think you’ve damn well had enough out of me.”

Captain Smith looks at him sharply and replies, “Son, let me state again just how much your services are gonna be needed. Now is not the time to be worried about your own hide. There’s a war on, or ain’t you heard?”

“Damn you and yer war, you old battle axe. I aint fightin’ for ya anymore, I just wanna go home. Now let… me… go…”, the man replies, venom dripping from every word. The others in the room feel an odd *pressure* at the man’s words.

Smith glances at Captain Smythe, who *looks* intently at the man for a few moments, lost in concentration.

“I say there, old bean, you quite sure about that”, he asks in quiet earnestness, all playfulness gone from him voice now. His voice sounds strange to the others, far off but really close at the same time.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I got nothing for ya. Now lemme go”, the man in bed two speaks through clenched teeth.

Captain Smythe glances down, sadness apparent in his features as his head gives a barely perceptible shake to Captain Smith. Smith, good eye as hard as ever, takes a deep breath and speaks in a quiet, even voice.

“Very well then son, that’s your choice. Orderly, let him go.”

A large man in a white shirt and pants calmly steps up next to the man in bed two and begins turning knobs and controls on the machinery encasing him. He looks at the scowling man in bed two, gives him a comforting smile, and then pulls a lever down. The popping and hissing of the machine slowly stops.

“’Bout friggin’ time, I was about to…”, he starts as he sits forward, then stares for a moment. This is a small cough followed by a wheeze of breath leaving his body before he _thumps_ back into the bed, dull lifeless eyes staring in surprise at the ceiling above.

“Well, I think that, um, answers my question. Sir”, John Brighton says in a small, frightened voice. 

Smitty looks on, trying hard to appear calm, while Moose has the wide-eyed, slack-jawed look of a man who just caught a two-by-four with the back of his head.

Captain Smith looks back to the group as Captain Smythe lights another cigarette, shaking his head.

“So. We have any more… dissenters?”

Hank *pulls* at the machinery encasing his right arm with his will, and the metal groans and peels away from his arm. He sits forward and offers his trembling hand in a handshake.

“D-d-d-ing-d-d-dangit, danged ole, g-g-glad ta be aboard, ITellYouWhat, sir, I’m yer man, iffin’ you jes don’t go an’ unplug me there…”, he sputters, eyes like dinner plates.

The captain reaches out to shake Hank’s hand, and Hank can _sense_ the metal running through his body as he takes Hank’s hand in his cold grasp. A chorus of voices adds to the moment.

“Hey dere, me too, sir!”

“Yes sir, count me in.”

“Yup, I’m with the program, sir.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n. Point the way.”

Both Captains look around the room for a moment as the orderly quietly and efficiently rolls bed two away and out of sight.

……

“All right then”, Smith continues, “I’ll tell you a little more about what we do”.

“We are a new division of the OSS, called the ESS. Enhanced Soldier Subjects”, pointing to the insignia patch on his right arm. 

A shield-like patch with a dark green stylized “S” on an olive drab field, with a dark green border.

They all stare at the patch for a moment before Moose rumbles an opinion.

“Yer kiddin’, right?”

Smith opens his mouth to answer as Smythe merrily pipes up. 

“Oh, we get that a lot, old bean. Rather stylish, I think”, he finishes with a mocking smile.

Smith just stares at him a moment before continuing.

“Yes, well, like I said, you are now members of an elite organization. Our job is to aid the Allies as much as possible against the Axis threat, and the Nazi’s have a pretty big head start on us.”

“Secrecy is our ally, and we operate under our own rules and answer only to our immediate command. Each of you has special talents, just like Smythe and I do, that we will be able to exert to gather intelligence and fight the Axis war machine.”

At this pronouncement, several orderlies begin removing bandages from several of the men, including Smitty, as they all are helped, shaking, from the machinery they are sheathed within.

Smitty looks down in shocked horror as the bandages are removed from his left arm.

Where there should be flesh and bone, there is a series of metal struts, pistons, and tiny clockwork gears in dark mockery of a human form. He feels that there are other metal braces in his shoulder, his ribcage, and other areas where the horrible fire of the giant Nazi had burned him; he can move it perfectly, even feel a little bit in it. His shoulder looks like something from a Frankenstein story where metal meets flesh in a series of stitches and bolts. Smitty’s hand moves to his eye, his shooting eye, and stops there, trembling as the bandage is removed from his head.

“Yes son. It won’t be easy for you with other people. Trust me, I know”, comes Captain Smith’s voice, coming to stand by Smitty’s bed. Smitty looks up at him as the Captain unbuttons his sleeve and removes his glove to reveal that his arm is also a garish technological contraption. He then flips up his eyepatch to reveal a dull red light encased in a metal shroud where his eye should be, making small _whirring_ noises as it rotates to look around him in humorless parody of a human eye. “Think of it as a gift from Adolph.”

Captain Smith puts his glove back on and returns to the center of the room.

“Each of you will receive training and testing of your powers over the next few weeks. Once you are deemed ready you will be assigned your first mission.”

He takes a folder from a waiting man, one with the words “Top Secret” stamped on them in red ink, and uses his commando knife to cut the seal and toss the contents onto a table brought in for the men to sit at. Nurses bring in coffee and tea for the men as they gingerly take seats.

“These are from the 1936 Olympics, just a few days prior to the event at a sort of dress rehearsal. Hitler had planned on springing this on the world; his first Ubermenschen to compete, and show the world his power”.

The pictures show the crowds at the stadium full of German soldiery and citizens, all giving the heil Hitler salutes, as Hitler himself salutes a man in athletic clothing as he *flies* over the stadium, Olympic torch in hand.

“That is der Flieger, who I killed only 2 days before the Olympics. Smith and I..."

"_Smythe_, old bean", Smythe interrupts, smiling.

"_Smythe_ and I were one of the first teams of Allied ESSes. We went in to prevent this display. Many didn’t come back, and some of us only partly came back”, he finishes, looking down at his metallic arm.

There are other pictures and notes showing burning French tanks and Polish soldiers being herded by men with a variety of fantastic abilities; flying, firing flames from their hands, giants throwing huge boulders.

“Read up on this information, and remember that this is all of the utmost secrecy now. When you are ready for duty your training starts. Good day gentlemen.”

Captain Smith snaps off a salute, and the sitting men all jump and salute him back. He does an about-face and stalks out of the room. Captain Smythe, slouching against the wall, gives more of a smiling wave than a salute and saunters out of the room.

He stops, turns, and mockingly tosses over one shoulder, “Well, then, old beans, it’s really not as bad as all that. I mean, at least you didn’t have to wake up to this in *France*.”

He smiles and walks away.

The men all just sit for a few moments, looking silently at the pictures of Ubermenschen horrors on the table, then at each other.

The only sound for several minutes is an audible _gulp_ from Moose.

……


----------



## ledded

One of the photographs Smith tossed out onto the table, which I gave the players as a handout (and yes, it was stolen from Godlike):


----------



## fenzer

Love it Ledded.  Keep it coming.


----------



## pogre

Cool Handout.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Basic Training, Hank-style]*

England, 1944, late July.

_Weeks pass_… 

Hank took another deep breath and tried to not let his irritation show.

“Alrighty now, give ‘er another try there gov’ner”, the cockney-accented voice carried to Hank once again.

He looked again at the huge open cube of steel girders sitting in the hanger’s floor. Over five feet tall and over a thousand pounds worth, it looked like a giant child’s toy. Several men dressed like Oxford professors, lab-coated technicians, and a few uniformed military men stood nearby, all looking to Hank. A few looked on with concern, taking notes and nodding as they watched. Most just looked bored. Several shook their heads and made snide comments under their breath. 

Hank knew that the explosion had made something different _inside_ him. He could feel the metal sitting there, almost see it like a shining beacon with his eyes closed. Almost caress the shapes of it with his mind, the balance of imperfect/perfect latticework in its structure. 

He knew that he could do things, things that didn’t make sense to him, but Hank was tired. 

And a little scared.

Ever since he ‘volunteered’ for this team, they had been putting them through their paces; attaching them to strange machines, doing grueling physical tests, drilling them endlessly about how they felt, how they thought, how they slept. It was all very annoying, to be honest. Plus, he could feel this… force… building inside him, the same feeling he got way back when he fixed his Pa’s tractor, but steadily growing until it reached a near-constant hum in the back of his mind, like he had drank way too much coffee and sneaked a big chaw of his Pa’s chewin’ tobacco.

But they didn’t really care, they just kept pushing, testing, stretching him. They didn’t understand that he was *afraid* of what he might do if he really set it free, but they weren’t happy anymore with his “little sideshows”, as a couple of the snide bastards had started calling it. Especially that little Lord Fancy-Pants, Sir Reginald Sumthin’-Snotty, a nasty kind of fellow with his near-undecipherable royal-soundin’ speech that for some reason had to always be delivered to Hank down the length of his appreciably large and bumpy nose.

It was startin’ to rankle just a bit, really.

But Pa always taught him to be patient with the ignorant.

Hank _drew_ on the feeling inside him, and stretched out a shaking hand at the cube. 

It shivered slightly on the floor, and the hair on Hank’s arms stood on end as he felt the control roll through him and around the cube, heck, *all* the metal in the room.

_Like poking a ding-dang whole inna danged-ole m-m-mud dike_, Hank thought with alarm as the power threatened once again to overwhelm him like a busted riverbank under a Texas flash-flood. _Like whut nearly ding-danged killed me an’ __Pa_.

He closed his eyes and, scared and shaking, _pushed_ the oscillating wave away, back into the core of his mind. He let out another deep, frustrated sigh.

The sound of a slow clap was the first thing that came to him as he opened his eyes, then that damn sarcastic, prissy British voice.

“Oh. Well then. You may very well win this war all by yourself, bumpkin. I say, the American is *quite* a showman. Good show, old boy. You made metal vibrate. Think of how we can annoy countless tank crews with that kind of power”, came Sir Reginald Snodgrass’s caustic comments, accompanied by snickering and a few jeers from his immediate fellows.

Several others spoke up, trying to explain or defend it; but Snodgrass would have none of it as he waved all their complaints away and looked at the shame-faced Hank down his nose like a hawk about to strike on a field mouse.

“Well, it would seem that this has been a monumental waste of our time and effort. This ignorant dirt-scratcher has no more sense than God gave any of the inhabitants of that barren _desert_ plot he calls home, this unholy quagmire of misbegotten rejects he calls _Texas_, and besides, the ill-bred savage doesn’t even speak understandable _English_ for the Queen’s sake! Let’s pack his filthy carcass back to Dixie and be done with him and the ignorant dust-bowl he hails from.”

Well, that just about did it.

He could get all fancy snide on Hank. Talk about him all he wanted.

But you didn’t mess with Texas.

You just didn’t mess with home.

Hank shook with rage, and felt the bonds holding back the flood of power slowly thinning as he went through several homicidal fantasies in his head, watching Snodgrass’s back as he walked off.

“Hey there Snoddy, ding-dang ole Itellyouwhat, I got’s sumthin’ ta show ya…”, Hank said in a perfectly calm voice.

Snodgrass tuned around and, laughing, said, “What? Are you going to reenact a quaint musical of the Alamo for us all in your next act? Or would acting out *that* failure only make you even more homesick?”

Yup. That did it.

Hank’s hand flew up behind him, arm outstretched, eyes never leaving Snodgrass, and it shook as he finally unleashed the hum that had built inside him for the last several weeks.

It rushed through him like a torrent, wrapping the steel cube like a piece of cloth over a round of cheese. He felt as if every hair on his body was trying to snatch free, and a droning exultation filled him instead of the expected dread and pain.

The cube leapt into the air, turned on its corner, and slowly spun in a circle above their heads.

There was a hissing chorus of gasps, and several men slowly backed away.

Hank, never looking at the cube, _smiled_ at Snodgrass, and then made a squeezing motion with his hand, as if crushing a small piece of paper.

The cube crushed inwards with incredible speed.

Hank twirled his fingers. The beams tore apart, quickly arranged themselves, and all began spinning above their heads in a grotesque caricature of a chorus line of kicking stick-figures.

Hank grinned at Snodgrass as the figures stopped dancing, straightened, and arranged themselves over Snodgrass’s head like a column of rotating metal spikes.

Snodgrass looked up, eyes wide, and made a loud swallowing noise.

He looked back to Hank, and noticed that his grin was showing teeth and gums and contained very, very little humor at the moment.

“Um, uh, I s-s-say, there… oh dear…”, Sir Reginald Snodgrass moaned, raising one arm protectively as the column suddenly ceased spinning and the room became deathly quiet, except for a very faint “oh.. oh… oh no… ohhhh no…” from somewhere in the back.

*SPLANG!*

When the dust settled, and people regained their feet and wits. The first person noticed that where Snodgrass was, there stood a large cage of metal beams, perfectly enclosing his entire body as tightly as a suit, including his now comically-upraised arm.

And he was perfectly unharmed. At least, by the whimpering and mewling sounds, he was reasonably intact.

Hank, calmer now, looked at his hand in wonder and slowly breathed, “Well… ding… dang…”

The group of scientists and soldiers all looked, quietly, mouths hanging open and eyes wide like spotlights, turning slowly, dreadfully, to look back at Hank. He could hear one of them whisper dumbly “That’s the first bloody thing he’s said I understood”.

Hank, smiling evilly, slowly raised his arm towards them, arched his eyebrows menacingly, then quickly waggled his fingers at the group with a slight stomp of his foot and said, “Wwwiggidty!”

Most of the researchers and technicians jumped with a loud gasp; four of them screamed like 6 year old girls and fell flat on the floor, three dropped their clipboards with a squeak, two passed out straight-away and fell over like 10-pins, and there was a rapidly spreading puddle under one wide-eyed fellow that corresponded to the stain on his trousers.

Hank giggled like a school girl, bending doubled-over and holding his ribs as tears of relief and strain fell from his eyes. 

The people recovered as Hank fell into guffaws, glancing at each other and laughing nervously as they strove to regain some sense of composure.

“Phleeeashe… uh… shir… c-c-could you… I… caunt… breafff…”, came a muffled voice.

Hank looked at Snodgrass and laughed even harder at the silly sounding speech trying to escape the mass of twisted metal. He sat down on the floor and laughed hard, slapping the ground for emphasis.

One of the researchers walked up to Hank nervously and asked “Um, Hank, um, could you be a good fellow there and release Reggie, I do believe that he may well smother…”

Hank, lifted his hand, but then suddenly broke out into gales of laughter and fell over onto his side, head shaking ‘no’ back and forth as uncontrollable fits of amusement came over him.

Just then a huge shadow fell over the questioning researcher and a voice like mountains grinding together said, “Nice work dere Hank, I’ll take care o’ dis for ya”. Moose, having watched the entire scene from the hanger door waiting his turn at ‘testing’, gently moved the stunned man out from in front of him like a recalcitrant child and with a smile walked over to the metal cocoon. Hank just gave him a shaking thumbs up and resumed his laughing fit as he fell over, holding his sides.

Moose calmly grabbed the top of the structure and, with a slight tug, peeled a long strip of it down like a giant banana. There was a sharp intake of breath as Snodgrass came face to face with Moose’s smiling, baby-like countenance.

“So, didja enjoy yer show dere Snoddy? Cuz dere’s a double-matinee tomorrow if you get my meanin’. Two for da price of one, you bring da snacks, ok dere, dontcha know? _Whew_, I do think ya soiled yerself, you might oughtta go change dere. Here, lemme…”

And with that, Moose reached to either side of a sputtering Snodgrass, grabbed beams of metal, and quickly yanked them down to the floor. He stood, crumpled the beams up like long pieces of cardboard with a grunt, and negligently tossed them over one shoulder to *BOOM-boom-boom* bounce into a far corner.

Moose took a step to the side to avoid Snodgrass’s completely stiff, wide-eyed body as it toppled out onto the hard ground with a SMACK and a slight groan. Hank roared with laughter, hands smacking the ground as he pounded his fists.

Moose stepped over Snodgrass and went to help Hank up. Hank sniffled and giggled as he tried to get his mirth under control.

“So, you wanna go get a pint now, dontcha know?”, Moose asked Hank, which only got a tight lipped smile and nod in reply as Hank tried to stifle his glee.

“Um, dat is, unless you fellas need _another_ demonstration dere?”, Moose directed with a smile and raised eyebrow at the group of stunned men.

Moose supported Hank as a now renewed fit of mirth overtook him, laughing as they walked away to a chorus of quavering British and American voices.

“N-n-n-no sir, that, ah, that’s quite all right”

“Oh no, tip-top, j-j-jolly good show…”

“B-b-be al-al-alright, um, got just enough data… yes.. very well…”

One man watching from where he leaned against the wall in a shadowed corner did not laugh, nor quaver. The brightness from a cigarette tip lit up his scarred, eyepatched face, as he dropped the butt crushed it. He blew out his last drag of smoke with a sigh and shook his head as he left the building and the gaggle of squawking researchers.


----------



## Pierce

Yea!  Update!


----------



## Old Drew Id

Sweeeeet


----------



## ledded

Hey, it's Pierce and OldDrewId (aka "Smitty" and "Frogbot") stopping by!

Good to see ya, thanks for the feedback.


----------



## Broccli_Head

ledded said:
			
		

> But you didn’t mess with Texas.
> 
> Snodgrass tuned around and, laughing, said, “What? Are you going to reenact a quaint musical of the Alamo for us all in your next act? Or would acting out *that* failure only make you even more homesick?”
> 
> Yup. That did it.




That's right! Don't mess with Texas!

BTW, how do you know about all that flash floodin'?


----------



## fenzer

Thanks ledded.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Practice makes perfect]*

_Breathe out._

_Hold._

_Squeeze_.

CRACK!

Smitty, took a breath, cycled the action on his new Springfield, and glanced through the scope.

The shot was just barely to the left of his intended target, so he made some minute adjustments to the scope. 

He had strung up a length of string downrange several hundred feet out, and affixed playing cards onto the string. His last shot punched just left of the diamond on the Jack of diamonds, leaving just enough color on the card to see that he was a hair off. There was some wind that made the cards move a bit, but Smitty knew that wasn’t why his shot wasn’t in the precise location he desired; he was good at this before the 'accident', and now he was simply amazing.

Smitty had been out here since before daylight, knowing that he could get better time alone this way. Time to practice, time to think, time to consider the path he was on now.

At the last thought he adjusted the glove on his left hand somewhat, amazed at the difference that these scientists had made. His arm was mostly scorched bone when they brought him in, as was part of his ribcage. They told him his eye was a smoldering mess when he got to them. Some kind of ability, some power fully awakened by that amber explosion, had kept him alive and was trying to mend his wounds while he was unconscious, but there was too much damage. Taking technology stolen from the Nazis, they had made him their Frankenstein's monster. He still wasnt sure how their... additions... worked, or why just responded just like his destroyed flesh, but it did.

Sometimes better.

Using his new left hand was like shooting with a vice; the thing clamped down on the rifle with such ease that he had to be careful not to damage the wood. The implants in his head were slightly uncomfortable, always leaving him with a mildly cold, heavy feeling, but they increased his perception to absolutely shocking levels as the headaches of the first few weeks faded into memory.

"Um, 'ello suh, would you like a spot o' tea?", came the female voice from behind Smitty, not surprising him in the least.

She had quietly approached, but he had felt her leave the building over a hundred feet away; heard the dew adhering to her nurses shoes, heard the slight clink of stoneware from the small tray she carried. Using his newfound talents he had heard her breathing as she approached, noting she was slightly nervous, and had felt every footstep while he made his last few shots unperturbed. He had even noted that she was female, probably short, and slim from the sound of her movements and breathing. Without ever taking a direct look. Her sounds, smells, movements felt familiar. Sylvia. The Ward 3 day nurse. _Man, these things are good_, he thought, considering the ‘additions’ they had made to him.

Smitty smiled and turned to her, about to thank her.

Her eyebrows involuntarily shot up and she did a sharp intake of breath before quickly mastering her surprise and repainting her nice British smile.

Smitty's words died on his lips as he looked down shame-faced and flipped the eye patch Captain Smith had given him back down over the steel and red-glowing eye. He sometimes forgot how disconcerting the eye and scars could be for most people. Hell, the first time he showered after being released from the horrifying bed contraption, he nearly threw his shaving mug through the mirror with a surprised shout when he turned and saw his new reflection for the first time.

He turned back and fired again, this time putting the round cleanly through the opposite diamond on the card, nodding to himself in satisfaction that his last adjustments held true.

"Nice shot. You're good. *Damn* good", he heard her comment. She lowered the binoculars she had picked up when she had sat down the steaming tray.

Smitty just smiled at her as she looked at him with kind concern and what she probably thought was a comforting smile. But Smitty knew he detected something else in her look.

Pity.

He shook his head slightly, smiling without humor, and turned back to his rifle. He casually noted that the wind was picking up a bit. Smitty chambered the last round, took aim at the last card on the line as it wavered and jumped in the breeze, and let one thought enter his head before he fired the shot.

_Save your pity for the Nazis, honey_.

CRACK!

He stood up, slung the rifle over his shoulder, picked up the teapot and poured himself a cup as she stood there, looking downrange with the binoculars.

"Um, love, I 'ate to say it, but it looks like you missed that one", she said, setting the binoculars down and giving him that smile that warmed him almost as much as the tea as she poured herself a cup.

Smitty just nodded to her slightly as he took a sip of the tea, then after a moment picked up the binoculars and handed them back to her.

"Look again", he said to her, smiling, as he walked off with the cup back towards the barracks.

Sylvia took a sip of her tea, used the binoculars and looked again. Maybe she missed it; the wind was making the card move more now, and it was at least a few hundred feet away. No, there was no hole in the last card. Wait, there was something on the top edge of the card. 

A barely discernable smear of blood and a small bit of what looked like… yes, it was…

A fly.

Its legs were still on the top of the card where it had landed.

Smitty heard the teacup _clink_ as it fell to the ground.

He glanced back, seeing her now using both hands on the binoculars to focus in better, the forgotten cup and spilled tea by her foot. He could barely make out her whisper of “My God… my… God… in… heaven…”

Smitty let a grim smile break over his lips again as he spoke, unheard, under his breath.

“That’s right. *God* may not have enough pity for 'em when I get there…”


----------



## Pierce

Damn skippy!  Smitty's so much fun to play.  Good job with the characterization, led.


----------



## Broccli_Head

ledded, 

How do you define all these cool powers in d20-speak? I don't use a d20 like system for supers, and in my head, I've deduced what they could be in _Champions_, but would be interested to see them in your rule-set.


----------



## ledded

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> ledded,
> 
> How do you define all these cool powers in d20-speak? I don't use a d20 like system for supers, and in my head, I've deduced what they could be in _Champions_, but would be interested to see them in your rule-set.



For the low, low price of $6.95, you can check it out:

http://www.rpgnow.com/product_info.php?products_id=2158&

Blood and Vigilance.  

I'm sure there are parallels in Champions (or 4 color, or M&M, etc).

As an example, Smitty has an origin of Cybernetic. I worked the whole injury angle to explain that origin in the time period. He has a power called Enhanced Senses, which allows you to add a modifier based on the power points you have in it to certain sense related skill checks (spot, listen, etc). 

He also has a few other nice surprises that I've hinted at also which will come up in the SH.

Hank had picked an origin of Freak Accident and obviously has Control Magnetism, and has mastered several abilities that go along with it.

I try very hard to make the use of their abilities not feel like a game mechanic for the story hour; I dont want people to hear dice in their head every time someone does something. 

Stay tuned though, because in a few short updates we will see them put their full complement of abilities to the test on their first real mission, and it is a pretty harrowing experience for them all (lots of BOOM, KAPOW, and KABLOOEY).

Oh, and to answer your earlier question about flash-flooding... research. Having some trivia-like familiarity with geography and weather systems, plus just researching so things seem more plausible in the story hour. The initial choice of Texas was pretty easy because Hank's player talks like Boomhauer from King of the Hill the entire time he plays him.

Also, thanks Pierce for the nice words. I was hoping you'd like the Smitty scene.

I hope to get another short update done this week, but will be away from the desk for a while. Hopefully I will stay inspired long enough to finish up the few sessions we played of this fun little side-line to our main campaign; while it isnt anywhere near the best work on these boards, it's been fun (and good practice) writing this little piece.

Now if I could just convince Pierce to do a SH...


----------



## fenzer

ledded said:
			
		

> I hope to get another short update done this week, but will be away from the desk for a while.  Hopefully I will stay inspired long enough to finish up the few sessions we played of this find little side-line to our main campaign; while it isnt anywhere near the best work on these boards, it's been fun (and good practice) writing this little piece.
> 
> Now if I could just convince Pierce to do a SH...




Well, don't stay away too long.  I need all the story hour goodness you guys are willing to pump out.  So Pierce, step to the plate man.  You're up!

And Ledded, you have done a masterful job.  Don't let anyone tell you anything different.


----------



## caixa

*Agreed!*



			
				fenzer said:
			
		

> Well, don't stay away too long.  I need all the story hour goodness you guys are willing to pump out.  So Pierce, step to the plate man.  You're up!
> 
> And Ledded, you have done a masterful job.  Don't let anyone tell you anything different.





Hear!  Hear!  I agree with Fenzer!

Pierce, batter up!

Peterson


----------



## Broccli_Head

How psyched are you about this?

*U.A.B 76, KENTUCKY 75   * 

*U.A.B.'s Finley Sends Top-Seeded Kentucky Home*


----------



## Pierce

Between that and Bama beating Stanford, the whole state's kinda dizzy. 

Really strange for an area that'd used to being football territory.


----------



## ledded

Heck yeah boys!  I was on a cruise ship somewhere off the coast of the Yucatan last week, and half the guys in the casino left to go to the one sports bar that had big screens and satellite going nuts over those.  Gotta love it.

Now I'm back home, and hope to get some considerable updates done soon.


----------



## (Psi)SeveredHead

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> Now ah know what gol-darned system yer usin'!
> 
> Thanks for all the ding-dang cool language from Hank and Moose, eh.




Interesting you should mention this. I'm finding it hard to read things like this:



> “Oh yeah, that a fact? Sheez man ya expect me ta believe dat? Whaddaya say, Bullwinkle? Rocky just pullin’ my leg or what?”, the big airborne corporal tossed at Moose in a thick Brooklyn brogue and cocky smile.


----------



## ledded

(Psi)SeveredHead said:
			
		

> Interesting you should mention this. I'm finding it hard to read things like this:



Well, sorry about that.  The accent was a heavy Brooklyn one, and that was the best I could do to replicate that.

I have toned down some of the accents a bit since then, though Hank is still... Hank, and there isnt any way around it


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Just what in hell are you?]*

“So what exactly is this… creature?” Captain Smith asked in increased annoyance to the man in the lab coat, sitting there among a mass of papers, machinery, wires, and assorted electrical do-dads unidentifiable to a man of action like Smith.

The young man took a measured breath and gulped slightly before replying in a Londoner’s accent from behind his desk.

“Well, sir, it’s not exactly a creature, per se. It’s more of a… _construct_ of some sorts.”

Smith crossed his arms and looked skeptically at the increasingly nervous scientist. The young man took a drink from his cup, cleared his throat, and began to speak with more animation as he warmed to the subject.

“You see sir, it’s some kind of alloy frame with an unidentifiable power source actuating a bloody *genius* system of movement controls and systems. The electronics that are involved must be staggering in complexity. It has cognizance of some kind, though it is clearly confused a bit and took some kind of recent damage. The mineral reclamation and enzyme production system that allows it to rebuild the… _flesh_… that surrounds it is nothing short of breathtaking I’m sure. ”

“You mean you didn’t crack it open and figure out everything that’s in there?” Smith interrupted incredulously.

The young mans eyes flew wide and he brought up both hands, shaking them at Smith. “Oh NO sir, we tried, but it, well, um, it got angry and wouldn’t let us get to it in depth. Some kind of self defense mechanism. Plus, it's not exactly a toaster old bean, we don't even know how it does half of what it does. But I know this; whoever built it is well beyond our technological capabilities. Bloody genius work at that! You should see the internal storage, the waste disp…”

Smith leaned in on the young man, both fists planted on the desk, and spoke through gritted teeth.

“Son, are you telling me it’s a *robot* from the friggin’ *future*? Like it says?”

The young man leaned back in his chair as far as was safe, and replied in a very small voice.

“Well, um, not if it’s going to make you *that* angry, no sir”.

“Well WHAT IS IT THEN!” Smith roared at the young scientist.

“Uh-uh-uh, well, ahem, sir, um, technically, it’s an android. An artificial life form. With some kind of wiring to give it purpose, memory, and independent intelligence. As f-f-far as being from the future, well, you’ll have to talk to F-f-franklin about that sir. T-temporal anomalies just aren’t my department. But I can tell you this: we didn’t build it, and the Nazi’s didn’t either. Just not possible. Sir”, the young man finished with a comically civilian salute.

Smith inhaled and blew out a frustrated breath, standing up and reaching for the door. The young man visibly relaxed, but didn’t dare take the chance to wipe the bead of sweat trickling down his temple. 

“Well why on earth would they name the thing FROGBOT? And just where do I find this Franklin, son?”

The young man pointed and gave the captain the room number. As Smith strode down the hall, the young man added “Well then, I thought the name was a bit catchy myself”.

…

Franklin sat back in his desk, feet planted firmly on the top, and chewed his gum while considering the soldierly looking Captain standing there fuming at him.

“Well, Franklin, tell me this. Is this thing truly from the future?”

“I tell you, old boy, it’s just not possible to judge for sure, but I’d give the bugger a bloody good chance at it, or Bob’s your uncle”, Franklin replied with a crooked, irreverent smile.

“But… how? How could someone do this? Could the Nazi’s be working on this?”

“Well there yank, that’s the rub. Nobody I know of has the kind of capability to do that kind of manipulation of the continuum matrix, not with the temporal continuity consequence error shift looming over ‘em like a headsman’s axe of the universe.”

Captain Smith looked at the man as coldly as possible and replied, “Care to share that in English, buddy?”

“Bollocks, yank, that’s as bloody simple as I can put it…”

Captain Smith’s good eye flashed in annoyance and he started towards Franklin, who immediately threw up a hand to forestall him.

“Whoa, whoa there Tex… here, let me give you an example. See that cup on the edge of my desk? Yes that one, very good. I want you to knock it off towards the floor, and I’m going to catch it.”

Smith eyed him dubiously, but nonetheless reached forward and tipped the ceramic coffee cup off towards the floor.

Franklin quickly shifted forward in his chair, reaching out to snatch the cup as it fell. It brushed the tips of his fingers, he bobbled it, and it fell to the floor with a crash of splintering ceramic.

Smith looked up from the cup to where Franklin was leaning forward, hand extended just a couple feet off of the floor, grinning up at him with a goofy arrogant smile.

“Well, just what the hell did that prove son…” Smith began.

Franklin interrupted him, and without moving motioned downward towards the floor with his eyes. “Look again”

Smith looked down.

The coffee cup was in Franklin’s hand, intact. There was no sign of it ever hitting the floor; Smith was starting to doubt that it ever had.

“You see there? I shifted the probabilities and rewrote a little split second of the time continuum. Changed history, if you will. Of course, that took about as much energy to do, and had about as much impact on the continuity matrix as a small rock thrown into a very, very large pond; nothing much would even notice it.”

“And what would it take to shift this... android… back to our timeframe. In English”, Smith replied, impressed but determined not to show it. _Seems we have all kinds of talents around here these days_, he thought to himself.

“In layman’s terms? That’d be about like dropping a 1200 pound bomb into a thimble of water if not done with absolute precision. Not something to be taken likely. Definitely not something anyone alive, in our time, could have accomplished. The energy required just cannot be generated. Possibly that explosion I read about in the reports may have had enough to act as an anchoring point to ‘sling-shot’ something back, I’m not even sure.”

Smith stood quietly for a moment, considering the implications behind the stony façade he always wore.

“Well there yank, if that’s all then…”

“That’ll be all Franklin”, Smith interrupted as he opened the door and headed out in the direction of the testing grounds.

…

Smith looked over the concrete barrier at the android sitting in a small metal chair, a gaggle of scientists circling it talking and taking measurements with strange electrical devices. The back walls were also very thick concrete, meant so that these limey pencil-necks could do their tests and whatnot without destroying half the town. A large man-like shape under a sheet stood nearby.

“…and that’s just part of it’s capabilities, Captain. It heals itself by ingesting certain enzymes and whey-based proteins and generates new pseudo-organic flesh, much in the same way that we make, well, you’re not going to believe this, ‘cheese’. Oh, and watch this, this is right keen if you ask me”, Dr Z, or just ‘Z’, short for Zander, related excitedly to the half-listening Smith.

Dr Z walked forward, clapping his hands, and clearing the scientists away.

Query: examination researcher leader approaching. Initiate comforting response 127, Frogbot thought.

Smith raised one eyebrow as the thing tried to smile at Zander. At least he thought it was trying to smile; all of it’s movements, while fluid and quick, were just not natural. It looked more like someone had stuck it with a sharp pin and it may be thinking about eating said person.

Zander looked back at Smith, smiled, and addressed Frogbot, talking slowly and childlike.

“Frogbot… how… are… you… today?”

“Sees-tems operating at 97% Doctor, zo I am fine, monsieur! How are you?” Frogbot replied with his exuberant French accent.

“Oh, jolly good Frogbot. So they say you are from… France?”

Immediately, two small panels opened on Frogbot’s shoulders in his uniform, the flesh underneath neatly separating under some kind of tiny hatch. Frogbot planted his fists proudly on his hips.

Two French flags, one on each shoulder, sprang up from the holes, and waved to and fro while music began playing from a speaker hidden on the android.

“Viva la France! Oui! Ze greatest country in ze world! She has ze hills, she has ze fields, she has miles and miles of beautiful coastline, and ze best wine and cheese in all of ze world! Her people are ze finest to be found, her fields ze most bountiful in all of Europe!”, Frogbot expounded over a small loudspeaker as the music played in the background.

When he finished, the small French flags _zipped_ back into his body, the flesh resealed itself perfectly, and the uniform hatches re-closed.

Smith just stood there, mouth open and cigarette falling to the floor unnoticed. _You gotta be *&^%ing kidding me_, he thought.

Zander walked back to Smith, hands in pockets, whistling and smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

“See? Wasn’t that brilliant? Bloody hell, that thing’s a piece of work…”

“It THAT all it can do? Eat garbage and make cheese? And talk about France? Sheezus”, Smith replied as he gathered himself to leave in disgust.

“Oh no, Captain. Here, I think you will find this interesting. Clear for offensive test 6! All personel clear!”

With that, everyone in the room quickly left or crouched behind the chest high concrete walls situated throughout the room. A nervous looking young man stood next to the sheet-covered object in the middle of the room, one hand on the sheet.

Zander looked at him, nodded, and pressed his hand on Smith’s shoulder as if to suggest he get under the cover a bit better. The young man yanked the sheet with a squeak and bolted, stumbling over his feet, and dove behind the nearest concrete cover wall.

The thing under the sheet was a man-shaped construction of steel girders and armored plates, pock-marked and nicked here and there from months of obvious weapons tests. The dummy was built heavy, and solid, and about 7 feet tall; more interestingly, it had a German helmet on it’s head and German regalia, Swastikas and all, draped over it. It had been rigged with a MP38 SMG in one hand, and the removal of the sheet must have triggered some clockwork mechanism. The SMG began firing directly at the spot Frogbot was sitting.

The second the sheet was removed, Frogbot glanced in that direction.

Immediately his eyes went red, and a whirring sound emitted as hundreds of dormant systems went on-line and his visual actuators locked in on the form.

QUERY: potential target acquisition, threat level determination request.

THREAT: Threat level 4. Identified target, Axis origin.

INITIATE DEFENSIVE/OFFENSIVE SYSTEMS. NEUTRALIZE TARGET.

The SMG tore through the chair, but Frogbot was no longer there.

He had immediately leapt from the chair into a crouch, claws extending with a SNIKT, and tore across the floor almost on all fours at an incredible rate of speed at the construction, weaving skillfully to avoid being hit by the spray of bullets as the clockwork dummy fired back-and-forth into the area.

Frogbot was a blur, easily moving 3 times the speed of a normal man, and immediately WHISKED the MP38 in half, stopping the firing, and proceeded to lay into the dummy. 

It was like watching a professional chef shred cabbage. 

Steel flew in all directions, clanging and pinging, and Smith could hear Frogbot yelling over the din, “En Garde! Viva La France! Touche! Hahaha!”.

After just a few tense seconds, Frogbot stopped, raised one hand, and shook the remnants of the 1500 lb steel construct off of his claws.

Smith stepped out, amazed. “Damn… that was… something else”.

"Well I bloody well told you, didnt I?" said Dr Z from his position crouching behind the wall, with a grin like a kid who just opened the coolest toy on his block for christmas. 

Frogbot smiled his unnatural smile at Smith and replied, “My claws are sharp! Much like ze sharp cheddar from ze Auvergne region of France! Which is of course ze finest cheddar in all ze world!”

Then _snikt_, the claws were retracted, and he was back to normal. That is, normal except for the small flags once again waving over his shoulders and music playing from his chest.

Smith looked shrewdly at Frogbot, hand on chin.

“I think we just may be able to use this… android. I have just the thing.”

…


(alternate link for music here)


----------



## Broccli_Head

The music was great!


----------



## fenzer

Drew, you are one crazy nut!  Now all we need is C-3PO singing Das Deutschlandlied and we'll be set.    

Thanks for the update ledded.  This is great reading.


----------



## ledded

fenzer said:
			
		

> So Pierce, step to the plate man. You're up!





			
				caixa said:
			
		

> Hear! Hear! I agree with Fenzer!
> 
> Pierce, batter up!



And just in case anyone missed it, I will now take this opportunity to hijack my thread to pimp Pierce's Story Hour thread, Action Squad!

http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?t=81258

If you ever liked 80's Cop Action Movies: Beverly Hills Cop, Red Heat, Lethal Weapon, etc, go check it out.  He's got a bang-up start going and more fun stuff to come soon!  Good stuff and it comes with the usual Medallions group guarantee... you will enjoy it, or your money back!


----------



## Rel

Holy crap this is a great story hour!

You pulled me in with Omaha Beach, but you kept me laughing with Frogbot.

Nice work all around.


----------



## Angcuru

Muchly full of the awesomeness!   Who are you selling the movie rights to?


----------



## ledded

Thanks Rel, Angcuru, for the nice comments. 

I love how you snagged my Medallions character's line for your sig, Angcuru.  That's just cool.   

Hope to have an update done and posted soon, if work will stop intefering with my writing time...


----------



## fenzer

ledded said:
			
		

> Thanks Rel, Angcuru, for the nice comments.
> 
> I love how you snagged my Medallions character's line for your sig, Angcuru.  That's just cool.
> 
> Hope to have an update done and posted soon, if work will stop intefering with my writing time...




Speaking of signitures.  I remember a certain writer/enworlder/all around minis expert stating something about a certain comment being added to said person's sig.  Funny, that comment is oddly absent, hmm.  

Man, you just can't trust anybody these days.


----------



## ledded

fenzer said:
			
		

> Speaking of signitures. I remember a certain writer/enworlder/all around minis expert stating something about a certain comment being added to said person's sig. Funny, that comment is oddly absent, hmm.
> 
> Man, you just can't trust anybody these days.



Er, ahem, um.  

If, ah, a certain person did not have troubles with his short term memory he would have included said comment from a certain individual into his sig, as I'm sure that person remembers saying that, but a certain person has to carry around a small black notebook in his pocket just to remember where he parked his car in the deck anymore  .  If a certain person had his memory refreshed, he would probably amend that wrong...


----------



## fenzer

Said person only brings said issue to light because said person is petty and evil.  Also, said person is unable to recall said original comment.

You are free to disregard said topic as it is founded on purely selfish reasons and a lack of mental facalty.


----------



## ledded

Yeah, but I wouldnt mind getting a reminder, as I remember it being something very cool, and I'm essentially too lazy to search back through the thread looking for it...


----------



## fenzer

ledded said:
			
		

> Yeah, but I wouldnt mind getting a reminder, as I remember it being something very cool, and I'm essentially too lazy to search back through the thread looking for it...




The funny thing is I don't even remeber which thread it was on.  Listen Ledded, don't sweat it.  I only wanted to rib you about it.  It's no big deal.  

Here, we'll call it even if you offer up a post real soon.  What do you say?


----------



## caixa

*Since this thread is already hijacked...*

WooHOO!

I made it into somebody's Sig!

Thanks Ledded!

Peterson/Caixa


----------



## Angcuru

So.....updatey goodness when?


----------



## nobodez

::Claps::

:uts Trade paperback on shelf and prepares subscription to cover the rest of the series\::

Good Job Ledded. I love it, and can't wait for more!


----------



## fenzer

Ledded, you're a gentleman and a scholar.  Thank you.

And while my intentions were purely selfish, being a petty man, I do believe my comment sums up quite nicely you and your fellow players.

Thanks man, you're a good egg.


----------



## ledded

Well, I didnt have a chance to finish the update I had promised, so I had to do _something_.  Hope to have an update coming sometime this week, though I'm pretty busy now studying up for our Blood and Fists 2 playtest session tomorrow night (mmmm martial arts whackity smackity goodness).

Stay tuned, because the updates will get into the actual use of powers and cool fun stuff that the team really has, and should be full of BAM KAPOW KABLOOEY kind of action.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Out of the frying pan...]*

“Alrighty then, gather ‘round blokes, we have a rather interesting development that is… suited to your particular talents”, Captain Smyth rattles off rather sprightly as he walks briskly into the room.

Moose looks up, slurping, from a bowl of potatoes and bangers large enough to feed a kennel of wolfhounds. “So, you got us a mission dere?” he questions through a half-chewed mouthful.

At Moose’s inquiry Hank and John Brighton cease their laughing over a game of poker and look up expectantly.

Smitty simply continues to clean and polish his new Springfield rifle with slow, deliberate strokes, carefully working a piece of grit from under the scope mount that even an ordinarily assiduous soldier would have overlooked.

Smythe sets a folder down on the table, and unrolls a large map, pinning it to the corkboard in the room. As he does so, two MP’s who came in right behind him circle the room, pulling the windows closed and drawing the heavy curtains, then take up positions near windows. Another MP glances into the room from the doorway, then quietly closes the door.

“Yes, very well then. It seems we have news from one of our field agents several weeks back that there is a certain asset being removed from Nazi Germany. As you can see here and here”, pausing, Smythe points to several locations on the map indicating current Allied and suspected Axis positions, “we have the Jerry’s pinned into several locations but haven’t been able to push into eastern France or Germany proper as of yet.”

“Our agent has been able to move this property all the way from Berlin, through German lines, but is held up quite a ways from the coastline. See, this ‘property’ is apparently quite important to the Jerry’s and they’ve mounted all sorts of search operations and crackdowns trying to uncover the bloke. He’s managed to move into Holland a little while back, and was lying low until we could move him through the underground or get in there to pick him up.”

“Then we lost contact. Reports from the underground are a mite bit sketchy, but we are fairly certain that he was either captured or killed. He did, however, manage to hide the ‘asset’ in an old used book store in Holland, and we are fairly certain it’s still there. However, due to the increased Gestapo activity, we cant get an agent near it without tipping our hand.”

Hank raises his hand, interrupting. “Um, hey thar Cap’n, well, dingdang aint that a funny place t’ hide sumthin’ important, ya know, like a dingdang ol’ bookstore aint exactly secure”.

Smythe smiles that clever smile that he does so well and answers.

“Well, that’s the rub, old bean. You see, this asset is actually a book. One that’ll blend in quite nicely with a bunch of old musty grimoires and tomes, and because of the nature of this book it’s quite likely that the Gestapo and SS combing the city have no idea what it is that they are trying to find.”

“A *book*? You want to send us all the way to Holland to pick up a *book*?” John asks, incredulous.

Smythe pauses, takes a deep breath, and sighs.

“Now here is the word. I’m not so sure I believe in all this, but 5 years ago I would have told you that a man couldn’t have his arm replaced with one made of metal, or Nazis bloody well couldn’t fly or blast fire from their hands, so I’m willing to let higher-ups have a bit of leeway. Apparently this book has some… arcane… value, some kind of willy-nilly spooky secrets of some sort from ages gone by and what-not. See, the Nazi’s are quite enamored of the whole occult thing, and spent years digging around all over the globe for anything that they thought might hold some secret or power. Bloody foolishness if you ask me, but the higher-ups didn’t, so we just nod our bloody heads and carry on, keep a stiff upper lip, and all that rot. What I do know is that they spent years looking for this, and have guarded it like the Queen’s knickers trying to get it into Berlin. So even if it’s all rubbish, grabbing it would shove their nose in it pretty hard and give us some clue as to what the bloody hell they think they can accomplish with all this hocus-pocus.”

“You see, this book is *very* important to certain people on our side, and they are quite willing to risk whatever it takes to get it back. It’s an old thing, about this big”, Smythe estimates with his hands, “bound in strange and worn black leather, and the name of the book is “_Von Unaussprechlichen Kulten_, carved into the cover”.

“Well… alrighty there Smythey, whatcha got dingdangit in mind thar?” Hanks asks, looking at the maps and taking notes.

Smythe’s smile comes back, this time in spades.

“Heh. Well now, I got to thinking with a couple of the boys, hey wouldn’t it be great to surprise Jerry with something so audacious that it just might actually work, and maybe end the war before Christmas? So we kicked it about a bit, and decided a lightning strike using airborne units could cut off the city long enough to neutralize the Gestapo agents, retrieve the book, and then possibly even hold up a counterattack and roll in a division or two of armor making a dagger thrust into the third Reich and setting us up for the old one-two punch to take out the Nazis?”

Smythe describes the plans showing the drops for paratroopers, showing them maps and the road in which armored units will be taking. The men, except for Smitty, who is still quietly cleaning that rifle, stand around silently awed by the audacity of the thing. Hank, having some knowledge of tactics, would probably have used the word ‘insane’ in lieu of audacious, but he kept that to himself.

“While quite a risk, we _need_ that bloody book, and an operation of this sort would be, at worst, a damned good diversion. So I had a ‘talk’ with a couple of old Monty’s staff officers”, at this point Smythe winks, and they guys almost swear they can see a small glint of light in his smile when he does so, “and of course they thought it was a right good idea”.

“So Monty took up on it, called it his own, and presented it to Allied command. A little push here and there, and off we go.”

“The Red Devils and the American paratroops left yesterday and should be on the ground now. Time is now of the essence. A contingent of Polish paratroopers will be leaving soon, and you will be one plane among many heading into Holland, except that you will peel off and make your own drop. Between now and then, study up on these maps, and be sure to get in there as soon as you hit the ground; Colonel Frost is leading the Devils, and he’s a personal friend of mine, so the sooner you can get there the better. He’ll hold the Jerry’s off as long as it takes.”

Hank, Moose, and John look over the maps showing the city, their expected drop zone, and the location of the book store that they need to reach.

“So what is this city here we are landing in, where the book is?” John asks.

“Oh. That would be Arnhem. The whole thing is being quaintly called Operation Market Garden.”

“You have your training, you have your orders; be quick, gather your gear, and show ‘em just what Allied ESSes can do. God speed”.

There is a _ka-shink_ of a well-oiled bolt ramming home on a rifle as Smitty finally stands.

“Just show us to the plane. We’ll do the rest.”

……

Captains Smythe and Smith stood on a runway watching the C-47’s taxi away. Weather had held up their deployment a bit, but now it was too late to turn back.

Smythe takes a drag from his cigarette, blowing out a ring of smoke before speaking.

“So, Smith old bean, do you think it was wise to send in that android ahead of them?”

Smith lights his own lucky strike and replies through the smoke.

“Yeah, it ought to be. That thing was a plant, or it was some kind of machine from the future. It’s out of our hair and on the ground where it will do some good. Either it’ll get killed, or it’ll give the Nazis a bunch of trouble.”

There was a short pause before Smythe pushed further.

“And if it gets ‘killed’, or captured? You realize none of them have any idea about the strength of the German counterattack we just sent them into?”

Smith took a few more drags, then ground out the cigarette butt with a boot heel before turning to go.

“Then it’s just like the other four, it’s just dead. There’s no room in this army for the weak. If they can’t handle themselves, then we’ve just cut that much more dead weight.”

Smith glances towards the last plane leaving, as if he could see the four newly indoctrinated ESS agents in the rear.

“Good luck boys. You’re damn well gonna need it”.

…


----------



## Angcuru

*glee*

I really like the idea of Operation Market Garden being nothing but a great big converup for a 'covert' operation with the possibility for winning the war on the side.  Nice.   

Now where's the rest of it?


----------



## Broccli_Head

You suck! You suck! Do you know that 8000 English Paratroopers died at Arnhem?    Look who I'm asking...  

Yup, I've see _A Bridge Too Far_ and right now I'm watching _Band of Brothers_. I just saw episode #4 "Replacements".  I don't think I like Smythe much. 

Looking forward to the next installments with a heavy heart, but I know that they'll be good. Our heroes are in for a meatgrinder. 

**

On a more positive note, one of my players is jonesin' to play a WWII game. I got him hooked on Squad Leader and this story hour.


----------



## fenzer

I love it Ledded.  This is going to be fun.  Post soon.


----------



## nobodez

*Um...*

two things.

Broccli_Head: Don't take it personally, it's just a game, and it's to make it fit in with what was happening during the real war.

Ledded: Can't wait for more. I love this story, and quite enjoy the way it's turning out.


----------



## Broccli_Head

But don't you know that its setting this story in real world drama that makes it compelling.  That's why I keep coming back.  

If you read Ledded's description of D-day, you'll know what I mean.


----------



## Rel

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> ...right now I'm watching _Band of Brothers_. I just saw episode #4 "Replacements".




I've been watching it off and on as it has been run on The History Channel (I'm guessing this is where you are seeing it too, Broc).  Great stuff.  I'm thinking of asking for the whole box-set for Christmas this year.

Picture if you will, Smythe as played by David Schwimmer.  Yes, I know he isn't remotely British, but he's easy to despise if you've seen the first episode of Band of Brothers.

And, as a side note, I cannot recommend Stephen Ambrose's book, upon which the television series was based, highly enough.  I also strongly recommend his book about D-Day as well, and of course his bestselling _Undaunted Courage_ (about the Louis and Clark expedition).  We lost a great author and historian when he died.   

Keep up the good work, Ledded.  Can't wait for the next installment.


----------



## ledded

Rel said:
			
		

> I've been watching it off and on as it has been run on The History Channel (I'm guessing this is where you are seeing it too, Broc). Great stuff. I'm thinking of asking for the whole box-set for Christmas this year.



I got it for Christmas last year, and watched it 7,482 times before starting this short campaign, along with Battle of Britain, the Bridge and Remagen, the Big Red One, When Trumpets Fade, the Longest Day (you *gotta* watch that one if you havent), Saving Pvt Ryan, A Bridge too Far, and many others that I don't own.  Reading books about it gave me more inspiration for how it plays, but the movies help inspire my writing, particularly the better ones.  (Yeah, I've always loved movies like the Big Red One, but watching it now totally ruins it for me when they roll *Sherman* tanks at the boys with Nazi markings on them instead of making them some German ones.  Sheesh, talk about no budget  ).



> Picture if you will, Smythe as played by David Schwimmer. Yes, I know he isn't remotely British, but he's easy to despise if you've seen the first episode of Band of Brothers.



I dunno, Smythe is *much* too british, flippant, and charismatic for Schwimmer.  I actually based how he looks in my mind on the British character in Band of Brothers who appears in 'Replacements' (I think), the officer of the Red Devils that swam out of Holland to help organize the 101's rescue of several hundred british paratroopers hiding with the dutch underground.  I am glad that he's making a few folks grind their teeth though. 



> And, as a side note, I cannot recommend Stephen Ambrose's book, upon which the television series was based, highly enough. I also strongly recommend his book about D-Day as well, and of course his bestselling _Undaunted Courage_ (about the Louis and Clark expedition). We lost a great author and historian when he died.



Yes, I recommend all of those books quite highly, though I havent read Undaunted Courage yet.  I don't think quite as highly of Ambrose as some, but I do believe he did great work (for the most part, there were a few exceptions) though most of his appeal comes from being able to write for the masses and get published.  There are a lot of better historians out there, but he was a better _storyteller_, and I love a good story along with my first hand accounts.  

One book I can't recommend highly enough in this genre is _On to Berlin : Battles of an Airborn Commander 1943-1946_ by General James Gavin.  

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0553341324/qid=1082135347/sr=8-1/ref=pd_ka_1/104-6242921-9428760?v=glance&s=books&n=507846

It is an amazingly candid and sobering look at the field commander of the 82nd airborne, and being an airborne general not only participated in high level planning but also hit the ground and fought with his troops.  He was actually the american officer who, during Operation Market Garden, fractured 2 vertebrae in his back but managed to run back-and-forth, organizing his troops, and participating in the River Waal Crossing.  In the movie "A Bridge too Far", this fact is attributed to Julian Cook, who was a great field leader in his own right, but it was Gavin who actually broke his back in the jump and refused medical attention for almost a week, pushing himself to lead his men in total disregard for the incredible amount of pain he was in.  A very, very good book, with a very candid discussion on the occupation of Berlin post-war that led to the cold war.  I can't recommend it enough.



> Keep up the good work, Ledded. Can't wait for the next installment.



Thanks much guys, and speaking of, here comes the next one...

Oh, and Broccli_Head, don't worry;  your reaction is exactly what I was going for when I planned this.  Nothing I write or do is meant to diminish anything that truly happened in any way (and it doesnt, IMO), but to evoke strong feelings of loss and frustration at the futility of it all from my players and readers alike.  The PC's reaction was similar to yours.  War is hell, boys, and with supers, it gets even worse, but sometimes the stuff I come up with isnt even as bad as things that actually happened.  Don't *even* get me started on Hurtgen Forest...


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [...and into the fire]*

Smitty had to yell a second time at Moose over the droning of the C-47 engines to get his attention. 

“Yo! Smoke?”, offering up his pack of camels.

Moose started, lost in thought, and shook his head no.

Smitty flicked his zippo, breathed out smoke, and reclined against the plane’s thin wall.

“You okay Moose?”, he shouted.

Moose, looking pale, nodded. “Just… just a little scared, dontcha know. Ground’s a long way down dere.”

“I… I just never flew before, ‘least not awake, eh.”

Smitty glanced out of the small window, then looked back at Moose and smiled. He reached over and slapped Moose on one massive leg playfully. It was like slapping a stone.

“Ah don’t worry about it man, the jump is gonna go just fine. Hell, it ain’t the fall that’ll kill ya, it’s that abrupt stop at the end”, Smitty joked, smacking his hands together at the end of it for emphasis.

Moose just gulped, leaned back, and closed his eyes while gripping one of the two BAR rifles he had on him until his knuckles turned white.

Hank grinned as the plane bucked and weaved. “Yo thar dingdangit ol’ Moose buddy, it’s gonna be danged ol’ fine, man, ol’ Smitty’s just messin’ with ya”, he chattered as he leaned forward, placed his helmet on his seat, and then promptly sat in it.

Moose looked at Hank as he spoke, his expression turning quizzical at Hank’s choice of seating.

“Whatcha doin’ with yer helmet dere, Hank?”, Moose asked.

Hank, straight-faced, looked down as if wondering what Moose was talking about and then casually replied, “Oh, that’s so when the dingdang flak starts, Jerry don’t shoot yer danged ol’ balls off”.

Moose’s eyes flew wide, and he looked to Smitty as if for verification. Smitty just shrugged and placed his helmet under his backside and resumed slouching casually in his seat.

Moose snapped a look towards John, who it seemed had sat on his helmet a while back and then dozed off with his head pillowed against the structural frame of the aircraft.

Right then the aircraft jumped under a patch of rough air, and Moose scrambled to release his helmet, cursing, and quickly but clumsily jammed it under his rear end, spilling some of his gear as he did. His huge frame teetered comically on the comparatively small helmet.

The other three roared with laughter and put their helmets back on while Moose flushed and smiled, realizing what they had done.

John slid closer on the bench and patted him on the back. “It’s ok, man, when the light comes on, look at Hank, then just hook up and jump like we taught ya”.

Moose just nodded dumbly and secured his gear.

“Looks like this is where we peel off boys”, yelled back one of the pilots from the open cockpit door as the plane began a turn, gaining speed and losing altitude as they did. Moose nervously jammed his feet down and both arms out against the unexpected movement. Smitty just smiled and reclined against the wall, not even bothering to clip on his jump gear. Moose looked back at the flock of C-47’s and the sea of parachutes opening beneath them.

Hank glanced at his watch and began timing their run. Only six minutes to their drop zone, though it was closer to any possible hostiles. He faced the others, and put up both hands balled into fists, then made the number “six”, followed by an index finger pointed down towards the ground. Moose and John finished securing and checking equipment. All Smitty did was make sure the bandolier holding his rifle case was slung, and light another smoke.

The plane gained altitude on the new heading, increasing its shaking and bumping as it started hitting some rougher air, continuing onwards for several more minutes in relative peace, each man lost in his own thoughts and preparations.

_Poom. Pa-pa-pa-pa-poom_.

The sounds of anti-aircraft fire came to them. The Germans had spotted them.

_Poom. POOM_. There was a rattling noise, like rocks hitting a tin roof, and Moose jumped.

John looked at him with the casual calmness of a man who has been shot at in the air quite a few times. “Just a little shrapnel scattering against the skin. Don’t worry, it’s not a problem”.

Hank kept an eye on his watch, and looked out of the open door for landmarks, all cool professionalism. John looked ready but relaxed. Smitty looked as if he was about to doze off, and still hadn’t bothered with the jump gear piled at his feet. Moose felt like he was about to wet himself as he stared intently at the jump indicators.

_Poom. Pa-pa-poom_. More rattling. 

Hank whistled, and when everyone looked up at him, he held two fists toward them and made a number ‘three’ with his right, then pointed towards the door. _Three minutes_, Moose thought, _maybe this wont be so bad after all_…

_Ba-BOOM. Pa-pa-pa-PA-BOOM!_

Glass shattered from the windows of the left side of the plane, metal and glass spraying and ricocheting around the inside of the jump cabin. Hank ducked cursing, John flinched and rolled away from the blast, Smitty’s cigarette fell from his mouth, and Moose squawked, glancing out wild-eyed at the holes in the wing and the smoke starting to trail from the left engine. 

He shot a look at John, who was trying to get his feet under him from the floor, and pointed out of the shattered windows.

John took one calm look at the damage, clapped Moose on the shoulder, and said “Okay, now *that* might be a problem. Guess it’s a good time to start worrying”. He went forward towards the cabin carefully on the slanted and rocking floor.

Moose grabbed the jump line in his hand and stood, staring at the damage as the plane started shuddering violently and heeling towards the left; he could hear the opposite engine revving wildly to compensate as the one smoking sputtered and coughed. He saw the red light come on, immediately hooked up and headed for the door. Smitty’s hand on his chest stopped him, trying to scream over the increased noise. 

_Pa-Poom. Pa-pa-pa-POOM. boomBoomBOOM_. The fire was increasing, and Moose could see the 20mm exploding shells streaking nearby the C-47.

Moose looked at Smitty, and saw Hank behind him screaming into the cockpit as John tried to get closer to see if he could help. He couldn’t hear Hank, but could tell from his pantomime of pointing at his watch that it wasn’t time to jump yet. The pilots were getting skittish and wanted to get them out. 

He’d heard about this at Normandy, how paratroopers missed drop zones by miles because the pilots jumped the gun. Now he was regretting ever thinking ill of those guys; he couldn’t blame them at all. If it were up to him they’d already be out of this flying coffin and on the ground. It’s not like he minded walking. A nice walk in the countryside would be swell right now, even if it was filled with Krauts trying to kill him. Hell, at least then he could see the ones shooting at him and do something about it. 

Smitty patted his shoulder as John moved by them. He screamed up into Moose’s ear with a cupped hand “It’s alright, we just need another minute or tw…”

*KA-BLAM!*

The cockpit exploded in a shower of sparks, glass, burning metal, and blood.

John swung away from the open doorway on the jump line in his hand, barely missing shrapnel as he hurled himself into the wall opposite the open jump door.  Hank sprawled, sliding away from the cabin on his stomach, blood and gobbets of flesh and brains sprayed all over his face and uniform.

Smitty reached out and caught him as he virtually slid out of the jump door, legs kicking into the open air and scrambling for purchase. Then the plane started rolling towards the left and falling, Hank slid back from where he came, and Smitty lost his grip on him and the jump line. Moose grabbed Smitty as he fell towards the opposite wall. 

John, struggling to get inside the pilot’s cabin, glanced back and screamed, “ *Definitely* a problem guys!!! These guys are FUBAR! Hank! Quite screwing around and give me a hand!!!”

“Oh sh*t oh sh*t oh sh*t”, was all Moose could think to say as he held on to Smitty and the jump line, muscles tense like steel.

Hank leapt towards the open cockpit door that John was trying to pull himself through as the plane made ominous grinding and revving noises and started falling sharply towards the ground in an ever tightening spiral.

“Moose… please… let… go… you’re hurting… me…” Smitty gasped, accompanied with banging on the arm Moose had around him in a death-grip. 

“Oh, s-s-sorry Smitty”, Moose yelled and let him go, trying not to throw up. Smitty landed nimbly on the pitching floor and threw himself into the jump master’s position under the lights opposite Moose. He actually smiled at Moose. _That guy’s gotta be crazy or somethin’_, thought Moose, awed by Smitty’s apparent nonchalant lack of fear.

John pulled what was left of the pilot out of his seat and threw him on top of the copilot. He wished he could do more, but several exploding 20mm shells had hit directly below the cabin and blown through the men and the equipment; they were both dead before they knew what hit them. Unfortunately, in John’s opinion so was this bird. The windows were blown out, instruments were smashed, and the co-pilots stick was completely gone. Hell, he could see the friggin’ ground through the floor in places, and it was spinning and getting close. John Brighton gritted his teeth and threw himself into the pilot’s seat, years of experience and training taking over as he laid into the controls with all his strength.

“Oh hell… no… you… don’t, you fat-bellied b*tch… you’re not gonna go down on me… two… times… is… enough…”, he growled at the shuddering C-47 through clenched teeth.

Hank’s head popped into the room for a second, eyes wide, then promptly threw up on the blood-and-flesh slicked floor.

“If you’re done there, could you see if you could do something about the controls… I’ve got no control surfaces on the right side, the left engine’s about to totally blow out on me, and the right’s about to follow… if I don’t pull out of this spiral we’re gonna die”, John rattled off at Hank as fast as he could.

Hank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, nodded, and dove onto the floor, both hands reaching through gaping holes into the ruined equipment. Hank concentrated and the plane _came_ to him like he was reading a diagram of it with his hands. He could feel the metal pieces, could feel what was wrong. He _pulled_ at a couple of things that were supposed to have a series of wires between them, probably for control. Thinking quickly, he made a mental picture of pieces of the aircraft’s thin metal skin peeling inwards from where the shells had torn them, quickly rolling and stretching out thin, and attaching themselves into the areas where he felt they should be. He just hoped they didn’t need any of the pieces that he was imagining tearing off… 

John fought for all he was worth but it was no use. With no control on the right side and the engines browning out, possibly about to ignite, they were heading for the ground like a freight train. He extended a shaking hand towards the jump light on the wall across from his seat, fighting the stick to keep the plane from completely turning up on its wing and diving straight down. Hell, at least a couple of them might make it out…

Suddenly, there was a horrible tearing, screeching noise, and something was hitting the stick violently as it jerked in his hand. _Screeeeech-crunk-spang_!

Abruptly the stick shot right in John’s hand. He hadn’t realized how much strength he was pushing into it, and now unexpectedly he had partial control again. The plane weaved crazily as he fought it out of the spiral. “Holy sh*t Hank! What did you… hey, do somethin’ about those engines if you can…”, John began, but was interrupted by noise from the engines.

_Errrruuuunnkkk-Cough-cough-cough-Vrrrooooooooom_

The left engine accompanied the right in firing up, and John used every ounce of his considerable piloting skill, fighting the wounded and dying C-47 for all it was worth, coaxing, begging, and cursing it back onto something resembling a normal course. 

He looked forward, and they were flying relatively straight now, but he had no idea where. All the instruments were blown out, and there was flak still bursting here and there around them.

Smitty knelt up beside him, grinning, and John clapped him on the shoulder. “Damn good job, Hank! You saved us! Now how the hell are we gonna get back on course?”

“There. Head there”, came Smitty’s voice as his hand pointed ahead of them, to their left. Peering as best he could, John could just barely make out some smoke, and maybe… yes, that looked like it might be a bridge support. _Damn, he must have eyes like an eagle_, thought John, realizing he probably wouldn’t have noticed the Arnhem bridge from this distance and elevation.

“Alrighty, hold on, I’m gonna get us as close to the drop zone as I can”, John yelled.

They flew for a while, Hank kneeling beside him estimating their speed and time. John glanced back at Smitty, who was holding the jump line and yelling something at Moose, who was looking pretty pale. He went ahead and hit the red light as Hank shouted the time to him.

They were heading back into the worst of the flak now. It was almost like the Jerry’s knew their drop zone or something, they must have parked a half dozen flak cannons around the area, while with the Polish paratroop’s planes they had seen no flak at all. Just his luck.

_Pa-pa-pa-pa-Poom. Pa-pa-poom. Boom. BOOM._

_Spang-spang-spang-spang-spang_

Moose felt the plane shuddering violently, and looked back. There were huge ragged holes blowing upwards from the rear of the aircraft forward, like some invisible monster were jogging up from the tail and tearing open the floor with each clawed step.

In the cockpit, John looked at Hank. “Gettin’ close, we might want to get ready to..”

*CRASH**-PHOOM!*

The left engine exploded into flame.

“…go… goGoGO!”, John finished as he struggled to get out of his seat. Hank took off like a shot out of the cockpit.

Moose was just wondering if he should just go ahead and jump when he saw Hank stand up, wild-eyed, and step out of the cockpit.

“Hey dere Hank, izzit ‘bout time ta…”, Moose began to yell, but Hank lurched past him without a look, running, clipped onto the line and threw himself screaming out of the door in front of Moose. A nice blooming chute opened just below the aircraft.

Moose looked up at Smitty. Smitty smiled and made a “shooing” motion with his hands. He didn’t need any more encouragement. As he hooked up, Moose caught a glimpse of John stumbling out of the cockpit fighting the dying C-47 as shells slammed into it from everywhere, jump hook in hand and reaching shakily towards the jump line. Moose stepped out of the door.

The wind tore at him with unexpected fury, and he felt himself bang into the side of the rapidly disintegrating C-47 as he spun over and over for what seemed like an eternity. It was oddly quiet compared to the roaring and creaking inside of the C-47, nothing but the wind whipping at his clothes and the distant sound of the flak cannon. Then there was a hard _jerk_ on his chest and shoulders, and he was floating towards a field below him.

Smitty grabbed at John’s hook as the plane started to break up, snatching it, hooking him up, and shoving him out of the door flailing.

Then Smitty concentrated on being light like he did when hunting as a kid. Willing his every molecule to push itself somewhere _else_. Being like a ghost.

He opened his eyes as the aircraft whipped by his face, and felt the oddest sensation as the remainder of the C-47 passed through his body and exploded, spraying him with unfelt fragments. Like a ghost, he floated downwards under his own power towards the ground.

Hank was getting worried. He looked up, but didn’t see anyone else coming out yet… wait, there was someone’s chute opening. Then another a few seconds later. Good. He felt better now that he was pretty sure they were out. That good feeling ended when he realized that the flak cannon that just ended their plane was sweeping its fire towards him now, and the flashes of cannon shells and _zipping_ of small arms fire was walking in closer with every second.

Hank remembered his training and pushed his will outwards towards anything metal. He felt as much as heard the plane detonate, and with his mind like an invisible, magnetic hand he reached out to the shredded pieces of falling metal and pulled them to him, spinning them around him in an oscillating globe-shape. He felt a 20mm shell explode near him, scattering against his magnetic shield and leaving him unharmed, and smiled a silent “thanks” to the Nazis below as he gathered the fragments of the rounds into his ever-growing shield.

Smitty watched the plane break up and burn, falling towards the ground as a strange stream of debris pulled off and flowed upwards towards Hank’s parachute. He could see the flak cannon now, at the edge of the field they were flying over, and he tried to will himself closer to it. He could feel the occasional burst of a cannon shell or small arms fire zip through him, but while a bit alarming, it left him otherwise unharmed in his disincorporated state. 

Hank hit the ground and bounced, keeping low as the flak crew tried changing their weapon’s elevation to bring fire on him. John hit the ground near him and rolled, ripping himself out of his parachute and immediately loping off towards the gun crew, dodging the fire from a few Krauts hiding behind the gun’s forward shield.

Moose thumped into the dirt hard, drug for a second, and tore his chute gear off in one hand, letting it go in the wind. He calmly knelt, unslung one of his BARs and jacked the slide.

John weaved and ducked, running twice as fast as Jesse Owens as he gained on the platform. He saw several Germans stand up from behind the cannon and take aim with MP-40’s. Then they all jerked like marionette’s with their strings tangled, sparks flying off of the cannon’s front shield, as the heavy rounds of Moose’s BAR tore into them.

John was abruptly there, jumping lithely to spin in the air and land on the back of the platform, and pulled the icy cold from inside him into being like a nimbus of deadly frost.

The last two Germans barely had time to register the numbing, killing power of a wave of cold before John’s fists snapped out, one-two, and ended their lives.

He was just _pushing_ the sphere of icy death around him back _inside_ as it was making frost on the gun and quickly feezing the bodies and blood from the slain Nazis, when Smitty calmly floated down from the sky and landed beside him. He could almost see through Smitty in a few places, which was strange, but now he understood why he never put on his jump gear. Smitty suddenly seemed to gain solidity as Hank and Moose came running up.

“About time you fellas got here, we got work to do”, Smitty quipped at them with a smile and lit himself a smoke.

They gathered up their gear, Smitty checking his rifle’s scope and Moose reloading and priming both BARs, settling the pouches of ammo and grenades he was carrying.

“Alrighty then, dingdangit, I reckon we’re about right thar”, Hank said, pointing to the map, “which puts us a few dagnabbit dingdang miles from whar we wanna danged-ol’ hook up in Arnhem. Which o’ you fellers wanna take the dingdang point?”

Moose, knowing he was pretty quiet for such a big guy and having the most firepower, began to raise his hand.

Smitty piped up “I think I can handle it”, and then promptly disappeared from sight all together. Moose only saw his boot prints in the dirt moving away from them, but couldn’t even hear his steps this close. He quickly turned his half-raised hand into a point in Smitty’s direction. 

“Um, yeah dere I think that Smitty’s got it, eh?”

They gave him a little time to get ahead, then fell into line and headed towards their objective. Distant booms and small arms fire came to them, but it was hard to tell just what they were running into. Not that it mattered. What mattered to the four of them was that they had a job to do, and lives depended on it.


……


Frogbot squatted quietly as several more British paratroopers ran past him, not noticing him in their haste to flee. He had overheard their leader, the wounded Colonel Frost, tell them to get every man who could run and try to get away.

Three Nazis rounded the same corner, hot on the paratrooper’s tails, and stopped in the alley to aim at their unprotected backs.

Frogbot unfolded himself from hiding position and stepped towards them.

The last thing the three of them heard was a _snikt! _and then their lives were torn from them before they even knew it.

Frogbot snapped his wrists outward, flinging the blood off of his steel claws before re-sheathing them. He glanced around the corner, and saw the German soldiers leading wounded British out of the mostly destroyed building they used as a command post. He could see Colonel Frost, wounded and bleeding, speak with a German commander as tanks and SS troopers moved past.

He restrained the urge to immediately leap into the fray against the Germans, calculating his chances against several hundred soldiers with halftracks and tanks to be close to only 8.8723% success probability. Not acceptable, as he had a mission. One that depended on another team of allied talents to get here, though they were late.

He silently hoped they would get there soon, and then took a moment to wonder how his programming had been damaged to convey the sensation of ‘hope’ to his circuits. Slightly confused, he slipped into the mass of ruined buildings to hide, wait, and watch for the other team. He figured he would help what allied paratroopers he could while he took time to consider these unaccustomed ‘feelings’.


----------



## ledded

Here are a few of the player handouts from this session for your enjoyment.

(The first 3 and a couple of the photographs following were the stuff that Smythe handed to them in their meeting, which I gave to the players to carry with them on their mission)


----------



## ledded

And a few more handouts...

EDIT: Just as a note, that third pic actually is an aerial surveillance photo of the Arnhem area taken mere days before the operation itself


----------



## PallidPatience

You have yet another fan, Ledded. This thing is marvellous... I wish I could play.


----------



## ledded

PallidPatience said:
			
		

> You have yet another fan, Ledded. This thing is marvellous... I wish I could play.



Welcome aboard, and thanks for the kind words. It was quite fun to play.

Watch those mailboxes, gentle subscribers, because next issue will be 5 PC's vs. a couple platoons of Germans, several tanks, halftracks, snipers, and a Nazi ubermensch or two. And *then* it starts to get ugly.

If you havent already, go check out Medallions and Action Squad, written by 2 of my gaming comrade-in-arms (OldDrewId/Frogbot and Pierce/Smitty), links in my sig.  You will not be sorry, they're both class A story hours.


----------



## barsoomcore

Just checking in, led, and happy to see the pace hasn't let up the slightest. These cats have some darn cool powers, I have to say.

This is great stuff. Well done.


----------



## PallidPatience

Trust me. I'm reading Medallions, too. It's brilliant, as well. You guys are too awesome... I sooo want to be in your group... I'm sure that I'm not worthy, though... I don't have the psycho mini-obsession thing going down.


----------



## Broccli_Head

PallidPatience said:
			
		

> You have yet another fan, Ledded. This thing is marvellous... I wish I could play.




I echo these sentiments...If I ever vist Birmingham, I'll give you an advance notice!


----------



## Naathez

...ledded, sir....


this goes beyond brilliant, up into the realm of GRAND...


-astonished, speechless, as he applauds silently-


----------



## Rel

About this most recent update, let me just say, "Wow!"  Very gripping and exciting and they haven't even got to the best part yet.  I'm starting to guess, and I say this in all seriousness, that your story hour is moving from being merely "great" toward being one of the "classics".  I could easily see you getting a following along the lines of (contact)'s RttToEE or Wulf Ratbane's original story hour.

No pressure or anything, but keep up the good work.   



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> I got it for Christmas last year, and watched it 7,482 times before starting this short campaign, along with Battle of Britain, the Bridge and Remagen, the Big Red One, When Trumpets Fade, the Longest Day (you *gotta* watch that one if you havent), Saving Pvt Ryan, A Bridge too Far, and many others that I don't own.




I've seen all of those except for When Trumpets Fade.  the Big Red One is one of my favorite war movies.  It's starting to look pretty dated, but you've got to love any movie that puts Lee Marvin in charge of Luke Skywalker.   



> I dunno, Smythe is *much* too british, flippant, and charismatic for Schwimmer.




I wasn't really serious about that, led.  I actually think that Schwimmer is permanently damaged by his role on Friends and is suitable for little besides being despised at this point.



> Yes, I recommend all of those books quite highly, though I havent read Undaunted Courage yet.  I don't think quite as highly of Ambrose as some, but I do believe he did great work (for the most part, there were a few exceptions) though most of his appeal comes from being able to write for the masses and get published.  There are a lot of better historians out there, but he was a better _storyteller_, and I love a good story along with my first hand accounts.




I agree with you that where Ambrose really excels is in his ability to find the parts of history that appeal to the reader most dramatically and relating them in a way that makes the reader feel personally involved in their struggle.  I first started reading his books with Undaunted Courage, recommended by my wife's grandmother.  Great book for giving you an understanding of what day to day life is like for an expedition headed into unknown wilderness.  I shall forever remember those involved with the Louis and Clark expedition for their courage, ingenouity and capacity to consume huge amounts of protien (most of the members of the expedition consumed a minimum of *8 pounds* of meat each day   ).

But what really made Ambrose one of my most read authors was his book on D-Day.  After seeing Saving Private Ryan and the horror that was Omaha beach, all I could think was "What were they thinking?!"  So I went out to get a book about it and Ambrose's was the one I picked.  After that I quickly read through most of his WWII books, including Band of Brothers and Victors.  I was thrilled when I heard about HBO doing their miniseries on Band of Brothers.

One thing that always gets me (and which I think is a huge strength of the series) is the actual men of Easy Company who lead off each segment of the story with their personal accounts of the war.  It is too easy to forget that the actors are portraying a version of events that actually took place and that real people were in that situation, fighting and dying.  And it is utterly jarring when one of the "main characters", the Tocoah men who started out with the company, is suddenly killed.  It feels so un-cinematic that it can't help but remind you that you're not really watching a movie but really a documentary.

Anyway, enough about Band of Brothers.  Clearly you've paid close attention to detail and it shows in your excellent story hour, ledded.  I obviously can't wait for more and I think you deserve big kudos for what you've accomplished so far.

One final question:  Being as how you live in the Gulf Coast region (albeit in northern Alabama), have you paid a visit to the D-Day museum in New Orleans?  I may be headed down south later this year and if I make it to Louisiana, I'm definately dropping in there.


----------



## ledded

Rel said:
			
		

> About this most recent update, let me just say, "Wow!" Very gripping and exciting and they haven't even got to the best part yet. I'm starting to guess, and I say this in all seriousness, that your story hour is moving from being merely "great" toward being one of the "classics". I could easily see you getting a following along the lines of (contact)'s RttToEE or Wulf Ratbane's original story hour.
> 
> No pressure or anything, but keep up the good work.



Wow.  I wish I shared your optimism on this SH, but I do very much appreciate the sentiment.  I don't know that I'd ever get to the level of Contact's or Wulf's stories (or other board favorites of mine like P-Cat, Sepulchrave, OldDrewId, etc), or that I'd want to try, but I plan to keep having fun with it and see how it goes.



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> I've seen all of those except for When Trumpets Fade. the Big Red One is one of my favorite war movies. It's starting to look pretty dated, but you've got to love any movie that puts Lee Marvin in charge of Luke Skywalker.



You really should pick up When Trumpets Fade.  Not one of the best WWII movies, but tells a very little-known story about one of the bloodiest and horrendous areas Americans fought in during WWII, Hurtgen forest.  The stupidity, futility, and downright arrogance of military command led to the senseless slaughter of thousands of americans there, and the movie at least paints a decent picture of a soldiers frustration and will to survive against what he knows are unsurmountable odds.  

Yeah, I loved Big Red One, and even though it has technical issues it is still a good war flick, also enhanced by the fact that is supposedly the director's true story of experience during WWII.



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> I wasn't really serious about that, led. I actually think that Schwimmer is permanently damaged by his role on Friends and is suitable for little besides being despised at this point.



Hey, no prob, I'm just glad I have a character that someone is beginning to despise  . 



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> I agree with you that where Ambrose really excels is in his ability to find the parts of history that appeal to the reader most dramatically and relating them in a way that makes the reader feel personally involved in their struggle. <snip>



That is one thing he most definitely was a master of, even if he had to make a few things up to get there...  



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> <snip>
> 
> One thing that always gets me (and which I think is a huge strength of the series) is the actual men of Easy Company who lead off each segment of the story with their personal accounts of the war. It is too easy to forget that the actors are portraying a version of events that actually took place and that real people were in that situation, fighting and dying. And it is utterly jarring when one of the "main characters", the Tocoah men who started out with the company, is suddenly killed. It feels so un-cinematic that it can't help but remind you that you're not really watching a movie but really a documentary.



The documentary that is the last episode on the DVD set, We Stand Alone Together, which is getting play on the History channel now is the most moving of the series.  For the first time, they put the names of the guys interviewed below their faces to show you who they actually are, unlike they did on all the interview lead-ins where they left it off, and to hear these guys get choked up and shed a tear for someone who passed 50+ years ago is quite moving.  It really affected me to watch the entire series, then all of a sudden realize that *that* old guy who did the lead in on a few episodes *is* Shifty Powers, and *that* old guy with a prosthetic leg *is* Bill Guarnere, and you actually can feel the charisma and nobility exuded by Winters during the interviews that his men must have felt back then.

When the one old soldier struggles to tell his story about how he recently had a conversation with his grandson that went something like this, it still makes me get all goose-pimply and choked-up:

Grandson:  "Grampa, were you a hero in the war?"
Grampa:    "No, son, I wasnt.  But I served in a company of heroes".



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> Anyway, enough about Band of Brothers. Clearly you've paid close attention to detail and it shows in your excellent story hour, ledded. I obviously can't wait for more and I think you deserve big kudos for what you've accomplished so far.



Aw shucks man, I do appreciate the comments.  I know that I have a lot of stuff I could get better at in the story, but I really enjoy writing it nonetheless. 



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> One final question: Being as how you live in the Gulf Coast region (albeit in northern Alabama), have you paid a visit to the D-Day museum in New Orleans? I may be headed down south later this year and if I make it to Louisiana, I'm definately dropping in there.



I haven't yet (havent been to Louisiana in a long time), but we're planning a trip to N'awlins for this summer and that is near the top of my list of places to go.

Thanks again (to everyone) for stopping by.



			
				PallidPatience said:
			
		

> Trust me. I'm reading Medallions, too. It's brilliant, as well. You guys are too awesome... I sooo want to be in your group... I'm sure that I'm not worthy, though... I don't have the psycho mini-obsession thing going down.



"Your training in mini obsession will be long and arduous"
"I'm not afraid!"
"oh, you will be... you *will* be... heh heh heh"    



			
				barsoomcore said:
			
		

> Just checking in, led, and happy to see the pace hasn't let up the slightest. These cats have some darn cool powers, I have to say.
> 
> This is great stuff. Well done.



Glad to see ya again, barsoomie, I appreciate the nice words.  Just wait until next update, for the first time they get a chance to truly 'stretch their legs' and pull out the full gamut of powers.  Everybody really pretty much used everything they had in the coming conflict.  Oh, and BTW, anyone who has not checked out barsoomcore's SH's needs to get off their lazy @ss and go do so, he's one of my personal favorites on these boards.  That samurai short story you did for the Ceramic DM made me laugh for quite some time dude.



			
				Naathez said:
			
		

> ...ledded, sir....
> 
> this goes beyond brilliant, up into the realm of GRAND...
> 
> -astonished, speechless, as he applauds silently-



Again, you guys never fail to come by and say something that makes me want to run out an write another 50 pages... thanks, I appreciate it, though I do think ya'll are putting much more praise onto it that it's worth.  That still doesnt restrain the increased swelling in my Big Giant Head; I'm going to have borrow some of OldDrewId's interns to help me carry it around on my shoulders if ya'll keep it up.

Update coming sometime this week, if I can only remember the general sequence of events well enough to put it into words.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [of mice and men]*

...

John halted, quietly going to one knee and raising a hand, open palmed, then curled into a fist.

Moose and Hank stopped and also went to a knee, Moose slowly scanning the surrounding area for Germans with his BAR. Another BAR was strapped to his back as well as loose bandoliers of grenades, ammo, several satchel charges and magnetic mines. Hank marveled at the ease at which Moose carried this load, but hell, he was over six-and-a-half feet and thick as a tree, he ought to be able to carry a few things.

They had been walking for close to a couple hours, stopping and starting, Smitty ghosting out in front of them and occasionally appearing out of nowhere to signal them forward. For the last thirty minutes they had been inside the city, but moving slowly so as to not attract a sniper’s attention or step into an ambush.

So far they had avoided contact with anyone hostile, though they did come across a couple groups of Dutch civilians heading out of town who warned them that the British were taking quite a beating up near the bridge. The bridge they should be getting pretty close to by now. They had heard distant sounds of tank or artillery fire, and occasionally a little bit of small arms fire, earlier in their walk. Well, Smitty said he could hear a good bit of small arms fire as they got close to the city; his senses were unnaturally acute, and Smitty didn’t say a whole lot but when he did you had a tendency to believe him, come hell or high water. So if he said there were British .303’s, PIATs, Brens, Stens, German MP40’s, Kar98’s, or MG42’s firing in the distance, as far as the boys were concerned it was a friggin’ fact.

Smitty silently moved back to John while Moose and Hank moved up when he motioned to them from the hidden lee of a ruined building. Hank had the map out and was looking for landmarks that matched the detail of the city map Smythe gave them with the bookstore on it; his finger was on one building and he was staring directly at a tall stone tower, possibly a clock tower of some kind, ahead and to their right about two blocks. Quite a few buildings had been torn up during the fight or before; there had been some shelling of some kind recently.

“Well thar, dingdangit it looks jes like we done found us a dang ol’ landmark thar boys”, Hank whispered, apparently proud, or surprised, that he’d been able to lead them this far by his map skills alone. “What say we dingdang spread out a mite and use that thar danged ol’ tower as a point to turn up thataways toward that thar bridge?”

Smitty, lighting a smoke, was the first to reply.

“Sounds good. We’ll just do this like we planned. I’ll go a little bit ahead and get up in that tower, see what I can and signal back to you. Be careful, boys, I could’ve sworn I heard tank treads on that bridge a few minutes ago and they were German by the sound of ‘em”.

No one questioned him; actually Moose took that as a cue to hand out a few satchel charges and magnetic mines to the others. Moose casually put one in Hank’s hand like a loaf of bread, who promptly overbalanced at the unexpected weight; the mine _clanged_ on the ground at Hank’s feet with him holding it. He grabbed it with his other hand and hefted it back up a bit shakily. Hank smiled sheepishly at the other’s startled faces and looked around for a moment before whispering, “Heh. Sorry ‘bout that. Damn, Moose, warn a dingdang feller ‘fore you start huckin’ 20 pound mines at ‘im.”

Smitty waited until Hank settled himself and then continued.

“Look, I betting the Brit’s have either withdrawn or fallen; I haven’t heard a British weapon fired in a while, which means the Krauts are probably heading down that very street soon to mop up. We need to get into position fast, but let’s be as quiet as we can. We’ll try to spread out around that tower; Moose, you’re gonna pick a covering position on the left where you can see the street, right? Hank, you take the right side and be ready to hit any armor on the flanks. John, back ‘em up and have yourself ready to move in quick to that shop if we can spot it from the tower. Sound like a plan, fellas?”

“Yeah dere, Smitty, I got ya covered, eh”, replied Moose.

“Yup. Got it”, John answered.

Hank looked up from where he was fiddling with the mine he dropped and dented, the other three looking expectantly at him.

“Um… yeah. Dingdang got it thar, partner… ‘cept all that last part, ‘bout dingdang coverin’ and movin’ and sech…”, Hank said.

Moose snorted; John shook his head and let out a sigh. Smitty just stared at Hank like Hank had suddenly grown a horn out of the middle of his forehead. Smitty’s look said he wasn’t all that alarmed about it, however wouldn’t mind pulling it off for him. 

And re-attaching it. 

Somewhere else. 

Somewhere… uncomfortable. 

Smitty could say a lot with just a look.

He took a deep breath and started, “Hank, what I…”

“Aw hell Smitty, dingdang I’s just messin’ with ya”, Hank shot back at him, grinning, as he slapped Smitty’s leg with the back of his hand. He arranged his gear and got ready to go.

John nodded at Smitty, his eyes crystal blue like a wolf’s. “Good hunting” he breathed at Smitty, and Moose couldn’t help repressing a slight shudder at the predator rasp in his voice. John smiled at them, a smile more feral than friendly, and loped off towards his position. 

Smitty clapped Moose on the shoulder, grinning, and headed out like a rapid ghost, a mere shadow of color on the grey city landscape as he moved silently and swiftly towards the tower. 

Hank took off in a crouching quick-walk towards where Smitty had directed him. “Meet ya up thar Bullwinkle”.

Moose just shook his head and moved off at the double towards a good covering position at the end of the street. _Heck, those boys are looking forward to this. To gettin’ at the Krauts. Bunch o’ nuts_, he thought as he moved his hulking frame into position.

Moose could hear the growling of distant engines as he started to peek out around a building corner next to the tower. He saw a darker shadow move in front of a third storey window of the tower that was most likely Smitty, and thought he might have seen shadows moving in the half-ruined buildings on the other side of the street. Moose caught sight of John, who motioned to him with a closed fist, made a sign for “tank” and counted “three” on his fingers. He then made the sign for infantry and motioned as if to say “a whole friggin sh*tload”. _Time to get to work_, Moose thought, and ran around the corner sliding behind a low wall, facing down the street towards the Arnhem bridge several blocks away.

As soon as he registered the fact that there was a Tiger and two Panzer tanks moving slowly down the street in single file several blocks away, infantry walking the sidewalks beside them, Moose was flinching away from hot-stinging lead and bits of rock as the MG42 he missed opened up on his position from across the street and a half-block away. Moose took a few quick, deep breaths, blowing them out forcefully, then gritted his teeth and rose up from behind the waist-high wall, opening up a long stuttering stream of suppression fire from his BAR. Nazis caught out in the open scattered as several of their number fell under the withering sleet of .30-06.

Their plan had been simple; Smitty would take a position in the highest building nearest the main street leading to the bridge. Moose would get into position at the end of the street, providing cover and drawing fire from the unfriendlies so Hank and John could move up the street towards the bridge, and the book store that was only a couple blocks from it. He also was going to draw out fire from any Krauts squirreled away in the buildings across the street so Smitty could pick a few choice targets. Hank and John would move up the right side, hopefully out of sight, and only engage if Smitty or Moose needed a hand.

As Smitty settled into position at the top of the tower he recalled a saying once about the best laid plans of mice and men.

…

He could see that Moose was going to be in trouble and quick. There were 3 tanks rolling down the street with at least 20 infantry providing them a screen. The opposite side of the street from Smitty, on Moose’s left, had Nazi’s crawling all over it, and several had set up nice ambush positions. On his right side, near where John and Hank were supposed to be, was a halftrack moving slowly down the alleyways, several Krauts running a scouting screen for it. _I bet it’s one of those flamethrower Hanomags,_ thought Smitty. _That’d be just our luck_. They were late, and Jerry had prepared them a little surprise.

_No matter_, thought Smitty_, we’ll manage_. _First things first_.

Smitty brought up his scoped Springfield 1903 and immediately sighted in on an MG42 nest that was ripping lead at Moose while a couple half-squads moved quickly towards his position. A Kubelwagon with an MG34 mounted on it zoomed down the alleyway towards the street. 

Smitty brought the MG42, tripod mounted with at least a three man fire team, into his scope. They had set up on the second floor of a bombed out building, and he could see movement between the shattered brick and masonry. He let out his held breath and fired, noting the spray of blood out of the gunner’s helmet as he toppled sideways and the firing stopped. Smitty heard Moose’s BAR firing, and immediately swung that way. There were four Germans moving double-time down an alley to Moose’s left, probably just out of his sight meaning to catch him on his flank.

Smitty sighted up the rearmost and fired so as not to alert his forward companions as they ran in a straight line. The man crumpled to the ground when Smitty shot him in the throat, and his companions kept moving. Then the next one’s head jerked backwards, his helmet clanging as it flew off of his head. _A little high,_ thought Smitty as he sighted up the third German and fired. The soldier had stopped and turned when he heard the helmet, and was just looking towards the tower coiled to spring towards cover with a “where the hell did that come from?” look on his face when Smitty shot him through his gaping mouth, open to shout a warning. The leading German dove for cover through a shattered doorway before Smitty could draw a bead on him. Smitty heard more machinegun fire, and swung his Springfield back towards the action after yelling a quick warning to Moose. He hated giving away his position, but he’d hate it more if that yellow-bellied Nazi got the drop on Moose.

The loader from the MG42 nest he had fired at before had taken over and was firing. Smitty could see he was crouching more and had pulled the gun back from the exposed edge a little, and at least one more German was trying to spot where Smitty’s fire was coming from. _Like that’s gonna do you any good. Man, I hate machine guns. Jeez, you’d think these b*stards could take a hint_.

…

Hank moved as quiet as he could across the alley between the tower and the next building, what looked like an old church of some kind. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the relative silence was broken by the staccato ripping of a German machine gun, followed by a barrage of small arms fire. He saw John at the other end of the alley signaling back towards the end of the street, (_aw crap, dingdang ol’ tanks again_, Hank thought) and then as he turned to rejoin Hank a second machine gun starting raining death on him from another building.

Hank took off running behind the church and stopped. He peeked through the broken windows, and could see a tank rolling by on the street on the other side. “Dingdang that feller’s gonna give ‘em sum trouble fer sure Itellyouwhat”, he said to himself, and began to concentrate.

Metal debris in the surrounding area began sliding and flying towards Hank, and as it began to revolve around him in a rough sphere of swirling debris Hank took the two magnetic mines that Moose had given him, one in each hand, and added them to the mix. He looked towards the roof of the church, and exerting his control over the magnetic energy in the surrounding area, raised his arms out by his sides, leapt upwards with a low hum, and rose steadily off the ground.

…

John wasn’t that used to running with the ground-pounders, but he was faster than anyone he had ever met now, and could move pretty quiet also. Leaving Hank at the back of the alley, he had skulked up towards the mouth, noticed the tanks and the infantry, and signaled Moose so he wouldn’t get caught with his pants down.

No sooner than he had signaled Moose and turned, the ripping sound of a second MG42 came to him and bullets _whizzed_ and _spanged_ under his feet and on the wall of the alley’s mouth. Chips of stonework sprayed painfully against his skin as he bolted for better cover.

He was smart enough to realize that the MG42 had good field of fire down the alley. He juked left out of the next volley of lead’s path as it tore into the paving stones and jumped through the broken front window of a church that made up the other side of the alley from Smitty’s tower.

John was just about to breathe a sigh of relief as he landed, cat-like, on the other side of the window when he realized he just landed behind someone wearing a grey uniform whose back was to him. A Wermacht grey uniform, with a black death’s-head patch on it.

Immediately John lashed out with both hands, wrapping his arms around the soldier’s neck and calling forth the aura of killing cold almost as a reflex. The Nazi threw his head back as if to scream, but frost was forming on his tongue and teeth as John crushed his windpipe like a cardboard tube. 

The soldier’s companion yelled and lowered his MP40, firing a burst at John. John quickly flung the body of the first soldier at him, bullets _thudding_ into the half-frozen corpse, following it with blinding speed. The Nazi barely had time to swing the butt of his submachinegun at John ineffectively before the pale-eyed man was on him, grabbing both sides of his head with hands cold like death and eyes as merciful as a glacier wall. John _moved_ the power of his killing frost differently, concentrating it, and the German’s eyes flew wide in shock, feeling his strength drain from him as his internal organs began to freeze from the _inside out_.

John let the body slide from his fingers and took a deep breath. Glancing out of the broken window he could see Germans firing down the street, moving, and a Panzer rumbling by right in front of him. Just as was he was reaching for a grenade or anything to use on it, he heard, more acutely _felt_ a strange vibration, looking up to see Hank floating over the shelled-ruined roof with a spinning globe of protective metal around him and two magnetic mines orbiting his waist in the sphere of metal.

He smiled, understanding what Hank was up to, and unslung his Garand. Taking aim, he quickly began shooting the infantry to scatter them away from the clanking monstrosity in front of him as they looked up at Hank. 

John just barely noticed the Hanomag pulling up on the opposite side of the church, leaving him with a Panzer on one side and a halftrack on the other. He took a quick second to peer at it through the windows of the church, wondering what was that nozzle where the machine gun was usually mounted? And why was it… burning?

“Oh damn, that can’t be good”, thought John.

…

As Hank floated past the apex of the Church’s destroyed roof, he gestured at the lead Panzer with both arms, teeth gritted in effort, squeezing his hands into clenched fists and slowly _pulling_ them apart.

The tank responded, shaking and shuddering violently while making strange _CRREEAAUUNKK_ noises of protesting metal. Several sections of armor crinkled and warped free from their bolts, the protective _shurtzen_ on the left side sprang off entirely, and a hatch twisted loose from its hinges as the engine went dead. Confused exclamations in German rose muffled from the interior. Several Germans on the ground looked around in confusion, and one pointed up at Hank, incredulous eyes goggling wide and screaming in German. Hank just smiled at them and yelled down “Hey, how ya’ll doin’?”, waving amiably as he saw John shoot several of them dead while they stared at him like hics at their first country fair.

Then he watched as the Tiger coming from behind the Panzer finished leveling its main gun straight down the street, and with a deafening *PHOOM!*, fired. Straight down at Moose’s position.

Hank didn’t dare spare a glance to see the results; he set his mouth in a grim line and dove down towards the ground in between the tanks.

…

Meanwhile, Moose had been firing relentlessly at the horde of Nazis now popping up in windows all over the left side of the street and the ones accompanying the tanks. He’d dropped several, saw Smitty pop a few more, but they were still laying heavy down fire on him. 

A couple Nazi’s sprang out close to him, charging and firing wildly with their MP40’s. The small caliber submachinegun rounds slammed all around Moose, a stream of them walking up his left side as he grunted in pain.

The Nazi’s looked at him, confused, as they saw their rounds pillow into Moose’s leg and ribcage, his skin and muscle rippling like a small stone dropped into a pond before the skin sprang back, unharmed, and the bullets fell _plinking_ to the ground next to him.

They had only a second to contemplate this phenomena before Moose deftly turned his BAR towards them, muttering “Dammit *that* sting’s a bit, eh?”, and shot them both dead with a burst of high-caliber fire.

Moose was having a little trouble catching his breath; he had been moving very quickly, firing-reloading-firing, ducking in-and-out of cover, and several rounds from the Germans had hit their mark. While they didn’t punch big holes in him like intended, they still hurt. He thought one might have even cracked a rib, but it wasn’t enough to slow him down. Nope; as they used to say in football, he was just _hitting his stride_ now.

The MG42 and some of the rifle fire that had been plaguing him had dropped off, _thanks Smitty_ Moose thought, though a Kubelwagon with an MG34 mounted on it just careened around an alley and began rushing at him, machinegun spraying wildly and hitting the building behind him.

Moose was just taking aim at the Kubelwagon when he heard Smitty’s voice yell out, “Moose! Left!”

Without thinking, Moose snapped out his left hand and glanced quickly. The sweater-necks back in England had given him a little going away present before he left: A large metal contraption, an oversized brass knuckle-looking thing made of some dull whitish metal. They said it would keep him from hurting his hand if he had to hit something harder than he was. 

He thought it a bit silly-looking but breathed silent thanks now; Smitty’s warning was for a lone German soldier that had flanked him. The Nazi had a panzerfaust not 30 feet away, and was just depressing the trigger as Moose spotted the Kraut, rocket screaming away from him in a cloud of smoke and flame right at Moose’s chest.

As Moose’s left hand snapped out, he felt a jarring impact to his knuckles. He had swatted the rocket out of the air to explode behind him, showering him with rocks and debris. That brass knuckle has just saved him a world of hurt. The Kubelwagon fired another burst at him, one round glancing off of his leg as the MG34 jammed with a _ker-chank_.

This was getting just a bit too intense for Moose. Time to even up the odds a little.

“Oh, so ya wanna play *rough* now, eh?” growled Moose, rapidly losing his patience with the Nazis. He flexed his mighty shoulders and _heaved_ against his own form, mentally _pushing_ against the boundaries of his own flesh, feeling the power within him light his skin on prickling fire as he felt it flood his body and _expand_ outwards in a violent surge.

The Nazi who fired the Panzerfaust fell back on his rump in surprise, scrabbling for his rifle, muttering “Gott in Himmel… Gott in Himmel…”

The large American he was sure he had just killed had just exploded outwards in a ripple of skin and flesh and now stood before him holding a paving stone ripped from the sidewalk that was the size of a medium table-top. 

He was now over *nine* feet tall.

And five feet wide.

And very, very angry.

The German scrambled, hands shaking, for his rifle, and had just flipped the safety off of it when he looked up to see the paving stone heading straight for his head and chest. He then saw nothing but a flash of light, then darkness.

Moose turned, dusting his hands, satisfied that he had taken care of *that* Nazi. He heard the three Germans in the stopped Kubelwagon, grinding its gears in front of him, screaming at each other in their panic to clear the jammed MG34. He tore a large chunk off the wall in front of him off with two massive hands. At least now he saw why those brass knuckles were so big and his uniform was special made and hung like a potato sack on him, why the Materials scientist had warned him not to tighten his bandoliers any tighter than _this _mark as it all stretched tightly across his much-larger body. He raised the huge chunk of stone over his head and turned towards the Kubelwagon, grinning.

The grin slid off of his face as he heard the _whirring_ of a tank’s turrent suddenly stop.

He saw the Tiger down the street, big gun aimed right at him.

Moose flinched, snapping the chunk of wall down in front of him reflexively.

“Oh shi..”

*PHOOM!*

There was a tremendous impact and explosion, the Nazis in the Kubelwagon ducking for cover as bits of rock and steel rained everywhere. The form of the immense American streaked backwards from the impact to _CRASH_ into the building facing fifteen feet behind him, which promptly fell in a shower of bricks leaving a large gaping hole.

They all cheered and looked for a new target as they turned away from the smoking crater where Moose had just been standing, one smoking and torn jump-boot the only testament that he had ever been there.

...

(be sure to check out pics from this session in my miniatures thread, link is in my sig below)


----------



## caixa

Again....WOWJust plain Wow.

Nice bud, real nice.

Ouch.

Peterson


----------



## PallidPatience

Noooooooo! MOOOOOOOOOSE! Get up, eh?


----------



## GreyShadow

Cleric... oh wait wrong game... MEDIC!!! 

 More please.


----------



## Nail

Excellent, excellent stuff, ledded.  Makes me want to play a WWII game myself (at the very least!).


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [An Enemy's Mind]*

……

_Untersturmführer _Berchtwald Deitz was having a bad day.

A bad week, really.

Well, on second thought, a bad year.

Hell, to be honest, the whole _verdammt_ war was not going well for him lately.

Deitz thought fondly back to his first encounter with the Nazi party in the early 1930’s; the beer hall days, full of promise and plans for a new era for the German people always filled him with pride and feelings of unrestrained, nationalistic joy.

A child of prosperous parents frustrated with the political situation in Germany, the Nazis provided an adolescent Deitz with an outlet for his petty grudges and perceived slights. He happily joined them on the _Kristallnacht_, The Night of Broken Glass. It was then, with a euphoria bordering on the religious, that he found joy and purpose for once in all of his eighteen years of idle affluence. The old rabbi begged them, on his knees, to spare his relics as his laughing fellows smashed the windows and doors of his precious synagogue and hurled flaming brands inside. Everything that Goebels and Himmler had told them for years about the hated Jews came crashing to him in a torrent of rage and he struck the helpless old man with his axe handle. Filled with righteous glee at the sight of the rabbi, bleeding on his hands and knees, Dietz gave in to his animal instincts and began brutally beating him, screaming curses and racial epithets. His fellows soon joined in, and they spent the whole night in an orgy of purging destruction. Deitz soon came to garner a reputation for ruthlessness and efficiency in service to the new ideals.

He joined the SS as soon as he could, and because of his father’s wealth and connections he was promoted to _Untersturmführer. _

Deitz gladly led his squads of SS in Warsaw and many other polish towns, freeing the people from their hardship under those of lesser blood; the communists, the gypsies, the Jews, anyone who did not submit to the new order. He happily gathered them up into ghettos, sent them to work camps, and executed anyone who resisted or merely looked at him the wrong way. Like animals, he cared nothing for their fate or their bleating for mercy.

There were many riches to be had, too, and soon they had grown fat and wealthy plundering those that were not aligned firmly with the Aryan ideal. He was so efficient that he quickly made _Hauptsturmführer_, and was on the fast-track for a promotion to _Sturmbannführer_. Life in the SS was good for Deitz, and the privileges of an SS Major were near at hand.

But then the eastern front beckoned, and his units were pulled from their duties and sent to the coldest, most hellish place he had ever imagined. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect the _verdammt_ communists to be such a tenacious and murderous foe, willing to sacrifice five of their people for every German they could kill, and the experience of actually being shot at was not one that Deitz savored in the slightest. Even worse a foe was the winter, the killing frost doing as much to grind the German war machine to a halt as the Russians themselves. Then the accusation came.

Coward. 

In one instant, he went from being a patriot to a pariah. _I was only going for help_, thought Deitz, only trying to get reinforcements to stave off the waves of Russian crazy-men piling up at their position. _We needed ammunition, too, yes, that was it_. Ammunition was what he went for. But no, those lazy a_rschloche _he had the misfortune of commanding had let themselves be overrun. So he had lost his entire command, and been demoted, because he had the foresight to think ahead. Only his father’s connections saved him from further embarrassment, but they also served to get him transferred back to Germany, to serve near Belgium and Holland. At least he wouldn’t freeze here, though his career was virtually over now. 

And none of it his fault. Or so he whined to himself night after night.

He had served Hitler as well as he could, had exhorted himself and others to all manner of horrible tasks in the ghettos, ferreting out and destroying Hitler’s opposition wherever it lay. The blood of hundreds, maybe even thousands, were on his hands and still they were not satisfied that he did his duty.

And now, to beat all, some crazy _Amerikanischer schweinehund_ sniper was taking pot-shots _through_ the holes in this bombed out building at them.

He had led his men forward after the British surrendered in the face of their ferocious counter-attack, hoping to get ahead of the other SS commanders and regain some of his former glory. Having held back at the bridge, his men were fresh, and they had intelligence from the Gestapo that a small allied force may be attempting to rendezvous with the Dutch underground near this very spot. He set up several MG42 nests and sent the remaining squads forward. 

As soon as they saw one of the _Amerikanischer_ fools at the end of the street he ordered all of his men to open fire, hoping to overwhelm them.

Not ten seconds after the machine-gun began firing there was a _plink_ sound and blood sprayed from a neat hole in Hans’ helmet, his spasming body toppling to the side.

Deitz pushed himself further back into the corner, scurrying away from the damaged and open wall sections, and ordered the loader to take up the gun. His spotter, a grizzled _Scharführer_ whose name he couldn’t remember, peered over the destroyed section of wall to try and find the sniper. The former loader yanked the tripod-mounted machine gun back from the crumbled wall’s edge and crouched as low as possible before opening fire once again.

_Splack_, a round hit the ground by the new gunner’s leg, showering his thigh with painful bits of masonry. And what did the fool do then? He leaned forward, looking up and to the left through the hole to try and see where the round came from, looking ready to wrangle the MG42 around to fire back.

Deitz opened his mouth to warn him, but his shout caught in his throat as the young man’s helmet flew off and he fell back heavily on his buttocks, the top of his head looking like nothing less than a broken jar of fruit preserves. The _Scharführer_ dropped into a squat, taking cover and looked at Deitz as if he was about to say something.

Before he could suggest that Deitz do something stupid or even _suicidal_, Deitz screamed at him in German.

“You! Idiot! Take the gun! Return their fire! Now! For Hitler! For the Fatherland! I am your Lieutenant! Do it now!”, gesticulating wildly with a drawn pistol as he did so.

The_Scharführer _gave him a curious half-smile, then grunted and took position. The gun was jammed, and he motioned for Deitz to move from his corner to help him clear and load it. Deitz merely shook his head _no, oh hell no _and waved the pistol at him. The veteran immediately snarled at him, leaping for the nearby ammo box. A round hit the floor right in front of him, and the _Scharführer_ leapt back, overbalancing with the heavy ammo box. As he fell backwards he straightened suddenly to get his balance, and then tried to drop back into a crouch, ammo in hand. 

Too late. He had stumbled in front of one of the many holes in the bomb-shattered second storey walls of this building, and the sniper’s bullet hit him in the throat as he tried to lean forward.

Even shot, spewing and pumping his blood all over, the _Scharführer_ cleared the MG42 and managed to load a new belt, rounds occasionally hitting within inches of him, before he coughed one last time and fell over the gun with a sighing, gurgling sound.

Deitz was in a tough spot. The Fatherland called, and his family had answered. He knew he needed that machine gun; he could hear his men screaming in the street below. Hitler needed him, and he needed him now more than ever.

He shakily crept up on the gun. He had cleared the body when a bullet _whizzed_ by, _spanging_ straight through his hand and into the MG42, sparking, as he reached for the bolt to prime it.

_Screw Hitler. He isn’t here_, thought Deitz in surprised agony over his shattered hand after he finished his shrill scream of pain, the first wound he had taken in service to the Reich.

He immediately grabbed the body of the _Scharführer_, and sliding it backwards with him into the corner, pulled it over him. The stench of blood and evacuated bowels was incredible, but much better than being shot again.

Deitz would tell them about his bravery, how he had taken the machine gun and mowed down the Americans until they focused their fire on him, his men failing to suppress them as they broke through the lines. How his stupid spotter had foolishly taken a wound and fell onto him, knocking him unconscious during Deitz’s heroic defense of their lines. _How it wasn’t his fault_.

If he could just stay still and avoid the _verdammt_ _Amerikanischer affe _he heard yelling down in the street he could make his SS superiors believe him, though it was hard to control himself with his whole body shaking and a pool of urine slowly spreading under his chosen hiding spot.

…

Half a block away and one storey up, Smitty cycled the bolt on his Springfield. 

" 'Bout time they took the hint", he muttered to himself.

He had seen Hank floating over the street, and the kubelwagon come skidding and firing out of an alley towards Moose. Smitty had also seen the Tiger's shot hit and Moose disappear. 

_Dammit, Moose, damn it all to hell._ Smitty gritted his teeth and fired another shot near where he last saw Moose, and another German died. The sound of explosions near the tanks came to him, bringing his attention back up the street. He noted the church next door was on fire now as John leapt through the window and out into the street, but before he could do anything a bullet _spracked_ off of the stone crenellation he was taking cover behind. Searching with his scope, he caught the glint of afternoon sun in a building several blocks away. Another scope.

That meant German snipers. _Oh great, this day is just getting better and better_.

Had he not been so intent on what was going on, he might have seen the halftrack pulling around the church and into the alley, elevating its gun to get a bearing on his position.

…


----------



## fenzer

Two outstanding posts, Ledded.  Your games are approaching a level of sophistication and detail that boarders on the *real*.

Well done indeed.

Thanks man.  I appreciate the time and effort.


----------



## caixa

*Come to Holland he said, we'll have a good time he said....*

Nicely done, Ledded.  You have a real ability, being able to blend the overbearing realism from Band of Brothers with the comic-book feel of the Justice League, and all with what appears to be a practiced ease.

You might want to know that you're doing more advertising for the Blood & Blank product line than anyone else I know - I say this because I just got done purchasing Blood and Vigilance.  Looks good too, from what little I've had a chance to flip through.

Now, just wondering here, but what's the possiblity of seeing a Rogue's Galley on these American Badasses?  I'm really interested in seeing Moose's and Smitty...I'd say Frogbot, but I'm afraid you're going to say that he has a special sonic-based attack...revolving around a certain country's anthem.

Speaking of Frogbot  - where is he/it?  He's not sitting on the sidelines, sipping wine and nibbling on cheese is he?


Peterson


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Burning down the house]*

Hank descended onto the street like a red-headed avenging angel, small bits of metal humming and swirling around him. He placed himself on the sidewalk opposite the church, between the two forward tanks on the road, right in the middle of the advancing infantry. 

Immediately MP40’s and Kar98’s rang out from Germans behind him and several moving with the tanks, most of their bullets _phwipping_ harmlessly into Hank’s shield to join the other metal in it’s orbital dance around Hank. A couple rounds managed to get through, however, one creasing his thigh and sending a spray of blood onto the ground.

Hank immediately gestured outwards with both hands, and the two anti-tank mines sped away from him like thrown discuses. The first spun directly under the ailing Panzer he had tried to pull apart, and the driver’s hatch was just being opened as the mine disappeared out of sight and erupted upwards into the bottom of the vehicle. Fire and debris shot out from under the tank with a dull PHOOM, and the hatch banged open forcefully as a column of flame and smoke jetted out of the opening, accompanied by the short shrieks of the crew. Several German soldiers firing at Hank sprawled away from the exploding tank burning and screaming shrilly.

The second mine sped away towards the Tiger that had fired its shot at Moose, wedging itself under the right track.

More shots were fired at Hank, and one hit his shoulder painfully, forcing him onto one knee.

He could see the soldier who fired it, reloading his Kar98 as he advanced in front of the Tiger. The tank’s coax machine gun swiveled in Hank’s direction.

Hank threw his hand out, concentrating on the metal in the mine and its damaged detonator.

The soldier raised his rifle and pointed it dead-on at Hank, then flew forward as a large piece of track from the Tiger hit him in the back. Hank had detonated the mine, scattering more of the Germans and crippling the Tiger’s movement.

But not it’s guns.

The machine gunner, stunned for a few seconds, opened fire at Hank.

Bullets sprayed everywhere, even hitting two Germans who were rushing in to get close to him, and Hank scrambled against a nearby building corner as he felt his strength flagging under all of the relentless fire against his shield.

“Aw shoot, dingdangit its about time ah gots the hell outta here dangit”, Hank said to himself.

He glanced at the Tiger; the left tracks spooled off of their support as the tank tried unsuccessfully to maneuver to get a shot at him. It was then he noticed the bookstore just a half block back behind the tank. The one they were looking for. He heard the voices of approaching Germans behind him and decided on a course of action.

Spreading his arms, he leapt into magnetic flight once again and zoomed across the street, just over the Tiger, and in through the open door of the relatively unharmed book store.

“Well, ding-dang howdy-do thar fellers”, Hank called out at the three men inside standing around with books thrown all over the floor. Two of them were dressed in Waffen SS uniforms, one of them an officer. The second took one look at Hank, yelped, and screamed into his radio as he backpedaled away from Hank.

"Mein Gott, die amerikanischen Übermenschen haben in das Gebäude einbrechen!”

The officer leapt behind an overturned bookshelf, and Hank smiled in understanding, glad that he had learned German during basic training.

The third man, dressed in a strange apron-like protective vest with mail around his throat, merely smiled at Hank while bouncing an old black book in his hand. He had scars on both cheeks which pulled his face into a menacing sneer when he smiled.

The title of the book was “*Von Unaussprechlichen Kulten*_”_. The book they were here to get.

Hank, bleeding and winded, globe of steel and iron still revolving around him with a strange keening hum, gave the man his best intimidating stare and waggled one hand at him.

“That thar book, dingdang give ‘er here Kraut-sie”, Hank spoke at him in German.

The German merely smiled, slipped the book into his bread bag, and drew a sword.

It had a long, straight blade and a large basket-hilt. Hank remembered a Life magazine article he had read once about German fencing fraternities. He realized this here nut was one of those _schlaeger_ fencers, those fellas that went around cuttin’ on each others faces for fun.

Well, he was messin’ around with an American _Ubermensch_ now, and unless he had one as backup he better be steppin’ off.

The German saluted Hank with his sword and said in broken English, “I am called_ der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_, and you may have ze book ven you have killed me.”

“But zat, you vill not do, puny American”, he finished.

Hank was just trying to interpret the man’s strange name when the feller suddenly took a fighting stance and then faded from sight.

“Aww, shoot, dingdang well jes’ don’t that beat all”, Hank moaned, realizing belatedly that he faced one of the German’s Ubermensch. Not only that, but _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_ was fresh, and Hank was ready for a few stitches and a long nap.

Hank heard the man’s footsteps pad across the floor toward him, and reached out with his magnetic senses for his sword. He felt it just in time as it flicked at him lightning-quick, Hank trying to tear it out of the fencer’s grasp but only managing to turn a slash meant to disembowel him into a deep cut under his forearm.

Hank, grasping his bleeding arm, immediately took one step and vaulted through the side window in a spray of stained glass, running back towards the burning church.

_Der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_ chuckled once to himself, flicked Hank’s blood from his sword, and stepped through the window after him.

…


John saw Hank come down, saw the Kubelwagon tear out of the alley and speed, firing, towards Moose, then the Tiger sent a shell down the street and he heard the damn Kubelwagon’s crew cheer. He snapped a few more quick shots at the German’s surrounding Hank and the Tanks, then the detonation of the anti-tank mines scattered most of the rest.

He hazarded a glance over his shoulder, saw the Hanomag in the alley pointing its gun, a German in the back pointing at him and yelling.

John quickly shouldered his rifle, and running faster than the wind leapt through the front window, heading for the Kubelwagon parked in front of the smoking hole where Moose used to be, it’s crew laughing and firing into the rubble with their MG34. He pulled a pineapple grenade as he approached them.

The church erupted into flame behind him as the Hanomag let loose a long gout of heavy burning fuel from its mounted _flammenwerfer_.

John could feel the heat from the exploding church through his leather flight jacket even as he tore off down the street, a blur to the Germans now advancing out of the buildings opposite Smitty’s tower.

“Shoot, glad I didn’t stick around there”, he mumbled to himself, skillfully dodging sniper fire as he raced like a cheetah at the Kubelwagon.

The crew of the small German jeep yelled, one swinging the MG34 around at him. John then jumped from ten feet away with a growling yell, eyes flashing like cold fire, grabbing the top of the windshield and coming down on the hood with enough force to dent it.

“Got a present for ya Jerry”, he said in German through a wolfish smile at the three soldiers and then crouched to spring away.

One of the Germans made to grab his rifle and then screamed as he realized that John had just dropped a grenade in between the seats as he leapt over them.

The three of them stumbled over each other trying to get to the grenade, the one in the most rear diving into the pile and coming up with it, bobbling it in his hand.

He reared back to throw, and…

*Boom!*

The grenade detonated in his hand before he could get it off, spraying the three Germans with explosive fragments as John threw himself clear, rolling into the fall and coming to his feet.

Ten feet away from him, a German stepped from behind a ruined building and pointed the nozzle of a _flammenwerfer_ at him.

“Shi…” John began to yell as bullets from Germans closing in on him sprayed the ground and a long stream of hellfire poured from the Kraut trying to hose him down.

He deftly rolled to his right, avoiding the stream of sure death, and charged the flamethrower-wielding Nazi, hearing other Germans closing in all around him.

The soldier screamed and tried to bring the nozzle to bear on John, but John was much too fast for him. He slipped under the man’s clumsy attempt to protect himself and grabbed the German by both wrists, his face a rictus of anger as he slammed his powerful cold into him. The soldier screamed and his flamethrower went out as the hoses near his arms froze. Frost and ice formed on the weapon as the man’s arms turned a solid crystal blue. The other Nazis that had surrounded them to club John into submission fell back a step at the power of his bitter chill, frost forming on arms raised to protect their faces.

The flamethrower-wielding German looked at John with a face of sincere surprise, and then looked down at arms he could no longer feel.

John grinned at him, all teeth, and then yanked downwards with all of his might.

SNAP! Both arms, frozen solid, broke off forcefully and John threw them at the nearest German soldiers who screamed in abject horror. The flammenwerfer man’s eyes rolled up into his head and he teetered on frozen legs.

Just then, John spotted movement in the second floor of the building above him; someone was pointing a pistol at him about to take a shot.

Spinning, he kicked the armless flamethrower-wielder up and back, right into the path of the pistol as he heard it *CRACK* a round at him, and dove backwards as best he could.

The pistol round punched through the flamethrower tank, causing it to spew fuel and ignite with an incredible *PHWOOOOSSHHH*, spraying fire on the surrounding Germans and immolating the ruined building. 

John rolled hard, patting at the flames on his own body, then dove into another ruined shop front as sniper fire rained down on him. He barely registered the screams of the burning men as he crouched into the deep cover of a ruined wall and looked out, searching for another target.

…

Deitz was laying there trembling when he heard a commotion just outside of his hiding place. He turned his body under the heavy corpse he had pulled over himself, and looked through a hole in the bricks to see an American struggling with a large group of German soldiers just below the floor he was on.

Incredulous, Deitz watched as the pale American froze his _flammenwerfer_ man’s arms and then broke them off.

An _Ubermensch_! He knew it! The Americans had sent them in! Now he, _Untersturmführer _Berchtwald Deitz would kill one himself. Smiling, he could almost hear the band strike up his favorite Marlene Dietrich song in his honor as he rode standing next to Hitler himself in the parade.

Redemption was at hand.

He wrestled his pistol around under the weight of the body on top of him and took careful aim through the hole in the brick. The men were struggling closely, trying to overwhelm the American and making it hard to get a clear shot, but Deitz didn’t care. He had a full magazine and what were the lives of a few troopers if _he_ could be the man who killed an Ubermensch.

He squeezed the trigger, but just as he did the lightning-quick American looked up at him, kicking the _flammenwerfer_ man right into his point of aim. Almost in slow motion, Deitz heard his pistol discharge, his mouth becoming a surprised oval and the band in his mind breaking down into a discordant cacophony of torn string instruments and bent trumpets.

The bullet hit the tank of the _flammenwerfer_ with a _plink_, right near where the tanks joined.

For a split second, Deitz thought all was well, but then fuel spewed out of the tiny hole and ignited.

A wall of flame rolled out from the tank, men screeching as they were engulfed, and rocketed through the hole in the building Deitz was looking through, burning his eyes and hair.

The entire building went up in flame, and Deitz struggled weakly, unable to get the heavy corpse he had dragged on top of him off so he could get away.

His entire body in searing agony and the screams of his men filling his ears, Deitz managed to yell one last phrase before the fire burned his miserable lungs to ash.

“It’s… not… my… fault….”


…


----------



## ejja_1

Mind gripping action and suspense, deffinatley one of the better story hours.
I just finished reading the whole of it you have posted, and I cant wait for the next instalment.
Damn fine job Ledded! Damn fine!
Ejja_1


----------



## ledded

fenzer said:
			
		

> Two outstanding posts, Ledded. Your games are approaching a level of sophistication and detail that boarders on the *real*. <snip>



Thanks again, I'm glad you are enjoying it.



			
				caixa said:
			
		

> Nicely done, Ledded. You have a real ability, being able to blend the overbearing realism from Band of Brothers with the comic-book feel of the Justice League, and all with what appears to be a practiced ease.
> 
> You might want to know that you're doing more advertising for the Blood & Blank product line than anyone else I know - <snip>
> 
> Now, just wondering here, but what's the possiblity of seeing a Rogue's Galley on these American Badasses? <snip>



Cool... that blending you are talking about is what I've been trying to go for.  I wouldn't say it comes with either 'practice' or 'ease' however  .  Other than a few very small vingettes I did for the Medallions Story Hour and a few flavor things as a DM, I haven't tried to write anything substantial since college.  However, I do have to say that these guys are so good to play with that the Story Hour, in a way, writes itself.  Or, more or less, grabs me by the back of the neck, squeezes very hard, and demands to be written... then inspiration disappears for a week or two and I can't write a word when I want to.  I am lucky to not only have quite a depth of inspiration for the time period, but also to have such great players who go out of their way to take something I've wanted to do like this and turn it into a unique roleplaying experience for us all.  

Yeah, I do tend to pimp the Blood and ____ work that Charles Rice has done, but we've liked every last one that he's done, especially Blood and Vigilance.  We just finished a 3-session playtest for Blood and Fists 2, and it was a hoot.

I should be able to convince the guys to post up a rogues gallery if there is enough interest.

Frogbot will show up very soon.  Old Drew Id (Frogbot's player) missed the first part of this one, and he joined us right about this time during the battle.  The next update should feature him in all of his flag-waving cheesy glory, and to tell the truth, he is frighteningly effective in combat situations.



			
				ejja_1 said:
			
		

> Mind gripping action and suspense, deffinatley one of the better story hours.
> I just finished reading the whole of it you have posted, and I cant wait for the next instalment.
> Damn fine job Ledded! Damn fine!
> Ejja_1



I appreciate you stopping by and sharing your thoughts, I've had quite a bee in my bonnet for writing up this combat so there will probably be another update real soon. 

Thanks again guys for coming around and saying nice stuff... your comments do help me to find inspiration and then have it grab me by my Big Giant Head and write some more...


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [The Agony of Arnhem]*

…

_Where was it… where… there!_, Smitty fired his Springfield, and through his scope he could just make out the German sniper’s hands flying to his face as the Springfield’s bullet sheared through his scope, spraying him with metal and glass as it continued through to explode into the man’s jaw.

The snipers where taking a toll on the ground, Hank having just run into what looked like the bookstore they were looking for to get away from their fire. John was a whirlwind of icy destruction, now crouched in a building across the street for cover against the deadly fire from the German sniping.

Smitty had shot his third sniper, and was trying to find another when he caught a flash from a building out of the edge of his scope’s field of vision. He reflexively jerked his head to the left and a shot _spracked_ into the stone mere inches from his mechanical eye, spraying him with fragments. Wiping the shattered stonework off of his face, he brought his eye back behind his scope.

_Lucky I had this nasty contraption instead of a real eye. That round was high enough caliber that the stone might have blinded or put out a real eye_, he thought. _What the hell was this guy shooting at me with? A cannon?_

He heard the halftrack and the tell-tale sound of heavy fuel _whooshing_ through a nozzle and igniting.

Smitty threw himself flat on the crenellated rooftop as flames slammed into the side of the tower.

“Hells bells, it’s way too hot up here for me”, Smitty snarled and, taking advantage of a momentary break in the fire, leapt for the edge of the tower.

The fires returned as the Hanomag _flammenwerfer_ fired another long burst of fuel, hitting the top edge of the tower to explode over the roof.

Smitty could feel the heavy fuel trying to ignite his clothing as he hurdled the edge of the tower, metal hand grabbing the edge like a vise. His body continued over and _slammed _into the side of the building as a roaring fireball expanded explosively behind him, roiling over the top of the tower in billowing hellfire. The flames boiled the glove off of his left hand, and the heat quickly traveled painfully up the heating mechanism into the true flesh of his shoulder.

Hooking his rifle sling over a small window outcropping, Smitty let go of the top of the tower and dropped, holding himself by the stock as he swung down away from the conflagration. Another sniper round _snapped_ into the space his body just left. 

“Cripes, Jerry, was it something I said?” Smitty whispered through clenched teeth as he swung.

Just reaching the apex of his swing, he nimbly snapped the rifle held in his right hand causing the sling to whip off of the window ledge. Hands and feet hitting the wall with incredible speed for every available outcropping or tiny ledge of rock, to the casual observer it looked as if Smitty _ran_ down the side of the tower with a rifle dangling from his shoulder by the sling. Sniper shots blew huge chunks of brickwork off of the tower behind him.

“Jeeeezus am I the only… damn… target… here?!?”

With a final leap to the ground he immediately brought up his rifle against the side of the tower_._ The forward part of the wooden stock smoked and blackened where he gripped it with his hot bare-metal left hand._ I’ll deal with that halftrack in a second, it’ll take them a bit to figure out where I went_, Smitty thought, dismissing the halftrack for a moment. He sighted the building where the last snipers were firing from and _concentrated_, mechanical eye whirring as it focused in on the slightest movement. Then Smitty clearly saw, through the scope, a man pointing an enormous weapon on a bipod at him.

The same man he saw the day he lost his arm and eye, the one that was driving the big Nazi b*stard that had burned him; the Kraut was smiling as smoke puffed from his rifle, obscuring Smitty’s own shot as he squeezed the trigger.

It felt like someone punched him hard in the ribs, and Smitty fell backwards onto his rear end, rifle clattering to the street. 

He glanced around as he clutched his side, but it was getting hard to catch his breath.

Looking down, he saw blood rapidly welling beneath his hand, spattering to the ground he sat on.

“Ah dammit… damn… “, Smitty wheezed, using his other hand to rip the pressure bandage off of his helmet. He pushed himself with his shaking legs to the side of the tower, narrowly avoiding another sniper round as it punched a large divot out of the flagstones where he was just sitting. The exertion caused a large spurt of blood to pump forcefully out of his wound, and his head spun with the effort and the onset of shock.

The sounds of the battle and something exploding nearby faded to the background as the erratic rushing and thumping of his own heart filled Smitty’s ears.

Quickly he ripped a packet of sulfa powder open with shaking hands and poured it onto the wound, noticing his legs were starting to spasm and shake.

_Not… good… _Smitty thought to himself, fumbling the pressure bandage as his vision blurred and tunneled in on him. He saw the ground tilt upwards crazily, heard but didn’t feel his head strike the pavement, bandage falling to the ground from his limp, twitching hand. The last thing he saw was a gigantic shadow falling across him and then his vision constricted further, into a small fine point of light, and then abruptly went dark.

…

Smoke rose from the crater, large enough to park a small car in.

Beyond that, a pile of shattered bricks lay under a large hole in a building’s wall.

One hand could be seen, blood-covered, unmoving, extended from the pile.

Suddenly, the hand clenched into a fist.

A huge dust and blood-covered form sat up, sloughing off the pile of bricks.

Moose blinked a couple times, just in time to see John dive over the Kubelwagon and take off for a huge pile of Nazis, the German’s jeep rocked by a grenade blast in his wake.

He tried to speak, stopped, pursed his lips and then spat something out onto the ground near him with a _clink_.

It was a couple of shell fragments, steaming from contact with the blood and saliva in his mouth.

Moose reached into his mouth, coming out with a couple teeth and spitting a huge gobbet of blood and phlegm onto the ground.

He pocketed the teeth, and then pulled another large fragment, hissing from contact with his flesh, out of his side with a sharp grunt and trickle of blood.

“Damn, that stung like a b*tch, eh”, Moose rumbled to himself as he stood up, grumbling painfully, checking his various bleeding wounds and cracked ribs. He quickly scanned the battle area.

Hank had just run into a building as twin explosions rocked two of the tanks that had been firing at him. John was fighting a big group of Nazis, and there was a flaming explosion near where he was which obscured him from Moose’s sight. He looked around and saw his BARs lying under the Kubelwagon where he dropped them, and Smitty came bounding down the tower he had been firing from.

Moose saw Smitty fall backwards from a shot, blood spraying, and a halftrack with a flamethrower mounted on it came around the corner obviously hunting for him.

He quickly strode forward to the Kubelwagon, his mouth set in a grim line, teeth gritted.

“I’ve had just… about… enough… of you Kraut b*stards”, Moose growled as he grabbed the jeep with both hands and hoisted the entire thing over his head. One of the Germans inside could still be heard, moaning from his grenade wounds.

The halftrack stopped, then immediately began backing up, and the gunner yelled in surprise as he tried to bring the nozzle of his flammenwerfer to bear. The assistant gunner screamed and threw a leg over the side as if to jump clear.

With a grunting heave Moose hurled the Kubelwagon into the Hanomag, the wailing of the one remaining live inhabitant cutting short with a *PHOOM!* as the impact crushed the side of the halftrack, flipping it and igniting its _flammenwerfer_ fuel tanks in a spectacular explosion. Pieces of Kubelwagon, halftrack, and Germans bounced and spun flaming all around the area.

Scooping up his BARs by their straps, Moose stumbled through the thick, dark smoke over to where he saw Smitty slumped against the tower’s wall, legs twitching.

There was blood pumping out from his wound as Smitty’s eyes fell on Moose and then went unfocused, rolling up in his head with a wheezing sigh.

“Aw jeez Smitty”, Moose cried out as he dropped his BARs and fell painfully to one knee next to him, his own wounds troubling him.

He noticed the pressure bandage, and applied it as best he could with his gigantic hands, cinching it tight and adding another of his own to staunch the bleeding. Covering Smitty up with his parka for warmth, he elevated his legs on his pack and listened to his chest.

Rounds from MP-40s and Kar98s started _spack-_ing into the wall near him, and Moose glanced back to see the remainder of the German flanking squad moving across the street, firing their weapons at him.

With a wordless growl that increased to a rumbling roar of fury and anguish, Moose spun and rose up to his full height of nearly ten feet, a BAR coming up in each massive hand at the rushing Nazis.

He stood over Smitty, bellowing, sweeping the street back and forth with both BARs stuttering their own livid counterpoint, Germans screaming, falling, and sending volley after volley of shots at him, until both his weapons _clicked _empty.

…

(EDIT: my gosh, I wish I could spell)


----------



## Angcuru

Whee.


----------



## Broccli_Head

keep it comin'! 

incredible stuff. just finished watching BoB. i agree with what caixa said. this story truly evokes the grittiness of WWII and adds that cool superhero element. hope they survive!


----------



## fenzer

Wow!  

Great fun Ledded, thanks.


----------



## threshel

Stellar, ledded, simply stellar.


J


----------



## ledded

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> keep it comin'!
> 
> incredible stuff. just finished watching BoB. i agree with what caixa said. this story truly evokes the grittiness of WWII and adds that cool superhero element.
> hope they survive!



Ya know, ironically enough, this is exactly what the PC's were saying at this very moment...


----------



## Rel

I've been busy for the last week or so and just got caught up on the SH.  It just gets better with every update.  And the style of play is one that I absolutely love:  Make the PC's extremely bad ass - then throw so much nastiness at them that they need every bit of it just to survive.   

I can't wait for more!


----------



## The_Universe

Awesome!  Keep it coming!


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [having it handed to them]*

Here is another update by popular demand...  

…


Klaus leapt over the low wall the _groß Amerikanischer affe_ had been recently taking cover behind, the fire from his machine guns _spracking_ into the wall as he ducked below the rim. Another of his men was already there, looking at him grimly as he also took cover. The massive _Amerikanischer, _obviously an_ ubermensch_ of some kind, had gunned down the remainder of his squad, several of their own bullets bouncing off of him as they charged. 

He heard the _click-click-click_ of the man’s weapons, smiling to himself. _We have him now_.

He nodded silently to his remaining squad member, and made the hand signals telling him to provide covering fire with his machine pistol and Klaus would then take the shot with his Kar98, ridding the Reich of another annoying allied pest. _These Americans, so arrogant and stupid_.

The other soldier rose up, then immediately something flashed by and with a _CRUNCH_ the soldier spun, his face a horribly distorted and broken mass of flesh and shattered bone. His body fell twitching next to Klaus, who decided to hunker down a bit deeper under cover. _Maybe the ape will forget I was here… _

Klaus heard a tearing sound, and then moments later a strange whistling. He looked up reflexively, eyes going wide at the sight of the entire front end of a smoldering Kubelwagon sailing down out of the sky at him.


“Mutter!” Klaus squealed as he brought both hands protectively over his helmet, and then was crushed under the impact of several hundred pounds of smoking steel.

Moose dusted his hands off, nodding grimly to himself, and turned back to check on Smitty.

…

Smitty opened his eyes at the sound of close gunfire. 

Moose was standing over him, battered and torn and bleeding, blazing away with his BARs and yelling like a madman as a squad of Germans charged them from across the street. 

He saw several fall under the withering fire, while two jumped over a low retaining wall and took cover just as Moose’s guns ran dry.

Smitty saw Moose then drop one BAR and quickly flip the other over in his hand, grabbing it by the forward part of the stock, heedless of the hot barrel. He held it back like a baseball player, poised and peering intently at the low wall.

Just then he saw movement as a Kraut helmet began rising up and Moose flung the BAR at that spot, the rifle streaking away like a javelin. Moose leapt away without looking and lumbered over to the smoking remains of a German jeep while his rifle all but decapitated the Nazi. Moose hoisted the jeep debris over his head, grunting as he braced to throw.

No one appeared. 

Squinting, Moose started to take a step that way and then stopped, looking upwards with his tongue between his teeth as if lost in thought.

_Well, I guess he aint the sharpest pencil in the cup_, thought Smitty, checking himself.

_He did a good job with these bandages, though_. Smitty could feel his unnaturally fast healing already trying to knit together the torn flesh and broken bone. It would take a while, but he was alive for now.

He heard Moose grunt, and glancing up Smitty saw Moose had taken an underhand grip on his burden, and then swung it up from the ground violently letting it go to rise up some distance into the air.

It sailed back down trailing smoke, and there was a short scream right before it hit the ground near the first German, making a loud _clang_ accompanied by a sickening _crunch_ that instantly cut off the scream.

_Hell. I guess he aint as stupid as I thought_.

Moose turned, looking satisfied with himself as he dusted off his hands, and smiled at Smitty when he saw him awake.

“Hey, how ya doin’ there eh?” he shouted over to Smitty.

Smitty started to try to yell to him.

“Better… get cover… snip…”, but then Moose stumbled forward, something hitting him from behind in the shoulder. He spun in a lazy circle as he fell, blood spraying as he went down.

His body crashed to the ground. Moose tried to raise himself up on shaking hands, but after a few inches he collapsed, unmoving, back to the street.

Smitty shook his head and sighed. _Maybe he isn’t that bright after all_.

Smitty drug himself carefully towards Moose, cautious not to expose himself to the line of fire from the German sniper.

As he got close to Moose’s unmoving form, he whispered “Hey! Hey Moose! You alright?”

Moose’s head picked up and turned towards Smitty, looking quite childishly miserable as he spoke.

“Eh Smitty... you 'bout ready to leave yet?”

Smitty just shook his head again, smiling this time.

“Yeah Moose, I’ve had just about enough of this sh*t. Go find the others and let’s bug out”.

…

Frogbot heard the sounds of renewed battle and looked up from where he had just disassembled several Germans who were chasing down fleeing paratroopers.

Sonic analysis… small arms fire consistent with American calibers in use.

Supposition: Allied Talents have arrived. Sensors indicate energy signatures disturbing normal flow readings… use of Talents confirmed.

Action: Aid Allies in completion of mission.

Search and Destroy all Nazi opposition.

And then Frogbot smiled.

Warning: sudden anomalous energy surges throughout unit inconsistent with programming… similar to sensation directives… surges non-harmful?

Answer: Calculating… 98% certainty that sensation directive is of… anticipation.

Unit unaware of previous programming of ‘anticipation’. Calculated possible increase in mission performance by 12%. 

Core programming intact, unit… approves.

“Viva la France” he whispered, and skittered off into the buildings in the direction of the Arnhem bridge.

…

A short while later, Frogbot surveyed the scene from the third story of a bomb-shattered building near the book store.

Analysis: Allied Enhanced Soldier Subjects maintaining a variety of Talents in the immediate vicinity. Axis opposition gauged to be of high threat levels and effectiveness. Multiple armor entities and numerous soldier-flesh entities in existence.

Frogbot watched as Hank flew over the church, flinging mines at the tanks before being nearly shot several times. As Hank ran into the bookstore, Frogbot saw John enter melee with a large group of Germans, somehow detonating a flamethrower to kill several at once before taking cover in a destroyed building and taking more shots at German infantry. Another American with Talent was shooting with accuracy at Nazi targets.

Correction: not accuracy. Certainty.

Frogbot heard noise and saw several Germans run by below his building, intending to reinforce the Nazis facing the beleaguered allies. He saw Hank jump through a window of the book store and run, stumbling, towards the burning church; his path put him on an intersection with the approaching Germans.

Analysis: Intervention necessary. Mission and allied personnel are in immediate threat of termination.

Recommendation: Attack.

_Snikt_ went Frogbot’s claws as he leaned out of the shattered window and, with a quick glance, buried both hands into the side of the building.

Raising both feet in a most un-human-like manner, he planted both of them below the window sill and then _scurried_ down the side of the building, using his claws and strength to speedily scale the wall.

He hit the ground, gathered his legs under him, and bounded at the four Nazis moving towards the church.

The first soldier never knew what severed his ribcage and spine as Frogbot’s hand entered his left side. The soldier just ahead beside him turned and began to yell.

Frogbot stood there; both arms extended outwards, and smoothly continued his swing by _spinning_ at the waist without moving his legs.

His right hand tore the remaining way through the first soldier and slashed across the chest of the second, stifling his cry. Before the second soldier could react the opposite clawed hand reached him and tore off his left arm at the shoulder and the first swung back around disemboweling him. Gurgling, he fell.

Their sergeant turned around and immediately brought his rifle up to fire.

Frogbot ceased spinning, stepped towards him and with an incredibly fast upwards _flick_ of his hands left the sergeant incredulously holding nothing but the stock of his rifle.

“My claws are sharp! Much like the sharp cheddar from the Auvergne region of France!” Frogbot stated, smiling, to the sergeant.

He sprung at the Nazi and swung in both claws with blinding speed; the sergeant’s head and upper torso separated in clean sections from his lower body and slid messily to the ground in three large pieces.

“Which is of course the finest cheddar in all ze world!” finished Frogbot, examining the body.

The remaining Nazi screamed and turned to flee.

Frogbot’s head snapped up as he simultaneously flicked both hands to remove the blood.

“No no, _mon ami_, it eez quite _grossier _of you to leave ze dinner table wizzout thanking _le chef!_” Frogbot called after the fleeing German as he took several rapidly gaining steps in the man’s direction and then bounded onto his back, knocking him to the ground.

Sitting on the small of his back, Frogbot pushed both clawed hands completely through the top of the Nazi’s shoulders all the way to the ground, whose screams cut to an agonized, choking whimper.

The man began violently shuddering and spasming, making a horrible gurgling moan as Frogbot slowly drew both clawed hands down through his back, the tips drawing furrows in the ground beneath him. The sounds of bones snapping, flesh parting, and the man’s thrashing were accompanied by Frogbot’s nonchalant humming of the French National anthem.

When he reached the soldier’s lower back, Frogbot stood off of the twitching Nazi and flung both clawed hands out to the side, thick gore spattering him and the ground around him.

“Voila! Pate!”

He looked around smiling, but there was no one near enough to enjoy his clever remark as gobbets of flesh and lung tissue slowly _plopped_ off of his claws to the ground.

Frogbot shrugged, flung the remaining effluence off of his claws, and bounded towards where Hank had his back against the burning church’s wall, looking around wildly.

…

Hank had burst through the window, running across an open space narrowly avoiding sniper fire and bursts from an MP40 as his legs pumped him over to the wall of the church. He stopped, gasping, to catch his breath.

He was tired, and very sore from the beating he had been taking. He had gotten shook up in an exploding airplane, been shot several times, and blown up (ok, he did the blowing up, but it still hurt); now he was on the run from _the invisible swordsman_? Man it was just about time to get the hell out of here.

Hank went to move, stopped as he heard rapid footsteps coming in his direction. He looked around quickly, not being able to see where they were coming from.

Then he noticed footprints in the dust in front of him just as he heard someone yell out “Ha!”

Hank grunted, perplexed, and looked down. He could see blood welling next to his ribcage, heard the sound of something metal hit the wall behind him. Then the pain hit, an exquisitely strange and intrusive sensation of having something metal pushed through your insides.

Hank’s eyes rolled up in his head and he coughed a mouthful of blood onto _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_ as the German duelist withdrew his blade, allowing Hank’s body to fall to the ground.

The man stood there a moment, chuckling to himself, nearly missing the sound of Frogbot’s approach.

Not seeing him, the strange creature stepped up to the American, whose eyes were flickering.

_Der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter _stepped back and, smiling, readied his sword to take another life.

Frogbot bent towards Hank.

“_Oui? Monsieur_? Are you alright, _oui_? Do you require my assistance?” he inquired as Hank peered up at him through fading eyes.

“What the… hell…” he sputtered, blood flecking his lips.

“Oh! I am Frogbot! *F*rench *R*esistance *O*perative *G*uerilla-*B*uilt *O*perational *T*rooper, at your service! It seems, _mon ami_, that you have been gravely wounded, no?” replied Frogbot happily.

Hank tried to point but his hand kept shaking and falling.

“Invis… invis… invisible… ubermensch…” Hank began and then slumped over.

Frogbot immediately turned, his eyes going red as scanning lenses fell over them.

Query: Potential ubermensch in area. Initiate scan 874971 alpha protocols.

Scan: Axis ubermensch displaying multiple Talent energy signatures detected. Warning: initiate defens…

_Der Schwertfecter _lunged at Frogbot, sure that he was about to lay his neck wide open. 

With stunning quickness, Frogbot dodged away from the blow, instead taking a long rake down his side. The flesh parted and oozed a strange yellowish-white substance that smelled vaguely like cheese.

Damage to unit non-structural in nature… activate self repair and electrical stimulation of reclamation enzymes.

“How…” began the duelist but immediately began countering moves from the creature in front of him, claws springing unnaturally from it’s fingertips as it hummed something that sounded… French.

They fought like slashing beasts, the duelist showing up as a splotch of red to Frogbot’s sensors, giving him a slight advantage but not quite that of being totally invisible.

Frogbot connected once, twice, and human blood splashed the ground.

Just then, Frogbot heard someone behind him say, in a deep rumbling voice, “Just what the hell is that, eh?”

Frogbot turned to see an enormous young human, dressed as an allied soldier in a uniform shredded and bloodied, cradling the other unconscious American’s head and trying to wrap a bandage around his wounds. 

Frogbot turned back quickly, but the German with the sword had fled.

He walked back towards the huge American and his dying ally.

“Ah, oui Monsieur, I am ze Frogbot! I am here to help you win ze war against Nazi oppression!” he spoke except that “oppression” sounded more like “oh-press-e-OH” to Moose, who just stared at him and blinked slowly.

“Um, yeah, great dere. Can ya help me with this?”, Moose asked.

Frogbot nodded, and as he knelt by Hank and Moose, continued.

“Win ze war for France! Ze greatest country in all ze world! Her hills are verdant, her…” Frogbot trailed off as small flags zipped out of compartments on his shoulders and the French national anthem blared from a tinny sounding speaker in his chest.

Moose let him ramble as they fixed Hank’s bandages, then stood ready to hoist Hank up.

“Hey, you haven’t happened to see another Joe over here have ya? Fella name o’ John Brigh..” Moose started and then stopped in mid-sentence, mouth hanging open.

The third tank had maneuvered around and was in the street by the Tiger Hank had disabled, main gun turning to stop pointed right at them while Frogbot continued to chatter on about France.

Moose rolled his eyes and tensed.

“Oh no, not again…”

*PHOOM!*


----------



## PallidPatience

Sweet! Moose is... well, he's not dead. That's good. 

This is awesome! It is impossible to turn away from this in action! It's beautiful! 

I am so getting Blood and Vigilance.


----------



## GreyShadow

Cool.  More tank on super action.


----------



## Rel

ledded said:
			
		

> “My claws are sharp! Much like the sharp cheddar from the Auvergne region of France!” Frogbot stated, smiling, to the sergeant.
> 
> He sprung at the Nazi and swung in both claws with blinding speed; the sergeant’s head and upper torso separated in clean sections from his lower body and slid messily to the ground in three large pieces.
> 
> “Which is of course the finest cheddar in all ze world!” finished Frogbot, examining the body.
> 
> The remaining Nazi screamed and turned to flee.




Poetry.  Just sheer poetry.


----------



## Angcuru




----------



## Broccli_Head

Hey! NO time for small talk. The bad guy is getting away with the Book!


----------



## Nail

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> Hey! NO time for small talk. The bad guy is getting away with the Book!



Ya-hey, you'd better get on that, good guys......


----------



## ledded

PallidPatience said:
			
		

> Sweet! Moose is... well, he's not dead. That's good.
> This is awesome! It is impossible to turn away from this in action! It's beautiful!
> I am so getting Blood and Vigilance.



Thanks. No, Moose is not dead (yet). He is very hard to kill, filling the role of the party's Brick rather nicely. In BnV terms, he has several tough hero levels, a couple Strong, and a few levels of Brick. Maxed out power points in Armor, Absorption, Superhuman Strength (with the Brawn stunt so he can toss things around), and Regeneration (with some Deflection and Growth thrown in). 

EDIT:  And I would pick up BnV if you like supers and also like d20 Modern; it does both quite well and is an exceptional value.



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> Poetry. Just sheer poetry.



 I wish I could take credit, but Frogbot (and his pre-programmed signature sayings) are all the work of Old Drew Id's twisted and chaotic mind. Ya gotta just love gaming with that guy, there is never a dull moment.



			
				Nail said:
			
		

> Ya-hey, you'd better get on that, good guys......



Heh. There should be an update soon, though I'm going over what I've written a little better than the last couple updates. My muse grabbed me by the neck a while back and I wrote a lot of this combat in one sitting, but I think I posted it up before it was truly ready and it suffered some in reading as a result. I'd like to post up better content even if it means that I have to actually apply some attempt at craft instead of this goofy stream of consciousness writing I do, though I'm really too lazy to do the kind of story crafting that the good writers on this board do. My ADD fights for dominance with my OCD and between the two I often get tired of all the noise, post up the content, and go take a nap at my desk at work. 

Thanks for reading guys, I do appreciate the time the few of yall who follow this take to read and post your comments.

Now if someone will get my boss off my back for an hour or so I'll get that update done... sheesh, they pay me and actually expect me to put in *work* sometimes, the nerve of these guys...


----------



## AIM-54

ledded said:
			
		

> Thanks for reading guys, I do appreciate the time the few of yall who follow this take to read and post your comments.




I'm sure there's more than a few of us lurking and taking great pleasure in the job you're doing here.  As an unapologetic WWII nerd, I'm loving this.  Keep up the good work, we appreciate the time you put into every post.


----------



## Angcuru

ledded said:
			
		

> \Now if someone will get my boss off my back for an hour or so I'll get that update done... sheesh, they pay me and actually expect me to put in *work* sometimes, the nerve of these guys...



Selfish bastards.    Getting in the way of my update.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Is it time to go yet?]*

…

John was up to his ears in Germans.

He had taken cover from the snipers in the remains of a badly shattered building, unslinging his M1 Garand and taking pot shots at the remaining Germans. Between the four allied ESSes the organized German counteroffensive had degraded to a swirling mass of confusion. 

He peered over the broken wall and saw Hank exiting the book store, but just as he was about to provide him some cover fire he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Just around the opposite corner he was crouching at, two Germans jogged by in the direction that he could now hear Moose firing from again.

_Glad you’re ok Moose_, John silently gave thanks as his rifle impulsively came up and snapped a shot at the first German to trot around the corner. The man grabbed his ribcage and grunted, falling to his knees and rolling. The second German glanced at John astonished, and tried to backpedal the way he came.

John fired again, seeing blood spray from the German’s arm, and then fired several more shots in rapid succession into the wall the wounded Nazi had just ducked behind, judging where he thought his head might have been. One of the rounds must have found a weak spot in the mortar as he heard someone scream “meine augen! meine augen!”. The German stumbled from his hiding spot, potato-masher grenade in one hand and the other clasped over his eyes, masonry dust plastered on his sweaty and bleeding face. 

John heard something scrape the bricks back toward the street. He quickly fired at the blinded Nazi and then spun towards the sound as the German doubled over. As he brought his rifle around he saw the surprised face of another German soldier just peering over a hole in the broken wall, leading with his MP40. John immediately continued the swing of his rifle, falling back on his behind as the tip came up right under the goggling Nazi’s chin.

_SNAP-SNAP! __Ping__!_

John fired twice quickly, his first round grazing the Nazi’s neck but the second hitting him under the jaw and sending a small shower of pulp out of a new hole in the top of his helmet. He realized the “_ping_” sound was his empty clip ejecting and swore as he scrambled another out of his ammo pouch, slamming it into the rifle. _Aw Jeez I hope they didn’t hear that!_

Just then he heard something clank back towards the Nazi he had blinded and glanced just in time to see the German stick grenade bounce over the top edge of the ruined wall headed right for his lap. _Aw swell, there was a third one._

“Cripes!” he swore as he reflexively swung his rifle backhanded, slapping the grenade back over the way it came and throwing himself face down into the wall nearest the street.

He heard the _BOOM_ of the grenade and was sprayed with bits of brick and mortar as the wall blew inwards towards him, a muffled scream indicating success.

_Glad I played a little baseball back home_, he thought, sitting up, just as the tip of an MP40 came over the wall next to the street, just above him, and began firing wildly into the ruined room.

He threw himself flat and grimaced against the noise as a two rounds from the long burst managed to ricochet into him, one tearing a furrow across his leg while another snatched a piece of his earlobe off and crashed into the wall just by his head. 

He reached up just as another machine pistol poked its nasty head in, firing, as the first began to withdraw.

The two Germans taking cover behind the wall he was pressed up against had no idea what was happening when each of their MP40’s suddenly were grabbed and pulled inwards.

The first soldier tried to pull back, and looked at the second as he gasped in pain and surprise.

Looking to his companion, he saw frost instantly form over his gun, his hands becoming fixed to it as the temperature plummeted. The cold then bit into him full-force and he made to scream, but could not free his frozen tongue from the roof of his mouth.

John laid his frigid death into them as hard as he could until he felt them stop resisting, then, still prone, he pivoted and yanked both machine pistols inwards as hard as possible. Both Nazis, now semi-rigid, flipped over the wall and smashed into the ground head first. The first one’s neck gave an sickening wet crack as his head turned in an impossible angle under the weight of his half-frozen body, while the second one’s un-helmeted and flash-frozen head broke into several pieces against the hard stone floor like a dropped lamp globe.

Weary, John willed away the frost. He began to pick up his rifle, but noticed it had been damaged in the last exchange.

Glancing carefully back over the wall, he saw the Panzer line up it’s shot, infantry in close support right behind it.

He spied Moose standing over Hank, and a strange… man… tending to Hank with an allied uniform on. He also spotted an odd German officer taking a black book from the hands of a even stranger dressed German with a sword in his hand, the sword wielding Nazi panting and bleeding from several wounds. As he watched the officer his form shimmered slightly, changing shape.

Standing in his place was an even weirder sight. 

A tall, thin man, wearing strange dark robes, pants, and fur lined boots, similar to some pictures John had once seen of Cossacks. _Cossack Priests, actually. No matter, he’s got the damn book_. He was bald with a long thin beard, and his eyes were like gazing into endless pits of burning malevolence as he threw his head back and laughed, gripping the book in one hand.

*PHOOM!*

The Panzer tank’s firing brought John back into focus, and he saw the shell cut through a small tree just over the strange new guy’s head and right by Moose as he dove to cover Hank’s still form.

It entered one of the shattered stain glass windows of the church and discharged violently, blowing out the remaining windows and large sections of the structure. Their strange new ally was lifted off of his feet and thrown away from the church, Moose also rolling and bouncing away with Hank clutched protectively in his bleeding arms. The Panzer, realizing its main gun could not drop enough elevation to hit them, immediately roared its engine, jerking into gear and taking off at their prone, groaning forms. The tank’s coaxial machine gun sputtered fire at them as it made to run the stunned allied ESSes down.

John looked again at the tank, the troops, and the two Nazis with the book. He saw the Tiger that Hank had disabled finally bringing its main gun around at the three of them, the tank’s commander crouching in the open hatch and readying the turrent mounted MG42 to fire at them since they couldn’t turn the damaged tank to bring the coaxial machine gun to bear. He realized he had not heard Smitty or Moose fire in a while, and feared the worst for them.

_It would be so easy to take off, to hide in one of these basements long enough to get out of town_, thought John. _I might live through this, and no one would be the wiser_.

He shook his head, as if to clear it of the thought, and rubbed the moisture from his burning eyes. 

_That’s my buddies out there_.

_They’re all I have left._

John’s mouth became a grim line as he made his decision.

_No one leaves unless we all leave. _

_There’s still a job to do, and I don’t hear no fat lady singin’_.

Taking a quick stock of his remaining possessions for something to use to help him, John remembered the large pouch that Moose had given him earlier. _A satchel charge; actually, a rather large one_.

He glanced back, readied the charge as he heard more Germans coming up behind his hiding place, and formulated a plan.

“I hope the Krauts brought a fat lady with ‘em…”, John muttered to himself as he took several deep, bracing breaths and stood up, primed satchel charge in hand.

…

Moose shook his head groggily and glanced up with double vision at the tank bearing down on them. He tried to move, to grab Hank and get out of the way, but his muscles just wouldn’t obey.

Then Frogbot shot across the ground beside him on all fours, _smiling_, not even bothering to stand, like he was playing chicken with the Panzer. The Panzer had just crushed the curb as it hit full throttle and lurched towards them. The coaxial machine gun in the front of the tank stuttered fire at Frogbot but only managed to trace his path as the android streaked in at them.

Just as Moose was sure the crazy critter would be crushed, Frogbot sprung to the left, his right clawed hand extended.

The claws tore through the treads and tread wheels of the Panzer like a machete through wet toilet paper, sending shards of metal and tracks spinning off in every direction. The tank’s driver, having accelerated the Panzer to full throttle, yelled in surprise as his view port suddenly swung to the right away from the allied ubermensch he had been ordered to crush, as if the right-hand tracks had become stuck on something.

His yell of surprise turned into a scream as the tank easily tore through the remainder of the tree they had blasted and swerved squarely into the crippled and burning church, flaming timber and bricks showering his compartment hatch and viewport.

Moose was just getting up as the tank’s commander threw open the top hatch and came up coughing, trying to prime the top-mounted machine gun.

Frogbot was still on all fours in the street. He caught Moose’s eye as Moose looked around desperately for something to throw at the tank commander.

Smiling and shaking his head, Frogbot held up 3 fingers at Moose, then dropped them one at the time.

3… 2… 1…

The German officer yanked the slide on the machine gun and just as he swung it around at Frogbot, a shadow came over the tank. Frogbot _waved_ at him cheerily. The tank commander looked back just in time to see the entire wall crumble and fall on top of the Panzer, heavy stones and mortar crushing him into the top of the tank without even time to utter a curse as the church fell in.

Just then Moose saw John sprint across the street as the wounded Tiger was bringing its gun to bear on Frogbot. John leaped on top of the Tiger, planting one hand on the tank commander’s head and pushing down. The Nazi disappeared with a yelp, and with his other hand John jammed some kind of bag into the hatch and slammed it shut. 

Immediately John arched his back as the Germans around the tank opened fire, one scoring a glancing hit, then dove off into a roll as he headed for the front of the book store.

_That bag looked familiar, was that a…,_ Moose began to wonder.

*PHLANG!*

The satchel charge detonated, the soldiers around the tank falling back. Immediately the tank’s shell magazine cooked off and it began leaping and jumping as the big artillery detonated inside of it, quickly igniting the fuel tank and exploding outwards with an impressive spray of concentrated firepower. Most of the Germans surrounding it were thrown back or set afire.

John rolled out of his dive and pounded straight at the two Nazi ubermensch. One of them made to do some kind of salute with his sword; John promptly stepped in and hit him full in the face, feeling bone give way under the snap of his fist. The Kraut swordsman grabbed his face and doubled over, then instantaneously disappeared from sight.

John spun towards the frail looking Cossack, who was looking at him with amused curiosity as he brought up his fists and called upon the frigid death stored deep in his bones.

“Give me the book, and I might let you live”, John threatened in German.

In heavily Russian-like accented German, the man replied calmly.

“I am Rasputinovich, and I vill do no such zing. You, however, vill stop annoying me. NOW.”

The last word reverberated like a struck church bell in John’s head, and he could hear nothing but the echoes of the strange man’s will as his hands began shaking and his knees suddenly went weak. John could feel the man, this Rasputinovich, exerting pressure like a ton of stones inside of his skull. He heard only a ringing roar as the street turned up crazily in his vision and then he was looking at the sky. The roar increased in pitch to painful levels and he felt himself grimace, heart hammering in fear, as the sky closed in under a shroud of horrifying darkness. 

The last sound John heard was an evil chuckling laugh that seemed to emanate from his own mind before he spun away screaming, falling into the recesses of his own subconscious nightmares. As he fell he could see nothing but those two incredibly malicious eyes following his spiral into gibbering madness.

…

Frobot saw another unfamiliar man destroy a Tiger tank then strike a Nazi officer, confronting another before suddenly trembling and falling heavily to the sidewalk. 

WARNING: Readings of Talent activity hitting extreme levels.

Sensor indicate concentrated usage of Talent, uniform and actions conform to ubermensch axis target. Target is holding object of mission, book asset ‘Von Unaussprechlichen Kulten’; translation engine determines name as ‘Nameless Cults’.

Query: damage target or retrieve asset?

Answer: BOTH.

The Cossack was directing more reinforcements, jubilant in his victory, as there was a sudden incredibly sharp pain in his left hand. 

He brought it up to see what had hit him, when blood spattered his face.

Wiping it away, he saw his hand was spurting blood. The hand he was just holding the book in. Glancing down, he saw a strange man in an allied uniform of some sort with clawed hands resting on all fours, holding…

_the book and several of my damn fingers_!

Rasputinovich immediately concentrated on a building nearby, and there was a _bamf_ of noise in the spot that Frogbot’s other clawed hand immediately swung through. The axis ubermensch was no longer standing there. Frogbot shrugged his shoulders and hefted the book as a groan came from the blinking John Brighton.

Just then, there was a roar of engines as two P-38 Lightnings tore across the sky and laid heavy fire into the buildings where the Nazi sniper fire had been coming from.

John sat up, shaken and battered, to see Captains Smith and Smythe moving from cover to cover down the street behind them, several other ESSes with them. One ESS moved around the other side of the church, his elongated neck and arms like elastic or rubber as he scanned the area.

Smith walked up to them, Moose carrying Hank in tow.

“It’s about time you fellas got done. Gather up and move out, it’s time to go.” he growled at them.

“Sheeezus dingdang ol’ I been dingdang saying that fer ten dang minutes now…”, came Hank’s weak reply as the others stared at both Captains in shocked silence.

...


----------



## The_Universe

WHOOOOOOOO!  

Frogbot, you're my hero!


----------



## Broccli_Head

frickin' Rasputin! At least we got the book.

Nice, chaotic, fast-paced writing *ledded*. Makes me want to get back to _Champions_. So many games...so little time...


----------



## Rel

ledded said:
			
		

> “I am Rasputinovich, and I vill do no such zing. You, however, vill stop annoying me. NOW.”




I had a bad feeling that it might be him as soon as you said "Cossack Priest".

Great stuff as usual.  Every paragraph of this story hour just oozes fun.

Keep up the good work, Ledded.


----------



## Angcuru

I love it!     Frogbot rules!!


----------



## John Q. Mayhem

ledded said:
			
		

> Just then, there was a roar of engines as two P-38 Lightnings tore across the sky and laid heavy fire into the buildings where the Nazi sniper fire had been coming from.
> ...




W00t! P-38s rock.


----------



## Pyske

Still here, ledded, thanks for the update.  Don't know how you manage so many of them, but I certainly ain't complaining!

 . . . . . . . -- Eric


----------



## fenzer

Wow!  Well done Ledded, just superb work.  Thanks for the updates.  

Rasputin?  Oh boy.


----------



## Nail

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> frickin' Rasputin! At least we got the book.



Don't count on it.  I ain't heard no fat german lady yet........


----------



## TaranTheWanderer

I hate to see this thread on the second page!  

I just want to say that I'm new to this site since EternalNewbie started posting, and I'm very impressed with this story!  Amazing description and great action!


----------



## Angcuru

So Boss, when are we gonna see an update?


----------



## ledded

TaranTheWanderer said:
			
		

> I hate to see this thread on the second page!
> 
> I just want to say that I'm new to this site since EternalNewbie started posting, and I'm very impressed with this story! Amazing description and great action!



Thanks much, and glad you could join us Taran.

As far as an update, I hope to get one done sometime soon.  I wrote so much at once for a while there that I kind of tapped the well dry, though we may be doing another session of it this week so that will provide some more inspiration to catch us up until the end at least.

Of course, work has been... well, work lately so I havent had much time to focus on this or other gaming stuff I've been trying to do some work on.

I'll try to get something up soon, and I appreciate folks coming by and posting their comments.  I have some of it done, but I'd rather take the time to make it read better to me before I post, which is a departure from my usual 'spray and pray' method of writing/posting, but hopefully will read a bit better when I'm done.  Mainly just waiting on my muse, though instead of a pretty, dainty little fairy thing with wings that gently provides guidance, my muse is a fat hairy guy that smokes cigars and lounges on the couch of my mind, occasionally getting up to grab me by the back of the neck and slam me face first into some writing, only to completely abandon me to daytime TV for a few weeks.  The nerve of some of these new muses.

Thanks again guys (and ladies, if you're out there) for keeping up with the story.


----------



## TaranTheWanderer

ledded said:
			
		

> Mainly just waiting on my muse, though instead of a pretty, dainty little fairy thing with wings that gently provides guidance, my muse is a fat hairy guy that smokes cigars and lounges on the couch of my mind...




Hmmm...give him a glass of cognac and your muse reminds me of Hemmingway.  Then again, give him a bag of chips, and he reminds me of Homer Simpson...

This is a bump, BTW.


----------



## ledded

That's odd, considering his name is Homingway Simpson...   


Playing update:  Pierce was on vacation, so we played another one-off session last night with the Supers gang, sans Smitty.  John Brighton took a break also, with his player bringing in another character that turned out to have *very* interesting powers and methods for using them.

It was basically a nice 'assault the Nazi castle' type session, and even though we didnt finish it, it was fun.  So the story hour will continue past the next few posts, as we added another bit of game to it (I've done about 2.5 sessions worth of game so far, with about 1.5 sessions left to write up).


----------



## Broccli_Head

C'mon now! Get the Led out!  

I posted so you better.


----------



## fenzer

No kidding Ledded.  I need my fix.


----------



## ejja_1

I want my cake Dealia! I want my cake!!!!!


----------



## ledded

Just to check in...


Work is now calming a bit, especially since I start my vacation tomorrow .

I hope to get some writing done while down at the Redneck Riviera in LA (that's Lower Alabama).  

So hopefully after next week there will be an upcoming post or two, especially after our way-too-fun last session of supers when Pierce was on vacation.

Thanks for stopping in guys, I'll try to get something up soon.


----------



## Nail

Vacation for a favorite storyhour author sounds like a good thing.......all that relaxing going okay?


----------



## TaranTheWanderer

In the mean time...Bump


----------



## ledded

Just wanted to check in...

Back from vacation where I did a bit of writing on various projects and things, but work has kept me busy since I returned.  I am finishing up painting the remainder of my WW2 miniatures and whatnot this week so I've gotten inspired to try and get the next update done.  Hopefully there will be an update soon, possibly by the end of the week.

Thanks for reading folks.


----------



## Angcuru

*see's Ledded's post just as he finishes applying the tourniquet in preparation for his injection of _Story Hour Substitute Serum_*

Oh, good timing there.  I can wait a bit longer


----------



## pogre

ledded said:
			
		

> Just wanted to check in...
> 
> Back from vacation where I did a bit of writing on various projects and things, but work has kept me busy since I returned.  I am finishing up painting the remainder of my WW2 miniatures and whatnot this week so I've gotten inspired to try and get the next update done.  Hopefully there will be an update soon, possibly by the end of the week.
> 
> Thanks for reading folks.




Be sure to post pictures


----------



## caixa

Hope you had a good vacation, bro!

But we's gots to know - then what happened?

Peterson


----------



## Nail

[echo]....then what happened?.....[/echo]


----------



## Angcuru

> [echo]....then what happened?.....[/echo]



The world's supply of Cheese Whiz exploded in a big cheezy explosion, and nacho sales skyrocketed to meet the cleanup demand.  Which, mind you was not as high as the demand for an update.


----------



## ejja_1

A gnome in a flashy white disco suit, eats tacos and hot wings while the laser show dazzles the youth of estonia.
And the speakers go BUMP BUMP Bada bada bada BUMP BUMP BUMP!



Famous Gnome hand model Spiro endorses the Crossfire Story Hour, see what all the fuss is about!


----------



## ejja_1

*BUMPBUMPBUMPBUMP*
Cant wait to see what you and the others have in store. You are blessed with an awesome group, I know alot of people who would kill to game with you guys! The three story hours I read are all by members of your group, are you sure you guys are from this planet? Incredible stuff!
*BUMPBUMPBUMPBUMP*
(Damn gnome and his boom box....)


----------



## Captain Claymore

Medallions... WOW!, Gods... WOW! Inspiring stuff. Just read it all in one sitting. Almost makes me want to descend into all that Alabama heat and humidity in hopes that great gaming and writing are a side effect of the environment.

looking very forwardly to an update.

BTW: A small point in John's origin story way back in the beginning. You mention the first world war as 'World War I' when John's admiring his grandpa's flying skills. Up until the outbreak of WWII, no one called it WWI, they just called it the Great War or some such. Silly humans thought we couldn't ever do something like THAT again. It's a small point but since the rest of your story is so dern with it on the details I thought you might care.

Again, extra heapings of kudos on a great story.


----------



## ledded

Captain Claymore said:
			
		

> Medallions... WOW!, Gods... WOW! Inspiring stuff. Just read it all in one sitting. Almost makes me want to descend into all that Alabama heat and humidity in hopes that great gaming and writing are a side effect of the environment.
> 
> looking very forwardly to an update.



Thanks.  I think the biggest thing about our games is that they are often more fun to play than the Story Hour comes across 99% of the time.  Some things such as mood and off-topic or out-of-game conversation and hilarity just can't be captured in a story, but the guys I play with are so good that the stories halfway write themselves.  Yeah, I think the humidity must cause a lot of the insanity that propels our creative engines.  Because it's not the heat... it's the humidity that gets ya.



			
				Captain Claymore said:
			
		

> BTW: A small point in John's origin story way back in the beginning. You mention the first world war as 'World War I' when John's admiring his grandpa's flying skills. Up until the outbreak of WWII, no one called it WWI, they just called it the Great War or some such. Silly humans thought we couldn't ever do something like THAT again. It's a small point but since the rest of your story is so dern with it on the details I thought you might care.



Holy crap, you are so right, and I'm usually such a friggin' stickler for things like that (authenticity is in the *details*, man!).  I will fix it, I can't believe I missed that when I posted.  Definitely was not known as WWI until after WWII was over;  The Great War, The Big One, The War to End All Wars, any of those would suffice.  Thanks for pointing it out, it's details like that IMO that subtly help to suspend disbelief in a story that is otherwise quite fantastic.  One of the reasons that OldDrewId's Medallions is so darn good is the level of research and detail crafting that goes into it.



> Again, extra heapings of kudos on a great story.



Thanks again.  I am going to *try* to get that long-promised update done soon, but with the way work has been I really havent had the time to get back to it and finish it up, plus I've had a couple actual side projects getting in the way of any writing for fun and pleasure.


----------



## Paxr0mana

*Another Ledded Classic*

Ledded, everything you do turns to sheer brilliance.


----------



## Rel

I'm posting to give this baby a bump and get re-subscribed.  No way I'm losing track of this thread!


----------



## Angcuru

You update right now or a random halfling gets a paper cut!


----------



## ragboy

Great SH, ledded. Very inspiring. Update it already.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Left hanging out]*

_Outskirts of __Arnhem__, 20 minutes later._

…

“C’mon boys, lets pick up the pace. We gotta make it to the extraction point” growled Captain Smith, adjusting his eyepatch.

“Ya hear that Moose? Better pick up the pace, I’d hate for ‘em to leave us here with our assess hanging out” Smitty grunted. He was slung over Moose’s shoulder, with Hank over the other. Moose’s wounds had been slowly closing, as had been Smitty’s, albeit slower; Hank didn’t quite have the knack for healing that they did. He lay over Moose’s shoulder, barely conscious, occasionally spouting a string of slurred and delirious ramblings before lapsing back into unconsciousness. Moose was tired, and still injured, but still insisted on carrying the both of them. Frogbot and John weren’t much better off than he, and he was a good bit stronger. Plus, if something jumped ‘em, those two were a heck of a lot faster.

Captain Smythe smiled with no humor and shook his head. Smith looked back at them grimly.

“Less talk. More moving.”

Smith patted the bag slung over his shoulder, the one holding the book they had paid so dearly to recover, and kept moving.

After several more minutes, they came up on a three-man checkpoint, near where some of the paratroopers had originally dropped. The field was littered with parachutes and gliders. 

(see attachment)

One of the men advanced quickly and spoke with Smith.

“Sir! We were worried that you weren’t going to make it back in time. We have a glider ready, sir, but we need to move. The Jerry’s are demolishing the houses of Arnhem one by one with tanks and arty; there’s probably no Brit’s left now. We have reports that a couple German SS Panzer platoons are rapidly closing in on this location. Our scout reports Talent activity is pretty high with ‘em sir. Ubermensch, most likely an entire unit of Goering’s _Entscheidende Soldaten_.” 

The last was delivered with a slight amount of hesitation; a lowered voice and a sidelong glance at the five bedraggled and wounded men bringing up the rear.

“Lets load this motley bunch up and get out of here”, came Smith’s reply.

The ESSes that arrived with Smith and Smythe started moving rapidly towards a glider near the center of the field.

One of the soldiers from the checkpoint approached Moose, reaching for Hank’s barely lucid form.

“Hey buddy, lemme help you with those guys…”

Moose turned the shoulder with Hank on it away from him with a grunt and kept plodding for the glider.

“Hey! Look, we gotta go blockhead, you’re not gonna make it moving that slow…” the guy continued, grabbing Moose’s sleeve.

Moose spun on him with a low bass rumble from in his chest. His eyes blazed for a second, then his form expanded explosively outwards in size, the rumble becoming a bear’s roar. Moose towered over the man from his nearly 10-foot height. The young soldier fell back on his backside in alarm, mouth making a little ‘o’ of shock.

“I said… *I’ve got ‘em*”. Moose turned and took great loping strides towards the field of gliders.

“Wha… but… wha… um… “, the guy muttered, trying to get to his feet.

“Hey, buddy, lemme help ya there”, John Brighton said as he helped the young man to his feet, roughly dusting him off.

He continued without missing a beat, turning his dusting of the man’s jacket to a patting of pockets. “Don’t mind Moose. He’s a big teddy bear. Kind of a bad day, and all that. I’m sure you understand”. 

John fished into the man’s breast pocket while talking to him, pulling out an open pack of Lucky Strikes. He pulled one out, put it in his mouth, and pocketed the rest of the smokes. “Hey buddy, got a light? Hey?” he snapped his fingers a few times in front of the young man. The guy shook his head. 

“Wow, I never saw a Talent do that before, I mean, I’ve seen a bunch of ‘em, but I…”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Whatever. Light?” John interrupted waving his hand in front of the young man.

“Yeah, sure”, he said, taking out a zippo and lighting it. John lit his smoke, closed the guy’s zippo in his hand, deftly taking it into his own and dropping it into another pocket as the man looked at Moose’s massive form striding across the field.

“Thanks pal”, John clapped his shoulder and walked off behind Moose.

……

“So you sent us in, knowing what kind of reception we’d get, as a friggin’ *test*?” Smitty spat. He was sitting against the wall of the glider, feeling a bit better from his wounds.

They had loaded into a glider, one of the plywood-and-not-much-else deals that they somehow convinced a lot of infantry to get into and actually get dropped under battle conditions. John had stepped in, and had been about to question their sanity, when the two men sitting in the pilot’s seats, obviously twins, had nodded to one another silently, joined hands, and closed their eyes. The glider then had slowly lifted and began gaining speed and altitude. As they silently sped away, John had noticed several paratroopers still on the ground, firing weapons with obvious futility at the approaching SS columns. Smith had said the glider had taken all it could carry, including several badly wounded paratroopers, then ordered them to take off leaving some of colonel Frost’s Red Devils to fend for themselves. Smythe’s reply brought John back to the present, and helped him swallow the burning lump he had felt forming in his throat.

“You cannot possibly fathom the dearth of intelligence we have about Talents, about your actual powers and how they manifest”, Smythe said with his comforting English brogue. 

Smith interrupted with his impatient midwestern growl.

“We had no idea what you were capable of. You didn’t even truly know yourselves. We also didn’t know if you were a spy planted by the friggin’ Nazi’s either. Either way, we figured this would help us figure that out, and we’d be a short while behind you to provide backup if you needed it. You did fine. You *should* be proud, soldier.”

“You should be *shot*”, Smitty countered, “Sir”.

Smith stared off into space for a few seconds in the sudden, uncomfortable silence of the glider. His ordinarily craggy visage slipped slightly, a barely perceptible change. It was like watching a series of pictures taken of a rocky, storm-beaten mountainside over thousand years, all played together as a film lasting only seconds; the force and effect of constant erosion and weathering evident when taken as a whole.

Smith’s voice was barely a whisper when he replied, breaking the tense stillness.

“Boy… if you only knew…”

More silence, then John Brighton spoke his peace, softly.

“You… you left ‘em. Those paratroopers. Left ‘em to die or worse.”

Smythe piped up again, shaking Smith from his moment of reverie.

“Boyos, this is war. One that we are catching the rough end of. If it seems like we’re being hard, it’s only because the alternative is far harder. Men die. More men will die before it’s over. Jerry is taking this one seriously after how they came out in the Big One. We all have to make sacrifices, some more than others. And I tell you buggers now if I bloody well have to sacrifice every one of us, myself included, to end this war, I’ll bloody well do it without a qualm, and Bob’s your f*&^ing uncle.”

Smith, regaining his normal presence, continued for Smythe. “Smythe’s got the right of it. He served with those men, the Red Devils, before joining the ESS. They knew what they were getting into. And so did you. Don’t think he left them lightly.”

Moose just stared at them, afraid to move around in the creaking and popping mess that was the glider, as it quietly streamed back towards American lines. He saw the NijmeganBridge as they passed over, could see the remnants of boats and hundreds of 82nd Airborne bodies in the river, more scattered around the bridge like toys. He could see the Shermans and trucks lined up on the highway below them when he cared to glance out. Too far away to be of any use to the paratroopers they left behind. There were several choke-points along the thin highway to Arnhem, and in several places the burning wreckage of tanks and trucks had been pushed casually off of the road to burn, the result of German ambushes. Sometimes Moose wondered if any of them would survive this war.

At least they had survived another day. And picked up a new… friend? He wasn’t sure at all about the new guy. He seemed to be pretty well-disposed towards the allies, even though he wore that weird frenchy uniform, and he sure was hell on the Jerry’s. But he acted so strange that it made Moose a bit uncomfortable. Like he wasn’t quite human.

Frogbot sat rigidly upright on the troop bench in the glider, accessing repair nodes in his own internal systems. His enzyme-rich replenishment nodes quickly provided a curd-like substance, that when mixed with certain bacteria he filtered from the surrounding air and stimulated with nano-electronics, repaired the simulated flesh covering that surrounded his temporal-ferrosteel mesh frame. Frogbot wondered briefly at the apparent upset of his new comrades, these altogether too-fragile carbon-and-water composites. He attempted to compute that sensation again, this ‘wonder’, and the effect these strange anomalies were having on his core programming and sensory processors. ‘Truth’. ‘Anticipation’. ‘Anger’. 

These were not programmed behaviors. 

Answer: Most distressing.

There! There it went again. ‘Distressing’. Frogbot decided that futher investigation would have to take place later.

“Um, Frogbot? Did you say something?” said John, hoping to break the tension in the glider.

Query: last interrogative spoken aloud? Without computational foresight? MOST distressing.

“_Oui_? I *am* Frogbot. I said nothing of consequence, _mon ami_.”

John nodded his head, then decided to just plow ahead with what he really wanted to ask.

“So, um, ‘Frogbot’. I was wondering…”

“Oui?”

“Well, um, aw ta hell with it. Just what on earth *are* you?” John finally blurted out.

“Me? I am FROGBOT! French Resistance Operative Guerilla-Built Operational Trooper!”, Frogbot shouted happily, flags erupting from his shoulders, and the French national anthem blaring with a tinny quality from a speaker hidden in his chest. 

“I am ze representative of ze greatest country in the world, her shores be beautiful, her wines ze greatest, oh, her many marvels…”

Long before the trip was over, John regretted ever wondering.

...


----------



## ledded

Well, there's a short update for ya'll to chew on.  I'm working on a couple longer ones for next week, hopefully I'll get back on track and finish up what we've played of it so far.  There's some fun action, more pictures, and a couple interesting new characters coming down the pipe, so stay tuned.



			
				Paxr0mana said:
			
		

> Ledded, everything you do turns to sheer brilliance.



Wow, I'm not sure it's warranted, but it sure was a nice thing to say.

And thanks to you too Ragboy and others that have tuned in with nice stuff to say since the last update.

I'll keep up the updates more regularly, as I've just finished a major PITA 3-month project at work and should have some more time to put in some work on our comic-book inspired WWII action.

Thanks again for the letters to the editor, keep those subscriptions paid up, and remember not to crease those covers folks.


----------



## AIM-54

ledded said:
			
		

> Frogbot sat rigidly upright on the troop bench in the glider, accessing repair nodes in his own internal systems. His enzyme-rich replenishment nodes quickly provided a curd-like substance, that when mixed with certain bacteria he filtered from the surrounding air and stimulated with nano-electronics, repaired the simulated flesh covering that surrounded his temporal-ferrosteel mesh frame.





Genius, ledded, simply genius!  

Another great update. I'm loving this.  Can't wait for the next one!


----------



## Rel

Your timing is amazing, Ledded.  I just finished re-watching the first part of Band of Brothers not 15 minutes ago and meandered downstairs to the computer thinking, "Man, watching that makes me wish that Ledded would update his story hour!"  And here I sit.   

I enjoyed it greatly and look forward to more.  Now I'm off to try and get another update done for my own story hour.


----------



## HeapThaumaturgist

Ahhh, Frogbot.  How we love thee.

Heh.  I hadn't read this one in a while.  Got me further revved up for the supers game I've been asked to run.

I'm contemplating using M&M for it ... WOULD be using it, actually, but I went to 2 book stores and a game store today and it was apparently sold out at each.    The mechanics seem pretty interesting, but I want to be able to READ it before I buy it.

Downloaded  B&V yesterday.  Might use that.  Like how it works with D20 Modern and I'd be able to use my SFX Skills'n'Feats system and the Psychic's Handbook.  Bump up those two, mix with supers ...

--fje


----------



## fenzer

Great update Ledded.  I have missed this story hour.  Thanks for posting.


----------



## ledded

HeapThaumaturgist said:
			
		

> Ahhh, Frogbot. How we love thee.
> 
> Heh. I hadn't read this one in a while. Got me further revved up for the supers game I've been asked to run.
> 
> I'm contemplating using M&M for it ... WOULD be using it, actually, but I went to 2 book stores and a game store today and it was apparently sold out at each. The mechanics seem pretty interesting, but I want to be able to READ it before I buy it.
> 
> Downloaded B&V yesterday. Might use that. Like how it works with D20 Modern and I'd be able to use my SFX Skills'n'Feats system and the Psychic's Handbook. Bump up those two, mix with supers ...
> 
> --fje



You know it.  That's one reason I decided to go with BnV with d20 Modern, folks didnt have to learn a new game system, and it works so well with pretty much anything you can mix-and-match into d20 Modern.  Sure, it's a little light and doesnt have much in the way of campaign stuff, but our group prefers to build our own worlds anyway;  we havent used an actual campaign setting in the nearly 4 years we've played together.  For the price, BnV is an incredible value IMO, and it has a very quick ramp-up curve for new players.  Plus it's pretty easy to make new powers and gadgets for it.  If you decide to use it, there were a few threads on these boards where we posted up different new powers and toys and whatnot that would go along with it well.  My players have loved my addition, Power Nullification.  

All that being said though, I've heard M&M is a very good system and it certainly has a lot of support if you were pressed for time in building a campaign model, but I've never used it.

Thanks for stopping by.


----------



## GreyShadow

Great stuff ledded!

You might want to update the thread title to include your latest story post.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Hooray! An update. 

I love Frogbot and his programmed French Nationalism.   

Nice story, L.


----------



## ledded

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> Hooray! An update.
> 
> I love Frogbot and his programmed French Nationalism.
> 
> Nice story, L.



And to be fair, OldDrewId really does do that when he plays him.  Constantly.   It's very... interesting... to watch 

He will often go for quite some time doing foppishly french and silly things, kind of like Peter Sellers on hallucinagenic drugs.  Then he masticates an entire room of nazis or cuts a tank to ribbons in 3 rounds and we're reminded that while he may be funny, he's extremely dangerous.

I hope to get another update done this week, so stay tuned.


----------



## Captain Claymore

Ledded,
This story hour put me in mind of an old favorite book, Robert McCammon's Wolf's Hour. If you haven't read it, you should. It's very good and has the same kind of great Nazi stompin action. The main character would fit right in with the ESS. Though he probably would refuse to work with Frogbot. :\ 

Very fun stuff!


----------



## ledded

Not an update, but announcing an update to the Ledded's Miniatures thread which shows the scene where Frogbot cut the tracks off of the tank and it collapsed the building onto itself.  There are a bunch of pics from the Medallions game posted up there too today and yesterday, so go take a look.  There are also some never terrain and building features that we've built since the last time I posted up pics.  And if you for some reason have not read Medallions yet, then take a look at the pics and hustle over there and see how a real story hour is written.

http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?p=1708952

Link to the miniatures thread in case my sig isnt showing it.

Hope to finish the next update to this SH soon and post it up.  We're playing a couple sessions real soon of this fun one-off, so I need to catch up a bit before I get too far behind to remember what happened.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [The few versus the many]*

……


_England__, several days later…_

John, Moose, and Hank were laughing and playing cards while Smitty sat on a bunk nearby having a smoke and looking at a pin-up mag, smiling and nodding his head appreciatively to the Glen Miller Band blaring from Frogbot’s chest speaker. Frogbot sat, back erect, and smiled his not-quite-real smile at the others, occasionally opening his mouth to emit a forced ‘ha ha ha’ sound when someone made a joke and the others burst into laughter, often several seconds after the men’s laughter died down. Maybe it was camaraderie, or his proficiency in slicing, well, pretty much anything he felt like to tiny bits, but the team had taken to the construct and treated him, if not like just another one of the guys, as a fellow member of the team, despite his strangeness.

“No, no, no Moose… see, when you don’t have a good hand, you need to bet *high* you see, then you can bluff me and Hank right out of the game. Here, try again”, John said soothingly to a concentrating Moose, as Hank just nodded, smiling.

“Um, okay dere, um, instead of folding I bet another… 2 bits?” Moose said, brow furrowed in concentration.

John waved him off and continued, “Are you sure? See, if you go a bit higher, well you might just scare us off? Sure you don’t wanna raise?”

“Okay dere, I’ll raise ya. That’s a dollar to you Hank”, Moose announced, smiling triumphantly.

“Dingdang ol’ sheeeeooooot Moosey baby, that-thar’s dingdang too dang rich fer my blood”, Hank rattled off and tossed in his cards.

Moose smiled expansively, and folded his hands behind his head, leaning his huge frame back tenuously in the chair as it creaked in protest.

John took on a look of studied worry, and tapped one finger against his teeth. 

“Hmmm. I dunno, that’s a lot of cash in there”. He blew out a deep breath, collapsed his cards into his hand and made as if to toss them face-down on the table.

Moose grinned and leaned forward, his hand stretching out to draw in the pot.

John stopped, took a quick look at his cards, and put a hand out towards Moose.

“Whoa there, big fella, lemme see… yeah, I’ll see that dollar. Call.”

Moose looked at him for a second, confused, then turned over his cards.

“I got a pair of the little prince guys.”

“Jacks, Moose. They’re called jacks”, John helped patiently.

“Yeah. Dem. Got two of 'em.”

John sucked in a breath through his teeth and shook his head. 

“Dang Moose, that’s not bad. See, I was sitting here holding just a couple sevens”, John said as he tossed a couple cards onto the table.

Moose smiled again and reached for the pot, but John interrupted him.

“But then I said to myself, ‘John, did you look at those right? Seems like there was, oh yep, here they are… I almost forgot these *other* two sevens’ ”, John said with a straight face, tossing another couple sevens next to the two already on the table. “I musta had ‘em upside down and thought they were ones. Ya know, got mixed up a bit. Tough break Moose.”

Moose looked crestfallen. “Yeah, that happens ta me sometimes too John, dontcha know, don’t worry about it” he replied as John scraped in the pile of money.

John gave him a reassuring pat. “Hey, don’t worry Moose. See, you’re *learning*.”

Hank giggled a little and immediately took a long swig off of his beer to cover for it.

“Jesus Moose…” said Smitty, shaking his head and smiling at the big Canadian.

“What? Hey dere Smitty, I’m learnin’”, Moose shot back at him defensively.

“Oh, you’re **learnin’** all right, boyo”, Smitty replied, laughing as the others joined in, Hank spitting a little beer foam onto the table.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” said Frogbot, flatly, as his head swiveled mechanically towards the sounds of mirth.

Moose looked wounded, obviously not quite getting the joke but perceptive enough to know that he was on the blunt end of it.

John gave him another slap on his considerably wide back. 

“Don’t worry about it buddy, since I won, the beers are on me.”

“Um, hey dere, don’t they give us the beer here?” Moose replied, suspicion dawning on his child-like face slowly, like the sun crawling over the horizon after a 10 hour sentry watch, or a 12 hour drunk.

“Hey, that’s right Moose, you don’t miss a thing! And we’re just about out. Why don’t you go get us some more while you’re up?” 

Hank shook his empty beer glass appreciatively and nodded his head like that was the best idea he’d heard all day. 

“Okay dere, another beer would be nice, dontcha know. Maybe some more grub too!” said Moose as he stood and stretched, face brightening at the prospect.

Smitty just shook his head and rotated the pin-up, letting out a low whistle.

Smith and Smythe entered the room briskly, the team sitting there in there various stages of recreation. They were followed by the ESS’s lead researcher, Dr Elliot Zanders, or called Dr. Z or just “Z” for short.

“Ten-hut, we have ze officers entering ze room!” called Frogbot as they strode into the room. Moose turned and saluted as Frogbot sprang erect and saluted with mechanical precision, ‘the Star Spangled Banner’ and ‘God Save the Queen’ softly playing simultaneously from his chest speaker. Hank slowly slid his leg off of the arm of the chair and stood languidly, giving a lazy salute. John gave a slightly annoyed half-salute, then quickly gathered his winnings and stuffed them into his shirt as he stood up. Smitty gave a glance, then just sat there and kept looking at his pin-up.
“At-ease there, old beans, hope you’re feeling a bit better. We’ve got a few things we ought to tidy up. You remember Z, righto boys?” Smythe pratted in his Londoner’s brogue.

Smith picked up when Smythe paused.

“Dr Z wants to test you a bit more, and go over a couple things that may help you”.

“ ’ello, ‘at’s right boys. Tip-tip, cheerio, and all that. Bloody good to see you back in one piece!” the British doctor spoke up in his cheerily academic way, bouncing slightly from heel to balls of his feet with his hands clasped behind him.

Smith glanced at him, and continued.

“Well, since you are now officially commissioned in the ESS, you’ve all been placed in a division according to your talents.”

“We have two types of teams here. Basically, research and support teams, and then field teams.”

Smith turns to a blackboard and writes on the board.

“Dr Z heads up the TITAN teams: Talent Intelligence Transfer and Abilities Notification. They gather information, research, scout out new talents and ESSes, and report back anything they can find about what the Jerry’s are up to. They also find support uses for those talents who, for some reason, only manifest one thing; jinxes, singletons, whatever you wanna call them, he finds a way for them to contribute. The twins that flew us out of Arnhem are two of them.” 

“You boys will work with Dr Z anytime he needs you; he may seem like a limey fop”, Dr Z looks askance at Smith then acts as if he didn’t hear the remark, “but he knows more about this Enhanced Talent business and a whole lot more than anyone else. He’s our go-to guy on supers and new technology. Listen to him, and he may just save your life one day.”

Smith writes on the board some more, then turns to continue.

“However, most of the time you’re gonna serve us in the field. You’ll be the latest of our field teams, called Team SPAARTANS: Super Powered Allied Assault, Recon, Talent Neutralization and Suppression. Actually, our main team.”

John spoke up. “Excuse me sir, what happened to the previous SPAARTANS teams?”

Smith face takes a dark, grim cast as he hesitates for a moment, as if searching for the right words. He then underlines a word on the board and continues, his voice low with a desperate edge to it.

“Son, just like the Spartans at Thermopylae, we too are the last hope. We are the few that stand against the many. The Nazi’s outnumber us, outflank us, and are ahead of us in ways we don’t even begin to understand. Just like that narrow pass, our job is to stand and stem the tide until such time as the world can catch up and throw back the hordes of the Huns. With our strength, our courage, our honor and our blood, we *must* stand, we must *never* balk or turn.”

Smith pauses in the silent room.

“And pray to God that we can hold them back long enough, because without us Hitler’s Umbermensch will be in every city of the world within a few years, and the streets will run with blood, the gutters overflowing with tears”.

Frogbot speaks up, quietly. “Oui. It eez true, _mon ami_. I have seen it.”

The room is silent for a moment, then Smitty pipes up.

“Heck, Cap’n, all I wanna know is what a Ther-mo-pile is”, nodding at the board, “and what the hell that has ta do with us?”

There are a few snickers in the room before Smitty puts down the pinup, grinds his smoke out on the floor, and looks Smith directly in his one angry, good eye.

“Cap’n, you just tell us what needs doin’, and it’ll get done. Save all that flag-wavin’ for the greenhorns off the boat; I’ve had enough smoke blown up my ass to last me the rest of this war.”

Noting the tension, Dr Z then steps forwards, rubbing his hands together.

“Ok, very well then, um, lets see… I have a few things I want to go over, especially with you Hank, but first there is a matter of your code names. We don’t want to refer to you by your actual names, lest Nazi agents back across the pond do things to distract you such as hurting your loved ones, which could be doubly inconvenient since those selfsame loved ones bloody well think you’re all dead. That is why Smythe asked you to pick out something for yourself a couple days ago before we destroy your personnel files and create new ones for you.”

“Don’t you think that ‘code names’ are a bit, well, silly? Jeez, it’s like a comic book or something”, John interrupts.

“I kinda like comic books, dontcha know” rumbles Moose under his breath.

“Oh, I believe it’s all a bit stylish, don’t you? All cloak and dagger and what-not!” pipes up Dr Z, happily oblivious to Smitty’s flat stare and Hank’s rolled eyes.

“So, what’ll it be, gents?” Dr Z says expectantly.

John Brighton looks up, his ice-chip eyes eerily catching the afternoon sun.

“Arctic Wolf.”

Hank is the next to speak.

“Well, ding-dang ol’, I jus’, well, aw hell you ken call me ‘EMF’, ya know, like one o’ them thar ‘Electro-Magnetic Force’ thangs”, Hank sputters proudly.

“Ghost” replies Smitty.

They all turn to look at Moose, who looks from face to face for a moment.

“Um, I kinda like Moose, dontcha know? Izzat all right?”

“Hmm. Well. Yes, that will be fine. Appropriate. And Frogbot, well, ‘Frogbot’ will do just fine for you also. I would just love the chance to study your internal workings a bit better. Would that I had a diagram, or a schematic…” Z trails off, lost in that place that technical people go, where the sun is always shining, where everything has a plan, and always works, and every flat space is covered in something shiny and interesting and eminently useful and all covered in little wheels and spiky bits and big red buttons that only they know the use for. And beautiful women are very, very interested in those that have that understanding, and sit quietly in adoration while you explain it. Maybe even rubbing your shoulders…

Frogbot pipes up proudly. “Oui _monsieur_! I am quite skilled in ze drawing of engineering schematics! I would be happy to draw some up!”

Dr Z, snapped back to the present, looks at Frogbot incredulously. 

“You could?!? Provide me drawn schematics of yourself?!? Why, the possibilities…” he sputtered as he began a slow slide back into that ‘place’. _Yes dear, it *is* fascinating_…

“Oh, no, _monsieur_! Nothing *zat* complicated! They would be of maybe ze toaster, or ze blender…”

“What is that, like your mother and father?” Smitty interrupts sardonically to the uproarious laughter of the other SPAARTANS members.

QUERY: ‘Smitty’ unit statement requires response to maintain successful human emulation.

CHOICES: 
1) Take offense and storm off.
2) Join others in camaraderie-building laughter.
3) Act like unit did not understand ‘joke’.
4) Deploy claws, tear Smitty flesh-unit to shreds and dance on his squishy water-based entrails. Laugh loud. And long.

ANSWER: 4… no INCORRECT… 2. Yes, 2. Query unit: 4 not a programmed response? Source? No matter. Answer is 2.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“Very well team SPAARTANS, you boys relax a bit and I’ll be back to go over a few things with you tomorrow”, Dr Z tells them as they break down into back-slaps and good-natured jibes.

As Smith, Smythe, and Z turn to leave, Smythe turns back to them.

“Oh, and boys… enjoy the time off while you can. You may not get any more for a long time”.

“None of us may…” he finishes softly, the new team SPAARTANS too busy tossing friendly banter at one another to hear him.

……


----------



## Angcuru

HAHAH! Love it, ledded!


----------



## Paxr0mana

How could number 4 be wrong? FROGBOT must have a faulty circuit somewhere.


----------



## ledded

Just a quick update on a future installment...

I love the way these guys play so true to character sometimes.

Tuesday we played another session, and it got a little hairy.

Near the end, one of the head mooks was fatally wounded, and taking his last action to do that comic-book "even though I'm dying I'm still going to gloat about our plan in a mysteriously vague manner, tossing about enough clues to string you along the story path".  However, it went a little like this:

Smitty:  "Whoa!  Does a 34 hit him?  That'd be 27 points of damage.  Cycle the bolt, KA-SHINK. I take my second shot... booh-yah!  Take some more!".
GM:  "Both rounds strike true, he falls to his hands and knees, blood fountaining from his wounds and open mouth.  He struggles to speak..."
Smitty:  "Still?  Well, I shoot him again."  KA-SHINK. BLAM.
GM:  "Um, okay, hold on a second...  'Yes, you stupid Americans... blah blah blah our evil plan to bring about...' "
Smitty:  "He's still moving.  I.  Shoot.  Him.  Again.  Does a 36 hit him?"  KA-SHINK. BLAM.
GM:  "Yeeaaaah... ok...  'Argh!  I die, but in dying would like to reveal part of the huge nazi conspiracy and set up a future plot poi...'  "
Smitty:  "Jesus.  Are you *still* talking?"  KA-SHINK. BLAM.
GM:  "Um...."
Smitty:  "Ooh look, he flinched!".  CLICK. "Whoops, gotta reload."  KA-SHINK. BLAM. KA-SHINK. BLAM.
Gm:  <wonders what to do with a mook who is now at -98 wound points>  "Uhhhh.... yeah.  He's dead.  Yup.  Even his blood has stopped moving."
Hank:  "Ding-dang ol' swell then, it's time ta leave.  Hey thar, I'm gonna search what's left of the body fer anythin' *useful* "
GM:   


Ya just gotta love gaming with these guys.

And for a new Frogbot quote of the week:  "Ha-ha!  I have heard zat when you make sauerkraut, you must slice it *very thin*!"  <snicker-snack>


----------



## Broccli_Head

Cool! I come back from vaction and I get another update!

Nice...dig the Code Names...


----------



## ragboy

Geez ledded. I really want this to be a movie. See what you can do about that.


----------



## Peterson

> Smitty: "He's still moving. I. Shoot. Him. Again. Does a 36 hit him?" KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> GM: "Yeeaaaah... ok... 'Argh! I die, but in dying would like to reveal part of the huge nazi conspiracy and set up a future plot poi...' "
> Smitty: "Jesus. Are you *still* talking?" KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> GM: "Um...."
> Smitty: "Ooh look, he flinched!". CLICK. "Whoops, gotta reload." KA-SHINK. BLAM. KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> Gm: <wonders what to do with a mook who is now at -98 wound points> "Uhhhh.... yeah. He's dead. Yup. Even his blood has stopped moving."
> Hank: "Ding-dang ol' swell then, it's time ta leave. Hey thar, I'm gonna search what's left of the body fer anythin' *useful* "
> Ya just gotta love gaming with these guys.
> And for a new Frogbot quote of the week: "Ha-ha! I have heard zat when you make sauerkraut, you must slice it very thin!" <snicker-snack>




Ledded, are you trying to get me fired!  I laughed so very loud - loud enough that my boss came down the hall to see what was so funny.

I said something about _former future French figures_ and she just shook her head and said something about _tech-heads_.

Still, I envy you.  The ideas you folks have, the way you folks play, and the stories you folks write.  I'm green with envy.

Anyways, thanks for the peek ahead.

Peterson 
see, still green with envy


----------



## Rel

Another great update, Ledded.  A mark of a great story hour is that the interaction between the characters is entertaining during the downtime as well as the heavy combat moments.

Keep up the good work!


----------



## Pierce

ledded said:
			
		

> Smitty:  "Whoa!  Does a 34 hit him?  That'd be 27 points of damage.  Cycle the bolt, KA-SHINK. I take my second shot... booh-yah!  Take some more!".
> GM:  "Both rounds strike true, he falls to his hands and knees, blood fountaining from his wounds and open mouth.  He struggles to speak..."
> Smitty:  "Still?  Well, I shoot him again."  KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> GM:  "Um, okay, hold on a second...  'Yes, you stupid Americans... blah blah blah our evil plan to bring about...' "
> Smitty:  "He's still moving.  I.  Shoot.  Him.  Again.  Does a 36 hit him?"  KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> GM:  "Yeeaaaah... ok...  'Argh!  I die, but in dying would like to reveal part of the huge nazi conspiracy and set up a future plot poi...'  "
> Smitty:  "Jesus.  Are you *still* talking?"  KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> GM:  "Um...."
> Smitty:  "Ooh look, he flinched!".  CLICK. "Whoops, gotta reload."  KA-SHINK. BLAM. KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> Gm:  <wonders what to do with a mook who is now at -98 wound points>  "Uhhhh.... yeah.  He's dead.  Yup.  Even his blood has stopped moving."
> Hank:  "Ding-dang ol' swell then, it's time ta leave.  Hey thar, I'm gonna search what's left of the body fer anythin' *useful* "
> GM:




Man, he was speakin' German.  Smitty don't speak German.  I was just putting him outta my misery.


----------



## Arkhandus

Smitty and Frogbot are great. 


			
				ledded said:
			
		

> ……
> 
> “Oh, no, _monsieur_! Nothing *zat* complicated! They would be of maybe ze toaster, or ze blender…”
> 
> “What is that, like your mother and father?” Smitty interrupts sardonically to the uproarious laughter of the other SPAARTANS members.
> 
> QUERY: ‘Smitty’ unit statement requires response to maintain successful human emulation.
> 
> CHOICES:
> 1) Take offense and storm off.
> 2) Join others in camaraderie-building laughter.
> 3) Act like unit did not understand ‘joke’.
> 4) Deploy claws, tear Smitty flesh-unit to shreds and dance on his squishy water-based entrails. Laugh loud. And long.
> 
> ANSWER: 4… no INCORRECT… 2. Yes, 2. Query unit: 4 not a programmed response? Source? No matter. Answer is 2.
> 
> 
> ……





			
				ledded said:
			
		

> ……
> 
> Smitty: "Whoa! Does a 34 hit him? That'd be 27 points of damage. Cycle the bolt, KA-SHINK. I take my second shot... booh-yah! Take some more!".
> GM: "Both rounds strike true, he falls to his hands and knees, blood fountaining from his wounds and open mouth. He struggles to speak..."
> Smitty: "Still? Well, I shoot him again." KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> GM: "Um, okay, hold on a second... 'Yes, you stupid Americans... blah blah blah our evil plan to bring about...' "
> Smitty: "He's still moving. I. Shoot. Him. Again. Does a 36 hit him?" KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> GM: "Yeeaaaah... ok... 'Argh! I die, but in dying would like to reveal part of the huge nazi conspiracy and set up a future plot poi...' "
> Smitty: "Jesus. Are you *still* talking?" KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> GM: "Um...."
> Smitty: "Ooh look, he flinched!". CLICK. "Whoops, gotta reload." KA-SHINK. BLAM. KA-SHINK. BLAM.
> 
> ……


----------



## ledded

Peterson said:
			
		

> The ideas you folks have,



I'm lucky to be in a *very* creative group... it's one of the only groups that a GM will actually feed off of the players as they interpret his scene/idea, then incorporate their imaginings into the actual scene/moment.  Kinda like doing improv with a campaign outline sometimes , except OldDrewId is much better at it than I am.



> the way you folks play,



Again, a room full of creative nuts constantly trying to original, creative, and one-up the other...



> and the stories you folks write.



For me, the stories often kind of write themselves, except that it's sometimes hard to incorporate all of the good stuff that happens either because I can't remember all the funny lines, or that they are a little bit too, um, 'out of bounds' for a public forum.



> I'm green with envy.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for the peek ahead.
> 
> Peterson
> see, still green with envy



Better than being pink with envy.  Cuz that would not only be weird, but kind of annoying also.  

...



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> Another great update, Ledded. A mark of a great story hour is that the interaction between the characters is entertaining during the downtime as well as the heavy combat moments.
> 
> Keep up the good work!



I'm glad you found it entertaining... that part is always the hardest for me to write, even though this group makes it a lot easier because it's like hanging out with the cast of _Whose Line Is It Anyway_.  The action sometimes just literally spills out of my writing mind faster than I can type it;  turning the CRASH BOOM POW into imaginary comic frames and then interpreting those as text in such a way that it still feels sort of like a comic is not only fun, but it just seems to roll out of me sometimes. Not always good or even palatable stuff comes out, mind you, but it does come easier.  I have several times gotten *really* inspired and just cranked out about 8-10 pages and jubilantly printed it, reviewed it, and then thought  "_Wow.  That was incredibly *bad* considering how good it felt when I wrote it_".  Moments like that really take the wind out of me too... when there is a long break between posts it's usually when I've done something like that and just crushed my silly little writing ego .  There are still parts in the story that I have to fight myself not to go back, take down, re-write, and then re-post.  One day I might just do that, but for now it's all part of the fun just seeing what I can put down, edit quickly, and toss up for general consumption, like the short-order cook of Story Hours .

It's the good in-between stuff, the stuff that makes you really get invested in a character, that is very hard for me, and often will hold me up for weeks until I can frame up something that I feel is appropriate, especially since I don't want to write all-action, because that would just get boring. 

Yes, after watching OldDrewId for months and then deciding I wanted to do my own Story Hour, I realized that he was only making it *look* easy, and that it really wasnt.  At.  All.  So Drew, if you're catching this, sorry if I ever read your Story Hour at the great funny parts and even thought for a second "Wow, this is *great*.  I can do this!  How hard could it be?".

...



			
				ragboy said:
			
		

> Geez ledded. I really want this to be a movie. See what you can do about that.



Hey, if I can get jonrog1 by here sometime maybe we can do something about that  .  Seriously though, his Pulp Spycraft story hour (one of the best *ever*, and the funniest I've ever read) partly inspired me when initially putting this one together.  If you've never read it, try and find it somewhere... that was classic, action-comedy pulp story hour for you.

Thanks to all for stopping by.


----------



## pogre

> “No, no, no Moose… see, when you don’t have a good hand, you need to bet *high* you see, then you can bluff me and Hank right out of the game. Here, try again”, John said soothingly to a concentrating Moose, as Hank just nodded, smiling.
> 
> “Um, okay dere, um, instead of folding I bet another… 2 bits?” Moose said, brow furrowed in concentration.
> 
> John waved him off and continued, “Are you sure? See, if you go a bit higher, well you might just scare us off? Sure you don’t wanna raise?”
> 
> “Okay dere, I’ll raise ya. That’s a dollar to you Hank”, Moose announced, smiling triumphantly.




This reminds of one of my favorite scenes in the movie _Stripes _ with John Candy.

When their talking about code names it reminds me of _Reservoir Dogs _ where they are getting code names.

"Mr. Pink? Why do I have to be Mr. Pink?"

Great stuff as usual Ledded!


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [The wages of war]*

……

England, several days later…

“Right. Well then, boys, I hope the tests weren’t too, um… invasive… for you. Now I have some new things to show you”, Dr Z prattled on, oblivious to the rolled eyes and whispered complaining of the newest SPAARTANS team.

“Dingdang ol’ just ‘bout stuck a tube in every dad-gummed hole I dingdang ol’ got sheeeeoot”, Hank mumbled as they walked along behind the doctor.

“Aw hell Hank, you know you liked it”, John grinned at Hank.

“Yeah, I heard that about you Hank”, rejoined Smitty, making a wing-like motion with his hands and skipping.

Hank replied defensively, “Hey thar now dingdangit I aint one ‘o them thar y’know, light inna loafer, dingdang ol’ I aint like them thar, ya know, gol-darnit I ain’t one ‘o dem fairy boys, an’ you knows it”.

Frogbot turned from examining the hanger. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Moose just smiled and shook his head, not quite sure what they were talking about. But after two days of being hooked up to all kinds of strange machines and worse, he was a bit tired of it. And hungry. Now this fancy-pants limey feller, even though he was nice enough, was boring the heck out of him. _Sure could go for a big plate o’ dat bangers and mash. And a pint. Or two maybe_, Moose thought, his 4-year old’s attention span stretched thin already.

The doctor stopped next to a large hanger door and turned to address them again.

“Well. You see, we’ve had a bloody time trying to keep our work from the Jerry’s, what with his spying little buggers crawling ‘round all over the place, so we have kept our operation as mobile as possible.”

“Every so often we pack up the whole bloody circus, and then move it to a small village with a suitable airfield nearby, all as quiet and subtle as you please. It is quite inconvenient, and not exactly conducive to proper research, but it has been quite effective so far. Allied Command is supposed to be building us a more permanent station, but it’s so hush-hush and all that that not even *I* am privy to its location. Bit of a rub, that.”

Dr Z managed to sound somewhat hurt at that last admission, while still maintaining his cheery exterior.

“Well then, what we have is one of our latest operations here. You see, we’ve liberated a certain quantity of this new metal from the Jerry’s, something they’ve been toying with for a while. It has the most amazing qualities. It is somewhat malleable, almost like a very light form of lead, until certain pressures are applied in the proper manner. During this process, it can be remolded into a variety of shapes before it changes molecular structure, after which it weighs not much more than aircraft aluminum, but is almost twice as hard as steel, and somewhat resistant to magnetic fields, heat, and all kinds of energy. Amazing stuff, really.”

The mechanic in Hank was piqued at this pronouncement.

“Dingdang ol’ really? Jus’ what kinda pressure ya’ll puttin’ on that thar stuff? Ya make them thangs inna molds, or roll it out, or somethin’ like that?”

Dr Z smiled broadly, nearly bouncing on his toes with the thought that someone else might actually be interested in the subject.

“Oh no, dear boy, nothing that… mundane. See, this material is extremely resistant to heat, and tends to crumble under heavy material stress in raw form. No, we have, ah, let’s say a ‘different’ way of dealing with it that we’ve been exploring.” Dr Z let a smug smile slip onto his face, obviously proud of their cleverness.

“And we’re making the most amazing things with it, just wait, it bloody well may win the war for us! Here, lets go in.”

With that, he turned and entered the hanger and a small vestibule just inside the door. Several guards and one man with ESS insignia, team TITAAN, gave the group a long look that set prickles on their skin before nodding at the MP’s. One soldier saluted and opened the door leading into the hanger proper.

Inside, it was a concrete floor with the metal-framed ceiling rising ahead. There were various researchers, soldiers, and civilians milling about, and plenty of unfamiliar machinery. There was a pale, slight youth, dressed in the jacket and shorts of a schoolboy, thick glasses and mussed hair that glanced at the group before staring back at an odd lump of whitish metal sitting in the center of the room.

Hank extended his senses towards the lump, feeling the magnetic waves and currents that surround everything eddy and flow around it. It felt almost… oily, in a way, the waves of magnetism he gently pushed and probed around the lump of metal. It seemingly resisted his prodding of its particles, while still holding some attraction to the metal in general.

“Dingdang ol’ greased pig, that thang is thar. Mighty funny stuff. So what’re ya danged ol’ doin’ now?” Hank mumbled to Z as the other team members shifted around, already bored with the lump of inert metal.

“Oh well, here, watch this.”

At that point he nodded, and several researchers moved around and took stations next to machines that seemed to be set up for taking some kinds of measurements, like large metal detectors of a sort.

Hank was getting confused, not seeing any obvious ways of working metal in use, when the lump suddenly lifted several feet into the air and began to rotate slowly. 

There was a babble of excitement as several men ran forward with hand-held instruments and waved them about in what Moose thought was a very sciencey manner. It still failed to impress him. _Mmmm… bangers and mash. Maybe some good warm bread. And cheese_. He glances at Frogbot. _Well, maybe I can skip the cheese_.

Hank’s perception rode along the magnetic waves, feeling, probing, and finally slightly gripping the metal a bit as it spun. There was no manipulation of the metal that he could feel in the ambient magnetism.

*Let go of that. You might get hurt*.

The words came to Hank like someone had spoken them softly next to him, but loudly enough that it came clearly over the background noise and babble in the room. He glanced around, but Moose was staring off into space, talking to himself under his breath and making rumbling noises with his stomach, while John and Smitty were talking softly to each other and lighting up a smoke. Frogbot merely stood stock-still, that creepy not-smile plastered to his face, looking to Hank a lot like someone had just struck him in the back of the head with a large board. He suddenly began slowly scanning the room, an odd flicker of light in his not-quite-real eyes.

*Leggo*.

Hank could feel the metal turn nearly liquid, felt the flows of magnestism he was bending towards it start to fold in and wrap like wires against the mercurial quality of the now-smooth sphere of metal. 

“Danged ol’ alrighty then, I dingdang gotcha.” He released his hold on the magnetic fields and the ‘ends’ snapped back towards him a bit, somewhat painfully, like a rubber band snapping against the inside of his brain.

“Youch! Dang if I’ll get used ta that kinda thang there…” Hank mumbled, rubbing his temple.

*I tried to tell you.*

The metal spun faster, and faster, then suddenly resolved itself into the shape of some kind of shield, like a knight’s shield, strangely shaped. It held there, rotating for a moment as if to allow the onlookers to admire its graceful curves, and then promptly fell flat to the floor with a high-pitched _cling!_

Several of the onlookers clapped and their babble rose to a crescendo as they cautiously approached the object, protective suits and various strange clicking instruments held out in front of them.

Hank calmly walked over, and to a sudden hissing intake of breath from the researchers, picked up the shield and started turning it over and examining it.

It was cool to the touch, perfectly curved and rounded, with sharp edges here and there, and even small mounts for attaching straps or something. Its balance was incredible. All in all, extremely good work, he thought.

*Thanks. It’s kinda hard*.

The voice made him jump, and he dropped the shield clattering like silver to the floor and glanced around wildly, thinking for a moment that messing around with magnetic waves had finally scrambled up something in his head.

Sheepishly grinning, he picked up the shield and handed it to Dr Z, who merely stood looking at him smiling.

Hank looked at him dubiously. “How in the… dingdang ol’… well if that ain’t the damnedest thang…”

Dr Z rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, looking for the entire world like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary.

Hank began to open his mouth again when Frogbot softly tapped his arm.

“Monsieur? Oui? Yes.” Frogbot pointed to a gaggle of sweater and fatigue-clad men with instruments.

“Huh? Whatcha… huh?” Hank mumbled, confused.

Frogbot reached back, grabbed Hank by the back of his skull, and quickly turned his head so that he looked directly at the young boy they had seen earlier, now surrounded by a host of instrument and thermometer wielding men. He glumly sat in a chair as they took his temperature, drew blood, waved several strange devices around him and essentially talked excitedly about him like he wasn’t even there.

“Ze boy. He did eet. You could not see it, no? Eet was heem, mon ami. Frogbot could see ze emanations of his pow-air, you see, for I am built for such things by my creator. You see, _mon ami_, I was created by ze greatest scien-teest is ze world, from ze greatest country in ze world, may her shores ever be beautiful, her fields bountiful, her…”

Smitty rolled his eyes, his attention garnered by Frogbot’s latest diatribe. “Jesus Hank, thanks for setting *that* off again… “

But Hank had wandered away from Frogbot and his exultations, shouldering a few of protesting academics and military men out of the way to come to stand in front of the boy.

“You do that?” he asked, kneeling down to look the young man in the face. He was a plain boy, pale and thin, maybe 8 years old, and his eyes were a soft, sad brown. He had the look of a child that didn’t get outside much.

*Yes. Yes sir.*

The boy looked right at him, mouth never moving, looking sad but unusually patient with the prodding and poking going on all around him. The voice sounded like a typical Londoner child’s voice. Hank continued his questions. “You always talkin’ in folks’s heads like ‘at? Can _everyone_ har ya when ya do that?”

*Easier this way. They can’t keep interrupting me. Only the ones I want to hear me can hear me. Easier that way too. It’s not like they listen very well anyway. You’re very strong.*

“Oh, that makes sum sense, ah guess.”

Hank looked at his skinny arms and legs, smiling. “But I ain’t ‘xactly strong.”

The boy shook his head, slowly pointing at his own thin arms, then at his head.

*Not here. Here. You know, where it counts*. He smiled with the last thought.

*I like you. You’re not like them.*

Hank laughed out loud and slapped his knee, bringing some strange looks from the assembled scientists as they hooked more wires and strange probes up all around the boy.

“I guess ya ‘bout hit the nail on the dingdang ol’ head, thar. What’s yer name?” Hank asked.

“His name is Psi-meld, well, for obvious reasons”, replied Dr Z, standing at Hank’s shoulder. “You see, the metal responds to psychic energy and not much else. Psi-meld can mold it like, well, child’s clay. He quite fabulously talented, an amazing resource for us. This most talented psycho-kinetic we’ve ever seen. The metal is called Tibranium, aheheh, yes, quite clever I thought. Actually, we were wondering if you would work with us on the project, maybe use your particular penchant for magnetism and electronics to help Psi-meld with some finer points…”

Hank held up his hand to Dr Z, who slowly trailed off and stared at Hank, mouth making a little ‘o’.

“I ding-dang asked him, feller. You is inner-ruptin’ folks when they’s havin’ a con-ver-sa-shun”, Hank said to Z slowly.

There was a giggling sound in Hanks mind. The boy smiled at him.

*My name’s Danny. You’re Hank. I know because I could see it*, Danny said proudly into Hank’s head.

“You kin see inna my haid? Like, uh, like my thoughts wuz all spelled out or somethin’ like that?” Hank asked, incredulous.

Danny looked down shyly at his clasped hands, his smile suddenly gone. 

*Yeah. Something like that. I’m sorry Hank. They tell me it’s rude, that I shouldn’t. I tell *them* they shouldn’t think so loud, but they don’t listen. They never listen. You’re the first to listen to me since my mom.*

He bit his lower lip, looking up at Hank through eyes filled with moisture. Filled with desperation.

*I won’t do it again Hank. I promise. I won’t. Don’t be mad. Don’t… leave*.

Hank leaned in and patted Danny on his shoulder gently, smiling broadly.

“Dingdang ol’ hell, boy, ‘at ain’t no problem, I ain’t got nuthin’ much up here anyway” Hank said, smiling and knocking on his head with his knuckles like a door. “Sure as hell ain’t gots nuthin’ secret or all that manure, so taint no reason ta git all twisted up or nuthin’, I ain’t vexed atcha. I jes taint never met nobody that ken do ‘at, ‘at’s all”.

Danny sniffed, and rubbed his nose. He looked at Hank, obviously skeptical, but with something akin to hope.

*Really?*

“Yup”, Hank countered, shaking his head and banging his hands on the sides as he shook it. “Ahm sure there ain’t a danged ol’ thang in thar”

Danny looked at him, so serious for such a small boy.

*You’re not mad?*

“Nope, son, I tain’t mad atcha.”

*Are you sure? Most people don’t like me looking at their minds. I really can’t help it, you know. It’s like telling you not to see the color red, then painting *everything* red, and then making you hold your eyes open all the time and do things with stuff that is red, even when you sleep and take baths and eat and try to read a comic even though they don’t let you have comics because they say they’re bad for your brain but what do they know their brains are all so little and gray and dull and squishy and don’t have much in them to start with. Do you understand, Hank?*

Hank laughed again, throwing his head back to guffaw loudly, and clapped Danny’s shoulder again. “I think so, Danny-boy. Ding-dang ol’ these har fella’s will prod ya and poke ya like a floppin’ fish on a riverbank, wont dey? An’ I aint got no secrets anyhow, I told ya.”

**Everybody’s* got secrets Hank*, Danny thought into Hanks mind, somehow giving Hank the impression that he was rolling his eyes at him in mock exasperation. 

“Not everybody, Danny”, Hank replied comfortingly.

Danny looked at Hank, smiling an _oh-really-there_ little boy’s wicked smile.

*You mean like you and Carol Dupree right before you went in the army, that day you went up into the barn together on her father’s place, and she pulled up her knickers and showed you her…*

“Ho! Hey! Ho-ho-whoa there… heh heh, dang ‘ol, sheeee-oot, well, ahem, uh, heh heh, we might not ought ta be um, well see, we wuz, um, ya know, she fell and I was examinin’ her, to ah, well, ah, make sure she wuddn’t, um, hurt, see…”, Hank stuttered, turning red and fidgeting.

Danny giggled, this time out loud, and Hank joined in with guffaws.

*I like you Hank, you’re funny.*

“Oh boy, sheeeooot, dingdang ol’ ya got me thar boy, oh boy, ya dingdang ol’ rascal ya...” Hank laughed, then trailed off when he noticed everyone had gotten quiet except for his laughing and Danny’s soft giggling.

Hank looked around, slightly uncomfortable. 

“Hey, what’sa problem boys, ya ain’t never seen nobody havin’ a laugh or nothin’. Dingdang ol’ stiff-neck limey-boys…”

Dr Z spoke up.

“No Hank. It’s just that, well, Danny hasn’t made a sound out loud in, well, at least since he was 6. That was three years ago, when he manifested fully, when his mother… well there was an air raid, and… well, you know. What… what did you… how?”

Hank just looked at Danny, still smiling, and shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess you feller’s just ain’t that ding-dang funny, are ye? Huh? Aint that right Danny? Huh? Danny? Huh?” Danny giggled as Hank nudged him with an elbow.

Hank stood up and took a step towards Z, all mirth gone from his face. He spoke to him quietly through clenched teeth.

“Least, you ain’t never really tried, has ya?”

Z swallowed and began speaking rapidly.

“Well, you see, I’m not really very good with children, and, well, oh bollocks Hank there’s a war on and we really, really need to figure this out, and we need your help with this, we don’t have any other magnetically talented ESSes of your strength, and, look I’m very sorry if things aren’t always as they should be, well… please Hank?”

Hank stood quietly for a moment, and looked over to where Moose, Smitty, and John stood, arms folded and looking somewhat irritated at the lot of scientists, who in turn looked somewhat nervous that a group of extremely talented and dangerous ESSes were looking at them in a way that said ‘Now you boys have been bad, very bad see, and we’re not at all happy about it…’

“Whaddaya think, fellers? Didja hear all ‘at?”

“Yup” Moose rumbled. Smitty nodded his head and lit another smoke, his glowing red left eye _whirring_ as it focused on individual scientists, one at the time.

“You have some fun Hank, we’re gonna go and take a look at some of the good Doctor’s new toys, ain’t that right Z?” John said. Several of the researchers swallowed audibly under the white-toothed, ice-eyed grin that John gave them. A wolf’s grin. In the hen house. And he was wearing the farmer’s clothes.

“Oh, very well then, thank you Hank. Gentlemen, if you would follow me…” Z called to the other SPARTAANS and led them off to another hanger, babbling about new technology and special gizmos and all kinds of things that just made Moose get hungrier and hungrier.

Hank looked around at the silent and stunned researchers.

“Alrighty then, me an’ ol’ Danny-boy here’s gonna get some stuff done…”

“Well sir, the protocols for application of our scientific method…”, one of them piped up; a soft, doughy-looking academic who spoke as if he was being prodded somewhere uncomfortable as he snapped pages on his officious-looking clipboard.

Hank continued without missing a beat.

“…an’ you feller’s is just gonna git fer a while. Alrighty? Good.”

Danny crossed his arms and nodded his head for emphasis.

“Um, ‘git’? Excuse me, what exactly do you mean by ‘git’?” the same academic asked Hank.

“Dingdang you know, git. Go. Git the hell oughtta har”, Hank explained impatiently.

“Sir, I just don’t know that…”

“Git.”

“Sir, I don’t think…”

“GIT.”

“Look, yank, I don’t know who…”

With that, Hank spotted an open crate of small ball-bearings nearby. He calmly picked up several large groups with his mind, and floated them nearby, grinning evilly.

“I said… GIT!”, and punctuated it by flinging mental handfuls of ball bearings at the scientists. Hard.

“Ouch! Ow! That hurts! If you’ll just wait one bloody…”

“Git! Git! Git! Git!”, each pronouncement followed by a stinging barrage of ball bearings and the yowls and cries of the scientists as they put up clipboards for cover and scrambled, slipping and stumbling to and fro over the accumulated ball bearings underfoot. 

Danny giggled in Hank’s mind, a child’s giggle of pure enjoyment, of liberation.

Hank glanced at him, smiled, pulled up his pants in a comical manner, then took a step towards the doughy scientist that had spoken up.

“I… said… Git!” Hank grunted as he aimed a kick at the man’s rear end, sending him sprawling comically, arms wind-milling. Hank himself slipped on some of the ball bearings, feet shooting up sky-high and landing on his back with a grunt.

Danny giggled, and Hank joined him as the scientists fled the scene.

Hank propped himself up on an elbow and looked at the boy. 

Danny got control of his giggling, returning to his normal somber self. He sighed once, and pushed up his glasses where they had slid to the end of his nose.

*Um, yes, back to work. I guess we should try to re-isolate the dynamic tetrameters, then re-work stress coefficients…*

Hank smiled and interrupted him as he stood up and brushed off his fatigues.

“Hey, I gots a better i-dear”, he said as he _pushed_ mentally, gathering the ball bearings up into a tight sphere rotating over his head.

“Say Danny, ya ever play ball?”


…


_Elsewhere nearby..._


Dr Z showed them an array of gadgets and weapons laid out on a table. He held little of his former liveliness now.

“So, you see, we have fashioned several weapons of this metal Tibranium, they hold a much greater edge and are much stronger and resistant to damage. Quite nice. Even have made these shirts of mail, and shields, and pretty much anything we can get Psi-m… ahem, D-Danny, to imagine”

“You sure you should be treatin’ him like such a lab rat?” Smitty spoke, challenge in his tone.

“I’m not sure what you mean…”, said Z, without turning to look at them.

John spoke up.

“Just like us. I mean, we’re big boys, we can handle it. He’s a child.”

“I’ve… tried. I know it seems bad, and I’ve brought him some child’s toys, but he’s so different, and it’s just… well…”, Z said haltingly.

John shot back. “You don’t have anything in common? He isn’t an Oxford man, or something like that? Ya know, I’m getting a little sick of this. I bet if you had a boy of your own, or even a wife for that matter…” 

Z interrupted, his voice low and controlled as he stared off, out of the window over the green landscape. His eyes were looking out, but from a place far distant from that hanger.

“We do have… things… in common. I was married once. We had a baby boy, and I worked for the government. Late. Always late. One night I, well, I was quite late, and I had rung her to say I would be right home. She always understood, she was that kind of girl. You see, it was her birthday, and our son’s first birthday also, quite a wonderful coincidence, we always thought.”

“Then the sirens lit. I told her, I said ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can’. I promised. I could hear our son crying as the anti-aircraft thundered in the distance, I could hear the fear in her voice as she bravely told me ‘Oh, no hurry love, just a bit of rain, nothing to be worked up about. Just Jerry puttering about making a muss. Get here when you can’. Then the phone lines went out.”

I tried to leave, but the security teams grabbed me. Said I was too important to risk, and they took me to the bunker and locked me in with the others. I made my old sergeant, O’Malley was his name, big Scottish fellow, promise that he would go in my stead, that he would keep my promise for me, that he would go get her and bring her here. He told me ‘I got six young ones o’ me own, doc, I unnerstand ye, I’ll go get them and bring them safe on me honor sir’ and saluted and dashed off. It wasn’t far, only a few miles, and he was a solid man who’d never let me down. I told myself it would all be fine. We had tea, and joked about what we were going to do after the war.”

“And I waited.”

“They told me later that when our flat collapsed, that Mary and Timothy only had about an hour, maybe two of air.”

“It was four hours before I could get there. O’Malley had never come back.”

“I cursed O’Malley as I drove, cursed him for a big stinking, hairy, drunken Scotsman, two of our first ESS men with me, big strapping lads I knew could help.”

“But it was no use. We dug, and dug, the ESSes flinging huge sections of building aside, I kept telling myself they would be fine… good stout English brick, it was, but...”

Z stared off for several quiet moments, no indication that he was anything more than a statue, except for one muscle in his jaw tightening and clenching.

“She was holding him, you know, at the last. My son. They looked so peaceful, like they had just gone to sleep. But when I called her, she didn’t, ahem, she didn’t wake.”

“When I went outside, the men said they had found O’Malley. I was bloody well prepared to give him a piece, to lash out at anything. A half-block away, a bomb had hit next to his lorry and flipped it, killed the corporal who was driving. There was a trail of blood all the way from the truck to the front stoop of our building, where we assumed he drug himself after being wounded badly in the explosion.”

“Apparently, it was then that the building was hit, and the whole thing came down. No way he could avoid it. He was crushed like an egg.”

"Danny's mother died in the same raid. His father was a pilot, and had died over the channel the year before."

“I… I tell myself I couldn’t do anything, but I know different. Now I’ve made a different kind of promise, one that I’ll not pass on to another. I promised Hitler that I’d have tea and cake on his grave for their birthday one day. And I’d by-God wear a kilt when I did.”

“So I create, and I test, and I do what I can, and I damn all the consequences. Maybe it will make a difference. Maybe not. Maybe nothing will.”

Z continued to stare off into the landscape, eyes moist with unshed tears. John and Smitty stood, John shaking his head, Smitty holding a new rifle calmly, but his mechanical hand gripped the wood so hard it creaked. 

After several moments, Dr Z felt Moose put a large, gentle hand on his shaking shoulder.

“Hey dere, um, Doc? Doc, I need you ta show me how dis jetpack works again dere. Doc, we need you.”

“Ahem. Yes”, the doctor sniffed, and shook his head to clear it, and coughed a couple times, regaining his composure.

“Well, ahem, you see, you access the throttle line so, but wait! No no no, don’t touch *that* red button right now, see the helmet works like a vane…”

And Moose nodded his head in understanding the whole time, even though he didn’t get a word of it.


----------



## Peterson

*Wow...*

That was a bit....

Emotional.

Nice job writing it - really.  Not saying much more - going to read it again though.

Good job, Jim - seriously.

Peterson


----------



## Broccli_Head

Nice Character Development!


----------



## barsoomcore

I sure picked the right time to come back in to this here ol' ding-dang Story Hour, dint I?

led, you're kicking butt. More.

And I'll just say ending up that installment with the offhand reference to jet-packs was exactly the "We Were Gods Once" touch I've come to crave. Awesome.


----------



## threshel

How many times can I say wow?  This is some great storytelling, and I have to go, there's something in my eye...


J


----------



## ragboy

Come on, ledded! First you make me laugh with the Frogbot (Ha! Ha!), then you make me all weepy with Doctor Z, and now you have me anticipating the crazy rocket pack fight with Nazi mutants at 10,000 feet over Berlin*! You have to stop rocking so hard. You're only going to hurt yourself. 

*Disclaimer - Not a spoiler... I have no idea what's happening next...


----------



## ledded

<ding dang 'ol double-posty dingdangit>


----------



## ledded

ragboy said:
			
		

> Come on, ledded! First you make me laugh with the Frogbot (Ha! Ha!), then you make me all weepy with Doctor Z, and now you have me anticipating the crazy rocket pack fight with Nazi mutants at 10,000 feet over Berlin*! You have to stop rocking so hard. You're only going to hurt yourself.
> 
> *Disclaimer - Not a spoiler... I have no idea what's happening next...



<dammit... first that freakin' Hellboy movie and now this... crap, time for another re-write... >

Thanks for all the comments folks.

I was a bit worried the last post was a bit too cheesy, even for a comic book (have you ever noticed how melodramatic a comic can be?).  

I have to say, the part between Hank and Danny was all Fludogg (Hank's player).  He's such a softie, that when I introduced this creepy mind-speaking kid who was intended to just freak everybody out, Hank just suddenly started talking to him and went off on this half-hour roleplay tangent.  For some reason, Hank decided that he just had to 'save' this kid, and make him feel like a kid, and damn well wouldnt give up until he did.  I thought it was quite cool, and completely unexpected on my part; I had to scramble a bit to come up with an actual personality on the spot.  

And the jetpacks... we'll, funny thing is, they were very hesitant about those at first because they're afraid of what happens when you fail the pilot check (you did see the Rocketeer, right?  Heh.  Aheheh.).  Plus, by the time they leveled next most of them had some kind of enhanced mobility power that made the jetpack a bit of a diminishing return for them, and they haven't ran out of planes to crash yet either.

But there is plenty of fun stuff that they did pick up and nearly kill themselves with.  'Cuz what's the fun of a WWII superhero comic without wierdo science gadgets and what-not.

Quick update:  Last night, we played another session, and it was all aircraft combat.  I drew up a simple combination of d20 Modern, Homebrew, HoE and Charles Rice's aerial stunts from Blood and Guts and we took to the skies to fight the Nazi threat.  It was *quite* fun, and there was some great roleplaying, intense action, incredible stunts, and feats of god-like prowess that I have to say I was quite impressed with.  

 I appreciate the comments folks, my muse is a vanity-gorged couch potato and ya'll have been keeping the fat hairy b*stard well-fed.

Hope to have another installment posted up soon.  Thanks for catching the latest issue boys and girls.


----------



## Peterson

ledded said:
			
		

> Thanks for all the comments folks.




You keep writing 'em, I'll keep reading 'em and saying good things.  Well, normally.



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> I was a bit worried the last post was a bit too cheesy, even for a comic book (have you ever noticed how melodramatic a comic can be?).




_You?  Cheesy?_ I would never have said that....outloud   Seriously, I thought it was wrote very well.



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> I have to say, the part between Hank and Danny was all Fludogg (Hank's player).  He's such a softie, that when I introduced this creepy mind-speaking kid who was intended to just freak everybody out, Hank just suddenly started talking to him and went off on this half-hour roleplay tangent.  For some reason, Hank decided that he just had to 'save' this kid, and make him feel like a kid, and damn well wouldnt give up until he did.  I thought it was quite cool, and completely unexpected on my part; I had to scramble a bit to come up with an actual personality on the spot.




Huh.  Fludogg had you scrambling?  Huh.  Not good ol'Fludogg - ain't he the "easy" player you got?    




			
				ledded said:
			
		

> and they haven't ran out of planes to crash yet either.




See, another reason why I continue to read...



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> I appreciate the comments folks, my muse is a vanity-gorged couch potato and ya'll have been keeping the fat hairy b*stard well-fed.
> 
> Hope to have another installment posted up soon.  Thanks for catching the latest issue boys and girls.




Hey, no problem.  I've got some stale chili cheese fritos and a twinkie here if it'll help get your muse to kick your arse into ge...er, inspire you.

Seriously, you, JonRog, Heap(somethingorotherIlovehisstoriesandideasbutcanneverrememberthelastpartofhisnameandIthinkthisisacutallyabouthowlongitisanyways), OldDrewID, and Pierce are some of my favorite writers.  You got mentioned first, cause you've updated more often...lately.  

Alright bro - later,

Peterson


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Boys will be Boys]*

…

_England__, A week later…_

An animated Dr Z speaks to several of the SPARTAANS group.

“Very well then gents, your training has gone smashingly. I do hope that some of the equipment we’ve been able to supply will be of some assistance. Smitty, er, ‘Ghost’, that Tibranium chain shirt should be able to stop everything but a wicked googlie, ahaha, um, yes… and Moose you should not have as much to fear from Ubermensch psyche-powers with that Helmet. Its construction should diffuse some of the energy prior to um… how was it you put it Artic Wolf?”

“’Fore it scrambles all that goo in your itty-bitty brain-bucket” John/Artic Wolf casually replied, checking his own gear.

“Not that it’d take much for you Moose”, added Smitty, smiling and working the action on his new Springfield rifle.

“Ha ha guys. Very funny”, Moose grumbled petulantly.

Frogbot’s motivator whirred as he popped out of reclamation mode, turning his head towards them.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Smitty tossed a squint his way.

“Yeah, laugh it up toaster-boy”.

They all chuckled, Dr Z exhibiting a high pitched yortle, punctuated with a bit of snorting, as if unaccustomed to laughter.

“Oh by Jove, boys, you are some live ones. All right, we should check on Hank. He’s made great strides in progress in working with Psimeld. Brilliant!”

With that, they all left and crossed the room towards the main hanger area. Dr Z opened the door and they strode in.

“’Ello gents, how ‘ave you been holding up with…” he began.

Smitty, with his preternatural senses, felt something amiss and immediately grabbed Z by the lab coat, jerking them both to the floor. John sprang to the side and dove, sliding, while Frogbot quickly stepped to the other side as his hand, hinging upwards with a _pop_!, extended and unfolded a collapsible metal umbrella in front of him with one quick motion.

Moose stepped in right behind them unknowingly, mumbling about getting something to eat, and caught a volley of hundreds of ball bearings full in the face and chest, the metal balls exploding outwards as they bounced and careened off of his heavy frame, _spanging_ off of Frogbot’s umbrella.

“Dingdang ol’ dang thar boys, heh heh, ‘loogout!’ Heehee”, giggled Hank, standing in the middle of the room, gesticulating at a few spherical masses of ball bearings revolving around the open spaces in the hanger. The boy, Danny/Psimeld, giggled out loud from where he stood on the other side of the room, covering his mouth in embarrassment. There were several other researchers in the room in various states of cover, behind low concrete blast walls, cowering behind large machines, and hiding under desks. There were numerous spots on the metal walls with a concentration of small dents; the concrete floors and blast walls were also chipped and marred in places.

“Ooomph… vffy phhnny…”, mumbled Moose, then turned his head to the side and spat, a handful of ball bearings clattering across the concrete. He rubbed the gumball-ball sized welts forming on his face.

“Ow”.

Hank laughed uproariously, bending double and slapping his knees. Danny giggled, his small, slight form shaking with the effort. John squatted beside the door on his haunches, a big smile on his face. Dr Z struggled out from under Smitty, who was laughing softly as he lay on the floor. Z got to his feet, brushing his dusty lab coat and sweater, looking a bit rumpled and indignant.

“Right then! You two! Cut that out immediately! That is no way to behave…”

Hank, abashed, stopped laughing and stood quickly, breaking his concentration. Danny jumped and placed both hands behind his back, putting on his best “I didn’t do anything” child’s face.

There were several clattering crashes as spheres of ball bearings fell to the floor, released of their impetus for flight, one centered over Z as it rained down on him. John and Smitty burst out laughing, Hank guffawed some more, and Moose opened his mouth with a rumbling chuckle, but cut short with an “ahh!” rubbing a spot on his jaw and checking for a loose tooth.

Dr Z, attempting to maintain what little dignity he still had, put his hands on his hips and glared, ignoring the ball bearings as they continued to roll, bounce, and clatter on the floor around him.

“Boys! Bloody hell! Someone could bloody well get hurt!” he started.

Danny shook his head side to side softly, face serious, and subtly pointed to Hank with a hand cunningly held next to his hip. Hank stopped laughing, and stretched as if to yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his right hand. At the top of his yawn he jabbed a finger on his left hand towards Danny, and mouthed silently to Z that “it was all him, honest” while nodding his head unconvincingly.

Dr Z took a breath, face turning red, and then jabbed a finger at Hank and stepped forward.

Whatever tirade he started to deliver was cut short, however, by the roaring laughter of the team as a handful of ball bearings shot forward out of his sleeve to clatter onto the floor, and surprised, he lost his balance on the others, teetering comically on sliding feet for a moment before coming down heavily on his bottom.

Moose grabbed his sides with rumbling mirth, the welts already starting to visibly subside. John helped Smitty up as they both gave in to gales of laughter. Hank giggled and walked over to Z, extending a hand.

“Hee heee! Weeeelll dang thar Doc, dingdang ol’ wheee boom ya fell on yer bottom thar, dingdang ol’ funny, we’s just funnin’ ding dang ol’ aw hell it’s all just in good fun, ya know?”

Dr Z looked serious, then broke into a sheepish smile, his temper giving over to amusement.

“You silly buggers do need to be careful, but you’re right Hank, sometimes one does need to let off a bit o’ steam, right?”

“Dingdang ol’ righty-o thar Doc”, rejoined Hank, dusting Z’s coat off as he helped him up. Z patted Hank on the shoulder and motioned to one of the lab technicians still taking cover behind a metal table and his clipboard.

“Very well, we have a few things I’d like to cover”.

“First, we have a new weapon I’d like to have your help with boys. You see, what it does is disrupt the continuity containment matrix by disassociative energy dispersion wave, thereby…”

Smitty interrupted Z, lighting a cigarette. “English, doc, how ‘bout it?”

Z looked lost for a second, and then shook his head as if to clear it. “Oh! Very well, layman’s terms and all that”.

“Here’s what we figure: each person with this Enhanced Gifts or Talents, or supers, whatever you term it, has the unique ability to manipulate energy fields.”

“You see, there are many, many types of energy types that radiate, move, et cetera all around us. Most are hard to measure, if at all. Like a radio, for instance. It can receive, interpret, and send back a certain type of wave that is invisible to the naked eye.”

“Talents, like you ESSes, manipulate some of these energy fields, whether it be to rapidly heat or cool air to produce flame or frost, bend magnetism, or even manage to compress or increase the density of certain energy fields at the subatomic level, causing subcutaneous…”

“Doc. English. E-n-g-l…whatever. Speak English”, Smitty broke in again.

“oh, aheheh, sorry, yes, as I was saying, some ESSes, like Moose, increase the density of their tissues to ward off harm, and manipulate their own white and red blood cells to vastly improve their ability to heal harm, as most of you can. The variations so far have been endless. The difference between you and that aforementioned radio is the brain’s ability to process huge amounts of information, so that you can manipulate and contain these energy fields with no more effort than a normal human uses the hundreds, thousands of individual movements involved with using their hand to grip and pick up, say, a pencil, without breaking or dropping it. And you can learn, through repetition, training, or just plain willpower, and get better and stronger, whereas our friend the field radio does not.”

“Great, somebody reach in my pants and tune me in already, I’m not sure I like this station…”, joked John under his breath to Smitty.

“What this weapon does, from research we captured from overrun Nazi research stations in Vichy France, is interrupt the energy fields that Talents use to contain, or manage, this energy for a short time. Sort of like how an electro-magnetic discharge can make a radio unable to transmit, and even damage it’s circuitry. They say the Nazi’s have ubermensch who specialize in this ‘power’ but we’ve yet to see it. Anyway…”

“I give you… the Power Nullification gun!” Z announced, with profound pride, and nimbly removed a sheet off of a tray that a lab technician held with a flourish.

They all looked in, and Moose was the first to respond.

“Um… did dat come in a box o’ cracker jacks? Like a really *big* one? Looks like sumthin’ from a Flash Gordon comic”.

And indeed it did. It was pistol-shaped, but with unusual curves and smooth, bulbous protrusions. There were a set of concentric rings on the ‘barrel’, culminating into a small, open cone at the end. Various wires and small tubes ran here and there.

“Ding ol’ daaaaaang man, itsa damn *raygun* ‘r sumthin’”, breathed Hank, the technician in him awed into near silence.

John and Smitty merely shrugged at each other.

“Well, it’s not exactly a… well, I guess it does fire a sort of ‘ray’, more like a particle emissive beam, well, ahem, I… well, they’re very new, and still in testing, but we hope to…”

“I wunt one. Dingdang ol’ lemme have that ‘un”, said Hank, not taking his eyes off of it.

“Well, like I said, it hasn’t been tested fully, and there’s the question of…”

Hank reached forward quickly and snatched it off of the tray, waving it around as if to get a feel for it.

Instantly, lab technicians began diving for cover, finding their former hiding spots. At least two doors were heard to slam, and the sound of a knob being unsuccessfully tried somewhere followed by whimpering sounded in the open hanger.

Moose slowly and quietly slipped behind the nearest concrete blast wall and slid down to eye level. _I may not have understood what that feller was sayin’, but I *ain’t* stupid_. 

“Dang ol’, you just point it like unto so, then dingdang pull this har…”

The gun made a low humming sound, rising in intensity incredibly fast.

“Hank! Wait! No! ohshhiii…”

The gun discharged violently, the recoil jamming Hank’s hand backwards hard. There was no report like firearm, but a loud, warbling, bubbling squall emitted as it went off.

The air following the barrel wobbled in their vision, as if they were suddenly looking at the world behind it though a sheet of roiling clear water, as a wave of energy shot forward.

John sprang away, Smitty ducked and slid in beside Moose.

Frogbot turned towards them at the sound of the yells. “_Oui_?”

The beam struck him full on, and then as fast as it appeared, it was gone.

He grunted, and looked down at himself.

“Eet deed not work, _mon ami_, Frogbot is fine! It was quite tickly, no? Yes, I am fi…” Frogbot began, and stepped towards them.

WARNING: movement actuators off-line. Switching to backup system… failing… balance indicators attempting to compensate…

He moved his foot a couple inches, then fell forward, statue-like, and hit the ground with a loud, wet, thump.

Hank stared for a second in surprise, eyes wide, then brought the gun up and looked down the barrel in awe. “Well dingdang, ol’ how’d it do that…”

Z grabbed his arm and pulled it away from his face. “Bloody hell, yank, are you trying to kill us all? I plainly said that it wasn’t tested properly, you could have…”

“So, can I have it?” asked Hank, pulling gently, but insistently, away from Z’s grasp.

“Frogbot ees… Frogbot ees fine, mon ami! See, just now, I stand!”

Query: Movement actuators online at 7%. Damage assessment?
WARNING: Enhanced mobility offline, initiating self-repair. Repair estimate: 38 seconds.

Frogbot stood, and then took a few shaky steps, trundling away to presumably repair himself.

Dr Z let go of Hank’s arm, and sighed.

“Oh very well, why not? Try not to implode you own brain with it, however.”

Hank made a skeptical face and waved off Z’s concerns.

“By the way, speaking earlier of letting off steam, since we’ve made such progress, does anyone fancy a pint or two? There’s a nice pub in the town nearby that I’ve frequented on occasion… interested?”

Smitty stood up. “Sure.”

“Beer? Hey, do dey got stuff ta eat, too?” Moose added hopefully.

“Yeah, a glass of beer or two would go good right about now”, John added.

Frogbot limped back. “I do not require ze same sustenance as your fleshy entities, but I would be quite happy to accompany you”

“Yeah yeah frenchie, shuddup and let’s go” Smitty grumbled to Frogbot, slapping him on the back to get him walking towards the door.

……

_England, a short while later_

The jeep came to a stop and Smitty shut it off. They all piled out and looked at the pub nearby.

The town was not very large, but held a concentration of troops as a stopping off point before deployment to Europe, many of them in temporary billets in the town. There were a few halftracks and a Sherman or two nearby, and both men and women of several Allied services were walking and standing around.

“’Ello, ‘at's it boys. The place is right over there” said Z cheerily.

It was not a large pub, but had grown a bit in temporary accommodations with the influx of soldiery in the last year. It looked crowded, mostly men, but a few local women, civilian and service, were among the crowd, much to the delight of the heavily drinking servicemen milling about all around.

They began to walk towards the pub when Smitty’s inordinately powerful senses picked up on something.

A woman, across the street, had glanced at them in interest and then quickly looked away. He stopped, and let his mechanical eye behind his one-way mesh eye patch focus in on her, let the flows of ability reach out and bring things into sharp, unnatural focus.

_Attractive. Familiar. Dressed as a nurse._

_I recognize that perfume._

_Hmmm_.

_Yes, the one from the firing range, the one that brought me tea. Right before __Arnhem__._

_Looking this way again, trying to not let us notice. _

He instantly noted, from across the street, the slight increase in pulse by the thrumming of it in her alabaster neck, the ever so faint smile she tried to hide but still managed to twitch slightly into place, the way she subtly averted her gaze when she noticed him looking, a very soft flush coming to her cheeks, almost imperceptible.

_Coy. Nervous. Maybe she’s interested. Well, that’s… interesting_.

Smitty let himself smile, then gave a casual wave in her direction and jogged to catch up with the others.

Out of the corner of his eye he noted her flush increasing, the tightness of her constrained smile, the nearly unnoticeable perspiration of nervousness on her brow, as she gave a small wave back, then turned, shaking out her hair and speaking to a doctor who was talking to her animatedly about some subject or another. Her body language, obvious to his senses, spoke how bored she was with the conversation.

Smitty caught up and grabbed Moose’s arm.

“Hey fellas, you go on without me. I’ve got something I need to go do, I’ll catch up with ya later, ok?”

“Sure thing, Smitty. I’ll save ya some potatoes and a couple beers”, Moose replied, waving him off.

“Yeah, ok, whatever, see ya…” Smitty shot back over his shoulder as he weaved his way across the street crowded with servicemen and honking jeeps, securing his ever-present Springfield against accidental collision.

He closed in on her quietly, his senses noting how she kept looking askance across the street, as if searching for something or someone. She had not seen him approach, and she was obviously bored of the conversation with the doctor, but was suffering it nobly and casually. Her stance also indicated something else, maybe… disappointment? 

Smitty stepped out of the crowd right behind her, a Ghost among men.

“Hey, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you! Say, I need to talk to you a bit, hello there partner, let me borrow the lady for a moment will you? Hey thanks, that’s a pal…” Smitty smoothly spoke to her and the doctor as he gently took her arm and subtly walked her in the opposite direction, leaving the doctor standing there sputtering to himself.

“H-Hello there, do I know you?” she asked him, smiling.

“Sure you do. I met you on the firing range. We had tea. Name’s Smitty” he answered, releasing her arm and offering her his hand with an open smile.

She took his hand.

“Margaret. My name is Margaret. My thanks, by the way, that old windbag was buggering on forever about this and that”, she answered. “My hero, a knight in olive drab”, she joked.

_Flushing again, just barely. I can feel her pulse rise a little. Very nice._

Smitty realized the way she said her name, “Maah-gret”, in that proper English drawl, was the sweetest thing he’d heard in some time. He also realized his own pulse had quickened a bit, and released her hand.

“We’ll, we all make sacrifices in the name of God and country”, he said flippantly, examining his nails with a mock-sigh, belatedly adding “oh, and Queen.”

She laughed, a full, rich sound. It made his heart warm for the first time in quite a while.

“Oh, a clever one, how can a girl manage in the face of such wit”, she barbed, rolling her eyes dramatically and smiling at him again.

Smitty chuckled, then snapped his fingers and attempted to give a look like he’d just then had a Really Good Idea.

“Say, we never did properly have that tea, and to be honest, I’ve grown a taste for it myself, but I’ve yet to find someone who can quite explain the significance of the whole thing, the brewing, milk, sugar, you know. I’m just a little ol’ ignorant American from way across the pond, in need of guidance in the matter. Care to help out a poor soldier in a foreign land?”

She shook her head at him, amused, and answered. “Well, let it not be said that the Queen’s hospitality fell flat because Margaret Johnson refused such a gallant request. I know a good eatery nearby, kind sir, let us go there and I shall school you in the finer points of the national English beverage, after which you can count yourself much the wiser. For duty, and God and country, and all that”, she said, her fine accent lilting with playful sarcasm.

“And Queen. Don’t forget”, Smitty added, offering her his arm.

“Of course, and Queen”, she smiled, and took his arm.

…

_Back at the pub..._ 

“So I took off up inna air, boy wheee-howdy them krauty fellers was sur-prised, an’ I wham wham tossed ‘em dingdang ol’ mines at ‘em, and blammo them danged ol’ tankses just kerblooey”, Hank said as he related another story from their exploits, Z interjecting an occasional “Well I’ll be!” and “Bugger!” as he absorbed Hank’s hand-waving narrative from the front lines over the loud din of the pub. John helped himself to another pint, a bit disappointed that his healing ability seemed to process the alcohol nearly as fast as he drank it. Moose dug into a huge bowl of bangers and mash, drinking dark beer from a pitcher as fast as a normal man would a glass, happily and noisily putting away food and drink like a starved hound. A starved, 350 pound hound. It was nice to have a little R&R, especially with what they’d been through lately.

Frogbot occasionally made a comment, then would drink in the strangest fashion. He would open his mouth, but by hinging his head backwards, keeping his lower jaw still, mouth open unusually wide. Then the android would pour in wine he produced from one of his various hidden compartments, without swallowing, and shut his face with a click of perfectly straight, square teeth. He would then say something about French wine, and cheese, and then fall silent for a while, only to repeat the process in about ten minutes as if he was on some kind of schedule.

John took a long draw of his beer and spoke to him.

“Ya know, Frogbot, my ol’ pappy used to have a sayin’ about fellers like you.”

“_Oui?_”

“He would say, ‘Ya know, John, ‘at boy jes ain’t *right*’.”

Frogbot just stared at him with that pasted-on smile.

“It’s alright there buddy, you’re a good fella anyway. For a frenchie”, John told him, draining off another glass.

“Oui! And quite a Frenchman I am, France being ze greatest land in all the world, her shores be beautiful, her fields bountiful, her…”

_Damn John. Sometimes you just need to leave well enough alone._


Nearby, several pairs of eyes stared at them, concentrating. Watching. Waiting.

…

_A small eatery, several blocks away…_

They had talked the whole time, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Smitty hadn’t felt this good in quite a while, even though he secretly hated tea. It was nice to forget… things, and relax every now and then. He lit a smoke and offered it to her, then lit himself another, and slouched back with an arm flung casually over his chair.

She took a sip of her tea, and a drag off of her cigarette. 

“How’s the tea?” she asked him, smiling.

“Wonderful. Beautiful. The best I’ve ever had”, answered Smitty softly, never taking his eyes off of her.

His cup was still full, and getting cold.

He just enjoyed looking at her, the way she blushed when he focused on her face, the quirks of her smile, the way her throat moved when she swallowed. They sat quietly for some time.

“So, when do you have to get back? When do you leave again?” She asked, breaking the silence.

“I get back when I get back. I’m dunno when I’ll be heading out again. Not tonight, that’s for sure.”

She looked at him warmly, her eyes sliding down to the cased Springfield hung on his chair.

“That’s quite an impressive gun” she stated, sipping her tea.

Smitty glanced at it, having forgotten, just for a few moments, that it was there.

“It’s just a tool, like any other. Well, better than most, but just a tool anyway. It’s no better than the man behind it”, he told her.

She nodded. “They say… they say you’re incredibly good with your gun.”

Smitty sighed, and then grinned rakishly. 

“Yep, that they do. And I’m pretty good with this Springfield rifle, too, by the way.”

She looked at him, her brows knitted in confusion for a moment, then a flush and a look of amused shock.

“Smitty! You uncouth rascal! Whatsoever shall a girl do with such a barbarian!” she shot back at him, mock-slapping him on the arm.

He covered her hand with his before she could pull it away, relishing in the feel of it.

“Um, Margaret, well. See I, uh, well you’re… would you like to, um. Shoot. Ahem. Well, oh dammit…”, he began brokenly.

She interrupted him, leaning in close to whisper, and he could feel her breath on the good part of his face when she spoke. “Smitty, would you please walk me home. I’d… I’d really like to go now.”

His good eye opened in surprise, and then he smiled at her and offered her his arm, standing.

“Mam, it would be my duty, as a duly appointed representative of the U-S-of-A…”

“Oh, silly boy!” she countered, taking his arm and walking away with him, leaning her head onto his shoulder.

He stopped, turning back towards the eatery. “One second, I forgot something”, he said, quickly stepping back inside. He paid for their forgotten check, leaving a generous tip, then as he turned to leave he noticed the Springfield, still hanging on the chair where he’d left it.

He stood for a moment, staring at it.

Then he picked it up, shouldered it, and returned to Margaret, who once again took his arm. He put his arm around her as they walked, and tried not to think about anything but how good she smelled, felt, sounded.

…


----------



## HeapThaumaturgist

Mmm, update goodness.

--fje


----------



## Angcuru

Nice one.    

It's stuff like this that puts into perspective how utterly abysmal my group is at roleplaying.


----------



## ledded

barsoomcore said:
			
		

> I sure picked the right time to come back in to this here ol' ding-dang Story Hour, dint I?
> 
> led, you're kicking butt. More.
> 
> And I'll just say ending up that installment with the offhand reference to jet-packs was exactly the "We Were Gods Once" touch I've come to crave. Awesome.



Well, ya know, after all that comic-book syrup, er, drama, I had to end it on a bit of high note, leaving the readers going "Ooo! Jetpacks!"

I thought it would be good to show a bit of a human side to the characters, even the supporting players, so it was fun.

Anyhow, the break in the action is pretty much over for now, and the next issue feature more of the BAM! KAPOW! CRASH! that we've come to associate with this group of misfits. It's pretty much lots of breaking and shooting and blowing up and slavering Nazi madmen and occult science for quite some time. 

We have at least one more session we are playing next week, which will give me even more ammunition for the fight, but after that we'll probably go on haitus for a while until we pick it up again. Never fear though, it'll take me a while to write up the 3 sessions we've got left, plus the one coming up. So far the posted material constitutes only about 3 or 4 sessions, though the backgrounds took up a good bit of print.

Thanks for stopping by Barsoomcore, and glad to see you post Heap. Now go update your own story hours, ya lazy bums. 



			
				Angcuru said:
			
		

> Nice one.
> It's stuff like this that puts into perspective how utterly abysmal my group is at roleplaying.



Thanks.  It does make the Story Hour easier to write, when they play so well that it's easy for me to fill in writing around stuff that actually did happen/get said.  Of course, anytime anything truly amusing is said, it's pretty much a direct quote from a character.  We do get eerily into character sometimes.  Maybe it's the hats, and all the plastic toy guns


----------



## Paxr0mana

*Why Frogbot, "Just ain't right"*

I came across this while I was surfing the web, and I thought it was pretty interesting.

That Boy Ain't Right


----------



## Peterson

ledded said:
			
		

> …
> “One second, I forgot something”, he said, quickly stepping back inside. He paid for their forgotten check, leaving a generous tip, then as he turned to leave he noticed the [/font]Springfield, still hanging on the chair where he’d left it.
> 
> He stood for a moment, staring at it.
> 
> Then he picked it up, shouldered it, and returned to Margaret, who once again took his arm. He put his arm around her as they walked, and tried not to think about anything but how good she smelled, felt, sounded.
> 
> …




Uh-oh...Smitty's been _smitten_ !

Peterson


----------



## Rel

Just got caught back up today after a busy week last week and I had to post to say that I continue to be impressed with every new update.  This story officially now has it all:  WWII action, superpowers, explosions, french robots, diabolical bad guys, kids, beer and romance!


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Treachery, and Beer]*

…

_A few hours later at the noisy pub…_

“Yeah dere, I didn’t care too much fer jumpin’ outta dat plane, dontcha know…” Moose rumbled through another pint.

“Dint care fer? Hee-hee Moosey dingdang ol’ nearly wet ‘is pants when that thar dingdang ol’ See-ferty-sev’n started breakin’ up. Dingdang shoulda seen yer face when I _ZOOM_ ran by ya and danged ol’ ‘loogout below’ dove outta that sucker…” Hank laughed, Dr Z slapping the table and laughing at Hank’s pantomimes of the action.

John went to get them some more beers, while Frogbot smiled at the exchange of friendly barbs and stories. His head perked up like a cat’s.

Query: temporary spike in unfamiliar talent activity detected. Perform full scan?

Frogbot peered around the room as the others drank, ate, and laughed. It was crowded with these strange flesh-entities, the variance of their posture and facial expressions changing so fast it was difficult to gauge reaction in an unfamiliar group this large. There was an American airman getting up from a table in the opposite corner and starting to walk towards them; they had sat mostly quiet and alone all night, the three of them. This would probably have seemed odd to any one of the others, but to Frogbot they were all strange creatures devoid of rational programming, and in concentrated centers of human stimulus like this their strangeness was even more evident to him. Humans were quite often very weird entities.

John was returning, arms full of glasses on a tray, the American airman just ahead of him.

Engage talent detection scan array, full sweep, active matrix allocation.

“Hello? Dr Zander? Hey Zander old buddy, how are ya?” the friendly young airman stopped, recognizing Dr Z.

Z broke off laughing at Hank and turned towards the man, trying to catch his breath.

“Whew! Yes? I’m sorry, didn’t get that guvner?” he queried.

WARNING: Sharp rise in talent activitiezzzzzzzz *POP*
WARNING: Detection matrix off-line. Cognition actuators fluctuating… attemping to commmmm…. Commm….penpenpen….commmpennsaaate….

The airman paused for a few seconds, looking at Z and the group curiously.

Hank felt pressure rise in his head strangely, a spell of dizziness coming and then passing as quickly. “Dingdang, that thar limey-brew’ll danged-ol’ sneak up on ya, eh Moosey”, he elbowed Moose, who promptly fell forward onto the table head-first with an audible _thump_,

“Yes, Z, it’s Mike. Mike Reynolds, remember? From the hospital? You promised to help me out with some modifications to my Mustang buddy. Is now a good time?” the friendly airman spoke. His voice was a Midwestern drawl, his crooked smile, toothpick in the corner, speaking of nothing but good times and good intentions. A buddy you’d have a beer with one day and trust to watch your back the next. A good ol’ boy.

Dr Z looked at him for a long moment, eyes slightly glassy as if attempting to remember him.

“Yes… Mike. I remember. We were supposed to look at your Mustang. I’m sorry I didn’t call on you”, Z replied to Mike dully.

The airman cuffed Z on the shoulder affably and chuckled.

“Hey, that’s ok buddy. You wanna go catch up a bit? I know a great place a couple blocks over, I was just heading there now.”

Z stared at him, sounding more stable each second. 

“Sure Mike. I’d be glad to go a couple blocks over to that place with you. Hey boys, I’ll catch up with you in a bit, I need to go out for a bit with my buddy Mike here”, Z said calmly to the SPAARTANS.

John, by now, was standing behind Mike. He quickly noted Hank looking a bit dizzy, and was about to put it down to the beer when he saw Frogbot sitting stock-still, and Moose head-down on the table drooling.

Normally, that wouldn’t in and of itself be strange in a young serviceman on leave in a bar, but John had seen Moose take a near-direct hit from a Tiger tank’s main gun, and then stand up to spit out a tooth only seconds later. The beer was good, but it wasn’t _that_ damn good.

He walked closely next to the airman, shouldering himself between the newcomer and Z, who had stood up to leave with him.

“Say, how are ya? Name’s John, I’m a flyer too. What unit did you say you were with?” John queried loudly, trying to subdue his suspicion while pushing himself between Mike and Z as if to put the tray of beers down on the table.

The airman, Mike, jumped and turned quickly towards him, smiling broadly. “Whoa! Didn’t see you there, sorry. Yeah, um, I’m with the 303rd, just got moved into the area. Whatcha fly there, buddy? You look like a P-38 guy, I can always tell, you got that swagger and that professional eye about ya, I bet you’re an ace or just a kill or two shy of it…”

Quuuerrryyy: Cognnnnnitive… netnetnetnetwork re-estab….

John’s lips skinned back from his teeth in what passed for his smile these days. The airman looked slightly uncomfortable as John replied, and Frogbot made a few jerky head motions, as if his head was stuck when he tried to turn it.

“Say, I thought the 303rd got pretty pasted in all that post-Normandy stuff. COBRA wasn’t kind to you boys. How’d ya’ll refit so soon?” he asked, concern in his tone.

“Oh we did fine, Ike took care of us. Bit o’ hard fightin’, that was. Say, can I buy you a beer? Waitress! Get this man another round. Sorry we can’t stay, Z, we should get going…” the fellow rattled off amiably. John felt himself nodding his head in agreement even as his suspicions grew.

Hank looked around curiously. Somethin’ wasn’t right. Frogbot was actin’ a bit screwy, well, screwier than usual. John was givin’ that new feller with Z that “I’m about to swallow yer ding-dang face” smile that he had. Moose let out a loud snore. Frogbot said something then, something slurred. Could robot’s get drunk? What was that he said, somethin’ ‘bout talons? Talents?

Hank concentrated and _pushed_ outwards with his senses. Immediately, he felt a huge concentration of metal from the opposite corner of the bar. Two fellers sat there, one of them a big ol’ brute with a mean look on his face. His beer was untouched. Something definitely wasn’t right, there was enough metal in that corner to…

John felt Hank grab his sleeve and yank. “Not now Hank, something’s kinda…” John whispered at Hank as Mike tried to lead a somewhat drunk-looking Z away, talking very animated as Z nodded his head dumbly.

“DingDANGIT boy! Thar’s a heap o’ metal innat corner with them dudes, and I thank ol’ Froggie is broke or sumthin’”, Hank spit out.

John looked up at the corner, then at the Airman that was standing with them, then at Frogbot who was shaking his head side to side and mumbling something slurred. Moose let out another snore.
He concentrated, and it was almost as if a cloud lifted off of his mind, a haze of smoke that was inside of his head instead of the heavy cigarette smoke in the pub.

“Hank! Snatch and grab!” he hissed.

Hank concentrated, then _pulled_.

The big guy in the corner looked quite surprised as he flew forward over the table and hit the floor, his companion nimbly dodging the mess. People laughed at his ‘fall’. The guy got up growling, and mumbled an angry curse under his breath. 

In German.

John immediately leapt into action.

He flung the beers at Mike and Z, the airman’s look of surprise belying his reflexes as he dodged the flung glasses. It was almost as good as the look he gave when he realized that John had flung the tray, spinning, right behind them. 

"Oh Schiesse..."

The tray hit the airman squarely in the face and he yelled, grabbing his face as blood pumped from his nose. 

Dr Z shook his head, mumbling “ ‘ello, ‘at’s this?” fuzzily, and Moose sat straight up from his seat groggily. 

WARNING: Talent use at extreme levels. Identifying hostile ability signatures. 

THREAT: Axis threat identified. Allied dressed-airman exhibiting psychic-borne cognitive manipulation ability. 

ACTION? Protect the Doctor. Terminate threats.

Frogbot leapt to his feet and the speaker in his chest blared. 

“AXIS UBERMENSCH. YOUR TIME EEZ NUMBERED. VE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED.”

The light in the room wavered, and where the two men in the corner were, there was one very familiar man in a schlaeger-fencer’s uniform. He saluted the group with a drawn saber, and then faded from sight. _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter _had returned. 

The large man Hank dragged out onto the floor stood, and as the illusion around him dissipated it left a very large, blonde, scarred man, his skin made up of what looked like bands of overlapping steel plate that flexed and moved with him. The man raised his arms and screamed in German:

“I am Eisenlord! You petty mortals who stand against the Reich shall die! Taste the wrath of the GODS!” he roared as his height erupted upwards of nine feet. He slammed both enormous fists into the floor and it rippled away from the impact, hurling people in every direction. 

The pub exploded in a gaggle of moving people, screams, and activity.

John ran, leaping onto a table and vaulting with a spin over several people to land like an angry canine in the pub’s doorway, cutting off the fake ‘airman’ Mike.

Frogbot raced across the room on all fours, claws extended, and swept up Dr Z as ‘Mike’ reached for him with anger evident on his face, his nose bleeding from the tray.

Hank merely stood and raised his arms. A whirling maelstrom of metal particles snatched from everywhere within 100 feet swirled around him, rotating and spinning. His skin glowed blue for a moment, then the color fell away to a smooth metallic sheen.

“Dingdang ol’ I’m Hank, dingdang EMF ya big Nazi pinhead, an’ I think you just busted up inna wrong damn bar boy…”. With that, he flung both hands out in front of him towards Eisenlord and they vibrated with a strange resonance.

Moose shook his head and pushed the table away, standing. He fumbled on a large pair of brass knuckles Z had given him.

Eisenlord, a feral, steel-skinned beast, snarled and bunched his legs under him.

Hank stood calmly, hands in front of him, and spoke. “Here he comes…”

The metallic Nazi giant sprang, howling, at Hank, carelessly crushing and sweeping aside normal allied servicemen. His leap stopped in mid-air, hesitating five feet off of the ground as the howl turned into a confused “hurrggk?” 

He turned slowly as Hank manipulated the magnetic fields holding him and then flung him into the ground with a resounding CRASH.

“…and DOWN he goes!” Hank finished triumphantly.

He near instantly leapt again, Hank trying to pull the weave of energy around him, only to see Moose step in from the corner of his eye and clothesline the Nazi with a meaty fist, crushing him to the floor again with another tremendous, floor-splintering CRASH.

“He said stay DOWN ya big palooka…” Moose spat at him.

_der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_ had maneuvered around the clashing giants towards the man he remembered from Arnhem, the skinny American who talked so strangely. At first he was annoyed to see the man alive, but as he and his companions watched them from across the room he relished the opportunity to strike at him once again; hard-to-kill opponents were getting hard to find, and made the kill that much more delicious when you did. He picked his opportunity and made his thrust, unseen by the stupid American.

The blade stitched through the man’s whirling shield of debris, once, twice (_only a stinking__Amerikanischer affe would surround himself with garbage for protection, _he thought with a smirk_)._

He looked, but the Allied ESS looked unharmed except for a couple dimples on his metallic flesh.

“Dingdang I knowed you’d be a-comin’ back and I’s *ready* this time, ya frog-giggin’ idgit!” Hank smirked at him and gestured sharply in a broad semicircle where the attack came from.

The invisible swordsman grunted as he was lifted by his sword and other metallic objects on his person and slung painfully into a set of tables, along with everything else metal around where he had stood, people stepping on and kicking him in their effort to flee the battle.

…

Meanwhile, John let servicemen scramble by out of the door as he kept his eye on ‘Mike’. The fake airman looked at Frogbot, who smiled at him and extended a clawed hand. ‘Mike’ turned to flee and nearly ran face first into John, skidding to a stop with a look of surprise and terror on his face. John nodded to Frogbot, who sprinted across the room and crashed through a window on the back wall, a bewildered Dr Z in his arms.

John brought forth the awful hoarfrost that was his to command, the doorframe slowly icing up and clouds of condensation forming when he spoke, eyes glittering like chips of blue ice.

“So, you just thought you could come in here and sweep the ol’ Doc right out from under our noses, eh?” John asked him in German.

John stepped towards him, frost-gleaming hands extended menacingly. “You just stand down there and I’ll make sure you don’t get treated too…”

The airman bit his lip, then *looked* at John intensely.

John, the Artic Wolf, felt a familiar sensation of a foreign mind seeking access to his own, prying, twisting, scrabbling at the edges of his will, but this time he was ready. He steeled himself and fought the invading intellect away. He felt a trickle of blood seep from his nose as the pressure subsided.

“Izzat all you got boy? I warned you, you sonuva…” he began as he wiped his nose and prepared to beat the scared-looking Ubermensch to death where he stood.

The man nodded, once, twice, three times.

Each felt like a hammer-blow to the temple. Lights exploded in John’s eyes as the Nazi psychic hammered him with mental blows of incredible intensity. He saw the world tilt crazily and start to go black in his vision. “Aw, dammit, not again…” he muttered as he fell, clutching his head.

The false airman took a glance backwards, saw the huge American locked in struggle with Eisenlord in the center of the room like two giant bears wrestling for dominance, toe-to-toe. Each swung at each other with incredible force, the sounds of metal-on-flesh contact resounding loud enough to hurt his ears. Grunting and swearing they pounded each other like titanic machines; no finesse, no attempts to dodge, just two monsters growling and grunting and viciously pummeling each other till the other one quits swinging.

He watched as the other allied ESS flung something away into some tables, probably _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_. Eisenlord and the American were locked onto one another at the shoulders, then Eisenlord broke a hand free and brought it down with a sharp hammer-blow to the American’s face several times. The big American stumbled as Eisenlord prepared to gather him up into a deadly bear’s hug. ‘Mike’ had seen Eisenlord crush a British tank once like that. It wasn’t pretty.

…

Frogbot had flown through the window, racing at incredible speeds, using his claws to catch purchase on any surface he hit. He tossed Dr Z into the bushes behind the pub and calmly said “run” before turning back towards the pub. As he rounded the corner, he saw the false allied airman standing over John’s twitching form look up at him in surprise. He spared a glance at the interior of the building and then took off running, blending into a group of other servicemen nearby that were alternately trying to escape the melee or gather up weapons to try and join it.

With a leap, Frogbot was on him, slashing and whirling his claws. The man screamed, and Frogbot felt a strange invasive program attempting to take control of his core programming.

WARNING: Outside force attempting control of cognizance algorithms. Initiate self-defense procedures. Heuristic control matrices under threat. 

Frogbot shook his head, and his core programming shut off the opened control pathways as quickly as the false airman had opened them. He looked up, but the man had already begun to flee, holding his sides from the terrible wounds Frogbot had inflicted.

The French Android sped after him, blaring the French national anthem, but as he watched the running form simply blended into the knot of Allies and then there simply was a group of Allied soldiers. His sensors failed to register, skittering off of the Nazi’s illusion. 

QUERY: Target out of range? Multiple scan attempts failed. Rejoin battle in interior.

He turned back towards the building just as there was an incredibly loud CRASH from within, the entire structure blowing out its windows and shedding bricks under the impact.

“Sacre bleu… oh, that can’t be good”, he muttered as he sprang back towards the building.

…

Meanwhile, Hank turned towards Moose’s struggle with the big metallic Nazi and saw him take a few strong hits right in the face, staggering the big Canadian. The gigantic Nazi snatched Moose up and began to crush him in close, laughing and growling as Moose howled in pain.

“Dingdang ol’ you put that thar boy down now, ya big freak!” Hank yelled at Eisenlord, raising his hands threateningly.

Eisenlord squeezed harder and Moose gurgled, the sounds of things snapping and popping coming from him as he tried to pummel Eisenlord’s head and shoulders.

Hank gathered up every ounce of his will, his command of magnetic waves, and sent a thin, dense, spike-like wave of magnetic energy snaking out at the huge Nazi.

“Oh no you ding… dang… don’t…” he grunted through clenched teeth as the wave penetrated Eisenlord’s hard exterior, and Hank felt his power spread inside of the Nazi’s organic-steel body.

Eisenlord hesitated, a strange sensation coming over him like someone sliding a needle under his skin. A large needle. A lot of large, nasty needles.

Hank brought his hands together in front of him as if he was holding a ball of dough, then grimaced as he *_pulled*_ them apart…


Eisenlord bellowed in rage and agony, his voice shaking the rafters as the overlapping bands that were his skin separated in places, flexing outwards, bending and twisting with groans of tortured steel to show the red, raw flesh underneath as Hank heaved and wrung him out like a wet towel. Hank released him, along with a huge, held breath, and Eisenlord stumbled, weeping blood and fluids from several twisted metal segments of his metal skin.

Hank wiped his sweating brow, grinning. "Dingdang ol' I bet that stung a bit _bumser_".

Then Moose, kneeling on the ground, struck up at him with everything he had, the uppercut SMASHING into Eisenlord and sending him soaring with crushing force into a ceiling beam which broke upwards with the force. He fell to the floor heavily, struggling to his hands and knees.

Moose was stepping in to kick him like a football when he suddenly stopped and arched his back, arms scrabbling over his shoulders frantically as he grunted several times in a row.

Small neat blooms of blood appeared all along the center of his back, and Hank could hear _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter’s _evil chuckle as he stabbed Moose over and over. Eisenlord struggled to his feet in front of the scene, rubbing his jaw. Hank saw a sluice of blood fly forward from Moose’s chest, and realized that the Nazi had just ran him completely through. Blood pumped furiously from the wound as Moose stumbled.

Hank gathered his will and blasted outwards with everything he had, sending Eisenlord flying with incredible speed towards the opposite wall. He heard a satisfying ‘ooph!’ from _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_ as he clipped him, and saw his sword skitter across the floor, visible, as the big metallic Nazi SMASHED into the opposite wall and tore through it, tumbling out into the night street somewhere in a spray of bricks and masonry.

Hank ran forward and grabbed at Moose as the big man fell heavily, panting, each breath bringing up lungfuls of blood to spatter across the floor. He coughed, and blood jetted in a small spurt from holes in his back and chest, and merely ran from others. He fell forward heavily onto a table, which gave under his weight. 

“Aw damn that stings a bit Hank…” he gurgled softly, and his eyes fluttered up in his head.

…

John opened his eyes to see Moose being stabbed time and time again, grunting as the sword punctured his incredibly dense flesh. He got to his feet in time to see hand and footprints appearing on the ground near the sword, the invisible swordsman scrambling to retrieve it. Without even thinking, he bounded over there.

“Oh no you don’t” he yelled, kicking the sword to bounce into the wall and slide across the floor, and then chancing a grab for the invisible Nazi, catching the collar of his coat in one hand.

John saw Hank stand, his eyes a blazing furnace of anger as he stalked towards him and the Nazi he had just grabbed, pushing up his sleeves as he came. “Dingdang ol’ jes hold ‘im thar a damn minute Wolfie, I gots somethin’ he needs *inserted* somewhar OH SHI...”

Hank cut off and glanced towards the hole in the wall, but before John could see what surprised him an Army jeep came rocketing through the opening. Hank through up his hands but the jeep caught him square, carrying him across the room to CRASH into the back wall, huge stones and bricks shattering and falling under the impact, the entire pub shuddering explosively with the force of the blow sending bits of glass, stone, and wood flying everywhere at once. Eisenlord, wounded but with a villainous smile, stepped through the rubble of the open wall and strode back into the room, flexing his huge muscles from the throw. He spared a sneer at the jeep embedded in the back wall, then turned towards John.

John felt the fencer twist away from him as the jeep’s impact shook the room, and the slippery invisible Nazi scampered away. He felt around him rapidly for the man, but couldn’t pinpoint his position. He spun, to see the huge Eisenlord stomping across broken bodies and rubble his way, messily swatting aside unfortunate servicemen, laughing and flexing his hands in anticipation. He heard _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_ chuckle as he recovered his sword and padded around to find an opening. John, the Artic Wolf, steeled himself, brought forth the killing frost, and howled like his namesake. They may take him, but he would go down snarling, snapping, tearing the whole way. They would know pain, and fear, before the pack mother came to take him home.

Just then Frogbot sprang quickly into the room, all hands and feet as he leapt onto Eisenlord’s back, exquisitely sharp claws cruelly jabbing and slashing with machine-like precision into the big Nazi’s weak spots that Hank had made, the Tibranium blades ripping, tearing, slicing into him. Eisenlord spun in a circle roaring, spraying gore, arms reaching back to try to dislodge the android rider.

John heard something and spun just in time to feel a sword crease his ribcage, drawing a little blood. He returned swinging, grabbing, but the invisible Nazi was quick and lithe. He was hit again. Again. Then luck, he grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled him in close, too close to make good use of the sword. 

Just then Frogbot sailed over his head and smashed into the rafter, falling to the floor with a thud next to them.

He held the invisible swordsman’s sword-arm out to the side, struggling, and yelled to Frogbot.

“His sword! Get that damn sword!”

Frogbot leapt forward and slashed downward once, feeling the claws bite hard into the sword. He sheared off a large piece, and then swung again, this time slashing all the way through the mangled hilt and the fencer’s hand in it. John heard the Nazi squeal as a large piece of his hand, several fingers still attached, became visible as it hit the floor. Frogbot saluted in the French style, said “my pleasure, _mon capitan_!”, and then took off back at Eisenlord.

“NOW we’re gonna fight it out like men, you dirty back-stabbin’ Kraut” John snarled, yanking the Nazi down to his knees and rapidly beating him with his free hand, the frost from his hands making marks on the Nazi’s invisible body that free-floated in the air for a split-second before fading away. The Invisible Swordsman squirmed, punched, and kicked at John, but John was not having any of it this time; the wolf-grip he held on the man’s arm only got tighter as he fought.

He proceeded to beat the man like a New Orleans pimp, right hand repeatedly plunging down time and time again, the wet smack of impact filling the air as he yanked him towards the incoming blow with his other hand, spitting curses and insults at him. Flecks of blood spattered his uniform, the walls, and floor with each impact, becoming visible as they were brutally beaten free of the Nazi’s invisible body.

Frogbot dove back in valiantly against the gigantic Nazi. He slashed, was punched hard and sent skittering away limping, then dove back in like a hound. Another blow sent him spinning, and the Nazi rose up to deliver a two-fisted slam that would certainly have injured him badly, when Frogbot heard a booming voice enter from the doorway.

“FOR… JUSTICE!” came the clarion call, followed by a streak of metal that slammed into the Eisenlord’s chest and sent him flying backwards into the bar, crushing it, as the large metal object careened around the room to _smack_ back into its owner's grip.


…


----------



## ledded

Paxr0mana said:
			
		

> I came across this while I was surfing the web, and I thought it was pretty interesting.
> 
> That Boy Ain't Right



Thanks for the link.  I actually debated the Uncanny Valley a bit in a philosphy class in college, and it always stuck with me even though it is a bit... flaky.  I always likened it to how humans will treat something that is not human but has a clearly defined subset of emotional/behavioral human-like characteristics much like they do a pet, but only until the non-human acts *too much* like a human.  It's like those people you see who have dogs that sleep in the bed with them, sit on the toilet, and sit at the table with them for dinner.  It's a neat trick, but always creeps me out a bit 



			
				Peterson said:
			
		

> Uh-oh...Smitty's been _smitten_ !
> 
> Peterson



Heh.  I really wanted to write some non-action in there, because we had a little role-playing break in between encounters that was fun, and I had this idea for a while in my head to kind of do a "Why We Fight" segment.  You know, something to show the human side of these super-powered Nazi-stompin' bruisers, and the other folks in the story, to try and maybe increase emotional investment in the characters, you laugh with 'em, you cry for 'em, you root for 'em harder blah blah blah.  Also, during this time we had several people who had to miss a session of our regular game (Medallions) and we used this to fill in, but I wanted the story to flow a bit better than just having them exit stage left and then magically reappear .  It felt a bit disjointed and contrived, but it was fun finally getting around to it.


----------



## Pierce

ledded said:
			
		

> “NOW we’re gonna fight it out like men, you dirty back-stabbin’ Kraut” John snarled, yanking the Nazi down to his knees and rapidly beating him with his free hand, the frost from his hands making marks on the Nazi’s invisible body that free-floated in the air for a split-second before fading away.




Great visual there, led.  Good update!


----------



## Broccli_Head

That was just very good! Glad it's not over and can't wait to read the rest.


----------



## Paxr0mana

Wow. 

Just Wow.


----------



## Paxr0mana

So we have Magneto, Iceman/Beast, Wolverine, and Colossus...
When's Cyclops going to show up?


----------



## Angcuru

Very nice update, ledded!


----------



## Peterson

ledded said:
			
		

> “FOR… JUSTICE!” came the clarion call, followed by a streak of metal that slammed into the Eisenlord’s chest and sent him flying backwards into the bar, crushing it, as the large metal object careened around the room to _smack_ back into its owner's grip.
> 
> …





Cap'n?  Captain America?

Oh, oh please let it be....the Cap'n.

Peterson


----------



## Paxr0mana

Wow..I can't believe I missed that.

_The Red Skull shares victory with NO ONE. *Cackle cackle*_


----------



## papakee

*Kudos*

Kudos from a fellow Alabama person.  I've just started reading and have thoroughly enjoyed it.  I just love Frogbot.  I ran a short pbp ww2 game a couple of years ago call Weird Wars Ardennes.  Fun Stuff.


----------



## ledded

papakee said:
			
		

> Kudos from a fellow Alabama person. I've just started reading and have thoroughly enjoyed it. I just love Frogbot. I ran a short pbp ww2 game a couple of years ago call Weird Wars Ardennes. Fun Stuff.



Dang, it's gettin' to where I can't swing a dead cat without hittin' another Alabama native on these boards anymore.   

Glad you could stop by, and I'm happy you're enjoying it so far.  Frogbot is run by our usual GM, who I think takes the opportunity provided by yours truly being a secondary GM to take out all of those PC frustrations on me  .  I couldnt create or write something that nutty, OldDrewId is a real treat to GM;  all of his characters have been unique individuals (check out the Medallions Story Hour, link in my sig, if you haven't.   Creepy action set in Birmingham AL, can't beat it.  Drew's a genius).

And on the Cap'n question...

While folks like to draw parallels to existing comic-book icons, nobody has based their character off of a specific existing super, except by maybe borrowing their 'schtick'.  However, that being said, you didn't think that there was going to be a WWII superhero action game without at least one boy scout hucking a big shield, did you?   

Stay tuned to find out...


----------



## Peterson

ledded said:
			
		

> Dang, it's gettin' to where I can't swing a dead cat without hittin' another Alabama native on these boards anymore.




Try a live cat...they tend to cling inwards a bit more, making the area threatened by your swinging a bit less.



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> (check out the Medallions Story Hour, link in my sig, if you haven't.   Creepy action set in Birmingham AL, can't beat it.  Drew's a genius).




Agreed.  On all points presented.



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> However, that being said, you didn't think that there was going to be a WWII superhero action game without at least one boy scout hucking a big shield, did you?




Nope.  Hell, even Jonrog's Heroes of Tesla or whatever it was titled had a boy scout hucking a big shield...Captain Texas, or was it General Texas?

LOL.

Peterson

Stay tuned to find out...[/QUOTE]


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Racing the devil himself]*

Smitty lay there in bed, musing at the cigarette smoke curling up from his hand. He could feel the warmth the body lying next to him, a feeling of comfort that forced a slight smile to his otherwise grim face. _Man, I could get used to this_, he thought.

He suddenly sat straight up and cocked an ear towards the window.

There was something, a sound at the limit of his unnaturally enhanced senses that didn’t fit with the incredible racquet a small town had become to him. An abnormally resoundant crash, a strange scream, an increase in underlying tension in the faint babble of voices coming from a distance away. A buzzing vibration came to him also, a dim rumbling that did not fit in at all. Not anything a normal man would even pick up, but normal men didn’t have anything close to the senses that Smitty did.

Swinging his legs out of the bed he stubbed out his smoke, reaching for his pants.

There was a muzzily affectionate murmur and a slight movement, as if stretching, from the covers behind him. 

“Mmmm luv… good lord, up *again* are we? Mercy, man, what are you, some kind of machine?”

Margaret turned then, and laid a concerned hand on Smitty’s back.

“Oh. Oh bloody hell Smitty, I… I didn’t mean…”

Smitty turned towards her, his mechanical eye gleaming as he smiled warmly, the tiny pistons and gearing of his left arm _whirring_ softly as he reached back. He could hear the buzzing increase, getting louder in his enhanced hearing.

“S’Okay Maggie. I know whatcha meant”, he replied, patting her bottom and standing up.

“Thought I heard somethin’ ”.

He stalked over to the window, picking up his shirt from the chair on the way, and opened it, training an ear out into the night.

Margaret began humming to herself as she dressed, pulling her shift over her naked form as Smitty watched her appreciatively. He picked up her hastily discarded dress as she looked around confused for it. She blushed as she caught him watching. He smiled sheepishly, then tossed the dress to her.

There. He heard it again as the wind shifted and brought it to him. A swell of voices. He could detect something… _panic_. That’s what it was. He looked over the rooftops toward the pubs, and saw, even at this distance, light flickering as if from fire, a thin column of smoke barely noticeable trailing into the dark night sky. _Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and where there’s fire, the guys are bound to be in the friggin’ middle of it_. He took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. The buzzing was becoming a roar now, and even audible to the normal people. 

“Anything wrong, luv?” Margaret asked him as he stood there, stock still, a look of concentration on his face.

Smitty turned to her, suddenly overcome by a feeling of dread and worry as he looked at her soft face, her tousled hair.

“I’m not sure, Maggie, but I think somethin’ is going on… I need to, well I have to go. I don’t wanna, you see, but…”

An understanding smile curled her lips as she drew on her stockings. 

“Oh, I understand luv, duty and all that.”

She sat up on the bed and gave him a wicked grin, her voice a soft drawl that set pins and needles on Smitty’s goose-pimpled flesh as she idly traced a pattern on the bed covers next to her. 

“I do ‘ave a feeling you’ll be back though Smitty”

He swallowed hard, trying not to grin like an idiot but not succeeding, and crossed the room towards her, kneeling and taking her hands in his.

“Hitler himself couldn’t stop me, babe.”

“Babe? Babe? Oh I get it, now you scurry off to your mates and it’s ‘that broad’ and ‘babe’ and ‘did you see that dame’, you brutish Americans…” she prodded him, smiling.

He shook his head ruefully at her jibes and then suddenly kissed her deeply for several seconds.

“You know it’s nothing like that.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath and cleared her throat. “Ahem. Well. Um, I think very well that it’s not then…”

The rumbling at the back of Smitty’s hearing kept getting louder, then realization struck him like freight train. _Planes, oh Jesus God almighty damn, a *lot* of planes_…

He sprang towards the window, eyes straining against the gloomy night time England sky, buttoning his shirt as fast as he could. Smitty could hear them now, their engine noises strangely muffled, but definitely planes. Blooms of red and yellow light began to appear in the distance, maybe a mile outside of the town. _Where the damn airfield and the ESS hangers are…_

He turned to Maggie, who sat looking scared on the bed.

“Grab your things. It’s a raid. We have to get out of here”, he shouted to her, realizing that they were on the fifth floor of this old hotel.

“What? A raid? But where are the…” she began, and was interrupted by the loud wailing of a siren, its claxon announcing, late, that bombers were overhead. A few fitful sputters of anti-aircraft fire sprang up in a place or two, but nowhere near what there should have been in Smitty’s estimation. 

Maggie grabbed her shoes and bag as Smitty snatched up his rifle case and rapidly swung it over his shoulder. The sound of bombs detonating in the town nearby shook the room and dusted their hair with a fine sprinkling of plaster, Maggie stumbling under the shaking floor.

“Damn”, Smitty breathed.

“Oh Bollocks” cursed Margaret, realizing as Smitty did just how bad this had gotten.

“Oh dammit Smitty, go help, I’ll be fine, I can just…” she began bravely, shooing him away.

He quieted her with a finger laid on her lips and spoke softly.

“The hell you will.”

He swept her up into his arms and with a running leap landed precariously on the window frame, leaning out holding the frame with one hand and his other wrapped around her. People were running now, confused at the late warning, scurrying about to posts and shelters, near panic evident in their voices to Smitty. He estimated from the sounds of the incoming bombs that they didn’t have much time, and remembered the nearest shelter down the street and a few blocks over. Too far to run, and they both realized it.

He turned to her as he bunched his legs under himself, bombs bursting just down the street from them, people screaming, sirens blaring, and giving her his best comforting “trust me” smile, spoke.

“You might want to hold on with both hands...”

Just as he began to move, she stopped him by grabbing his chin and kissing him forcefully.

“For luck?” she said, unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

Smitty gave her a lopsided grin.

“I don’t believe in it”, he replied, then _sprang_ off the window frame towards the ground.

Margaret let out a terrified squeak as the wind tore at their hastily donned clothes, then Smitty’s powerful left arm _snatched_ out at a window frame and he twisted, _pushing_ his body with incredible grace and agility, curving their descent and causing them to arc up and across the street.

There was a moment of sheer weightlessness at the top of the curve, a few seconds of thrilling absence of gravity, only spoiled by the detonation of bombs pursuing them down the street. 

Then gravity, ever the harsh mistress, pulled them with rocketing speed towards the buildings on the other side of the street from their hotel.

“Ohlordalmightygodwhoartinheavenhallowedbythynamethykingdomcomethywillbedone…”, Margaret babbled near incoherently at the certain death rushing up to meet them.

Smitty grabbed a washing line strung between the buildings, smoke burning from his metallic hand as he used it to once again _swing_ their momentum straight up into the side wall of the building in front of them, the burning line snapping as he let it go. Smitty’s feet were a blur of movement prior to contact and they hit the wall with a _surging_ rush of upwards movement, his feet tearing old bricks free as they fought for purchase on the vertical surface. They crested the top of the wall and bounded, hitting the opposite roof edge with a spray of masonry before immediately taking off into a dive across the street.

“onearthasitisinheavengiveusthisdayourdailybread…”

His arm shot out for a handhold on a flagpole, enough to turn their momentum so he could plant a foot and _spring_ back across the street. Bombs detonated under the muted roar of Nazi bombers. People screamed as they ran and building facades exploded outwards spraying bricks and rubble.

“andforgiveusourtrespassesasweforgivethosewhotrespassagainstus...”

Metallic left arm clamping down fiercely on an awning, _twisting_ so hard that their feet flew over their heads as they swept further down the street. A huge ball of smoke billowed in front of them and they flew feet first through the hellish stench and heat of an exploding shell, Smitty spinning his body in mid-air to give Margaret cover from harm.

“andleadusnotintotemptationbutdeliverusfromevil…”

A corner looms ahead and Smitty hits the building in front of it, changing their momentum so that he is able to run across the surface in a wide semicircle, taking the corner and then leaping once again across the street, left arm outstretched and wide grin on his face.

“forthineisthekingdom…”

_Grabbing_ at a drain spout which wrenches free under their weight, using the change in movement to _careen_ on a long section of squealing gutter like a twisting metal rope, they traverse the street once again.

“andthepower…”

Smitty’s feet crash hard into the wall, legs _pumping_ in a dizzyingly fast sprint and spitting pieces of brick and mortar as they scrabble and fight for purchase enough to make another sickeningly high _leap_.

“andtheglory…”

Clipping the top of a lower building and tumbling in mid air, they _sailed_ towards the next, Smitty reaching out with his left arm to take the teeth-rattling _brunt_ of impact on the building’s corner in a shower of burst stonework, pivoting their weight around towards the front and then _pushing_ off with incredible force.

“foreverandever…”

Tumbling in mid-air, Smitty spies the open door to the shelter starting to close, bombs bursting down the street behind them as he lands on a lorry top and skips, rolling across the pavement, sliding feet first holding Margaret in both hands through the doorway as it is slammed shut behind them.

He grabs up the man at the door along with Margaret, without breaking stride, gets his feet back under him and sprints with incredible speed down the nearby steps as the bombs blow out the windows behind them. Smitty jumps over the railing and lands on the next, sliding down it on one leg folded under him holding both people close as rubble tumbles down the steps. His feet hit the floor in an impossibly fast patter of steps to slow them down and they come to a stop just in front of large group of people, all staring at them, mouths agape in wonder.

“amen”, Margaret finishes breathlessly.

Smitty gently puts her down, kissing her forehead with shaking lips and then bending double and resting his hands on his knees as he puffs huge breaths of air. He is covered in nicks and scratches and soot, several fingernails are torn out and his feet are a dirty, bloodied mess, but he is grinning like a school boy at a mostly unharmed Margaret as she stares at him with wide eyes.

“Oh... oh my, Smitty. I can’t believe… you... I… we… you are just a man of many… talents… aren’t you” she gasps, incredulous.

Smitty pants a few more times, collects himself and stands, adjusting his rifle.

“Stick around babe, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet” he quips at her, winks, and then tears off up the steps, his feet actually leaving prints on the wall for several paces as he uses it to make the turn without slowing down.

...


----------



## Paxr0mana

I believe that the phrase is, "HOT DAMN!"

Very nice.


----------



## pogre

Paxr0mana said:
			
		

> I believe that the phrase is, "HOT DAMN!"
> 
> Very nice.




Indeed - very cool write-up.


----------



## The_Universe

The people demand MORE!


----------



## threshel

Yes.  um, wow.

Incredible, ledded.  Intense imagery and pacing.

More, indeed.

J


----------



## ledded

Thanks one and all, I had fun with this one. It's one of those things where Pierce (Smitty's player) was out for this session, and when we picked up in the middle the next time we just said something like "Yeah, Smitty was off shacking up or something". Introducing this 'love interest' into the Story Hour, which I believe is an important part of any good comic book, has been fun for me to write and a departure from what I've typically done so at times I worry that it's a bit too... I dunno, cheesy or something. Funny part is, the last time we played, Pierce picked right up with my 'revisionist history'; the second we came back from our mission, the first thing he wanted to do is pick up a bottle of booze and go see Maggie  (I love it when players take my lies and turn them into truth). 

Pierce's Smitty was perfect for this part too, because he is played so hard-nosed and grim at times, while still having a wry sense of humor; the epitome of the weary American citizen-soldier, doesnt give a crap about the army he's just there to do his job and get home. I swear Pierce is so good sometimes that when he is in-character you could just about picture him on the set of Band of Brothers sharing a smoke with Bill Guarnerre.

But anyway, like I said we play this campaign as a one-off or our main d20 Modern campaign, usually when someone is out for a night (or when our usual GM OldDrewId is a little burned out and needs to take a break), and I've labored very hard to try to make the typical game table switch-out of players as seamless as possible in the Story (hey, with this story, there's already _enough_ trouble suspending disbelief. I mean, we have a character named _Frogbot_, for chrissakes  ).

Smitty, BTW, has a Blood and Vigilance power called Super Running, which significantly increases his movement rate (as others do too, which is why they _move like they do_ in the story sometimes) and Super Dexterity. He stunted an additional power under Super Dexterity called "Swinging" that allows him to effectively fly in urban and jungle environments by running around swinging and running up things, and I've really wanted to write up how I thought that looks. Very spiderman-ish, IMO; I just loved the visual of him tearing down a city street at about 4 times the speed of a normal human running, just bouncing and swinging from building to building about 30 feet over everyones head, so I've been wanting to give the write-up a shot for some time. There will definitely be more in the future.

I appreciate the comments; as I've said before, my muse is a fat, disgusting slob that is basically runs off of vanity, beer, and junk-food.  I can handle the beer and junk-food, but it's the few nice folks that take the time to read who really gets him off his fat *ss and producing updates.  

Thanks for reading folks, and keep those subscriptions up. In the next issue we'll see a person use another person as a missle weapon, meet a new ESS, and wonder how robots learned to surf...


----------



## Edward Kann@StoryART

This has been a lot of fun to read Ledded.

Damn you and your excellent writing.  I've let an hour slip past me just enjoying reading through this great stuff when I should be doing writing myself.

 

Really good stuff.  I've really enjoyed it as far as I've been.  Still more to go for me but I did want to post something.


----------



## Peterson

*Ledded Vs OldDrewID*



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> “Stick around babe, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet” he quips at her, winks, and then tears off up the steps, his feet actually leaving prints on the wall for several paces as he uses it to make the turn without slowing down.
> 
> ...





Jumping between re-reading old Medallions (just for refreshers) and this great storyhour, it still amazes me that Pierce plays both Smitty and Brother Cooper.  

Another great write-up, Ledded - one of my favorite so far.

Keep it up, and don't forget to bill me my $5 to continue my subscription.

Peterson


----------



## ledded

Peterson said:
			
		

> Jumping between re-reading old Medallions (just for refreshers) and this great storyhour, it still amazes me that Pierce plays both Smitty and Brother Cooper.



You should see it in person. Pierce is what I call an immersive role player; he doesnt say 'My guy stands like <this> and talks like <this>'. He just stands like _that_ and _talks_ like that and just assumes you realize that he's in character. He suspends most of his own colloquialisms and common turns of phrase in order to better fit in, and he does it effortlessly (or makes it appear so).

Here's a little anecdote. For a few years we played this D&D campaign starting out. He had a noble dwarf, just a normal guy turned hero who didnt talk a lot, and this elven ranger, somewhat quiet and secretive. All that time we just thought that Pierce didnt talk a lot when playing the game, and he used different 'voices' so we could distinguish which character he played was talking (a couple of us played two characters when we first started out).

Then we played this one-off campaign, one of our first one-offs, and this jibbering, rambling, babbling gnome sorcerer suddenly erupts from Pierce and totally blows us away. He literally babbled on and on in this high-pitched gnome's voice from the time we started till the end of the night, just yada-yada-yada. We laughed so hard it hurt.

Later, I was talking with OldDrewId and we finally realized that it wasnt *Pierce* that was quiet when gaming for over 8 months, it was his *characters*. Since he almost never speaks of his characters during the game in the 3rd person ("Brother Cooper looks angry and says <yada yada>") it took us a while to realize just how subtle he was.



			
				Peterson said:
			
		

> Another great write-up, Ledded - one of my favorite so far.
> 
> Keep it up, and don't forget to bill me my $5 to continue my subscription.
> 
> Peterson



Thanks.

And I've sent you the bill, but since I owe you $5 from my payoffs to come say nice things in my Story Hour so that I may artificially inflate both my muse's ego and my readership, they pretty much cancel out. 




			
				Edward Kann@StoryART said:
			
		

> This has been a lot of fun to read Ledded.
> 
> Damn you and your excellent writing. I've let an hour slip past me just enjoying reading through this great stuff when I should be doing writing myself.
> 
> Really good stuff. I've really enjoyed it as far as I've been. Still more to go for me but I did want to post something.



Wow, thanks for the nice words, I'm glad you liked it so far.  It has it's ups and downs, but it's cool to hear nice things from someone who actually does this kind of stuff for a living.

And anyone that hasnt checked out Edward Kann@StoryART's newly posted Story Hour (The Dread Legion Advances... ), well hit that sucker and get subscribed while there are still seats, it's shaping up to be a *very* cool one.

Same goes for The Universe (_A Kingdom of Ashes_), whose story hour I just finally got around to reading, and I'm still trying to find my socks from where the first 2 pages rocked them right off my feet.


----------



## Broccli_Head

Very nice Ledded! Definitely invokes some classic comic book imagery. I can see the frames and the Lord's prayer in italics as Smitty is swinging and running and the bombs are going off cradling Margie in his arms...


----------



## Pierce

Man, am I blushing.  Shucks, folks, I appreciate all the comments.  Still, a role-player can only be as good as the environment allows them to be.  Between the excellent mastering from both Drew and Led, the great characters of the others and the incredible game room all of us have pitched in to put together (including a beer fridge - yay!), playing in-character is the least I can do.

OK, enough of the patting on the back.  *MORE STORY!*

(OK, one more pat on the back: Great scene, led!)


----------



## ledded

Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> Very nice Ledded! Definitely invokes some classic comic book imagery. I can see the frames and the Lord's prayer in italics as Smitty is swinging and running and the bombs are going off cradling Margie in his arms...



Thanks man, long time no see, glad you stopped by.  I'm glad you liked the imagery, I had this whole movie-like scene in my head (with a five-o-clock shadow-sporting Barry Pepper as Smitty and Emily Watson as Margaret) and just had to spit it out.  Yeah, I know that probably sounds weird, but after playing in Medallions I've garnered the habit of 'casting' characters into 'scenes', especially when I write.  Heck, a couple of us got into a 10-minute tangent on whether Fred Thompson or Michael Chikliss would be better to play the NPC John Bolling in our Medallions game.  

Oh, and it's not always obvious in the text, but when Smitty is 'running', he is usually on the _sides_ of the buildings, Matrix/Hidden Dragon style;  he never touched the ground after they jumped till he slid into the shelter.


----------



## Maxwell's Demon

"Then gravity, ever the harsh mistress"  The Tick would be proud to hear his words echoed here.


----------



## Hellzon

ledded said:
			
		

> Thanks for reading folks, and keep those subscriptions up. In the next issue we'll see a person use another person as a missle weapon, meet a new ESS, and wonder how robots learned to surf...



Rather bland, I'd say.

Naah, who am I kidding? Looking forward to it. Great work so far!


----------



## ledded

Maxwell's Demon said:
			
		

> "Then gravity, ever the harsh mistress" The Tick would be proud to hear his words echoed here.



 

I knew someone would notice my little homage;  being a huge Tick fan, it was only a matter of time before I worked in something.  

I mean, how could you *not* love the Tick... he's _nigh-invulnerable_.


----------



## The_Universe

ledded said:
			
		

> I knew someone would notice my little homage;  being a huge Tick fan, it was only a matter of time before I worked in something.
> 
> I mean, how could you *not* love the Tick... he's _nigh-invulnerable_.



 "We're a hedge.  Move along."


----------



## Peterson

And the ever-famous _*SPOON*_!

Peterson


----------



## Paxr0mana

Oh The Tick, how we mourn thee.

And Arthur too...even if he was a white rabbit.


----------



## ledded

_'Evil is afoot'_ -- Tick
_'Really, that's very philosophical Tick. A foot? I've always envisioned evil as a dark brooding shape with squinty eyes...'_ -- Arthur

_"I don't know the meaning of the word surrender! I mean, I know it, I'm not dumb...just not in this context."_ - the Tick

_"On justice and on friendship, there is no price, but there are established credit limits."_ - endnote

And one of my favorite all-time Tick endgame ramblings (if I can remember it right):

_"I am mighty! I have a glow you cannot see. I have a heart as big as the moon, as warm as bathwater. We're superheroes, man! We don't have time to be charming! The boots of evil were made for walking. We're watching the big picture, friend. We know the score. We are a public service, not glamour boys! Not captains of industry! Not makers of things! Keep your vulgar moneys. We are a justice sandwich, no toppings necessary! <grabs camera> Living rooms of America, do you catch my drift? Do you...dig?"_ - rambling during a television interview

Heh. Just couldnt resist. Gotta love the big blue guy.

I'm such a geek I own VHS bootlegs of the complete cartoon run, and have turned my 6-year old son into a rabid Tick addict. And the Medallions gang got me the live action Tick DVD last year for my B-day. Not *that's* friends for ya.

Hope to have another update done soon.


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [It ain't over till it's over]*

…

_Meanwhile, back at the pub…_

The newcomer steps into the doorway, a muscular, square-jawed American in a well-fitting Army uniform and brown leather hip-length jacket. A hint of metal scales, like an undershirt made of tibranium painted dark green, peeks from under the uniform in places. He wears headgear similar to a tanker’s helmet, with dark goggles that rest above his forehead. Blonde hair peeks out from under it, and he moves easily despite a large backpack on his back. A large… shield? Yes, a shield, a long trapezoid-like shape of dark-painted tibranium, both the wider top and narrower bottom are convex curves so that they leave wicked points, a large American star with a circle is emblazoned into the center.

John, still slowly, albeit brutally, punching down onto the prone and now visible _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter, _stops with fist raised and turns toward the door.

“Just who the hell are you?” he asks, wild ice chip eyes blazing, blood dripping off of his upraised hand and liberally speckling his face. Frogbot eyes the downed Eisenlord and turns, head cocked to the side like a dog as he performs a perfunctory scan.

QUERY: Scan initiated. Target exhibiting high levels of talent ability. Eviscerate target?

WARNING: Target displaying obvious allied markings and behavior. Disengage targeting.

NOTE: Unit feels… disappointment.

QUERY: Initiate self-repair protocols. Check on carbon-flesh entity Moose.

Frogbot scurries off to where Moose is lying on the floor.

The newcomer puts one foot on a chair, striking a quarterback-pose with both hands on his hips, chest out and back straight, chin up. He raises an eyebrow inquisitively, and gives a wide, lantern-jawed smile.

“Me? I am Sergeant Mike Williams, also known as… the Bulwark… OF JUSTICE”, he finishes with a vocal flourish. 

A slight clatter of broken wood and a rumbling comes from the direction of Eisenlord.

“I am the LIGHT that staves off the DARK. I am the SHIELD that protects the innocent from the depredations of the STRONG. I am the star of America, shining into the void that…”

John interrupts the tirade.

“Yeah, whatever Bulldog. Hey, your guy is getting up, couldja take care of that already?”

Bulwark turns, feet shifting with a hop into a fighting stance, shield up and right hand curled into a leather-gloved fist.

Eisenlord shakily begins raising himself on all fours, sloughing off the wreckage of the bar.

“Ho! You are right my blood-spattered friend, this Nazi is one ‘sticky wicket’, ahaha, to borrow a term from our esteemed British allies!”

Bulwark crouches low and brings his shield forward.

“Prepare to meet JUSTICE, Nazi fiend!” and with that pronouncement, leaps straight out while at the same time toggling some hidden switch. 

His backpack _ERUPTS_ with blue flame, propelling him horizontally with incredible speed across the room.

Eisenlord just manages to stand, bleary eyes suddenly going wide, when Bulwark _hurtles_ into him, shield-first, and both _CRASH_ into the wall, then down in a tumble of flailing limbs and debris.

Frogbot look up at John, smiling, as he crouches over Moose.

“I have rendered assistance, mon ami! Ze Moose, he may yet survive!” he cheerily states, plugging the numerous holes in Moose’s flesh knuckle-deep with _his fingers_, like some eerie fairly tale Dutch-boy gone mad.

John, still holding one of _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter’s_ now limp and impossibly-bent arms, just shakes his head, wiping his brow with his right hand.

“gnade… bitte… please, mercy”, comes a small, painfully weak whimper from John’s feet.

John look down, rolls his eyes, and lets his breath out with a sigh.

“Jeezus… are you still moving?” and with that question raises his fist once more, bringing it down with a painfully loud and wet _smack_ onto the badly broken nazi. 
 
Remembering Hank, he let’s the Nazi’s arm go, livid bruises the shape of John’s hand evident as the noodle-like appendage collapses back onto the mans chest with far more joints than nature intended him to have. John turns to go towards Moose and the jeep that used to be Hank.

The Nazi squeaks and mewls some more. “Someone… bitte… make… him… stop… I’ll tell you… any-zing… bitte… please….”

John snaps his fingers as if he forgot something, then turns back.

“Oh, by the way, don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back”, he casually speaks, then with no more thought than he’d give to splitting kindling, unceremoniously stomps the Nazi right at the knee-joint with a sickening wet crunching sound. _Der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter_ merely makes a choked gurgling sound before his eyes roll up in his head.

Sprinting over to where Frogbot is seeing to Moose, John examines the wounds. Frogbot has somehow produced a needle from the tip of one finger and scissors from another, the ends of his fingers hinging up disturbingly like little caps. He has sewn shut some of the larger rents in Moose, who is just barely alive, but stable. Even as John looks he sees that Moose’s ability to rapidly heal is slowly stopping the bleeding, the wounds beginning to knit on their own.

_Damn, but he is a hard nut to crack_, John thought. “Hang in there buddy, help is on the way”, he says softly as he pats Moose’s blood-soaked back.

“Um… Frogbot, buddy, ah… hey, come help me check on Hank”

He looks over to the bar area, hears some dull thudding sounds from the pile behind it.

The two of them step cautiously through the rubble to where the jeep is embedded in the back wall, stone and timbers broken under the impact.

John was about to make some suggestion as to how to remove the jeep without collapsing the remainder of the building, when he noticed Frogbot’s eyes blinking rapidly, strange _whirring_ sounds coming from his head.

Frogbot steps forward, making several neat cuts to the jeep and the wall materials, jamming a timber here and there, before stepping back.

“Zere. Voila! We may now safely remove ze jeep.”

John shrugs and takes one end, Frogbot the other, and peels the shattered vehicle away from the wall. To Frogbot’s credit, the wall trembles but holds under the strain.

Hank is splayed out, embedded in the stone as if wallpapered there, his magnetic shield weak and barely functioning.

“Ding dang ol’… ow” he weakly mumbles, then falls forward onto the floor.

John and Frogbot kneel down and carefully turn Hank over, mindful of the numerous injuries he has suffered.

“Aw dammit Hank, are you…”, John begins.

“ ’bout ding-dang… ol’… time ya got here… aw dingdangit ‘at hurt like a bitch…”

“It’s ok Hank, were gonna get you a doctor, just don’t move”, John comforts him.

Hank coughs, blood flecking his lips. “Izze daid… the big dang ol’ Nazi feller… izze daid?”

“I think so Hank”, John tells him, then motions Frogbot to go check on Bulwark and the nazi Eisenlord.

Just then, several people, including Doctor Z, peer cautiously into the building. John motions them over and begins giving orders to help the wounded ESSes.

Frogbot salutes him in the French style, and then pads over to where Bulwak is standing and wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“Hello there, French ally! Say, that was one tough Jerry, hey? I’ve subdued him for questioning so that…”

Frogbot cocks his head to the side. “He is alive, no?”

“No… I mean yes… I mean, he’s alive, of course”, Bulwark stammers, confused, then places his hands back on his hips and nods his smiling head, unsure of what else to say.

As if to punctuate his statement, Eisenlord’s left arm twitches in his unconscious state.

QUERY: Nazi configuration detected, talent signature detected. Movement detected… within thresholds for targeting action?

ANSWER: Thresholds manually disabled. Movement Detected. Threat detected. Course of action: NaziNaziRendRendRENDRENDREND…

Frogbot looks up at Bulwark, smiles, and raises his hands.

His fingertips pop open, claws ejecting with a snikt, causing Bulwark to jump in startlement. He then leaps into the air and lands on the prone Eisenlord, rapidly plunging his claws one after the other into his back several times.

Bulwark stands there, shocked into stillness, and several seconds later Frogbot leaps back to his feat to stand in front of him once again, claws held upright, dripping gore onto his wrists and the floor. Smiling.

“Oui! Correction! He *was* alive. I have fixed heem for you. You are welcome”, Frogbot nods to him happily, dribbling bodily effluence off of his upraised tibranium talons.

“But… but he was alive… I subdued him… for… *questioning*”, Bulwark barks at Frogbot, pointing at the gore-pile that was his prisoner.

“He vas Nazi, no?”, Frogbot replies, an inquisitive look on his not-quite natural face.

“Well, yes, yes he was…”, Bulwak begins to answer.

“He moved, yes?”

“Well yes, he did move, well it was more of a twitch, but I had it well in hand…”

“He vas mine before you arrived, mon ami.”

“I’m not so sure that…”

“I *have* logs”, Frogbot replies defensively.

“Um, that very well may be, but…”

“I saw heem first.”

“We might have been able to ques…”

Frogbot juts his chin stubbornly, looking down his nose at Bulwark.

“I had ‘Dibs’.”

Bulwark, finally failing to find an appropriate response to Frogbot’s simple, yet iron-clad line of reasoning, just shrugged and smiled. Frogbot smiled back his toothy, false smile, flicking gore from his claws which then rapidly _zipped_ back into his fingers. Bulwark audibly gulped, looking uncomfortable, then with some obvious hesitation gave Frogbot a soft chuck on the shoulder and a ‘thumbs up’. He then turned rapidly and strode away, noisily clearing his throat.

John watched him approach.

“So, well there Bulldog…”

“Bulwark. Bul-WARK.”

“Yeah, ok Bullpen, thanks anyway for dropping in. What I don’t get is why they wanted Dr Z so badly, and what else they might have been after. Plus what happened to that other one, the one that disappeared a minute ago. Well, we need to secure Hank and Moose, and it’s all pretty much over…”

Just then, they quieted as their hearing picked up the rumbling of engines, and before John could continue, the wailing keen of an air raid siren filled the air, and the distant _Booms_ of ordinance being dropped on the airfield and the city began.

“Oh great…”, John began, then Hank grabbed his arm from where he lay on a stretcher.

“John…”

“Yes Hank?”

“The… boy…”

“What? What boy?”

“Psi… meld… the boy… they’re… <cough>”, Hank weakly sputtered.

“What about him, Hank? What?”

“They’re after _him_ too… I just know it… gotta help 'im... jus' a kid...”

John looked up and cursed. He looked back to Frogbot, bedraggled and beaten up like he felt, and at Bulwark. 

“C’mon boys, we need to get to the airfield. This aint over yet.”

He spotted the nazi, _der Unsichtbar Schwertfecter, _whimpering and weakly trying to squirm under a table nearby.

John stepped over and grabbed him by one pants leg. 

“Hey, where ya goin’ pal. Why don’t you take a ride with us?” he asked him casually, then began dragging him out of the bar towards a jeep outside that Bulwark and Frogbot were already climbing into. 

“oh bitte bitte please someone help me don’t let him ahahahhahahaaaaa”, the nazi cried softly as John dragged him outside, only getting a glance from one or two of the personnel inside before they turned back to tending the fallen ESSes.

Oustide, John hoisted him up by the belt and tossed him casually in a boneless heap into the back of the jeep, then hopped in and sat on him.

Bulwark turned back from the driver’s seat.

“We will strike FEAR into the hearts of TYRANNY! This night, all that is GOOD and RIGHT shall stand…”

John rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Will you just stow that and start the damn jeep already.”

Frogbot nodded his agreement from the passenger’s seat, smiling.

Bulwark started the jeep, and they sped off towards the airstrip as the night sky lit up into a colorful canvas of exploding shells, searchlights, and streaming AA fire.

...


----------



## The_Universe

Nice.  Bulwark seems to have a bit o' old Big, Blue, and Nigh-Invulnerable in him....that, and more than a dash of Cap.  Am I close?


----------



## ledded

The_Universe said:
			
		

> Nice. Bulwark seems to have a bit o' old Big, Blue, and Nigh-Invulnerable in him....that, and more than a dash of Cap. Am I close?



I'd be lying if I said I wasnt at least partially influenced by those, or more appropriately, their archtypes, though he wasnt intended as a direct rip of anyone in particular.  Basically the big brawling follow-me boy scout with some gear (american ingenuity, baby) and a propensity for delivering dramatic pronouncements (which you can see how well received _that_ part was by the group  ).


----------



## The_Universe

ledded said:
			
		

> I'd be lying if I said I wasnt at least partially influenced by those, or more appropriately, their archtypes, though he wasnt intended as a direct rip of anyone in particular.  Basically the big brawling follow-me boy scout with some gear (american ingenuity, baby) and a propensity for delivering dramatic pronouncements (which you can see how well received _that_ part was by the group  ).



 Awesome - the _inspiration _is great.  Bulwark is new, but he might be my new favorite...


----------



## Arkhandus

The latest installment rocks!  Frogbot and Bulwark are hilarious!


----------



## ledded

Thanks guys.


On a side note, OldDrewId, writer of Medallions Story Hour and Frogbot's player tied the knot in a very cool and stylish ceremony yesterday night.

Everyone wish him the best.

We will probably play another night of "We were like gods once..." while he is out on his honeymoon, so maybe a little more food for possible future updates.


----------



## Rel

Sorry that I've been MIA for the last couple weeks, ledded.  I've been wrangling a crowd of ENWorlders at the fifth NC Game Day and then had my 15th High School Class Reunion this weekend.  All the while your Story Hour has been peeking at me, reminding me that it was recently updated.

As usual, once I'd caught up, I wished I had done so sooner!  Great new stuff.  And, as others have said, Bulwark may be my favorite new character.  I love the "Tick-esqe" quality about him as well as the "um, that kind of violates the Comics Code" indignation at Frogbot's behavior.  Just awesome!

Anyway, great work as always and you can count on me to be reading for the duration.  Now I'm off to work on my own Story Hour for a while.  I've been on a bit of a roll lately with the updates and I want to keep my momentum going while it lasts!


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [back to work]*

….


“Watch out! Go around it, BallPark! Around!” John yelled from the back seat of the jeep.

Bulwark spoke through gritted teeth, brow knitted in concentration as he swerved tightly around a burning car.

“It’s Bulwark. Bul…”, he spat, whipping the jeep precariously between piles of burning rubble.

“…wark!”

The jeeps tires bounced back to the ground where the force of the turn had lifted them slightly off of the road.

Suddenly, Frogbot reached out his left foot, which elongated with a strange, rubbery sound, and snaked it between Bulwark’s feet to slam heavily onto the brake.

“What the…”, Bulwark started as his chest slammed into the wheel. The jeep skidded to a stop, right in front of a mussed but otherwise intact Smitty, who was casually leaning against a shop wall lighting a cigarette.

Frogbot gave Smitty his unnatural too-much-teeth smile and an exaggerated open-hand wave.

Smitty bobbed his head briskly at them, then stepped over to the jeep and hopped into the back.

Frogbot retracted his foot and then patted Bulwark’s arm, who, staring at the ends of Frogbot’s fingers where the claws normally appeared, jumped at the contact.

Bulwark looked up to see the French android was jabbing a finger at the windshield and the road ahead.

“Drive, _mon capitan_. Time is of ze essence, _oui_?”, he said, a pocket watch suddenly dangling on a small chain from a miniature hatch that hinged open in Frogbot’s palm. Bulwark blinked at him, twice, then shrugged and grabbed the stick. They sped away in a grind of gears and spinning tires, accompanied by the continuing _thump_ and _boom_ of bombs dropping, sirens in the distance blaring, and the occasional roar of aircraft engines.

“John.” Smitty nodded.

“Smitty.” replied John. “Fancy runnin’ into you here.”

“I was in the area.” Smitty takes a long drag off of his smoke, and brushes some masonry dust off of his torn uniform. “Appreciate ya stoppin’ to pick me up.”

John leaned back casually, his foot resting on the barely moaning Nazi folded into the floorboard. “Well, it was on our way.”

“Had a busy afternoon?” Smitty asked, watching John rub and pick at his torn knuckles.

“Nah. Nothin’ outta the usual, at least. Yourself?”, John replied, holding something small up in the light before tossing it away.

Smitty looked thoughtful for a second before replying. “Took a little time off. Saw the sights. Did some o’ that, um, _liaising_ with the locals. Hearts and minds. You know.”

John glanced at him askance, a slight smile playing on his lips, still massaging his hand. “Yeah, I gotcha.”

“Say John, somethin’ wrong with your knuckles there?” 

“Oh, I got pieces o’ this fella’s teeth stuck in ‘em. Smarts a bit.”

“Bummer. Say, where we headed?”

“Airfield. We think the Jerry’s are after that boy, Psimeld. They nearly got ol’ Dr Z out from under our noses. Moose took a bad hit. Hank too”, John answered.

“Big bunch of trouble that way?” Smitty asked, calmly unslinging his rifle.

“Check.”

“Lots of bad guys?” Smitty calmly asked, checking the action and cycling a round into the chamber.

“Probably.”

Smitty checked the scope before looking back up to John.

“Bring it on then.”

They both nodded to each other, then Smitty inclined his head with a questioning look at their driver.

“Him? Picked us up a new buddy”, John said. “Smitty, Bulwark. Bulwark, Smitty”.

Bulwark reached a hand over his shoulder, keeping one eye on the road as they sped ever closer to the airfield. They could see fires on the runways, and at least two of the hangers were immolated and pouring forth thick, billowing smoke.

“Hello there, fellow American. Sergeant Mike Williams, they call me… the Bulwark OF JUSTICE!” Bulwark boomed in his friendly voice, like a college quarterback in the Saturday game.

“Yeah. That’s nice. I’m Smitty. Er, ‘Ghost’, or whatever. Most folks just call me Smitty.” He gave the proffered hand a perfunctory shake. 

Bulwark returned both hands to the wheel and pushed out his chest, hitting his full stride. “Yes, my good man, I am glad you have joined us, for we journey to the _heart_ of this dark villainous _night_, in order to be the _shield_ of the _weak_ and a _pillar_ of _strength_ to guide those that would _stand_ against the _threat_ of the Third Reich…”

He was interrupted by a tapping on his right shoulder, a little _tink tink tink_ on the metal of his jetpack. Bulwark looked back, pausing.

Smitty leaned close, smoke curling up over his lip and sliding liquid smooth over his features, highlighting his glowing left eye, which twitched and rotated as it honed in on Bulwark. He blew out, disrupting the smoke and making Bulwark cough slightly, smiling.

“Hey, Bull Shark? In case you were wondering, the position of annoying sidekick has already been filled. Sorry”, Smitty said, giving Frogbot’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.

Frogbot turned stiffly to Bulwark, with his surreal smile of teeth and exposed gums, and waved that open-handed wave, nodding his head up and down.

Smitty sat back, laughing with John. “Ha. Ha. Ha” laughed Frogbot, his head panning back and forth slowly.

“I’ts ‘Bulwark’ ”, mumbled Bulwark petulantly as he turned his attention back to the road. Up ahead he could see a U.S. halftrack making a turn onto the road leading into the main airfield area. “Ho there! Isn’t that halftrack one that pulled away from the pub during our struggle with the dark forces of evil?”

Frogbot peered intently, his eyes _click-click-clicking_ as different colored lenses were layered over his strange eyes.

“_Oui_. It may be the one that escaped us. My sensors are picking up only wafts of power at zis range, but it may be heem.”

Frogbot’s eyes blazed red, and his smile widened at his claws popped from the ends of his hands.

“We should accompany heem to hees destination, no?”

John leaned forward from the back. “Catch him!”

Bulwark jammed the accelerator and took off after the slower moving halftrack. They made the turn and careened down the short approach road to the airfield, gaining on the halftrack.

The airfield had several buildings to either side of the approach road, which ran into one of the runways. There were two towers that sprouted from the cluster of buildings, one for controlling air traffic, the other for managing the radar array. The radar tower was burning brightly, as were several of the other buildings. The mangled wooden poles and wires of the demolished radar stood in hellish, stark relief to the fires ranging across the airfield.

There were several Spitfires and Mustangs on the ground, most burning or in various states of wreckage. Men were running around, and an officer was trying to organize a fire control team when he suddenly jerked his head upwards, then fell heavily to the ground. The team scattered, diving for cover. 

Smitty tuned his exceptional senses, his technologically enhanced ears picking up the fading after-echoes of the shot that had felled the man. He saw a slight movement at the top of the air tower, and his sight narrowed in close. It was hard to be sure in the bumping jeep, but he still felt a cold sliver of ice slide slowly into his gut. 

It was the german sniper, the one who shot Hank in that fated battle before they woke up with their powers.

The same one that nearly killed him in Arnhem.

Just then, he noticed a large, dark figure flying sixty feet off of the ground glide around the side of the tower. Huge gouts of flame sprayed heavily from his hands, trailing screams and destruction in their wake. The Baron der Flammen, as Smitty knew his name to be now, was laying waste to the buildings and scattering the allied personnel on the ground. The man that had maimed him, had burned his arm and face to the bone.

“Well lucky day… looks like we got us a two-for-one special on payback”, Smitty mumbled as he snapped his rifle up to his eye, sighted, and fired. He saw the gigantic flying Nazi flinch, and he turned their way. _Damn, he’s a tough one_, Smitty thought, and _ka-shik_ chambered another round. “We got company boys. Ubers.”

There was a flash in the tower, and something plowed a fist-sized furrow through the hood of the jeep, shattering the windshield. The sniper, _ein Schuß_, had taken notice of their approach also. Smitty thought he could even detect a smile on the man’s face. _Crazy kraut bastard_, he thought to himself as he leveled his rifle and fired, skipping a round off of the edge of the wall _ein Schuß _was firing from, forcing him to take cover or take one in the face.

They were nearly caught up with the halftrack, and one of the G.I.’s in the back was whispering fervently to another glassy-eyed comrade. The G.I. being whispered to calmly yanked back the slide on the mounted .50 cal, and slowly turned towards the trailing jeep.

“Men, I think it’s time to catch another ride!” Bulwark shouted and stood up, and they all leapt into action simultaneously as the machine gun stuttered lead in their direction.

Smitty leapt and then rolled, hitting grass on the side of the road. He immediately faded from sight as another shot from _ein Schuß _tore a dinner-plate sized hole in the ground next to his foot. He ran quickly, concentrating on making himself light as vapor as he transformed from material existence. He became like an avenging Ghost as he ran towards the buildings ahead to find a good cover position.

John stood, noting the huge flame-projecting Nazi drawing aim at them, and grabbed the closest thing to hand.

And hurled it full force at Baron der Flammen as he raised his fists to spew death on the speeding jeep.

The Nazi swordsman barely moaned as his body was flung like a sack of boneless meat, hitting Baron der Flammen with a dull smack. The Baron spun with the impact as the swordsman pinwheeled past him to strike the stone wall of the control tower, spraying blood and brains in a starburst pattern on the side before falling limply into the bushes at the base.

John took three quick steps up the jeep as shrapnel sprayed around him from the .50 cal’s impact and leapt for the moving halftrack from the jeep’s hood, landing deftly in the back.

Upon Bulwark’s pronouncement, Frogbot stuck his clawed left hand into the side of the jeep and then stepped out, hanging above the ground, his feet running in air until they were nearly a blur. When he judged he had the necessary velocity, he merely levered himself down and retracted his claws from the jeep, tearing a track through the grass as he sped towards the door at the base of the tower.

Bulwark snapped his shield forward, machine gun fire _spanging_ into it. He bunched his powerful legs under him and toggled the hidden glove switch for his jetpack.

The rockets sprang to life in a huge flare of blue flame and roaring sound, propelling him upwards with his jump to speed straight at the Baron der Flammen, who was trying to recover from the blow John, the Artic Wolf, had just delivered him.

“EAT AMERICAN JUSTICE!” Bulwark screamed as he brought his shield up and cannoned into the enormous Nazi. The black-clad Baron was able to roll with the blow, however, pushing Bulwark off to spin clumsily past him out of control.

“*Eat wall, mortal*”, came his booming voice, and Bulwark barely had time to say “oh sh-” before he collided just feet from where John’s projectile Nazi had struck. He spun away flatly trailing bricks and mortar, and crashed heavily into a small wooden shack at the base of the tower, taking most of the roof with him.

“Justice often… stings, a bit”, Bulwark announced as he sat up and tried to dust off the lumber and roof shingles, looking for the Nazi.

Frogbot reached the bottom door of the tower and didn’t stop, merely lowered his head and flung both claws forward. As much as the partially metal android weighed, and the fact that he was preceded by a foot of tibranium claws, the poor door never knew what hit it as it exploded into a fine spray of matchwood. Frogbot sank his left claws to the fingers in the door frame, using his momentum to swing towards the stairs before tearing free in further spray of carpentry, his feet finding purchase and taking the stairs four at the time.

John ran forward in the halftrack, dodging fire from the machine gun and calling forth the killing cold that was his to command. Laying a hand on the firing .50 cal as it masticated their jeep, the gun suddenly stopped firing. The machine gun’s action froze solid just as the drooling, blank-eyed soldier continued to dumbly depress the triggers to no avail. The man he sought, the one that had pummeled his mind, had climbed, standing, into the passenger’s seat by a slack-jawed driver, looking at John fearfully.

John made to climb over but stopped just as he saw the man’s eyes widen and a telling smile play over his lips. He went with his instinct and ducked just as a roaring sheet of flame tore over the spot he was just about to climb into, engulfing the machine gunner, who still sat quietly attempting to fire the frozen .50 cal even as the flesh burned off of his bones.

There was a whoosh of air and a dark form sailed closely overhead. The Baron de Flammen flew down and snatched up the waiting man, who had now dropped his mental disguise and was dressed as an SS officer. John tried to make a grab for them as they soared past him and gained into the night sky, but couldn’t keep hold on the black leather of the Nazi’s greatcoat.

The man gave John a smile and a mocking ‘heil Hitler’ salute as he sped away under Baron der Flammen’s arm.

John, the Artic Wolf, smiled back with the dangerous and humorless intensity of his namesake.

“Betcha won’t think it’s so funny when I’m dancing on your spleen”, he spat at their retreating forms as the halftrack slowed, the driver shaking his head as if to clear it.

...


----------



## Rel

Suh-weet!!

Just so's you know, THIS was my favorite line of the update...



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> “EAT AMERICAN JUSTICE!” Bulwark screamed




...right up until I read THIS: 



> “Justice often… stings, a bit”, Bulwark announced as he sat up and tried to dust off the lumber and roof shingles, looking for the Nazi.





Fun, fun stuff.  I'm a sucker for JUSTICE!


----------



## Paxr0mana

Oh, Pull Pork, will you ever win?


----------



## Rel

Paxr0mana said:
			
		

> Oh, Pull Pork, will you ever win?




He will.  If there's any JUSTICE!!


----------



## ledded

Thanks guys, I had a lot of fun playing Bulwark in this session, much to the annoyance of the remainder of the group.  The voice I used for him was much like a cross between the Tick and a more robust J. Peterman, Elaine's boss at the catalog company from Sienfeld.

GM's note:  On John/Artic Wolf's treatment of the Nazi swordsman in the last couple updates, to his credit Eyas does not normally play his PCs as unnecessarily brutal as that.  Much to my joy, I had created this recurring villain that the party, after only meeting twice, grew to hate with incredible vehemence (his little sword salutes and mocking smiles were much more annoying that I was able to write them).  I mean, after playing D&D for several years with two rogues in the party that lived off of sneak attack and improved invisibility, you would think that they wouldn't have been so put off when I used it against them .  They could have taken sneak attack too if they'd been willing to burn the feats...

But that is also the joy of fighting against Nazis in a game also, and not just run-of-the-mill soldier Nazis, but SS-child-eating-as-bad-as-they-come Nazis, because they're just so easy to go off on... of course then I get to quote Neitchze to them ("When one fights with monsters... blah blah blah") which is usually answered with a nod and "Yeah, whatever, I can live with that".

Thanks for stopping by, I hope to get another update in this week with the conclusion of this episode.   Then our intrepid heros are off to find the hidden  island base of Rasputinovich and uncover his dastardly plans...


----------



## ragboy

Another fantastic set of updates (not sure how I got behind). Can someone in your group (or reading this SH) DRAW these amazing characters? Regardless of your denials (I don't read it as being anything like the Hellboy movie), this is the most original SH since jonrog dropped off the boards. Keep it up!


----------



## ledded

ragboy said:
			
		

> Another fantastic set of updates (not sure how I got behind). Can someone in your group (or reading this SH) DRAW these amazing characters?



I *wish*.  I used to do character sketches as a younger lad, but years of computer-induced carpal tunnel and non-practice have reduced my recent attempts to laughable parodies of my former level of nearly non-existent skills.  I tend to 'cast' them in my head as various actors (Smitty played by Barry Pepper, Moose played by a clean-shaven Abraham Benrubi , Frogbot by a bald and made-up Peter Sellers if he were still alive crossed with Randy Quaid's character Bruno in Pluto Nash, Hank by a red-headed Giovanni Ribisi, and John by a pale skin-and-eyed Matthew McConaughey).  The players themselves would probably have a different spin, of course, this is just how *I* see them.

If there _were_ a reader who would like to give it a hand, I would be quite greatful, and would supply them with any reward asked as long as it isnt an actual tangible one 




> Regardless of your denials (I don't read it as being anything like the Hellboy movie), this is the most original SH since jonrog dropped off the boards. Keep it up!



Well thanks for that.  Before I accidentally tripped into this genre, I had no idea that there was enough of this type of stories to actually make a 'genre'.  Sure, there were plenty of stories involving Nazi occult stuff and larger-than-life characters, but I had no idea there were so many.  But who cares anyway, we're having fun with it .


----------



## Peterson

ledded said:
			
		

> If there _were_ a reader who would like to give it a hand, I would be quite greatful, and would supply them with any reward asked as long as it isnt an actual tangible one




Right.  Now would you want those stick figures in color or just done in pencil?

Seriously, this is a great read man - and the characters are impressive to say the least.  Makes me almost forget about Jonrog and Old Drew ID......almost.

Peterson


----------



## Angcuru

Another magnificent update!!  That moment where the mangled nazi was used as an impromptu projectile was just HILARIOUS!    

Well, since all the master story hour writers and addicts frequent this brilliant thread, I might as well post a link to my newly-resurrected Story Hour, get some feedback.  

Avarimorion Maranwen'tyene

Old-school D&D Bhaalspawn Saga 'Module' with a twist.  Massive detail, huge updates, and everyone's favorite hamster-toting ranger.     First few posts are introductory flashbacks, then we get to the meat of the story.  Violent, flesh-rending meat it may be, but meat still.     Pending post renovation/editing, there shall be regular updates.


----------



## Eyas

ledded said:
			
		

> I *wish*.  I used to do character sketches as a younger lad, but years of computer-induced carpal tunnel and non-practice have reduced my recent attempts to laughable parodies of my former level of nearly non-existent skills.  I tend to 'cast' them in my head as various actors (Smitty played by Barry Pepper, Moose played by a clean-shaven Abraham Benrubi , Frogbot by a bald and made-up Peter Sellers if he were still alive crossed with Randy Quaid's character Bruno in Pluto Nash, Hank by a red-headed Giovanni Ribisi, and John by a pale skin-and-eyed Matthew McConaughey).  The players themselves would probably have a different spin, of course, this is just how *I* see them.




Well, now that you mention it, I agree with you. I had never really given too much thought to an actor who would best portray John, but Mathew McConaughey would be a good fit, especially the look he had in Reign of Fire, just with a bit more hair.


----------



## ledded

Peterson said:
			
		

> Right. Now would you want those stick figures in color or just done in pencil?
> 
> Seriously, this is a great read man - and the characters are impressive to say the least. Makes me almost forget about Jonrog and Old Drew ID......almost.
> 
> Peterson



Heh.  You hit the nail on the head, man.  Though I wouldnt quite forget Jonrog or OldDrewId, I'm a poor surrogate in their absence, but they'll be back some day 

Heck, I would go so far as to offer one or two custom-converted and well-painted miniatures of the artists favorite character to entice them for a few good comic-ish but nice portraits (hey, that's tangible, and one of the few things I do well other than my job...  ).

But, I'm afraid it's to no avail, I'm not sure there are that many artsy types (other than some damn fine writers) who visit this thread unfortunately.

Face it boys, it's one o' dem meat-and-potatoes threads .  Maybe I'll get Fludogg to help me photoshop up some actors photos or something.  OldDrewId did one for Medallions that just *rocked*.


----------



## ledded

Eyas said:
			
		

> Well, now that you mention it, I agree with you. I had never really given too much thought to an actor who would best portray John, but Mathew McConaughey would be a good fit, especially the look he had in Reign of Fire, just with a bit more hair.



I agree, now that you mention it, a Reign of Fire McConaughey with a little more head hair, a little less facial hair, and those wild-dragon fightin' eyes with a pair of whitish-blue contacts, and he'd fit that perfect.  Even got the good midwest/country accent.


----------



## Eyas

Hmmm.....page three is not where this belongs. BUMP! Come on ledded we want more!


----------



## threshel

Please?

Seriously.

If I update will you?

...[takes silence as a yes ]

Ok.  I updated yesterday.  Your turn.


J


----------



## Captain Claymore

Ledded, I have a computer mugshot of Frogbot if your interested. It's nothing too special but I thought it captured the essence that is the Frogman (at least in my own delusional mind.)

if your interested email me
kevin@comstockcreations.com


----------



## Captain Claymore

[EDIT]
errrr. ignore that double post
errrr. ignore that double post


----------



## ledded

threshel said:
			
		

> Please?
> 
> Seriously.
> 
> If I update will you?
> 
> ...[takes silence as a yes ]
> 
> Ok. I updated yesterday. Your turn.
> 
> 
> J



Oh, well, all right, I'll try to work something up by early next week, since I've been having so much fun reading your Story hour.  By the way folks, if you havent read Threshel's Mad Bard story hour (link in his sig), you darn well should get over there right now.  It's good stuff, get hooked early while all the cool kids are doing it .


----------



## The_Universe

*I* updated yesterday, too.  Let's see it, man!


----------



## ledded

Damn.

They're comin' out of the woodwork now 

I will update either this weekend or early next week. Promise.  I'll even try to get in two updates next week, as I have a good idea of how I want to write up the next couple 'issues'.

And I will add another shameless plug, if you folks have not read The_Universe's Story Hour then high-tail your backside over there.  Now.  It is very good stuff, I guarantee it is one of the best D&D Story Hours you'll read.

Oh, I'll also take this opportunity to post up the picture that Captain Claymore put together of Frogbot (see attachment). Thanks Cap.


----------



## The_Universe

I appreciate the plug, but I'd give my left ear for some more of this.   Let's see some more of the Bulwark!


----------



## Vigilance

All caught up. Nice Ledded! I really like this. 

Chuck


----------



## ledded

Vigilance said:
			
		

> All caught up. Nice Ledded! I really like this.
> 
> Chuck



Thanks!

Hey everybody, say hello to Chuck, who wrote Blood and Vigilance that we use for our supers rules <waves> Hi Chuck!  

('bout damn time you stopped by.... )


----------



## ledded

*We were like gods once... [Focus on the task at hand]*

…

Smitty felt detached and separate from the world as he moved into the building. There were fires burning, threatening to engulf the entire structure.

He walked right through them without a single feeling.

No feelings at all, for that matter. Every time he _thought_ in this way, and _moved_ in this way, it was the same; he was a ghost among the caricatures of the living. He stepped into his own private stage, as if he were watching the world as it played on a slightly bent cellulose film in the solitary theater of his own mind. Colors softened, blurred, washed out in the grey light. Sound became muted. Feeling became non-existent. Everything seemed so much less important, so cold, so much less… urgent. The draw of this place was palpable, like the scent of Christmas dinner wafting over a field as you walked home slowly through silent, snow-filled fields. Teasing. Drawing you ever closer. Daring you to embrace it, to smother yourself in apathy and removal.

Smitty had often wondered if it bothered other people who could do it, who could walk this place between worlds.

Because it didn’t bother him.

Drawing strength on the quiet, the lack of emotion, the lack of pain and fear and sense and time, he always felt his mind close sharply in on the task at hand, no distractions. Nothing but the task at hand. 

They told him that if he used his abilities, if he hunted men instead of meat, that he could help end the war. He could save allied lives, maybe even make the world a better place for all people. _He could be a hero_, they said, _and get medals and cheering crowds and the admiration of good men and women everywhere_.

Smitty could give one flying damn about all that.

All he knew was that he was focused, like the tip of a razor-sharp knife. On his _job_. On the soft neck of the bastards that brought him to this god-forsaken place. And if killing Nazis would bring him home, then he would do it. He didn’t have to like it. But he would do it. And he would do it well.

Nothing but the task at hand.

There was a flicker of something in this place, a flash of warmth and color through his being as he floated up the burning stairs towards a small window set in the stairwell.

A face, for a moment, pale alabaster skin, auburn hair. A smile. Maybe.

Just maybe.

Something more than the task at hand.

Begrudgingly, He pushed the thought away and _stepped_ out of this cold, phantom place.

The world crashed in around Smitty, sound and sight and sensation slamming into him like a piano dropped from a Manhatten sky-rise. Heat on his back, screams below and to the left. Sniper in the tower firing firing firing, movement in the tower and bellows of rage. A blur of movement crashing through the tower window. Rattle of machine-gun fire and yells and flashes of explosions and smoke billowing and roaring and one plane moving out from a hanger.

Focus.

Two figures inside, one large, one small. Smaller one… the boy. The kid. Psimeld. 

Fire. Cycle the bolt. Fire. _Spin Smitty move Move MOVE_!

Smitty rolled away from the window lightning-quick as flames slammed into it from an unseen but sensed assailant, unharmed as he spun up the steps, outrunning the flames, his breath coming in gasps as the conflagration engulfed the stairwell. He smiled, though, as he ran, clasping a window’s edge and leaping out. In his mind’s eye he had a short vision of a flash of surprise on the Nazi pilot’s face as the first round punched through the canopy and the second right behind it. He was still smiling as the wind whipped against his falling body even as he entered that _place_ again and slowly floated towards the ground, his thoughts flicking to another face, this one much softer. The only thing that brought any warmth to this _place_.

Focus.

…

John had never thought of himself as being that religious of a man, even though his grandma had taken him to church often enough. He’d always been more like his grampa; always had a taste for the wild side, a glint of adventure in his eye. That’s why he took up flying as a teen, sneaking off with gramps to hear stories of his exploits in the The Big One, begging for any excuse to go up in that old biplane they kept in the barn. Dreaming of Daring Deeds and fighting the Good Fight. He’d never given that much thought to church, or religion.

That was swiftly changing.

Because if there was a hell, he was in it now.

And if there was hell, there most assuredly was a heaven.

It just seemed so far away at the moment.

Buildings and planes were burning, blood and bodies were strewn everywhere on the ground and the runway, casting a nightmarish red cast to what little light there was. Thick, oily smoke belched from all over, stinging his eyes and nose. Streaks of flame from the giant Nazi scorched across the sky, immolating people, buildings, planes on the ground. Servicemen and civilians ran panicked, some trying to help others trapped in burning wreckage as their screams pierced his concentration, others merely fled for their lives or fired wildly into the smoldering night sky. Occasionally one would jerk as blood sprayed from a wound from an unseen rifle and collapse to the ground, begging for help, for water, for their mother. Machine guns and small arms rattled and spewed imminent death everywhere, and things exploded as the numerous fires caught flammable contents.

John, the Artic Wolf, tried to steel his nerves, pushing away the cries of the wounded and dying. If they didn’t stop the Nazi’s _here_, there would be many more before the day was through.

He tried to find the Baron der Flammen, but he was fast and there was just too much smoke and fire. The front machine gun on the halftrack swung wildly into the sky to and fro in his hands, and he would occasionally fire a burst at a hint of movement, but to no result.

Then, he noticed movement on the runway. A lone spitfire had pulled free of one of the hangers and was moving out onto the runway. _Yes_! he thought jubilantly, sure that they were about to get one in the air and give some back to the Nazi scum. Then he noticed that there were two figures in the plane, saw the canopy spiderweb and crack as he caught a glimpse of Smitty putting two through the top, then spin away from his high window perch. Instantly, a jet of flames roared high over his head to punch hard into the side of the building, sections of brick and wood blowing free with the impact.

_Bingo_. There was the Baron.

He swung the MG up and depressed the paddles again, the big .50 cal jerking hard with recoil and spitting brass. John tried to lead the immense Nazi, and saw several rounds punch hard into him. 

But even as the massive Baron jerked with the impact, he dove low around the air control tower and out of sight, and the belt in the .50 cal ran through the last round. The machine gun clacked hard on the empty bolt.

_Damn, what is that guy made of?!?_

John remembered the plane, and heard moaning from the driver’s seat of the halftrack as he hastily fed another belt of ammunition into the .50.

“Soldier? Soldier!”, he yelled at the young man at the wheel.

The young man, a boy really, looked up confused and replied with a squeaky voice.

“Sir? Um… sir… wha… wha… happened?”

“Can those questions soldier! Get this halftrack moving!”

John pulled back hard on the priming lever, the machine gun making a loud _ka-shink_ as a new round was pulled into the chamber.

“We got a plane to catch”.

…

Meanwhile, Frogbot had crashed hard through the door and was literally racing at full speed up the steps of the control tower. He could hear firing from above and the tinkle of brass casings as they bounced across the floor, and also… _singing_? More like a cheery humming, with an occasional happy exclamation. He accessed his memory core and brought up the song. 

QUERY: Lili Marlene. Panzergrenadier version, it would seem.

NOTE: Not a bad tune. If you’re a Nazi.

ASSUMPTION: Nazi still present on the roof. And he sings… badly.

Frogbot tore through the last landing and up the ladder to the roof, stopping on for a few seconds to shred the locked trapdoor at the top before bursting through with a somersault to land on two closely placed feet, arms spread and claws extended.

“Voila! Frogbot eez here, mon ami! The time for your evil ways, and truly _tres_ bad singing, to end is at hand!” Frogbot announced triumphantly.

And was promptly shot in the chest by the waiting, smiling _Ein Schuß_.
The round hit him and sent him falling back into the trapdoor, Frogbot extending his arms and legs to land spread-eagle over the opening.


WARNING: Structural damage, 18%. Major systems damage avoided.

ASSUMPTION: Nazi sniper has a very large gun.

RECCOMENDATION: Try not to get shot again.

Frobot drew his legs up over his head, suspended over the open trapdoor by his clawed hands jammed into the roof’s floor, then quickly arched his back and snapped to his feet. The sniper firing a close shot directly at the spot he landed, missing him as he immediately dove to the left and rolled, coming to his feet close to the Nazi.

“Oh, ve have ze quick one, ya?” the smiling Nazi taunted, cycling the action on an unfamiliar sniper rifle with a very large scope. “No matter, you vill die like ze ozzers” he stated flatly, with a shrug of his shoulders as he brought the rifle to bear.

Frogbot dove in on him like a rabid mongoose, slashing once to glance against the mans ribs, a second time finding nothing but stone wall as sparks flew from his skittering talons. 
_
Ein Schuß, amazingly fast, slid to the side and rolled, coming up 15 feet away from Frogbot with the rifle leveled at him .

_
WARNING: This may sting a bit.

STATEMENT: Unit is not amused by Kernel system’s attempt at humor.

Frogbot coiled to spring at the Nazi again, knowing that the shot would go off before he could get there, watching the man’s finger depress the trigger when….

_SPANG_!

There was a flash of metal as Bulwark’s shield careened into the man’s side, the rifle flying wide and discharging into the ceiling, tearing a dinner-plate sized hole. It slid across the roof near Frogbot, out of the man’s grasp, as the blue-flame trailing Bulwark soared through into the open tower roof, slamming hard into the Nazi, roaring “Take one for the U-S-of-A!!!” as he came.

Bulwark smashed into a column on the other side, hitting the roof’s floor rolling. 

_Ein Schuß_, clutching his side, eyed Frogbot and then dove for his rifle.

Frogbot sprang at him, claws tearing into the man’s arm as he rolled with Frogbot’s blow.

Blood sprayed again, and Frobot rolled on top of him, holding the Nazi down with one hand and raising the other for a killing blow.

The slippery Nazi brought both legs up to his chest between them, braced his feet against Frogbot, and kicked the heavy android off with a grunt to sail into Bulwark, who had raced up from behind to aid him. Both allies fell in a tangle of arms, legs, and equipment.

_Ein Schuß_, bleeding from several wounds and panting, snatched up his rifle and leapt to the edge of the high tower.

Frogbot and Bulwark regained their feet, and just as Bulwark readied a throw and Frogbot began to charge, _Ein Schuß, _grinning_,_ saluted them and then just stepped off into the air.

The allied ESSes raced to the edge and looked down, Bulwark yelling “look out Frenchie!” and yanking Frogbot behind him as a stream of liquid fire jetted into his upraised shield, spraying the tower around them.

Baron der Flammen had circled the tower and caught _Ein Schuß_ as he stepped off, sending a blast of flames at the spot of his departure. The huge nazi carried two men with him now, and streaked away from the tower.

Bulwark immediately reared back with his smoldering shield arm, clothing and flesh smoking from the heat of the der Flammen’s blocked attack, and let fly with the shield.

The shield was till red-hot and flaming as it streaked towards the Nazi trio, and it was probably the rapid cooling of it as the shield rushed through the air that threw off his aim. It shot past them and arced back towards a disappointed Bulwark to smack into his grip.

“At least you have cooled eet off, no?” Frogbot asked him, smiling. Just then, he noticed the Spitfire attempting to depart, and as his visual actuators and sensors clicked into place he noted not only that the boy, Psimeld, was in the cockpit but also another entity streaming an aura of power.

WARNING: Enemy talent attempting to escape with mission-critical allied personnel.

STATEMENT: He shall not do so.

Frogbot looked up at Bulwark, who nodded to him.

“I’ll get the Krauts… you save the boy”, Bulwark said, then clapped Frogbot on the shoulder, smiling.

“Ya know, you’re not so bad… for one o’ them frog-eaters.”

“Monsieur! Ze French also eat many fine cheeses, and ze best wines in the world…” Frogbot began indignantly, but was cut off by the ignition of Bulwark’s jetpack and scream of “Ho there, Nazi dogs! Leaving so soon? You haven’t had your second helping of JUSTICE yet!” as he soared after the airborne Nazi trifecta of evil. 

“…and her shores, they are zo beauti… ah damn eet”, Frogbot finished to no one in particular, then leapt onto the wall’s edge.

Extending his claws and hidden edges on his boots, he literally scampered down the side of the stone-and-wood tower like a spider, hitting the ground and tearing off after the plane.

Bulwark’s valiant aerial charge turned sour quickly, as not only did he miss the heavily-laden flying Nazi, but took a big German boot to the ribs as he shot past which also deeply dented his jetpack. The kick sent him gasping for breath and spinning out of control, slamming into the soft grass past the runway to plow an earthen furrow into the ground before pin wheeling several times in a mess of flailing limbs and jetpack pieces. 

“Gaaaah…”, he mumbled incoherently as his head spun and whirled and clods of grass fell out of his mouth, “….deeggghhh… you didn’t even wait for… desert…” 

He then promptly fell onto his face, spit out a large piece of turf, and threw up.

…

John saw the big Nazi appear again, catch the falling sniper, and soar off over the escaping plane as his driver kicked the halftrack into movement.

“The Spitfire! After that Spitfire!” he screamed as the driver rammed the gas pedal to the floor.

Carefully, he aimed at the plane as it turned onto the main runway and then began gaining speed.

“Where ya goin’ guys, this party’s just getting started”, he mumbled through clenched teeth as his machine gun stuttered a long burst at the plane, several rounds punching into the tail section. He was having trouble getting a clear shot, because he didn’t want to risk hitting the boy, but needed to disable the plane.

“Faster! We need to go fas…” he began, then stopped short as he noticed Frogbot tearing down the vertical surface of the air control tower and taking off after the plane, outrunning the halftrack and rapidly gaining on the Spitfire.

“Holy… jeez that guy is fast”, he said to himself, and then lined up his next shot.

…

Smitty found another nest in a nearby building, and then plinked a shot at the gigantic Nazi just as Bulwark spun off bellowing, the yell cut short as he presumably nosed into the ground somewhere ahead.

The shot went wide, and Smitty looked surprised at his Springfield, presumably guilty of such a betrayal. He made a minute adjustment to the scope, lined up a shot, and saw the big Nazi’s flinch as the round found a home; Baron der Flammen swept low, into a huge cloud of thick smoke and disappeared from sight. “Must have banged the scope on something, sorry about that old girl”, he told the rifle as he patted it and then brought the Spitfire up into his sights. 

He saw the boy, Psimeld, looking directly at him from the cramped cockpit, then heard his voice in his head. 

*Help me Smitty. The bad man is trying to take me away*.

_Doin’ what I can, son. Poke him in the eye or somethin’, _Smitty thought back in reply, not sure if the lad could hear him.

He moved with the Spitfire’s increasing acceleration until he saw the engine cowling come up in the crosshairs. _Deep breath. Release slow. Squeeze_.

He was rewarded with a neat hole punching through the plane’s exterior, quickly followed by thick oil and a stream of black smoke.

“That oughtta slow him down a bit”, said Smitty as he made ready for another shot.

And it did, just enough for Frogbot, galloping on all fours behind it spraying dirt and debris, to barely catch up.

He gauged the distance, his internal processors making the necessary adjustments, then on his last gallop gathered his limbs in close and _sprang_ at the plane just as its wheels were starting to lift off of the runway.

Frogbot landed on the right wing of the plane, perched precariously on the slippery surface, and noted the look of shock on the pilot’s skull-like visage under his pilot’s leather helmet and goggles.

Frogbot smiled, and waved at the Nazi. Psimeld waved back. The Nazi drew a pistol.

“_Bonjour, abruti_! Tickets please! No ticket? Oh well I believe zees is where we get off then!” he yelled at the Nazi.

Frogbot raised both clawed hands dramatically, then plunged them into the side of the plane and ripped as hard as his artificial musculature would allow him.

The wing parted with a screech of tortured metal, spraying fluids and sparks as it separated from the plane and immediately dropped to the runway. 

The plane canted sharply, sending up a huge shower of sparks as the Nazi fought to keep in under control with one of the wings torn off.

Frogbot, riding the severed wing, turned with it as it spun down the runway, keeping his balance like a professional surfer on a sparking, burning sheet of metal.

He waved at the Nazi, again, and waggled his claws at him as they both slid down the runway on two different pieces of the same burning plane.  The pilot lost what little control he had, and the severed wing edge set down hard into the runway, biting deep and catching fire.

The German pilot yanked back the cockpit and smoothly leapt out, flying up 30 feet into the air and taking aim at Frogbot, leaving a rather calm Psimeld sitting in the seat by himself.

Frogbot gripped the piece of wing with his feet, kicking it back to raise the lip and then bouncing it to skip next to the burning Spitfire that was rapidly beginning to spin out of control.

He jumped sinking his claws into the tail section and hand-over-hand using his claws to rip his way up the airframe towards Psimeld, who was standing up looking at him. Bullets began punching holes in the plane close to Frogbot, and he looked up at the Nazi airman keeping close pace with him. He noticed two things.

One, the airman was out of reach, and he had no time to pull his fantastic French Lebel 8mm to take a shot.

Two, the same airman had a large, familiar book stuffed into the inside of his flight suit, the same book he had taken off of the Cossack priest back in Arnhem.

The airman lined up for another shot, rearing back with a potato-masher grenade in his other hand.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of bullets zipping around the flying Nazi pilot, who broke off his attack to duck and weave out of the deadly rain of lead. John had gotten close in the halftrack and was stuttering fire at him, yelling insults at the Nazi to get his attention.


The airman held up his flight for a second, then threw the grenade at the halftrack.

That moment of stillness was all Smitty needed to neatly drill him right through the kidney from over 200 feet away.

The flying German doubled up in pain, blood seeping around the hand clenched on his side, and then zipped directly up into the clouds and out of the fight.

Just as the engine and propeller of the skidding plane nosed into the ground, biting hard and causing the burning Spitfire to flip forward, Frogbot snaked out a hand and grabbed Psimeld, running up the upraised fuselage and somersaulting over the tail of the plane. He kicked off as the tail reached skyward, the engine igniting into a monstrous fireball of impending death and hot metal fragments, and spun away from the inferno just as it consumed the remaining fuel in a monstrous fireball. Frogbot hit the ground on his back, curled around Psimeld like a rigid flesh-and-metal ball, cushioning the boy as he bounced and rolled away from the shattered, burning plane.

John ducked, breathing a quick prayer for Frogbot as the plane exploded and sent his driver swerving away from the flaming wreckage and shrapnel, which also saved them both from the grenade as it hit the side of the swerving halftrack and bounced once on the runway before exploding.

As he came up, saw the gigantic Nazi for a moment as he broke out of the clouds of smoke to his left, sweeping sweep down near some wreckage near the end of the runway, close to where Bulwark had went down. 

As he spun the .50 around, he noticed that der Flammen dropped off one of his passengers, the sniper, who snapped a shot at him and then deftly ran towards the pile of ruined and smoldering jeeps and trucks.

John flinched and then realized he wasn’t hit.

“Ha! Ya bastard! Ya missed me!” he yelled, then noticed the driver was slumped over the wheel in front of him, missing the entire back of his head. _Ein Schuß _had shot him, on the run, through the vision slit of the armored front hatch of the halftrack.

_Dammit… sorry boy_, John thought as the halftrack began to swerve out of control.

_I better get some cover, and quick!_

John grabbed his Garand and jumped clear of the halftrack just as it swerved right, colliding with the wreckage of the plane and flipping. He hit the ground, rolled, and scooted behind an overturned jeep, looking out sharply for the Nazi sniper and the gigantic Baron der Flammen.

…

Smitty held his breath as he watched Frogbot make his heroic rescue, then speed off towards the edge of the airfield, presumably to take the boy to safety. The Baron der Flammen had landed, dropped off that damn sniper, and moved out of sight, probably because there was less cover from the smoke towards the edge of the airfield, and Smitty had another good vantage point.

_Smart move, ya Kraut, or I’d already have ventilated you too._

He checked the area with his scope, saw John taking cover behind an overturned jeep fifty feet or so from the large pile of wreckage.

_Focus_.

Smitty _looked_ hard, his mechanical eye zooming in with a whir on the wreckage, scanning for any sign of movement. He caught a glint of light on something and immediately fired, rolling to his left just as the sniper’s round slammed into the building where his head just was.

He slid low along the edge of the wall and came up at a different window, carefully scanning for movement.

_There_.

The sniper had moved to get a shot on John, who was inching around his cover trying to pinpoint the Nazi’s location.

_Deep breath. Let it out slow. Squeeze_.

The round hit the edge of an overturned truck bed, showering the sniper with metal fragments and ruining his shot. John ran forward and dove against the edge of the rubble, peeking up to get close. Smitty could see the ground around John turning white with frost, and knew that the Artic Wolf was preparing to lay down a beating.

The fire suddenly started picking up in the building as heat and smoke poured into the room Smitty was in. Rounds began tearing into his hiding spot and Smitty turned and ran, taking a flight of steps down and then leaping out of the back of a first floor window to roll onto the ground. He flattened against the wall, the sniper around the corner but over 100 feet away.

A british sergeant ran up next to him, Enfield in hand.

“Right-o, I saw that git what took a shot at ya guv. He’s just about right there…”, the fellow told him, edging his head around the corner to get a look.

“Wait dummy, he’s…” Smitty began to warn him.

But too late. The round hit the Tommy in his right eye, shearing off a large section of skull and sending the man spinning to the ground, spraying Smitty with his blood.

“…a bloody damn good shot”, Smitty finished uselessly.

Smitty realized that _Ein Schuß_ probably thought that the poor Brit was him, and smiled mirthlessly as he concentrated and stepped back into his realm of shadows, running across and down the runway unseen and unheard towards another covering position.

…

John was getting worried. He thought he’d be able to spot the damn sniper, especially as he fired, but every time he peeked up he nearly lost his head for the effort. And not only that, but the Kraut seemed to somehow draw the shadows around him, and the whole pile of wreckage was getting darker than the surrounding night.

He was about to be alone with the best shot he’d ever seen. In the dark. In the open. 

_Why the hell do I always end up in a situation like this_, he berated himself as he tried to slide quietly towards the end of a jeep that he thought he might have heard the last shot come from.

…

Bulwark noted that the smoke was getting heavier near him as he lay, on his back, wondering why he had not noticed just how pretty the stars could be at night. Did they have different stars here, or were his folks back in the good ‘ol U.S. looking at the same ones, and just not noticing it? 

He shook his head as the sound of German voices came to him.

Getting to his feet, he recovered his shield and quietly slipped off the fizzing and popping remnants of his jetpack, trying to avoid the parts of it that were still red-hot.

Moving quietly and trying not to cough, he slipped up on the 9-foot Nazi, Baron der Flammen, and a smaller, weasel-ish SS officer.

“Ve have ze book, Baron. Ve must go. _Ein Schuß_ has chosen his destiny, his death vill give us time to flee! Der Fuhrer vould be proud. Now ve _must_ go! Der Flieger has ze book, and ze boy is lost to us!” the weaseley officer pleaded as the smoke swirled and gathered around Baron der Flammen.

_Fella shoulda played more sports as a kid, maybe he wouldn’t be so darn peckish._ _And nasally_, Bulwark thought to himself as he crept closer. _Can’t stand those whiney, bookish sorts. I bet a good thump would straighten him right out,_ his line of thought continued, nodding to himself.

He chose that moment to spring up from his crouch close to the Nazis, shield held forth and right hand curled into a meaty fist, pieces of turf still clinging to his head and uniform.

“Stand down, foul beasts of the Reich! I can shield myself against your horrid flames, for you face the Bulwark of…” he began bellowing.

The SS Officer gasped in surprise and brought his hands up to shield himself, but the Baron der Flammen merely turned and extended a hand at Bulwark, who tensed in preparation of deflecting his streaming flames.

The smoke that had been swirling around the two Nazis suddenly coalesced into a stinking, roiling, congealed mass and shot straight out at Bulwark, rolling around his shield and hitting him full on in the face in mid-sentence.

“…Justiccccaaaaarrgghh koff koff gaaaahhh” Bulwark finished as he doubled over, coughing and vomiting again. The greasy, caustic black smoke burned and stuck to his eyes, sinuses and lungs, stinging and making his entire world spin once more as he gasped for breath. 

Bulwark felt like the cloud weighed a thousand pounds as it continued to pour in on him from the Nazi, bearing him down to the ground under its tremendous weight as his vision tunneled in sharply, then turned black with a little _pop_.

The Baron der Flammen abated his caustic cloud as it overcame the injured American, and then stepped towards him with the intention of stepping on the annoying little insect’s head and ridding himself of this nuisance.

The SS Officer grabbed his sleeve, one hand laid up next to his head as if thinking hard. 

“No, Baron, ze android approaches, I sense him. Ve cannot afford any more delay.”

The Baron took one last, longing look at Bulwark’s near-helpless form, then grabbed the SS Officer and sprang away, flying low and gathering the smoke around him for concealment.

Seconds later, Frogbot trotted up, on the scent of the Nazis, and tripped over the choking Bulwark.

“Oui? What is zees? Ze Bulwark has been overcome by ze noxious clouds, yes?” he said, bending to scoop up Bulwark and carry him out of the smoke.

He sat him down, reviewed his utter lack of first aid in his programming. Frogbot shrugged his shoulders, bent Bulwark double, and squeezed his sides as hard as possible. There might have been a couple snapping sounds, but Frogbot was lost to them as black smoke and vomit poured out of the shield-bearing American, who began coughing and sputtering more normally.

“Ha-HA! Frogbot has feexed you, Bulwark! Now I am ze doctor too! Oui, a promotion!” Frogbot happily stated as his rank insignia flipped on his uniform, displaying his self-appointed new status. Bulwark groaned and threw up again. Frogbot heard a shot close by and John yell, then rapidly tore of in that direction.

…

Smitty took up a new position, watching John move into the near darkness. He brought his rifle up, pointing the scope directly at where he thought the Nazi sniper was. The light was better for the Nazi at this new angle, and glinted dreadfully off of the glass of his scope.

Just as he feared, there was a flash extending from the darkness and the round came straight at him, passing through his scope and on through his right eye.

Leaving him, and his weapon, totally unharmed.

Smitty concentrated, forcing his body and his gear to leave the phantom place where he had straddled it half-way, visible but incorporeal to the touch.

As soon as he felt the warmth and sound of the real world slam into him, he fired.

There was an ‘oofff’ sound and the darkness instantly cleared. He had a view of the bleeding Nazi looking surprised, then smiling and nodding at him as if to say “oh, nice trick”, as John leapt at him.

John poured his cold into the man as he grabbed him, who screamed and batted him away with his rifle. _Ein Schuß _flipped backwards over the rubble, and John rushed him, leaping at him snarling.

And was hit with a feeling of exquisite shock and pain as the 12.7 mm round the Nazi fired took him hard in the shoulder and flipped him backwards. He could taste his own blood as his entire right arm went numb, and he could feel his body begin to shake as shock raced to catch up with him. Grimacing against the pain and tunnel vison, he swung out wildly at the Nazi, slapping his rifle aside and clipping his chin. The German sniper jumped away again and turned back to John, who swayed unsteadily on his feet, blood starting to drool from the corner of his mouth.

Right into the rushing arms of Frogbot. _Ein Schuß_ smiled at John as he raised the rifle, then two strange, clawed arms reached around both sides of his head and slammed into his rifle.

_Ein Schuß_ looked in shock at the remnants of his custom made tool of the trade, then concentrated to bring the darkness back around the three of them once again.

But not to escape. The wounds he had suffered would keep him from being able to run, the tricky American had punctured his lung with that last shot.

Not that he wanted to. No, he knew he was to die here, for the glory of the Fatherland. For his family, his daughter at home, his honor. And he knew that he had one chance to choose the way of his dying.

Pulling his father’s Luger, he ran out of the darkness, straight at Smitty, laughing and firing at the American as he rushed to embrace the death that he had dealt to so many. With honor, once again.

The first shot took him in the chest, the second in the stomach as he flipped backwards with the impact. His legs curled painfully under him as he fell to his knees and then backwards, sprawled on his back in the road. Father’s Luger lay nearby.

_Ein Schuß_ struggled to peer ahead, and saw the American advancing warily with his handgun drawn, watched him kick the treasured Luger away into the mud. He saw the black blood of the newest wound. Yes, the shot to the liver would finish him quick. He felt his doubly-punctured lung fill with blood, knowing that even an Ubermensch’s advanced healing could not save him. And he almost felt relieved.

…

Smitty stopped short of the crazed Nazi, laying there with at least four rounds in his midsection, the nut laying there _smiling_ at him as he barely clung to life. 

The man tried to say something, then coughed, thick gobbets of blood spattering his uniform.

“What was that?” Smitty asked, .45 levelled with both hands at the German’s head. “You so much as move, and I’ll plug ya again, alright?”

The German spit, and then spoke softly, a bubbling of damaged lungs evident in his words.

“I… zaid… nice shot. Zat was a good trick zere… at ze end… <cough> cigarette?”

Smitty tensed, conscious of trickery, but then took out his pack of Luckies and carefully put on in the man’s mouth while keeping him covered with the pistol. He then lit it, and one of his own, with his zippo.

The German took a shaky drag, coughing blood, before speaking again.

“You have ze… talent… boy… <cough>… be… careful...”

The German takes another drag, blood running down the corners of his mouth as he exhales.

“Be careful… you call me ‘monster’ when you fight… but… <cough> ‘When one fights with monsters, on should look to it… that he does not become a monster… When you gaze deep into the Abyss, the Abyss gazes also into you’… "

“Nietzsche said zat… remember it…”

“Damn Hitler and vat he has… <cough> done to us…”

The Nazi then laughed, a horrible sputtering sucking sound coming from his chest when he did. His legs twitched, his hands clenching uncontrollably as blood began running, and not merely pumping in spurts from his wounds.

“I vonder vat… he vould think if he knew that… my grandmother vas a Jew… hah… vould he take back my Iron cross…” he said, and chuckled bloodily at his own personal joke. Then there was a long sigh as his eyes stared off into space, unfocused, and his legs quit twitching as he became very, very still.

Frogbot approached with the broken rifle, a wounded John and Bulwark in tow. Smitty took a long drag off of his cigarette and looked at the others.

“Lemme see that rifle, Froggie”, he said, taking the rifle from him. It was a beautiful piece of work (now ruined) that took special high caliber rounds. There was an inscription on the side, the man’s Uber name “ein Schuß, eine Tötung_”,_ and on the other, “Finger des Gottes”.

“What does that mean”, Smitty asked, pointing to the writing. “I don’t speak Kraut”.

Frogbot and John looked at it, and John spoke.

“I’m not entirely sure, but ‘ein Schuß, eine Tötung’ means ‘One Shot, One Kill’…”, he said, Smitty nodding his head in understanding.

“…and I believe that 'Finger des Gottes' is meant to be the name of the rifle. ‘Finger of god’. Heh. Appropriate, huh?” John finished with a nervous chuckle, clenching his shoulder wound with a pale face, his unnatural healing already stemming the blood flow.

Smitty just looked at it, then back at the dead German, and put it in his pack.

John spoke up again.

“Say Smitty, what was it he was saying to you there, when he was dyin’ and all, and you gave ‘im the smoke?”

Smitty looked back at the body for a moment, taking a long drag off of his cigarette. He crushed the butt out on his heel and dropped it in his pocket.

“Nothin’. Nothin’ important. C’mon, let’s gather up and help the wounded, the rest of ‘em are long gone. We gotta focus on the living.”

Nothing but the task at hand.

As they walked away, Smitty stopped and turned back for a moment, picking up the man’s Luger and his medal and putting them into his pack. Smitty thought once again about that cold, emotionless place, and then about the warmth of a kind face. He shivered once and drew his field jacket closer around him as he caught up with the others.


----------



## Pierce

Dang, led, heck of an update.  Thanks for your work on Smitty.  Every time you post I get the itch to go and play him some more!


----------



## Angcuru

Wowzers.


----------



## Paxr0mana

In the end, victory shall go to the Supers with the coolest Code Names.


----------



## threshel

Yes!
Awesome update.


J


----------



## Broccli_Head

Nice update! Really liked ein Shub's dying words, and Smitty's reflections.


----------



## Rel

Impressive, Ledded.  The events of this latest update were wicked cool.  But what most impresses me is the brilliance of your story telling.  I think this is your best writing yet and that is saying something.

Good show.


----------



## ledded

Pierce said:
			
		

> Dang, led, heck of an update. Thanks for your work on Smitty. Every time you post I get the itch to go and play him some more!



Hey man, _you_ play him well, I just write him up later.  Keep on making him interesting, and I'll keep writing.  I do have to say, he's had his time in the sun lately, and it's been fun writing it up, even if I did make some of the stuff up from just how you play him .  Thanks for the comments.



			
				Angcuru said:
			
		

> Wowzers.



 Thanks!



			
				Paxr0mana said:
			
		

> In the end, victory shall go to the Supers with the coolest Code Names.



  Hmmm... that does not bode well, for the heroes have yet to encounter the dreaded Nazi android, Ejaculatron.  



			
				threshel said:
			
		

> Yes! Awesome update.



 Thanks.  Guys, threshel is on an incredible roll with his own SH effort.  It is a _must read_.  Rocked my socks off, and I'm still lookin' for 'em.



			
				Broccli_Head said:
			
		

> Nice update! Really liked ein Shub's dying words, and Smitty's reflections.



  Thanks much.  He was a favorite bad guy of mine in this campaign, mainly because snipers are soooo annoying to players, especially Uber-snipers.  



			
				Rel said:
			
		

> Impressive, Ledded. The events of this latest update were wicked cool. But what most impresses me is the brilliance of your story telling. I think this is your best writing yet and that is saying something.
> Good show.



Damn nice thing to say man, I'm all embarressed.  I feel like Donkey in the Shrek movie...

"Didja hear that, he call me a 'noble steed'!  I'm a _steed_!"

Thanks.  The events sort of just came from how the guys reacted, and the fact that Eyas (John/Artic Wolf) and myself (Bulwark) couldnt roll for jack all night long, while Frogbot and Smitty were whacking everything in sight.  And after having their lunches smashed into their faces the last few encounters with Nazi ubers, they were _itching_ to really masticate some bad guys, especially since they had recently levelled and 'applied' themselves a little better.

I really appreciate the nice comments folks, so much that I may just have to start on the next update soon.

Preview:  In the next issue, join our team of misfits as they investigate the source of impossible Nazi bombing raids from Norway, the disappearance of a British Destroyer group, the appearance a mysterious Nazi island and then Frogbot shows us how to Properly Disarm a Steel Door Alarm (tm).  We'll meet a frighteningly effective new ESS, Moose and Hank return to action hale and healthy once again, and we further explore what it is that the group has against airplanes.


----------



## ledded

Almost forgot...

I posted up a few new pics of our game table that came directly from the last issue posted above.  Check out Ledded's Miniatures thread, link in my sig.


----------



## Peterson

ledded said:
			
		

> Preview:  In the next issue, join our team of misfits as they investigate the source of impossible Nazi bombing raids from Norway, the disappearance of a British Destroyer group, the appearance a mysterious Nazi island and then Frogbot shows us how to Properly Disarm a Steel Door Alarm (tm).  We'll meet a frighteningly effective new ESS, Moose and Hank return to action hale and healthy once again, and we further explore what it is that the group has against airplanes.





_*Hellayeah!!!!!*_

I can't wait.  Seriously, ledded, I back up Rel's comments above - you're writing went over the top this time.  Excellently done.  Thanks for another great read.

Peterson


----------



## Rel

ledded said:
			
		

> Almost forgot...
> 
> I posted up a few new pics of our game table that came directly from the last issue posted above.  Check out Ledded's Miniatures thread, link in my sig.




It isn't terribly pressing or anything, but you might want to update that thread title to reflect the proper date.


----------



## Paxr0mana

ledded said:
			
		

> Hmmm... that does not bode well, for the heroes have yet to encounter the dreaded Nazi android, Ejaculatron.




Sounds like Smitty and the others would be in a real sticky situation if they met him.

*twitch*

I'd like to apologize now.


----------



## Mortepierre

ledded said:
			
		

> He sat him down, reviewed his utter lack of first aid in his programming. Frogbot shrugged his shoulders, bent Bulwark double, and squeezed his sides as hard as possible. There might have been a couple snapping sounds, but Frogbot was lost to them as black smoke and vomit poured out of the shield-bearing American, who began coughing and sputtering more normally.
> 
> “Ha-HA! Frogbot has feexed you, Bulwark! Now I am ze doctor too! Oui, a promotion!” Frogbot happily stated as his rank insignia flipped on his uniform, displaying his self-appointed new status. Bulwark groaned and threw up again.




*Pri-ce-less!*

I must say, I am quite happy to have been led to this SH. Initially, I didn't think I would enjoy anything not set in a medieval setting but you proved me wrong. Took me a few days to read it all but now I can't wait for the next part.

Well done!


----------



## ledded

Mortepierre said:
			
		

> *Pri-ce-less!*
> 
> I must say, I am quite happy to have been led to this SH. Initially, I didn't think I would enjoy anything not set in a medieval setting but you proved me wrong. Took me a few days to read it all but now I can't wait for the next part.
> 
> Well done!



Welcome!  I'm glad you stopped in.  And since you are listed in under your avatar as being from Western Europe, I hope *any* familiarity with the German language and actual German accents that you may have are not too terribly offended by my linguistic ignorance .

I'm glad that you enjoyed it, especially if you are normally accustomed to a D&D/Medieval setting.  If you even remotely like it, you should *really* check out my regular GM's story hour "Medallions"  (link in my sig).  It is a d20 Modern story hour set in, well, 'modern' times  in our very own hometown of 1.3 million people.  Jonrog1, Heapthaumaturgist, and several others have some very good modern setting story hours also.  If you have the time, check them out.

And to my other 7 readers , please drop by Mortepierre's story hour, so far he is rocking the socks off of pretty much anyone who stops by.  It's D&D Story Hour at it's finest!

Side note:  I'm in the middle of changing jobs, so my writing time will probably go down for a while.  But, in the midst of working out my notice I hope to get the next issue to the newstands.


----------



## Mortepierre

ledded said:
			
		

> Welcome!  I'm glad you stopped in.  And since you are listed in under your avatar as being from Western Europe, I hope *any* familiarity with the German language and actual German accents that you may have are not too terribly offended by my linguistic ignorance .




<laughs> I don't know why but when you tell people you come from Western Europe, they automatically assume you're German. Don't worry, that's not the case. If anything, I would rather be offended by Frogbot's accent (being french speaking myself).

Have no fear. I am not french, so I actually found it highly amusing. Reminds me of the old Bugs Bunny cartoons and the way "french" characters speak in it  



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> If you even remotely like it, you should *really* check out my regular GM's story hour "Medallions"  (link in my sig).  It is a d20 Modern story hour set in, well, 'modern' times  in our very own hometown of 1.3 million people.  Jonrog1, Heapthaumaturgist, and several others have some very good modern setting story hours also.  If you have the time, check them out.




That was my intention. Just give me a few weeks to read them all. Lots of posts in there!  

Thanks to you, Chapter 1 of my SH will be late. Can't write and read at the same time


----------



## ledded

Mortepierre said:
			
		

> <laughs> I don't know why but when you tell people you come from Western Europe, they automatically assume you're German. Don't worry, that's not the case. If anything, I would rather be offended by Frogbot's accent (being french speaking myself).
> 
> Have no fear. I am not french, so I actually found it highly amusing. Reminds me of the old Bugs Bunny cartoons and the way "french" characters speak in it



Oh, I didnt assume that you were German at all, it's just that Germany is, well, _really close_ to Western Europe, so I figured you were much more familiar with the German language/people than I, and probably sat there once or twice going "oh man, why to people think that Germans always talk like _that_ .  

And I probably would have said something about Frogbot's horribly obvious french stereotyping, as he is most likely *highly* offensive to someone hailing from France that might be sensitive about these kinds of things, but *I* am in no way responsible for him.  That is OldDrewId's department, he is the sole, and unapologetic creative force behind all the things that Frogbot does and says. 

But I really don't worry about it too much as this is a game and not a political commentary (as if there were that much difference). I live in the Southern U.S. and you wouldnt believe the stereotypes and things people assume about us .  All in good fun, etc. 



			
				Mortepierre said:
			
		

> That was my intention. Just give me a few weeks to read them all. Lots of posts in there!
> 
> Thanks to you, Chapter 1 of my SH will be late. Can't write and read at the same time



Cool.  Though I hate that I'm responsible for the lateness of your SH, which I'm totally digging right now, but I'm happy to have you aboard.  Jonrog1 did a story hour similar to this one a while back that while pretty short, was far superior in style and content.  It was called something like 'Nadia Tesla and the Agents of Extraordinary Caliber', and was quite frankly the funniest and coolest Story Hour I've ever read.  If you do a search I believe it's still out there somewhere on enworld.

Well, everyone wish me a happy Birthday today (turning 35).  I'm now off to get ready for my birthday party, which will involve the whole Medallions gang (plus some folks) coming over to my house to grill large quantities of meat, drink beer, and catch some serious college football rivalries.


----------



## Mortepierre

ledded said:
			
		

> Oh, I didnt assume that you were German at all, it's just that Germany is, well, _really close_ to Western Europe, so I figured you were much more familiar with the German language/people than I, and probably sat there once or twice going "oh man, why to people think that Germans always talk like _that_ .




Well, they do actually *coughs*

Kidding guys!  

Being one of their close neighbours, I can joke about it. Heck! We all joke about each others here. That's the good thing about having so many countries packed tight  



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> And I probably would have said something about Frogbot's horribly obvious french stereotyping, as he is most likely *highly* offensive to someone hailing from France that might be sensitive about these kinds of things, but *I* am in no way responsible for him.  That is OldDrewId's department, he is the sole, and unapologetic creative force behind all the things that Frogbot does and says.




As long as he continue to be funny, I can't fault him for it  



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> Cool. Though I hate that I'm responsible for the lateness of your SH, which I'm totally digging right now, but I'm happy to have you aboard. Jonrog1 did a story hour similar to this one a while back that while pretty short, was far superior in style and content.  It was called something like 'Nadia Tesla and the Agents of Extraordinary Caliber', and was quite frankly the funniest and coolest Story Hour I've ever read.  If you do a search I believe it's still out there somewhere on enworld.




Will do. Damn, but there are a lot of good new SH out there! 24 hours-long days just aren't enough  



			
				ledded said:
			
		

> Well, everyone wish me a happy Birthday today (turning 35).  I'm now off to get ready for my birthday party.




HAPPY B-DAY!

Now that you've turned 35, that's two things we have in common: age and a love for good SH


----------



## Vigilance

Looks great as always ledded and group 

(Yeah, I dont read this story hour enough, but hey, I have stuff going on 

Chuck


----------



## ledded

Thanks for stopping by again Chuck. Just kiddin' with ya about not stopping by more often .

For those who have been keeping up with this little story, I'm sorry I havent posted in such a long time. Changed jobs and with the holidays I've been *very* busy. Plus, I've been working on a couple writing projects, one of which may be a d20 Modern-based WWII/supers adventure in PDF form that someone has approached me with an idea for. No details yet, but it should be fun to do if I can get around to it.

Hopefully things will settle down in the coming weeks, and I'll try to get a few updates done. The next part of the story is fairly straightforward, but then leads to some of my favorite action, including a whole evening of gaming that was played with the party entirely in WWII aircraft fending off a massive wave of Nazi bombers/fighters, which was a huge ton of fun to do.


----------



## Peterson

ledded said:
			
		

> For those who have been keeping up with this little story, I'm sorry I havent posted in such a long time. Changed jobs and with the holidays I've been *very* busy.




No worries - so long as you keep with the updating on a far more regular basis than JonRog.  



> Plus, I've been working on a couple writing projects, one of which may be a d20 Modern-based WWII/supers adventure in PDF form that someone has approached me with an idea for. No details yet, but it should be fun to do if I can get around to it.




Indeed?  Well, don't let that writing get in the way of your updating - not too much at least.  Here's to hoping you can get around to that pdf.



> Hopefully things will settle down in the coming weeks, and I'll try to get a few updates done. The next part of the story is fairly straightforward, but then leads to some of my favorite action, including a whole evening of gaming that was played with the party entirely in WWII aircraft fending off a massive wave of Nazi bombers/fighters, which was a huge ton of fun to do.




AWESOME!  Can't wait for that.

Peterson


----------



## pogre

Hey Ledded,

Just giving this baby a bit of a bump.

Listen, I'm running the first non-fantasy rpg for my group in a long time. I need some tips on scenery. I really do not want to spend tons of time on it - I want to focus my modeling, painting, etc. on the fantasy genre. Anything you can recommend? I need stuff for trailers and downtown cityscapes and stuff like that. I would have posted on your mini thread, but it's buried and I have not bothered to re-up my CS account.

The game is set in modern St. Louis - check out my website for an account of the first session.


----------



## Peterson

pogre said:
			
		

> Hey Ledded,
> 
> Just giving this baby a bit of a bump.
> 
> Listen, I'm running the first non-fantasy rpg for my group in a long time. I need some tips on scenery. I really do not want to spend tons of time on it - I want to focus my modeling, painting, etc. on the fantasy genre. Anything you can recommend? I need stuff for trailers and downtown cityscapes and stuff like that. I would have posted on your mini thread, but it's buried and I have not bothered to re-up my CS account.
> 
> The game is set in modern St. Louis - check out my website for an account of the first session.




Pogre,

I know that ledded is still adjusting to his new job, and it might be a few days before this catches his eye.  I will, however, shoot him an email and see if I can't draw him outta hiding...as well as beg for an update.

Peterson


----------



## ledded

pogre said:
			
		

> Hey Ledded,
> 
> Just giving this baby a bit of a bump.
> 
> Listen, I'm running the first non-fantasy rpg for my group in a long time. I need some tips on scenery. I really do not want to spend tons of time on it - I want to focus my modeling, painting, etc. on the fantasy genre. Anything you can recommend? I need stuff for trailers and downtown cityscapes and stuff like that. I would have posted on your mini thread, but it's buried and I have not bothered to re-up my CS account.
> 
> The game is set in modern St. Louis - check out my website for an account of the first session.




Sorry I havent gotten around to answering, been too busy at work/home to do much on ENWorld.

I can certainly give you some advice;  I love decent-to-good terrain that you can do with a minimum of money and/or effort.

Feel free to email me for more specific stuff, you can reach me at (phonetically spelled)

Jay Eye M Eye AT hiwaay DOT net

Here are some general tips:

1)  Dont forget your fantasy stuff.  With the right props, some of your Hirst Arts, etc can be very viable and even work well.  Most major cities have older buildings, especially old churches and whatnot that are similar enough to be usuable.

2)  Inexpensive and decent plastic stuff.

There are a few companies that make O-Scale (1/48) plastic buildings- Bachman, K-Line, etc under the product line like "Plasticville".  O-Scale is, strictly speaking, a little big for the 28mm miniature scale, however I've had the best results with it;  the doorways are sized appropriately and it fits the eye better than stuff that is 1/64.  You can find this stuff on ebay for reasonable prices, and usually only requires a short paint-up.  Very playable;  they assemble so that you can keep the roof unglued and even easily add second floors to buildings that have more than one floor. 

Also, start cruising the dollar stores, Wal Mart, sale isles in toy stores, etc for good stuff.  You can get big sets of construction stuff that is very close in scale that will give you several vehicles, a ton of bitz like barrels, signs, etc, and big things like cranes or a giant power antenna for around 10 bucks at Toys-R-Us (our local store still has the ones we bought over 1 1/2 years ago).  1:50 scale diecast or plastic cars are good;  I actually bought a 1:50 18-wheeler with it's trailer from a local Dollar store-like place for $3.00, and it has been a *very* good addition.  Tons of diecast and whatnot that can cost anywhere from 50 cents to $5.00 each, and you can find them on ebay too in large "used" or played-with lots for extra value.  1:64 scale can work sometimes, but next to a 28mm mini they look a bit too small to the eye (it's an illusion, but it's the same reason why miniature manufacturers make minis so "thick" in the limbs and torso, so they will look "right" at that scale when viewed from a playable distance).  

Cheap plastic military toy sets are a treasure trove of different bits and pieces that can be usefull;  their scale varies so widely with their stuff (54mm army men most often come with tanks that fit 28-30mm minis quite well) that you can get some usable buildings and bits.

O-scale train accessory kits have been great for little details like mailboxes, garbage cans/dumpsters, phone booths, park benches/playground equipment, etc so on and so forth.  Model Power, K-Line, and several others make them.  Cruise the O-Scale accessories category on ebay under Toy Trains to get an idea of what you can find.  Things like bridges, small towers, and all kinds of stuff you can get if you keep your eyes open for a good deal.  I bought a big box of stuff for $20 (including shipping) that gave me a metal girdered bridge that is 4 inches wide by 18 inches long, support columns for it, several usuable street lights, a water tower, and a couple other very usable buildings.

Heroclix has a couple sets of terrain that are very cool to use (indoor and outdoor), but a little pricey (around $15.00 for a set with 4 items in it);  however, if you keep an eye out at your FLGS, you can find those pieces in the 50 cent clix box and snap 'em up.  And they're painted well enough to not need another paint job unlike a lot of the toy stuff.

3)  Printable/punchout cardstock assembled buildings. 

Even easier and cheaper are some of the cardboard-cutouts.  I know, I know, most miniature purists dont like a lot of the card stuff, but some of it can save you a lot of work and time, and are just good enough for mixing in with "real" buildings to be usable.

We still use our oooolllddd Games Workship Mordheim card buildings (from a base set and the Blood on the Streets expansion) for ruined areas, mixing them in with "whole" buildings if it's a bad part of town, and they work ok.  Not especially modern, but easy to put together and very *playable*.  Their "thin-ness" can be a little unsettling, but they make up for it in rich colors and nice shapes/styles for ruins.  If you base them on a piece of MDF/Tempered Hardboard and then flock that with a little extra detail, they are much nicer;  be warned that you sometimes can't get as good of a tight-packed city block feel if you do that.  I've even worked in a few Warhammer / WH 40k buildings, but they don't work quite as well.  The people who make the Warzone game/line of minis and a company called 21st Century games both have some decent paper stuff also, but I think most of it is out of print and hard to find.

Another alternative are one like Microtactix makes, their Twilight Street 1 & 2 and Mad Lab 1 & 2 are great fun.  They are a little flat and not quite as playable as the others, but nicely done graphically and fit very well together in a modern urban environment.  I've heard their Dirt Cheep Skyscrapers are pretty decent also, though I've not used them.  If you can print them on 110lb cardstock (I got a big packet at my local Office Depot for about $9.00 or something like that and still have plenty) they will be sturdy enough just putting together without extra reinforcement.  We've used ours for over a year without crushing or mutilating a single one.  Not the easiest things to cut out and assemble sometimes, but not hard, and about 5 hours of cutting-and-glue will give you enough buildings for a couple blocks.  Some of the buildings have some nice 3-dimensional features like overhangs, fire escapes, etc that set off the fact that they are card cutouts quite nicely.  They have been some of our favorites to mix in with the plasticville and Hirst stuff.

http://www.microtactix.com/newsite/ccrmain.shtml

Links to individual sets will send you to RPGNow, where you can purchase them.

There are other sets out there also, not specifically modern but possibly usable for you from WorldWyrks,  the Whitewash City line (cant remember the manufacturer) etc, but Microtactix's Twilight City and Mad Labs have much better color/detail.  Check out the paper miniature forums on RPGNow for lots of stuff, but beware some of the cheaper stuff that looks a bit crayon-ish in the pictures;  in real life it's much worse .  Most of the good manufacturers have samples you can download, print, and assemble and I'd do that first to see if you like it.

4)  Scratch build.

The easiest thing I did for scratch building was to download a couple Games Workshop Cityfight templates off of their site, cut out some foamcore like they said on their template, glue together.  I actually sprayed mine with textured spray paint, then primed that black when it was dry, then some drybrushing and it looks pretty good.  More work, but cheaper and easier.  Dress them up with a decent base and some detailing like tiny printed color posters and other bits and they will look ok.  You can also mix balsa/basswood "timbers" with pieces of foamcore to get a style similar to english Tudor; spread a little spackle here and there on the flat foamcore and you have some decent and fairly easy stuff.

That's it in a nutshell.  O-scale plastic stuff, the better paper-cutout stuff, your original Hirst Arts with a few toy bits here and there, and scratch building with foamcore/balsa/etc are some of the best bargains for the buck.  If you (or anyone else) have any other questions feel free to email me.  A lot of this stuff is viewable in the minis thread whose link is in my sig;  you'll see everything from Hirst Arts to Twilight Street to Plasticville all over in that stuff.


----------



## Angcuru

Ledded, buddy.  Any chance we can see an update soon?  

*thinly disguised _bump_*


----------



## papakee

*next update?*

Any idea on a next update?  The fate of the allies hangs in the balance.


----------



## ledded

papakee said:
			
		

> Any idea on a next update? The fate of the allies hangs in the balance.




Work work work.

All work and no play makes ledded a very... unpopular writer .

I'll try to get to an update I've had brewing in my notes soon, if for no better reason than there are a few things I've been wanting to write up for a while, and another campaign idea on the horizon that I'm a little pumped about right now.

But between much work, learning new things at work, studying for my MCSD at my advanced age , my kid's baseball/boy scouts/dance/etc I have had precious little free time.  Hopefully there will be some more balance soon and I can get some writing time on the radar.  Maybe in the next couple weeks?


----------



## Gideon

Just read throught this story and I must admit it is awesome.  I have recently been playing M&M superhero games and it is really interesting to see how another system works.  I haven't made it through all of Band of Brothers but so far it has been been amazing.  I think I'll have to push through the rest of the HBO series soon.


----------



## ledded

Gideon said:
			
		

> Just read throught this story and I must admit it is awesome. I have recently been playing M&M superhero games and it is really interesting to see how another system works. I haven't made it through all of Band of Brothers but so far it has been been amazing. I think I'll have to push through the rest of the HBO series soon.




Wow, I didnt expect to pick up any new readers considering how infrequently I update, but welcome nonetheless.  I've heard from lots of folks that M&M is a great game, and I'd love to try it one day, but our group had an easier time digesting something that was d20 while still emulating the genre admirably and fitting seamlessly with d20 Modern.

On an update related note, I did sit down and do some writing for the first time in a while last night (having no time at work to get anything done but, well, work  ) so there *will* be an update sometime sooner or later.  May be later than sooner, but it's getting some work done on it.


----------



## Peterson

An update?  Sooner or later?

AWESOME!

Can't wait bud...I want to see some more Frogbot!

Peterson


----------



## Mortepierre

ledded said:
			
		

> Work work work.
> 
> All work and no play makes ledded a very... unpopular writer




You and me both, man!

Still, after a two months hiatus, I took the time and my next update is about ready (it was either that or watch Pogre start crying  ). So, I am bumping this baby. Maybe seeing it back on page 1 will inspire you to do the same   

BUMP


----------



## Arkhandus

I'm going to *bump* this in hopes of an update soon.


----------



## Lamprolign

Yes! Many clamor for more of this story!    ...although I really shouldn't talk since I haven't exactly been keeping my story up to date.


----------



## Mortepierre

<waves his *WE WANT FROGBOT* flag>


----------



## Mortepierre

<walks through cobwebs>

Hello? Anybody home?

<blows the dust off>

<coughs>

This needs a fresh update, methink


----------



## Peterson

Mortepierre said:
			
		

> <walks through cobwebs>
> 
> Hello? Anybody home?
> 
> <blows the dust off>
> 
> <coughs>
> 
> This needs a fresh update, methink





Won't happen too soon, I assure you.  I have it on good authority that the writer of this tale is on vacation.

I think it's the kind that involves orderlies and white jackets that let you hug yourself.

Peterson


----------



## ledded

Peterson said:
			
		

> Won't happen too soon, I assure you. I have it on good authority that the writer of this tale is on vacation.
> 
> I think it's the kind that involves orderlies and white jackets that let you hug yourself.
> 
> Peterson




Heh.

Thanks Peterson.  Always trust you to get to the heart of the matter, as it were.  

Back from my sojourn to the Redneck Riviera (Florida-Alabama panhandle beaches for those of ya'll who ain't in the know), and actually did take the time to dust off my old writing pad and work on the long dormant update for this story hour while avoiding sharks and staring at drunken cheerleader convention groups, though I do wish I would have had Orderlies as then I could have had someone _else_ to walk down that hot beach to Pineapple Willie's to get me my Fat Tuesday Frozen Margeritas. I'd like to get a few more updates in before we start this new Sci-Fi campaign that we have coming up, as I'm a bit excited to do a little SH writing in that if I can. Plus, we're not that far from where we left off of this one, and some pretty fun stuff happened in the latter issues of this comic (including an episode of high-flying dogfight derring-do, or if not exactly derring-do, at least a good bit of screaming and aerial destruction).

Thanks for the continued bumps folks, I know I've been a bit distracted since I last updated but I'll try to get those last few updates in sometime soon.


----------



## Peterson

ledded said:
			
		

> Heh.
> 
> Thanks Peterson.  Always trust you to get to the heart of the matter, as it were.




My pleasure ledded.  I remember how those "meds" make you forgetful.

Looking forward to both the update and the future Sci Fi SH.  

Peterson


----------



## Edward Kann@StoryART

*Ledded!*

Hey man,

Back from the dead as it were.  Looking forward to reading more of your stuff now that I'll be skulking the halls of EN World again.

Twins are doing great.  Big enough now that I can sit down and read a posting between playing baby wrangler.

Rocketship Empires and Tale of Girl were floating in the oceans of serious offers from various publishers.  At the San Diego COmic's convention they were finally picked up by someone with a vision that matches ours a bit better for where to take them.  

Look for a Rocketship Empires comic book to be coming out in the next twelve months at a comic book store near you along with a Tale of Girl graphic novel.

Books and movie stuff are also floating out there on the horizon of possibilities.

Just wanted to give you a hey.

Take care man.  Can't wait to hear from you.
Ed


----------



## ledded

Edward Kann@StoryART said:
			
		

> Hey man,
> 
> Back from the dead as it were. Looking forward to reading more of your stuff now that I'll be skulking the halls of EN World again.
> 
> Twins are doing great. Big enough now that I can sit down and read a posting between playing baby wrangler.




Glad to see ya back, man.  I know how it is with twins, I have twin girls (4 years) myself and a 7 year old boy.  Twins can be... an interesting challenge  



> Rocketship Empires and Tale of Girl were floating in the oceans of serious offers from various publishers. At the San Diego COmic's convention they were finally picked up by someone with a vision that matches ours a bit better for where to take them.
> 
> Look for a Rocketship Empires comic book to be coming out in the next twelve months at a comic book store near you along with a Tale of Girl graphic novel.
> 
> Books and movie stuff are also floating out there on the horizon of possibilities.
> 
> Just wanted to give you a hey.
> 
> Take care man. Can't wait to hear from you.
> Ed




Sounds great, I'm glad it's taking off for you nicely.  I look forward to seeing more of the Rocketship Empires stuff, I love what ya'll have done with it.  I'll be keeping my eyes open for it.

Maybe I'll try to get my back-burnered update for this SH finished up soon to give you something to skulk on.


----------



## Rel

ledded,

I saw you post in another thread and I just wanted to let you know that I've been thinking about you and yours down along the gulf coast.  I've got close family friends down in the middle of Mississippi and found out yesterday that they're ok.  I continue to send my well wishes and prayers to you guys and I hope that your other loved ones further south are doing alright too.


----------



## ledded

Thanks much Rel, I do appreciate it.

Luckily here in the 'Ham we just had a lot of downed trees and power outages, I'm having to go home from work every few hours to check on my neighbor's generator that is powering our refridgerators, since I'm pretty sure I can't apply to FEMA if I lose a few hundred bucks worth of groceries .  I've got all of our fallen trees (and a few of my neighbors) cleaned up, hopefully they will have the power back on soon (been out since Monday) but all in all we're taking it in stride as it could have been a lot worse, and is for a lot of folks.  There are numerous shelters set up in our area for folks from Mississippi and L.A. (Lower Alabama) and I had my kids go through their clothes and games last night to get together a few bags to take to the kids there.  Most of the folks I know near the gulf came out all right, thank goodness, but there are sure plenty that didnt.

So let me urge you folks, if you havent already, drop by the Red Cross website and donate a few bucks if you can;  a little bit from a lot of folks goes a long way.  There are literally hundreds of thousands of people down that way that dont have, and wont have, a home to go to anytime soon.

BTW, I *love* your tagline in the sig.  Hilarious.


----------



## ledded

Thanks again to the folks who have emailed me and posted in threads their concern over how folks fared here in the south, it is very much appreciated.


----------



## ledded

On a brighter note, Capellan of Q-Ship and other story hour fame stopped by this weekend while visiting friend in our fair city and shared an evening of gaming and gaming war stories with us.  We had a really good time, a lot of laughs, and much fun with Cap, who is quite the intelligent and fun gamer.  A consumate roleplayer, if you ever get a chance to game with him, run; do not walk to that table.   Thanks for the fun Cap.


----------



## PallidPatience

Please don't tell me this is the end of the story!

Hope that all's going well with you guys, and that whatever's holding up this wonderful tale is resolved soon!


----------



## ledded

No, not the end of the story.  Just got busy and stopped writing for a while (quite a while).   I was honestly kinda suprised to see someone ping it today 

I have a partial update that I should have dusted off and gotten finished a long, long time ago, but between work, home, kids, etc... well, ya'll know how it is, plus tastes of readers on the boards sort of trended towards games/stories that were very much unlike what I was writing.  We did have several more sessions of this before we sort of trailed off, and some of the latter sessions I had been looking very much forward to writing up.   Maybe if I can slap that obnoxious, apathetic muse awake I'll try to give it a shot again one day.

But thanks for stopping by, things are going pretty good with the group.  We did have a player leave a while back, and another (from these boards, no doubt) joined us a while after that.  Heapthaumaturgist started gaming with us a few months back and has been a load of fun, he's a hell of a gamer and an all-around fun, involved, and intelligent rpg'er.  He's unfortunately on a short haitus right now, but we look forward to having him back sometime soon.


----------



## Rel

I know how story hour burnout can be, ledded.  But I wanted to just add my voice to those who think this is one of the best story hours ever.


----------



## Pyske

ledded said:
			
		

> [...]plus tastes of readers on the boards sort of trended towards games/stories that were very much unlike what I was writing.




Hey, ledded, I don't know where you got that idea!  Anyway, I'm still here and enjoy your stories, I just don't want to guilt you too much when real life gets in the way of writing.

Guess it's that careful balance between being too demanding, and not encouraging enough.


----------



## Angcuru

More! *pounds fist on desk* *waves beer in other hand*


----------



## Sledge

Rel said:
			
		

> I know how story hour burnout can be, ledded.  But I wanted to just add my voice to those who think this is one of the best story hours ever.



I agree.  I would love to see this continued again!


----------



## ragboy

Come on buddy! Update, update, update!


----------



## PallidPatience

Awww. You made me all excited, Ragboy... 

But what he said.


----------



## ledded

Ok, I have been getting the itch to do some more writing, plus folks have been asking, so just wanted to pop in and say I did dust it off this weekend and work on it a bit.  I might try to post up a short update this week just to get some up, but I can't promise anything.  

On another note, our group has another occasional one-off campaign that is more like early-20th century pulp, lower powered than this game was, that I've been wanting to do some writing on that I may try to do a bit of.  Mostly it's because I've been really getting into some of the old Pulps and some newer takes on the old pulps, but there you go.   

I'll see if I can get some more finished up on this so as not to leave any loose ends, though to be honest, looking through my notes from a long time ago when we played this, I'm probably going to have to hand-wave (and outright make up) a lot more of it, which is good (because I have more creative freedom) and bad (because I can't write dialogue better than what the players normally spout in-game).

Thanks for showing interest folks, I'll try and pay you back for it by posting up something soon.

BTW, while I'm here, does anybody know of any good (or bad) Pulp-ish story hours out there?  Basically not modern-day modern, and not fantasy/D&D?  Just curious, havent had time to really scout it out.


- Ledded


----------



## ragboy

ledded said:
			
		

> BTW, while I'm here, does anybody know of any good (or bad) Pulp-ish story hours out there?  Basically not modern-day modern, and not fantasy/D&D?  Just curious, havent had time to really scout it out.




I can find nothing. That means you're the first and you'll corner the market. Go! Go! Go! 

I have a modern (as in modern day) pulp story I could post, but it just isn't the same as a story hour...


----------



## ledded

ragboy said:
			
		

> I can find nothing. That means you're the first and you'll corner the market. Go! Go! Go!




Heapthaumaturgist did a short pulp story hour that was Nocturnals-ish that I was really liking a long while back, but I dont remember the url.



> I have a modern (as in modern day) pulp story I could post, but it just isn't the same as a story hour...




Post it up somewhere, man, I'd love to read it.

And just so folks know, OldDrewId did a fantastic update (finally!) to the Medallions Story Hour this very day, so I will be trying to finish up my update sometime soon lest I perish from the shame.

If you havent caught the latest Medallions update, do so, and if you havent read Medallions... Go.  Now.  

Now, I say.


----------



## ragboy

ledded said:
			
		

> Post it up somewhere, man, I'd love to read it.




If you accept word/rtf docs, I'll just mail it to you. Still trying to get someone to buy it.


----------



## Murasame

*Bump!*

For great justice!


----------

