UrbanSamurai

Faznie Kotvar

It's not hard to find Sasha, not a lot of people go around these days fighting Luchadors, besides other Luchadors. Team rules are in effect, right? It doesn't look like there's a ref around to take charge over things like that anyways. Open a rift next to Luchador E. The rift spouts an active swarming killer beehive at him. Faznie Status: Fine World Line: 4 5 4 1 1 2 5 2 2 5 Alterations: 3 Resolve: 3

Faznie ".....Well, I should get going, not a lotta' daylight left. I need to catch up on what's going on, you can't get caught flat-footed in today's media environment. Shoot me a text and we can talk more about your company and all of its implications for ethic, okay Gucci Mane?" Faznie shoves a business card containing her name and contact information into Tor's palm. It lists her as "DIRECTOR/EDITOR/SCREENWRITER/AUTEUR". Faznie makes a beeline for the center of the city, where all the action is going down. She's admittedly lost, although the Goddard has the tendency to nudge her in the right direction whenever she completely runs out of options. It's a useful feature, even if the helpful directions that it give are interwoven between the camera yelling about mirrors and reflections being the true reality and what we exist in is the illusion, or something to that effect.

Rampart Press raised an eyebrow, "No one smokes for taste? What about the Cubans? I mean, the cigars, not the people." "Poker? As long as you deal straighter than you shoot, count me in." The vet made his way over to the table before spotting the U.S. soldiers that had just materialized around Atton. Press walks away, calling back to Grant over his shoulder, "Save me a seat." Press intrudes upon Halley and Atton, not so much as looking at the former and not giving any special attention the latter, he's clearly more focused on the uniformed men and the armor behind him. "Who sent in the boots? This is a police investigation, not an occupation. If someone wants to tell me why we have American troops down here, this is a swell a time as any to speak up." He opens his notepad, scribbling everything down furiously, everything from the inscriptions on the tank and uniforms to each individual person's physique in anatomic detail. Rusty pushes himself up very slowly. He slouches down on his knees, a dark spot forming around his left eye. He breathes deeply, twisting his head to and fro. Magnum / Simulation Involving the spectators would be a federal offense as per Statue 411 AHJ-93 81/M8. You can certainly call on your bench and assistance team to bring in whatever supplies they have remaining in addition to what they can scrounge on the periphery of the battlefield. Your players are already familiar with the One Who Dabs. The stories are passed down through generations, often times contradictory. The One Who Dabs is ten meters tall and the size of a neuron, he is the most chilling cold and the most blazing hot. He is always watching from the shadows that linger at the corners of your vision and he sits at the end of the table that keeps coming up in your dreams. He was the first friend your great-great-grandfather ever had and he is yet to be born. No one has seen him in an eon, although you may be looking directly at him right now. It is not that he will drive whomever sees him mad or any of that nonsense, it is simply impossible to gaze at him, he exists in a plane that creatures living and unliving can not perceive. At least, that's what the players say. The poles, warped metal left by street lamps and gates that the occupants once naively thought would protect them, prod the invisible barrier around the tower. No response, no retaliation. They jab these ruined spears into that thin apathetic air. The dummy is constructed by stuffing some cloth potato sacks with cotton. These stuffed sacks are then sewed together into a vaguely humanoid shape, which is dressed in some rags to further anthropomorphize this creation. The players name him Potato Man. Potato Man is heaved onto the sparse clearing in front of The Tower. He collapses with his left arm outstretched for heaven, grasping for intervention, while his left leg folds underneath the opposite appendage. The shadow of The Tower looms over him, a sacrifice for an Old Thing. Now you all can hear the wires coming, the sound of mice skittering under the floorboards. No, rain pattering on a window sill on a grey morning. You can't decide exactly. But you know the sound. The invisible wires wrap around Potato Man. His time comes. There's a problem. Potato Man is screaming. The cloth is screaming. Mice. Rain. A buzz bellows from the tower. It is low, like a radio stuck in an attic, decaying from neglect. Through the static, there is one voice that the entire stadium can hear: "Bạn nghĩ rằng lấy quả bóng này sẽ giúp bạn tiết kiệm. Rằng điểm số sẽ kết thúc tất cả những điều này và làm cho bạn quên. Bạn không thể quên. Không có thẩm phán, tử thần hoặc thần thánh, sẽ bao giờ hiểu những gì bạn đã làm cho tôi. Đối với những người mà bạn đã lấy từ tôi. Để Carolina của tôi." "Tôi đã chết một ngàn cái chết để xem những gì bạn đã làm. Tôi sẽ chết một triệu nữa trước khi bạn có thể có được quả bóng này. Miễn là các trò chơi tiếp tục họ sẽ không bị lãng quên. Tôi sẽ sống lâu hơn trò chơi này damned trong tháp này damned. Nếu bạn muốn bóng, tôi sẽ cho bạn sau khi tôi đã lấy tất cả mọi thứ mà bạn đứng cho đi. Cho đến khi bạn quá nhỏ, không đáng kể đến mức thiên đường của sự quên lãng sẽ vượt qua bạn." "Bạn không thể tha thứ. Đau khổ sẽ là giải phóng." One of the players requests that he leave.

Magnum "Let's see if you can strut your stuff." Magnum pulls LOTUS inside the bus, carefully placing it down upon the lunch table as he bent to retrieve from something underneath the table. He emerges to slam down what looks like a boom box, if all of the paneling was instead replaced with a single large emerald button. He reaches onto the side of the box, yanking out an old school HDMI cable from the side. Magnum connects the cable to LOTUS and then... Mile High Stadium - Denver, Colorado Your remaining players walk through the wreckage of the football field. Roads lie in disrepair between buildings that were abandoned long ago, decorated with barbed wire and plywood barricades. A trash bag rolls down the street like a tumbleweed. A group of feral dogs plunder a trash can. Sirens ring out in the distance. Someone, somewhere, succumbs to malaria. A Denver Bronco almost collapses in front of a ruined building, it's his childhood schoolhouse. Your Broncos have lost many, but the Carolina Panthers have been eliminated with their royal blue uniforms lying in unnamed mass graves. All eliminated but Him, The One Who Dabs. Your Broncos approach the megalithic building in the dead center of the field. A concoction of materials that have evolved over time so that the foundations are brick and mortar and every higher floor increasingly more advanced until those ultra-modern penthouses sit above the clouds so that you can't even see them from the ground. A relic like an organic architectural history book. You've seen those sheer cliffs where each differently colored layer shows a different age? Like that, but in a building. An affront to humanity. He's up there. A perimeter has been drawn around the building in a roughly 100 meter radius. Like the building itself, the perimeter is made of composite materials: chalk, paint, charcoal, blood. It surrounds the tower like the police outline around a cadaver. One brave Bronco charges forward, making it three steps past the barrier. The severing: first it's his fingers and toes, then wrists and ankles. The invisible wires cut him up like that all the way up until he is human fillet. It is too fast, too jarring, for him to react or make a squeal of existential pain and fear. There is just meat and his comrades look away. One loses his lunch. It's the 5839492th official quarter of OverTime. There are nine people in the audience in a stadium that can hold 350,000 at maximum capacity. The game is tied 27-27, sudden death rules apply. Next score wins. And He is the one who has been holding onto the ball this whole time. "Alright tablet boy, what are you fixing to do now?" Rampart Press gives Lexiel a firm business handshake. "I'm a skeptic, but I hope that in the end you're right about that. It's refreshing to know that someone on here has some experience on a force, from what I can tell the folks here are y'know, kinda'...disparate? Is that the word? Anyhoo, I expected more uniformity but it looks like more of a 'take what you can get' situation. Reminds me of my army days with the militias. You'd be shocked to see what a Filipino can do with a machete in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. Usually not good things, but still impressive in that kind of manic way they have." Press ducks around when the gunshots go off, and identifies Grant as the kid with a revolver. "Hey asshole, read about trigger discipline for once in your life you fucking square!" He shakes his head and returns to Lexiel, "This is exactly like working in a militia, we must be a few milk cans short of a ration." He pulls out his box of cigarettes almost reflexively from his breastpocket and shakes it at Lexiel as an offer of good will between vets.

"That would be bad, unless they were benevolent Gods because that would be good. Couldn't your coompany make God cards that would be powerful enough to end world hunger and cure chronic disease?"

Magnum "So Mr. Robot-o, you're a smart guy then? A real Harvard boy? A thinker and a clinker? Sounds like you want the inside scoop on how my bus works. That's not information I give around for free! And since you can't cook me up a Shepard's Pie on account of your no-limb-itis as you have said, you'll have to prove that I can trust you with this information. You say that your a strategy guy, a student of the game. There's only one place to see if your salt is worth your grain then: the football field. We step inside and load up a simulation game, your brains against mine, and if you put up a rough-and-tumble effort like I used to see in the old days, I'll let you do your schematical business. Do we have a deal?" Rampart When Isobel confronted Lucky for his behavior, the police officer didn't give her so much as a glance before returning looking back towards Press with bemused pursed lips. "See Press? You start talking with that sweet mouth music and you get them running up to your doorstep. Take it from a pro...hey Press? Do you smell that?" Lucky paid more attention to Lexiel as she made a dramatic appearance from above. He squinted his eyes as she put on a display of shining force, clearly stating her demands. The officer stood up straight, flicking his cig off to the side and rolling his shoulders. "Apologize for what, having some fun? I swear, you people have no fuckin' fun. Did someone come through and shoot your family and piss in your cereal?" The threats and mockery leveled at Lucky that bounced around the courtyard were getting into his head, piercing his ears, a mat of sweat lining his brow. "HEY! I don't know how they teach you morons down at El Police-a Academy-a, but in the States we learn about a little something called respect! If anyone wants a lesson then step right up! He points at Lexiel, "If you think you can scare me by being a big cunt, then you haven't met my mother!" With the tension in the air as thick as an Atlanta stripper, Press makes a move with lightning agility before a single new development could transpire. In a split second, Lucky is on his back, limbs sprawled out, his hat spinning through the wind before settling on someone's head. In the spot where Lucky was just standing, Press stands firmly, his stance stable and his right fist extending in front of him at a right angle, replicating the posture of a heavyweight boxer. He relaxes into a normal stance, sighing deeply as he turns to Lexiel, his cheeks scarlet with shame. "He's a good guy deep down, and I really truly mean that. He saved a drowning dog in a river, stopped an old man from choking on his food in a restaurant. Lucky has a funny way of expressing himself, but that's how they all are. Think about it, if you got rid of every cop with sexist and racist tendencies, you would have two cops left in the country. And both of them would hate the gays." Press looks up at her now, more comfortable with his wit displayed. "I don't know if we've formally met each other. Detective Press, happy to be working with you." He extends his open hand to her.

Magnum Boomtown bent over and scooped LOTUS off of the access ramp connected to his door. "Do you have the Candy Crush game on here?" He asked as he curiously rotated the device. "Sounds like what you want is to connect to my bus's tranmissions so that you can get some intra-dimensional communications set up. And while I can spare a beer or even an air freshener, this isn't some Mickey Mouse request. If this goes wrong, my whole connection is at risk. Not to mention I'm already paying out the wazoo to keep it running, you can imagine the cost of something like this. So tell me computer man, what chips are you bringing you bringing to my table?" Rampart "Lots of broads working here 'ey Press? Young ones too, makes me feel like I'm back in the shop." He points at Marisa, with the tip of his lit cigerrate, "See that one right there? I like 'em like that, snazzy and tight, built like a brick shithouse. Not like the ones at home 'ey? God bless whoever invented Mexican women. I wonder what name a Dame like that has, probably Ethel or something. No, Lucia? Luisa. Luciana...that's more Italian actually. Did I tell you the vacation I took down in Panama? Not quite Mexico but pretty close. I met the fittest broad you could dream about, and she could drink toe to toe with any man! She drank me under the table, and once she was down there she let me chew the carpet 'ey? You getting this Press?"

"Wow, so then I guess we don't have to take them seriously right? No sudden coups right? We've had our share of coups back in the Republic but they don't involve trading cards, instead it's the upheaval of the entire political structure by either the military or the paramilitary. These King Guys aren't exactly Al Qaeda, huh? But what does it mean that there's trading cards that summon weapons and monsters? Is there a factory out there that is mass producing the means to do this?" Goddard rattles, "CA͓̮̪͡R̰̯̜͘D̬̖́S̸̠͕̯̖ ͞A̷̰̭̪̣R̘̯̺̀E̹̻̭̥ͅ ̮͍̖F͙͓̥̞͢L̳͓I̢̪͇̺̹̝̙̺M̟̠S̞̗̼̘̰̗͠Y̥͍͔͖̰ ͕̪͚̯̪̼͈͟RE̻̬̱F̟͕ͅͅḶ̷EC̺̻ṬI̭̯̩̺̞̮Ọ͖̫̮͇N̢͖͙̳ͅS̕ ̙O̵̹͍̳͍̫F̧̗̞̮̳͇̘ ̫̕R͠Ḙ̡͈̗A͏̟̜L̜̯I҉̱̺T͕̥̳͕̻Y̺͟,҉̱ ͏̟̼͉͕P̰Ạ͕̼͕͉Ț̗͈̙ͅH͏̺̦̮̞ͅE͖T̖̘͈IC̢̱̭̤͚̺͈ ̹͚̝̲͝ͅP̮̺͓̥͎͠I̟E̯͓̙͓̫͠C̵̠̠͕̤E̳̬̲̘̬̪̙͟Ś͎ ̞͈̗̞͕O̪͍̮͎̗F̛̪̺̻͙͇̱͚ ̸͇̝P̸̪̯͇̜A҉̻̗̫̹̘̯̤P̼̩̩̞͕̩̦͡E͈̖̹̠̣͠R̪̤͚͖̯̣̖̕"

Rampart Press and Lucky arrive back at the courtyard later than everyone else. An irked Lucky throws the passenger side door open, "I can't stand all this goddamn paperwork. Soldier #437 - Incinerated, Soldier #438 - Incinerated, Soldier # who-gives-a-shit. I want central to send us a pencil pusher, we're stuck here driving through backroads in this godforsaken country almost catching the goddamn plague." Press sparks up and offers Lucky a light, pacifying him for a moment as he accepts this gesture of friendship. Press doesn't say anything, but he looks around the Courtyard with a keen eye and gets down to scribbling something in his notepad... Magnum The BOOMTOWN EXPRESS parks in the central area of the courtyard. Once everyone is out, Magnum activates the parking break.

"....." It's good to see these kinds of things at a distance. You get to see it with...objectivity. Yeah, that's it. The artillery shelling of a village on an island. Dropping a firebomb on a civilian factory. A waitress being stabbed to death in front of her apartment complex. The motherfucker just keeps jabbing and jabbing and jabbing and his butterfly knife is just putting all these gashes in her and her dress is turning red and she's screaming and crying. And he doesn't stop because he's pissed but you don't know if he's pissed because he actually hates her or he hates his job or his own wife or whatever you know how it is with these people. And you're sitting there and you're not calling the police because you're trying to sleep and it's probably nothing or you're watching TV and you can't miss the show or you don't know but you just don't want to call because that would be bad. It would be worse to try and call the police then to do nothing. It sounds like it doesn't make sense but that's what you're going to do. If you don't get involved it's not real. You'll read about it in the paper tomorrow with everyone else and it's all the city will talk about for a month. You'll cry and whisper with all of them like it had happened in Calcutta or Beijing, not down the block you live on. For the rest of your life you and your neighbors will glance at each other in passing moments of silence, damned to share a spot in this clandestine brotherhood of remorse. But what else could you have done, really? "....." And if it doesn't matter back home, it matters even less out here. This is how it is over here, and it's been that way for so long, so why try to change it? These people don't understand it, so how could you, white cocksucka'? As soon as you leave all they'll forget the English and toss all the books in the fire and then go back to those ways and brother will fell brother. You are angry and then confused and then pitiful. It's not like your kind is much better, in some ways they're worse. At least these people don't have a paper to talk and gawk about it. Let them stay this way with their swords and castles and dungeons. The world was better off when everyone left each other alone, y'know? "....." Rusty chews on his lip, idly sliding his gun back into his jacket. "Looks like the afterparty at a Chuck Berry Concert, huh Press?" He laughs. "That's a joke Press, you heard of a joke? Okay, I'm sorry. It's sad. Just lighten up, you're putting me on the edge." Rusty gives Press a hard shrug, then walks forward a few more feet to survey the situation. He squats down, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it. "It's crazy how in some parts o' the world like this people are still these barbarians. I'd put twenty dollars down on this right here: if these people had radios and ballparks, they'd find something better to do than killin' each other."

The BOOMTOWN EXPRESS rumbles towards the general epicenter of everyone left standing. Magnum leaned out the window, looking around the ruined countryside like a tourist trying to decipher the value behind an esoteric burial site. "And can you believe that my wife always wanted to go to France? This place is a real dump! That's why Edward DeGaul left France to play for the Colts. He revolutionized the position of kicker, nobody before him ever kicked barefoot! And not too many either, especially when they started using weighted balls that ended up with a lot of broken toes. But those few years when the barefoot kickers ruled, those were special times. Leave it up to a Frenchy to come up with something like that." "If anyone wants a ride in the bus, hop on in."

Press pulls out something that resembles a small pistol from inside of his jacket pocket. With a flick of a switch, its barrel crackles with volatile electricity. Press Tases Officer A, doing 1d10 + 10 (+14) DMG, with a 10% chance to stun.

BOOMTOWN Magnum Use Hustle Play on Soryn to grant an extra turn.

"Yee-ouch! That was fuckin' lightning! Isn't that square supposed to be on our side?" "It didn't hurt at all, that must have been his way of prepping us up." "You know what Press? You're right, I feel like I'm on a winning streak at the craps game. Let's go like the 20's!" Rampart activates Jungle Sniper, where Press will use his Scoped Rifle to blast at Bel Lahmu B, Bel Lahmu A and Officer A for 1d10+(10) (+14 Damage)!

BOOMTOWN Magnum Give Soryn an extra action with Hustle Play.

Name: Faznie Kotvar Age: 28 Gender: Female Appearance: Pallid flesh and brown eyes concealed by a "Locos de Muertos" hoodie and torn leggings (the damage is from fashion, not from wear). Between Faznie's contrasting pale skin, dark clothing and roundish form, she might resemble a panda bear. Accessories include a bear of BEATZ headphones usually around her neck and a bulging purple messenger back stylized with doodles and pins of various films and bands. Background: Faznie's parents met during the turbulent Prague Spring, which Faznie claims "should be recognized as the modern French Revolution." Faznie was born well after, but the legacy of the rebellion instilled within her strong sentiments of pride and ambition. Ask her about it and Faznie states that "For eight months our tiny country, with no military and no weapons, had the Soviet Union by the balls." Faznie followed in the footsteps of her parents by pursuing an artistic education. She graduated from the University of Prague and went on to enroll in the Film College of the prestigious École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. During one hazy summer in Germany during the production of a film, Faznie was out looking for props in a thrift store when she stumbled across a premiere 35mm Goddard C800 Camera, dusty but otherwise in great condition. Unable to part with the best filming device from the late sixties and early seventies, 20 Euros later it was hers to keep. Faznie bought the camera with the belief that its framing could mark her breakthrough, but she's come to find that this is no ordinary camera. Sometimes it says things. And some of the markings that Faznie initially thought were Korean characters have so far been unidentified. Faznie is an avid devotee, student, and producer of film. Faznie completely believes that she has the ability to be one of the greatest filmmakers of her generation, and the only thing holding her back from her grand debut is a lack of resources and logistics. Her specialty is in slasher films, though she can't say no to a good noir or action-adventure. Her headphones are regularly blasting obscure music, "Not for any pretentious reasons, but the next great film score is out there somewhere that no one has used yet." She despises video games with shortcomings in plot and characterization. In general her interests are eclectic but highly opinionated. She'll talk endlessly, but you'll have to be ready for some verbal sparring. "If you ever think that Jaws/Sergeant Peppers/Halo is in anyways better than The Exorcist/The Wall/DOOM, you're out of your damn mind!" Preferred Location: Sendo City Preferred Quest(s): Capitalism, ho! / Reagan's Treasure Preferred Modifier(s): Form Shift / The Farce Current Regalia: 35mm Goddard C800 Camera An off-putting, shoulder-mounted film camera, cutting edge for its era. Sometimes it talks or writes things on the wall in unidentifiable liquid, but that's part of its charm. The Goddard functions not only as a recording device but a projector as well, transmitting movie images into reality that take on a physical form. Stats: Ranged: 7 - Faznie is most comfortable fighting at a distance, chipping away at enemy psyches before they can reach her. Close Quarters: 4 - Faznie will not back down from a CQC encounter, changing her tactics from grand summons into quick flashes of the Goddard to unleash swinging cleavers, gruesome traps and writhing tentacles out of the ether in rapid succession. She also carries a folding knife, although its combat applications are limited to desperation attempts and coup de graces. Mobility: 0 - Is it too late to regret taking Metallurgy of Swords over Track & Field? Defense: 6 - Goddard will produce defensive structures around Faznie in order to protect her, oftentimes without her direct input. It selects all sorts of props for a given situation, like a warehouse's metal gate, or partial debris of a crashed airplane. Excel Hyper: 2 - EARN YOUR 'X' RATING' Requiem: The Void Faznie's presence and perpetual creation of the macabre takes a toll on morale. Even her defensive maneuvers are unsettling to say the least, who wants to have to hack through a wall of rotting cattle or gooey bile? Enemy interaction with Faznie causes sustained psychological trauma that manifests as Panic, Madness, and Resignation, among other symptoms. Of course, this is dependent on the psychological resolve and capacity of each enemy, though even non-sentient beings (such as robots or animated objects) can be negatively effected. Hypers: Unmarked Territory [3] - A sweeping 360-degree pan with the Goddard to change the immediate environment around Faznie. This landscape alteration is meant to conceal her allies and herself, while hindering enemy visibility and mobility. They might find themselves in a field of surprisingly resilient maize, or stumbling around a pitch-black basement. Mind Crush [3] - A projection directly targeting the mind of an enemy, causing a grotesque intrusion and audiovisual hallucination. Causes direct psychological damage and disrupts focus. They Come! [4] - A monstrous creation comes from beyond for Faznie to sic' on an enemy. These summons, manic sewer dwellers and giant frenzied insects, are not invulnerable but are impressively motivated to give their target a bad time. These apparitions dissipate after the enemy turn. Folly of Chance [5] - Do you notice how stupid and clumsy everyone becomes once the antagonist is chasing them? Faznie applies this cliche to an enemy, throw a deus-ex-machina wrench in their plans. Their gun could suddenly jam, or they trip over an unforeseen root during a charge attack. EARN YOUR 'X' RATING - The Goddard focuses entirely on one target until their reality and the projected reality are no different, effectively temporarily trapping them in a pocket dimension. See how the mighty veteran cybersamurai fares when he becomes a towel-clad housewife fleeing her suburban duplex from the "Golf Club Killer". --- An Offensive Support "Sniper" type, Faznie is built to harass and wear down enemies that are already occupied fighting other people. Her pedestrian Close Combat prowess combined with a respectable Defense means that she can hold her own one-on-one, but she shouldn't be on the front lines. Her best combat buddies will be Close Ranged types who will get in an enemy's face while she flanks them for a multi-pronged attack. Her strength is in lengthy battles and versatility while her biggest drawbacks are a slow start and a lack of reliable AoE. Unmarked Territory is her closest thing to a defensive Hyper, and it is best used early on to leverage the environment against enemies, especially Snipers who need visibility and Speedsters that thrive in accessible terrain. Mind Crush is straightforward direct psychological damage. It's also a boon for close one-on-one fights, where a momentary distraction can entirely shift momentum. They Come! is a hybrid bind/harass, by giving the target something else to worry about, and limiting their mobility options. It can be used as a decoy or to give a Close Quarters fighter some additional backup. Folly of Chance is a Disable best used to ruin enemy techniques that require buildup or planning. Not only does it stop momentum, it inflicts latent psychological damage by instilling self-doubt and confusion. Earn Your 'X' Rating is an Ace for anyone with "No Weaknesses!" By removing skill, equipment, and bodily autonomy, it fores the target to rely purely on their own semblance of self-character to survive. And that's phase one, because once they are transported back to their 'real' form, they must force themselves not to fall into an existential crisis of (dis)association.

Rampart "Looks like we have some feisty civilians on our hands." "Civilians? This looks like a riot. Nah, this an armed revolt! We're going to need more than sidearms for this gig. What do you suggest Prez?" "Bigger guns. A show of force before any real violence goes down." "You know what Prez? You can be brilliant sometimes." Rampart Lock N' Loads, fishing out heavier weaponry from the trunk of their Cadillac. [Increases Strength (6) by Intelligence (4) for 2 Turns. CD: 2] [Passives: Synergistic Justice - All Perks last for an additional turn. We Have You Surrounded - +1 Resistance for each Active Buff. Battle Hardened - Immune to Mental Damage/Status Effects. Plague of the Occult (Flaw) - 1.5X Damage from Magic.]

Magnum relays the information to his teammates. "She's a few white dresses and flower petals short of being a bona-fide virgin knight, that I can tell you. If we look at the tape on her, she does not have a gameplan for divine intervention, and gets roasted defensively when someone turns up the oven. It's going to be a long day for her if her strategic holes get exploited." Give Spicy an extra action next turn with Hustle Play.

"Joining you live from what could pass for Kansas City, this is Rich BOOOOOOOOMTOWN Magnum. Let's look at the opposing lineup." Telestrate Saber. [Magnum chooses an Opposing Target 1d20+INT VS. 1d20+Opp.INT. If Magnum is successful, he figures out a Weakness of the target, reveals one of its Perks/Abilities, or gets a hint to help optimize his Team's performance.. (Ex., if the Target is doing X, respond with a Y-type maneuver.) Once a Strategy is successfully discovered, anyone implementing the Strategy in their actions gets an overall +5 to that action.]

Rampart Lucky observed the changing emoticon on LOTUS' screen with confusion. "Hey buddy, your radio is turning all sorta' wacky. You should get it checked out, it's showing all these shapes and stuff." "Believe or not, we work best in a group that sticks together, where resources are doled out. That's not saying that we're chicken either, we can hold a line for ourselves. Besides the sidearms we have on us we have some state of the art gizmos too: tasers, riot gear, military grade equipment. We're prepared to take on anything from a single threat to crowd dispersal. If you can get your people to work with us, we can repay the favor." Press whips out a brass Sheriff's Star with N.O.P.D. written on its face. "We can actually transfer any extra help, whether that's intel, firepower or backup, with this right here, it's more than just a badge. It's only used for critical situations, when we need to make an Emergency Deputization of a civilian, and gives them the full authority of the force. I'd say this whole shebang qualifies as a critical situation." Press shook Edmond's hand as Lucky chuckled, "Heh, not on Earth...gimmie' a break."

Rampart "Press is too nice of a guy to speak on it, but he's seen the real-deal shitter over in the islands. If we're not going to be scared of some crazy Japs running around with samurai swords and blowing themselves up, then we sure as hell aren't going to be rattled by some voodoo spearchucker! You might call it magic, but it's nothin' more than a little game that these creeps play to try and spook ya', whether it's those strange Shinto Temples or the creoles with their black smoke and shrunken heads. Uncivilized people! If they really were capable of this mumbo jumbo God Almighty would smoke them on the spot. I've never seen one of these "magicians" do a trick when a .45 was jammed up their-" Press raises his hand, "We don't intend to go rogue just because everyone does things differently here. We'll fully cooperate on behalf of our duty to our country, even if that means dying for it. So if you're means are new, we'll adapt, just as we have in the past. If we have to deal with spears and healing and whatnot, so be it. I only hope that even outside of U.S. Jurisdiction, we can keep some level of the law alive, due process and so on." He looks up at Edmond, "If they refuse to be captured then we'll have to work with that. And the N.O. stands for New Orleans, a city in Louisiana that you might have heard of." Magnum "I'd say that I help out here by contributing what I've learned in my years on and off the field and applying it to some frontline action. I've seen organizations and teams that could have been great theoretically, but no one offered guidance and experience, and that lead to some big collapses. Using my trusty teleprompter I can lay out a play in real time, giving complex directions to multiple people. I'm also here for what you could call morale, another underrated part of any successful team. If you think you're going to win, that's already half of the battle right there. The BOOMTOWN EXPRESS also comes in handy because, hey, it's a good bus! Everyone could use a good bus." "Now we're just about to get to a part of the show that we call I Woulda' Thunk of That! In this segment we go looking around the world for a game in progress and see what's going on, and my esteemed guest gives their opinion on what the teams should do, and whatever other insight they want to bring to the sidelines. It's a fun way to flex your strategy muscles for the folks listening at home. Sound interesting?" Magnum places a metallic flat octagonal object in the middle of the table. It projects a hologram of a planet, colorful pulsating lights occurring over it, each of these lights made up of two colors that are not mixing so much as they look like their competing, like two incompatible gases. Lexiel could see lights appearing over China, Ireland and Nevada, among other places. "Oh man, looks like we picked a good time to see some action!"

Rampart After LOTUS was finished with his latest explanation, Lucky took the lit cigarette out of his mouth and held it between his fingers with enough force that the wrapping paper began to crack and come apart. "Listen here Captain-o, I have to school you in how we do things up there in the Red, White and Blue. See, we don't give officers a hard time like that when they're gentlemannly enough to introduce themselves like we was doing. We treat each other with respect, and maybe that's the way you get your kicks, but we don't know you well enough to know if you're just ribbing us. You're making it sound like we're punks, and unless one of us has spilled your morning coffee or shagging your wife, you don't have the right to jab us like that. Are you some sort of big shot where you're from, a commander or something? Well I want to see your badge if you're going to pull rank. But you're not, because you're not even here. You're just sitting behind a desk somewhere so you can talk to us through this weird little radio. If you're going to insult the N.O.P.D., you're going to grow some balls and do it in person!" Lucky thrusts the lit cigarette about an inch away from LOTUS's screen. Before things can escalate, Press jumps in front of Lucky and shoves him away with a hand to the chest. "We're getting off on the wrong foot here, fellas. What my partner is trying to say is that we aren't going to necessarily understand each other at first, or how we do things. What's important is that we have the same goal in the end. We all have homes, families and friends that we want to get back to, and to do that we have to stop these Trespassers. We're going to give it everything to bring them down, and if we can agree on that then we're set like Chet." Lucky tosses his ruined cigarette on the ground. "I don't care if these Trespassers are gangsters or gestapo. You can call them Dimension Eaters, Wife Beaters, Reef Dealers, whatever you please. They're crooks and damn scum in the end and they're getting the hook!" "Lucky's right, we don't need to get caught up on the semantics and translation of everything, just so like as we have an organized system. On that note, do we have any established Commanding Officers in charge out here? Or is this more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants situation?" Press thinks for a moment and scribbles a few notes down. "Would it be possible to take a Servant alive for interrogation purposes and figure out what they're doing here and how they're related to the Trespassers? I'd also like to know why they choose to identify as old historical figures, although that's a secondary concern." Lexiel's aura spewing flight catches the attention of Lucky, his mouth agape slightly as she passes overhead. "Look at that, the girl's turned herself into a goddamn crop duster! The fellas back in the Bayou won't believe this, huh Press?" Magnum Lexiel enters the BOOMTOWN EXPRESS to find that the interior has become more...thematic. In its normal state the bus does have a trophy here and a signed ball there, but now the inside looked like a representative from each team designated the party vehicle as the place to hold a goodwill orgy, and now she was standing in the aftermath of bacchanalia (lacking the copious amounts of organic fluid staining everything). Banners, flags and paraphernalia from every team filled the walls and each countertop was the home to a bobblehead or action figure of a specific player or mascot. The most prevalent of these team symbols appeared to be of the Oakland Raiders, signified by the signature black and silver colors and portrayals of Mad Max-esque vehicles and post-apockalyptic drivers wearing armor in a crossover style between "Steampunk Knight" and "Gimp Freak". Streamers and confetti coated everything as if a parade organizer had just gone postal in these walls. Magnum, for his part, was dressed slightly more casual in a vactioners's t-shirt and khaki short, but otherwise totally recognizable. He sat at a round table in the middle of the central area, tableclothed and surrounded by chairs. On the surface of the table was a set of microphones, a laptop, and a soundboard. Additionally there were bags of snacks, drinks, and even more miniature figures set up as if a tabletop war was about to commence. When Magnum noticed Lexiel he beamed and waved her over hectically to the table. "Folks, you know I've worked for the mighty Oakland Raiders. I've worked for NFL Operations as an Intelligence Consultant, hell I've worked as an Earthern Ambassador for the Fourth War of Andromeda. And now I'm working for a group, a very special group, one that I'm not even sure what to call. But the thing is, we want to save the multiverse, or at least do our damn best. We've got folks big and small, nice and mean, old school and hyperfuture. They're magical, tragical, fanatical and radical, and some of the most interesting and hardworking folk I've gotten to meet. And right now, one of my pals has come to join me to talk to you. Give it up for..." Magnum checks something on the laptop, "Lexiel!" Magnum presses a soundboard button when she takes a seat, and it creates a mix of audience clapping and big band music, a typical entrance for a midnight talk show. "Why don't you introduce yourself, Lexiel, for all the good people at home? And do you want a pretzel?" Magnum shakes a half-empty industrial sized back of salted pretzels at Lexiel as enticingly as he can.

Rampart: Unit #0429 leans against the side of the sleek Cadillac, tobacco smoke and graphite filling the airspace around them. "You wanna' go talk to them?" Lucky rolls his cigarette to the corner of his mouth, using his teeth to point it at the largest gathering of mismatched people in the center of the courtyard. "I'd feel better knowing names and badges." "Just give me one second..." Press furiously recreates the immediate scene in the courtyard within his sketchpad, the drawing capturing all of the details from the curves in the armor of the soldiers to the individual cracks in the walls. Lucky looks over at the drawing and gives Press a nudge, breaking his concentration. "You'll have plenty of time to doodle, let's try and meet some people and figure out what the hell is going on." Rampart walks over to the semi-organized mass of folk in the courtyard, edging more towards the people hovering near LOTUS, whom they had noticed leading the discussion earlier. The two officers flip their badges out in synchronization, as if they had done so a thousand times. "Officers Press and Lucky, N.O.P.D., Unit #0429 / RAMPART. We're here for the same reason as everyone, to catch these Trespasser punks before the Western Hemisphere goes belly up a second time." "Right now we're buzzed on these so-called 'Servant' hoods, and if anyone knows what their exact connection is to the 'Trespassers' gang, we'd want to know. We have our own suspicion that the Servants are a subset of the Trespasser gang, maybe even the youth version of it. My partner has the evidence we've recovered." "Exhibit A," Lucky says as he throws one of the spare swords from the previous battle onto the ground. "They were will carrying something like this, maybe some spears or bows, you know, real jungle sorts of shit. These are straight swords too, not the Samurai kind that the Japs love. We spent the last few months out of state fighting through Guatemala, and even their swords weren't like this. So we can guess two things: One, the Servants are too broke to afford real deal firearms or zipguns. That's why you see kids running around with baseball bats and switchblades, easier to get. Two, they don't use six-shooters for religious reasons. The cults out in California, they've got boners for medieval shit like this." "If we can book one of these Servants, or one of their associates, we can figure out who they are and what their relationship with the Trespassers is exactly." Magnum: The BOOMTOWN EXPRESS rattles every half-minute or so with either short blasts of music or Magnum's loud verbal expulsions. "....BUT! BUT BUT BUT! THAT, THAT RIGHT THERE IS WHY WE SEE TEAMS HAVING TROUBLE GETTING DOWN THE FIELD. IT'S A PASS HAPPY GAME NOW ADAYS, PASS ALL DAY, PASS ALL NIGHT, PASS UNTIL YOUR SOCKS TURN WHITE. EVERY WANTS TO PASS BECAUSE PASSING IS COOL, IT'S THE HOT THING. YOU WANT TO THROW THE BALL WAAAY OVER THE MOUNTAIN TOPS LIKE YOU'RE PLAYING CATCH WITH A DOG YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE AGAIN. BUT IT'S THE RUN, RUNNING IN THE TRENCHES THAT SEPARATES THE WINNERS, FROM THOSE SUCKY, BAD LOSERS. YOU KNOW WHAT I'M SAYING SONNIE BOY, RIGHT FROM THE BRAIN OF OLD BOOOOOMTOWN?!?!...Wait, where's my pretzel?" Some neon lights begin to flash ostentatiously on the side of the bus, stating: "BOOMTOWN: BOOM OR BUST - THE WORLD'S BEST GREATEST PODCAST FOR FOOTBALL, LIFE ADVICE AND GOOD OLE' FASHIONED AMERICAN GRUBBIN'" RECORDING SESSION LIVE. INTERVIEWEES WELCOME.

Press walks over to one fallen soldier laying on its backside back. He squats down, looking over the body curiously and grabbing it by the wrist, rotating the muscle around. "Time of death within the past thirty minutes. Method is questionable, I'm seeing burn marks but also lacerations. Clothing is also in the way." Press looks back up at the many, many other bodies littering the battlefield. "Autopsy will be delayed due to circumstances." "It's a damn shame these dumb bastards didn't stay in school instead of making this mess. Shoot, the funeral homes in this place must be loaded." Lucky hits the cigarette again. "Servants, sounds like a religious, cult kind of thing. Some sort of weird church youth group turned gang, like they have out in California. If a responsible officer has already given the orders to surrender, we should go into this castle and book whoever's in there, get them to lead us to whoever else they're running with. And can I ask who the hell settled on a castle? There's got to be something less cock-eyed. I 'unno, a bus or something?"