Adventure! RPG: Heroes of Our Time - Table Talk: Character Creation

[Alex Reid]

And a bit from a first-draft origin story on Alex Reid ...

“We commend our brother’s spirit unto your keeping, O Lord …”

Alex Reid sat in the front row, beside his mother, Meghan. His older sister, Madeleine, was on her right, with his aunt and uncle. His younger brother, Jack, sat to Alex’s left, his eyes red from crying. But Alex’s own face was calm, impassive; there was the unspoken expectation that he Had To Be The Man In The Family.

He sat through the eulogies by the mayor, the chief of police, and his father’s former partner; a brave smile when they gave his name. What he really wanted to do was scream at them. To demand the answers he knew they couldn’t give, but which he wanted anyway.

Where the hell were you? Why weren’t you there? Why did you let him die?

But instead of answers, there was only a hollow feeling in his heart, and a flag-draped casket bearing the body of Sergeant John Reid. Chief Prescott had risen from his seat, to receive the flag as it was removed from the casket and properly folded before being presented to Alex’s mother. A presentation case followed.

Dad’s badge, insignia, and gun, Alex realized.

He sat through the brief procession of officials offering their condolences. And then everyone stood as a police honor guard offered a 21-gun salute. It was, finally, more than he could bear. Tears welled up, and a choked sob escaped his lips as his father’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

Alex couldn’t imagine how it could possibly hurt any more.

Three Weeks Later

Alex had enjoyed the luxury of sleeping late – or relatively so, 9 AM instead of a school year 7 AM – and was surprised to find his mother crying at the kitchen table.

“Mom? What’s wr–”

It was then that Alex saw the headline of the morning paper, atop a photo from two years ago, when Mayor Morrison had awarded Dad special recognition. But the picture was in stark contrast to the damning accusation of the headline.

SLAIN COP IMPLICATED IN PROTECTION RACKET

“It can’t be true, Mom,” he said. “Not Dad. He wasn’t …” Alex tried to reassure his mother as he scanned the article. Evidence? Witnesses?

What made it worse was the weak defense being offered by Chief Prescott. The charges would be investigated, blah, blah. The Mayor’s office was withholding comment.

Why aren’t you standing up for him? Alex thought angrily.

The article went on to tear down just about everything his father had ever stood for. It used to be that if you needed help, you could always talk to Sergeant John Reid – he coached the Police Athletic League baseball team, he volunteered with other fathers for the parish picnic and fall carnival, and yet was always there to help his kids with their homework, be there for their important games and school events.

Now, he was being painted as a cop grown fat on graft. His good deeds weren’t a function of duty or honor, but because he was looking the other way. On the take.

Impossible, Alex told himself. Dad would never do that.

The days to follow only brought more problems. The investigation was looking into the family’s finances, and suddenly there was speculation about the vacation the family had taken, the parochial schools the kids attended, even the house. But John Reid continued to be tried in absentia, both in the papers and in court. And the community that Reid had supported with just about his every breath remained oddly silent. Some jerk at City Hall had even suggested that John Reid had gotten what he deserved for dancing with the devil.

[Mark J. Cobb]

Mark and Reid could be in the same city. Mark has a small reputation as a minor hero on the bad side of town (which he'll deny). He'd might have even heard the 'legend' of his father (Mark has only been in town about 5 years).

He also has a contact with a Mr. Feng who runs a convenience store who may (or may not, I haven't been told) have conections with certain Chinese families.

[Buzzkill]

Here's a little story about Misha during his employ with the good doctor.

The conversation at the college coffeehouse briefly paused as the massive form of Misha Valyenko first turns sideways and then ducks as he enters the somewhat smoky establishment. It looks like he could easily get stuck in your average door. He strokes his hand across his mustache and goatee, his five o'clock shadow on his cheeks about 6 hours early, as he looks for a seat that can accomodate him. He finally settles on a booth near some grad students having a lively discussion. Misha was to meet Dr. Raphael later on after his lecture. This was over his own objections, but the doctor insisted. He waved an enormous finger towards a young waittress, he already knew what he'd like.

She pranced over quickly, cracking her gum as she did. "Hi! You know what you want sir?" she smiled eagerly and was definitely giving him a look over, which Misha was used to.

"Yes, please." Began Misha in his thick Russian accented but cultured English. "I should like to have a large espresso, and a cream cheese danish please. Thank you so much." his deep voice carried well throughout the cozy coffee house. After his little display conversations returned, and Misha looked at his PDA to check his emails and recent news articles.

"...And what did everyone say would happen when Castro died? Right, that Cuba would go back to...whatever you'd call it before, run by gangsters basically. But it didn't! It's still Communist! See? It's not a failed system! The people wanted it!" one was crowing.

"Well it's not like they voted for it." said another.

Misha sighed. He often heard these conversations, especially in the universities he went to with Dr. Raphael, and they were so very similar. He smiled though as his perky waitress returned. "Thank you again." he said to her as she laid down his order. He put down his PDA and munched the danish and grimaced slightly at the strong bitterness of the espresso while he listened.

"Voting is irrelevent. The 'Founding Fathers' knew that" the Grad student held up his fingers as quote signs at that. "Which is why they hardly let anyone vote. It doesn't even matter today! Bush won twice without the people's vote. The system stayed because it's secure, and it's stable, which is what people want."

"Yeah, but they hardly have anything..." another tried to interject.

"They have everything they need! Did you know that their health system is better than the US, the richest country in the world?"

Misha took another sip from his espresso and couldn't help but mumble "And yet no one tries swimming to Cuba.". Unfortunately a mumble from Misha can easily carry, and it was heard by the other table, many of its occupants were pointing at Cuba's defender mockingly. His face turned red and he turned to Misha who was pretending he didn't know that his comment was heard. Most would leave it at that, Misha was an excellent debater in that sense. But this one wouldn't be beaten that easily.

"Oh right! That old joke. Like how Cuba doesn't have an Olympic swim team! Hilarious, but it doesn't answer how Cuba and Castro managed to stay in power so long does it?"

Misha put down his espresso and wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin. "No my friend. It's called guns along with living on an island. That is how it stays in power. The fact that so many will risk death to flee the country on the sea is telling though, yes? But I find it interesting that you are so enamored of Cuba, yet are here in America?"

"Cuba has it's faults, but that's because it's not true Communism..." began the grad student.

Misha held up his gigantic hand to pause the man. "Please...if I may? I have heard this argument before. Many said it of my home land in Russia, that it was a bold experiment, but failed because it is not 'true Communism'" this time Misha held up his hands in quotes. "They say it of course of Cuba and China too. But take it from me...they are all true Communism. They starve the people, attack their neighbors, destroy their rivals, and murder in numbers that are impossible to imagine. That is 'True Communism'. I have seen it, the world has seen it, yet there are always so many that refuse to acknowledge it." the student looked about to speak again but Misha held up his hand. "Please. If I may. You...and many others have the idea that government is the answer, that it can provide for all the best, that people are incapable of taking care of themselves. But if I may offer a demonstration."

Misha held his hand out towards the group, who crowded around to see his frying pan sized hand. "Let us say that this is government, any government...but especially Communism." he gestured again so all could see his open hand. "Let's give it a task it is unsuited for, such as gathering food. Little sweet one..." he pointed to a pretty young girl in home made clothes in their booth. She pointed to herself and blushed a bit which he smiled at. "Da, please take some of your sunflower seeds from that muffin and put it on the floor here." "OK" she said and spread some seeds on the floor between their tables. "Thank you. Now then, let us see how well the government can pick these up." Misha reached down and began to try and pick up the seeds. His thick sausage like fingers, that were far too blunt at the tips, were wholly unsuited to the task. He simply could not manage the ordinarily simple task, though he did crush several seeds. Finally he managed to pick up one seed by virtue of it simply sticking to his finger tip. Misha help up the seed proudly and looked at the students as if to say 'See?'.

"That doesn't mean anything..." the young man glowered, but Misha held up his hand again.

"Please, there are a few parts to this demonstration. While government can't do that so well it does do some things very well." Misha leaned closer, his usual slight smile gone and he said with no humor or mirth to the young man; "Give me a quarter.". The man laughed nervously at that, but Misha's look did not change at all except his eyebrows furrowed more. He looked to his friends nervously, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out some change, finally selecting a quarter and placing it in Misha's open hand. Misha sat back and smiled proudly, holding up the shiny quarter for all to see. "See? The government can very easily get money from you.". It took a moment but then everyone at the table laughed as well as some others at nearby tables. The student was not laughing though and he reached forward quickly to snatch the quarter back.

"Ah-ah! Wait my friend." said Misha as he closed his fist around the quarter and pulled his hand back. "There is one more thing to show." Misha's face grew stern again, and the tendons of his enormous paw began to creak, his knuckles strain and whiten. "The government, especially Communism, is very good...VERY good, at keeping what it has stolen. And...punishing those who would dare try to take back what it has, at crushing those who speak against it...at destroying any...who disagree with it..." his hand was literally shuddering with the stength and force of how he was clenching it. There was silence for a few more seconds that was finally interrupted by a beeping from the PDA that Misha left on the table. With his other hand he picked it up and held it to his face. "Excuse me please." he said to everyone present, his hand still trembling from the exertion. "Yes Doctor? Very good. I am...enjoying an espresso, I'll be there shortly. Good. Very good. Yes doctor...goodbye." Misha put the PDA into his pocket and stood up, leaving a few dollars on his table.

"Well my friends, I must go. I hope I did not disturb your breakfast or conversation. Please have a nice day." Misha began striding toward the door but stopped by the young man he was speaking with. "Thank you my friend, here is your quarter back." he opened his fist to drop it onto the table, transformed into a misshapen hunk of nickel coated copper by the unbelievable power in Misha's hand. It made a solid clunk on the table and rolled once to a side before stopping. There were gasps and "No way!"s all around as they stared at the impossible feat of strength they had just seen.

As Misha ducked out the door he mumbled; "From each according to his ability..."

[Mark J. Cobb]

From what I've read so far, I think Mark could have a little history with most of you all. Being the newbie, and still shifting Mark around to 'fit', I'd be more comfortable, if anyone was interested in doing a little background work, if you'd be so kind to PM me (instead of me PMing you).

I should go to bed now...

[Buzzkill]

Woot! Cool avatars all around!

[Regan McLachlan]

Hmm, maybe we could put the stories in the Adventure fiction forum, where they belong?

[Count Janos Rakozi]

Janos' History (Part One)

(From the beginning through the Post-WWI years)

Janos Rakozi is a relic of not one, but three Worlds. He was born an anachronism in the late Victorian Era to a noble family that had more in common with the Crusades than it did with the Modern, Industrial Era. In time, Janos would become one of Hemingway’s Lost Generation, as well as one of those “New Men” born out of the Hammersmith Experiment and the ‘Pulp’ Age of dark heroism, secret cults, and mad science. The advent of the Second World War stripped all that away. In its aftermath, Janos became one of the countless lives caught up in the conspiracies and betrayals of the Cold War. For decades, Janos fought for whichever side was against the hated communists. He was an émigré and an outcast; a mercenary that the UK and the US could use and deny.

Today, in the brilliance of the Information Age, Janos seems a man out of time, lost to years and ideals long past. He has been an Imperial soldier, a banished nobleman, an ardent nationalist, a soldier yet again (even becoming a member of the hated Waffen SS), a fugitive, a mercenary, a political advocate, and finally … a recluse. Today, though, things are changing. A new age of Inspiration has come to mankind. It reminds Janos of old friends, old ideals, and old allegiances. Yesterday seems so long ago, but tomorrow … tomorrow might finally bring something worth looking forward to, something to aspire to, and a reason to fight once again.

Much of Count Janos Rakozi’s history is written here, in posts and fictions. He started out a younger son in an old Hungarian noble family (dating back to the end of the 13th century). His family was military and when the Great War came, Janos, then 17, joined up. He fought through four blood and terrible years of the war, only to be gravely wounded days before the Armistice. When Janos awoke, he was alone, and in America. His last surviving sister had brought him there for treatment and had met a powerful American industrialist, Anthony King. Only a few weeks before Janos regained consciousness, his sister had been murdered and he now believed he was the last surviving member of his household.

Janos served with King in that man’s enterprises, battled his enemies, and came to see him as a brother. As other among the Inspired came and left Anthony’s service, Janos remained a constant companion, confidante, and friend. In the dark days before World War II, Janos even fought against his own father and brother in King’s service, so great was his trust of the man. When the last gun fell silent, just about everyone was dead. Anthony and Jonas’ father and youngest brother were among the slain. Devastated, Janos returned to his native Hungary with his brother’s only child, Stephen.