Saving Lives a Mile High [open to all]

[applesaucemod]

Welcome to another ordinary day in Manhattan. This barely even qualifies as a dream at all, it's so like waking life. The dreamers will find that they're their own perfectly normal selves going about their perfectly normal business and thwarting perfectly normal crimes in their perfectly normal spandex outfits.




What's that? No, of course it's normal to wear spandex (or leather, for the more chic among you) and go around beating up muggers and thwarting your villainous counterparts, don't be silly. What else would you do with your afternoon, not use your superpowers to better the world? That's grossly irresponsible of you; don't you know that with great power comes great responsibility?

So get out there and make the world a better place -- and be sure not to let that disguise slip if you do make it in to work today. Wouldn't want anyone to learn your secret identity, after all.


[OOC: Characters will find themselves thrust into the role of superhero...or at least, super-powered human. Whether they'd use those powers for good or evil (or use them at all), they'll think they've always been this way (or maybe just since that time they fell in toxic waste and developed cancer telekinesis). Usual dream party rules apply: all players and characters welcome regardless of membership status. Characters will remember or forget the events of the dream at players' discretion.]

Comments

i don't have any icons for this

[postictal]

Tim Wright has been rendered utterly unrecognizable. At least to anyone who knew him.

For one, he's actually smiling.

For another, no one would be able to pay him enough money to be wearing what he's wearing, but wearing it he is. While grinning broadly. And rollerblading down the street. In bright pink rollerblades. And sunglasses.

Timman, obviously, is out and about and ready to prevent any minor distress or slight inconvenience he comes across, broad daylight or otherwise.

[fucking_ebay]

Daylight? No. When the city sleeps, that is when Stygian Shadow awakes and takes up his mantle as guardian of the night. Peter The Stygian Shadow (and you'd think reporters wouldn't need that spelled for them, but that's public education for you) is one with the shadows, one with the night, as he slips through the inky darkness of the night in search of the evil he is sworn to defeat.

[omnomnom_feels]

There will be peace!

A winged man alights on the sidewalk at a busy intersection, deigning only to glare at the people who shriek and run from his sudden appearance. Here, as everywhere, there is chaos. They mistake him for the danger, but he knows that these people are the ones who hurt each other and themselves, constantly squabbling over irrational disagreements, twisting what should be the intricate tapestry of their lives into painful knots of turmoil that tug ceaselessly at his consciousness.

No more. His gaze is steely, imperious as he spreads his golden wings against the sky and holds out a hand. They cannot feel turmoil, make turmoil if they cannot feel at all. It will be better this way; they can be as he was, and then he himself can return to the correct way of being. The people nearest him stumble and stop running, looking surprised for a moment before emotion is gone from their faces altogether. He lowers his hand, satisfied with the first effort, and turns to walk calmly after the others fleeing the scene.

[johnny_truant]

Well that didn't go especially well.

True to his name Truant is absent, though not necessarily by choice - running from the crime scene, again, mistaken for the criminal, again - just his luck, isn't it, whenever he tries to help it blows up in his face, sometimes literally. He's not very good at this, is he? But he has to do it. He has to atone.

Skinny leather pants are not exactly suited for running, so he banks a sharp right at the end of the block and starts scaling the wall, straight up, up to the roof. Safer up there, generally. Of course, leather pants and studded jacket aren't really suited for this, either, but he does what he has to. Sure, he could use his powers, but that's what he's atoning for. Powers are the problem. No, he'll use those only in times of true emergency, thank you. The rest of the time it's all vaguely developed parkour and macgyver tactics. He's like Batman, if Batman were more of a sewer rat than a billionaire philanthropist.

Finally ascended to relative safety, he curls up against the little wall running around the roof and lets out a slow breath, tugging his jacket tighter around himself in meager defense against the wind. He stares dully across the empty expanse, thinking over the scene he'd had to vacate, what he might do better next time (yeah right) - then, with a weary jerk of the wrist, takes out a cigarette and lights up. He really needs a break. But he doesn't deserve one. He has to keep fighting back against everything he's done, everything he is, right down to the name he gave himself.

Johnny is Truant.

[leave it to Johnny to make this prompt a bummer. he looks approximately like this]

[apidae]

Beegirl - she's a regular girl, but she's awfully small - smaller than usual, in fact. She's about four inches high, larger than your average bee, but we all make compromises for convenience.

Fighting crime isn't so much her forte, but what she can do is bring a smile to your face - and she's quite good at spying danger! You might say she has a sixth sense for it. And if things get really rough, she does have her crossbow, though it's only got one bolt, so it's a bit of a last ditch deal.

Currently she's flitting around the park, light as air, looking for someone to help or just to talk to. Feel free to say hi, if you can spot her!

[deadeyedchild]

[I'm granting Jay immunity from the dream's effects since he's still pretty dead and just floating haplessly around in riftspace, sort of accidentally stumbling into dreams (appropriate icon keywords are appropriate). So if your villain needs a victim or your hero needs a damsel, he's your guy.]

He feels himself getting pulled into a dream again, but this one pulls a lot harder than most. This one is big. For a moment it tries to push him into some ill-fitting slot, it feels like a rippling of static over his skin - clothes and body chemistry shift and blur before there's a metaphysical sort of throwing up hands and saying fuck it, and he lands, Jaylike and normal, on the ground.

He shivers, feeling like he needs a good dirt bath or something after that bizarre sensation, and takes a moment to look around, trying to assess whose dream this is. But it doesn't belong to anyone, that becomes quickly apparent. It's one of the big ones. The group ones.

Shit. Fuck. He has to get out of here. He shuffles along the sidewalk quickly, trying not to look around or make eye contact.

[lottawork]

Categorically, Nicholas is not what he would refer to as a 'visionary'. Concepts of destiny, fate, inextricably entangled in and around him notwithstanding.

Didn't he say it would always end this way.

We'll never be done.

Surveying the vast metropolitan sprawl of whatever nebulous city in which he's stationed himself is far from immediately rewarding, regardless of technological ameliorations. Cameras only reveal so much, even those bolstered by subtle modernizations of the generally imperceptible variety, unobstructed by the shadowed silhouettes of skyscrapers printed against the starlit, liquid dark. A high vantage point becomes axiom.

Wind whips over the dark fringe of his hair, clear and intemerate and vaguely fatidic, as if the herald of some dark subset of events beyond his control. How uninspired. How typical.

Nicholas straightens and retreats from the building's unprotected edge and prepares to commence the long process of descending to ground-level.

[etherthief]

[Iman is basically a slightly cleaner, hijab-wearing Imperator Furiosa, minus the rifle but including the prosthetic, now a visibly robotic arm. Superpowers are limited to what her arm used to be able to do, and also punching. She prefers punching.]


It's a fine day for street cleaning.

Iman grins, vicious and predatory, as she drops down from a balcony onto a would-be mugger, drop-kicking him right in the face. He's a big boy, sturdy, too - bounces right back, turning all his aggression on her, where it belongs. Her boots scrape the sidewalk as she lands, smirking at him, flexing her metal fingers.

"I'll bet you whatever's in my wallet you can't land a hit," she says, right before she cold-cocks him, bare-knuckled, like the good old days. She's not above punching with the pros', but that wouldn't be fair.


[feel free to be the mugged party (who may or may not have TOTALLY HAD THIS SITUATION, THANK YOU), a helpful bystander, or even the mugger if you want - I can edit the tag as needed if you wanna do that!]

[singthesong]

Sorry, were you looking for a superhero?

That's very silly, because there's no superheroes here. Just a completely normal, good-natured guitarist, practically a fixture of the park and the local music scene. He's never even met any superheroes before, despite the abundance of them in town - he's just simply never around when crimes happen. He's never even been so much as mugged, and he plays in dangerous neighborhoods pretty frequently. Good luck, he tells his friends with a laugh, and maybe just good people skills.

Wherever he goes, heroes in the area tend to receive anonymous tips a few days later regarding crimes recently or about to be committed. These come in a number of ways: notes slid under doors or into mailboxes, texts from unknown numbers, very rarely a garbled message left on an answering machine. But the phones, if tracked, are always burners long-since disposed of, the notes can never quite be traced, and don't even think about setting up cameras if you want a return visit. They're also fairly likely to be left at a hero's civilian home or workplace; alarming, if you have a secret identity. But B - the tips are always signed B - has never once provided bad info, and to all appearances hasn't revealed any hero's personal information to anyone. Whoever they are, maybe it's better to just let them operate in peace.

Meanwhile, here's this random civilian, possibly busking where he ought not to be. You might want to clear him out before shit goes down. Or, if you're really curious, rumor has it that return notes or a quick text back to the mysterious B can actually garner a response from time to time.



(( Sorry I tl;dr'd a whole AU ))

[has_a_horn]

Gabriel arrives in the dream as he usually does, in his usual clothes as his usual self. However, it doesn't take him long to take stock of the situation and come to the conclusion that he's not interested in any of this dark and gritty superhero shit. WHat fun is all that angst and desaturated clothing? He's got enough of that in his waking life.

With that in mind, he dresses himself up like Superman and wanders off down the street to see if he can find anyone he knows.