Sabrehawk

"You don't understand what they'll do to me!" Sabrehawk didn't say anything. Just laid a stainless steel briefcase on the rickety table in the corner of the Pork Oakes basement. "Answer the question." "I can't. I can't! You don't get it Sabre. You don't know what they're like." She punched a combination into the lock and opened the case. Unloaded the case with a cybernetic hand. Pliers. A scalpel; it gleamed yellow in the light of the single bulb dangling from a wire in the center of the room. A dental drill. Blowtorch. Jimmy 'Nine O'Clock' Palmetto swallowed. They called him Nine O'Clock because like the nine o'clock news he knew everything going down in Port Oakes. Including where Khun Ngo spent his free time. "You don't wanna do this Sabre. I've got friends you know." "I know." "They won't take this laying down, you hear me? You can't just push us around like this. They'll come after you." "I know." She picked up the pliers. Opened and closed them. Set them down and picked up the scalpel. Her skull mask could be seen in the mirror polished blade. She turned and looked at Jimmy with the red glow of her eye lenses. He looked at the door. "You won't make it." Jimmy tried anyway. He didn't make it. Sabrehawk wiped the blood from the scalpel and slipped it back under it's elastic strap in the briefcase. Closed it with a click. Jimmy gurgled behind her as she opened the door. Stopped. Bent and removed a tooth stuck in one of her boots tread. She closed the door behind her. True to his namesake Jimmy had known the answers to her questions. Khun Ngo liked to hang out at a little gambling joint on the intersection of 14th and Gambler Street. Dancers and cards. And a lot of Ngo Damh muscle. That was fine with her. Now to find Jimmy's friends before they found her.

Thunder rumbled. Rain fell in sheets. Lightning crisscrossed the sky, illuminating the streets of Port Oakes in blue-and-white. In that flash of brilliant light Sabrehawk's profile was cast in stark relief. She stood atop one of the industrial powerlines that fed a Cage Consortium warehouse. No staff to balance with. And she did not crouch. She just stood two stories in the air, both feet balanced on a single cable while rain pelted her skin tight body armor. She was working. And thinking. Sabrehawk had a lot to think about. Of late she had a face to face meeting with both Rei Mizuni and Lady Cobra. The killer for hire had learned a few things. For example, Lady Cobra's real name was Emily Chang and she was the ex-wife of William Chang. The title Lady Cobra was a legacy name, once possessed by Emily's mother and (Sabrehawk assumed) other ancestors before her. These Lady Cobras had fought a generational war against the Ngo Damh, a criminal organization from east Asia. Now somehow the ex-husband of Emily, William Chang had wormed his way into a position of leadership with the Ngo Damh. Nor was that all; William was also the head of Chang Industries. And William had been causing problems for her latest client, the aforementioned Rei Mizuni, head of the Mizuni corporate empire and Sabrehawk's latest client. The shortest path between two points was a straight line. Likewise the simplest method to end Chang Industries meddling was to find Mr. William Chang and kill him. But the client didn't want that. Clients were always making simple things complicated. Apparently there were rumors swirling about the Mizuni corporate empire. Rumors about an association with the Yakuza. That she could understand. If corporate rivals begin dropping dead in suspicious circumstances that could lead to an investigation. Which could lead to a dip in stock prices. Among other things. A sudden gust of wind caught her black and red cape, whipping it violently to the side. Sabrehawk swayed like a serpent on the powerline. Her footing never slipped. The wind passed but the gears inside her mind never stopped turning. The Ngo Damh. Williams criminal help. They were a double edged sword. On one hand, they gave William force projection on the streets of the Isles. An deniable asset that could reach out and touch his rivals. Much like Sabrehawk herself. On the other hand William couldn't admit his association with them for much the same reason as Rei Mizuni could not admit any hypothetical Yakuza connections. William too had to fear the SEC investigation. The FBI anti-corruption task force. The media reports. The short sellers. The stock dip. The Ngo Damh were his weakness. Through them she could send a very clear message; Rei Mizuni has money. A lot of it and if William Chang wanted to acquire the services of the Ngo Damh well, Mizuni could acquire the services of professional killers. Such as Sabrehawk. And William could not dare complain lest he admit his organized crime connections. The Americans took a dim view of that sort of thing. Americans also loved to seize assets. Ahead a black limo pulled out of the Cage Consortium warehouse. Sabrehawk plucked one of the hilts of her twin hardlight blades from her belt and spun it around into a reverse grip. She knew just how to speak to the Ngo Damh in a language they could understand. They were part of the same world, after all. The limo stopped at the security post. In fact she had learned of a certain Khun Ngo, a member of the Ngo Damh with some level of notoriety. Muay Thai expert. Always armed and always dangerous. One eye. Liked to fight dirty. Sabrehawk could relate. She decided to beat him until he begged. The gate opened and the limo rolled out onto the road, windshield wipers flicking back and forth. The limo took a left and drove under the powerline Sabrehawk was standing on. She tilted her toes down and slid off the powerline. The hardlight blade came alive in her hands. White-blue, like a slice of lightning. She landed on top of the limo in a crouch, blade pointed straight down. It punched through the armored roof as if it were tissue paper. Through the bald head of the Cage Consortium executive. Through his fat neck and through his heart. Sabrehawk flipped the blade off with a thumb while her other hand slapped the teleporter on her belt. She vanished in a flash. Armored limo doors flew open and bodyguards swarmed the car. Moments later the howl of an ambulance siren cut through the wind and rain. Miles away Sabrehawk stepped off the teleporter pad in one of her safehouses and sent a message to one of the executives ambitious subordinates. The path to his promotion was open. Now pay up.

I just wanted to drop in and say you are a beautiful writer. I have enjoyed all of these.

Frank Williams pondered his next move as his Harley Davison rumbled through the trash strew streets of Mercy. Nobody bothered him. Not with the Mercy Maulers Motorcycle Club patch on his faded black leather jacket. He was thirty seven years old. Six foot two and two hundred and thirty five pounds. Wanted in Washington State for felonious assault and Oregon for homicide in the third degree. Brass knuckles in his right pocket, a six inch knife in his boot and a 1911 chamber in .45 in his waistband. Frank wasn't scared of much. He knew how to handle himself. He also knew that working for supervillains was a two edged sword. Sure, the money was good and the protection from other supervillains was a must in the Rogue Isles. But they didn't always see things rationally. Some of them were down right crazy. Take this Sabrehawk broad. Sure, she had a reputation but Frank wasn't too sure about anybody who made their living backflipping off roofs with a cape. Why didn't they wear regular clothes? As he rolled around the last corner before his apartment he saw her. She was sitting on the ledge of his porch just staring at nothing. Wearing her skull mask, black skin tight body armor and her cape. Red on the inside, black on the outside. Speak of the devil, he thought as he rolled up on the sidewalk and booted the kickstand down. "'Sup." He said. "Why did you run?" She replied. He was struck by the modulation on her mask. It gave her voice a metallic, digital sound. Frank wasn't sure if he'd recognize her voice if he heard her without the mask. It occurred to him that was probably the point. "What?" "The homeless run in Port Oakes. Someone blew a whistle and you ran. All of you." "It's the Ngo Damh. That's their signal, ya know?" "No I don't." "Yeah, one of 'em blows that thing and then they're crawling out of the woodwork." "I didn't see any." "Trust me. They were there." "I don't." "What?" "Trust you." He paused for a moment. Then snorted. "Whatever lady. That's their turf. They were comin-" "How many of them were there?" She cut him off. "How should I know? I didn't see the-" "So you don't know if there were any at all." "I heard the whistle!" "But you didn't see them." "Nah." He narrowed his eyes. "How did you know about the whistle?" They'd left out what happened when they reported back in that evening. Just told their club president they didn't find any suitable candidates. "There were six of you." "So? Ngo Damh hunt in big packs." "Oh? How many would that be?" He threw up his hands. "Hell if I know. I left before they showed up." "Yeah. You did." "What's it to you anyway?" "I pay good money for the services of your little bicycle club Frank. Too good for you to cut and run because you heard a whistle." "Yeah? Well I don't give a shi-" He paused. Thought better of what he was about to say. Some of these caped types could be a little crazy. Besides, she was paying the club good money and his cut wasn't bad. "Look. Things got harry. We called it off for the evening. Things happen ya know?" "I do. But 'things' hadn't happened. You don't know how many of them there were. You don't even know if they were armed. If you had fought, maybe you could have won." He shrugged. "Well we didn't. What'cha gonna do? Fire me?" She didn't say anything to that. Just climbed to her feet and stood on his porch. He couldn't help but notice how tall she was. Almost as tall as he was. "Look, I've got a wife and a kid and shit to do." He climbed off the bike and motioned to his front door. "Yeah. They're waiting on you." Only then did he notice his front door was open. Not much. Just a couple inches. He paused. Put a hand inside his pocket where his brass knuckles were. "They're waiting inside?" "No." She reached behind her back. He saw the pistol when her cybernetic hand passed her hip. It was too late.

Twelve hundred meters away Sabrehawk observed the scene through the ZC840 scope. Her left hand came up and adjusted the zoom. The magical runes that glowed in soft blues above her left arm dueled with the red glow of her mask's eyes against the matte black scope. The sight picture snapped into focus just in time for the brawling to start. Under her skull mask she raised an eyebrow. Whoever this woman was she could fight. This wasn't a reporter. Petite women looking for a story only held off multiple fully grown men on TV. Private investigator? Maybe. But Sabrehawk found it unlikely; not with that kind of martial skill. It wasn't a rival in the world of contract killers either. This woman fought to injure. Not to kill. One possibility loomed large. A superhero. Frank with the bat in three.. two.. there it is. She had used Frank before. He didn't believe in fair fights. In his view the back was the best place to hit anyone. Yet somehow the woman was still conscious. She's tough. Superhero for sure. Then the whistle. The homeless found their nerve. Her men lost theirs. But who had blow the whistle? The barrel drifted to the right. Then to the left. There. She committed the face to memory. A third player in the game. Clearly following someone. Had he been tracking her men? Or the mysterious 'homeless' woman? To make matters worse she could only track one of them. If she followed the man then the woman would vanish back into the night and all the stakeouts and planning would have been for nothing. Besides, the man was still in good health. He had a better chance of evading her. Sabrehawk made her decision. A cybernetic finger took a device from her belt and stuck it to the side of the rifle. It was about the size of a quarter, black with a red button in the center. She tapped that button. The rifle vanished in a flash of blue light as her base teleporter locked on to the teleporter beacon and yanked the rifle through time and space back to her Grandville hideout. Lugging a fifteen pound rifle from rooftop to rooftop was a great way to lose your query. A finger tapped a key on her utility belt. One of the two drones that had maintained overwatch above the building dropped out of it's patrol route and locked onto a new target. It darted to five hundred feet in the night sky and sent real time footage from it's nightvision camera to Sabrehawk's mask. She pried the window open with a robotic hand, slipped through and was soon leaping from rooftop to rooftop. ”There, there, my beautiful angel. I’ve got you now. Everything is going to be okay…” Sabrehawk lay perfectly still in a ventilation duct. The generally poor quality of construction in the Isles played right into her hands. Points of entrance and egress were rarely secured to the degree needed to stop a supervillain. This wasn't Paragon. So she lay in a dusty, cramped metal duct and listened. “Relax my little serpent, you had a nasty bump on the head!” She didn't recognize the voice. Teeth bit the control interface mounted to her mouthpiece. Isolate vocal recording. Voice recognition. “What are you…? D-don’t touch me…” Interesting. Whoever was helping her mystery woman didn't seem to be on good terms with her. Perhaps they were not in league after all. “You’re here because I happen to have saved your life. You might want to think about that and what would have happened to you if I hadn’t been there.” Voice recognition completed. Match found. William Chang, male, formerly taught at the University of Copenhagen, employed at Chang Industries- the data feed went on but Sabrehawk cut it off there. There would be time to research this William Chang more later. For now she needed to extract herself from this ventilation shaft before she was discovered.

@White Cobra The clock on the wall read fifteen to midnight. A roach skittered out of a hole in the floorboard. There were no lights and there room held only a single (living) occupant. There was a wooden table about seven feet back from the window. Scratch marks on the floor showed where the table had been dragged back from against the window. To the right of the table was a pile of trash; magazines, a half crumpled box of tissues, a filthy ashtray and someone's car keys. The only item on the table was a Accuracy International rifle chambered in .338 Lapua with black furniture, ZC840 scope and it's PTD tripod. The barrel was aimed out the seventh story window. Sabrehawk set at the trigger. One of the red eyes of her mask looked down the eight to fourty power scope. The other stared unblinking at nothing, it's electronic glow casting the center of the rifle in a sinister red. Two parking lots and a road lay between her and the alleyway she was watching. Three quarters of a mile. A battered black van with tinted windows pulled up in front of the alleyway. The doors swung open and six men climbed out. Combat boots. Brass knuckles. A couple of baseball bats. Each wore a black leather jacket emblazoned with the emblem of the Mercy Maulers Motorcycle Club; a human heart wrapped in barbed wire. Two pulled out flashlights and begin to shine them in the eyes of the homeless gathered around the burning oil barrel in the alleyway. Orders were barked. One of the homeless men tried to fight. A thug in motorcycle boots doubled him over with a baseball bat to the stomach. He didn't fight back after that. One of her henchmen knelt beside him grabbed his wrist with rough hands in fingerless gloves and, of all things, checked his pulse. Stood and shook his head to his five companions. "Nah. He's too weak, they don't want 'em with heart problems. Check the rest." And so they carried on. Checking each homeless man or woman with all the bedside manner of an angry bear. One by one until they found what they were looking for and that unfortunate soul vanished forever.

The orange ball of the sun rose and cast it's brilliant light through the bay window that stretched the length of the Grandville royal suite. That burning orb illuminated a room floored in marble. White furnishings. Except for the dining table; solid black. The tall woman who set at that table went by the name Sabrehawk and she was a killer for hire. She liked to think she was one of the best. But it was a competitive field. You had to have an edge. And Sabrehawk? She didn't have any powers. That was okay. She had everything else. Like 'Sabredyne'. An experimental 'dine derivative. Derived, if you will, by isolating stem cells and treating them in pure Superadine. Remove the Superadine, mix the stem cells into a stabilizing solution and Sabredyne was born. It didn't give you powers. That was okay. It gave you everything else. Sabredyne was short lived but it washed away fatigue and soreness. Injuries healed quicker. And recovery? Sabrehawk could train three or four times a day with it's aid. Of course everything had it's price. Sabredyne had the best price; the kind someone else paid for. It was science you see and science required experimentation. Which required control groups and experimental groups. But the mysteries of Superadine were notoriously difficult to pry from it's grasp. Sabrehawk also needed control groups (positive) and control groups (negative) and meaningful sample sizes and oh so much more. Science wasn't cheap. Volunteers for experimental Superadine injections could be had. But having them in volume and having them cheap enough to make volume practical, that was another matter. So Sabrehawk collected them the best way. Free. The world was full of people no one would miss. They lived out of shopping carts or made their homes in sagging little tents under bridges and in public parks. And there were so very many of them! Who would miss a few here and there? Well someone had. That someone had been poking around Port Oakes. The tall woman leaned back and propped her feet up on the black table. Wiggled her toes and opened the report compiled by one of her (relatively) trusted minions. Details on the subject were sparse. Gender and ethnicity. Estimated height and weight. There wasn't even a photo. That wasn't much to go on. Sabrehawk pushed her chair back and rose to her full height. She stood an even six foot. Tossed a bathrobe about her shoulders and walked to the bay window leaned against it. The sunrise illuminated the left side of her face as she folded her arms over her upper stomach and pondered the problem before her. On one hand, maybe this was just some journalist who had deluded themselves into something approximating courage. That was an easy problem to solve. When the journalist was gone the problem would be too. It could also be a private investigator. That was a stickier situation. Those little bloodhounds were summoned by the dollar and a constant stream of them would flow forth until the source of their wage was located and eliminated. Of course it could also be a rival. Some ambitious young up-and-comer trying to dig up dirt on Sabrehawk. Probably not; the report didn't indicate that the subject had used force on anyone she spoke to. But Sabrehawk thought it wise to be aware of every possibility. And last but never least; it could be a superhero. Those bleeding hearts were always getting worked up about some cause or another and the plight of the homeless were the latest cause du jour. She needed to figure out what she was dealing with. The tall woman pushed off the window. Tossed the file on the table and made her way to a room in the back. Her skull mask was waiting. And so were answers.

Much of the issue with so called 'OP' characters is that no one (myself included) wants to say 'hey, you aren't skilled enough to be writing this character'. Which is understandable; that is a difficult conversation to have with the potential for considerable drama. However it can often kill a scene as people are understandably not interested in being on the wrong side of such a character. I have seen that dynamic put an end to several otherwise wonderful storylines over the years.

The caporegime set at a huge desk of polished oak and made it look small. It wasn't his. But it was. The legal owner of the desk was the owner of the club they were in. A gentleman's club in Paragon City that offered only the finer things in life. Dining, gambling and dancing. Among other things. Sprawled about the room were his soldiers. Paul Stuart suits and three hundred dollar haircuts. The caporegime would have been embarrassed by anything less than the best. And he wasn't a man known to take that lightly. The only sound in the room was his index finger tapping on the table. Caporegime Giovanni Espositi was a big man in every way. Broad shoulders inside a deep blue Ermenegildo Zegna suit. A thick brow below a short gunmetal gray ponytail that fell to middle of his hulking back. A silvery-white shirt stretched over a modest gut. Hands like lunchboxes. He'd always been big. Even before the superdine. When the door opened hands vanished inside jackets and the metallic click of safeties disengaging filled the room. It had been locked. Hadn't it? Sabrehawk walked in. Black and red costume. Black and red cape. A skull mask with red lenses for eyes. She was tall and lean and walked with the lazy swagger of some great cat strolling on distant plains. "You're late." Said the caporegime. "And you're fat." She replied. Her voice was metallic and distorted by the voice modulation in her mask. Tension filled the air. Knuckles turned white on pistol grips. The moment stretched out until Giovanni laughed. His soldiers laughed too, nervous chirping to his booming chuckle. Hands exited jackets. "Have a seat." He waved to a brown leather chair in front of the desk. "Where's the money?" She didn't sit. The caporegime waved a hand. One of his men laid a fat envelope on the table. Sabrehawk opened it and counted the money with a cybernetic hand. Oiled joints whirred in her hand as she nodded and tucked the money into a pouch on her black utility belt. "That buys you fifteen minutes. Let's hear it." Giovanni took a cigar from inside his jacket. Held it out to the side. One of his men stepped forward and lit it. He inhaled and blew a thick cloud of smoke into the air, watching the assassin with a steady gaze. Then he waved to his men. "Leave us." Metal and flesh intertwined as Sabrehawk folded her arms over her chest while the men filed past her and out the door. The last soldier out closed and locked the door behind him. Giovanna placed a hand on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. Oak that was old when the nation was young creaked under his bulk. He walked to a window and stared out it. On the HUD inside Sabrehawk's mask fifteen minutes ticked away. She didn't say a word. "You wonder why I've brought you here." Giovanni said. "There's only one reason people pay to speak to me." A nod of his bull-like head. "Yes. I want someone dead." "You're a Family caporegime. You have dozens of men sworn to kill at your command." He turned, surprisingly graceful for his bulk. "The man I want dead.." The big man paused, as if even he struggled to say the words. "..is a consigliere." Now Sabrehawk set. Propped her armored boots onto the oak desk and crossed her ankles. "I've never killed one of those before. Go on." He did. And what he began would not end until forty eight men were dead.

Merry Christmas to all and may your New Years be wonderful!

Almost all of them are the same person. I create multiple versions of Sabrehawk, a refuge from Praetoria turned Arachnos assassin for hire, each version representing a different martial art that she has mastered. One character is her Primal counterpart. And a few characters who are minions and henchmen of Sabrehawk. But ninety percent of my characters are just Sabrehawk with a sword, or Sabrehawk using Karate and so forth.

Sabrehawk committed her first murder when she was a high school student. (This may not count as 'childhood'.) At that time she had been considering a career as a supervillain for a while but she knew that to be a supervillain she would have to kill. She wasn't sure if she could do it. Or handle the aftermath. So one day she took a .22 rifle, her three hundred dollar used car and a long trip. It turns out it wasn't something that bothered her at all. Just another unsolved crime for everyone else but for Sabrehawk it was a pivotal moment.

I much appreciate the tier list. And I had no idea Kinetic Melee could perform anywhere close to the level of DB. I love my DB toon so maybe it is time to stop procrastinating on my KM.

I am merely one data point of course but for my part I never played on Live. During the spring of 2020 I googled 'superhero MMO' and saw that a game called City of Heroes had returned. So I downloaded it. And here I am.

I suppose that depends on what you mean by 'edgelord'. Personally I enjoy edge. It isn't for everyone but it is for me. As such, I tend to play an 'edgy' character; an assassin employed by Arachnos who is into all that supervillain stuff so long as there is a profit to be made. Does everyone like this? Presumably not. Is it something I enjoy? Yes. So I suppose my opinion would be that edge is like anything else; done right it's fun, done poorly it isn't.

I was thinking of RPing it as some kind of kung fu type thing. 'The One Hundred Hands of Death' or whatnot. I figured that would fit the Tai Chi animations but I might just not take (or use) the ranged attacks.

I'm an RPer playing a character semi-inspired by Batman. Sabrehawk, my namesake. To simulate his 'traveled around the world mastering martial arts' I've been creating characters of each 'martial arts-ish' primary, leveling them to fifty, IOing them out with as good a build as I can find, then T4ing them. Each character where this process is completed represents a different style of fighting Sabrehawk has mastered. I've done them all except for Kinetic Melee thus far.

I have a 50 DB/EA stalker. T4ed, thirty something incarnate levels. My experience with DB is that it has some of the better AoE for a stalker. Single target damage isn't bad either. However, this relies on having a build with very high recharge. In addition my experience was that the damage was underwhelming until I had all the incarnates. There was a learning curve to it as two of it's three AoEs are cones; when you maneuver your opponents so the cone hits a large group it's quite effective in an AoE situation. When it comes to Ninja Blade on a stalker I don't have one so I cannot really say what it is good or bad at.

Never have I made a supergroup base.

I voted Other/NA. I get lots of RP however I do not get enough of the specific kinds of RP that I enjoy. There are a number of reasons for this. Partly this is just scarcity; I am a redsider who enjoys mature evil with verisimilitude and this is not for everyone. Another part of this is the opportunity costs of RP vs running content. Many of the types of content I enjoy (ITF, Grandville/DA mission/tips teams) occur more frequently in the late evening. This is also when the RP scene is the most active and my friends are more likely to be online. Thus I have to choose between an activity I know I like (endgame content) and activities that may, or may not, be to my tastes (as the nature of walkup RP can rarely be ascertained before it begins).

Generally I hang out in Pocket D. Occasionally at the various clubs open through the week.

Get political? Goodbye.

Congratulations to all. It is fascinating to see the team compositions. Has there been any thought to a speed run of the 801 mission series? I would love to see what the pros can do with that.

Wow.

I still play SWTOR weekly. Sometimes I log in to play with friends in that game but regardless I keep up with my weekly conquest goals. An addictive system which has kept me paying that subscription fee for years. GG bioware. GG.