Who was he?
 
A fragment, a shard of a greater being, sent through the rifts during the war to see if Paragon was viable for the main mind, but it failed, Preatoria had been beaten back, he had been abandoned as the main mind turned elsewhere, to loftier goals.

He was once Metronome, hut now.... He was different, his sliver of psych had grown, evolved, he would make primal earth suitable, he would rise up... He just needed time, time to build his army.

The Hollows.

He stood in the abandoned building, looking at his hand. In it he held the psych of another one of Paragons lost and forgotten, so many homeless, so many aimless, he would fix that.

With his free hand, he moved with the grace of a master surgeon, cutting, sculpting, re working the mind. He had learned from the seer minds he worked with in Praetoria how Praetor Tillman had edited them, but while she was a butcher, hacking great chunks of the mind away, he had learned a more gentle touch, he was an artist at mental manipulation.

Placing the finishing touches, he turned to a bed where the vacant shell of a clockwork waited, with skill and grave he gently placed the edited mind into its new shell, the clockwork shuddering before slowly sitting up, looking around and bowing before him.

Another success, he let it stand, walk around, get used to its new form before other clockwork came in and lead it out, it would be given a name, purpose, another willing pawn in his growing forces.

That left.... The shell.

Turning to another bed, a male body layed there, eyes vacant, a look of fear etched onto his face as thick restraints held the body down, five burn marks on the forehead where he had pulled the mind free, leaving a brain dead shell.

He checked the body over, not too malnuroused, all the teeth where in tact and no sign of drug abuses he could see. With a simple mental impulse, he called forth one of his more earlier experiments, large constructor body with simple brutish mind, it stomped in, his head bowed as he awaited his orders.

"Contact Rollister, I believe he will pay well for this shell." The Herald said, there where only two buyers of bodies that he trusted, the Circle of Thorns and the Vazhilock, in honesty he rather not detail with either.... But building a revaluation was expensive and it would only be so long before the mindless shell expired and started to stink the place up.

Retrieving his staff, something he had prised from the fingers of a dead hero, he made his way into what was once a community room and smiled, rows of clockwork stood there, their heads turning as one as he entered, dropping to one knee and bowing their heads to him.... This was power, this was strength, his army would rise up and take paragon by force, he would find Penelope Yin, the Praetorian one and craft her into his perfect princess.

And nothing would stop his glorious evolution.

Niflheim
January 21, 2017


"Oh, dear - we can't have that", Hagall muttered while looking at the next batch of displacees that were expected to arrive. "Somebody who can summon demons - and control them? Let's move her entire group away from that island they're slated to appear on, and out into the middle of that nice, big river." She manipulated the appropriate coordinates. "There, that's better," she finished... just before realizing Hild was looking over her shoulder.

"Tsk, tsk. Hagall, don't you realize how many souls we get from that scam? It's almost as good as the golden fiddle scam for breeding hubris. But let's see how good these mortals really are." Hild reached over Hagall's shoulder and adjusted a different part of the coordinates that had just been changed.

Hagall loked at the second edit, and smiled - a grin that Accelerator sometimes wished he could pull off. "Yes, that should test them nicely."

Another SeraMyu-inspired or -style stage show is coming to the United States: Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon: The Super Live

Quote:Hobbes had his doubts about democracy as being an ideal structure to maintain the peace.

"The reason why he was skeptical of democracy, it's because the wealthy, the powerful, take over and the concerns of the common people are almost ignored," said Vertika.

And Hoekstra thinks the current political situation in the United States right now is a case in point.

I hope that folks in LA aren't being affected by the fire being driven by Santa Ana winds...

So a while back I asked for permission to use a version of Doug’s powers and backstory in a Mutants And Masterminds game I was going to play in, (not a 1-to-1 copy, more an ‘inspired by’ version. Think how many different Superman analogues there are, for example) to which Bob kindly gave his blessing. 

For any characters I plan on playing long-term, I tend to commission some art from Fiverr or similar for reference. Admittedly it can be VERY hard to find good art for reasonable (I.e affordable on my meagre salary) prices, but eventually found two I was happy with. 

I gave a  description (admittedly pretty vague in retrospect) description of Doug’s powers and basic equipment (grey leathers, big helmet with ear caps and visor, song magic and martial ability) and made a couple of additions for my own twist (more modern bat-clan style suit, a music note as a emblem and a visor inspired by the helmet from the Dead Space games.) 

Whilst the game, like so many others, ended up falling through before it began, I got two versions of the character drawn up. Here are the results for posterity. 


1. 
By Vinicius Lima

and 

2. 

by Fitra A Harahap


Hopefully it’s not an offensive result. Something to consider as a Ultimates-style alternate universe maybe. 
As a addendum, I got mostly through starting my character for M&M3e, with the Song power being mechanically represented by the Shapeshifting powerset (with the subheading being Other Powers Based On Songs)
This is as far as I got, but I would love some advice or alternate build suggestions if anyone knows what they’re doing.

PL 8 (142)
STRENGTH 1 STAMINA 2 AGILITY 3
FIGHTING 8 DEXTERITY 2
INTELLIGENCE 2 AWARENESS 2 PRESENCE 2


Skills:
Athletics 4 (+5)
Expertise (Pop Culture) 4 (+6)
Expertise (Engineering) 4 (+6)
Insight 2 (+4)
Intimidation 2 (+4)
Stealth 2 (+5)
Technology 2 (+4)


Advantages:
Ranged Attack 6, Set-Up, Teamwork


Powers:
"Song Powers" (Flaws: Device dependent, unreliable) [68]
Shapeshift 12 (Powers of Any Hero) (Extras: Temproary) (Flaws: Unreliable Powers, Random Identity Songs) (84 points)


Offense:
Unarmed +8 (+1 Damage, DC 16)
Initiative +3


Defenses:
Dodge +8 (DC 18), Parry +8 (DC 18), Toughness +2, Fortitude +5, Will +6


Complications:
Power Loss (Song Powers)- Hero will revert to unpowered form after expending a "pre-set" amount of energy. Larger uses of Extra Effort or other things will lower his powers further. Powers only last as long as the song playing.
Total: Abilities: 44 / Skills: 20--10 / Advantages: 8 / Powers: 68 / Defenses: 12 (142)

singer Wayne Osmond, passed away Jan 1st (age 73)
https://people.com/the-osmonds-singer-wa...73-8768539

Atlas Park.

Nat smiled as she looked at her uniform on stand, the bright orange and white, with the star at the centre of the chest, Texan Pride, she felt proud to wear it and at the slight joke in her name.

There was a buzz as her phone rings, picking it up, she saw it was her mother. "Hey ma."

"Oh hi Nathan-"

Nat coughed. "We been over this ma, ever since the toxic accident, it's Nat now."

"Sorry sweety, just over 18 years of you being my little man, just takes getting used to, you understand?"

Nat had lost track of how many times she had to correct her mother, she knows she means well, but she was getting forgetful in her age. "So what's the call for?"

"Oh just wanted to see how you where setting in in Paragon, big shift from Austin, Texas."

"Well you know ma, ever since the accident, my football dreams went up in smoke.... And let's be fair, they ain't the most tolerant folks back home, ta mutants or trans." She said, a slight bitter memory at how many of her friends turned their back on her after the change.

Her mother sighed. "I know sweety, Paragon will be good for ya, they have them rainbow flags and all, do ya good."

"Thanks ma, how's pa and Betty?"

"Oh you know your father, butting heads with anyone that tries to besmirch the family and ya sister is still upset over your change."

Nat couldn't help but laugh. "Ma, she's just upset I got this rocking bod while she has to sweat at the gym, but good news. I lined up a therapist and there is apparently a support group for trans, apparently randomly changing gender happens a lot here, hell, there was even a drug that did it... This place is wild ma, I think I will fit in great."

"Well just as long as ya don't get inta trouble, see you sweety."

Nat smiled. "Later ma." She sighed and hung up.... Time to start her new life, as a new... Well, cow woman, the woman part was still taking getting used to... The cow part, not so hard... Even if she couldn't look a hamburger in the eye anymore.

In December of 2019, we got a new puppy.  Fiona is a fine name for a fox terrier, a breed from Britain.  People always assume she was named after Fiona from Shrek, but honestly if she's named after anyone, it was after Fiona Hill, whose testimony in Congressional hearings on Russia some months back had stolen the show, despite what little effect those hearings ended up having on America.  If people ask if she was named after Shrek, of course I say yes.

Fiona is fairly intelligent, but as a pandemic puppy, she really didn't get socialized with other dogs, and whether by nature or nurture, came out a lot more timid than most dogs of her breed — Hergé's Snowy pretty much nails the normal personality of the fox terrier, even if they're all different.  So as we came out of the pandemic, I was looking for someone to be good friend for Fiona.

Around the corner and a short way down the street, we came to know one of our neighbor dogs, a bitch named Scruffy.  She's a mutt, a golden-haired girl that was some sort of small terrier crossed with some sort of dog with a winter coat.  Harry, her owner, had called all of his other dogs Tippy, so as not to forget the name, but Scruffy had named herself, from when he had first found her on his front doorstep.  By now, she was in her teens, and the temperament of an older, social, alpha female that was still a little smaller than Fiona was perfect, and they became fast friends.

Now, this isn't really a story about dogs, but about Scruffy's humans.  Harry Harshbarger was Scruffy's dad, an old man from West Virginia who liked to sit out on his front porch, occasionally catch a smoke, and watch the neighborhood pass by.  I saw "watch" in a loose sense, as he was very nearly blind.  He could recognize Fiona by sight because of her distinctive parti-color coat, but could not tell the difference between myself and my father at close range.  We do sound alike, and look reasonably alike (no paternity questions here), but thirty years makes a difference.

But Harry and I had a reason to sit outside together, our dogs, and became friends.  Male friendships are often like that — no real deep connection, just doing things together creates a bit of a bond.  He liked to give food to all of the neighborhood dogs, which gave him a chance to shoot the shit with a few of his neighbors.  Harry's Southern manners meant he wanted to be neighborly with everyone.  People joke that he was the Mayor of Eva Street, from the way he talked to everyone, to the way he got involved with everyone's business and told them what the parking rules were.  Let's say I'm glad I live around the corner, and not right next to Harry.

He certainly was an institution in the neighborhood, living here only a couple years less than I, and I moved in as an infant.  He knew everyone who came and went.  Across the street from Harry lived my friend Matt from when I was a schoolkid.  We were close friends, primarily in the sense that we lived close and at that age it matters most that you can actually see each other.  Matt and I evolved in radically different directions -- myself towards academics and science, and Matt towards skateboards, bikes, and drugs.  Harry told me how Matt had been caught for robbing College Pharmacy, was jailed, got out, then got caught robbing the exact same place again.

Matt was still in a jail in Idaho, living near his father, when his mother Anne died.  I had known her a little when I was a kid, I saw her stained glass workshop.  As she got older, she had gotten more and more OCD — the neighbor who was taking care of her things found uncashed cheques in with a pile of papers in the microwave oven.  The whole place was a mess; the roof older than I am and falling apart (especially on the south side).  Matt inherited something like $20 million from his mother's estate, some investments and some property.  None of this really makes sense, on any level.

So Harry and I had lots to talk about.  And as I got to know him, I got to know his own stories more.  Back in West Virginia, he was from a prominent family, he said, but his parents were something of black sheep, and he and his siblings were raised by his grandmother.  Apparently they swept the local shooting competitions so much they told 'em not to compete one year.  But he'd gone from shooting crows to trying to tame them by the time I knew him, presumably because he could still see crows and not little birds like bluejays.

After moving to California, he became a paramedic around these parts.  One night, he said there was no helicopter available, and he drove the ambulance down to a hospital in L.A. in 30 minutes, racecar fast.  And other tales of gruesome finds, and people he saved.  Apparently the local Hell's Angels chapter really respected him for all of the people he saved, told him he could drop by their hall.  He took a look inside, but said he respected 'em too much to take advantage.

Harry moved on and worked for GTE, one of the local Baby Bells.  Apparently he did just about every job there, from lineman to residental installs to rolling out fiber optics.  He ended up knowing so much that he got a clearance to work on the the local Navy base.  And from there onto Reagan Ranch — the Western White House — setting things up for the Gipper himself.  And one time, they ask Harry to do a mission for them back in DC, and he rode in the second seat on a fighter jet all the way there.  What was it about?  Well, that's classified.

Now you may be getting a picture here, that Harry is a bullshitter.  And bullshitting is a fine art — there is certainly a good amount of truth in there, but there's a whole lot of embellishment as well.  And it was fun. You know, who cares if one actually knows the truth?  What is truth, anyway — is it beauty?

By the time I got to know him, Harry wasn't very pretty.  A lifetime in the sun had left his skin scarred, with melanomas on his brow.  His eyes, too, were clouded over.  But I was there to talk, and my dog was there to play, and that's what really mattered.  He's a lifelong Republican, but we could both complain about Trump under his Ukrainian flag.

Occasionally, on the warmer days, his not-wife came out as well, and I got to know Christa as well.  I don't know a lot of Christa's story, since Harry did the talking for all three of us, just about.  She's German, and was about ten years old when the Third Reich fell.  She came over here and worked in office computing, a little bit programming, and a little bit of spreadsheets.  While they're not married, she's lived with Harry for about 25 years.  She hurt her foot a couple years back, and while she was at physical therapy she fell and fractured her femur.  So we've been worried about her health, and she still has trouble getting around.

So, it's a couple with one good pair of eyes and legs between the two of them, and a cute little mutt. Until a couple of weeks ago, when Harry took a fall.  It was before my walk time, but apparently he was outside with Scruffy, had to chase her back from the neighbor's yard yet again (she likes to push the limits), and fell down on the sidewalk doing so.

By the time I walked by in the late afternoon, Harry was in the emergency room for a fractured pelvis, and was soon to be admitted.  I went to visit him the next day, and thought he was doing well — well enough to tell the same stories I'd heard twenty times before.  But they were going to do a biopsy of some sort, so he couldn't eat solid food.  His neighbor Ed told me: Harry had colon cancer, and Harry didn't want to operate.

In some sense, I could see the storm clouds coming beforehand.  Over the past few months, Harry had been grumpier, in a worse mood about stupid little things.  Christa forgetting things he told her.  The way a neighbor parked a car across the street.  That neighbor, Harry's rival, called the police on Harry.  In typical Ventura P.D. style, they showed up three hours later with two cars, talked to him for a few minutes, realized there was nothing to do, and drove away.  He blamed his mood on his worsening vision, which he assumed was making him tired all of the time, as the last gasp of his vision cortex before he went fully blind. It was a good theory, but we could make other theories as well.

I went to visit him three times in the hospital, every time in a different room.  I fully expected him to be in the cafeteria on the fourth visit, but he had a nice room on the south side of the hospital.  From the room I could see the Christmas tree in my house's picture window, but of course Harry couldn't have seen if even if he could get out of bed.  He had managed to walk to the end of the hall and back, and was being discharged to an acute care facility in an hour or two.

In the meantime, I continued to visit his house, because Fiona still wanted to see her best friend Scruffy, and I wanted to make sure that Scruffy was okay. Keeping a routine is comforting for dogs, so I couldn't just stop coming. The first week was hard on Scruff, to be sure, but she mostly bounced back by the second week as various friends and family visited.  I learned new things.  I learned that there is no love lost between her children and his children, that's for sure.

One time I came over and saw Harry's son with a big stack of cash, and I did the logical thing and ask if a drug deal was going on.  No, it was that Harry wanted him to deposit all of that cash in a bank.  Somehow Christa mentioned this to the police, who went to talk to the son, whereupon they discovered he had a twenty year old arrest warrant in Santa Clara County.  But San José didn't want him after all, and he was released.  Let's just say things have been icy since then.

But I have been talking to Christa more, inside the house.  Not so much talking, without Harry, but some.  A couple days back, she asked me what I had been up to lately.  I thought about what I had been watching the previous night, the series Masters of the Air, and how exciting it was, feeling like you were flying bombing missions over Germany.  And then I thought about saying to Christa that it must have been no fun to be on the other side of those bombs, right?  What I actually said was, "Nothing much."

I tried to take Christa over to visit Harry, but my truck is too tall for her, and my car is too short.  Harry had his son take his truck away, so that Christa didn't let uninsured people drive it — which had the main effect that Christa doesn't have a vehicle she's comfortable getting her body into.  And so she hasn't been able to see Harry, or leave.  This whole thing seems like a "decisions were made" episode.

I never did visit Harry over at the care center.  He had come down with an infection, and had gotten weaker.  This afternoon, New Years Day, I got a call from Harry's next-door neighbor, Ed.  Right away, I assumed Harry had taken a turn for the worse, or was dead.  It turned out to be the latter.  Not really a shock, not really deeply sad for me.  We were never really close friends, just men who talked.

As for Scruffy, Harry wanted her put down if anything ever happened to him.  We have decided not to honor that particular wish, as Viking as it is.  Sure, she was really attached to him for years.  She's doing okay, once she got over the initial hump of waiting for Harry to come home.  Some dogs are like Hachi, but most are more resilient.  She's supposedly age 17, so I wouldn't expect her to last too much longer, but Scruffy still has some play left in her.

And as for Harry, well, you know that him being dead is just a cover story, right?  I'm sure what really happened is that the intelligence folks called him in for one last mission.  You see, they needed a guy who could tap Putin's phones, one who could understand every aspect of their antiquated systems.  It's very dangerous — it could be a suicide mission.  But he's out there right now, Reagan's special agent, fixing phones for democracy.  Godspeed, Harry.