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Bowie Sessions
Cruisin' Mos Espa, in my DeLorean. War's over, I'm a peacetime Mandalorian.
Cruisin' Mos Espa, in my DeLorean. War's over, I'm a peacetime Mandalorian.

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Augmented Human, fitted with A-Class Verne-Type Equipment

Real Name: Zaigham "Zed" Bhattacharya
Age: 32 years old
Height: 5 foot 8 inches
Weight: 168 lbs (muscular)
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Skin: Brown
Nationality: Indian
Location: Various
(note: mundane, picturing Arjun Gupta, with his rogueish Magicians look
while 'costumed', a sleekly muscular man covered head to toe in a sheening, jagged layer of liquid metal, with it only retracted to allow his dark eyes and hint of skin. Imagine the layer as something akin to, but less uniform, than placoid scales)


Approximately 50 lbs of a cognitively responsive advanced liquid alloy, with A-Class Ajax-level toughness and the capacity to form into a thin layer of armor, or be manipulated into a multitude of shapes based on the wearer's desire. This is most commonly formed into a series of monomolecular blades, when not used as a passive sheet of liquid armor.

Growing up alongside his brother of some four years his junior, he was always the one pushed for success. He was not particularly bright, but he was particularly ruthless and more than capable of pretending at the success his family aspired to for him, a man who's name meant King. As he grew older, his parent's hopes remained high, but muted, for the child had grown secretive and reluctant in the aspects of his life he shared. The lack of sharing was as much to disguise his intellectual and positional absence as it was because of the further and further depths he sank to ensure his secrets remained his, and glories remained uncontested despite his lack of it; all his successes were stolen, and he grew more brazen and more violent in his quieting of his methods. Others grew scared of him, and hurried to ensure they complete his work for him. Teachers's eyes began to fall on him suspiciously, but he was clever in at least some ways, and few dared speak against him.

But then little Jabin proved, further and further as he grew in years and talent, to be all that his parents desired of Zaigham. Zaigham grew resentful and jealous of his baby brother, and his parent's demands of him to 'help' Jabin along only spurred him further. The younger child unhesitantly told on him when Zed, as he began to call himself, tried to pawn off some of his young brother's work as his own at a job fair as he neared his final years in school. His parents believed their glorious little builder, and it drove Zed beyond furious. He left home, then, sixteen, intent on becoming a man, decrying the poor value or point of education, when he knew his genius and talents lay elsewhere.

And so for years, he was a ghost to his family, as he found himself on the streets of Mumbai, wherein men could disappear with ease amongst the endless throng. A throng from which he did prove his talents, as he grifted and lifted, as he stole and broke, as he beat and he took all that he found to be worth taking. Perhaps this would be all he ever would be, some hoodlum, some clever and sly criminal who might fall through cracks until he grew too old, or who got shot making some foolish decisions against scarier men or the few uncorrupted police.

Until the Event. The world changed overnight. And Mumbai became, suddenly, a shining city of Gods. To so very many, it was as if the great superwarriors of Kuru stood again, and to many, this was a joyous, inspiring sight, while to others, they clearly feared the subsequent Kurukshetran struggle that would follow. Faithful responded in a thousand manner, and the overburdened authorities barely understood what was happening before it had occurred. Breakthroughs wasted no time in striking from the invisible edges of mass crowds, or proudly striding fearless forward, to claim the government and establish their own rule. It was a madness that saw the country, like so many, appeal to the UN and to the US and to the Western world for immediate aid. But as China and much of the Arab nations fell to similar madness about them, few could spare thoughts, and the powers of these new tyrants proved too much for the disorganized resistance.

In turn, however, they could prove little match for the next lesson they learned: their forced opressions revealed only more Breakthroughs in the carnage that would follow, and bring many heroes to the fore, who would fight back and push down their violence, and force them to submission. Many millions would die in the fighting to follow, and in the wake, it would find 'benevolent' dictators holding power, promising to return their nation to open democracy 'as soon as it was safe to do so', a promise that begins to ring less and less true as months turned to years, and years seemed to only continue. But for most, life would return to normal.

Yet Zed, staring on, watched only impotently as the world changed, and greatness and terrible power was thrust on those unworthy, yet again passing him over. And he would watch with even more rage when a familiar face was one of these many conquering heroes who pushed back darkness: a brave, incredible champion with a pot belly and a smile so sweet and genuine he'd never mistake it. Little Builder Jabin, all grown, and resplendent in his power. Resentful, he seethed, and watched, as Jabin was celebrated and cheered on. Watched as his brilliant little brother was asked to serve as emissary to the United Nations in New York City. And studied, as he realized his brother held no power, except, it seemed, his mind... and the toys Jabin always let Zed steal.

Following to New York City, he sought out his brother, who had joined heroes there in crises and became celebrated for his kindness, for his beautiful wonders and his garish colors, and pretended at reconciliation and friendship. And Jabin welcomed him in, and answered every question Zed had, even ones asking how these toys of his worked. He even foolishly set his most famous toy, what he called 'Varuna' for its ability to take any form imagined. Synched to Zed, he smiled, and thrust it through his brother's throat, thanking him for gifting him his genius once more, before the material slid over his body as a cocoon and let him become reborn as Slice, a thief and criminal so far beyond what he once might have been. He was a Godslayer, a kinslayer, and he would in time become a feared and desired thief and, when paid exceedingly well, assassin, possessing a blade sharp enough to end even the most hardy.

He was a man who had found his way to the greatness he was always promised.

(if desiring basic info on the man described in the origin story...
A-Class Verne-Type

Real Name: Jabin Bhattacharya
Age: 25 years old (at time of death)
Height: 5 foot 7 inches
Weight: 215 lbs (overweight)
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Skin: Brown
Nationality: Indian
Location: New York City (formerly Mumbai)
(note: picturing a younger Mohanlal)

A-Class Verne-type. Traditional creativity; though heavily influenced by his devout Hindu beliefs, with much of his technology vibrant and larger-than-life, particularly focused towards militant aims.

Endless, though most known for his flying chariot and a silver gauntlet that formed into any weapon he could imagine.)

Hi! I'm new to this group, happy to be here, and I'm mostly here cuz I'd love to play some more SotM... which my local group finds to be too fiddly and boring.

I'll keep an eye out for events!

Wouldn't mind trying my hand at running a thing. Feel free to toss me Moderator if you like, Mr. Morash.

Most likely Friday nights or Saturday nights, but could do Wednesdays or Mondays possibly. I'd prefer the weekend, however. And I do expect I'd run things in MHR or at least a Cortex+ system. Although FATE is tempting for supers, too.

Currently writing datafiles for every. single. Super-Skrull (or just Hero Replacer) that was seen on panel during or after Secret Invasion. Oh, you vex me, Skrull section of Annihilation! Look what I have become!

The thread on MWP forums:

Any news on the next event?
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