Making MHR Characters: 8-Ball (ANOHotMU #4)

Damon Dran, my first try at this.

8-Ball has a billiard ball for a head, wield a pool cue for a weapon and throws explosive cueballs. Occasionally, he rides a giant 8-ball.

His nemesis? This guy, Sleepwalker.

It . . . it was the 90s.

Anyway, needless to say, 8-Ball isn't a main villain. The cue has a neat trick, though - when 8-Ball is struck, it returns the force of that strike "a thousand-fold." It's a nice touch, and one I've put into this build, as a way to distinguish him from a common mook and because, well, it makes a fight against him a little bit dangerous. He's not a challenge for a group of heroes, but if you don't take him down with physical stress quickly, or target emotional or social, he can drop some damage.

8-Ball

Solo 1d8

Buddy 1d4

Team 1d6

Distinctions

Low-Rent Crook

Gambling Man

Thinks He’s the Boss

Billiard Ball Tech

Explosive Cue Balls 1d8

Electricity Control 1d6

SFX: Area Attack - Add 1d6 and keep an additional effect die for each additional target.

Limit: Gear - Shutdown Billiard Ball Tech and step up or add 1d6 to the Doom Pool. Spend 1d6 from the Doom Pool to recover.

Cue Stick

Superhuman Strength 1d8

SFX: Retributive Strike - Spend a die from the Doom Pool to use your physical stress die on attacks, and return the die stepped down by 1.

Specialties: Crime Expert 1d8, Science Expert 1d8, Tech Expert 1d8

Hands (For My Wife)

Piety would have me say that when the stage lights dim

And I reach out my hand one final time,

I want it to be Jesus who grabs it,

Who hefts me up into heaven with a grunt,

Claps my shoulder and says,

“Well done, old boy, well done.”

But that’s a lie.

I want to be your hand

One more time.

My hands are big and clumsy - not strong, just oafish.

Your hands seemed so small, like flowers.

I was afraid I’d crush them.

Then you punched my shoulder.

I learned fast.

I’ve seen your hands knead dough, life laundry baskets, stop softballs,

Knit socks, thread needles, apply bandaids.

I’ve seen them tremble.

I’ve seen then hold steady.

I know those hands now.

The difference between an, “It’s gonna be all right,” squeeze,

“Is it going to be all right?”

And just, “I’m here.”

Paul (or was it John?) had it right -

I want to hold your hand.

At the end, at the beginning and all the parts in between.

I may only do it on occasion now

(There always seem to be a kid, a cat or something else in the way)

But if my hands ever seem restless.

It’s because they’re lonely without their partner.

The Project Begins: Making MHR Characters: Damon Dran (ANOHotMU #4)

I’m beginning the process of creating my first Marvel Heroic Roleplaying Game Event, and as part of it, I’m going to be building a lot of obscure characters. That’s because the idea of this game is, “What happened to everyone who wasn’t a cosmically powerful character who was caught up in the Annihilation Wave?”

Well, the logical thought is that they were consumed by a giant horde of ravenous bugs, but where’s the romance in that? Well, somewhere in the alimentary tract of a giant beetle, but that’s getting ahead of things.

Anyhow, apart from the heavy hitters - Nova, Quasar, Super-Skrull, Phylla-Vell - the lesser characters either get eaten off-stage or aren’t seen at all. Now, these are characters like Razorback, the lesser Spaceknights and the Shi’ar Imperial Guard. They aren’t especially well-known, and their appearances are either infrequent or don’t give much indication of their character. So, I’m grabbing my copies of the All-New Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe, selecting a random issue, and writing up MHR stat blocks for every character in the book that gets a stat block of its own.

The goal here isn’t necessarily to be faithful to the character so much as to make an interesting and useful character, and one that sensible fits the theme.

Starting with . . . Damon Dran? Who the bejeezus is Damon Dran. Well, he’s this guy. Ugh, what a genuinely terrible entry. I mean, that’s a pretty awful wiki most of the time, but they aren’t usually that directly contradictory.

Anyway, his entry in the Handbook basically paints him as this guy who absorbed the powers of a doodad called “the Globe” that made him indestructible. He works with a bunch of minions who aren’t part of any named organization and regularly gets his tail kicked by Black Widow and SHIELD. So, we’re building a megalomaniac you can’t down with force.

I’m seeing him as being a little like those main boss guys in JRPGs who look so deadly, dangerous and badass that you try to take them down and ignore the horde of minions around them that are the actual problem. He won’t actually be attacking the heroes much at all, but will instead be marshalling small armies of troops (not pictured here).

If I were to use him in a scheme, I’d give him a second, gadget-centered Power Set. Maybe just blasters and jet boots (giving him an Attack and Flight power), but hopefully something more interesting than that, unless he’s an underboss. This will also give the players something with a Limit they can target - the Globe Power Set is nifty, but not so useful for someone who likes to lead from the back.

Damon Dran

Affiliations Solo 1d8 Buddy 1d6 Team 1d10

Distinctions Hatred of SHIELD

“I’m Unstoppable!”

“Minions! Get Them!”

Power Sets

Globe Powers

Enhanced Strength 1d8

Godlike Durability 1d12

Godlike Stamina 1d12

SFX: Indestructible. Pay one die from the doom pool to ignore any physical stress.

SFX: Shake It Off. Pay one die from the doom pool to recover your physical stress and step back your physical trauma by -1.
Limit: Giant Ego - Step up mental stress and add 1d6 to the doom pool when his pride is wounded.
Specialties: Business Expert 1d8, Covert Expert 1d8, Crime Expert 1d8, Menace Exper 1d8, Tech Expert 1d8

Grief

It was late February 2015, about two weeks after I got home from my mom’s funeral. The nights were still brutally cold, and I sat downstairs curled up in a chair under a blanket. At about nine o’clock in the evening, two hours after he’d gone to bed, Brandon started wailing. I took the steps two at a time getting up to him, held him close, comforted him as best I could. When he could talk, I asked him what was wrong and he said, “I forget what she sounds like.”

He held me close, comforted me as best he could, and I tried to reciprocate. After five minutes or so of this, we were capable of speech again, and he explained that, yes, indeed, he couldn’t remember the sound of his grandmother’s voice. I assured him that it was okay, it was probably temporary because when we get worried that we can’t remember something our stupid brains actually shut down our ability to remember things.

He asked how he could make sure that he never forgot her completely and I said, honestly, that he really couldn’t make sure of it. Time passes, things change and while you can always try, sometimes people fade in your memory, and that’s okay. It’s natural, and normal, just part of being a person, but he could.

He asked if there was anything he could do to help remember her and I asked him if he knew why, every once in awhile, I put my hand on the middle of my chest. He didn’t, so I told him - that’s where I keep my memories of the people I’ve lost. When something happens that makes me remember them, I put my hand there because our bodies are connected to our brains and so motions like this help us remember.

“Is that what grief is?” he asked. I didn’t answer. How could I? I’ve had my losses, sure, but I can’t really define grief for someone else. Not really.

I’ve lost a couple of friends. I lost my last grandparent just or so ago. And, yeah, my mom, the biggest hole in my heart, but I couldn’t find a way to define grief for him, not in a way that made sense. I have a policy with my boys, that if I don’t know the answer to their question, I’ll tell them so.

“I don’t know,” I said, finally. “I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe grief is something that means something different for each person who feels it.”

We talked on for a bit about whether grief and sadness are the same thing, about whether or not you can ever get to a point where you don’t feel grief anymore, that sort of thing. All told, I was with him for about an hour.

One night just recently, I picked Brandon up from a school event to bring him to church for AWANA. It’d been a busy day for him, so I wasn’t surprised to see that he was a little tired, but as we walked out to the car he let out a deep sigh that seemed to come from somewhere other than fatigue.

“You all right, buddy?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m all right.” He then asked me a question about tigers and so we occupied ourselves until we got to church. The entire time, though, he never really looked up from the ground.

We got to the gym just in time to line up for the start of club, and so he went to his group and I went to the group I lead. I looked across at him, still standing there, eyes a bit downcast, looking at his feet.

He put his hand over his heart and said something - “I love you,” or “I miss you.” I couldn’t tell, honestly.

I didn’t talk to him about it that night, or since. I hugged him extra hard and told him I loved him more often, and made some plans to hang out together that weekend, and that seemed to cheer him up, though.

That, I think, is grief. It’s not a definition, I know, but I think maybe that is, in the end, the lesson that I needed to learn here. Maybe grief is something that can’t really be defined because it’s a bit different for each person, for each moment of grief. Even when it’s shared.

The only reaction I have to the people who terrorized Paris today

And I think maybe the only one I can have.

Now, pardon me, I have to hold my family close.

Nobody told me (my two boys)

Nobody told me that love happened that fast.

Nobody told me the difference between holding a baby and holding your baby.

Nobody told me that 3 AM cuddles can be the best part of your day.

Nobody told me that when they hurt, I bleed.

Nobody told me that I’d learn to love from someone who hasn’t learned to walk.

Nobody told me that some day I’d look at Christ on the cross and say to God not, “Why did you do this for me?” but “How could you do this for anyone?”

Nobody told me a name for that feeling you get when they defy you.

Nobody told me a name for that feeling you get when they do the right thing even when it costs.

Nobody told me what to do when those two things happen at the same time.

Nobody told me that having a son means you get to raise someone else’s best friend.

Nobody told me how to share grief with someone who doesn’t know what “death” is.

Nobody told me just how hard you can laugh, if you’re open to it.

Nobody told me what to do when you look at your boy and you see the man he’s becoming.

Nobody told me any of this, and I’m glad they didn’t, because I wouldn’t have believe them.

And, after all, I kind of like surprises.

Back in the Day: A true story

This is the story of the time I was the head of a street gang. Don’t worry, it’s funny, and no one gets hurt, honest.

Before I go on, I need to make something clear - there are bits here where I say stuff that probably comes across as kind of badass and tough, like I was some kind of Marlon Brando/Clint Eastwood amalgam, but that’s not actually how it sounded. See, I’ve always had this thing where I get really nervous and allofasuddenI’msayingexactlywhatI’mthinkingwithnopauses. When I do this, I don’t make eye contact, and generally speak in an unusually quiet (for me) middle tone. Kind of the opposite of sounding like a tough guy.

This story begins, as so many hilarious stories of poor decision making do, with me in high school. I was class president, actually, having won rather in spite of myself. I was never popular, as anyone would ever measure such things, but I was known - I was that slightly chubby kid with the girlfriend two grades younger who did all the geek stuff. I mean, seriously, all the geek stuff. D&D club, jazz band, senior band, drama club, A/V. According to our staff advisor, I won prettily handily, too, so for any of you reading this debating a career in politics, name recognition really does matter, apparently.

I inherited a school that had, in four short years,* gone from being a kind of dank place with a serious problem with drugs and violence, but with a dominant football team, to being a much safer place, still with a dominant football team. Consequently, the student council’s old job, of desperately trying to avoid being noticed in the hallways, had changed and we were now expected to, well, do stuff.

I set up Coffee Fridays (with donuts!), a couple of dances and a few events. I was no longer “that geek,” I was, “that geek - but don’t worry, he’s cool.” Hey, baby steps, y’know? I guess that’s a kid from another school thought I must be the head of the most powerful street gang at my high school. Yeah, I don’t know either.

It went down like this - a friend told me just before final period that there was a guy who had “called me out” to the bus stop in front of the school. Not technically being on school property it had, in its day, been the site of a number of fights, but I frankly kind of blanked on that at the time and just strolled out to talk to the guy.

He was about three inches shorter than me, dressed in loose-fitting clothes I associated with gang kids, which should’ve been my first clue that he wasn’t here just to say hello. My second clue should’ve been his attempt to push me, which did not go as planned. I mostly sidestepped it, and he essentially lunged past me.

“Well that’s just rude,” I said **. A couple members of my welcoming committee*** moved to intercept him, but I kept talking. I don’t remember exactly what I said, to be honest, but the fact that I wasn’t fighting the guy kept them from actually intervening, I guess, because they held off. The guy went to push me again, and this time I let him, and even let myself get pushed back a bit as it seemed the polite thing to do.

“You run the gangs around here, right?” he said.

I responded in the negative, I believe.

“I’m calling you out, you and your boys. Be here next week, this time, this place.”

“That won’t work,” I said, “I have a band concert.” I don’t know the exact sequence of events, but we ended up scheduling the fight for the next Thursday, and in a more secluded spot on school grounds, at around six. He walked onto the bus and drove away in as much of a huff as one can on public transportation. The bus wasn’t quite out of range when I realized I had a serious problem - so far as I knew, I was a gang of one.

The welcoming committee was, naturally, the first group of people to join my gang.  That gave me five people which, so far as I knew, could work, but being a fan of The Warriors, I knew that gangs could be pretty sizeable and so I spent the next few days picking up some extra help. The tuba players from band. A couple of football guys. The strength coach. A janitor. Four or five other guys. My gaming group. In total, my gang ended up with just over twenty people. Overkill? No, I thought, just enough kill.

The evening of the big brawl came and we all gathered in the agreed-upon spot, an alcove about twenty feet by twenty that was effectively underneath the high school. Seriously, if I get the chance, I’m gonna film a fight scene there some day, if it still exists.

The other gang was running late. I didn’t tell anyone that I suspected that this was because there was more time between the buses after four and the next one after 6 was at about quarter after the hour. They did show, though. All four of them.

They were all about the size of their leader. Two of them had baseball bats, one of them had small club, and the lead guy had, I kid you not, a penknife so short that you couldn’t cut through a carrot in one cut. I’ll admit, they had the weapon advantage on us. The only guy on our side with a weapon was Little Steve from my D&D game, who’d brought his nunchucks. They were plastic, from his Michaelangelo costume that Halloween.

There was an awkward silence as we sized one another up, like two predators. I mean, technically, both tigers and housecats are predators, so . . .

I’m not sure who started laughing. Given my tendency to burst forth speech, I believe it was me, but anyway, one of us started laughing. Soon enough, it rippled out through everyone on our side. It carried on for a good half minute, and then the guy with the club, smacked his leader on the shoulder, hard.

“Oh, my gosh, I don’t know which one of us is dumber, you for thinking I’m a gang leader, or me for doing this,” I said.

“He’s most definitely the idiot,” club-guy said, chuckling. A few awkward chuckles later and it was me, four voluntarily disarmed gang members, and the welcoming committee. The leader and I sorted out some kind of a deal - no gangs in our school, and he’d let me know if anyone from our school started making trouble in his area, as I recall - and we parted ways.

The gang never actually got back together for another rumble, unfortunately. That was my one and only time as leader of my own street gang.

* For those doing the math, yes, that means that I was the president in my fifth year of high school. Ontario had five years of high school back then. Great for getting your first-year college courses out of the way.

** Read the second paragraph, then come back here. Yeah. Okay, moving on.

*** This is going to be a bit long for a footnote, for which I apologize in advance.

Okay, so my school had become kind of a cool place to go to school, overall, but we still had some trouble with bullies, particularly bullies who didn’t go to our school. This was in the days when “school security” consisted of teachers knowing which of the 2000+ kids in the school actually belongs, so grads, dropouts and kids from other schools got in the habit of dropping by whenever they felt like beating someone up.

Administration handled this problem quite well, really, but in addition to their official efforts, I formed my “welcoming committee,” a group of athletes from various sports teams who had a lot of school pride and - this is important to note - enough self-restraint to act on this pride without actually causing lasting injury. Let this be a lesson, kids - if you’re going to create a band of free-roaming thugs, choose them carefully.

They were their own little group, honestly, and after school could usually be found near the bus stop, the most common point of arrival for people looking to stir up trouble at the school.