The Adventure

All IC stuff goes here.

It's June 3, 2024. You're in Small Town (pop. 2500), which exists somewhere on America's east coast.

Summer. So hot the chickens are laying hard-boiled eggs. And not a breath of wind outside to cool a sweltering person down.

Luckily (well, because of the heat, but not lucky for other reasons), you're all down in your basement "apartment" (or secret lair, if you want to sound badass) which is relatively cool. You've all recently formed a superhero/vigilante team, name pending. You all have backstories which you may or may not have shared. Now you have to work together to...do something. Be standard superheroes? Do good, but also try to make a boatload of cash along the way? Be grim vigilantes? Hmmm...decisions, decisions....

The basement is...an unfinished basement, besides a cracked linoleum floor. About 500 square feet. Cinder-block walls. Cobwebs in the corners. Dust-covered antique furniture stacked here and there. Crumbling cardboard boxes holding forgotten bric-a-brac.

You all have staked out separate zones, where you sleep, relax, and...have sex?

Since this is America in 2024, rent is $3000 a month. It hurts to even think about, but at least this property hasn't been gobbled up by sociopathic investors. It's the best you newbies can do right now. You've been here for about 2 weeks.

The person you're renting from is called Jimmy Z. He's the lead guitarist in a punk-rock band called Deadlifting Satan ("we've sold dozens of records"), who inherited this home and property from his parents, both of whom recently died from cancer. Jimmy doesn't seem too broken up about it: "They were jackasses, and didn't follow their treatment plans. Thought they knew better. Welp, their rotting carcasses say they didn't."

The home is about 1200 square feet, and Jimmy hasn't yet converted it to his rebel-punk style. Hummel figurines sit in random places, and bland landscape paintings hang dully on the walls. But he's making progress, such as hand-painting a raised fist on the wall of the master bathroom.

Unfortunately, Jimmy isn't renting out the actual home: "Need it to store our band gear, and gotta have space to throw our parties. You're all invited, of course...just not to live up here. Hope ya understand."

As you're doing whatever you're doing in the basement, it's Jimmy who clomps downstairs, cursing up a storm, sweat running down his somehow ripped body. Constant substance abuse and an insane sleeping schedule doesn't usually lead to impressive physical fitness. Maybe Jimmy sneaks in some push-ups and crunches when nobody's looking....Jimmy's Stats:
Punk Rocker (2)
Anarcho-Syndicalist (2)
Bisexual (1)
Gun Enthusiast (1)

"Oi! Ya know Mr. Johnson, that old jackass who lives next door? He just let that yappin' Pomeranian o' his shit on my lawn again! Ya'll know how to handle fuckers like that, don'tcha? Well, put him in his place once and for all, and I'll give ya a 50% refund on your rent!"

A pause.

"Actually, 50% is too much. 25%, which will be..."

Another pause. Math is hard.

"$750! An easy few minute's work! And yes, I do hate the fucker that much! He's called the cops on our parties at least five times, I'm pretty sure he's stolen some o' my mail, and he hates gays! Well, I ain't gay, only bisexual, but that don't dilute his disdain, lemme assure ya!"

"I would blast 'em with my AR-15...or maybe the 30-30, put 'em down like a deer...but ya know...prison and shit. But ya'll should be able to dominate his Boomer ass without too much bloodshed...right? Help me out, get moolah! Simple!"

"Cash? Sure, sure. Do the deed, and I'll zip down to an ATM and bring back the booty."

"Zero bloodshed? Suit yerself. As long as he understands that he ain't to fuck around with me and mine anymore. But trust me: once ya meet 'im, you'll want to draw some blood."

He then pushes up his sunglasses (yes, he wears them indoors sometimes), and looks more closely at Small Fry.

"You been doin' some bicep curls, Tiny Fry Girl? I admit, I ain't noticed it before, but those arms are poppin'!"

Are they really popping, or is Jimmy just "being nice"?

Jimmy pats Fuchsia on the head, much like he'd pat a dog.

"Ya'll are adorable. I mean it. Truly. 100%."

"My band is on OmniNet. I'd rather we weren't, cuz it's made by OmniCorp, and those fascist shit-bags are ruinin' the world. But it's hard to get traction when ya ain't got a social media presence, so I gotta compromise."

"However, my fans would roast me if they saw me in some lavender mood-lighting with two grinnin' super-heroes...excuse me, super-heroines. Gotta give yer gender credit. See, I'm a punk rocker, so I gotta maintain a certain anti-establishment, gritty, rage-filled aesthetic...ya know? So I'd 'preciate it if ya don't tag me."

"But if ya ever want me in some sorta badass photo (maybe ya captured some fat-cat capitalist who was doin' illegal shit, and are givin' him a whuppin' to teach him not to mess with the proletariat), then I certainly want to be tagged!""Nice shrinkage, Smallgirl. Wish I had me some powers. Ya'll lemme know when there's a toxic waste spill, or a radioactive insect crawlin' around, so's I can join the superhuman ranks. Hmm...think I'd like a sonic scream! Really help me blast out those lyrics of ours!"

Jimmy follows behind, grinning wolfishly. You all exit the home, right into the summer heat. As Jimmy said, there stands a pudgy, sour-faced older man: Mr. Johnson, your landlord's foe and next-door neighbor. Jimmy hangs back on the porch, since he's paying you all to deal with this jackass.

Though Johnson is standing on his own property now, you can clearly see a moist pile of dog shit on Jimmy's lawn. The culprit stands next to Mr. Johnson: his yapping Pomeranian, named Misty. Her yaps intensify as you all approach. One wonders how Johnson can stand the nonstop racket. But perhaps he enjoys beings perpetually irritated, and wouldn't know what to do with happiness....

Rolls for initiative.