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Fandom Hell's Kitchen Vol. 1 (Complete)

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COMPLETED & CLOSED

Welcome to Hell's Kitchen.

This is an action-based Marvel-inspired cops-and-robbers roleplay. Your character's origin story can be anything from a laboratory experiment gone wrong to a volunteer of a military programme long since discontinued. You might be a human with cybernetic implants or, to kick it up a notch, a self-aware robot made by a mad scientist. You might be an alien from Mars or some other world in the Multiverse. Victim of radiation exposure, inheritor of the X-Gene mutation, apprentice of the Ancient Ones, contracted with the Devil, mythical weapon wielder--the possibilities of how your character acquired their abilities are endless.

The neighbourhood of Hell's Kitchen is an open-world sandbox. This means characters can do anything here freely. They can become vigilantes or villains. They can become police officers, district attorneys, surgical doctors, mob bosses, petty criminals, ect. You can interact with NPCs by mentioning E Environment , e.g. ordering a drink from Josie's Bar.

Vol. 1 will centre around a new drug hitting the streets called Kick, an ability enhancer, with inevitable involvements in the market from Mafia bosses and criminal syndicates who always want in on the profits. Our characters just so happen to live where this drug is distributed most.
 
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Headnotes
- The roleplay will have mature themes. Think MAX Comics or, outside of Marvel Studios, Frank Miller's Sin City. Censor your roleplays with an ellipsis when necessary.
- Third person limited and default formatting only (bold and italics allowed). Tense is up to you. However, NPCs will be written in present to create a sense of speed where everything feels like it's happening in the now. Try to fix spelling and grammar where you notice it.
- Leaving the story? Roleplayers lose interest in roleplays sometimes. It happens. If this is you and you find yourself wanting to leave the roleplay, let me know. Since all stories should have an end, I'll set up a sidestory for your character where you can tie up any loose ends in one final roleplay. Go out with a bang, you know?
- Hell's Kitchen Handbook
- OOC
- Looking for GMs

tl;dr of vol. i
- Coincidence brings several superhumans to 37th Street and all hell breaks loose (OOC footnotes of this page function as a tutorial of the thread's mechanics applied to roleplay)
 
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MARVEL'S
Hell's Kitchen



This neighbourhood in Manhattan is a marvel of modest means.

Even in the dead of night, this urban sprawl is alive with light. Skyscrapers have their lights on way over working hours, the windows of office buildings and apartment complexes a mesh of yellow rectangles. Back down to earth, the streets are lurid with lampposts and traffic lights. Some shed a light on the homeless, whose hands are always outstretched for spare change.

The nightclubs, Paradisco especially, are where the streetwalkers are on a Friday night. Despite December, they're scantily clad, never seeming to be affected by the wintry cold. They're forever on the hunt, prowling for their patrons. When they hear sirens, they run as fast as they can in their stiletto heels, CLICK clock click clock click. Try as they might, the glows of red-and-blue cop car lights never fail to find them. Drug dealers are in the alleyways, distributing heroin, Kick and all of the other illicit drugs--some of them don't even have names. A loan shark's lackeys are teaching someone a lesson in a back street behind Josie's Bar, their moral depravity wholly silhouetted by the steam smokes of a manhole.

Where are you tonight in Hell's Kitchen?

(Mention E Environment if you want to interact with NPCs, e.g. ordering a drink from Josie's Bar. There's a day/night system where even-numbered pages represent day and odd-numbered night. See how the time of day affects things in Hell's Kitchen Handbook)
 
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At his office in the city centre of Hell's Kitchen, Jeremy Jordan sets case files along with other legal certificates into his briefcase. The day has evidently been long for the attorney, if those black shadows that circle the recesses of his eyes are any indication. His suit has been worn by the hours. His formal white shirt, which is buttoned up to a loosened tie, is grey and creased at the collars. When he closes the doors on his way out of his workplace, he sighs with relief.

On the street some minutes afterwards, he checks his watch, an Ulysse Nardin, and gasps, "Jesus Christ," at the time. One of those homeless men reach out to him. He simply dismisses him, acknowledging his whispered words with about as much attention one would the winds in their hair, and continues on by onto 37th Street. Speaking of the winds, this one is very cold. Jeremy finds himself holding the furs of his winter coat as he makes his way along the windswept avenue.

E Environment
 
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37th street. 1:15 am. Every night, or early morning was different. It provided opportunities. People heading home, the late night bars and casinos attracting either the rich, or the criminals. Drug deals. Gambling. Black marketing. Big money was always involved.

He eyed the vehicles parked. He had his eyes trained to pick out the type that usually won the big bucks on a regular. And since they wouldn't be dumb enough to leave cash or card in the vehicle, robbing the car was not his aim. But the car would act as bait. A lure.

He slipped under the Volkswagen beetle and clung to the bottom.
 
She dances and they throw money at her. They call her name in a cacophonous cheer, Ballista Ballista BALLISTA. Strange name for a stripper, but who cares for a name when you're half-naked? She has everyone's attention, the lurid spotlight on her as she moves to the music. At the Hellfire Club, a gentlemen's club every gentleman has heard of, the music selection is a harmonious blend of hip-hop and jazz.

Throwing herself centre stage, everyone goes crazy. She is Ballista Ballista Ballista. The one whose moves have all the eyes watching, the hands reaching and, most importantly, the wallets emptying. An hour into midnight, she leaves Ballista behind in the dressing room and calls it quits. Swara Singh is more appropriately dressed than her alter ego, wearing a fur parka coat over a shirt, frayed denims and Puma flats.

At these times in Hell's Kitchen, nowhere is safe. With a sense of paranoia racking her nerves, the young woman finds herself spending more time looking left and right than she does ahead. She ends up on 37th Street on her way home and, as happens when one doesn't look where they're going, very clumsily bumps into Jeremy. "Shit. So sorry," Stuttering. "Been a really, really long night."
 
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Wilson Mason
Hmph
Some might say it's dangerous to wander the streets of Hell's Kitchen alone at night. Those people were right. Not that Wilson Mason cared. He walked past alleyways, any one of them potentially containing a mugger or serial killer or whatever without even giving them a second glance.

Wilson wasn't even sure where he was going. Maybe a bar. Maybe a club. Maybe a legitimate resturaunt. Ha. Wilson almost laughed at that last one. That was, if he could laugh. Wilson was stuck in a feeling of eternal apathy, you see. He just didn't care enough to laugh.
 
Some would think that it's odd that a college student would be up that late. They'd be wrong. From the lit up windows Alina could see that she wasn't the only one up this late. On the other hand if someone had said it would be odd to be up late and night and pestered by a demon that possessed her was weird, then they would definitely be right.

"Aliiiiiina," thrilled the Demonic voice in her head. "Since you're up so late already couldn't we go out?"

"No." Alina whispered as not to disturb her roommate.

"If you don't I'll go and make you kill every one in a mile radius!"

"And then you won't have a host, what'll you do then?"

They were both bluffing, undeniably both bluffing. Sure Mara aka the demon pestering Alina could make them both go on a rampage, but they'd get caught or killed and sure Alina could ignore her, but Mara could still mess up her life way to much for her liking. Sighing Alina got up putting on her hoodie that already had rips in it and and grabbed her purse, making sure to leave most of her money behind. She was not planning on getting mugged today.

"I'm still not killing anyone." Alina said as she walked out of her dorm room and began a brisk walk out of campus.

"You never do" Mara sulked.

Once out of the campus she almost laughed at the absurdity of actually being out here this late. Well being out here and not looking for trouble.

"Time to see what happens this night, there's always something."
 
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“Ignore this,” whispers the homeless man.

Just as Jeremy turns around, he sees him. A sombre shadow. Shifting silently along 37th Street in the shade of night. However, the silence doesn't last long. Especially not with him fastening his pace. Footsteps, which are hard and heavy on the concrete curb, make a racket in the empty street. The CLICK of a penknife nearly goes unnoticed. He aims the wicked hook of his rusty steel for the Trickster's stomach.

Loki The Trickster Loki The Trickster

(Not all NPC interactions are pleasant. See how you can tackle crime against you in the Hell's Kitchen Handbook. Consider joining our Discord to discuss the roleplay)
 
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"Watch it," the lawyer warns Swara. His voice is a dauntingly deep rumble. Some seconds afterwards, he dusts off the overlap of his blazer. "This is Armani--"

--Jeremy turns and see him he does. While the man isn't so nimble because of his lofty size, he manages to sidestep the blade. The metal catches his sleeve and makes a ragged tatter of the Italian wool. Very abruptly, while the homeless man is practically still halfway through his lunge, Jeremy Jordan slams his briefcase down, right onto his head, and seethes, "Stay down, you worthless rat!"

The musculature in his tricep clenches and the flat of his briefcase--now--is enough to pulverise bone.
 
Wilson Mason

Continuing his trek through Hell's Kitchen, Wilson still had no idea where he was going. He was just sort of wandering. He didn't actually have anywhere to stay. Rent was expensive and he hardly made enough money doing odd jobs of various natures. He was lucky enough to be able to afford a drink when he went to bars.

Eventually, Wilson found himself on 37th street. And on 37th street he found an interesting sight. Well, it wasn't interesting to him. That was just what Wilson though other people would call it. Still, he stopped and watched as a large man in a slightly ripped suit beat the everloving shit out of a hobo.

This kind of thing normally wasn't in Wilson's nature. He didn't care what violence went down in Hell's Kitchen so long as it didn't happen to him. But it was much easier to ignore when it was happening in alleyways and not out on the open street like this. Especially when there was a wider range of emotions than just malicious joy and fear.
 
Swara steps back and shrieks, "Watch out!" An echo of Jeremy's words only a moment before.

The young woman's face contorts into an expression of abject horror and, missing her step on the concrete curb, almost falls over. Thankfully, her back lands against the door of a Volkswagen, and she poises herself upright as the two men fight it out in the middle of the street. Moonlight along with a sickeningly lurid spotlight from overhead lampposts cast over them. "Oh my God," squeals Swara.
 
He couldn't wait with all the commotion going on. He crawled out from under the vehicle. "Excuse me miss." He said before proceeding to the fight. He walked up to the man doing the beating and looked at him. "Excuse me sir." He said.
 
Swara startles again as White Rabbit reveals himself from the underbelly of the Volkswagen. Bewildered, the young woman asks, "Where the hell did you come from?"

The brutal brawl continues all the same. Graffiti-marred shutters of a run-down pawnbrokers are the three men's backdrop. Moving her hands around in her coat pockets, she has half a mind to call 911. She wonders if she should start dialling the numbers into her mobile or, alternatively, just leave them to their vices, avoiding involvement altogether. She's just trying to get home. She doesn't want any trouble. She's only Swara Singh.
 
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Just as the briefcase swings down, it continues--seamlessly through his head--like the man has as much solidity as a shroud of smoke. Intangibility. “Surprise,” the mugger laughs. A mutant? Possibly. Hell, probably. Their guesses are as good as any. At precisely the moment the briefcase finishes its path through him, not a moment before and not a moment after, the mugger seizes Jeremy's wrist. His hold is firm. The other, the one with the blade, is just as tangibly firm. Firm as can be when he whirls steel round so f a s t it whips the air.

“Busy,” is all he says to White Rabbit as he wrenches the rust-brown knife through Jeremy's abdomen. Guts him like a lamb's red meat on a butcher's slab. The mugger can feel hot blood on his fingers as he carves and cleaves and whisks and cuts and chops at Jeremy's insides, releasing wasteweirs of blood onto the concrete that spill and splatter out into mortar linings en route to stormdrains. It's all over in the blink of an eye.
 
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Wilson Mason

Most people would have covered their eyes or ran away at the grusome sight. Some of the stronger willed might just flinch. Not Wilson. This was just another thing that he couldn't care about. And he watched anyways. In part because he wanted to be ready in case that crazy hobo turned his sights on him.
 
Alina ended up making her way towards 37th Street where she was met with the wonderful sight of someone getting their guts ripped out. She had not intention to end up part of the scene or even near it. Of course the horrible Demonic presence in her head had a different plan. She walked over to the scene, the hot pink color of her eyes showing, at least to those that know, that she was not in control of her actions at the time. Her eyes slowly faded back into a annoyed orange and she cursed under her breath.

"What a wonderful turn of events," she mumbled under her breath sarcastically.
 
Good thing Swara hasn't blinked yet. She shoves White Rabbit out the way as she rushes forwards and seizes the mugger's wrist a moment before steel meets skin. Then, with an unparalleled strength a tiny woman of her stature oughtn't have, she pulls. Pulls until she wrenches the mugger up off his feet onto a hammer fist that could make potato mash of anyone's face.

She yells, "Run for your LIFE, dumbass!" at the lawyer. It could also apply to White Rabbit, who so casually walked into a situation that's anything but casual.
 
Just as the blade is about to carve Jeremy, it stops, drawing away, Swara pulling him into the air--just in time--and into a powerfully primed fist to boot. Her white-knuckled strike slides right through him and, in the same second, so do his fingers around Jeremy's wrist. "How troublesome," mutters the mugger as he somersaults backwards onto one hand, then uprights himself with a backflip, shoving off this palm in a jaw-dropping feat of acrobatics.

All with one hand, too. One hand because the other--the one Swara had so violently pulled a moment before--is broken, utterly covered in swollen bruises. He can be hurt--but only in the fleeting half seconds he materialises to hurt you.

Never mind him, though. Jeremy ought to be more concerned with Swara, who--on seamlessly sliding through the intangible man--has her fist shooting unintentionally towards the ill-omened lawyer. The mugger loses interest all of a sudden and, like the concrete is quicksand, sinks belowground, vanishing--just like Jeremy's Ulysse Nardin wristwatch.

(No post is set in stone in combat situations like so. You can consider all the reactive roleplays E Environment and any assailant to be happening simultaneously or in seconds of eachother. What this means is that it's never too late to attempt to stop a particular action from happening)
 
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He doesn't need to be told twice. Run, she tells him, and that he does. No indecision. The only thing worse than being incompetent, or being unkind, or being evil, is being indecisive. A motto the attorney goes by... that he repeats to himself every time he gets Colombian drug traffickers to Mafia mobsters off the hook. But they pay well; and that's all that matters. As they say, money makes the world go round.

Near-death experiences have a knack for putting things into perspective. Jeremy exerts himself, “Gahrn!” as he backpedals out of Swara's range.
 
Wilson Mason
As is typical of life, more people joined the scene. There was a crazy amount of emotions in the air. None of them were typical of this sort of scene. There was anger, of course. That was from the mugger. Strangely, however, the muggers feelings quickly change to disinterest. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell. Meanwhile the latest newcomer, a girl of about college age, was annoyed for some reason. And there were quite a few other more standard emotions from the rest of the crowd.
 
Walking out of the hospital where he worked, Dion sighed. He'd had a long day - assisting surgeons and even performing a bit on his own. Residency was definitely tough on him, but he knew it was worth it. Beginning his walk back to his Brooklyn apartment, the doctor put on his sunglasses and kept his head down, not looking for any trouble at the moment.
 
He disappeared quietly after getting pushed away. Too many people were there and he didn't want to be caught out in the open. The lawyer would have had money, but the mugger took care of it, and most likely took whatever he had.
 
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She can't stop herself in time. She only mutters, "Shit!" as her fist, narrowly avoiding Jeremy, comes down on the concrete. Violently.

When her fist makes contact, an earthquake transforms 37th Street into a rubble scrapyard. Pavement stones heave apart into boulders as large as the Volkswagen White Rabbit had crawled out from under only some moments before. Speaking of the Beetle, the car alarm sounds--as do all of the vehicles in the immediate vicinity. Areas of the road cave in to reveal sewer systems belowground. Pipelines are exposed behind heaps of obliterated tarmac and dust plumes. Those who aren't careful might vanish into the pitfall, never to be seen again. Aftershocks, without a shadow of a doubt, reach as far as Brooklyn.

Apartment windows light up in fluorescent orange washes as silhouetted figures draw back their curtains to witness the devastation. Pets, dogs especially, are howling from all across town, more than likely as terrified as their owners. Eventually, the rumbling quakes of tectonic plates die down into seismic silence.

Talk about having an accident...

(When your character commits a crime, you roll a d100. You write the crime committed as the reason, e.g. Vandalism. Success grants you a token, which can be used in the Token Store to buy items--weapons, cars, stimulants, ect. Success/failure rates and consequences of failure are listed in Hell's Kitchen Handbook. Private message me should you have any questions about this)
 
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Wilson Mason
Woah! Wilson narrowly dodged being severely injured in that earthquake. He was a little scraped up but not injured. There were quite a few bruises and cuts from debris. One psrticularly nasty gash was in his shoulder. He'd have to find some place to get that patched up. For now, however, he needed to get out of here before the emergency services arrived. Paramedics, firefighters, and, yes, cops. He didn't want to be caught in the middle of it all. He turned to walk away, hoping Josie's Bar was mostly untouched by the earth quake.

Some time later Wilson arrived at Josie's Bar. Walking inside, Wilson took a moment to absorb the scenery as well as the emotions. Lot's of confusion over the earthquake, it seemed. The usual cockiness, fear, and seriousness was also mixed in. Wilson went and sat at the bar. He took out some money and placed it on the bar.

"One beer, please." He said politely. No need to upset anyone. Especially not Josie.
 

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