A fan site for the Marvel Heroic Roleplaying Game by Margaret Weis Productions
Hey, gang. We had a run-up session to Civil War some time ago run by our very own Andrew Gatlin. You can see his summary of it here. Now, whenever I have a game session that I feel goes particularly well, I like to take things a little further. Sometimes I’ll create a piece of art. Sometimes I’ll write something like I did for the time we did Breakout (which you can read here). This time, since I was playing as the Punisher, I decided to write a War Journal entry that gives some background as to what puts Frank Castle in DC. I hope you enjoy.Washington, DC
Target: Michael “The Vanisher” Paolucci
Cool, breezy day on the DC Mall. There’s a small crowd forming. Supposed to be some press event dealing with masks. I couldn’t care less.
There’s been some drumming around the campfires in criminal circles. Guys with politicians in their pockets saying heroes are going to have to start working in the open. If that happens, some heroes will lose their teeth. If that happens today, some of the vultures will want to say they were there.
Paolucci is a wheelman. A getaway driver. The law hasn’t been able to touch him. Personally I can tie him to at least three hits in the last month. As far as I’m concerned, if he was there, and he was, he deserves the same punishment as the guy who pulls the trigger.
Word must have gotten around that I was looking for him. Last week, he stopped showing up at his hangouts. I found out through a couple of informants that Mike came to DC to get away from me. (It’s important to note. Under the right conditions, anyone’s an informant. That reminds me. I need more informants.) Too bad for Paolucci. Punishment doesn’t recognize jurisdiction. He comes down here and gets some chauffeur work driving scum around our nation’s capital. Not that it’s hard to find scum to work for in this town. He didn’t bet on me.
Van’s parked along the mall. All the media trucks hide it perfectly. No one will see the barrel of my long range rifle sticking out of the narrowly opened window. As soon as I have my shot, New York’s underworld will need a new taxi driver.
Damn. I had a line on Paolucci. Then Doctor Doom showed up. The leader of Latveria. He never fails to be a distraction. This time he was under escort by SHIELD. Apparently he had a meeting with the higher ups in Congress.
Things mustn’t have gone well. He exited the meeting with an explosion that could have knocked my van over if it wasn’t full of military issue weapons. Paolucci will have to wait.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one here, either. Spider-Man made an appearance. As I expected, Doom brushed him off almost without a second thought. I also saw Doctor Strange, the magician. I miss the days when all magicians did was pull rabbits out of their hats. If it wasn’t enough for those two to be getting in the way, Deadpool was there. We’ve met before. Assassins and mercenaries are often seen in the circles I frequent. That doesn’t mean I have the first clue what to expect from this psychopath. He seems to be capable of anything, especially when it comes to causing more harm than good. I guess I should let him live as long as he’s useful.
With the appearance of Doom, staying hidden became entirely unnecessary. Grabbing my AKM and two clips of armor piercing rounds, I kicked open the back door of the van and went to work. My aim was dead on, but somehow Doom was able to dodge most of what I fired at him. The bullets that did get through had no apparent effect. Looks like Doom’s outfit can handle AP rounds. After doing this dance for a while (and I think Strange was holding back for some reason. I should ask him about that.), Doom took a shot at the Washington Monument and got away. Damn.
I never thought I’d need them, but I keep them in the van anyway. I took them from a couple of wannabe domestic terrorists who thought flashy was the way to go. White phosphorous grenades. They burn hot and smoky. If one of these hits Doom, between the heat and the smoke inhalation, he’ll bake like a potato. If that potato was cooked with rocket fuel.
Mike Paolucci got away. Again. Doom owes me.
Time to go to war.