Godcard

[Birdsie]

It's November 2016.

Once upon a night, the world goes to sleep, and it revolves once as the moon shines above in its full silver radiance. As the next day approaches, the calm existence of the citizens of New York is forever disturbed in a way that can't be reversed.

A hundred people find a small black box waiting for them: at their doorstep, on their car's dashboard, in their school backpack, placed inconveniently on the sofa, lying on their chest as they wake up with a hangover...

Within the box, there is a small elegant note, penned in white ink on black paper.

Dear Lucky One,​

​

We've made notice of your exceptional qualities and desirable traits. You are cordially invited to participate in a game that will change the fate of the world.​

​

Enclosed in this box is a god's name. Once you have picked up the contents within the box, you will be granted the powers of ancient divinity.​

​

We want you to use this power in any way you wish. We will be observing you and your actions. Please enjoy our gift.​

​

With great prospects -- Olympus Corporation​

And who is the lucky person?

---

Due to your choices in a previous Quest, every character also begins with a Life Perk. A Life Perk grants the character some kind of advantage they would not have possessed otherwise had such choices not been made previously.

[ ] The Detective - Henry M. Vanhorn

The media outlets called "it" the Mangler, or the Wolf of New York. There was a new attack every few nights, often claiming multiple victims at a time, leaving their bodies in shreds. And finally, after nearly three weeks of nothing definitive, there was a solid lead.

So they waited in ambush. Several ESU teams in SWAT gear, an ATT on standby, a helicopter outfitted with a .50 caliber machine gun, and everyone in the surrounding precincts was tipped off to be on the lookout. No one within the department actually believed the scary stories about a giant man-eating werewolf, but it was better to be overprepared.

And still, no one saw it coming. All of the concentrated gunfire barely fazed the monster. It fought its way right through Williamsburg and leaped onto the I-278. It escaped howling into the night and taking dozens of more lives with it. The whole affair was well-televised, once it started. It was the first time the supernatural was revealed to the world. Everyone feared it, even back then.

As did Henry, bleeding and clutching his stomach a few blocks down, next to his more unlucky comrades, the ones the beast had clawed at directly, rather than merely thrown aside with the shockwaves of its lightning-fast motions.

Four months later, he could walk, but not without a cane, and never without the pain. The rehabilitation and mandated therapy were the worst parts, but he fought on ahead, despite the difficulties. He needed to, for his family that needed the money from his work. Until one crisp morning, when a box arrived at his doorstep, declaring him to be a candidate for the "second release."

And now - he knows he can hunt down the beast that did this to him.

---

Name: Henry M. Vanhorn
Age: 36
Occupation: Police Detective - 1st Grade
Motivation: Solve the Mangler case. Ever since the Williamsburgh Incident, the Mangler disappeared and the case went cold, but you aren't giving up.
Traits: Dedicated, hardworking, seasoned, cautious, devoted to justice, loves his wife and children, crippled, bitter.
Other: More than a decade of experience in various bureaus of the NYPD. In the NYPD, the rank of detective cannot be tested for or applied into; it is granted purely based on merit, as are its higher grades (which aren't actual ranks, but rather, your literal paygrade.) Has a wife and children.

Life Perk: Golden Shield - Once per story Arc or major event, receive a major hint to the antagonist's identity and powers or how to avoid dying or losing. This can either be a one-word clue (such as, "vampirism," or "retreat,") or a short phrase (such as, "business magnate in the clouds," or "don't look in the sewers.")

[ ] The Competitor - Karines Aornheimer

Starting at the very moment of her first breath, there was nothing in the world as satisfying for Karines Aornheimer as the pure, unadulterated feeling of victory achieved. The incredible sensation of having overcome all manner of hostile odds and crushed the opposition anyhow, no matter what it took.

At the time she would have been in eighth grade, Karines had made an attempt at anything from playing speed chess to fencing with an épée. She excelled in every task she attempted, stumbling at first as any novice did, but getting hang of it at unusual speed, and then reaching high aptitude in a third of the time most people took to do so, but she found that nothing quite satisfied her particular appetite for victory. None of it was quite right.

Although she was good at both physical and mental pursuits, sharing brains and brawn in one body, she found that she liked the physical contests far more. And so, she attempted them, like a bucket list that was being crossed off: football, soccer, baseball, track-running, swimming, and in the end, she even gave figure-skating a fair try. And still, nothing. Karines shrugged her shoulders and surrendered, relishing, at least, the idea that she'd tried a bit of everything. Without another word, life moved on.

An epiphany struck her when she was eighteen and got into a scuffle with a mugger when returning back home. The reason she didn't quite enjoy any of her attempts was that they were artificial and contrived. She wanted the genuine thrill of real, close danger. She got into parkour, casino gambling, a local fight club. It was all very thrilling, but in the end, she got exactly what she wanted: real, close danger. Even in these highly demanding tasks, she proved excellent, and her excellence was rather irksome to a few select gentlemen in suits and a few too many stacks of dollar bills covered in blood. She was next on the chopping block and had to run.

She ran away from home and toughed it on the streets. A few nights later, she got into the lonely compartment of a train in the subway, and there, lying innocuously on a seat, she found a black box.

And now - she can fight back.

---

Name: Karines Aornheimer
Age: 19
Occupation: Runaway
Motivation: Teach her pursuers a lesson and make them fuck off. Not be a runaway anymore.
Traits: Competitive, cocksure, confident, self-righteous, prideful, prone to boasting, unkind, talented, obsessed with winning, selfish.
Other: An inborn amygdala malformation makes it difficult for her to get any kicks out of something that's not very dangerous and that doesn't send her adrenaline production into overdrive. She's a difficult character to manage, and likely won't survive to the end unless you prove extremely capable.

Life Perk: Inherent Risk - All activities which end in either loss or success will display the exact odds of victory. Additionally, combat encounters which end in death will show extra odds colored in red to display the risk of dying.

[ ] The Brawler - Zane Li Black

Also known as the Brawler of Midwood, Zane has a surprisingly widespread reputation among the local gangsters and martial artists alike. Even back then, when he was scarcely fourteen, he was known as one of the toughest kids in New York, capable of twisting grown men into pretzels despite being shorter and far younger than any of them. And funnily enough, deep down, without telling anyone about it, all he ever wanted to do was to open a flower shop and not be bothered with people's bullshit.

Growing up in an impoverished neighborhood, there wasn't much choice for him when a delinquent clique with connections to a local crime group decided he'd make a fine addition to their esteemed personnel. It was either going along with their bullshit or getting shanked at their earliest convenience, and Zane might be strong, but he's not all-powerful. Bullshit it was.

For an extraordinarily long time, Zane managed to avoid any major drama or incidents. At times, he'd almost thought that he lucked out and that he'd manage to breeze on through highschool without anything untoward happening, and then leave for college and finally be given some peace. All of his hopes were shattered one night when his group walked down their turf and encountered the infamous Zuchezzi brothers, rumored to be in with the McNessas, a rival crime family. A fight broke out, rather inevitably, but what these highschoolers didn't expect was for the Zuchezzis to be packing a different kind of heat. One that was far more of the paranormal variety.

One of Zane's compatriots, Brick, was dealt with swiftly, tossed aside by some invisible force, hitting the wall with enough speed to knock him out. Spike was next, sheer paralyzing fear forcing him to backpedal and then pass out in shock. Zane was the last man standing; one versus two, where both foes had supernatural abilities. He'd never had a brawl quite like this.

And now - there is nothing to save you because there is no Card. Your story begins right here, in this decisive moment, and your choices decide whether you live as a winner or die as a loser.

---

Name: Zane Li Black
Age: 18
Occupation: Highschool Senior
Motivation: Survive (immediate concern.) Never put up with other people's bullshit again, even if it might lead to you getting stabbed.
Traits: Overly masculine, likes fighting, honorable, surprisingly kind-hearted, gung-ho, determined, unafraid.
Other: Starts with no Card. However, does have the potential to become a Card-holder later on, or defeat a pair of Card-holders currently in order to claim the spoils. Avid practitioner of Jeet Kune Do. Hopes to open and run a flower shop one day, in honor of his mother who passed away.

Life Perk: Brawler of Midwood - Once per story Arc or major event, double your odds of winning in any situation even remotely resembling physical combat. If this ability goes on unused, its use will be spent automatically should the character "die" to a bad roll, in order to save them and let them survive instead.

 

[Birdsie]

During the course of Godcard, the playerbase will amass a special resource known as Ambrosia. Although the Quest can be won even with no Ambrosia expenditures, obtaining and spending it can affect the Quest's plot or empower the player character in various, often rather indirect, ways.

Ambrosia can be gathered in several ways:

- Frequent posting and discussion. There is an active multiplier for the quantity and quality of discussion as well as analysis/breakdowns of plot/character elements which becomes greater as the discussion is sustained. An incredibly active thread will be swimming in currency, and its income will only grow higher as this activity maintains itself.

- Any form of fanwork will be awarded a sum of Ambrosia matching the efforts presented. Around 1,000 words of omake equal roughly .1 Ambrosia, but this can increase or decrease, dependent on the quality of the work in question. However, any form of fanwork shall be rewarded, and some forms are going to be rewarded more than others. For instance, a poem with a good meter and rhyme shall receive a staggeringly large amount of Ambrosia relative to its word count - a similar thing applies to music or drawings, or more creative forms of fan involvement.

- Some in-story choices will have small Ambrosia rewards, especially when your coffers have run dry.

- Amusing the Questmaster may result in a modest handout of Ambrosia. Sometimes, he can ask you riddles, and if you manage to resolve them, maybe he will reward you. He is a capricious deity, however - fools beware.

- Most of this applies on the Discord, too, albeit to a lesser degree. Link here.

You begin the Quest with 0 Ambrosia, however, the Discord has already generated .1 Ambrosia for you.

Starting from right now, until the 7th of September, a 200% Ambrosia multiplier will apply.

 

[Birdsie]

Start With The Roots

Zane's first memory was one where his mom led him into their backyard and taught him gardening.

She'd explained to him, patiently, how to care for the flowers. The dahlias, orchids, sweet peas, poppies, tulips, day lilies, rose bushes, and myriad other flowers that she took care of in their little garden. She genuinely believed that every flower in existence was like an intricate puzzle from God above, with specific and nearly arcane requirements to bloom in color far more extravagantly than the neighbor's flowers. She passed a lot of that knowledge onto him during her explanation.

She concluded by saying that Zane was also like a flower to her; someone that she wanted to take care of and help blossom because she loved him very much, far more than any other flower in her garden. She then proceeded to hug him, and being a toddler, Zane awkwardly patted her on the back and burst out into giggles.

He'd forgotten the contents of the majority of her speech almost a minute later when she allowed him to go back to playing with his figurines.

All he'd retained were shadowy glimmers of it.

Nowadays, though, almost fifteen years later, Zane treasured even those distant shadows.

It was a daily, morning challenge to recall her exact words, and then mutter them aloud while getting up from bed, as if replaying the scene, to better reinforce the memory for the incoming weathering of years. At some point, it had stopped being the maddened speech of a bereaved child, and it transformed into a game of willpower and devotion with himself, to see if he could remember the contents of her speech until his last days. More as a kind of, 'fuck it, why not?' challenge, than anything.

Make sure to fertilize often.

Zane didn't miss her, anymore. He'd moved on and started a new life, learning martial arts from his uncle to cope with the stress and frustration at first, and then simply as a form of self-betterment. The daily ritual of recalling her exact words on gardening was more like a prayer; a way of honoring his mother's memory. He loved the woman who raised him, and he wished deeply for her to still be alive, to have ten minutes together that a stupid disease wouldn't be able to take away.

But he also understood, paradoxically, that such wishes and feelings were simply a part of being an adult.

As was getting your shit kicked in near the local ghetto at three AM.

Both of the Zuchezzi brothers were tall men, with a swarthy complexion and black hair that had been elaborately gelled back. They were dressed in warm-looking overcoats to match the weather. It wasn't the appearance of impoverished meth-heads or back-alley thugs. The brothers cut a clean figure, like a pair of experienced and coldly professional mafiosos; people working for some important schmoozer, concerned with the build-up of dollar bills on his desk and not much else. Zane understood where the rumors came from, now, seeing them in person, fully able to examine them up close.

The taller brother chuckled grimly as he removed the cigarette from between his lips, parting them as if to speak. However, instead of words, a hacking cough emerged from the back of his throat, raspy and accompanied by the nasty grayish-blue smoke of cigarette detritus. It was the disquieting cough of a raspy-voiced chain-smoker.

After a second or two, he leaned over a bit and proceeded to spit, a thick wad of phlegm and saliva landing on the floor. It glittered yellowish-white with the reflected light of a wall fixture on the side of the alleyway. The cigarette bud followed the fluids, landing right next to them, as the man crushed it underfoot.

Make sure the soil is good.

"Well, shit, kid," the same man finally said, "I guess you're the last man standing."

"Well, shit, old man. I guess I am," Zane replied, letting swagger guide him.

The Zuchezzi didn't chuckle at the little jab, like Zane thought he might, in his head.

"I've heard of you," he said instead, as he reached into his coat. Maybe it was stupid to dread a firearm when the man in front of him could toss people like ragdolls with a handwave, but that was exactly what Zane expected, and it caused him to instinctively tense up. Instead, the man pulled out a pair of black leather gloves - weighted gloves, actually, if those mounds on the knuckles were what Zane suspected they were. "I bet you're not even twenty, are you? Nah, you look a bit younger than that. And people call you the Brawler of Midwood, already. And you're not even a bit terrified of what we did to your pals. You know a kid's gotta be something."

"He's just a kid," the younger brother, arms folded and leaning against a wall, said. There was a laceration scar on his cheek, a nasty one that had warped some of the surrounding flesh. It must have been a stabbing wound through the cheek or something. "Get it over with."

"Nah, I want to have some fun," the older brother said. He slipped on the weighted gloves and tested them, clenching and unclenching his fists, in a way that seemed completely superfluous, and more for his own confidence. "Word on the streets is, this little bitch's in with the Demons."

Is he planning to fight me? With his fists instead of those superpowers?

In martial arts, there were maybe a dozen major components to consider. Among them was the practice of maintaining a proper distance to the enemy, as well as the footwork to manipulate that distance. It was generally a matter of conventional wisdom to not overreach, stay outside of the enemy's strike range, and step into the range to either feint or punch. In conventional martial arts, it'd usually be an actual strike or a grapple attempt, but the best approach could depend on factors like the opponent's height and weight. A little skinny Timmy wasn't about to throw around Hunk, the five-hundred-pound beast, but he could still punch.

And from simple observation of surface factors, Zane could already tell his opponent knew about jackshit when it came to actual fighting. Zane was familiar with his type. He was talented, but he was effortlessly talented; he'd never put in any actual thought into his fighting style or attempted to refine it. He relied mostly on attributes, like superior height, raw instinct, and strength when compared to his opponent. As a result, he never developed the harsh experience resulting from adversity, or the ability to properly adapt to an opponent's style and personal combat strategy.

It'd literally be an easier fight than trying to punch a blindfolded Uncle Shen. If he could be baited to go through with his attack, without using his powers, Zane would be able to take him down and knock him out in the same amount of time it took most people to breathe in and out.

"Not really. I work for the junior leagues," Zane said nonchalantly. "Not exactly of my own will. I'd rather not put up with people's bullshit."

"Oh ha, ha." The older Zuchezzi cocked his head to the side, as he banged his fists together with a grin. "Well, let's get to it."

Start with the roots.

---

Select a general approach:

[ ] Execute - Take down the older brother first, letting him approach and then knocking his lights out.

The older brother is the greatest threat by far, capable of some kind of aerokinesis. While the younger's ability is concerning, Zane is hopeful that maybe he can power through it. Hopefully, the shock of seeing a grown man thrown to the floor and taken down in two seconds flat is going to awe the younger one for long enough to let Zane dash at him. And if not, then he probably at least did everything that he could.

[ ] Evade and Escape - Run out of the alleyway as fast as you can, and hopefully, you'll break line of sight before either of them can use their supernatural powers?

[ ] Write-in...

Also...

[ ] Activate Brawler of Midwood - Doubles the odds of success of the action taken above.

[ ] Do Not - No doubled odds, but if you would die as the result of a bad roll, you are instead assured to survive.

 

[Birdsie]

Nipped In The Bud

It was a relatively simple affair to lean out of the telegraphed punch, then move back in and respond in kind. The look on the older Zuchezzi's face was priceless when he realized the sheer level of fist-shaped retribution that was approaching him at thirty-five miles an hour.

There was a sickening crunch, like someone biting through a loaf of air-dried, hardened bread, as the older man's nose crumbled under the blow; he cried out in anguish and was probably about to fall over, had Zane not caught the back of his collar and then thrust him forward, interposing him like a human shield to prevent his brother from activating whatever fearsome voodoo bullshit he wielded.

His brother scrambled with a scrape of his boot on the concrete underfoot, to move or to act in some other way, maybe to regain line of sight and do to Zane whatever he'd done to Spike only moments prior, but it was too late for him to have the chance.

Zane had already propelled the older brother in a rough, powerful shove, and both of the Zuchezzis promptly collapsed on the floor of the alleyway in a wild, pained tangle of limbs, too busy flailing around on each other to properly react to his own actions. This initial violence had lasted scarcely two or three seconds.

The following beat-down lasted for several minutes. Zane had systematically applied his knowledge of the human body's vulnerabilities to beat down the brothers until they were black and purple on the face, and afraid to even breathe. It wasn't the first time he'd done this, not even to a pair of adults with a decade of seniority over him, and given their cocky bravado and clear intent to do the same to him only moments earlier, he didn't feel much remorse.

As Zane stood in the afterglow, he reached into the mumbling, grunting older Zuchezzi's pockets and fished around in there, pulling out his cigarette pack.

Zane normally didn't smoke, but damn if this didn't call for a smoke.

He utilized the borrowed lighter. It was a cheap, flimsy thing of plastic, likely purchased very recently at a local kiosk. A few clicks later and a strong inhalation, and the cigarette in Zane's mouth was flaming orange at the tip. Zane drew in the smoke through his lungs and leaned over to blow it in their faces.

"Well, shit, old man," Zane finally said. "It looks like being the Last Airbender isn't that fucking helpful in the hood."

With a dismissive sneer, Zane pushed and then smeared the cigarette into the man's neck, producing a deep, pained hiss from the man as the fiery stick was put out. He didn't shuffle away or, for that matter, open his eyes, though. He was still rather out of it.

Zane delivered one strong kick to the side of his face, in a way that clipped his cheek against his teeth with a loud clack. The Zuchezzi's face practically snapped to the other side, with a slight, sputtering moan of pain.

The interior cheek tearing was sure to fill his mouth with blood, give him a distinctive flavor to remember this moment in the future.

If anyone asked, it'd be a true statement that Zane made the man taste his own blood.

After he was done, Zane elegantly robbed both of them of their possessions, deeming turnabout as fair play in this situation; he claimed their jewelry, phones, wallets, and even considered grabbing their coats but reasoned he didn't have any way to carry those off to the pawnshop without looking overtly suspicious.

The Zuchezzis also had a pair of strange black playing cards of some kind, covered in foil pockets.

After he was done mercilessly exacting vengeance, it was prime time to leave.

Zane roused both of his companions to a state that resembled a drunken stupor, rather than near-complete unconsciousness, and then unceremoniously dragged them out of the alleyway and marched them in the direction of their neighborhood. It was a very sluggish and very unpleasant walk; every few moments, Spike would abruptly slow down and hyperventilate while supporting himself on a wall, forcing Zane to move back to hurry him up. Brick seemed to be in a relatively better state, but other than a few curses and reassurances of their health, none of the boys spoke about what happened.

Just to be sure, Zane performed a few cursory check-ups on their state on the way back home to make sure neither of them had some kind of critical brain damage that'd result in them getting home safely and then dying anyway.

Alas, the trio had the desperate honor of living in the United States. If one of them had a lethal injury, they'd have to choose between the relatively fast and painless option of dying to the internal hemorrhaging, or the relatively agonizing and prolonged option of calling an ambulance and drinking themselves to death after the hospital bill arrived.

In the end, though, it seemed like Spike and Brick were fine.

A couple of bruises, maybe a fractured rib on Brick, and Spike's wounds appeared almost exclusively psychological, but it was all rather understandable - and in fact, rather lucky, given their opponents were a pair of fucking wizards from the same freaky Neverlandia the Mangler probably crawled out of.

Brick's small, cluttered apartment was closer, so both of them delivered him there and left with a brief goodbye. After that, Spike and Zane proceeded to walk through the streets, with the former stopping every few moments and closing his eyes and moving erratically, refusing to explain when Zane asked what was wrong.

As they approached Spike's apartment, the boy stopped for a moment, and dryly noted, "You didn't kill them."

"No," Zane said. "I beat them senseless. And you know the rules. No murder. I don't want that shit on my record, especially if the cops discovered they were fucking wizards."

"But you made it hurt," Spike extrapolated. When Zane picked them up, they hadn't lingered for long on the scene, but Spike probably caught the sight of a pair of shadowy figures mumbling in pain on the ground of the alleyway.

"Yes."

There was a brief moment, as Spike breathed in deeply, and then breathed out. To Zane's immense surprise, a few tears had rolled down his cheeks as he sniffled and breathed shudderingly. Zane was tempted to raise an eyebrow but didn't.

"Good. At least we have that much. Any good stuff?" Spike blinked the tears out of his eyes and then used his sleeve to wipe them off, as he sniffed.

"A ring and a bracelet, phones," Zane said with a shrug. "Common stuff, but good quality."

"Keep them, pawn them," Spike instructed, voice sounding increasingly breathless.

"What happened to you?" Zane decided to ask, at that moment, repeating his earlier questions and hoping their brief conversation might nail some chink in Spike's reluctance. It was clear that something was wrong.

"I don't fucking know," Spike admitted with a defeated voice. "I'm not sure. It was- I saw some shit. It was like he threw me into a dream - a nightmare, but a really vivid one. I don't want to talk about it. It was some fucked up shit, upper case. No one should have to see things like that, or hear about them."

There was a sudden hardness to his tone, that implied he really didn't want Zane to inquire more, punctuated with a brief, daring look.

Spike always prided himself on being tough and determined, unafraid, and Zane could grant him that he usually was.

At that moment, he didn't sound like any of that.

He sounded like a grown man who'd gotten lost in the woods on a hiking trip and was forced to cannibalize his family for sustenance a few months in, continuing to survive for years until finally being rescued after having already gone slightly feral.

He sounded like he was glad that whatever happened was finally over, quite literally as if waking up from a terrible nightmare.

"I'll see you later," Spike said. He started to turn, intending to move up the stairs to his apartment. "Keep the stuff you took, or pawn it. You deserve it for kicking their shit."

Zane nodded. He'd planned to do that anyway, given his friends' lack of contribution to the fight. Law of the streets in their gang dictated loot of any kind was divided based on merit and contribution, with the potential to be vetoed by whoever led a particular group or pack. In conventional terms, since Zane was the only person who showed any kind of significant resistance and defeated the enemy, he'd get the majority if not all of the stolen goods.

"Later, then."

Sighing deeply, Zane turned around and massaged his raw knuckles as he started walking in a random direction.

---

Current Ambrosia: 3.2

By the courtesy of some very lucky rolls, and activating Brawler of Midwood, Zane has not only survived his ordeal, but came out of it with some impressive loot - at the moment, he's not even aware the pair of cards in his jacket's pocket hold immense power, worth far more than any common trinket...

Where should he go for the night?

[ ] Uncle Shen's Place

Shen, Zane's slightly estranged uncle and his ex-martial arts teacher is the landlord of a small number of oriental lodging houses, cheap studio apartments, as well as a traditional Chinese restaurant in Chinatown of Lower Manhattan. Although they haven't spoken in over two years, except via occasional phone call (the man was Zane's legal guardian, so there were some matters they needed to converge on,) it seems like meeting a pair of gangster sorcerers is a good reason to speak with the man. It also gives Zane a valid reason to ask him for permission to spend the night, away from the gangs.

Frankly, given some of the old man's feats, Zane is half-convinced the man's probably a sorcerer himself. He once saw Uncle Shen punching a rude patron literally through a window when the man refused to leave his restaurant, and somehow, with no grievous injury to the patron himself.

Anyway, if anyone would know about freaky voodoo shit, it's probably Uncle Shen.

[ ] The Demons' Crib

A safehouse of the Demons, in which Zane regularly stays. The upside is that he doesn't get another lecture from Uncle Shen about his lifestyle; the downside is that it's a place filled to the brim with Zane's fellow scumbags - people that he's hopefully going to be trying to cut contacts with, going forward.

It's not a quiet or friendly environment for meditation by any means. Another upside is that you avoid notoriety.

[ ] Write-in - It's completely valid for you to tough it on the streets, or seek out a pawnshop that's still open and sell the loot first, or even find a hotel room to mull the night's events over.

 

[Birdsie]

Like A Zipper

Shen's Famous Foods, on 53 Bayard Street in Chinatown, was a restaurant in great spirit and in mint condition.

Across the street from it, a series of alleyways led to a peasant market where one could purchase anything from imported shirts to discount audio equipment. On its side, there was a Taiwanese tea house specializing in bubbly and fruity brews, and on the other side, there was a generic, small Asian supermarket.

Uncle Shen's restaurant was special, though, standing out even in this place.

It had the zest and spirit of the genuine orient, as if some golden-palmed Buddha up in the heavens had picked up a pair of scissors, cut out a tiny piece of China, and then gently placed it down right there, in the kidney of New York, as if performing some intricately subtle, intercontinental feng shui.

The round doors stood widely and welcomingly open, with black spherical pots that contained stands of bamboo; the subtle tune of a guzheng and hulusi audible even over the loud hubbub of the dining patrons; a woman in a qipao stood near the entrance, welcoming and inviting patrons over to come inside with a smile.

There was a window in the kitchen, from which one could see the fire and work happening inside, and take in the alluring scent and delicate sizzling of various meats and vegetables. There were a number of skylights above and on the front side of the building, allowing in plenty of light. On the inside, the colors of dark brown and green dominated, with dividers of lighter jade green and framings of shiny gold. There was a fish tank to the side, to lend the room some water aspect, lit up with a number of green fluorescent lamps.

It wasn't a cheap place, even though decades ago, it had started out as one. It used to be the neighborhood takeout place before Zane had been born, and then slowly it grew into this: the equivalent of a five-star establishment. Currently, it is one of the most popular high-class dining experiences in downtown Manhattan.

As per usual, Uncle Shen was in the backroom lounge - a place reserved solely for working staff on break or premium guests such as business partners. It was also the biweekly meeting place of the local, tight-knit business owner's association. On top of being a restaurant owner, a landlord, and a martial artist, Uncle Shen was also an investor and entrepreneur of considerable skill. Uncle Shen always strived to achieve success in anything he pursued; he called it his 'personal dogma.'

And yet despite the picture his lifestyle painted, Uncle Shen wasn't anything special. He didn't dress in white robes or don a Fu Manchu moustache, declaring anyone who did a hack. He was simply a stocky Chinese man, with greying dark hair and eyes of unimpressed steel, wearing nothing but a well-pressed white dress shirt and accompanying dark pants.

"Hm," the old man grunted as Zane came in. "Unannounced and uninvited, and yet, you grace my doorstep, nephew. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I love you too, uncle."

"I have yet to hear the reason for your arrival. You are a disruptive element, Zane - a scourge in physical form. Your aura reeks of negative karma. The stench of disgusting, greasy New York pizza lingers in the air whenever you arrive. Every object you touch is forever sullied by the Dorito crumbs on your fingers."

Zane couldn't help it. He burst out into laughter, and his uncle responded by smirking.

"Okay, let's sit down." Shen made a hand motion towards the couch and turned in the direction of the kitchen. "Any tea for you, Zane?"

"No, I came here to have a talk with you. A serious talk."

"Why can't a serious talk be held over tea?"

"Okay then. I'll have whatever you will have," Zane said, lounging back on the couch.

"Hmm..." His uncle deliberated for a moment, hand floating over a small opaque jar.

"I changed my mind," Zane said instantly, realizing what the old man was reaching for, to his uncle's great delight. "Uh, I'll have, like, fruit tea."

The old man's smirk persisted as his hand reached down, moving elsewhere. "Good choice."

Nuke averted. He was about to reach for that herbal drug shit. The last time his uncle fed him that, Zane kept thinking the cactus was dancing, only to discover hours later there was no cactus to begin with.

"Yeah, no shit. I'm not a witcher yet."

"And you never will be," Shen answered with a scoff of deep amusement, putting on some water in the small kettle he owned. It was steel, and rather plain; slightly rusted. His uncle was frugal in his personal affairs, only bending on the expenses of the restaurant at the insistence of his own co-managers and investors. "We are a family of martial artists. We don't require fancy laser beams and dragon's breath to teach fools with sticks their place. And, I assume this is, of course, related to why you came here?"

Zane raised an eyebrow. Uncle Shen didn't respond in any bodily manner, making Zane puzzled as to how the old man discerned that.

"Your knuckles," Shen sedately explained, causing Zane to look down.

His knuckles were visibly bloodied and callused, even having bruised slightly in some places. Because of one blow that he faintly remembered dishing out, his fist had snapped against one of the Zucchezzis' teeth, producing a pencil-thin laceration going down his index finger. It was a pretty brutal look as if he'd freshly returned from the pit after a whole night of brawling, although subtle enough under his long sleeves that a casual observer wouldn't notice.

"Alright," Zane breathed out. Interacting with the old man could a test of patience. It was part of the reason why he moved out. "I suppose I'll level with you?"

Shen nodded.

"Right, I was, uh…"

"Patrolling," Shen offered an euphemism, voice surprisingly assuaging.

"Patrolling the neighborhood," Zane agreed. He was glad that his uncle at least had the social graces to understand Zane didn't want another conversation in this direction, let alone a lecture. "And suddenly, these two men ambushed us. The Zuchezzis."

"Ah. I know about them - the infamous robbers. You hear stories, even west of Brooklyn; I believe they're wanted by the police." The old man started pouring the water into a pair of white porcelain cups, not bothering with any sugar, and waved a hand casually. "Continue."

"Right, so… This is the weird part. The Zuchezzis? They had, like, superpowers. Supernatural abilities.."

At that, Uncle Shen raised an eyebrow. He didn't say anything until he carried their teacups over to the table and put them down. "Supernatural?"

"One of them controlled the wind. The other, I'm pretty sure, could induce fear or something. Spike wasn't right, even after I walked him back home," Zane said. There was some creeping anxiety in him, that he could've ended up like either of his friends if only he'd been a little slower. He was good at seizing opportunities, though; much better than some people were, and that asshole underestimating him was a prime golden opportunity to give him a lesson in streetwise. Motherfuckers probably believed that having superpowers meant they could take on the whole hood and swagger about it.

Zane blew some air over his tea, its delicate surface rippling with the air. After a moment, he took in a dainty sip, using the proper manners his uncle taught him.

"Interesting." Shen sat down opposite Zane and started to drink his own tea in a similar manner, slowly, and thoughtfully. As if he were giving the idea some brief meditation. It was clear that he believed his nephew at least, for which Zane was overwhelmingly glad.

After a good minute of sipping tea and considering, Shen finally said, "Very well, I'll let you stay the night."

"I haven't even, uh, asked."

"But you were going to," Shen answered, as if that were an obvious fact. "Your encounter has shaken you deeply, and now you want to leave your old life behind. It's written all over your disgusting, Cheetos-flaked expression."

Zane merely growled in response. "Reading me like an open book, huh?"

"If you believe that's unamusing, challenge me to a duel."

The prospect was tempting. The last time Zane and Shen had sparred was over two years ago, and Zane was capable of roughly defending and occasionally attacking, even if his uncle held the upper hand, due to his experience. But that was two years ago, and back then, Zane wasn't even half the fighter he was right now.

"Maybe later," Zane decided. "First, we should figure out what to do about a bunch of gangster wizards going around."

"What should we do?"

"Well, the police can't handle it. They didn't handle the Mangler," Zane pointed out.

Some amusement dribbled from his uncle's tone, intermixed with concern and skepticism. "And you can?"

"Well, I beat their shit into the pavement," Zane said. "No offense, gramps, but I think that means I'm at least theoretically qualified. And you're even better than me, not just at fighting, but, like... life in general."

"Zane, I'm an old man," Shen answered, putting down the teacup. "I am not going to dress up in spandex and save the world, and neither should you. The Mangler was a different story, and the Zuchezzis had likely underestimated you, for they didn't know the full extent of your pugilist's skillset. There is nothing noble in raising your fists and tackling a hurricane, only to die. Instead of that, I suggest you thank God that he fortuitously blessed you with this one-time gift of survival and victory, and then you move on with your life and open that flower shop you'd always wanted. I can help you do that."

---

Last time, obviously, Uncle Shen's Place had won.

Your current Ambrosia is 3.6.

And now, in front of Zane, there is a choice:

[ ] Become Vigilante [+1 Ambrosia] - Zane wants a peaceful, quiet life, but it's clear there's something fucked up going on in town.

Between the Mangler, and the Firestarter sightings, and now the Zuchezzi brothers - people are randomly gaining superpowers, and most of them are notorious assholes, if not outright serial killers. Someone needs to put order back on the streets before society begins to lose the battle against them. There won't be any peace for him or for anyone else unless he can do something about it; and from what he's seen thus far, he can do a lot about it.

[ ] Let's Just Live - Fuck that. The old man's right - keep on living, stop with the three-bit gangster shit, and open a flower shop, eventually. All dreams come alive in time, as they say. All you have to do is keep going to school and keep your head down. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

Regardless of your decision, Uncle Shen will (either begrudgingly or warmly,) allow you to stay the night at his place.

 

[Birdsie]

Simple Life

After his conversation with Shen, Zane decided to go upstairs to one of the empty studio apartments and stayed the night over there with his uncle's permission. The night's sleep was relatively undisturbed and oddly calm, given the beatdown he'd delivered to a pair of wizards only a few hours prior.

Awakening in the morning with some intense bedhead, as was his routine, Zane repeated the rote advice on gardening his mother bestowed upon him ("always encourage bees into your garden, they are our little friends,") and then rose, showered off yesterday's nasty sweat, dressed up in some of his old clothes that Uncle Shen kept around, and consumed a luscious breakfast of crispy rice noodles, chopped boiled vegetables drizzled in garlic and soy sauce, and the more Japanese option of wagyu beef steak. It was a morning almost like any other, if perhaps one where he emerged a bit more well-fed in the end.

Sometimes, it was nice to be the owner's nephew.

And then after that, it was off to Midwood High via school bus.

Midwood was one of the more... interesting schools in Brooklyn. It was a huge place, as was the standard for the Big Apple; the student body's sheer figure was so robust that if some God descended and turned everywhere except the interior of the school into a wasteland, there'd still be enough people left to form a small township.

As was usual for any society larger than what an underdeveloped caveman brain deemed a tribe or a pack, there were hundreds of cliques and sub-cultures spread around. Although Midwood offered some pretty interesting AP courses and worked decently as far as competitions, known alumni, or extracurriculars, it was also a small infested patch of earth where gangs could freely recruit the disenfranchised or those simply uninterested in bettering themselves. It was more or less through his reputation as the best fighter in the entire school that Zane fell into the crosshairs of the Old Gravesend Demons, a known crime organization in Brooklyn.

The Gravesend Demons were an enterprising bunch, almost like eager yet stupid revivalists of the idea of turf wars. They'd been steadily cutting up their way to northern Brooklyn, essentially folding all lesser gangs and delinquent circles from Bay Ridge to Jackson Heights. It was an inordinate amount of territory for any kind of organized crime, especially when they were fighting against the NYPD - sometimes in a literal, rather than metaphorical way. Ever since the Mangler, the coppers allegedly started receiving more funding to suppress any similar 'incidents.'

There was a rumor spreading around, that at the very end of the chain of leadership, the man in charge of the Gravesend Demons was a mysterious figure known only as Mephistopheles, and that he possessed some kind of supernatural powers himself, and was solely responsible for the Demons' hegemony over Brooklyn. The rumor said that if any affiliate of the Demons truly wanted, from the depth of their heart, to make a deal with him, and they said his name, then he'd appear and grant their wish at some ill-defined but crippling cost. It sounded like bullshit, but then, so did aerokinesis and fear magic, and Zane had experienced those indirectly last night.

It was a good thing that Zane was near the bottom of the chain; a veteran grunt if anything, slightly respected for his diverse skillset and not much else. It'd make slipping out of this mess a bit easier once he finished studying.

As usual, the classes were pretty boring. As far as being a prospecting florist, Zane understood that he should've focused on gardening over business and marketing, but Uncle Shen insisted that he should aim for an Advanced Placement in a Macroeconomics course, or at least in Statistics. It seemed like a waste of time, and Zane wasn't a good enough student to believe he'd be able to keep up, but he tried his best anyway, to somewhat mediocre results. It wasn't really that he was saddened by this; he didn't believe it mattered too much. He didn't want to be wealthy like Uncle Shen - he just wanted a calm life and a calm retirement, maybe a family later on. It was, however, somewhat disheartening to know that, other than martial arts and tending to flowers, he wasn't much good for anything else.

There were over a hundred clubs in Midwood, some of them as inane as the Asian Society or Model United Nations. There was nothing for dedicated martial arts, sadly, as Zane might have felt tempted to attend that, if only to show a couple of tricks to other people interested in the subject. He didn't feel enough initiative to set up anything of the sort on his own - time was money, after all - but maybe it'd be worth looking into, in some nebulous future.

After he was done with his classes and had a fast bite of lunch at a local family restaurant, Zane decided he needed to take care of some business today...

---

As said, last time, [X] Let's Just Live was the victor.

You currently have 4.3 Ambrosia, insufficient to afford anything, but closing in on the low-hanging fruit.

At present, Zane has a day off. A day off is a day with no pressing activities, missions, or outside duties to attend to; aside from the usual of school, eating, and sleeping. On such a day, Zane is free to choose several activities, dependent on how much time he's got on hand.

Zane's current net worth and total assets:

Spoiler

- A normal leather wallet.
- A pair of stolen leather wallets containing over $1,000 between them.
- A pair of stolen smartphones, slightly old and battered, each one worth maybe around $180 at a pawn shop.
- $120.21, standard circulated US currency; clean, in his wallet.
- A bank account set up by Shen, currently has roughly $2,000 on it. Shen regularly sends over more cash and might be swayed to send more.
- A rough sum of $140 that various people (acquaintances, friends,) owe him and that he can reasonably get back on short notice from them.
- A pair of weird trading cards in plastic ziplock bags. If the Zucchezis bothered to preserve them this much, he should take them to a collector and have them appraised.
- Several changes of clothing.
- His own smartphone; an extremely battered, old model with an extensively cracked screen.
- A stolen pack of cigarettes.
- A stolen plastic lighter.

He should consider pawning off some of these!

What is going to be Zane's actions for today? Select a maximum of four. However, selecting fewer options means Zane will devote more time and focus to them, providing slightly better opportunities, rolls bonuses, and improved overall results. !Vote By Plan!

[ ] Visit Pawn Shop - And pawn off all that good shit. Zane knows a local pawn shop owner who'll give him a good price.
[ ] Practice Martial Arts - Where and how? Visit the gym? Visit a dojo? Spar against Uncle Shen? Find a practice dummy? Beat up people?
[ ] Wander Around - Wander around somewhere. (Which district of New York?)
[ ] Visit Uncle Shen - A second visit in as many days? The old man's heart will melt at this rate...
-[ ] Duel Time - Spar with Uncle Shen while you're at it. (Free Action if above is picked.)
[ ] Appraise Cards - Ask people around campus if they know anyone into hardcore trading, and track that person down to ask for their opinion on the black cards.
[ ] Go Shopping - And purchase what?
[ ] Call Mephistopheles - Action locked: Zane Li Black has no reason to call Mephistopheles at this time - he is not even certain of the entity's existence!
[ ] Write-in - Something else?

Additional Choices:

[ ] Brawler Charge [7 Ambrosia] - Restore a single use of the Brawler of Midwood perk. Can't afford; gain more Ambrosia first!
[ ] Brawler's Repute [25 Ambrosia] - Instead of a single use of the Brawler of Midwood perk, you can have three per Arc or major story event. Can't afford; gain more Ambrosia first!

 

[Birdsie]

Winded After A Long Day

The Mapleton safehouse was a small crib that belonged to one of the upper members of the Gravesend Demons. A few select members were permitted to stay over If in need, and sometimes, Zane would rest there on long weekends or between staying over at his friends' places, or simply renting spots of his own.

It was a surprisingly clear, quiet, and secure place. There was a fence around the whole property to keep snoopy neighbors out and the doors could be barred up to offer some amount of protection against rival gangs breaking in, or delay the police attempting to conduct a raid. None of that ever happened, but that was the idea at least. And since it was meant to be a safe place for the members, one generally needed permission first to bring any guns or narcotics inside. There were no parties at the safe house, and it certainly wasn't a place for social discussion. People sort of lived there, just like that.

Before even pawning them off, a sporadic thought had come over Zane's mind. Maybe some of the items he'd robbed were magical? It'd make sense, given the Zuchezzis' apparent abilities. If he sold away an object with supernatural power in it for cheap, without checking, Zane would feel like a moron forever.

"Man, what a drag," he muttered, looking through the stuff. He'd already messed about with the cigarettes and checked the wallets. He was sure none of those were special. And that left those weird cards.

He slowly, carefully - wearing a pair of latex gloves in case they had some kind of kill mechanism on them - slipped one card out of its ziplock bag and then stared at it, moving it around in his palms.

It didn't particularly feel like anything. The card was perfectly black, although with a dark grayish outline of a figure in the center, which Zane was more or less unable to recognize as anything particular. It was smooth to the touch, like a durable plastic coating laid on top of several layers of firm cardboard or special, tough, folded paper. It'd probably wear down in a few months of constant holding, throwing, or general use, but for now, it looked pretty fresh and well-maintained. Possibly because it was kept in a small bag ever since one of those two assholes acquired it.

It did look pretty mysterious, though.

He noticed both of the cards had writing on them, slightly different, penned in an unfamiliar alphabet. It was like an entire script of blocks, some of them fully colored white, a few of them half-colored; a couple of them used simple block contours, while others were half-blocks. It was strange.

Zane slipped off a glove and touched the card, brushing his finger across it. He was hoping to maybe find some kind of writing in Braille, but something else occurred.

There was a sensation, like a bolt of electricity running from the card and into him. Zane almost dropped the card but ended up clutching it tightly instead.

The blank picture on the card transformed in a dizzying blur of gray and white ink, creating a sort of white artistic silhouette of two characters; a pair of winged figures floating in the air and smiling, wielding clubs or maces as weapons.

The unintelligible script began to resolve and shift, from silly and meaningless blocks into Cyrillic or Roman letters, and then into Norse runes and into then into kanji, and other, less familiar alphabets, slipping in and out of the human language spheres that Zane could recognize into ones that seemed positively ancient and forgotten, lapsing into hieroglyphs at one point. As it went on, the letters started to appear in more familiar and modern languages; German, French, English, Chinese, then English again.

The once unreadable gray-white alien runes finally resolved into something like a language with some amount of clarity. In Zane's eyes, the letters of the card blazed like fire.

Boreads, Demigods [Heroes] of North Wind​

Godcard, Series A500/Z210​

Wind, Freedom, Jovial, Duality, Brotherhood, Heroism​

Medium Compatibility [35.5%]​

Power Level [1]​

"The fuck?" Was there any other reaction in that situation?

As soon as he was done reading all of that, another line appeared underneath.

---

Joe's plan won last time, resulting in Zane looking into the Cards much earlier than I'd planned for... Hmm...

You currently have 4.9 Ambrosia.

Select an initial ability for the Godcard: Boreads, Cardbearer.

[ ] Wind Push (Gradual) - A power of simple function and execution, and even simpler finesse.

The Cardbearer thrusts out their hand and creates a strong and sustained air current. The air current starts amassing at a designated spot within ten meters and line of sight of the Cardbearer and moves at a designated vector which may not be changed after being set, until dismissed or until the power wears off. The air current needs roughly three seconds to reach optimal levels in an enclosed space, or half as much in an open airy space, and then very slowly loses power until finally petering out five minutes later.

At its full power, the air current is strong enough to flip people over and send them flying back like ragdolls, and if placed correctly, it may even flip over cars. It has an effective range sufficient to act as a decent anti-personnel suppression tactic in a gunfight.

Only a single air current may exist at any given time. An air current may, however, be dismissed and replaced instantly with no cooldown as desired.

[ ] Anywhere But Here - At will, the Cardbearer designates a 'situation' they can perceive and comprehend as 'undesirable.' So long as the Cardbearer attempts to put distance between themselves and that situation, even in a metaphorical manner, they will receive boons of extreme bodily coordination, superhuman agility, superhuman speed, and slight precognition, sufficient to easily outrun and outthink any baseline human being on the planet regardless of their physical condition, and to more often than not escape pursuit by a group of trained baseline human beings. However, running towards an undesirable situation does not provide any boons, and in fact, can slightly impede the Cardbearer in certain situations by confusing their sense of movement and central nervous system, producing an effect similar to light enervation.

A situation can be undesignated, but no earlier than at least one hour since the last designation was issued. Only a single situation can be designated at any given time. Do note that any situation can be designated including, "safety." Such gambles, however, can be risky.

[ ] Defense of the Northwind - The Cardbearer maintains a toggleable "forcefield" of membranous, swirling air currents around themselves. This forcefield extends to a set distance of three centimeters from the Cardbearer's skin, becoming progressively stronger and denser inwards, and it actively pushes approaching objects out.

As a result of this effect, holding onto items of any sort becomes rather difficult while the forcefield is active. As a trade-off, however, the Cardbearer receives an appreciably powerful defense, becoming essentially immune to mundane blunt, cutting, and thrusting forces in melee combat, and receiving high resistance against low-caliber firearms. This effect is also helpful in mitigating fall or impact damage of any sort, letting a skilled freerunner or parkourist safely leap from the fourth story of a building.

While the forcefield is active, the Cardbearer is also lighter and more mobile; inertial forces affect them in a manner that's best described as "slightly selective," and they are treated as if weighing less overall, unless weight is desirable, in which case they weigh slightly more.

Also, the forcefield provides oxygen should it be, for whatever reason, unavailable. (It also happens to be highly flammable. Please, be cautious.)

[ ] Brother Mine [7 Ambrosia] - A rare and powerful ability, especially for one's first unlock.

The Cardbearer forms, at will, up to a single semi-sentient "wind clone" of themselves. The clone has the vast majority of the Cardbearer's memories, fundamental personality traits, intellect, and desires, with some differences. Most notably, it has almost no actual regard for its own survival and it regards the Cardbearer's well-being as being of high import to itself, following instructions and, without instructions, acting in a manner it believes would be beneficial to the Cardbearer or the people they care about. There is no chance of betrayal from a wind clone; should a mind-affecting or similar power try to work its course on them, the wind clone will pop instead.

A wind clone has the same essential "attributes" (physical, social, mental, spiritual,) of the Cardbearer, as well as the same skills, being essentially a perfect simulacrum of them made from wind. This material choice is the only essential difference on the physical level; rather than bleeding as humans do, if the wind clone's outer integrity is breached, it will start losing its pressurized air content, slowly losing strength and speed, until, finally, its integrity is so low that its shell outright simply dissipates. The wind clone has no vulnerable organs, noticeable or real sensation of fear (although it may pretend it has one if it believes it'll put others more at ease with its presence), adrenaline response to being hurt, sensation of pain, or similar physiological weaknesses, meaning it could likely survive being shot with a firearm several times and continue fighting relatively unimpeded for a short time afterwards.

As a final power, the wind clone is able to activate and use any of the Cardbearer's other powers associated with this particular Godcard. Also, should the Cardbearer use another Godcard, the wind clone will linger in reality, although it will begin decomposing at the rate of 1/5th of its pressurized air content per day.

In the next chapter, Zane will have a look at the other of the two Godcards he stole.

 

[Birdsie]

The More You Fight

And the line read out small details of his new power.

Its power surged within him, the connection to the Boreads blazing deep in his brain, neurons, and synapses like stars and stellar links, the chemicals that made up his thought like cosmic nebulae, spreading endlessly over the infinite sky, reaching into some dimension of higher enlightenment, to the very idea of the Gods on the card.

And it bestowed upon him, for now, a single gift for his lifetime's diligence, his pursuit of personal freedom, and minor occasional acts of heroism or joy-spreading. More was promised to come if he continued to align himself with the deities.

The gift was relatively simple. At his command, the winds of the north would fall in love with him and caress his body protectively, denser and denser inwards, in the hopes of aiding him in avoiding harm. It was an on-and-off state, no fine control but great power.

Almost on instinct, he tested it once, and there was a whistling stirring, as his skin exploded in reverse with the sudden air current, vacuuming up the breeze. Some of the items close to him fluttered at the sudden shift in air pressure as the winds snapped to his body, a few pages of a study book lain open on the desk turning on their own.

He moved a hand to his desk and found that it was repelled on approach. And the more he pushed, the deeper the shield was penetrated, and the more it protected him. It was quite literally impossible to brush his finger against the desk. He could manage to push almost into a millimeter's range, but even that was at the cost of straining every muscle in his body, and when he started moving and sliding his hand in the hopes of catching a grip, his fingers came away loosely, sliding off, like a bug hopelessly trying to balance on a surface of greasy oil. Oddly enough, it seemed like his feet stuck to the earth properly, but that seemed to be more of a feature than an error.

He canceled the power as he snapped out of his stupor, breathing in deeply.

"What the fuck was that?"

His connection to the Godcard remained even with the power off - a connection so deep and intrinsic that he knew exactly what to call it, even without being told.

A connection leading so deep into his mind, spreading its tendrils so thoroughly into his being, that he could understand every miniature aspect of the power involved. A connection so blastedly overwhelming that Zane couldn't help but consider how to increase his compatibility for more power. Acts of heroism using wind? It sounded relatively simple in principle, although he wasn't sure if he wanted to bother with something as elaborately stupid as that. Maybe he'd think more about it later.

Interestingly, it seemed that his power was different from the previous holder of the Godcard. That man's power had been pure offense and utility. Active manipulation of the winds, sufficient to effortlessly toss around human targets. And Zane's power came out defensive instead, almost to the point of crippling overspecialization, with some utility to control over his body's own movements, which ought to be helpful when playing basketball if nothing else.

He knew with confidence that in his defensive mode, he could take a bullet to the face and only have a small bruise to show for it the next day. It was like he could summon a full-body suit of kevlar with some caveats, as well as a few minor bonuses.

At that point, Zane eyed the other Card with deep curiosity. For around a minute, he contemplated leaving it, but then he learned as much as he remembered a fact intrinsic to the Cards - if he forged a connection with a Godcard, its previous owner would lose theirs. Until he touched both, the Zuchezzis would have their powers. It'd be prudent to do that, even if he decided to never use the Cards again, in order to avoid future reprisal.

Spike's words lingered in his mind, as he considered. Whatever the other Godcard was, it possessed some kind of terrible power - something unlike the ambivalent Boreads. A weapon of torture as much as defeat. He breathed in and resolved himself to go through with it, for his own safety.

With much less hesitation, he popped the ziplock bag open and then brushed a hand against the card. The calibration felt a touch slower than before, and Zane could feel his link to the Boreads vanishing as the new one plugged into his soul.

Phobos, God [Personifications] of Fear​

Godcard, Series A460/Z110​

Fear, Combat, War, Domination​

Medium Compatibility [12.5%]​

Power Level [1]​

---

There have been quite a few interesting posts and theories, both in the thread and on Discord since the last chapter. Your Current Ambrosia is 5.8. If sufficient work is put in, you may be able to afford the special option below during this phase. However, beware of going into debt - that'd be very unpleasant for you.

Select an initial ability for the Godcard: Phobos, Cardbearer.

[ ] Phobia - As the Cardbearer either participates in or witnesses (directly or indirectly) an ongoing battle with serious stakes (not necessarily lethal stakes), he slowly builds up a nebulous illusion charge, up to a hard limit which is unlikely to be ever reached unless a world war was declared. The definition of 'witness' here is broad; in the right situation, simply hanging out in the vicinity of an illegal wrestling ring and being aware of its existence because someone told you about it can be sufficient. Watching recordings of a recent skirmish in the Middle East might not.

Accumulated illusion charge, unsurprisingly, can be used to create illusionary objects and creatures. None of the costs for using the illusion charge are precise or exact; the Card user decides how much he wishes to spend, and the quantity of illusion charge expended makes for a better creation. All illusions meant to induce fear or appear intimidating are vastly cheaper in cost, and then even cheaper if they are created in the middle of an ongoing battle or conflict scenario. The options themselves are nearly as vast as the Cardbearer's own imagination and, with enough charge, can become infectious (for example, an illusionary shadow hoplite stabs a person with a spear, and that person now has an illusionary wound that produces illusionary pain, quite possibly leading to unconsciousness.) Everyone can perceive the illusions.

[ ] Skittering Soldiers - This power's strength lies in simplicity.

At will, the Cardbearer creates a large focal point (a sphere ten meters in diameter) anywhere he can see, even through a live camera feed (this power can be used to discern what does and doesn't count.) As soon as a focal point is created, it draws in all insects and small animals within a quarter-kilometer's range. If there are people or unaffected animals or creatures within the focal point, they are seen as an "obstruction" and will be attacked relentlessly until they leave. The Cardbearer can instantly and with no cooldowns or delays, remove and place a focal point anywhere else, such as making it follow a given target endlessly through Manhattan. Yes, this can be used to flood your annoying neighbor's apartment in order to truly destroy his weekend.

None of the immediate improvements to this power are esoteric. Most of them involve straightforward increases to range and focal point numbers, or better control over the focal points, such as limiting how many insects are drawn into any single one in order to avoid confusing one's armies.

[ ] Glare of Ares - A relatively simplistic ability. The Cardbearer meets the eyes of a living target and forces them to look back. If the target isn't literally blind, their mind is promptly displaced into an illusionary hellscape out of their worst nightmares, and then some, where they are relentlessly tortured and subjected to constant mockery, humiliation, pain, and their innermost fears. From an outside perspective, it often appears as if the victim were to fall over and have a seizure or heart attack, while other times, it simply looks like the victim passes out from shock. The power works until canceled although if a target has incredibly resilient, almost superhuman, willpower, he can slip out of it on his own after spending a few seconds in the illusion. One second in the real world is ten minutes within the illusionary world. An extended session can swiftly accumulate to completely break someone's mind.

After the power is canceled on someone, for every second (externally) they spent in the illusion, the power may not be used for five seconds. This makes it slightly less viable in group combat.

The content of the illusions may not be customized, but it's always going to be horrific for the perceiver. The content is within the upper margins of the worst imaginable experience for them. The only way to emerge fully sane is to not be phased by inhuman torture.

If this option is taken, Zane will connect the dots and realize this was the power used on Spike.

[ ] Arms of Terror [7 Ambrosia] - At will, the Cardbearer summons one of the following armaments of terror:

The Sword - A sword of pure shadow with a glossy sheen of amaranthine hue, like subtle violet light. It comes with a scabbard of starless midnight, and when unsheathed, it produces a vivid echoing hiss, which causes the hairs on the back of men to stand up.

The Sword of Terror is completely indestructible and sharper than reality, able to cut effortlessly through wood (as if cutting through air,) and easily through steel (as if cutting through wood.) For its wielder, it acts in some regards like an illusionary object, physically weightless, but to an enemy, it's completely real. Using this property with some training, it's possible to completely bypass armor (acting illusionary for solid objects,) in order to cut directly at the victim underneath (acting real for living creatures,) although this isn't usually necessary against purely mortal targets given the sword's absurd sharpness and cutting power. Further tricks and techniques can be learned. Victims observing the sword feel confoundment and fear - as a result, they will instinctively shy and look away, providing good opportunities against untrained opponents.

The Shield - A fine hoplite's shield, oily and black in color, with a blazing white conflagration in the center, shaped into a livery of a bull's skull with sharp teeth set in white rows like needles, and eyes that glow like fire. When summoned, it comes strapped to the arm with firm leather colored in dark green.

Aside from being completely indestructible and greatly mitigating most impact forces (the Shield can perfectly defend against high-caliber anti-material rifles and partially defend against a tank gun), the Shield amplifies any sound that its wielder creates when banging other metal objects (particularly, the Sword,) against it and endows them with the supernatural fear of Phobos himself. This can be used in order to focus the sound into narrow cones of sonic destruction, bursting the eardrums of victims, stunning them, and simultaneously traumatizing them mentally. It can also be released in a more indiscriminate manner, omnidirectional, striking deep terror and panic into the people around the wielder and confusing them because of the loud noise. When the Sword is struck against the Shield, the effects of the banging are doubled. Anyone forced to look at the Shield will feel immense discomfort and rapidly accumulating fear, but also a mounting desire to continue staring as if observing some grim execution.

The Armor - A chestplate, helmet, bracers, greaves, shinguards, and face-covering helmet in the shape of a dead man's skull, all the color of the darkest pitch and cold to the touch like a gravestone at night.

Aside from being completely indestructible and greatly mitigating most impact forces (the Armor can perfectly defend against medium-caliber sniper rifles and partially defend against high-caliber anti-material rifles), the Armor strikes a deep fear into any onlookers and manipulates their perceptions subtly, transforming the bearer into a nightmare praetorian. The reality of the situation seems to be exaggerated to the bearer's enemy; wounds appear deeper, more painful, and more grave; the bearer moves faster and more gracefully, striking with ruthless disregard for the survival of his enemies, with powerful blows that seem to strike at the very core of the being. He seems to feel no pain or fear himself, and one's allies appear to be bending in terror, on the verge of running away and routing. It gives the situation a tense chord of immediacy, as if the bearer's opponent was slightly drunk and overtaken by complete fear in the middle of combat.

The Javelin - A weapon that's strangely out of theme with the rest of the set, and yet, the Cardbearer feels that it has a reason for being a part of it. Rather than being a physical object, the Javelin is a bolt of jagged "solid" lightning. It is dark bluish and purple with hues of white at night, but transforming yellow and white in daylight. It can be held safely by its wielder but will spark and hurt anyone else who touches it, burning and electrifying simultaneously.

When thrown, the Javelin homes in on its intended victim, capable of arcing over or around cover, and it strikes at the speed of light, virtually unavoidable, transforming into an actual bolt of lightning in the middle of its flight. It deals a similar amount of aggravating burn damage, often sufficing to kill most uninsulated people in a single throw. And strangely enough, it seems to produce no loud sound; there is no accompanying thunder to its throw. Its sight, however, strikes an electrifying fear of God into men who perceive it, but of a different kind than most of the weapons in this set; its particular effects aim to daunt and strike fear into the bearer's equals, rather than lessers - although mortals fear it still, they do not fear it any more than supernatural lightning. However, other Cardbearers, magical creatures, or similar constructs will find that, even with supernatural willpower or "immunity" to fear, their mind is battered with visions of their certain defeat in the afterflashes of the lightning, terrifying them deeply.

All Terror weapons smell faintly of musk and blood.

Until Arms of Terror reaches Level 4, Improvements to this power do not actually improve it, but simply allow for more armaments to be summoned at the same time.

 

[Birdsie]

At Last, The First Sowing

As the rest of the midday passed by, Zane experimented with his newfound powers, mostly attempting to use the Defense of the Northwind to arrest his momentum rapidly and turn on a dime. He found that leaping off the second-floor stairs, he could almost glide a couple of feet more before he started falling.

He also found a small - not precisely exploit, but useful tip about using the power of Phobia, namely that by remaining deeply if vaguely aware of the position of the local fight clubs, wrestling rings, and training dojos, he could scrape up a few scrubby specks of illusion charge for no real demerit to himself, aside from intense concentration.

He found that he could switch between Cards simply by touching them. It meant he could place either in his pockets and touch inside if he needed to rapidly move from defense to making illusions. However, there was the unfortunate fact that the illusion charge didn't appear to carry over if he swapped the cards, unlike the powers themselves. Every swap emptied his stores. It meant that if he ever went from Phobos to Boreads in order to acquire a fast defensive measure, there'd be no real point in switching back.

And he practiced weaving the illusions themselves, drawing on his stores of energy. He wasn't very good, which he attributed to a lack of material with which to practice, but he could make a rather believable mosquito. It appeared like the illusions softly decayed over time, although he could renew them with more energy, in order to maintain them or simply make them last for longer. Alas, he didn't bother keeping Sir Mosquito alive for longer than his services in training Zane were necessary.

He wondered if an illusionary creature, complete with an illusionary brain, was alive in a way, then decided he wasn't into that philosophy shit.

As the afternoon gently transformed into the cooling winds of early evening, Zane got on a bus that'd go near to Chinatown on its route. He sat down behind a plump woman dressed in a thick, dark, insulated down coat and relaxed, watching the streets pass by.

As he continued to ponder about the cards, his thoughts lapsed into flowers and gardens; his mother's advice, never leaving his mind. Always subtly in reach.

He wondered if he could nourish a flower with illusionary water and it'd grow, then decided it probably wouldn't.

After the bus stopped near the bridge to Manhattan, Zane was shaken out of his reverie as an older man with a cane approached, asking, "Excuse me, is this seat free?"

He looked to be, maybe, in his mid-thirties with a scruffy short black beard, hair rolled down and pasty, a little ungroomed. It seemed almost like he'd rushed to finish up the morning shower in a hurry. An elegant blue coat with a basic dress shirt and black tie ensemble made him stand out as some kind of business person. More noticeable, perhaps, was the small bruise above his eyebrow, and the cut on his nose, both covered with band-aids. It seemed like the man had some kind of accident.

"Sure." Zane didn't mind. He barely paid the man any heed as the bus continued to move, pulling out of the turnout and then slowly rolling across the bridge and through what seemed to be like a short traffic jam. Zane used this opportunity to calmly observe the waters.

"Say, where are you getting off?"

"Uh," Zane considered the man's intent for a moment - it was the sort of thing you did in Brooklyn when a stranger asked you a question of that kind - and deemed the man probably wasn't a gangster planning to rob him with a partner. "A bit past Lower East, near Chinatown. Why?"

"Ah, that's perfect - can you do me a favor and let me know when we pass Clinton Street? I need to get off a bit after that." The man's tone was polite and Zane saw nothing off about the request.

"Bad sleep?" he guessed.

"Yeah, I need to rest my eyes for a couple of minutes," the man answered, leaning back in his seat and sighing out deeply, almost as if bottoming out his lungs. His eyelids slid down like a set of roller blinds weighed down by steel weights. "I was working 'till late, and I fell in the shower. It's a pain in the ass lately. All of this fucking paperwork, bullshit coming out of the left side. It's almost hopeless. Sometimes it feels like I'm wandering forward with no purpose in life. Doesn't that scare ya?"

Briefly recalling his fight with the Zuchezzis and Zane's recent discoveries about the nature of magic, or maybe superpowers, the boy chuckled.

"Yeah. You're telling me," he said, chuckling in between words. He breathed in, amused. "Alright, I'll tap you when it's your stop. Just don't ramble at me."

"Thanks, kid." The man flashed a brief smile and allowed himself to relax further. "I appreciate it."

Some inner charlatan inside Zane suggested to nab his wallet moments before waking him up, disguising the pickpocket attempt as the aforementioned tapping. So tired and focused on another day of work, he probably wouldn't notice a missing wallet until he went to buy lunch. Zane had learned some about the art of stealing people's shit from the masters of the trade. He wasn't a specialist on the matter by any means, but he'd practiced, and he was rather confident he'd be able to pull it off almost perfectly.

Although the man hadn't done anything, it was a tough life - those student fees wouldn't pay themselves off, and Uncle Shen sure as shit wouldn't take a hammer and pulverize his own account for his nephew's sake. Probably. Maybe. The old man had been sending some mixed messages lately.

---

You currently have 7.7 points of sweet, flowing Ambrosia, due to achieving a modest modifier during your last discussion session (largely due to Octarine's posts). Altogether it's sufficient to afford a recharge of Brawler of Midwood!

As for the man on the bus...

[ ] Rob Him - As the man leaves, Zane will attempt to pickpocket his wallet. A moderate-to-high likelihood of success. From the man's appearance, probably a profit of at least a few hundred bucks and then some. (This action is dishonorable and unheroic: -.5% compatibility with Boreads.)
-[ ] Activate Brawler of Midwood [7 Ambrosia] - Doubles the odds of success for this action. It counts as combat because it's a contest of dexterity versus perception against another person.

[ ] Nah, Man - Leave the man be.

Afterwards...

[ ] Uncle Battle - Spar with Uncle Shen as intended. Leave the reveal about the Godcards for another day and time.

As a byproduct of sticking with your own previously stated desires and intentions, gain +2.0 Ambrosia.

[ ] Reveal Cards - Instead of sparring with Uncle Shen, Zane will approach him with his findings about the Godcards and they will experiment to find what kind of powers Uncle Shen receives from them.

 

[Birdsie]

Fist Like Rosebud

At night, Chinatown was something beautiful. It wasn't quite night yet, but almost - it was that ephemeral transitional state between day and night, and the early periods of this transition displayed a wan, distant reflection of what it'd be in a few simple turns of the shorthand on the clock. There were hundreds of packed tourists wandering in streams around the tight, narrow streets; disorderly and massive, like an ocean of whirling currents and unpredictable motion. Some of them stopped near stalls or walked into shops and restaurants, disappearing from traffic, but often, an equal amount was leaving those same places to join it. The peasant marked howled with laughter, loud speech, footsteps, and other sounds which tingled the ear for their strangeness. It was like a combination of music and painting, but drawn and composed in reality.

As one might expect, Shen's Famous Foods was no less filled than at any other time of the day. It was, oddly, the mornings that were always the calmest. The closer one approached to the dead of night, the more active the patrons seemed to become. All of it was befitting for the city that never sleeps.

As Zane came in and stepped past the recognizant qipao-wearing lady at the reception, dressed in nothing but his day outfit - significantly too casual for a place like this - he surprised no one in the backroom lounge. As if possessed of some kind of precognitive talent, Shen was already looking over the small window from the kitchen.

"There you are, Zane. A few minutes late, even," Shen said cheekily. He was in the kitchen, helping the cooks and barking orders at them from time to time in English.

"I don't remember making an appointment," the teen dryly replied, setting down his bag next to the entrance as he sat down on the open couch. He pointedly didn't engage his uncle's ability to tell the future. If asked, the old man would give some vague bullshit about astrologically reading tea leaves.

"Indeed," the man simply replied, before frowning as he paid more scrutiny to Zane's outfit. "It's fine-dining hour. What are you wearing? You came in like this?"

Deciding to be particularly impudent, Zane chose to quote an old Chinese proverb, one that Uncle Shen taught him: "Facts beat eloquence."

"Oh?" And for the first time, Shen fully withdrew his attention from the cooks to regard his bold nephew. "And what facts do you come bearing?"

"A long time ago, I was Chinese," Zane replied in English, using a mocking Chinese accent.

To Zane's immense satisfaction, Shen almost looked angry. He raised a comically large wooden spoon for mixing soup in the pot and pointed it at the boy threateningly as if the object were a sword. "Do not quote the Westerner's meme at me, boy. And for what reason did you come so soon after your last visit? I would hope it was nothing supernatural or foolish? Have you decided to take me up on my offer? Or are you here merely to cry to me about your sad absence of a love life?"

"Says the confirmed bachelor." Zane rolled his eyes.

"I am married to my personal dogma," Shen waved him off, not even pretending to be insulted. "However, the same is not true for you, and you are young - full of yang chi and vibrant life. Are you even fertile? Does your wood refuse to stand?"

In response to the question, Zane sputtered, as one naturally might. "W-What kind of question is that? Yes, I'm fertile! Shut up! I'm not here about my dating prospects - as if I'd take dating advice from you! I'm here to duel you."

"Ah." Shen's mocking smirk transformed, becoming a smirk of mocking and confidence instead. "I see how it is. Alright then, boy - I'll have to hold the line here for a while more. Exercise some, I'll be with you in half an hour."

With the old man's permission, Zane sighed deeply then proceeded to what his uncle called the dojo. It was a medium-sized room attached to the restaurant via the backroom lounge and a part of his uncle's ancient, defunct plan to open a martial arts school, slightly ruined by the fact that his uncle also predicted it wouldn't get enough students to make the investment of time and money worth it. It was open and very airy, with a number of windows near the ceiling, some equipment for exercise, and a few neat decorations, like a small Buddha statue near the far center.

Although there was a fighting mat in the room, it wasn't really a proper dojo per se - it was more of a training room, clearly built for physical exercise. It didn't have sufficient equipment to be a proper gym, but at the same time, it had enough that it became instantly clear it wasn't a normal room for sitting around in.

After switching into a set of exercise clothes, Zane started doing his warm-up. Uncle Shen came in punctually half an hour later, almost down to the minute, dressed in a simple, black uniform. And for some time, the both of them simply warmed up and did callisthenics, until deciding that it was time.

"I do wonder if you'll be able to show any significant resistance once I start attacking, Zane," Shen commented. "I have gotten a bit rusty. Maybe you won't lose in five seconds? I suppose that we shall see."

"My powers have doubled since the last time we met, Uncle," Zane replied. It was funny because it was true.

"So you say! Come!"

After bowing to each other, their duel started in earnest.

Uncle Shen was a master of Chinese martial arts, particularly the fearsome external and northern schools. He'd been learning them since he was a six-year-old martial prodigy back at home, progressing in explosive bursts.

Or in simple words - Uncle Shen had forged his own body into a weapon of incredible strength, durability, cardiovascular efficiency, and efficacious muscle that didn't weigh him down while providing good leverage and structure to his attacks. The northern schools and styles were particularly aggressive, characterized by fluid motion and the ability to rapidly shift where the force was being issued; fast movement and rapid, explosive strikes that efficiently whittled down the opponent's body over time.

However, this didn't mean that Shen wasn't familiar with southern schools, either - the more passive ones, relying on low, stable stances and short but powerful movements that combine attack and defense. Unlike the northern styles, the southern ones involved full-body and arm movements. What rendered Uncle Shen terrifying to fight was his ability to fluently shift between his knowledge; an ability that Zane didn't share, and hoped to make up for by dedicating himself solely to Jeet Kune Do.

Sometimes, it was said that fighting was like dancing or music. A fool pretending to be a master would say this wasn't true. However, the actual truth was that it wasn't completely wrong - fighting was sort of like dancing or music.

There was an inherent tempo - a rhythm and economy of movement. One, two, one, two - move, move; move, move.

As the fight continued, both participants would start to get used to the rhythm they created together, opponent versus opponent, setting it for each other.

One of the best methods to completely destroy an opponent was to make him dance to a certain rhythm, set it for him; one, two, one two; and then when he was getting used to it, rapidly switch to a completely alien one; one, two, three; one, two, three, four.

In something like a duel, where conscious thought is limited and the fighter relies partially on raw skill and pure instinct, something like this was destructive for the brain. Almost no matter the opponent, it'd catch them flatfooted, and lead to a swift resolution unless the opponent rapidly adapted.

It was difficult to execute, however. It was something anyone could try, but only a master could successfully pull off. It was very difficult to switch a set rhythm internally, let alone externally; the switch was as difficult for the person enacting it as the person they were fighting. During the switch, their only advantage was having the foreknowledge of their plan and being the one doing it. No matter who performed the switch, it created openings on both sides that could be abused. It was therefore important to be prepared for the shift ahead of time.

---

At the moment, you have 10.7 units of shining Ambrosia. Spend them well.

[ ] Lion-Eating Poet - Setting and resetting the rhythm for the fight was one of the few possibilities that Zane could realistically seize to have a chance at defeating Shen.

Usually, Shen employs an aggressive fighting style that drains his stamina rapidly, deploying a full-contact barrage of punches and rarely kicks, sacrificing even accuracy and hits over closing into striking distance and unleashing utter hell on the opponent with his physique. It was inefficient, however, so after several barrages, he'd be forced to disengage and step back to defend himself and recuperate from such an intense task. If Zane can focus purely on the defense for that first half and make it through without any decisive losses, he'll be able to respond.

It'd be possible for Zane to step in and respond in kind in a similar way, playing a mind game with the old man, only to rapidly switch his tempo moments before Shen decides to return to offense. Aggression is one of Shen's main defenses against this maneuver - deprived of it and forced to defend, Zane can win the fight, or at least force the man to completely re-evaluate his fighting style mid-combat and make him switch to something he's less adept in. At that point, Zane can simply focus on defeating him.

[ ] Twin Benefits - Rather than focusing on the tempo, against which Shen is likely to adapt fast due to his ability to read the opponent's movements like an open book, it'd be better to avoid playing mind games and simply focus on brutal efficiency. Shen's aggressive openers can weather an opponent, even one skilled at defending, or completely destroy them if they can't even do that - if Zane can avoid meeting one of them, he can instantly rig the fight to his own advantage.

One of Zane's few advantages in this fight is his height as well as weight, and he can use them against his opponent; better reach and greater striking force would permit him to completely upset the balance of the fight right at its opener, swinging a kick or a wide blow in the path of Shen's approach to deter him, then continuously defend in a similar manner, until Shen decides he must completely give up his usual tactics, as his nephew isn't having any of it. Although Shen is patient, even his own patience won't be inexhaustible - he might taunt Zane and call him a coward, but Zane will simply smirk in response, knowing that Shen has a restaurant to run and can't afford to fight forever.

[ ] Wuxin Flow - Also known as the state of "no mind," Wuxin or Mushin is something a lot of martial artists practice over time. It's an interesting technique that relies on completely relinquishing conscious thought in the midst of combat, and surrendering oneself to experience and instinct, often to incredible results. It can be dangerous against masters who can exploit any openings, but Jeet Kune Do is already a style that relies more on instinct and efficient adjustment to conditions; it won't create many openings relative to its ability to speed up Zane's combat pacing, giving him a steady advantage. Zane will attempt to trigger this state as he fights Shen.

Unfortunately, it doesn't permit for any of the advanced tactics above at the same time.

[ ] Facts Beat Eloquence - 事实胜于雄辩 - or "actions speak louder than words."

Don't focus on any particular tactic. Fight Shen openly as you would have fought him the first time around. An absence of mind games and tricks is itself, a mind game and a trick, and perhaps the mightiest one. By doing this, Zane will be able to fully employ the terrifying diversity and efficiency of Jeet Kune Do, playing to his strengths.

[ ] Activate Brawler of Midwood [7 Ambrosia] - Doubles the odds of success for this action.

[ ] Write-in. If you believe you have a better idea, write-in tactics are perfectly acceptable.