Your name is Méibh "Mayv-but-you-flap-the-end" Morrisey, and
yes you actually spell it like that, even though it gives most databases a fit. It may not be your most
convenient inheritance, but you have
standards.
You also have a preposterously beautiful new Goblin suit. The last one wasn't actually bad, all things considered, but this one you
like. You're taking your time with this equipment check, mostly to admire it.
Pointed grey boot-socks made from ultratensile pseudosilk; Parker Industries doesn't really advertise their dirt-cheap printing scraps, but you're friends with the manager's son. Gold-plated scale mail, which looks amazing, is basically immune to chemical burns, and you've layered with stuff to make a really good electrical barrier. Gloves a lot like your boots; elbow-length with floppy cuffs, large enough to look like a witch's sleeves. (Enough tricks in them to justify it.) Shawl in case you need to hide, which is... not standard, but enough more common than acid that you put the silk layer outside the gold layer wherever the shawl won't easily cover. It's swept back at the moment, draping your modestly-sized grenade pack. Whose dispenser works great!
Finally, your mask. A beautiful wax-colored goblin queen, your eyes, your mouth, big pointy ears, grey kerchief atop golden hair. (Your natural hair is nearly white.) You crack a grin and that
doesn't ruin it. Yes!
The final effect is a young crone, hump and all, and you absolutely love it. You can't keep staring forever, though; you
do have a job to do tonight.
What, exactly, are you planning?
[ ] Interrupting what you're pretty sure is a midsize mob shipment. Mobsters aren't idiots, and some will be experienced combatants, but they aren't really equipped to fight you. That would take... flamethrowers? An army? Not the sort of thing a clandestine organization can resort to, basically.
[ ] Roxxon has been acting even shadier than normal, cancelling all local plant tours and bringing in a lot of weird vans. Not the right sort of equipment for renovations, and they don't look like feds, either. Go commit an investigative journalism.
[ ] Fire patrol. It's July, there's a heatwave, not all apartments are up to code. Grab a lab-carpet, a brace of extinguishers, and your heavy-loads board; it's going to be a long night.
[ ] Write-in. (Needs to be something Méibh thinks fairly safe, and could reasonably have known about beforehand.)
And how did you get all your wonderful toys?
[ ] Your dreams show you other worlds, giving you a lot of useful technical insights and also a lot of highly unreliable premonitions. Your kit still isn't cheap, but you make do on patents semi-anonymized through a holding company.
[ ] You inherited a lot of them. The Green Goblin was well-known, and that gives you a fair bit of credit in some circles.
-[ ] She was a hero, did a lot to help in the Magneto Riots when you were a kid. From what you can tell, both sides respected her. She's retired now, but you've gotten her blessing, advice, equipment, boltholes, and friendship. It's gotten you through a lot.
-[ ] She was a villain, more or less. Stole a lot of stuff from various companies, put it together in really impressive ways, evaded law enforcement for more than a year. You found one of her caches during Hurricane Jones, and your following role in the cleanup made it politically nonviable to take it from you. She's in Rykers now.
Finally, which serum do you have?
[ ] Literally just Super-Soldier. Your strength and speed are basically permanent, but so is your appetite. You eat like half a football team. (Well, actually more like a quarter.) This is expensive, and you get kind of mean when you're hungry. You've been working on that.
[ ] Three-hour potion. A temporary super-soldier emulation drug, whose worst side effect is mood swings as it kicks in or wears off. You're fairly safe, but it can mess up pre-existing conditions something fierce. Still, as a last resort when someone's badly injured, it works like nothing else.
[LOCKED] When exposed to things that would kill it two to five times over, the human body is sometimes known to undergo radical transformation - surviving, and developing occasionally-heritable superpowers. And by analyzing your unusual reaction to super-soldier treatment, you've isolated a set of radiochemical triggers to reliably induce it. You call it Extremis.
A/N: There should be fewer votes next time, and more description. I'm not yet sure what your lair looks like.
