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Deep within the hot bowels of Rennur Manufacturing, Plant #7: ...*splish splosh* *mop mop mop* *splish splish* *mop mop mop* Dirty black water sluggishly strolled down the hall way, to pool in the wear spots created by decades of feet. Malcolm had been using this same mop water for nearly three months. No one noticed anyway. He'd been told that he had to always be on his feet, working, lest he be fired and replaced by one of the limitless poor of Khazan who would do this job for one ninth Malcolm's pay. So he pretended to work; no one had ever said anything about actually cleaning. His supervisor was far too busy on the floor in his office with his secretary to care what his sector of the plant looked like, and no one else of importance would ever venture out of their mahogany doored, push carpeted offices across town to come and check on the conditions of the plant. As long as production stayed high, what did they care? The only other people in this sector beyond Malcolm and his supervisor were the workers themselves; they were far to scared of being fired and replaced to complain to anyone but each other, and, on one occasion when had first gotten the job, Malcolm himself. He hadn't liked that one bit. The workers who were still around didn't complain anymore and advised the new recruits to do the same. In fact, they never even used the hallways anymore, at least not the ones he was currently cleaning, and Malcolm didn't mind in the least bit. The end day bell sounded. Malcolm smiled. He tromped over to the nearest closet and tossed his bucket and map in, listening to them knock around shelves of unopened cleaning supplies. Soaps, cleansers, disinfectants, waxes, wipes... He didn't care much. That noise always fit his post-work mood. Malcolm walked threw the foundry area towards the elevator. The scorching heat was bad enough that the workers required special suits to work there. It didn't phase Malcolm though. He clocked out, grabbed his jacket, and headed out for a night on the town. Sleep? Naw...
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Inventor
 Inventor: Standard
... Malcolm reached into his pockets and made sure that everything was in its place, well oiled, and calibrated. He always took the extra time to make sure his gear was in top working order. Couldn't have them failing in a clutch, now could he?...
One Tough Bastard
 Iron Will: Ultimate
... Malcolm sat sipping his drink. The Manila Envelope was the newest bar in CorpSec, and coincidentally, he had yet to be asked, ever so politely, to stay away from it. Those bar fights weren't his fault, after all. Not the majority..... ok... maybe only one, but still... Oh well. Then, he saw them in the back, picking on your standard bar whore, trying to take her out back. He walked over, and asked them why they thought that they deserved her services for free, while everyone else had to pay. A smile with summer teeth (some 'er there, some 'er not) from one of the punks greeted Malcolm, along with a dagger. It plunged into his abdomen. Malcolm smiled back. A crowbar attempted to make good friends with Malcolm's brain by going straight through his skull, but it glanced right off. A waify fellow in the back closed his eyes, and Malcolm felt someone trying to get inside his head, and pop the aforementioned brain from the inside out. He wouldn't stand for that garbage. Malcolm turned his head slowly, and frowned. "You sons of..."
Saturday Night Special
 Pistol: Ultimate
- Ranged Attack Only
- Armor Piercing
- Target Seeker
- Multi-Attacks
- Ranged and Melee Attack
... Malcolm pulled out his trusty handgun; a Saturday Night Special, always pre-loaded with six Devastator Bullets. He placed it against the chest of the thug behind him, and pulled the trigger. Its well oiled gears and rigs whirled, and the muzzle roared. The armor piercing bullet shredded the street tough's armor as if it were not there, and kept on going out of his back towards the bar wall, and then into the outside world. These things really were overachievers. Ichor oozed out of the back of the punk, and he slumped to the ground. Behind him cowered the waify fellow who was still pathetically trying to turn his brain into pudding...
Don't pull that crap with ME
 Hyper-Senses: Standard
... With a wail, the young psychic ceased his attack, and turned invisible. Malcolm just shook his head. "Don't try and pull that crap with me, sh** for brains." Malcolm just willed away the petty effect. Perception was truly based on being too damn proud to be fooled, back-up by persistence. Malcolm lacked neither. He raised his gun and fired. In an instant, all that was left of the would-be rapist's enhanced brain would have made a breathtaking display at a modern art show...
Resistance Master Training: Master Train
 Resistances: Standard
... "HEE-YA!" Malcolm felt a crushing blow to his kidneys. He ignored it. Whirling around, he was granted an impressive show. One of the street punks had obviously taken some martial arts mail-order courses or something, because he was jumping and yelling and swirling swords; the whole nine yards. Malcolm stepped foreward and knocked the sword out of his hand with a solid, backhanded "whack." Confusion clouded the gang member's eyes for a moment, but was chased away by a well placed pistol butt, followed by a bullet or four. "I really, really, really hate that garbage." muttered Malcolm...
Feeling lucky?
 Lucky: Supreme
... Malcolm threw the quick loader into his gun, twirled it, and whipped it back into his pocket. He whirled to face... the fleeing back of a gang member. He shot thrice at him, but before the bullets hit the scum, he tripped on a pool table and knocked some of his teeth out on the edge. The bullets ricocheted around the bar before striking him in the legs. As the loser crawled for the door, a "KOMBB: Keg-O-Matic-Beige-Beer, For All Your Beer/Ale Drinking Needs" sign began to twirl, for one of the bullets had knicked the rope holding it up. With a crash, the large and verbose sign made a mess out of Malcolm's opponent. Malcolm didn't believe in luck, even when things like this happened; he believed in his equipment...
Trigger Twitch System
 Super Speed: Standard
- Weakness: Power in Item - Easy to Lose
- Weakness: Not usable in terrain - Misty Vale
... Malcolm looked around the bar for the last member of the gang. There he was, cowering behind the whore who moments before he had sought to violate. "Don't... Don't shoot me... we were just kidding..." he pleaded. Malcolm didn't really care at this point, for he could see the manager of the bar heading for the scene with a "please sir, you were ever so nice to take care of those fellows, but please, sir, do frequent as establishment other than our's, sir. Please?" look on his face. Malcolm hit a little switch on the side of his pistol, and an intricate series of locks and levers shifted with the gun. He pulled the trigger, and bullets began pouring into the face of the final gangster, and the ammo reel popped out. This fancy little setup allowed Malcolm to draw and fire, or continuously fire as fast as he could put bullets into his gun (which for all intents and purposes under Khazanian Cannon, was never really empty.) Unfortunately, its intricacy made it fragile, and moisture in the system could cause it to cease up, so he never used it anywhere Misty...
Eddie Pace
 Self Duplication: Standard
"... Malcolm rounded the corner, and almost knocked over... himself. "Hey, you Hell's Angel reject, you'd better get out of my way before I do you a favor and help save you some effort when you breathe by adding additional access points to your lungs." rasped the double. Malcolm smiled, and whipped out his Saturday Night Special. He replied to this challenge with his own promise of altering the man's body in criminal and almost anatomically impossible ways. Almost. The two looked at each other for a few moments, and then simultaneously, Malcolm grinned and the man smirked. Kindred spirits will always recognize each other. His name was Eddie Pace, and even if his powers were a bit weaker than Malcolm's (Supreme Iron Will, Supreme Armor Piercing Usable in Melee Seeker Multi-Attack Pistol, and Superior Luck) he could still hold his liquor, as well as his own in a fight. Now he and Malcolm go into every brawl working together, because after all, if birds of a feather flap together, then brothers in leather bust heads even better... "
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Hall Of Fame!
Survival - 9 Wins!
Brutal - 2 Fatalities
