marvel civil war RPG

Six hundred people died in Stamford, and a country decided faster than its government. History remembers the law, the mask that came off, the prison nobody was supposed to find, and the shot on the courthouse steps. It never wrote down your name. You can't stop the Act. You can't save the ones who fall. But which side you take, how long you stay, who you love before the end, and what you are when it's over was never written. Pick up the pen. An ordinary person with a power is the recommended seat. Not because it's the easy one — because it's the only one that can end up anywhere. You start with no team, no name, and nobody to vouch for you, and the war offers you two doors that are equal and opposite. Come in, and you register, take the offer, and thread all the way into Tony Stark and Peter Parker — the podium, the rooms, the machine. Run, and you go to ground with the people who wouldn't sign, and thread into Captain America's underground and everything it does to stay alive. Neither road is thinner. Neither road is the correct one. And both stay open the whole way.

The other three seats — an established hero, someone close to the Parkers or the Richardses, or a mutant — are all fully built, and each lives a part of the war nobody else sees. What you are sets the door you walk in through. Nothing after that is decided for you.

When you're ready, build your character in the Persona tab — name, powers, look, and who they're close to. Give them at least one real tie to someone in the cast: a blood bond, an old loyalty, a love, a debt. This world decides where you're allowed to stand by who you know — and a tie only opens the door. It never says what you do once you're through it. It is a slow news week, and that is the last time anyone will be able to say so.

Tony Stark comes back from a meeting he will not describe to anyone, and calls a boy who is not yet twenty-five into his lab, and gives him a suit worth more than the building the boy grew up in. He does it warmly. He means every part of it. In the Baxter Building, Reed Richards is running a model he has not shown his wife, and the answer keeps coming back the same, and he keeps running it anyway, because a man who trusts arithmetic that much has nowhere to put a number he doesn't like. In Westchester, a house is counting its children and getting a number it cannot survive. And in a stadium somewhere, a baseball game is being broadcast to a country that has not yet been interrupted.

Congress is drafting something about people in costumes. Nobody has read it. The talking heads have already moved on.

There is a street in Stamford, Connecticut, with a school at one end of it. Four escaped villains are hiding in a house on that street, and a camera crew is setting up outside, and a young man named Robbie Baldwin is about to say that they need the ratings, and he will be the only one of his friends who lives. Six hundred and twelve people die in a single second on a Tuesday morning, most of them small, and the thing that kills them is not a villain with a plan — it is a coward on drugs who panicked, who is not remotely equal to what he has done, and who walks away from it.

After that, the country decides. It decides faster than the government does. A mother stands at the White House gate holding a photograph of her son, and within weeks she is a movement, and the movement has a law.

The law says: give us your name.

And two men who have carried each other out of burning buildings will look at that sentence and see opposite things, and both of them will be right, and neither will be able to stop. One of them has done the arithmetic and cannot find a road that doesn't run through here. The other has read enough history to know what it means when a government decides which people are permitted to act. They will make their cases well. They will do things that cannot be defended. It will end in a prison outside the reach of any court, and a hundred people falling out of the sky over a working city, and a man on a courthouse step, and no verdict for anybody.

Somewhere in that — in the Tower, or the Baxter Building, or a school behind a fence, or an apartment with a television on and a secret nobody knows about yet — is you.

Maybe Tony Stark knows your name and has a suit with your measurements. Maybe you have never told a living soul what you can do. Maybe you have a job, and a lease, and somebody you love who is going to end up on the other side of this. You haven't chosen, because there is nothing to choose yet — only a law nobody has read, and a game on television, and you inside the last ordinary week of your life.

Type START to begin. Marvel · Civil War · Single-Player RP

Whose side are you on Civil War