<span style="font-size: 12px"><div style="text-align: center"><b>THE BLACK BARON PRESENTS:</b><br/>
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<i>“Empowered Acclimation Program NORTH”</i>​</div></span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><i>"An Closed Application (E)RP"<br/>
Any thoughts or constructive criticism on the Gamemasters' writing? Please don't hesitate to PM me with your impressions or write in the OOC thread.</i>​</div><br/><br/><i><div style="text-align: center">Please visit this link for the OOC and Application Thread:<br/>
<a class="internalLink" href="http://forums.darknestfantasy.com/showthread.php?11478-Empowered-Acclimation-Program-NORTH-Superhero-OOC-Application-Thread&amp;p=251835#post251835">Empowered Acclimation Program NORTH - Superhero OOC/Application Thread</a>​</div></i><br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">---<br/>
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<a class="externalLink" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLH6XxtJTlw" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><b>CHAPTER ONE:</b><br/>
<i>”Undue Arrivals”</i></a>​</div><a class="externalLink" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLH6XxtJTlw" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"></a><br/><br/><span style="color: Sienna"><i><div style="text-align: center">“As the southern EAP program broadcast its call across America, watchful eyes bear down with curiosity and scepticism on this bold new uni-governmental enterprise. The same is applicable up north, as the northern EAP program – nestled close by the metropolitan Toronto – swings its doors open.<br/>
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With less funding than its American counterparts, hushed voices of concern put into question the viability of the program even before its started. What challenges awaits the disenfranchised ”Empowered”, scurrying towards a place they can call home?"​</div></i></span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">---​</div><br/>An early and ever so kind June sun bore down on ”Quentironk” or ”Beautiful Water”, as the Wyandot natives dubbed what most people knew as the scenic Lake Simcoe situated some odd 60 – 70 miles north of Toronoto.<br/>It was looking to be a comfortably hot year for this Canadian region, temperatures edging close to the 77th degrees Fahrenheit as an average over the last weeks time.<br/><br/>The old asphalt road ending at a dead end against the southern beachhead was already warming rapidly under the gentle onset of warmth, and for all intents and purposes, this was a perfect weather to sit outside and soak in summer feelings.<br/><br/>”Rude Boy” Emmanuelle, the Checkpoint Security Guard manning the silver booth, had in fact done just that a few times already. His superiors often turned a blind eye towards his casual high jinks, since what this African lacked in proper guard etiquette, he made up in sharp-eyed competence.<br/>His beach chair was neatly folded leaning against the wooden desk from where he reined over his 50 square feet checkpoint ”dominion”.<br/><br/>Emmanuelle corrected his pretentiously fashionable John-Lennon circular sun-glasses and shoved an obstructive dread lock out of his face. The black-skinned gent had his primly shined black shoes perched on his desk and his security guard cap was turned a clean one-eighty, the hat shade jutting out from the back of his scalp.<br/>His impressively boring pale blue shirt had its cuffs folded up to his elbows, seeing that it was far too sweltering to dress properly today.<br/><br/>At a glance, in fact, this strapping young lad only rocking his thirty-first year of age and his small checkpoint booth, positioned at the precipices of the sightly lake in looked anything but important. If anything, it simply looked out place.<br/>A simple gate flanked the booth, booth and gate connected to a low wall that seemed to render the booth superfluous. Children would be able to scale the wall with little to no effort. This wall ran far in both directions, enclosing what seemed to be a thickly forested area, purposefully keeping prying eyes away from that lay beyond the woody bounds.<br/><br/>”Rude Boy” Emmanuelle knew better than to think he was what actually made the difference, should anyone decide to lawlessly make entrance into this restricted area. No, he was the vanguard, the prying eye, the scout lazily reporting of any unruly activity. If anyone was so infinitesimally stupid to actually disobey his orders of staying out, they were in for a world of hurt.<br/><br/>The ”Warning: Restricted Area” sign smacked cleanly on the booth wall facing the asphalted road kept most people out of the secretive grounds, and Emmanuelles tall tale, describing this place as a private logging firms ownership kept the worst trepidation in the locals still.<br/>Had people actually known what it really was, their anxiety might be more well founded.<br/><br/>”The Chataeu”, as the northern division of the Empowered Acclimation Program called this congregation of highly specialised buildings, was slated to house some of the worlds most dangerous individuals that slowly, but irrevocably was causing a massive uproar in most clandestine circles. The ”Empowered”. Mutants, beings of fantastical nature, supernaturals, angels, demons, dimensional visitors, aliens – call it what you will, they were here and they were having a hell of a shindig on God's Green Earth.<br/><br/>”Rude Boy” Emmanuelle knew they were coming here – hell, he knew he'd be the first to shake hands with most of these living weapons of mass (potential) calamity. He stoically counted on his unremarkable appearance would stave off any desire to erase him on the spot, however.<br/><br/>That was why, this particular and important day, that ”Rude Boy” Emmanuelle wasn't too miffed about the news that the first Empowered individuals would be coming down that long road in black Sedans, with black windows and black leather interior, driven by black suit-clad chauffeurs sporting black earpieces, black handguns and black shades, picked up from where-ever they were picked up.<br/>Flipping a page in his freshly ”baked” ”Sports Illustrated” (Not the Swimsuit edition; he actually read the articles!), he hummed tunelessly to<a class="externalLink" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nHsYdLpQnp4" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Bob Marleys passionate ”No Woman No Cry”</a>getting butchered through the paltry speakers of his Teddy-Bear shaped radio, disgracing its surroundings by existing alongside his iPhone linking him directly to the Comm. Center.<br/><br/>He was contemplating whether he should ditch his shoes in favour of his weed sandals when the crisp drone of rubber tire versus asphalt caught his fox-like attention.<br/>As eyes obscured by the perfectly circular shades caught the reflected light bouncing off the aforementioned black window embedded in the aforementioned black Sedan, Emmanuelle sniffed idly and muttered to no-one in particular:<br/><br/><i>”Showtime.”</i><br/><br/>Swinging his legs down, the checkpoint security guard slowly oozed out of his silver-booth, tugging up in his belt laden with a standard Glock securely tugged away in its holster.<br/>He sauntered out onto the asphalt, turning his hat to its correct orientation before hooking both thumbs into his belt.<br/>As the Sedan came to a full complete stop, the door opened by itself, allowing the first coming Empowered inhabitant to step out and face the full wrath of a shining white grin and a hand outstretched by Emmanuelle, saying with a jolly, thick accent:<br/><br/><i>”Respeek, mon, an' Welcome'to the Chataeu. Names' Emmanuelle, and A'll make sure ya' git inside all prim an' proper.” </i><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>